THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES COLLIER'S UNABRIDGED EDITION. THE ^ORKS or WILLIAM CARLETON. V O L XJ INI E I . WIIXY REILLY. FARDOROUGHA THE MISER. THE BLACK BARONET; OR, The Chronicles of Ballttrain. THE EVIL EYE; or, The Black Spectek NEW YORK : P. F. COLLIER, PUBLISHER. CONTENTS. . / WILLY REILLY. CBAPTXB I.- II.- UI IT.- V. VL VIL vin. IX. x.~ XI. XII. XIIL FAOB An Adventure and an Escape 6 -The Cooleen Bawn 12 Daring Attempt of the Red Rapparee — Mysterious Disappearance of His Gang— The Avowal 19 A Sapient Project for our Hero's Con- version — His Rival makes his Ap- pearance, and its Consequences. . . 20 The Plot and the Victims 34 ■The Warning— an Escape 41 •An Accidental Incident favorable to Reilly, and a Curious Conversa- tion 48 -A Conflagration — An Escape — And an Adventure 54 •Reilly's Adventure Continued — A Prospect of By-gone Times — Reilly gets a Bed in a Curious Establish- ment 62 Scenes that took place in the Moun- tain Cave G9 The Squire's Dinner and his Guests.. 75 Sir Rol»ert Meets a Brother Sports- man — Draws his Nets, but Catches Nothing 82 Reilly is Taken, but connived at by the Sheriff — the Mountain Mass. . . 86 CHAPTER FAOI XIV. — Reilly takes Service with Squire Fol~ liard 99 XV.— More of Whitecraft's Plots and Pranks 105 XVI. — Sir Robert ingeniously extricates Himself out of a great Difficulty. . Ill XVII. — Awful Conduct of Squire FoUiaiU — Fergus HeiUy begins to Contravene the Red Rapparee 117 XVIII. — Something not very Pleasant for all Parties 133 XIX. — Reilly's Disguise Penetrated — He Es- capes — Fergus Reilly is on the Trail of the Rapparee — Sir Robert begins to feel Confident of Success 129 XX. —The Rapparee Secured — Reilly and the Cooleen Bawn Escape, and are Captured , .... 136 XXI. — Sir Robert Accepts of an Invitation.. 141 XXII. — The Squire Comforts Whitecraft in his Atiiiction 151 XXIII. — The Squire becomes Theological and a Proseiytizer, but signally fails. .. 156 XXIV. — Preparation.^ — Jury of the Olden Time — The Scales of Justice 162 XXV- — Rumor of Coolen Bawn's Treachery — How it appears — Reilly stands his Trial — Conclusion 170 FARDOROUGHA, THE MISER. PAGE I P*?" Part T.— Fardorougha, the Miser 187 Part V 2o9 Part II 203 Part VI 278 Part III 222 Part VIT 293 Part IV 236 Part VIII. and Last 306 THE BLACK BARONET; OR, TPIE CHRONICLES OF BALLY- TRAIN. OHAPTEB PAGE I. — A Mai! Coach by Night, and a Bit of Moonshine 322 fL — The Town and its Inhabitant*- ... 326 III. — Paudeen Gair's Receipt bow to make a Bad Dinner a Good One —The Stranger finds Fenton as Mysterious as Himself 328 rV. — An Anonymous Letter-Lucy Gour- CEAPTEB PAG3 lay Avows a Previous Attach- ment 333 v.— Sir Thomas Goiirlay FaiLs in Un- masking the Stranger — Mysteri- ous Conduct of Fenton 333 VI. — Extraordinary Scene between Feu- ton and the Stranger 34C VII. — The Baronet attempts by False- ,"V CONTENTS. hood to urge his Daughter into an Avowal of ht r Lover's Name. 343 VIII.— The Fortuuo-l'tller— Au Equivo- cal Prediction 347 IX. — Caudor and Dissinuilation 350 X. — A Family Dialoj^ue — and a Secret noarly Di8ct>verud 357 XI. — Tlio Straugei's Visit to Father MacMahon 362 XII. — Crackenfndge Outwitted by Fen- ton — The Baronet, Enraged at his Daughter's Firmness, strikes Her 369 XIII.— The Stranger's Second Visit to Father JIac.Mahon — Something like an Elojiemeut 375 XIT. — Crackenfudge put upon a Wrong Scent — ^Miss Gourlay takes Ref- uge with an Old Friend 385 XV. — Interview between Lady Gourlay and the Stranger— Dandy Dulci- mer makes a Discovery — The Stranger Iteceives Mysterious Communications 392 XVI. — Conception and Perpetration of a Diabolical Plot against Fen- ton 399 XVII. — A Scene in Jemmy Trailcudgel's- Hetributive Ju.stice, or the Rob- ber Robbed 407 XVIII. — Diiuphy visits the County Wick- low— Old Sam and his Wife. ... 415 XIX. — Interview between Trailcudgel and the Stranger — A Peep at Lord Dunroo and his Friend. . . 433 XX. — Interview between Lords Culla- more, Dunroe, and Lady Emily — Tom Norton's Aristocracy fails him — His Reception by Lord Cullamore 439 XXI. — A Spy Rewarded— Sir Thomas Gourlay Charged Home by tlie Stranger with the Removal and Disappearance of his Brother's Son 437 XXII. —Lucy at Summerfield Cottage 44(j XXIII. —A Lunch in Summerfield Cottage. 454 XXIV. — An Irish Watchhouse in the time of the '' Charlies " 460 XXV.— The Police Office — Sir Spigot S\)uttcr and Mr. Coke — An Un- fortunate Translator — Decision in •' a Law Case " 479 XXVI.— Thj Priest Returns Sir Thomas's OnAFTBB PAGE Money and Pistols — A Bit of Controversy — A New Light Be- gins to Appear 475 XXVri. — Sir Thoma.«, who Shams Illuess, is too sharp for Mrs. Mainwaring, who visits Him — Lucy calls up- on Lady Gourlay, where she meets her Lover— Affecting In- terview between Lucy and Lady Gourlay, 48G XXVIJI. — Innocence and Affection overcome bj' Fraud and Hypocrisy — Lucy yields at Last 488 XXIX. — Lord Dunroe's Affection for his Father — Glimpse of a new Cha- racter — Lord CuUimore's Re- buke to his Son, who greatly Refuses to give up his Friend.. 496 XXX. — A Courtship on Novel Principles.. 5u4 XXXI. — The Priest goes into Corbet's House very like a 'J'hief — a Se- derunt, with a Bright look up for 3Ir. Gray 51;3 XXXII. — Discovery of the Baronet's Son — who, however, is Shelved for a Time 520 XXXIII.— The Priest asks for a Loan of Fifty Guineas, and Offers "Fre- ney the Robber" as Security. . 528 XXXIV. — Young Gourlay's Affectionate In- terview with His Father — Risk of Strangulation — Movements of M'Bride 533 XXXV. — Lucy's Vain but Affecting Expos- tulation with her Father — Her Terrible Denunciation of Am- brose Gray 542 XXXVI. — Which contains a variety of Mat- ters, some to Laugh and some to Weep ac 547 XXXVII. — Dandy's Visit to Summerfield Cot- tage, where he ]U,akes a most Ungailant Mistake — Returns with Tidings of both Mrs. Nor- ton and Fenton — and Generous- ly Patronizes his Master 556 XXXVIII. — Anthony Corbet gives Important Documents to the Stranger — An Unpleasant Disclosure to Dun- roe — Norton catches a Tartar.. 564 XXXIX.— Fenton Recovered — The Mad- House 574 XL. — Lady Gourlay sees her Son 581 XLI. — Denouement 587 THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. OHAPTtB p^gg I.- Short and Preliminary (JI3 II.- A Murderer's Wake and the Arrival of a Stranger gl7 Breakfjist ne.xt morning — Woodward, on his way Home, meets a Stranger — Their Conversation 625 -Woodward meets a Guide— His Re- ception at Home — Preparations for a Fete 631 V -Tho Bonfire— The Prodigy ...'..'. \ \ '. * 640 VI. -Sh.iwn na-.Middogue — Shnn-Dhinne- Dhuv, or The Black Spectre 647 III. IV. CHAPTER PAOl VII.— A Council of Two— Visit to Beech Grove— The Herbalist 655 VIII.— A Healing of the Breach — A Proposal for Marriage Accepted 663 IX. — Chase of the White Hare 670 X.— True Love Defeated 678 XI. — A Conjurer's Levee 685 XII. — Fortune-telling 694 XIII. — Woodward is Discarded from Mr. Goodwin's Family — Other Particu- lar.' of Importance 701 XIV. — Shawn-na-Middogue Stabs Charles CONTENTS. Mistake for his Broth- ' XV 11 1. . . . (Uy Lindsay in XV.— The naushee-Disappeara,uceof Grace ^ l>avor( 10 XVI —A II >use of Sorrow— After which fol- ^^^ } lows a Gourtiug Scene. ,XVIL-D(8oription of ihe Original Tory- ; ^^^j_^,^.;^^.^,4,,^g at Work-Denouement * Th«ii- Maiiiiftr of bweariUiC *"■' -^^^*^- ^'■^^- "• PAGB -The Toir, or Tory Hunt ^^ XIX.— Plans and Negotiatious. . l^^ XX — Woodward's Visit to Rallyspellan . . .4» XXI.— The Dinner at Biillyspellan—lhe Ap- pearance of Woodward— Valentine ^_ Greatrakes ;!.'^' XXII.— History of tbe , Black Spectre .^^^. • . ;^w Their Mauuer of bweariug "Willy Reillt. PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. Most of our Irish readers must be aware that the following story is founded upon an incident in the history of the affections, which, ever since its occurrence, has oc- cupied a large portion of popular interest. From the very first discovery of their at- tachment, the loves of "WiUy Reilly" and his " Fair Cooleen Ba\NTi " became celebrated, and were made the burden of many a rude ballad throughout Ireland. With the ex- ception, however, of the one which we sub- Join, they have all nearly disaj)peared; but that production, rude as it is, has stood its ground, and is permanently embodied as a iavorite in the ballad poetry of the peojDle. It is not, though couched in humble and un- pretending language, -vN-ithout a good deal of rustic vigor, and, if we may be allowed the expression, a kind of inartistic skill, furnished either by chance or natui-e — it is difficult to determine which. We ai-e of opinion, however, that it owes a great por- tion of its permanent populaiity to feelings which have been transmitted to the people, arising not so much from the direct interest of the incidents embodied in it, as fi-om the pohtical spirit of the times in which they occurred. At that vmhappy period the Penal Laws were in deadly and tei-rible operation; and we need not be sui-prised that a young and handsome CathoHc should earn a boundless popularity, especially among those of his own creed, by the dar- ing and resolute act of taking away a Prot- estant heiress — the daughter of a persecu- tor — and whose fame, from her loveliness and accompHshments, had already become proverbial among the great body of the Irish people, and, indeed, throughout aU classes. It was looked upon as a kind of triumph over the persecutors ; and, in this instance, Cupid himself seemed to espouse the cause of the beads and rosar}-, and to become a tight Uttle Cathohc. The chai-ac- ter of Sir Robert "S\rhitecraft (a fictitious name) is drawn from traditions which were some time ago floating among the people, but which are fast fading out of the popular mind. The mode of his death, and its con- I comitants, the author has often heard tol6 in his youth, around the hob, during the long -winter evenings. With respect to the description of the state of the imhappy Catholics, however I may have diminished, I have not exaggerated it ; and I trust that I have done ample justice to the educated Protestants of the day, many of whom not only opposed the Government openly and directly — whose object was extermination by the withering operation of oppressive laws — ^but threw up their commissions as justices of the peace, and refused to become the tools and abettors of rehgious perse- cution. To such noble-minded men I trust I have rendered ample justice. The following is the celebrated baUad of " Willj Reilly," which is still sung, and will long continue to be sung, at many a hearth is Ireland : " Oh ! rise up Willy Reilly, and come alongst with me, I mean for to go with you and leave this counfcrie, To leave my father's dwelling, his houses and fre« lands—" And away goes Willy Reilly and his dear Cooleen Bawn. They go by hill and mountains, and by yon lone- some plain, Throuj^h shady groves and valleys all dangers to refrain ; But her father followed after with a well-arm'd chosen band, And taken was poor Reilly and his dear Cooleen Bawn. It's home then she was taken, and in her closet bound. Poor Reilly all in Sligo jail lay on the stony ground, Till at the bar of justice before the Judge he'd stand, For nothing but the stealing of his dear Cooleen Bawn. " Now in the cold, cold iron, my hands and feet are bound. Fm handcuffed like a murderer, and tied unto the ground ; But all this toil and slavery Fm willing for to stand, Still hoping to be succored by my dear Cooleen. Bawn.^^ The jailer's son to Reilly goes, and thus to him did say, " Oh ! get up, Willy Reilly, you most appear this day. WILL [AM CARLKTO^'S \VUUK;S. For great Squire Folliard'a anger you never can withstand ; I'm afear'd you'll suffer sorely for your dear Cookcn 13a wn. " This is the news, young Reilly, last night that I did hear. The lady's oath will hang you, or rlso will set you clear." " If that be so," says Reilly, " her pleasure I will stand, Still hoping to be succored by my dear Cooleen iJawn." Now Willy's drest from top to toe all in a suit of green, His hair hangs o'er his shoulders most glorious to be seen ; He's tall and straight and comely as any could be found. He's fit for Folliard's daughter, was she heiress to a crown. The Judge he said, "This lady being in her tender youth, If Reilly has deluded her, she will declare the truth." Then, like a moving beauty bright, before him she did stand. " You're welcome there my heart's delight and dear Cooleen Bawn/'' "Oh, gentlemen," Squire FoUiard said, "with pity look on me, This villain came amongst us to disgrace our family, And by his base contrivances this villany was planned ; If I don t get satisfaction I will quit this Irish land." The lady with a tear began, and thus replied she, '• The fault is none of Reilly's, the blame lies all on me : I forced him for to leave his place and come along with me ; I loved him out of measure, which has wrought our destiny. ' ' Then out bespoke the noble Fox, at the table he stood by, " Oh, gentlemen, consider on this extremity, To hang a man for love is a murder you may see. So spare the life of Reilly, let him leave this coun- trie." " Good, my lord, he stole from her her diamonds, and her rings. Gold watch and silver buckles, and many precious things. Which cost me in bright guineas, more than five hundred pound, I will have the life of Reilly should I lose ten thousand pounds." " Good, my lord, I gave them him as tokens of true love ; And when we are a-parting I will them all remove: If you have got them, Reilly, pray send them home to me ; They're poor compared to that true heart which I have given to thee. " There is a ring among them I allow yourself to wear. With thirty locket diamonds well set in silver fair ; And as a true-love token wear it on your right hand, That you may think on my broken heart when you're in a foreign land." Then out spoke noble Fox, ' * You may let the prisoner go. The lady's oath has cleared him, as the Jury all may know : She has released her own true love, she has re* newed his name, May her honor bright gain high estate, and her ofiE- spring rise to fame." This ballad I found in a state of wretched disorder. It passed from one indi^-idual to another by ear alone ; and the inconsecu- tive position of the verses, occasioned by inac- curacy of memory and ignorance, has sadly detracted from its genuine force. As it ex- isted in the oral versions of the populace, the naiTative was grossly at variance with the regular progress of cii'cumstances which characterize a trial of any kind, but especial- ly such a trial as that which it imdertakes to describe. The individuals concerned in it, for instance, are made to speak out of place ; and it would appear, fi'om all the versions that I have heard, as if eveiy stanza was assigned its position by lot. This fact, however, I have just accounted for and remedied, by ha\ing restored them to their original places, so that the vigorous but rustic bard is not answerable for the confit- sion to which unprinted poetiy, sung by an uneducated people, is liable. As the ballad now stands, the character of the jioet is satisfactoiily vindicated ; and the disorder which crept in during the course of time, though sti-ongly calciilated to weaken its influence, has never been able to injure its fame. This is a high honor to its composer, and proves him well worthy of the popularity which, under such adverse circumsttmces, has taken so firm a hold of the present feel- ing, and sui-^ived so long. Tlie author ti-usts that he has avoided, as far as the truthful treatment of his subject would enable him, the expression of any political sentiment calculated to give offence to any party — an attempt of singular diffi- culty in a countiy so miserably divided upon reUgious feehng as this. The experience of centuries should teach statesmen and legisla- tors that persecution, on account of creed and conscience, is not only bad feeling, but worse policy ; and if the author, in thes« pages, has succeeded in conveying this seK- evident truth to his readers, he will rest satisfied with that result, however severely the demerits of his work may be censured upon pui'ely litei*ary grounds. One thing may be said in his defence — that it was utterly impossible to dissociate the loves of this celebrated coutJe fi-om the condition of WILLY RE ILLY. tb«: coimtry, and the operation of the merci- less laws which prevailed against the Catho- lics in their day. Had the lovers both been Catholics, or both been Protestants, this might have been avoided ; but, as political and rehgious matters then stood, to omit the stjite and condition of society which resulted from them, and so deeply affected their fate, would be somewhat like lea^•ing the charac- ter of Hamlet out of the tragedy. As the work was first "v\a'itten, I described a good many of the Catholic priests of the day as disguised in female apj^arel ; but on discovering that there exists an ecclesiastical regulation or canon forbidding any priest, vmder whatever ^persecution or pressure, to assume such apparel for the jjui-pose of dis- guising his person or saving his life, I, of course, changed that portion of the matter, although a laj'man might well be pardoned for his ignorance of an ecclesiastical statute, which, except in ver^' rare cases, can be known onl}' to ecclesiastics themselves. I retain one instance, however, of this descrip- tion, which I ascribe to Hennessy, the de- graded friar, who is a historical character, and Avho wrought a vast weight of evU, as an informer, against the Catholic priesthood of Ii-eland, both regular and secidar. With respect to the family name of the heroine and her father, I have adopted both the popular pronunciation and orthogi-apliy, instead of the real. I give it simply as I found it in the ballad, and as I always heard it pronounced by the j)eople ; in the first place, frojn reluctance, by "UTiting it accu- rately, to give offence to that portion of this higlily respectable family wliich still exists ; and, in the next, fi'om a disinclmation to dis- turb the original impressions made on the popular mind by the ballad and the traditions associated with it. So far as the traditions go, there was nothing connected with the heroine of which her descendants need feel ashamed. If it had been othei"wise, her memory never would have been enshrined in the affections of the Iiish people for such an unusual period of time. DuBLix, February, 1855. PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. I AM agreeably called upon by my book- seller to prepare for a Second Edition of I' Willy Reilly." This is at oJl tidf-s a pleas- ing call upon an author ; and it is so especial- ly to me, inasmuch as the first Edition was sold at the fashionable, but imreasonable, price of a guinea and a half — a price which, in this age of cheap Hterature. is almost fatal to the sale of any three-volume novel, no matter what may be its merits. With respect to "Willy Eeilly," it may be necessaiy to say that I never wrote any work of the same extent in so short a time, or yA\h so much haste. Its popularity, however, has been equal to that of any other of my pro- ductions ; and the reception which it has experienced from the ablest pubhc and pro- fessional critics of the day has far surpassed my expectations. I accordingly take this opportunity of thanking them most sincerely for the favorable verdict wliich they have generously passed uj^on it, as I do for their kindness to my humble efforts for the last twenty-eight years. Nothing, indeed, can be a greater encoiu-agement to a hterary man, to a novel writer, in fact, than the reflection that he has an honest and generous tribunal to encounter. If he be a c|uack or an im- postor, they will at once detect him ; but if he exhibit human nature and tiaithful char- acter in liis I3ages, it matters not whether he goes to his bookseller's in a coach, or plods there humbly, and on foot ; they Mill forget everything but the value and merit of what he places before them. On this account it is that I reverence and resj^ect them ; and indeed I ought to do so, for I owe them the gi-atitude of a pretty long ht^i-aiy life. Concerning this Edition, I must say some- thing. I have already stated that it wass "uiitten rapidly and in a huny. On reading it over for coiTection, I was sti-uck in my cooler moments by many defects in it, which were kindly overlooked, or, perhaps, not noticed at all. To myself, however, who had been brooding over this work for a long time, they at once became obrious. I have according!}' added an undei-jilot of affection between Fergus PieiUy — mentioned as a dis- tant relative of my hero — and the Cooleen Baini's maid, Ellen Connor. Li doing so, I have not disturbed a single incident in the work ; and the reader who may have peinised the fii-st Etlition, if he should ever — as is not unfi'equently the case — peruse this second one, will ceriainly wonder how the additions were made. That, however, is the secret of the author, with which they have nothing to do but to enjoy the book, if they can enjoy it. With respect to tlie O'Eeilly name and family, I have consulted my distinguished friend — and I am proud to c;xll him so — John O' Donovan, Esq., LL.D., M.RL^, who, with the greatest kindness, placed the summary of the history of that celebrated family at my disposal. Tliis learned gentle- man is an authority beyond all question. With respect to Ii-ekuid — her language — her old laws — her historj' — her antiquities — hoi archaeology — her tojjography, and the gen© WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. alopfy of her families, he is a pei*fect niiracle, as is his distinpfuislied fellow-laborer in the same field, Eugene Curry. Tvvo siich men — and, including Dr. Petrie, Uxree such men — Ireland never has produced, and never can again — for this simple reason, that they will have left nothing after them for theii* succes- sors to accomplish. To Eugene Curiy I am indebted for the j^rincipid fact upon wliich my novel of the " Tithe Proctor " was wiit- ten — the able introduction to which was printed verbatim from a manuscript T^-itli which he kindly furnished me. The follow- ing is Dr. O'Donovan's clear and succinct history of the O'Reilly famil}' fi'om the year 135 until the present time : "The ancestors of the family of O'Reilly had been celebrated ui Iiish history long be- fore the establishment of surnames in Ii-e- land. In the year 435 their ancestor, Duach Galach, King of Connaiight, was baptized by St. Patrick on the banks of Loch Scola, and tliey had remained Chi-istians of the old Irisli Church, which aj)peai-s to have been pecuhai* in its mode of tonsure, and of keeping Easter (and, since the twelfth cen- tuiy, fimi adherents to the rehgion of the Pope, till DoweU O'Reilly, Esq., the father of the present head of the name, quarrelling with Father Dowling, of Stradbally, turned Protestant, about the year 1800). "The ancestor, after whom they took the family name, was Reillagh, who was chief of his sept, and flouiished about the year 981. " From tliis pei'iod they are traced in the Irish Annals tlirough a long hne of power- ful chieftains of East Breifuy (County Cavan), who succeeded each other, accord- ing to the law of Tanistry, till the year 1585, when two rival chieftians of the name, Sir John O'lteilly and Edmund O'Reilly, ap- peared in Dublin, at the parliament sum- moned by PeiTot. Previously to this, John O'Reilly, finding his party wealc, had rejoau'ed to England, in 1583, to solicit Queen Ehza- beth's interest, and had been kindly received at Couri, and invested with the order of Knighthood, and j:)romised to be made Earl, whereupon he returned home with letters from the Queen to the Lord Deputy and Council of Ireland, instructing them to support him in his claims. His uncle, Eclmund, of liilnacrott, would have succeeded Hugh Connallagh O'Reilly, the father rf Sir John, according to the Ii-ish law of Tanistry, but he was set aside by Elizal)cth's govern- ment, and Sir John set up as O'Reilly in his l)Lace. Sir John being settled in the chief- tainship of East Breifny, entered into certain articles of agreement with Sii- John Perrot, the Lord Deputy, and the Council of Ireland, whereby he agreed to surrender the prind. pality of East Breifny to the Queen, on conation of obtaining it again from the cro^vn in capite by English tenure, and the same to be ratified to him and the heirs male of his body. In consequence ot this agi'eement, and with the intent of aboUshing the tanistic succession, he, on the last day of August, 1590, perfected a deed of feofment, entaihiig thereby the seignoiy of Breifny (O'Reilly) on his eldest son, Malmore (Myles), sui-named Alainn (the comely), afterwards knowTi as the Queen's O'Reilly. " Notmthstandiag these transactions. Sir John O'Reilly soon after joined in the rebel- Hon of Hugh, Earl of TjTone, and died on the first of June, 1596. After his death the Earl of Tyrone set up his second brother, Philip, as the O'Reilly, and the government of Elizabeth supported the claim of Sir John's son, Malmore, the comely, in opposition to Philij), and Edmund of Kilnacrott. But Malmoi'e, the Queen's O'Reilly, was slain by TjTone in the great battle of the Yellow Ford, near Benburb, on the 14th of August, 1598, and the Irish of Ulster agreed to establish Edmund of Kilnacrott, as the O'REnjLT. " The lineal descendants of Sir John passed into the French service, and are now totally unknown, and probably extinct. The descendants of Edmund of Kilnacrott have been far more proUfic and more fortunate. His senior representative is my worthy old fi'iend Myles John O'Reilly, Esq., Heath House, Emo, Queen's Co., and from him are also descended the O'Reillys of Thomastown Castle, in the County of Louth, the Cotmts O'Reilly of Sj^ain, the O'Reillys of Beltrasna, in Yfestmeath, and the Reillys of Scarva House, in the County of Down. "Edmund of lialnaci'ott had a son John who had a son Brian, by Mary, daughter of the Baron of Dunsany, who had a famous son Malmore, commonly called Myles the Slasher. This Myles was an able military leader duruig the civil wars of 1641, and showed prodigies of valor during the years 1641, 1642, and 1643 ; but, in 1644, being encamjjed at Granard, in the Coimty of Longford, with Lord Castlehaven, who or- dered him to proceed with a chosen detacii' ment of horse to defend the bridge of Fines against the Scots, then bearing down on the main ai*my with a very superior force, Myles was slain at the head of his troops, fighting bravely on the middle of the bridge. Tradition adds, that dnring this action he encountered the cclonel of the Scots in single combat, who laid open his cheek vritb a blow of his sword ; but Myles, whose jawa were stronger than a sinith's vice, held fast W/LLT REILLT. fche Scotchman's sword between his teeth till he cut him dowTi, but the main body of the Scots i^ressing upon him, he was left dead on the bridge. " This Myles the Slasher was the father of Colonel John O'Reilly, of Ballymacadd, in the County Meath, who was elected Knight of the Shire for the County of Cavan, in the parhament held at Dubhn on the 7tli of May, 1689. He raised a regiment of dragoons, at his own exjjense, for the service of James n., and assisted at the siege of Londondeny in 1689. He liad two engagements with Colonel Wolsley, the commander of the gar- rison of Belturbet, whom he signally defeated. He fought at the battles of the I3o}Tie and Aughrim, and was included in tho articles of capitulation of Limerick, whereby he j)re- seiTed his property, and was allowed to cany arms. " Of the eldest son of this Colonel John O'Reilly, who left issue, my friend Myles J. O'Reilly, Esq., is now the senior representa- tive. " From Colonel John O'Reilly's youiigest son, Thomas O'Reilly, of Beltrasna, was de- cended Count Alexander O'Reilly, of Spain, who TOOK Algiers ! immortalized by Byron. This Alexander was born near Oldcastle, in the County Meath, in the 3'ear 1722. He was Generalissimo of his CathoHc Majesty's forces, and Inspector-Genend of the Infantiy, etc., etc. In the year 1786 he employed the Chevalier Thomas O'Gorman to comj^ile for him a history of the House of O'ReiUy, for wliich he paid 0'Goi*man the sum of £1,137 lO.s'., the original receij^t for which I have in my possession. " From this branch of the O'ReiUy family was also descended the illustrious Andrew Count O'Reilly, who died at Vienna in 1832, at the age of 92. He was General of Cavalry in the Austrian service. This distinguished man iilled in succession aU the mihtaiy grades in the Austrian service, with the ex- ception of that of Field Marshal, and was called by Napoleon ' le respectable General O'lii'ilhj: "The eldest son of Myles J. O'Reilly, Esq., is a young gentleman of great promise and considerable fortune. His rencontre mth Lord Clements (now Earl of Leitrim) has been not long since prominently before the public, and in a manner which docs justice to our old party quarrels ! Both are, how- ever, worthy of their high descent ; and it is to be hoped that they Avill soon become good friends, as they ai'e boih young, and remarkaV)le for benevolence and love of fatherland." As this has been considered by some per- sons as a historical novel, although I really never intended it as such, it may be necessary to give the reader a more distinct notion 0/ the period in which the incidents recorded in it took place. The period then was about that of 1745, when Lord Chesterfield was Governor-General of Ireland. This noble- man, though an infidel, was a bigot, and a decided anti-Cathohc ; nor do I think that the temporaiy relaxation of the penal laws against Catholics was an}i:hing else than an I apiDrehension on the part of England that the chiims of the Pretender might be sup- ported by the Ii'ish Catholics, who then, so depressed and persecuted, must have natu- rally felt a strong interest in having a prince who professed their own rehgion jjlaced upon the English throne. Strange as it may aji- pear, however, and be the cause of it what it may, the Cathohcs of Ii-eland, as a people and as a body, took no part whatever in sup- porting him. Under Lord Chestei-field's ad- ministration, one of the most shocking and unnatural Acts of Parhament ever Conceived passed into a law. This was the making void and nuU all intennarriages between Cathohc and Protestant that should take place after the 1st of May, 1746. Such an Act was a renewal of the Statute of Kilkenny, and it was a fortunate circumstance to Willy Re illy and his dear C'oolecn Bawn that he had the consolation of having been transported for seven years. Had her father even given his consent at an earlier period, the laws of the land wovdd have rendered their marriage im- l^ossible. This cruel law, however, was over- looked ; for it need hai-dly be said that it was met and spurned not only by human reason, but by human passion. In truth, the strong and influential of both religions treated it Avith contempt, and trampled on it without any dread of the consequences. By the time of his return from transportation, it was merely a dead letter, disregarded and scorned by both pai'ties, and was no ob^ stiniction to either the marriage or the happi- ness of himself and his dear Cooleen Bawn. I know not that there is any thing else I can add to this preface, unless the fact that I have heai'd several other ballads ujion the subject of these celebrated lovei-s — all of the same tendency, and all in the highest praise of the beaut}' and virtues of the fair Cooleen Baton. Their utter -vulgarity, however, pre- cludes them fi'om a place in these pages. And, by the way, talking of the law which passed under the administration of Lord Chesterfield agsiinst intcrmai'riages, it is not improbable that the eloijement of Reill}^ and the Cooleen Baicn, in addition to the execu- tion of the man to whom I have given the name of Sir Robert Whitecraft, may have in- troduced it in a spirit of reaction, not onlj 6 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. against the consequences of the elopement, but a^inst the baronet's ignominious death. Thus, in every point from which Ave can view it, the fate of this cc4obratecl couple involved not only popuhu* feeling, but national impor- tance. I have not been able to trace Avith any ac- curacy or sjitisftictJon that portion or branch of the O'Reilly fimiily to which my hero be- longed. The drcaiy lapse of time, and his removal fi'om the countrv', have been the means of sweeping into obliAion ever}' thing concerning him, Avith the exception of his love for ]Miss Folliard. «vnd its strange con- sequences. Even h-aditxon is silent upon that pai-t of the subject, and I fear that any attempt to thi-ow hght upon, it must end only in disaj^jDointment. 1 lii^ie reason to believe that the Counsellor Fox, who acted as his advocate, was never liimselt' raised to the bench ; but that that honor war* v'^'.seiTed for his son, who was an active jud^e ? httle before the close of the last centurj'. W. CAKti^rqw- DUBLIN, December, 1856. CHAKTER L An Adventure and an Encape. SpniiT of George Prince Regent James, Esq., forgive me this commencement ! * It was one evening at the close of a Sep- tember month and a September day that two equestiians might be obsen-ed passing along one of those old and lonely Lish roads that seemed, from the natui'e of its con- stiiiction, to have been paved by a society of antiquarians, if a person could judge from its obsolete chiu-acter, and the difficulty, without risk of neck or hmb, of liding a horse or driving a ctuiiage along it. li-eland, as our Enghsh readers ought to know, has always been a country teeming Avith abun- dance — a haj^py land, in which want, desti- tution, sickness, and famine have never been felt or known, except through the menda- cious misrepresentations of her enemies. The road we speak of was a proof of tliis ; for it was evident to eveiy obsen-er that, in some season of supei'abundant food, the people, not knowing exactly how to dispose of tl)eir shilling loaves, took to paving tlie common roiwls with them, rather than they should be utterly useless. These loaves, in * T mean no offence whatsoever to this distin- gnished anil innltitudinous writer ; bnt the com- raencfment of this novel really resembled that of BO many of his that I was anxious to avoid the charge of imitating him. the course of time, underwent the process a' petrifaction, but could not, nevertheless, be looked uj^on as wholl}' lost to the country. A gi'eat number of the Irish, within six of the last preceding years — that is, from '46 to '52 — took a pecuhar fjincy for them as food, which, we presume, caused their enemies to say that we then had hard times in Ireland. Be this as it may, it enabled the sagacious epicures who hved upon them to retire, in due course, to the delightful retreats of Skull and Skibbereen,* and similar asylums, there to pass the veiy short remainder of their lives in health, ease, and luxury. The evening, as we have said, was about the close of September, when the two eques- trians we speak of were proceeding at a pace necessarily sloio. One of them "was a bluff, fresh-complexioned man, of about sixty sum- mers ; but although of a healthy look, and a frame that had evidently once been vigorous, yet he was a good deal stooped, had about him all the impotence of i:)lethora, and his hail', wliich fell doAvoi his shoulders, wa» white as snow. The other, who rode pretty close to him, was much about his own age, or perhaps a few yeai-s older, if one could judge by a face that gave more undeniable e^dences of those furrows and A\iinkles. whjch Time usually leaves behind him. This persoij did not ride exactly side by side with the tirj't-mentioned, but a httle aback, though not so fox as to prevent the possibihty of conversation. At this time it ma}' be men- tioned here that everv' man that could afibrd it wore a wig, with the exception of some of those eccentric individuals that are to be found in every state and period of society, and who are remarkable for that peculiar love of singularity wliich generally constitutes their character — a small and harmless am- bition, easily gratified, and involving no injmy to theu' feUow-creatures. The second horseman, therefore, wore a wig, but the other, although he eschewed that ornament, if it can be called so, was b\ no means a man of that mild and harmless character Avhich Ave have attributed to the eccentric and un- fashionable class of Avhom we have just spoken. So far from that, he was a man of an obstinate and Aiolent temper, of strong and unreflecting prejudices both for good and eAol, hot, persevering, and A-indictive, though personally brave, intrepid, and * Two poor-houses in the most desolate parts of the County of Cork, where famine, fever, dysen- tery, and cholera, rendered more destructive by the crowded state of the houses and the consequent want of ventilation, swept away the wretched in- mates to the amount, if we reooUsct rightly, of sometimes from fifty to seventy per d?em ia the- years '4.j and '47. WILLY REILLY. often generous. Like many of his class, ne never troubled liis head about reUgiou as a matter that must, and ought to have oeen, personally, of the chiefest interest to himself, but, at the same time, he was looked upon as one of the best and staunchest Protestants of the day. His loy- alty and devotedness to tlie throne of Eng- land were not only unquestionable, biit proverbial thi'oughout the coimtiy ; but, at the same time, he regarded no clergj'- man, either of his own or any other creed, as a man wliose intimacy was worth presei'v- ing, unless he was able to take ofif his three or four bottles of claret after dinner. In fact, not to keej) our readers longer in sus- pense, the relation which he and his com- panion bore to each other was that of master and sei-vant. The hour was now a little past t\\aUght, and the western sky presented an imusual, if not an ominous, appearance. A shai'j) and xaelanclioly breeze was abroad, and the sun, which had set among a mass of red clouds, half placid, and half angiy in appearance, had for some brief space gone down. Over fi'om the norih, however, glided by imper- ceptible degrees a long bhvck bai-, right across the place of his disappeai'ance, and nothing could be more striking than the wild and unnatural contrast between the d}'- ing crimson of the west and this feai-fid mass of impenetrable dai-kness that came over it. As yet there was no moon, and the portion of hght or rather " darkness visible " that feebly appeared on the sky and the land- scape, was singularly sombre and imjn-es- sive, if not actually app;xlling. The scene about them was wild and desolate in the ex- treme ; and as the faint outlines of the bleak and barren moors appeared in the dim and melancholy- distance, the feelings they in- spired were those of discomfort and depres- sion. On each side of them were a variety of lonely lakes, abrupt precipices, and ex- tensive marshes ; and as our travellers went along, the hum of the snipe, the feeble but mournful ciy of the plover, and the \\ilder iind more piercing whistle of the cui'lew, stiU deepened the melancholy dreariness of their situation, and added to their anxiety to press on towards the place of their des- tination. "This is a veiy lonely spot, yoiu' honor, " said his servant, whose name was Andi-ew, or, as he was more famiharly called, Andy Cumraiskey. "Yes, but it's the safer, Andy," replied his master. " Tliere is not a human habitation "Within miles of us." " It doesn't follow, sir, that this place, above •oU others in the neighborhood, is not, es- pecially at this hour, without some persona aljout it. You know I'm no coward, sir." " What, you scomidrel ! and do you mean to hint that I'm one ? " "Not at jiU, sii' ; but you see the truth is, that, this being the very hour for duck and wild-fowl shootin', it's hard to say where oi when a fellow might start up, and mistakA me for a wild duck, and your honor for & curlew or a bittern." He had no sooner spoken than the breeze started, as it were, into more vigorous life, and ere the space of many minutes a dark impenetrable mist or fog was bome over from the solitary hills across the dreary level of country through which they passed, and they felt themselves suddenly chilled, whilst a darkness, almost palpable, nearly conceixled them from each other. Nov/ the roads wliich we have described, being almost without ex- ception in remote 'and imfrequented parts of the country, are for the most part covered over with a thick sole of close gi-ass, unless where a naiTow strip in the centre shows that a pathway' is kept worn, and distinctly mailicd by the tread of foot-passengers. Un- der all these circumstances, then, our read- ers need not feel sm-prised that, owing at once to the impenetrable obscurity ai'ound them, and the noiseless nature of the antique and grass-covered pavement over which they, went, scarcely a distance of two hundred yards had been gained when they fovmd, to their dismay, that they had lost theii- i^ath, and were in one of the wild and heathy stretches of luibounded moor by which they were siuTounded. "We have lost om- way, Andy," observed his master. " We've got off that damned old l^ath ; what's to be done '? where ai-e you ? " "I'm here, sir," replied his man ; " but as for what's to be done, it would take Mave Mullen, that sees the faii'ies and teUs for- tunes, to tell us that. For heaven's sake, stay where you are, sir, till I get up to } ou, for if we pait fi-om one another, we're both lost. Where are you, sii' ? " " C\irse you, sirra," replied his master an- gi-ily, "is this either a time or place to jest in ? A man that would make a jest in such a situation as this would dance on his father's tombstone." " By my soul, sir, and I'd give a five-pound note, if I had it, that you and I were dan- cing ' Jig Polthogue ' on it this minute. But, in the mane time, the devil a one o' me seea the joke your honor speaks of." " \\liy, then, do you ask me where I am, when you know I'm astray, that we're both astray, you snivelling old whelj) ? By tha great and good King Wilham, 11] be lost, Andy ! " 8 WTLLTAM CARLETOjPS WORKS, " Well, and even if you are, sir," replied Andy, who, guided by liis voice, bad now approached and joined bim ; " even if you are, sii-, I trust you'll bear it like a Cbristian and a Trojan." " Get out, you old sniveller — wbat do you mean by a Trojiui ? " "A Troj;m, sir, I was tould, is a man tbat lives by sellin' A\-ild-fowl. They take an oath, sir, before they be{?in the trade, never to die until they can't help it." "You mean to say, or to hint at least, that in addition to our other dangers we run the risk of coming in contact with poach- ers?" " Well, then, sir, if I don't mistake they're out to-night. However, don't let us alarm one anothei-. God forbid that I'd say a sin- gle word to fi-ighten you ; but still, you know yovu-self that there's many a man not a huncb-ed miles fi-om us tha-t ' ud be glad to mistake you for a target, a mallard, or any other v.ild-fowl of that description." "In the meantime we are both well armed," rephed his master ; " but what I fera- most is the risk we iiin of faUing down precipices, or walking into lakes or quag- mu-es. WTiat's to be done ? This fog is so cui'.^G'Jly cold that it has chilled my very blood into ice." " Our best plan, sii-, is to dismount, and keep ourselves wann by taking a pleasant stroll across the covmtiy. The horses will take cai'e of themselves. In the meantime keep up your spiiits — we'U both want some- thing to console us ; but this I can tell you, that devil a bit of tombstone ever will go over either of us, bariin' the sky in heaven ; and for our coffins, let us pray to the coffin- maker, bekaise, you see, it's the maddku ruaJi* (the foxes), and ravens, and other civilized animals that will coffin us both by instidments in their hungiy g"uts, until oiu' bones wiU be beautiful to look at — afther about six months' bleaching — and a sharp eye 'twould be that 'ud know the difference between masther and man then, I think." We omitted to say that a piei'cing and most severe hoar fi'ost had set in with the fog, and that Cummiskey's master felt the immediate necessity of dismounting, and walking about, in order to presei've some degi'ee of animal heat in his body. " I cannot bear this, Andy," said he, " and these two gaUant animals will never recover it after the severe day's hunting they've had. Poor Fiddler and Piper," he exclaimed, " this has proved a melancholy day to you both. What is to be done, Ajidy? I am * Maddhu rua?i, or red dog, the Irish name for Uie fox. scarcely able to st^md, and feel as if my strength had utterly left me." " "What, sii'," repUed his servant, who was certainly deeply attached to his master, " is it so bad with you as all that comes to? Sm-e I only thought to amuse you, sir. Come, take courage ; I'U whistle, and maybe somebody "v^ill come to our reUef." He accordingly put his two fingers into his mouth, and uttered a loud and piercing whistle, after which both stood still for a time, but no reply was given. "Stoj), sir," proceeded Andrew; 111 give them another touch that'll make them spake, if there's any one near enough to hear us." He once more repeated the whistle, but with two or tkree peculiar shakes or varia- tions, when almost instantly one of a similar character was given in reply. "Thank God," he exclaimed, "be they friends or foes, we have human creatures not far from us. Take courage, sir. How do you feel?" "Frozen and chilled almost to death," rephed his master ; "I'U give fifty povmda to any man or party of men that will conduct us safely home." " I Lope in the Almighty," said Andi-ew to himself in an anxious and apprehensive tone of voice, " that it's not Par rah Buah (Red Patrick), the red Eapparee, that's in it, and I'm afeered it is, for I think I know his whistle. There's not a man in the three baronies could give such a whistle as that, barring him- self. If it is, the masther's a gone man, and I'U not be left behind to tell the stoiy, God protect us ! " " What are you saving, Andy ? " asked his master. "What were you mutteiing just now?" " Nothing, sir, nothing ; but there can be no harm, at aU events, to look to our pistols. If there should be danger, let us seU our Hves like men." "And so w^e will, Andy. The country I know is in a distiu'bed and lawless state, and ever since that unfortunate affair of the priest, I know I am not popular with a great many. I hope we won't come across his Rappai-ee nephew." "Whether we do or not, sir, let us look to our firearms. Show me yours tUl I settle the poAvdher in them. "Wliy, God bless me, how you ai'e tremblin'." "It is not fi'om fear, sir," replied thg intrepid old man, " but from cold. If any thing should happen me, Andy, let my daughter know that my will is in the oaken cabinet ; that is to say, the last I made. She is my heiress — but that she is by the laws of the land. However, as I had disposed of some personal property to other persons WILLY REILLY. which disposition I have revoked in the will I speak of — my last, as I said — I wish you to let lier know where she may find it. Her mother's jewels ai-e also in the same place — but tliey, too, are hers by right of law — her mother bequeathed them to her." " Ah ! sir, you are right to remember and think well of that daughter. She has been a guardian angel to you these five yeai's. But why, sir, do you give me this message ? Do you think I won't sell my life in defence of yours '? If you do you're mistaken." " I beheve it, Andrew ; Ibeheve it, Andy," said ne again, familiai'izing tlie word ; but if this red Kapparee should murder me, I don't wi.sh you to sacrifice your life on my account. Miike yom- escape if he should be the person who is approaching us, and convey to my daughter the message I have given you." At this moment another whistle proceeded from a quarter of the moor much nearer them, and .Vndy, having handed back the pistols to liis master, asked him should he return it. " Certainly," replied the other, who dur- ing all this time was jiacing to and fi'O, in order to kee^D himself from sinking ; " cer- tainly, let us see whether these persons are fi'iends or enemies." His sen'ant then replied to the whistle, and in a few minutes it was answered again, wliilst at the same time a strong but bitter wind arose which cleai-ed away the mist, and showed them with considerable distinctness the position which they occuj^ied. Within about ten yai'ds of them, to the left, the verj- direction in which they had been proceeding, was a small deep lake or tarn, utterly shoreless, and into w^hich they unquestionably would have walked and j^er- ished, as neither of them knew how to swim. The clearing away of the mist, and the light of the stai-3 (for the moon had not yet risen), enabled the parties to see each other, and in a few minutes Andi-ew and his master were joined by four men, the principal per- son among them being the identical indi- vidual whom they both had dreaded — the Red R.ipparee. " jMaster," said Cummiskey, in a wliisper, on seeing them approach, "we must fight for it, I'm afeered, but let us not be rash ; there may be a friend or two among them, and it is better to come off peaceablv if we can." "I agree with you," replied his master. " There is no use in shedding vmuccessaiy blood ; but, in any event, let us not j^ennit them to disarm us, should they insist on doing so. Tliey know I never go three yards from my hail-door without arms, and it is not im])vobable they may make a point of t;iking them from us. I, however, for one, vvill not 1 trust to their promises, for I know their treachery-, as I do theii- cowardice, when their numbers are but few, and an armed ojDponent or two before them, determined to i give battle. Stand, therefore, by me, Andy, ; and, by King William, should they have re- ! course to violence, we shall let them see, and feel too, that we are not unprepai'ed." " I have but one life, sir," replied his faithful follower ; "it was spent — at least its best days were — in your sendee, and sooner than any danger should come to you, it ^vill be lost in your defence. If it was only for the sake of her, that is not here, the Cuoleen Bawn, I would do it." " "VMio goes there ? " asked a deep and powerftd voice when the parties had come within about twenty yards of each other. "By the powers ! " exclaimed Andrew in a whisper, " it's liimself — the Red Ra2)paree ! " "We are friends," he repHed, "and have lost our way." The other pai-ty approached, and, on join- ing our travellers, the Rapparee started, ex- claiming, ""Wliat, noble Squu-e, is it jDossible that this is you ? Hut ! it can't be — let me look at you closer, till I make sure of you." " Keep youi' distance, sii'," replied the old man with courage and dignity ; " keej? your distance ; you see that I and my sei-vant are both well ai'med, and determined to defend oui'selves against violence." An ominous and ferocious glance passed from the Rappai-ee to his comrades, who, however, said nothing, but seemed to be re- solved to g-uide themselves altogether by his conduct. The Red Riipparee was a huge man of about forty, and the epithet of " Red " ' had been given to him in consequence of the I color of his hair. In expression his counte- I nance was by no means unhandsome, being I florid and symmetrical, but hai-d, and with I scai-cely any trace of feehng. His brows j were fiir asunder, arguing ingenuity and in- vention, but his eyes, which were smjill and ; treacherous, glared — whenever he became ex- I cited — with the ferocity of an enraged tiger. ; His shoulders A^•ere broad, his chest deep \ and square, his anns long and powerful, but liis lower limbs were somewhat light in pro- portion to the great size of his upper figure. ! This, however, is generally the case when a ! man combines in his owai person the united j quahties of actirity and strength. Even at j the period we ai-e describing, when this once 1 celebrated character was forty yeai-s of age, it was well kno^vn that in fleetness of foot there was no man in the province able to compete with him. In athletic exercises that required strength and skill he never had a rivid, but one — with whom the reader wiU lU WILLIAM VARLETON'S WOEKS. soon be made acquainted. He was wrapped loosely in a {jniy frieze big-coat, or colhaniore, as it is called in L-isli — woi-e a liat of two colors, and so pliant in texture tliat he could at any time turn it inside out. His coat was — as indeed were all his clothes — made upon the s;iine piinciple, so that when hiU'd pressed by the authorities he could in a jninute or two transmute himself into the appearance of a man veiy dillerent fi-om the indivithial desciibed to them. Indeed he was such a perfect Proteus that no vigilance of the Ex- ecutive was ever a match for his versatility of appearance, swiftness of foot, and caution. These frequent defeats of the authorities of that day made him extremely i^opular with the people, who were always ready to afford him shelter and means of concealment, in return for which he assisted them with food, money, and the spoils of his predatory Ufe. This, indeed, was the sagacious principle of the Iiish Robbers and Rapparees from the beginning — (o rob from ihe rich and give to the jioor being their motto. The persons who accompanied him on this occasion were thi-ee of his own gang, who usually constituted liis body-g-uard, and acted as videttes, either for his protection or for the pui-pose of bringing him information of such travellers as fi'om their kno^vn wealth or- external appearance might be supposed worth attacking. They were well-made, ac- tive, and athletic men, in whom it would not be easy to recognize any pai-ticular character at variance with that of the peasantry around them. It is unnecessaiy to say tlaat they were aU ai*med. Having satisfied himself as to the identity of master and man, with a glance at his companions, the Eapparee said, ""What on earth brought you and Andy Cummiskey here, noble squire ? Oh ! you lost your way, Andy says. Well now," he pro- ceeded, "you know I have been many a day and night on the lookout for you ; aye, could have i:>ut dayhght through you many and many a time ; and what do you think pre- vented me ? " "Fear of God, or of the gallows, I hope," rephed the intrepid old man. "Well," returned the Eapparee, mth a smile of scorn, " I'm not a man — as I sup- pose you may know — that ever feared either of them much — God forgive me for the one, I don't ask his forgiveness for the other. No, Squire FoUiard, it was the goodness, the kindness, the generosity, and the charity of the Coolecn Baivn, your lovely daughter, that held my hand. You persecuted my old unele, the priest, and you wovild a' hiinged him too, for merely maii'j'in ' a Protestant and a CathoUc together. Well, sir, your fair daughter, and her good mother — that's now in heaven, I hope — went uj) to Dublin to th\3 Lord Lieutenant, and before him the Cooleen Baicn, went on her two knees and begged my uncle's life, and got it ; for the Lord Lieutenjuit said tliat no one could deny lier any thing. Now, sir, for her sake, go home in peace. Boys, get their horses." Andy Cummiskey would have looked upon all tljis as manly and generous, but he could not helj) obsening a particular and rather sinister meaning in the look which the Rap- jiaree turned on his companions as he spoke. He had often heard, too, of his treacherous disposition and liis unrelenting cnielty whenever he entertained a feehng of ven- geance. In his present position, however, all he could do was to stand on his guard ; and wdth this impression strong upon him he re- solved to put no confidence in the words of the Rai:)paree. In a few minutes the horses were brought up, and Randy (Randal) Ruah having wiped ^Ir. FoUiard's saddle — for such was his name — ■with the skirt of his cothamore, and removed the hoar frost or rime which had gathered on it, he brought the animal over to him, and said, with a kind of rude courtesy, " Come, sir, trust me ; I will help you to your saddle." "You have not the reputation of being trustworthy," repHed Mr. FoUiard; "keep back, sir, at your joeril ; I will not trust you. My own seiTant Avill assist me. " This seemed precisely the arrangement which the Rapparee and his men had con- templated. The squire, in moimting, was obHged, as eveiy man is, to use both his hands, as was his seiTant also, while assist- ing him. They consequently put up their pistols until they should get into the saddles, and, almost in an instant, found themselves disai*med, and prisoners in the hands of these lawless and unscrupulous men. "Now, Squii-e FoUiard," exclaimed the Rapparee, " see what it is not to trust an honest man ; had you done so, not a hair of your head would be injured. As it is. 111 give you five minutes to do three things ; remember my uncle, the priest, tliat you transported." "He acted most UlegaUy, sir," replied the old man indignauily ; " and, in my opinion. I say that, in consequence of liis conduct, tlie country had a good riddance of him. I only wish I could send you after him ; perhaps I shaU do so yet. I believe in Providence, sirra, and that God can protect me from your violence even here." "In the next place," proceeded the Rap- paree, " think of your daughter, that you wUl never see again, either in this world or the next." WILLY RE ILLY. lI " I know I am unworthy of having such an angel," replied the old man, "but luiless you were a cruel and a heartless ruffian, you would not at this moment mention her, or bring the thoughts of her to my recol- lection." "In the last place, continued the other, "if you have any thing to say in the shape of a prayer, say it, for in five miuutes' time there will be a bullet through your heai't, and in five more you will be snug and warm at the bottom of the loch there below — that's your doom." "O'Donnel," said Andy, "tliink that there's a God above you. Surel}' you wouldn't murdher this ould man and make the sowl witliin your body redder — if the thing's possible — than the head that's on the top of it, though in throth I don't think it's by way of ornament it's there eitlier. Come, come, Eandid, my man, this is aWj'caslhalagh (nonsense). You only want to frighten the gentleman. As for youi* uncle, man alive, all I can say is that he was a fi-ieud to your famil}', and to reUgion too, that sent him on his travels." "Take off your gallowses" (braces), said the Rajjjjaree ; "take them oftj a couple of you — for, by all the jiowers of darkness, they'll both go to the bottom of the loch together, back to back. Do^\'n 3-ou'll go, Andy." "By my soul, then," rephed the unflinch- ing servant, " if Ave go doAvn you'll go w/> ; and we have those belongiu' to us that will see you kiss the hangman yet. Yerra, now, above all words in the alphabet what could put a gallows into youi- mouth? Faith, Randal, it's about youi' neck it'll go, and you'll put out your tongue at the dtiicent people that will attend youi' ovm funeral yet — that is, if you don't let us off." "Put them both to their knees," said the Rappai-ee iu a voice of thunder, "to their knees with them. I'U take the masther, and, Kineely, do you take the man." The companions of the Rapparee could not avoid laughing at the comic courage dis- played b}' Cummiskey, and were about to intercede for him, wherLQ'Xionnel, which was his name, stamped with fury on the gi'ound and asked them if they dai*ed to disobey him. This sobered them at once, and in less than a minute ^h: FoUiard and Andy were placed upon their knees, to await the terrific sen- tence which was about to be executed on them, in that vdld and lonely moor, and under such appalling cii-cumstances. "When placed in the desired postui-e, to ask that mercy fi-om God which they were not about to experience at the hands of man, Squii-e Folliard spoke : " Red Rappai-ee," said he, "it is not that I am afraid of death as such, but I ieel that I am not prepared to die. Suffer my servant and myself to go home without harm, and 1 shall engage not only to get you a pardon from the Government of the coiintr}', but I shall fiu-nish you with money either to take you to some useful calling, or to emigrate to some foreign countiy, where nobody will know of yoiu- misdeeds, or the life you have led here." "Randal, my man," added Andy, "hsten to what the gentleman says, and you may escape wliat you knoAV yet. As for my mas- ther, Raudr d, let him pass, and take me in his place. ''1 may as well die now, maybe, as another time. I was an honest, faithful ser- vant, at all times. I have neither chick nor chiTd to ciT for me. No wife, thank God, to break my heart afther. My conscience is hght and aixy, like a beggai-man's blanket, as they say ; and, baiTin' that I once got drunk wid your uncle in Moll Flanagan's sheebeen house, I don't know that I have much to trouble me. Spare him, then, and take me, if it must come to that He has the Cooleen Bawn to think for. Do you think of her, too ; and remember that it was she who saved yoiu* uncle fi-om the gal- lows." Tliis unlucky allusion only deepened the vengeance of the Red Rapparee, who look- ed to the priming of his gvm, and was in the act of ijrejjai'iug to iJerj^etrate this most in- human and aAA-ful muixler, when an inter- ruption took place for which neither I3ai*ty was i^repared. Now, it so happened that A\dthin about eight or ten yards of where they stood there existed the walls and a portion of the arched roof of one of those old ecclesiastical ruins, which our antiquarians denominate C'yvlo- jjean, like lucuti a non lucendo, because scarcely a dozen men could kneel in them. Over this sad niia was wliat sportsmen term " a pass " for duck and widgeon, and, aided by the shelter of the building, any persons who stationed themselves there could certainly commit gi'eat havoc among the wild-fowl in question. The Red Rapparee then had his gun in his hand, and was in the very act of adjusting it to his shoulder, when a power- ful young man sj^rung forward, and dashing it aside, exclaimed : " "What is this, Randal ? Is it a double murder you are about to execute, you inhu- man niffian ? " The Rai:)paree glared at him,, but with a quailing and subdued, yet svdlen and Aindic- tive, expression. " Stand up, sir," proceeded this dai-ing and animated young man, addressing Mr. 12 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. Folliard ; " and you, Cummiskey, get to your legs. No person shall dai-e to injure either of you while I am here. O'Dounel — stain and disgi-ace to a noble name — begone, you and your nitiians. I know the cause of yom- enmity against this gentleman ; and I tell you now, that if you were as ready to sustain your rehgion as you are to disgrace it by your conduct, you would not l)ecome a curse to it and the country, nor give promise of feeding a himgiy gallows some day, as you and your accomplices "v\"ill do." Whilst the y(^ung stranger addi-essed these miscreants with such energ}' and detennina- tion, IMi-. FoUiard, who, as well as his ser- vant, had now got to his legs, asked the latter in a wliisi^er who he Avas. " By all that's happy, sir," he rej^Hed, " it's himself, the onl}' man living that the Red Rapparee is afraid of ; it's ' Willy Reilly.' " CHAPTER n. The Cooleen Baum. The old man became vei-j' Httle wiser by the infoi-mation of his servant, and said in reply, "I hope, Andy, he's not a Papist;" but checking the \inworthy prejudice — and in him such prejudices were siugiilarly strong in words, although often feeble in fact — he added, " it matters not — we owe our hves to him — the deepest and most important obhga- tion that one man can owe to another. I am, however, scarcely able to stand ; I feel be- numbed and exhavisted, and wish to get home as soon as possible." "Mr. Reilly," said And}-, "this gentleman is very weak and ill ; and as you have acted so much hke a brave man and a gentleman, maybe you'd have no objection to see us safe home." "It is my intention to do so," replied Reilly. " I could not for a moment think of leaving either him or you to the mercy of this treacherous man, Avho dishonors a noble name. Randal," he proceeded, addressing the Rapparee, " mark my words ! — if but a single hah- of this gentleman's head, or of any one belonging to him, is ever injured by you or your gang, I swear that you and they will swing, each of you, fi-om as many gibbets, as soon as the course of the law can reach you. You know me, sir, and my influence over those who protect you. As for you, Fergus, " he added, addressing one of the Rapparee's followers, "you are, thank God! the only one of my blood who has ever disgraced it by leading such a lawless and guilty life. Be ifdvised by me — leave that man of treachery. i-apine, and mui-der — abandon him and re. form your life — and if you are disposed to become a good and an industrious mem' ber of society, go to some other counti-y, where the disgrace you have incurred in this may not follow you. Be advised by me, and you shall not want the means of emigrating. Now begone ; and think, each of you, of what I have said." The Rappai'ee glanced at the noble-looking young fellow "udth the vindicti-s^ ferocity of an enraged bull, Avho feels a disjjosition to injure you, but is restrained by terror ; or, which is quite as appropriate, a cowai'dly but vindictive mastiff, who eyes jon askance, growls, shows his teeth, but has not the courage to attack you. " Do not look at me so, sii'," said Reillj-- ; " you know I fear you not." " But in the meantime," rephed the Rap- pai'ee, " what's to prevent me fi-om putting a bullet into you this moment, if I wish to do it?" " There are ten thousand reasons against it," returned Reilly. "If you did so, in less than twenty-foui' hours you vv ould find your- self in SHgo jail— or, to come nearer the truth, in less than five minutes you would find yoiu'self in hell." " Well, now, suppose I should make the trial," said the Rapparee. " You don't know, Ml*. Reilly, how you have crossed me to- night. Suppose now I should try — and sup- pose, too, that not one of you three should leave the spot you stand on only as coi-pses — wouldn't I have the advantage of you then?" Reilly turned towards the mined chapel, and simply raising his right hand, about eight or ten persons made their ajDjoearance ; but, restrained by signal fi-om him, they did not advance. " That will do," said he. " Now, Randal, I hope you understand yoiu* position. Do not provoke me again ; for if you do I will surround you with toils from which you could as soon change youi' fierce and brutal natui-e as escape. Yes, and I wiU take you in the midst of your ruffian guards, and in the deepest of your fastnesses, if ever you provoke me as you have done on other oc- casions, or if you ever injiu'e this gentleman or any individual of his family. Come, sir," he proceeded, addressing the old man, " you are now mounted — my horse i« in this old ruin — and in a moment I shall be ready to accompany you." ReiUj' and his companions joined our travellers, one of the former having offered the old squu'e a large frieze gi'eat-coat, which he gladly accepted, and having thus fonned a guard of safety ior him and his faithful WIZZY Bzzzzr. 13 attendant, they regained the old road we have described, and resumed theii- journey. When they had gone, the Rappai*ee and liis companions looked after them with blank faces for some minutes. " Well," said their leader, " Eeilly has knocked up oiu* game for this night. Only for him I'd have had a full and sweet re- venge. However, never mind : it'U go hard with me, or I'll have it yet. In the mane time it won't be often that such another op- portunity wiU come in our way." "Well, now that it is over, what was your intention, Randal ? " asked the person to whom ReiUy had addressed himself. " Why," replied the miscreant, "aftei- the deed was done, what was to j^revent us from robbing the house to-night, and taking away his daughter to the mountains. I have long- had my eye on her, I can tell you, and it'll cost me a fall, or I'll have her yet." "You had better," replied Fergus Reilly, for such was his name, "neither malie nor meddle with that family afther this night. If you do, that temble relation of mine will hang you hke a dog." "How Avill he hang me like a dog?" asked the Rapparee, knitting his shaggy eyebrows, and tvu'ning ujjon him a fierce and gloomy look. " WTiy, now, Randal, you know as well as I do," replied the other, " that if he only raised his finger against you in the countiy, the very people that harbor both you and us would betray us, aye, seize us, and bind us hand and foot, like common thieves, and give us over to the authorities. But as for hijnself, I beheve you have sense enough to let him alone. When you took away Mary TrajTior, and neai'ly kilt her brothei", the young priest — you know they were ReiUy's tenants — I needn't tell you what happened : in iouv hours' time he had the country' up, followed you and your party — I wasn't with you then, but you know it's truth I'm spaJkin' — and when he had five to one against you, didn't he make them stand a,side until he and you should decide it be- tween you ? Aye, and you know he covdd a' brought home eveiy man of you tied neck and heels, and would, too, only that there was a large reward offered for the takin' of you hvin' or dead, and he scorned to have ^my hand in it on that account." " It was by a chance blow he hit me," said the Rappai'ee — " by a chance blow." " By a couple dozen chance blows," repHed the other ; " you know he knocked you down as fast as ever you got up — I lave it to the boys here that wor present." " There's no use in denyin' it, Randal," they repHed ; " you hadn't a chance wid him." " Well, at all events,*' observed the Rap- paree, "if he did beat me, he's the only man in the countiy able to do it ; but it's not over, curse him — I'll have another trial with liim yet." "If you take my advice," repHed ReiUy, " you'll neither make nor meddle with him. He's the head o' the CathoHcs in this part of the countiy, and 3'ou know that; aye, and he's their fi-iend, and uses the friendship that the Protestants have towards him for theu' advantage, wherever he can. The man that would injui-e Willy Reilly is an enemy to our religion, as well as to every thing that's good and generous ; and mai'k me, Randal, if ever you cross him in what he warned you against this veiy night, I'll hang you mj-self, if there wasn't another livin' man to do it, and to the back o' that again I say you mvist shed no blood so long as I am with you." " That won't be long, then," repHed the Rappai-ee, puUing out a piu'se ; " there's twenty guineas for you, and go about your business ; but take care, no treachery." "No," repHed the other, "I'U have none of your mone}' ; there's blood in it. God forgive me for ever joinin' you. WTien I want money I can get it ; as for treachery', there's none of it in my veins ; good-night; and remember my words." Having thus spoken, he took his way along the same road b}^ which the old squire and his party went. " That feUow vnH tetray us," said the Rapparee. " No," ref)Hed his companions firmly, " there never was treachery in his part of the family ; he is not come fi'om any of the Queen's O'Reillys. * We wish you were as sui'e of eveiy man you have as you may be of him." "WeU, now," observed their leader, "a thought strikes me ; this ould squu-e will be half dead aU night. At any rate he'U sleep like a top. Wouldn't it be a good ojipor- tunity to attack the house — aise him of his money, for he's as rich as a Jew — and take away the Gooleen Bawnf We'U call at Shane Beama's f stables on our way and * Catholic families who were faithful and loyal to Queen Elizabeth during her wars in Ireland were stigmatized by the nickname of the Queen's friends, to distinguish thera from others of the same name who had opposed her, on behalf of their religion, in the wars which desolated Ireland during her reign ; a portion of the family of which we write were on this account designated as the Queen's O'Reillys. f Shane Beama was a celebrated Rapparee. who, among his other exploits, figured principally as a horse-stealer. He kej)t the stolen animals con- cealed in remote mountain caves, where he 14 WILLFAM CARLETON'S WORKS. bring the other boys along wid iis. What do jou say ? " " ^Vhy, that you'll hang yourself, and every man of us." " Nonseuse, you cowai'dly dogs," rephed their leader indignantly ; " can't we lave the covmtrj' ? " ""Well, if you're bent on it," replied his followers, " we won't be yom* hindrance." " We can break up, and be off to America," he added. " But Avhat will you do Avith the Cooleen Baicn, if you tnkc her ? " they asked. " Why, lave her behind us, afther showin' the puii}' creature the inside of .Shane Beama's stables. She'll be able to find lier ■way back to her father's, never fear. Come, boys, now or never. To say the ti-uth, the sooner we get out of the countiy, at all events, the better." The Rapparee and his men had moved up to the door of the old chajjel akeady alluded to, whilst this conversation went on ; and now that theu' dreadful j)roject had been determined on, they took a short ciat across the moors, in order to j^rocure additional assistance for its accomplishment. No sooner had they gone, however, than an individual, who had been concealed in the darkness within, came stealthily to the door, and peeping cautiously out, at length advanced a few steps and looked timidly about him. Perceiving that the coast was clear, he placed himself imder the shadow of the old walls — for there was now sulfi- cient hglit to cast a shadow fi-om any prom- inent object ; and fi'om thence hining ob- sen'ed the dii'ection which the Rapparee and his men took, without any risk of being «een himself, he appeared satisfied. The name of this individual — who, although shrewd and cunning in many things, was nevertheless deficient in reason — or rather the name by which he generally went, was Tom Steeple, a aobnquet given to him on accoimt of a predominant idea which charac- terized and influenced liis Avhole conversa- tion. The great dehght of this poor ("reature was to be considered the tallest individual in the kingdom, and indeed nothing could be more amusing than to witness the man- ner in which he held u]> his head while he trimmed and dyed them in Buch a way a.s made it imposHible to recognize them. These caves are curioKities at the present day, and are now known as Shiine Bmrna'a Staolen. He was a chief in the formidable gang of tlie celebrated Redmond O'Hanlon. it is said of him that he was called Bearna because he nev3r had any teeth ; but tra- dition tells us that he could, notwithstanding, bite a piece out of a thin plate of iron with as much i*'^oor loving father has only just escaped being shot, and now he runs the risk of being strangled." "Dear, dear papa," she said, "who could have thought of injuring you — you •ndth your angiy tongue, but your generous and chari- table and noble heart ? " and again she wound her exquisite and lovely arms about his neck and kissed him, whilst a fresh gush of tears came to her ej'es. " Come, Helen — come, love, be quiet now, or I shall not tell you any tiling more about m}' rescue by that gallant j^oung feUow standing before you." This was followed, on her part, by another glance at Eeilly, and the glance was as speedily followed by a blush, and again a host of tumultuous emotions crowded ai'ound his heart. The old man, placing her head upon his bosom, kissed and j^atted her, after which he related briefly, and in such a way as not, if possible, to excite her afresh, the circum- stances with which the reader is already ac- cjuainted. At the close, however, when he came to the part wliich Eeilly had bonie in the matter, and dwelt at more length on his intrepidity and spirit, and the energy of character and courage with wliich he quelled the terrible Rappai-ee, he was obliged to atop for a moment, and say, ""Why, Helen, what is the matter, my WILLY REILLY. 19 darling? Are you getting ill again? Your little heart is going at a gallop — bless me, how it pit-a-pats. There, now, you've heai'd it all — here I am, safe — and there stands the gentleman to whom, under God, we ai-e both indebted for it. And now let us have dinner, darhng, for we have not dined ? " Apologies on the pai-t of Reilly, who really had dined, were flung to the ^\inds by the old sqmre. " ^\'hat matter, Willy ? what matter, man ? — sit at the table, pick something — curse it, we won't eat you. Your dress? never mind your dress. I am sui-e Helen here ■will not find fault with it. Come, Helen, use your influence, love. And you, sir, Willy Reilly, give her your arm." This he added in consequence of dinner having been announced while he sjioke ; and so they passed into the dining-room. CHAPTER m. Daring Attempt of the Red Rapparee — Mysterious Disappearance of His Gany^The Avowal. We must go back a httle. ^\lien Helen sank under the dreadful intelligence of the attempt made to assassinate her fathei', we stated at the time that she was not absolutely insensible ; and this was the fact. Redly, al- ready enraptiu'ed by such wonderful gi-ace and beauty as the highest flight of his imagi- nation could never have conceived, when c^- ed upon by her father to carry her to the sofa, could scarcely credit his senses that such a lovely and precious burden should ever be entrusted to him, much less borne in his veiy arms. In order to prevent her fi'om faUing, he was Hterally obhged to tkrow them around her, and, to a certain extent, to press her — for the pui"pose of supporting her — against his heai't, the pulsations of which were going at a ti'emendous speed. There was, in fact, something so soft, so pitiable, so beautiful, and at the same time so exquisitely pui-e and fragi'ant, in this lovely creature, as her head lay drooping on his shoulder, her pale cheek literally lying against his, that it is not at all to be wonder- ed at that the beatings of his heart wei*e ac- celerated to an unusual degree. Now she, fi'om her position ujjon his bosom, necessarily felt this rapid action of its tenant ; when, therefore, her father, after her recoveiy, on reciting for her the feai-ful events of the evening, and dwelling upon Reilly 's determi- nation and courage, expressed alai-m at the palpitations of her heart, a glance passed between them which each, once and forever, imderstood. She had felt the agitation ol his, who had risked his life in defence of her father, for in this shape the old man had tiTily put it ; and now she knew fi-om her father's ob.ser\ation, hh his arm lay upon her ovra, that the interest which his account of Reilly's chivalrous conduct thi'oughout the whole aftliir had excited in it were di.scovered. In this case heart sjxske to heai't, and by the time they sat down to dinner, each felt con- scious that their passion, brief as was the period of theh- acquaintance, had become, whether for good or evil, the uncontrollable destiny of their lives. William ReiUy v?as the descendant of an old and noble Ii'ish family. His ancestors had gone through all the vicissitudes and trials, and been engaged in most of the civil broils and wars, which, in Ireland, had char- acteiized the reign of Elizabeth. As we are not disposed to enter into a disquisition upon the histoiy of that stormy peiiod, un- less to say that we beheve in oiu- souls both parties were equally savage and inhuman, and that there was not, hterally, a toss up between them, we have only to add that Reilly's family, at least that branch of it to which he belonged, had been reduced by the ruin that resulted fi'om the ci\al wai"S, and the confiscations jjecuhar to the times. His father had made a good deal of money abroad in business, but feeling that melancholy longing for his native soil, for the dark mountains and the green fields of his be- loved country, he returned to it, and having taken a large farm of about a thousand acres, under a peculiar tenui'e, which we shall mention ere we close, he devoted him- self to pasturage and agi'iculture. Old ReiUy had been for some yeai-s dead, and his eldest son, WiUiam, was now not only the head of his immediate family, but of that great branch of it to which he belonged, although he neither claimed nor exercised the honor. In Reilly, many of those ii-recon- cilable points of character, which scai'cely ever meet in the disposition of any but an Ii-ishman, were united. He was at once mild and impetuous ; iiuder peculiar ciiTiunstan- ces, humble and unassuming, but in others, proud almost to a fault ; a bitter foe to op- pression in everj' sense, and to bigotry in every creed. He ^v■as liiglily educated, and as perfect a master of French, Spanish, and German, as he was of either Enghsh or Irish, both of wliich he spoke with equal fluency and pxuity. To his personal courage we need not make any further allusion. On many occasions it had been weU tested on : the Continent. He was an exjjert and un« j rivalled swordsman, and a first-rate shot, I whether with the pistol or fowling-piecet 20 WILLIAM CARLETON'8 WORKS. At every athletic exercise he was matcliless ; and one preat cause of his extraordinaiy popularity amonjjr tlie peasantry was the pleasiu-e he took in promoting: the exercise of such manly spoi-ts amgng them. In his person he combined gfi-eat strength with re- markable gi-ace and ease. The wondei-ful sj-mmetiy of his fonn took away apparently from his size ; but on looking at and exam- ining him closely, you felt siu-prised at the astonishmg fvdness of his propoi'tions and the prodigious muscular jDower which lay under such deceptive elegance. As for his features, they were replete with that manly expression which changes with, and becomes a candid exponent of, eveiy feeling that in- fluences the heart. His mouth was fine, and his fuU red hps exquisitely chiselled ; his chin was full of firmness ; and his lai-ge dark eyes, though soft, melloAV, and insinuating, had yet a sparkle in them that gave exddence of a fieiy spuit when provoked, as well as of a high sense of self-respect and honor. His complexion was sHghtly bronzed by resi- dence in continental chmates, a circumstance that gave a waimth and mello^ATiess to his featvu'es, which, when taken into considera- tion ^^•ith his black, clusteiing locks, and the snowy whiteness of his forehead, placed him in the veiy highest order of handsome men. Such was our hero, the fame of whose per- sonal beauty, as well as that of the ever- memorable Cooleea Baton, is yet a tradition in the coimtry. On this occasion the dinner-party consisted only of the squire, his daughter, and Eeilly. The old man, on reflecting that he Avas now safe, felt his spirits revive apace. His habits of life were joUy and conrivial, but not ac- tually intemperate, although it must be ad- mitted that on some occasions he got into the debatable ground. To those who did not know him, and who were acquainted through common report only with his un- mitigated abuse of Popery, he M'as looked upon as an oppressive and overbearing ty- rant, who would enforce, to the fui'thest pos- sible stretch of severity, the penal enact- ments then in existence against Roman Catholics. And this, indeed, was time, so far as any one was concerned from whom he imagined himself to have received an injury' ; against such he was a vindictive tjTant, and a most implacable persecutor. By many, on the other hand, he was considered as an ec- centric man, with a weak head, but a heart, that often set all his anti-Catholic prejudices at complete defiance. At dinner the squire had most of the con- versation to loimself, his loquacity and good- humor having been very much improved by a few glasses of his rich old Madeira. His daughter, on the other hand, seemed fre- quently in a state of absti-action, and, on more than one occasion, found herself incap- able of answeiing several questions which he put to her. Ever and anon the timid, blush- j ing glance was directed at Reilly, by whom it was retiHTied ^\-ith a significance that went i directly to her heart. Both, in fact, appear- ' ed to be influenced by some secret train of thought that seemed quite at variance mth the old gentleman's gaiiiihty. " Well," said he, " here we are, thank God, all safe ; and it is to you, Wdly, we owe it. ; Come, man, take off your wine. Isn't he a fine yoimg fellow, Helen ? " Helen's heart, at the moment, had followed her eyes, and she did not hear him. "Hello! what the deuce! By the banks of the Boyne, I beHeve the gii-1 has lost her healing. I say, Helen, isn't Willy ReLUy here, that prevented you fi'om being an or- phan, a fine young fellow ? " A sudden rosy blush sufifused her whole neck and face on hearing this blunt and in- considerate question. " "\i\'Tiat, darling, have 3'ou not heard me ? " " If Ml'. Reilly were not present, papa, I might give an opinion on that subject ; but I ti-ust you will excuse me now." "Well, I supiDose so; there's no getting women to sjDeak to the point. At all events, I would give more than I'll mention that Sii" Robert t\Tiitecraft was as good-looking a specimen of a man ; I'll engage, if he was, you would have no objection to say yes, my gii'l." "I look to the disposition, papa, to the moral feelings and piinciples, more than to the person. ' " WeU, Helen, that's right too — all right, darling, and on that account Sir Robert must and ought to be a favorite. He is not yet forty, and for this he is liimself my au- thority, and forty is the prime of hfe ; yet, with an immense fortune and strong temjita- tions, he has never launched out into a single act of imjjrudence or foil}'. No, Helen, he never sowed a peck of Avild oats in his life. He is, on the contrary, sober, grave, silent — a little too much so, by the way — cautious, pinident, and saving. No man knows the value of money better, nor can contrive to make it go furtbei'. Then, as for managing a bargain — upon my soul, I don't think he treated me weU, though, in the swop of ' Hop-and-go-constant ' against my precious bit of blood, 'Pat the Spanker.' He made me pay him twenty -five pounds boot for an old — But you shall see him, Reilly, you shall see him, Willy, and if ever there was a greater take in — you needn't smile. He' en, nor look at Willy. By the good King Wil- WILLY RE ILLY. 21 liam that saved us from Pope, and — ahem — I beg pardon, "Willy, but, upon my soul, he took me completely in. I say, I shall show you Hop-and-go-constant, and when you see him you'll admit the 'Hop,' but the devil a bit you will find of the ' Go-constant.' " "I suppose the gentleman's personal ap- pearance, sir," obsen-ed ReiUy, glancing at Miss FoUiard, " is equal to his other quah- ties." " Why — a — ye — s. He's tall and thin and serious, with something about him, say, of a philosopher. Isn't that tiiie, Helen ? " " Perfectly, papa," she rejjhed, -svith a smile of ai-ch humor, which, to Reilly, placed her chai-acter in a new light. " Perfectly tme, papa, so far as you have gone ; but I tiiist you will finish the portrait for Mr. Reillv." '• Well, then, I will. Where was I ? Oh, yes — tall, tliin, and serious ; like a philosopher. Ill go next to the shoulders, because Helen seems to like them — they are a little round or so. I, myself, wish to goodness they were somewhat straighter, but Helen says the cun-e is dehghtful, being what painters and glaziers call the line of beauty." A sweet hght laugh, that rang with the melody of a musical bell, broke fi-om Helen at this part of the description, in which, to tell the tiuth, she was joined by Eerily. The old man himself, fi'om sheer happiness and good-humor, joined them both, though ut- terly ignorant of the cause of theii' mii'th. " Aye, aye," he exclaimed, " you may laugh — by the gi*eat Bo^Tie, I knew I would make you laugh. Well, I'll go on ; his complexion is of a — a — no matter — of a good standing color, at all events ; his nose, I gi-ant you, is as thin, and much of the same color, as pasteboard, but as a set-off to that it's a thorough Wilhamite. Isn't that true, Helen ? " " Yes, papa ; but I think King WiUiam's nose was the worst featru-e in liis face, although that certainly cannot be said of Sii" Eobei-t." "Do you hear that, Reilly? I wish Sir Robei-t heard it, but I'll tell him — there's a comphment, Helen — you're a good girl — thank you, Helen." Helen's face was now radiant with mirth- ful enjoyment, whilst at the same time Reilly could perceive that from time to time a deep unconscious sigh would escape from her, such a sigh as induced him to infer that some hidden care was at work ■with her heart. This he at once imputed to her fether's determination to force her into a marriage with the worthy biironet, whom in his simpHcity he was so ludicrously de- scribinsf. "Proceed, papa, and finish as you have begun it." "I will, to obhge and gratify you, Helen. He is a little close about the knees, Mr. Reilly — a httle close about the knees, WUly." " And about the heart, papa," added his daughter, who, for the life of her, could not restrain the obser\'ation. " It's no fciult to know the value of money, my dear child. However, let me go on — close about the knees, but that's a proof of strength, because they support one another : every one knows that." " But his arms, papa ? " " You see, Reilly, you see, Willy," said the squire, nodding in the direction of his daughter, " not a bad sign that, and yet she pretends not to care about him. She is gi-atitied, eridenth'. Ah, Helen, Helen ! it's hard to know women." "But his amis, papa?" " Well, then, I wish to goodness you would allow me to skip that part of the subject — they are an a^^-ful length, WiUy, I grant I allow the fact, it cannot be denied, they are of an awful length." " It will give him the greater advantage in over-reaching, papa." "Well, as to his arms, upon my soul, Willy, I know no more what to do with them — " ■* Than he does himself, papa." "Just so, Helen; they hang about him hke those of a skeleton on wii*es ; but, on the other hand, he has a neck that always betokens tnae blood, long and thin like that of a racer. Altogether he's a devilish inter- esting man, steady, prudent, and sober. I never saw him diink a third glass of — " " In the meantime, pajja," obsei*ved Helen, " in the enthusiasm of your description you are neglecting ^Ir. ReiUy." Ah, love, love ! in how many minute points can you make yourself understood ! "By the gi'eat Wilham, and so I am. Come, Willy, help yourself " — and he pushed the bottle towards him as he spoke. And why, gentle reader, did Reilly fill his glass on that pai'ticular occasion until it became Htei'ally a brimmer ? We know — but if you ai'e ignorant of it we simply beg yovj to remain so ; and why, on putting the gltxsa to his Hps, did his large dark eyes rest upon her vrith that deep and meltitig glance?; Why, too, was that glance returned with the quickness of thought before her hds di'opped, and the conscious blush suffused her face ? The solution of this we must also leave to your own ingenuity. "Well," proceeded the squire, "steady, prudent, sober — of a fine old family, and with an estate of twelve thousand a year— 32 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. what do you think of that, WiDy ? Isn't she a fortvinate }?irl ? " " Tiikin;; bis viiiues and very afrreeable per- son into cont-ideratiou, sir, I think so," rephed Eeilly in a tone of shght sai-casm, which wa-s only calculated to reach one of his audience. " You hetu" that, Helen — you hear what Mr. Eeilly — what "NVilly — says. The fact is, I'll call you nothinp; but Willy in futui-e, Willy — you heai- what he says, darling? " " Indeed I do, papa — and understand it perfectly." " That's my gii'l. Twelve thousand a year — and has money lent out at every rate of in- terest from .six per cent, up." "And yet I cannot cou.sider him as inter- esting on that account, papa." " You do, Helen — nonsense, my love — you do, I tell you — it's idl make-beUeve when you speak to the contraiy — don't you call the curve on his shoulders the line of beauty ? Come — come — yaxx. know I only want to make you happy." " It is time, papa, that I should withdraw," she rephed, rising. ReiUy rose to open the door. "Good-night, papa — deai-, dear jjapa," she added, puttmg her snowy arms about his neck and kis.siug him tenderly. " I know," she added, " that the gi'eat object of yoiu' hfe is to make your Cooken Baton hapj^y — and in doing so, deal- jjapa — there now is another kiss for you — a little biibe, papa — in doing so, consult her heart as well as your own. Good-night." " Good-night, my treasure." During this little scene of afifectionate ten- derness Eeilly stood holding the door open, and as she was going out, as if recollecting herseK, she turned to him and said, " Pardon me, Mr. Eeilly, I feai- you must think me ungi-ateful ; I have not yet thanked you for the sei-vice — a sen'ice indeed so important that no Lmg-uage could find expression for it — which you have rendered to dear pajia, and to me. But, Mi-. Eeilly, I pray you do not think me vmgi'ateful, or insensible, for, in- deed, 1 am neither. Suffer me to feel what I owe you, and do not blame me if I cannot express it." " If it were not for the value of the life which it is probable I have saved, and if it -were not that yotu* happiness was so deeply involved in it," replied Eeilly, " I would say that you overrate what I have done this even- ing. But I confess I am myself now forced to see the value of my senices, and I thank heaven for having made me tlie humble in- strument of stiving your father's life, not only for his own sake. Miss FoUiard, but for yours. I now feel a double debt of gratitude to heaven for it" The Cooleen Bawn did not speak, but thfi tears ran down her cheeks. " Good-night, sir," she said. " I am utterly incapable oi thanking you as j-ou desei-ve, and as I ought to thank you. Good-night ! " She extended her small snowy hand to him as she spoke, Eeilly took it in his, and by some vohmtaiy impulse he could not avoid giving it a cerfaiu degree of pressure. The fact is, it was such a hand — so white — so small — so soft — so warm — so provocative of a squeeze — that he felt his own pressing it, he knew not how nor wherefore, at least he thought so at the time ; that is to say, if he were capable of thinking distinctly of any thing. But heaven and earth ! Was it true ! No delusion? No dream? The i^ressure returned ! the shghtest, the most gentle, the most dehcate pressure — the bai-ely percepti- ble pressure ! Yes ! it was beyond all doubt ; for although the act itself was hght as deh- cacy and modesty could make it, yet the spii-it — the lightening spirit — which it shot into his bounding and enraptured heart could not be for a moment mistaken. As she was rimning uj) the stau'S she re- tui-ned, however, and again approaching her father, said — whilst Eeilly could obsen'e that her cheek was flushed Avith a feehng that seemed to resemble ecstasy — " Papa," said she, "what a stupid gii-1 I am! I scai'cely know what I am saying or doing." "By the great Boyne," rei:>hed her father, "m describe liim to you every night in the week. I knew the curve — the line of beauty — woidd get into your head ; but what is it, darhng ? " " W^iU you and IVIr. Eeilly have tea in the drawing-room, or shiill I send it down to you?" "I am too comfortable in my easy chair, dear Helen : no, send it clown." " After the shock you haAe received, papa, perhaps you might wish to have it from the hand of your own Cooleen Bawn?" As the old man txu'ned his eyes upon hef they literally danced Avith delight. " Ah, Willy ! " said he, " is it any wonder I shovdd love her ? " "I have often heard," rejDhed Eeilly, " that it is impossible to know her, and noJ to love her. I now believe it." " Thank you, PteiUy ; thank you, Willy , shake hands. Come, Helen, shake hands with him. That's a compliment. Shake hands with him, dai-hng. There, now, that's all right. Yes, my love, by all means, come doAvn and give us tea here." Innocent old man — the die is now irrevo- cably cast ! That mutujil pressui*e, and that mutual glance. Alas ! alas ! how strange I and incomprehensible is human destiny ! WILLY hElLLT. 23 After she had gfone upstairs the old man said, " You see, Willy, how my heart and soul are in that angehc creature. The great object, the great delight of her life, is to anticipate all my wants, to study whatever is agreeable to me — in fact, to make me happy. And she succeeds. Every thing she does pleases me. By the gi-ave of Schom- berg, she's beyond all price. It is true we never had a baronet in the family, and it would gi'atif)- me to hear her called Lady \Miitecraft ; still. I say, I don't care for rank or ambition ; nor would I sacrifice my child's hap- piness to either. And, between you and mc, if she declines to have him, she shan't, that's all that's to be said about it. He's quite round in the shoulders ; and yet so inconsistent are women that she calls a protuberance that resembles the letter C the lino of beauty. Then again he hit me in ' Hoi>and-go-con- stant ; ' and you know yourself, Willy, that no person likes to be bit, especially by the man he intends for his son-in-law. If he gives me the hile before man-iage, what would he not do after it ? " " This, sir, is a subject," rephed Reilly, " on which I must decline to give an opin- ion ; but I think that no father shoiold sacri- fice the happiness of his daughter to his o"5\ti incHnations. However, setting this matter aside, I have something of deep importance to mention to you." " To me ! Good heavens ! "\i\niat is it ? " "The Red Rapparee, sir, has formed a plan to rob, jjossibly to murder, you, and what is worse — " "Worse ! Wliy, what the deuce — worse ! Why, what coxdd be woi*se ? " "The dishonor of your daughter. It is his intention to carry her off to the moun- tains ; but pardon me, I cannot bear to dwell upon the diabolical project." The old man fell back, pale, and almost insensible, in his chair. " Do not be alainned, sir," proceeded Reilly, " he will be disappointed. I have taken care of that." " But, Mr. Reilly, what — how— for heaven's sake teU me what you know about it. Ai'e you sure of tliis? How did you come to hear of it ? Tell me — teU me ever>' thing about it ! We must prepare to receive the vilkiins — we must instantly get assistance. My chilli — my hfe — m}' Helen, to fall into the hands of this monster ! " "Hear me, sir," said ReiUy, "hear me, and you •will perceive I have taken measures to frustrate aU his designs, and to have him a prisoner befoi-e to-morrow's svm arises." He then related to him the plan laid by the Red Rapparee, as overheard by Tom Steeple, and as it was communicated to him- self by the same individual subsequently, after which he proceeded : " The fact is, .sir, I have sent the poor fool, who is both fixithful and ■ trustworthy, to summon here forty or fifty of my laborers and tenants. They must be placed in the out-houses, and whatever arms and ammu- nition you can spare, in addition to the weapons which they shall biing along with them, must be made available. I sent orders that they should be here about nine o'clock. I, myself, \sSSS. remain in this house, and you may rest assured that your life, your prop- erty, and your child shall be all safe. I know the strength of the ruffian's band ; it only consists of about twelve men, or rather twelve devils, but he and they will find themselves mistaken." Before ]Miss Folliard came down to make tea, Reilly had summoned the servants, and given them instinictions as to their conduct dux'ing the expected attack. Having ar- ranged this, he went to the yard, and found a large body of his tenants armed with such rude weapons as they could procure ; for, at this period, it was a felony for a Roman Cath- ohc to have or carrj' arms at all. The old squire, however, was well provided in that respect, and, accordingly, such as could be spared from the house were distributed among them. IMi*. FoUiard himself felt his spirit animated by a sense of the danger, and bustled about with uncommon energy and activity, considering what he had suftered in the course of the evening. At all events, they both resolved to conceal the matter from Helen till the last moment, in order to spare her the terror and ixlarm wliich she must necessarily feel on hearing of the contem- plated riolence. At tea, however, she could not avoid obsening that something had dis- turbed her father, who, from his natvu-ally impetuous character, ejaculated, fi-om time to time, " The bloodthu'sty scoundrel I — murdering ruffian ! W^e shall hang him, though ; we can hang him for the conspir- acy. Would the fool's, Tom Steeples', evi- dence be taken, do you think ? " " I fear not, sii'," rephed Reilly. "In the meantime, don't think of it, don't fui'ther distress yourself about it." " To tiiink of attacking my hou.se, though ; and if it were only I myself that — however, we are i)repared, that's one comfort ; we are prepared, and let them — hem ! — Helen, my darling, now that we've had our tea, wiU you retire to your o^^^l room. I wish to talk to Ml'. Reilly here, on a particultu: and im- portant subject, in which you yourself are deeply concerned. Withdraw, my love, but don't go to bed until I see you again." Helen went upstairs with a hght foot aa}f' S{4 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. a Iwuiidinpc' heart A certain hope, hke a dream of ftu'-oft" and imexpected liappiuess, rushed into and lilled her bosom with a crowd of sensations so dehcious that, on reachiuj:: lier o\\-n room, she felt completely overpowered by them, and was only reheved by a burst of teai-s. Tliere was now but one iniage before her imag^ination, but one im- age impressed upon her pure and fen'ent hefxrt ; that image was the lirst that love had ever stamped there, and the last that suffer- ing, sorrow, madness, and death were ever able to tear from it. "NMieu the night had advanced to the usual hour for retiring to rest, it was deemed ne- cessai-y to make Helen acquainted ^^■ith the meditated outrage, in order to jjreveut the consequences of a nocturnal alarm for which she might be altogether unprepared. This was accordingly done, and her natural ter- rors were soothed and combated by Eeilly and her father, who succeeded in reviving her courage, and in enabling her to contem- plate what was to hapj^en with tolerable composure. Until about the hour of two o'clock every thing rer ained silent. Nobody went to bed —the male sei^ants were all j^repared — the females, some in tears, and others sustaining and comfoi'ting those who were more feeble- hearted. Miss Folliard was in her own room, dressed. At about half past two she heard a stealthy foot, and having extin- guished the hght in her apartment, with great j)resence of mind she rang the bell, whilst at the same moment her door was broken in, and a man, as she knew by his step, entered. In the meantime the house was alaiTQcd ; the man having hastily pro- jected his arms about in several du'ections, as if searching for her, instantly retreated, a scuffle was heard outside on the lobbj', and when lights and assistance appeared, there were found eight or ten men variously aimed, all of whom proved to be a portion of the guard selected by Reill}' to protect the liouse and family. These men main- tained that they had seen the Red Eapparee on the roof of the house, through which he had descended, and that having procured a ladder fi'om the farmyard, they entei-ed a back -window, at a distance of about forty feet from the ground, in hope of securing his person — that they came in contact with some i)o\verful man in tlie dark, who disap- peared from among them — but by what means he had contrived to escape they could not guess. This was the sul)stance of all they knew or understood upcni the sub- ject. The whole house was immediately and thoioughly searched, and no trace of him could be found unto they came to the sky- light, which was discovered to be opened — ■wTcnched oil" the hinges — and lying on the roof at a distance of two or three yards from its place. It soon became evident that the Rapparee and his party had taken the alarm. In an instant those who were outside awaiting to pounce upon them in the moment of attack got orders to scour the neighborhood, and if possible to secvire the Raj^paree at eveiy risk ; and as an inducement the squire him- self offered to jj^.y the sum of five hundred pounds to any one who should bring him to Corbo Castle,* Avhicli was the name of his residence. This was accordingly attemi^tcd, the country' far and wide was searched, i)ur- suit given in every direction, but all to no pui-pose. Not only was the failure complete, but, what was still more unaccountable and mysterious, no single mark or trace of them could be found. This escape, however, did not much surj^rise the inhabitants of the country at large, as it was only in keejiing with many of a far more diflicult character which the Rapj^aree had often effected. The only cause to which it coiald be ascribed was the supposed fact of his having tal^en such admirable precautions against surjDrise as enabled his gong to disappear upon a j^re- concerted plan the moment the friendly guards were discovered, whilst he himself daringly attempted to secure the squii'e's cash and his daughter. Whether the supposition w^as right or wrong will appear subsequently ; but, in the meantime, we may add here, that the event in question, and the disappearance of the burglars, was fatal to the happiness of our lovers, for such they were in the tenderest and most devoted sense of that strange and ungovernable passion. Early the next morning the squire was so completely exlaaxasted by the consequences of watching, anxiety, and want of rest, that he felt himself overcome by sleep, and was obliged to go to bed. Before he went, how- ever, he made Reilly promise that he would not go until he had breakfasted, then shook him cordially by the hand, thanked him again and again for the deej) and important obligations he had imposed uj^on him and his child, and concluded by giving him a general iuAdtation to his house, the doors of which, he said, as weU as the heart of its owner, should be ever ready to receive him. "As for Helen, here," said he, "I leave her to thank you herself, which I am sure she will do in a manner becoming the ser vices you have rendered her, before you go. * This name is fictitious. WILLY RE ILLY. 25 She then kissed him tenderly and he retired to rest. At breakfast, EeUly and Miss Folliard were, of course, alone, if we may say so. Want of rest and ajjprehension had given a cast of paleness to her featui'es that, so far from diminishing, only added a new and tender character to her beauty. Reilly ob- served the exquisite lovehness of her hand as she poured out the tea ; and when he re- membered the gentle but significant pressure which it had given to his, more than once or twice, on the preceding night, he felt as if he experienced a personal interest in her fate — as if their destinies were to be united — as if his grooving spirit could enfold hers, and mingle with it forever. The love he felt for her pervaded and softened his whole being with such a feeling of tenderness, timidity, and ecstasy, that his voice, always manly and firm, now became tremulous in its tones ; such, in ti-uth, as is always occasioned by a full and overflowing heart when it trembles at the veiy opportunity of pouring forth the first avowal of its affection. " Miss FoUiai'd," said he, after a pause, and with some confusion, "do you beheve in Fate?" The question appeared to take her some- what by suiiirise, if one could judge by the look she bestowed upon him with her dark, flashing eyes. " In Fate, Mr. Eeilly ? that is a subject, I fear, too deei> for a gii-1 like me. I beheve in Pi'ovidence." "All this morning I have been thinking of the subject. Should it be Fate that brought me to the rescue of your father last night, I cannot but feel glad of it ; but though it be a Fate that has presen'ed him — and I thank Almighty God for it — yet it is one that I fear has destroyed my happiness." " Destroyed your happiness, Mr. Reilly ! why, how could the senice you rendered papa last night have such an effect ? " "I will be candid, and tell you, Miss Fol- hard. I know that what I am about to say will offend you — it was by making me ac- quainted \vith his daughter, and by bringing me under the influence of beauty which has unmanned — districted me — beauty which I could not resist — which has overcome me — subdued me — and which, because it is be- yond my reach and my deserts, \\ill occasion me an unhappy life — how long soever that life my last." "IVL-. Reilly," exclaimed the Cooleen Bawn, " this — this — is — I am quite unprepared for • — I mean — to hear that such noble and gen- erous conduct to my father .should end in this. But it cannot be. Nay, I will not pretend to misundei-stand you. After the service you have rendered to him and to myself, it would be uncandid in me and un- worthy of you to conceal the distress which your words have caused me." "I am scarcely in a condition to speak reasonably and calmly," rephed Reilly, " hut I cannot regret that I have unconsciously sao- lificed my happiness, when that sacrifice ha? saved you fi'om distress and grief and soitow. Now that I know you, I would offer — laj do\\Ti — my life, if the sacrifice could sava yours fi'om one moment's care. I have ofteu heard of what love — love in its highest and noblest sense — is able to do and to suffei for the good and happiness of its object, bui now I know it." She spoke not, or rather she was unable U speak ; but as she pulled out her snow-whit« handkerchief, Reilly could observe the ex- traordinaiy tremor of her hands ; the face, too, was deadly pale. " I am not making love to you, IVIiss Fol- Hai-d," he added. " No, my i-ehgion, my poi sition in hfe, a sense of my owti unworthi- ness, would prevent that ; but I could not rest unless you knew that there is one heart which, in the midst of unhappiness and de- spair, can "understand, appreciate, and love j'ou. I urge no claim. I am ^rithout hope." The fair girl {Cooleen Bawn) could not re- strain her teai's ; but wej)t — yes, she wept. "I was not prepared for this," she rephed. " I did not think that so shori an acquaint- ance could have — Oh, I know not what to say — nor how to act. My father's prejudices. You are a Cathohc." " And will die one. Miss FoUiard." " But why should you be vmhappy ? You do not desen-e to be so." " That is precisely what made me ask you just now if j-ou believed in fate." " Oh, I laiow not. I cannot answer such a question ; but why should you be imhap- py, with your brave, generous, and noble heart ? Sui'ely, sui-ely, xou do not deseiTe it." " I said before that I have no hope, !Miss FoUiard. I shall carry with me my love of you thi-ough hfe ; it is my first, and I feel it will be my last — it will be the melancholy light that ^\•ill bum in the sepulchre of my heart to show your image there. And now. Miss FoUiard, I vnH bid you farewell Your father has proffered me hospitahty, but I have not strength nor resolution to ac- cept it. You now know my secret — a hope- less passion." "ReiUy," she replied, weeping bitterly, " oiu' acquaintance has been short — we have not seen much of each other, yet I wiU not deny that I believe you to be all that any fe- male heart could — pai-don me, I am without 26 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. experience — I know not mucli of the world. You have ti-avelled, p!ii)a tokl me last night ; I do not -wish that you should be unhappy, and, least of all, that I, who owe you so much, should be the occasion of it No, you talk of a hopeless passion. I know not what I ought to say — but to the preserver of my father's life, and, probably my o^\^l honor, I will say, be not — but why should love be sepai-ated from tnith ? " she said — " No, Eeil- ly, be not hopeless." " Oh," rephed ReiUy, wlio had gone over near her, " but my soul -will not be satisfied without a stronger affirmation. This mo- ment is the gi-eat crisis ot my hfe and hap- piness. I love you beyond all the power of language or expression. You tremble, dear Miss Folliai-d, and you weej) ; let me wipe those precious tears away. Oh, would to God that you loved me ! " He caught her hiind — it was not with- drawn — he pressed it as he had done the evening before. The j^ressure was return- ed — his voice melted into tenderness that was contagious and irresistible : " Say, dear- est Helen, star of my life and of my i'ute, oh, only say that I am not iudift'ereut to you.'' They were both standing near the chim- nej'-piece as he spoke — " only say," he re- peated, "that I am not indifferent to you." "Well, then," she rephed, "you ai-e not indiflerent to me." " One admission more, my dearest life, and I am hajjpy forever. You love me ? say it, deai-est, say it — or, stay, whisper it, whis- per it — you love me ! " " I do," she whispered in a btu-st of tears. CHAPTER IV. A Sapient Project for our Hero's Conversion — His Ri- val makes his Appearance, and its Consequences. We mil not attempt to describe the tu- mult of dehght which agitated Reilly's heart on his way home, after this tender intei-view with the most celebrated Ii'ish beauty of that period. The term Cooleen JJaivn, in native Irish, has two meanings, both of Avhich were justly apphed to her, and met in her person. It signifies /a «r loc/cs, or, as it may be jjro- nonnved fair f/irl ; and in either sense is pe- cuharly applicable to a blonde beauty, which she was. The name of Cooleen Baion was applied to her by the j)opulace, whose talent for findmg out and bestowing ejDithets indic- ative either of personal beauty or deformit}', or of the quahties of the mind or chai'aeter, be they good or evil, is, in Ii-eland, singular- ly fehcitous. In the higher ranks, however, she was known as " The Lily of the Plain! of Boyne," and as such she was toasted by all pai'ties, not only in her own native coun* ty, but tlu'oughout Ii-eland, and at the vice- regal entertainments in the Castle of Dub« hn. At the time of which we ^mte, the pe- nal laws were in operation against the Ro- man Cathohc i^opulatiou of the country, and her father, a good-heai'ted man by nature, was wordy and violent by prejudice, and yet secretly kind and fi'iendly to many of that unhappy creed, though by no means to all It was Avell known, however, that in eveiy thing that was generous and good in hia character, or in the discharge of his pubhc duties as a magistrate, he was chiefly influ- enced by the benevolent and liberal princi- ples of his daughter, who was a general ad- vocate for the oi:)pressed, and to whom, more- over, he could deny nothing. Tliis account- ed for her populai-ity, as it does for the ex- traordinaiy veneration and afl'ection with which her name and misfortunes are men- tioned down to the present day. The worst point in her father's character was that he never could be prevailed on to forgive an injui-y, or, at least, any act that he conceiv- ed to be such, a weakness or a vice which was the means of all his angelic and lovely daughter's calamities. Reilly, though fuU of fervor and enthu- siasm, was yet by no means deficient in strong sense. On his way home he began to ask liimself in what this ovei-whelming passion for Cooleen Bawn must end. His religion, he was well aware, placed an impassable gulf between them. ^Vas it then generous or honorable in him to abuse the confidence and hosj^itahty of her father, by engaging the affections of a daughter, on whose wel- fare his whole hajDpiness was j^laced, and to whom, moreover, he could not, without com- mitting an act of apostasy that he abhon-ed, ever be imited as a husband ? Reason and j)nidence, moveover, suggested to him the danger of his position, as well as the imgen- erous nature of his conduct to the grateful and trusting father. But, away "with reason and pmdence — away -with everything but love. The rapture of his heai-t triumphed over every argument ; and, come weal or woe, he resolved to vrin the ftu'-famed "Star of Connaught," another epithet which she derived from her wonderful and extraordi- naiy beauty. On approaching his own house he met a woman named Mai-y Mahon, whose character of a fortune-teller was extraordinary in the counti-y, and whose predictions, come from what source they might, had gained her a reputation which filled the common mind with awe and fear. WILLY BE ILLY. 27 " "Well, Mary," said he, " what news from futurity ? And, by the way, where t.s futur- ity? Because if you don't know," he pro- ceeded, laughin*^, "I think I could tell you." "Well," repMed 'Mary, "let me hear it. Where is it, Mr. Keilly?" " Wliy," he replied, "just at the point of youi' o^^^l nose. Mar}', and you must admit it is not a ver}' long one ; pure ^Milesian, !MaiT ; a good deal of the saddle in its shape." The woman stood and looked at liim for a few moments. "My nose may be short," she repHed, "but shoiler will be the course of your happiness." " WeD, Mary," he said, " I think as regards my happiness that you know as little of it as I do myself. If you tell me any thing that ha.s passed, I may give you some credit for the future, but not othei'wise." " Do you wish to have your fortune tould, then," she asked, "upon them terms?" " Come, then, I don't care if I do. What has happened me, for instance, within the last forty-eight hours?" " Tliat has happened you A\-ithin the last forty-eight hours that ^^•ill make her you love the pity of the world before her time. I see how it vrjll happen, for the complaint I speak of is in the family. A li\'ing death she will have, and you yourself during the same time will have little less." " But what hcH happened me, Mai*^'? " "I needn't tell you — you know it. A proud heart, and a joyful heart, and a lovin' heart, you cany now, but it will be a broken heart before long." " \Vliy, ^Nlary, this is an evil prophecy ; have you nothing good to foretell ? " " If it's a satisfaction to you to know, I will tell you : her love for you is as strong, and stronger, than death itself ; and it is the suf- fering of what is worse than death, Willy Reilly, that will vmite you both at last." Eeilly storied, and after a pause, in which he took it for gi-anted that 'Mary spoke mere- ly from one of those shrewd conjectvu-es which practised impostors are so frequently in tlie habit of hazarding, replied, " That won't do, Maiy ; you have told me nothing yet that has happened witliin the Last forty- eight hovurs. I deny the truth of what you say." " It won't be long so, then, IMi*. Reilly ; you saved the life of the old lialf-mad squire of Corbo. Yes, you saved his life, and you have token his daughter's ! for indeed it would be better for her to die at wanst than to suflFer what will happen to you and her." " \\Tiy, what is to happen ? " "You'll know it too soon," she replied. " and there's no use in making you imhappy. Good-by, ^Ir. Eeilly ; if j'ou take a friend's advice youH give her up ; think no more of her. It may cost you an aching heart, to da so, but by doin' it you may save her from a great deal of sorrow, and both of you from a long and heavy term of suffering." Reilly, though a young man of strong reason in the ordinary afifeirs of life, and of ii highly cultivated intellect besides, yet fell himself influenced by the gloomy foreboding* of this notorious woman. It is true he saw, by the force of hisowTi sagacity, that she had uttered nothing which any person acquainted with the relative position of himself and Cof>- leen Bawn, and the political circumstances ot the country, might not have inferred as a natural and i^robable consequence. In fact he had, on his way home, ai-rived at nearly the same conclusion. Marriage, as the laws of the countiy then stood, was out of the question, and could not be legitimately ef- fected. \Miat, then, must the consequence of this u-resistible but ill-fated passion he'i An elopement to the Continent would not only be difficult but dangerous, if not alto- gether impossible. It was obriously evident that Mars' Mahon had drawn her predictions fi'om tlie same cu'cumstances which led him- self to similar conclusions ; yet, notwithstand- ing all this, he felt that her words had thrown a foreshadowing of calamit}' and soitow over his spirit, and he passed up to his own house in deep gloom and heariuess of heart. It is true he remembered that this same Mary Mahon belonged to a family that had been inimical to his house. She was a woman who had, in her early life, been degi^aded by crime, the remembrance of which had been by no means forgotten. She was, besides, a paramour to the Red Rapparee, and he at- tributed much of her dai*k and ill-boding prophecy to a hostile and mahgnant spirit. On the evening of the same day, probably about the same hour, the old squire having recmited himself by sleep, and felt refreshed and inrigorated, sent for liis daughter to sit with him as was her wont ; for indeed, as the reader may now fully understand, his happiness iiltogether depended upon her so- ciety, and those tender attentions to him which constituted the chief solace of his life. "Well, my girl," said he. when she entered the dining-room, for he seldom left it unless when they had company, " Well, darhng, what do you think of this Mr. ]Mahon — pooh ! — no — oh, Reilly — he who saved m}' life, and, probably, was tlie means of rescuing you from worse than death? Isn't he a fine — 9 noble young fellow ? "• " Lideed, I think so, papa ; he appears t« be a perfect gentleman." 28 WILLIAM OARLETON'8 WOIiKS. "Hiing perfect gentlemen, Helen! they are, some of them, the most contemptible whelps upon earth. Hang me, but any fel- low with a long-bodied coat, tight-kneed breeches, or stockings and pantaloons, with a watch in each fob, and a fiizzled wig, is considered a perfect gentleman — a jierfect Euppy, Helen, tui accomplished trifle. Reilly, owever, is none of these, for he is not only a perfect gentleman, but a brave man, who would not hesitate to lisk his life in order to save that of a fellow-creatm-e, even although he is a Papist, and that fellow-creature a Protestant." " Well, then, j)apa, I gi-ant you," she re- phed with a smile, which our readers will understand, "I gi*ant you that he is a — ahem ! — all you say." " "What a pity, Helen, that he is a Papist." ""NMiy so, papa?" "Because, if he was a staunch Protestant, by the gi-eat Dehverer that saved us fi'om brass money, wooden shoes, and so forth, I'd mjin-y you and him together. I'll tell you what, Helen, by the memoiy of Schomberg, I have a project, and it is you that must work it out." "Well, papa," asked his daughter, put- ting the question with a smile and a blush, " pray what is this speculation ? " " ^Nliy, the fact is, I'll put him into your hands to convert him — make him a staunch Protestant, and take him for your pains. Accomjilish this, and let long-legged, knock- kneed ^^^litecraft, and his twelve thousand a year, go and bite some other fool as he bit me in 'Hop-and-go-constant.' " " "What ai'e twelve thousand a year, papa, when you know that they could not secure me happiness ^Wth such a wi-etch ? Such a union, sir, could not be — cannot be — must not be, and I will add, whilst I am in the possession of will and reason, shall not be." " Well, Helen," said her father, " if you are obstinate, so am I ; but I trust we shall never have to fight for it. We must have ReiUy here, and you must endeavor to con- vert him fi-om Popery. If you succeed, I'll give long-shanks his nunc dimittis, and send him home on a trot." " Papa," she replied, " this wiU be useless — it will be i-uin — I know Reilly." " The devil you do ! A\lien, may I ask, did you become acquainted ? " " I mean," she rei)lied, blushing, " that I have seen enough of him during liis short stay here to feel satisfied that no eartlily persuasion, no argument, could induce hini, at this moment especially, to change his re- ligion. And, sir, I will add myself —yes, I will say for myself, dear papa, and for lieilly too, that if from any unl^ecoming motive — if will sound him on l^erhaps, you "will, malce the attempt ? for the sake of love itself, I felt satisfied that he could give up and abandon his religion, I would despise him. I should feel at once that his heai-t was hollow, and that he was unworthy either of my love or my respect" " Well, by the great Bo;)Tie, Helen, you have knocked my intellects up. I hope in God you have no Papist predilections, girl. Howerer, it's only fair to give Eeilly a trial ; long-legs is to dine with us the day after to- moiTOw — now, I will ask Eeilly to meet him here — perhaps, if I get an oiDjiortunity, I the i^oint myself — or. Will you promise to I'll talve care that you and he shall have an opportunitj'." "Indeed, papa, I shall certainly mention the subject to him." " By the soul of Schomberg, Helen, if you do you'll convert him." Helen w\as about to make some good- natured rejily, when the noise of carriage wheels was heai'd at the haU-door, and her father, going to the Avindow, asked, ""NMiat noise is that ? A carriage ! — who can it be ? "NATiitecraft, by the Boyne ! Well, it can't be helped." " I will leave you, papa," she said ; " I do not wish to see this unfeeling and rej)ulsive man, unless when it is unavoidable, and in your presence." She then withdrew. Before we introduce Sir Robert White- craft, we must beg oru' readers to accom- pany us to the residence of that worthy gentleman, wliich was not more than three miles fi'om that of Reilly*. Sir* Robert had large estates and a sumptuous residence in Ii-eland, as well as in England, and had made the former principally his place of abode since he became enamored of the celebi'ated Cooleen Bawn. On the occasion in c[uestion he was Avalking about through his gi'ounds when a female approached him, whom we beg the reader to recognize as Mary Mahon. This mischievous woman, imjDlacable and without j^rinciple, had, with the utmost secrec}', sen'cd Sir Robert, and many others, in a caj^acity discreditable ahke to virtue and her sex, by luring the weak or the innocent within their toils. " Well, Mary," said he, " what news in the country ? You, who are always on the move, should know." " No very good news for you, Sir Robert," she rephed. "How is that, Mary?" " "Wliy, sir, Willy Reilly— the famous Willy Reilly — has got a footing in the house of old Squire FoUiai'd." " And how can that be bad news to me, Mary?" WILLY REILLY 29 "Well, 1 don't know," said she, wath a cvinning leer ; " but ibis I know, tbat they bad a love scene togetber tbis very morning, and tbat be kissed ber very sweetly near tbe cbimney-piece." Sir Robei-t Whitecraft did not get into a rage ; be neitber cursed nor swore, nor even looked angi-ily, but be gave a pecubai- smile, wbicb sbould be seen in order to be under- stood. ' ' "Wbere is yoiu'— abem — y om* Mend now ? " be asked ; and as be did so be began to wbistle. " Have you another job for him ? " she in- quired, in ber turn, with a pecubar mean- ing. " Whenever I fail by fair play, be tries it by foul." "Well, and have not I often saved his neck, as well by my influence as by allowing bi-m to take shelter vmder my roof whenever be was baixl joressed ? " " I know that, yoiu* honor ; and hasn't be and I often saned you, on tbe other band ? " " I gi'ant it, Molly ; but that is a matter known only to ourselves. You know I have tbe reputation of being veiy correct and virtuous." " I know you have," said Molly, " with most people, but not with all." " Well, Moll}', you know, as fai* as we are concerned, one good timi deserves another. "NMiere is your friend now, I ask again ? " "Why, then, to tell you the truth, it's more than I knoAv at the present speak- ing." "Follow me, then," repbed tbe wily baro- net ; " I wish you to see him ; be is now con- cealed in my bouse ; but first, mark me, I don't bebeve a word of what j'ou have just repeated." "It's as true as Gospel for all tbat," she repbed; "and if you ^-ish to beai- bow I found it out I'U tell yovt." "Well," said the bai'onet calmly, "let us hear it." " You must know," she proceeded, " that I have a cousin, one Betty Beatty, who is a liousemaid m tbe squire's. Now, tbis same Betty Beatty was in tbe front jjurlor — for tbe squire always dines in tbe back — and, fi'om a kind of natural curiosity she's afflicted \ritb, slie puts ber ear to the keyhole, and afterwards ber eye. I happened to be at tbe squire's at the time, and, as blood is thicker tbat watber, and as she knew I was a fi-iend of yours, she tould me what she bad both beai'd and seen, what they said, and bow he kissed ber." Sir Robert seemed very calm, and merely said, "Follow me into the bouse," wbicb she accordingly did, and remained in consulta- tion ^vitb him and tbe Red Rapparee for nearly an hour, after which Sir Rr.hert or- dered his carriage, and went to pay a visit, as we have seen, at Corbo Castle. Sir Robert Whitecraft, on entering the parlor, shook bands as a matter of coiirse ■with tbe squire. At this particular ciasis the vehement but whimsical old man, whose mind was now full of another project with reference to bis daughter, experienced no gi-eat gratification from tbis visit, and, as the baronet shook bands with liim, be exclaimed somewhat testily. "Hang it, Sir Roberi, why don't you shake bands like a man ? You put tbat long yellow paw of yoiu's, all skin and bones, into a man's band, and there you let it be. But, no matter, every one to his nature. Be seated, and teU me what news. Ai'e the Papists quiet ? " " There is bttle news stining, sii* ; at least if there be, it does not come my way, ■vv-ith tbe exception of tbis report about your- self, which I hope is not time ; that there waa an attempt made on your life yesterday evening ? " TMiilst Sir Robert spoke be ai> proached a looking-glass, before wbicb be presented himself, and commenced adjusting bis dress, especially his wig, a piece of vanity which nettled tbe quick and initable feel- ings of the squire exceedingly. The infer' ence he di-ew was, that tbis wealthy suitor of bis daughter felt more about his own jDer- sonal appearance before ber than about tbe dreadful fate which be himself bad so nar- rowly escaped. "t\Tiat signifies that, my dear fellow, when your Arig is out of balance ? it's a Httle to the one side, like the ear of an empty jug, as they say." " Why, sir," repbed tbe baronet, " the fact is, tbat I felt — bum ! — hum — so much — so much — a — anxiety — bum ! — to see you and — a — a — to laiow all about it — that — a — "i didn't take tune to — a — look to my dress. And besides, as I — bum ! — expect \.o have — a — tbe pleasure of an interview ^ritb ]\Iisa Folbard — a — hum ! — now tbat I'm here — I feel anxious to appeal' to the best advantage — a — hum ! " While speaking be proceeded with tbe re- adjustment of bis toilet at the lai'ge miiTor, an oj)eration wbicb appeared to constitute the great object on which bis mind was en- gaged, tlie aJEiir of tbe squire's bfe or death coming in only parenthetically, or as a con- sidei'ation of minor impori^ance. In height Sir Robert '\^^litecraft was fuUy six feet two ; but being extremely tliin and lank, and to all appeanmce utterly devoid of substance, and of everv* thing bke proportion, be appeared much taller than even nature had made him. His forehead was low, and bis whole character felonious ; bis eyes were 30 WILLIAM CARLKTOJ^'S WORKS. small, deep set, and cunninp; ; his nose was hooked, his mouth was wide, but his lips thill to a miracle, and such as always are to be found under the nose of a miser ; as for a chui, we could not conscientiously allow him luiy ; his under-hp sloped off until it met the throat A^th a cun'e not larger than that of an oyster-shell, which when open to the tide, his mouth veiy much re- sembled. As for his neck, it was so long that no portion of di-ess at that time dis- covered was capable of coveiing more than one third of it ; so that there were always two parts out of tlu-ee left stark naked, and helplessly exposed to the elements. "SMien- ever he smiled he looked as if he was about to weep. As the squire said, he was dread- fully round-shouldered — had dangling arms, that kept flapping about him as if they were moved by some machinery that had gone out of order — was close-kneed — had the true telescojiic leg — and feet that brought a very lai'ge portion of him into the closest possible contact with the earth. "Ai-e you succeeding, Sir Robert?" in- quii'ed the old man sarcastically, " because, if you are, I swear you're achie\dng wonders, considering the shght materials you have to work upon." "Ah! su*," replied the baronet, "I per- ceive you are in one of yoiu' biting humors to-day." " Biting ! " exclaimed the other. " Egad, it's veiy well for most of your sporting ac- quaintances that you're free from hydropho- bia ; if you were not, I'd have died i)leasantly between two feather beds, leaving my child an oi-phan long before this. Egad, you hit me to some pui-pose." " Oh, a^', you allude to the affiiir of ' Hop- and-go-constant ' and * Pat the Spanker ; ' but you know, my dear sir, I gave you heavy boot ; " and as he spoke, he pulled up the lapels of his coat, and glanced comjolacently at the profile of his face and person in the glass. " Pray, is Miss Folliard at home, sir ? " " Again I'm forgotten," thought the squire. "Ah, what an affectionate son-in-law he'd make ! "\Miat a tender husband for Helen ! Why, hang the fellow, he has a heart for no- body but himself. She ?'.s at home. Sir Rob- ert, but the truth is, I don't think it would become me, as a father anxious for the hap- piness of his child, and that child an only one, to sacrifice her happiness — the hajDpi- ness of her whole life — to wealth or ambition. You know she herself entertains a strong prejudice — no, that's not the word — " " I begj'our pardon, sir ; that?'.s' the word ; her distaste to me is a prejudice, and nothing else." " No, Sir Robert ; it is not the word. Antipathy is the word. Now I tell you, once for all, that I will not force my child." " This change, Mr. FoUifird," obsei-ved the bai'onet, "is somewhat of the suddenest Has any thing occinred on my part to oc casion it ? " " Pei'liajis I may have other views for her. Sir Robert." " That may be ; but is such conduct either fair or honorable towards me, IVIi-. Folliard ? Have I got a rival, and if so, who is he ? " "Oh, I wouldn't tell you that for tha world." "And why not, pray?" "Because," replied the squire, "if you found out who he was, you'd be hanged for cannibahsm." " I reall}' don't understand you, Mr. Folli- ai'd. Excuse me, but it would seem to me that something has put you into no very agreeable humor to-da3\" " You don't vuiderstand me ! AAHiy, Sir Robert," replied the other, " I know you so well that if you heard the name of your lival you would first kill him, then powder him, and, lastty, eat him. You are such a terrible fellow that you care about no man's life, not even about mine." Now it was to this very point that the calculating baronet wished to bring him. The old man, he knew, was whimsical, ca- pricious, and in the habit of talcing all his strongest and most endimng resolutions from sudden contrasts produced by some mistake of his OAvn, or ft'om some discovery made to him on the part of others. "As to your life, Mr. Folliard, let me fissui-e you," replied Sir Robert, " that there is no man living prizes it, and, let me add, you character too, more highly than I do ; but, my dear su", your hfe was never in dan- ger." " Never iu danger ! what do you mean, Sir Robert ? I tell you, sir, that the mur- dering miscreant, the Red Rapparee, had a loaded gun levelled at me last evening, after dark." " I know it," replied the other ; "I am well aware of it, and 3'ou Avere rescued just in the nick of time." "Tiiie enough," said the squire, "just in the nick of time ; by that glorious young feUow—a-a— yes— ReHly— Willy Reiily." " This Wniy Reilty, sir, is a very accom- pHshed person, I think." "A gentleman, Sii' Robert, every inch of him, and as handsome and fine-looking a j^oung fellow as ever I laid my eyes upon." "He was educated on the Continent by the Jesuits." " No ! " repHed the squire, dreadfully alarm- WILLY RE ILLY. 31 ed at this piece of infoiination, " he was not ; by tbe great Boyne, he wasn't." This mighty asseveration, however, was ex- ceedingly feeble in moral strength and en- ergy, for, in point of fact, it came out of the squire's hps more in the shape of a question than an oath. " It is unquestionably time, sii-," said the baronet; "ask himself, and he will admit it." " Well, and granting that he was," rephed the squire, "what else could he do, when the laws would not permit of his being educated here ? I speak not against the laws, God for- bid, but of his individuid case." " We are travellmg fi-om the jioint, su-," re- turned the baronet. "I was obsei-ving that Reilly is an accomplished person, as indeed every Jesuit is. Be that as it may, I again beg to assure vou that your life stood in no risk." "I don't understand you, Sir Robert. You're a perfect oracle ; by the great De- hverer from Pope and Popery, wooden shoes, and so forth, only that lleilly made his ap- pearance at that moment I was a dead man." "Not the shghtest danger, ]\Ir. Foliiard. I am aware of that, and of the whole Jesuiti- c;il plot from the beginning, base, ingenious, but diabohcal as it was." Tbe squire rose up and looked at him for a minute, without speaking, then sat down again, and, a second time, was partially up, but resumed his seat. " A i)lot ! " he exclaimed ; "a plot. Sir Robei-t! ^^^latplot?" "A plot, Mr. FoUiard, for the pui-pose of creating an opportunity to make your ac- quaintance, and of ingi-atiatiug himself into the good graces and alfections of your lovely daughter ; a plot for the puii^ose of marrj'- I ing her." The Squire seemed for a moment thunder- struck, but in a httle time he recovered. "Marrying her ! " he exclaimed ; " that, you know, could not be done, unless he turned Protestant." It was now time for the bai'onet to feel thunderstricken. " He turn Protestant ! I don't understand you, IMr. Folliai'd. Could any ch;inge on ReiUy's part involve such a probability as a marriage between him and youi* daughter? " " I can't believe it was a plot, Sir llobei't," said the squu-e, sliifting the question, "nor I won't beheve it. There was too much truth and sincerity in his conduct. And, what is more, my house would have been attacked last night ; I myself robbed and murdered, and my daughter — my child, car- ried ofl* only for him. Nay, indeed, it was pai'tially attacked, but when the villains foimd us prepared they decamped ; but, as for mar« riage, he could not maiT\' my daughter, 1 say again, so long as he remams a Papist." "Unless he might prevail on her to turn Papist." "By the life of my body. Sir Robert, I won't stand this. Did you come here, sir, to insult me and to di-ive me into madness ? "SMiat de\il could have put it into your head that my daughter, sir, or any one with a di'op of my blood in their veins, to the tenth generation, could ever, for a single moment, think of turning Papist ? Sii", I hoped that you would have respected the name both of my daughter and myself, and have foreborne to add this double insult both to her and me. The insolence even to dream of imput- ing such an act to her I cannot overlook. You yourself, if you coidd gain a pomt oi feather 3-our nest by it, are a thousand times much more hkely to turn Papist than eithei of us. Apologize instantly, sir, or leave my house." "I can cei-tainly apologize, JMr. FoUiard," rephed the baronet, "and with a good con- science, inasmuch as I had not the most re- mote intention of offending you, much less Miss FoUiard — I accordingly do so promptly and at once ; but as for my allegations against ReiUy, I am in a position to estal)- hsh their truth in the clearest manner, mid to prove to you that there wasn't a single robber, nor Rapparee either, at or about your house last night, with the exce^jtion of ReiUy and his gang. If there were, why were they neither heard nor seen ? " "One of them was — the Red Rapparea himself." " Do not be deceived, Mx. FoUiard ; did you yourseK, or any of your famUy or house- hold, see him ? " " AVhy, no, certainly, we did not ; I admit that." " Yes, and j'ou wiU admit more soon. I shall prove the whole conspiracy." " WeU, why don't you then? " " Simply because the matter must be brought about with great caution. You must aUow me a few days, say three or four, and the proofs shall be given." " Very weU, Sir Robert, but in the mean- time I shaU not throw ReiUy overboai'd." " Could I not be permitted to pay my re- spects to Miss Foliiard before 1 go, sir?"* asked Sii- Robert. , " Don't insist upon it," rephed her father ; " you know perfectly weU that she — that you are no favorite with her." " Nothing on earth, sir, grieves me so .much," said the baronet, affecting a melan- choly expression of countenance, which wa/ luchcrous to look at. 32 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORICS. "Well, well," said the old man, "as you can't see her now, come and meet Reilly here at dinner the day after to-mon-ow, and you shall have that pleasure." "It mil be with jiain, su-, that I shall force myself into that person's society ; how- ever, to obhge you, I shall do it." "Consider, pray consider. Sir Robert," replied the old squire, all his pride of family ^lowing strong within him, "just consider that my table, sir, and my countenance, sir, and my sense of gratitude, sir, are a sufficient guarantee to the worth and respectability of any one whom I may ask to my house. And, Sir Robert, in addition to that, just re- flect that I ask him to meet my daughter, and, if I don't mistake, I think I love, honor, and respect her nearly as much as I do you. Will you come then, or will you not ? " " Unquestionably, sir, I shall do myself the honor." " Very well," replied the old squire, clear- ing up at once — imdergoing, in fact, one of those rapid and unaccoim table changes which constituted so prominent a portion of his chiu-acter. " Veiy well, Bobby ; good-by, my boy ; I am not angiy with you ; shake hands, and cvirse Popery." Until the morning of the day on which the two rivcils were to meet, ]\Iiss Folliard began to entertain a di-eadful apprehension that the fright into which the Red Rapparee had throwTi her father was likely to terminate, ere long, in insanity. The man at best was ec- centric, and full of the most unaccoimtable changes of temjier and pui-pose, hot, pas- sionate, vindictive, generous, implacable, and benevolent. What he had seldom been ac- customed to do, he commenced soliloquizing aloud, and talking to himseK in such broken hints loid dark mysterious allusions, dra-sving from unknowai premises such odd and ludi- crous inferences ; at one time biaishing him- self up in Scripture ; at another moment questioning his daughter about her opinion on Popery — sometimes dealing about politi- cal and religious allusions Avith gi'eat sarcasm, in which he was a master when he wished, and sometimes with considerable humor of illustration, so far, at least, as he could be understood. " Confound these Jesuits," said he ; "I -wish they were scoxu-ged out of Europe. Evei-y man of them is sure to put his linger in the pie and then into his mouth to taste what it's like ; not so the parsons — Hallo ! where am I? Take care, old Folliard; take (!are, you old dog ; what have you to say in favor of these same parsons— lazy, negligent fel- lows, who snore and slumber, feed well, clothe well, and thmk first of number one ? Egiid, I'm in a meas between them. One makes a slave of you, and the other allowa you to play the tyrant. A plague, as I heard a fellow say in a play once, a plague o' both your houses : if you paid more attention to your duties, and scrambled less for wealth and power, and this world's honors, you would not turn it upside down as you do. Helen ! " " Well, papa." " I have doubts whether I shall allow you to sound Reilly on Popery." "I would rather decline it, sir." " 111 tell you what ; I'll see Andy Cum-. miskey — Andy's opinion is good on any thing." And accordingly he proceeded to see his confidential old sen'ant. With this pur- pose, and in his own original manner, he went about consulting every sei^vant imder his roof upon their respective notions of Popery, as he called it, and striring to allure them, at one time by kindness, and at an- other by threatening them, into an avowal of its idolatrous tendency. Those to whom he spoke, however, knew very little about it, and, like those of all creeds in a similar pre- dicament, he found that, in proportion to their ignora^ r. of its doctrines, arose the vehemence an- "rity of their defence of it. This, howevt^, human nature, and we do not see how thc.:>etirned can condemn it. Upon the day appointed, for dinner only four sat do^\^l to it — that is to say, tli'^ "^uire, his daughter. Sir Robert W.liiteciaii,, o^id Reilly. They had met in the di-awing-room some time before its announcement, and as the old man introduced the two latter, Reil- ly's bow was courteous and gentlemanly, whilst that of the baronet, who not only de- tested Reilly with the hatred of a demon, but resolved to make him feel the superiority of rank and wealth, was frigid, supercilious, and offensive. Reilly at once saw this, and, as he knew not that the baronet was in posses- sion of his secret, he felt his ill-bred inso- lence the more deeply. He was too much of a gentleman, however, and too well acquaint- ed with the principles and forms of good breeding, to seem to notice it in the slight est degree. The old squire at this time had not at all given Reilly up, but still his confi- dence in him was considerably shaken. He saw, moreover, that, notmthstanding what had occun-ed at their last interview, the bar- onet had forgotten the respect due both to himself and his daughter ; and, as he had, amidst all his eccentr'icities, many strong touches of the old Ii-ish gentleman about him, he resolved to punish him for his un- gentlemanly deportment. Accordingly, when dinner was announced, he said : "Mr. Reilly, you will give Miss Folliard your arm." WIZZY REIZZY. 33 We do not say that the worthy baronet squinted, but there was a bad, vindictive look in his small, cunning eyes, which, as they turned upon Reilly, was ten times more repulsive than the worst squint that ever disfigured a human countenance. To add to his chagrin, too, the squii-e came out with a bit of his usual sarcasm. " Come, baronet," said he, " here's my arm. I am the old man, and you are the old lady ; and now for dinner." In the meantime Reilly and the Cooleen Bawn had gone far enough in advance to be in a condition to speak without being heard. " That," said she, " is the husband my fath- er intends for me, or, rather, did intend ; for, do you know, that you have found such favor in his sight that— that — " she hesitat- ed, and Reilly, looking into her face, saw that she blushed deeply, and he felt by her arm that her whole fi-ame trembled with emotion. " Proceed, dearest love," said he ; " what is it?" "I have not time to tell ':>,<. now," she re- plied, "but he mentir a-'project tome which, if it could be .-l -i'miDlished, wovdd seal both yoiu* happines and mine forever. Your religion is tlie only obstacle." «/<■-■■»' that, my love," he rej)hed, "is an insurmountable one." " Alas ! I feared as much," she repHed, sighing bitterly as she spoke. The old squire took the head of the table, and requested Su' Robert to take the foot ; his daughter was at his right hand, and Reil- ly opposite her, by which means, although denied any confidential use of the tongue, their eyes enjoyed very gratifying advan- tages, and there passed between them occa- sionally some of those rapid glances which, especially when lovers are under surveillance, concentrate in their hghtning flash more sig- nificance, more hope, more joy, and more love, than ever was conveyed by the longest and tenderest gaze of affection under other circumstances. "IVli'. Reilly," said the squire, " I'm told that you are a very well educated man ; in- deed, the thing is evident. WTiat, let me ask, is your opinion of education in general ? " " Why, sir," replied Reilly, " I think there can be but one opinion about it. Without education a people can never be moral, pros- perous, or happy. Without it, how ai-e they to learn the duties of this hfe, or those still more important ones that prepare them for a better ? " " You would entrust the conduct and con- trol of it, I presume, sir, to the clergy ? " asked Sir Robert insidiously. " I would give the priest such control in education as becomes his position, which is ■Qot only to educate the youth, but to in- struct the man, in all the duties enjoined by rehgion." The squire now gave a triumphant look at the baronet, and a veiy kind and gracious one at Reilly. " Pray, sir," continued the baronet, in hi.i cold, superciHous manner, "from the pecu- harity of j'oui* views, I feel anxious, if you will pardon me, to ask where you yoiu-self have received your very accompHshed edu- cation." " Wliether my education, sir, has been an accomphshed one or otherwise," rephed Reilly, " is a point, I apprehend, beyond the reach of any opportunity you ever had to know. I received my education, sir, such a? it is, and if it be not better the fault is vd own, in a Jesuit seminary on the Continent., It was now the baronet's time to triumph ; and indeed the bitter glancing look he gave at the squire, although it was intended for Reilly, resembled that which one of the more cunning and ferocious beasts of prey makes previous to its death-spring upon its rictim. The old man's countenance instantly fell. He looked with siu-prise, not unmingled Arith sorrow and distinist, at Reilly, a circumstance which did not escape his daughter, who could not, for the hfe of her, avoid fixing her eyes, loveher even in the disdain they expressed, with an indignant look at the baronet. The latter, however, felt resolved to biing his rival still fiu'ther within the toils he was preparing for him, an object which Reilly 's candor veiy much facilitated. "Mr. Reilly," said the squire, " I was not prepared to hear — a — a — hem ! — God bless me, it is veiy odd, very deplorable, very much to be regretted indeed ! " "What is, sii'?" asked Reilly. "WTiy, that you should be a Jesuit. I must confess I was not — ahem ! — God bless me. I can't doubt your oaati word, cer- tainly." "Not on this subject," observed the bar- onet coolly. "On no subject, sir," replied Reilly, look- ing him stemty, and Arith an indignation that was kept -ndthin bounds only by his respect for the other parties, and the roof that cov- ered him ; " on no subject. Sir Robert White- craft, is my word to be doubted." " I beg your pardon, sii'," replied the other, "I did not say so." " I will neither have it said, sir, nor insin- uated," rejoined JReilly. "I received my education on the Continent because the laws of this country prevented me fi'om receiving it here. I was placed in a Jesuit seminaiy. 34 WILLIAM CAELETON'S WOBKS. not by my owti choice, but by that of my fatheiC to' whom I owed obedience. Your opjjressive laws, sir, lirst keep us ignorant, and then punish us for the crimes w^hich that ignorance produces." "Do vou call the laws of the country op- pressive? ' asked the baronet, ^vith as much of a sneer as cowardice would permit him to indulge in. " I do, sir, and ever will consider them so, at least so long as they deprive myself and my Catholic feUow-couutrymen of their civil and religious rights." "That is strong language, though," ob- served the other, " at this time of day." " 'Mi: IleiU}'," said the squii-e, " you seem to be very much attached to yoiu' religion." " Just as much as I am to my life, sir, and would as soon give up the one as the other." The squire's countenance literally became pale, his last hope was gone, and so gi-eat was his agitation that, in bringing a glass of wine to his hjjs, his hand trembled to such a degi-ee that he spilled a jDart of it. Tliis, how- ever, was not all. A settled gloom — a morose, dissatisfied expression — soon overshadowed his features, fi'om which disappeared all trace of that benignant, open, and friendly hospitality towards Eeilly that had hitherto "beamed fi'om them. He and the baronet exchanged glances of whose import, if Eeilly was ignorant, not so his beloved Cooleen Bawn. For the remainder of the evening the scjuii'e treated Eeilly with great coolness, always addressing him as ]\lister, and e'vi- dently contemplating him in a spirit which partook of the feeling that animated Sir Eobert "VMiitecraft. Helen rose to withdraw, and contrived, by a sudden glance at the door, and another as quick in the direction of the drawing-room, to let her lover know that she washed him to follow her soon. The hint was not lost, for in less than half an hour Eeilly, who was of veiy temperate habits, joined her as she had hinted. "Eeilly," said she, as she ran to him, "dearest Eeilly! there is httle time to be lost. I perceive that a secret understanding respecting you exists between jDapa and that detestable baronet. Be on your guard, es- pecially against the latter, who has evidently, ever since we sat dovra. to dinner, contrived to bring papa round to his own way of thinking, as he will ultimately, perhajjs, to worse designs and darker j)urposes. Above aU things, speak nothing that can be con- strued against the existing laws. I find that danger, if not positive injmy, awaits you. I shall, at any risk, give you warning." " At no risk, beloved ! " "At evei-y risk — at all risks, dearest Eeilly ! Nay, more — whatever danger maj encomjDass you shall be shared by me, even at the risk of my life, or I shall extricata you out of it. But perhaps you vnW not be faithful to me. If so, I shudder to think what might happen." "Listen," said ReiUy, taking her by the/ hand, "In the jyresence of heaven, I am yours,, and yours only, \in(il death ! " She repeated his words, after which they had scarcely taken their seats when the- squire and Sir Eobert entered the drawing* room. CHAPTER V. The.Plot and the Victims. Sm Robert, on entering the room along- with the squii'e, found the Cooleen Baton at the sj)innet. Taking his place at the end of it, so as that he could gain a full \'iew of her countenance, he thought he could obsei-ve^ her complexion considerably heightened in color, and from her his glance was dii'ected to EeiUy. The squire, on the other hand,, sat dull, silent, and unsociable, unless when, addressing himself to the baronet, and im- mediately his genial manner retiu-ned to/ him. With his usual impetuosity, however,, when laboring under what he supposed to- be a sense of iujiu-y, he soon brought mat-- ters to a crisis. " Sir Eobert," said he, " are the Papists', quiet now ? " "They are qiiiet, sir," replied the other,, " because they dare not be otherwise." "By the gi-eat Deliverer, that saved us from Pope and Popery, brass money and. w^ooden shoes, I think the country wiU never be quiet tiU they are banished out of it." "Indeed, jVli-. FoUiard, I agree with you." "And so do I, Sir Eobert," said Eeilly. " I wish fi'om my soul there was not a Pa- pist, as you call them, in this unfortunate countiy ! In any other country beyond the bounds of the British dominions they could enjoy fi'eedom. But I wish it for another reason, gentlemen ; if they were gone, you would then be taught to your cost the value of your estates and the soui-ce of youi- in- comes. And now, Mr. Folliard, I am not conscious of having given you any earthly offence, but I cannot possibly pretend to misunderstand the object of your altered conduct and language. I am your guest, at your own exjDress invitation. You knoAV I am a Eoman Catholic — Papist, if you "will — yet, with the knowledge of this, you have not only insulted me personally, but .also m WILLY REILLY. '6^ the ctvsed to wtich I belong. As for that gentleman, I can only say that this roof and the i^resence of those who are under it con- stitute his protection. But I envy not the man who could avail himself of such a posi- tion, for the purpose of insinuating an in- sult which he dare not otter under other circumstances. I will not apologize for tak- ing my departure, for I feel that I have been too long here." Cooleen Bawn arose in deep agitation. "Dear papa, what is this?" she exclaimed. " "What can be the cause of it ? Why forget the laws of hospitiility ? AVliy, above all things, deliberately insult the man to whom you and I both owe so much ? Oh, I can- not understand it. Some demon, equally cowardly and malignant, must have poisoned your ovm natiu'ally generous mind. Some villain, equally profligate and hj^^ocritical, has, for some dark purpose, given this un- worthy bias to your mind." " You know nothing of it, Helen. You're altogether in the dark, gii'l ; but in a day or two it will all be made clear to* you." " Do not be discomjjosed, my dear Miss Folhard," said Sir Robert, striding over to her. "Allow me to jDrevail upon 3'ou to susijend your judgment for a httle, and to return to the beautiful aii' you were enchant- ing us with." As he spoke he attempted to take her hand. Keilly, in the meantime, was waiting for an opportunity to bid his love good- night. "Touch me not, sii'," she replied, her glorious eyes flashing with indignation. "I charge you as the base cause of drawing down the disgrace of shame, the sin of in- gratitude, on my father's head. But hei*e that father stands, and there you, sir, stand ; ' and sooner than become the ^dfe of Sir Robert "W^liitecraft I would dash myself fi'om the battlements of this castle. William Reilly, brave and generous young man, good- night ! It matters not who may forget the debt of gratitude which this family owe you — / ivill not. No cowardly slanderer shall instil his poisonous calumnies against you into my ear. ]My oijinion of you is un- changed and \inchaugeable. Farewell ! Wil- liam Reilly ! " We shall not attempt to describe the com- motions of love, of happiness, of rapture, which tilled Reilly's bosom as he took his leijarture. As for Cooleen Bawn, she had •low j)assed the Rubicon, and there remained nothing for her but constancy to the truth of her affection, be the result what it might. 'She had, indeed, much of the vehemence of her father's character in her ; much of his unchangeable pui-pose, when she felt or thought she was' right ; but not one of his vmfounded whims or prejudices ; for sho was too noble-minded and sensible to be influenced by unbecoming or inadequate ' motives. With an indignant but beautiful scorn, that gave grace to resentment, she bowed to the baronet, then kissed her father affectionately and retired. The old man, after she had gone, sat for a I considerable time silent. In fact, the supe- rior force of his daughter's character had, not only surprised, but oveii^owered him for 1 the moment. The baronet attempted to re- j sume the conversation, but he found not his ' his intended father-in-law in the mood for it. I The light of truth, as it flashed fi'om the i spirit of his daughter, seemed to dispel the darkness of his recent suspicions ; he dwelt upon the possibility of ingratitude with a temjDorary remorse. " I cannot speak to you. Sir Robert," he said ; "I am confused, disturbed, distressed. If I have treated that young man ungi-ate- fully, God may forgive me, but I will never forgive mj'self." "Take care, sir," said the baronet, "that you are not under the spell of the Jesuit and your daughter too. Perhaps you will find, when 1 ': is too late, that she is the more spellbound of the two.- If I don't mistake, the sj)ell begins to work ah'eady. In the meantime,- as Miss Folliard will have it, I withdraw all claims upon her hand and affections. Good-night, sh' ; " and as he sj)oke he took his departiu-e. For a long time the old man sat looking into the fire, where he began gi-adually to picture to himself strange forms and 'objects in the glowing embers, one of whom he thought resembled the Red Rapparee about to shoot him ; another, Willy Reilly m.iking love to his daughter ; and behind all, a high gallows, on which he beheld the said Willy hanging for his crime. In about an hour afterwards IMiss Folliard returned to the di-awing-rooMi. where she found her father asleep in his ai'm-chair. Having awakened him gently fi'om what ap- peared a disturbed dream, he looked about him, and, forgetting for a moment all that had happened, inquired in his usual eager manner where Reilly and Whitecraft were, and if they had gone. Li a few moments, however, he recollected the circinnstances that had taken place, and after heaving a deep sigh, he opened liis arms for his daughter, and as he embraced her burst into tears. "Helen," said he, "I am uuhapjn' ; I am distressed ; I know not what to do ! — maj' God forgive me if I have treated this young man with ingi-atitude. But, at all events, a few days will cleai' it all up." 36 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. His daughter was melted by the depth of his son-ow, and the more so as it was seldom she had seen him shed tears before. "I would do every thing — anything to make you happy, my dear treasure," said he, "if I only knew how." "Dear pajxi," she rephed, "of that I am conscious ; and as a jiroof that the heart of your daughter is incapable of veiling a single thought that jDasses in it from a parent who loves her so well, I will place its most cher- ished secret in your o\\ti keeping. I shall not be outdone even by yon, dear papa, in generosity, in confidence, in affection. Papa," she added, j^lacing her head ujDon his bosom, whilst the tears flowed fast down her cheeks, " l^ajja, I love William Reilly — love him Avith a jDvu'e and disinterested passion ! — with a passion which I feel constitutes my des- tiny in this hfe — either for hajDpiness or miseiy. That passion is irrevocable. It is useless to ask me to control or suppress it, for I feel that the task is beyond my pow- er. My love, however, is not base nor self- ish, papa, but fovmded on vii-tue and honor. It may seem strange that I should make such a confession to you, for I know it is un- usual in young persons like me to do so ; but remember, dear papa, that except your- self I have no fiiend. If I had a mother, or a sister, or a cousin of my own sex, to whom I might confide and unbui'den my feehngs, then indeed it is not j)robable I would miike to you the confession which I have made ; but we are alone, and you are the only being left me on whom can rest my sorrow — for indeed my heai-t is fvdl of sor- row." " Well, well, I know not what to say. You ai*e a ti-ue gii-1, Helen, and the very eiTor, if it be one, is diminished by the magnanimity and tiTith M'hich jirompted. you to disclose it to me. I will go to bed, deai-est, and sleep if I can. I trust in God there is no calamity about to overshadow o\xx house or destroy our happiness." He then sought his own chamber ; and Cooleen Bawn, after attending him thither, left him to the care of his attendant and re- tii-ed herself to her apartment. On reachmg home Keilly found Fergus, one of his own relatives, as Ave have said, the same who, warned by his remonstrances, had abandoned the gang of the Red Eapparee, waiting to see him. " Well, Fergus," said he, " I am glad that you have followed my advice. You have left the lawless employment of that blood-stained man?" " I have," replied the other, "and I'm here to tell you that you can now secure him if you like. I don't look upon sayin' this as treacheiy to him, nor would I mention it only that Paudeen, the smith, who shoes and doctors his horses, tould me something that you ought to know." " Well, Fergus, what is it ? " " There's a plot laid, su', to send you out o' the country, and the Red RapjDaree has a hand in it. He is promised a pardon fi-om government, and some kind of a place as tliief-taker, if he'll engage in it against you. Now, you know, there's a price upon his head, and, if you hke, you can have it, and get an enemy put out of your way at the same time." " No, Fergus," rephed Reilly ; " in a mo- ment of indignation I threatened him in order to save the hfe of a fellow-creature. But let the laws deal A\ith him. As for me, you know what he desei*A-es at my hands, but I shall never become the hound of a government which ojjpresses me unjustly. No, no, it is precisely because a price is laid upon the un- fortunate miscreant's head that / would not betray him." "He AA-ill betray you, then." " And let him. I have never violated any law, and even though he should betray me, Fergus, he cannot make me guilty. To the laws, to God, and his owoi conscience, I leave him. No, Fergus, all sympathy between me and the laws that oppress us is gone. Let them Aondicate themselves against thieves and robbers and murderers, with as much vigi- lance and energy as they do against the harm- less forms of religion and the rights of con- science, and the countiy will soon be free from such hcentious pests as the Red Rap- paree and his gang." "You speak warmly, IVIi'. Reilly." "Yes," rephed Reilly, "I am warm, I am indignant at my degiadation. Fergus, Fer- gus, I never felt that degi-adation and its con- sequences so deeply as I do this unhappy night." " Well, will you Hsten to me ?" " I AviU strive to do so ; but you know not the — you know not — alas ! I have no language to express what I feel. Proceed, however," he added, attempting to calm the tumult that agitated his heart ; " what about this jjlot or plan for putting me out of the country ? " " Well, sir, it's determined on to send you, by the means of the same laws you speak of, out of the countiy. The red villain is to come in Avith a charge against you and sur- render himself to government as a penitent man, and the person who is to protect him is Sir Robert AMiitecraft." "It's all ti-ue, Fergus," said Reilly ; "I see it at a glance, and understand it a great deal better than you do. They may, however, be disappointed. Fergus, I have a fiiend — a WILLY REILL7. 37 ftiend — oh, such a friend ! and it will go hard with that friend, or I shjiU hear of their j)ro- ceedings. In the meantime, what do you intend to do ? " "I scai-cely know," rephed the other. " I must He quiet for a while, at any rate." "Do so," said Reilly ; "and hsten, Fer- gus. See Paudeen, the siaith, fi'om time to time, and get whatever he knows out of him. His father was a tenant of ours, and he ought to remember our kindness to him and his." "Ay," said Fergus, "and he does too." " Well, it is clear he does. Get from him all the information you can, and let me hear it. I would give you shelter in my house, but that now would be dangerous both to you and me. Do you want money to sup- port you ? " " WeU, indeed, ^Ix. ReiUy, I do and I do not. I can — " " That's enough," said Reilly ; "you want it. Here, take this. I would recommend you, as I did before, to leave this unhappy countiy ; but as cii'cumstances have tiu*ned out, you may for some time yet be useful to me. Good-night, then, Fei'gus. Sei've me in this matter as far as you can, for I stand in need of it." As nothing like an organized police ex- isted in Ii-eland at the period of which we speak, an outlaw or Rapparee might have a price laid upon his head for months — nay, for years — and yet continue his outrages and defy the executive. Sometimes it hajDj^ened that the authorities, feehng the weakn(iss of their resources and the inadequacy of their power, did not hesitate to jDropose tenns to the leaders of these banditti, and, by afford- ing them personal protection, succeeded in inducing them to betray their former asso- ciates. Now Reilly was well aware of this, and our readers need not be suii^i-ised that the communication made to him by his kins- man fiUed him not only with anxiety but alai-m. A veiy slight charge indeed brought forward by a man of rank and property — such a charge, for instance, as the possession of firearms — was quite sufficient to get a Roman Catholic banished the country. On the third evening after this our friend Tom SteejDle was met by its jiroprietor in the avenue leading to Corbo Castle. "Well, Tom," said the squu-e, " ai-e you for the Big House ? " for such is the general term appUed to all the ancestral mansions of the country. Tom stopped and looked at him — for we need scarcely observe here that with poor Tom there was no respect of persons ; he then shook his head and replied, " Me don't know whether you tall or not. Tom tall — will Tom go to Big Housa -get bully dinner — and Tom sleep under tne stairs — eh ? Say ay, an' you be tall too." " To be sure, Tom ; go into the house, and your cousin Larry Lanigan, the cook, ■nill give you a bully dinner ; and sleep where you like." The squire walked up and down the avenue in a thoughtful mood for some moments until another of our characters met him on his way towards the enti'ance gate. This person was no other than Molly Mahon. " Ha ! " said he, " hei-e is another of them — well, poor devils, they must Hve. This, though, is the gTcat fortune-teller. I will try her." " God save your honor," said Molly, as she api^roached him and dropped a coui'tesy. "All, Molly," said he, " you can see into the future, they say. Well, come now, tell me my fortune ; but they say one must cross your palm with silver before you can manage the fates ; here's a shilling for you, and let us hear what you have to say." " No, su'," rephed Molly, putting back his hand, " imposthors may do that, because they secure themselves fii"st and tell you nothing worth kno^^■in' afterwards. I take no money tiU I fii'st teU the fortune." " WeD, Molly, that's honest at all events ; let me hear what you have to tell me." " Show me your hand, sir," said she, and taking it, she looked into it with a solemn aspect. " There, six-," she said, " that will do. I am sony I met you this evening." "^Vhy so, MoUy?" " Because I read in your hand a great deal of soiTow." " Pooh, you foohsh woman — nonsense ! " " There's a misfortune likely to happen to one of your family ; but I think it may be prevented." " How will it be prevented ? " " By a gentleman that has a title and gi'eat wefilth, and that loves the member of 3'Oiu- family that the misfortune is likely to haj^pen to." The squire paused and looked at the woman, who seemed to speak seriously, and even with pain. " I don't believe a woi'd of it, Molly ; but granting that it be true, how do vou know it ? " "That's more than I can tell myself, sir," she rephed. "A loelin' comes over me, and I can't help speuidn' the words as they rise to my lips." " Well, IMolly, here's a shiUing for you now ; but I want you to see my daughter'a hand till I hear what you have to say for her. Are you a Papist, Molly ? " 38 WILLIAM CARLETOJ^'S WORKS. " No, your honor, I was one wanst ; but the moment we take to this way of Hfe we mustn't belonf:f to any rehgion, otherwise we coulihi't tell the futui-e." " Sell yourself to the devil, eh? " " Oh, no, sir ; but — " " But what ? Out A^ith it." "I can't, sir ; if I did, I never could tell a fortime agin." " "Well — well ; come up ; I have taken a fancy that you shall tell my daughter's for all that'" " Sui'ely there can be nothing but haj^pi- ness before her, su* ; she that is so good to the poor and distressed ; she that has aU the world atlmirin' her wonderful beauty. Sure, they say, her health was di'unk in the Lord Lieutenant's house in the gTeat Castle of Dub- hn, as the Lily of the Plains of Boyle and the Star of Ii-eland." "And so it was, Molly, and so it was; there's another shilling for you. Come now, come up to the house, and tell Iter fortxme ; and m;u-k me, Molly, no flattery now — noth- ing but the truth, if you know it." "Did I flatter you, sir?" "Upon my honor, any thing but that, Molly ; and all I ask is that you won't flatter her. Sj^eak the tnith, as I said before, if you know it." Ivliss FoUiard, on being called down by her father to have her foi-tune told, on seeing Molly, drew back and said, " I)o not ask me to come in dii'ect contact with this woman, papa. How can you, for one moment, imagine that a person of her Hfe and habits could be gifted with that which has never yet been communicated to mortal (the holy proj^hets excej^ted) — a knowledge of futurity ? " "No matter, my dai'hng, no matter; give her yovu' hand ; you will obhge and gvntify me." " Here, then, dear papa, to jylease you — certainly. " Moll}- took her lovely hand, and having looked into it, said, turning to the squire, "It's veiy odd, sir, but here's nearly the same thing that I tould to you awhile ago." "Well, Molly," said he, "let us hear it." Miss Folliard stood \\ith her sno^y hand in that of the fortune-teller, perfectly indif- ferent to her art, but not without strong feel- ings of disgust at the ordeal to which she submitted. " Now, Molly," said the squii-e, " what have you to say ? " " Here's love," she rephed, " love in the wi'ong direction — a false step is made that will end in misery — and — and — and — " "And what, woman ? " asked Miss FoUiard, with an indignant glance at the fortime-tellel*. " What have you to add ? " " No ! " said she, " I needn't speak it, fof it won't come to jiass. I see a man of wealth and title who wiR just come in in time to save you from shame and destruction, and with him you wUl be happy." " I could prove to you," replied the Cooleen Bawn, her face manthng with blushes of in- digiiation, "that I am a better prophetess than you are. Ask her, papa, where she last came from." " Where did you come fi'om last, Molly?" he asked. "'\Miy, then," she rephed, "fi-om Jemmy Hamilton's at the foot of Cullamore." " False proj^hetess," replied the Cooleen Baton, " you have told an untruth. I know where j'ou came from last." " Then where did I come from, Miss Fol- hard ? " said the woman, with imexpected efli-onter}'. "From Sir Robert ^liitecraft," rejDhed Miss Folliard, "and the wages of your dis- honesty and his coriiiiDtion are the soui'ces of your inspii'ation. Take the woman away, X3aj)a." " That \\ill do, MoUy— that wiU do," ex^ claimed the squire, "there is something ad- ditional for you. What you have told us is very odd — very odd, indeed. Go and get your dinner in the kitchen." jVIiss Folliard then mthdi'ew to her ov^ti room. Between eleven and twelve o'clock that night a carriage di'ew up at the gTand en- trance of Corbo Castle, out of which stepped Sii' Robert WTiitecraft and no less a personage than the Eed Rapparee. They ajiproached the hall door, and after giving a single knock, it was opened to them by the squire himself, who it would seem had been waiting to receive them privately. They followed him in silence to his study. IVIi-. Folliard, though a healthy-looking man, was, in point of fact, by no means so. Of a neiTous and plethoric habit, though brave, and even intrej^id, yet he was easily affected by anything or any person that was disagreeable to him. On seeing the man whose hand had been raised against his life, and what was stiU more atrocious, whose criminal designs upon the honor of his daugh- ter had been proved by his violent irrui^tion into her chamber, he felt a suffocating sen- sation of rage and horror that nearly ovei'- came him. "Sir Robert," he said, "excuse me; the sight of this man has sickened me. I got your note, and in your society and at youi request I have suffered him to come here ; under your protection, too. May God for WILLY BE ILLY. 39 give me for it ! The room is foo close — I feel imweU — i^ray open the door." " Will thei-e be no risk, sir, in leaving the door open ? " said the baronet. "None in the world! I have sent the servants all to bed nearly an hour ago. In- deed, the fact is, they are seldom up so late, unless Avhen I have company." Sii' Eobert then opened the door — that is to say, he left it a httle more than ajju', and returning again took his seat. " Don't let the sight of me fiighten you, sir," said the Rapparee. " I never was yom- enemy nor intended you harm." "Frighten me!" replied the coiu-ageous old squire ; " no, sh*, I am not a man very easily frightened ; but I will confess that the sight of you has sickened me and filled me with horror." "Well, now, ]Mr. Folliard," said the baro- net, " let this matter, this misunderstanding, this mistake, or rather this deej) and diaboh- cal plot on the part of the Jesuit, Eeilly, be at once cleared vq). We wish, that is to say I wish, to prevent yoiu* good natui-e fi'om being played upon by a designing villain. Now, O'Donnel, relate, or rather disclose, candidly and tnily, all that took place A\'ith respect to this damnable j)lot between you and Reilly." " TMi}', the thiaig, sh-," said the Rapparee, addressing himself to the squire, " is vfiry plain and simple ; but. Sir Robert, it was not a plot between me and Reilly — the plot was his o-svn. It appears that he saw your daughter and fell desperately in love Avith her, and knowin' your strong feeUng against Catholics, he gave up all hopes of being made acquainted with J\Iiss Folhard, or of getting into her company. Well, sir, aware that you were often in the habit of goin' to the town of Boyle, he comes to me and says in the early part of the day, ' Randal, I will give you fifty goolden guineas if you help me in a plan I have in my head.' Now, fifty goolden guineas isn't easily earned ; so I, not knowing what the plan was at the time, tould lum I could not say nothing till I heard it. He then tould me that he was over head and ears in love with your daugh- ter, and that have her he should if it cost him liis Hfe. ' Well,' says I, ' and how can I help you?' 'Why,' said he, 'I'll show you that : her ould persecuting scoundrel of a father ' — excuse me, sir — I'm givin' his a\yn words—" "I beheve it, ISIr. FoUiard," said the baro- net, " for these ai'e the identical terms in which he told me the stoiy before ; proceed, O'Donnel." "'The ould scomidrel of a father,' says he, 'on his return fi-om Boyle, generally comes by the ould road, because it is the shortest cut. Do you and your men Ue in wait in the ruins of the ould chapel, near Loch na Garran ' — it is called so, su-, because they say there's a Avild horse in it that comes out of moonhght nights to feed on the patches of green that are here and there among the moors — ' near Loch na Gai^an* says he ; ' and when he get^ that far turn out upon him, charge him -with transportin' your uncle, and when you are leveUin' your gun at him, I will come, by the way, and save him. You and I must speak angi-y to one another, you know ; then, of course, I must see him home, and he can't do less than ask me to dine with him. At all events, thinkin' that I saved his life, we will become acquainted.' " The squire paused and mused for some time, and then asked, "Was there no more than this between you and him ? " " Nothing more, sir." " And tell me, did he pay you the money ? " "Here it is," rej)lied the Rapi:)aree, pull- ing out a rag in which were the precise number of guineas mentioned. " But," said the squii'e, " we lost ovu' way in the fog." "Yes, SU'," said the Rapparee. "Every- thing turned out in his favor. That made very httle difference. You would have been attacked in or about that place, whether or not." "Yes, but did you not attack my house that night? Did not you yourself come do"^vn by the skyhght, and enter, by vio- lence, into my daughter's apartment ? " " Well, when I heard of that, sir, I said, 'I give Reilly up for ingenuity.' No, sir, that was his own trick ; but afther all it was a bad one, and tells aginst itself. ^Miy, su', neither I nor any of my men have the 250wer of makiu' ourselves in^dsible. Do you think, sir — I jDiit it to youi' own common-sense — that if we had been there no one woidd have seen us? Wasn't the whole coimtrj' for miles round searched and scoured, and I ask you, sir, was there hilt or hair of me or any one of my men seen or even heard of? Sir Robert, I must be going now," he added. "I hope Squire Folliard understands what kind of a man Reilly is. As for myself, J have nothing more to say." "Don't go yet, O'Donnel," said "VMiite- craft ; " let us determine what is to be done with him. Yoii see clearly it is necessaiy, !Mr. Folliard, that this deep-designing Jes- uit should be sent out of the coimtry." " I would give half my estate he was fairly out of it," said the squire. " He has brought calamity and misery into my fam- ily. Created world ! how I and mine have 40 WILLIAM CARLETON 'S WORKS. been deceived and imiDOsed upon ! Away w-itb him — a tlicnisiind leagiies away with him ! And that quickly too ! Oh, the plaus- ible, deceitful villain ! My child ! my child ! " and here the old man bui'st mto teai'S of the bitterest indignation. " Su* Kobert, that cui-sed villain was bom, I feai', to be the shame and destruction of my house and name." "Don't dream of such a thing," said the bai'onet. " On the day he dined here — and you cannot forget my strong disinclination to meet him — but even on that day 3'ou will recollect the treasonable language he used against the laws of the realm. After my re- tvuTi home I took a note of them, and I tnist that you, sir, will corroborate, with respect to this fact, the testimony which it is my pTui:)ose to give against him. I say this the rather, jNIr. FoUiard, because it might seriously compromise your own character with the Government, and as a magistrate, too, to hear treasonable and seditious lan- guage at youi* oMTi table, fi'om a Papist Jes- uit, and yet decline to report it to the au- thorities." " Tlie laws, the authoritier, and you be hanged, sii' ! " rephed the squu-e ; "my table is, and has been, and ever shall be, the altar of confidence to my guests ; I shall never vi- olate the laws of hosj)itahty. Treat the man fciirly, I say, concoct no plot against him, bribe no false witnesses, and if he is just- ly amenable to the law I will spend ten thou- sand povmds to have him sent anjTvhere out of the countr)'." " He keeps arms," obsen-ed Sir Eobert, "contraiw to the penal enactments." " I think not," said the squire ; " he told me he was on a duck-shooting expedition that night, and when I asked him where he got his arms, he said that his neighbor, Bob Gosford, always lent him his gun when- ever he felt disposed to shoot, and, to my own knowledge, so did many other Protestant magistrates in the neighborhood, for this wily Jesuit is a favorite with most of them." "But I know where he has anns con- cealed," said the Eapparee, looking signifi- cantly at the baronet, " and I will be able to find them, too, when the proper time comes." " Ha ! indeed, O'Doimel," said Sir Rob- ert, with well-feigned sui-prise ; "then there will be no lack of proof against him, you may rest assured, 5lr. FoUiard ; I charge myself with the management of the whole aflair. I trust, sir, you will leave it to me, and I have only one favor to ask, and that is the hand of your fair daughter when he is disposed of. " " She shall be yours, Sir Robert, the mo- ment that this treacherous villain can be re- moved by the fair operation of the laws ; but I will never sanction any dishonorable treat- ment towards him. By the laws of the land let him stand or fall." At this moment a sneeze of tremendoua strength and loudness was heard immedi- ately outside the door ; a sneeze wliich made the hair of the baronet almost stand on end. "What the dcAil is that?" asked the squire. " By the great Bo;^aie, I fear some one has been hstening after all." The Rapparee, always apprehensive of the "authorities," started behind a screen, and the baronet, although unconscious of any cause for teiTor, stood rather undecided. The sneeze, however, was repeated, and this time it was a double one. " Curse it, Sii' Robert," said the squire, "havej'ou not the use of yoiu*legs? Go and see whether there has been an eaves- dropper." "Yes, IVIr. FoUiard," repHed the doughty baronet, " but youi* house has the character of being haunted ; and I have a terror of ghosts." The squire himself got up, and, seizing a candle, went outside the door, but nothing in human shape was visible. " Come here. Sir Robert," said he, " that sneeze came from no ghost, I'll swear. "V\Tio ever heard of a ghost sneezing? Never mind, though ; for the curiosity of the thing I will examine for myself, and return to you in a few minutes." He accordingly left them, and in a short I time came back, assui'ing them that eveiy I one in the house was in a state of the most profound repose, and that it was his opinion it must have been a cat. "I might think so myself," observed the baronet, " were it not for the double sneeze. I am afi-aid, Mr. FoUiard, that the report is too tiaie — and that the house is haunted. O'Donnel, you must come home with me to-night." O'Donnel, who entertained no apprehen- sion of ghosts, finding that the " authori- ties " were not in cpiestion, agreed to go with him, although he had a smaU matter on hand which requu-ed his presence in another part of the country. The baronet, however, had gained his point. Tlie heart of the hasty and xmreflect- ing squire had been jDoisoned, and not one shadow of doubt remained on his mind of ReUly's treacheiy. And that which con rinced him beyond all arguments or asser- tions was the fact that on the night of the pre- meditated attack on his house not one of the Red Rapparee's gang was seen, or any ti'ace of them discovered. WILLY BE ILLY. 41 CHAPTEK VI The Warning — an Escape. Rehxy, in the meantime, was not insensi- ble to his danger. About eleven o'clock the next day, as he was walking in his garden, Tom Steeple made his apjiearance, and ap- proached him with a look of caution and sig- nificance. "Well, Tom," said he, " what's the news ? " Tom made no reply, but catching him gently by the sleeve of his coat, said, " Come wid Tom ; Tom has news for you. Here it is, in de paper ; " and as he spoke, he hand- ed him a letter, the contents of which we give: " De.\eest Redely : Tlie di-eadful discov- ery I have made, the danger and treachery and vengeance by which you ai'e suiTOunded, but, above all, my inexpressible love for you, will surely justify me in not losing a moment to wi-ite to you : and I select this poor creature as my messenger because he is least hkely to be suspected. It is thi-ough him that the discoveiy of the accursed plot against you has been made. It appeal's that he slej^t in the castle last night, as he often does, and ha-\ing obsei-ved Sir Thomas "WTiitecraft and that temble man, the Ked Eajjpai'ee, coming into the house, and going along with pajoa into his study, e%idently upon some private business, he resolved to hsten. He did so, and overheai-d the Rapparee stat- ing to papa that every thing which took place on the evening you saved his life and fiiistrated his other designs upon the castle, was a plan preconcerted by you for the jiur- pose of making papa's acquaintance and getting introduced to the faraily in order to gain my affections. Alas ! if you have re- sorted to such a pkxn, you have but too well succeeded. Do not, however, for one mo- ment imagine that I ^'ield any credit to this atrocious fidsehood. It has been concocted by youi' base and unmanly rival, A\Tiitecraft, by whom all the proceedings against you are to be conducted. Some violation of the penal laws, in connection ■v\*ith carmng or keeping arms, is to be brought against you, and unless you are on your guard you \\\]1 be aiTested and thi'0"ttTi into prison, and if not convicted of a capital offence and execu- ted hke a felon, you will at least be sent for- ever out of the country. "\Miat is to be done ? If you have arms in or about your house let them be forthwith removed to some place of concealment. The liiipparee is to get a pardon from government, at least he is promised it by Su- Robert, if he turns against you. In one word, dearest ReiUy, you cannot, with safety to your life, remain in this covmtry. You must fly fi-om it, and immediately too. I wish to see you. Come this night, at half-past ten, to the back gate of our gai'den, which you will find shut, but unlocked. Something — is it my heart? — tells me that our fates are henceforth insep- arable, whether for joy or sorrow. I ought to tell you that I confessed my affection for you to papa on the evening you dined here, and he was not angiy ; but this morning he insisted that I should never think of you more, nor mention your name ; and he saya that if the laws can do it he will lose ten thousand pounds or he will have you sent out of the country. Lanigan, our cook, fi-om what motive I know not, mentioned to me the substance of what I have now ^vi-itten. He is, it seems, a cousin to the l>earer of this, and got the information fi'om him after hav- ing had much difficulty, he says, in putting it together. I know not how it is, but I can assure you that eveiy sen-ant in the castle seems to know that I am attached to you. "Ever, my dearest Reilly, yours, and yours only, vmtil death, " Helen Foujard." "We need not attempt to describe the sen- sations of love and inchgnation produced by this letter. But we shall state the facts. "Here, Tom," said Reilly, "is the reward for your fidehty," as he handed him some silver ; " and mark me, Tom, don't breathe to a human being that you have brought me a letter fi-om the Cooleen J'aicn. Go into the house and get something to eat ; there now — go and get one of youi- bully dinners." "It is ti-ue," said he, "too true I am doomed — devoted. If I remain in this covmtry I am lost. Yes, my life, my love, my more than hfe — I feel as you do, that oiu" fates, whether for good or eril, are in- sepai'able. Yes, I shall see you this night if I have life." He had scarcely concluded this soliloquy when liis namesake, Fergus Reilly, disguised in such a way as prevented him fi-om being recognized, approached him, in the lowly gai-b of a baccah or mendicant. "Well, my good fellow," siud he, "what do you want ? Go up to the house and you will get food." " Keep quiet," rephed the other, disclos- ing himself, " keep quiet ; get aU your money into one purse, settle your affairs as quickly as yoU can, and fly the countr}' this night, or otherwise sit down and malvc your ^v^ll and your peace with God Almighty, for if you are found here by to-morrow night you sleep in Shgo jail Thi-ow me a few 4ii WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. halfpence, making as it were charity. White- craft has spies among your own laborers, and you know the danger I iim in comin' to you by daylight. Indeed, I could not do it ^^•ithout this cUsguise. To-morrow night you ai-e to be taken upon a wan-ant from Sii* Robert ^Miitecraft ; but never mind ; as to "Whiteeraft, leave Mm to me — I have a crow to pluck NNith him." •' How is that, Fergus ? " " My sister, man ; did you not heai- of it?" " No, Fergus, nor I don't wish to hear of it, for your sake ; spare your feelings, my poor fellow ; I know perfectly well what a h}"pocritical scoundrel he is." " Well,'" rephed Fergus, " it wasonl}' yes- terday I heard of it myself ; and are we to bear this? — we that have hands and ej-es and limbs and hearts and coru-age to stand nobly upon the gallows-tree for striking doMTi the \illain who does whatever he likes, and then thi'eatens us with the laws of the land if we murmui' ? Do j'ou think this is to be borne ? " " Take not vengeance into yom* own hand, Fergus," i-eplied Reilly, "for that is contrary to tho laws of God and man. As for me, I agi'ee with you that I cannot remain in this couutiy. I know the vast influence which Whiteeraft possesses "v\ith the government. Against such a man I have no chance ; this, taken in connection with my education abroad, is quite sufficient to make me a mai'ked and susjiected man. I ^vill there- fore leave the coimtry, and ere to-morrow night, I tinist, I shall be beyond his reach. But, Fergus, hsten : leave A\Tiitecraft to God ; do not stain youi* soul "uith human blood ; keep a pvu'e heart, and whatever may happen be able to look uj) to the Almighty with a clear conscience." Fergus then left him, but with a resolu- tion, nevertheless, to have vengeance upon the baronet veiy unequivocally expressed on his countenance. Ha\-ing seriously considered his position and all the circumstances of danger con- nected with it, Eeilly resolved that his in- terview that night ^vith his beloved Cooleen Bawn should be his last. He accordingly communicated his apprehensions to an aged uncle* of liis who resided with him, and en- tnisted the management of his property to him until some change for the better might take i)lace. Having heard from Fergus Keilly that there were spies among his own laborers, he kept moving about and makmg such observ-^ations as he could for the re- mainder of the day. When the night came ' he prepared himself for his appomtment, ' and at, or rather before, the hoiu* of luilf- ; past ten, he had reached the back gate, ol rather door of the garden attached to Corbo Castle. HaAing ascertained that it was im- locked, he entered with no difficulty, and traversed the gai'den without being able to perceive her wiiose love was now, it might be said, all that life had left him. After having satisfied himself that she was not in the garden, he withdrew to an arbor or summer-house of evergi'eens, where he re- solved to await until she should come. He did not w^ait long. The latch of the entrance gate £fom the fi'ont made a noise ; ah, how his heart beat ! w^hat a commotion agitated his whole frame ! In a few moments she was with him. "Eeilly," said Cooleen Bawn, "1 have di'eadful news to communicate." "I know all," said he ; "I am to be ar- rested to-mori'ow night." " To-night, dearest Eeilly, to-night. Papa told me this evening, in one of his moods of auger, that before to-morrow morning you would be in SUgo jail." "Well, dearest Helen," he rephed, "that is certainly making quick work of it. But, even so, I am jjrepared this moment • to es- cape. I have settled my afl'airs, left the man- agement of them to my uncle, and this in- teniew with you, my beloved gM, must be our last." As he uttered these melancholy words the tears came to his eyes. " The last ! " she exclaimed. " Oh, no ; it must not be the last. You shall not go alone, dearest WiUiam. ]\Iy mind is made up. Be it for hfe or for death, I shall accompany you." "Dearest hfe," he rephed, "think of the consequences." "I think of nothing," said Cooleen Bavtm, " but my love for you. If you were not sur- rounded by danger as you ai-e, if the whpop of vengeance were not on your trail, if death and a gibbet were not in the background, I could jDaii; with you ; but now that danger, vengeance, and death, ai'e hovering about you, I shall and must partake of them Avith yoii. And hsten, EeiUy ; after aU it is the best plan. Paj^a, if I accomjDany you — sup- jjosing that we are taken — will relent for my sake. I know his love for me. His afiection for mewiU overcome all his prejudices against you. Then let us fly. To-night you will be taken. Your nval wiU triumph over both of us ; and I — I, oh ! I shaU not sui-vive it. Save me, then, Eeilly, and let me fly with you." " God knows," rephed Eeilly, with deep emotion, " if I suftered myself to be guided by the impulse of my heart, I would yield to wishes at once so noble and disinterested. I cannot, however, suffer my affection, al> fVIZZr RE ILLY. 43 Borbing and inexpressible as it is, to pre- cipitate your niin. I speak not of myself, nor of what I may suffer, ^^^len we reflect, however, my beloved girl, upon the state of the country, and of the law, as it operates against the liberty and j^roperty of Catholics, we must both admit the pi-esent impossibil- ity of an elopement without invohing you in disgrace. You know that until some relaxa- tion of the laws aflfectiag mai*riage between Cathohcs and Protestants takes place, an union between us is impossible ; and this fact it is which would attach disgrace to you, and a want of honor, princijile, and gratitude to me. We should necessaiily lead the hves of the guilty, and seek the wildest fastnesses of the mountain sohtudes and the oozy cav- erns of the bleak and sohtary hills." " But I care not. I am willing to endure it all for your sake." "What! — the shame, the misinterpreta- tion, the imputed guilt ? " "Neither care I for shame or imputed guilt, so long as I am innocent, and you safe." " Concealment, my dearest gii'l, would be impossible. Such a hue and cry would be raised after us as would render nothing snort of positive invisibihty capable of protecting us fi'om our enemies. Then yoiu* father ! — such a step might possibly break his heart ; a calamity which would fill your mind with remorse to the last day of youi* life ! " She burst again into tears, imd repUed, " But as for you, what can be done to save you fi'om the toUs of your unscrupulous and powerful enemies ? " " To that, my beloved Helen, I must forth- with look. In the meantime, let me gather patience and await some more favorable re- laxation in the penal code. At present, the step you propose would be utter destniction to us both, and an irretrievable stain upon our reputation. You will retura to j-our father's house, and I shall seek some secui-e place of conceahnent vmtn I can safely reach the continent, fi-om whence I shall contrive to let you hear fi'om me, and in due time may possibly be able to propose some mode of meeting in a country' where the oppressive laws that separate us here shall not stand in the way of our happiness. In the meanwhile let oui* heai'ts be guided by hope and con- stancy." After a mournful and tender em- brace they separated. It would be impossible to describe the agony of the lovers after a separation wliich might probably be theu- last. Our readers, however, may very weU conceive it, and it is not our intention to describe it here. At this stage of our stoiy, Eeilly, who was, as we have said, in consequence of his gentle- manly manners and liberal principles, a fa- vorite with all classes and all parties, and entertained no appreheusions from the dom- inant party, took his way homewards deeply impressed with the generous affections which his Cooleen Bavon had expressed for liim. He consequently looked upon himself as perfectly safe in his own house. The state of society in Ireland, however, was at that melancholy period so uncertain that no Eoman CathoHc, however popular, or how- ever innocent, could for one week calculate uj^on safety either to his property or person, if he haj^pened to have an enemy who pos- sessed any influence in the opi:)osing Church. Kehgion thus was made the stalking-horse, not only of power, but of persecution, ra- l^acity, and selfishness, and the unfortimate Roman Cathohc who considered himself safe to-day might find himself laiined to- morrow, owing to the cujoidity of some man who turned a lustful eye upon his property, or who may have entertained a feehng of jjersonal ill-will against him. Be this as it ma}', Eeilly wended his melancholy way homewards, and had got within less than a quai'ter of a mUe of his own house when he was met by Fergus in his mendicant habit, who startled him by the information he dis- closed. " WTiere ai-e you boimd for, !Mr. Eeilly ? " said the latter. " For home," repHed Eeilly, " in order to seciu'e my money and the papers connected Arith the famil}' property." "Well, then," said the other, "if you go home now you are a lost man." " How is that ? " asked Eeilly. " Your house at this moment is filled with sogers, and suiTOunded by them too. You know that no hvunan being covdd make me out in this disguise ; I had heaixl that they were on their way to yovu* place, and afeered that they might catch you at home, I was goin' to let you know, in ordher that you might escape them, but I was too late ; the ■villains were there before me. I took heart o' gx-ace, however, and went up to beg a Ht- tle chai-ity for the love and honor of God- Seeiu' the kind of creature I was, the)' took no notice of me ; for to tell you the truth, they were too much bent on seai'chin' for, and findin' you. God protect us fi'om such men, jVIr. Eeilly," and the name he uttered in alow and cautious voice ; "but at all events this is no country for you to hve in now. But who do you think was the busiest and the bit- tberest man among them ? " " "WTiy A\'hitecraft, I suppose." " No ; he wasn't there himself — no ; but that double distilled traitor and villain, the Eed Eapparee, and bad luck to him. You <4 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. see, then, that if you attempt to go near your own house you're a lost mau, as I said." "I feel the tiiith of what you say," replied Reilly, "but ai-e you aware that they com- mitted any acts of "v-iolence ? Kxo, you awai-e that they distm-bed my property or ran- sacked my house?" " Well,' that 's more than I can say," replied Fergus, "for to tell you the ti-uth, I was afraid to trust myseli inside, in regard of that scoundrel the Rapparee, who, bein' him- self accustomed to all sorts of disguises, I dreaded might find me out." "Well, at all events," said Eeilly, "with respect to that I disregai-d them. The fam- ily papers and other available projDerty are too well secreted for them to secm-e them. On discovermg "\;\Tiitecraft's jealousy, and knowing, as I did before, his vindictive spii-- it and power in the country, I lost no time in putting them in a safe place. Unless they bum the house they coiold never come at them. But as this fact is not at all an improbable one — so long as Whitecraft is my unscnipulous and relentless enemy — I shall seize uj^on the first opportunity of placing them elsewhere." "You ought t(^do so," said Fergus, "for it is not merely "WTiitecraft you have to deal wid, btit ould Folliard himseK, who now swears that if he should lose half his fortune he will either hang or transport you." " Ah ! Ferg-us," replied the other, " there is an essential difference between the charac- ters of these two men. The father of Cooleen Bawn is, when he thinks himself injured, im- petuous and unsparing in his resentment ; but then he is an open foe, and the man whom he looks upon as his enemy always knows what he has to expect fi-om him. Not so the other ; he is secret, cautious, cowardly, and consequently doubly \'indictive. He is a combination of the fox and the tiger, with all the treacherous cunning of the one, and the indomitable ferocity of the other, when he finds that he can make his spring with safety." This conversation took place as Eeilly and his companion bent theii- steps towards one of those antiquated and obsolete roads which we have described in the opening portion of this narrative. " But now," asked Fergus, " where do you intend to go, or what do you intend to do with yourself ? " " l' scarcely know," rephed KeiUy, " but on one thing my mind is determined — that I will not leave this country until I know the ultimate fate of the Cooleen Baton. Rather than see her become the wife of that diaboU- cal scoundrel, whom she detests as she does heU, I would lose my life. Let the conse- quences then be w^hat they may, I will not for the i^resent leave Ireland. This resolu- tion I have come to since I saw her to-night. I am her only fiiend, and, so help me God, I shall not suffer her to be sacri^ced — mu^^ dered. In the cotu'se of the night we shall return to my house and look about us. If the coast be clear I wiU secure my cash and papers as I said. It is possible that a few stragglers may lurk behind, under the ex- pectation of securing me w^hile making a stolen visit. However, we shall try. We are under the scourge of iiTesponsible power, Fergus ; and if Whitecraft should bum my house to-night or to-morrow, who is to bring liim to an account for it ? or if they should, who is to convict him ? " The night had now become veiy dark, but they knew the coiuitry well, and soon found themselves upon the old road they were seek- ing. " I win go up," said Reilly, " to the cabin of poor widow Buckley, where we will stop until we think those blood-hounds have gone home. She has a fi'ee cottage and garden from me, and has besides been a jDensioner of mine for some time back, and I know I can depend ujdou her discretion and fidelity. Her little j^lace is remote and sohtary, and not more than thi'ee quarters of a mile from us." They accordingly kept the old road for some time, until they reached a point of it where there was an abrupt angle, when, to their utter alarm and consternation, they found themselves within .about twenty or thii'ty yards of a military party. "Fly," whispered Fergus, "and leave me to deal with them — if you don't it's aU up with yovL. They won't know me from Adam, but they'll know you at a glance." " I cannot leave you in danger," said Reilly. "You're mad," replied the othei'. "Is it an ould beggar man they'd meddle with? Off with you, unless you wish to sleep in SHgo jail before momin'." Reilly, who felt too deeply the tnith of what he said, bounded across the bank which enclosed the road on the right-hand side, and which, by the way, was a tolerably high one, but fortunately without bushes. In the mean- time a voice cried out, "Who goes there? Stand at your peril, or you will have a dozen bullets in your carcass." Fergus advanced towards them, wiiilst they themselves approached him at a rapid pace, until they met. In a moment they were all about him. " Come, my customer," said their leader. " who and what are you ? Quick — give KO account of yourself." " A poor creature that's lookin formybi^ sir, God helj) me." WILLY REILLY. 45 " What's your name ? " "One Paddy Brennan, sir, please your honor." " Ay — one Paddy Brennan (hiccough), and — and — one Paddy Brennan, where do you go of a Sunday ? " " I don't go out at all, sir, of a Sunda' ; whenever I stop of a Saturday night I always stop until Monday mornin'." " I mean, are you a Papish ? " " Troth, I oughtn't to say I am, yoiu: honor — or at least a verj' bad one." " But you are a Papish." _ " A kind of one, sir." " Cm-se me, the fellow's humbuggin' you, sergeant," said one of the men ; "to be sure he's a Papish." " To be sure," replied several of the others — " doesn't he admit he's a Paj)ish ? " " Blow me, if — if — 1 11 bear this," rephed the sergeant. "I'm a senior off — off — offi- cer conduetin' the examination, and I'U suf- fer no — no — man to intherfare. I must have subor — or — ordination, or I'U know what for. Leave him to me, then, and lU work him up, never fear. George_Johnston isn't the blessed babe to be imposed ujDon — that's what I sa}'. Come, my good fellow, mai'k — mark me now. If you let but a quarter of — of — an inch of a He out of 3-our Hjds, you're a dead man. Are you all charged, gentlemen ? " "All charged, sergeant, "nith loyalty and poteen at any rate ; hang the Pope." "Shovdder arms — wejl done. Present arms. Where is — is — this rascal ? Oh, yes, here he is. Well, you are there — are you ? " " I'm here, captain." " Well blow me, that's not — not — bad, my good feUow ; if I'm not a captain, worse men have been so (hiccough) ; that's what I say." "Hadn't we better make a prisoner of him at once, and bring him to Sir Robert's ? " observed another. " Simpson, hold — old — yoiir tongue, I say. Curse me if I'll suffer any man to in- therfere with me in the discharge of my duty." "How do we know," said another, "but he's a Riipparee in disguise ? — for that mat- ter, he may be Reilly himself." " Captain and gentlemen," said Fergus, " if you have any suspicion of me, I'm wilhn' to go an}T\'here you like ; and, above all things, I'd like to go to Su' Robert's, bekaise they know me there — many a good bit and sup I got in his kitchen." " Ho, ho ! " exclaimed the sergeant ; " now I have you — now I know whether you can tell tnith or not. Answer me this. Did ever Su- Robert himself give you charity? Come, now." Fergus perceived the drift of the question at once. The penurious character of the baronet was so well known throughout the whole barony that if he had replied in the affirmative every man of them would have felt that the assertion was a lie, and he wovdd consequently have been detected. He was prepared, however. "Throth then, gintlemen," he replied, " since you must have the truth, and although maybe what I'm goin' to say won't be jilaisin' to you, as Sir Robert's friends, I must come out wid it ; de\al resave the color of his money ever I seen yet, and it isn't but I often axed him for it. No — but the sarvints often sind me up a bit from the kitchen be- low." " Well, come," said the sergeant, " if you have been \jm all j-our life, you've spoke the truth now. I think we may let him go." " I don't think we ought," said one of them, named Steen, a man of about fifty j'^ears of age, and of Dutch descent ; "as Bamet said, 'we don't know what he is,' and I agree -vNith him. He maij be a Rajiparee in disguise, or, what is worse, ReiUy him- seK." "What Reilly do yez mane, gintlemen, M-id submission ? " asked Fergus. "^Vhy, Willy Reilly, the famous Papish," repHed the sergeant. (We don't wish to fatigue the reader Avith his drunken stutterlngs. ) " It has been sworn that he's training the Papishes eveiy night to prepare them for re- bellion, and there's a wan-ant out for his ap- prehension. Do you know Mm ? " "Throth I do, weU ; and to tell yez the truth, he doesn't stand very high vAd his own sort." " Why so, my good fellow ? " " Bekaise they think that he keeps too much company wid Prodestans, an' tb.tt he's half a Prodestan himself, and that it's only the shame that prevents him fi-om goin' over to them altogether. Indeed, it's the general opinion among the Catholics — " "Papishes-! you old dog." " Well, then, Papishes — that he will — an throth, I don't think the Papishes would put much ti-ust in the same man." " AMiere are you bound for now ? and what brings you out at an illegtd hour on this lonely road ? " asked Steen. "Troth, then, I'm on my way to Mr. Graliam's above ; for sure, whenever I'm near him, poor Paddy Brennan never wants for the good bit and suji, and the comforta- ble straw bed in the barn. May GoJ re- ward him and his for it ! " Now, the tnith was, that Graham, a wealthy and respectable Protestant f{U-mer, was imcle to the sergeant ; a fact whicb i6 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. Fergixs well knew, in consequence of La\ing been a liouse sen-ant with him for two or three yeai-s. " Sergeant," said the Wilhamite settler, " I think this matter may be easily settled. Let two of the men go back to yoiu* uncle's with him, and see whether they know him there or not." " Very well," replied the sergeant, " let you and Simpson go back with him — I have no objection. If my uncle's people don't know him, why then bring him down to Sir Roberts'." " It's not fau- to put such a task upon a man of my age," rephed Steen, "when you know that you have younger men here." "It was you proposed it, then," said the sergeant, " and I say, Steen, if you be a time man you have a right to go, and no right at all to shirk your duty. But stoj:) — I'll settle it in a word's sj^eaking : here you — you old PajDish, where are you? — oh, I see — you're there, ai"e you? Come now, gentlemen, shoulder arms — all right — present arms. Now, you confounded Papish, you say that you have often slej^t in my uncle's barn ? " " Is ]Mr. Graham your uncle, sir ? — bekaise, if he is, I know that I'm in the hands of a respectable man." "Come now — was there anything par- ticular in the inside of that barn ? — Gentle- men, are you ready to slaj) into him if we find him to be an imposther ? " "All ready, sergeant." "Come now, you blasted Papish, answer me — " "Troth, and I can do that, sargin'. You say jMi". Graham's your uncle, an' of coorse you have often been in that barn youi'self. Veiy well, su-, don't you Icnow that there's a prop on one side to keep up one of the cup- pies that gave way one stormy night, and there's a round hole in the lower part of the door to let the cats in to settle accounts wid the mice and rats." "Come, come, boys, it's all right. He has described the bai*n to a haii-. That will do, my Papish old cock. Come, I say, as every man must have a rehgion, and since the Papishes won't have ours, why the devil shovildn't they have one of their own ? " "That's dangerous talk," said Steen, "to proceed fi-om your lips, sergeant. It smells of treason, I tell you ; and if you had spoken these words in the days of the great and good King William, you might have felt the consequences." "Treason and King William be hanged ! " replied the sergeant, who was naturally a good-L.dtured, but out-spoken fellow — " sooner than I'd take up a poor deril of a beggar that has enough to do to make out his bit and sup. Go on about 3'our business, poor devH ; you shan't be molested. Go to my uncle's, where you'll get a bellyfuU, and a comfortable bed of straw, and a winnow- cloth in the barn. Zounds ! — it would be a nice night's work to go out for Willy Reilly and to bring home a beggar man in his place." This was a narrow escape ujDon the part of Fergus, who knew that if they had made a prisoner of him, and produced him before Sir Eobert WTiitecraft, who was a notorious j)ersecul<)r, and with whom the Ked Rapparee was now located, he would unquestionably have been hanged hke a dog. The ofl&cer of the party, however — to \ni, the worthy ser- geant- -was one of those men who love a droiD of the native, and whose heai*t besides it expands into a sort of surly kindness that has something comical and not disagi'eeable in it. In addition to this, he never felt a confidence in his o\fn authority with half the swagger which he did when three quarters gone. Steen and he were never fi-iends, nor indeed was Steen ever a jDopular man among his acquaintances. In matters of trade and business he was notoriously dishonest, and in the moral and social relations of life, selfish, uncandid, and treacherous. The ser- geant, on the other hand, though an out- spoiien and flaming anti-Papist in theory, was, in point of fact, a good fiiend to his Eoman Cathohc neighbors, who used to say of him that his bark was worse than his bite. AVlien his party had passed on, Fergus stood for a moment uncertain as to where he should dii'Bct his steps. He had not long to wait, however. EeiUy, who had no thoughts of abandoning him to the mercy of the mili- tary, without at least knowing his fate, nor, we may add, without a t\rm determination to raising his tenantry, and rescuing the gen- erous fellow at eveiy risk, immediately sprung across the ditch and joined him. " WeU, Fergus," said he, clasping his hand, " I heard everything, and I can tell you that every nerve in my body trembled whilst you were among them." " AATiy," said Fergus, " I knew them at once by their voices, and only that I changed my own as I did I won't say but they'd have nabbed me." "The test of the bam was frightful; I thought you were gone ; but you must ex plain that." "Ay, but before I do," repHed Fergus, " where are we to go ? Do you stiU stand for widow Buckley's ? " " Certainly, that woman may be useful to me." " Well, then, we may as well jog on in that direction, and as we go I will tell you." " How then did you come to desi'ribe tJbo WILLY RE ILLY. 47 bam — or rather, was your description cor- rect ? " "Ay, as Gospel. You don't know that by the best of luck and pro\-idence of God, I was two yeai's and a half an inside laborer with ]Mr. Graham. As is usual, all the inside men- 8er\'ants slept, winther and summer, in the bam ; and that accounts for oui* good fortune this night. Only for that scoundi'el, Steen, however, the whole tiling would not have signified much ; but he's a black and deep \-illain that. Nobody likes him but his broth- er scoundrel, Whitecraft, and he's a favorite with him, bekaise he's an active and unscrupu- lous tool in his hixnds. Many a time, when these men — mihtarj' — militia — yeomen, or whatever they call them, are sent out by this same Su- Robert, the poor fellows don't wish to catch what they call the unfortunate Papish- es, and before they come to the house they'll fire oif their guns, pretinding to be in a big passion, but only to give their poor neighbors notice to escape as soon as they can." In a short time they reached widow Buck- ley's cabin, who, on undei'standing that it was Reilly who sought admittance, lost not a moment in opening the door and letting them in. There was no candle ht when they enter- ed, but there was a bright tui-f fii-e " blinkin' bonndie " in the fireplace, fi-om which a mel- low hght emanated that danced upon the few plain plates that were neatly ranged upon her humble dresser, but which fell still more strongly upon a clean and well-swept hearth, on one side of which was an humble arm- chair of straw, and on the other a grave, but placid-looking cat, jDiuTing, with half-closed eyes, her usual song for the evening. " Lord bless us ! Mr. Redly, is this you? Sure it's httle I expected you, any way ; but come when you will, you're welcome. And who ought to be welcome to the poor oidd widow if you wouldn't ? " " Take a stool and sit down, honest man," she said, addi-essing Fergus ; " and you, ]Mr. Redly, take my chair ; it's the one you sent me yourself, and if anybody is entitled to a sate in it, surely you ai'e. I must light a msh." " No, Molly," rephed Reilly, " I woidd be too hea^'}' for your fi-ad chau*. I will take one of those stout stools, which wiU answer me better." She then ht a msh-Hght, which she pressed against a smaU cleft of iron that was driven into a wooden shaft, about three feet long, which stood upon a bottom that resembled the head of a chum-staft'. Such are the hghts, and such the candlesticks, that ai-e to be found in the cabins and cottages of Ii-eland. "I suppose, Molly," said Reilly, "you are surprised at a visit fit'om me just now? " " You know, ]\Ii-. Reilly," she rephed, " that if you came in the deadest houi'S of the night yoxid be welcome, as I said — and this poor man is welcome too — sit over to the fii'e, poor man, and warm youi'self. Miybe you're hungiy ; if you are I'll get you some- thing to eat." ."^Slany thanks to you, ma'am," rephed Fergus, " I'm not a taste hungry, and coidd ait nothing now ; I'm much obliged to you at the same time." " Mr. Reilly, maybe you'd hke to ait a bit. I can give you a fcirrel of bread, and a sup o' nice goat's milk. God presei-ve him from evil that gave me the same goats, and that's your four quarthers, ^Ir. Redly. But sure eveiy thing I have either came or comes fi'om your hand ; and if I can't thank you, God will do it for me, and that's betther still." " No more about that, Molly— not a word more. Your long residence Arith my poor mother, and your affection for her in all her trials and troubles, entitle you to more than that at the hands of her sou." 'Oil's. Buckley," obsen-ed Fergus, "this is a quiet-looking httle place you have here." " And it is for that I hke it," she replied. "I have pace here, and the noise of the wicked world seldom reaches me in it. My only fiiend and comjianion here is the Al- mighty — i^raise and glory be to his name ! " — and here she devoutly crossed herself — "bar- rin', indeed, when the light-hearted gir^has* come a kailyee\ Arid their wheels, to keei? the poor ould woman comjDany, and rise her oidd heart by their hght and merry songs, the cratui-es." "That must be a rehef to j-ou, Molly," observed Reilly, who, however, could with difficulty take any jDart in this httle dia- logue. "And so indeed it is," she rephed ; " and, poor tilings, sure if then* sweetheai'ts do come at the dusk to helj) them to cany home their si^iiiuing-wheels, who can be angiy "s\ith them ? It's the way of life, siu*e, and of the world." She then went into another httle room — for the cabin was dirided into two — in order to find a ball of woollen thread, her piinciptd occupation being the knitting of mittens and stockings, and whde bustling about Fergus obsei-ved vAih a smde, " Poor Molly ! little she thinks that it's the bachelors, rather than any particidar love for her company, that brings the thieves here." * Toung' girls. f This means to spend a portion of tbe day. or a few hours ot the night, iu a neighbor's hoase, in agre«able and amusing conversation. iS WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. " Yer, but," said Keilly, " you know it's the custom of the country." •'^Iis. Buckley," asked Fergus, "did the sogers ever pay you a visit ? " "They did ouce," she rephed, "about six months ago or more." " "\\Tiat in the name of wondher," he re- peated, " could bring them to you ? " "They were out htmtin' a priest," she rephed, " that had done something contraiy to the law." "WTiat did they say, Mrs. Buckley, and how did they behave themselves ? " " "VMiy," she answered, " they axed me if I had seen about the country a tight-looking fat httle man, wid black twinklin' eyes and a rosy face, \i\A. a pair o' priest's boots upon him, greased wid hog's lai'd ? I said no, but to the revarse. They then searched the cabin, tossed the two beds about — poor Jemmy's — God rest my boy's sowl ! — an' afterwards my own. There was one that seemed to hould authority over the rest, and he axed who was my landlord ? I said I had no landlord. They then said that surely I must pay rent to some one, but I said that I paid rent to nobody ; that jVIi-. Reilly here, God bless him, gave me this house and garden free." "And what did they say when you named ^Ir. Reilly?" "^^^ly, they said he was a dacent Papish, I think they called it ; and that there wasn't sich another among them. They then lighted their pipes, had a smoke, went about their business, and I saw no more of them from that day to this." Eeiily felt that this conversation was sig- nificant, and that the widow's cabin was any thing but a safe place of refuge, even for a few houi's. We have ah-eady said that he had been popular with all parties, which was the fact, until his acquaintance with the old squire and his lovely daughter. In the meantime the loves of Willy Reilly and the far-famed Cooleen Bawn had gone abroad over the whole country ; and the natiu-al result was that a large majoiity among those who were anxious to exterminate the Cathohc Church by the rigor of bigoted and inhuman laws, looked upon the fact of a tolerated Papist daring to love a Protestant heiress, and the daughter of a man who was con- sidered such a stout prop of the Estaljlish- ment, as an act that deserved death itself. Reilly's affection for the Cuoleen Bawn was considered, therefore, not only daring but treasonable. Those men, then, he reflected, who had called upon her while in pursuit of the unfortunate priest, had become acquain- ted with the fact of her dependence upon his bounty ; and he took it for granted, very naturally and very properly, as the event vnh show, that now, while "on his keeping," it would not be at all extraordinary if they occasionally searched her remote and sohtary cabin, as a place where he might be likely to conceal himself. For this night, however, he experienced no apprehension of a visit from them, but with what correctness of cal- culation we shall soon see. " Molly," said he, this poor man and I must sit with you for a couple of hours, after which we Arill leave you to yovu' rest." "Indeed, Mr. Reilly," she rephed, "fit-om what I heard this day I can make a purty good guess at the riiison wh}'" 3'ou are here now, instead of bein' in your owti comfort- able house. You have bitther enemies ; but God — blessed be his name — is stronger than any of them. However, I wish you'd let me get you and that poor man son-ething to eat." This kind offer they declined, and as the short rush-hght was nearly biu-ned out, and as she had not another ready, she got what is called a cam or gi'isset, put it on the hearth-stone, "with a portion of hog's lard in it ; she then placed the lower end of the tongs in the fire, until the broad portion of them, Arith which the tui-f is giipped, became red hot ; she then placed the lard in the giis- set between them, and squeezed it vmtil noth- ing remained but pure oil ; through this she slowly di-ew the peeled rushes, which were instantly saturated with the gi'ease, after which she left them on a httle table to cooL Among the poorer classes — small fai-mers and others — this process is performed every evening a httle before dusk. Having thus supphed them with these hghts, the pious widoAV left them to their own conversation and retired to the httle room in order to re- peat her rosary. We also will leave them to entertain themselves as best they can, and request our readers to follow us to a dilierent scene. CHAPTER Vn. An Accidental Incident favorable to Eeiily, and a Curious Convermtion. We return to the party fi-om whom Fer- gus Reilly had so naiTow an escape. As oui readers may expect, they bent their steps to the magnificent residence of Su- Robert "WTiitecraft. That gentleman was alone in his library, surrounded by an immense col lection of books which he never read. He had also a fine collection of paintings, of which he knew no more than his butler, nor perhaps so much. At once sensual, penuri WILLT UEILLY. 49 nis, and bigoted, lie spent Lis whole time jn private profligacy — for he was a hypocrite, too — in racking his tenantry, and exhibiting himself as a champion for Protestant prin- ciples. WTienever an unfortunate Romjm CathoHc, whether priest or layman, happened to infringe a harsh and cniel law of which probably he had never heaixl, who so active in collecting his mjTmidons, in order to un- cover, hunt, and run down his luckless vic- tim ? And yet he was not poijular. No one, wliether of his own class or any other, liked a bone in his skin. Nothing could in- fect him Avith the genial and hospitable spmt jf the country, whilst at the same time no man living was so anxious to partake of the hospitahty of others, merely because it saved him a meal. All that sustained his character at the melancholy period of which we write was what people called the uncompromising energ}' of his principles as a sound and vig- orous Protestant. " Sink them all together," he exclaimed upon this occasion, in a kind of soliloquy — " Chui-ch and bishop and parson, what are they worth unless to make the best use we can of them? Here I am prevented fi'om going to that giii to-night — and that bar- bai'ous old blockhead of a squii-e, who was so neai" throwing me off for a beggarly Papist rebel ; and doubly, trebly, quadruply cursed be that same rebel fci' crossing my path as he has done. The cui'sed hght-headed jade loves him too — there's no doubt uf that>— but wait until I get him in my clutches, as I certainly shall, and, by , his rebel carcass shall feed the crows. But what noise is that ? They have returned ; I must go do-n-n and leara their success." , He was right. Our fiiend the tipsy ser- geant and his party were at the hiill-door, which was oj^ened as he went down, and he orde^'ed lights into the back parlor. In a few minutes they were ushered in, where they found him seated as magisterially as possible in a large ann-chair. "Well, Johnston," said he, assuming as much dignity as he could, " what has been your success ? " " A bad evening's spoii, sir ; we bagged nothing — didn't see a feather." " Talk sense, Johnston," said he sternly, " and none of this cant. Did 3'ou see or hear any thing of the rebel ? " " Why, sir, we did ; it would be a derihsh nice business if a paiiy led and commanded by George Johnston should go out without heaiin' and seein' something." " Well, but what did you see and hear, sir ? " " Wliy, we saw Eeilly's house, and a very comfortable one it is ; and we heard from the servants that he wasn't at home." " You're dnmk, Johnston." "No, sir, begging yojr pardon, I'm only hearty ;* besides, I never discharge my duty half so weU as when I'm drunk ; I feel no colors then." " Johnston, if I ever know you to get dnink on duty again I shall have you reduced." " Reduced ! " replied Johiiston, " curse the fig I care whether you do or not ; I'm actin' as a volunteer, and I'll resign." "Come, sir," rephed Sir Robert, " be quiet ; I wiU overlook this, for you ai'e a very good man if 3'ou could keep yourself sober." " I told you before, Sii* Robert, that I'm a better man when I'm drunk." " Silence, sii", or I shall order you out of the room." "Please j'oui- honor," observed Steen, "I have a chai'ge to make against George John- ston." " A charge, Steen — what is it ? You are a staunch, steady fellow, I know ; what is this cliarge ? " " ^\Tiy, sir, we met a suspicious character on the old bridle road beyond Reilly's, and he refused to talce him prisoner." "A poor half-PHi:)ist beggarman, sir," re- phed Johnston, " who was on his way to my uncle's to stop there for the night. Divil a scarecrow in Europe would exchange clothee with him without boot." Steen then related the circumstances with which our readers are acquainted, adding that he suggested to Johnston the necessity of sending a couple of men up with him to ascertain whether what he said was true or not ; but that he flatly refused to do so — ixnd after some nonsense about a barn he let him " TU teU you what, sir," said Johnston, " I'll hunt a priest or a Papish that breaks the law -srith any man hvin', but hang me ii ever I'll hunt a harmless beggarman lookin' for his bit." At this period of the conversation the Red Rapi^aree, now in mihtary uniform, entered the paiior, accompanied by some others of those violent men. " Steen," said the baronet, " what or who do i/oH suppose this ragged i-uffi;m was?" " Either a Riipparee, sir, or Reilly him- seK." " O'Donnel," said he, addressing the Red Robber, " what description of disguises do these villains usually assume ? Do they of- ten go about as beggarmen ? " " They may have changed their hand, sir, since I became a legjxl subject, but, before that, three-fourths of us — of them — the vil- *" Hearty " means when a man is slightly affected by drir-k so as to feel his spirits elevated- 30 WILLIAM CARLETOS'8 WOEKS. lains, I mane — went about in the shape of beggars." " That's im25oi*tant," exclaimed the baronet. " Steeu, take half a dozen mounted men — a cavaliT piu-ty have arrived here a httle while ago, and are waiting fui-ther orders — I thought if Eeilly had been secm-ed it might have been necessaiy for them to escort him to Sligo. WeU, take half a dozen mounted men, and, as you very j^roperly suggested, proceed with all haste to farmer Gi'aham's, and see whether this mendicant is there or not ; if he is there, take him into custody at all events, and if he is not, then it is clear he is a man for whom we ought to be on the lookout." " I should like to go -nith them, your hon- or," said the Ked Eapparee. " O'Donnel," said Sii" Robert, "I have oth- er business for you to-uight." " Well, plaise yom* honor," said O'Don- nel, " as they're goin' in that direction, let them turn to the left after j^assiii' the httle strame that crosses the road, I mane on their way home ; if they look shaii) they'll find a 'little horeen that — but indeed they'll scarcely _aake it out in the dark, for it's a good way back in the fields — I mane the cabin of widow Buckley. If there's one house more than another in the whole coimtryside where Reilly is likely to take shelter in, that's it. He gave her that cabin and a large garden fi*ee, and besides allows her a small yearly pension. But remember, you can't bring your horses wid you — you must lave some of the men to take charge of them in the boreen till you come back, I -s\ish you'd let me go with them, sir." " I cannot, O'Donnel ; I have other occu- pation for you to-night." Three or fom- of them declai'ed that they knew the cottage right well, and could find it out vrithout much difficulty. " They had been there," they said, " some six or eight months before upon a jDriest chase." The matter was so arranged, and the party set out upon their expedition. It is unnecessaiy to say that these men had their journey for nothing ; but at the same time ope fact resulted from it, which was, that the ragged mendicant they had met must have been some one well worth looking after. The deuce of it was, however, that, o^\-ing to the darkness of tlie night, there was not one among them who could have known Fergus the next day if they had i met liim. They knew, however, that O'Don- nel, the Rapparee, was a good authority on the subject, and the discovery of the pre- tended mendicant's impostui-e was a proof of it. On this account, when they had reached the boreen alluded to, on their re- ; tiu-n fi'om Graham's, they came to the reso lution of learing theii* horses in charge, aa had been suggested to them, and in silence, and with ste:ilthy stejis, pounce at once into the widow's cabin. Before they arrived there, however, we shall take the hberty of preceding them for a few minutes, and once more transport our readers to its bright but humble heai'th. About three hom-s or better had elapsed, and om- two fiiends were still seated, main- taining the usual chat ^^•ith j\Irs. Buckley, who had finished her prayers and once more rejoined them. "Fergus, like a good fellow," whispered Eeilly, " slip out for a minute or two ; there's a circumstance I wish to mention to MoUy — I assure you it's of a very private and par- ticular natiu'e and only for her o^ti ear." "To be sui-e," replied Fergus ; "I want, at all events, to stretch my legs, and to see what the night's about." He accordingly left ths cabin. "]\Ii-s. Buckley," said Eeilly, "it was not for nothing I came here to-night. I have a favor to ask of you." "Youi- favor's granted, sh-," she repHed— " gi'anted, 'Mx. Eeilly, even before I hear it — that is, suj^posin' alwaj's that it's in my j^ower to do it for you." "Jt is simply to cany a letter — and be certain that it shall be delivered to the proper person." "Well," she rej^lied, "sure that's aisily done. And where am I to dehver it?" she asked. " That I shall let you know on some future occasion — perhaps within the coui'se of a week or so." "Well, sii'," she repHed, "I'd go twenty miles to deHver it — and will do so vrid a heai-t and a half." " Well, Molly, I can teU you your journey won't be so far ; but there is one thing you are to observe — you must never breathe it to a human creature." "I thought you knew me better, IMr. EeiUy." " It would be impossible, however, to be too strict here, because you don't know how much depends upon it." At this moment Fergus put in his head, and said, " For Christ's sake, snuft" out the candle, and Reilly — fly ! — There ai'e people in the next field ! — quick ! — quick ! " Eeilly snatched up liis hat, and whispered to the Aridow, "Deny that you saw me, or that there was any one here ! — ^Put out the candle ! — they might see our figures darken- ing the light as we go out ! " Fergus and Eeilly immediately planted themselves behind a whitethorn hedge, in a WILLY REILLY. 51 field adjoining the cabin, in order to recon- noitre the party, whoever they might be, which they could do in safety. This act of reconnoitering, however, was pei-foi-med by the ear, and not at all by the eye ; the dark- ness of the night rendered that impossible. Of course the search in the widow's cabin was equally fi'uitless. "Now," wliisi)ered Reilly, "well go in a line parallel with the road, " but at a safe distance from them, until they reach the cross-roads. If they turn towards my house, we are forewarned, but if they turn towards Sir Eobert's, it is likely that I may have an opportunity of securing my cash and papers." On reaching the cross-roads alluded to, the party, much to the satisfaction of Reilly and his companion, did turn towards the residence of Sir Robert "\Miitecraft, thus giving the fugitives full assurance that no- tliiug further was to be apprehended from them that night. The men in fact felt fatigued and were anxious to get to bed. After approaching ReQly's house very cautiously, and with muclv circumspection — not an outhouse, or other i)lace of conceal- ment, having been left unexamined — they were about to enter, when Reilly, thinking that no precaution on such an occasion ought to be neglected, said : " Fergus, we are so far safe ; but, under all circumstances, I think it right and jditi- dent that you should keej) watch outside. Mark me, I will place Tom Comgan — you know him — at this window, and if you hap- pen to see anything in the shajje of a hu- man being, or to hear, for instance, any noise, give the shghtest possible tap upon the gkss, and that ^\•ill be sufficient." It was so arranged, and Reilly entered the house ; but, as it happened, Fergus's office proved a sinecure ; jdthough, indeed, when we consider his care and anxiety, we can scarcely say so. At all events, ReiDy returned in about half an hour, bearing under his aim a large dark portfolio, which, by the way, was securely locked. "Is all right? " asked Fergus, "All is right," repHed the other. "The servants have entered into an arrangement to sit up, two in turn each night, so as to be ready to give me instant admittance whenever I may chance to come." "But now where are you to place these papers ? " asked his companion. " That's a difficulty." "It is, I grant," rephed Reilly, "but after what has happened, I think ^vidow Buckley's cabin the safest place for a day or two. Only that the hour is so unseasonable, I could feel httle difficulty in finding a proper place of security for them, but as it is, we must only deposit them for the present ■with the widow." The roads of Ireland at this period- -if roads they could be called — were not only in a most shameful, but dangerous, state. In summer they were a foot deep \i\\h. dust, and in winter at least eighteen inches with mud. This, however, was by no means the worst of it. They were studded, at due inten-als, with ruts so deep that if a horse I happened to get into one of them he went I down to the saddle-skirts. They were j treacherous, too, and such as no caution j could guard against ; because, where the [ whole surface of the road was one mass of mud, it was inipossible to distinguish these , horse-traps at all. Tlien, in atldition tO' i these, were deep gullies across the roads, I worn away by small riUs, proceeding from ! rivulets in the adjoining uplands, wliich were ; principally diy, or at least mere threads of \ water in summer, but in winter became I pigmy toiTents that tore up the roads across I which they passed, leaving them in the dan- gerous stite we have described. As Reilly and his companion had got out upon the road, they were a good deal sur- prised, and not a Httle alarmed, to see a horse, without a rider, stniggUng to extri- cate himseK out of one of the ruts in ques- tion. "What is this?", said Fergus. "Be on yoiu' guard." " The horse," observed Reilly, "is without a rider ; see what it means." Fergus approached with aU due caution, and on examining the jilace discovered a man Ijing apparently in a state of insensibiUty. " I fear," said he, on returning to Reilly, " that his rider has been hurt ; he is lying senseless about two or three yards before the horse." " My God ! " exclaimed the other, " perhaps he has been killed ; let us instantly a.s.sist him. Hold this jiortfolio whil.st I render him whatever a.ssistance I can." As he spoke they heard a heavy groan, and on approaching found the man sitting, but still vmable to rise. "You have unfortunately been throAvn, sir," said Reilly ; " I trust in God you are not seriously hurt." "I hope not, sir," repUed the man, " but I was stunned, and have been insensible for some time ; how long I cannot say." "Good gracious, sir!" exclaimed Reilly, " is this ^Ir. Brown ? " "It is, Mr. Reilly; for heaven's sake aid me to my limbs — that is, if I shall be able to stand upon them." ReiUy did so, but found that he could not stand or walk without assistance. The 52 WILLIAM CARLETOR'S WORKS. horse, in the meantime, had extricated him- self. "Come, Mr. Brown," said Eeilly, "yoa must allow me to assist you home. It is veiy fortunate that you have not many perches to go. This poor man will lead your horse up to the stable." "Tliank you, I\Ii\ Eeilly," replied the gentleman, " and in requital for yoiu* kind- ness you must take a bed at my house to- night. I am aware of your position," he added in a confidential voice, " and that you cannot safely sleep in your own ; with me you will be seciu-e." Reilly thanked him, and said that this kind offer was most welcome and accej^table, as, in point of fact, he scarcely knew that night where to seek rest with safety. They accordingly proceeded to the parsonage — • for Mr. Brown was no other than the Prot- estant rector of the jDarish, a man "v^dth whom Reilly was on the most fi-iendly and intimate terms, and a man, we may add, who omitted no opportunity of extending shelter, pro- tection, and countenance to such Roman Cathohcs as fell under the suspicion or oj^er- ation of the law. On this occasion he had been called very suddenly to the deathbed of a parishioner, and was then on his return home, after having administered to the d^dng man the last consolations of rehgion. On reaching the parsonage, Fergus handed the portfoho to its o^mier, and withdrew to seek shelter in some of his usual haunts for the night ; but Mr. Brown, aided by his wife, who sat up for him, contrived that Reilly should be conducted to a jDrivate room, without tke knowledge of the servants, who were sent as soon as possible to bed. Before Reilly withdrew, however, that nighi, he re- quested ]VIi\ Brown to take charge of his monej' and family papers, which the latter did, assuring him that they should be forth- coming whenever he thought j)roper to call for them. Mr. Bro\ATi had not been seriously hurt, and was able in a day or two to pay the usual attention to the discharge of his duties. Reilly, having been told where to find his bedroom, retired ^\'ith confidence to rest. Yet we can scarcely term it rest, alter con- sidering the tumultuous and disagreeable events of the evening. He began to ponder upon the life of j)ersecution to which Miss FoUiai'd must necessarily be exposed, in con- sequence of her father's impetuous and fierj' temper ; and, indeed, the fact was, that he felt this reflection infinitely more bitter than any that touched himself. In these affectionate calculations of her domestic per- secution he was a good deal mistaken, however. Sir Robert Whitecraft had now gained a complete ascendancy over the di* position and passions of her father. Th« latter, like many another covmtry squire — es- pecially of that day — when his word and wO] were law to his tenants and dependants, was a ver}' great man indeed, when deahng with them. He could bluster and threaten, and even carry his threats into execution with a confident SAvagger that had more of magis- terial pride and the pomp of property in it, than a sense of either right or justice. But, on the other hand, let him meet a man of hia ovni rank, who cared nothing about his authority as a magistrate, or his assumption as a man of large landed propei'ty, and he was nothing but a poor weak-minded tool in his hands. So far our descriiDtion is correct ; but when such a knave as Sir Robert White- craft came in his way — a knave at once cal- culating, deceitful, plausible, and ciinning — why, our worthy old squire, who thought himself a second Solomon, might be taken by the nose and led round the whole barony. There is no doubt that he had sapiently laid doviTi his j^lans to harass and persecute his daughter into a marriage with Sir Robert, and would have probably driven her fi'om mider his roof, hacl he not received the pro- gramme of his conduct fi-om "Whitecrafi That cowardly caitiff had a double motive in this. He found that if her father should " pepper her with persecution," as the old fellow said, before marriage, its consequences might fall ujDon his 0"\ati xmluck}- head after- wards — in other words, that Helen would most assuredly make him then suffer, to some l^ui'pose, for all that his jDretensions to hei hand had occasioned her to undergo jire- vious to their union ; for, in truth, if there was one doctrine which ^Miitecraft detested more than another — and with good reason too — it was that of Retribution. " Mr. FoUiard," said AVhitecraft in the very last conversation they had on this subject, " you must not persecute your daughter on my account." "Mustn't I? Wliy hang it. Sir Robert, isn't persecution the order of the day ? If she doesn't marry you quietly and willingly, we'll tui-n her out, and hunt her hke a piiest." "No, IVIi*. Folhard, violence wiU never do. On the contrary, you must change yoiu hand, and tiy an opj)osite course. If you wish to rivet her affections upon that Jes- uitical traitor still more strongly, persecut6 her ; for there is nothing in this life that strengthens love so much as ojDposition and violence. The fair ones begin to look upon themselves as martyrs, and in proportion as you are severe and inexorable, so in propor- tion are they resolved to win the crown that WILLY REILLY 53 is before them. I would not press your daughter but that I beheve love to be a thing that exists before marriage — never after. There's the honeymoon, for instance. Did ever mortal man or mortal woman hear or dream of a second lioneymoon ? No, sir, for Cupid, like a large blue-bottle, fiills into, and is drowned, in the honey-pot." " Confound me," replied the squire, " if I understand a word you say. However, I dai'e say it may be very good sense for all that, for you always had a long noddle. Go on." " My advice to you then, sir, is this — make as few allusions to her maniage with me as possiljle ; but, in the meantime, you may praise me a little, if you wish ; but, above all tilings, don't run do^\Ti Reilly immediately after paying either my mind or person any comijliment. Allow the young lad}' to re- main quiet for a time. Treat her vdih your usual kindness and affection ; for it is possi- ble, after all, that she may do more from her tenderness and affection for you than we could expect from an}' other motive ; at all events, until we shall succeed in hanging or transporting -this rebellious scoundi-el." "Very good — so he is. Good "Wilham ! what a son-in-law I should have ! I who transported one priest already ! " "Well, sir, as I was sa^-ing, until we shall have succeeded in hanging or transporting him. The lirst would be the safest, no doubt ; but until we shall be able to ac- complish either one or the other, we have not much to exjDect in the shape of comphance from your daughter. AMien the A'iUain is re- moved, however, hope, on her part, will soon die out — love vnH lose its j^abu I inn." " Its what ? " asked the squire, staring at him with a pau* of roimd eyes that were fuU of peii^lexity imd wonder. " ^\ hy, it means food, or rather fodder." " Curse you, sir," rej^Ued the squu'e in- dignantly ; " do you want to make a beast of my daughter ? " " 13ut its a word, sir, appUed by the poets, as the food of Cupid." " Cupid ! I thought he was drowned in the honey-pot, yet he's up again, and as brisk as ever, it aj^pears. However, go on — let us imderstand fairly what you're at. I think I see a ghmpse of it ; and kno^s'ing your character upon the subject of persecu- tion as I do, its more, I must say, than I expected from you. Go on — I bid you." "I say, then, sir, that if ReiUy were either hanged or out of the country, the conscious- ness of this would soon alter matters vrith. Miss FoUiard. If you, then, su-, will enter into an agreement with me, I shall under- take so to make the laws bear upon Reilly ap to rid either the world or the country of him ; and you shall promise not to press upon yom- daughter the subject of her marriage mth me iintil then. Still, there is one thing you must do ; and that is, to keep her under the strictest surceillance." " What the devil's that ? " said the sqiiire. " It means," returned his expected son-in- law, " that she must be well watched, but without feehng that she is so." " Woidd it not be better to lock her up at once ? " said her father. " That would be malcing the matter sure." "Not at aU," rephed WTiitecraft. "So sui-e as you lock her up, so sure she wiU break prison." "Well, upon my soul," repHed her father, "I can't see that. A strong lock and key are certainly the best surety for the due ap- jDearance of any young woman disposed to run away. I think the best way would be to make her feel at once that her father is a magistrate, and commit her to her own room untd called upon to appear." Whitecraft, whose object was occasionally to jDuzzle his friend, gave a cold grin, and added : " I suppose your next step wovild be to make her jDut in secui'ity. No — no, 'Mr. FoUiard ; if you wiR be advised by me, try the soothing system ; antiphlogistic remedies ai'e always the best in a case like hers." " Anti — what ? Ciu'se me, if I can under- stand everv' tenth word you say. However, I give you credit, \VTiitecraft ; for uj^on my soul I didn't tliink you knew half so much as you do. That last, however, is a tickler — a nut that I can't crack. I \\-ish I could only get my tongue about it, till I send it among the Grand Jury, and maybe there wouldn't be wigs on the green in making it out." " Yes, I fancy it would teach them a Httle supererogation. " " A little what ? Is it love that has made you so learned, ^Miitecraft, or so unintelligi- ble, which? ^Miy, man, if your passion in- creases, in another week thei-e won't be thi'ee men out of Trinity College able to under- stand you. You vnH become a jjerfect oracle. But, in the meantime, let us see how the aiTangement stands. Imprimus, you are to hang or transport Reilly ; and, xintil then, I am not to annoy my daughter with any allusions to this marriage : but, above all things, not to compare you and Reilly with one another in her presence, lest it might strengthen her prejudices against you." " I beg your pardon, jVIr. FoUiai'd, I did not say so ; I feai* no comparison \rith the feUow." "No matter. Sir Robert, if you did not knock it do^\'n you staggered it. Omitting 04 WILLIA3I CARLETON'S WORKS. the comparison, however, I suppose that so far I am right." "I think so, sir," repUed the other, con- scious, after all, that he had got a touch of "Roland for his Oliver." Then he j)roceeded : "I'm to watch her closely, onl}' she's not to knoAv it. Now, I'll tell you what. Sir Robert, I know you cany a long noddle, with more hard words in it than I ever gave you credit for— but with regard to what you exjaect from me now — " " I don't mean that you should M'atch her personally yom-self, ^\x. FoUiard." " I suppose you don't ; I didn't think yoii did ; but I'll tell you what — place the twelve labors of Hercules before me, and I'll under- take to perform them, if you wish, but to watch a woman. Sir- Robert — and that wo- man keen and shai'p ujDon the cause of such vigilance — without her knowing it in one half hour's time — -that is a task that never was, can, or will be accomplished. In the meantime, we must only come as near its accomplishment as we can." "Just so, sir ; we can do no more. Re- member, then, that you perform your jDart of this arrangement, and, with the blessing of God, I shall leave nothing undone to jDcr- form mine." Thus closed this rather extraordinaiy con- versation, after which Sir Robert betook himself home, to reflect uj)on the best means of performing his part of it, with what quickness and dispatch, and with what success, oui' readers akeady know. The old squire was one of those characters who never are so easily jiersuaded as when they do not fully comjDreJiend the argument used to convince them. "Whenever the squire found himself a httle at fault, or confounded by either a diflicult word or a hard sentence, he always took it for granted that there was something unusually profound and clever in the matter laid before him. Sir Robert knew this, and on that account played him off to a certain extent. He was too cunning, however, to darken any part of the main ar- gument so fai' as to prevent its drift fi-om being fully understood, and thereby defeat- ing his own pmi^ose. CHAPTER Vm. .4 Conflagration — An Escape— And an Adventure. We have said that Sir Robert Whitecraft was anything but a popular man — and we might have added that, unless among his own clique of bigots and persecutors, he was decidedly unpopular among Protes- tants in general. In a few days after the events of the night Ave have described, Reilly, by the advice of INIr. Brown's brother, an able and distinguished law yer, gave up the jjossession of his immense farm, dwelling- house, and offices to the l.mdlord. In point of fact, this man had taken the fai'm for Reilly 's father, in his own name, a step which many of the liberal and generous Protestants of that period were in the habit of taking, to protect the j^roperty for the Roman CathoHcs, fi*om such rapacious scoun- drels as Whitecraft, and others like him, who had accumulated the gi'eater portion of their wealth and estates by the blackest and most iniquitous jDolitical profligacy and oj^pression. For about a month after the first night ol the unsuccessful pui-suit after Reilly, the w^hole country was overrun with miUtary parties, and such miserable inefficient jDolice as then existed. In the meantime, Reilly escajjed every toil and snare that had been laid for him. Sir Robert "WTiitecraft, seeing that hitherto he had set them at defiance, re- solved to glut his vengeance on Jiis property, since he could not arrest himself. A de- scription of his person had been, almost from the commencement of the proceedings, pubhshed in the Hue-and-Cry, and he had been now outlawed. As even this failed, Suf Robert, as we said, came with a numerous jDart}' of his m^Tmidons, bringing along with them a lai'ge number of horses, carts, and cars. The house at this time was in the pos- session only of a keeper, a poor, feeble man, with a wife and a numerous family of small children, the other sein-ants having fled from the danger in wiiich their connection with Reilly involved them. Sir Robert, how^ever, very deliberately brought up his cars and other vehicles, and haAing di-agged out all the most valuable part of the furniture, piled it up, and had it conveyed to his owti out- houses, where it was carefully stowed. This act, however, excited comjDarativel}'' little at- tention, for such outrages w-ere not unfre- quently committed by those w^ho had, or at least who thouglit they had, the law in their own hands. It w^as now- dusk, and the house had been gutted of all that had been most valuable in it — but the most brilliant part of the performance was yet to come. We mean no contemptible i^un. The yovmg man's dwelling-house, and office-houses were ignited at this moment by this man's mihtary and other official minions, and in about twenty minutes thej^ were all wrapped in one red, merciless mass of flame. The country people, on obser\ing this fearful conflagration, flocked fi-om all quarters ; but a cordon of outposts was stationed at some distance around the premises, to prevent tho WILLY RElLir. 65 })e;ii5antiy from marking the chief actors in this nefaiious outrage. Two gentlemen, however, ai)proached, who, ha\'ing given their names, were at once admitted to the burning premises. These were ]Mi\ Bro\\Ti, the cler- gyman, and Ml*. Hastings, the actual and legal propi'ietor of all that had been consid- ered lleilly's property. Both of them ob- served that Sii' Kobert was the busiest man among them, and upon making inquii-ies from the party, they were informed that they acted by his ordei's, and that, moreover, he was himself the very first iudi\-idu;il wlio had set fire to the j^remises. The clergA^nau made liis way to Sir Robert, on whose villainous coun- tenance he could read a dark and diabohcal triumph. " Sir Robert ^Miitecraft," said ]\Ir. Brown, "how comes such a wanton and unneces- sary waste of property ? " '•Because, su-," replied that gentleman, "it is the property of a i^opish re'^el and outlaw, and is confiscated to the State." "But do you jiossess authority for this conduct ? — Are you the State '? " " In the spirit of our Protestant Constitu- tion, certainly. I am a loyal Protestant ma- gistrate, and a man of rank, and will hold myself accountable for what I do and have done. Come you, there," he added, "who have knocked dowTi the pump, take some straw, light it up, and put it Avith pitcliforks upon the lower end of the stable ; it has not yet caught the flames." This order was accordingly compHed with, and in a few minutes the scene, if one could dissociate the mind from the heUish spiiit which created it, had something terribly sub- lime in it. ]Mr. Hastings, the gentleman who accom- panied the clergyman, the real owaier of the projDerty, looked on with apparent indifier- ence, but uttered not a word. Indeed, he seemed rather to enjoy the novelty of the thing than otherwise, and passed -with ^Ir. Brown fi*om place to place, as if to obtain the best points for ■viewing the fire. Reilly's residence was a long, large, two- stor}' house, deeply thatclied ; the kitchen, containing pantry, laundry, scullery, and all the usual appurtenances connected with it, was a continuation of the larger house, but it was a story lower, and a' >o i -^eply thatched. The out-offices ran in a lon^' are behind the dwelling house, so that l)oth raa pax-allel with each other, and stood pretty close besides, for the yard was a naiTow one. In the mean- time, the night, though diy, was dark and stormy. The wind howled through the ad- joining trees like thunder, roared along the neighboiing hills, and swept down in savage whirlwinds to the bottom of the lowest val- leys. The gi-eater portion of the crowd who were standing outside the cordon we have spoken of fled home, as the awful gusts grew stronger and stronger, in order to prevent their own houses fi-om being stripped or im- roofed, so that verj- few remained to witness j the rage of the conflagi-ation at its full height. I The Irish peasantiy entertain a superstition that whenever a strong storm of wind, with- out rain, arises, it has been occasioned by the necromantic spell of some guilty sorcerer, who, first ha\ing sold himself to the deril, afterwards raises him for some wicked pur- pose ; and nothing but the sacrifice of a black dog or a black cock — the one without a white hair, and the other without a white feather — can jirevent him from carrying away, body and soul, the individuid who called him up, accompanied by such teiTors. In fact the night, independently of the tenible accessor^' of the fire, was indescribably awful. Thatch portions of the ribs and roofs of houses were whirled along through the air ; and the sweeping blast, in addition to its own bowl- ings, W'as burdened with the loud screamings of women and children, and the stronger shoutings of men, as they attemj)ted to make each other audible, amidst the roaring of the tempest. Tliis was tenible indeed ; but on such a night, what must not the conflagration have been, fed by such 'pahxdum — as Sii' Robert liimself would have said — as that on which it glutted its fiery and consuming api:>etite. We have said that the offices and dwelling- house ran parallel with each other, and such was the fact. Wliat appeared singular-, and not without the possibility of some dark su- pernatural causes, according to the imi:»res- sions of the people, was, that the wind, on the night in question, started, as it were, along with the tire ; but the tnith is, it had been gamboling in its gigantic play before the fire commenced at aD. In the meantime, as we said, the wiiole premises presented one fieiT mass of red and waving flames, that shot and drifted iip, fi"om time to time, to- waixls the sky, with the rapidity, and more than the terror, of the aurora horealia. As the conflagration proceeded, the high flames that arose fi*om the mansion, and those that leajjed up from the offices, several times met across the yard, and mingled, as if to exult in their fearful tjisk of destruction, forming a long and distinct arch of flame, so exact and regular, that it seemed to proceed from the skill and eftbrt of some powerful demon, who had made it, as it were, a fieiy arbor for his kind. The whole coimtry was vis- ible to an astonishing distance, and over- head, the evening sky, into which the up- nishing pyramids seemed to pass, looked aa ^0 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. '1 it had caught the conflagration, and was one red mass of glowing and burning cop- per. Ai'ound the house and premises the eye coula distinguish a pin ; but the strong Hght was so feiu'tulxy red that the deep tinge it communicated to the earth seemed hke blood, and made it appear as if it had been spiinkled w>th it. It is impossible to look upon a large and extensive coaflagration A^ithout feeling the mind filled r\-ith imageiy and compai'isons, dra^\^l from mortxl and actual life. Here, for instance, is a tjTant, in the unrestrained exercise of 1ms power — he now has his en- emy in his g' ip, and hear how he exvdts ; hs- ten to the n^ ii-thful and crackling laughter with which the fiendish despot rejoices, as he gains th ^ Aictory ; mark the diabohcal gambols witii which he sports, and the de- mon glee with which he performs his capri- cious but frightful exultations. But the ty- rant, after all, will become exhausted— his strength and power will fail him ; he "nill destroy his own subjects ; he will become feeble, and when he has nothing fiu'ther on which to exercise his power, he will, like many another tjTant before him, sink, and be lost ii the min he has made. Again : "Would you behold Industry ? Here have its terrible spirits been apjDointed theu' tasks. Obseiwe the energj', the activ- ity, the persevering fuiy A^'ith which they discharge their separate duties. See how that eldest son of AjDolIyon, with the appe- tite of hell, hcks into his burning maw every thing that comes in contact with his tongue of fire. "WTiat quickness of execution, and how rapidly they pass fi-om place to jDlace ! how they run about in quest of employment ! how diligently and eft'ectually they search everj' nook and comer, lest anything might escape them ! Mark the activity "^dth which that strong fellow leaps across, fi'om beam to beam, seizing upon each as he goes. A dif- ferent task has iDeen assigned to another : he attacks the rafters of the roof — he fails at first, but, like the constrictor, he first licks over his victim before he destroys it — bravo ! — he is at it again — it gives way — he is upon it, and about it ; and now his difficulties are over — the red wood glows, splits and crackles, and flies off in angiy flakes, in order to become a minister to its active and devouring master. See ! ob- serv^e ! "What business — what a coil and tm-moil of industiy ! Eveiy flame at work — no idle hand here — no lazy lounger re- posing. No, no — the industry of a hive of bees is nothing to this. Running up — running down — running in all directions : now they unite together to accomplish some general task, and again disperse them- selves to perform their individual appoint* ments. But hark ! what comes here ? Eoom foi another element. 'Tis the wind-storm, that comes to partake in the triumph of the victory which his ministers have assisted to gain. But lo ! here he comes in person \ and now they unite — or how ? — Do they op- pose each other ? Here does the wind-stonn drive back the god of fire from his victim ; again the fiery god attempts to reach it ; and again he feels that he has met more than his match. Once, twice, thrice he has failed in getting at it. But is this conflict real — this fierce battle between the ele- ments ? Alas, no ; they are both tyi'ants, and what is to be expected ? The "UTnd god, always unsteady, wheels round, comes to the assistance of his op- ponent, and gives him new courage, new rigor, and new strength. But his inferior ministers must have a shai'e of this dreadful repast. Off go a thousand masses of burn- ing material, whiiiing along. Off go the glowing timbers and rafters, on the "w^nd, by which they are bome in thousands of red meteors across the sky. But hark, again ! Boom for the whii'h\-ind ! Here it comes, and addi-esses itself to yon tali and waring p}Tamid ; they embrace ; the pyra- mid is twisted into the figure of a gigantic corkscrew — round they go, rajiid as thought ; the thunder of the wind supphes them with the appropriate music, and continues until this terrible and gigantic waltz of the ele- ments is concluded. But now these fearful ravagers ai*e satisfied, because they have nothing more on which they can glut them- selves. They appear, however, to be seated. The "«-ind has become low, and is only able to work up a feeble effort at its former strength. The flames, too, are subsiding — their power is gone ; occasional jets of tire come forth, but they instantly disappear. B}' degTees, and one after another, they vanish. Nothing now is risible but smoke, and eveiy thing is considered as over — when lo ! hke a great general, who has achieved a triumiDhant victoiw, it is deemed right to take a last look at the position of the enemy. Up, therefore, starts an unexpected burst of flame — blazes for a while ; looks about it, as it were ; sees that the rictoiw is complete, and drops do^vn into the darkness from which it came. The conflagTation is over ; the M-ind-storm is also apjieased. Small hoUow gusts, amongst the trees and else- where, are now all that are heard. By de- grees, even these cease ; and the wind ia now such as it was in the course of the evening, when the elements were compara- tively quiet and still. WILLY RE ILLY. 57 Mr. Brown and his fi-iend, Mr. Hastings, fckftving waited until they saw the last rafter of unfortiinate Reilly's house and premises sink into a black mass of smoking ruins, turned their steps to the parsonage, which they had no sooner entered than they went immediately to Reilly's room, who was still there under concealment. jNIi-. Bro-mi, how- ever, went out again and returned with some wine, which he j^laced upon the table. "Gentlemen," said Keilly, "this has be- come an awful night ; the wmd has been tremendous, and has done a good deal of damage, I fear, to your house and premises, ]Mr. Brown. I heard the slates falhng about in great numbers ; and the inmates of the house were, as fai' as I could judge, exceed- ingly alarmed." " It was a dreadful night in more senses than one," repHed ]Mi\ Brown. "By the by," said Reilly, "was there not a fire somewhere in the neighborhood ? I obseiTed through the windows a strong hght flickering and ^-ibratuig, as it were, over the whole comitry. "\\Tiat must it have been ? " "My dear Reilly," rej^hed 'Six. Brown, "be calm ; yoiu* house and premises are, at this moment, one dark heap of smouldeiing ruins." "Oh, yes — I understand," rephed Eeilly /— " Sii' Robert "Wliitecraft." " Sir Robert AMiitecraft," rephed ilr. Brown ; it is too ti-ue, Reilly — you are now houseless and homeless ; and may God for- give him ! " Reilly got up and paced the room several times, then sat down, and filling himself a glass of wine, drank it ofi' ; then looking at each of them, said, in a voice rendered hoiu'se by the indignation and resentment which he felt himself compelled, out of re- spect for his kind fiiends, to restrain, " Gen- tlemen," he repeated, "what do you call this?" ' ' Mahce — persecution — vengeance, " re- plied jMr. Brown, whose resentment was scarcely less than that of Reilly himself. "In the presence of God, and before all the world, I would pronounce it one of the most diabolical acts ever committed in the his- toiT of civil society. But you have one con- solation, Reilly ; your money and papers are safe." " It is not that," rephed Reilly ; " I tliink not of them. It is the vindictive and per- secuting spirit of that man — that monster — and the personal motives fi'om which he acts, that torture me, and that plant in my heart a principle of vengeance more feai'ful than his. But yon do not understand me, gentlemen ; I could smile at all he has done to myself yet. It is of the serpent-tooth which will destroy the peace of others, that I think. All these motives being considered, what do you think that man deserves at my hand ? " " My dear ReiUy," said the clergyman, " recollect that there is a Providence ; and that we cannot assume to ovu'selves the dis- position of His judgments, or the knowledge of His wisdom. Have patience. Youi- situ- ation is one of great distress and almost un- exampled difficulty. At all events, you are, for the present, safe under this roof ; and although I grant you have much to suffer, still you have a fi'ee conscience, and, I dare say, would not exchange your position for that of your persecutor." " No," said Reilly ; " most assuredly not — most assui'edly not ; no, not for worlds. Yet is it not strange, gentlemen, that that man will sleep soimd and happily to-night, whilst I will he upon a bed of thorns ? " At this moment ]\Ii's. Brown tapped gently at the door, which was cautiously opened by her husband. "John," said she, "here is a note which I was desired to give to you without a mo- ment's delay." " Thank you, my love ; I will read it in- stantly." He then bolted the door, and coming to the table took up one of the candles and read the letter, which he handed to ^Mi-. Hastings. Now we have ah-eady stated that this gentleman, whilst looking on at the de- struction of ReiUy's property, never once opened his lips. Neither did he, from the moment they entered Reilly "s room. He sat like a dumb man, occasionally helping him- self to a glass of wine. After having pe- inised the note he merely nodded, but s;xid not a word ; he seemed to have lost the faculty of speech. At length ^Ir. Brown spoke : " This is really too bad, my dear ReiUy ; here is a note signed ' H. F.,' which informs me that your residence, concejihnent, or whatever it is, has been discovered by Sir Robert Wliitecraft, and that the militaiw ai-e on theii' way here to aiTCst you ; you must instantly fly." Hastings then got up, and taking Keilly's hand, Siiid : "Yes, Reilly, you must escape — disguise youi-seK — take all shapes — since you will not leave the coimtrv ; but there is one fact I wish to impr^s upon you : meddle not with — injure not — Sii' Robert "Wliitecraft Leave nni to me." "Go out by the back w^ay," said !Mr. Brown, " and fly into the fields, lest they should siuTound the house and render ea- 68 WILLIAM CARLETON'b> WORKS. cape impossible. God bless you and pre- serve you from the ^^olence of your ene- mies ! " It is unnecessaiy to relate what subsequent- ly occtuTed. jMi". Brown's premises, as he had anticipated, were completely siuTounded ere the jiarty in search of Eeilly had demanded admittance. ITie whole house was searched from top to bottom, but, as usual, without success. Su* liobert Whitecraft himself was not A\ith them, but tlie party were all but intoxicated, and, were it not for the calm and unshi-inking- fiimness of j\Ir. Bro-mi, would have been guilty of a very offensive degree of insolence. Eeilly, in the meantime, did not j)ass far from the house. On the contrary, he re- solved to watch from a safe place the mo- tions of those who were in pursuit of him. In order to do this more secui'ely, he mounted into the branches of a magnificent oak tree that stood in the centre of a field adjoining, a kind of back laA\Ti that sti-etched from the walled gai-den of the parsonage. The fact is, that the clergy-man's house had two hall-doors — one in fr'ont, and the other in the rear — and as the rooms com- manded a Aiew of the scenery behind the house, Avhich was much finer than that in fr'ont, on this account the back hall-door was necessaiy, as it gave them a fr'ee and easy egress to the IviVfo. we have mentioned, fr'om which a magnificent j^rospect was visible. It was obvious that the party, though un- successful, had been verj- accurately in- formed. Finding, however, that the bii'd had floAA-n, several of them galloped across the lawTi — it was a cavahy party, having been sent out for speed — and passed into the field where the tree gi-ew in which Eeilly was concealed. After a useless search, however, they returned, and pulled up their horses under the oak. " Well," said one of them, " it's a clear case that the scoundi'el can make himself in- visible. We have orders fr'om Sir Eobert to shoot him, and to put the matter uj^on the principle of resistance against tbe law, on his side. Sfr Eobert has been most credi- bly informed that that disloyal parson has concealed him in his house for nearly the last month. Now who could ever think of looking for a Popish rebel in the house of a Protestant parson ? What the deuce is keeping those fellows ? I hope they won't go too far into the country." " Any man that says ]VI». BroAvn is a dis- loyal parson is a Hai'," said one of them in a btem voice. "And I say," said another, with a hiccough, '* that, hang me, but I think this same heiily is as loyal a man as e'er a one amongst us. My name is George Johnston, and I'nj not ashamed of it ; and the truth is, that onlj Miss FoUiard fell in love with Eeilly, and refused to many Sfr Eobert, Eeilly would have been a loyal man still, and no ill-will against him. But, by . it was too bad to buna his house and place — and see whether Su' Eobert will come off the better of it. I myself am a good Protestant — show me the man that will deny that, and I'll become his schoolmaster only for five minutes. I do say, and I'U teU it to Sir Eobei*t's face, that there's something WTong somewhere. Give me a Papish that breaks the law, let him be priest or layman, and I'm the boy that will take a gi'ip of him if I can get him. But, confound me, if I like to be sent out to hunt innocent, inoffensive Papishes, who commit no crime except that of having property that chapa hke Su- Eobert have their eye on. Now sup- pose the Papishes had the upper hand, and that they treated us so, what would you say ? " "All I can say is," replied another of them, "that I'd wish to get the reward." "Curse the reward," said Johnston, "I like fair play." " But how did Sir Eobert come to know ? " asked another, " that Eeilly was veith the parson ? " " AVho the deuce here can tell that ? " re- plied several. " The thing was a hoax," said Johnston, " and a cursed uncomfortable one for us. But here comes these fellows, just as they went, it seems. Well, boys, no trail of this cunning fox? " " Ti-ail ! " exclaimed the others. " Gad, you might as well hunt for your grand- mother's needle in a bottle of straw. The truth is, the man's not in the country, and whoever gave the information as to the par- son keej)ing him was some enemy of the pai'son's more than of Eeilly 's, I'll go bail. Come, now, let us go back, and give an account of oru* luck, and then to our bar- racks." Now at this jDeriod it was usual for men who were prominent for rank and loyalty, and whose attachment to the Constitution and Government was indicated by such acta and jtrinciples as those which we have hitherto read in the life of Sir Eobert "\^'^lite- craft — we saj', it was usual for such as him to be aUowecl a smaU detachment of military, whose numbers were mostly rated, according to the sendees he requfred of them, by the zeal and activit}' of their emjDloyer, as well as for his protection ; and, in order to their accommodation, some uninhabited house in the neighborhood was converted into a bar- rack for the ptupose. Such was the case in the instance of Sir Robert Whitecraft, whok WILLY RE ILLY. independently of his zeal for the public good, was supposed to have an e^'e in this dispo- sition of things, to his owti personal safety. He, consequently, had his little bairack so closely adjoining his house that a notice of five minutes could at any time have its inmates at his premises, or in his jn-esence. After these men went away, Reilly, having waited a few minutes, until he was satisfied that they had actually, one and aU of them, disappeared, came do^vn fi-om the tree, and once more betook himself to the road. Whither to go he knew not. . In consequence of having received his education abroad, his personal know'ledge of the inhabitants be- longing to the neighborhood was very limited. Go somewhere, however, he must. Accox'd- ingly, he resolved to advance, at all events, as far as he might be able to travel before bed-time, and then resign himself to chance for a night's shelter. One might imagine, indeed, that his position as a w' ealthy Roman Cathohc gentleman, suffering j^ersecution fi'om the tool and scourge of a hostile gov- ernment, might have calculated upon shelter and secrecy from those belonging to his o^Ti creed. And so, indeed, in nineteen cases out of tw^enty he might ; but in w'hat pre- dicament should he find himself if the twentieth proved treacherous ? And against this he had no guarantee. That age was pecuharly marked by the foulest personal perfidy, precipitated into action by raj^acity, ingi'atitude, and the blackest ambition. The son of a Roman Catholic gentleman, for instance, had nothing more to do than change his creed, attach himself to the government, become a spy and informer on his family, and he ousted his own father at once out of his hereditary property — an ungrateful and heinous jwoceeding, that was too common in the time of which we -wi'ite. Then, as to the people themselves, they w-ere, in general, steeped in poverty and ignorance, and this is certainly not suiprising when we consider that no man durst educate them. The gov- ernment rewards, therefore, assailed them with a double temptation. Li the first, the amount of it — taking their poverty into con- sideration — was calculated to grapple wdth and overcome theu- sciaiples ; and in the next, they were certain b}' their treachery to secure the protection of government for themselves. Such, exactly, w\as the state of the country on the night when Reilly found himself a solitary traveller on the road, ignonmt of his destiny, and imcertain where or m what quai'ter he might seek shelter imtil morning. He had not gone far when he overtook another traveller, with whom he entered into conversation. "God save you, my friend." "God save you kindly, sir," repHed the other ; " was not this an awful night ? " "If you may say so," retiuTied Reilly un- consciously, and for the moment forgetting himself, " AveU may I, my friend." Indeed it is probable that Reilly was thro\vn somewhat oft' his guard by the accent ! of his comjDanion, from which he at once in- ferred that he was a Cathohc. " Why, su*," rephed the man, " how could it be more aAvful to you than to any other man ? " " Suppose my house was blown down," said Reilly, "and that yours was not, would not that be cause sufficient ? " " J/v house ! " exclaimed the man with a deejjsigh; "but sure you ought to know, sii', that it's not every man lian a house." " And perhaps I do know it." " Wasn't that a temble act, su- — the burn- ing of Mr. Reilly 's house and place ? " "Who is iMi'.'ReiUy?" asked the other. "A Catholic gintleman, su', that the sol- diers are afther," rephed the man. " And perhaps it is right that they should be after him. Wliat did he do? The Cathohcs are too much in the habit of violat- ing the law, especially their priests, who i:)crsist in marrying Protestants and Papists together, although they know it is a hanging matter. If they dehberately put their necks into the noose, who can jDity them ? " " It seems they do, then," rejihed the man in a subdued voice ; " and what is stiU more strange, it very often hapjoens that persons of their own creed are somewhat too ready to come do^Ti wid a harsh word upon 'em." "WeU, my friend," responded ReiU}', "let them not deserve it ; let them obey the law." " And are yoxi of oijinion, sir," asked the man with a significant emphasis upon the per- sonal pronoun which we have put in italics ; " are yon of opinion, su-, that obedience to the law is always a security to either person or 'property ? " The cUrect force of the question could not be easily paii-ied, at least by Reilly, to whose circumstances it apphed so powerfuDy, and he consequently paused for a httle to shape his thoughts mto the language he wished to adopt ; the man, however, proceeded : " I wonder what j\Ir. Reilly would say if such a question was put to him ? " "I suppose," replied Reilly, "he would say much as I say — that neither innocence nor obedience is always a security imder any law or any constitution either." His companion made no reply, and they walked on for some time in silence. Such indeed was the precarious state of the country 60 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. then that, although the stranger, from the opening -woixls of their conversation, sus- pected his companion to be no other than Willy Keilly himself, yet he hesitated to avow the susj^icions he entertained of his identity, although he felt anxious to repose the fullest confidence in him ; and Keilly, on the other hand, though perfectly aware of the true character of his companion, was influ- enced in their conversation by a similai- feeling. Distrast it could not be termed on either side, but simply the operation of that general caution which was generated by the state of the times, when it was extremely difficiilt to know the individual on whom you could place dependence. Reilly's generous natiu'e, however, could bear tlus miserable manoeu\Ting no longer. *' Come, my friend," said he, " we have been beating about the bush with each other to no pui-pose ; although I know not your name, yet I think I do yoiu' profession." "And I would hold a wager," rej)lied the other, "that Mr. Eeilly, whose house was burned down by a -villain this night, is not a thousand miles from me." "And supjDose you are right? " " Then, upon my veracity, you're safe, if I am. It would ill become my cloth and character to act dishonorably or contrary to the spirit of my religion. ' Non ignara mali miseris succurrere disco.' You see, jMi'. Reilly, I couldn't make use of any other gender but the feminine without violating prosody ; for although I'm not so shai-p at my Latin as I was, still I couldn't use ignart<.s-, as you see, without fairly com- mitting myself as a scholar ; and indeed, if I went to that, it would surely be the first time I have been mistaken for a diuice." The honest priest, now that the ice was broken, and conscious that he was in safe hands, fell at once into his easy and natural manner, and rattled away veiy much to the amusement of his companion. " Ah ! " he proceeded, " manj' a character I have been forced to assume." "How is that?" inquired Eeilly. "How did it happen that you were forced into such a variety of characters ? " " Why, you see, Mr. Reilly — troth and maybe I had better not be naming you aloud ; waUs have ears, and so may hedges. How, you ask ? WTiy, you see, I'm not registered, and consequently have no jiermission from government to exercise my functions." " "NMiy," said Reilly, " you labor under a mistake, my friend ; the bill for registering Cathohc priests did not pass ; it was lost by a majority of two. So far make your mind easy. The consequence is, that if you labor under no ecclesiastical censure you may exercise all the functions of your office — that is, as well as you can, and as far as you dare." "Well, that same's a comfort," said the priest ; " but the report was, and is, that we are to be registered. However, be that as it may, I have been a perfect Proteus. The metamoi'phoses of Ovid were nothing to mine. I have rej)resented eveiy character in society at large ; to-day I've been a farmer, and to-moiTOw a poor man,* sometimes a fool — a rare character, you know, in this world — and sometimes a fiddler, for I play a little." "And which character did you prefer among them aU ? " asked Reilly, with a smile which he could not repress. " Oh, in troth, you needn't ask that, ISIr. R — hem — you needn't ask that. The first morning I took to the fiddle I was about to Qi\e myself ujd to government at once. As for my part, I'd be ashamed to teU you how I sent those that were unlucky enough to hear my music scampering across the coun- tiy." "And, j)ray, how long is that since? " " Why, something better than three weeks, the Lord pity me ! " "And what description of dress did you wear on that occasion ? " asked Reilly. " Dress — why, then, an old yellow caubeen, a blue fr'ieze coat, and — movrone, oh ! a strijDed breeches. And the worst of it was, that big Paddy Mullin, fr'om MuUaghmore, having met me in old Darby Doyle's, poor man, where I went to take a little refresh- ment, ordered in something to eat, and began to make me play for him. There was a Protestant in the house, too, so that I couldn't tell him who I was, and I accordingly began, and soon cleared the house of them. God bless you, sir, you could httle dream of aU 1 went through. I was one day ^et in the house I was concealed in, in the town of Ballyrogan, and only for the town fool. Art M'Kenna, IsujDpose I'd have SMTing before this." " How was that ? " asked Reilly. " \\Tiy, sii", one day I got the hard word that they would be into the house where I was in a few minutes. To escape them in my own dress I knew was impossible ; and what Avas to be done ? The poor fool, who was as true as steel, came to my rehef. ' Here,' said he, ' exchange wid me. I'll jjut on your black clothes, and you'll put on my red ones* — he was dressed like an old soldier — ' then I'll take to my scrapers, and while they ai'e in pursuit of me you can escape to some friend's house, where you may get another dress* * A mendicant. WILLY REILLY. 61 God Knows,' said he, with a grin on him I didn't hke, ' it's a poor exchange on my part. You can play the fool, and cock your cap, without imy one to ask you for authority,' says he, ' and if I only mai-ry a wrong couple I may be hanged. Go off now.' Well, sir, out I walked, di'essed in a red coat, mihtaiy hat, white knee-breeches, and black leggings. As I was going out I met the soldiers. ' Is the priest inside. Art ? ' they asked. I pointed in a wTong dii-ection. ' Up by Ivilclay ? ' I nodded. They first searched the house, how- ever, but found neither priest nor fool ; only one of them, something sharper than the rest, went out of the back door, and saw un- fortunate Ai-t, dressed in bLack, iimning for the bai'e life. Of coui-se they thought it was me they had. Off they stalled ; and a tol- erable chase Ai't put them to. At last he ■was caught, after a run across the countrj' of about four miles ; but ne'er a word came out of his hps, tin a keen fellow, on looking closely at him, discovered the mistake. Some of them were then going to kill the poor fool, but others interfered, and wouldn't allow him to be touched ; and many of them laughed heartily when they saw Ai't tunaed into a clergyman, as they said. Ai*t, how- ever, was no cowiuxl, and thi-eatened to read ever}' man of them out fi'om the altai\ ' lU. exkimnicate eveiy mother's son of you,' said he. ' I'm a reverend clargy ; and, by the contents of my soger's caj), I'U close the mouths on youi* faces, so that a blessed pratie or a boult of fat bacon will never go do-mi one of your villainous thi'oats again ; and then,' he added, ' I'll sell you for scare- crows to the Pope o' Room, who wants a dozen or two of you to sweep out his palace.' It was then, sir, that, while I was getting out of my red clothes, I was transformed again ; but, indeed, the most of us are so now, God help us ! " They had now an-ived at a nan-ow part of the I'oad, when the priest stood. " Mr. Eeilly," said he, "I am very tired ; but, as it is, we must go on a couple of miles fui'ther, until we reach Glen Dhu, where I think I can promise you a night's lodging, such as it wiU be." " I am easily satisfied," rephed his com- panion ; " it would be a soft bed that would win me to repose on this night, at lea.st." " It will certainly be a nide and a rough one," said the priest, "and there 'O'ill be few heai'ts there fi-ee fi'om care, no more than yours, ]Mr. Eeilly. Alas I that I should be obhged to say so in a Christian country." "You say you are fatigued," said Reilly. " Take my arm ; I am strong enough to yield you some support." The priest did so, and they j^roceeded at a slower pace, imtil they got over the nest two miles, when the priest stopped again. "I must re.st a little," said he, "although we are now within a hundred yards of owx berth for the night. Do you know where you are ? " " Perfectly," rephed Reilly; "but, good mercy . sure there is neither house nor home within two miles of us. We are in the moors, at the veiy mouth of Glen Dhu." "Yes," rei:)Hed his companion, and I am glad we are here." The poor hunted priest felt himself, in- deed, veiy much exhausted, so much so' that, if the teimination of his journey had been at a much longer distance fi'om thence, he would scai'cely have been able to reach it " God help our vmhappy Chiu'ch," said he, "for she is suffeiing much ; but still she ia suffering nobly, and with such Christian fortitude as will make her days of trial and endurance the brightest in her annals. All that power and persecution can direct against us is put in force a thousand ways ; but we act vmder the consciousness that we have God and truth on our side, and this gives us strength and courage to suffer. And if we fly, ;Mr. Reilly, and hide om-selves, it is not fi'om any moral cowai'dico we do so. It cer- tainly is not time courage to expose our hves wantonly and unnecessarily to the vengeance of oui- enemies. Read the Old Testament and histon, and you "s\ill find how many good and pious men have sought shelter in wildernesses and caves, as we have done. The truth is, we feel ourselves called uj^on, for the sake of our suft'ering and neglected flocks, to remain in the countiy, and to af- ford them aU the consolation and religious support in our power, God help them." "I admii-e the justice of yom* sentiments," rephed Reilly, "and the spuit in which they are expressed. Indeed I am of opinion that if those wno foster and stimukte this detestable spirit of pei*secution against you only knew how certainly and surely it de- feats their purpose, by cementing your hearts and the heai-ts of your flocks together, they would not, fi'om principles even of world- ly pohcy, persist in it. Tlie man who attempt- ed to break down the arch by heaping ad- ditional weight upon it ultimately found that the gi-eater the weiglit the stronger the arch, and so I tinast it will be ^^•ith us." "It would seem," stxid the priest, "to be an attempt to exterminate the religion of the people by depriring them of their pastors, and consequently of their Church, in order to bring them to the impression that, upon the principle of any Church being better than no Church, they may gradually be ab- sorbed into Protestantism. This seems to 62 W/ZL/AJf CARLETON'S WOUK^. be their policy ; but how can any pohcy, based ujDon such persecution, and so grossly at variance with human hberty, ever suc- ceed ? As it is, we go out in the dead hoiu's of the night, when even persecution is asleep, ajid administer the consolations of rehgion to the sick, the djing, and the destitute. Now these stolen ^dsits are sweeter, perhaps, and more efficacious, than if the}' took place in fi-eedom and the ojjen day. Again, we educate theii" children in the principles of their creed, dvuing the same lonely houj's, in waste houses, where we are obliged to keep ■ the windows stuffed \A\h straw, or covered ■with bhnds of some sort, lest a chance of discoveiy might ensue. Such is the Ufe we lead — a Ufe of want and miseiy and suffer- ing, but we complain not ; on the contrary, we submit ourselves to the will of God, and receive this severe \'isitation as a chastise- ment intended for oiir good." The necessities of our narrative, however, compel us to leave them here for the present; but not without a hojDe that they found shelter for the night, as we tnist we shall be ftble to show. CHAPTEK IX. Beilly^s Adventure Continued — A Prospect of By- gone Times — Eeilly gets a Bed in a Curious Establishment. We now beg our readers to accomj^any us to the hbrary of Sir Robert "\Miitecraft, where that woi*thy gentleman sits, wdth a bottle of Madeira before him ; for Su' Robert, in ad- dition to his many other good quahties, pos- sessed that of being a jDrivate diinker. The bottle, we say, was before him, and with a smUe of triumph and satisfaction on his face, he arose and rang the bell. In a few minutes a Hveried sei*vant attended it. " Carson, send O'Donnel here." Carson bowed and retired, and in a few minutes the Red Rapparee entered. " How is this, O'Donnel ? Have you thrown aside your uniform ? " "I didn't think I'd be called out on duty again to-night, sir." "It doesn't matter, O'Donnel — it doesn't matter, "^^^lat do you think of the bonfire ? " "Begad, it was a beauty, sir, and well managed." " Ay, but I am afraid, O'Donnel, I went a httle too far — that I stretched my authority somewhat." " But isn't he a rebel and an outlaw. Sir Kobert ? and in that case — " "Yes, O'Donnel ; and a rebel and an out- law of my own making, which is the best of it. The fellow might have lain ther«, .xm* cocting his treason, long enough, only fcr my vigilance. However, it's all right. The government, to which I have rendered uuch important services, will stand by me, and fetch me out of the bm-niug — that is, if there has been any transgression of the law in it. The Pajjists are privately reci-uiting for the French sei-vice, and that is felony ; Reilly also was recruiting for the French service — was he not ? " " He offered me a commission, sir." "Veiygood; that's all right, but can you prove that ? " " "V\^iy, I can sioear it. Sir Robert." " Better still. But do you think he is in the country, O'Donnel ? " " I would rather SAvear he is, sir, than that he is not. He won't lave her aisily." " ^Vho do 5'ou mean by her, sir?" " I wotdd rather not name her, your honor, in connection with the vagabond." " That's deHcate of you, O'Donnel ; I highly aj)prove of yoxu- sentiment. Here, have a glass of wine." " Th!\nk you, Sir Robert ; but have you any brandy, sir ? My tongue is as diy as a stick, wid that glorious bonfire we had ; but, besides, sir, I wish to di'ink success to you in all yoiu' undertakings. A happ}-- marriage, sir ! " and he accompanied the words with a ferocious grin. "You shall have one glass of brandy, O'Donnel, bvit no more. I wish you to de- hver a letter for me to-night. It is to the sheriff, w"ho dines with Lord , a friend of mine ; and I wish you to deliver it at his lordship's house, where you will be siu*e to find him. The letter is of the greatest im- portance, and you will take care to deliver it safety. No answer by you is required. He was out to-day, levying fines from Pojiish priests, and a heavj'- one fx-om the Pojjish bishojj, and I do not think, with a lai'ge sum of money about him, that he will go home to-night. Here is the letter. I expect he win call on me in the morning, to breakfast — at least I have asked him, for w'e have very serious business to discuss." The Rapparee took the letter, finished his glass of brandy, and disapjDeared to fulfil his commission. Now it so happened that on that veiy even- ing, before the premises had been set on fire, Maiy IMahon, by O'Donnel s order, had en- tered the house, and undei', as it were, the protection of the military, gathered up as much of Reilly's clothes and linen as she could conveniently carry to her cottage, which was in the immediate vicinity of 'Wliite- craft's residence — it being the interest of this hj'jDocritical voluptuary to have the corrupt WILLY li BILLY. 63 wretch near him. The Rapparee, haviufrleft Whiteeraft to his reflections, immediately di- rected his steps to her house, and, with her connivance, changed the dress he had on for one which she had taken from Reilly's ward- robe. He then went to the house of the nobleman where the sheriff was dining, but arrived only in time to hear that he was about to take horse on his return home. On see- ing him preparing to mount, bearing a lan- tern in his hand, as the night was dark and the roads bad, he instantly changed his pur- pose as to the letter, and came to the resolu- tion of not delivering it at all. " I can easily say," thought he, " that the sheriff had gone home before I came, and that will be a very sufficient excuse. In the meantime," he added, " I will cross the coim- try and be out on the road before him." The sheriff was not unanned, however, and felt himself tolerably well pi-epared for any attack that might be made on him ; and, be- sides, he was no coward. After a ride of about two miles he found himself stopped, and almost at the same instant the lantern that he carried was knocked out of his hand and extinguished, but not until he caught a faint glimpse of the robber's person, who, from his di-es.s, appeared to be a man much above the common class. Quick as hghtuing he pulled out one of his pistols, and, cocking it, held himself in readiness. The night was dark, and this preparation for seK-defence was unkno^\-n to his assailant. On feeling the reins of his horse's bridle in the hands of the robber, he snapped the pistol at his lead, but alas ! it only flashed in the pan. The robber, on the other hand, did not seem anxious to take his hfe, for it was a principle among the Rapparees to shed, while exercis- ing their rajjacious functions, as httle blood as possible. They have frequently taken hfe from a feehug of private vengeance, but not often while robbing on the king's highway. The sheriff", now finding that one pistol had missed, was about to draw out the second, when he was knocked insensible off his horse, and on recovering found himself minus the fines which he had that day leried — all the private cash about him — and liis case of pistols. This indeed was a bitter incident to him ; because, in addition to the loss of his private purse and fireanns — which he valued as nothing — he knew that he was responsible to government for the amount of the fines. With considerable difficulty he was able to remount his horse, and with a sense of «tupor, which was very painful, he recommenced his journey home. After a ride of about two miles he met three horsemen, who immedi- ately challenged him and demanded his name jind residence, " I am the sheriff of the county," he re- phed, " and have been robbed of a large sum of money and my pistols ; and now," he add- ed, " may I beg to know who you are, and by what authority you demand my name and residence ? " " Excuse us, ]\Ii'. Sheriff," they replied ; " we belong to the mihtarj' detachment which government has placed under the control of Sir Eobert "SMiitecraft." "Oh, indeed," exclaimed the sheriff; "I wish to heaven you had been a httle more advanced on your journey ; you might have saved me fi'om being plundered, as I have been, and probably secured the robber." " Could you observe, sir, what was the vil- lain's appearance ? " "I had a small lantern," rephed the fimc- tionarj', " by which I caught a brief but un- certain glance of him. I am not quite certain that I could recognize his features, though, if I saw him agaui — but perhaps I might ; certainly I could his dress." " How was he dressed, sir ? " they inquirea. " Quite beyond the common," said the sheriff ; "I think he had on a brown coat, oi superior cloth and make, and I think, too, the buckles of his shoes were silver." "And his features, 'Mx. Sheriff?" "I cannot exactly say," he returned ; "I was too much agitated to be able to recollect them ; but indeed the dim glimpse I got was too brief to afford me an opportunity of seeing them with any thing like distinct- ness." "From the description you have given, sir," said one of them, " the man who robbed you must have been EeQly the Outlaw. That is the very di-ess he has been in the habit of wearing. Was he tall, sir, and stout in per- son ? " " He was a very large man, certainly," re- phed the sheriff; "and I regret I did not see his face more distinctly." " It can be no other, ^Ii*. Sheriff," obser\'ed the man ; " the fellow has no means of living now, unless by levring contributions on the road. For my part, I think the scoundrel can make himself invisible ; but it must go hard with us or we will secure him yet. Would you wish an escort home, Mr. Sheriff ? because, if you do, we shall accom- jjany you." "No," rephed the other, " I thank you. I would not have ventured home unattended if the Red Rapparee had still been at his vocation, and his gang imdis2Dei*sed ; but as he is now on the safe side, I apprehend no danger." " It's not at aU impossible but ReiUy may step into his shoes," said the cavalry-man. " I have now neither money nor arms," 64 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. continued the sheriff ; " nothing the villain robbers could covet, and what, then, have I to fear ? " 'You have a hfe, sir," obsei-ved the man respectfully, " and if you'll allow me to say it — the Hfe of a man who is not veiw well hked in the countiw, in consequence of certain duties you ai-e obhged to perform. Come, then, sii', we shall see you home." It was so arranged, and the sheriff reached his OAvn residence, under their escoi-t, -vsith perfect safety. This indeed was a night of adventure to Reilly — hunted, as he was, like a beast of prey. After what had taken place ah'eady m the eai'ly portion of it, he aj^prehended no further piu-suit, and in this respect he felt his mind comparatively at ease — for, in addition to any other con^iction of his safety, he knew that the night was far advanced, and as the country was unsettled, he was not ignorant that the small mihtary parties that were in the habit of scoiu'ing the countrj' generally — unless when in the execution of some express duty — retired to their quarters at an early horn-, in order to avoid the severe retaliations which were fi'equently made upon them by the infuriated peasantiy whom they — or rather the government which emj)loyed them — had almost driven to madness, and would have driven to insurrection had the peojDle possessed the means of rising. As it was, however, he di-eaded no further pursuit this night, for the reasons which we have stated. In the meantime the sheriff, feeling obhged by the ciAihty of the thi-ee dragoons, gave them refi'eshments on a veiy hberal scale, of which — rather exhausted as they were — they made a verj^ liberal use. Feehng themselves now considerably stimulated by hquor, they mounted their horses and proceeded towards their bai-racks at a quick pace. In conse- quence of the locahty in which the sheriff lived, it was necessary that they should travel in a direction opposite to that by which Reilly and the priest wei'e going. At all events, after riding a couple of miles, they overtook thi'ee infantiy soldiers who were also on their way to quarters. The blood, however, of the troopers was up — thanks to the sheriff ; they mentioned the robbeiy, and requested the three infantry to precede them as an advanced guard, as quietly as possible, stating that there might still be a chance of coming across the villain who had plundered the sheriff, in- timating their impression, at the same time, that Reilly was the man, and adding that if they could secure him their fortvme was made. As has always been usual in executing cases of the law attended with peculiar difficulty, these men- — the infantry — like our present detectives, had gone out that night in colored clothes. On perceiving two individuals ap- l^roaching them in the dim distance, they immediately thi-ew their guns into the ditch, lest they should put our fiiends upon their guard and cause them to escape if they could. Reilly could have readily done so ; but hav- ing, only a few minutes befoi'e heard fi'om the poor old priest that he had, for some months past, been branded and pursued aa a felon, he could not think of abandoning him now that he was feeble an(\ jaded with fatigue as well as with age. Now it so hap- l^ened that one of these fellows had been a Roman Catholic, and having committed some breach of the law, found it as snfe as it was convenient to change liis creed, and as he spoke the Lish language fluenUy — indeed there were scarcely any other then spoken by the peasantry — he commenced clapping his hands on seeing the two men, and expressing the deepest sorrow for the loss of his wife, fi'om whose funeral, it appeared from his lamentations, he was then returnine;. "We have nothing to apprehend here," said Reilly ; " this poor fellow is in soitow, it seems — God help him ! Let us proceed." "Oh! " exclaimed the treacherous villain, clapping his hands — [we translate his words] — " Oh, Yeeali ! Yeeah ! * Avhat a bitther loss you'll be, my darlin' Madge, to me and your oi'phan childher, now and for evermore ! Oh, where was there sicli a wife, neighbors ? who ever heard her harsh word, or her loud voice ? And fi'om mornin'^till night ever, ever busy in keepin' eveiy thing tight and clane and reg"ulai' ! Let me alone, will yez ? I'll go back and sleep upon her grave this night — so I will ; and if all the blasted sogers in Ireland — may sweet bad luck to them ! — were to come to prevent me, I'd not allow them. Oh, Madge, darlin', but I'm the lonely and heartbroken man widout you this night ! " " Come, come," said the jiriest, " have firm- ness, poor man ; other people have these calamities to bear as well as yourself. Be a man." "Oh, ai'e you a priest, sii'? bekase if you are I want consolation if ever a sorrowful man did." "I am a priest," rephed the unsuspecting man, " and any thing I can do to calm your mind, I'll do it." He had scax'cely uttered these words when Reilly felt his two arms strongly pinioned, and as the men who had seized him were powerful, the sti-uggle between him and them was dreadful. The poor priest at the same moment found himself also a prisoner id the hands of the bereaved widower, to whoM * God, God. TF/ZZr REILLY. 65 he proved an easy victim, as he was incapable of m.iking resistance, which, indeed, he de- cUned to attempt. If he did not possess bodily strength, however, he was liot without presence of mind. For whilst Reilly and his captors were engaged in a tierce and power- ful conflict, he placed his fore-linger and thumb in his mouth, fi'om which proceeded a whistle so jiiercingly loud and shrill that it awoke the midnight echoes around them. This was considered by the dragoons as a sij,'m 1 fi'om theii* friends in advance, and, without the loss of a moment, tliey set spui-s to their horses, and dashed up to the scene of struggle, just as Reilly had got his right arm extricated, and knocked one of his cajitors down. In an instant, however, the three dragoons, aided by the other men, were upon him, and not less than three cavixlry pistols were levelled at his head. Unfortu- nately, at this moment the moon began to rise, and the dragoons, on looking at him more closely, observed that he was di-essed precisely as the sheriff had described the per- son who robbed him — the brown coat, light- colored breeches, and silver buckles — for in- deed this was his usual dress. "You are Willy Redly," said the man who had been spokesman in their interview with the sheriff : " you needn't deny it, sir — I know you ! " "If you know me, thei»," replied Reilly, " where is tht^ necessity for ; .sking my name V " "I ask again, sir, wh5 1 is your name? If you be the man I suspejt you to be, you will deny it." " My name," rephed the other, " ts William Reilly, and as I am conscious of no crime against society — of no offence against the State — I shall not deny it." "I knew I was right," said the dragoon. " Mr. Reilly, you are our prisoner on mmy charges, not the least of which is your rob- beiy of the sheriff this night. You must come with us to Sir Robert Whitecraft ; so must this other person who seems your com- panion." " Not a foot I'll go to Sir Robert White- craft's to-night," replied the priest. " I have made my mind up against such a stretch at such an hour as this ; and, with the help of God, I'll stick to my resolution." •'Why do you refuse to go? "asked the man, a good deal surpi-ised at such language. " Just for a reason I have : as for that fel- low being Willy Reilly, he's no more Willy Reilly than I am ; whatever he is, however, he's a good man and true, but must be guided by wiser heads than his own ; and I now tell him — ay, and you too — that he won't see Sir Robert Wliit^craft's treacherous face to-night, no more than myself." " Come," said one of them, " drag the idolatrous old rebel #long. Come, my old couple-beggar, there's a noose before you." He had scai-cely uttered the words when twenty men, armed with strong pikes, jumped out on the road before them, and about the same number, with similar weapons, behind them. In fact, they were completely hem- med in ; and, as the road was narrow and the ditches high, they were not at all in a capacity to make resistance. "SuiTender your prisoners," said a huge ma,n in a voice of thunder — " suiTender your prisoners — here are we ten to one against you ; or if you don't, I swear there won't be a living man amongst you in two minutes' time. Mai-k us well — we are every man of us armed — and I will not ask you a second time." As to numbers and weapons the man spoke truth, and the military party saw at once that their prisoners must be given up. " Let us have fuU revenge on them now, boys," exclaimed several voices; "down with the tyrannical villains that are parse- cuting and murdherin' the country out of a face. This night closes their black work ; " and as the words were uttered, the mihtaiy felt themselves envij-oned and pressed in upon by upwards of tive-and-twenty sharp and bristling pikes. " It is true, you may murder us," replied the dragoon ; "but we are soldiers, and to die is a soldier's duty. Stand back," said he, " for, by idl that's sacred, if you approach another step, William Reilly and that rebel priest A\all fall dead at youi- feet. We may die the.)x ; but we will sell our lives dearly. Cover the priest, Robinson." "Boys," said the priest, addressing the insurgent pai-ty, " hold back, for God's sake, and for mine. Remember that these men are only doing their duty, and that whoever is to be blamed, it is not they — no, but the wicked men and cruel laws that set them ujDon us. AMiy, now, if these men, out of compassion and a feeUng of kindness to poor persecuted creatures, as we are, took it into their heads or their hearts to let that man and me off, they would have been, pi'ob- ably, treated like dogs for neglecting their duty. I am, as you know, a minister of God, and a man of peace, whose duty it is to prevent bloodshed whenever I can, and save human life, Avhether it is that of a Catholic or a Protestant. Recollect, my fi-iehds, that you will, every one of you, have to stand before the judgment t'lrone of God to seek for mercy and salvation. As you hope for that mercy, then, at the moment of your utmost need, I implore, 1 entreat you 66 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. to show these men mercy now, and allow them to go their wayia safety." " I agree with every word the priest has said," added Eeilly ; " not from any apprehen- sion of the thi-eat held out against myself, but from, I trust, a higher principle. Here ai'e onl;y six men, who, as his Reverence justly said, are, after all, only in the dis- charge of their public duty. On the other hand, there are at least forty or fifty of you against them. Now I appeal to yourselves, whether it would be a manly, or generous, or Christian act, to slaughter so poor a handful of men by the force of numbers. No : there would be neither credit nor honor in such an act. I assure you, my fr'iends, it would disgrace your common name, your common credit, and your common coimtry. Nay, it would seem lie cowardice, and only give a handle to yoiu' enemies to tax you with it. But I know you are vot cowards, but brave and generous men, whose hearts and spirits are above a mean action. If you were cowardly butchers, I know we might speak to you in vain ; but we know you are incapable of imbi'uing your hands, and steejDing yoiu' souls, in the guilt of umresist- ing blood — for so I may term it, where there are so few against so many. My fi-iends, go home, then, in the name of God, and, as this reverend gentleman said, allow these men to pass their way without in- jury." "But who are you?" said their huge leader, in his terrible voice, " who presumes to lecture us ? " " I am one," rephed Reilly, " who has suf- fered more deeply, probably, than any man here. I am without house or home, pro- scribed by the vengeance of a ^allain — a vil- lain who has left me without a shelter for my head — who, this night, has reduced my habitation, and all that appertained to it, to a heap of ashes — who is on my trail, night and day, and who will be on my trail, in order to glut his vengeance with my blood. Now, my fr'iends, listen — I take God to wit- ness, that if that man were here at this mo- ment, I would plead for his life with as much earnestness as I do for those of the men who are here at your mercy. I feel that it would be cowardly and inhuman to take it imder such circumstances ; yes, and imworthy of the name of William Reill}'. Now," he added, "these men will pass safely to their quarters." As they wei-e about to resume their jour- ney, the person who seemed to have the com- mand of the military said : " IMr. Reilly, one word with you : I feel that you have saved our Hves ; I may requi*.e you for that generous act jet ; " any the bishop, went down to ' where he stood, and whispering to hiir^ said : " Salvation to me, but I had a hard battle for you. I fought, however, like a trump. The strange, and — ahem — kind of man you are called upon to meet now is one of oui bishops — but don't you pretend to know that — he has heai'd of your love for the Cooleen Baivn, and of her love for you — be easy now — not a thing it will be but the meeting of two thunderbolts between you — and he's afi-aid 3'ou'll be deluded by her charms — turn apostate on our hands — and that the first thing you're likely to do, when you get out of this subterranean palace of oui-s, will be to betray its existence to the heretics. I have now put you on your guard, so keep a sharp lookout ; be mild as mother's milk. But if you ' my lord ' him, I'm dished as a traitor beyond redemption." Now, if the simple-hearted priest had been tempted by the enemy himself to place these two men in a position where a battle-royal between them was most Hkely to ensue, he could not have taken a more successful course for that object. Keilly, the firm, the high- minded, the honorable, and, though last not least, the most indignant at any imputation against his integrity, now accompanied the priest in a state of indignation that was nearly a match for that of the bishop. "This is IMi'. Eeilly, gentlemen; a firm and an honest Catholic, w'ho, hke ourselves, is suffering for his rehgion." "ISIr. Reilly," said the bishop, "it is good to suffer for our rehgion." "It is our duty," rephed Reilly, "when we are called ' ujion to do so ; but for my pai't, I must confess, I have no relish what- soever for the honors of martyrdom. I would rather aid it and assist it than suffer for it." The bishop gave a stern look at his friends, as much as to say : " You hear ! incipient heresy and treachery at the first step." " He's more mad than the bishop," thought Father Maguire ; "in God's name what will come next, I wonder ? ReiUy's blood, some- how% is u-p ; and there they are looking at each other, like a pair o' game cocks, with their necks stretched out in a cockpit — Avhen I was a boy I used to go to see them — ready to dash upon one another." " Are you not now suffering for your re- hgion ? " asked the prelate. "No," replied Reilly, "it is not for tlie sake of my religion that I have suffered any thing. Religion is made only a pretext for it ; but it is not, in truth, on that account that I have been persecuted." " Pray, then, sir, may I inquire the cause of your persecution ? " W/LLT RFJLJ.Y. "You may," replied Reilly, "but I shall decline to answer you. li; comes not within your jurisdiction, but is a matter altogether personal to myself, and with which you can have no concern." Here a groan from the priest, which he could not suppress, was shivered off, by a tremendous effort, into a scries of broken coughs, got up in order to conceal his alarm at the fatal progress which Eeilly, he thought, was unconsciously making to his own ruin. " Troth," thought he, " the soldiers were nothing at all to what this will be. There his fi'iends would have found the body and given him a decent burial ; but here neither friend nor fellow will know where to look for him. I was almost the first man that took the oath to keep the existence of this place secret from all unless those that were suffer- ing for their religion ; and now, by denjTing that, he has me in the trap along with him- self." A second gi'oan, shaken out of its con- tinuity into another comical shower of fi'ag- mental coughs, closed this dreaiy but silent soliloquy. The bishop proceeded : " You have been inveigled, young man, by the chai-ms of a deceitful and heretical syren, for the piu-pose of alienating you from the creed of your fore- fathers." "It is fixlse," replied Keilly ; "false, if it proceeded fi'om the hps of the Pope himself ; and if his hjDS uttered to me what you now have done, I would fling the falsehood in his teeth, as I do now in yours — yes, if my life should pay the forfeit of it. What have you to do with my private concerns ? " Reilly's indignant and impetuous reply to the prelate struck all who heard it with dis- may, and also with horror, Avhen they be- thought themselves of the consequences. " You are a heretic at heai't," said the other, knitting his brows ; " fi'om your ovnx language you stand confessed — a heretic." "I know not," repUed Keilly, "by what right or authority you adopt this ungentle- manly and iUiberal conduct towards me ; but so long as youi- language applies only to my- self and my reUgiou, I shall answer you in a different sjDirit. In the first place, then, you are gi-ievously mistaken in supposing me to be a heretic. I am time and faithful to my creed, and wiU live and die in it." Father Maguire felt reUeved, and breathed more fi'eely ; a gi'oan was coming, but it ended in a "hem." "Before we proceed any fiirther, su-," said tliis sti-ange man, "you must take an oath." "For what pm-pose, sir?" inquu-ed Reil- Iv. "An oath of secrecy as to the existence of this place of our retreat. There are at pres- ent here some of the — " he checked himselt as if afraid to proceed farther. " In fact, every man who is admitted amongst us must take the oath." Reilly looked at him with indignation. " Surely," thought he to himself, " this man must be mad ; his looks ai*e wild, and the fire of insanity- is in his eyes ; if not, he is noth- ing less than an incarnation of ecclesiasticai bigotry and folly. The man must be mad, or worse." At length he addressed him. "You doubt my integritj' and my honor, then," he rej^lied haughtily. " We doubt every man until he is bound by his oath." "You must continue to doubt me, then," replied Reilly ; " for, most assuredly, I will not take it." " You must take it, sir," said the other, " or you never leave the cavern which covers you," and his eyes once more blazed as he uttered the words. " Gentlemen," said Reilly, " there appear to be fifteen or sixteen of you present : may I be jDermitted to ask why you suffer this un- happy man to be at large ? " "Will you take the oath, sir?" persisted the insane bishop in a voice of thunder — "heretic and devd, Avill you take the oath?" "Unquestionably not. I -will never take any oath that would imply want of honor in myself. Cease, then, to trouble me ■^'ith it I shall not take it." This last reply affected the bishop's reason so deeply that he looked about him strangely, and exclaimed, "We are lost and betrayed. But here are angels — I see them, and will join in their blessed society," and as he spoke, he rushed towards the stalactites in a manner somewhat wild and violent, so much so, indeed, that from an apprehension of his receiving injury in some of the dark interstices among them, they found it neces- sary, for his sake, to grapple with him for a few moments. But, alas I they had very httle indeed to grapi^le -vrith. The man was but a shadow, and they found him in their hands as feeble as a child. He made no resistance, but suf- fered himself to be managed precisely as they wished. Two of the persons present took charge of him, one sitting on each side of him. Reilly, who looked on with am:ize- ment, now strongly blended with pity — for the malady of the unhapi^y ecclesiastic could no longer be mistaken — Reilly, we say, was atldi-essed by an intelligent-looking indi- vidual, with some jDortion of the clerical costume about him. " Alas ! sir," said he, " it was not too much learning, but too much pei*secution, thiit T2 ]VILi./AJI CARLETON'S WORKS. has made him matl. That and the ascetic habits of his hfe have clouded or destroyed a great intellect and a good heart. He has eaten only one sparing meal a day during the last month ; and though severe and seK- denying to himself, he was, until the last week or so, like a father, and an indulgent one, to us till." At this moment the pale, mild-looking clergyman, to whom we have alluded, went over to where the bishop sat, and thi'owing himself upon his bosom, burst into tears. The sorrow indeed became infectious, and in a few minutes there were not many dry eyes around him. Father Maguire, who was ignorant of the progressive change that had taken place in him since his last visit to the cave, now wept hke a child, and Eeilly himself experienced something that amount- ed to remorse, when he reflected on the ir- reverent tone of voice in which he had re- phed to him. The paroxysm, however, appeared to have passed awfty ; he was quite feeble, but not jjroperly collected, though calm and qmet. .Ifler a httle time he requested to be put to bed. And this leads us to the descrii^tion of another portion of the cave to which we have not yet referred. At the upper end of the stalactite apartment, which we have already described, there was a large projec- tion of rock, which nearly divided it from the other, and which discharged the office of a wall, or partition, between the two apartments. Here there was a good fire kept, but only during the hours of night, inasmuch as the smoke which issued from a rent or cleft in the top of this apart- ment would have discovered them by day. Through this slight chasm^ which was strictly concealed, they received provisions, water, and fuel. In fact, it would seem as if the whole cave had been expressly designed for the purpose to which it was then apjolied, or, at least, for some one of a similar nature. On entering this, Eeilly found a good fire, on which was placed a lax'ge pot with a mess in it, which emitted a very savory odor. Around the sides, or waUs of this rock, were at least a score of heather shake-down beds, the fragrance of which was delicious. Pots, pans, and other simple culinary articles were there, Avith a tolerable stock of provisions, not omitting a good-sized keg of mountain dew, which their secluded position, the dampness of the place, and their absence from free air, rendered very necessary and gratifying. " Here ! " exclaimed Father Maguire, after the feeble prelate had been assisted to this r sweetest ; " and so say- jn;,', he put over his cup with a giimace, which resembled that of a man detected in a bad action, instead of a good one. At this moment John, the butler, came in with a plate of hot toast ; and, as he was a privileged old man, he addressed his master without much hesitation. " That was a quare business," he observed, using the word quare as an equivocal one. until he should see what views of the circum- stance his master might take ; " a quare busi- ness, sir, that happened to Mr. Reilly." " What business do you jillude to, j-ou old sinner ? " " The burning of his house and place, sir. All he has, or had, is in a heap of ashes." Helen felt not for the burning, but her eyes were fixed upon the features of tlie old man, as if the doom of her life depended on his words ; whilst the paper on which we write is not whiter than were her cheeks. "What — what — how v/as it?" asked his master ; " who did it ? — and by whose au- thority was it done ? " " Sir Robert Whitecraft and his men did it, sir." " Ay, but I can't conceive he had any au thority for such an act." " Wasn't j\Ir. Reilly an outlaw, su' ? Didn't the Red Paij^paree, who is now a good Protest- ant, swear insurrection against him ? " " The red deril, sirra," rephed the old squire, forgetting his animosity to Reilly in the atrocity and ojDpression of the deed — " the red devil, sirra ! would that justify such a cowardly scoundrel as Sir Rob — eh ? — ugh — ugh — ugh— that went against my breath, Helen. Well, come here, I say, you old sin- ner ; they biu'ned the place, you say ? " " Sir Robert and his men did, sir." "I'm not doubting that, you old house- leek. I know Sii' Roberi too well — I know the infernal — ahem ; a most excellent loyal gentleman, with two or three fine estates, both here and in England ; but he prefers living here, for reasons best known to him- self and me, and — and to somebody else. Well, they burned Reilly out — but tell me this ; did thej' catch the rascal himself ? eh r here's five pounds for you, if you can say they have him safe." " That's rather a loose bargain, your honor," replied the man -with a smile ; " for saying it ? — why, what's to jDrevent me fi'om saving it, if I wished ? " " None of your mumping, you old snai> dragon ; but tell me the tinith, have they se- cui'ed him hard and fast ? " " No, sir, he escaped them, and as report goes they know nothing about him, except that they h.aven't got him." Deep and speechless was the agony in which Helen sat during this short dialogue, WILLY RE ILLY, 77 her eyes having never once been withdra^vn from the butler's countenance ; but now that she had heard of her lover's personal safety, a thick, smothered sob, which, if it v/ere to kill her, she could not repress, burst from her bosom. Unwilling that either her father or the sei'vant should witness the ecstasy which she could not conceal, and feeling that another minute Avould disclose the delight which convulsed her heart and frame, she arose, and, with as much composure as she could assume, went slowly out of the room. On entering her apartment, she signed to her maid to withdraw, after which she closed and bolted the door, and wejot bitterly. The poor girl's emotion, in fact, was of a twofold chai'acter ; she wept with joy at Eeilly's es- cape, from the hands of his cruel and relent- less enemy, and with bitter grief at the im- possibility which she thought there existed that he should ultimately be able to keep out of the meshes which she knew White- craft would spread for him. The tears, how- ever, which she shed abundantly, in due [ time relieved her, and in the course of an ■ hour or two she was able to appear as usual in the family. I The reader may perceive that her father, ' though of an abrupt and cynical temper, was not a man naturally of a bad or unfeeling heart. Whatever mood of temper chanced to be uppermost influenced him for the time ; and indeed it might be said that one half of his feelings were usually in a state of conflict , with the other. In matters of business he | was the very soul of integrity and honor, but { in his views of pubhc affairs he was uncertain and inconsistent ; and of course his whole i hfe, as a magistrate and public man, was a i pei^etual series of conti-adictions. I'he con- j sequence of all this was, that he possessed : but small influence, as arising fi-om his per- sonal character ; but not so from his immense property, as well as fi'om the fact that he was father to the wealthiest and most beautiful heu'ess in the province, or perhaps, so far as beauty was concerned, in the kingdom itself. ' At length the day mentioned for the din- j ner arrived, and, at the appointed hour, so ' also did the guests. There w^ere some ladies asked to keep Helen in countenance, but we need scarcely say, that as the list of them was made out by her thoughtless father, he paid in the selection of some of them, very J little attention to her feelings. There was ' the sheriff, Mr. Oxley, and his lady — the lat- ! ter a compound in whom it was difiicult to \ determine whether pride,vulganty, or obesity ; prevailed. AMiere the sheriff had made his captui'e of her was never properly known, as neither of them belonged origuially to that ' neighborhood in which he had, several years ago, purchased large property. It was said he had got her in Loudon ; and nothing was more certain than that she issued forth the English language clothed in an inveterate cockney accent. She was a high moralist, and a merciless castigator of all females who manifested, or who were supposed to mani- fest, even a tendency to w;ilk out of the line of her own peculiar theory on female conduct. Her weight might be about eighteen stone, exclusive of an additional stone of gold chains and bracelets, in which she moved like a walking gibbet, only with the felon in it ; and to crown all, she wore on her mountainous bosom a cameo nearly the size of a fnung- pan. . Sir Jenkins Joram, who took her down to dinner, declared, on feeling the size of the bracelets which encircled her wrists, that he labored for a short time under the impression that he and she were literally handcuffed to- gether ; an impression, he added, fi-om w^hich he was soon reUeved by the consoling re- flection that it was the sheriff himself whom the clergyman had sentenced to stand in that pleasant predicament. Of Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Hastings we have only to say that they were modest, sensible, unassuming women, without either parade or pretence, such, in fact, as you will generally meet among our well-bred and educated countrj'^vomen. Lord Deilmacai-e was a widower, without family, and not a marrying man. Indeed, when pressed uj)on this subject, he was never known to deviate fi'om the one reply. "Why don't you many f^gain, my lord? — : will you ever marry ? " " No, madam, I got enough of it," a reply which, somehow, generally checked any further inquiry on the subject. Between Lady Joram and Mrs. Smelli^riest there sub- sisted a singular analog}' with respect to their conjugal attachments. It was hinted that her ladyship, in those secret but delicious moments ot matrimonial felicity which make up the sugar-candy morsels of domestic life, used to sit with Sir Jenkins for the jDurpose, by judicious exercise, of easing, by convivial exercise, a rheumatic affection wiiich she complained of in her right ann. There is nothing, however, so delightful as a general and loving sympathy between husband and wife ; and here it was said to exist in per- fection. Mrs. Smellpriest, on the other hand, was said to have been equally attached to the pohtical princijiles of the noble captioin, and to wonder why any clergyman should be suffei'ed to live in the countiy but those ol her own Chui-ch ; such delightful men, for instance, as their curate, the Kev. Samson Strong, who was nothing more nor less than a divine bonfire in the eyes of the Christian world. Such was his zeal against Papists, 78 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. she said, as well as against Popery at large, that she never looked on him withovit think- ing that there was a priest to be burned. Indeed Captain SmeDpriest, she added, was under great obUgations to him, for no sooner had his reverence heard of a priest taking earth in the neighborhood, than he lost no time in communicating the fact to her hus- band ; after which he would kindly sit with and comfort her whilst fi'etting lest any mis- chief might befall her dear captain. The dinner passed as all dinnei*s usually do. They hobnobbed, of course, and in- dulged in that kind of promiscuous conver- sation which cannot well be reported. From a feeling of respect to Helen, no allusion was made either to the burning of Reilly's property or to Reilly personally. The only person who had any difficiilty in avoiding the subject was the old squire himself, who more than once found the topic ujDon his lips, but with a kind of short cough he gulped it down, and got rid of it for the time. In what man- ner he might treat the act itself was a matter which excited a good deal of sjieculation in the minds of those who were present. He was known to be a man who, if the whim seized him to look upon it as a cowardly and vindictive proceeding, would b}' no means scruple to express his opinions strongly against it ; whilst, on the other hand, if he measured it in connection with his daughter's forbidden attachment to Reilly, he would, of course, as vehemently express his approba- tion of the outrage. Indeed, they were in- duced to conclude that this latter \dew of it was that which he was most Hkely to take, in consequence of the following proposal, which, from any other man, would have been an extraordinaiT one : " Come, ladies, before you leave us we must have one toast ; and I shall give it in order to ascertain whether we have any fair traitresses among us, or any who are secretly attached to Popery or Papists." Tlie proposal was a ciniel one, but the squire was so utterly destitute of consideration or delicacy of feehng that we do not think he ever once reflected upon the painful position in which it placed his daughter. " Come," he proceeded, " here is prosperity to Captain Smellpriest and priest-hvmting ! " * • We have been charged by an able and accom- plished writer with an incapacity of describing, with trnth. any state of Irish society above that of our peasantry ; and the toast proposed by the eccentric old squire is. we presume, the chief ground upon which this charge is rested. We are, however, just as well aware as our critic, that to propose toasts before the female portion of the company leave the dinner-table, is altogether at variance with the usages of polite society. But we really thought we biid guarded our readers against any aucb inlereoce " As a Christian minister," rephed Mr. Brown, "and an enemy to persecution in every sense, but especially to that which woiild punish any man for the great principle which we ourselves claim — the rights of con- science — I decline to di'ink the toast ; " and he turned down his glass. " And I," said ]\Ii-. Hastings, " as a Protes- tant and a Christian, refuse it on the same principles;" and he also tui-ned down his glass. " But you forget, gentlemen," proceeded [ the squire, " that I addressed myself princi- pally to the ladies." "But you know, su'," replied Mrs. Brown, ■v\ath a smile, " that it is quite unusual and out of character for ladies to drink toasts at all, especially those which involve rehgious or pohtical opinions. These, I am sure, you know too well, INIr. FoUiard, are matters with which ladies have, and ought to have, nothing to do. I also, therefore, on behalf of oar sex, decline to diink the toast ; and I trust that every lady who respects herself will turn down her glass as I do." lull's. Hastings and Helen immediately fol- lowed her example, whilst at the same time poor Helen's cheeks and neck were scarlet. "You see, sir," said Mr. Brown, good- humoredly, " that the sex — at least one-half of them — are against you." " That's because they're Papists at heart," repUed the squu-e, laughing. Helen felt eased at seeing her father'? good humor, for she now knew that the pro- posal of the toast was but a jest, and did not aim at any thing calculated to distress her feelings. "But, in the meantime," proceeded the squire, "I am not without sujDport. Here is Lady Joram and IVIrs. Smellpriest and IVIi's. Oxley — and they are a host in them- selves — each of them willing and ready tc support me." " I don't see," said Lady Joram, " why a lady, any more than a gentleman, should re- fuse to di'ink a pi-oper toast as this is ; Sir Jenkins has not t\imed down his glass, and neither shall I. Come, then, ]\Ir. Folliard, please to fiU mine ; I shall drink it in a bumper." "And I," said Mrs. Oxley, "always diinks my 'usband's principles. In Lunnon, where true 'igh hfe is, ladies don't refuse to drink toasts. I know that fei^-ther, both before and after his removal to Lunnon, used to make us all drink the ''Ard ware of Old of our own ignorance by the character which we had drawn of the squire, as well as by the words with which the toast isintroduced — where we said, * ' from any other man would have been an extraordinary ooe." I nifty also refer to ilrs. Prowo's reply. f\ WILLY RETLLY. 79 Hingland ' — by witch," she proceeded, cor- recting lierself by a reproving glance from the sheriff — " by witch he meant what he called the glorious sinews of the countiy at large, lestwise in the manufacturing districts. But upon a subject hke this" — and she boked with something hke disdain at those who had tunied do^vn their glasses — " every lady as is a lady ought to 'ave no objection to herplain her principles by drinking the toast ; but p'raps it ain't fair to press it upon some of 'em." " Well, then," proceeded the squire, with a laugh that seemed to have more than mirth in it, " are all the loyal subjects of the crown ready ? Lord Deilmacare, your glass is not filled ; won't you drink it ? " "To be sure," rephed his lordship; "I have no hatred against Papists ; I get my rent by their labor ; but I never wish to spoil sport — get along — I'll do anj-thing." With the exceptions already mentioned, the toast was drank immediately, after which the ladies retired to the drawing-room. "Now^ gentlemen," said the squire, "fill your glasses, and let us enjoy ourselves. You have a right to be proud of your wife. Ml'. Sheriff, and you too. Sir Jenkins — for, upon my soul, if it had been his Majesty's health, her lad^'ship couldn't have honored it with a fuller bumper. And, Smellpriest, your "^ife did the thing handsomely as well as tjie rest. Upon my soul, you ought to be happy men, with three women so deeply imbued with the tiTie spirit of our glorious Constitution." " Ah, Mr. FoDiard," said Smellpriest, "you don't know the value of that woman. When I return, for instance, after a hunt, the first question she puts to me is — Well, my love, how many priests did you catch to- day ? And out comes Mr. Strong with the same question. Strong, however, between ourselves, is a goose ; he will beheve any thing, and often sends me upon a cold trail. Now, I pledge you my honor, gentlemen, that this man, who is all zeal, has sent me out dozens of times, A\dth the strictest in- structions as to where I'd catch my priest ; but, hang me, if ever I caught a single priest upon his instructions yet ! still, although unfortunate in this kind of sport, his heart is in the right place. "Wliitecraft, my worthy brother sportsman, how does it happen that Reilly continues to escape you ? " " A\Tiy does he continue to escape yoci"- self, captain ? " repHed the bai'onet. " Why," said the other, " because I am more in the ecclesia-stical line, and, besides, he is considered to be, in an especial man- ner, your game." "I will have him yet, though," said Whitecraft, " if he should assume as many shapes as Proteus." " By the way, ^\'hitecraft," observed Fol- Hard, "they tell me you burned the unfor — — you burned the scoundrel's house and ofiices." " I wish you had been present at the bon- fire, sir," rephed his intended son-in-law ; " it would have done your heart good." "I daresay," said the squire ; " but still, what harm did his house and place do you ? I know the fellow is a Jesuit, a rebel, and an outlaw — at least you tell me so ; and you must know. But upon what authority did you bum the rascal out ? " "As to that," returned the baronet, " the present laws against Poperj' and the general condition of the times are a sufficient justi- fication ; and I do not think that I am likely to be brought over the coals for it ; on the contran.', I look upon myself as a man who, in burning the ■villain out, have rendered a verj' important sendee to Government." "I regret. Sir Robert," obseiwed ISIr. Brown, "that you should have disgraced yourself by such an oppressive act. I know that throughout the countiy your conduct to this yovmg man ir: attributed to personal malice rather than to loyalty." " The countiT may put what construction on my conduct it pleases," he rephed, "but I know I shaU never cease till I hang him." !Mr. Hastings was a man of very few words ; but he had an eye the expression of which could not be mistaken — keen, manly, and firm. He sat sipping his wine in silence, but turned fi-om time to time a glance upon the baronet, which was not only a searching one, but seamed to have something of tri- vunph in it. " ^Miat do you say, Hastings ? " asked Whitecraft ; " can you not praise a loyal sub- ject, man ? " " I say nothing, Sir Robert," he rephed ; " but I think occasionally." " WeU, and what do vou think occasion- aUy?" " WTiy, that the times may change." "Whitecraft," said Smellpriest, "I work upon higher principles than they say you do. I hunt priests, no doubt of it ; but then I have no personal malice against them ; I proceed upon the broad and genera) prin- ciple of hatred to Poperj' : but, at the same time, observe it is not the man but the priest I pursue." " And when you hang or ti*ansport the priest, what becomes of the man ? " asked the baronet, with a diabohcal sneer. " As for me, Smellpriest, I make no such distinctions ; they are unworthy of you, and I'm soiTy to hear you express them, I say, the man." so JVIZL7A3r CARLETON'S WORKS. "And I sa}', the priest," replied the other. " ^Vhat do you say, my lord ? " asked Mr. Folliai-d of the j^eer. "I don't much care which," replied his lordship ; " man or priest, be it as you can determine ; only I siy that Avhen you hang the priest, I agree with A\'hitecraft there, that it is all up with the man, and when you hang the man, it is all up with the priest. By the way, Whitecraft,"he proceeded, " how would you hke to swing yourself ? " "I am sure, my lord," replied the bai'onet, "you wouldn't Avish to see me hanged." "Well, I don't know — j^erhaps I might, and perhaps I might not ; but I know you would make a long corjjse, and I think you woidd dangle handsomely enough ; you have long Hmbs, a long body, and half a mile of neck ; upon my soul, one would think you were made for it. Yes, I dare say I should like to see you hanged — I am rather inclined to think I would — it's a subject, however, on which I am jjerfectly indiflerent ; but if ever you should be hanged. Sir Eobert, I shall certainh' make it a point to see you thrown off if it were only as a mark of respect for your humane and excellent character." " He would be a sevei'e loss to the coun- try," obseiwed Sir Jenkins ; " the want of his hospitality would be deei^ly felt by the gen- try of the neighborhood ; for which reason," he observed sarcastically, " I hoj^e he will be spared to us as long as his hospitality lasts. " "In the meantime, gentlemen," obseiwed the sheriff, " I wush that, with such keen noses for priests and rebels and criminals, you could come upon the trail of the scoun- drel who robbed me of tlxree hiindred and fifty pounds." " Would you know him again, Mr. Sher- iff?" asked Sir Robert, "and coiild you describe his appearance ? " " I have been turning the matter over," re- plied the sheriff, "and I feel satisfied that I would know him if I saw him. He was dressed in a broadcloth brown coat, light- colored breeches, and had silver buckles in his shoes. The fellow was no common rob- ber. Stuart — one of your dragoons, Sir Robert, who came to my relief when it was too late — insists, from my description of the dress, that it w-as Reilly." " Are you sure he was not dressed in black?" asked Smellpriest. "Did you ob- serve a beads or crucifix about him ? " "I have described the dress accurately," replied the sheritt" ; "but I am certain that it was not Reilly. On bringing the matter to my recollection, after I had got rid of the pain and agitation, I was able to remember that the niffian had a coarse face and red whiskers. Now Reilly's hair and whisker* ai-e black." "It was a reverend Papist," said Smell- priest ; " one of those fi-om whom you had levied the fines that day, and who thought it no harm to tnmsfer them back again to holy Church. You know not how those rascals can disguise themselves." "And you blame them, Smellpriest," said the squire, " for disguising themselves ? Now, suppose the tables were tui-ned upon us, that Popeiy got the ascendant, and that Papists started upon the same piinciples against us that we put in practice against them ; sujDpose that Popish soldiers were halloed on against our parsons, and all other Protestants conspicuous for an attachment to their religion, and anxious to put down the persecution under which we suffered • why, hang it, could 30U blame the parsons, when hunted to the death, for disguising themselves ? And if you could not, how can you blame the priests ? Would you have the poor devils w^alk into j'our hands and say, ' Come, gentlemen, be good enougii to hang or transjDort us ? ' I am anxious to secure Reilly, and either to hang or transfiort him. I would say the latter, though." " And I the former," observed Sir Robert " Well, Bob, that is as may happen ; but in the meantime, I say he never robbed the sheriff here ; and if he were going to the gallows to-morrow, I would maintain i1#" Neither the clergyman nor Mr. Hastings took much part in the conversation ; but the eye of the latter w^as, during the greater por- tion of the evening, fixed upon the bai'onet, like that of a basilisk, accompanied by a hidden meaning, which it was impossible to penetrate, but w^hich, nevertheless, had such an effect upon Whitecraft that he could not help obser\-ing it. " It would seem, Mr. Hastings," said he, " as if you had never seen me before. Your eye has scarcely been off me during the whole evening. It is not j^leasant, sii*, nor scarcely gentlemanly." " You should feel proud of it, Sii' Robert,'" replied Hastings ; "I only admire 3'ou." "Well, then, I wish you would express your admiration in some other manner than by staring at me." " Gadzooks, Su* Robert," said the squire, "don't you know that a cat may look at a king ? Hastings must be a man of devilish good taste. Bob, and you ought to thank him." Mr. Brown and Mr. Hastings soon after^ w^ards went upstairs, and left the other gentlemen to their hquoi-, w^liich they now began to enjoy with a more conviAial sjiirit. The old squii-e's loyalty rose to a very' high WILLY HE ILLY. 81 pitch, as indeed did that of his companioBS, aU of whom entertained the same principles, with the exception of Lord Deilmacare, whose opinions never could be got at, for the very sufficient reason that he did not know them himself. " Come, Whitecraft," said the squire, " help yourself, and push the bottle ; now that those two half-Papists are gone, we can breathe and speak a little more freely. Here's our glorious Constitution, in Church and State, and curse all priests and Papists — barring a few, that I know to be honest." "I drink it. but I omit the exception," said Sir Robert, " and I wonder, sir, you would make an}' exception to such a toast." "I cb'ink it," s.iid Smellpriest, " including the rascal priests." "And I drink it," said the sheriff, "as it has been proposed." " What was it ? " said Lord Deilmacare ; " come, I drink it — it doesn't matter. I sup- pose, coming h'om our excellent host, it must be righl. and proper." They caroused deej^ly, and in proportion as the hquor affected their brains, so did their determination to rid the squire of the rebel Reilly form itself into an express reso- lution to that effect. " Hang Reilly — hang the villain — the gallows for him — hurra ! " and in this chari- table sentiment their voices all joined in a fierce and drunken exclamation, uttered with their hands all clasped in each other with a strong and firm grip. From one mouth {done, however, proceeded, amidst a succession of hiccups, the word " transpor- tation," which, when Lord Deilmacare heard, he changed his principle, and joined the old squire in the same mitigation of feeling. "I say, Deilmacare," shouted Sir Robert, "we must hang him high and dry." " Very well," replied his lordship, " with all my heart, Sir Robert ; we must hang you high and dry." "But, Deilmacare," said the squire, "we shall only transport him." " Very good," exclaimed his lordship, emptying a bumper ; " we shall only trans- port you. Sir Robert." " Hang him, Deilmacare ! " " Very well, hang him ! " "Transport him, I say, Deilmacare," from the squire. " Good again," said his lordship ; " trans- port him, say L" And on went the dininken revel, imtil they scarcely knew what the}' said. The clergj-man and Mr. Hastings, on reaching the dra^ving-room, found Helen in a state of inexpressible disti*ess. A dispute upon the prevailing morals of all modei'n young ladies had been got up by Lady Joi'am and Mrs. Oxley, for the express pur- pose of venting their petty malice against the gii*l, because they had taken it into their heads that she paid more attention to Mra Brown and ]\Ii's. Hastings than she did to them. This dispute was tantamount to what, in the piize ring, is cjilled vrom, when the fight is only a mock one, and terminates by the voluntary defeat of one of the par- ties, upon a preconcerted arrangement. " I don't agree with you, my lady ; nor can I think that the monils of young ladies in 'igh life, by ^vitch I mean the daughters and heiresses of wealthy squires — " " But, my dear ]\Ii's. Oxley," said her lady- shijD, interrupting her, and placing her hand gently i;pou her arm, as if to solicit her consent to the observation she was about to make, "you know, my dear ]\Irs. Oxley, that the daughter of a mere country' squire can have no pretensions to come under the definition of high life." "Wy not?" replied Mrs. Oxley; "the squires are often wealthier than the haris- tocracy ; and I don't at tdl see," she added, " ^y the daughter of such a man should not be considered as moving in 'igh life — always, of course, provided that she forms no dis- gr:iceful attachments to Papists and rebels and low persons of that 'ere class. No, my lady, I don't at all agree with you in your view of 'igh life." "You don't appear, madam, to entertain a sufficiently accurate estimate of high hfe." " I beg pai'don, ma'am, but I tliink I can understand 'igh life as well as those that don't know it better nor myself. I've seen a great deal of 'igh life. Feyther 'ad a willar at 'Igate, and 'Igate is kno^\-n to be the 'igh- est place about the metropolis of Lminon — it and St. Paul's ai-e uj^on a bevel." "Level, perhaps, you mean, ma'am?" " Level or bevel, it doesn't much diversify — but I prefer the bevel to the level on all oc- casions. All I knows is," she proceeded, " that it is a shame for any young lady, as is a young lady, to take a liking to a Papist, be- cause we know the Papists ai-e all rebels and would cut our thi-oats, only for the protec- tion of our generous and merciful laws." " I don't know what you mean by merci- ful laws," observed Mrs. Brown. "They surely cannot be such laws as oppress and persecute a portion of the people, and give an unjust license to one class to persecute another, and to prevent them fi'om exercis- ing the duties which their rehgion imposes upon them." "Well," said Lady Joram, "all I wish is, that the Papists were exterminated ; we should theu have no apprehensions that our 82 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. daughters would disgrace themselves by fall- ing in love with tliem." This conversation was absolutely cniel, and the amiable ]Mrs. Brown, from compas- sion to Helen, withdrew her into a corner of the room, and entered into conversation with her upon a diflferent topic, assuring her previously that she wovdd detail their offen- sive and imgenerous remarks to her father, who, she trusted, would never see them un- der his roof again, nor give them an oj^jjor- tunity of indulging in their vulgar malignity a second time. Helen thanked hei', and said their hints and observations, though rude and ungenerous, gave her but little pain. The form of language in which they were ex- pressed, she added, and the indefensible violation of all the laws of hospitaUty, blunted the seventy of what they said. "I am not ashamed," she said, "of my attachment to the brave and generous young man who saved my father's life. He is of no vulgar birth, but a highly educated and a highl}' accompHshed gentleman — a man, in fact, my dear Mrs. Bro'mi, whom no woman, be her rank in life ever so high or exalted, might blush to love. / do not blush to make the avowal that I love him ; but, un- fortunately, in consequence of the existing laws of the country, my love for him, which I will never conceal, must be a hoj)eless one." " I regret the state of those laws, my dear ISIiss Folliard, as much as you do ; but still their existence puts a breach between you and Reilly, and under those circumstances my advice to you is to overcome your affec- tion for him if you can. MaiTiage is out of the question." " It is not mamage I think of — for that is out of the question— but Reilly 's life and safety. If he were safe, I should feel com- paratively happy ; happiness, in its full ex- tent, I never can hope to enjoy ; but if he were only safe— if he were only safe, my dear Mrs. BroAvn ! I know that he is hunted like a beast of prey, and under such circum- stances as disturb and distract the countiy, how can he escape ? " The kind-heai'ted lady consoled her as well as she could ; but, in fact, her grounds for consolation wex-e so slender that her arguments only amounted to those general obsei-vations which, commonplace as they are, we are in the habit of hearing from day to day. Helen was too high-minded to shed tears, but ]\irs. Brown could plainly perceive the depth of her emotion, and feel the extent of what she suffered. We shall not ' detail at further length the conversation of the other ladies — if ladies tboj' can be called ; nor that of the gentle- men, after they entered the drawing-room. Sir Robert "Whitecraft attempted to enter into conversation with Helen, but found himself firmly and decidedly repulsed. In point of fact, some of the gentlemen were not in a state to grace a drawing-room, and in a short time they took their leave and retired. CHAPTER Xn. Sir Robert Meets a Brother Sportamnn — Draws M Nets, but Catches Nothing. " 'Tis conscience that makes cowards of us all," said Shakespeare, ^vith that wonderful wisdom which enlightens his glorious pages ; and, in fact, Sir Robert Whitecraft, in his own person, fully corroborated the truth of the poet's apoj^hthegm. The man, besides, was naturally a coward ; and when to this we add the consciousness of his persecutions and cruelties, and his apprehensions from the revenge of Reilly — the destruction of whose jDroperty, without any authority from Government for the act, he felt himself guilty of — the reader may understand the nature and extent of his terrors on liis way home. The distance between his oa\ti house and that of his intended father-in-laAV was about thi-ee miles, and there lay a long space of level road, hedged in, as was then the custom, on both sides, from behind which hedges an excellent aim could be taken. As Sir Robert proceeded along this lonely path, his horse stumbled against some stones that were in his way, or perhaps that had been pui-posely placed there. Be that as it may, the baronet fell, and a small man, of compact size and vigorous frame, was found aiding him to rise. Having helped him into the saddle, the baronet asked him, with an infii'm and alarmed voice, who he was. "."N\Tiy, Sir Robert," he repHed, " you must know I am not a Paj^ist, or I wouldn't be apt to render you any assistance ; I am somewhat of your own kidney — a bit of a priest-hunter, on a small scale. I used to set them for Caj^tain Smellpriest, but he paid me badly, and as there was gi-eat risk among the bloody Papists, I made up my mind to TvithdraAV out of his sei'A'ice ; but you are a gentleman. Sir Robert, what Captain Smell- priest is not, and if you want an active and useful enemy to Popery, I am your man." "I want such a person, certainly," replied the baronet, who, in consequence of the bad- ness of the road and the darkness of the night, was obhged to walk his horse with caution. "By the way," said he, "didyoix not hear a noise beliind the hedge ? " WILLY n HILLY. 85 "I did," replied the other, "but it was the Qoise of cattle." "I am not aware," replied Sir Robert, "what the devQ cattle can have to do imme- diately behind the hedge. I rather think they are some of our own species ; " and as he ceased si^eaking the tremendous braying of a jackass came upon their ears. "You were right, Sii' Robert," rephed his companion ; "I beg pardon, I mean that / was right ; you know now it was cattle." " What is your name ? " asked Sir Robert. " Rowland Drum, Sir Robert ; and, if you will permit me, I should like to see you safe home. I need not say that you are hated by the Papists ; ard as the road is lonesome and dangerous, as a priest-hunter myself I think it an act of duty not to leave you." "Tliank you," said Sir Robert, "you are a ci\il person, and I will accept your es- cort." " "WTiatever danger you may run, Sir Rob- ert, I wiU stand by your side and partake of it." " Thank you, friend," replied Sir Robert ; " there in a lonely place before us, where a ghost is said to be seen — the ghost of a priest i whom I hunted for a long time ; Smellpriest, j it is said, shot him at the place I allude to. ; He was disguised as a drummer, and is said to haunt the locahty where he was shot." " Well, I shall see you safe over the place, Sir Robert, and go home with you afterwards, provided you will promise to give me a bed and my supper ; to-moiTOw we can talk on matters of business." "I shall certainly do so," rej)lied Sir Rob- ert, " not only in consequence of your at- tention to me, but of our common puii:)ose." They then proceeded onwards — passed the haunted spot — without either hearing or see- ing the spectral drummer. On arriving at home. Sir Robei-t, who drank privately, or- dered wine for himself, and sent Rowland i Drum to the kitchen, where he was rather ! meagerly entertained, and was afterwards ! lodged for the night in the gaiTet. j The next morning, after breakfast. Sir Robert sent for ]\Ix'. Dxnim, who, on entering the breakfast parlor, was thus addi'essed by I his new patron : " ^^^lat's this you say your name is ? " "Rowland Drum, sir." " Rowland Drum ! Well, now, Rowland Drum, are you well acquainted with the priests of this diocese ? ." i "No man better," rephed the redoubtable Rowland. "I know most of them by person, | and have got private descrijitions of them all ; from Captain Smellpriest, Avhich will be in- 1 valuable to you. Sir Robert The fact is — tmd this I me-^tion in the strictest confidence \ — that Smellpriest is suspicious of your at- tachment to our glorious Constitution." " The confounded rascal," replied the baro- net. "Did he ever burn as many Popish houses as I have done ? He has no appetite for any thing but the pursuit and capture ol priests ; but I have a far more general and unsparing practice, for I not only capture the priests, where I can, but every lay Papist that we suspect iii the country. Here, for instance. Do you see those papers ? They are blank warrants for the apprehension of the guilty and suspected, and also protections, transmitted to me from the Secretaiw of State, that I may be enabled, by his authority', to protect such Papists as wiU give useful in- formation to the Government. Here they are, signed by the Secretary, but the blanks ai*e left for myself to fill up." " I wish we could get Reilly to come over," said ]Mi\ Drum. " Oh ! the infernal villain," said the baronet, " all the protections that ever were or could be issued from the Secretaiy's office would not nor could not save him. Old Folhard and I will hang him, if there was not anothei man to be hanged in the three kingdoms." At this moment a sen-ant came in and said, " Sir Robert, there is a woman here who Avishes to have some private conversation with you." " "\\Tiat kind of a woman is she ? " asked the baronet. " Faith, 3'our honor, a stui'dy and strapping wench, somewhat rough in the face, but oi great jDroportions." Now it so happened that Mr. Drum had been sitting at the window during this brief conversation, and at once recognized, under the disguise of a woman, the celebrated in- fonner, the Rev. Mr. Hennessy, a -sn-etch whose ciiminal coui'se of life, as we said be- fore, was so gross and reprobate that his pious bishop deemed it his duty to su.spend him from aU clerical functions. " Sir Robert," said Drum, " I must go up to my room and shave. My presence, I ap- prehend, Avon't be necessary where there is a lady in question." " Very well," rejilied the baronet; " I know not what her business may be ; but I shall be glad to speak Arith you after she shall hav^ gone." It was very well that Hennessy did not se Drum, whom he would at once have recog- nized ; but, at all events, the intei-view be- tween the reprobate priest and the baronet lasted for at least an hour. After the Rev. Miss Hennessy had taken her departure, Mr. Drum was sent for by the bai-onet, Avhom he still found in the break* iast pu'lor. 84 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. "Drum," said he, "you have now an op- portunity of essentiiJly serving not only me, but the Government of the country. This lady turns out to be a Popish priest in dis- guise, and I have taken him into my confi- dence as a guide and auxihiuy. Now you have given me proofs of personal attachment, •vhich is certainly more than he has done as yet. I have heard of his character as an im- moral priest ; and the man who could be false to his own creed is not a man to be rehed upon. He has described to me the position of a cavern, in Avhich are now hiding a set of proscribed priests ; but I cannot have confi- dence in his information, and I wish j'ou to go to the ravine or cavern, or whatever the devil it is, and return to me with correct in- telligence. It may be a lure to draw me into danger, or perhaps to deprive me of my life ; but, Qu second thought, I think I shall get a militai-y force, and go myself." "And perhaps never return, unless with your heels foremost. Sir Robert. I tell you that this Hennessy is the most treacherous scoundi'el on the face of the earth. You do not know what he's at, but I will tell you, for I have it from his own cousin. His object is to have you assassinated, in order to restore himself to the good graces of the bishop and the Catholic party, who, I must say, however, would not coiintenance such a murderous act ; still. Sir Robert, if you were taken ofif, the man who took you off would have his name honored and exalted throughout the countiy." " Yes, I beUeve you are right. Drum ; they are thirsting for my blood, but not more than I am thirsting for theirs." "Well, then," said Drum, "don't trust yourself to the counsels of this Hennessy, who, in my oiDinion, only wants to make a scapegoat of you. Allow me to go to the place he mentions, for I know the ravine well, but I never knew nor do I believe that there is a cavern at all in it, and that is what makes me suspect the scoundrel's motives. He can have hundreds of outlaws secretly armed, who would never suffer you to escape with your life. The thing is an ambuscade ; take my Avord for it, it is nothing less. Of course you can go, yourself and your party, if you wish. You Avill prevent me from running a gi'eat risk ; but I am only anxious for your safety." "Well, then," said Sir Robert, "you shall go upon this mission. It may not be safe for me to do so. Try if you can make out this cavern, if there be a cavern." " I xoill tiy. Sir Robert ; and I wiU venture '-0 say, that if it can be made out, /-s^ill make *t out." Rowland Drum accordingly set out upon his mission, and haAang arrived at the cavern, with which he Avas so well acquainted, he entered it with the visual risk. His voice, however, was recognized, and he got instant admittance. "My dear friends," said he, after he had entered the inner ptu't of it, "you must dis* perse immediatel}-. Hennessy has betrayed you, and if 3'ou remain here twenty-four hours longer, Sir Robert Whitecraft and a party of military, g-uided, probably, by the treacherous scoundrel himself, will be upon 3'ou. The villain had a long interne w with him, and gave a full detail of the cavern and its inmates." " But how did you become acquainted with Sir Robert '\Miitecraft ? " asked the bishop. "In order, my lord, to ascertain his in- tentions and future proceedings," replied Mr. Drum, "that we might guard against his treachery and jDersecution. On his way home from a dinner ui Sqi;ire Folliard's I met him in a lonety part of the road, where he was thrown from his horse ; I helped him into his saddle, told him I was myself a priest- hunter, and thus got into his confidence so far as to be able to fifustrate Hennessy's treachery, and to counteract his oa\ti designs." " Sir," said the bishop sternly, "you have acted a part unworthy of a Christian clergy- man. We should not do evil that good may follow ; and you have done evil in associating yourself, in any sense and for any pm-pose, with this bloodthirsty tiger and persecutor of the faithful." " My lord," rejDlied the priest, " this is not a time to enter into a discussion on such a subject. Hennessy has betrayed us ; and if you do not disperse to other places of safety, he will himself, as I said, lead Sir Robert Whitecraft and a military party to this very cavern, and then may God have mercy on you aU." " Brethren," said the bishop, " this is, after all, jDossible that our brother has, by the mercy and providence of God, through his casual meeting with this remorseless man, been made the instrument of our safety. As for myself, I am willing to embrace the cro-s\Ti of martj-rdom, and to lay down my hfe, if necessary, for the faith that is in me. You all know what I have already suffered, and 3'ou know that persecution drives a Avise mau mad. My children, " he added, " it is possible, and I fear too probable, that some of us maj' never see each other in this Ufe again ; but at the same time, let it be our hope and con- solation that we shall meet in a better. And for this purjDose, and in order to secure ? futurity of happiness, let us lead spotless and irreproachable lives, such as will enable ur to me^t the hour of death, whether it comes WILLY li BILLY. 85 by the hand of God or tlie persecution of man. Be faithful to the principles of our holy religion — be faithful to truth — to moral virtue — be faithful to God, before whose awful tribunal we must all appear, and render an account of our lives. It would be mere wantonness to throw yourselves into the hands of our persecutors. Reserve yourselves for the continuance and the sustainmeut of our blessed religion ; but if you should hap- pen to fall, by the snares and devices of the enemy, into the power of those who are striving to work our extermination, and if they should press you to raiiounce your faith, upon the alternative of banishment or death, then, I sa}', banishment, or death itself, sooner than become apostates to your religion. I shall retire to a neighborhood only a few miles distant from this, where the poor Cath- olic population are without spiritual aid or consolation. I have been there before, and I know their wants, and were it not that I was hunted and pursued with a ^-iew to my death — to my murder, I should rather say — I would have remained with them still. But that I considered it a duty to that portion of the Church over which God called upon me to preside and watch, I woiild not have avoided those inhuman traffickers in the blood of God's peoi^le. Yet I am bound to say that, from the clergj-men of the Estab- lished Church, and from many Protestant magistrates, we have received kindness, sym- pathy, and sheltei-. Their doors, their hearths, and their hearts have been open to us, and that, too, in a tinily Chi'istian spirit. Let us, then, render them good for good ; let us pray for their conversion, and that they may return to the right path." " They have acted generously and nobly," added Beilly, " and in a truly Christian spirit. Were it not for the shelter and pro- tection which I myself received from one of them, my mangled body would probably be huddled down into some obscui'e grave, as a felon, and my property — which is mine only by a necessar'y fiction and evasion of the law — have passed into the hands of Sir Robert Whitecraft. I am wrong, however, in saying that it could. Mr. Hastings, a generous and hberal Protestant, took it in his own name for my father, but gave me a deed of assign- ment, i^lacing it as securely in my hands, and in my power, as if I were Sir Robert "WTiitecraft himself ; and I must add— which I do with pleasure — that the deed in ques- tion is now in the possession of the Rev. ]Mr. Brown, the amiable rector of the parish." " But he is a heretic," said a red-faced little man, dressed in leather breeches, top boots, and a huntsman's cap ; " vade retro, sathams. It is a damnable crime to have any intercourse with them, or to receive any protection fi-om them : vade retro, mtluinasi." " If I don't mistake," said the cook — an archcle<^con, by the way — "you yoiu-self re- ceived protection fi'om them, and were glad to receive it." " If I did receive protection from one of their heretic par.sons, it was for Christian purposes. INIy object was not so much to seek protection from him as to work out his salvation by withdrawing him from his heres3^ But then the fellow was as obstinate as safhana.^ himself, and had Greek and Hebrew at his fingers' ends. I made several passes at him — tried Irish, and told him it was Italian. ' WeU,' said he, smiling, '2 understand Itiilian too ; ' and to my astpn- ishmeut he addressed me in the best Irish lever heai-d sjDoken. 'Now,' said he, still smiling, 'you perceive that I understand Italian nearly — I will not sa}' so well — as you do.' Now, as I am a sinner, that, I say, was ungenerous treatment. He was j)erfectly irreclaimable." This man was, like IMr. Maguire, what has been termed a hedge-j^riest — a character which, as we have already said, the poverty of the Catholic peoj)le, during the existence of the penal laws, and the consequent want of spiritual instruction, rendered necessary. There were no Catholic colleges in the coun- try, and the result was that the number of foreign priests — by which I mean Iiish priests educated in foreign colleges — was utterly inadequate to meet the spiritual necessities of the Irish population. Under those circumstances, men of good and vir- tuous character, who understood something of the Latin tongue, were ordained by their respective bishops, for the puri3ose whicli we have already mentioned. But what a difier- ence was there between those half-educated men and the class of educated clergj'men Avho now adorn, not only their Church, but the literatui'e of the countiy ! " "Well, my dear friend," said the bishop, " let us be thankful for the protection which we have received at the hands of the Protes- tant clergy and of many of the Protestant laity also. We now separate, and I for one am sensible how much this cruel persecution has strengthened the bonds of Christian love among us, and excited oui' sympathy for oui' poor persecuted flocks, so many of whom are now without a shepherd. I leave you with tears — but they ai'e tears of afiection. and not of despair. I shall endeavor to be useful wherever I may abide. Let each of you do iill the spiritual good you cim — all the eai'thly good — all good in its most en- larged and jiurest sense. But we must sepai'ate — probably, some of us, forever ; and ^6 WILLIAM CARLETON^S WORKS. now may the blessing of the Almiglity God — of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, rest upon you all, and be with you and abide in your heai'ts, now and forever ! Amen ! " Having pronounced these words, he covered his face with his two hands and wept bitterly. There were indeed few dry eyes ai'ouud him ; they knelt before him, kissed his ring, and prepared to take their depai"t\u'e out of the cavern. "My lord," siiid KeiUy, who still enter- tained apprehensions of the return of his malady, " if you will permit me I shall share yoiu' fate, whatever it may be. The poor people you allude to are not in a condition to attend to yom* wants. Allow me, then, to attend and accompany you in your re- treat." " My deal- friend," said the bishop, clasping his hand, " you are heaping co;ils of lii-e upon my head. I tia;st you will forgive me, for I knew not what I did. I shall be glad of your companionship. I fear I still stand in need of such a friend. Be it so, then," he proceeded — "be it so, my dear friend ; only that I should not wish you to involve yoiu*- self in imnecessaiy danger on my account." " Danger, my lord ! " replied Keilly ; " there is not an individual here against whom personal malignity has dii-ected the vengeance of the law with such a bloodthirsty and vindictive spirit as against myself. Why else am I here ? No, I \\-ill accomjjany yoiu* lordship, and share your fate." It was so determined, and they left the cavern, each to prociu'e some place of safety for himseK. In the meantime, Sir Eobert "VMiitecraft, having had another inteniew -^ith Hennessy, was prevailed upon to get a militaiy party together, and the cunning reprobate, in order to excite the baronet's vengeance to a still higher pitch, mentioned a circumstance which he had before forgotten, to ■s\-it, that Reilly, his arch-enemy, was also in the cave. " But," said Sii' Eobert, who, as we have already said, was a poltroon and a cowai'd, " what guarantee can you give me that you are not leading me into an ambuscade ? You know that I am vmpopulai*, and the Paj^ists would be delighted to have my blood ; what guai-antee, then, can you give me that you are acting by me in good faith ? " " The guai'antee of my own hfe," replied the other. "Let me be placed between two of youi- men, and if you see any thing like an ambuscade, let them shoot me dead on the spot." " ^\Tiy," repUed the baronet, " that is fair ; but the truth is, I have been put on my guard against you by a person who escorted me home last night He rendered me some assistance when I fell from my horse, and he slept here." " What is his name ? " asked Hennessy. "He told me," rephed the bai'onet, " that his name was Drum." " Could you give me a description, Sir Robert, of his person ? " Sir Robert did so. " I declare to God, Sir Robert, you have had a narrow escape fi-om that man. He is one of the most bigoted priests in the king- dom. He used to disguise himself as a drummer — for his father was in the army, and he himself xcm a drummer in his boyhood ; and his object in preventing you from bring- ing a mihtiU'v party to the cavern was merely that he might have an opportunity of gi^ing them notice of your intentions. I now say that if you lose an hour's time they will be gone." Sir Robert did not lose an hour's time. The local barracks were within a few hun- di-ed yards of his house. A party of mih- taiy were immediately called out, and in a short time they arrived, under the guidance of Hennessy, to the veiy mouth of the cavern, which he disclosed to them. It is unnecessary to detail the particvdars of the search. The soldiers entered it one by one, but found that the bii'ds had flown. The very fires were biu'ning, but not a hving soul in the cave ; it was comph^tely deserted, and nothing remained but some miserable reUcs of cold prorisions, ^xith which, by the aid of fir spUces, that served as torches, they regaled themselves as far as they went. Su- Robert Whitecraft now felt full con- fidence in Hennessy ; but would have given a trifle to renew his acquaintance with ]\Ir. Rowland Drum, by whose ingenuity he was so completely outwitted. As it was, they scoured the country in search of the in- mates of the cave, but above all things in search of Reilly, for whose capture "Wliite- craft would have forgiven every man in the cavern. The seaix-h, however, was unsuc- cessful ; not a man of them was caught that day, and gallant Sii- Robert and his mjT- midons were obhged to return wearied and disappointed men. CHAPTER Xm. ReiUy is Taken, hut connived at by Vie Sheriff— The Mountain Mass. Reilly and the bishop traversed a wild and remote part of the countrs', in which there was nothing to be seen but long barrec wastes, over which were studded, here and WILLY REILLY. there, a few solitary huts ; upon its exti-emity, however, tliere were some houses of a more comfortable description, the habitations of middling? farmers, who possessed small farms at a moderate rent. As they went along, the prelate addressed Reilly in the folloT\-ing terms: "Mr. Reilly," said he, "I would advise fou to get out of this unhappy countiy as soon as you can." "My lord," replied Reilly, who was all candor and tinith, and never could conceal his sentiments, at whatever risk, "I cannot think of learing the country, let the conse- quences be what tliey may. I wiU not trouble your lordship with my motives, be- cause they are at variance with your chai*- acter and religious foehngs ; but they ai"e not at variance with religion or moraUty. It is enough to say that I wish to prevent a beautiful and innocent girl fi-om being sac- rificed. My lord, you know too weU that persecution is abroad ; and when I tell you that, through the inHuence which this ad- mirable creature has over her father — who, by the way, has himself the character of a pei*secutor — many Catholics have been pro- tected by liim, I am sure you will not blame me for the interest which I feel in her fate. In addition to this, my lord, she has been a ministering angel to the CathoHc poor in general, and has contributed vast sums, privately, to the relief of such of our priest- hood as have been brought to distress by the persecution of the times. Nay, she has so far influenced her father that proscribed priests have found refuge and protection in his house." The bishop, on hearing this, stood, and taking oil' his hat, raised his right hand, and said : " May the blessing of tlie Almighty God rest upon her, and guard her fi-om the snares of those who would make her un- happy ! But, Reilly, as you say you are deteiTained, if jjossible, to rescue her fi'om ruin, you know that if you go at large in your usual dress you will unquestionably be taken. I adrise }'OU, then, to disguise yourself in such a way as that you v<\Sl not, ii possible, be known." " Such, my lord, is my intention — but who is this ? what — eh — yes, 'tis Fergus O'Reilly, a distant and humble relation of mrue who is also in disguise. Well. Fergus, where have vou been for some time past ? " •' It would be difficult to teU that, God knows ; I have been everwhere — but," he ! added in a whisper, "may I speak freely?" j "As free as the ^^'ind that blows, Fergus." ^ " Well, then, I tell you that Sir Robert Whitecraft has engaged me to be on the ^okout for vou, and said that I would be handsomely rewarded if I could succeed in enabUug the scoundrel to apprehend you." "But how did that come about, Fergus ? " "Faith, he met me one day — you see I have got a bag at my back — and taking me for a beggarman, stopped me on the road. 'I say, v'ou, poor man,' says he, ' what's your name?' 'Paddy M'Fud,' says I — ' I be- long to the ^IFuds of Ballymackknockem.' ' You're a beggai-,' says he, ' and travel from j place to place about the country.' ' It's tme . enough, your honor,' I replied, ' I travel ; about a good deal, of coorse, and it's only j that way that I ^^i my bit and sup.' ' Do j you know the notorious villain called Willy I Reilly ? ' * Not by sight, your honor, but I have often heard of him. Wasn't he in love I with the beautiful Cooleen Bawn, Squire ! FoUiard's daughter ? ' ' That's not the ques- ! tion between us,' he said, ' but if you enable ! me to catch Reilly, I will give vou twenty pounds.' 'Well, your honor,' says I, 'lave the tiling to myself ; if he is to be had it'll go hiu-d but I'll find him.' ' Well, then,' says he, ' if you can teU me where he is I vriH give you twenty poimds, as I said.' ' Well, sir,' says I, ' I expect to heai* fi-om you ; I am not sure he's in the countiy — indeed they say he is not — but if he is, I think I'U find him for you ; ' and so we parted." " Fergxis," said Reilly, " I feel that a dis- guise is necessaiy. Here is money to enable you to purcha.se one. I do not know where you may be able to find me ; but go and buy me a suit of fi-ieze, rather worn, a dingy cau- been hat, coarse Connemara stockings, and a pair of clouted brogues ; some coarse Unen, too ; because the fineness of my shirts, should I happen to be apprehended, might betray me. Leave them \\ith widow Buckley, and I can find them there." It was so aiTanged. Fergus went on his way, as did ReiUy and the bishop. Tlie lat- ter conducted him to the house of a middling farmer, whose son the bishop had sent, at his own expense, to a continentjil college. They were botli received with the warmest aft'ection, and, so fiw as the bishop was con- cerned, with every expression of the deepest gi-atitude. The situation was remote, and the tumult of pursuit did not reach them. Reilly privately forced upon the fiU-mer com- pensation for their support, under a solemn injunction that he shoiUd not communicate that circumstance to the bishop, and neither did he. They were here, then, comparatively safe, but still Reilly dreaded the active rigil- ance of his deadly enemy, Sir Robert \\niite- craft. He felt that a disguise was absolutely necessaiy, and that, without it, he might fall a sacrifice to the diabolical vengeance of his ?8 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. powerful enemy. In the course of about ten (lays after he had commissioned Fergus to procui-e him the disguise, he resolved to visit widow Buckley, in order to make the neces- sai-y exchange in his apparel. He according- ly set out — very fooHshly we must admit — in open day, to go to the widow's house. The distance was some miles. No appear- ance of danger, or pui-suit, was evident, until he came to the sharp angle of the road, where he was met by four poAverfiQ constables, who, on looking at him, immediately surrounded him and made him prisoner. Eesistance was impossible ; they Avere well armed, and he was without any weajDon with which he could defend himself. " We have a warrant for your apprehension, sii'," said one of them. "Upon what grounds?" replied Eeilly. "I am conscious of no offence against the laws of the land. Do you know who I am ? and is my name in your waiTant ? " "Xo, but yoiu" appearance answers com- pletel}' to the description given in the Hue and Cry. Yom* dress is the same as that of the robber, and j-ou must come with us to the sheriff whom you have robbed. His house is only a quarter of a mile fi'om this." They accordingly proceeded to the sheriff's liouse, whom they found at home. On being informed that they had caj)tui-ed the man who had robbed him, he came dowTistaii's with great alacrity, and in a spii-it replete with vengeance against the robber. The sheriff, however, was really a good-natured and conscientious man, and would not lend himself to a dishonorable act, nor had he ever been kno-\\Ti to do so. "V\Tien he aj)peared, Reilly addressed him : " I am here, sir," said he, "under a charge of having robbed you. The charge against aie is ridiculous. I am a gentleman, and never was under the necessity of having re- course to such unlav.ful means of raising jioney." "Well," replied the sheriff, "your dress is precisely the same as the fellow wore when he robbed me. But I feel confident that j^ou are not the man. Your hair is black, his was red, and he had large red whiskers. In the excitement and agitation of the moment I forgot to mark the villain's features dis- tinctly ; but I have since thought over the matter, and I siy that I would now know him if I s:iw hiui iigain. This, however," he added, turning to the constables, " is not the person who robbed and beat me down from my hor.se." " But he may be Willy Reilly, sir, for all that ; and you Icnow the reward that is off- ered for Aw apprehension." "I know Willy Reilly." replied tlie sher- iff, " and I can assure you that this gentle« man is not Willy Reilly. Go, now, continue your pursuit. The robber lurks somewhere in the neighborhood. You know the reward ; catch him, and you shall have it." The constables depai-ted ; and after they had gone the sheriff said, " ]\Ir. Reilly, I know you well ; but I would scom to avail myself of the circum- stance which has thus occurred. I am aware of the motive which urges Sir Robert White- craft against you — so is the whole countiy. That penui'ious and unprincipled villain is thii'sting for your blood. Mr. Hastings, however, has a rod in pickle for him, and lie will be made to feel it in the course of time. The present administration is certainly' an anti-CathoKc one ; but I understand it is tottering, and that a more liberal one will come in. This "WTiitecraft has succeeded in getting some young profligate Catholics to become Protestants, who have, consequently, ousted theu' fathers out of their estates and projoerty ; younger sons, Avho, by this act of treachery, will get the estates into their own j^ossession. The thing is monstrous and un- natural. But let that pass ; Whitecraft is on oui" trail in all directions ; beware of him, I say ; and I think, with gi-eat respect to you, ]\Ii'. Reilly, it is extremely foolish to go abroad in youi* usual apparel, and without disguise." "Sii-," replied Reilly, "I cannot express, as I would A\ash, my deep gratitude to you for your kindness and forbearance. That Sir Robert AVliitecraft is thu'sting for my blood I know. The cause of that vengeance is now notorious." "You know Mr. Hastings, Mi\ Reilly?" "Intimately, sir." " He took your property in his omi name ? " "He did, sir ; he purchased it in his own name. The property was hereditary proj)- erty, and when my title to it, in point of law, as a Cathohc, was questioned, and when one of my family, as a Protestant, put in his claim for it, Mx. Hastings came in as the purchaser, and ousted him. The money wa-s supplied by me. The moment, however, that I found Whitecraft was after me, I im- mediatel}^ sun-endered the whole of it back to him ; so that Sir Robert, in burning what he considered my jDroperty, in fact burned IVIi-. Hastmgs'." " And I have reason to know, IMr. Reilly, that it will be the blackest act of his guilty life. Tliis, however, I mention to j^ou in the strictest confidence. Keep the secret, for if it transpii'ed the scoundrel might escape from the consequences of his own cruelty and oppression. In the meantime, do you WILLY REILLT. 89 take care of yourself — keep out of his way, and, as I said, above all things, procure a disguise. Let the consequences be what they may, I don't think the beautiful Cooleen Jiaicn will ever marry him." " But," replied Reilly, " is there no risk of compulsion by her father ? " " Why, I must confess there is," rephed the sheriff ; " he is obstinate and headstrong, especially if opposed, and she -^-ill find it necessary to oppose him — and she \oill op- pose him. I myself have had a conversation with her on the subject, and she is firm as fate against such a union ; and I will tell you more, Reilly — it was she who principally en- gaged me to protect you as fai' as I could, :ind so I shall, you may rest assured of it. I had only to name you a few minutes ago, and your fate was sealed. But, even if she had never spoken to me on the subject, I could not lend myself to the cruel plots of that villain, (jrod knows, in consequence of my official situation, I am jjut upon tasks that are very painfvd to me ; le%Ting fines from men who are harmless and inoffensive, who are peace- able members of society, who teach the people to be moral, well conducted, and obedient to the laws, and who do not them- selves violate them. Now," he added, "be ad\-ised by me, and disguise yom-self." " Sir," said Reilly, " your sentiments do you honor ; I am this moment on my way to put on a disguise, which has been procvu-ed for me. I agree with you and other fiiends that it Avould be impossible for me to remain in the coimtr}- in my ovax natvu-al aspect and dress. Allow me, before I go, to express my sense of your kindness, and beUeve me I shall never forget it." "The disguise, above all things," said the sheriff, smiling and holding out his hand. Reilly seized it with a warm pressiu'e ; they bid each other fai'eweU, and so they parted. Reilly then wound his way to the cottage of ^Ii's. Buckley, but not by the pubUc road. He took across the fields, and, in due time, reached her humble habitation. Here he found the disguise, which liis friend Fergus had provided — a haLf-wom frieze coat, a half-worn caubeen, and a half-worn pair of coi'duroy breeches, clouted brogues, and Connemara stockings, also the worse for the wear, with two or thi'ee coarse shirts, in perfect keeping ^\ith the other portion of tiie disguise. " WeD, jMrs. Buckley," said he, " how have you been since I saw you last ? " " Oh, then, Mr. Reilly," said she, " it's a miracle fi'om God that j'ou did not think of stopping here ! I had several ^'isits from the i sogers who came out to look for you." " Well, I suppose so, IMrs. Buckley ; but j it was one comfort that they did not find me." " God be praised for that ! " replied the poor woman, with tears in her eyes ; " it would a' broken my lieart if you had been catched in my little place." "But, Mrs. Buckley," said Reilly, "were there any plain clothes left for me here ? " "Oh, indeed there wa.s, sir," she repUed, " and I have them safe for you ; but, in the meantime, I'll go outside, and have an eye about the countrj', for somehow they have taken it into then* heads that this would be a very likely place to find you." While she was out, Reilly changed his dress, and in a few minutes underwent such « metamorphosis that poor ili-s. Buckley, on re-entering the house, felt quite akirmed. " Heavenly Father ! my good man, where did you come fi'om ? I thought I left !Mi-. — " here she stopped, afraid to mention Reilly's name. " Don't be alarmed, ]Mrs. Buckley," said Reilly; "I am only changed in outward appeai'ance ; I am your time friend still ; and now accept this for j-our kindness," placing money in her hand. "I can't, ]\Ii'. Reilly; you are under the persecutions, arid will want all the money you have to supj^ort yourself. Didn't the thieves of the devil bui-n you out and rob you, and how can you get through this wicked world without money — keep it your- self, for I don't want it." " Come, come, Mrs. Buckley, I have mon- ey enough ; you must take tins ; I only ask you to conceal these clothes in some place whei'e the hell-hounds of the law can't find them. And now, good-by, ]\lrs. Buckley ; I shall take care that, whatever may hajjpen me, you shall not be disturbed out of your httle cabin and your garden." The tears ran down the poor old woman's cheeks, and Reilly left her sobbing and ciy- ing behind him. This indeed was an event- ful day to him. Strong in the confidence of his disguise, he took the pubhc road, and had not gone far when he met a party of Sii- Robert "SATiitecraft's. To fly would have been instant ruin ; he accordingly com- menced an old L-ish song at the verj- top of his lungs. Su' Robert Whitecraft was not himself of the party, but scarcely any indi- vidual was met by them whom they did not cross-examine. "Hallo, my good fellow," said the leader of the party, " what is that you're singin' ? " Reilly stared at him Uke a man who was sorely puzzled ; "Ha neil bearla agum ; " that is, "I have no English." "Here, Connor, you can speak Irish; sift this able-bodied tyke." 90 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. A conversation in that lan^age then took place between tliem which reflected ever- lasting honoi' upon Connor, who, by the way. was one of Reilly's tenants, but himself and his progenitoi-s were Protestants for three generations. He was a shai-p, keen man, but generous and honorable, and after two or three glances at our hero, at once recognized him. This he could only intimate by a wink, for he knew that there were other persons there who spoke L*ish as well as either of them. The dialogue, however, was not long, neither was it kind-hearted Connor's wish that it should be so. He was asked, however, if he knew any thing about Willy Riley, to which he repUed that he did not, only by aU accounts he had left the country. This, indeed, was the general opinion. "This blockhead," said Connor, "knows nothing about him, only what he has heard ; he's a pig dealer, and is now on his way to the fair of Shgo ; come on.'' They passed onwards, and Eeill}' resumed his journey and his song. On reaching the fai'mer's house where he and the bishop lodged, the unhappy prelate felt rather annoyed at the appearance of a stranger, and was about to reprove theii' host for his carelessness in admitting such persons. " AVhat do you want here, my good man ? " inquii-ed the farmer. " Do you wish to say anything to me?" asked the bishop. "A few words," repHed Eeilly ; but, on consideration, he changed his pui'pose of plapng oft' a good-humored joke on his lord- ship and the farmer. For the melancholy prelate he felt the deepest compassion and respect, and apprehended that any tam-oer- ing wdth his feelings might be attended with dangerous consequences to his intellect. He consequently changed his pui-jDose, and add- ed, " My lord, don't you know me? " The bishop looked at him, and it was not without considerable scrutiny that he recog- nized him. In the meantime the farmer, who had left the room previous to this explanation, and who looked upon EeiUy as an impostor or a spy, returned with a stout oaken cudgel, ex- claiming, " Now, 5'ou damned desaver, I wiU give you a jacketfial of sore bones for com- in' to pr}' about here. This gintleman is a doctor ; three of my family are lying ill of faver, and that you may catch it I jiray gorra this day ! but if you won't catch that, you'll catch this," and he whirled the cudgel about his head, and most unquestionably it would have descended on Reilly s cranium were it not for the bishop, who interposed and pre- vented the meditated violence. "Be quiet, Kelly," said he, " be quiet, siTi this is Mr. Reilly disguised." " Troth, I must look closely at him first," replied Kelly ; "who knows but he's impos' in' upon you. Dr. Wilson ? " Kelly then looked closely into his facOf still holding a firm gi-ip of the cudgel ""WTiy, Kelly," said Reilly, "what the deuce are you at? Don't you know my voice at least ? " " Well," replied Kelly, " bad luck to the like o' that ever I see. Holy Moses, Mr. Reilly, but you had a narrow escape, Devil a man in the barony can handle a cudgel as I can, and it was a miracle, and you may thank his lordship here for it that you hadn't a shirtful of sore bones." " WeU, my dear friend," said Reilly, "put up yoiu' cudgel ; I really don't covet a shirt- ful of sore bones ; but, after aU, perhaps you woidd have found my fist a match for j'our cudgel." " Nonsense ! " replied Kelly ; " but God be praised that you escaped the welting anyhow ; I would never forgive myself, and you the fiiend of his lordship." He then left the room, liis terrific cudgel under his arm, and Reilly, after his absence, related to the bishop the events of the day, invohing, as they clid, the two narrow es- capes which he had had. The bishop thanked God, and told Reilly to be of good courage, for that he thought the hand of Providence was protecting him. The life they led here was, at all events, quiet and peaceable. The bishop was a man of singular, indeed of ajDostolic, piety. He spent most of the day in meditation and prayer ; fasting beyond the powers of his enfeebled constitution : and indeed it "was fortujiate that Reilly had accompanied him, for so ascetic were his habits that were it not for his entreaties, and the influence which he had gained over him, it is not at all unlikely that his vrnfortunate malady might have returned. The neighborhood in which they resided w^as, as we have said, re- mote, and exclusively Cathohc ; and upon Sundays the bishop celebrated mass upon a Httle grassy platform — or rather in a little cave, into which it led. This cave was small, barely large enough to contain a table, which sei'ved as a temporary altar, the poor shiver- ing congi'egation kneeling on the platform outside. At this period of our story aU the Catholic chapels and places of worslajD were, as we have said, closed by proclamation, and the poor people were deprived of the means of meeting to worship God. It had soon, however, become known to them that an op- portunity of jDublic worship was to be had every Sunday, at the place we have described WILLY RE ILLY. J>l Messengers had been sent among them with information to that effect ; and the conse- quence was that they not only kept the secret, but flocked in considerable numbers to attend mass. On the Sunday following the adoption of Reilly's disguise, the bishop and he proceeded to the little cave, or rather cleft, where a table had been placed, togeth- er with the vestments necessary for the cere- mony. They found about two or three hundred i:)ersons assembled — most of them of the humblest class. The day was stormy m the extreme. It was a hard frost, and the snow, besides, falling hea\-ily, the wind strong, and raging in hollow gusts about the place. The position of the table-altar, however, saved the bishop and the chaUce, and the other matters necessary for the per- formance of worshij), from the direct fury of the blast, but not altogether ; for occasion- ally a whirlwind would come up, and toss over the leaves of the missal in such a way, and with such ^'iolence, that the bishop, who was now trembling fi'om the cold, was ob- hged to lose some time in finding out the proper passages. It was a solemn sight to see two or three hundred persons kneeling, and bent in jorostrate and he;U'tfelt adora- tion, in the pious wor-shij) of that God who sends and withholds the stoi-m ; bai'eheaded, too, imder the piercing drift of the thick- falling granular snow, and thinking of noth- ing but their own sins, and that gladsome opportunity of api^roaching the fo'-bidden altju" of God, now doubly dear to tliem that it it'a.s forbidden. As the ceremony was pro- ceeding the bishop was getting on to that portion of the sacred rites where the conse- cration and elevation of the Host are neces- saiy, and it was obseiwed by all that an extraordinary and sudden lull took place, and that the rage of the storm had altogether ceased. He proceeded, and had consecrated the Host — hoc est corpus meum — when aciy of terror arose from the affrighted congregation. " 'Sly lord, fly, and save yourself ! Captain Smellpriest and liis gang are upon us." The bishop never once turned round, nor seemed to hear them ; but Reilly did, and saw that the whole congi-egation had fled, and that there only remained the bishop and himself. ' " Our day of doom," said he to himself, ' " is come. Nothing now can save us." Still the bishop proceeded undisturbed in | the worship of the Almighty ; when, lo ! the ' military party, headed and led on by the notorious Captain Smellpriest, came thun- dering up, the captain exclaiming : \ " You idolatrous Papist, stop that raum- merj' — or you shall have twelve bullets in vour heart before half a minute's time." i The bishop had consecrated the Host, as we have said, but had not yet had time to receive it. " Men," said Smellpriest, " you are all primed and loaded. Present." They accordingly did so ; every musket was levelled at him. The bishop now tui'ned round, and, with the ciJmness of a martyr — a calmness and conduct that were sublime — he said : " Sir, I am engaged in the worship of the Eternal God, and if you ^^dsh to shed my blood I should rather it were here and now than in any other place. Give me but a few minutes — I do not ask more." " Oh," said Smelli^riest, "we will give you ten, if you wish it, and the more so because we are sure of you." "\Mien the bishop turned round again, after ha^•ing received the Host, his pale face had altogether changed its complexion — it biu-ned with an expression which it is difii- cult to describe. A lofty sense of the sacri- fice he was about to make was A'isible in his kindling and enthusiastic eye ; his feeble frame, that had been, duiing the ceremony of mass, shivering under the effects of the terrible^ storm that howled around them, now became firm, and not the sUghtest mark of fear or terror was visible in liis bearing ; calmly and undauntedly he turned rovind, and with a voice full and steady he said : " I am willing to die for my rehgion, but I say to j-ou that the slaughter of an inoffen- sive man at the foot of God's altar will not smooth the i^illow of your deathbed, nor of those who shoot down a minister of God while in the act of worshipping his Crea- tor. My congregation, poor timid creatures, have fled, but as for me, I will not ! I dare not ! Here, now, I spread out my arms- fire ! " "I also," said Keilly, "wiU partake of whatever fate may befall the venerable clergA'man who is before you," and he stood up side by side with the bishop. The gims were still levelled, the fingers of the men on the triggers, when Smellpriest shouted out, "Ground arms! By ," says he, " here is a new case ; this fellow has spvmk and courage, and curse me, although I give the priests a chase wherever I can, still I am a soldier, and a man of courage, and to shoot down a priest in the worship of God would be cowardly. No, I can't do it — nor I won't ; I hke pluck, and this priost has shown it. Had he taken to his heels, liy , he woidd have had half a dozen bullets in his rear ; but, as I said, I like pluck, and on that account we shall pass him by this time. To the right about. As to the clerk, by , he has shown pluck 92 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. too, but be hanged to bim, what do we caxe about him f " "We must &iy a word or two liere about Smellpriest. He was, in the time sense of the word, a priest-hunter ; but yet, with all his bijj^otry, he was a brave man, and could appreciate courajj^e wherever he found it. The reader already knows that his range of persecution was by no means either so mde or so comprehensive as that of the cowaixl ^\^iitecl*aft. He was a dashing, outspoken fellow, with an equal portion of boisterous folly and mischief ; whereas AVhitecraft was a perfect snake — treacherous, cruel, persever- ing in his enmity, and unrelenting in his vengeance. Such was the difference in the character of these two worthies. After Smellpriest had drawn off his men, the bishop concluded the ceremony of the mass ; but when he turned round to an- nounce its conclusion in the words, ite, missa ^^■^ there was not a soul before him, the ter- litied congregation, as we have said, ha-\ing all betaken themselves to flight. Keilly then assisted him to unrobe, and placed the vest- ments, the chahce, pix, and every thing con- nected ^^-ith the ceremony, in a pair of sad- dle-bags, which belonged to the paiish priest, whose altar was then closed, as we said, by proclamation. Eeilly and the bishop then proceeded to the farmer's house, Reilly carrying the saddle- bags, and as they went along the following conversation took place between them : " My lord," said his companion, " if I might presume to ad\-ise you, I think it would be more prudent for you to retire to the Conti- nent for a time. This ferocious captain, who, subdued by the sublime tenor of your con- duct, spared you on this occasion, may not under other and less impressive cii'cumstan- ces, exercise a similar forbearance." " But, my dear ReiUy," replied the bishop, in a tone of deep melancholy, " I am not in circumstances to go to tlie Continent ; I am poor ; most of ray available money I have distributed among the unhappy people, until I am now nearly as poor as themselves ; but, independently of that, I do not think it would be right to abandon the charge which God has entrusted to my keeping. The shf^pherd should not desert his flock, espe- cially in the moment of danger, when the wolves ai-e abi'oad." "But, my lord," replied Reilly, "under the present circumstances of the country your residence here can be of no sendee to them. The chapels are all closed, and pub- he worship forbidden by law. This cannot, and, I hope, will not. last long ; but in the meantime, think if it be not wiser in you to go for a time into what I may call a volvm- tar\' exile, than be forced into banishment b; a cruel edict of the law, as you will be if you should be discovered." " There is great truth in what you say, my dear lieilly, and on thinking over the cii-cum- stixnces of the countr\', I am indeed of opin- ion that your advice is good ; but, unfortu- nately, my present poverty prevents me fi'om acting on it." "But that shall not be, rtvy lord ; I have the means — amply, too — of enabling youi lordship to withdi'aw to the Continent, where j'ou can remain quite safe imtil bettei times I'eturn, as I hojDe in God they will soon." "And yourself, Reilly? why not accom- pany me ? You, it is said, are outlawed ; why then remain in a countiy where your danger is still gi-eater than mine ? " " My lord," replied Reilly, " do not press me on that subject." " I do not wish to do so, Reillj' ; but here are the circumstances : you and the beauti- ful daughter of that old squire are attached — in other words, you love each other pas- sionately. Now, you know, marriage is im- possible, unless you should abandon the creed of your fathers." "I think, my lord," replied Reilly, in 9 very serious and somewhat offended tone, "that my conduct this day, and within the last haK hour, was not that of a man hkelj to abandon the creed of his fathers." "Certainly not — most certainly not," re^ phed the bishop. " I vv'ould have died thia day for my religion, and so would you." " And so woiild I certainly, my lord, any day, sooner than renounce it for the love ol woman. So far let your lordship's mind be at rest. But in the meantime, let me im- press upon your lordship's consideration the absolute necessity of retiring to the Conti- nent for a time. Your lordship's chaiity has made j-ou poor ; but, thank God, I am not poor — but in a position to j)lace £200 in your hands to enable you to bear the expenses of your voyage, and to maintain your ecclesi- astical rank and position for a time, when you get there." "Oh," replied the bishop, "if I were once there, very httle money would be necessary ; I could almost immediately get a professor- ship of divinity, especially in the College of Louvain, where I held a professorship for several years." It was arranged that the bishop should go, at least until the times should change, and in the course of a week, Reilly having fur- nished him with the necessary' funds, he de- parted and reached the Continent in safety. Their separation was extremely affecting. The bishop wept bitteiiy, not only in con- WILLY RE ILLY. 91 sequence of his parting with Reilly, but still more because he was forced to separate him- self from his flock. Eeilly was deeply affected, nor could he restrain his tears. The bishop put his hand on his head and blessed him. "I feel," said he, "as if it were a prophetic impulse, that God will bring you out of the tribulations that encompass you. Forget not his word nor his law ; love and adhere to your religion ; be guided by its jDrecepts, let them sink deejDl}- into your heart. Take care, also, that the love of woman shall not seduce you from j'our dllegiance to our Chui'ch. And now, may the Almighty God bless and protect you, and rescue you from the hands and the snares of yoiu* enemies ! " And so they parted. No stronger proof could exist, so far as the Cooleen Bawa was concerned, than her extra- ordinaiT power of conciliating love and at- tachment fi'om all who approached her, or wei'e engaged in attending upon her person. The singulai" softness of her sweet and mel- low voice was in itself an exponent of the re- miu'kable suavity and benignit}' of her dis- position. In fact, she carried a charm about her — an atmosphei'e of Icindness and benevo- lence that no human being who came within its influence could resist. Her smile was a perfect fascination, which, in addition to her elegance of form — her grace and harmony of motion — her extensive charity — her noble liberality of sentiment — and, above all, her dazzling beauty, constituted a chai'acter which encircled her with admiration and something almost bordeiing on worship. At this time a scheme came into the fertile brain of Whitecraft, worthy of being con- cocted only in the infernal pit itself. This was to prevail on the squii-e to remove her faithful, attached, and confidential maid, Ellen Connor, fx'om about her person, under the plea that as, unfortunately. Miss Folliard had been seduced into an affection for Keilly, • it was not only probable that her attendant had originated and encouraged her passion, but that it was alsci likely that, as Reilly was a Catholic, Connoir tlie confidant, being her- self of that persuasi< /n, might so woi'k upon the feelings and principles of his daughter as to induce her, for the sake of the more easily bringing about their marriage, to abandon her own rehgion, and embrace that of her lover. The old man became instantly alarm- ed, and, with his usual fiery impetuosity, lost not a moment in dismissing her altogether fi'om his f unily. ^ When this faithful girl found that she was about to be separated from her fiir and affect'onate young mistress, no languagecould ; depict the violence of her grief, nor could '; that mistress herself refuse the tribute of her tears to her sense of the loss which she knew she must sustain by her absence at a crisis wlien she stood so much in need of her friendship and attachment. " Oh ! it is not for myself, my dear mistress, that I feel this grief," exclaimed Connor, weeping bitterly as she spoke, " but for yoa Here you will be alone," she proceeded, " without one being on whom you can de- pend, or to whom you can open your heaii — for many a time you eased that poor heart by telling me of your love for him, and bj dwellin' upon his accomphshments and beau- ty — and, indeed, it's no wonder you should, for where, oh ! where is his aiquil to be found ? Like youi'self, every one that comes near him must Jove him ; and, like you, again, isn't he charity itself to the poor, no matter what their creed may be — oh, no ! it's he that IS neither the bigot nor the oppressor, although God he knows what he himself is sufferin' from both. God's curse on that blasted Sir Robert ^Miiteci'aft ! I declare to mercy, I think, if I was a man, that I'd shoot him, like a mad dog, and fi'ee the country of him at wanst." The Cooleen was herself in tears, occasioned by such a glowing picture of her lover, as well as by the loss of this faithful and de- voted girl. Yet she could not repress a smile at the indignation exj^ressed by Ellen against the man whom she looked upon with such detestation and abhorrence. "My dear EUen," said she, drying her tears, " we must only have jDatience. Every thing is in the hands of God, and in him let us ti-ust. Do not weep so. It is true that, without your society, I shall feel as if I were in a desert, or rather, I should say, in a dungeon ; for, indeed, I fear that I am about to become a prisoner in my father's house, and entangled more and more every day in the meshes of that detestable villain. In the meantime, we must, as I said, have courage and patience, and trust to a change of cir- cumstances for better times." " Ma}' the Lord in heaven grant them soon and sudden, for both your sakes," ejaculated Ellen. "I pray the Sa\'iour that he may ! " " But, Ellen," said the Cooleen, " didn't you hint to me, once or twice, that you yourself have, or had, a lover named Reilly ? " " I did," she replied, " not that I have, but that I had — and, Avhat is more, an humble and distant relation of hU." " You say you had. "SMiat do you mean by that, Ellen * Have you, too, experienced your crosses and calamities ? " " Indeed, ma'am, I have had my share ; and I know too well what it is to have the heart within as fxill of sorrow, and all but broken." 94 WILLIAM QARLETON'S WORKS. " Why, my poor girl, and have you too ex- perienced disappointment and affliction ? " " God, ma'am, has given me my share ; but, in my case, the affliction was greater than the disappointment, although that too came soon enough upon me." " Wliy, did not the affliction, in your case, proceed from the disappointment?" "Not exactly, miss, but indeed partly it did. It's but a^ short story, my dear mistress, and I'll tell it to you. Fergus is his name — Fergus O'Reilly. His father, for doin' some- thing or other contrary to the laws — har- borin' some outlaw, I believe, that was a relation of his own, and who was found by the army in liis house — well, his father, a very ould man, was taken prisoner, and put into jail, where he died before they could try him ; and well it was he did so, for, by all accounts, they'd have transported or hanged the poor ould man, who was then past seventy. Now, over and above that, they'd have done the same thing with his son Fergus, but that he disappeared and but few knows what became of him." " Why, did he go without having had an inteniew ^\ith you '? " asked the Cooleen. " Indeed he did, miss, and small blame to him ; for the truth is, he- had little time for leavetakin'- — it was as much as he could do to make his escape, which, thank God, he did. But, indeed, I oughtn't to thank God for it, I doubt, because it would have been better, and ten times more creditable to himself, if he had been transported, or hanged itself — for that, ma'am, is many a good man's case, as every one knows." "I agree with you, EUen. There is, in- deed, a most essential difference between flagitious crimes, such as theft, robbeiy, mur- der, and other dreadful outrages of that char- acter, and those which may be termed offences arising from political opinions, which are often honestly entertained by indi^^duals who, in all the relations of life, are sometimes the most exemplary members of society. But proceed, Ellen — what was the result?" Poor Ellen's eyes filled with tears, and she could scai-cely summon composiu'e enough to reply : " Worse than transportation or even death, my dear misti-ess ; oh ! far worse — guilt and crime. Yes : he that had gained my affec- tions, and gave me his, joined the Red Rap- paree and his gang, and became — a robber. I was goin' to say an outlaw, but he was that before he joined them, because he wouldn't submit to the laws — that is, wouldn't submit to be transpoa-ted, or maybe hanged — or you know, ma'am, how little a thing it is that wiU either hang or transport any one of our unfoiiunate creed now " " Alas ! my dear EUen, you forget that \ am a living witness of it, and an afflicted one ; but proceed. Have you ever seen yoiir lorej since ? " " I did, ma'am, but at that time he men- tioned nothing about his havin' joined the Rapparees. He came, he said, to bid me fai-ewell, and to tell me that he wasn't worthy of me. ' The stain that's upon me,' said he, 'draws a gulf between you and me that neither of us can ever pass.' He could scarcely speak, but he dashsd away the tears that came to his eyes — and — and — so he took his departure. Now, my dear young mis- tress, you see how well I can understand yoiu' case, and the good reason I have to feel for you, as I do, and ever will, until God in his mercy may set you both free from what you're sufferin'." "But, are you certain, Ellen, that he actu- ally has joined the Rapparees ?" " Too sure, ma'am — too siire ; my father had it in private from his own hps, for, as the poor boy said, he hadn't the courage himsell to teU me." "But, EUen," asked Miss FoUiard, "where had you an opportunity of seeing and becom- ing acquainted with this young man ? You surely could not have known him, or con- ceived an attachment for him, previous to your coming to reside with us ? " " Oh, no, ma'am," replied EUen ; " it was at my father's I became acquainted with him, principally whenever I got lave to spend a Simday at home. And now, my dear mis- tress," she proceeded, sobbing, " I must go — your poor, faithful EUen wiU never let you, nor the thought of yowv sorrows, out of her heart. AU she can do now is to give you her prayers and her tears. FareweU ! my darlin' mistress — may the blessing of God guard and prosper you both, and bring you to the happiness you deserve." She wept bitterly as she concluded. " EUen," rej)lied her mistress, and she paused — " Ellen," said she again — she would, indeed, have spoken, but, after a sUent strug- gle, she covered her eyes with her bandker- chief, and was fahly carried away by her emotions — "Ellen," said she, taiking her hand, and recovering herself, " be of courage ; let neither of us despair — a brighter light may shine on our path yet. Perhaps I may have it in my power to befriend you, here- after. Farewell, Ellen ; and if I can prevaU on my father to bring you back, I wiU." And so they pai-ted. Connor's father was a tenant of the squire's, and held rather a comfortable farm of about eighteen or twenty acres. EUen herself had, when very young, been, by some accident or otlier, brought within the notice of Mrs WILLY RE ILLY. 9ft Pblliard, who, having been stnick by her vivacity, neatness of figure, and good looks, begged permission from her parents to take the little girl under her care, and train her up to wait upon her daughter. She had now been eight years in the squire's family — that is, since her fourteenth — and was only two years older than the Cooleen Bawn, who was Qow, and had been for the last three years, her only mistress. She had consequently grown, 'is it were, into all her habits, and we may justly say that there was not an individ- ual in e ustence who had a better opportunity of kno'H ing and appreciating her good quaU- ties ancl \irtues ; and, what was much to her ho-nor, she never for a moment obtruded her O'Kn private sorrows uj)on the ear or heart of her mistress, who, she saw, had a sufficient number of her own to beai\ It was late in the evening when she took farewell of her mistress, and twilight had come on ere she had got within half mile of her father's house. On crossing a stile wliich led, by a pathway, to the little hamlet in which her father lived, she was both sur- prised and startled by perceiving Fergus Keilly approach her. He was then out of his disguise, and dressed in his own clothes, for he could not prevail upon himself to approach her father's house, or appear before any of the famil)% in the tattered garb of a mendi- cant. On this occasion he came to tell them that he had abandoned the gang of the Rod Rapparee, and come to the resolution of seek- ing his pardon fi-om the Government, having been informed that it offered protection to all who would come in and submit to the laws, pro%T.ded they had not been guilty of shedding human blood. This intelligence, however, was communicated to the family, as a means of preparing them for still more important information u^Don the subject of his own liberty — a matter with which the reader will soon become acquainted, as he will with the fact of his having left off his disguise only for a brief period. In the meantime, he felt perfectly conscious of the risk he ran of a failure in the accomjDlishment of his own project, by throwing off' his disguise, and was then hastening on his way to the cottage of widow Buckley, Avhere he had left his mendicant apparel for the time being. When Ellen saw him she felt a tumult in her bosom which almost overcame her. Her heart palpitated almost audibly, and her knees became feeble under her. Tliere was something so terrible associated with the idea of a Rapparee that she took it for granted that some frightful transformation of person and character must have taken place in him, and that she would now meet fi man thoroughly imbued with all the frightful and savage vices which were so fro. quently, and too often so generally, attril> uted to that fierce and formidable class. Still, the recollection of their former afiec- tion, and her knowledge of the oppression which had come upon himself and his family, induced her to hope that the princi- ples of humanity could not have been alto- gether effaced from his heart. Full of doubt and anxiety, therefore, she paused at the stQe, against which she felt it neces- sary to lean for support, not without a touch of interest and somewhat of curiosity, to control the vague apprehensions which she could not help feeling. We need scarcely inform the reader that the meeting on both sides was accidental and unexpected. " Heavenly Father ! " exclaimed Ellen, in a voice trembling with agitation, "is this Fergus O'Reilly that I see before me ? Fer- gus, iiiined and undone ! " She then looked cautiously about her, and added, "Fergus, the RapjMree ! " " God bless me ! " he exclaimed in return, " and may I ask, is this Ellen Connor on my path ? " " Well, I think I may say so, in one sense. Sure enough, I am Ellen Connor ; but, un- fortunately, not the Ellen Connor that you wanst knew ; neither, unfortunately again, are you the Fergus O'Reilly that / wanst knew. We are both changed, Fergus — I into sorrow, and you into crime." "Ellen," said he, nearly as much agitated as herself, " I stand before you simply as Ferg-us O'Reilly, but not Fergus the Rap- j)aree." "You will not deny your own words to my father," she rejjhed. "No, Ellen, I will not — they were time then, but, thank God, they are not true 7io it'." " How is that, Fergus ? '" " Simply because I was a Rapparee when I spoke to yom- father ; but I have left them, once and for ever." " How long have you left them ?" " Ever since that night. If it were not for Reilly and those that were out with him duck-shooting, the red villain would have murdhered the squire and Andy Cummiskey^ as sure as there is life in my body. After all, it is owin' to Mr. Reilly that I left him and his cursed crew. And now, Ellen, that I have met 3'ou, let me spake to you about ould times. Li the first place, I am heart sorry for the step I took ; but you know it was oppression and persecution that di'ove me to it." "Fergus," she rephed, " that's no excuse. Persecution may come upon us, but that's no reason why we should allow it to drive us into evil and crime. Don't 3'ou know that 96 WILLIAM CAELETON'S WOIilCS. it's such conduct that justifies the per- secutors in theii- own ejes and in the eyes of the world. What will become of you now ? If you're caught, you must die a shameful death." " De^^l a fear of it, my darlin' Ellen. I could tell you something, if I thought myself at hberty to do so — something mamurneen, that 'ud give you a hght heart." " Indeed, Fergus, I don't wish to hear any of your secrets. It's my opinion they would not be fit for me to hear. But in the mane time," she added— prompted by the undying piiiiciple of female curiosity, and, let us add, a better and more generous feeling — " in the mane time, Fergus, if it's any thing about yourself, and that it would give me a light heart, as you say it would, and that there is nothing MTong and dishonorable in it, I would, /(37' your sate, be glad to hear it." " WeU tiien, EDen, I will tell it ; but it must, for reasons that there's no use in men- tionin' to you, be a secret between us, for some time — not a long time, I hope. I sxm, thank God, free as the air of heaven, and may walk abroad, openly, in the face of day, if I like, without any one darin' to ask me a question." "But, Fergus," said Ellen, "I don't un- dherstand this. You were a robber — a Eap- paree — and now. you are a free man. But what did you do to deseiTe this at the hands of the Government ? " "Don't be alarmed, my darhn' Ellen — nothing unbecomin' an honest man." "I hope," she proceeded — her cheeks mantling with indignation and scorn — "I hope, Fergus, you wouldn't think of stoopia' to treachery against the unfortunate, ay, or even against the gniilt}'. I hoj^e you wouldn't sell yourself to the Government, and get 3'our Hberty, afther all, only as a bribe for villany, instead of a free gift." "See, now," he retiu'ned, "what I have brought on myself by tellin' you any thing at all about it — a regular ould house on my shouldhers. No, darlin'," he j)roceeded, " you ought to know me better." " Oh, Fergus," she i-eplied quickly, " I thought I knew you wanst." " Is that generous, Ellen ? " he said, in a tone of deep and melancholy feeling, " afther statin' my sorrow for that stej:) ? " "Well," she replied, moved by what she saw he suffered in consequence of her words, " if I have given you pain, Fergus, forgive me — you know it's not in my nature to give pain to any one, but, above all persons in the world, to you." "Well, darlin'," said he, "you will know all in time ; but there is a good deal to be done yet. All I can say, and all I wiU say, is, that if God spares me life, I ■will tate away one of the blackest enemies that WiUy Reiiiy and the Cooleen Bawn has in exist- ence. He would do any thing that the vil- 1am of perdition he's a slave to would bid him. Now, I'll say no more ; and I'm sure, as the friend of your beautiful mistress, the ixix Cooleen Bawn, you'll thank me for what I have promised, to do against the Eed Eapparee." "I will pry no fiu-ther into your affairs or intentions, Fergus ; but, if yon can take danger out of the way of the Cooleen Bawn or Reilly, I will forgive you a great deal — ■ every thing, indeed, but treacheiy or dis- honor. But, Fergus, I have something to mention that will take a start out of you. I have been discharged by the squire fi'om his family, and — mavrone, oh ! — I can now be of no sei-vice to the Cooleen Bawn." " Discharged ! " rephed Fergus with as- tonishment ; " why, how did that come ? But I suppose I needn't ask — some of the mad old JSquire's tantrums, I suppose ? And what did the Cooleen Baton herself sa}^ ? " "Why, she cried bitterly when I was lavin' her ; indeed if I had been her sister she couldn't feel more ; and, as might be ex- pected from her, she promised to befriend me as long as she had it in her poAver ; but, poor thing, if matters go against her, as I'm afeared they wiU — if she's forced to marry that villain, it't: little for any thing that's either good or generous ever she'll have in her power ; but marry him she never will. I heard her say more than wanst that she'd take her owti life first ; and indeed I'm sar- tain she will, too, if she's forced to it. Either that, or she'll lose her senses ; for, indeed, Fergus, the darlin' girl was near losm' them wanst or twic't as it is — may God pity and relieve her." "Amen," rephed Fergus. "And you're now on your way home, I suppose ? " " I am," said Ellen, " and every thing be- longin' to me is to be sent to my father's ; but indeed, Fergus, I don't much care now what becomes of me. My hajDpiness in this world is bound up in hers ; and if she's to be sunk in grief and sorrow, I can never be otherwise — we'll have the one fate, Fergus, and God grant it may be a happy one, al- though I see no likehhood of it." " Come, come, Ellen," replied Fergus, " you think too much of it. The one fate I No, you won't, sinless it is a happy one. 1 am now free, as I said ; and at present I seG nothing to stand between your haj)pinesa and mine. We loved one another every bit as well as Reilly and she does — ay, and do still, I hope ; and if they can't be happy, that's no raison why you and I shouldn't WILLY RE ILLY. 97 Pappy ! There's nothing to prevent us from bein' so. I am free, as I said ; and all we have to do is to lave this unfortunate country and go to some other, where there's neither oppression nor persecution. If you consent to this, Ellen, I can get the means of bringing us away, and of settlin' comfor- tably in America." " And I to leave the Cooleen Baton in the uncertain state she's in ? No, never, Fergus . — never." " Why ? of what use can you be to her now, and you separated fi'om her — ay, and without the power of doia' any thing to sarve her ? " "Fergus," said she, resolutely, "it's use- less at the present time to speak to me on this subject. I'm glad you've got yourself fi'om among these cruel and unconscionable Eaj)parees — I'm glad you're fi-ee ; but I tell you that if you had the wealth of Squire Folliard — -ay, or of "WTiitecraft himseK, which they say is stiU greater, I wouldn't become your wife so long as she's in the state she's in." "That's strong language, Ellen, and I am sorrj' to heai' it from you. IMy God ! can you think of nobody's happiness but the Cooleen Bawn's ? As for me, it's my opinion I like EeiUy as well every bit as you do her ; but, for all that, not even the state he's in, nor the danger that surrounds him, would prevent me fx'om marr^in' a vdie — fi-om iDindin' your heart and mine together for life, my darhn' Ellen." " Ah ! Fergus, you're a man — not a woman — and can't undherstand what true attach- ment is. You men never can. You're a selfish set — at least the most of you are — with some excei^tions, I grant." " And, upon my soul, EUen," replied Fer- gus, with a good-humored smile, " I'm one of the choicest and natest of the exceptions. I prefer everybody's happiness to m}' own — poor Sii- Eobert \\^iitecraft's, for instance. Now, don't you caU that generosity ? " She gave a mournful smile, and repHed, " Fergus, I can't join in your mirth now as I used to do. Many a pleasant conversation we've had ; but then our hearts were light, and free from care. No, Fergus, you must lave aU thoughts of me aside, for I will have nothing of either love or courtship till I know her fate. ^\Tio can say but I may be brought back ? She said she'd try what she could do with her father to e£fect it. You know how whimsical the old Squire is ; and who knows whether she may not stand in need of me again? But, Fergus, there's one thing strikes me as odd, and, indeed, that doesn't rise you much in my good opin- ion. But fii'st, let me ask you, what friend it is who'd give you the means of going to another countrj' ? " " Why, who else but ReHly ? " he replied. "And could you," she retui-ned, ^vith something Hke contempt stamped upon her pretty featui-es — " could you he mane and imgrateful enough to leave him now in the trouble and son*ow that he's in, and think only of yourself ? " " No, indeed, my dear EUen ; but I was only layin' the plan whenever we might be able to put it in practice. I'm not exactly a boy of that kidney — to desart my friend in the day of his trouble — devil a bit of it, my darlin'." " Well, I am glad to hear you speak as you do," she said, with a smile ; "and now, to reward your constancy to him, I teU you that whenever they're settled, or, at all events, out of their troubles, if j-ou think me worih your while, I won't have any ob- jection to become your wife ; and — there — what ai-e you about, Fergus? See this, now — you've almost broken the tortoise-shelj crooked-comb that .s'/ie made nio a present of" " Why, blood ahve, Ellen, sui-e it was only seaHn' the bargain I was." " But remember it is a bargain, and one I'll stick to. Now leave me ; it's gettin' quite dark ; or, if you like, you may see me across the fields." Such, in fact, was the indomitable attach- ment of this faithful girl to her lovely and afi'ectionate mistress that, mth a generosity as imselfish as it was rare, and almost heroic, she never for a moment thought of putting her own happiness or prospects in life in competition "srith those of the Cooleen Baion. The latter, it is true, was conscious of this unparalleled attachment, and appreciated it at its true value. How nobly tliis admirable giii fulfilled her generous pui-pose of abid- ing by the fate and fortimes of her unhappy mistress wiU be seen as the nan-ative goes along. Ellen's appearance in her father's house sur- prised the family not a httle. Tlie expression of sorrow which shaded her verj- handsome featm'es, and a paleness which was unusual to her, alanned them considerably — not so much from any feeling connected with her- self, as from an apprehension that some new distress or calamity had befallen the Cooleen Bawn, to whom they all felt almost as deeply attached as she did herself. After the first affectionate salutations were over, she said, with a languid smile : " I suppose you all wonder to see me here at this hour ; or, indeed, to see me here at aU." "I hope, Ellen," said her father, "that nothing unpleasant has happened to he7\'' B3 WILLIAM CARLETON^'S WORKS. "May the Lord forbid," said lier mother, " and may the Lord take the darhn' creature out of all her troubles. But has there, El- len — has anything happened to her ? " "Nothing more than usual," replied their daughter, "biu'ring that I have been sent away from her — I am no longer her ot\ti maid now." " Giierna ! " exclaimed her mother ; "and what is that for, alanna ? " "Well, indeed, mother, I can't exactly say," repHed Ellen, "but I suppose it is be- cause they knew I loved her too much to be a spy upon her. I have raison, however, to suspect that the villain is at the bottom of it, and that the gii'l who came in my place will act more like a jailer than a maid to her. Of course they're all afraid that she'll nin away with Keilly." "And do you think she will, Ellen?" asked her father. " Don't ask me any such questions," she replied. "It's no matter what I think — and, besides, it's not my business to mention my tnoughts to any one — but one thing I know, it'll go hard if she ever leaves her father, who, I really think, wovQd break his heart if she did." " Oh ! " obsei-ved the father, with a smile, " divil a one o' you girls, Ellen, ever thinks much of father or mother when you have made up yoiu* minds to run away wid your bouchaleena — sorra a taste." " ^ViTa, Brian, will you have sinse,'"' said his wife ; " why wouldn't they think o' them ? " "Did you do it?" he asked, winking at the rest, " when you took a brave start wid myself across Crockaniska, one summer Sun- day night, long ago. Be me sowl, you proved youself as sui5i:)le as a two-year-old — cleared drain and ditch like a bird — and had Tue, when we reached my uncle's, that the ,-^es wor startin' out o' my head." " Bad scran to him, the ould slingpoker ! ■Jo you hear him," she exclaimed, laughing — " never mind him, children ! — troth, he >vent at sich a snail's pace that one 'ud think ifc was to confession he was goin', and that he lid nothing but think of his sins as he went along." " That was bekaise I knew that I had the penance before me," he replied, laughing . also. "Any how," replied his wife, "our case was not hke their's. We were both Catli- oUcs, and knew that we'd have the consent of our friends, besides ; we only made a run- away because it was the custom of the coun- thry, glor}' be to God ! " "Ay, ay," rejoined her husband; "but, faith, it was you that proved yourself the . active gu'l that night, at any rate. However. I hope the Lord will grant her grace to go wid him, at all events, for, upon my sowl, it would be a great boast for the Catholics — bekaise we know there is one thing sure, and that is, that the divil a long she'd be wid him tiU he'd have left her fit to face Europe as a Chi-istian and a Catholic, bekaise every wife ought to go wdd her husband, barrin' he's a Prodestant." Poor Ellen paid httle attention to this conversation. She felt deeply depressed, and, after many severe stiniggles to restrain herself, at last burst into tears. "Come, dai-lin'," said her father, "don't let this affair cast you down so much ; all wiU yet turn out for the betther, I hope. Cheer up, avilluih; maybe that, down-hearted as you are, I have good news for you. Your ould sweetheart was here this evenin', and hopes soon to have his pardon — he's a dacent boy, and has good blood in his veins ; and as for his joinin' O'Donnel, it wasn't a a bad heart set him to do it, but the oppres- sion that dTuv him, as it did many others, to take the steps he took — oppression on the one side, and bitterness of heart on the other." " I saw him awhile ago," she replied, " and he tould me a good deal about himself. But, indeed, father, it's not of him I'm thinkin', but on the darlin' girl that's on the brink of destruction, and what I know she's sufferin'." " I wondher where Eeilly is," said her mother. " My goodness ! sure he ought to make a push, and take her off at wanst. I dunna is he in the covmtry at all ? What do you think, Ellen ? " "Indeed, mother," she replied, "very few, I believe, knows any thing about him. All I'm afraid of is, that, wherever he may be, he'U hardly escape discovery." " Well," said her father, " I'U tell you what we'll do. Let us kneel dowTi and offer up ten pathers, ten aves, and a creed, that the Lord may protect them both from their ene- mies, and grant them a happy marriage, in spite of laws, parliaments, magistrates, spies, persecutors and priest-hunters, and, as our hands are in, let us offer up a few that God may confound that villain, Whitecraft, and bring him snugly to the gallows." This was immediately complied with, in a spii'it of earnestness sui-jDassing probably what they might have felt had they been praj-ing for their own salvation. The prayers having been concluded, and supper prepared, in due time the family retired to rest for the night. When Fergus Reilly took his leave of EUen, he directed his steps to the cottage of .Mrs. .Buckley, ,w.h£r,e,.ior certain purposeiS Willy ueilly. 99 eoiitiecteci with liis desi^^s on the Red Rap- p iree, he had been in the habit of meeting the sagacious fool, Tom Steeple. It "^as there, besides, that he had left his disgxdse, which the unaccomplished progi'ess of his projects rendered it necessary that he should once more resume. This, in fact, was the place of theu' rendezr\-ous, where they gener- ally met at night. These meetings, however, were not always veiy regular ; for poor Tom, notwithstanding his singular and anomalous cunning, was ' sometimes led away by his gastric appetite to hunt for a bully dinner, or a bully supper, or a mug of strong beer, as the case might be, and after a gorge he was frequently so completely overtaken by lazi- ness and a consequent tendency to sleep, that he retired to the bam, or some other out- house, where he stretched his limbs on a shake-do^NTi of hay or straw, and lapped him- self into a state of luxury which many an epicure of rank and wealth might envy. On reaching the Tsidow's cottage, Fergus felt somewhat disappointed that Tom was not there, nor had he been seen that day in any part of the neighborhood. Fergus, how- ever, whilst the widow was keeping watch outside, contrived to get on his old disguise once more, after which he proceeded in the direction of his j^lace of refuge for the night. On crossing the fields, however, towards the wild and lonely road, which warj at no gi-eat distance from the cottage, he met Tom ap- 2^)roaching it, at his usual sling-trot pace. " Is that Tom ? " said he— " tall Tom ? " ■" Hicco, hicco ! " rej^hed Tom, quite grati- fied with the compliment. " You be tall, too — not as tall as Tom dough. Tom got bully dinner to-day, and bully sleep in de bam, aud bully supper, but wasn't sleepy den — hicco, hicco." "Well, Tom, what news about what you know?" " In toder house," rephed Tom ; " him sleeps in Peg Finigan's sometimes, and some- times in toder again — dat is, Maiy ]\Iahon's. Him's afeared o' something — hai'd him say so, sure, to ould Peg." " Well, Tom, if you will keep your ej-e on him, so as that you can let us know where to find him, we 11 engage to give you a bully dinner every day, and a bully supper every night of youi* life, and a swig of stout ale to wash it down, with plenty of straw to sleep on, and a winnow-cloth and lots of sacks to keep you as warm and cosey as a winter hob. You know where to find me every evenin' after dusk, Tom, and when you come with ■ good news, you'll be a made man ; and, listen, Tom, it'll make you a foot taller, and who knows, man alive, but we may show you for :a giant, now." " Hicco, hicco I " said Tom ; " dat great — • never mind ; me catch him for you. A giant I — oh, gori-amarcy ! — a giant I — hicco ! — gorramarcy ! " and with these words he darted oil" in some different direction, whilst Fergus went to his usual place of rest for the night. It would seem by the Red Rapparee's movements at this time as if he entertained some vague suspicions of awakened justice, notwithstanding the assm'ances of safety pi'e- viously communicated to him by Sir Robert Wliitecraft. Indeed, it is not impossible that even the other indi^'iduals who had distin- guished themselves under that zealous bar- onet might, in their conversations with each other, have enabled the Rapparee to get oc- casional ghmpses of the new state of things which had just taken place, and that, in con- sequence, he shifted about a good deal, taking cai'e never to .sleep two nights in succession under the same roof. Be this as it may, the eye of Tom Steeple was on him, without the least possible suspicion on his part that he was under his surceiUance. CHAPTER XIV. Reilly takes Service icith Squire Folliard. Reilly led a melancholy life after the de pai'ture of the pious bishop. A week, how- ever, had elapsed, aud he felt as if it had been half a year. His anxiety, however, either to see or hear from his Cuoleen Bawn completely overcame him, and he resolved, at all events, to wi-ite to her ; in the meantime, how was he to do tliis ? There was no letter- paper in the fai-mer's house, nor any to be procured within miles, and, under these cuv curastances, he resolved to pay a visit to ^h\ Brown. After some trouble he was admitted to the presence of that gentleman, who could scai'cely satisfy himself of his identity ; but, at length, he felt assui'ed, and asked him into the study. " My dear Reilly," said he, "I think you are infatuated. I thought you had been out of the country long before this. AMiy, in heaven's name, do you remain in Ii-eland, when you know the difficulty of escape ? I have had, since I saw you last, two or three domicihary visits from "VMiitecraft aud his men, w^ho searched my whole house and premises in a spirit of insolence that was most indelicate and ofi'ensive. Hastings and I have sent a memorial to the Lord Lieuten- ant, signed by some of the most respectable Protestant gentry in the country, in which we stated his wanton tj-ranny as well as hifl 100 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. oppression of his Majesty's subjects — harm- less an;l loyal men, and whom he pm-sues with unsatiable vengeance, merely because they are Roman Catholics. I cert resented him as a spy from France, and an active agent of the Catholic priesthood, both here and on the Continent ; in fact, an in- cendiaiy, who, feeling himself sheltered by the protection of the nobleman in question and his countess, was looked upon as a safe man with whom to hold correspondence. The Abbe, as they termed him, was in the habit, by his lordship's desire, and that of his lady, of attending the Catholic sick of his large estates, administeiing to them re- ligious instruction, and the ordinance of their Church, at a time when they coiild ob- tain them from no other source. He also acted as their almoner, and distributed re- Hef to the sick, the poor, and the distressed, and thus passed his pious, harmless, and inoffensive, but useful life. Now all thesei circumstances were noted by Hennessy, wh<. had been on the lookout, to make a present of this good old man to his new patron. Sir Robert. At length having discovered — by what means it is impossible to conjecture — that the Abbe was to go on the day in ques- tion to reheve a poor sick family, at about a distance of two miles from Castle , the intelligence was communicated by Hennessy to Sii" Robert, who immediately set out for the place, attended by a party of his mjTmidous, conducted to it by the Red Rapparee, who, as we have said, was nowoneof Whitecraft's band. There is often a stupid infatuation in villany which amounts to what they call in Scotland fey — that is, when a man goes on doggedly to commit some act of "odckedness, or rush upon some impracticable entei-prise, the danger and folly of which must be endent to every' person but himself, and that it will end in the loss of his hfe. Sir Robert, how- ever, had run a long and prosperous career of persecution — a career by which he en- riched himself by the spoils he had torn, and the property he had arrested from hia victims, generally imder the sanction oi Government, but veiy frequently under no other sanction than his own, At all e-'.ents no WILLIAM CAELETOK'S WORKS. the party, consisting of about thirty men, remained in a deep and narrow lane, sur- rounded by hipfh whitethora hedges, which prevented the horsemen— for they were all dragoons— from being noticed by the country people. Alas, for the poor Ahbe ! they had not remained there more than twenty minutes when he was seen approaching them, reading his breviary as he came along. They 1 did not move, however, nor seem to notice him, until he had got into the midst of them, j when they formed a circle round him, and the \ loud voice of AMiitecraft commanded him to I stand. The poor old priest closed his bre- | viaiw, and looked around him ; but he felt , no alarm, because he was conscious of no offence, and imagined himself safe under the protection of a distinguished Protestant nobleman. j "Gentlemen," said he, calmly and meekly, but without fear, "what is the cause of this : conduct towards an inoffensive old man ? It j is ti-ue I am a Catholic priest, but I am under the protection of the Mai-quis of . He is a Protestant nobleman, and I am sui-e the very mention of his name AAill satisfy you, that I cannot be the object either of your susi:)iciou or yoMX enmity." ' ' But, my dear sii', " rephed Sir Robert, " the nobleman you mention is a suspected man himself, and I have reported him as such to the Government. He is married to a Popish wife, and you are a seminary priest and hai'bored by her and her husband." " But what is your object in stopping and surrounding me," asked the priest, " as if I were some pubhc delinquent who had \'iolated the laws ? Allow me, sir, to pass, and pre vent me at your peril ; and permit me, before I proceed, to ask your name ? " and the old man's eyes flashed with an indignant sense of the treatment he was receiving. " Did you ever hear of Sir Robert White- craft?" " The priest-hunter, the persecutor, the robber, the murderer ? I did, Avith disgust, with hoiTor, with execration. If you are he, I say to you that I am, as you see, an old man, and a priest, and have but one life ; take it, you vrCW anticipate my death only by a short period ; but I look by the hght of an innocent conscience into the future, and I now tell 3'ou that a woful and a temble ret- ribution is hanging over your head." " In the meantime, ' said Sir Robert, very calmly, as he dismounted from his horse, which he desired one of the men to hold, "I have a warrant fi'om Government to arrest you, and send yftu back again to your own coimtry without delay. You are here as a ypy, an incendiaiy, and must go on your U'avels forthwith. In this, I am acting as your friend and protector, and so is Govern, ment, who do not wish to be severe upon you, as you are not a natural subject. See, sir, here is another warrant for your an-est and imjDrisonment. The fact is, it was left to my ovnx discretion, either to imprison you, or send you out of the countiy. Now, sir, from a principle of lenity, I am determined on the latter course." " But," replied the priest, after casting his eye over both documents, "as I am conscious oi no offence, either against your laws or your Government, I decline to fly like a crimi- nal, and I Avill not ; put me in prison, if you wish, but I certainly shall not criminate my- self, kno"^ing as I do that I am innocent. In the meantime, I request that you will accom- pany me to the castle of my patron, that 1 may acquaint him with the charges against me, and the cause of my being forced to leave his family for a time." "No, su'," rephed Whitecraft, "I cannot do so, unless I betray the trust which Govern- ment reposes in me. I cannot permit you to hold any intercourse whatever with your patron, as you caU him, who is justly suspect- ed of being a Papist at heart. Sir, you have been going abroad through the country, under pretence of administering consolation to the sick, and bestowing alms upon the poor ; but the fact is, you have been stui-ing them up to sedition, if not to open rebeUion. You must, therefore, come along with us, this instant. Yoii proceed -nith us to Shgo, from whence we shall ship you off in a ves- sel bound for France, which vessel is com- manded by a friend of mine, who wiU treat you kindly for my sake. Wliat shall we do for a horse for him ? " he asked, looking at his men for information on that jDoiut. " That, your honor, we'll provide in a crack," replied the Red Rapparee, looking up the road; '-'here comes Sterhng, the ganger, very well mounted, and, by all the stills he ever seized, he must walk home upon shank's mare, if it was only to give him exercise and improve his appetite." We need not detail this open robbery on the king's ofl&cer, and on the king's highway besides. It is enough to say that the Rap- paree, confident of protection and impunity, with the connivance, although not by the ex- press orders of the baronet, deprived the man of his horse, and, in a few minutes, the ; poor old priest was placed upon the saddle, i and the whole cavalcade proceeded on their ' way to Shgo, the priest in the centre of them. ; Fortunately for Sir Robert's project, they reached the quay just as the vessel alluded to was about to sail ; and as there was, at that peiiod, no novelty in seeing a priest shipped out of the country, the loungers WILLY EEILLT. Ill about the place, whatever they might have thought in their hearts, seemed to take no particular notice of the transaction. " Your honor," said the Eed Rapparee, ap- proaching and giving a mihtary salute to his patron, "will you allow me to remain in town for an hour or two ? I have a scheme in my head that may come to something. I will tell your honor what it is when I get home." "Very well, O'Donnel," replied Sir Robert; " but I'd advise j'ou not to ride late, if you can avoid it. You know that eveiy man in your uniform is a mark for the vindictive re- sentment of these Popish rebels." " Ah ! maybe I don't know that, your honor ; but you may take my word for it that I will lose httle time." He then rode down a by -street, very coolly, taking the ganger's horse along with him. The reader may remember the fable of the cat that had been transformed into a lady, and the unfortunate mouse. The Rapparee, whose original propensities were strong as ever, could not, for the sovil of him, resist the temptation of seUing the horse and pocketing the amount. He did so, and very deliberately proceeded home to his barracks, but took cai'e to avoid any private communi- cation with his jDatron for some days, lest he might question him as to what he had done with the animal. Li the meantime, this monstrous outrage upon an unoffending priest, who was a na- tural subject of France, pei-petrated, as it was, in the open face of day, and witnessed by so many, covdd not, as the reader may expect, be long concealed. It soon reached the eai'S of the Marqms of and his lady, who were deeply distressed at the disappear- ance of their aged and revered fiiend. The Marquis, on satisfying himself of the tnith of the report, did not, as might have been expected, wait upon Sir Robert ^Miitecraft ; but without loss of time set sail for London, to wait upon the French Ambassador, to whom he detailed the whole circumstances of the outrage. And here we shall not further proceed with an account of those cii'- cumstances, as they will necessarily inter- mingle with that portion of the narrative which is to follow. CHAPTER XVL Sir Robert ingeniously extncates Himself out of a great Difficulty. Ox the day after the outrage we have de- scribed, the indignant old squire's caniage stopped at the hall-door of Sir Robert ^^'hite- craft, whom he found at home. As yet, th« latter gentleman had heaixl nothing of the contumehous dismissal of Miss Herbert ; but the old squire was not ignorant of the felonious abduction of the priest. At any other time, that is to say, in some of his peculiar stretches of loyalty, the act might have been a feather in the cap of the loyal baronet ; but, at present, he looked both at him and his exploits through the medium of the insult he had offered to his daughter. Accordingly, when he entered the baronet's hbraiy, where he found him hterally sunk in papers, anonymous letters, wan-ants, re- ports to Government, and a vast vaiiety of other documents, the worthy Sir Robert rose, and in the most cordial manner, and with the most extraordinary suavity of as- pect, held out his hand, saying : " How much obhged am I, Mr. Folhard, at the kindness of this visit, especially fi'om one who keejos at home so much as you do." The squii'e instantly repulsed him, and rephed : " No, sir ; I am an honest, and, I tnist, an honorable man. My hand, therefore, shall never touch that of a rillain. " " A villain ! — why, jMi*. Folhard, these are hard and harsh words, and they sui-prise me, indeed, as proceeding from iiour lij^s. ^lay I beg, my Mend, that vou will explain your- self ? " " I -nill, sir. How dui'st you take the liberty of sending one of your cast-off stinim- pets to attend personally ujDon my pure and vii'tuous daughter ? For that insult I come this day to demand that satisfaction which is due to the outraged feelings of my daughter — to my own also, as her father and natiu'al jDrotector, and also as an Irish gentleman, who "svill brook no insult either to his family or himself. I say, then, name your time and jolace, and yoiu- weapon — sword or j^istol, I don't care which, I am ready." " But, my good sir, there is some mysteiy here ; I certainly engaged a female of that name to attend on ^liss FoUiai'd, but most assui-edly she was a weU-conducted person." ""\Miat ! Madam Herbert well conducted ! Do you imagine, sir, that I am a fool ? Did she not admit that you debauched her ? " " It could not be, ]\Ir. Folliard ; I know nothing whatsoever about her, except that she was daughter to one of my tenants, who is besides a sergeant of dx-agoons." "Ay, yes, sir," replied the squire sarcas- tically ; "and I tell you it was not for killing and eating the enemy that he was promoted to his sergeantship. But I see yoirr man- ceu-^Te, Su' Robert ; you wish to shift the conversation, and sleep in a whole skin. I /12 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. say now, I have provided myself with a ti-iend, and I ask. A\-ill you fight ? " " And why not have sent yom- fiiend, IVIr. FoUiai-d, as \s usuid uj^ou such occasions ? " " Because he is knocked up, after a fit of di-ink, and I cannot be just so cool, under Buch an insult, as to command patience to wait. 3kly fiiend, however, -^xill attend us •on the gi-oimd ; but, I ask again, wiU you fight ? " " Most assuredly not, sir ; I am an enemy to duelling on principle ; but in your case I could not think of it, even if I were not. What I raise my hand against the life of Helen's father ! — no, sii', I'd sooner die than do so. Besides, ]Mi\ Folhaixl, I am, so to speak, not my own property, but that of my King, my Government, and my country ; and imder these cii'cumstances not at hberty to dispose of my hfe, vmless in their quar- rel." " I see," repUed the squire bitterly; "it is certainly an admirable description of loy- alty that enables a man, who is base enough to insult the veiy woman who was about to become his ^ife, and to involve her own father in the insult, to ensconce himself, hke a coward, behind his loyalty, and re- fuse to give the satisfaction of a man, or a gentleman." "But, ]\Ir. FoUiard, wiU you hear me? there must, as I said, be some mysteiy here ; I certainly did recommend a young female named Herbert to you, but I was utterly ignorant of what you mention." Here the footman entered, and whispered something to Sir Robert, who apologized to the squire for leaving him two or three min- utes. "Here is the last paper," said he, "and I trust that befoi'e you go I wiU be able to remove cJearly and fully the preju- dices which you entertain against me, and which originate, so far as I am concerned, in a mysteiT which I am unable to penetrate." He then followed the sei'\'ant, who con- ducted him to Hennessy, whom he found in the back parlor. "Well, Mr. Hennessy," said he, impatient- ly, " what is the. matter now ? " "Why," rephed the other, "I have one as good as bagged. Sir Robert." " One what ? " "'SMiy, a priest, sir." "Well, ]\Ir. Hennessy, I am particularly engaged now ; but as to Reilly, can you not come upon his trail? I would rather have him than a dozen priests ; however, remain here for about twenty minutes, or say half an hoiir, and I wiU talk with you at more lengtli. For the present I am most pai-tic- ularly engaged." " Ver}' well, Sir Robert, I shall await your leisure ; but, as to Reilly, I have every reason to think that he has left the countrj\" Su" Robert, on going into the hall, saw the porter open the door, and Miss Herbert pre- sented herself. " Oh," said he, "is this you? I am glad you came ; follow me into the fi'ont parlor." She accordingly did so ; and after he had shut the door he addressed her as fol- lows : " Now, teU me how the devil you were discovered ; or were you accessory yourself to the discovery, by yoiu- egi-egious folly and vanity?" " Oh, la, Sir Robert, do you think I am a fool?" "I fear you are httle short of it," he rephed ; " at all events, you have succeeded in knocking up my marriage with IVIiss Fol- hard. How did it happen that they found you out ? " She then detailed to him the circumstan- ces exactly as the reader is acquainted with them. He paused for some time, and then said, " There is some mystery at the bottom of this which I must fathom. Have you any reason to know how the family became ac- quainted ■udth youi' history ? " "No, sii' ; not in the least." " Do you think ]\Iiss FoUiard meets any person privately ? " "Not, sir, while I was with her." " Did she ever attempt to go out by her- self?" " Not, sir, whUe I was with her." " Ver}^ weU, then, I'U teU you what you must do ; her father is above with me now, in a perfect hurricane of indignation. Now you must say that the gii'l Herbert, whom I recommended to the squire, was a friend of yours ; that she gave you the letter of rec- ommendation which I gave her to IMi'. Fol- hard ; that having manied her sweetheai't and left the countiy with him, you were tempt- ed to present yourself in her stead, and to assume her name. I wiU caU you up by and by ; but what name wiU you take ? " "My mother's name, sir, was Wilson." "Very good; what was her Ckristian name ? " " Catherine, sir." " And you must say that I know nothing whatsoever of the imposture you were guilty of. I shaU make it worth your whUe ; and if you don't get weU through with it, and en- able me to bamboozle the old feUow, I have done ^\ith you. I sh^iU send for you by and by-" He then rejoined the squire, who w:;3 walking impatiently about the room. " ]VIr. FoUiard," said he, "I have to apol WILLY RE ILLY, 113 ogize to you for this seemiBg neglect ; I had most important business to transact, and I merely went downstairs to tell the gentleman that I could not possibly attend to it now, and to request him to come in a couple of hours hence ; pray excuse me, for no busi- ness could be so important as that hi which I am now engaged "s^ith you." " Yes, but in the name of an outraged father, I demand again to know whether you will give me satisfaction or not ? " " I have aheady answered you, my dear sir, and if you will reflect upon the reasons I have given you, I am certain you -vAiU admit that I have the laws both of God and man on my side, and I feel it my duty to regulate my conduct by both. As to the charge you bring against me, about the girl HerlDert, I am both ignorant and innocent of it." " Why, su', how can you say so ? how have you the face to say so ? did you not give her a letter of recommendation to me, pledging yourself for her moral character and fidel- ity?" " I grant it, but still I pledge you my honor that I looked upon her as an extremely proper person to be about your daiighter ; you know, sir, that you as well as I have had — and have still^apprehensions as to Reilly's conduct and influence over her ; and I did fear, and so did you, that the maid who then attended her, and to whom I was told she was attached with such imusual aflection, might have availed herseK of her jDOsition, and either attempted to seduce her from her faith, or connive at piivate meetings vdih ReiUy." " Sir Robert, I know your plausibility — and, upon my soul, I jDay it a high comph- ment when I say it is equal to your cowardice." " Mr. FoUiard, I can bear all this with patience, especially fr'om you — "VMiat's this ? " he exclaimed, addressing the footman, who rushed into the room in a state of consider- able excitement. " Wliy, Sir Robert, there is a young wo- man below, who is crs-ing and lamenting, and saving she must see ^Ii'. Folhard." " Damnation, sfr," exclaimed Sir Robert, " what is this ? why am I intennipted in such a manner? I cannot have a gentleman ten minutes in my study, engaged upon piivate and important business, but in bolts some of you, to interrupt and distiu'b us. What does the gu'l want with me ? " "It is not you she wants, sir," rephed the footman, " but his honor, Mr. Folhard." " Well, tell her to wait until he is disen- gaged." " No," rephed Mr. FoUiard, " send her up at once ; what the devil can this be ? but you shall witness it." The baronet smiled knowingly. " Well," said he, "Mr. FoUiard, upon my honor, I thought you had so\\'n your wild oats many a year ago ; and, by the way, according to all accc^mits — hem — but no matter ; this, to be sure, wiU be rather a Late crop." "No, SU', I sowed my wild oats in the right season, when I was hot, young, and im- petuous ; but long before yovu" age, sir, that field had been aUowed to lie ban-en." j He had scai'cely concluded when Miss I Herbert, acting upon a plan of her own, which, were not the bai'onet a man of the most imperturbable coolness, might have staggered, if not altogether confounded him, I entered the room. " Oh, sfr ! " she exclaimed, with a flood of j teai's, kneeling before Mr. FoUiard, "can you forgive and jDardon me ? " I " It is not against you, fooUsh girl, that ' my resentment is or shaU be dfrected, but I against the man who employed you — and there he sits." " Oh, sir ! " she exclaimed, again turning to that worthy gentleman, who seemed fiUed with astonishment. I "In God"s name ! " said he, interrupting his accomphce, "what can this mean ? Who are you, my good girl ? " ! "My name's Catherine Wilson, sir." I " Catherine WUson ! " exclaimed the squire I — "why, confound your brazen face, are you ' not the person who styled youi'self ]Miss Her- bert, and who hved, thank God, but for a short time only, in my famUy ? " "I hved in yoiu- famUy, sfr, but I am not the !Miss Herbert that Sir Robert "WTiitecraft ; recommended to you." i "I certainly know nothing about you, my ; good gii'l," rephed Sii- Robert, "nor do I recoUect having ever seen you before ; but proceed "nith what you have to say, and let us hear it at once." " Yes, sir ; but perhaps you are not the ' gentleman as is kno^Ti to be Sir Robert \\Tiitecraft — him as hunts the priests. Oh, la, rU surely be sent to jaU. Gentlemen, if you promise not to send me to jaU, I'U teU you even'thiug." " WeU, then, proceed," said the squire : , "IwiU not send you to jaU, provided you teU the truth." I "Nor I, my good girl," added Sir Robert, " but upon the same conditions." I "WeU, then, gentlemen, I was acquainted with ^liss Herbert — she is Hii-ish, but I'm j English. This gentleman gave her a letter to you, 'Sir. FoUiard, to get her as maid to IMiss Helen — she told me — oh, my goodness, j I shall surely be sent to jaU." "Go on, girl," said the bai'onet somewhat 1 sternly, by which tone of voice he intimated U4 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. to her that she was pursuing the right course, and she was quick enough to understand as much. "Well," she proceeded, "after IVIiss Her- bert had got the letter, she told her sweet- heiu-t, who wouldn't by no means allow her to take sernce, because as why, he wanted to many her ; well, she consented, and they did get married, and both of them left the coun- try because her father wasn't consenting. As the letter was of no use to her then, I asked her for it, and oft'ered myself in her name to you, sir, and that was the way I came into your family for a short time." The bai-onet rose uj), in well-feigned agi- tation, and exclaimed, " Unfortunate gii-1 ! whoever you may be, you know not the seri- ous mischief and unhappiuess that your im- posture was nearly entailing upon me." " But did you not say that you bore an illegitimate child to this gentleman ? " asked the squire. " Oh, la ! no, sir ; you know I denied that ; I never bore an illegitimate child ; I bore a love-child, but not to him ; and thex'e is no harm in that, sure." " "Well, she certainly has exculpated you, Sii" Eobert." " Gentlemen, -udll you excuse and pardon me ? and will you j)romise not to send me to jaH ? " " Go about your business," said Sir Rob- ert, " you unfortunate girl, and be guilty of no such impostures in future. Your conduct has nearly been the means of putting enmity between two families of rank ; or rather of alienating one of them from the confidence and good-will of the other. Go." She then courtesied to each, shedding, at the same time, what seemed to be bitter tears of remorse — and took her departure, each of them looking after her, and then at the other, with surprise and wonder. " Now, Mr. Folliard," said Sir Robei't sol- emnly, " I have one question to ask you, and it is this : could I j)ossibly, or by any earthly natural means, have been apprised of the honor of your visit to me this daj- ? I ask you in a serious — yes, and in a solemn spir- it ; because the happiness of my futiu'e life depends on your reply." "Why, no," replied the credulous squire, " hang it, no, man — no, Sir Robert ; I'll do you that jiastice ; I never mentioned my in- tention of coming to call you out, to any in- dividual but one, and that on my way hither ; he was unwell, too, after a hard night's drinking ; but he said he would shake him- self up, and be ready to attend me as soon as the place of meeting should be settled on. In point of fact, I did not intend to see you to-day, but to send him with the message ; but, as I said, he was knocked up for a time, and you know my natunil impatience. No, certainly not, it was in eveiy sense impossi- ble that you could have exj^ected me : yes. if the devil was in it, I will do you that jus- tice." " Well, I have another question to ask, my dear fiiend, equally important with, if not more so than, the other. Do you hold me free from all blame in what has happened i through the imposture of that wretched girl ? " " Why, after what has occurred just now, I certainly must, Sir Robert, As you had no anticijDation of my visit, you certamly could not, nor had you time to get up a scene." " Well, now, ]Mr. Folliard, you have taken a load off my heart ; and I will candidly confess to you that I have had my fi-ailties like other men, sown mj wild oats like other men ; but, unhke those who are not ashamed to boast of such exploits, I did not think it necessary to tiiimpet my o^ii feelings. I do not say, my dear friend, that I have always been a saint." " Why, now, that's manly and candid. Sir Eobert, and I like yow the better for it. Yes, I do exonerate you from blame in this. There certainly was sincerity in that wench's tears, and be hanged to her ; for, as you proper- ly said, she was de^dlish near putting be- tween our families, and knocking up oiu' in- timacy. It is a dehghtful thing to think that I shall be able to disabuse poor Helen's mind ujion the subject ; for, I give yoxx my honor, it caused her the greatest distress, and excited her mind to a high pitch of in- dignation against you ; but I shall set aU to rights." " And now that the matter is settled, Mr. Folliard, we must have lunch. I will give you a glass of Burgnindy, which, I am sure, you will like." " With all my heart," replied the placable and hearty old squire ; " after the agitation of the day a good glass of Burgundy will serve me certainly." Lunch was accordingly ordered, and the squire, after taking half a dozen bumj^ers of excellent wine, got into fine spirits, snook hands as cordially as ever with tlie baronet, and drove home complete^ reheved from the suspicious which he had entertained. The squire, on his return home, immedi- ately called for his daughter, but for some time to no pui^DOse. The old man began to get alarmed, and had not only Helen's room searched, but every room in the house. At length a sen^ant informed him that she was tending and arranging the gi*een-house flow- ers in the garden. "Oh, ay ! " said he, after he had dismissed the sei-vants, " Thank God — thank God ! I WILLY REILLY. 115 will go out to the dear girl ; for she is a dear girl, and it is a sin to suspect her. I wish to heaven that that scoundrel Reilly would turn Protestant, and he shoxild have her with all the veins of m}' heart. Upon my soul, putting rehgion out of the question, one would think that, in other respects, they were made for each other. But it's all this cursed pride of his that prevents him ; as if it signi- fied what any person's rehgion is, provided he's an honest man, and a loyal subject." He thus proceeded with his soliloquy un- til he reached the garden, where he found Eeilly and her arranging the plants and flowers in a superb gi-een-house. " WeD, Helen, my love, how is the green- house doing ? Eh ! why, what is this ? " At this exclamation the lovers started, but the old fellow was admiring the improvement, which even he couldn't but notice. " WTiy, what is this ? " he proceeded ; " by the hght of day, Helen, you have made this a httle paradise of flowers." " It was not I, paj^a," she replied; " all that I have been able to contribute to the order and beauty of the place has been very shght indeed. It is all the result of this poor man's taste and skill. He's an admirable botanist." " By the gi'eat Bo^Tie, my gii'l, I think he could Hck Malcomson himself, as a botanist." " Shir," observed Eeilly," the young lady is underwaluin' herself ; sure, miss, it was your- self du'ected me what to do, and how to do it." "Look at that old chap, Helen," said her father, who felt in gi'eat good humor ; first, because he found that Helen was safe ; and again, because Sir Robert, as the unsuspect- ing old man -thought, had cleared up the circumstances of ^Nliss Herbert's imposture ; " I say, Helen, look at that old chap : isn't he a nice bit of goods to run away with a pretty gii'l ? and what a taste she must have had to go with him ! Upon my soul, it beats cock-fighting — confound me, but it does." Helen's face became crimson as he spoke ; and yet, such was the ludicrous appearance which Eeilly made, when put in connection with the false scent on wnich her father was proceeding at such a rate, and the act of gallantly imputed to him, that a strong feel- ing of humor overcame her, and she burst into a loud ringing laugh, which she could not, for some time, restrain ; in this she was heartily joined by her father, who laughed till the tears came down his cheeks. " And yet, Helen — ha — ha — ha, he's a stal- wart old rogue still, and must have been a devil of a tyke when he was young." After another fit of laughter from both father and daughter, the squire said : " Now, Helen, my love, go in. I have good news for you, which I will acquaint you with by and by." When she left the garden, her father ad- dressed Eeilly as follows : " Now, my good fellow, will you tell me how you came to know about ]\Iiss Herbert having been seduced bv Su' Eobert WTiite- craft ? " " Fnhy, shir, from common report, shir." "Is that all? But don't you think," he rephed, "that common report is a common bar, as it mostly has been, and is, in this case. That's all I have to say upon the sub- ject. I have traced the affnii', and find it toi be a falsehood fr'om beginning to ending.. I have. And now, go on as you're doing, and. I will make ]\Ialcomson raise your wages." "Thank you, shu-," and he touched hii nondescript with an air of great thankfulness and humility. "Helen, my dai'ling," said her father, on entering her own sitting-room, "I said I had good news for you." Helen looked at him with a doubtful face, and simj^ly said, "I hope it is good, papa." "AMiy, my child, I won't enter into par- ticulars ; it is enough to say that I discovered from an accidental meeting A\ith that MTetch- ed girl we had here that she was not IVIiss Herbert, as she called herself, at all, but another, named Catherine Wilson, who, hav- ing got from Herbert the letter of recom- mendation which I read to you, had the ef- fr-ontery to pass herself for her ; but the other report was false. The giii Wilson, ap- prehensive that either I or Sii- Eobert might send her to jail, ha\ing seen my caiTiage stop at Sii- Eobert's house, came, with tears in her eyes, to beg that if we would not pun- ish her she would tell us the truth, and she did so." Helen mused for some time, and seemed to decide instantly ujDon the course of ac- tion she should pursue, or, rather, the course which she had preriously proposed to her- self. She saw cleai-ly, and had long known, that in the tactics and stratagems of life, her blimt but honest father was no match at all for the deep h^1Docrisv and deceitful plausibihty of Sfr Robert T^Tiitecraft. The consequence was, that she allowed her father to take his own way, witnout either remon- strance or contradiction. She knew very well that on this occasion, as on every other where their wdts and wishes came in oppo- sition. Sir Eobert was always able to out- general and overreach him ; she therefore resolved to agitate herself as Httle as possi- ble, and to aUow matters to flow on tran- quilly, until the crisis— the moment for action came. "Papa," she replied, "this inteUigence 116 WILLIAM CARLETOX'S WORKS. must make tout mind very easy ; I hope, however, you ■will restore poor faithful Con- nor to me. I never had such an affectionate and kind creature ; and, besides, not one of them could dress me with such skill and taste as she could. Will you allow me to have her back, sir ? " ''I will, Helen ; but take care she doesn't make a Papist of you." '• Indeed, papa, that is a strange whim : why, the poor girl never opened her hps to me on the subject of rehgion during her life : nor. if I saw that she attempted it, would I permit her. I am no theologian, papa, and detest polemics, because I have always heard that those who are most addicted to polemical controversy have least rehgion." " Well, my love, you shall have back poor Connor ; and now I must go and look over some papers in my study. Good-by, my love : and observe, Helen, don't stay out too late in the garden, lest the chill of the air might injure your health." " But you know / never do, and never did, papa." "^^'ell, good-by again, my love." He then left her, and withdrew to his study to sign some papers, and transact some business, which he had allowed to run into arrear. When he had been there better than an hoiu*. he rang the bell and desired that ^Malcomson, the gardener, should be sent to him, and that self-sufficient and pedantic person made his appearance accordingly. "Well, !Malcomson," said he, "how do you like the bearded fellow in the garden ? " " Ou, yer honor, weel eneugh ; he does ken something o' the sceence o' buttany, an' 'am thinkin' he must hae been a gude spell in Scotland, for I canna guess whm-e else he could hae l^ecome acquent wi' it." "I see 3Ialcomson, you'll still persist in your confounded pedantry about your sci- ence. Now, what the devil has science to do with botany or gardening ? " "Weel, your honor, it wadna just become me to dispute wi' ye upon that or any ither subjeck ; but for a' that, it required profoond sceence, and vera extensive leamin' to clas- sih' an' arrange a' the plants o' the yearth, an' to gie them names, by whilk they can be known throughout a' the nations o' the warld." "Well, well — I suppose I must let you have your way." " ^VTiy, your honor," rephed Malcomson, "'am sure it mair becomes me to let you hae yours ; but regerding this ould carl, I winna say, but he has been weel indoctrin- ated in the sceence." " Ahem I well, well, go on." " An' it's no easy to gues.g whare he could hae gotten it. Indeed, 'am of opmion tha* he's no without a hantle o' book lair ; for, to do him justice, de'il a question I spier at him, anent the learned names o' the rare plants, that he hasna at his finger ends, and gies to me off-hand. Xaebody but a man that has gotten book lair could do yon." " Book lair, what is that ? " "Ou, just a correck knowledge o' the learned names of the plants. I dinna say, and I winna say, but he's a velliable assistant to me, an' I shouldna wish to pairt wi' him. If he'd only shave off yon beard, an' let him- sel' be decently happed in good claiths, why he might pass in ony gentleman's gerden for a skeelful buttanist." "Is he as good a kitchen gardener as he is in the green-house, and among the flowers ? "' " Weel, your honor, gold troth, 'am sairly puzzled there ; hoot, no, sir ; de'il a thing almost he kens about the kitchen gerden — a' his strength hes among the flowers and in the green-house." "' Well, weU, that's where we principally want him. I sent for you, ^lalcomson, to desire you'd raise his wages — the laborer is worthy of his hire ; and a good Laborer of good hire. Let him have four shillings a week additional" " Troth, your honor, 'am no sayin' but he weel deserves it ; but. Lord haud a care o' us, he's a queer one, yon." " ^Tiy, what do you mean ? " "'"Wliy, de'il heat he seems to care about siQer any mair than if it was sklate stains. On Saturday last, when he was paid his weekly wages by the stewaixl, he met a puir sickly-lookin' auld wife, wi' a sti'ing o' siekly- lookmg weans at the body's heels ; she didna ask him for chaiity, for, in troth, he ap- peared, binna it weama for the weans, as great an objeck as hersel' ; noo, what wad yer honor think '? he gaes ower and gies till her a hale crown o' siller out o' his ain wage. Was ever omi:hing heard like yon ? " " Well, I know the cause of it, Malcomsom He's under a penance, and can neither shave nor change his dress till his siUy penance is out ; and I suppose it was to wash off a part of it that he gave this fooHsh chaiity 'to the poor woman and her children. Come, al- though I condemn the folly of it, I don't like him the worse for it." "Hout awa', your honor, what is it but rank Papistry, and a dependence upon filthy works. The doited auld cai-L to throw aff liis siUer that gate ; but that's Papistry- a' ower — substituting works for grace and faith — a' Papistry, a' Papistry I Well your honor, I sal be conform to your wushes — it's m^ duty, that." WILLY BEILLY. 117 CHAPTER X^TI. A-wfvl Conduct of Squire FoUiard — Fergus ReiUy begins to Contravene the lied Baj)j)aree. After Malcomson quitted him, the squire, with his golden-headed cane, went to saunter about his beautiful grounds and his noble demesne, pi-oud, certainly, of his property, nor insensible to the beautiful seen er}'- which it presented from so many points of obser- vation. He had not been long here when a poor-looliing peasant, dressed in shabby frieze, ajjproached him at as fast a j)ace as he could accomplish ; and the squire, after look- ing at him, exclaimed, in an angry tone : "Well, you rascal, what the devil brings you here ? " The man stood for a little, and seemed so much exhausted and out of breath that he could not siDcak. "I say, you unfortunate old vagrant," re- peated the squire, " what brought you bere ? " "It is a case of either life or death, sir," replied the poor peasant. " ^\'lly," said the squire, " what crime did you commit ? Or, perhaps, you broke prison, and are flying from the officers of justice ; eh ! is that it ? And you come to ask a magistrate to protect 3'ou ! " " I am flying from the agents of persecu- tion, sir, and know not where to hide my head in order to avoid them." The hard-pressed but amiable priest— ^ for such he was — adopted this language of truth, because he knew the squire's character, and felt that it wovdd serve him more effectually than if he had attempted to conceal his jDro- fession. " I am a CathoUc priest, sii-, and felt from bitter experience that this disguise was necessary to the preservation of my Ufe. I throw myself upon yoiu' honor and gener- osity, for although hasty, sir, you are report- ed to have a good and kind heart." " You are disposed to place confidence in me, then?" " I am, sir ; my being before you now, and putting myself in your power, is a proof of it." "Who are i:)ursuiug you? Su' Robert Whitecraft— eh ? " " No, sir, Captain Smellpriest and his gang." " Ay, out of the fi'ying pan into the fire ; although I don't know that, either. They say Smellpriest can do a generous thing sometimes — but the other, when priest- hunting, never. What's your name? " "I'll teU you, without hesitation, sir — Macguu-e ; I'm of the IMacguires of Fer- managh." " Ay ! ay ! why, then, you have good blood in your veins. But what ofience were you guilty of that you — but I need not ask ; it is enough, in the present state of the laws, that you are a Cathohc piiest. In the mean- time, are you aware that I myself transported a Catholic pi-iest, and that he would have swung only for my daughter, who went to the viceroy, and, with much difficulty, got his sentence commuted to transportation for life? I myself had ah-eady tried it, and failed ; but she succeeded, God bless her ! " " Yes, God bless her ! " repKed the priest, " she succeeded, and her fame has gone far and near, in consequence ; yes, may God of his mercy bless and guard her from all evil ! " and as the poor hunted priest spoke, the tears came to his eyes. This sjonptom of re- spect and affection, pi;ompted by the gener- ous and heroic conduct of the far-famed Cooleen Bawn, touched her father, and saved the priest. "Well," said he, after musing for a while, " so you say SmeDpriest is after you ? " " He is, sir ; they saw me at a distance, across the country, scrambling over the jDai'k wall, and indeed I was near faUing into their hands by the difficulty I had in getting over it." " Well, come," replied the squire, " since you have had the courage to place confidence in me, I won't abuse it ; come along, I will both conceal and protect you. I presume there is little time to be lost, for those priest hounds will be apt to ride round to the entrance gate, which I will desire the porter to close and lock, and then leave the lodge." On their way home he did so, and ordered the porter up to the house. The magnifi- cent avenue was a serpentine one, and our friends had barely time to get out of sight of the lodge, by a turn in it, when they heard the voices of the pursuers, hallooing for the porter, and thundering at the gate. " Ay, thunder away, only don't injure my gate, Smellpriest, or I'll make you replace it ; bawd yourselves hoarse — you are on the wrong side for once ! " "WTien they were approaching the hall-door, which generally lay open — "Confound me," said the squii-e, "if I know what to do with you ; I trust in God I won't get into odium by this. At all events, let us steal upstairs as quietly as we can, and, if possible, without any one seeing us." To the necessity of this the priest assented, and they had reached the first landing of the staircase when out popped right in their teeth two housemaids each with binish in hand. Now it instantly occurred to the 118 /WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. squire that in this unlucky crisis bribery was the safest resource. He accordingly ad- dressed them : " Come here, you jades, don't say a word about this man's presence here — don't breathe it ; here's five shillings apiece for you, and let one of you go and bring me up, secretly, the key of the green-room in the gan'et ; it has not been opened for some time. Be quick now ; or stay, desii'e Lani- gan to fetch it, and refi'eshment also ; there's cold venison and roast beef, and a bottle of wine ; teU Lanigan I'm going to lunch, and to lay the table in my study. Lanigan can be depended on," he added, after the chambermaid had gone, " for when I con- cealed another priest here once, he was entrusted with the secret, and was faith- ful." Now it so happei^d that one of those maids, who was a bitter Protestant, at once recognized Father Maguire, notwithstanding his disguise. She had been a servant for four or five years in the house of a wealthy farmer who hved adjoining him, and with whom he had been in the habit of frequently dining when no danger was to be apprehen- ded fi'om the operation of the laws. Indeed, she and Malcomson, the gardener, were the only two individuals in the squire's establish- ment who were not Catholics. Malcomson was a manoeu\Ter, and, as is pretty usual with individuals of his class and country, he looked upon "Papistry" as an abomination that ought to be removed from the land. Still, he was cautious and shi-ewd, and seldom or never permitted those opinions to interfere with or obstruct his own interests. Be this as it may, the secret was not long kept. Esther Wilson impeached her master's loyalty, and she herself was indignantly as- sailed for her treachery by MoUy Finigan, who hoped in her soul that her master and young mistress would both die in the true Church yet. The whole kitchen was in a buzz ; in fact, a regular scene ensued. Every one spoke, except Lanigan, who, from former exjDeri- ence, understood the case perfectly ; but, as for Malcomson, whose zeal on this occasion certainly got the better of his discretion, he seemed thunderstruck. " Eh, sirs ! did ony one ever hear the hke o' this ? — to hide a rebel joriest frae the oflfended laws ! But it canna be that this puir man is athegether right in his head. Lord ha'e a care o' us ! the man surely must be dement- ed, or he wouldna venture to bring such a person into his ain house — into the vara house. I think, Maisther Lanigan, it wad be just a precious bit o' service to religion and our laws to gang and teU the next magistrate. Gude guide us ! what an example he ia settin' to his loyal neighbors, and his hail connections ! That ever we suld see the like o' this waefu' backsUding at his years ! Lord ha'e a care o' us, I say aince mair." " Oh, but there's more to come," said one of them, for, in the turmoil produced by this shocking intelligence, they had forgotten to deliver the message to Lanigan. "JVIr. Lanigan," said Esther, and her breath was checked by a hysteric hiccup, "Mr. Lanigan, you are to bring up the key of the gTeen-room, and plent}' of venison, roast beef, and a bottle of wine ! There ! " " Saul, Maisther Lanigan, I winna stay langer under this roof ; it's nae cannie ; I'U e'en gang out, and ha'e some nonsense clavers wi' j^on queer auld carl i' the gerden. The Lord ha'e a care o' us ! — what wiU the warld come to next ! " He accordingly rej)aired to the garden, where the first thing he did was to give a fearful account to Reilly of theu' master's po- litical profligacy. The latter felt surj:)ris- ed, but not at aU at Malcomson's narrative. The fact was, he knew the exact circum- stances of the case, because he knew the squire's character, which was sometimes good, and sometimes the reverse — ^just ac- cording to the humor he might be in : and in reply observed to Malcomson, that — " As his honor done a great dale o' good to the poor o' the counthry, I think it wouldn't be daicent in us, Misther Malcom- son, to go for to publish this generous act to the poor priesht ; if he is wrong, let us lave him to Gad, shir." " Ou ay, weel I diima but you're ricbt ; the mair that we won't hae to answer for his transgressions ; sae e'en let every herring hang by its ain tail." In the meantime, Lanigan, who under* stood the affair well enough, addressed th^' audience in the kitchen to the follo-sAingr effect : "Now," said he, "what a devil of a hub- bub you all make about nothing ! Pray; young lady," addressing Esther Wilson, who alone had divulged the cii'cumstance, " die) his honor desire you to keep what you seen saicret ? " " He did, cook, he did," repHed Esther ; " and gave us money not to speak about it, which is a proof of his guilt." " And the first thing you did was to blaze it to the whole kitchen ! I'll teU you what it is now — if he ever hears that you breathed a syllable of it to mortal man, you won't be under his roof two hours." "Oh, but, surely, cook — " "Oh, but, surely, madam," replied Lani- gan, "you talk of what you don't under- WILLY REILLY. 11« stand ; his honor knows very well what he's about, and has authority for it." This sobered her to some puri^ose ; and , Lanigan pi'oceeded to execute his master's orders. It is true Miss Esther and Malcomson were now silent, for their own sakes ; but it did not remove their indignation ; so far from that, Lanigan himself came in for a share of it, and was secretly looked upon in the light of the squire's confidant in the transaction. Whilst matters were in this position, the Red Rapparee began gradually to lose the confidence of his unscrupulous employer. He had promised that worthy gentleman to betray his former gang, and deliver them up to justice, in requital for the protection which he received from him. This he would certainly have done, were it not for Fergus, who, haj^pening to meet one of them a day or two after the Rapparee had taken service with Whitecraft upon the aforesaid condition, informed the robber of that fact, and ad- vised him, if he wished to provide for his own safety and that of his companions, to desire them forthwith to leave the country, and, if possible, the kingdom. They accord- ingly took the hint ; some of them retired to distant and remote places, and others went beyond seas for their security. The prom- ise, therefore, which the Rapparee had made to the baronet as a proof of gratitude for his protection, he now found himself incap- i . able of fulfillmg, in consequence of the dis- persion and disappearance of his band. When he stated this fact to Sir Robert, he gained little credit from him ; and the con- sequence was that his patron felt disposed to think that he was not a man to be de- pended on. Still, what he had advanced in his own defence might be true ; and although his confidence in him was shaken, he re- \ solved to maintain him yet in his serdce, and that for two reasons — one of which was, that by having him under his eye, and within his grasp, he could pounce upon him at any moment ; the other was, that, as he knew, from the previous shifts and necessities of his own lawless life, all those dens and recesses and caverns to which the Catholic priesthood, and a good number of the peoi^le, were obliged to fly and conceal themselves, he must necessarily be a usefid guide to him as a priest-hunter. It is tiiie he assured him that he had procured his pardon from Government, principally, he said, in conse- quence of his own influence, and because, in all his robberies, it had not been known that ; he ever took away human life. In genei'al, however, this was the policy of the Rapparees, unless when they identified themselves with pohtical contests and outrages, and on those occasions they were savage and crasl as fiends. In simple robbery on the king's high- way, or in burglaries in houses, they seldom, almost never, committed murder, unless when resisted, and in defence of their lives. On the contrary, they were quite gallant to females, whom they treated with a kind of rude courtesy, not unfi-equently returning the lady of the house her gold watch — but this only on occasions when they had secured a large booty of plate and money. The Threshei^s of 1805-G and '7, so far as cruelty goes, were a thousand times worse ; for they spared neither man nor woman in their in- famous and nocturnal visits ; and it is enough to say, besides, that their cowardice was equal to their cruelty. It has been proved, at sjjecial commissions held about those periods, that four or five men, with red coats on them, have made between two or three hundi-ed of the miscreants run for their hves, and they tolerably well-armed. Whether Sir Robert's account of the Raj)paree's pardon was true or false will ajjpear in due time ; for the truth is, that Whitecraft was one of those men who, in consequence of his staunch loyalty and burning zeal in carrying out the inhuman measures of the then Government, was permitted with impunity to run into a Hcentiousness of action, as a useful public man, which no modern government would, or dare, permit. At the period of which we write, there was no press, so to speak, in Ii-e- land, and consequently no opportunity of at once bringing the acts of the Irish Govern- ment, or of public men, to the test of pubhc opinion. Such men, therefore, as Whitecraft, looked upon themselves as invested with ir- resj)ousible power ; and almost in every in- stance their conduct was approved of, recog- nized, and, in general, rewarded by the Government of the day. The Beresford family enjoyed something like this unenviable privilege, during the rebellion of '98, and for some time afterwards. We have alluded to Mrs. Oxley, the slierifi;'"s fat wife ; whether fortunatety or unfortunately for the poor sheriff, who had some generous touches of chai'acter about him, it so happened that at this period of our narrative she popped oflf one day, in a fit of apoplexy, and he found himself a widower. Now, our acquaintance, Fergus Reilly, who was as deeply disguised as our hero, had made his mind up, if pos- sible, to bring the Rapparee into trouble. This man had led his patron to several places where it was likely tliat the persecuted priests might be found ; and, for this reason, Fergus knew that he was serious in his object tc betray them. This unnatural treachery as the robber envenomed his heart against him, ISO WILLIAM CARLETON'S WOJilCS. and he resolved to run a risk in watching his motions. He had no eai-thly doubt that it was he who robbed the sheritf. He knew, from fnrtive observations, as well as from general report, that a discreditable mtimacy existed between him and Mary Mahon. This woman's little house was very convenient to that of AMoitecraft, to whom she was very useful in a certain capacity. She had now given up her trade of fortune-telling — a trade which, at that period, in consequence of the ignorance of the people, Avas very general in L'elaud. She was now more beneficially employed. Fergus, thei-efore, confident in his disguise, resolved upon a bold and haz- ardous stroke. He began to apprehend that if ever Tom Steeple, fool though he was, kept too much about the haunts and resorts of the Eappai'ee, that cunning scoundrel, who was an adejDt in all the various schemes and forms of detection, might take the alarm, and, aided probably by Whitecraft, make his escape out of the country. At best, the fool could only assure him of his whereabouts ; but he felt it necessary, in addition to this, to prociu-e, if the matter were possible, such e\idence of his guilt as might render his conxiction of the robbery of the sheriff complete and cei-tain. One evening a wTetched- iooking old man, repeating his j^rayers, with beads in hand, entered her cottage, which consisted of two rooms and a kitchen ; and after h.T\-ing presented himself, and j)u.t on his hat — for we need scarcely say that no Cathohc ever prays covered — he asked lodg- ing in Ii-ish, for the night, and at this time it was dusk. "Well, good man," she rephed, "you can have lodgings here for this night. God forbid I'd put a poor wandherer out, an' it nearly dark." Fergus stared at her as if he did not under- stand what she said ; she, however, covdd speak L'ish right well, and asked him in that language if he could sj^eak no Enghsh — " Wuil Bearlha agud ? " (Have you English ?) "Ha neil foccal vaun Bearlha agum." (I haven't one word of English.) " Well," said she, proceeding with the fol- lowing short conversation in Ii'ish, "j'ou can sleep here, and I will bring you ia a wap o' straw from the garden, when I have it to feed my cow, which his honor. Sir Robert, gives me grass for ; he would be a very kind man if he was a httle more genex'ous — ha ! ha! ha!" " Ay, but doesn't he hunt an' hang, an' transport our priests ? " " \Vliy, indeed, I beheve he doesn't like a bone in a priest's body ; but then he's of a different religion — and it isn't for you or me to construe him after our own way." " Well, well," said Fergus, " it isn't hini I'm thinking of ; but if I had a mouthful or two of something to ait I'd go to sleep — foi deal- knows I'm tired and hungry." "Why, then, of coorse you'll have some- thing to ait, poor man, and while you're eatin' it I'U fetch in a good bunch of straw, and make a comfortable shake-down for you." " God mai'k you to grace, avoui-neen ! " She then furnished him with plenty of oaten bread and mixed milk, and while he was helping himself she brought in a large bunch of straw, which she shook out and set- tled for him. "I see," said she, " that you have your own blankets." "I have, acushla. Cheerna, but this is darlin' bread ! AiTa was this baked upon a griddle or against the muddhia arran ?" * " A gi'iddle ! W^hy, then, is it the likes o' me would have a griddle ? that indeed ! No ; but, any how, sui'e a griddle only scalds the bread ; but you'll find that this is not too much done ; bekaise you know the ould proverb, ' a raw dad makes a fat lad.' " " Troth," rej)lied Fergus, " it's good bread, and fills the boad •(■ of a man's body ; but now that I've made a good supper, I'll thi'ow myself on the straw, for I feel as if my eyeUds had a millstone apiece upon them. I never shtrip at night, but just throws my blanket over me, an' sleeps like a toj). Glory be to God ! Oh, then, there's nothing like the health ma'am : may God sj^ai-e it to us ! Amin, this night ! " He accordingly threw himself on the shake- doxNTi, and in a short time, as was erident by his snoring, fell into a profound sleep. This was an experiment, though a hazard- ous one, as we have said ; but so fai" it was successful. In the coui'se of half an hour- the Red Rapparee came in, di-essed in his uni- form. On looking about him he exclaimed, with an oath, " W^ho the hell is here ? " " Why," replied Mary Mahon, " a poor ovdd man that axed for charity an' lodgin' for the night." " And why did you give it to him ? " * The muddhia arran was a forked branch, cut from a tree, and shaped exactly like a letter A — ■ with a small stick behind to support it. A piece of hoop iron was nailed to it at the bottom, on which the cake rested — not hoiizontally, but opposite the fire. When one side was done the other was turned, and thus it was baked. f Boitat — a figurative term, taken from a braTEB XVHL Bomething not very Pleasant for all Parties. The position of England at this period was any thing but an easy one. The Bebellion of '45 had commenced, and the young Pre- tender had gained some signal victories. In- dependently of this, she was alarmed by th« rumor of a French invasion on her southern coast. Apprehensive lest the Irish Catholics, galled and goaded as they were by the influ- ence of the penal laws, and the dreadful per- secution which they caused them to suffer, should flock to the standard of Prince Charles, himself a Catholic, she deemed it expedient, in due time, to relax a httle, and accordingly she "checked her hand, and changed her pride." Milder measures were soon resorted to, during this crisis, in order that by a more Hberal administration of jus- tice the resentment of the suffering Cathohcs might be conciliated, and their loyalty secured. This, however, was a proceeding less of justice than expediency, and resulted more from the actual and impending diffi- culties of England than from any sincere wish on her part to give civil and rehgious fi'eedom to her CathoKc subjects, or pros- perity to the country jn which, even then, their numbers largely predominated. Yet, singular to say, when the Bebellion fii*st broke out, all the chapels in Dublin were closed, and the Administration, as if guided by some iniintelligible infatuation, issued a proclamation, commanding the Catholic priesthood to depart fi'om the city. Those who refused this senseless and impolitic edict were threatened vnth the utmost sever- ity of the law. Harsh as that law was, the CathoHcs obeyed it ; yet even this obedience did not satisfy the Protestant party, or rather that portion of them who were active agents in carrying out this imprudent and unjusti- fiable i-igor at such a period. They were seized by a kind of j^^nic, and imagined for- sooth that a broken do'^vai and disai-med jdco- ple might engage in a general massacre of the Irish Protestants. AVhether this incompre- hensible terror was real, is a matter of doubt and uncertainty ; or whether it was assumed as a justification for assaihng the Cathohcs in a general massacre, similar' to that which they apprehended, or pretended to appre- hend, is also a matter of question ; yet cer- tain it is, that a proposal to massacre them in cold blood was made in the Tiixj Council. "But," says O'Connor, "the humanity of the members rejected this bai-bai'ous pro- posal, and crushed in its infancy a conspiracy hatched in Lurgan to extii-pate the Catholics of that town and ricinity." In the meantime, so active was the perse- cuting spirit of such men as Whitecraft and Smellpriest that a gi-eat number of the un- fortunate priests fled to the metropoHs, where, in a large and populous city, they had a better chance of remaining incogniti 124 olitical laws in their hands, if they ever read history, or can avail themselves of the esperiences of ages, ought to know that it is not by severity or persecution that the affections of their fellow-subjects can be concihated. We our- selves once knew a brutal ruffian, who was a dealer in finiit in the httle to\vn of Maynooth, and whose princijDle of correcting his cliil- dren was to continue whipping the poor things until they Avere for(X>d to laugh ! A person was one day preseu t when he com- menced chastising one of them — a child of about seven — upon this barbarous principle. This individual was then young and strong, and somethmg besides of a pugilist ; but on witnessing the affecting efforts of the httle fellow to do that which was not within the compass of any natural effort, he deliberately knocked the ruffian doA\Ti, after having first remonstrated with him to no j^urpose. He WILLY BE ILLY. 125 arose, however, and attacked the other, but, thanks to a eir old creed, and the tiiith of ours ? I think, Eeilly, you are loose about the brains." " That may be, sir, but you will never find me loose about my principles." " Are you awai-e, sir, that Helen is to appear against you as an evidence ? " " No, sir, I am not, neither do I believe it. But now, sir, I beg you to terminate this useless and unpleasant interview. I can look into my own conscience with satisfaction, and am prepared for the worst. If the scaffold is to be my fate, I cannot but remember that man}' a noble spirit has closed the cares of an unhappy hfe upon it. I wish you good-day, Mr. Foiiiard." " By the BojTie ! you are the most obstinate blockhead that ever lived ; but I've done ; I did all in my jDOwer to save you — yet to no purpose. Upon my soul, I'll come to your execution." " And if 3'ou do, you will see me die like a man and a gentleman ; may I humbly add, like a Christian ! " The squire, on his way home, kept up a long, low whistle, broken only by occasional soliloquies, in which Eeilly's want of common- sense, and neglect not only of his temporal interests, but of his life itself, were the pre- vailing sentiments. He regretted his want of success, which he imputed altogether to Eeilly's obstinacy, instead of his integrity, firmness, and honor. This train of reflection threw him into one of those cajiricious fits of resentment so peculiar to his unsteady temper, and as he went along he kept lashing himself up into a red heat of indignation and vengeance against that unfortunate gentleman. After dinner that day he felt somewhat puzzled as to whether he ought to communicate to his daughter the result of his interview with Eeilly or not. Ui^ou consideration, however, he deemed it more prudent to avoid the subject altogether, for he felt aj^iDrehensive that, however she might approve of her lover's conduct, the knowledge of his fate, which dei^ended on it, would only plunge her into deeper distress. The evening consequently passed without any allusion to the subject, unless a peculiar tendency to melody, on his part, might be taken to mean something ; to this Ave might add short abruj)t ejaculations unconsciously uttered — such as — "Whew, whew, whew-o-wliew-o — hang the fellow ! Whew, whew-o-whew — he's a cursed goose, but an obstinate — Avhew, whew-o-whew-o. Ay, but no matter— well — whew, whew-o, whew, whew ! Helen, a cu]) of tea. Now, Helen, do you know a discovery I have made — but how could you ? .No, you don't, of course ; but listen and pay attention to me, because it deeply aff'ects myself." The poor girl, api^rehensive that he was about to divulge some painful secret, became pale and a good deal agitated ; she gave him a long, inquiiing look, but said nothing. WILLY RE ILLY. 159 •• Ves, Helen, and the discovery is this : I finfT from experience that tea and Burgundy — or, indeed, tea and any kind of wine — don't agree with my constitution : curse the fel — whew, whew, whew, whew-o-whew ; no, the confounded mixture turns my stomach into nothing more nor less than a bag of aquafortis — if he had but common — whew — " " Well, but, papa, why do you take tea, then?" " Because I'm an old fool, Helen ; and if I am, there are some yomig ones besides ; but it can't be helped now — whew, whew — it was done for the best." In this manner he went on for a consider- able time, ejaculating mysteries and enigmas, until he finished the second bottle, after which he went to bed. It may be necessaiy to state here that, not- withstanding the incredible force and tendex'- ness of his affection for his daughter, he had, ever since her eloj)ement with ReiUy, kept her under the strictest surveillance, and in the greatest seclusion — that is to say, as the proverb has it, " he locked the stable door when the steed was stolen ; " or if he did not realize the aphorism, he came very near it. Time, however, passes, and the assizes were at hand, a fearful Avatar of judicial power to the guilty. The struggle between the parties who were interested in the fate of Whitecraft, and those who felt the extent of his unparalleled guilt, and the necessity not merely of making him an examj^le but of punishing him for his enormous crimes, was dreadful. The infatuation of political rancor on one side, an infatuation which could per- ceive nothing but the virtue of high and res- olute Protestantism in his conduct, bhnded his sujoporters to the enormity of his conduct, and, as a matter of course, they left no stone unturned to save his life. As we said, how- ever, they wei*e outnumbered ; but still they did not desj^air. Reilly's friends had been early in the legal market, and succeeded in retaining some of the ablest men at the bar, his leading counsel being the celebrated ad- vocate Fox, who was at that time one of the most distinguished men at the Irish bar. Helen, as the assizes approached, broke down so completely in her health that it was felt, if she remained in that state, that she would be unable to attend ; and although Reilly's tri:d was first on the list, his ojiposiug counsel succeeded in getting it postponed for a day or two. in order that an important witness, then ill, he said, might be able to ajDpear on their part. It is not our intention to go through the details of the trial of the Red Rapparee. The evidence of Mary Mahon, Fergus O'Reilly, and the sheriff, was complete ; the chain was unbroken ; the change of apparel — the dia- logue in Maiy Mahou's cabin, in which he avowed the fact of his having robbed the sheriff — the identification of his person by the said sheriff in the farmer's house, as before stated, left nothing for the jury to do but to bring in a verdict of guilty. Mercy was out of the question. The hardened ruffian — the treacherous ruffian — who had lent him- self to the bloodthirsty schemes of White- craft — and all this came out upon his trial, not certainly to the advantage of the baro- net — this hardened and treacherous ruffian, we say, who had been a scourge to that part of the country for years, now felt, when the verdict of guilty was brought in against him, just as a smith's anvil might feel when struck by a feather. On hearing it, he growled a hideous laugh, and exclaimed : " To the divil I pitch you all ; I wish, though, that I had Tom Bradley, the jDrophecy man, here, who tould me that I'd never be hanged, and that the rope was never bora for me." " If the rope was not born for you," ob- served the judge, " I fear I shall be obhged to inform you that you were born for the rope. Your life has been an outi'age upon civilized society." " Why, you ould dog ! " said the Rap- paree, "you can't hang me ; haven't I a j^ar- don ? didn't Sir Robert Whiteci'aft get me a pardon from the Government for turuin' against the Catholics, and tellin' him where to find the priests ? Why, you joulter-headed ould dog, you can't hang me, or, if you do, I'll leave them behind me that will put such a half ounce pill into your guts as will make you turn up the whites of your ej^es hke a duck in tundher. You'll bang me for rob- bery, you ould sinner ! But Avhat is one half the world doin' but robbin' the other half? and what is the other half doin' but robbin' them ? As for Sir Robert Whitecraft, if he desaved me by lies and falsehoods, as I'm afraid he did, all I say is, that if I had him here for one minute I'd show him a trick he'd never teU to mortal. Now go on, big- wig." Notwithstanding the solemnity of the posi- tion in which this obdurate ruffian was placed, the judge found it nearly impossible to silence the laughter of the audience and preserve order in the court. At length he succeeded, and continued his brief addi'ess to the Rapi)aree : " Hardened and impenitent reprobate, in the course of mj' judicial duties, onerous and often painful as tbey are and have been, I must say that, although it has fallen to my lot to pronounce the awful sentence of death upon many an unfeehng felon, I am boimd 160 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. to say that a public malefactor so utterly devoid of all the feelings wliich belong to man, and so strongly impregnated with those of the savage animal as you are, has never stood in a dock before me, nor probabty before any other judge, living or dead. Would it be a waste of language to enforce upon you the necessity of repentance ? I fear it would ; but it matters not ; the guilt of impenitence be on yoiu* o-ssm head, still I must do my duty ; try, then, and think of death, and a far more awful judgment than mine. Think of the necessity you have for supplicating mercy at the throne of your Re- deemer, who himself died for you, and for all of us, between two thieves." " That has nothing to do with my case ; I never was a thief ; I robbed like an honest man on the king's highways ; but as for thie\dn', why, you ould sinner, I never stole a farthing's worth in my life. Don't, then, pitch such beggarly comparisons into my teeth. I never did what you and \ovix class often did ; I never robbed the poor in the name of the blessed laws of the land ; I never oppressed the widow or the oi-jDhan ; and for all that I took from those that did oppress them, the divil a grain of sorrow or repent- ance I feel for it, nor ever ■oill feel for it. Oh ! mother of Moses ! if I had a glass of whiskey ! " The judge was obliged to enforce silence a second time ; for, to tell the ti-uth, there "was something so ludicrously imjjenitent in the conduct of this hardened convict that the audience could not resist it, especiall}' when it is remembered that the symj^athies of the lower Ii'ish are always with such culiDrits. " Well," continued the judge, when silence was again restored," your unparalleled obdu- racy has gained one point ; it was my inten- tion to have ordered you for execution to- morrow at the hour of twelve o'clock ; but, as a Christian man, I could not think for a moment of hurrying you into eternity in your present state. The sentence of the court then is that you be taken from the dock in which you now stand to the prison fi'om whence you came, and that from thence you be brought to the place of execution on nest Saturday, and there be hanged by the neck vmtil you be dead, and may God have mercy on your soul ! " The Rapparee gazed at him with a look of the most hardened effrontery, and exclaimed, "Is it in earnest you are?" after which he was once more committed to his cell, loaded with hea^y chains, which he wore, by the way, during his trial. Now, in order to account for his outrage- ous conduct, we must make a disclosure to the reader. There is in and about all jails a certain officer yclept a hangman — an officer who is permitted a fi-eer ingress and egress than almost any other person connected with those gloomy establishments. This hangman, who resided in the prison, had a brother whom Sir Robert Whitecraft had hanged, and, it was thought, innocently. Be this as it may, the man in question was heard to ut- ter strong threats of vengeance against Sir Robert for having his brother, whose inno- cence he asserted, brought to execution. In some time after this a pistol was fired one night at Sir Robert from behind a hedge, which missed him ; but as his myrmidons were •s\dth him, and the night was hght, a pursuit took place, and the guilty wretch was taken prisoner, with the pistol on his person, still warm after havmg been discharged. The consequence was that he was condemned to death. But it so happened that at this pe^ riod, although there were five or six executions to take place, yet there was no hangman to be had, that officer haring died suddenly, after a fit of liquor, and the sheriff would have been obliged to discharge the office with his own hands unless a finisher of the law could be found. In brief, he was found, and in the jDerson of the individual alluded to, who, in consequence of his consenting to ac- cept the office, got a pardon fi'om the Crown. Now this man and the Raj^paree had been old acquaintances, and renewed their friend- ship in i^rison. Through the means of the hangman O'Donnel got in as much whiskey as he pleased, and we need scarcely say that they often got intoxicated together. The se- cret, therefore, which we had to disclose to the reader, in explanation of the Rappai'ee's conduct at his trial, was simply this, that the man was thi'ee-quarters drunk. After trial he was placed in a darker dtm- geon than before ; but such was the influence of the worthy executioner with every officer of the jail, that he was permitted to go either in or out without search, and as he often gave a " slug," as he caUed it, to the turnkeys, they consequently allowed him, in this respect, whatever privileges he wished. Even the Rapparee's dungeon was not impenetrable to him, esj^ecially as he put the matter on a re- ligious footing, to wit, that as the unfortu- nate robber was not allowed the spiritual aid of his o\\n clerg5% he himself was the only person left to prepare him for death, Avhicb he did with the whiskey-bottle. The assizes on that occasion were protract- ed to an unusual length. The country waa in a most excited state, and pai'ty feeling ran fearfully high. Nothing was talked of but the two trials, j)ar excellence, to wit, that of White- craft and Reilly ; and scarcely a fair or mar- ket, for a considerable time previous, evei WILLY REILLY. 101 came round in which there was not a battle on the subject of either one or the other of them, and not vmfrequently of both. Nobody was surprised at the conAiction of the Red Rapparee ; but, on the conti-ary, eveiy one was glad that the countiy had at last got rid of him. Poor Helen, however, was not permitted to remain quiet, as she had expected. When l^Ii". Doldrum had furnished the leading counsel with his brief and a list of the wit- nesses, the latter gentleman was surprised to see the name of Helen Folliai'd among them. " How is this ? " he inquired ; "is not this the celebrated beauty who eloped with him ? " " It is, sir," replied Doldiixm. "But," proceeded the other, "you have not instructed me in the natiu'e of the eri- dence she is prepared to give." " She is deeply penitent, sir, and in a very feeble state of health ; so much so that we were obhged to leave the tendency of her evidence to be brought out on the trial." "Have you subpoenaed her? " "No, sii\" " And why not, ^Ir. Doldrum ? Don't you know that there is no understanding the caprices of women ? You ought to have sup- potnaed her, because, if she be a leading evidence, she may still change her mind and leave us in the liu'ch." " I certainly did not subpoena her," rephed Doldrum, " because, when I mentioned it to her father, he told me that if I attempted it he would break my head. It was enough, he said, that she had given her promise — a thing, he added, which she was never knoMTi to break." " Go to her again, Doldnim ; for unless we know what she can prove we will be only working in the dai'k. Trj* her, at all events, and glean what you can out of her. Her father teUs me she is somewhat better, so I don't apprehend you Tvill have mu«h diffi- culty in seeing her." Doldnim did see her, and was astonished at the striking change which had, in so short a time, taken place in her appearance. She was pale, and exhibited all the symptoms of an invahd, with the exception of her eyes, which were not merely bi-illiaut, but dazz- ling, and full of a fire that flashed from them with something Hke triumph whenever her attention was dii'ected to the pui-jjort of her testimony. On this subject they saw that it would be quite useless, and probably worse than useless, to press her, and they did not, consequently, put her to the necessity of apecifj-ing the pui-port of her evidence. "I have already stated," said she, "that I shall attend the trial ; that ought, and must be, sufficient for you. I beg, then, you will withdraw, sir. My improved health will enable me to attend, and you may rest assm-ed that if I have Life I shall be there, as I have ah-eady told you ; but, I say, that if you wish to press me for the natui'e of my evidence, you shall have it," and, as she spoke, her eyes flashed fearfully, as they were in the habit of doing whenever she felt deeply excited. FoUiard himself became apprehensive of the danger which might result from the discussion of any subject calculated to disturb her, and insisted that she shovild be allowed to take her o\sn way. In the meantime, after they had left her, at her own request, her father infonned the attorney that she was getting both strong and cheerful, in spite of her looks. "To be sure," said he, " she is pale ! but that's only natui-al, after her recent shght attack, and all the excitement and agitation she has for some time past \indergone. She sings and plays now, although I have' heard neither a song nor a tune fi-om her for a long time past. In the evening, too, she is exceedingly cheerful when we sit together in the drawing-room ; and she often laughs more heai'tily than I ever knew her to do before in my Hfe. Now, do you think, Dol- diiun, if she was breaking her heart about Reilly that she would be in such spirits ? " " No, sir ; she would be melancholy and silent, and would neither sing, nor laugh, nor play ; at least I felt so when I was in love with IVIiss Swithers, who kept me in a state of equUibi'ium for better than two years ; but that wasn't the worst of it, for she knocked the loyalty clean out of me besides — indeed, so decidedl}^ so that I never once sang ' Lilhbullero ' duiing the whole period of my attachment, and be hanged to her." " And what became of her ? " " ^liy, she mai'ried my clerk, who used to serv'e my love-letters upon her ; and when I expected to come in by execution — that is, by marriage — that cui-sed httle sherifl", Cupid, made a return of nulla bona. She and Sam Snivel — a kind of half Puiitan — entered a " ]Mr. FoUiard," said he, " you may with- draw now. Y'our daughter loved, as what woman has not? There stands the object of her affections, and I appeal to j-our own feelings whether any living woman covdd be blamed for lo\'ing such a man. You may go down, sir, for the present." The prosecuting counsel then said : " My lord, we produce ]\Iiss FoUiard herself to bear testimony against this man. Crier, let Helen FoUiard be caUed." Now was the moment of intense and in- credible interest. There was the far-famed beauty herself, to appear against her manly lover. The stir in the court, the expectation, the anxiety to see her, the stretching of necks, the pressure of one over another, the fervor of curiosity, was such as the reader may possibly conceive, but such certainly as we cannot attempt to describe. She ad- vanced from a side door, deeply veUed ; but the taU and majestic elegance of her figure not only struck aU hearts with admiration, but prepared them for the inexpressible beauty with which the whole kingdom rang. She was assisted to the table, and helped into the ^vitness's chair by her father, who seemed to triumph in her appearance there. On taking her seat, the buzz and murmur of the spectators became hushed into a sUence like that of death, and, vmtil she spoke, a feather might have been heard falling in the court. "IVIiss FoUiard," said the judge, in a most respectful voice, " you are deeply veUed — but perhaps you are not aware that, La order to give evidence in a court of justice, yovu* veil should be up ; AviU you have the goodness to raise it ? " Dehberately and slowly she raised it, as the coui't had desu-ed her — but, oh ! what an effulgence of beauty, what wonderful brU- hancy, what symmetiw, what radiance, what tenderness, what expression ! But we feel that to attempt the description of that face, which almost had divinity stamp- ed upon it, is beyond aU our powers. The whole court, every spectator, man and woman, aU for a time were mute, whilst their hearts drank in the deUcious draught of admu-ation which such beauty created. After ha\ing raised her veU, she looked around the court veith a kind of wonder, after which her eyes rested on ReiUy, and immediately her lids dropped, for she feared that she had done wrong in looking upon him. This made many of those hearts who were interested in his fate sink, and wonder why such treachery should be associated with features that breathed only of angeUc goodness and hu- manity. " ]\Iiss FoUiard," said the leading counsel engaged against EcUly, " I am hapjjy to hear that you regret some past occui'rences that took place with respect to you and the pris- oner at the bai'." "Yes," she replied, in a voice that was melody itself, " 1 do regret them." Fox kejDt his eye fixed upon her, aftei which he whispered something to one or two of his brother lawv'ers ; they shook their heads, and immediately set themselves to hear and note her examination. "IVIiss FoUiard, you are aware of the charges which have placed the prisoner at the bar of justice and his country ? " " Not exactly ; I have heard httle of it beyond the fact of his incarceration." "He stands there charged with two very heinous crimes — one of them, the theft oj i74 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. robbery of a valuable packet of jewels, your father's property." " Oh, no," she replied, " they are my own exclusive property — not my father's. They were the projjerty of my dear mother, who, on her death-bed, bequeathed them to me, in the presence of my father himself ; and I always considei-ed them as mine." " But they were found upon the person of the prisoner ? " " Oh, yes ; but that is very easily explain- ed. It is no secret now, that, in order to avoid a m'amage which my father was forcing on me with Su- Robert Whiteci*aft, I chose the less e^il, and committed myself to the honor of Mr. ReiUy. If I had not done so I should have committed suicide, I think, rather than maiiy "Whitecraft — a man so utterly devoid of jDrinciple and dehcacy that he sent an abandoned female into my father's house in the capacity of my maid and also as a spy "jpon my conduct." This astounding fact created an immense sensation throughout the court, and the lawyer who was examining her began to feel that her object in coming there was to give evidence in favor of Reilly, and not against him. He determined, however, to try her a httle farther, and proceeded : " But, ]\Iiss FoUiard, how do you account for the fact of the Bingham jewels being found upon the person of the prisoner ? " "It is the simj^lest thing in the world," she rephed. " I brought my owti jewels with me, and finding, as we proceeded, that I was likely to lose them, having no pocket suffi- ciently safe in which to carrj' them, I asked Reilly to take charge of them, which he did. Our unexpected capture, and the consequent agitation, prevented him fi'om retvu-ning them to me, and they were accordingly found upon his person ; but, as for steahng them, he is just as guilty as his lordship on the bench." "Miss Folliard," proceeded the lawj'er, "you have taken us by surj)rise to-day. How does it happen that you volunteered your* eAddence against the prisoner, and, now that you have come forward, every word you utter is in his favor ? Your mind must have recently changed — a fact which takes very much away from the force of that evidence." "I pray you, sir, to understand me, and not suffer youi'self to be misled. I never stated that I was about to come here to give evidence against Mr. Reilly ; but I said, when strongly pressed to come, that I would come, . and see justice done. Had they asked me my meaning, I wotdd have instantly told them ; because, I trust, I am incapable of falsehood ; and I will say now, that if my life oould obtain that of William Reilly, I would lay it willingly down for him, as I am certain he would lay down his for the preservatiou of mine." There was a pause here, and a murmur of approbation ran through the court. The opposing counsel, too, found that they had been led astray, and that to examine her any further would be only a weakening of their own cause. They attached, however, no blame of insincerity to her, but visited with much bitterness the unexpected capsize which they had got, on the stupid head of Doldrum, their attorney. They consequently' deter- mined to ask her no more questions, and she was about to withdraw, when Fox rose up, and said : "Miss Folhard, I am counsel for the prisoner at the bar, and I trust you wiU answer me a few questions. I perceive, madam, that you are fatigued of this scene ; but the questions I shall j)ut to you wiU be few and brief. An attachment has existed for some time between you and the prisoner at the bar? You need not be ashamed, madam, to reply to it." "I am 7iot ashamed," she repHed proudly, "and it is true." " Was your father aware of that attachment at any time ? " " He was, from a very early period." "Pray, how did he discover it? " "I myself told him of my love for Reilly." " Did your father give his consent to that attachment ? " " Conditionally he did." "And pray. Miss Folliard, what were the conditions ? " "That Reilly should abjure his creed, and then no fui'ther obstacles should stand in the way of our union, he said." "Was ever that proposal mentioned to Reilly?" " Yes, I mentioned it to him myself ; but, well as he loved me, he would suffer to go into an early grave, he said, sooner than abandon his religion ; and I loved him a thou- sand times better for his noble adherence to it." " Did he not save your father's life ? " "He did,' and the life of a faithful and at- tached old servant at the same time." Now, although this fact was generally known, yet the statement of it here occasioned a strong expression of indignation against the man who could come forward and prose- cute the individual, to whose courage and gallantry he stood indebted for his escape from murder. The uncertainty of FoUiard's character, however, was so well known, and his whimsical changes of opinion such a matter of proverb among the people, that many persons said to each other : WILLY BE ILLY. 175 " The cracked old squire is in one of his tiW turns now ; he'll be a proud man if he can convict Reilly to-day ; and perhaps to- morrow, or in a month hence, he'll be cui'sing himself for what he did — for that's his way." •'Well, iVIiss Folliard," said Fox, "we will not detain you any longer ; this to you must be a painful scene ; you may retire, madam." She did not immediately withdraw, but taking a green silk purse out of her bosom, she opened it, and, after inserting her long, white, taper fingers into it, she brought out a valuable emerald ring, and placing it in the hands of the crier, she said : " Give that ring to the pi'isoner : I know not, William," she added, " whether I shall ever see you again or not. It may so happen that this is the last time my eyes can ever rest upon you with love and sorrow." Here a few bright tears ran down her lovely cheeks. "If you should be sent to a far-off land, wear this for the sake of her who appreciated your vii*- tues, your noble spirit, and your pure and disinterested love ; look upon it when, per- haps, the Atlantic ma}' roU between us, and when you do, think of yoiu' Cooleen Bawn, and the love she bore you ; but if a still un- happier fate should be yours, let it be placed with you in yoru.- grave, and next that heart, tJiat noble heart, that refused to sacrifice your honor and your religion even to your love for me. I will now go." There is nothing so brave and fearless as innocence. Her youth, the majesty of her beauty, and the pathos of her exjwessions, absolutely flooded the court with tears. The judge wept, and hardened old barristers, with hearts like the nether millstone, were forced to jDut their handkerchiefs to theii* eyes ; but as they felt that it might be detrimental to their professional characters to be caught weeping, they shaded off the pathos under the hyjDocritical pretence of blowing their noses. The sobs from the ladies in the gal- lei-y were loud and vehement, and Eeilly him- self was so deeply moved that he felt obliged to put his face upon his hands, as he bent over the bar, in order to conceal his emotion. He received the ring with moist eyes, kissed it, and placed it in a small locket which he put in his bosom. " Now," said the Cooleen Baton, " I am ready to go." She was then conducted to the room to which we have alluded, where she met ^Irs. Brown and Mrs. Hastings, both of whom she found in teai's — for they had been in the gal- lery, and witnessed all that had hajDpened. They both embraced her tenderly, and at- tempted to console her as well as they could; but a weight like death, she said, pressed upon her heart, and she begged them not to distract her by their sympathy, kind and generous as she felt it to be, but to jdlow her to sit, and nurture her own thoughts until she could hear the verdict of the jury. !Mi-s. Hastings returned to the gallery, and anived there in time to hear the toucliing and bril- liant speech of Fox, which we are not pre- sumptuous enough to imagine, much less to stultify ourselves by attempting to give. He dashed the charge of Reilly 's theft of the jew- els to pieces — not a difficult task, after the evidence that had been given ; and then dwelt upon the loves of this celebrated pair with such force and eloquence and pathos that the court was once more melted into tears. The closing speech by the leading counsel against Reilly was bitter ; but the gist of it turned upon the fact of his having eloped with a ward of Chancery, contrary to law ; and he in- formed the jiu'y that no afiection — no con- sent upon the j^art of any young lady under age was either a justification of, or a pro- tection against, such an abduction as that of which Reilly had been guilty. The state of the law at the present time, he assured them, rendex'ed it a felony to many a CathoHc and a Protesiant together ; and he then left the case in the hands, he said, of an honest Protestant jury. The judge's charge was brief. He told the jury that they could not convict the pi'isoner on the imputed felony of the jewels ; but that the proof of his ha\ing taken away Miss FoUiard from her father's house, with — as the law stood — her felonious abduction, for the purpose of inveigling her into an unlawful marriage with himself, was the subject for their consideration. Even had he been a Prot- estant, the law could afford him no jDrotec- tion in the eye of the Court of Chancery. The jury retii-ed ; but theu' absence from their box was very brief. Unfortunately, their foreman was cursed with a dreadful hesitation in his speech, and, as he entered, the Clerk of the Crown said : " Well, gentlemen, have you agreed in your verdict ? " There was a solemn silence, during which nothing was heard but a convulsive working about tlie chest and glottis of the foreman, who at length said : " We — we — we — we have." " Is the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty?" Here the internal but obstiaicted machine- ry of the chest and throat set to work again, and at last the foreman was able to get out — " GuHty— " Mrs. Hastings had heard enough, and too much ; and, as the sentence was pronounced, she instantly withdrew ; but how to convey the melancholy tidings to the Cooleen Bawn 176 vriLLiA:sr carletox's works. she knew not. In the meantime the foreman, who had not fully dehvered himself of the verdict, added, after two or three desperate hiccups — "o« the second count" This, if the foreman had not labored under such an extraordinary hesitation, might have prevented much suflering, and many years of unconscious calamity to one of the ujihappy parties of whom we are writing, inasmuch as the felony of the jewels would have been death, whilst the elopement with a ward of Chancery was only transportation. When Mrs. Hastings entered the room where the Cleen Bawn was awaiting the ver- dict with a dreadful intensity of feeling, the latter rose up. and, throwing her arms about her neck, looked into her face, with an ex- pression of eagerness and wildness, which Mrs. Hastings thought misrht be best allaved by knowing the worst, as the heai-t, in such circumstances, generally collects itself, and falls back upon its own resources. " Well :Mrs. Hastings, well— the verdict ? " " Collect yourself, my child — be firm — be a woman. Collect yourself — for you will require it. The verdict — GnLir I " The Coolern Baicn did not faint — nor be- come weak — but she put hep fair white hand to her forehead — then looked around the room, then upon ^Irs. Brown, and lastly upon Mrs- Hastings. They also looked upon her. God help both her and them I Yes, they looked upon her countenance — that lovely countenance — and then iuto her eyes — those eyes I But, alas I where was their beauty now ■? \\Tiere their expression ? " Miss FoUiard 1 my darling Helen ! " ex- claimed Mrs. Hastings, in tears — "great Grod, what is this, 'Sixs. Brown ? Come here and look at her." Mrs. Brown, on looking at her, whispered, in choking accents, " Oh ! my God, the child's reason is overturned ; what is there now in those once glorious eyes but vacancy ? Oh, that I had never Hved to see this awful day I Helen, the treasure, the dehght of all who ever knew you, what is wrong ? Oh, speak to us — recognize us — your own two best friends — Helen — Helen ! speak to us." She looked upon them certainly ; but it was with a dead and vacant stare which wrung their hearts. " Come," said she, " tell me where is Wil- liam Reilly? Oh, bring me to WilHam ReiUy ; they have taken me from him, and I know not where to find him." The two kind-hearted ladies looked at one another, each stupefied by the mystery of what they witnessed. '• Oh," said Mrs. Hastings, " her father must b« instantly sent for. Mrs. Brown, go to the lobby — there is an officer there— de- sire him to go to Mr. FoUiard and say that — but we had better not alarm him too much," she added, " say that Miss FoUiard wishes to see him immediately." The judge, we may observe here, had not yet pronounced sentence upon ReiUy. The old man, who, under aU possible circum- stances, was so afiectionately devoted and attentive to his daughter, immediately pro- ceeded to the room, in a state of great tri- umph and exultation exclaiming, '• GrtLXT, GUILTY : we have noos-ed him at last." He even snapped his fingers, and danced about for a time, until rebuked by Mrs. Hastings. "Unhappy and miserable old man," she exclaimed, with teai-s, '" what have you done ? Look at the condition of your only child, whom you have murdered. She is now a maniac." "What," he exclaimed, rushing to her, "what, what is this ? "^Tiat do you mean ? Helen, my darling, my child — my dehght — what is wrong with you ? EecoUect your- self, my dearest treasure. Do you not know me, your own father ? Oh, Helen, Helen I for the love of God speak to me. Say you know me — call me father — rouse yourself — recoUect me — don't you know who I am ? ' There, however, was the frightfuUy vacant glance, but no reply. " Oh," said she, in a low, calm voice, " where is WiUiam Eeilly ? They have taken me fi-om him, and I cannot find biTn ; bring me to William Eeilly." "Don't you know me, Helen? don't you know yoiir loving father '? Oh, speak to me, child of my heart ! speak but one word as a proof that you know me." She looked on him, but that look fiUed his heart with unutterable anguish ; he clasped her to that heai-t, he kissed her Ups, he strove to soothe and console her — ^but in vain. There was the vacant but unsettled eye, from which the bright expression oi reason was gone ; but no recognition — ^no spaik ^f reflection or conscious thought — nothing but the melancholy inqiiiry from those beautiful lips of — " "SATiere's WUham Eeilly? They have taken me from him — and wiU not aUow me to see him. Oh, bring me to Wilham EeiUy ! " " Oh, wretched fate I " exclaimed her dis- tracted father, "I am — I am a mm-derer, and faithful Connor was right — 'SIxs. Bro\*'n — IMrs. Hastings — hear me, both — ^I was warned of this, but I would not Hsten either to reason or remonstrance, and now I am punished, as Connor predicted. Great hea- ven, what a fate both for her and me — for her the innocent, and for me the guilty ! " It is unneces.sary to dweU upon the father's misery and distraction ; but, from aU our WILLY RE ILLY. 177 readers have learned of his extraordinaiy tenderness and affection for that good and lovely daughter, they may judge of what he suffered. He immediately ordered his car- riage, and had barely time to hear that Reilly had been sentenced to transportation x'or seven years. His daughter was quite meek and tractable ; she spoke not, nor could any ingenuity on theii- part extract the slightest reply fi'om her. Neither did she shed a single tear, but the vacant hght of her eyes had stamped a fatuitous expres- sion on her features that was melancholy and heai-tbreaking beyond aU power of language to describe. No other person had seen her since "he bereavement of her reason, except the officer who kept guard on the lobby, and who, n the hurry and distraction of the moment, h.'>d been dispatched by IMi's. Brown for a glaM^ of cold water. Her father's ra\ings, how- ever, in the man's presence, added to his ovro. observation, and the distress of her female friends were quite sufficient to satisfy him of the nature of her comj)laiut, and in less than half an hour it was thi'ough the whole court-house, and the town besides, that the Cooleen Bawn had gone mad on hear- ing the sentence that was j^assed upon her lover. Her two friends accompanied her home, and remained with her for the night. Such was the melancholy conclusion of the trial of Willy Eeilly ; but even taking it at its worst, it involved a very different fate fi-om that of his ^indictive rival, Wliitecraft. ^ It appeared that that worthy gentleman and the Red Rapparee had been sentenced to die on the same day, and at the same hoiu\ It is true, "WTiitecraft was aware that a deputa- tion had gone post-haste to Dubhn Castle to soheit his pardon, or at least some lenient commutation of punishment. Still, it was feared that, owing to the dreadful state of the roads, and the slow mode of traveUing at that period, there was a probabihty that the pai'don might not aiTive in time to be avail- able ; and indeed there was every reason to ajiprehend as much. The day appointed for the execution of the Red Rapparee and him arrived — nay, the very hour had come ; but still there was hope among his friends. The sheriff* a iu'm, but fair and reasonable man, waited beyond the time named by the judge for his execution. At length he felt the necessity of dischai-ging his duty ; for, although more than an hour beyond the ap- pointed period had now elapsed, yet this de- lay proceeded fi'om no personal regard he entertained for the felon, but fi-om respect for many of those who had interested them- selves in his fate. After an unusual delay the sheriff felt himself called upon to order loth the Rap* paree and the baronet for execution. In waiting so long for a pardon, he felt that he had transgressed his duty, and he accordingly ordered them out for the last ceremony. Th« hardened Rapparee died sullen and silent; the only regi-et he expressed being that he could not live to see his old friend turned ofl before him. " Troth," rephed the hangman, "only that the sheriff has ordhered me to hang you first as bein' the betther man, I would give you that same satisfaction ; but if you're not in a very great huriy to the wann comer you're goin' to, and if you will just take your time for a few minutes, I'U engage to say you will soon have company. God speed you, any way," he exclaimed as he turned him off ; " only take your time, ancl wait for your neighbors. Now, Sir Robert," said he, " turn about, they say, is fair play — it's yoxir turn now ; but you look unbecomin' upon it. Hould up 3'oiu' head, man, and don't be east down. You'U have company where y ou're goin' ; for the Red Rapparee tould me to tell you that he'd wait for you. Hallo ! — what's that ? " he exclaimed as he cast his eye to the distance and discovered a horse- man riding for hfe, with a white handker- chief, or flag of some kind, floating in the breeze. The elevated position in which the executioner was jDlaced enabled him to see the signal before it could be perceived by the crowd. " Come, Sir Robert," said he, " stand where I'll place you — there's no use in asking you to hould up your head, for you're not able ; but listen. You hanged my brothei that you knew to be innocent ; and now \ hang you that I know to be gTiilty. Yes, 1 hang you, with the white flag of the Lord Lieutenant's pardon for you wa^-in' in the distance ; and hsten again, remember Willy ReilUi ;" and with these words he launched him into eternity. The uproar among his fiiends was im- mense, as was the cheering fi-om the general crowd, at the just fate of this bad man. The former iiished to the gallows, in order to cut him do^^^l, with a hope that life might still be in him, a process which the sheriff', after penising his pardon, permitted them to cany into effect. The body was accordingly taken into the prison, and a surgeon procured to examine it ; but altogether in vain ; his hoiir had gone by, life was extinct, and all the honor they could now pay Sir Robert Whitecraft was to give him a pompous fun- eral, and declare him a martyr to Poperj' — both of which they did. On the day prerious to Reilly's departure his humble fc-iend and namesake, Fergus, at the earnest solicitation of Reilly himaelt 178 WILLIAM GARLETON'S WORKS. was permitted to pay him a last melancholy visit. After his sentence, as well as before it, every attention had been paid to him by O'Shaughness}-, the jailer, who, although an avowed Protestant, and a brand plucked from the burning, was, nevertheless, a lui-k- ing Cathohc at heart, and felt a correspond- ing sympathy with his prisoner. \Vhen Fer- gus entered liis cell he found him neither fettered nor manacled, but perfectly in the enjoyment at least of bodily fi-eedom. It is impossible, indeed, to say how fju- the influ- ence of money may have gone in seeming him the comforts w-hich surroimded him, and the attentions which he received. On entering his cell, Fergus was struck by the calm and composed air with which he re- ceived him. His face, it is time, was paler than usual, but a feeling of indignant pride, if not of fixed but stem indignation, might be read under the comjjosure into which he forced himself, and which he endeavored to suppress. He apjDroached Fergus, and ex- tending his hand with a pecuUar smile, very difficult to be described, said : " Fergus, I am glad to see you ; I hope you are safe — ^t least I have heai'd so." "I am safe, sir, and free," replied Fergus ; " thanks to the Ked KajDparee and the sheriff for it." " Well," proceeded Eeilly, " you have one comfort — the Eed Kapparee will neither tempt you nor trouble you again ; but is there no danger of his gang taking up his quarrel and avenging him ? " " His gang, sir ? Why, only for me he woTold a' betrayed every man of them to "WTiitecraft and the Government, and had them hanged, drawn, and quartered — ay, and their heads grinning at us in every town in the county." " Well, Fergus, let his name and his crimes perish with him ; but, as for you, what do you intend to do ? " "Troth, sir," rej^hed Fergus, "it's more than I lightly know. I had my hoj)es, like others ; but, somehow, luck has left all sorts of lovers of late — from Sii' Robert White- craft to your humble servant." " But you may thank God," said Eeilly, with a smile, " that you had not Sir Eobert Whitecraft's luck." "Faith, sir," rephed Fergiis archly, " there's a pair of us may do so. You went nearer his luck — such as it was — than I did. " " True enough," replied the other, with a ■serious air ; " I had certainly a narrow es- cape ; but I wish to know, as I said, what you intend to do ? It is your duty now, Fer- gus, to settle industriously and honestly." " Ah, sir, lioncdly. I didn't expect that from you, IVIr. Eeilly." " Excuse me, Fergus," said Eeilly, taking him by the hand ; "when I said honestly I did not mean to intimate any thing whatsoever against your integrity. I know, unfortunately, the harsh circumstances which drove you to associate with that remorseless viUain and his gang ; but I wish you to resume an industri- ous life, and, if Ellen Connor is disposed to unite her fate with yours, I have provided the means — ample means for you both to be comfortable and happy. She who was so faithful to her mistress will not fail to make you a good wife." "All," replied Fergus, " it's I that knows that well ; but, unfortimately, I have no hope there." " No hope ; how is that ? I thought your affection was mutual." "So it is, sir — or, rather, so it was ; but she has affection for nobody now, baiTing the Cooleen Bavm." Eeilly paused, and appeared deeply moved by this. "What," said he, "will she not leave her? But I am not siu'piised at it." "No, sir, she will not leave her, but has taken an oath to stay by her night and day, until — better times come." We may say here that EeOly's friends took care that neither jailer nor turnkey should make him acquainted with the uuhajDpy state of the Cooleen Bawn ; he was consequently ignorant of it, and, fortunately, remained so until after his return home. " Fergus," said Eeilly, " can you teU me how the Cooleen Baton bears the sentence which sends me to a far country ? " " How would she bear it, sir ? You needn't . ask : Connor, at all events, will not part fi'om her — not, anyw^ay, until you come back." " Well, Fergus," proceeded Eeilly, " I have, as I said, provided for you both ; what that pro\ision is I will not mention now, Mr. Hastings will inform you. But if you have a wish to leave this unhappy and distracted country, even without Connor, why, by api^lying to him, you \\ill be enabled to do so ; or, if you wish to stay at home and take a farm, you may do so." "Divil a foot I'll leave the countiy," re- plied the other. " Ellen may stick to the Cooleen Bawn, but, be my sowl, I'U stick to Ellen, if I was to wait these seven years. I'll be as stiff as she is stout ; but, at any rate, she's worth waitin' for." " You may well say so," replied EeiUy, " and I can quarrel neither with youi' attach- ment nor your patience ; but you will not forget to let her know the jDrovision which I have left for her in the hancis of Mr. Hast- ings, and teU her it is a shght reward for her noble attachment to my dear Cooleen Bawn. Fergus," he proceeded, "have you WILLY REILLY. 179 ever had a dream in the middle of which you awoke, then fell asleep and dreamt out the dream ? " *« Troth had I, often, sir ; and, by the way, talkin' of dreams, I dreamt last night that I was wantm' Ellen to marry me, and she said, 'not yet, Fergus, but in due time.'" "Well, Fergus," proceeded Reilly, "per- haps there is but half my dream of life gone ; who knows when I return — if I ever do — but my dream may be comj^leted ? and hap- pily, too ; I know the truth and faith of my dear Cooleen Bawn. And, Fergus, it is not merely my dear Cooleen Baton that I feel for, but for my unfortunate country. I am not, however, without hope that the day will come — although it may be a distant one — when she will enjoy freedom, j)eace, and prosperity. Now, Fergus, good-by, and farewell ! Come, come, be a man," he added, with a melancholy smile, whil?t a tear stood •even in his own eye — "come, Fergus, I will tiot have this ; I won't say farewell for ever, because I exj^ect to return and be happy yet — if not in my. own counby, at least in some other, where there is more fi'eedom and less persecution for conscience' sake." Poor Fergus, however, when the parting moment aridved, was completely overcome. He caught Keilly in his arms — wept over him bitterly — and, after a last and sorrowfid em- brace, was prevailed upon to take his leave. The history of the Cooleen Baton's melan- choly fate soon went far and near, and many an eye that had never rested on her beauty gave its tribute of tears to her undeserved sorrows. There existed, however, one indi- vidual who was the object of almost as deep a compassion ; this was her father, who was consumed by the bitterest and most pro- foiuid remorse. His whole character became changed by his terrible and unexpected shock, by which his beautiful and angelic daughter had been blasted before his e^'^es. He was no longer the boisterous and convi- vial old squire, changeful and unsettled in all his oj^inions, but silent, quiet, and ab- stracted almost from life. He wept incessantly, but his tears did not bring him comfort, for they were tears of anguish and despair. Ten times a day he would proceed to her chamber, or follow her to the garden where she loved to walk, always in the delusive hope that he might catch some spark of retui-ning reason fi'om those calm-looking but meaningless eyes, after which he would weep like a child. "With respect to his daughter, eveiy thing was done for her that wealth and human means could accompHsh, but to no piuiDOse ; the maladj' was too deeply seated to be affect- ed by any known remedy, whether moral or physical. From the moment she was struck into msanity she was never known to smile, or to speak, unless when she chanced to see a stranger, upon which she immediately approached, and asked, with clasped hands : " Oh ! can you tell me where is William Keilly ? They have taken me from him, and I cannot find him. Oh ! can you tell me where is William Reilly ? " There was, however, another individual upon whose heart the calamity of the Cooleen Baton fell like a blight that seemed to have struck it into such misery and sorrow as threatened to end only with hfe. This was the faithful and attached Ellen Connor. On the day of Reilly 's trial she experienced the alternations of ho^je, uncertainty, and de- spair, with such a depth of anxious feeling, and such feverish excitement, that the period of time which elapsed appeared to her as if it would never come to an end. She could neither sit, nor stand, nor work, nor read, nor take her meals, nor scarcely think with any consistency or clearness of thought. We have mentioned hope — but it was the faintest and the feeblest element in that chaos of distress and confusion which filled and distracted her mind. She knew the state and condition of the coiuitr}^ too well — she knew the powerful influence of ]\Ii". FoUiard in his native county — she knew what the consequences to Reilly must be of taking awaj' a Protestant heiress ; the fact was there — plain, distinct, and incontrovert- ible, and she knew that no chance of im- punity or acquittal remained for any one of his creed guilty of such a -sdolation of the laws — we say, she knew all this — but it was not of the fate of Reilly she thought. The gii'l was an acute obsei'ver, and both a close and clear thinker. She had remarked in the Cooleen Bawn, on several occasions, small gushes, as it were, of unsettled thought, and of temjoorary wildness, almost approaching to insanity. She knew, besides, that insanity was in the family on her fa- ther's side ; * and, as she had so boldly and firmly stated to tliat father himself, she dreaded the result which Reilly 's conviction might produce upon a mind vdth such a tendency, worn down and depressed as it had been by all she had suffered, and more especially what she must feel by the tumult and agitation of that dreadful day. It was about two houi's after dark when she was startled by the noise of the carriage- wheels as they came up the avenue. Her * The reader must take this as the necessary ma- terial for our fiction. There never was insanity in Helen's family ; and we make this note to prevent them from taking unnecessary offence. 180 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. heart beat as if it would burst, the blood rusli- ed to her head, and she became too giddy to stand or walk ; then it seemed to rush back to her heart, and she was seized with thick breathing and feebleness ; but at length, strengthened by the very intensity of the in- terest she felt, she made her way to the lower steps of the hall door in time to be present when the carriage arrived at it. She determined, however, wi'ought up as she was to the highest state of excitement, to await, to watch, to listen. She did so. The car- riage stopped at the usual place, the coach- man came down and oj)ened the door, and Wx. FoUiard came out. After him, assisted by j\li's. Brown, came Helen, who was im- mediately conducted in between the latter and her father. In the meantime poor Ellen could only look on. She was incapable of asking a single question, but she followed them up to the drawing-room where they conducted her mistress. When she was about to enter, IMi's. Brown said : " Ellen, you had better not come in ; yoiu' mistress is unwell." Mrs. Hastings then approached, and, with a good deal of judgment and consideration, said : "I think it is better, ]\Ii-s. Brown, that Ellen should see her, or, rather, that she should see Ellen. "V\Tio can tell how bene- ficial the efiect may be on her ? We all know how she was attached to Ellen." In addition to those fearful intimations, Ellen heard inside the sobs and groans of her distracted father, mingled with caresses and such tender and affectionate language as, she knew by the words, could only be addi-essed to a person incapable of understanding them. Mrs. BroANTi held the door partially closed, but the faithfvd girl would not be repulsed. She pushed in, exclaiming : " Stand back, Mi-s. Brown, I must see my mistress ! — if she is my mistress, or any- body's mistress now," — and accordingly she approached the settee on which the Cooleen Bawn sat. The old squire was wringing his hands, sobbing, and giving vent to the most uncontrollable sorrow. " Oh, Ellen," said he, " pity and forgive me. Your mistress is gone, gone ! — she knows nobody ! " " Stand aside," she replied; " stand aside aU of you ; let me to her." She knelt beside the settee, looked dis- tractedly, but keenly, at her for about half a minute — but there she sat, calm, pale, and unconscious. At length she turned her eyes upon EUen — for ever since the girl's entrance she had been gazing on vacancy — and im- mediately said : " Oh ! can you tell me where is William Reilly ? They have taken me from him, and I cannot find him. Oh ! A\ill you tell me where is Wilham Reilly ? " Ellen gave two or thi-ee rapid sobs ; but, by a i^owerful effort, she somewhat composed herself. " i\Iiss FoUiard," she said, in a choking voice, however, " darhng Miss Folliard — my beloved misti-ess — Cooleen Bawn — oh, do you not know me — me, yoirr own faithful Ellen, that loved you — and that loves you so well — ay, beyond father and mother, and aU others h\dng in this unhappy world ? Oh, speak to me, dear mistress — speak to your own faithful EUen, and only say that you know me, or only look upon me as if you did." Not a glance, however, of recognition foh lowed those lo%ing soUcitations ; but there, before them all, she sat, with the pale face, the sorrowful brow, and the vacant look. EUen addressed her with equal tenderness again and again, but with the same melan- choly effect. The effect was beyond question — reason had departed ; the fair temple was there, but the light of the di^inity that had been enshrined in it was no longer \'isible ; it seemed to have been abandoned probably for ever. EUen now finding that every effort to restore her to rational consciousness was ineffectual, rose up, and, looking about for a moment, her eyes rested upon her father. " Oh, EUen ! " he exclaimed, " spare me, spare me — you know I'm in your power. I neglected your honest and friendly warning, and now it is too late." " Poor man ! " she rej)lied, "it is not she, but you, that is to be pitied. No ; after this miserable sight, never shaU my lips breathe one syUable of censure against you. Your punishment is too dreadful for that. But when I look upon her — look upon her 7iow — oh, my God ! what is this ? " — " Help the girl," said jVIi-s. BroAvn quickly, and with alarm. " Oh, she has faUen — raise her up, IVIi'. FoUiard. Oh, my God, Mrs. Hastings, what a scene is this ! " They immediately opened her stays, and conveyed her to another settee, where she lay for nearly a quarter of an hour in a calm and tranquil insensibility. With the aid of the usual remedies, however, she was, but with some difficulty, restored, after which she burst into tears, and wept for some time bitterly. At length she recovered a certain degree of composure, and, after settUng her dress and luxuriant brown hair, aided by IMrs. Brown and Mrs. Hastings, she arose, and once more approaching her lovely, but unconscious, mistress, knelt down, and, clasping her hands, looked up to heaven, whilst she said : WILLY REILLY. 181 " Here, I take the Almighty God to witness, that from this moment out I renounce father and mother, brother and sister, friend and relative, man and woman, and wiU abide by my dear unhappy Cooleen Bawn — that blighted flower before us — both by day and by night — through all seasons — tln-ough aU places wherever she may go, or be brought, until it may please God to restore her to rea- son, or until death may close her sufferings, should I hve so long, and have health and strength to carry out this solemn oath ; so may God hear me, and assist me in my in- tention." She then rose, and, putting her arms around the fair girl, kissed her lips, and poured forth a coj^ious flood of tears into her bosom. " I am yours now," she said, caressing her mournfully: "I am yours now, my ever darhng mistress ; and from this hoiu* forth nothing but death will ever separate youi* own Connor from you." Well and faithfully did she keep that gen- erous and heroic oath. Ever, for many a long and hopeless year, was she to be found, both night and day, by the side of that beau- tiful but melancholy sufferer. No other hand ever dressed or undressed her ; no other in- dividual ever attended to her wants, or com- ■*)lied with those httle fitful changes and ca- prices to which persons of her unhappy class are subject. The consequence of this tender and devoted attachment was singular, but not by any means incomj)atible, we think, even with her situation. If Connor, for in- stance, was any short time absent, and another person supphed her place, the Cool- een Bawn, in whose noble and loving heart the strong instincts of affection coidd never die, uniformly appeared dissatisfied and un- easy, and looked aroimd her, as if for some object that would afford her pleasure. On Ellen's reappearance a faint but placid smile would shed its feeble light over her counte- nance, and she would appear calm and con- tented ; but, during all this time, Avord uttered she none, with the exception of those to which we have already alluded. These were the only words she was known to utter, and no stranger ever came in her way to whom she did not repeat them. In this way her father, her maid, and herself passed tlu'ough a melancholy existence for better than six years, when a young physician of great promise happened to settle in the town of Sligo, and her father having heard of it had him immediately called in. After look- ing at her, however, he found himself accosted iu the same terms we have already given : " Oh ! con you tell me where is William Reilly?" " William ReiUy will soon be with you," he replied ; "he will soon be here." A start — barely, scarcely perceptible, was noticed by the keen eye of the physi(iian ; but it passed away, and left nothing but that fixed and beautiful vacancy behind it. "Sir," said the physician, "I do not abso- lutely desjDair of Aliss Folliard's recoveiy : the influence of some deep excitement, if it could be made accessible, might produce a good effect ; it was by a shock it came upon her, and I am of opinion that if she ever does recover it wiU be by something similar to that which induced her pitiable malady." " I will give a thousand pounds — five thou- sand — ten thousand, to any man who wdll be fortunate enough to restore her to reason," said her father. " Onecoui'se," proceeded the physician, "I wovdd recommend you to pursue ; bring her about as much as you can ; give her variety of scenery and variety of new faces ; visit your fi'iends, and bring her with you. This course may have some effect ; as for medi- cine, it is of no use here, for her health is in every other respect good." He then took his leave, ha\ing first re- ceived a fee which somewhat astonished him. His adrice, however, was followed ; her father and she, and Connor, during the sum- mer and autumn months, Adsited among their acquaintances and friends, by whom they were treated with the gi'eatest and most con- siderate kindness ; but, so far as poor Helen was concerned, no symptom of any salutary change became visible ; the long, dull blank of departed reason was still imbroken. Better than seven years and a half had now elapsed, when she and her father came by invitation to pay a risit to a IVIr. Hamilton, grandfather to the late Dacre Hamilton of Monaghan, who — the gi-andfather we mean — was one of the most notorious priest-hunt- ers of the day. We need not say that her faithful Connor was still in attendance. Old Folliard went riding out with his fiiend, for he was now so much debihtated as to be scarcely able to walk abroad for any distance, when, about the hour of two o'clock, a man in the garb, and with all the bearing of a perfect gentleman, knocked at the door, and inquired of the servant who opened it wheth- er Miss FoUiard were not there. The ser- vant replied in the affirmative, upon which the sti'anger asked if he could see her. " Why, I suppose you must be aware, sir, of Miss Folliard's unfortunate state of mind, and that she can see nobody ; sir, she knows nobody, and I have strict orders to deny her 182 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. to every one unless some particular friend of the family." The stranger put a giiinea into his hand, and kdded, "I had the pleasiu-e of kno^^ing her before she lost her reason, and as I have not seen her since, I should be glad to see her now, or even to look on her for a few minutes." • " Come up, sir," rephed the man, " and enter the di'aA\-ing-room immediately after me, or I shall be ordered to deny her." The gentleman followed him ; but why did his cheek become pale, and why did his heart palpitate as if it w^ould burst and bound out of his bosom? AVe shall see. On entering the drawdng-room he bowed, and was about to apologize for his intrusion, when the Cooleen Baton, recognizing him as a stranger, approached him and said : " Oh ! can you tell me w'here is WilUam Reilly ? They have taken me fi'om him, and I cannot find him. Oh, can you teU me any thing about WiUiam EeiUy?" The stranger staggered at this miserable sight, but probably more at the contempla- tion of that love which not even insanity could subdue. He felt himseK obliged to lean for support upon the back of a chair, during which brief space he fixed his eyes upon her with a look of the most inexpressi- ble tenderness and sorrow. " Oh ! " she repeated, " can you tell me where is "William Reilly ? " "Alas! Helen," said he, "I am WilHam ReiUy." " You ! " she exclaimed. " Oh, no, the wide, wide Atlantic is between him and me." ■' It icas between us, Helen, but it is not now ; I am here in life before you — your own WilUam Reilly, that William Reilly whom you loved so well, but so fatally. I am he : do you not know me ? " " You are not William Reilly," she rephed ; "if you were, you would have a token." " Do you forget that ? " he replied, placing in her hand the emerald ring she had given him at the trial. She started on looking at it, and a feeble flash was observed to proceed from her eyes. "This might come to you," she said, "by Reilly 's death ; yes, this might come to you in that way ; but there is another token wliich is known to none but himself and me." " Whisper," said he, and as he spoke he appHed his mouth to her ear, and breathed the token into it. She stood back, her eyes flashed, her beautiful bosom heaved ; she advanced, looked once more, and exclaimed, with a scream, "It is he ! it is he ! " and the ' next moment she was insensible in his arms. Long but precious was that insensibility, ^d precious were the tears which his eyes rained down upon that pale but lovelj covmtenance. She was soon placed upon fli settee, but Reilly knelt beside her, and held one of her hands in his. After a long trance she opened her eyes and again started. Reilly pressed her hand and whispered in her ear, " Helen, I am with you at last." She smiled on him and said, " Help me to sit up, until I look about me, that I may be certain this is not a dream." She then looked about her, and as the ladies of the family spoke tenderly to her, and cai'essed her, she fixed her eyes once more upon her lover, and said, " It is not a dream then ; this is a reality ; but, alas ! Reilly, I tremble to thiuk lest they should take you fi'om me again." "You need entertain no such apprehen- sion, my dear Helen," said the lady of the mansion. " I have often heard your father say that he would give twenty thousand pounds to have you well, and Reilly's wife. In fact, you have nothing to fear in that, or any other quarter. But there's his knock ; he and my husband have returned, and I must break this blessed news to him by de- gi'ees, lest it might be too much for him if communicated wdthout due and projDer cau- tion." She accordingly went down to the hall, where they W'ere hanging up their great coats and hats, and brought them into her husband's study. " ]Mi". Folliard," said she with a cheerful face, "I thiuk, fi'om some symptoms of im- provement noticed to-day in Helen, that we needn't be without hope." " Alas, alas ! " exclaimed the poor father, " I have no hope ; after such a length of time I am indeed without a shadow of exjsecta* tion. If unfortunate Reilly were here, in- deed her seeing him, as that Sligo doctor told me, might give her a chance. He saw her about a week before we came do\^Ti, and those were his words. But as for Reilly, even if he were in the comitry, how coidd I look him in the face ? "WTiat wouldn't I give now that he were here, that Helen was well, and that one word of mine could make them man and wife ? " " Well, well," she replied, " don't be cast dowTi ; perhaps I could teU you good news if I wished." " You're beating about the bush, Mary, at all events," said her husband, laughing. "Perhaps, now, ]VIr. FoUiai'd," she con- tinued, "I could introduce a young lady who is so fond of you, old and ugly as you are, that she would not hesitate to kiss you tenderly, and cry with dehght on your bosom you old thief." They both started at her words with WILLY BE ILLY. 183 amazement, and her husband said : " Egad, Alick, Helen's malady seems catching. What the deuce do you mean, Molly ? or must I, too, send for a doctor ? " " Shall I introduce you to the lady, though ? " she proceeded, addressing the father ; " but remember that, if I do, you must be a man, jNIi'. Folliard ! " " In God's name ! do what you like," said Mr. Hamilton, "but do it at once." She went upstaii's, and said, "As I do not wish to bring your father up, Helen, Tintil he is prepared for a meeting -with Mr. Eeilly, I will bring you down to him. The sight of you now will give him new hfe." " Oh, come, then," said Helen, "bring me to my father ; do not lose a moment, not a moment ! — oh, let me see him instantly ! " The poor old man suspected something. "For a thousand I" said he, "this is some good news about Helen ! " " Make yoiu' mind up for that," repKed his fiiend ; " as sure as you live it is ; and if it be, bear it stoutly." In the course of a few minutes ]Mrs. Ham- ilton entered the room with Helen, now awakened to perfect reason, smiling, and leaning upon her arm. " Oh, dear papa ! " she exclaimed, meeting him, with a flood of tears, and resting her head on his bosom. "^Miat, my darling! — my darUug ! And you know papa once more ! — you know him again, my darling Helen ! Oh, thanks be to God for this happy day ! " And he kissed her Hps, and pressed her to his heart, and wept over her with ecstasy and delight. It was a tender and tearful embrace. " Oh, papa ! " said she, " I fear I have caused you much pain and sori'ow : some- thing has been ^vrong, but I am well now that he is here. I felt the tones of his voice in my heart." " WTio, darling, who?" "Reilly, papa." " Hamilton, bring him down instantly ; but oh, Helen, darhng, how will I see him ? — how can I see him ? but he must come, and we must all be happy. Bring him down." " You know, papa, that ReiUy is generosity itself." " He is, he is, Helen, and how could I blame you for loving him ? " Reilly soon entered ; but the old man, already overpowered by what had just oc- curred, was not able to speak to him for some time. He clasped and pi'essed his h;md, however, and at length said : "My son ! my son ! Now," he added, after he had recovered himself, " now that I have both together, I will not allow one minute to pass until I give you both my blessing ; i and in due time, when Helen gets strong, and ; when I get a little stouter, you shall be mar- ried ; the parson and the priest will make you both happy. Reilly, can you forgive me?" "I have nothing to forgive you, sir," re- plied Reilly ; " whatever you did proceeded from your excessive affection for your daugh- ter ; I am more than overjjaid for any thmg I may have suffered myself ; had it been ages of miseiy, this one moment would cancel the memoiy of it for ever." "I cannot give you my estate, Reilly," said the old man, " for that is entailed, and goes to the next male issue ; but I can give you fifty thousand pounds with my girl, and that "^oU keep you both comfortable for life." " I thank you, sir," repHed Reilly, " and for the sake of your daughter I will not re- ject it ; but I am myself in independent cir- cumstances, and could, even without your generosity, support Helen in a rank of life not unsuitable to her condition." It is weU known that, dirring the period in which the incidents of our stoiy took place, no man claiming the character of a gentleman ever travelled without his o^ni sers'ant to at- tend him. After Reilly's return to his na- tive place, his first inquiiies, as might be ex- pected, were after his Cooleen Baiun ; and his next, after those who had been in some de- gi'ee connected with those painful circum- stances in which he had been involved jDre- vious to his trial and conriction. He found !Mr. Brown and Mr. Hastings much in the same state in which he left them. The lat- ter, who had been entrusted with all his personal and other property, under certain conditions, that depended \x^on his return after the term of his sentence should liave expired, now restored to him, and again re- \ instated liim on the original tenns into aU his landed and other jjroperty, together with ! such sums as had accrued from it during his absence, so that he now foimd himself a wealthy man. Next to Cooleen Baicn, how- ever, one of his first inquuies was after Fer- gus Reilly, whom he found domiciled "s^ith a neighboring middleman as a head servant, or kind of under steward. "We need not describe the delight of Fergus on once more meeting his beloved relative at perfect liber- ty, and free from all danger in his native land. " Fergus," said Reilly, " I understand you are still a bachelor — how does that come ? " " Why, sir," replied Fergus, " now that you know every thing about the unhappy state of the Cooleen Baum, sui-ely you can't blame poor Ellen for not desartin' her. As for me I cared nothing about any other girl, and 184 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. I never could let either my own dhrame, or what you said was yoiirs, out o' my head. I still had hope, and I still have, that she may recover." Eeilly made no reply to this, for he feared to entertain the vague expectation to which Fergus alluded. " Well, Fergus," said he, " although I have undergone the sentence of a con\'ict, yet now, after my return, I am a rich man. For the sake of old times — of old dangers and old difficulties — I should wish you to hve with me, and to attend me as my own personal servant or man. I shall get you a suit of hveiy, and the crest of O'Reilly shall be upon it. I wish you to attend upon me, Fergus, because you understand me, and because I never will enjoy a hapj^y heart, or one day's freedom fiom sorrow again. All hope of that is past, but you will be useful to me — and that you know." Fergus was deeply affected at these words, although he was gratified in the highest de- gree at the proposal. In the course of a few days he entered uj)on his duties, immediate- ly after which Eeill}- set out on his joiu-ney to Monaghan, to see once more his beloved, but unhapjDy, Cooleen Baion. On aiTiring at that handsome and hospitable to^uTi, he put uj) at an excellent inn, called the " Westenra Ai-ms," kept by a man who was the model of innkeepers, known by the sobriquet of " hon- est Peter M'PhihiDs." We need not now re- capitulate that with which the reader is al- ready acquainted ; but we cannot omit de- scribing a brief intei-view which took place in the covxrse of a few days after the restora- tion of the Cooleen Baton to the perfect use of her reason, between two individuals, w^ho, we think, have some claim upon the good-will and good wishes of our readers. We allude to Fergus Reilly and the faithful Ellen Con- nor. Seated in a comfortable room in the aforesaid inn — now a respectable and admir- ably kept hotel — with the same arms over the door, were the two individuals alluded to. Before them stood a black bottle of a ceriain fi-agrant liquor, as clear and colorless as water fi-om the j)urest spring, and, to judge of it by the eye, quite as harmless ; but there was the mistake. Never was hypocrisy bet- ter exemplified than by the contents of that bottle. The hquor in question came, Fer- gus was informed, from the green woods of Truagh, and more especially from a townland named Den-ygola, famous, besides, for stout men and pretty girls. "Well, now, Ellen darhn'," said Fergus, " if ever any two bachelors * were entitled to *" Bachelor," in Ireland, especiallj' in the coun- try parts of it, where English is not spoken correct- ly, is frequeatly applied to both the sexes. drink their own healths, surely you and 1 axa Here's to us — a happy maniage, soon and sudden. As for myself, I've had the patience of a Trojan." Ellen pledged him beautifully with her eyes, but veiy moderately with the liquor. " Bedad ! " he proceeded, " seven years-^ ay, and a half — wasn't a bad apprenticeship, at any rate ; but, as I tould IVIr. lieilly before he left the country^upon my sowl, says I, IVIr. Eeilly, she's worth waitin' for ; and he admitted it." "But, Fergus, did ever any thing turn out so happy for all parties ? To me it's like a dream ; I can scarcely beheve it." " Faith, and if it be a dhrame, I hope it's one we'll never waken from. And so the four of us are to be married on the same day, ani we're all to hve with the squire." " We are, Fergus ; the Cooleen Bawn will have it so ; but, indeed, her father is as anxi- ous for it almost as she is. Ah, no, Fergus, she could not part with her faithful Ellen, as she calls me ; nor, after all, Fergus, would her faithful Ellen wish to part with her ? *' " And he's to make me steward ; beg.id, and if I don't make a good one, I'll make an honest one. Faith, at all events, Ellen, we'll be in a condition to provide for the childue', plaise God." Ellen gave him a blushing look of I'eproach, and desired him to keep a proper tongue in his head. " But what will we do with the five hun- dred, Ellen, that the squire and ]VIr. Reilly made up between them ? " "W^e'll consult Mr. Reilly about it," she rejohed, " and no doubt but he'll enable us to lay it out to the best advantage. Now, Fer- g-us dear, I must go," she added ; "you know she can't bear me even now to be any length of time away fi'om her. Here's God bless them both, and contuuie them in the hapiDiaess they now enjoy." "Amen," rephed Fergus, " and here's God bless ourselves, and make us more loAin to one another every day we rise ; and here'r* to take a foretaste of it now, you thief." Some slight resistance, followed by certain smacking sounds, closed the interview ; for Ellen, having started to her feet, threw on her cloak and bonnet, and hvu'ried out of the room, giving back, however, a laughing look at Fergus as she escaped. In a few months afterwards they were married, and lived with the old man until he became a grandfather to two children, the eldest a boy, and the second a girl. Upon the same day of their marriage their humble but faithful fiiends were also united ; so that there was a double wedding. The ceremony, in the case of Reilly and his Cooleen Bawn, w-4 WILLY BE ILLY. 185 performed by the Eeverend ]\Ir. Brown first, and the parish priest afterwards; Mr. Strong, who had been for several years conjoined to Mrs. Smellpriest, having been rejected by both parties as the officiating clergyman up- on the occasion, although the lovely bride was certainly his j^arishioner. Age and time, however, told upon the old man ; and at the expiration of thi-ee years they laid him, with many tears, in the grave of his fathers. Soon after this Reilly and his wife, accompanied by Fergus and EUen— for the Cooleen Bawn would not be separated from the latter — re- moved to the Continent, where they had a numerous family, principally of sons ; and we need not teU our learned readers, at least, that those young men distinguished not only themselves, but their name, by acts of the most briUiant courage in continental warfare. And so, gentle reader, ends the troubled his- tory of Willy Rktt.t.v and his own Cooleen Bawn. I -f v^ Fardorougha, the Miser. PAET L' Fardorougha, the Miser. It was on one of those nights in August, when the moon and stars shine through an atmosphere clear and cloudless, -nith a mild- ness of lustre almost continental, that a horseman, advancing at a rapid pace, turned off a remote branch of road up a naiTow lane, and, dismounting before a neat white- washed cottage, gave a quick and impatient knock at the door. Almost instantly, out of a small window that opened on hinges, was protruded a broad female face, surrounded, by way of nightcap, with several folds of flannel, that had originally been white. " Is Mary Moan at home ? " said the horse- man. ' ■ " For a miricle — ay ! " repHed the female ; " who's down, in the name o' goodness ? " " AVhy, thin, I'm thinkin' you'U be smilin' whin you hear it,"reiDhed the messenger. " The sorra one else than Honor Donovan, that's now mai'rid upon Fardorougha Dono- ( van to the tune of thii'teen years. Bedad, ' time for her, anyhow, — but, sure it'll be good . whin it comes, we're thinkin'." " WeU, betther late than never — the Lord be praised for all His gifts, anyhow. Put your horse down to the mountin '-stone, and 111 be ■ndd you in half a jiftS', acushla." She immediately di-ew in her head, and ere the messenger had well i:»laced his horse at the aforesaid stirrup, or mounting-stone, which is an indisj)ensable adjunct to the midwife's cottage, she issued out, cloaked I and bonneted ; for, in point of fact, her E practice was so extensive, and the demands r upon her attendance so incessant, that she I seldom, if ever, slept or went to bed, unless partially dressed. And such was her habit of vigilimce, that she ultimately became an illustration of the old Roman proverb. Nan donnio omnibus ; that is to say, she could sleep as sound as a top to eveiy possible noise except a knock at the door, to which she might be said, during the gi'eater part of her professional life, to have been instinc- tively awake. Having ascended the mounting-stone, and placed herself on the crupper, the guide and she, while passing doA\Ti the naiTOw and dif- ficult lane, along which they could proceed but slowly and with caution, entered into the foUovdng dialogue, she having fii'st turned up the hood of her cloak over her bonnet, and tied a spotted cotton kerchief round her neck. "This," said the guide, who was Fardo- rougha Donovan's sen'ant-man, " is a quare enough business, as some o' the nabors do be sajin' — manid upon one another beyant thirteen year, an' ne'er a sign of a haporth. "NMiy then begad it is quare." "Whisht, whisht," replied MoUy, with an expression of mysterious and supeiior knowl- edge ; " don't be spakin' about vrhat you don't understand — svu'e, nuttin's impossible to God, avick — don't you know that V " "Oh, bedad, sure enough — that we must allow, -whether or not, still—" " Veiy well ; seein' that, what more have we to say, banin' to hould our tongues. Children sent late always come either for gi-eat good or great sarra to their parents — an' God gi-ant that this may be for good to the honest people — for indeed honest people they are, by all accounts. But what myself wonders at is, that Honor Donovan never once opened her Ups to me about it. How- ever, God's wiU be done ! The Lord send her safe over aU her thi-oubles, poor woman ! And, now that we're out o' this thief of a lane, lay an for the bare life, and never heed me. I'm as good a horseman as yourself ; and, in- deed, I've a good right, for I'm an ould hand at it." "I'm thinkin'," she added, after a short silence, " it's odd I never was much acquaint- ed with the Donovans. I'm tould they're a hai'd pack, that loves the money." "Faix," rephed her companion, "Let Far- dorougha alone for knowin' the value of a shilhn' ! — they're not in Europe can hould a harder gi'ip o' one." His master, in fact, was a hard, frugal man, and his mistress a woman of some- what similai' chai*acter ; both were strictly honest, but, hke many persons to whom God has denied offspring, their hearts had for a considerable time before been placed upon 188 WILLIAM CARLE TON'S WORKS. money as their idol ; for, in truth, the affec- tions must be fixed upon something, and we generally find that where children ai-e de- nied, the world comes in and hai'dens b}' its influence the best and tenderest sympathies of humanity. After a journey of two miles they came out on a haj'-track, that skii'ted an extensive and level sweep of meadow, along which they proceeded -with as much speed as a piUionless midwife was cajDable of bearing. At length, on a gentle declivity facing the south, they espied in the distance the low, long, whitewashed farm-house of Fardor- ougha Donovan. There was httle of artifi- cial ornament about the f>lace, but much of the rough, heart-stuTing -n-ildness of natiu'e, as it appeared in a strong, \'igorous district, well cultivated, but v^ithout being tamed down by those finer and more gi-aceful touch- es, which nowadays mark the skilful hand of the scientific agricvdtuiist. To the left waved a beautiful hazel glen, which gi-adually softened away into the meadows above mentioned. Up behind the house stood an ancient plantation of white- thorn, which, during the month of May, dif- fused its fragrance, its beauty, and its melo- dy, over the whole farm. The plain garden was hedged round by the graceful poplar, whilst here and there were studded over the fields either single tvees or small groups of moimtain ash, a tree still more beautiful than the former. The small dells about the farm n-ere closely covered with blackthorn and holly, with an occasional oak shooting up from some httle chff, and towering stirr- dUy over its lowly companions. Here gi-ew a thick interwoven mass of dog-tree, and upon a wild hedgerow, leaning like a beautiful wife upon a rugged husband, might be seen, supported by clumps of blackthorn, that most fi-agrant and exquisite of creepers, the dehcious honeysuckle. Add to this the neat appearance of the farm itself, with its mead- ows and cornfields waving to the soft sunny breeze of summer, and the reader may ad- mit, that without possessing any striking featui'es of pictorial effect, it woiild, never- theless, be cUfficult to find an uj^lying farm upon which the Gve could rest with gi'eater satisfaction. Ere arriving at the house they were met by Fardorougha himself, a small man, with dark, but well-set features, which being at no time very placid, appeared now to be ab- solutely gloomy, yet marked by strong and profound anxiety. " Thank God ! " he exclaimed on meeting them ; " is this Maiy Moan ? " "It is — it is ! " she exclaimed ; " how are all within ?— am I in time ? " " Only poorly," he returned ; "you are, 1 hope." The midwife, when they reached the door, got herself dismounted in all haste, and was about enteiing the house, when Fardo- rougha, laying his hand upon her shoulder, said in a tone of voice full of deep feeling — " I need say nothing to you ; what you can do, you will do — but one thing I expect — if you see danger, call in assistance." " It's all in the hands o' God, Fai'dorougha, acushla ; be as aiSy in your mind as you can ; if there's need for more help j^ou'U hear it ; so keep the man an' horse both ready." She then blessed herself and entered the house, repeating a short prayer, or charm, which was supposed to possess uncommon efficacy in relieAing cases of the nature she was then called upon to attend. Fardorougha Donovan was a man of gi'eat good sense, and of strong, but not obvious or fiexible feeUng ; this is to say, on strong oc- casions he felt accordingly, but exliibited no remarkable symptoms of emotion. In matters of a less important character, he was either de- ficient in sensibihty altogether, or it affected him so shghtl}' as not to be perceptible; A\Tiat his dispositions and feelings might have been, had his pai'ental affections and domestic sympathies been cultivated by the tender intercourse which subsists between a parent and his children, it is not easy to say. On such occasions many a new and delightful sensation — many a sweet trait of affection pre- viously unknowTi — and, oh ! many, many a fresh impulse of rapturous emotion never be- fore felt gushes out of the heart ; all of which, were it not for the existence of ties so de- hghtful, might have there lain sealed up forever. "^^Tiere is the man w^ho does not remember the strange impression of tumult- uous dehght which he experienced on find- ing himself a husband ? And who does not recollect that nameless charm, amounting almost to a new sense, which pervaded his whole being with tenderness and transport on kissing the rose-bud lips of his first-bera babe ? It is, indeed, by the ties of domestic life that the purity and affection and the general character of the human heai't are best tried. WTiat is there more beautiful than to see that fountain of tenderness mul- tiplying its affections instead of diminishing them, according as claim after claim arises to make fi'esh demands upon its love ? Love, and especially parental love, like jealousy, in- creases by what it feeds on. But, oh ! from what an unknowai world of exquisite enjoy- ment are they shut out, to whom Providence has not vouchsafed those beloved beings on whom the heart lavishes the whole fulness of its raptm-e ! No wonder that their own af- FARDOROUGHA, THE MISER. 189 fections should ^^'ither in the cold gloom of disappointed hope, or then- hearts harden into that moody sjairit of worldly-mindedness which adopts for its offspiing the miser's idol. "WTiether Fardorougha felt the want of children acutely or othein\'ise, could not be inferred from any visible indication of regret on his part by those who knew him. His own wife, whose facihties of observation were so great and so frequent, was only able to sus- pect in the afikmative. For himself he neither murmiu-ed nor rejoined ; but she could per- ceive that, after a few years had passed, a slight degree of gloom began to settle on him, and an anxiety about liis crojis, and his few cattle, and the produce of his farm. He also began to calculate the amount of what might be saved fi-om the fi'uits of their united uidustr\\ Sometimes, but indeed ujDon rai*e occasions, his temper apj)eai-ed inclining to be irascible or impatient ; but in general it was grave, cold, and inflexible, "without any outbreaks of passion, or the shghtest dispo- sition to mirth. His wife's mind, however, was by no means so iirm as his, nor so fi'ee fi'om the traces of that secret regret which pre^-ed upon it. She both miu-mui'ed and repined, and often in tenns which drew fi-om FardoroUgha a cool rebuke for her want of resignation to the will of God. As years ad- vanced, however, her disappointment became harassing even to herself, and now that hope began to die away, her heai't gradually par- took of tBe cool worldly spirit which had seized upon the disposition of her husband. Though cultivating but a small farm, which they held at a high rent, yet, by the dint of frugality and incessant diligence, they were able to add a Uttle each year to the small stock of money which they had contrived to put together. Still would the unhappy reflec- tion that they were childless steal painfully and heavily over them ; the wife would some- times murmur, and the husband reprove her, but in a tone so cool and indifferent that she could not avoid concluding that his o\^'n want of resignation, though not expressed, was at heai't equal to her own. Each also became somewhat rehgious, and both remarkable for a pimctual attendance upon the rites of their chiu-ch, and that in jDroporiion as the love of temporal things overcame them. In this manner they hved upwards of thirteen yeai-s, when ^Ii's. Donovan declared herself to be in that situation which in due time rendered the services of ^lary Moan necessary. From the moment this intimation was given, and its tinith confirmed, a faint light, not greater than the dim and trembling lustre of a single star, broke in upon the darkened affections and worldly Sj^irit of , Fardorougha Donovan. Had the announce- ment taken place within a reasonable period after his marriage, before he had become sick of disappointment, or had surrender- ed his heart fi-om absolute despair to an incipient spmt of avarice, it would no doubt have been hailed with all the eager dehght of unbhghted hope and rivid affection ; but now a new and subtle habit had been super- induced, after the last cherished expectation of the heai't had departed ; a spii'it of fore- sight and severe calculation descended on him, and had so nearly saturated his whole being, that he could not for some time actu- ally determine whether the knowledge of liis wife's situation was more agreeable to his afl'ection, or repugnant to the parsimo- nious disposition which had qmckened his heai't into an energ}' incompatible with natural benevolence, tmd the perception of those tender ties which spring up fi-om the relations of domestic life. For a consider- able time this sti'uggle between the two pi'inciples went on ; sometimes a new hope would spi-ing up, attended in the back- ground by a thousand affecting circumstan- ces — on the other hand, some gloomy and undeffnable dread of exigency, distress, and ruin, would wi'ing his heai't and sink hia si^irits dov.Ti to positive misery. Notwith- standing this conflict between gro\\"ing ava- rice and aflection, the star of the father's love had risen, and though, as we have al- ready said, its hght was dim and unsteady, yet the moment a single opening occurred in the clouded m;nd, there it was to be seen serene and pui'e, a beautiful emblem of undoing and sohtary affection struggling with the cai'es and angry passions of hie. By degrees, however, the husband's heart became touched by the hopes of his younger 5'ears, former associations revived, and re- membrances of past tendei'ness, though blunted in a heart so much changed, came over him hlce the breath of fragi'ance that has nearly passed away. He began, therefore, to contemplate the event ^-ithout foreboding, and by the time the looked-for period ar- rived, if the world and its debasing influen- ces were not utterly overcome, yet nature and the quickening tendei'ness of a father's feeling had made a considerable progi'ess in a heart fi-om which they had been long banished. Far different fi'om all this was the history of his wife since her perception of an event so delightful. In her was no bitter and obstinate principle subversive of afl'ection to be overcome. For although she had in latter years sank into the painful apathy of a hopeless spirit, and given herself somewhat to the world, yet no sooner did the unexpected hght dawn upon her, thao 190 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. her whol^ sovil was filled with exultation and deHght, The world and its influence passed away Hke a dream, and her heart melted into a habii of tenderness at once so novel and exquisite, that she often assui*ed her husband she had never felt hapj)iness be- fore. Such are the respective states of feeling in which our readers find Fardorougha Don- ovan and his wife, upon an occasion whose consequences ran too far into futurity for us to determine at present whether they are to end in happiness or miser}^ For a con- siderable time that evening, before the ar- rival of Mar}' Moan, the males of the family had taken up their residence in an inside kiln, where, after having kindled a fire in the draught-hole, or what the Scotch call the " logic," they sat and chatted in that kind of festive spirit which such an event uniformly produces among the servants of a family. Fardorougha himself remained for the most part with them, that is to say ex- cept while ascertaining fi'om time to time the situation of nis wife. His presence, however, was only a restraint upon their good-humor, and his niggardly habits raised some rather uncomphmentary epithets dur- ing his short visits of inquiry. It is (rustom- ary upon such occasions, as soon as the mistress of the family is taken ill, to ask the servants to drink "an aisy bout to the misthresa, sii-, an' a speedy recovery, not forgettin' a safe landin' to the youngsther, and, Hke a Christmas compliment, man}' of them to you both. Whoo I. death alive, but that's fine stuff. Oh, begorra, the misthress can't but thrive wid that in the house. Thank you, sii', an' wishin' her once more safe over her troubles ! — divil a betther mis- thress ever," etc., etc., etc. Here, however, there was nothing of the kind. Fardorougha's heart, in the first in- stance, was against the expense, and besides, its present broodings resembled the throes of pain which break out from the stupor that presses so hea\dly upon the exhausted func- tions of hfe in the crisis of a severe fever. He could not, in fact, rest nor remain for any length of time in the same spot. With a slow but troubled step he walked backward and forward, sometimes uttering indistinct ejaculations and broken sentences, such as no one could understand. At length he ap- proached his ovm sei'vants, and addressed the messenger whose name was Nogher jM'Cormick. " Nogher," said he, " I'm thi'oubled." " ThJroubled ! dad, Fardorougha, you ought to be a happy and a thankful man this flight, that is, if God sinds the misthress safe dver it, as I hope He wiU, plase goodness." "I'm poor, Nogher, I'm poor, an* here's a family comin'." "Faith, take care it's not sin you're com. mittin' by spakin' as you're doin'." " But you know I'm poor, Nogher." " But I know you're not, Fai'dorougha ; but I'm afi'aid, if God hasn't said it, your heart's too much fix'd ujDon the world. Be my faix, it's on your knees jom ought to be this same night, thankin' the Almighty for His goodness, and not grumblin' an' sthreelin' about the place, flyin' in the face of God for sendin' you an' your wife a blessin' — for sure I hear the Scripthur says that aU childhres a blessin' if they're resaved as sich ; an' wo be to the man, says Scripthur, dat's bom wid a miUstone about his neck, especially if he's cast into the say. I know you pray enough, but, be my sowl, it hasn't imj)roved your morals, or it's the misthress' health we'd be drinkin' in a good bottle o' whiskey at the present time. Faix, myself wouldn't be much sm-]Drised if she had a hard twist in conse- quence, an' if she does, the fault's your own an' not ours, for we're wiUin' as the flowers o' May to di'ink all sorts o' good luck to her." "Nogher," said the other, "it's tinith a great dale of what you've sed — maybe all of it." "Faith, I know," returned Nogher, "that about the whiskey it's parfit gospel." "In one thing I'll be advised by you, an' that is, I'll go to my knees and pray to God to set my heart right if it's wrong. I feel strange — strange, Nogher — happy, an' not happy." " You needn't go to your knees at aU," rephed Nogher, " if you give us the whiskey ; or if you do pray, be ia earnest, that your heart may be inclined to do it." " You desarve none for them words," said Fardorougha, who felt that Nogher's buf- foonery jaiTed upon the better feelings that were rising "within him — "you desai*ve none, an' you'll get none — for the j^resent at laste, an' I'm only a fool for spaking to you." He then retired to the upper part of the kiln, where, in a dark corner, he knelt with a troubled heart, and prayed to God. We doubt not but such readers as possess feeling will perceive that Fardorougha was not only an object at this particular period of much interest, but also entitled to sincere sympathy. Few men in his circumstances could or probably would so earnestly strug- gle with a predominant passion as he did, though without education, or such a knowl- edge of the world as might enable him, by any observation of the human heai't in others, to understand the workings in his own. He had not been ten minutes at prayer when the voice of his female servant was heard in FARDOROUGHA, THE MISER. 191 loud and exulting tones, calling out, ere she approached the kiln itself — " Fardorougha, ca woul thu? — Where's my footin', masther ? Where's my arles ? — Come in — come in, you're a waitin' to kiss your son — the misthress is d}in' till you kiss our son." The last words were uttered as she en- tered the kiln. "Dyin'!" he repeated — "the misthress dyin' — oh Susj^ let a thousand childre go before her — dyin' ! did you say dyin' ? " " Ay did I, an' it's truth too ; but it's wid Joy she's djm' to see you kiss one of the purtiest young boys in all the barony of Lisnamona — myself's over head and ears in love wid him already." He gave a rapid glance upwards, so much so that it was scarcely perceptible, and im- mediately accompanied her into the house. The child, in the meantime, had been dressed, and lay on its mother's arm in the bed when its father entered. He approached the bed- side and glanced at it — then at the mother who lay smiling beside it — she extended her hand to him, whilst the soft, sweet tears of delight ran quietly down her cheeks. When he seized her hand he stooped to kiss her, but she put up her other hand and said — " No, no, you must kiss him first." He instantly stooped over the babe, took it in his arms, looked long and earnestly upon it, put it up near him, again gave it a long, intense gaze, after which he raised its Httle mouth to his own, and then imprinted the father's first kiss upon the fragrant lips of his beloved first-born. Having gently deposited the precious babe upon its mother's ai'm, he caught her hand and imjDrinted ujDon her hps a kiss ; — but to those who understand it, we need not describe it — to those who can- not, we could give no adequate notion of that which we are able in no other way to describe than by saj^g that it would seem as if the condensed eiijojTnent of a whole hfe were concentrated into that embrace of the child and mother. When this tender scene was over, the mid- wife commenced — " Well, if ever a man had raison to be thank — " " Silence, woman ! " he exclaimed in a voice which hushed her almost into terror. " Let him alone," said the wife, addressing her, " let him alone, I know what he feels." "No," he replied, "even you, Honora, don't know it — my heart, my heart went astray, and there, undher God and my S^iv- iour, is the being that wiU be the salvation of his father." His wife understood him and was touched ; the tears fell fast from her eyes, and, extend- ing her hand to him, she said, as he clasped it: "Sure, Fai'dorougha, the world won't be as much in your heart now, nor your temper so dark as it was." He made no reply ; but, placing his other hand over his eyes, he sat in that posture for some minutes. On raising his head the tears were running as if involuntarily down his cheeks. " Honora," said he, " I'll go out for a Httle — you can tell Mary Moan where anything's to be had — let them all be trated so as that they don't take too much — and, Mary Moan, you won't be forgotten," He then passed out, and did not appear for upwards of an hour, nor could any one of them tell where he had been. " Well," said Honora, after he had left the room, "we're now married near fourteen years ; and until this night I never see him shed' a tear." " But sure, acushla, if anything can touch a father's heart, the sight of his fii'st child will. Now keep yourself aisy, avoumeen, and tell me where the whiskey an' an\i;hing else that maj' be a wantin' is, till I give these crathurs of sarvints a dhrop of something to comfort thim." At this time, however, INIrs. Donovan's mother and two sisters, who had some hours previously been sent for, just amved, a cir- cumstance which once more touched the newly awakened chord of the mother's heart, and gave her that confidence which the pres- ence of " one's own blood," as the people ex- pressed it, always communicates upon such occasions. After having kissed and admired the babe, and bedewed its face with the warm tears of afiection, they piously knelt down, as is the custom among most Lish famihes, and offered up a short but fervent prayer of gratitude as well for an event so happy, as for her safe delivery, and the future welfare of the mother and child. \\Tien this was performed, they set themselves to the distribution of the blithe meat or groaning malt, a duty which the midwife transfei*red to them with much pleasure, this being a matter which, except in matters of necessity, she considered beneath the dignity of her profession. The sei-vants were accordingly summoned in due time, and, headed by Nogher, soon made their appearance. In events of this nature, sei'vants in Ireland, and we beUeve ever^'where else, are always allow- ed a considei'able stretch of good-humored Hcense in those obsei-vations which they are in the habit of making. Indeed, this is not so much an extemporaneous indulgence of wit on their part, as a mere repetition of the set phrases and traditionaiy apothegms which 192 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORK^. have been long established among the peas- 1 antrj', and as they are generally expressive of present satisfaction and good wishes for the future, so would it be looked upon as churl- ishness, and in some cases, on the part of ; the seiTants, a sign of ill-luck, to neglect j them. " Now," said Honora's mother to the ser- vants of both sexes, "now, childi-e, that you've aite a trifle, you must taste something in the way of dhrink. It would be too bad on thi& night above all nights we've seen yet, not to have a glass to the stranger's health at all events. Here, Nogher, thry this, avick — you never got a glass wid a warmer heart." Nogher took the liquor, his gTave face charged "v\ith suppressed humor, and fii'st looking upon his fellow-servants with a coun- tenance so di'oU yet dr}', that none but them- selves rmderstood it, he then directed a very sober glance at the good woman. "Thank you, ma'am," he exclaimed ; "be goxty, sure enough if our hearts wouldn't get warm now, they'd never warm. A happy night it is for Fardorougha and the misthress, at any rate. I'll engage the stranger was worth waitin' for, too. Ill hould a thrifle, he's the beauty o' the world this minnit — an' 111 engage it's breeches we'll have to be gettin' for him some o' these days, the darhn'. Well, here's his health, any way ; an' may he " " Husth, arogorah ! " exclaimed the mid- wife ; " stop, I say — the tree afore the fruit, all the world over ; don't you know, an' bad win to you, that if the sthranger was to go to-morrow, as good might come afther him, while the paarent stocks are to the fore. The mother an' father first, acushla, an' thin the sthranger." " Many thanks to you, Mrs. Moan," rephed Nogher, "for settin' me right — sui'e we'll know something ourselves whin it comes our turn, plase goodness. If the misthress isn't asleep, by goxty, I'd call in to her, that I'm dhrinkin' her health." " She's not asleep," said her mother ; " an' proud she'U be, poor thing, to hear you, Nogher." " Misthi'ess ! " he said in a loud voice, " are you asleep, ma'am ? " "No, indeed, Nogher," she replied, in a good-humored tone of voice. " Well, ma'am," said Nogher, still in a loud voice, and scratching his head, "here's your health ; an' now that the ice is bruk — be goxty, an' so it is sure," said he in an under- tone to the rest — " Peggy, behave yourself," he continued, to one of the sei-vant-maids, " mockin's catchin ' : faix, you dunna what's afore yourself yet — beg pardon— I'm forget- tm' myself — an' now that the ice is hi'uk, ma'am," he resumed, " you must be dacent for the futher. Many a bottle, plase good- ness, we'U have this way yet. Your health, ma am, an' a speedy recovery to you — an' a sudden uprise — not forgettin' the masther — long life to him ! " " What ! " said the midwife, "are you for- gettin' the sthranger ? " Nogher looked her fuU in the face, and opened his mouth, without saying a word, hteraUy pitched the glass of spirits to the very bottom of his throat. "Beggin' your pardon, ma'am," he repHed, " is it thi*ee healths you'd have me dhrink wid the one glassful ? — not myself, indeed ; faix, I'd be long sorry to make so little of him — if he was a bit of a gitsha I'd not scruple to give him a corner o' the glass, but, bein' a young man althers the case intirely — he must have a bumper for himself." " A girsha ! " said .jP,eggyj his feUow-ser- vant, feeling the indignity just ofi'ered to her sex — " WTiy thin, bad manners to your assur- ance for that same : a gii'sha's as well intitled to a full glass as a gorsoon, any day." "Husth a coUeen," said Nogher, good- hum oredly, " sure, it's takin' pattern by sich a fine example you ought to be. This, Mrs. Moan, is the purty crature I w^as min- tionin' as we came along, that intends to get spansheUed wid myself some o' these days — ■ that is, if she can bring me into good-humor, the thief." " And if it does happen," said Peggy, " you'U have to look sharper afther him, Mrs. Moan. He's pleasant enough now, but I'll be bound no man 'ill know betther how to hang his fiddle behind the door when he comes home to us." " Well, acushla, svu-e he may, if he likes, but if he does, he knows what's afore him — not sayin' that he ever will, I hope, for it's a woful case whin it comes to that, aliagur." " Faix, it's a happy story for half the poor wives of the parish that you're in it," said Peggy, " sure, only fore " . " Be dhe hudh Vread, agus glaJc sho — hould youi- tongue, Peggy, and taste this," said the mother of her mistress, handing her a glass : "If you intend to go together, in the name o' goodness feai' God more than the midwife, if you want to have luck an' grace." "Oh, is it all this?" exclaimed the sly girl ; " faix, it 'ill make me hearty if I dhrink so much — bedeed it will. WeU, misthress, your health, an' a speedy uprise to you — an' the same to the masther, not forgettin' the sthranger — long hfe an' good health to him." She then put the glass to her lijjs, and after several small sips, appearing to be so many unsuccessful attempts at overcoming her reluctance to drink it, she at length took FAEBOEOUGIIA, THE MISER. 191 courage, and bolting it down, immediately applied her apron to her mouth, making at the same time two or three wry faces, gasp- ing, as if to recover the breath which it did not take from her. The midwife, in the mean time, felt that the advice just given to Nogher and Peggy contained a clause somewhat more detri- mental to her importance than was altogether agreeable to her ; and to sit calmly under any imputation that involved a diminution of her authority, was not within the code of fier practice. ''If they go together," she observed, "it's right to fear God, no doubt ; but that's no raison why they shouldn't j^ay respect to th'im that can sarve thim or olherwiHe." "Nobody says aginst that, Mrs. Moan," replied the other ; " it's all fair, an' nothin' else." " A midwife's nuttin' in your eyes, we sup- pose," I'ejoined Mrs. Moan ; " but maybe's there's thim belongin' to you could tell to the contrary." " Oblaged to you, we suppose, for your sarvices — an' we're not deny in' that, aither." "For me sarvices — maybe thim same sar- vices wasn't very sweet or treaclesome to some o' thim," she rejoined, with a mysteri- ous and somewhat indignant toss of the head. " Well, well," said the other in a fi'iendly tone, " that makes no maxims one way or the other, only dluink this — sure we're not goin' to quarrel about it, any how." " God forbid, Honora More ! but sure it ud ill become me to hear my own corree — no, no, avourneen," she exclaimed, putting back the glass ; "I can't take it this-a-way ; it doesn't agree wid me ; you must put a grain o' shugar an' a dhrop o' bilin' wather to it. It may do very well hard for the sar- viuts, but I'm not used to it." "Third that myself afore," observed No- gher, " that she never dhrinks hard whiskey. Well, myself never tasted punch but wanst, an' be goxty its gi-eat dhrink. Death alive, Honora More," he continued, in his most in- sinuating manner, "make us all a sup. Sure, means great Honora, in opposition to hei* daughter, Fardorougha's wife : this being an epithet adopted for the purpose of contra- distinguishing the members of u family when called by the same name — " Well," said she, "I suppose it's as good. My own heart, deal- knows, is not in a thrifle, only I have my doubts about Fardorougha. However, what's done can't be undone ; so, once we mix it, he'll be too late to spake if he comes in, any way." The punch was accordingly mixed, and they were in the act of sitting down to enjoy themselves with more comfort when Fai'do- rougha entered. As before, he was silent and disturbed, neither calm nor stern, but laboring, one would suppose, imder strong feelings of a decidedly opposite character. On seeing the punch made, his bi'ow gather- ed into something like severity ; he looked quickly at his mother-in-law, and was about to speak, but, pausing a moment, he sat down, and after a Httle time said in a kind voice — "It's right, it's right — for /a".s- sake, an' on his account, have it ; Imt nuiiuia. hii Ihiire be no Avaste." " Svu'e we had to make it for Mrs. Moan whether or not," saiti his mother-in-law — I " she cjn't drink it hard, j^oor woman." jNIrs. Moan, who had gone to see her j patient, having heard his voice again, made ' her aj)pearance with the child in her arms, ' and Avith all the importance which such a burden usually bestows upon j)ersons of her calling. " Here," said she, presenting him the in- ! fant, " take a proper look at this fellow. That I I may never, if a finer swaddy ever crossed my hands. Throth if you wor dead to- 1 morrow he'd be mistaken for you — your born I image — the sorra tiling else — eh alanna — the Lord loves my sou — faix, you've daddy's nose upon you anyhow — an' his chin to a tui'ii. Oh, thin, Fardorougha, but there's many a couple rowlin' in wealth that 'ud be proud to have the likes of him ; an' that must die an' let it all go to sti'angers, or to them that doesn't care about them, 'ce ptiii' to get blood alive, this is not a commrn night, '^grabbin' at what they have, that think every afther what God has sint us: Fajdorouj}fha loay^a yen r that they're above the sod. "Wliat ! himself would allow you, if he ^vas here ; deed, be dad, he as good as promised me he would ; an' ycu know we have tlu young customer's health to drink yet." " Throth, an' you ought,'' said the mid- wife ; "the boy says nuttin but the thruth — it's not a common night ; an' if God has given Fardorougha substance, he shouldn't begridge a little, if it was only to show a grateful heart." " Well, well," said Honora More — which manim-an — kiss your child, man alive. That I may never, but he looks at the daiiin' as iJ it was a sod' of turf. Throth you're not ■!;^p-~+ljy of havin' such a bully." Fai'dorougha, during this dialogue, held the child in his arms and looked upon it earnestly as before, but without betraying any visible indication of countenance that could enable a sj^ectator to estimate the natui-e of what jjassed within him. At length there appeai'ed in his eye a barely perceptible e-s 194 WILLIAM CJlRLETON'S WORKS. pression of benignity, which, however, soon passed away, aud was replaced by a shadow of gloom and anxiety. Nevertheless, in com- l^liance with the commands of the midwife, he kissed its lips, after which the servants all gathered round it, each lavishing upon the little urchin those hyj^erbolical expres- sions of flattery, which, after all, i^iost parents ai-e -nilling to receive as something approxi- mating to gospel truth. "Bedad," soidNogher, "that fellow 'ill be the flower o' the Donovans, if God spares him — be goxty. 111 engage he'll give the purty girls many a sore heart yet — he'll play the dickens wid 'em, or I'm not here — a wough ! do you hear how the young rogue gives tongue at that ? the sorra one o' the shaver but knows wlia't I'm uayin'." Nogher always had an eye to his ovm com- fort, no matter under what circumstances he might be jDlaced. Having received the full glass, he grasj^ed his master's hand, and in the usual set phrases, to which, however, was added much ex tempore matter of his own, he drank the baby's health, congratulating the parents, in his ovm blunt way, upon this accession to their happiness. The other ser- vants continued to pour out their praises in terms of dehght and astonishment at his ac- complishments and beaut}', each, in imitation of Nogher, concluding with a toast in nearly the siame words. How sweet from all other lips is the praise of those we love ! Fardorougha, who, a moment before, looked upon his infant's face with an unmoved countenance, felt in- capable of withstanding the flattery of his own servants when uttered in favor of the child. His eye became comjDlacent, and while Nogher held his hand, a slight j)res- sure in return was proof sufficient that his heart beat in accordance with the hojDes they expressed of aU that the undeveloped future might bestow upon him. Wlien their little treat was over, the ser- vants withdrew for the night, and Fardo- rougha himself, still laboring under an ex- citement so comiDlicated and novel, retired rather to shape his mind to some definite tone of feeling than to seek repose. How strange is life, and how mysteriously connected is the woe or the weal of a single family with the great mass of human society ! We beg the reader to stand wjth us upon a low, sloping hill, a little to the left of Far- dorougha's house, and, after having solem- nized his heart by a glance at the starry gos- pel of the skies, to cast his eye upon the long, white-washed dwelling, as it shines faintly in the visionary distance of a moon- light night. How full of tranquil beauty is the hour, aud how deep the silence, except when it is broken by the loud baj-ing of the watch-dog, as he barks in suUen fierceness at his own echo ! Or perhaps there is noth- ing heard but the {iugh of the mountain river, as with booming sound it rises and falls in the distance, filling the ear of mid- night with its wild and continuous melody. Look around, and observe the sj)irit of re- pose which sleeps on the face of nature; think upon the dream of human life, and of all the inexplicable wonders which are read from day to day in that miraculous page — the heart of man. Neither your eye nor imagination need pass beyond that humble roof before 3'ou, in which it is easy to per- ceive, by the lights passing at this unusual hour across the windows, that there is some- thing added either to their joy or to their sorrow. There is the mother, in whose heart was accumulated the unwasted tender- ness of years, forgetting all the past in the first intoxicating infliience of an unknown ecstasy, and looking to the future with the eager aspirations of affection. There is the husband, too, for whose heart the lank devil of the avaricious— the famine-struck god of the miser — is even now contending with the almost extinguished love which springs up in a father's bosom on the sight of his first-bom. Keader, who can teU whether the entran- cing visions of the happy mother, or the gloomy anticipations of her apprehensive husband, are most prqphetic of the destiny which is before their child. Many indeed and various are the hopes and fears felt under that roof, and deeply wiU their lights and shadows be blended in the life of the being whose claims are so strong vipon their love. There, for some time past the lights in the window have appeared less frequent- ly — one by one we presume the inmates have gone to repose — no other is now visible — the last candle is extingxiished, and this humble section of the great family of man is now at rest with the veil of a dark and fear- ful future unlifted before them. There is not perhaps in the series of human passions any one so difficult to be eradicated out of the bosom as avaiice, no matter with what seeming moderation it puts itself forth, or under what disguise it may appear. And among aU its cold-blooded character- istics there is none so utterly unaccountable as that frightful dread of famine and ulti- mate starvation, which is also strong in pro- portion to the impossibility of its ever being realized. Indeed, when it arrives to this we should not term it a passion, but a malady, and in our opinion the narrow-hearted pa- tient should be prudently separated from so- ciety, and treated as one laboring ^nder an incurable species of njonomauiq,. JPARDOIWUGTIA, THE MISER. 195 During the few days that intervened be- tween our hero's birtli and his clmstening, Fardorougha's mind was engaged in forming some fixed principle by which to guide his heart in the conflict that still went on between 'avarice and affection. In this task he imag- ined that the father predominated over the miser almost without a stiniggle ; whereas, the fact was, that the subtle jjassion, ever more ingenious than the simple one, changed its external character, and came out in the shape of affectionate forecast and provident regard for the wants and prospects of his child. This gi'oss deception of his owti heart he felt as a relief ; for, though smitten with the world, it did not escape him that the birth of his little one, all its circumstances consid- ered, ought to have caused him to feel an enjoyment unalloyed by the care and regi-et which checked his sympathies as a parent. Neither was conscience itself altogether si- lent, nor the blunt remonstrances of his ser- vants wholl}' without effect. Nay, so com- pletely was his judgment oveiTeached that he himself attributed this anomalous state of feeling to a vu'tuous eftbrt of Christian duty, and looked upon the enci'oachments which a desire of saving wealth had made on his heart as a manifest proof of much parental attachment. He consequently loved his wealth through the medium of his son, and laid it down as a fixed principle that eveiy act of parsimony on his part was merely one of prudence, and had the love of a father and aa affectionate consideration for his child's future welfare to justify it. The first striking instance of this close and gi'iping spirit appeai-ed upon an occa- sion which seldom fails to ojDen, in Ireland at least, all the warm and generous impulses of our rd'..ure. When his wife deemed it neces- sary to make those hospitable preparations for cheir child's chi'istenmg, which are so usual in the country, he treated her inten- tion of complj'ing Avith this old custom as a direct proof of unjustifiable folly and ex- travagance — nay, his remonstrance with her exliibited such remarkable good sense and prudence, that it was a matter of extreme diffi.culty to controvert it, oi' to perceive that it originated from any other motive than a strong interest in the true welfare of their child. " Will our wasting meat and money, an' , for that matthur health and time, on his chris- i tenin', aither give him more health or make ; us love him betther ? It's not the first time, j Honora, that I've heard yourself make litt e I of some of our nabors for goin' bey ant their j ability in gettin' up big christenins. Don't i be foolish now thin when it comes to your I own turn." Tlie wife took the babe up, and, after hav- ing gazed affectionately on its innocent fea- tures, rejilied to him, in a voice of tenderness and reproof — " God knows, Fardorougha, an' if I c?o act wid folly, as you call it, in gettin' ready hio christenin', surely, surely you oughtn't to blame the mother for that. Little I thought, acushla oge, that your own father 'ud be- grudge you as good a christenin' as is put over any other nabor's child. I'm afraid, Fardorougha, he's not as much in your heart as he ought to be." " It's a bad proof of love for him, Honora, to put to the bad what ma}' an' would be sarviceable to him hereafter. You only think for the present ; but I can't forget that he's to be settled in the world, an' you know your- self what poor means we have o' doin' that, an' that if we be^in to be extravagant an' wasteful, bekase God has sent him, we may beg wid him afore long." " There's no danger of us beggin' wid him. No," she continued, the pride of the mother haring been touched, "my boy ■will never beg — no, avourneen — j'ou never moU — nor shame or disgi'ace Arill never come upon him aither. Have you no trust in God, Fardo- rougha ? " " God never helps them that neglect them- selves, Honora." " But if it was plasing to His will to re- move liim from us, would you ever forgive yourself not lettin' him have a chi'istenin' like another child?" rejoined the perseveiing mother. "The priest," rephed the good man, "will do as much for the poor child as the rich ; there's but one sacrament for both ; anjlhing else is waste, as I said, an' I won't give in to it. You don't considher that your way of it 'ud spend as much in one day as 'ud clothe him two or three years." " May I never sin this day, Fardorougha, but one 'ud think j'ou 're tired of him ah-eady. By not givin' in to what's dacent you know you'll only fi-et me — a thing that no man "wid half a heart 'ud do to any woman supportin' a babby as I am. A fretted nurse makes a child sick, as Molly Moan tould you before she Avent ; so that it's not on my own account I'm spakin', but on his — poor, weeny pet — the Lord love him ! Look at his innocent purty little face, an' how can you have the heart, Fardorougha ? Come, avourneen, give way to me this wanst ; throth, if you do, you'll see how 111 niu-se him, an' what a darlin' lump o' sugar I'll have him for you in no time ! " He paused a little at this dehcate and af- fecting appeal of the mother ; but, except by a quick glance that passed from her to theii child, it was impossible to say whether or 196 WILLIAM CAELETON'S WORKS. not it made any impression on liis heart, or in the slightest degree changed his resolu- tion. "Well, well," said he, "let me alone now. I'U think of it. I'll turn it over an' see what's best to be done ; do you the same, Honora, an' may be your own sinse will bring you to my side of the question at last." The next day, his wife renewed the sub- ject with unabated anxiety ; but, instead of expressing any change in her favor, Fardo- rougha declined even to enter into it at all. An evasive rejjly was all she could extract from him, with an assurance that he would in a day or two communicate the resolution to which he had finally come. She perceived, at once, that the case was hoj)eless, and, after one last ineffectual attempt to bring him rouifd, she felt herself forced to abandon it. The child, therefore, much to the mother's mor- tification, was baptized without a christen- ing, unless the mere presence of the god- father and godmother, in addition to Fardo- rougha's own family, could be said to con- stitute one. Oiu* readers, perhaps, are not aware that a cause of deep anxiety, hitherto imnoticed by us, operated with latent power ujoon Fardo- rougha's heai't. But so strong in Ireland is the beautiful superstition — if it can with truth be termed so — that children are a blessing only when received as such, that, even though supported by the hardest and most shameless of all vices, avarice, Fardo- rougha had not nerve to avow this most un- natural source for his distress. The fact, however, was, that, to a mind so constituted, the aiDi^rehension of a large family was in it- seK a consideration, which he thought might, at a future period of their lives, reduce both him and his to stai'\^ation and death. Our readers may remember Nogher M'Cormick's rebuke to him, when he heard Fardorougha allude to this ; and so accessible was he then to the feehng, that, on finding his heart at variance with it, he absolutely admitted his error, and j^rayed to God that he might be enabled to overcome it. It was, therefore, on the day after the baptism of young Connor, for so had the child been called after his paternal grand- father, that, as a justification for his owit conduct in the matter of the christening, he disclosed to his wife, with much reluctance and embarrassment, this undivulged source of his fears for the future, alleging it as a just argument for his dechning to be guided by her opinion. The indignant sympathies of the mother abashed, on this occasion, the miserable and calculating impiety of the husband ; her re- proaches ■were open and unshi'inking, and her moral sense of his conduct just and beautiful. "Fardorougha," said she, "I thought, up to this time, to this day, that there was nothing in your heart but too much of the world ; but now I'm afeard, if God hasn't sed it, that the devil himself 's there. You're frettin' for 'fraid of a family ; but has God sent us any but this one yet? No — an' I wouldn't be surprised, if the Almighty should punish youi' guilty heai-t, by making the child he gave you, a curse, instead of a blessin'. I think, as it is, he has brought little pleasure to j'ou for so far, and, if your heart hardens as he grows up, it's more un- happy you'U get every day you live." "That's very fine talk, Honora; but to people in our condition, I can't see any very great blessin' in a houseful of childre. If we're able to provide for this one, well have raison to be thankful widout wishin' for more." " It's my opinion, Fardorougha, you don't love the child." " Change that opinion, then, Honora ; I do love the child ; but there's no needcessi ty for blowin it about to every one I meet. If I didn't love him, I wouldn't feel as I do about all the hardshijDS that may be before him. Think of what a bad sason, or a fail- ure of the craps, might bring us all to. God grant that we majTi't come to the bag and staff before he's settled in the world at all, poor thing." " Oh, very well, Fardorougha ; you may make yourself as unhappy as you like ; for me, I'll j)ut my trust in the Saviour of the world for my child. If j'ou can trust in any one better than God, do so." " Honora, there's no use in this talk — it'll do nothing aither for him or us — besides, I have no more time to discoorse about it." He then left her ; but, as she viewed his dark, inflexible features ere he went, an ojd- pressive sense of something not far removed from affliction weighed her down. The child had been asleep in her ai-ms during the foregoing dialogue, and, after his father had departed, she placed him in the cradle, and, throAving the corner of her blue apron over her shoulder, she rocked him into a sounder sleep, swaying herself at the same time to and fi'o, with that inward sorrow, of which, among the lower classes of Iiish females, this motion is uniformly expressive. It is not to be supposed, however, that, as the early graces of (childhood gradually ex- panded (as they did) into more than ordinary beauty, the avarice of the father was not occasionally encountered in its progress by sudden gushes of love for his son. It was impossible for any parent, no matter how FARDOROUGnA, TEE MISER. 197 strongly the hideous idol of mammon might sway his heart, to look upon a creature so fair and beautiful, without being fi-e- quently touched into something like affec- tion. The fact was, that, as the child ad- vanced towards youth, the two principles we are describing nearly kept pace one ^rith the other. That the bad and formidable passion made rapid strides, must be admit- ted, but that it engrossed the whole spirit of the father, is not true. The mind and gentle character of the boy — his affectionate disposition, and the extraoi'dinary advan- tages of his person — could not fail some- times to sui-prise his father into sudden bursts of affection. But these, when they occurred, were looked upon by Fardoi'ougha as so many proofs that he still entertained for the boy love sufficient to justify a more intense desire of accumulating wealth for his sake. Indeed, ere the lad had num- bered thirteen summers, Fardorougha's character as a miser had not only gone far \ abroad throughout the neighborhood, but was felt, by the members of his own family, with almost merciless severity. From hab- its of honesty, and a decent sense of inde- pendence, he was now degraded to rapacity and meanness ; what had been prudence, by degrees degenerated into cvinniug ; and he who, when commencing life, was looked upon only as a saving man, had now become notorious for extortion and usury. A character such as this, among a people of generous and lively feeling hke the Irish, is in every state of life the object of intense and undisguised abhorrence. It was with difficulty he could succeed in engaging ser- vants, either for domestic or agricvdtural purposes, and, perhaps, no consideration, except the general kindness which was felt for his wife and son, would have induced any person whatsoever to enter into his employ- ment. Honora and Connor did what in them lay to make the dependents of the family ex- perience as little of Faixlorougha's griping tyranny as possible. Yet, -SNith all their kind-hearted ingenuity and secret bovmty, they were scarcely able to render their situ- ation barely tolerable. It would be difficult to find any language, no matter what pen might wield it, capable of portraying the love which Honora Dono- van bore to her gentle, her beautiful, and her only son. Ah 1 there in that last epithet, lay the charm which Tvi-apped her soul in him, and in all that related to his welfare. The moment she saw it was not the will of God to bless them ^vith other offspring, her heart gathered about him with a jealous ten- derness which trembled into agony at the idea of his loss. Her love for him, then, multipHed itself into many hues, for he was in truth the prism, on which, when it fell, all the vai'ied beauty of its colors became visible. Her heio-t gave not forth the music of a single instiniment, but breathed the concord of sweet sounds, as heard fi'om the blended melody of many. Feai-fully different fi'om this were the feelings of Fardorougha, on finding that he was to be the first and the last vouchsafed to their union. A single regret, however, scarcely felt, touched even him, when he reflected that if Connor were to be removed from them, theu' hearih must become desolate. But then came the fictitious conscience, with its nefai'ious calculations, to prove that, in their present circumstances, the dispensation which withheld others was a blessing to him that was given. Even Con- nor himself, ai-gued the miser, will be the gainer by it, for what would my five loaves and three fishes be among so many ? The pleasure, however, that is dei'ived from the violation of natural affection is never either full or satisfactory. The gratification felt by Fai-dorougha, upon reflecting that no further addition was to be made to their family, re- sembled that which a hungry man feels who dreams he is partaking of a luxurious ban- quet. Avai'ice, it is true, hke fancy, was gratified, but the enjoyment, though rich to that particular passion, left behind it a sense of unconscious remorse, which gnawed his heart mth a slow and hea^';)'■ pain, that opei*- ated Hke a smothered fire, wasting what it preys upon, in secrecy and darkness. In plainer terms, he was not happy, but so ab- sorbed in the ruling passion — the pursuit of wealth — that he felt afi-aid to analyze his anxiety, or to trace to its time soirrce the cause of his o^\^l miseiy. In the mean time, his boy gi'cw up the pride and ornament of the parish, idolized by his mother, and beloved by all who kne^ him. Limited and scanty was the education which his father could be prevailed ujDon to bestow upon him ; but there was nothing that could deprive him of his natural good sense, nor of the affections which his mo- ther's love had drawTi out and cultivated. One thing was remarkable in him, which we mention with reluctance, as it places his fa- ther's character in a frightful point of view : I it is this, that his love for that father was i such as is rarely witnessed, even in the pu- ! rest and most affectionate circles of domestic I life. But let not our readers infer, either fi-om what we have written, or from any j thing we may write, that Fardorougha hated this lovely and delightful boy ; on the con- , trar}', earth contained not an object, except I his money, which he loved so well. His af- 198 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. fection for him, however, was only such as could proceed from the dregs of a defiled and perverted hetu-t. This is not saying much, but it is saying all. What in him was pai'ental attachment, would in another man, to such a sou, be unfeeling and detestable indifference. His heart sank on coutemi)lat- ing the jDittance he allowed for Connor's ed- ucation ; and no remonstrance could prevail on him to clothe the bo^^ with common de- cency. Pocket-money was out of the ques- tion, as were all those considei-ate indulgen- ces to youth, that blunt, when timely afford- ed, the edge of eai'ly anxiety to know those amusements of life, which, if not innocently gi-atified before passion gets strong, are apt to produce, at a later period, that giddy in- toxication, which has been the destruction of thousands. Wlien Connor, however, grew up, and began to think for himself, he could not helj) feeling that, fi-om a man so abso- lutely devoted to wealth as his father was, to receive even the slenderest proof of affection, was in this case no common manifestation of the attachment he bore him. There was still a higher and nobler motive. He could not close his ears to the character which had gone abroad of his father, and fi'om that princij)le of generosity, which in- duces a man, even when ignorant of the quarrel, to take the weaker side, he fought his battles, until, in the end, he began to believe them just. But the most obvious cause of the son's attachment we have not mentioned, and it is useless to travel in- to vain disquisitions, for that truth which may be found in the instinctive impulses of natui-e. He was Connor's father, and though penurious in everything that re- garded even his son's common comfort, he had never uttered a harsh word to him dur- ing his life, or denied him any gratification which could be had without money. Nay, a kind word, or a kind glance, from Fardo- rougha, fired the son's resentment against the world which traduced him ; for how could it be otherwise, when the habitual defence made by him, when arraigned for his penury, was an anxiety to jarovide for the futiu'e welfare and independence of his son? Many characters in life appear difficult to be understood, but if those who wish to analyze them only consulted human nature, instead of rushing into far-fetched theories, and traced with patience the effect which in- terest, or liabit, or inclination is apt to pro- duce on men of a peculiar temperament, when placed in certain situations, there would be much less difficulty in avoiding those preposterous exhibitions which run into caiicature, or outrage the wildest com- binations that can be formed from the com- mon elements of humanity. Having said this much, we will beg our readers to suppose that yOung Connor is now twenty-two yeai'S of age, and request them, besides, to prepare for the gloom which is about to overshadow our story. We have already stated that Fardorougha was not only an extortioner, but a iisurer. Now, as some of our readers may be sur- prised that a man in his station of life could practise usuiy or even extortion to any con- siderable extent, we feel it necessary to in- form them that there exists among L-ish farmers a class of men who stand, with re- spect to the surrounding poor and improv- ident, in a position precisely analogous to that which is occupied by a Jew or money- lender among those in the higher classes who borrow, and are extravagant upon a larger scale. If, for instance, a struggling small farmer have to do with a needy land- lord or an unfeeling agent, who threatens to seize or eject, if the rent be not paid to the day, perhaps this small farmer is forced to borrow from one of those rustic Jews the full amount of the gale ; for this he gives him, at a valuation dictated by the lender's avarice and his own distress, the oats, or potatoes, or hay, which he is not able to dis- pose of in sufficient time to meet the demand that is upon him. This property, the miser draws home, and stacks or houses it until the markets are high, when he disposes of it at a price which often secures for him a l^rofit amounting to one-third, and occa- sionall}' one-half, above the sum lent, upon which, in the meantime, interest is accumu- lating. For instance, if the accommodation be twenty pounds, property to that amount at a rainous valuation is brought home by the accommodator. This perhaps sells for thirty, thirty-five, or forty jjoimds, so that, deducting the labor of preparing it for mar- ket, there is a gain of fifty, seventy-five, or a hundred per cent., besides, probably, ten per cent, interest, which is altogether dis- tinct from the former. This class of per-, sons will also take a joint bond, or joint promissory note, or, in fact, any collateral security they know to be valid, and if the contract be not fulfilled, they immediately pounce upon the guarantee. They will, in fact, as a mark of their anxiety to assist a neighbor in distress, receive a pig from a widow, or a cow fi'om a struggUng small farmer, at thirtj'^ or forty jjer cent, beneath its value, and claim the merit of being a friend into the bargain. Such men are bit- ter enemies to i:)aper money, especially to notes issued by private bankers, which they never take in payment. It is amusing, if a FARDOROUGIIA, THE MISER. lOG k person could forget the distress which oc- casions the scene, to observe one of these men producing an old stocking, or a long black leathern purse — or a calf-skin pocket- book with tlie hair on, and counting down, as if he gave out his heart's blood drop by drop, the specific sum, uttering, at the same time, a most lugubrious history of his own pov- erty, and assuring the poor wretch he is fleecing, that if he (the miser) gives way to his good nature, he must ultinjately become the victim of his own benevolence. In no case, however, do they ever put more in the purse or stocking than is just then wanted, and sometimes they will be short a guinea or ten shillings, which they borrow from a neighbor, or remit to the unfortunate dupe in the course of the day. This they do in order to enhance the obligation, and give a distinct proof of their poverty. Let not, therefore, the gentlemen of the Minories, nor our P s and our M s nearer home, imagine for a moment that they en- gross the spirit of rapacity and extortion to themselves. To the credit of the class, how- ever, to which they l:>elong, such persons are not so numerous as formerly, and to the still greater honor of the peasantry be it said, the devil himself is not hated with half the detestation which is borne them. In order that the reader may understand our motive for introducing such a description as that we have now given, it will be necessary' for us to request him to accompany a stout, well- set young man, named J-5;utlc I'lanagan, along a green ditch, which, planted with osiers, leads to a small meadow belonging to Far- dorouglia Donovan. In this meadow, his son Connor is now making hay, and on see- ing Flanagan approach, he re.sts upon the top of hLs rake, and exclaims in a sohl- oquy :— " God help you and yours, Bartle ! If it was in my power, I take God to witness, I'd make up wid a willin' heart for all the hard- ship and misfortune my father brought upon you all." He then resumed his labor, in order that the meeting between him and Bartle might take jjlace with less embarrassment, for he saw at once that the former was about to speak to him. "Isn't the weather too hot, Connor, to work bareheaded ? I think you ought to keep on your hat." "Bartle, how ai-e you? — off or on, it's the iSame thing ; hat or no hat, it's broilin' weather, the Lord be praised ! What news, Bartle?" " Not much, Connor, but what you know a family that Avas strugglin', but honest, brought to dissolation. We're broken up ; my father and mother's both liAdn' in a cabis they tuck from Billy Nuthy ; Mary and Alick's gone to sarvice, and myself "s just on my way to hire wid the last man I ought to go to — your father, that is, supposin' we can agree." " As heaven's above me, Bai-tle, there's not a man in the county this day sorrier for what has happened than myself ! But the truth is, that when my father heard of Tom Grehan, that was your security, havin' gone to America, he thought every day a month till the note was due. My mother an' I did all we could, but you know his temper; 'twas no use. God knows, as I said before, I'm heart sorry for it." " Every one knows, Connor, that if your mother an' you had your way an' will, your father wouldn't be sich a screw as he is." "In the meantime, don't forget that he is my father, Bartle, an' aVjove all things, re- mimber that I'll allow no man to speak dis- pai'agingly of him in my jiresence." " I believe you'll allow, Connor, that he was a scourge an' a curse to us, an' that none of us ought to like a bone in his skin." " It couldn't be expected you would, Bar- tle ; but you must grant, after all, that he Avas only recoverin' his own. Still, when you know what my feeling is upon the business, I don't think it's generous in you to bring it uj) between us." "I could bear his liarrishin' us out of house an' home," proceeded the other, " only for one thought that still crasses in an me." "Wliat is that, Bartle?— God knows \ can't help feelin' for you," he added, smote with the desolation which his father had brought ujion the family. "He lent us forty pounds," j^roceeded the young man ; " and when he found tliat Tom Grehan, our security, went to America, he came down upon us the minute the note was due, canted all we had at half price, and turned us to starve upon the world ; now, I could bear that, but there's one thing " " That's twice you spoke about that one thing," said Connor, somewhat shaii^ly, for he felt hurt at the obstinacy of the other, in continuing a subject so distressing to him ; " but," he continued, in a milder tone, " tell me, Bartle, for goodness' sake, what it is, an' let us put an' end to the discoorse. I'm sure it must be unpleasant to both of us." "It doesn't signify," rci^lied the young man, in a desponding voice — " .s/te'.s gone ; it's all over wid me there ; I'm a beggar — I'm a beggar ! " " Bartle," said Connor, taking his hand, "you're too much downhearted ; come to us, but first go to my father ; I know you'L' 200 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. find it hard to deal with him. Never mind that ; whatever he offers you, close vddi him, an' take my word for it that my mother and I between us will make you uj) dacent wages ; an' sorry I am that it's come to this wid you, poor fellow ! " Bai'tle's cheek gi'ew ptde as ashes ; he wrung Connor's hand with aU his force, and fixed an unshi-inking eye on him as he re- phed — " Thank you Connor, now — but I hope III live to thank you better yet, and if I do, you needn't thank me for any retiu-n I may make you or youi's. I will close wid youi" father, an' take whatsomever he'U or- der me ; for, Connor," and he Avi-ung his hand again — " Connor O'Donovan, I haven't a house or home this day, nor a place under God's canopy where to lay my head, except upon the damp floor of my father's naked cabin. Think of that, Connor, an' think if I can forget it ; still," he added, "you'll see, Connor — Connor, xjoull see how I'll forgive it." "It's a credit to yourseK to spake as you do," repHed Connor ; " call this way, an' let me know what's done, an' I hope, Bartle, you an' I will have some pleasant days to- gether." " Ay, an' pleasant nights, too, I hope," re- plied the other : " to be sure I'll call ; but if you take my ad\dce, you'd tie a handkerchy about your head ; it's mad hot, an' enough to give one a faver bareheaded." Having made this last observation, he leaped across a small drain that bounded the meadow, and proceeded up the fields to Far- dorougha's hou.se. Bartle Flanagan was a young man, about five feet six in height, but of a remarkably compact and athletic form. His complexion was dark, but his countenance ojDen, and his features well set and regular. Indeed his whole appearance might be termed bland and prepossessing. If he ever appeared to disadvantage it was whilst under the in- fluence of resentment, dui-ing which his face became pale as death, nay, almost livid ; and, as his brows were strong and black, the con- trast between them and his complexion changed the whole expression of his counte- nance into that of a person whose enmity a prudent man would avoid. He was not quar- relsome, however, nor subject to any impetu- ous bursts of passion ; his resentments, if he retained any, were either dead or silent, or, at aU events, so well regulated that his ac- quaintances looked upon him as a young fellow of a good-humored and fi-iendly dis- position. It is true, a hint had gone abroad that on one or two occasions he was found Jf^ficient in courage ; but, as the circumstan- ces referred to were rather unimportant, his conduct by many was attributed rather to good sense and a disinclination to quarrel on frivolous gi'ouuds, than to positive cowardice. Such he was, and such he is, now that he has entered upon the humble di-ama of our story. On ari'i\ing at Fardorougha's house, he found that worthy man at dinner, upon a cold bone of bacon and potatoes. He had only a few moments before returned from the residence of the County Treasurer, with whom he went to lodge, among other sums, that which was so iniquitously MTung from the iniin of the Flanagans. It would be wrong to say that he felt in an}' degree emban-assed on looking into the face of one whom he had so oppressively injured. The recovery of his usuiious debts, no matter how merciless the process, he considered only as an act of jus- tice to himself, for his conscience having long ago outgrown the pei'ception of his own in- humanity, now only felt compunction when death or the occasional insolvency of a se- curity defeated his rajDacity. When Bartle entered, Fardorougha and he surveyed each other with perfect coolness for nearly half a minute, during which time neither uttered a word. The silence was first broken by Honora, "\\ho put forward a chair, and asked Flanagan to sit down. "Sit down, Bartle," said she, " sit down, boy ; an' how is aU the family ? " " 'Deed, can't complain," rephed Bartle, " as time goes ; an' how are you, Fardorou- gha? although I needn't ax — you're takin' care of number one, any how." "I'm middlin', Bartle, middlin'; as well as a man can be that has his heart broke every day in the year strivin' to come by his own, an' can't do it ; but I'm a fool, an' ever was — saiwin' others an' ruinin' myself." "Bartle," said Mrs. Donovan, "are you unweU, dear? you look as pale as death. Let me get you a drink of fresh milk." " If he's weak," said Fardorougha, "an' he looks weak, a drink of fi'esh wather 'ud be betther for him ; ever an' always a drink of wather for a weak man, or a weak woman aither ; it recovers them sooner." "Thank you, kindly, Mrs. Donovan, an' I'm obliged to you, Fardoroiagha, for the wather ; but I'm not a bit weak ; it's only the heat o' the day ails me — for siu-e enough it's broilin' weather." " 'Deed it is," replied Honora, " killin' weather to them that has to be out undher it." " If it's good for nothin' else, it's good foi the hay-makin'," obsei'ved Fardorougha. " I'm tould, Misther Donovan," said Bartle, " that you want a sarvint man : now, if you FARDOIWDGHA, TEE MISER. 201 do, I want a place, an' you see I'm comin' to you to look lor one." " Heaven above, Bartle ! " exclaimed Hon- ora, "what do you mean ? Is it one of Dan Flanagan's sons goin' to sarvice ? " " Not one, but all of them," replied the other, coolly, " an' his daughters, too, IMrs. Donovan ; but it's aU the way o' the world. If Mr. Donovan 'U hire me I'U thank him." " Don't be Mistherin' me, Bartle ; IVIisther them that has means an' substance," returned Donovan. " Oh, God forgive you, Fardorougha ! " ex- claimed his honest and humane wife. " God forgive you ! Bartle, from my heart, from the core o' my heart, I pity you, my poor boy. An' is it to this, Fardoi'ougha, you've brought them ? — Oh, Saviour o' the world ! " She fixed her eyes upon the victim of her husband's extortion, and in an instant they were filled with tears. ""What did I do," said the latter, "but strive to recover my own ? How cotdd I af- ford to lose forty pounds ? An' I was tould for sai'tin that youi' father knew Grehan was goin' to Ameriky when he got him to go se- curity. Wliisht, Honora, you're as foolish a wom:m as riz this day ; haven't you your sins to cry for ? " " God knows I have, Fardorougha, an' more than my own to cry for." " I dare say you did hear as much," said Bartle, quietly replying io the observation of Fardorougha respecting his father ; " but you know it's a folly to talk about spilt milk. If you want a sarvint I'll liii-tj ; for, as I said a while ago, / want a place, an' except wid jo\x I don't know where to get one." "If you come to me," obsen-ed the other, " you must go to your duty, an' observe the fast days, but not the holydays." " Sarvint s isn't obliged to obsarve them," replied Bartle. " But I always put it in the bargain," re- turned the other. " As to that," said Bartle, " t don't much mind it. Sui-e it'U be for the good o' my sowl, any way. But what wages will you be givin' ? " " Thirty shiUinga every half year ; — that's three pounds — sixty shillings a year. A great deal o' money. I'm sui'e I dunna where it's to come fi'om." "It's veiy httle for a yeai-'s hard labor," repHed Bartle, "but httle as it is, Fardo- rougha, owin' to what has happened bet-nixt us, believe me, I'm right glad to take it." "Well, but Bartle, you know there's fif- teen shilhns of the ould account still due, and you must allow it out o' yovu: wages ; if you don't, it's no bargain." Bartle's face became hvid ; but he was perfectly cool ; — indeed, so much so ihat he smiled at this last condition of Fardorou- gha. It was a smile, however, at once so ghastly, dark, and frightful, that, by any person capable of tracing the secret work- ings of some deadly passion on the counte- nance, its purport could not have been mis- taken. " God knows, Fardorougha, you might let that pass — considher that you've been hard enough upon us." " God knows I say the same," observed Honora. " Is it the last drop o' the heart's blood you want to squeeze out, Fardo- rougha ? " " The last drop ! What is it but my i-ight? Am I robbin' him? Isn't it due? Will he, or can he deny Ihat ? An' if it's due isn't it but honest in him to pay it ? They're not hvin' can saj' I ever defi-auded them of a penny. I never broke a bargain ; an' yet you open on me, Honora, as if I was a rogue ! If I hadn't that boy below to provide for, an' settle in the world, what 'ud I care about money ? It's for his sake I look afther my right." " I'll aUow the money, " said Bartle. " Faixlorougha's right ; it's due, an' I"U pay him — ay wiU I, Fardorougha, settle wid you to the last farden, or beyant it if you like." " I woiildn't take a farden beyant it, in the shape of debt. Them that's decent enough to make a present, may — for that's a horse of another color." " When wiU I come home ? " inquired Bartle. "You may stay at home now that you're here," said the other. " An' in the mane time, go an' heljD Connor put that hay in lap-cocks. Anj-thing you want to biing here you can bring afther your day's work to- night." "Did you ate your dinner, Bartle.?" said Honora ; '• bekase if you didn't I'll get you something." " It's not to this time o' day he'd be without his dimier, I supjjose," observed his new master. " You're very right, Faixlorougha,'' re- joined Bartle ; "I'm thankful to you, ma'am, I did ate my dinner." "Well, you'll get a rake in the bam, Bar- tle," said his master ; " an' now tramp do\^T3 to Connor, an' I'U see how you'll handle your- selves, both o' you, fi"om this till night." Bartle accordingly proceeded towai'ds the meadow, and Fardorougha, as was his cus- tom, throwing his gi-eat coat loosely about his shoulders, the arms dangling on each side of him, proceeded to another jDart of his farm. Flanagan's step, on his way to join Con- 202 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. nor, was slow and meditative. The kindness ot the son and mother touched him : for the line between their disposition and Fardo- rougha's was too strong and clear to allow the shghtest suspicion of their participation in the spirit which regulated his life. The father, however, had just declared that his anxiety to accumulate money arose fi'om a wish to settle his son independently in hfe ; and Flanagan was too slightly acquainted with human character to see through this flimsy apolog;^ for extortion. He took it for granted that Fardorougha si:)oke truth, and his resolution received a bias fi'om the impression, which, however, his better na- tm'e determined to subdue. In this uncer- tain state of mind he turned about almost instinctively, to look in the direction which Fai'dorougha had taken, and as he obsei'ved his diminutive figure creeping along with his gi'eat coat about him, he felt that the very sight of the man who had broken up theu' hearth and scattered them on the world, filled his heart with a deep and dead- ly animosity that occasioned him to pause as a person would do who finds himself unex- pectedly upon the brink of a precipice. Connor, on seeing him enter the meadow with the rake, knew at once that the terms had been concluded between them ; and the excellent young man's heart was deeply moved at the destitution which forced Flan- agan to seek for service with the veiy indi- vidual who had occasioned it. " I see, Bartle," said he, " you have agreed." " We have," replied Bartle. " But if there had been any other place to be got in the parish — (an' indeed only for the state I'm in) — I wouldn't have hired myself to him for nothing, or next to nothing, as I have done." " ^Miy, what did he promise ? " ' ' Three pounds a year, an' out o' that I'm to pay liim fifteen shillings that my father owes him still." " Close enough, Bartle, but don't be cast down ; I'll undertake that my mother an' I will double it — an' as for the fifteen shillings I'U pay them out o' my own pocket — when I get money. I needn't tell you that we're all kept upon the tight crib, and that Httle cash goes far with us ; for all that, we'U do what I promise, go as it may." " It s more than I ought to expect, Connor ; but j-ourself and your mother, all the coun- tlxry would put their hands undher both your feets." "I would give a great dale, Bartle, that my poor father had a little of the feehn' that's in ray mother's heart ; but it's his way, Bartle, an' you know he's my father, an' has been kinder to me than to any livin' creature on this earth. I never got a harsh word from him yet. An' if he kept me stinted in manj things that I was entitled to as well as othei persons like me, still, Bartle, he loves me, an' I can't but feel gi-eat affection for him, love the money as he may." This was spoken with much seriousness of manner not unmingled with somewhat of regret, if not sorrow. Bartle fixed his eye upon the fine face of his companion, with a look in which there was a character of com- passion. His countenance, however, while he gazed on him, maintained his natural color — it was not pale. "I am sorry, Connor," said he slowly, "I am sori-y that I hii-ed with your father." "An' I'm glad of it," repHed the other; " why should you be sony ? " Bartle made no answer for some time, but looked into the ground, as if he had not heard him. "Why should you be sony, Bartle? " Nearty a minute elaj^sed before his al> straction was broken. " A^Qiat's that ? " said he at length. " WTaat were you asking me ? " "You said you were sorry." • "Oh, ay!" returned the other, interrupt- ing him ; " but I didn' mind what I was say- in' : 'twas thinkin' o' somethin' else I was — of home, Bartle, an' what we're brought to ; but the best way's to dlu'op all discoorse about that forever." "You'll be my fiiend if you do/' said Connor. "I will, then," replied Bartle; "we'll change it. Connor, were you ever in love ? " O'Donovan turned quickly about, and, with a keen glance at Bartle, rephed, " Wliy, I don't know ; I believe I might, once or so." "lam," said Flanagan, bitterly; "I an\ Connor." "An' who's the happy cratm-e, will youteU us?" " No," returned the other ; " but if there's a wish that I'd make against my worst ene- my, 'twould be, that he might love a girl above his means ; or if he was her aquil, or even near her aquil, that he might be brought" he paused, but immediately proceeded, " Well, no matter, I am, indeed, Connor." " An' is the girl fond o' you ? " "I don't know ; my mind was made up to tell her but it's past that now ; I know she's wealthy and proud both, and so is all her family." " How do you know she's proud when you never put the subject to her ? " " I'm not sayin' she's proud, in one sinse ; wid respect to herself, I beheve, she's humble enough ; I mane, she doesn't give herself many airs, but her people's as proud as the FARDOROUGHA, THE MISER. 20b very sarra, an' never match below them ; still, if I'd opportunities of boin' often in her company, I'd not fear to trust to a sweet tongue for comin' round her." "Never despair, Bai'tle," said Connor; "you know the ould proverb, ' a faint heai't ;' however, settin' the purty crature aside, who- ever she is, I think if we divided ourselves — you to that side, an' me to this — we'd get this hay lapped in half the time ; or do you take which side you plase." " It's a bargain," said Bartle ; " I don't care a tra-mieen ; I'll stay where I am, thin, an' do you go beyant ; let us hurry, too, for, if I'm not mistaken, it's too sultry to be long without rain, the sky, too, is gettin' dark." " I observed as much myself," said Con- nor ; " an' that was what made me sjjake." Both then continued their labor with re- doubled energ}', nor ceased for a moment until the task was executed, and the business of the day concluded. Flanagan's obseiwatiou was indeed correct, as to the change in the day and the appear- ance of the sky. From the hour of five o'clock the darkness gradually deepened, un- til a dead black shadow, fearfully stiU and solemn, wrajDj)ed the whole horizon. The sun had altogether disappeared, and nothing was visible in the sky but one imbroken mass of darkness, unrelieved even by a sin- gle pile of clouds. The animals, where they could, had betaken themselves to shelter ; the fowls of the air sought the covert of the hedges, and ceased their songs ; the larks fled from the mid heaven ; and occasionally might be seen a stragghug bee hurrpng homewards, careless of the flowerS which tempted him in his path, and only anxious to reach his hive before the deluge should overtake him. The stillness indeed was aw- ful, as was the gloomy veil which darkened the face of nature, and filled the mind with that ominous terror which presses upon the heart like a consciousness of guilt. In such a time, and under the aspect of a sky so much resembhng the pall of death, there is neither mu-th nor laughter, but that indi- vidutdity of apiDrehension, which, whilst it thi'ows the conscience in upon its own records, and suspends conversation, 3-et draws man to his fellows, as if mere contiguity were a safe- guard against danger. The conversation between the two young men as they returned from their labor, was ■short but expressive. " Bartle," said Connor, " are you afeai'd of thundher? The rason I ax," he added, " is, bekase your face is as white as a sheet." " I have it from my mother," repUed Flan- agan, " but at all evints such an evenin' as this is enough to make the heart of any man quake." "I feel my spirits low, by rason of the darkness, but I'm not afraid. It's well for them that have a clear conscience ; they say that a stormy sky is the face of an angry God " "An' the thundher His voice," added Bartle ; " but why are the bnite bastes an' the birds afi*aid, that commit no sin ? " "That's time," said his companion; "it must be natural to be afraid, or wh}- would they indeed ? — but some people ai-e naturally more timersome than others." " I intinded to go home for my other clo'ea an' linen this evenin'," observed Bartle, "but I won't go out to-night." "I must thin," said Connor; "an', with the blessin' o' God, wUl too ; come what may." " ^Vhy, what is there to bring you out, if it's a fair question to ax?" inquired the other. "A promise, for one thing ; an' my own inclination — my o^ti heart — that's nearer the thruth — for another. It's the first meetin' that I an' her I'm goin' to ever had." " Thighum, Tliighum, I undherstand," said Flanagan ; " well, I"U stay at home ; but, siu'e it's no harm to ^Wsh you success — an' that, Connor, is more than /'// ever have where I wish for it most." This closed theu- dialogue, and both en- tered Fardorougha's house in silence. . Up until twihght, the darkness of the dull and heavj- sky was unbroken ; but towards the west there was seen a streak whose color could not be determined as that of blood or fire. By its angry look, it seemed as if the sky in that quarter were about to burst forth in one awful sweep of conflagration. Con- nor observed it, and very correctly antici- pated the natui'e and consequences of its ap- jDearance ; but what will not youthful love dare and overcome? With an undismayed heai-t he set forward on his journe}-, which we leave him to pui'sue, and beg permission, meanwhile, to transport the reader to a scene distant about two miles farther towai'da the inland part of the country. PAET n. The dwelling of Bodagh Buie O'Brien, to which Connor is noAV directing his steps, was a favorable specimen of that better class of farm-houses inhabited by our most exten- sive and wealthy agi'iculturists. It was a large, whitewashed, ornamentally thatched building, that told by its external aspect of the good hAing, extensive comforts, and sub- stantial opulence which prevailed within. Stretched before its hall-door was a smaT Si04 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. lawn, bounded on the left by a wall that separated it from the farmyard into which the kitchen door opened. Here were stacks of hay, oats, and wheat, all upon an immense scale, both as to size and number ; together with threshing and winno\Ning machines, improved ploughs, carts, cai'S, and all the other modern imj^lements of an extensive farm. Very cheering, indeed, was the din of industry that ai'ose from the clank of ma- chineiy, the grunting of hogs, the cackling of geese, the quacking of ducks, and all the vai'ious other sounds which proceeded from what at first sight might have aj^peared to be rather a scene of confusion, but which, on closer inspection, would be found a rough yet well-regulated system, in which eveiy person had an allotted duty to perform. Here might Bodagh Buie be seen, dressed in a gray broad-cloth coat, broad kerseymere breeches, and lambs' wool stockings, moving from p. ace to place AAith that calm, sedate, and contented air, which betokens an easy mind and a consciousness of possessing a more than ordinary share of proj^erty and influence. With hands thrust into his small- clothes pockets, and a bunch of gold seals suspended from his fob, he issued his orders in a grave and quiet tone, diffeiiag very httle in dress fi-om an absolute Squireen, save in the fact of his Caroline hat being rather scuffed, and his strong shoes begrimed with the soil of his fields or farm-j'ard. Mrs. O'Brien was, out of the sphere of her own family, a person of much greater pretension than the Bodagh her husband ; and, though in a different manner, not less so in the dis- charge of her duty as a wife, a mother, or a mistress. In appearance, she was a large, fat, good-looking woman, eternally in a state of motion and biistle, and, as her education had been extremely scanty, her tone and manner, though brimful of authority and consequence, were strongly mai'ked "ttdth that ludicrous vulgarity which is produced by the attempt of an ignorant person to ac- compHsh a high style of gentihty. She was a kind-hearted, charitable woman, however ; but so inveterately conscious of her station in life, that it became, in her opinion, a mat- ter of duty to exhibit a refinement and ele- vation of language suitable to a matron who could drive eveiy Sunday to Mass on her own jaunting car. When dressed on these occasions in her rich rustling silks, she had, what is called in L-eland, a comfortable flaghoola look, but at the same time a car- riage so stiff" and i*ustic, as utterly overcame all her attempts, dictated as they were by the simplest vanity, at enacting the arduous and awful chai'acter of a Squireen's wife. Theix family consisted of a sou and daughter ; the former, a young man of a very amiabla disposition, was, at the present period ol our story, a student in Maynooth College, and the latter, now in her nineteenth year, a promising pupil in a certam seminaiy for young ladies, conducted by that notorious Master of Ai'ts, Little Cupid. Oona, or Una, O'Brien, was in truth a most fascinat- ing and heantiinl brunette ; tall in stature, light and agile in all her motions, cheerful and sweet in temper, but with just as much of that winning caprice, as was necessary to give zest and piquancy to her whole charac- ter. Though tall and slender, her person was by no means thin ; on the contrary', her hmbs and figure were very gracefully round- ed, and gave promise of that agreeable ful- ness, beneath or beyond which no perfect model of female proportion can exist. If our readers could get one glance at the hue of her rich cheek, or faU for a moment under the power of her black mellow eye, or wit- ness the beauty of her white teeth, while her face beamed with a jirofusion of dim- ples, or saw her while in the act of shaking out her invincible locks, ere she bound them up with her white and dehcate hands — then, indeed, might they understand wh}' no war of the elements could jDrevent Connor O'- Donovan fi'om risking life and hmb sooner than disappoint her in the promise of their first meeting. Oh that first meeting of pure and youthful love ! With what a glor}- is it ever encircled in the memory of the human heart ! No mat- ter how long or how melancholy the lajDse of time siyce its past existence may be, still, still, is it remembered by our feelings when the rec- ollection of every tie but itself has departed. The charm, however, that murmured its many -toned music through the soul of Una O'Brien was not, itpon the evening in ques- tion, wholly fi'ee from a shade of melancholy for which she could not account ; and this impression did not result fi"om any pi'evious examination of her love for Connor O'Don- ovan, though many such she had. She knew that in this the utmost opjDOsition from both her parents must be expected ; nor was it the consequence of a consciousness on her pai't, that in j^romising him a clandestine meeting, she had taken a step which could not be justified. Of this, too, she had been aware before ; but, until the hour of appoint- ment drew near, the heaviness which pressed her down was such as caused her to admit that the sensation, however painful and gloomy, was new to her, and bore a character distinct from anything that could proceed from the vai'ious lights in which she had previously considered her attachment. This was, moreover, heightened by the boding FARDOROUGHA, THE MISER. 205 aspect of the heavens and the dread rejDOse of the evening, so unhke anything she had ever witnessed before. Notwithstanding all this, she was sustained by the eager and im- patient buoyancy of first affection ; which, when imagination pictured the handsome form of her young and manly lover, pre- dominated for the time over every reflection and feeling that was opposed to itself. Her mind, indeed, resembled a fair autumn land- scape, over which the cloud-shadows may be seen sweeping for a moment, whUst again the sun comes out and turns all into serenity and Hght. The place appointed for their interview was a small paddock shaded by alders, be- hind her father's garden, and thither, with trembling hmbs and palpitating heart, did the young and graceful daughter of Bodagh Buie proceed. For a considerable time, that is to say, for three long years befoi'e this delicious appoint- ment, had Connor O'Donovan and Una been wrapped in the el3-sium of mutual love. At mass, at fair, and at market, had they often and often met, and as frequently did their eyes search each other out, and reveal in long blushing glances the state of theii* respective hearts. Many a time did he seek an oppor- tunity to disclose what he felt, and as often, with confusion, and fear, and delight, did she afford him what he sought. Thus did one op- portunity after another pass away, and as of- ten did he form the towering resolution to re- veal his affection if he were ever favored with another. Still would some disheartening re- flection, arising from the uncommon gentle- ness and extreme modest}- of his character, throw a damp upon his spmt. He ques- tioned his own penetration ; perhaps she was in the habit of glancing as much at others as she glanced at him. Could it be possible that the beautiful daughter of Bodagh Buie, the wealthiest man, and of his wife, the proudest woman, within a large circle of the country, would love the son of Fardorougha Donovan, whose name had, alas, become so odious and impopular? But then the blushing face, and dark lucid eyes, and the long earnest glance, rose before his imagination, and told him that, let the difference in the character and the station of their parents be what it might, the fair dark daughter of O'Brien was not insensible to him, nor to the anxieties he felt. The circumstance which produced the first conversation they ever had arose from an in- cident of a very striking and singular chai-ac- ter. About a week before the evening in question, one of Bodagh Buie's bee-skeps hiv- ed, and the young colony, though closely watched and pursued, directed theii' course to Fardorougha's house, and settled in the mouth of the chimney. Connor, having got a clean sheet, secured them, and was about to submit them to the cai-e of the Bodagh'a servants, when it was suggested that the du- ty of bringing them home devolved on him- self, inasmuch as he was told they would not remain, unless placed in a new skep by the hands of the person on whose property they had settled. While on his way to the Bo- dagh's he was accosted in the following words by one of O'Brien's servants : " Connor, there's good luck before you, or the bees wouldn't pick you out amongst all the rest o' the neighbors. You ought to hould up your head, man. "Who knows what man- in's in it ? " " Why, do you b'lieve that bees sittin' wid one is a sign o' good luck ? " " Surely I do. Doesn't every one know it to be thrue ? Connor, you're a good-lookin' feUow, an' I need scarcely teU you that we have a purty girl at home ; can yoi"*. lay that an' that together? Arrah, be my sowl, the richest honey ever the same bees '11 make, is nothin' but alloways, compared wid that purtv mouth of her own ! A honey -comb is a fool to it." " ^\liy, did you ever thry, Mike? " "Is it me ? Och, och, if I was only high enough in this world, maybe I wouldn't be spakin' sweet tc^ her ; no, no, be my word ! thry, indeed, for the likes o' me ! Faith, but I know a sartin young man that she does be often spakin' about." Connor's heart was in a state of instant com- motion. " An' who — who is he — who is that sartin young man, Mike ? " "Faith, the son o' one that can nin ashil- hn' farther than e'er another man in the coun- try. Do you happen to be acquainted wid one Connor O'Donovan, of Lisnamona ? " " Connor O'Donovan — that's good, I\Iike — in the mane time doL t be goin' it on us. No, no ; — an' even if she did. it isn't to you she spake about any one, Michael ahagur ! " " No, nor it wasn't to me — sure I didn't say it was — but don't you know my sister's at sai-- vice in the Bodagh's family ? Di^il the word o' falsity I'm teUin' you ; so, if you haven't the heart to spake for yourself, I wouldn't give knots o' straws for you ; and now, there's no harm done I hope — moreover, an' by the same token, you needn't go to the trouble o' puttin' up an advertisement to let the paiish know what I've tould you." "Hut, tut, Mike, it's all folly. Una Dhun O'Brien to think of me I — nonsense, man ; that cock would never fight." " Very weU ; di^il a morsel of us is forcin' you to b'heve it I suppose the mother o' 206 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. you "has your wooden spoon to the fore still. I'd kiss the Bravery you didn't coine into the world wid a i let their parents act as they might, 'Una's heart and his were bound to each other by ties which, only to think of, was raptiu-e. In the midst of these reflections, he heaid her light foot approach, but with a step more slow and melancholy than he could have expected from the ardor of their love. When she approached, the twihght waa 208 WILZIAM CARLETOIT'S WORK^. just sufficient to enable him to perceive that her face was pale, and tinged apparently with melancholy, if not with sorrow. After the first salutations were over, he was proceeding to inquire into the cause of her depression, when, to his utter surprise, she placed her hands upon her face, and burst into a fit of grief. Those who have loved need not be told that the most delightful office of that de- Hghtful passion is to dry the tears of the beloved one who is deai- to us beyond all else that hfe contains. Connor literally per- formed this office, and inquii-ed, in a tone so soothing and full of sympathy, why she wept, that her tears for a while only flowed the faster. At length her grief abated, and she was able to reply to him. " You ask me why I am crying," said the fair 3'(mng creature ; " but, indeed, I cannot tell you. There has been a sinking of the heart vqyon me during the greater part of this day. When I thought of our meeting I was delighled ; but again some heaviness would come over me +hat I can't account for." " I know what it is," : *plied Connor, " a veiy simple thing ; mer.?!}' the terrible calm an' blackness of the evenin'. I was sunk myself a little." " I ought to ciy for a better reason," she retui-ned. " In meeting you I have done — an' am doing — what I ought to be sorry for — that is, a wi'ong action that my conscience condemns." " There is nobody perfect, my dear Una," said Connor ; "an' none without their fail- ins ; they have little to answer for that have no more than 3'ou." " Don't flatter me," she replied ; " if you love me as you say, never flatter me while you live ; / will always speak what I feel, and I hope ijoull do the same." " If I could spake what I feel," said he, " you would still say I flattered you — it*s not in the power of any words that ever were spoken, to tell how I love you — how much my heart an' soul's fixed ujDon you. Little you know, my own dear Una, how unhappy I am this minute, to see you in low spirits. What do you think is the occasion of it? Spake now, as you say you will do, that is, as you feel." "Except it be that w?/ /lear/ brought me to meet you t ciight contraiy to wy consci- ence, 1 do not know. Connor, Connor, that heart is so stn ngly in your favor, that if you were not to be hajjpy neither could its poor owner." Connor for a moment looked into the future, but, like the face of the sky above him, all was either dai-k or stormy ; his heart sank, but the tenderness expressed in Unas last words filled his whole soul with a vehe- ment and burning passion, which he felt must regulate his destiny in life, whether for good or evil. He jjulled her to his breast, on which he placed her head ; she looked up fondly to him, and, perceiving that he wrought under some deep and powerful struggle, said in a low, confiding voice, whilst the tears once more ran quietly down her cheeks, " Connor, what I said is true." " My heart's burnin' — my heart's burnin' ! " he exclaimed. "It's not love I feel for you, Una — it's more than love ; oh, what is it ? Una, Una, this I know, that I cannot live long without you, or from you ; if I did, I'd go wild or mad through the world. For the last three years you have never been out of my mind, I may say awake or asleep ; for I beHeve a night never passed during that time that I didn't drame of you — of the beautiful young crature. Oh ! God in heaven, can it be thrue that she loves me at last ? Say them blessed words again, Una ; oh, say them again ! But I'm too happy — I can hardly bear this delight." " It is true that I love you, and if our par- ents could think as we do, Connor, how easy it would be for them to make us happy, but—" " It's too soon, Una ; it's too soon to spake of that. Happy ! don't we love one another ? Isn't that happiness? Who or what can deprive us of that ? We are happy without them ; we can be hajDpy in sjDite of them ; oh, my own fau- gii'l ! sweet, sweet life of my hfe, and heart of my heart ! Heaven — ■ heaven itself would be no heaven to me, if you Averen't with me ! " " Don't say that, Connor dear ; it's wi'ong. Let us not forget what is due to religion, if we expect our love to prosper. You may think this strange fi-om one that has acted contraiy to religion in coming to meet you against the will and knowledge of her par- ents ; but beyond that, dear Connor, I hope I never will go. But is it true that you've loved me so long ? " "It is," said he ; "the second Sunday in May next v/as three years, I knelt opposite you at mass. You were on the left hand side of the altar, I was on the right ; my eyes were never off you ; indeed, you may remember it." "I have a good right," said she, blushing and hiding her face on his shoulder. " I ought to be ashamed to acknowledge it, an' me so young at the time ; little more than sixteen. From that day to this, my story has been just your own. Connor, can you telj me liow I found it out, but I knew you loved me?" FARDOROUGEA, THE MISER. 209 " Many a tiling was to tell you that, Una dear. Sure my eyes were never off you, whenever you wor near me ; an' wherever you were, there was I certain to be too. I never missed any public place if I thought you would be at it, an' that merely for the sake of seein' you. An', now will you tell me why it was that I could 'a sworn you lov'd me ? " " You have answered for us both," she re- plied. "As for me, if I only chance to hear your name mentioned my heart would beat ; if the talk was about you I could listen to nothing else, and I often felt the color come and go on my cheek." "Una, I never thought I could be bom to such happiness. Now that I know that you love me, I can hardly think that it was love I felt for you all along ; it's wonderful — it's wonderful ! " " What is so wonderful ? " she inquired. " Why, the change that I feel since know- in' that you love me ; since I had it fi'om your own lips, it has overcome me — I'm a child— I'm an}i,hing, anything you choose to make me ; it was never love — it's only since I found you loved me that my heart's burnin' as it is." "I'll make you happy if I can," she re- phed, " and keep you so, I hope." " There's one thing that will make me still happier than I am," said Connor. " ^Vhat is it? If it's proper and right I'll do it." " Promise me that if I live you'U never marry any one else than me." " You wish then to have the promise all on one side," she replied -with a smile and a blush, each as sweet as ever captivated a hu- man heart. " No, no, no, my darling Una, acushla gra gal machree, no ! I will promise the same to you." She paused, and a silence of nearly a min- ute ensued. " I don't know that it's right, Connor ; I have taken one wrong step as it is, but, well as I love you, I won't take another ; what- ever I do I must feel that it's proper. I'm not sure that this is." " Don't you say you love me, Una? " "I do ; you know I do." " I have only another question to ask ; could you, or would you, love me as you do, and marry another ? " " I could not, Connor, and would not, and will not. I am ready to promise ; I may easily do it ; for God knows the very thought of man-ying another, or being deprived of you, is more than I can bear." " Well, then," returaed her lover, seizing her hand, " I take God to witness that, whilst you are alive an' faithful to me, I will never marry any woman but yourself. Now," he continued, " put your right hand into mine, and say the same words." She did so, and was in the act of repeating the form, " I take God to witness " when a vi^dd flash of Ughtniiig shot from the dark- ness above them, and a peal of thunder al- most immediately followed, with an explo- sion so loud as neai'ly to stun both. Una started with teiTor, and instinctively with- drew her hand from Connor's. " God jH-eserve us ! " she exclaimed ; " that's awful. Connor, I feel as if the act I am goin' to do is not right. Let us put it off at all events, till another time." "Is it because there comes an ac(Sdental brattle of thunder?" he returned. " ^Vhy, the thunder would come if we were never to change a promise. You have mine, now, Una dear, an' I'm sure you wouldn't wash me to be bound an' yourself free. Don't be afi'aid, darhng ; give me your hand, an' don't tremble so ; repeat the words at wanst, an' let it be over." He again took her hand, when she repeat- ed the form in a distinct, though feeble voice, observing, when it was concluded, " Now, Connor, I did this to satisfy you, but I still feel hke one who has done a wTong action. I am yours now, but I cannot help praying to God that it may end happily for us both." " It must, darhng Una — it must end hap- pily for us both. How can it be otherwise ? For my part, except to see you my wife, I couldn't be happier than I am this minute ; exceptin' that, my heart has all it wished for. Is it possible — Oh ! is it possible that this is not a dream, my heart's hfe ? But if it is — if it is — I never more will wish to waken." Her young lover was deeply affected as he uttered these words, nor was Una proof against the emotion they produced. " I could pray to God, this moment, with a purer heart than I ever had before," he proceeded, " for makin' my lot in life so happy. I feel that I am better and freer from sin than I ever was yet. If we're faith- ful and ti-ue to one another, what can the world do to us ? " " I covddn't be othei-wise than faithful to you," she replied, "without being unhappy mj'self ; an' I tnist it's no sin to love each other as we do. Now let us God bless me, what a flash ! and here's the rain begin- ning. That thunder's dreadful ; Heaven preserve us ! It's an awful night ! Connor, you must see me as far as the comer of the garden ; as for you, I wish you were safe at home." 210 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. "Hasten, dear," said he, "hasten ; it's no night for jou to be out in, now that the rain's coming. As for me, if it was ten times as dreadful I won't feel it. There's but one thought — one thought in my mind, and that I wouldn't i^art with for the wealth of tlie universe." Both then proceeded at a quick pace until they reached the corner of Bodagh's garden, where, with brief but earnest reassurances of unalterable attachment, they took a tender and aflfectiouate farewell. It is not often that the higher ranks can apijreciate the moral beauty of love as it is experienced by those humbler classes to whom they deny the power of feeling in its most refined and exalted character. For our parts we differ so much from them in this, that, if we wanted to give an illustration of that passion in its jDurest and most deh- cate state, we would not seek for it in the saloon or the drawing-room, but among the green fields and the smiling landscapes of rural life. The simplicity of humble hearts is more accordant with the unity of affection than any mind can be that is distracted by the competition of rival claims upon its gratification. We do not say that the votaries of rank and fashion are insensible to love ; because, how much soever they may be con- versant with the artificial and unreal, still they are human, and must, to a certain ex- tent, be influenced by a principle that acts wherever it can find a heart on which to operate. We say, however, that their love, when contrasted with that which is felt by the humble peasantry, is languid and sickly ; neither so pure, nor so simple, nor so intense. Its associations in high life are unfavorable to the growth of a healthy passion ; for what is the glare of a lamp, a twirl through the insipid maze of the ball-room, or the un- natural distortions of the theatre, when com- pared to the rising of the summer sun, the singing of birds, the music of the streams, the joyous aspect of the varied landscape, the mountain, the valley, the lake, and a thousand other objects, each of which trans- mits to the peasant's heart silently and im- perceptibly that subtle power which at once strengthens and |)urifies the passion ? There is scarcely such\a thing as soUtude in the upper ranks, nor an opportunity of keeping the feelings unwasted, and the energies of the heart unspent by the many vanities and petty pleasures with which fashion forces a compliance, until the mind falls from its natural dignity, into a habit of coldness and aversion to eveiything but the circle of empty trifles in which it moves so giddily. But the enamored youth who can retire to the beautiful soUtude of the still glen to brood over the image of her he Icves, and who, probably, sits under the very tree where his love was avowed and returned ; he, we say, exalted with the fulness of his happiness, feels his heart go abroad in gladness upon the dehghted objects that surround him, for everything that he looks upon is as a friend ; his haj^py heart expands over the whole land- scape ; his eye glances to the sky ; he thmks of the Almighty Being above him, and though without any capacity to analyze his own feehngs — love — the love of some hum- ble, plain but modest giii — kindles by de- grees into the sanctity and rapture of rehg- ion. Let not our readers of rank, then, if any such may honor our pages with a perusal, be at all surprised at the expression of Connor O'Donovan when, under the ecstatic power of a love so pure and artless as that which bound his heart and Una's together, he ex- claimed, as he did, " Oh ! I could jjray to God this moment with a imrer heart tJian lever had before ! " Such a state of feeling among the peoj)le is neither rare nor anomalous ; for, however, the great ones and the wise ones of the world may be startled at our assertion, we beg to assure them that love and religion are more nearly related to each other than those, who have never felt either in its truth and purity, can imagine. As Connor performed his journey home, the thunder tempest passed fearfully through the sky ; and, though the darkness was deep and unbroken by anything but the red flash- es of lightning, yet, so strongly absorbed was his heart by the scene we have just related, that he arrived at his father's house scarcely conscious of the roar of elements which sui'- rounded him. The family had retired to bed when he en- tered, with the exception of his jjarents, who, having felt uneasy at his disappearance, were anxiously awaiting his return, and entering into fruitless conjectures concerning the cause of an absence so imusual. "WTiat," said the alarmed mother, "what in the wide world could keep him so long out, and on sicli a tempest as is in it? God protect my boy fi"om all harm an' dangei", this fearful night ! Oh, Fardorougha, what 'ud become of us if anything hapi)ened him ? As for me — my heart's wrapj^ed up in him ; wid- out our darhn' it 'ud break, break, Fai'do- rougha." " Hut ; he's gone to some neighbor's an' can't come out till the storm is over ; he'll soon be here now that the thunder an' hght- nin's past." " But did you never think, Fardorougha, what 'ud become of you, or what you'd do or how you'd Hve, if anything happened him ? FARDOROUGIIA, THE MISER. 211 whioh the Almighty forbid this night and for- ever ! Could 3'ou live widout him ? " The old man gcized upon her Hke one who felt displeasure at having a contingency so painful forced upon his consideration. With- out making any reply, however, he looked thoughtfully into the tire for some time, after which he rose up, and, with a querulous and impatient voice, said, " What's the use of thinkin' about sich things ? Lose him ! why would I lose him ? I couldn't lose him — I'd as soon lose my own life — I'd rather be dead at wanst than lose him." " God knows your love for him is a quare love, Fardorougha," rejoined the wife ; " you wouldn't give him a guinea if it 'ud save his life, or allow him even a few shillings now an' then, for pocket-money, that he might be aquil to other young boys like him." '• No use, no use in that, except to bring him into drink an' other bad habits ; a bad way, Honora, of showin' one's love for him. If you had your will you'd spoil him ; I'm keepin' whatsomever httle shillin's we've scraped together to settle him dacently in life ; but, indeed, that's time enough yet ; he's too young to marry for some years to come, barrin' he got a fortune." " Well, one thing, Fardorougha, if ever two people were blessed in a good son, praise be God we are that ! " " We are. Honor, we are ; there's not his a(j[uil in the parish — achora machree that he is. Wlien I'm gone he'U know what I've done for him." " Whin you're gone ; why. Saver of ai*th, sure you wouldn't keep him out of his husth ! here he is, God be thanked ! poor boy he's safe. Oh, thin, vich no Hoiah, Connor jewel, were you out undher this ter- rible night ? " " Connor, avich machree," added the father, " you're lost ! My hand to you, if he's worth three hapuns ; sthrip an' throw my Cothamore about you, an' draw in to the fire; you're faMy lost." " I'm worth two lost people yet," said Connor, smiling ; " mother, did you ever see a pleasanter night ? " " Pleasant, Connor, darlin' ! Oh thin it's you may say so, I'm sure ! " "Father, you're a worthy — only your Cothamore's too scimpt for me. Faith, mo- ther, although you think I'm jokin', the divil a one o' me is ; a pleasanter night — a happier night I never spent. Father, you ought to be proud o' me, an' stretch out a bit with the cash ; faith, I'm nothin' else than a fine handsome young fellow." " Be me soul an' he ought to be proud out of you, Connor, whether you're iu araest or not," observed the mother, " an' to stretch out wid the arrighad too if you want it." " Folly on, Connor, folly on ! your mo- ther '11 back you, I'U go bail, say what you will ; but sure you know aU I have must be yom-s yet, acushla." Connor now sat down, and his mother stin-ed up the fire, on which she placed ad- ditional fuel. After a little time his man- ner changed, and a shade of deep gloom fel? upon his manly and handsome features. " 1 don't know," he at length proceeded, "that, as we three are here togethei-, I could do betther than ask your advice upon what has happened to me to-night." " Why, what has happened you, Connor ? " said the mother alarmed; "plase God, no harm, I hope." "Who else," added the father, "would you be guided by, if not by your mother an' myself ? " " No harm, mother, dear," said Connor in reply to her ; " harm ! Oh ! mother, mother, if you knew it ; an' as for what you say, father, it's right ; what advice but my mo- ther's an' yours ought I to ask ? " "An' God's too," added the mother. "An' my heart was nevir more 7'is to God than it was', an' is this night," replied their ingenuous boy. "Well, but what has happened, Connor?" said his father; "if it's anything where our advice can serve you, of coorse we'U ad- vise you for the best." Connor then, with a glovdng heart, made them acquainted with the affection which subsisted between himself and Una O'Brien, and ended bj' informing them of the vow of maiTiage wiiich they had that night solemnly pledged to each other. " You both know her by sight," he added, " an' afther what I've sed, can you blame me for sayin' that I found this a pleasant and a happy night ? " The affectionate mother's eyes filled with tears of pride and delight, on hearing that her handsome son was loved by the beautiful daughter of Bodagh Buie, and she could not help exclaiming, in the enthusiasm of the moment, " She's a purty girl — the purtiest indeed I ever laid my two iixin' eyes upon, and by all accounts as good as she's purty ; but I say that, face to face, you're as good, ay, an' as handsome, Fardorougha, as she is. God bless her, any way, an' mark her to gi'ace and happiness, ma colleen dhas dhun." "He's no match for her," said the father, who had listened with an earnest face, and compressed lips, to his son's narrative ; " he's BO match for her — by four hundred guineas." Honora, when he uttered the previous part 212 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. of his observation, looked upon him with a flash of indipfnaut astonishment ; but when he had concluded, her countenance fell back into its oriprinal expression. It was evident that, while she, with the feelings of a woman and a mother, instituted a parallel between their personal merits alone, the husband \dewed their attachment through that calculating spuit which had regulated his whole hfe. " You're thinkin' of her money now," she added; "but remimber, Fardorougha, that it wasn't born wid her. An' I hojDe, Connor, it's not for her money that you have any grah for her ? " " You may swear that, mother ; I love her Uttle finger betther than all the money in the king's bank." " Connor, avich, your mother has made a fool of you, or you wouldn't spake the non- sense you spoke this minute." " My word to you, father, I'll take all the money I'll get ; but what am I to do ? Bo- dagh Buie an' his wife will never consent to allow her to many me, I can tell you ; an' if she marries me without their consent, you both know I have no way of supportin' her, except you, father, assist me." " That won't be needful, Connor ; you may manage them ; they won't see her want ; she's an only daughter ; they couldn't see her want." " An' isn't he an only son, Fardorougha? " exclaimed the wife. " An' my sowl to hap- piness but I beheve you'd see him want." "Any way," replied her husband, "I'm not for matches against the consint of par- ents ; they're not lucky ; or can't you run away wid her, an' thin refuse marryin' her except they come down wid the cash ? " " Oh, father ! " exclaimed Connor, " father, father, to become a villain ! " " Connor," said his mother, rising uj) in a spirit of calm and moiu-nfui solemnity, " never heed ; go to bed, achora, go to bed." " Of coorse I'll never heed, mother," he replied ; " but I can't help savin' that, happy as I was awhile agone, my father is sendin' me to bed with a heaA'y heai't. "When I asked your advice, father, little I thought it would be to do but no matter ; I'll never be guilty of an act that 'ud disgrace my name." "No, avillish," said his mother, "you never *will ; God knows it's as much an' more than you an' other people can do, to keep the name we have in decency." "It's fine talk," observed Fai'dorougha, " but what I advise has been done by hun- dreds that wor married an' happy afterwards ; how-an-iver you needn't get into a passion, either of you ; I'm not pressin' you, Connor, to it" "Connor, achree," said his mother, "go to bed, an' instead of the advice you got, ax God's ; go, avillish ! " Connor, without making any further ob- servation, sought his sleeping-room, where, having recommended himself to God, in earnest prayer, he lay revohing all that had occurred that night, until the gentle influ- ence of sleep at length di'ew him into obU- vion. " Now," said his mother to Fai'dorougha, when Connor had gone, " you must sleep by yom-self ; for, as for me, my side I'll not stretch on the same bed Avid you to-night." "Very well, I can't helj) that," said her husband ; "all I can say is tliis, that I'm not able to put sinse or pnidence into you or Connor ; so, since you won't be guided by me, take yoiu' own coorse. Bodagh Buie's very well able to provide for them ; an' if he won't do so before they many, why let Connor have nothing to say to her." "Ill tell you what, Fardorougha, God wouldn't be in heaven, or you'll get a cut heart yet, either thi'ough your son or your money ; an' that it may not be through my darhn' boy, O, grant, sweet Saver o' the earth, this night ! I'm goin' to sleep wid Biddy Casey, an' you'll find a clane night- cap on the rail o' the bed ; an', Fardorougha, afore you put it an, kneel down an' pray to God to change yoiu' heart — for it wants it — it wants it." In Ii-eland the first object of a servant man, after entering the emjjloyment of his master, is to put himself upon an amicable footing with his feUow-servants of the other sex. Such a stejD, besides bemg natural in itself, is often taken in consequence of the e«>p?T^ du corps which prevails among persons of that class. Bartle Flanagan, although he could not be said to act fi-om any habit pre- ; viously acquired in sei-vice, went to work ' with all the tact and adroitness of a veteran. : The next morning, after having left the \ barn where he slejot, he contrived to throw himself in the w'ay of Biddy Duggan, a girl, who, though vain and simple, -svas at the same time conscientious and honest. On passing from the barn to the kitchen, he no- ticed her returning from the well with a pitcher of water in each hand, and as it is considered an act of civil attention for the male sei'\'ant, if not otherwise employed, to assist the female in small matters of the kind, so did Flanagan, in his best manner and kindest voice, bid her good-moming and offer to cany home the pitcher. "It's the least I may do," said he, "now that I'm your fellow-servant ; but before you go farther, lay down your burden, an' lei us chat awhile." FARDOROUGHA, THE MISER. 213 "Indeed," replied Biddy, "it's little we expected ever to see yoiu' father's son goin' to earn his bread undlier another man's roof." "Pooh ! Biddy ! there's greater wondhers in the world than that, woman ahve ! But tell me — pooh — ay, is there a thousand qunrer things — but I say, Biddy, how do you like to live wid this family ? " "Why, troth indeed, only for the withered ould lepreehaun himself, divil a dacenter peo- ple ever broke bread." " Yet, isn't it a wondher that the ould fel- low is what he is, an' he so full o' money ? " " Troth, there's one thing myself wondhers at more than that." "What, Biddy? let us hear it." " Why, that ijou could be mane an' shabby enough to come as a sarvint to ate the bread of the man that ruined yees ! " "Biddy," rephed Flanagan, "I'm glad you've said it ; but do you think that I have so bad a heart as too keep reviuge in against an inimy ? How could I go to my knees at night, if I — no, Biddy, we must be Chris- tians. Well ! let us drop that ; so you tell me the mother an' son are kind to you." "As good-hearted a pair as ever hved." " Connor, of course, can't but be very kind to so good-looking a girl as you are, Biddy," said Bartle, with a knowing smile. " Very kind ! good-looking ! ay, indeed, I'm sure o' that, Bartle ; behave ! an' don't be gettin' an wid any o' your palavers. ^^Tiat 'ud make Connor be kind to the hkes of me, that way ? " " I don't see why you oughtn't an' mightn't — you're as good as him, if it goes to that." " Oh, }is, indeed ! " • " Why, you know you'r handsome." " Handsome," rejDhed the vain girl, tight- ening her apron-strings, and assuming a sly, coquettish look ; " Bartle, go 'an mind your business, and let me bring home my pitch- ers ; it's time the breakwist was down. Sich nonsense ! " "Very well, you're not, thin ; you've a bad ie^, a bad figure, an' a bad face, an' it would be a terrible thing all out for Connor O'Don- ovan to fall in consate wid }ou." "Well, about Connor I could tell you something ; — me ! tut ! go to the sarra ; — faix, you don't know them that Connor's af- ther, nor the collogin' they all had about it no longer ago than last night itself. I sui:)pose they thought I was asleep, but it was like the hares, wid my eyes open." " An' it's a pity, Biddy, ever the same two eyes should be shut. Begad, myself's be- ginning to feel quare somehow, when I look at them." A glance of pretended increduhty was given in return, after which she proceeded — " Bartle, don't be bringin' yourself to the fair wid sich folly. My eyes is jist as God made them ; but I can teU you that before a month o' Sundays passes, I wouldn't be sur- prised if you seen Connor mai'ried to — you wouldn't guess ! " " Not I ; divil a hap'orth I know about who he's courtin'." " No less than our gi-eat beauty, Bodagh Btiie's daughter, Una O'Brien. Now, Bartle, for goodness sake, don't let this cross your Hjis to a liviu' mortal. Sui-e I heard him tellin' all to the father and mother last night — they're promised to one another. Eh ! blessed saints, Bartle, what ails you ? you're as white as a sheet. "NMiat's wrong? and what did you start for ? " "No thin'," replied Flanagan, coolly, "but a stitch in my side. I'm subject to that — it pains me very much while it lasts, and laves me face, as you say, the color of dimity ; but about Connor, uj^on my thi'oth, I'm main 25roud to hear it ; she's a purty gui, an' be- sides he 11 have a foi'tune that'll make a man of him. I am, in thi'oth, heart proud to hear it. It's a pity Connor's father isn't as dacent as himself. Arrah, Biddy, where does the ould codger keep his "money ? " " Little of it in the house any way — sure, whenever he scrapes a guinea together he's awaj- wid it to the county count}- och, that countryman that keeps the money for the people." " The treasurer ; well, much good may his thi-ash do him, Biddy, that's the worst I wish him. Come now and I'll lave your pitchers at home, and remember you owe me some- thing for this." " Good "^vill, I hope." " That for one thing," he replied, as they went along; "but well talk more about it when we have time ; and I'll thin tell you the truth about what brought me to liu-e wid Far- dorougha Donovan." Hariug thus excited that most active prin- ciple called female cui'iosity, both entered the kitchen, where they foimd Connor and his mother in close and apparently confi- dential conversation — Fardoi'ougha himself having as usual been abroad upon his fiu-m for upwai'ds of an hour- before any of them had risen. , The feelings Arith which they met that morning at breakfast may be easily under- stood by oiu* readers without much assist- ance of ours. On the part of Fardorougha there was a narrow, selfish sense of exulta- tion, if not triumph, at the chance that lay before his son of being able to settle himself independently in life, without the necessity of making any demand upon the hundreds which lay so safely in the keeping of the 214 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. County Treasurer. His sordid soul was too deeply imbued with the love of luouey to perceive thiit "what he had hitherto looked upon as a proof of parental affection and fore- sight, was uothmg more than a fallacy by which he was led day after day farther into his prevailing vice. In other words, now that love for his son, and the hope of seeing him occupy a respectable station in society, ought to have justified the reasoning by which he had suft'ered himself to be g-uided, it was aji- parent that the prudence which he had still considered to be his duty as a kind parent, was notliing else than a mask for his own avaiice. The idea, therefore, of seeing Con- nor settled without any aid fi'om himself, fill- ed his whole sovil with a wild, hard satisfac- tion, which gave him as much delight as per- haps he was capable of enjoying. The adAice offered to his son on the preceding night ap- peai'ed to him a matter so reasonable in it- self, and the opi^ortunity offered by Una's at- tachment so well adaj)ted for making it an instrument to work upon the affections of her parents, that he could not for the life of him perceive why they should entertain any rational objection against it. The warm-hearted mother participated so largely in all that affected the hapj^iness of her son, that, if we allow for the difference of sex and position, we might describe their feeling.o as bearing, in the character of their simple and \i-sdd enjoyment, a very remark- able resemblance. This amiable woman's affection for Connor was reflected upon Una O'Brien, whom she now most tenderly loved, not because the fair girl was beautiful, but because she had plighted her troth to that son who had been during his whole life her own solace and delight. No sooner was the morning meal con- cluded, and the seiwants engaged at their respective employments, than Honor, acting probably under Connor's suggestion, resolved at once to ascertain whether k-^r husband could so far overcome his parsimony as to estabUsh their son and Una in life ; that is, in the event of Una's parents opposing their marriage, and declining to render them any assistance. With this object in view, she told him, as he was thi'owing his great-coat over his shoulders, in order to proceed to the fields, that she wished to speak to him iipon a matter of deep importance. ""WTiat is it?" said Fardorougha, with a hesitating shrug, " what is it? This is ever an' always the way when you want vioney ; but I tell you I have no money. You wor bom to waste and extravagance, Honor, an' there's no curin' j'ou. T\Tiat is it yon want ? an' let me go about my business." "■ Throw that ould threadbare Cotbamore off o' you," replied Honor, " and beg of God to give you grace to sit do%vn, an' have com- mon feehng and common sense." "If it's money to get does either for youi'seK or Connor, there's no use in it. I needn't sit ; you don't want a stitch, either of you." Honoi*, wdthout more ado, seized the coat, and, fhnging it aside, pushed him over to a seat on which she forced him to sit down. "As heaven's above me," she exclaimed, " I dunna what'U come over you at all, at aU. Yovu' money, your thrash, your dirt an' filth, ever, ever, an' for evermore in your thought, heart and sowl. Oh, Chierna ! to think of it, an' you know there is a God above you, an' that you must meet Him, an' that ividout your money too ! " " Ay, ay, the money's what you want to come at ; but I'll not sit here to be hecthor'd. Yv'^hat is it, I say again, you want ? " "Fardorougha ahagur," continued the wife, checking herself, and addressing him in a kind and affectionate voice, " maybe I vxis spakin' too harsh to you, but sure it was an' is for yoiu- own good. How an' ever, I'll thiy kindness, and if you have a heart at aU, you can't but show it when you hear what I'm goin' to sa}'." " WeU, weU, go an," rephed the pertina- cious husband ; " but — money — ay, ay, is there. I feel, by the way you're comin' about me, that there is money at the bottom of it." The wife raised her hands and eyes to heaven, shook her head, and after a slight pause, in which she appeared to consider her appeal a hopeless one, she at length went on in an earnest but subdued and desponding spirit — " Fardorougha, the time's now come that win show the world whether you love Con- nor or not." " I don't care a i^in about the world ; you an' Connor know well enough that I love him." "Love for one's child doesn't come out merely in words, Fardorougha ; actin' for their benefit shows it better than spakin'. Don't you grant that ? " " Very weU, may be I do, and again may be I don't ; there's times when the one's bet- ter than the other ; but go an ; may be I do grant it." " Now tell me where in this parish, ay, or in the next five pai'ishes to it, you'd find sich a boy for a father or mother to be j)roud out of, as Connor, your own darHn' as you often call him ? " " Divil a one. Honor ; damnho to the one ; I won't differ wid you in that." " You won't differ wid me ! the divil thank you for that. You won't indeed ! but could you, I say, if you wor wiUin' ? " FARDOROUGEA, THE MISER. 215 "I tell you I could not." " Now there's sinse an' kindness in that. Very well, you say you're gatherin' up all the money you can /or him." " For him — him," exclaimed the uncon- scious miser, " why, what do you mane — for — well — ay — yes, yes, I did say for him ; it's for him I'm keeping it — it is, I tell you." "Now, Fardorougha, you know he's ould enough to be settled in life on his own ac- count, an' you heard last night the girl he can get, if you stand to him, as he ought to expect from a father that loves him." " ^^1ly, last night, thin, didn't I give my — " ""Whist, ahagur! hould your tongue awhUe, and let me go on. Thnith's best — he dotes on that girl to such a degree, that if he doesn't get her, he'll never see another happy day while he's alive." " All feasthalagh. Honor — that won't pass wid me ; I know otherwise myself. Do you think that if I hadn't got ijoa, I'd been un- happy four-an'-twenty hours, let alone my whole life ? I tell 3'ou that's fea.sthalagh, an' won't pass. He wouldn't eat an ounce the less if he was never to get her. You seen the breakfast he made tliis momin' ; I didn't begTudge it to him, but may I never stir if that Flanagan wouldn't ate a horse behind the saddle ; he has a stomach that'd require a king's ransom to keep it." "You know nothing of what I'm spakin' about," replied his wife. "I wasn't L«a dha^ dhun O'Brien in my best daj's ; an' be the vestment, you warn't Connor, that has more feelin', an' spirit, an' generosity in the nail of his Httle finger than ever you had in your whole carcass. I tell you if he doesn't get married to that girl he'll break his heart. Now how can he marry her except you take a good farm for him, and stock it dacently, so that he may have a home sich as she de- sarves to bring her to ? " " How do you know but they'll give her a fortune when they find her bent on him ? " "Why, it's not unpossible," said the \sife, immediately changing her tactics, " it's not unpossible, but I can tell j-ou it's very un- likely." "The best way, then, in my opinion, 'ud be to spake to Connor about breaking it to the family." " Why, that's fair enough," said the wife. " I wondher myself I didn't think of it, but the time was so short since last night." "It is short," replied the miser, " far an' away too short to expect any one to make up their mind about it. Let them not be rash themselves aither, for I tell you that when people many in haste, they're apt to have time enough to repint at lay sure." "Well, but Fardorougha acushla, now hear me, throth it's thruth and sinse what you say ; but still, avourneen, listen ; now set in case that the Bodagh and his wife don't consint to theii- marriage, or to do any- thing for them, won't you take them a fai-ra and stock it bravely ? Think of poor Connor, the darlin' fine fellow that he is. Oh, thin,, Saver above, but it's he id go to the well o' the world's end to ase you, if your httle fin- ger only ached. He would, or for myself„ and yet his own father to trate him' widl sich—" It was in vain she attempted to proceed ; the subject was one in which her heart felt too deep an interest to be discussed without tears. A brief silence ensued, during which Fardorougha moved uneasily on his seat, took the tongs, and mechanically mended the fire, and, peering at his wife with a counte- nance twitched as if by tic douloureux, stared round the house with a kind of stupid won- der, rose up, then sat instantly down, and in fact exhibited many of those uninteUigible and uncouth movements, which, in pex-sons of his cast, may be properly termed the hierogh'phics of human action, under feel- ings that cannot be deciphered either by those on whom they operate, or by those who witness them. "Yes," said he, " Connor is all you saj*, an' more — an' more — an' — an' — a rash act is the worst thing he coidd do. It's betther, Honor, to spake to him as I sed, about lettin' the matther be known to Una's family out of hand." " And thin, if they refuse, you can show them a ginerous example, by puttin' them, into a dacent farm. Will yoa promise me that, Fardorougha ? If you do, all's right, for they're not livin' that ever knew yon to break your word or your jjromise." " I'll make no promise. Honor ; IH make no promise ; but let the other plan be tried first. Now don't be pressin' me ; he is a noble bo}', and would, as you say, thravel round the earth to keep my httle finger from pain ; but let me alone about it now — let me alone about it." This, though slight encouragement, was still, in Honor's opinion, quite as much as, if not more, than she expected. Without pressing him, therefore, too strongly at that moment, she contented herself with a full- length porti'ait of their son, draT\-n ^^•ith all the skni of a mother who knew, if her hus- band's heari could be touched at aU, those points at which she stood the greatest chance of finding it accessible. For a few days after this the subject o\ Connor's love was permitted to he undebated, in the earnest hope that Fardorougha's heart might have caught some shght spai'k of natu« 216 WIZLIA31 CARLETON'S WORKS. ral affection from the conversation which had fcaken place between him and Honor. They waited, consequently, with patience for some manifestation on his part of a better feeling, and flattered themselves that his silence pro- ceeded from tlie struggle which they knew a man of his disposition must necessarily feel in working uj) his mind to any act requiring him to pan with that which he loved better than hfe, his money. The ardent tempera- ment of Connor, however, could ill brook the pulseless indifference of the old man ; with much difficulty, therefore, was he induced to wait a whole week for the issue, though sus- tained by the mother's assurance, that, in consequence of the impression left on her by their last conversation, she was certain the father, if not urged beyond his wish, would declare himscii' willing to provide for them. A week, however, elapsed, and Fardorougha moved on in the same hard and insensible spirit which was usual to him, wholl}^ en- grossed by money, and never, either directly or indirectly, appearing to remember that the happiness and welfare of his son were at stake, or depending upon the determination to which he might come. Another half week j)assed, during which Connor had made two unsuccessfril attempts to see Una, in order that some fixed j^lan of intercourse might be estabhshed between them, at least until his father's ultimate reso- lution on the subject proposed to him should be known. He now felt deej^ly distressed, and regretted that the ardor of his attachment had so far borne him away during their last meeting, that he had forgotten to concert meas- ures with Una for their futui-e interviews. He had often watched about her father's premises from a little before twilight until the whole family had gone to bed, yet with- out any chance either of conversing Avith her, or of letting her know that he was in the neighborhood. He had gone to chapel, too, with the hope of seeing her, or snatching a hasty opportimity of exchanging a word or two, if possible ; but to his astonishment she had not attended mass — an omission of duty of which she had not been gTiilty for the last three years, ^\^lat, therefore, was to be done ? For him to be detected lurking about the Bodagh's house might create suspicion, especially after their interview in the gar- den, which very probably had, through the officiousness of the servants, been communi- cated to her parents, Li a matter of such difficulty he bethought him of a confidant, and the person to whom the necessity of the case directed him was Bartle Ilanagan. Bartle, indeed, ever since he entered into his father's service, had gained rapidly upon Con- nor's good will, and on one or two occasions well-nigh succeeded in drawing from bim a history of the mutual attachment which sub- sisted between him and Una. His good humor, easy language, and appai'ent friend- ship for young O'Donovau, together with his natural readiness of address, or, if you will, of manner, all marked him out as admirably qualified to . act as a confidant in a matter which requii'ed the very tact and talent he possessed. "Poor fellow," thought Connor to himself, " it will make him feel more like one of the family than a sei-vant. If he can think that he's trated as my friend and companion, he may forget that he's ating the bread of the vei'y man that drove him an' his to destruc- tion. Ay, an' if we're married, I'm not siure but I'U have him to give me away too." This resolution of permitting Flanagan to share his confidence had been come to by Con- nor upon the day subsequent to that on which he had last tried to see Una. After his return home, disappointment on one hand, and his anxiety concerning his father's liberality on the other, together ^ith the delight arising from the certainty of being beloved, all kept his mind in a tumult, and permitted him to sleep but httle. The next day he decided on admitting Bartle to his confidence, and re- posing this solemn trust to his integrity. He was lying on his back in the meadow — for they had been ricking the hay fr'om the lapcocks — when that delicious languor which arises from the three greatest provocatives to slumber, want of rest, fatigue, and heat, so utterly overcame him, that, forgetting his love, and all the anxiety arising from it, he fell into a di'eamless and profound sleep. From this state he was aroused after about an hour by the pressiu-e of something shai-p and painful against his side, near the region of the heart, and on looking up, he discovered Bartle Flanagan standing over him with a pitchfork in his hand, one end of which was l^ressed against his breast, as if he had been in the act of driving it forward into his body. His face was jDale, his dark brows frightfrilly conti'acted, and his teeth appar- ently set together, as if worldng under some feai'ful determination. When Connor awoke, Flanagan broke out into a laugh that no language could describe. The character of mirth which he wished to thi-ow into his face, jarred so terrifically with its demoniacal ex- pression when first seen by Connor, that, even unsuspecting as he was, he stai'ted up Avith alarm, and asked Flanagan what was the matter. Flanagan, however, laughed on — peal after peal succeeded — he tossed the pitchfork aside, and, clapping both his band^ upon his face, continued the paroxysms until he recovered his composure. FARDOROUGHA, THE MISER. 217 " Oh," said he, " I'm sick, I'm as wake as a child wid laughin' ; but, Lord bless us, after all, Connor, what is a man's life worth whin he has an enemy near him ? There was I, ticklin' you wid the pitchfork, strivin' to waken you, and one inch of it would have baked your bread for life. Didn't you feel me, Connor?" " Divil a bit, till the minute before I ris." "Then the (\\x\\ a purtier jij:^ you ever danced in your life ; wait till I show you how your left toe wdnt." He accordingly lay down and illustrated the pretended action, after which he burst out into another uncontrollable fit of mirth. "'Twas just for all the world," said he, " as if I had tied a string to your toe, for you groaned an' grunted, an' went on like I dimna what ; but, Connor, what makes you so sleepy to-day as well as on Monday last ? " "That's the vei-y thing," rephed the un- suspicious and candid young man, "that I wanted to spake to you about." " ^\Tiat ! about sleepin' in the meadows?" " DWil a bit o' that, Bartle, not a morsel of sleepin' in the meadows is consamed in what I'm goin' to mintion to you. Bartle, didn't you tell me, the day you hired wid my father, that you wor in love ? " " I did, Connor, I did." " "Well, so am I ; but do you know who I'm in love with ? " " How the di\al, man, could I ? " " "Well, no swearin', Bai'tle ; keep the com- mandments, my boy. I'll teU you in the mane time, an' that's more than you did me, you close-mouth-is-a-sign-of-a- wise-head sjoal- peen ! " "Did you ever hear tell of one Colleen dhas dhun, as she's called, known by the name of Una or Oona O'Brien, daughter to one Bodagh Buie O'Brien, the richest man, barrin' a born gintleman, in the three parish- es?" "All very fair, Connor, for you or any one else to be in love wid her — ay, man alive, for myself, if it goes to that — but, but, Connor, avouchal, are you sure that iver you'U bring her to be in love ^vid you ? " ' ■"^Bartle," said Connor, seriously, and af- ter a sudden change in his whole manner, " in this business I'm goin' to trate you as a fiiend, and a brother. She loves me, Bartle, and a solemn promise of marriage has passed between us." " Connor," said Bartle, "it's wondherful, it's wondherful ! you couldn't believe what a fool I am — fool ! no, but a faint-hearted, cow- ardly villain." " What do you mane, Bartle ? what the dickens are you dri^in' at ! " " Driven at I whenever I happen to have an opportimity of makin' a drive that id — hut ! I'm talkin' balderdash. Do you see here, Connor," said he, putting his hand to his neck, "do you see here? " "To be sure I do. "WeU, what about ] there?" " Be my sowl, I'm very careful of — hut ! — sure I may as well tell you the whole truth — I sed I was in love ; well, man, that was thrue, an'," he added in a low, pithy whisper, " I was neai- — no, Connor, I won't but go an ; it's enough for you to know that I was an' am in love, an' that it'll go hard -srid me if ever any one ehe is married to the gM I'm in love wid. Now that my business is past, let me hear yours, poor fellow, an' I'm devil- ish glad to know, Connor, that — that — why, tunder an' ouns, that you're not as I am. Be the crass that saved us, Connor, I'm glad of that ! " " Why, love will set you mad, Bartle, if you don't take cai'e of yourself ; an', faith, I dunna but it may do the same with myself, if I'm disappointed. However, the ti-uth is, you must sarve me in this business. I struv to see her twiste, but couldn't, an' I'm afraid of bein' seen spy in' about their place." " The tnith is, Connor, you want to make me a go-between — a blackfoot ; veiy well, I'll do that same on your account, an' do it well, too, I hope." It was then arranged that Flanagan, whc was personally known to some of the Bodagh's servants, should avail himself of that circum- stance, and contrive to gain an interriew with Una, in order to convey her a letter fi'om O'Donovan. He was firrther enjoined by no means to commit it to the hands of any person save those of Una herself, and, in the event of his not being able to see her, then the letter was to be returaed to Connor. If he succeeded, howevei', in dehvering it, he was to await an answer, provided she found an opportunity of sending one ; if not, she was to inform Connor, through Flanagan, at what time and place he could see her. This airangement having been made, Connor im- mediately wrote the letter, and, after having despatched Flanagan upon his eiTand, sei himself to perform, by his individual labor, the task which his father had portioned out for both. Ere Bartle's return, Fiu'dorougha came to inspect their progress in the meadow, and, on finding that the servant was absent, he inquired sharply into the cause of it. "He's gone on a message for me," replied Connor, with the utmost frankness. "But that's a bad way for him to mind his business," said the father. " I'll have the task that you set both of us finished," replied the son, " so that you'll lose nothin' by his absence, at aU events." 218 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. "It's wrong, Connor, it's wrong ; where did you sincl him to ? " ""To Bodagh Buie's ^vid a letter to Una." ■" It's a waste of time, an' a loss of work ; •about that business I have something to say to yoiu' mother an' you to-night, afther the? :supper, when the rest goes to bed." "I hope, father, you'll do the dacent thing :still." " No ; but I hope, son, you'll do the ■ndse thing still ; how-an-ever let me alone now ; if you expect me to do anything, you mustn't drive me as your mother does. To-night we'll make ujd a plan that'll outdo Bodagh Buie. Before you come home, Connor, throw a stone or two in that gap, to prevent the cows fi'om gettin' into the hay ; it won't cost you much throuble. But, Connor, did you ever see sich a gut as Bartle has? He'll brake me out o' house an' home feedin' him ; he has a stomach for ten-penny-nails ; be my word it 'ud be a charity to give him a dose of oak bark to make liim dacent ; he's a divil at aitin', an' little good may it do him ! " The hour of supjaer arrived without Bar- tie's retui-ning, and Connor's impatience be- gan to overcome him, when Fardorougha, for the first time, introduced the subject which lay nearest his son's heart. " Connor," he began, " I've been thinkin' of this affair with Una O'Brien ; an' in my opinion there's but one way out of it ; but if you're a fool an' stand in yoiu' own hght, it's not my fault." " What is the way, father ? " inquired Con- nor. " The very same I tould your mother an' you before — run away wid her — I mane make a runaway match of it — then refuse to marrj' her unless they come down wid the money. You know afther runnin' away wid you no- body else ever would marry her ; so that rather than see their child disgraced, never fear but they'll pay dowTi on the nail, or may- be bring you both to live -ndd 'em." "My sowl to glory, Fardorougha," said the wife, " but you're a bigger an' cunninner ould rogue than I ever took you for ! By the scapular uj^on me, if I had known how you'd turn out, the sorra carry the ring ever you'd put on my finger ! " " Father," said Connor, " I must be dis- obedient to you in this at all events. It's plain you'll do nothing for us ; so there's no use in sayin' anything more about it. I have no manes of supportin' her, an' I swear I'll never bring her to poverty. If I had money to carry me, I'd go to America an' thry my fortune there ; but I have not. Father, it's too hard that you should stand in my Avay when you could so easily make me happ}'. Who have you sich a right to assist as your son — your only son, an' your only child too?" This was spoken in a tone of respect and sorrow at once impressive and affectionate. His fine features were touched with some- thing beyond sadness or regret, and, as the tears stood in his eyes, it was easy to see that he felt much more deeply for his father's want of princijDle than for anything con- nected with his o^\^l hopes and px'ospects. In fact, the tears that rolled silently down his cheeks were the tears of shame and sorrow for a parent who could thus school him to an act of such unparalleled baseness. As it was, the genius of the miser felt rebuked by the natural dehcacy and honor of his son ; the old man therefore shrunk back abashed, con- fxised, and moved at the words which he had heard — simple and inoffensive though they were. "Fardorougha," said the wife, wiping her eyes, that were kindUng into indignation, " we're now married goin' an — " " I think, mother," said Connor, " the less we say about it now the better — with my own good will I'll never speak on the subject." "You're right, avourneen," replied the mother ; " you're right ; I'U say nothing — ■ God sees it's no use." "A\Tiat wovild you have me do?" said the old man, rising and walking about in un- usual distress and agitation ; " you don't know me — I can't do it — / can't do it. You sa}', Honor, I don't care about him — I'd give him my blood — I'd give him my blood to save a hair of his head. My hfe an' happiness depinds on him ; but who knows how he an' his wife might mismanage that money if they got it — both young an' foolish ? It wasn't for nothing it came into my mind what I'm afeard will happen to me yet." " And what was that, Fardorougha ? " asked the wife. " Sich foreknowledge doesn't come for nothing, Honor. I've had it an' felt it hangin' over me this many a long day, that I'd come to starvation pt ; an' I see, that if you force me to do as you wish, that it 'ill ha^Dpeu. I'm as sure of it as that I stand before you. I'm an unfortunate man wid sich a fate before me ; an' yet I'd shed my blood for my boy — I would, an' he ought to know that I would ; but he wouldn't ax me to starve for him — would you, Connor, avick machree, would you ax your father to stan'e ? I'm unhappy — unhappy — an' my heait's breakin' ! " The old man's voice failed him as he ut- tered the last words ; for the conflict which he felt evidently convulsed his whole frame. He wiped his eyes, and, again sitting down, he wept bitterly and in silence, for many minutes. FAEDOBOUGEA, THE MISER. 219 A look of surprise, compassion, and deep distress passed between Connor and his mother. The latter also was very much affected, and said, " Fardorougha, dear, maybe I spake some- times too cross to you ; but if I do, God above knows it's not that I bear you ill wiU, but bekase I'm troubled about poor Connor. But I hope I won't spake angry to 3'ou again ; at all events, if I do, remimber it's only the mother pladin' for her son — the only son an' child that God was plazed to sind her." " Father," added Connor, also deeply moved, " don't distress yourself about me — don't, father dear. Let things take their chance ; but come or go what will, any good fortune that might happen me wouldn't be sweet if it came by givin' you a sore heart." At this moment the barking of the dog gave notice of approaching footsteps ; and in a few moments the careless whistle of Bartle Flanagan was heard within a few yards of the door. " This is Bartle," said Connor ; " maybe, father, his answer may throw some light iipon the business. At any rate, there's no secret in it ; we'll all hear what news he brings us." He had scarcely concluded when the latch was lifted, bat Bartle could not enter. "It's locked and bolted," said Fardo- rougha ; " as he sleeps in the bam I for- got that he was to come in here any more to-night — open it, Connor." " For the sake of all the money you keep in the house, father," said Connor, smihng, "its hardly worth your while to be so tim- orous ; but God help the county treasurer it he forgot to bar his door — Asy, Bartle, I'm openin' it." Flanagan immediately entered, and, with all the importance of a confidant, took his seat at the fire. " Well, Bartle," said Connor, " what news ? " " Let the boy get his supper first," said Honor ; " Bartle, you must be star^'ed wid hunger." "Faith, I'm middlin' well, I thank you, that same way," replied Bartle ; " divil a one o' me but's as ripe for my supper as a July cherry ; an' wid the blessin' o' Heaven upon my eudayvors I'll soon show you what good execution is." A deep groan fi'om Fardorougha gave back a feai-fiil echo to the tnith of this for- |L midable annimciation. Kf "Ai'en't you weU, Fardorougha?" asked ^KBartle. ^H " Throth I'm not, Bartle ; never was more ^Kwicomfortable in my life." Flanagan immediately commenced his sup- per, which consisted of flummery and new milk — a luxury among the lower ranks which might create enxj in an epicure. As he advanced in the work of destruction, the gray eye of Fardorougha, which followed every spoonful that entered his mouth, scin- tillated Hke that of a cat when inibbed down the back, though fi'om a directly oj^posite feeling. He turned and twisted on the chaii', and looked fi'om his wife to his son, then tm-ned up his eyes, and appeared to feel as if a dagger entered his heart with every additional dig of Bartle's spoon into the flummery. The son and wife smiled at each other ; for they could enjoy those petty sufferings of Fardorougha with a great deal of good-humor. " Bartle," said Connor, " what's the news ? " " Divil a word worth telling ; at laste that I can hear." "I mane from Bodagh Buie's." Bartle stared at him ; " Bodagh Buie's ! — what do I know about Bodagh Buie? are you ravin' ? " " Bartle," said Connor, smihng, " my fa- ther and mother knows all about it — an' about your going to Una with the letter. I have no secrets from them." " Hoot toot ! That's a horse of another color ; but you wouldn't have me, widout knowin' as much, to go to betray trust. In the mane time, I may as well finish my sup- per before I begin to tell you what-som-ever I happen to knoAV about it." Another deep gi'oan fi'om Fardorougha followed the last observation. At length the woi*k of demohtion ceased, and after Honor had put past the empty dish, Barile, having ^aped his mouth, and uttered a hiccup or two, thus commenced to dole out his intelUgence : — "Whin I wint to the Bodagh's," said Bar- tle, " it was wid great schamiu' an' throuble I got a sight of ]\Iiss Una at all, in regard of — (hiccup) — in regard of her not knowin' that there was any sich message for her — (hiccuj)). But happenin' to know Sally Laffan, I made bould to go into the kitchen to ax, you know, how was her aunt's family up in Skelgy, when who should I find before me in it but Sally an' ]\Iiss Una — (hiccup). (Saver of eai'th this night ! from Fardorougha.) Of coorse I shook hands wid her — wid Sally, I mane ; an', ' Sally,' says I, 'I was sent in wid a message fi'om the masther to you ; he's in the haggard an' wants you.' So, begad, on — (hiccup) out she goes, an' the coast bein' clear, ' oNIiss Una,' says I, ' here's a scrap of a letther from Misther Connor O'Donovnn ; read it, and if you can write him an answer, do ; if yoa 220 WILLTAM CARLETON'S WORKS. haven't time say whatever you have to say by me.' She go — (hiccup) she got all colors when I handed it to her ; an' nin away, say- in' to me, ' wait for a while, an' don't go till I see you.' In a minute or two Sally comes in agin as mad as the dickens wid me, ' The ciu'se o' the crows an' you ! ' says she, ' why did you msike me run a fool's errau' for no rason ? The masther wasn't in the haggard, an' didn't want me good or bad.' " "Bartle," said the impatient lover, "pass all that over for the present, an' let us know the answer, if she sent any." " Sent any ! be my sowl, she did so ! Af- ther readin' your letther, an' Undin' that she could depind on me, she said that for fear of any remarks bein' made about my waitin', es- pishally as I live at present in this family, it would be better she thought to answer it by word o' mouth. ' Tell him,' said she, ' that I didn't think he wa — (hiccuj^) (Queen o' heaven !) was so dull an' ignorant o' the cus- toms of the country, as not to know that whin young people want to see one another they stay away fi'om mass wid an expectation that ' — begad, I disremimber exactly her own words ; but it was as much as to say that she staid at home on last Sunday expectin' to see you." " Well, but Bartle, what else ? — short an' sweet, man." " Why, she'll meet you on next Thursday night, God willin', in the same place ; an' whin I axed her where, she said you knew it yourself." "An'isthataU?" " No, it's not all ; she sed it 'ud be better to mention the thing to her father. Afther thinkin' it over she says, ' as yoiu' father has the na — (hiccup) (Saints above !) the name of being so rich, she doesn't know if a friend 'ud interfere but his consint might be got ; ' an' that's all I have to say about it. barriu' that she's a veiy purty girl, an' I'd adnseyou not to be too sure of her yet, Bartle. So now I'm for the barn— Good night, Far — (hiccup) (at my cost, you do it !) Fardorougha." He rose and proceeded to his sleeping- place in the baru, whither Connor, who was struck by his manner, accompanied him. " Bartle," said O'Donovan, " did you take anything since I saw you last ? " " Only a share of two naggins wid my brother Antony at Peggj' Finigan's." " I noticed it upon you," observed Connor ; *• but I don't think they did." " An' if they did, too, it's not high thrason, I hope." " No ; but, Bartle, I'm obliged to you. You've acted as a friend to me, an' I won't for- get it to you." "An' I'm so much obliged to you, Connor, that I'll remimber your employin' me in thia the longest day I have to live. But, Con- nor ? " " WeU, Bartle." " I'd take the sacrament, that, after all, a ring you'll never put on her." " And what makes you think so, Bartle ? " "I don't — I do — (hiccup) don't know ; but somehow something or another tells it to me that you won't ; others is fond of her, I sup- pose, as well as yourself ; and of coorse they'll stand betune you." " Ay, but I'm sure of her." " But you're not ; wait till I see you man and vrife, an' thin I'U say so. Here's mj'self, Bartle, is in love, an' dhough I don't expect ever the girl will or would marry me, be the crass of heaven, no other man M-ill have her. Now, how do you know but you may have some one hke me — like me, Connor, to stand against you ? " " Bartle," said Connor, laughing, " yoitr head's a little moidher'd ; give me your hand ; whish ! the de^•il take you, man ! don't wiing my fingers off. Say yoiu' prayers, Bartle, an' go to sleep. I say agin I won't forget your kindness to me this night." Flanagan had now deposited himself upon his straw bed, and, after having tugged the bedclothes about him, said, in the relaxed, indolent voice of a man about to sleep, " Good night, Connor ; thi'oth my head's a little soft to-night — good night." " Good night, Bartle." "Connor?" " WeU ? " "Didn't I stand to you to-night? Very weU — goo — (hiccup) good night." On Connor's return, a serious conclave was held upon the best mode of procedure in a manner which j^resented difficulties that appeared to be insurmountable. The father, seizing upon the advice transmitted by Una herself, as that which he had already suggest- ed, insisted that the most judicious course was to propose for her ojDenly, and without appearing to feel that tliere was any inferior- ity on the part of Connor. " If they talk about Avealth, Connor," said he, " say thafe you are my sou, an' that — that — no — no — I'm too poor for such a boast, but say that you wiU be able to take good care of anything you get." At this moment the door, which Connor bad not bolted, as his father would have done, opened, and Bartle, wi-apped in the treble folds of a "svinnow-cloth, made a distant appearance. " Beg pardon, Connor ; I forgot to say that Una's brother, the young priest out o' Ma\'nooth, will be at home from his uncle's, where it appears he is at present ; an' Miss FARDOROUGHA, THE MISER. 221 Una would wish that the proposal 'ud be made while Ae'.s at his father's. She says hell stand her friend, come or go what will. I forgot, begad, to mintion it before — so beg pai'don, an' wishes you all good-night ! " This information tended to confirm them in the course recommended by Fardorougha. It was accordingly resolved upon that he (Fardorougha) himself should wait upon Bodagh Buie, and in the name of his son formally propose for the hand of his daugh- ter. To effect this, however, was a matter of no ordinarj' difficulty, as they apprehended that the Bodagh and his wife would recoil \\ith indignation at the bare notion of even con- descending to discuss a topic which, in all probability, they would consider as an insult. Not, after all, that there existed, according to the opinion of their neighbors, such a vast disparity in the wealth of each ; on the contrary, many were heard to assex't, that of the two Fardorougha had the heavier purse. His character, however, was held in such ab- horrence by all who knew him, and he ranked, in point of joersonal respectability and style of living, so far beneath the Bodagh, that we question if any ordinary oc- currence could be supposed to fall upon the people with greater amazement than a mar- riage, or the report of a marriage, between any member of the two families. The O'Don- ovans felt, however, that it was better to make the experiment ah'eadj' agreed on, than longer to remain in a state of uncer- tainty about it. Should it fail, the position of the lovers, though perhaps rendered some- what less secure, would be such as to sug- gest, so far as they themselves wei-e concern- ed, the necessity of a more prompt and effectual course of action. Fardorougha ex- pressed his intention of opening the matter on the following day ; but his wife, ■n'ith a better knowledge of female character, deemed it more judicious to defer it until after the interview which was to take place between Connor and Una on the succeeding Thurs- day. It might be better, for instance, to make the proj^osal first to Mrs. O'Brien her- self, or, on the other hand, to the Bodagh ; but touching that and other matters relating to what waE proposed to be done, Una's opinion and advice might be necessary. Little passed, therefore, worthy of note, dm'ing the intermediate time, except a short convei'sation between Bartle and Connor on the following day, as they returned to the field from dinner. " Bartle," said the other, "j'ou wor a Uttle soft last night ; or rather a good deal so." "Faith, no doubt o' that — but when a man meets an old acquaintance or two, they don't like to refuse a thrate. I fell in wid three or four boijH — all friends o' mine, an' we had a sup on account o' what's expected." As he uttered these words, he looked at Connor with an eye which seemed to say — you are not in a certain secret with which I am acquainted. " Why," repHed Connor, " what do you mane, Bartle? I thought you were with your brother — at laste you tould me so." Flanagan started on hearing this. "Wid my brother," said he — " why, I — I — what else could I tell you ? He was along wid the boys when I met them." "Took a sup on account o' what's ex- pected! — an' what's the manin'o' that, Bartle V" "Why, what would it mane — but — but — your maniage ? " " An' thunder an' fury ? " exclaimed Con- nor, his eyes gleaming ; " did you go to be- tray trust, an' mintion Una's name an' mine, afther what I tould you '' " " Don't be foolish, Connor," rephed Flana- gan ; " is it mad you'd have me to be ? I said there was something expected soon, that 'ud suiprise them ; and wh^ they axed me what it was — honor bright ! 1 gave them a knowin' wink, but said nothin'. Eh ! was that breakin' trust? Arrah, be me sowl, Connor, you don't trate me well by the words you spoke this blessed minute." " An' how does it come, Bartle, my boy, that YOU had one stoi-y last night, an' another to-day?" " Faix, very aisily, bekase I forget what I sed last night — for sure enough I was more cut than you thought — but didn't I keep it well in before the ould couple ? " " You did faiily enough ; I grant that — but the moment you got into the bam a bhnd man could see it." " Bekase I didn't care a button wanst I escaped from the eye of your father ; any- how, bad luck to it for whiskey ; I have a murdherin' big heddick all day afther it." "It's a bad weed, Bartle, and the less a man has to do vrith it, the less he'll be throubled afther wid a sore head or a sore conscience." " Connor, divil a one, but you're the moral of a good boy ; I dunna a fault you have but one." " Come, let us hear it." " I'll tell you some day, but not now, not now — but / xcUl tell you — an' I'll let you know the raison thin that I don't mintion it now ; in the mane time I'll sit down an' take a smoke." " A smoke ! why, I never knew you smoked." " Nor I, myself, till last night. This tindher-box I was made a present of to Ught 222 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WOBKS. my pipe, when not near a coal. Begad, now that I think of it, I suppose it was smokin' that knocked me up so much last night, an' made my head so sick to-daj-." "It helped it, lU engage ; if you will take mv advice, it's a custom you won't larn." "" I have a good deal to throuble me, Con- nor ; you know I have ; an' what we are brought down to now ; I have more nor you'd believe to think of ; as much, any way, as'U make this box an' steel usefid, I hope, when I'm fi-ettin'." Flanagan spoke truth, in assuiing Connor that the apologj' given for his intoxication ■on the preceding night had escaped his memory. It was fortunate for him, indeed, that O'bonovan, like all candid and ingenu- ■ous persons, was utterly devoid of suspicion, ■othei-wise he might have perceived, by the discrepancy in the two accounts, as well as Ijy Flanagan's confusion, that he was a per- son in whom it might not be prudent to en- trust much confidence. PAET m. The tryste between Connor and Una was held at the same place and hour as before, and so raj)id a progi-ess had love made in each of their hearts, that we question if the warmth of then* inteniew, though tender and innocent, would be apt to escape the censure of our stricter readers. Both were depressed by the prospect that lay before them, for Connor frankly assured her that he feared no earthly circumstances could ever soften his father's heart so far as to be pre- vailed upon to estabhsh him in hfe. ""NVliatthen can I do, my darling Una? If your father and mother won't consent — as I fear they won't — am I to bring you into the miserable cabin of a day laborer ? for to this tlie son of a man so wealthy as my father is, must sink. No, Una dear, I have sworn never to bring you to jDoverty, and I wiU not." " Connor," she replied somewhat gravely, " I thought you had formed a difterent oj^in- ion of me. You know but little of your o^frw Una's heart, if you think she wouldn't Hve with you in a cabin a thousand and a thou- sand times sooner than she would live -with any other in a palace. I love j'ou for your own sake, Connor ; but it appears j^ou don't think so." Woman can never bear to have her love undei'valued, nor the moral dignity of a pas- sion which can sacrifice all worldly and self- ish considerations to its own purity and at- taxjhment, unappreciated. When she uttered the last words, therefore, tears of bitter sor« row, mingled with oHended pride, came to her aid. She sobbed for some moments, and again went on to reproach liim with forming so unfair an estimate of her aftection. " I repeat that I loved you for yourself on- ly, Connor, and think of what 1 would feel, if you refused to spend yoiu' life in a cottage with me. If I thought you wished to marry me, not because I am Una O'Brien, but the daughter of a wealthy man, mj^ heart would break, and if I thought you were not tnie- minded, and j)ure-hearted, and honorable, I wotdd rather be dead than united to you at aU." ^ "I love you so well, and so much, Una, that I doubt I'm not worthy of you — and it's fear of seeing you brought do^\Ti to daily labor that's cinishing and breaking my heart." " But, dear Connor — what is there done by any cottager's wife that I don't do every day of my hfe ? Do you think mj- mother lets me pass my time in idleness, or that I my- self could bear to be unemployed even if she did ; I can milk, make butter, spin, sew, wash, knit, and clean a kitchen ; why, you have no notion," she added, v^-ith a smile, " what a clever cottager's ^\'ife I'd make ! " " Oh, Una," said Connor, now melting into tenderness greater than he had ever before felt ; " Una dear, it's useless — it's useless — I can't, no, I couldn't — and I wiU not hve •with- out you, even if we were to beg together — • but what is to be done ? " " Now, while my brother John is at home, is the time to projDOse it to my father and mother, who look upon him with eyes of such affection and delight that I am half- inclined to think their consent may be gained." " Maybe, darhng, his consent will be as hard to gain as their own." " Now," she replied, fondly, " only you're a hard-hearted thing that's afraid to hve in a cottage with me, I could tell you gome good news — or rather you doubt me — and fear that I wouldn't live in one with you." A kiss was the rejil}-, after which he said — " With you, my dear Una, now that you're satisfied, I would live and die in a prison — with you, -with xjou — in whatever state of life we may be placed, vdth you, but without you — never, I could not — I could not " " WeU, we are young, you know, and neither of us proud — and I am not a lazy girl - indeed, I am not ; but you forget the good news." " I forget that, and eveiy thing else but yourself, darhng, while I'm in your com- pany. O heavens! if you were once my FARDOROUGHA, THE MISER. 223 own, and that we were never to be separa- ted ! " " Well, but the good news ! " " What is it, dear ? " "I have mentioned our aflfection to my brother, and he has promised to assist us. He has heard of your character, and of your mother's, and says that it's unjust to visit ipon you " She paused — "You know, my dear Con- nor, that you must not be otfended with anything I say." " I know, my sweet treasure, what you're going to say," replied Connor, with a smile ; "nobody need be delicate in saying that my father loves the money, and knows how to put guinea to guinea ; that's no secret. I wish he loved it less, to be sure, but it can- not be helped ; in the mean time, ma colleen dhas dhun — O, how I love them vrords ! God bless your brother I he must have a kind heai't, Una dear, and he must love you very much when he promises to assist us." "He has, and will ; but, Connor, why did you send such a disagi-eeable, forward, and prying person, as your father's sei'vant to bring me your message ? I do not Uke him — he almost stared me out of countenance." "Poor fellow," said Connor, "I feel a good dale for him, and I think he's an honest, good-hearted boy, and besides, he's in love himself." " I know he was always a starer, and I say again I don't Hke him." "But, as the case stands, dear Una, I have no one else to trust to — at all events, he's in our secret, and the best way, if he's not honest, is to keep him in it ; at laste, if we put liim out of it now, he might be talk- ing to our disadvantage." " There's tiTith in that, and we must only trust him vdth as httle of our real secrets as possible ; I cannot account for the strong prejudice I feel against him, and have felt for the past two years. He always dressed above his means, and once or twice attempt- ed to speak to me." " Well, but I know he's in love with some one, for he told me so ; poor fellow, I'm bound, my dear Una, to show him any kind- ness in my powei'." After some further conversation, it was once more decided that Fardorougha should, on the next day, see the Bodagh and his wife, in order to ascertain whether theu' con- sent could be obtained to the union of our young and anxious lovers. This step, as the reader knows, was every way in accordance with Fardorougha's incUnation. Connor himself would have preferred his mother's advocacy to that of a person possessing such a slender hold on their e:ood-will as his other parent. But upon consulting with her, she told him that the fact of the proposal coming from Fardorougha might imply a disposition on his part to provide for his son. At all events, she hoped that contradiction, the boast of superior wealth, or some fortunate coUision of mind and pi'inciple, might strike a spark of generous feehng out of her hus- band's heart, which nothing, she knew, under strong excitement, such as might aiise fi-om the bitter pride of the O'Brien's, could posr- sibly do. Besides, as she had no favox*able expectations fi'om the inten'iew, she thought it an vmnecessary and painful task to subject herself to the insults which she apprehended fi'om the Bodagh's wife, whose pride and im- portance towered far and high over those of her consequential husband. This just and sensible riew of the matter, on the jDart of the mother, satisfied Connor, and reconciled him to the father's disinclin- ation to be accompanied by her to the scene of conflict ; for, in truth, Fardorougha pro- tested against her assistance with a bitter- ness which could not easily be accounted for. " If youi' mother goes, let her go by her- self," said he ; " for 111 not interfere in't if she does. I'll take the dirty Bodagh and his fat wife my own way, which I can't do if Honor comes to be snibbin' and makin' little o' me afore them. Maybe I'll pull down their pride for them better than you think, and in a way they're not prepared for ; them an' theii" janting car ! " Neither Connor nor his mother could help being highly amused at the singularity of the miserable pomp and parsimonious display resoried to by I'ardorougha, in prej^aiing for tliis extraordinar}- mission. Out of an old strongly locked chest he brought forth a gala coat, which had been duly ah-ed, but not thrice worn within the last twenty years. The progi-ess of time and fashion had left it so odd, ouf7-e, and ridiculous, that Connor, though he laughed, could not help feehng depressed on considering the appearance his father must make when dressed, or rather disfigured, in it. Next came a pair of knee- breeches by the same hand, and which, in comphance with the taste of the age that, produced them, were made to button so far down as the calf of the leg. Then appeared a waistcoat, whose long pointed flaps reached nearly to the knees. Last of all was pro- duced a hat not more than three inches deep in the cro^Ti, and brimmed so narrowly, that a spectator would almost imagine the leaf had been cut oft'. Haring pranked himself out in these habihments, contrary to the strongest expostulations of both wife and son, he took his stalY and set forth. But lest the reader should expect a more accurate description ol^ 224 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. his person when dressed, we shall endeavor at all events to present him with a loose outline. In the first place, his head was surmounted with a hat that resembled a Hat skillet, want- ing the handle ; his coat, from which avarice and penury had caused him to shrink away, would have fitted a man tmce his size, and, as he had become much stooped, its tail, which, at the best, had been jDreiDOsterously long, now nearly swept the gi'ound. To look at him behind, in fact, he appeared all body. The flaiDS of his waistcoat he had iDhmed up with his own hands, hy which jDiece of ex- quisite taste, he displayed a pau- of thighs so thin and disproportioned to his small-clothes, that he resembled a boy who happens to wear the breeches of a fuU-grown man, so that to look at him in fi'ont he aj^peared all legs. A pair of shoes, jjohshed with burned straw and buttermilk, and surmounted by two buckles, scoured away to skeletons, com- pleted his costume. In this garb he set out with a crook-headed staff, into which long use, and the habit of giiping fast whatever he got in his hand, had actually worn the mai'ks of his forefinger and thumb. Bodagh Buie, his wife, and their two chil- dren, were very luckily assembled in the par- lor, when the nondescript figure of the deputy -wooer made his apj^earance on that part of the neat road which terminated at the gate of the little la^\Ti that fronted the haU-door. Here there was another gate to the right that opened into the farm or kit- chen yard, and as Fardorougha hesitated which to enter, the family within had an op- portunity of getting a clearer view of his features and person. " Who is that quare figure standing there ? " inquired the Bodagh ; " did you ever see sich a ah, thm, who can he be ? " " Somebody comin', to see some of the sarvints, I suj^pose," rej^liedhis wife ; "why, thin, it's not unlike httle Dick Croailha, the fairyman." In sober truth, Fardorougha was so com- pletely disguised by his dress, especially by his hat, whose shallowness and want of brim, gave his face and head so wild and eccentric an appearance, that we question if his own family, had they not seen him dress, could have recognized him ! At length he turned into the kitchen-yard, and, addressing a la- borer whom he met, asked — "I say, nabor, which is the right way into Bodagh Buie's house ? " " There's two right ways into it, an' you may take aither o' them — but if you want any favor from him, you had better call him Mr. O'Brien. The Bodagh's a name was first given to his father, an' he bein' a da- center man, doesn't iike it, although it sticks to him ; so there's a lift for you, my hip. striddled little codger." " But which is the right door o' the house ? " " There it is, the kitchen — peg in — that's your intrance, barrin' you're a giutleman in disg-uise, an' if be, why turn out again to that other gate, strip ofi" your shoes, and pass up ginteely on your tipytoes, and give a thunderin' whack to the green ring that's hangin' from the door. But see, friend," added the man, " maj'be you'd do one a saiwice ? " "How," said Fardorougha, looking earn- estly at him ; " what is it? " " AVhy, to lave us a lock o' your hair be- fore you go," rephed the wag, with a grin. The miser took no notice whatsoever of this, but was turning quietly out of the yard, to enter by ths lawn, when the man called out in a commanding voice — "Back here, you codger! — tundher an' thump ! — bac]i I say ! You won't be let in that way — thiamp back, you leprechaun, into the kitchen — eh ! you won't — well, well, take what you'll get — an' that'll be the way back agin." 'Twas at this moment that the keen eye of Una recognized the features of her lover's father, and a smile, which she felt it impos- sible to subdue, settled uj^on her face, which became immediately mantled with blushes. On hurrying out of the room she plucked her brother's sleeve, who followed her to the hall. " I can scarcely tell you, dear John," she said, speaking rajjidly, "it's Fardorougha O'Donovan, Connor's father ; as you know his business, John, stay in the parlor ; " she squeezed his hand, and added with a smile on her face, and a tear in her eye, " I fear it's all over with me — I don't know whether to laugh or cry — but stay, John dear, an' fight my battle — Una's battlj." She ran ujDstairs, and immediately one oi the most beggarly, sordid, and pusillanimous knocks that ever spoke of starvation and misery was heard at the door. " I will answer it myself," thought the amiable brother ; " for if my father or mo- ther does, he surely mil not be allowed in." Jolm could scarcely presen-e a grave face, when Fardoroughk presented himself. " Is Midher O'Brien widin ? " inquired the usurer, shrewdly availing himseK of the hint he received from the servant. " My father is," replied John ; "have the goodness to step in." Fardorougha entered immediately, follow- ed by young O'Brien, who said, "Father, this is Mr. O'Donovan, who. ii appears, has some important business with the family." FAJiDOEOUGHA, THE MISEB. 225 "Don't be mistherin' me," replied Fardo- rougha, helping himself to a seat ; " I'm too poor to be misthered." " With this family ! " exclaimed the father in amazement ; " what business can Fardo- rougha Donovan have with this family, John ? " "About our children," repHed the miser ; " about my son and your daughter." " An' what about them ? " inqxiired IMrs. O'Brien ; "do you dar to mintion them in the same day together ? " " Why not," said the miser ; "ay, an' on the same night, too ? " "Upon my reputaytion, INIr. O'Donovan, you're extramely kind — now be a little more so, and let us undherstand you," said the Bodagh. " Poor Una ! " thought John, " all's lost ; he wiU get himself kicked out to a certainty." "I think it's time we got them married," replied Fardorougha ; " the sooner it's done the better, and the safer for both o' them ; especially for the colleen." " Dar a Lorha, he's cracked," said ]\Irs. O'Brien ; " sorra one o' the poor soul but's cracked about his money." " Poor sowl, woman alive ! wor you never poor yourself ? " " Yis I wor ; an' I'm not ashamed to own it ; h\xi,Chierna, Frank," she added, address- ing her husband, " there's no use in sj^akin' to him." "Fardorougha," said O'Brien, seriously, " what brought you here ? " " Why, to tell you an' your wife the state that my son, Connor, and your daughter's in about one another ; an' to advise you both, if you have sinse, to get them married afore worse happen. It's your business more nor ■mine." "You're right," said the Bodagh, aside to his wife ; " he's sartinly deranged. Fardo- rougha," he added, " have you lost any money lately ? " " I'm losin' every day," said the other ; "I'm broke assistin' them that won't thank me, let alone pacing me as they ought." " Tlien you have lost nothing more than usual ? " " If I didn't, I teU you there's a good chance of losin' it before me ; — can a man call any money of his safe that's in another man's pocket ? " " An' so you've come to propose a marriage lietween your son and my daughter, yet you lost no money, an' you're not mad ! " " Divil a morsel o' me is mad — but you'll be so if you refuse to let this match go an." " Out wid him — a shan roghara," shouted Mrs. O'Brien, in a state of most dignified of- fence ; " Damho orth, you ould knave ! is it 8 the son of a misert that has fleeced an* rob- bed the whole counthry side that we 'ud let our daughther, that resaved the finish to her edication in a Dubling boardin' school, marry wid ? — Vic na hoiah this day ! " " You had no sich scruple yourself, ma'am," replied the bitter usurer, " when you bounced at the son of the ould Bodagh Buie, an' every one knaws what he was." " He ! " said the good woman ; " an' is it runnin' up comparishments betuxt yourself an' him you are afther ? Why, Saint Peter wouldn't thrive on your money, you nager." " Maybe Saint Pethur thiniv on worse — but havn't you thruv as well on the Bodagh's, as if it had been /io«fts% come by? I defy you an' the world both — to say that ever I tuck a penny from any one, more than my right. Lay that to the mimoiy of the ould Bodagh, an' see if it'U fit. It's no light guinea, any how." Had Fardorougha been a man of ordinary standing and character in the countiy, from whom an insult could be taken, he would no doubt have been by a veiy summary process expelled the parlor. The history of his queru- lous and irascible temper, however, was so well known, and his oflensive eccentricity of manner a matter of such estabhshed fact, that the father and son, on glancing at each other, were seized with the same spirit, and both gave way to an uncontrollable fit of laughter. "Is it a laughin' stock you're makin' of it ? " said 'Mrs. O'Brien, highly indignant. "Faith, achora, it may be no laughin' stock afther all," replied the Bodagh. "I think, mother," observed John, "that you and my father had better treat the mat- ter with more seriousness. Connor O'Don- ovan is a young man not to be despised by any person at aU near his own class of life who regards the peace and welfare of a daughter. His character stands very high ; indeed, in every way unimpeachable." The bitter scowl which had sat upon the smaU dark features of Fardorougha, when replying to the last attack of ^Mrs. O'Brien, passed away as Jolm spoke. The old man turned hastily around, and, sm-vejing the eulogist of his son, said, " God bless you, asthore, for thim words ! and they're thrue — thrue as the gospel, arrah what ai'e you both so proud of? I defy you to get the aquil of my son in the barony of Lisnamona, either for face, figui-e or temper ! I say he's fit to be a husband for as good a girl as ever stood in your daughter's shoes ; an' from what I hear of her, she's as good a girl as ever the Almighty put breath in. God bless you, young man 1 you're a credit yourself to any pai'enta" >26 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. " An' we have nothiu' to say aginst your son, nor aginst yoiir wife aither," replied the Bodagh ; "an' if your own name was as clear — if you wor looked upon as they are — tut, I'm spakia' nonsense ! How do I know whether ever your son and my daughter spoke a word to one another or not ? " " I'll go bail Ooua never opened her Hps to him," said her mother ; "I'll go bail she had more spirit." " An' I'U go bail she can't live widout him, an' wiU have him whether youhke it or not," said Fardorougha. " Mother," observed John, " will you and my father come into the next room for a minute — I wish to say a word or two to each of you ; and will you, Fardorougha, have the goodness to sit here till we return ? " " I)i\'il a notion," repUed O'Donovan, "I have of stii-rin' my foot till the thing's settled one way or other." " Now," said young O'Brien, when they got into the back parlor, "it's right that you both should know to what length the court- ship between Una and Connor O'Donovan has gone." "Coortship! Vich no hoiah! sure she wouldn't go to coort vdd the son o' that ould schamer." " I'm beginning to fear that it's too thrue," observed the Bodagh ; " and if she has — but let us hear John." " It's perfectly true, indeed, mother, that she /las," said the son. "Yes, and they are both this moment pledged, betrothed, prom- ised, solemnly promised to each other ; and in my opinion the old man within is acting a more honorable part than either of 3'ou give him credit for." " Well, well, well," exclaimed the mother ; " who afther that would ever tkrust a daugh- ter ? The gii-l that we rared up as tindher as a chicking, to go to thi-ow herself away upon the son of ould Fardorougha Donovan, the misert ! Confusion to the ring ever he'll put an her ! I'd see her stretched * first." " I agree with you in that, Bridget," said the husband ; "if it was only to punish her thi'acheiy and desate, I'll take good care a ling Avill never go on them ; but how do you know all this, John ? " " From Una's own hps, father." The Bodagh paced to and fro in much agi- tation ; one hand in his small-clothes pock- et, and the other twirUng his watch-key as rapidly as he could. The mother, in the meantime, had thrown herself into a chair, and gave way to a violent fit of giief. " And you have this from Una's own lips ? " " Indeed, father, I have ; and it is much to * Dead. her credit that she was candid enough to place such confidence in her brother." " Pledged and promised to one another. Bridget, who could beheve this ? " " Believe it ! I don't beheve it — it's only a schame of the hussy to get him. Oh, thin, Queen of Heaven this day, but it's black news to us ! " "John," said the father, "tell Una to come down to us." " Father, I doubt that's rather a trying task for her. I wish you wouldn't insist." " Go off, sir ; she must come dowTi imme- diately, I'U have it fi-om her own hps, too." Without another word of remonstrance the son went to bring her down. When the brother and sister entered the room, O'Brien still paced the floor. He stood, and, turn- ing his eyes upon his daughter with severe displeasure, was about to speak, but he ap- peared to have lost the power of utterance ; and, after one or two ineffectual attempts, the big tears fairly rolled down his cheeks. " See, see," said the mother, " see what you have brought us to. Is it tlirue that you're i^romised. to Fardorougha's son ? " Una tottered over to a chair, and the blood left her cheeks ; her hps became dry, and she gasped for breath. " Why, don't you think it worth your while to answer me ? " continued the mother. The daughter gave a look of deep distress and supjjlication at her bi'other ; but when she perceived her father in tears, her head sank down upon her bosom. " Wliat ! what ! Una," exclaimed the Bod- agh, Una " Biit ere he could complete the question, the timid creatiu*e fell senseless uiDon the floor. For a long time she lay in that friendly trance, for such, in truth, it was to a dehcate being, subjected to an ordeal so painful as that she was called upon to pass through. We have, indeed, remarked that there is in the young, especially' in those of the softer sex, a feeling of terror, and shame, and confu- sion, when called ujDon by their pai-ents to disclose a forbidden j)assion, that renders its avowal perhaps the most formidable task which the young heart con undergo. It is a fearful trial for the youthful, and one which parents ought to conduct with surpassing dehcacy and tenderness, unless they wish to drive the ingenuous spirit into the first steps of falsehood and deceit. "Father," said John, "I think you may rest satisfied with Avhat you witness ; and I am sure it cannot make you or mother hap- py to see poor Una miserable." Una, who had been during the greater part of her swoon supported in her weeping and alarmed mother's arms, now opened her eyes, FAlilJ oil U UU 11 A , y 7/ A MUSKli. 227 4nd, after casting an afiErighted look about the room, she hid her face in her mother's bosom, and exclaimed, as distinctly as the violence of sobbing grief would permit her : " Oh, mother dear, have pitj' on me ! bring me up stall's and I will teU you." "I do, I do pity you," said the mother, kissing her ; "I know you'U be a good girl yet, Oona." " Una," said her father, placing his hand gently on her shoulder, "was I ever harsh to you, or did I " "Father dear," she returned, interrupting him, " I would have told you and my mother, but that I was afi-aid." There was something so utterly innocent and artless in this reply, that each of the three persons present felt sensibly affected by its extreme and childlike simjilicity. " Don't be afraid of me, Una," continued the Bodagh, " but answer me truly, hke a good gii'l, and I swear ujjon my reputaytion, that I won't be angry. Do you love the sou of this Fardorougha ? " " Not, father, because he's Fardorougha's son," said Una, whose face was stdl hid in her mother's bosom ; "I would rather he wasn't. " " But you do love him ? " " For three years he has scarcely been out of my mind." Something that might be termed a smile crossed the countenance of the Bodagh at tliis intimation. " God help you for a foolish child ! " said he ; " you're a poor counsellor when left to defend your own cause." " She won't defend it by a falsehood, at all events," observed her trustworthy and affec- tionate brother. " No, she wouldn't," said the mother ; " and I did her wrong a while ago, to say that she'd schame anything about it." " And ai'e you and Connor O'Donovan promised to aich other ? " inquired the father again. " But it wasn't I that proposed the prom- ise," returned Una. " Oh, the desiderate villain," exclaimed her father, "to be guilty of such a thing ! but you took the promise Una — you did — you did — I needn't ask." "No," rephed Una. " No ! " reechoed the father ; " then you Hjl did not give the promise ? " Hl " I mean," she rejoined, " that you needn't ^B ask." ^H " Oh, faith, that alters the case extremely. ^H Now, Una, this — all this promising that has ^^K passed between you and Connor O'Donovan ^B is aU folly. If you prove to be the good ^H obedient girl that T hope you are, you'll put him out of yom- head, and then you can give back to one another whatever promises you made." This was succeeded by a silence of more than a minute. Una at length arose, and, with a composed energy of manner, that was evident by her sparkling eye and bloodless cheek, she approached her father, and calmly kneeling down, said slowly but firmly : " Father, if noUibuj else can satisfy you, 1 will give back my promise ; but then, father, it will break m}' heart, for I know — I feel — hoAV I love him, and how I am loved by him." " I'll get you a better husband," replied her father — "far more wealthy and more resj^ectable than he is." "I'll give back the promise," said she; " but the man is not living, except Connor O'Donovan, that will ever call me wife. More wealthy ! more resf)ectable ! — Oh, it was only himself I loved. Father, I'm on my knees before j'ou, and before my mother. I have only one request to make — Oh, don't break your daughter's heart ! " " God direct us," exclaimed her mother ; " it's hard to know how to act. If it would go so hard upon her, sure — " "Amen," said her husband; "may God direct us to the best ! I'm siu*e God knows," he continued, now much affected, " that I would rather break my own heart than yours, Una. Get up, dear — rise. John, how would you ad\ise us ? " "I don't see any serious objection, after all," rephed the son, "either you or my mother can have to Connor O'Donovan. He is eveiy way worthy of her, if he is equal to his character ; and as for wealth, I have often heard it said that his father was a richer man than yourself." " Afther all,'" said the mother, " she might be very well wid him." " I'll tell you what I'll do, then," said the Bodagh — "let us see the ould man liimself, and if he settles his son dacently in life, as he can do if he wishes, why, I won't see the poor, foolish, innocent girl breaking her heart." Una, who had sat with her face still aver- ted, now ran to her father, and, throwing her arms about his neck, wej)t aloud, but said nothing. " Ay, ay," said the latter, " it's veiy fine now that you have everjirhing your own way, you girsha ; but, sure, you're aU the daughter we have, achora, and it would be too bad not to let you have a little of your own opinion in the choice of a husband. Now go up stairs, or whei-e you please, till we see what can be done with Fai'dorougha himself." 228 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. With smiling face and glistening eyes Una jDassed out of the room, scarcely sen- sible whether she walked, ran, or flew, while the others went to renew the discussion with Fardorougha. " Well," said the miser, " you found out, I suppose, that she can't do \\idout him ? " " Provided we consent to the marriage," asked the Bodagh, " how will you settle your son in life ? " "Who w^ould I settle in life if I wouldn't settle my only son ? " replied the other ; " who else is there to get all I have ? " " That's veiy time," observed the Bo- dagh ; " but state plainly what you'll do for him on his marriage." "Do you consint to the marriage all of yees ? " "That's not the question," said the other, "DiA-il a word I'U answer till I know whi- ther yees do or not," said Fardorougha. " Say at once that you consint, and then I'll spake — I"U say what I'll do." The Bodagh looked inquiringly at his wife and son. The latter nodded affirmatively. " We do consent," he added. " That shows your ow^n sinse," said the old man. " Now what fortune wiU you por- tion your colleen wid ? " "That depinds upon what yoiill do for your son," returned the Bodagh. " And that depinds upon what yoiCll do for your daughter," repHed the sagacious old miser. " At this rate we're not likely to agree." " Nothin's asier ; you have only to spake out ; besides it's yovur business, bein' the colleen's father." " Try him, and name something fair," whispered John. "If I give her a farm of thirty acres of good laud, stocked and aU, what will you do for Connor ? " " More than that, five times over ; IH give him all I have. An' now when will we mar- ry them ? Thi-oth it w^as best to make things clear," added the knave, " and un- ■dherstand one another at wanst. When will we marry them ? " " Not tiU you say out openly and fairly the exact amount of money you'll lay down on the naQ — an' that before even a ring goes upon them." " Give it up, acushla," said the wife, "you see there's no screwin' a promise out of him, let alone a penny." " ^Vhat 'ud j^ees have me do?" said the old man, raising his voice. " Won't he have aU I'm worth ? A\Tio else is to have it ? Am I to make a beggar of myself to please you ? Can't they live on your farm till I die, an' thin it'll all come to them ? " "An' no thanks to you for that, Fardo rougha," said the Bodagh. "No, no; Ili never buy a pig in a poke. If you won't act generously by youi' son, go home, in the name of goodness, and let us hear no more about it." " Why, why?" asked the miser, " are yeea mad to miss what I can leave him ? li you knew how much it is, you'd snap ; but God help me ! what am I sayin' ? I'm poorer than anybody thinks. I am — I am ; an' will stai-ve among you all, if God hasn't sed it. Do you tliink I don't love my son as well, an' a thousand times better, than you do your daughter ? God alone sees how my heart's in him — in my own Connor, that never gave me a sore heart — my brave, my beautiful boy ! " He paused, and the scalding tears here ran down his shinink and furrowed cheeks, whilst he wi'ung his hands, stiu'ted to his feet, and looked about him like a man encompassed by dangers that threatened instant destruc- tion. • "If you love your son so weU," said John, mildly, " why do you gi'udge to share your wealth with him ? It is but natural and it is your duty." " Natui-al ! what's natural ? — to give away — is it to love him you mane ? It is, it's un- natural to give it away. He's the best son — the best — what do you mane, I say ? — let me alone let me alone — I could give him my blood, my blood — to sich a boy ; but, you want to kill me — you want to kill me, an' thin you'll get all ; but he'll cross you, never fear — my boy will save me — he's not tired of me — he'd give up fifty gii'ls sooner than see a hail' of his father's head injured — so do your best, while I have Connor, I'm not afi*aid of yees. Thanks be to God that sent him ! " he exclaimed, dropj)ing suddenly on his knees — " oh, thanks be to God that sent him to comfort an' protect his father from the schames and villainy of them that 'ud biing him to stai-vation for then* own ends ! " "Father," said John, in a low tone, "this struggle between avarice and natural aflection is awful. See how his smaU gray eyes glare, and the fi'oth rises white to his thin shrivelled hps. What is to be done ? " "Fai'dorougha," said the Bodagh, "it's over ; don't distress yoiu-self — keep your money — there will be no match between our childhre." " Why ? why won't there ? " he screamed — "why won't there, I say? Havn't you enough for them until I die ? Would you see your child brealiin' her heart ? Bodagh, you have no nather in you — no bowels for your colleen dhas. But I'll spake for her — I'll argue md you till this time to-morrow, FAHDOBOifGHA, THE MISER. 229 or I'll make you show feelin' to her — an' if you don't — if you don't — " " Wid the help o' God, the man's as mad as a INIarch hare," obsei^ed ]Vlrs. O'Brien, " and there's no use in losin' breath wid him. ' "•If it's not insanity," said John, "I know not what it is." "Young man," j^roceeded Fardorougha, who evidently paid no attention to what the mother and son said, being merely struck by the voice of the latter, "young man, you're kind, you have sinse and feelin' — spake to your father — don't let him destroy his child — don't ax him to stai-ve me, that never did him harm. He loves you — he loves you, for he can't but love you — sure, I know how I love my own darhn' boy. Oh, sj^ake to him — here I go down on my knees to you, to beg, as you hope to see God in heaven, that't you'U make him not break his daughter's heart ! She's your own sister — there's but the two of yees, an' oh, don't desart her in this throuble — this heavj', heavy throuble ! " "I won't interfere farther in it," repUed the young man, who, however, felt disturbed and anxious in the extreme. "jVIrs. O'Brien," said he, turning imj)lor- ingly, and with a ■ndld, haggard look to the Bodagh's wife, " I'm turnin' to you — you're her mother — Oh think, think " — " I'll think no more about it," she repHed. "You're mad, an' thank God, we know it. Of coorse it'll inin in the family, for which Teasing my daughter 'ill never be joined to the eon of a madman." He then turned as a last resource to O'- Brien himself. "Bodagh, Bodagh, I say," here his voice rose to a fi'ightful pitch, " I enthrate, I order, I command 3'ou to listen to me ! Marry them — don't kiU your daugh- ter, an' don't, don't, dare to kill my son. If you do I'll curse you till the mai'ks of your feet will scorch the ground you tread on. Oh," he exclaimed, his voice now sinking, and his reason awaking apparently from ex- haustion, " what is come over me ? what am I sayin' ? — but it's all for my son, my son." He then rose, sat down, and for more than tweny minutes wept like an infant, and sob- bed and sighed as if his heai-t would break. A feeling very difficult to be described hushed his amazed auditory into silence ; they felt something like pity towax'ds the unfortunate old man, as well as respect for that affection which stniggled "v\dtli such moi'al heroism against the fi-ightful vice that attempted to subdue this last surviving vir- tue in the breast of the miser. On his getting calm, they spoke to him kindly, but in firm and friendly terms com- municated their ultimate determination, that, in consequence of his declining to make an adequate provision for the son, the maniage could by no means take place. He then got his hat, and attempted to reach the road which led down to the little lawn, but so comj^lete was his abstraction, and so ex- hausted his faculties, that it was not without John's assistance he could reach the gate which lay befoi-e his eyes. He first turned out of the walk to the right, then crossed over to the left, and felt sui'piised that a wall opposed him in each direction. " You are too much disturbed," said John, " to perceive the way, but I will show you." " I suppose I thought it was at home I was," he replied, " bekase at my own house one must turn aither to the right or to the left, as, indeed, I'm in the custom of doin'." 'NVliilst Fardorougha was engaged upon his ill-managed mission, his wife, who felt that all human eff'orts at turning the heart of her husband fi'om his wealth must fail, resolved to have recovu-se to a higher power. With this purpose in view, she put on her Sunday dress, and informed Connor that she was about to go for a short time from home. " I'U be back if I can," she added, " before your father ; and, indeed, it's as good not to let him know anything about it." " About what, mother ? for I know as Httle about it as he does." " Why, my dear boy, I'm goin' to get a couple o' masses sed, for God to turn his heart fi'om that cursed aimghid it's fixed upon. Siu'e it houlds sich a hard grip of his poor sowl, that it'll be the destruction of him here an' hereafther. It'll kiU him afore his time, an' then I thi-imble to think of his chance above." " The object is a good one, sui'e enough, an' it bein' for a spiritual pui-pose the priest won't object to it." " Wliy would he, dear, an' it for the good of his sowl ? Sui'e, when Pat Lanigan was jealous, his wife got three masses sed for him ; and, wid the help o' God, he was cured sound and clane." Connor could not help smihng at this ex- traordinary cure for jealousy, nor at the sim- ple piety of a heart, the strength of whose affection he knew so well. After her retiUTi she informed the son, that, in addition to the masses to be said against his father's av- arice, she had some notion of getting another said towards his marriage with Una, " God help you, mother," said Connor, laughing ; " for I think you're one of the in- nocentest women that ever Uved ; but whisht !" he added, "here's my father — God grant that he may bi'ing good news ! " When Fardorougha entered he was paler or rather saUower than usual ; and, on his S30 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WOliKS. thin, puckered face, the lines that mai'ked it were exhibited with a distinctness greater than ordinary. His eyes apjjeared to have sunk back more deeply into his head ; his cheeks had fallen fcU'ther into his jaws ; his eyes were gleaniy and distvu-bed ; and his whole appearance bespoke trouble and care and the traces of a strong and recent stmg- gle mthin him. " Father," said Connor, with a beating heai't, " for Heaven's sake, what news — what tidings ? I trust ia God ifs good." *' They have no bowels, Connor — they have no bowels, thim O'Briens." " Then you didn't succeed." " The father's as great a bodagh as him he was called after — they're a bad pack — an' you mustn't think of any one belongin' to them." " But tell us, man dear," said the wife, "what passed — let us know it all." "Why, they would do no thin' — they wouldn't hear of it. I went on my knees to them — ay, to every one of them, barrin' the coUeen herself ; but it was aU no use — it's to be no match." "And why, father, did you go on your knees to any of them," said Connor ; " I'm soiT}' you did //<«/." " I did it on your account, Connor, an' I'd do it again on your account, poor boy." " Well, well, it can't be helped." '•But tell me, Fardorougha," inquired Honor, " was any of the fault your own — what did you oifer to do for Connor ? " "Let me alone," said he, peevishly; "I won't be cross-questioned about it. My heart's broke among you all — what did / offer to do for Connor ? The match is knocked up, I teU you — and it must be knocked up. Connor's young, an' it'll be time enough for him to marry this seven years to come." As he said this, the fire of avarice blazed in his eyes, and he looked angrily at Honor, then at the son ; but, while contemplating the latter, his countenance changed fi'om an- ger to son'ow, and from sorrow to a mild and serene expression of aifection. " Connor, avick," said he, " Connor, sure you'U not blame we in this business ? sure you won't blame youi' poor, heart-broken father, let thim say what they wiU, sure you won't, avilish?" "Don't fret on my account, father," said the son ; " why should I blame you ? God knows you're striuin' to do what you would wish for me." " No, Honor, I know he wouldn't ;' no," he shouted, leaping up, " he wouldn't make a saicrefize o' me ! Connor, save me, save me," he shrieked, throwing his arms about his neck .: " save me ; my heart's breakin' — some- thin's tearin' me different ways inside ; 1 can cry, you see ; I can cr}-, but I'm still as hard as a stone ; it's terrible this I'm sufferin' — terrible all out for a weak oidd man like me. Oh, Connor, avick, what 'ill I do ? Honor, achora, what 'iU. become o' me — amn't I strug- ghn', strugghn' against it, whatever it is; don't yees pity me ? Don't ye, avick machree, don't ye, Honor ? Oh, don't yees pity me ? " " God pity you ! " said the wife, bui'sting into tears ; "what will become of you? Pray to God, Fardorougha, pray to Him. No one ahve can change your heart but God. I wint to the priest to-day, to get two masses said to turn your heart from that cursed money. I didn't intind to tell you, but I do, bekase it's your duty to pray now above all times, an' to back the priest as weU as you can." "It's the best advice, father, you could get," said the son, as he helped the trembhng old man to his seat. " An' who bid you thin to go to lavish money that way ? " said he, turning snappish- ly to Honor, and rela^Dsing again into the peevish spirit of avaiice ; " Saver o' Heaven, but you'll kill me, woman, afore you have done ■srid me ! How can I stand it, to have my hard-earned an' for what ? to turn my heart fiom money ? I don't want to be ttu'n- ed fi'om it — I don't wish it ! Money ! — I have no money — nothin' — nothin'^ — an' if there's not better decreed for me, I'll be starved yet — an' is it any wondher ? to be robbin' me the way you're doin' ! " His wife clasjaed her hands and looked up towards heaven in silence, and Connor, shak- ing his head desj^airingly, jjassed out to join Flanagan at his labor, with whom he had not spoken that day. Briefly, and with a heavy heart, he communicated to him the unsuc- cessful issue of his father's interference, and asked his oj^inion as to how he should con- duct liimself under circumstances so dis- astrous to his hapj)ine3s and prospects. Bar- tie ad\-ised him to seek another intei"\'iew with Una, and, for that j^iu-pose, offered, as before, to ascertain, in the course of that evening, at what time and jjlace she would see him. Thia suggestion, in itself so natural, was adojated, and as Connor felt, with a peculiar acuteness, the pain of the situation in Avhich he was placed, he manifested little tendency to con- versation, and the evening consequently pass- ed heavily and in silence. Dusk, however, arrived, and Bartle pre- pared himself to execute the somewhat diffi- cult commission he had so obligingly under- taken. He appeared, however, to have caught a portion of Connor's despondency, for, when about to set out, he said " that he felt his sj)mts sunk and melancholy ; just," he added, "as if some misfortune, Connor, was afore ^jm FARDOEOUGnA, THE MISER. 231 aither or both of us ; for my j^art I'd stake my life that things will go aalianyhran one way or other, an' that you'll never call Una O'Brien your wife." " Bartle," replied the other, " I only want you to do my message, an' not be prophesyin' iU — bad news comes to soon, without your teUin' us of it aforehand. God knows, Bar- tie dear, I'm disti'essed enough as it is, {md want my spirits to be kej^t up rather than put down." " No, Connor, but you want somethin' to divart your mind off this business altogether, for a while ; an' upon my saunies it 'ud be a charity for some fi-iend to give you a fresh piece of fim to think of — so keep up your heart, how do you know but I may do that much for j-ou myself ? But I want j'ou to lend me the loan of a pair of shoes ; di^-il a tatther of these wdU be together soon, barrin' I get them mended in time ; you can't begi-udge that, any how, an' me weax'in' them on your own busmess." " Nonsense, man — to be sure I vnR ; stop an' I'll bring them out to you in half a shake." He accordingly produced a jjair of shoes, nearly new, and told Bartle that if he had no objection to accept of them as a present, he might consider them as his o^vn. This conversation took place in Fardorou- gha's barn, where Flanagan always slept, and kept his small deal trunk. He jjaused a moment when tliis good- natiu'ed offer was made to him ; but as it was dark no particular exjiression could be dis- covered on his countenance, " No ! " said he vehemently ; " may I go to perdition if I ought ! —Connor — Connor O' Donovan — you'd tui'u the div " " Hut, Bartle, don't be angry — whin I of- fered them, I didn't mane to give you the slightest offence ; it's enough for you to teU me you won't have them without gettin' into a passion." "Have what? what are you spakin' about ? " " Why — about the shoes ; what else ? " " Yes, faith, svu-e enough — well, ay, the shoes ! — don't think of it,Connor — I'm hastj'; too much so, indeed, an' that's my fault. I'm like all good-natured people in that respect ; however, I'U borry them for a day or two, till I get my o\\ti patched up some way. But, death alive, wh}- did you get at this season o' the year three rows of sparables in the soles o' them ? " " Bekase they last longei", of coorse ; and now, Bartle, be off, imd don't let the grass grow under your feet till I see you again." Connor's p:itie}ice, or rather l;is ijupatience, that night, was severely taxed. Hour after I hour elapsed, and yet Bartle did not return. I At length he went to his father's sleeping- j room, and informed him of the message he I had sent through Flanagan to Una. I "I wiU sleep in the barn to-night, father," 1 he added ; " an' never fear, let us talk as we may, but we'll be up eai'ly enough in the morning, plase God. I couldn't sleep, or go to sleep, till I hear what news he brings back to us ; so do you rise and secure the door, an' I'll make my shakedown wid Bartle this night." The father who never refused him any- thing i<»pecuniary (if we may be allowed the word), did as the son requested him, and again went to bed, unconscious of the thim- dercloud which was so soon to burst upon them both. Bartle, however, at length returned, and Connor had the satisfaction of hearing that his faithful Una would meet liim the next night, if possible, at the hour of twelve o'clock, in her father's haggard. Her j)arents, it ap- peared, had laid on injunction in^oa her never to see him again ; she was watched, too, and, unless when the household were asleep, she found it altogether impracticable to effect any appointment whatsoever with her lover. She could not even promise with certainty to meet him on that night, but she desti-ed him to come, and if she failed to be punctual, not to leave the place of appointment for an hoTir. After that, if she appeared not, then he was to wait no longer. Such was the purport of the message which Flanagan de- livered him. Flanagan was the first uj^ the next morn- ing, for the i)ui-pose of keeping an appoint- ment which he had with Bid(iy Neil, whom we have already introduced to the reader. On being taxed ^rith meanness by this weak but honest creature, for having sought ser- vice with the man who had ruined his family, he promised to acquaint her "with the true motive which had induced him to enter into Faixlorougha's employment. Their conver- sation on this i^oint, however, was merely a love scene, in which Bartle satisfied the credulous girl, that to an attachment for her- self of some months' standing, might be ascribed his humiliation in becoming a ser- Y:i}it to the opjDressor and destroj'er of his house. He then passed from themselves and their prospects to Connor and Una O'Brien, ^\dtll whose attachment for each otlier, as the reader knows, he was first made acquainted b}' his fellow-seiTaut. "It's terrible, Biddy," said he, "to think of the black and revengeful heart that Con- nor bears to Bodagh Buie and his family merely bekase they rufuse to let him mai-iT Una. I'm afeard, Biddy darliu', that there'll 232 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. be dark work about it on Connor's side ; an' if you hear of anything bad happenin' to the Bodagh, you'U know where it comes from." "I don't b'Heve it, Bartle, nor I won't b'lieve it — not, any way, till I heai* that it happens. But what is it he intends to do to them ? " "That's more than I know myself," re- plied Bartle ; "I axed as much, an' he said till it was done nobody would be the wiser." " That's quai-e," said the girl, " for a better heart than Connor has, tlie Saver o' the world never made." " You think so, agi-a, but wait ; do you watch, and you'U find that he don't come in to-night. I know nothin' myself of what he's about, for he's as close as his father's pui'se, an' as deep as a draw-well ; but this I know, that he has black business on his hands, whatever it is. I trimble to think of it ! " Flanagan then got tender, and, after press- ing his suit with all the eloquence he was master of, they separated, he to liis labor in the fields, and she to her domestic emjDloy- ment, and the unusual task of watching the motions of her master's son. Flanagan, in the course of the day, sug- gested to Connor the convenience of sleeping that night dm in the baru. The time of meeting, he said was too late, and his father's family, who were early in their hours, both night and morning, would be asleej) even before they set out. He also added, that lest any of the O'Briens or theii* retainers should surprise him and Una, he had made up his mind to accompany him, and act as a vidette during their interview. Connor felt this devotion of Bartle to his dearest interests, as every grateful and gener- ous heart would. " Bartle," said he, " when we are married, if it's ever in my power to make you aisy in life, may I never prosper if I don't do it ! At all events, in some way I'll reward you." " If you're ever able, Connor, I'll have no objection to be behoulden to you ; that is, if you're ever able, as you say." "And if there's a just God in heaven, Bai'tle, who sees my heart, however things may go against me for a time, I say I xcill be able to sarve you, or any other friend that desarves it. But about sleepin' in to-night — of coorse I wouldn't be knockin' uj) my father, and disturbin' my poor mother for no rason ; so, of coorse, as I said, I'll sleep in the barn ; it makes no difference one way or other." "Connor," said Flanagan, with much Bolemnity, " if Bodagh Buie's wise, he'U maiTy you and his daughter as fast as he can." "An' why, Bai-tle?" " Why, for rasons you know nothin' about. Of late he's got very much out o' favor, in regard of not comin' in to Avhat j^eople wish." " Speak plainer, Bartle ; I'm in the dark now." "There's work goin' on in the counthry, that you and every one like you ought to be up to ; but you know nothin , as I said, about it. Now Bodagh Buie, as far as I hear — for I'm in the dark myself nearly as much as you — Bodagh Buie houlds out against them ; an' not only that, I'm tovdd, but gives them hard words, an' sets them at defiance." "But what has all this to do with me mari*jing his daughter ? " "Why, he wants some one badly to stand his friend wid them ; an' if you were married to her, you should on his account become one o' thim ; begad, as it is, you ought, for to teU the truth there's talk — strong talk too — about payin' him a nightly visit that mayn't sarve him." "Then, Bartle, yoiCre consarned in this business." " No, faith, not yet ; but I suppose I must, if I wish to be safe in the counthry ; an' so must you too, for the same rason." "And, if not up, how do you know so much about it ? " " From one o' themselves, that wishes the Bodagh weU ; ay, an' let me tell you, he's a marked man, an' the night was appointed to visit him ; stiU it was put back to thry if he could be managed, but he cotddn't ; an' all I know about it is that the time to remimber him is settled, an' he's to get it, an', along wid other things, he'U be ped for tiu-nin' off — however, I can't say any more about that." " How long is it since you knew this ? " " Not long — only since last night, or j'ou'd a got it before this. The best way, I think, to iDut him on his guard 'ud be to send him a scrape of a line wid no name to it." "Bartle," rephed Connor, "I'm as much behotdden to 3'ou for this, as if it had been myself or my father that was marked. God knows you have a good heai-t, an' if you don't sleep sound, I'm at a loss to know who ought." "But it's hard to tell who has a good heart, Connor ; I'd never say any one has till I'd seen them weU thried." At length the hour for setting out arrived, and both, armed with good oaken cudgels, proceeded to Bodagh Buie's haggard, whither they arrived a httle before the ajjpointed hoirr. An utter stiUness prevailed around the place — not a dog barked — not a breeze blew, nor did a leaf move on its stem, so calm and warm was the night. Neither moon nor stars shone in the firmament, and the darkness seemed kindly to throw its FARDOROUGBA, TBE MISER. 233 dusky mantle over this sweet and stolen in- terview of oiu' young lovers. As yet, how- ever, Una had not come, nor could Connor, on sun-eying the large massy ftura-house of the Bodagh, perceive any appearance of hght, or hear a single sound, however faint, to break the stillness in which it slept. Bartle, immediately after their arrival in the haggard, separated from his companion, in order, he said, to give notice of inteiTuption, should Una be either watched or followed. ** Besides, you know," he added, " sweet- hearts hke nobody to be present but them- selves, when they do be spakia' soft to one another. So I'll just keep dodgin' about, from place to place wid my eye an' ear both open, an' if any intherloper comes I'll give yees the hard word." Heavily and lazily creep those moments during which an impatient lover awaits the approach of his mistress ; and woe betide the wooer of impetuous temperament who is doomed, hke our hero, to watch a whole hour and a half in vain. Many a theory did his fancy body forth, and many a conjecture did he form, as to the probable cause of her absence. Was it possible that they watched her even in the dead hour of night ? Per- haps the grief she felt at her father's refusal to sanction the match had brought on indis- position ; and — oh, han'owing thought ! — perhaps they had siicce.eded in prevailing upon her to renounce him and his hopes forever. But no ; their aflection was too pure and steadfast to admit of a supposition so utterly unreasonable. ^Miat, then, could have prevented her from keeping an appoint- ment so essential to theii' futui'e prospects, and to the operations necessaiy for them to pursue ? Some plan of intercourse — some settled mode of communication must be con- certed between them ; a fact as well knoAvn to herself as to him. "Well, well," thought he, "whatever's the reason of her not coming, I'm sui'e the fault is not hers ; as it is, there's no use in waitin' this night any longer." Flanagan, it aj^peared, was of the same opinion, for in a minute or two he made his appearance, and urged their return home. It was clear, he said, that no interview could take place that night, and the sooner they reached the barn and got to bed the better. "FoUy me," he added; "we can pass thi-ough the yard, cross the road before the haJl-door, and get over the stile, by the near way through the fields that's behind the orchard." Connor, who was by no means so well acquainted -srith the path as his companion, followed him in the way pointed out, and in » few minutes they found themselves walk- ing at a brisk pace in a direction that led homewards by a shorter cut. Connor's mind was too much depressed for conversa- tion, and both were jii'oceeding in silence, when Flanagan started in alaiTu, and pointed out the figure of some one walking directly towards them. In less than a minute the person, whoever he might be, had come within speaking distance, and, as he shouted "Who comes there?" Flanagan bolted across the ditch, along which they had been going, and disappeared. "A friend," re- tm*ned Connor, in reply to the question. The other man advanced, and, with a look of deep scrutiny, jDcered into his face. " A fiiend," he exclaimed ; " faith, it's a quare hour for a fi-iend to be out. "WTio are you, eh ? Is this Connor O'Donovan ? " "It is ; but you have the advantage of me." " If your father was here he would know Phil Curtis, any way.'' " I ought to 'a knov\*n the voice myself," said Connor ; " Phil, how are you ? an' what's bringin' yourself out at this hour ? " " Why, I want to buy a couple o' milk cows in the fail' o' Ivilturbit, an' I'm goia' to catch my horse, an' make ready. It's a stiff ride fi'om this, an' by the time I'm there it "ill be late enough for business, I'm thinkin'. There was some one wid you ; who was it ? " " Come, come," said Connor, good-humor- edly, " he was out coortin', and doesn't wish to be known ; and Phil, as you had the luck to meet me, I beg you, for Heaven's sake, not to breathe that you seen me near- Bodagh Buie's to-night ; I have vaiious reasons for it." " It's no secret to me as it is," rephed Cur- tis ; " haK the parish knows it ; so make yoiu' mind asy on that head. Good night, Connor ! I wish you success, anyhow ; j-ou'U be a happy man if you get her ; although, from what I hear has happened, you have a bad chance, except herself stands to you." The ti-uth was, that Fardorougha's visit to the Bodagh, thanks to the high tones of his o'^Ti shrill voice, had drawn female curiosity, already suspicious of the circumstances, to the keyhole of the paiior-door, where the is- sue and object of the conference soon be- came knovvn. In a shori time it had gone among the seiTants, and fi-om them was transmitted, in the covu'se of that and the foUowing day, to the tenants and day-la- borers ! who contrived to multiply it %vitb such effect, that, as Curtis said, it was in- deed no secret to the greater part of the parish. Flanagan soon rejoined Connor, who, on taxing him with his flight, was informed, with an appearance of much regret, that a 234 WILLIAM CARLET01>r'S WORKS. debt of old atanding due to Curtis had oc- casioned it. " And upon my saimies, Connor, I'd rather any time go up to, my neck in wather than meet a man that I owe money to, whin I can't pay him. I knew Phil very well, even before he si)oke, and that was what made me cut an' inin." ■ " "What ! " said Connor, looking towaixls the east, " can it be day-hght so soon ? " " Begad, it siu-ely cannot," replied his companion. " Holy mother above us, what is this ? " Both involuntarily stood to contemplate the strange phenomenon which presented itself to theii* observation ; and, as it was certainly both novel and starthng in its ap- pearance, we shall pause a little to describe it more minutely. The night, as we have ah-eady said, was re- markably dark, and warm to an unusual degree. To the astonishment, however, of our two travellers, a gleam of light, extremely faint, and somewhat resembling that which precedes the rising of a summer sun, broke upon theii* path, and passed on in undulating SAveeps for a considerable space before them. Connor had scarcely time to utter the ex- clamation just alluded to, and Flanagan to reply to him, when the Ught around them shot farther into the distance and deepened from its first pale hue into a rich and gor- geous purple. Its effect, however, was hmited ^Aithin a cii'cle of about a mile, for they could observe that it got faint gi-adually, fi'om the centre to the extreme verge, where it melted into utter darkness. " They must mean something extraordi- nary," said Connor; "whatever it is, it ap- pears to be behind the hill that divides us from Bodagh's Buie's house. Blessed earth ! it looks as if the sky was on fire ! " The sky, indeed, presented a fearful but subhme spectacle. One spot apj)eared to glow with the red-white heat of a fiu-nace, and to form the centre of a fiery cupola, from which the flame was flung in redder and grosser masses, that darkened away into wild and dusky indistinctness, in a manner that corresponded with the same hght, as it danced in red and frightful mirth upon the earth. As they looked, the cause of tliis a'R'ful i)henomenon soon became visible. From behind the hill was seen a thick shower of burning particles rushing up into the mid air, and presently the broad 2:)oint of a huge pyramid of fire, wavering in terrible and capricious po\ver, seemed to disport itself far up in the very depths of the glowing sky. On looking again upon the earth they per- ceived that this terrible cu'cle was extending itself over a mder circumfex'ence of country. marking every prominent object around them "W'ith a dark blood-red tinge, and throwing those that were more remote into a visionai'y but appalling relief. " Dhar Chriestha," exclaimed Flanagan, "I have it ; thim I spoke about has paid Bodagh Buie the visit they promised him." " Come round the liip o' the hill," said Connor, " till we see where it really is ; but I'll teU you what, Bartle, if you be right, woe betide you ! all the water in Europe wouldn't wash you fi'ee in my mind, of being connected in this same Kibbon business that's spreading through the countiy. As sure as that sky — that fearful sky's above us, j'ou must prove to me and others how you came to know that this heUish business was to take place. God of heaven ! let us run — surely it couldn't be the dwelling-house ! " His speed was so great that Bai'tle could find neither breath nor leisiu'e to make any reply. " Thank God ! " he exclaimed ; " oh, thank God it's not the house, and there lives are safe ! but blessed Father, there's the man's whole haggard in flames ! " "Oh, the nelarnalxiHaiiis ! " was the simple exclamation of Flanagan. "Bartle," said his companion, "youheai'd what I said this miiiute ? " Their eyes met as he spoke, and for the first time O'Donovan was stiiick by the paUid malignity of his featiu-es. The sem-ant gazed steadily ujDon him, his Hps sHghtl}' but firm- ly di'awn back, and his eye, in which was neither symi^athj' nor alarm, charged with th& spirit of a cool and devilish triumj)h. Connor's blazed at the bare idea of his vil- lainy, and, in a fit of manly and indignant rage, he seized Flanagan and hurled him headlong to the earth at his feet. " You have hell in your face, you Adllain ! " he ex- claimed ; " and if I thought that — it I did — I'd drag you down like a dog, an' pitch 3'ou head-foremost into the flames ! " Bartle rose, and, in a voice wonderfully calm, simj)ly obseiTcd, " God knows, Con- nor, if I know either yoiu* heart or mine, you'll be sorry for this treatment you've giv- en me for no rason. You know yourself that, as soon as I heard anything of the ill- will against the Bodagh, I tould it to you, in ordher — mark that — in ordher that you might let him know it the best way you thought proper ; an' for that you've knocked me down ! " " Why, I believe you may be right, Bai'tle — there's truth in that — but I can't forgive you the ^oo^- you gave me." "That red hght was in my face, maybe ; I'm sure if that wasn't it, I can't tell — I was myself wonderin' at yo\ir own looks, th« \ FABDOEOUGHA, THE MISER. 235 same way ; but then it was that quare light that was in your face." " Well, well, maybe I'm AATong — I hojie I am. Do you think we could be of any use there ? " " Of use ! an' how would we accoimt for bein' there at all, Connor ? how would you do it, at any rate, widout maybe bringin' the girl into blame ? " " You're right agin, Bartle ; I'm not half so cool as you ai-e ; our best plan is to go home " " And go to bed ; it is; an' the sooner we're there the better ; sowl, Connor, you gev me a murdherin' crash." "Think no more of it — think no more of it — I'm not often hasty, so you must overlook it." It was, however, with an anxious and dis- tressed heart that Connor O'Donovan reached his father's barn, where, in the same bed with Flanagan, he enjoyed, towards morn- ing, a brief and broken slumber that brought back to his fancy images of blood and fire, all so confusedly mingled with Una, himself, jmd their parents, that the voice of his father caUing upon them to rise, came to liim as a welcome and manifest relief. At the time laid in this story, neither burnings nor murders were so familiar nor liatriotic, as the fancied necessity of working out jiolitical progi-ess has recently made them. Such atrocities, in these bad and unreformed days, were certainly looked upon as criminal, rather than meritorious, how- ever «»patriotic it may have been to form so eiToneous an estimate of human %allainy. The consequence of all this was, that the destruction of Bodagh Buie's property crea- ted a sensation in the countiy, of which, familiaiized as loe are to such crimes, we can entertain but a veiy faint notion. In three days a reward of five hundred pounds, ex- clusive of two hundred fi'om government, was offered for such information as might bring the incendiaiy, or incendiaries, to justice. The Bodagh and his family were stunned as much vAih amazement at the occurrence of a calamity so incomjDrehensible to them, as with the loss they had sustained, for that indeed was hea\y. The man was extremely popular, and by many acts of kindness had won the attachment and good- will of aU who knew him, either personally or by character. How, then, accoimt for an ; act 80 wanton and vindictive ? Tliey could aot 'inderstand it ; it was not only a crime, bi t a Clime connected with some mysterious motive, beyond their power to detect. I But of aU who became acquainted with iiife outrage, not one sympathized more sin- rerely and deeply with O'Brien's family than did Connor O'Donovan ; although, of course, that sympathy was unknown to those for whom it was felt. The fact was, that his owTi happiness became, in .some degree, in- volved in their calamity ; and, as he came in to breakfast on the fourth morning of its occiuTence, he could not help observing as much to his mother. His suspicions of Flanagan, as to possessing some clue to the melancholy business, were by no means re- moved. On the contrary, he felt that he ought to have him brought before the bench of magistrates who were conducting the investigation fi-om day to day, and, with this determination, he himself resolved to state fully and candidly to the bench, all the hints which had transpired from Flanagan respecting the denunciations said to be held out against O'Brien and the causes assigned for them. Breakfast was now ready, and Fardorougha himself entered, uttering petu- hmt charges of neglect and idleness against his servant. " He desaiTes no breakfast," said he ; " not a morsel ; it's robbin' me by his idle- ness and schaming he is. "VMiat is he doin', Connor ? or what has become of him ? He's not in the field nor about the place." Connor paused. " TMiy, now that I think of it, I didn't see him to-day," he replied ; "I thought that he was mendiu' the slap at the Thi-ee-Acres. I'll thry if he's in the bani." And he went accordingly to find him. " I'm afraid, father," said he, on his return, " that Bartle's a bad boy, an' a dangerous one ; he's not in the bam, an' it appeal's, fi'om the bed, that he didn't sleep there last night. The ti-uth is, he's gone ; at laste he has brought all his clothes, his box, an' everything with him ; an' what's more, I suspect the reason of it ; he thinks he has let out too much to me ; an' it 'ill go hard but I'll make him let out more." The sen-aut-maid, Biddy, now entered and informed them that four men, eridently strangers, were approaching the house from the rear, and ere she could add an^iliing further on the subject, two of them walked in, and, seizing Connor, infonned him that he was their prisoner. " Your prisoner ! " exclaimed his mother, getting pale ; " why, what could our poor boj' do to make him your prisoner? He never did hui-t or harm to the child unborn." Fardorougha's keen gi*ay eye rested shai-p- ly upon them for a moment ; it then turned to Honor, afterwards to Connor, and again gleamed bitterly at the intniders — " WTiat is this ? " said he, stai'ting up ; " what is this ? you don't mane to rob us? " "I think," said the son, "you must be 236 WILLIAM GARLETON'S WORKS. tindher a mistake ; you surely can have no business with me. It's very likely you want some one else." " Wliat is yoiu' name ? " inquired he who appeared to be the principal of them. " My name is Connor O'Donovan ; an' I know no reason why I should deny it." " Then you are theveiy man we come for," said the querist, " so you had better jjrepare to accompany us ; in the mean time yoii must excuse us if we search your room. This is impleasant, I grant, but we have no discre- tion, and must perform our duty." " "\Miat do you want in this room ? " said Fardorougha ; "it's robbery you're on for — it's robbery you're on for — in open daylight, too ; but you're late ; I lodged the last penny yesterday ; that's one comfort ; you're late — you're late." " WTiat did my boy do ? " exclaimed the af- fiighted mother ; " what did he do that you come to drag him away from us ? " This question she put to the other con- stable, the first having entered her son's bed- room. "I am afi'aid, ma'am, you'll know it too soon," repUed the man ; " it's a heavy charge if it jDroves to be true." As he spoke his companion re-entered the apai'tment, with Connor's Simday coat in his hand, fi-om the pocket of which he di-ew a steel and tinder-box. " I'm sorry for this," he obsen'ed ; " it cor- roborates what has been sworn against you by your accomphce, and here, I fear, comes additional proof." At the same moment the other two made theii- appearance, one of them holding in his hand the shoes which Connor had lent to Flanagan, and which he wore on the night of the conflagration. On seeing this, and comparing the two cir- cumstances together, a fearful light broke on the unf ortiinate young man, who had ah-eady felt conscious of the snare into which he had fallen. With an air of sorrow and manly re- signation he thus addressed his parents : — " Don't be alarmed ; I see that there is an attempt made to swear away my hfe ; but, whatever happens, you both know that I am innocent of doin' an injur^'^ to any one. If I die, I would rather die innocent than live as guilty as he wOl that must have my blood to answer for." His mother, on hearing this, ran to him, and with her arms about his neck, exclaimed, " Die ! die ! Connor dai'lin' — my brave boy — my onlv son — why do you talk about death? mat is 7t for? what is it about? Oh, for the love of God, tell us what did our boy do ? " "He is charged by Bartle Flanagan," re- plied one of the constables, " with burning Bodagli Buie O'Brien's haggard, because he refused him his daughter. He must now come with us to jail." "I see the whole i^lot," said Connor, "and a deep one it is ; the villain Avill do his worst ; stiU I can't but have dependence uj)on justice and my own innocence. I can't but have dependence upon God, who knows my heart." PAET IV. Fakdoroitgha stood amazed and confound- ed, looking fi'om one to another like a man who felt incapable of comprehendmg all that had jmssed before him. His forehead, over which fell a few gray thin locks, assumed a deadly paleness, and his e3'e lost the piercing expression which usually characteiized it. He threw his Cothamore several times over his shoulders, as he had been in the habit of doing when about to pi'oceed after breakfast to his usual avocations, and as often laid it aside, without being at all conscioias of what he did. His hmbs appeared to get feeble, and his hands trembled as if he la- bored under palsy. In this mood he passed fi'om one to another, sometimes seizing a constable by the arm with a hard, tremulous grijD, and again suddenly letting go his hoid of him without speaking. At length a sin- gular transition fi'om this state of mind be- came apparent ; a gleam of wild exultation shot fi'om his eye ; his saUow and blasted features brightened ; the Co^/mmore was but- toned under his chin with a rapid energy of manner evidently arising from the removal of some secret apj)rehension. "Then," he exclaimed, "it's no robbei-y ; it's not robbery afther all ; but how could it ? there's no money here ; not a penny ; an' I'm behed, at any rate ; for there's not a poorer man in the bai'ony — thank God, it's not robbery ! " " Oh, Fardorougha," said the wife, " don't you see they're goui' to take him away from us?" " Take who away fi-om us ? " " Connor, your ovm Connor — our boy — the hght of my heart — the light of his poor mother's heart ! Oh, Connor, Connor, whal is it they're goin' to do to you ? " " No harm, mother, I trust ; no harm — don't be frightened." The old man put his open hands to his temples, which he pressed bitterly, and with all his force, for nearly half a minute. He had, in truth, been alarmed into the very worst mood of his habitual vice, apprehen- sion concerning his money ; and felt that FARDOROUGHA, THE MISER. 237 i DothiBg, except a powerful effort, could suc- ceed in drawing his attention to the scene which was passing before him. " What," said he ; " what is it that's wrong wid Connor ? " "He must come to jail," said one of the men, looking at him with surprise ; "we have already stated the crime for which he stands committed." " To jail ! Connor O'Donovan to jail ! " "It's too true, father; Bartle Flanagan has sworn that I burned Mr. O'Brien's hag- gard." " Connor, Connor," said the old man, ap- proaching him as he spoke, and putting his arms composedly about his neck, "Connor, my brave boy, my brave boy, it wasn't you did it ; 'twas I did it," he added, turning to the constables ; " lave him, lave him wid her, an' take me in his place ! Who would if I would not — who ought, I say — an' I'll do it — take me ; I'U go in his place." Connor looked down upon the old man, and as he saw his heart rent, and his reason absolutely tottering, a sense of the singular and devoted affection which he had ever borne him, overcame him, and with a full heart he dashed away a tear from his eye, and pressed his father to his breast. " Mother," said he ; " this will kill the old man ; it will kill him ! " " Fardorougha, a hagur," said his wife, feeling it necessary to sustain him as much as possible, " don't take it so much to heart, it won't signify — Connor s innocent, an' no harm will happen to him ! " " But are you lavin' us, Connor? are they — must they bring you to jail ? " " For a while, father ; but I won't be long there I hope." " It's an uniDleasant duty on our part," said the principal of them ; " still it's one we must perfonn. Your father should lose no time in taking the proper steps for your defence." " And what are we to do ? " asked the mother ; " God knows the boy's as innocent as I am." "Yes," said Fardorougha, still dwelling upon the resolution he had made ; " III stand for you, Connor ; you won't go ; let them bring me instead of you." " That's out of the question," replied the constable ; " the law suffers nothing of the kind to take place ; but if you will be ad- vised by me, lose no time in preparing to de- fend him. It would be unjust to disguise the matter from you, or to keep you ignorant of its being a case of hfe and death." "Life and death! what do you mane?" asked Fardorougha, staring vacantly at the last speaker. " It's painful to distress you ; but if he's found guilty, it's death." " Death ! hanged ! " shrieked the old man, awaking as it were for the first time to a full perception of his son's situation ; " hanged ! my boy hanged ! Connor, Con- nor, don't go from me ! " "111 die wid him," said the mother ; "I'U die wid you, Connor. We couldn't hve widout him," she added, addressing the str«i- gers ; " as God is in heaven we couldn't ! Uh Connor, Connor, avoumeen, what is it that has come over us, and brought us to this sor- row ? " The mother's grief then flowed on, accom- panied by a burst of that unstudied, but pathetic eloquence, which in Ireland is fre- quently uttered in the tone of wail and lamentation pecuhar to those who mourn over the dead. "No," she added, with her arms tenderly about him, and her streaming eyes fixed with a wild and mournful look of despair upon his face ; " no, he is in his loving mother's arms, the boy that never gave to his father or me a harsh word or a sore heart ! Long were we lookin' for him, an' little did we think it was for this heav;)' fate that the goodness of God sent him to us ! Oh, many a look of lovin' affection, many a happy heart did he give us ! Many a time Connor, a\allish, did I hang over your cradle, and draw out to myself the happiness and the good that I hoped was before you. You wor tt)o good — too good, I doubtr— to be long in such a world as this, an' no wondher that the heart of the fair young colleen, the heart of the colleen dhas dhun should rest upon you and love you ; for who ever knew you that didn't ? Isn't there enough. King of heaven ! enough of the bad an' the wicked in this world for the law to punish, an' not to take the innocent — not to take away fi-om us the only one — the only one — I can't — I can't — but if they do — Connor — if they do, your lovin' mother wiU die wid you ! " The stern officers of justice wiped their eyes, and were proceeding to afford such consolation as they could, when Fardorougha, who had sat down after having made way for Honor to recline on the bosom of their son, now rose, and seizing the breast of his coat, was about to speak, but ere he could utter a word he tottered, and would have instantly fallen, had not Connor caught him in his arms. This served for a moment to divert the mother's gi*ief, and to draw her attention from the son to the husband, who was now insensible. He was carried to the door by Connor ; but when they attempted to lay him in a recumbent posture, it was found almost impossible to unclasp the deathlike 238 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. grip which he held of the coat. His haggard face was shrunk and collapsed ; the individual features sharp and thin, but earnest and stamped vdih. traces of alarm ; his brows, too, which were shghtly knit, gave to his whole countenance a character of keen and painful determination. But that which sti*uck those who were present, most, was the unyielding grasp with which he climg even in his insensi- bihb' to the person of Connor. Irnot an affecting sight, it was one at least strongly indicative of the intractable and in- durated attachment which put itself forth with such vague and illusive enei'gy on behalf of his son. At length he recovered, and on opening his eyes he fixed them with a long look of pain and distraction upon the boy's countenance. " Father," said Connor, " don't be cast down — you need not — and you ought not to be so much disheartened — do you feel better ? " "VMien the father heard his voice he smiled ; yes — his shrunk, j^ale, withered face was ht up by a "wild, indescribable ecstasy, whose startling expression was boiTowed, one would think, as much from the light of insanity as from that of returning consciousness. He sucked in his thin cheeks, smacked his parched, skinny Hps, and with difficulty called for diink. Having swallowed a httle water, he looked round him "s\'ith more com- posure, and inquu-ed — " What has happened me ? am I robbed ? are j'ou robbers ? But I tell }ou there's no money in the house. I lodged the last penny yesterday — afore my God I did — but — oh, what am I savin' ? what is this, Connor ? " "Father dear, compose yourseK — we'll get over this throuble." " "We will, darhn'," said Honor, wiping the pale brows of her husband ; "an' we won't lose him." " No, achora," said the old man ; "no, we won't lose him ! Connor ? " " WeU, father dear ! " " There's a thing here — here " — and he placed his hand upon his heai-t — " something it is that makes me afeard — a sinkin' — a weight — and there's a stnigglin', too, Con- nor. I know I can't stand it long — an' it's about you — it's all about you." " You distress youi-self too much, father ; indeed you do. Why, I hoped that you would comfort my poor mother till I come back to her and you, as I will, plase God." " Yes," he replied ; " yes, I will, I will." " You had better prepare," said one of the officers ; " the sooner this is over the better — he's a feeble man and not very well able to bear it." " You are right," said Connor ; " I won't delay many minutes ; I have only to change my clothes, an' I am ready." In a short time he made his appearance dressed in his best suit ; and, indeed, it would be extremely difficult to meet, in any rank of Ufe, a finer specimen of vigor, ac- tivity, and manly beauty. His countenance, at all times sedate and open, was on this oc- casion shaded by an aii* of profound melan- choly that gave a composed grace and dignity to his whole bearing. " Now, father," said he, " before I go, I think it right to lave you and my poor mother all the consolation I win. In the presence of God, in yours, in my dear mother's, and in the presence of all who hear me, I am as innocent of the crime that's laid to my charge as the babe unborn. That's a comfort for you to know, and let it prevent you fi'om fi-ettin' ; and now, good by ; God be with you, and strengthen, and support you both ! " Fardorougha had ah-eady seized his hand ; but the old man could neither speak nor weep ; his whole frame appeared to have been suddenly pem^aded by a dry agony that suspended the beatings of his very heart. The mother's grief, on the contrary, was loud, and piercing, and vehement. She thi-ew her- self once more upon his neck ; she kissed his hps, she pressed him to her heart, and poured out as before the wail of a wild and hopeless misery. At length, by the aid o\ some shght but necessary force, her arms were untwined fi'om about his neck ; and Connor then, stooping, embraced his father, and, gently placing him on a settle-bed, bade him ffu-ewell ! On reaching the door he paused, and, tiu-ning about, sui-veyed his mother struggling in the hands of one of the officers to get embracing him again, and his gray-haii'ed father sitting in speechless misery on the settle. He stood a moment to look upon them, and a few bitter tears roUed, in the silence of manly sorrow, down his cheeks. " Oh, Fai'dorougha ! " exclaimed his mother, after they had gone, " sure it isn't merely for partin' wid him that we feel so heart-broken. He may never stand imder this roof again, an' he all we have and had to love ! " " No," returned Fai-dorougha, quietly ; " no, it's not, as you say, for merely pai-tin' wid him— hanged ! God ! God ! him — here — Honor — here, the thought of it — I'U die — it'U break ! Oh, God support me ! my heart — here — my heart'U break ! My brain, too, and my head — oh ! if God 'ud take me before I'd see it ! But it can't be — it's not possible that our innocent boy should meet sicL a death ! " FARDOROUGHA, THE MISER. 239 ' No, dear, it is not ; sure lie's innocent — that's one comfort ; but, Fardorougha, as the men said, jou must jro to a lawj-er and see what can be done to defind him." The old man rose up and proceeded to his sou's bedroom. " Honor," said he, " come here ; " and while uttering these words he gazed upon her face with a look of unutterable and hopeless dis- tress ; " there's his bed. Honor — his bed — he may never sleep on it more — he may be cut down like a flower in his youth — an' then what will become of us ? " " Forever, fi-om this day out," said the dis- tracted mother, "no hands will ever make it but my own ; on no other will I sleep — we will both sleep — where h is head lay there will mine be too — avick machree — machree ! Och, Fardorougha, we can't stand this ; let us not take it to heart, as we do ; let us trust in God, an' hope for the best." Honor, in fact, found it necessary to as- sume the office of a comforter ; but it was clear that nothing urged or suggested by her could for a moment win back the old man's heart fi'om the contemplation of the loss of his son. He moped about for a con- siderable time ; but, ever and anon, found himself in Connor's bedroom, looking upon his clothes and such other memorials of him as it contained. Dui-ing the occurrence of these melancholy incidents at Fardorougha's, others of a scai'ce- ly less distressing character were passing un- der the roof of Bodagh Buie O'Brien. Oiu* readers need not be informed that the charge brought by Bartle Flanagan against Connor, excited the utmost amazement in all who heard it. So much at variance were his untarnished reputation and amiable mannei's with a disposition so dark and malignant as that which must have promj)ted the perpe- tration of such a crime, that it was treated at first by the jDubUc as an idle rumor. The evidence, however, of Phil. Ciu'tis, and his deposition to the conversation which occuiTed between him and Connor at the time and place ah-eady kno"mi to the reader, together with the corroborating cii'cumstances arising from the correspondence of the footprints about the haggard -ft-ith the shoes produced by the constable — all, Avheu combined to- gether, left httle doubt of his guilt. No soon- er had this impression become general, than the spirit of the father was immediately im- puted to the son, and many sagacious obser- vations made, all tending to show, that, as they expressed it, " the bad drop of the old BOgue would sooner or later come out in the young one ; " "he wouldn't be what he was, or the bitter heart of the miser would ap- peal* ; " \N-ith many other apothegms of simi- lar import. The family of the Bodagh, how- ever, were painfully and peculiarly circum- stanced. With the exception of Una herself, none of them entertained a doubt that Con- nor was the incendiary-. Ilanagan had main- tained a good chai-acter, and his direct im- peachment of Connor, supported by such ex- act circumstantial evidence, left nothing to be urged in the young man's defence. Awai'e as they were of the force of Una's attachment, and api^rehensive that the shock, arising from the discovery of his atrocity, might be dangerous if injudiciously disclosed to her, they resolved, in accordance Avith the sugges- tion of their son, to break the matter to her- self Avith the utmost delicacy and caution. " It is better," said John, " that she should : hear of the misfortune from ourselves ; for, after breaking it to her as gently as possible, I we can at least attempt to strengthen and ; console her under it." "Heaven above sees," exclaimed his ; mother, " that it was a black and vmlucky ; business to her and to all of us ; but now ' that she knows what a revingeful A-illain he , is, I'm sure she'll not find it hard to banish ; him out of her thoughts. Deah Grasthias for j the escape she had from him at any rate ! " ; "John, bring her in," said the father; I "bring the unfortimate young crature in. I I can't but pity her, Bridget ; I can't but pity ma colleen voghth." When Una entered with her brother she perceived by a glance at the solemn bearing I of her parents, that some unhappy announce- ! ment was about to be made to her. She sat ' down, therefore, with a beating heart and a j cheek already pale with ajiprehension. j "Una," said her father, " we sent for you to mention a circumstance that we would rather you should hear fi'om oiu'selves than fi'om strangers. You were always a good gii-1, Una — an' obadient gii'l, and sensible be- i yant your years ; and I trust that your good sinse and the gi-ace of the ^Umighty wiQ en- able you to bear up undher any disappoint- : ment that may come upon you." "Surely, father, there can be nothing worse than I know ah'eady," she rephed. ! " AMiy, what do you know, dear ? " i " Only what you told me the day Fardo- rougha was here, that nothing agreeable to my wishes could take place." "I would give a gi'eat deal that the busi- ness was now as it was even then," responded her father ; " there's far worse to come, Una, an' you must be firm, an' prepare to heai- what'U thr}' you sorely." i "I can't guess it, father; but for God's j sake tell me at once." "Who do you think biimed our prop- I erty ? " 240 WILLIAM CARLETOIPS WORKS. " And I suppose if she hadn't been undher the one roof wid us that it's ourselves he'd bum," observed her mother. " Father, tell me the worst at once — what- ever it may be ; — how could I g\iess the vil- lain or villidns who destroyed our property ? " "YiUain, indeed! you may well say so," returned the Bodagh. "That villain is no other than Connor O'Donovan ! " Una felt as if a weighty burden had been removed from her heart ; she breathed fi-ee- ly ; her depression and alarm vanished, and her dark eye kindled into proud coufidence in the integrity of her lover. "And, father," she asked, in a full and firm voice, " is there nothing worse than that to come ? " " Worse ! is the girl's brain turned ?" " Dhar a Lhora Heena, she's as mad I be- Heve as ould Fardorougha himself," said the mother ; ''worse! why, she has parted wid all tlie revising she ever had." "Indeed, mother, I hope I have not, and that my reason's as clear as ever ; but, as to Connor O'Donovan, he's innocent of that charge, and of every other that may be brought against him ; I don't believe it, and I never will." "It's proved against him; it's brought home to him." " "SMio's his accuser ? " "His father's servant, Bartle Flanagan, has turned king's evidence." " The deep-dyed villain ! " she exclaimed, vdth indignation ; "father, of that crime, so sure as God's in heaven, so sure is Connor O'Donovan innocent, and so sure is Bartle Flanagan guilty — I know it." " You know it — explain yourself." " I mean I feel it — ay, home to the core of my heart — my unhappy heart — I feel the truth of what I say." " Una," observed her brother, " I'm afraid you have been ^alely deceived by him — there's not the shghtest doubt of his guilt." " Don't you be deceived, John ; I say he's innocent — as I hope for heaven he's inno- cent ; and, father, I'm not a bit cast down or disheai-tened by anything I have yet heard against him." " You're a very extraordinary girl, Una ; but for my part I'm glad you look upon it as you do. If his innocence appears, no man ahvewiU be better plazed at it than myself." " His innocence xoill appear," exclaimed the faithful girl ; "it must appear ; and, father, mark this — I say the time wiU teU yet who is innocent and who is guilty. God knows," she added, her energy of manner increasing, while a shower of hot tears feU down her cheeks, " God knows I would many him to-morrow with the disgrace of that and ten times as much upor hJm. so certain am I that his heart and hand ar« free fi'om thought or deed that's either treacherous or dishonorable." " Many him ! " said her brother, losing temper ; " nobody doubts but you'd marry him on the gaUows, ^Nid the roj)e about his neck." "I would do it, and unite myself to a true heart. Don't mistake me, and mother, dear, don't blame me," she added, her tears llo^ving stiU faster ; "he's in disgrace — sunk in shame and sorrow— and I won't conceal the force of what I feel for him ; I won't de- sert him now as the world will do ; I know his heart, and on the scaffold to-morrow I would become his wife, if it would take away one atom of his misery." " If he's innocent," said her father, "you have more pinetration than any girl in Eu- rope ; but if he's guilt}' of such an act against any one connected with you, Una, the guilt of all the divUs in hell is no match for his. Well, you have heard aU we wanted to say to you, and you needn't stay." "As she herself says," observed John, " perhaps time wiU place eveiything in its true Hght. At present aU those who are not in love with him have little doubt of his guilt. However, even as it is, in pi-inciple Una is right ; putting love out of the ques- tion, we should prejudge no one." " Time will," said his sister, " or rather God will in His own good time. On God I'm sure he depends ; on his providence I also rely for seeing his name and character cleared of all that has been brought against him. John, I -wish to speak to you in my oym room ; not that I intend to make any secret of it, but I want to consult with you first." " Gheema dheelish" exclaimed her mother ; " what a wife that child would make to any man that desai-ved her ! " " It's more than I'm able to do, to be an- gry with her," returned the Bodagh. " Did you ever know her to tell a he, Bridget ? " " A he ! no, nor the shadow of a He never came out of her lips ; the desate's not in her ; an' may God look down on her wid compunction this da}' ; for there's a dark road I doubt before her ! " "Amen," responded her father ;" amen, I pray the Saviour. At all e\ints, O'Don- ovan's guilt or innocence will soon be known," he added ; " the 'sizes begin this day week, so that the business will soon be settled either one way or other." Una, on reaching her own room, thus ad- dressed her affectionate brother : " Now, John, you know that my grand- father left me two hvmdred guineas in his FARDOROUGHA, THE MISER. 241 will, and you tnow, too, the impossibility of getting any money from the clutches of Fardorougha. You must see Connor, and find out how he intendsio defend himself. If his father "vf on't allow him sufficient means to em- ploy the»best lawyers — as I doubt whether he will or not — ^just teU him the truth, that whilst I have a penny of these two hundred guineas, he mustn't want money ; an' teU him, too, that ail the world won't persuade me that he's guilty ; say I know him to be innocent, and that his disgrace has made him dearer to me than he ever was before." " Siu'ely, you can't suppose for a moment, my dear Una, that I, your brother, who, by the way, have never opened my lips to him, could dehberately convey such a message." " It must be conveyed in some manner ; I'm resolved on that." "The best plan," said the other, "is to find out whatsoever attorney they employ, and then to discover, if possible, whether his father has furnished sufficient funds for his defence. If he has, your offer is unnecessaiy ; and if not, a private aiTangement may be made with the attoi-ney of which nobody else need know anything " " God bless you, John ! God bless you ! " she replied ; " that is far better ; you have been a good brother to yoiu* poor Una — to your poor unhappy Una ! " She leaned her head on a table, and wept for some time at the tiying fate, as she termed it, which hung over two beings so young and so guiltless of any crime. The brother soothed her by eveiy argument in his power, and, after gently compelling her to diy her tears, expi-essed his intention of going eai'ly the next day to ascertain whether or not any professional man had been engaged to conduct the defence of her un- fortunate lover. In effecting this object there was httle time lost on the part of young O'Brien. Knowing that two respectable attorneys lived in the next market town, he deemed it best to ascertain whether Fardorougha had apphed to either of them for the piu-jDoses aforementioned, or, if not, to assure himself wliether the old man had gone to any of those pettifoggers, who, rather than appear without practice, will undertake a cause almost on any term*, and afterwards institute a lawsuit for the recovery of a much larger bill of costs than a man of character and ex- perience would demand. In pursuance of the plan concerted between them, the next morning fovmd him rapping, about eleven o'clock, at the door of an attor- ney named Kennedy, whom he asked to see on professional business. A clerk, on heaiing his voice in the hall, came out and requested him to step into a back room, adding that his master, who was engaged, would see him the moment he had despatched the person then with him. Thus slioAvn, he was sepa- rated from O'Halloran's office only by a pair of folding doors, thi-ough which eveiT word uttered in the office could be distinctly heard ; a circumstance that enabled O'Biien unintentionjilly to overhear the following dialogue between the parties : " \VeU, my good fr-iend," said Kennedy to the stranger, who, it appeared, had arrived before O'Brien only a few minutes, " I am now disengaged ; pray, let me know your business." The stranger paused a moment, as if seek- ing the most appropriate teims in which to express himself. " It's a black business," he rephed, " and the worst of it is I'm a poor man." " You should not go to law, then," ob- ser\'ed the attorney. "I tell you beforehand you will find it is de^aHsh expensive." "I know it," said the man; "it's open robbery ; I know what it cost me to recover the httle pences that wor sometimes due to me, when I broke myself lending weeny trifles to strugglin' peoi^le that I thought honest, and robbed me aftherwards." " In what way can my serrices be of use to you at present ? for that I suppose is the ob- ject of youi' calling upon me," said Kennedy. " Oh thin, sfr, if you have the grace of God, or kindness, or pity in your heart, you can saiTe me, you can save my heart fr'om breakin' ! " "How — how, man? — come to the point." " My son, sir, Connor, my only son, was taken away froju his mother an' me, an' put into jail yesterday momin', an' he innocent ; he was jDut in, su-, for buniin' Bodagh Buie O'Brien's haggard, an' as God is above me, he as much burnt it as you did." "Then you are Fardorougha Donovan," said the attorney ; "I have heard of that outrage ; and, to be plain with you, a good deal about yourself. How, in the name of heaven, can you call yourself a poor man ? " " They behe me, su*, they're bitther ine- mies that saj' I'm otherwise." " Be you rich or be you poor, let me tell you that I would not stand in your son's situation for the wealth of the king's ex- chequer. Sell your last cow ; your last coat : your last acre ; sell the bed from under you, without loss of time, if you \rish to save las hfe ; and I tell you that for this purjDOse you must employ the best counsel, and plenty of them. The Assizes commence on this day week, so that you have not a single moment to lose. Think now whether you love youx son or your money best." 242 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. " Saver of earth, amn't I an unhappy man ! every one sann' I have money, an' me has not ! Where would I get it ? Where would a man hke me get it ? Instead o' that, I'm so poor that I see plainly I'll stance yet ; I see it's before me ! God pity me this day ! But agin, there's mj' boy, my boy ; oh, God, pity him ! Say what's the laste, the lowest, the veiy lowest j-ou could tate, for dcfendin' aim ; an' for pity's sake, for chaiity's sake, for God's sake, don't gi'ind a poor, helpless, ould man by extortion. If you knew the bo}' — if 3'ou knew him — oh, afore my God, if 3'ou knew him, you wouldn't be apt to charge a penny ; you'd be proud to sarve sich a boy " " You wish everything possible to be done for him, of course." " Of coorse, of coorse ; but widout extra- vagance ; as aay an' hght on a poor man as you can. You cordd shorten it, siu-e, an' lave out a grate dale that 'ud be of no use ; an' half the paper 'ud do ; for you might make the clerks write close— why, very little 'ud be wanted if you wor savin'." " I can defend him with one counsel if you wish ; but, if anxious to save the boj-'s life, you ought to enable your attorney to secure a strong bar of the most eminent lawj'ers he can engage." " An' what 'ud it cost to hire three or four of them ? " " The whole expenses might amount to be- tween thu'ty and forty guineas." A deep gToan of dismay, astonishment, and anguish, was the only reply made to this for some time. " Oh, heavens above ! " lie screamed, "what will — what x>jiU become of me ! I'd rather be dead, as I'll soon be, than hear this, or know it at all. How could I get it ? I'm as poor as poverty itself ! Oh, couldn't you feel for the boy, an' defend him on tinist ; couldn't you feel for him ? " " It's your business to do that," returned the man of law, cooUy. " Feel for him ; me ! oh, httle you know how my heart's in him ; but any way, I'm an unhappy man ; everything in the world wide goes against me ; but — oh, my darlin' boy — Connor, Connor, my son, to be tould that I don't feel for you — well you know, avoumeen maclu'ee — w^ell you know that I feel for you, and 'ud kiss the track of your feet upon the ground. Oh, it's cruel to tell it to me ; to say sich a thing to a man that liis heart's breakin' widin him for j'our sake ; but, sir, you sed this minute that you could defend him wid one lawj'er ? " " Certainly, and with a cheap one, too, if you wish ; but, in that case, I would rather decline the thing altogether." " Wliy ? wliy ? sure if you can defind him chapely, isn't it so much saved ? isn't it the same as if you definded him at a higher rate ? Sure, if one lawyer tells the truth for the poor boy, ten or fifteen can do no more ; an' thin maybe they'd crass in an' puzzle one fvaother if you hired too many of them." " How would you feel, should your son be found guilty ; you know the penalty is his life. He wiU be executed." O'Brien could hear the old man clap his hands in agony, and in truth he walked about wringing them as if his heart would biu'st. " What will I do ? " he exclaimed ; "what will I do ? I can't lose him, an' I won't lose him ! Lose him ! oh God, oh God, it is to lose the best son and only child that ever man had ! Wouldn't it be downright murdh- er in me to let him be lost if I could prevint it ? Oh, if I was in his place, what wouldn't he do for me, for the father that he always loved ! " The tears ran copiously down his fuiTowed cheeks ; and his whole appearance evinced such distraction and anguish as could rarely " I'll teU you w^hat Y\S. do," he added ; " 111 give you fifty guineas after my death if you'll defind him properly." "Much obliged," replied the other ; "but in matters of this kind we make no such bar- gains." " rU make it sixty, in case you don't axe it noio." " Can you give me security that 111 survive you ? A\1iy, you are tough-looking enough to outHve me." " Me tough ! — no, God help me, my race is nearly run ; I won't be ahve this day twelve months — look at the differ atween us." "This is idle talk," said the attorney; "determine on what you'll do; really my time is valuable, and I am now wasting it to no purpose." "Take the offer — depind on't it'll soon come to you." "No, no," said the other, coolly; "not at aU ; we might shut up shop if we made such post obit bargains as that." " I'll tell you," said Fardorougha ; " I'll tell you what ; " his eyes gleamed with a red- dish, bitter Hght ; and he clasped his wither- ed hands together, until the joiots cracked, and the perspiration teemed from his pale, sallow features ; "I'll tell you," he added — " I'll make it seventy ! " "No." "Aighty!" " No." " Ninety ! "-—with a husky shriefc "No, no." FARBOBOUGIIA, THE MISER. 243 "A htmdhre' — a hundhre' — a liundlu'e',' he shouted ; " a hundhre', when I'm gone — lohen I'm gone ! " One solemn and determined No, that pre- cluded all hopes of any such arrangement, was the only reply. The old man leaped up again, and looked impatiently and wildly and fiercely about him. " What are you '? " he shouted ; " what are you? You're a divil — a bora divil. Will nothing but my death satisfy you ? Do you want to rob me — to stan'e me — to murdher me ? Don't you see the state I'm in by j'ou ? Look at me — look at these thremblin' limbs — look at the sweat poweiin' down from my poor ould face ! W^hat is it yo\x want ? There — there's my gray hairs to 3'ou. You have brought me to that — to more than that — I'm dyin' this minute — I'm d3in' — oh, my boy - -my boy, if I had you here — ay, I'm — I'm " He staggered over on his seat, his eyes gleaming in a fixed and intense glare at the attorney ; his hands were clenched, his hps parched, and his mummy -like cheeks sucked, as before, into his toothless jaws. In addi- tion to all this, there was a bitter white smile of despair upon his features, and his thin gray locks, that were discomposed in the paroxysm by his own hands, stood out in disorder upon his head. We question, indeed, whether mere imagination could, without having actually witnessed it in real life, conceive any object so fi'ightfully illus- trative of the terrible dominion which the passion of avai'ice is capable of exercising over the human heart. "I protest to Heaven," exclaimed the at- torney, alarmed, " I beheve the man is djing —if not dead, he is motionless." " O'Donovan, what's the matter with you ? " The old man's lips gave a dry, hard smack, Ihen became desperately compressed to- (Sfether, and his cheeks were drawn still fur- tJber into his jaws. At length he sighed deeply, and changed his fixed and motion- less attitude. " He is aHve, at all events," said one of his young men. Fardorougha tvu-ned his eyes upon the speaker, then upon his master, and succes- sively upon two other assistants who were in the office. " WTiat is this ? " said he, " what is this ? — I'm veiy weak — will you get me a dhrink o' wather ? God help me — God direct me I I'm an unhappy man ; get me a dhrink, for Heaven's sake ! I can hardly spake, my mouth and Hps are so dry." The water having been procm-ed, he drank it eagerly, and felt evidently reUeved. "This business," he continued, "about the money — I mane about my poor boy, Connor, how will it be managed, sir ? " " I have abeady told you that there is but one way of managing it, and that is, as the young man's life is at stake, to spare no cost." " And I must do that ? " " You ought, at least, remember that he's an only son, and that if you lose him " " Lose him ! — I can't-— I couldn't — I'd die — die — dead " " And by so shameful a death," proceeded Cassidy, " you will not only be childless, but 3'ou will have the bitter fact to reflect on that he died in disgrace. You will blush to name him I "What father would not make any sacrifice to prevent his child fi'om meeting such a fate ? It's a ti-ying thing and a piti- able calamity to see a father ashamed to name the child that he loves." The old man arose, and, approaching Cassidy, said, eagerly, " How much will do ? Ashamed to name you, alanua, Chiema — Ghierna — ashamed to name you, Connor ! Oh ! if the world knew you, asthore, as well as I an' your poor mother knows you, they'd say that we ought to be proud to hear your name soundin' in our ears. How much will do ? for, may God stiiagthen me, I'll do it." " I think about forty guineas ; it may be more, and it may be less, but we will say forty." " Then I'U give you an ordher for it on a man that's a good mai'k. Give me pin an' paper, fast." " The paper was placed before him, and he held the pen in his hand for some time, and, ere he wrote, tiu-ned a look of deep distress on Cassidy. "God Almighty j^ity me ! " said he ; "you see — you see that I'm a poor heart-broken creature — a ruined man I'll be — a ruined man ! " "Think of your son, and of his situation." " It's before me — I know it is — to die like a dog behind a ditch wid hunger ! " "Think of your son, I say, and, if possible, save him fi-om a shameful death." " What ! Ay — yis — jis — sui-ely — surely' — oh, my poor boy — ^my innocent boy — I will —I will do it." He then sat down, and, with a tremulous hand, and Hps tightly drawn together, wrote an order on P , the county treasiu'er, for the money. Cassidy, on seeing it, looked alternately at the paper and the man for a considerable time. "Is P yom* banker?" he asked. " Ever)' penny that I'm worth he has." 244 WILLIAM CAIiLETON'S WORKS. " Then you're a ruined man," he repUed, with cool emphasis. " P absconded the day before yesterday, and robbed half the county. Have you no loose cash at home ? " " Robbed ! who robbed ? " " AMiy, P has robbed everj' man who was fool enough to trust him ; he's oflf to the Isle of ]Man, with the county funds in ad- dition to the other prog." " You don't mane to say," replied Fardo- rougha, with a hideous calmness of voice and manner ; " you dont, you can't mane to say he has run off wid my money? " "I do ; you'll never see a shilling of it, if you live to the age of a Hebrew patriarch. See what it is to fix the heart upon monej-. You ai'e now, what you wish the world to believe you to be, a poor man." " Ho ! ho ! " howled the miser, " he dam't, he dam't — wouldn't God consume him if he robbed the poor — wouldn't God stiffen him, and pin him to the aii'th, if he attemjDted to run oft' wid the hard earnings of stiTigglin' honest men ? Where 'ud God be, an' him to dar to do it ! But it's a falsity, an' you're thrjin' me to see how I'd bear it — it is, it is, an' may Heaven forgive you ! " "It's as true as the Gospel," replied the other ; " why, I'm sui-prised you didn't hear it before now — every one knows it — it's over the whole country." "It's a lie — it'y a lie !" he howled again ; " no one dar to do such an act. You have some schame in this — you're not a safe man ; you're a %illain, an' nothin' else ; but I'll soon know ; w'hich of these is my hat ? " " You ai-e mad, I think," said Cassidy. " Get me my hat, I say ; I'll soon know it ; but sure the world's all in a schame against me — all, all, yoimg an' ould — where's my hat, I say ? " "You have put it upon your head this mo- ment," said the other. "An' my stick?" " It's in your hand." " The curse o' Heaven upon you," he shrieked, " whether it's thrue or false ! " and, with a look that might scorch him to whom it was directed, he shuffled in a wild and fi'antic mood out of the house. " The man is mad," observed Cassidy ; " or, if not, he will soon be so ; I never wit- nessed such a desperate case of avarice. If ever the demon of money lurked in any man's soul, it's in his. God bless me ! God bless me ! it's dreadful ! Richard, tell the gentle- man in the dining-room I'm at leisure to see him." The scene we have attempted to describe spared O'Brien the trouble of much unpleas- ant inquiry, and enabled him to enter at once into the proposed aiTangements on be- half of Connor. Of course he did not permit his sister's name to transpire, nor any trace whatsoever to appear, by which her delicacy might be compromised, or her character in- volved. His interference in the matter he judiciously put upon the footing of personal regard for the young man, and his reluctance to be even the indirect means of bringing him to a violent and shameful death. Having thus fulfilled Una's insti-uctions, he returned home, and relieved her of a hea'V'V' burthen by a full communication of all that had been done. The straggle hitherto endured by Fardo- rougha was in its own nature sufiiciently se- vere to render his sufferings sharp and pun- gent ; still they resembled the influence of local disease more than that of a malady which prostrates the strength and gi'apples with the powers of the whole constitution. The sensation he immediately felt, on hear- ing that his banker had absconded with the gains of his penurious life, was rather a stunning shock that occasioned for the mo- ment a feehng of dull, and heavy, and over- whelming dismay. It filled, nay, it actually distended his narrow soul with an oppressive sense of exclusive misery that banished all consideration for every person and thing ex- traneous to his individual selfishness. In truth, the tumult of his mind was peculiarly Mdld and anomalous. The situation of his son, and the di'eadful fate that hung over him, were as completely forgotten as if they did not exist. Yet there lay, underneath his own gloom}' agony, a remote consciousness of collateral affliction, such as is fi'eqTiently experienced by those who may be drawn, by some temporary and present pleasure, from the contemplation of theu" miseiy. We feel, in such cases, that the darkness is upon us, even while the image of the calamity is not before the mind ; nay, it sometimes requires an efl'ort to bring it back, when anxious to account for our depression ; but when it comes, the heart sinks with a shudder, and we feel, that, although it ceased to engage oiu* thoughts, we had been sitting all the time beneath its shadow. For this reason, although Fardorougha's own loss absorbed, in one sense, all his powers of sufi'eiing, still he knew that something else pressed with ad- ditional weight upon his heart. Of its dis- tinct character, however, he was ignorant, and only felt that a dead and heav;)' load of multijDhed affliction bent him in burning an- guish to the earth. There is something more or less eccentric in the gait and dress of eveiy miser. Far- dorougha's pace was naturally slow, and the liabit for which, in the latter point, he had aU his hfe been remarkable, was that o/ FABDOliOUirHA, TEn: MISER. 245 wearing a great-coat thro^ii loosely about his shoulders. In summer it saved an inside one, and, as he said, kept him cool and comfort- able. That he seldom or never put his arms into it arose from the fcict that he knew it would last a much longer period of time than if he wore it in the usual man- ner. On leaving the attorney's office, he might be seen creeping along towards the County Treasurex''s, at a pace quite unusual to him ; his hollow, gleaming eyes were bent on the eai-th ; his 6W/ia»Jore about his shoulders ; his staff held %Arith a tight desperate gi"ip, and his whole appearance that of a man frightfully distracted by the intelligence of some sudden calamity. He had not proceeded far on this hopeless en'and, when many bitter confirmations of the melancholy truth, by persons whom he met on their return fr'om P 's residence, were affoi-ded him. Even these, however, were insufficient to satisfy him ; he heard them with a vehement impatience, that could not brook the bare possibihty of the rejDort being true. His soul clung with the tena- city of a death-grip to the hope, that however others might have suflered, some chance might, notwithstanding, still remain in /u'.s pai'ticular favoi'. In the meantime, he poured out curses of unexampled mahgnity against the guilty defaulter, on whose head he in- voked the Almighty's vengeance "oith a ven- omous fen'or which appalled all who heai'd him. Having reached the treasvu-er's house, a scene presented itself that was by no means calculated to afford him consolation. Persons of every condition, from the squireen and gentleman farmer, to the humble wid- ow and inexperienced orphan, stood in mel- ancholy groups about the deserted mansion, interchanging details of their losses, thefr blasted prospects, and their immediate iniin. The cries of the widow, who mourned for the desolation brought upon her and her now destitute oi'phans, rose in a piteous wail to heaven, and the industrious fathei's of many struggling famihes, with pale faces and breaking hearts, looked in silent misery upon the closed shutters and smokeless chimneys of their oppressor's house, bitterly conscious that the laws of the boasted con- stitution under which they hved, permitted the destroyer of hundi'eds to enjo}', in lux- vuy and security, the many thousands of which, at one fell and rapacious swoop, he had deprived them. With white, quivering lips and panting breath, Fardorougha approached and joined them. " Wliat, what," said he, in a broken sen- tence, " is this true — can it, can it be true ? Is the thievin' villain of hell gone ? Has he robbed us, ruined us, destroyed us ? " "Ah, too thrue it is," rephed a farmer; " the dam' rip is off to that nest of robbers, the Isle of Man ; ay, he's gone! an' may aU our bad luck past, present, and to come, go with him, an' aU he tuck ! " Fardorougha looked at his informant as if he had been P himself ; he then glared fr-om one to another, whilst the white foam wi-ought up to his hps by the prodigious force of his excitement. He clasped his hands, then attempted to speak, but language had abandoned him. " If one is to judge fr-om your appearance, you have suffered heavily," observed the farmer. The other stared at him with a kind of angiy amazement for doubting it, or, it might be, for speaking so coolly of his loss. " Suffered ! " said he, " ay, ay, but did yees tluy the house ? well see — suffered ! — suf- fered ! — we'll see." He immediately shuffled over to the haU dooi*, which he assaulted ANdth the eagerness of a despairing soul at the gate of heaven, throwing into each knock such a character of impatience and apprehension, as one might suppose the aforesaid soi^l to feel from a cer- tain knowledge that the de-\-il's clutches were spread immediately behind, to seize and car- ry him to jDerditiou. His impetuosity, how- ever, was all in vain ; not even an echo re- verberated through the cold and empty walls, but, on the contrai\y, every j^eal was followed by a most uni'omantic and ominous silence. "That man appears beside himself," ob" served another of the sufferers ; " surely, il he wasn't half-mad, he'd not expect to find any one in an empty house ! " " Devil a much it signifies whether he'fc mad or othenrise," responded a neighbor. "I know him well ; his name's Fardorougha Donovan, the miser of Lisnamona, the big- gest slikew that ever skinned a flint. If P did nothin' worse than fleece him, it would never stand between him an' the blessin' o' Heaven." Fardorougha, in the mean time, finding that no response was given fr'om the fr-ont, passed hurriedly by an archway into the back couri, where he made similar efforts to get in by attempting to force the kitchen door. Every entrance, however, had been strongly secured ; he rattled, and thumped, and screamed, as if P himself had ac- tually been within heaiing, but still to no piirpose ; he might as well have expected to extort a reply fr*om the grave. "When he retiuned to the group thai stood on the lawn, the deadly conviction that all wQ* lost affected every joint of his L>46 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WOBKS. body with a nervous trepidation, tliat might have been mistaken for ddirium tremens. His eyes were full of terror, mingled with the impotent fury of hatred and revenge ; whilst over all now predominated for the first time such an expression of horror and desiDaii', as made the* spectators shudder to look upon him. " Where was God,'" said he, addressing them, and his voice, naturally thin and wiiy, now became husky and hoUow, " where was God, to sviffer this ? to suiler the poor to be i-uined, and the rich to be made poor ? Was it right fcr the Almighty to look on an' let the \Tlloin do it ? No — no — no ; I saj' no ! " The group around him shuddered at the daring blasjDhemy to which his monstrous passion had driven him. Many females, who were in tears, lamenting audibly, started, and felt their grief suspended for a mo- ment by this revolting charge against the justice of Providence. " WTiat do you all stand for here," he proceeded, "like stocks an' stones? Why don't yees kneel with me, an' let us join in one curse ; one, no, but let us shower them down upon him in thousands — in millions ; an' when we can no longer sjjake them, let us think them. To the last hour of my life my heart 'ill never be widout a curse for him ; an' the last word afore I go into the pres- ence of God, '11 be a black, heavy blessin' fi'om hell against him an' liis, sowl an' body, while a droj) o' then- bad blood's upon the eai'th." " Don't be blasphamin', honest man," said a bystander ; "if you've lost money, that's no rason why you should fly in the face o' God for P 's roguery. Devil a one o' myself cares if I join you in a volley against the robbin' scoundiil, biit I'd not take all the money the rip of hell ran away vdd, an' spake of God as you do." " Oh, Saver ! " exclaimed Fardorougha, who probably heard not a word he said ; " I knew — I knew— I always felt it was be- fore me — a dog's death behind a ditch — my tongue out wid stai-vation and hunger, and it was he brought me to it ! " He had already knelt, and was uncovered, his whitish hair tossed by the breeze in confusion about a face on which was painted the fearful workings of that giant spirit, under whose tremendous gi'asp he writhed and suffered like a serpent in the talons of a vultm-e. In this position, -wdth uj)lifted and trembling arms, his face raised towards heaven, and his whole figure shrunk firmly together by the intense malignity with which he was about to hiss out his venom- ous imprecations against the defaulter, he presented at least one instance in wliich the low, sordid vice of avarice rose to some thing like -vvdld grandeur, if not sublimity. Having remained in this posture for some time, he clasjjed his withered hands together and wrung them until the bones cracked ; then rising ujd and striking liis stick bitterlj upon the earth — "I can't," he exclaimed, "I can't get out the curses against him ; but my heart's full of them — they're in it — they're in it! — it's black an' hot vvid them ; I feel them here — here — movin' as if they icor alive, an' they'U be out." Such was the strength and impetuosity of his hatred, and such his eagerness to dis- charge the whole quiver of his maledictions against the great public delinquent, that, as often happens in cases of overwhelming agi- tation, his facilities were paralyzed by the storm of passion which raged within him. Having risen to his feet, he left the group, muttering his wordless malignity as he went along, and occasionally jjausing to look back with the fiery glare of a hyena at the house in which the robbeiy of his soul's treasure had been j)lanned and accomphshed. It is unnecessary to say that the arrange- ments entered into with Cassidy, by John O'Brien, were promptly and ably carried into effect. A raj)id ride soon brought the man of briefs and depositions to the prison, whei'e the unhappy Connor lay. The 3'oung man's story, though simple, was improbable, and his version of the bui-ning such as in- duced Cassidy, who knew httle of impres- sions and feelings in the absence of facts, to believe that no other head than his ever concocted the crime. Still, from the manly sincerity with which his young client spoke, he felt inclined to imj^ute the act to a freak of bojdsh malice and disappointment, rather than to a spirit of vindictive rancor. He entertained no expectation whatsoever of Connor's acquittal, and hinted to him that it was his habit in such cases to recom- mend his chents to be jDrepared for the worst, M'ithout, at the same time, altogether abohshing hope. There was, indeed, nothing to break the chain of cii-cumstantial evidence in which Flanagan had entangled him ; he had been at the haggaixl shortly before the conflagration broke out ; he had met Phil. Curtis, and begged that man to conceal the fact of his having seen him, and he had not slept in his own bed either on that or the preceding night. It was to no purpose he afiirmed that Flanagan himself had borrowed from him, and worn, on the night in ques- tion, the shoes whose prints were so strongly against him, or that the steel and tinder-box, which were found in his pocket, actually belonged to his accuser, who must have put FARDOROUGHA, THE MISER. 247 them there without his knowledge. His case, in fact, was a bad one, and he felt that the interview -^dth his attorney left him more seriously impressed with the danger of his situation, than he had been up till that period. " I suppose," said he, when the instiiic- tions were completed, "you have seen my father ? " "Everj-thing is fully and hberally ar- ranged," rephed the other, with reservation ; " your father has been with me to-day ; in fact, I parted with him only a few minutes before I left home. So far let your mind be easy. The government jjrosecutes, which is something in yom* favor ; and now, good-by to you ; for my part, I neither advise you to hope or despau-. If the worst comes to the worst, you must bear it like a man ; and if we get an acquittal, it will prove the more agi'eeable for its not being expected." The unfortunate youth felt, after Cas- sidj^'s departure, the full force of that dark and fearful presentiment which aiises from the ajiproach of the mightiest calamity that can befaU an innocent man — a pubhc and ignominious death, while in the veiy pride of youth, strength, and those natui'al liojies of bajipiness which existence had otherwise promised. In him this awful ap- prehension proceeded neither fi'om the terror of judgment nor of hell, but fi'om that di-ead of being withdi-a-oTi fi'om life, and of passing down fi'om the light, the enjoyments and busy intercourse of a breathing and con- scious world, into the silence and cori-uption of the unkno^NTi grave. "\Mien this ghastly picture was brought ne;ai' him by the force of his imagination, he felt for a moment as if his heart had died away in him, and his blood became congealed into ice. Should this continue, he knew that human nature could not sustain it long, and he had already resolved to bear his fate with fii'mness, whatever that fate might be. He then re- flected that he was innocent, and, remember- ing the practice of his simple and less pohti- cal forefathers, he knelt doA^Ti and fervently besought the protection, of that Being in whose hands are the issues of life and death. On rising fi'om tliis act of heai'tfelt devo- tion, he experienced that support which he required so much. The fear of death ceased to alarm him, and his natural fortitude re- turned •«-ith more than its usual power to his support. In this state of mind he was pacing his naiTow room, when the door opened, and his father, with a totteiing step, entered and approached him. The son was startled, if not terrified, at the change wliich so short a time had wrought in the old man's appearance. " Good God, father dear ! " he exclaimed, as the latter threw his arms ^vith a tight and clinging gra.sp about him ; " good heavens ! what has happened to change you so much for the worse ? ^\^ly, if you fret this way about me, you'U soon break yoiu- heart. "WTiy will you fi-et, father, when you know I am innocent ? Surely, at the worst, it is bet- ter to die innocent than to hve guilty." " Connor," said the old man, still clinging tenaciously to him, and looking wildly into his face, " Connor, it's broke — my heart's broke at last. Oh, Connor, won't you jiity me when you hear it — won't you, Connor — oh, when you hear it, Connor, won't you pity me ? It's gone, it's gone, it's gone — he's ofl^ off — to that nest of robbers, the Isle of Man, and has robbed me and half the county. P has ; I'm a ruined man, a beggar, an' will die a dog's death." Connor looked down keenly into his father's face, and began to enteriaiu a sur- mise so terrible that the beatings of his heart wei-e in a moment audible to his own ear. "Father," he inquired, "in the name of God what is MTong with you ? "\Miat is it you spake of ? Has P gone off with your money ? Sit do^NTi, and don't look so tenified." " He has, Connor — robbed me an' half the county — he disappeared the evenin' of the very day I left my last lodgment Avid him ; he's in that nest of robbers, the Isle of Man, an' I'm iniiued — mined ! Oh God ! Connor, how can I stand it ? aU my earnin's an' my savin's an' the fruits of my industiy in /tw J30cket, an' upon hia back, an' upon Aw bones ! My brain is reehn' — I dunna what I'm doin', nor what I'll do. To what hand now can I turn myself '? ^Mio'll assist me ! I dunna what I'm doin', nor scarcely what I'm sa^-in'. My head's aU in confusion. Gone ! gone ! gone ! Oh see the luck that has come do^NTi upon me ! Above all men, why was I singled out to be made a world's woudher of — why was I? ^Miat did I do ? I robbed no one ; yet it's gone — an' see the death that's afore me ! oh God ! oh God ! " " Well, father, let it ^o — you have still 3'our health ; you have still my poor mother to console you ; and I hope you'U soon have myself, too ; between us we'll keep you com- fortable, and, if you'll allow us to tidie our own way, more so than ever you did " Fardorougha started, as if struck by some faint but sudden recollection. All at once he looked with amazement around the room, and afterwards with a pause of inquiry, at his son. At length, a light of some forgotten memory appeared to flash at once across his brain ; his countenance changed from the wild and unsettled expi-ession which it bore. 24:S WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. to one more stamped with the earnest hu- manity of our better nature. " Oh, Connor ! " he at last exclaimed, put- ting his two hands into those of his son : "can you pity me, an' forgive me? You see, my poor boy, how I'm sufferin', an' you see that I can't — I won't — be able to bear up against this long." The tears here ran down his worn and hollow cheeks. " Oh," he pi'oceeded, " how could I forget you, my darlin' boy ? But I hardly think my head's right. If I had you with me, an' before my eyes, you'd keep my heart right, an' give me strength, which I stand soi-ely in need of. Saints in glory ! how could I forget you, acushla, an' what now can I do for you ? Not a penny have I to jDay la-o-j^er, or attorney, or any one, to defind you at your trial, and it so near ! " " WTiy, haven't you settled all that with Mr. Cassidy, the attoi-ney?" " Not a bit, achora machi'ee, not a bit ; I was \rid him this day, an' had agreed, but whin I wint to give him an ordher on P , he — oh saints above ! he whistled at me an' it — an' tould me that P was gone to that nest o' robbers, the Isle of Man." Connor tui-ned his eyes, during a long pause, on the floor, and it was evident by Jiis features that he labored under some power- ful and profound emotion. He rose ujd and took a sudden turn or two across the room, then, resuming his seat, he wij)ed away a few bitter tears that no firmness on his part could repress. " Noble girl — mj' darling, darling hfe ! I see it all," he exclaimed. " Father, I never felt how bitter an' dark my fate is till now. Death, death would be httle to me, only for her ; but to leave her — to leave her." He suddenly buried his face in his hands ; but, by an instant effort once more rose up and added — " Well, I'll die worthy of her, if I can't hve so. Like a man I'll die, if it must be — she knows I'm innocent, father ; an' when others — when the world — will be talk- ing of me as a rillain, there wiU be, out of my own family at all events, one heart and one tongue, that will defend my unhappy name. If I am to come to a shameful death, I'll care but little about what the world may think, but that she knows me to be innocent, "v\all make me die proudly — proudly." Whilst he thus spoke and thought, the father's eyes, with a fixed gaze, steadily fol- lowed his motions ; the old man's counte- nance altered ; it first became pale as the ghastly visage of a skeleton, anon darkened with horror, which eventually shifted its hue into the workings of some passion or feeling that was new to him. " Connor," said he, feebly, " I am unwell — imweU — come and sit do\vn by me." " You are too much distressed every way, father," said his son, taking his j^lace upon his ii'on bedstead beside him. " I am," said Fardorougha, calmly ; "I am too much distressed — sit nearer me, Connor. I wish your mother was here, but she wasn't able to come, she's unwell too ; a good mother she was, Connor, and a good wife." The son was stnick, and somewhat alarm- ed, by this sudden and extraordinaiy calm- ness of the old man. "Father dear," said he, "don't be too much disheai'tened — all will be well yet, I hope — my tnist in God is strong." " I hope aU will be well," rephed the old man, " sit nearer me, an' Connor, let me lay my head over upon your breast. I'm think- in' a gi-eat dale. Don't the world say, Con- nor, that I am a bad man ? " " I don't care what the world says ; no one in it ever diu'st say as much to we, father deai*." The old man looked up affectionately, but shook his head apparently in calm but rooted sorrow. " Put youi- arms about me, Connor, and keep my head a httle more up ; I'm weak an' tu'ed, an', someway, spakin's a thi'ouble to me ; let me think for a while." "Do so, father," said the son, with deep compassion ; "God knows but you're suffer- in' enough to wear you out." " It is," said Fardorougha, " it is." A silence of some minutes ensued, during which, Connor perceived that the old man, overcome with care and misery, had actually fallen asleejD with his head u^Don his bosom. This circumstance, though by no means ex- traordinary, affected him veiy much. On suiTeying the pallid face of his father, and the worn, thread-lilie veins that ran along his temples, and caUing to mind the love of the old man for himself, which even avarice, in its deadhest power, failed to utterly over- come, he felt all the springs of his affection loosened, and his soul vibrated with a ten- derness towards him, such as no situation in their past lives had ever before created. "If my fate chances to be an untimely one, father dear," he slowly murmured, " we'U soon meet in another place ; for I know that you will not long live after me." He then thought with bitterness of his mother and Una, and wondered at the mys- tery of the trial to which he was exposed. The old man's slumber, however, was not dreamless, nor so refreshing as the exhaus- tion of a fi-ame shattered by the havoc of contending principles required. On the contrai-y, it was distiu'bed by heavy groans, FARDOROUGEA, TEE MISER. 249 quick startinp^s, and those twitcbings of the limbs wbicb betoken a restless mood of mind, and a nei-Aous system bigbl}' excited. In the course of half an hour, the symptoms of his inward commotion became more ap- parent. From being, as at first, merely physical, they assumed a mental character, and passed from ejaculations and single words, to short sentences, and ultimately to those of considerable length. " Gone ! " he exclaimed, " gone ! O God ! my ciu'se — stai'ved — dog — wid my tongue out ! " This di'ead of stan-atiou, which haunted him through life, appeared in his dream still to follow him like a demon. "I'm dyin'," he said, "I'm dyin' wid hun- ger — AAill no one give me a morsel? I was robbed an' have no money — don't you sec me stai'vin'? I'm cuttin' wid hunger — five days \\ithout mate — bi-ing me mate, for God's sake — mate, mate, mate ! — I'm gaspin — my tongue's out ; look at me, hke a dog, behind this ditch, an' my tongue out I " The son at this period would have awoke him, but he became more composed, for a time, and enjoyed apparently a refi-eshi^ig sleep. Still, it soon was evident that he dreamt, and as cleai* that a change had come o'er the spirit of his dream. " "VMio'U prevent me ! " he exclaimed. " Isn't he my son — our only child ? Let me alone — I must, I mustj — what's my life? — take it, an' let him live." The teai's started in Connor's eyes, and he pressed his father to his heai-t. "Don't hould me," he proceeded. "O God ! here, I'U give all I'm worth, an' save him ! O, let me, thin — let me but kiss him once before he dies ; it was I, it was myself that murdhered him — all might 'a been well ; ay, it was I that murdhered you, Connor, my brave boy, an' have I you in my arms ? O, a\dck agus asthore machi*ee, it was I that miu'dliered you. by my — but thej-'re takin' him — they're beai-in' him away to " He started, and awoke ; but so terrific had been his dream, that on opening his eyes he clasped Connor in his arms, and exclaimed, — " No no. 111 hould him till you cut my grip; Connor, avick machree, hould to me ! " " Father, father, for God's sake, think a minute, you wor only dreaming." " Eh — what — where am I ? Oh, Connor, darling, if you knew the dhrames I had — I thought you wor on the scaflle ; but thanks be to the Saver, it ?ra.s only a dhrame ! " " Nothing more, father, nothing more ; but for God s sake, keep yoiu' mind aisy. Ti-ust in God, father, even-thing's in Hi.< hands ; if it's His will to make us suffer, we ought to submit ; and if it's not His \\t11, He sinrely can bring us out of all our throubles. That's the gi-eatest comfort I have." Fai'dorougha once more became calm, but still there was on his countenance, which was mournful and fvdl of something else than simple soxTow, some deeply fixed determina- tion, such as it was difficult to develop. "Connor, achora," said he, "I must lave you, for there's httle time to be lost. What attorney wouldTyou'^N^shTne to emjiloy ? I'U go home and sell oats and a cow or two. I've done you harm enough — more than you know — but now I'll spare no cost to get you out of this business. Connor, the teai's that I saw awhile agone run do^Ti your cheeks cut me to the heart." The son then informed him that a friend had taken proper measiu-es for his defence, aiid that any fm-ther interference on his part would only create confusion and delay. He also entreated liis father to make no allusion whatsoever to this circumstance, and added, " that he himself actually knew not the name of the fi'iend in question, but that, as the matter stood, he considered even a svuTaise to be a breach of confidence that might be indehcate and offensive. After the trial, you can and ought to jDaj' the expenses, and not be under an obhgation to any one of so sol- emn a kind as that." He then sent his af- fectionate love and duty to his mother, ai whose name his eyes were again filled \\\i]i tears, and begged the old man to comfort and support her with the utmost care and tender- ness. As she was unwell, he requested hin> to dissuade her against visiting him tiU after the trial, lest an intei-\iew might increase her illness, and render her less capable of bear- ing up under an unfavorable sentence, should such be the issue of the prosecution. Having then bade farewell to, and embraced the old man, the latter departed with more calmness and fortitude than he had up to that period displayed. A\Tien Time approaches the miserable "with calamity in his train, his opinion is swifter than that of the eagle ; but, alas ! when carry- ing them towards happiness, his pace is slow- er than is that of the tortoise. The only three persons on eaiih, whose happiness was in- volved in that of O'Donovan, found them- selves, on the eve of the assizes, overshadow- ed by a dreariness of heart, that was strong in proportion to the love they boi-e him. The dead calm which had fallen on Fardorougha was absolutely more painful to his wife than would have been the paroxysms that resulted fi"om his lust of wealth. Since his last inter- view with Connor, he never once alluded to the loss of his money, imless abiniptly in his dreams, but there was stamped upon his whole manner a gloomy and mysterious com* 260 WILL/AM CARLETON'S WORKS. posure, which, of itself, wofuUy saiik her spir- its, indej^endeutl}' of the fate which impend- ed over their sou. The change, visible on both, and the breaking down of theii- strength were indeed jDitiable. As for Una, it would be difficult to describe her sti-uggie between confidence in his inno- cence, and appi-ehension of the law, which she knew had often punished the guiltless instead of the criminal. 'Tis true she at- tempted to assume, in the eyes of othei's, a fortitude which belied her fears, and even aflfected to smile at the possibility of her lover's honor and chai'acter sutiering any tai'nish fi"om the ordeal to which they were about to be submitted. Her smile, however, on such occasions, was a melancholy one, and the secret tears she shed might prove, as they did to her brother, who was alone privy to her gi'ief, the extent of those terrors which, notwithstanding her disavowal of them, wi'Ung her soul so bitterly. Day after day her sjDirits became more and more depressed, till, as the crisis of Connor's fate arrived, the roses had altogether flo^vn from her cheeks. Indeed, now that the trial was at hand, public sympathy turned rajDidly and strongly in his favor ; his father had lost that wealth, the acquisition of which earned him so hea\y a i?ortion of infamy ; and, as he had been sufficiently punished in /us own jxrson, they did not think it just to transfer any portion of the resentment borne against him to a son who had never j^articipated in his system of oppression. They felt for Connor now on his o^^'a account, and remembered only his amiable and excellent character. In addition to this, the history of the mutual attachment between hilu and Una having become the topic of general conversation, the rash act for which he stood committed Avas good-humor- edh' resolved into a foolish fi-eak of love ; for which it woidd be a thousand murders to take away his life. In such mood were the public and the parties most interested in the event of our story, when the morning dawned of that awful day \vhich was to restore Con- nor O'Donovan to the hearts that loved him so well, or to doom him, a couA-icted felon, to a shameful and ignominious death. At length the trial came on, and our un- happy prisoner, at the hour of eleven o'clock, was placed at the bar of his countiy to stand the bnint of a government j^rpsecutiou. Com- mon report had already carried abroad the stor}' of Una's love and his, many interesting accounts of which had got into the papers of the day. When he stood forward, there- fore, all eyes were eagerly riveted upon him ; the judge glanced at him with calm, dis- passionate scrutiny, and the memljers of the bar, especially the juniors, turned round, I sun-eyed him through their glasses with a : gaze in which might be read something more ' than that hard indifference which familiarity with human crime and affliction ultimately produces even in dispositions mo.st humane and amiable. No sooner had the curiosity of the multitude been gratified, than a mur- mur of pity, blended sHghtly with surprise and approbation, ran lowly through the com-t-house. One of the judges whispered a few words to his brother, and the latter again surveyed Connor with a countenance in wlaich were depicted admu-ation and regret. The covmsel also chatted to each other in a low tone, occasionally turning round and marking his deportment and ap- pearance with increasing interest. Seldom, jirobably never, had a more strik- ing, perhaps a more noble figure, stood at the bar of that coui't. His locks were rich and brovm ; his forehead expansive, and his manly features remarkable for their symme- try ; his teeth were regular and white, and his dark eye fidl of a j-outhful lustre which the di-ead of no calamity could repress. Neither was his figiu-e, which was of the tall- est,^ inferior in a single point to so fine a coimtenance. As he stood, at his full height of six feet, it was impossible not to feel deep- ly influenced in his favor, especially after having witnessed the moui-nful but dignified composui-e of his manner, equally remote fi'om indifference or dejection. He apjDeared, indeed, to view iu its proper light the danger of the position in which he stood, but he viewed it with the calm, unsluinking energy of a brave man who is always prejDared for the worst. Indeed, there might be obsei-ved ujDon his broad, open brow a loftiness of bearing such as is not unfi'equently produced by a consciousness of innocence, and the natiu'al elevation of mind which results from a sense of danger ; to which we may add that inward scorn which is ever felt for base- ness, b}' those who are degraded to the necessity of defending themselves against the viUany of the malignant and profligate. When called upon to plead to the indict- ment, he uttered the words " not guilty " in a fidl, firm and mellow voice, that drew the eyes of the sjDectators once more upon him, and occasioned another slight hum of sym- pathy and admu-ation. No change of color was observable on his countenance, or any other expression, save the lofty composure i to which we have just alluded. ; The trial at length proceeded; and, after a i long and able statement from the Attomey- j General, Bartle Flanagan was called* up on ' the table. The prisoner, whose motions were keenly observed, betrayed, on seeing him, neither embarrassment nor agitation ; FARDOROUGHA, THE MISER. 251 all that could be perceived was a more earn- est and intense light in his eyes, as they set- tled upon his accuser. Flanagan detailed, with singular minuteness and accuracy, the whole progress of the crime fi-om its first conception to its perpetration. Indeed, had he himself been in the dock, and his evidence against Connor a confession of his own guilt, it would, with some exceptions, have been literally true. He was ably cro.ss-examined, but no tact, or experience, or t;ilent, on the part of the prisoner's counsel, could, in any important degree, shake his testimony. The ingenuity with which he laid and conducted the plot was astonishing, as was his fore- sight, and the precaution he adopted against detection. Cassidy, Connor's attorney, had ferreted out the veiy man from whom he purchased the tinder-box, ^rith a hope of proving that it was not the prisoner's jorop- erty but his own ; yet this person, who re- membered the transaction very well, assured him that Flanagan said he procured it by the desire of Fardorougha Donovan's son. Dui'ing his whole e\'idence, he never once raised his eye to look upon the prisoner's face, until he was desu*ed to identify him. He then turned round, and, standing with the rod in his hand, looked for some mo- ments upon his victim. His dark brows got black as night, whilst his cheeks were blanched to the hue of ashes— the white smile as before sat upon his lips, and his eyes, in which there blazed the unsteady fii'e of a treacherous and cowai'dly heart, spark- led with the red turbid glare of triumph and vengeance. He laid the rod upon Connor's head, and they gazed at each other face to face, exhibiting as striking a contrast as could be witnessed. The latter stood erect and unshaken — his eye calmly bent ujDon that of his foe, but with a spirit in it that seemed to him alone by whom it was best understood, to strike dismay into the veiy sold of falsehood within him. The AoUain's eyes could not withstand the glance of Con- nor's — they fell, and his whole coimtenance assumed such a blank and guilty stamp, that an old experienced bairister, who watched them both, could not avoid saying, that if he had his will they should exchange situations. " I would not hang a dog," he whispered, " on that fellow's evidence — he has gmlt in his face." When asked why he ran away on meeting Phil. Curtis, near O'Brien's house, on their return that night, while Connor held his ground, he replied that it was very natural he should i-xm away, and not wish to be seen after having assisted at such a crime. In reply to another question, he said it was as natural that Connor should have mn away also, and that he could not account for it, except by the fact that God always occasions the guilty to commit some oversight, by which they may be brought to punishment. These rejjhes, apparently so rational and satisfactory, conrinced Connor's counsel that his case was hopeless, and that no skill oi* ingenuity on their part could succeed in breaking down Flanagan's eridence. The next witness called was Phil. Curtis, whose testimony corroboi'ated Bartle's in every particular, and gave to the whole trial a chai'acter of gloom and despair. The con- stables who applied his shoes to the foot- marks were then produced, and swore in the clearest manner as to their corresponding. They then deposed to finding the tinder-box in Ins pocket, according to the information received fi'om Flanagan, every' tittle of which they found to be remarkably correct. There was only one other witness now necessary to complete the chain against him, and he was only produced because Biddy Nvdty, the servant-maid, positively stated, and actually swore, when preriously exam- ined, that she was ignorant whether Connor slept in his father's house on the night in question or not. There was no alternative, therefore, but to produce the father ; and Fardorougha Donovan was consequently forced to become an evidence against his o^\■n son. The old man's appearance upon the table excited deej) commiseration for both, and the more so when the spectators contem- plated the rooted sorrow which lay upon the ■uild and wasted featiu'es of the woe-worn father. Still the old man was composed and calm ; but liis calmness was in an extra- ordinary degi'ee mournful and touching. When he sat down, after having been sworn, and feebly wiped the dew fi-om his thin temples, many eyes were already filled with tears. WTien the question was put to him if he remembered the night laid in the indict- ment, he repHed that he did. " Did the jDrisoner at the bar sleep at home on that night ? " The old man looked into the face of the counsel with such an eye of deprecating entreaty, as shook the voice in which the question was repeated. He then turned about, and, taking a long gaze at his son, rose up, and, extending his hands to the judges, exclaimed : " INIy lords, my lords ! he is my only sou — my only child ! " These words were followed by a pause in the business of the court, and a dead silence of more than a minute. " If justice," said the judge, " could on any 252 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. occasion -waive her claim to a subordinate link in the testimony she requii-es, it would cer- tainly be in a case so painful and affecting as this. Still, we cannot permit personal feel- ing, however amiable, or domestic attach- ment, however sti'ong, to impede her prog- ress when redressing pubhc wi-ong. Al- though the duty be painful, and we admit that such a duty is one of unexampled agony, jet it must be complied vAWx ; and you con- sequently will answer the question which the counsel has put to you. The interests of so- ciety requii'e such sacrifices, and they must be made." The old man kept his eyes fixed on the i'udge while he spoke, but when he had ceased le again fixed them on his son. "My lord," he exclaimed again, with clasped hands, " I can't, I can't ! " " There is nothing criminal, or improper, or sinful in it," replied the judge; -'on the contrary, it is your duty, both as a Christian and a man. Kemember, you have this moment sworn to tell the truth, and the whole truth ; you consequently must keep your oath." " ^Miat you say, sir, may be right, an' of coorse is ; but oh, my lord, I'm not able ; I can't get out the words to hang my only boy. If I said anything to hvu-t him, my heart 'ud break before your eyes. May be you don't know the love of a father for an only son ? " " Perhaps, my lords," obsen-ed the at- torney-general, "it would be desirable to send for a clergyman of his o^ti religion, who might succeed in prevailing on him to " " No," interrupted Fardorougha ; " my mind's made up ; a word against him will never come from my lips, not for priest or friar. " I'd die widout the saykerment sooner." " This is trifling with the court," said the judge, assuming an air of severity, wliich, however, he did not feel. "We shall be forced to commit you to prison unless you give eridence." " My lord," said Fardorougha, meekly, but fiiTiily, " I am willin' to go to prison — I am willin' to die with him, if he is to die, but I neither can nor will open my lijDs against him. If I thought him guilty I might ; but I know he is innocent — my heart knows it ; an' am I to back the villain that's stririn' to swear liis life away ? No, Connor avounieen, whatever they do to you, your father will have no hand in it." The court, in fact, were perplexed in the extreme. The old man was not only firm, from motives of strong attachment, but in- tractable from an habitual narrowness of thought, which prevented him fi'om taking that comprehensive view of justice and judi- cial authority which might overcome the re- pugnance of men less obstinate from igno- rance of legal usages. " I ask you for the last time," said the judge, "will you give your evidence? be- cause, if you refuse, the court will feel bound to send you to prison." "God bless you, my lord! that's a relief to my heart. Anything, anything, but to say a word against a boy that, since the day he was born, never vexed either his mother or myself. If he gets over this, I have much to make up to him ; for, indeed, I wasn't the father to him that I ought. Avick machree, now I feel it, may be whin it's too late." These words affected aU who heard them, man}' even to tears. " I have no remedy," observed the judge. " Tipstaff, take away the witness to prison. It is painful to me," he added, in a broken voice, " to feel compelled thus to punish you for an act which, however I may respect the motives that dictate it, I cannot overlook. The ends of justice cannot be frastrated." "My lord," exclaimed the j)risoner, "don't punish the old man for refusing to speak against me. His love for me is so strong that I know he couldn't do it. I will state the truth myself, but spare him. I did noi sleejD in my own bed on the night Mr. O'- Brien's haggai'd was burned, nor on the night before it. I slept in my father's barn, with Flanagan ; both times at his own request ; but I did not then susjaect his design in ask- ing me." "This admission, though creditable to your affection and filial duty, was indiscreet," observed the judge. "^^Tiatever you think might be ser\dceable, suggest to jour attor- ney, who can communicate it to youi" coun- sel." "My lord," said Connor, "I could not see my father j)unished for loving me as he does ; an' besides I have no wish to conceal any- thing. If the whole tiiith could be known, I would stand but a short time where I am, nor would Flanagan be long out of it." There is an eai'nest and impressive tone in ti-uth, especially when sj^oken under cu'cum- stances of gxeat difficulty, where it is rather disadvantageous to him who utters it, that in many instances produces conriction by an inherent candor which aU feel, without any process of reasoning or argument. There was in those few words a warmth of affection towards his father, and a manly simi^licity of heai-t, each of which was duly ajjpreciated by the assembly about him, who felt, without knowing why, the indignant scorn of false' hood that so emphatically pervaded his ex* FAEDOROUGEA, THE MISER. 253 pressions. It was indeed impossible to hear them, and look upon his noble countenance and figure, without forgetting the humble- ness of his rank in life, and feeling for him a marked deference and respect. The trial then proceeded ; but, alas ! the hopes of Connor's fiiends abandoned them at its conclusion ; for although the judge's charge was as favorable as the nature of the evidence permitted, yet it was quite clear that the juiy had onl}"" one course to pui-sue, and that was to. bring in a conviction. After the lapse of about ten minutes, they returned to the jvuy-box, and, as the foreman handed down their verdict, a feather might have been heard fiilling in the court. The faces of the spectators got pale, and the hearts of strong men beat as if the verdict about to be announced were to fall upon themselves, and not upon the prisoner. It is at all times an awful and trying ceremony to witness, but on this occasion it was a much more affect- ; ing one than had occurred in that court for : many years. As the foreman handed down the verdict, Connor's eye followed the paper mth the same calm resolution which he dis- played durmg the trial. On himself there was no change visible, iruless the appetu'ance of two round spots, one on each cheek, of a somewhat deeper red than the rest. At ; length, in the midst of the dead silence, pro- | nounced in a voice that reached to the re- ' motest extremity of the court, was heai'd the fatal sentence — "Guilty;" and aftei-wai-ds, in a less distinct manner — " with out strong- est and most earnest recommendation for mercy, in consequence of his youth and pre- | vious good character." The wail and loud sobbings of the female pajrt of the crowd, and the stronger but more silent gi'ief of the men, could not, for many minutes, be re- pressed by any efforts of the court or its of- i ficers. In the midst of this, a little to the ! left of the dock, was an old man, whom those around liim were convening in a state of in- ! sensibihty out of the court ; and it was ob- . vious that, fi"om motives of humane consid- ; eration for the prisoner, they endeavored to ! prevent him from ascertaining that it was his : father. In this, however, they failed ; the : son's Qye caught a ghmpse of his grey locks, I and it was observed that his cheek paled for | the first time, indicating, by a momentary change, that the only evidence of agitation he betrayed was occasioned by sympathy in the old man's sorrows, rather than by the contemplation of his own fate. The tragic spmt of the day, however, was still to deepen, and a more stunning blow, though less acute in its agony, was to fall upon the prisoner. The stir of the calm and solemn jurors, as they issued out of their , room ; the hushed breaths of the spectators, the deadly silence that prevails, and the ap« palling announcement of the word " Guilty," ai'e cu'cumsttinces that test human fortitude, more even than the passing of the fearful sentence itself. In the latter case, hope is banished, and the worst that can happen, known ; the mind is, therefore, throwTi back upon its last energies, which give it strength in the same way in which the death-struggle fi'equently arouses the muscular action of the body — an unconscious power or resistance that forces the culprit's heai't to take refuge in the first and strongest instincts of its natui'e, the undoing principle of self-preser- vation. No sooner was the verdict returned and silence obtained, than the judge, now deeply affected, put on the black cap, at which a low ^vild murmur of stifled grief and pity rang through the coiu-t-house ; but no sooner was his eye bent on the prisoner than their anxiety to hear the sentence hushed them once more into the stilLness of the grave. The prisoner looked upon him with an open but melancholy gaze, which, from the candid and manly character of his countenance, was touching in the extreme. " Connor O'Donovan," said the judge, " have you anything to sav why sentence of death should not be passed ujjon you ? " " My lord," he replied, " I can say nothing to prevent it. I am prepared for it. I know I must bear it, and I hope I will bear it as a man ought, that feels his heart free from even a thought of the crime he is to die for. I have nothing more to say." "You have this day been found guilty," proceeded the judge, " and, in the opinion of the court, ujDon clear and satisfactory evi- dence, of a crime marked by a character of revenge, which I am bound to say must have proceeded from a very malignant spirit. It was a wanton act, for the pei^petration of which yoiu- motives were so inadequate, that one must feel at a loss to ascertain the exact principle on which you committed it. It was also not only a wicked act, but one so mean, that a young man bearing the charac- ter of sjDirit and generosity which you have hitherto borne, as appears fi*om the testimony of those respectable persons who this day have spoken in your favor, ought to have scorned to contemplate it even for a moment. Had the passion you entertained for the daughter of the man you so basely injured, possessed one atom of the dignity, dis- interestedness, or purity of true affection, you never could have stooped to any act offensive to the object of your love, or to those even in the remotest degree related to her. The example, consequently, which you have held out to society, is equally vile and 254 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. dangerous. A parent dischai'ges the most solemn and important of all duties, when disposing of his children in marriage, because by that act he seals their happiness or misery in this life, and most probably in that which is to come. By what tie, by what duty, by what consideration, is not a parent botmd to consult the best interests of those beloved beings whom he has brought into the world, and who, in a great measui'e, depend ujDon him as their deai-est relative, their guardian by the voice of natui-e, for the fulfilment of those expectations uj)on which depend the principrd comforts and enjoyments of life ? Reason, religion, justice, instinct, the whole economy of nature, both in man and the inferior animals, all teach him to seciu'e for them, as far as in him hes, the greatest sum of human happiness ; but if there be one duty more sacred and tender than another, it is that which a parent is caUed upon to exercise on behalf of a daughter. The son, impressed by that original impulse which moves him to assume a loftier place in the conduct of life, and gifted also with a stronger mind, and clearer judgment, to guide him in its varied transactions, goes abroad into society, and claims for himself a bolder right of thought and a wider range of action, while determining an event which is to exercise, as maiTiage does, such an imjDortant influence upon his O'An future condition, and all the relations that may arise out of it. From this privilege the beautiful and deUcate fi-ame- work of woman's moral nature debars her, and she is consequently^ forced, by the graces of her own modesty — by the finer texture of her mind — by her greater purity and gentle- ness — in short, by all her vii'tues, into a tenderer and more affecting dependence upon the judgment and love of her natiu'al guard- ians, whose pleasure is made, by a wise decree of God, commensurate with their duty in providing for her wants and enjoy- ments. There is no point of view in wliich the parental character shines forth with greater beauty than that in which it appears while working for and promoting the hapj)i- ness of a daughter. But you, it would seem, did not think so. You punished the father by a dastardly and unmanly act, for guarding the future peace and welfare of a child so young, and so dear to him. WTiat would become of society if this exercise of a j^arent's right on behalf of his daughter were to be visited upon him as a crime, by everj' vindic- tive and disappointed man, whose affection for them he might, upon proper grounds, decline to sanction ? Yet it is singular, and, I confess, almost inexplicable to me at least, why you should have rushed into the com- mission of such an act. The brief period of your existence has been stained by no other crime. On the contrary, you have maintained a chtu'acter far above youi- situa- tion in life — a character equally remai'kable for gentleness, spirit, truth, and affection — all of which your ajjpearance and bearing have this day exhibited. Your countenance presents no feattu-e expressive of ferocity, or of those headlong propensities which lead to outrage ; and I must confess, that on no other occasion in my judicial Hfe have I ever felt my judgment and my feehngs -so much at issue. I cannot doubt your guilt, but I shed those tears that it ever existed, and th?>t a youth of so much promise should be cut down prematm-ely by the strong arm of necessary justice, leaving his bereaved jjarents bowed down with despair that can never be comforted. Had they another son — or another child, to whom their affections could turn " Here the judge felt it necessary to pause, in consequence of his emotions. Strong feelings had, indeed, spread through the whole couri, in which, while he ceased, coiQd be heard low moanings, and other s^^mptoms of acute sorrow. "It is now your duty to forget every earthly object on which your heart may have been fixed, and to seek that source of consolation and mercy vrhich can best sus- tain and comfort you. Go with a jDenitent heart to the throne of your Redeemer, who, if your repentance be sincere, will in no ■vN'ise cast you out. Unhappy youth, prepare yourself, let me implore you, for an infinitely greater and more awful tribunal than this. There, should the judgment be in your favor, you wiU learn that the fate, which has cut you off in the bloom of early life, will bring an accession of hai:)piuess to your be- ing for which no earthly enjoyment here, however j)i'olonged or exalted, could com- pensate you. The recommendation of the jurj' to the mercy of the crown, in considera- tion of your youth and previous good con- duct, will not be overlooked ; but in the mean time the court is bound to pronoiince upon you the sentence of the law, which is, that you be taken from the prison from which you came, on the eighth of next month, at the hour of ten o'clock in the forenoon, to the fi-ont drop of the jail, and there hanged by the neck, until you be dead ; and may God have mercy on your soul ! " " My lord," said the prisoner, unmoved in voice or in manner, unless it might be that both expressed more decision and en- ergy than he had shown during any other pari of the trial ; " my lord, I am now a con- demned man, but if I stood with the rope about my neck, ready to die, I would not FARDOIWUGFIA, THE MISER. 255 exchange situations with the man that has been my accuser. My lord, I can forgive him, and I ought, for I know he has yet to die, and must meet his God. As for my- self, I am thankful that I have not such a conscience as his to bring before my Judge ; and for this reason I am not afraid to die." He was then removed amidst a murmur of gi'ief, as deep and sincere as was ever ex- pressed for a human being under circum- stances of a similar character. After having entered the prison, he was about to tvun aloug a passage which led to the apartment hitherto allotted to him. " This wa}^" said the turnkej', " this way ; God knows I would be glad to let you stop in the room you had, but I haven't the power. We must put you into one of the condemned cells ; but by , it'll go hard if I don't stretch a httle to make you as comfortable as possible." "Take no trouble," said Connor, "take no trouble. I care now but httle about my own comfort ; but if you wish to oblige me, bring me my father. Oh, my mother, my mother ! — you, I doubt, are struck down ah'eady ! " " She was too iU to attend the trial to- day," replied the turnkey. ! " I know it," said Connor ; " but as she's ! not here, bring me my father. Send out a messenger for him, and be quick, for I wont rest till I see him— he wants comfort — the old man's heart will break." , "I heard them say," replied the turnkey, ' after they had entered the cell allotted to \ him, " that he was in a faint at Mat Corri- gan's public house, but that he had recov- ered. I'll go myseK and bring him in to you." i "Do," said Connor, "an' leave us the! moment you bring him." It was more than an hour before the man ' returned, holding Fardorougha by the arm, and, after having left jiim in the cell, he in- stantly locked it outside, and Avithdrew as he had been desired. Connor ran to support liis tottering steps ; and wofull}' indeed did that unfortunate parent stand in need of his assistance. In the jiicture presented by Fardorougha the unhappy 3'oung man forgot in a moment his own miserable and gloomy fate. There blazed in his father's eyes an ex- citement at once dead and ^^•ild — a vague fire ^^•ithout character, yet stirred by an incom- prehensible energy wholly beyond the usual manifestations of thought or suffering. The son on beholding him shuddered, and not for the first time, for he had on one or two occasions before become apprehensive that \ his father's mind might, if strongly pressed, j be worn downi, by the singular conflict of ! which it was the scene, to that most fi-ightful \ of all maladies — insanity. As the old man, however, folded him in his feeble arms, and attempted to express what he felt, the im- happy boy groaned aloud, and felt even in the depth of his cell, a blush of momentary shame suffuse his cheek and brow. His father, notwithstanding the sentence that had been so shortly before passed upon his son — that father, he perceived to be absolutely intoxicated, or, to use a more appropriate 'expression, decidedly drunk. There was less blame, however, to be attached to Fardo- rougha on this occasion, than Connor imag- ined. When the old man swooned in the court-house, he was taken by his neighbors to a pubhc-house, where he lay for some minutes in a state of insensibility. On his recovery he was phed with bm-nt whiskey, as well to restore his strength and prevent a relapse, as upon the jjrinciple that it would enable him to sustain with more firmness the dreadful and shocking destiny which awaited his son. Actuated by motives of mistaken kindness, they poured between two and three glasses of this fiery cordial down his throat, which, as he had not taken so much during the lajjse of thirty yeai's before, soon reduced the feeble old man to the condition in which ^/e have described him when enteiing the gloomy cell of the prisoner. " Father," said Connor, " in the name of Heaven above, who or what has jDut you into this dreadful state, especially when we con- sider the hard, hard fate that is over us, and upon ns ? " " Connor," returned Fardorougha, not perceiving the drift of his question, " Con- nor, my son, I'll hang — hang him, that's one comfort." " "Who are joxx spaking about? " " The rillain sentence was passed on to — to-day. He'll swing — s^ring for the robbery ; P e will. We got him back out of that nest of robbers, the Isle o' Man — o' Man they ctill it — that he made oft' to, the \allain ! " "Father dear, I'm sorry to see you in this state on sich a day — sich a black day to us. For your sake I am. What will the world say of it ? " " Connor, I'm in gi'eat spirits all out, ex- ceptin' for something that I foi'get, that — that — h — lies heavy upon me. That I mayn't sin, but I am — I am, indeed — for now that we've cotch him, we'll hang the rillain up. Ha, ha, ha, it's a pleasant sight to see sich a fellow dangliu' from a roj^e ! " " Father, sit down here, sit down here uj)- on this bad and comfortless bed, and keep yourself quiet for a little. Ma3'be you'D bt better soon. Oh, why did you drink, and ua in such trouble ? " ' ' I'll not sit down ; I'm very well able to 256 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. stand," said he, tottering across tlie room. " The villain thought to stai*ve me, Connor, but you heard the sentence that was passed on him to-day. Where's Honor, fi*om me ? she'U be glad whin — whin she heai'S it, and my son, Connor, mil too — but he's, he's — where is Connor ? — bring me, bring me to Connor. All, avourneen, Honor's heart's breaking for him — 't any rate, the mother's heart — the mother's heart — she's laid low wid an achin', soiTOwful head for her boy." " Father, for God's sake, will you try and rest a Httle ? If you could sleej), father dear, if you could sleep." " I'U hang P e — I'U hang him — but if he gives me back my money, I'U not touch him. "Who are you ? " " Father dear, I'm Connor, your own son, Connor." " I'U marry you and Una, then. I'U settle aU the viUain robbed me of on you, and you'U have every penny of it after my death. Don't be keejjin' me ujd, I can walk very weU; ay, an' I'm in right good spirits. Sure, the money's got, Connor — got back every skil- leen of it. Ha, ha, ha, God be praised ! God be praised ! We've a right to be thankful — the world isn't so bad afther aU." " Father, wiU you try and rest ? " " It's not bad, afther aU — I won't starve, as I thought I would, now that the arr'ighad is got back fi-om the viUain. Ha, ha, ha, it's great, Connor, ahagur ! " " \\'Tiat is it, father dear." " Connor, sing me a song — my heart's up — it's light — am't you glad? — sing me a song." " If 3'Ou'U sleep first, father dear," " The Uligone, Connor, or Shuilagra, or the Troxigha — for, avourneen, avourneen, there must be sorrow in it, for my heart's low, and your mother's heart's in sorrow, an' she's ly- in' far from us, an' her boy's not near her, an' her heart's sore, sore, and her head achin', bekase her boy's far from her, and she can't come to him ! " The boy, whose noble fortitude was un- shaken during the formidable trial it had en- countered in the course of that day, now felt overcome by this simple aUusion to his moth- er's love. He thi-ew his arms about his father's neck, and, placing his head upon his bosom, wept aloud for many, many minutes. " Husth, Connor, husth, asthore — what makes you ciy? Sure, all 'iU be right now that we've got back the money. Eh? Ha, ha, ha, it's great luck, Connor, isn't it gi'eat ? An' you'U have it, you an' Una, afther my death — for I won't starve for e'er a one o' yees." "Father, father, I wish you would rest." " Well, I wiU, avick, I Anil bring me to bed — ^you'U sleep in your own bed to-night. Your poor mother's head hasn't been off o' the place where your owti lay, Connor. No, indeed ; her heart's low — it's breakin' — it'a breakin' — but she won't let anybody make your bed but herself. Oh, the mother's love, Connor — that mother's love, tltat mother's love — but, Connor — " " WeU, lather, dear." "Isn't there something -wrong, avick? isn't there something not right, somehow ? " This question occasioned the son to feel as if his heart would literally burst to pieces, especiaUy when he considered the circum- stances under which the old man put it. Indeed, there was sometliing so transcen- dently appaUing in his intoxication, and in the wUd but affecting tone of his conversa- tion, that, when joined to his palUd and spectral appearance, it gave a character, for the time being, of a mood that stiaick the heai't with an image more fi'ightful than that of madness itself. "Wrong, father!" he repUed, "aU's wrong, and I can't tmderstand it. It's weU for you that you don't know the doom that's upon us now, for I feel how it woiild bring you down, and how it wiU, too. It wUl kill yovi, my father— it wiU kiU you." " Connor, come home, avick, come home — I'm tired at any rate — come home to your mother — come, for her sake — I know I'm not at home, an' she'U not rest till I bring you safe back to her. Come now, I'U have no put offs — you must come, I say — I ordher you — I can't and won't meet her wid- out you. Come, avick, an' you can sing me the song goin' home — come wid your own poor ould father, that can't Uve widout you — come, a sullish machree, I don't feel right here- — we won't be properly happy tiU we go to your lovin' mother." "Father, father, you don't know what you're making me suffer ! AVhat heart, bless- ed Heaven, can bear — " The door of his cell here opened, and the turnkey stated that some five or six of his fi'iends were anxious to see him, and, above aU things, to take charge of his father to his own home. This was a manifest reUef to the young man, who then felt more deep- ly on his unhappy father's account than on his own. "Some fooUsh friends," said he, "have given my father liquor, an' it has got into his head — indeed, it overcame him the more, as I never remember him to taste a drop of spirits during his life before. I can see no- body now an' him in this state ; but if they wish me weU, let them take care of him, and leave him safe at liis own house, and teU them I'll be glad if I can see them to- morrow, or any other time." FARDOROUGEA, THE MISER. 257 With considerable difficulty Fardorouglia was removed from Connor, whom he clung to with all his strength, attempting also to drag him away. He then wept bitterly, because he declined to accompany him home, that he might comfort liis mother, and enjoy the imagined recovery of his money from P e, and the conviction which he believed they had just succeeded in getting against that notorious defaulter. After they had departed, Connor sat do^^'n upon his hard pallet, and, supporting his head with his hand, saw, for the first time, in all its magnitude and horror, the death to which he found himself now doomed. The excitement occasioned by his trial, and his increasing firmness, as it darkened on through all its stages to the final sentence, now had in a considerable degree aban- doned him, and left his heart, at j^resent, more acces.sible to natural weakness than it it had been to the power of his own affec- tions. The image of his early-loved Una bad seldom since his arrest been out of his imagination. Her youth, her beauty, her wild but natural grace, and the flashing glances of her dark enthusiastic eye, when joined to her tenderness and boundless affec- tion for himself — all caused his heart to quiver with deadly anguish through every fibre. This j^roduced a transition to Flanagan — the contemplation of whose perfidious ven- geance made him spring from his seat in a paroxysm of indignant but intense hatred, so utterly furious that the swelling temjDest which it sent through his veins caused him to reel with absolute giddiness. "Great God!" he exclaimed, "you are just, and will this be suffered ? " He theii thought of his parents, and the fiery mood of his mind changed to one of melancholy and sorrow. He looked back up- on his aged father's enduring struggle — upon the battle of the old man's heart against the acciu'sed vice which had swayed its impulses so long — on the protracted conflict between the two energies, Avhich, like contending armies in the field, had now left little but ruin and desolation behind them. His heart, when he brought all these things near him, expanded, and like a bird, folded its wings about the gray-haired martjT to the love he bore him. But his mother^the caressing, the proud, the affectionate, whose heart, in the vi\'id tenderness of hope for her beloved boy, had shaped out his path in life, as that on Avhich she could brood with the fondness of a loving and dehghted spirit — that mother's image, and the idea of her sorrows prostrated his whole strength, like that of a stricken infant, to the earth. •'Mother, mother," he exclaimed, "when I think of what you reared me for, and what I am this night, how can my heart do other- wise than break, as well on your account as on my own, and for all that love us ! Oh ! what will become of you, my blessed mother? Hard does it go with you that you're not about your joride, as you used to call me, now that I'm in tliis trouble, in this fate that is soon to cut me down from your loving arms ! The thought of you is dear to my heart, dear, dearer, dearer than that of any — than my o\vn Una. What will become of her, too, and the old man V Oh, why, why is it that the death I am to suffer is to fall so heavily on them that love me best ? "" He then returned to his bed, but the cold and dreary images of death and ruin haunted his imagination, until the night w\as far spent, when at length he fell into a deep and dreamless sleejD. By the sympathy expressed at his trial, our readers may easily conceive the profound sorrow which was felt for him, in the dis- trict where he was known, from the moment the knowledge of his sentence had gone abroad among the people. This was much strengthened by that which, whether in man or woman, never fails to create an amiable prejudice in its favor — I mean youth and personal beauty. His whole previous char- acter was now canvassed with a moiuTiful lenity that brought out his vu-tues into beautiful rehef ; and the fate of the affection- ate son Avas deplored no less than that of the youthful, but rash and inconsiderate lover. Neither was the father without his share of com2:)assion, for they could not forget that, desi:)ite of all his penury and extortion, the old man's heart had been fixed, with a strong but uncouth affection, upon his amiable and only boy. It was, however, when they thought of -his mother, in whose heart of hearts he had been enshrined as the idol of her whole affection, that their spirits became truly touched. Many a mother assumed in her OAvn person, by the force of imagination, the sinking woman's misery, and poured forth, in unavailing tears, the undeniable pi'oofs of the sincerity with which she participated in Honor's bereavement. As for Flanagan, a deadly weight of odium, such as is peculiar to the Informer in L-eland, fell upon both him and his. Nor was this all. Aided by that sagacity which is so conspicuous in Irishmen, when a vindictive or hostile feehng is excited among them, they depicted Flana- gan's character with an accuracy unk tnith astonishingly correct and intuitive. Nu- merous were the instances of cowardice, treachery, and revenge remembered against him, by those who had been his close and early companions, not one of which woulrl 258 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. have ever occtuTed to them, were it not that their minds had been thi'own bacli; upon the scrutiny by the nielanclioly fate in which he had involved the unhappy Connor O'Donovan. Had he been a mere ordinary witness in the matter, he would have exjDerieuced httle of this boihng indignation at their hands ; but first to participate in the guilt, and after- wards, for the sake of the reward, or fi'om a worse and more flagitious motive, to turn upon him, and become his accuser, even to the taking away of the young man's life — lo stag against his companion and accomphce — this was looked upon as a crime ten thousand times more black and damnable than that for which the unhaj)py culprit had been con- signed to so shameful a death. But, alas, ot what avail was all this sym- pathy and indignation to the unfortunate youth him-self or to those most deeply inter- rested in his fate ? Would not the very love and sorrow felt towards her son fall upon his mother's heart with a heavier weight of bitterness and agony ? Would not his Una's soul be wounded on that ac- covmt with a sliarj)er and more deadly pang of despair and misery '? It woiild, indeed, be difiicult to say whether the house of Bo- dagh Buie or that of Fardorougha was then in the deeper sorrow. On the morning of Connor's trial, Una arose at an earlier hour than usual, and it was observed when she sat at breakfeast, that her cheek was at one moment pale as death, and again flushed and feverish. These symf>toms were first per- ceived by her afiectionate brother, who, on witnessing the mistakes she made in pouring out the tea, exchanged a glance with his parents, and afterwards asked her to allow him to take her place. She laid down the tea-pot, and, looking him mournfully in the face, attempted to smile at a request so un- usual. " Una, dear," said he, '* you must allow me. There is no necessity for attempting to conceal what you feel — we all know it — and if we did not, the fact of your having filled the sugar-bowl instead of the tea-cup would soon discover it." She said nothing, but looked at him again, as if she scarcely comprehended what he said. A glance, however, at the sugar-bowl con\'inced her that she was incapable of per- forming the usual duties of the breakfast table. Hitherto she had not raised her eyes to her father or mother's face, nor spoken to them as had been her wont, when meeting at that strictly domestic meal. The unre- strained sobbings of the mother now aroused her for the first time, and on looking up, she saw her father wiping away the big tears fi-om his eyes. "Una, avourneen," said the worthy man, " let John make tay for us — for, God help you, you can't do it. Don't fret, achora ma- chree, don't, don't, Una ; as God is over me, I'd give all I'm worth to save him, for your sake." She looked at her father and smiled again ; but that smile cut him to the heart. " I will make the tea myself, father," she re- plied, " and I won't commit any more mis- takes ;" and as she spoke she unconsciously poui'ed the tea into the slop-bowl. "Avourneen," said her mother, "let John do it ; acushla maclu-ee, let him do it," She then rose, and viithout uttering a word, passively and silently placed herself on her brother's chair — he having, at the same time, taken that on which she sat. " Una," said her father, taking her hand, " you must be a good girl, and you must have courage ; and whatever happens, my darling, you'U pluck ujd strength, I hope, and bear it." " I hope so, father," said she, "I hope so." "But, avourneen machi-ee," said her mother, " I would rather see you crjin' fifty times over, than smilin' the way you do." " Mother," said she, " my heai't is sore — my heart is sore." " It is, ahagTir machree ; and your hand is tremblin' so much that you can't bring the tay-cup to your mouth ; but, then, don't smile so sorrowfully, anein machree." "Why should I cry, mother?" she re- plied ; "I know that Connor is innocent. If I knew him to be guilty, I would weep, and I ought to weep." " At all events, Una," said her father, " you know it's the government, and not us, that's prosecuting him." To this Una made no rej^ly, but, thrusting away her cup, she looked with the samo mournful smile from one to the other of the Httle circle about her. At length she spoke. " Father, I have a request to ask of you." " If it's within my power, Una darling, I'll grant it ; and if it's not, it'll go hard with me but I'll bring it within my power. What is it, asthore machree ? " "In case he's found guilty, to let John put off his journey to Maynooth, and stay with me for some time — it won't be long I'll keep him." "If it pleases you, darling, he'U never put his foot into Maynooth again." " No," said the mother, " dhamnho to the step, if you don't wish him." "Oh, no, no," said Una, "it's only for a while." "Unless she desires it, I will never go," replied the Joving brother ; "nor will I ever FAlWOIiOUGIIA, TUK MISER. 259 ieave you in your sorrow, my beloved and only sister — never — never — so long as a word from my lips can give you consolation." The warm tears coursed each other down his cheeks as he spoke, and both his parents, on looking at the almost blighted flower be- fore them, wept as if the hand of death had already been upon her. "Your father, and John are going to his trial," she observed; "for me I like to be alone ; — alone ; but when you return to-night, let John break it to me. I'll go now to the garden. I'll walk about to-day — only before you go, John, I want to speak to you." Calmly and without a tear, she then left the parlor, and proceeded to the garden, where she began to dress and ornament the hive which contained the swarm that Connor had brought to her on the day their mu- tual attachment was first disclosed to each other. " Father," said John, when slie had gone, " I'm afx'aid that Una's heart is broken, or if not broken, that she won't survive his con- viction long— it's breaking fast — for my part, in her present state, I neither will nor can leave her." The affectionate father made no reply, but, putting his handkerchief to his eyes, wept, as did her mother, in silent but bitter gi-ief. " I cannot spake about it, nor think of it, John," said he, after some time, " but we must do what we can for her." " If anything hapi^ens her," said the mo- ther, " I'd never get over it. Oh marciful Savior ! how could we live widout her ? " "I would rather see her in tears," said John — "I would rather see her in outrageous grief a thousand times than in the calm but ghastly resolution with which she is bearing herself up against the trial of this day. If he's condemned to death, I'm afraid that either her health or reason will sink under it, and, in that case, God pity her and us, for how, as you say, mother, could we afford to lose her ? Still let us hope for the best. Father, it's time to j)repare ; get the car ready. I am going to the garden, to hear what the poor thing has to say to me, but I will be with you soon." Her brother found her, as we have said, engaged calmly, and with a melancholy pleasure, in adorning the hive which, on Connor's account, had become her favorite. He was not at all sorry that she had proposed this short interview, for, as his hopes of Connor's acquittal were but feeble, if, indeed, he could truly be said to entertain any, he resolved, by delicately communicating his apprehensions, to gi-adually prepare her mind for the worst that might happen. PAKT V. On hearing his step she raised her head, and advancing towards the middle of the garden, took his arm, and led him towards the summer-house in which Connor and she had first acknowledged their love. She gazed wistfully upon it after they entered, and WMung her hands, but still shed no tears. "Una," said her brother, "you had some- thing to say to me ; what is it, darling ? " She glanced timidly at him, and blushed. " You won't be angry with me, John," she replied ; " would it be jiroper for me to — to go " "What ! to be present at the trial ? Dear Una, you cannot think of it. It would neither be proper nor prudent, and you sureh' would not be considered indelicate ? Besides, even were it not so, your strength is unequal to it. No, no, Una dear ; dismiss it from your thoughts." "I fear I could not stand it, indeed, John, even if it were proper ; but I know not what to do ; there is a weight like death upon my heart. If I could shed a tear it would relieve me ; but I cannot." " It is probably better you should feel so. Una, than to entertain hopes upon the mat ter that may be disappointed. It is always wisest to prepare for the worst, in order to avoid the shock that may come upon us, and which always falls hea\dest when it comes contrary to our expectations." "I do not at all feel well," she replied, " and I have been thinking of the best wa^y to break this day's tidings to me, when you come home. If he's cleared, sa}^ good-hu- moredly, ' Una, all's lost ; ' and if — if not, oil, desire me — say to me, 'Una, you had better go to bed, and let your mother go with you ; ' that will be enough ; I will go to bed, and if ever I rise from it again, it wiU not be from a love of Hfe." The brother, seeing that conversation on the subject of her grief only caused her to feel more deeply, deemed it better to ter- minate than to continue a dialogue which only aggravated her sufferings. "I ti-ust and hojje, dear Una," he said, " that you will observe my father's adrice, and make at least a worthy effort to support yourself, under what certainly is a hea^'y affliction to you, in a manner becoming your own character. For his sake — for my mother's, and for mine, too, endeavor to have courage ; be firm — and, Una, if you take my advice, you'll jiray to God to strengthen you ; for, after all, there is no supjDort in the moment of distress and sor- row, like His." " I will take your advice," she replied ; k 260 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. " but is it not strange, Jolin, that such lieaAy misfortunes should fall upon two persons so young, and who deserve it so little '? " " It may he a trial sent for your advantage and his ; who can say but it may yet end for the good of you both ? At present, indeed, there is no probability of its ending favor- ably, and, even should it not, we are bound to beai* "v\ith patience such dispentiations as the Great Being, to whom we owe our existence, and of whose ways we know so little, may think right to lay upon us. Now, God bless you, and support j'ou, dear, till I see you again. I must go ; don't you hear the jaunting-car driving up to the gate ; be firm — dear Una — be firm, and good-by ! " Never was a day spent under the influence of a more terrible suspense than that which di'ank uj) the strength of this sinking girl during the trial of her. lover. Actuated by a burning and restless sense of distraction, she passed from place to place with that mechanical step which mai'ks those who seek for comfort in vain. She retired to her apartment and strove to pray ; but the effort was fruitless ; the confusion of her mind rendered connection and continuity of thought and language impossible. At one moment she repaired to the scenes where they had met, and again with a hot and ach- ing brain, left them with a shudder that arose fi'om a withering conception of the loss of him whose image, by their association, was at once rendered more distinct and more beloved. Her poor mother frequently endeavored to console her, but became too much affected herself to proceed. Nor were the servants less anxious to remove the heavj' load of soitow which weighed dovm. her young spirit to the earth. Her brief, but affecting reply was the same to each. " Nothing can comfort me ; my heart is breaking ; oh, leave me — leave me to the sorrow that's upon me." Deep, indeed, was the distress felt on her account, even by the females of her father's house, who, that day, shed many bitter tears on witnessing the mute but feverish agony of her sufferings. As evening api^roached she became evidently more distracted and depressed ; her head, she said, felt hot, and her temples occasionally throbbed with con- siderable violence. The alternations of color on her cheek were more frequent than be- fore, and their pallid and carmine hues were more alarming!}' contrasted. Her weeping mother took the stricken one to her bosom, and, after kissing her burning and passive lips, pressed her temples with a hope that this might give her relief. " ^\^ly don't you cry, anien machree ? (daughter of my heart). Tiny and shed ' tears ; it'ill take away this burning pain that's : in your poor head ; oh, thry and let down I the tears, and you'll see how it'ill reHeve : you." i " Mother, I can't," she repUed ; "I can ; shed no tears ; I wish they were home, for ; the worst couldn't be worse than this." I " No, asthore, it couldn't — it can't ; husth ! : — do you heai' it ? There they are ; that's : the car ; ay, indeed, it's at the gate." j They both listened for a moment, and the ! voices of her father and brother were dis- I tinctly heard giving some necessary orders i to the sei-vant. i "Mother, mother," exclaimed Una, press- I ing her hands iipon her heart, " my heart is bursting, and my temjDles — my temples " Chiema yeelish," said the mother, feeling its strong and rapid palpitations, "you can't stand this. Oh, darling of my heart, for the sake of your own hfe, and of the living God, be firm ! " At this moment their knock at the hall- door occasioned her to leap wdth a sudden start, almost out of her mother's arms. But, all at once, the tumult of that heart ceased, and the vermillion of her cheek changed to the hue of death. "With a composure prob- ably more the residt of weakness than forti- tude, she clasj)ed her hands, and giving a fixed gaze towards the parlor-door, that spoke the resignation of desj^air, she awaited the tidings of her lover's doom. They both entered, and, after a cautious glance about the room, immediately perceived the situation in which, rechning on her mother's bosom, she lay, ghastly as a corpse, before them.. "Una, deal'," said John, approaching her, "I am afi'aid you are ill." She riveted her eyeg* u^jon him, as if she would read his soul, but she could not utter a syllable. The J'oung man's countenance became overshadowed hy a deep and mournful sense of the task he found himself compelled to perform ; his voice faltered, and his lips trembled, as, in a low tone of heartfelt and profound sympathy, he exclaimed : " Una, dear, you had better go to bed, and let my mother stay with you." Calmly she heard him, and, rising, she slowly but deliberately left the room, and pro- ceeded up stairs with a degree of steadiness which surprised her mother. The onl}' words she uttered on hearing this blighting com- munication, were, " Come \\\i\\ me, mother." "Una, darling," said the latter Avhen they had reached the bed-room, " why don't you spake to me ? Let me hear your voice, jewel ; onh' let me hear your voice." Una stooped and affectionately kissed her, FARDOROUOTIA, THE MISER. 261 but made no reply for some minutes. She then began to undress, which she did in fits and starts ; sometimes pausing, in evident abstraction, for a considerable time, and again resuming the task of preparing for bed. "Mother," she at length saic"" my heart is as cold as ice ; but my brain is burning ; feel my temples ; how hot they ai'e, and how they beat ! " " I do, alanna dheelish ; your body, as well as youi- mind, is sick ; but we'll sind for the doctor, darlin', and you'll soon be betther, I hope." "I hope so ; and then Connor and I can be married in spite of them. Don't they say, mother, th;it marriages are made in heaven ? " "They do, darlin'." " Well, then, I will meet him there. Oh, my head— my head! I cannot bear — bear this racking pain." Her mother, who, though an uneducated woman, was by no means deficient in saga- cit}', immediately perceived that her mind was beginning to exhibit symptoms of being unsettled. Having, therefore, immediately c.illed one of the maid-sen^ants, she gave her orders to stay with Una, who had now gone to bed, until she herself could again return to her. She instantly proceeded to the par- lor, where her husband and son were, and \vith a face pale from alarm, told them that she feared Una's mind was going. W " May the Almighty forljid ! " exclaimed her father, laying do\\Ti his knife and fork, for they had just sat down to dinner ; " oh, what makes you say such a thing, Bridget ? What on earth makes you think it ? " " For Heaven's sake, mother, tell us at once," inquired the son, rising fi'om the table, and walking distractedly across the room. " Why, she's beginning to rave about him," replied her mother; "she's afther sajdng that she'll be married to him~m spite o' them." "In spite o' who, Bridget?" asked the Bodagh, wiping his e^'es — " in spite o' who does she mane ? " " Why, I suppose in spite of Flanagan and thim that found him guilty," I'eplied his wife. " Well, but what else did she say, mo- ther?" " She axed me if marriages M'arn't made in heaven ; and I tould her that the people said so ; upon that she said she'd meet him there, and then she complained of her head. The trewth is, she has a heavy load of sick- ness on her back, and the sorra hour should be lost till we eet a docthor." " Yes, that is the truth, mother ; I'll go this moment for Dr. H . There's noth- ing like taking these things in time. Poor Una ! God knows this trial is a sore one upon a heart so faithful and aflfectionate as hers." " John, had you not betther ait something before you go ? " said his father ; " you want it afther the troublesome day you had." " No, no," rejDhed the son ; " I cannot — I cannot ; I will neither eat nor drink till I hear w^hat the doctor will say about her. O, my God ! " he exclaimed, whilst his eyes filled with tears, "and is it come to tliiswith you, our darHng Una ? — I won't lose a moment till I return," he added, as he w^ent out ; " nor will I, under any cu'cumstances, come without medical aid of some kind." "Let these things be taken away, Brid- get," said the Bodagh ; " my appetite is gone, too ; that last news is the worst of all. May the Lord of heaven keep our child's mind right ! for, oh, Bridget, wouldn't death itself be far afore that ? " " I'm going up to her," repHed his wife ; " and may God guard her, and spare her safe and sovmd to us ; for what — what kind of a house would it be if she but I can't think of it. Oh, wurrah, wurrah, this night ! " Until the return of their son, with the doctor, both O'Brien and his wife hung in a state of alarm bordering on agony over the bed of their beloved daughter. Indeed, the rapidity and vehemence with which incoher- ence, accompanied by severe illness, set in, were sufficient to excite the greatest alarm, and to justif}^ their darkest apprehensions. Her skin was hot almost to burning ; her temples throbbed terribly, and such were her fits of starting and ra^-ing, that they felt as if every minute were an hour, until the phy- sician actually made his appearance. Long before this gentleman reached the house, the son had made him fully acquainted with what he looked upon as the immediate cause of her illness ; not that the doctor liimself had been altogether ignorant of it, for, in- deed, there were few persons of any class or condition in the neighborhood to whom that circumstance was unknown. On examining the diagnostics that pre- sented themselves, he pronounced her com- plaint to be brain fever of the most formi- dable class, to wit., that which arises from extraordinary pressure upon the mind, and unusual excitement of the feelings. It was a relief to her family, however, to know that beyond the temporary mental aberrations, inseparable from the nature of her complaint, there was no erideuce whatsoever of insanit}'. They felt grateful to God for this, and were 262 WILLIAM CARLETON'S, WORKS. conaequently enabled to watch lier sick-bed with more composure, and to look forward to her ultimate recovery A\-ith a hope less morbid and gloomy. In this state we are now compelled to leave them and her, and to beg the reader will accompany us to another house of sorrow, where the mourn- ing was still more deejD, and the spirits that were wounded driven into all the wild and dreary darkness of afthction. Oui' readers cannot forget the helpless ^tate of intoxication, in which Fai'dorougha left his unhappy son on the evening of the calamitous day that saw him doomed to an ignominious death. His neighbors, as we then said, ha\ing procured a cai\ assisted him home, and would, for his wife's and son's sake, have afforded him all the sympath}^ in their power ; he was, however, so completely overcome with the spirits he had drank, and an unconscious latent feehng of the dreadful sentence that had been pronounced upon his son, that he required httle else at their hands than to keep him steady on the car. Dui'ingthe gTeater part of the journey home, his language was only a continuation of the incoherencies which Connor had, with such a humihating sense of shame and sorrow, witnessed in his prison cell. A little before they arrived within sight of his house, his com- panions perceived that he had fallen asleep ; but to a stranger, ignorant of the occurrences ^f the day, the car j^resented the appearance of a party returning fifom a wedding or fi'om <5ome other occasion equally festive and so- cial. Most of them were the worse for liquor, 7 passion, and immediately resolved to let him have his way, whatever it might cost herself. " God pity you," she said ; " I'll give it up, I'll give it up, Fardorougha. Do sleep where he slejj' ; I can't blame you, nor I don't ; for sm-e it's only a j^roof of how much you love him." She then bade him good-night, and, with spirits dreadfully weighed do\\'n by this singular incident, withdrew to her lonely pil- low ; for Connor's bed had been a single one, in which, of course, two persons could not sleep together. Thus did these bereav- ed parents retire to seek that rest wliich nothing but exhausted nature seemed dispos- ed to give them, until at length they fell asleep under the double shadow of night and a calamity which filled their hearts with so much distress and miseiy. In the mean time, whatever these two fam- ihes might have felt for the sufferings of their respective children in consequence of Bartle Flanagan's villainy, that plausible trai- tor had watched the dej^arture of his \'ictim with a palpitating anxiety almost equal to what some unhappy culprit, in the dock of a prison, would experience when the foreman of his juiy nan J J down the sentence which is either to hang or acquit him. Up to the very moment on which the vessel sailed, his cruel but cowardly heart was hterally sick with the apprehension that Connor's mitiga- ted sentence might be still further commut- ed to a term of imprisonment. Great, there- fore, was his joy, and boundless his exultation on satisf\'ing himself that he was now per- fectly safe in the crime he had committed, and that his path was never to be crossed by him, whom, of all men hving, he had most feared and hated. The reader is not to sup- pose, however, that by the ruin of Connor, and the revenge he consequently had gained upon Fardorougha, the scoj^e of his dark de- signs was by any means accomphshed. Far from it ; the fact is, his measures were only in a progressive state. In Nogher M'Cor- mick's last inter%iew -^ith Connor, our read- ers will please to remember that a hint had been thrown out by that attached old follow- er, of Flanagan's entertaining certain guilty purposes involving nothing less than the ab- duction of Una. Now, in justice even to Flanagan, we are bound to say that no one liAdng had ever received fi'om himself any in- timation of such an intention. The whole story was fabricated by Nogher for the pur- pose of getting Connor's consent to the vengeance which it had been determined to execute upon his enemy. By a curious co- incidence, however, the stoiy, though decided- ly false so far as Nogher knew to the contra- ry', happened to be hteraDy and absolutely U^e Flanagan, indeed, was too skilful and secret, either to precipitate his own designs until the feehng of the parties should abate and settle do^vn, or to place himself at the mercy of another person's honesty. He knew his own heart too well to risk his Kfe by such dangerous and unseasonable confidence. Some months consequently passed awaj' sinca Connor's departure, when an event took place which gave him still gi-eater secvuity. This was nothing less than the fulfilment by Far- dorougha of that plan to which he looked forward "svdth such prospective satisfaction. Connor had not been a month gone when his father commenced to dispose of his property, which he soon did, ha\ing sold out his farm to good advantage. He then paid his rent, the only debt he owed ; and, ha^ang taken a passage to New South Wales for himself and Honor, they departed with melancholy satis- faction to seek that son without whose soci- ety they found their desolate hearth gloomier than the cell of a j^rison. This was followed, too, by another circum- stance — but one aj)parently of httle impor- tance — which was, the removal of Biddy Nulty to the Bodagh's family, through the interference of Una, by whom she was treated "v\dth singular afi'ection, and admitted to her confidence. Such was the position of the parties after the laj)se of five months subsequent to the trans j)ortation of Connor. Flanagan had conducted himself with gi-eat cu'cumspection, and, so far as pubhc obsen^ation could go, with much j^rojDriety. There was no change whatsoever percejotible, either in his dress or manner except that alluded to by Nogher of his altogether dechning to taste any in- toxicating liquor. In tnith, so weU did he act his part, that the obloquy raised against him at the period of Connor's trial was nearly, if not altogether, removed, and many l^ersons once more adopted an impression of his victim's guilt. With resjiect to the Bodagh and his son,, the anxiety which we have described them as; feehng in consequence of the latter's inter- view with O'Donovau, was now completely- removed. Una's mother had nearly forgotteni both the crime and its consequences ; but. ujion the spirit of her daughter there ap- peai-ed to rest a silent and settled sorrow not. likely to be diminished or removed. Her cheei-fulness had abandoned her, and many an hour did she contrive to spend with Biddy Nulty, eager in the mournful satis- faction of talking over aU that affection prompted of her banished lover. . We must now beg our readers to accom- pany us to a scene of a difierent description from any we have yet drawn. The night of a November da^' had set in. or rather had 288 WILLIAM CABLETON'S WORKS. advanced so far as nine o'clock, and towards the angle of a smiill three-cornered field, called lay a peculiar coincidence of name, Oona's Handkerchief, in consequence of an old legend connected with it, might be seen moving a number of straggling figures, sometimes in groups of foiu'S and fives ; sometimes in twos or threes as the case might be, and not unfrequently did a single straggler advance, and, after a few private words, either join the others or proceed alone to a house situated in the angular corner of the field to which we allude. As the district was a remote one, and the night rather dai'k, several shots might be heard as they jjroceed- ed, and several flashes in the pan seen from the rusty ai'ms of those who were probably anxious to p\ill a trigger for the first time. The country, at the period we write of, be it observed, was in a comparative state of tranquility, and no such thing as a police corps had been heaixl of or known in the neighborhood. • At the lower end of a long, level kind of moor called the Black Park, two figures ap- proached a kind of gate or j^ass that oj)ened into it. One of them stood until the other advanced, and, in a significant tone, asked who comes there ? " A friend to the guard," was the reply. " Good moiTOw," said the other. " Good moiTow mornin' to you." "What age are vou in?" "In the end of the Fifth." " All right ; come on, boy ; the true blood's in you, whoever you are." " An' is it possible you don't know me, Dandy ? " "Faix, it is ; I forgot my spectacles to- night. "\Mio the dickins are you at all ? " "I supjiose j'ou piu'tind to forget Ned M'Cormick ? " "Is it Nogher's son ? " " The diril a other ; an', Dandy Dviffy, how are you, man alive ? " ""\Mi3% you see, Ned, I've been so long out of the counthiy, an' I'm now so short a time back, that, upon my sowl, I forget a gi-eat many of my ould acquaintances, es- pecially them that wor only slips when I wint acrass. Faith, I'm purty well considherin, Ned, I thank you." " Bad luck to them that sint you acrass. Dandy ; not but that you got off piu'ty well on the whole, by all accounts. They say only that Eousin Redhead swore like a man you'd 'a' got a touch of the Shaggy Shoe." " To the divil vdd it aU now, Ned ; let us have no more about it ; I don't for my own part like to think of it. Have you any notion of what we're called upon for to- night ? " " Divil the laste ; but I believe. Dandy, that Bai'tle's not the white-neaded boy wid you no more nor wid some more of us." " Him ! a double-distilled villain. Faith, there wor never good that had the white liver ; an' he has it to the backbone. My brother Lachlin, that's now dead, God rest him, often tould me about the way he tricked him and Barney Bradly when they wor greenhorns about nineteen or twenty. He got them to join him in steaUn' a sheep for their Christmas dinner, he said ; so they all three stole it ; an' the blaggard skinned and cut it up, sendin' my poor boacun of a bi'other home to hide the skin in the straw in our bai-n, and poor Baraey, wid only the head an' trotters, to hide them in his father's tow-house. Tery good ; in a day or two the neighbors wor all called upon to clear themselves upon the holy EvangeHsp ; and the two first that he egg'd an' to do it was my brother an' Barney. Of coorse he switch- ed the primmer himself that he was inno- cent ; but whin it was all over some one sint Jar'my Campel, that lost the sheep, to the veiy spot where they hid the fleece an' trot- ters. Jai-my didn't wish to say much about it ; so he tould them if they'd fairly acknowl- edge it an' pay him betime them for the sheep, he'd dhrop it. My fither an' Andy BracUy did so, an' there it ended ; but pur- shue the morsel of mutton ever they tasted in the mane time. As for Bartle, he man- aged the thing so weU that at the time they never suspected him, although divil a other could betray them, for he was the only one knew it ; an' he had the aiten o' the mutton, too, the blaggard ! Faith, Ned, I know him well." "He has conthi-ived to get a strong back o' the boys, anyhow." "He has, an' 'tis that, and bekase he's a good hand to be luidher for m}' revinge on Blennerhasset, that made me join him." "I dvmna what could make him refuse to let Ahck Nulty join him ? " "Is it my cousin fi'om Annaloghan ? an' did he ? " "Divil a He in it ; it's as fchrue as you're standin' there ; but do you know what is suspected ? " "No." "Why, that he has an eye on Bodagh Buie's daughter. Ahck towld me that, for a long time afther Connor O'Donovan was thransported, the father an' son wor afeard of him. He hju'd it from his sister Biddy, an' it appears that the Bodagh's daughter tould her family that he used to stare her out of countenance at mass, an' several times struv to piit the furraun on her in hopes to get acquainted." 1 FARDOROUGHA, THE MISER. 289 ** He would do it ; an' my hand to you, if he undhertakes it he'll not fail ; an' I'll tell yt u another thing, if he suspected that I knew anything about the thraicherous thrick he put on my poor bi'other, the divil a toe he d let me join him ; but you see I was only a mere gorsoon, a child I may say at the time. ' At all events let us keep an eye on him ; an' in regard to Connor O'Donovan's busi- ness , let him not be too sure that it's over wid him yet. At any rate, by dad, my father has sHpped out a name upon him an' us that will do him no good. The other boys now call us the Stags of Liadhu, that bein' the place where his father lived, an' the nickniime you see rises out of his thracheiy to poor Connor O'Donovan." " Did he ever give any hint himseK about carryin' away the Bodagh's pretty daugh- ter?" "Is it him? Oh, oh! catch him at it; he's a damn sight too close to do any sich thing." Aftei some further conversation upon that and other topics, they arrived at the place of appointment, which was a hedge school-hjuse ; one of those where the master, generally an unmarried man, merely wields his sceptre during school-hours, leav- ing it optn and uninhabited for the rest of the twentv-four. The ap|:tearance of those who were here assembled was indeed singularly striking. A large fir j of the unconsumed peat brought by the schc ilars on that morning, was kind- led in the middle of the floor — it's usual site. Aroind, upon stones, hobs, bosses, and seats of various descriptions, sat the "boys" — S(ime smoking and others drink- ing ; for up on nights of this kind, a shebeen- housekeepe;.f, uniformly a member of such societies, gsnerally attends for the sale of his Uquor, if he cannot succeed in prevaihug on them to hold their meetings in his own house — a circumstance which for many rea- sons may not be in every case advisable. A.S they had not all yet assembled, nor the business of the night commenced, they were, of course, divided into several groups and engaged in various amusements. In the iower end of the house was a knot, busy at the game of " spoiled five," their ludicrous table being the crown of a hat, placed upon the floor in the centre. These all sat upon the ground, their legs stretched out, their torch-bearer holding a Ht bunch of fir splin- ters, stuck for convenience sake into the muzzle of a horse-pistol. In the upper end, again, sat another cHque, listening to a man who was reading a treasonable ballad. Such of them as could themselves read stretched 10 over their necks in eagerness to peruse it along with him, and such as could not — in- deed, the greater number — gave force to its principles by verj' significant gestures ; some being those of melody, and others those of murder ; that is to say, part of them were attempting to hum a tune in a low voice suitable to the words, whilst others more fe- rocious brandished their weapons, as if those against whom the spirit of the baDad was directed had been then within the reach of their savage passions. Beside the fire, and near the middle of the house, sat a man, who, by his black stock and military appear- ance, together with a scar over his brow that gave him a most repulsive look, was evidently a pensioner or old soldier. This person was engaged in examining some rusty fire-arms that had been submitted to his in- spection. His self-importance was amusing, as was also the deferential aspect of those who, with arms in their hands, hammering flints or tiirning screws, awaited patiently their turn for his opinion of their efficiency. But perhaps the most striking group of all was that in which a thick-necked, bull-head- ed young fellow, -svith blood-colored hair, a son of Rousin Redhead's — who, by the way, was himself present — and another bee- tle-browed slip were engaged in dramng for a wagpr, upon one of the school-boy's slates, the figure of a coffin and cross-bones. A hardened-looking old sinner, with murder legible in his face, held the few half-pence which they wagered in his open hand, whilst in the other he clutched a pole, surmounted by a bent bayonet that had evidently seen service. The last group worthy of remark was composed of a few persons who were writing threatening notices upon a leaf torn out of a school-boy's copy, which was laid upon what they formerly termed a copy- board, of plain deal, kept upon the knees, as a substitute for desks, while the boys were writing. This mode of amusement was called waiting for the Article-bearer, or the Captain, for such was Bartle Flanagan, who now entered the house, and saluted all pres- ent -vNith great cordiahty. " Begad, boys," he said, " our four guards widout is worth any money. I had to pass the sign-word afore I could pass myself, and that's the way it ought to be. But, boys, before we go further, an' for fraid of thrait- ors, I must call the rowl. You'll stand in a row roun' the walls, an' thin we can make sure that there's no spies among us." He then called out a roll of those who were members of his lodge and, having ascertained that all was right, he proceeded immediately to business. "Rousin Redhead, what's the mi sin you 290 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. didn't take the arms from Captain St. Ledg- er's Stewart ? Sixteen men armed was enough to do it, an' yees failed." " Ay, an' if you had been wid us, and six- teen more to the back o' that, you'd failed too. Begarra, captain dear, it seems that good people is scarce. Look at IVIickey Mulvather there, you see his head tied up ; but aldo he can play cards well enough, be me sowl, he's short of wan ear any how, an' if you could meet wan o' the same Stewart's bullets, goin' abroad at night like ourselves for its divarsion, it might tell how he lost it. Bartle, I tell you a number of us isn't satis- fied -ndd you. You sends us out to meet danger, an' you won't come yourself." " Don't you know, Eouser, that I always do go whenever I can? But I'm caged now ; faix I don't sleep in a bam, and can't budge as I used to do." "An' who's tyin' you to your place, thin?" " Eouser." replied Bai'tle, " I wish I had a thousand like you, not but I have fine fellows. Boys, the thi'uth is this, you must all meet here to-morrow night, for the short an' long of it is, that I'm goin' to run away wid a wife." " Well," rephed Redhead, " sure you can do that widout oiu' assistance, if she's willin' to come." "Willin'! why," repHed Bartle, "it's by her own appointment we're goin'." "An' if it is, then," said the Rouser, who, in truth, was the leader of the suspicious and disaffected party in Flanagan's lodge, " what the blazes use have you for us ? " "Rouser Redhead," said Bartle, casting a suspicious and maHgnant glance at him, " might I take the liberty of axin' what you mane by spakin' of me in that disparagin' manner ? Do you remimber jowc oath ? or do you forget that you're bound by it to meet at twelve hours' notice, or less, whin- ever you're called upon ? Dar Chriestha ! man, if I hear another woi'd of the kind out of your hps, down you go on the black list. Boys," he proceeded, with a wheedling look of good-humor to the rest, "we'U have neither Spies nor Stags here, come or go what may." " Stags ! " repHed Rouser Redhead, whose face had ah-eady become scai'let with indig- nation. " Stags, you say, Bartle Flanagan ! Arrah, boys, I wondher where is poor Con- nor O'Donovan by this time ? " "I suppose bushin' it afore now," said our friend of the preceding part of the night. " I bushed it myself for a year and a half, but be Japurs I got sick of it. But any how, Bartle, you oughn't to spake of Stags, for although Connor refused to join us, damn jour blood, you had no right to go to inform upon him. Sure, only for the intherest that was made for him, you'd have his blood on your sowl." " An' if he had itself," observed one of Flanagan's friends, "'twould signify very Uttle. The Bodagh desarved what he got, and more if he had got it. What right has he, one of our own purswadjion as he is to hould out against us the way he does? Sure he's as rich as a Sassenach, an' may heU re- save the farden he'U subscribe towards our gettin' ai'ms or ammunition, or towards de- findin' us when we're brought to thrial. So heU's delight -nid the dirty Bodagh, says myself for wan." "An' is that by way of defince of Captain Bartle Flanagan ? " inquii*ed Rouser Red- head, indignantly. " An' so our worthy captain sint the man across that punished our inimy, even accordian to your own pfov in', an' that by sfaggin' aginst him. Of coorse, had the miser's son been one of huz, Bartle's brams would be scattered to the four quarthers of heaven long agone." " An' how did I know but he'd stag aginst me ? " said Bartle, very calmly. "Damn well you knew he would not," ob- served Ned M'Cormick, now encouraged by the bold and decided manner of Rouser Redhead. "Before ever you went into Far- dorougha's san^ice you sed to more than one that you'd make him sup sorrow for his harshness to your father and family." " An' didn't he desarve it, Ned ? Didn't he minus?" " He might desarve it, an' I suppose he did ; but what right had you to punish the innocent for the guilty ? You knew very weU that both his son and his wife always set their faces against his doin's." " Boys," said Flanagan, " I don't under- stand this, and I tell you more I won't bear it. This night let any of you that doesn't like to be undher me say so. Rouser Red- head, you'U never meet in a Ribbon Lodge agin. You're scratched out of wan book, but by way of comfort you're down in another " "^Vhat other, Bartle?" " The black list. An' now I have nothin' more to say except that if there's anything on your mind that wants absolution, look to it." We must now pause for a moment to ob- serve upon that which we suppose the saga- city of the reader has already discovered — that is, the connection between what has oc- curred in Flanagan's lodge, and the last dia- logue which took place between Nogher and Connor O'Donovan. It is e\'ident that No- gher had spirits at work for the purpose both of watching and contravening aU Flana- gan's plans, and, if possible, of drawing him FARDOROUGEA, THE MISER. 291 into some position which might justify the " few fiiends," as he termed them, first in disgracing him, and afterwai'ds of setthng their account ultimately with a, man whom they wished to blacken, as dangerous to the society of which they were members. The curse, howevei*, of these secret confederacies, and indeed of ribbonism in general, is, that the savage principle of jiersonal vengeance is transfen-ed from the nocturnal assault, or the midday assassination, which may be directed against religious or pohtical enemies, to the private bickexings and petty jealousies that must necessaiily occur in a combination of ignorant and bigoted men, whose passions ai'e guided by no princij^le but one of prac- tical cruelty. This explains, as we have just put it, and justly put it, the incredible num- ber of murders which are committed in this unhappy country', under the name of way- laj'ings and midnight attacks, where the of- fence that caused them cannot be traced by society at large, although it is an incontro- vertible fact, that to all those who are con- nected with ribbonism, in its varied phases, it often happens that the projection of such murders is kno^\^l for weeks before the}' are peiiDetrated. The "svi'etched assassin who murders a man that has never offended him personally, and who suffers himself to become the iustiniment of executing the hatred which originates fi'om a principle of general enmity again a clans, will not be likely, once his hands are stained with blood, to spare any one who may, by direct personal injury, in- cur his resentment. Eveiy such offence, where secret societies ai'e concerned, is made a matter of personal feeling and trial of strength between factions, and of course a similar spii-it is superinduced among persons of the same creed and principles to that which actuates them against those who differ from them in poHtics and rehgion. It is ti-ue that the occui'rence of murders of this char- acter has been refeiTed to as a proof that secret societies ai'e not founded or conducted upon a spirit of reUgious rancor ; but such an assertion is, in some cases, the result of gross ignorance, and, in many more, of far grosser dishonesty. Their mui-deiing each other is not at all a proof of any such thing, but it is a proof, as we have said, that their habit of taking away human hfe, and shed- ding human blood upon slight grounds or pohtical feelings, follows them fi-om their conventional principles to their private re- sentments, and is, therefore, such a conse- quence as might naturally be expected to re- sult from a combination of men who, in one sense, consider mvu'der no crime. Thus does this secret tyranny fall back upon society, as well as upon those who are concerned in it, as a double curse ; and, indeed, we believe that even the gi-eater number of these un- happy \\Tetciies whom it keeps within its toils, would be glad if the principle were rooted out of the country forever. "An' so you're goin' to jjut my father down on the black list," said the beetle- browed son of the Kouser. "Very well, Bartle, do so ; but do you see that ? " he ad- ded, pointing to the sign of the cofl&n and the cross-bones, which he had previously drawn upon the slate ; "dhar a sphu'itNeev, if you do, you'll Avaken some mornin' in a wai'mer eounthry than Ireland." "Very well," said Bartle, quietly, but evi- dently shrinking from a threat neai'ly as fear- ful, and far more daring than his ovsTi. "You know I have nothin' to do except my duty. Yez are goin' aginst the cause, an' I must report yez ; afther whatever happens won't come fi-om me, nor from any one here. It is from thim that's in higher quarters you'll get your doom, an' not from me, or, as I said afore, fi'om any one here. Mark that ; but indeed you know it as well as I do, an' I beheve, Rouser, a good deal bet- ther." Flanagan's argument, to men who under- stood its dreadful import, was one before which almost every description of personal courage must quail. Persons were then present, Rouser Redliead among the rest, who had been sent upon some of those mid- night missions, which contumacy against the system, when operating in its cnielty, had dictated. Persons of humane disposition, declining to act on these sanguinary occa- sions, are generally the first to be sacri- ficed, for individual hfe is nothing when ob- stnicting the propagation of general princi- ple. This ti-uth, coming fi'om Flanagan's Hps, they themselves, some of whom had executed its spiiit, knew but too well. The difference, however, between their apprehension, so far as they were indiridually concerned, was not much ; Flanagan had the person to fear, and liis opponents the jirinciple. Redhead, however, who knew that what- ever he had executed upon dehnquents like himself, might also upon himself be risited in his tuni, saw that his safest plan for the present was to submit ; for indeed the- meshes of the White-boys' system leave no man's life safe, if he express hostile opinions to it. " Bartle," said he, " you know I'm no cow- ard ; an' I gi'ant that you've a long head at plannin' anything you set about. I don't see, in the mane time, why, afther all, we should quarrel. You know me, Baiile ; an' if anything happens me, it won't be for noth* 292 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. tn\ I say no more ; but I say still that you throw the danger upon uz, and don't — " "' Rouser Redhead," said Bartle, " give me yoxir hand. I say now, what I didn't wish to say to-night afore, by Japurs, you're worth live men ; an' I'll tell you iiH, boys, j'ou must meet the Rouser here to-morrow night, an' we'll have a dhrink at my cost ; an', boys — Jiouser, hear me — you all know your oaths ; we'll do something to-morrow night — an' I say again, Rouser, I'D be wid yez an' among yez ; an' to prove my opinion of the Rouser, I'll allow him to head us." " An', by the cross o' Moses, I'll do it in style," rejoined the hot-headed but unthink- ing fellow, who did not see that the adroit captain was placing him in the post of danger. " I don't care a damn what it is — we'll meet here to-mon-ow night, boys, an' I'll show you that I can lead as well as foUy." " Whatever happens," said Bartle, " we oughtn't to have any words or bickerin's among ourselves at any rate. I undherstand that two among yez sthruck one another. Sure yez know that there's not a blow ye giv to a brother but's a peijury — an' there's no use in that, barin an' to helpforid the thinith. I'll say no more about it now ; but I hope there'll never be another blow given among yez. Now, get a hat, some o' yez, till we draw cuts for six that I want to Ijeat Tom L^oichagan, of Lisdhu ; he's worken for St. Ledger, afther gettin' two notices. He's a quiet, civil man, no doubt ; but that's not the thing. Obadience, or whei-e's the use of om- meetin's at all V Give him a good sound batin', but no fui-ther — break no bones." He then marked slips of paper, equal in number to those who were present, with the numbers 1, 2, 3, &c., to correspond, after which he determined that the three first numbers and the three last should go — all of which was agi'eed to without remonstrance, or any apparent show of reluctance whatever. "Now, boys," he continued, "don't forget to attend to-morrow night ; an' I say to every man of you, as Darby Spaight said to the divil, when he promised to join the re- bellion, 'phe dha f)hecka laght,' (bring your pike with you,) bring the weapon." " An who's the purty girl that's goin' to get you, Captain Bartle ? " inquired Dandy Dufty. " The purtiest girl in this parish, any- how," replied Flanagan, unawares. The words, however, wtre scarcely out of his lips, when he felt that he had been indiscreet. He immediately added — "that is, if she is of this parish ; but I didn't say she is. Maybe we'U have tt> thravel a bit to find her out, but come what come may, don't neglect to be all here about half-past nine o'clock, wid your arms an' ammunition." Duffy, who had sat beside Ned M'Cormick during the night, gave him a significant look, wliich the other, who had, in tinith, joined himself to Flanagan's lodge only to watch his movements, as significantly re-, turned. \\Tien the men deputed to beat Lj-ncha- ghan had blackened their faces, the lodge dispersed for the night. Dandy Duffy and Ned M'Cormick taking their way home to- gether, in order to consider of matters, with which the reader, in due time, shall be made acquainted. PART vn. OuE readers may recollect, that, at the close of that part of our tale which appeared in the preceding number, Dandy Duffy and Ned M'Cormick exchanged significant glances at each other, upon Flanagan's having ad- mitted unawares that the female he designed to take away on the following night was " the purtiest girl in the jDarish." The truth was, he imagined at the moment that his designs were fully matured, and in the secret vanity, or rather, we should say, in the triumphant villainy of his heart, he allowed an expi-ession to incautiously pass his lips which was nearly tantamount to an admission of Una's name. The truth of this he instantly felt. But even had he not, by his ovni natural sagacity, perceived it, the look of mutual intelligence which his quick and suspicious eye observed to jjass between Du% and Ned M'Cormick would at once have convinced him. Una was not merely entitled to the compliment so covertly bestowed upon her extraordinaiy personal attractions, but in addition it might have been tiaily affirmed that neither that nor any adjoining parish could jjroduce a female, in any rank, who coiild stand on a level with her in the character of a rival beauty. This was admitted by all who had ever seen the colleen dhas dhun, or " the purty brown girl," as she was called, and it followed as a matter of course, that Flanagan's words could imply no other than the Bodagh's daughter. It is unnecessary to say, that Flanagan, knowing this as he did, could almost have bit a portion of his own tongue off' as a punishment for its indiscretion. It was then too late, however, to efface the impression which the words were calculated to make, and he felt besides that he would only strengthen the suspicion by an over-anxietjf FARDOROUGnA, THE MISER. 29S CO remove it. He, therefore, repeated his orders respecting the appointed meeting on the following night, although he had already resolved' in his o^vn mind to change the whole plan of his operations. Such was the precaution with which this cowardly but accomphshed miscreant pro- ceeded towards the accomjDlishment of his purposes, and such was his ajDj^i'ehension lest the premature suspicion of a single indi- vidual might by contingent treachery defeat his design, or affect his personal safety. He had made up his mind to communicate the secret of his enterprise to none until the moment of its execution ; and this being ac- comphshed, his ultimate plans were laid, as he thought, with sufficient skill to bafHe pursuit and defeat either the maUce of his J enemies or the vengeance of the law. No sooner had they left the schoolhouse than the Dandy and M'Cormick immediately separated from the rest, in order to talk over the proceedings of the night, with a view to their suspicions of the " Captain." They had not gone far, however, when they were overtaken by two others, who came up to them at a quick, or, if I may be allowed the expression, an earnest pace. The two latter were Rousin Redhead and his son, Corney. "So, boys," said the Rouser, "what do you think of our business to-night? Didn't I get well out of his clutches ? " " Be me troth, Rouser, darlin'," repHed the Dandy, "you niver wor completely in them till this minnit." " Dhar ma Iham charth," said Corney, " I say he's a black-hearted villin." " But how am I in his clutches, Dandy ? " inquired the Rouser. " Why," rejoined Duffy, " didn't you see that for all you said about his throwin' the post of danger on other people, he's givin' it to you to-morrow night ? " Rousin Redhead stood still for nearly half a minute without uttering a syllable ; at length he seized Dandy by the arm, which he pressed with the gripe of Hercules, for he was a man of huge size and strength. " Chorp ad dioual, you giant, is it my ai*m you're goin' to break ? " ' Be the tarnal gj'immer. Dandy Duff)', but I see it now ! " said the Rouser, struck by Bartle's address, and indignant at the idea of having been overreached by him. " Eh, Corney," he continued, addressing the son, " hasn't he the Rouser set ? I see, boys, I see. I'm a marked man wid him, an' it's Hkely, for all he said, will be on the black hst afore he sleeps. Well, Corney avic, you an' others know how to act if anything happens me." " I don't think," said M'Cormick, who was a lad of considerable penetration, "that you need be afeard of either him or the black list. Be me sowl, I know the same Bartle well, au' a bigger coward never put a coat on his back. He got as pale as a sheet, to-night, when Comey there threatened him ; not but he's desateful enough I grant, but he'd be a greater tyrant only that he's so hen-heart- ed." "But what job," said the rouser, " has he for us to-morrow night, do you think ? It must be something past the common. Who the dioual can he have in his eye to run away wid?" " Who's the the purtiest girl in the parish, Rouser ? " asked Ned. " I thought every one knew that." " Why, you don't mane for to say," replied Redhead, " that he'd have the spunk in him to run away with Bodagh Buie's daughter ? Be the contents o' the book, if I thought he'd thry it, I stick to him like a Throjan ; the dirty Bodagh, that, as Lariy Lawdher said to- night, never backed or supported us, or gev a single rap to help us, if a penny 'ud save us fi'om the galhs. To hell's delights wid him an' all belongin' to him, I say too ; an' I'll tell you what it is, boys, if Flanagan has the manliness to take away his daughter, I'll be the first to sledge the door to pieces." "Dhar a f^nridh, an' so will I," said the young beetle-browed tiger beside him ; "thim that can an' won't help on the cause, desarves no mercy from it." Thus spoke from the lips of ignorance and bratahty that esprit de corps of blood, which never scniples to sacrifice all minor resent- ments to any opportunity of extending the cause, as it is termed, of that ideal monster, in the i:)romotion of which the worst princi- jiles of our nature, still most active, are sure to experience the greatest glut of low and gross gratification. Oh, if reason, virtue, and true rehgion, were only as earnest and vigorous in extending their own cause, as ig- norance, persecution, and bigotry, how soon would society present a different aspect I But, unfortunately, theij cannot stoop to call in the aid of tyranny, and cnielty, and blood-- shed, nor of the thousand other atrocious aUies of falsehood and dishonesty, of which ignorance, craft, and cruelty, never fail to avail themselves, and without which they could not proceed successfuDy. M'Cormick, ha^ing heard Rousin Redhead and his son utter such sentiments, did not feel at all justified in admitting them to any confidence with himself or Dutty. He accord- ingly replied with more of adroitness than of candor to the savage sentiments they ex- pressed. " Faith, you're right, Rouser ; he'd never have sj)unk, sure enough, to carry off the 294 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. Bodagh's daughter. But, in the mane time, who was spakin' about her? Begor, if I thought he had the heart I'd — but he hasn't." "I know he hasn't," said the Eouser. " He's nothing but a white-hvered dog," said Duffy. "I thought, to tell you the truth," said M'Cormiek, " that you might give a guess as to the gii'l, but for the Bodagh's daughter, he has not the mettle for that." "If he had," rephed the Eouser, "he might count upon Corney an' myself as right-hand men. We aU have a crow to pluck wid the dirty Bodagh, an', be me zounds, it'U puzzle him to find a bag to hould the feathers." " One 'ud think he got enough," obsei'ved M'Cormiek, "in the loss of his haggard." " But that didn't come from uz," said the Rouser ; "we have our share to give him vet, an' never fear he'll get it. We'll taich him to abuse us, an' set us at defiance, as he's constantly doin'." " Well, Rouser," said M'Cormiek, who now felt anxious to get rid of him, " we'U be wishin' you a good night ; we're goin' to have a while of a kailyeah^ ujs at my uncle's. Corney, my boy, good night." " Good night kindly, boys," rephed the other, "an' banaght lath any how." " Eouser, you di^dl," said the Dandy, call- ing after them, "will you an' blessed Corney there, offer up a Patthernavy for my conver- sion, for I'm sui'e that both your prayers win go far ? " Rousin Redhead and Corney responded to this with a loud laiTgh, and a banter. " Ay, ay. Dandy ; but, be me sowl, if they only go as far as your own goodness sint you before now, it'U be seven years before they come back again ; eh, do you smell anjiihing ? — ha, ha, ha ! " "The big boshthoon hot me fairly, begad," observed the Dandy. Aside — "The divil's own tongue he has." " Bad cess to you for a walkin' bonfire, an' go home," replied the Dandy ; " I'm not a match for vou "u-id the tongue, at all at fiU." " No, nor wid anything else, barrin' your heels," rephed the Rouser ; "or your hands, if there was a horse in the way. Arrah, Dandy ? " "Well, you gi-aceful youth, well? " " You ought to be a good workman by this time ; you first lai'ned your thrade, an' thin you put in your apprenticeship — ha, ha, ha ! " " Faith, an' Eouser I can promise you a * An evening conversational visit. merry end, my beauty ; you'll be the onl;f man that'll dimce at your oa\'ti funeral ; an' I'll tell you what, Eouser, it'll be hke an egg-hornpipe, wid your eyes covered. That's what I caU an active death, avouchal ! " "Faith, an' if you wor a priest, Dandy, you'd never die with yoiu" face to the con- gregation. You'll be a rope-dancer yourself yet; only this. Dandy, that you'll be undher the rope instead of over it, so good night." " Eouser," exclaimed the other. " Eousin Eedhead ! " " Go home," replied the Eouser. " Good night, I say ; you've thravelled a great deal too far for an ignorant man like me to stand any chance wid you. Your tongue's hghter than yo\ir hands * even, and that's payin' it a high compliment." "Divil sweep you, Brien," said Dandy, "you'd beat the divU an' Docthor Fosther* Good night again ! " " Oh, ma bannaght laht, I say." And they accordingly parted. "Now," said Ned, "what's to be done Dandy ? As siu-e as gun's iron, this limb ol hell will take away the Bodagh's daughter, if we don't do something to jDrevent it." " I'm not jDuttin' it past him,'' returnee? his companion, " but how to jDrevent it ii the thing. He has the boys all on nis side, barrin' yourself and me, an' a few more." " An' you see, Ned, the Bodagh is s^ much hated, that even some of thim tha* don't hke Flanagan, won't scruple to joiu him in this." " An' if we were known to let the cat out o' the bag to the Bodagh, we might as weU prepare our coffins at wanst." "Faith, sure enough — that's but gospel, Ned," replied the Dandy ; still it 'ud be the milliah murdher to let the double-faced \'illiii carry' off such a gii'l." "I'll teU you what you'U do, thin, Dandy," rejoined Ned, "what if you'd walk down "v\ad me as far as the Bodagh's." "For why? Sure they're in bed now, man alive." "I know that," said M'Cormiek; "but how-an-ever, if you come down wid me that far, I'll conthrive to get in somehow, widout wakenin' them." "The dickens you wiff! How, the sarra, man ? " " No matther, I will ; an' you see," he add- ed, jxiUing out a flask of spu'its, "I'm not goin' impty-handed." "Phew!" exclaimed Duffy, "is it there you are ? — oh, that indeed ! Faith I got a whisper of it some time ago, but it wiat out * In Ireland, to be light-handed signifies to b» a thief. FARDOROUGEA, THE MISER. 295 o' my head. Biddy Xulty, faix — a nate clane girl she is, too." "But that's not the best of it, Dandy. Sure, blood alive, I can tell you a sacret— may dipind ? Honor bright ! The Bodagh's daughter, man, is to give her a portion, in regard to her bein' so thinie to Connor O'Donovan. Bad luck to the oath she'd swear aginst him if they'd made a queen of her, but outdone the counsellors and law- yers, an' all the whole bobberv' o' them, whin they wanted her to turn king's evi- dence. Now, it's not but I'd do anything to sai've the purty Bodagh's daughter widout it ; but you see. Dandy, if white Hver takes her off, I may stand a bad chance for the poi-tiou." " Say no more ; I'll go wid you ; but how will you get in, Ned ? " "Never you mind that ; here, take a pull out of this flask before you go any fui*- ther. Blood an' flummeiy ! what a night ; di\dl a my linger I can see before me. Here — where's your hand ? — that's it ; warm yovu' heart, my boy." " You iutind thin, Ned, to give Biddy the hard word about Flanagan ? " " Why, to bid her put them on their guard ; sure there can be no harm in that." " They say, Ned, it's not safe to trust a woman ; what if you'd ax to see the Bo- dagh's son, the young soggarth ? " "I'd tinist my life to Biddy — she that was so honest to the Donovans wouldn't be desateful to her sweetheart that — he — hem — she's far gone in consate wid^yoiu' sowl. Her brother AJick's to meet me at the Bo- dagh's on his way fi'om their lodge, for they hould a meetin' to-night too." " Never say it again. I'll stick to you ; so |Dush an, for it's late. You'll be apt to make up the match before you part, I suppose." " That won't be hard to do any time, Dandy." Both then proceeded down the same field, which we have already said was called the Black Park, in consequence of its dark and moss}- soil. Having, with some difficulty, found the stile at the lower end of it, they passed into a short car track, which they were barely able to follow. The night, considering that it was the month of November, was close and foggy — such as fi'equently follows a calm day of in- cessant rain. The bottoms were plashing, the drains all full, and the small rivulets and streams about the country were above their banks, whilst the larger rivers swept along with the hoarse continuous miuTuurs of an unusual flood. The sky was one sheet of dai-kness — for not a cloud could be seen, or Wiything, except the passing gleam of a cot- ■ tage taper, lessened by the haziness of the I night into a mere point of faint hght, and I thrown by the same cause into a distance : which appeared to the eye much more re- mote than that of reality. i After having threaded their way for nearly a mile, the water spouting almost at ever}' step up to their knees, they at length came to an old bridle-way, deeply shaded with hedges on each side. They had not spoken much since the close of their last dialogue ; for, the truth is, each had enough to do, independently of dialogue, to keep himself out of drains and quagmires. An occasional " hanamondioul, I'm into the hinches ;" "hoty St. Peter, I'm stuck ; "tun- dher an' tui-f, where are you at all ? " or, " by this an' by that, I dunno where I am," were the only words that passed be- tween them, until they reached the Uttle road we are speaking of, which, in fact, was one vmbroken rut, and on such a night almc/st impassable. " Now," said M'Connick, " we musn't keep this de^•i^s gut, for conshumin' to the shoe or stockiu' ever we'd bring out of it ; however, do you folly me, Dandy, and there's no danger." "I can do nothing else," rejDhed the other, "for I know no more where I am than the man of the moon, who, if all's thnie that's sed of him, is the biggest blockhead ahve." M'Cormick, who knew the path well, turned off the road into a j^athway that ran inside the hedge and along the fields, but pai-allel with the muddy boreen in question. They now found themselves upon comparatively clear gi-ound, and, with the exception of an occa- sional slip or two, in consequence of tne heavy rain, they had Httle difficulty in ad- vancing. At this stage of their jom-ney not a hght was to be seen nor a sound of hfe neard, and it was evident that the whole 25opulation of the neighborhood had sunk to rest. " Where will this biing us to, Ned ? " asked the Dandy — " I hoj^e we'll soon be at the Bodagh's." M'Cormick stood and suddenly pressed his arm, " Whisht I " said he, in an under tone, " I tliink I hard voices." " No," replied the other in the same low tone. " I'm sure I did," said Ned, " take my word for it, there's people before us on the boreen — whisht ! " They both listened, and veiy distinctly heai'd a confused but suppressed miu*mur of voices, apparently about a hvmdred yards before them on the little bridle-way. Without uttering a word they botli proceeded as quietly and quickly as possible, and in a few minute;? 296 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. nothing separated them but the hedge. The party on the road were wallo\\'ing through the mii-e with great difficulty, many of them, at the same time, bestowing veiy energetic execrations upon it and upon those who suifered it to remain in such a condition. Even oaths, however, were uttered in so low and cautious a tone, that neither M'Cormick nor the Dandy could distinguish their voices so clearly as to recognize those who sjDoke, supposing that they had known them. Once or twice they heaixl the clashing of ai-ms or of iron insti-uments of some sort, and it seemed to them that the noise was occasioned b}' the accidental jostling together of those who earned them. At length they heard one voice exclaim rather testily. "D — n your blood, Bartle Flanagan, will you have patience till I get my shoe out o' the mud — you don't expect me to lose it, do you? We're not goin' to get a purty wife, whatever you may be." The reply to this was short, but pithy — "May all the di^•ils in hell's fire jduU the tongue out o' you, for nothin' but hell itself, you viUin, timj)ted me to bring you with me." This was not intended to be heard, nor was it by the person against whom it was uttered, he being some distance behind — but as Ned and his companion w^ere at that moment exactly on the other side of the hedge, they could hear the words of this precious soliloquy — for such it w^as — de- livered as they w-ere with a suppressed energy of mahgiiity, worthy of the heai't which suggested them. M'Cormick immediately pulled Duffy's coat, without speaking a Avord, as a hint to follow him with as Httle noise as possible, which he did, and ere many minutes they were so far in advance of the others, as to be enabled to converse without being heai'd. " Thar Dheah Duffy," said his companion, "there's not a minute to be lost." "There is not," repUed the other — "but what will you do with me ? I'll lend a hand in any way I can — but remember that if we're seen, or if it's known that we go against them in this — " " I know," said the other, " we're gone men ; still we must manage it somehow, so as to save the girl ; God ! if it was only on Connor O'Donovan's account, that's far away this night, I'd do it. Dandy you wor only a boy wiien Blannarhasset prosecuted you, and people pitied you at the time, and now they don't think much the worse of you for it ; an' you know- it was proved since, that what you sed then was thi-ue, that other rogues made you do it, an' tliin lift you in the lurch. But d — n it, where 's the use of all this? give me your hand, it's life of death — can I thrust you ? " "You may," said the other, "you n)*.y, Ned ; do whatever you wish with me." "Then," continued Ned, "I'll go into the house, and do you keep near to them with- out bein' seen ; watch their motions ; but above all things, if they take her off — folly on till you see where they'll bring her ; af- ter that they can get back enough — the so- gers, if they're a wantin'." " Depind an me, Ned ; to the core depind an me." They had now reached the Bodagh's house, upon which, as upon every other object around them, night rested hetivily. his position behind of the gate plot before the deep shadows of The Dandy took up one of the porches that di\ided the httle gTass- the hall-door and the farm- yard, as being the most central spot, and from which he could with more ease hear, or as far as might be observe, the jDlan and nature of their proceedings. It was at least fifteen minutes before they reached the little avenue that led up to the Bodagh's residence ; for we ought to have told oui- readers, that M'Cormick and Duffy, having taken a short path, left the others — who, being ignorant of it, were forced to keep to the road — considerable beliind them. Ned was consequently' from ten to fifteen minutes in the house previous to their arrival. At length they aj^proached silently, and with that creepmg pace which betokens either fear or caution, as the case may be, and stood outside the gate which led to the gi^ass-jjlot before the hall-door, not more than three or four yaixls from the porch of the farm-yard gate where the Dandj- stood concealed. And here he had an opportunity of witnessing the extreme skill with which Flanagan conducted this nefarious exploit. After listening for about a minute, he found that their worth}- leader was not present, but he almost immediately discovered that he was engaged in placing guards upon all the back windows of the dweUing-house and kitchen. Duiing his absence the foUowing short consultation took place among those whom he left behind him, for the pui-pose of taking a personal part in the enterprise : " It was too thrue what Eousin Redhead said to-night," obsei'A'ed one of them, " he always takes care to throw the post of dan- ger on some one else. Now it's not that I'm afeared, but as he's to have the girl himself, it's but fair that his own neck should run the first danger, an' not mine." They aU assented to this. " Well, then, boys," he proceeded, "if yez support me, we'll make him head this busi* FARDOMOUanA, THE MISER. 291 ness liirtiself. It's his own consam, not ours; im' besides, as he houlds the Ai-ticles, it's his duty to lead us in everj'thing. So I for wan, won't take away his girl, an' himself keepin' back. If there's any one here that'll take my place for his, let him now say so." They were all silent as to that point ; but most of them said, they wished, at all events, to give " the dii'ty Bodagh," for so they usu- ally called him, something to remember them by, in consequence of his having, on all occa- sions, stood out against the system. " Still it's fair," said several of them, "that in takin' away the colleen, Bartle should go foremost, as she's for himself an' not for huz." " Well, then, you'll all agree to tliis ? " " We do, but whist — here he is." Deeply mortified was their leader on find- ing that they had come unanimousl}' to this determination. It was too late now, how- ever, to reason with them, and the crime, to the perpetration of which he brought them, too dangerous in its consequences, to render a quan-el Avith them safe or pinident. He felt himself, therefore, in a position which, of all others, he did not "Rdsh. Still his addi'ess was too perfect to allow any symptoms of chagi-in or di.sapi)ointment to be perceptible in his voice or manner, although, the tnith is, he cursed them in his heai't at the moment, and vowed in some shape or other to visit their insubordination with vengeance. Such, indeed, is the nature of these secret confederacies that are opposed to the laws of the land, and the spiiit of rehgion. It mat- ters Httle how open and apparently honest the conduct of such men may be among each other ; there is, notwithstanding this, a dis- tmst, a fear, a suspicion, lui'king at eveiy heart, that renders personal secimty unsafe, and life miserable. But how, indeed, can they repose confidence in each other, w^hen they know that in consequence of their con- nection with such systems, many of the ci\il duties of life cannot be pei-formed without perjury on the one hand, or risk of hfe on the othei', and that the whole principle of the combination is founded upon hatred, re- venge, and a \-iolation of all moral obliga- tion? i "Well, then," said their leader, "as your ; minds is made up, boys, follow me as quick- ly as you can, an' don't spake a word in your own voice.s." They appi'oached the hall-door, with the exception of six, who stood guarding the ; front windows of the dweUing-house and kitchen ; and, to the Dandy's astonishment, ' the whole party, amounting to about eigh- teen, entered the house without either noise or obstruction of any kind. " By Japurs," thought he to himself "there's tla-aicher}' there, any how." This now to the Dandy was a moment of intense interest. Though by no means a coward, or a young fellow of delicate nerves, yet his heai't beat furiously against his ribs, and his whole frame shook with excitement. He would, in tmth, much rather have been engaged in the outrage, than forced as he was, merely to look on without an opportu- nity of taking a part in it, one way or the other. Such, at least, were his own impres- sions, when the report of a gun was heard inside the house. Dhar an Ijfrin, thought he again. 111 bolt in an' see what's goin' an — oh ma nhagld millia mallach orth, Flanagan, if you spill blood — Jasus above ! Well, any how, come or go what mav, we can hang him for this — glory be to God ! These reflections were very near breaking forth into words. "I don't hke that," said one of the guards to another ; " he may take the gii'l away, but it's not the tiling to murdher any one be- longin' to a dacent family, an' of our own re- hgion." "If it's only the Bodagh got it," rephed his comrade, who was no other than Micky Midvathra, " blaizes to the hair I care. "N^'hen my brother Barney, that sufiiered for Caam Beal (crooked mouth) Grime's business, was before his thi-ial, hell resave the taisther the same Bodagh would give to defind him." "Damn it," rejoined the other, "but to murdher a man in his bed I TMiy, now, if it was only comin' home from a fail* or market, but at midnight, an' in his bed, begorra it is not the thing, ^Mickey." There was now a pause in the conversation for some minutes ; at length, screams were heard, and the noise of men's feet, as if en- gaged in a scutHe upon the staii's, for the hall- door lay open. A light, too, was seen, but it appeared to have been blo\\Ti out ; the same noise of feet tramping, as if still in a tumult, approached the door, and almost immediately afterwards Flanagan's party approached, bearing in their arms a female, who panted and stmggled as if she had been too weak to shriek or call for assistance. The hall-door was then pulled to and locked by those who were outside. The Dandy could see, by the passing gleam of hght which fell upon those who watched beside him, that their faces were blackened, and their clothes covered by a shui;, as was usual \\-ith the "\Miiteboys of old, and for the snme object — that of preventing themselves from being recognized by their apparel. "So far so good," said Flanagan, who 298 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. cared not now whether his voice was known or not ; " the prize is mine, boys, an' how to bring ma colleen dhas dhun to a snug place, an' a fiiendly priest that I have to put the knot on us for life." "Be ," thought Du%, "I'll put a different kind of a knot on you for that, if I shovdd swing myself for it." They hui'ried onwards with as much speed as possible, bearing the fainting female in a seat formed by clasping their hands to- gether. Duffy still stood in his jilace of con- cealment, waiting to let them get so far in advance as that he might dog them without danger of being heard. Just then a man cautiously apj^roached, and in a whisper asked, " Is that Dandy ? " "It is — Saver above, Ned, how is this? all's lost ! " " No, no — I hope not — but go an' watch them ; we'll foUy as soon as we get help. My curse on Alick Nulty, he disapjDointed me an' didn't come ; if he had, some of the Bodagh's sai'vant boys would be up ^vdd us in the kitchen, an' we could bate them back aisy ; for Flanagan, as I tould you, is a dam coward." " Well, thin, I'll trace them," replied the other ; " but you know that in sich darkness as this you haven't a minute to lose, other- wise you'll miss them." " Go an ; but afore you go hsten, be the Hght of day, not that we have much of it now any Avay — by the vestment, Biddy Nultj^'s worth her weight in Bank of Ii'eland notes ; now pelt and afther them ; I'll tell you again." Flanagan's party were necessarily forced to retrace their stejDS along the sludgy boreen we have mentioned, and we need scarcely say, that, in consequence of the charge with which they were encumbered, theii* progress was proportionally slow ; to cross the fields on such a night was out of the question. The first thing Flanagan did, when he foTind his prize safe, was to tie a handker- chief about her mouth that she might not scream, and to secure her hands together by the wrists. Indeed, the first of these precau- tions seemed to be scarcely necessaiy, for what ■with the terror occasioned by such unexpec- ted and fi'ightfid violence, and the extreme delicacy of her health, it was evident that she could not utter even a shi'iek. Yet, did she, on the other hand, lajise into fits of such spasmodic violence as, wrought up as she was by the horror of her situation, called forth all her physical energies, and literally gave her the strength of three Avomen. "Well, well," observed one of the fellows, who had assisted in holding her down during these wild fits, " you may talk of jinteel people, but be the piper o' Moses, that same sick daughter of the Bodagh's is the hardiest sprout I've laid my hands on this month o' Sundays." " May be you'd make as hai'd a battle yourself," replied he to whom he spoke, "if you wor forced to a thmg you hate as much as she hates Bartle." " May be so," rejoined the other, with an incredulous shiaig, that seemed to say he was by no means satisfied by the reasoning of his companion. Bartle now addressed his charge with a hope of reconciling her, if possible, to the fate of becoming united to him. " Don't be at aU alarmed, IVIiss Oona, for indeed you may take vaj word for it, that I'll make as good and as lovin' a husband as ever had a purty vrde. It's two or three years since I fell in consate wid you, an' I needn't tell you, darhn', how hajDjDy I'm now, that you're mine. I have two horses waitin' for us at the end of this vile road, an', plase Pro"\-idence, we'U ride onwards a bit, to a fi'ieud's house o' mine, where I've a priest ready to tie the knot ; an' to-moiTOW, if you're willin', we'U start for America ; but if you don't hke that, we'll live together till you'll be wilhn' enough, I hope, to go any where I wish. So take heart, darlin', take heart. As for the money I made free wid out o' your desk, it'll help to keep us com- fortable ; it was your otvti, j-ou know, an' who has a betther right to be at the spendin' of it?" This, which was meant for consolation, utterly failed, or rather aggravated the sufferings of the affrighted gii'l they bore, who once more stniggied with a power that resembled the intense muscular strength of epilepsy, more than anything else. It hterally required io^xr of them to hold her down, so dreadfully spasmodic were her efforts to be fr-ee. The delay caused by those occasional workings of terror, at a moment when Flan- agan expected every soimd to be the noise of pursuit, wTOught up his ovm. bad passions to a furious height. His own companions could actually hear him grinding his teeth with vexation and venom, whenever anything on her part occurred to retard their flight. All this, however, he kept to himself, owing to the singular command he possessed over his passions. Nay, he undertook, once more, the task of reconciling her to the agreeable prospect, as he tenned it, that life presented her. " We'll be as happy as the day's long," said he, " espichilly when heaven sends us a family ; an' upon my troth a purty mother you'll make. I suppose, dai*lin' love, you FAIiDOROUGHA, THE MISER. 299 wondher how I got in to-night, but I tell you I've my ^vits about me ; you don't know that it was I encouraged Biddy Nulty to go to Hve wid you, but I know what I was about then ; Biddy it was that left the door open for me, an' that tould me the room you lay in, an' the place you keep your hard goold an' notes ; I mintion these things to show you how I have you hemmed in, and that your wisest way is to submit without makin' a rout about it. You know that if you wor taken fi'om me this minit, there 'ud be a stain upon your name that 'ud never lave it, an' it wouldn't be my business, you know, to clear up your character, but the conthrary. As for Biddy, the poor fool, I did all in my power to pre^'int her bein' fond o' me, but ever since we two hved with the ould miser, somehow she couldn't." For some time before he had proceeded thus far, there was felt, by those who can-ied their fair charge, a slight working of her whole body, especially of the arms, and in a moment Flanagan, who walked a Uttle in advance of her, with his head bent down, that he might not be put to the necessity of speaking loud, suddenly received, right upon his nose, such an incredible facer as made the blood sj)in a yard out of it. " May all the curses of heaven an' hell blast you, for a cowardly, thi-aicherous, par- jured stag ! ^Miy, you black-hearted infor- mer, see now what you've made by your cunnin'. Well, we hope you'll keep your word — won't I make a purty mother, an' won't we be haj^py as the day's long, espi- chilly when Heaven sends us a family ? Why, you rap of heU, aren't you a laughing-stock this minute ? An' to go to take my name too — an' to leave the guilt of some other body's thraicherj' on me, that you knew in your burniu' sowl to be innocent — me, a poor girl that has only my name an' good character to cany me thi'ough the world. Oh, you mane-spirited, revengeful dog, for you're not a man, or you'd not go to take sich revenge upon a woman, an' all for sapn' an' puttia' it out on you, what I ever an' al- ways will do, that stiiiv to hang Connor O'- Donovan, kno^vin' that it was youi'self did the Clime the poor boy is now suflerin' for. Ha ! may the sweetest an' bitterest of bad luck both meet upon you, you riUin ! Amin I pray this night ! " The scene that followed this discoveiy, and the unexpected act which produced it, could not, we think, be properly described by either pen or pencil. Flanagan stood with his hands alternately kept to his nose, from which he flung away the blood, as it sprung out in a most copious stream. Two- thirds, indeed we might sav three-fom'ths of his party, were convulsed mth suppressed laughter, nor could they prevent jm occa- sional cackle from being heard, when forcibly di-awinj^in their breath, in an effort not to offend their leader. The discovery of the mistake was, in itself, extremely ludicrous, but when the home truths uttered by Biddy, and the indescribable bitterness caused hy the disappointment, joined to the home blow, were aU put together, it might be said that the darkness of hell itself was not so black as the rage, hatred, and thirst of ven- geance, M'hich at this moment consumed Bai'tle Flanagan's heart. He who had laid his plans so artfully that he thought failure in secm-ing his prize impossible, now not only to feel that he was baffled by the supe- rior cunning of a girl, and made the laughing- stock of his own pariy, who valued him principally upon his ability in such matters ; but, in addition to this, to have his heart and feelings torn, as it were, out of his body, and flung down before him and his confi'eres in aU their monstrous deformity, and to be jeered at, moreover, and despised, and liter- ally cufiied by the female who outreached him — this was too much ; all the worst pas- sions within him were fii'ed, and he swore in his own heart a deep and blasphemous oath, that Biddy Nulty never shoxild part from him unless as a degi'aded giii. The incident that we have just related hapi^ened so quickly that Flanagan had not time to reply a single word, and Biddy fol- lowed up her imprecation by a powerful ef- fort to release herself. "Let me home this minnit, you villin," she continued ; "now that you find yourself on the wrong scent — boys, don't hould me, nor back that ruffin in his viUany." " Hould her like hell," said Bartle, "an' tie her up wanst more ; we'U gag you, too, my lady — ay, vn)! we. Take away your name — I'll take care you'll carry shame upon yom' face fi-om this night to the hour of your death. Characther indeed I — ho, by the crass I'U lave you that Httle of that will go far wid you." "May be not," repHed Biddy ; "the same God that disappointed you in hangin' Con- nor O'Donovan " "Damn you," said he, "take that;" and as he spoke he struck the poor girl a heavy blow in the cheek, which cut her deeply, and for a short time reudei'ed her speechless. "Bartle," said more than one of them, "that's unmanly, an' it's conthraiy to the regulations. ' " To perdition Arid the regukitions ! Hasn't the vagabone dra^vTi a pint of blood from my nose ah'eady ? — look at that ! " he ex- claimed, throwing away a handful of the 300 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. -" hell seize her ! look at that. — " He made another onset at warm gore- Ho be the - the yet unconscious girl as he spoke, and woiild have still inflicted further jjunish- ment upon her, were it not that he was pre- vented. " Stop," said several of them, " if you wor over us fifty times you won't laj' another finger on her ; that's wanst for all, so be quiet." " Are yez threat enin' me ? " he asked, furi- ously, but in an instant he changed his tone — " Boys dear," continued the wily but un- manly villain — "boys dear, can you blame me ? disappointed as I am by this — by this — ha anhien va sfhreepa — I'll — — " but again he checked himself, and at length burst out into a bitter fit of weeping. "Look at this," he proceeded, throwing away another handful of blood, "I've lost a quart of it by her." " Be the hand af my body," said one of them in a whisper, "he's hke every coward, it's at his own blood he's crjin' ; be the var- tue of my oath, that man's not the thing to dej^ind on." "Is she tied an' gagged?" he then in- quired. " She is," I'eiDhed those who tied her. " It was very asy done, Bartle, afther the blow you hot her." " It wasn't altogether out of ill-will I hot her aither," he replied, " although, boys dear, you know how she vexed me, but you see, the thruth is, she'd a' given us a great dale o' throuble in gettin' her quiet." "An' you tuck the right way to do that," they replied ironically ; and they added, "Bai-tle Flanagan, you may thank the oaths we tuck, or be the crass, a single man of us wouldn't assist you in this consarn, afther your cowardly behaver to this poor girl. Takin' away the Bodagh's daughter was an- other thing ; you had betther let the girl go home." Biddy had now recovered, and heard this suggestion with joy, for the poor girl began to entertain serious apj^rehensions of Flana- gan's revenge and violence, if left alone with him ; she could not speak, however, and those who bore her, quickened their pace at his desire, as much as thej' could. "No," said Bartle, artfully, "I'll keep her prisoner anyhow for this night. I had once a notion of marryin' her — an' may be — as I am disappointed in the other — but, we'll think of it. Now we're at the horses, an' we'll get an faster." This was indeed time. After the journey we have just described, they at length got out of the boreen, where, in the corner of a ^ftld, a little to the right, two horses, e^ob saddled, were tied to the branch of a tree. They now made a slight delay until their charge should be got mounted, and were collected in a group on the road, when a voice called ovit, "^Mio goes there?" " A fi'iend to the guard." " Good morrow ! " " Good morrow momin' to you ! " " "\Miat Age are you in ? " " The end of the fifth." "AU right," said Bartle, aloud; "now, boys," he whispered to his own party, " we must tell them good-humoredly to pass on ■ — that this is a runaway — jist a girl we're bringin' aff wid us, an' to hould a hard cheek* about it. You know we'd do as much for them." Both parties now met, the strangers con- sisting of about twenty men. "Well, boys," said the latter, "what's the fun?" " Devil a thing but a gu'l we're helpin' a boy to take away. "WTiat's your own sport ? " " Begorra, we wor in luck to-night ; we got as purty a double-barrelled gun as ever you seen, an' a case of murdherin' fine pistols." " Success, OTild heart ! that's right ; we'll be able to stand a tug whin the ' Day ' comes." "Which of you is takin' away the girl, boys ? " inquired one of the strangers. "Begad, Bartle Flanagan, since there's no use in hidin' it, when we're all as we ought to be." " Bartle Flanagan ! " said a voiiRe — " Bartle Flanagan, is it ? An' who's the girl ? " " Blur an' agres, Alick Nulty, don't be too curious, she comes from Bodagh Buie's." Biddy, on hearing the voice of her brother, made another riolent efibrt, and succeeded in partially working the gag out of her mouth — she screamed faintly, and struggled with such energy that her hands again became loose, and in an instant the gag was wholly removed. " Oh Alick, Alick, for the love o' God save me from Flanagan ! it's me, your sisther Biddy, that's in it ; save me, Alick, or I'U be lost ; he has cut me to the bone wid a blow, an' the blood's pourin' from me." "Her brother flew to her. "Whisht, Biddy, don't be afeard ! " he exclaimed. "Boys," said he, "let my party stand by me ; this is the way Bartle Flanagan keeps his oath."f " Secure Bartle," said Biddy. " He rob- bed Bodagh Buie's house, an' has the money aboiit him." * To keep it secret. f One of the clauses of the Ribbon oath was, not to injure or maltreat the wife or sister of a brothel EibboQuian, FARDOROVGHA, THE MISER. 301 The horses were already on the road, but, in consequence of both parties filling up the passage in the direction which Bartle and his followers intended taking, the animals could not be brought through them without delay and trouble, even had there been no resistance offered to their jorogress. " A robber too ! " exclaimed Nulty, " that's more of his parjury to'ards uz. Bartle Flan- agan, 3'ou're a thrfiitor, and you'll get a thraitor's death afore you're much oulder. He's not fit to be among us," added Alick, addressing himself to both parties, " an' the truth is, if we don't hang or settle him, he'll some day hang us." "Bartle's no thraitor," said Mulvather, " but he's a tlu'aitor that says he is." The comiug reply was interrupted by " Boys, good night toyez ;" and immediately the clatter of a liorse's feet was heard stum- bling and tiouiidering back along the deep stony boreen. "Be the vestment he's aff," said one of his party ; "the cowardly viUin's aff wid himself the minit he seen the ap- proach of danger." " Sure enough, the bad dhrop's in him," exclaimed several on both sides. "But what the h — 1 does he mane now, I dunna? " "It'll be only a good joke to-morrow wid him," obseiwed one of them — " bjit, boys, we must think how to manage him ; I can't forgive him for the cowardly blow he hot the poor colleen here, an' for the same rason I didn't dhraw the knot so tight upon her as I could a' done." " Was it you that nipped iay arm ? " asked Biddy. "Faix, you may say that, an' it was to let you know that, let him say as he would, after what we seen of him to-night, we wouldn't allow him to thrate you badly without mariyin' you first." The night having been now pretty far advanced, the two parties separated in order to go to their respective homes — Alick taking Biddy under his protection to her master's. As the way of many belonging to each lodge lay in the same direction, they were accompanied, of course, to the turn that led up to the Bodagh's house. Biddy, notwithstiuiding the severe blow she had got, related the night's adventui-e with much humor, dwelling upon her oavti part in the transaction with singular glee. " There's some thraicherous viUin in the Bodagh's," said she, " be it man or woman ; for what'id you think but the hall-door was left lying to only — neither locked nor boulted. But, indeed, anyhow, it's the start was taken out o' me whin Ned M'Cormick — that you wor to meet in our kitchen, Alick •^throth, J wo^'t let aiity Liowry wait up for you so long another time." She added this to throw the onus of the assignation off her o^^^^ shoultlers, and to lay it upon those oi Alick and Kitty. " But, anyhow, I had just time to throw her clothes upon me and get into her bed. Be me sowl, but I acted the flight an' sickness in style. I wasn't able to spake a word, you persave, till we got far enough from the house to give IVIiss Oona time to hide herself. Oh, thin, the robbin' viUin how he put the muzzle of his gim to the lock of Miss Oona's desk, when he couldn't get the key, an' blewn it to pieces, an' thin he took every fardin' he could lay his hands upon." She then detailed her own feeUngs dur- ing the abduction, in terms so ludicrously abusive of Flanagan, that those who accom- panied her were exceedingly amused ; for what she said was strongly provocative of mirth, yet the chief cause of laughter lay in the vehement sincerity with which she spoke, and in the utter unconsciousness of ut- tering anything that was calculated to excite a smile. There is, however, a class of such persons, whose power of provoking laugh- ter consists in the utter absence of humor. Those I speak of never laugh either at what they say themselves, or what any one else may say ; but they drive on right ahead with an inverted originaHty that is i^erfectly irresistible. We must now beg the reader to accompany them to the Bodagh's, where a scene awaited them for which they were scarcely pi'epai'ed. On approaching the house they could per- ceive, by the light glitteiing from the window chinks, that the family were in a state of alarm ; but at this they were not surprised ; for such a commotion in the house, after what had occurred, was but natural. They went dii'ectly to the kitchen door and rapped. " Who is there ? " said a voice within. " It's Biddy ; for the love o' God make haste, Kitty, an' open." " What Biddy are you ? I won't open." " Biddy Nult}'. You know me well enough, Kitty ; so make haste an' open, Ahck, mark my words," said she in a low voice to her brother, " Kitty's the very one that practised the desate this night — that left the hall-door open. Make haste, Kitty, I say." " I'll do no such thing indeed," rephed the other ; " it was you left the hall-door open to-night, an' I heard you spakin' to fellows outside. I have too much regai-d for my masther's house an' family to let you or any one else in to-night. Come in the mornin'." " FoUy me, Alick," said Biddy, " foUy me." She went immediately to the haU-door, and gave such a single rap with the knocker, as brought wore than Kittj^ to the dppr, 302 WILLIAM GARLETON'S WORKS. " Who's there ? " inquired a voice, which she and her brother at once knew to be Ned M'Cormick's. " Ned, for the love o' God, let me an' Ahck in ! " she replied ; "we got away from that netarual vilhu." Instantly the door was opened, and the first thing Ned did was to put his arms about Bidd3''s neck, and — we were going to say kiss her. "Saints above! "said he, "what's this?" on seeing that her face was di-eadfuUy dis- figured with blood. "Nothin' to signify," she rephed ; "but thanks be to God, we got clane away from the villin, or be the Padheren Partha, the viUin it was that got clane away from hus. How is Miss Oona ? " " She went over to a neighbor's house for safety," replied Ned, smihng, " an' will be back in a few minutes ; but who do you think, above all men in the five quarters o' the earth, we have got widin ? Guess now." " Wlio ? " said Biddy ; " why, I dunna, save — but no, it couldn't." "Faix but it could, thotigh," said Ned, mistaking her, as the matter turned out. " ^^^ly, vtck na hoiah, no! Connor O'Don- ovan back ! Oh ! no, no, Ned ; that 'ud be too good news to be thrue." The honest lad shook his head with an ex- pression of regret that could not be mis- taken as the exponent of a sterling heart. And yet, that the reader may perceive how near akin that one circumstance was to the other in his mind, we have only to say, that whilst the regret for Connor was deeply en- graven on his features, yet the expression of triumph was as clearly legible as if his name had not been at all mentioned. "Who, then, Ned?" said Alick. "Who the dickens is it ? " " Why, di^al resave the other than Bartle Flanagan himseK — secwed — and the consta- bles sent for — an' plaze the Saver he'll be in the stone jug afore his head gets gray any how, the black-hearted villin ! " It was even so ; and the circumstances ac- counting for it are very simple. Flanagan, having mounted one of the horses, made the best of his way from what he apprehended was likely to become a scene of deadly strife. Such was the nature of the road, however, that anything like a rapid pace was out of the question. When he had got over about half the boreen he was accosted in the signi- ficant terms of the Kibhon pass-word of that day. " Good morrow ! " " Good morrow momin' to you ! " "Ai-rah vrhat Age may you be, neigh- bor?" Now the correct words were, " What Age are we in ? " * but they were often shghtly changed, sometimes through ignorance and sometimes fi'om design, as in the latter case less liable to remark when addressed to per- sons not iqx "In the end of the Fifth," waa the reply. "An' if you wor shakin' hands wid a friend, how would you do it ? Or stay — all's right so fai' — but give us a grip of your cham ahas (right hand)." Flanagan, who apprehended pursuit, was too cautious to trust himself within reach of any one coming fi'om the direction in which the Bodagh hved. He made no reply, there- fore, to this, but urged his horse forward, and attempted to get clear of his catechist. "Dhar Dhegh! it's Flanagan," said a voice which was that of Alick Nulty ; and the next moment the equestrian was stretched in the mud, by a heavy blow from the but of a carbine. Nearly a score of men were im- mediately about him ; for the party he met on his return were the Bodagh's son, his servants, and such of the cottiers as hved near enough to be called up to the rescue. On finding himself secured, he lost all pres- ence of mind, and almost all consciousness of his situation. " I'm gone," said he ; " I'm a lost man ; aU Europe can't save my life. Don't kill me, boys ; don't kill me ; I'll go wid yez quietly — only, if I am to die, let me die by the laws of the land." "The laws of the land?" said John O'- Brien ; " oh, httle, Bartle Flanagan, you re- spected them. You needn' be alarmed now — you are safe here — to the laws of the land we will leave you ; and by them you must stand or fall." Bartle Flanagan, we need scarcely say, was well guarded until a posse of constables shoiild arrive to take him into custody. But, in the mean time, a large and increasing l^arty sat up in the house of the worthy Bo ■ dagh ; for the neighbors had been alarmed, and came flocking to his aid. 'Tis true, the danger was now over ; but the kind Bodagh, thankful in his heart to the Almighty for the escape of his daughter, would not let them go without first partaking of his hospitality. His wife, too, for the same reason, was in a flutter of delight ; and as her heart was as Irish as her husband's, and consequently as hospitable, so did she stir about, and work, and order right and left until abundant re- freshments were smoking on the table. Nor was the gentle and melancholy Una herself, now that the snake was at all events scotched. * This order or throng of the Ages is taken from Pastorini. I FARDOROUGHA, THE MISER. 303 averse to show herself among them — for so they would have it. Biddy Xulty had washed her face ; and, notwithstanding the poultice of stirabout which her mistress with her own hands applied to her wound, she I'eally was the most interesting person jjresent, in con- sequence of her heroism during the recent outrage. After a glass of punch had gone round, she waxed inveterately eloquent, in- deed, so much so that the mourner, the col- leen dhas dhun, herself was more than once forced to smile, and in some instances fau'ly to laugh at the odd grotesque spmt of her descriptions. " The rascal was quick ! " said the Bodagh, " but upon my credit, Biddy, you wor apojD afore him for all that. Divil a thing I, or John, or the others, could do wid only one gun an' a case o' pistols against so many — still we would have fought life or death for poor Una anyhow. But Biddy, here, good girl, by her cleverness and invention saved us the danger, an' maybe was the manes of sav- in' some of our liver or theirs. God knows I'd have no relish to be shotmj^self," said the pacific Bodagh, "nor would I ever have a day or night's pace if I had the blood of a feUow- crathur on my sowl — upon my sowl I wouldn't." " But, blood ahve, masther, what could I 'a' done only for Ned M'Cormick, that gave us the hard word ? " said Biddy, anxious to transfer the merit of the transaction to her lover. "WeU, weU, Bid," rephed the Bodagh, " maybe neither Ned nor yourself will be a loser by it. If you're bent on layin' your heads together we'll find you a weddin' pres- ent, anyway." " Bedad, sir, I'm puzzled to know how they got in so aisy," said Ned. " That matter remains to be cleared up yet," said John. " There is certainly treach- ery in the camp somewhere." "I am cock sure the hall-door was not latched," said Du% ; " for they had neither stop nor stay at it." •'There is a villing among us sartainly," observed , IVIi's. O'Brien ; "for as heaving is above me, I locked it wid my own two hands this blessed night." "I thought it might be wid the kay, Bridget," said the Bodagh, laughing at his own easy joke ; " for you see, doors is gin- erally locked wid kays — ha ! ha ! ha ! " " Faix, but had Oona been tuck away to- night wid that vag o' the world, it's not laughin' you'd be." "God, He sees, that's only thi-uth, too, Bridget," he rephed ; "but still there's some rogue about the place that opened the door for the villins." " Bar ma chuirp, I'll hould goold I put the saddle on the right horse in no time," said Biddy. " ]\Iisthress, will you call Kitty Low- i-y, ma'am, i' you plase ? I'll do everything above boord ; no behind backs for me ; blaz- es to the one alive hates foul play more nor I do." We ought to have observed that one of Biddy's peculiarities was a more than usual readiness at letting fly, and not unfi-equently at giving an oath ; and as her character pre- sented a strange compound of simjjlicity and cleverness, honesty and adi'oitness, her mas- ter and mistress, and felIow-sei-\'ants, were fi'equently amused by this unfeminine pro- pensity. For instance, if Una happened to ask her, "Biddy, did you ii'on the Unen?" her usual rejily was, "No, blast the ii-on, miss, I hadn't time." Of course the family did everything in their power to discourage such a practice ; but on this jjoint they found it impossible to reform her. Kitty Lowry's countenance, when she apj^eared, certainly jDresented strong indications of guilt ; but still there was a hardness of outline about it which gave promise at the same time of the most intrei:)id assurance. Biddy, on the other hand, was brimful of consequence, and a sense of authority, on finding that the ju- dicial power was on this occasion entinisted chiefly to her hands. She rose up when Kit- ty entered, and stuck a paii* of red formida- ble fists with great energy into her sides. "Pray ma'am," said she, "what's the rai- sin' you refused to let me in to-night, afther gettin' away wid my life fi-om that netamal blackguard, Bartle Flanagan — what's the raisin I say, ma'am, that you kep' me out afther you knewn who was in it ? " There was here risible a slight ribration of the head, rather gentle at the beginning, but cleai'ly prophetic of ultimate energy, and an unequivocal determination to enforce whatever she might say with suitable action even in its widest sense. " An' i^ray, ma'am," said the other, for however paradoxical it may appear, it is an established case that in all such displays be- tween women, politeness usually keeps pace with scTUTihty ; " An' pray, ma'am," rephed Kitt}', " is it to the likes o' you we're to say our catechize ? " Biddy was resolved not to be outdone in pohteness, and replied — " Af you plaise, ma'am," with a courtesy. " Lord jDrotect us ! what will we hear next, I wondher ? WeU, ma'am ? " Here her an- tagonist stood, evidently waiting for the on- set. " Youll hear more thanll go down your back pleasant afore I've done wid you, ma'am." 304 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. " Don't be makin' us long for it in the mane time, IVIiss Biddy." " You didn't answer my question, Miss Kitty. ^Tiy did you refuse to let me in to- night?" "For good raisons — bekase I hard you cologgin' an' whispeiin' wid a pack of fellows 'ithout." " An' have you the brass to say so, knowin' that it's false an' a He into the bargain ? " (Head energetically shaken.) " Have I the brass, is it ? I keep my brass in my pocket, ma'am, not in my face, like some of our fi'iends." (Head shtiken in re- ply to the action displayed by I^tty.) This was a sharp retort ; but it was very well returned. "Thank you, ma'am," repHed Biddy, "if it's faces you're spakin' about, I know you're able to outface me any day ; but whatever's in my face there's no desate in my heai't. Miss Lowiy. Put that in yovu- pocket." (One triumphant shake of the head at the conclusion.) " There's as much in your heart as'll shame your face, yet, IVIiss Nulty. Put that in yoiu-s." (Another triumphant shake of the head.) " Thank God," retorted Biddy, " none o' my fi'iends ever knewn what a shamed face is. I say, madam, none o' viy family iver wore a shamed face. Thiguthu shin f " (Do you understand that ? ) Tliis, indeed, was a bitter hit ; for the reader must know that a sister of Lowry's had not passed through the world without the breath of slander tarnishing her fair fame. "Oh, it's well known your tongue's no slander, Biddy." " Thin that's more than can be said of yours, Kitty." " If my sisther met with a misfortune, it was many a betther woman's case than ever you'll be. Don't shout till you get out of the wood, ma'am. You dunna what's afore yom-self. Any how, it's not be lettin' fellows into the masther's kitchen whin the family's in bed, an' dhrinkin' whiskey wid them, that'll get you through the world wid your charac- ter safe. * * * An' you're nothin' but a barge, or you'd not dhraw down my sisther's name that never did you an ill turn, what- ever she did to herself, poor girl ! " "An' do you dar' for to call me a barge ? * * * * Blast your insurance ! be this an' be that, for a farden I'd mahvogue the devil out o' you." " We're not puttin' it past you, madam, you're blaggard enough to fight like a man ; but we're not goin' to make a blaggard an' a bully of ourselves, in the mane time." [The conversation, of which we are giving a very imiDerfect report, was garnished by both ladies Avith sundry vituperative epi- thets, which it would be inconsistent with the dignity of our history to record.] " That's bekase you haven't the blood of a hen in you * * * sure we know what you are ! But howld ! be me sowl, you're doi7i' me for aU that. Ali, ha ! I see where you're ladin' me ; but it won't do, ]\Iiss Kitty Lowi-y. I'U biing you back to the catechize agin. You'd light the straw to get away in the smoke ; but you're worth two gone peo- ple yet, dhough." " Worth haK a dozen o' you, any day." "Well, as we're both to the fore, we'll soon see that. How did you know, my lady, that the masther's hall door was left open to-night ? Answer me that, on the nail ! " This was what might be veiy properly called a knock-down blow ; for if the reader but reflects a moment he will see that Kitty, on taxing her antagonist, after her rescue, with leaving it ojDen, directly betrayed her- self, as there w'as and could have been no one in the house cognizant of the fact at the time unless the guilty person. With this latter exception, Alick Nulty was the only individual aware of it, and from whom the knowledge of it could come. Kitty, there- fore, by her over-anxiety to exculpate her- self fi'om a charge which had not been made, became the unconscious instrument of disclosing the fact of her having left the door open. This trying query, coming upon her un- expectedly as it did, threw her into palpable confusion. Her face became at once suffused with a deep scarlet hue, occasioned by min- gled shame and resentment, as was at once evident fi'om the malignant and fiery glare which she turned upon her querist. " Get out," she rej^hed ; "do you think I'd think it worth my while to answer the hkes o' you ? I'd see you farther than I could look first. You, indeed ! faugh ! musha bad luck to your impidence ! " "Oh, i' you plaise, ma'am," said Biddy, dropping a coiu'tesy, that might weU be termed the veiy pink of politeness — " we hope you'll show yoiu'self a betther Christin than to be ignorant o' your catechize. So, ma'am, if it 'ud be plaisin' to you afore the company maybe you'd answer it." " ^Vho made j'ou my misthress, you blag- gard flipe ? who gave j^ou authority to ax me sich a question ? " rephed the other. " A feUow-servant hke myself! to the devil I pitch you. You, indeed ! Faix, it's well come up vnd the likes o' you to ballyrag over me." " WeU, but ma'am deai', will you answer — that is, i' you plaise, for sure we can't for- FARDOROUGHA, THE MISER. 305 k get oiir manners, you know — will you jist answer what I axed you ? Oh, be me sowl, your face condimns you, my lady ! " said Biddy, abruptly changing her tone ; " it does, you yolla MuUatty, it does. You bethrayed the masther's house, an' IMiss Oona, too, you villin o' blazes I If you could see your face now — your guilty face ! " The spirit of her antagonist, being that of a woman, could bear no more. The last words were scarcely uttered, when Lowiy made a spring like a tigi'ess at her opponent, who, however, received this onset with a skill and intrepidity worthy of PenthesUea her- self. They were immediately separated, but not until they had twisted and t^\^ned about one another two or three times, after which, each displayed, by way of a trophy, a copious handful of hair that had changed proprietor- shijj during theu- brief but energetic conflict. Li addition to this, there were visible on Kitty's face five sm^ill streams of Hquid gore, which, no doubt, would have been found to correspond with the red expanded talons of her antagonist. John O'Brien then put the question seri- ously to Lowry, who, now that her blood was up, or probably feehng that she had betrayed herself, declined to answer it at all. " I'll answer notliin' I don't like," she re- pHed, " an' I'U not be ballp-aged by any one — not even by you, Misther John ; an' what's more, I'll lave the sai*vice at the shriek o' day to-morrow. I wouldn't live in the house wid that one ; my life 'udn't be safe undher the wan roof wid her." " Thin you'll get no carrecther from any one here," said ^Irs. O'Brien ; " for, indeed, any way, there was never a minute's peace in the kitchen since you came into it." " Divil cares," she replied, with a toss of her head ; " if I don't, I must only Uve wid- out it, and wiD, I hope." She then flounced out of the room, and kept grumbling in an insolent tone of voice, until she got to her bed. AHck Xulty then detailed all the circumstances he had wit- nessed, by which it appeai-ed imquestionable that Kitty Lo\vi-y had been aware of Flan- agan's design, and was consequently one of his accomplices. This in one sense was time, whilst in another and the worst they did her injustice. It is time that Bartle Flanagan pretended affection for her, and contrived on many occasions within the preceding five months, that several secret meetings should take place between them, and almost always upon a Sunday, which was the only day she had any opportunity of seeing him. He had no notion, however, of entimsting her with his secret. In fact, no man could j^ossibly lay his plans with deeper design or more in- \ genious precaution for his own safety than Flanagan. Having gained a promise fi-om the credulous girl to elope with him on the night in question, he easily induced her to leave the hall door open. His exploit, how- ever, having tvuned out so different in its issue from that which Kitty expected, she felt both chaginned and confounded, and knew not at first whether to ascribe the ab- duction of Biddy Nulty to mistake or design ; for, indeed, she was not ignorant of Flan- agan's treacherous conduct to the sex — no female having ever repulsed him, whose character he did not injiu-e whenever he could do so with safety. Biddy's return, however, satisfied her that Bartle must have made a blunder of some kind, or he would not have taken away her fellow-sei*vant in- stead of herself ; and it was the bitterness which weak minds always feel when their own wishes hai^pen to be disappointed, that prompted her resentment against poor Biddy, who was unconsciously its object. Flanagan's primary intention was still, how- ever, in some degi'ee, effected, so far as it re- garded the abduction. The short space of an hour gave him time to cool and collect himself sufficiently to form the best mode of action under the circumstances. He re- solved, therefore, to plead mistake, and to produce Kitty Lo\\'rv' to prove that his visit that night to the Bodagh's house was merely to fulfil their mutual promise of eloping to- gether. But there was the robbery staring him in the face ; and how was he to manage that ? This, indeed, was the point on which the accompUshed villain felt by the sinking of his heart that he had overshot his mark. "Wlien he looked closely into it, his whole fi-ame became cold and feeble from despair, the hard paleness of mental suffering settled upon his face, and his brain was stunned by a stupor which almost destroyed the power of thinking. All this, however, availed him not. Before twelve o'clock the next day informations had been sworn against him, and at the hour of three he found himself in the very room which had been assigned to Connor O'Don- ovan, sinking under the double charge of abduction and robber^-. And now once more did the mutabihty of public feeling and opinion as usual become apparent. No sooner had fame spread abroad the report of Flanagan's two-fold crime, and his imprisonment, than those very people who had only a day or two before inferred that Connor O'Donovan was guilty, because his accuser's conduct continued correct and blameless, now changed their tone, and in- sisted that the hand of God was visible in 306 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. Flanagan's punishment. Again were all the dark traits of his character dragged forward and exposed ; and this man reminded that man, as that man did some other man, that he had said more than once that Bartle Flanagan would be hanged for swearing away an innocent yovmg man's hfe. Such, how- ever, without reference to truth or justice, is pubhc opinion among a great body of the people, who are swayed by their- feehngs only, instead of their judgment. The lower pubhc will, as a matter of coiu'se, feel at random upon everything, and like a fortune- teller, it wiU for that reason, and for that only, sometimes be found on the right side. From the time which elapsed between the period of Bartle's imi^risonment and that of his trial, many strange circumstances oc- curred in connection with it, of which the pubhc at large were completely ignorant. Bartle was now at the mercy of a man who had been long looked upon with a spirit of detestation and vengeance by those illegal confederations with which he had uniformly dechned to associate himself. Flanagan's party, therefore, had now only two methods of serving liim, one was intimidation, and the other a general subscription among the various lodges of the district, to raise funds for his defence. To both of these means they were resolved to have recourse. Many private meetings they held among themselves upon those important matters, at which Dandy Dufi' and Ned M'Cormick at- tended, as was their duty ; and weU was it for them the part they took in defeating Bartle Flanagan, and sei-ving the Bodagh and his family, was unknown to theii* confederates. To detail the proceedings of their meetings, and recount the savage and vindictive ferocity of such men, would be papng the taste and humanity of our readers a bad comphment. It is enough to say that a fund was raised for Flanagan's defence, and a threatening notice written to be pasted on the Bodagh Buie's door — of which elegant production the fol- lowing is a literal copy : — " Buddha Bee— You 'ave wan iv our boys in for abjection an' inibbry — an' it seems is resolved to parsequte the poor boy at the nuxt 'Shizers — now dhis is be way av a dalikit hint to yew an' yoos that aff butt wan spudh av his blud is spiled in quensequence av yewr parsequtin' im as the winther's comin' on an' the wether gettin' cowld an' the long nights settin' in yew may as well prapare yewr caughin an' not that same remimber you've a praty dother an may no more about her afore you much shoulder. " Simon Pether Starlight." This and several others of the same clas« were served upon the Bodagh, with the in- tention of intimidating him fi'om the prose- cution of Flanagan. They had, however, quite mistaken their man. The Bodagh, though peaceable and placable, had not one atom of the coward in his whole composition. On the contraiy, he was not only resolute in resisting what he conceived to be oppressive or unjust, but he was also immovably obsti- nate in anything wherein he fancied he had right on his side. And even had his dispo- sition been inclined to timidity or pliancy, his son John would have used all his influence to icduce him to resist a system which is equally opposed to the laws of God and of man, as well as to the temporal happiness of those who are slaves to the ten'ible power which, like a familiar de\il, it exercises over its victims under the hollow promise of pro- tection. PAKT Vm. AND LAST. As the Bodagh and his son took the usual legal steps to forward the prosecution, it was but nattu'al that they should calculate upon the e-\ddence of Dandy Duffy, Ned M'Cor- mick, and AUck Nulty. John O'Brien ac- cordingly informed them, on the very night of the outrage, that his father and himself would consider them as strong evidence against Bartle Flanagan, and caU upon them as such. This information placed these young men in a position of incredible diffi- culty and danger. They knew not exactly at that moment how to proceed consistently with the duty which they owed to society at large, and that which was expected from them by the dai'k combination to which they were united. M'Cormick, however, begged of John O'Brien not to mention their names imtil the day after the next, and told him if he could understand their reason for this request, he would not hesitate to comply with it. O'Brien, who suspected the true cause of their reluctance, did not on this occasion press them further, but consented to their wishes, and promised not to mention their names, even as indirectly connected with the outrage, until the time they had specified had elapsed. In the course of the foUowdng day Nogher M'C-ormick presented himself to the Bodagh and his son, neither of whom felt much difficulty in divining the cause of his visit. "WeU," said Nogher, after the first usual civilities had passed, " glory be to God, gintlemen, this is desperate fine weather foi the season — barrin' the wet." FARDOROUGHA, THE MISER. 307 John smiled, but the plain matter-of-fact Boda{?h replied, "Why, how the devil can you call this good weather, neighbor, when it's raining for the last week, night and day ? " "I do call it good weather for all that," returned Nogher, " for you ought to know that every weather's good that God sends." " Well," said the Bodagh, taken aback a Httle by the Nogher's piety, " there's truth in that, too, neighbor." " I am right," said Nogher, " an' it's nothin' else than a sinful world to say that this is bad weather, or that's bad weather — bekase the Scrip tur says, ' vo be to thee ' " " But, pray," interrupted John, " what's your business with my father and me ? " Nogher rubbed dowTi his chin very gravely and significantly, " Why," said he, " some thin' for yovu- own good, gentlemen." " WeU, what is that?" said John, anxious to bring him to the point as soon as pos- sible. " The truth, gentlemen, is this — I'm an ould man, an' 1 hope that I never was found to be anji/hing else than an honest one. They're far away this day that cotdd give me a good carrechtur — two o' them anyhow I'll never forget — Connor an' his mother ; but I'll never see them agin ; an' the ould man too, / never could hate him, in regard of the love he bore his son. Long, long was the journey he tuck to see that son, an', as he tould me the day he wint into the ship, to die in his boy's arms ; for he said heaven wouldn't be heaven to him, if he died any- where else." Nogher's eyes filled as he spoke, and we need scarcely say that neither the Bodagh nor his son esteemed him the less for his attach- ment to Connor O'Donovan and his family. "The sooner I end the business I come about to-day," said he, "the better. You want my son Ned, Dandy Duffy, an' Alick Nulty, to join in givin' evidence against blaggard Bartle Flanagan. Now the truth is, gintlemen, you don't know the state o' the country. If they come into a court of justice against him, their lives won't be worth a traneen. Its aginst their oath, I'm tould, as Ribbonmen, to prosecute one another ; an' from hints I resaved, I'm afi'aid they can't do it, as I said, barrin' at the risk o' their Uves." " Father," said John, "as far as I have heard, he speaks nothmg but tinith." "I beUeve he does not," rejoined the Bod- agh, " an', by my sowl, I'll be bound he's an honest man— upon my credit, I think you are, M'Cormick." " I'm thankful to you, sir," said Nogher. "I'm inclined to think further, "said John, " that we have proof enough against Flana- gan without them." "Thin, if you tliink so, John, God forbid that we'd be the manes of bringin' the young men into thi-ouble. All I'm sorry for is, that they allowed themselves to be hooked into sicli a dark and murdherous piece of villainy." "I know, sii*, it's a bad business," said Nogher, " but it can't be helped now ; no man's safe that won't join it." "Faith, and I won't for one," replied the Bodagh, "not but that they sent many a threat to me. Anything against the laws o' the counthry is bad, and never ends but in harm to them that's consamed in it." "M'Cormick," added the son, "villain as Flanagan is, we shall let him once more loose upon society, sooner than bring the hves of your son, and the two other young men into jeopardy. Such, unhappily, is the state of the countr}% and we must submit to it." "I thank you, sir," said Nogher. "The I ti-uth is, they're sworn, it seems, not to pros- ecute one another, let whatever may happen ; I an' any one of them that breaks that oath — God knows I -svish they'd think of others as much as they do of it — barrin' a stag that's taken up, an' kep safe by the Government, is siire to be knocked on the head." "Say no more, M'Cormick," said theBod- agh's inestimable son, " say no more. No matter how this may terminate, we shall not call upon them as eridences. It must be so, father," he added, " and God help the coun- try in which the law is a dead letter, and the passions and bigoted prejudices of disaffect- ed or seditious men the active principle which impresses its vindictive hoiTors upon society! Although not myself connected with them, I know their oath, and — but I say no more. M'Cormick, your friends are safe ; we shall not, as I told you, call upon them, be the result what it may ; better that one guilty should escape, than that three innocent persons should suffer." Nogher again thanked him, and having taken up his hat, was about to retire, when he paused a moment, and, after some consid- eration with himself, said — "You're a scholai-, sir, an' — but maybe I'm saA-in' what I oughtn't to say — but sure, God knows, it's all veiy well known long ago." " ^Miat is it, M'Cormick ? " asked John •, " speak out plainlv ; we will not feel offend- ed." " 'Twas only this, sii*," continued Nogher, " I'm an unlai'ned man ; but he would write to you may be — I mane Connor — an' if he 308 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. did, I'd be glad to hear — but I hope I don't offind you, sir. You wouldn't think of me, may be, although many and many's the time I nursed him on these knees, an' carried him about in these arms, an he cried — ay, as God is my judge, he cried bitterly — when, as he said, at the time — ' Nogher, Nogher, my affectionate friend, I'll never see you more.'" John O'Brien shook him cordially by the hand, and replied — "I will make it a point to let you know anything that our family may hear from him." " An' if you wi'ite to him, sir, just in a single hne, to say that the affectionate ould friend never foi'got him." "That, too, shall be done," replied John ; " you may rest assured of it." The Bodagh, whose notions in matters of dehcacy and feehng were rough but honest, now rang the bell with an uncommon, nay, an angiy degi'ee of violence. " Get up some spirits here, an' don't be asleep. You must take a glass of whiskey before you go," he said, addressing Nogher. "Sir," repHed Nogher, "I'm in a huriy home, for I'm affinj day's work." " By but you must," rejoined the Bodagh ; " and what's your day's wages ? " " Ten pence," " Thei'e's half-a-crown ; an' I tell you more, you must come an' take a cot-tack undher me, and you'll find the change for the befc- ther, never fear." In point of fact in was so concluded, and Nogher left the Bodagh's house with a heart thankful to Pro%idence that he had ever en- tered it. The day of Flanagan's trial, however, now approached, and our readers are fuUy aware of the many chances of escaping justice which the state of the country opened to him, notwithstanding his most atrocious villainy. As some one, however, says in a play — in that of Othello, we believe — " God is above all," so might Flanagan have said on this occasion. The evidence of Biddy Nulty, some of the other servants, and the Bodagh, who identified some of the notes, was quite sufficient against him, with respect to the robbery. Nor was any eridence adduced of more circumstantial weight than Kitty Low- r}''s, who, on being satisfied of Flanagan's designs against Una, and that she was con- sequently no more than his dupe, openly ac- knowledged the part she had taken in the oc- currences of the night on which the outrages were committed. This confession agreed so well with Bai-tle's character for caution and skOl in everything he imdertook, that his object in pei'suading her to leave the hall 4o9r open was not only cle^, but perfectly consistent with the other parts of his plan. It was a capital crime ; and when fame once more had proclaimed abroad that Bartle Flanagan was condemned to be hanged for robbing Bodagh Buie, they insisted stiQ more strongly that the sentence was an un- deniable instance of retributive justice. Stiiking, indeed, w\as the difference between his deportment during the trial, and the manly fortitude of Connor O'Donovan, when standing under as heavy a charge at the same bar. The moment he entered the dock, it was obsen^ed that his face expressed all the pusillanimous sj-mptoms of the most im- manly teiTor. His brows fell, or rather hung over his eyes, as if all their muscular power had been lost — giving to his countenance not only the vague sullenness of UTesolute ferocity, but also, as was legible in his dead small eye, the cold calculations of deep and cautious treacheiy ; nor was his white, hag- gard cheek a less equivocal assurance of his consummate cowardice. Many eyes were now tuined ujDon him ; for we need scarcely say that his part of a case which created so much romantic interest as the conviction of Connor O'Donovan, and the history it de- veloi^ed of the mutual affection which subsist- ed between him and Una, was by no means forgotten. And even if it had, his present aj)pearance and position would, b}' the force of ordinary association, have revived it in the minds of any then present. Deprived of all moral firmness, as he ap- peared to be, on entering the dock, yet, as the trial advanced, it was erident that his heari and spirits were sinking still more and more, until at length his face, in consequence of its ghasthness, and the involuntary- hang- ing of his eyebrows, indicated scarcely any other expression than that of utter helpless- ness, or the feeble agony of a mind so mis- erably prostrated, as to be hardly conscious of the circumstances ai'ound him. This was clearly obvious when the verdict of "guilty ' was uttered in the dead silence which pre- vailed through the court. No sooner were the words pronounced than he looked about him wildlv, and exclaimed — "^^^lat's that? what's that? Oh, God- sweet Jasus ! sweet Jasus ! " His lips then moved for a little, and he was obsen'ed to mark his breast privately with the sign of the cross ; but in such a manner as to prove that the act was dictatetl by the unsettled incoherency of terror, and not by the promptings of jDiety or religion. The judge now put on the black cap, and was about to pronounce the fatal sentence, when the prisoner shrieked- out, " Oh, my Lord — my Lord, spare me ! Oh, spare me, for I'm pot fit to die, I daren't meet God ! " FAR DO ROUGH A, THE MISER. 309 " Alas ! " exclaimed the juJf^e, " unhappy man, it is too often true, that those who are least prepared to meet their Almighty Judge, are also the least reckless in the perpetra- tion of those crimes which are cei^tain, ere long, to huny them into His presence. You find now, that whether as regards this Hfe or the next, he who obsei-ves the laws of his re- ligion and his country, is the only man who can be considered, in the time sense of the word, his own friend ; and there is this ad-* vantage in his conduct, that, whilst he is the best friend to himself, it nece^imribi follows that he must be a benefactor in the same degi'ee to society at large. To such a man the laws are a security, and not, as in your case, and in that of those who resemble you, a punishment. It is the wicked only who hate the laws, because they are conscious of having provoked their justice. In asking me to spare your hfe, you are aware that you ask me for that which I cannot grant. There is nothing at all in your case to entitle you to mercy ; and if, by the life you have led, you feel that you are unfit to die, it is clear upon your own principles, and by the use you have made of life, that you are unfit to live. " He then proceeded to exhort him, in the usual terms, to sue for reconciliation mth an offended God, through the merits and sufferings of Christ. After which he sen- tenced him to be executed on the fifth day from the close of the assizes. On hearing the last words of the judge, he clutched the dock at which he stood with a con\ailsive ef- fort ; his hands and arms, however, became the next moment relaxed, and he sank dowTi in a state of helpless insensibility. On re- viving he found himself in his cell, attended by two of the turnkeys, who felt now more alarmed at his screams and the hoiTor which was painted on his face, than by the fainting fit from which he had just recovered. It is not our design to dwell at much length upon the last minutes of such a man ; but we will state briefly, that, as might be expected, he left nothing unattempted to save his own life. On the day after his trial, he sent for the sheriff, and told him, that, pro\dded his life were granted by the government, he could make many important disclosures, and give very valuable information concei*ning the state and prospects of Ribbonism in the country, together vdih. a long list of the per- sons who wei'e attached to it in that parish. The sheriff told him that this infonnation, which might under other circumstances have been deemed of much value by the govern- ment, had already been anticipated by another man during the ver^' short period that bad elapsed since hiscou'viction. There was nothing which he could now disclose, the sheriff added, that he himself was not al- ready in possession of, even to the rank which he, Flanagan, was invested Avith among them, and the very place where he and they had held their last meeting. But, independently of that, he proceeded, it is not usual for| government to pardon the principals in any such outrage as that for which you have been convicted. I shall, however, transmit your proposal to the Secretaiw, who may act in the matter as he thinks proper. In the meantime his relatives and con- federates were not idle outside, each party haring ah'eady transmitted a petition to the Castle in his behalf. That of his relations ; contained only the usual melancholy senti- ' ments, and earnest entreaties for mercy, I which are to be found in such documents. The memorial, however, of his confederates j was equally remarkable for its perverted in- genuity, and those unlucky falsehoods which are generally certain to defeat the objects of those who have recourse to them. j It went to say that the jDetitioners feared ! very much that the covmti-y was in a dan- gerous state, in consequence of the progres- sive march of Eibbonism in pai'ts of that pai'ish, and in many of the surrounding dis- tricts. That the unhappy piisoner had foi some time past made himself pecuharl}- ob- noxious to tliis illegal class of persons ; and that he was known in the coimtry as what is termed "a marked man" ever since he had the courage to prosecute, about two years ago, one of their most notorious leaders, by name Connor O'Donovan, of Lisnamona ; who was, at the period of wTiting that me- morial, a convict during life in New South Wales, for a capital White-boy offence. Tliat said Connor O'Donovan, haring se- duced the affections of a young woman named Una O'Brien, daughter of a man call- ed ]\Iichael O'Brien, otherwise Bodagh Buie, or the Yellow Churl, demanded her in mar- riage from her father and family, who unani- mously rejected his pretensions. Upon which, instigated by the examjDle and prac- tice of the dark combination of wliich he was so distinguished a leader, he persuaded memorialist, jDartly by entreaties, but prin- cipally by awful and mysterious threats, to join him in the commission of this most atrocious crime. That, from the moment he had been forced into the participation of such an act, his conscience coiild not permit him to rest night or day ; and he conse- quently came forward boldly and fearlessly, and did what he considered his duty to God and his country. That, in consequence of this conscientious act, O'Donovan, the Ribbon ringleader, waf» 310 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS capittolly con^'ictecl ; but throujj^h tlie interest of some leading gentlemen of the parish, who were ignorant of his habits and connections, tlie sentence was, by the mercy of govern- ment, commuted to transportation for life. That, upon his banishment from the countrj^ the girl whose ati'ections he had seduced, became deranged for some time ; but, after her recovery, exjDressed, on many occasions, the most bitter determinations to revenge upon petitioner the banishment of her lover ; and that the principal e^•ideuce upon which petitioner was con^-icted, was hers * and that of a girl named Bridget Nulty, formerly a servant in his father's house, and knoA\Ti to have been his paramoiu'. That this girl, Bridget Nulty, was taken into O'Brien's family at the suggestion of his daughter Una ; and that, from motives of personal hatred, she and Bridget Nulty, aided by another female servant of O'Brien's named Kitty Lowry, formed the conspiracy of which petitioner is unhajDpily the victim. It then proceeded to detail how the con- spiracy of Una O'Brien and the two females she had taken in as accomplices, was carried into effect ; all of which was done with sin- gular tact and ingenuity ; every circumstance being made to bear a character and design diametrically opposed to tnith. It con- cluded by stating that gi-eat exultation had been manifested by the Ribbon men of that parish, who, on the night of petitioner's con- viction, lit bonfires in several parts of the neighborhood, fired shots, sounded horns, and displayed other symptoms of great re- joicing ; and hoped his excellency would, therefore, interpose his high prerogative, and prevent petitioner fi'om falling a sacri- fice to a consi:)iracy on one hand, and the resentment of a traitorous confederacy on the other ; and all this only for ha-\dng con- scientiously and firmly served the govern- ment of the country. Our readers need not be surprised at the ingenuity of this j^la^^sible petition, for the truth is that before government suj^ported any system of education at all in Ireland, the old hedge school-masters were, almost to a man, ofiice-bearers and leaders in this detestable system. Such men, and those who were designed for the priesthood, with here and thei'e an occasional poor scholar, were uniformly the petition wT.*iters, and, in- deed, the general scribes of the little world in which they lived. In fact, we have abun- dance of pubHc evidence to satisfy us, that * This was a falsehood, inasmuch as Una, hav- ing been concealed in another room, could give, and did give, no evidence that any way affected bis life. ' persons of considerable literary attainments have been connected with Ribbonisni in all ' its stages. This fine writing, however, was imforlii- nately counteracted in consequence of the ■ information ah-eady laid before the sheriff by no less a jiersonage than Rouser Red- head, who, fearing alike the treacherj' and enmity of his leader, resolved thus to neu- tralize any disclosures he shovdd happen to make. But lest this might not have been sufficient to exhibit the character of that document, the proposal of Bartle himself to make disclosvu-es was transmitted to the Seeretiuy of State, by the same post ; so that both reached that gentleman, pan pas- su, to his no small astonishment. Had Flanagan's confederates consulted him, he would of course have dissuaded them fi'orn sending any i^etition at all, or at least, only such as he could aj^prove of, but such is the hollowness of this bond, and so little con- fidence is placed in its obligation, that when any of its rictims happen to find themselves in a jDredicament similar to Flanagan's, his companions without lead such a life of ter- ror, and suspicion, and doubt, as it would be difficult to describe. But when, as in Bartle's case, there exists a strong distnist in his fii-mness and honesty, scai'cely one can be found hardy enough to hold any communication with him. This easily and ti-ul}' accounts for the fact of their having got this petition written and sent to govern- ment in his name. The consequence was, that, on the day prerious to that named for his execution, his death warrant reached the sheriff, Avho lost no time in apprising him of his unhappy fate. This was a tr^•ing task to that humane and amiable gentleman, who had already heard of the unutterable tortui-es which the criminal suffered fi'om the hoiTor of aj> proaching death, and the dread of eternity ; for neither by penitence nor even by re- morse, was he in the slightest degree moved. " To die ! " said he, staggering back ; "to be in eternity to-morrow ! to have to face God before twelve o'clock ! tanible ! tar- rible ! tarrible ! Can no one save me ? To die to-morrow ! — tarrible ! — tarrible ! — tarrible ! Oh that I could sink into the eai'th ! that the gi'ound 'ud swally me ! " The shei-iff advised him to be a man, and told him to turn to God, who, if he repent- ed, would in no wise cast him out. " Act," said he, "as O'Donovan did, whom you yourself prosecuted and placed in the very cell in which you now stand." " Connor O'Donovan ! " he exclaimed, " he might well beai' to die ; he was innocent ; it was I that burned Bodagh Buie's haggard ; FARDOROUGHA, THE MISER. 311 he tad neither act nor part in it no more than the child unboni. I swore away his life out of re^•inge to his father an' jealousy of himself about Una O'Brien. Oh, if I had as little to answer for now as he, I could die — die ! Sweet Jasus, an' must I die to-mon-ow — be in the flames o' hell afore twelve o'clock '? tarrible I tai-rible ! " It Wtio absolutely, to use his own word, " terrible," to witness the almost super- human enerpfy of his weakness. On making this last disclosure to the sheriflf, the latter stepped back from a feeling of involuntary sm-prise and aversion, exclaiming as he did it,— " Oh, God forgive you, unhappy and guilty man ! you have much, indeed, to answer for ; and, as I said before, I advise you to make the most of the short time that is allotted to you, in repenting and seeking pardon from God." The culprit heard him not, however, for his whole soul was fearfully absorbed in the contemplation of eternity and punishment, and death. "Sir," said the turnkey, "that's the way he's runnin' about the room almost since his thi-ial ; not, to be sure, altogether so bad as now, but clappin' his hands, an' scramin' an' groanin', that it's frightiid to hsten to him. An' his dhrames, sii', is v>'orse. God, sir, if you'd hear him asleep, the hair would stand on your head ; indeed, one of us is ordered to be still with him." "It is right," rephed the sheiifl", who, after recommending him to get a clergyman, left him, and, vsith his usual promptness and decision, immediately wrote to the Sec- retary' of State, acquainting him A\-ith Flana- gan's confes.sion of his own guilt, and of Connor O'Donovan's innocence of the burn- ing of O'Brien's haggard ; hoping, at the same time, that government would take in- stant steps to restore O'Donovan to his country and his fiiends. Soon after the sheriff left him, a Roman CathoHc clergjTQan arrived, for it a^jpeared that against the priest who was chaplain of the jail he had taken an insurmountable prejudice, in consequence of some fancied resemblance he supposed him to bear to the miser's son. The former gentleman spent that night with him, and, after a vast deal of exertion and difficulty, got him so iwc composed, as that he attempted to confess to him, which, however, he did only in a hur- ried and distracted manner. But how shiiU we describe the scene, and we have it from more than ' one or two -wit- nesses, wliich jDresented itself, when the hour of his execution drew nigh. His cries and shi'iekings were di.stinctlj' heard fi'om a considerable distance along the dense multi- tudes which were assembled to witness his death ; thus giving to that dreadful event a character of horror so deep and gloomy, that many persons, finding themselves una- ble to bear it, withdrew fi-om the crowd, and actuidly fainted on hearing the almost super- natui'id tones of his yells and howhngs witliin. In the mean time, the proceedings in the press-room were of a still more teriific de- scription. He now resembled the stag at bay ; his strength became more than human. On attemjiting to tie his hands, five men were found insufficient for the woeful task. He yelled, and flung them aside hke children, but made no attempt at escape, for, in truth, he knew not what he did. The sheriff, one of the most powerful and athletic men to be found in the province, was turned about and bent hke an osier in his hands. His words, when the furj" of despaii* permitted his wild and broken cries to become inteUigible, were now for hfe — only hfe upon any tenns ; and again did he howl out his hoxTors of death, hell, and judgment. Never was such a scene, perhaj^s, witnessed. At length his hands were tied, and they at- tempted to get him up to the platform of death, but to their amjizemeut he was once more loose, and, flying to the priest, he clasped him with the giipe of Hercules. " Save me, save me ! " he shouted. " Let me Hve ! I can't die ! You're puttin' me into hell's fire ! How can I face God ? No, it's tanible ! it's tarrible ! tanible ! Life, life, hfe — only life — oh, only hfe ! " As he spoke he pressed the reverend gentleman to his breast and kissed him, and shouted vvith a wildness of entreaty, which far transcended in teiTor the most outrage- ous paroxysms of insanity. "I v\iU not lave the j^riest," shrieked he ; " so long as I stay with him so long I'U be out of the punishments of eternity. I will stick to you. Don't — don't put me away, but have pity on me ! No — I'll not go, I'll not go ! " Again he. kissed his hps, cheeks, and fore- head, and stiU clung to him with ten-ific violence, until at last liis hands were finally secured beyond the possibility of his again getting them loose. He then threw himself upon the ground, and still resisted, with a degree of muscular strength altogether \m- accountable in a person even of his compact and rather athletic form. His appearance upon the platform will long be remembered by those who had the questionable gratifi- cation of witnessing it. It was the struggle of strong men di-agging a strong man to the most frightful of all precipices — DeatL 312 WILLIAM CARLETOJ^'S WOBKS- '^Tien he was seen by the people in the act of being forced AA-ith such ^•iolence to the drop, they all moved, like a forest agitated by a sudden breeze, and uttered that strange murmvu', composed of many passions, which can only be heard where a ha*ge number of persons are congi-egated together under the power of something that is deep and thiiUing in its interest. At length, after a stiaiggle for hfe, and a horror of death possibly im- precedented in the annals of crime, he was pushed upon the di'op, the spring was touched, and the unhappy man passed shrieking into that eternity which he dreaded so much. His death was instantaneous, and, after hanging the usual time, his body was removed to the goal ; the crowd began to disperse, and in twenty mmutes the streets and people presented nothing more than their ordinary aspect of indifference to eveiy- thing but their ovra affairs.* Such, and so shght, after all, is the im- pression which death makes upon life, when the heart and domestic affections are not concerned. And now, gentle and patient reader — for well, indeed, has thy patience been tried, duiing the progress of this tantahzing naiTative — we beg to assui'e thee, that unless thou ai-t so exquisitely tender-hearted as to moiim over the fate of Bartle Flanagan, the shadows which darkened the morning and noon of our story have departed, and its eve will be dewy, and calm, and effulgent. Flanagan's execution, like any other just and necessary vindication of the law, was not without its usual good effect upon the gi'eat body of the people ; for, although we are not advocates for a sanguinaiy statute-book, neither ai-e we the eulogists of those who, with sufficient power in their hands, sit calmly and serenely amidst scenes of outrage and crime, in which the innocent suffer by the impunity of the guilty. Fame, who js busy on such occasions, soon published to a far distance Flanagan's confession of having committed the crime for which O'Donovan was j)unished. John O'Brien had it himself from the sheriff's lips, as well as fi-om a still more authentic statement written by the priest who attended him, and signed by the tinhapi^y culiDrit's mark, in the j)resence of that * We have only to say, that W — m C — k. Esq., of L — sb— e, sheriff of the county of D— n. and those who officially attended, about four years ago. the execution of a man named M — y — , at the gaol of D — np — k, for a mcst heinous murder, will, should they happec to see this description, not hesitate to declare that it falls far, far short of what they themselves witnessed upon this " terrible " occa- sion. There is nothing mentioned here which did not then occur, but there is much omitted. gentleman, the governor of the gaol, and two turnkeys. The sheriff now heard, from O'Brien, for the first time, that O'Donovan's l^arents, haring disjDosed of all their prop- erty, followed him to New South Wales, a circumstance by which he was so much struck at the moment, that he obsen'ed to O'Brien, — "Do you not think it the duty of the Government, considering all the young man and his parents have suffered by that rascal's mahce, to bring the whole family back at its own expense ? For my part, aware as I am of the excellent disposition of the Secretary, I think, if we ask them, it will be done." " Our best plan, perhaps," replied John, "is to get a memorial to that effect signed by those who subscribed to the former one in his behalf. I think it is certainly necessai'y, for, to tell joa the truth, I doubt whether they are in possession of funds sufficient for the expenses of so long a journey." "I know," said the sheriff, "that there is httle time to be lost, for S ," naming the governor of the gaol, " tells me that the next conrict shij) sails in a fortnight. We must, therefore, push forward the business as rapidly as we can." Well and tnily did they keep their words, for we have the satisfaction of adding, that on the seventh day fi-om the date of that conversation, they received a communication fi'om the Castle, informing them that, after having taken the j)6culiar hardshijDS of O'Donovan's singular case into mature con- sideration, they deemed the prayer of the memorial such as they felt pleasure in com- plying with ; and that the Colonial Secre- tary had been written to, to take the proper steps for the return of the young man and his parents to their owti country at the ex- pense of the Government. This was enough, and almost more than O'Brien expected. He had now done as much as could be done for the present, and nothing remained but to await their arrival ^rith hope and patience. In truth, the prospect that now presented itself to the Bodagh's family was one in which, for the sake of the beloved Una, they felt a deep and overwhelming in- terest. Ever since Connor's removal fi'om the country her siDU'its had gradually become more and more depi-essed. All her mirth and gayety had abandoned her ; she dis- relished reading ; she avoided company ; she hardly ever laughed, but, on the con- trary, indulged in long fits of bitter grief while upon her solitary rambles. Her chief companion was*Biddy Nulty, whom she ex- empted fi-om her usual employment when- ever she wished that Connor should be the topic of their conversation. IVIany a time FABDOBOUGIIA, THE MISER. 313 have they strolled together through the gar- den, where Una had often stood, and, point- ing to the summer-house. Avhere the ac- knowledgments of their atlection were first exchanged, said to her humble compan- ion,— "Biddy, that is the spot where he first told me that he loved me, and where I first acknowledged mine to him." She would then pull out from her heart the locket which contained his rich brown hair, and, after kissing it, sit and weep on the spot wliich was so dear to her. Biddy's task, then, was to recount to the unhappy girl such anecdotes as she remem- bered of him ; and, as these were all to his advantage, we need scarcely say that many an entertainment of this kind she was called upon to furnish to her whose melancholy' enjoyment was now only the remembr.mce of him, and what he had once been to her. "I would have been in a convent long be- fore now, Biddy," said she, a few days be- fore Flanagan's trial, " but I cannot leave my father and mother, because I know they could not live without me. My brother John has declined Mayuooth lest I should feel melancholy for want of some person to amuse me and to cheer me ; and now I feel that it would be an ungrateful return I should make if I entered a convent and left my pai'ents A\ithout a daughter whom they love so well, and my brother TN-ithout a sister on whom he doits." "Well, :Miss," rephed Biddy, "don't be cast down ; for my part I'd always hope for the best. Who knows. Miss, but a betther lafe may be turned up for you yet ? I'd hould a naggin' that God nivir intinded an innocent creature like you to spind the rest of your life in sadness and sorrow, as you're doin'. Always hope for the best." "Ah, Biddy," she replied, "you don't know what you speak of. Hi^ sentence is one that can never be changed ; and as for hoping for the best now can I do that, Bid- dy, when I know that I have no ' best ' to hope for. He was my best in this world ; but he is gone. Now go in, Biddy, and leave me to myself for a Httle. You know how I love to be alone." "May God in heaven pity you. Miss Oona," exclaimed the poor girl, whilst the tears gushed from her eyes, " as I do this flay ! Oh, keep up yoiir heart, ]\liss, darlin' ! for where there's life there's hope." Little did she then di-eam, however, that hope would be soon restored to her heart, or that the revolution of another year should see her waiting with trembling delight for the fulness of her happiness. On the evening previous to Bartle Flana- gan's execution, she was pouring out tea for her father and mother, as was usual, when her brother John came home on his return fi'om the assizes. Although the smQe of affection with which she always re- ceived him ht up her dark glossy eyes, yet he observed that she appeared unusually de- pressed, and much more pale than she had been for some time past. " Una, are you unwell, dear ? " he asked, as she handed him a cup of tea. She looked at liim -oath a kind of affection- ate reproof in her eyes, as if she wondered that he should b© ignorant of the sorrow which preyed upon her. "Not in health, John," she rej^lied ; "but that man's trial, and the many remembran- ces it has stirred uj) in my mind, have dis- turbed me. I am very much cast do^Ti, as you may see. Indeed, to speak the truth, and without disguise, I think that my heart is broken. Every' one knows that a break- ing heart is incurable." " You take it too much to yourself, a lanna dhas," said her mother ; " but you must keep up your spirits, darlin' — time will work wonders." " With me, mother, it never can." " Una," said John, with affected graA'ity, " you have just made two assertions which I can prove to be false." She looked at him \vith surprise. "False, dear John?" " Yes, false, dear Una ; and I will prove it, as I said. In the first place, there is^ a cure for a breaking heart ; and, in the next place, time icill work wonders even for you." " Well," said she, assuming a look of sick- ly cheerfulness, " I should be very ungrate- ful, John, if I did not smile for you, even when you don't smile yourself, after aD the ingenious plans j-ou take to keep up my spirits." " My dear gii'l," replied John, "I "v\ill not trifle A\-ith j'ou ; I ask you now to be firm, and say whether you are capable of hearing good news." "Good news to me ! I hope I am, John." " Well, then, I have to inform you that this day Bartle Flanagan has confessed that it was not Connor O'Donovan who burned our haggard, but himself. The sheriff has wTitten to inform the Government, so that we ^N-ill have Connor back again with a name and character unsullied." She looked at him for a moment, then at her pai-ents ; and her cheek still got paler, and after a slight pause she burst into a vehe- ment and irrepressible paroxysm of giief. " John, is this true ? " inquired his father. " Vic na hoiah! John — blessed mother.' — thrue ?— but is it, John ? is it ? " 3U WILLIAM CARLETON'8 WORKS. "Indeed, it iSj mother — the villain, now, ' that he has no hope of his Hfe, confessed it this day ! " " God knows, darlin'," exclaimed the Bodagh's warm-hearted ^\ife, now melting into tears herself, "it's no wondher you should cr\' tears of joy for this. God wouldn't be above us, a cushla oge machree, or he'd sind brighter days before your young and innocent heai't." Una could not speak, but wept on ; the grief she felt, however, became gradually milder in its character, until at length her violent sobbings were hushed ; and, although the tears still flowed, they flowed in silence. " We will have him back, sartinly," said the Bodagh ; "don't cry, dear, we'll have him here again with no disateful villain to swear away his life." "I could die now," said the noble-minded girl ; " I think I could die now, without even seeing him. His name is cleared, and will be cleared ; his character untainted ; and that is dearer to me even than his love. Oh, I knew it ! I knew it ! " she feiwently ex- claimed ; " and when all the world was against him, I was for him ; I and his own mother — for we were the two that knew his heart best." " Well," said Jolm, smUing, " if I brought you gloomy news once, I beUeve I have brought you pleasant news t'n'ice. You re- member when I told you he was not to die." "Indeed, John, dear, you are the best brother that ever God blessed a sister with ; but I hope this is not a dream. Oh, can it be possible ! and when I awake in the morn- ing, will it be to the sorrowful heart I had yesterday? I am bewildered. After this, who should ever despair of the goodness of God, or think that the trial he sends but for a time is to last always ? " " Bridget," said the gracious Bodagh, " we must have a glass of punch ; an' upon my reputaytion, Oona, we'll diink to his speedy return." " Throth, an' Oona will take a glass, her- self, this night," added her mother ; "an' thanks be to Goodness she'll be our colleen dhas dhun again — won't 3'ou have a glass, asthore machree ? " " I'll do anything that any of you wishes me, mother," replied Una. She gave, as she uttered the words, a slight sob, which tui-ned their attention once more to her, but they saw at once, by the brilliant sparkle of her eyes, that it was oc- casioned by the unexpected influx of dehght and happiness which was accumulating around her heai-t. "Mother," she said, "will you make the pimch for them to-night ? I cannot rest tni I let poor Biddy Nulty know what has happened. Cleared ! " she added, exultingly, " his name and character cleared ! " The beautiful gu*l then left the room, and, short as was the space which had elapsed since she heard her brother's communica- tion, they could not help being struck at the hght elastic step with which she tripped out of it. Brief, however, as the period was, she had time to cast aside the biu-then of care which had pressed her do\vn and changed her easj' jaace to the slow tread of SOITOW. "God help our poor colleen dhas," ex- claimed her mother, " but she's the happy creatui-e, this night ! " " And happy will the hearth be where her light \\ill shine," replied her father, quoting a beautiful Iiish proverb to that effect. "The ways of Pro\idence are beautiful when seen aiight or understood," observed her brother. " She was too good to be pun- ished, but not too perfect to be tried. Their calamitous sejDaration will enhance the value of their affection for each other when they meet ; for pure and exalted as her love for him is, yet I am proud to say that Con- nor is worthy of her and it." That night her mother observed that Una spent a longer time than usual at her de- votions, and, looking into her room when passing, she saw her on her knees, and heard her again sobbing with the grateful sense of a dehghted heart. She did not again ad- dress her, and they all retu'ed to happier slumbers than they had enjoyed for many a night. Our readers have abeady had proofs of Una's consideration, generosity, and com- mon delicacy. Her conduct at the approach of her lover's trial, and again when he was about to leave her and his countiy forever, they cannot, we are sure, have forgotten. When her brother had shown the official communication from the Castle, in which government expressed its intention of biinging Connor and his parents home at its own expense, the Bodagh and his wife, knowing that the intended husband of their daughter possessed no means of supporting her, declared, in order to remove any shadow of anxiety fi'om her mind, that O'Douovan, after their marriage, should hve with them- selves, for they did not wish, ihej said, that Una should be separated from them. This was highly gi-atifying to her, but be- yond her lover's welfare, whether fi'om want of thought or otherwise, it is not easy to say, she saw that their sympathy did not extend. This troubled her, for she knew how Connor loved his parents, and how fahdorougha, the miser. 315 much any want of comfort they might feel would distress him. She accordingly con- sulted with her ever faithful confidant, John, and begged of liim to provide for them, at her own exj^ense, a comfortable dweUing, and to fui'nish it, as near as might be prac- ticable in the manner in which their former one had been furnished. She also desired him to say nothing to their parents about this, " for I intend," she added, " to have a little surprise for them all." About the time, therefore, when the ves- sel in which they were to ai'rive was expected, a snug, well-furnished house, convenient to the Bodagh's, amply stored with provisions, and kept by a daughter of Nogher M'Cor- mick, awaited them. Nothing that could render them easy was omitted, and many things also w^ere procured, in the shape of additional comforts, to which they had not been accustomed before. At length the arrival of the much wished- for vessel was announced, and John O'Brien, after ha"ving agi-eed to let Una know by let- ter where the Bodagh's car should meet them, moimted the day coach, and proceeded to welcome home his futui-e brother-in-law, prepared, at the same time, to render both to him and his pai-ents whatever assistance they stood in need of, either pecuniary or otherwise, after so long and so trying a voyage. The meeting of two such kindred spuits may be easily conceived. There were few words wasted between them, but they were full of tinith and sincerity. " My noble fellow," said O'Brien, clasping Connor's hand, " she is at home with a beat- ing heart and a happy one, waiting for you." " John," rephed the other fervently, "the wealth of the universe is below her price. I'm not worthy of her, except in this, that I could shed my heart's dearest blood to do her good." " Little you know of it yet," said the other smiling significantly, "but you will soon." It appeared that Fardorougha's wiie had borne the haixlships of both voyages better than her husband, who, as his son sensibly observed, had been too much woni down be- fore by the struggle between his love for him and his attachment to his money. " His cai-es are now nearly over," said Con- nor, vAi\\ a sigh. " Indeed, he is so far gone that I don't know how to lave him while I'm providin' a home for him to die in." " That is ah-eady done," rephed O'Brien. " Una did not forget it. They have a house near ours, fiu'nished with everything that can contribute to their comfort." Connor, on hearing this, paused, and his cheek became pale and red alternately with emotion — his nerves thriUed, and a charm of love and pleasure diffused itself over his whole being. " There is no use in my speaking," he ex« claimed ; "love her more than I do I can« not." In consequence of Fardorougha's illness, they were forced to travel by slower and shorter stages than they intended. O'Brien, however, never left them ; for he knew that should the miser die on the way, they would require the presence and services of a friend. In due time, however, they reached the place appointed by John for the car to meet them; and ere many hours had passed, they found themselves once more in what they could call their home. From the miser's mind the power of obsendng external nature seemed to have been altogether withdrawn ; he made no observation whatever upon the ap- pearance or novelty of the scene to which he was conveyed, nor of the countrj' through which he passed ; but when put to bed he covered himself "VNith the bed-clothes, and soon fell into a slumber. " Connor," said liis mother, " your father's now asleep, an' won't miss you ; lose no time, thin, in goin' to see her ; and may God sti-inthen 3'ou both for sich a meetin' ! " They accordingly went. The Bodagh was out, but Una and her mother were sitting in the parlor when the noise of a jaunting-car was heard driving up to the door ; Una involuntarily looked out of the window, and seeing two she started up, and putting her hands together, hysterically exclaimed thrice, " Mother, mother, mother, assist me, assist me — he's here ! " Her moth- er caught her in her arms ; and at the same moment Connor I'ushed in. Una could only extend her arms to receive him ; he clasped her to his heari, and she sobbed aloud sev- eral times rapidly, and then her head sank upon his bosom. Her mother and brother were both weep- ing. Her lover looked down upon her, and, as he hung over the beautiful and insensible gii'l, the teai's which he shed copiously be- dewed her face. After a few minutes she recovered, and her brother, with his usual delicacy, beckoned to his mother to follow him out of the room, knowing that the pres- ence of a third person is always a restraint upon the interchange of even the tenderest and piu-est affection. Both, therefore, left them to themselves ; and we, in like mtm- ner, must allow that dehcious interview to be sacred only to themselves, and unpro- faned by the gaze or presence of a spectator. The Bodagh and his wife were highly 316 wijjliam carleton's works. gratified at the steps their children had taken to provide for the comfort of Fardorougha and his wife. The next day the whole family paid them a ^dsit, but on seeing the miser, it was clear that his days were numbered. Dui'ing the most vigorous and healthy period of his hfe, he had always been thin and emaciated ; but now, when age, illness, the severity of a six months' voyage, and, last of all, the hand of death, left their wasting traces upon his person, it would indeed be difficult to w'itness an image of penuiy more significant of its spirit. We must, however, do the old man justice. Since the loss of his money or rather since the trial and con- viction of his son, or probably since the operation of both events upon his heart, he had seldom, if ever, by a single act or ex- pression, afibrded any proof that his avaiice survived, or was able to maintain its hold upon him, against the shock which awakened the full power of a father's love. About ten o'clock, a. m., on the foui'th day after their arrival, Connor, who had run over to the Bodagh's, was huniedly sent for by his mother, who desii'ed Nelly M'Cormick to say that his father incessantly called for him, and that he must not lose a moment in coming. He retimied immediately with her, and found the old man reclining in bed, supported by his wife, who sat behind him. " Is my boy comin' ? " he said, in a thin, ■wiry, worn voice, but in words which, to any person near him, were as distinct almost as ever — " is my boy Connor comia' ? " " I am here, father," rephed Connor, who had just entered the sick room ; " sui-e I am always with you." "You are, you are," said he, "you were ever an' always good. Give me your hand, Connor." Connor did so. " Connor, darhn'," he proceeded, " don't be like me. I loved money too much ; I set my heart on it, an' you know how it was taken away from me. The priest yesterday laid it upon me, out of regard to my reignin' sin, as he called it, to adrise you afort I die against lovin' the wealth o' this w^orld too much." " I hope I never wiU, father, your o^^ti mis- fortune ought to be a wamin' to me." " Ay, you may say that ; it's I indeed that was misfortunate ; but it was all thi'ough P an' that nest o' robbers, the Isle o' Man." " Don't think of him or it now, my dear father — don't be discomposin' your mind about them." Connor and his mother exchanged a melan- choly glance ; and the latter, who, on witness- ing his frame of mind, could not help shed ding bitter tears, said to him — " Fardorougha dear, Fardorougha asthore machree, won't j'ou be guided by me? You're now on your death-bed, an' think of God's marcy — it's that you stand most in need of. Sure, avourneen, if you had all the money you ever had, you couldn't bring a penny of it where you're goin'." " Well, but I'm givin' Connor advice that'll sarve him. Sure I'm not biddin' him to set his heart on it, for I tould the priest I wouldn't ; but is that any raison why he'd not sat-e it? I didn't tell the priest that I wouldn't bid him do tliat." "Father," said Connor, "for the love o' God will you put these thoughts out o' your heart and mind ? " " So Connor dear," proceeded the old man, not attending to him, " in makin' any bar- gain, Connor, be sure to make as hard a one as you can ; but for all that be honest, an' never lind a penny o' money widout interest." " I think he's wandherin'," whispered his mother. "Oh gi'ant it may be so, marciful Jasus this day ! " "Honor ahagur." " WeU, darhn', what is it? " " There's another thing that throubles me — I never knew what it was to feel myself far from my own till now." " How is that, dear ? " " My bones w-on't rest in my own coun- thry ; I won't sleep wid them that belong to me. How will I lie in a strange grave, and in a far land ? Oh, will no one bring me back to my own ? " The untutored sjTnpathies of neither wife nor son could resist this beautiful and affect- ing trait of nature, and the undying love of one's own land, emanating, as it did, so un- expectedly, fi'om a heart otherwise insensible to the ordinary tendernesses of life. " Sure you are at home, avourneen," said Honor ; "an' will rest md your friends and relations that have gone before you." "No," said he, "I'm not, I'm far away from them, but now I feel more comforted ; I have one wid me that's dearer to me than them all. Connor and I will sleep together, won't we, Connor ? " This affectionate transition from every other earthly object to himself, so powerfully smote the son's heart that he could not reply. "What ails him, Connor? " said his wife. "Help me to keep up his head — Saver above ! " Connor raised liis head, but saw at a glance that the last struggle in the old man's heart was over. The miser was no more. Little now remains to be said. The grief for old age, though natural, is never abiding. FAEBOROUGEA, THE MISER. 317 The miser did sleep viiih. his own ; and after a decent period allotted to his memory, need we say that our hero and heroine, if we may be permitted so to digiiifs' them, were crowned in the enjoyment of those affections which were so severely tested, and at the same time so worthy of theii* sweet rewarci. Ned M'Cormick and Biddy Nulty followed their example, and occupied the house for- merly allotted to Fardorougha and his wife. John O'Brien afterwards married, and the Bodagh, resening a small but competent fai-m for himself, equaUy dirided his large holdings between his son and son-in-law. On John's moiety he built a suitable house ; but Una and her husband, and Honor, all live with themselves, and we need scarcely say, for it is not long since we spent a week with them, that the affection of the old people for their grandchildren is quite enthusiastic, and that the gi-andchildren, both boys and girls, are worthy of it The Black Baronet; OR, THE CHRONICLES OF BALLTTRAm. PREFACE. The incidents upon which this book is founded seem to be extraordinary and start- ling, but they are tine ; for, as Byron says, and as we all know, "Ti-uth is strange — stranger than Fiction." IVIr. West, brother to the late member from Dublin, communi- cated them to me exactly as they occurred, and precisely as he communicated them, have I given them to the reader, at least, as far as I can depend upon my mem 017. With respect, however, to hvi facts, they related only to the family which is shadowed forth under the imaginary name of Gourlay ; those connected with the aristocratic house of Gullamore, I had fi'om another source, and they are equally authentic. The Lord Dun- roe, son to the Earl of Cullamore, is not many years dead, and there are thousands still Uving, who can bear testimony to the hfe of profligacy and extravagance, which, to the very last day of his existence, he per- sisted in leading. That his father was ob- hged to get an act of ParHament passed to legitimize his children, is a fact also pretty well known to many. At first, I had some notion of writing a distinct story upon each class of events, but, upon more mature consideration, I thought it better to construct such a one as would enable me to work them both up into the same narrative ; thus contriving that the in- cidents of the one house should be connect- ed with those of the other, and the interest of both deepened, not only by their connec- tion, but their contrast. It is unncessary to say, that the prototj'pes of the families who appear upon the stage in the novel, were, in point of fact, personally unknoA\Ti to each other, unless, probably, by name, inasmuch as they resided in different and distant parts of the kingdom. They were, however, con- temporaneous. Such cii'cum stances, never- theless matter very little to the novelist, who can form for his characters whatsoever con- nections, whether matrimonial or other^^dse, he may deem nxost proper ; and of this, he must be considered himself as the sole, though probably not the best, judge. The name of Eed Hall, the residence of Sir Thomas Gourlay, is purely fictitious, but not the description of it, which applies very accu- rately to a magnificent family mansion not a thousand miles from the thriving httle town of Ballygawley. Since the fii'st appearance, however, of the work, I have accidentally dis- covered, from James Frazer's admh*able "Hand-book for Ii'eland," the best and most correct work of the kind ever published, and the only one that can be rehed upon, that there actually is a residence named Eed Hall in my own native county of Tyi'one. I men- tion this, lest the respectable family to whom it belongs might take offence at my having made it the ancestral property of such a man as Sir Thomas Gourlay, or the scene of his crimes and outrages. On this pouit, I beg to assure them that the coincidence of the name is purely accidental, and that, when I wrote the novel, I had not the sHghtest notion that such a place actually existed. Some of those coincidences are very odd and curious. For instance, it so happens that there is at this moment a man named Dun- phy actually residing on Constitution Hill, and engaged in the very same line of Hfe which I have assigned to one of my principal characters of that name in the novel, that of a huckster ; yet of this circumstance I knew nothing. The titles of Cullamore and Dun- roe are taken from two hiUs, one greater than the other, and not far asunder, in my native parish ; and I have heard it said, by the people of tliat neighborhood, that Sir Wnham Richardson, father to the late ami- able Sir James Richardson Bunbvuy, when expecting at the period of the Union to re- ceive a coronet instead of a baronetcy, had made his mind up to select either one or the other of them as the designation of his rank. I think I need scarcely' assure my readers that old Sam Roberts, the retired soldier, is drawn from life ; and I may add, that I have scai'cely done the fine old fellow and his fine 320 WILLIAM CARLETOJ^'S WORKS. old wife sufficient justice. They were two of the most amiable and striking originals I ever met. Both are now dead, but I remem- ber Sam to have been for many years en- gaged in teaching the sword exercise in some of the leading schools in and about Dublin. He ultimately gave this up, however, haA-ing been appointed to some comfortable situa- tion in the then Foundling Hospital, where his Beck died, and he, poor fellow, did not, I have heard, long survive her. 0^^ing to pamful and pecuhar circum- stances, with which it would be impertinent to trouble the reader, there were originally only five hundred copies of this work pub- lished. The individual for whom it was or- iginally wi'itten, but who had no more claim upon it than the Shah of Persia, misrepre- sented me, or rather calumniated me, so grossly to Messrs. Saunders & Otlej'-, who pubhshed it, that he prevailed upon them to threaten me with criminal proceedings for having disposed of my own work, and I ac- "cordingly received an attorney's letter, afford- ing me that very agreeable intimation. Of course they soon found they had been mis- led, and that it would have been not only an unparalleled outrage, but a matter attended with too much danger, and invohing too se- vere a penalty to proceed in. Little I knew or suspected at the time, however, that the sinister and unscrupulous delusions which occasioned me and my family so much trouble, vexation, and embaiTassment, were only the foreshadowings of that pitiable and melancholy malady which not long afterwards occasioned the unhappy man to be placed apart from society, which, it is to be feared, he is never Kkely to rejoin. I allude to those matters, not only to account for the Hmited number of the work that was printed, but to satisfv' those London publishers to whom the indi\'idual in question so foully misrepresented me, that my conduct in every transaction I have had with booksellers has been straightforward, just, and honor- able, and that I can publicly make this as- sertion, without the slightest apprehension of being contradicted. That the book was cushioned in this countrs', I am fully aware, and this is aU I shaU say upon that part of the subject. Lideed it was never properly published at aU — never advertised — never reviewed, and, until now, lay nearly in as much obscurity as if it had been still in man- uscript. A few copies of it got into circula- ting Ubraries, but, in point of fact, it was never placeii before the public at all. What ever be its merits, however, it is now in the hands of a gentleman who will do it justice, and, if it fails, the fault will not at least be bis. My object in writing the book was to ex- hibit, in contrast, three of the most powerful passions that can agitate the human heart — I mean love, ambition, and revenge. To contrive the successive incidents, by which the respective individuals on whose charac- ters they were to operate should manifest their influence with adequate motives, and without departing fi'om actual life and nature, as we observe them in action about us, was a task which reqviired a veiy close study of the human mind when placed in peculiar circumstances. Li this case the gi-eat sti-ug- gle was between love and ambition. By ambition, I do not mean the ambition of the truly gi'eat man, who wishes to associate it vrith truth and virtue, and whose object is, in the first place, to gratify it by elevating his covmtiy and bis kind ; no, but that most hateful species of it which exists in the con- trivance and working out of family arrange- ments and insane pi'ojects for the aggrandize- ment of our offspring, under circumstances where we must know that they cannot be accomplished without wi'ecking the happi- ness of those to whom they are proposed. Such a passion, in its darkest aspect — and in this I have draAvn it — has nothing more in riew than the cruel, selfish and undignified object of acquiring some poor and paltiy title or distinction for a son or daughter, without reference either to inclination or will, and too frequently in opposition to both. It is like introducing a system of penal laws into domestic life, and estabhsh- ing the tjTanny of a moral despot among the affections of the heari. Sometimes, es- pecially in the case of an only child, this am- bition grows to a terrific size, and its miser- able victim acts with all the unconscious violence of a monomaniac. Li Sir Thomas Gourlay, the reader will perceive that it became the great and en- grossing object of his life, and that its rio- lence was strong in projDortion to that want of aU moral restraint, which resulted from the creed of an infidel and sceptic. And I may say here, that it was my object to ex- hibit occasionally the gloomy agonies and hol- low delusions of the latter, as the hard and melancholy system on which he based his ciniel and vmsparing ambition. His char- acter was by far the most difficvdt to man- age. Love has an object ; and, in this case, in the person of Lucy Gourlay it had a rea- sonable and a noble one. Kevenge has an object ; and in the person of Anthony Cor- bet, or Dunphy, it also had, according to the unchristian maxims of life, an unusual- ly strong argument on which to work and sustain itself. But, as for Sir ThOmas Gour- lay 's mad ambition, I felt that, consideiing THE BLACK BAROJ^ET. 32^1 his siifficiently elevated state of life, I could only compensate for its want of all rational design, by making him scorn and reject the laws both civil and religious by which human society is regulated, and all this be- cause he had blinded his eyes against the traces of Providence, rather than take his own heart to task for its ambition. Had he been a Christian, I do not think he could have acted as he did. He shaped his own creed, however, and consequently, his own destiny. In Lady Edward Gourla}', I have endeavored to draw such a character as only the tnie and obedient Christian can present ; and in that of his daughter, a girl endowed with the highest principles, the best heai't, and the purest sense of honor — a woman who would have been precisely such a char- acter as Lady Gourlay was, had she Hved Icmger and been subjected to the same tri- als. Throughout the whole work, however, I tiiist that I have succeeded in the purity and loftiness of the monxl, which was to show the pernicous ettects of infidelity and scep- ticism, stx'iviug to sustain and justify an in- sane ambition ; or, in a word, I endeavored " To vindicate the ways of God to man." A Uterary friend of mine told me, a few days ago, that the poet Massinger had se- lected the same subject for his play of '-'A New Way to pay Old Debts," the same in which Sir Giles Overreach is the prominent character. I ought to feel ashamed to say, as I did say, in reply to tliis, that I never read the play alluded to, nor a single line of Massinger's works ; neither have I ever seen Sir Giles Overreach even upon the stage. If, then, there should appear any resemblance in the scojdc or conduct of the play or novel, or in the character of Sir Thomas Gourlay and Overreach, I cannot be charged either with theft or imitation, as I am utterly igno- rant of the play and of the character of Sir Giles Overreach alluded to. I fear I have dwelt much too long on this subject, and I shall therefore close it by a short anecdote. Some months ago I chanced to read a work — I think by an American wi-iter — called, as well as I can recollect, "The Rem- iniscences of a late Physician." I felt curi- ous to read the book, simply because I thought that the man who could, after " Tlie Diaiy of a late Physician," come out with a production so named, must possess at the least either very great genius or the most astound- ing assurance. Well, I went on perusing the work, and found almost at onc6 that it was what is called a catchpenny, and de- pended altogetlier, for its success, upon the tame and reputation of its predecessor of II nearly the same name. I saw the trick at once, and bitterly regretted that I, in com- mon I suj^pose with others, had been taken in and bit. Judge of my astonishment, however, when, as I proceeded to read the description of an American lunatic asylum. I found it to be literatim et verbatim taken — stolen — pirated — sentence by sentence and page by page, from my own description of one in the third volume of the first edition of this book, and which I myself took from close observation, when, some years ago, accompanied by Dr. "White, I was searching in the Grangegorman Lunatic Asylum and in Swift's for a case of madness arising from disappointment in love. I was then wTiting "Jane Sinclaii*," and to the honor of the sex, I have to confess that in neither of those es- tablishments, nor any others either in or about Dubhn, could I find such a case. Here, how- ever, in the Yankee's book, there were neither inverted commas, nor the shghtest acknowledgment of the source fifom which the unprincipled felon had stolen it. With respect to mad-houses, aspeciaUy as they were conducted up until within the last thirty years, I must say with truth, that if every fact originating in craft, avarice, op- pression, and the most unscrupulous ambi- tion for family wealth and hereditaiy rank, were known, such a dark series of crime and cruelty would come to hght as the pub- he mind could scarcely conceive — nay, as would shock humanity itself. Nor has this secret system altogether departed fi-om us. It is not long since the pohce ofiices devel- oped some facts rather suspicious, and pretty plainly impressed with the stamp of the old practice. The Lunatic Commission is now at work, and I trust it will not confine its investigations merely to public institutions of that kind, but will, if it jjossess authority to do so, strictly and rigidly examine every private asylum for lunatics in the kingdom. Of one other character, Ginty Cooper, I have a word to say. Any person acquainted with the brilliant and classical little capital of Cultra, l^iug on the confines of Monaghan and Cavan, will not fail to recognize the re- mains of gi-ace and beauty, which once char- acterized that celebrated and well-known in- diridual. With respect to the watch-house scene, and that in the police office, together with the dehneation of the "Old Charhes," as the guardians of the night were then called ; to which I may add the portraits of the two magistrates ; I can confidently refer to thou- sands now alive for their truth. Those mat- ters took place long before our present ad- mirable body of metropohtan pohce were es- tabhshed. At that period, the pohce magis- 322 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. trades were bestowed, in most cases, from principles hj no means in opposition to the public good, and not, as now, upon gentle- men perfectly fi"ee fi'om party bias, and well qualified for that difficult office by legal knowledge, honorable feehug, and a strong sense of pubhc duty, impartial justice, and humanity. William Carleton. (Dublin, October 36, 18B7.) CHAPTER L A Mail-coach by Night, and a Bit of MoonsJiine. It has been long observed, that every season sent by the Almighty has its own pecuHar beauties ; yet, although this is felt to be universally true— just as we know the sun shines, or that we cannot breathe with- out au" — still we ai'e all cei"tain that even the same seasons have brief jieriods when these beauties are more sensibly felt, and diffuse a more "vi-vid spiiit of enjoyment through all our faculties. Who has not experienced the gentle and serene influence of a calm spring evening ? and perhaps there is not in the whole circle of the seasons anything more dehghtful than the exquisite emotion with which a human hearty not hardened by vice, or contaminated by intercourse mth the world, is softened into tenderness and a general love for the works of God, by the pui-e spirit which breathes of holiness, at the close of a fine evening in the month of March or April. Tlie season of spring is, in fact, the resiu*- rection of nature to hfe and happiness. "WTio does not remember the delight with which, in early youth, when existence is a living poem, and all our emotions sanctify the spirit-like inspiration — the delight, we say, with which our eye rested upon a prim- rose or a daisy for the first time ? And how many a long and anxious look have we our- selves given at the jDcak of Knockmany, morning after morning, that we might be able to announce, with an exulting heart, the gratifying and glorious fact, that the snow had disappeared fi'om it — because we knew that then spring must have come ! And that universal song of the lark, which fills the air with music ; how can we forget the bounding joy with which our young heart drank it in as we danced in ecstacy across the fields? Spring, in fact, is the season dearest to the recollection of man, inasmuch as it is associated with all that is pure, and innocent, and beautiful, in the transient annals of liis early life. There is always a moiuTiful and pathetic spirit min- gled Math our remembrances of it, which re- sembles the sorrow that we feel for some beloved individual whom death -withdrew fi'om our affections at that pei'iod of exist- ence when youth had nearly comjileted its allotted limits, and the promising manifesta- tions of all that was virtuous and good were filling the parental hearts with the happy hopes which futurity held out to them. As the heart, we repeat, of such a parent goes back to brood over the beloved memory of the early lost, so do our recollections go back, with mingled love and sorrow, to the tender associations of spring, which may, indeed, be said to perish and pass away in its youth. These reflections have been occasioned, first, by the fact that its memory and asso- ciations are inexpressibly deai' to oui'selves ; and, secondly, because it is toward the close of this brief but beautitul period of the year that our chronicles date their commencement. One evening, in the last week of April, a coach called the "Fly" stopped to change horses at a small \411age in a certain part of Ireland, which, for the present, shall be nameless. The sun had just sunk behind the western hills ; but those mild gleams which characteiize his setting at the close of April, had communicated to the clouds that jDCCuharly soft and golden tint, on which th© eye loves to rest, but from which its hght was now gi-adually fading. When fresh horses had been put to, a stranger, who had previously seen two large trunks secured on the top, in a few minutes took his place be- side the guard, and the coach proceeded. " Guard," he inquired, after they had gone a coujjle of miles fi'om the village, " I am quite ignorant of the age of the moon. Wlien shall we have moonhght ? " " Not till it's far in the night, sir." " The coach jDasses through the town of Ballytrain, does it not ? " " It does, sir." " At what hour do we arrive there ? " "About half-past thi-ee in the morning sir." The stranger made no reply, but cast liis eyes over the aspect of the sui-rounding country. The night was calm, warm, and balmy. In the west, where the sun had gone down, there could still be noticed the faint traces of that subdued splendor with which he seta in spring. The stars were up, and the whole character of the sky and atmosphere was fuU of warmth, and softness, and hope. As the eye stretched across a country that seemed to be rich and weU cultivated, it felt that dream-like charm of dim romance. THE BLACK BARONET. 323 wliich visible darkness throws over the face of nature, and which invests her gi'oves, her lordly mansions, her rich campaigns, and her white farm-houses, with a beauty that resembles the imagery of some delicious dream, more than the reahties of natural scener}'. On passing along, they could obsen'e the careless-looking farmer dri\ing liome his cows to be milked and put up for the night ; whilst, fiu'ther on, the}' passed half-a-dozen cars retui'ning home, some empty and some loaded, from a neighboring fau' or market, their drivers in high conversation — a portion of them in fiiendship, some in enmity, and in general all equally disposed, in conse- quence of their pre\'ious hbations, to either one or the other. Here they meet a solitai-y traveler, fatigued and careworn, cari\>T.ng a bundle slung over liis shoulder on the point of a stick, plodding his weary way to the next village. Anon they were passed by a couple of gentlemen-farmers or country' squires, proceeding at a brisk trot upon their stout cobs or bits of half-blood, as the case might be ; and, by and by, a spanking gig shoots rapidly ahead of them, driven by a smart-looking servant in murrey-colored livery, who looks back with a sneer of con- tempt as he wheels round a comer, and leaves the plebeian vehicle far behind him. As for the stranger, he took httle notice of those whom they met, be their rank of posi- tion in life what it might ; his eye was sel- dom off the country on each side of him as they went along. It is tnie, when they passed a \illage or small market-town, he glanced into the houses as if anxious to ascertain the habits and comforts of the humbler classes. Sometimes he could catch a ghmpse of them sitting around a basket of potatoes and salt, ^ their miserable-looking faces lit by the dim i light of a rush-candle into the ghastly pale- ness of spectres. Again, he could catch ghmpses of gi'eater happiness ; and if, on ' the one hand, the s}Tnptoms of poverty and distress were \'isible, on the other there was the jorial comfort of the wealthy farmer's ■ house, with the loud laughter of its content- ed inmates. Nor must we omit the songs which streamed across the fields, in the calm stillness of the hour, intimating that they who sang them were in possession, at all events, of hght, if not of happj' hearts. As the night advanced, however, all these sounds began gradually to die away. Nature and labor required the refreshment of rest, and, as the coach proceeded at its steady pace, the varied evidences of waking Hfe became few and far between. One after another the hghts, both near and at a dis- tance, disappeared. The roads became silent and solitary, and the villages, as they passed through them, were sunk in repose, unless, perhaps, where some sorrowing family were kept awake by the watehings that were necessary at the bed of sickness or death, as was erident by the melancholy steadiness of the lights, or the slow, cautious motion by which they ghded from one apartment to an- other. The moon had now been for some time up, and the coach had just crossed a bridge that was known to be exactly sixteen miles from the town of which the stranger had made in- quiries. " I think," said the latter, addressing the guard, " we are about sixteen miles from Ballytrain." " You appeal' to know the neighborhood, sir ? " rej)lied the guard. "I have asked you a question, sir," re- pUed the other, somewhat sternly, " and, instead of answering it, you ask me an- other." "I beg your pardon, su-," rephed the guard, smiling, " it's tl^e^custom of the country. Yes, air, we're exactly sixteen miles from Ballytrain — that bridge is the mark. It's a fine country, sir, fi'om this to that " "Now, my good fellow," rephed the stranger, " I ask it as a particular favor that you will not open youi' hps to me until we reach the town, unless I ask you a question. On that condition I will give you a half-a- crown when we get there." The fellow put his hand to his lips, to hint that he was mute, and nodded, but spoke not a word, and the coach proceeded in si- lence. To those who have a temperament fraught with poetiy or feehng, there can be httle doubt that to pass, of a calm, delightful spring night, under a clear, starry sky, and a bright moon, through a country eminently pictui-esque and beautiful, must be one of those enjoyments which fiU the heart with a memory that lasts forever. But when we suppose that a person, whose soul is tend- erly aHve to the influence of locjd affections, and who, when absent, has brooded in sor- row over the memory of his native hills and vaUeys, his lakes and mountains — the rivers, where he hunted the otter and snared the trout, and who has never rerisited them, even in his di'eams, ■vrithout such strong emotions as caused him to wake with his eyelashes steeped in tears — when such a person, full of enthusiastic affection and a strong imagina- tion, returns to his native place after a long absence, under the peculiar circumstances which we are describing, we need not feel surprised that the heart of the stnmger was filled with such a conflicting tumult of feel- 824 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. ings and recollections as it is utterly im- possible to portray. From the moment the coach passed the bridge we have alluded to, evei-y hill, and residence, and river, and lake, and meadow, was familiar to him, and he felt such an in- dividual love and aflfection for them, as if they had been capable of welcoming and feel- ing the presence of the Hght-hearted boy, whom they had so often made happy. In the gaii'ish eye of day, the contemplation of this exquisite landscape would have been neither so affecting to the heart, nor so beautiful to the eye. He, the stranger, had not seen it for years, except in his di'eams, and now he saw it in reality, invested with that ideal beauty in which fancy had adorned it in those visions of the night. The river, as it gleamed dimly, according as it was Ht by the hght of the moon, and the lake, as it shone with pale but visionary beauty, pos- sessed an interest which the hght of day would never have given them. The light, too, which lay on the sleeping groves, and made the sohtary church spires, as they went along, ^isible, in dim, but distant beauty, and the clear outlines of his oxen mountains, un- changed and unchangeable — all, all crowded from the force of the recollections -with "which they were associated, upon his heart, and he laid himself back, and, for some min- utes, wept tears that were at once both sweet and bitter. In proportion as they advanced toward the town of Ballytrain, the stx-anger imagined that the moon shed a di-sdner radiance over the surrounding countiy ; but this impres- sion was occasioned by the fact that its aspect was becoming, every mile they proceeded, better and better known to him. At length they came to a long but gradual elevation in the road, and the stranger knew that, on reaching its eminence, he could command a distinct view of the magnificent valley on which his native parish lay. He begged of the coachman to stop for half a minute, and the latter did so. The scene was indeed unrivalled. All that constitutes a rich and cultivated country, with bold mountain scenery^ in the distance, lay stretched before him. To the right wound, in dim but silver-hke beauty, a fine river, which was lost to the eye for a considerable distance in the wood of Gallagh. To the eye of the stranger, every scene and locality was distinct beyond belief, simply because they were lit up, not only by the pale light of the moon, but by the purer and stronger light of his own early affections and mem- ory. Now it was, indeed, that his eye caught in, ftt a glance, all those places and objects that had held their groimd so strongly and firmlj in his heart. The moon, though sinking, was briUiant, and the cloudless expanse of heaven seemed to reflect her hght, whilst, at the same time, the shadows that projected from the trees, houses, and other elevated objects, were dark and distinct in proportion to the flood of mild effulgence which jDoured down upon them from the firmament. Let not our readers hesitate to beheve us when we say, that the heart of the stranger felt touched with a kind of melancholy happiness as he passed through their ver^^ shadows — proceeding, as they did, fi*om objects that he had looked upon as the friends of his. youth, before Hfe had opened to him the dark and blotted pages of suffering and sor- row. There, dimly shining to the right below him, was the transparent river in which he had taken many a truant plunge, and a little further on he could see without difficulty the white cascade tumbhng dovni the precipice, and mark its dim scintilla- tions, that looked, under the hght of the moon, like masses of shivered ice, were it not that such a notion was contradicted by the soft dash and continuous murmiu* of its waters. But where was the gray mill, and the large white dwelling of the miller ? and that new-looking mansion on the elevation — it was not there in his time, nor several others that he saw around him ; and, hold — what saciilege is this ? The coach is not upon the OLD road — not on that with every turn and winding of which the light foot of his boy- hood was so famihar ! What, too ! the school-house down — its very foundations razed — its light-hearted pupils, some dead others dispersed, its master in the dust, and its din, bustle, and monotonous murmur- all banished and gone, like the pageantiy of a di-eam. Such, however, is hfe ; and he who, on returning to his birthplace after an absence of many years, exjDects to find either the country or its inhabitants as he left them, wiU experience, in its most painful sense, the bitterness of disappointment. Let eveiy such individual prepare himself for the consequences of death, change, and desolation. At length the coach drove into Ballytrain, and, in a few minutes, the passengers found themselves opposite to the sign of the IVIitre, which swung over the door of the principal inn of that remarkable town. " Su-," said the guard, addressing the stranger, " I think I have kept my word." The latter, without making any reply, dropped five shillings into his hand ; but, in the course of a few minutes — for the coach changed horses there — he desired him to THE BLACK BARONET. 325 call the waiter or landlord, or any one to whom he could intrust his trunks until morning. "You are going to stop in the '^lithre,' sir, of course ? " said the guard, inquiringly. The traveler nodded assent, and, having seen his luggage taken into the inn, and looking, for a moment, at the towTi, proceed- ed along the shadowj- side of the main street, and, instead of seeking his bed, had, in a short time, altogether vanished, and in a manner that was certainly mysterious, nor did he make his appeai'ance again imtil noon on the following day. It may be as well to state here that he was a man of about thii'ty, somewhat above the middle size, and, although not clumsy, yet, on being closely scanned, he appeared beyond question to be very compact, closely knit, weU-proportioned, and muscular. Of his dress, however, we must sa}-, that it was somewhat difficult to define, or rather to infer fi'om it whether he was a gentleman or not, or to what rank or station of life he be- longed. His hair was black and curled ; his features regular ; and his mouth and nose particularly aristocratic ; but that which constituted the most striking feature of his face was a pair of black ej'es, which kindled or became mellow according to the emotions by which he happened to be influenced. " My good lad," said he to " Boots," after his return, "will you send me the land- lord ? " " I can't, sir," replied the other, " he's not at home." " Well, then, have the goodness to send me the waiter." "I ^vill, sir," rephed the monkey, leaving the room with an evident feeling of confi- dent alacrity. Almost immediately a good-looking girl, with Lush features, brown haii", and pretty blue eyes, presented herself. "Well, sir?" she said, in an interrogative tone. " WTiy," said the stranger, "I beheve it is impossiljle to come at any member of this establishment ; I wish to see the waiter." " I'm the waiter, sir," she rephed, with an unconscious face. " The deuce you are ! " he exclaimed ; " however," he added, recovering himself, " I cannot possibly wish for a better. It is vei-y hkely that I may stop with you for some time — perhaps a few months. WiU you see now that a room and bed are pre- pared for me, and that my trunks are jjut into my o\mi apartment? Get a fire into my sitting-room and bedchamber. Let my bed be well aired ; and see that ever^-thiug is done cleanly and comfortably, will you ? " " Sartinly, sir, an' I hope we won't lave you much to complain of. As for the sheets, wait till you ixy them. The wild mjTtles of Dinimgau, bey ant the demesne 'ishout, is foulded in them ; an' if the smell of them won't make you think yourself in Paradise, 'tisn't my fault." The stranger, on looking at her somewhat more closely, saw that she was an exceeding- ly neat, tight, clean-looking young woman, fair and youthful. " Have you been long in the capacity of waiter, here ? " he asked. " No, sir," she rephed ; " about six months." " Do you never keep male waiters in this estabhshment ? " he inquired. " Oh, yes, sir ; Paudeen Grair and I gen- erally act week about. This is my week, sir, an' he's at the plough." " And where have you been a<- service be- fore you came here, my good trl ? " " In Sir Thomas Gourlay's .ir." The stranger could not .^ /event himself from starting. " In Sir Thomas Gourlay'': ! " he exclaim- ed. "And pray in wha^ caj^acity were you there ? " " I was own maid t/ Miss Gourlay, sir." " To Miss Gourlay ! and how did you come to leave your situation "s\ith her ? " " When I find you have a right to ask, sir," she rephed, " I will tell you ; but not tiU then." " I stand 1 -proved, my good girl," he said ; "I hav indeed no right to enter into such inquiiT s ; but I tinist I have for those that are mote to the pui-pose. "VMiat have you for dinner ? " " Fish, flesh, and fowl, sir," she replied, with a peculiar smile, " and a fine fat buck from the deer-park." " Well, now," said he, " that really prom- ises well — mdeed it is more than I expected — you had no quaiTel, I hope, at parting ? I beg your pardon — a fat buck, you say. Come, I will have a shce of that." "Very well, sir," she rephed ; " what else would you wish ? " " To know, my dear, whether Sir Thomas is as severe upon her as — ahem I — anything at aU you like — I'm not particular — only don't forget a shce of the buck, out of the haunch, my dear ; and, whisper, as you and I ai-e hkely to become better acquainted — aU in a civil way, of course — here is a trifle o\ earnest, as a proof that, if you be attentive, I shall not be ungenerous." "I don't know," she rephed, shaking her head, and hesitiiting ; " you're a sly -looking gentleman — and, if I thought that you had any " 326 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WOEKS. " Design, you would say," he replied ; " no — none, at any rate, that is improper ; it is offered in a spirit of good-will and honor, and in such you may fairly accept of it. So," he added, as he dropped the money into her hand, " Sir Thomas insisted that you should go ? Hem ! — hem ! " The girl sttu'ted in her turn, and exclaim- ed, with a good deal of suiiDiise : " Sir Thomas insisted ! How did you come to know that, sii* ? / tovdd you no such thing." "Certainly, my dear-, you — a — a — hem — did you not say something to that effect ? Per- haps, however," he added, apprehensive lest he might have alarmed, or rather excited her suspicions — "perhaps I was mistaken. I only imagined, I supjjose, that ^-ou said some- thing to that effect ; but it does not matter — I have no intimacy with the Gourlays, I assui'e you — I think that is what you call them — and none at all with Sir Thomas — is not that his name ? Goodby now ; I shall take a walk through the town — how is this you name it ? Ball}i;rain, I think — and re- tiu'n at five, when I trust you will have din- ner ready." He then put on his hat, and sauntered out, apparently to view the town and its en\ii-ons, fully satisfied that, in consequence of his hav- ing left it when a boy, and of the changes which time and travel had wrought in his ap- pearance, no living individual there could possibly recognize him. CHAPTEK n. The Town and its Inhabitants. The town itself contained about six thou- sand inhabitants, had a, church, a chapel, a meeting-house, and also a place of worship for those who belonged to the Methodist connection. It was nearly half a mile long, lay nearly due north and south, and ran up an elevation or shght hill, and down again on the other side, where it tapered away into a string of cabins. It is scarcely necessary to say that it contained a main street, thi*ee or four with less pretensions, together with a tribe of those vile alleys Avhich consist of a double row of beggaiiy cabins, or huts, fac- ing each other, and lying so closely, that a tall man might almost stand Avith a foot on the threshold of each, or if in the middle, that is half-way between them, he might, were he so inclined, and without moving to either side, shake hands with the inhabitants on his right and left. To the left, as you went up from the north, and nearly adjoin- ing the cathedral church, which faced you, stood a bishop's palace, behind which lay a magnificent demesne. At that time, it is but just to say that the chimneys of this princely residence were never smokeless, nor its sa- loons silent and deserted as they are now, and have been for yeai's. No, the din of in- dustiy was then incessant in and about the offices of that palace, and the song of many a hght heart and happy spirit rang sweetly in the valleys, on the plains and hills, and over the meadows of that beautiful demesne, with its noble deer-pai-k stretching up to the heathy hills behind it. Many a time, w^hen a school-bo}-, have we mounted the demesne wall in question, and contemjDlated its mead- ows, waving under the sunny breeze, togeth- er with the long strings of happy mowers, the harmonious swing of whose scythes, as- sociated with the cheei-ful noise of their whet- ting, caused the very heart within us to kindle with such a sense of pure and early enjoyment as does yet, and ever will, consti- tute a portion of our best and happiest re- collections. At the period of which we wTite it mattered httle whether the prelate who jDossessed it resided at home or not. If he did not, his family generally did ; but, at aU events, dur- ing their absence, or during theu- i-esidence, constant employment was given, every work- ing-day in the year, to at least one hundred happy and contented poor fi'om a neighbor- ing and dependent village, eveiy one of whom was of the Roman Catholic creed. I have stood, not long ago, upon a beautiul elevation in that demesne, and, on looking around me, I saw nothing but a desei'ted and gloomy countrj\ The hapjDy village was gone — razed to the veiy foundations — the de- mesne was a soHtude — the songs of the reapers and mowers had vanished, as it were, into the recesses of memoiy, and the magnifi- cent palace, dull and lonely, lay as if it were situated in some land of the dead, where human voice or footstep had not been heai'd for years. The stranger, who had gone out to view the town, foimd, during that survey, httle of this absence of employment, and its conse- quent destitution, to disturb him. Many things, it is tiiie, both in the town and sub- urbs, were liable to objection. Abundance there was ; but, in too many instances, he could see, at a glance, that it was accompanied by unclean and slovenly habits, and that the processes of husbandi-y * and tillage were disfigured by old usages, that were not only painful to contemplate, but disgraceful to civihzation. The stranger was proceeding down the town, when he came in contact with a ragged, \ THE BLACK BARONET. 327 dissipated-looking young man, who bad, how- ever, about him the evidences of ha\'ing seen better days. The latter touched his hat to him, and observed, " You seem to be exam- ining our town, sir ? " " Pray, what is your name : " inquired the stranger, without seeming to notice the question. "WTiy, for the present, sir," he rephed, "I beg to insinuate that I am rather under a cloud ; and, if you have no objection, would prefer to remain anonymous, or to presence my incognito, as they say, for some time longer." " Have you no a/w.s-, by which you may be known ? " " Unquestionably, an alias I have," replied the other ; " for as to passing thi'ough life, in the broad, anonymous sense, Avithout some token to distinguish you by, the thing, to a man hke me, is impossible. I am conse- quently known as Frank Feuton, a name I borrowed from a fonner fi'iend of mine, an old school-fellow, who, while he hved, was, like myself, a bit of an original in his way. How do you like our town, sir ? " he added, changing the subject. "I have seen too httle of it," rej^lied the stranger, "to judge. Is this your native to^vn, 'Six. Fenton ? " he added. " No, sir ; not my native town." rephed Fenton ; " but I have resided here from hand to mouth long enough to know almost every indi\-idual in the barony at large." During this dialogue, the stranger eyed Fenton, as he called himself, veiy closely ; in fact, he watched every featui'e of his with a degree of curiosity and doubt that was ex- ceedingly singular. Have you, sii*, been here before ? " asked Fenton ; " or is this your first visit ? " " It is not my first \isit," replied the other ; " but it is hkely I shaU reside here for some months." "For the benefit of your health, I pre- sume ? " asked modest Frank. "My good fi-iend," rephed the stranger, "I wish to make an obseiwation. It is pos- sible, I say, that I may remain here for some months ; now, pray, attend, and mark me — whenever you and I chance, on any future occasion, to meet, it is to be understood between us that you are to answer me in anj'- thing I ask, which you know, and I to answer you in nothing, unless I wish it." "Thank you, sir," he replied, with a low and not ungraceful bow; " that's a compli- ment all to the one side, like Clogher." * "Very well," retiu-ned the stranger; "I * The proverb is pretty general throughout Ty- rone. The town of (Jlogher consists of only a single string of houses. have something to add, in order to make this aiTangement more palatable to you." "Hold, sir," rephed the other; "before you jjroceed further, you must understand me. I shall pledge myself under no terms — and I care not what they may be — to answer any question that may throw hght upon my own personal identity, or past histoiy." " That will not be necessary," replied the stranger. " What do you mean, sir ? " asked Fenton, starting ; "do you mean to hint that you know me ? " "Nonsense," said the other; "how could I know a man whom I never saw before? No ; it is merely concerning the local history of Ballytrain and its inhabitants that I am speaking." There was a slight degree of dry irony, however, on his face, as he spoke. " Well," said the other, " in the mean time, I don't see why 1 am to comply with a con- dition so dictatorially laid do\\ii by a person of whom I know nothing." " ^\Tiy, the truth is," said our strange friend, " that you are e^'idently a lively and intelligent fellow, not badly educated. I think — and, as it is hkely that you have no ver\' direct connection ^dth the inhabitants of the town and surrounding coimtiy, I take it for gi-anted that, m the way of mere amuse- ment, you may be able to " " Hem ! I see — to give you all the scandal of the place for miles about ; that is what you would say ? and so I can. But suppose a spai'k of the gentleman should — should — but come, hang it, that is gone, hopelessly gone. What is your wish ? " "In the first place, to see you better clothed. Excuse me — and, if I offend you, say so — but it is not my wish to say anything that might occasion you pain. Ai"e you given to Hquor ? " " Much oftener than hquor is given to me, I assure you ; it is my meat, diink, washing, and lodging — without it I must die. And, harkee, now ; when I meet a man I hke, and who, after all, has a touch of humanity and truth about him, to such a man, I say, 1 myself am all truth, at whatever cost ; but to eveiy other — to your knave, your hypocrite, or your trimmer, for inst4mce, all falsehood — deep, downright, wanton falsehood. In fact, I would scorn to throw away truth upon them. "You ai*e badly dressed." " Ah ! after all, how little is known of the human heart and ch;U"acter ! " exclaimed Fenton. "The subject of di*ess and the as- sociations connected with it have all been effaced from my mind and feelings for years. So long as Ave are capable of looking to oui dress, there is always a sense of honor and 328 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. self-respect left. Dress I never think of, unless as a me-xft animal protection against tne elements." " "Well, tbtr.," observed the other, survey- hag this ur.fortunate wi-etch A\ith compassion, " whether ail perception of honor and self- respect i'i lost in you I care not. Here are Ave povjids for you ; that is to say — and ^ray vjiderstand me — I commit them abso- 'iuteiy to your own keeping — your own hon- ■yr.. your self-respect, or by whatever name ture — and for the present not very select iii the company he keeps ; but he is no fool, a& they say, and we all know how marriage re- forms a man, and thoi-oughly sobers him down." " Often at the expense, papa," she replied with tears, "of many a broken heart. That surely, is not a happy argument ; for, per- haps, after all, I should, like others, become but a victim to my ineffectual efforts at his reformation." "There is one thing. Miss Gourlay, you are certain to become, and that is. Countess of Cullamore, at his father's death. Remem- ber this ; and remember also, that, victim or no victim, I am determined you shall marry him. Yes, you shall marry him," he added, stamping with vehemence, " or be turned a beggar upon the world. Become a victim, indeed ! Begone, madam, to your room, and prepare for that obedience which your mother never taught you." She rose as he spoke, and with a gracefuJ inchnation of her head, silently withdi'ew. THE BLACK BARONET. ZZ\ This dialof^e caused both father and daughter much pain. Certain portions of it, especially near the close, were calculated to force upon the memory of each, analogies that were as distressing to tlie warm-hearted girl, as the}' were embarrassing to her parent. ITie truth was, that her mother, then a year dead, had indeed become a victim to the moral profligacy of a man in whose charac- ter there existed nothing whatsoever to com- pensate her for the utter absence of do- mestic aflection in all its phases. His principal vices, so far as they affe(^ted the peace of his family, were a brutal temper, and a most scandalous dishonesty in pecu- niar}' transactions, especially in his inter- course with his own tenantry and tradesmen. Of moral obligation he seemed to possess no sense or impression whatever. A single day never occurred in which he was not guilty of some most dishonorable violation of his word to the poor, and those who were de- pendent on him. Ill-temiDer therefore toward herself, and the necessity of con- stantly witnessing a series of vile and un- manly frauds ujDon a miserable scale, to- gether with her incessant efforts to instil into his mind some sHght principle of com- mon integrity, had, dm-ing an unhappy life, so completely harrassed a mind naturally jjure and gentle, and a constitution never strong, that, as her daughter hinted, and as evei'y one intimate with the family knew, she literally fell a victim to the Tices we have named, and the incessant anxiety they occa- sioned her. These analogies, then, when unconsciously alluded to by his daughter, brought tears to her eyes, and he felt that the very gi'ief she evinced was an indirect reproach to himself. "Now," he exclaimed, after she had gone, "it is clear, I think, that the girl entertains something more than a mere moi-al objec- tion to this match. I would have taxed her with some previous engagement, but that I fear it would be prematui'e to do so at pres- ent. Dunroe is wild, no doubt of it ; but I cannot believe that women, who are natur- ally vain and fond of display, feel so much alai'm at this as they pretend. I never did myself care much about the sex, and seldom had an opportunity of studying their gene- ral chai'acter, or testing their principles ; l)ut still I incline to the opinion, that, where there is not a previous engagement, rank and wealth will, for the most part, outweigh every' other consideration. In the meantime I will ride into Ballytrain, and reconnoitre a Httle. Perhaps the contents of this commu- nication are true — perhaps not ; but, at all events, it can be no harm to look about me in a quiet way." He then read the letter a third time — ex- amined the handwriting closely — locked it in a private drawer — rang the bell — ordered his horse — and in a few minutes was about to proceed to the " Mitre " inn, in order to make secret inquiries after such persons as he might find located in that or the othei establishments of the to^-n. At this mo- ment, his daughter once more entered the apartment, her face glowing with deep agita- tion, and her large, mellow eyes lit up with a fixed, and, if one could judge, a lofty pur- pose. Her reception, we need hardly say, was severe and harsh. " How, madam," he exclaimed, " did I not order you to your room ? Do you return to bandy undutiful hints and arguments with me?" "Father," said she, "I am not ignorant, alas ! of your stern and indomitable charac- ter ; but, upon the subject of forced and un- suitable matches, I may and I do appeal directly to the experience of your own mar- ried hfe, and of that of my beloved mother. She was, unhajjpily for herself — " "And for me, ]\liss Gourlay." " Well, perhaps ^o ; but if ever woman was quahfied to make a man happy, she was. At all events, sir, unhappil}' she was forced into marriage with you, and you deliberately took to your bosom a reluctant bride. She possessed extraordinary beauty, and a large fortune. I, however, am not about to enter into your heart, or analyze its motives ; it is enough to say that, although she had no prerious engagement or affection for any other, she was literally dragged by the force of parental authority into a union with you. The consequence was, that her whole hfe, owing to — to— the unsuitableness of your tempers, and the strongly-contrasted mate- rials which formed your characters, was one of almost unexampled suffering and sorrow With this example before my eyes, and with the memory of it brooding over and darken- ing your own heart — yes, papa — my dear papa, let me call you with the full and most distressing recollections connected with it strong upon both of us, let me entreat and implore that you ^vill not urge nor force me into a union \s\\X\ this hateful and repulsive profligate. I go upon my knees to you, and entreat, as you regard m}' happiness, my honor, and my future peace of mind, that you -n-ill not attempt to unite me to this most unprincipled and dishonorable young man." Her father's brow grew black as a thun- der-cloud ; the veins of his temples swelled up, as if they had been filled with ink. and, after a few hasty strides through the study, he turned upon her such a sss WILLI A Al CAULETON'S WORKS. look of fury as we need not attempt to describe. "IVIiss Goui-lay," said he, in a voice dread- fully deep and stern, " there is not an allu- sion made in that undutiful harangue — for so I must call it — that does not determine me ; to accomplish my purpose in effecting this union. If yovu- mother was unhappy, the fault lay in her o^vn weak and morbid tem- i per. As for me, I now tell 3'ou, once for all, ' that yovir destiny is either beggary or a cor- onet ; on that I am resolved ! " She stood before him like one who had drawn strength fi'om the full knowledge of her fate. Her face, it is true, had become pale, but it was the paleness of a calm but lofty spirit, and she repHed, with a full and clear voice : " I said, sir — for I had her own sacred as- surance for it — that my mother, when she married you, had no previous engagement ; it is not so with yovu* daughter — my affec- tions are fixed upon another." There are some natures so essentially tyrannical, and to whom resistance is a mat- ter of such extraordinaiy novelty, that its manifestation absolutely sm-jDrises them out of their natm-al character. In this manner Sir Thomas Gourlay was affected. Instead of flying into a fresh hurricane of rage, he felt so completely astounded, that he was only capable of turning round to her, and asking, in a voice unusually calm : "Pray name him. Miss Goui'lay." " In that, sir, you will excuse me — for the present. The day may come, and I tnist soon will, when I can do so with honor. And now, sir, having considered it my duty not to conceal this fact from your knowledge, I will, \rith your permission, withdraw to my own apartment." She paid him, with her own peculiar grace, the usual obeisance, and left the room. The stem and overbearing Sii' Thomas Gom-- lay now felt himself so completely taken aback by her extraordinary candor and fii'm- ness, that he was only able to stand and look after her in silent amazement. "Well ! " he exclaimed, "I have reason to thank her for this important piece of infor- mation. She has herself admitted a previous attachment. So far my doubts are cleared up, and I feel jierfectly certain that the an- onymous information is correct. It now re- mains for me to find out who the object of this attachment is. I have no doubt that he is in the neighborhood ; and, if so, I shall know how to manage him." He then mounted his horse, and rode into BaUytrain, with what pui-jiose it is now un- necessaiy, we trust, to trouble the reader at further lenerth. CHAPTER V. Sir Tlwmas Gourlay fails in Umnasking the Strmngtf — Mysteiious Conduct of Fenton. When Sir Thomas Gomiay, after the delay of better than an hour in town, entered the coffee-room of the "Mitre," he was immedi* ately attended by the landlord himself. " Who is this new guest you have got, landloi'd ? " inquired the bai'onet. " They tell me he is a very mysterious gentleman, and that no one can discover his name. Do you know anything about him ? " " De'il a syllable. Sir Tammas," replied the landlord, who was a northern. " How ir you. Counsellor Crackenfudge ? " he added, speak- ing to a person who passed upstairs. " There he goes," proceeded Jack the landlord — " a nice boy. But do you know, Sir Tammas, why he changed his name to Cracken- fudge ? " Sir Thomas's face at this moment had grown frightful. While the landlord was sjDeaking, the baronet, attracted by the noise of a carriage passing, turned to observe it, just at the moment when his daughter was bowing so significantly to the stranger in the I window over them, as we have before stated. Here was a new hght thrown upon the mys- teiy or mysteries by which he felt himsell surrounded on all hands. The strange guest in the Mitre inn, was then, beyond question, the very indi\idual alluded to in the anony- mous letter. The baronet's face had, in the scowl of wi'ath, got black, as mine host was speaking. This expression, however, gradu- ally diminished in the dai'kness of that wTath- ful shadow which lay over it. After a severe internal struggle with his tremendous pas- sions, he at length seemed to cool down. His face became totally changed ; and in a few minutes of silence and struggle, it pass- ed fi'om the blackness of almost ungovern- able rage to a pallid hue, that might not un- aptly be comjjai-ed to the summit of a volca- no covered with snow, when about to i^roject its most awful and formidable enij^tions. The landlord, while putting the question to the baronet, turned his sharji, piercing eyes upon him, and, at a single glance, per- ceived that something had unusually moved him. "Sir Tammas," said he, "there is no use in denyin' it, now — the blood's disturbed in you." "Give your guest my compliments — Sir Thomas Gourlay's compliments — and I should feel obliged by a short interview." On going up. Jack found the stranger and Fenton as we have already described them. " Sir," said he, addressing the former, THE BLACK BARONET. 339 " there's a gentleman below who wishes to ' know who you ir." j " WTio I am J " retm-ned the other, quite«j unmoved ; " and, pray who may he be ? " " Sir Tammas Gourlay ; an' a'll tell you what, if you don't wish to see him, why don't see him. All take him the message, an' if there's amihing about you that you don't wish to be known or heard, make him keep his distance. He's this minute in a de'il of a passion about something, an' was comin' up as if he'd ait you without salt, but a' would n't allow it ; so, if you don't wish to see him, I a'm the boy won't be afeiu-d to say so. He's not coming as a fiiend, a' can tell you." j "Sir Thomas Govu'lay's in the house, then ? " said the stranger, ■vs'ith a good deal of siu-prise. He then paused for some time, | and, during this pause, he veiy naturally con- cluded that the baronet hatl witnessed his daughter's bow, so cautiously and significant- ly made to himself as she passed. Whilst he turned over these matters in his mind, the landlord addressed Fenton as follows : " You can go to another room, Fenton. A'm glad to see you in a decent suit of clothes, any way — a' hope you'll take your- self up, and avoid drink and low company ; for de'il a haet good ever the same two brought anybody ; but, before you go, all give you a gless o' grog to diink the Glorious Memorv. Come, now, tramp, like a good feUow."' " I have a particular wish," said the stran- ger, "that ]\Ir. Fenton should remain ; and say to Sir Thomas Goxirlay that I am ready to see him." "A' say, then," said Jack, in a friendly whisper, "be on your edge with him, for, if he fiiids you saft, the very de'U won't stand him." " The gentleman, Sii* Tammas," said Jack, on going do-wn stairs, " will be glad to see you. He's overhead." Fenton, himself, on hearing that Sir Thom- as was about to come up, prepared to de- part ; but the other besought him so earaest- ly to stay, that he consented, although vASh evident reluctance. He brought his chair over to a coraer of the room, as if be wished to be as much out of the way as possible, or, it may be, as far from Sir Thomas's eye, as the size of the apartment would permit. Be this as it may. Sir Thomas entered, and brought his ungainly person nearly to the centre of the room before he spoke. At length he did so, but took care not to ac- company his words with that covu-tesy of manner, or those rules of good-breeding, which ever prevail among gentlemen, wheth- er as friends or foes. After standing for a moment, he glanced from the one to the other, his face stOl hideously pale ; and ultimately, fixing his ej'e upon the stranger, he viewed him from head to foot, and again from foot to head, with a look of such contemptuous curiosity, as certainly was strongly calculated to excite the stranger's indignation. Find- ing the baronet spoke n»^t, the other did. " To what am I to attribute the honor oi this visit, sir ? " Sir Tliomas even then did not speak, but still kept looking at him with the expression we have described. At length he did speak : " You have been residing for some time in our neighborhood, sir ? " The stranger sim- ply bowed. " May I ask how long ? " " I have the honor, I beheve, of addressing Sir Thomas Goiu'lay ? " "Yes, you ha\:e that honor." " And may I beg to know his object in paying me this unceremonious visit, in which he does not condescend either to announce himself, or to observe the usual rules of good- breeding ? " "From my rank and knowTi position in this pai*t of the covmtry, and in my capacity also as a magistrate, sir," replied the baronet, "I'm entitled to make such inquiries as I may deem necessary fi*om those who appear here vmder suspicious circumstances." "Perhaps you may think so, but I am ol opinion, sir, that you would consult the honor of the rank and position you allude tc much more efi'ectually, by letting such in- quiiies fall within the proper pro^'ince of the executive officers of law, whenever you think there is a necessity for it." " Excuse me, but, in that manner, I shall follow my o\^■n judgrnent, not yours." "And under what circumstances of sus. picion do you deem me to stand at pres- ent?" "Very strong cu'cumstances. You have been now living here nearly a week, in a privacy which no gentleman would ever think of observing. • You have hemmed j'ourself in by a mysterv', sir ; you have studiously con- cealed yom' name — yovu* connections — and defaced every mai-k by which you could be known or traced. This, sir, is not the con- duct of a gentleman ; and ai'gues either actual or premeditated guilt." " You seem heated, sir, and you also rea- son in resentment, whatever may have oc- casioned it. And so a gentleman is not to make an excursion to a countr}- town in a quiet way — perhaps to reciniit his health, perhaps to relax his mind, perhaps to gratify a whim — but he must be ix)unced upon by some outrageous dispenser of magisterifil justice, who thinks, that, because he wishes to live quietly and unknowHj he must be ^\ relax, "be a good girl ; as you said, your- • If , it shovdd not be sir and madam between \ou and me. You are all I have in the world — my only child, and if I appear harsh to you, it is only because I love and am anxious to make you happy. Come, my dear child, put confidence in me, and rely upon my af- fection and generosity." Lucy was staggered for a moment, but only for a moment, for she thoroughly im- derstood him. " But, papa, if the gentleman you allude to ha.-i told you all, what is there left for me to confide to j'ou ? " " WTiy, the truth is, Lucy, I was anxious to test his sincerity, and to have your ver- sion as well as his. He appears, certainly, to be a gentleman and a man of honor." "And if he be a man of honor, papa, how can you require such a test ? " "I said, observe, that he appears to be such ; but, you know, a man may be mis- taken in the estimate he forms of another in a first interview. Come, Lucy, do something to make me your friend." " My friend ! " she replied, whilst the tears rose to her eyes. " Alas, papa, must I hear such language as this fi'om a father's hps ? Should anything be necessaiy to make that father the friend of his only child ? I know not how to reply to you, sir ; you have placed me in a position of almost unexampled distress and pain. I cannot, without an ap- parent want of respect and duty, give expres- sion to what I know and feel." "Why not, you foohsh girl, especially when you see me in such good-humor? Take courage. You -n-ill find me more in- dulgent .than you imagine. Imitate your lover yonder." She looked at him, and her eyes sparkled through her tears with shame, but not merely -n-ith shame, for her heaii; was filled Avith such an indignant and oppressive sense of his falsehood as caused her to weep and sob aloud for two or three minutes. " Come, my dear child, I i-epeat — imitate your lover yonder. Confess ; but don't weep thus. Surely I am not harsh to you now ? " "Papa," she replied, wiping her eyes, " the confidence which you soUcit, it is not in my power to bestow. Do not, therefore, press me on this subject. It is enough that I have ah'eady confessed to you that my af- fections are engaged. I will now add what perhaps I ought to have added before, that this was with the sanction of my dear mamma; Indeed, I would have said so, but that I was reluctant to occasioti reflections fi-om you incompatible with my affection for her memory." " Your mother, madam," he added, his face blackening into the hue of his natural tem- per, "was always a poor, weak-minded wo- man. She was foolish, madam, and indis- creet, and has made you ^^"icked — trained you up to hypocrisy, falsehood, and dis- obedience. Yes, madam, and in every in- stance where you go contrary to my will, you act upon her principles. WTiy do you not respect truth, ^liss Gourlay ? " " Alas, sir ! " she rephed, stung and shock- ed by his unmanly reflections upon the 346 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. memory' of her mother, whilst her tears burst out afresh, "I am this moment weep- ing for my father's disregai'd of it." " How, madam ! I am a Har, am I? Oh, dutiful daughter ! " "Mamma, sir, was all truth, all goodness, all affection. She was at once an angel and a mai-tjT, and I will not hear her blessed memory insulted by the very man who, above all others, ought to protect and revere it. I am not, papa, to be intimidated by looks. If it be our duty to defend the ab- sent, is it not ten thousand times more so to defend the dead ? Shall a daughter hear with acquiescence the memoiy of a mother, who would have died for her, loaded with obloquy and falsehood ? No, sir ! Menace and abuse myself as much as you wish, but I tell you, that while I have life and the power of speech, I will fling back, even into a father's face, the falsehoods — the gross and unmanly falsehoods — with which he in- sults her tomb, and calumniates her memoiy and her virtues. Do not blame me, sir, for this language ; I would be glad to honor you if I could ; I beseech you, my father, enable me to do so." " I see you take a pecuHar — a wanton pleasui'e in calling me a liar." " No, sir, I do not call you a liar ; but I know you regard truth no farther than it serves youi" own purposes. Have you not told me just now, that the gentleman in the Mitre Inn has made certain disclosui'es to you conceraing himself and me ? And now, father, I ask you, is there one word of truth in this assertion ? You know there is not. Have you not sought my confidence by a series of false pretences, and a relation of circumstances that were utterly without foundation ? All this, however, though in- expressibly painful to me as youi' daughter, I could overlook without one word of reply ; but I never will allow you to cast foul and cowardly reproach upon the memory of the best of mothers — upon the memory of a wife of whom, father, you were unworthy, and whom, to my own knowledge, your harsh- ness and severity hurried into a premature grave. Oh, never did woman pay so di-ead- ful a penalty for sufiering herself to be forced into mamage with a man she could not love, and who was unworthy of her affec- tion ! That, sir, was the only action of her life in which her daughter cannot, xoill not, imitate her." She rose to retire, but her father, now having relapsed into aU his dark vehemence of temper, exclaimed — "Now mark me, madam, before you go. I say you shall sleep under lock and key this night. I tell you that I shall use the most rigorous measures with you, the severest, the harshest, that I can devise, or I shall break that stubborn will of yours. Do not imagine for one moment that you shall over- come me, or triumph in yotu* disobedience. No, sooner than you should, I would break your spirit — I would break your heart." "Be it so, sir. I am ready to suffer any- thing, provided only you will forbear to in- sult the memory of my mother." With these words she sought her own room, where she indulged in a long fit o/ bitter grief. Sir Thomas Gourlay, in these painful con tests of temper with his candid and high- minded daughter, was by no means so cool and able as when engaged in similar exerci- tations with strangers. The disadvantage against hira in his broils with Lucj^ arose fi'om the fact that he had nothing in this respect to conceal from her. He felt that his natiu-al temj^er and disposition were known, and that the assumption of any and every^ false asi:)ect of character, must neces- ^lily be seen through by her, and his hy- pocrisy detected and imderstood. Not so, however, with strangers. When manoeuvring with them, he could play, if not a deeper, at least a safer game ; and of this he himself was jDcrfectly conscious. Had his heart been capable of any noble or dignified emotion, he must necessaiily have admired the great- ness of his daughter's mind, her indomitable love of tinith, and the beautiful and undoing tenderness "with which her affection brooded over the memory of her mother. Selfish- ness, however, and that low ambition which places human hapj)iness in the enjoyment of wealth, and honors, and empty titles, had so completely blinded him to the virtues of his daughter, and to the sacred character of his own duties as a father, bound by the first princij)les of nature to promote her happiness, without corrupting her virtues, or weakening her moral impressions — we say these things had so blinded liim, and hardened his heart against all 'the pui'er duties and responsibihties of life, that he looked upon his daughter as a hardened, disobedient girl, dead to the influence of his own good — the ambition of the world — and insensible to the dignified position which awaited her among the votaries of rank and fashion. But, alas, poor man ! how little did he know of the healthy and substantial vii'tues which confer upon those whose station lies in middle and in humble life, a benevolent and hearty consciousness of pure enjoyment, immeasui-ably superior to the hollow forms of life and conduct in aristo- cratic circles, which, like the tempting fniit of the Dead Sea, seem beautiful to the eye, THE BLACK BARONET. J47 but axe nothing more, when tested by the common process of hvmianity, than ashes and bitterness to the taste. We do not now speak of a whole class, for wherever human nature is, it \\'ill have its \'iiiues as well as its vices ; but we talk of the system, which cannot be one of much happiness or gen- erous feehng, so long as it separates itself from the general sympathies of mankind. CHL\PTER \TrL The Fortune-Teller — An Equivocal Prediction. The stranger's appearance at the "^litre," and the incident which occurred there, were in a pecuhar degi-ee mortif^j-ing to the Black Baronet, for so he was generally called. At this precise period he had projected the close of the negotiation -with respect to the contemplated m-u-riage between Lucy and Lord Dunroe. Lord Cullamore, whose resi- dence was only a few miles from Red Hall, had been for some time in dehcate health, but he was now sufficiently recovered to enter upon the negotiation proposed, to which, were it not for certain reasons that will subsequently appear, he had, in truth, no gi-eat relish ; and this, principally on Lucy Gourlay's account, and with a ^'iew to her future happiness, which he did not think had any gi-eat chance of being promoted by a matrimonial aUiance with his son. Not many minutes after the interview be- tween Lucy and her father, a hveried ser- vant arrived, beai-ing a letter in reply to one from Sir Thomas, to the following effect : "My De.vr Gourl.\y, — I have got much stronger within the last fortnight ; that is, so far as my mere bodily health is concerned. As I shall proceed to London in a day or two, it is perhaps better that I should see you upon the subject of this union, between jom- daughter and my son, especially as you seem to wish it so anxiously. To tell you the truth, I feai- very much that you are, contraiy to remonstrance, and with your eyes open to the consequences, precipitating your chiuTuing and admu'able Lucy upon wretchedness and discousolation for the re- mainder of her Hfe ; and I can tell her, and would if I were allowed, that the coronet of a countess, however highly either she or you may appreciate it, will be foimd but a poor substitute for the want of that affection imd esteem, upon which only can be founde/ou speak of," she re- pUed, " is living or dead is what nobody knows." " There is one thing I know," said Corbet, " and that is, that I could scald the heart and soul in the Black Baronet's body by one word's speaking, if I wished ; only the time is not yet come ; but it wiU come, and that soon, I hope." "Take care, Charley," repHed the master ; " no violation of sacred ties. Is not the said Baronet your foster-brother ? " "He remembered no such ties when he brought shame and disgrace on oui- family," replied Corbet, with a look of such hatred and mahguity as could rarely be seen on a human countenance. "Then why did you live vdth him, and re- main in his confidence so long ? " asked his uncle. " I had my own reasons for that — may be they Avill be known soon, and may be they will never be known," replied his nephew. " Whisht ! there's a foot on the stairs," he added ; " it's this youth, I'm thinking." Almost immediately a young man, in a college-gown and cap, entered the room, apparently the worse for liquor, and ap- proaching the schoolmaster, who s:it next him, slapped his shoulder, exclaiming : " Well, my jolly old pedagogue, I hope you have enjoyed yourself since I saw you last ? Mr. Corbet, how do you do ? And Cassandra, my darling death-like old prophetess, what have you to predict for Ambrose Gray ? " for such was the name b}' which he went. "Sit down, Mr. Gray," said Corbet, "and join us in one glass of punch." "I will, in half-a-dozen," replied the student ; " for I am always glad to see my friends." "But not to come to see them," said Mrs. Cooper. " However, it doesn't matter ; we are glad to see you, Mr. Ambrose. I hope you are getting on well at college ? " " Third i^lace, eh, my old grinder : are you not proud <^ me ? " said Axnbrose, ad- dressing the schoolmaster. " I think, Mr. Gray, tlie pride ought to be on the other side," rejilied O'Donegan, with ■ an affectation of dignity : " but it was well, i and I trust you are not insensible of the early indoctrination you received at — whose hands I will not say ; but I think it might be guessed notwithsttuiding." During this conversation, the eyes of the prophetess wex'e fixed upon the student, mth an expression of the deejjest and most in- tense interest. His per.sonal appearance was indeed peculiar and remarkable. He was about the middle size, somewhat sti'agghng and bony in his figure ; his forehead was neither good nor bad, but the general con- tour of his face contained not within it a single feature with the expression of wliich the heart of the spectator could harmonize. He was beetle-browed, his mouth diabolically sensual, and his eyes, which were scarcely an inch asunder, were sharp and piercing, and reminded one that the deep-seated cunning which lurked in them was a thing to be guarded against and avoided. His hands and feet Avere large and coarse, his whole figure disagreeable and vmgainly, and his voice harsh and deep. The fortune-teller, as we have said, kepi her eyes fixed upon his features, Avith a look which seemed to betray no iudividu:xl feel- ing beyond that of some extraordinary' and profound interest. She appeai-ed like one who was studWng his character, and attempt- ing to read his natural disposition in his countenance, manner, and conversation. Sometimes her eye brightened a little, and again her death-like face became over- shadowed with gloom, reminding one of that strange darkness which, when the earth is covered with snow, falls with such dismal effect before an ai)proaching storm. "I gi-ant you, my worthy old gi-inder, that you did indoctrinate me, as you say, to some purpose ; but, my worthy old grinder, again I say to you, that, by all the gerunds, par- ticiples, and roots you ever ground in your life, it was my o^vn grinding that got me the thu'd place in the scholarship." "Well, Mr. Ambrose," rejoined the peda- gogue, who felt disposed to draw in his horns a Uttle, " one thing is clear, that, between us both, we did it. AMiat bait, what line, what Ciilling, or profession in life, do you propose to yourself, Mr. Ambrose ? Your course in college has been brilUant so far, thanks to — ahem— no matter — you have distinguished y oui'self, " S60 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. "I have carried everything before me," re- phed Ambrose — " but what then ? Suppose, my woi-thy old magister, that I miss a fellowship — why, what remains, but to sink down into a resident mastership, and gi'iud blockheads for the remainder of my life ? But what though I fail in science, still, most revered and leai'ned ODonegan, I have am- bition — ambition — and, come how it may, I will siu'ge up out of obsciu'ity, my old buck. I forgot to teU you, that I got the first classi- cal premium yesterday, and that I am con- sequently — no, I chdn't forget to tell you, because I didn't know it myseK when I saw you to-day. Hip, hip — hxu'ra ! " His two male companions fiUed their glasses, and joined him heartily. O'Donegan shook him by the hand, so did Corbet, and the}' now could understand the cause of his very natural elevation of spu-its. " So you have all got legacies," proceeded IMr. Ambrose ; " fifty jDounds aj^iece, I hear, by the death of your brother, Mx. Corbet, who was steward to Lady Gouiiay — I am dehghted to hear it — hip, hip, hm-ra, again." "It's time enough,"' observed the prophet- ess, " a good, kind-hearted man was my poor brother Edward." "How is that old scoundrel of a Black Baronet in youi- neighborhood — Sii' Thomas — he who murdered his brother's heii* ? " "For God's sake, jVIr. Ambrose, don't say so. Don't you know that he got heavy damages against Captain Fuiiong for using the same words ? " "He be hanged," said the tij)sy student ; " he miu'dered him as sure as I sit at this table ; and God bless the worthy, be the same man or woman, who left himseK, as he left his brother's widow, without an heir to his ni-gotten title and property." The fortune-teller rose up, and entreated him not to speak hai'shly against Sii' Thomas Gourla}', adding, " That, perhaps, he was not so bad as the jDeople sujDjiosed ; but," she added, " as they — that is, she and her brother — happened to be in towTi, they were anxious to see him (the student) ; and, in- deed, they would feel obliged if he came with them into the fi'ont room for ten minutes or so, as they wished to have a httle private con- versation with liim." The change in his features 'at this intima- tion was indeed surprising. A keen, shai-p sense of self-possession, an instant recollec- tion of his position and circumstances, banished fi'om them, almost in an instant, the somewhat careless and tijDsy expression which they possessed on his entrance. « " Certaiidy," said he. "Mr. O'Donegan, will you take care of yourself until we retur» ? " " No doubt of it," replied the pedagogue, as they left the room, "I shall not forget myself, no more than that the image and sujoerscription of Sir Thomas Gourlay, the Black Baronet, is upon jour diabolical visage." Instead of ten minutes, the conference between the parties in the next room lasted for more than an hour, during which period O'Donegan did not omit to take cai-e of him- self, as he said. The woi-thy pedagogue was one of those men, who, fi'om long habit, can never become tipsy beyond a certain degi'ee of elevation, after which, no matter what may be the extent of theu' indidgence, nothing in the shape of hquor can affect them. When Gray and his two fiiends retirmed, they found consequent^ nothing but empty bottles before them, whilst the schgohnaster viewed them with a ki^d of indescribable steadiness of countenance, which could not be exactly classed with either di-unkenness or sobriety, but was something between both. More liquor, however, was ordered in, but, in the meantime, O'Donegan's eyes were fastened upon Mr. Gray with a degi'ee of surprise, which, considering the change in the 3'oimg man's appearance, was by no means extraordinaiy. "Whatever the topic of theii' conversation may have been, it is not our pm-pose at present to disclose ; but one thing is certain, that the transition which took place in Gray's features, as well as in his whole manner, was remarkable almost beyond belief. This, as we have said, mani- fested itself in some degree, on hearing that Corbet and his sister had something to say to him in the next room. Now, however, the change w'as decided and striking. All symptoms of tijDsy triumph, aiising from his success in college, had completely dis- appeared, and were rejjlaced by an expres- sion of seriousness and mingled cvmning, which could not possibly escape obsei'vation. There was a coolness, a force of reflection, a keen, calm, but agitated lustre in his small eyes, that was felt by the schoolmaster to be exceedingly disagreeable to contemplate. In fact, the face of the young man was, in a surprising degi'ee, calculating and sinister. A great portion of its -sTilgaiity was gone, and there remained something behind that seemed to partake of a cajjacity for little else . than intrigue, dishonesty, and villany. It was one of those countenances on wliich, when moved by the meditations of the mind within, nature fi-equently expresses herseK as clearly as if she had pointment, as well as by an impression that the old man knew more about it than he Avas disposed to admit, ''and will not enable us to render justice to the wronged and defrauded orphtui, you will have a hea-sy reckoning of it — an awful one when you meet your God. By the usual course of nature that is a reckoning that must soon be made. I advise you, therefore, not to tamper with your o\\ji conscience, nor, by concealing your knowledge of this great crime to peril your hopes of eternal happi- ness. Of one thing you may rest assured, that the justice we seek will not stoop to those who have been merely instruments in the liands of others." " That's all very fine talk," replied Dun- phy, uneasOy however, "and from the high- tlown language you give me, I take you to be a law^-er ; but if you were ten times a law- yer, and a judge to the back of that, a man can't tell what he doesn't know." "Mark me," replied the stranger, assaiUng him through his cupidity, "I pledge you my solemn word that for any available informa- tion you may or can give us you shall be most liberally and amply remunerated." " I have money enough," replied Dunphy ; " that is to say, as much as barely does me, for the wealthiest of us cannot bring it to the grave. I'm thankfid to you, but I cjm give you no assistance." " AVhom do you suspect, then? — whom do yoii even suspect ? " " Hut ! — why, the man that every one sus- pects — Sir Thomas Gourlay." "And upon what gi'ounds, may I ask?" " AVhy, simply because no other man had any interest in getting the child removed. Every one knows he's a dark, t}-rannical, bad man, that wouldn't be apt to scniple at any- thing. There now," he added, " that is all I know about it ; and I suppose it's not more than you knew yoiu-self before." In order to close the dialogue he stood up, and at once led the way down to the back j parlor, where the stranger, on following him, I foimd Ginty Cooper and the old woman in close conversation, which instantly ceased when they made their appearance. The stranger, chagiined and vexed at hia want of success, was about to depart, when Dunphy 's wife said : " Maybe, sir, you'd %\'ish to get your for- tune tould ? bekaise, if you would, here's a woman that will tell it to yo-i, and you may depend upon it she'll tell you nothing but the truth." " I am not in a humor for such nonsense, my good woman ; I have much more impor- tant matters to think of, I assure you ; but I suppose the woman wishes to have her hand crossed \s\i\x silver ; well, it shidl be done. Here, my good woman," he said offering her money, " accept this, and sjiai'e your j^roph- ecy." " I will not have your money, sir," rephed the prophetess ; " and I say so to let you know that I'm not an impostor. Be adris- ed, and hear me — show me your hand." The stai-thng and almost supeniatm-al ap- pearance of the woman struck him very forc- ibly, and with a kind of good-humored im- patience, he stretched out his hand to her. "Well," said he, "I will test the truth of what you promise." She took it into hei's, and after examining the hnes for a few seconds Siiid, " The lines in your hand, sir, are very legible — so much so that I can read your name in it — and it's a name which very few in this country know." The stranger started with astonishment, and was about to speak, but she signed to him to be silent. " You are in love," she continued, " and your sweetheart loves you dearly. You saw her this morning, and you would give a trifle to know where she "vvill be to-morrow. You traveled with her last night and didn't know it — and the business that brought you to town Avill prosper." " You say you know my name," rephed the stranger, "if so, write it on a shp of pa- per." She hesitated a moment. "Will it do," she asked, " if I give you the initials?" "No," he rephed, " the name in full — and I think you are fairly caught." She gave no reply, but having got a slip of paper and a pen, went to the wall and knocked three times, repeating some unin- telligible words Arith an appeai'ance of great solemnity and mysteiT. Having knocked, she applied her eai- to the wall three time* also, after which she seemed satisfied. The stranger of coui-se imputed all this to imposture ; but when he reflected upon what 592 WILLIAM CABLETON'S WORKS. she had already told him, he felt perfectly confounded with amazement. The i3roj)het- ess then went to her father's counter and wrote something upon a small fi'agment of paper, which she handed to liim. No eai-th- ly language could now express his astonish- ment, not from any behef he entertained that she jDOSsessed supernatural power, but fi-om the almost incredible fact that she could have known so much of a man's affairs who was an utter stranger to her, and to whom she was herself unknown. "Well, it is odd enough," he added ; "but this knocking on the wall and hstening was useless jugglery. Did you not say, when first you inspected my hand, that you could read my name in the lines of it? then, of course you knew it before you knocked at the wall — the knocking, therefore, was im- postui'e." "I knew the name," she rephed, "the moment I looked into your hand, but I was obliged to ask permission to reveal it. Your obsen'ation, however, was very natural. It may, in the meantime, be a consolation for you to know that I'm not at Uberty to men- tion it to any one but yourseK and one other person." " A man or woman ? " " A woman — she you saw this morning." " Wliether that be true or not," obsei'ved the stranger, "the mention of my name at present would jDlace me in both difficulty and danger ; so that I hope you'll keep it se- cret." She thi-ew the slip of pajDer into the fire. " There it Hes," she rejDlied, " and you might as well read it in those white ashes as extract it from me luitil the proper time comes. But with respect to it, there is one thing I must teU you before you go." " What is that, pray ? " "It is a name you vpill not carry long. Ask me no more questions. I have ah'eady said you will succeed in the object of your pursuit, but not without difficulty and dan- ger. Take my advice, and never go any- where without a case of loaded pistols. I have good reasons for saying so. Now pass on, for I am silent." There was an air of confidence and supe- riority about her as she uttered these words — a sense, as it were, of power — of a privilege to command, by which the stranger felt him- self involuntarily influenced. He once more offered her money, but, with a motion of her hand, she silently, and somewhat indignant- ly refused it. Wliilst this singiilar exhibition took place, the stranger observed the very remarkable and peculiar expression of the old man's countenance It is indeed very difficult to describe it. He seemed to experience a fee\ ing of satisfaction and triumjjh at the revela. tions the woman had made ; added to which was something that might be teiTiied shrewd, ironical, and derisive. In fact, his face bore no bad resemblance to that of Mephistophe- les, as represented in Retsch's powerful con- ception and deUneation of it in hi-s illustra- tion of Goethe's '" Faust," so inimitably translated by our admu-able countryman, Anster. The stranger now looked at his watch, bade them good day, and took his leave. CHAPTER XV. Interview beticeen Lady Gourlay and the Stranger — Dandy Dulcimer makes a Discovery — Tfie Stranger receives Mysterious Communications. From Constitution HiU our fiiend di-ove directly to Merrion square, the residence of Lady Gourlay, w^hom he found alone in the drawing-room. She welcomed him with a courtesy that was exj)ressive at once of anx- iety, sorrow, and hope. She extended her hand to him and said, after the usual gTeet- ings were over : "I fear to ask what the result of your journey has been — for I cannot, alas ! read any exj)ression of success in your counte- nance." "As yet," rephed the stranger, "I have not been successful, madam ; but I do not desj)air. I am, and have been, acting under an impression, that we shall ultimate^ suc- ceed ; and although I can hold out to your ladyshij) but very slender hojDes, if any, still I would say, do not despau'." Lady Gourlay was about forty-eight, and although sorrow, and the bitter calamity with which the reader is ah*eady acquainted, had left theu* severe traces upon her consti- tution and featui'es, still she was a woman on M^hom no one could look without deep interest and sympathy. Even at that age, her fine form and extraordinary beauty bore up in a most surj^rising manner against her sufferings. Her figure was tall — its propor- tions admii-able ; and her beauty, faded it is tme, still made the spectator feel, with a kind of wonder, what it must have been when she was in the i^rinic of youth and untouched by affliction. She possessed that sober ele- gance of manner that was in melancholy ; accordance with her fate ; and evinced in every movement a natural dignity that ex- cited more than ordinary respect and sym- pathy for her character and the sorrows she had suffered. Her face was oval, and had THE BLACK BARONET. 39d been always of that healthy paleness than which, when associated with symmetrj* and expression — us was the case with her — there is nothing more lovely among women. Her eyes, which were a dark brown, had lost, it is true, much of the lustre and sparkle of early Hfe ; but this was succeeded by a mild and mellow light to Avhich an abiding son'ow had imparted an expression that was full of melancholy beauty. For many years past, indeed, ever since the disappeai-ance of her only child, she had led a secluded life, and devoted herself to the Christian virtues of chainty and benevo- lence ; but in such a way as to avoid any- thing hke ostentatious display. Still, such is the structure of society, that it is impos- sible to carry the virtues for which she was remarkable to any practical extent, without the world by degrees becoming cognizant of the secret. The very recipients themselves, in the fulness of their heart, will commit a grateful breach of confidence with which it is impossible to quan'el. Consoled, as far as any consolation could reach her, by the consciousness of doing good, as well as by a strong sense of religion, she led a life which we regret so few in her social position are disposed to imitate. For many years before the jieriod at which our nari'ative commences, she had given up all hope of ever recovering her child, if indeed he was alive. "Whether he had j>erished by an accidental death in some place where his body could not be discovered — whether he had been murdered, or kidnapped, were dreadful contingencies that wrung the moth- er's soul with agony. But as habits of en- durance give to the body stronger powers of resistance, so does time by degrees strength- en the mind against the influence of sorrow. A. blameless life, therefore, varied only by its unobtrusive charities, together with a firm ti'ust in the goodness of God, took much of the sting fi'om aflrtiction, but could not wholly eradicate it. Had her child died in her arms — had she closed its innocent eyes with her own hands, and given the mother's last kiss to those pale lips on which the smile of afit'ection was never more to sit — had she been able to go, and, in the fulness of her childless heart, pour her sorrow over his grave — she would have felt that his death, compared with the darkness and uncertainty by which she was enveloped, would have been comparatively a mitigated dispensation, for which the heart ought to feel almost thankful. The death of Corbet, her steward, found her in that mournful apathy under which she had labored for years. Indeed she re- sembled a ceiiain class of invaUds who are afflicted with some secret ailment, which is not much felt unless when an unexpected pressure, or sudden change of postui-e, causes them to feel the pang which it inflicts. From the moment that the words of the dy- ing man shed the serenity of hope over her mind, and revived in her heart all those ten- der aspirations of maternal affection which, as associated with the recovery of her child, had nearly perished out of it — from that moment, we say, the extreme bitterness of her affliction had departed. She had already sufltered too much, how- ever, to allow herself to be carried beyond unreasonable bounds by sanguine and im- prudent expectations. Her i-ule of heart and of conduct was simple, but true — she tinisted in God and in the justice of his pro- vidence. On hearing the stranger's want of success, she felt more affected by that than by the faint consolation which he endeavored to hold out to her, and a few bitter tears ran slowly down her cheeks. "Hope had altogether gone," said she, " and with hope that j^ower in the heart to cherish the soiTow which it sustains ; and the certainty of his death had thrown me into that apathy, which qualifies but cannot destroy the painful consequences of reflec- tion. That which presses upon me now, is the fear that althougli he may still live, as unquestionably Corbet on his death-bed had assured me, yet it is possible we may never recover him. In that case he is dead to me — lost forever." " I will not attempt to offer your ladyship consolation," replied the stranger ; " but I would suggest simjjly, that the dj^ing words of your steward, perhaps, may be looked upon as the first opening — the da^Ti of a hopeful issue. I think we may fairly and reasonablj' calculate that your son lives. Take courage, madam. In our efforts to trace him, re- member that we have only commenced operations. Every day and ever\- successive attempt to penetrate this painful mystery Avill, I trust, fm-nish us with additional materials fur success." *' May God grant it ! " replied her lady- ship ; " for if we fjiil, my wounds ^dll have been again torn open in vain. Better a thousand times that that hope had never reached me." "True, indeed, madam," replied the stran- ger ; " but still bxke what comfort you can. Think of your brother-in-law ; he also has lost his child, and bears it well." "Ah, yes," she replied, "but yon forget that he has one still left, and that I am child- less. If there be a sohtary being on earth, it is a childless and a widowed mother — a 394 WILLIAM CARLETON'8 WORKS. widow wlio has known a mother's love — a wife who has experienced the tender and manly affection of a devoted husband." "I gi-ant," he replied, "that it is, indeed, a bitter fate." "As for my brother-in-law," she proceeded, " the child which God, in his love, has spared to him is a compensation almost for any loss. I trust he loves and cherishes her as he oufrht, and as I am told she desei-ves. There has been no communication between us ever since my marriage. Edward and he, though brothers, were as different as day and night. Unless once or twice, I never even saw my niece, and only then at a distance ; nor has a word ever passed between us. They teU me she is an angel in goodness, as well as in beauty, and that her accomphsh- ments are extraordinary — but / — I, alas ! — am alone and childless." The stranger's heart paljDitated ; and had Lady Gourlay entertained any suspicion of his attachment, she might have perceived his agitation. He also felt deep sympathy with Lady Goui-lay. " Do not say childless, madam," he rephed. " Your ladyship must hope for the best." " But what have you done ? " she asked. " Did you see the young man ? " " I saw him, madam ; but it is impossible to get anything out of him. That he is wrapped in some deep myster}' is unquestion- able. I got a letter, however, from an amiable Roman Cathohc clergj'man, the joar- ish priest of Ballytrain, to a man named Dunphy, who hves in a street called Con- stitution HiU, on the north side of the city." " He is a relation, I understand, of Edward Corbet, who died in my service," rephed her ladyshij), with an interest that seemed in- stantly to awaken her. "Well," said she, eagerly, " what was the result ? Did you present the letter ? " " I presented the letter, my lady ; and had at first strong hopes — no, not at first — but in the course of our conversation. He dropped unconscious hints that induce me to suspect he knows more about the fate of your son than he wishes to acknowledge. It struck me that he might have been an agent in this black busmess, and, on that account, that he is afi-aid to criminate himself. I have, besides," he added, smilingh', " had the gratification to have heard a projihecy uttered, by which I was assured of ultimate success in my efforts to trace out your son ; — a prophecy uttered under and accompanied by circumstances so extraordinary and in- comprehensible as to confound and amaze me." He then detailed to her the conversation he had had with old Dunphy and the fortune- teller, suppressing all allusion to whai Hof latter had said concerning Lucy and himself. After which. Lady Gourlay paused for some time, and seemed at a loss what construction to put upon it. "It is very strange," she at length ob- sen^ed ; " that woman has been here, I think, several times, visiting her late brother, who left her some money at his death. Is she not extremeh' jjale and wild-looking ? " " So much so, madam, that there is some- thing awful and almost supernatural-looking in the expression of her eyes and features. I have certainly never seen such a face before on a denizen of this Hfe." " It is strange," rephed her ladyship, " that she' should have taken upon her the odious character of a fortune-teller. I was not aware of that. Corbet, I know, had a sister, who was deranged for some time ; pei'haps this is she, and that the gift of fortune-teU- ing to which she pretends may be a mono- mania or some other delusion that her un- happy malady has left behind it." " Yevj hkely, my lady," rephed the other ; "nothing more probable. The fact you mention accounts both for her strange ap- pearance and conduct. Still I must say, that so far as I had an opportunity of obseiwing, there did not appear to be any obvious trace of insanity about her." " Well," she exclaimed, " w^e know to fore- tell future events is not now one of the privileges accorded to mortals. I will place my assurance in the justice of God's good- ness and providence, and not in the delusions of a jDoor maniac, or, perhaps, of an impostor. What course do you propose taking now ? " "I have not yet determined, madam. I think I win see this old Dunphy again. He told me that he certainly suspected your brother-in-law, but assured me that he had no specific grounds for his suspicions — be- yond the simple fact, that Sir Thomas would be the principal gainer by the child's re- moval. At aU events, I shall see him once more to-morrow." " WTiat stay will you make in town ? " " I cannot at the present moment say, my lady. I have other matters, of which your ladyship is aware, to look after. My own rights must be vindicated ; and I dare say 3'ou wiU not regi-et to hear that eveiTthing is in a proper train. We want only one link of the chain. An important document is wanting ; but I think it will soon be in our hands. Who knows," he added, smihng, " but 3'our ladyship and I may ere long be able to congratulate each other upon our mutual success? And now, madam, permit me to take my leave. I am not without hope on your accoimt ; but of this you may rest THE BLACK BARONET. 395 assured, that my most strenuous exertions shall be devoted to the object nearest your heart." "Alas," she replied, as she stood up, "it is neither title nor wealth that I covet. Give me my child — restore me my child — and I shall be happy. That is the simple ambition of his mother s heart. I wish Sir Thomas to vmderstaud that I shall allow him to enjoy both title and estates during liis life, if, know- ing where my child is, he will restore him to my heai't. I wall bind myself by the most solemn forms and engagements to this. Perhaps that might satisfy )iim." They then shook hands and separated, the stranger involuntarily influenced by the con- fident predictions of Gtnty Cooj^er, although he was really afraid to say so ; whilst L;idy Gourlay felt her heart at one time elevated by the da\\Ti of hope that had arisen, and again depressed by the darkness which hung over the fate of her son. Has next risit was to his attorney, Bii'ne}', who had been a day or two in town, and whom he found in his office in Gloucester street. "Well, I\Ii'. Biniey," he inquired, "what advance are you making ? " "AVliy," repUed Bh-uey, " the state of our ease is this : if ]\li's. Norton could be traced we might manage -without the documents you have lost ; — by the way, have you any notion where the scoundrel might be whom you suspect of having taken them ? " " What ! :M'Bride ? I was told, as I men- tioned before, that he and the Frenchwoman went to America, leaving his unfortunate vvife behind him. I could easily forgive the rascal for the money he took ; but the mis- fortune was, that the documents and the money were both in the same pocket-book. He knew their value, however, for unfortu- nately he was fully in my confidence. The feUow was insane about the girl, and I think it was love more than dishonesty that tempt- ed him to the act. I have httle doubt that he would retvu'n me the papers if he knew where to send them." " Have you any notion where the wife is?" "None in the world, unless that she is somewhere in this countrs', having set out for it a fortnight before I left Paris." " As the matter stands, then," replied Bir- ney, " we shall be obliged to go to France in order to get a fresh copy of the death and the marriage properly attested — or, I should rather say, of the marriage and the death. This will complete our documentaiy evi- dence ; but. unfortunately, ]\Irs. Norton, who was her maid at the time, and a witness of both the death and marriage, cannot be found. although she was seen in Dublin about three months ago. I have advertised several times for her in the papers, but to no purpose. I cannot find her whereabouts at all. I fear, however, and so does the Attorney-Genend, that we shall not be able to accompHsh our purpose without her." " That is unfortunate," rephed the stranger. " Let us continue the advertisements ; per- haps she mav' turn up yet. As to the other pursuit, touching the lost child, I know not what to say. There are but slight grounds for hope, and yet I am not at all disposed to ! despair, although I cannot tell why." "It cannot be possible, ' observed Biniey, " that that wicked old baronet could ulti- mately i^rosper in his villainy. I speak, of coui'se, ujDon the supposition that he is, or was, the bottom of the business. Your safest and best plan is to find out liis agents in I the business, if it can be done." ! "I shall leave nothing unattempted," re- phed the other ; "and if we fail, w^e shall at least have the satisfaction of having done our ; duty. The lapse of time, however, is against j us ; — perhaps the agents are dead." "If this man is guilty," said the attorney, j "he is nothing more nor less than a modem ^lacbeth. However, go on, and keep up your resolution ; effort wiU do much. I hope in this case — in both cases — it vviU do all." After some further conversation upon the matter in question, which it is not our in- tention to detail hei*e, the stnmger made an £- icursion to the country, and returned about six o'clock to his hotel. Here he found Dandy Dulcimer before him, evidently brim- ful of some imj^ortant information on which he (Dandy) seemed to place a high value, and which gave to his naturally droU counte- nance such an expression of mock gravity as was ludicrous in the extreme. " "\iMiat is the matter, sir ? " asked his mas- ter ; "you look very big and imjDortant just now. I hojjeyou have not been drinking." Dandy compressed his lips as if his mas- ter's fate depended . upon his vrords, and , pointing with his forefinger in the direction of Wieklow, replied : " The deed is done, sir — the deed is done." "WTiat deed, sirra?" " Weren't you tould the stuff that was in me? " he rephed. "But God hxs gifted me, and sure that's one comfort, glorj' be to his name. Weren't " " Explain yoiu'self, sir ! " said his master, authoritatively. ""WTiat do you mean by ' the deed is done ? ' You haven't got niiU'- ried, I hope. Perhaps the cousin you went to see was your sweetheart ? " " No, sir, I haven't got married. God keep me a little while longer from sich a calamity ? 396 WILLIAM CARLETON'8 WORKS. But I have put you in the way of being so." " How, sirra — put me into a state of cala- mity ? Do you caU that a service ? " " A state of repentance, sir, they say, is a state of grace ; an' when one's in a state of j^frace they can make their soul ; and any- thing, you know, that enables one to make liis soul, is surely for his good." " WTiy, then, say ' God forbid,' when I suppose you had yourself got married ? " "Bekaise I'm a sinner, sir, — a good deal hardened or so, — and haven't the grace even to wish for such a state of grace." " Well, but what deed is this you have done ? and no more of your gesticulations." " Don't you imdherstand, su* ! " he replied, extending the digit once more in the same direction, and with the same comic signifi- cance. "She's safe, sir. IMiss Gourlay — I have her." " How, you impudent scoundrel, what kind of language is this to apply to IMiss Gourlay?" " Troth, an' I have her safe," rephed the pertinacious Dandy. " Safe as a hare in her form ; but it is for your honor I have her. Cousin ! oh, the di-\il a cousin has Dandy widin the four walls of Dublin town ; but well becomes me, I took a post-chaise, no less, and followed her hot foot — never lost sight of her, even while you'd Avink, till I seen her housed." "Explain yourself, siiTa." "Faith, sir, all the explanation I have to give you've got, barrin' where she Hves." The stranger instantly thought of Lucy's caution, and for the present determined not to embarrass himself with a knowledge of her )'esidence ; "lest," as she said, "her father might demand from him whether he was 'iware of it." In that case he felt fully the tinith and justness of her injunctions. Should Sii" Thomas put the question to him he could not betray her, nor could he, on the other hand, stain his conscience by a deliberate falsehood ; for, in truth, he was the soul of honor itself. "Harkee, Dandy," said he, not in the slightest degree disi^leased with him, al- though he affected to be so, " if you wish to remain in my service keep the secret of Miss Gourlay's residence — a secret not only from me, but from every human being that lives. You have taken a most unwarrantable and impudent Hberty in following her as you did. You know not, siiTa, how you may have implicated both her and me by such conduct, especially the young lady. You are knoAvn to be in my service ; although, for certain reasons, I do not intend, for the present at least, to put you into livery ; and you ought to know, sir, also, that it will be taken for granted that you acted by my orders. Now, sir, keep that secret to your- self, and let it not pass your Hps until I may think proper to ask you for it." One evening, on the second day after this, he reached his hotel at six o'clock, and was about to enter, when a young lad, dancing up to liim, asked in a whisper if that was for him, at the same time presenting a note. The other, looking at it, saw that it was ad- dressed to him only by his initials. "J think it is, my boy," said he ; "from whom did it come, do you know?" The lad, instead of giving him any reply, took instantly to his heels, as if he had been pursued for life and death, without even waiting to sohcit the gratuity which is usu- ally expected on such occasions. Oui- friend took it for granted that it had come from the fortune-teller, Ginty Cooper ; but on opening it he perceived hk, a glance that he must have been mistaken, as the wi'iting most certainly was not that of this extraordinai'y sibyl. The hand in which she had wi'itten his name was precisely such as one would expect from such a woman — rude and vulgar — whereas, on the contrary, that in the note was elegant and lady-hke. The contents were as foUows : " Sir, — On receipt of this you will, if you wish to prosper in that which you have undertaken to accomphsh, hasten to Bally- train, and secure the person of a young man named Fenton, who lives in or about the town. You will claim him as the laA\'fiil heir of the title and property of Bed Hall, for such in fact he is. Go then to Sir Thomas Gourlay, and ask him the following questions: " 1st. Did he not one night, about sixteen years ago, engage a man who was so ingeni- ously masked that the child neither perceived the mask, nor knew the man's pei'son, to lure him from Red Hall, under the pretence of bringing him to see a puppet show ? "2d. Did not Su- Thomas give instnic- tions to this man to take him out of his path, out of hu sight, and out cf his hearing ? " 8d. Was not this man well rewarded by Sir Thomas for that act ? " There are other questions in connection with the affair that could be put, but at present they would be unseasonable. The curtain of this dark drama is beginning to rise ; truth will, ere long, be vindicated, jus- tice rendered to the defrauded orphan, and guilt punished. "A Lover of Justice." It is very difficult to describe the feelings with which the stranger pei-used this welcome THE BLACK BARONET. 397 *»ttt mysterious document. To him, it was one of great pleasure, and also of exceedingly great pain. Here was something like a clew to the discovery which he was so deeply in- terested in making. But, then, at whose expense was this discovery to be made ? He was betrothed to Lucj' Gourla}', and here he was compelled by a sense of justice to drag her father forth to pubHc exposure, as a criminal of the deepest dye. What would Lucy say to this ? What would she say to the man who should entail the heavy ig- nominy with which a discovery of this atro- cious crime must blacken her father's name. He knew the high and proud principles by which she was actuated, and he knew how deeply the disgrace of a guilty parent would affect her sensitive spirit. Yet wha^ was he to do ? Was the iniquity of this ambitious and bad man to depi'ive the ^irtuous and benevolent woman — the friend of the poor and destitute, the lo\dng mother, the affec- tionate wife who had enshrined her departed husband in the sorrowful recesses of her pure and virtuous heart, was this cold- blooded and ci-uel tyrant to work out his diabolical purposes -without any effox-t being made to check him in his cai-eer of guilt, or to justify her pious trust in that God to whom she looked for protection and justice ? No, he knew Lucy too well ; he knew that her extraordinary sense of .truth and honor would justify him in the stej)s he might be forced to take, and that whatever might be the result, he at least was the last man whom she could blame for rendering justice to the widow of her father's brother. But, then again, what rehance could be placed upon anonymous information — information which, after all, was but hmited and obscure ? Yet it was evident that the \\Titer — a female beyond question — whoever she was, must be perfectly conversant ^^'ith his motives and his objects. And if in volunteering him directions how to proceed, she had any pui-pose adver- sative to his, her note was without meaning. Besides, she only reawakened the suaincion which he himself had entertained -with respect to Fenton. At all events, to act upon the hints contained in the note, might lead to something caj^able of breaking the hitherto impenetrable cloud under which this melancholy transaction lay ; and if it failed to do this, he (the stranger) could not possi- bly stand worse in the estimation of Sir Thomas Gourlay than he did already. In God's name, then, he would miike the experi- ment ; and in order to avoid mail-coach ad- ventures in future, he would post it back to Ballytrain as quietly, and 'SN'ith as httle obser- vation as possible. He accordingly ordered Dandy to make such slight preparations as were necessary for their return to that town, and in the meantime he determined to pay another visit to old Dunphy of Constitution Hill. On arriving at the huckster's, he found him in the backi-oom, or parlor, to which we have before alluded. The old man's manner was, he thought, considerably changed foi' the better. He received him with mor«.i complacency, and seemed as if he felt some- thing hke regret for the harshness of his manner towai'd him during his first visit. " Weil, sir," said he, " is it fair to ask you, how you have got on in ferritin' out this black business ? " There are some words so completely low and offensive in their own nature, that no matter how kind and honest the intention of the speaker may be, the}' are certain to vex and annoy those to whom they ai-e applied. "Ferreting out ! " thought the stranger — " what does the old scoundrel mean ? " Yet, on second consideration, he could not for the soul of him avoid admitting that, consider- ing the natui'e of the task he was engageo in, it Avas by no means an inappropriate illus^ tration. " No," said he, " we have made no prog- ress, but we still ti-ust that j'ou will enable us to advance a step. I have already told you that we only wish to come at the princi- pals. Theii" mere instiaiments we overlook. You seem to be a poor man — but listen to me — if you can give us any assistance in this affaii', you shall be an independent one dur- ing the remainder of yoiu' life. Prorided murder has not been committed I guarantee perfect safet}' to any person who may have only acted mider the orders of a superior." " Take your time," replied the old man, with a peculiar exjwession. " Did you ever see a river ? " " Of course," replied the other ; " why do you ask ? " " Well, now, could you, or any Hvin' man, make the strame of that river flow faster than its natural course ? " " Certainly not," repUed the stranger. " Well, then — I'm an oidd man and be ad- vised by me — don't attempt to luuTy the course o' the river. Take things as they come. If there's a man on this earth that's a Hvin' di-vnl in flesh and blood, it's Sii Thomas Gouiiay, the Black BaiTOwnight ; and if there's a man livin' that would go half way into hell to pimish him, I'm that man. Now, su', you said, the last day you wer6 here, that you were a gentleman and a man of honor, and I beheve you. So these words that / have sjioken to you about him you will never mention them — you promise that?" 398 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. " Of course I can, and do. To what pur- pose should I mention them ? " " For your own sake, or, I should say^ for the sake of the cause you ai'e engaged in, don't do it." The bitterness of expression which dai'k- ened the old man's features, while he spoke of the Baronet, was perfectly diabohcal, and threw him back fi'om the good opinion which the stranger was about to form of him, not- withstanding his conduct on the previous day's visit. " You don't appear to like Sir TBhomas," he said. "He is certainly no favorite of yours." " Like him," repHed the okl man, bitterly. " He is supposed to be the best fi'iend I have ; but little you know the punishment he will get in his heart, sowl, and spirit — httle you know what he will be made to suffer yet. Of course now you undherstand, that if I could help you, as you say, to advance a sin- gle step in finding the right heir of this property I would do it. As matthers stand now, however, I can do nothing — but I'll teU you what I will do — I'U be on the look- out— I'U ask, seek, and incjuire from them that have been about him at the time of the child's disappeai'ance, and if I can get a sin- gle particle worth mentionin' to you, you shall have it, if I could only know where a letther would find you." The cunning, the sagacity, the indefinable twinkle that scintillated from the small, piercing eyes, were too ob^ious to be over- looked. The stranger instantly felt himseK placed, as it were, upon his guard, and he replied, " It is possible that I may not be in town, and my address is uncertain ; but the mo- ment you are in a capacity to communicate any information that may be useful, go to the proper quarter — to Lady Gourlay her- self. I understand that a relation of yoiu'S lived and died in her service ? " " That's true," said the man, " and a bet- ther mistress never did God put breath in, nor a betther masther than Sir Edward. Well, I will follow your advice, but as for Sir Thom- as — no matther, the time's comin' — the river's flowin — and if there's a God in heaven, he will be punished for all his misdeeds — for other things as well as takin' away the child ■ — that is, if he has taken him away. Now, Bir, that's all I can say to you at present — for I know nothing about this business. Who can teU, however, but I may ferret out some- thing ? It won't be my heart, at any rate, that will hinder me." There was nothing further now to detain the stranger in to^Ti. He accordingly post- ed it at a rapid rate to B.illytrain, accom- panied by Dandy and his dulcimer, who, ex- cept during the evenings among the servants in the hotel, had very httle opportunity of creating a sensation, as he thought he would have done as an amateur musician in the metropolis. "Musha, you're welcome back, sir," said Pat Sbaipe, on seeing the stranger enter the IVIitre ; " troth, we were longin' for you, sir. And where is herself, your honor ? " " T\Tiom do you mean, Pat ? " said the stranger, sharply. Pat pointed with his thumb over his shoulder towai'd Ked Hall. "Ah!" he exclaimed, with a laugh, by my soul I knew you'd manage it well. And troth, I'U drink long life an' happiness an' a sweet honeymoon to yez both, this very night, till the eyes stand in my head. Ah, thin, but she is the darhn', God bless her ! " If a thunderbolt had fallen at his feet, the stranger could not have felt more astonish- ment ; but that is not the word — soitow — ■ agony — indignation. " Gracious heaven ! " he exclaimed, *' what is this ? what Adllanous calumny has gone abroad ? " Here Dandy saw clearly that his master w^as in distress, and generously resolved to step in to his assistance. "Paudeen," said he, "you know nothing about this business, my hurler. You're a day before the fail*. They're not married yet — but it's as good — so hovdd yoiu* prate about it till the knot's tied — then trumpet it through the town if you like." The stranger felt that to enter into an al- tercation mth two such persons would be perfect madness, and only make what now appeared to be ah'eady too bad, much worse. He therefore said, very calmly, " Pat, I assiu-e you, that my journey to Dublin had nothing whatsoever to do w4th IVIiss Goiu'lay's. The whole matter was acci- dental. I know nothing about her ; and if any unfortunate reports have gone abroad they are unfounded, and do equal injustice to that lady and to me." " Di\-il a thing else, now, Paudeen," said Dandy, with a face full of most villanous mystery — that had runaway and elopement in every hne of it — and a tone of voice that would have shamed a couple-beggar — " bad scran to the ha'p'orth happened. So don't be puttin' bad constructions on things too soon. However, there's a good time comin', plaise God — so now, Paudeen, behave your- self, can't you, and don't be vexin' the masther." "Pat," said the stranger, feeling that the best way to put an end to this most painful conversation was to start a fi-esh topic, " vdil - THE BLACK BARONET. 399 you send for Fenton, and say I wish to see him? " " Fenton, sir ! — why, poor Mr. Fenton has been missed out of the town and neigh- borhood ever since the night you and IVliss Gour — I beg pardon " "Upon my soul, Paudeen," said Dandy, " I'll knock you down if you say that agin now, afther what the masther an' I said to you. Hang it, can't you have discretion, and keep your tongue widiu your teeth, on Most of these robberies, it is true, were the result of a loose and disorganized state of so- ciety, and had their direct origin from op- pressive and unequal laws, badly or partially administered. Robbery, therefore, in its gen- eral character, was caused, not so much by poverty, as from a desperate hatred of those penal statutes which operated for punish- ment but not for protection. Our readers may not feel sui-jirised, then, when we assure them that the bui-glar and highway-robber looked upon this infamous habit as a kind of patriotic and politicid pi*ofession, rather than a crime ; and it is well known that within the last century the sons of even decent farmers were bound apprentices to this fla- gitious craft, especially to that of horse steal- ing, which was then reduced to a sy.stem of most extraordinaiy ingenuity and address. Still, there were many poor wretches who, sunk in the deepest destitution, and con- taminated by a habit which familiarity bad deprived in their eyes of much of its inher- ent enormity, scinipled not to relieve their distresses by haring recourse to the preva^ lent usage of the countiy. Having thrown out these few preparatory observations, we request oiu* readers to fol- low us to the wretched cabin of a man whose iwm de guerre was that of Jemmy TraUcudgel — a name that was applied to him, as the reader may see, in consequence of the peculiar manner in which he canied the weapon aforesaid. Trailcudgel was a man of enormous personal strength and sur- prising courage, and had distinguished him- self as the leader of many a party and faction fight in the neighboring faii-s and mai'kets. He had been, not many yeai's before, in tol- erably good circumstances, as a tenant under Sir Thomas Gourlay ; and as that gentleman had taken it into his head that his tenantry were bound, as firmly as if there had been a clause to that effect in their leases, to bear patientl}- and in respectful silence, the im- perious and ribald scurriUty which in a state of resentment, he was in the habit of pour- ing Upon them, so did he lose few opportu- nities of making them feel, for the most tririal causes, all the irresponsible insolence of the strong and vindictive tyrant. Now, Jemmy Trailcudgel was an honest man, whom eveiy one hked ; but he was also a man of spii-it, whom, in another sense, most people feared. Among his family he was a perfect child in affection and tenderaess — lo^'ing, playful, and simple as one of them- selves. Yet this man, affectionate, brave, and honest, because he could not submit in silence and ^\•ithout indication, to the wan- ton and overbearing riolence of his landlord, was harassed by a series of persecutions, under the pretended authority of law, until he and his unhappy family were driven to beggary — almost to despair. "Trailcudgel," said Sir Tliomas to him one day that he had sent for him in a fury, " by what right and authority, sirra, did you 109 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. dare to cut turf on that part of the bog callecl Berwick's Bank ? " "Ul)on the right and authority of my .ease, Sir Thomas," repKed Trailcudgel ; " and vnth great respect, sir, you had neither right nor authority for settin' my bog, that I'm payin' you rent for, to another tenant." The baronet gi-ew black in the face, as he always did when in a passion, and especially when repHed to. "You are a lying scoundrel, sin-a," con- tinued the other ; " the bog does not belong to you, and I will set it to the devil if I likeV' " I know nobody so fit to be your tenant," replied Trailcudgel. " But I am no scoun- di*el, Sir Thomas," added the independent fellow, " and there's veiy few dare tell me so but yourself." " What, you villain ! do you contradict me ? do you bandy words and looks with me ? " asked the baronet, his rage deej)ening at Trailcudgel's audacity in having repHed at all " Villain ! " returned his gigantic tenant, in a voice of thunder. "You called me a scoundrel, sirra, and you have called me a villain, sin-a, now I tell you to your teeth, you're a Uar — I am neither ^dllain nor scoun- drel ; but yovi're both ; and if I hear another word of insolence out of your foul and lying mouth, I'll thrash you as I would a shafe of whate or oats." The black hue of the baronet's rage changed to a much modester tint ; he looked upon the face of the sturdy yeoman, now flushed with honest resentment ; he looked upon the eye that was kindled at once into an expression of resolution and disdain ; and turning on his toe, proceeded at a pace by no means funereal to the steps of the hall- door, and having ascended them, he turned round and said, in a very mild and quite a gentlemanly tone, " Oh, very well. Mi'. Trailcudgel ; very weU, indeed. I have a memory, Mr. Trail- cudgel — I have a memory. Good morning ! " "Betther for you to have a heart," ve]Aied Trailcudgel ; " what you never had." Having uttered these words he departed, conscious at the same time, from his knowl- edge of his landlord's unrelenting malignity, that his own fate was sealed, and his ruin accomplished. And he was right. In the course of four years after their quarrel* Trail- cudgel found himself, and his numerous family, in the scene of destitution to which we are about to conduct the indulgent reader. We pray you, therefore, gentle reader, to imagine yourself in a small cabin, where there ai*e two beds — that is to say, two scanty portions of damp straw, spread out thinly upon a still damper foot of earth, in a por- tion of which the foot sinks when walking over it. The two beds — each what is termed a shake down — have barely covering enough to perser\'e the piu-poses of decency, but not to communicate the usual and necessary wai-mth. In consequence of the limited ai-ea of the cabin floor they are not far removed from each other. Uj)on a little three-legged stool, between them, biu'ns a dim rush can- dle, whose Hght is so exceedingly feeble that it casts ghastly and death-like shadows over the whole inside of the cabin. That family consists of nine persons, of whom five are lying ill of fever, as the reader, fi'om the nature of their bedding, may have al- ready anticipated — for we must obser\'e here, that the epidemic was rife at the time. Food of any description has not been under that roof for more than twenty-four hours. They are all in bed but one. A low mur- mur, that went to the heart of that one, with a noise which seemed to it louder and more terrible than the deepest peal that ever thundered tlu'ough the firmament of heaven — a low murmur, we say, of this de- scription, arose fi-om the beds, composed of those wailing sounds that mingle together as they proceed from the lips of weakness, pain, and famine, until they form that many- toned, incessant, and horrible voice of mul- tiphed misery, which falls upon the ear with the echoes of the gi'ave, and upon the heart as something wonderful in the accents of God, or, as we may suppose the voice of the accusing angel to be, whilst recording before His thi-one the ofiicial inhumanity of councils and senates, who harden their hearts and shut their ears to " the ciy of the poor." Seated upon a second little stool was a man of huge stature, clothed, if we can say so, with rags, contemj^lating the misery around him, and having no sounds to listen to but the low, ceaseless wail of pain and suftering which we have described. His features, once manly and handsome, are now shai-p and hollow ; his beard is grown ; his lips are white ; and his eyes Arithout speculation, unless when lit up into an oc- casional blaze of fire, that seemed to jjroceed as much from the paroxysms of approaching insanity as from the terrible scene which surrounds him, as well as from his own wolfish desire for food. His cheek bones project fearfully, and his large temples seem, hj the ghastly skin which is drawn tight about them, to remind one of those of a skele- ton, were it not that the image is made stiil more appalling by the existence of hfe. Whilst in this position, motionless as e THE BLACK BARONET. 409 statue, a voice from one of the beds called out "Jemmy," with a tone so low and feeble that to other ears it would probably not have been distinctly audible. He went to the bedside, and taking the candle in his hand, said, in a voice that had lost its strength but not its tenderness : "Well, Mary dear? ' " Jemmy," said she, for it was liis wife who had called him, " my time has come. I must lave you and them at last." "Thanks be to the Almighty," he ex- claimed, fervently ; " and don't be siu'prised, darlin' of my life, that I spake as I do. Ah, Mai-y dear," he proceeded, with a wild and bitter manner, " I never thought that my love for you would make me say such words, or •\\ash to feel you torn out of my breakin' heai't ; but I know how happy the change will be for you, as well as the sufferers 3'ou are lavin' behind you. Death now is om- only consolation." "It cannot be that God, Avho knows the kind and affectionate heart you have, an' ever had," replied his dying wife, " will neg- lect you and them long," — but she an- swered with difficulty. " We were very happ3'," she proceeded, slowly, however, and with pain ; " for, hard as the world was of late upon us, still we had love and affection among ourselves ; and that. Jemmy, God in his goodness left us, blessed be his — his — holy name — an' sui-e it was betther thsm aU he took from us. I hope poor Alley will re- cover ; she's now nearly a girl, an' "will be able to take care of you and be a mother to the rest. I feel that my tongue's gettin' wake ; God bless you and them, an', above all, her — for she was our dai'hn' an' our Hfe, especially yours. Raise me up a little," she added, " till I take a last look at them before I go." He did so, and after casting her languid eyes mournfully over the wretched sleepers, she added : " WeU, God is good, but this is a bitther sight for a mother's heart. Jemmy," she j^roceeded, " I won't be long by myself in heaven ; some of them wiU be "with me soon — an' oh, what a joyful meeting wiU that be. But it's you I feel for most — it's you I'm loath to lave, light of my heart. Howsomever, God's will be done still. He sees we can't live here, an' He's takin' us to himself. Don't, darlin', don't kiss me, for fraid you might catch this fav " She held his hand in hers during this brief and tender dialogue, but on attempting to utter the last word he felt a gentle pressui-e, then a shght relaxation, and on holding the candle closer to her emaciated face — which still bore those dim traces of former beauty, that, in miiny instances, neither sickness nor death can altogether obhterate — he stooped and wildly kissed her now passive hps, ex- claiming, in words purposely low, that the other inmates of the cabin might not hear them : " A milhon f avers, my darUn' Mary, would not prevent me from kissin' your hps, that will never more be opened with words of love and kindness to my heart. Oh, Marj', Mar}' ! Uttle did I drame that it would be in such a place, and in such a way, that you'd lave me and them." He had hardly spoken, when one of the little ones, awaking, said : " Daddy, come here, an' see what ails AUey; she won't spake to me." " She's asleep, darlin', I suppose, " he re- pHed ; " don't sjDake so loud, or you'U waken her." "Ay, but she's as could as anything," con- tinued the little one; "an' I can't rise her arm to put it about me the way it used to be." Her father went over, and placing the dim light close to her face, as he had done to that of her mother, perceived at a glance, that when the spirit of that affectionate mother — of that faithful wife — went to hapjDiness, she had one kindred soul there to welcome her. The man, whom we need not name to the reader, now stood in the centre of his " deso- late hearth," and it was indeed a fearful thing to contemplate the change which the last few minutes had produced on his appeai'ance. His countenance ceased to manifest any ex- pression of either grief or sorrow ; his brows became knit, and fell with savage and deter- mined gloom, not unmiugled "«ith fmy, over his eyes, that now blazed like coals of fii-e. His hps, too, became tight and firm, and were pressed closely together, luiconsciously and without effort. In this mood, we sa}', he gazed about him, his heart smote with sor- row and affliction, whilst it boiled with indignation and fury. " Thomas Goui-lay," he exclaimed — ' ' villain — oppressor — murd- tierer — devil — this is your work ! but I here entreat the Almighty God " — he droj^ped on his knees as he sjjoke — " never to suffer you to lave this world till he taches you that he Cfm take vengeance for the poor." Looking around him once more, he lit a longer nish- light, and placed it in the little wooden candlestick, which had a slit at the top, into which the rush was jiressed. Proceeding then to the lower corner of the cabin, he i)ut uj} his hand to the top of the side wall, from which he tof)k down a large stick, or cudgel, having a strong leathern thong in the upper part, within about six inches of the top. Into this thong he thrust his hand, and twisting it roimd his WTist, in order that no accident or chance blow might cause him to 410 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. lose his gi'ip of it, he once more looked upon this scene of unexampled wi'etchedness and sorrow, and pulling his old caubeen over his brow, left the cabin. It is altogether impossible to describe the storm of conflicting passions and emotions that raged and jostled against each other within him. Sorrow — a sense of relief — on behalf of those so dear to him, who had been rescued from such misery ; the love which he bore them now awakened into tenfold affec- tion and tenderness by theii* loss ; the un- certain fate of his other httle brood, who were ill, but still U-\ing ; then the destitution — the want of all that could nourish or sus- tain them^the furious ravenings of famine, which he himself felt — and the black, hope- less, impenetrable futirre — all crowded upon his heart, swept through his fi'antic imagina- tion, and produced those maddening but unconscious impulses, under the influence of which great crimes are frequently committed, almost before their perpetrator is aware of his having committed them. Trailcudgel, on leading his cabin, cared not whither he went ; but, by one of those instincts which direct the savage to the pecu- Uar haunts where its prey may be expected, and guides the stupid drunkard to his own pai'ticular dwelling, though unconscious even of his veiy existence at the time — like either, or both, of these, he went on at as rapid a pace as his weakness Avould permit, being quite ignorant of his whereabouts rmtil he felt himself on the great highway. He looked at the sky now with an interest he had never felt before. The night was exceedingly dark, but calm and warm. An odd star here and there presented itself, and he felt glad at this, for it removed the monotony of the darkness. "There," said he to himself, "is the place where Mary and Alley live now. Up there, in heaven. I am glad of it ; but still, how will I enther the cabin, and not hear their voices ? But the other poor creatures ! musn't I do something for them, or they will go too ? Yes, yes, — but whisht ! what noise is that? Ha! a coach. Now for it. May God sujDport me ! Here comes the battle for the little ones — for the poor weak hand that's not able to can-y the drink to its lips. Poor darlins ! Yes, darhus, your father is now goin' to fight your battle — to put himself, for your sakes, against the laws of man, but not against the laws of nature that God has put into my heai-t for my dying childre. Either the one funeral will carry three corpses to the grave, or I will bi-ing yez rehef. It's comin' near, and I'll stand undher this tree." In accordance with this resolution, he planted himself under a large clump of trees where, like the famished tiger, he awaited the arrival of the cai-riage. And, indeed, it is obvious that despair, and hunger, and sor- row; had brought him down to the first ele- ments of mere animal hfe ; and finding not by any process of reasoning or inference, but by the agonizing pressiu-e of stern reality, that the institutions of social civilization were closed against him and his, he acted pre- cisely as a man would act in a natirral and savage state, and who had never been ad- mitted to a participation in the common rights of humanity — we mean, the right to live honestly, when willing and able to con- tribute his share of labor and industry to the common stock. Let not our readers mistake us. We are not defending the crime of robbery, neither would we rashly palliate it, although there are instances of it which deserve not only palliation, but pardon. We are only describ- ing the principles upon which this man acted, and, considering his motives, we question whether this peculiar act, origina- ting as it did in the noblest vii'tues and affections of our nature, was not rather an act of heroism than of robbery. This point, however, we leave to metaphysicians, and return to our narrative. The night, as Ave said, was dark, and the carriage in question was proceeding at that slow and steady pace which was necessary to insure safety. Sir Thomas, for it was he, sat on the dickey ; Gille&pie having proceeded in advance af him, in order to get horses, carriage, and everything safely put to rights without the possibility of observation. We may as well mention here that his anxiety to keep the events of the night secret had overcome his apj^rehensions of the su- pernatural, and indeed, it may not be im- jDossible that he made acquaintance mth one of the flasks that had been destined for poor Fenton. Of this, however, we are by no means certain ; we only throw it out, there- fore, as a probabihty. It is well knoAATi that the stronger and more insupportable jjassions sharpen not only the physical but the mental faculties in an extraordinary degi-ee. The eye of the bird of i^rey, which is mosth^ directed by the savage instincts of hunger, can view itp quari-y at an incredible distance ; and, insti- gated by vengeance, the American Indian will trace his enemy by marks which the ut- most ingenuity of civilized man would never enable him to discover. Quickened by some- thing of the kind, Trailcudgel instantly rec- ognized his bitter and implacable foe, and in a moment an unusual portion of his former strength returned, with the impetuous aad TEE BLACK BARONET. 411 energetic resentment which the appearance of the baronet, at that pecuhar crisis, had awakened. When the carriage came nearly opposite where he stood, the frantic and un- happy man was in an instant at the lieads of the horses, and, seizing the reins, brought them to a stand-still. •' ^\llat's the matter there ? " exclaimed the baronet, ■ who, however, began to feel veiy serious alarm. " Why do you stop the horses, my friend? All's right, and I'm much obliged — in'ay let them go." "All's Avroug," shouted the other in a voice so deep, hoarse, and terrible in the wildness of its intonations, that no human being could recognize it as that of Trailcud- gel ; "all's wrong," he shouted; "I de- maud your money ! yoiu- life or your money — quick ! " "Tliis is highway-robbeiy," replied Sir Thomas, in a voice of expostulation, " think of what you are about, my friend." But, as he spoke, Ti'ailcudgel could ob- sen-e that he put his hand behind him as if with the intent of taking fire-arms out of his pocket. Like hghtning was the blow which tumbled him from his seat uj)on the two horses, and a fortunate circumstance it proved, for there is little doubt that his ueok would have been broken, or the fall proved othei-wise fatal to so heavy a man, had he been precipitated directly, and from such a height, upon the hard road. As it was, he fovmd himself instantly in the fero- cious clutches of Trailcudgel, who dragged him from the horses, as a tiger would a bull, and ere he could use hand or word in his own defence, he felt the muzzle of one of his own pistols pressed against liis head. " Easy, my friend ! " he exclaimed, in a voice that was rendered infirm by teiTor ; " do not take my life — don't murder me — you shall have my money." " Murdher ! " shouted the other. " Ah, you black dog of hell, it is on your red sowl that many a muixlher lies. jVIurdher ! " he exclaimed, in words that were thick, vehem- ent, and almost unintelhgible with rage. "Ay, murdher is it? It was a just God that put the words into j'our guilty heai't and wicked hps — prepare, your last moment's 3ome — youi' doom is sealed — are you ready to die, \-illain ? " Tlie whole black and fearful tenor of the baronet's life came like a vision of hell itself over his conscience, now fearfully awakened to the terrible position in which he felt him- self placed. " Oh, no ! " he replied, in a voice whose tremulous tones betrayed the full extent of his agony and teiTors. " Oh, no ! " he ex- claimed. "Spai-e me, whoever j-ou are — spare my life, and if you will come to me to-mon'ow, I proniiso, in the presence oi God, to make you independent as long aa you live. Oh, spare me, for the sake of the living God — for I am not fit to die. If you kill me now, you will have the perdition of my soul to answer for at the bar of judg- ment. If you spare me, I will reform mj life — I will become a ATrtuous man." " Well, ' replied the other, relaxing — " fot the sake of the name you have used, and in the hope that this may be a warniu' to you for your good, I will leave your wicked and worthless hfe with you. No, I'll not be the man that will hurl you into perdition — but it is on one condition — you must hand me out your money before I have time to count ten. Listen now — if I haven't every farthing that's about you before that reckonin's made, the bullet that's in this pistol will be through your brain." The expedition of the baronet was amaz- ing, for as Jemmy went on with this disas- trous enumeration, steadily and distinctly, but not quickly, he had only time to get as far as eight when he fovmd himself in posses- sion of the baronet's purse. " Is it all here ? " he asked. " No tricks — no lyin' — the truth ? for I'll search you." "You may," replied the other, with confi- dence ; " and you may shoot me, too, if you find another farthing in my possession." " Now, then," said Trailcudgel, " get home as well as you can, and reform your life as you promised — as for me, I'll keep the pis- tols ; indeed, for my own sake, for I have no notion of putting them into yom* hands at present." He then disappeared, and the baronet, ha\'ing with considerable difficulty gained the box-seat, reached home somewhat lighter in pocket than he had left it, convinced be- sides that an unexpected visit from a natural apparition is fi'equently much more to be dreaded than one from the supernatural. The baronet was in the general affiiirs of life penurious in money matters, but on those occasions where money was necessaiy to enable him to advance or mature his plans, conceal his proceedings, or reward his in- struments, he was by no means iUiberal. This, however, was mere selfislmess, or rather, we should say, self-preservation, inas- much as nis success and reputation depended in a great degree upon tlie hbenility of his coiiTiption. On the present occasion lie re- gi-etted, no doubt, the loss of the money, but we are boiuid to say, that he would have given its amount fifteen times repeated, to get once more into his hands the single pound-note of which he had treacherously and like a coward robbed Fenton while 412 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. asleep in the carriage. Tliis loss, in connec- tion with the robbeiy which occasioned it, forced him to retrace to a considerable ex- tent the process of ratiocination on the sub- ject of fate and destiny, in which he had so complacentl}' indulged not long before. No matter how deep and hardened any ▼Olain may be, the most reckless and un- scnipulous of the class possess some con- scious principle within, that tells them of their misdeeds, and acquaints them with the fact that a point in the moral government of life has most certainly b^en made against them. So was it now with the baronet. He laid himself ujDon his gorgeous bed a des- ponding, and, for the present, a discomfited man ; nor could he for the life of him, much as he pretended to disregard the operations of a Dirine Providence, avoid coming to the conclusion that the highway robbeiy com- mitted on him looked surprisingly like an act of retributive justice. He consoled him- self, it is time, with the reflection, that it was not for the value of the note that he had committed the crime upon Fenton, for to him the note, except for its mere amount, Vvas iii other respects valueless. But what galled him to the soul, was the bitter re- flection that he did not, on perceiring its ad- vantage to Fenton, at once destroy it — tear it up — eat it — swaUow it — and thus render it utterly impossible to ever contravene his ambition or his crimes. In the meantime slumber stole upon him, but it was neither deep nor refreshing. His mind was a choas of dark projects and frightful images. Fen- ton — the ragged and gigantic robber, who was so much changed by famine and misery that he did not know him — the stranger — his daughter — Ginty Cooper, the fortune-teller — Lord CuUamore — the terrible pistol at his brain — Dunroe— and all those who were more or less concerned in or affected by his schemes, flitted through his disturbed fancy like the figures in a magic lantern, rendering his sleep feverish, disturbed, and by many degrees more painful than his waking re- flections. It has been frequently observed, that violence and tyranny overshoot tlieir mark ; and we may add, that no craft, however secret its operations, or rather however secret they are designed to be, can cope with the consequences of even the simplest acci- dent. A short, feverish attack of illness hav- ing seized Mrs. Morgan, the housekeeper, on the night of Feuton's removal, she persuaded one of the maids to sit up vrith her, in order to provide her with whey and nitre, which she took from time to time, for the purpose of relieving her by cooling the system. The attack though short was a shai-p one, and the poor woman was reaUy very ill. In the course of the night, this girl was somewhat surprised by hearing noises in and about the stables, and as she began to entertain appre- hension from robbers, she considered it her duty to consult the sick woman as to the steps she ought to take. "Take no steps," reiahed the prudent housekeeper, "till we know, if we can, what the noise proceeds from. Go into that closet, but don't take the candle, lest the light of it might alarm them — it overlooks the stable- yard — open the window gently ; you know it turns upon hinges — and look out cautiously. If Sir Thomas is disturbed by a false alarm, you might fly at once ; for somehow of late he has lost all command of his temper.'* "But we know the reason of that, IVIrs. Morgan," replied the girl. "It's because Miss Gourlay refuses to marry Lord Dunroe, and because he's afi'aid that she'll nin away with a very handsome gentleman that stops in the Mitre. That's what made him lock her up." " Don't you breathe a syllable of that," said the cautious Mrs. Morgan, " for fear you might get locked up yourself. You know, nothing that happens in this family is ever to be spoken of to any one, on jDain of Sir Thomas's severest displeasure ; and you have not come to this time of day without understanding what that means. But don't talk to me, or rather, don't expect me to talk to you. My head is veiy iU, and my pulse going at a rapid rate. Another di'ink of that whey, Nancy ; then see, if you can, what that noise means." Nancy, having handed her the whey, went to the closet window to reconnoitre ; but the reader may judge of her surprise on see- ing Sir Thomas himself moving about with a dark lantern, and giving directions to GillesiDie, who was jDutting the horses to the cai-riage. She returned to the housekeeper on tip-toe, her face brimful of mystery and delight. " \Vhat do you think, Mrs. Morgan ? If there isn't Sir Thomas himself walking about with a little lantern, and giving orders to Gillespie, who is yoking the coach." IMi'S. Morgan could not refrain fi'om smil- ing at this comical exjDression of yoking the coach ; but her face soon became serious, and she said, with a sigh, " I hope in God this is no further act of violence against his angel of a daughter. What else could he mean by getting out a carriage at this hour of the night? Go and look again, Nancy, and see whether you may not also get a ghmpse of Miss Gourlay." Nancy, however, arrived at the window only in time to see her master enter the carriage, THE BLA CK BAR ONET. 413 and the carnage disappear out of the yard ; but wliether IMiss Gourlay was in it along with him, the darkness of the night prevent- ed her from ascertaining. After some time, however, she threw out a suggestion, on which, with the consent of the patient, she immediately acted. This was to discover, if possible, whether Miss Gourlay with her maid was in her own room or not. She ac- cordingly went with a light and stealthy pace to the door ; and as she knew that its fair oc- cupant always slei:)t with a night-light in her chamber, she put her jjretty eye to the key- hole, in order to satisfy herself on this point. All, however, so far as both sight and hearing could inform her, was both dark and silent. This was odd ; nay, not only odd, but un- usual. She now felt her heart jjalpitate ; she was excited, alarmed. What was to be done ? She would take a bold step — she would knock — she would whisper through the key-hole, and set down the interruption to anxiety to mention IVIrs. Morgan's sudden and \iolent illness. Well, all these remedies for curiosity were tried, all these steps taken, and, to a certain extent, they Avere success- ful ; for there could indeed be httle doubt that Miss Gourlay and her maid were not in the apartment. Everything now pertaining to the mysterious motions of Sir Thomas and his coachman was as clear as crystal. He had spirited her away somewhere — "placed her, the old brute, under some she-dragon or other, who would make her feed on raw flesh and cobwebs, AV^th a view of reducing her strength and breaking her spirit." Mrs. Morgan, however, with her usual good sense and pi-udence, recommended the hvely girl to preserve the strictest silence on what she had seen, and to allow the other servants to tind the secret out for themselves if they could. To-morrow might disclose more, but as at present they had nothing stronger than suspicion, it would be Avi'ong to speak of it, and might, besides, be preju- dicial to Miss Gourlay's reputation. Such was the love and respect which all the family felt for the Irind-hearted and amiable Lucy, who was the general advocate with her father when any of them had incuiTcd his dis- pleasure, that on her account alone, even if dread of Sir Thomas did not loom like a gathering storm in the backgi-ound, not one of them ever seemed to notice her absence, nor did the baronet himself until days had elapsed. On the morning of the third day he began to think, tliat perhaps confinement might have tamed her down into somewhat of a more amenable spirit ; and as he had in the interval taken all necessary steps to secure the person of the man who robbed him, and offered a large reward for his ap- prehension, he felt somewhat satisfied that he had done all that could be done, and was consequently more at leisure, and also more anxious to ascertain the temper of mind in whicli he should find her. In the meantime, the delicious scandal of the supposed elopement was beginning to creep abroad, and, in fact, was pretty gen- erally rumored throughout the redoubtable town of Ballytrain on the morning of the third or fourth day. Of course, we need scarcely assure our intelligent readers, that the friends of the jiarties ai-e the very Last to whom such a scandal would be mentioned, not only because such an office is always painful, but because every one takes it for granted that they are already aware of it themselves. In the case before us, such was the genei'al ojiinion, and Sir Thomas's silence on the subject was imputed by some to the natural delicacy of a father in alluding to a subject so distressing, and by others to a calm, quiet spirit of vengeance, which he only restrained until circumstances should place him in a condition to crush the man who had entailed shame and disgrace upon his name and family. Such was the state of circumstances upon the third or fourth morning after Lucy's disappearance, when Sir Thomas called the footman, and desired him to send INIiss Gourlay's maid to him ; he wished to speak with her. By this time it was known through the whole establishment that Lucy and she had both disappeared, and, thanks to Nancy — to jDretty Nancy — " that her own father, the hard-hearted old ANTetch, had forced her oflE — God knows where — in the dead of night." The footman, who had taken Nancy's secret for granted ; and, to tell the tnith, he had it in the most agreeable and authentic shape — to wit, fi'om her owii sweet hjjs — and who could be base enough to doubt any communication so delightfully conveyed? — the footman, we say, on hearing this command from his master, started a little, and in the confusion or forgetfulness of the moment, almost stared at him. " What, sirrah," exclaimed the latter ; " did you hear what I said ? " " I did, sir," rejilied the man, still more confused; "but, I thought, your honor, that " " You desjiicable scoundrel ! " said his master, stamping, "what means this? You thought ! What right, sir, have you to think, or to do anytliing but obey your orders fi"om me. It was not to think, sir, I brought you here, but to do your duty as footman. Fetch INIiss Gourlay "s maid, sir, immediately. Say I desii-e to speak with her." 414 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. " She is not within, sir," rephed the man trembhng. " Then where is she, sir ? Why is she ab- sent from her charge ? " " I cannot tell, sir. "We thought, sir " " Thinking again, you scoundrel ! — speak out, however." "Why, the truth is, your honor, that neither Miss Gourlay nor she has been here since Tuesday night last." The baronet had been walking to and fro, as was his wont, but this information j)ara- lyzed him, as if by a physical blow on the brain. He now went, or rather tottered over, to his arm-chair, into which he drop- ped rather than sat, and stared at Gibson the footman as if he had forgotten the intel- ligence just conveyed to him. In fact, his confusion was such — so stunning was the blow — that it is possible he did forget it. " What is that, Gibson ? " said he ; " tell me ; repeat what you said." "Why, your honor," rephed Gibson, "since last Tuesday night neither Miss Gom-lay nor her maid has been in this house." "Was there no letter left, nor any verbal information that might satisfy us as to where they have gone ? " "Not any, sir, that I am aware of." " Was her room examined ? " "I cannot say, sir. you know, sir, I never enter it unless when I am rung for by Miss Gourlay ; and that is veiy rarely." " Do you think, Gibson, that there is any one in the house that knows more of this matter than you do ? " Gibson shook his head, and replied, " As to that. Sir Thomas, I cannot say." The baronet was not now in a rage. The thing was impossible ; not within the energies of nature. He was stunned, stupefied, ren- dered helpless. "I think," he proceeded, "I observed a girl named Nancy — I forget what else, Nancy something — that Miss Gourlay seemed to like a good deal. Send her here. But be- fore you do so, may I beg to know why /, her father, her natural guardian and pro- tector, was kept so long in ignorance of her extraordinary disappearance ? Pray, IVir. Gibson, satisfy me on that head ? " " I think, sir," replied Gibson, most un- gallantly shifting the danger of the explana- tion from his ovsm shoulders to the pretty ones of Nancy Forbes — " I think, sir, Nancy Forbes, the girl you speak of, may know more about the last matter than I do." " AVhat do you mean by the last mat- ter?" " Why, sir, the reason why we did not fell your honor of it sooner " Sir Thomas waved his hand, " Go," he added, " send her here." "D — n the old scoundrel," thought Gib- son to himself ; "but that's a fine piece of acting. Why, if he hadn't been aware of it all along he would have throwTi me clean out of the window, even as the messenger of such tidings. However, he is not so deep as he thinks himself. W^e know him — see through him — on this siibject at least." "WTien Nancy entered, her master gave her one of those stern, searching looks which often made his unfortunate menials ti'emble before him. "What's your name, my good girl?" "Nancy Forbes, sir." " How long have you been in this family ? " " I'm in the first month of my second qtiarter, your honor," with a courtesy. "You are a pretty girl." Nancy, with another courtesy, and a sim- per, which vanity, for the hfe of her, could not suppress, "Oh la, sir, how could your honor say such a thing of a humble girl hke me ? You that sees so many handsome great ladies." " Have you a sweetheart?" Nancy fairly tittered. "Is it me, sir — why, who would think of the hke of me ? Not one, sir, ever I had." "Because, if you have," he proceeded, " and that / approve of him, I wouldn't scru- ple much to give you something that might enable you and your husband to begin the world with comfort." " I'm sure it's very kind, your honor, but I never did anything to desarve so much goodness at your honor's hands." "The old -villain wants to bribe me for something," thought Nancy. " Well, but you may, my good girl. I think you are a favorite with Miss Gourlay ? " " Ha, ha ! " thought Nancy, " I am sure of it now." " That's more than I know, sir," she re- plied. "Miss Gourlay — God bless and pro- tect her — was kind to every one ; and not more so to me than to the other servants." " I have just been informed by Gibson, that she and her maid left the Hall on Tues- day night last. Now, answer me truly, and you shall be the better for it. Have you any conception, any suspicion, let us say, where they have gone to ? " " La, sir, sure your honor ought to know that better than me." "How so, my pretty girl? How should I know it ? She told me nothing about it." " Wliy, wasn't it your honor and Tom Gillespie that took her awaj^ in the carriage on that very night ? " Here now was wit against wit, or at least THE BLACK BARONET. 415 cunning against cunning. Nancy, the adroit, hazarded an assertion of which she was not certain, in order to probe the baronet, and place him in a position by which she might be able by his conduct and manner to satisfy herself whether her suspicions were well- founded or not. " But how do you know, my good girl, that I and Gillespie were out that night ? " It is unnecessary to rejoeat here circum- stances with which the reader is already ac- quainted. Nancy gave him the history of Mrs. Morgan's sudden illness, and all the other facts ah'eady mentioned. " But there is one thing that I still can- not understand," rejilied the baronet, " which is, that the disappearance of j\Iiss Gourlay was never mentioned to me until I inquired for her maid, whom I wished to speak with." " But sure that's very natural, sir," rephed Nancy ; " the reason we didn't speak to you upon the subject was because we thought that it was your honor who brought her away ; and that as you took such a late hour in the night for it, you didn't wish that we should know anything about it." The baronet's eye fell upon her severely, as if he doubted the truth of what she said. Nancy's eye, however, neither avoided his nor quailed before it. She now spoke the truth, and she did so, in order to prevent herself and the other servants from incm-ring his resentment by their silence. "Very well," observed Sir Thomas, calmly, but sternly. " I think you have spoken what you believe to be the tinith, and what, for all you know, "^nay be the truth. But observe my words : let this subject be never breathed nor uttered by any domestic in my estabHsh- ment. Tell your fellow-servants that such are my orders ; for I swear, if I find that any one of you shall speak of it, my utmost ven- geance shall pursue him or her to death it- self. That will do." And he signed to her to retire. CHAPTER XVHL Dunphy visits the County Wicklmo — Old Sam and his Wife. It was about a week subsequent to the in- terview which the stranger had with old Dunphy, unsuccessful as our readers know it to have been, that the latter and his wife were sitting in the back parlor one night af- ter their little shop had been closed, when the following dialogue took place between them : *' Well, at all events," observed the old k man, " he was the best of them, and to m^ own knowledge that same saicret lay hot and heavy on his conscience, especially to so good a master and mistress as they were to him. The truth is, PoUy, /'// do it." " But why didn't he do it himself? " asked his wife. "^Vlly? — why?" he replied, looking at her viith. his keen ferret eyes — " why, don't you know what a weakminded, timorsome creature he was, ever since the height o' my knee ? " " Oh, ay," she returned ; " and I hard something about an oath, I think, that they ' made him take." I " You did," said her husband ; " and it was I true, too. They swore him never to breathe a syllable of it until his dying day — an' al though they meant by that that he should I never revale it at all, yet he always was ol ! opinion that he might tell it on (hat day, but on no other one. And it was his intention to do so." 1 " Wasn't it an imlucky thing that she hap- pened to be out when he could do it with a safe conscience ? " observed his wife. "They almost threatened the life out of the poor creature," pursued her husband, "for Tom threatened to murder him if he betrayed them ; and Ginty to poison him, if Tom didn't keep his word — and I beheve in my sowl, that the same devil's pair would a' done either the one or the other, if he had broken his oath. Of the two, however, Gin- ty 's the woi'st, I think ; and I often believe, myself, that she deals with the de\-il ; but that, I suppose, is bekaise she's sometimes not right in her head still." "If she doesn't dale with the devil, the devil dales with her at any rate," replied the other. " They'll be apt to gain their point, Tom and she." " Tom, I know, is just as bitther as she is," observed the old man, " and Ginty, by her promises as to what she'll do for him, has turned his heart altogether to stone ; and yet I know a man that's bittherer against the black fellow than either o' them. She only thinks of the luck that's before her ; but, af- ther all, Tom acts more from hatred to him than fi'om Ginty's promises. He has no bad feelin' against the 3'oung man himself ; but it's the others he's bent on pimishing. God direct myself, I wish at any rate that I never had act or hand in it. As for your time o' life and mine. Folly, you know that age puts it out of our power ever to be much the bet- ther one way or the other, even if Ginty ^0^9 succeed in her de\alry. Very few years now will see us both in our graves, and I don't know but it's safer to lave this world with an aisy conscience, than to face God with the 416 WILLIAM CARLETOirS WORKS. guilt of sich a black saicret as that upon us." " Well, but haven't you promised them not to teU ? " " I have — an' only that I take sich delight in waitin' to see the black scoundrel punished till his heai't '11 burst — I think I'd come out with it. That's one raison ; and the other is, that I'm afraid of the consequences. The law's a dangerous customer to get one in its clushes, an' who can tell how we'd be dejilt with ? " " Troth, an' that's true enough," she re- plied. "And when I promised poor Edward on his death-bed," proceeded the old man, " I made him give me a sartin time ; an' I did this in ordher to allow Ginty an oj^portunity of tryin' her luck. If she does not manage her point within that time, I'll fulfil my prom- ise to the dyin' man." " But, why," she ask^, " did he make you promise to do it when he could — ay, but I forgot. It was jist, I sujjpose, in case he might be taken short as he was, and that you wor to do it for him if he hadn't an oj^portu- nity? But, sure, if Ginty succeeds, there's an end to yoiu- promise." "WeU, I believe so," said the old man; " but if she does succeed, why, all I'll wondher at will be that God would allow it. At any rate she's the first of the family that ever brought shame an' disgrace upon the name. Not but she felt her misfortime keen enough at the time, since it turned her brain almost ever since. And him, the villain — but no matter — he must be jDunished." "But," rephed the wife, "wont Ginty be punishin' him ? " " Ah, Polly, you know little of the plans — the deep plans an' plots that he's surrounded by. We know ourselves that there's not such a plotter in existence as he is, barrin' them that's plottin' aginst him. Lord bless us ! but it's a quare world — here is both parties schamin' an' plottin' away — all bent on risin' themselves higher in it by j^ride and dishonesty. There's the high rogue and the low rogue — the great Aillain and the little villain— musha ! PoUy, which do you think is worst, eh ? " " Faith, I think it's six o' one and half-a- dozen of the other with them. Still, a body would suppose that the high rogue ought to rest contented ; but it's a hard thing they say to satisfy the cravin's of man's heart when pride, an' love of wealth an' power, get into it." "I'm not at all happy in my mind, PoUy," observed her husband, meditatively ; " I'm not at aise — and I won't bear this state of mind much longer. But, then, again, there's my pension ; and that I'll lose if I spake otrt I sometimes think I'll go to the countrv some o' these days, and see an ould friend."* " An' where to, if it's a fair question ?" " Why," he repUed, " maybe it's a fair question to ask, but not so fair to answer. Ay ! I'll go to the country — I'll start in a few days — in a few daj's ! No, savin' to me, but I'll start to-morrow. Polly, I could tell you something if I wished — I say / have a secret that none o' them knows — ay, have I. Oh, God pardon me ! The d d thieves, to make me, me above all men, do the blackest part of the business — an' to think o' the way they misled Edward, too — who, after all, would be desavin' poor Lady Gourlay, if he had tould her all as he thought, although he did not know that he would be misleadin' her. Yes, faith, I'll start for the country to- morrow, plaise God ; but hsteu, Polly, do you know who's in town ? " " Arra, no ! — how could I ? " " Kate M 'Bride, so Ginty teUs me ; she'tj hAon' with her.'*^ " And why didn't she call to see you ? " asked his wife. "And yet God knows it's no great loss ; but if ever woman was cursed wid a step-daughter, I was wid her." " Don't you know ver^' well that we never spoke since her runaway match with M 'Bride. If she had married Cummins, I'd a' given her a pui'ty penny to help him on ; but in- stead o' that she cuts ofl' with a sojer, be- kaise he was well faced, and starts Mith him to the Aist Indies. No ; I wouldn't spake to her then, and I'm not sure I'll spake to her now either ; and yet I'd like to see her — the unfortunate woman. However, I'll think of it ; but in the mane time, as I said, I'U start for the country in the mornin'." And to the country he did start the next morning ; and if, kind reader, it so happen that you feel your curiosity in any degi'ee excited, all you have to do is to take a seat in your own imagination, whether outside or in, matters not, the fare is the same, and thus you wiD, at no great cost, be able to accompany' him. But before we proceed further we shall, in the first place, convey you in ours to the ultimate point of his journey. There was, in one of the mountain dis- tricts of the county Wicklow, that paradise of our country, a small white cottage, with a neat flower plot before, and a small orchard and gai'den behind. It stood on a little em- inence, at the foot of one of those mountains, which, in some instances, abut fr-om higher ranges. It was then bare and barren ; but at present presents a very dififerent aspect, a considerable portion of it having been since THE BLACK BARONET. 41» reclaimed and planted. Scattered around this rough district were a number of houses that could be classed with neither farm-house nor cabin, but as humble little buildings that possessed a featui-e of each. Those who dwelt in them held in general four or five acres of rough land, some more, but very few less ; and we allude to these small tene- ments, because, as our readers are aware, the wives of their proprietors were in the habit of eking out the means of subsistence, and pacing their rents, by nursing illegiti- mate children or foundlings, which upon a proper understanding, and in accordance ^sith the usual arrangements, were either transmitted to them from the hospital of that name in Dublin, or taken chai-ge of by these women, and conveyed home fi'om that establishment itself. The childi-en thus nur- tured were universally termed pai'isheens, because it was found more convenient and less expensive to send a country foundling to the hospital in Dublin, than to burden the inhabitants of the parish with its main- tenance. A small sum, entitling it to be re- ceived in the hospital, was remitted, and as this sum, in most instances, was levied off the parish, these wretched creatures were therefore called pa?'i.s/iet'??.s', that is, creatm'es aided by pai-ish allowance. The very handsome little cottage into which we are about to give the reader ad- mittance, commanded a singularly beautiful and picturesque view. From the little ele- vation on which it stood could be seen the entrancing vale of Ovoca, winding in its in- expressible lovliness toward Arklow, and di- versified with gi-een meadows, orchard gar- dens, elegant villas, and what was sweeter than all, warm and comfortable homesteads, more than realizing our conceptions of Ar- cadian happiness and beauty. Its precipi- tcTffs" sides were clothed with the most en- chanting variety of plantation ; whilst, hke a stream of liquid light, the silver Ovoca shone sparkling to the sun, as it followed, by the harmonious law of natm-e, that gi-ace- ful line of beauty which characterizes the wmdings of this unrivalled valley. The cot- tage which commanded this rich prospect we have partially described. It was white as snow, and had about it all those traits of neatness and good taste which are, we regret to say, so rare among, and so badly imder- stood by, our hiunloler countrymen. The front wixlls were covered by honeysuckles, rose trees, and wild brier, and the flower plot in front was so weU stocked, that its summer bloom would have done credit to the skiU of an ordinary florist. The inside of this cottage was equally neat, clean, and clieei-ful. The floor, an vmusual thing then, 14 was tiled, which gave it a look of agreeable warmth ; the wooden vessels in the kitchen were white ■v\ath incessant scouring, whilst the pewter, brass, and tin, shone in becom- ing rivuhy. The room you entered was the kitchen, off which was a parlor and two bed- rooms, besides one for the servant. As may be inferred from what we have said, the dresser was a perfect treat to look at, and as the owners kej^t a cow, we need hardly add that the dehghtful fragrance of milk which characterizes eveiy well-kept dairy, was perfectly ambrosial here. The chairs were of oak, so were the tables ; and a large arm-chair, with a semicircular back, stood at one side of the clean hearth, whilst over the chimney-piece hung a portrait of General. Wolfe, Avith an engi-aving of the siege of Quebec. A series of four silver medals, enclosed in red morocco cases, hav- ing the surface of each protected by a glass cover, hung from a liiiputian rack made of mahogany, at once beai'ing testimony to the enteii^rise and gallantly of the owner, as well as to the manly pride with which he took such especial pains to preserve these proud rewards of his courage, and the abili- ty with which he must have discharged his duty as a soldier. On the table lay a large Bible, a Prayer-book, and the ""WTaole Duty of Man," all neatly and firmly, but not ostentatiously bound. Some woi*ks of a military character lay uj)on a little hanging shelf beside the dresser. Over this shelf hung a fishing-rod, unscrewed and neatly tied up ; and upon the toj^ of the other books lay one bound "\rith refl cloth, in which he kept his flies. On one side of the window sills lay a backgammon box, with which his wife and himself amused themselves for an hour or two eveiy evening ; i\nd fixed in re- cesses intended for the puri^ose, Sam Rob - erts, for such was his name, liaving "built uTe house himself, were comfortable cup- boards filled with a variety of delft, several curious and foreign ornaments, an ostrich's egg, a drinking cup made of the polished shell of a cocoanut, whilst crossed saltier- wise over a portrait of himself and of his wife, were placed two feathers of the bird of paradise, constituting, one might imagine, emblems significant of the haj^py hfe they led. But we cannot close our description here. Upon the good woman's bosom, fastened to her kerchief, was a locket which contained a portion of beautiful brown hair, taken from the youthful Ijead of a deceased son, a manly and promisin-^f boy, who died at the age of seventeen, acd whose death, although it di<'. not and could not throw a permanent gloom over two lives so innocent and happy, occa- sioned, nevertheless, periodical recollections 418 WILLIAM OABLETON'S WOBKS. of profoimcl and bitter soitow. Old Sam had his locket also, but it was invisible ; its posi- tion being on that heart whose affections more resembled the enthusiasm of idolatrj' than the love of a parent. His wife was a placid, contented looking old woman, with a complexion exceedingly hale and fresh for her years ; a shrewd, clear, benevolent eye, and a general aii' which never fails to mark that ease and superiority of manner to be found only in those who have had an enlarged experience in Ufe, and seen much of the world. There she sits by the clear fire and clean, comfortable hearth, knitting a pair of stockings for her husband, who has gone to Dublin. She is tidily and even, for a woman of her age, tastefully dressed, but still with a sober decency that showed her good sense. Her cap is as white as snow, with which a well-fitting brown stuff gown, that gave her a highly respectable appearance, admirablycon- trasted. She wore an apron of somewhat coai'se musHn, that seemed, as it always did, fresh from the iron, and her hands were covered with a pair of thread mittens that only came half-way down the fingers. Hang- ing at one side was a three-cornered pin- cushion of green silk, a proof at once of a character remarkable for thi'ift, neatness, and industry'. Whilst thus employed, she looks fi'om time to time through a window that commanded a prospect of the road, and seems affected by that complacent expression of imeasiness which, whilst it overshadows the features, never disturbs their benignity. At length, a good-looking, neat girl, their servant, enters the cottage with a can of new milk, for she had been to the fields a-milking; her name is MoUy Bpiie. " Molly," said her mistress, " I wonder the master has not come yet. I am getting un- easy. The coach has gone past, and I see no appearance of him." " I suppose, then, he didn't come by the coach, ma'am." " Yes, but he said he would." "Well, ma'am, something must 'a pre- vented him." "Molly," said her mistress, smiHng, "you are a good hand at teUing us John Thomp- son's news ; that is, any thing we know our- selves." " Well, ma'am, but you know many a time he goes to Dubhn, an' doesn't come home by the coach." "Yes, whenever he visits Kilmainham Hospital, and gets into conversation with some of his old comrades ; however, that's natural, and I hope he's safe." "Well, ma'am," rephed Molly, looking out, "I have betther news for you than Jen- ny Thompson's now." " Attention, Molly ; John Thompson's the word," said her mistress, with the shghtest conceivable aii* of professional form ; for if she had a foible at all, it was that she gave all her orders and exacted all obedience from her servant in a spirit of military dis- cipline, which she had unconsciously bor- rowed fi'om her husband, whom she imitated as far as she could. " "\Miere, Molly ? Fall back, I say, till I get a peep at dear old Sam." "There he is, ma'am," continued MoUy, at the same time obeying her orders, "and some other person along with him." " Yes, sure enough ; thank God, thank God ! " she exclaimed. " But who can the other person 'be, do you think ? " "I don't know, ma'am," repHed MoUy. "I only got a glimj^se of them, but I knew the master at once. I would know him round a corner." " Advance, then, girl ; take another look ; reconnoitre, Molly, as Sam says, and see ii you can make out who it is." "I see him now well enough, ma'am," re- phed the girl, " but I don't know him ; he's a stranger. What can bring a stranger here, ma'am, do you think ? " she inquii-ed. " Why your kind master, of course, girl ; isn't that sufficient? Whoever comes with my dear old Sam is welcome, to be sure." Her clear, cloudless face was now ht up with a multiplicity of kind and hospitable thoughts, for dear old Sam and his fi'iend were not more than three or four perches from the house, and she could perceive that her husband was in an extraordinary state of good humor. " I know, Molly, who the strange man is now," she said. " He's an old friend of my husband's, named Dunphy ; he was once in the same regiment with him ; and I know, besides, our own good man has heard some news that has delighted him very much." She had scarcely uttered the words when Sam and old Dunphy entered. "Beck, my girl, here I am, safe and sound, and here's an old friend come to see us, and you know how much we are both indebted tc him ; I felt. Beck, and so did you, old girl, that we must have something to love and proride for, and to keep the heart moving, but that's naturd, you know — quite natural — it's all the heart of man." "Mr. Dunphy," said Beck — a cui-tailment of Rebecca — "I am glad to see you ; take a seat ; how is the old woman ? " " As tough as ever, Mi-s. Roberts, 'Deed I had thought last winter that she might lave me a loose leg once more ; but I don't know how it is, she's gatherin' strength on my hands, an' a young wifei I'm afraid, isn't TEE BLACK BARONET. 41& on the cards — ha — ha — ha ! And how are you yourself, ]\Ii*s. Roberts ? — but, indeed, one may tell with hidf an eye — fresh and well you look, thank God ! " " Doesn't she, man ? " exclaimed Sam, slapping him with delight on the shoulder ; " a woman that travelled htiK the world, and unproved in every chmate. Molly, atten- tion ! — let us turn in to mess as soon as pos- sible. Good news, Beck — good news, but not tni after mess ; double-quick, Molly." " Come, Molly, double-quick," added her mistress ; " the master and his friend must be huugiy by this time." Owing to the expeditious habits to which Mrs. Roberts had discii:)lined Molly, a smok- ing Iiish stew, hot and savory, was before them in a few minutes, which the two old fellows attacked with powers of demolition that would have shamed younger men. There was for some time a veiy significant lull in the conversation, during which Molly, by a hint fi'om her mistress, put do^Ti the kettle, an act which, on being obsen'ed by Dunphy, made his keen old eye spai-kle with the expectation of what it suggested. Shovel- ful after shovelful passed fi'om dish to plate, until a very relaxed action on the part of each was evident. "Dunjahy," said Sam, "I beUeve our fire is beginning to slacken ; but come, let us give the enemy another round, the citadel is nearly won — is on the point of suiTender." " Begad," rephed Dunphy, who was well acquainted with his friend's phi'aseology. and had seen some service, as already intimated, in the same regiment, some fifty years before. " I must lay down my arms for the present." "No matter, friend Dunphy, we'll renew the attack at supper ; an easy mind brings a good appetite, which is but natural ; it's all the heart of man." " Well, I don't know that," said Dunphy, replying to the first of the axioms ; "I have oft(m ait en a hearty dinner enough when my mind was, God knows, anything but aisy." " Well, then," rejoined Sam, " when the heart's down, a glass of old stingo, mixed stifi", will give it a hft ; so, my old fellow, if there's anything wi-ong with you, we'll soon set it to rights." The table was now cleared, and the word " Hot wate-r-r," was given, as if Molly had been on drill, as in fact, she may be con- sidered to have been eveiy day in the week ; then the sugar and whiskey in the same tone. But whilst she is preparing and pro- ducing the materials, as they have been since termed, we shall endeavor to give an outline of old Sam, Old Sam, then, was an erect, square-built, fine-looking old fellow, with firm, massive, but benevolent features ; not, however, with- out a dash of determination in them that added ver}' considerably to their interest His eyes were gray, kind, and hvely ; his eyebrows rather large, but their expression was either stem or complacent, according to the mood of the moment. That of com- placency, however, was their general charac- ter. Upon the front part of his head he had received a severe wovmd, which extended an inch or so down the side of his forehead, he had also lost the two last fingers of his left hand, and received several other wounds that j were severe and dangerous when inflicted, I but as their scars were covered by his dress, \ they were consequently inrisible. Simi was at this time close upon seventy, but so regu- lar had been his habits of life, so cheerful j and kind his disposition, and so excellent his constitution, that he did not look more than 1 fifty-five. It was utterly impossible not to I read the fine old soldier in eveiy one of his i fi'ee, but well-disciplined, movements. The : black stock, the bold, erect head, the firm but measui'ed step, and the existence of I something like mHitaiy ardor in the eye and \ whole bearing ; or it might be the proud consciousness of haring bravely and faithfully I discharged his duty to his king and his coun- try' ; all this, we say, marked the man with j an impress of such honest pride and fi-ank j mihtai-y spirit, as, taken into consideration with his fine figure, gave the very heau, ideal , of an old soldier. ! When each had mixed his tumbler, Sam, brimful of the good news to which he had alluded, filled a small glass, as was his wont, and placing it before Beck, said : " Come, Beck, attention ! — ' The king, God bless him ! ' Attention, Dunphy ! — oflf with it." " The king, God bless him ! " having been duly honored, Sam proceeded : " Beck, my old partner, I said I hatl good news for you. Oui* son and his regiment — three times eleven, eleven times three— th% gallant thirty-thu'd, are in Dublin." Beck laid down her stocking, and nw eyes sparkled with delight. " But that's not all, old girl, he has risen from the ranks — his commission has been just made out, and he is now a commissioned officer in his majesty's service. But I knew it would come to that. Didn't I say so, old comrade, eh ? " "Indeed you did, Sam," rephed his wife ; " and I thought as much myself. There was something about that boy beyond the com- mon." " Ay, 3'ou may say that, girl ; but who foimd it out first ? T\liy, I did ; but the thinjT 'n'fis natural , it's all the heart of man — 420 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. when that's in the right place nothing will go wrong. What do you say, Mend Dunphy ? Did xjou think it woiild ever come to this ? " "Troth, I did not, Mr. Roberts; but it's you he may thank for it." " God Almighty first, Dunphy, and me afterwards. Well, he shan't want a father, at all events ; and so long as I have a few shiners to spare, he shan't want the means of supporting his rank as a British officer and gentleman should. There's news for you, Dunphy. Do you hear that, you old dog — eh?" "It's all the heart of man, Sam," observed his wife, eying him with affectionate admira- tion. " When the heai-t's in the right place, nothing will go wrong." Now, nothing gratided Sam so much as to hear his own apothegms honored by repeti- tion. "Eight, girl," he rephed ; "shake hands for that. Dunphy, mark the tinith of that. Isn't she worth gold, you sinner ? " " Troth she is, IMi*. Eoberts, and silver to the back o' that." " What ? " said Sam, looking at him with oomic sm-prise, " "WTiat do you mean by that, you ferret ? Why don't you add, and brass to the back of that ? ' By fife and •irum, I won't stand this to Beck. Apologize nstantly, sii\" Then breaking into a hearty Bugh — "he meant no offence. Beck," he iwided ; " he respects and loves you — I know he does — as who doesn't that knows you, my girl?" " WTiat I meant to say, IVIr. Robei-ts " "Mrs. Eoberts, sir ; direct the apology to herself." " Well, then, what I wanted to say, IVIrs. Eoberts, was, that all the gold, silver, and brass in his majesty's dominions— (God bless him ! parentheiice, fi'om Sam) — couldn't pur- chase you, an' would faU far short of yoiu- value." " Well done — thank you, Dunphy — thank you, honest old Dunphy ; shake hands. He's a fine old fellow. Beck, isn't he, eh ? " " I'm very much obhged to you, Mr. Dun- phy ; but you oven-ate me a great deal too much," rephed ]\Ii*s. Eoberts. " No such thing, Beck ; you're wrong there, for once ; the thing couldn't be done — by fife and drum ! it couldn't ; and no man has a better right to know that than myself — and I say it." Sam, Hke all truly brave men, never boast- ed of his military' exploits, although he might weU have done so. On the conti-ary, it was a subject which he studiously avoided, and on which those who knew his modesty as well as his pride never ventured. He usu- ally cut short such as referred to it, with : " Never mind that, my friend ; I did my duty, and that was all ; and so did every man in the British army, or I wouldn't be here to say so. Pass the subject." Sam and Dunjjhy, at all events, spent a pleasant evening ; at least, beyond question, Sam did. As for Dunphy, he seemed occa-. sionally reheved by hearing Sam's warm and affectionate allusions to his son ; and, on the other hand, he appeared, fi*om time to time, to fall into a mood that indicated a state oi feeling between gloom and reflection. "It's extraordinary, Mr. Eoberts," he ob- seiwed, after awakening from one of these reveries ; " it looks as if Providence was in it." " God Almighty's in it, sir, — didn't I say so? and under him, Sam Eoberts. Sir, I observed that boy closely fi'om the beginning. He reminded me, and you too. Beck, didn't he, of him that— that — we lost" — here he j)aused a moment, and placed his hand upon his heart, as if to feel for something there that awoke touching and melancholy re- membrances ; whilst his wife, on the other hand, unpinned the locket, and having kissed it, quietly let fall a few tears ; after which she restored it to its former position. Sam cleai'ed his voice a httle, and then pro- ceeded : " Yes ; I could never look at the one without thinking of the other ; but 'twas all the heart of man. In a week's time he could fish as well as myself, and in a short time began to teach me. 'Gad ! he used to take the rod out of my hand with so much kindness, so gently and respectfully — for, mark me, Dunphy, he respected me from the beginning — didn't he. Beck ? " " He did, indeed, Sam." " Thank you. Beck ; you're a good crea- tui'e. So gently and respectfully, as I was saving, and showed me in his sweet words, and with his smiling ej'es — yes, and his hair, too, was the very color of his brother's — I was afraid I might forget that. Well — yes, with such smiling eyes that it was impossible not to love him — I couldn't but love him — but, sure, it was only natural — aU the heart of man, Dimphy. 'Ned,' said I to him one day, ' would you Hke to become a soldier — a soLDiEK, Ned ? ' " And as the old man re- peated the word "soldier" his voice became fuU and impressive, his eyes sparkled with pride, and his very form seemed to dilate at the exulting reminiscences and heroic asso- ciations connected with it. " Above all things in this life," replied the boy ; " but you know I'm too young." " ' Never mind, my boy,' said I, ' that's a fault that evei-y day will mend ; you'U never gi'ow less ; ' so I consulted with Beck there, and with you, Dunphy, didn't I ? " THE BLACK BARONET. 421 "You did, indeed, IMr. Roberts, and woiildn't do anything till you had spoken to me on the subject." •' Right, Dunjjhy, right — well, you know the rest. ' Education's the point,' said I to Beck — ignorance is a bad inheritance. What would I be to-day if I didn't write a good hand, and was a keen accountant ! But no matter, off he went with a decent outfit to honest Mainwairing — thirty pounds a-yeai' — five yeai's— lost no time — was steady, but always showed a spirii Couldn't get him a commission then, for I hadn't come in for my Uncle's legacy, which I got the other day —-dashed him into the ranks though — and here he is — a commissioned officer — eh, old Dunphy ! ^YeU, isn't that natural ? but it's aU the heart of man." " It's wonderful," observed Dunphy, ru- minating, " it's wonderful indeed. Well, now, ]\Ii*. Roberts, it really i.s wonderful. I came down here to spake to you about that very boy, and see the news I have before me. Indeed, it is wonderful, and the hand o' God is surely in it." " Right, Dunphy, that's the word ; and under him, in the capacity of agent in the business, book down Sam Roberts, who's j deeply thankful to God for making him, if I I may say so, his adjutant in advancing the boy's fortunes." j " Did you see him to-day, Sam ? " asked ^Irs. Roberts. i "No," replied Sam, "he wasn't in the bar- racks,, but I'll engage we'll both see him to- morrow, if he has life, that is, unless he should \ happen to be on duty. If he doesn't come \ to-morrow, however, I'll start the day after for Dublin." " Well, now, ]Mr. Roberts," said Dunphy, ! "if you have no objection, I didn't cai'e if I ! turned into bed ; I'm not accustomed to i travelin', and I'm a thi'ifle fatigued ; only to- morrow morning, i^laise God, I have some- | thing to say to you about that boy that may ; surprise you." " Not a syllable, Dunphy, nothing about Him that could sui^irise me." "WeU,"rephed the hesitating and cau- tious old man, " maybe I wiU surprise you for all that." This he said whilst ]Mi's. Robei-ts and MoUy Byrne were preparing his bed in one of the neat sleeping rooms which stood ofif the pleasant kitchen where they sat; "and Usten, Ml-. Roberts, before I tell it, you must pledge youi' honor as a soldier, that until I give you lave, you'll never breathe a syllable of what I have to mention to any one, not even to INIrs. Roberts." " WTiat's that? Keep a secret fi'om Beck ? Come, Dunphy, that's what I never did, un- less the word and countersign when on duty, and, by fife and drum, I never will keep your secret then ; I don't want it, for as sure as I heai- it, so shall she. And is it afraid of old Beck you are ? By fife and drum, sii", old Beck has more honor than either of us, and would as soon take a fancy to a coward as betray a secret. You don't know her, old Dunphy, you don't know her, or you wouldn't spake as if you feared that she's not truth' and honesty to the back- bone." " I beUeve it, ^Ir. Roberts, but they say, afther all, that once a woman gets a secret, she tliinks herself in a sartin way, until she's deHvered of it." Sam, who liked a joke very well, laughed heartily at this, bad as it was, or rather he laughed at the shrewd, ludici'ous, but satiri- cal grin with which old Dunphy 's face was puckered whilst he uttered it. " But, sii'," said he, resuming his gravity, "Beck, I'd have you to know, is not like other women, by which I mean that no other woman could l^e compared to her. Beck's the queen of women, upon my soul she is ; and all I have to say is, that if you tell me the secret, in half an hoiu-'s time shell be as well acquainted with it as either of us. I have no notion, Dvmphy, at this time of hfe, to separate my mind fi'om Beck's ; my con- science, sir, is my store-room ; she has a key for it, and, by fife and drum, I'm not going to take it fi'om her now. Do you think Beck would treat old Sam so ? No. And my nile is, and ever has been, treat your wife with confidence if you respect her, and expect confidence in yovir turn. No, no ; jDoor Beck must have it if / have it. The truth is, I have no secrets, and never had. I keep none, Dimphy, and that's but natiiral ; however, it's ah the heai-t of man." The next morning the two men took an early walk, for both were in the habit of rising betimes. Dunphy, it would appear, was one of those individuals, who, if they ever perform a praiseworthy act, do it rather from weakness of character and fear, than fi'om a principle of conscientious rectitude. After having gone to bed the previous night he lav awake for a considei*able time debating \\-ith himself the pui-jjort of his visit, iuro and CO/!, without after all, being able to accom- pHsh a detennination on the subject. He was timid, cunning, slirewd, avai'icious, and possessed, besides, a large portion of that pecuUar superstition which does not restrain from iniquity, although it renders the mind anxious and apprehensive of the consequen- ces. Now the honest fellow with whom he had to deal was the reverse of all this in even- possible phase of his charact«*. being 422 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. candid, conscientious, fearless, and straight- forward. "NMiatever he felt to be his duty, that he did, regardless of all opinion and fiU consequences. He was, in fact, an indepen- dent man, because he always acted from right principles, or rather fi'om right im- pulses ; the tiiith being, that the virtuous action was performed before he had allowed himself time to reason upon it. Every one must have obsei'ved that there is a rai-e class of men whose feelings, always on the right side, are too quick for theii* reason, which they generously anticipate, and have the proposed \ii-tue completed before either reason or pru- dence have had time to argue either for or against the act. Old Sam was one of the latter, and our readers may easily perceive the contrast which the two individuals pre- sented. After about an hour's walk both returned to breakfast, and whatever may have been the conversation that took place between them, or whatever extent of confidence Dunphy reposed in old Sam, there can be little doubt that his glee tl^is morning was infinitely gi'eater than on the preceding evening, although, at Dunphy 's earnest re- quest, considerably more subdued. Nay, the latter had so far succeeded with old Sam as to induce him to promise, that for the present at least, he would forbear to com- municate it to his wife. Sam, however, would under no cu'cumstances promise this until he should first hear the nature of it, upon which, he said, he would then judge for himself. After hearing it, however, he said that on Dunphj^'s own account he would not breathe it even to her without his per- mission. " Mind," said Dunphy, at the conclusion of their dialogue, and with his usual caution, " I am not mrtin of what I have mentioned ; but I hope, plaise God, in a short time to be able to prove it ; and, if not, as nobody knows it but yourself an' me, why there's no harm done. Dear knows, I have a strong reason for lettin' the matter lie as it is, even if my suspicions are true ; but my conscience isn't aisy, ]\Ir. Roberts, an' for that raisou I came to spake to you, to consult with you, and to have your advice." " And ray advice to you is, Dunphy, not to attack the enemy until your plans are properly laid, and aU your forces in a good position. The thing can't be proved now, you say ; very well ; you'd be only a fool for attempting to prove it." " I'm not sayin'," said the cautious old sin- ner again, "that it can be proved at any time, or proved at all — that is, for a mrtinty ; but I think, afther a time, it may. There's a person not now in the country, that will be back shortly, I hope ; and if any one can prove what I mentioned to you, that person Cfxn. I know we'd make a powerful fiiend by it, but " Here he squirted his thin tobacco spittle " out owi'e his beard," but added nothing further. "Dunphy, my fine old fellow," said Sara, " it was veiy kind of you to come to me upon this point. You know the aft'ection I have for the young man ; thank you, Dunphy ; but it's natural — it's all the heart of man. Dimphy, how long is it, now, since you and I messed together in the gallant eleven times thi-ee? Fifty years, I think, Dunphy, oi more. You were a smaa-t fellow then, and became servant, I think, to a young captain — what's this his name was ? oh ! I remember — Gourlay ; for, Dunphy, I remember the name of every officer in our regiment, since I entered it ; when they joined, when they exchanged, sold out, or died like brave men in the field of battle. It's upwards of fifty. By the way, he left us — sold out immediately after his father's death." "Ay, ould Sii" Edward — a good man ; but he had a woman to his wife, and if ever there was a divil — Lord bless us ! — in any woman, there was one, and a choice bad one, too, in her. The present barrownight. Sir Thomas, is as hke her as if she had spat him out of her mouth. The poor ould man, Sir Edward, had no rest night or day, because he woioldn't get himself made into a lord, or a peer, or some high-flowoi title of the -kind ; and all that she herself might rank as a nobleman's lady, although she was a ' lady,' by title, as it was, which, God knows, was more than she desarved, the thief." " Ah, she was difierent fi-om Beck, Dun- phy. Talking of wives, have I not a right to feel thankful that God in his goodness gifted me with such a blessing ? You don't know what I owe to her, Dunphy. "\Mien I was sick and wounded — I bear the marks of fifteen severe wounds upon me — when I was in fever, in ague, in jaundice, and several other complaints belonging to the difi'erent countries we w^ere in, there she was — there she iva.% Diuijjhy ; but enough said ; ay, and in the field of battle, too," he added, immedi- ately forgetting himself, "lying like a log, my tongue black and burning. Oh, yes, Beck's a great creature ; that's aU, now — that's all. Come in to breakfast, and now you shaU know what a fi*esh egg means, for we have lots of poultiy." " Many thanks to you, Mr. Roberts, I and my ould woman know that." " Tut — nonsense, man ; lots of poultrj^, I say — always a pig or two, and never with- out a ham or a'tlitch, you old dog. Except THE BLACK BARONET. 423 the welfare of that boy, we have nothing on earth, thank God, to trouble us ; but that's natural — it's all the heart of man, Dun- After ha^^ngf made a luxurious breakfast, Dunphy, who felt that he could not readily remain* away fi'om his little shop, bade this most affectionate and worthy couple good-by and proceeded on his way home. This hesitating old man felt anything but comfortable since the partial confidence he had placed in old Sam. It is true, he stated the purport of his disclosure to him as a contingency that might or might not happen ; thus, as he imagined, keeping him- self on the safe side. But in the meantime, he felt anxious, apprehensive and alarmed, even at the lengths to which his superstitious fears had driven him ; for he felt now that one class of terrors had only superinduced another, without destroying the first. But so must it ever be with those timid and pu- sillanimous villains who strive to impose up- on their consciences, and hesitate between right and wi-ong. On his way home, however, he determined to visit the baiTacks in which the thirty-third regiment lay, in order, if possible, to get a fui'tive glance at the young ensign. In this he was successful. On entering the barrack square, he saw a gi'oup of officers chatting together on the north side, and after inquir- ing from a soldier if Ensim^Roberts was among them, he was answered Th fhe affirma- tive. " There he is," said the man, " standing with a whip in his hand — that tall, handsome young feUow." Dunphy, who was svifficiently near to get a clear riew of him, was instantly struck by his surprising resemblance to ^liss Goui'lay, whom he had often seen in town. CHAPTER XIX. Interview between Trailcudgel and the Stranger — A Peep at Lord Dunroe and his Friend. It was on the morning that Sir Thomas Gourlay had made the disastrous discovery of the flight of his daughter — for he had not yet heard the spreading inimor of the im- aginary elopement — that the stranger, on his way from Father M'Mahon's to the Mitre, was met in a lonely part of the road, near the priest's house, by a man of huge stature and savage appearance. He was literally in rags ; and lus long beard, gaunt features, and eyes that glared as if with remorse, distraction, or despair, absolutely constituted him an alarming as well as a painful specta" cle. As he approached the stranger, with some obvious and urgent pui-pose, trailing after him a weapon that resembled the club of Hercules, the latter paused in his step and said, " Vfhsit is the matter -vrith you, my good fellow ? You seem agitated. Do you want anything with me ? Stand back, I will per- mit you to come no nearer, tiU I know your purpose. I am armed." The wretched man put his hand upon his eyes, and groaned as if his heart would burst, and for some moments was unable to make any reply. " What can this mean ? " thought the stranger ; " the man's features, though wild and hollow, are not those of a xniffian." " My good friend," he added, speaking in a milder tone, " you seem distressed. Pray let me know what is the matter with you?" j "Don't be angiy with me," replied the I man, addressing him with dry, parched lips, j whilst his Herculean breast heaved up and down with agitation ; " I didn't intend to do ; it, or to break in upon it, but now I must, j for it's Hfe or death with the three that's left 1 me ; and I durstn't go into the town to ask it ! there. I have lost four ah-eady. !Maybe, ' sir, you could change this pound note for ! me ? For the sake of the Almighty, do ; as you hope for mercy don't refuse me. That's \ all I ask. I know that 3'ou stop in the inn [ in the town there above — that you're a fi-iend of our good priest's — and that you are weU spoken of by every one." Now, it fortunately happened that the stranger had, on leaving the inn, put thirty shillings of sQver in his pocket, not only that he might distribute thi'ough the hands of Father M'Mahon some portion of assist- ance to the poor whom that good man had on his hst of distress, but visit some of the hovels on his way back, in order personally to witness their condition, and, if necessai-y, relieve them. The priest, however, was from home, and he had not an oj^portunity of carrying the other portion of his inten- tions into effect, as he was only a quarter of a mile from the good man's residence, and no hovels of the desciiption he wished to visit had 3'et presented themselves. " Change for a poimd !" he exclaimed, with a good deal of surpi-ise. " ^^^3y, from your appearance, poor fellow, I should scarcely suspect to find such a sum in your possession. Did you expect to meet me here ? " " No, sir, I was on my way to the priest, to open my heart to him, for if I don't, I know I'll be ragin' mad before forty-eiglit hours. Oh, sii-, if you have it, make ha-slc , i24 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. every minute may cost me a life that's dearer to me a thousand times than my own. Here's the note, sir." The stranger took the note out of his hand, and on looking at the face of it made no ob- servation, but, upon mechanically tvu-ning up the back, apparently without any purpose of examining it, he started, looked keenly at the man, and seemed svmk in the deepest possible amazement, not unreheved, how- ever, by an air of satisfaction. The sudden and mysterious disappearance of Fenton, taken in connection with the discovery of the note which he himself had given him, and now in the possession of a man whose appear- ance was both desperate and suspicious, filled him with instant apprehensions for the safety of Fenton. His brow instantly became stem, and in a voice full of the most imequivocal determina- tion, he said, " Pray, sir, how did you come by this note ? " "By the temptation of the de\il ; for al- though it was in my possession, it didn't save my two other darhns fi'om djing. A piece of a slate would be as useful as it was, for I couldn't change it— I durstn't." " You committed a robbery for this note, sir?" The man glared at him with something like incipient fury, but paused, and looking on him with a more soiTowful aspect, replied, "That is what the world will call it, I sup- pose ; but if you wish to get anything out of me, change the tone of your voice. I haven't at the present time, much command over my temper, and I'm now a desperate man, though I wasn't always so. Either give me the change or the note back again." The stranger eyed him closely. Although desperate, as he said, still there were symp- toms of an honest and manly feeling, even in the very bursts of passion which he suc- ceeded with such effort in restraining. " I repeat it, that this note came into youi- hands by an act of robber^' — perhaps of murder." " Miu-der ! " replied the man, indignantly. "Give me back the note, sir, and provoke me no farther." " No," rei^lied the other, " I shall not ; and you must consider yourself my prisoner. You not only do not deny, but seem to admit, the charge of robbery, and you shall not pass out of my hands until you render me an ac- count of the per.son fi'om whom you took this note. You see," he added, producing a case of pistols — for, in accordance with the hint he had received in the anonymous note, he resolved never to go out without them — " I api armed, and that resistance is useless." The man gave a proud but ghastly smile, as he repHed — dropping his stick, and pull- ing from his bosom a pair of pistols much larger and more dangerous than those of the stranger, " You see, that if you go to that I have the advantage of you." " Tell me," I repeat, " what has become oi ]\Ir. Fenton, fi'om whom you took it." " Fenton ! " exclaimed the other, with sur- prise ; "is that the poor young man that's not right in his head ? " "The same." " Well, I know nothing about him." " Did you not rob him of this note ? " " No." "You did, sir; this note was in his pos- session ; and I fear you have murdered him besides. You must come with me," — and as he spoke, our friend, Trailcudgel, saw two pistols, one in each hand, levelled at him. " Get on before me, sir, to the town of Bally- train, or resist at yovu' peiil." Almost at the same moment the two pis- tols, taken fi'om Sir Thomas Goiuiay, were levelled at the stranger. " Now," said the man, whilst his eyes shot fire and his brow darkened, " if it must be, it must ; I only want the sheddin' of blood to fill up my misery and guilt ; but it seems I'm doomed, and I can't help it. Sir," said he, " think of yourself. If I submit to become your prisoner, my Hfe's gone. You don't know the Aillain you are goin' to hand me over to. I'm not afi'aid of you, nor of any- thing, but to die a disgi-aceful death through hvi means, as I must do." " I w^ill hear no reasoning on the subject," replied the other ; "go on before me." The man kept his pistols jDresented, and there they stood, looking sternly into each other's faces, each determined not to yield, and each, probably, on the brink of eternity. At lengih the man dropped the muzzles of the weapons, and holding them reversed, ap- proached the stranger, saying, in a voice and with an expression of feeling that smote the other to the heart, "I will be conqueror still, su'. Instead" of goin' with 3'ou, you will come with me. There ai-e my jDistols. Onl}' come to a house of misery and sorrow and death, and you will know all." " This is not treachery'," thought the stran- ger. "There can be no mistaking the anguish — the agony — of that voice ; and those large tears bear no testimony to the crime of murder or robbeiy." " Take my pistols, sir," the other repeated, " only follow me." " No," replied the stranger, " keep them : I fear you not — and what is more, I do noi THE BLACK BARONET. 425 now even suspect you. Here are thirty shillings in silver — but you must allow me to keep this note." We need not describe anew the scene to which poor Trailcudgel introduced him. It is enough to say, that since his last appear- ance in our pages he had lost two more of his children, one by famine and the other by fever ; and that when the stranger entered his hovel — that hbel upon a human habita- tion — that disgrace to landlord inhumanity — he saw stretched out in the stillness of death the emaciated bodies of not less than four human beings — to wit, this "WTctched man's wife, their daughter, a sweet girl nearly grown, and two little ones. The hus- band and father looked at them for a little, and the stranger saw a singiilar working or change, taking place on his featvu-es. At length he clasped his hands, and first smiled -then laughed outright, and exclaimed, " Thank God that they," pointing to the dead, " are saved from any more of this," — but the scene — the eftbrt at composure — the sense of his guilt — the condition of the sur- vivors — exhaustion from want of food, all combined, overcame him, and he fell sense- less on the floor. The stranger got a porringer of water, bathed his temples, opened his teeth with an old knife, and having poured some of it down his throat, di'agged him — and it re- quired all his strength to do so, although a powerful man — over to the cabin-door, in order to get him within the influence of the fresh air. At length he recovered, looked wildly about him, then gazed up in the face of the stranger, and made one or two deep respirations. "I see," said he, "I remember — set me sittin' upon this httle ditch beside the door — but no, no — " he added, starting — " come away — I must get them food — come — quick, quick, and I will tell you as we go along." He then repeated the history of his ruin by Sir Thomas Gourlay, of the robbery, and of the scene of death and destitution which drove him to it. "And was it fi-om Sir Thomas you got this note ? " asked the stranger, whose inter- est was now deeply excited. " From him I got it, sir ; as I tould you," he rephed, " and I was on my way to the priest to give him up the money and the _ pistols, when the situation of my children, of ■ my family, of the Hrin' and the dead, over- s' came me, and I was tempted to break in B upon one pound of it for their sakes. Sir, ^L my life's in your hands, but there is some- HL thing in your face that tells my heart that ^■L you won't betray me, especially afther what ^H you have seen." The stranger had been a silent and atten- tive listener to this narrative, and after he had ceased he spoke not for some time. He then added, emphatically but quickly, and almost aljruptly : "Don't fear me, my poor fellow. Your secret is as safe as if you had never disclosed it. Here are other notes for you, and in the meantime place yourself in the hands of your priest, and enable him to restore Sir Thomas Gourlay his money and his pistols. I shall see you and your family again." The man riewed the money, looked at him for a moment, burst into tears, and hurried away, without saying a word, to procure food for himself and his children. Our readers need not imagine for a mo- ment that the scenes with which we have en- deavored to present them, in the wretched hut of Trailcudgel, are at all overdra^vn. In point of fact, they fall far short of thousands which might have been "witnes-sed, and were witnessed, diiring the years of '47, '48, '49, and this present one of '50. "We are aware that so many as twenty-three human beings, of all ages and sexes, have been found by pubUc ofiicers, all Ipng on the same floor, and in the same bed — if bed it can be termed — nearly one-fourth of them stiffened and putrid corpses. The survivors weltering in filth, fever, and famine, and so completely maddened by despair, delirium, and the rackings of intolerable pain, in its severest shapes — aggravated by thirst and hunger — that all the impvdses of nature and afifection were not merely banished from the heart, but superseded by the most frightful peals of insane mirth, cinielty, and the horrible appetite of the ghoul and vampire. Some were found teaiing the flesh from the bodies of the carcasses that were stretched beside them. Mothers tottered oflf under the woful excitement of misery and frenzy, and threw their wretched children on the sides of the highways, leaving them there, "nath shouts of mirth and satisfaction, to perish or be saved, as the chances might turn out- -whilst fathers have been known to make a wolfish meal upon the dead bodies of their own ofi- spring. We might, therefore, have carried on our description up to the very highest point of imaginable horror, without going beyond the tnith. It is well for the world that the schemes and projects of ambition depend not in their fulfilment upon the means and instiximents with which they are sought to be accom- pHshed. Had Sii* Thomas Gourlay, for in- stance, not treated his daughter with such brutal cruelty, an intennew must have takex place between her and Lord Cullamore, which would, as a matter of course, have <26 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. put an end forever to her father's hopes of the high rank for which he was so anxious to saciifice her. The good old nobleman, failing of the inten-ieAv he had expected, went immediately to London, with a hope, among other objects, of being in some way useful to his son, whom he had not seen for more than two years, the latter having been, during that period, making the usual tour of the Continent. On the second day of his arrival, and after he had in some degi'ee recovered from the effects of the voyage — by which, on the whole, he was rather improved — he resolved to call upon Dunroe, in pursuance of a note which he had written to him to that effect, being unwilling besides to take him \in- awares. Before he arrives, however, we shall take the hberty of looking in ujDon his lordship, and thus enable oui-selves to form some opinion of the materials which consti- tuted that young nobleman's character and habits. The accessories to these habits, as expo- nents of his life and character, were in ad- mirable keeping with both, and a shght glance at them will be sufficient for the reader. His lordship, who kept a small estabhsh- ment of his own, now hes in a verj' elegantly furnished bedroom, with a table beside his bed, on which are dressings for his woiind, phials of medicines, some loose comedies, and a volume stiU more objectionable in point both of taste and morals. Beside him is a man, whether young or of the middle age it is difficult to say. At the first glance, his general appearance, at least, seemed rather juvenile, but after a second — and still more decidedly after a third — it was e\T[dent to the spectator that he could not be under forty. He was dressed in quite a youthful style, and in the very extreme of fashion. This person's features were good, regular, absolutely symmetrical ; yet was there that in his countenance which you could not rel- ish. The face, on being examined, bespoke the Ufe of a battered rake ; for although the complexion was or had been naturally good, it was now set in too high a color for that of a young man, and was hardened into a cer- tain appearance which is produced on some features by the struggle that takes place be- tween dissipation and health. The usual obseiTation in such cases is — "with what a constitution has that man been blessed on whose countenance the symptoms of a hard life are so slightly perceptible." The symp- toms, however, are there in every case, as £hey were on his. This man's countenance, we say, at the first glance, was good, and his 9ye seemed indicative of great mildness and benignity of heart — yet here, again, was a drawback, for, upon a stricter examination of that organ, there might be read in it the expression of a spirit that never permitted him to utter a single word that was not as- sociated with some selfish calculation. Add to this, that it was unusually small and feeble, intimating dupHcity and a want of moral energy and candor. In the mere face, therefore, there was something which you could not like, and which would have prejudiced you, as if by instinct, against the man, were it not that the phant and agreeable tone of his conversation, in due time, made you forget everything except the fact that Tom Norton was a most delightful fellow, with not a bit of selfishness about him, but a warm and fiiendly wish to oblige and serve every one of his acquaintances, as far as he could, and with the gi'eatest good-will in the world. But Tom's excellence did not rest here. He was disinterested, and fi-equently went so far as almost actually to quarrel wdth some of liis friends on their refusing to be guided by his advice and experience. Then, again, Tom was generous and dehcate, for on finding that his dissuasions against some particular course had been disregarded, and the consequences he had predicted had actually followed, he was too magnanimous ever to harass them by useless expostula- tions or vain reproofs ; such as — "I told you how it would happen " — " I advised you in time" — "you would not hsten to reason" — and other postliminious apothegms of the same character. No, on the contrary, he maintained a considerate and gentlemanly silence on the subject— a cu'cumstance which saved them from the embarrassment of much self-defence, or a painful admission of their error — and not only satisfied them that Tom was honest and unselfish, but modest and forbearing. It is time, that an occasional act or solecism of manner, somewhat at vari- ance with the conventional usages of polite society, and an odd \Tilgarism of expression, were shght blemishes which might be brought to his charge, and would probably have told against any one else. But it was well known that IVIi'. Norton admitted him- self to be a Connaught gentleman, with some of the rough habits of his country, as well ol manner as of phraseology, about him ; and it was not to be expected that a Connemara gentleman, no matter how liigh his birth and connection, could at once, or at aU, divest himself of these jnquavt and agreeable peculiarities. So much for Tom, who had been for at least a couple of years pre%dous to his pres- ent appearance fairly domesticated with his lordship, acting not only as his "guide, THE BLACK BARONET. 427 philosopher, and friend," but actually as major-domo, or general steward of the estab- lishment, even condescending to pay the ser- vants, and kindly undert;ikiug to rescue his friend, who was ignorant of business, from the disagreeable trouble of coming in contact with tradesmen, and making occasional dis- bvirsements in matters of which Lord Dun- roe knew Uttle or nothing. Tom was indeed a most invaluable friend, and his lordship considered it a veiy fortunate night on which they first became acquainted ; for, although he lost to the tune of five hundred pounds to him in one of the most fashionable gaming- houses of London, yet, as a compensation — and more than a compensation — for that loss, he gained Tom in return. His lordship was lying on one side in bed, with the Memoirs of on the pQlow beside him, when Tom, who had only entered a few minutes before, on looking at the walls of the apartment, exclaimed, "What the deuce is this, my lord '? Ai'e you aware that your father will be here in a coujDle of houi-s from this time?" and he looked at his watch. " Oh, ay ; the old peer," rephed his lord- ship, in a languid voice, " coming as a mis- sionary to reform the profane and infidel. I \\'ish he would let me alone, and subscribe to the MissionaiT Society at once." " But, my dear Dunroe, are you asleep ? " " Very nearly, I beheve. I ^ish I was." " But what's to be done with certain cf these pictures? You don't intend his lord- ship should see them, I hope ? " " Xo ; certainly not, Tom. We must have them removed. Will you see about it, Tom, like a good feUow ? Stow them, however, in some safe place, whei-e they won't be in- jured." " Those five must go," said Norton. "No," rej^Hed his lordship, "let the ^lag- dalen stay ; it will look like a tendency to repentance, you know, and the old peer may like it." " Dunroe, my dear fellow, you know I make no pretence to rehgion ; but I don't rehsh the tone in which you generally speak of that most respectable old nobleman, your father." "Don't you, Tom? Well, but, I say, the idea of a most respectable old nobleman is rather a shabby affair. It's merely the priri- lege of age, Tom. I hope I shall never Hve to be termed a most respectable old noble- man. Pshaw, my dear Tom, it is too much. It's a proof that he wants character." " I wish, in the mean time, Dunroe, that you and I had as much of that same com- modity as the good old peer covdd spare us." I "Well, I suppose you do, Tom ; I dare say. My sister is coming with him too." "Yes ; so he says in the letter." " Well, I suppose I must endure that also; an aristocratic lecture on the one hand, and the uncouth affections of a hoiden on the other. It's hard enough, though." Tom now rang the bell, and in a few mo- ments a servant entered. " Wilcox," said Norton, "get Taylor and M'Intyre to assist you in remo\'ing those five pictures ; place them carefully in the green closet, which you will lock.' " Yes, carf'fully, Wilcox," said his lordship ; " and afterwards give the key to ]SIr. Nor- ton." "Yes, my lord." In a few minutes the paintings were re- moved, and the conversation began where it had been left off. " This double A-isit, Tom, will be a great bore. I wish I could avoid it — philosophiz- ed by the father, beslobbered by the sister— faugh ! " " These books, too, my lord, had better be put aside, I think." " WeD, I suppose so ; lock them in that drawer." Norton did so, and then proceeded. "Now, my dear Dunroe " "Tom," said his lordship, interrupting him, " I know what you are going to say — try and put yoin-self into something like mor- al trim for the old peer — is not that it? Do you know, Tom, I have some thoughts of be- coming rehgious ? "\Miat is rehgion, Tom ? You know we were talking about it the oth- er day. You said it was a capital thing for the world — that it sharpened a man, and put him up to an}i;hing, and so on." ''What has put such a notion into your head now, my lord ? " "I don't know — nothing, I beheve. Can religion be taught, Tom ? Could one, for in- stance, take lessons in it ? " " For what purpose do you propose it, my lord?" " I don't know — for two or three purposes, I beheve." " Will your lordship state them ? " " ^Miy, Tom, I should wish to do the old peer ; and touching the bai'onet's daughter, who is said to be very conscientious — which I suppose means the same thing as rehgion — I should ^vish to " "To do her too," added Norton, laugh- ing. " Yes, I believe so ; but I forget Don't the pas'ns teach it ? " " Yes, my lord, by precept, most of them do ; not so many by example." " But it's the theory only I want You tf28 WILLIAM c'AHLjfTOJV S WOItA:^. don't eappose I intend to practice religion, Tom, I hope?" "No, my lord, I have a different opinion of your principles." " Could you hire me a pas'n, to give les- sons in it — say two a week — I shall require to know something of it ; for, my dear Tom, you are not to be told that twelve thousand a year, and a beautiful girl, ai'e worth mak- ing an effort for. It is true she — Miss Gourlay, I mean — is not to be spoken of in comparison AAdth the cigar-man's daughter ; but then, twelve thousand a year, Tom ! — and the good old peer is threatening to cur- tail my allowance. Or stay, Tom, would hy- pocrisy do as well as rehgion ? " " Every bit, my lord, so far as the world goes. Indeed, in point of fact, it requires a veiy keen eye to discover the difference be- tween them. For one that practises religion, there are five thousand who practise hypoc- risy " " Could I get lessons in hypocrisy? Are tjiere men set apart to teach it? Are there, for instance, professors of hypocrisy as there are of music and dancing ? " "Not exactly, my lord ; but many of the professors of rehgion come very nearly to the same point." "How is that, Tom? Explain it, Hke a good feUow." " Why a great number of them deal in both — that is to say, they teach the one by their doctrine, and the other by their example. In different words, they inculcate rehgion to others, and practise hj'pocrisy themselves." "I see — that is clear. Then, Tom, as they — the pas'ns I mean — are the best judges of the matter, of course hypocrisy must be more useful than religion, or they — and such an immense majority as you say — -would not practise it." " More useful it unquestionably is, my lord." "Well, in that case, Tom, try and find me out a good hypocrite, a sound fellow, who properly understands the subject, and I will take lessons from him. My terms avlU be liberal, say " "Unfortunately for your lordship, there are no professors to be had ; but, as I said, it comes to the same thing. Engage a pro- fessor of religion, and whilst you pretend to study his doctrine, make a point also to study his life, and ten to one but you wiU close your studies admirably qualified to take a de- gree in h^'pocrisy, if there were such an hon- or, and that you wish to imitate your teach- er. Either that, my lord, or it may tend to cure you of a leaning toward hypocrisy as long as you live." " Well^ I wish I >;Tjltl jaake some progress in either one or the other, it matters nol which, provided it be easier to learn, and more useful. We must think about it, Tom. You will remind me, of course. Was Sil George here to-day ? " "No, my lord, but he sent to inquire." " Nor Lord Jockej^'ille ? " " He drove tandem to the door, but didn't come in. The other members of our set have been tolerably regular in their in- quiries, especially since they were undeceiv» ed as to the danger of your wound." " By the way, Norton, that was a d d cool fellow that pinked me ; he did the thing in quite a self-possessed and gentle- manly way, too. However it was my own fault ; I forced him into it. You must know I had reason to suppose that he was endeavoring to injure me in a certain quarter ; in short, that he had made some progress in the affections of Lucy Gourlay. I saw the attentions he paid to her at Paris, when I was sent to the right about. In short — but hang it — there — that will do — let us talk no more about it — I escaped narrow- ly—that is aU." "And I must leave you, my lord, for I as- sure you I have many things to attend to, Those creditors are unreasonable scoundrels, and mvist be put off with soft words and hard promises for some time longer. That Irish wine-merchant of yours, however, is a model to eveiy one of his tribe." "Ah, that is because he knows the old peer. Do you know, Tom, after all, I don't think it so disreputable a thing to be termed a respectable old nobleman ; but still it in- dicates want of individual character. Now, Tom, I think I have a character. I mean an original character. Don't every one al- most say — I allude, of course, to every ont. of sense and penetration — Dunroe's a char- acter — quite an original — an enigma — a sphinx — an inscription that cannot be de- cij)hered — an illegible dog — eh — don't they, Tom?" " Not a doubt of it, my lord. Even I, who ought to know you so weU, can make nothing of you." " Well, but after all, Tom, my father's name overshadows a great number of my ve- nialities. Dunroe is wild, they sa}', but then he is the son of a most respectable old nobleman ; and so, many of them shrug and pity, when they woiild otherwise assaU and blame." " And I hope to Uve long enough to see you a most respectable old ' character ' yel^ my dear Dunroe. I must go as your repre- sentative to these d d ravenous duns But mark me, comport yourself in your fa- ther's and sister's presence as a young man TEE BLACK BARONET. 429 somewhat meditating upon the reformation of his life, so that a favorable impression may be made here, and a favorable report reach the baronet's fair daughter. Au revoir ! " CHAPTER XX Interview between Lords CuH'imore, Dunrog, and Lady Emily — Tom Norton'' s Aristocracy fails Him — His Reception by Lord CuUamore. At the hour appointed, Lord Dunroe's father and sister an-ived. The old peer, as his son usually, but not in the most reverential spirit, termed him, on entering his sleeping chamber, paused for a moment in the middle of the room, as if to ascertain his precise state of health ; but his sister. Lady Emily, -v^dth all the warmth of a young and affectionate heart, pure as the morning dew-drop, ran to his bedside, and with tears in her eyes, stooped down and kissed him, exclaiming at the same time, " My dear Dunroe ; but no — I hate those cold and formal titles — they are for the world, but not for brother and sister. My dear John, how is your wound ? Thank God, it is not dangerous, I hear. Ai-e you better? Will you soon be able to rise? My dear brother, how I was alarmed on hearing it ; but there is another kiss to help to ciu'e you." " My dear Emily, what the deuce are you about ? I tell you I have a prejudice against kissing female relations. It is too tame, and somewhat of a bore, child, especially to a sick man." His father now approached him with a grave, but by no means an unfeeling coun- tenance, and extending his hand, said, "I fear, John, that this has been a foolish business ; but I am glad to find that, so far as your personal danger was concerned, you have come off so safely. How do you find yoiu'seK ? " " Rapidly recovering, my lord, I thank you. At fii'st they considered the thing serious ; but the bullet only grazed the rib sUghtly, although the flesh wound was, for a time, troublesome enough. I am now, however, fi'ee from fever, and the wound is closing fast." Whilst this brief dialogue took place. Lady Emily sat on a chair by the bedside, her large, brilliant eyes no longer fiUed with tears, but open with astonishment, and we may as well add with pain, at the utter in- difference wdth which her brother received her affectionate caresses. After a few mo- ments' reflection, however, her generous heart supposed it had discovered his apo logy- "Ah," thought the sweet girl, "I had for- gotten his wound, and of course I must have occasioned him great pain, which his deli- cacy placed to a different motive. He did not wish to let me know that I had hurt him." And her countenance again beamed with the joy of an innocent and unsuspect- ing spirit. "But, Dunroe," she said — "John, I mean, won't 3'ou soon be able to get up, and to walk about, or, at aU events, to take an air- ing with us in the carriage ? Will you not, dear John ? " "Yes, I hope so, Emily. By the way, Emily, you have grown quite a woman since I saw you last. It is now better than two years, I think, since then." " How did you like the Continent, John ? " " "Why, my dear girl, how is this ? "What sympathy can yoxi feel with the experience of a young fellow like me on the Continent ? When you know the world better, my dear girl, you will feel the impropriety of asking such a question. Pray be seated, my lord." Lord Cullamore sat, as if unconsciously, in an arm-chau- beside the table on which were placed his son's dressings and meai- cines, and resting his head on his hand for a moment, as if suffering pain, at length raised it, and said, "No, Dunroe ; no. I trust my innocent gu-1 will never Hve to feel the impropriety of asking a question so natural." "I'm sure I hope not, my lord, with all my heart," replied Dunroe. " Have you been presented, Emily ? Have you been brought out ? " " She has been presented," said her father, " but not brought out ; nor is it my inten- tion, in the obvious sense of that word, that she ever shaU." " Oh, your lordship perhaps has a tenden- cy to Popery, then, and there is a convent in the background ? Is that it, my good lord ? " he asked, smiling. " No," rf plied his father, who could not help smiling in return, "not at aU, John. Emily wiU not require to be brought out, nor paraded through the debasing foi-mali- ties of fashion. She shall not be excluded from fashion, certainly ; but neither shall I I suffer her to run the vulgar gatmtlet of heart- ' less dissipation, wliich too often hardens, : debases, and cori-upts. But a truce to this ; ' the subject is painful to me ; let us change it." i The last observation of Dunroe to his ' sister startled her so much that she blushed j deeply, and looked with that fascinating tira- I idity which is ever associated with inno- 430 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. oence and purity from her brother to her father. "Have I said anything -wrong, papa?" she asked, when Lord CuUamore had ceased to speak. " Nothing, my love, nothing but precisely what was natural and right. Dunroe's reply, however, was neither the one nor the other, and he ought to have known it." "WeU now, Emily," said her brother, "I don't regret it, inasmuch as it has enabled me to satisfy myself upon a point which I have frequently heard disputed — that is, whether a woman is capable of blushing or not. Now I have seen you blush with my own eves, Emily ; nay, upon my honor, you blush again this moment." " Dunroe," observed his father, "you are teasing your sister ; forbear." " But don't you see, my lord," persisted his son, "the absolute necessity for giving her a com^se of fashionable life, if it were only to remove this constitutional blemish. If it were discovered, she is ruined ; to blush being, as youi' lordship knows, contrary to all the laws and statutes of fashion in that case made and provided." "Dimi'oe," said his father, "I intend you shall spend part of the summer and all the autumn in Ireland, with us." "Oh, yes, John, you must come," said his sister, clapping her snow-white hands in ex- ultation at the thought. " It will be so de- lightful." "Ireland !" exclaimed Dunroe, with well- feigned surprise ; " pray where is that, my lord ? " "Come, come, John," said his father, smiling ; "be serious." " Ii'eland ! " he again exclaimed ; " oh, by the way, that's an island, I think, in the Pacific — is it not ? " " No," replied his father ; "a more inap- propriate position you could not have pos- sibly found for it." " Is not that the happy countiy where the people hve without food ? Where they lead a hfe of independence, and stai've in such an heroic spii-it ? " " My dear Dunroe," said his father, seri- ously, "never sport with the miseries of a people, especially when that people are your own countr^'men." " My lord," he replied, disregarding the rebuke he had received, " for Heaven's sake conceal that disgraceful fact. Remember, I am a yovmg nobleman ; call me profligate — spendthrift — debauchee — anything you wiU but an Irishman. Don't the Irish refuse beef and mutton, and take to eating each other ? What can be said of a people who, to please their betters, practise starvation as their natural pastime, and dramatize hunger to pamper their most affectionate lords and masters, who, whilst the latter witness the comedy, make the performers pay for their tickets? And yet, although the cannibal system floiu'ishes, I fear they find it any- thing but a Sandivich island." " Papa," said Lady Emily, in a whisper, and with tears in her eyes, " I fear John's head is a little unsettled by his illness." " You will injure yourself, mj dear Dun- roe," said his father, " if you talk so much." " Not at all, my good lord and father. But I think I recollect one of their bills of performance, which runs thus : " On Sat- urday, the 25th inst., a tender and affection- ate father, stuffed by so many cubic feet of cold wind, foul air, all resulting fi'om ex- termination and the benevolence of a hu- mane landlord, vnU. in the very wantonness of repletion, feed upon the dead body of his own child — for which entertaining perfor- mance he will have the satisfaction, subse- quently, of enacting with success the inter- esting character of a felon, and be comforta- bly lodged at his Majesty's expense in the jail of the county.' * WTiy, my lord, how could you expect me to acknowledge such a country? However, I must talk to Tom Norton about this. He was born in the country you speak of — and yet Tom has an excellent appetite ; eats like other people ; abhors stai'vation ; and is no cannibal. It is true, I have fi'equently seen him ready enough to eat a fellow — a perfect raw-head- and-bloodj^-bones — for which reason, I sup- pose, the principle, or instinct, or whatever you call it, is still latent in his constitution. But, on the other hand, whenever Tom gnashed his teeth at any one ci, la cannibale, if the other gnashed his teeth at him, all the cannibal disappeared, and Tom was quite harmless." " By the way, Dunroe," said his father, "who is this Tom Norton you speak of ? " "He is my most particular fi-iend, my lord — my companion — and traveled with me over the Continent. He is kind enough to take charge of my affairs : he pays my ser- vants, manages my tradesmen — and, in shoi't, is a man whom I could not do with- out. He's up to everything ; and is alto- gether indispensable to me." Lord CuUamore paused for some time, and seemed for a moment absorbed in some painful reflection or reminiscence. At length he said, "This man, Dunroe, must be very useful to you, if he be what you have just described * This alludes to a dreadful fact of cannibalism, wliicb occurred in the South of Ireland in 184G. TEE BLACK BAROJ^ET. 431 him. Does he also manage your correspond- ence ? " " He does, my lord ; and is possessed of my most unlimited confidence. In fact, I could never get on without him. My affairs are in a state of the most inextricable confusion, and were it not for his sagacity and pru- dence, I coiild scarcely contrive to live at all. Poor Tom ; he abandoned fine prospects in order to devote himself to my service." " Such a friend must be invaluable, John," observed his sister. " They say a friend, a true friend, is the rarest thing in the world ; and when one meets such a fiiend, they ought to appreciate him." "Very tnie, Emily," said the Earl ; " very true, indeed." He spoke, however, as if in a state of abstraction. " Norton ! — Norton. Do you know, John, who he is ? Anything of his origin or connections ? " "Nothing whatever," repHed Dimroe ; " unless that he is well connected — he told me so himself — too well, indeed, he hinted, to render the situation of a dependent one which he should wish his relatives to be- come acquainted with. Of course, I re- spected his deHcacy, and did not, conse- quently, press him fui-ther upon the point." " That was considerate on your part," re- plied the Earl, somewhat dryly ; " but if he be such as you have described him, I agree with Emily in thinking he must be invalu- able. And now, John, with respect to an- other afiair — but perhaps this interview may be injurious to yo\u' health. Talking much, and the excitement attending it, may be bad, you know." " I am not easily excited, my lord," re- plied Dtmroe ; " rather a cool fellow ; unless, indeed, when I used to have dims to meet. But now Norton manages all that for me. Proceed, my lord." " Yes, but, John," observed Lady Emily, " don't let affection for papa and me allow you to go beyond your strength." " Never mind, Emily ; I am all right, if this wound were healed, as it will soon be. Proceed, my lord." " Well, then, my dear Dunroe, I am anxious you should know that I have had a long conversation with Sii' Thomas Gourlay, upon the subject of your marriage with his beautiful and accompHshed daughter." " Yes, the Black Baronet ; a confounded old scoundrel by all accounts." "You forget, sir," said the Earl, sternly, "that he is father to your future wife." "DevHish sorry for it, my lord. I wish Lucy was daughter to any one else — but it matters not ; I am not going to marry the black fellow, but twelve thousand a year and A pretty girl. I know a prettier, though." "Impossible, John," replied Lady Emily, with enthusiasm. " I really think Lucy Gour- lay the most lovely girl I have ever seen — the most amiable, the most dignified, the most accompHshed, the most — dear John, how happy I shall be to call her sister ! " " Dunroe," proceeded his father, "I beg you consider this affair seriously — solemnly — the happiness of such a girl as Lucy Gour- lay is neither to be sported with nor perilled. You will have much to reform before you can become worthy of her. I now tell you that the reformation must be eff'ected, sincerely and thoroughly, before I shall ever give my consent to your imion with her. There must be neither dissimulation nor hypocrisy on your part. Your conduct must speak for you, and I must, fi'om the clearest evidence, be perfectly satisfied that in manying you she is not wrecking her peace and happiness, by committing them to a man who is in- capable of appreciating her, or who is insen- sible to what is due to her great and shining virtues." "It would be dreadful, John," said his sis- ter, "if she should not feel happy. But if John, papa, requires reformation, I am sure he will reform for Lucy's sake." " He ought to reform from a much higher principle, my dear child," repUed her father. " And so he will, papa. Will you not, dear brother ? " " Upon my honor, my lord," said Dunroe, " I had a conversation this very morning up- on the subject with Tom Norton." j "I am glad to hear it, my dear son. It is I not too late — it is never too late — to amend I the life ; but in this instance there is an ; event about to take place which renders a 1 previous reformation, in its truest sense, ab- solutely indispensable." " My lord," he repHed, " the truth is, I am deteiTnined to try a course of religion. Tom Norton tells me it is the best thing in the world to get through life with." " Tom Norton might have added that it is a much better thing to get through deaith with," added the Earl, gi-avely. " But he appears to understand it admir- ably, my lord," replied Dunroe. "He says it quickens a mans intellects, and not only prevents him from being imposed upon by knaves and sharpers, but enables him, by putting on a long face, and using certain cabalistic phrases, to overreach — no, not ex- actly that, but to — let me see, to steer a safe course through the world ; or something to that effect. He says, too, that rehgious folks always come best off* and pay more attention to the things of this Hfe, than any one else ; and that, in consequence, they thrive and prosper under it No one, he says, gets 432 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. credit so fr<8<}ly as a man that is supposed to be religious. Now this sti-uck me quite forcibly, as a thing that might be very use- ful to me in getting out of my embarrass- ments. But then, it would be necessary to go to church, I beUeve — to pray — sing psalms — read the Bible — and subscribe to societies of some kind or other. Now all that would be very troublesome. How does a person pray, my lord ? Is it by repeating the Ten Commandments, or reading a re- ligious book ? " Despite the seriousness of such a subject, Lord Cullamore and his daughter, on glanc- ing at each other, could scai'cely refrain fi-om smiUng. "Now, I can't see," proceeded Dunroe, "how either the one or the other of the said commandments would sharpen a man for the world, as Tom Norton's reHgion does." The good old Earl thought either that his son was afifecting an ignorance on the subject which he did not feel, or that his ignorance was in reality so gi'eat that for the present, at least, it was useless to discuss the matter with him. "I must say, my dear Dunroe," he added, in a kind and indtdgent voice, " that your Hi'st conceptions of reformation are very ori- ginal, to say the least of them." " I grant it, my lord. Every one knows ihat all my views, acts, and expressions are original. ' Dunroe's a perfect original ' is the general expression among my friends. But on the subject of religion, I am willing to be put into training. I told Tom Norton to look out and hire me a pas'n, or somebody, to give me lessons in it. Is there such a thing, by the way, as a Religious Grammar ? If so, I shall provide one, and make myself master of all the rules, cases, inflections, in- terjections, groans, exclamations, and so on, connected with it. The Bible is the diction- ary, I believe ? " Poor Lady Emily, like her father, could not for the life of her suppose for a moment that her brother was serious : a reflection that relieved her from much anxiety of mind and embarrassment on his account. "Papa," said she, whilst her beautiful features were divided, if we may so say, be- tween smiles and tears, "papa, Dunroe is only jesting ; I am sure he is only jesting, and does not mean any serious disrespect to rehgion." " That may be, my dear Emily ; but he will allow me to tell him that it is the last subject upon which he, or any one else, should jest. Whether you are in jest or earnest, nvy dear Dunroe, let me advise you to bring the moral courage and energies of a man to the contemplation of your life, in the first place ; and in the next, to its Im* provement. It is not reading the Bible, nor repeating prayers, that wOl, of themselves, malce you religious, unless the heai't is in earnest ; but a correct knowledge of what is right and wrong — in other words, of hu- man duty — -^-ill do much good in the first place ; with a firm resolution to avoid the evil and adopt the good. Remember that you are accountable to the Being who placed you in this life, and that your duty here consists, not in the indulgence of wild and licentious passions, but in the higher and nobler ones of rendering as many of your fellow-creatures happy as you can : for such a course will necessarily insure happiness to yourself. This is enough for the present', as soon as you recover your strength you shall come to Ii-eland." " When I recover my strength ! " he ex- claimed. "Ay, to be eaten like a titbit. Heavens, what a delicious morsel a piece of a young peer would be to such fellows ! but I Avill not run that horrible risk. Lucy must come to me — I am sure the prospect of a countess's coronet ought to be a sufficient inducement to her. But, to think that I should run the risk of being shot from be- hind a hedge — made a component part of a midnight bonfire, or entombed in the bowels of some Patagonian cannibal, savagely glad to feed upon the hated Saxon who has so often fed upon him ! — No, I repeat, Lucy, if she is to be a countess, must travel in this direction." The indelicacy and want of all considera- tion for the feelings of his father, so obvious in his heartless allusion to a fact which could only result from that father's death, satisfied the old man that any refoi'mation in his son was for the present hopeless, and even Lady Emily felt anxious to put £in end to the visit as soon as possible. " By the way," said his father, as they were taking their leave, "I have had an unpleasant letter from m}"- brother, in which he states that he wrote to you, but got no answer." "I never received a letter from him," re- plied his lordship , " none ever reached me ; if it had, the very novelty of a communication fi'om such a quarter would have prevented me from forgetting it." " I should think so. His letter to me, in- deed, is a strange one. He utters enigmatic cal threats " " Come, I like that — I am enigmatical myself — you see it is in the family." " Enigmatical threats which I cannot un- derstand, and desires me to hold myself prepared for certain steps which he is about to take, in justice to what he is pleased tc TEE BLACK BARONET. 43& term his own claims. However, it is not worth notice. But this Norton, I am anx- ious to see him, Dunroe — will you request him to call upon me to-morrow at twelve o'clock ? — of course, I feel desirous to make the acquaintance of a man wlio has proved himself such a warm and sterhng friend to my son." "Undoubtedly, my lord, he shall attend on you — I shall take care of that. Good-by, my lord — good by, Emily — good — good — my dear girl, never mind the embrace — it is quite undignified — anything but a patrician usage, I assure you." Now it is necessary that we should give our readers a clearer conception of Lord Dunroe's character than is , to be found in ihe preceding dialogue. This young gentle- man was one of those who wish to put every j)erson who enters into conversation with Ihem completely at fault. It was one of his tvhiras to aftect ignorance on many subjects Kith which he was very well acquainted. His ambition was to be considered a char- acter ; and in order to carry this idea out, he very frequently spoke on the most com- monplace topics as a man might be supposed to do who had just dropped from the moon. He thought, also, that there was something aristoci'atic in this fictitious ignorance, and that it raised him above the common herd of those who could talk reasonably on the ordinary topics of conversation or hfe. His ambition, the reader sees, Avas to be consid- ered original. It had besides, this advan- tage, that in matters where his ignorance is anything but feigned, it brought him out safely under the protection of his accustomed Jiabit, without suffering from the imputation of the ignorance he affected. It was, indeed, the ambition of a vain and siUy mind ; but provided he could work out this paltry joke upon a grave and sensible though unsus- pecting individual, he felt quite delighted at the feat, and took the person thus imposed vipon into the number of his favorites. It was upon this principle among others that Norton, who pretended never to see through his flimsy irony, contrived to keep in his fa- vor, and to shape him according to his wishes, whilst he made the weak-minded young man believe that everything he did and every step he took was the result of his own deliberate opinion, whereas in fact he was only a puppet in his hands. His father, who was natui-aUy kind and indulgent, felt deeply gi'ieved and mortified by the reflections arising from this visit. Dui'ing the remainder of the day he seemed Avrapped in thought ; but we do not attempt to assert that the dialogue with his son was the sole cause of this. He more than once took out his brother's letter which he read with surpi'ise, not unmingled with strong curiosity and pain. It was, as he said, ex- tremely enigmatical, whilst at the same time it contained evidences of that deplorable spirit which almost uniformly embitters so deeply the feuds which arise from domestic miscon- cei^tions. On this point, however, we shall enable thei-eader to judge for himself. The letter was to the following effect : "My Lord Cull.\more. — It is now nine months and upwards since I addressed a letter to your son ; and I wrote to him in preference to you, because it had been for many years my intention never to have re- newed or held any communication whatso- ever with you. It was on this account, therefore, that I opened, or endeavored to open, a con'esi3ondence with him rather thai* with his father. In this I have been disap pointed, and my object, which was not an unfriendly one, fimstrated. I do not regret, however, that I have been treated ■nith con- tempt. The fact cancelled the foolish in- dulgence with which an exhibition of com- mon courtesy and politeness, if ndt a better feehng, on the part of your son, might have induced me to treat both you and him. As matters now stand between us, indulgence is out of the question ; so is compromise. I shall now lose little time in urging claims which you will not be able to withstand. Whether you suspect the nature of these claims or not is more than I know. Be that, however, as it may, I can assure you that I had resolved not to disturb your last days by prosecuting them during your life- time. That resolution I have now rescinded, and all that remains for me to say is, that as little time as possible shall be lost in enforc- ing the claims I aUude to, in justice to m,f family. " I am, my Lord Cullamore, " Your obedient servant, "Richard Stapleton." This strange and startling commimication caused the good old man much uneasiness, even although its object and purpose were altogether beyond his comprehension. The only solution that occurred to him of the mystery which ran through it, was that it must have been WTitten under some miscon- cejDtion or delusion for which he could not account. Anotlier key to the difficulty — one equally replete Avith distress and alanu — was that his brother's reason had probably be- come unsettled, and that the communication in question was merely the emanation of mental alienation. And, indeed, on this point only could he account for the mis- iSi WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. carriage of the letter to bis son, which prob- ably had never been -written at all, and ex- isted onlv in the disturbed imagination of his unfortunate brother. At all events, the contents of this docu- ment, Hke those mysterious presentiments of e\\\. which sometimes ai'e said to precede calamity, hung hke a weight upon his mind, view them as he might. He became nervous, ; depressed, and gloomy, pleaded illness as an apology for not dining abroad ; remain- ed alone and at home during the whole evening, but arose the next morning in better spirits, and when our fiiend Tom Norton presented himself, he had regained sufficient equanimity and composure to pay proper attention to that faithful and fi'iendly gentleman. Now Tom, who resolved to make an im- pression, as it is termed, was dressed in the newest and most fashionable morning visit costume, di'ove up to the hall-door at that kind of breakneck pace with which your celebrated whips dehght to astonish the multitude, and throwing the reins to a servant, desired, if he knew how to pace the horse up and down, to do so ; otherwise to remember that he had a neck. The sei-vant in question, a stout, compact fellow, with a rich ^lilesian face and a mel- low brogue, looked at him with a steady but smiling eye. '• Have a neck, is it ? " he exclaimed ; " by my sowl, an' it's sometimes an inconvenience to have that same. My own opinion is, sir, that the neck now is jist one of the tenderest joints in the body." Norton looked at him for a moment with an oftended and haughty stare. " If you are incapable of diiving the landau, sir," he repHed, "call some one who can; and don't be impertinent." " Incapable," repUed the other, with a cool but hiunorous kind of gravity ; " troth, then it's disgrace I'd bring on my taicher if I couldn't sit a saddle an' handle a whip with the best o' them. And wid regard to the neck, sir, many a man has escaped a worse fall than one from the box or the saddle." Norton drew himself up with a highly in- dignant scowl, and turning his frown once more upon this most impertinent menial, encountered a look of such comic familiarity, easy assurance, and droU indiiierence, as it would not be easy to match. The beau started, stared, again pulled himself to a still greater height — as if by the dignity of the attitude to set the other at fault — frowned more awfully, then looked bluster, and once more surveyed the broad, knowing face and sifmificant lausrhinsr eves that were fixed upon bim — set, as they were, m the centre of a broad grin — after which he pulled up his collar with an air — taking two or three strides up and dowm with what he intended as aristocratic dignity — "Hem! ahem! "What do yoti mean, sii-?" To this, for a time, there was no reply ; but there, instead, were the laughing fascin- ators at work, fixed not only upon him, but in him, piercing him through ; the knowing grin still increasing and gathering force of expression by his own confusion. "Curse me, sir, I don't understand this insolence. "VMiat do you mean? Do you know who it is you treat in this manner ? " Again he stretched himself, pulled up his collar as before, displavdng a rich diamond ring, then taking out a valuable gold watch, glanced at the time, and putting it in his fob. looked enormously big and haughty, ex- claiminfT acain, with a frown that was in- tended to be a stunner — after again pacmg up and dovm with the genuine tone and carriage of true nobility — "I say, sir, do you know the gentleman whom you ai'e treating with such imperti- nence ? Perhaps you mistake me, on account of a supposed resemblance, for some former acquaintance of yoiu's. If, so, correct your- self ; I have never seen you tiU this mo- ment." There, however, was the grin, and there were the eyes as before, to which we must add a small bit of pantomime on the part of Morty O'Flaherty, for such was the sei-vant's name, which bit of pantomime consisted in his (Morty 's) la}-ing his forefinger very know- ingly alongside his nose, exclaiming, in a cautious and fr-iendly voice however, " Barney, achora, don't be alai-med ; there's no harm done yet. You're safe if you behave yourself." "WTiatl" said Norton. "By the bones of St. Patrick but you are Morty O'Fla- herty ! Confound it, my dear Morty, why didn't you make yourself known at once ? it would have reUeved both of us." " One of us, you mane," repHed Mortj', with a wink. "Upon my soul I am glad to see you, Morty. And how ai-e you, man ahve '? In a snug berth here, I see, with the father of my friend. Lord Dunroe. " Ha ! " exclaimed Morty, shrewdly ; " is that it? Yowx friend; Oh, I see. Nate as ever, like a clane sixpence. Well, Barney, the world will have its way." " Ay, Morty, and we must comply with it. Some it brings up, and others it brings down." " "Whisht, now, Barney," said Morty ; '•' let 1 by-gones be by-gones. That it didn't bring TEE BLACK BARONET. 435 you up, be thankful to a gracious Providence and a light pair o' heeLs ; that's all And what are you now ? " " No longer Bamev - Brp n> &t ^^1 rate," replied the other. "My name, at present, is Norton." " At present ! Upon my sowl, Barney, so far as names goes, you're a walkin' cata- logue."' " Thomas Norton, Esquire ; residing with that distinguished young nobleman. Lord Dunroe, as his bosom fi'iend and insepara- ble companion." "Hem ! I see," said Morty, with a shrug, which he meant as one of compassion for the aforesaid Lord Dimroe ; " son to my masther. Well, God pity him, Barney, is the worst I "snsh him. You ^yill take cai'e of him ; you'll tache him a thing or two — and that's enough. But, Barney " " Curse Barney — Mr. Norton's the word." " Well, !Mr. Norton — ah, 'Six. Norton, there's one person you'll not neglect." " "S\Tio is that, Moi-ty?" "Faith, your mothers son, achora.. How- ever, you know the proverb — ' A bximt child dreads the fire.' You have a neck still, Bar- ney — beg pardon, Mr. Norton — don't forget that fact." " And 111 take care of the said neck, be- Heve me, Morty ; I shall keep it safe, never fear. " " Take care you don't keep it a httle too safe. A word to the wise is enough. Bar — Mr. Norton." " It is, Morty ; and I trust you will re- member that thjit is to be a regulation be- tween \is. ' A close mouth is the sign of a wise head,' too ; and there's a comrade for your proverb — but we ai'e talking too long. Listen ; keep my secret, and I will make it worth your while to do so. You may ruin me, without serving yourself ; but as a proof that you will find me your fiiend, I will shp you five guineas, as a recompense, you know, for taking cm-e of the landau and horses. In short, if we work into each other's hands it will be the better for us both." " I'U keep your saicret," repUed honest INIorty, " so long, Barney — hem I !Mr. Nor- ton — as you keep yourself honest ; but III dirty my hands wid none o' yovu- money. If I was willin' to betray you, it's not a bribe would prevent me." Mr. Norton, in a few moments, was ushered into the presence of Lord Cullamore. On entering the apai'tment, the old noble- man, with easy and native courtesy, rose up, ind received him with every mark of atten- tion and respect. "I am happy, ^Ir. Norton," he proceeded, *' to have it in my power to thank you for j the friendship and kindness which my son. Lord Dimroe, has been so fortimate as to j receive at your hands. He speaks of you 1 with such warmth, and in terms of such high esteem, that I felt naturally anxious to ! make your acquaintance, as his friend. Pray be seated." Norton, who was a quick and ready fel- low, in more senses than one, bowed lowly, and with everj- mark of the deepest respect ; but, at the same time, he certainly started upon a high and a rather hazai-dous theory — to wit, that of a man of consequence, who wished to be considered with respect to Dun- roe rather as a patron than a dependent The fellow, we should have stated to the reader, was originally fi'om Kerry, though he adopted Connaught, and consequently had a tolerable acquaintance with Latin and Greek — an acquisition which often stood him in stead through life ; joined to which was an assurance that nothing short of a scrutiny such as Morty O'Flaherty's could conquer. "I assure you, my lord," he repKed, " you qviite overrate any tiifiing sendees I may have rendered to my friend Dunroe. Upon my soul and honor you do. I have done nothing for him — that is, nothing to speak of. But the truth is, I took a fancy to Diui- roe ; and I do assure you again, Lord Cul- lamore, that when I do take a fancy to any person — a rare case with me, I grant — I would go any possible lengths to serve him. Every man has his whim, my lord, and that is mine. I hope your lordship had a pleas- ant trip across Channel ? " "Yes, thank you, Mr. Norton ; but I have been for some time past in delicate health, and am not now so capable of bearing the trip as formerly. Still I feel no reason to com- plain, although f:vr from strong. Dunroe, 1 perceive, is reduced considei-ably by his wound and the consequent confinement" " Oh, natiuivQy, of course, my lord ; but a few days now -will set him upon his legs." " That, it seems to me. Mi-. Norton, was a very foolish and unpleasant afliiir altogether." " Nothing could be more so, my lord. It was altogether \n-ong on the jxai-t of Dunroe ; and so I told him." "Could you not have prevented it, Mr. Norton ? " " Ha, ha, ha ! very good, Lord Cullamore. Ask me could I prevent or check a flash oi hghtning. Upon my soul and honor, the thing was over, and my poor friend down, before you could say Jack Robinson — hem ! — as we say in Connaught." "You have tni veiled, too, with my son, Mr. Norton, and he is perfectly sensible of the services you have rendered him during his tour." -iJG WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. " God forbid, my Lord Cullamore, that I should assume any superiority over poor, kind-hearted, and honorable Dunroe ; but as you are his father, my lord, I may — and with pride and satisfaction I do it — put the matter on its proper footing, and say, that Dunroe travelled with me. The thing is neither here nor there, of course, nor would I ever allude to it unless as a proof of my re- gard and affection for him." "That only enhances your kindness, Mr. Norton." " Why, my lord, I met Dunroe in Paris — no matter, I took him out of some difficulties and prevented him from getting into more. He had been set by a clique of — but I will not dwell on this, it looks like egotism — I said before, I took a fancy to him — for it frequently happens, my good lord, that you take a fancy to the person you have served." "True enough, indeed, Mr. Norton." " I am fond of travelling, and was about to make my fourth or fifth tour, when I met your son, surrounded by a crew of — but I have alluded to this a moment ago. At all events, I saw his danger — a young man ex- posed to temptation — the most alluring and perilous. Well, my lord, mine was a name of some weight and authority, affording just the kind of countenance and protection your son required. Well, I travelled with him, guarded him, guided him, for as to any in- convenience 1 may myself have experienced in taking him by the most comprehensive routes, and some other matters, they are not worth naming. Of course I introduced him to some of the most distinguished men of France — to the Marquis De Fogleville, for instance, the Count Rascallion, Baron Snot- tellin, and some others of the first rank and nobility of the country. The pleasure of his societv, however, more than compensated me for all." " But, pardon me, Mr. Norton, I believe the title and family of De Fogleville have been extinct. The last of them was guillo- tined not long since for an attempt to steal the crown jewels of France, I think." " True, my lord, you are perfectly right, the unhappy man was an insane legitimist ; but the title and estates have been revived in the person of another member of the family, the present marquis, Avho is a nobleman of high consideration and honor." " Oh, indeed ! I wfis not aware of that, Mr. Norton," said his lordship. "I am quite surprised at the extent of your generosity and goodness to my son." " But, my lord, it is not my intention to give up Dunroe or abandon the poor fellow yet awhile. I am determined to teach him economy in managing his affairs, to make him know the value of time, of money, and of system, in everything pertaining to life and business. Nor do I regret what 1 have done, nor what I propose to do ; far from it, my lord. All I ask is, that he will always look: upon me as a friend or an elder brother, and consult me, confide in me, and come to me, in fact, or write to me, whenever he may think I can be of service to him." "And in his name, of course, I may at least thank you, Mr. Norton," replied the Earl, with a slight irony in his manner, "not only for all you have done, but for all you propose to do, as you say." Norton shook his head peremptorily. " Pardon me, my lord, no thanks. I am overpaid by the pleasure of rankmg Dunroe among the number of my friends." " You are too kind, indeed, Mr. Norton ; and I trust my son will be duly grateful, as he is duly sensible of all you have done for him. By the way, Mr. Norton, you alluded to Connaught. You are, I presume, an Irish- man? " "I am an Irishman, my lord." " Of course, sir, I make no inquiry as to your individual family. I am sure from what I have seen of you they must have been, and are, persons of worth and consideration ; but I wished to ask if the name be a numer- ous one in Ireland, or rather, in your part of it — Connaught?" "Numerous, my lord, no, not very numer- ous, but of the first respectability." " Pray, is your father living, Mr. Norton? If he be, why don't you bring him among us? And if you have any brother, I )ieed scarcely say what pleasure it would afford me, having, as you are aware, I presume some influence with ministers, to do anything I could for him, should he require it ; probably in the sliape of a foreign appointment, or something that way. Anything, Mr. Norton, to repay a portion of what is due to you by my family." "I thank your lordship," replied Tom. " My poor father was, as too many other Irish gentlemen have been, what is termed a hard goer (the honest man was ahorse jockey like mj'self, thought Tom) — and indeed ran through a great deal of property during the latter part of his life (when he was hunts- man to Lord Eattlecap, he went through many an estate)." "Well, but your brother?" " Deeply indebted, my lord, but I have no brother living. Poor Edward ^i(^ get a for- eign apjiointment many years ago (he was transported for horse stealing), by the influ- ence of one of the most eminent of our judges, who stronglv advised him to accept it, and returned his name to government as a worthy and suitable candidate He died THE BLACK BARONET. 437 there, my lord, in the discharge of his ap- pointed duties. Poor Ned, however, was never fond of public business under govern- ment, and, indeed, accepted the appointment m. question with great reluctance." " The reason why I made these inquiries about the name of Norton," said Lord Culla- tnore, " is this. There was, several years ago, a respectable female of the name, who held a confidential situation in my family ; I have long lost sight of her, however, and would be glad to know whether she is living or dead." (" My sister-in-law," thought Tom.) " I fear," he replied, "I can render you no in- formation on that point, my lord ; the last female branch of our part of the family was my grandmother, who died about three years ago." At this moment a servant entered the apai'tment, bearing in his hand a letter, for which office he had received a bribe of half- a-crown. "I beg pardon, my loxxl, but there's a woman at tliQ hall-door, who wishes this letter to be handed to that gentleman ; but I fear there's some mistake," he added, " it is directed to Barney Bryan. She in- sists he is here, and that she saw him come into the house." "Barney Bryan," said Tom, with great coolness ; " show me the letter, for I think I know something about it. Yes, I am right. It is an insane woman, my lord, wife to a jockey of mine, who broke his neck riding my celebrated horse. Black and all.Black, on the Curragh. The poor creature cannot be- heve that her husband is dead, and thinks that I enjoy that agreeable privilege. The circumstance, indeed, was a melancholy one ; but I have supported her ever since." Morty O'Flaherty, who had transferred his charge to other hands, fearing that ]\Iis- ter Norton might get into trouble, now came to the rescue. "Pray," said Tom, quick as lightning, "is that insane creature below still, a poor wo- man whose husband broke his neck riding a race for me on the Curragh, and she thinks Uiat I stand to her in that capacity ? " " Oh, yes ; she says," added the man who brought the letter, "that this gentleman's name is not Norton, but Biyan — Barney Bryan, I think — and that he is her husband, exactly as the gentleman says. " "Just so, my lord," said Tom, smiling; "poor thing ! what a melancholy delusion." "I was present at the accident, !Mr. Nor- ton," added Morty, boldly, " and remember the circumstance, in throth, very well. Didn't the poor woman lose her senses by it ? " "Yes," replied Tom, "I have just men- tioned the cii-cumstance to his lordship." " And— beg pardon, Mr. Norton — doesn't she take you for her husband from that day to this?" " Yes, so I have said." "Oh, God help her, poor thing! Isn't she to be pitied ? " added Morty, with a dry roguish glance at IVIr. Norton ; " throth, she has a hard fate of it. Howaniver, she is gone. I got her oflf, an' now the place is clear of the unfortunate creatm'e. The lord look to her ! " The sen'ants then withdrcAv, and Norton made his i^arting bow to Lord Cullamore, whom we now leave to his meditations on the subject of this interview. CHAPTEK XXI. A Spy Eewarded — Sir Tliomns Gourlay Charged Home by the Stranger with the Removal and Dis- appearance of his Brother's Son. We left the Black Baronet in a frame of mind by no means to be envied by our readers. The disappearance of his daughter and her maid had stunned and so completely prostrated him, that he had not sufficient energy even for a burst of his usual dark and overbearing resentment. In this state of mind, however, he was better able to re- flect upon the distressing occurrence that had happened. He bethought him of Lucy's delicacy, of her sense of honor, her unifoi'm propriety of conduct, her singular self-re- spect, and after all, of the complacent spirit of obedience with which, in everything but her contemplated union with Lord Dunroe, she had, during her whole life, and under the most trying circumstances, accommo- dated herself to his '\\'ishes. He then re- flected ujDon the fact of her maid having ac- companied her, and con eluded, very naturally, that if she had resolved to elope with this hateful sti'anger, she would have done so in pui-suance of the precedent set by most yoimg ladies who take such steps — that is, unaccompanied by any one but her lover. From this ^•iew of the case he gathered com- fort, and was beginning to feel his mind somewhat more at ease, when a servant en- tered to say that Mr. Crackenfudge requested to see him on particular business. " He has come to annoy me about that confounded magistracy, I suppose," ex- claimed the baronet. " Have you any no- tion what the worthless scovmdrel wants, Gibson?" " Not the least, your honor, but he seems brimful of something." " Ay, brimful of ignorance, and of imper- 438 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WOUKS. tinence, too, if lie dvirst show it ; yes, and of as much pride and oppression as could well be contained in a miserable cai'cass like his. As he is a sneaking, vigilant rascal, however, and has a great deal of the spy in his com- position, it is not impossible that he may be able to give me some information touching the disappearance of I\Iiss Goui'lay." Gibson, after making his bow, withdrew, and the redoubtable Crackenfudge was ushered into the presence of the baronet. The first thing the former did was to sur- vey the countenance of his patron, for as sucii he wished to consider him and to find him. There, then, Sir Thomas sat, stem but indifferent, with precisely the expression of a tiger lying gloomily in his den, the nat- ural ferocity "in grim repose " for the time, but evidently ready to blaze up at an}i:hing that might disturb or provoke him. Had Crackenfudge been gifted with either tact or experience, or any enlarged knowledge of the human heart, especially of the deep, dark, and imjDetuous one that beat in the bosom then before him, he would have studied the best and least alarming manner of conveying intelligence calcvdated to pro- duce such tenific effects upon a man like Sir Thomas Gourlay. Of this, however, he knew nothing, although his oAvn intercourse with him might have well taught him the necessai'v lesson. "Well, jMi\ Crackenfudge," said the lat- ter, without moving, "what's WTong now? "What's the news ? " " There's nothing wrong. Sir Thomas, and a've good news." The baronet's eye and brow lost some of their gloom ; he arose and commenced, as was his custom, to walk across the room. " Pray what is this good news, ]\Ir. Crack- enfudge ? Will you be kind enough, without any unnecessary circumlocution, to favor youi* friends with it ? " "With pleasure. Sir Thomas, because a' know you are anxious to hear it, and it deeply concenas you." Sir Thomas paused, turned rotmd, looked at him for a moment with an impatient scowl ; but in the meaningless and simpering face before him he could read nothing but what appeai'ed to him to be an impudent chuckle of satisfaction ; and this, indeed, was no more than what Crackenfudge felt, who had altogether forgotten the nature of the communication he was about to make, dreadful and disastrous as it was, and thought only of the claim upon Sir Thomas's influence which he was about to establish with reference to the magistracy. It was the reflection, then, of this train of httle ambition which Sir Thomas read in his countenance, and mistook for some commu- nication that might relieve him, and set his mind probablj- at ease. The scowl we allude to accordingly disappeai-ed, and Sir Thomas, after the glance we have recorded, said, checking himself into a milder and more encouraging tone : " Go on, ]Mi\ Crackenfudge, let us hear it at once." " Well, then. Sir Thomas, a' told you a'd keep my eye on that chap." " On whom? name him, sir." "A' can't. Sir Thomas ; the feUow in the inn." " Oh ! what about him ? " " WTiy he has taken her off. "Taken whom off? " shouted the baronet, in a voice of thunder. "You contemptiblfi scoundrel, whom has he taken off? " " Your daughter. Sir Thomas — IMiss Gour- lay. They went together in the ' Fly ' on Tuesday night last to Dublin ; a' followed in the 'Flash of Lightning,' and seen them in conversation. Daudj' Dulcimer, who is your friend For God's sake, Sii" Thomas, be quiet. You'll shake me— a-a-ach — Sii- — Thom-a-as — w-wi-will vou not take my — my — h-hfe " "You lie like a villain, you most con- temptible rej)tile," shouted the other. " My daughter, sirrah, never eloped with an adventurer. She never eloped at all, sir. She durst not eloj^e. She knows what my vengeance would be, sirrah. She knows, you lying whelp of perdition, that I would pursue herseK and her paramoiir to the uttermost ends of the earth ; that I would shoot them both dead — that I would trample upon and spurn their worthless carcasses, and make an example of them to all time, and through all eternity. And you — you prying, intermeddling scoundrel — how durst you — you petty, beggarly tyrant — hated and desjDised b}' poor and rich — was it to mock me " " Sir Thom-a-as, a'm — a'm — I — I — a ach — ur-ur-ui'-mur-murd-murd-er-er-err-errr." " Was it to jeer and sneer at me — to insult me — you miserable knave — to diive me mad — into raging frenzy — that you came, with a smirk of satisfaction on yoiu' face, to com- municate the disgrace and dishonor of my family — the ruin of my hopes — the frustra- tion of my ambition — of all I had set my heai-t on, and that I perilled my soul to ac- complish? Yes, you \illain, your eye was smiling — elate — your heart was glad — for, siiTah, you hate me at heai*t." " God ! oh, oh ! a'm — a'm — ur-iuT-virrr — whee-ee-ee-hee-hee-hee. God ha-har-ha-have mer-mer-mercy on my sinf-sinfu-l sou-so- soiil ! a'm gone." THE BLACK BARONET. 439 " ^^^, you hate me, villain, and this is a triumph to you ; every one hates me, and every one ^vill rejoice at my shame. I know it, you accursed miscreant, I feel it ; and in return I hate, with more than the mahgnity of the de^Tl, every hum-.in creature that God has made. I have been at enmity with them, and in that enmity I shall persist ; deep and dai'k as hell shall it be, and unre- lenting as the vengeance of a de\'il. There," he added, throwing the almost senseless body of Crackenfudge over on a sofa, " there, you may rest on that sofa, and get breath ; get breath quickly, and mark, obey me." " Yes, Sir Thomas, a^vill ; a'll do anj'thing, provided that you'll let me escape with my life. God ! a'm nearly dead, the fire's not out of my eyes yet." "Silence, you wretched slave!" shouted the baronet, stamping with rage ; '• not another word of complaint, but listen to me — listen to me, I say : go on, and let me heai-, fully and at large, the withering historj' of this burning and most flagitious disgrace." " But if a' do, you'll only beat and throttle me to death. Sir Thomas." " ^^^lether I may or may not do so, go on, villain, and — go on, that quickly, or by heavens I shall tear the venomous heart from youi* body, and trample the black inteUigence out of it. Proceed instantly." With a face of such distress as our readers may weU imagine, and a voice whose quavers of terror were in admirable accordance with it, the unfortunate Crackenfudge related the circumstance of Lucy's visit to DubHn, as he considered it, and, in fact, so far as he was acquainted with her motions, as it appeared to him a decided elopement, without the possibility of entertaining either doubt or mistake about it. In the meantime, how shall we describe the savage fiuy of the baronet, as the trem- bling wretch proceeded ? It is impossible. His rage, the vehemence of his gestures, the spasms that seemed to seize sometimes upon his featm-es and sohietimes upon his Hmbs, as well as upon different parts of his body, ti'ansformed him into the appearance of something that was unnatural and frightful. He bit his lips in the effort to restrain these tremendous paroxysms, until the bloody foam fell in red flakes from his mouth, and as portions of it were carried by the violence of his gesticulations over several parts of his face, he had more the appearance of some bloody-fanged ghoul, reeking from the spoil of a midnight grave, than that of a human being. "Now," said he, " how did it happen that — brainless, worthless, and beneath all con- tempt, as you are, most execrable scoundrel — you suffered that adroit ruffian. Dulcimer — whom I shall punish, never fear — how came it, you despicable libel on nature and common sense — that you allowed him to humbug you to your face, to laugh at you, to scorn you, to spit upon you, to poke your ribs, as if you were an idiot, as you are, and to kick you, as it were, in everj' imaginable part of your worthless carcass — how did it come, I say, that you did not watch them pi'operly, that you did not get them imme- diately arrested, as you ought to have done, or that you did not do more than would merely enable you to chronicle my disgrace and misery ? " "A' did all a' could, Sir Thomas. A' searched through all Dublin for hex without success ; but as to where he has her, a' can't guess. The first thing a' did, after takin' a sleep, was to come an' tell you to-day ; for a' travelled home by last night's coach. You ought to do something, Sir Thomas, for every one has it now. It's through all Bal- lytrain. 'Deed a' pity you. Sir Thomas." Now this unfortunate being took it for granted that the last brief silence of the baronet resulted fi-om some reasonable at- tention to what he (Crackenfudge) had been saying, whereas the fact was, that his terri- ble auditor had been transfixed into the highest and most uncontrollable fit of indig- nation by the substance of his words. " ^Miat I " said he, in a voice that made Crackenfudge leap at least a foot fi-om the sofa. " You pity me, do you I — you, you diabohcal eavesdropper, you pity me ! Sa- cred heaven ! And again, you searched through all Dublin for my daughter ! — carry- ing her disgrace and infamy wherever you appeared, and advertising them as you went along, like an emissaiy of shame and cal- umny, as you are. Yes," said he, as he foamed with the fury of a raging bull ; " ' I — I — I,' you might have said, ' a nameless whelp, spinmg from the dishonest chppings of a counter — I, I s:iy, am in quest of ^liss Gourlay, who has eloped with an adventurer, an impostor — with a brushmaker's clerk." " A tooth -bnish manufacturer, Sir Thomas, and, you know, they ai-e often made of ivorj-." " Come, you intermeddling rascal, I must either tear you asunder or my brain will burst ; I will not have such a worthless hfe as yours on my hands, however ; you vermin, out with you ; I might have borne anything but yoiu' compassion, and even that too ; but to blazon through a gaping metroijolis the infamy of my family — of all that was dear to me — to turn the name of my child into a polluted word, which modest lips would feel ashamed to utter ; nor, lastly, can I forgive 440 WILLIAM CARLETON'8 WORKS. you the ciime of making me suffer this mad and imexampled agony." Action now took the place of words, and had, indeed, come in as an auxiliary for some time previous. He seized the unfor- tunate Crackenfudge, and as, with red and dripping lips, he gave vent to the fui-ious eruptions of his fiery spirit, like a living Vesuvius — for we know of no other com- parison so appropriate — he kicked and cuffed the wretched and unlucky intelligen- cer, untn he fairly threw him out at the hall-door, which he himself shut after him. "Begone, villain!" he exclaimed; "and may you never die till you feel the torments which you have kindled, hke the flames of hell, within me ! " On entering the room again, he found, however, that with a being even so wretched and contemptible as Crackenfudge, there had departed a portion of his strength. So long as he had an object on which to launch his fury, he felt that he could still sustain the battle of his passions. But now a heavy sense came over him, as if of something which he could not understand or analyze. His heart sank, and he felt a nameless and indescribable terror "within him — a terror, he thought, quite distinct from the conduct of his daughter, or of anything else he had heard. He had, in fact, lost all perception of his individual misery, and a moral gloom, black as night, seemed to cover and mingle with those fiery tortures which were con- suming him. An apprehension, also, of im- mediate dissolution came over him — his memory grew gi-adually weaker and weaker, until he felt himself no longer able to ac- count for the scene which had just taken place ; and for a brief period, although he neither swooned nor fainted, nor fell into a fit of any kind, he experienced a stupor that amounted to a complete unconsciousness of being, if we except an undying impression of some great evil which had befallen him, and which lay, like a grim and insatiable monster, tearing up his heart. At length, by a ^'iolent effort, he recovered a little, be- came once more conscious, walked about for some time, then surveyed himself in the glass, and what between the cadaverous hue of his face and the flakes of red foam which we have described, when taken in connection with his thick, midnight brows, it need not be wondered at that he felt alarmed at the state to which he awakened. After some time, however, he rang for Gibson, who, on seeing him, started. " Good God, sir ! " said he, quite alarmed, " what is the matter ? " "I did not ring for you, sir," he rephed, "to ask impertinent questions. Send Gil- lespie to me." Gibson withdrew, and in the mean time his master went to his dressing-room, where he washed himself fi'ee of the bloody evi- dences of his awful passions. This being done, he returned to the librar}', where, in a few minutes, Gillespie attended him." "Gillespie," he exclaimed, "do you feax God ? " "I hope I do. Sir Thomas, as well as another, at any rate." " Well, then, begone, for you are useless to me — begone, sirrah, and get me some one that fears neither God nor devil." "Why, Sir Thomas," re j^lied the ruffian, who, having expected a job, felt anxious to retrieve himself, "as to that matter, I can't say that I ever was overburdened with much fear of either one or other of them. In- deed, I believe, thank goodness, I have a« little religion as most people." " Are you sure^ sirrah, that you have ns) conscience ? " " Why — hem — I have done things for your honor before, you know. As to reli- gion, however, I'll stand upon having aa little of it as e'er a man in the barony. I give up to no one in a want of that commodi- ity." " What proof can you afford me that you are free from it ? " " Why, blow me if I know the twelve commandments, and, besides, I was only at church three times in my life, and I fell asleep under the sermon each time ; reUgion, sii", never agreed with me." " To blazon my shame ! — bad enough ; but the ruin of my hopes, d -n you, sir, how durst you publish my disgrace to the world ? " " I, your honor ! I'U take my oath I never breathed a syllable of it ; and you know yourself, sir, the man was too drunk to be able to speak or remember anything of what happened." " Sir, you came to mock and jeer at me ; and, besides, you are a Har, she has not eloped." "I don't understand you. Sir Thomas," said Gillespie, who saw at once by his mas- ter's disturbed and wandeiing eye, that the language he uttered was not addressed to him. " What — what," exclaimed the latter, ris- ing up and stretching himself, in order to call back his scattered faculties. " Eh, Gillespie ! — what brought you here, sirrah ? Ai-e you too come to triumph over the am- bitious projector? What am I saying? I sent for you, Gillespie, did I not ? " " You did, Sir Thomas ; and with regard THE BLACK BARONET. 441 to what we were speaking about — I mean religion — I'll houlcl a pound note with Charley Corbet, when he comes back, that I have less of it than him ; and we'U both leave it to your honor, as the best judge ; now, if I have less of it than Charley, I think I deserve the preference." The baronet looked at him, or rather in the direction where he stood, which induced Gniespie to supjDose that he was paying the strictest attention to what he said. " Besides, I once caught Charley at his prayers, Sir Thomas ; but I'd be glad to see the man that ever caught me at them — that's the chat." Sir Thomas placed his two hands upon liis eyes for as good as a minute, after which he removed them, and stared about him Uke one awakening from a disturbed dream. "Eh? — Begone, Gillespie ; I believe I sent for you, but you may go. I am unwell, and ; not in a condition to speak to you. When I ! want you agaiu, you shall be sent for." j " I don't care a d about either hell or : the devil, Sir Thomas, especially when I'm drunk ; and I once, for a wager, outswore Squire Leatherings, who was so deaf that I was obliged to swear with my mouth to the end of his ear-trumpet. I was backed for fifty guineas bv Colonel Brimstone, who was ; head of the HeUfire Club." I The baronet signed to him impatiently to ! begone, and this wox-thy moralist withdrew, ' exclaiming as he went : "Take my word for it, you wiU find nothing to your hand equal to myself ; and if there's anything to be done, curse me but I deserve a preference. I think merit ought to have its reward at any rate." Sir Thomas, we need not say, felt ill at ease. The tumults of his mind resembled those of the ocean after the violence of the tempest has swept over it, lea^'ing behind that dark and angry agitation Avhich indi- cates the awful extent of its power. After taking a turn ox two through the room, he felt fatigued and drowsy, with something like a feeling of approaching iUness. Yield- ing to this heaviness, he stretched himself on a sofa, and in a few minutes was fast asleep. AU minds naturally vicious, or influenced by the impulses of bad and irregular pas- sions, are essentially vulgar, mean, and cow- ardly. Our baronet was, beyond question, a striking proof of this truth. Had he pos- sessed either dignity, or one spark of gentle- manly feeling, or self-respect, he would not have degraded himself from what ought to have been expected from a man in his posi- tion, by his \'iolence to the worthless 'ftTetch, Crackenfudge, who was sUght, compai-atively feeble, and by no means a match for him in a personal contest. The only apology that can be offered for him is, that it is probable he was scarcely conscious, in the whirlwind and tempest of his passions, that he allowed himself to act such a base and unmanly part to a person who had not AviUingly offended him, and who was entitled, whilst under his roof, to forbearance, if not protection, even in virtue of the communication he had made. After sleeping about an hour, he arose considerably refreshed in body ; but the agony of mind, although diminished in its strength by its own previous paroxysms, was stiU intense and bitter. He got up, sur- veyed himself once more in the glass, adjust- ed his dress, and helped himself to a glass or two of Madeira, which was his usual spe- cific after these internal contlicts. This day, however, was destined to be one of trial to him, although by no means his last ; neither was it ordained to bring forth the final ordeals that awaited him. He had scarcely time to reflect upon the measures which, under the present circumstances, he ought to pursue, although he certainly was engaged in considering the matter, when Gibson once more entered to let him know that a gentleman requested the favor of a short interriew. " "What gentleman ? Who is he ? I'm not in a frame of mind to see any stranger — I mean, Gibson, that I'm not well." " Sorry to hear it, sir ; shall I teU the gentleman you can't see him ? " " Yes — no — stay ; do vou know who he is ? " " He is the gentleman, sir, who has been stopping for some time at the Mitre." " What ! " exclaimed the baronet, boun- cing to his feet. " Yes, sir." ^ If some notorious felon, red with half-a- dozen murders, and who, having broken jail, left an empty noose in the hands of the hangman, had taken it into his head to re- turn and oft'er himself up for instant execu- tion to the aforesaid hangman, and eke to the sheriff, we assert that neither sheriff nor hangman, nor hangman nor sheriff, aiTange them as you may, could feel a thousandth part of the astonishment which seized Sir Thomas Gourlay on learning the fact con- veyed to him by Gibson. Sir Thomas, how- ever, after the first natural stai-t, became, if we may use the expression, deadly, fear- fully calm. It was not poor, contemptible Crackenfudge he had to deal with now, but the prime offender, the gi-eat felon himself, the author of his shame, the \illain who poured in the fire of perdition upon hia 442 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. heart, who blasted his hopes, crumbled into ruin all his schemes of ambition for his daughter, and turned her very name into a byword of pollution and guilt. This was the man whom he was now about to get into his power ; the man who, besides, had on a for- mer occasion bearded and insulted him to his teeth ; — the skulking adventurer afraid to disclose his name — the low-born impos- tor, Uving by the rinsings of foul and fetid teeth — the base upstart — the thief— the man who robbed and absconded from his employ- er r and this AVTetch, this cipher, so low in the scale of society and life, was the indi- xddual who had left him what he then felt himself to be — a thing crushed, disgraced, trodden in the dust — and then his daugh- ter ! "Gibson," said he, "show him into a room — say I will see him presently-, in about ten minutes or less ; deliver this message, and return to me." In a few moments Gibson again made his appearance. "Gibson," continued his master, "where is Gillespie ? Send him to me." "Gillespie's gone into Ballytrain, sir, to get one of the horses iired." " Gibson, you are a good and faithful ser- vant. Go to my bedi'oom and fetch me my pistols." " My God, Sir Thomas ! oh, sir, for heav- en's sake, avoid violence ! The expression of youi- face. Sir Thomas, makes me trem- ble." Sir Thomas spoke not, but by one look Gibson felt that he must obey him. On re- turning A\-ith the arms, his master took them out of his hands, opened the pans, shook and stirred the powcler, examined the flints, saw that they were shai'p and firm, and hav- ing done so, he opened a drawer in the table at which he usually ^\Tote, and there placed them at full cock. Gibson <;ould perceive that, although unnaturally calm, he was nev- ertheless in a state of great agitation ; for whilst examining the pistols, he observed that his hand trembled, although his voice was low, condensed, and firm. " For God's sake. Sir Thomas ! for the Almighty God's sake — " "Go, Gibson, and desire the 'gentleman' to walk uj) — show him the way." Sir Thomas's mind was, no doubt, in a tumult ; but, at the same time, it was the agitation of a man without courage. After Gibson had left the room, he grew absolutely nervous, both in mind and bod}', and felt as if he were unequal to the conflict that he expected. On hearing the firm, manly tread of the stranger, hLs heart sank, and a consid- erable portion of his violence abandoned him, though not the ungenerous purpose which the result of their inteniew might possibly render necessai-y. At all events, ha felt that he was about to meet the stranger in a much more subdued spii'it than he had expected ; simply because, not being natiu*- ally a brave or a firm man, his coiorage, and consequently his resentment, cooled in pro- portion as the distance between them dimin- ished. Sir Thomas was standing with his back to the fire as the stranger entered. The man- ner of the latter was cool, but cautious, and his bow that of a joerfect gentleman. The baronet, sui-jDrised into more than he had intended, bowed haughtily in return — a mark of respect which it was not his inten- tion to have paid him. "I presume, sir," said he, "that I under- stand the object of this \isit ? " "You and I, Sir Thomas Gom-lay," re- phed the stranger, "have had one interview ah'eady — and but one ; and I am not aware that anything occmred then between us that could enable you to account for my presence here." "Well, sir, perhaps so," replied the baro- net, with a sneer ; " but to what may I at- tribute the honor of that distinguished pres- ence ? " "I come. Sir Thomas Gourlay, to seek for an explanation on a subject of the deepest importance to the ^scriy iinder whose wishes and instinictions I act." " That party, sii-," replied the baronet, who alluded to his daughter, "has forfeited every right to give you instructions on that, or any other subject where I am concerned. And, indeed, to speak candidly, I hardly know whether more to admire her utter want of all shame in deputing you on such a mission, or your o"mi immeasurable effron- tery in undei-taking it." "Sir Thomas Gourlay," repUed the stran- ger, with a proud smile on his lips, " I beg to assure you, once for all, that it is not my intention to notice, much less return, such language as you have now applied to me. Whatever you may forget, sir, I entreat you to remember that you are addressing a gen- tleman, who is anxious in this inten-iew, as well as upon all occasions when we may meet, to treat you Avith courtesy. And I beg to say now, that I regi'et the warmth of my language to you, though not unprovoked, on a former occasion." "Oh, much obliged, sir," replied the barO' net, vrith a low, ironical inclination of the head, indicative of the most withering con- tempt ; " much obhged, sir. Perhaps you would honor me with yom- patronage, too. I dare say that 'will be the next courtesy THE BLACK BARONET. 44a Well, I can't say but I am a fortunate fellow. Will you have the goodness, however, to proceed, sii", and open your negotiations? unless, in the time diplomatic spirit, you wish to keep me in ignorance of its real ob- ject." " It is a task that I enter upon with gi-eat pain," reiDlied the other, without noticing the ofifensive politeness of the baronet, " be- cause I am aware that there are associations connected with it, which you, as a father, cannot contemplate without profound sor- row." " Don't rest assured of that," said Sir Thomas. "Your philosophy may lead you astray there. A sensible man, sir, never re- grets that which is worthless." The stranger looked a good deal sm-prised ; however, he opened the negotiation, as the baronet said, in due form. "I believe, Su' Thomas Gourlay," he pro- ceeded, " you remember that the son and heir of your late brother, Sir Edward Goui*- lay, long deceased, disappeared very mysteri- ously some sixteen or eighteen years ago, and has been lost to the family ever since, " "Oh, sir," exclaimed the baronet, with no little siu'prise, "I beg your j^ardon. Yovu* exordium was so singularly clear, that I did not imderstand you before. Pray proceed." " I trust, then, you understand me now, sir," replied the stranger ; "and I trust you will understand me better before we pai*t." The baronet, in spite of his hauteur and contemptuous sarcasm, began to feel un- easy ; for, to speak tnith, there was in the stranger's words and manner, an earnestness of purpose, joined to a cool and manly spii'- it, that could not be treated Hghtly, or with indifference. " Sir Thomas Gourlay," proceeded the stranger " I beg your pardon, sir," said the other, interrupting him ; " plain Thomas Govu-lay, if you please. Is not that your object ? " " Truth, sir, is om- object, and justice, and the restoration of the defi*auded oi-phan's rights. These, sir, are our objects ; and these we shall endeavor to establish. Sir Thomas Gourlay, you know that the son of your brother lives." " Indeed ! " " Yes, sir ; disguise it — conceal it as you wiU. You know that the son of your brother lives. I repeat that emphatically." " So I perceive. You are e^'idently a very emphatic gentleman." "If truth, sir, constitute emphasis, you shall find me so." " I attend to you, sir ; and I give you no- tice, that when you shall have exhausted yourself, I have my explanation to demand ; and, I promise you, a terrible one you shall find it." This the wily baronet said, in order, if possible, to confound the stranger, and throw him out of the directness of his pur- pose. In this, however, he found himself mistaken. The other proceeded : " You, Sir Thomas Gourlay, did, one night about eighteen years ago, as I said, engage a man, disguised in a mask for the purpose of conceahng his features, to kidnap your brother's child from Red Hall — from this very house in which we both stand." "I beg your pardon," said Sir Thomas, "I forgot that cii'cumstance in the blaze of yonr eloquence ; perhaps you ■\^ill have the good- ness to take a seat ; " and in the same spirit of bitter sarcasm, he motioned him with mock courtesy, to sit down. The other, pausing only until he had spoken, pro- ceeded : " You engaged this man, I repeat, to kid- nap your brother's son and heir, under the pretence of bringing him to see a pupjiet- show. Now, Sir Thomas Gourlay," jH-oceed- ed the stranger, "suppose that the fi'iends of this child, kidnapped by you, shall suc- ceed in proving this fact b}' incontestable CAidence, in what position will you stand be- fore the world ? " " Much in the same position in which I stand now. In Red Hall, as its rightful proprietor, A\dth my back probably to the fire, as it is at present." It is undeniable, however, that despite all this haughty coolness of the baronet, the charge involved in the statement advanced b}^ the stranger stunned him beyond belief ; not simply because the other made it, for that was a mere secondary- consideration, but because he took it for granted that it never could have been made unless through the medium of treachery ; and we all know that when a criminal, whether great or small, has reason to believe that he has been betrayed, his position is not enviable, inasmuch as all sense of security totters fi'om under him. The stranger, as he proceeded, watched the features of his auditor closely, and could per- ceive that the sti-uggle then going on be- tween the tumult of ahu-m within and the effoi-t at calmness A\-ithout, was more than, with all his affected irony and stoicism, he could conceal. "But, perhaps," proceeded the baronet, " you who presume to be so well acquainted with the removiil of my brother's child, may have it in youi* power to afford me some in- formation on the disappeai-ance of my own. I wish you, however, to observe this distinc- tion. As the history you have given hap* *44 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. pens to be pure fiction, I should wish the other to be nothing but truth." " The loss of your child I regret, sir" (Sir Thomas bowed as before), "but I am not here to speak of that. You perceive now that we have got a clew to tliis painful mys- tery — to this great crime. A portion of the veil is raised, and j'ou may rest assured that it shall not fsiU again until the author of this injustice shall be fuUy exposed. I do not wish to use harsher language." " As to that," replied Sir Thomas, " use no unnecessary' dehcacy on the subject. Thank God, the English language is a copious one. Use it to its full extent. You ■nill find all its power necessary to establish the pretty con- spiracy you ai'e develoijing. Proceed, sir, I am quite attentive. I really did not imagine I could have felt so much amused. Indeed, I am very fortunate in this respect, for it is not eveiy man who could have such an ex- cellent farce enacted at his 0"svn fireside." "All this langviage is well, and no doubt very witty, Sii- Thomas ; but, beheve me, in the end you will find this matter anything but a fai'ce. Now, su", I crave your attention to a proposal which I am about to make to you on this most distressing subject. Ee- store this young man to his mother — use whatever means you may in bringing this about. Let it apjiear, for instance, that he was discovered accidentally, or in such a way, at least, that yom- name or agency, either now or formerly, may in no manner be con- nected with it. On these terms you shall be permitted to enjoy the title and property dming your hfe, and every necessary guar- antee to that effect shall be given you. The heai-t of Lady Gourlay is neither in your present title nor your present property, but in her child, whom that heart yearns to re- cover. This, then. Sir Thomas Gourlay, is the condition which I propose ; and, mark me, I propose it on the alternative of our us- ing the means and materials already in our hands for your exposure and conviction should you reject it." " There is one quality about you, sir," re- plied the baronet, " which I admire extreme- ly, and that is your extraordinaiy modesty. Nothing else could jjromj^t you to stand up and charge a man of in}- rank and character, on my own hearth, with the very re.spectable crime of kidnapping my brother's child. Extremely modest, indeed ! But how you should come to be engaged in this vindic- tive plot, and how you, above all men living, should have the assurance to thus insult me, is a mystery for the present. Of course, you see, you are aware, that I treat eveiy word you have uttered with the utmost degi-ee of contempt and scorn which the language is capable of expressing. I neither know noi care who may have prompted you, or misled you ; be that, however, as it may, I have only simply to state that, on this subject I defy them as thoroughly as I despise you. On another subject, however, I experience toward you a different feeling, as I shall teach you to understand before you leave the room." " This being yoiu' reply, I must discharge my duty fuUy. Pray mark me, now, Sir Thomas. Did you not give instmctions to a certain man to take youi* brother's child out of your ^jq^/i — out of your sight — out of your hearing? And, Sir Thomas, was not that man very liberally rewarded for that act ? I pray you, sir, to think seriously of this, as I need not say that if you persist in reject- ing om* conditions, a serious matter you will find it." Another contemptuous inclination, and " you have my reply, sii'," was all the baro- net could trust himself to say. " I now come to a transaction of a more recent date, Sii' Thomas." "Ah!" said the baronet, "I thought 1 should have had the pleasure of introducing the discussion of that transaction. You really are, however, quite a universal genius — so clear and eloquent upon all toj)ics, that I suppose I may leave it in your hands." " A young man, named Fen ton, has sud- denly disappeared fi'om this neighborhood.* " Lideed ! Why, I must siu-ely hve at the antijDodes, or in the moon, or I covdd not plead such ignorance of those great events." "You are aware. Sir Thomas, that the person passing under that name is your brother's son — the legitimate heir to the title and property of which you are in the unjust possession." Another bow. "I thank you, sir. I really am deriving much informatioa at your hands." "Now I demand. Sir Thomas Gourlay, in the name of his injured mother, what you have done with that young man ? " "It would be useless to conceal it," re- pHed the other. " As you seem to know everything, of course you know that. To your ovm knowledge, therefore, I beg most respectfully to refer j'ou." " I have only another observation to make, Sir Thomas Gom-lay. You remember last Tuesday night, when you di'ove at an un- seasonable hour to the towTi of ? Now, sir, I use your words, on that subject, to your oicm knoivledge I beg most respectfully to refer you. I have done." Sir Thomas Gourlay, when effort was neces- sary, could certainly play an able and adroit part. There was not a chai-ge brought against THE BLACK BARONET. 445 him in the preceding conference that did not sink his heart into the deepest dismay ; yet did he contrive to throw over his whole manner and bearing such a veil of cold, hard dissimulation as it was nearly impossible to penetrate. It is true, he saw that he had an acute, sensible, independent man to deal with, wliose keen e3'e he felt was reading every feature of his face, and every motion of his body, and weighing, as it were, with a practised hand, the fores and import of every word he uttered. He knew tliat mere- ly to entertain the subject, or to discuss it at all with anything like seriousness, would probably have exposed him to the risk of losing liis temper, and thus placed himself in the power of so sharp and impurturbable an antagonist. As the dialogue proceeded, too, a portion of his attention was transferred from the topic in question to the individual who introduced it. His language, his man- ner, liis dress, his tont ensemble were un- questionably not only those of an educated gentleman, but of a man who was well ac- quainted with life and society, and who ap- peared to speak as if he possessed no une- quivocal position in both. " Who the devil," thought he to himself several times, "can this person be? How iloes he come to speak on behalf of Lady Gourlay ? Surely such a man cannot be a brush manufacturer's clerk — and he has very little the look of an impostor, too." AH this, however, could not free liim from the deep and deadly conviction that the friends of his brother's widow were on his trail, and that it required the whole united powers of his faculties for deception, able and manifold as they were, to clieck his pur- suers and throw them off the scent. It was now, too, that his indignation against his daughter and him who had seduced her from his i-oom began to deepen in his heart. Had he succeeded in seeing her united to Lord Dunroe, previous to any exposure of liim- self — supposing even that discovery was pos- sible — his end, the great object of bis life, was, to a certain extent, gained. Xow, how- ever, that that hope was out of the question, and treacliery evidently at work against him, he felt that gloom, disappointment, shame, and ruin were fast gathering round him. He was, indeed, every way hemmed in and hampered. It was clear that this stranger was not a man to be either cajoled or bul- lied. He read a spirit — a sparkle — in his eye, which taught him thattlie brutality in- flicted upon the unfortunate Cracken fudge, and such others as he knew he might tram- ple on, would never do here. As matters stood, however, he thought the onlv chance of throwing the strauL'er off his guard was to take him by a coup de main. With this purpose, lie went over, and sitting down to his desk before the drawer that contained his pistols, thus placing himself between the stranger and the door, he turned upon him a look as stern and determined as he could possibly assume ; and we must remark here, that he omitted no single con- sideration connected witli the subject he was about to introduce that was calculated to strengthen his determination. "Now, sir," said he, "in the first place, may I take the liberty of asking where you have concealed my daughter? I will have no equivocation, sir," he added, raising his voice — "no evasion, no falsehood, but in one plain word, or in as many as may be barely necessary, say where you have con- cealed Miss Gourlay." "Sir Thomas Gourlay," replied the other, "lean understatid your feelings upon this subject, and I can overlook much that you may say in connection with it ; but neither upon that nor any other, can I permit the imputation of falsehood against m3'self. You are to observe this, sir, and to forbear the repetition of such an insult. My reply is brief and candid : I know not where Miss Gourlay is, upon my honor as a gentleman." "Do you mean to tell me, sir, that you and she did not elope in the same coach on Tuesday night last ? " " I do, sir ; and I beg to tell you, that such a suspicion is every way unworthy of your daughter." " Take care, sir ; you were seen together in Dublin." " That is true. I had the honor of trav- elling in th6 same coach with her to the metropolis ; but I was altogether uncon- scious of being her fellow-traveller until we arrived in Dublin. A few brief words of conversation I had with her in the coach and nothing more." " And you presume to say that you know not where she is — that you are ignorant of the place of her retreat? " " Yes, I presume to say so. Sir Thomas ; I have already pledged my honor as a gentle- man to that effect, and I shall not repeat it." " As a gentleman ! — but how do I know that you are a man of honor and a gentle- man 9 " "Sir Thomas, don't allow your passion or prejudice to impose upon your judgment and penetration as a man of the world. I know you feel this moment that you are addressing a man who is both ; and your own heart tells you that every word I have uttered respecting Miss Gourlay is true." "You will excuse me there, sir," replied the baronet. " Your position in this neigh- 446 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. oorhood is anything but a guarantee to the truth of what you say. If you be a gentle- man — a man of honor, "why Hve here, incog- nito, afi'aid to declare your name, or your rank, if you have any ? — why lie perdu, like a man under disgrace, or who had fled from justice ? " " Well, then, I beg you to rest satisfied that I am not under disgrace, and that I have motives for concealing my name that are dis- interested, and even honorable to myself, if they were known." " Pray, will you answer me another ques- tion — Do you haiDpen to know a firm in Lon- don named Grinwell and Co. ? they are tooth- brush manufacturers ? Now, mark my words well — I say Grinwell and Co., tooth-binish manufacturers." *' I have until this moment never heard of Grinwell and Co., tooth-brush manufac- turers." "Now, sir," repHed Sir Thomas, "all this may be very well and very true ; but there is one fact that you can neither deny nor dis- pute. You have been paying your addresses clandestinely to my daughter, and there is a mutual attachment between you." " I love your daughter— I will not deny it." " She returns your affections ? " "I cannot reply to anything invohdng Miss Gourlay's opinions, who is not here to explain them ; nor is it generous in you to force me into the presumptuous task of in- terpreting her sentiments on such a subject." "The fact, however, is this. I have for some years entertained other and different views with respect to her settlement in life. You may be a gentleman, or you may be an impostor ; but one thing is certain, you have taught her to contravene my wishes — to de- spise the honors to which a dutiful obedience to them would exalt her — to spurn my af- fection, and to tramj)le on my authority. Now, sir, listen to me. Renounce her — give up all claims to her — mthdraw every pre- tension, now and forever ; or, by the living God ! you shall never carry your hfe out of this room. Sooner than have the noble de- sign which I proposed for her frustrated ; sooner than have the projects of my whole hfe for her honorable exaltation ruined, I could bear to die the death of a common felon. Here, sii', is a proposition that ad- mits of only the one fatfd and deadly al- ternative. You see these pistols ; they are heavily loaded ; and you know my pui-pose ; — it is the purpose, let me tell you, of a re- solved and desperate man." " I know not how to account for this vio- lence. Sir Thomas Gourlay," replied the stranger with singular coolness ; "all I can Bay is, that on me it is thrown away." " Refuse the compliance with the prop* osition I have made, and by heavens you have looked upon your last sun. The pistols, sir, are cocked ; if one fails, the other won't." "This outrage. Sir Thomas, upon a stran- ger, in your own house, under the protection of your own roof, is as monstrous as it is cowardly." "My roof, sir, shall never afibrd protection to a villain," said the baronet, in a loud and furious voice. " Renounce my daughter, and that quickly. No, sir, this roof wiU afford you no protection." " Well, sii-, I cannot help that," replied the stranger, deliberately taking out of his breast, where they were covered by an out- side coat, a case of excellent pistols, which he instantly cocked, and held ready for action : "If your roof won't, these good friends will. And now, Sir Thomas, hear me ; lay aside your idle weapons, which, were I even unarmed, I would disregai'd as much as I do this moment. Our interview is now closed ; but before I go, let me en- treat you to reflect upon the conditions I have offered you ; reflect upon them deeply • — yes, and accejot them, otherwise you will involve yourself in all the consequences of a guilty but unsuccessful ambition — in con- tempt — infamy — and ruin." The baronet's face became exceedingly blank at the exhibition of the fire-arms. Pistol for pistol had been utterly out of the range of his calculations. He looked upon the stranger with astonishment, not un- mingled with a considerable portion of that wholesome feehng which begets self-preser- vation. In fact, he was struck dumb, and uttered not a syllable ; and as the stranger made his parting bow, the other could only stai'e at him as if he had seen an apparition. CHAPTER XXIL Lucy at Summerfield Cottage. On his way to the inn, the stranger could not avoid admiring the excellent sense and prudence displayed by Lucy Gourlay, in the brief dialogue which we have ah-eady detailed to ovir readers. He felt clearly, that if he had followed up his natural impulse to as- certain the place of her retreat, he would have placed himself in the very position which, knowing her father as she did, she had so correctly anticipated. In the mean- time, now that the difficulty in this respect, which she had apprehended, was over, his anxiety to know her present residence re- turned upon him with full force. Not that THE BLACK BARONET. 447 he thought it consistent with delicacy to in- trude himself upon her presence, without first obtaining her permission to that effect. He was well and painfully aware that a lying report of their elopement had gone abroad, but as he did not then know that this calumny had been principally circulated by unfortunate Crackenfudge, who, however, was the dupe of Dandy Dulcimer, and con- sequently took the fact for granted. Lucy, however, to whom we must now return, on arri\ing at the neat cottage already alluded to, occasioned no small sur- prise to its proprietor.- The family, when the driver knocked, were all asleep, or at least had not arisen, and on the door being opened by a broad-faced, good-humored looking servant, who was desired to go to a lady in the chaise, the woman, after rubbing her eyes and yawning, looked about her as if she were in a dream, exclaiming, " Lord bless us ! and divil a sowl o' them out o' the blankets yet ! " " You're nearly asleep," said the driver ; " but I'll hould a testher that a tight crapper would soon brighten your eye. Come, come," he added, as she yawned again, " shut your pittaty trap, and go to the young lady in the chaise." The woman settled her cap, which was awry, upon her head, by plucking it quickly over to the opposite side, and hastily tying the strings of her apron, so as to give herself something of a tidy look, she proceeded, barefooted, but in slippers, to the chaise. "Will you have the kindness," said Lucy, in a very sweet voice, " to say to !Mrs. Norton that a young friend of hers wishes to see her." " And teU her to skij?," added Alley Mahon, "and not keep us here all the blessed mornin'." " IVIrs. Norton ! " exclaimed the woman ; " I don't know any sich parson as that. Miss." " Why," said Lucy, putting her head out of the chaise, and re-examining the cottage, " surely this is where my friend ]\L:s. Norton did live, certainly. She must have changed her residence, Alley. This is most un- fortunate ! What are we to do ? I know not where to go." "WTiisht! IMiss," said ^Vlley, "we'll put her through her catechiz again. Come here, my good woman ; come fomd ; don't be ashamed or afeard in the presence of ladies. Who does hve here ? " "]\L:. Mainwarin'," repHed the servant, omitting the " IMiss," not-withstanding that Alley had put in her claim for it by using the plural number. " This is distressing — most unfortunate ! " exclaimed Lucy ; " how long has this gentle* man — IVIr. — Mr. " " Mainwarin', Miss," added the woman, respectfully. "She's a stupid lookin' sthreel, at all events," said Alley, half to herself and half to her mistress. "Yes, Mainwaring," continued Lucy; " how long has he been living here ? " " Troth, and that's more than I can tell you. Miss," replied the woman; "I'm from the county Wexford myself, and isn't more than a month here." Whilst this Uttle dialogue went on, or rather, we should say, after it was concluded, a tapping was heard at one of the windows, and a signal given with the finger for the servant to return to the house. She did so ; but soon presented herself a second time at the chaise door with more agreeable inteUi- gence. " You're right, IMiss," said she ; " the mis- tress desired me to ask you in ; she seen you from the windy, and desired me to bring your things too ; you're to come in, then, ]\Ess, you, an' the sarvint that's along wid you." On entering, an intelligent, respectable- looking female, of lady-Hke manners, shook hands with and even kissed Lucy, who em- braced her with much aflfection. " My dear Mrs. Norton," she said. " how much surprised you must feel at this abrupt and unseasonable visit." " How much dehghted, you mean, my dear iMiss Gourlay ; and if I am surprised, I assure you the surprise is an agreeable one." " But," said the innocent gifl, " your ser- vant told me that you did not hve here, and I felt so much distressed ! " " Well," replied IMrs. Norton, " she was right, in one sense : if Mrs. Norton that teas does not hve here, Mrs. Mainwaring that is certainly does — and feels both proud and flattered at the honor IMiss Gourlay does her humble residence." " How is this ? " said Lucy, smiling ; " you have then " " Yes, indeed, I have changed my condi- tion, as the phrase goes ; but neither my heart nor my affections to you, !Mis3 Gour- lay. Pray sit down on this sofa. Youi maid, I presume, !Miss Gourlay ? " " Yes," replied Lucy ; " and a faithful crea- ture has she proved to me, Mrs. Nor , but I beg your pardon, my deiir madam ; how am I — oh, yes, ^Ii-s. Mainwaring ! " " Nancy," said the latter, " take this young woman with you, and make her comfortable. You seem exhausted, IMiss Gourlay ; shall ] get some tea ? " 448 WILLIAM CARLETOJST'S WORKS. " Thank you, Mrs. Nor Mainwaring, no ; we have had a hasty cup of tea in Dub- lin. But if it will not be troublesome, I should like to go to bed for a time." Mi's. Mainwaiing flew out of the room, and called Nancy Gallaher. " Nancy, pre- pare a bed immediately for this lady ; her maid, too, will probably require rest. Pre- pare a bed for both." She was half in and half out of the room as she spoke ; then returning with a bunch of keys dangling from her finger, she glanc- ed at INIiss Gourlay with that shght but deli- cate and considerate curiosity which arises only from a friendly warmth of feeling — but said nothing. •* My dear ]\Irs. Mainwaring," said Lucy, who understood her look, " I feel that I have acted very wrong. I have fled fi-om my father's house, and I have taken refuge with you. I am at jwesent confused and exhaust- ed, but when I get some rest, I wiU give you an explanation. At present, it is sufli- cient to say that papa has taken my mar- riage with that odious Lord Dunroe so strongly into his head, that nothing short of my consent Mill satisfy him. I know he loves me, and thinks that rank and honor, because they gratify his ambition, will make me happy. I know that that ambition is not at all personal to himself, but indulged in and nurtured on my account, and for my advance- ment in life. How then can I blame him ? " "Well, my child, no more of that at pres- ent ; you want rest." " Yes, IVIrs. Mainwaring, I do ; but I am very wretched and unhappy. Alas! you know not, my dear fi'iend, the dehght which I have always experienced in obeying papa in everv'thing, with the exception of this hateful union ; and now I feel something hke remorse at having abandoned him." She then gave a brief account to her kind- hearted friend of her journey to Dublin by the " Fly," in the first instance, suppressing one or two incidents ; and of her second to Mrs. Mainwaring's, who, after hearing that she had not slept at all during the night, would permit no further conversation on that or any other subject, bvit hurried her to bed, she herself acting as her attendant. Having seen her comfortably settled, and carefully tucked her up with her own hands, she kissed the fair giii, exclaiming, " Sleep, my love ; and may God bless and protect you from evil and unhappiness, as I feel cer- tain He will, because you deserve it." She then left her to repose, and in a few minutes Lucy was fust asleep. Whilst this little dialogue between Lucy and Mrs. Mainwaring was proceeding in the parlor of Suninierficld cottage, another was running parallel with it between the two servants in the kitchen. " God bless me," said Nancy Gallaher, ad- dressing Alley, " you look shockin' bad af- ther so early a journey ! I'll get you a cup o' tay, to put a bloom in your cheek." " Thank you, kindly, ma'am," repHed Alley, with a toss of her head which imphed anything but gratitude for this allusion to her complexion : "a good sleep, ma'am, wiU bring back the bloom — and that's aisy done, ma'am, to any one who has youth on their side. The color will come and go then, but let a wrinkle alone for keej^in' its ground." This was accompanied by a significant glance at Nancy's face, on which were legi- ble some rather unequivocal traces of that description. Honest Nancy, however, al- though she saw the glance, and understood the insinuation, seemed to take no notice of either — the fact being that her whole spirit was seized with an indomitable curiosity, which, like a restless famihar, insisted on being gratified. In the case of those who undertake jour- neys similar to that which Lucy had just ac- comphshed, there may be noticed almost by every eye those evidences of haste, alarm, and anxiety, and even distress, which to a certain extent at least tell then* own tale, and betray to the obseiwer that all can scarcely be right. Now Nancy Gallaher saw this, and having drawn the established conclusion that there must in some way be a lover in the case, she sat down in form before the fortress of Alley Mahon's secret, with a firm determination to make herself mistress of it, if the feat were at all practicable. In Alley, however, she had an able general to compete with — a general who resolved, on the other hand, to make a sortie, as it were, and attack Nancy by a series of bold and unexpected manoeuvres. Nancy, on her part, having felt her first error touching Alley's complexion, resolved instantly to rej^air it by the substitution of a compliment in its stead. " Throth, an' it'll be many a day till there's a wrinkle in your face, avourneen — an' now that I look at j^ou agin — a pretty an' a sweet face it is. 'Deed it's many a day since I seen two sich faces as yours and the other young lady's ; but anyway, you had betther let me get you a comfortable cup o' tay — afther your long journey. Oh, then, butr that beautiful creature has a sorrowful look, poor thing." These words were accompanied by a most insinuating glance of curiosity, mingled up with an air of strong benevolence, to show Alley tliat it proceeded only from the purest of good feeling. THE BLACK BARONET. 440 * Thank you," replied Alley, " I will take a cup sure enough. "What family have you here ? if it's a fair question." " Sorra one Lut ourselves," repHed Nancy, without making her much the wiser. " "^ut, I mane," proceeded Alley, " have you children ? bekase if you have I hate them." "Neither chick nor child there will be under the roof wid you here," responded Nancy, whilst putting the dry tea into a tin tea-pot that had seen service ; " there's only the three of us — that is, myself, the mis- thress, and the masther — for I am not count- in' a shp of a gii-1 that comes in every day to do odd jobs, and some o' the rough work about the house." " Oh, I suppose," said Alley, indifferently, " the childre's all married off ? " " There's only one," rephed Nancy ; " and indeed you're right enough — she is mamed, and not long either — and, in truth, I don't envy her the husband she got. Lord save and guard us ! I know I wouldn't long keep my senses if I had him." " AMiy so? " asked Alley. " Has he two heads upon him ? " " Ti'oth, no," rephed the other ; "but he's what they call a mad docther, an' keejjs a rheumatic asylum — that manes a place where they put mad people, to prevent them fi'om doin' harm. They say it would make the hail' stand on yom- head like nettles even to go into it. How^ever, that's not what I'm think- in' of, but tbat darlin' lookin' creature that's wid the misthi-ess. The Lord keep sorrow and cross-fortune from her, poor thing — for she looks unhappy. AviUish ! ai-e you and she related ? for, as I'm a sinner, there's a re- semblance in your faces — and even in yoiu- figui-es — only you're something rounder and fiiller thim she is." "Isn't she lovely?" returned Alley, mak- ing the most of the compliment. " Sure, wasn't it in Dublin her health was drunk as the gi'eatest toast in Ii'eland." She then added after a pause, " The Lord knows I wouldn't " " Wouldn't wlxat — avourneen ? " "J was just thinkin', that I wouldn't marrj' a mad docther, if there was ne'er another man in L-eland. A mad docther ! Oh, beetha. Then will you let us know the name that's vipon him ? " she added in a most wheedhng tone. "His name is Scareman, my misthress tells me — he's relalecTTD'y the mother's side to the Moontides of Ballycrazy, in the bar- ony of Quai'ther Chft — an-ah, what's this yoiir name is, avourneen ? " " Alley Mahon I w-as christened," replied her new fiiend ; " but," she added, with an 15 air of modest dignity that was inimitable in its way — " in regard of my place as maid o* honor to Lady Lucj', I'm usually called Mis3 Mahon, or Miss Alley. My mistress, for her own sake, in ordher to keep up her conse' quence, you persave, doesn't hke to hear mc called anything else than either one ol t'other of them." " And it's all right," rephed the other. "WeU, as I was going to say, that Mi's. Mainwaring is breakin' her heart about this unforthunate marriage of her daughter to Scareman. It seems — but this is between oiirselves — it seems, my deai-, that he's a dark, hard-hearted scrub, that 'id go to hell or farther for a shilhn', for a penn}-, ay, or for a farden. An' the servant that was here afore me — a clean, good-natured girl she was, in throth — an' got maiTied to a black- smith, at the cross-roads beyant — tould me that the scrames, an' yells, an' howlins, and roarins — the cursin' and blasphaymin' — an' the laughin', that she said was worse than all — an' the rattlin' of chains — the Lord save us — would make one think themselves more in hell than in any place upon this world. And it appears the villain takes dehght in it, an' makes lashins of money by the trade." "The sorra give him good of it!" ex- claimed Alley ; " an' I can tell you, it's Lad}' Lucy — (divil may care, thought she — I'U make a lady of her at any rate — this igno- rant creature doesn't know the difier) it's Lad}-- Lucy, I say, that wiU be soil"}' to hear of this same marriage — for you must know — what's this your name is ? " "Nancy Gallaher, dear." " And were you ever married, Nancy ? " " If I wasn't the fau't w'as my own, ahagur 1 but I'll tell you more about that some day. No, then, I was not, thank God ! " " Thank God ! Well, throth, it's a quare thing to thank God for that, at any rate." This, of course, was parenthetical. " AVeU, my dear," proceeded Alley, "you must know that ]\Irs. Scareman before her miu-riage — of course, she was then IMiss Norton — acted in the kippacity of tutherer general to Lady Lucy, except durin' three months that she was ill, and had to go to England to thi^ the wathers." " "\Miat wathers ? " asked Nancy. " Haven't we plenty o' wather, an' as good as they have, at home ? " "Not at all," replied Alley, who some- times, as the reader may have j^erceived, drew upon an imagination of no ordinary fertility ; "in England they have sjjakin' birds, singiu' trees, and goolden wathei'. So, as I was savin', while she went to thry the goolden wather " " Troth, if ever I get poor health, I'll go 450 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. thexe myself," observed Nancy, with a gleam of natiiral humor in her clear blue eye." " WeU, while she went to thry this goolden wather, her mother, IMrs. Norton, came in her place as tutlierer general, an' that's the way they became acquainted — Lady Lucy and her. But, my dear, I want to tell you a saicret." We are of opinion, that if Nancy's cap had been off at the moment, her two ears might have been observed to erect themselves on each side of her head T\ith pm-e and unadul- terated curiosity. "Well, ]\Iiss Alley, what is it, ahagur?" " Now, you won't breathe this to any hu- man creature ? " "Is it me ? An*ah ! little you know the woman you're spakin' to. Divil a mortal could beat me at keepin' a saicret, at any rate ; an' when you teU me this, maybe I'll let you know one or two that'll be worth hearin'." "Well," continued Alley, "it's this— Never call my mistress Lady Lucy, because she doesn't like it." This was an apple fi*om the shores of the Dead Sea Nancy's face bore all the sudden traces of disappointment and mortification ; and, fi'om a principle of retahation, she re- solved to give her companion a morsel from the same fmit. "Now, Nancy," continued the former, " what's this you have to tell us ? " " But you swear not to breathe it to man, woman, or child, boy or gii'l, rich or poor, livin' or dead ? " " Sartainly I do." " Well, then, it's this. I understand that Docthor Scareman isn't likely to have a family. Now, ahagur, if you spake, I'm done, that's all." Ha\dng been then called away to make arrangements necessaiy to Lucy's comfort, their dialogue was terminated before she could worm out of Alley the cause of her mistress's visit. " She's a cunnin' ould hag," said the latter, when the other had gone. "I see what she wants to get out o' me ; but it's not for nothing Miss Lucy has ti-usted me, an' I'm not the gui to betray her secrets to them that has no right to know them." This, indeed, was ti-ue. Poor Alley Mahon, though a verj' neat and handsome girl, and of an appearance decidedly respectable, was nevertheless a good deal vulgai- in her con- versation. In lieu of this, however, not- withstanding a large stock of vanity, she was gifted with a strong attachment to her mistress, and had exhibited many trjdng proofs of truthfulness and secrecy under circumstances where most femaJ^s in her condition of life would have given way. At a matter of course, she was obHged to re- ceive her master's bribes, otherwise she would have been instantly dismissed, as one who jjresumed to favor Lucy's interest and oppose his owti. Her fertihty of fancy^ however, joined to deep-rooted affection fbr his daughter, enabled her to return as a re- compense for Su' Thomas's bribes, that de- scription of one-sided ti-uth which transfuses fiction into its own character and spuit, just as a drop or two of any coloiing fluid wiU tinge a lai*ge poriion of water with its own hue. Her rej^hes, therefore, when sifted and examined, always bore in them a suffi- cient portion of truth to enable her, on the strong point of veracity on which she boldly stood, to bear herself out with triumph ; owing, indeed, to a slight dash in her de- fence of the coloiing we have described. Lucy felt that the agitation of mind, or rather, we should say, the agony of spirit which she had been of late forced to strug- gle with, had affected her health more than she could have anticipated. That and the unusual fatigue of a long journey in a night coach, eked out by a jolting drive to Wick- low at a time when she required refresh- ment and rest, told upon her constitution, although a natiu-ally healthy one. For the next three or four days after her anival at Summerfield Cottage, she experienced symp- toms of shght fever, apparent^ nervous. Eveiy attention that could be paid to her she received at the hands of ]\Ii*s. Mainwaiing, and her owti maid, who seldom was a mo- ment fi'om her bedside. Two or thi'ee times a day she was seized "uith fits of moj)- ing, diu'ing which she deplored her melan- choly lot in hfe, feared she had offended her kind hostess by intniding, without either notice or announcement, lapon the quiet har- mony of her family, and begged her again and again to forgive her ; adding, " That as soon as her recovery should be established, she woidd return to her father's house to die, she hoped, and join mamma ; and this," she said, " was her last and only consola- tion." IVIrs. Mainwaring saw at once that her com- plaint was principally on the nei'\'es, and lost no time in asking permission to call in medi- cal advice. To this, Lucy, whose chief ob- ject was to remain unknowTi and in secrecy for the present, strouglj' objected ; but by tbe mild and affectionate remonstrances oi Mrs. Mainwaring, as well as at the earnest entreaties of Alley, she consented to allow a physician to be called in. This step was not more judicious than necessary. The physician, on seeing her, at once pronounced the complaint a nervous THE BLACK BARONET. 451 fever, but hoped that it would soon }-ield to proper treatment. He prescribed, and saw her every second day for a week, after which she gave evident symptoms of imijrovement. Her constitution, as we have said, was good ; and nature, in spite of an anxious mind and disagreeable reflections, bore her comjiletely out of danger. It was not until the first day of her ap- pearance in the parlor subsequent to her ill- ness, that she had an opportunity of seeing Mr. Mainwiu-ing, of whom his wife spoke in terms of great tenderness and affection. She found him to be a gentlemanly person of great good sense and delicacy of feeling. " I regret," said he, after the usual intro- duction had taken place, " to have been de-. prived so long of kno^\ing a young lady of whose goodness and many admirable quah- ties I have heard so much fi'om the hps of Mrs. Mainwaring. It is true I knew her af- fectionate nature," he added, with a look of more than kindness at his wife, " and I al- lowed something for high coloring in your case. Miss Gourlay, as well as in others, that I could name ; but I now find, that with all her good- will, she sometimes fails to do jus- tice to the oiiginal." " And, my dear John, did I not tell you so?" replied his wife, smiling ; " but if you make other allusions, I am sure Miss Gourlay can befu: me out." : " She has more than borne you out, my | dear," he replied, purposely misunderstand- ing her. " She has more than borne you i out ; for, truth to tell, you have in !Miss Gouiiay's case fallen fai- short of what I see ! she is." I " But, IMr. Mainwaring," said Lucy, smil- ing in her tuni, " it is certainly very strange that she can please neither of us. The out- line she gave me of your character was quite shocking. She said you were — what's this you said of him, !Mi'S. Mainwaring — oh, it was very bad, sh-. I think we must deprive her of Etll claim to the chai^acter of an artist. Do you know I was afraid to meet the origi- nal, in consequence of the gloomy colors in which she sketched what she intended, I sup- pose, should be the likeness." " Well, my dear !Miss Gourlay," obsei-ved ^Irs. Muinwaring, " now that I have failed in doing justice to the portraits of two of my dearest friends, I think I will bum my pal- ette and bi-ushes, and give up portrait paint- ing in future." IMr. Mainwaring now rose up to take his usual stroll, but turning to Lucy before he went, he said, "At all events, my dear !Miss Gourlay, what between her painting and the worth of the original, permit me to say that this : house is your home just as long as you wisL Consider ^Ii's. ^Mainwaring and me as par- ents to you ; willing, nay, most anxious, in every sense, to contribute to your comfort and happiness. We are not poor, ^Miss Gourlay ; but. on the contrarj', both inde-= pendent and wealthy. You must, therefore, want for nothing. I am, for as long as may be necessaiy, your parent, as I said, and your banker ; and if you will pennit me the honor, I would wish to a, with her usual grace and good- nature, antl put the glass to her lips ; and as it was the impression that the compli- 458 WILLIAM CABLET ON 'S WOBKS. ment was meant for Mrs. Mainwaring, the thing seemed very like what is vulgarly called a bite, uiDon the part of old Sam, who in the meantime, had no earthly conception of anj^thing else than that they all thorough- ly understood him, and were awai'e of the health he was about to give. " "WTiat ! " exclaimed Sam, on witnessing their mirth ; "by fife and drum, I see noth- ing to laugh at ia anj-thing connected with my Beck. I always make it a point to drink the old girl's health when I'm fi'om home ; for I don't know how it happens, but I think I'm never half so fond of her as when we're sepai'ated." "But, :Mr. Eoberts," said Mi's. Main war- ing, laughing, "I assui-e you, from the comphments you paid me, I took it for granted that it was my health you were about to projjose." "Ay, but the compliments I paid you, ma'am, were all in compHment to old Beck ; but next to her, by fife and drum, you de- serve a bumper. Come, Mainwariug, get to legs, and let us have her health. Attention, now ; head well up, sir ; shoulders square ; eye on your wife." " It shall be done," repHed Main waring, entering into the spirit of the joke. " If it were ambrosia, she is worthy of a brimmer. Come, then, fill your glasses. Edward, at- tend to IVIiss Gourlay. Sam, help IVIrs. Mainwaring. Here, then, my dear Martha ; like two winter apples, time has only mel- lowed us. We have both nin pai'allel cour- ses in hfe ; you, in instructing the softer and more yielding sex ; I, the nobler and more manly." " KeejD strictly to the toast, Matthew," she replied, " or I shall rise to defend oui' sex. You yielded fii'st, you know. Ha, ha, ha ! " "As the stronger jdelds to the weaker, from courtesy and compassion. However, to proceed. We have both conjugated amo before we ever saw each other, so that our recuiTence to the good old verb seemed somewhat like a Saturday's repetition. As for doceo, we have been both engaged in enforcing it, and successfully, Martha" — here he shook his purse — " during the best por- tion of our lives ; for which we have made some of the most brilliant members of so- ciety our debtors. Lego is now one of our principal enjoyments ; sometimes under the shadow of a spreading tree in the orchard, during the serene eflftilgence of a summer's eve ; or, what is still more comfortable, be- fore the cheering blaze of the winter's fire, the blinds down, the shutters closf»«l, the arm-chair beside the table— on that ii*h\e an open book and a warm tumbler — and IViartha, the best of wives- " Attention, Mainwaring ; my Beck's ex« cepted." "Martha, the best of wives — old Sam's Beck always excej^ted — sitting at my side. As for audio, the tnith is, I have been forced to experience the din and racket of that same verb duiing the greater portion of my hfe, in more senses than I am wiUing to de- scribe. I did not imagine, in my bachelor days, that the fermenting tumult of the school-room could be surpassed by a single instrument ; but, alas ! — well, it matters not now ; all I can say is, that I never saw her — heai'd I mean, for I am on audio — that the performance of that same single instniment did not fui'nish me with a painful praxis of the nine pai'ts of speech all going together ; for I do beheve that nine tongiies aU at work could not have matched her. But peace be with her ! she is silent at last, and cannot hear me now. I thought I myself jDossessed an extensive knowledge of the langTiages, but, alas I was nothing ; as a linguist she was without a rival. However, I pass that over, and retiuia to the subject of my toast. Now, my dear Martha, since heaven gifted me with you " "Attention, Mainwaring ! Eyes up to the ceiling, sir, and thank God ! " Mainwaring did so ; but for the life of him could not help throwing a httle comic spirit into the action, adding in an under- tone that he wished to be heard. " Ah, my dear Sam, how glad I am that you did not bid me go farther. However, to i^roceed — No, my dear Martha, ever since our most felicitous conjugation, I hardly know what the exemjDlary verb audio means. I could scarcely translate it. Oiu's is a truly gram- matical union. Not the nominative case with verb — not the relative with the ante- cedent — not the adjective with the substan- tive — affords a more appropriate illustration of conjugal harmony, than does our matri- monial existence. Peace and quietness, how- ever, are on your tongue — affection and charity in yom- heart — benevolence in your hand, which is seldom extended empty to the poor — and, altogether, you are worthy of the high honor to which," — this he added with a bit of good-natured irony — "partly from motives of condescension, and partly, as I said, fi-om motives of compassion, I have, in the fulness of a benevolent heai't, exalted you." The toast was then drank. " Attention, ladies ! " said Sam, who had been looking, as before, from the young offi- cer to Lucy, and vice verm — " Mainwai-ing, atttention ! Look upon these two — upon IMiss Gourlay, here, and upon Ned Roberts — and tell me if you don't think there's a strong likeness." TEE BLACK BARONET. 459 The attention of the others was instantly directed to an examination of the parties in question, and most certainly they were struck with the extraoixlinar\- i-esemblance. " It is very remai'kable, indeed, ]VIr. Rob- erts," obsen-ed their hostess, looking at them again ; "and what coniinns it is the fact, that I noticed the circumstance almost as soon as ]Mr. Roberts joined us. It is cer- tainly Tery strange to find such a resem- blance in persons not at all related." Lucy, on finding the eyes of her fiiends upon her, could not avoid blusliing ; nor was the young ofiicer's complexion ^^ithout a somewhat deeper tinge. "Now," said Mrs. IMainwaring, smiling, " the question is, which we are to consider compUmented by this extraordinary like- ness." " The gentleman, of course, IMrs. ^lain war- ing," replied Sam. " Unquestionably," said Edward, bowing to Lucy ; "I never felt so much flattered in my life before, nor ever can again, unless by a similar compaiison with the same fair object." Another blush on the part of Lucy follow- ed this deUcate comphment, and old Sam exclaimed : " Attention, Mainwaring ! and you, ma'am," — addressing jMi's. ^lainwaiing. " Now did vou ever see brother and sister more like ? eh ! " " Very seldom ever saw brother and sister 80 like," replied Mainwaring. " Indeed, it is most extraordinaiy." " Wondei-ful ! upon my word," exclaimed his wife. "Hum ! — Well," proceeded Sam, "it is, I beheve, verj' odd — very — and may be not, either — may be not so odd. Ahem ! — and yet, still — however, no matter, it's all natu- ral ; all the heart of man — eh ! Mainwaring ? " " I suppose so, !Mr. Roberts ; I suppose so." After old Sam and his son had taken their departirre. Lucy once more adverted to ' the duty as well as the necessity of acquaint- ing her father with her safety, and thus re- Heving his mind of much anxiety and trou- ble. To this her friend at once consented. [ Tlie baronet, in the meantime, felt consider- t ably the worse for those dreadfid conflicts which had swept down and annihilated all that ever had any tendency to humanity or ; goodness in his heart. He felt unwell — that \ is to say, he experienced none of those sj-mp- } toms of iUness which at once determine the nature of any specific malady. The sensa- tion, however, was that of a strong man, who finds his frame, as it were, shaken — who is aware that something of a nameless appre- hension connected with his health hangs ; over him, and whose mind is filled with a sense of gloomy depression and restlessness, for which he neither can account nor refer to any particular sovirce of anxiety, although such in reality may exist. It appeared to be some terrible and gigantic h^'pochondriasis — some waking nightmare— coming over him like the shaossible, before we bring the prisoner to Sir Thomas Goui-lay's." The fellow winked in reply, and approach- ing the priest, asked, " "What message have you to send, Mr. Fin- nerty ? " "Tell him — but stay; obUge me with a shp of paper and a pen, I will write it do^Ti." ^66 WILLIAM CAMLETON'S WORKS. " Yes, that's better," said Darby. " Noth- ing like black and white, you know," he added, aside to Skipton. Father M'Miihon then wrote do\N'n his of- fice only ; simply saving, " The ptuish priest of BaUytrain wishes to see Anthony Dunphy as soon as he can come to him." This description of himself excited roars of laughter thi'oughout the oifice ; nor could the good-natured priest himself help smiling at the ludicrous contrast between his real character and that which had been affixed upon him. " Confoimdme," said Darby, "but that's the best alias I have heard this many a day. It's as good as Tom Green's that was hanged, and who always stuck to his name, no mat- ter how often he changed it. At one time it was Ivy, at another Laurel, at another Yew, and so ofi, poor fellow, until he swung." Skipton, the messenger, took the shp of pa- per with high glee, and proceeded on his embassy to Constitution HUl. He had scarcely been gone, when a tumult reached their ears fi-om outside, in which one voice was heard considerably louder and deeper than the rest ; and almost immedi- ately afterwards an old acquaintance of the reader's, to wit, the worthy student, Am- brose Gray, in a very respectable state of intoxication, made bis appearance, charged with dininkenness, riot, and a blushing reluc- tance to pay Lis taveni reckoning. IVIi'. Gray was dragged in at very httle expense of cere- mony, it must be confessed, but with some prospective damage to his tailor, his clothes having received considerable abrasions in the scuffle, as well as his complexion, which was beautifully variegated with tints of black, blue, and yeUow. "WeU, Mr. Gray," said Darby, "back once more I see? Wliy, you couldn't live without us, I think. What's this now ? " "A deficiency of assets, most potent," re- phed Gray, with a hiccough — " unable to meet a rascally tavern reckoning ; " and as Mr. Gray siwke he thrust his tongue into his cheek, intimating by this significant act his high respect for 'Mx. Darby. "You had better remember, sir, that you are addressing the senior officer here," said the latter, highly offended. " Most potent, grave, and reverend senior, I don't forget it ; nor that the grand senior can become a most gentlemanly ruffian whenever he chooses. No, senior, I respect yoilr ruffianship, and your ruffianship ought to respect me ; for well you wot that many a time before now I've greased that absorb- ing pfdm of yours." " Ah," replied Darby, " the hemp is grown for you, and the rope is purchased that wiU soon be greased for your last tug. "Whj didn't you pay your biU, I say ? " " I told you before, most potent, that that fact originated in a deficiency of assets." " I rather think, l^Ix. Gray," said Darby, " that it originated in a veiy different kind of deficiency — a deficiency of inclination, my buck." " In both, most reverend senior, and I act on scriptural principles ; for what does pa- tient Job say? 'Base is the slave that pays.'" " Well, my good feUow, if you don't pay, you'll be apt to receive, some tine day, that's all," and here he made a motion with his arm, as if he were administering the cat-o'- nine-tails ; " however, this is not my busi- ness. Here comes Mi's. Mulroony to make her charge. I accordingly shove you over to Ned Nightcajj, the officer for the night." "Ah!" exclaimed Gray, "I see, most potent, you have operated before. Row-de- dow-de-dow, my boy. There was a profes- sional touch in that jerk that couldn't be mistaken : that quiver at the "UTist was beau- tiful, and the position of the arm a perfect triangle. It must have been quite a pleasure to have suffered from such a scientific hand as yours. How do you do again, Mrs. Mul- roony ? INIi's. Muh'oony, I hojDe you did not come without some refreshment. And you'll withdraw the charge, for the sake of futu- rity, Mrs. Muh'oony." " If you do, Mrs. Mvdroony," said Darby, " I'm afraid you'll have to look to futurity for payment. I mean to that part of it com- monly called 'to-morrow comenever.' — Make your charge, ma'am." Here a pale-faced, sinister-looking old fellow, in a red woollen nightcap, with baggy protuberances hanging imder his red bleared eyes, now came to a little half door, inside of which stood his office for recei\ing all charges against the vaiious dehnquents that the Charlies, or watchmen of the period, had conducted to him. " Here," said he, in a hoarse, hollow voice, " what's this — what's this ? Another charge against you, IVIi*. Gray? Garvy," said he, addressing a watchman, "teU them vaga- bones that if they don't keep quiet I'll put them in irons." This threat was received vdth. a chorus of derision by those to whom it was addressed; and the noise was increased so furiously, that it resembled the clamor of Babel. "Here, Garvy," said honest Ned, "tickle some of them a bit. Touch up that bullet- headed house-breaker that's drunk — Sam Stancheon, they call him — lave a nate im- pression of the big kay on his head ; he'U undherstand it, you Imow ; and there's THE BLACK BARONET. 467 Molly Brady, or Emily Howard, as she calls herself, give her a clink on the noddle to stop her jinteeKty. Blast her pedigree ; nothing will serve her hut she must be a lady on our hands. Tell her I'll not lave a copper ring or a glass brooch on her body if she's not quiet." The watchman named GaiTy took the heavy keys, and big with the deputed author- ity, swept, like tlie destroying angel upon a small scale, through the tumultuous crew that were assembled in this villauous pande- monium, thi-ashing the unfortunate vaga- bonds on the naked head, or other^vise, as the case might be, without regard to age, sex, or condition, leaving bumps, welts, cuts, oaths, curses, and execrations, ad in- finilum, behind him. Owing to this distii- bution of official justice a pai'tial calm was restored, and the charge of 'Mis. Mulroony was opened in form. " Well, jNIrs. Mulroony, what charge is this you have against IVIisther Gray ? " " Because," rephed Ambrose, " I wasn't in possession of assets to pay her owti. Had I met her most iniquitous charge at home, honest Ned, I should have escaped the minor one here. You know of old, Ned, how she lost her conscience one night, about ten yeai's ago ; and the poor woman, al- though she put it in the 'Hue and Ciy,' by way of novelty, never got it since. None of the officers of justice knew of such a com- modity ; ergo, Ned, I sufter." Here j\lr. Ambrose winked at Ned, and touched his breeches pocket significantly, as much as to say, " the bribe is where you know." Ned, however, was strictly impartial, and declined, with most commendable virtue, to recognize the signal, until he saw whether ]Mi's. Mulroony did not understand " gener- osity " as well as Mr. Gray. " Misther Gray, I'll thank you to button your Hp, if you plaise. It's aU very right, I suppose ; but in the manetime let daicent ISIrs. Mulroony tell her own story. How is it, ma'am?" "Faith, plain enough," she rephed ; "he came in about half past five o'clock, with three or four skips from college " " Scamps, !Mrs. Mulroony. Be just, be correct, ma'am. We were all gentlemen scamps, Ned, fi'om college. Everj-body knows that a college scamp is a respectable character, especifxlly if he be a di^'inity stu- dent, a class whom we are proud to place at our head. You are now corrected, 'Mis. Mulroony — proceed. " " WeU ; he tould me to get a dinner for five ; but first asked to see what he called ■ the bill of hair.' " I " In your hands it is anything but a bil3 of rights, ]\Irs. Mulroony." "I tould him not to trouble himself ; that my dinner was as good as another's, which I thought might satisfy him ; but instead o' that, he had the assurance to a.sk me if 1 could give them hair soup. I knew very well what the skip was at." " Scamp, ma'am, and you will oblige me." "For if giief for poor Andy (weeping), that suffered mainly for what he was as in- nocent of as the unborn child — if grief, an eveiy one knows it makes the haii' to fall ; an' afther all it's only a bit of a front I'm wearin' ; — ah, you villain, it was an ill-heart- ed cut, that." " It wasn't a cut did it, Mrs. Mulroony ; it fell oif naturally, and by instalments — or rather it iva.i a cut, and that was what made you feel it ; that youthful old gentleman. Time, gave it a touch with a certain scythe he carries. No such croppy as old Time, ^Vlrs. Mulroony." On concluding, he winked again at old Ned, and touched his pocket as before. " jMr. Amb}', be quiet," said Ned, rather complacently though, " an' let daicent Mrs. Muh'oony go on." "'Well, then,' says he, 'if you haven't ' haip-soup,' which was as much as to say — makin' his 0"\\'n fun before the strangers — that I ought to boil my veiy wig to plaise him — my front, I mane, 'maybe,' says he. 'you have oxtail.' Well, flesh and blood could hardly bear that, and I said it was a scandal for him to treat an industrious, im- projected widow in such a way ; ' if you want a dinner, ]Mi'. Gray,' says I, ' I can give you and your friends a jacketful of honest corned beef and greens.' WeU, my dear " At this insinuating expression of tender^ ness, old Ned, aware, for the first time, that she was a widow, and kept that most con- venient of estabUshmeuts, an eating-house, cocked his nightcap, -with great sjiirit and signfficance, and with an attempt at a leer, which, from the force of habit, made him look upon her rather as the ciiminal than the ac- cuser, he said — "It was scandalous, Mrs. Mulroony ; and it is a sad thing to be impro- tected, ma'am ; it's a pity, too, to see sich a woman as you are Anthout somebody to take care of her, and especially one that id undherstand swindlin'. But what happened next, ma'am ? " " Wliy, my dear — indeed, I owe you manj thanks for your kindness — you se^, my dear," — the nightcap here seemed to move and erect itself instinctively — "this fellow turns round, and says to the other foiu" skips — ' Gentlemen,' says he, ' could you conde — condescend,' I think it was — yes — ' could you condescend to dine upon corned beei 468 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. and greens? They said, not unless it would oblige him ; and then he said it wasn't to obUge him, but to sarve the house he did it. So, to make a long stoiy short, they filled themselves with my victuals, drank seven tumblers of jDimch each, kept playin' cards the whole night, and then fell a fightin' — smashed glass, delft, and every- thing ; and when it was momin', sUpped out, one by one, till I caught mj' skip here, the last of them " " Scamp, IMi's. Eoony ; a gentleman scamp, known to every one as a most re- spectable character on town." " When I cavight him going off without paj'ment, he fairly laughed in my face, and offered to toss me." " Oh, the villain ! " said Ned ; "I only wish I had been there, Mrs. Midroony, and you wouldn't have wanted what I am Sony to see you do want — a protector. The villain, to go to toss such a woman — ^to go to take such scandalous liberties ! Go on, ma'am — go on, my dear IVIrs. Mulroony." " "WeU, my dear, he offered, as I said, to toss me for it— double or quits — and when I wouldn't stand that, he asked me if I would allow him to kiss it in, at so many kisses a- day ; but I told him that coin wouldn't pass wid me." " He's a swndler, ma'am ; no doubt of it, and you'll never be safe till you have some one to protect you that understands swindlin' and imposition. Well, ma'am — well, my dear ma'am, what next ? " "Why, he then attempted to escape ; but as I happened to have a stout ladle in my hand, I thought a good basting wouldn't do him any harm, and while I was layin' on him two sailors came in, and they took him out of my hands." " Out of the frying-pan into the fire, you ought to say, IVIi-s. Mulroony." "So he and they fought, and smashed an- other lot of glass, and then I set out and charged him on the watch. Oh, murdher sheery — to think the way my beautiful beef and greens went ! " Here Mr. Aml>rose, approaching Mrs. Mulroony, whispered — " My dear Mrs. Mul- roony, remember one word— futurity ; heir apparent — heir direct ; so be moderate, and a short time will place you in easy circum- stances. The event that's coming will be a stunner." " What's that he's sayin' to you, my dear Mrs. Mulroony ? " asked Ned ; " don't Hsten to him, he'll only soodher and palaver you. I'll take your charge, and lock lum up." " Darby," said Mr. Gray, now approach- ing that woi'thy, " a single word with you — we undei'stand one another — I intended to bribe old Ned, the \'illain ; but you shall have it." " Very good, it's a bargain," repHed the vii'tuous Darby ; " fork out." " Here, then, is ten shillings, and bring me out of it." Darby privately pocketed the money, and moving toward Ned, whispered to him — " Don't take the charge for a few minutes. I'll fleece them both. Amby has given me half-a-croT\Ti ; another from her, and then half and half between us. IVIrs. Muh-oony, a word with j^ou. Listen — do you wish to succeed in this business ? " " To be sui-e I do ; why not ? " " WeU, then, if you do, slip me five shil- hngs, or you're dished, like one of yoiu* own dinners, and that Amby Gray wiU shce you to pieces. Ned's his friend at heart, I tell you." " Well, but you'll see me rightified ? " " Hand the money, ma'am ; do you know who you're speaking to ? The senior of the office." On receiving the money, the honest senior whispers to the honest officer of the night — " A crown from both, that is, half fi'om each ; and now act as you like ; but if you take the widow's charge, we'll have a fi'ee plate, at aU events, whenever we call to see her, you know." Honest Ned, feehng indignant that he was not himseK the dii'ect recij^ient of the bribes, and also anxious to win favor in the widow's eyes, took the charge against IMr. Gray, who was veiy soon locked up, with the " miscellanies," in the black hole, until bail could be procured. On finding that matters had gone against him. Gray, who, although unaffected in speech, was yet rather tipsy, assumed a look of singular importance, as if to console him- self for the degi-adation he was about to undergo ; he composed his face into an ex- pression that gave a ludicrous travesty of dignity. " WeU," said he, with a solemn swagger, nodding his head from side to side as he spoke, in order to impress what he uttered with a more mysterious emphasis — "you are all acting in ignorance, quite so ; Httle you know who the person is that's before you ; but it doesn't signify — ^I am some- body, at all events." "A gentleman in disguise," said a voice from the black hole. " You'll find some of ;four friends here." "You are right, my good feUow — you are perfectly right ; " said Ambrose, nodding with drunken gravity, as before ; " high blood runs in my veins, and time will soon tell that ; I shall stand and be returned for THE BLACK BARONET. 469 the town of Bsilly train, as soon as there comes a dissolution ; I'm bent on that." " Bravo ! hurra ! a very proi:)er member you'll make for it," from the l)lack hole. " And I shall have the Au^'ean stables of these corrupt offices swept of their filth. Ned, the scoundrel, shall be -sent to the right about ; jMi'. Darby, for his honesty, shall hiive each wrist embraced by a namesake." Here he was shoved by Garvy, the watch- man, head foremost into the black hole, after liaA^ing received an impulse fi'om be- ll ind, kindly intended to fjicihtate his iu<^ess, wliich, notwithstandinfi^ his drunken ambi- tion, the boast of his high blood, and mighty jn'omises, was made with extraordinary want of dignity. Although we have described this scene nearly in consecutive order, Arithout the breaks and interruptions which took j^lace whilst it proceeded, 3'et th^ reader should imagine to himself the outrage, the yelling, the clamor, the by-biittles, and scurrilous contests in the lowest description of black- guardism A\ith which it was garnished ; thus causing it to occuj^y at least four times the period we have ascribed to it. The simple-minded priest, who could never have dreamt of such an exhibition, scai'cely knew whether he was asleep or awake, and some- times asked himself whether it was not some terrible phantasm by which he was stai'tled and oppressed. The horrible im- press of naked and hardened villauy — the light and mirthful delirium of crime — the wanton manifestations of vice, in all its shapes, and the unblushiug front of de- bauchery and profligacy — constituted, when brought together in one hideous grouj), a sight which made his heart groan for human nature on the one hand, and the coriaiptiou of human law on the other. "The contamination of vice here," said ho to himself, "is so concentrated and deadly, that innocence or virtue could not long re- sist its influence. Alas ! alas ! " Old Dunphy now made his appearance ; but he had scarcely time to shake hands with the priest, when he heard himself ad- dressed from between the bars of Gray's limbo, mth the words, "I sjiy, old Corbet, or Dunphy, or what- ever the devil they call you ; here's a rela- tion of yours by the mother's side only, you old dog — miu'k that ; here I am, Ambrose Gray, a gentleman in disguise, as you weU know ; and I want you to bail me out." "An' a respectable way you ax it," said Dunphy, putting on his spectacles, and look- ing at him through the biU's. "Respect ! What, to a beggarly old huck- eVr and kidnapper ! "NVhy, you peniu'ious slicer of musty bacon — you iniquitous dealer in hght weights — what respect are you en- titled to from me ? You know who I am — • and you must bail me. Otherwise never expect, when the time comes, that I shall recognize you as a base relative, or suffer you to show your ferret face in my presence." "Ah ! " exclaimed the old man, bitterly ; "the blood is in you." " llight, my old potatomonger ; as true as gospel, and a great detd truer. The blood is in me." "Ay," repHed the other, "the blood of the oppressor— the blood of the villain — the blood of the unjust t3Tant is in you, and no- thing else. If you had his j^ower, you'd be what he is, and maybe, Avorse, if the thing was possible. Now, listen ; I'll make the words you just said to me the bitterest and I blackest to yourself that you ever spoke. I That's the last information I have for you ; and as I know that you're just where you ought to be, among the companions you are fit for, there I leave you." He then turned towiu-d the priest, and left Gray to get bail where he might. ^^^len Skipton, the messenger, who re- turned Arith Dunijhy, or Corbet, as we shall in future call him, entered the watch-house, he di'ew Darby aside, and held some private conversation AN'ith him, of which it was evi- dent that Corbet was the subject, fi-om the significant glances which each turned ujion him from time to time. In the meantime, the old man, recogniz- ing the priest rather by his voice than his appearance, lost no time in acquainting the officers of justice that they were completely mistaken in the indiridmil. The latter had briefly mentioned to him the circumstance and cause of his arrest. "I want you," said the priest, "to go to Sir Thomas Gourlay directly, and teU him that I have his money and pistols quite safe, and that I was on my way up to toA\-n Arith them, when this uni^leasant mistake took place." "I will, yovir reverence," said he, "with' out loss of time. I see," he atlded, atldress- ing Darby and the others, " that you have made a mistake here." "What mistake, my good man?" asked Darby. " ^^^ly, simply, that instead of a robber, you have been sharj) enough to take up a most respectable Cathohc clergj-mjm fx-om Ballytrain." " What," said Darby, " a PopLsh priest ! Curse me, but that's as good, if not better, than the other thing. No Papist is allowed, under the penidty of a felony, to cju-i-y arms, and here is a Popish priest travelling with 470 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. pistols. The other thing, Skipton, vras only for the magistrates, but this is a govem- ment aifair." "He may be Fiimerty, after all," replied Skipton, aside ; " this old fellow is no au- thority as to his identity, as you may guess from what I told you." "At all events," replied Darby, " we shall soon know which he is — jDriest or robber ; but I hope, for our o^^^l sakes, he'U prove a priest on our hands. At any rate the magis- trates are now in the office, and it's fiill time to bring his reverence up." Corbet, in the meantime, had gone to Sir Thomas Goui'lay's with his reverence's mes- sage, and in a few minutes afterwaixls the prisoner, strongly guarded, was conducted to the police office. CHAPTER XXV. The Police Office — Sir Spigot Sputter and Mr. Coke — An ifnfortunate Translatoi- — Decision in ' ' a Law Case. " It is not our intention to detail the history of occurrences that are calculated to fill the mind with sorrow, not unmingled with dis- gust, or to describe scenes that must neces- sarily lower oui* estimate of both man and w^oman. On the bench sat two magistrates, of whom we may say that, from ignorance of law, want of temper, and impenetrable stu- pidity, the whole circle of commercial or professional hfe could not produce a pair more signally unqualified for the important offices they occupied. One of them, named Sputter, Sir Spigot^putter, was an old man, with a red face and perpetual giin, whose white hair was cropped close ; but in com- pensation for this he wore jjowder and a queue, so that his head, except in Aivacity of motion, might not inappropriately be com- pared to an overgrown tadpole struggling to get fi*ee fi'om his shoulders, and escape to the nearest marsh. He also wore a false eye, which gave him a perennial blink that was sadly at variance with magisterial dignity. Lideed the consequences of it Avere sometimes ludicrous enough. WTien, for instance, one of those sjTcns who perambulate our fashion- able streets after the sun has gone down, happened to be brought up to answer some charge that came under his jurisdiction, Sir Spigot's custom always was to piit his glass to the safe eye, and peer at her in the dock ; which act, when taken in connection with the grin and the droop of tlie glass eye, seemed to the spectators as if he and she understood each other, and that the wink in question was a kind of telegraphic dispatch sent to let her know that she had a friend on the bench. Su' Sj^igot was deaf, too, a fehcitous cu-cumstance, which gave him jDecuhai' facility in the decision of his cases. The name of his brother on the bench was Cpkej who acted in the capacity of what is termed a law magistrate. It is enough, how- ever, to say, that he was a thin man, with a long, dull face, a dull eye, a dull tongue, a dull ear, and a duU brain. His talents for ambigxiity were surj^rising, and it always re- quired a hint from the senior of the office. Darby, to enable him to understand his own decisions. This, howevei*, was not without some beneficial consequences to the indiAdd- uals before him ; as it often happened, that when he seemed to have committed some hardened offender, after the infliction of a long, laborious, obscure harangue, he has immediately ordered him to be discharged. And, on the contrary, when some innocent individual heard mth delight the sentence of the court apparently in his favor, judge of what he must have felt on finding himself sent off to Newgate, Kilmainham, or the Penitentiary^ In this instance, however, the advantage to the public was nearly equal ; for if the guHty escaped in one case, so did the innocent in another. Here now is where Darby became useful ; for Darby, who was well acquainted A\T.th his style, and with his meaning, when he had any, always interj^ret- ed his decisions to him, and told him in a whisper, or on a shj^ of paper, whether he had convicted the prisoner, or not. We shall detail one case which occurred this morning. It happened that an amiable and distinguished literary gentleman, an TjL.D., and a barrister, had lost from his h- brary a book on which he placed gi'eat value, and he found this book on a stall not veiy far from the office. On seeing the voliune he naturally claimed it, and the woman who had received it from the thief, who was a servant, refused to give it up, unless the money she had paid for it were returned to her. Neither would the wretch disclose the name of the thief, but snapjDed her fingers in Dr. A 's face, saying she defied him, and that he could only bring her before Mi\ Coke, who, she knew very well, would see justice done her. She lived by buying books, she said, and by selling books ; and as he lived by writing books, she thought it wasn't handsome of him to insult the profes- sion by bringing such a blackguard charge against them in her name. He summoned her, however, and the case was one of the first called on the morning in question. The receiver of the stolen book THE BLACK BARONET. 471 came forwaid, with much assurance, as de- fendant, and modest Dr. A as plaintiff ; when Sir Spigot, putting his glass to his eye, and looking from the one to the other with his wink and grin as usual, said to Darby : " What is this man here for? " " It's a law case, youi* worship," rephed the Senior officer. Coke, who sat solemn and silent, looked at the doctor, and said : " Well, sir, what is your case ? Please to state it." The case, being a veiy plain and brief one, was soon stated, the woman's reply was then heard, after which i\ii'. Coke looked graver than before, and proceeded somewhat to the following effect : "This is a case of deep interest to that impoi-taut portion of the bibiliopoHst pro- fession who vend their wai-es on stalls." "Thank your worship," said the woman, with a coiu'tesy. " This most respectable body of persons, the booksellers — [another courtesy fr-om the woman] — are di%'ided into several classes; first, those who sell books in lai'ge and splen- did shops ; next, those who sell them in shops of less pretension ; thii'dly, those who sell them on stalls in thoroughfares, and at the comers of streets ; fovu'thly, those who cany them in baskets, and who pass fr'om place to place, and combine with the book- selling business that of fljing stationer ; and fifthly, those who do not sell them at all, but only read them ; and as those who read, un- less they steal or borrow, must jxirchase, I accordingly class them as booksellers indi- rectly, inasmuch as if they don't sell books themselves, they cause others to do so. For this reason it is evident that eveiy man hving, and woman too, capable of reading a book, is a bookseller ; so that society at large is nothing but one great booksellmg firm. "Ha^■ing thus estabHshed the immense extent and importance of the business, I now proceed to the consideration of the case before us. To steal a book is not in eveiy case an offence against the law of hbel, nor against the law of arson, nor against the law of insuiTection, nor against the law of primogeniture ; in fact, it is only against the law of theft — it offends only one law — and is innocent -with respect to all the others. A person stealing a book could not be in- dicted under the statute of hmitations, for instance ; except, indeed, ui so f:u- as he may be supposed to hmit the property of the person from whom he stole it. But on this point the opinion of the learned Folderol would go pretty far, were it not for the opinion of another great man, which I shall presently quote. Folderol lays it down as a fixed principle in an able treatise upon the law of weathercocks, that if property be stolen from an mdividual, "without the aggre- gate of that property suffering reduction or diminution, he is not robbed, and the crime of tlieft has not been committed. The other authority that I alluded to, is that of hia great and equally celebrated opponent, Tolderol, who lays it down on the other hand, that when a thief, in the act of steahug, leaves more behind him than he found there at first, so that the man stolen from becomes richer by the act of theft than he had been befoi-e it, the crime then becomes dnplicvr delicti, or one of haiinn-scarum, according tc Doodle, and the thief deserves transportatior or the gallows. ^Vnd the reason is obrious if the property of the person stolen from, under the latter category, were to be ex- amined, and that a larger portion of it was fomid there than properly had belonged to him before the theft, he might be suspected of theft himself, and in this case a double conviction of the pai'ties would ensue ; that is, of him who did not take wliat he ought, and of him who had more than he was en- titled to. Tliis opinion, which is remai'kable for its perspicuity and soundness, is to be foimd in the one himdi-ed and second foho of Logerhedius, tome six hundred, page 9768. " There is another case bearing strongly upon the present one, in ' Snifter and Snivell's Eej^orts,' vol. 86, jiage 1480, in which an old woman, who was too poor to purchase a Bible, stole one, and was prose- cuted for the theft. The counsel for the prosecution and the defence were both ecjually eminent ;md able. Counsellor Sleek was for the prosecution and Rant for the defence. Sleek, who was himself a rehgious ban-ister, insisted that the Iocuk delicti aggra- vated the offence, inasmuch as she hafcnfcfit ; the inference, therefore, waH, tliiit the motive, in the first pla<:."e, justi- fied the suc±, which was in ae a pious one ; and, besides, ha^l the woman been a thief, Bhe would have stolen the pLate and linen \}f:]oiii^ri(^ Uj the altar ; but she did not, therefore there existed on her j^art no con- Bciousness nor intention of WTong. "Sleek rejoined, that if the woman hiul felt any necessity for relif^ious a/lvice and in- Btruction, she would have f^one to the min- ister, whose duty it was trj jipve it. " iiant replied, that upon Sleek's own principles, if the minister hafl proj><;rly dis- charged ?ivf duty, the woman would liave b^^en under no necessity for takinj^ the Bible at all ; and that, consequently, in a strict a^jirit of justice, the theft, if theft it could Ixj •tailed, was not the theft of the old wonian, but tliat of the minister himsf;lf, who harl fciiled to {^ve her proj>er instrurdions. It was the duty of the minister to have gone to the old woman, and not tliat of the old woman to have gone to the minister ; but, jK:rhaps, ha^l the woman Ijeen young and handsome, the minister might have admin- istered cons^^jlation. " I find that Sleek here made a long speech about religion, which he charged Rant with insulting ; he regretted tliat a false human- ity hjw^l repealed nrmie of those stringent but wholescime laws that \iiul been enacted for the preservation of holy things, and was truly s^'^rry that this sa/;rilegious old wret<^;h could not y>e brought to the stake. He did not envy his learned friend the sneering con- *,^;mpt for religion tliat ran tlirough his whole irgument. " Rant bowed and smiled, and replied that, in his opinion, the only strike the poor woman ought to be brought t/j was a beef- rteak ; for he always wished to see the law a^lministered with mercy. '* Sleek was not surjiris^jd at hearing such a carnal argiiment brought to the defence of Huch a crime, and concluded by pressing for the s<^jverest punishment the law could inflict against this most iniquitous criminal, whrj — and he dared even liant himself to deny the far^ — came before that c<^>uri- fis an old offend- er ; he therefc>re press^^d for a conviction against a jKjrsf^n who luul acted so fi/igrantly ct/rdra hf/noH m/yrfM. " Itant sfiid, she could not or ought not Ui be convirrted. TTiis liible was not individual proj^eriy ; it was that of a parish that con- tained better thfm eighteen thousand in- habitiuits. Now, if any individual were to catabliah his right of jirojierty in the Bible, and she herself was a proprietress as well as any of them, the amount would \>b far beneath any rnirrent coin of the realm, consequently there existed no legal svTxdxjl of proj^erty for the value of which a conviction could be had. " As I perceive, however," added Mr. Coke, " that the abstract of the arguments in this imjxjrtant ca.se runs to alxjut five hunflred jxiges, I sliall therefore recapitulate Judge Noeen considered a very Vjrilliant Hj>ecimen of legal acumen and judifnal eloquence. " 'This, gentlemen of the jury,' said his lordship,' is a case of apparently some diffi- culty, and I cannot help a^lmiringthe singular talent and high prindples disj;layed by the learned counsfd on both sides, who W) ably ar- gued it. Of one thing I am certain, that no con- s<^nousness of religious ignorance, no privation of religious knowledge, could ever induce my learned friend Sleek to commit such a theft, liather tli^m do so, I am sure he would }>e conscientious enough to j>ass through the world without any religion at all. As it is, we all know that he is a great light in that respect ' " 'He would be a burning light, too, my lord,' observed Rant. " No ; his reverence for the Bible is too great, too sine*: re to profane it by such vulgar perusal as it may liave received at the hands of that destitute old woman, who probably thumbed it day and night, without regarerty of the parish. The iiuit, however, gentlemen, seems to be, that the old woman either alto- gether forgot the institutions of society, or res<'>lved sofdety itself in her own mind into first prindples. Now, gentlemen, we cannot go behind first principles, neither can we go behind the old woman. We must keep her before us, but it is not necessary trj keep the Bible w). It has been found, indeed, that she did not sell, pledge, Ixistow, or other\^ise make the Ixjok suljsfjrvient to her ternjKjral or corfx^ral wants, as Mr. Rant verj* ingeniously argmed. Neither did she take it to jjlace in her librarj' — for she hsA no library ; nor for ostentation in her hall — for she luul no hall, as my pious friend Coun.sellor Sleek has. But, gentlemen, even if this old woman by rea/ling the Bible learned to repent, and felt conversion of heart, you are not to infer that the aj(± which brought her to grace and re- pentance may not have been a hirderteA vio' Ifdi/m of the l/iw. Beware of this error, gen- tlemen. Tlje old woman by stealing this Bible may have repenterl her of her sins, it is true ; but it is your business, gentlemen, to make her repent of the law also. The law 77//'.' lil.M'K /iA/C(K\'/':r. 47a I in iiH fi;roai. 11 Noiirct^ o\ yr])ruU\uro tin (ho Mil>l(t liny day, iiiid, I iint pioiKl t«> say, linn caiiHod inurr liiiiiiaii (t>arH to ho nhvil, ami hittoi'or oiioH, tot), than I ho NN'onl of (ioil <«vor did. Il tho hiuirl, (hilt (hi> law doiilw wi(h. Tho jiiirKv of lior niodvoH, hin(an(<(<, tiro no(hin)if(o (ho law ; hut (ho law is ovory(hin}< (o (ho iH'iHon in whom (hoy oporah' ; ho- raiiso, iil(linii;;|i the lii molivo, and (o (uko nolhin}^ in(o conHiil- ondion hut (ho ac(. ; for it '\h only (hat hy which (ho law him hoon violalod. " ' \Ud \h (horo no hiicIi (liiii;^ mm morcy, my lord ? ' mhUoiI u jnror. " In Ww iidminiHJriition of (ho Itiw (horo \a hiioIi a (id ion a hoitnlifnl iio>^a(ion, iiidood • luit wi> know Iliid •lns(ioo ahvnys IioMh (ho nrH(< pliiot<, and whon hIi(> \h Hiilisllod, (hon wo cull in Moroy. Snoli, iit IomhI, in (li in my powor. If yon think (Imm old woman ^MiiKy, yon will (hid alvo aa iidollij^'ont and roHp<li< for your iioi|uittiil ; and I am Horry to hour from your own lipH, that you aro III no «loj.poo poni((«n(. for (ho criino you Imvo oommithtd. You nay. tlu» Word of (lod iH Hcan'o nowadayK hut that fad, unhappy woman, only a^^KravatoH your KuiK for in ]tropor(i«tn (o (ln< ncarcily of (ho Word of (lod, HO in ilH valiio incroiiHod iiiid wo all know (hat (ho i^roidor (ho vaino of (hid which Ui ljrt()l(Mi, (ho deeper, ill Iho eye of the liiw. in (ho orimo of (in* ihiof. Had }•<»• "<>♦ pivoii iilt«'ranc«» (o (Iioho imponilont I'xproNHionn, ih(< court would havo hoon anviouN (o di>al nn compelled (o roiid Homo one of (h«t CoiiimoidnrioH upon (ho Hook you havo ntolon, «»nco, at loant, hoforn you dii\ nliould yon livo ho Ioii}^, and may ( lod havo morcy on you ! " Mere the priHoiier fell into Htronj> hya- (cricH. and wiih (akiry Ntron^dy upon (ha( ho< foro UH, SaponilicuH. (Ii<< loiirned and ani- niat(hh N(olon ; and Hocioly, ho arf^noH, in no nhapo, in nono of i(H cliiHsoH noidior in tho prinon, lockup, hiackholo, or iieiii(on(iary pioHoidn iiHwidi Hiich a Hot of ini|ioni(on(H and irrocliiiniahlo (hiovoH an (Iioho who \vri((t hookn, Theft la thoir profoHHion, and f^o(H (hem IhodiHlionoNt hroad hy which (hoy livo. TIioho may iilwayM riiad tho oi;^h(h <'oiiinwindiiion( hy l)xoIiuniod Coko, " o/i/// a (raiiM- la(ion I Kut tn'on ho, Iiiih it nohia or «'oin< nn'idn? " " l( haa. your woihliip ; hut the\ " And, air, could you di I am hodi pliiiidilV mid IrnnHlalor." "That. Iiowovor," Miid (!oko, ahakin^ liiN lioad Holoiiinly, " makoH tho ciiao a^ainttt you Htill worno." " Milt, your woiHhip. tli( 10 \h no oaau il^aiiiHt mo. J havo idieiid\ told yoii thai / i74 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. am plaintiff and translator ; and, with great respect, I don't think you have yet given any decision ■whatevei'." " I have decided, sii',"repHed Coke, "and taken the case I read for you as a prece- dent." " But in that case, your worship, the wo- man was convicted." "And so she is in this, sir," replied Coke. " Officer, put Biddy Corcoran forward. Bid- dy Corcoran, you are an old woman, which, indeed, is evident fi'om the natm-e of youi- offence, and have been convicted of the egre- gious folly of purchasing a translation, which this gentleman says was compiled or got up by himself. This is conduct which the coiu't cannot overlook, inasmuch as if it were per- sisted in, we might, God heljD us, become inundated ■v^ith translations. I am against translations — I have ever been against them, and I shall ever be against them. They are immoral in themselves, and render the same injury to hterature that persons of loose morals do to society. In general, they are nothing short of a sacrilegious jji'ofanation of the dead, and I would almost as soon see the ghost of a depai-ted fiiend as the trans- lation of a defunct author, for they bear the same relation. The regulai' translator, in fact, is nothing less than a hterary ghoul, VN'ho lives upon the mangled carcasses of the departed — a mere sack-'em-up, who disinters the dead, and sells their remains for money. You, sir, might have been better and more honestly employed than in wasting your time upon a translation. These are works that no men or class of men, excejit bishops, chandler.s, and pastrycooks, ought to have anything to do with ; and as you, I presume, are not a bishop, nor a chandler, nor a j)as- trycook, I recommend you to sj^are your countrymen in future. Biddy Corcoran, as the coiu't is determined to jDunish you se- verely, the penalty against you is, that 3'ou be compelled to read the translation in ques- tion onet. a week for the next three months. X had intended to send you to the treadmill for the same space of time : but, on looking more closely into the natiu'e of yoiir offence, 1 felt it my duty to -visit you with a much severer punishment." " That, your worship," rephed the trans- lator, " is no punishment at all ; instead of that, it Avill be a jDleasui-e to read my trans- lation, and as you have j^ronounced her to be guilty, it goes in the very teeth of your de- cision." " "WTiat — what — what kind of language is this, sir ? " exclaimed Sir Sj^igot Sputter. " This is disrespect to the coui-t, sir. In the teeth of his decision ! His worship's decision, eir, has no teeth." " Indeed, on second thoughts, I think noi^ sir," rephed the indignant wit and transla* tor ; " it is indeed a very toothless deci- sion, and exceedingly ai)i)ropriate in pass- ing sentence upon an old woman in the same state." "Eh — eh," said Sir Spigot, "which old woman? who do vou mean, sir? Yourself or the culprit? Eh? eh?" " Your worship forgets that there are four of us," rejplied the trtmslator. "WeU, sir! well, sii'! But as to the cul- prit — that old woman there — having no teeth, that is not her faidt," rephed Su' SjDigot ; "if she hasn't teeth, she has gnim enough — eh ! eh ! you must admit that, sir." "You aU appear to have gum enough," re- phed the "v\it, "and nothing hid g"um, only it isf/»»i arable to me, I know." " You have treated this coiu't "with disre- spect, sir," said Coke, very solemnly; " but the covu't will uphold its dignity. In the meantime you are fined half-a-crovni." "But, yom- worship," whisjDered Darby, " this is the celebrated Dr. A , a very em- inent man." "I have just heard, su-," proceeded Coke, " fi'om the senior officer of the court, that you are a ver^' eminent man ; it may be so, and I am very sorry for it. / have never heard youi' name, however, nor a syllable of 3'^our hterary rejnitation, before ; but as it seems you are an eminent man, I take it for grant- ed that it must be in a private and confiden- tial way among youi- j^articular fiiends. I will fine you, however, another half-crown for the eminence." "Well, gentlemen," rephed the doctor, "I have heard of many 'wise saws and mod- ern instances,' but " " "N^Tiat do you mean, sir ? " said Sir Spigot. " Another insult ! You asserted, sir, ah-eady, that ]\Ii'. Coke's decision had teeth " " But I admitted my error," replied the other. " And now you mean to insuiuate, I sup- pose, that his worship's saws are handsaws. You are fined another haK-croAATi, sii*, for the handsaAv." "And another," said Coke, "for the ^»?n arahic." The doctor fearing that the fines would increase thick and thi*eefold, forth-vvith paid them aU, and retired indignantly from the court. And thus was the author of certainly one of the most beautiful translations in any language, at least in his own opinion, treated by these two worthy administrators of the law. * * A fact. 475 CHAPTER XXVL The Prieitt Returns Sir Tlwmaa's Money and Pistols — A Bit of Controversy — A New Light Begins to Appear. Very fortunately for the priest he was not subjected to an examination before these worthies. Sir Thomas Gourlay, having heard of his arrest and the cause of it, sent a note ^yiih. his c imphraents, to request that he might be con I acted directly to his resi- dence, together with his pocket-book and pistols, assuiing them, at the same time, that their officers had committed a gross mistake as to his person. This was quite sufficient, and ere the lapse of twenty minutes Father M'Mahon, accompanied by Skipton and another officer, found himself at the baronet's hall-door. On entering the hall, Sir Thomas himself was in the act of passing fi*om the breakfjist par- lor to his study above stairs, leaning upon the arm of Gibson, the footman, looking at the same time pale, nervous, and unsteady upon his limbs. The moment Skipton saw him, he started, and exclaimed, as if to him- self, but loud enough for the pi-iest to hear him : " 'Gad ! I've seen hiin before, once upon a time ; and well I remember the face, for it is not one to be forgotten." The bax'onet, on looking round, saw the priest, and desired him to follow them to nis study. " I beg your pardon, Sir Thomas," said the officer, "we now place his reverence safely in your hands ; here, too, is your pocket-book and pistols." "Hand them to him, sir," rephed the baronet, nodding toward the priest ; " and , that is enough." "But, Sir Thomas " "What is it, sii-? Have you not done your dut}- ? " "I hope so, sir; but if it would not be troublesome, sir, perhaps you would give us a receipt ; an acknowledgment, sir." "For what?" "For the priest's body, sir, in the first place, and then for the pocket-book and pistols." "Jflwere a httle stronger," replied the baronet, in an angi*y voice, " I would write the receipt upon your own body witli a strong horsewhip ; begone, you impudent scoundrel ! " Skipton turned upon him a bitter and vindictive look, and replied, " Oh, verj' well, sir — come, Tom, you are witness that I did my duty." Sir Thomas on enteiing the study threw himself hstlessly on a sofa, and desired Gib. son to retire. " Take a seat, sir," said he, addressing Father M'Mahon. " I am far from well, and must rest a Httle before I speak to you ; I know not what is the matter with me, but I feel sill out of sorts." He then drew a long breath, and laid his head upon his hand, as if to recover more clearly the powers of his mind and intellect. His eyes, full of thought not unmingled with anxiety, were fixed upon the car|)et, and he seemed for a time wa-apped in deep and painful abstraction. At lengh he raised himself up, and drawing his breath appar- ently vrith more freedom began the conver- sation. "Well, sii'," said he, in a tone that im- plied more of authority and haughtiness than of courtesy or gentlemanly feeling ; " it seems the property of which I have been robbed has come into your po.ssession." " It is true, sir ; and allow me to place it in your own hands exactly as I got it. I took the precaution to seal the pocket-book the moment it was returned to me, and al- though it was for a short time in pos.session of the officers of justice, yet it is untouched, and the seal I placed on it unbroken." The baronet's hand, as he took the pocket-book, trembled with an agitation which he could not repress, although he did everything in his power to subdue it ; his eye glittered with animation, or rather with delight, as he broke the seal " It was vers- pi-udently and correctly done of you, sii*, to seal up the pocket-book ; very weU done, indeed : and I am much obliged to you so far, although we must have some conversation upon the matter immediate- ly-" " I only did what, as a Catholic clergyman, Sir Thomas, and an honest man, I conceived to be my duty." " WTiat — what — what's this?" exclaimed the baronet, his eye blazing with rage and disappointment. "In the name of hell's fire, sir, what is this ? My money is not all here ! There is a note, sir, a one pound note want- ing ; a pecuhar note, sir ; a marked note ; for I always put a marked note among my money, to proride against tlie contingency of such a robbery as I sustained. Pray, sir, what has become of that note ? I say, priest, the whole pocket-book ten times muJtiphed, was not worth a fig compared with the value I placed upon that note." " How mucli did you lose. Sir Thomas?" asked the priest calmly. "I lost sixty-nine pounds, sir." " Well, then, "continued the other, "would it not be well to see whether that bush is in 476 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. the pocket-book. You have not yet reck- oned the money." " The note I speak of was in a separate compartment ; in a diflferent fold of the book ; ajjai't from the rest." "But perhaps it has got among them? Had you not better tiy, sii- ? " "Time," repHedthe other ; and with eager and trembhng hands he examined them note by note ; but not finding that for which he sought, he stamped with rage, and dash- ing the pocket-book, notes and all, against the floor, he ground his teeth, and approach- ing the priest with the white froth of pas- sion rising to his hps, exclaimed, " Hark you, priest, if you do not produce the miss- ing note, I shall make you bitterly repent it ! You know where it is, sir ! You could understand from the note itself " He paused, however, for he felt at once that he might be treading dangerous ground in entering into particulars. "I say, sir," he proceeded, with a look of menace and fury, *' if you refuse to produce the note I speak of, or to procure it for me, I shall let you know to youj.' cost what the power of British law can effect." The priest rose up with dignity, his cheek heightened with that slight tinge, which a sense of unmerited insult and a conscious- ness of his o"s\Ti integrity render natural to man — so long as he is a man. " Sir Thomas Gourlay," he proceeded, "upon your conduct and want of gentle- manly temper since I have entered this apartment it is not my intention to make any comment ; but I need not tell you that the minister of God is received in Christian society vnth the respect due to his sacred office." " IMinister of the devil, sir," thundered the baronet ; •' do you think that I shall be influenced by this slavish cant ? Where is the note I speak of ? If you do not produce it, I shall consider you an accomplice after the fact, and will hold you responsible as such. Remember, you are but a Popish priest." " That is a fact, sir, which I shall always recollect with an humble sense of my own unworthiness ; but so long as I discharge its duties conscientiously and truly, I shall also recollect it with honor. Of the note you allude to in such unbecoming words, I know nothing ; and as to your threats, I value them not." "If you know nothing of the note, sir, you do certainly of the robber." " I do. Sir Tliomas ; I know who the man is that robbed you." " Well, sir," replied the other, triumph- antly, " I am glad you have acknowledged so much. I shall force you to produce him. At least I shall take care that the law will make you do so." " Sir Thomas Gourlay, I beg you to under- stand that there is a law beyond and above your law — the law of God — the law of Chris- tian duty ; and thai you shall never force me to transgress. The man who robbed you in a moment of despair and madness, re- pented him of the crime ; and the knowledge of that crime, and its consequent repentance were disclosed to me in one of the most holy ordinances of our religion." " Is it one of the privileges of your re- ligion to throw its veil over the commission of crime ? If so, the sooner your religion ia extirpated out of the land the better for society." " No, sir, our religion does not throw ita veil over the criminal, but over the i:)enitent. We leave the laws of the land to their own resources, and aid them when we can ; but in the case before us, and in all similar cases, we are the administrators of the laws of God to those who are truly penitent, and to none others. The test of repentance con- sists in reformation of hfe, and in making restitution to those who have been injured. The knowledge of this comes to us in ad- ministering the sacred ordinance of pen- ance in the tribunal of confession ; and sooner than violate this solemn compact between the mercy of God and a penitent heart, we would willingly lay down our lives. It is the most sacred of all trusts." " Such an ordinance, sir, is a bounty and provocative to crime." "It is a bounty and provocative to repen- tance, sir ; and societj"^ has gained much and lost nothing by its oj^eration. Remember, sir, that those who do not rejDent, never come to us to avow their crimes, in wliich case we are ignorant both of the crime and criminal. Here there is neither repentance, on the one hand, nor restitution, on the other, and society, of course, loses every- thing and gains nothing. In the other case, the person sustaining the injury gains that which he had lost, and society a penitent and reformed member. If, then, this sacred refuge for the penitent — not for the criminal, remember —had no existence, those restitu- tions of property which take place in thou- sands of cases, could never be made." "Still, sir, you shield the criminal from his just punishment." " No, sir ; we never shield the criminal from his just punishment. God has prom- ised mercy to him who repents, and we merely administer it without any reference to the operation of the law. It often hap- pens. Sir Thomas Gourlay, that a person THE BLACK BARONET, 47T who has repented and made restitution, is taken hold of hj the law and jiunished. This ordinance, therefore, does not stand between the law and its yictim ; it only deals between him and his God, leaving him, like any other ott'euder, to the law he has vio- lated." " I am no theologian, sir ; but without any reference to your priestly cant, I simply say, that the man who is cognizant of another's crime against the law, either of God or man, and who will shield him from justice, is particeps eriminis, and I don't care a fig what your obsolete sacerdotal dogmas may assert to the contrary'. You say you know the man Avho unjustly deprived me of my prop- erty ; if then, acknowledging this, you re- fuse to dehver him up to justice, I hold you guilty of his crime. Suppose he had taken my life, as he was neai- doing, how, pray, would you have made restitution? Biing me to life again, I suppose, by a miracle. Away, sir, with this cant, which is only fit for the barbaiity of the dark ages, when your church was a mass of crime, cruelty, and ignorance ; and when a cunning and rapacious priesthood usurped an authority over both soul and body, ay, and property too, that oppressed and degi'aded human nature." " I will reason no longer ■with you, sh'," replied the priest; "because you talk in ignorance of the subject we are discussing — but ha^i^g now discharged an important duty, I will take my leave." " You may of me," repHed the other ; " but you will not so readily shift yourself out of the law." " Any charge, sir, which either law or Justice may biing against me, I shall be ready to meet ; and I now, for your infonna- tion, beg to let you know that the law you threaten me with affords its protection to me and the class to which I belong, in the discharge of this most sacred and important trust. Your threats, Sir Thomas, conse- quently, I disregai'd." " The more shame for it if it does," re- phed the baronet ; " but, hark you, sir, I do not wish, after all, that you and I should part on unfi'iendly terms. You refuse to give up the robber ? " " I would give up my hfe sooner." "But could you not j^rocure me the miss- ing note ? " " Of the missing note, Sii* Thomas Goui*- lay, I know nothing. I consequently neither can norAviU make any promise to restore it." "You may tell the robber from me," pur- sued the baronet, " that I will give him the full amount of his biirglary, prorided he re- stores me that note. The other sixty-nine pounds shall be his on that condition, and no questions asked." " I have already told you, sir, that it was under the seal of confession the knowledge of the crime came to me. Out of that seal I cannot revert to the subject without betray- ing my ti-ust ; for, if he acknowledged his guilt to me under any other circumstances, it would become my duty to hand him over to the law." " Curse upon all priests ! " said the other indignantly ; " they are all the same ; a crew of cunning scounilrels, who attempt to subjugate the ignorant and the credulous to their sway ; a pack of spiritual swindlers, who get jiossession of the consciences of the peo- l^le thi'ough pious fraud, and then make slarish instruments of them for their own selfish jjurposes. In the meantime I shall keep my eye upon you, Mr. M'^Iahon, and, beheve me, if I can get a hole in your coat I shall make a rent of it." " It is a poor pririlege, sir, that of insult- ing the defenceless. You know I am doubly so — defenceless fi'om age, defenceless in \ir- tue of my sacred j^rofession ; but if I am defenceless against your insults. Sir Thomas Gourlay, I am not against your threats, which I desj^ise and defy. The integrity of my life is beyond your power, the serenity of my conscience beyond your vengeance. You are not of my flock, but if you were, I would say. Sir Thomas, I feai* you are a bold, bad man, and hav§ much to rej^ent of in con- nection with your past and present hfe—* much reparation to make to your feUow- creatures. Yes ; I would say, Sir Thomas Goiu'lay, the deep tempest of strong passions Avithin you has shaken your powei-jful fi-ame until it totters to its fall. I would say, be- ware ; repent while it is time, and be not unprepared for the last great event. Tliat event. Sir Thomas, is not far distixnt, if I read aright the foreshadowing of death and dissolution that is evident in your counte- nance and fi-ame. I speak these words in, I trust, a charitable and forgiriug spirit. May they sink into your heart, and work it to a sense of Christian feehng and duty ! "This I woidd say were you mine — this I do say, knowing that you are not ; for my charity goes beyond my church, and em- braces my enemy as well as my friend ; " and as he spoke he prepared co go. "You maj' go, sir," rephed the baronet, with a sneer of contempt, "only you have mistaken youi* man. I am no subject for youi' craft — not to be deceived by your hypocrisy — and laugh to scorn your ominous but impotent croaking. Only Ixfore you go, remember the conditions I have offered the scounth-el who robbed me : and if the theo* 478 WILLIAM CAttLETON'S WORKS. logical intricacies of your crooked creed will permit you, tiy and get him to accept them. It will be better for him, and better for you too. Do this, and you may cease to look upon Sir Thomas Gourlay as an enemy." The priest bowed, and without returning any reply left the apartment and took his immediate departui-e. Sii' Thomas, after he had gone, went to the glass and surveyed himself steadily. The words of the priest were uttered with much solemnity and earnestness ; but withal "in such a tone of kind regret and good feeling, that theii" import and impressiveness were much heightened by this very fact. " There is certainly a change upon me, and not one for the better," he said to himself ; " but at the same time the priest, cunning as he is, has been taken in by appearances. I am just sufficiently changed in my looks to justify and give verisimihtude to the game I am plajdng. When Lucy hears of my illness, which must be a serious one, nothing on earth will keep her fi'om me ; and if I cannot gain any trace to her residence, a short paragraph in the papers, intimating and re- gretting the dangerous state of my health, will most probably reach her, and have the desired effect. If she were once back, I know that, under the ch'cumstances of my illness, and the impression that it has been occasioned by her refusal to many Dunroe, she will yield ; especially as I shall put the sole chances of my recovery upon her com- pliance. Yet why is it that I urge her to an act which will probably make her unhappy during life ? But it will not. She is not the fool her mother was ; and yet I am not certain that her mother was a fool either. We did not agree ; we could not. She always refused to coincide with me almost in everything ; and "nhen I ^\dshed to teach Lucy the useful lessons of worldly policy, out came her silly maxims of conscience, re- Hgion, and such stuff. But yet rehgious peo^Dle are the best. I have always found it so. That wretched priest, for instance, would give up his life sooner than violate what he calls^ — that is, what he thinks — his duty. There must be some fiction, however, to regulate the multitude ; and that fiction must be formed bj, and founded on, the necessities of society. That, unquestionably, is the origin of all law and all religion. Only religion uses the stronger and the wiser argument, by threatening us with an- other world. Well done, religion ! You acted upon a fixed princijDle of nature. The force of the enemy we see not may be mag- nified and exaggerated ; the enemy we see not we fear, especially when described in the most terrible colors by men who are paid for their misrepresentations, although these same imjDostors have never seen the enemy they si)eak of themselves. But the enemy we see we can understand and grapple with ; ergo, the influence of rehgion over law ; ergo, the influence of the priest, who deals in the imaginary and ideal, over the legis- lator and the magistrate, who deal only in the tangible and real. Yes, this indeed is the principle. How we do fear a ghost ! What a shiver, what a horror runs tln-ough the frame when we think we see one ; and how different is this from our terror of a hving enemy. Away, then, with tliis im- posture, I will none of it. Yet hold : what was that I saw looking into the window of the carriage that contained my brother's son ? What was it ? Wliy a form created by my own fears. That credulous nurse, old mother Corbet, stuffed me so comj^letely with superstition when I was young and cowardly, that I cannot, in many instances, shake myself fi-ee from it yet. Even the words of that priest alarmed me for a mo- ment. This, however, is merely the weak- ness of human nature — the effect of unreal phantasms that influence the reason while we are awake, just as that of dreams does the imagination while we are asleep. Away, then, ye idle brood ! I will none of you." He then sat himself down on the sofa, and rang for Gibson, but stiU the train of thought pursued him. " As to Lucy, I think it is still possible to force her into the position for which I des- tined her — quite possible. She reasons hke a girl, of course, as I told her. She reasons Hke a girl who looks upon that silly non- sense called love as the great business o\ life ; and acts accordingly. Little she thinks, however, that love — lier love — Ms love — both their loves — will never meet twelve months after what is termed the honey-moon. No, they will part north and south. And yet the honey-moon has her sharp ends, as well as every other moon. W^hen love passes away, she wiU find that the great business of life is, to make as many as she can feel that she is above them in the estimation of the world ; to impress herself uj^on her equals, until they shall be forced to acknowl- edge her suj)eriority. And although this may be sometimes done by intellect and principle, yet, in the society in which she must move, it is always done by rank, by high position, and h^ pride, that jealous vindictive pride which is based ujDon the hatred of our kind, and at once smiles and scorns. What would I be if I were not a baronet ? Sir Thomas Gourlay passes where Mr. Gourlay would be spurned. This is the game of hfe, and we shall play it THE BLACK BARONET. 47» with the right weapons. jMany a cringing scovmdrel bows to the baronet who despises the man ; and for this reason it is that I Lave always made myself to be felt to some piu-pose, and so shall Lucy, if I should tlie for it. I hate society, because I know that society hates me ; and for that reason I shall so far exalt her, that she will have the base compound at her feet, and I shall teach her to scorn and trample upon it. If 1 thought there were happiness in any partic- ular rank of hfe, I woiild not press her ; but I know there is not, and for that reason she loses nothing, and gains the pri^•ilege — the power — of extorting homage fi-om the proud, tlie insolent, and the worthless. This is the triumph she shall and must enjoy." Gibson then entered, and the baronet, on hearing his foot, threw himseK into a lan- guid and invahd attitude. "Gibson," said he, "I am verj- unweU ; I apprehend a serious attack of illness." "I trust not, sir." "If any person shotdd call, I am ill, ob- seiTe, and not in a condition to see them." "Very weD, sir." " Unless you should suspect, or ascertain, that it is some person on behalf of !Miss Gourlay ; and even then, mark, I am verj' ill indeed, and you do not think me able to speak to any one ; but wiU come in and see." " Yes, sii- ; certainly sir." "There, then, that'wiU do." The priest, on learing the baronet's resi- dence, was turning his steps toward the ho- tel in which the stranger had put up, when his messenger to Constitution Hill approach- ing put his hand to his hat, and respectfully saluted him. " I beg your pardon, sir," said he, "and I am sorry, now that I know who you are, for the trouble you got into." " Thank you, my friend," said the priest ; " I felt it wouldn't signify, knowing in my conscience that I was no robber. In the meantime, I got one ghmpse of your met- ropolitan hfe, as they call it, and the Lord knows I never wish to get another. Troth, I was once or twice so confovmded with the noise and I'acket, that I thought I had got into i3urgatorj' by mistake." " Tut, sir, that's nothing," replied Skip- ton ; " we were very calm and peaceable //u'.s morning ; but with respect to that baronet, he's a niggardly fellow. Only think of liim, never once offering us the slightest compen- SJition for bringing him home his property ! There's not another man in Ireland would send us off empty-handed as he did. The thing's always usual on recoveiing prop- erty." " Speak for yourself, in the singular num- ber, if you plaise ; you don't imagine that J wanted compensation." " No, sir, certainly not ; but I'm just thinking," he added, after curiously examin- ing Father iM'Mahon's face for some time, " that you and I met before somewhere.* " Is that the memory you have?" said the priest, "when you ought to recollect that we met this morning, much against my •will, I must say." " I don't mean that," said the man ; " but I think I saw you once in a lunatic asylum." " Me, in a lunatic asylum ? " exclaimed the good priest, somewhat indignantly. " The thing's a bounce, my good man, before you go farther. The httle sense I've had has been sufficient, thank goodness, to keep me fi'ee fi'om sucli establishments." " I don't mean that, sir," repUed the other, smiling, " but if I don't mistake, you once brought a clergj-man of our persuasion to the lunatic asylum in ." "Ay, indeed," returned the jmest ; "poor Quin. His was a case of monomania ; he imagined himself a giidiron, on wliich all heretics were to be roasted. That young man was one of the finest scholars in the thi-ee kingdoms. But how do you remem- ber that ? " "Why for good reasons ; because I was a sei-\'ant in the establishment at the time. Well," he added, pausing, "it is cmious enough that I should have seen this very morning thi-ee persons I saw in that asylum." " If I had been much longer in that watch- house," rephed the other, " I'm not quite certain but I'd soon be qualified to })ay a permanent visit to some of them, ^^'ho were the three persons you saw there, in the mane time ? " "That messenger of youi's was one of them, and that niggardly baronet was the other ; yom-self, as I said, making the third." The priest looked at him seriously ; "you mane Corbet," said he, " or Dunjjy as he is called ? " "I do. He and the bai-onet brought a shp of a boy there ; and, upon my con- science, I think there was bad work between them. At aU events, poor ]\Ii*. Quin and he were insepai-able. The lad promised that he would allow himself to be roasted, the very first man, upon the reverend giidiron ; — and for that reason Quin took liim into hand ; and gave liim an excellent education." " And no one," replied the priest, " wns better quahfied to do ii But what bad work do you susjject between Corbet and the baronet ? " " Why, I have my suspicious." replied the man. " It's not a montlx since I heard that (SO WILLIAM CAliLETON'S WORKS. the son of that very baronet's brother, who was heir to the estate and titles, disappear- ed, and has never been heard of since. Now, all the water in the sea wouldn't wash the pair of them clear of what I suspect, which is — that both had a hand in removing that boy. The baronet was a young man at the time, but he has a face that no one could ever forget. As for Corbet, I remember him weU, as why shouldn't I ? he came there often. I'll take my oath it would be a charity to bring the afiair to hght." " Do you think the boy is there still ? " asked the priest, suppressing all appearance of the interest which he felt. "No," rephed the other, "he escaped about two or thi-ee years ago ; but, poor lad, when it was discovered that he led too easy a life, and had got educated, his treatment was changed ; a straight waistcoat was put on him, and he was placed in sohtary con- finement. At fii'st he was no more mad than I am ; but he did get occasionally mad afterwards. I know he attempted suicide, and nearly cut his throat with a piece of glass one day that his hands got loose while they were changing his linen. Old Rivet died, and the estabhshment was purchased by Tickleback, who, to my own knowledge, had him regularly scoui'ged." "And how did he escape, do you know?" inquired the priest. " I coidd tell you that, too, maybe," re- phed Skip ton ; " but I think, sir, I have told you enough for the present. If that young man is hving, I woiild swear that he ought to stand in Sir Thomas Gouiiay's shoes. And now do you think, su-," he inquii'ed, com- ing at last to the real object of his commu- nication, "that if his right could be made clear, any one who'd help him to his own mightn't expect to be made comfortable for life ? " " I don't think there's a doubt about it," rephed the priest. -'The property is large, and he could well afford to be both gener- ous and grateful." "I know," retiimed the man, " that he is both one aad the other, if he had it in his power." " Well," said the priest, seriously ; " mai'k my words — this may be the most fortunate day you ever saw. In the mane time, keep a close mouth. The friends of that identi- cal boy are on the search for him this mo- ment. They had given him up for dead ; but it is not long since they discovered that he was hving. I will see you again on this subject." "I am now a constable," said the man, " attached to the office you were in to-day, Rod I can be heard of auy time." j "Yeiy well," rephed the priest, "you shall hear either from me or fi-om some person interested in the recovery of the boy that's lost" CHAPTER XXVn. Sir Thomas, who shams Illness, is too sharp for Mrs. Mainwaring, icJio ri»its Him — Lucy calls upon La' dy Gourlay, wliere she meets her Loter — Affecting interview between Lucy and Lady Gourlay. Lucy Gouelay, anxious to relieve her fath- er's mind as much as it was in her power to do, wrote to him the day after the risit of Ensign Roberts and old Sam to Svunmer- field Cottage. Her letter was affectionate, and even tender, and not written without many tears, as was evident by the blots and bhsters which they produced upon the paper. She fully coiToborated the stranger's explana- tion to her father ; for although ignorant at the time that an interview had taken jDlace be- tween them, she felt it to be her duty toward all pai-ties to prevent, as far as her testimony coiold go, the possibility of any misimder- standing uj^on the subject. This letter was posted in DubHu, fi'om an ajipreheusion lest the local jDost-office might funiish a clew to her present abode. The tinath was, she fear- ed that if her father could trace her out, he would claim her at once, and force her home by outrage and violence. In this, however, she was mistaken ; he had fallen upon quite a different and far more successful jilan for that piu-j^ose. He knew his daughter weU, and felt that if ever she might be forced to depai-t fi'om those strong convictions of the vmhappiness that must result fi'om a union between baseness and honor, it must be by an assumption of tenderness and af- fection toward her, as well as by a show of submission, and a concession of his own will to hers. This was calctdating at once upon her affection and generosity. He had form- ed this plan before her letter reached him, and on perusing it, he felt stiU more deter- mined to make this treacherous experiment upon her very rirtues — thus most unscru- pulously causing them to lay the groundwork of her own permanent misery. In the meantime, jMi*s. Mainwaiing, hav- ing much confidence in the effect which a knowledge of her disclosure must, as she calcvilated, necessarily j^roduce on the am- bitious baronet, resolved to lose no time in seeing him. On the evening before she went, however, the following brief conver- sation took place between her and Lucy : " My dear Lucy," said she, " a thought haa TEE BLACK BARONET. 481 Just struck me. Your situation, excepting always youi* residence witli us, is one of botb pjiin and difficulty. I am not a woman who has ever been much di.sposed to rely on my own judlace every rehance, all honorable confidence, in your truth and attachment ? " He had aj^i^roached, and gently taking her hand in his as he spoke, he uttered these words in a tone so full at once of ten- derness and that sympathy to which he knew her sufferings on this point had en- titled her, that Lucy was considerably affect- ed, although she restrained her emotions as well as she covdd. " If it were not so," she repHed, in a voice whose melody was made more touchingly beautifid by the shght tremor which she en- deavored to repress, "if it were not so, Charles, I would not now be a fugitive fi'om my father's roof." The stranger's eye sparkled with the rap- turous enthusiasm of love, as the gentle girl, aU blushes, gave expression to an assurance so gi-atifying, so delicious to his heart. "Dearest Lucy," said he, "I fear I am unworthy of you. Oh, could you but kno\? «84 WILLIAM CARLETOJTS WORKS. how those words of yours have made my heart tremble with an excess of transport which language fails to express, you would also know that the affection with which I love you is as tender, as pure, as unselfish, as ever warmed the heart of man. And yet, as I said, I fear it is unworthy of you. I know yoiu' father's character, his determina- tion, the fierce force of his wiU, and the energy ^dth which he pursues every object on which he sets his heai't or ambition. I say I know all this, and I sometimes fear the consequences. "What can the wiU of only one pure, gentle, and delicate heart avail against the united powers of ambition, authority, persuasion, force, determina- tion, perhaps violence ? What, I repeat, can a gentle hesu't like youi'S xiltimately avail against such a host of difficulties ? And it is for this reason that I say I am unworthy of you, for I fear — and you know that perfect love casteth out all fear." " My dear Charles, if love were without fear it would lose half its tenderness. An eternal sunshine, would soon sicken the world. But as for your ajjprehensions of my solitaiy heart faihng against such diffi- ciilties as it must encounter, you seem to omit one shght element in calculating your ter- rors, and that simj^le element is a host in itself." "Which is?" "Love for you, dear Charles. I know you may probably feel that this avowal ought to be expressed with more hesitation, veiled over by the hyjDOcrisy of language, disguised by the hackneyed forms of mere sentiment, uttered like the assertions of a coquette, and degraded by that tampering with truth wliich makes the heart lie unto itself. Oh, yes ! — perhaps, Charles, you may think that because I fail to express what I feel in that spirit of ambiguity which a love not confident in the truth, purity, and rectitude of its own principles must al- ways borrow — that because my heart fails to approach yours by the usual circuitous route with which ordinaiy hearts do ap- proach — yes, you may imagine for all these reasons that my affection is not — but " and here she checked herself — ■" why," she added, with dignity, whilst her cheeks glowed and her eyes sparlded, " why should I apologize for the avowal of a love of which I am not ashamed, and which has its strong- est defence in the worth and honor of its object ? " Tears of enthusiasm rushed down her cheeks as she spoke, and her lover could only say, "Dearest Lucy, most beloved of my heart, your language, your sentiments, yovir feelings — so pure, so noble, so far above those commonplaces of your sex, only cause me to shrink almost into nothing when I compare or contrast myself with you. Let, however, one principle guide us — the confidence that our love is mutual and can- not be distui'bed. I am for the present placed in circumstances that are exceedingly painful. In point of fact, I am wrapped in obscurity and shadow, and there exists, be- sides, a ^possibility that I may not become, in point of fortune, such a man as you might possibly wish to look upon as your hus- band." "If you are now suffeiing yovir fine mind, Charles, to become unconsciously warped by the common prejudices of hfe, I beseech you to reflect xxiDon the heart to which you ad- dress yourself. Society presents not a single prejudice which in an}' degree aids or sup- ports \irtue, and truth, and honor, that I do not cherish, and wish you to chensh ; but if you imagine that you will become less dear to me because you may fail to acquire some of the artificial dignities or honors of life, then it is clear that you know not how to estimate the sjDiiit and character of Lucy Gourlay." " I know yoif vdll be severely tried, my dear Lucy." " Know me aright, Charles. I have been severely tried. Many a girl, I am sorry to say, would forget Dunroe's profligacy in his rank. Many a girl, in contemplating the man, could see nothing but the coronet ; for ambition — the poorest, the vainest, and the most worthless of all kinds of ambition — that of rank, title, the right of precedence — is unfortunately cultivated as a virtue in the world of fashion, and as such it ie felt. Be it so, Charles ; let me remain unfashionable and vulgar. Perish the title if not accom- panied by worth ; fling the gaudy coronet aside if it covers not the brow of j^robity and honor. Retain those, dear Charles — retain worth, probity, and honor — and you retain a heart that looks upon them as the only titles that confer true rank and tiue dignity." The stranger gave her a long gaze of ad- mu'ation, and exclaimed, deeply affected , " Alas, my Lucy, you are, I fear, unfit for the world. Your spirit is too pui'e, too noble for common Ufe. Like some priceless gem, it sparkles with the brilliancy of too many virtues for the ordinary mass of maiij kind to appreciate." ^"^^"--.^^^^ "No such thing, Charles : yoa qime ovei rate me ; but God forbid that the possessiol of virtue and goed dispositions should evel become a disqualification for this world. It^ is not so ; but even if it were, provided Xl shine in the estimation of my own littlei world, by which I mean the Affection of him.l THE BLACK BARONET. 485 to whom 1 shall unite my fate, then I am satisfied : his love anti his approbation shall constitute my coronet and my honor." The stranger was absolutely lost in admi- ration and love, for he felt that the force of truth and sincerity had imparted an elo- quence and an euerg}' to her language that were perfectly fascinating and irresisti- ble. "My dear Hfe," said he, "the music of your words, clothing, as it does, the divine principles they utter, must siu'ely resemble the melody of heaven's own voices. For my part, I feel relaxed in such a dehcious i-apture as I have never either felt or dreamt of before — entranced, as it were, in a sense of your wonderful beauty and goodness. But, dearest Lucy, allow me to ask on what terms are you with your father ? Have you heard fi'om him ? Have you wi-itten to him ? Is he aware of your present residence ? " "No," she replied; "he is not aware of my present residence, but I have ^^Titten to him. I wished to set his mind at rest as well as I could, and to diminish his anxiety as far as in me lay. Heaven knows," she added, bursting into tears, " that this un- natural estrangement between father and daughter is most distressing. I am anxious to be with jjapa, to render him, in every sense, all the duties of a child, provided only he will not persist in building up the super- stiTJcture of rank upon my own unhappiness. Have xjoxji seen him ? " she inquii'ed, drying her eyes, a task in which she was tenderly assisted by the stranger. "I saw him," he repUed, "for a short time ; " but the terms in which he explained the nature of the interview between himself and the baronet were not such as could aftbrd her a distinct impression of all that took place, simply because he wished to spare her the infliction of unnecessary pain. " And now, Lucy," he added, " I feel it necessary to claim a large portion of youi- approbation." She looked at him with a smile, but awaited his explanation. I "You will scarcely credit me when I flisure you that I have had a clew to your place of residence, or concealment, or what- ever it is to be termed, since the first morn- ing of your ai'rival there, and yet I disturbed you not, either, by letter or visit. Thus you may perceive how sacred your Hghtest wish is to me."*' " And do you imagine that I am insensible to this deUcate generosity ? " she asked — " oh, no ; indeed, I fully appreciate it ; but now, Charles, will you permit me to ask how, or when, or where you have been acquainted with my aunt Gourlay, for I was not aware that you had known each other ? " " This, my dear Lucy," he rephed, smil- ing, " you shall have cleared up along with all my other mysteries. Like every riddle, although it may seem difficult now, it will be plain enough when told." "It matters not, dear Charles; I have everj' confidence in your truth and honor, and that is sufficient." He then informed her briefly, that he should be under the necessity of going to France for a short space, upon business of the deepest importance to himseK. "My stay, however," he added, "will not be a very long one ; and I trust, that after my return, I shall be in a position to speak out my love. Indeed, I am anxious for this, dear Lucy, for I know how strong the love of truth and candor is in your great and gener- ous heart. And yet, for the sake of one good and amiable indi^adual, or rather, I should say, of two, the object of my journey to France will not be accomphshed without the deepest pain to myself. It is, I may say here, to spare the feehngs of the two indi- viduals in question, that I have preseiwed the strict incognito which I thought necessary since my ai'rival in this countiy." " Farewell vmtil then, my dear Charles ; and in whatever object you may be engaged, let me beg that you "\%"i]l not inflict a wanton or unnecessary wound upon a good or ami- able heart ; but I know you will not — it is not in your nature." "I tnist not," he added, as he took his leave. " I cannot wait longer for lady Gour- lay ; but before I go, I will write a short note for her in the hbrary, which will, for the present, answer the same piui^ose as seeing her. Farewell, then, dearest and best of girls ! — farewell, and be as happy as you can ; would that I could say, as I wish you, until we meet again." And thus they separated. The scene that had just taken place ren- dered eveiw effort at composure necessary on the part of Lucy, before the return of Lady Gourlay. This lady, strange as it may seem, she had yet never seen or met, and she now began to reflect upon the nature of the visit she hatl made her, as well as of the reception she might get. If it were possible that her father had made away vAih. her child on the one hand, could it l)e possible, on the other, thatLiuly Goui'l ly wt)uld ^^-itllhold her resentment from the daughter of the man who had made her childless ? But, no ; her generous heart could not for a moment admit the former possibility. She reasoned not from what she had felt at his hands, but as a daughter, who, because she abhorred the 4d6 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. crime imputed to him, could not suppose j him capable of committing it. His ambition ! was aU for herself. Neither, she felt, would ' Lady Gourlay, even allowiug for the full ex- tent of her suspicions, confound the innocent daughter with the offending pai-ent. Then her reputation for meekness, benevolence, patience, chanty, and all those vii'tues which, Mnthout effort, so strongly imj^ress themselves upon the general spirit of social hfe, spoke with a thousand tongues on her behalf. Yes, she was gkul she came ; she felt the si:)irit of a vii'tuous relationship strongly in her heart ; and in that heart she thanked the amiable Jklrs. Mainwai'ing for the advice she had giv- en her. A gentle and diffident tap at the door in- terrupted the course of her reflections ; and the next moment, a lady, grave, but elegant in appeai'ance, entered. She courtesied with peculiar grace, and an air of the sweetest be- nignity, to Lucy, who retui-ned it with one in which humility, reverence, and dignit}', were equally blended. Neither, indeed, could for a single moment doubt that an accomphshed and educated gentlewoman stood before her. Lucy, however, felt that it was her duty to speak first, and account for a visit so unex- pected. "I know not," she said, "as yet, how to measure the apologj' which I ought to make to Lady Gourlay for my presence here. My heart tells me that I have the honor of ad- dressing that lady." " I am, indeed, madam, that unhappy wo- man." Lucy approached her, and said, "Do not reject me, madam ; pardon me — love me — pity me ; — I am Lucy Gourlay." Lady Gourlay opened her arms, exclaim- ing, as she did it, in a voice of the deepest emotion, "My dpar niece — my child — my daughter if you -nill ; " and they wept long and affectionately on each other's bosoms. "You are the onl}' hving indiAddual," said Lucy, after some time, "whom I could ask to pity me ; but I am not ashamed to solicit yovu' sj'mpathy. Dear, dear aunt, I am very unhappy. But this, I fear, is wrong ; for why should I add my sorrows to the weight of misery which you yourseK have been com- pelled to bear ? I fear it is selfish and un- generous to do so." "No, my child; whatever the weight of grief or miseiy which we are forced, j^erhaps, for -vNise pui-poses, to bear, it is ordained, for purposes equally wise and beneficent, that everj' act of sympathy with another's son'ow lessens our own. Dear Lucy, let me, if you can, or will be permitted to do so, be a lov- ing mother to you, and stand to my heart in relation to the child I have lost ; or think that your own dear mother still survivee in me." This kindness and affection fairly overcame Lucy, who sat down on a sofa, and wept bitterly. Lady Govu-lay herself was deeply affected for some minutes, but, at length, re suming composnre, she sat beside Lucy, and, taking her hand, said : " I can under- stand, my deal' child, the nature of yovu* grief; but be comforted. Your heart, which was bur- dened, will soon become hghter, and better spmts will return ; so, I tnist, v^ill better times. It is not from the transient and un- steady, and too often painful, incidents of life, that we should attempt to draw consolation, but from a fixed and firm confidence in the unchangeable purposes of God." "I. wish, dear Lad}' Gourlay — dear avint " " Yes, that is better, my love." "I wish I had known you before , of late I have been alone — with none to advise or guide me ; for, she, whose affectionate heart, whose tender look, and whose gentle moni- tion, were ever with me — she — alas, my dear aunt, how few know what the bitterness is — when forced to struggle against strong but misguided "nills, whether of our own or others'; to feel that we are vrithout a mother — that that gentle voice is silent forever ; that that well in the desert of hfe — a mother's heart — is forever closed to us ; that that pro- tecting angel of our steps is dejDarted fi-om us — never, never to return." As she uttered these words in deep grief, it might have been observed, that Lady Gour- lay shed some quiet but apparently bitter tears. It is impossible for us to enter into the heai*t, or its reflections ; but it is not, we think, unreasonable to suppose that while Lucy dwelt so feelingly upon the loss of her mother, the other may have been thinking upon that of her child. "My dear girl," she exclaimed, "let the affectionate compact which I have just pro- posed be ratified between us. M\i heart, at all events, has akead}' ratified it. I shall be as a mother to you, and you shall be to me as a daughter." " I know not, my dear aunt," repUed Lucy, " whether to consider you more affectionate than generous. How few of oiu' sex, after — after — that is, considering the enmities — in fact, how a relative, placed as you unhap- pily are, would take me to her hear]; -«,b you have done." " Perhaps, my child, I were incapable of i it, if that heart had never been touched and softened by affliction. As it is, Luc}^ let me say to you, as one who probably knows the world better, do not look, as most young per- sons like you do, uj^on the trials you are at THE BLACK BARONET. m present forced to suffer, as if they were the shai-pest and hea^•iest in the world. Time, CQ}' love, and perhips other trials of a still severer character, may one day teach you to think that your grief and impatience were out of proportion to what you then under- went. May He who afflicts his people for their good, prevent that tliis ever should be so in your case ; but, even if it should, re- member that God loveth whom he chasten- eth. And above all things, my dear child, never, never, never despair in his providence. Dry your eyes, my love," she added, with a smile of affection and encouragement, that Lucy felt to be contagious by its cheering in- fluence uj)on her ; " dry your teai-s, and turn round to the light until I contemplate more clearly and distinctly that beauty of which I have heard so much." Lucy obeyed her with all the simplicity of a child, and turned round so as to j^lace her- self in the position required by the aunt ; but whilst she did so, need we say that the blushes followed each other beautifidly and fast over her timid but sparkhng counte- \ nance ? ! " I do not wonder, my dear girl, that j pubHc i-umor has borne its ample testimony to your be.auty. I have never seen either it or your figui*e surj^assed ; but it is here, my deal'," she added, placing her hand upon her heart, " where the jewel that gives value to so fair a cas^ket lies." " How happy I am, my dear aunt," re- phed Lucy, anxious to change the subject, " since I know you. The very consciousness i of it is a consolation." " And I trust, Lucy, we shall all yet be : happy. WTieu the dispensations ripen, then comes the harvest of the blessings. '' The old footman now entered, .saying : j " Here is a note, my Lady," and he present- j ed one, "which the gentleman desired me to deliver on your ladyship's return." Lady Gourlay took the note, saying : ""Will you excuse me, my dear niece? — I this, I beheve, is on a subject that is not merel}' near to, but in the innermost re- : cesses of my heart." , Lucy now took that opportunity on her pai't of contemjjlating the features of her aimt ; but, as we have ah'ead}' described , them elsewhere, it is unnecessars' to do so : here. She was, however, much stinick with their -^Jaaste but melanchol}' beauty ; for it cannot be disputed, that sorrow and afflic- tion, while they impau* the complexion of 'le most lovely, veiw frequently commimi- •ite to it a chaiTQi so deep and touching, that in point of fact, the heart that sutlers within is taught to s^^"^- ik in the mournful, grave, and tender expression, which they , leave behind them as their traces. As Lucy surveyed her aunt's features, which had been moulded by calamity into an express sion of settled sorrow — an expression which no cheerfulness could remove, however it might diminish it, she was sui-prised to ob- serve at fh-st a singuku" degree of sweetnesa apjjear ; next a mild serenity ; and lastly, she saw that that serenity graduallj- kindlei\ into a radiance that might, in the hands ol a painter, have expressed the joy of the Vu'gin Mother on finding her lost Son in the Temple. This, however, was again suc- ceeded by a paleness, that for a moment alarmed Lucy, but which was soon lost in a gush of joyful tears. On looking at her niece, who did not presume to make any inc[uiry as to the cause of this extraordinaiy emotion, Liidy Gom-lay saw that her eyes at least were seeking, by the wonder they ex- pressed, for the cause of it. "May the name," she exclaimed, "of the just and merciful God be jjraised forever ! Here, my darhng, is a note, in which I aiQ informed upon the best authority, that my child — my boy, is yet ahve — and was seen but very recently. Dear God of all good- ness, is my weak and worn heart capa- ble of bearing this returning tide of happi- ness ! " Nature, however, gave way ; and after several struggles and throbbiugs, she sank into insensibility. To ling for assistance, to api)ly all kinds of restoratives ; and to tend her until she revived, and afterwards, were offices which Lucy dischsu-ged with equal promptitude and tenderness. On recovering, she took the hand of the latter in hers, and said, with a smile full of gratitude, joy, and sweetness, " Our first thanks are always due to God, and to him my heai't of!ers them up ; but, oh, how feebly ! Thtuiks to you, also, Lucy, for your kindness ; and many thanks for your goodness in giving me the pleasure of knowing you. I trust that we shall both see and enjoy better and happier days. Yom- visit has been propitious to me, and brought, if- 1 may so say, an unexpected da^NTi of happiness to the widowed mother's heart." Lucy was about to reply, when the old footman came to say thtvt the lady who had accompanied her was waiting below in the chaise. She accordingly bade her farewell, only for a time she sjiid, and after a tender embi"ace, she went down to Mrs. Maiuwai'ing who respectfidly declined on that occasion to be presented to Lady Gourlay, in conse- quence of the number of pui'chases .she had yet to make, and the time it would occup;< to make them. tss WILLIAM CARLETON'S W0RK8. CHAPTER XXVnL hMMcence and Affection overmme by Fraud and Hypocrisy — Lucy yiekh at Last. Not many minutes after Mrs. Mainwar- Ing's interview wdth tlie baronet, Gibson entered the library, and handed him a letter on which was stamped the Ballytrain jDost- mark. On looking at it, he paused for a moment : " Who the d can this come from ? " he said. "lam not aware of having any par- ticular correspondence at present, in or about Ballytrain. Here, however, is a seal ; let me see what it is. What the d , again? are these a pah* of asses' ears or wings ? Certainly, if the impression be cor- rect, the former ; and what is here ? A fox. Very good, perfectly intelligible ; a fox, with a pair of asses' ears upon him ! intimating a combination of knaveiy and folly. 'Gad, this must be from Crackenfudge, of whom it is the type and exponent. For a thousand, it contains a list of his qualifications for the magisterial honors for which he is so ambi- tious. W^eU, well ; I believe every man has an ambition for something. Mine is to see my daughter a countess, that she may trample with velvet slippers on the necks of those who would trample on hers if she were beneath them. This fellow, now, who is both slave and tp-ant, will play all sorts of oppressive pranks upon the poor, by whom he knows that he is despised ; and for that veiy reason, along with others, will he punish them. That, however, is, after all, but natural ; and on this very account, curse me, but I shall try and shove the beggarly scoundrel up to the ))oint of his jjaltry am- bition. I hke ambition. The man who has no object of ambition of any kind is un- fit for life. Come, then, ' wax, dehver up thy trust.' " With a dark grin of contempt, and a kind of sarcastic gratification, he perused the doc- ument, which ran as follows : " My deae Sir Tomas, — -In a letter, which a' had the honer of receiving fi*om you, in consequence of your very great kindness in condescending to kick me out of your house, on the occasion of my last visit to Red Hall, you were pleased to express a wish that a' would send you up as arthentic a list as a' could conieniently make up of my qualifica- tions for the magistracey. Deed, a'm sore yet. Sir Tomas, and wouldn't it be a good joke, as my friend Dr. Twig says, if the sore- ness should remain until it is cured by the Komission, wh>ch he thinks would wipe out all recollection (f the pain and the punish- ment. And he says, too, that this applica- tion of it would be putting it to a most prop* er and legutimate use ; the only use, he in- sists, to which it ought to be put. But a' don't go that far, because a' think it would be an honerable dockiment, not only to my posterity, meaning my legutimate progen- itors, if a' should hajipen to have any ; but, also and moreover, to the good taste and judgment, and resjDect for the honer and in- tegrity of the Bench, manifested by those who attributed to place me on it. "A' now come to Klaim No. I, for the mag- istracey : In the first place a'm not without expeyrieuce, having been in the habit of act- ing as a magistrate in a private way, and up- on my own responsibility, for several years. A' established a kourt in a little vilage, which — and this is a strong point in my feav- or now-a-days — which a' meself have depopi- lated ; and a' trust that the depopilation won't be overlucked. To this kourt a' com- peled all me tenints to atend. They were obHged to summon one another as often as they kould, and much oftener than they wish- ed, and for the slightest kauses. A' presid- ed in it purseonaRj ; and a'll tell you why. My system was ajine system, indeed. That is to say, a' fined them ether on the one side or the tother, but most generally on both, and then a' put the fines into my own pocet. ]My tenints a' know didn't like this kind of law very much —but if they didn't a' did ; and a' made them feel that a' was theu' land- lord. No man was a faverite with me that didn't frequent my kourt, and for this resin, in order to stand well with me, they fought like kat and dog. Now, you know, it was my bisness to enkorage this, for the more they fought and disi^uted, the more a' fined them. " Jn fact, a' done everything in my power, to enlitin my tenints. For instance, a' taught them the doktrine of trespiss. If a' found that a stranger tuck the sheltiy side of my hedge, to blow his nose, I fined him half- a-crown, as can be proved by proper and un- deniable testomony. A' mention all these matters to satisfy you that a' have i^ractis as a magistrate, and won't have my duties! to lern when a'm called upon to discharge , them. " Klaim No. H is as follows : A'm very J unpopilar with the people, which is a gi'eatj thing in itself, as a' think no man ought toj be risen to the bench that's not unpopilar j because, when popilar, he's likely to feavoi them, and symperthize Avitli them — wherein|!|| his first duty is always to konsider them ini the rong. Nether am a' popilar with the. gentry and magistrates of the kountry, be- : cause they despise me, and say that a'm this ~ THE BLACK BARONET. 489 that and tother ; that a'm mean and tyranni- cal ; that a' chanj^ed my name frona pride, and that a'm overbearinj^' and ignorant. Now this last charge of ignorance brings me to Klaim No. HI. "Be it nowTi to you, then, Sir Tomas, that a' received a ehollege eddycation, which is an anser in full to the play of ignorance. In fact, a' devoted meself to eddycation till my very brain began to go round like a whurU- gig ; and many people say, that a' never re- kovered the proper use of it since. Hundres will tell you that they would shed their blood upon the truth of it ; but let any one that thinks so transact bisness with me, or bekome a tenint of mine, and he'll find that a' can make him bleed in proving the reverse. " A' could prove many other khaims equal- ly strong, but a' hope it's not necessary to se- duce any more. A' do think, if the Lord Chanceseller knew of my qualifications, a' wouldn't be long off the bench. If, then. Sir Tomas, you, who have so much influence, would write on my behalf, and rekomend me to the cusfu.-i rmcalorum as a proper kandi- date, I could not fail to sukc^ed in reaching the great point of my ambit'on, which is, to be accommadated with a seat — anything would satisfy me — even a c^^se-stool — upon the magistorial bench. Am'm, Sir Tomas. " And have the hou«Jr to be, " Your obedient and much obhged, and very thankful servant for wtiat a' got, as well as for what a' expect, Sii* 'Xomas, " Peuiwixev*; Crackenfudge." Sir Thomas — having T>?irused this precious document, which, by the way, contains no single fact that could not be substantiated by the clearest testimony, so little are they at head-quarters acquainted with the pranks that are played off on the unfortunate peo- ple by multitudes of petty t^Tants in remote districts of the country — Sir Thomas, we say, ha\ang perused the aforesaid document, gi'inned — almost laughed — with a satmcal enjovment of its contents. " Veiy good," said he ; " excellent : con- found me, but Crackenfudge must get to the bench, if it were only for the novelty of the thing. I will this moment recommend him to Lord CuUamore, who is ciisfos rotulorum tor the county, and who would as soon, by the )vay, cut his right hand off as recom- mend him to the Chancellor, if he kjiew the ixtent of his 'Idaims,' as the miserable devil spells it. Yes. X will recommend him, if it were only to vex my brother baronet, Sir James B , wlio is humane, and kind, and popular, fovr;ooth, and a staunch advocate for purity of the bench, and justice to the peo- ple ! No doubt of it ; I shall recommend you, Crackenfudge, and cheek by jowl with the best among them, upon the same magis- toriiil bench, shall the doughty Crackenfudge sit." He instantly sat down to his writing-desk, and penned as strong a recommendation as he could possibly compose to Lord CuUa- more, after which he threw himself again upon the sofa, and exclaimed : " Well, that act is done, and an iniquitous one it is ; but no matter, it is gone off to the post, and I'm rid of him. Now for Lucy, and »;// ambition ; she is unquestion- ably with that shameless old woman who could think of marrying at such an age. She is with her ; she will hear of my illness, and as certain as life is life, and death death, she will be here soon." In this he calculated aright, and he felt that he did so. ]VIi"s. Mainwaring, on the evening of their visit to the city, considered it her duty to disclose, fully and candidly, to Lucy, the state of her father's health, that is, as it appeared to her on their interview. Lucy, who knew that he was subject to sud- den attacks upon occasions of less moment, not only became alarmed, but experienced a feehng like remorse for having, as she said, abandoned him so undutifulh'. " I will return immediately," she said, weeping ; " he is ill : you say he speaks of me tenderly and affectionately — oh, what have I done ! Should this illness prove serious — fatal — my piece of mind were gone forever. I should consider myself as a parri- cide — as the direct cause of his death. My God ! perhaps even now I am miserable for hfe — forever — forever ! " Mrs. Mainwaring soothed her as well as she could, but she refused to hear comfort, and having desired Alley jNIahon to prepare their slight luggage, she took an aflection- ate and tearful leave of INIrs. ^lainwaring, bade adieu to her husband, and was about to get into the chaise, which had been or- dered from the inn in Wicklow, when !Mrs. I\Liinwaring said : " Now, ray dear Lucy, if j'our father should recover, and have recourse to any abuse of his authority, by attempting again to force your inclinations and consummate your miseiy, remember that my door, my arms, my heart, shall ever be open to yon. I do not, you will observe, suggest any act of disobedience on your part ; on the con- trary, I am of opinion that you should suffer everything sliort of the last re-sort, by which I mean this hateful marriage with Dmiroe, sooner than abantlou your father's roof. This lanion is a subject on whicli I must see him again. Poor Lord CuUamore I resjject 490 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. and venerate, for I have reason to believe ihat he has, for one contemplated error, had an unhappy if not a remorseful hfe. In the meantime, even in ojDposition to your father's wishes, I say it, and in confirmation of youi* strongest prejudices " " It amounts to antipathy, Mrs. Main- waring — to hatred, to abhon-ence." " Well, my dear child, in confirmation of them aU, I implore, I entreat, I conjui-e, and if I had authority, I would say, I command you not to \inite your fate with that yovmg profligate." " Do not fear me, IMrs. Main waring ; but at present I can think of nothing but poor papa and his illness ; I tremble, indeed, to think how I shaU find him ; and, my God, to reflect that I am the guilty cause of aU this ! " They then separated, and Lucy, accom- panied by Alley, proceeded to town at a pace as rapid as the animals that bore them could possibly accomphsh. On arriving in town, she was about rush- ing upstau'S to throw herself in her father's arms, when Gibson, who observed her, ap- proached respectfully, and said : " This haste to see youi' father. Miss Gourlay, is very natural ; but perhaps you will be good enough to wait a few moments, until he is prepared to receive you. The doctor has left strict orders that he shall not see any person ; but, above all things, without being announced." "But, Gibson — first, how is he? Is he veiy Dl ? " Gibson assumed a melancholy and very solemn look, as he rephed, "He is, indeed, ill, Mi-ss Gourlay ; but it would not become me to distress you — especially as I hope your presence will comfort him ; he is per- petually calling for you." " Go, Gibson, go," she exclaimed, whilst tears, which she could not restrain, gushed to her eyes. " Go, be quick ; teU him I am here." "I will break it to him, madam, as gently as possible," replied this sedate and oily gentleman ; " for, if made acquainted with it too suddenly, the unexpected joy might injvu'e him." "Do not injure him, then," she exclaimed, earnestly ; " oh, do not injure him — but go ; I leave it to your own discretion." Lucy immediately proceeded to her own room, and Gibson to the libi*ary, where he found the baronet in his nightcap and morn- ing gown, reading a neweixaper. " I have the paragi-aph drawn np, Gibson," said he, with a giim smile, " stating that I am dangerously ill ; take and cojDy it, and see that it be inserted in to-morrow's publi- cation." " It will not be necessary, sir," rephed the footman ; " IMiss Govu-lay is here, and im- patient to see you." "Here!" exclaimed her father with a start ; " you do not say she is in the house ? " " She has just arrived, su', and is now in her own room." "Leave me, Gibson," said the baronet, "and attend promptly when I ring;" and Gibson withdrew. " Why," thought he to himself, " why, do I feel as I do ? Glad that I have her once more in my power, and this is only natui'al ; but why this kind of terror — this awe of that extraordinary girl ? I dismissed that prying scoundrel of a foot- man, because I could not bear that he should observe and sneer at this hj-pocrisy, al- though I know he is aware of it. "What can this uncomfortable sensation which checks my joy at her return mean ? Is it that involuntary homage which they say vice is compelled to pay to purity, truth, and vir- tue ? I know not ; but I feel disturbed, humbled with an imj)ression like that of guilt — an impression which makes me feel as if there actually xmre such a thing as conscience. As my objects, however, are for the foohsh girl's advancement, I am de- termined to play the game out, and for that puipose, as I know now by exjjerience that neither harshness nor -siolence will do, I shall have recourse to tenderness and affec- tion. I must touch her heart, excite her symj)athy, and throw myself altogether upon her generosity. Come then — and now for the assumption of a new character." Having concluded this train of meditation, he rang for Gibson, who appeai'ed. " Gibson, let Miss Goiuiay know that, ill as I am, I shall try to see her : be precise in the message, sir ; use my own words." "Certainly, Sir Thomas," replied the foot- man, who immediately withdrew to deliver it. The baronet, when Gibson went out again, took a j)air of pillows, with which the sofa was latterly fui'nished, in order to maintain the appearance of iUness, whenever it might be necessary, and having placed them under his head, laid himself down, jiuUed the night- cap over his brows, and affected all the sj-mp- toms of a man who was attemjjting to strug- gle against some serious and severe attack. In this state he lay, when Lucj' entering the room, approached, in a flood of t^ars, exclaiming, as she knelt by the sofa, " Oh, papa^dear papa, forgive me ; " and as she spoke, she put her arms round his neck,, and kissed him affectionately. " Dear papa/'| she pi'oceeded, "you are ill — very ill, I fear; but will you not forgive yom- poor child foa! haring abandoned you as she did ? I have-" THE BLACK BARONET. 491 returned, however, to stay ^\ath you, to tend you, to soothe and console you as far as any and every effort of mine can. You shall have no nurse but me, papa. All that hu- man hands can do to give you ease — all that the sincerest affection can do to sustain and cheer you, your owtx Lucy wiU do. But speiik to me, papa ; am I not your own Lucy still ? " Her father tunied round, as if by a painful effort, and haAaug looked upon her for some time, replied, feebly, " Yes, you are — you are my own Lucy still." This admission brought a fresh gush of tears from the affectionate girl, who again exclaimed, "Ah, papa, I fear you are very ill ; but those words are to me the sweetest that ever proceeded from your hps. Are you glad to see me, papa ? — but I forget my- self ; perhaps I am disturbing you. Only say how 3'ou feel, and if it will not injure you, what your complaint is." " My complaint, dear Lucy, mo.st affec- tionate child— for I see you are so still, not- withstanding reports and appearances " " Oh, indeed, I am, papa — indeed I am." " My complaint was brought on by anx- iety and distress of mind — I wiU not say why — I did, I know, I admit, "\^•ish to see you in a position of life equal to your merits ; but I cannot talk of that — it would distiu'b me ; it is a subject on which, alas ! I am without hope. I am threatened with apo- plexy or paralysis, Lucy, the doctor cannot say whicli ; but the danger, he says, proceeds altogether from the state of my mind, acting, it is true, upon a plethoric system of body ; biit I care not, dejir Lucy — I care not, now ; I am indifferent to life. All my expectations — all a father's brilliant plans for his child, !U"e now over. The doctor says that ease of mind mi(jhl restore, but I doubt it now ; I fear it is too late. I only wish I was better prepared for the change which I know I shall soon be forced to make. Yet I feel, Lucy, as if I never loved you until now — T feel how dear you are to me now that I know I must i^art with you so soon." Lucy was utterly incapable of resisting this tenderness, as the unsuspecting girl behevetl it to be. She again threw her arms around him, and wept as if her very heai-t would break. " This agitation, my darling," he added, " is <;oo much for us both. !My head is easi- ly disturbed ; but — but — send for Lucy," he excliumed, as if touched by a passing deliri- um, " send for my daughter. I must have Lucy. I have been harsh to her, and I can- not die witliout her forgiveness." " Here, papa — dearest papa ! Recollect yourself ; Lucy is with you ; not to forgive you for anything, but to ask, to implore to be forgiven." "Ha! "he said, raising his head a Httle, and looking round Uke a man awakening from sleep. " I fear I am beginning to wan- der. Dear Lucy — yes, it is you. Oh, I re- collect. "Withdraw, my darling ; the sight of you — the joy of your very appeiu-ance — eh — eh — yes, let me see. Oh, yes ; withdraw, my darling ; this interview has been too much for me — I fear it has — but rest and silence will restore me, I hope. I hope so — I hope so." Lucy, who feared that a continuance oi this interview might very much aggravate his illness, immediately took her leave, and retired to her oavu room, whither she sum- moned Alley ^Lihon. This blunt but faith- ful attendant felt no suq^rise in witnessing her grief; for indeed she had done little else than weej), ever since she heard of her fath- er's illness. " Now don't ciy so much, miss," she said ; " didn't I tell you that your grief will do neither you nor him any good ? Keep your- self cool and quiet, and spake to him like a raisonable crayture, what you are not, ever since you haixl of his being sick. It isn't by shedding tears that you can expect to comfort him, as you intend to do, but by be- ing calm, and considerate, and attentive tc him, and not allo^\in' him to see what you suffer." "That is very true, Alice, I admit," re- plied Lucy ; but'when I consider that it was my undutiful Ihght from liim that occasioned this attack, how can I free myself from blame ? j\Iy heart, Alice, is di\'ided between a feeling of remorse for having deserted him ^\4thout sufficient cause, and grief for his iU- ness, and in that is involved the appreheri- sion of his loss. After all, Alice, you must admit that I have no fi-iend in the world but my father. How, then, can I think of losing him?" "And even if God took him," repHed Al- ley, " which I hope after all isn't so like- ly " ""NMiat do you mean, girl?" asked Lucy, ignorant that Alley only used a form of speech pecuhar to the people, "what lan- guage is this of my father • " " Why, I hope "it's but the tnith, miss," replied the maid ; " for if God was to call him to-morrow — which may God forbid ! you'd find friends that would take cai'e of you and protect you." " Yes ; but, Alice, if papa died, I should have to reproach myself with his death ; and that consideration would drive me distracted or kill me. I am beginning to think that obedience to the will of a parent is, undei ^92 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. all circumstances, the first duty of a child. A. pai'ent knows better what is for our good chan we can be supposed to do. At all events, whatever exceptions there may be to this rule, I cai-e not. It is enough, and too much, for me to reflect that my conduct has been the cause of pajDa's illness. His great object in life was to promote my haj^piness. Now this was afl'ection for me. I grant he may have been mistaken, but still it Avas af- fection ; and consequently I cannot helj) ad- mitting that even his harshness, and cer- tainly all that he suffered through the very violence of his own passions, arose fi'om the same source — affection for me." "Ah," replied Alley, "it's aisy seen that your heai't is softened now ; but in truth, miss, it was quai'e affection that would make his daughter miserable, bekase he wanted her to become a gi-eat lady. If he was a kind and raisonable father, he would not force you to be unhappy. An affectionate father would give up the point rather than make you so ; but no ; the truth is simply this, he wanted to gi'atify himself more than he did you, or why would he act as he did?" " Ahce," repHed Lucy, "remember that I will not suffer you to speak of my father with disresj)ect. You forget yourself, girl, and learn from me now, that in order to re- store him to peace of mind and health, in order to rescue him from death, and oh," she exclaimed involuntai-ily, " above aU things from a death, for which, perhaps, he is not sufficiently prepared — as who, alas, is for that terrible event ! — yes in order to do this, I am ready to jdeld an imphcit obedi- ence to his wishes : and I pray heaven that this act on my part may not be too late to restore him to his health, and relieve his mind from the load of care which presses it down upon my account." "Good Lord, Miss Gourlay," exclaimed poor Alley, absolutely frightened by the de- termined and vehement spirit in which. these words were uttered, " surely you wouldn't think of makin' a saickei'fice of youi'seK that way?" " That may be the word, Alice, or it may not ; but if it be a saciifice, and if the sacri- fice is necessary, it shall be made — I shall make it. My disobedience shall never break my father's heart." " I don't wish to speak disrespectfully of your father, miss ; but I think he's an am- bitious man." " And perhaps the ambition which he feels is a virtue, and one in which I am deficient. You and I, Alice, know but little of hfe and the maxims by which its gi'eat social piinci- ples ;ire regulated." " Faith, spake for yourself, miss ; as for me, I'm the veiy girl that has had my ex- perience. No less than thi-ee did I man- fully refuse, in sjjite of both father and mother. First there was big Bob Broghan, a giant of a fellow, with a head and pluck upon him that would fill a mess-pot. He had a chape farm, and could afford to wallow like a SA;\ine in filth and laziness. And well becomes the old couple, I must marry him, whether I would or not. Be aisy, said I, it's no go ; when I marry a man, it'll be one that'll know the use of soap and wather, at aU events. WeU, but I must ; I did not know what was for my own good ; he was. rich, and I'd lead a fine life with him. Scrape and clane him for somebody else, says I ; no such walkin' dungheap for me. Then they came to the cudgel, and flaked me ; but it was in a good cause, and I tould them that if I m ud die a maiihyr to cleanh- ness, I must ; and at last they dropped it, and so I got fi-ee of Bob Broghan. "The next was a httle fellow that kept a small shop of hucksthery, and some grocer- ies, and the like o' that. He was a near, penui'ious de\al, hard and scraggj' lookin', with hunger in his face and in his heart, too ; ay, and besides, he had the name of not bein' honest. But then his shop was gettin' bigger and bigger, and himself richer and richer eveiy day. Here's your man, says the old couple. Maybe not, says I. No shingaivn that deals in Ught weights and short measures for me. My husband must be an honest man, and not a keen shaving rogue Hke Barney Buckley. Well, miss, out came the cudgel again, and out came I with the same answer. Lay on, says I ; if I must die a marth;^T: to honesty, why I must ; and may God have mercy on me for the same, as he win. Then they saw that I was a rock, and so there was an end of Barney Buck- ley, as well as Bob Broghan. " WeU and good ; then came numbei three, a fine handsome young man, by name Con Coghlan. At first I didn't much like him, bekase he had the name of being too fond of money, and it was well known that he had disajjpointed three or four girls that couldn't show guinea for guinea with him. The sleeveen gained upon me, however, and I did get fond of him, and tould him to^ speak to my father, and so he did, and theylB met once or twice to make the matcl\ ; but, ah, miss, evex-y one has their troubles. On the last meetin', when he found that my for- tune wasn't what he expected, he shogged o&\ wid himself ; and, mother o' mercy, did ever j I think it would come to that ? " Here she^ wiped her e^-es, and then with fresh spiritl proceeded, " He jilted me, Miss — the dtscite«t THE BLACK BARONET. 493 /ul villain jilted me ; but if he did, I had my revenge. In less than a year he came sneakin' back, and tould my father that as he couldn't get me out of his head, he would take me with whatever portion they could give me. The fellow was rich, !Miss, and so the ould couple, read}' to bounce at him, came out again. Come, Alley, here's Con Coghlan back. "Well, then, says I, he knows the road home again, and let him take it. One good turn desarves another. When he could get me he wouldn't take me, and now when he ivould take me, he won't get me ; so I think we're even. " Out once more came the cudgel, and on they laid ; but now I wasn't common stone but whitestone. Lay on, say I ; I see, or rather I feel, that the crown is before me. If I must die a marthjT to a dacent spirit, why I must ; and so God's blessing be with you all. I'U shine in heaven for this yet. "I think now, ]Miss, you'll grant that I know something about life." " Alice," replied Lucy, " I have often heard it said, that the humblest weeds which gi'ow contain rirtues that are valuable, if they were only known. Your expei'ience is not with- out a moral, and your last lover was the worst, because he was mean ; but when I think of him — the delicate, the generous, the disinterested, the faithful, the noble-hearted — alas, Alice ! " she exclaimed, thro\\ing her- self in a fi-esh paroxysm of giief upon the bosom of her maid, "you know not the in- credible pain — the hopeless agony — of the sacrifice I am about to make. My father, however, is the author of my being, and as his very Hfe depends upon my strength of mind now, I shall, rather than see him die whilst I selfishly gratify my owti will — yes, Alice, I shall — I shall — and may heaven give me strength for it I — I shall sacrifice love to duty, and save him ; that is, if it be not ah'eady too late." "And if he does recover," repUed Alice, whose tears flowed along with those of her mistress, but whose pretty eye began to brighten with indignant energj' as she spoke, " if he does recover, and if ever he turns a cold look, or uses a harsh word to you, r^a}' I die for heaven if he oughtn't to be put in the i^ubhc stocks and made an example of to \ the world." j " The scene, however, will be changed then, Alice ; for the subject matter of all our mis- understandings "will have been removed. Yet, Alice, amidst all the darkness and suf- fering that he before me, there is one conso- lation " — and as she uttered these words, there breathed throughout her beautiful features a spirit of sorix)w, so deep, so . movu-nful, so resigned, and so touching, that Alley in tiu-n laid her head on her bosom, exclaiming, as she looked up into her eyes, " Oh, may the God of mercy have pity on you, my darling mistress ! what wouldn't yom- faithful Alley do to give you rehef ? and she can't ; " and then the afiectionate creature wept bitterly. " But what is the consolation V " she asked, hoping to extract from the melancholy gii-1 some thought or view of her jjosition that might inspire tkem with hope or comfort. " The consolation I allude to, Alice, is the well-known fact that a broken heart cannot long be the subject of sorrow ; and, besides, my farewell of life vdU not be painful ; for then I shall be able to reflect with peace that, difiicult as was the duty imposed upon me, I shall have performed it. Now, dear Alice, withdraw ; I wish to be alone for some time, that I may reflect as I ought, and en- deavor to gain strength for the sacrifice that is before me." Her eye as she looked upon A\lej was, though tilled -srith a melancholy lustre, ex- pressive at the same time of a spirit so lofty, calm, and determined, that its whole char- acter partook of absolute subhmity. Alley, in obedience to her words, withdrew ; but not without an anxious and earnest effort at imparting comfort. When her maid had retu*ed, Lucy began once more to examine her position, in all its dark and jjainful aspects, and to refleoc upon the destiny which awaited her, fraught with unexampled misery as it wa£. Though well aware, from former experience, of her father's hj'jDocritical disguises, she was too full of gen- erosity and cand'jr to allow her heart to entertain suspicion. Her natvire was one of great simplicity, ai'tlessness, and truth. Truth, above all things, was her jiredominant \'irtue ; and we need not say, that wherever it resides it is certain to become a guai-antee for the possession of all the rest. Her cruel- hearted father, himself false and deceitful, dreaded her for this love of ti-uth, and was so well acquainted with her utter wimt of suspicion, that he never sci-upled, though frequently detected, to impose upon her, when it suited his puri)ose. This, indeed, was not difficult ; for such was his daughter's natui-al candor and truthfulness, tliat if he deceived her by a fiilsehood to-day, she was as ready to believe him to-mon"ow as ever. His last heartless act of hypocrisy, therefore, was such a dehberate violation of truth as amounted to a sjiecies of .sacrilege ; for it robbed the pure sluine of liis own daughter's heai't of her whole happiness. Nay, when we consider the relations in which they stood, it might be tei-med, as is beautifully said in ^94 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. Scripture, "a seething of the kid in the mother's milk." As it was, however, her father's iUness dis- armed her generous and forgiving spirit of every argument that stood in the way of the determination she had made. His conduct she felt might, indeed, be the result of one of those gi'eat social eiTors that create so much miseiy in Hfe ; that, for instance, of supposing that one must ascend through certain orders of society, and reach a par- ticulai- elevation before they can enjoy happi- ness. This notion, so much at variance with the goodness and mercy of God, who has not confined happiness to any particular class, she herself rejected ; but, at the same time, the modest estimate which she formed of her own capacity to reason upon or analyze all speculative oj^inions, led her to suppose that she might be wrong, and her father right, in the inferences which they respec- tively drew. Perhaps she thought her reluc- tance to see this individual case through Ms medium, arose from some peculiar idiosjTi- crasy of intellect or temperament not com- mon to others, and that she was setting a particular instance against a universal truth. That, however, which most severely tested her fortitude and noble sense of what we owe a parent, resulted from no moral or meta- physical distinctions of human duty, but simply and directly fi'om what she must suf- fer by the contemj^lated sacrifice. She was bom in a position of life suflaciently dignified for ordinary ambition. She was surrounded by luxury — had received an enlightened edu- cation — had a heart formed for love — for that pure and exalted passion, which comprehends and biings into action all the higher qualities of oui- being, and enlarges all our capacities for happiness. God and natu.re, so to speak, had gifted her mind with extraordinary feel- ing and intellect, and her person with un- usual grace and beauty ; yet, here, by this act of self-devotion to her father, she renounc- ed all that the human heart with such strong claims upon the legitimate enjoyments of life could expect, and voluntarily entered in- to a destiny of suffering and misery. She reflected upon and felt the bitterness of all this ; but, on the other hand, the contem- plation of a father dying in consequence of her disobedience — dying, too, jorobably in an unprepared state — whose heart was now full of love and tenderness for her ; who, in fact, was in gi-ief and sorrow in consequence of what he had caused her to suffer. We say she contemplated all this, and her gi-eat heart felt that this was the moment of mercy. " It is resolved ! " she exclaimed ; " I will disturb him for a little. There is no time COW for meanly wrestUng it out, for ungen- erous hesitation and delay. Suspense may kill him ; and whilst I deliberate, he may be lost. Father, I come. Never again shall you reproach me with disobedience. Though your ambition may be wrong, yet who else than I should become the victim of an en*or which originates in affection for myself ? I yield at last, as is my duty ; now yoiu: situ- ation makes it so ; and my heart, though crushed and broken, shall be an offering of peace between us. Farewell, now, to love — to love legitimate, pure, and holy ! — farewell to all the divine charities and tendernesses of hfe which follow it — farewell to peace of heart — to the wife's pride of eye, to the hus- band's tender glance— farewell — farewell to everything in this wretched hfe but the hopes of heaven ! I come, my father — I come. But I had forgotten," she said, " I must not pee him without permission, nor unannounced- as Gibson said. Stay, I shall ring for Gibson." " Gibson," said she, when he had made his appearance, " try if your master could see me for a moment ; say I request it particular- ly, and that I shall scarcely disturb him. Ask it as a favor, unless he be very ill indeed — and even then do so." "Whilst Gibson went with this message, Lucy, feehng that it might be dangerous to agitate her father by the exliibition of emo- tion, endeavored to compose herself as much as she could, so that by the time of Gibson's return, her appearance was calm, noble, and majestic. In fact, the greatness — the heroic* spirit — of the coming sacrifice emanated like a beautiful but solemn hght fi'om her coun- tenance, and on being desired to go in, she appeared full of unusual beauty and com- posure. On entering, she found her father much in the same position : his head, as before, upon the pillows, and the nightcap drawn over his heavy brows. "You wished to see me, my dear Lucy. Have you any favor to ask, my child ? If so, ask whilst I have recollection and conscious- ness to grant it. I can refuse you nothing now, Lucy. I was vn'ong ever to stiniggle with you. It was too much for me, for I am now the victim ; but even that is well, for 1 am glad it is not you." Wiien he mentioned the word victim. Lucy felt as if a poniard had gone through her heart ; but she had ah-eady resolved that what must be done should be done generously, consequently, without any os- tentation of feeling, and with as Httla appearance of self-sacrifice as possible. It is not for us, she said to herself, to ex- aggerate the value of the gift which we bestow, but rather to depreciate it, for it iff never generous to magnify an obligation, THE BLACK BARONET. 495 "I have a favor to ask, papa," said the [jenerous and considerate girl. "It is granted, my darling Lucy, before I hear it," he replied. " WTiat is it? Oh how happy I feel that you have returned to me ; I shaU not now pass away my last mo- ments en a soUtar}' deathbed. But what is your request, my love ? " "You have to-day, papa, told me that the danger of your present attack proceeds from the anxious state of your mind. Now, my request is, that I may be permitted to make that state easier ; to remove that anxiety, and, if possible, all other anxiety and care that press upon you. You know, papa, the topic upon which we have always diflered ; now, rather than any distress of feeling con- nected with it should stand in the way of your recoveiy, I ^\-ish to say that you may count upon my most perfect obedience." " You mean the Dunroe business, dear Lucy ? " " I mean the Dunroe business, papa." " And do you mean to say that you are willing and ready to mai*ry him ? " The reply to this was indeed the coming away of the branch by which she had hung on the precipice of life. On heai-ing the question, therefore, she paused a httle ; but •he pause did not j^roceed fi'om any indis- position to answer it, but simply from what iseemed to be the refusal of her natural powers to enable her to do so. WTien about to speak, she felt as if all her physical strength had abandoned her ; as if her will, previous- ly schooled to the task, had become recu- sant. She experienced a general chill and coldness of her whole body ; a cessation for a moment or two of the action of the heart, whilst her veiy sight became dim and indis- tinct. She thought, however, in this un- utterable moment of agony and despair, that she must axi ; and without feeling able to analyze either her thoughts or sensations, in this ten-ible timiult of her spirit, she heard herself repeat the reply, "I .\Ji, p.vp.\." For a moment her father forgot his part, and started up into a sitting posture with as much apparent energy as ever. Another moment, however, Was sufficient to make him feel his error. "Oh," said he, "what have I done? Iiet me pause a httle, my dear Lucy ; that eflFort to express the joy you have poured into my heart was nearly too much for me. You make Lhis promise, Lucy, not with a view merely to ease my mind and contribute to my recovery ; but, should I get well, with a finn intention to carry it actually into exe- cution ? " " Such, p:ipa, is my intention — my fixed determination, I shovild say ; but I ought to add, that it is altogether for your sake, dear papa, that I make it. Now let your mind feel tranquillity and ea«e ; dismiss every anxiety that distresses you, papa ; for you may beheve your daughter, that there is no earthly sacrifice compatible with her duties as a Christian which she would not make for your recovery. This intei-view is now, per- haps, as much as your sbite of health can bear. Think, then, of what I have said, pa- pa ; let it console and strengthen ; and then it wiU, I trust, help at least to bring about your recovery. Now, permit me to with- draw." " Wait a moment, my child. It is right that you should know the eflfect of your goodness before you go. I feel already as if a mountain were removed from my heart — even now I am better. God bless you, my own dearest Lucy ; you have saved your father. Let this consideration comfort you and sustain you. Now you may go, my love." "VMien Lucy withdrew, which she did with a totteiing step, she proceeded to her own chamber, which, now that the energy neces- sary for the struggle had abandoned her, she entered almost unconsciously, and with a feeling of rapidly-increasing weakness. She approached the bell to ring for her maid, which she was able to do with difficulty ; and having done so, she attempted to reach the sofa ; but exhausted and overwrought nature gave way, and she fell just sufficiently near it to have her fall broken and her head supported by it, as she lay there apparently lifeless. Li this state Alley Malion found her ; but instead of ringing an alarm, or attempting to collect a crowd of the servants to witness a scene, and being besides a stout as well as a discreet and sensible girl, she was able to raise her up, place her on a sofa, unto, by the as.sistance of cold water and some patience, she succeeded in restoring her to life and consciousness. " On opening her eyes she looked about, and Alley observed that her hps were parch- ed and dry. " Here, my darling mistress," said the affectionate girl, who now wept bitterly, " here, swallow a httle cold water ; it will moisten your hps, and do you good." She attempted to do so, but Ally saw that her hand trembled too much to bring the water to her own lips. On swallowing it, it seemed to relieve her a little ; she then look- ed up into -Alley's face, with a smile of thanks so unutterably sweet and sorrowful, that the poor girl's tears gushed out afresh. " Take courage, my darhng mistress," she rephed ; "I know that sometliing painful has happened ; but for Christ's blessed sake, '196 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. don't look so sorrowful and broken-hearted, or you will " "Alice," said she, interrupting her, in a calm, soft voice, like low music, "open my bosom — open my bosom, Alice ; you will find a miniature there ; take it out ; I wish to look upon it." " O thin," said the girl, as she proceeded to obey her, " happy is he that rests so near that pure and innocent and sorrowful heart ; and great and good nuist he be that is worthy of it." There was in the look which Lucy cast upon her when she had uttered these words a spirit of gentle but affectionate reproof ; but she spoke it not. " Give it to me, Ahce," she said ; " but unlock it first ; I feel that my hands are too feeble to do so." Alice unlocked the miniature, and Lucy then taking it fi'om her, looked ujaon it for a moment, and then pressing it to her lips with a calm emotion, in which grief and despair seemed to mingle, she exclaimed, " Alas ! mamma, how much do I now stand in need of your adiice and consola- tion ! The shiine in which your affection and memory dwelt, and against whose troubled jiulses your sweet and serene im- age lay, is now broken. There, dearest mamma, you will find nothing in future but affliction and despair. It has been said, that I have inherited your graces and your vir- tues, most beloved parent ; and if so, alas ! in how remote a degree, for who could equal yo^ ? But how would it have WTung j-our gentle and loving heart to know that I should have inherited yovu' secret gi-iefs and suffer- ings? Yes, mamma, both are painted on that serene brow ; for no art of the limner could conceal their mournful traces, nor re- move the veil of sorrow which an unhaj^jDy destiny thi'ew over yoiu' beauty. There, in that clear and gentle eye, is still the image of your love and sympathy — there is that smile so full of sweetness and suffering. Alas, alas ! how closely do we resemble each other in all things. Sweet and blessed saint, if it be permitted, descend and let your spirit be with me — to guide, to soothe, and to support me ; your task will not be a long one, beloved parent. From this day forth my only hope will be to join you. Life has nothing now but soUtude and soitow. There is no lieart with which I can hold com- munion ; for my gi'ief, and the act of duty which occasions it, must be held sacred from aU. She kissed the miniature once more, but without tears, and after a little, she made Alley place it where she had ever kept it — next her heart. "Alice," said she, "I trust I will soon be with mamma." "My dear misti-ess," replied Alice, "don't spake so. I hope there's many a happy and pleasant day before you, in spite of all that has come and gone, yet." She turned upon the maid a look of in- creduhty so hopeless, that Alley felt both alarmed and depressed. "You do not know what I suffer, Alice," she rephed, " but I know it. This miniature of mamma I got painted unknown to — un- known to — " (here we need not say that she meant her father) — " any one except mamma, the artist, and myself. It has laid next my heart ever since ; but since her death it has been the dearest thing to me on earth — one only other object perhajDs excepted. Yes," she added, with a deej? sigh, " I hope I shall soon be Avith you, mamma, and then we shall never be sejDarated any more ! " Alley regi-etted to j^erceive that her gi-ief noAv had settled down into the most wasting and dangerous of all ; for it was of that dry and silent kind which so soon consumes the lamp of hfe, and dries up the strength of those who unhajjpily fall under its malignant bhght. Lucy's journey, however, from Wicklow, the two intei-views with her father, the sac- rifice she had so nobly made, and the con- sequent agitation, all overcame her, and after a painful sti-uggle between the alterna- tions of forgetfulness and memory, she at lenofth fell into a troubled slumber. CHAPTEK XXIX. Lord Dunroe's Affection for his Father — Glimpse oj a new Character — Lo7'd Cullamore's Rebuke to hi» Son, who greatly refuses to give up his Friend. A CONSIDERABLE period uow elapsed, during which there was httle done that could con- tribute to the jDrogress of our nai'rative Summer had set in, and the CuUamore family, owing to the faihng health of the old nobleman, had returned to his Dublin resi- dence, with an intention of removing to Glenshee, as soon he should receive the advice of his i^hysician. Fi'om the daj- on which his brother's letter reached him, his lordship seemed to fall into a more than ordinai-y despondency of mind. His health for years had been very infirm, but from whatsoever cause it proceeded, he now ap- peared to labor under some secret presenti- ment of calamity, against which he struggled, in vain. So at least he himself admitted. It is true that age and a constitution enfeebled THE BLACK BARONET. 497 by delicate health mif^jht alone, in a disposi- tion naturally hj^pochondriac, occasion such anxiety ; as we know they frequently do even in the youthful. Be this as it may, one thing was evident, his lordship began to sink more rapidly than he had ever done before ; and like most invalids of his class, he became wilful and obstinate in his own opinions. His doctor, for inst^mce, advised him to re- move to the delightful air of Glenshce Castle ; but this, for some reason or other, he peremptorily refused to do, and so long as he chose to remiuu in town, so long were Lady Emily and her aunt resolved to stay ■with him. Dunroe, also, was jiretty regidar in inquiries after his health ; but whether from a principle of filial affection, or a more flagitious motive, will appear from the follow- ing conversation, which took place one morning after breakfast, between himself and Norton. " How is your father this morning, my lord ? " inquired that worthy gentleman. " I hojje he is better." "A He, Norton," replied his lordship — "a lie, as usual. You hope no such tiling. The agency which is to follow on the respectable old peer's demise bars that— eh ? " " I give you my honor, m}' lord, you do me injustice. I am in no hui'iy with him on that account ; it would be unfeeling and selfish." "Now, Tom," replied the other, in that kind of contemptuous familiarity which slavish minions or adroit knaves like Norton must always put up with from such men, " now, Tom, my good fellow, you know the case is this — you get the agency to the Cul- lamore property the moment my right honorable dad makes his exit. If he should delay that exit for seven years to come, then you will be exactly seven yeixrs short of the period in which you will fleece me and my tenants, and put the wool on yourself." " Only your tenants, my lord, if you please. I may shear them a little, I tinist ; but you can't sujjpose me cajiable of sheaiing " "My lordship. No, no, you are too honest ; only you will allow me to insinuate, in the meantime, that I beheve you have fleeced me to some pui^jose ab*eady. I do not allude to j'our gambling debts, which, with my owti, I have been obliged to pay ; but to other opportunities which have come in your way. It doesn't matter, however ; you are a pleasant and a useful fellow, and I beheve that although you clip me yourself a little, you would permit no one else to do BO. And, by the way, talking of the respect- able old peer, he is anything but a friend of yours, and urged me strongly to send you to the devil, as a cheat and impostor." " How is that, my lord ? " asked Noi*ton, with an interest which he could scarcely dis- guise. " WTiy, he mentioned something of a con- versation you had, in which you told him, you impudent dog — and coolly to his face, too — that you patronized his son while in France, and introduced him to several distin- guished French noblemen, not one of whom, he had reason to believe, ever existed except in your o^^•n fertQe and lying imagination." "And was that all?" asked Norton, who began to entertain apprehensions of !Morty O'Flaherty ; " did he mention nothing else?" " No," replied Dunroe ; " and you scoun- drel, was not that a d — d deal too much ? " Nox'ton, now feeling that he was safe from Morty, laughed very heartily, and replied, " It's a fact, sure enough ; but then, wasn't it on your lordship's account I boimced ? The lie, in point of fact, if it can be called one, was, therefore, more your lordship's he than mine." " How do vou mean by ' if it can be called one*?" " \\Tay, if I did not introduce you to real noblemen, I did to some spurious specimens, gentlemen who taught you all the arts and etiquette of the gaming-table, of which, you know very well, my lord, you were then so shamefully ignorant, as to be quite unfit for the society of gentlemen, especially on the continent." " Yes, Tom, and the state of my property now tells me at what cost you taught me. You see these tenants say they have^ not money, plead hard times, failure of crops, and de- preciation of property." " Ay, and so they will plead, until / take them in hand." " And, upon my soul, I don't care how soon that maj' be." "Monster of disobedience," said Norton, ironicidly, " is it thus you spealc of a beloved parent, and that parent a respectable old peer? In other words, you wish him in kingdom come. Repent, my lord — reti-act those words, or dread ' the raven of the valley.' " " Fiiith, Tom, there's no use in conceaUng it. It's not that I wish him gone ; but that I long as much to touch the jiropcrty at large, as you the agency. It's a devilish tough affair, this illness of his." " Patience, my lord, and fihid affection." " I \\-ish he would either hve or die ; for, in the first case, I could miu-rj- this brave and wealthy wench of the bai'onet's, which I can't do now, and he in such a state of health. If I could once touch the Gourlay Ciish, I were satisfied. The Gourlay estates will come to 498 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. me, too, because there is no heir, and they ] go with this weuch, who is a brave wench, for that reason." "So she has consented to have you at last?" " Do you think, Tom, she ever had any serious intention of dechning the coronet ? No, no ; she wouldn't be her father's daugh- ter if she had." " Yes ; but your lordship suspected that the fellow who shot you had made an im- pression in that quarter." " I did for a time — that is, I was fool enough to think so ; she is, however, a true woman, and only played him off against me." " But why does she refuse to see you ? " " She hasn't refused, man ; her health, they tell me, is not good of late ; of course, she is only waiting to gain strength for the interview, that is all. Ah, Tom, my dear fellow, I understand women a devihsh deal better than you do." " So you ought ; you have had greater experience, and paid more for it. "What will you do with the fair blonde, though. I suppose the matrimonial compact will send her adrift." "Suj^pose no such thing, then. I had her before matrimony, and I will have her after it. No, Tom, I am not ungrateful ; fore or aft, she shall be retained. She shall never say that I acted unhandsomely by her, especially as she has become a good girl and repented. I know I did her injustice about the player-man. On that point she has thoroughly satisfied me, and I was wrong." Norton gave him a peculiar look, one of those looks which an adept in the ways of life, in its crooked paths and unprincipled impostures, not unfrequently bestows upon the poor aristocratic dolt whom he is plun- dering to his face. The look we speak of might be mistaken for surprise — it might be mistaken for pity — but it was meant for contempt. " Of course," said he, " j^ou are too well versed in the ways of the world, my lord, and especially in those of the fair sex, to be imposed upon. If ever I met an individual who can read a man's thoughts by looking mto his face, your lordship is the man. By the way, when did you see yowc father-in- law that is to be ? " " A couple of days ago. He, too, has been iU, 3,nd looks somewhat shaken. It is true, I don't like the man, and I beheve nobody does ; but I like very well to hear him talk of deeds, settlements, and marriage articles. He begged of me, however, not to insist on seeing his daughter until she is fully recov- ered, which he expects will be very soon ; and the moment she is prepared for an in- terview, he is to let me know. But, harkee, Tom, what can the old earl want with me this morning, think you ? " "I cannot even guess," replied the other, " unless it be to prepare you for " " For what?" " Why, it is said that the fair lady with whom 5'ou are about to commit the crime of matrimony is virtuous and religious, as well as beautiful and so forth ; and, in that case, perhajjs he is about to prepare you for the expected conference. I cannot guess any- thing else, unless, perhaps, it may be the ava- rice of age about to rebuke the profusion and generosity of youth. In that case, my lord, keep youi' temper, and don't compromise your friends." " Never fear, Tom ; I have already fought more battles on your account than you could dream of. PerhajDS, after all, it is noth- ing. Of late he has sent for me occasion- ally, as if to speak upon some matter of importance, when, after chatting ujDon the news of the day or lectuiing me for support- ing an impostor — meaning you — he has said he would defer the subject on which he wished to speak, until another opjDortunity. Whatever it is, he seems afraid of it, or per- haps the respectable old peer is doting." "I dare say, my lord, it is very natural he should at these years ; but if he," proceeded Norton, laughing, " is doting now, what will you be at hia years ? Here, however, is his confidential man, Morty OTlaherty." OTlaherty now entered, and after making a bow that stiU smacked strongly of Tippe- raiy, delivered his message. "My masther, Lord Cullamore, vvashes to see you, my lord. He has come down stairs, and is facing the sun, the Lord be praised, in the back drawin'-room." " Go, my lord," said Norton ; " perhaps he wishes you to make a third luminary. Go and heljihim to face the sun." " Be my sowl, Mr. Norton, if I'm not much mistaken, it's the father he'll have to face. I may as well give yon the hard word, my lord — troth, I think you had better be on your edge ; he's as dark as midnight^ although the sun in in his face." His lordship went out, after having given two or three yawns, stretched himself, and shrugged his shoulders, like a man who was about to enter ujDon some unpleasant busi- ness with manifest reluctance. " Ah," exclaimed Morty, looking after him, "there goes a cute boy — at laste, God forgive him, he's of that opinion himselt What a pity there's not more o' the family; they'd ornament the counthry." THE BLACK BARONET. 499 " Say, rather, Morty, that there's one too many." " Faith, and I'm sure, Barney, you oughtn't to think so. Beg pardon — jNIr. Norton." " Morty, curse you, will you be cautious ? But why should I not think so ? " " For sound raisons, that no man knows better than yourself." "I'm not the only person that thinks there's one too many of the family, Morty. In that opinion I am ably supported by his lordship, just gone out there." " Where ! Ay, I see whereabouts you are now. One too many — faith, so the blessed pair of you think, no doubt." " Right, Morty ; if the devil had the agency of the ancient eai'l's soul, I would soon get that of his ancient property ; but whilst he hves it can't be accomj)hshed. What do you imagine the old bawble wants with the young one ? " " Well, I don't know ; I'm hammerin' upon that for some time past, and can't come at it." "Come, then, let us get the materials first, and then put them on the anvil of my im- agination. Impriniifi — which means, Morty, in the fiml place, have you heard anything ? " " No ; nothing to speak of." " Well, in the second place, have you seen or obfierved anything?" " Why, no ; not much." " Which means — both your answers in- cluded — that you have both heard and seen — so I interjDi-et ' nothing to speak of,' on the one hand, and your ' not much,' on the other. Out with it ; two heads are better than one : what you miss, I may hit." " The de\'il's no match for you. Bar — Mr. Norton, and it's hard to expect Dunroe should. I'll tell you, then — for, in troth, I'm a* anxious to come at the meanin' of it myself as you can be for the life of you. Some few months ago, when we were in London, there came a man to me." " Name him, Morty." " His name was M'Bride." " M'Bride — ijroceed." " His name was M'Bride. His fece was tanned into mahogany, just as eveiy man's is that has hved long in a hot country. ' Your name,' says he, 'is O'Flaherty, I under- | stand ? '" ' ; " 'Morty OTlaheriy, at your sarvice,'says) i I, ' and how are you, sir ? I'm happy to see ' you ; only in the mane time you have the i adv;mtage of me.' " , " ' Many thanks to you,' said he, ' for your kind inquiries ; as to the advantage, I won't keep it long ; only you don't seem to know your relations.' " " ' ]\Iaybe not,' says I, ' they say it's a wise wan that does. Are you one q' them ? ' " " 'I'm one o' them. Did you ever hear of ould Kid Flaherty ? ' " " ' WeU, no ; but I did of Buck Flaherty, that always went in boots and buckskin breeches, and wore two watches and a silver- mounted whip.' " " ' Well, you must know that Kid was a son ' — and here he pointed his thumb over his left shoulder wid a knowin' grin upon him — ' was a son of the ould Buck's. The ould Buck's wife was a Murtagh ; now she agnin had a cousin named M'Shaughran, who was manied upon a man by name M'Faddle. M'Faddle had but one sisther, and she was cousin to Frank M'Fud, tliat suffered for — but no matther — the M'Swiggins and the M'Fuds were cleaveens to the third cousins of Kid Flaherty's first wife's sister-iu-lnw, and she again was married in upon the M'Brides of Newton Nowhere — so that you see you and I are thu'ty-second cousins at all events.' " " 'W^ell, anyway he made out some relation- shij) between us, or at least I thought he did — and maybe that was as good — and faith may be a great deal better, for if ever a man had the look of a schemer about him the same customer had. At any rate we had some drink together, and went on very well till we got befuddled, which, it seems, is hia besetting sin. It was clearly his intention, I could see, to make me tipsy, and I dare say he might a done so, only for a slight mistake he made in first gettmg tijjsy him- self." " Well, but I'm not much the wiser ot this," obsen'ed Norton. "What are you at?" "Neither am I," replied Morty ; "and as to what I'm at — I dunna what the devil I'm at. That's just what I want to know." " Go on," said the other, " we must have patience. JVfio did this fellow turn out to be?" " He insisted he was a relation of my own, as I tould you." "Who the devil cares whether he was or not ! ]]lutf was he, then ? " " Ay ; what was he ? — that's what I'm askin' you." " Pi'oceed," said Norton ; " teU it your own way." " He said he came fi'om the Aist Indies beyant ; that he knew some memliers of his lordship's family there ; that he had been in Palis, and that while he was there he lamed to tiike French lave of his masther." " But who was his master? " " That he would not tell me. However, he said he had been in Ireland for some time before, where he saw an aunt of his, that was half mad ; and then he went on tQ tfOO WILLlAlf CARLETON'S WORKS. tell me that he had been once at sarvice wid my masther, and that if he liked he could tell him a secret ; but then, he said, it wouldn't be -n^orth his while, for that he would soon know it." " Very clear, perfectly transpai'ent, nothing can be plainer. "WTiat a TipjDerary sphinx you ai'e ; an enigma, half man, h^ beast, although there is little enigma in that, it is plain enough. In the meantime, you bog- trotting oracle, say whether you are hum- bugging me or not." "De-s-il a bit I'm humbuggin' you; but proud as you sit there, you have trotted more bogs and horses than ever I did." "Well, never mind that, Morty. What did this end in ? " " End in ! — why upon my conscience I don't think it's i:»roper^l3- begun j'et." " Good-by," exclaimed Norton, rising to go, or at least pretending to do so. "Many thanks in the meantime for your information — it is precious, invaluable." " Well, now, wait a minute. A few days ago I seen the same schemer skulkin' about the house as if he was afeared o' bein' seen ; and that beef and mutton may be my poison, wid health to use them, but I seen him stealin' out of his lordship's own room. So, now make money o' that ; only when you do, don't be puttin' it in circulation." " No danger of that, Morty, in any sense. At all events, I don't deal in base coin." "Don't you, faith. I wondher what do you call imposin' Barney Biyan, the horse- jockey, on his lordship, for Tom Norton, the gentleman? However, no matther — that's your own affair ; and so long as you let the good ould lord alone among you — keep your secret — I'm not goin' to interfere wid you. None of your travellers' tricks upon Inxm, though." "No, not on him, Morty ; but concerning this forthcoming marriage, if it takes place, I dare say I must travel ; I can't depend up- on Dunroe's word." "Why, unlikelier things has happened, Mr. Norton. I think you'll be forced to set out." " Well, I only say that if IVIi'. Norton can prevent it, it won't happen. I can wind this puppy of a lord, who has no more will of his own than a goose, nor half so much ; I say I can wind him round my finger ; and if I don't get him to make himself, in any inteiriew he may have with her, so egregi- pusly ridiculous, as to disgust her thor- oughly, my name's not Norton — hem — ha, ha, ha ! " "Well, your name's not Norton— veiy good. In the mane time more power to f ou in that ; for by all accounts it's a sin and a shame to throw away such a girl upon him." Norton now having gained all he could from his old acquaintance, got up, and was about to leave the room, when Morty, look- ing at him significantly, asked, " Where are you bovmd for now, if it's a fail' question ? " " I will tell you, then, ]\Iorty — upon an affair that's anything but pleasant to me, and withal a little dangerous : to buy a horse for Dunroe." " Troth, you may well say so ; in God's name keep away fi-om horses and jockeys, or youll be found out ; but, above aU things, don't show your face on the Curragh." " Well, I don't know. I believe, after all, there's no such vast distinction there be- tween the jockej's and the gentlemen. Some- times the jocke}' swindles himself up into a gentleman, and sometimes the gentleman swindles himself down to a jockey. So far there would be no great mistake ; the only thing to be dreaded is, discovery, so far as it affects the history which I gave of myself to Dunroe and his father. Then there is the sale of some races against me on that most elastic sod ; and I fear they are not yet forgotten. Yes, I shall avoid the Curragh ; but you know, a fit of illness will easily man- age that. However, pass that by ; I wish I knew what the old peer and the young one are discussing." " What now," said Norton to himself, after Morty had gone, " can this M'Bride be scheming about in the family ? There's a secret here, I'm certain. Something troubles the old peer of late, whatever it is. Well, let me see ; I'll thi'ow myself in the way of this same M'Bride, and it will go hard with me or I'll worm it out of him. The knowl- edge of it may sei-ve me. It's a good thing to know family secrets, especially for a hanger-on hke myseK. One good effect it may produce, and that is, thi-ow worthy Lord Dunroe more into my power. Yes, I will see this MBiide, and then let me alone for playing my card to some jjurpose." Dunroe found his father much as Morty had described him — enjoying the fi*esh breeze and blessed light of heaven, as both came in upon him through the open window at which he sat. The appearance of the good old man was much changed for the worse. His face was paler and more emaciated than when we last described it. His chin almost rested on his breast, and his aged-looking hands were worn away to skin and bone. Still there was the same dignity about him as ever, only that the traces of age and illness gave to it something that was still more ven- THE BLACK BARONET. 501 erable and impressive. Like some portrsiit, by an old master, time, whilst it mellowed and softened the colors, added that depth and truthfulness of character by which the value is at once kno^\^l. He was sitting in an arm- chair, with a pillow for his head to rest upon when he wished it ; and on his son's entrance he asked him to wheel it round nearer the centre of the room, and let down the window. "I hope you are better this morning, my lord ? " inquired Dunroe. "John," said he in reply, " I cannot say that I am better, but I can that I am worse." "I am sony to hear that, my lord," replied the other, "the season is remark- ably fine, and the air mild and cheerful." ' ' I would much rather the cheerfulness were here,'' repUed his father, putting his wasted hand upon his heart; "but I did not ask you here to talk about myself on this occasion, or about my feelings. ]Miss Gourlay has consented to many you, I know."' " She has, my lord." " Well, I must confess I did her father in- justice for a time. I ascribed his exti'aor- dinary anxiety for this match less to any predilection of hers — for I thought it was otherwise — than to his ambition. I am glad, however, that it is to be a man-iage, although I feel you are utterly unworthy of her ; and if I did not hope that her influence may in time, and in a short time, too, succeed in bringing about a wholesome reformation in your Ufe and morals, I would oppose it still as far as lay in my power. It is upon this subject I wish to speak with you." Lord Dunroe bowed with an appearance of all due respect, but at the same time wished in his heart that Norton could be present to hear the lecture which he had so correctly prognosticated, jmd to witness the ability -w-ith which he should bamboozle the old peer. "I assure you, my lord," he repHed, "I am very willing and anxious to hear and be guided by ever^-thing you shall say. I know I have been wild — indeed, I am very sorry for it ; and if it will satisfy you, my lord, I ^N-ill add, without hesitation, that it is time I should turn over a new leaf — hem ! " " You have, John, been not merely wild — for wildness I could overlook without much severity — but you have been profligate in morals, profligate in expenditure, and profli- gate in your dealings with those who trusted in your integrity. You have been intem- perate ; you have been hcentious ; you have been dishonest ; and as you have not yet abandoned any one of these frightful vices, I look upon your union mth Miss Gourlay as an as.sociation between pollution and purity." " You are very severe, my lord." " I meant to be so ; but am I unjust ? Ah, John, let your own conscience answer that question." " Well, my lord, I trust you will be grati- fied to hear that I am perfectly sensible of the life I have led — ahem ? " "And what is that but julmitting tliat you know the full extent of your rices ? — unless, indeed, you have made a Hitq reso- lution to give them up." " I have made such a resolution, my lord, and it is my intention to keep it. I know I can do little of myself, Imt I trust that where there is a sincere disposition, all will go on swimmingly, as the Bible says-- ahem ! " " Where does the Bible say that all loill go on swimmingly ? " " I don't remember the exact chapter and verse, my lord," he replied, aft'ecting a very grave aspect, " but I know it is somewhere in the Book of Solomon — ahem ! — ahem ! Either in Solomon or Exodus the Projihet, I am not certain which. Oh, no, by the by, I believe it is in the diidogue that occurs be- tween Jonah and the whale." His father looked at him as if to ascei*tain whether his worthy son were abandoned enough to tamj^er, in the first place, \rith a subject so solemn, and, in the next, Arith the anxiety of his own parent, while laboring, under age and infirmity, to wean him from a course of dissipation and vice. Little in- deed did he suspect that his rirtuous off- spring was absolutely enacting his part, for the purpose of having a good jest to regale Norton with in the course of their evening's potations. Let it not be supposed that we are over- stepping the modesty of nature in this scene. There is scarcely any one acquainted with life who does not know tliat there are hundreds, thousands, of hardened pi-ofiigates, who would take delight, under similai- circum- stances, to quiz the governor — as a parent is denominated by this class — even at the risk of incuniug his lasting displeasure, or of al- together forfeiting his aft'ection, rjither than lose the opportunity of haring a good joke to tell their licentious companions, when they meet. The i')resent age has as much of this, perhaps, as juiy of its predecessors, if not more. But to return. " I know not," observed L 516 WILLIAM CABLETON'S WOIiKS. Bxire you, that Lady Gourlay's friends know more of your secrets than you suspect. I be- lieve you to be nothing more nor less than a hardened old AoUain, whose heart is sordid, and base, and cruel — con-upted, I fear, be- yond all hope of redemption. You have been plajang with me, sir — sneering at me |m your sleeve, during this whole dialogue. T?his was a false move, however, on your part, and you will find it so. I am not a man to be either played with or sneered at by such a snake-like and diabohcal old scoundi'el as you are. Listen, now, to me. You think yom: secret is safe ; you think you are beyond the reach of the law ; you think we know nothing of youi* former movements under the guidance and in jDersonal company with the Black Bai-onet. Pray, did you think it impossible that there was above you a God of justice, and of vengeance, too, whose pro%idential disclosui-es are sufiicient ^o bring your villany to light? Anthony :C!orbet, be warned in time. Let your dis- closures be voluntary, and they will be re- ceived with gratitude, with deep thanks, vdth amj^le rewards ; refuse to make them, endeavor still further to veil the crimes to which I aUude, and sustain this flagitious compact, and we shall drag them up your throat, and after forcing you to disgorge them, we shall send you, in your wicked and impenitent old age, where the clank of the felon's chain will be the only music in your eai's, and that chain itself the only garter that will ever keep up your Connemaras. Now begone, and lay to heart what I've said to you. It wasn't my intention to have let you go "u-ithout a bit of something to eat, and a glass of something to wash it down afterwards ; but you may travel now ; no- thing stronger than pure air will cross your lips in this house, unless at your own cost." The old fellow seemed to hesitate, as if struck by some observation contained in the priest's lecture. "WTien do you lave town, sir?" he asked. " Whenever it's my convanience," replied the other ; " that's none of your affair. I'll go immediately and see Skipton." The jDriest observed that honest Anthony looked still graver at the mention of this name. "If you don't go," he added, " until a couple of days hence, I'd Hke to see you again, about this hour, the day afther to- morrow." " Whether I'll be here, or whether I won't is more than I know. I may be brought to judgment before then, and so may you. You may come then, or you may stay away, just as you like. If you come, perhaps I'll see you, and perhaps I won't. So now good- by ! Tliank goodness we are not depending on you ! " Anthony then shmk out of the room with a good deal of hesitation in his manner, and on leaving the hall-door he paused for 8 moment, and seemed disposed to return. At length he decided, and after lingering awhile, took his way toward Constitution Hill. This interview vsdth the priest disturbed Corbet very much. His selfishness, joined to great caution and timidity of character, rendered him a very difficult subject for any man to wield according to his pui*poses. There could be no doubt that he entertained feelings of the most diabolical resentment and vengeance against the baronet, and yet it was impossible to get out of him the means by which he proposed to visit them upon him. On leaving Father M'Mahon, therefore, he experienced a state of alterna- tion between a resolution to make dis- closures and a determination to be sUent and work out his own plans. He also feared death, it is true : but this was only when those rare visitations of conscience occurred that were awakened by superstition, instead of an enhghtened and Christian sense of religion. This latter was a word he did not understand, or rather one for which he mis- took superstition itseK. Be this as it may, he felt uneasj', anxious, and irresolute, wav- ering between the right and the wrong, aft-aid to take his stand by either, and wish- ing, if he could, to escape the consequences of both. Other plans, however, were ripen- ing as well as his, under the management of those who were deterred by none of his cowardice or irresolution. The considera- tion of this brings us to a family discussion ; which it becomes our duty to detail before we proceed any further in our narrative. On the following day, then, nearly the same j^ai-ty of which we have given an ac- count in an early portion of this Avork, met in the same eating-house we have already described ; the only difference being that instead of O'Douegan, the classical teacher old Corbet himself was present. The mat called Thomas Corbet, the eldest son o' Anthony, Ginty Cooper the fortune-teller, Ambrose Gray, and Anthony himself, com- posed this interesting sederunt. The others had been assembled for some time before the arrival of Anthony, who consequently had not an opportunity of hearing the fol- lowing brief dialogue. "I'm afraid of my father," observed Thomas ; "he's as deep as a draw-well, and it's impossible to know what he's at. How are we to manage him at all ? " " By following his advice, I think," said THE BLaCK baronet. 511 Ginty. "It's time, I'm sure, to get this boy into his rights." "I was veiy well (lisi)osed to help you in that," repKed her brother ; " but of late he has led such a life, that I fear if he comes into the property, he'U do either us or him- self httle credit ; and what is still worse, will he have sense to keep his own secret ? My father says his brother, the legitimate son, is dead ; that he died of scarlet-fever many years ago in the country — and I think myself, b}- the way, that he looks, whenever he says it, as if he himself had furnished the boy with the fever. That, however, is not our business. If I had been at Red Hall, instead of keeping the house and place in town, it's a short time the other — or Fenton as he calls himself — would be at large. He's now undher a man that will take care of him. But indeed it's an easy task. He'll never see his mother's face again, as I weU know. Scarman has him, and I give the poor devil about thi'ee months to hve. He doesn't allow him half food, but, on the other hand, he supplies him with more whiskey than he can drink ; and this by the baronet's own wiitten orders. As for you, Mr. Gray, for we may as well call you so yet awhile, your conduct of late has been disgraceful." " I grant it," replied jVIr. Gray, who was now sober ; " but the truth is, I really look- ed, after some consideration, upon the whole Elan as quite impracticable. As the real eir, however, is dead " " Not the real heir, Amby, if you please. He, poor fellow, is in custody that he will never escape from again. Upon my soul, I often pitied Ixim." " How full of compassion you are ! " re- plied his sister. " I have vers' little for the baronet, how- ever," he replied ; " and I hope he ■will never die till I scald the soul in his body. Excuse me, Amby. You know all the cir- cumstances of the family, and, of course, that you are tlie child of guilt and shame." "Why, yes, I'm come on the ^^^■oug side as to birth, I admit ; but if I clutch the property and title, I'll thank heaven every day I hve for my mother's frailty." " It was not frailty, you unfeeling boy," replied Giuty, " so much as my father's credulity and ambition. I was once said to be beautiful, and he, having taken it into his head that this man, when young, might love me, went to the expense of having me well educated. He then threw me pei-petu- ally into his society ; but I was young and sirtless at the time, and believed his solemn oaths and promises of marriage." "And the gi-eater villain he," observed her brother ; " for I myself did not think, there could be danger in your intimacy, be- cause you and he were foster-cliiltli-en ; and, except in his case, I never knew another throughout the length and breadth of the countiy, where the obligation of that tie was forgotten." " WcU," obsei'ved Ambrose, "we must only make the best of our position. If I succeed, you shall, according to our written agi-eement, be aU provided for. Not that I would feel very strongly disposed to do much for that enigmatical old grandfather of mine. The vile old feiTet saw me in the lock-up the other morning, and refused to bail me out ; ay, and threatened me be- sides." "He did riglit," rej^lied his uncle; "and if you're caught there again, I'll not only never bail you out, but wash my hands of the whole affair. So now be warned, and let it be for your good. Listen, then ; for the case in which you stand is this : there is Miss Gourlay and Dunroe going to be maiTied after all ; for she has returned to her father, and consented to marry the young lord. The baronet, too, is ill, and I don't think will live long. He is bui-ned out like a hme-kiln ; for, indeed, Uke that, his whole life has been nothing but smoke and fire. Very well ; now jjay attention. If we wait until these maj-riage articles are di'awn uj^, the appearance or the discovery of this heir here ^\ill create great confusion ; and you may take my word tliat every opj^o- sition will be given, and every inquiiy made by Dunroe, who, as there seems to be no heir, \riSS. get the property ; for it goes, in that case, with ]Miss Gourlay. Eveiy knot is more easily tied than untied. Let us pro- duce the heir, then, before the propei-ty's dis- posed of, and then we won't have to imtie the knot — to invalidate the mamage articles. So fiU', so good — -that's our plan. But again , there's the baronet ill ; should he die before we establish this youth's rights, think of our diiiiculty. And, thirdly, he's beginning to suspect our integi'ity, as he is pleased to call it. That strange gentlemiin, Ginty, has mentioned circumstances to him tliat he says could come only from my father or my- self, or you." "Proceed," replied his sister, "jiroceed; I may look forward to the fulfilment of these plans ; but I will never live to see it." " You certainly are much changed for the worse," replied her bi-other, "especially since your reason has been restored to you. In the meantime, listen. The baronet is now ill, although (libson says there's no danger of him ; he's easier in his mind, however, in dl8 WILLIAM cahleton's works. consequence of this maniage, that he has, for hfe or death, set his heai-t on ; and altogether this is the best time to put this vagabond's pretensions forwai'd." "Thank you, uncle," replied Ambrose, with a clouded brow. "In six months hence, perhaps, I'll be no vagabond." " Ay, in sixty yeai-s hence you will ; and indeed, I fear, to tell you the truth, that you'll never be anything else. That, how- ever, is not the question now. We want to know what my father may say — whether he "vntH agTee "v\-ith us, or whether he can or will give us any better advice. There is one thing, at least, we ought to resjject him for ; and that is, that he gave all his family a good education, although he had but httle of that commodity himself, poor man. " He had scarcely concluded, when old An- thony made his appearance, with that mys- tical expression on his face, half sneer, half gloom, which would lead one to conclude that his heart was divided between remorse and vengeance. "Well," said he, "you're at work, I see — honestly employed, of course. Ginty, how long is i\Ii-. Ambrose here dead now ? " "He died," rephed her brother, "soon after the intention of changing the children took place. You took the hint, father, fi'om the worthy baronet himself." " Ay, I did ; and I wish I had not. You died, m}^ good young fellow, of scai'let-fever — let me see — but A\\i\ a much matther it is when you died ; it's little good you'll come to, ban'in' you change your heart. They say, indeed, the diAil's children have the divO's luck ; but I sa}', the diAil's children have the di^-il's face, too ; for sure he's as like the black fiend his father as one e^g is to another." "And that will strengthen the claim," replied the young man, with a grin. "I don't look too old, I hope ? " "There's only two years' difference be- tween you and the boy, your brother, that's dead," said his mother. " But I wish we were well thi-ough with this. My jDast life seems to me like a dream. My contemplated revenge upon that bad man, and my ambi- tion for this boy, are the only two princi- ples that now sustain me. What a degi-aded life has Thomas Gourlay caused me to lead ! But I really think that I saw into futurity ; nay, I am certain of it ; otherwise, what put hundreds of predictions into my lips, that were verified by the event ? " There was a momentary expression of wilduess in her eye as she spoke, which the others observed with pain. " Come, Ginty," said her brother, " keep yourself steady now, at all events ; be cool and firm, till we punish this man. If you want to know why you foretold so much, I'll tell you. It was because you covild put two and two together." "My whole life has been a blank," she proceeded, " an empty dream — a dead, dull level ; insanity, vengeance, ambition, all jostling and crossing each other in my un- happy mind ; not a serious or reasonable duty of life dischai'ged ; no claim on society — no station in the work of Hfe — an impos- tor to the world, and a dupe to myself ; but it was he did it. Go on ; form your plans — make them firm and sure ; for, by Him who withdrew the light of reason fi'om my sj)irit — by Him from whom it came, I wiU have vengeance. Father, I know you weU, and I am your daughter." " You know me well, do you ? " he rephed, with his usual gi'iu. " Maybe you do, and maybe you don't ; but let us proceed. The baronet's son's dead, you know." " But what makes you look as you do, father, when you say so ? Your face seems to contradict your words. You know you have told us for yeai's that he's dead." "And I'm a liar, am I ? " he rephed, look- ing at him with a pecuhar smile. " No, I don't say so ; certainly not. But, still, you squeeze your face up in such a way that you don't seem to believe it yourself." " Come, come," continued the old man, " this is all useless. "NMiat do you intend to do ? How do you intend to proceed ? " " We sent for you to advise us in that," replied his son. " You are the oldest and the wisest here, and of course ought to possess the soundest judgment." " Well, then, my adrice to you is, to go about your business ; that is, to do any law- ful business that you have to do, and not to bring yourselves to disgrace by puttin' forrid this drimken j^rofligate, who will pitch us all to the devil when he gets himself safe, and tread in his black father's stejjs afterwards." "And you must assist us, father," said Ginty, rising uj), and pacing to and fro the room in a state of great agitation. " You, the first cause, the original author of my shame ; you, to whose iniquitous avarice and vulgar ambition I fell a sacrifice, as much as I did to the profligacy and villany of Thomas Gotu-lay. But I care not — I have my am- bition ; it is a mother's, and more natural on that account. I have also my vengeance to gi-atify ; for, father, w^e are your children, and vengeance is the family iDrincijDle. Fa- ther, you must assist us — -you must join us — you must lend us your i3ei;jury — supply us with false oaths, with deceitful accounts, with all that is necessary ; for, father, it is to work out your o^vn princii^les — that I may THE BLACK BARONET. 510 be able to die smiling — smiling that I have overreached and punished him at List. That, you know, will be a receipt in full for my shame and madness. Now, I saj', father, you must do this, or I will kneel down and curse you." The old man, as she proceeded, kept his «yes fixed upon her, first with a look of in- difference ; this, however, became agreealjle and comj^lacent; gradually his eye kindled as he caught her spirit, and when she had concluded, he gi-ound his black old stumps of teeth together with a %-indictive energy that was revolting, or at least would have been so to any others unless those that were present. "Well, Ginty,"he rephed, "I have turned it over in my mind, and as helpin' you now will be givin' the black feUow an additiontd stab, I'll do it. Yes, my lad," he added, grinning rather maUciously, by the way, at the object of his promised sujjport, " I \\ill make a present of you to your father ; and a thankful man he ought to be to have the like of you. I was sometimes for you, and sometimes against you ; but, at all events, the old fellow must have you — for the present at least." This was accompanied by another giin, which was, as usual, perfectly inexplicable to the others. But as he had expressed his assent and promised his assistance, they were glad to accept it on his own terms and in his o^vn way. " Well, then," he proceeded, " 90 w that we've made up our minds to go through with it, I'll think over what's to be done — what's the best steps to take, and the best time and place to break it to him. This ^\-ill require some time to think of it, and to put things together properly ; so let us have a drop of something to drink, and we can meet again in few days." Having pai'tiiken of the refreshment which was ordered in, they soon afterwards sep- arated until another opportunity. Ambrose Gray, with whose real name the reader is aLread^- acquainted, took but httle part, as may have been perceived, in the dis- cussion of a project which so deej)ly aft'ected his o^vn interests. ^Mien it was first discover- ed to him by his mother and uncle, he was much struck even at the bare i)robability of such an event. Subsequent reflection, how- ever, induced him to look upon the whole scheme as an empty bubble, that could not bear the touch of a finger without melting into air. It was true he was natiu-aUy cun- ning, but then he was also naturally profli- gate and ^•icious ; and although not ^vithout intellect, yet was he deficient m self-command to restrain himself when neces-saiw. Alto- ' gether, his chai-acter was bad, and scarcely I presented to any one a favorable aspeci \ ^Mien aft'ected with hquor he was at once I quarrelsome and cowardly — always the first I to provoke a fight, and the first, also, to I snejik out of it. I Soon after the disappearance of Sir Ed- ; wai'd Gourlay's heu*, the notion of removing j the baronet's own son occurred, not to his mother, nor to her brother, but to old Cor- j bet, who desired his son Charles, then a ; young man, and the baronet's foster-brother, as a preparatoiy step to his ultimate designs, i to inform him that liis illegitimate son was ! dead. Sir Thomas at this time had not as- I sumed the title, nor taken possession of the j immense estates. ! "^Ii*. Gourky," said Charles, "that child is dead ; I was desh-ed to tell you so by my I father, who doesn't vdsh to speak to you himself upon the subject." " Well," rei)Ued ^Ii-. Gourlay, " what afGoir is that of mine ? " " ^\Tiy," said the other, "as the unfortu- nate mother is insane, and without means of providing decently for its burial, he thinks it only reasonable that you should furnish I money for that pvupose — he, I know, won't." " What do you mean by jiroviding decent- ly ? " asked ]kir. Goui-lay.^ " What stufi' that is ! — throw the brat into a shell, and bury it. I am cursedly glad it's gone. There's half-a-crown, and pitch it into the nearest kennel. Why the deuce do you come to me with such a piece of information ? " Charles Corbet, being his father's son, looked at him, and we need not at any length describe the nature of that look nor the feel- ing it conveyed. This passed, but was not forgotten ; and on being detailed by Chai'les Corbet to his father, the latter rephecIT " '''Ah, the \'iUain — that's his feelin', is it ! Well, never mind, I'll jiunish him one day." Some months after this he came into ^Ir. Gourlay's study, ^\'ith a very solemn and anxious face, and said, " I have something to say to you, sir." " Well, Anthony, what is it you have to say to me r^' " " Maybe I'm wi'ong, sir, and I know \ oughtn't to alarm you or distiu*b your mind ; but still I think I ought to put you on your guard." " Confound youi* caution, sir ; can't you come out with whatever you have to say at once ? " " Would it be j^ossible, sir, that there j could be any danger of the child bein' taken away like the other — hke your brother's ? " j " What do you mean ? — why do you ask ! such a question ? " ' "Bekaise, sir, I observed for the List few I days a couple of strange men peepiu' ana 620 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. pimpin' about the place, and wlierever the child went they kept dodgiu' afther him." " But why should any one think of taking him away ? " " Hem ! — well, I don't know, sir ; but you know that the heir was taken away." "Come, Anthony, be quiet — ^walls have eai"s ; go on." " \\Tiat 'ud you think if there was sich a thing as re\inge in the world ? I'm not sus- pectin' any one, but at the same time, a wo- man's revinge is the worst and deepest of all revinges. You know very well that she sus- pects you — and, indeed, so does the world." " But veiy wi-ongly, you know, Anthony," repHed the baronet, with a smile dark as murder. " Wliy, ay, to be sure," repHed the instru- ment, squirting the tobacco spittle into the fire, and tui'ning on him a grin that might be considered a suitable commentary upon the smile of his employer. " But," added IVIi-. Gourlay, " what if it should be the father, instead of the son, they want ? " " But why would they be dodgin' about the child, sir ? " '• True ; it is odd enough. Well, I shall give orders to have him well watched." " And, with the help o' God, I'll put a mark ujion him that'll make him be known, at any rate, through aU changes, barrin' they should take his life." " How do you mean by a mark !," asked the other. " I learnt it in the army, sir, when I was ^\ith Sir Edward. It's done by gunpowder. It can do no harm, and will at any time dur- in' his life make him kno-wTi amou-g miUions. It can do no harm, at any rate, sir." " Very weU, Anthony — very well," replied Mr. Gourlay ; " mark him as you like, and when it is done, let me see it." Li about a fortnight afterwards, old Cor- bet brought his sou to him, and raising his left arm, showed him the child's initials dis- tinctly marked on the under part of it, to- gether wdth a cross and the family crest ; all so plainly and neatly executed, that the fa- ther was surjirised at it. Nothing, however, happened at that time ; vigilance began to relax as suspicion dimin- ished, until one morning, about eight months aftenwards, it was found that the child had disappeared. It is unnecessary to add, that every possible step was taken to discover him. Searches were made, the hue and cry was up, immense rewards were offered ; but all in vain. From that day forth neither trace nor tidings of him could be found, and in the course of time he was given up, like the heir of the property, altogether for lost. CHAPTER XXXn. Discovery of ilie BaroncVs Son — wJw^ however, h Shelved for a Time. Lord Dunroe, as had iilready been agreed upon between him and her father, went di- rectly to that worthy gentleman, that he might make a faithful rejjort of the interview. " Well, Dimroe," said the baronet, " what's the news ? How did it go off? " "Just as we expected," replied the other. " Vaj)ors, entreaties, and indignation. I give you my honor, she asked me to become her advocate with you, in order to get released from the engagement. That was rather cool, wasn't it ? " " And what did you say ? " "Why, the truth is, I conducted the affair altogether on a new ^^rinciple. I maintained that love should not be a necessary element in marriage ; vindicated the rights of honest indifference, and said that it was against my system to marry any woman who was attach- ed to me." " Why, I remember preaching some such doctrine, in a bantering way, to her myself." " Guided by this theory, I met her at every turn ; but, nevertheless, there was a good deal of animated expostulation, tears, solicitations, and all that." " I fear you have mismanaged the matter some way ; if you have followed my advice, and done it with an apjDcarance of common sense, so much the better. This would have required much tact, for Lucy is a girl very difficult to be imjjosed upon by appearances. I am the only person ^\^o can do so, but that is because I apjaroach her aided by my knowledge of her filial affection. As it is, however, these things are quite common. My own wife felt mvich the same way with myself, and yet we lived as happily as most jDCople. Every young baggage must have her scenes and her sacrifices. All ! what a knack they have got at magnifying every- thing ! ' How do you do, my Lady Dunroe ? ' half a dozen times repeated, however, will awaken her vanity, and banish aU this giii- ish rodomontade." " 'Room for the Countess of CuUamore,' will soon follow," rej)lied his lordship, laugh- ing, "and that will be stiD better. The old peer, as Norton and I call him, is near the end of his journey, and wiU make his paint- ing bow to us some of these days." " Did she actually consent, though ? " ask- ed the father, somewhat doubtfully. " Positively, Sir Thomas ; make your mind easy upon that point. To be sure, there were jDrotestations and entreaties, and God knows what ; but still the consent was giveii," THE BLACK BARONET. 521 "Exactly, exactly," replied her father ; "I knew it would be so. Well, now, let us not lose much time about it. I told those law- yers to wait a little for further instnictions, because I was anxious to hear how this inter- view would end, feelinf^ some apprehension that she mip^ht relapse into obstinacy ; but now that she has consented, we shall ^o on. They may meet to-morrow, and get the necessary writings drawn up ; and then for the wedding." " Will not my father's iUness stand a little in the way ? " asked Dunroe. " Not a bit ; why should it ? But he really is not ill, only getting feeble and obstinate. The man is in his dotage. I saw him yester- day, and he refused, most perversely, to sanction the marriage until some facts shall come to his knowledge, of which he is not quite certain at present. I told him the young people would not wait ; and he i-ephed, that if I give you my daughter now, I shall do so at my peril ; and that I may consider myself forewarned. I know he is thinking of 3'our peccadilloes, my lord, for he nearly told me as much before. I think, indeed, he is cer- tainly doting, otherwise there is no under- standing him." " You are right. Sir Thomas ; the fuss he makes about moraUty and rehgion is a proof that he is. In the meantime, I agi'ee with you that there is little time to be lost. The lawyers must set to work immediately ; and the sooner the better, for I am naturally im- patient." They then shook hands very cordially, and Dunroe took his leave. The reader may have observed that in this conversation the latter reduced his account of the interview to mere generahties, a mode of reporting it which was agreeable to both, as it spared each of them some feeling. Dunroe, for instance, never mentioned a syUable of Lucy's ha\dng frankly avowed her passion for another ; neither did Sir Thom- as make the slightest allusion to the settled disinclination to marry him which he knew she all along felt. Indifferent, however, as Dunroe naturally was to high-minded feel- ing or pi"inciple, he could not summon cour- age to dweU upon this attachment of Luc}- to another. A consciousness of his utter meanness and degradation of spirit in con- senting to marry any woman under such cir- cumstances, tilled liim with shame even to glance at it. He feared, besides, that if her knavish father had heard it, he would at once have attributed his conduct to its proper motives — that is to say, an eagerness to get into the possession and eujojnnent of the large fortune to which she was entitled- He himself, in his conversations with the baro- net, never alluded to the subject of dovvry, but i^laced his anxiety for the match alto- gether to the account of love. So far, then, each was acting a fraudulent part toward the other. The next morning, about the honr of eleven o'clock, Thomas Corbet — foster-brother to the baronet, though a much younger man — sent word that he wished to see him on par- ticular business. This was quite sufficient ; for, as Corbet was known to be more deeply in his confidence than any other man living, he was instantly {xdmitted. " Well, Corbet," said his master, " I hope there is nothing wrong." " Sir Thomas," rei)Lied the other, " you have a right to be a happy and a thankful man this moniing ; and although I cannot mention the joyful intelligence with which I am commissioned, without grief and shame for the conduct of a ne;u' relation of my own, yet I feel this to be the hapjiiest day of my life." " AVliat the deuce ! " exclaimed the bai'o- net, stai-ting to his feet — "how is this? What is the intelligence ? " " Rejoice, Sir Thomas — rejoice and be thankful ; but, in the meantime, pray sit down, if you please, and don't be too much agitated. I know how eril news, or anything that goes in opposition to your will, affects you : the two escapes, for instance, of that boy." " Ha ! I understand you now," exclaimed the baronet, whilst the very eyes danced in his head with a savage delight that was frightful, and, for the sake of human nature, painful to look upon, " I understand you now, Corbet — he is dead ! eh ? Is it not so ? Yes, yes — it is — it is true. Well, you shall have a present of one hundred pounds for the intelligence. You shall, and that in the course of five minutes." "Sir Thomas," replied Corbet, calmly, have patience ; the person, Fenton, you speak about, is still alive ; but to all intents and puiposcs, dead to you and for you. This, however, is another and a far diff'erent af- fair. Your son has been found ! " The baronet's brow fell : he looked grave, and more like a man disapiiointcd than any- thing else. In fact, the feeling associated %rith the I'ecovery of his son was not strong enough to balance or counteract that which he experienced in connection with the hoped- for death of the other. He recovered him' self, however, and exclaimed, " Found ! Tom found !— little Tom fovmd ! My God ! Wlien' — where — how ? " " Have the goodness to sit down, sir," re- plied Corbet, " an35 tuving to herself the subject of her brother's I withheld from hira, on account of a circum personal appearan(;e. She had always heard that he resembled her mother, and on this account alone she felt how very dear he should be to her. A\^ith a flushing, joyful, but palpitating heart, she descended the stairs, and with a trembling hand knocked at the door. On entering, she was about to rush into her newly-found relative's arms, but, on casting her eyes around, she per- ceived her father and him standing side by side, so startlinglv ahke in feature, expres- sion, and personal figure, that her lieart, un- til then bounding witli r,i})ture, sank at once, and almost became stQl. The quick but deh- cate instincts of her nature took the alarm, and a sudden weakness seized her wliole frame. "In this young man," she said to herself, " I have found a brother, but not a fi'iend ; not a featiu-e of my dear mother in that face." This change, and this inish of reflection, took place almost in a moment, and ere she had time to speak she found herself in Mr. Ambrose Gray's arms. The tears at once rushed to her ej-es, but they were not such tears as she expected to have shed. Joy there was, but, alas, how much mitigated was its fervency ! And when her brother spoke, the strong, deep, harsh tones of his voice so completely startled her, that she almost believed she was on the breast of her father. Her tears flowed ; but they Avere mingled with a sense of disappointment that amounted almost to bitteiTiess. Tom on this occasion forebore to enact the rehearsal scene, as he had done in the case of his father. His sister's beauty, at once melancholy but commanding, her wonderful grace, her dignity of manner, added to the influence of her tull, elegant figure, awed stance over which he had no control, that ful- ness of aifection, with which she had prepared herself to welcome him. A sentiment, first of compassion, then of self-reproach, and ul- timately of awakened affection, arose in her mind, associated with and made still more tender by the melancholy memory of her de- parted mother. She again took his hand, on which the tears now fell in showers, and after a slight pause said, " I hope, my dear Thomas, you have not suffered, nor l)een subject to the wants and privations which usually attend the path oi the yoimg and friendless in this unhappy world ? Alas, there is one voice — but is now forever still — that would, oh, how rapturous- ly ! have welcomed you to a longing and a loving heart." The noble sincerity of her present emotion was not A^dthout its effect upon her brother. His eyes, in spite of the hardness of his na- ture, swam in sometliing like moistui'e, and he gazed upon her Avith wonder and pride, that he actually was the brother of so divine a creature ; and a certain descrijition of affec- tion, such as he had never before felt, for it was pure, warm, and unselfish. " Oh, how I do long to hear the history oi your past life ! " she exclaiifted. " I dare say you had many an early struggle to encounter ; many a privation to sutler ; and in sickness, with none but the cold hand of the stranger about you ; but stOl it seems that God has not deserted you. Is it not a consolation, papa, to think that he retm-ns to us in a con^ dition of life so gratifying ? " "Gratifying it unquestionably is, Lucy. He is well educated ; and \\ill soon be fit to take his proper position in society." " Soon ! I trust immediately, papa ; I hope him so completely, that he felt himself in- j you will not allow him to remain a moment capable of aiming at R,nything like dramatic longer in obscurity ; compensate liim at least effect. Nay, as lier warm tears fell upon his for his sufferings. But, my dear Thomas," face, he experienced a softening influence she proceeded, turning to him, " let me^g'^j'j^ that resembled emotion, but, like his father, do you remember mamma? If '^he y^^^j^^j^^jj he annexed associations to it that were self- here, how her f>'flectionate^h^'^'pj.gggjj^9 » ish, and full of low, ungenerous caution. | joice ! Do you renif^v," said the other • " My father's right," thought he ; "I must be both cool and firm here, othermse it wiU be difticiilt not to support her Thomas?" Not d^ irvac ouny a A I had are now gone to that by to-morrow or "Well, Lucy," said her father, vr^i\\ unu^-'^j^a a m^^'^ ,, . *-,\i/ 9L^^^'\ '^.pholv V-iorced to give mv teeth a sual cheerfulness, after Tom had handed Y' \ .' Yovi '^"^ , ^.J^^^^^eplied Norton, " that's too to a seat, "I hope you hke yoiu: .' -g. \ Ued, " y^^| J, cren ouud note for vou, at all Is he not a fine, manly youjLi*r * Jr. " she x g^etcb "^^y^^^ ^'a^-^l now ; if we can uncler. Is he not nr .brotlul, ,,:, ^vai^y y®^, ' ^ so pHed, " restored to xi« ''^^''{psevted vis- restored when \»u->pe ba-*-*^ *■ ' ,> -when we had given ^l^iivi up As she utt'''^vpd tbc ^wv^- . • ^ ered; agen ^^oub reactxou^;^^^ ^,, Ua^'^Bg her breast ; g^e blamed iie^ '^^ 1 her voice q^^:'; ;Uetcboibej-^-^^ l„^,,. tionate, ^^^^ ii-,^ slia'n't want ; and I'll resii:?^'^^^®^ _ do. .\iter leaving his liet^-' Tucy" sai^'ue to my room, where \ ""^^^'r'anvP«^^^'> ^lie eyes, and there cou\A^e»^^''^ ^ n to our chat. You 586 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. "now that you have seen your brother, I think you may withdraw, at least for the pres- ent. He and I have matters of importance to talk of ; and you know you ■VN'ill have enoiigh of him ap^ain — plenty of time to hear his past histoi-y, which, by the way, I am as anxious to hear as you are. You may now withdraw, my love." " Oh, not so soon, father, if you please," said Thomas ; " allow us a Httle more time together." " Well, then, a few minutes only, for I my- self must take an aii'ing in the carriage, and I must also call upon old Cullamore." " Papa," said Lucy, " I am about to dis- close a httle secret to you which I hesitated to do before, but this certainlj' is a proper occasion for doing it ; the secret I speak of will disclose itself. Here is where it lay both day and night since mamma's death," she added, putting her hand upon her heart ; " it is a miniature portrait of her which I my- self got done." She immediately di'ew it uj) by a black silk ribbon, and after contemplating it with tears, she placed it in the hands of her brother. This act of Lucy's placed him in a position of great j)ain and embarrassment. His pre- tended recollection of Lady Gourlay was, as the reader ah'eady guesses, nothing more than the description of her which he had re- ceived fi'om Corbet, that he might be able to play his part with an appearance of more natural effect. With the baronet, the task of deception was by no means difficult ; but with Lucy, the case was altogether one of a different complexion. His father's princijDles, as expounded by his illegitimate son's worthy uncle, were not only almost familiar to him, but also in complete accordance with his own. With htm, therefore, the deception consisted in little else than keeping his own secret, and satisfying his father that theii' moral views of hfe were the same. He was not pre- .nared, however, for the effect which Lucy's ^ "^Ois'^ 1 ^'ijUties produced upon him so soon. vioTr'^^^.^+ -Il^tl never met with or known risy ouTu- -'■Tif hi- 1 • • • 1 J "" ^^^^'^ • ^^mmg m her o^vn person biw^'''^!'/''^ '^^ mc^^^rl dignity-such bmations that result f/^^°"^-°..eful and iike the bits of ^lassV; ^^^ couIol. which, when ^S>^^.4l^^o^r order nor beauty, but. j'°^eh trutti 2 J or our own mistaken imM^l, Absolutely con- ' tave properties which tK^irto feel ho^v % a^d to produce results fllVS-, andrefin Tc and winch would mi.sleal C the sphere of woribsolute inference froml^an for instance, xvashnest advances, kaleid "^K J^ved iuto such . n^' ^"""^ *^ ^^^ a<^' . her character and ^^ '\llf almost unable to xdertakentoplay,80 far at least as she was concerned. In fact, he felt himself changed for the better, and was forced, as it were, to look in upon his own heai*t, and contemplate its deformity by the light that emanated fi'om her character. Nor was this singular but natural influence un- perceived by her father, who began to fear that if they were to be much together, he must ultimately lose the connivance and sup- poi-t of his son. Thomas took the portrait from her hand, and, after contemj^lating it for some time, felt himself bovmd to kiss it, which he did, with a momentary' consciousness of his hypo- crisy that felt like guilt. " It is most interesting," said he ; " there is goodness, indeed, and benignity, as you say, in every line of that placid but sorrow- ful face. Here," said he, " take it back, my dear sister ; I feel that it is painful to me to look upon it." " It has been my secret companion," said Lucy, gazing at it MT.th deep emotion, " and my silent monitress ever since poor mamma's death. It seemed to say to me with those sweet lijDS that will never more move : Be patient, my child, and put your firm tinist in the hopes of a better hfe, for this world is one of trial and suffering." "That is all very fine, Lucy," said her father, somewhat fi-etfully ; " but it would have been as well if she had preached a les- son of obedience at the same time. How- ever, you had better -n-ithdraw, my dear ; as I told you, Thomas and I have many impor- tant matters to talk over." " I am ready to go, papa," she replied ; " but, by the way, my dear Thomas, I had always heard that you resembled her very much ; instead of that, you are papa's very image." " A circumstance which ynUl take from his favor with you, Lucy, I fear," obsei'ved her father ; " but, indeed, I myseK am surprised at the change that has come over you, Thomas ; for, unquestionably, when young you were very like her." "These changes are not at all unfrequent, I believe," replied his son. " I have myself known instances where the individual when young resembled one parent, and yet, in the course of time, became as it were the very ;niage and reflex of the other." laii-y^^ are perfectly right, Tom," said his , fYier " ^^^^y family is aware of the fact, 1 -rmi vo. m"^^ are a remarkable illustra- aud you J u' Tom. 1- i u. " \ - ^'""I'amBot ^Try 1- r.eseUbHng my dear t n «v Tiucv " ojser^'ed her ^^^j^ ,, ^^ Ifnow^ S^U los. nothing x^ ,^ g,,^ u rm that account, but rathei ^. ^ .^ „ "Lucy's eyes were already failed ^^^^^^^^ / THE BLACK BARONET. 537 at the ungenerous and unfeeling insinuation of her father. " You shall not, indeed, Thomas," she re- plied ; " and you, pajoa, are scarcely just to me in saying so. I judge no person by theii" external appearance, nor do I suffer myself to be j^rejudiced by looks, although I grant that the face is very often, but by no means always, an index to the character. I judge my friends by my exjierience of their conduct— -b}' their heart — their princijDles — their honor. Good-by, now, my dear broth- er ; I am quite impatient to hear your his- toi-y, and I am sure you will gi'atify me as soon as you can." She took his hand and kissed it, but, in the act of doing so, obsen'ed under every nail a semicircular Hue of black diift that jai-red very painfully on her feeUngs. Tom then imprinted a kiss upon her forehead, and she withdrew. "When she had gone out, the baronet bent liis eyes upon her brother with a look that seemed to enter into his verj' soul — a look which his son, from his fi-equent teachings, ven,- well understood. "Now, Tom," said he, "that you have seen your sister, what do you think of her ? Is it not a pity that she should ever move under the rjink of a coantess ? " " Under the rank of a queen, sir. She woidd grace the throne of an empress." "And yet she has all the simphcity of a child ; but I can't get her to feel ambition. Now, mark me, Tom ; I have seen enough in this short intex'view to convince me that if you are not as firm as a rock, she will gain you over." " Impossible, sir ; I love her too well to lend myself to her prejudices against her interests. Her objections to this "marriage must proceed solely fi-om inexperience. It is true. Lord Dunroe bears a very indifferent character, and if you could get any other nobleman with a better one as a husband for her, it would certainly be more agree- able." "It might, Tom; but I cannot. The truth is, I am an unpopulai- man among even the fashionable circles, and the conse- quence is, that I do not mingle much \\4th them. The disappearance of my brother's heii* has attached suspicions to me which your discoveiy %\ill not tend to removes Then there is Lucy's approaching mj^'iage, which yo\ir turning up at this j^-i^ticular juncture may upset. Dunroe, I am aware, is incapable of appreciat>tf^ such a gu-1 as Lucy." "Then why, sir, does he marry her?" '■ In consequence of her property. You perceive, then, that unless you he by until after this marriage, my whole schemes iot this girl may be destroyed." "But how, sir, could my appearance or reappearance effect such a catastrophe ? " "Simply because you come at the most j unlucky moment." ! "Unlucky, sir!" excLaimed the youth, I ^vith much affected astonishment, for he had j now relapsed into his original character, I and felt himself completely in his element " Don't misimderstaud me," said his fa- I ther ; "I will explain myself. Had you j never appeared, Lucy would have inherited j the family estates, which, in right of his wife, would have passed into the possession of Dunroe. Your appearance, however, if made known, wiU prevent that, and proba- bly cause Dunroe to get out of it ; and it is for this reason that I ^\•ish to keep your very existence a secret until the mairiage is over." " I am wiUing to do anything, su-," rephed worthy Tom, with a very dutiful face, "any- thing to obhge you, and to fall in with your puiijoses, provided my o\vn rights ai'e not compromised. I trust you ■will not blame me, sir, for looking to them, and for a natu- ral anxiety to sustain the honor and pro- long the name of my family." " Blame you, siiTah ! " said his father, laughing. "Confound me, but you're a trump, and I am proud to hear you express such sentiments. How the deuce did you get such a shrewd notion of the world ? But, no matter, attend to me. Your rights shall not be compromised. A clause shall be inserted in the marriage articles to the effect that in case of your I'ecoverj' and res- toration, the estates shall revert to you, as the legitimate heir. Ai-e you satisfied ? " "Perfectly, sir," rei)hed Thomas, "per- fectly ; on the understanding that these pro- visions are duly and properly canned out" " Undoubtedly they .shall ; and besides," rephed his father with a grin of triumph, "it^\ill be only giving Dunroe a quid pro quo, for, as I told you, he is marrvi'^^ -^ sister merely for the property^^-j^ . ..^^^^ j^ you cut hmi. ^ ^ ^^^^^^ acquainted. " Of course, my^^^^^^^ ^^ present? " other "I am -;jo i . ^^^^{ ^^^ ^^^ meantune, ^ow and ^ t 7 i a , .t^„ 1 had are now gone to ° 'She first pV ^Y. ^>'.t«-^^o^-l-«^^^o' -that is the piii^^^^^^l t« g^^'^ "^y t^^^ * vou mav Hve whei i- i x- _a « n i- i i'i^,„i „iK,i"eplied Norton, "that s too vou a hberal alio' ^ , , , ' , ,, ^iinul note for you, at aU your appearance ♦ , . , *' ' . perity. The marri ""^^ soon if we can under-. * „ft. ^u; .], ^^i sha'n't want ; and 111 ; after which , , ... ' . , . your own, when it y^. ^^«- , ^'^^^'' ^^*'^^'^"^, ^''^ to retract Here, fo^^^^^^ ^^' ^««^' ^\^^^« for two hundred ar.^^ ^\^ ^y^«' ^f ^^^^ ion to our chat. You 638 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. must be frugal and cautious in its expendi- ture. Don't suffer j'ourself to break out : always keep a firm hold of the helni. Get a book in which you wiU niixi'k down your ex- penses ; for, mai'k me, you must render a strict account of this money. On the day after to-morrow j'ou must dine with Lucy and me ; but, if you take my advice, you will see her as seldom as possible until after her marriage. She wishes me to release her from her engagement, and she will attempt to seduce you to her side ; but I warn you that tliis would be a useless step for you to take, as my mind is immovable on the sub- ject." They then separated, each, but especially Mr. Ambrose Gray, as we must again call him, feeling very well satisfied with the result of the inten'iew. "Now," said the baronet, as he paced the floor, after his son had gone, "am I not right, after aU, in the views which I enter- tain of hfe ? I have sometimes been induc- ed to fear that Providence has placed in hu- man society a moral machinery which acts with retributive effect ujDon those who, in the practice of their hves, depart from what are considered his laws. And yet here am I, whose whole life has been at variance with and disregarded them — here I am, I say, with an easier heart than I've had for many a day : my son restored to me — my daughter upon the j)oint of being married according to my highest wishes — aU my projects pros- pering ; and there is my brother's wife— WTretched Lady Gourlay — who, forsooth, is rehgious, benevolent, humane, and charita- ble — ay, and if report speak true, who loves her fellow-creatures as much as I scorn and detest them. Yes — and what is the upshot? Why, that aU these vii'tues have not made her one whit happier than another, nor so happy as one in ten thousand. Gai bono, then I ask — where is this moral machinery which I sometimes dreaded ? I cannot per- ^^ceive its operations. It has no existence ; it -iiimpvn • hke many another bug- , , , ."'^ lines prod onM.toha\v. i,ad ne\.. risy on"t*-c! otiic. ^t ^"/,"^'','t merely a thing of chances, and its in^mindents i^ ' ^^^_ binations that result ht^^om its evoluu^.^^ -^^^ like the bits of glassVi", the kaleidos;:^ which, when \iewed na, ^j-ed, have neithcl order 'nor beauty, but \]^ lien seen through our own mistaken impr£^|;ssions, appear to have properties which thei y do not possess, and to produce results V _nat are deceptive, 1 and which would misleard us if we drew any woibsolute inference from] them. Here the wish-iest advances, kaleid- »scope in hand, and of." ires you to look at }^^ tmsel and obsei-ve '" Of . I mred, howev^}^®^^ ■' . , , ,., ,„ 1 hl^ -„i^»,„„ ,.,r^i3iing 01 credunty and tear •iperstition and hypoc- its order. Well, you do so, and imagine that the beauty and order you see he in the things themselves, and not in the prism through which you ^'iew them. But you are not satisfied — you must examine. You take the kaleidoscope to pieces, and where then are the order and beauty to be found ? Away ! I am right stiU. The doctrine oi hfe is a doctiine of chances ; and there is no- thing certain but death — death, the gloomy and terrible uncreator — heigho ! " Whilst the unbeheving bai-onet was con- gi-atulating himself ujDon the truth of his prmcijjles and the success of his j^lans, mat- ters were about to take place that Avere soon to subject them to a still more efiicient test than the accommodating but deceptive spirit of his own scepticism. Lord CuUamore's mind was gradually sinking under some se- cret sorrow or calamit}^, which he refused to disclose even to his son or Lady Emily. M'Bride's visit had produced a most melan- choly effect upon him ; indeed, so deeply was he weighed down by it, that he was al- most incapable of seeing any one, with the exception of his daughter, whom he caressed and wept over as one Avould over some be- loved being whom death was about to snatch fi'om the heart and eyes forever. Sir Thomas Goui'lay, since the discovery of his son, called eveiy day for a week, but the reply was, "His lordshij) is unable to see any one." One evening, about that time, Ginty Cooper had been to see her brother, Tom Corbet, at the baronet's, and was on her way home, when she accidentally spied M'Bride in conversation with Norton, at Lord CuUa- more's hall-door, which, on her way to Sir Thomas's, she necessarih' passed. It was just about dusk, or, as they call it in the country, between the two lights, and as the darkness was every moment deepening, she resolved to watch them, for the pui-j^ose of tracing M'Bride home to his lodgings. They, in the meantime, proceeded to a pubhc- house in the vicmity, into which both en- tered, and having ensconced themselves in a httle back closet off the common tap-room, took their seats at a small round table, Nor- ton haAdng jireviously ordered some punch. Ginty felt rather disappointed at this caution, but in a few minutes a red-faced girl, with, a blowzy head of hair strong as vdre, and crisp- ^^ ^'nto small obstinate undulations of sur- face wi^icii neither comb nor coaxing could smooth a-^ay, soon followed them -vNdth the punch and a cai^le. By the hght of the lat- ter, Ginty jJercem^- that there was nothing between tliem but a thin partition of boai'ds, through the slits of which she I'ould, by ap- plying her eye or eai-, as the cas^' might be, TJJE BLACK BARONET. 630 botli see and hear them. The tap-room at the time was empty, aud Ginty, lest her voice might be heard, went to the bar, from whence she herself brought in a glass of porter, and having taken her seat close to the partition, overheard the following con- versation : " In half an hour he's to see you, then ? " said Noi-ton, rejjeating the words mth a face of inquiiy. " Yes, sir ; in half an hour." " Well, now," he continued, " I assure you I'm neither curious nor inquisitive ; yet, un- less it be a very profound secret indeed, I give m}' honor I should \N-ish to hear it." " There's others in your family would be glad to hear it as well as you," rephed M'Bride. " Tlie earl has seen you once or twice be- fore on the subject, I think ? " "He has, sir?" " And this is the third time, I beheve ? " "It ivill be the third time, at all events." " Come, man," said Norton, " take your punch ; put yourseK in spirits for the inter- \'iew. It requires a man to pluck up to be able to sjDeak to a nobleman." " I have spoken to as good as ever he was ; not that I say anything to his lordshij^'s disparagement," replied ]\I'Bride ; " but I'll tiike the punch for a better reason — because I have a fellow feeling for it. And yet it was my destmction, too ; however, it can't be helped. Yes, faith, it made me an un- grateful scoundrel ; but, no matter ! — sir, here's your health ! I must only, as they say, make the best of a bad bargain — must biing my cattle to the best market." " Ay," said Norton, diyly and significant- ly ; " and so you think the old earl, the re better hands. Unless Lord Cullamore ia doting, I'm sure of that fact. I don't intend to remain in this countluy. I'll go back to France or to America ; I can't yet say which." "Take j-our punch in the meantime ; take off youi' hquor, I say, and it'll clear your head. Come, off with it. I don't know why, but I have taken a tmcy to you. Y'^our face is an honest one, and if I knew what youi' business with his lordship is, I'd give you a hft." " Thank you, sir," rejDlied the other ; " but the truth is, I'm afeard to take much till after I see him. I must have all my wits about me, and keep myself steady." " Do put it in my power to serve you. Tell me what your business is, and, by the honor of my name, I'U assist you." " At present," repUed ^M'Bride, " I can't ; but if I could meet you after I see his lord- ship, I don't say but we might talk more about it." " Very weU," rephed Norton ; " you won't regret it. In the course of a short time I shall have the complete management of the whole Cullamore propert}' ; and who can say that, if jow. piit confidence in me now, I may not have it in my power to emply you bene- ficially for yourself ? " "Come then, sir," replied M'Bride, "let me have another tumbler, on the head of it. I think one more will do me no harm ; as you say, sir, it'll clear my head." This was accordingly produced, and M'Bride began to become, if not more com- municative, at least more loquacious, and seemed disposed to place confidence in Nor- ton, to whom, however, he communicated nothing of substantial importance. " I thmk," said the latter, "if I don't mis- spectable old nobleman, is yonv best chap- take, that I am acqujiinted with some of your man y Am I right ? " "I may go that far, any way," rephed the fellow, with a knowing gi'in ; "but I don't lave you much the wiser." "No, faith, you don't," rephed Norton, grinning in his turn. "However, hsten to me. Do you not think, now, that if you placed your case in the hands of some one that stands well with his lordship, and who could use his influence in your behalf, you might have better success ? " " I'm the best judge of that myself," re- plied MBride. "As it is, I have, or can have, two strings to my bow. I have only to go to a certain person, and say I'm sony for what I've done, and I've no doubt but I'd come well oft'." "Well, and why don't you? If I were in your case, I'd consider 7)^v.^r//" first, though." " I don't know," rephed the other, as if undecided. "I think, afther aU, I'm in , relations." "Tliat may easily be," rephed the other; " and it has struck me two or three times that I have seen your face before, but I can't tell where." " Veiy hkely," rephed Norton ; "but 111 tell you what, we must get better acquainted. Are you in any employment at present ? " " I'm doing nothing," said the other ; " and the few i)ounds I had are now gone to a few shillings ; so that by to-morrow or next day, I'U be forced to give my teeth a holiday." " Poor fellow," rejDlied Norton, " that's too bad. Here's a pound note for you, at all events. Not a word now ; if we can under-, stand each other you sha'n't want ; and 111 tell you what you'll do. After lea\-ing his loi'dship you nuist come to my room, where you can have punch to the eyes, and there will be no interdiction to our chat. You 540 WILLIAM CABLETON'S WORKS. can tlien tell me anything you like ; but it must come willingly, for I'd scorn to force a secret from any man — that is, if it is a secret. Do you agree to this ? " "I agree to it, and many thanks, worthy sir," rephed M'Bride, putting the pound note in his nocket ; after which they chatted upon indifferent matters until the period for his inter\iew with Lord Cullamore had anived. Ginty, who had not lost a syllable of this dialogue, to whom, as the reader perhaps may suspect, it was no novelty, followed them at a safe distance, until she saw them enter the house. The interest, however, which she felt in M'Bride's movements, pre- vented her fi'om going home, or allowing him to shp through her finger vdthout ac- comphshiug a project that she had for some time before meditated, but had hitherto found no opportunity to execute. Lord Cullamore, on M'Bride's entrance, was in much the same state which we have al- ready described, except that in bodily appear- ance he was somewhat more emaciated and feeble. There was, however, visible in his features a tone of solemn feeling, elevated but sorrowful, that seemed to besjieak a heart at once resigned and suffering, and disposed to receive the dispensations of life as a man would whose philosophy was soft- ened by a Christian spirit. In the general plan of life he clearly recognized the ^risdom which, for the example and the benefit of aU, runs with singular beauty through the in- finite combinations of human action, verifying the very theory which the baronet saw dim- ly, but doubted ; we mean that harmonious adaptation of moral justice to those actions by which the original prmciples that difinse happiness through social life ai-e disregarded and riolated. The vei'y oi'der that char- acterizes all creation, taught him that we are not here without a purpose, and when hu- man natui'e failed to satisfy him upon the mystery of life, he went to revelation, and found the problem solved. The consequence was, that whilst he felt as a man, he endured as a Christian — aware that this life is, for purposes which we cannot question, cheq- uered with erils that teach us the absolute necessity of another, and make us, in the meantime, docile and submissive to the will of him who called us into being. His lordship had been reading the Bible as M'Bride entered, and, after having closed it, and placed his spectacles between the leaves as a mark, he motioned the man to come forward. " Well," said he, " have you brought those documents with you ? " " I have, my lord." " Pray," said he^ " aUow me to see them." M'Bride hesitated ; being a knave him- self, he naturally suspected every other man of trick and dishonesty ; and yet, when he looked upon the mild but dignified counte- nance of the old man, made reverend by age and suffering, he had not the courage to give any intimation of the base suspicion:, he entertained. " Place the papers before me, sir," said his lordship, somewhat shai-ply. "What ojjinion can I form of theii' value with, out . having first inspected and examined them ? " As he spoke he took the spectacles from out the Bible, and settled them on his face. "I know, my lord," replied M'Bride, tak- ing them out of a pocket-book rather the worse for wear, " that I am placing them in the hands of an honorable man." His lordshijD took them Mdthout seeming to have heard this observation ; and as he held them up, M'Bride cotdd j^erceive that a painfid change came over him. He be- came ghastly j)ale, and his hands trembled so violently, that he was unable to read their contents until he jDlaced them flat ujDon the table before him. At length, after having read and examined them closely, and eridently so as to satisfy himself of theil authenticity, he turned round to M'Bride, and said, " Is any person aware that you ai'e in possession of these documents ? " "Aha," thought the feUow, "there's an old knave for you. He would give a round sum that they were in ashes, I'll engage ; but I'll make him shell out for all that. — I don't think there is, my lord, unless the gentleman — yoiu' lordship knows who I mean — that I took them fi'om." " Did you take them deliberately from him?" The man stood uncertain for a moment, and thought that the best thing he could do was to make a merit of the affair, by affect- ing a strong disposition to serve his lord- ship. " The ti*uth is, my lord, I was in his con- fidence, and as I heard how mattei'S stood, I thought it a pity that your lordship should be annoyed at your time of life, and I took it into my head to place them in your lord- ship's hands." " These are genuine documents," obsers^ed his lordship, looking at them again. " I re- member the handwriting distinctly, and have in my possession some letters written by the same individual. Was your master a kind one ? " " Both kind and generous, my lord ; and I have no doubt at all but he'd forgive me everj'thing, and advance a lai'ge sum besides, THE BLACK BARONET. 541 in order to get these two little papers back. Your lordship knows he can do nothing against you without them ; and I hope you'll consider that, my lord." " Did he voluntaiily, that is, wilhngly, and of his OAvn accord, admit you to his confi- dence ? and, if so, upon what gi'ounds ? " " A\Tiy, my lord, my wife and I were ser- vants to his father for years, and he, when a shp of a boy, was very fond of me. "VMien he came over here, m}' lord, it was rather against his will, and not at all for his own sake. So, as he knew that he'd require some one in this country that could act prudently for hira, he made up his mind to take me with him, especially as my wife and myself were both anxious to come back to our own coimtry. ' I must trust some one, M'Bride,' said he, ' and I will trust you ' ; and then he tould me the raisou of his journey here." "Well," rephed his lordship, "proceed; have you anything more to add ! " "Nothing, my lord, but what I've tould you. I thought it a pitiful case tx) see a nobleman at your time of life afflicted by the steps he was about to take, and I brought these i^apers accordingly to your lordship. I hope you'll not forget that, my lord." " What value do you place on these two documents ? " " \VTiy, I think a thousand pounds, my lord." " Well, sir, your estimate is a very low one — ten thousand would come somewhat nearer the tlmig." " Isly lord, I can only say," said !M'Bride, " that I'm willin' to take a thous;md ; but, if your lordship, knowin' the value of the papers as you do, chooses to add anything more, I'll be veiy happy to accept it." " I have anotli r question to ask you, sir," said his lordship, " which I do -with great pain, as I do assure you that this is as painful a dialogue as I ever held in my hfe. Do you think now, that, provided you had not taken — that is, stolen — these papers from your master, he would, upon the suc- cess of the steps he is taking, have given you a thousand pounds ? " Tlie man hesitated, as if he had caught a glimpse of the old man's object in putting the question. " ^^Tiy — hem — no ; I don't think I could expect that, my lord ; but a handsome pi-esent, I dare say, I might come in for." Lord CuUamore raised liimself in his chair, and after looking at the treacherous ^•illain with a calm feeling of scorn and in- dignation, to which his illness imparted a solemn and lofty severity, that made ^I'Bride feel as if he -wished to sink through the floor. "Go," said he, looking at him with an eye that was kindled into something of its for^ mer tire. "Begone, sir: take away j'our papers ; I will not — I cannot enter into any compact with an ungrateful and perfidious \'illain hke you. These papers have come into your hands by robbery or theft — that is sufficient ; there they are, sir — take them away. I shall defend myself and my rights upon principles of justice, but never shall stoop to support them by chshonor." On concluding, he flung them across the table with a degree of energy that surprised M'Bride, whilst his color, hitherto so pale, was heightened by a flash of that high feeling and untarnished integiity which are seldom so beautifully impressive as when exhibited in the honorable indignation of old age. It might have been compared to that pale but angry red of the winter sky which flashes so transiently over the snow-clad earth, when the sun, after the fatigues of his short but chilly journey, is about to sink from our sight at the close of day. M'Bride slimk out of the room crestfallen, disappointed, and abashed ; but on reaching the outside of the door he found Norton awaiting him. This worthy gentlemrm, after beckoning to him to follow, haAing been striving, -with his whole soul centred in the key-hole, to hear the puqoort of their confer- ence, now proceeded to his own room, ac- companied by M'Bride, where we shall leave them without intemiption to theii- conversa- tion and enjoyment, and retiuTi once more to Ginty Cooper. Until the hour of half-past twelve that night Ginty most reUgiously kept her watch convenient to the door. Just then it opened verv" quietly, and a man staggered down the hall steps, and bent his course toward the northern part of the city suburbs. A female might be obsei-ved to follow him at a dis- tance, and ever as he began to mutter his dnmken meditations to himself, she ap- proached him more closely behind, in order, if possible, to lose nothing of what he said. " An ould fool," he hiccupped, " to throw them back to me — hie — an' the other a kna-a-ve to want to — to look at them ; but I was lip — up ; if the young-oung 1-lor-ord will buy them, he mu-must-ust pay for them, for I iiav-ave them safe. Hang it, my head's tura-tum-turnin' al>out hke the " At this portion of his reflections he turned into a low, dark line of cabins, some inhab- ited, and others iiiined and waste, followed b}' the female in question ; and if the reader cannot ascertain her object in dogging him, he must expect no assistance in guessing it from us. 54^ WILLIAM CARLETON'S WOIiKS. CHAPTER XXXV. lAiey's Vain but Affecting Exposttdation with her Father — Her Terrible Denunciation of Ambrose Gray. The next moming, after breakfast, Lord Dunroe found Norton and M'Bride in the stable yard, when the following coHversation took place. " Norton," said his lordship, "I can't un- derstand what they mean by the postpone- ment of this trial about the mare. 1 feai* they will beat us, and in that case it is bet- ter, perhaps, to compromise it. You know that that attorney fellow Biniey is engaged against us, and by all accoimts he has his wits about him." " Yes, my lord ; but Bimey is leaving home, going to France, and they have suc- ceeded in getting it postponed until the next term. My lord, this is the man, M'Bride, that I told you of this morning. IM'Bride, have you brought those documents with you ? I wish to show them to his lordship, who, I think, you will find a more liberal piu-chaser than his father." " "WTiat's that you said, sir," asked M'Bride, with an appearance of deej) interest, "about Mr. Birney going to France ? " . " This is no place to talk about these mat- ters," said his lordsliij) ; "bring the man up to your own room, Norton, and I will join you there. The thing, however, is a mere farce, and my father a fool, or he would not give himself any concern about it. Bring him to your room, where I will join you pres- ently. But, observe me, Norton, none of these tricks upon me in future. You said you got only twenty-five for the mare, and now it appears 3'ou got exactly double the sum. Now, upon my honor, I won't stand anymore of tlus." " But, my lord," repHed Norton, laughing, " don't you see how badly you reason ? I got fifty for the mare ; of this I gave your lordship twenty-five — the balance I kept my- self. Of course, then, you can faii'ly say, or swear, if you hke, that she bi-ought you in nothing but the fair value. In fact, I kejDt you completely out of the transaction ; but, after all, I only j)aid myself for the twenty- five I won of you." Dunroe was by no means in anything hke good-humor this morning. Tlie hints which Norton had communicated to him at break- fast, respecting the subject of M'Bride's pri- vate interviews with his father, had filled him with more alarm than he wished to ac- knowledge. Neither, on the other hand, had he any serious apprehensions, for, un- happily for himself, he was one of those easy and unreflecting men who seldom look be- yond the present moment^ and can never be brought to a reasonable consideration of their own interests, until, perhaps, it is too late to secure them. All we can communicate to the reader with respect to the conference between these three redoubtable indiriduals is simply its results. On that evening Norton and IM'Bride started for France, with what object wiU be seen hereafter, Bimey having followed on the same route the morning but one afterwards, for the piu'pose of seeming the documents in question. Dimroe now more than ever felt the neces- sity of urging his marriage with Lucy. He knew his father's honorable sjiirit too well to believe that he would for one moment yield his consent to it under the circumstances which were now pending. "With the full knowledge of these circumstances he was not acquainted. M'Bride had somewhat over- stated the share of confidence to which in this matter he had been admitted by his master. His information, therefore, on the subject, was not so accui-ate as he wished, although, fi'om motives of dishonesty and a desire to sell his documents to the best ad- vantage, he made the most of the knowledge he jDOSsessed. Be this as it may, Dunroe determined, as we said, to biing about the nuptials without delay, and in this he was seconded by Sii* Thomas Gourlay himself, who also had his own motives for hastening them. In fact, here were two men, each de- liberately attemi^ting to impose upon the other, and neither possessed of one spark of honor or tnith, although the transaction be- tween them was one of the most solemn im- jDortance that can occur- in the gi'eat business of Ufe. The world, however, is filled with similar characters ; and not aU the misery and calamity that ensue fi'om such fraudulent and dishonest practices will, we fear, ever prevent the selfish and ambitious fi'om pur- suing the same courses. " Sir Thomas," said Dunroe, in a conver- sation with the baronet held on the very day after Norton and IM'Bride had set out on theu' secret expedition, "this marriage is unnecessarily delayed. I am anxious that it should take place as soon as it possibly can." " But," replied the baronet, "I have not been able to see joxir father on the subject, in consequence of his illness." " It is not necessary," rephed his lordship. " You know what kind of a man he is. Li fact, I fear he is very neaiiy non compos as it is. He has got so confoundedly crotchety of late, that I sliould not feel sui-prised if, under some whim or other, he set his face against it altogether. In fact, it is useless^ THE BLACK BARONET. 54S and worse tb^n useless, to consult him at all about it. I move, therefore, that we go on without him." "I think you are right," returned the other ; "and I have not the slightest objec- tion : name the day. The contract is dra^\•n up, and only re(iuires to be signed." " I should say, on Monday next," rephed his lordship ; " but I fear we will have objections and protestations from ^liss Gour- lay ; and if so, how are we to manage ? " " Leave the management of Miss Gourlay to me, my lord," rephed her father. "I have managed her before and shall manage her now." His lordship had scarcely gone, when Lacy was immediately sent for, and as usual found her father in the librar^^ "Lucy," said he, with as much blandness of manner as he could assume, " I have sent for you to say that you are called upon to make yoiu* father happy at last." "And myself \\T:etched forever, papa." "But yoiu' word, Lucy — your promise — your honor : remember that promise so solemnly given ; remember, too, your duty of obedience as a daughter. " " Alas ! I remember eveiything, papa ; too keenly, too bitterly do I remember aU." " You •will be prepared to marrj' Dunroe on Monday next. The affair will be com- paratively private. That is to say, we will ask nobody — no dejeuner — no nonsense. The fewer the better at these matters. Would you wish to see your brother — hem — I mean Mr. Gray?" Lucy had been standing while he spoke ; but she now staggered over to a seat, on which she fell rather than sat. Her large, lucid eyes lost their lustre ; her frame qmvered ; her face became of an ashy pale- ness ; but still those eyes were bent upon her father. "Papa," she said, at length, in a low voice that breathed of horror, " do not kill me." " Kill j-ou, foohsh girl ! Now really, Lu- cy, this is extremely ridiculous and vexatious too. Is not my daughter a woman of honor ? " "Papa," she said, solemnly, going down upon her two knees, and joining her lovely and snowy hands together, in an attitude of the most earnest and heai't-rending supph- cation ; " papa, heai' me. You have said that I saved your life ; be now as generous as I was — save mine." " Lucy," he rephed, " this looks hke want of principle. You would ^iolate j'our prom- ise. I should not wish Dimroe to heai- this, or to know it. He might begin to reason upon it, and to say that the .woman who could dehberately break a solemn promise might not hesitate at the marriage vow. I do not apply this rea.soning to you, but he or others might. Of course, I expect that, as a woman of honor, you will keep your word with me, and many Dvmroe on Mon- day. You Avill have no troulile — everything shall be managed by them ; a brilhant trotisi^eau can be pro\-ided as well afterwards as before." Lucy rose up ; and as she did, the blood, which seemed to have pre%'iously gathered to her heart, now returned to her cheek, and began to mantle ujion it, whilst her figure, before submissive and imploring, dilated to its fuU size. " Father," said she, " since you will not hear the voice of supphcation, hear that of reason and truth. Do not entertiiin a doubt, no, not for a moment, that if I am urged — driven — to this maniage, hateful and utterly detestable to me as it is, I shall hesitate to marrj' tliis man. I say this, how- ever, because I tell you that I am about to appeal to your interest in my true happiness for tlie last time. Is it, then, kind ; is it fatherly in you, sir, to exact fi"om me the fulfilment of a promise given under circum- stances that ought to touch yovu' heai-t into a generous perception of the sacrifice which in giving it I made for your sake alone? You were ill, and laboring under the appre- hension of sudden death, principally, you said, in consequence of my refusal to be- come the wife of that man. I saw this ; and although the effort was infinitely worse than death to me, I did not hesitate one moment in jdelding up what is at any time deai'er to me than hfe — my happiness — that you might be spared. Alas, m}' dear father, if you knew how painful it is to me to be forced to plead all this in my o^vn defence, you would, you must, pity me. A generous heart, almost under any cu'cum stances, scorns to plead its own acts, especially when they are on the side of virtue. But I, alas, am forced to it ; am forced to do that which I would othei'wise scorn and blush to do." "Lucy," replied her father, who felt in his ambitious and tyrannical soul the full force, not only of what she said, but of the fraud he hml practised on her, but which she never susjjected : "Lucy, my child, you wUl drive me mad. Perhaps I am ^^Tong ^ but at the same time my heart is so com-! pletely fixed uj^ou this marriage, that if it be not bi'ought about I feel I shall go insane. The value of hfe would be lost to me, and most probably I shall die the dishonorable death of a suicide." "And have you no fear for me, my father — no apprehension that I may escape fi-om this my wTetched destiny to the peace of the 544 WILLIAM CARLETOJ^'S WORKS. grave? But you need not. Thank God, I trust and feel that my regard for His pre- cepts, and my perceptions of His pro^idence, are too cleai* and too firm ever to suffer me to fly hke a coward from the post in life which He has assigned me. But why, dear father, should you make me the miserable victim of yoiu' ambition? — I am not am- bitious." " I know you are not : I never could get an honorable ambition instilled into you." "I am not mean, however — nay, I trust that I possess all that honest and honorable pride which would prevent me from doing an imworthy act, or one unbecoming either my sex or my position." "You would not break your word, for instance, nor render your father wretched, insane, madj or, perhaps, cause his di-eadful malady to return. No — no — but yet fine talking is a fine thing. Madam, cease to plead your virtues to me, unless you prove that you possess them by keeping your hon- orable engagement made to Lord Dunroe, through the sacred medium of your own father. ^Vhatever you may do, don't attemj)t to involve me in your disgrace." "I am exhausted," she said, "and cannot speak any longer ; but I will not despair of you, father. No, my dear papa," she said, thi'owing her arms about his neck, laying her he*d upon his bosom, and bursting into tears, " I will not think that you could sacri- fice your daughter. You will relent for Lucy as Lucy did for you — but I feel weak. You know, papa, how this fever on my spirits has worn me do'vvn ; and, after all, the day might come — and come with bitter- ness and remorse to your heart — when j^ou may be forced to feel that although you made your Lucy a countess she did not re- main a countess long." " What do you mean now ? " " Don't you see, papa, that my heart is breaking fast? If you will not hear my Words — if they cannot successfully plead for me — let my declining health — let my pale and wasted cheek — let my want of spirits, my want of appetite — and, above all, let that which you cannot see nor feel — the sickness of my unhappy heart — plead for me. Permit me to go, dear papa ; and will you allow me to lean upon you to my own room ? — for, alas ! I am not, after this pain- ful excitement, able to go there myself. Thank you, papa, thank you." He was thus compelled to give her his arm, and, in doing so, was surprised to feel the extraordinary tremor by which her frame was shaken. On reaching her room, she turned round, and laying her head, with an affectionate and supphcating confidence, once more upon his breast, she whispered with streaming eyes, *' Alas ! my dear papa, you forget, in urging me to marry this hateful profligate, that my heai*t, my aflections, my love — in the fullest, and purest, and most disinterested sense — are irrevocably fixed upon another ; and Dunroe, all mean and unmanly as he is, knows this." " He knows that — there, sit down — why do you tremble so ? — Yes, but he knows that what you consider an attachment is a mere girUsh fancy, a whimsical predilection that your own good-sense will show you the folly of at a future time." " Recollect, papa, that he has been extrav- agant, and is said to be embarrassed ; the truth is, sir, that the man values not your daughter, but the jjroperty to which he thinks he will become entitled, and which I have no doubt will be very welcome to his necessities. I feel that I speak truth, and as a test of his selfishness, it will be only necessary to acquaint him with the reappear- ance of my brother — yovu^ son and heir — and you will be no further troubled by his importunities." " Troubled by his importunity ! Why, girl, it's I that am troubled with apprehen- sion lest he might discover the existence of your brother, and draw off." One broad gaze of wonder and dismay she turned upon him, and her face became crimsoned with shame. She then covered it with her open hands, and, turning round, placed her head uj)on the end of the sofa, and moaned with a deep and bursting an- guish, on hearing this acknowledgment of deliberate baseness from his own hps. The baronet understood her feelings, and regretted the words he had uttered, but he resolved to bear the matter out. " Don't be sm-prised, Lucy," he added, "nor alarmed at these sentiments ; for I tell you, that rather than be defeated in the ob- ject I j)ropose for your elevation in life, I would trample a thousand times upon all the moral obligations that ever bound man. Put it down to what you like — insanity — monomania, if you wiU — but so it is with me : I shall work my 2)urpose out, or either of us shall die for it ; and from this you may perceive how likely your resistance and ob- duracy are to become available against the determination of such a man as I am. Com- pose yourself, girl, and don't be a fool. The only Avay to get properly through life is to accommodate ourselves to its necessities, or, in other words, to have shrewdness and common sense, and foil the world, if we can, at its own weapons. Give up your fine sen- timent, I desire you, and go down to the drawing-room, to receive your brother ; he THE BLACK BARONET. 645 »eill be here very soon. I am j^oing to the assizes, and shall not return till about four o'clock. Come, come, all will end better than you imagine." The mention of her brother was anything but a comfort to Lucy. Her father at first entertained api^rehensions, as we have al- ready said, that this promising youth might support his sister in her aversion Igainst the maiTiage. Two or three conversations on the subject soon undeceived him, how- ever, in the view he had taken of his char- acter ; and Lucy herself now dreaded him, on this subject, almost as much as she did her father. "With respect to this same brother, it is scarcely necessary now to say, that Lucy's feehngs had undergone a very considerable change. On hearing that he not only was in existence, but that she would soon actually be- hold him, her impassioned imagination paint- ed him as she wished and hoped he might prove to be — that is, in the first place — tall, elegant, handsome, and with a strong like- ness to the mother whom he had been said so much to resf'.uble ; and, in the next — oh, how her tremMing heart yearned to find him aftectiouate, tender, generous, and full of all those noble and manly virtues on which might rest a delightful sympathy, a pm*e and generous affection, and a tender and trusting confidence between them. On casting her eyes upon him for the first time, however, she felt at the moment like one disenchanted, or awakening fi'om some de- Ughtful illusion to a reaUty so much at vari- ance with the heaxi ideal of her imagination, as to occasion a feeling of disappointment that amounted almost to pain. There stood before her a young man, with a countenance so hke her father's, that the fact startled her. Still there was a diiference, for — whether fi-om the consciousness of bii'th, or authority, or position in life — there was something in her father's features that re- deemed them fi-om absolute vulgarity. Here, however, although the resemblance was ex- traordinary, and every feature almost iden- tical, there might be read in the countenance of her brother a low, commonplace expres- sion, that looked as if it were composed of effrontery, cunning, and profligacy. Lucy lor a moment shrank back from such a countenance, and the shock of disapi)oint- ment chilled the warmth with which she had been prepared to receive him. But, then, her generous heart told her that she might probably be prejudging the innocent — that neglect, want of education, the influ- ence of the world, and, worst of all, distress and suffering, might have caused the stronger, ikore vulgar, and exceedingly disagreeable 18 expression which she saw before her ; and the reader is already aware of the conse- quences which these struggles, at their first interview, had ui)on her. Subsequently to that, however, jVIi*. Ambrose, in supporting his father's views, advanced principles in such complete accordance with them, as to excite in his sister's breast, first a deep regret that she could not love liim as she had hoped to do ; then a feehng stronger than indiffer- ence itself, and ultimately one little short of aversion. Her father had been now gone about half an hour, and she hoped that her brother might not come, when a servant came to say that 'Mx. Gray was in the draw- ing-room, and requested to see her. She felt that the inteniew would be a painful one to her; but still he was her brother, and she knew she could not aroid seeing him. After the first salutations were over, ""What is the matter with you, Lucy?" he asked ; " you look iU and distressed. I suj^pose the old subject of the mairiage — eh?" " I trust it is one which you will not re- new, Thomas. I entreat you to spare me on it." "I am too much your friend to do so, Lucy. It is really inconceivable to me why you should oppose it as you do. But the truth is, you don't know the world, or you would think and act veiy differently." "Thomas," she rephed, whilst her eyes filled with tears, "I am ahnost weary of hfe. There is not one bring indiridual to whom I can tura for sympathy or comfort. Papa has forbidden me to risit Lady Gourlay or jMi'S. Mainwaring ; and I am now utterly friendless, with the exception of God alone But I will not despair — so long, at least, oa reason is left to me." "I assure you, Lucy, you astonish me. To you, whose imagination is heated with a foolish passion for an adventurer whom no one knows, jill tliis suffering may seem very distressing and romantic ; but to me, to my father, and to the world, it looks like gi-eat folly — excuse me, Lucy — or rather hke great weakness of character, grounded upon strong obstinacy of disposition. Believe me, if the world were to know this you would be laugh- ed at ; and there is scarcely a mother or daughter, from the cottage to the castle, that would not say, ' Lucy Gourlay is a poor, in- exj^erienced fool, who thinks she can find a world of angels, and par.igous, and purity to live in.' " " But I care not for the world, Thomas ; it is not my idol — I do not worship it, nor sbxU I ever do so. I wish to guide myseU by the voice of my own conscience, by c 546 WILLIAM GARLETON'S WOIiKS. Bense of what is right and proper, and by the principles of Christian truth." " These doctrines, Lucy, are very -well for the closet ; but they will never do in life, for which they are little short of a disqualifi- cation. Wliere, for instance, will you find them acted on ? Not by people of sense, I assure you. Now hsten to me." "Spare me, if you please, Thomas, the ad- vocacy of such 25rinciples. You occasion me great pain — not so mucli on my own account as on yours — you alarm me." "Don't be alarmed, I tell you ; but hsten to me, as I said. Here, now, is this marriage: you don't love this Dunroe — you dishke, you detest him. Very well. "What the deuce has that to do with the prosjDects of your own elevation in life ? Think for yourself — become the centre of your o\va world ; make this Dunroe youi* footstool — put him under your foot, I say, and mount by him ; get a position in the woi'ld — j)lay your game in it as you see others do ; and " "Pray, sir," said Lucy, scarcely restraining her indignation, " where, or when, or how did you come by these odious and detestable doctrines ? " "Faith, Lucy, from honest nature — from experience and observation. Is there any man with a third idea, or that has the use of his eyes, who does not know and see that this is the game of hfe? Dunroe, I dare say, lesen^es your contempt; report goes, cer- tainly, that he is a profligate ; but what ought esj)ecially to reconcile him to you is this simple fact — that the man's a fool. Egad, I think that ought to satisfy you." Lucy rose up and went to the window, where she stood for some moments, her eyes sparkling and scintillatmg, and her bosom heaving with a tide of feelings which were repressed by a strong and exceedingly diffi- cxilt effort. She then returned to the sofa, her cheeks and temples in a blaze, whilst ever and anon she eyed her brother as if fi'om a new point of view, or as if something sudden and exceedingly disagreeable had struck her. "You look at me very closely, Lucy," said he, with a confident grin. "I do," she replied. "Proceed, sir." " I will. WeD, as I was sajing, you will find it remarkably comfoi-table and con- venient in many ways to be married to a fool : he will give you very little trouble ; fools are never suspicious ; but, on the con- trary, distinguished for an almost sublime credulity. Then, again, you love this other gentleman ; and, with a fool for your hus- band, and the example of the world before you, what the deuce difficulty can you see ijx the match ? " Lucy rose up, and for a few moments the veiy force of her indignation kept her silent ; at length she spoke. " Villain — impostor — cheat ! you stand there convicted of an infamous attempt to impose yourself on me as my legitimate brother — on my father as his legitimate son ; but know that I disclaim you, sii'. "WTiat ! the fine and gentle bloocl of my blessed mother to flow in the veins of the profligate monster who could give utterance to princi- ples worthy of hell itself, and attempt to pour them into the ears and heart of his own sister ! Sir, I feel, and I thank God for it, that 3'ou are not the son of my blessed mo- ther — no ; but you stand there a false and spui'ious knave, the dishonest instiniment of some fi-audulent conspiracy, concocted for the piirpose of putting you into a position of inheriting a name and property to which you have no claim. I ought, on the moment I first saw you, to have been guided by the instincts of my ovm heart, which prompted me to recoil from and disclaim you. I know not, nor do I wish to know, in what low haunts of vice and infamy you have been bred ; but one thing is certain, that, if it be within the hmits of my power, you shall be traced and unmasked. I now remember me that — that — there existed an early scandal — yes, sir, I remember it, but I cannot even repeat it ; be assured, however, that this in- human and demolish attempt to poison my principles will jDrove the source of a retribu- tive judgment on your head. Begone, sir, and leave the house ! " The iDaUor of detected guilt, the conscious- ness that in this iniquitous lecture he had overshot the mark, and made a grievous mis- calculation in pushing his detestable argu- ment too far — but, alDove all« the stai'thng suspicions so boldly and energetically ex- pressed by Lucy, the truth of which, as well as the ajjprehensions that filled him of their discovery, all imited, made him feel as if he stood on the brink of a mine to which the train had been ali'eady apphed. And yet, notwithstanding all this, such was the natural force of his effrontery — such the -vulgar in- solence and bitter disposition of his nature, that, instead of soothing her insidted feelings, or offering either explanation or apology, he could not restrain an impudent exhibition of ill-temper. " You forget yourseK, Lucy," he replied ; " you have no authority to order me out of this house, in which I stand much firmer than yourself. Neither do I comprehend your al- lusions, nor regai'd 3'our tlu-eats. The jjroofs of my identity and legitimacy are abundant and iiTesistible. As to the advice I gave yon, I gave it like one who knows the wond " THE BLACK BARONET. 547 " No, sir," she replied, indignantly ; " you gave it like a man who knows only its \'ices. It is sickening to hear every profligate quote his o^v^l experience of life, as if it were com- posed of nothing but crimes and vices, sim- ply because they constitute the guilty phase of it ^^•ith which he is acquainted. But the world, sii', is not the scene of general de- pravity which these persons would present it. No : it is fuU of gi-eat \irtues, noble ac- tions, high principles ; and, what is better still, of time religion and elevated humanity. "What right, then, sir, have you to hbel a world which you do not vmderstand ? You are merely a portion of its dregs, and I would as soon receive lessons in honesty from a tloief as principles for my guidance in it from you. As for me, I shall disregard the proofs of your identity and legitimacy, which, however, must be produced and in- vestigated ; for, from this moment, estabhsh them as you may, I shall never recognize you as a brother, as an acquaintance, as a man, nor as anything but a selfish and aban- doned villain, who would have corrupted the principles of his sister." Without another word, or the sHghtest token of respect or courtesy, she dehberately, and with an air of indignant scorn, walked out of the drawing-room, lea^'ing Mr. Am- brose Gray in a position which we dare say nobody wiU envy him. CHAPTEK XXXYL ffhibh contains a Variety of Matters, some to Laugh and some to Weep at. Ou« readers may have observed that Sir Thomas Grourlay led a secluded life ever since the commencement of our narrative. The fact was, and he felt it deeply, that he i had long been an unpopular man. That he was a bad, overbeaiing husband, too, had been well kno^\^l, for such was the violence of his temper, and the unvaried harshness of | his disposition toward his wife, that the gen- eral tenor of his conduct, so far even as she was concerned, could not be concealed. His observations on hfe and personal character ; were also so cjTiical and severe, not to say unjust, that his society was absolutely avoid- ed, unless by some few of his own disposi- i don. And yet notlung could be more re- markable than the contrast that existed I between his principles and conduct in many I points, ihus affording, as they did, an invol- I ftntary acknowledgment of his moral errors. I He would not, for instance, admit his scep- tical friends, who laughed at the existence of virtue and rehgion, to the society of hia daughter, with the exception of Lord Dun- roe, to whose rices his unaccountable ambi- tion for her elevation completely bhnded him. Neither did he Arish her to mingle much \rith the world, from a latent apprehension that she might find it a different thing fi'om what he himself represented it to be ; and perhaps might learn there the low estimate which it had formed of her futui'e husband. Like most misanthi'ojjical men, therefore, whose hatred of life is derived principally from that uneasiness of conscience which proceeds fi-om their own vices, he kept aloof from society as far as the necessities of his position al- lowed him. Mrs. Main waring had called upon him sev- eral times with an intention of making some communication which she tinisted would have had the effect of opening his eyes to the danger into which he was about to pre- cipitate his daughter by her contemplated marriage with Dunroe. He unifonnly re- fused, however, to see her, or to allow her any opportunity of introducing the subject. Finding herself dehberately and studiously repulsed, tliis good lady, who stiU occasion- ally coiTesjJonded with Lucy, came to the resolution of A\i'iting to him on the subject, and, accordingly, Gibson, one morning, with his usual cool and deferential manner, presented him with the following letter : "SUMMERFIELD CoTTAGE. "Sm, — I should feel myself utterly un- worthy of the good opinion which I trust I am honored with by your admirable daugh- ter, were I any longer to remain silent upon a subject of the deepest importance to her future hapi^iness. I understixnd that .she is almost immediately about to become the wife of Lord Dunroe. Now, su-, I entreat your most serious attention ; and I am cer- tain, if you A\ill only bestow it upon the few words I am about to wi'ite, that you, and especially ^liss Gourla}-, will live to thank God that I intei'posed to prevent this un- hallowed union. I say then, emphatically, as I shall be able to prove most distuictly, that if you permit Miss Gourlay to become the \rife of this "young nobleman you will seal her ruin — defeat the chief object which you cherish for her in Ufe, and hve to curse the day on which you urged it on. The com- munications which I have to make are of too much importance to be committed to paper , but if you will only allow me, and I once more implore it for the sixke of your child, as well as for your own future ease of mind, the privilege of a short inteniew, I shall 548 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. «ompietely satisfy you as to the truth of what I state. " I have the honor to be, sir, " Your obUged and obedient servant, " ]MaETH.\ MAnrSVARINQ." Having perused the first sentence of this .earnest and fi-iendly letter, Sir Thomas in- Idignantly flung it into a drawer where he tept all communications to which it did not please him at the moment to pay pai'ticular attention. Lucy's health in the meantime was fast breaking : but so dehcate and true was her sense of honor and duty that she would have looked upon any clandestine communication with her lover as an infi'action of the solemn engagement into which she had entered for her father's sake, and by which, even at the expense of her own happiness, she consider- ed herself bound. Still, she felt that a com- munication on the subject was due to him, and her piincipal hope now was that her father would allow her to make it. If he, however, refused this sanction to an act of common justice, then she resolved to write to him openly, and make the wi'etched cu'- cumstances in which she was involved, and the eternal baiiier that had been placed between them, known to him at once. Her father, however, now found, to his utter mortification, that he was driving mat- ters somewhat too fast, and that his daugh- ter's health must unquestionably be restored before he could think of outraging humanity and pubUc decency by forcing her fi'om the sick bed to the altar. After learing her brother on the occasion of their last remarkable interview, she re- tired to her room so full of wretchedness, in- dignation, and despair of all human aid or sympathy, that she scarcely knew whether their conversation was a dream or a reahty. Above aU things, the shock she received thi'ough her whole moral system, delicately and finely tempered as it was, so completely prostrated her physical strength, and es- tranged all the rirtuous instincts of her noble nature, that it was with difficulty she reached her o^\^l room. "When there, she immediately rang for her maid, who at once perceived by the indignant sparkle of her eye, the heightened color of her cheek, and the energetic agitation of her voice, that some- thing exceedingly unpleasant had occurred. "My gracious, miss," she exclaimed, " what has happened ? You look so dis- turbed ! Something, or somebody, has of- fended you." " I am disturbed, Alice," she replied, " I am disturbed ; come and lend me your arm ; my knees are trembling so that I cannot walk without assistance ; but must sit down for a moment. Indeed, I feel that my strength is fast departing from me. I scarcely know what I am thinking. I am all confused, agitated, shocked. Gracious heaven ! Come, my dear Alice, help yoi\r mistress ; you, Alice, are the only friend I have left noT?. Are you not my fi-iend, Alice ? " She was sitting on a lounger as she spoke, and the poor affectionate girl, who loved her as she did her hfe, threw herself over, anc| leaning her head upon her mistress's knees wept bitterly. " Sit beside me, Alice," said she ; " whatever distance social distinctions may have placed between us, I feel that the tnith and sincer- ity of those tears justify me in placing you near my heart. Sit beside me, but compose yourself ; and then you must assist me to bed." " They are killing you," said Alley, still weeping. " What deAol can tempt them to act as they do ? As for me, miss, it's break- ing my heart, that I see what you are suffer- ing, and can't assist you." " But I have yoiu- love and sympathy, your fidehty, too, my dear Ahce ; and that now is aU I beheve the world has left me." " No, miss," rephed her maid, wiping her eyes, and striving to comjDose herself, " no, indeed ; there is another — another gentle- man, I mean — as well as myself, that feels deeply for your situation." Had Lucy's spii'it been such as they were wont to be, she could have enjoyed this httle blunder of Alice's ; but now her heart, like some precious jewel that Hes too deep in the bosom of the ocean for the sun's strong- est beams to reach, had sunk beneath the in- fluence of either cheefulness or mirth. " There is indeed, miss," continued Alice, " And pray, Ahce," asked her mistress. " how do you know that ? " " Why, miss," replied the girl, " I am told that of late he is looking very ill, too. They say he has lost his spu'its all to pieces, and seldom laughs — the Lord save us ! " " They say ! — who say, Alice ?" " ^Miy," replied Ahce, with a perceptible heightening of her color, " ahem ! siiem 1 why. Dandy Dulcimer, miss." " And where have you seen him ? Dvd- cimer, I mean. He, I suppose, who used oc- casionally to play upon the instiaiment of that name in the HaU ? " " Yes, ma'am, the same. Don't you re- member how beautiful ho played it the night we came in the coach to town ? " " I remember there was something very unpleasant between him and a farmer, I believe ; but I did not pay much attention to it at the time." THE BLACK UAltO^UiT. 540 " I am sorry for that, miss, for I declare to goodness, Dandy's dulcimer isn't such an unpleasant instrument as you think ; and, besides, he has got a new one the other day that plays lovely." Lucy felt a good deal anxious to hear some further information from Alley upon the subject she had introduced, but saw that Dandy and his dulcimer were likely to be substituted for it, all unconscious as the poor girl was of the preference of the man to the master. " He looks ill, you say, Alice ? " " Never seen him look so rosy in my life, miss, nor in such spirits." Lucy looked into her face, and for a mo- ment's space one slight and feeble gleam, which no suftering could prevent, passed over it, at this intimation of the object which Alley's fancy then dwelt upon. " He danced a hornpipe, miss, to the tune of the S^vaggerin' Jig, upon the kitchen ta- ble," she proceeded ; " and, sorra be off me, but it would do your heart good to see the springs he would give — eveiy one o' them a yard high — and to hear how he'd crack his fingers as loud as the shot of a pistol." A shght gloom overclouded Lucy's face ; but, on looking at the artless transition from the honest symimthy which Alley had just felt for her to a sense of happiness which it was almost a ciime to distui'b, it almost in- stantly disappeai'ed. "I must not be angry with her," she said to herself ; " this feeling, after all, is only natural, and such as God in his goodness bestows upon every heart as the gi'eatest gift of hfe, when not abused. I cannot be dis- pleased at the naivete with which she has forgotten my lover for her own ; for such I perceive this pei*sou she speaks of evidently is." She looked once more at her maid, whose eyes, with true Celtic feeling, were now dancing with delight, whilst yet red with teai's. " Alice," said she, in a voice of indul- gent reproof, "who are you thinking of?" " Why, of Dandy, miss," replied Alley; but in an instant the force of the reproof as well as of tlie indulgence was felt, and sho acknowledged lier error by a blush. " I beg your pardon, miss," she said ; " I'm a thoughtless creature. "WTiat can you care about what I was sa^nn' ? But — hem — well, about him — sure enough, poor Dandy told me that ever^'thing is going wrong ^\'ith liim. He doesn't, as I said, speak or smile as he used to do." " Do you know," asked her mistress, " whether he goes out much ? " " Not much, miss, I think ; he goes some- times to Ladv Gourlav's and to Dean Pal- mer's. But do you know what I heard, missi I hope you won't grow jealous, though ? " Lucy gave a faint smile. " I hope not, Alice. "WTiat is it ? " But here, on recollecting again the scene she had just closed below stairs, she shuddered, and could not help exclaim- ing, " Oh, gracious heaven ! " Then sud- denly throwing off, as it were, aU thought and reflection connected with it, she looked again at her maid, and repeated the question, " \Miat is it, Ahce ? " "Why, miss, have you ever seen Lord Dunroe's sister ? " " Yes, in London ; but she was only a girl, though a lovely girl." "Well, miss, do you know what? She's in love with some one." " Poor girl ! " exclaimed Lucy, " I trust the course of her love may run smoother than mine ; but who is she supposed to be in love with ? " she asked, not, however, with- out a blush, which, with all her ^irtues, was, as woman, out of her power to supjDress. " Oh," replied Alley, " not -with him — and dear knows it would be no disgrace to her, but the contrary, to fall in love with such a gentleman — no ; but with a j'ouiig officer of the Thii'ty-thii-d, who they say is lovely." " ^\^^at is his name, do you not know, Alice ? " "Roberts, I think. They met at Dean. Palmer's and Lady Gourlay's ; for it seems that Colonel Dundas was an old brother of- ficer of Sir Edwai'd's, when he was young and in the army." " I have met that young officer, Ahce," rephed Lucy, " and I know not how it was, but I felt an — a — a — in fact, I cannot de- scribe it. Those Avho were present obseiTed that he and I resembled each other very much, and indeed the resemblance struck mj-self very forcibly." " Troth, and if he resembled you, miss, I'm not siuprised that Lady Emily fell in love with him." " But how did you come to hear all this, Alice ? " asked Lucy with a good deal of anxiety. " Why, miss, there's a cousin of my own maid to Mrs. Palmer, and you may remem- ber the evenin' you gave me lave to spend with her. She gave a party on the same evenin' and Dandy was there. I think I never looked better ; I liad on my new stays, and my hair was done up Grecian. Aiiy way, I wasn't the worst of them." "I am fatigued, Alice," said Lucy; " make your narrative as short as you can." "I haven't much to add to it now, miss," she replied. "It was obsei-ved that Lady Emil3''s eyes and his were never off one another. She refused, it seems, to dance 550 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. with some major that's a great lord in the regiment, and danced with Mr. Roberts af- terwards. He brought her do\\Ti to supper, too, and sat beside her, and you know what that looks like." Lucy paused, and seemed as if anxious about something, but at length asked, " Do you know, Ahce, was he there ? " "No, miss," repUed the maid; "Dandy tells me he goes to no great parties at all, he only dines where there's a few. But, in- deed, by all accounts he's very vmhappy." " A^Tiat do you mean by all accounts," ask- ed Luc}', a httle startled. " TVTiy, Dandy, miss ; so he tells me." " Poor Ahce ! " exclaimed Lucy, looking benignantly upon her. "I did not think, Ahce, that any conversation could have for a moment won me from the painful state of mind in which I entered the room. Aid me me now to my bedchamber. I must he down, for I feel that I shovdd endeavor to re- cruit my strength some way. If I could sleep, I should be probably the better for it ; but, alas, Ahce, you need not be told that misery and desjDair are wi'etched bedfel- lows." " Don't say despair," rephed Alice ; " re- member there's a good God above us, who can do better for us than ever we can for ourselves. Trust in him. ^\Tio knows but he's only trjing you ; and severely tried you are, my darlin' mistress." ^Vhilst uttering the last words, the affec- tionate creature's eyes filled with tears. She rose, however, and having assisted Lucy to her sleeping-room, helped to undress her, then fixed her with tender assiduity in her bed, where, in a few minutes, exhaustion and anxiety of mind were for the time forgotten, and she fell asleep. The penetration of seiwants, in tracing, at fashionable parties, the emotions of love thi'ough all its various garbs and disguises, constitutes a princij^al and not the least dis- agreeable portion of their duty. The his- tory of Lady Emily's attachment to Ensign Roberts, though a profound secret to the world, in the opinion of the parties them- selves, and only hoped for and suspected by each, was nevei'theless perfectly well knoAvn by a good number of the quality below stairs. The circumstance, at all events, as detailed by Alley, was one which in this instance jus- tified their sagacity. Roberts and she had met, precisely as Alley said, three or four times at Lady Gourlay's and the Dean's, where their several attractions were, in fact, the theme of some observation. Those long, conscious glances, however, which, on the subject of love are such traitors to the heart, by disclosing its most secret operations, had sufficiently well told them the state of every. thing within that mysterious little garrison ; and the natural result was that Lady Emily seldom thought of any one or anj'thing but Ensign Roberts and the aforesaid glances, nor %\x. Roberts of anything but hers ; for it so happened, that, with the peculiar over- sight in so many things by which the passion is characterized. Lady Emily forgot that she had herself been glancing at the ensign, or she could never have obseiwed and interpret- ed his looks. With a similar neglect of his own offences, in the same way must we charge Mr. Roberts, who in his imagination saw nothing but the blushing glances of this fau' patrician. Time went on, however, and Lucy, so far from recovering, was nearly one-half of the week confined to her bed, or her apartment. Sometimes, by way of varying the scene, and, if possible, enhvening her sjiirits, she had forced herself to go down to the drawing- room, and occasionally to take an airing in the carriage. A fortnight had elaj^sed, and yet neither Norton nor his fellow-traveler had retui-ned fi-om France. Neither had IMr. Biruey ; and our friend the stranger had failed to get any possible intelligence of un- fortunate Fenton, whom he now beheved to have perished, either by foul practices or the influence of some intoxicating debauch. Thanks to Dandy Dulcimer, however, as well as to Alle}^ Mahon, he was not without information concerning Lucy's state of health; and, unfortunately, all that he could hear about it was only calculated to dejDress and distract him. Dandy came to him one morning, about this period, and after rubbing his head sHght- ly with the tips of his fingers, said, " Bedad, sir, I was very near havin' coidh the right Mrs. Norton yestherday — I mane, 1 thought I was." " How was that ? " asked his master. " Why, sir, I heard there was a fine, good- looking widow of that name, livin' in Meek- lenburgh street, where she keeps a dairy ; and sure enough there I found her. Do you undherstand, sir ? " "Why should I not, sLrra? "WTiat mystery is there in it that I should not ? " "Deuce a sich a blazei- of a v^idow I seen this seven years. I went early to her place, and the first thing I saw Avas a lump of a six-year-ould — a son of hers — lila^'in' the Pan- dean pipes upon a whack o' bread and but- ther that he had aiten at the toj) into canes. Somehow, although I can't tell exactly why, I tuck a fancy to become acquainted with her, and proposed, if she had no ob- jection, to take a cup o' tay with her yes- therday evenin', statin' at the time that I had THE BLACK BARONET. 651 something to say that might turn out to her advantage." " But what mystery is there in all this ? " said his master. •' Mysthery, sir — why, where was there ever a widow since the creation of Peter White, that hadn't more or less of mysthery about her ? " " Well, but what was the mystery here ? " asked the other. " I do not perceive any, so far." " Take your time, sir," rej^lied Dandy ; " it's comin'. The young performer on the Pandeana that I tould you of wasn't more than five or six at the most, but a woman over the way, that I made inquiries of, tould me the length o' time the husband was dead. Do you imdherstand the mysthery now, sir ? " " Go on," rejilied the other ; "I am amus- ed by you ; but I don't see the mystery, not- withstanding. What was the result ? " "I tell you the truth — she was a fine, comely, Jiaglioola woman ; and as I heard she had the shiners, I began to think I might do worse." " I thought the girl called Alley Mahon was your favorite ? " " So she is, sir — that is, she's one o' them : but, talkin' o' favorites, I am seldom without half-a-dozen." " Very liberal, indeed. Dandy ; but I wish to hear the upshot." "Why, sir, we had a cup o' tay together yestherday evenin', and, between you and me, I began, as it might be, to get fond of her. She's very pretty, sir ; but I must say, that the man who marries her will get a mouth, plaise goodness, that he must kiss by instalments. Faith, if it could be called pro- perty, he might boast that his is extensive ; and divil a mistake in it." " She has a large mouth, then ? " " Upon ray soul, sir, if you stood at the one side of it you'd require a smart telescope to see to the other. No man at one attempt could ever kiss her. I began, sir, at the left side — that's always the right side to kiss at and went on successfully enough till I got half way through ; but you see, sir, the even- in 's is but short yet, and as I had no time to finish, I'm to go back this evenin' to get to the other side. " Still I'm at a loss, Dandy," replied his master, not knowing whether to smile or get angi-y ; " finish it without going about in this manner." " Faith, sir, and that's more than I could do in kissing the widow. Divil such a cir- cumbendibus ever a man had as I had in get- tin' as far as the nose, where I had to give up until this evenin' as I said. Now, sir, whether to consider that an advantage or disadvan- tage is another mysther}' to me. There's some women, and they have such a small, rosy, little mouth, that a man must gather up his lips into a bird's bill to kiss them. Now, tliere's Miss Gour " A look of fury from his master di\ided the word in his mouth, and he paused from ter- ror. His master became more composed, however, and said, " To what purpose have you told me all this ? " " Gad, sir to teU you the truth, I saw you were low-spirited, and wanted something to rouse you. It's truth for all that." " Is this Mrs. Norton, however, the woman whom we are seeking ? " "Well, w'jll," exclaimed Dandy, casting down his hand, with vexatious vehemence, against the open air ; " by the piper o' Mo.se8, I'm the stupidest man that ever peeled a phatie. Troth, I was so engaged, sir, that I forgot it ; but I'll remember it to-night, plaise goodness." " Ah, Dandy," exclaimed his master, smil- ing, " I fear you are a faithless swain. I thouji;ht Alley Mahon was at least the fii'st on the list." "Troth, sir," replied Dandy, "I believe she is, too. Poor Alley ! By the way, sir, I beg your pardon, but I have news for you that I fear will give you a hea\T heart." "How," exclaimed his master, "how — ■ what is it? Tell me instantl}-." " Miss Gourlay is iU, sir. She was go in" to be married to this lord ; her father, I be- lieve, had the day apjDointed, and she had given her consent." His master seized him by the collar with both hands, and peering into his eyes, whilst his own blazed Avith actual fire, he held him for a moment as if in a vise, exclaiming, " Her consent, 3'ou villain I " But, as if rec- ollecting himself, he suddenly let him go, and said, cjilmly, " Go on with what you were about to sa}'. " "I have very Httle more to say. sir," re- phed Dandy ; " herself and Lord Dunroe is only waitin' till she gets well and then they're to be married ? " " You said she gave her consent, did you not ! " " No doubt of it, sir, and that, I believe, is what's breakin' her heart. However, it's not my aftair to direct any one ; still, if I was in somebody's shoes, I know the tune I'd smg." " And what tvme would you sing? " asked his master. Dandy sung the following stave, and, as he did it, he threw his comic eye upon his master with such humorous significance that the latter, although wrapped in deep refleu- 552 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. tion at the moment, on suddenly observing it, could not avoid smiling : " Will you list, and come with me, fair maid ? Will you list, and come with me, fair maid ? Will you list, and come with me, fair maid ? And folly the lad with the white cockade ? " "If you haven't a good voice, sir, you could whisper the words into her ear, and as you're so near the mouth — hem — a word to the wise — then point to the chaise that you'll have standin' outside, and my life for you, there's an end to the fees o' the docther." His master, who had relapsed into thought before he concluded his advice, looked at him without seeming to have heard it. He then traversed the room several times, his chin supported by his finger and thumb, after which he seemed to have formed a resolution. " Go, sir," said he, " and put that letter to Father M'Mahon in the post-of&ce. I shall not want you for some time." "Will I ordher a chaise, su'?" rephed Dandy, with a serio-comic face. One look from his masler, however, sent him about his business ; but the latter could hear him lilting the " White Cockade," as he went down stairs. "Now," said he, when Dandy was gone, " can it be possible that she has at length given her consent to this marriage ? Never voluntarily. It has been extorted by foiol deceit and threatening, by some base fraud practised vipon her generous and unsuspect- ing nature. I am culpable to stand tamely by and allow this great and glorious creature to be sacrificed to a bad ambition, and a worse man, withoiit coming to the rescue. But, in the meantime, is this information true ? Alas, I fear it is ; for I know the un- scrupulous spirit the dear girl has, alone and unassisted, to contend •with. Yet if it be true, oh, why should she not have written to me ? Wliy not have enabled me to come to her defence ? I know not what to think. At all events, I shall, as a last resource, call up- on her father. I shall explain to him the risk he inins in mari'ying his daughter to this man who is at once a fool and a scoundrel. But how can I do so ? Birney has not yet returned from France, and I have no proofs on which to rest such serious allegations ; nothing at present but bare assertions, which her father, in the heat and fury of his ambi- tion, might not only disbelieve, but misin- teri:)ret. Be it so ; I shaU at least warn him, take it as he wiU ; and if aU else should fail, I will disclose to him my name and family, in order that he may know, at aU events, ihat I am no impostor. My present remon- strance may so far alarm him as to cause the persecution against Lucy to be suspended for a time, and on Bii-ney's return, we shall, I trust, be able to speak more emphatically." He accordingly sent for a chaise, into which he stepped and ordered the driver to leave him at Sir Thomas Gourlay's and to wait there for him. Lord Dunroe was at this period perfectly well aware that Birney's visit to France was occasioned by purposes that boded nothing favorable to his interests ; and were it not for Lucy's illness, there is httle doubt that the marriage would, ere now, *have taken place. A fortnight had elapsed, and every day so completely fiUed him vdth alarm, that he proposed to Sir Thomas Gourlay the ex- pediency of getting the license at once, and having the ceremony performed privately in her father's house. To this the father would have assented, were it not that he had taken it into his head that Lucy was ralljdng, and would soon be in a condition to go through it, in the parish church, at least. A few days, he hojDed, would enable her to bear it ; but if not, he was willing to make every conces- sion to his lordship's wishes. Her delicate health, he said, would be a sufficient justifica- tion. At all events, both agi-eed that there could be no harm in having the license pro- vided : and, accordingly, upon the morning of the stranger's visit, Sir Thomas and Lord Dunroe had just left the house of the former for the Ecclesiastical Court, in Henrietta street, a few minutes before his arrival. Sir Thomas was mistaken, however, in imagining that his daughter's health was imj^roving. The doctor, indeed, had ordered carriage ex- ercise essentially necessary ; and Lucy being none of those weak and foohsh girls, who sink under illness and calamity by an apa- thetic neglect of their health, or a crimiual indifference to the means of guarding and prolonging the existence into which God has called them, left nothing undone on her part to second the efforts of the j^hysician. Ac- cordingly, whenever she was able to be up, or the weather jDcrmitted it, she sat in the cari'iage for an hour or two as it drove through some of the beautiful suburban scenery by which our city is surrounded. The stranger, on the door being opened, was told by a servant, through mistake, that Sir Thomas Govirlay was within. Tlife man then showed him to the drawing-room, where he said there was none but Miss Gourlay, he believed, who was waiting for the can-iage to take her airing. On hearing this j^iece of intelligence the stranger's heart began to palpitate, and his whole system, physical and spiritual, was disturbed by a general commotion that THE BLACK BARONET. 553 amoimted to pain, and almost banished his presence of mind for the moment. He tapped at the drawing-room door, and a low, melancholy voice, that penetrated his heai-t, said, "Come in." He entered, and there on a sofa sat Lucy before him. He did not bow — his heart was too deeply in- terested in her fate to remember the formal- ities of ceremony — but he stood, and fixed his eyes upon her ^snth a long and anxious gaze. There she sat ; but, oh I how much changed in appearance fi*om what he had known her on everj' pre%dous interview. Not that the change, wliilst it spoke of sor- row and suflfei-ing, was one which dimin- ished her beauty ; on the contrary, it had only changed its character to something far more touching and impressive than health itself with all its blooming hues could have bestowed. Her features were certainly thin- ner, but there was visible in them a serene but mournful spirit — a voluptuous languor, heightened and spiritualized by purity and in- tellect into an expression that realized our notions rather of angehc beauty than of the loveHness of mere woman. To all this, sor- row had added a dignity so full of melan- choly and commanding gi-ace — a seriousness indicative of such tiiith and honor — as to make the heart of the spectator wonder, and the eye almost to weep on witnessing an association so strange and incomprehensible, as that of such beauty and erident goodness with su£feiiugs that seem rather like ciimes against purity and innocence, and almost tempt the weak heart to revolt against the dispensations of Providence. "WTien their eyes rested on each other, is it necessary to say that the melancholy po- sition of Lucy was soon read in those large orbs that seemed about to dissolve into tears? The shock of the stranger's sudden and imexpected appearance, when taken in connection with the loss of him forever, and the sacrifice of her love and happiness, which, to save her father's life, she had so heroically and nobly made, was so strong, she felt unable to rise. He approached her, struck deeply by the dignified entreaty for sympathy and pardon that was in her looks. " I am not well able to rise, deai* Charles," she said, breaking the short silence which had occurred, and extending her hand ; " and I suppose you have come to reproach me. As for me, I have nothing to ask you for now — nothing to hope for but pai'don, and that you will forget me henceforth. Will you be noble enough to forgive her who was once your Lucy, but who can never be 80 more ? " The dreadful solemnity, together ^^•ith the pathetic spirit of tenderness and despair that breathed in these words, caused a pulsa/- tion in his heart and a sense of suffocation about his throat that for the moment pre- vented him fi-om speaking. He seized her hand, which was placed passively in his, and as he put it to his lips, Lucy felt a warm tear or two fall upon it. At length he spoke : " Oh, why is this, Lucy ? " he said ; " your appeai-ance has unmanned me ; but I see it and feel it all. I have been sacrificed to ambition, yet I blame you not." " No, deal- Charles," she rephed ; " look upon me and then ask yourself who is the victim." " But what has hajspened ? " he asked ; " what machinerj' of hell has been at work to reduce you to this ? Fraud, deceit, trea- chery have done it. But, for the sake of God, let me know, as I said, what has oc- curred since our last inten-iew to occasion this deplorable change — this rooted sorrow — this awful sjiii'lt of desi^air that I read in your face ? " "Not despair, Charles, for I wiU never }-ield to that ; but it is enough to sa}', that a barrier deep as the gi-ave, and which only that can remove, is between us forever in this life." " You mean to say, then, that you never can be mine ? " " That, alas, is what I mean to say — what I must say." " But why, Lucy — why, deai-est Lucy — for still I must call you so ; what has occa- sioned this? I cannot understand it." She then related to him, briefly, but feel- ingly, the solemn promise, which. ^t be a woman of honor. But it is time you should go ; onh* before you do, hear me. Henceforth we have each of us one gi'eat mutual task imposed upon us — a task the fulfilment of which is dictated alike by honor, rirtue, and religion." "Alas, Lucy, what is that ?" "To forget each other. Fi'om the mo- ment I become," she sobbed aloud — " you know," she added, " what I would say, but what I cannot — fi'om that moment memory becomes a crime." " But an involuntarv* crime, my ever dear Lucy. As for my i)art," he replied, vehe- mently, and with sometlmig akin to distrac- tion, " I feel that is impossible, and that even were it possible, I would no more at- tempt to banish your image from my heart than I would to deliberately still its pulses. Never, never — such an attempt, such an act, if successful, would be a murder of the affec- 556 WIZLIAJf CARLETON'S WORKS. tions. No, Lucy, whilst one spark of mor- tal life is aUve in my body, whilst memory can remember the dreams of only the pre- ceding moment, whilst a single faculty of heart or intellect remains by which your image can be preserved, I shall cling to that image as the shipwrecked sailor would to the plank that bears him through the midnight storm — as a despairing soul would to the only good act of a wicked life that he could plead for his salvation." "VMiUst he spoke, Lucy kept her eyes fixed upon his noble featui*es, now wrought up into an earnest but melancholy animation, and when he had concluded, she exclaimed, "And this is the man of whose love they would deprive me, whose very acknowledg- ment of it comes upon my spiiit hke an an- them of the heart ; and I know not what I have done to be so tried ; yet, as it is the will of God, I receive it for the best. Dear Charles, you must go ; but you spoke of re- monstrating with my father. Do not so ; an intei^view would only aggravate him. And as you admit that certain documents are wanted to produce a change in his opinions, you may see clearly that until you produce them an expostulation would be worse than useless. On the contrary, it might precipi- tate matters and ruin all. Now go." " Perhaps you are right," he replied, " as you always are ; how can I go ? How can I tear mj^self from you ? Dearest, dearest Lucy, what a love is mine ! But that is not surprising — who could love you with an or- dinary passion ? " Apprehensive that her father might re- turn, she rose up, but so completely had she been exhausted by the excitement of this in- terview that he was obUged to assist her. " I hear the carriage," said she ; " it is at the door : will you ring for my maid ? And now, Charles, as it is possible that we must meet no more, say, before you go, that you forgive me." " There is everj-ihing in your conduct to be admired and loved, my dearest Lucy ; but nothing to be forgiven." "Is it possible," she said, as if in com- munion with herself, " that we shall never meet, never speak, never, probably, look up- on each other more ? " Her lover observed that her face became suddenly pale, and she staggered a little, after which she sank and would have fallen had he not supi^orted her in his arms. He had already mng for Alley Mahon, and there was nothing for it but to place Lucy once more upon the sofa, whither he was obhged to cai-ry her, for she had fainted. Having placed lier there, it became necessary to sup- j^jui't, her head upon his bosom, and in doing so — is it in human nature to be severe upon him? — he rapturously kissed her lips, and pressed her to his heart in a long, tender, and melancholy embrace. The appearance of her maid, however, who always accompa- nied her in the carriage, terminated this pardonable theft, and after a few words oi ordinary conversation they separated. CHAPTEK XXXVn. Dandy's Visit to Snmmerfield Cottage, where he Makes a most UngaUant Mistake — Returns with Tidings of both Mrs. Norton and Fenton — and Generously Patronizes his Master. On the morning after this interview the stranger was waited on by Birney, who had returned fi'om France late on the preceding night. " Well, my fi'iend," said he, after they had shaTien hands, " I hope you are the bearer of welcome intelligence ! " The gloom and disappointment that were legible in this man's round, rosy, and gener- ally good-humored countenance were ob- served, however, by the stranger at a second glance. " But how is this ? " he added ; " you are silent, and I fear, now that I look at you a second time, that matters have not gone well with you. For God's sake, however, let me know ; for I am impatient to hear the result." " All is lost," repHed Bimey ; " and I fear we have been outgeneralled. The clergy- man is dead, and the book in which the re- cord of her death was registered has dis- appeared, no one knows how. I strongly suspect, however, that yovu* opponent is at the bottom of it." " You mean Dunroe ? " "I do ; that scoundrel Norton, at once his master and his slave, accompanied by a susjiicious-looking fellow, whose name I dis- covered to be Mulholland, were there before us, and I fear, carried their point by se- cui'ing the register, which I have no doubt has been by this time reduced to ashes." " Li that case, then," rej^hed the stranger, despondingly, "it's all up -nith us." "Unless," observed Birney, "you have been moi-e successful at home than I have been abroad. Any trace of oVIrs. Norton ? " " None whatsoever. But, my dear Bu-- ney, what you tell me is surprisingly myste- rious. How could Dunroe become aware of the existence of these documents ? or, indeed, of our proceedings at all ? And who is this MullioUand you speak of that accompanied him ? " THE BLACK BARONET. 557 "I know nothing whatever about him," replied Bimey, " except that he is a fellow of dissolute appearance, ^N^ith sandy hair, not ill-looking, setting aside what is caUed a battered look, and a face of the most con- summate efii-ontery." " I see it all," replied the other. "That drunken scoundi'el M'Bride has betrayed us, as far, at least, as he could. The fellow, while his conduct continued good, was in my con- fidence, as far as a servant ought to be. In this matter, however, he did not know all, unless, indeed, by inference from the nature of the document itself, and from kno-wing the name of the family whose position it af- fected. How it might have affected them, however, I don't think he knew." " But how do you know that this Mulhol- land is that man ? " " From your description of him I am con- fident there can be no mistake about it — not the shghtest ; he must have changed his name piu-posely on this occasion ; and, I dare say, Duni'oe has hberally paid him for his treacher}-." " But what is to be done now ? " asked Bimey ; " here we are fairly at fault." " I have seen ^liss Gourlay," replied the other, " and if it were only from motives of humanity, we must try, by every means con- sistent with honor, to sto]3 or retard her marriage with Dunroe." " But how are we to do so? " " I know not at present ; but I shall think of it. This is most imfortunate. I declare solemnly that it was only in so far as the facts we were so anxious to estabhsh might have enabled us to prevent this ac- cursed union, that I myself felt an interest in our success. !Miss Gourlay 's happiness was my sole motive of action." "I beheve you, sir," replied Bimey ; "but in the meantime we are completely at a stand. Chance, it is time, may throw some- thing in our way ; but, in the present posi- tion of circumstances, chance, nay, all the chances are against us." "It is unfortunately too true," rephedthe stranger ; " there is not a single opening left for us ; we are, on the contraiy, shut out completely in every direction. I shall write, however, to a lady who possesses much in- fluence with Miss Goui-lay ; but, alas, to what purpose ? ^liss Govirlay herself has no in- fluence whatever ; and, as to her father, he does not live who could divert him from his object. His ^'ile ambition only in the matter of his daughter could influence him, and it will do so to her destruction, for she cannot survive this maniage long." " You look thin, and a good deal care- worn," observed Bimey, " which, indeed, I am sorry to see. Constant anxiety, however, and perpetual agitation of spirits will wear any man dovNTi. WeU, I must bid you good morning ; but I had almost forgotten to ir^- quire about poor Fenton. Any trace of "mm during m}' absence ? " " Not the slightest. In fact, every point ia against us. Lady Gourlay has relapsed into her original hopelessness, or nearly so, and I myself am now more depressed than I have ever been. Perish register, documents, cor- rupt knaves, and ungi-ateful traitors — perish all the machinery' of justice on the one hand, and of ^illainy on the other ; only let us suc- ceed in seeming ]Miss Gourlay 's happiness, and I am contented. That, now and hence- forth, is the absorbing object of my life. Let her be happy; let Ixer be but happy — and this can only be done by preventing her union with this heartless young man, whosfl principal motive to it is her property." Birney then took his departure, leaving his fiiend in such a state of distress, and al- most of despair, on Lucy's account, as we presume o\ir readers can very sufficiently , imderstand, without any further assistance fi'om us. He covdd not, howevei-, help con- gratulating himself on his prudence in \\-ith- holding fi-om ^liss Gom-Liy the sanguine expectations which he himself had entertain- I ed upon the result of Bimey's journey to j France. Had he not done so, he knew that I she would have j^aiiicipated in his hopes, and, as a natui-al consequence, she must now have had to bear this deadly blow of disap- pointment, probably the last cherished hope of her heart ; and under such circumstances, it is difficult to say what its effect upon her might have been. This was now his only satisfaction, to which we may add the con- j sciousness that he had not, by making pre- mature disclosures, been the means of com- I promising the innocent. After much thought and reflection upon the gloomy position in which both he him- self and especially Lucy were placed, he re- solved to vrnie to Mi-s. Mainwaiing upon the subject ; although at the moment he scarcely knew in what tenns to address her, or what steps he could suggest to her, as one feeling a deep interest in ]Miss Gourlay 's happiness. At length, after much anxious rumination, he wTote the following short let- ter, or rather note, more with a view of alarming Mi's. ^lainwaring into activity, than of dictating to her any line of action as pe- cuhaiiy suited to the circumstances. " IVIadam, — The fact of ]Miss Gourlay hay- ing taken refuge vriih. you as her friend, up- on a cei-tain occasion that was, I beheve. verj- painful to that young lady, I think sui 558 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. ficiently justifies me in supposing that you feel a warm interest in her fate. For this reason, therefore, I have taken the hberty of addressing you A^dth reference to her pres- ent situation. If ever a human being re- quired the aid and consolation of fiiendship, IMiss Gourlay now does ; and I will not sup- pose that a lady whom she honored with her esteem and affection, could be capable of withholding from her such aid and such con- solation, in a crisis so dej^lorable. You are probably aware, madam, that she is on the point of being sacrificed, by a forced and hated union, to the ambitious -views of her father ; but you covild form a very slight concej)tion indeed of the hoiTor with which she approaches the giilf that is before her. Could there be no means devised by which this imhappy young lady might be enabled with honor to extricate herself fx*om the wi'etchedness with which she is encompass- ed ? I beg of you, madam, to think of this ; there is httle time to be lost. A few days may seal her misery forever. Her health and spirits are fast sinking, and she is be- ginning to entertain apprehensions that that apathy which proceeds fi*om the united influence of exhaustion and misery, may, in some unhappy moment, deprive her of the power of resistance, even for a time. Ma^ dam, I entreat that you will either write to her or see her ; that you %\ill sustain and console her as far as in you hes, and en- deavor, if possible, to throw some obstnic- tion in the way of this acciu'sed marriage ; whether thi'ough youi' influence with herself, or her father, matters not. I beg, madam, to apologize for the hbert}- 1 have taken in ad- dr-essing you upon this painful but deeply important subject, and I appeal to yourself whether it is possible to know INIiss Gourlay, and not to feel the deepest interest in eveiy- thing that involves her happiness or misery.- "I have the honor to be, madam, " Your obedient, faithful sei-vant, and " Her Sincere Friend. "P. S. — I send this letter by my servant, as I am anxious that it should reach no hands, and be subjected to no eyes, but your own ; and I refer you to IVIiss Gourla}^ her- self, who will satisfy you as to the honor and purity of my motives in writing it." Having sealed this communication, the stranger rang for Dulcimer, who made his appeai-ance accordmgly, and received his in- structions for its safe deliveiy. " You must deliver thife note, Dandy," said he, " to the lady to whom Miss Gourlay and her maid drove, the morning you took the un- warrantable liberty of follo%ving them there." "And for all that," replied Dandy, "it hapiiens very luckily that I chance, for that very raison, to know now where to find her." " It does so, certainly," rej)Hed his master. "Here is money for you — take a car, or whatever kind of vehicle you prefer. Give this note into her own hand, and make aa httle delay as you can." " Do you exj)ect an answer, sir ? " replied Dandy ; " and am I to wait for one, or ask for one ? " " I am not quite certain of that," said thft other ; " it is altogether discretionary with her. But there can be no harm in asking the question, at all events. Any other ]\Irs, Norton in the way. Dandy ? " "Deuce a once, sir. I have sifted the whole city, and, barrin' the tlu'ee dozen i made out already, I can't find hilt or hare of another. Faith, sir, she ought to be worth something when she's got, for I may fairly say she has cost me trouble enough at any rate, the skulkin' thief, whoever she is ; and me to lose my hundre' pounds into the bar- gain — bad scran to her ! " " Only find me the true Mrs. Norton," said his master, "and the hundred pounds are yoiu-s, and for Fenton Mty. Be off, now, lose no time, and bring me her answer if she sends any." Dandy's motions were aU remarkably rapid, and we need not say that he allowed no grass to gi'ow under his feet while getting over his journey. On ai-riving at Summer- field Cottage, he learned that IMrs. Main war- ing was in the garden ; and on stating that he had a letter to dehver into her own hands, that lady desired him to be brought m, as she was then in conversation with her daugh- ter, who had been comj)elled at length to fly fi'om the brutality of her husband, and re- turn once more to the j)rotection of her mother's roof. On ojDening the letter and looking at it, she staiied, and turning to her daughter said, " You must excuse me, my dea*' Maria, for a few moments, but don't forget to finish what you were teUing me about this unfor- tunate young man, Fenton, as he, you say. caDs himself, from BaUytrain." "Hello!" thought Dandy, "her^-'s a dis- covery. By the elevens, I'U hould goold to silver that this is poor Fenton that disap- peared so suddenly." " I beg youi- pardon, miss," said he, ad- dressing IMrs. Scarman ass an unmarried lady, as he perceived that she ^^•as the per- son from whom he could receive the best inteUigence on the subject ; "I hope it's no offence, miss, to ax a question ? "' " None, certainly, my good man," replied her mother, 'provided it be aiproper one." TEE BLACK BARONET. 55» *'I tliink, miss,"lie continued, "that you were mentioning something to this lady about a young man named Fenton, from BaUytrain ? " " I was," replied Mrs. Scarman, " certainly ; but what interest can you have in him ? " "If he's the young man I mane," con- tinued Dandy, " he's not quite steady in the head sometimes." " If he were, he would not be in his pres- ent abode," replied the lady. " And pray, miss — beg pardon again," said Dandy, w"ith the best bow and scrape he could manage ; " pray, miss, might I be so bould as to ask where that is ? " ^Ii*s. Scarman looked at her mother. " Mamma," said she, " but, bless me ! what is the matter ? you are in tears." "I will tell you by and by, my dear Maria," repHed her mother ; " but you were going to ask me something— what was it ? " " This man," rephed her daughter, " wishes to know the abode of the person I was speaking about." " Pray, what is his motive ? What is your motive, my good man, for asking such a question ? " " Bekaise, ma'am," repHed Dandy, " I happen to know a gentleman who has been for some time on the lookout for him, and wishes very much to find where he is. If it be the young man I spake of, he disappeared some three or four months ago from the to^^^l of Balh'train." "Well," replied Mrs. Mainwaring, with her usual good-sense and sagacity, "as I know not what yovu* motive for asking such a question is, I do not think this lady ought to answer it ; but if the gentleman himself is anxious to know, let him see her ; and upon giving satisfactory reasons for the in- terest he takes in him, he shall be informed of his present abode. You must rest satisfied with this. Go to the kitchen and say to the servant that I desired her to give you refreshment." " Thank you, ma'am," replied Dandy ; "faith, that's a Hvely message, anyhow, and one that I feel gi-eat pleasure in deliverin'. This Wicklow air's a regular cutler ; it has shai-pened my teeth aU to pieces ; and if the cook 'ithin shows me good feedin' I'll show her something in the shape of good atin'. I'm a regular man of talent at my victuals, ma'am, an' was often tosld I might hve to die an alderman yet, plaise God ; many thanks agin, ma'am." So saying, Dandy proceeded at a brisk pace to the kitchen. " That communication, mamma," said ]\Irs. Scai-man, after Dandy had left them, " has distressed you." " It has, my child. Poor Miss Gourlay is in a most wretched state. This I know is from her lovei*. In fact, they will be the death — absolutely and beyond a doubt — the death of this admrrable and most lovely creature. But what can I do ? Her father win not permit me to visit her, neither will he permit her to correspond ^\-ith me. I have ah'eady %vritten to him on the risk to which he submits his daughter in this omi- nous marriage, but I received neither notice of, nor reply to my letter. Oh, no ; the dear girl is vmquestionably doomed. I think, however, I shall write a few lines in reply to this," she added, " but, alas the day ! they cannot speak of comfort." "Whilst she is thus engaged, we will take a peep at the on-goings of Dandy and Nancy Gallaher, in the kitchen, where, in pursu- ance of his message our bashful valet was corroborating, by very able practice, the ac- count which he had given of the talents he had eulogized so justly. "Well, in troth," said he, "but, first and foremost, I haven't the jjleasrure of knowin' yer name." " Nancy Gallaher's my name, then," she replied. "Ah," said Dandy, suspending the fork and an immense piece of ham on the top ol it at the Charybdis which he had opened to an unusual extent to receive it ; " ah, ma'am, it wasn't always that, I'll go bail. My coim- thiymen knows the value of such a purty woman not to stamp some of their names upon her. Not that you have a mamed look, either, any more than myself ; you're too fi'esh for that, now that I look at you again." A certain cloud, which, as Dandy could perceive, was beginning to darken her coun- tenance, suggested the quick tiu-n of his last observation. The countenance, however, cleai'ed again, and she rephed, "It is my name, and what is more, I never changed it. I was hard to plaise — and I am hard to plaise, and ever an' jilways hful a dread of gettin' int© bad company, especiiilly when I knew that the same bad company was to last for hfe." "An ould maid, by the Rock of Cashel," said Dandy, to himself. " Blood alive, I wondher has she money ; but here goes to thry. Ah, Nancy," he pro- ceeded, " you wor too hard to plaise ; and now, that you have got money hke myself, nothing but a steady man, jmd a full purse, will shoot your convanience — isn't that pure gospel, now, you good lookin' thief ? " Nancy's face was now hke a cloudless sky. " Well," she replied, " maybe there's truth in that, and maybe there's not ; but I hope you are takin' cai-e of yourself? That's what 660 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. I always did and ever will, plaise God. How do you like the ham ? " " Divil a so well dressed a bit o' ham ever I ett — it melts into one's mouth like a kiss from a purty woman. Troth, Nancy, I f.hink I'm kissing you ever since I began to ait it." " Get out," said Nancy, laughing ; " troth, you're a quare one ; but you know our Wickla' hams is famous." " And so is your "Wicklow girls," replied Dandy ; " but for my pai-t, I'd sooner taste their hps than the best hams that ever were ©tt any day." " WeU, but," said Nancy, " did you ever taste our bacon ? bekaise, if you didn't, lave off what you're at, and in three skips I'll get you a rasher and eggs that'll make you look nine ways at once. Here, tlirow that by, it's could, and I'll get you something hot and comfortable." " Go on," repUed Dandy ; " I hate idle- ness. Get the eggs and rasher j-ou spake of, and while j'ou're doin' it I'U thry and amuse myself wid what's before me. Industhry's the first of virtues, Nancy, and next to that comes perseverance ; I defy you in the mane time to do a rasher as weU as you did this ham — hoch — och^ — och. God bless me, a bit was near stickin' in my throat. Is your wather good here ? and the raison why I ax you is, that I'm the devil to plaise in wather ; and on that account I seldom take it without a sup o' spirits to dilute it, as the docthors say, for, indeed, that's the way it agi'ees with me best. It's a kind of family failin' with us — devil a one o' my blood ever could look a glass of mere wather in the face with- out blushin'." Dandy was now upon what they call the simphcity dodge ; that is to say, he affected that character of wisdom for which certain indi^^duals, whose knowledge of life no earth- ly experience ever can improve, are so ex- tremely anxious to get credit. Every word he uttered was accompanied by an oafish grin, so ludicrously balanced between sim- phcity and cunning, that Nancy, who had been half her life on the lookout for such a man, and who knew that this indecision of expression was the characteristic of the tribe with which she classed him, now saw be- fore her the great dream of her heart realized. "Well, in troth," she repHed, "you are a quare man ; but still it would be too bad to make you blush for no stronger raison than mere wather. So, in the name o' goodness, here's a tumbler of grog," she added, filling him out one on the instant, "and as you're BO modest, you must only drink it and keep your countenance ; it'll prepare you, besides, for the rasher and eggs ; and, by the same token, here's an ould candle-box that's here the Lord knows how long ; but, faix, now it must help to do the rasher. Come then ; if you are stronger than I am, show your strength, and pull it to pieces, for you see I can't." It was one of those flat little candle-boxes made of deal, with which every one in the habit of burning moulds is acquainted. Dandy took it ujd, and whilst about to pull it to pieces, observed written on a paper la- bel, in a lai'ge hand, something between writ- ing and print, "Mrs. Norton, Summerfield Cottage, Wicklow." "What is this? " said he ; "what name is this upon it? Let us see, 'Mrs. Norton, Sum- merfield Cottage, Wicklow ! ' "VNTio the dick- ens is Mrs. Norton ? " " ^\^y, my present mistress," replied Nan- cy ; " IVIi'. Mainwaring is her second husband, and her name was Mrs. Norton before she married him." " Norton," said Dandy, whose heart was going at full sjDeed, with a hope that he had at length got into the right track, "it's a purty name in troth. Arra, Nancy, do vou know was your misthress ever in France ? " " Ay, was she," replied Nancy. " Many a year maid to — let me see — what's this the name is ? Ay ! Cullamore. Maid to the wife of Lord Cullamore. So I was tould by Alley Mahon, a young woman that was here on a ^isit to me." Dandy put the glass of grog to his mouth, and having emptied it, sprung to his feet, commenced an Lish jig through the kitchen, in a spirit so outrageously whimsical — buoy- ant, mad, hugging the box all the time in his arms, that poor Nancy looked at him with a degree of alarm and then of jealousy which she could not conceal. " In the name of aU that's wonderful," she exclaimed, " what's wrong — what's the mat- ter? What's the value of that blackguard box that you make the mistake about in hug- gin' it that way ? Upon mj^ conscience, one wovdd think you're in a desolate island. Re- member, man alive, that you're among flesh and blood like your own, and that you have friends, although the acquaintance isn't very long, I grant, that wishes you betther than to see you makin' a sweetheart of a tallow- box. What the sorra is that worth ? " " A hundred pounds, my darlin' — a hun- dred pounds — bravo, Dandy — weU done, brave Dulcimer — wealthy Nancy. Faith, you may sweaiv upon the frying-pan there that I've the cash, and sm-e 'tis yourself I was lookin' out for." " I don't think, then, that ever I resem- rriE BLACK BARONET. 56\ oletJ a candle-box in my life," she replied, rather annoyed that the article in question came in for such a prodigality of his hugs, kisses, and embraces, of all shapes and char- acters. " WeU, Nancy," said he, " charming Nan- cy, you're my fmcy, but in the meantime I have the honor tmd pleasure to bid you a good day." " Why, where ai-e you goin'^ " asked the woman. " Won't you wait for the rasher ? " " Keep it hot, chtu-ming Nancy, tdl I come back ; I'm just goin' to take a constitutional walk." So saying, Dandy, with the candle- box under his arm, darted out of the kitch- en, and without waiting to know whether there was an answer to be brought back or not, mounted his jai-vey, and desiring the man to drive as if the de\'il and all his imps were at their heels, set off at full speed for the city. "Bad luck to you for a scamp," exclaimed the indignant cook, shouting after him ; "is that the way you trate a decent woman after gettin' your skinful of the best ? Wait till you put your nose in this kitchen again, an' it's different fare you'll get." On reaching his master's hotel. Dandy went upstairs, where he found him prepai*- ing to go out. He had just sealed a note, and leaning himself back on the chair, look- ed at his servant with a good deal of sur- prise, in consequence of the singularity of his manner. Dandy, on the other hand, took the candle-box fi"om under his arm, and putting it flat on the table, with the label downwards, placed his two hands upon it, and looked the other right in the face ; after which he closed one eye, and gave him a very knowing wink. " WTiat do you mean, you scoundrel, by this impudence ? " exclaimed his master, al- though at the same time he could not avoid laughing ; for, ia tinith, he felt a kind of presentiment, gi-ounded upon Dandy's very assurance, that he was the bearer of some agTeeable intelligence. ""What do you •mean, sirra ? You're drunk, I think. " " I'll tell you what, sir," replied Dandy, *' ''om tnis day out, lapon my soul, I'll pat- rt'^ize ;y0U like a man as I am; that is to saj, provided you continue to deserve it." "Come, Sirra, you're at yoiu: buffoonery' again, or e^ae you're drunk, as I said. Did the lady send any reply ? " "Have you any cash to spare?" replied Dandy. "I want to invest a thrifle in the funds." " What can this impudence mean, siira ? " asked the other, sadly puzzled to under- stand his couduct. " AMiy do you not reply to me ? Did the lady send an answer '? " i I "Most fortunate of all masthers," rephed ■ Dandy, " in havin' such a sen'ant ; the ladj did send an answer." "And where is it, sirra?" I " There it is I " repUed the other, shoving the candle-box triumphantly over to him. The stranger looked steadily at him, and was beginning to lose his temper, for he took it now for granted that his servant was drunk. ' "I shall dismiss you instantly, sirra," he said, "if you don't come to your sen- ses." "I suppose so," repHed the other, still maintaining his cool, unabashed efiErontery. "I dare say you will, just after I've made a man of you — changed you from nothing to something, or, rather, fi'om nobody — ^for devil a much more you were up to the pres- ent time yet — to somebody. In the mean- time, read the lady's answer, if you plaise." "^Miere is it, you impudent knave? I see no note — no answer." " Troth, su", I am af eared many a time you were ornamented "nith the dunce's cap in yom- school-days, and well, I'll be boimd, you became it. Don't I sa}- the answer's be- fore you there ? " "There is nothing here, you scoundrel, but a deal box." " Right, sir ; and a deal of intelligence can it give you, if you have the sense to find it out. Now, listen, su*. So long as you hve, ever and always examine both sides of every subject that comes before you, even if it was an ould deal box." His master took the hint, and instantly turning the box, read to his astonishment, Mrs. Norton, Summerfield Cottage, Wicklow, and then looked at Dandy for an explanation. The latter nodded ^Nith his usual easy confi- dence, and proceeded, "It's all right, sir- she was in France — own maid to Lady Culla- more — came home and got married — first to a !Mi'. Norton, and next to a person named Mainwarin' : and there she is, the true ^Irs. Norton, safe and sound for you, in Summer- field Cottage, under the name of !Mrs. Main>. warin'." "Dandy," said his master, starting to his feet, " I forgive you a thousand times. Throw that letter in the post-office. Yoti shall have the money. Dandy, more, perhaps, than I promised, provided this is the lady ; but I cannot doubt it. I am now going to !Mr. Bimey ; but, stay, let us be certain. How did you become acquainted with these cir- cumstances ? " Dandy gave him his authority ; after which his master put on his hat, and was about proceeding out, when the fDrnier exclaimed " Hello, sir, where are jou goin' ? " 562 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. "To see Bimey, I have already told you." " Come, come," replied his man, " take your time — be steady, now — be cool — and listen to what your fi'iend has to say to you." " Don't trifle with me now, Dandy ; I really can't bear it." "Faith, but you must, though. There's one act I pathi'ouized you in ; now, how do you know, as I'm actin' the great man, but 1 can pathronize you in another ? " " How is that ? For heaven's sake, don't ti'ifle with me ; eveiy day, every hour, eveiy moment, is precious, and may involve the happiness of " "I see, sii'," replied this extraordinary valet, with an intelligent nod, " but, still, fair and ais}' goes far in a day. There's no dan- ger of her, you know — don't be unaisy. Fenton, su* — ehem — Fenton, I say — Fenton and fifty I say." " Fenton and a htmdred, Dandy, if there's an available trace of him." " I don't know what you call an available trace," rephed Dandy, " but I can send you to a lady who knows where he is, and where you can find him." The stranger returned from the door, and sitting down again covered his face with his hands, as if to collect himself ; at length he said, " This is most extraordinary ; tell me all about it." Dandy related that with which the reader is akeady acquainted, and did so with such an air of comic gravity and pompous superi- ority, that his master, now in the best pos- sible spirits, was exceedingly amused. " Well, Dandy," said he, " if your infor- mation respecting Fenton prove correct, reckon upon another hundred, instead of the fifty I mentioned. I suppose I may go now ? " he added, smihng. Dandy, still maintaining his gi-avily, waved his hand with an air of suitable authority, intimating that the other had permission to depart. On going out, however, he said, "I beg your pardon, sir, biit while you're abroad, I'd take it as a favor if you'd find out the state o' the funds. Of course, I'U be in- vestin' ; and a man may as well do things with his eyes open — may as well examine both sides o' the candle-box, you know. You may go, sir." " Well," thought the stranger to himself, as he literally went on his way rejoicing toward Bimey 's office, "no man in this life should ever yield to despair. Here was I this morning encompassed by doubt and darkness, and I may almost say by despair itself. Yet see how easUy and naturally the hand of Providence, for it is nothing less, has changed the whole tenor of my existence Everything is beginning not only to brighten, but to present an appearance of order, by which we shall, I trust, be enabled to guide ourselves through the maze of difliculty that Ues, or that did he, at all events, before us. Alas, if the wi-etehed suicide, who can see nothing but cause of despondency about him and before Mm, were to reflect upon the possibihty of what only one day might evolve from the ongoing circumstances of life, how many would that wholesome reflection pre- vent fi'om the awful crime of impatience at the wisdom of God, and a want of confidence in his government ! I remember the case of an unhajDiDy young man who j^lunged into a future life, as it were, to-day, who, had he maintained his pai't vmtil the next, would have formd himself master of thousands. No ; I shall never desjoair. I will in this, as in every other virtue, imitate my beloved Lucy, who said, that to whatever depths of MTctch- edness life might bring her, she wovdd never yield to that." " Good news, Bimey ! " he exclaimed, on entering that gentleman's ofiice ; " charming intelligence ! Both are found at last." " Explain yourself, my dear sir," rephed the other ; "how is it? ^Miat has happen- ed ? Both of whom ? " "Mrs. Norton and Fenton." He then explained the circumstances as they had been explained to himself by Dan- dy ; and Bimey seemed gi-atified certainly, but not so much as the stranger thought he ought to have been. "How is tliis?" he asked ; "this discov- ery, this double discovery, does not seem to give 3-ou the satisfaction which I had ex- pected it would ? " "Perhaps not," replied the steady man of law, "but I am highly gi-atified, notwith- standing, j)rovided everything you tell me turns out to be correct. But even then, I apprehend that tlie testimony of this IMrs. Norton, unsupjDorted as it is by documentary evidence, \\all not be sufiicieut for our pur ■ pose. It will require corroboration, and how are we to corroborate it ? " "If it will enable us to prevent 'J:a marriage," rephed the other, "I am sati> fied." " That is veiy generous and disinterested, I grant," said Bimey, " and what few are capable of ; but still there are forms of law and piinciples of common justice to be ob- sei-ved and complied with ; and these, at pi'esent, stand in our way for want of the documentary evidence I speak of." ""WHiat then ought our next step to be? — but I suppose I can anticipate you — to see INIrs. Norton." THE BLACK BAROXET. 563 " Of course, to see IVIrs. Norton ; and I propose that we start immediately. There is no time to be lost about it. I ' shall get on my boots, and change my dress a Utile, and, with this man of yours to guide us, we shall be on the way to Summerlield Cottage in half-an-hour. " " Should I not communicate this intelli- gence to Lady Gourlay ? " said the stranger. " It will restore her to life ; and surely the removal of only one day's sorrow such as lies at her heart becomes a duty." "But suppose our information should prove incorrect, into what a dreadful relapse would you plunge her then ! " " Oh, very true — very true, indeed : that is well thought of ; let us first see that there is no mistake, and afterwards we can proceed with confidence." Poor Lucy, unconscious that the events we have related had taken place, was passing an existence of which every day brought round to her nothing but anguish and misery. She now not only refused to see her brother on any occasion, or under any circumstances, but requested an inteniew with her father, in order to make him acquainted with the abominable jDrinciples, by the inculcation of which, as a rule of Hfe and conduct, he had attempted to corinipt her. Her father hav- ing heard this portion of her complaint, di- minished in its heinousness as it necessarily was by her natural modesty, appeared very angry, and swore roundly at the young scapegrace, as he called him. " But the tnith is, Lucy," he added, " that however wrong and wicked he may have been, and was, yet we cannot be over severe on him. He has had no opportunities of knowing better, and of course he will mend. I intend to lecture him severely for uttering such principles to you; but, on the other hand, I know him to be a shrewd, keen young fellow, who promises well, notwithstanding. In truth, I like him, scamp as he is ; and I believe that whatever is bad in him " " "WTiatever is bad in him ! "VMiy, papa, there is nothing good in him." " Tut, Lucy ; I believe, I say, that what- ever is bad in him he has picked up from the kind of society he mixed with." " Papa," she rephed, " it grieves me to hear you, sir, paUiate the conduct of such a person — to become almost the apologist of principles so utterly fiendish. You know that I am not and never have been in the habit of using ungenerous language against the absent. So far as I am concerned, he has riolated all the claims of a brother — has foregone all title to a sister's love ; but that is not all — I believe him to be so essentially corrupt and yjcious in heart and soul, so thoroughly and blackly diabolical in his prin- ciples — monJ I cannot call them — that I would stake my existence he is some base and plotting impostor, in whose veins there flows not one single drop of my pure-hearted mother's blood. I therefore warn you, sir, that he is an impostor, with, perhaps, a dis- honorable title to your name, but none at all to your property." "Nonsense, you fooHsh girl. Is he not my image ? " "I admit he resembles you, sir, very much, and I do not deny that he may be " — she paused, and alternately became pale and red by turns — " what I mean to say, sir, is what I have already said, that he is not my mother's son, and that although he may be pri^■ileged to bear yoiu* name, he has no claim on either yovir property or title. Does it not strike you, sii", that it might be to make waj' for this person that my legitimate brother was removed long ago ? And I have also heard youi-self say frequently, while talking of my brother, how extremely like mamma and me he was." " There is no doubt he was," repHed her father, somewhat stinick by the force of her observations ; " and I was myself a good deal sui-^Drised at the change which must have taken place in him since his childhood. However, you know he accounted for this himself verv' fairly and verj- naturally." "Very ingeniously, at least," she rephed ; "with more of ingenuity, I fear, than truth. Now, sir, hear me fui'ther. You are aware that I never liked those Corbets, who have been always so deejily, and, excuse me, sir, so mysteriously in your confidence." "Yes, Lucy, I know you never did ; but that is a prejudice you inherited fi*om yoiur mother." "I appeal to your own conscience, sir, whether mamma's prejudice against them was not just and well founded. Y'et it was not so much j^rejudice as the antipathy which good bears to e\al, honesty to fraud, and truth to darkness, dissimulation, and false- hood. I entreat you, then, to investigate this matter, papa ; for as sure as I have life, so certfiinly was my dear brother removed, in order, at the proper time, to m;ike way for this impostor. You know not, sir, but there may be a base and inhuman murder involved in this matter — nay, a douV)le murder — that of my cousin, too ; yes, and the worst of all murders, the mui'der of the innocent and defenceless. As a man, as a magistrate, but, above all, a thousand times, as a father — as the father and uncle of the very two children that have disappeared, it becomes your duty to examine into this dark businesa thoroughly." 6U WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. " I have no reason to suspect the Corbets, Lucy. I Lave ever found them faithful to me and to my interests." " I know, sii', you have ever found them obsequious and slavish and ready to abet you in many acts which I regret that you ever committed. There is the case of that unfor- tunate man, Trailcudgel, and many similar ones ; were they not as active and cheerful in bearing out your very harsh orders against him and others of your tenantry, as if they had been advancing the cause of human- ity?" " Say the cause of justice, if j^ou please, Lucy — the rights of a landlord." "But, papa, if the unfortunate tenantry by whose toil and labor we Hve in affluence and luxui-y do not find a fi'iend in theii' landlord, who is, by his relation to them, theu' natvu'al protector, to whom else in the wide world can they tui-n? This, however, is not the subject on which I wish to speak. I do be- heve that Thomas Corbet is deep, design- ing, and vindictive. He was always a close, dark man, mthout either cheerfiilness or candor. Beware, therefore, of him and of his family. Nay, he has a capacity for being dangerous ; for it strikes me, sir, that his intellect is as far above his position in hfe as his principles are beneath it." There was much in what Lucy said that forced itself upon her father's reflection, much that startled him, and a good deal that gave him pain. He paused for a consider- able time after she had ceased to speak, and said, *' I wiU think of these matters, Lucy. I will probably do more ; and if I find that they have played me foul by imjjosing upon me " He paused abruptly, and seemed embarrassed, the truth being that he knew and felt how comj)letely he was in their power. "Now, papa," said Lucy, "after having heard my opinion of this young man — after the wanton outrage upon all female delicacy and virtue of which he has been guilty, I trust you will not in future attempt to ob- trude him upon me. I will not see him, speak to him, nor acknowledge him ; and such, let what may happen, is my final de- termination." " So far, Lucy, I will accede to your wishes. I shall take care that he troubles you wdth no more wicked exhortations." " Thank you, dear papa ; this is kind, and I feel it so." "Now," said her father, after she had withdrawn, "how am I to act? It is not impossible but there may be much ti-uth in what she says. I remember, however, the death of the only son that could possibly be imposed on me in the sense alluded to b} her. He svu-ely does not live ; or if he does, the far-sighted sagacity which made the ac- comat of his death a fraud upon my credulity, for such selfish and treacherous pm-poses, is worthy of being concocted in the deepest pit of hell. Yet that some one of them has betrayed me, is evident from the charges brought against me by this stranger to whom Lucy is so devotedly attached, and which charges Thomas Corbet covdd not clear up. If one of these base but dexterous villains, or if the whole gang were to outwit me, positively I could almost blow my veiy brains out, for allowing myself, after all, to become theii- dujje and pla}i;hing. I will think of it, however. And again, there is the like- ness ; there does seem to be a difficulty in that ; for, beyond all doubt, my legitimate child, up until his disappearance, did not bear in his countenance a single feature of mine but bore a strong resemblance to his mother ; whereas this Tom is my bom image ! Yet I like him. He has all my points ; knows the world, and despises it as much as I do. He did not know Lucy, however, or he wovdd have kept his worldly opinions to himself. It is true he said very little but what we see about us as the regiilating prin- ciples of hfe every day ; but Lucy, on the other hand, is no every-day girl, and will not receive such doctiines, and I am glad of it. They jnay do very well in a son ; but some- how one shudders at the contemj)lation of their existence in the heai-t and principles of a daughter. Unfortunately, however, I am in the power of these Corbets, and I feel that exposure at this loeriod, the crisis of my daughter's marriage, would not only frus- trate my ambition for her, but occasion my very death, I fear. I know not how it is, but I think if I were to hve my life over again, I would try a different course." CHAPTER XXXVm Antlixmy Corbet gives Important Documents to the Stranger — An Unpleasant Disclosure to Dunroe — Norton catches a Tartar. The next morning the stranger was agree- ably surprised by seeing the round, rosy, and benevolent features of Father M'Mahon, as he presented himself at his breakfast table. Their meeting was cordial and friendly, with the exception of a slight appearance of embarrassment that was evident in the man- ner of the priest. "The last time you were in to^\Ti," said the former, "I was sorry to observe that you THE BLACK BARONET. \iA seemed rather careworn and depressed ; but I think you look better now, and a good deal more cheerful." " And I think I have a good right," repHed the priest ; " and I tliink no man ought to know the cause of it better than yourself. I charge you, su', with an act of benevolence to the poor of my i^arish, through their humble pastor ; for which you stand — I beg your pardon — sit there, a guilty man." " How is that ? " asked the other, smiling. " By means of an anonymous letter that contained a hundred pouud note, sir." "Well," said the strangei*, "there is no use in teUing a falsehood about it. The truth is, I was aware of the extent to which you involved yourself, in order to relieve many of the small farmers and other struggling persons of good repute in your jjaiush, and I thought it too bad that you should suffer distress yourself, who had so frequently re- heved it in others." "God bless you, my fi-iend," replied the priest ; " for I will call 3'ou so. I wish every man possessed of weixlth was guided by your principles. Freney the Robber has a new saddle and bridle, anyhow; and I came up to town to pay old Anthony Corbet a sum I borrowed fi*om him the last time I was here ? " " Oh, have you seen that cautious and dis- agreeable old man ? We could make nothing of him, although I feel quite certain tiiat he knows everything connected with the dis- appeanmce of Lady Gourlay's son." "I have no doubt of it myself," rej^lied the priest ; "and I now find, that what neither rehgion, nor justice, nor humanity covdd in- fluence him to do, superstition is likely to effect. He has had a drame, he says, in which his son James that was in Lady Gour- lay's sen'ice has appeared to him, and threatens that unless he renders her justice, he has but a poor chance in the other world." " That is not at all unnatural," said the stranger ; " the man, though utterly without religion, was nevertheless both hesitating and timid ; precisely the character to do a just act from a wrong motive." " Be that as it may," continued the priest, " I have a message from him to you." " To me ! " replied the other. " I am much obliged to him, but it is now too late. We have ascertained where Lady Gourlay's son is, without any assistance fi'om him ; and in the course of this very day we shall fimiish oui'selves with proper authority for claiming and producing him." " I am dehghted to hear it," said the priest. " God be praised that the heart of that diiu-itable and Christian woman will be re- \ 1 lieved at last, and made happy; but still \ say, see old Anthony. He is as deep as a i draw-well, and as close as an oyster. See i him, sir. Take my advice, now that the drame has frightened him, and call upon the I old sinner. He may sei-ve you in more ways I than you know." I "Well, as you advise me to do so, I shall ', I but I do not rehsh the old fellow at all." " Nobody does, nor ever did. He and all his family lived as if every one of them car- ried a Httle world of their own within them. Maybe they do ; and God forgive me for say- ing it, but I don't think if its secrets were kno^vn, that it would be fovmd a verj' pleasant world. May the Lord change them, and turn their hearts ! " After some further chat, the priest took his departure, but j^romised to see his friend fi'om time to time, before he should leave town. The stranger felt that the priest's advice to see old Corbet again was a good one. The interview could do no harm, and might be productive of some good, provided he could be prevailed on to speak out. He ac- cordingly dii'ected his stejjs once more to Constitution Hill, where he found the old man at his usual post behind the counter. " Well, Corbet," said he, "ahve still? " "Alive still, sir," he replied; "but can't be so always ; the best of us must go." " Very ti-ue, Corbet, if we could think of it as we ought ; but, somehow, it happens that most people hve in this world as if they were never to die." "That's too true, sii* — unfortimately too true, God help us ! " "Corbet," proceeded the stranger, "noth- ing can convince me that you don't know something about " " I beg your pai-don, sir," said the old man ; " we had betther go into the next room. Here, Polly," he shouted to his \vife, who was inside, " will you come and stand the shop awhile ? " " To be sure I ^rill." replied the old wo- man, making her appearance. " How do you do, sir," she added, addressing the stranger; " I am glad to see you looking so well" '^' Thank you, madam," replied the stran- ger: "I can retui'n the compliment, as they say." "Keep the shop, Polly," said the old man sharply, "and don't make the same mistake you made awhile ago — give away a stone o' meal for half a stone. No woudher for us to be poor at sich a rate of doin' things as that Walk in, if you plaise, sir." Tliey accordingly entered the room, and the stranger, after they had taken seats, re- sumed, o66 WILLIAM CAIiLETON'S WORKS. " I was going to say, Corbet, that nothing can conv'ince me that you don't know more about the disappearance of Lady Gourlay's heir than you are disposed to acknowledge." The hard, severe, disagi'eeable expression returned once more to his featiu'es, as he re- pHed, " Troth, sir, it appears you xoill believe so, whether or not. But now, sh-, in case I did, what would you say ? I'm talkin' for supjDO- Bition's sake, mind. Wouldn't a man de- «arve something that could give you infor- mation on the subject ? " "This avaricious old man," thought the (Stranger, pausing as if to consider the pro- position, "was holding us out all along, in order to make the most of his information. The information, however, is ah'eady in oiu' possession, and he comes too late. So far I am gi'atified that we are in a position to punish him by disappointing his avarice." " We Avould, Corbet, if the information ♦(rere necessaiy, but at present it is not ; we don't require it." Corbet started, and his keen old eyes gleamed with an expression between terror and incredulity. " Why," said he, " you don't require it ! Are you sure of that ? " " Perfectly so. Some time ago we would have rewarded you hberally, had you made any available disclosure to us ; but now it is too late. The information we had been seeking for so anxiously, accidentally came to us from another quarter. You see now, Corbet, how you have overshot the mark, and punished yourseK. Had you been in- fluenced by a principle of common justice, you would have been entitled to expect and receive a most ample compensation ; a com- pensation beyond your hopes, probably be- yond your very wishes, and certainly beyond your wants. As matters stand, however, I tell you now that I would not give you six- pence for any information you could com- municate." Anthony gave him a derisive look, and pursed up his thin miserUke lips into a gi*in of most sinister triumph. '* Wouldn't you, indeed ? " said he. " Are you quite sure of what you say ? " "Quite certain of it." " Well, now, how positive some people is. You have found him out, then ? " he asked, with a shrewd look. " You have found him, and you don't require any information from me. " "Whether we have found him or not," rephed the other, " is a question which I will not answer ; but that we require no infor- mation from you, is fact. While it was a marketable commodity, you refused to dis- pose of it ; but, now, we have got the supplj elsewhere." "Well, SU-," said Anthony, "all I can sa^ is, that I'm very glad to hear it ; and it's no harm, surely, to wish you joy of it." Tlie same mocking sneer which accom- panied this observation was jDerfectly vexa- tious ; it seemed to say, " So you think, but you may be mistaken. Take care that I haven't you in my jDOAver still." " Why do you look in that disagreeable way, Corbet? I never saw a man whose face can express one thing, and his words another, so effectually as yoiu*s, when you wish." " You mane to say, sir," he returned, with a time sardonic smile, " that my face isn't an obedient face ; but sure I can't help that. This is the face that God has given me, and I must be content with it, such as it is." "I was told this morning by Father M'Mahon," rejDlied the other, anxious to get rid of him as soon as he coiild, " that you had expressed a wish to see me." " I believe I did say something to that ef- fect ; but then it appears you know every- thing yourself, and don't want my assist- ance." "Any assistance we may at a future time requu'e at your hands we shall be able to ex- tort from you through the laws of the land and of justice ; and if it appears that you. have been an accomplice or agent in such a deejD and diabolical crime, neither jDower, nor wealth, nor cunning, shall be able to protect you fi'om the utmost rigor of the law. You had neither mercy nor com- passion on the widow or her child ; and the probability is, that, old as you are, you will be made to taste the deepest disgi'ace, and the heaviest punishment that can be annexed to the crime you have committed." A singular change came over the features of the old man. Paleness in age, especially when conscience bears its secret but jDower- ful testimony against the individual thug charged home as Corbet was, sometimes gives an awful, almost an appalling ex- pression to the countenance. The stranger, who knew that the man he addressed, though cunning, evasive, and unscrupulous, was, nevertheless, hesitating and timid, saw by his looks that he had jDroduced an un- usual impression ; and he resolved to follow it ujD, rather to gratify the momentary amusement which he felt at his alarm, than from any other motive. In fact, the appear- ance of Corbet was extraordinaiy. A death- hke color, which his advanced state of Ufe renders it impossible to describe, took pos- session of him ; his eyes lost the bitter ex- pression so pecuhar to them — his firm thic THK BLACK BARONET. 567 iips relaxed and spread, and the comers of his mouth drojiped so hig'ubriously, that the stranger, although he felt that the ex- ample of cowering guilt then before him was a solemn one, could scax'cely refrain from smiling at what he witnessed. " How far now do you think, sir," asked Corbet, " could punishment in such a case go? Mind, I'm putting myself out of the question ; I'm safe, any how, and that's one comfort." "Forarej^ly to that question," returned the other, " you will have to go to the judge and the hangman. There was a time when you might have asked it, and answered it too, with safet}' to yourself ; but now that time has gone by, and I fear very much that your day of gi*ace is past." " That's very like Avhat James tould me m my dlirame," said the old man, in a solilo- quy, dictated by his alarm. " Well, sir," he replied, " maybe, afther all — but didn't you say awhile ago that j-ou wouldn't give six- pence for any information I coiild fvuniish you with ? " " I did, and I do." A gleam of his former character returned to his eye, as, gathering uj) his hps again, he said, "I could soon show you to the contrary." " Yes ; but you M'iU not do so. I see clear- ly that you are infatuated. It appears to me that there is an e\al fate hanging over you, like some hungiy raven, following and watching the motions of a sick old horse that is reduced to skin and bone. You're doom- ed, I think." " Well, now," replied Anthony, the comers of whose mouth dropped again at this stai't- Ung and not inappro^mate compai-ison, "to show how much you are mistaken, let me ask how your business with Lord CuUamore gets on? I believe there's a screw loose there ? — eh ? I mean on your side — eh ? " It w\asn't in his nature to restrain the sin- ister expression which a consciousness of his advantage over the stranger caused him to feel in his tui'n. The grin, besides, wliich he gave him, after he had thrown out these hints, had something of reprisal in it ; and, to tell the truth, the stranger's face now became as blank and lugubrious as Anthony's had been before. "If I don't mistake," he continued — for the other was too much astonished to reply, " if I don't mistake, there's a couple o' bits of paper that would stand your friend, if you could lay your claws upon them." "Whether they could, or could not, is no affair of yours, my good su-," replied the stranger, rising and getting his hat; "and whether I have changed my mind on the subject you hint at is a matter known onl^ to myself. I wish you good-day." "I beg your pardon," said Anthony, prob< ably satisfied with the fact of his having turned the tables and had liis revenge on the stranger ; " I beg your pardon, sir. Let us part friends, at aU events. Set in case now " " I will hsten to none of those half sen- tences. You cannot possibly speak out, I see ; in fact, you are tongue-tied by the cord of your evil fate. Upon no subject can you speak until it is too late." " God direct me now ! " exclaimed Corbet to himself. " I think the time is come ; for, unless I relieve my conscience before I'm called — James he tould me the other night — Well, sir," he pi-oceeded, " listen. If I be- friend you, will you promise to stand my friend, if I should get into any difficulty ? " " I will enter into no compromise of the kind vrith you," said the other. " If you are about to do an act of justice, you ought to do it Avithout conditions ; and if you possess any document that is of value to another, and of none to yourself, and yet wiU not re- store it to the j)roper owner, you are grossly dishonest, and capable of all that will soon, I trust, be established against you and your employ ei-s. Good-by, ^^Ir. Corbet." " Aisy, sir, aisy," said the tenacious and vacillating old knave. " Aisy, I say. You will be generous, at any rate ; for you know their value. How much will you give me for the papers I spake of — that is, in case I could get them for you ? " " Not sixpence. A friend has just returned from France, who — no," thought he, "I will not state a falsehood — Good-day, ^Ii'. Cor- bet ; I am wasting my time." " One minute, sir — one minute. It may be worth your wliile." " Yes ; but you trifle vnWi me by these re- luctant and penurious communications." Anthony had laid doNNTi his head ujjon his hands, whose backs were supported by the table ; and in this i)osition, as if he were working himself into an act of vii-tue suffi- cient for a last effort, he remained until the stranger began to wonder what he meant. At length he arose, went up stairs as on a former occasion, but Arith less — and not mucli less — hesibition and delay ; he return- ed and handed him the identical documents of which M'Bride had deprived him. "Now," said he, "listen tome. You know the value of tliese ; but that isn't wliat I want to si)ake to you about. "\Miatever you do about the AAidow's son, don't do it without lettin' me know, and consultin' me — ay, and bein' guided by me ; for although you all think youi'selves right, you may find your- 5«8 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. Belves in the wrong box still. Tliink of this now, and it will be better for yon. I'm not sure, but I'll open all your eyes yet, and that before long ; for I believe the time has come at last. Now that I've given you these papers," (extracted, by the way, fi'oni M'Bride's pockets during his drunkenness, by Ginty Cooper, on the night she dogged him,) " you must promise me one thing." "WTiatisthat?" "I suppose you know where this boy is? Now, when you're goin' to find him, vdll you bring me with you ? " " ^^^ly so ? " ■' " It 11 plaise an ould man, at any rate ; but there may be other raisons. Will you do this?" The stranger, concluding that the wisest thing was to give him his way, promised ac- cordingly, and the old man seemed some- what satisfied. " One man, at all events, I'll punish, if I should sacrifice ever}- child I have in doin' so ; and it is in order that he may be jounisli- ed to the heart — to the marrow: — to the soul witliin him — that I got these papers, and gave them to you." " Corbet," said the stranger, " be the cause of yoiu* revenge what it may, its prin- ciple in your heart is awful. You are, in fact, a dreadful old man. May I ask how you came by these papers ? " "You may," he replied ; "but I won't an- swer you. At a future time it is likely I wall — but not noAV. It's enough for you to have them." On his way home the stranger called at Biniey's office, where he produced the docu- ments ; and it was arranged that the latter gentleman should wait ujdou Lord Culla- aiore the next day, in order to lay before tiira the j^roofs on which they were about to proceed ; for, as they were now complete, they thought it more respectful to that venerable old nobleman to appeal privately to his own good sense, whether it would not be more for the honor of his family to give him an opportunity of yielding quietly, and Avithout public scandal, than to drag the matter before the world in a court of justice. It was so aiTanged ; and a suitable warrant having been procured to enable them to pro- duce the body of the unfortvmate Fen ton, the proceedings of that day closed very much to their satisfaction. The next day, between two and three o'clock, a visitor, on particular business, was announced to Lord CuUamore ; and on be- ing desired to walk up, our fiiend Birney made his bow to his lordship. Having been desu'ed to take a seat, he sat down, and his lordship, who appeared to be very feeble. looked inquiringly at him, intimating ther^ by that he waited to know the object of his "\4sit. "My lord," said the attorney, "in the whole com-se of my professional life, a duty so painful as this has never devolved upon me. I come supported with proofs suffi- cient to satisfy you that your title and pro- perty cannot descend to your son. Lord Dimroe." "I have no other son, su*," said his lord- ship, reprovingly. " I do not mean to insinuate that you have, my lord. I only assert that he who is sup- jDOsed to be the present heir, is not really so at all." " Upon what proofs, sir, do 3'ou gi-ound that assertion ? " " Upon proofs, my lord, the most valid and irrefragable ; proofs that cannot bo questioned, even for a moment ; and, least of all, by your lordshiiD, who ai'e best ac- quainted with their force and authenticity." "Have you got them about you? " " I have got copies of the documentary proofs, my lord, and I shall now place them before you." " Yes ; have the goodness to let me see them." Birney immediately handed him the docu- ments, and mentioned the facts of which they were the proofs. In fact, only one of them was ahsolutehi necessary, and that was simjDly the record of a death duly and regu- larly attested. The old man seemed struck with dismay ; for, until this moment he had not bee;i clear- ly in possession of the facts which were now brought against him, as they were stated, and made plain as to their results, by ]\Ir. Bii'ney. "I do not know much of law," he said, " but enough, I think, to satisfy me, that un- less you have other and stronger jjroofs than this, you cannot succeed in disinheriting my son. I have seen the oi'iginals of those be- fore, but I had forgotten some facts and dates connected with them at the time." "We have the collateral proof you speak of, my lord, and can produce persontil evi- dence to corroborate those which I have shown you." " May I ask who that evidence is ? " "A ]\ii's. Main waring, my lord — formerly Norton — who liad been maid to your first wife while she i-esided jDrivately in France — • was a witness to her death, and had it duly registered." " But even gi-anting this, I think you wilj be called on to prove the intention on my part : that which a man does in ignorance cannot, and ought not to be called a violation of the law. " THE BLACK BARONET. 56« " But the law 'n thjg case w-ill deal only with facts, ray lord ; and your lordship must new see and feel that we ai-e in a capacity to prove them. And before I proceed further, rcj lord. I beg to say, that I am instructed to appeal to yoiu lordship's good sense, and to that consideration for the feelings of your family, b}' which, I trust, you will be influenced. *7hether, satisfied as you must be of your position, 't would not be more judi- cious on your o^vn part to concede our just rights, seeing, as you clearly may, that they are incontrovertible, than to force us to Dring the matter before the pubhc ; a cir- cumstance which, so far as you are yourself concerned, must be inexpressibly painful, &nd as regards other members of your fam- ily, perfectly deplorable and distressing. We wish, my lord, to spare the innocent as much as we can." " I am innocent, sir ; your proofs only es- tabhsh an act done by me in ignorance." "We grant that, my lord, at once, and without for a moment charging you with any dishonorable motive ; but what we insist on — can prove — and your lordship cannot deny — is, that the act you speak of xms done, and done at a certain period. I do beseech you, my lord, to think well and seriously of my proposal, for it is made in a kind and respect- ful spirit." " I thank you, sir," replied his lordship, " and those who instructed you to regard my feelings ; but this you must admit is a case of too much importance, in which interests of too much consequence are involved, for me to act in it without the advice and opin- ion of my kiwv'ers." " You are perfectly right, my lord ; I ex- pected no less ; and if your lordship will re- fer me to them, I shall have no hesitation in laying the gi'ounds of our proceedings be- fore them, and the proofs by which they will be sustained." This was assented to on the part of Lord Cullamore, and it is only necessary to say, that, in a few days subsequently, his lawyers, upon sifting and thoroughly examining everything that came before them, gave it as their opinion — and both were men of the very highest standing — that his lordship had no defence whatsoever, and that his wisest plan was to yield without allo'wing the mat- ter to go to a pubUc trial, the details of which must so deeply aflfect the honor of his children. This communication, signed in the form of a regular opinion by both these eminent gentlemen, was received by his lordship on the fourth ((ay after Biraey's visit to him on the subject Abomt a quarter of an hour after he had perused it, his lordship's bell rang, and Mor- ty O'Flaherty, his man, entered. "Morty," said his lordsliip, " desu'e Lord Dunroe to come to me ; I wish to speak with him. Is he within ? " " He has just come in, my lord. Yes, my lord, I'll send him up." His lordship tapped the arms of his easy chair with the fingers of both hands, and looked unconsciously upon his servant, with a face full of the deepest sorrow and anguish. The look was not lost upon !Morty, who said, as he went down stairs, "There's some- thing beyond the common on my lord's mind this day. He was bad enough before ; but now he looks like a man that has got the veiy heart within him broken." He m^t Dunroe in the hall, and delivered his message, but added, "I think his lordship has had disagree- able tidin's of some kind to-day, my lord. I never saw him look so ill. To tell you the truth, my lord, I think he has death in his face." "Well, Morty," replied his lordship, ad- justing his collar, " you know we must all die. I cannot guess what unpleasant tidings he may have heard to-day ; but I know that I have heard little else fi'om him this many a day. Tell ]Mr. Norton to see about the bills I gave him, and have them cashed as soon as possible. If not, curse me. 111 shy a decanter at his head after dinner." He then went rather reluctantly up stairs, and presented himself, in no very amiable temper, to his father. Having taken a seat, he looked at the old man, and found his eyes fixed upon him TAith an expression of reproof, and at the same time the most profound affliction. " Dunroe," said the earl, "you did not call to inquire after me for the last two or three days." "I did not call, my lord, certainly ; but, nevertheless, I inquired. The fact is, I feel disinclined to be lectured at such a rate every time I come to see you. As for Norton, I have alread}' told you, with every respect for your opinion and authority, that you have taken an unfounded prejudice against him, and that I neither can nor will get rid of him, as you call it. You surely would not expect me to act dishonorably, my lord." " I did not send for you now to speak about him, John. I have a much more serious, and a much more distressing communication to make to you." The son opened his eyes, and stared at him. "It mav easilv be so, mv lord ; but what is it?" "Unfortunate young man, it is this— You !570 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS, are oat off from the inheritance of my prop- erty and title." " Sickness, my lord, and peevishness, have impaired your intellects, I think. What kind of language is this to hold to me, yoiur son and heir ? " " My son, John, but not my heir." " Don't you know, my lord, that what you say is impossible. If I am your son, I am, of course, your heir." " No, John, for the simplest reason in the world. At jDresent you must rest contented with the fact which I announce to you — for fact it is. I have not now strength enough to detail it ; but I shall when I feel that I am equal to it. Indeed, I knew it not myself, with perfect certainty, until to-day. Some vague suspicion I had of late, but the proofs that were laid before me, and laid before me in a generous and forbearing spu'it, have now satisfied me that you have no claim, as I said, to either title or property." " A\Tiy, as I've life, my lord, this is mere dotage. A foul consjDiracy has been got up, and you yield to it without a stiiiggle. Do you think, whatever you may do, that I will bear this tamely ? I am aware that a con- spii-acy has been getting up, and /also have had my suspicions." '•It is out of my power, John, to secure you the inheritance." "This is stark folly, my lord — confounded nonsense— if you will pardon me. Out of youi- power ! Made silly and weak in mind by illness, your opinion is not now worth much upon any subject. It is not your fault, I admit ; but, upon my soul, I reaUy have serious doubts whether you are in a sufficient- ly sane state of mind to manage your own affairs." " Undutiful young man," repHed his father, with bitterness, "if that were a test of in- sanity, you yourself ought to have been this many a day in a strait waistcoat. I know it is natural that you should feel this blow deeply ; but it is neither natural nor dutiful that you should address your parent in such unpardonable language." " If what that parent says be time, my lord, he has himseK, by his past rices, disinherited his son." "No, sir," replied the old man, whilst a languid flush of indignation was risible on his face, "he has not done so by his rices ; but you, sir, have morally disinherited your- self by your rices, by your general profligacy, by your indefensible extravagance, and by yoirr egregious foil}', A man placed in the position which you would have occupied, ought to be a light and an example to society, and not what you have been, a reproach to your family, and a disgrace to jour class. The virtues of a man of rank should be io proportion to his station ; but you have dis- tinguished yourself only by holding up to the world the debasing example of a dishon- orable and Ucentious life. "What virtue can you plead to estabUsh a just claim to a po- sition which demands a mind capable of un- derstanding the weighty responsibihties that are annexed to it, and a heart possessed of such enhghtened principles as may enable him to discharge them in a spirit that will constitute him, what he ought to be, a high example and a generous benefactor to his kind? Not one : but if sel^shness, contempt for all the moral obligations of life, a Hcen- tious spirit that mocks at religion and looks upon human virtue as an unreahty and a jest — if these were to give you a claim to the possession of rank and property, I know of no one more admirably qualified to enjoy them. Dunroe, I am not now far from the gi'ave ; but listen, and pay attention to my voice, for it is a warning voice." "It was always so," replied his son, with sulky indignation ; "it was never anything else ; a mere passing bell that uttered noth- ing but advices, lectures, coffins, and cross- bones." "It uttered only truth then, Dunroe, as you feel noio to your cost. Change your im- moral habits. I will not bid you repent ; be- cause you would only sneer at the word ; but do endeavor to feel regret for the kind of life you have led, and give up your evil propen- sities ; cease to be a heartless spendthi'ift ; remember that you are a man : remember that you have important duties to perform ; beheve that there are such things as religion, and rirtue, and honor in the world ; believe that there is a God, a wise Providence, who governs that world ujion jii-inciiDles of eternal truth and justice, and to whom you must ac- count, in another life, for your conduct in this." "WeU, really, my lord," replied Dunroe, " as it appeal's that the lecture is all you have to bestow upon me, I am quite Milling that you should disinherit me of that also. I waive every claim to it. But so do I not to my just rights. We shall see what a court of law can do." "You may try it, ani entail disgrace upon yourself and your sister. As for my child, it vrill break her heart. My God ! my child ! my child ! " "Not, certainly, my lord, if we should succeed." " All hopes of success ai-e out of the question," replied his father. "No such thing, my lord. Your mind, as I said, is enfeebled by illness, and you yield too easily. Such conduct on your part is THE BLACK BARONET. 571 really ridiculous. We shall have a tug for it, I am determined." "Here," said his father, "cast your eye over these papers, aud they will enable you to understand, not merely the grounds upon -which our opponents jiroceed, but the utter hopelessness of contesting the matter with them." Dun roe took the papers, but before look- ing at them replied, A\'ith a great deal of confidence, "you ai'e quite mistaken there, my lord, with eveiy respect. They are not in a position to prove their allegations." " How so? " said his father. "For the best reason in the world, my lord. We have had their proofs in our possession and destroyed them." "I don't understand you." " The fellow, M'Bride, of whom I think your lordshij) knows something, had their documents iu his possession." * " I am aware of that." " Well, m}' lord, while in a drunken fit, he either lost them, or some one took them out of his pocket. I certixinly would have piu'- chased them from him." " Did you know how he came by them ? " asked his father, with a look of reproof and anger. " That, my lord, was no consideration of mine. As it was, however, he certainly lost them ; but we learned fi'om him that Bir- ney, the attorney, was about to proceed to France, in order to get fresh attested copies ; upon which, as he knew the pai'ty there in whose hands the registiw was kept, Norton and he stai'ted a day or two in advance of him, and on aiTiving there, thej' found, much to our advantage, that the register was dead. M'Bride, however, who is an adroit fellow, and was well acquainted with his house and premises, contrived to secure the book in which the original record was made — which book he has burned — so that, in point of fact, they have no legal proofs on which to proceed." " Dishonorable man ! " said his father, rising up in a state of the deepest emotion. " You have made me weaiy of life ; you have broken my heart : and so you would stoop to defend youi'self, or your rights, by a crime — by a crime so low, fraudulent, and base — that here, in the privacy of my own chamber, and standing face to face with you, I am absolutely ashamed to call you my son. Ivnow, sir, that if it wei*e a dukedom, I should scom to contest it, or to retain it, at the expense of my honor." "That's all verj' fine talk, my lord ; but, upon my soul, wherever I can get an ad- vantage, I'll take it. I see little of the honor or virtue you spc.olc of going, and, I do assiu-e you, I won't be considered at all remarkable for acting up to my o%vn principles. On the contrary, it is by following yours that I should be so." "I think," said the old 'man, "that I see the hand of God in this. Unfortunate, obstinate, and irreclaimable young man, it remains for me to tell you that the very documents, which you say have been lost by the villain M'Bride, with whom, in his villainy, you, the son of an earl, did not hesi- tate to associate yourself, are now in the possession of our opponents. Take those papers to your room," he added, bui-.sting into tears : " take them away, I am iinable to prolong this interview, for it has been to me a source of deeper affliction than the loss of the highest title or honor that the hand of royalty could bestow." "WTien Dun roe was about to leave the room, the old man, who hiid again sat down, said : " Stop a moment. Of course it is un- necessary to say, I should hope, that this union between you and Miss Gourkiy cannot proceed." Duni'oe, who felt at once that if he allowed his father to suppose that he persisted in it, the latter would immediately disclose his position to the biu'onet, now repUed : " No, my lord, I have no gi-eat ambition for any kind of alliance vAWi Sir Thomas Goui'lay. I never liked him personally, and I am sufficiently' a man of spirit, I trust, not to \u'ge a marriage with a girl who — who — cannot appreciate " He paused, not knowing exactly how to fill up the sentence. "Who has no rehsh for it," added his father, " and can't appreciate youi' virtues, you mean to say." ""VMiat I mean to say, my lord, is, that where there is no great share of aftection on either side, there can be but little prospect of happiness." " Then you give up the match ? " " I give up the match, my lord, without a moment's hesitation. You may rest assured of that." "Because," added his father, "if I found that you persisted in it, and attempted to enter the family, and impose yourself on this adminible girl, as that which you are not, I would consider it my duty to acquaint Sir Thomas Gourlay with the unfortunate dis- covery which has been made. Before you go I will thank you to read that letter for me. It comes, I think, fi'om the Lord Chan- cellor. My sight is very feeble to-day, and perhaps it may requii'e a speedy answer." Dunroe opened the letter, which informed Lord C'uUamore, that it had aftbrded him, the Lord Chancellor, much satisfaction to 672 WILLIAM CARLETOJV'S WOBKS. promote Periwinkle Crackenfudge, Esq., to the magistracy of the county of , under- standing, as he did, from the communication of Sir Thomas Gourlay, enclosed in his lord- shijD's letter, that he (Crackenfudge) was, by his many virtues, good sense, discretion, humanity, and general esteem among all classes, as well as by his popularity in the country, a person in every way fitted to discharge the important duties of such an appointment. " I feel my mind at ease," said the amiable old nobleman, " in aiding such an admu'able coimtry gentleman as this Crackenfudge must be, to a seat on the bench ; for, after all, Dunroe, it is only by the contemplation of a good action that we can be haj)!^}'. You may go." Some few days passed, when Dunroe, having read the papers, the contents of which he did not wish Norton to see, re- tui'ned them to his father in sullen silence, and then rang his bell, and sent for his wor- thy associate, that he might avail himself of his better judgment. "Norton," said he, "it is all up with us." " How is that, my lord ? " " Those papers, that M 'Bride says he lost, are in the hands of oui* enemies." "Don't believe it, my lord. I saw the fellow yesterday, and he told me that he de- stroyed them in a di-unken fit, for which he says he is ready to cut his throat." "But I have read the opinion of my father's counsel," repUed his lordshij), "and they say we have no defence. Now you know what a la^v;)^er is : if there were but a hair-breadth chance, they would never make an admission that might keep a good fat case fi'om getting into their hands. No ; it is all up with us. The confounded old fool above had ever}i,hing laid before them, and such is the uj^shot. "Wliat is to be done ? " " Marriage, without loss of time— mar- riage, before your disaster reaches the ears of the Black Baronet." "Yes, but there is a difficulty. If the venerable old nobleman should hear of it, he'd let the cat out of the bag, and leave me in the lurch, in addition to the penalty of a three hours' lecture upon honor. Every- thing, however, is admirably arranged quoad the marriage. We have got a special hcense for the purpose of meeting our peculiar case, so that the marriage can be private ; that is to say, can take place in the lady's own house. Do you think though, that M'Bride has actually destroyed the papers ? " " The dninken ruffian ! ceriainly. He gave me great insolence a couple of days ago." "Why so?" "Because I didn't hand him over a htm- dred pounds for his journey and the theft of the registry." "And how much did you give him, pray?" " A fifty pound note, after having paid his expenses, which was quite enough for him. However, as I did not wish to make the scoundrel our enemy, I have promised him something more, so that I've come on good terms with him again. He is a slippery customer." "Did you get the bills cashed yet? " " No, my lord ; I am going about it now ; but I tell you beforehand, that I will have some difficulty in doing it. I hope to manage it, however ; and for that reason I must bid you good-bj^" " The first thing to do, then, is to settle that ugly business about the mare. By no means must we let it come to trial." " Very weU, my lord, be it so." Norton, after leaving his dupe to medi- tate upon the circumstances in which he found himself, began to reflect as he went along, that he himself was necessarily in- volved ia the ruin of his friend and pa- tron. " I have the cards, however, in my own hands," thought he, "and M'Bride's adrice was a good one. He having destroj'ed the other documents, it follows that this registry, which I have safe and snug, will be just^ what his lordship's enemies will leap at. Of course they are humbugging the old jaeer about the other papers, and, as I know, it is dcAiHsh easy to humbug the young one. ]My agency is gone to the winds ; but I think the registry will stand me instead. It ought, in a case hke this, to be well worth five thousand ; at least, I shall ask this sum — not saying but I will take less. Here goes then for an interview with Birney, who has the character of being a shrewd feUow — honorable, they say— but then, is he not an attome}^? Y^es, Birney, have at you, my boy ; " and having come to fliis rirtuous conclusion, lie directed his steps to that gentleman's office, whom he foimd engaged at his desk. " Mr. Birney, I presume," with a very fashionable bow. "Yes, sir," said Bimey, "that is my name." "Haw! If I don't mistake, Mr. Birney," with a veiy EngHsh accent, which no one could adopt, when he pleased, Avith more success than our Kerry boy — "if I don't mistake, we both made a journey to France very recently ? " " That may be, sir," replied Bimey, "but I am not aware of it." THE BLACK BARONET. 573 " But I /lam, though," tij)pmg Bii-ney the iJondon cockney. " Well, sir," said Bimey, verj' coolly, " and what follows fi'om that ? " "Why haw — haw — I don't exactly know at present ; but I think a good dee-al may follow from it." "As how, sir?" " I beheve you were /lOver there on mat- ters connected with Lord Cullamore's family —haw?" " Sir," replied Bimey, " you are a perfect stranger to me — I haven't the honor of knowing you. If you are coming to me on anything connected with my professional services, I will thank you to state it." " Haw ! — My name is Norton, a friend of Lord Dunroe's." "Well, IVIr. Norton, if you will have the goodness to mention the business which causes me the honor of your visit, I will thank you ; but I beg to assure you, that I am not a man to be pumped either by Lord Dunroe or any of his fi-iends. You compel me to speak very plainl}', sir." " Haw ! Very good — very good indee-ed ' but the truth /«is, I've given Dunroe /mp." " Well, sir, and how is that my affair ? What interest can I feel in your quarrels ? Personally I know very little of Lord Dun- roe, and of you, sir, nothing." " Haw ! but everything 'as a beginning, Mr. Bimey." " At this rate of going, I fear we shall be a long time ending, IVIi". Norton." "Well," replied Norton, "I beheve you are riglit ; the sooner we /lunderstand each other, the better." "Certainly, sir," repHed Birney ; "I think so, if you have any business of importance with me." " Well, I rayther think you will find it ^important — that is, to yoiu' own /(interests. You are a /lattomey, IMi'. Birue^', and I think you will /ladniit that every man in this world, as it goes, /^ought to look to 'is OAvn /liuter- ests." Bimey looked at him, and said, very grave- ly, " Pray, sir, what in your business with me ? My time, sir, is viduable. My time is money — a portion of my landed property, sir." " Haw ! Verj' good ; but you .fT Irish are so fiery and impatient ! However, I will come to the point. You are about to /joust that young scamp, by the way, /tout of the title and property. I say so, because I Aam up to the thing. Yet you want dockiments to estabhsh your case — haw? " • " Well, sir, and suppose we do ; you, I presume, as the fi-ieud of Lord Dunroe, are not coming to furnish us with them ? " "That is, Mr. Bimey, as we shall /lunder-. stand one another. You failed in your mis- sion to France ? ' "I shall hear any proposal, sir, you have to make, but will answer no questions on the subject until I understand your motive for putting them." "Good — verj'cool and cautious — but sup- pose, now, that I, who know you 'ave failed in procuring the dockiments in question, could supply you with them — haw !-~do you Aunderstand me now ? " "Less than ever, sir, I assure you. Ob- serve that you introduced yourself to me aa the friend of Lord Dunroe." " Merely to connect myself with the pro- ceedings between you. I 'ave or /lam about to discard him, but I shaunt go about the bush no longer. I'm a native of Lon'on, w'at is farmed a cockney — haw, haw ! — and he 'as treated me /(ill — very /iill — and I am detar- miued to retaliate." "How, sir, are you determined to retali- ate?" "The tmtli /as, sii*, I've got the docki. ments you stand in need of /tin my posses- sion, and can fui-nish you with them for a consideration." " Why, now you are intelligible. WTiat do you want, Murray? I'm engaged." "To speak one word with you in the next room, su". The gentleman wtmts you to say yes or no, in a single Une, upon !Mr. Fair- field's business, su' — besides, I've a private message." " Excuse me for a moment, sir," said Bir- ney ; " there's this morning's paper, if you haven't seen it." " Well, Bob," said he, " what is it ? " "Beware of that fellow," said he : "I know him well ; his name is Bryan ; he was a horse jockey on the Curragh, and was obhged to fly the country for dishonesty. Be on your guai'd, that is all I had to say to you." "Why, he says he is a Londoner, and he certainly has the accent," repUed the other. "Keny, sir, to the backbone, and a dis- grace to the country, for di\'il a many rogues it produces, whatever else it may do." " Thank you, Mvu-ray," said Bimey ; " I will be doubly guarded now." This occurred between Bii-ney and one of his clerks, as a small ii^terlude in theii' con- versation. "Yes, sir," resumed Bimey, once more taking his place at the des^, "you can now be understood." "Haw !— yes, I raj'ther fimcy I can make myself so I " replied Norton. " What, now, do you suppose the papers iv question maj be worth to your fx-ieuds? ^ 574 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. " Tou cannot expect me to reply to that question," said Bimey ; "I am acting profes- sionally under the advice and instructions of others ; but I will tell you what I think you had better do — I can enter into no negotia- tion on the subject without consulting those who have employed me, and getting their consent — write down, then, on a sheet of paper, what you propose to do for us, and the compensation which you expect to re- ceive for any documents you may supply us with that we may consider of value, and I shall submit it for consideration." " jVlay I not compromise myseK by putting it on paper, though ? " " If you think so, then, don't do it ; but, for my part, I shall have no fiirther concern in the matter. Verbal communications are of Httle consequence in an aflfau- of this kind. Reduce it to writing, and it can be tmder- stood ; it will, besides, prevent misconcep- tions in future." "I trust you are a man of honor?" said Norton. "I make no pretensions to anything so high," replied Bimey ; " but I trust I am an honest man, and know how to act when I have an honest man to deal with. If you wish to serve our cause, or, to be plain with you, wish to turn the documents you speak of to the best advantage, make your proposal in writing, as you ought to do, otherwise I must decline any fm-ther negotiation on the subject." Norton saw and felt that there was noth- ing else for it. He accordingly took pen and ink and wrote down his proposal — offer- ing to place the documents alluded to, which were mentioned by name, in the hands of Mr. Bimey, for the sum of five thousand pounds." "Now, sir," said Bimey, after looking over this treacheroiis proposition, " you see yourself the advantage of putting matters down in black and white. The production of this will save me both time and trouble, and, besides, it can be understood at a glance. Tliank you, sir. Have the goodness to favor me with a call in a day or two, and we shall see what can be done." " This," said Norton, as lie was about to go, " is a point of honor between us." " Why, I think, at all events, it ought," replied Bimey ; " at least, so far as I am con- cerned, it is not my intention to act dishon- orably by am/ honcKt man." " Haw — haw ! Vei-y well said, indeed ; I 'ave a good /(opinion of your discretion. Well, sir, I wish you good mornecn ; I shall call in a day or two, and expect to 'ave a ■atisfactory /; answer." " What a scoundrel ! " exclaimed Bimey. " Here's a fellow, now, who has been fleecing that unfortunate sheep of a nobleman for the last four years, and now that he finds him at the length of his tether, he is ready to betray and sacrifice him, like a double-distilled ras- cal as he is. The villain thought I did not know him, but he was mistaken — quite out in his calciilations. He will find, too, that he has brought his treachery to the wrong market" CHAPTER XXXTX. Fenton Recovered — The Mad-House. Sir Thoil^s Gouelat, on his return with the special Hcense, was informed by the same servant who had admitted the stranger, that a gentleman awaited him in the drawing- room. " Who is he, M'Gregor ? " " I don't know, sii* ; he paid you a visit once at Red Hall, I think." "How could I know him by that, you blockhead ? " " He's the gentleman, sir, you had hot words with." " That I kicked out one day ? Cracken- fudge, eh ? " "No, faith, sir ; not Crackenfudge. I know him well enough ; and devil a kick your honor gave liim but I wished was nine. This is a veiT different man. su- ; and I beheve you had warm words with him too, sir." " Oh ! " exclaimed his master ; "I remem- ber. Is he above ? " " I beheve so, sii\" A strange and disagi-eeable feeUng came over the baronet on healing these words — a kind of presentiment, as it were, of some- thing unpleasant and adveree to his plans. On entering the drawing-room, however, he was a good deal surprised to find that there was nobody there ; and after a moment's re- flection, a feai'ful suspicion took possession of him ; he rang the bell fmiously. Gibson, who had been out, now entered. " ^^^lere is ]\Iiss Gourlav, sii- ? " asked his master, with eyes kindled by I'age and alarm. " I was out, sir," rephed Gibson, " and can- not teU." " You can never teU anything, you scoun- drel. For a thousand, she's oft" with him again, and all's mined. Here, Matthews — ]\I'Gregor — cidl the sen*auts, sir. "NMiere's her niaidi — call her maid. ^Miat a con- foimdetl fool — ass — I was. not to have made that impudent baggage tramp about her business. It's true, Lucy's oft* — I feel it — ] felt it. Hang her hj'pocrisy ! It's the case, THE BLACK BARONET. 575 however, with all women. They have neither truth, nor honesty of purpose. A compound of treacherj^, deceit, and dissimulation ; and yet I thought, if there was a single indi- vidual of her sex exempted fi'om their vices, that she was that individual. Come bere, M'Gregor^come here you scoundrel — do you know where Miss Gourlay is ? or her maid ? " " Here's Matthews, sir ; he says she's gone out." " Gone out ! — Yes, she's gone out with a vengeance. Do you know where she's gone, siiTa ? And did any one go with her ? " he added, addressing himself to Matthews. " I think, sir, she's gone to take her usual airing in the carriage." " A\lio was A\ith her ? " " No one but her maid, sir." " Oh, no ; they would not go off together — that would be too open and barefaced. Do you know what direction she took ? " " No, sii- ; I dicbi't observe." " You stupid old lout," repHed the baro- net, flying at him, and mauling the unfortu- nate man without mercy ; " take that — and that — and that — for your stupidit}'. Why did you not obsen'e the way she went, you villain ? You have suffered her to eloj^e, you hound ! You have all suffered her to elope with a smoothfaced impostor — a fellow whom no one knows — a blackleg — a swindler — a thief — a — a — go and saddle haK a dozen horses, and seek her in all directions. Go instantly, and — hold — easy — stop — hang you all, stop ! — here she is — and her maid with her — " he exclaimed, looking out of the win- dow. " Ha ! I am relieved. God bless me ! God bless me ! " He then looked at the ser- vants with something of deprecation in his face, and waAing his hand, said, "Go— go quietly ; and, obsen'e me — not a word of this — not a syllable — for your lives ! " His anger, however, was only checked in mid volley. The idea of her having received a clandestine visit fi'om her lover during his absence rankled at his heart ; and although satisfied that she was still safe, and in his power, he could barely restrain his temper within moderate hmits. Nay, he felt angry at her for the alarm she had occasioned him, and the passion he had felt at her ab- sence. " Well, Lucy," said he, addressing her, as she entered, in a f oice chafed with passion, " have you taken your drive ? " " Yes, papa," she repUed ; " but it threat- ened rain, and we returned earher that usual." "You look pale." " I dare say I do, sir. I want rest — re- pose ; " and she reclined on a lounger as she spoke. " It is surprising, papa, how weak I am ! " " Not too weak, Lucy, to receive a stolen vLsit, eh ? " Lucy immediately sat up, and rephed with surj^rise, "A stolen visit, sir? I don't iinderstand you, papa." "Had you not a visitor here, in my ab- sence ? " "I had, sir, but the visit was intended for you. Our interview was perfectly acciden- tal." " Ah ! faith, Lucy, it was too well timed to be accidental. I'm not such a fool as that comes to. Accidental, indeed ! Lucy, you should not say so." " I am not in the habit of stating an un- truth, papa. The visit, sir — I shoiild rather say, the intei'\dew — was purely accidental ; but I am glad it took place." "The deuce you are ! That is a singular acknowledgment, Luc}-, I think." "It is tnith, sir, notwithstanding. I was anxious to see him, that I might acquaint him with the change that has taken place in my unhapjjy destiny. If I had not seen him, I should have asked your permission to write to him." "Which I would not have given." "I would have submitted my letter to you, su'." " Even so ; I would not have consented." "Well, then, sir, as tnith and honor de- manded that act fi'om me, I would have sent it without your consent. Excuse me for saying this, papa ; but you need not be told that there are some peculiar cases Avhere duty to a parent must yield to truth and honor." " Some peculiar cases ! On the contrary, the cases you sj^eak of are the general iide, my girl — the general inile — and rational obe- dience to a jDarent the exception. "WTiere is there a case — and there ai-e millions — where a parent's wish and will are set at naught and scorned, in which the same argument is not used ? I do not relish these discussions, however. AATiat I A\'ish to impress upon you is this — 5'ou must see this/t'//o»' no more." Lucy's temples were immediately in a blaze. " Ai-e you aware, papa, that you in- sult and degrade your daughter, by applying such a term to him ? If you ^\ill not spare him, sii*, spare me ; for I assiu-e you that I feel anything said against him with ten times more emotion than if it were uttered against myself." " Well, well ; he's a fine fellow, a gentle- man, a lord ; but, be he what he may, you must see him no more." " It is not my intention, papa, to see him again," 576 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. " You must not -write to him." " It will not be necessary." " But vou must not." " WeU, then, I shall not." " Nor receive his letters." " Nor receive his letters, knowing them to be his." " You promise all this ? " " I do, sh-, faithfully. I hope you are now satisfied, papa ? " "I am, Lucy — I am. You are not so bad a girl as I sus no, you are a very good gii-1 ; and when I see you the Countess of CuUamore, I shall not have a single wish un- gratified." Lucy, indeed, poor giii, was well and vigi- lantly giaarded. No communication, whether written or otherwise, was permitted to reach her ; nor, if she had been lodged in the deepest dungeon in Eui'ope, and secured by the strongest bolts that ever enclosed a pris- oner, could she have been more rigidly ex- cluded from all intercourse, her father's and her maid's only excej^ted. Her lover, on receiving the documents so often alluded to fi'om old Corbet, immedi- ately transmitted to her a letter of hope and encouragement, in which he stated that the object he had alluded to was achieved, and that he would take care to place such docu- ments before her father, as must cause even him to forbid the bans. This letter, however, never reached her. Neither did a similar communication from !Mi's. Mainwaring, who after three successive attempts to see either her or her fathei', was forced at last to give up all hope of preventing the man-iage. She seemed, indeed, to have been fated. In the meantime, the stranger, having, as he imagined, relieved Lucy's mind fi'om her dreaded union with Dunroe, and left the further and more complete disclosui-e of that young nobleman's position to jVIrs. Main- waring, provided himself with competent legal authority to claim the person of un- fortunate Fenton. It is unnecessaiy to de- scribe his journey to the asylum in which the wretched young man was placed ; it is enough to say that he arrived there at nine o'clock in the morning, accompanied by old Corbet and three officers of justice, who re- mained in the carnage ; and on asking to see the proprietor, was shown into a parlor, where he found that worthy gentleman reading a newspaper. Tliis fellow was one of those men who are remarkable for thick, massive, and saturnine features. At a first glunce he was not at all ill-looking ; but, on examining his beetle brows, which met in a mass of black thick h.'iir across liis face, and on wiitching the dull, selfish, cruel eyes that they hung over — dead as they were to every generons emo* tion, and incapable of kindling even at cruelty itself — it was impossible for any man in the habit of observing nature closely not to feel that a brutal i-uffian, obstinate, indiu-ated, and uuscinipulous, was before him. His forehead was low but broad, and the whole shape of his head such as would induce an inteUigent phrenologist to pro- I nounce him at once a thief and a murderer. j The stranger, after a survey or two, felt j his blood bon at the contemplation of his very visage, which was at once plausible and diabohcal in expression. After some pre- liminary' chat the latter said : "Your establishment, sii', is admirably situated here. It is remote and isolated ; and these, I suppose, are advantages ? " "Why, yes, sir," rephed the doctor, "the further we remove our patients from human society, the better. The exhibition of reason has, in general, a bad effect upon the in- sane." " Upon what principle do you account for that?" asked the stranger. "To me it would appear that the reverse of the proposi- tion ought to hold true." " That may be," rephed the other ; " but no man can form a correct opinion of insane persons who has not mingled "nith them, or had them under his care. The contiguity of reason — I mean in the persons of those who apjDroach them — alv^'ays exercises a dangerous influence upon lunatics ; and on this account, I sometimes j)lace those who are less insane as keepers upon such as are decidedly so." " Does not that, sir, seem very like setting the bhnd to lead the blind ? " "No," replied the other, with a heavy, heartless laugh, " your analogy fails ; it is rather like setting a man with one eye to guide another who has none." " But why should not a man who has two guide him better ? " " Because the consciousness that there is but the one eye between both of them, wiU make him proceed more cautiously." " But that in the blind is an act of rea- son," rephed the stranger, "which cannot be apphed to the insane, in whom reason is deficient." " But where reason does not exist," said the doctor, " we must regmlate them by their passions." " By the exercise of which passion do you gain the greatest ascendency over them ? ' asked the stranger. " By fear, of course. We can do noth- ing, at least very httle, without inspiring leiTor." •• All," thought the stranger, "I have now THE BLACK BARONET. bll got the key to his conduct ! — But, sir," he added. " we never fear and love the same ob- ject at the same time." "True enough, sir," repHed the ruffian; " but who could or ought to calculate upon the attachment of a madman ? Boys are corrected more fi'equently than men, because their reason is not developed : and those in »vhom it does not exist, or in whom it has been impaired, must be subjected to the same discipline. Terror, besides, is the principle upon which reason itself, and all society, are governed." "But suppose I had a brother, now, or a relative, might I not hesitate to place him in an establishment conducted on principles which I condemn ? " " As to that, sir," rephed the fellow, who, expecting a patient, feai-ed that he had gone too far, " our system is an adaptable one ; at least, our ajDplication of it vaiies according ' to circumstances. As oui' fii'st object is cure, we must necessaiily allow ourselves consider- able latitude of experiment until we hit up- on the right key. This being found, the process of recoveiy, when it is possible, may be conducted with as much mildness as the absence of reason will admit. We are mild, when we can^ and severe only where we must." " Shiiffliug scoundrel I " thought the stran- ger. " I perceive in this language the double dealing of an unpiincipled \illain. — Would you have any objection, sii'," he said, " that I should look thi'ough your estabhsh- ment ? " "I can conduct you through the convales- cent wards," rephed the doctor ; "but, a^ ^ said, we find that the appearance of s an- i gers — which is what I meant by the ccicigu- ity of reason — is attended with very l)ad, and sometimes deplorable consequences. Under all circumstances it retai'ds a cvu'e. | under others occasions a relapse, and in some accelerates the malady so rapidly that it becomes hopeless. You may see the convalescent ward, however — that is, if you wish." "You will obhge me," said the stranger. ! " Well, then," said he, " if you will remain here h moment, I will send a gentleman who will accompany you, and explain the charac- ters of some of the patients, should you de- sire it, and also the cause of their respective maladies." I He then disappeared, and in a few minutes a mild, intelHgent, gentlemanly msm, of modest and imassuming manners, presented himself, and said he would feel much pleas- ure in she .ving him the convalescent side of the house. The stranger, however, went out and bi-ouglit old Corbet in from the . 19 carriage, where he and the officers had been sitting ; and tliis he did at Corbet's own re- quest. It is not our intention to place before oui readers any lengthened description of this gloomy temple of depai-ted reason. Every one who enters a lunatic asylum for the fii'st time, must feel a wild and indescribable emo- tion, such as he has never before experienc- ed, and which amounts to an extraordinai*}' sense of solemnity and fear. Nor do the sensations of the stranger rest here. He feels as if he were siuTounded by something sacred as well as melancholy, sometliing that creates at once pity, reverence, and awe. In- deed, so strongly antithetical to each other are his first imf)res.sious, that a kind of con- fusion arises in his mind, and he begins to feai- that his senses have been affected by the atmosphere of the jilace. That a shock takes place which shghtly disaiTanges the faciUty of thought, and generates strong but eiTone- ous impressions, is still more clearly estab- lished by the fact that the risitor, for a con- siderable time after leaving an asylum, can scarcely rid himself of the behef that eVery person he meets is insane. The stranger, on entering the long room in which the convalescents were assembled, felt, in the silence of the patients, and in their vague and fantastic movements, that he was in a position where novelty, in gen- eral the soiu'ce of pleasiure, was here associ- ated only ^\-ith pain. Theii* startling looks, the absence of interest in some instances, and its intensity in others, at the ai:)pearance of strangers, without any intelligent motive in either case, produced a feeling that seem- d to bear the character of a disagreeable .. eam. "All the patients here," said his conduc- tor, " are not absolutely in a state of convales- cence. A great number of them are ; but we also allow such confirmed lunatics as ju'e harmless to mingle with them. There is scai'cely a profession, or a passion, or a van- ity in life, which has not here its representa- tive. Law, rehgion, physic, the arts, the sciences, all contribute their share to this melancholy picture gallery. Avarice, Ic :, ambition, pride, jealousy, haring ove. i^-owii the force of reason, are here, as it- itleaj skeletons, wild and gigantic — fi'etting gam- bolhng, moping, giinning, raving, and va|> oring — each Mi-ajjped in its own Vision, and indifferent to all the influence of the collat- eral faculties. Thei'e, now, is a man, mop- ing about, the very pictvu-e of stolidity ; ob- serve how his heavy hesul hangs down imtU his chin rests upon his brea.stbone, his mouth open and almost dribbhng. That man, sir, so unpoetical and idiotic in appear- 37S WILLIAM CARLETOiTS WORKS. Alice, imagines himself the author of Beat- tie's 'Minstrel' He is a Scotchman, and I ^liiUl call him over." " Come here, Sandy, speak to this gentle- man." Sandy, without i-aising liis lack-lustre eye, came over and replied, " Aw — ay^ — 'Am the author o' Betty's Mensti-el ; " and having ut- tered tliis piece of intelligence, he shuiiled /icross the room, dragging one foot after the other, at about a quarter of a minute per step. Never was poor Beattie so libellously represented. "Do you see that round-faced, good-hu- mored looking man, with a decent fiieze coat on ? " said their conductor. " He's a wealthy and respectable farmer from the county of Kilkenny, who imagines that he is Christ His name is Body Bafferty." "Come here. Body." Body came over, and looking at the stran- ger, said, "Ai-ra, now, do you know M'ho I am? Troth, I go bail you don't." "No," replied the stranger, "I do not; but I hoj^e yo'! wiU teU me." "I'm Christ," replied Bod}'; "and, upon my word, if you don't get out o' this, I'll work a miracle on you." "Why," asked the stranger, "what w'ill you do ? " "Troth, I'll turn you into ablackin' brush, and polish my shoes md you. You were at Barney's death, too." The poor man had gone deranged, it seemed, by the violent death of his only child — a son. " There's another man," said the conduc- tor ; " tliat little fellow with the angry face. He is a shoemaker, who went mad on the score of humanity. He took a strong feehng of resentment against all who had flat feet, and refused to make shoes for them." "How was that?" inquired the stran- ger. "Why, sir," said the other, smiling, "he said that they nuxrdered the clocks (beetles), and he looked upon every man with flat feet 'IS an inhuman villain, who desei-ves, he says, to have his feet chopped oft', and to be c'ompelled to dance a hornpipe three times a day on his stumps." "AVlio is that broad-shouldered man," asked the stranger, " dressed in laisty black, with the red head ? " "He went mad," repUed the conductor, " on a princijile of religious charity. He is a priest from the county of Wexford, who had been called in to baptize the child of a Protestant mother, which, having done, he seized a tul), and placing it on the (child's neck, killed it ; exclaiming, ' I am now sure of having sent one soul to heaven.' " "You iU'e not without poets here, oi course ? " said the stranger. "We have, unforttmately," replied the other, " more individuals of tliat class than we can well manage. They ought to have an asylum for themselves. There's a feUow, now, he in the tattered jacket and nightcap, who has written a heroic poem, of eighty-six thousand verses, which he entitles ' Balaam's Ass, or the Great Unsaddled.' Shall I call him over ? " "Oh, for heaven's sake, no," rephed the stranger ; " keep me from the poets." "There is one of the other species," re- 23hed the gentleman, "the thin, red-eyed fellow, Avho grinds his teeth. He fancies himself a wit and a satirist, and is the author of an impublished poem, called ' The Smok- ing DunghiU, or Parnassus in a Fume.' He published several things, which were justly attacked on account of their dulness, and he is now in an awful fury against all the poets of the clay, to every one of whom he has given an aj^propriate position on the sublime pedestal, which he has, as it were, with his own hands, erected for them. He certainly ought to be the best constructor of a dung- hiU in the world, for he deals in nothing but dirt. He refuses to wash his hands, because, he says, it would disqiialify him from giv- ing the last touch to his poem and his char- acters." " Have you philosophers as well as poets here ? " asked the stranger. "Oh dear, yes, sir. We have poetical philosophers, and philosophical j3oets ; but, I protest to heaven, the wisdom of Solomon, or of an archangel, could not decide the dif- ference between their folly. There's a man now, with the old stocking in his hand — it is one of his own, for you may obsei-ve that he has one leg bare — who is pacing up and down in a deep thinking mood. That man, sir, was set mad by a definition of his own making." " Well, let us hear it," said the stran- ger. " AVhy, sii-, he imagines that he has dis- covered a definition for 'nothing.' The defi- nition, however, will make you smile." "And what, pray, is it?"' " Nothing, he sa^^s, is — a footless stocking WITHOUT A LEG ; and maintains that he ought to hold the first rank as a philosoijher for haAdng invented the definition, and deserves a pension from the crown." " Who are these two men dressed in black, walking arm in arm ? " asked the stranger, "They appear to be clergymen." " Yes, sir," replied his conductor, " so they are ; two celebrated polemical controversial- ists, whoj when the}' were at large, created TTTE BLACK BAUONET. by theit- Jittacks, eacli upon tlie i-eligion of tlie other, uiore ill-will, rancor and religious "ininiosity, than either of their religions, with all their virtues, could remove. It is iiu- [)ossible to describe the evil they did. Ever since they caine here, however, they are like brothers. They were placed in the same room, each in a strong strait-waistcoat, for the spa(U' of three months ; but on being al- lowed to walk about, they became sworn friends, and now amuse themselves more than any other two in the establishment. They indulge in immoderate fits of laughter, look each other knowingly in the fa(;e, ^vink, and run the forefinger up the nose, after which their mirth bursts out afresh, and they laugh until the tears come down their cheeks." The stranger, who during all this time was on the lookout for poor Fenton, as was old Corbet, could observe nobody who resembled him in the least. " Have you females in your establish- ment ? " he asked. '"No, sir," replied the gentleman; "but we are about to open an asylum for them in a detached building, which is in the course of being erected. Would you wish to hear any further details of these unhappy beings," he asked. "No, sir," replied the stranger, "You are very kind and obliging, but I have heard enough for the present. Have you a j^er- Bon nam;-.d Fenton in your establishment ? " " Not, sir, that I know of ; he may be 'hero, though ; but you had better inquire •from the proprietor himself, who (mark me, sir— I say — harkee — you have humanity in your face) — will probably refuse to tell you •whether he is here or not, or deny him altogether. Harkee, again, sir — the fellow >is a villain — that is,entre nous, but mum's 'the word between us." "I am sorry," replied the stranger, "to i^iear such a chai'acter of him from you, who should know him." " Well, sir," replied the other, " let that limss — verhmn sap. And now tell me, when ihave you been at the theater ? " " Not for some months," returned the tother. "Have you ever heard Catalani shake?" ^* Yes," replied the stranger. " I have had that pleasure." " Well, sir, I'm delighted that you have heard her, for there is but one man living who can riv;d her in the shake ; and, sir, you have the honor of addressing that man." Tliis was said so mildly, calmly, rationally, and \\'ith that gentlemanlike air of undoubt- ed respectability, which gives to an assertion such ;ii' iii>})vcss of truth, tluit the stranger. j confused as he was by what he had seen, fel> ' it rather difKcult to draw the line at the mo- I ment, especially in such society, between ^ I sane man and an insane one. " Would you wish, sir," said the guide, " to hear a si^ecimen of my powers? " '•If you please," replied the stranger. " provided you will cc^nfinc yourself to tht shake." The other then connnenced a squall, sc tuneless, wild, jarring, and unnuisical, tha' the stranger could not avoid smiling at the monomaniac, for such he at once perceivecil liim to be. "You seem to like that," observed the other, apparently mudi gi-atified ; "but 1 thought as much, sir — you are a man oi taste." "I am decidedly of opinion," said the stranger, " that Catalani, in her best days, could not give such a t'i)ecimen of the shake as that." " Thank you sir," replied the singer, tak- ing ofl' his hat and bowing. " We shall have another shake in honor of your excellent judgment, but it will be a shake of the hand. Sir, you are a polished and most ac- complished gentleman." ' As they sauntered up and do^\ni the room, 1 other symptoms reached them Ijesides those I that were then subjected to their sight. As q door opened, a peal of wild laughter might be heard — -sometimes groaning — and occa- sionally the most awful blasphemies. Ambi- tion contributed a large number to its dreary cells. Li fact, one would imagine that the house had been converted into a temple ot justice, and contained within its walls most oi the crowned heads and generals of Euroj)e, both living and dead, together with a fair samjile of tlie saints. The Emperor of Russia j was strapped down to a chair that had been j screwed into the floor, with the additional security of a strait-waistcoat to keep his ma- jesty quiet. The Pope challenged Hein-y the I Eighth to box, and St. Peter, as the cell door I opened, asked Anthony Corbet for a glass ol t whiskey. Napoleon Bonai)arte, in tlie per- son of a heroic tailor, was singing " Bob and Joan ; " and the Archbishop of Dublin said he would i)ledge his mitre for a good cig.-ii ! and a pot of porter. Sometimes a frightful ; yell would reach their ears ; then a furious I set of howlings, followiMl again by jieals of maniac laughter, as before. Altogether, the , stranger Avas glad to withdraw, which he did, ; in order to prosecute his searches for Fen- ton, "Well, sir," said tlie doctor, whom he found again in the parlor, "* you have seen that melancholy sight ? " " I >».ivp, sir, ^id a melancholy one indeed 5S0 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. it is ; but :is I came on a matter of business, doctor, I think we bad better come to the point at once. You have a young man named Fenton in your establishment ? " " No, sir, we have no person of that name here." " A wrong name may have been jmrposely given you, sir ; but the jjerson I speak of is- here. " And you had better understand me at once," he*^ continued. " I am furnished ■with such authority as will force you to pro- duce him." " If he is not here, sir, no authority on earth can force me to produce him." "We shall see that presently. Corbet, bring in the officers. Here, sir, is a warrant, by which I am empowered to search for his body ; and, when found, to secure him, in order that he may be restored to his just rights, fi-om which he has been debarred by a course of \aLlany worthy of being concoct- ed in hell itself." " Family reasons, sir, frequently render it necessary that patients should enter this es- tablishment under fictitious names. But these ai'e matters with which I have nothing to do. ]My object is to comply wdth the wishes of their relatives." " Your object, sir, should be to cure, rather than to keep them ; to conduct your estab- Kshment as a house of recovery, not as a pri- son — of course, I mean where the patient is curable. I demand, sii', that you wdll find this young man, and produce him to me." " But provided I cannot do so," replied the doctor, doggedly, " what then ? " " Why, m that case, we are in posses- sion of a warrant for your own arrest, under the proclamation which was originally pub- lished in the ' Hue and Cry,' for his deten- tion. Sir, 3'ou are now aware of the alterna- tive. You produce the person we require, or you accompany us yourself. It has been swoiTi that he is in your keeping." " I cannot do what is impossible. I wiU, however, conduct you through all the private rooms of the establishment, and if you can find or identify the person you want, I am satisfied. It is quite possible he ma}' be with me ; but I don't know, nor have I ever known him by the name of Fenton. It's a name I've never heard in my establishment. Come, sir, I am ready to show you every room in my house." Jiy this time the officers, accompanied by Corljct, entered, and all followed the doctor in a body to aid in tlie search. The search, however, was fruitless. Every room, cell, and cranny that was visible in the establish- ment underwent a strict examination, as did their unhappy occupants. All, however, in vain ; and the do ctor now was about to as- sume a tone of insolence and triumph, when Corbet said : "Doctor, all seems jjlain here. You have done your dutij." "Yes," he replied, "I always do so. No man in the kingdom has given greater satis- faction, nor stands higher in that painful de- jDai'tment of our profession to which I have devoted myself." " Yes, doctor," repeated Corbet, with one of his bitterest grins ; " yoii have done your duty ; and for that reason I ask you to folly me." "Where to, my good fellow?" asked the other, somewhat crestfallen. "What do you mean ? " " I think I spake plainly enough. I say, folly me. I think, too, I know something abovit the outs and ins, the ups and downs of this house still. Come, sir, w-e'U show you how you've done your duty ; but hsten to me, before w^e go one foot further— if he's dead before my time has come, I'U have your hfe, if I was to swing on a thousand gallowses." One of the officers here tapped the doctor authoritatively on the shoulder, and said, "Proceed, sir, we are losing time." The doctor saw at once that further resis- tance was useless. "By the by," said he, "there is one pa- tient in the house that I completely forgot. He is so desperate and outrageous, however, that we were compelled, within the last week or so, to try the severest discipline with him. He, however, cannot be the person you want, for his name is Moore ; at least, that is the name under which he was sent here." Down in a naiTOw, dark dungeon, where the damp and stench were intolerable, and nothing could be seen until a light Avas procured, they found something lying on filthy straw that had human shape. The hair and beard were long and overgrown ; the feattrres, begrimed with filth, were such as the sharjDest eye coiild not recognize ; and the whole body was so worn and emaci- ated, so ragged and tattered in appearance, that it was evident at a glance that foul practices must have been resorted to in order to tamper with life." " Now, sir," said the doctor, addressing the stranger, "I will leave you and your friends to examine the patient, as perhaps you might feel my presence a restraint upon you." The stranger, after a glance or two at Fenton, turned around, and said, sternly, " Peace officer, arrest that man, and remove him to the parlor as your prisoner. But hold," he added, "let us first ascertain whether tliis is Mr. Fenton or not." THE BLACK BARONET. 581 "I will soon tell you, sir," said Corbet, approacliing the object before them, and feeling the left side of his neck. "It is him, sir," he said; "here he is, siu-e enough, at last." " AVell, then," repeated the stranger, " ar- rest that man, as I said, and let two of you accompany him to the jjarlor, and detiiin him there until we join you." On raising tlie wretched young man, they found that life was bai'ely in him ; he had been asleep, and being roused up, he screamed aloud. " Oh," said he, "I am not able to bear it — don't scourge me, I am dying ; I am doing all I can to die. AVliy did you disturb me ? I dreamt that I was on my mother's knee, and iliat she was kissing me. What is this? Wliat l)rings so many of you now? I wish I liad told the strange gentleman in the inn everything ; but I feared he was my enemy, and perhaps he was. I am very hungiy." " Merciful God ! " exclaimed the stran- ger ; " ai'e such things done in a free and Christian country? Bring him up to the parlor," he added, "and let him be shaved and cleansed ; but be careful of him, for his lamp of life is neai-ly exhausted. I thank you, Corbet, for the suggestion of the linen and clothes. "NMiat could we have done \Wthout them? It would have been im- possible to fetch him in this trim." We must pass over these disagreeable de- tails. It is enough to say that poor Fenton W!i8 put into clean linen and decent clothes, and that in a couple of hours they were once more on their way with him, to the metro- polis, the doctor accompanying them, as their prisoner. The conduct of Corbet was on this occa- sion very singular. He complained that the stench of tlie dungeon in which they found Fenton liad sickened him ; but, not^^■ith- stiuiding this, something like ease of mind might be read in his countenance whenever he looked upon Fenton ; something that, to the stranger at least, who obsen'ed him closely, seemed to say, " I am at last satis- lied : the widow's hetu't wiU be set at rest, and the plans of this black villain broken to pieces." His eye occasionally gleamed wild- ly, and again his countenance gi'ew pale and haggard, tuid he complained of headache and pains about his loins, and in the small of his back. On arriving in Dublin, the stranger brought Fenton to his hotel, where he was desirous to keep him for a day or two, until he should regain a little strength, that he might, without risk, be able to sustain the interview that was before him. Aware of the capricious nature of the young man's I feelings, and his feeble state of health, he i himself kept aloof from him, lest his pres- } ence might occasion such a shock as would ' induce anything like a fit of insanity — a circumstance which must mar the pleasure and gratitication of his unexpected reajjpear- ance. That medical advice ought instantly to be i^rocured was evident from his extreme weakness, and the state of apathy into which he had sunk immediately after his removal from the cell. This was at once i)rovided ; but unfortunately it seemed that aU human skill was likely to prove unavailable, as the physician, on seeing and examining him, ex- pres.sed himself with strong doubts as to the possibility of his recovery. In fact, he feared that his unhappy patient had not many days to live. He ordered him ^vine, tonics, and hght but nutritious food to be taken sparingly, and desired that he should be brought into the open air as often as the debihty of his constitution could be.'u- it. His complaint, he said, was altogether a nervous one, and resiilted fi'om the effects of cruelty, teiTor, want of sufficient nourish- ment, bad air, and close confinement. In the meantime, the doctor was commit- ted to prison, and had the pleasure of being sent, under a safe escort, to the jail of the county that had been so largely benefited by his humane establishment. As we are upon this j^ainful subject, we ma}' as well state here that he was prosecu- ted, convicted, and sentenced to two jeai's' imprisonment, with hard labor. CHAPTER XL. Ludy Oourlay sees her Son. Having done aU that was possible for poor Fenton, the stranger lost no time in waiting upon Lady Gourlay, that he might, with as miich piiidence as the uncertain state of the young man's health would permit, nuxke known the long wished for communication, that they had at length got him in their pos- session. His ta.sk was one of great difficulty, for he ajiprehended that an excess of joy on the part of that affectionate woman might be dangerous, when suddenh' checked by the melancholy probability that he liad been restored to her only to be almost immedi- ately removed by death. He resolved, then, to temper his intelligence in such a way as to cause her own admirable sense and high Christian feeling to exercise their usual in- fluence over her heart. As he had promised Corbet, however, to take no future step in connection with these matters without ecu- o82 WILLIAM CAELETOy'S WORKS. suiting him, lie resolved, before seeing Lady Gonrlay, to pay him a \-isit. He was induced the more to do this in consequence of the old mjui's singular conduct on the discovery of Fentou. From the very tirst interview that he ever had with Corbet untd that event, he could not avoid obsen'ing that there was a mystery in everything he did and said — something enigmatical — unfathomable, and that his looks, and the disagreeable exj^res- siou which thej"^ occasionally assumed, were frequently so much at vjmauce with his words, that it was an utter imijossibility to draw anytliing like a certain inference from them. On the discovery of Fenton, the old man's face went through a variety of contra- dictory expressions. Sometimes he seemed elated — triumphant, sometimes depressed and anxious, and occasionally angry, or ex- cited by a feehng that was altogether unin- telhgible. He often turned his eye upon Fenton, as if he had discovered some jirecious treasure, then his countenance became over- cast, and he writhed in an agony which no mortal penetration could determine as any- thing but the result of remorse. Taking all tliis into consideration, the stranger made up his mind to see him before he should wait upon Lady Gourlay. Although a day had elapsed, he found the old man still complaining of ilhiess, which, he said, would have been more serious had he not taken medicine. "jNIy mind, however," said he, "is what's troubhn' me. There's a battle goin' on within me. At one time I'm dehghted, but tlie delight doesn't give me pleasure long, for then, again, I feel a weight over me that's worse than death. However, I can't nor won't give it up. I hope I'll have time to re- pent yet ; who knows but it is God that has put it into my heart and kept it there for so many years ? " " Kept what there ? " asked the stranger. The old man's face Hterally blackened as he replied, almost with a scream, "Ven- geance ! " "This language," replied the other, "is absolutely shocking. Consider your ad- vanced state of Ufe — consider your present iUness, which may probably be your last, and reflect that if you yourself expect pardon form God, you must forgive your enemies." " So I wiU," he replied ; " but not till I've punished them ; then I'll tell them how I made my imjipets of them, and when I give their heart one last ciiish — one grind " — and * the old wretch ground his teeth in the con- templation of this diabolical vision — " ay," he repeated — " one last gi^ind, then I'll tell them I've done vdVh. them, and forgive them; then^theu — ay, but not //// then ! " " God forgive you, Corbet, and change your heart ! " replied the stranger. "I called to say that I am about to inform Lady Gour- lay that we have her son safe at last, and I wish to know if you ai-e in possession of any facts tliat she ought to be acquainted with in connection with his removal — in fact, to hear anything you may wish to disclose to me on the subject." " I could, then, disclose to you something on the subject that would make you won- dher ; but although the time's at hand, it's not come j'et. Here I am, an ould man — helpless — or, at aU events, helpless-lookin' — and you Avould hardly believe that I'm makin' this black villain do everything accordin' as I wish it." " That dark spirit of vengeance," rephed the stranger, " is turning your brain, I think, or you would not say so. AVhatever Sir Thomas Gourlay may be, he is not the man to act as the puppet of any person." " So you think ; but I tell you he's acting as mine, for all that." " Well, well, Corbet, that is your own af- fair-. Have you anything of importance to communicate to me, before I see Lady Gour- lay? I ask you for the last time." " I have. The black villain and she have sj)oken at last. He yielded to his daughter so far as to call upon her, and asked her to be present at the weddin'." " The wedding ! " exclaimed the stranger, looking aghast. "God of heaven, old man, do you mean to saj' that they are about to be married so soon ? — about to be married at aU ? But I "ndll leave you," he added; " there is no possibility of wringing anything out of you." " Wait a Httle," continued Corbet. " What I'm goin' to tell you won't do you any harm, at any rate." " Be quick, then. Gracious heaven ! — married !— Curses seize you, old man, be quick." " On the moniin' afther to-morrow the marriage is to take place in Sir Thomas's own house. Lord Dunroe's sisther is to be bridesmaid, and a young feUow named Rob- erts " "I know — I have met him." " AVeU, and did j-ou ever see any one that he resembled, or that resembled him ? I hope in the Almighty," he added, uttering the ejaculation evidently in connection with some private thought or purpose of his own, " I liojie in the Almighty that tliis sickness will keep off o' me for a couple o' days at any rate. Did you ever see any one that resem- bled him ? '• " Yes," replied the stranger, starting, for the thought had flashed upon him ; " he THE BLACK BARONET. 583 is the liviuf]^ image of ^Miss Gourlay ! WTiy 'lo you ask ? " " Bekaise, merely for a raison I have ; but if you have patience, you'll iiud that the lonpfer you live, the more you'll kuow ; only at this time you'll know no more from me, l)arrin' that this same younjjj officer is to be his lords) ii]>'s gi'oom's-man. Dr. Sombre, the cler}^fyman of the parish, is to marry them ill the l)aronet's house. A Mrs. Main- waring, too, is to be there ; ]Miss Gourlay begged that she would be allowed to come, and he says she may. You see now how well I know everything that happens there, don't you ? " he asked, with a grin of triumph. "But I tell you there will be more at the same weddin' than he thinks. 80 now — ah, this pain I — there's another string of it — I feel it go through me like an aiTow — so now you may go and see Lady Gourlay, and break the glad tidin's to her." With feelings akin to awe and of repug- nance, but not at till of contempt — for old Corbet was a man whom no one could de- spise — the stranger took his depai-tiu-e, and proceeded to Lady Gourlays, \rith a vague impression that the remarkable likeness between Lucy and young Roberts was not merely accidenttd. He found her at home, placid as usual, but with eridences of a resignation that was at once melancholy and distressing to wit- ness. The sti'uggle of tliis admirable wo- man's heart, though sustjiined by high Christian feeling, was, nevertheless, wearing her away by slow and painftd degrees. The stranger saw tliis, and scarcely knew in what terms to shape the communication he had to niiUvC, full as it was of ecstasy to the mother's loving spirit, yet dashed with such doubt and sorrow. " Can you bear good tidings. Lady Goui'- lay," said he, " though mingled with some cause of apprehension ? " " I am in the hands of God," she replied, " and feel that I ought to receive every com- munication with obedience. Speak on." " Your sou is found I " " What, my child restored to me ? " She had been sitting in an arm-chair, but on hearing these words she started up, and said again, as she placed her hands upon the table at which he sat, that she might sustain herself, " What, Charles, my diuling restored to me ! Is he safe ? Can I see him ? Re- stored I restored at last ! " "Moderate your joy, my dear madam ; he is safe — he is in my hotel." "But why not here? Safe ! oh, at last — at last ! liut God is a God of mei-cy, espe- cially to the i>atient and long-sulVering. But come— oh, come! Think of me, — j)ity n)C, I and do not defraud me one moment of his sight. Biing me to liim ! " " Hear me a moment, Lady Gourlay." " No, no," she repUed, in a passion of joy- ful tears, " I can hear you again. I must see my son — my son— my darling child— where is my .son ? Here — but no, I will ring my self. A\Tiy not have brought him here at once, sir ? Am not I his mother ? " " My dear madam," said the stranger, calmly, l)ut with a seriousness of manner that checked the exuberance of her delight, and placing his hand upon her shoulder, "hear me a moment. Your son is foimd ; but he is ill, and I fear in some danger." " But to see him, then," she repHed, look- ing with entreaty in his face, " only to see him. After this long and dreary absence, to let my eyes rest on my son. He is ill, you say ; and what hand should be near him and about him but his mother's? "Wlio can with such love and tenderness cherish, and soothe, and comfort him, as the mother who would die for him ? Oh, I have a thousand thoughts iTJshing to my heart — a thousand aflfectionate anxieties to gratify ; but tii'st to look upon him — to press him to that heart — to pour a mother's raptiu*es over her long- lost child ! Come with me — oh, come. If he is ill, ought I not, as I said, to see him the sooner on that account? Come, dear Charles, let the carriage be ordered ; but that will take some time. A hackney-coach ■win do — a car — anything that will biing us there with least delay." "But, an interview, my lady, maybe at this moment as much as his life is worth ; he is not out of danger." " Well, then, I will not ask an interview. Only let me see him — let liis mother's eyes I'est upon him. Let me steal a look — a look ; let me steal but one look, and I am sure, dear Charles, you will not gainsay this little theft of the mother's heart. But, ah," she suddenly exclaimed, "what am I doin^? Ungi-ateful and selfish that I am, to foi-get my first duty ! Pardon me a few moments ; I will return soon." She passed into the back drawing-room, where, although the doors were folded, he could hear this tmly pious woman pouiing forth with tears her gi-atitude to God. In a few minutes she reappeared ; and such were the arguments she used, that he felt it im- possible to prevent her from gi-atif)ing this nattu-al and absorbing impulse of the heart. On reaching the hotel, thej- found, aftei inquiring, that he was asleej), a cii'cumstauce which greatly ])leased the stranger, as h© doubted very much whether Fenton would have been strong enough, either in mind or j84 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORLvS. body, to bear such au iuterview as must have taken place between them. Tlie unhappy young man was, as we have said, sound asleep. His face was pale and wan, but a febrile hue had tinged his coun- tenance with a color which, although it con- cealed his danger, was not sufficient to re- move fi-om it the mournful expression of all he had suffered. Yet the stranger thought that he never had seen him look so well. His face was indeed a fair but melancholy page of human hfe. The brows were sHghtly knit, as if indicative of suffering ; and there passed over his featui-es, as he lay, such vaiy- ing expressions as we may presume corre- sponded with some painful dream, by which, as fai' as one could judge, he seemed to be influenced. Sometimes he looked like one that endured paui, sometimes as if he felt teri'or ; and occasionally a gleam of pleasure or joy would faintly Hght up his handsome but wasted countenance. Lady Gouiiay, whilst she looked upon him, was obliged to be supported by the stranger, who had much difficulty in re- straining her giief within due bounds. As for the tears, they fell fi-om her eyes in showers. "I must really remove you, my lady," he said, in a whisper ; " his recovery, his very life, may depend ujDon the soundness of this sleep. You see youi'self, now, the state he is in ; and who hving has such an interest in his restoration to health as you have ? " "I know it," she whispered in reply. "I will be quiet." As they spoke, a faint smile seemed to light up his face, which, however, was soon changed to an expression of terror. " Don't scourge me," said he, " don't and I will tell you. It was my mother. I thought she kissed me, as she used to do long ago, when I was a boy, and never thought I'd be here." He then uttered a few faint sobs, but relapsed into a calm ex- pression almost immediately. Tlie violent beatings of Lady Gourlay's heart were distinctly felt by the stranger, as he supported her ; and in order to prevent the sobs which he knew, by the heavings of her breast, were about to burst forth, fi-oni awakenmg the sleeper, he felt it best to lead her out of \\\e room ; which he had no 80(mer done, than she gave way to a long tit of uncontrollable weeping. " Oh, my child ! — my child ! " she ex- claimed, " I fear they have murdered him ! Alas ! is he only to be restored to me for a moment, and am I then to be childless in- deed V But I will strive to become calm. \Miy should I not? For even this is a blessing — to have seen him, and to have the melancholy consolation of knowing that if he is to die, he will die in my ovn\ arms." " AVell, but I trust, madam, he won't die. The workings of Pro"vidence are never in- effectual, or without a iDui-jDose. Have cour- age, have patience, and all will, I tiiist, end happily." " Well, but I have a request to make. AHow me to kiss him ; I shall not disturb him ; and if he should recover, as I trust in the Almight}''s mercy he will — oh, how I should like to tell him that the dream about liis mother was not altogether a dream — that I did kiss him. Trust me, I will not awaken him — the fall of the thistledown will will not be Ughter than the kiss I shall give my child." "Well, be it so, my lady; and get your- seK calm, for you know not his danger, if he should awaken and become agitated." They then reentered the apai'tment, and Lady Gourlay, after contemjDlating him for a moment or two, stooped down and gently kissed his lips — once — twice — and a third time — and a single tear fell upon his cheek. At this moment, and the coincidence was beautiful and affecting, his face became once more irradiated by a smile that was singu- laiiy serene and sweet, as if his very spirit within him had recognized and felt the affection and tenderness of this timid but loving embrace. The stranger then led her out again, and a burden seemed to have been taken off her heart. She dried her tears, and in grate- ful and fervid terms expressed the deep ob- ligations she owed him for his generous and persevering exertions in seeking out and re- storing her son. This sleep was a long one, and proved very beneficial, by somewhat recruiting the httle strength that had been left him. The stranger had every measure taken that could contribute to his comfort and recovery. Two nurse tenders were procured, to whose care he was committed, under the general superintendence of Dandy Dulcimer, whom he at once recognized, and by whose perfonn- ance upon that instrument the poor 3'oimg man seemed not only much pleased, but improved in confidence and the general powers of his intellect. The physician saAv him twice a day, so that at the jjeriod of Lady Gourlay's visit, she fovand that every care and attention, wiiich consideration and kindness, and anxiety for his re(!0very could bestow upon him, had been j^aid ; a fact that eased and satisfied her mind very much. One rather gi'atifying symjjtom appeared in him after he awoke on that occasion. Ha looked about the room, and inquired foj Dulcimer, who soon made his apjjearance. THE BLACK BAROXET. 585 " Damly. " saiil lie, for lie had known him very well in Ballytrain, " ^^ill you be angrj' with me if I ask you a question ? Dandy, I am a gentleman, and vou will not treat me ill." "I would be glad to see the villain that 'ud dare to do it, ^Ix. Fenton," rephed Dan- dy, a good deal moved, " much less to do it myself." "Ah," he rephed in a tone of voice that was enough to draw teai's from any eye, '• but, then, I can depend on no one ; and if they should bring me back there " His eyes became wild and full of hoiTor, as he spoke, and he was about to betray symp- toms of strong agitation, when Dandy judi- ciously brought him back to the point. " They won't, ^Ii-. Fenton ; don't be afeai-ed of that ; you ai*e among friends now ; but what was the question you were goin' to ask me ? " • " A question ! — was I ? " said he, pausing, as if stx'iviug to recover the train of thought he had lost. "Oh, yes," he proceeded, "yes; there was a pound note taken fi'om me. I got it fi'om the strange gentleman in the inn, and I wish I had it." "Well, sir," rephed Dandy, "if it can be got at all, you must have it. I'll inquire for it." " Do," he said ; "I wish to have it." Dandy, in reply to the stranger's fi'equent and anxious inquii-ies about him, mentioned this little dialogue, and the latter at once recollected that he had the note in his pos- session. "It may be good to gi'atify him," he re- plied ; "and as the note 'can be of Httle use now, we had better let him have it." He accordingly sent it to him by Dandy, who could obsene that the possession of it seemed to give him peculiar satisfaction. Had not the stranger been a man capable of maintaining gi'eat restraint over the exercise of very strong feehngs, he could never have conducted himself with so much calmness and self-control in his interview Avith Lady fxom-lay and poor Fenton. His own heart during all the time was in a tumidt of per- fect distraction, but this was occasioned by causes that bore no analogy to those that passed before him. From the moment he heard that Lucy's raai-riage had been fixed for the next day but one, he felt as if his hold upon hope and life, and all that they promised him, was lost, and his happiness annihilated forever ; he felt as if reason were about to abandon him, as if all existence had become dark, and the sun himself ha<.l been struck out of the system of the universe. He could not rest, and only \d\\i dirticulty think at all as a sane man ou'rht. At lentrth , he resolved to see the baronet, at the risk of life or tleath — in spite of every obstacle — in despite of all opposition ; — perish social forms and usages — perish the insolence of wealth, and the jealous restrictions of paren- tal tyrann}'. Yes, perish one and all, sooner than he, a man, with an unshrinking heart, and a strong arm. should tamely suffer that noble girl to be sficriticed, ay, miu'dered, at the shrine of a black and guilty ambition. Agitated, urged, maddened, by these con- siderations, he went to the baronet's house with a hope of seeing him, but that hope was frustrated. Sir Thomas was out. " Was ^liss Gourlay at home ? " " No ; she too had gone out with her fath' er," replied Gibson, who happened to open the door. " Would you be kind enough, sir, to dehv^ er a note to ]\Iiss Goiu-lay ? " " I could not, sir ; I diu'e not." "I will give you five pounds, if you do." "It is impossible, sir ; I should lose my situation instantly if I attempted to dehver it. ]VIiss Goui'lay, sir, will receive no letters un- less through her father's hands, and besides, sir, we have repeated!}' had the most positive orders not to receive any fi-om you, above all men hring." " I wdl give you ten pounds." Gibson shook his head, but at the same time the expression of his countenance be- gan manifestly' to relax, and he licked hia lips as he rej)lied, " I — really — could — not — sir." "Twenty." The fellow paused and looked stealthily in eveiy direction, when, just at the moment he was about to entex-tain the subject, Thomas Corbet, the house-steward, came fonvard fi'om the fi'ont parlor where he evidently had been listening, and asked Gibson what was the matter. , " This gentleman," said Gibson, " ahem — is anxious to have a — ahem — he was inijuir- ing for Sir Thomas." " Gibson, go do^^-n stairs," said Corbet. "You had better do so. I have ears, Gil)son. Go down at once, and leave the gentleman to me." Gibson again licked his lips, shrugged his shoulders, and with a risage rather blank and disappointed, slunk away as he had been de- sired. "NMien he had gone, " Y'ou wish, sir," said Corbet, " to have a note dehvered to ^liss Gourlay ? " " I do, and will give you twenty pounds if you deliver it." " Hand me the money quietly," replied Corbet, " an^t see Sir Thomas himself," said the stranger determinedly. " You seem a good deal excited, sir," re- phed Corbet ; "pray, be calm, and hsten to me. I shall be obliged to put this letter under a blank cover, which I will address in a feigned hand, in order that she may even receive it. As for her father, he would not see you, nor enter into any explanation what- soever with you. In fact, he is almost out of his mind with dehght and teiTor ; with dehght, that the marriage is at length about to take place, and with teiTor, lest something might occur to prevent it. One word, sir. I see Gibson peeping iip. Go and see my father ; you have seen him more than once before." On the part of Corbet, the stranger re- mai'ked that there was something sneaking, shghtly derisive, and intimating, moreover, a want of sincerity in this short dialogxie, an impression that was strengthened on hearing the relation which he bore to the obstinate old sphinx on Constitution Hill. " But pardon me, my fiiend," said he, as Corbet was about to go away ; "if Miss Goiu'lay will not receive or open my letter, why did you accept such a sum of money for it ? " He paused, not knowing exactly how to proceed, yet with a tolerably strong suspicion that Corbet was cheating him. " ObseiTe, sii-," replied the other, " that I said I would deliver the letter only — I didn't undertake to make her read it. But I dare say you are right — I don't think she will even open it at all, much less read it. Here, sir, I return both money and letter ; and I wish you to know, besides, that I am not a man in the habit of being suspected of improper motives. My advice that you should see my father is a proof that I am your friend." The other, who was completely outma- ' nopuvred l)y Corbet, at once decUned to re- ceive back either the letter or notes, and after again pressing the worthy steward to befi-iend him in the matter of the note as far as he could, he once more paid a visit to old An- thony. This occurred on the day before that appointed for the marriage. "Corbet," said he, addressing him as he lay upon jm old crazy sofa, the tarnished cov- er of which shone with dirt, " I am distract- ed, and have come to ask your advice and assistance." "Is it a heljiless ould creature like niR you'd come to ? " replied Corbet, hitching himself upon the sofa, as if to get ease. " Bui what is wrong now ? " " If this marriage between Miss Goui-lay and Lord Dunroe takes place, I shall lose my senses." "Well, in troth," repKed Anthony, in hia own peculiar manner, " if you don't get more than you appear to be gifted with at present, you won't have much to lose, and that will be one comfort. But how can you expect me to assist you ? " "Did you not tell me that the baronet is your puppet ? " "I did ; but that was for my enfls, not for yours." "Well, but could you not prevent this accursed, sacrilegious, blasphemous union ? " "For God's sake, spake aisy, and keep yourself quiet," said Anthony ; "I am ill, and not able to bear noise and capering like this. I'm a weak, feeble ould man." "Listen to me, Corbet," continued the other, with vehemence, " command mj- purse, my means to any extent, if you do what I wish." "I did like money," rf plied Corbet, " but of late my whole heart is filled with but one thought ; and rather than not carry that out, I would sacrifice every child I have. 1 love IMiss Gourlay, for I know she is a livin' angel, but " " "SMiat ? You do not mean to say that you w^ould saciifice her ? " "If I would sacrifice my owTi, do you think I'd be apt to spare her ? " he asked with a gi-oan, for in fact his illness had rather in- creased. " Are you not better ? " inquired the stran- ger, moved by a feeling of humanity which nothing could eradicate out of his noble and generous nature. "Allow^ me to send a doctor to you ? I shall do so at my own ex- pense." Anthony looked upon him with more com- placency, but replied. " The blackguard knaves, no ; they only rob you first and kill you afterwards. A highway-robber's before them ; for he kills you first, and afther that you can't feel the pain of being robbed. Well, I can't talk much to you now. IVIy head's beginnin* to get troublesome ; but I'll teU you what you'll do. I'll call for that young man, Fenton, and you must let him come with me to the wedding to-morrow mornin'. Indeed, I in* THE BLACK BARONET. 587 tended to take a car, and drive over to ask it as. a favor from you." *' To Avliat purpose should he go, even if he were able ? but he is too iU." " Hasn't he been out in a chaise ? " " He has ; but as he is incapable of bear- ing any agitation or excitement, his presence there might cause his death." ' " Xo, sii', it will not ; I knew him to be worse, and he recovered ; he AviU be better, I tell you : besides, if you wish me to sarve you in one way, you must sarve me in this." " But can you prevent the mai'riage ? " " "\Miat I can do, or what I cannot do, a team of liorses won't drag out o' me, imtil the time — the hour — comes — then ! Will you allow the young man to come, sii' ? " " But liis mother, you say, a\t11 be there, and a scene between them would be not only distressing to all parties, and out of place, but might be dangerous to him." "It's becavise his mother's to be there, maybe, that I Avant him to be there. Don't I tell you that I want to — but no, I'll keep my o\w\ mind to myself — only sink or swim without me, unless you allow liim to come." "Well, then, if he be sufficiently strong to go, I s'liall not prevent him, upon the condi- tion that 3'ou will exercise the mysterious iniluence which j'ou seem in possession of for the purpose of breaking up the mai'- riage. " ' "I won't promise to do any such thing," replied Anthony. "You must only make the best of a bad bargain, by lavin' every- thing to myself. Go away now, sir, if you plaise ; mj' head's not right, and I want to keep it clear for to-morrow." The stranger saw that he was as inscruta- ble as ever, and consequently left him, half in indignation, and half ijnpressed by a lurk- ing hope that, notwithstanding the curtness of his manner, he was determined to befriend him. This, however, was far from the heart of old Corbet, whose pertinacity of puii^ose nothing short of death itself could either moderate or change. " Prevent the marriage, indeed ! Oh, ay ! Catch me at it. No. no ; that must take place, or I'm balked of half my revenge. It's when he finds that he has, liy his own bad and bhnd passions, married her to the pro- tligate wifhoiit (he title that he'll shiver. And that scamp, too, the bastard — but, no mat- ther — I must tiy and keep my head clear, as I said, for to-morrow will be a great day, either for good or evil, to some of them. Yes, and when all is ovei\ tlien my mind Avill be at aise ; this black thiny: that's inside o' me for years — drivin' me on, on, on — will go about his business ; and then, plaise good- ness, I can repent comfortably and like a Christian. Oh, dear me ! — my head ! " CHAPTER XU. Denouement. At length the important morning, fraught with a series of such varied and many-col- ored events, arrived. Sir Thomas Goiu-lay, always an early riser, was up betimes, and paced his room to and fro in a train of pro- found reflection. It was evident, however, from his elated yet turbid eye, that although dehght and exultation were prevalent in his breast, he was by no means free from visita- tions of a dark and jiainful character. These he endeavored to fling off, and in order to do so more effectually, he gave a loose rein to the contemplation of his oaati successful ambition. Yet he occasionally appeared anxious and uneasy, and felt disturbed and gloomy fits that irritated him even for en- teriaining them. He was more than usually neiTOus ; his hand shook, and his stem, strong voice had in its tones, when he spoke, the audible evidences of agitation. These, we say, threw their deep shadows over his mind occasionally, whereas a sense of tri- umph and gi'atified pride constituted its general tone and temper. "Well," said he, ".so far so well : Lucy will soon become reconciled to this step, and all my projects for her advancement will be — nay, already are, realized. After all, my theory of Hfe is the correct one, no matter v>'hat canting priests and ignorant pliiloso- phers may say to the contrary. Every man is his oAATi proridence, and ought to be his own priest, as I have been. As for a moral plan in the incidents and vicissitudes of hfe, I could never see nor recognize such a thing. Or if there be a Providence that foresees and directs, then we only fulfil his purposes by whatever we do, whether the act be a crime or a rirtue. So that on either side I am safe. There, to be sure, is my brother's son, against whom I have committed a crime ; ay, but what, after all, ?n a crime ? — An injury to a fellow-creature. What is a virtue ? — A bene- fit to the same. Well, he has sustained an in- jury at my hands — be it so — that is a crime ; but I and my son have derived a benefit from the act, and this turns it into a virtue ; for as to who gains or who loses, that is not a matter for the world, wlio have no distinct nile wherein' to determine its complexion or its character, unless by the usages and necessi- 668 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. ties of life, which are varied by climate and education to such an extent, that what is looked upon as a crime in one coimtrj- or one creed is fi-equently considered a vii-tue in another. As for futui-ity, that is a sealed book which no man hitherto has been able to open. "We all know — and a dark and gloomy fact it is — that we must die. Be- I youd that, the searches of human intellect cannot go, although the imagination may project itself into a futurity of its own creation. Such airy visions are not subjects sufficiently solid for behef. As for me, if I beheve nothing, the fault is not mine, for I can find nothing to believe — nothing that can satisfy my reason. The contingencies of life, as they cross and jostle each other, con- stitute by their accidental results the only proridential wisdom which I can discern, the proj)er name of which is Chance. "WTio have I, for instance, to thank but myself — my own energ}- of chai-acter, m}' o^m perseverance of purpose, my own determined ■nill — for ac- comphshing my own projects ? I can j)er- ceive no other agent, either Aisible or in%isi- ble. It is, however, a hai'd creed — a painful creed, and one which requu-es gi-eat strength of mind to entertain. Yet, on the other hand, when I reflect that it may be only the result of a reaction in principle, proceeding from a latent conviction that all is not right within, and that we reject the tribunal be- cause we are conscious that it must condemn us — abjure the authority of the court because we have violated its jurisdiction ; yes, when I reflect upon this, it is then that these visitations of gloom and A\Tetchedn.ess some- times agonize my mind until it becomes dark and heated, like heU, and I curse both my- self and my creed. Now, however, when this maniage shall have taken place, the great object of my life will be gained — the great struggle will be over, and I can relax and fall back into a life of comfort, en- joyment, and fi-eedom from anxiety and care. But, then, is there no risk of sacrificing my daughter's liappiness forever? I certainly would not do that. I know, however, what influence the possession of rank, position, title, will have on her, when she comes to know tlieir value by seeing — ay, and by feel- ing, how they are appreciated. There is not a husband-hunting dowager in the Avorld of fashion, nor a female projector or manceu\Ter in aristoci-atic life, who will not enable her to understand and enjoy her good fortune. Every sagacious cast for a title will be to her a homily on content. But, above all, she will 1)0 able to see and despise their jealousy, to laugh at their envy, and to exercise at their expense that supeiiority of intellect and eleva- tion of rank Avhich slie will possess ; for this I will teach her to do. Yes, I am satisfied All will then go on smoothly, and I shall trouble myself no more about creeds or covenants, whether secrdar or spiritual." He then went to dress and shave after this complacent resolution, but was still a good deal sui-prised to find that his hand shook so disagreeably, and that his powerful system was in a state of such general and unaccount- able agitation. After he had dressed, and was about to go down stall's, Thomas Corbet came to ask a favor, as he said. "Well, Corbet," repHedhis master, "what is it?" "My father, sir," proceeded the other, " wishes to know if you would have any ob- jection to his being present at ]\Iiss Gour- lay's marriage, and if you would also allow him to bring a few friends, who, he says, are anxious to see the bride." "No objection, Corbet — none in- the world ;, and least of all to your father. I have found your family faithful and attached to my interests for many a long year, and it would be too bad to refuse him such a paltry request as that. Tell him to bring his friends too, and they may be present at the ceremony, if they wish. It was never my intention that my daughter's maiTiage should be a private one, nor would it now, were it not for her state of health. Let your father's fi-iends and yours come, then, Cor- bet, and see that you entertain them prop- erly." Corbet then thanked him, and was about to go, when the other said, " Corbet! " after which he paused for some time. " Sir ! " said Corbet. " I wish to ask your opinior^" he pro- ceeded, "as to allowing my son to be pres- ent. He himself washes it, and asked my consent ; but as his sister entertains such an unaccountable prejudice against him, I had doubts as to whether he ought to appear at all. There are, also, as you know, other reasons." " I don't see any reason, sir, that ought to exclude him the moment the marriage words are pronounced. I think, sir, with hu mility, that it is not only his right, but his duty, to be present, and that it is a veiy pro- per occasion for you to acknowledge him openly." " It would be a devilish good hit at Dun- roe, for, between j ou and me, Corbet, I fear that his heart is fixed more upon the Gour- lay estates and her lai'ge fortune than upon the girl herself." If I might advise, sir, I think he ought t«i be pi-eseut." 1 " And the moment the ceremony is over. THE BLACK BARONET. 5S9 be introdiicetl to his brother-in-law. A good hit. I shall do it. Send word to him, then, Corbet. As it must be done some time, it may as well be done now. Duni'oe will of coiu'se be too much elated, as he ought to be, to feel the blow — or to appear to feel it, at all events — for decency's sake, you know, he must keep up appearances ; and if it were only on that account, we will avail ourselves of the occasion which pi-esents it- self. This is another point gained. I tliink I may so ' Bravo ! ' Corbet : I have managed everj'thing admu'ably, and accomplished all my purposes single-handed." Thomas Corbet himseK, deep and cunning as he was, yet knew not how much he had been kept in the dark as to the events of this fateful day. He had seen his father the day before, as had his sister, and they both felt siui^rised at the equivoc;d singularity of liis manner, well and thoroughly as they imagined they had known him. It was, in fact, at his suggestion that the baronet's son had been induced to ask permission to be present at the wedding, and also to be then and there acknowledged ; a fact which the baronet either forgot or omitted to mention t-j) Corbet. Anthony also insisted that his daughter should make one of the spectators, i under pain of disclosing to Sir Thomas the ' imposition that had been practised on him in the person of her son. Singular as it may appear, this extraordinaiy old man. in the instance before us, moved, by his peculiar knowledge and sagacit}', as if he had them on wires, almost every pei"son Avith whom he came in contact, or whose presence he con- sidered necess;u-y on the occa.sion. " "What can he mean ? " said Tliomas to his sister. " Svu-ely he wovdd not be mad enough to make Sir Thomas's house the place in which to produce Lady Govu-lay's son, the verv' individual who is to strip him of his title, and your son of all his pros- pects ? " I "Oh no," rephed Ginty, "certainly not; otherwise, why have lent himseK to the | can7,-ing out of oui- speculation with respect to that boy. Such a step would iniin him — ruin us all — but then it would ruin the man he hates, and that would gratify him, I know. He is full of mysters^, certainly ; but as he will disclose nothing as to his move- ments, we must just let him have his own way, as that is the only chance of managing i him." j Poor Lucy could not be said to have I awoke to a morning of despair and anguish, : because she had not slept at all the night before. Having got up and dres.sed herself, \ by the aid of Alice, she leaned on her as fai* i as the boudoir to which allusion has alreadv ! been made. On arriving there she sat dov\-n, and when her maid looked upon her coim« tenance she became so much alarmed and distressed that she burst into tears. " What, my darling mistress, is come over you ? " she exckiimed. " You have always spoken to me until this vmhappy momin' Oh, you are fairly in despair now ; .and in- deed is it any wonder ? I always thought, and hoped, and prayed that something might turn up to prevent tliis cui-sed mar- riage. I see, I read, despair in your face." Lucy raised her large, languid eyes, and looked upon her, but did not speak. She gave a ghastly smile, but that was all. " Speak to me, dear !Miss Gourlay," ex- claimed the poor girl, with a flood of tears. " Oh, only speak to me, and let me hear your voice ! " Lucy beckoned her to sit beside her, and said, vvith difficulty, that she wished to wet her hps. The girl knew by the few words she uttered that her voice was gone ; and on looking more closely she saw that her lips were diy and parched. In a few mo- ments she got her a glass of water, a portion of which Lucy drank. "Now," said Alice, "that will reheve and refresh you ; but oh, for God's sake, spake to me, and tell me how you feel ! Miss Gouiiay, darlin', you are in despair ! " Lucy took her maid's hand in hers, and af- ter looking upon her with a smile resembling the fu'st, repHed, " No, AHce, I will not de- spair, but I feel that I will die. No, I will not despoil', Ahce. Short as the time is, God may inteipose between me and misery — between me and desj^air. But if I am manied to tliis man, Ahce, my faith in vir- tue, in a good conscience, in truth, purity, and honor, my faith in Providence itself will be shaken ; and fhen 1 will despair and die." " Oh, what do you mean, my darhn' ]\Iiss Gouiiay ? " exclaimed her weeping maid. " Siu'ely you couldn't think of having a hand in your own death ? Oh, merciful Father, see what they have brought you to ! " " Ahce," said she, " I have spoken wrong- ly : the moment in which I uttered the last expression was a weak one. No, I will never doubt or distinist Providence ; and I may die, Ahce, but I will never despair." "But why talk about death, miss, so much ? " " Because I feel it lurking in my heart. My physical strength will break down under this woful calamity. I am as weak as an in- fant, and all before me is dark — in this world I mean — but not. thank God, in the next. Now I cannot speak much more, Alice. Leave me to my silence and to mjr sorrow." 590 WILLIAM CARLETOX'S WORKS. The afleotionate gii-1, utterly overcome, laid her head \\\)in\ her bosom and wept, until Lucy was forced to soothe and comfort her as well as she could. They then sat silent for a time, the maid, however, sobbing and sighing bitterly, whilst Lucy only ut- tered one word in an undertone, and as if altogether to herself, " Misery ! misery ! " At this moment her father tapped at the door, and on being admitted, ordered Alice to leave the room ; he wished to have some private conversation, he said, with her mis- tress. '• Don't make it long, if you please, sir," said she, " for my mistress won't be aquil to it. It's more at the point of death than the point of marriage she is." One stern look fi'om the bai'onet, how- ever, silenced her in a moment, and after a glance of most alfectionate interest at her mistress she left the room. " Lucy," said her father, after contem- plating that aspec^i of misery which could not be concealed, " I am not at all pleased with this girlish and whining appearance. I have done all that man could do to meet your wishes and to make you hapj^y. I have become reconciled to your aunt for your sake. I have allowed her and IVIrs. Norton — Mainwaring I mean — to be present at your wedding, that they might support and give you confidence. You are about to be married to a handsome young fellow, only a little wild, but who will soon make you a countess. Now, in God's name, what more do you want ? " " 1 think." she replied, " that I ought not to marry this man. I believe that I stand justified in the sight of God and man in re- fusing to seal my own misery'. The promise I made you, sir, was given under peculiar circumstances — under terror of your death. These circumstances are now removed, and it is cruel to call on me to make a sacrifice that is a thousand times worse than death. No, papa, I will not mari*y this depraved man — this common seducer. I shall never unite myself to him, let the consequences be what they may. There is a line beyond which Earental authority ought not to go — you ave crossed it." " Be it so, madam ; I shall see you again in a few minutes," he repHed, and immedi- ately left the room, his face almost black with rage and disappointment. Lucy grew alarmed at the temble abruptness and sig- nificance of his manner, and began to trem- ble, although she knew not why. " Can I violate my promise," said she to herself, " after having made it so solemnly ? And ought I to many this man in obedience to my father ? Alas ! I know not ; but may heaven direct mc for the best ! If I thought it would make papa happy — but his is a rest- less and ambitious spirit, and how can I be certain of that ? May heaven direct me and guide me ! " Li a few minutes afterwards her father re- turned, and taking out of his pockets a pair of pistols, laid them on the table. "Now, Lucy," said he solemnly, and with a vehemence of manner almost frantic, " we will see if you cannot yet save your father's hfe, or whether you will prefer to have his blood on your soul." " For heaven's sake, papa," said his daugh- ter, running to him, and throwing or at- temjjting to throw her arms about him, part- ly, m the moment of excitement, to embrace, and partly to restrain him. " Hold off, madam," he replied ; " hold off; you have made me desi^ei-ate — you have driven me mad. Now, mark me. I wiU not ask you to marry this man ; but I swear by all that is sacred, that if you disgrace me — if you insult Lord Dunroe by refusing to be united to him this day — I shall piit the con- tents of one or both of these pistols through my brains ; and you may comfort yourself over the corpse of a suicide father, and turn to your brother for protection." Either alternative was sufficiently dreadful for the poor worn and wearied out girl. " Oh, paj^a," she exclaimed, again attempt- ing to throw her arms around him ; "jjut these fearful weaj^ons aside. I will obej' you —I will marry him." " This day ? " " This day, papa, as soon as my aunt and Mi's. Mainwaring come, and I can get myself dressed." " Do so, then ; or, if not I shall not sur- vive your refusal five minutes." " I wiU, papa," she replied, laying her head upon his breast and sobbing ; " I mil marry him ; but put those vile and dangerous wea- pons away, and never talk so again." At this moment the door opened, and Alice, who had been listening, entered the room in a liigh and towering passion. Her eyes sparkled : her complexion was scarlet with rage ; her little hands were most hero- ically clenched ; and, altogether, the very ex- citement in which she presented herself, joined to a good face and fine figure, made her look exceedingl}' interesting and handsome. "How, madam," exclaimed the baronet, " what brings you here ? Withdraw instant- " How, yourself, sir," she replied, walking up and looking him fearlessly in the face ; "none of your 'how, madams,' to me any more ; as there's neither man nor woman to interfere here, I must only do it myself." THE BLACK BARONET. 591 •' Lieave the room, you bnizeu jade ! " shouted the barouet ; " leave the room, or it'll be worse for you." " Deuce a one toe I'll lave it. It wasn't for that I came here, but to tell jou that you are a tyrant and a miu'dherer, a mane old schemer, that would many your daughter to a common swindler and reprobate, because he's a lord. But here I stand, the woman tliat will prevent this mairiage, if there wasn't another faymale from here to Bally- shanny." " ^yice ! " exclaimed Lucy, " for heaven's sake, what do you mean ? — what awful lang- uage is this ? You forget 3'ourself." " That may be, miss, but, by the life in my body, I won't forget you. A ring won't go on you to that titled scamp so long as I liave a droj) of manly blood in n^y veins — deuce a ring ! " Amazement almost superseded indignation on the part of the baronet, who unconscious- ly exclaimed, "A ring ! " " No — pursuin' to the ring ! " she replied, accompanying the words with what was in- tended to be a fearful blow of her little clenched hand ujjon the table. " Let me go, Lucy," said her father, " till I i)ut tlie termagant out of the room." " Yes, let him go, miss," replied Alley ; " let us see what he'll do. Here I stand now," she proceeded, approaching him ; " and if you oft'er to lift a hand to me, I'll lave ten of as good marks in your face as ever a woman left since the creation. Come, now — ^am I afeard of you ? " and as she spoke she ai)proached him still more nearly, with both her hands close to his face, her lingers spread out and half-clenched, reminding one of a hawk's talons. "^^ice," said Lucy, "this is shocking; if you love me, leave the room." " Love you ! miss," replied the indignant but faithful girl, bursting into bitter tears ; " love you ! — merciful heaven, wouldn't I give my life for you '? — who that knows you doesn't love you? and it's for that reason that I don't wish to see you nmrdhered — nor won't. Come, sir, you must let her out of this man-iage. It'll be no go, I tell you. I won't suffer it, so long as I've strength ^iiid life. I'U dash mysell: between them. 1 11 make the ole clergyman skip if he at- tempts it ; ay, and what's more, I'll see Dandy Dulcimer, and we'll collect a fac- tion." "Do not hold me, Lucy," said her father ; " I must certainly put her out of the room." " Don't, papa," repUed Lucy, restraining liim from lajing hands upon lier, " don't, for the sake of honor and manhood. Alice, tor lieavtn's sake ! if you love me, aa I said. and I now atld, if you respect me, leave the room. You will provoke papa past en- durance." " Not a single toe, miss, till he promises to let you cut o' this match. Oh, my gootl man," she said, addressing the sti-uggling baronet, " if you're for fighting, here I am for you ; or wait," she added, whipping up one of the pistols, " Come, now, if you're a man ; take your gi'ound there. Now I can meet you on equal terms ; get to the corner there, the distance is short enough ; but no matther, you're a good mark. Come, now, don't think I'm the bit of goods to be afeard o' you — it's not the first jewel I've seen in my time, and remember that my name is Mahon" — and she posted herself in the comer, as if to take her ground. " Come, now," she re- peated, "you called me a 'brazen jade' awhile ago, and I demand satisfaction." " Alice," said Lucy, " you will injure your- self or others, if you do not lay that danger- ous weapon dowai. For God's sake, Alice, lay it aside — ^it is loaded." " Deuce a bit o' danger, miss," rejilied the indignant heroine. " I know more about tire-arms than you think ; my brothers used to have them to protect the house. I'll soon see, at any rate, whether it's loaded- or not." "While speaking she whipped out the ram- rod, and, making the experiment found, that it was empty. " Ah," she exclaimed, "you desateful old tyrant : and so you came down blusterin' and bullyin', and frightenin' your child into compliance, with a pair of empty pistols ! By the life in my body, if I had you in Bally- train, I'd ^jo.N'^ you-" " Papa," said Lucy, " you must excuse this — -it is the excess of her affection for me. Dear Alice," she said, addressing her, and for a moment forgetting her weakness, " come with me ; I cannot, and wiU not bear this ; come with me out of the room." " Very AveU ; I'll go to plaise you, miss, but I've made up my mind that this marriage mustn't take place. Just think of it," she added, turning to her master ; " if you force her to many this scamp of a lord, the girl has sense, and sj^irit, and common decency, and of course she'U mn away from him ; after that, it won't be hard to guess who she'll run to — then there'D be a con. crim. about it, and it'll go to the lawyers, and from the lawyers it'll go to the deuce, and that wiU be the end of it ; and all because you're a coarse-minded t^Tant, unworthy of iiaviug such a daughter. Oh, you needn't shake your hand at me. You refused to give me satis, faction, and I'd now scorn to notice you. Rememl)er I cowed you, and for that reason never ];rotend to be a gentleman afther this." 592 WILLIAM CARLETOX'S WORKS. Lucj then led her out of the room, which she left, after turning upon her master a look of the proudest and fiercest defiance, and at the same time the most sovereign contempt. "Lucy," said her father, "is not this a fine specimen of a maid to have in personal attendance upon you ? " "I do not defend her conduct now, sir," she rephed ; " but I cannot overlook her af- fection, her truth, her attachment to me, nor the many other m'tues which I know she pos- sesses. She is somewhat singular, I grant, and a bit of a character, and I could wdsh that her manners were somewhat less plain; but, on the other hand, she does not pretend to be a fine lady ■nith her mistress, although she is not without some harmless vanity; neither is she fiivolous, giddy, nor deceitful ; and whatever faults there may be, papa, in her head, there are none in her heai*t. It is affectionate, faithful, and disinterested. Indeed, whilst I live I shall look upon her as my fi-iend." "I am determined, however, she shall not be long imder my roof, nor in yoiu* senice ; her conduct just now has settled that point ; but, putting her out of the question, I tnist we understand each other, and that you ai-e prepai-ed to make youi* father's heart hajjpy. No more objections." "No, sir ; I have said so." " You "v\-ill go thi'ough the ceremony with a good gi-ace ? ' " I cannot promise that, sii* ; but I shall go through the ceremony." " Yes, but you must do it without offence to Dunroe, and \\ith as little appearance of reluctance as possible." "I have no desire to di'aw a painful atten- tion to myself, papa ; but you -noil please to recoUect that I have all my horror, all my detestation of this match to contend with ; and, I may add, my physical weakness, and the natural timidity of woman. I shall, how- ever, go through the ceremony, j^rovided nature and reason do not fail me." ""Well, Lucy, of course you will do tlie best you can. I must go now, for I've many things to think of. Y'our dresses are admir- able, and your trou.^i Doctor was thinking of, and resolved to suggest some other topic, if it were only to punish him for bestowing such attention upon a sid>ject so much at variance with thoughts that ought to occupy the mind oi a minister of God. "I have heard, Doctoi-, that you are a bachelor," said he. " How did it happen, pray, that you kept aloof from marriage ? " The Doctor, who had been contemplating his own exploits at the d^jihier, now that Roberts had mentioned marriage, took it foi gi-anted that he wanted him to proceed with liis homilv, and tried to remember where he had left off. " Oh, yes," said he, " about maniage ; 1 stopped at its tribulations. I think I had got over its rights and duties, but T stopped at its tribulations —yes, its tribulations. Very well, my dear friend," ^e proceeded, o96 WILLIAM CARLKTON'8 WORKS. takiiij:i; liim by the hand, and leading him over to a comer, " accompany me, and you shall enter them now. Where is the young la^iy?" " She will be here by ^Jid by," replied Roberts ; "I think you had better wait till she comes." The Doctor paused for some time, and following up the idea of the deju)^er, said, "I am fond of wild fowl now." " Oh, fie. Doctor," replied the Ensign ; " I did not imagine that so gi-ave a personage as you are could be fond of anything wild." "Oh, yes,"repHed the Doctor, "ever while you Hve prefer the wild to the tame ; every one, sii'," he added, taking the other by the button, " that knows what's what, in that re- spect, does it. Well, but about the tribula- tions." As usual the Doctor was doomed to be left in them, for just as he spoke the doors were thrown more widely open, and Lucy, leaning upon, or rather supjDorted by, her aunt and Lady Emily, accompanied by Mrs. Mainwaring, entered the room. Her father had been in close conversation "uith Dunroe ; but not all his efforts at self-possession and calmness could prevent his agitation and anxiety from being visible. His eye was un- settled and blood-shot ; his manner uneasy, and his whole bearing indicative of hope, ecstasy, apprehension, and doubt, all flitting across each other like clouds in a sky ti'oubled by adverse currents, but each and all telling a tale of the tumult which was going on A\-ithLin him. Yes, Lucy was there, but, alas the day ! what a woful sight did she present to the spectators. The moment she had come dowTi, the servants, and all those who had obtained permission to be j^resent at the ceremony, now entered the large drawing- room to %\dtness it. Tom Goiu-lay entered a little after his sister, followed in a few min- utes by old Anthony, accompanied by Fen- ton, who leant upon him, and was provided with an arm-chau- in a remote corner of the room. After them came Thomas Corbet and his sister, Ginty Cooper, together with old Sam Roberts, and the man named Skipton, with whom the reader has already been made acquainted. But how shall we describe the bride — the wretched, heart-bioken victim of an ambition that was as senseless as it was inhuman ? It was impossible for one moment to glance at her without perceiving that the stamp of death, misery, and despair, was upon her ; and yet, despite of all this, she carried with lier and around her a strange charm, an at- mosphere of grace, elegance, and beauty, of majestic virtue, of innate greatness of mind. of wonderful truth, and such transparent pvu-ity of heart and thought, that when she entered the room all the noise and chat and laughter were instantly hushed, and a sense of solemn awe, as if there were more than a maniage here, came over all present. Nay, more. We shall not pretend to trace the cause and origin of this extraordinary sensa- tion. Originate as it may, it told a power- ful and startling tale to her father's heart ; but in truth she had not been half a minute in the room when, such was the dignified but silent majesty of her sorrow, that there were few eyes there that were not moist with tears. The melancholy impressiveness of her character, her gentleness, her mourn- ful resignation, the patience with which she suffered, coidd not for one moment be mis- understood, and the contagion of sympathy, and of common humanity, in the fate of a creature apparently more di^dne than human, whose sorrow was read as if by intuition, spread through them Arith a feeling of strong comjDassion that melted almost ever}' heart, and sent the tears to every eye. Her father approached her, and Avhispered to her, and caressed her. and seemed playful and even hght-hearted, as if the da}' were a day of joy ; but out strongly against his mirth stood the solemn spirit of her sorrow ; and when he went to bring over Dunroe, and when he took her passive hand, in order to place it in his — the agony, the horror, with which she submitted to the act, were ex- pressed in a manner that made her appear, as that which she actually was, the lovely but pitiable victim of ambition. Alley Mahon's grief was loud ; Lady Gourlay, Mi's. Mainwaring, Lady Emily, all were in tears. "I am jDroud to see this," said Sir Tliom- as, bowing, as if he were bouni to thank them, and attempting, with his u^al tact, to turn their veiy sympathy into a hollow and untruthful compliment ; "I am proud to see this manifestation of sti-ong attachment to my daughter ; it is a proof of how she is loved." Luc}^ had not once ojDened her lips. She had not strength to do so ; her \evy voice had abandoned her. Two or three persons besides the baronet and the bridegroom felt a deep interest in what was going forward, or about to go for> ward. Thomas Gourlay now absolutely hated her ; so did his mother ; so did his imcle, Thomas Corbet. Each and all of them felt anxious to have her married, in order that she might be out of Tom's way, and that he might enjoy a wider sphere of action. Old Anthony Corbet stood looking on, with his thin lips compressed closely to- THE BLACK BAnoXKT. 50< »etljcr, his keen eyes riveted on the baronet, md an expression legible on every trace of his countenance, such as nu<^ht well have constituted him some fearful incarnation of hatred and vengeance. Lady Gourlay was so completely engrossed by Lucy that she did not notice I'enton, and the latter, from liis position, could see nothing of either the biide or the baronet, but their backs. Ijord Dinu-oe felt that his best course was to follow tlie advice of Sir Thomas, whifli was, not to avail himself of liis position with Lucy, but to observe a respectful manner, and to avoid entering into any conver.sation what.soever witli her, at least until after the ceremony slioul 1 be p. rformed. He conse- quently kept his distance, with the exception of receiving her passive hand, as we have shown, and maintained a low and subdued conversation with Mr. Roberts. The only person likely to inteniipt the solemn feel- ing which prevailed was old Sam, who had his handkercliief several times alteniately to liis nose and eyes, and Avho looked about him with an indignant expression, that seemed to say, " There's something wrong here— some one ought to speak ; I wish my boy would step forward. This, surely, is not the heiirt of man." At length the baronet approached Lucy, an 1 seemed, by his action, as well as his words, to ask her consent to something. Luv^y lo')ked at him, but neither by her word nor gesture appeared to accede to or refuse his i-equest ; and her father, after complac- ently bo\^'ing, as if to thank her for her ac- quiescence, said, " I think, Dr. Sombre, we require your ser- vices ; the i)arties are assembled and wQhng, and the ceremony had better take place." Thomas Corbet had been standing at a front wind^)w, and Alley Mahon, on hearing the baronet's words, instantly changed her position to the front of Luc}-, as if she in- tended to make a spring between her and Dunroe, as soon as the matter should come to a crisis. In the meantime Dr. Sombre advanced xN'ith his bo 'k, and Lord Dunroe was led over by Roberts to take his position opposite the bride, when a noise of carriage- wheels was he rd coming rapidly along, and stopping as rapidly at the hall door. In an instant a knock that almost shook the liouse, and cer- tainly startled some of the females, among whom was the unhappy bride herself, was hetird at the hall door, and the next moment Thomas Corbet hurried out of the room, as if to see who had amved, instantly followed by Gibson. Dr. Sombre, wlio now stood with his lin- ger between the leaves of his book, where its frequent pressure ha^l nearly o})literated the word " obedience " in the marriage cere- mony, said, " My dear children, it is a custom of mine — and it is so because I conceive it a duty — to give you a few preliminary words of ad- vice, a little homily, as it were, upon the nature of the duties into which you are about to enter." This intimation was received ^snth solemn silence, if we except the word " Attention ! " which proceeded in a respectful and earnest, but subdued tone from old Sam. Tlie Doc- tor looked about him a little startled, but again proceeded, " Marriage, my children, may be divided into three heads : first, its duties ; next, its rights ; and lastly, its tribulations. I place tribulations last, my children, because, if it were not for its tribulations " " My good friend," said Sir Thomas, with impatience, " we will spare you the little homih' you sjieak of, until after the ceremo- ny. I dare say it is designed for mamed life and married people ; but as those for whose especial advantage you are now about to give it are not man and wife yet, I think you had better reseiwe it until you make them so. Proceed, Doctor, if you please, with the ceremony." "I have not the pleasure of knowing you, sir," replied the Doctor ; "I shall be guided here only by Sir Thomas Gourky himself, as father of the bride." " "\Miy, Doctor, what the deuce is the matter Avith you ? Am not I Sir Tliomas Gourlay ? " The Doctor put up his spectacles on his forehead, and looking at him more closely, exclaimed, " Upon my word, and so you are. I beg your pardon. Sir Thomas, but Avith respect to this di'jptlixer — homily, I would say — its enunciation here is exceedingly appropriate, and it is but short, and will not occupy more than about half-aii-l.our, or three- quarters, which is onl^' a 1 >rief space when the hajDpiness of a whole Hfe is concerned. AVell, my children, I was speaking about this (h'jedner" he proceeded ; " the time, aa I said, wiU not occupy more than lialf-fin- hour, or probably three-tpiarters : and, in deed, if our whole Hfe were as agreeably spent — I refer now especially to manied life — its tribulations would iaot " Here he was left once more in his tribii- latious, for as he uttered the last word. Gib- son returned, pronouncing in a ilistinct but resi^ectful voice, " The Earl of CuUamore ; " and that nobleman, leaiiing upon the arm of his confidential servant, Morty O'Flaherty, immediatel}' entered the room. 598 wnj.iAyr carletox's works. His vcncnible look, his feeble state of health, V)ut, above Jill his amiable character, well kuo\m as it wiis for everything that was honoral)le and benevolent, produced the effect which might be expected. All who were not standing, immediately rose up to do him reverence and honor. He inclined his head in token of acknowledgment, but even before the baronet had time to addi'ess him, he said, " Sir Thomas Gourlay, has this marriage yet taken place ? " " No, my lord," replied Sir Thomas, " and I am glad it has not. Your lordship's pres- ence is a sanction and an honor which, con- sidering your state of ill-health, is such as Ave must idl duly apjireciate. I am delighted to see you here, my lord ; allow me to help your lordshij) to a seat." " I thank you, Sir Thomas," replied his lordship ; " but before I take a seat, or be- fore yovi proceed further in this business, I beg to have some pi-ivate conversation mth you." " With infinite pleasure, my lord," rej^lied the baronet. ' Dr. Sombre, whilst his lord- ship and I are sjieaking, you may as well go on with the cei'emony. When it is neces- sary, call me, and I shall give the bride away." "Dr. Sombre," said his lordship, " do not proceed A\ith the ceremony, until I shall have spoken to ]Miss Gourlay s father. If it be necessaiy that I should sjDeak more plain- ly, I say, I forbid the banns. You will not have to wait long. Doctor ; but by no means proceed with the ceremony imtil you shall have permission from Sir Thomas Gourlay." In general, any circumstance that tends to prevent a max-riage, where all the i:)arties are assembled to witness it, and to enjoy the festivities that attend it, is looked upon with a strong feeling of dissatisfaction. Here, however, the case was different. Scarcely an individual among them, with the excep- tion of those who were interested in the event, that did not feel a sense of reUef at what had occiu'red in consequence of the appearance of Lord Cullamore. Dunroe's face from that moment was literally a sen- tence of guilt against himself. It became blank, haggard, and of a ghastly white ; while his hope of securing the rich and love- ly heiress died away within him. He re- solved, however, to make a last etlbrt. "Roberts," said he, " go to Sombre, and whisper to him to proceed with the cere- mony. Get him to perform it, and you are sure of a certain sister of mine, who I rather susjiect is not indifferent to you." " I must decline to do so, my lord," re- plied Koberts. "After what has just oc- curred, I feel that it woidd not be honorabU in me, neither would it be respectful to j'oui father. However I may esteem your sister, my lord, and appreciate her virtues, yei ] am but a poor ensign, as you know, and not in a capacity to entertain any preten- sions " " W^eU, then," replied Dunroe, intcriiipt- ing him, " bring that old dog Sombre here, will you? I trust you will so far oblige me." Roberts compHed AA-ith this ; but the Doc- tor was equally finn. " Doctor," said his lordship, after urging several arguments, "j-ou will obhge Sir Thomas Gourlay very much, by ha^ong us married when they come in. It's only a jDaltry matter of property, that Sir Thomas acceded to this morning. Pray, proceed with the ceremony, Doctor, and make two lovers happy." " The word of your honorable father," replied the Doctor, " shall ever be a law to me. He was always a most hospitable man ; and, unless my bishop, or the chief secretaiy, or, what is better still, the viceroy himself, I do not know a nobleman more worthy of respect. No, my lord, there is not in the peerage a nobleman who — gave better din- ners." WTiat with this effort on the part of Dun- roe, and a variety of chat that took place up- on the subject of the interiniption, at least five-and-twenty minutes had elapsed, and the company began to feel somewhat anxious and impatient, when Sir Thomas Gourlaj' entered ; and, gracious heaven, what a fright- ful change had taken place in him ! Dismay, despair, wi'etchedness, misery, distraction, frenzy, were all stiiiggliug for expression in his countenance. He was followed by Lord Cullamore, who, when about to i)rocecd home, had changed his mind, and returned for Lady Emily. He advanced, still sup- ported by Morty, and approaching Lucy, took her hand, and said, " j\Iiss Gourlay, you are saved ; and I thank God that I was made the instrument of res- cuing you from wi-etchedness and despair, for I read both in your face. And now," he proceeded, addressing the sjiectators, " I beg it to be understood, that in the breaking oft" of this maniage, there is no earthly blame, not a shadow of imputation to be at- tributed to Miss Gourlay, Avho is all honor, and delicac}', and truth. Her father, if left to himself, would not now permit her to be- come the wife of my son ; who, I am sorry to say, is utterly unworthy of her." " Atten- tion ! " once more was heard fi'om the quar- ter in wliich old Sam stood, as if beai-ing testimony to the truth of his lordship's a* TJIK BLACK BARONET. 59ft sertiou. "-Jolin," said the latter, "yon mny thank your friend, ]\Ir. Norton, for enabling' lue, ^^'itllin the last hour, to save this admi- rable ^rirl from the ruin which her union with you would have entailed ui)on her. You will noAv know how to ajipreeiate so faithful and honorable a friend." All tliat Dunro must have felt, may be easily conceived by the reader. The baro- net, however, becomes the foremost figure in the group. The strong, the cunning, the vehement, the overbearing, the plausible, the unbeHeviug, the philosophical, and the cruel — these were the di^'ided streams, as it were, of his character, wliich all, however, united to make up the dark and terrible cur- rent of his great ambition ; gi'eat, however, only as a passion and a moral impulse of action, but puny, vile, and base in its true character and elements. Here, then, stood the victim of his own creed, the baffled an- tigonist of God's providence, who despised religion, and trampled upon its obligations ; the man who strove to m:ike himself his own deity, his own priest, and who administered to his guilty passions on the altar of a har- dened and corrupted heart — here he stood, now, struck, stunned, prostrated ; whilst the veil which had hitlierto concealed the hideousness of his principles, was raised up, as if by an awful hand, that he might know <\'hat it is for man to dash himself against the bosses of tlie Almighty's buckler. His heart beat, and his brain throbbed ; all pre- sence of mind, almost all consciousness, ab^mdoned him, and he only felt that the gi'eat object of his hfe was lost — the great plan, to the completion of which he had de- voted all his energies, was annihilated. He imagined that the apartment was filled with gloom and fire, and that the faces he saw about him were mocking at him, and dis- closing to each other in whispers the dread- ful extent, the unutterable depth of his des- pair and misery. He also felt a sickness of heart, that was in itself difficult to contend with, and a weakness about the knees that rendered it nearly impossible for him to stand. His head, too, became hght and giddy, and his brain reeled so much that he tottered, and was obliged to sit, in order to prevent himself from falling. All, however, j was not to end hei-e. This was but the fir.st ; blow. Lord Cullamore was now about to de- part ; for he, too, had become exceedingly | weak and exhausted, by the unusual exert-ise and agitation to which he had ex])osed liim- self. ! Old Anthony Corbet then stepped forward, ! and said, i " Don't go, my lord. There's strange ' things to come to light this day and thia hour, for this is the day and this is the hour of my vengeance." " I do not understand you," replied his lordship ; " I was scarcely equal to the ef- fort of coming here, and I feel myself veiy feeble." "Get his lordship some wine," said the old man, addressing his son. " You will be good enough to stojD, my lo»d," he proceed- ed, ." for a shoi-t time. You ai-e a magistrate, and your presence here may be necessary." " Ha !" exclaimed his lordship, sui-j)rised at such language : " this ma}' be seiioua Proceed, my friend : what disclosui-es have you to make ?" Old Corbet did not answer him, but turn- ing round to the baronet, who was not then in a cajDacity to hear or observe anything apart from the temble convulsions of agony he was suffering, he looked upon him, his keen old eyes in a blaze, his lips open and their expression sharpened by the derisive and Satanic triumph that was legible in the demon sneer which kept them apart. " Thomas Gourlay !" he exclaimed in a shai-jD, piercing voice of authority and con- scious power, "Thomas Gourlay, rise up and stand forward, your day of doom is come." " ^^^lo is it that has the insolence to call my father Thomas Gourlay under this roof?" asked his son Thomas, alias ^li*. Ambrose Gray. " Begone, old man, you are mad." " Bastard and imi^ostor I" replied An- thony, you appear before your time, lliomas Gourlay, did 30U heai- me ?" By an eflfori — almost a sujDerhuman eilbrt. — the baronet succeeded in turning his at^ tention to what was going forward. " AMiat is this ?" he exclaimed ; " is this a tumult ? ^^^lo dares to stir up a tumult in such a scene as this ? Begone !" said he, addressing several strangers, who appeared to take a deep interest in what was likely tc ensue. The house was his own, and, as a matter of course, every one left the room ^\•ith the excejjtion of those immediately con- nected with both famihes, and with the in- cidents of our story. " Let no one go," said Anthony, " that I appointed to come here." "AMiat!" sjiid Dunroe, after the stnxnger.s had gone, and ^\-ith a look that indicated his sense of the baronet's duplicity, " is this gentleman your son V" " My acknowledged son, sir," replied the other. " iVnd, pray, were you aware of that thii moniing ?" " As clearly and distinctly as you wei-e tliat you had no earthly claim to the title whidi you bear, nor to the j)ropert \ of \oui ffOO WILLIAM CARLhJTON'S WORKS. father," repliGrpvailpd upon to keep his bed — in TilK BLACK BARONET. 605 his arm-chair, wiih the jxipers of tlie day be- fore him. Near hiin, on another seat, was Sir Edward Gourlay. " Well, Sir Edward, the i:)roofs, you say, have been all satisfactory."' " Pei-fectly so, my lord," repHed the young baronet; "we did not allow yesterday to close without making everything clear. We have this monimg had counsel's opinion upon it, and the proof is considered decis- ive. " "But is Laly Emily herself awai'e of your attiU'hment ? " "Why, my lord," replied Sir Edward, blushing a little, " I may say I think that — ahem ! — she has, in some sort, given — a — ahem ! — a kind of consent that I should speak to your lordship on the subject. ' " My dear young fi-iend," said his lordship, whose voice became tremulous, and whose fat;e grew like the whitest ashes. " Ha\e you got iU, my lord ? " asked Sir Edward, a good deal alarmed : "shall I ring for assistance ? " "No," replied his lordshij) ; "no ; I only wish to say that you know not the extent of your own generosity in making this pro- i^osal." " Generosity, my lord ! Your lordship will pardon me. In this case I have all the honor to receive, and nothing to confer in exchange." " Hear me for a few minutes," replied his lordship, "and after you shall have heard me, you will then be able at least to under- stand whether the proposal you make for my daughter's hand is a generous one or not. My daughter, Sir Edward, is illegiti- mate." " Illegitimate, my lord ! " replied the other, with an e-v-ident shock which he could not conceal " Great God ! my lord, your T¥ords are impossible." " My young fi-iend, they are both possible and true. Listen to me : " In early life I loved a young lady of a decayed but respectable family. I commu- nicated our attachment to my friends, who pronounced me a fool, and did not hesitate to attribute my affection for her to art on the p:irt of the lady, and intrigue on that of her relatives. I was at the time deeply, al- most irretrievably, embarrassed. Be this as it may, I knew that the imputations against ^laria, for such was her name, as well as against her relatives, were utterly false ; and as a proof I did so, I followed her to Fr\nce, where, indeed, I had first met her. Well, we were privately married there ; foi', al- though young at the time, I was not withc%i a spirit of false pride and ambition, that tended to prevent me from acknowledging my marriage, and enrounk'i'ing boldly, as ] ought to have done, the resentment of my relations and the sneers of the world. Ow- ing to this unmanly spirit on my part, our marriage, though strictly con-ect and legal in every respect, was nevertheless a private one., as I have said. In the meantime I ha^l en- tered parliament, and it is not for me to dweU upon the popularity with which my efforts there were attended. I consequently lived a good deal apart fi'om my wife, whom I had not courage to present as such to the world. Every day now estabUshed my suc- cess in the House of Commons, and increased my ambition. The constitution of my wife had been natiu-ally a delicate one, and I un- derstood, subsequently to our union, that there had been dechne in her family to such an extent, that neai-ly one-half of them hail died of it. In this way we hved for four years, having no issue. About the com- mencement of the fifth my wife's health be- gan to decline, and as that session of i)arUa- ment was a verj' busy and a very important one, I was bvit httle with her. Ever since the period of our marriage, she had been at- tended by a faithful maid, indeed, rather a companion, well educated and accomplished, named Norton, subsequently married to a cousin of her own name. After a short visit to my wife, in whose constitution decline had now set in, and whom I ought not to have left, I returned to parhament, more than ever ambitious for distinction. I must do myself the justice to say that I loved her tenderly ; but at the same time I felt disap- pointed at not having a family. On return- ing to London I fovmd that my brother, who had opposed all notion of my marriage with pecuHar bitterness, and never sjDoke of my wife with respect, was himself about to be married to one of the most fascinating crea- tures on wiiom my eyes ever rested ; and, what was equally agreeable, she had an im- mense fortune in her own right, and was, besides, of a high and distinguished family. " S'le was beautiful, she was rich — she was, alas ! ambitious. Well, we met, we conversed, we compared minds with each other ; we sang together, we danced together, until at length Ave began to feel that the ab- sence of the one caused an unusual depres- sion in the other. I was said to be one ol the most eloquent commoners of the day — her family were powerful — my wife was in a decline, and recovery hopeless. Here, then, was a career for ambition ; but that was not all. I was poor — emban-assed almost beyond hope — on the very verge of ruin. Indeed, so poor, that it was as much owing to the inability of maintaining my wife in her prop- er rank, as to fear of mv friends and tlu (506 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. world, Iriat I did not publicly acknowledge her. But why dwell ou this? I loved the T?oman whose heart aud thought had be- longed to my brother — loved her to madness ; and soon perceived that the passion was mutual. I had not, however, breathed a syllable of love, nor was it ever my intention to do so. ^ly brothei-, however, was gradu- ally thrown off, treated '^T.th coldness, and ultimately with disdain, while no one sus- pected the cause. It is painfid to dwell uj)- on subsequent occurrences. My brother grew jealous, and, being a high-spirited young man, released Lady Emily from her engagement. I was mad with love ; and this conduct, honorable and manly as it was in him, occasioned an explanation between me and Lady Emily, m which, weak and vacillat- ing as I was, in the fi-enzy of the moment I disclosed, avowed my jiassion, and — but why proceed ? We loved each other, not ' wisety, but too well.' JMy brother sought and ob- tained a foreign lucrative api^ointment, and left the countiy m a state of mind which it is very difficult to describe. He refused to see me on his departure, and I have never seen him since. "The human heai-t, my young fi'iend, is a great mystery. I now attached m^'self to Lady Emily, and was abotit to disclose my maniage to her ; but as the state of my wife's health was hopeless, I declined to do so, in the expectation that a little time might set me free. My wife was then li\ing in a remote httle village in the south of France ; most of her relatives were dead, and those who sur\'ived were at the time h^dng in a part of Connaught, Galway, to which any kind of intelligence, much less foreign, sel- dom ever made its way. Now, I do not want to justify myseK, because I cannot do so. I said this moment that the human heart is a gi-eat mystery. So it is. Whilst my passion for Lady Emily was litei-ally be- yond all restraint, I nevertheless felt visita- tions of remorse that were terrible. The image of my gentle Maria, sweet, contented, affec- tionate, and uncomplaining, would some- times come before me, and — pardon me, my friend ; I am very weak, but I will resume in a few moments. Well, the struggle with- in me was gi-eat. I had a young duke as -a rival ; but I was not only a rising man, but actually had a party in the House of Com- mons. Her family, high and ambitious, were anxious to procure my political sup- port, aud held out the prospect of a peerage. My wife was ilvTag ; I loved Lady Emily ; I was without offspring ; I was poor ; I was ambitious. She was beautiful, of high family and powerful connections ; she Avas im- mensely ricli, too, hi;^iily uccoiiiplished, and enthusiastically attached to me. These wera temptations. "■ At this period it so fell out that a sister of my A^ife's became governess in Lad; Emily's family ; but the latter were ignorant of the connection. This alarmed me, fright- ened me ; for I feared she would disclose my marriage. I lost no time in bringing about a private inten'iew with her, in which I entreated her to keep the matter secret, stating that a short time would enable me to bring her sister with idat into public life. I also jjrevailed ujDon her to give up her situation, and furnished her wdth mone}' for Maiia, to whom I sent her, "v\ith an assur- ance that my house should ever be her home, and that it was contrary to my wishes ever to hear my wife's sister becoming a governess ; and this indeed was true. I also wrote to my wife, to the effect that the pressure of my parliamentary duties would prevent me fi'om seeing her for a couple of months. " In this position matters were for about a fortnight or three weeks, when, at last, a letter reached me fi'om my sister-in-law, giving a detailed accoiuit of my wife's death, and stating that she and IMiss Norton were about to make a toiu' to Italy, for the pur- pose of acquiring the language. This letter was a diabolical falsehood. Sir Edward ; but it accomplished its purpose. She had gleaned enough of intelligence in the family, by observation and other^rise, to believe that my wife's death alone would enable me, in a short time, to become united to Lady Emily ; and that if my mairiage with her took place u hilst her sister lived, I believing her to be dead, she would punish me for what she considered my neglect of her, and my unjustifiable attachment to another wo- man during Maria's life. All communica- tion ceased between us. My wife was un- able to write ; but fi'om what her sister stated to her, probably with exaggerations, her pride j)revented her fi'om holding any correspondence with a husband who refused to acknowledge his marriage ■s\dtli her, and* whose affections had been transferred to another. At aU events, the bloAv took effect. Believing her dead, and deeming myself at hberty, I married Lady Emily, after a lapse of six months, exactly as many weeks before the death of my first wife. Of course you perceive now, my fiiend, that \qs last mar- riage was null and void ; and that, hurried on by the eager impulses of love aud ambi- tion, I did, without knowing it, an act which has made lu}- children illegitimate. It is true, my union with Lady Emily was pro- ductive to me of great results. I was created an Irish ])oer, in consecjueuce of the suppoii THE BLACK BARONET. 607 1 gave to my wife's connections. Tlie next st^p was an earldom, witli an English peer- age, together with such im accession of property in right of m}' wife, as made me rich beyond my wislies. 80 far, you may say, I was a successful man ; but the world cannot judge of the heart, and its recoDec- tions. My second wife was a \irtuous woman, high, haughty, and correct ; but notwithstanding our early enthusiastic afliec- tion, the exjieriences of domestic Hfe soon taught us to feel, that, after aU, oui* dispo- sitions and tastes were unsuitable. She was fond of show, of equipage, of fashionable amusements, and that empty dissipation which constitutes the substiince of aristo- cratic existence. I, on the contraiy, when not engaged in pubhc hfe, with which I soon gi'ew fatigued, was devoted to retirement, to domestic enjoyment, and to the duties which devolved upon me as a parent. I loved my children mth the greatest tender- ness, and applied myself to the cultivation of their principles, and the progress of their education. All, however, would not do. I was unhappy ; unhapj^y, not only in my present wife, but in the recollection of the gentle and aflectionate Maria. I now felt the full enormity of my crime against that patient and angelic being. Her memo- ry began to haunt me — her ^•il•tues were ever in my thoughts ; her quiet, uncom- plaining submission, her love, devotion, ten- derness, all rose up in fearful aiTay against me, until 1 felt that the abiding principle of my existence was a deep remorse, that ate its way into my happiness day by day, and has never left me through my whole subse- quent life. This, however, was attended with some good, as it recalled me, in an especial manner, to the nobler duties of humanity. I felt now that truth, and a high sense of honor, could alone enable me to redeem the past, and atone for my conduct with respect to ^laria. But, above all, I felt that independence of mind, self-restraint, and firmness of chai*acter, were vii'tues, jirin- ciples, what you will, without which man is but a cipher, a tool of others, or the sport of circumstances. " My second wife died of a cold, caught by going rather thinly cb'essed to a fashion- able party too soon after the birth of Emily ; and my son, ha^-ing become the pet and spoiled child of his mother and her relatives, soon became imbued with fashionable foUies, which, despite of all my care and rigilance, I am giieved to say, have degenerated into worse and more indefensible principles. He had not reached the period of manliood when he altogether threw oil' all regard for ojy control over him as a father, and led a life since of which tlie less that is said thfe better. "The facts connected with my second man-iage have been so clearly e.stabhshed that defence is hopeless. The registry of our marriage, and of ni}' first wife's death, have been hiid before me, and !Mrs. !Main- waring, herself, was ready to substantiate and prove them by her personal testimony. My o^\-n counsel, able and eminent men as they are, have dissuaded me fi-om bringing the matter to a trial, and thus making public the disgi-ace which must attach to my chil- dren. You now vmderstand, Sir Edward, the full extent of your generosity in proposing for my daughter's hand, and j'ou also under- stand the nature of my private communica- tion yesterday M-ith your uncle." " But, my lord, how did your brother be- come aware of the cu'cumstances you have just mentioned ? " " Thi'ough ]Mi's. Main waring, who thought it unjust that a profligate should inherit so much property, with so bad a title to it, whilst there were \irtuous and honorable men to claim it justly ; such are the words of a note on the subject which I have re- ceived from her this very morning. Thus it is that vice often punishes itself. Now, Sir Edward, I am ready to hear you." " My lord," rephed Su- Edward, " thee case is so pecuhar, so completely out of the common course, that, morally speaking, 1 cannot look upon your children as illegiti- mate. I have besides great doubts whether: the prejudice of the world, or its jjride,. which risits upon the head of the innocent child the error, or crime if you will, of the guilty parent, ought to be admitted as a. principle of action in life." " Yes," rephed the earl ; " but on the other' hand, to forbid it altogether might tend to relax some of the best principles in man and woman. Vice must fi-eqwently be followed up for pimishment even to its consequences as well as its immediate acts, othenvise virtue were httle better than a name. For this, however, there is a remedy — an act of parliament must be procured to legitimatize my children. I shall take care of that, al- though I may not live to see it," * " Be that as it may, my lord, I cannot but think that in the eye of religion and morality your children are certiiinly legitimate ; jili that is against them being a point of law. For my part, I earnestly beg to renew my proposal for the hand of Lady EmUy." " Then, Sii* Edward, you do not feel your- self deten-ed by anything I have stated ? " * This was dene, aud the circumstance is still remembered by many persons in the Bortb •! IreLoud. 608 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. "My lord, I love Lad}' Emily for her own Bake — and for her own sake only." "Then," repUed her father, "bring her here. I feel veiy weak — I am getting heavy. Yesterday's disclosures gave me a shock which I fear Avill — but I trust I am prepared — go — remember, however, that my darling child knows nothing of what I have mentioned to you — Duni'oe does. I had not courage to tell her that she has been placed by her father's pride, by his ambition, and by his want of moral restraint, out of the pale of Ufe. Go, and fetch her here." That they approached him with exulting hearts — that he joined theii- hands, and blessed them — is all that is necessary to be mentioned now. In the course of that evening, a reverend dignitai-y of the church. Dean Palmer, whom we have mentioned occasionally in this nar- rative, and a very different man indeed from our fi-eind Dr. Sombre, called at Sir Thomas Goui'lay's to inquire after his health, and to see ]\Iiss Gourlay. He was shown uj) to the di'awiog room, where Lucy, veiy weak, but still relieved from the gi'eat e'S'il which she had di'eaded so much, soon joined him. "IVIiss Gourlay," said he, "I trust your father is better ? " " He is better, sir, in mere bodUy health. The cupping, and bhstering, and loss of blood from the arms, have relieved him, and his delirium has nearly passed away ; but, then, he is silent and gloomy, and dejDressed, it would seem, beyond the reach of hope or consolation." " Do you think he would see me ? " " No, sir, he would not," she repKed. " Two or three clerg;)-men have called for that pui-pose ; but the very mention of them threw him into a state almost bordering on frenzy-." "Under these circumstances," replied the good Dean, "it would be wrong to press him. WTien he has somewhat recovered, I hope he may be j)revailed on to raise his , thoughts to a better Hfe than this. And now, my dear young lady, I have a favor to request at your hands." " At mine, .sir ! If there is any thing within my power " "This is, I assure you." " Pray, what is it, sir ? " "Would you so far oblige nie as to re- ceive a visit from Lord Duuroe ? " " In any other thing within the limits of my power, sir — in anj-thing that ought to be asked of me — I would feel great pleasure in obliging you ; but in this you must ex- cuse me." " i saw Lord Chillaniore in the eailv part of the day," rejjlied Dean Pulmei-, " and he told me to say, that it was his wish you should see him ; he added, that he felt it was a last request." " I shall see him," replied the generous girl, "instantly; for his lordship's sake I shall see him, although I cannot conceive for what piu-pose Lord Dunroe can wish it." " It is sufficient, IVIiss Gourlay, that you consent to see him. He is below in my carriage ; shall I bring him up ? " "Do so, sir. I am going to prevail, if 1 can, on papa, to take a composing draught, which the doctors have ordered him. I shall retiuTi again in a few minutes." Sir Thomas Gourlay had got up some hours before, and was seated in an arm- chair as she entered. " How do you feel now, papa ? " she asked, with the utmost affection and ten- derness ; " oh, do not be depressed ; through all changes of Hfe yoiu* Lucy's affections \ri]l be "^ith you." " Lucy," said he, " come and kiss me." In a moment her arms were about his neck, and she whisj)ered encoiu-agingly, whilst caressing him, "Papa, now that I have not been thmst down that feariul abyss, beheve me, we shall be veiy happy yet." He gave her a long look ; then shook his head, but did not speak. " Endeavor to keep up your spirits, dear- est papa ; you seem dejDressed, but that ia natural after what you have suffered. Will you take the composing draught? It will reheve you." "I believe it wiU, but I cannot take it from your hand ; and he kept his ej^es fixed upon her vdih. a melancholy gaze as he spoke. " And why not fi-om mine, papa ? Surely you would not change your mind now. You have taken aU your medicine from me, up to this moment." "I Tiill take it myseK, presently, Lucy." " Will you promise me, papa ? " she said, endeavoring to smile. "Yes, Lucy, I promise 3'ou." " But, papa, I had forgotten to say that Lord Dunroe has called to ask an inteiwiew with me. He and Dean Palmer are now in the dra-wing-room." " Have you seen him ? " asked her father. "Not yet, pajDa." " Will you see him ? " " Lord Cullamore sent the Dean to me to say, that it was his earnest request I should — his last." " His last ! Lucy. Well, then, see him — there is a great deal due to a lad request." "Oh, yes, I shall see him. Well, good- by, papa. Heiaejuber now that you take THE BLACK BARONET, 609 the composing draugbt ; I shall return to you after I have seen Lord Dunroe." She was closing tlie door, when he re- called her. "Lucy," said he, " come here." " "Well, papa ; well, deju-est papa ? " "Kiss me again," said he. She stooped as before, and putting her arms about iiis neck, kissed him like a child. He took her hand in his, and looked on her with the same long earnest look, and put- ting it to his lips, kissed it ; and as he did, Lucy felt a tear fall upon it. "Lucy," said he, "I have one word to say to you." Lucy was already in tears ; that one little drop — the symptom of an emotion she had never witnessed before — and she trusted the foreiimner of a softened and repentant heart, had ixh'eady melted hers. " Lucy," he said, "■ forrjive. me." The floodgates of her heart and of her eyes wei'e opened at once. She tlirew herself on his bosom ; she kissed him, and wept long and loudly. He, in the meantime, had regained the dread composure, that death-like calmness, into which he had passed from his fi*enzy. " Forgive you, papa ? I do — I do, a thou- sand times ; but I have nothing to forgive. Do I not know tliat all your plans and pur- poses were for my advancement, and, as you hoped, for my happiness ? " "Lucy," said he, "disgrace is hard to bear ; but still I would have borne it had my great object in that advancement been accomplished ; but now, here is the disgrjice, yet the object lost forever. Then, my son, Lucy — I am his murderer ; but I knew it not ; and even that I could get over ; but you, that is what prostrates me. And, again, to have been the puppet of that old villain ! Even that, however, I could bear ; yes, everj'- fhing but tjoH ! — that was the great cast on whicji my whole heart was set ; but now, mocked, des^jised, detested, bixffled, detect- ed, defeated. However, it is all over, like a troubled dream. Dry yoiu: eyes now," he added, " and see Dunroe." " Wovdd you wish to see Dean Palmer, papa ? " " No, no, Lucy ; not at all ; he could do me no good. Go, now, and see Dunroe, and do not let me be distui-bed for an hour or two. You know I have seen the body of my son to-day, and I wish I had not." " I am sorrA' you did, papa ; it has de- pressed you veiT much." " Go, Lucy, go. In a couple of hours I — Go, deal* ; don't keep his lordship waiting." Poor Lucy's heart was in a tumult of de- light as she went down stairs. In the whole coui-se of her life she had never ^vitnessed in her father anything of tender emotion 20 until then, and the tear that fell upon her hand she knew was the only one she ever saw him shed. "I have hope for j^apa yet," she said to herself, as she was about to enter the draw- ing-room ; "I never thought I loved him so much as I find I do now." On advancing into the room, for an in- stant's time she seemed confused ; her con- fusion, however, soon became surpri.se — amjizement, when Dean Pjdmer, taking our friend the stranger by the hand, led him toward her, exclaiming, " Allow me, IMiss Gourlay, to have the honor of presenting to you Lord Dunroe." " Lord Dunroe ! " exclaimed Lucy, in her turn, looking agluist with astonishment. " ^\Tiat is this, sir — what means this, gentle- men ? This house, pray recollect, is a house of death and of suflering." "It is the truth, !Miss Goiu'lay," repUed I the Dean. " Here stands the veritiible Lord j Dunroe, whose father is now the earl of Cul- lamore." i "But, sii', I don't understand this." I "It is very easily understood, however, !Miss Gourlay. This gentleman's father was the late Earl's brother ; and he being now dead, his son here inherits the title of Lord ' Dunroe." j " But the late Earl's son ? " " Has no claim to the title, ^liss Gourlay. His lordship here v,i^ give you the particu- lai's at leisui'e, and on a more befitting occasion. I saw the late Earl to-day, not long before his death. He was cahu, re- signed, and full of that Christian hope which makes the death of the righteous so beauti- ful. He was not, indeed, \\'ithout sorrow ; but it was soothed by his confidence in the mercy of God, and his belief in the necessity and wisdom of soitow and affliction to puri- fy and exLiIt the heart." "And now, Lucy," said the stranger — for so we shall call him still — taking her hand I in his, "I tnist that all obstacles between [ oiU" union ai-e removed at last. Our love j has been strongly tested, and you especially I have suffered much. Yoiu* trust in Provi- 1 dence, however, Hke that of Lfuly Goui-lay, has not been in vain ; and as for me, I learned much, and I hope to learn more, I from your great and noble example. I concealed my name for many reasons : part- ly from dehcacy to my vmcle, the late Earl, and his family ; and I was partly forced to do it, in consequence of an apprehension that I had killed a noblemjm in a hasty dueL He was not killed, however, th.-mk God ; nor was his wound so dangerous as it looked at first ; neither was I aware until aftei-wards that the individual who forced me into it wae 610 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. my own cousin Dunroe. It wovild have been vw-y inconvenient to me to have been appre- hended and probably cast into prison at a time Avhen I had so many interests to look after ; and, indeed, not the least of my mo- tives Avas the fear of precipitating youi' fa- ther's enmity against Lady Gourlay's son, jby discovering that I, who am her nephew, should have been seen about the io\a\ of Bal- lytraiu, where, when a boy, I had spent a good deal of my early life. Had he known my name, he would have easily suspected my object. Your mother was aware of mj- de- sign in coming to Ii-eland ; but as I knew the risk of involving my uncle's children, and the good old man's reputation besides, in a mesh of pubhc scandal at a time when I did not feel certain of being able to estab- lish my claims, or rather my father's, for I myself was mdifierent to them, I resolved to keep as quiet as possible, and not to disclose myself even to you until necessity shordd compel me." Much more conversation ensued in con- nection with matters in which our lovers felt more or less interest. At length the gentle- men rose to go away, when Gillespie thinist a face of horror into the door, and exclaimed, bolting, as he spoke, behind the Dean, " O, jjfentlemen, for God's sake, save me ! I'll con- fess and acknowledge everj'thmg. " "WTiat's the matter, Sir ? "asked the Dean. " The dead man, sir ; he's sitting up in the bed ; and I know what he's come back for. You're a parson, sir, and, for heaven's sake, stand between him and me." On proceeding to the room where the . baronet's son had been laid out, they found /' him sitting, certainly, on the bedside, won- dering at the habiliments of death which were about him. That which all had sup- posed to have been death, was onl}' a fit of catalepsy, brought on him by the appearance of his father, who had, on more than one oc- casion, left a terrible impress of liimseK upon his mind, and who, he had been in- formed some years before, was the cause of all his sufferings. Even at the sight of Lucy herself, he had been deejjly agitated, although he could not tell why. He was immediately attended to, a physician sent for, and poor Lucy felt an elevation of heart and spirits which she had not experienced for many a long day. '• Oh, do not go," she said to her lover and the Dean, "until I communicate to papa this twofold intelligence of delight ; your strange good fortune, and the resur- rection, I may term it, of my brother. The very object -the gi-eat engiossing object of papa's life and ambition gained in so won- dei-ful a way ! Do, pray, gentlemen, remain for a few minutes until I see him. O, what delight, what ecstasy will it not give him !" She accordingly went up stairs, slowly it is true, for she was weak ; and nothing further was heard except one wild and fear- ful scream, Avhose sharj) tones penetrated through the whole house. " Ha ! " exclaimed Lord Dunroe, " here is eAil. Goodness me ! — it is Miss Gourlay's voice ; I know it. Let us go up ; I fear something is wi'ong with her father." They accordingly sought the baronet's apartment, attended by the sen-ants, whom Lucy's wild scream had alarmed, and brought also toward the same direction. On enter- ing the room, the body of Lucy was found Ijing beside, or rather across that of hei father, wdiom, on removing her, tBey found to be dead. Beside him lay a httle phial, on which there was no label, but the small portion of liquid that was found in it was clear and colorless as water. It was piiissic acid. Lucy was immediately removed, and com- mitted to the care of Alley Mahon and some of the other females, and the body of the baronet was raised and placed upon his owTi bed. The Dean and Lord Dunroe looked upon his Hfeless but stern features with a feehng of awe. " Alas ! " exclaimed the good Dean, " and is it thus he has gone to his gi-eat account ? We shall not follow his spirit into another life ; but it is miserable to reflect that one hour's patience might have saved him to the i W' orld and to God, and showed him, after all, 1 that the great object of his life had been ac- comphshed. Bliiid and impatient reasoner ! — what has he done ? " j "Y^es," replied Dunroe, looking on him with a feehng of profound melancholy ; "there he hes— quiet enough now — the tumults of his strong sj^irit are over forever. That terrible heart is still at last — that fiery j jDulse will beat no more ! " We have now very little to state which 1 our readers may not anticipate. Lucy and Lady Emily, each made happy in the gi-eat object of woman's heart — love, only exchang- ed residences. Lucy's hfe was a long and bountiful bless- ' ing to her fellow-creatures. Her feehngs were never contracted Arithin the narrow \ circle of her own class, but embraced the I gi-eat one of general humanity. She acted , upon the noble principle of receiving from God the ample gifts of wealth and position. not for the purpose of wasting them in expensive and selfish enjoyments, but for that of causing them to ditixise among her fellow-creatures the greatest possible portion ; of happiness. This she considered her high I destination, and well and nobly she fulfillew THE BLACK BAUOXKT. 611 it. In this, tbe f^eut .and true purpose of life, lier Imsband and she went heart-in- heai-t, hand-in-hand ; nor were Sir Etlward Gourlay, and his kind and gentle Emily, far l)ehind them in all their good-will and good works. Lord Dunroe, having no strength of char- acter to check his profligate impulses, was, in the course of some years, thrown oflf by all his high connections, and reduced to great indigence. Norton's notion of his character was correct. Tlie society of that treacherous sharper was necessfuy to him, and in some time after the}' were reconciled. Norton ultimately became driver of a cele- brated mail-coach on the great York road, and the othei-, its guard ; thus resolving, as it would seem, to keep the whip-hand of the weak and fooUsh nobleman in every position of life. Several of our Enghsh readers may remember them, for they were both remark- able characters, and great favorites with the public. Dandy Dulcimer and Alley followed the example of their master and mistress, and were auiiily prorided for by their friends, with whcjui they lived in confidential inti- macy for the greater portion of their lives. Thomas Corbet, his sister, and her son, disai)peared ; and it was supposed that they went to America. ^M'Bride, in a short time after the close of our narrative, took a relish for foreign travel, •] and resolved to visit a certain bay of botani- cal celebrity not far from the antipodes. That he might accomplish this point -vrith as httle difficulty as jjossible, he asked a gentleman one evening for the loan of his watch and purse ; a circumstance which so much tickled the fancy of a certain facetious judge of witty memoiy, that, on hearing a full account of the transaction, he so far and successfully interfered with the goverament as to get his exjDeuses during the jouiaiey defrayed by his Majesty himself. His last place of residence in this coimtry was a veiy magnificent one near Kilmainham, where he led a piivate and secluded hfe, occasionally devoting himself to the j)rogress of machinerv in his hours of recreation, but uniformly declining to take country' exercise. Poor Trailcudgel was restored to his farm : and Luc3''s brother lived with her for many yeai's, won back by her affection and kind- ness to the i^erfect use of his reason ; and it was well kno\\-u that her children, bo}S and girls, were all very fond of Uncle Thomas. Old Corbet took to devotion, became veiy rehgious, and lost in temper, which was never good, as much as he seemed to gain by penitence. He died suddenly from a fit of paralysis, brought on by the loss of a thirtv shilling note, which was stolen from his till by Mrs. M-Bride. On the occasion of Lucy's maiTiage with her lover. Father ^I'Mahon, who was invited to a double wedding — both Sir* Edward ami Dunroe being maiiied on the same day — x'ode all the wa}' to Dublin upon Freney the Robber, in order that his fiiend might see the new saddle upon Freney, and the priest liimself upon the new saddle. ]Mr. Birney was also of the jmrty, and never was his round rosy face and comic rolling eye moi-e replete with humor and enjoyment ; and as a reward for his integrity, as well as for the abihty with which he assisted the stranger, Ave ma}' as well mention that he was made Law Agent to both properties — a recompense Avhich he well desen'ed. We need scarcely say that old Sam and Beck were sxlso there ; that their healths were di-unk, and that old Sam told them how there was nothing more plaui thim that there never was such a wife in existence as his Beck, and that Proridcuce all through intended Ned to be restored to his own — lie, old Sam, always acting in this instance as Adjut^xnt under Proridence. It was cleai", he said — quite erideut — eveiy- tliing the work of Providence on the one hand, and on the other, " aV the heivi o/ 7nan f " The Evil Eye; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. PREFACE. There is very little to be said about this book in the shape of a preface. The super- stition of the Evil Eye is, and has been, one of the most general that ever existed among men. It may puzzle philosophers to ask why it prevails wherever mankind exists. There is not a country on the face of the earth where a beUef in the influence of the Evil Eye does not i^revail. In my o\\-n young days it was a settled dogiua of behef. I have reason to know, however, that, like other superstitions, it is fast fading out of the public mind. Education and knowledge will soon banish those idle and senseless superstitions : indeed, it is a veiy difficult tiling to account for their existence at aU. I think some of them have come down to us fi'om the times of the Druids, — a class of men whom, excepting what is called their human sacrifices, I respect. My own opinion is, that what we term human saci-ifices was nothing but their habitual mode of executing criminals. Toland has ^Ni'itten on the siib- ject and left us veiT little the wiser. "WTio could, after all, give us infonnation upon a suliject which to us is only hke a dream ? What first suggested tlie stoiy of the Evil Eye to me was this : A man named Case, who lives within a distance of about three or four hundred yaixls of my residence, keeps a large dairy ; lie is the possessor of five or six and twenty of the finest cows I ever saw, and he told me that a man who was an enemy of liis killed three of them by his overlooking them, — that is to say, by the in- fluence of the Eril Eye. The opinion in Ii-eland of the Evil Eye is this : that a man or woman possessing it may hold it harmless, unless there is some selfish design or some spirit of vengeance to call it into operation. I was aware of this, and I accordingly constructed my stoiy upon that principle. I have nothing further to add : the story itself will detail the rest. CHAPTER L Short and Preliminary. In a certain part of Ii'eland, inside the borders of the county of Waterford, hved two respecttible famihes, named Lindsaj and GppdsiO, the foiTuer being of Scotch descent. Their respective residences were not more than three miles distant ; and the intimacy that subsisted between them was founded, for many years, upon mutual good-will and esteem, with two excejjtions onK in one of the famihes, which the reader will vmder- stand in the coui'se of our narrative. Each ranked in the class kno>A-n as that of the middle gentry. These two neighbors — dhe of whom, ]Mr. Lindsay, was a magisti-ate — were contented ^"ith their lot in life, which was sufficiently respectable and independent to secure to them that true happiness which is most fi-equently annexed to the middle station. Lindsay was a man of a kind and liberal heart, easy and passive in his nature, but with a good deal of sarcastic humor, yet neither severe nor prejudiced, and, conse- quently, a popular magistrate as well as a popular man. Goodwin might be stud to possess a similar disposition ; but he was of a more quiet and unobtrusive character than his cheerfid neighbor. His mood of mind was placid and serene, and his heart as ten- der ;md affectionate as ever beat in a human bosom. His principal enjovment lay in domestic life — in the society, in fact, of hia wife and one beautiful daughter, his only child, a gii'l of nineteen when oiu* tale opens. Lindsay's family consisted of one son and two daughters ; but his vrife, who was a widow when he maii-ied her, had another son by her first husband, who had been abroad almost since his childhood, with a grand-uncle, whose intention was to provide for him, being a man of great wealth and a bachelor. We have already said that the two families were upon the most intimate and fiiendly 614 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. terms ; but to this there was oue exception in the person of Mrs. Lindsay, whose natural disposition was impetuous, implacable, and overbeaiing ; equally destitute of domestic tenderness and good temper. She was, in fact, a woman whom not even her own c-hildren, gifted as they were vriih. the best and most affectionate dispositions, could love as children ought to love a parent. Utterly devoid of chaiity, she was never known to bestow a kind act upon the jDOor or dis- tressed, or a kind word upon the absent. Vituperation and calumny were her constant weajions ; and one would imagine, by the frequency and bitterness Avith which she wielded them, that she was in a state of perjDetual warfare mth society. Such, in- deed, was the case ; but the evils which re- sulted from her wanton and indefensible aggi'essions upon private character almost uniformly recoiled upon her owti head ; for, as far as her name was known, she w^as not only unpopular, but odious. Her husband was a man naturally fond of peace and quietness in his own house and family ; and, rather than occasion anything in the shape of domestic distiu'bauce, he continued to treat her intemperate authority sometimes with in- difference, sometimes with some sarcastic ob- servation or other, and occasionally '^dtli open and midisguised contempt. In some instan- ces, however, he departed from this apathetic line of condvict, and turned upon her "u-ith a degi'ee of asperity and violence that was as imi^etuous as it was decisive. His reproaches were then general, broad, fearful ; but these were seldom resorted to unless when her temper had gone beyond all reasonable limits of endurance, or in defence of the absent or inoffensive. It mattered not, how- ever, what the reason may have been, they never failed to gain theii- object at the time ; for the woman, though mischievous and wicked, ultimately quailed, yet not without resistance, before the exasperated resentment of her husband. Those occasional victories, however, which he gained over her vri.i\\ re- luctance, never prevented her from treating him, in the oi'dinary business of life, with a systematic exhibition of abuse and scorn. Much of this he bore, as we have said ; but whenever he chose to retorf upon her with her OA\-n weapons in their common and minor skirmishes, she foiuid his sarcasm too cool and biting for a temper so violent as hers, and the consequence was, that nothing en- I'aged her more than to see him amuse him- self at her expense. This woman had a brother, who also Hved in the same neighborhood, and who, al- though so closely related to her by blood, was, nevertheless, as different fi'om her in I both character and temper as good could be from evil. He was wealthy and generous, fi-ee from everything hke a worldly spirit, and a warm but unostentatious benefactor i to the poor, and to such individuals as upon inquiry he found to be entitled to his benef- icence. His wife had, some years before, died of decline, which, it seems, was hered- itary in her family. He felt her death as a calamity which depressed his heart to the uttermost depths of affliction, and from w^hich, indeed, he never recovered. All that remained to him after her demise was a beautiful httle girl, around whom his affec- tions gathered with a degree of tenderness that was rendered almost painful by the ap- prehension of her loss. Agnes, from her eighth or ninth year, began to manifest shght symptoms of the same fatal malady which had carried away her mother. These attacks fiUed his heart Avith those feai'ful forebodings, which, whilst they threw him into a state of teiTor and alarm, at the same time rendered the love he bore her such as may be imagined, but cannot be expressed. It is only when we feel the jarobability of losing a beloved object that the heart awakens to a more exquisite percejDtion of its affec- i tions for it, and wonders, when the painful ; symptoms of disease ajDpear, why it was heretofore unconscious of the full extent of its love. Such was the nature of Mr. H am- I, ilt on's f eelLngs for his daughter, whenever the short cough or hectic cheek happened to make theii* appearance fi-om time to time, and foreshadow, as it were, the certainty of an early death ; and then he should be child- less — a lonely man in the world, possess- ing a heart overfloAving vdih affection, and yet -vN-ithout an object on which he could lavish it, as now, with happiness and delight. He looked, therefore, upon decKne as upon an approaching foe, and the father's heart be- came sentinel for the Avelfare of his child, and watched every symptom of the dreaded disease that threatened her, Avith a vigilance that never slept. Under such circumstances we need not again assui*e our readers that his jDarental tenderness for this beautiful girl— now his " only one," as he used to call her — was such as is rare even in the most affectionate famihes ; but in tliis case the shght and doubtful tenure Avhich his appre- hensions told him he had of her existence raised his love of her almost to idolati'y. Still she improved in person, gi-ace, and in- I tellect ; and although an occasional shadow, as transient as that which passes over and I makes dim the flowery fields of May or April, darkened her father's heart for a time, yet it passed aAvay, and she danced on in the light of youthful hajipiness, Avithout a THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPJ£CTRE. 615 single trtice of anxiety or care. Her father's affection for her was not, however, con fined to herself ; on the contrary, it passed to and embraced every object that was dear to her — her favorite books, her favoi-ite plaj-things, and her favorite conij^anions. Among the latter, without a single rivid, stood her young friend, ^yice Goodwin, who was then about her ow^l age. Never was the love of sisters greater or more beautiful than that which knit the innocent hearts of those two girls together. Their affections, in short, were so dependent upon each other that separa- tion and absence became a source of anxiety and uneasiness to each. Neither of them had a sister, and in the fen^or of their at- tachment, they entered into a solemn en- gagement that each of them should consider herself the sister of the other. This inno- cent experiment of the heart — for such we must consider it in these two sisterless girls — was at least rewarded by complete suc- cess. A new affinity was superadded to fi'iendship, and the force of imagination completed what the heai't begun. Next to A Harry, you don't know the lips of son-ow that kiss you now. Sure they are the lipa of yoni own Rose, that gave her young heait to you- 'ahd'was happy for it. Don't feel ashamed- Han-y ; it's a good man's case to die tht> death you did, and be at rest, as I hope you are, for you are not a murderer ; and if you are, it is only in the eye of the law, and it was youi' love for Nannie that did it." This woeful dirge of the mother's heart, and the wife's sorrow, had almost evexy eye in tears ; and, indeed, it was imjjossible that the sympathy for her should not be deep and general. They all knew the ex- cellence and mildness of her husband's char- acter, and that every word she uttered con- cerning him was truth. In Irish wakehouses, it is to be obseiTcd, the door is never closed. The heat of the house, and the crowding of the neighbors to it, render it necessary that it should bo TBE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 621 open ; but independently of tliis, we believe it a general custom, as it is also to keep it so duriiig meals. This last arises from the spirit of hospitality j^^^juKar to the Ii'ish people. When his wife had uttered the words "you are no murderer," a young and beauti- ful girl entered the house in sufficient time to have heard them distinctly. She was tall, her shape was of the iinest symmetry, her features, in spite of the distraction which, at first glance, was legible in them, were absolutely fascinating. They all knew her well ; but the moment she made her ap- pearance, the conversation, and those ex- pressions of sympathy which were passing from one to another, were instantly checked ; and nothmg now was felt but comj)assion for the terrible ordeal tliat they knew was before her mother. She rushed up to where her another had sat down, her eyes flashing, and her long brown hair floating about her white shoulders, which were but scantily covered. "You talk of a murderer, mother," she exclaimed. " You talk of a murderer, do you ? But if miu'der has been committed, as it has, / — / am the murderer. Keep back now, let me look upon my innocent father — upon that father that /have murdered." She approached the bed on which he lay, her eyes still flashing, and her bosom pant- ing, and there she stood gazing upon his features for about two minutes. The silence of tlie corpse before them was not deeper than that which her unexpected presence occasioned. There she stood gaz- ing on the dead body of her father, evidently torn by the pangs of agony and remorse, her hands clenching and opening by turns, her wild and unwinking eyes riveted upon those moveless features, which his love for her had so often Ht ujj with happiness and pride. Her mother, who was alarmed, shocked, stunned, gazed upon her, but could not speak. At length she herself broke the silence. "Mother," said she, "I came to see my father, for I know he won't strike me now, and he never did. O, no, because I ran away from him and from all of you, but not till after I had deserved it ; before that I was safe. Mother, didn't my father love me once better than his own hfe ? I think he did. O, yes, and I returned it by mm*dering liim — by sending him — that father there that loved me so well — by — by sending him to the hangman — to a death of disgi-ace and shame. That's what /iis own Nannie, as he used to call me, did for him. But no shame — no guilt to you, father ; the shame and the guilt are j/oui^ (^uin Mcuini^^i and that's the only comfort I have ; for you're happy, Avhat I will never be, either in this world or the next. You are now in heaven ; but you will never see yoiu" own Nannie there." The recollections caused by her appear- ance, and the heart-rending language she used, touched her mother's heart, now soft- ened by her suffierings into pity for her affliction, if not into a portion of the former affection which she bore her. " O Nannie, Nannie ! " said she, now weep- ing bitterly upon a fresh sorrow, "don't talk that way — don't, don't ; you have re- pentance to turn to ; and for what you've done, God will yet forgive you, smd so will your mother. It was a gi'eat crime in you ; but God can forgive the gi'eatest, if his own creatures will turn to him \\ith sorrow for what they've done." She never once turned her eyes upon her mother, nor raised them for a moment from her father's face. In fact, she did not seem to have heard a single syllable she said, and this was evident from the wild but affecting abstractedness of her manner. " Mother ! " she exclaimed, " that man they say is a miu'derer, and yet I am not worthy to touch him. Ah ! I'm alone now — altogether alone, and he — he that loved me, too, was taken away from me b}^ a cruel death — ay, a cruel death ; for it was barbar- ous to kni him as if he Avas a wild beast — ay, and mthout oue moment's notice, with all his sins upon his head. He is gone — he is gone ; and there Hes the man that mur- dered him — there he lies, the sinner ; curse uijon his hand of blood that took him 1 loved from me ! O, my heart's breakin' and my brain is boilin' ! What will I do ? "NMiere will I go ? Am I mad ? Father, my ciu"se upon you for your deed of blood ! I never thought I'd live to curse you ; but you don't hear me, nor know what I suff'er. Shame, disgrace — ay, and I'd bear it all for hiter, Tom, is the crame of a good landlord, as far as his property goes, and much good may it do him and his ! I'll go bail that, as far as ^liss Alice herself is con- sarned, many a hungry mouth, will be filled many a naked back covered, and many a heavy heart made light through the manes of it.'" "Faith," said a third spokesman, "and that wouldn't be the case if that skinflint barge of Lindsay's had got it in her clutches. At any rate, it's a shame for her and them to abuse the Goodwins as they do. If ould Hamilton left it to them surely it wasn't their fault." "Never mind," said another, "111 lay a wager that ]\Irs. Lindsay's son — I mane the stei^-son that's now abroatl with the uncle- — will be sent for, and a marriage will follow between him and Miss Goodwin." "It may be so," rephed Tom, " but it's hot veiy probable. I know the man that's likely to widk into the property, and Avell worthy he is of it." " Come, Tom, let us hear- who is the lucky youth ? " "Family saicrets," rephed Tom, "is not to be revaled. All I can say is, that he is a true gentleman. Give me another blast o' the pipe, for I must go home." Tom, who was servant to ^Ir. Goodwin, having now taken his " blast," wished them good-night ; but before he went he took the ' soiTOwing widow's cold and passive hand in his, and said, wiiilst the tears stood in his ' eyes, i " May God in heaven pity you and support ; your heart, for you are the sorely tried wo- man this miserable night ! " He then bent his steps to .Bgech Grove, his master's residence, the hour being be- tween twelve and one o'clock. The night, as we have already said, had been calm, but gloomy and oppressive. Now, however, the wind had sprung up, and, by the time Kennedy commenced his journey home, it was not only tempestuous but in- creasing in strength and fury everv moment. This, however, was not all ; — the rain came down in toiTents, and was battered again.st ' his person with such force that in a few mo- ments he was drenched to the skin. So far, : it was wind and rain— di'eadful and tempes- tuous as they were. The storm, however, was only half opened. Distant flashes of hghtning and sullen gi'owis of thunder pro- ceeded fi'om the cloud masses to the right, ! but it was obvious that the thvmderings j above them were only commencing their ' deep and terrible jDeahugs. In a short time they increased in violence and fury, and re- sembled, in fact, a West Indian hunicane more than those storms which are peculiar to oiu- mildei" climates. The tempest-voice of the wind was now in di'eadful accordance with its power. Poor Kennedy, who fortu- nately knew even- step of the rugged road along which he stiniggled and staggered, was fi'equently obliged to crouch himself and hold by the projecting crags about him, lest the strength of the blast might hurl him over the rocky precipices by the edges of which the road went. With gi-eat difficulty, however, and not less danger, he succeeded in getting into the open highway below, and into a thickly inhabited country-. Here a new scene of terror and confusion awaited him. The whole neighborhood around him were up and in alann. The shoutings of men, the .screams of women and cliildren, all in a state of the utmost di-ead and constenia- tion, pierced his ears, even through the united rage and roaring of the wind and thunder. The people had left their houses, as they usually do in such cases, from an apprehension that if they remained in them [ they might be buried in then- ruins. Some I had got ladders, and attempted, at the risk of their lives, to secure the thatch upon the roofs by j)lacing flat stones, sods, and such other materials, as by their weight, might j keep it from being borae off" like dust upon the wings of the tempest. Theu- voices, and i screams, and Lamentations, in accordance, as 624 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. they were, with the uproar of the elements, added a new feature of terror to this dread- ful tumult. The lightnings now became more vi\'id and frequent, and the pealing of the thunder so loud and near, that he felt his veiy eai's stunned by it. Everj' cloud, as the Hghtnings flashed from it, seemed to open, and to disclose, as it were, a furnace of blazing fire ^^•ithin its black and awful shi'oud. The whole country ai'ound, with all its terrified population ninning about in confusion and dismay, were for the moment made as clear and distinct to the eye as if it were noonday, with this difference, that the scene borrowed fi-om the red and sheeted flashes a Tsdld and spectral character which the Ught of day never gives. In fact, the human figures, as they ran hurriedly to and fro, resembled those images which present themselves to the imagination in some frightful dream. Nay, the very cattle in the fields could be seen, in those flashing gUmp- ses, huddled up together in some sheltered comer, and cowering with terror at this aw- ful uproar of the elements. It is a very strange, but still a well-known fact, that neither man nor beast wishes to be alone during a thunder-storm. Contiguity to one's fellow creatures seems, by some unaccount- able instinct, to lessen the apprehension of danger to one individual when it is Hkely to be shared bj' many, a feeling which maJies the coward in the field of battle fight as coui-ageously as the man who is natiu'ally brave. The tempest had not yet diminished any of its power ; so far from that, it seemed as if a night-battle of ariilleiy was going on, and raging still vrith more \iolence in the clouds. Thatch, doors of houses, glass, and almost everjiihing hght that the winds coidd seize upon, were filing in different direc- tions through the aii- ; and as Kennedy now staggered along the main road, he had to pass through a grove of oaks, beeches, and immense ash trees that stretched on each side for a considerable distance. The noises nere were new to him, and on that account the more frightful. The gToanings of the huge trees, and the shiieking of their huge branches as they were ciiished against each other, sounded in his ears like the supeniat- m-al voices of demons, exulting at their par- ticipation in the terrors of the storm. His impression now was that some guilty sor- cerer had raised the author of evil, and being unable to lay him, the latter was careering in vengeance over the earth until he should be appeased by the life of some devoted vic- tim — for such, when a storm more than usually destnictive and powerful arises, is the general superstition of the peop'e — at least it was so among the ignorant in ouj early youth. In all thunder-storms there appears to be a regular gi-adation — a beginning, a middle, and an end. They commence first with a noise resembling the crackling of a file of musketry where the fii-e runs along the line, man after man ; then they increase, and go on deej)ening their terrors until one stun- ning and tremendous burst takes place, which is the acme of the tempest. After this its power gi'adually diminislies in the same way as it increased — the peals become les8 loud and less fi'equent, the Hghtning feebler and less brilliant, until at length it seems to take another course, and after a few ex- hausted volleys it dies away with a hoarse grumble in the distance. . Still it thundered and thundered terribly; nor had the sweej) of the wind-tempest yet lost any of its fury. At this moment Ken- nedy discovered, by a succession of those flashes that were lighting the country around him, a tall young female without cloak or bonnet, her long hair sometimes streaming in the wind, and sometimes blown up in con- fusion over her head. She was proceeding at a tottering but eager pace, evidently imder the influence of wildness and distraction, or rather as if she felt there was something either mortal or spectral in pursuit of her. He hailed her by her name as she passed him, for he knew her, but received no reply. To Tom, wiio had, as the reader knows, been a witness of the scene we have described, this feai-ful gHmjDse of Nannie IMorrissey's desolation and misery, under the iDelting of the jDitiless storm and the angiy roar of the elements, was distressing in the highest degree, and filled his honest heart with com- jjassion for her sufl'erings. He was now making his way home at his utmost speed, when he heai'd the trampHng of a horse's feet coming on at a rapid pace behind him, and on looking back he saw a horseman making his way in the same di- rection with himself. As he advanced, the repeated flashes made them distinctly visible to each other. "I say," shouted the horseman at the top of his lungs, " can you direct me to any kind of a habitation, where I may take shelter?" " Speak louder," shouted Tom ; " I can't hear you for the wind." The other, in a voice still more elevated, repeated the question, " I want to get under the roof of some human habitation, if thei'e be one left standing. I feel that I have gone astray, and this is no night to be out in." "Faith, sir," again shouted Tom, "it's pure gospel you're spakin', at any rate. A THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 625 habitation I Why, upon my credibility, they'd not desene a habitation that 'ud re- fuse to open the door for a dog on such a night as this, much less to a human creature with a sowl to be saved. A habitation ! Well, I think I can, and one where you'll be well treated. I suppose, sir, you're a gentleman ? " " Speak out," shouted the traveller in his turn ; " I can't hear you." Tom shaded his mouth with his hand, and shouted again, "I suppose, sir, you're a gen- tleman ? " "Wliy, I suppose I am,"repUed the stran- ger, rather haughtily. " Becaise," shouted Tom, "devil a traneen it 'ud signify to them I'm bringing you to whether you are or not. The poorest man in the jjai-ish would be sheltered as well as you, or maybe a betther man." " Ai*e we near the house ? " said the other. " It's just at hand, sii-," replied Tom, "and thanks be to God for it ; for if ever the devil was abroad on mischief, he is this night, and may the Lord save us ! It's a night for a man to teU his gi-audchildre about, and he may call it the ' night o' the big storm.' " A lull had now tsxken place, and Tom heard a laugh from the stranger which he did not much rehsh ; it was contemptuous and sarc:i„stic, and gave him no very good ojiinion of his companion. They had now anived at the entrance-gate, which had been blown open by the violence of the tempest. On proceeding toward the house, they fovmd that their way was seiiously obstinicted by the fall of several trees that had been blown down across it. With some difficulty, how- ever, they succeeded in reaching the house, where, although the houi* was late, they found the whole family up, and gi*eatly alarmed by the violence of the hunicane. Tom went in and found ^Ir. and Mrs. Good- win in the parlor, to both of whom he stated that a gentleman on horseback, who had lost his way, requested shelter for the night. "Certainly, Kennedy, certainly ; why did you not biing the gentleman in ? Go and desire Tom Stinton to take his horse to the stiible, and let him be rubbed down and fed. In the meantime, biing the gentleman in." " Sir," said Tom, going to the bottom of the hall door-steps, " will you have the goodness to wixlk in ; the masther and mis- tliress are in the parlor ; for who could sleep on such a night as this ? " On enteiing he was received with the warmest and most cordial hosi^itality. " Sir," said IMr. Goodwin, " I si)eak in the name of myself and my wife when I bid you heartily welcom* to whatevei' mv roof cui af- ford you, especially on such an awful night as this. Take a seat, sir ; you must want re freshments before you put off those wel clothes and betake yourself to bed, after the dreadful severity of such a tempest." " I have to apologize, sir, for this trouble,' rephed the stranger, " and to thank yov; most sincerely for the kindness of the re- ception you and your lady have given to an utter stranger." " Do not mention it, sir," said IVIr. Good- win ; " come, put on a diy coat and waist- coat, and, in the meantime, refi-eshments will be on the table in a few minutes. The sen-ants are all up and will attend at once. The stranger refused, however, to change his clothes, but in a few minutes an abundant cold supper, with wine and spirits, were placed upon the table, to all of which he did such amj^le justice that it would seem as if he had not dined that day. The table hav- ing been cleai'ed, Mr. Goodwin joined him in a glass of hot brandy and water, and suc- ceeded in jDressing him to take a couple more, whilst his wife, he said, was getting a bed and room prejmred for him. Tlieir chat for the next half hour consisted in a discus.siou of the storm, which, although much abated, was not yet over. At length, after an intimation that his room was ready for him, he withdrew, accompanied by a ser- vant, got into an admii'able bed, and ii^ s few minutes was fast asleep. CHAPTER m. y Breakfast next morning. — Woodward, on his waj Uovie, meets a Stranger. — Thnr Conversation. The next morning he joined the family ii, the breakfast parlor, where he was received with much kindness and attention. The stranger was a young man, probably about twenty-seven, well made, and with features that must be pronounced good ; but, from whatever cause it proceeded, they were felt to be by no means agi-eeable. It was im- possible to quaiTel with, or find fault with them ; tlieir symmetry' was perfect ; the lij), well defined, but hard and evidently unfeel ing ; his brows, which joined each other were black, and, what was very pecuhar. were heaviest where they met — a circum- stance which, notwithstanding the regularity of his other features, gave him, unless wheu he smiled, a fi'owning if not a sinister aspect Tliat, however, which was most remarkable in his features was the extraordinary fact that his eyes were each of a dili'erent color, one being black and piercing in its gleam .(J26 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. and tlie other gray ; from which circum- stance he was known from his childhood by the name of Harry na Suit Gloir — Suil Gloir being an epithet always bestowed by the Irish upon persons who possessed eyes ol that unnattu-al character. This circumstance, however, was not observed on that occasion by any of the family. His general manners, though courteous, were cold, and by no means such as were calculated either to bestow or inspire contidence. His language, too, was easy enough when he spoke, but a cold habit of reserve seemed to permeate his whole being, and to throw a chill upon the feelings of those to whom he addressed him- self. So much was this the case that whenever he assumed an air of familiai'ity a dark, strange, and undelinable spirit, which was strongly felt, seemed not only to contradict his apparent urbanity, but to impress his axiditors with a sense of uneasiness some- times amounting to pain — an imjDression, however, for which they could not at all account. "Sir," said Mr. Goodwin, "I hope you slept well after what you suffered under the tempest of last night ? " "I assure you, sir, I never enjoyed a 3omider night's sleep in my hfe," replied their guest ; " and were it not for the season- able shelter of yoiu' hospitable roof I know not what would have become of me. I am unacquainted with the country, and having lost my way, I knew not where to seek shel- ter, for the night was so dreadfull}' dark that unless by the flashes of the hghtning nothing could be seen." " It was certainly an awful — a terrible night," observed his host ; " but come, its severity is now past ; let me see you do jus- tice to your fare ; — a little more ham ? " " Thank you, sir," replied the other; "if N'ou please. Indeed, I cannot complain of my appetite, wliich is at all times excellent " — and he certainly coiToborated the ti-uth of his statement by a sharp and vigorous attack upon the good things before him. " Sir," said Mrs. Goodwin," we feel happy to have had the satisfaction of opening our doors to you last night ; and there is only one other cii'cumstance which could complete our gi'atification." "The gi-atification, madam," he replied, " as well as the gratitude, ought to be all on my side, although I have no doubt, and can have none, that the consciousness of your kindness and hospitality are equally gratify- ing on yours. But may I ask to what you allude, madam ? " "You are evidently a gentleman, sir, and a stranger, and we would feel obliged by knowiue:— " " O, I beg your pardon, madam,** he re plied, inteiTupting her; "I presume that you are good enough to flatter me by a wish to know the name of the individual whom your kindness and hospitality have placed under such agreeable obligations. For m\ part I have reason to bless the tempest which, I may say, brought me under your roof. 'It is an iU wind,' says the proverb, ' that blows nobody good ; ' and it is a clear case, my very kind hostess, that at this mo- ment we are mutually ignorant of each other. I assure you, then, madam, that I am not a I knight-errant travelling in disguise and in I quest of adventiu-e, but a plain gentleman, j by name " Woodwa rd, step-son to a neighbor ' of yours, Mr. Lindsay, of Rathfillan House. I need scarcely say that I am Mrs. Lindsay's son by her first husband. And now, madam, may I beg to know the name of the family to whom I am indebted for so much kind- ness." Mrs. Goodwin and her husband exchanged glances, and something like a slight cloud appeared to overshadow for a moment the expression of their countenances. At length Ml*. Goodwin sjDoke. "My name, sir," he pi'oceeded, " is Good- win ; and until a recent melancholy event, your family and mine were upon the best and most cordial terms ; but, unfortunately, I must say that we are not so now — a cir- cumstance which I and mine deeply regi-et. You must not imagine, however, that the knowledge of your name and connections could make the slightest ditference in our conduct towai'd you on that account. Your family, Mr. "Woodward, threw off our friend- ship and disclaimed all intimacy with us ; but I presume you are not ignorant of the cause of it." " I should be uncandid if I were to say so, sir. I am entirely aware of the cause of it ; but I cannot see that there is any blame whatsoever to be attached to either you or yours for the act of my j^oor uncle. I as- sure you, sir, I am sorry that my family failed to consider it in its proper light ; and you will permit me to request that you will not identify my conduct with theirs. So far as I at least am concerned, my uncle's dis- position of his proj^erty shall make no breach nor occasion any coolness betM^een us. On the contrary, I shall feel honored by being permitted to pay my respects to you aU, and to make myseK worthy of your good opin- ions." " That is generously spoken, Mr. Wood- ward," repHed the old man ; " and it will af- ford us sincere pleasiu-e to reciprocate the sentiments you have just expressed." "You make me quite happy, sir," replied THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE ELAcK SPECTUE. 627 Woodwiircl, bowing very courteously. " This, [ presume, is the j'oung lady to whom my eousin Agnes was so much attached ? " " She is, six'," replied her father. " jNIight I hope for the honor of being pre- sented to her, Mr. Goodwm ? " " With pleasure, sir. Alice, my dear, although you already know who this gentle- man is, yet allow me, nevertheless, to pre- sent him to you." The formal introduction accordingly took place, after which Woodward, turning to ^Ii's. Goodwin, said, " I am not suri^rised, madam, at the pre- dilection which my cousin entertained for iVIiss Goodwin, even fi-om what I see ; but I feel that I am restrained by her presence from exp:.essing myself at further length. I have only to say that I wish her every hap- piness, long life, and health to enjoy that of which she seems, and I am certain is, so worthy." He accompanied those words \vith a low bow and ti very gracious smile, after w'hich, his horse having been brought to the door, he took his leave ^^ith a gi'eat deal of pohteness, and rode, according to the directions re- ceived fi'om Mr. Goodwin, toward his father's house. After his departure the family began to discuss his character somewhat to the follow- ing effect ; " That is a line young man," said Mr. Goodwin, " hberal-minded and generous, or I am much mistaken. What do yoa think, Mai±lia,"_he added, addressing his wife. "Upon my word," rephed that lady, "I am much of your opinion — yet I don't know either ; although pohte and courteous, there is somethjig rather disagreeable about him." " Why," inquired her husband, "what, is there disf gi-eeable about him ? I could jier- ceive nothing of the sort ; and when we con- sider that his uncle, who left this i:)roperty to Alice, was his mother's brother, and that he was nephew by blood as well as by law, and that it was the old man's original intention that the property should go directly to him, or in default of issue, to his brother — I think when we consider this, Martha, that we cannot but entei*tain a favorable impression of him, considering what he has lost by the imexpected turn given to his prospects in consequence of his uncle's will. Alice, my dear, what is your opinion of him ? " "Indeed, papa," she replied, "I have had — as we all have had — but a very slight op- portunity to form any opinion of liim. As for me, I can judge only by the impressions which his conversation and person have left upon me." '* Well, anything favorable o;- otljerwjse ? ' " Anything at all hut favorable, i)apa — I expeiienced something like pain during breakfast, and felt a strong sense of reUeJ the moment he left the room." " Poor child, imi)re.s.sions are nothing. I have met men of whom first impressions were uniformly unfavorable, who, notwith- standing their rough outsides, were persons of sterling worth and character." " Yes, papa, and men of great plausibility and ease of manner, who, on the contrary', were deep, hypociiticjil and selfish when discovered and their hearts laid open. As regards !Mr. Woodward, however, heaven forbid that I should place the impressions of an ignorant girl like myself against the knowledge and exjjerience of a man who has had such ojjportunities of knowing the world as you. All I can say is, that whilst he seemed to breathe a very generovis spirit, my impressions were comjjletely at variance with every sentiment he uttered. Perhaps, however, I do him injustice — and I should regret that very much. I wiU then, in de- ference to your oi)inion, paj)a, endeavor to control those impressions and think as well of him as I can." " You are right, Alice, and I thank you. We should never, if possible, suffer ourselves to be j^rematurely ungenerous in our esti- niate of strangers, especially when we know that this world is tilled A\ith the most ab- surd and ridiculous prejudices. How do you know, my dear child, that yours is not one of them ? " "Alice, love," said her mother, "I think, upon reflection, your father is right, as he always is ; let us not be less generous thiin this young man, and you know it would be ungenerous to prejudge him ; and this comes the more strange from you, my love, inasmuch as I never yet he;u-d you express a prejudice almost against any person." " Because I don't remember, mamma, that I ever felt such an impression — prejudice — call it what you will — against any individuaj as I do against this man. I absolutely fear him without kno\riug why." " Precisely so, my dear Alice," repUed her father, " pi-ecisely so ; and, as you say, tcith- out kiiowiiuj why. In that one phi-ase, my child, you have defined pi-tjudice to the let- ter. Fie, Alice ; have more sense, my deai* : have more sense. Dismiss this foolish pre- judice against a young man, who, from Avhat he said at breakfast, is entitled to better feelings at your hands." " As I said, papa, I shall certainly strive tc do so." Alice Goodwin's person and chai'acter must, at this stage of our narrative, be made jiuo>\'n to our readers. As to her person, it (J28 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. is only sufficient to say that ste was a tall, beautiful girl, of exceeding grace and won- derful proportions. There was, however, a softness about her appearance of constitu- tional deHcacy that seemed to be incomjDatible with a strong mind, or perhaps we should rather say that was identical with an excess of feeling. This was exhibited in the tender- ness of her attachment to Agnes Hamilton, and in the agonizing grief which she ex- perienced at her death — ^a grief Avhich had weUnigh become fatal to a gii'l of her fragile organization. The predominant trait, how- ever, in her character was timidity and a ten'or of a hundred trifles, which, in the generahty of her sex, would occasion only mdifterence or laughter. On that very morning, for instance, she had not recovered from her painful apprehensions of the thunder-storm which had occurred on the preceding night. Of thunder, but especially of lightning, she was afraid even to pusillan- imity ; indeed so much so, that on such oc- currences she would bind her eyes, fly down stairs, and take refuge in the cellar until the hurly-burly in the clouds was over. This, however, was not so much to be wondered at by those who live in our j)resent and more enlightened days ; as our readers will admit when they are told that the period of our naiTative is in the reign of that truly rehgious mnna.rrb^ P.barlps the Second, who, conscious of his inward and invisible gi'ace, was known to exhaust himseK so liberally of his virtue, when touching for the Evil, that there was very httle of it left to regulate that of his own private hfe. In those days L-eland was a mass of social superstitions, and a vast number of cures iu a variety of diseases were said to be jDerformed by witches, wiz- ards, fairy-men, fairy-women, and a thousand other impostors, who, supported by the gToss ignorance of the people, carried that which was first commenced in fraud and cunning into a self-delusion, which, in process of time, led them to become dupes to their own impostures. It is not to be wondered at, then, that Alice Goodwi n, a young creature of a warm imagination and extraordinary constitutional timidity, should feel the full force of the superstitions which swarmed around her, and impregnated her fancy so strongly that it teemed with an unhealthy creation, which frequently rendered her ex- istence painful by a morbid apprehension of wicked and supernatural influences. In other respects she was artlessness itself, could never understand what falsehood meant, and, as to truth, her unspotted mind was ti-ansparent as a sunbeam. Our readers fixe not to understand, however, that though apparently flexible and ductile, she possessed no power of moral resistance. So very fai from that, her disposition, wherever sh« thought herself right, was not only firm and unbending, but sometimes rose almost to obstinacy. This, however, never appeared, unless she considered herself as standing upon the basis of truth. In cases where her judgment was at fault, or when she could not see her way, she was a perfect child, and, like a child, should be taken by the hand and supported. It was, however, when minghng in society that her timidity and bashfulness were most observable ; these, however, were accompanied with so much natural grace, and unafiected innocence oJ manner, that the general charm of her M'hol(^ character was fascinating and irresistible • nay, her very weaknesses created an atmos- phere of love and sympathy arouad her that nobody could breathe without fee ling her in- fluence. Her fear of ghosts and fairies, her di-ead of wizards and witches, of sdse women and strolling conjurers, with the superstitious accounts of whom the country then abound- ed, were, in the eyes of her more strong- minded friends, only a source of that caress- ing and indulgent affection which made its artless and innocent object more dear to them. Every one knows with what natural affection and tenderness we love the object which chngs to us for support under the apprehension of danger, even when we our- selves are satisfied that the apprehension is groundless. So was it with Alice Goodwm, whose harmless foibles and weaknesses, as- sociated as they were with so much truth and purity, rendered her the darhng of all who- knew her. Woodward had not proceeded far on his way when he was overtaken by an equestrian, who came up to him at a smart pace, which, however, he checked on getting beside him. "A fine morning, sir, afte:: an awfuJ night," observed the stranger. "It is, sir," replied Woodward, "and a most awful night it assuredly was. Have you heard whether there has been destruc- tion to hfe or proj)erty to any extent ? " " Not so much to Hfe," replied his compan- ion, "but seriously, I understand, to j)ro- i^erty. If you had ridden far you must have observed the number of dweUing-houses and out offices that have been unroofed, and some of them altogether blown down." "I have not ridden fai-," said Woodward ; " I was obhged to take shelter in the house of a country gentleman named Goodwin, who lives over in the trees." "You were fortunate in finding sheltei anywhere," replied the stranger, " during such a tempest. I remember nothing like it." THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 629 As they proceeded alonj]f, indulging in simihir chat, they observed that five or six coiintrviuen, who had been wallving at a smart pace, about a couple of hundred yards b' fore tlieni, cauie suddenly to a stand-still, nnd, after appeu'ing to consult together, they darted oft' the road and laid themselves down, as if with a view of concealment, be- hind the gras;s3' ditch which ran along it. " What can these persons mean ?" asked Woothvavd ; " they seem to be concealing themselves." "Unquestionably they do," replied the stranger ; " anci yet there appeai-s to be no pursuit after tliem. I certainly can give no guess as to their object." ^Vhile attempting, as tlioy went along, to accoiuit for the conduct of the peasants, they were i let by a female with a head of hair that \/as nearly blood-red, and whose features were hideously ugly, or rather, we should say, absolutely revolting. Her brows, whicli were of the same color as the hair, were knit Lito a scowl, such as is occasioned by an intense expression of hatred and malignity, yet which was rendered almost frightful by a squint that would have dis- figiu'ed the features of a demon. Her coarse liair lay matted together in stitT, wiry waves on each side of her head, from whence it streamed down her shoulders, which it covered like a cape of scarlet. As they approached each other, slie glanced at them with a look from which they could only infer that she seemed to meditate the murder of ea(;h, and yet there was mingled with its malignity a bitter but derisive expression that was perfectly diabohcal. " What a frightful hag ! " exclaimed Woodward, addressing his companion ; " I never had a perfect conception of the face of an ogress until noAV ! Did you observe her walrus tusks, as they projected over her misshajDen nether hp ? The hag appears to be an impersonation of all that is evil." " She may be a very harmless creatiu*e for all that," repHed the other; "we are not to judge by appearances. I know a man who had murder depicted in his counten- ance, if ever a man had, and yet there lived not a kinder, more humane, or benevolent creature o) i earth. He was as simple, too, as a child, and the most affectionate father and husbi .nd that ever breathed. These, liowever, ii lay be exceptions ; for most cer- tainly I aai of opinion that the countenance may be co: isidered, in general, a very certain (ndex to the character and disposition. But what is this ? — here are the men returning from their jovu*ney, let us question them." •*Pi-ay," said Woodward, addressing ihem, "if it be not impertinent, may I in- quire why you ran in such a hurry off the road just now, and hid yourselves behind the ditch'?" "Certainly, sir, you may," replied one of them ; "we wor on our way to the fair of Knockmore, and we ditln't wish to meet Pugshy Roe " (Red Pegg>')- " But why shoidd you not wish to meet her ? " "Bekaise, sir, she's unlucky — unlucky in the three ways — unlucky to man, unlucky to baste, and unlucky to business. She over- looks, sir ; she has the Evil Eye — the Lord be about us ! " "The Evil Eye," repeated Woodward, diyly ; "and pray, Avhat harm could her evil eye do you ? " " Why, nothing in the world," replied the man, naively, " barrin' to wither us off o' the earth — that's all." " Has she been long in this neighborhood ?" asked the stranger. " Too long, your honor. Sure she over- looked Biddy Nelli^an's child, and it never did good afterwards." " And I," said another, " am indebted to the thief o' hell for the loss of as good a cow as ever filled a piggin." "W^ell, sure," observed a third, "Father Mullen is goin' to read her o\it next Sun- day fi'om the althar. She has l)een banished from every paiish in the counthry. Indeed, I believe he's goin' to drown the candles agamst her, so that, plaise {lie Lord, she'll have to tramp." " How does she live and maintain her- self ? " asked the stranger again. "Why, sir," replied the man, "she tuck possession of a waste cabin and a bit o' gar- den belongin' to it ; and Larry Sullivan, that owns it, was goin' to put her out, when. Lord save us, he and his whole family wei'e saized with sickness, and then he sent Avord to her that if she'd take it off o' themjind put it on some one else he'd let her stay." " And did she do so ? " " She did, sir ; every one o' them recov- ered, and she put it on his neighbor, poor Harr y Commiskey and his family, that useiome moments — he was vanquished, and he felt it. " Wnat is the matter with you ? " said his companion at length, " and why did you look at. me with such a singiilar gaze ? I hope you do not feel resentment at what I said. I hesitated to believe you only be- cause I thouglit you might be mistaken." "I entertain no resentment against you," replied Woodward ; "but I must confess I feel astonished. Pray, allow me to ask, sii', are you a medical man ? " " Not at all," replied the other ; " I never received a medical education, and j^et I per- form a great number of cures." "Then, sir," said Woodwju'd, " I take it, with every respect, that you must be a quack." "Did you ever know a quack to work a cure without medicine ? " replied the other ; " / cure withcaf medicine, and that is more tliaji the qiiack is able to do with it ; I. con- sequently, cannot be a quack." " Tlien, in the devil's name, what are you ? " asked Woodward, who felt that his extraordinary fellow-traveller was amusing himself at his expense. " I reply to no interrogatory urged upon such authority." said the stranger ; " but let me advise you, young man, not to allow that mysterious and m:dignaut power which you seem to possess to gi'atify itself by in- jury to your fellow-creatui'es. Let it be the principal purjxjse of your life to serve them by every means within 3'our reach, other- wise you will neglect to your cost those great duties for which God created you. Farewell, my friend, and remember my words ; for they are uttered in a spirit of kindness and good feeling." They had now arrived at cross-roads ; the stranger turned to the right, and Woodward proceeded, as directed, toward EatMllaJL House, the residence of his father The building was a tolerably liu-ge and comfortable one, without any pretence to ai'chitectural beaut}-. Tt had a plain porch before the hall-door, v.ith a neat lawn, through which wound a jjretty drive up to the house. On each side of the lawni was a semicircle of fine old trees, that gave an an- cient appearance to the whole place. Now, one might imagine that Woodward would have felt his heart bound with affec- tion and delight on his return to all that ought to have been dear to him after so long an absence. So far from that, how- ever, he retuiTied in disapjjointment and ill- temper, for he calculated that vmless there had been some indefensible neglect, or un- justifiable otl'ence offered to his uncle Ham- ilton by his family, that gentleman, who, he knew, had the character of being both affec- tionate and good-natured, would never have left his property to a stranger. The aliena- tion of this projierty from himself was, in- deed, the bitter retiection which rankled in liis heart, and estabHshed in it a hatred against the Goodwins which he resolved by some means to wreak upon them in a spirit of the blackest vengeance. Indepen- dently of this, we feel it necessary to say here, that he was utterly devoid of domestic affection, and altogether insensible to the natural claims and feeUngs of consanguinity. His uncle abi'oad, for instance, had fi-equently urged him to pay a ^-isit to his relatives, and, of course, to supply him libei'ixlly with the necessary funds for the joui'ney. To every such suggestion, however, he gave a decided negative. " If they wish to see me," he would reply, "let them come and see me : as for me, I have no wish to see them, and I shall not go." This unnatural indifference to the claims of blood and affection, not only startled his uncle, but shook his confidence in the honor and integiTity of his favorite. Some further discoveries of his dishonesty ultimately led to his expulsion from the heart of that kind relative, as well as from the hospitable roof of which he proved himself so imworthy. With such a natural dispo.sition, and af- fected as he must have been by a train of circumstances so decidedly adverse to his hopes and prospects, our readers need not feel surprised that he should return home in an}-thing but an agi-eeable mood of mind. CHAPTER I\^ Woodward meets a Ouide — His Hereption at Some — Prepa ratio f IS for a Fete. Woodward rode slowly, as he indulged in those disagreeable reflections to which we alluded, until he reached a second cross- rf>ads. where he found himself somewhat at tf32 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. d loss whether to turn or ride straight on- ward. ^^^lile pausing for a moment, as to which way he should take, the meUow whistle of some person behind him indulging in a hght-heai-ted Irish air, caused him to look back, when he saw a well-made, com- pact, good-looking young fellow approach- ing, who, finding his attention evidently di- rected to him, concluded his melody and re- spectfully touched his hat." " Pray, my good fi-iend," said Woodward, " can you direct me to Eathfillan, the resi- dence of IVIi-. Lindsay, the magistrate ? " " IVlisther Lindsay's, is it ? " "Yes ; I said so." "WeU, I think I can, su'." " Yes ; but are you sure of it? " "Well, I think I am, su-." " You think ! why, d — n it, sir, do you aot know whether you are or not ? " " May I ax, sir," inquired the other in his tiu'n, " if you are a religious character ? " " Why, what the dexil has that to do with the matter in question ? " said Woodward, beginning to lose his temper. "I ask you to direct me to the residence of a certain gen- tleman, and you ask me whether I am a re- hgious character ? "VMiat do you mean by that ? " " Why, sir," rephed the man, " not much, I'm afeard — only if you had let me speak, which you didn't, God pardon you, I was go- ing to say, that if you knew the way to heaven as well as I do to IMisther Lindsay's you might call yourself a happy man, and bom to luck." Woodward looked with something of curi-. osity at his new companion, and was a good deal struck with his appearance. His age might be about twenty-eight or fi'om that to thirty; his figure stout and well-made ; his features were decidedly Milesian, but then they were INIilesian of the best character ; uis mouth was firm, but his lips full, red, and handsome ; his clear, merry eyes would puzzle one to determine whether they were gray or blue, so equally were the two colors blended in them. After a very brief conver- sation with him, no one could doubt that humor formed a predominant trait in his disposition. In fact, the spirit of the forth- coming jest was visible in his countenance before the jest itself came forth; but although his whole features bore a careless and buoy- ant expression, yet there was no mistaking in them the uncjuestionable evidences of gi-eat shrewdness and good sense. He also indulged occasionally in an ironical and comic sarcasm, which, however, was never di- rected against his friends ; this he reserved for certain individuals whose character en- titled them to it at liis liands. He also dreAV the long-bow, when he wished, with great skill and effect. Woodward, after havinff scrutinized his countenance for some timer was about to make some inquiries, as a stranger, concerning his family and the reputation they bore in the neighborhood, when he found himself, considerably to hia surprise, placed in the witness-box for a rather brisk fire of cross-examination. "You are no stranger in this part of the country, I presume," said he, with a view ol biinging him out for his own covert and somewhat ungenerous puiposes. " I am no stranger, sure enough, sir," replied the other, " so far as a good sHce ot the counthry side goes ; but if I am not you are, sii", or I'm out in it." " Yes, I am a stranger here." " Never mind, sii*, don't let that disthresa you ; it's a good man's case, sir. Did you thravel far, vrid submission? I spake in kindness, sir." " Why, yes, a — a — pretty good distance ; but about ]\Ii". Lindsay and — " " Yes, sir ; crossed over, sir, I suppose ? 1 mane fx'om the other side f " , " O ! you want to know if I crossed tht Channel?" "Had you a pleasant* passage, sir?" "Yes, tolerable." " Thank God ! I hope you'll make a long stay with us, sir, in this part of the counthry. If you have any business to do ^vith Mr. Lindsay — as of coorse you have — why, ] don't think you and he Avill quarrel ; and bj the way, sir, I know him and the family well, and if I only got a glimpse, I could throw in a word or two to guide you in daliu wid him — that is, if I knew the business." "As to that," rephed Woodward, "it is not Yerj particular ; I am only coming on a pretty long visit to him, and as you say you know the family, I would feel glad to heal what you think of them." " jVIisther Lindsay, or rather Misther Charles, and you will have a fine time of it, sir. There's delightful fishin' here, and the best of shootin' and huntin' in harvest and winter — that is, if you stop so long." " Wliat kind of a man is 'Mr. Lindsay ? " " A fine, clever * man, sir ; six feet in his stockin' soles, and made in proportion." "But I want to know nothing about hia figui-e ; is the man reputed good or bad ? " " Why, just good or bad, sir, according as he's treated." " Is he weU hked, then ? I trust you un- derstand me now." " By his friends, su*, no man betther — b} them that's his enemies, not so weU." * Portly, large, comely. THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 633 " You mentioned a son of his, Charles, I think ; what kind of a younj:? fellow is he ? " " Ver}' like his father, sir." "J see ; well, I thank you, my friend, for the liberality' of your iufoi-matiou. Has he any daughters ? " "Two, sii- ; but veiy unlike their mother." "WTiy, what kind of a woman w their mother ? " " She's a saint, sir, of a sartin class — ever and always at her prayers," {xotto voce, " such as they are — cursing her fellow-cratures from mornin' till night.") " Well, at all events, it is a good thing to be rehgious." "Devil a better, sir ; but she, as I said, is a saint //'0??i — heaven " {i^otto voce, " and very far from it too. ) But, sir, there's a lady in this neighborhood — I won't name her — that has a tongue as sharp and poisonous as if she lived on rattlesnakes ; and she has an eye of her own that they say is every bit as dangerous." " And who is she, my good fellow ? " "Why, a very intimate fiiend of ]\Irs. Lindsay's, and seldom out of her company. Now, sii', do you see that house wid the tall chimleys, or rather do you see the tail chim- leys — for you can't see the house itself? That's where the family we spake of lives, and there you'U see IVJts. Lindsay and the lady I mention." Woodward, in fact, knew not what to make of his guide ; he foimd him inscrut- able, and deemed it useless to attempt the extortion of any fvu'ther inteUigence from him. The latter was ignorant that Mrs, Lindsay's son was expected home, as was ever}' member of that gentleman's family. He had, in fact, given them no information of his return. The dishonest fi'aud which he had practised uj^on his uncle, and the apprehension that that good old man had transmitted an account of his delinquency to his relatives, prevented him from writing, lest he might, by subsequent falsehoods, contradict his uncle, and thereby involve himself in deeper disgrace. His imcle, however, was satisfied with having got rid of him, and foi-bore to render his relations un- happy by any complaint of his conduct. His hope was, that Wootlward's expulsion from his house, and the withdrawal of liis aftec- tions from him, might, upon reflection, cause him to turn over a new leaf — an eft'ort which would have been difficult, perliaps impracticable, had he transmitted to them a full explanation of his perfidy and ingrati- tude. A thought now occurred to Woodward with reference to himself. He saw that his guide, after having pointed out his father's house to him, was still keeping him com- pany. "Perhaps you ai*e coming out of 3'our way," said he ; "yoii have been good enough to show me ^Ix. Lindsay's residence, and 1 have no further occasion for your sen'ices. I thank you : take this and drink my health ; " and as he sjjoke he offered hini some silver. " Many thanks, sir," rephed the man, in a fai' different tone of voice, " many thanks ; but I never resave or take j^ayment for an act of civility, especitilly from any gentle man on his way to the family of ^Ir. Lindsay. And now, sir, I will tell you honestly and openly that there is not a better gentleman ! alive this day than he is. Himself, his son, and daughter * are loved and honored by all that know them ; and woe betide the man that 'ud dare to cruck (ci'ook) his finger at one of them." " You seem to know them very well." " I have a good right, sii-, seein' that I have been in the family ever since I was a gorson.' " And is !Mi-s. Lindsay as popular as her husband ? " " She is his wife, sir — the mother of hi? children, and my misthress ; afther that yov may judge for yoru'self." " Of course, then, you ai'e aware that thej have a son abroad." ^ " I am, sir, and a fine young man thev say he is. Nothing vexes them so much ai that he won't come to see them. He's nevei off their tongue ; and if he's aquil to wha» they say of him, upon my credit the sur needn't take the trouble of shinin' on him." "Have they any expectation of a visi/ fi'om him, do you know ? " " Not that I hear, sii- ; but I know that nothing would rise the cockles of theii- hearts aquil to seein' him among tliem. Poor fel- low ! Mr. Hamilton's will was a bad busi- ness for him, as it was thought he'd have danced into the jn-operty. But then, they say, his other uncle will provide for him, especiaDy as he took him from the family, by all accounts, on that condition." This information — if information it coidd be called — was nothing more nor less than wormwood and gaU to the gentleman on whose ears and into whose hele determination, and the most inexorable resentments. She was also ambitious, as fsir as she had scope for it, within her sphere of life, and would have been painfully penurious in her family, were it not thiit the fiery reso- lution of her husband, when excited by long and intolerable provocation, was at all times able to subdue her — a superiority over her will and authority wliich she never forgave him. Li fact, she noitlier loved himself, nor anything in common with him ; and the natural affection which he displayed on the return of her son was one reason why i^he received him with such apparent indifit'erence. To all the rest of the family she had a heart of stone. Since her second marriage they had lost three children ; but, so far as she was concerned, each of them went down into a tearless grave. She had once been hand- some ; but her beauty, like her son's, was severe and disagreeable. There is, however, such a class of beauty, and it is principally successful with men who have a peuchanl for overcoming difiiculties, because it is well kno^^•n that the fact of conciliating or sub- duing it is justly considered no ordiuaiT achievement. A great number of oui- old maids may trace theii" sohtude and theii* celibacy to the very questionable gift of such beaut}', and the dispositions which usually accompany it. She was tall, and had now grown thin, and her features had become sharj3ened by ill-temper into those of a fiesh- less, angular-faced vixen. Altogether she was a faithful exponent of her o^vn evil and intolerable disi)osition ; and it was said that she had inherited that and the "unlucky eye " from a family that was said to have been desenedly uni^opular, and equally un- scruj)ulous in their resentments. " Well, Hariy," said she, after the wann» hearted ebullition of feeling produced by his appearance had subsided, " so you have retui-ned to us at last ; but indeed you return now to a blank and dismal prospect. ]Miss Goodwin's adder tongue has charmed the dotage of your silly old uncle to some purpose for herself." " Confound it, Jenny," said her husband, " let the young man breathe, at least, before you bring up that eternal subject. Is not the matter over and decided '? and where is the use of your making both youi'self and us unhappy by discussing it ? " " It may be decided, but it is not over, Lindsay," she rephed ; "don't imagine it : I shall pursue the Goodwins, especially that sorceress, Alice, with a vengeance that will annul the will, and circumvent those who wheedled him into the making of it. My cui'se upon them all, as it will be ! " " Hany, when you become better ac- quainted with your mothor," said his step- 636 WILLIAM CARLETON'8 WORKS. father, " you will get sick of this. Have you breakfasted ; for that is more to the point ? " "I have, sir," replied the other ; " and you would scarcely guess where ; " and here he smiled and glanced significantly at his mother. "Whj', 1 suppose," said Lindsay, ."in whatever inn you stopped at." " No," he repHed ; " I was obhged to seek shelter from the storm last night, and where do you think I found it ? " " Heaven knows. "WTiiere ? " " Wliy, with your friend and neighbor, Mr. Goodwin." " No friend, Hany," said his mother ; " don't say that." " I slept there last night," he proceeded, "and breakfasted there this morning, and nothing could exceed the cordiality and kindness of my reception." " Did they know who j'^ou were ? " asked his mother, with evident interest. "Not till this morning, at breakfast." "Well," said she again, "when they heard it ? " " Why, their attention and kindness even redoubled," rej^lied her son ; " and as for Miss Goodwin herself, she's as elegant, as sweet, and as lovely a girl as I ever looked on. Mother, I beg you to entertain no implacable or inveterate enmity against her. I will stake my existence that she never stooj)ed to any fraudulent circumven- tion of my poor uncle. Take my word for it, the intent and execution of the will must be accounted for otherwise." "Well and ti-uly said, Harry," said his step-father — " well and generously said ; give me your hand, my boy ; thank you. Now, madam," he proceeded, addressing his tvife, " what have you to say to the opinion of a man who has lost so much by the trans- iction, when you hear that that opinion is jiven in her favor ? " "Indeed, my dear Harry," observed his sister, " she is all that you have said of her, and much more, if you knew her as we do ; she is all disinterestedness and truth, and the most unselfish girl that ever breathed." Now, there were two persons present who paused upon heariog this intelligence ; one of whom listened to it with unexpected pleasure, and" the other with mingled emo- tions of pleasure and pain. The first of these were Mrs. Lindsay, and the other her son Charles. Mrs. Lindsay, whose eyes were not for a moment off her son, under- stood the significant glance he had given her when he launched forth so heartily in the praise of Alice Goodwin ; neither did the same glance escape the observation of his brother Charles, who infen-ed, naturally enough, from the warmth of the eulogiuru that had been passed upon her, that she had made, perhaps, too favorable an impression upon his brother. Of this, however, the reader shall hear more -in due time. "Well," said the mother slowly, and in a meditating voice, " perhaps, after aU, we may have done her injustice. If so, no per- son would regi-et it more than myself ; but we shall see. You parted from them, Harrj^ on friendly terms ? " " I did, indeed, my dear mother, and am permitted, almost solicited, to make their further acquaintance, and cultivate a friendly intimacy with them, which I am determined to do." "Bravo, Hariy, my fine fellow; and we will be on fr-iendly terms with them once more. Poor, honest, and honorable old Goodwin ! what a pity that either disunion or enmity should subsist between us. No ; the families must be once more cordial and affec- tionate, as they ought to be. Bravo, Harry ! your return is prophetic of peace and good feeling ; and, confound me, but you shall have a bonfire this night for your generosity that will shame the sun. The tar-barrels shall blaze, and the beer-barrels shall run to cele- brate yoirr appearance amongst us. Come, Charley, let us go to Rathfillan, and get the townsfolk to prejDare for the fete : we must have fiddlers and pipers, and plenty of dan- cing. Barney Casey must go among the tenants, too, and order them aU into the town. Mat Mulcahy, the inn-keeper, must give us his best room ; and, my life to yours, we will have a pleasant night of it." " George," exclaimed his wife, in a tone of querulous remonstrance, "you know how expensive — " " Confound the expense and your penury both," exclaimed her husband ; "is it to your own son, on his return to us after such an absence, that you'd gz-udge the expense of a blazing bonfire ? " " Not the bonfire," replied his wife, "but — " "Ay, but the cost of drink to the tenants. Wliy, uj)on my soul, Harry, yoirr mother is anything but popular here, you must know ; and I think if it were not from respect to me and the rest of the family she'd be indicted for a witch. Gadzooks, Jenny, will I never get sense or hberaHty into your head ? Aj^ and if you go on after your usual fashion, it is not unlikely that you may have a tar- bar- rel of your own before long. Go, you and Harry, and tell your secrets to each other while we prepare for the jubilation. In the meantime, we must get up an extempore din- ner to-day — the set dinner will come in due time, and be a different affair ; but at all TEE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 637 events some of the neighbors we must have to join us in the jovialities — hurroo ! " " Well, George," said she, with her own pecuhar smile, " I see you are in one of your moods to-day." " Ay, right enough, the imperative one, my deal'." " And, so far as I am concerned, it would not ceiiainly become me to stand in the way of any honor bestowed upon my son Harry ; BO I perceive you must only have it your own way — / coiisi'iit." " I don't care a fig whether you do or not. When matters come to a push, I am always master of my own house, and ever Avill be so — and you know it. Good-by, Hariy, we will be back in time for dinner, with as many friends as we can pick up on so short notice — hurroo ! " He and Charles accordingly went forth to make the necessfuy preparations, and give due notice of the bonfii-e, after which they succeeded in securing the attendance of about a dozen guests to partake of the festivity. Barney, in the meantime, having recei^^ed his orders for collecting, or, as it was then caUed, tvarniug in the tenantry to the forth- coming bonfire, proceeded upon his message in high spirits, not on account of the honor it was designed to confer on Woodward, against whom he had Jih'eady conceived a strong antipathy, in consequence of the re- semblance he bore to his mothei*, but for the sake of the fun and amusement which he purposed to enjoy at it himself. The fii-st house he went into was a small country cabin, such as a petty farmer of five or six acres at that time occupied. The door was not of wood, but of wicker-work woven across long wattles and plastered over with clay mortar. The house had two small holes in the front side-walls to admit the light ; but during severe weather these were filled up '(vith straw or rags to keep out the storm. Oa one side of the door stood a large cnrra, or, " ould man," for it was occasionally termed both — composed of brambles and wattles tied up lengthwise together — about the height of a man and as thick as an ordinary sack. This was used, as they termed it, " to keep the \vind fi-om the door." If the blast came from the right, it was placed on that side, and if from the left, it was changed to the opjiosite. Chimneys, at that period, were to be found only upon the . houses of extensive and wealthy farmers, the only substitute for them being a simple hole in the roof over the fireplace. The small farmer in question cultivated his acres with a spade : and after sowing his grain he liar- rowed it in with a large thorn bush, which he himself, or one of his sons, dragged over it with a heavy stone on the top to keep i< close to the surface. When Barney entered this cabin he found the vanithee, or woman ol the house, engaged in the act of giindinj^ oats into meal for their dinner with a quern, consisting of two diminutive millstones turned by the hand ; this was placed upon a 2)ra.skeen, or coai'se apron, spread imder it on the floor to receive the meal. An old woman, her mother, sat spinning flax with the distafl" — for as yet flax wheels were scarce- ly knowai — and a lubberly young fellow aboul sixteen, with able, well shaped limbs and gi-eat promise of bodily strength, sat before the fire managing a double task, to wit, roast- ing, first, a lot of potatoes in the yreeahaugh, which consisted of hidf embers and halt ashes, glowing hot ; and, secondly, at a little distance from the larger lighted tui-f, two duck eggs, which, as well as the potatoes, he turned from time to time, that they might be equally done. All this he conduct- ed by the aid of what was termed a m uddha vrislJia, or i-ustic tongs, which was nothing more than a wattle, or stick, broken in the middle, between the ends of which he held both his potatoes and his eggs while turning them. Two good-looking, fresh-colored girls were squatted on theii- htdikerfi (hams), cut' ting potatoes for seed — late as the season was— <^with two case knives, which had been bori'owed from a neighboring farmer of some wealth. The dress of the women was similar and simple. It consisted of a long-bodied gowTi that had only half skirts ; that is to say, instead of encompassing the whole per- son, the lower part of it came forward only as far as the hip bones, on each side, learin^ the fr'ont of the petticoat exjjosed. Thi.s posterior part of the gown would, if left to fall to its full length, have formed a train behind them of at least two feet in length. It was pinned up, however, to a convenient length, and was not at all an ungraceful garment, if we except the sleeves, which went no farther than the elbows — a fashion in dress which is always unbecoming, especially when the arms are thin. The hafr of the elder woman was douljled back in front, fo'om about the middle of the forehead, and the rest of the head was covered by a dowd cap, the most primitive of all female head- dresses, being a plain shell, or skull-cap, as it were, for the head, pointed behind, and without any fr-inge or btnxler whatsoever. This turning up of the hair was peculiai only to married life, of whic;h condition i\ was univers;dly a badge. The young females wore theirs fastened behind by a skewer, but on this occasion one of them, the young- est, allowed it to fall in natural ringlets about her cheeks and shoulders. (J38 willtam carleton's works. " God save all here," said Barney, as he entered the house. " God save you kindly, Barney," was the instant reply from all. •' Ah, IVIrs. Davoren," he proceeded, " ever the same ; by this and by that, if there's a woman li\diig ignorant of one thing, and you are that woman." " Sorrow oft" you, Barney ! well, what is it ? " "Idleness, achora. Now, let me see if you have e'er a finger at all to show ; for up- on my honorable word they ought to be worn to the stumps long ago. "Well, and how are you all? But sure I needn't ax. Faith, you're cinishin' the blanther* anyhow, and that looks well." " We must hve, Barney ; 'tis a poor shift we'd make 'idout the praties and the broghan," (meal porridge). "What news fi'om the big house?" " News, is it ? Come, Corney, come, girls, bounce ; news is it ? O, faitha', thin it's I that has the news that will make you all shake your feet to-night." "Blessed saints, Barney what is it?" " Bounce, I say, and off wid ye to gather briisna (dried and rotten brambles) for a bon- fire in the gi-eat town of Kathfillan." " A bonfire, Barney ! Ai-ra, why, man alive?" " "Wliy ? Why, bekaise the masther's. step- son and the mistlii'ess's own pet has come home to us to set the counthiy into a state o' conflagi'ation wid his beaut}'. There won't be a whole cap in the barony before this daj^ week. They're to have fiddlers, and pipers, and dancin', and drinkin' to no end ; and the glory of it is tliat the masther, God bless him, is to pay for all. Now ! '" The younger of the two girls sprang to her feet with the elasticity' and agility of a deer. " 0, heetha, Barney," she exclaimed, " but that will be the fun ! And the misthress's son is home? Arra, what is he like, Bar- ney ? Is he as handsome as Masther Charles ? " " I hope he's as good," ssid her mother. "As good, Bridget? No, but Avorth a shipload of him ; he has a pair of eyes in his head, Granua," {anglice, Grace,) addressing the younger, " that 'ud tui-n Glendhis (the dark glen) to noonday at midniglit ; divil a lie in it ; and his hand's never out of his pocket Avid generosity." " O, mother," said Grace, " won't we all go?" "Don't ax your mother anything about • Blanter, a well-known description of oats. It w.as so oallecl from having been originally imported from Blantire in Scotland. it," ref)hed Barney, " bekaise mother, and father, and sister, and brother, daughter and son, is all to come." " Arra, Barney," said Bridget Davoren, for such was her name, " is this gentleman hke his emld of a mother ? " " Hasn't a featui-e of her pui'ty face, "he re- pHed, " and, to the back o' that, is very much given to religion. Troth, my own opinion is, he'll be one of ourselves yet ; for I can tell you a saicret about him>" " A saicret, Barney," said Grace ; " maybe he's married ? " " MaiTied, no ; he tould me himself this mornin' that it's not his intention ever to marry 'till he meets a purty girl to plaise him ; he'll keep a loose foot' he says, and an aisy conscience till then, he says ; but the saicret is this, he never aits flesh mate of a Friday — when he can't get it. Indeed, I'm afeared he's too good to be long for this world ; but still, if the Lord was to take him, wouldn't it be a proof that he had a great regard for him ! " Grace Davoren was flushed and excited ■udth delight. She was about eighteen, rather tall for her age, but roundly and ex- quisitely moulded ; her glossy ringlets, as the}' danced about her cheeks and shoulders, were black as ebony ; but she was no bru- nette ; for her skin was milk white, and that poi-tion of her bosom, which was uncovered by the simple nature of her dress, threw back a poHshed light like ivory ; her figure was perfection, and her white legs were a finer specimen of symmetry than ever sup- ported the body of the Venus de Medicis. This was all excellent ; but it was the spark- ling lustre of her eyes, and the radiance of her whole countenance, that attracted the beholder. If there was anything to be found fault with, it was in the spirit, not in the physical perfection, of her beauty. There was, for instance, too much warmth of color- ing and of constitution visible in her whole exquisite j^erson ; and sometimes her glances would puzzle you to determine whether they were those of innocence or of challenge. Be this as it may, she was a rare specimen of rustic beauty and buoyancy of spirit. "O, Barney," said she, "that's the pleas- antest news I heard this month o' Sundays ■ — sich dancin' as we'll have ! and maj'be I won't foot it, and me got my new shoes and drugget gown last week ; " and here she lilted a gay Ii-ish air, to which she set a-dancing with a lightness of foot and vivacity of man- ner that threw her whole countenance into a most exquisite glow of mirthful beauty. " Granua," said her mother, reprovingly, " think of 3'ourself and Avhat you arc about ; if you worn't a liglit-hearted, and, I'm afeard. THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 639 a light-headed, girl, too, you wouldn't go on as you do, especially when you know what you know, and what Barney here, too, knows." " Ah," said Baniey, liis whole manner im- mediately changing, " have you heard from him, poor fellow?" " Torle3''s gone to the mountains," she re- plied, " and — but here he is. Well, Torley, what news, asthoi'e ? " Her husband having passed a friendly greeting to Barney, sat down, and having taken off his hat, lifted the skirt of his cothamore (big coat) and wiped the per- spiration off his large and manly forehead, on which, however, were the traces of deep care. He did not speak for some time, but at length said : " Bridget, give me a drink." His wife took a wooden noggin, which she dipped into a chui-n and handed him. Hav- ing finished it at a draught, he wiped his mouth with his gathered palm, breathed deeply, but was still silent. " Torley, did you hear me ? "WTiat news of that unfortunate boy ? " " No news, Bridget, at least no good news ; the boy's an outlaw, and will be an outlaw — or rather he won't be an outlaw long ; they'll get him soon." " But why would they get him ? hasn't he sense enough to keep from them ? " " That's just what he has not, Bridget ; he has left the mountains and come down some- where to the Lifield country ; but where, I cannot make out." "Well, asthore, hell only bi-ing on his own punishment. Troth, I'm not a bit sony that Gi'anua missed him. I never was to say, /br the match, but you shovdd have your way, and force the gii-1 there to it, over and above. Of what use is his land and wealth to him now ? " "God's will be done," replied her hus- band, sorrowfully. "As for me, I can do no more in it, nor I won't. I was doing the best for my child. He'll be guided by no one's adWce but his own." "That's true," replied his wife, "you did. But here's Barney Casey, from the big house, comin' to wara the tenantry to a bonfire that's to be made to-night in Ratlifillan, out of rejoicin' for the misthress's son that's come home to them." Here Baniey once more repeated the mes- sage, with which the reader is already ac- quainted. " You are all to come," he proceeded, " oiild and young ; and to bring evers" one a backload of sticks and brumia to help to make the bonfire." "Is this message fi'om the mnsfhcr or misthress, Barney ? " asked Davoren. [ " O, straight from himself," he replied. "I have it from his own lips. Troth he's I ready to leap out of his skin wid dehght." ' " Bekaise," added Davoren, " if it came from the misthress, the soitow foot either 1 or any one of mv family would set neai* her ; but fr'om himself, that s a horse of another color. Tell him, Bai-ne}', we'll be there, and bring what we can to help the bonfire." Until this moment the young fellow at the fire never uttered a syllable, nor seemed in the slightest degi-ee conscious that there was any person in the house but himself. He was now engaged in masticating the potatoes and eggs, the latter of which he ate with a thin splinter of bog deal, which sen'ed as a substitute for an egg-spoon, and which is to this day used among the poor for the same pui-jjose in the remoter parts of Ireland. At length he spoke : " This won't be a good night for a bonfire anj'how." "^\Tiy, Andy, abouchal?" (my boy.) "Bekaise, mudher, the storm loag in the fire* last night when I was rakin' it." " Then we'll have rough weather," said his father ; " no doubt of that." " Don't be afeard," said Barney, laughing ; " take my word for it, if there's to be rough weather, and that some witch or wizju'd has broken bargain -ndth the devil, the misthi-ess has intherest to get it put off tiU the bonfire's over." He then bade them good-by, and took his departure to fulfil his agreeable and welcome mission. Indeed, he spent the gi-eater i^or- tion of the day not only in going among the tenants in person, but in sending the pur- port of the said mission to be borne upon the four winds of heaven through eveiy quarter of the bai'ony ; after which he pro- ceeded to the Uttle market- town of Eathfil- lan, where he seciu-ed the services of two fiddlers and two j^ipers. This being accom- phshed, he returned home to his master's, ripe and ready for both dinner and supper ; for, as he had missed the former meal, he deemed it most judicious to kill, as he said, the two birds with one stone, by demohsh- ing them both together. * This is a singular phenomenon, which, so fai as I am aware, has never j'et been noticed by any Irish or Scotch writers when describing the habits and usages of the people in either country. When stirring the (jre^shtiiifih, or red-hot ashes, at night at the settling, or mending, or raking of the fire, a blue, phosphoric-looking light is distinctly visible in the embers, and the more visible in proportion to the feeblene.ss of the light emitted by the fire. It is only during certain states of the atmosphere that this is seen. It is always considered as ri prognostic of severe weather, and Its appearance U termed a.s ahove. 640 WILLIAM CARLETOIPS WORKS. CHAPTEE V. The Bonfire — The Prodigy. Andy Davoren's prognostic, so far as the ^pearance of the weather went, seemed, at a first glance, to be hterally built on ashes. A calm, mild, and glorious serenity lay upon the earth ; the atmosphere was clear and golden ; the hght of the sun shot in broad, transparent beams across the wooded valleys, and poured its radiance upon the forest tops, which seemed empurpled ■v^dth its rich and glowing tones. All the usual signs of change or rough weather were wanting. Ever}i;hing was quiet ; and a general stillness was abroad, which, when a sound did occur, caused it to be heard at an unusual distance. Not a breath of air sth-red the trees, which stood as motionless as if they had been carved of marble. Notwithstanding all these auspicious appeai'ances, there were visible to a clear observer of nature some significant symptoms of a change. The surfaces of pools and rivers were covered with large white bubbles, which are always considered AS indications of coming rain. The dung heaps, and the pools generally attached to them, emitted a fetid and oifensive smell ; and the pigs were seen to cany straw into their sties, or such rude covers as had been constructed for them. In the meantime the dinner party in Lind- say's were enjoj'ing themselves in a spirit quite as genial as bis hospitahty. It con- sisted of two or three countiy sqviires, a Captain Dowd — seldom sober — a pair of twin brothers, named Gumming, with a couple of half sirs — a class of persons who bore the same relation to a gentleman that a salmon-trout does to a salmon. The Protes- tant clerg}-man of the parish was there — a jocund, ratthng fellow, who loved his glass, ins dog, his gun, and, if fame did not belie him, paid more devotion to his own enjoy- ments than he did to his Bible. He dressed in the extreme of fashion, and was a regular dandy parson of that day. There also was Father Magauran, the parish priest, a rosy- faced, jorial little man, vnih. a humorous twinkle in his blue eye, and an anterior ro- tundity of person that betokened a moderate rehsh for the conviviahties. Altogether it was a merry meeting ; and of the host him- self it might be said that he held as con- spicuous a place in the mirth as he did in the hospitality. "Come, gentleman," said he, after the ladies had retired to the withdrawing-room, " come, gentlemen, fill high; fill your glasses." "Troth," said the priest, "we'd put a heap »n them, if we could." " Eight, Father Magauran ; do put a Aeap on them, if you can ; but, at all events, let them be brimmers ; I'm going to propose a toast." "Let it be a lady, Lindsay, if you love me," said the parson, filling his glass. " SoiTa hair I care if it is," said the priest, "prorided she's dacent and attends her duty ; go on, squire ; give us her name at once, and don't keep the parson's teeth wateiing." " Be quiet, reverend gentlemen," said Lindsay, laughing ; " how can a man speak when you take the words out of his mouth ? " "The Lord forbid we'd swallow theio, though," subjoined the j)arson ; "if we did, we'd not be long in a state of decent so briety." " Talk about something you understand my worthy fiiends, and allow me to pro ceed," replied the host ; " don't you kno\» that every interrujDtion keeps you fi'om your glass ? Gentlemen, I have great pleasure in j)roposing the health of my excellent amd worthy step-son, who has, after a long ab- sence, made me and all my family happy by his return amongst us. I am sure you will all Hke him when you come to know him, and that the longer you know him, the better you will like him. Come now, let me see the bottom of eveiy man's glass uppermost, I do not address myself directly to the par- son or the priest, because that, I know, would be, as the latter must admit, a want of confidence in theu- kindness. "Parson," said the priest, in a whisper, " that last obsei-vation is gi'atifying from Lindsay." " Lindsay is a gentleman," rephed the other, in the same voice ; " and the most popular magistrate in the bai'ony. Come, then." Here the worthy gentleman's health was drank -with great enthusiasm, after which he thanked them in very grateful and courteous terms, paying at the same time, some rather handsome comphments to the two clergy- men with respect to the appropriate gravity and exquisite poUsh of their manners. He saw the rapidity with which they had gulped down the wine, and felt their rudeness in inteiTupting IVIi-. Lindsay, when about to proj^ose his health, as offensive, and he re- torted it upon them with peculiar irony, that being one of the talents, M'hich, among others, he had inherited fi-om his mother. "I cannot but feel myself hapiDy," said he, "in returning to the roof of so hospitable a father ; but sensible to the influences of re- ligion, as I humbly trust I am, I must ex- press a still higher gratification in having the dehghtful opportunity of making the ac- THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. «41 quaintance of two reverend gentlemen, whose proper and becoming example wiU, I am ' Bure, guide my steps — if I have only gi*ace to follow it — into those serious and primi- tive habits which characterize themselves, and are so decent and exemplar}' in the min- isters of religion. They may talk of the light of the gospel ; but, if I don't mist:ike, the hght of the gospel itself might pale its ineffectual fires before that which shines in their apostolic countenances." The mirth occasioned by this covert, but i comical, rebuke, fell rather humorously upon i the two worthy gentlemen, who, being cer- tainly good-natured and excellent men, . laughed heai-tily. j " That's a neat speech," said the parson, " but not exactly appropriate. Father Tom and I are quite unworthy of the compHment he has paid us." " Neat," said Father Tom ; " I don't know whether the gentleman has a profession or not ; but from the tone and sjDirit in which he spoke, I think that if he has taken up any other than that of his church, he has missed his vocation. My dear parson, he talks of the Hght of our countenances — a light that is lit by hospitahty on the one hand, and moderate social enjo^Tuent on the other. It is a Hght, however, that neither of us would exchange for a pale face and an eye that seems to have something mysterious at the back of it." " Come, come, Harry," said Lindsay, " you mustn't be bantering these two gentle- men ; as I said of yourself, the longer you know them the better you wiU reHsh them. They have both too much sense to cany reHgion about with them like a pair of hawkers, crving out ' wholl buy, who'U buy ;' neither do they wear long faces, nor make themselves disagreeable by dragging reHgion into ever}' subject that becomes the topic of conversation. On the contrary-, they are cheerful, moderately social, and to my own knowledge, with all their pleasantry, are active exjjonents of much practical benevo- lence to the poor. Come, man, take your wine, and enjoy good company." " Lindsay," said one of the guests, a ma- gistrate, " how are we to get the country quiet? Those rapparees and outlaws will play the devil with us if we don't put them do\vn. That young scoundrel, Shaivn na Middogue, is at the head of them it is said, and, it would seem, possesses the 'power of making himself iurisible ; for we cannot possibly come at him, although he has been often seen by others." " "\Miv, what has been Shawn's last ex- ploit?"' " Nothing that I have heard of since 21 Bingham's robbery ; but there is none of us safe. Have you your house and premises seciu-ed ? " "Not I," replied Lindsay, "unless by good bolts and bars, together with plenty of arms and ammunition." " How is it that these fellows are not taken ? " asked another. " Because the people protect them," said a third ; " and because they have strength and activity ; and thirdly, because we Imve no adequate force to put them down." "All very sound reasons," repHed the querist ; but as to Shaicn na Middogue, the peoj)le are impressed with a belief that he is under the protection of the fames, and can't be taken on this account. Even if they were willing to give him up, which they are not, they dare not make the attempt, lest the vengeance of the fairies might come down on themselves and their cattle, in a thousand shajjes." " I will tell you what the general opinion upon the subject is," repHed the other. " It seems his foster-mother was a midwife, and that she was caUed upon once, about the hour of midnight, to discharge the duties of her profession toward a faii-j-man's wife, and this she refused to do unless they con- ferred some gift either upon herself per- sonaHy, or upon some one whom she should name. Young Shawn, it appeal's, was her favorite, and she got a solemn promise from them to take him under their protection, and to preserve him from danger. This is the opinion of the peojile ; but whether it is true or not I won't undertake to deter- mine." " Come, gentlemen," said their host, "push the bottle ; remember we must attend the bonfire." "So," said the magistrate, "you are send- ing us to blazes, ^Ii\ Lindsay." " WeU, at aU events, my friends," con- tinued !Mi'. Lindsay, " we must make haste, for there's Httle time to spare. Take your Hquor, for we must soon be oft". The even- ing is dehghtful. If you ai'e for coftee, let us adjoui-n to the ladies ; and after the bon- fire we will return and make a night of it." " Well said, Lindsay," repHed the parson ; " and so we wiU." "Here, you young stranger," said the priest, addressing Woodward, " I'U drink your health once more in this bumper. You touched us off decently enough, but a Httle too much on the sharj), as you would admit if you knew us. Your health again, sir, and you are welcome among us ! " " Thank you, sii-," repHed Woodward ; " 1 am glad to see that you can bear a jest from 642 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. me or my father, even when it is at your own expense — your health." "Are you a si^ortsman ? " asked the par- son ; "because, if you ai-e not, just put youi-- self mider my patronage, and I will teach you something worth knowing. I -noU let you see what shooting and hunting mean." " I am a bit of one," rephed Woodward, " but shall be very happy to put myself into your hand, notwithstanding." " If I don't lengthen youi' face I shall raise your heart," proceeded the divine. "If I don't make a sj^ortsman of you — " "Ay," added the priest, "you wiU find yourself in excellent hands, ]\Ii\ Woodward." "If I don't make a sportsman of you — confound your grinning. Father Tom, what are you at? — I'U make a far better thing of you' that is, a good fellow, always, of course, provided that you have the materials in you." " Not a doubt of it," added Father Tom ; " you'll jjoHsh the same youth until he shines lik e j-oiu'self or his worihy father here. He'll give you a complexion, my boy — a com- modity that you sadly want at present." The evening was now too far advanced to think of haAing coffee— a beverage, by the way, to which scarcely a single soul of them was addicted. They accordingly got to their legs, and as darkness was setting in they set out for the village to witness the re- joicings. Young Woodwaixl, however, fol- lowed his brother to the drawing-room, whither he had betaken himself at an eai'ly hour after dinner. Under theu- escoi't, their mother and sister accompanied them to the bonfire. The whole towoi was hterally alive with animation and dehght. The news of the intended bonfire had gone rapidly abroad, and the countr}' people crowded into the tow^l in hundreds. Nothing can at any time exceed the enthusiasm with which the Ii'ish enter into and enjoy scenes like that to which they now flocked with such exuberant spirits. BeUs were ringmg, drums were beating, fifes were playing in the to-v\Ti, and honis sounding in every direction, both in town and countiy. The people were appa- relled in their best costume, and many of them in that equivocal description of it which could scarcely be termed costume at all. Bareheaded and bai'efooted multitudes of both sexes were present, regardless of ap- pearances, half mad with dehght, and ex- hibiting many a froHc and gambol consider- ably at vai'iance with the etiquette of fashion- able hfe, iilthough we question whether the most fashionable /ete of them all ever pro- duced lialf so much haj^piness. Farmers had come from a distance in the country, mounted upon lank horses ornamented with ' incrusted hips, and caparisoned with long straw back-suggauns that reached fi'om the shoidders to the tail, under which ran a , crupper of the same material, designed, in ! addition to a hay gu'th, to keep this piimi- tive riding gear tu-m upon the animal's back. 1 Behind the fanner, generally sat either a I wife or a daughter, remarkable for their , scarlet cloaks and blue petticoats ; some- ! times with shoes and stockings, and very I often ■sx'ith out them. Among those assembled, we cannot omit to mention a pretty numer- ous sprinkling of that class of strollers, vagabonds, and impostors with which the country, at the period of our tale, was over- run. Fortune-tellers, of both sexes, quacks, cardcutters, herbahsts, cow-doctors, whisjjer- ers, with a long hst of such cheats, were at the time a prevailing nuisance thi'oughout the kingdom ; nor was there a fail' proportion of them wantmg here. That, however, which filled the people with the most especial ciui- osity, awe, and interest, was the general re- port that nothing less than a live conjurer, who had come to town on that very evening, was then among them. The town, in fact, was crowded as if it had been for an illumi- nation ; but as illuminations, imless they could be conducted ^ith rushhghts, were pageants altogether uuknov\Ti in such small remote to'wns as BathfiUan, the notion of one had never entered theu- heads. All around the coimtry, however, even for many miles, the bonfii-es were blazing, and shone at im- mense distances fi'om every hill-top. We have said before that Lindsay was both a popular landlord and a popular magistrate ; and on this account alone the disposition to do honor to an}' member of his family was recognized by the people as an act of grati- tude and duty. The town of BathfiUan presented a scene of which we who hve in the present day can form but a faint conception. Yet, sooth to say, we ourselves have, about forty years ago, witnessed in remote glens and mountain fast- nesses httle clumps of cabins, whose inhabi- tants stood still in the midst even of the snail's jDrogi'ess which cirilization had made in the rustic parts of Ii'eland ; and who, up- on examination, presented almost the same rude personal habits, antiquated social usa- ges, agricultural ignorance, and ineradicable superstition as their ancestors did in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Lindsay, know- ing how unpoi^ular his wife M-as, not only among their omti tenantiy, but throughout the coimtry at large, and feeling, besides, how well that unpopularity was merited, veiy properly left her and Maria to his son Charles, knowing that as the two last named shared in the good-wiU which the people THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 645 bOi'e liim, their mother would be treated with forbeai'conce and respect so long as she was in their company. He \\-ished, besides, that HaiTV shoidd seem to partake of the honor and gratitude which their enthusiasm would prompt them to pay to himself. The whole town was one scene of life, bustle, and eujoj-ment. It was studded with bonfires, which were surrounded by wild gi'oups of both sexes, some tolerably dressed, some ragged as Lazjirus, and others young urchins witli nothing but a sUp of I'ag tied about their loins "to make them look jinteel and daicent." The monster bonfire, however — that which was piled up into an immense pyramid in honor of the stranger — was not ignited until the amval of the quahty. The moment the latter made theii* appearance it was set in a flame, and in a few minutes a blaze issued up fi-om it into the air that not only dimmed the minor exhibitions, but cast its huge glai*e over the whole town, making everv' house and hut as distinctly visible as if it were broad daylight. Then commenced the huzzaing — the bells i-ang out with double energy — the drums were beaten more furi- ously-^the large bullocks' horas were sound- ed until those who blew them were bkick in the face, and eveiy manifestation of joy that could be made was resorted to. Fiddles and pipes were in busy requisition, and " the Boys of Rathfillan," the favorite local air, resounded in every direction. And now that the master and the quahty had made their appeai'ance, of course the diink should soon foUow, and in a short time the hints to that effect began to thicken. "Thunder and tiu-f. Jemmy, but this is dry work ; my throat's like a hme-biu-ner's wig for want of a drop o' something to help me for the cheerin'." "Hould yoiu' tongue, Paddy; do you think the masther's honor would allow us to lose our voices in his behalf. It's himself that hasn't his heart in a tinJie, God bless him." "Ah, thin, your honor," said another fel- low, in tatters, "isn't this dust and hate enough to choke a bishop ? O Lord, am I able to spake at all ? Upon my sow], sir, I think there's a bonfire in my tkroath." Everything, however, had been prepared to meet these demands ; and in about a quai-ter of an horn* baiTcls of beer and kegs of whiskey were placed under the manage- ment of persons appointed to deal out their contents to the thii'sty crowds. Then com- menced the dancing, whilst the huzzaing, shouting, jingling of bells, squeaking of fifes, blowing of horns, and all the other com- ponent i^arts of this vrild melody, were once more resumed with still greater vigor. The great feat of the night, however, so far as the people were concerned, was now to take place. This was to ascei-tain, by supeiior acti\-ity, who among the young men could leap over the bonlii-e, when burnt dovtTi to what was considered such a state as might make the attempt a safe one. Tlie circles about the diffei'ent fires were consequently widened to leave room for the run, and then commenced those hazardous but comic per- formances. As may be supposed, they pro- ceeded with various success, and occasioned the most uproarious mh-th whenever any unfortunate devU who had overtasked his powei's in the attempt, haj^pened to fail, and was forced to scamper out of the subsiding flames "svith scorched Hmbs that set him a dancing Arithout music. In fact, those pos- sessed of activity enough to clear them were loudly cheered, and rewarded with a glass of whiskey, a temptation which had mduced so many to try, and so many to fail. When these had been concluded about the minor fii-es, the victors and spectators repaired to the great one, to try theii- fortune upon a larger and more hazardous scale. It was now , nearly half burned down, but was still a large, glowing mass, at least five feet high, and not less than eighteen in diameter at the base. On arriving there they all looked on in silence, appalled by its great size, and altogether deterred from so formidable an attempt. It would be death to try it, they exclaimed ; no h^ing man could do it ; an opinion which was universally acceded to, with one single exception. A thin man, rather above the middle size, dressed in a long, black coat, black breeches, and black stockings, consti- tuted that exception. There was something ; peculiar, and even strikingly mysterious, in ' his whole appearance. His complexion was pale as that of a coi^Dse, his eyes dead and glassy, and the muscles of his face seemed as if they were paralyzed and could not move. His right hand was thiaist in his bosom, and over his left ai-m he bore some dark gar- ment of a very funereal cast, almost remind- ing one of a mortcloth. "There is one," sjxid he, in a hollow and sepulchi'jd voice, "that could do it." Father ^lagaui-an, who was present, looked at him with sui-prise ; as indeed did every one who had got an opportunity of seeing him. " I know there is," he repHed, " a sai-tin indiridual who could do it ; ay, in troth, and maybe if he fell into the flames, too, he'd only fijid himself in his ow7i element ; and if it went to that could dance a hornpipe in the middle of it." This repartee of the priest's elicited loud 644 WILLIAM CAELETON'8 WORKS. laughter from the by-standers, who, on tm-n- ing rovmd to see how the other bore it, found that he had disappeared. This occa- sioned considerable amazement, not unmixed with a still more extraordinary feeling. No- body there knew him, nor had ever even seen him before ; and in a short time the impression began to gain ground that he must have been no other than the conjurer who was said to have arrived in the tovm that day. In the meantime, while this point was imder discussion, a clear, loud, but very mellow voice was heard about twenty yai'ds above them, saying, " Stand aside, and make way — leave me room for a mn." The cvu'iosity of the people was at once excited by what they had only a few minutes before pronounced to be a feat that was im- possible to be accomplished. They accord- ingly opened a lane for the daiing individual, who, they imagined, was about to submit himself to a scorching that might cost him his life. No sooner was the lane made, and the by-standers removed back, than a jDer- son evidently youthful, tall, elastic, and muscular, approached the burning mass with the speed and Hghtness of a deer, and flew over it as if he had wings. A tremen- dous shout biu'st forth, which lasted for more than a minute, and the people were about to bring him to receive his reward at the whiskey keg, when it was found that he also had disappeared. This puzzled them once more, and they began to think that there were more present at these bonfii-es than had ever received baptism ; for they could scarcely shake themselves free of the belief that the mysterious stranger either was something supernatvirally evil himself, or else the conjurer as aforesaid, who, by all accounts, was not many steps removed from such a personage. Of the young person who performed this unprecedented and tenible exploit they had Httle time to take any no- tice. Torley Davoren, however, who was one of the spectators, tm-ned roimd to his ^ife and whispered, "Unfortunate boy — madman I ought to say — what devil tempted him to come here ? " " "Was it him ? " asked his wife. " WTiist, whist," he rephed ; " let us say no more about it." In the meantime, although the youthful performer of this daring feat may be said to have passed among them like an arrow from a bow, yet it so happened that the secret of his identity did not rest solely viith Torle}' Davoren. In a few minutes whisperings be- gan to take place, which spread gradually through the crowd, until at length the name of Shawn na Middogue was openly pro- nounced, and the secret — now one no longer — was instantly sent abroad through the people, to whom his fearful leap was now no miracle. The impression so long entertain- ed of his connection with the fairies was thus confirmed, and the black stranger was no other, perhaps, than the king of the fairies himself. At this period of the proceedings Mrs. Lindsay, in consequence of some significant whispers which were dii'ectly levelled at her character, suggested to Maria that having seen enough of these wild proceedings, it would be more ad^-isable to return home — a suggestion to which Maria, whose presence there at all was in deference to her father's wishes, veiy gladly consented. They ac- cordingly j)laced themselves under the escort of the redoubtable and gallant tvtins, and reached home in safety. It was now expected that the quality woidd go down to the inn, where the largest room had been fitted up for refr-eshments and dancing, and into which none but the more decent and respectable classes were admitted. There most of the beauties of the town and the adjoining neighborhood were assembled, together with theii- admii-ers, all of whom entered into the spirit of the festivity "uith gi'eat rehsh. "VMien Lindsay and his com- pany were about to retii-e fr'om the gi'eat bonfire, the conductors of the pageant, who also acted as spokesmen on the occasion, thus addi-essed them : " It's right, youi' honors, that you should go and see the dancin' in the inn, and no harm if you shake a heel yourselves, besides taking something to wash the dust out o' yoiu' throats ; but when you come out again, if you don't find a fr'esh and high blaze be- fore you still, the devil's a witch." As they proceeded toward the inn, the consequences of the diink, which the crowd had so abundantly received, began, here and there, to manifest many unequivocal symp- toms. In some j^laces high words were go- ing on, in others blows ; and altogether the aftair seemed likely to tei-minate in a generdQ conflict. " Father," said his son Charles, " had you not better try and settle these rising dis- tiu-bances ? " "Not I," replied the jovial magistrate, " let them thrash one another till morning ; they hke it, and I make it a point never to go between the poor people and theu; enjoy- ments. Gadzooks, Chai'ley, don't you know it would be a tame and discreditable aflair without a row ? " " Yes ; but now that they've got drimk, they're cheering you, and groaninyr my mother." THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 645 "Devil's cure to her," replied his father ; " if she didn't deserve it she'd not get it. What right had she to send my bailiffs to drive their cattle without my knowledge, and to take duty fowl and duty work from them whenever m}'^ back is turned, and contrary to my wishes ? Come in till we have some punch ; let them shout and fight away ; it wouldn't be the thing, Charley, without it." They found an exceedingly lively scene in the large parlor of the inn ; but, in fact, every availal:)le room in the house was crowd- ed. Then, after they had looked on for some time, every eye soon singled out the pride and beauty of the assembly in the person of (xrace Davoren, whose features were animate.l into gi'eater loveliness, and her eyes into greater brilliancy, by the light- heai'ted spirit which prevailed. She was dressed in her new drugget gown, had on her new shoes and blue stockings, a short striped blue and red petticoat, which dis- played as much of her exquisite limbs as the pretty Hberal fashion of the day allowed ; her bust was perfection ; and, as her black, natural ringlets fluttei'ed about her milk- white neck and glowing countenance, she not only appeared inexpressibly beautiful, but seemed to feel conscious of that beauty, as was evident by a dash of pride — very charming, indeed — which shot from her eye, and mantled on her beautiful cheek. " Why, Charles," exclaimed Woodward, addressing his brother in a whisper, " who is that lovely peasant girl ? " "Her father is one of our tenants," rephed Charles ; " and she was about to be married some time ago, but it was discovered, for- tunately in time, tliat her intended husband was head and leader of the outlaws that in- fest the country. It was he, I believe, that leaped over the bonfire." " Was she fond of him ? " " Well, it is not easy to say that ; some say she was, and others that she was not. Barney Casey says she was very glad to escape him when he became an outlaw." " By the way, where is Barney ? I haven't seen him since I came to look at this non- sense." "Just turn your eye to the farthest cor- ner of the room, and you may see him in his glory." On looking in the prescribed direction, there, sure enough, was Bax-ney discovered making love hard and fast to a pretty girl, whom Woodward remembered to have seen that moniing in Mr. Goodwin's, and ^\^th whom he (Barney) had become acquainted when the families were on terms of inti- macy. The girl sat smiling on his knee, whilst Barney who had a glass of punch in his liand, kept applying it to her lips from time to time, and pressing her so loringly towai'd him, that she was obliged occasion- ally to give him a pat upon the cheek, or to pull his whiskers. Woodward's attention, however, was transfeiTcd once more to Grace Davoren, from whom he could not keep his eyes — a fact which she soon discov- ered, as was evident by a shght hauteur and affectation of manner toward many of those with whom she had been previously on an equal and familiar footing. " Charles," said he, " I must have a dance with this beautiful giii ; do you think she ^vill dance with me ? " "I cannot tell," rei)Hed his brother, " but you can ask her." " By the way, where are my father and the i-est? They have left the room." " The landlord has got them a small apart- ment," replied Charles, " where they ai-e now enjoj'ing themselves. If you dance with Grace Davoren, however, be on your good behavior, for if you take any unbecoming liberties with her, you may rej^ent it ; don't imagine because you see these humble girls allowing their sweethearts to kiss them in corners, that either they or their friends will permit you to do so." "That's as it may be managed, perhaps," said Woodward, who immediately approach- ed Grace in imitation of what he had seen, and making her a low bow, said, " I dance to you. Miss Davoren, if you will favor me." She was then sitting, but immediately rose up, wdth a blushing but gi-atified face, and replied, " I will, sir, but I'm not worthy to dance with a gentleman like you." " You ai-e worth}' to dance with a prince," he rephed, as he led her to theu- station, fronting the music. " Well, my jwetty girl," said he, " what do you -sWsh ? " " Your AviU, sir, is my pleasui-e." "Veiy well. Piper," said he, "play up * Eass my lady ; ' " which was accordingly done, and the dance commenced. Woodward thought the most popular thing he could do was to affect no superiority over the young feUows present, but, on the contrary, to imitate their style and manner of dancing as well as he could ; and in this he acted witli gi-eat judgment. They felt flattered and gratified even at his awkward and clumsy imitations of their steps, and received hi.s efforts with much laughter and clieering ; nor was Grace herself insensible to the mirth he occasioned. On he went, cutting ;md capeiing, until he had them in convulsions ; t)46 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. and when the dance was ended, he seized his partner in his arms, swung her tlu-ee times roimd, and imprinted a kiss upon her Ups with such good humor that he Avas highly applauded. He then ordered in drink to treat her and her Mends, which he dis- tributed to them with his own hand ; and after contriA-ing to gain a few minutes' private chat \dih. Grace, he amply rewarded the pijDer. He was now about to take his leave and proceed with his brother, when two women, one about thirty-five, and the other far advanced in years, both accosted him almost at the same moment. " Your honor won't go," said the less aged of the two, "until you get your fortune tould." " To be sure he won't, Caterine," they aH replied ; "we'U engage the gentleman will cross your hand wid silver ; like his father before him, his heart's not in the money." " Never mind her, six-," said the aged crone, " she's a schemer, and will tell you nothing but what she knows a^oII. plaise you. Show me your hand, sii*, and I'll tell you the truth." " Never mind the calliagh, sii', (old woman, by way of reproach ;) she's dotin', and hasn't remembered her ovm. name these ten years." "It doesn't matter," said "Woodward, ad- dressing Caterine, "I shall hear what you both have to say — but you first." He accordingly crossed her hand Avith a piece of silver, after which she looked closely into it — then upon his countenance, and said, " You have two tilings in youi* mind, and they'U both succeed. " " But, my good woman, any one might tell me as much." "No," she repUed, with confidence ; "ex- amine your ovm heart and you'U find the lioo things there that it is fixed upon ; and whisper," she added, putting her hjjs to his ear, "I know what they are, and can help you in both. A^Tien you want me, inquire for Caterine Collins. My uncle is Sol Pon- nell, the herb doctor." He smiled and nodded, but made no re- ply- " Now," said he, " my old crone, come and let me hear what you have to say for me ; " and as he spoke another coin was dropped into her withered and skinny hand. " Bring me a candle," said she, in a voice that whistled with age, and if one could judge by her hag-like and repulsive features, vai\\ a malignity that was a habit of her life. After having inspected his palm with the candle, she uttered three eldrich laughs, or rather screams, that sounded through the room as if they were more than natiu'al. "Ha, ha, ha!" she exclaimed; "look here, there's the line of life stopped by a red in* strument ; that's not good ; I see it, I feel it ; your life will be short and your death violent ; ay, indeed, the purty bonfire of your life, for all so bright as it burns, vn)l be put out wid blood — and that soon." " You're a d— d old croaker," said Wood- ward, " and take dehght in predicting evil. Here, my good woman," he added, turning to the other, " there's an additional half- crown for you, and I won't forget your words." He and Charles then joined their friends in the other room, and as it was getting late they aU resolved to stroll once more thi'ough the town, in order to take a parting look at the bonfires, to vdsh the people good-night, and to thank them for the kindness and alacrity with which they got them up, and manifested theii" good feeling upon so short a notice. The large fire was again blazing, having been recruited with a fresh supply of materials. The crowd were looking on ; many were staggermg about, uttermg a feeble huzza, in a state of complete intoxication, and the fool of the parish was attempting to dance a hornpipe, when large, blob-like drops began to fall, as happens at the commencement of a heavy shower. Lindsay put his hand to his face, on which some few of them had fallen, and, on looking at his fingers, perceived that they ■v\'ere spotted as if with blood ! "Good God!" he exclaimed, "what is this ? Am I bleeding ? " They all stared at him, and then at each other, with dismay and horror ; for there, unquestionably, was the hideous and terri- ble fact before them, and legible on every face around them — it was raining blood ! An awe, which we cannot describe, and a silence, deep as that of the grave, followed this terrible prodigy. The silence did not last long, however, for in a few minutes, diuing whifch the blood fell very thickly, making their hands and visages appear as if they had been steej)ed in gore — in a few moments, we say, the heavens, which had become one black' and dismal mass, opened, and from the chasm issued a red flash of lightning, which was followed almost immediately by a roar of thunder, so loud and terrific that the whole people became fearfully agitated as they stood round the blaze. It was ex- tremely diflicult, indeed, for ignorant persons to account foi', or speculate upon, this strange and frightful phenomenon. As they stood in fear and terror, Avith theu* faces ap- parently bathed in blood, they seemed rather to resemble a group of hideous mui'derers, standing as if about to be driven into the flames of perdition itself. To compare them THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 04; to a tribe of red Indians surrounding tlieir war fires, \Tould be but a faint and feeble simile when contrasted with the ten'or which, notwithstanding the gory hue with which they were covered fi-oni top to toe, might be read in tlieir terrified eyes and visages. After a few minutes, however, the jdarm became more intense, and put itself forth into words. The fearfvd inteUigence now spread. "It is raining blood ! it is raining blood ! " was shouted fi'om every mouth ; those who were in the houses i-ushed out, and soon found that it was true ; for the red liquid w'as still descending, and in a few minutes they soon were as red as the others. The flight home now became one of panic ; every house was crowded with strangers, who took refuge wherever thev could find shelter ; and in the meantime the hghtning was dashing and the thunder pealing with stunning dejith throughout the heavens. The bonfires were soon deserted ; for even those who were drunk and tipsy had been aroused by the alarm, and the language in which it was uttered. Nobody, in fact, was left at the great fire except those who com- posed the dinner party, with the exception of the two clergj^men, who fled and dis- appeared along with the mob, urged, too, by the same motives. " This will not be beheved," said Lindsay ; "it is, beyond all doubt and scejiticism, a prodigy fi'om heaven, and must portend some fearful calamity. May God in heaven pro- tect us ! But who is this ? " As he spoke, a hideous old hag, bent over her staflf, approached them ; but it did not appear that she was about to pay them any pai'ticular attention. She was mumbling and cackhng to herself when about to pass, but was adtli'essed by Lindsay. " "Where are you going, you old hag ? They say you ai*e acquainted with more than you ought to know. Can you account for this blooil that's faUiug ? " "Who are you that axes me?" she squeaked. " I'm ^Ir. Lindsay, the magistrate." "Ay," she screamed again, "it was for your son, Harry, na Sail Gloir,* that this bonfire was made to-night. Well he knows what I tould him, and let him think of it ; but there will be more blood than this, and that before long, I can tell you and him." So sajing, she hobbled on, mumbling and muttering to herself like a witch rehearsing her incantations on her way to join their sabbath. They now tiinied their steps homewards, but had not proceeded far, * Suil Gloir was an epithet bestowed on persons vhose eyes were of different colors. when the rain came down as it might be supposed to have done in the deluge ; the hghtnings flashed, the thunder continued to roiu% and by the time they reached Rath- fillan House they were absolutely drenched to the skin. The next moniing, to the astonishment of the people, there was not visible a trace or fragment of the bonfires ; every vestige of them had disappeared ; and the general impression now was, that there must have been something e\-il and un- hallowed connected with the indi\'idual for whom they had been prepared. CHAPTER VI. Shawn-na-Middogue — Sfian-Dhinne-Dhut, or 27u Black SjKCtre. The next evening was calm and mild ; the sun shone with a serene and mellow light from the evening sky ; the trees were gi*eeu, and still ; but the music of the blackbii'd and the thinish came sweetly fi'om their leafy branches. Henry Woodward had been Kst- ening to a rather lengthy discussion upon the subject of the blood-shower, which, in- deed, was the topic of much conversation and great wonder throughout the whole pai-ish. His father, a Protestant gentleman, and with some portion of education, al- though not much, was, nevertheless, deeply imbued with the suj^erstitions which pre- vailed aroimd him, as, in fact, were most ol those who existed in his day ; the very air which he breathed was rife with them ; but what puzzled him and his family most was the difficulty which they found in shaping the prodigy into significance. Wliy should it take place, and ujDon such an occasion, they could not for then- hves imagine. The only persons in the family who seemed alto- gether indifterent to it were Woodward and his mother, both of whom treated it with ridicule and contempt. "It comes before some calamity," ob- served Mr. Lindsay. " It comes before a fiddle-stick. Lindsay," rejDhed liis wife. " Calamity I yes ; perhaps you may have a headache to-morrow, for which the world must be prepiu-ed by a storm of thunder and lightning, and a shower of blood. The head that reels over night with an excess of wine and pimch will ache in the morning without a prodigj' to foretell it." " Say what you wiU," he replied, " I be- lieve the de%'il had a hand in it ; and I tell you," he added, laughing, "that if you be advised by me, you'll begin to prepai-e your* o48 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. self — 'a stitch in time saves nine,' jou know — so look sharp, I say." " This, Hany," she said, addressing her son, "is the -way yoiu' mother has been treated all along ; yes, by a bintal and coarse-minded husband, who pays no atten- tion to anything but his own gi'oss and selfish enjo}-ments ; but, thank God, I have now some person to protect me." " O, ho ! " said her husband, " you are for a battle now. Hai-iw, you don't know her. If she lets loose that scuiiilous tongue of hers I have no chance ; upon my soul, I'd encoun- ter another half dozen of thunder-storms, and as many showers of blood, sooner than come under it for ten minutes ; a West India hiUTicane is a zephyr to it." "Ah, God heljD the unhapj^y woman that's bhstered for hfe with an ignoi'ant sot \—such a woman is to be pitied — and such a woman am I ; — I, you good-for-nothing dininken booby, who made you what you are." "0, fie! mamma," said Maria, "this is too bad to papa, who, you know, seldom re- phes to you at all." " ]Miss Lindsay, I shall suffer none of your impertinence," said her mother ; " leave the room, madam, this moment — how dare you ? but I am not siirprised at it ; — -leave the room, I say." The poor, amiable gii-1, who was aU fear- fulness and affection, quietly left the room as she was desii*ed, and her father, who saw that his worthy vpife was brimful of a coming squall, put on his hat, and after having given one of his usual sardonic looks, left the apartment also. "Mother," said her son Charles, "I must protest against the unjustifiable violence of temper Avith which you treat my father. You know he was only jesting in what he said to you this moment." "Let him cany his jests elsewere, Mr. Charles," she rephed, " he shan't indulge in them at my expense ; nor tvoU I have you abet him in them as you always do — yes, sir, and laugh at them in my face. All this, however, is veiy natm-al ; as the old cock crows the young one learns. As for Maria, if she makes as dutiful a wife as she does a daughter, her husband may thank God for getting his fuU share of e^il in this hfe." "I protest to heaven, Hany," said Charles, addressing his brother, " if ever there was a meek, sweet-tempered girl living, Maria is. You do not yet know her, but you wiU, of course, have an opportunity of judging for yourself." "You perceive, Harry," said his mother, addressing him in turn, " you perceive how they are banded against me ; in fact, they are joined with their father in a conspiracy to destroy my peace and happiness. This is the feeling that prevails against me in the house at large, for which I may thank my husband and children — I don't include you, Hany. There is not a servant in om- estab- hshment but could poison me, and probably would, too, were it not for fear of the gal- lows." Woodward hstened to this strange scene with amazement, but was pinident enough to take no part in it whatsoever. On the contraiy, he got his hat and proceeded out to take a stroU, as the evening was so fine, and the aspect of the country was so de- Hghtful. "Harry," said his brother, "if you're for a walk I'U go vrith you," "Not at present, Charley," said he, "lam in a thoughtful mood, and generally prefer a lonely stroll on such a beautiful evening as this." He accordingly went out, and bent his steps by a long, rude green lane, which ex- tended upwards of half a mile across a rich country, undulating with fields and mead- ows. This was terminated by a clump of hawthorn trees, then white and fragi'ant with their lovely blossoms, which lay in rich pro- fusion on the ground. Contiguous to this was a small but dehghtful green glen, fi'om the side of which issued one of those beau- tiful sjDiing weUs for which the countiy is so celebrated. Over a verdant httle hill, which concealed this glen and the well we mention, from a few humble houses, or rather a de- center kind of cabins, was visible a beaten pathway by which the inhabitants of this small hamlet came for their water. Upon this, shaded as he was by the trees, he stead- ily kept his eye for a considerable time, as if in the expectation of some person who had made an aj^pointment to meet him. Half an hour had nearly elapsed — the shades of evening were now beginning to fall, and he had just come to the resolution of retracing his steps, with a curse of disappointment on his lips, when, on taking another, and what he intended to be a last glance at the pathway in question, he espied the indiridual for whom he waited. This was no other than the young beauty of the neighborhood — Grace Davoren. She was trij^ping along with a hght and merry step, lilting an Irish air of a very lively character, to Avhich she could scarcely prevent herself from dancing, so elastic and buoyant were her spirits. On coming to the brow of the glen she paused a moment and cast her e^^e searchingly around her, but seemed after the scrutiny to hesitate about proceeding farther. Woodward immediately showed himself, and after beckoning to her, proceeded to- TRE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 649 ft-ard the well. She still paused, however, as if irresolute ; but after one or two sifrni- ficant gestures on his part, she descended with a slow and apparently a timid step, and in a couple of minutes stood beside the well. The immediate puiport of their conversation is not essentijd to this narrative ; but, indeed, we presume that our readers may give a ver}- good guess at it without any assistance fi'om us. Tlie beautiful gii-1 was young, and credulous, and innocent, as might naturally be inferred fi-om the confusion of her manner, and the tremulous tones of her voice, which, indeed, were seductive and full of natural melody. Her heart palpitated until its beat- ings might be heard, and she trembled with that kind of ten-or which is composed of apprehension and pleasure. That a gentle- man — one of the quaUtij — could condescend to feel any interest in a humble girl like her, was what she could scarcely have dreamed ; but when he told her of her beauty, the natural elegance and sjTnmetry of her figure, and added that he loved her better than any girl, either high c>r low, he had ever seen, she beUeved that his words were true, and her brain became almost giddy with wonder and dehght. Then she considered what a triumph it was over all her female acquaint- ances, who, if they knew it, would certainly en^-y her even far more than they did ah'eady. After about half an hour's conver- sation the darkness set in, and she expressed an apprehension lest some of her family should come in quest of her — a circumstance, she said, which might be dangerous to them both. He then prevailed on her to promise another meeting, which at length she did ; but on his taking leave of her she asked him by which way he intended to go home. "I came by the old green path," said he, "but intend to turn down the glen into the common road.'' " O, don't go that way," said she ; " if you do, you'll have to pass the haunted house, ay, and maybe, might meet the Shan-dhinne- dhuv." " ^Miat is that," said he. "O, Lord save us, sii'," said she, "did you never hear of the Shan-dhinne-dhnvf A spirit, sii*, that appears about the haunted house in the shape of a black ould man, and they say that nobody lives long afther seein' him three times." *' Yes ; but did he ever take any person's fife?" " Thev say so, sir." " AMien ? How long ago ? " " Indeed, I can't tell that, sii* ; but sure every one says it." " We'l, what every one says must be true,' he replied, smiling. "I, however, am ' not afraid of him, as I never go unarmed ; and if I liappen to meet him, trust me I wiD ' know what mettle he's made of before we part, or whether he belongs to this world or the other." He then went down the glen, by the bottom of which the road went ; and at a lonely place in a dai'k angle of it this far- famed spirit was said to appear. This vain, but simple gir^ the pride of her honest parents and all her simple relations ' and friends, took up her pitcher and pro- ' ceeded with an elated heart by the pathway ' we have mentioned as leading to her father's ' house. We say her heart was elated at the ' notion of having engaged the affections of a handsome, young, and elegant gentleman, but at the same time she felt a secret sense ' of error, if not of guilt, in having given him ' a clandestine meeting, and kept an appoint- ment which she knew her parents and brothers would have heaixl with indignation and shame. ■ She was confident, however, in her own strength, and resolved in her mind that Woodward's attachment for her never should terminate either in her disgrace o> nain. There were, however, many foolish and pernicious ballads sung about that period at the hearths of the peasantiy, in which some lord or squire of high degree was represented to have fallen in love with some beautiful giii of humble life, whom he manned in spite of his proud relations, and after having made her a lady of rank, and dres.sed her in silks and satins, gold lings and jewels, brought her home to his castle, where they hved in gi-andeur and happiness for the remainder of their lives. The simple- minded girl began to imagine that some such agi'eeable destiny might be reserved for her- self ; and thus endeavored, by the deceitful sophistry of a credvdous heart, and proud of her beauty, to p.'Uliate her conduct amidst the accusations of her own conscience, which told her she was acting wrong. She had now got about half way home, when she saw an individual approach her at a rapid pace ; and as the moon had just risen, his figure wsis distinctly before her, and she iuiTuediately felt a strong impres- sion of tenor and alarm. The individuid in question w;is young, tall, and mjiscuLar : his person had in it every s^nnptdm of extra- ordinarA' activity and ^^gor. His features, however, wei*e not at all such as could be termed handsome ; so far from that, they were rude and stem, but not without a wild and disagi'eeable dignity. His eyes were at all times fierce and fiery, and gave imequi- :^cal indications of a fierce and fien*- spirit He wore a pair of rude pantaloons that fitted closely to his finely made hmbs, a short 650 WILLIAM CAELETON'S W0EK8. jacket or Wyliecoat that also fitted closely to his body, over wliich he wore the usual cloak of that day, which was bouud about his middle with a belt and buckle, in wliich was stuck a middog-ue, or, as it ought to be wi'itten, meadoige, and pronounced maddogay. He wore a kind of caj) or harrad, which, as well as his cloak, could, by being tiu-ned in- side out, instantly change his whole apj^ear- ance, and mislead his pursuers — for he was the outlaw. Such was the startling indi- vidual who now aj)iDroached her, and at whose fierce aspect she trembled — not less fi'om her knowledge of the natural violence of his character than fi'om a consciousness of her inteiTiew with Woodwaixl. " Well, Granua (Grace)," said he, cjuickly and with some vehemence, "where have you been ? " "At the well," she repHed ; "have you eyes in your head ? Don't you see my pit- cher?" " I do ; but what kept you there so long ? and why is your voice trembliu', as if you wor afeard, or did something wrong ? Why is your face pale, too ? — it's not often so." " The Lord save us, Shawn," repHed Grace, attempting to treat those pointed in- terrogatories mth a jocidar spirit, " how can you exj^ect me to answer such a catechize as you're puttin' to me at wanst." "Answer me, in the mane time," he re- plied ; "I'll have no doubhng, Granua." "Has anything vexed you, Shawn?" " Chorp an diaoul ! tell me wh}^ you staid so long at the well " — and' as he spoke his eyes flashed TNdth resentment and suspicion. " I didn't stay long at it." " I say you did. What kept you ? " " Why, bekaise I didn't hiu-ry myself, but took my time. I was often longer." "You were spakin' to some one at the well." "Ah, thin, Shawai, who would I be spakin' to?" "Maybe I know — I beheve I do — but I want now to know whether you're a bar, as I suspect you to be, or whether you are honest enough to tell the truth." " Do you susjDect me, then ? " "I do suspect you; or rather I don't — bekaise I ki^ow the truth. Answer me — who were yoU spakin' with ? " " Troth," said she, " I was lookin' at your sweetheart in the well," meaning her own shadow, " and was only asking her how she did." "You danced with Harry-na-Suil Balor last night?" " I did ; because the gentleman axed me /—and why would I refuse him ? " " You whispered in a comer with him ? " " I did not," she rejDlied ; " how could 1 when the room was so thi-ong ? " " Ay, betther in a throng room than a thin one ; ay, and you promised to meet Mm at the well to-night ; and you kept yo\xt word." A woman's courage and determination to persist in falsehood are never so decided and dehberate as when she feels that the suspicion expressed against her is true. She then gets into heroics and attempts to turn the tables upon her opponent, especiaDy when she knows, as Miss Davoren did on this occasion, that he has nothing hut sus- picion to support him. She knew that her lover had been at the bonfire, and that his fi'iends must have seen her dance with Woodward ; and this she did not attemj)t to deny, because she could not ; but as for their trj'st at the well, she felt satisfied, from her knowledge of his jealous and violent charac- ter, that if he had been aware of it, it would not have been by seeking the fact through the medium of his threats and her fears that he would have proceeded. Had he seen W^oodward, for instance, and herself holding a secret meeting in such a i^lace and at such an hour, she concluded justly that the middogue or dagger, for the use of which he had been ah'eady so celebrated, would have been brought into requisition against either one or both. "I'll talk no more to you," she repHed, with a flushed face ; "for even if I tould yor, the truth, you wouldn't beheve me. I did meet him, then ; are you satisfied now ? " This admission was an able stroke of pol- icy on her part, as the reader will soon per- ceive. " O," he exclaimed, with a bitter, or, rather, a furious expression of face, " dar manim, if you had, you wouldn't dare to confess as much. But hsten to me ; if I ever hear or know, to mj own satisfaction, that you meet him, or keep his company, or put yourself in his power, I'll send six in- ches of this " — and he pulled out the glitter- ing weajDon — " into your heart and his ; so now be warned and avoid him, and don't bring down my vengeance on you both." " I don't see what right you have to bring me over the coals about any one. My father was forcin' me to marry you ; but I now teU you to your teeth, that I never had the slight- est intention of it. No ! I wouldn't take the wealth of the barony, and be the wife of sich a savage muixlherer. No man wid blood upon his hands and upon his sowl, as j'ou have — a public robber, a murdherer, an out- law — will ever be my husband. "What right have you to tell me who I'm to spake to, or who I'm not to spake to ? " THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 651 "All," be replied, "that wasn't your lan- guage to me not long ago." " 13ut you were a diiierent boy then from what you are now. If you had kept your name free fi-om disgi-ace and blood, I might have loved you ; but I cannot love a man with such crimes to answer for as you have. " "You accuse me of shedding blood," he replied ; " that is false. I have never shed blood nor takeji life ; but, on the contrary, did all in my power to prevent those who have pLaced me at their head from doin' so. Yet, when they did it in my absence, and against my orders, the blame and guilt is chai'ged upon me because I am theu* leader. As for any tiling else I have done, I do not look upon it as a ciime ; let it rest upon the opjiression that diove me and others to the wild lives we lead. We are forced to Uve now the best way we can, and that you know ; but as to this gentleman, you mustn't spake to him at any rate," he proceeded ; " why should you ? ^^^lat 'ud make a man so high in life, and so far above you as he is, strive to become acquainted with you, unless to bring about yoiu" ruin to gi-atify his o^^•n bad passions? Think of it, and bring it home to your heart. You have too many examples before your eyes, young as you are, of silly girls that allow themselves to be made fools of, and desaved and ruined by such scoundi-els as this. Look at that unfortunate girl in the mountains there — Nannie Moriissey ; look at her father hanged only for takin' God's just revenge, as he had a right to do, on the villain that brought de- struction upon her and his innocent family, and blaclc shame upon their name that never had a spot upon it before. After these words you may now act as you like ; but re- member that you have got Shaivn-na-Mid- dofjue's icarnintj, and you ought to know what that is." He then started oflf in the same direction which Woodward had taken, and Grace, ha\iug looked after him with considerable indignation on her own part and consider- able apprehension on behalf of Woodward, took up her pitcher and proceeded home. She now felt herself much disturbed, and experienced that state of mind which is often occasioned by the enunciation of that which is kuo\Mi to be truth, but which, at the same time, is productive of pain to the conscience, especi;xlly when that conscience begins to abandon the field and fly from its duty. Woodward, as he had intended, prefeiTed the open and common road home, although it was much longer, rather than return by the old gi*een lane, which was rugged and uneven, and full of deep ruts, dangerous in- equahties, and stumps of old trees, all of which rendered it not only a disagreeable, but a dangerous, path by night. Having got out upon the highway, which here, and until he reached near home, wa.s, indeed, solemn- looking and lonely, not a habitation except the haunted house being visible for upwards of two miles, he jiroceeded on his way, think- ing of his interview with Grace Davoren. The country on each side of him was neai'ly a desert ; a gi-ay I'uin, some of whose stand- '. ing and isolated fi'agments assumed, to the excited imagination of the tenified peasants as they passed it by night, the appearance of sujiernatui-al beings, stood to the left, in the centre of an antiquated church-yard, in which there had not been a corpse buried for near- ly half a centun.- — a circumstance which always invests a gravej'ai'd with a more fearful character. As Woodward gazed at these stiU and lonely relics of the dead, upon which the faint rays of the moon gleamed vrith a sjDCctral and melancholy light, iie could not help feeling that the sight itself, and the associations connected with it, were calculated to fill weak minds with strong feehngs of sujieniatural teiTor. His, how- ever, was not a mind acces.sible to any such impressions ; but at the same time he could make allowance for them among those who had seldom any other notions to guide them on such subjects than those of superstition and ignorance. The haunted house, which was not yet in sight, he did not remember, nor was he ac- quainted with its histoiy, with the exception of Grace's shght allusion to it. At length he came to a part of the road which was over- hung, or rather altogether covered with long beech trees, whose huge arms met and in- tertwined Arith each other across it, filling the fu'ch they made with a solemn dai-kness ' even in the noon of day. At night, how- j ever, the obscurity was black and palpable ; ! and such upon this occasion was its a^'ful solemnit;\' and stillness, and the sense of Ln- secui'ity occasioned b}' the almost super- natural gloom about him. that Woodward could not avoid the idea that it afforded no i bad conception of the entrance to the world of darkness and of spirits. He had not pro- ceeded far, however, ixnder this dismal canopy, when an incident occuired which tested his courage severely. As he went along he imagined that he heai'd the sound of human footsteps ne;u' him. This, to be sure, gave him at first no trouble on the score of anyihiug supernatiu'al. The country, however, was, as we have ah-eady intimated, veiT much infested with outlaws and rob- bers, and although Woodward was well , ai-med, as he had tnily said, and was no 652 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. coward besides, yet it was upon this A-iew of the matter that he experienced anything Uke apprehension. He accordingly paused, in order to ascertain whether the footsteps he heard might not have been the echo of his own. When his steps ceased, so also did the others ; and when he advanced again so did they. He coughed aloud, but there was no echo ; he shouted out " Is there any one there '? " but still there was a dead stillness. At length he said again, "Whoever you may be, and especijilly if yoiu' designs be evil and imlawful, you had l^etter beware ; I am well ai-med, and both able and determined to de- fend myself ; if money is your object, pass on, for I have none about me." Again there was the silence, as there was the dai-kness of the grave. He now resumed his former pace, and the noise of footsteps, evidently and distinctly difit'erent fi*om his own, were once more heard near him. Those that accompanied him fell upon his ear with a hght, but strange and chilling sound, that filled him with sui-prise, and something like awe. In fact, he had never heard anything similar to it before. It was veiy strange, he thought, for the sounds, though hght, were yet as distinct and weU-defined as his own. He still held a pistol in each hand, and as he had no means of unravelling this mystery so long as he was in^Tapped in such Cimmerian gloom, he resolved to accelerate his pace and get into the hght of the moon as soon as he could. He accordingly did so ; but the foot- steps, although they fell not now so quickly as his own, still seemed to maintain the same distance from him as before. This certainly puzzled him ; and he was attempt- ing, if possible, to solve this new difficulty, when he fovmd himseK emerging fi-om the darkness, and in a few moments standing in the hght of the moon. He immediately looked about him, but except the usual in- animate objects of nature, he could see nothing. Whatever it is, thought he, or, rather, v:hoever it is, he has thought proper to remain undiscovered in the darkness. I shaU now bid him good-night, and proceed on my way home. He accordingly moved on once more, when, to his utter astonish- ment, he heard the footsteps again, precisely within the same distance of him as be- fore. " Tut," said he, " I now perceive what the matter with me is. This is a mere hallucina- tion, occasioned by a disordered state of the nerves ; and as he spoke he returned his pistols into his breast pockets, where he usually wore them, and once more resumed his journey. There was, however, some- thing in the i^ouncl of the footsteps —some- thing so hoUow — so cold, as it were, and so ' unearthly, that he could not throw off the unaccountable impression which it made upon him, infidel and sceptic as he was up- I on all supernatui-al intimations and appear- ■ ances. At length, he proceeded, or rathei : they proceeded, onward until he arrived : within sight of what he sujDposed to be the haunted house. He paused a few moments, and was not now so insensible to its lonely and dismal aspect. It was a two-storied I house, and nothing could sm-pass the spec- i tral appearance of the moon's hght as it feU with its pale and death-like lustre upon the ! windows. He stood contemjjlating it for some time, when, aU at once, he jDerceived, walking about ten yards in advance of him, the shajDe of a man dressed in black from i top to toe. It was not within the scope of human fortitude to avoid being startled by ' such a sudden and incomprehensible appari- tion. Woodward icas startled ; but he soon recovered himself, and after the first shock ] felt rather satisfied that he had some visible object with which he could make the experi- ment he ]Dr ejected, viz., to ascertain the nature, whether mortal or otherwise, of the 1 being before him. With this pui-pose in riew, he walked very quickly after him, and as the other did not seem to quicken his pace into a corresponding speed, he took it for gTanted that he would soon overtake him. In this, however, he was, much to his astonishment, mistaken. His own walk was quick and rapid, whilst that of this incompre- hensible figure was slow and solemn, and 3'et he could not lessen the distance between them a single inch. " Stop, su'," said Woodwai'd, " whoever or whatever you are — stop, I wish to speak with you ; be you mortal or sj)iritual, I fear you not — only stop." The being before him, however, walked on at the same slow and solemn pace, but stiU persisted in maintaining his distance. Wood- ward was resolute, fearless — a sceptic, an infidel, a materiahst — but here was a walking projDosition in his presence which he could not solve, and which, up to that point, at least, had set all his theories at defiance. His blood rose — he became annoyed at the strange silence of the being before him, but more still at the mysterious and tardy pace with which it seemed to precede and escape him. " I will follow it until morning," he said to himself, "or else I shall develop this start- ling enigma." At this moment his mysterious fellow- traveller, after having advanced as if there had not been such an individual as Wood- wai'd in existence, now stood ; he was di- rectly opposite the haunted house, and THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 653 turning' ronnd, faced the tantalized and bewil- dered mortal. The latter looked on him ; his countenance was the countenance of the dead — of the sheeted dead, stretched out in the bloodless pallor which lies upon the face of vanished life — of existence that is no more, at least in flesh and blood. Wood- ward approached him — for the thing had stood, as we have said, and permitted him to come mthin a few yards fi*om him. His eyes were cold and glassy, and appar- ently without speculation, Hke those of a dead man open ; yet, notwithstanding this, Woodward felt that they looked at him, if not into him. "Speak," said he, "speak; who or what are you ? " He received no reply ; but in a few sec- onds the apparition, if it were such, put his hand into liis bosom, and, puUing out a dagger, which gleamed with a faint and visionarj' hght, he du'ected it as if to his (Woodward's) heart. Three times he did this, in an attitude more of warning than of anger, when, at length, he turned and ap- proached the haunted house, at the door of "which he disappeared. Woodward, as the reader must have per- ceived, was a strong-minded, fearless man, and examined the awful featiures of this inscrutable being closely. " Tliis, then," thought he, "is the Shan- dhinne-dhiiv, or the Black Spectre ; but, be it what it may, I am strongly of opinion that it was present at the bonfire last night, and as I am well armed, I will unquestion- ably pursue it into the house. Nay, what is more, I suspect that it is in some way or other connected with the outlaw SJiaion-na- Middogue, who it was, they say, made that amazing leap over the aforesaid bonfire in my o\N-n presence." On that ver}' account, however, he reflect- ed that such an intrusion might be attended with more danger than that to be apprehen- ded from a ghost. He consequently paused for some time before he coiild decide on follomng up such a pei-ilous resolution. While he thus stood deliberating upon the prudence of this daiing exploit, he heard a variety of noises, and knockings, and roll- ings, as if of empty ban-els, and ratthng of chains, all going on inside, whilst the house itseK appeare and we need scarcely say that in the coui'se of a fortnight after the night of the bonfires all these matters had been discussed over half the barony. Some, in fact, were for loading him with the heavy buixlen of his mother's unpopularity ; but others, more generous, were for waiting until the peojDle had an opportunit}- of seeing how he might turn out — whether he would follow in his mother's footsteps, or be guided by the be- nevolent princijjles of his step-father and the rest of the family. Omng to these circum- stances, need we say, that there was an un- usual interest, almost an excitement, felt about him, which nothing could rej^ress. His brother Chai'les was as well-beloved and as popular as his father, but, then, he excited no particular interest, because he was not suspected to possess the Evil Eye, nor to have any particidar connection with the devil. Li this case matters stood, when one day Woodward, haA-ing di-essed himself with jDar- ticular care, ordered his horse, saying that he would ride over to Beech Grove and pay a visit to the Goodwins. There were none in the room at the time but Chaiies and his mother. The fonner started, and seemed uneasy at this inteUigence ; and his mother, having considered for a time, said : " Charles, I wish to speak to Harry." Charles took the hint, and left the mother and son to the following dialogue : — "Hany," said she, "you spoke veiy warmly of that cunning sei-pent who defraud- ed you of your inheritance, and all of us 656 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. out of our right. May I ask for what pur- pose you wish to cultivate an intimacy with Buch a scheming and dishonest crew as that?" " Faith, mother, to tell you the truth, you don't detest them, nor feel the loss of the property more than I do ; but the truth is, that the game I ■\^dsh to play with them will be a winning one, if I can induce them to hold the cards. I Avish to get the j)roperty, and as I feel that that can't be done ■uithout marrying their milk-and-curd of a daughter, why, it is my intention to many her accord- ingly." " Then you don't mari-y a wife to be happy with her ? " "In one sense not I — in another I do ; I shall make myseK happy mth her prop- erty." ''Indeed, Hariy, to tell you the tnith, there is very little haj)piness in married life, and they are only fools that expect it. You see how I am treated by Lindsay and my own children." " Well, but you provoke them — why dis- turb yourself with them? Why not pass thi-ough hfe as quietly as you can ? Imitate Lindsay." "What ! make a sot of myseK — become a fool, as he is ? " " Then, why did you many him ? " " Because /was the fool then, but I have suffered for it. Why, he manages this propei'ty as if it wasn't mine — as if I didn't bring it to him. Think of a man who is silly enough .o forgive a tenant his gale of rent, provided he makes a poor mouth, and says he is not able to pay it." " J3ut I see no harm in that either ; if the nan is not able to pay, how can he ? What does Lindsay do but make a -virtue of neces- sity. He cannot skin a flint, can he ? " " That's an ugly comparison," she replied, " and I can't conceive why you make it to me. I am afraid, Hany, jou have suffered your- self to be prejudiced against the only Mend — the only true friend, you have in the house. I can teU you, that although they keep fair faces to you, you are not liked here." " Very well ; if I find that to be true, they will lose more than they'll gain by it." " They have been striving to secure yoiu* influence against me. I know it by your language." "In the devil's name, how can you know it by my language, mother ? " " You talked about skinning a flint ; now, you had that fi'om them with reference to me. It was only the other day that an ill- ton gued hou:3i& raaid of mine, after I had paid her her wages, and ' stopped ' for the articles she injured on me, turned round, and called me a skinflint ; they have made it a common nickname on me. I'd have torn her eyes out only for Lindsay, w^ho had the assurance to tell me that if he had not interfered I'd have had the worst of it — that I'd come off second best, and such slang ; yes, and then added aft'erwards, that he was Sony he interfered. That's the kind of a husband he is, and that's the life I lead% Now, this j)roperty is mine, and I can leave it to any one I please ; he hasn't even a Hfe interest in it." "O," exclaimed the son, in sui'prise, "is that the case ? " " It is," she repHed, " and yet you see how I am treated." " I was not aware of that, my dear mother," responded worthy Harry. " That alters the case entii-el}'. "^^Tiy, Lindsay, in these cir- cumstances, ought to j)ut his hands under youi* feet ; so ought they all I think. Well, my dear mother, of one thing I can assure you, no matter how they may treat you, calculate firmly upon my sujoport and pro- tection ; make yourself sure of that. But, now, about j\Iiss IMilk-aud-curds — what do you think of my project? " "I have been frequently turning it over in my mind, Harry, since the morning you praised her so violently, and I think, as you cannot get the property without the girl, you must only take her with it. The notion of its going into the hands of strangers would drive me mad." " Well, then, we understand each other ; I have your sanction for the courtship." " You have ; but I tell you again, I loathe her as I do poison. I never can forgi'/e ler the art with which she wheedled that joiter- headed old sinner, your uncle, out of twelve hundred a year. Unless it returns to the family, may my bitter malediction fall upor her and it." " Well, never mind, my dear mother, leave her to me — I shall have the girl and the property — but by hook or crook, the prop- erty. I shaU ride over there, now, and it will not be my fault, if I don't tij^ both her and them the saccharine." " By the way, though, Harry, now that I think of it, I'm afi'aid you'll have opposi- tion." " Opposition ! How is that ? " "It is said there is a distant relation of theu's, a gentleman named O'Connor, a Ferdora O'Connor, I think, who, it is sup- wsed, is likely to be successful there ; but, Ky the way, are you aware that they are CathoHcs?" " As to that, my dear mother, I don't care & f^ fcr h/9r reUgion ; my rehgion is her THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 657 property, or rather will be so when I get it. The other matter, however, is a thing I must look to — I mean the rivah'y ; but on that, too, we shall put our heads together, and try what can be done. I am not very timid ; and the proverb says, you know, a faint heai-t never won a fair lady." Our readers may perceive, from the spu-it of the above conversation, that the son was worthy of the mother, and the mother of the son. The latter, however, had, at least, some command over liis temper, and a great de;\l of dexterity and penetration besides ; wliilst the mother, though violent, was clumsy in her resentments, and transparent in her motives. Short as Woodward's resi- dence in the family was, he saw at a glance that the abuse she heaped upon her husband and children was nothing more nor less than dehberate falsehood. This, however, to him was a matter of perfect indifference. He was no gi'eat advocate of truth himself, when- ever he found that his interests or his pas- sions could be more effectually promoted by ffilsehood ; although he did not disdain even truth whenever it equally sex-ved his purpose. L\ such a case it gave him a reputation for candor imder which he could, with more safety, avail himself of his disingenuity and prevarication. He knew, as we said, that his mother's descrijDtion of the family contained not one atom of truth ; and yet he was too dastartUy and cunniug to defend them against her calumny. The great basis of his character, in fact, was a selfishness, which kept him perpetually indifferent to anything that was good or generous in itself, or outside" tlie circle of his own interests, beyond which he never passed. Now, noth- ing, on the other hand, could be more ad- versative to this, than the conduct, temper, and principles of his brother and sister. Chiirles was an amiable, manly, and genex-ous young feUow, who, with both spiiit and in- dependence, was, as a natiu*al consequence, loved and respected by aU who knew him ; and as for his sweet and affectionate sister, ^laria, there was not living a girl more capable of winning attachment, nor more Avorihy of it when attained ; and severely, indeed, was the patience of this admirable brother and sister tried, by the diabohcal temper of their violent and savage mother. As for Harry, he had come to the resolution, 710W that he imdei'stood the position of the property, to cultivate his mother's disposition upon such a principle of conduct as would i not compromise him with either party. As ] to theu* feuds he was perfectly indifferent to I them ; but now his great object was, to ] iitudy how to promote his own interests in I his own way. I Ha\ing reached Beech Grove, he found that unassuming family at home, as they usually were ; for, indeed, all their principal enjoy- ments lay within the quiet range of domestic life. Old Goodwin himself saw him through the parlor window as he approached, and, with ready and sincere kindness, met him iu the haU. "I am very glad to see you, Mr. Wood- ward," said he. " Allow me to conduct you to the drawing-room, where you will meet ilrs. Goodwin, Alice, and a pai-ticular fiiend of ours. I cannot myself stop long with you, because I am engaged on particular business ; but you wiQ not miss an old feUow like me when you have better company. I hope my old friends are all well. Step in, sir. Here is ]Mi'. Woodward, ladies ; ^Ii*. Woodwai'd, this gentleman is a friend of ours, 3Ir. Ferdora O'Connor; Ferdora, this is i\Ii-. Woodward ; and now I must leave you to entertain each other ; but I shaU re- turn, ^Ii'. Woodward, before you go, unless you ai-e in a great hurry. Bridget, see that luncheon is ready ; but you must lay it in the fi'ont pai'lor, because I have these tenants about me in the dining-room, as it is so much larger." " I have ah-eady given orders for that," re- pHed his -wife. He then hvu-ried out and left them, evidently much gi-atified by Wood- wai*d"s visit. O'Connor and the latter having scanned each other by a glance or two, bowed with that extreme air of pohteness which is only another name for a want of cordiaHty. O'Connor was rather a plain- looking young feUow, as to liis j^erson and general appearance ; but his !Milesian face was handsome, and his eye clear and candid, with a dash of determination and fii*e in it Very diff'erent, indeed, was it from the eye that was scrutinizing him at that moment, with such keenness and penetration. There ai'e such things as antipathies ; othei-v\ise why should those two individuals enterttiiu, almost in a moment's time, such a secret and unaccountable disrelish towai'ds each other? Woodwai'd did not love Alice, so that the feeling could not proceed from jeal- ousy ; and we will so fai- tlii'ow aside mystei-y as to say here, that neither did O'Connor ; and, we may add still fiu-ther, that poor, in- nocent, unassuming Alice was attached to neither of them. "I hope your brother is well, sir," said O'Connor, anxious to break the ice, and try the stuff Woodward was made of. " I have not seen him for some time." "O! then, you are acquaintances?" said Woodward. " We are more, sir," replied O'Connor, "we ai-e fi-iends." 658 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. "I hope you are all well," interrupted ' kiBci-heai-ted Mrs. Goodwin. ■ " Quite well, my dear madam," he replied. \ Then turning to O'Connor : " To be a friend I to my brother, sii'," he said, " next to finding ! vou a friend and favorite in this family, is ' the warmest recommendation to me. My ! long absence from home prevented me from knomng his value until now ; but now that I do know him, I say it, perhaps, with too much of the partiality of a brother, I think that any man may feel proud of his friend- ship ; and I say so Mith the less hesitation, ; because I am sure he woidd select no man j for his friend who was not worthy of it ; " i and he bowed covu'teously as he spoke. i "Faith, sir," replied O'Connor, "you have i hit it ; I for one am proud of it ; but, ujj- j on my conscience, he wouldn't be his father's I son if he wasn't what he is." ! AHce was sewing some embroidery, and | seemed to take no notice, if one could judge by her do^Ticast lonks, of what they said. At length she said, with a smile : " As you, Ferdora, have inquired for your favorite, I don't see why I should not inquire after wane ; how is yoiu- sister, IMr. Wood- ward ? " "Indeed, she's the picture of health, Miss GoodAvin ; but I vrill not " — he added, with a smile to balance her own — " I will not be answerable for the health of her heart." Alice gave a low laugh, that had the sHghtest tinctui'e of malice in it, and glanced at O'Connor, who^ began to tap his boot with his riding whip. " She is a good girl as ever Uved," said IVIrs. Goodwin, " and I hope will never have a heartache that may harm her." " Heaven knows, madam," repHed Wood- wai-d, "it is time only that will tell that. Love is a strange and sometimes rather a painful malady." " Of course you speak fr*om j'our own ex- perience, Mr. Woodward," replied AHce. " Then you have had the complaint, sir," said O'Connor, laughing. " I wonder is it like small-pox or measles ? " " How is that, sir ? " said Woodward, smil- ing. "Why, that if you've had it once you'll never have it a second time." " Yes, but if I should be ill of it now ? " and he glanced at Alice, who blushed. " AMiy, in that case," replied O'Connor, " it's in bed you ought to be ; no man with an epidemic on him should be permitted to go abroad among his majesty's liege sub- jects." " Yes, Ferdora," said Alice, " but I don't think Mr. Woodward's complaint is catch- er ™ " " God forbid that the gentleman should die of it, though," rephed Ferdora, " for that would be a serious loss to the ladies." " You exaggerate that calamity, sir," re- plied Woodward, with the slightest imagin- able sneer, " and forget that if / die you suiTive me." " Well, certainly, there is consolation in that," said O'Connor, " especially for the ladies, as I said ; isn't there. Alley ? " " Certainly," rephed Alice ; " in making love, Ferdora, you have the prowess of ten men." " Do you speak fr-om experience, noio, Miss Goodwin ? " asked Woodward, rather di-yly. " O ! no," replied Alice, " I have only his own word for it." " Only his o^xn word, ]\Iiss Goodwin ! Do you imply by that, that his own word re- quires corroboration ? " Alice blushed again, and felt confused. "I assure you, ]VIi\ Woodward," said O'Connor, " that when my word requires cor- roboration, I always corroborate it myself," " But, according to JMiss Goodwin's ac- count of it, sir, that's not likely to add much to its authenticity." "Well, Mr. Woodward," said O'Connor, with the greatest suavity of manner, "I'll teU you my method under such circum- stances ; whenever I meet a gentleman that doubts my word, I always make him eat his own. "There's nothing new or wonderful in that," reiDlied the other; "it has been my own practice during life." " What ? to eat your own words ! " ex- claimed O'Connor, purposely- mistaking him ; " very windy feeding, faith. Upon my honor and conscience, in that case, your complaint must be nothing else but the colic, and not love at all. Try peppermint wather, Mr. Woodv/ard." Alice saw at once, but could not account for the fact, that the worthy gentlemen were cutting at each other, and the timid girl be- came insensibly alarmed at the unaccount- able sharjDness of their brief encounter. She looked with an anxious comitenance, first at one, and then at the other, but scarcely knew what to say. Woodwai'd, however, who was better acquainted with the usages of society, and the deference due to the presence of women, than the brusque, but somewhat fiei-y IMilesian, now said, with a smile and a bow to that gentleman : " Sir, I submit ; I am vanquished. If you are as successful in love as you are in banter, I should not wish to enter the list against you." "Faith, sir," replied O'Connor, with a TILE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTliE. G59 pood-bumored laugh, " if your swoi'd is as sharp as your wit, you'd ha an ugly customer to meet iu a quarrel." O'Connor, who had been there for some time, now rose to take bis leave, at which Alice felt rather satisfied. Indeed, she could not avoid observing that, whatever the cause of it might be, there seemed to exist some secret feeling of dislike between them, which occasioned her no inconsiderable apprehen- sion. O'Connor she knew was kind-hearted and generous, but, at the same time, as c[uick as gunpowder in taking and resenting an in- sult. On the other hand, she certainly felt much regret at being subjected to the pres- ence of Woodward, against whom she enter- tained, as the reader knows, a strong feeling that amounted absolutely to aversion. She could not, however, think of treating him •with anything bordering on disrespect, es- pecially in her own house, and she, conse- quently, was about to say something merely calculated to pass the time. In this, how- ever, she was anticipated by Woodwai-d, who, as he had his suspicions of O'Connor, resolved to sound her on the subject. '• That seems an agreeable young fellow," said he ; " somewhat free and easy in his deportment." "Take care, Mr. Woodward," said her mother, "say nothing harsh against Fer- dora, if you wish to keep on good terms with Alley. He's the white-headed boy with her" " I am not surprised at that, madam," he rephed, " possessed as he is of such a rare and fortunate qualitv." "Pray, what is that, j\Ii'. Woodward?" asked AUce, timidly. "WTiy, the faculty of making love with the jDOwer of ten men," he replied. " You must be a very serious man," she replied. " Serious, Miss Goodwin ! A^Tiy do you think so ? " " I hoj)e 3'ou ai*e not in the habit of re- ceiving a jest as a matter of fact." "Not," he rephed, "if I could satisfy my- self that there was no fact in the jest ; but, indeed, in this world, Miss Goodwin, it is very difficult to distinguish jest fi*om ear- nest." " I am a bad reasoner, ]\Ii-. Woodward," she replied. " But, perhaps, ISIiss Goodwin, ]\Ii-. O'Con- nor would say that you make up in feeling what you want in logic." " I hope, sir," replied Alice, with some spirit — for she felt hui-t at his last observa- tion — " that I will never feel on any subject until I have reason as well as inclination to support me." I "Ah," said he, "I fear that if you once i possess the inclination you will soon supply I the reason. But, by the way, talking of I your fi-iend and favorite, ]Mr. O'Connor, I must say I like him veiy much, and I am not surprised that you do." " I do, indeed," she replied ; " I know of nobody I like better than honest, frank, and generous Ferdora," " Well, IVIiss Goodwin, I assure you h« shall be a favorite of mine for yoiu* sake." "Indeed, !Mi'. Woodwaixl, if you knew him, he would become one for 1 lis own." " Have you knovsTi him long^ may I ask. Miss Goodwin ? " " O dear, yes," said !Mi's. Goodwin, who now, finding this a fair opening iu the con- versation, resolved to have her share of it — " O dear ! yes ; Alley and he know each other ever smce her childhood ; he's some three or four years older than she is, to be sure, but that makes httle difference." "And, I suppose, IMi-s. Goodwin, their intimacy — perhaps I may say attachment — has the sanction of their resiDective fami- hes ? " " God bless you, sir, to be sure it has — are they not distantly related ? " " That, indeed, is a very usual proceeding among families," obsen'ed Woodward ; "the boy and girl are thro^vn together, and de- sired to look upon each other as destined to become husband and wife ; they accordingly do so, fall in love, are maiTied, and soon find themselves — miserable ; in fact, these matches seldom turn out well." "But there is no risk of that here," re- plied Alice. " I sincerely hope not, IVIiss Goodwin. Li your case, unless the husband was a fool, or a madman, or a villain, there m ud be happi- ness. Of course you will be happy with him ; need I say," and here he sighed, " that he at least ought to be so Avith you ? " "Upon my word, I\Ii\ Woodwai'd," replied Alice, smiling, "you are a much cleverei man than I presume your own modesty evei permitted you to suspect." " I don't understiuid you," he rephed, vrith a look of embarrassment. " Why," she proceeded, " here have you, in a few minutes, made up a match between two persons who never were intended to be maiiied at all ; you have got the sanction of two famihes to a union which neither of them even for a moment contemplated. Deal- me, su\ may not a lady jxnd gentleman become acquainted without necessarily fall- ing in love ? " "Ah, but, in yom* case, my dear ]\Iiss Goodwin, it would be difficult — impossible I should say — to remain indifferent, if the 660 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. gentleman had either taste or sentiment ; however, I assure you I am sincerely glad to find that I have been misttiken." "God bless me, IMr. Woodward," said Mi'S. Goodwin, "did you think they were sweetheai'ts ? " " Upon my honor, madam, I did — and I was very soriy for it." "i\Ir. Woodwai'd," rephed Alice, "don't mistake me ; I am inaccessible to flattery." " I am dehghted to hear it," said he, "be- cause I know that for that reason you are not and will net be insensible to truth." " Unless when it borrows the garb of flatteiy, and thus causes itself to be suspected. " " In that case," said Woodward, " nothing but good sense, Miss Goodwin, can draw the distinction between them — and now I know that you are possessed of that." " I hope so, sii'," she rephed, " and that I will ever continue to observe that distinction. Mamma, I want more thread," she said : " where can I get it ? " " Up stairs, dear, in my work-box." She then bowed shghtly to Woodward and went up to find her thread, but in fact from a wish to put an end to a conversation ihat she felt to be exceedingly disagi'eeable. A.t this moment old Goodwin came in. " You will excuse me, I trust, jMr. Wood- ivard," said he, "I was down in the dining- room receiving rents for ." He paused, ror, on reflection, he felt that this was a dis- agreeable topic to allude to ; the fact being tJiat he acted as his daughter's agent, and had been on that and the preceding day re- ceiving her rents. " Martha," said he, " what about luncheon ? You'U take luncheon with us, IVIr. Woodward ? " Woodward bowed, and Mrs. Goodwin was about to leave the room, when he said : " Perhaps, IMi's. Goodwin, you'd be good enough to remain for a few minutes." Mrs. Goodwin sat down, and he proceeded : "I trust that my arrival home will, under Provi- dence, be the means of reconciling and re- uniting two families who never should have been at variance. Not but that I admit, my dear fi-iends, — if you will allow me to call you so, — that the melancholy event of my poor uncle's death, and the unexpected dis- position of so large a property, were calcu- lated to try the patience of worldly-minded people — and who is not so in a more or less degree ? " "I don't think any of your family is," • rephed Goodwin, bluntly, " with one excep- tion." " O ! yes, my mother," replied Woodward, " and I gi-ant it ; at least she was so, and acted upon worldly principles ; but I think you will admit, at least as Chi-istians you must, that the hour of change and regret may come to every human heart when its eiTors, and its selfishness, if you will, have been clearly and mildly j)ointed oiit. I do not attribute the change that has happily taken place in my dear mother to myseK, but to a higher power ; although I must ad- mit, as I do with all humility, that I wrought earnestly, in season and out of season, since my retiu-n, to biing it about ; and, thank heaven, I have succeeded. I come this day as a messenger of peace, to state that she is willing that the famihes should be reconciled, and a happier and more lasting union effect- ed between them." "I am delighted to hear it, IMr. Wood- ward," said Goodwin, much moved ; " God knows I am. Blessed be the peace-maker, and you are he ; an easj' conscience and a hght heart must be your reward." " They must," added his wife, wiping her eyes ; " they must and they will." " Alas ! " proceeded Woodward, " how far from Gospel jDurity is every human motive when it comes to be tried by the Word ! I will not conceal fi'om you the state of my heart, nor deny that in accomphshing this thing it was influenced by a certain selfish feeling on my part ; in one sense a disinter- ested selfishness I admit, but in another a selfishness that involves raj own happiness. However, I will say no more on that subject at present. It wovdd scarcely be delicate until the reconcihation is fidly accomi^lished ; then, indeed, perhaps I may endeavor, with fear and trembling, to make myself under- stood. Only until then, I beg of you to think well of me, and permit me to consider myself as not unworthy of a humble place in yoiu' affections." Old Goodwin shook him warmly by the hand, and his wife once more had recourse to her pocket-handkerchief. " God bless you, ]\Ii'. Woodward ! " he exclaimed ; " God bless you. I now see your worth, and know it ; you ah'eady have oui* good-will and affections, and, what is more, we feel that you deserve them." " I wish, my dear sir," said the other, "that ]\Iiss Goodwin understood me as well as you and her respected mother." " She does, 'Six. Woodward," replied her father ; " she does, and she will, too." "I tremble, however," said Woodward, with a deep sigh ; " but I will leave my fate in your hands, or, I should rather say in the hands of Heaven." Lunch was then announced, and they went down to the front parlor, where it was laid out. On entering the room Woodward was a good deal disappointed to find that Misa Goodwin was not there. THE EVIL EYE: OIL THE BLACK SPEC THE 661 " Win not Miss Goodwin join us ? " he asked. "Certainly," said her father; "Martha, where is she V " " You know, my dear, she seldom lun- ches," rephed her mother. "Well, but she will now," said Goodwin ; "it is not everyday we have Mr. Woodward ; let her be sent for. John, find out Miss Geodwin, and say we wish her to join us at luncheon." John in a few moments retiu-ned to say that she had a slight headache, and could not have the pleasure of coming down. " O, I am very sony to hear she is un- well," said Woodward, with an aj^j^earance of disappointment and chagiiu, which he did not wish to conceal ; or, to spe;ik the truth, which, in a great measure, he as- sumed. After lunch his horse was ordered, and he set out on his way to Rathfillan, meditating upon his -sisit, and the rather indiii'erent x'e- ception he had got from Alice. ^liss Goodwin, though timid and nervous, was, nevertheless, in many things, a girl of spii'it, and possessed a gi*eat deal of natural wit and penetration. On that day Wood- ward exerted himself to the utmost, with a hope of making a favorable impression upon her. He calculated a good deal upon her isolated position and necessaiy ignorance of ufe and the world, and in doing so, he calcu- lated, as thousands of self-sulficient liber- tines, in their estimate of women, have done both before and since. He did not know- that there is an intuitive sjnrit in the female heart which often enables it to discover the true character of the opposite sex ; and to discriminate between the real and the as- sumed ^^ith almost infallible accuracy. But, independently of this, there was in Wood- ward's manner a hardness of outline, and in liis conversation an unconscious absence of all reality and tnith, together with a cold, studied formahty, diT, shaip, and presump- tuous, that required no extraordinary pene- tration to discover ; for the worst of it was, that he made himself disagreeably felt, and excited those powers of scrutiny and anjily- sis that ai'e so peculiar to the generality of the other sex. In fact, he sought his way home in anything but an agi'eeable mood. He thought to have met Alice an ignorant country girl, whom he might jjlay vc\)(m. ; but he found himself completely mistaken, because, fortunately for herself, he had taken her upon one of her strong points. As it was, however, whilst he could not help admiring the pertinence of her replies, neither could he help experiencing some- thing of a bitter feeling against her, be- cause she indulged in them at his own ex- pense ; whilst against O'Connor, who ban- tered him with such spirit and success, and absolutely turned him into ridicule in her presence, he almost entertained a persona] resentment. His only hojie now was in her parents, who seemed as anxious to entertaip. his proposals with favor as AUce was to re- ject them with disdain. As for Alice her- self, her ojiinion of him is a matter with which the reader is already acquainted. Our hero was about half way home when he overtook a thin, lank old man, who was a rath- er important character in the eyes of the igno- rant people at the period of which we ^^'rite. He w-as tall, and so bai-e of flesh, that when asleep he might pass for the skeleton of a coi*pse. His eyes wei-e red, cunning, and sinister-looking ; his lips thin, and from un- der the ujDper one projected a single tooth, long and yellow as saffi'on. His face was of unusual length, and his parchment cheeks formed two inward cui^ves, occasioned by the want of his back teeth. His breeches were open at the knees ; his j^olar legs were without stockings ; but his old brogues were foddered, as it is called, with a wisp of straw, to keep his feet warm. His arms Avere long, even in projjortion to his body, and his bony fingers resembled claws rather than auj-thing else we can now remember. The}' (the claws) were black as ebony, and resembled in length and shai-jmess those of a cat when she is stretching herself after rising fi'om the hearth. He wore an old barrad of the day, the gi'easy top of which fell down upon the collar of liis old cloak, and over his shoulder was a bag w-hich, fi'om its appearance, must have contained something not very weighty, as he walked on without seeming to travel as a man who carried a burden. He had a huge stali' in his right hand, the left liaAing a hold of his bag. Woodward at first mis- took him for a mendicant, but upon looking at him more closely, he perceived uotliing of that watchful and whining cant for alms which marks the character of the professional beggar. The old skeleton walked on, ajjpa- rently indifferent and independent, and never once put himself into the usual jjosture of entreaty. This, and the originality of hia appearance, excited Woodward's curiosity, and he resolved to speak to him. " WeU, my good old niiin, what may you be cariying in the bag ? " The man looked at him respectfully, and raising his hand and staff, touched his bar' rad, and replied : " A few yarribs, your honor." " Yan-ibs ? AMiat the deuce is that ? " " TMiy, the yai-ribs that gi'ow, sir — to c\ire the people when they are sick." 662 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. "O, you mean herbs." " I do, sir, and I gather them too for the potecars." " O, then jou are what they call a herb- alist." " I believe I am, sir, if you put that word against (to) a man that gethers yarribs." " Yes, that's what I mean. You sell them to the apothecaries, I supx)ose ? " "I do a Uttle, sir, but I use the most of them myseK. Son-a much the potecars knows about the use o' them ; they kill more than they cure ^vid 'em, and calls them that understands what they're good for rogues and quacks. ,iMay the Lord forgive them this day! Amin, acheerndh! (Amen, O Lord!)" "And do you administer these herbs to the sick?" "I do, gii", to the sick of all kinds — man and baste. There's nothing like them, sir, bekaise it was to cure diseases of all kinds that the Lord, blessed be His name ! amm, acheernah ! planted them in the earth for the use of his cratures. Why, sir, w^ill you hs- ten to me now, and mark my words ? There never was a complaint that folhed either man or baste, bnite or bird, but ayarrib grows that 'ud ciu-e it if it was known. When the head's hot wid faver, and the heart low wid care, the yarrib is to be foimd that will cool the head and rise the heai't." " Don't you think, now," said Yv'oodward, imagining that he would catch him, " that a glass of wine, or, what is better still, a good glass of punch, would raise the heart better than all the herbs in the universe ? " " Lord bless me ! " he exclaimed^ as if in soliloquy; "the ignorance of the rich and wealthy, and of great peojile altogether, is unknoAvn ! Wine and punch ! And what, wiU you tell me, does wine and j)unch come fi'omV Doesn't the wine come from the gi'apes that grow in forrin parts — sich as we have in our hot-houses — and doesn't the whiskey that you make your punch of gTow fi'om the honest barley in our own fields ? So much for your knowledge of yarribs." ""V\Tiy, there you are I'ight, my old friend. I forgot that." " You forgot it ? Tell the truth at once, and say you didn't know it. But may be you did forget it, for troth he'd be a poor crature that didn't know whiskey was macle fi'om barley." He here turned his red satirical eye upon Woodward, ^vith a glance that was strongly indicative of contempt for his general infor- mation. "Well," he proceeded, " the power of yar- ribs is wondherful, — if it was known to many cs it is to me." " "\iMiy, from long practice, I suppose, you must be skilful in the properties o! herbs ? " " Well, indeed, you needn't only suppose it, but you may be sartin of it. Have you a good api^etite '? " " A particulai'ly good one, I assure you." " Now, wouldn't you think it strange that I could give you a dose that 'ud keep you on half a male a day for the next three months." " God forbid," rephed Woodward, who, among his other good quahties, was an enormous trencherman, — " God forbid that ever such a dose should go down my throat." " Would you thinlc, now," he jDroceeded, with a sinister grin that sent his yellow tusk half an inch out of his inouth, " that if a man was jealous of his wife, or a wife of her hus- band, I couldn't give either o' them a dose that 'ud ciu'e them ? " "Faith, I dare say 3'ou could," rephed Woodward ; "a dose that would fi'ee them from care of all sorts, as well as jealousy." " I don't mane that," said the skeleton ; ".ha, ha! you're a funny gentleman, and maybe I — but no — I don't mane that ; but widout injurin' a hair in either o' their heads." " I am not married," said the other, " but I expect to be soon, and when I am I will pay you well for the knowledge of that herb — for my wife, I mean. Where do you hve ? " " In Eathfillan, sir. I'm a weU-known man there, and for many a long mile about it." " You must be very useful to the country peoj)le hereabouts ? " "Ay," he exclaimed, "you mane to the poor, I suppose, and you're right ; but may- be I'm of sarvice to the rich, too. Many a face I save fi'om — I could save fi'om shame, I mane — if I liked, and could get well ped for it, too. Some young, extravagant peojile that have rich ould fathers do be spakin' to me, too ; but thin, you know, I have a sowl to be saved, and am a rehgious man, I hope, and do my duty as sich, and that every one that has a sowl to be saved, may ! Amin, acheernah ! " " I am glad to find that your sense of duty preserves you against such strong tempta- tions." " Then, there's another set of men — these outlaws that do be robbin' rich people's houses, and they, too, try to tempt me." j " Why should they tempt you ? " I " Bekaise the j)eople, now knowin' that j they're abroad, keep watch-dogs, blood j hounds, and sich useful animals, that giva THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 663 the ala/m at night, aud the robbers vrishin', you see, to get them out of the way, do be temptm' me about wishin' me to jjison them." " Of course you resist them ? " " Well, I \\o\i& I do ; but sometimes it's hard to get over them, especially when they plant a ?.kea)x or a middofjue to one's navel, and swear great oaths that they'U make a scabbard for it of my jjoor ould bidg (belly) — I say, when the thieves do the business that way, it requires a grate dale of the grace o' God to deny them. But what's any Christhen 'idout the grace o' God ? May we all have it ! Amin, avhrernah!'' " Well, when I marry, as I vdU soon, I'll call ujDon 3'ou ; I dare saj' my wife will get jealous, for I love the ladies, if that's a fault." Another gi*in was his first reply to this, after which he said : "Well, sir, if she does, come to me." " ^\Tiere in Eathfillan do you live ? " " O, anybody will tell you ; inquire for ould Sol Donnel, the yamb man, and you'll soon find me out." " But suppose I shouldn't wish it to be known that I called on you ? " " Eh ? " said the old villain, giving him another significant gj-in that once more pro- jected the fang ; " well, maybe you wouldn't. If you want my sarvices, then, come to the cottage that's built agin the church-yard wall, on the north side ; and if 3'ou don't . >vish to be seen, why you can come about midnight, wlien every one's asleej)." " What's this you say your name is? " " Sol Donnel." "What do you mean by Sol?" He turned up his red eyes in astonish- ment, and exclaimed : " Well, now, to think that a larned man as you must be shouUbi't know what Sol means ! WeU, the ignorance of you great people is unknown. Don't you know — but 3'ou don't — oughn't you know, then, that Sol means Solomon, who was the ^\-isest man and the biggest blaggai'd that ever lived ! Faith, if / had lived in his day he'd be a poor customer to me, bekaise he had no shame in him ; but indeed, the doin's that goes on now in holes and corners among ourselves was no shame in his time. That's a fine bay hoi'se you ride ; would you like to have him dappled? A dappled bay, you know, is always a gi-eat beauty." " And could you dapj:)le liim ? " "Ay, as siu'e as you ride him." "Weil, I'll think about it and let you know ; there's some silver for you, and good-by, honest Solomon." Ir'oodwai'd then rode on, reflecting on the novel and extraoi-dinary character of this hypocritical old \'illaiu, in whose withered and repulsive visage he could not discover a single trace of an^-thing that intimated the existence of sympathy with his kind. As to that, it was a tabula nu-^a, bhmk of all feel- ings except those which characterize the hyena and the fox. Aft^r he had left him, the old fellow gave a bitter and derisive look after him. " There you go," said he, " and well I knew you, although you didn't think so. Weren't you pointed out to me the night o' the divil's bonfire, that yom- mother, they say, got up for you ; and didn't I see you since spakin' to that skamin' blaggaixl, Cat- erime CoUins, my niece, that t?xkes many u penny out o' my hands ; and didn't I know that you coultln't be talkin' to her about kuy- thing that was good. Troth, you're not yovu" mother's son or you'll be comin' tj me ?«« well as her. Bad luck to her ! she was neiU' gettin' me into the stocks when I sowld her the dose of oak bark for the sarvants, to draw in theii* stomachs and shorten their feetlin'. ]My faith, ould Lindsay 'ud have jmt me in them only for fi'aid o' bzingiu' shame upon his wife." * CHAPTER XUI. A Heeding of the Breach. — ^1 Proposal for Marriage Accepted. Ox that evening, when the family were assembled at supper, Mrs. Lindsay, who had had a pre^•ious consultation Arith her son Hai-ry, thought proper to introduce the sub- ject of the projected maiTiage between him and Ahce Goodwin. "Harry has paid a visit to these neigh- bors of ours,' said she, "these Goodwins, and I think, now that he has come home, it would be only pi-udent on oiu* part to renew the intimacy that was between us. Not that I hke, or ever "will hke, a bone in one of their bodies ; but it's only right that we shoidd foil them at their own weapons, and try to * Some of our readers may imagine that in the enumeration of the cures which old Sol professed to effect we have drawn too largely upon their credulity, whereas there is scarcely one of them that is not practised, or attempted, in remote and uneducated parts of Ireland, almost down to the present day. We ourselves in early youth saw a man who professed, and was believed to be able, to cure jealousy in either man or woman by a potion ; whilst charms for colics, toothaches, taking motea out of the eye, and for producing love, wete com- mon among the ignorant people within oiu owl recollection. d64 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. get back the property into the hands of one of the family at least, if we can, and so pre- vent it fi'om going to strangers. I am determined to pay them a fi-iendly visit to- moiTow. ' "A fi'iendly \isit ! " exclaimed her hus- band, mth an expression of sui-prise and indignation on his countenance which he could not conceal ; " how can you say a frieudly visit, after ha\'ing just told us that you neither like them, nor ever will like them ? not that it was at all necessaiy for you to assure us of that. It is, however, the hji^ocrisy of the thing on youi' part that startles and disgusts me." " Call it prudence, if you please, Lindsay, or worldly Avisdom, if you hke, after all the best kind of wisdom ; and I only wish you had more of it." " That makes no difference in life," rephed her husband, calmly, but severely ; " as it is, you have enough, and more than enough for the whole family." "But has Han-y any hopes of success with Ahce Goodwin," asked Charles, "because everji;hing depends on that f " "If he had not, you foohsh boy, do you think I would be the first to break the ice by going to j)ay them a \isit ? The gii'l, I dare say, will make a very good wife, or if she does not, the property will not be a pound less in value on that account ; that's one comfort." " And is it ui^on this hoUow and treacher- ous principle that you are about to pay them a friendly \isit ? " asked her husband, with ill-repressed indignation. "Lindsay," she replied, sharply, "I per- ceive you are rife for a quarrel now ; but I beg to tell you, sir, that I wiU neither seek yoiu' aj^probation nor regard your authority. I must manage these people after my own fashion." "Harry," said his step-father, turning abruptly, and with incredulous surpiise to him, " surely it is not possible that you are a party to such a shameful imposture upon this excellent family ? " His brother Charles fastened his eyes up- on him as if he would read his heart. "I am sorry, sir," replied that gentleman, " that you should think it necessary to apply the word imjjostui-e to any proceeding of mine. You ought to know my mother's out- spoken way, and that her heart is kinder than her language. The fact is, from the first moment I saw that beautiful girl I felt a warm interest in her, and I feel that in- terest increasing every day. I certainly am very anxious to secure her for her own sake, whilst I candidly admit that I am not whoUy indifferent to the property. I am only a common man like others, and not above the world and its influences — who can be that lives in it ? My mother, besides, wiU come to think better of Ahce, and all of them, when she shall be enabled to call Ahce daughter ; won't you, mother ? " The mother, who knew by the sentiments which he had expressed to her before on this subject, that he was nowplajing a game with the family, did not consider it prudent to contradict him ; she consequently re- plied, — "I don't know, Harry; I cannot get their trick about the projDerty out of my heart ; but, i^erhaps, if I saw it once more where it ought to be, I might change. That's all I can say at i:)resent." "Well, come, HaiTy," said Lindsay — ad- verting to what he had just said — " I think you have spoken fairly enough ; I do — it's candid ; you are not above this world ; why should you be? — come, it is candid." "I trust, sir, you -nill never find me un- candid, either on this or anv other subject." " No ; I don't think I shall, Eaiiy. WeU, be it so — setting your mother out of the question,^ proceed with equal candor in your coui'tship. I trust you deserve her, and, if so, I hope you may get her." "If he does not," said Maria, "he will never get such a wife." " By the way, Harry," asked Charles, " has she given you an intimation of anything like encoui-agement ? " " WeU, I rather think I am not exactly a fool, Charles, nor Likely to undertake an enterj)rise without some jjrospect of success. I hope you deem me, at least, a candid man." " Yes ; but there is a class of persons who frequently form too high an estimate of them- selves, especially in their intercourse with women ; and who very often mistake civihty for encouragement." "Very true, Charles — exceedingly just and true ; but I hope I am not one of those either ; my knowledge of hfe and the world wiU prevent me from that, I tiiist." "I hope," continued Charles, " that if the girl is adverse to such a connection she will not be harassed or annoyed about it." " I hope, Charles, I have too much pride to press any proposal that may be disagree- able to her ; I rather think I have. But have you, Charles, any reason to suj^jDOse that she should not like me ? " " ^Miy, fi-om what you have ah-eady hinted, Harry, you ought to be the best judge of that yourself." "Well, I think so, too. I am not in the habit of v,alking blindfold into any adven- ture, especially one so imjDortant as this. THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 665 Trust to my address, my dear fellow," he added, with a confident smile, " and, believe me, you shall soon see her your sister-in-law." " And I shall be dehghted at it, Han-y," said his sister; "so go on and prosper. If you get her you will get a treasure, setting her property out of the question." " //*';• projierty ! " ejacuLated Mrs. Lindsay ; ■' but no matter ; we shall see. I can speak sweetly enough when I wish." " I \vish to God you would try it oftener, then," said her husband ; "but I tinist that during this risit of yours you will not give way to your precious temper and insult them at the outset. Don't tie a knot -vNath your tongue that you can't unravel with yoiu* teeth. Be quiet, now ; I didn't speak to raise the devil and draw on a tempest — only let us have a glass of pimch, till Charley and I drink success to Han-y." The next day ]Mi-s. Lindsay ordered the car, and proceeded to pay her intended visit to the Goodwins. She had an-ived pretty near the house, when two of Good- win's men, who were dri\'ing his cows to a grazing field on the other side of the road by which she was approaching, having noticed and recognized her, immediately turned them back and drove them into a paddock enclosed by trees, where they were completely out of her sight. " De\'il blow her, east and west ! " said one of them. " "VMiat bikings her across us now that we have the cattle wid us? and doesn't all the world know that she'd lave them sick and sore wid one glance of her unlucky eye. I hope in God she didn't see them, the thief o' the devil that she is." " She can't see them now, the cratures," rephed the other ; " and may the de\al knock the Hght out of her eyes at any rate," he added, " for sure, they say it's the hght of hell that's in them." " Well, when she goes there she'll be able to see her way, and svu'e that'll be one com- fort, " I'ephed his companion ; " but in the mane time, if anything happens the cows — poor bastes — we'll know the rason of it." " She must dale wid the deAol," said the other, " and I hope she'll be bunied for a ■witch yet ; but whisht, here she comes, and may the devil roast her on his toastin' iron the first time he wants a male ! " " Ti'oth, an' he'd find her tough feedin'," said his comi*ade ; " and barrin' he has strong tusks, as I suppose he has, he'd find it no eveiT-day mtde wid Lim." As they spoke, the object of their animad- version appeared, and turned upon them, so naturally, a sinister and sharp look, that it seemed to the men as if she had suspected the subject of their conversation. } " Yoa are Mr. Goodwin's laborers, are vou 'not?" ! "We are, ma'am,' rephed one of them, without, as usual, touching his hat how- ever. I " You ill-mannered boor," she said, " why do you not touch your hat to a lady, when she conde.sceuds to speak to you ? " " I always touch my hat to a lady, ma'am," \ replied the man sharply. " Come here, you other man," said she ; "perhaps you ai'e not such an insolent rutiian as this ? Can you tell me if ^Ii*. and ' Mi's. Goodwin are at home ? " ! " Are you goin' there ? " asked the man, i making a low bow. " Yes, I am, my good man," she re- phed. " Well, then, ma'am," he added, bowing I again, " youll find* that out when you go to the house ; " and he made her another bow to wind up the information with all due pohteness. " Barney," said she to the servant, her face inflamed with rage, "drive on. I only wish I had those ruffianly scoundrels to deal ' with ; I would teach them manners to theil betters at all events ; and you, siiTa, why did vou not use your whip and chasti.se ' them'? " I " Faith, ma'am," rephed our fiiend Barney I Casey, "it's aisier said than done wid some of us. ^Tiy, ma'am, they're the two hardi- est and bed men in the parish ; however, , here's Pugshy Ruah turnin" out o' the gate, and shell be able to teU you whether they are at home or not." [ " O, that's the woman they say is un- lucky," obsei-ved his mistress—" unlucky to meet, I mean ; I have often heard of her ; indeed, it may be so, for I believe there ai'e such persons ; we shall .speak to her, however. My good woman," she said, ad- di-essing Pugshy, "allow me to a.sk, have you been at ]Mr. Goodwin's ? " Now Pugshy had all the legitimate chai*ac- teristics of an " unlucky " woman ; red- haired, had a game eye — that is to say, she squinted with one of them ; Pugshy wore a caubeen hat, hke a man ; had on neither shoe nor stocking ; her huge, brawny ai'uis, imcovered almost to the shoulders, were brown with freckles, as was her face ; so that, altogether, she would have made a bad substitute either for the Medicean Venus or the Apollo Belridere. " My good woman, allow me to ask if you have been at Mr. Goodwin's." Pugsh}-, who knew her well, stood for a moment, and closing the eye with which she did not squint, kept the game one fixed upon her very steadily for half a minute, and as 666 WILLIAM CARLETON'8 WORKS. she wore the caubeen rather rakishly on oue side of her head, her whole figure and expression were something between the frightful and the ludicrous. " Was I at Misther Goodwin's, is it? Lord love you, ma'am, (and ye need it, sotto voce), an' maybe you'd give us a thrifle for the male's mate ; it's hard times wid us this weader." "I have no change ; I never bring change out Via th me." " You're goin' to Mr. Goodwin's, ma'am ? " " Yes ; are he and ]\Irs. Goodwin at home, can you tell me ? " " They are, ma'am, but you may as well go back again ; you'll have no luck this day." "^Tiy so?" " Why, bekaise you won't ; didn't you meet me? Who ever has luck that meets me ? Nobody ought to know that betther than 3'ourself, for, by all accounts, you're taiTed wid the same stick." " Foolish woman," rej)Hed IVIrs. Lindsay, " how is it in your j)Ower to prevent me ? " "No matther," i-eplied the woman ; "go an ; but mark my words, you'll have your journey for nuttin', whatever it is. Lideed, if I turned back three stej)s wid you it might be other'v^T.se, but you refused to cross my hand, so you must take your luck," and with a frightful glance from the eye afore- said, she passed on. As she drove up to Mr. Goodwin's resi- dence she was met on the steps of the hall- door by that kind-hearted gentleman and his wife, and received with a feeling of gratifi- cation which the good people could not dis- guise. "I suppose," said Mrs. Lindsay, after they had got seated in the drawing-room, " that you are surjjrised to see me here ? " " We are delighted, say, IMrs. Lindsay," rephed Mr. Goodwin—" delighted. Why shoiild ill-will come between neighbors and friends without any just cause on either side ? That property " " O, don't talk about that," replied Mrs. Lindsay ; " I didn't come to sj^eak about it ; let everything connected with it be forgot- ten ; and as proof that I \niih. it should be BO, I came here to-day to renew the intimacy that should subsist between us." " And, indeed," replied Mi's. Goodwin, " the iuterinijition of that intimacy distress- ed us very much — more, perhaj)s, Mrs. Lind- say, than you might feel disposed to give us credit for." " Well, my dear madam," rejilied the other, "I am svu-e you will be glad to hear that I have not only my OAvn inclination, but the sanction and wish of my whole family, in making this fx-iendly visit, with the hope o1 placing us all upon our former footing. But, to tell you the truth, this might not have been so, were it not for the anxiet}' of my son Henry, who has returned to us, and whom, I believe, you know." " We have that pleasure," rephed Good- win ; " and from what we have seen of him, we think jon have a right to feel proud of such a son." " So I do, indeed," replied his mother ; " he is a good and most amiable young man, without either art or cunning, but truthful and honorable in the highest degree. It is to him we shall all be indebted for this re- conciliation ; or, perhaps, I might say," she added, with a smile, " to your own daughter Alice." " Ah ! poor Alice," exclaimed her father ; " none of us felt the estrangement of the families with so much regret as she did." "Indeed, Mi-s. Lindsay," added his wife, " I can bear witness to that ; many a bitter tear it occasioned the poor girl." " I believe she is a most amiable creature," replied Mrs. Lindsay ; " and I beheve," she added wdth a smile, " that there is one parti- ciilar young gentleman of that oj)inion as well as myseK." We believe in our souls that the simplest woman in existence, or that ever lived, be- comes a deep and thorough diplomatist when engaged in a conversation that involves in the remotest degi'ee any matrimonial specu- lation for a daughter. Now, Mi's. Goodwin knew as well as the reader does, that IMrs. Lindsay made allusion to her son Harry, the new-comer ; but she felt that it was contrary to the spirit of such negotiations to make a direct admission of that feeling ; she, accord- ingly, was of 02:)inion that in order to bring IVIi'S. Lindsay dii-ectly to the point, and to exonerate herself and her husband from ever having entertained the question at all, her best plan was to misunderstand her, and seem to proceed upon a false scent. " O, indeed, Mrs. Lindsay," she rephed, " I am not surjDrised at that ; Charles and Alice were always great favorites vdth each other." " Charles ! " exclaimed Mrs. Lindsay ; " Charles ! What could induce you to think of associating Charles and Alice ? He is un- worthy of such an association." "Bless me," exclaimed Mi's. Goodwin in her tui-n ; "why, I thought you alluded to Charles." " No," said her neighbor, " I alluded to my eldest son, Harry, to whose good offices in this matter both families are so much in- debted. He is worthy of any girl, and in- deed few girls are worthy of him ; but as foi THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 667 Alice, you know what a favorite she was with me, and I trust now I shall like her even better than ever." " You are right, Mrs. Lindsay," said Good- win, " in saying that few women are worthy of your eldest son ; he is a most gentleman- ly, and evidently a most accomplished young mfin ; his conversation at breakfast here the morning after the storm was so remarkable, both for good sense and good feehng, that I am not sui-prised at your friendly \dsit to- day, Mrs. Lindsay. He was sent, I hope, to introduce a spiiit of jjeace and concord be- tween us, and God forbid that we should repel it ; on tlie contraiy, we hail his medi- ation witli delight, and feel deeply indebted to him for placing both famihes in their original position." " I trust in a better position," replied his adroit mother ; "I trust in a better position, Mr. Goodwin, and a still nearer and dearer connection. It is better, howevei-, to speak out ; you know me of old, my dear friends, and that I am blunt and straightforward — as the proverb has it, ' I think what I say, and I say what I think.' This visit, then, is made, as I said, not only by my owai wish, but at the express entreaty of my son Harry, and the great delight of the whole family ; there is therefore no use in concealing the fact — he is deeply attached to your daughter, Alice, and was from the first moment he saw her ; — of course you now understand my mission — which is, in fact, to make a proposal of marriage in his name, and to entreat youi* favorable consideration of it, as well as your influence in his behalf with Alice herself." " Well, I declare, Mrs. Lindsay," replied Mrs. Goodwdn, (God forgive her !) " you have taken us quite by surprise — you have in- deed ; — dear me — I'm quite agitated ; but he is, indeed, a tine young man — a perfect gentleman in his manners, and if he be as good as he looks — for marriage, God help us, tries us ixll " " I liope it never tried you much, iVIai'tha," replied her husband, smiling. " No, my dear, I don't say so. Still, when the happiness of one's child is concerned — and such a child as Alice " " But consider, Mrs. Goodwin," replied the ambassadress, who, in fact, was not far from an explosion at what she considered a piece of conteujptible vacillation on the part of her neighbor—" consider, ]\Irs. Goodwin," saitl she, " that the hajjpiness of my son is concerned." " I know it is," she replied ; " but speak to her father, IMi's. Lindsay — he, as such, is the proper person — Q, dear me." "Well, Mr. Goodwin — you have heard what I have said ? " "I have, madam," said he; "but tliauk God I am not so nervous as my good wife here. I hke your son, Harry, very much, from what I have seen of him — and, to be plain with you, I re.-dly see no objection to such a match. On the contrary, it will pro- mote peace and good-Avill between us ; and, I have no doubt, will prove a hapi)y event to the parties most concerned." " O, there is not a doubt of it," exclaimed ]Mi-s. Goodwin, now chiming in with her husband ; " no, there can be no doubt of it, O, they will be very happy together, and that -will be so delightful. My darhng Alice ! " — and here she became pathetic, and shed tears copiously — "yes," she added, " we will lose 3'ou, my darling, and a lonely house we will have after you, for I suppose they will live in the late ISIi'. Hamilton's resi- dence, on their own property." This allusion to the arrangements contem- plated in the event of the marriage, redeemed, to a certain degree, the simple-hearted ^Ii'S, Good^vin from the strongest possible con- tempt on the part of a womiui who was never known to shed a tear upon any earthly subject. " Well, then," proceeded Mi'S. Lindsay, "I am to understand that this proposal on the behalf of my son is accepted ? " "So far as I and ]Mi's. Goodwin are con- cerned," replied Goodwin, "you are, indeed, Mrs. Lindsay, and so far all is smooth and eas}^ ; but, on the other hand, there is Alice — she, you know, is to be consulted." " O ! as for poor Alice," said her mother, " there will be no difficulty with her ; what- ever I and her father wish her to do, if it be to please us, that she will do." "I trust," said ]VIi-s. Lindsay, "she has no previous attachment ; for that would be un- fortunate for herself, poor girl." " She an attachment ! " exclaimed her mo- ther ; " no, the poor, timid creature never thought of such a thing." " It is difficult for parents to know that," replied Mi-s. Lindsay ; "but where is she?" " She's gone out," replied her mother, "to take a jileasant jaunt somewhere with a young fiiend of ours, a ]Mi'. O'Connor ; but, indeed, I'm glad she is not here, for if she was, we could not, you know, discuss this matter in her presence." I " That is verj' time," observed IMrs. Lind- ; say, dryly ; " but perhaps she doesn't regret her absence. As it is, I think you ought to i impress upon her that, in the article of mar- ' riage, a young and inexperienced girl hke I her ought to have no will but that of her parents, who are best qualified, from their experience and knowledge of life, to form I and dii'ect her piiuciples." 668 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. "I do not think," said her father, "that there is anj-thing to be apprehended on her part. She' is the most unselfish and disin- terested girl that ever existed, and sooner than give her mother or me a pang, I am sure she would make any saciifice ; but at the same time," he added, "if her owti hap- piness were involved in the matter, I should certainly accept no such sacrifice at her hands." "As to that, ]VIr. Goodwin," she rephed, "I hope we need calculate ujDon nothing on her part bat a wiUing consent • and obedi- ence. At all events, it is but natural that they shoidd be pretty frequently in each other's society, and that my son should have an opportunity of inspiring her with good will towards him, if not a still wai'mer feel- ing. The matter being now understood, of course, that is and will be his exclusive priv- ilege." "YoTU' observations, my dear madam, are but reasonable and natural," rephed Good- win. ""N^liy, indeed, should it be other- wise, considering their contemplated relation to each other ? Of course, we shall be de- hghted to see him here as often as he chooses to come, and so, I am sure, will Ahce." They then separated upon the most cor- dial terms ; and IMrs. Lindsay, ha"sdng moun- ted her vehicle, proceeded on her way home. She Avas, however, far fi'om satisfied at the success of her interview with the Goodwins. So far as the consent of her father and mo- ther went, all was, to be sui'e, quite as she could have wished it ; but then, as to Ahce herself, there might exist an insurmountable difiiculty. She did not at all relish the fact of that young lady's taking her amusement with Mr. O'Connor, who she knew was of a handsome person and independent circum- stances, and veiy likely to become a formi- dable rival to her son. As matters stood, however, she resolved to conceal her appre- hensions on this point, and to m-ge Harry to secure, if possible, the j^roperty, which both she herself and he had solely in view. As for the girl, each of them looked on her as a cipher in the transaction, whose only value was rated by the broad acres which they could not secure without taking her along mth them. The family were dispersed when she retvu-ned home, and she, consequently, re- sen'ed the account of her mission until she should meet them in the evening. At length the hour came, and she lost no time in opening the matter at full length, suppressing, at the same time, her ovm apprehensions of Alice's consent, and her dread of the rivahy on the part of O'Connor. "WeU," said she, "I have seen thesi people ; I have called upon them, as you all know ; and, as I said, I have seeo them." " To very little pui-pose, I am afraid," said her husband ; "I don't lilce j-our commence- ment of the report." " I suppose not," she replied ; " but, thank God, it is neither youi* liking nor disliking that we regard, Lindsay. I have seen them, Harry ; and I am glad to say that they are civil people." "Is it only now you found that out?" asked her husband ; " why, they never were anything else, Jenny." " Well, really," said she, " I shall be forced to ask you to leave the room if you proceed at this rate. Children, will you protect me from the inten-uption and the studied insults of this man ? " "Father," said Charles, "for Heaven's sake "«ill you aUow her to state the result of her visit ? We are all very anxious to hear it ; none more so than I." " Please except your elder brother," said Harry, laughing, "whose interest you know, Chaiiey, is most concerned." " Well, perhaps so," said Charles ; " of course, Hariy — but proceed, mother, we shan't interrupt you." " O, go on," said his mother, "go on ; dis- cuss the matter among you, I can wait ; don't hesitate to interrupt me ; yoiu' father there has set you that gentlemanly example." " It must siu'ely be good when it comes," said Hari'y,with a smile; "but do ]iroceed, my dear mother, and never mind these queer folk ; go on at once, and let us know all : we — that is, myself — are jDrejoared for the worst ; do proceed, mother." " Am I at hberty to sjDeak ? " said she, and she looked at them with a glance that expressed a very fierce interrogatory. They all nodded, and she resumed : " Well, I have seen these j)eople, I say ; I have made a proposal of marriage between Harry and Alice, and that proposal is " She paused, and looked around her with an air of triumph ; but whether that look communicated the triumph of success, or that of her inveterate enmity and contempt for them ever since the death of old Hamil- ton, was as great a secret to them as the Bononian enigma. There was a dead silence, much to her moriification, for she would have given a great deal that her husl^and had iuterrui^ted her just then, and taken her upon the wi-ong tack. "Well," she proceeded, "do tou all wish to hear it ? " Lindsay put his forefinger on his hps, and nodded to all the rest to do the same. THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 669 "All, Liudsay," she exclaimed, "you are an ill-minded man ; but it matters not so far as ijou are concerned — in three words, Haiirv, the proposal h< awcpted ; yes, accepted, and with gratitude and thanksgiving." " And you had no quarrel ? " said Lindsay, with astonishment ; " nor you didn't let out on tliem ? Well, well ! " " Children, lam addressing myself to you, and esjiecially to Harry here, who is most interested ; no, I see nothing to prevent us from having back the property and the curds- and-whey along with it." " Faith, and the curds-and-whey are the best part of it after all," said Lindsay ; " but, in the meantime, you might be a little more particular, iuid f^ive us a touch of your own eloquence and ability in bringing it about. " "AVhat did Ahce herself say, mother?" asked Charles ; " was she a party to the consent ? because, if she was, your triumph, or rather Harry's here, is complete." "It is complete," replied his mother, having recourse to a dishonest evasion ; " the girl and her parents have but one opinion. Indeed, I always did the poor thing the crecht to beheve that she never was capable of enteriainiug an oi)inion of her o-wn, and it now turns out a very fortunate thing for HaiTy that it is so ; but of course he has made an imjjression upon hei\" "As to that, mamma," said Maria, "I don't know — he ma}', or he may not ; but of this I am satisfied, that Alice Goodwin is a giii who can form an opinion for herself, and that, whatever that opinion be, she will neither change or abandon it upon slight grounds. I know her well, but if she has consented to marry Harry she will man-y him, tmd that is all that is to be said about it." "I thought she would," said Hai-ry ; "I toid vou, Charlev, that I didn't think I was a fool— didn't I ? " " I know you did, Harrv'," replied his brother ; " but I don't know how — it strikes me that I would rather have any other man's opinion on that subject than your own ; however, time will tell." " It will tell, of course ; and if it proves me a fool, I \\i\\ give you leave to clap the fool's cap on me for life. And now that we have advanced so far and so well, I will go and take one of my evening strolls, in order to meditate on my approaching happiness." And he did so. The family were not at all surjDrised at this, even jdthough tlie period of his walks fi-equently extended into a protracted hour of the night. Not so the servants, who won- dered why Master HiU'iy should wtilk so much abroad and remain out so late at night. especially considering the unsettled and alarming state of the country, in consequence of the outrages and robberies which were of such frequent occurrence. This, it is time, was startling enough to these simple people ; but that which filled them not only with as- tonishment, but with something like awe, was the indifit'erence with which he was known to traverse haunted places alone and unaccompanied, when the whole country around, excej^t thieves and robbers, witches, and evil spirits, were sound asleep. " What," they asked each other, " could he mean by it ? ■" "Barney Casey, you that knows a great deal for an unlarned man, tell us what you think of it," said the cook; 'isn't it the world's Avondher, that a man that's out at such hours doesn't see somefhin' ? There's Lanty Bawn, and sure the}* say he sa^r the ivhite ivoman beyaut the end of the long bo- reen on Thursday night last, the Lord save us ; eh, Barney ? " Barney immediately assumed the oracle. " He did," said he ; " and what is still more feai-ful, it's said there was a black man along wid her. They say that Lanty seen them both, and tliat the black man had his arm about the white woman's waist, and was kissin' her at full trot." The cook crossed herself, and the whole kitchen turned up its eyes at this diaboHcal piece of courtship. " Musha, the Lord be about us in the manetime ; but bad luck to the ould boy, (a black pxan is always considered the devil, or the ould boy, as they call liim,) wasn't it a daisant taste he had, to go to kiss a ghost?" "Why," rephed Barney with a grin, "I suppose the ould chap is hard set on that point ; who the deril else would kiss him, banin' some she ghost or other? Some luckless ould maid, I'U go bail, that gother a beard while she was here, and the de\il now is kissin' it oif to get seein' what kind of a face she lias. Well, all I can say," he pro- ceeded, " is, that I wish him luck of his em- ployment, for in troth it's an honorable one and he has a right to be proud of it." "Well, well," said the housemaid, "it's a wondher how any one can walk by them- selves at night ; wasn't it near the well at the foot of the long hill that goes up to where the Davorens Uve that they were seen ? " " It was," repHed Barney ; " at laste they say so." "And didn't yourself tell me," she pro- ceeded, " that that same lonesome boreen is a common walk at night wid Master Harry ? " "And so it is, Ntmse," repHed Bai-uey ; " but as for Misther Harry, I beheve it'a 870 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. piirty well knoT\Ti, that by night or by day he may walk where he hkes." " Father of heaven ! " they exclaimed in a low, earnest voice ; " but xchij, Barney ? " yiey asked in a condensed whisper. " Why ! Why is he called Han-y na Suil Balor for ? Can you tell me that ? " " Why, bekaise his two eyes isn't one color." "And why ai-n't they one color? Can you tell me that ? " " O, the sorra step farther I can go in that question." " No," said Barney, full of importance, "I thought not, and what is more, I didn't ex- pect it fi-om you. His mother coiild tell, though. It's in her family, and there's worse than that in her family." "Troth, by all accounts," observed the girl, " there never was anything good in her tamily. But, Barney, achora, will you tell us, if you know, what's the rason of it ? " "If I know?" said Barney, rather offend- ed ; "maybe I don't know, and maybe I do, if it came to that. Any body, then, that has two eyes of different colors always has the Evil Eye, or the Suil Balor, and has the power of overlookin' ; and, between ourselves, Masther Harry has it. The misthress herseK can only overlook cattle, bekaise both her eyes is of the one color ; but Masther Harry could overlook either man or woman if he vdshed. And how do you think that comes ? " " The Lord knows," replied the cook, crossing herself; "fi'om no good, at any rate. Troth, I'U get a gosj)el and a scapular, for, to tell you the truth, I observed that Masther Hariy gave me a look the other day that made my flesh creep, by rason that he thought the mutton was overdone." " O, you needn't be afeard," replied Bar- ney ; " he can overlook or not, as he plaises ; if he does not wish to do so, you're safe enough ; but when any one hke him that has the j^ower wishes to do it, they could wither you by degrees off o' the aii'th." " God be about us ! But, Barne}^ you didn't teU us how it comes, for all that." " It comes fi'om the fairies. Doesn't every one know that the fairies themselves has the power of overlookin' both cattle and Christians ? " " That's true enough," she replied ; "every one, indeed, knows that. Sure, my aunt had a child that died o' the fairies." "Yes, but Masther Harry can see them." " What ! is it the fairies ? " "Ay, the fames, but only wid one eye, that piercin' black one of his. No, no ; as I said before, he may walk where he likes, both by night and by day ; he's safe from everytlung of the kind ; even a ghost daren't lay a finger on him ; and as the devil an(5 the fairies are connected, he's safe fi'om him, too, in this world at laste ; but the Lord pity him when he goes to the next ; for there he'll suffer laity." The truth is, that in those days of witch* craft and apparitions of all kinds, and even in the present, among the ignorant and un- educated of the lower classes, any female seen at night in a lonely place, and supposed to be a spii'it, was termed a vhite xooman, no matter what the color of her dress may have been, pro\ided it was iiot black. The same suj^erstition held good when anything in the shape of a man happened to appear under similai' circumstances. Terror, and the force of an excited imagination, instantly trans- formed it into a black man, and that black man, of course, was the devil liimself. In the case before us, however, our readers, we have no doubt, can give a better guess at the nature of the black man and white woman in question than either the cook, the house- maid, or even Barney himseK. It was late that night when Harry came in. The servants, with whose terrors and superstitions Casey had taken such liberties, now looked upon him as something awful, and, as might be naturally exjiected, felt a dreadful ciuiosity with respect to him and his movements. They lay awake on the night in c[uestion, mth the express purpose of satisfying themselves as to the hour of his retui-n, and as that was between twelve and one, they laid it down as a certain fact that there was something "not right," and be- 3'ond the common in his remaining out so late. CHAPTER IX. Chase of the White Hare. *' Hark, forward, forward ; holla ho I " The next morning our friend Harry ap- peared at the breakfast table rather paler than usual, and in one of his most abstracted moods ; for it may be said here that the fi'e- quent occurrence of such moods had not escaped the observation of his family, espe- cially of his step-father, in whose good grace, it so happened, that he was not improving. One cause of this was his superciHous, or, rather, his contemptuous manner towards his admirable and affectionate brother. He refused to associate with him in his sports or diversions ; refvised him his confidence, and seldom addressed him, except in that tone of banter wliich always implies an offen- sive impression of inferiority and want of re- THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 671 spect towards the object of it. After break- fast the next morning, his father said to Charles, when the other members of the family had all left the room, — " Charley, there is something behind that gloom of Harry's which I don't like. In- deed, altogether, he has not imi^roved upon me since his retiu'u, and you are awai'e that I knew nothing of him before. I cannot conceive his object in retui-ning home just now, and, it seems, with no intention of go- ing back. His uncle was the kindest of men to him, and intended to provide for him handsomely. It is not for nothing he would leave such an uncle, and it is not for nothing that such an uncle would part with him, un- less there was a screw loose somewhere. I don't wish to press him into an explanation ; but he has not offered any, and refuses, of course, to place any confidence in me." " !My deal- father," replied the generous brother,. " I fear you judge him too harshly. As for these tits of gloom, they may be con- stitutional ; you know my mother has them, and won't speak to one of us sometimes for whole days together. It ts possible that some quarrel or misunderstantllng may have taken place between him and his uncle ; but how do you know that his silence on the subject does not proceed from dehcacy towards that relative ? " " Well, it may be so ; and it is a very kind and generous interjoretation which you give of it, Charley. Let that part of the subject l^ass, then ; but, again, regarding this mar- riage. The principle ujion which he and his mother ai-e proceeding is selfish, heartless, and pei-fidious in the highest degree ; and d me if I think it would be honorable in me to stand by and see such a rillaiuous game played against so excellent a family — against so lovely and so jidmirable a girl as Alice Goodwin. It is a union between the kite and the dove, Charley, and it would be base and cowardly in me to see such a union accomphshed." "Father," said Charles, "in thin matter will you be guided by me ? If Alice herself is a consenting party to the match, you have, in my opinion, no right to interfere, at least with her affections. If she mames him without stress or compulsion, she does it deliberately, and she shapes her owai course and her own fate. In the meantime I ad- vise you to hold back for the present, and , wait until her own sentiments are distinctly ' understood. That can be effected by a private interview with yourself, which you can easily obtain. Let us not be severe on Harry. I rather think he is pressed for- ward in the matter by my mother, for the sake of the property If his uncle has dis- i carded him, it is not, surely, vmreasonable that a young man hke him, without a pro- fession or any fixed pui-pose in life, shoidd wish to secure a wife — and auch a wife — who will bring back to him the ver^' proj^erty which was originally destined for himself in the first instance. Wait, then, at all events, until Ahce's conduct in the matter is known. If there be unjustifiable force and pressure upon her, ad ; if not, I think, sii-, that, with eveiy respect, your interference would be an vmjustifiable intrusion." "Very well, Charley; I beheve you are right ; I will be guided by you for the pres- ent ; I won't interfere ; but in the meantime I shall have an eye to their proceedings. I don't think the Goodwuis at all mercenary or selfish, but it is quite possible that they may look upon Harry as the heir of his uncle's wealth ; and, after all, Charley, na- ture is nature ; that may influence them even unconsciously, and yet I am not in a condi- tion to undeceive them." " Father," said Charles, " all I would sug- gest is, as I said before, a httle patience for the present ; wait a while tmtil we leani how Alice herself will act. I am sony to say that I perceived what I beheve to be an equivocation on the part of my mother in her allusion to Alice. I think it wiU be fovmd by and by that her personal consent has not been given ; and, what is more, that she was not present at all during their con- versation on the subject. If she was, how- ever, and became a consenting party to the proposal, then I say now, as I said before, 3'ou have no right to interfere in the busi- ness." " What keeps him out so late at night ? I mean occasionally. He is out two or three nights every week until twelve or one o'clock. Now, you know, in the present state of the country, that it is not safe. >Shawn-na-Mid- dogue and such scoundrels are abroad, and thev might \yu.i a buUet through him some night or other. " He is not at all afraid on that score," re- phed Charles; "he never goes out in the evening without a case of pistols fi-eshly loaded." "Well, but it is wrong to subject himseli to danger. Where is he gone now ? " " He and Barney Casey have gone out to course ; I think they went up towai'ds the mountains." Such was the fact. HaiTy was quite ena- moured of sport, and, finding dogs, gvms, and fishing-rods ready to his hand, he be- came a regular sportsman — a pursuit in which he found Barney a verj' able and in- telligent assistant, inasmuch as he knew the country, and every spot where game oi every 872 WILLIAM CABLETON'S W0I2KS. description was to be bad. Tbey bad traver- sed a cousiderable portiou of rougb mountain land, and killed two or tbree bares, wben tbe beat of tbe day became so excessive tbat tbey considered it time to rest and take re- fresbments. "Tbe sun, Mastber Hany, is d bot," said Barney; " and now tbat ovdd Bet Har- ramount basn't been in it for many a long year, we may as well go to tbat dissolate cabin tbere above, and sbelter om-selves fi-om tbe bate — not tbat I'd undbertake to go tbere by myself ; but now tbat you are wid me I don't care if I take a peep into tbe inside of it, out of ciu'iosity." "Wby," said Woodward, "wbat about tbat cabin ? " " I'U tell you tbat, sir, wben we get into it. It's consanain' coorsin' too ; but nobody ever bved in it since she left it." " Since wbo left it ? " " Never mind, sir ; I'U tell you all about it by and by." It was certainly a most desolate and mis- erable but, and bad sucb an air of loneliness and desertion about it as was calculated to awaken reflections every wbit as deep and melancboly as tbe contemplation of a very palace in ruins, especially to tbose wbo, bke Barney, knew tbe bistory of its last inbabi- tant. It was far up in tbe mountains, and not witbin miles of anotber buman babitation. Its lonebness and desolation alone would not bave made it so peculiarly strikuig and im- pressive bad it been inbabited ; but its want of smoke — its stiU and Ufeless appearance — tbe silence and tbe solitude around it — tbe absence of all symptoms of buman bfe — its significant aspect of destitution and poverty, even at tbe best — all contributed to awaken in tbe mind tbat dreamy reflection tbat would induce tbe spectator to tbink tbat, apart from tbe strife and bustle of life, it migbt bave existed tbere for a tbousand years. Humble and contemptible in appear- ance as it was, yet tbere, as it stood — smoke- less, alone, and desolate, as we bave said, witb no exponent of existence about it — no bird singing, no animal moving, as a token of contiguous bfe, no tree waving in tbe breeze, no sbrub, even, stirring, but all still as tbe gi'ave — tbere, we say, as it stood, afar and aj^art from tbe general uproar of tbe world, and apparently gray witb long antiquity, it was a solemn and a melancboly bomily upon buman life in aU its aspects, from tbe cabin to tbe palace, and from tbe palace to tbe gi*ave. Now, its position and appeai'ance migbt suggest to a tbmking and romantic mind all the reflections to wbicb we bave al- luded, without any additional accessories ; but wben tbe reader is informed tbat it was supposed to be tbe abode of crime, tbe ren- dezvous of evil spirits, the theatre of unholy incantations, and tbe temporaiy abode of tbe Great Tempter — and when all these facts are taken in connection witb its desolate character, be"nill surely admit tbat it was calculated to imj)ress the mind of all tbose wbo knew tbe bistory of its antecedents with awe and di'ead. " I bave never been in it," said Barney, " and I don't tbink there's a man or woman in the next tbi-ee parishes that would enter it alone, even by daybght ; but now that you are wid me, I bave a terrible curiosity to see it inside." A curse was thought to bang over it, but tbat curse, as it baiDj)ened, was its preservation in tbe undilapidated state in wbicb it stood. On entering it, which Barney did not do without j)i'eviously crossing himself, they were surprised to find it precisely in tbe same situation in wbicb it had been aban- doned. There were one small pot, two stools, an earthen pitcher, a few wooden trenchers lying upon a shelf, an old dusty salt-bag, an ash stick, broken in the middle, and doubled down so as to form a tongs ; and gathered up in a corner was a trviss of straw, covered with a i"ug and a thin old blanket, which bad constituted a wretched substitute for a bed. Tbat, however, wbicb alarmed Barney most, was an old broomstick with a stump of worn broom attached to the end of it, as it stood in an ojDposite corner. This constituted the whole furnitui'e of tbe but. "Now, Barney," said Harry, after tbey bad examined it, "out mth tbe brandy and water and tbe sbces of bam, till we refresh ourselves in tbe first place, and after that I will bear your bistory of this magnificent mansion." "O, it isn't tbe mansion, sir," be replied, " but tbe woman that lived in it tbat I bave to spake about. God guard us ! Tbere in tbat comer is tbe very broomstick she used to ride through tbe air upon ! " " Never mind tbat now, but ransack tbat immense shooting-pocket, and produce its contents." They accordingly sat down, each upon one of tbe stools, and helped themselves to bread and bam, together with some tolerablv co- pious draughts of brandy and water vvbicb tbey bad mixed before leaving home. Wood- ward, pei'ceiving Barney's anxiety to debver himself of bis narrative, made him take an additional draught by way of encouragement to proceed, wbicb, having very willingly fin- ished tbe bumper offered him, be did as follows : " Well, Mastber Hany, in tbe first plaoe^ do you beUeve in tbe Bible ? " TILE EVIL EYE; OIL THE BLACK SPECTRE. 073 " In the Bible ! — ahem — why — 3'es — cer- iainly, Barney ; do you suppose I'm not a Christian ? " " God forbid," replied Barney ; " well, the Bible itself isn't thruer than what I'm goin' to tell you — sure all the world for ten miles round knows it" 1 '' Well, but, Barney, I would rather you would let me know it in the first place." "So I ■will, sir. Well, then, there was a witch-wom in, by name one Bet Harramount, and on the surface of God's earth, blessed be his name ! there was nothin' undher a bonnet and petticoats so ligly. She was pitted ^"id the small-pox to that degree that you might hide half a peck of marrowfat piise (peas) in her face widout their being noticed ; then the sames (seams) that i-an across it were five-foot raspers, everj' one of them. She had one of the purtiest goose- berry eyes in Europe ; and only for the squint in the other, it would have been the ornament of her comely face entirely ; but as it was, no human bein' was ever able to de- cide between them. She had two buck teeth in the front of her mouth that nobody could help aTied by their previous exertions, immediately gave noble chase, and by far the most beautiful and interest- ing course they had had that day took pLoce upon the broad, clear plain that stretched before them. It was, indeed, to the eye of a sportsman, one of intense and surpassing interest — an interest which, even to Woodw ard, who only laughed at Bai'ney's story of the witch, was, nevertheless, deep- ened tenfold by the coincidence between the two circumstances. The swift and mettle- some dogs pushed her hard, and succeeded in turning her several times, when it was observed that she made a point to manage her i-uiming so as to approximate to the haunted house — a fact which was not un- observed by Barney, who now, ha^ing joined Woodward, exclaimed — " Mark it, Masther Harry, mark my words, she's alive still, and will be Avid the Shan- dhinnc-dhuv in spite o' them ! Bravo, Sambo ! Well done, Snail ; ay. Snail, indeed — hillo ! by the sweets o' rosin they have her — no, no — but it was a beautiful turn, though ; and poor Snail, so tired afther his day's work. Now, Masther Hairy, thunder and turf! how beautiful Sambo takes her up. Bravo, Sambo ! stretch out, my darlin' that you are ! — O, blood, Masther Harrv, isn't that beauti- ful? See how they go neck and neck wid 1 their two noses not six inches fi'om her scut ; 1 and dang my buttons but, witch or no witch, I she's a thorough bit o' game, too. Come, Bet, don't be asleep, my ould lady ; move along, my darlin' — do you feel the breath of your sweetheart at your bottom*? Take to 3'our broomstick ; you want it/' As he uttered these words the hare tiuiied, ' — indeed it was time for her — and both : dogs shot forward, by the impetus of their i flight, so far beyond the point of her tiu-n, j that she started oft* towards the haunted ! house. She had little time to spare, how- j ever, for they were once more gaining on j her ; but still she approached the house, the j dogs nearing her fast. She approached the ; house, we say ; she entered the open door, ! the dogs within a few yards of her, when, \ almost in an instant, they came to a stand- still, looked into it, but did not enter ; and I when whistled back to where Woodward and I Barney stood, they looked in Barney's eye. \ not only panting and exhausted, as indeed they were, but terrified also. " Well, ^Masther Harrv-," said he, assuming the air of a man who spoke with authority, " what do you think of thnf ? " "I think you are right," re'^lied Wood' 676 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WoRK:S. ward ; assuming- on his part, for reasons wliich will be subsequently understood, an impression of sudden conviction. "I think you are ri<^ht, Barney, and that the Black Spectre and the witch are acquaintances." " Try her wid a silver bullet," said Barney ; " there is nothing else for it. No dog can kill her — that s a clear case ; but souple as she is, a silver bullet is the only messenger that can overtake her. Bad luck to her, the thief ! sure, if she'd turn to God and repint, it isn't codgerin' wid sich company she'd be, and often in danger, besides, of havin' a greyhound's nose at her flank. I hope you're satisfied, Masther Harry ? " "Perfectly, Bamey ; there can be no doubt about it now. As for my part, I know not what temptation could induce me to enter that haunted house. I see that I was on dangerous ground when I defied the witch in the hut ; but I shall take care to be more cautious in future." They then bent their steps homewards, each sufficiently fatigued and exhausted af- ter the sports of the day to require both food and rest. Woodward went early to bed, but Barney, who was better accustomed to exercise, ha\ing dined heartily in the kitchen, could not, for the soul of him. con- tain within his own bosom the awful and supernatural adventure which had just oc- curred. He assumed, as before, a very solemn and oracular air ; spoke little, how- ever, but that httle was deeply abstracted and mysterious. It was evident to the whole kitchen that he was brimful of something, and that that something was of more than ordinai-y importance. " Well, Barney, had you and Masther Harry a pleasant day's sport? I see you have brought, home five hares," said the cook. " Hum ! " groaned Bamey ; " but no mat- ther ; it's a quare world, Mrs. jMalony, and there's strange things in it. Heaven bless me ! Heaven bless me, and Heaven bless us aU, if it comes to that ! Masther Harry said he'd send me down a couple o' glasses of O, here comes Biddy wid them ; that's a girl, Bid — divil sich a kitchen-maid in Europe ! " Biddy handed him a decanter with about lialf a pint of stout whiskey in it, a portion of which passed into a goblet, was diluted with water, and dnmk off, after which he smacked his lips, but with a melancholy air, and then, looking solemnly and meditatively into the fire, relapsed into silence. " Did you meet any fairies on your way?" asked Nanse, the housemaid. For about half a minute Bamey did not reply ; but at ►•■iigth, looking about him, he started — "Eh? What's that? Who spoke tc me?" "Who spoke to you?" replied Nanse. "Why, I think you're beside yoursel — 1 did." " What did you say, Nanse ? I am beside myself." There was now a sudden cessation in all the cuhnary operations, a general pause, and a rapid congregating around Barney, who still sat looking solemnly into the fire. " ^\Tiy, Barney, there's something strange over you," said the cook. "Heaven help the poor boy ; sure, it's a shame to be tor- mentin' liim this way ; but in the name of goodness, Barney, and as 3-ou have a sowl to be saved, will you tell us all ? Stand back, Nanse, and don't be torturin' the poor lad this way, as I said." " Biddy," said Barney, bis mind still wan- dering, and his eyes still fixed on the fire — " Biddy, darhn', wiU you hand me that de- canther agin ; I find I'm not aquil to it. Heaven presarve us ! Heaven presarve us ! that's it ; now hand me the wather, like an angel out of heaven, as you are. Bid. Ah, glory be to goodness, but that's refreshin', especially afther sich a day — sich a day ! O saints above, look down upon us poor sin- ners, one and all, men and women, wid pity and compassion this night ! Here ; I'm veiy wake ; let me get to bed ; is there any pump wather in the kitchen ? " To describe the pitch to which he had them wound up would be utterly impossible. He sat in the cook's arm-chair, leaning a Ut- tle back, his feet placed upon the fender, and his eyes, as before, immovably, painful- ly, and abstractedly fixed upon the embers. He was now the centre of a circle, for they were all crowded about him, wa-apped up to the highest possible pitch of curiosity. " We were talkin' about Masther Harry,' said he, " the other night, and I think I tould you something about him ; it's hke a dhrame to me that I did." " You did, indeed, Barney," said the cook, coaxingly, " and I hope that what you tould us wasn't true." " Aye, but about to-day, Bamey ; some- thin' has happened to-day that's troublin' you." " Who is it said that ? " said he, his eyea now closed, as if he were wrapped up in some distressing mysteiy. " Was it you, Nanse? It's like your voice, achora." Now, the reader must know that a deadlj jealousy lay between Nanse and the cook, quoad honest Barney, who, being aware of the fact, kept the hopes and fears of each in such an exact state of equihbrium, that nei- ther of them covdd, for the Ufe of her, claim THE EVIL EYE ; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 677 the slightest adrantage over the other. The droll vaxlet had an appetite like a shark, and a strong relish for drink besides, and what between precious tidbits from the cook and borrowing small sums for hquor fi'om Nanse, he contrived to play them off one against the other with great tact. "I think," said he, his eyes still closed, •' that that is Nause's voice ; is it, acushla ? " "It is, Barney, achora," replied Nanse ; " but there's something wrong wid you." '* I wish to goodness, Nanse, you'd let the boy alone," said the cook ; " when he chooses to spake, he'll spake to them that can undher- stand him." " O, jaminy stars ! that's you, I suppose ; ha, ha, ha." " Keeji silence," said Barney, " and listen. Nanse, you are right in one sinse, and the cook's right in another ; 3'ou're both right, but at the present spakin' you're both wrong. Listen — you aU know the Shan-dinne-dhnv ?" "Know him! The Lord stand between us and him," replied Nanse ; " I hope in God we'll never either know or see him." "You know," proceeded Barney, " that he keeps the haunted house, and appears in the neighborhood of it ? " " Yes, we know that, achora," repUed the cook, sweetly. " Well, you can't forget Bet Harramount, the witch, that lived for some time in Rath- fillan? She that was hunted in the shape of a white hare by pious Father McFeen's famous greyhound, Koolawn." " Doesn't all the world know it, Barney, aviUish ? " said Nanse. " Divil the word she'll let out o' the poor boy's lips," said the cook, with a fair portion of venom. Nanse made no reply, but laughed with a certain description of confidence, as she glanced sneeringly at the cook, who, to say the truth, turned her eyes with a fiery and impulsive look towards the ladle. " Well," proceeded Barney, "you all know that the divil took her and her imp, the white cat, away on the night of the great storm that took place then ? " " We do ! Sure we have heard it a thou- sand times." " Yeiy well — I want to show you that Bet Han-amount, the white witch, and the lilack Spi'dhre are sweetheaiis, and are leadin' a bad life together." " Heavenly father ! Saints above ! Blessed ilother ! " were ejaculated by the whole kitchen. Barney, in fact, was progressing with great effect. " O, yez needn't be surprised," he con- tinued, " for it was well known that they had many private meetin's while Bet was H\'in' in RathfiUan. But it was thought the divil ' had taken her away from the priest and magisthrate on the night o' the storm, and so he did ; and he best knew why. Listen, I say — Masther Harn.' and I went out this day to coorse hares ; we went far up into the mountains, and never pulled bridle till we came to the cabin where the v\itch lived, the same that Koolawn chased her into in the shape of a white hare, after taking a bite out of her — out of the part next her scut. W^ell, we sat down in the cursed cabin, much against my wishes, but he would rest no- where else — marL that — so while we were helpin' ourselves to the ham and brandy, I up and tould him the hi.story of Bet Harra- mount fi-om a to izzard. ' Well,' said he, ' to show you how httle / care about her, and that / set her at defiance, I'll toss every atom of her beggarly furniture out of the door ; ' and so he did — but by dad I thought he done it in a jokin' way, as much as to say, / can take the liberty where another can't. I knew, becoor.se, he was wi-ong ; but that makes no maxim — I'll go on wid my story. On our way home we came to the green fields that He on this side of the haunted house ; a portion of it, on a risin* ground, is covered with furz. Now listen — when we came to it. he stood ; ' Barney,' says he, ' there's a hare here ; give me the dogs. Sambo and Snail ; theyll have sich a hunt as they never had yet, and never will have agin.' " He then closed his eyes, raised his left foot, and dhrew it back three times in the divil's name, pronounced some words tliat I couldn't understand, and then said to me, ' Now, Barney, go down to that withered furze, and as you go, always keep yoiu- left foot foremost ; cough three times, then kick the fiirze with your left foot, and maybe you'll see an old friend o' yours.' "Well, I did so, and"^ troth I though! there was somethin' over me when I did it •. but — what 'ud you think ? — out starts a ivhitg hare, and off went Sambo and Snail after her. full butt. I have seen many a hard run. but the likes o' that I never seen. If they turned her wanst they turned her more than a dozen times ; but where do you think she escaped to at last ? " " The Lord knows, Barney ; where ? " " As heaven's above us, into the haunted house ; and if the dogs were to get a thou- sand guineas apiece, one of them couldn't be forced into it afther her. They ran with their noses on her very scut, widin five or six yards of it, and when she went into it they stood stock still, and neither man nor sword could get them to go fiirther. But what do you think Masther Harry said afther ^ he had seen all this ? ' Bai-ney,' said he. 078 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. 'I'm detarmined to spend a night in the haunted hoiise before I'm much ouldher ; only keep that to yourself, and don't make a blowing horn of it through the parish.' And what he said to me, I say to you — never breathe a syllable of it to man or mortal. It'll be worse for you if you do. And now, do you remember what Lanty Malony saw the other night ? The black man kissin' the white woman. Is it clear to yez now ? The Shan-dhinne-dhuv — the Black Specthre — kis- sin' Bet Harramount, the white woman. There it is ; and now you have it as clear as a, b, c." Barney then retired to his bed, leaving the denizens of the kitchen in a state which the reader may very well xinderstand. CHAPTEKX. True Love Defeated. Me. and IMi's. Goodwin, in the absence of their daughter, held a very agreeable con- versation on the subject of IVIi's. Lindsay's visit. Neither Goodwin nor his wife was in the shghtest degree selfish, yet, somehow, there crept into their hearts a certain por- tion of selfishness, which could be traced only to the afi'ection which they felt for Alice. They calculated that Henry Wood- ward, ha\ing been reared and educated by his uncle, would be amply j:)roTided for by that wealthy gentleman — who, besides, was childless. This consideration became a strong element in their deliberations and discussions upon the projected match, and they accordingly resolved to win over Alice's consent to it as- soon as possible. From the obedience of her disposition, and the nat- ural pliancy of her character with the opin- ions of others, they concluded the matter as arranged and certain. They forgot, how- ever, that Alice, though a feeble thinker on matters of superstition and others of a minor importance, could sometimes exercise a will of her own, but very seldom, if ever, when opposed to theirs. They knew her love and alfection for them, and that she was capable of making any sacrifice that might contrib- ute to their happiness. They had, how- ever, observed of late — indeed for a consid- erable time past — that she appeared to be in low spirits, and moved about as if there was a pressure of some description in her mind ; and when they asked her if she were at ease — which they often did — she only re- plied by a smile, and asked thein in return , why she should be otherwise. With this re- ply they were satisfied, for they knew that i upon the general occurrences of life she was J almost a mere child, and that, although her I health was good, her constitution was natur- I ally delicate, and Hable to be aftected by j many things indifierent in themselves, which girls of a stronger mind and constitution 1 would neither perceive nor feel. The sum- ming up of all was that they apprehended no obstruction to the proposed union fi'om any objection on her part, as soon as she should be made acquainted with their wishes. In the course of that very evening they introduced the subject to her, with that nat- ural confidence which resulted from their foregone conclusions upon it. "Alley," said her mother, "I hope you're in good spirits this evening." " Indifierent enough, mamma ; my spirits, you know, are not natui-ally good." "And why should they not?" said her mother ; " what on earth have vou to trouble you?" " O, mamma," she exclaimed, " you don't know how often I miss my sister ;- — at night I think I see her, and she looks pale and melancholy, and full of sorrow — just as she did when she felt that her hope of life was gone forever. O, how willingly — how joy- fully — would I return her fortune, and if I had ten times as much of my own, along with it, if it could only bring her back to mo again ! " " Well, you know, my darling, that can't be done ; but cheer up ; I have good new9 for vou — news that I am sure will dehght stand in need of anv good you. " But I don't news, mamma." This simple reply proved an unexpected capsize to her mother, who kncAV not how to proceed ; but, in the moment of her em- barrassment, looked to her husband for as- sistance. "My dear Alice," said her father, "the fact is this — you have achieved a conquest, and there has been a proposal of marriage made for you." Alice instantly susjDected the individual from whom the proposal came, and turned pale as death. "That does not cheer my spirits, then^ papa." "That may be, my dear Alice," rephed her father ; " but, in the opinion of your mother and me, it ought." " From what quarter has it come, papa, may I ask ? I am living very lonel^' and re- tired here, you know." " The proposal, then, my dear child, has come from Henry Woodveard, this day ; and what wiU surprise you more, through his THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 679 mother, too — who lias Ijeen of late such an inveterate eueiiiy to our family. So fjir as I have seen of Henry himself, he is everything I could wish for a son-in-law." "But you have seen very Httle of him, pai)a.'' " "WTiat I have seen of him has pleased me very much, Alice." "How sti-ange," said she musingly, "that father and daughter should draw such differ- ent conclusions from tlie same premises. The very thought of that young man sinks the heart within me. I beg, once for all, that you will never mention his name to me on this subject, and in this light, again. It is not that I hate him — I trust I hate nobody — but I feel an antipathy against him ; and what is more, I feel a kind of terror when I even think of him ; and an oppression, for which I cannot account, whilst I am in his society." "This is very strange, Alice," rephed her father ; " and, I am afraid, rather foolish, too. There is nothing in his face, person, manner, or conversation that, in my opinion, is not calculated to attract any young woman in his own rank of life — at least, I think so." "Well, but the poor child, " said her mother, " knows nothing about love — how could she ? Sure, my dear Alley, true love never begins until after marriage. You don't know what a dislike I had to your father, there, whilst our friends on both sides were making up the courtship. They literally dragged me into it." "Yes, Alley," added her father, smihng, j " and they literdly dragged me into it ; and yet, when we canie together, Alice, there never was a hapi)ier couple in existence." ! Alice could not help smiling, but the smile soon passed away. " That may be all very true," she replied, " but in the mean- time, you must not press me on this subject. Don't entertain it for a moment. I shall never marry this man. Put an end to it — see his mother, and inform her, without loss of time, of the unalterable deteiTnination I i have made. Do not palter with them, father — do not, mother ; and above all things, J don't attempt to sacrifice the happiness of your only daughter. / could make any sacrifice for your happiness but this ; and if, in obedience to your ■\\-ishes, I made it, I can tell you that I would soon be with my sit^ter. You both know that I am not strong, and that I am incapable of severe struggles. Don't, then, harass me upon this matter." She here burst into tears, and for a few minutes wept bitterly. | " We must give it up," said her father, ! /.coking at Mrs. Good^vin. " No such thing," rephed his wife ; " think ; of our own case, and how happy we havp been in spite of ourselves." "Ay, but we were neither of us foola, ]Martha ; at least you were not, or you would never have suft'ered yourself to be persuaded into matrimony, as you did at last. There was, it is true, an affected fro^\^l upon your brow ; but then, again, there was a very sly smile Tinder it. As for me, I would have escaped the match if I could ; but no mat- ter, it was all for the best, although neither of us anticipated as much. Alice, my child, think of what we have said to you ; reflect \x\iO\\ it. Our object is to make you happy ; our experience of life is much greater than yours. Don't reply to us now ; we will give you a reasonable time to tliink of it. Con- sider that you will add to yovu* mother's happiness and mine b}' consenting to such an unobjectionable match. This young man will, of course, inherit his uncle's property ; he will elevate you in life ; he is handsome, accomplished, and evidently knows the woi'ld, and 3'ou can look up^to him as a husband of whom you will have a just right to feel proud. Allow the young man to \i.sit you ; study him as closely as you may ; but above all things do not cherish an unfound- ed antipathy against him or any one." Several inter\iews took place afterwards between Alice and Heni-y Woodward ; and after each interview her parents sought her opinion of him, and desired to know whether she was beginning to think more favorably of him than she had hitherto done. Still, however, came the same reply. Everj' inter- view only increased her repugnance to the match, and her antipathy to the man. At length she consented to allow him one last interview — the last, she asserted, which she would ever afford him on the subject, and he accordingly presented himself to know her final determination. Not that from what came out from their former conversations he had any grounds, as a reasonable man, to expect a change of opinion on her pai't ; but as the property was his object, he resolved to leave nothing undone to overcome her prejudice against him if he could. They were, accordingly, left in the dra\\ing-room to discuss the matter as best they might, but with a hope on the part of her parents that, knowing, as she did, how eai'nestly their hearts were fixed upon her marriage with him, she might, if only for their sakes, renounce her foolish antipathy, and be pre- vailed upon, by his ardor and his eloquence to consent at List. " Well, ^liss Goodwin," said he, when they were left together, " this I understantL ajid what is more, I fear, is to be my day of doom. Heaven gi-imt that it may be a favor 680 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. able one, for 1 am badly prepared to see my hopes blasted, and my affection for you spumed ! My happiness, my dear !Miss Goodwin — my happiness for life depends up- on the res&it'of this interview. I know — but I should not say so — for in this instance I must be guided by hearsay — well, I know from hearsay that your heart is kind and af- fectionate. Now I believe this ; for who can look upon your face and doubt it ? Believing this, then, how can you, when you know that the happiness of a man who loves you be- yond the power of language to express, is at stake, depends upon your will — how can you, 1 say, refuse to make that individual — who appreciates all your virtues, as I do — who feels the influence of your extraordinary beauty, as I do — who contemplates your futiu-e happiness as the great object of his life, as I do — how can you, I say, refuse to make that man happy ? " "Mr. Woodward," she said, "I will not reply to your arguments ; I simply wish to ask you," Are you a gentleman? — in other words, a man of integrity and principle ? " "Do you doubt me, Miss Goodwin?" he inquired, as if he felt somewhat hurt. "It is very difficult, ]\Ir. "Woodward," she rephed, " to know the heart ; I request, how- ever, a direct and a serious answer, for I can assure you that I am about to place the deepest possible confidence in your faith and honor. " " O," he exclaimed, " that is sufficient ; in such a case I feel bound to respect j'our con- fidence as sacred ; do not hesitate to confide in me. Let me perish a thousand times sooner than abuse such a trust. Sjpeak out, llkliss Goodwin." "It is necessary that I should," she re- plied, "both for your sake and my own. Know, then, that my heart is not at my own disposal ; it is engaged to another." " I can only listen, Miss Goodwin — I can only listen — but — but — excuse me — pro- ceed." "My heart, as I said, is engaged to another — and that other is your brother Charles." Woodward fixed his eyes upon her face — already scarlet with blushes, and when she ventured to raise hers upon him, she beheld a countenance sunk apparently in the deep- est sorrow. "Alas! Miss Goodwin," he replied, "you have filled my heart with a double grief. I could resign you — of course it would and must be with the most inexpressible anguish — but to resign you to such a . O ! " he proceeded, shaking his head sorrowfully, " you know not in what a position of torture jrou place me. You said you believed me to j be a gentleman ; so I trust — I feel — J am, and what is more, a brother, and an affec- j tionate brother, if I — O, my God, what am 1 j to do ? How, knowing what I know of that j unfortunate young man, could I ever have expected ihiii'? In the meantime I thank you for your confidence. Miss Goodwin ; I hope it was God himself who inspired you to place it in me, and that it may be the means of your salvation from — but perhaps I am say- ing too much ; he is my brother ; excuse me, I am not just now cool and calm enough to say what I would wish, and what you, poor child, neither know nor suspect, and perhaps I shall never mention it ; but you must give me time. Of course, under the circumstances you have mentioned, I resign all hopes of my own happiness with you ; but, so help me Heaven, if I shall resign all hopes of yours. I cannot now speak at fur- ther length ; I am too much surprised, too much agitated, too much shocked at what I have heard ; but I shall see you, if you will allow me, to-morrow ; and as I cannot be- come your husband, perhaps I mnj become your guardian angel. Allow me to see you to-morrow. You have taken me so complete- ly by surprise that I am quite incapable of speaking on this subject, as perhaps — but I know not yet — I must become more cool, and reflect deeply upon what my conduct ought to be. Alas ! my dear Miss Goodwin, Httle you suspect how completely your happiness and misery are in my jDOwer. Will you per- mit me to see you to-morrow ? " "Certainly, sir," replied Alice, "since it seems that you have something of more than ordinary importance to communicate to me — something, which, I suppose, I ought to know. I shall see you." He then took his leave with an air of deep melancholy and sorrow, and left poor Alice in a state of anxiety very difficult to be de- scribed. Her mind became filled with a sud- den and unusual alarm ; she trembled like an aspen leaf ; and when her mother came to ask her the result of the interview, she found her pale as death and in tears. "WTiy, Alley, my child," said she, "what is the matter? WTiy do you look so much alarmed, and why are you in tears? Has the man been rude or offensive to you ? " "No, mamma, he has not; but — but — I am to see him again to-morrow, and imtil then, mamma, do not ask me anv-thing upon the subject of our interview to-day." Her mother felt rather gratified at this. There was, then, to be another interview, and that was a proof that Woodward had not been finally discarded. So far, matters did not seem so disheartening as she had antici- pated. She looked upon Alice's agitation- THE EVIL F.YE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 68) and the tears she had been shedding, as the result of the constraint which she had put upon her inchnation in giving him, she hoped, a f.ivorable reception ; and with this impression she went to communicate what she conceived to be the good inteUigence to iicr husband. Alice, until the next interview took place, passed a wretched time of it. As the reader knows, she was constitutionally timid and easily alarmed, and she consequently antici- pated something very distressing in the dis- closures which Woodward was about to make. That there was something vmcom- mon and painful in connection with Charles Lindsay to be mentioned, was quite evident from ^^'oodward's language and his unac- countable agitation. He was evidently in earnest ; and, from the suddenness with wliich the confession of her attachment to his brother came upon him, it was impossi- ble, she concluded, that he could have had time to concoct the hints which he threw out. Could she have been mistaken in Charles ? And yet, why not ? Had he not, as it were, abandoned her ever .since the oc- currence of the family feud ? and why .should he have done so unless there had been some reason for it ? It was quite clear, she thought, tiiat, whatever revelation Woodward was about to make concerning him, it was one which would occasion himseK great pain as liis brother, and that nothing but the neces- sity of saving her from unhappiness could force him to speak out. In fact, her mind was in a tumult ; she felt quite nervous — tremulous — afi-aid of some disclosure that might destroy her hopes and her happiness, | and make her wretched for hfe. \ On the next day Woodward made his ap- pearance and found Alice by herseK in the : drawing-room, as when he left her the day ' before. His countenance seemed the very ! exponent of suffering and miseiy. " Miss Goodwin," said he, "I have passed ; a period of the deepest anxiety since I saw , ■sow last. You may, indeed, read what I have , suffered, and am suffering, in my face, for unfortunately it is a tell-tale upon my heart ; but I cannot help that, nor should I wish it to be otherwise. Believe me, however, that it is not for myself that I suffer, but for you, and the prospects of your future happiness. You must look upon my conduct now as perfectly disinterested, for I have no hope. - What, then, should that conduct be in me as a generous man, wliich I trust I am, but j !;o promote your happiness as fiir as I can ? and on that I am detennined. You say you love my brother ; ai-e you certain that your affection is recijDrocated ? " I "I believe your brother certainly did I love me," she replied, with a tremor in hei voice, which she could not prevent, "Just so, my dear Miss Goodwin ; that is well expressed — did love you ; perhaps it may have been so ; possessing anything like a heart, I don't see how it could have, been otherwise." "I will thank you, Mr. Woodward, to state what you have to say with as little circum- locution and ambiguity as po.ssible. Take me out of suspense, and let me know the worst. Do not, I entreat you, keep me in a : state of uncertainty. Although I have ac- j knowledged my love for your brother, in I order to relieve myself from your addresses, which I could not encourage, still I am not i without the pride of a woman who re.spects j herself." I "I am aware of that ; but before I pro- ceed, allow me to ask, in order that I may I see my way the clearer, to what length ' did the expression of my brother's affection "It went so far,' she rephed, blushing, "as an avowal of mutual attachment ; in- deed, it might be called an engagement ; but ever since the death of his cousin, and the estrangement of ovu* famihes, he seems to have forgotten me. It is very strange ; when I was a portionless gui he was ardent and tender, but, ever since this unfortunate property came into my hands, he seems to have joined in the hai-d and unjust feehng of his family against me. I have certainly met him since at parties, and on other oc- casions, but we met almost as strangers ; he was not the Chailes Lindsay whom I had I known when I was comparatively a poor i girl ; he appeared to shrink from me. In the meantime, as I have ah'eady confessed to ! you, he has my heart ; and, so long as he has, I cannot encourage the addresses of any ! other man." Woodward paused, and looked upon her ; with well-feigned admu-atiou and son-ow. , " The man is blind," he at length said, , " not only to the fascinations of your per.son and character, but to his own interests. What is he in point of property ? Nothing. He has no rich uncle at his back to establi.sh him in life upon a scale, almost, of magnifi- cence. ^^^ly, it is since you came into this property that he ought to have ui-ged his suit with greater earnestness. I am speak- ing now like a man of the world, Miss Good- win ; and I am certain that he would have done so but for ona fact, of which I am aware : he has got into a low intrigue with a peasant's daughter, who possesses an intlu- ence over him such as I have never witnassecL She certainly is veiy beautiful, it is said , but of that I cannot speak, as I have not yet 682 WILLIAM OABLETON'S WOIiKS. seen lier ; but I am afraid, Miss Goodwin, from all I liear, that a very little time "will disclose her calamity and his guilt. You will now understand what I felt yesterday when you made me acquainted with yoiu- pure and virtuous attachment to such a man ; what shall I say," he added, rising, and walking indignantly through the room, " to such a profligate ? " " Mr. Woodward," replied Alice, " I can scarcely believe that ; you miast have been imjDosed on by some enemy of his. Depend upon ib yoii are. I think I know Charles well — too well to deem him cai:)able of such prof- Ugacy ; I will not beheve it." " I don't wish you, my dear Miss Good- win, to believe it ; I only wish you to sus- pend your opinion until time shall con\dnce you. I considered it m}' duty to mention the fact, and after that to leave you to the exercise of your own judgment." " I will not beheve it," replied Alice, "be- cause I place his estrangement to a higher and nobler motive, and one more in accord- ance with his honorable and generous char- acter. I do believe, Mr. Woodward, that his apparent coldness to me, of late, pro- ceeds fr'om delicacy, and a disinterestedness that is honorable to him ; at least I will in- terpret his conduct in this hglJt until I am perfectly convinced that he is the prothgate you describe him. I do not impute, in the disclosure you have made, ungenerous mo- tives to you ; because, if you attempted to displace my affections fr'om your brother by gi'oundless slander or deliberate falsehood, you would be a monster, and as such I would look upon you, and ■will, if it appears that you are maligning him for selfish pur- poses of your own. I will now tell \o\x to what I ijnpute his ajDparent estrangement ; I imi)ute it to honor, sfr — to an honorable pride. He knows now that I am rich ; at least comparatively so, and that he is com- paratively i^oor ; he hesitates to renew our relations witli each other lest I might suspect him of mingling a selfish principle with his affection. That is the conduct of a man of honor ; and until the facts you hint at come out broadly, and to jniblic proof, as such I shall continue to consider him. But, ]VIi\ Woodward, I .shall not rest liere ; I shall see him, and give him that to which his previous affection and honorable conduct have entitled him at m;' hands — that is, an oi^portunity of making an explanation to myself. But, at all events, I assure you of this' fact, that, if I do not marry him, I shall never mai'ry an- othei'." " Great God ! " exclaimed Woodward, "what a jewel he has lost. Well, Miss Goodwin, I have nothing further to say ; if I am wrong, time will convict me. I have mentioned these matters to you, not on my own account but yours. I have no hope of your affection ; and if there were any liring man, except myself, to whom I should wnsh to see you united, it would be m}' brother Charles — that is, if I thought he was worihy of you. All I ask of you, however, is to wait a little ; remain calm and quiet, and time wall teU you which of us feels the deepest in- terest in your happiness. In the meantime, aware of your attachment to him, as I am, I beg yovi will no longer consider me in any other light than that of a sincere fr'iend. To seduce innocence, indeed — but I Arill not dwell upon it ; the love of woman, they say, is generous and forgiving ; I hope yours will be so. But, Miss Goodwin, as I can ap- proach you no longer in the character of a lover, I trust I may be permitted the jsriri- lege of visiting the family as a friend and ac- quaintance. Now that your decision against me is kno"\\-n, it will be contrary to the wish- es of our folks at home ; especially of my mother, whose temper, as I suppose you are aware, is none of the coolest ; you will allow me, then, to visit you, but no longer as claim- ant for your hand." " I shall always be happy to see you, IVIr. Woodward, but upon that condition." After he had taken his leave, her parents, anxious to hear the result, came up to the drawing-room, where they found her in a kind of a reverie, from which theii' appear- ance startled her. " Well, Alley," said her mother, smiling, " is everything concluded between you "? " " Yes, mamma," replied Alice, " everj'thing is concluded, and finally, too." " Did he name the day ? " said her father, smiling gravely. Alice stared at him ; then recollecting her- self, she replied — " I thought I told you both that this was a man I could never think of marrying. I don't understand him ; he is either vei-y candid or very hypocritical ; and I feel it painful, and, besides, unnecessary in me to take the trouble of balancing the character of a person who loses ground in my opinion on every occasion I see him. Of course, I have discarded him, and I know very well that his mother will cast fire and sword between us as she did before ; but to do ]\Ir. Woodward justice, he proposes to stand aloof from her resentments, and wishes to visit us as usual." " Then it's all over between you and him ? " said her motlier. " It is ; and I never gave you reason to anticipate any other result, mamma." " No, indeed," said her fatJier, " vou never TUE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. G8a did, Alice ; but still I think it is generous in him to sepai-ate himself fi-om the resentments of that woman, and as a fi-iend we will be always glad to see him." " i know not how it is," repHed AHce ; " but I felt that the exin-ession of his eye, during our last intemew, opjjressed me excessively ; it was never off me. There •;v'as a killing — a mahgnant inliuence in it, that thrilled through me with pain ; but, perhaps, I can account for that. As it is, he has asked leave to visit us as usual, and to stand, with respect to me, in the hght of a friend only. So far as I am concerned, j^apa, I could not refuse him a common jirivilege of ci^•ility ; but, to tell you both the tnith, I shall always meet him not only with reluc- tance, but with something almost amounting ' to fear." j Woodward, now that he had learned his fate, and was aware that his brother stood between him and his expectations, experi- enced a feeling of vengeance against him and Alice, which he neither could, nor at- tempted to, restrain. The rage of his mo- ther, too, when she heard that the latter had rejected him, and avowed her attachment to Chai'les, went beyond all bounds. Her son, however, who possessed a greater restraint upon his feelings, and was master of more profound hypocrisy and cunning, requested her to conceal the attachment of Alice to his brothel', as a matter not to be disclosed on any account. "Leave me to my resources," said he, " and it ■^^all go hard or I -^-ill so manage Charles as to disentangle him from the con- sequences of her influence over him. But the familie.s, mother, must not be for the present p rmitted to visit again. On the \ contrary, it is better for our jDui-jioses that i they should not see each other as formerly, nor resume their intimacy. If you suffer your passions to overcome you, even in our own family, the consequence is that you pre- vent us both from i)laying our game as we ought, and as we shall do. Leave Charles to me ; I shall make O'Connor of use, too ; but above all things do not breathe a sylla- ble to any one of them of my haring been thrown off. I think, as it is, I have damped | her ardor for him a little, and if she had | not been obstinate and fooh.shly romantic, I would have extinguished it completely. As : it is, I told her to leave the tiiith of what I ; mentioned to her respecting him, to time, , and if she does I shall rest satisfied. WiD you ' now be guided by me, my dear mother '? " i " I will endeavor to do so," she rephed ; 1 " but it will be a ten-ible restraint upon me, I and I scai'cely know how I shall be able to keep myself calm. I will try, however ; the ' object is worth it. You know if she dies without issue the property revei'ts to you." "Yes, mother, the object in worth mucL more than the paltry sacrifice I ask of you. Keep yourself quiet, then, and we will ac- comphsh our puqioses yet. I shall set in- struments to work who will ripen oui* pro- jects, and, I trust, ultimately accompUsb them." " ^\Tiy, what instruments do you intend to use?" "I know the girl's disposition and charac- ter well. I have learned much concerning her from Casey, who is often there as a suitoj for the fail- hand of her favorite maid. Casey, however, is a man in whom I can place no confidence ; he is too much attached to the rest of the family, and does not at all relish me. I will make him an unconscious agent of mine, notwithstanding. Li the meantime, let nothing apijear in your man- ner that might induce them to suspect the present position of affairs between us. They may come to know it soon enough, and then it will be our business to {ict with greater energ}' and decision." And so it was arranged between this l^recious mother and son. Woodward who was quick in the concep- tion of his projects, had them all laid even then ; and in order to work them out with due effect, he resolved to pay a visit to our fiiend, Sol Donnel, the herb doctor. This h}i)ocritical old villain was uncle to Caterine CoUins, the fortune-teUer, who had prognos- ticated to him such agreeable tidings on the night of the bonfire. She, too, was to be made useful, and, so far as mone}' could do it, faithful to his designs — diabohcal as they were. He accordingly went one night, about the hour mentioned by Donnel, to the cabin of that worthy man ; and knocking gently at the door, was replied to in a peevish voice, like that of an individual who had been in- terrupted in the pertormance of some act ol piety and devotion. " ^^^^o is there ? " said the voice inside. "A fiicnd," replied Woodward, in a low, cautious tone ; "a friend, who wishes to speak to you." "I can't spake to you to-night," replied Sol ; " you're disturbin' me at my prayers." "But I wish to sjjeak to you on particulai business." "What business? Let me finish my pa- dereens and go to bed like a %ile sinner, as I am — God help me. Who are you ? " " I don't intend to tell you that just now, Solomon ; do you wish me to shout it out to you, in order that the whole neighbor- hood may hear it ? I have private business with you." /ys* WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. "Well," replied the other, "I think, by youj.' voice and language, you're not a com- mon man, and, aldough it's against my rule to open at this time o' night to any one, still rU let you in — and sure I must only say my prayers aftherwards. In the manetime it's a sin for you or any one to disturb me at them ; if you knew what the value of one sinful sowl is in the sight of God, you wouldn't do it — no, indeed. Wait till I Hght a candle." He accordingly lighted a candle, and in the course of a few minutes admitted Wood- ward to his herbarium. When the latter entered, he looked about him with a curi- osity not iinnatural under the circumstances. His first sensation, however, was one that affected his olfactory nerves very strongly. A combination of smells, struggling with each other, as it were, for predominance, ahnost overpowered him. The good and the bad, the pleasant and the oppressive, were here mingled up in one sickening exhalation — for the disagreeable prevailed. The whole cabin was hung about with bunches of herbs, pome dry and withered, others fresh and gi-een, gi\'ing evidence that they had been only newly gathered. A number of bottles of all descriptions stood on wooden shelves, but without labels, for the old sinner's long practice and great practical memory enabled him to know the contents of every bottle with as much accuracy as if they had been labelled in capitals. " How the devil can you live and sleep in such a suffocating compound of vile smells as this ? " asked Woodward. The old man glanced at him keenly, and replied, — 'Practice makes masther, sir — I'm used to them ; I feel no smeU but a good smell ; and I sleep sound enough, barrin' when I wake o' one purpose, to think of and repent o' my sins, and of the ungrateful world that is about me ; people that don't thank me for doin' them good — God forgive them ! amin acheernah ! " "Wliy, now," rephed Woodward, "if I had a friend of mine that was unwell — ob- .serve me, a fnend of mine — that stood be- tween me and my .own interests, and that I was kind and charitable enough to forget any iU-will against him, and wished to re- cover him from his illness through the means of your skin and herbs, could you not assist me in such a good and Christian work ? " The old fellow gave him a shrewd look and piercing glance, but immediately re- plied — " Wliy, to be sure, I could ; what else is the business of my whole life but to cure my fellow-cratui'es of their complaints ? " " Yes ; I beUeve you are very fortunat* in that way ; however, for the present, ] don't require your aid, but it is very likely 1 shall soon. There is* a friend of mine in poor health, and if he doesn't otherwise re cover, I shall probably apply to you ; but then, the party I speak of has such a preju- dice against quacks of all sorts, that I feai we must substitute one of your draughts, in a private ivay, for that of the regular doctor. That, however, is not what I came to speak to you about. Is not Caterine Collins, the fortune-teller a niece of yours ? " " She is, sir." "Where and when could I see her? — but mark me, I don't wish to be seen speaking to her in pubhc." " Why not ? — what's to prevent you from chattin' wid her in an aisy pleasant way in the streets ; nobody will obsarve any thing then, or think it strange that a gentleman should have a funny piece o' discoorse wid a fortune-teller." " I don't know that ; observations might be made afterw^ards." " But what can she do for you that /can't? She's a bad graft to have anything to do wid, and I wouldn't recommend you to put much trust in her." " Yvliy so ? " " Why, she's nothin' else than a schemer." Little did old Solomon suspect that he was raising her very highly in the estimation of his visitor by falling foul of her in this man- ner. "At aU events," said Woodward, "I wish to see her ; and, as I said, I came for the ex- press purpose of asking you where and when I could see her — privately, I mean." " That's what I can't tell you at the pres- ent spakin'," replied Solomon. "She has no fixed place of livin', but is here to-day and away to-morrow. God help you, she has travelled over the whole kingdom "tellin' fortunes. Sometimes she's a dummy, and spakes to them by signs — sometimes a gypsy — sometimes she's this and sometimes she's that, but not often the same thing long ; she's of as many colors as the rainbow. But if you do wish to see her, there's a chance that you may to-morrow. A conjurer has come to town, and he's to open to-moiTOw, for both town and country, and she'll surely be here, for that's taking the bit out of her mouth." " A conjurer ! " " Yes, he was here before some time ago, about the night of that bonfire that was put out by the shower o' blood, but somehow he disappeared from the place, and he's now come back." "A conjurer — well, I shall see the con THE EVTL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 635 jurer myself to-morrow ; but can you give me no more accvu'ute information M-ith re- spect to your niece ? " " Sarra syllable — as I tould you, she's never two nights in the same place ; but, if I should see her, I'U let her know your wishes ; and what might I say, sir, that you wanted her to do for you ? " " That's none of your affair, most sagacious Solomon — I wish to speak with her myself, and privately, too ; and if you see hei", tell her to meet me here to-morrow night about this hour." " I'll do so ; but God forgive you for dis- turbin' me in my devotions, as you did. It's not often I'd give tliem up for any one ; but sure out of regard for the proi:»rietor o' the town I'd do that, and more for you." " Here," rephed Woodward, putting some silver into liis hand, " let that console you ; and tell your niece when you see her that I am a good paymaster ; and, if I should stand in need of your skiU, you shall find me so, too. Good-niglit, and may your prayers be powerful, as I know they come from a Chris- tian heart, honest Solomon." CHARTER XI. A Conjurer's Lecee. We cannot form at this distance of time any adequate notion of the influence which ' a conjurer of those days exercised over the minds and feelings of the ignorant. It was ; necessar}' that he should be, or be supposed at least to be, well versed in judicial astrol- ogy, the use of medicine, and consequently j able to cast a nati\'ity, or cure any earthly | complaint. Tliere is scarcely any grade or | species of superstition that is not associated ! with or founded upon fear. The conjiu'er, consecjuently, was both feared and resi)ect- ed ; and his character appeared in different phases to the people — each phase adapted | to the corresponding character of those with whom he had to deal. The educated of those days, vfith. but few exceptions, believed in astrology, and the possibility of developing the future fate and fortunes of an individual, whenever the hour of his birth and the name of the star or planet under which he was boi-u could be ascertained. The more I ignorant class, however, generally associated the character of the conjurer with that of the necromancer or magician, and consequentlj' ' attributed his predictions to demoniaciil in- i fluence. Neither were they much mistaken, I for they only judged of these impostors as | they found them. In nineteen cases out of twenty, the character of the low astrologer, the necromancer, and the quack was associ- ated, and the influence of the stars and the aid of the devil were both considered as gi\ing assurance of supernatural knowledge to the same individual. This unaccountable anxiety to see, as it were, the volume o' futuiit}' unrolled, so far as it discloses indi- vidual fate, has characterized mankind ever since the world began ; and hence, even in the present day, the same anxiety among the ignorant to run after spae-women, fortune- tellers, and gj-jisies, in order to have their fortunes told through the means of their adi'oit predictions. On the following morning the whole tovn\ of RathfiUan was in a state of excitement by the rumor that a conjurer had arrived, for the i^uri^ose not only of telling all their future fates and fortunes, but of discovering all those who had been guilty of theft, and the places where the stolen property was to be found. This may seem a bold stroke ; but when we consider the materials upon which the sagacious conjurer had to work, we need not feel surprised at his frequent success. The conjurer in question had taken up his residence in the best inn which the little town of Rathfillan afforded. Immediately after his arrival he engaged the beadle, with beU in hand, to proclaim his presence in the town, and the i)uri)ort of his visit to that part of the country. This was done through the medium of pi'inted handbills, v.iiich that officer read and distributed through the crowds who attended him. The bill in question was as follows : " To the inhabitants of Rathfillan and the adjacent neighborhood, the foUo-niug im- portant communications are made : — "Her Zander Vandei-pluckem, the cele- brated German conjurer, astrologist, and doctor, who has had the honor of predicting the deaths of three kings, five queens, twenty- one princesses, and seven princes, all of royal blood, and in the best possible state of health at the time the predictions were made, and to all of whom he had himself the honor of being medical attendant and state physician, begs to announce his arrival in tbis town. He is the seventh son of the gi-eat and re- no^vned conjurer. Her Zander Vanderhoaxem, who made the stai's tremble, and the devil sweat himself to powder in a fit of repentance. His influence over the stars and heavenly bodies is tremendous, and it is a well-kno^vn fact throughout tlie universe that he haa them in sucli a complete state of terror and subjection, that a single comet dai'e not wag his t^oil unless by his permission. He travels up and down the milky way one night in due WILLIAM CARLETOIST'S WORKS. every month, to see that the dairies of the sky are all right, and that that celebrated path be iDroiDerly lighted ; brings down a pail of the milk with him, which he churns into butyrus, an nugiaent so efficacious that it cures all maladies imder the sun, and many that never existed. It can be had at live shilhngs a spoonful. He can make Ursa Major, or the Great Bear, dance without a leaxler, and has taught Pisces, or the Fishes, to live out of water — a prodigy never knowTi or heard of before since the creation of terra firma. Such is the power of the gi'eat and celebrated Her Vanderpluckem over the stai's and planets. But now to come neai*er home : he cures all patients of all complaints. No person asking his assistance need ever be sick, unless when they happen to be unwell. His insight into futuidty is such that, when- ever he looks far into it, he is obhged to shut his eyes. He can tell fortunes, discover hidden wealth to any amount, and create such love between sweethearis as will be sure to end in matrimony. He is complete master of the fairies, and has the whole generation of them under his thumb ; and he generally •travels with the king of the fames in his left pocket closed up in a snuffbox. He intei-jDrets di-eams and visions, and is never mistaken ; can foretell whether a child im- born will be a boy or a girl, and can also inform the parents whether it will be brought to the bench or the gallows. He can also foretell backwards, and disclose to the indi- vidual an}i;hing that shall happen to him or her for the last seven years. His philters, concocted upon the profound science of al- ehemistic philosophy, have been sought for by persons of the highest distinction, who have always found them to produce the very effects for which they were intended, to wit, mutual affection between the parties, uni- formly ending in matrimony and happiness. Devils expelled, ghosts and spirits laid on the shortest notice, and at the most moderate terms. Also, recipes to farmers for good weather or rain, according as they may be wanted. "(Signed,) Her Zander Vanderpluckem," " The Greatest Conjurer. Astrologer, and Doctor in the world." To describe the effect that this bill, which, by the vf^j, was posted against every dead wall in the town, had upon the people, would be impossible. The inn in which he stop- ped was, in a short time, crowded with ap- plicants, either for relief or information, ac- cording as their ills or wishes came under the respective heads of his advertisement. The room he occupied was upstairs, and he had a door that led into a smaller one, or kind of closet, at the end of it ; here sat hl old-looking man, dressed in a black coat black breeches, and black stockings ; tht very picture of the mysterious iudividuai who had appeared and disappeared so sud denl}' at the bonfire. He had on a full-bot tomed wig, and a long white beard, depend- ing fi-om the lower part of his face, swept his reverend breast. A large book lay open before him, on the pages of which were in- scribed cabalistic characters and strange figures. He only admitted those who wished to consult him, singly ; for on no occasion did he ever permit two persons at a time to approach him. All the paraphernalia of as- trology were exposed uj)on the same table, at one end of wiiich he sat in an arm-chair, awaiting the commencement of operations. At length a good-looking country-woman, of about forty-five years, made her appearance, and, after a low courtesy, was solemnly mo- tioned to take a seat. "Well, IMi's. Houlaghan," said he, "how do you do '? " The poor woman got as pale as death. "Heavenly Father," thought she, "how does it haj^peu that he comes to know my name ! " "5li's. Houlaghan, what can I do for you? not that I need ask, for I could give a veiy good guess at it ; " and this he added Arith a very sage and solemn risage, precisely as if he knew the whole circumstances. "A\Tiy, your honor," she rej^lied — "but, blessed Father, how did you come to know my name ? " " That's a question," he replied, solemnly, "which you ought not to ask me. It is enough that you see I know it. How is your husband, Frank, and how is your daughter, INIary ? She's complaining of late — is she not ? " This private knowledge of the family completely overwhelmed her, and she felt unable to speak for some time. " Do not be in a hurry, jMrs. Houlaghan," said he, mildly ; " reflect upon what you are about to say, and take your time." " It's a ghost, youi' reverence," she replied — " a ghost that haunts the house." " Very well, Mrs. Houlaghan ; the fee for laying a ghost is five shillings ; I Avill trouble you for that sum ; we conjurers have no power until we get money from the party concei'ned, and then we can work with effect." The simple woman, in the agitation of the moment, handed him the amount of his demand, and then collected herself to hear the response, and the means of laying the ghost. " Well, now," said he, " teU me aU about this ghost, Mrs. Houlaghan. How long has it been troubling- the family ? " THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK J^ PEC TEE. 681 "WTiy, then, ever since Frank lost the use of his sight, now goin' upon five months." " When does it appear ? " " AMay, generally afther twelve at night ; and what miikes it more stninge is, that poor Marj^'s more afeard o' me than she is of the ghost. She says it appears to her in her bedroom every night ; but she knows I'm so timersome that she keeps her door alwavs locked for fi*aid I'd see it, poor child." " Does it terrify her ? " " Not a bit ; she says it does her no harm on earth, and that it's gi-eat company for her when she can't sleep." " Has Manr' many sweethearts ? " " She has two : one o' them rather ould, but wealthy and well to do ; her father and myself, wishiu' to see her well settled, are doin' all we can to get her consent to marry him." " Wno's the other ? " "One Brine Oge M'Gaveran, a good- lookin' vagabone, no doubt, but not worth a copi^er." " Is she fond of him ? " " Troth, to tell you the truth, Fm afeard she is ; he has been often seen about the house in the evenin's." "Well, Mrs. Houlaghan, I will teU you how to lay this ghost." " God bless you, sir ; poor Mary, although she purtends that the ghost is good compa- ny for her, is lookin' pale and very quare somehow." " Well, then, here is the receipt for laying the ghost : Many her as soon as you possi- bly can to Brine Oge ^I'Gaveran — do that and the ghost will never appear again ; but if you refuse to do it — I may lay that ghost of course — but another ghost, as like it as an e^Q is to an e^^, will haunt your house until she is married to Brine Oge. You have wealth yourselves, and you can make Brine and her comfortable if you M-ish. She is your only child " — (" Blessed Father, think of him kno^'in' this I ") — " and as you are As'ell to do in the world, it's both a sin and a scandal for you to urge a pretty young girl of nineteen to marrj' an old miserly runt of fifty. You know now how to lay the ghost, ^Ii's. Houlaghan — and that is -^-hat I j can do for you ; but if you do not maiTy } her to Brine Oge, as I said, another ghost will certainl}' contrive to haunt you. You may now withdraw." i A farmer, with a very shrewd and comic expression of countenance, next made his appearance, and taking his hat off and laying it on the floor with his staff across it, took ' his seat, as he had been motioned to do, i upon the chair which JMrs. Houlaghan had just vacated. " Well, my friend," said the conjurer, "what's troubling you ? " " A crock o' butther, your honor.** "How is that? explain yourself." " AVliy, sir, a crock o' butther that wa* stolen from me ; and I'm tould for a sai'tinty that you can discover the thief o' the world that stole it." " And so I can. Do you suspect any- body?" " Troth, sir, I can*t say — for I live in a very honest neighborhood. Tlie only two thieves that were in it — Chaiiey FoUiott and George Austin — were hanged not long ago, and I don't know anybody else in the coun- try side that would stale it." " What family have you ? " "Three sons, sir." " How many daughters?" i " One, sir — but she's only a girsha ** (a j little giri). I "I suppose your sons are very good chil- dren to you ? " j " Betther never broke bread, sir — all but the voimgest." ! "mat age is he?'* " About nineteen, sir, or goin' an twenty ; I but he's a heart-scald to me and the family — although he's his mother's pet ; the diril I can't stand him for dress — and, moreover, he's given to hquor and card-playin', and is altogether goin' to the bad. Widin the Last ; two or thi'ee days he has bought himself a I new hat, a new pair o' brogues, and a pair 6 span-new breeches — and, upon my con- science, it wasn't fi-om me or mine he go* the money to buy them." The conjurer looked solemnly into hi? book for some minutes, and then raising hip head, fastened his cold, glassy, gHttering eyes on the faiTuer with a glance that filled him with awe. "I have found it out," said he; "there are two parties to the theft — your wife and your youngest son. Go to the hucksters oi the town, and ask them if they will buy any more butter hke the last of yours that they bought, and, dej^end on it, you ^vill find out the truth." " Then you think, sir, it was my wife and son between them that stole the butter ? " " Not a doubt of it, and if you tell them that / said so, they will confess it. You owe me five shillings." The farmer put his hand in liis pocket, and placing the money before him, left the room, satisfied that there was no earthly subject, past, present, or to come, with which the learned conjurer was not ac- quainted. 688 WILLIAM CABLETOiTS WORKS. The next individual that came before him was a very pretty buxom widow, who, having made the' venerable conjurer a courtesy, sat iown and immediately burst into tears. " ^\Tiat is the matter with you, madam ? " asked the astrologer, rather surprised at this unaccountable exhibition of the pathetic. "0, sir, I lost, about fifteen months ago, one of the best husbands that ever broke the world's bread." Here came another effusion, accompanied with a very distracted blow of the nose. " That must have been veiy distressing to you, madam ; he must have been extremely fond of such a veiy pretty wife." " O sir, he doted alive upon me, as I did upon him — poor, darling old Paul." " Ah, he was old, was he ? " " Yes, sir, and left me verj' rich." " But what do you wish me to do for you ? " " Why, sii', he was very fond of money ; was, in fact, a — a — kind of miser in his way. My father and mother forced me to marry the dear old man, and I did so to please them ; but at the same time he was very kind in his manner to me — indeed, so kind that he allowed me a shilling a month for pocket money." " Well, but what is your object in coming tome?" " "Wliy, sir, to ask your opinion on a case of great difficulty." "Very well, madam; you shall have the best opinion in the known world upon the subject — that is, as soon as I hear it. Speak out without hesitation, and conceal nothing." " Why, su*, the poor dear man before his death — ah, that ever my darling old Paul should have been taken away from rie ! — the poor dear man, before his death — ahem — be- fore his death — O, ah," — here came another effusion — "began to — to — to — get jealous of me with a young man in the neighborhood that — that — I was fond of before I mamed my dear old Paul." " Was the young man in question hand- some ? " "Indeed, sir, he was, and is, very hand- some — and the impudent minxes of the parish are throwing their eaps at him in dozens." "But still you are keeping me in the dark." " Well, sir, I will teU you my difficulty. When poor dear old Paul was dying, he called me to the bed-side one day, and says to me : * Biddy,' says he, 'I'm going to die — and you know I am wealthy ; but, in the meantime, I won't leave you sixpence.' 'It's not the loss of yovir money I am thinking of, my darling Paul,' says I, 'but the loss of yourseK' — and I kissed him, and cried. 'You didn't often kiss me that way before,' said he — ' and I know what you're kissing me for now.' 'No,' I said, 'I did not ; be- cause I had no notion then of losing you, mj own darling Paul — you don't know how 1 loved you all along, Paul,' said I ; 'kiss me again, jewel.' ' Now,' said he, ' I'm not going to leave you sixpence, and I'll teU you why^ I saw young Charley Mulvany, that you were coiu-tiug before I married you — I saw him, 1 say, through the veindy there, kiss you, with my own eyes, when you thought I was asleep — and you put your arms about his neck and hugged him,' said he. I must be particular, sir, in order that you may understand the difficulty I"m in." " Proceed, madam," said the conjurer. " If I were young I certainly would en\j Charley Mulvany — but proceed." " W^eU, sir, I repHed to him : ' Paul, dear,' said I, ' that was a kiss of friendship — and the reason of it was, that poor Charley was near crying when he heard that you were going to die and to leave me so lonely,' ' Well,' said he, ' that may be — many a thing may be that's not likely — and that may be one of them. Go and get a prayer-book, and come back here.' Well, sir, I got a book and went back. 'Now,' said he, 'if you swear by the contents of that book that you will never put a ring on man after my death, I'll leave you my property.' 'Ah, God pardon you, Paul, darling,' said I, ' for supjDosing that I'd ever dream of marrying again ' — and I couldn't help .kissing him once more and cx'jing over him when I heard what he said. ' Now,' said he, ' kiss the book, and swear that you'll never put a ring on man after my death, and I'll leave you every shilling I'm worth.' God knows it was a trying scene to a losing heart hke mine — so I swore that I'd never put a ring on man after his death — and then he altered his will and left me the prop erty on those conditions." "Proceed, madam," said the conjurer ; "I am still in the dark as to the object of your visit." " Why, sir, it is to know — ahem — O, poor old Paid. Grod forgive me ! it was to know. sir-, O " " Don't cry, madam, don't cvj." " It was to know, su-, if I covdd ever think oi — of — you must know, sir, we had no family, and I would not wish that the jDrojierty should die with me ; to know if— if you think I could venture to marry again ? " " Tliis," repHed the conjurer, "is a matter of uniTSual importance and difficulty. In the first place you must hand me a guinea — that is my fee for cases of this kind." The money was immediately paid, and the conjurer proceeded : "I said it was a case oi gi-eat difficult3% and so it is, but " THE EVIL EYE ; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 689 *'I torj^t lo mention, sir, that when I went 5ut to get the prayer-book, I found Charley Mulvany in the next room, and lie said he had one in his pocket ; so that the truth, sir, is, I — I took the oath ^ipon a book of ballads. Now," she proceeded, ' I have strong reasons for maiTying Charley Mulvany ; and I wish to know if I can do ») without losing the property." " Make your mind easy on that point," re- plied the conjurer ; '" you swore never to put a ring on man, but you did not swear that a man would never put a ring on you. Go home," he continued, " and if you be adWsed by me, you Mill marry Chiirley Mulvany with- out loss of time." A man rather advanced in j-ears next came in, and talking his seat, wiped his face and gave a deep groan. "Well, my friend," said the conjurer, "in what way can I serve you ? " " God knows it's hard to tell that," he re- plied—" but I'm troubled." " WTiat troubles you ? " "It's a quare world, sir, altogether." " There are many strange things in it cer- tainly." " That's truth, sir ; but the saison's favor- able, thank God, and there's every pros- pect of a fine spring for puttin' down the crops." " You are a farmer, then ; but why should you feel troubled about what you call a fine eeason for putting do^Mi the crops ? " The man moved uneasily upon his chair, and seemed at a lo.ss how to proceed ; the con- jurer looked at him, and waited for a little that he might allow him sufficient time to disclose his difficulties. " There are a great many troubles in this life, sir, especially in married families." " There is no doubt of that, my friend," replied the conjurer. " No, sir, there is not. I am not aisy in my mind, somehow." " Hundreds of thousands are so, as well as you," replied the other. " I would be glad to see the man who has not sonu'thinr/ to trouble him ; but will you allow me to ask you wh t it is that troubles you? " "I took her, sir, ^\'idout a shift to her back, and a betther husband never breathed the breath of hfe than I have been to her ; " and then he paused, and pulling out his handkerchief, shed bitter tear.s. " I would love her still, if I could, sir ; but, then, the thing's impossible." " O, yes," said the conjurer ; " I see you are jealous of her ; but will you state upon what grounds?" " "Well, sir, I think I have good grounds for it" " ^\liat description of a woman is yoiu wife, and what age is she ? " " Why, sir, she's about my own age. Sh( was once handsome enough — indeed ver; handsome when I married her." " Was the marriage a cordial one betweei. you and her ? " " AVTiy, sir, she was dotin' upon me, as ) was upon her ? " " Have you had a family ? " "A fine family, sir, of sons and daugh- ters." " And how long is it since you began to suspect her ? " " \Miy, sir, I — I — well, no matther about that ; she was always a good vnfe and a good mother, until — " Here he paused, and again wiped his eyes. " Until what ? " " ^Vhy, sir, until Billy Fulton, the fiddler, came across her." "Well, and what did Billy Fulton do?" " He ran away wid my ould woman, sir/' ♦• What age is BiUy Fulton ? " "About my own age, sir; but by no means so stout a man ; he's a dancin' ma.s- ther, too, sir ; and barrin' his pumps and white cotton stockin's, I dont know what she could see in him ; he's a poor hght crature, and walks as if he had a hump on his hip, for he always carries his fiddle undhei his sku't. Ay, aaid what's more, sir, oui daughter, Nancy, is gone off wid him." "The devil she is. "WTiy, did the old dancing-master run off with both of them ? How long is it since this elojiement took place ? " " Only three days, sir." " And you wish me to assist you? " " If you can, sir ; and I ought to tell you that the vagabone's son is gone oft' wid them too." " O, O," said the conjurer, *' that makes the matter worse." " Xo, it doesn't, sir, for what makes the matter worse i.s, that they took away a hun- dred and thirty pounds of my money along wid 'era." " Then you wish to know what I can do for you in this business ? " " I do, sir, i' you pLai.se." " Were you ever jealous of your wife be fore?" " No, not exactly jealous, sir, but a little suspicious or so ; I didn't think it aife to let her out much ; I thought it no harm to keep my eye on her." "Now," said the conjurer, "is it not no- torious that you are the most jealous — by the way, give me five shillings ; I can make no further communications till I am paid ; there — thank vou — now, is it not notorioup 390 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. that you are one of the most jealous old scoundrels in the whole country ? " . "No, sir, barrin' a little wholesome sus- picion." " Well, sir, go home about your business. Your daughter and the dancing master's son have made a- runaway match of it, and your wife, to protect the character of her daughter, has gone with them. You are a miser, too. Go home, now ; I have nothing more to say to you, except that you have been youi'self % profligate. Look at that book, su' ; there it is ; the stai-s have told me so." "You have got my five shillings, sir ; but say what you hke, all the wather in the ocean wouldn't wash her clear of the ould dancin'- masther." In the course of a few minutes a beautiful peasant girl entered the room, her face mantled with blushes, and took her seat on the chair as the others had done, and re- mained for some time silent, and apparently panting with agitation. ""What is youi" name, my j)retty girl?" asked the conjui'er. " Grace Davoren," replied the girl. " And what do you wish to know fi'om me, Miss Davoren ? " " O, don't call me miss, sir ; I'm but a poor girl." The conjui-er looked into his book for a few minutes, and then, raising his head, and fixing his eyes upon her, replied — "Yes, I will call you miss, because I have looked into your fate, and I see that there is great good fortune before you." The young creature blushed again and smiled \A\h. something like confidence, but seemed rather at a loss what to say, or how to proceed. "From 3'our extraordinary beauty you must have a gi*eat many admii'ers, Miss Davoren." " But only two, sir, that gives me any trouble — one of them is a " The conjiu-er raised his hand as an inti- mation to her to stoj), and after poring once more over the book for some time, pro- ceeded : — " Yes — one of them is Shaivn-na-Middogue ; but he's an outlaw — and that courtship is at an end now." " Wid me, it is, sir ; but not wid him. Tlie sogers and autoiities is out for him and others ; but stiU he keeps watchin' me as close as he can." " Well, wait till I look into the book of fate again — yes — yes — here is — a gentleman over head and ears in love with you." Poor Grace blushed, then became quite Dale. " But, sir," said she, " will the gentle- tian marry me ? " "To be sure he will marry you •, but he cannot for some time." " But will he save me from disgrace and shame, sir ? " she asked, with a death-like face. " Don't make your mind uneasy on that point ; — but wait a moment tiU I find out his name in the great book of fatahty ; — yes, 1 see — his name is Woodward. Don't, how- ever, make your mind uneasy ; he will take care of you." " My mind is very uneasy, sir, and I wish I had never seen him. But I don't know what could make him fall in love wid a poor simple girl like me." This was said in the coquettish con- sciousness of the beauty which she knew she possessed, and it was accompanied, too, by a sHght smile of self-complacency. "Do you think I could become a lady, sir ? " " A lady ! why, what is to prevent you ? You are a lady already. You want nothing but silks and satins, jewels and gold rings, to make you a perfect lady." " And he has promised all these to me," she replied. " Yes ; but there is one thing you ought to do for your owti sake and his — and that is to betray Shawn-na-Middogue, if you can ; because if you do not, neither your own life, nor that of your lover, ]Mr. Woodward, will be safe." "I couldn't do that, sir," i-eplied the girl ; " it would be treacherous ; and sooner than do so, I'd just as soon he would kiU me at wanst — still I would do a great deal to save Mr. Woodward. But will Mr. W^oodward marry me, sir ? because he said he would — in the coorse of some time." " And if he said so don't be uneasy ; he is a gentleman, and a gentleman, you know, always keejDS his word. Don't be alarmed, my pretty girl — your lover will provide for you." " Am I to pay you anything, sir ? " she asked, rising. " No, my dear, I wiU take no money from you ; but if you wish to save ]\Ii'. Woodward from danger, you vdll enable the soldiers to arrest Shawn-na-3Iiddogue. Even you, your- self, are not safe so long as he is at large." She then took her leave iu silence. It is not to be supi:)osed that among the crowd that was assembled around the inn door there were not a number of waggish characters, who felt strongly inclined to have, if possible, a hearty laugh at the great conjurer. No matter what state of so- ciety may exist, or what state of feehng may prevail, there will always be found a class of persons who are exceptions to the THE KVJL KYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 09. general rule. Whilst the people were chat- ting ill wonder and admiration, not without awe and fear, concernin:>. this dreadful intelligence whicli we have heard be true ? " " O, you have heard it, then," repHed Woodward. "Alas ! yes, it is too tnie, and my unfortunate brother lies with hfe barely in him, but without the slightest hope of re- covery. As for myself I am in a state of absolute distraction ; and were it not that I possess the consciousness of having done everything in my power as a friend and bro- ther to withdraw him from this unfortunate intrigue, I think I should become fairly crazed. Miss Goodwin has for some time past been aware of my deep anxiety upon this veiy subject, because I deemed it a solemn duty on my part to let her know that he Lad degraded himself by this low attachment to such a girl, and was conse- quently utterly unworthy of her affection. I could not see the innocence and purity im- ];(Osed ujion, nor her generous confidence ;)laced on an unworthy object. This, how- iver, is not a time to deal harshly by him. ile wiU not be long with us, and is entitled to nothing but oui" forbearance and sym- pathy. Poor fellow ! he has paid a heavy and a fatal penalty for his crime. Alas, my brother ! cut down in the very prime of hfe, when there was still time enough for refor- mation and repentance ! O, it is too much ! " He turned towards the window, and, put- ting Ids handkerchief to his eyes, did the pathetic with a very good grace. " But," said Mrs. Goodwin, " what were the exact circumstances under which the de- plorable act of vengeance was committed ? " " Alas ! the usual thing, Mrs. Goodwin," replied Harry, attempting to clear his throat ; '' chey met last night between nine and ten o'clock, in a clump of alders, near the ivell from which the inhabitants of the ad- joining hamlet fetch their water. The out- law, Shaton-na-3Iiddogue, a rejected lover of the girl's, stung with jealousy and vengeance, suii^rised them, and stabbed my unfortu- nate brother, I fear, to death." " And do you think there is no hope ? " she added, with tears in her eyes ; " O, if he had only time for repentance ! " " Alas ! madam, the medical man who has seen him scarcely holds out any liope ; but, as you say, if he had time even to repent, there would be much consolation in that." " Well," observed Goodwin, his eyes moist with tears, " after this day, I shall never place confidence in man. I did imagine that if ever there was an individual whose heart was the source of honor, truth, generosity, disinterestedness, and affection, your brother C'harles was that man. I am confounded, an. 1 zed — imd the whole thing appears to me like a dream ; at all events, thank God, our daughter has had a narrow escape oi him." " Pray, by the way, how is IMiss Good- win? " asked Harry ; "I hope she is recover- ing." " So far from that," replied her father, " she is sinking fast ; in truth we entertain but little hopes of her." " On the occasion of my last -sdsit here you forbade me your house, Mr. Goodwin," said Woodward ; "but perhaps, now that you are aware of the steps I have taken to detach your daughter's affections from an individual whom I knew at the time to be unworthy of them, you may be jDre vailed on to rescind that stern and painful decree." Goodwin, who was kind-hearted and plac- able, seemed rather perplexed, and looked towards his wife, as if to be guided by her decision. "W^ell, indeed." she replied, "I don't exactly know ; jDerhaps we Avill think of it." " No," replied Sarah Sullivan, who was toasting a thin sHce of bread for Alice's breakfast. " No ; if you allov/ this man to come about the place, as God is to judge me, 3'ou will both have a hand in your daughter's death. If the de-\dls from hell were to visit here, she might beai' it ; but at the present moment one look fi'om that man would kill her." This remonstrance decided them. " No, Mr. W^oodward," said Goodvnn, "the truth is, my daughter entertains a strong prejudice against 3'ou — in fact, a ter- ror of you — and iinder these circumstances, and considering, besides, her state of health, we could not think of permitting j'our visits, at least," he added, "until that prejudice be removed and her health restored — if it ever shall be. We owe you no ill-will, sir ; but under the circumstances we cannot, for the present, at least, allow you to visit us." "W'ell," rei^lied Woodward, "perhaps — and I sincerely trust — her health will be re- stored, and her prejudices against me re- moved, and when better times come about I shall look with anxiety to the privilege of renewing my intimacy with you all." "Perhaps so," returned ^h\ Goodwin, " and then we shall receive your visits with pleasure." Woodward then shook hands Avith him and his wife, and wished them a good morn- ing. On his way home worthy Suil Balor began to entertain reflections upon his prospects in hfe that he felt to be rather agreeable. Here was his brother, whom he had kindly sent tc» apologize to Grace Davoren for the impossi- bility from illness of his meeting her accord THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 713 mg to their previous arrangement ; yes, we say he feigned illness on that evening, and prevailed on the unsuspecting young man to go in his stead, in order, as he said, to give her the necessaiy explanations for his ab- sence. Charles undertook this mission the more willingly, as it was his tirm inten ion to remonstrate with the girl on the impro- priety of her conduct, in continuing a secret and guilty intrigue, which must end only in her own shame and ruin. But when Hiu-ry deputed him upon such a message he antici- pated the very event which had occurred, or, rather, a mor;? fatal one still, for, desj^ite his hopes of Alice Goodwin's ill state of health, he entertained strong ajjprehensions that his stepfather might, by some accidental piece of intelligence, be restored to his original impressions on the relative i^osition in which she and Charles stood. An interview be- tween Mr. Lindsay and her might cancel all he had done ; and if eveiy obstruction which he had endeavored to place between their union were removed, her health might recover, their maniage take place, and then what became of his chance for the pi'operty ? It is true he had managed his jolans and speculations with great ability. Substituting Charles, like a villain as he was, in liis own affair with Grace Davoren, he contrived to corroborate the falsehood by the ti'agic in- cident of the preceding night. Now, if this would not satisfy Alice of the truth of his own f ilsehood, nothing could. That Charles was the inlriganl must be clear and palpable from what had hnpi:)ened, and accordingly, after taking a serious review of his own in- iquity, he felt, as we said, peculiarly gTatified with his prosi:)ects. Si ill, it cannot be denied that an occasional shadow, not proceeding from any consciousness of guilt, but from an apprehension of disappointment, would cast its deep gloom across his spirit. With such terrible states of feeling the machinations of giiilt, no matter how successful its progress may be, are fi-om time to time attended ; and even in his case the torments of the damned were httle short of what he sutlered, from a dread of failure, and its natural con- sequences — an exposure which would bar liim out of society. Still, his earnest expec- tation was that the inteUigence of the fate of her lover would, considering her feeble state of health, eifectually accomjilish his wishes, and with this consoling redection he rode home. His great anxiety now was, his alarm lest his brother should recover. On i-eaching BathliUan House he proceeded to his bed- room, where he found his sister watohing. "My dear Maiia," said, he, in a low and «nobt affectionate voice, " is he better ? " " I hope so," she repHed, in a voice equally low ; "this is the rirst sleep he has got, and I hope it will remove the fever." " Well, I will not stop," said he, " but do you watch him carefully, ^laria, and see that he is not disturbed." "O, indeed, HaiTv, you may rest assured that I shall do so. Poor, dear Charles, w^hat would become of us all if we lost him — and Alice Goodwin, too — O, she would die. Now, go, dear Harry, and leave him to me." Harry left the room apparently in pro- found sorrow, and, on going into the parlor, met Barney Casey in the hall. " Barney," said he, " come into the parlor for a moment. My father is out, and my mother is upstau-s. I want to know how this atlair hapi^ened last night, and how it occurred that you were present at it. It's a bad business, Barney." "Devil a worser," replied Baniey, "ea- pecidly for poor Mr. Charles. I was for- tunately goin' dow-n on ni}- kalie to the family of poor disconsolate Granua (Grace), Avhen, on passing the clump of alders, I heard screams and shouts to no end. I ran to the spot I heard the skirls comin' from, and there I found Mr. Charles, lyin' as if dead, and Grace Davoren with her hands clasped like a mad woman over him. The str-nge men then joined us, and earned him home, and that's all I know about it." " But, can you understand it, Barney? As for me, I cannot. Did Gracn say nothing during her alarm ? " "Di^•il a syllable," replied Barney, Mug without remorse ; " she was so thundei'struck with what happened that she -could do noth- ing nor say anything but ciT "ut and scream for the bare life of her. Thoy say she has disappeared from her family, and that no- body knows where she has gone to. I was at her father's to-day, and 1 know they are searchin' the countrj- for her. It is thought she has made away with herwlf." " Poor Ch:u'les," exclaimed )iis brother, "what an unfortunate busines^sit has tunied out on both sides I I thought he was attached to !JIiss Goodwin ; but it would ap- l^ear now that he was decf iving her all along." " Well, a\Ir. Harry," replied Baniey, dryly, or rather with some severity, ** you see what the iipshot is ; treachery, they say, seldom prosi^ers in the long run, although it may for a while. God forgive them that makes a practice of it. As for ]\Iaster Charles, I couldn't have dreamt of such a thing." " Nor I, Barney. I know not what to say. It perplexes me, from whatever poipt I look at it. At all events, I hope he may reoover, and if he does, I tiaist he will conside? wiiai 114 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. nas happened as a warning, and act upon better principles. May God forgive liim ! " And so ended tlieir dialogue, little, in- deed, to the satisfaction of Harry, whom Barney left in complete ignorance of the significant exclamations by which Grace Davoren, in the alarm of the moment, had betrayed her own guilt, by stating that Shawn-va-Middogue had stabbed the wrong man. Sarah Sulhvan — poor, thoughtless, but affectionate girl — on repairing with the thin toast to her mistress's bedroom, felt so brim- ful of tlae disaster which had befallen Charles, that — now believing in his guilt, as she did, and with a hope of effectually alienating Alice's alTections from him — she lost not a moment in communicating the melancholy intelligence to her. " O, Miss Alice ! " she exclaimed, " have you heard what has happened? O, the false and treacherous villain ! Who would believe it? To la'^e a beautiful lady like you, and talie up with sich a ^^.^lgar vagabone ! How- ever, he has suffered for it. Shaivn-na-Mid- dogue did for him." " What do you mean, Sarah ? " said her mistress, much alarmed by such a startling preface ; " explain yourself. I do not un- derstand you." "But you soon %vill, miss. Shaivn-na- Middogue found IVIi". Charles Lindsay and Grace Davoren together last night, and has stabbed him to death ; life's only in him ; and that's the gentleman that pretended to love 3'ou. Devil's cure to the villain ! " She paused. The expression of her mis- tress's face was awful. A pallor more fright- ful than that of death, because it was asso- ciated with life, overspread her countenance. Her eyes became dim and dull ; her features in a moment were collapsed, and resembled those of some individual struck by paralysis —they were altogether without meaning. She clasped and unclasped her hands, like one under the influence of strong hysterical agony ; she laid herself back in bed, where she had been sitting up expecting her coffee, her eyes closed, for she had not physical strength even to keep them open, and with considerable difficulty she said, in a low and scarcely audible voice, — "My mother ! " Poor Sarah felt and saw the mischief she had done, and, with streaming eyes and loud sobbings, lost not a moment in summoning jMrs. Goodwin. In ti-uth she feared that her misti-ess lay dying before her, and was im- mediately tortured with the remorseful im- pression that the thoughtless and indiscreet communication she had made was the cause of her death. It is unneeessaiy to describe tlxe terror and alarm of her mother, nor of her father, when he saw her lyin^ as it were between life and dissolution. The physician was immediately sent for, but, notwithstand- ing all his remedies, until the end of the second day, there appeared no change in her. Towards the close of that day an im provement was perceptible ; she was able to speak and take some nourishment, but it was observed that she never once made the slightest allusion to the disaster which had befallen Charles Lindsay. She sank into a habitual silence, and, unless when forced to ask for some of those usual attentions which her illness required, she never ventured to indulge in conversation on any subject whatsoever. One thing, however, struck Sarah Sullivan, which was, that in all her startings, both asleep and awake, and in all her unconscious ejaculations, that which appeared to press upon her most was the unceasing horror of the Evil Eye. The name of Charles Lindsay never escaped her, even in the feverish agitation of her dreams, nor in those exclamations of teiTor and alarm which she uttered. " O, save me ! — save me from his eye — he is killing me ! Yes, Woodward is a devil — he is killing me— save me — save me ! " T^'eU had the villain done his Avork ; and how his web of iniquity was woven out we shall see. On leaving Barney, that worthy gentle- man sought his mother, and thus addressed her : — "Mother," said he, apparently much moved, " this is a melanchoty, and I trust in heaven it may not turn out a fatal, busi- ness. I'm afi'aid poor Charles's case is hopeless." "O, may God forbid, poor boy!" ex- claimed Mrs. Lindsay; "for, although he always joined his father against me, still he was in other respects most obhging to every one, and inoffensive to all." " I know that, and I am sorry that this jade — and she is a handsome jade, they say — should have gained such a cursed influ- ence over him. That, however, is not the question. We must think of nothing now but his recover}'. The strictest attention ought to be paid to him ; and as it has oc- curred to me that there is no female under this roof who understands the management of a sick bed, we ought, under these circum- stances, to provide a nurse for him." " Well, indeed, that is true enough, Hany, and it is veiy kind and considerate . of you to think of it ; but who will we get ? The women here are very ignorant and stupid." " I have been making inquiries," he replied, " and I am told tltere is a woman in Rathfil- Ian, named Collins, niece to a rehgious herb THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 7U alist or herb doctor, who jjossesses much ex- perieuce in that way. It is just such a wo- man we want." " Well, then, let her come ; do you go and engage her ; but see that she will not extort dishonest terms from you, because there is nothing but fraud and knavery among these wretches." Harry lost little time in securing the ser- vices of Caterine Collins, who was that veiy day established as nux-se-tender in Chai'les Lindsay "s sick room. Alice's Uluess was now such as left little expectation of her recover}'. She was stilted, and with good reason, to be in a condition absolutely hopeless ; and nothuig could ex- ceed the regret and sorrow which were felt for the benevolent and gentle girl. We say benecolent, because, since her accession to her newly-acquired proj^erty, her charities to the poor and distressed were bountiful and generous, almost be^'ond belief ; and even during her illness she constituted her father as the agent — and a willing one he was — of her beneficence. In fact, the sor- row for her approaching death was deep and general, and the sympathy felt for her pa- rents such as rarely occux's in hfe. Of course it is imnecessary to say that these tidings of her hopeless illness did not reach the Lindsays. On the second morning after Harry's visit he asked for a private inter- view with his mother, which was accorded to him. "Mother," said he, "you must pay the Goodwins another visit — a visit, m u-k you, of symjjathy and condolence. You forget all the unpleasant circumstances that have occurred between the families. You forget e^'erything but your anxiety for the recovery of poor, dear Alice." I "But," replied his mother, "I do not wish to go. Wliy should I go to express a sym- { pathy which I do not feel ? Her death is 1 only a judicial punishment on them for j having inveigled your silh' old uncle to ; leave them the property which would have ' otherwise come to you as the natui-al heir." j " Mother," said her dutiful sou, " you have a nose, and beyond that nose you never yet | have been able to look with anything like | perspicuity. If you don't visit them, your ! good-natured noodle of a husband wdl, and I perhaps the result of that visit may cut us out of the property forever. At breakfast this morning you Avill propose the visit, which, mark you, is to be made in the name and on behalf of all the family. You, con- [ sequently, being the deputation on this oc- i easion, both your husband and Maria will not feel themselves called upon to see them, i You can, besides, say that her state of health jTi-ecludes her from seeing any one out ol her own family, and thus all risk of an ex- planation will be avoided. It is best to make everything safe ; but that she can't live I know, because I feel that my power and in- fluence ai-e upon her, and that the force of this Evil Eye of mine has killed her. I told you this before, I think." " Even so," said his mother ; " it is only what I have said, a judicial punishment for their villany. Villany, Harry, never pros- pers." "Egad, my dear mother," he replied, "I know of nothing so pi'O.sperous : look tlurough life and you will see the villain thrive upon his fi'aud and iniqmty, where the honest man — the man of integrity, who binds him- self by all the principles of what are called honor and morahty — is elbowed out of pros- perity by the knave, the SAvindler, and the hypocrite. 0, no, my dear mother, the two worst passjDorts to indei^endence and ouccesa in life are ti'uth and honesty." "W^ell, Harry, I am a bad logician, and will not dispute it with you ; but I am far fi'om weU, and I don't tliink I shall be able to visit iihem for two or thi'ee davs at least." " But, in the meantime, express youi- in tention to do so — on behalf of the family, mark ; assume your right as the proprietor of this place, and as its representative, and then your visit will be considered as the visit of the whole family. In the meantime, mark me, the gii-1 is dead. I have accom- plished that gi-atifying event, so that, after all, your visit* will be a mere matter of form. When you reach their house you will jDrob- ably find it the house of death." "And then," replied his mother, "the twelve hunlred a year is yours for hfe, and the jiroperty of vour chikU'en after you. Thank God!" That morning at breakfast she expressed her determination to visit the Goodwins, making it, she said, a visit from the family in general ; such a -sisit, she added, ar, might be proper on their (the Lindsays) part, but yet such an act cf neighborhood that, while it manifested sufficient respect for them, would preclude all hopes of any futm'e inter* course between them. ]\Ir. Lindsay did not rehsh this much; but as he had no particular wish, in conse- quence of Ch:u"les's iUness, to ojjpose her motives in makmg the ^^sit, he said she might manage it as she ^^-islled — he would not raise a fresh breeze about it. He only felt that he was sincerely son-y for the loss which the Goodwins were about to experi* euce. fl6 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. CHAPTER XV. The Banshee.-^Disappearance of Grace Davoren. In the meantime it was certainly an un- questionable fact that Grace Davoren had disappeared, and not even a trace of her could be found. The unfortunate girl, alarmed at the tragic incident of that woful night, and impressed with a belief that Charles Lindsay had been murdered by Shawn-na-Middogue, had betaken herself to some place of concealment which no search on behalf of her friends could discover. In fact, her disappearance was involved in a mystery as deep as the alarm and distress it occasioned. But what astonished the public most was the fact that Charles, whose whole life had been untainted by a single act of impropriety, much less of profligacy, should have been discovered in such a heartless and unprincipled intrigue with the daughter of one of his father's tenants, &n innocent girl, who, as such, was entitled to protection rather than injur}' at his hands. "Whilst this tumult was abroad, and the country was in an unusual state of alarm and agitation, Harry Woodward took mat- ters very quietly. That he seemed to feel deeply for the imcertaiu and dangerous state of his brother, who lay suspended, as it were, between life and death, was evident to every individual of his family. He fi'e- quently took Caterine Collins's place, attend- ed him personally, with siugailar kindness and affection, gave him his drinks and de- coctions with his ovn\ hand ; and, when the surgeon came to make his dail}' visit, the anxiety he evinced in ascertaining whether there was any chance of his recovery was most affectionate and exemplary. Still, as usual, he was out at night ; but the mystery of his whereabouts, while absent, could never be penetrated. On those occasions he al- ways went armed — a fact which he never at- tempted to conceaL On one of these nights it so happened that Barney Casey was called upon to attend at the wake of a relation, and, as his master's family were apprised of this circumstance, they did not of course expect him home until a late hour. He left the wake, however, earlier than he had proposed to do, for he found it a rather duU affair, and was on liis way liome when, to his astonishment, or rather to his horror, he saw Harry Woodward — also on his way home — in close conversation with the super- natural being so well known by descrijDtion as the Shan-dhinne-dhnv, or Black Spectre. Now, Barney was half cowardly and half brave — that is to say, had he lived in an en- lightened age he woiild have felt little terror of supernatural appearances ; but at the period of our story such Avas the predominance of a belief in ghosts, fairies, evil spirits, and witches, that he should have been either less or more than man could he have shaken off" the prevailing superstitions, and the gross credulity of the times in which he lived. As it was, he knew not what to think. He remembered the character which had been AvhisjDered abroad about Hari-y Woodward, and of his intercourse with su- pei-natural bemgs — he was known to possess the Evil Eye ; and it was generally under- stood that those who happened to be endowed with that accursed gift were aided in the exercises of it by the powers of darkness and of evil. What, then, was he to do ? There probably was an opportunity of solving the mystery which hung around the midnight motions of Woodwai'd. If there was a spirit before him, there was also a human being, in li%dng flesh and blood — an ac- quaintance, too — an individual whom he personally knew, ready to sustain him, and afford, if necessary, that protection which, under such jDeculiar circumstances, one fel- low-creature has a right to expect from another. Now Barney's w^ay home led him necessarily — and a painful necessity it was — near the Haunted House ; and he c/bserved that the jslace where they stood, for they had ceased walking, was about fifty yards above that much dreaded mansion. He resolved, however, to make the plunge and advance, but deemed it only good manners to give some intimation of his approach. He was now ■\\ithin about twenty yards fi'om them, and made an attempt at a comic song, which, however, quivered off into as dismal and cowardly a ditty as ever proceeded fi'om human lips. Harry and the Spectre, both startled by the voice, turned round to ob- serve his approach, when, to his utter con- sternation, the Shan-dhinne-dhiiv sank, as it were, into the earth and disappeared. The hair rose upon Barney's head, and when Woodward called out : " Who comes there ? " He could scarcely summon voice enough to reply : " It's me, sir," said he ; " Barney Casey." " Come on, Barney," said Woodward, " come on quickly ; " and he had scarcely spoken when Barne}' joined him. "Barney," said he, "I am in a state of great terror. I have felt ever since I passed that Haunted House as if there was an evil spirit in my company. The feeling was dread- ful, and I am very weak in consequence of it. Give me 3'ou arm." "But did you see nothing, sir?" said Barney ; " didn't it become visible to you ? " THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 717 " No," replied the other ; " but I felt as if I was in the presence of a supernatural being, and an evil one, too." " God protect us, Mr. Harry ! then, if you didn't see it I did." " You did ! " replied the other, startled ; " and pray what was it like ? " " Why, a black ould man, sir ; and, by all accounts that ever I could hear of it, it was nothing else than the Shan-dhinne-dhii o. For God's sake let us come home, sir, for this, if all they say be true, is unholy and eui-sed ground we're standin' on." "And where did it disappeai'?" asked Woodward, leading him by a circuit fi'om the spot where it had vanished. "Just over there, sii'," replied Barney, pointing to the place. " But, in God's name, let us make for home as fast as we i can. I'U think every minute an hour till we get safe undher our own roof." "Barney," said W^oodward, solemnly, "I have a request to make of you, and it is this — the common report is, that the spirit in question folio svs our family — I mean by my mother's side. Now I beg, as you expect my good will and countenance, that, for my Bake, and out of respect for the family in gen- eral, you will never breathe a syllable of what you have seen this night. It could answer no earthly purpose, and would only send abroad idle and unpleasant rumoi-s throughout the country. Will you promise this ? " " Of course I promise it," reiDlied Bai-ney ; " what object could I gain by repeatin' it ? " " None whatsoever. Well, then, be silent on the subject, and let us reach home as soon as Ave (!an." It would be difficult to describe honest Barney's feelings as they went along. He imagined that he felt Harry's arm tremble within his, and when he thought of the re- ports concerning the evil spirit, and its con- nection Avith Mrs. Lindsay's family, his sen- sations were anything but comfortable. He tossed and tumbled that night for hours in his bed before he was able to sleep, and when he did sleep the Shan-dhinne-dhnv rendered his dreams feverish and frightful. Precisely at this period, before Mrs. Lind- say had I'ecovered from her indisposition, and could pay her intended vis4 to the Goodwins, a circumstance occuri'ed which suggested to Hariy Woodward one of the most remorseless and satanic schemes that ever was concocted in the heart of man. He was in the habit occasionally of going down to the kitchen to indulge in a smoke and a piece of banter with the servants. One even- ing, whilst thus amusing himself, the conver- sation turned upon the prevailing supersti- tions of the day. Ghosts, witches, wizards. astrologers, fairies, leprechauns, and all that could be termed supernatural, or even relat- ed to or aided by it, were discussed at con- siderable length, and with eveiy vai'iety of feeling. Amongst the rest the Banshee was mentioned— a spirit of whose peculiar office and character Woodward, in consequence ot his long absence fi'om the country, was com- pletely ignorant. " The Banshee ! " he exclaimed ; " what kind of a spirit is that ? I have never heard of it." " Why, sir," replied Baniey, who was present, " the Bansliee — the Lord prevent us from hearin' her — is always the forerimner of death. She attends only certain families — principally the ould ^Milesians, and mostlj Catholics, too ; although, I beheve, it's well knoAvn that she sometimes attends Protes- tants whose families have been Catholics or Milesians, until the last of the name disaj)- pears. So that, afther all, it seems she's not over-scrupulous about religion." " But what do you mean by attending fam- ilies ? " asked Woodward ; " what description of attendance or service does she render them ? " " Indeed, ^Ir. Harrj', ' replied Barney, " anything but an agreeable attendance. By goxty, I believe every family she follows would be very glad to dispense with her attendance if they could." " But that is not answering my question, Casey." " \Vhy, sir," proceeded Barney, "111 an swer it. Whenever the family that she fol* lows is about to have a death in it, she comes a little time before the death takes place, sits either undher the wind}- of the sick bed or somewhere near the house, and wails and cries there as if her vei"}' heart would break. They say she generally names the name oi the party that is to die ; but there is no case known of the sick person ever recoverin' afther she has given the wanain' of death." "It is a strange ajid wild superstition," obseiwed Woodward. " But a very true one, sir," replied the cook; "ever)' one knows that a Banshee follows the Goodwin family." " What ! the Goodvrins of Beech Grove ? " said HaiTv. "Yes, sir," returned the cook ; " they lost six children, and not one of them ever died that she did not give the warnin'." "If poor Miss Alice heard it," observed Barney, " and she in the state she's in, she wouldn't Hve twenty-four hours afther it." "According to what you say," observed Woodward, " that is, if it follows the family, of cotirse it will give the warning in her cast also." 718 W/ZZIAJf CARLETON'S WORKS, "May God forbi(5/ ejaculated the cook, " for it's herself, the darlin' girl, that 'ud be the bitther loss to the poor and destitute." This kind ejaculation was feiTently echoed by all her fellovr-senauts ; and Harry, hav- ing finished his jjii^e, went to see how his brother's wound was progressing. He found him asleep, and Cateiine Colhns seated knit- ting a stocking at his bedside. He beckoned her to the lobby, where, in a low, guarded voice, the following conversation took place between them : " Caterine, have you not a niece that sings well ? Barney Casey mentioned her to me as possessing a fine voice." " As sweet a voice, sir, as ever came from a woman's hps ; but the poor thing is dehcate and sickl}', and I'm afeai'd not long for this world." *' Could she imitate a Banshee, do you think ? " "If ever woman could, she could. There's not her aquil at the keene, or Iiish ciy, livin' ; she's the only one can bate myself at it." " Well, Caterine, if you get her to go to Mr. Goodwin's to-moiTOW night and imitate the cr}' of the Banshee, I will reward her and you hberally for it. You are ah-eady well aware of my generosity." " Indeed I am, Mr. "Woodward ; but if either you or I could insure her the wealth of Europe, we couldn't prevail on her to go by herself at night. Excei)t by moonhght she wouldn't venture to cross the street of Ratlifillan. As to her, you may put that out of the question. She's very handy, hoAV- ever, about a sick bed, a,nd I might contrive, undlier some excuse or other, to get her to take my place for a day or so. But here's your father. We will talk about it again." She then returned to the sick room, and Harry met Mr. Lindsay on the stairs going up to inquire after Charles. "Don't go up, sir," said he; "the poor fellow, thank God, is asleep, and the less noise about him the better." Both then returaed to the parlor. About eleven o'clock the next night Sarah SuUivan was sitting by the bedside of her mistress, who was then, fortunately for her- self, enjoying, what was very rare with her, an undisturbed sleep after the teiTor and agita- tion of the day, when a low, but earnest and sorrowful wailing was heard, immediately, she thought, under the window. It rose and feU alternately, and at the close of every division of the cry it pronounced the name of Alice Goodwin in tones of the most pathetic lamentation and woe. The natural heat and warmth seemed to depart out of the poor girl's body ; she felt like an icicle, and the cold perspiration ran in torrents from her face. " My darling misthress," thought she, " it's all over Avith you at last. There is the sign — the Banshee — and it is well for yourself that you don't hear it, because it would be the death of you at once. However, if I committed one mistake about INIisthei Charles's misfortime, I will not commit an- other. You shall never hear- of this fi'om me." The ciy was then heard more distant and indistinct, but stiU loaded with the same mournful expression of death and son-ow ; but in a little time it died away in the dis- tance, and was then heard no more. Sarah, though she had judiciously resolved to keep this awful intimation a secret fi'om ]Miss Goodwin, considered it her duty to disclose it to her parents. We shall not dwell, however, upon the scene which occur- red on the occasion. A belief in the existence and office of the Banshee was, at the jjeriod of which we write, almost universally held by the peasantry, and even about half a cen- tuiy ago it was one of the strongest dogmas of popular superstition. After the grief of the parents had somewhat subsided at this dreadful intelligence, Mr. Goodwin asked Sarah Sullivan if his daughter had heard the wail of this prophetic spirit of death ; and on her answering in the negative, he en- joined her never to breathe a syllable of the circumstance to her ; but she told him she had come to that conclusion herself, as she felt certain, she said, that the knowledge of it would occasion her mistress's almost im- mediate death. " At all events," said her master ; " by the doctor's advice we shall leave this place to- moiTow morning ; he sajs if she has any chance it will be in a change of air, of so- cietj', and of sceneiy. Eveiything here has associations and recollections that ai'e pain- ful, and even horrible to her. If she is capa- ble of bearing an easy joimiey we shall set out for the Spa of Ballyspellan, in the coun- ty of Kilkenny. He thinks the waters of that famous spring may prove beneficial to her. If the Banshee, then, is anxious to ful- fil its mission it must foUow us. They say it alwry^ pays thi-ee visits, but as yet it has paid us only one." ^Irs. Lindsay had now recovered from her slight indisi^osition, and resolved to pay the last formal visit to the Goodwins, — a visit which was to close all future intercourse be- tween the families ; and our readers are not ignorant of her motives for this, nor how completely and willingly she was the agent of her son Harr}''s designs. She went in all her pomp, dressed in satins and brocades, THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 719 and attended by Barney Casey in full livery. Her own old family carriaj^e had been swept of its dust and cobwebs, and put into requi- sition on this important occiision. At lengfth they reached Beech Grove, and knocked at the door, which was opened by our old friend, Tom Kennedy. " My p:ood man," she asked, "are the family at home ? " "No, ma'am." " Wliat ! not at home, and !Miss Goodwin so ill ? — dying, I am told. Perhaps, in con- sequence of her health, they do not wish to see strangers. Go and say that jMi*s. Lind- say, of Rxthfillan House, is here." "Ma'am, they ju-e not at home ; they have left Beech Grove for some time." " Left Beech Grove ! " she exclaimed ; " and pray where are they gone to? I thought Miss Goodwin was not able to be removed." "It was do or die with her," replied Tom. "The doctor said there was but one last chance — change of air, and absence from dangerous neighbors." " But you did not tell me where they are gone to." " I did not, ma'am, and for the best reason m life — because I don't know." " You don't know ! A\Tiy, is it possible they made a secret of such a matter ? " " Quite possible, ma'am, and to the back C that they swore ever}' one of us upon the seven gospels never to tell any indi\'idual, man or woman, where thej- went to." " But did they not tell yourselves ? " "Devil a syllable, ma'am." " And why, then, did they swear you to secrecy ? " •* NVhy, of coui'se, ma'am, to make us keep the secret." " But why swear you, I ask again, to keep a secret which you did not know ? " " ^Vhy, ma'am, because they knew that in that case there was little danger of our com- \nittin' parjury ; and because every saicret which one does not know is sure to be kept." She looked keenly at him, and added, " I'm inclined to think, sirrali, that j'ou are impertinent" " Very likely, ma'am," replied Tom, with great gravity. " I've a strong notion of that myself. My father before me was impertin- ent, and his last dying words to me were, ' Tom, I lay it as a last injunction upon you to keep up the piinciples of our family, and always to show notliiug but impertinence to those who don't deserve respect.' " With a face scarlet from indignation she immediately ordered her carriage home, but before it had arrived there the intelligence from another souxce had reached the family, together with the fact that the Banshee had been heard by Mi*. Goodwin's servants un- der ^liss Alice's window. Such, indeed, was the fact ; and the report of the circumstance had spread through half the parish before the hour of noon next day. • The removal of Alice sank heavily upon the heart of Hany "Woodward ; it seemed to him as if she had gone out of his grasp, and from under the* influence of his eye, for, by whatever means he might accomplish it, he was resolved to keep the deadly power of that eye upon her. He had calculated upon the voice and prophetic wail of the Biinshee as being fatal in her then stjite of he;ilth ; or was it this ominous and sujjeraatui-al fore- boding of her dissolution that caused them to fly fi'om the place ? He reasoned, as the reader ma}' perceive, upon the piinciple of the Banshee being, according to the super- stitious notions entertained of her, a real supei-natund visitant, and not the unscrupu- lous and diabohcal imitiition of her by Cat- eriue Collins. Still he thought it barely possible that the change of air and the waters of the celebrated spring might re- cover her, notwithstanding all his inhuman anticipations. His brother, also, according to the surgeon's last "report, afforded hopes of convalescence. A kind of terror came over him tliat hio plans might f;dl, be- cause he felt almost certain that if Alice and his brother both recovered, ^Ir. Lindsay might, or rather would, mount his old hob- by, and insist on having them man^ied, in the teeth of all opposition on the part of either himself or his mother. Tliis was a gloomy prospect for Ivim, and one which he could not contemplate A\-ithout falling back uj)on stni darker schemes. After the night on which Bai-ney Casey had seen him and the Black Spectre together we need scarcely say that he watched Barney closely, nor that Bai'ney watched him -nith as keen a \'igilance. "VMiatever Woodwiird may have actually felt upon the subject of the apparition, Barney was certainly unde- cided as to its reality ; or if there existed any bias at all, it was in favor of that reahty. Why did Woodwai'd's arm tremble, and why did the man, who was sui)posed ignorant of fear, exliibit so much terror and agitation on the occasion ? Still, on the other hand, there appeared to be a conversation, as it were, between them, and a familiai'ity of manner considerably at vjxriance with Woodward's version of the circumstances. Be this as it might, he felt it to be a subject on which he could, by no process of rea.soning, come to an^'thing like a definite conclusion. Woodward now determined to consult his mother as to the plan of their future opera- 720 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. tions. The absence of Alice, and the possible chance of her recovery, rendered it necessary that some new series of projects should be adopted ; but although several had occurred to him, he had not yet come to a definite resolution respecting the selection he would make. With this view he and his conscien- tious mother closeted themselves in her X'oom, and discussed the state of affairs in the following dialogue : "Mother," said he, "this escape of Miss Curds-and-whey is an untoward business. What, after all, if she should recover ? " " Recover ! " exclaimed the lady ; " why, did you not assure me that such an event ■was impossible — that you were killing her, and that she must die ? " " So 1 still think ; but so long as the no- tion of her recovery exists, even only as a di'eam, so certainly ought we to provide against such a calamity." "Ah! Harry," she exclaimed, "yon may well term it a calamity, for such indeed it would be to you." " Well, but what do you think ought to be done, my dear mother? I am anxious to have both your adviee and oj^inion upon our ^ature proceedings. Suppose change of air — the waters of that damned brimstone spring, and above all things, the confidence she will derive from the consciousness that she is removed from me and out of my reach — suppose, I say, that all these circum- stances should produce a beneficial effect upon her, then how do I stand ? " " Why, with very little hope of the prop- erty," she replied ; " and then what tenacity of life she has ! Why, there are very few girls who would not have been de'ad long ago, if they had gone through half what she has suffered. Well, you wish to ask me how I would advise you to act ? " " Of course I do." " Well, then, you have heard the old pro- verb : It is good to have two strings to one's bow. We shall set all consideration of her aside for a time, and turn our attention to another object. " "What or who is that, mother? " " You remember I mentioned some time ago the names of a neighboring nobleman and his niece, who lives with him. The man I allude to icon Lord Bilberry, but is now Earl of Cockletown. He was raised to this rank for some services he rendered the government against the tories, who had been devastating the country, and also against some turbulent papists who were supposed to have privately encouraged them in their outrages against Protestant life and projoer- ty. He was a daring and intrepid man when in his prime of Ufe, and appeared to seek danger for its own sake. He is now an <^ man, although a young peer, and was al- ways considered eccentric, which he is to the present day. Some people look upon him as a fool, and others as a knave ; but in balancing his claims to each, it has never yet been determined on which side the scale would sink. He is the proprietor of a little fishing village on the coast, and on this ac- count he assumed the title of Cockletown ; and when he built himself a mansion, as they term it, he would have it called by no other name than that of Cockle Hall. It is ti-ue he laughs at the thing himself, and considers it a good joke." " And so it is," replied her son ; " but what about the lady, his niece ? " "Why, she is a rather interesting per- son." " Ahem ! person ! " "Yes, about thirty-four or so ; but she will inherit his property." " And have you any notion of what that may amount to ? " asked her calculating son. " I could not exactly say," she rej)lied ; " but I believe it is handsome. A great deal of it is mountain, but they say there are large portions of it capable of being re- claimed." " But how can the estate go to h^r ? " " Simj^ly because there is no other heir," replied his mother ; "they are the last of the family. It is not entailed." " Thirty-four ! " ruminated Woodward. " Well, I have seen very fine girls at tloirty- four ; but in personal appeai'ance and man- ner what is she like ? " "Why, perhaps a critical eye might not call her handsome ; but the general opinion on that point is in her favor. Her manners are agreeable, so are her features ; but it is said that she is fastidious in her lovers, and has rejected many. It is true most of them were fortune-hunters, and deserved no bet- ter success." " But what do you call me, mother ? " " Surely not a fortune-hunter, Harry. Is not there your granduncle's large property who is a bachelor, and you are his favor ite." " But don't you know, mother, that, as re- spects my granduncle, I have confided that secret to you already ? " "I know no such thing, you fool," she re- plied, looking at him with an expression in her odious eyes which could not be de- scribed ; " I am altogether ignorant of that fact ; but is there not the twelve hundred per annum which reverts to you on the de- mise of that dying girl ? " " True, my dear mother, true ; you ai« THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 721 right. I am a fool. Of course I never told you the secret of my disinheritance by the old .scoundrel." '• Ah, Harry, I fe:u' you played your cards badly there. You knew he was religfious, and yet you should become a seducer ; but why toulie free with his money ? " " Why ? Why, because he kept me upon the tight curb ; but, as these Tn:itters are known only to ourselves, I see you are light. 1 am si ill to be considered his favorite — his heir — and am here only on a visit." " AN'ell, but, Harry, he must have dealt liberally with you on your departure from him ? " " He ! Don't you know I Avas obliged to fiy ? — to take French leave, I assure you. I reached Rathfillan House with not more than twenty pounds in my pocket." " But how does it happen that you always appear to have plenty of money ? " " I\[y dear mother, there is a secret there ; but it is one which even you shall not know, — or cotr.e, y :)u i^hall know it. Did you ever bear of a certain supernatural being which follows your family, which supernacural being is known by the name of tlie Black Spectre, or some such denomination which I cannot remember?" " I don't wish to hear it named," replied his mother, deejjly agitated. " It resembles the Banshee, and never appears to any one of our family excej^t as a precursor of his death by violence*" AVooilward started for a moment, and could not avoid being struck at the coinci- dence Ot the same mission having been as- signed to the two spirits, and he reflected, with an impression th; t was anything but agreeable, upon his damnable suggestion of having had recourse to the vile agency of Cateriue Collins in enacting the said Banshee, for the puriDose of giving the last fital blow to the almost dying Alice Goodwin. He felt, and he had reason to feel, that there was a mj'stery about the Black Si:)ectre, which, for the life of him, he could not fathom. He was, however, a lirm and res- olute man, and after a moment or t'.vo's thought he declined to make any further disclosure on the subject, but revei-ted to the general topic of their conveisa- tion. " Well, mother," said he, " after all, your epeculition may not be a bad one ; but pray, what i« the ladv's name ? " "Biddlc— Miss Riddle. She is of the Clan-Riddle family, a close relation to the Nethersides of jMiddletown." " And a devihsh enigmaticiol n.ame it is," replied her son, " as ia that of all her cou- Bections " " Yes, but they were always close and prudent peojjle, who kept their opinions to themselves, and wrought their way in the world with gi'eat success, and without givin« offence to any party. If you marr}' her, Harry, I woukl advise you to enter public life, recommend yourself to the powers that be, and, my word for it, you stand a great chance of having the title of Cockletowii re- vived in your person." " AVell, although the title is a ridiculous one, I should have no objection to it, not-- withstanding ; but there wih certainly arise some dilHculty when we come to tlie mar- riage settlements. There will be sharp law- yers there, whom we cannot impose upon ; and you know, mother, I am without any ostensible propeiiy." "Yes, but we can calculate upon the death of cunning Alice, who, by her undue and ll.igitious intiueuce over your uucle, left you so." " Ay, but such a calculation would never do either with her uncle or the lawyers. I think we have nothing to fall back upon, mother, but youi* own property. If you settle that upon me everything will go right." " And leave myself depending upon Liind- say ? No, no," replied this sellish and penu- rious woman ; " never, Harry — never, never ; you must wait until I die for ihat. But I can tell you what we can do ; let us entei upon the negotiation — let us say for the time being that you have twelve hundred a-year, and, while the business is proceeding, what is there to prevent you from going to recruit your healtli at Ballcyspell m. and kill out Alice Goodwin there, as well as if she remained at home? By this plan, before the negotiations are closed, you will be able to meet !Miss Riddle with twelve hundred a-year at j'our back. Alice Goodwin ! O, how I hate and detest her — ay, as I do hell ! " "The plan," replied her son, " is an excel- ler '■ one. We will commence operations Willi Lord Cockletown and jNIiss Riddle, in the first place ; and having opened nego- tiations, as you say, I shall become un- well, and go for a short time to try what efficacy the waters of Ballyspellan may have on my health — or rather on my fortunes." "We shall visit them to-morrow," said the motlter. " So be it," replied the son : and to this resolution they came, which closed the above interesting dialogue between them. Y\'e say interesting, for if it has not been such to the reader, it was so at least to them* selves. 729 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WOItKS. CHAPTEE XVI Jt Houae of Sorrow. — After which follows a Courting Scene. The deep sorrow and desolation of sjiirit Introduced by the profligate destroyer into the humble abode of peace and innocence is an awful thing to contemplate. In our chapter headed "The Wake of a Murderer " we have attempted to give a picture of it. 'The age, indeedj was one of licentiousness and profligacy-. The reigning monarch, Charles the Second^of infamous memoiy, had set the iniqmtous example to his sub- jects, and suiTounded his court by an aristo- cratic crew, who had scarcely anj-thing to recommend them but their imitation of liis vices, and this was always a passport to his favor, whilst virtue, morality, and honor were excluded with contemiDt and derision. In fact, the corrupt atmosphere of his court carried its contagion throughout the empire, until the seduction of female innocence be- came the fashion of the day, and no man could consider himself entitled to a becom- ing position in society who had not distin- guished himself by half a dozen criminal intrigues either with the wives or daughters of his acquaintances. "VMien we contemplate for a moment the contrast between the aban- doned court of that royal profligate, and that under which we have the happiness to live — the one, a sty of infamy, licentious- ness, and corruption ; the other, a well, undefiled of puri:y, virtue, and honor, to whose clear rnd unadulterated waters noth- ing equivocal, or even questionable, dares to approach, much less the base or the taint- ed — we say that, on instituting this com- parison and contrast, the secret of that love and afl'ectionate veneration which we bear to our pure and highminded Queen, and the pride which we feel in the noble example which she and her Eoyal Consort have set us, requires no illustration whatsoever. The affection and gi-atitude of her people ire only the meed due to her virtues and to tus. We need not apologize to our readers for this striking contrast. The jDcriod and the subject of our naiTative, as well as the melancholy scene to which we are about to introduce the reader, rendered it an impos- sibility to avoid it. We now proceed to the humble homestead of Torley Davoren ; a homestead which we have already described as the humble abode of peace and happiness. Barney Casey, who felt anxious to know from the parents of Grace Davoren whether any trace or tidings of her had been heard of, went to pay the heart-broken family a visit for that purpose. On entering, he found the father seated al his humble hearth, unshaven, and altogether a man careless and negligent of his appear- ance. He sat with his hands clasped before him, and his heavy eyes fixed on the embers of the peat fire which smouldered on the hearth. The mother was at her distafT, and so were the other two females — to wit, her grandmother and Grace's sister. But the mother ! gracious heaven, what a spu'it of distress and misery breathed from those hojDeless and agonizing features ! There was not only natural sorrow there, occasioned by the disappearance of her daughter, but the shame which resulted from her fall and her infamy ; and though last not least, the terri- ble apprehension that the haj)less girl had rushed b}^ suicidal means into the presence of an ofiended God, " unanointed, unanel- ed," with all her sins ujjon her head. Her clothes were hanging from the branches of a large burdock* against the wall, and from time to time the father cast his eyes upon them with a look in which might be read the hollow but terrible expression of despair. Honest Barney felt his heart deeply moved by all this, and, sooth to say, his natural cheerfulness and lightness of sjiirit complete- ly abandoned him at the contemplation of the awful anguish which pressed them down. There is nothing which makes such a coward of the heart as the influence of such a scene. He felt that he stood within a circle of mis- ery, and that it was a solemn and serious task even to enter into conversation with them. But, as he had come to make friendly inqui- ries about the unfortunate girl, he forced him- self to break this pitiable but terrible silence of despair. " I know," said he, with a diffident and melancholy spirit, " that it is j^ainful to you aU to make the inquiries that I wish to make ; but still let me ask you if you have got any account of her?" The mother's heart had been bursting — pent ujD as it were — and this allusion to her withdrew the floodgates of its soitow ; she spread out her arms, and rising up ap- proached her husband, and throwing them about his neck, exclaimed, in tones of the most penetrating grief, — " O, Torley, Torley, my husband, was she not our dearest and oui' best ? " The husband embraced her with a flood of tears. " She was," said he, " she was." But im- * The branches of the burdock, when it is cut, trimmed, and seasoned, are used by the humble classes to hang their clothes upon. They grow up- wards towards the top of the stalk, and, in con- sequence of this, are capable of sustaining the heaviest garment. THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 723 mediately looking ui^ow her sister Dora, be said, "Dora, come here — bring Dora to me," and his wife went over and brought her to him. " O, Dora dear," said he, "I love you. But, dai'ling, I never loved you as I loved her." "But was /ever jealous of that, father?" repHed Dora, with tears. " Didn't we all love her ? and diJ any one of you love her more than myself? Wasn't she the pride of the whole family ? But I didn't care about her disgrace, father, if we had her liack with us. She might repent ; and if she did, every- one would forgive their favorite — for sure she was every one's favorite ; and above all, God would forgive her." "I loved her as thecoi'e of my heart," said j the grandmother ; " but you spoiled her yourselves, and indulged her too much in di'ess and everything she wished for. Had you given her less of her own way, and kept her more from dances and merry-makings, ' it might be better for yoiu-selves and her to- day ; still, I grant you, it was hard to do it — for who, mavrone, could refuse her any- thing ? O ! God sees my heai-t how I pity you, her father, and you, too, her mother, ' above all. But, Torley, dear, if we only had her — if we only had her back again safe with us — then what daiiing Dora says might be : true, and her repentance would wash away lier shame — for eveiy one loved her, so that i they wouldn't judge her harshly." I " I can bear witness to that," said Barney ; , "as it is, every one pities her, and but very few blame her. It is all set down to her in- i nocence and want of experience, ay, and her youthful years. No ; if you could only find ; her, the shame in regard of what I've said j woiild not be laid heavily upon her by the i people." I " O," exclaimed her father, starting up, : " O, Granua, Granua, my heart's hfe ! where are you from us ? Was not your voice the music of our hearth ? Did not your hght laugh keep us cheerful and happy? But where are you now? O, will no one bring me back my daughter ? "\\'liere is my child ? she that was the hght — the breakin' of the : summer momin' amongst us ! But wait ; they say the villain is recoveriu' that de- stroyed her — weU — he may recover from the blow of Shaicn-na-JIiddogue, but he will get a blow from me that he won't recover from. ; I will imitate Morrissy — and will welcome j his fate." I "Aisy, Torley," said Casey; "hould in a httle. You are spakin' now of Masther . Charles?" i " I am, the villain ! waxn't they found to- ' gether?" I " I have one question to ask ycu," pro* ceeded Barney, " and it is this — when did you see or spake with Shawn-na-MuIdogue ? * " Not since that unfortunate night." " W^ell, ixll I can tell you is this— that Masther Charles had as much to do with the niin of your daughter as the king of Jerusa- lem. Take my word for that. He is not the stuff that such a vilkiiu is made of, but I sus- pect who is." "And who do you suspect, Barney?" "I say I only suspect ; but, so long as it is only suspicion, I will mention no names. It wouldn't be right ; and for that reason I will wait until I have betther information. But, after all," he proceeded, "maybe noth- ing wi'ong has happened." The mother shook her head : "I know to the contraii-y," she rephed, " and intended on that very night to bring her to an account about her appearance, but I never had the opportunity." The father here wrung his hands, and hia groans were dreatlful. " Could you see Shawn-na-Middogue ? " asked B;u'ney. "No," replied Davoren ; "he, too, hasdis- api^eared ; and although he is hunted hke a bag-fox, nobody can find either hilt or hair of him." " Might it not be possible that she is with him ? " he asked again. " No, Barney," replied her mother, " we know Shawn too weB for that. He knows how we loved her, and what we would suffer by her absence. Shiiwn, thougli driven to be an outlaw* has a kind heart, and would never allow us to suffer what we are sufferin' on her account. O, no ! we know Shawn too well for that." "Well," rephed Baniey, meditatively, there's one thing I'm inclined to think: that whoever was the means of biinging .shame and disgrace upon poor Granua will get a touch of his middogue that won't fail as the firet did. Sha^Ti now knows his man, and, with the help of God, I hope he won't miss his next blow. I must now go ; and before I do, let me teU you that, as I said before, ^Miisther Chai-les is as innocent of the sh;nne brought upon poor Grunua as the king oi Jerusalem." There is a feeling of deep but silent sorrow which v.eighs down the spirit after the death of some beloved incUvidual who is taken away from among the fimiily circle. It broods upon, and casts a shadow of the most profound gloom over the bereaved heai-t ; but let a pei"son who knew the deceased, and is capable of feehng a sincere and fiiLiiiUy sympathy for the siu'vivors, enter into thia circle of sorrow ; let him or her dwell upoi? T24 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. the memory of tlie departed ; then that silent and pent-up grief bursts out, and the clamor of lamentation is loud and vehement. it was so upon this occasion. "When Barney rose to take his departure, a low murmur of gi-ief assailed his ears ; it gi-adually became more loud ; it increased ; it burst into irre- pressible \iolence — they wejDt aloud ; they iiew to her clothes, which hung, as we said, motionless upon the stalk of burdock against tlie wall ; they kissed them over and over again ; and it was not until Barney, now deeply affected, succeeded in moderating theii- sorrow, that these strong and im- passioned paroxysms were checked and sub- dued into something hke reasonable grief. Having consoled and pacified them as far as it was in his power, he then took his depar- tiu-e under a feeling of deep regret that no account of the unfortunate giii had been ob- tained. The nest day IMrs. Lindsay and Harry pre- pared to pay the important visit. As before, the old family carriage was furbished up, and the lady once more enveloped in her brocades and satins. Harry, too, made it a point to appear in his best and most becom- ing habiliments ; and, truth to tell, an exceed- ingly handsome and well-made 3'ouug fellow he was. The dress of the day displayed his manly and well-proportioned limbs to the best advantage, whilst his silver-hilted sword, in addition to the general richness of his cos- tume, gave him the manner and appearance of an accornphshed cavaher. Barney's Uvery was also put a second time into requisition, and the coachman's cocked hat was freshly crimped for the occasion. " Is it true, mother ? " inquired Harry, as they went along, " that this old noodle has built his residence as much after the shape of a cockle-shell as was possible to be accom- phshed ? " " Perfectly true, as you wiU see," she re- plied. "But what could put such a ridiciJous absurdity into his head ? " " Because he thought of the name before the house was built, and he got it built simply to suit the name. ' There is no use,' said he, * in calling it Cockle Hall unless it :esembles a cockle ; ' and, indeed, when you see it, you will admit the resemblance." " Egad," said her son, "I never di-eamed ithat fate was likely to cramp me in a cockle- shell. I dare say there is a touch of sublim- ity about it. The associations are in favor of it." "No," replied his mother, "but it has plenty of comfort and convenience about it. The pliuL was his own, and he contrived tc make it, notwithstanding its ludicrous shape, one of the most agreeable residbucefr in the country. He is a blunt humorist, who drinks a good deal, and instead oi feel- ing offence at his manner, which is lather rough, you will please him best by answer- ing him exactly in his owni spirit." "lam glad you gave me this hint," said her son ; "I like that sori of thing, and it will go hai'd if I don't give him as good as he brings." "In that case." repHed the mother, "the chances will be ten to one in your favor. Seem, above all things, to like his manner, because the old fool is vain of it, and noth- ing gratifies him so much." " But about the niece ? "What is the cua there, mother?" "The cue of a gentleman, Harry — of a weU-bred and respectful gentleman. You may humor the old fellow to the top of his bent ; but when you become the gentleman with her, she will not misinterpret your manner with her uncle, but will look upon the transition as a mark of deference to her- self. And now you have your instructions : be careful and act upon them. JNIiss Riddle is a girl of sense, and, they say, of feeling ; and it is on this account, I believe, that she is so critical in scrutinizing the conduct and in- tellect of her lovers. So there is my last hint." " Many thanks, my dear mother ; it will, 1 think, be my own fault if I fail wdth either uncle or niece, supported as I shall be by your eloquent advocacy." On arriving at Cockle HaU, Harry, on look- ing out of the carriage window, took it for gTanted that his mother had been absolutely bantering him. " Cockle Hall ! " he ex- clramed : "why, curse the hall I see here, good, bad, or indifferent. "SMiat did you mean, mother? Were you only jesting?" "Keep quiet," she replied, "and above aU things don't seem sui-prised at the appear- ance of the j)lace. Look precisely as if you had been in it ever since it was built." The afipearance of Cockle Hall was, in- deed, as his mother had very proj^erly in- formed him, ludicrous in the extreme. It was built on a siu'face hollowed out of a high bank, or elevation, with which the roof of it was on a level. It was, of course, circular and flat, and the roof drooj^ed, or slanted off towards the rear, precisely in imitation of a cockle-shell. There was, however, a com- plete deceptio visus in it. To the eye, in con- sequence of the peculiarity of its position, it appeared to be \evy low^ which, in point of fact, was not exactly the case, for it consisted of two stories, and had comfortable and ex- tensive apartments. There was a paved space wide enough for two caniages to pasy THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 725 edch other, which separated it from the em- bankment that surrounded it. Altogether, when taken in connection with the ori^i^nul idea of its construction, it was a difficult thing to look at it without mirth. On enter- ing the tli'a wing-room, which Harry did alone — for his mother, having seen Miss Riddle in the pai'lor, entered it in order to have a preliminaiy chat ^^•ith her — her son found a person inside dressed in a pair of red plush breeches, white stockings a good deal soiled, a yellow long-flapiDed waistcoat, and a wig, with a cue to it which extended down the whole length of his back, — evi- dently a servant in dirty livery. There was something degaiy, that he succeeded at once in pleasing lioth. and in deceiving both. " Well, Woodward, what do you think ol Tom ? " asked his lordshii>. " AMiy, my lord, that she is an admirable and lovely girl." " Well, you are right, sir ; Tom is an ad- mirable girl, and loves her old uncle as if he was her father, or maybe a gi'eat deal better ; she will have all I am worth when I pop off, so there's something for you to think upon." " No man, my lord, capable of appreciat- ing her could think of anything but her self." " WTiat ! not of her property ? " f2S WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. " Property, my lord, is a very secondary subject AN-hen taken into consideration with the merits of the lady herself. I am no ene- my to i^roperty, and I admit its imjjortance as an element of happiness when reasonably applied, but I am neither sordid nor selfish ; and I know how little, after all, it contributes to domestic enjoyment, unless accompanied by those virtues which constitute the charm of connubial life." "Confound me but you must have got that out of a book, Woodward." "Out of the best book, my lord — the book of life and observation." " Why, curse it, you are talking philoso- phy', though." " Only common sense, my lord." His lordship, who was walking to and fro in the room, turned abruptly round, looked keenly at him, and then, addressing Mrs. Lindsay, siid, — "Wiiy, upon my soul, Mrs. Lindsay, we must try and do something with this fellow ; he'll be lost to the world if we don't. Come, I say, we inust make a public man of him." " To become a public man is his own am- bition, my lord." replied Mrs. Lindsay ; "and although I am his mother, and may feel prejudiced in his favor, still I agree with your lordship that it is a pity to see such abilities as his iinemployed." '• Well, inadam, we shall consider of it. What do you think. Woodward, if we made a bailiff of you ? " At this moment Miss Riddle entered the room just in time to hear the question. " The very thing, my lord ; and the first capture I shoiild make would be Sliss Rid- dle, your fair niece here." " Curse me, biit the fellow's a cat," said the peer, laughing. "Throw him as you will, he always falls upon his legs. What do you think, Tom ? Curse me but your suitor here talked philosophy in 3'our ab- sence." " Only common sense. Miss Riddle," said Harr}'. " Philosophy, it is said, excludes feeling ; but that is not a charge which I ever heard brought against common sense." "I am an enemy neither to philosophy nor common sense," replied his niece, " because I think neither of them incompatible with feel- ing ; but I certainly prefer connnon sense." '• There's luncheon announced," said the peer, rubbing his hands, " and that's a devil- ish deal more comfortable than either of them. Come, Mrs. Lindsay ; Woodward, take Tom with you." They then descended to the dining-room, where the conversation was lively and amus- ing, the humorous old peer furnishing the greater proportion of the mirth. "Mrs. Lindsay," said he, as they were preparing to go, "I hope, after all, that this clever son of yours is not a fortune- hunter." " He need not be so, my lord," replied his mothei', "and neither is he. He himself will have a liajadsome property." " Will have. I would rather you wouldn't speak in the future tense, though. Wood- ward," he added, addressing that gentleman, " remember that I told you that I aleep with one eye open." " If you have any doubts, my lord, on this subject," replied W^oodward, "you may imitate me : sleep with both open." " Aj, as the hares do, and devil a bit they're the better for it ; but, in the mean: time, what property have yovi, or will you have ? There is nothing like coming to the point." " My lord," replied Woodward, " I respect Miss Riddle too much to enter upon such a topic in her presence. You must excuse me, then, for the present ; but if you wish for precise information on the subject, I refer you to my mother, who will, upon a future occasion — and I trust it will be soon — aftbrd you every satisfaction on this matter." " Well," replied his lordship, " that is fair enough — a little vague, indeed — but no matter, your mother and I will talk about it. Li the meantime you are a devilish clever fellow, and, as I said, I like 3'ou ; but still I will suffer no fortune-hunter to saddle himself upon my projDerty. I repeat it, I sleejD with one eye open. I will be happy to see you soon, IVIr. Woodward ; but re- member I will be determined on this sub- ject altogether by the feelings of my niece Tom here. " "I have already said, my lord," replied Woodward, " that, except as a rational ele- ment in domestic happiness, I am indiffer- ent to the consideration or influence of property. The prevailing motives with me are the personal charms, the character, and the well-known virtues of your niece. It is painful to me to say even this in her presence, but your lordship has forced it from me. However, I trust that Miss Riddle understands and will pardon me." "Mr. Woodward," ^he observed, "you have said nothing unbecoming a gentleman ; nothing certainly but that which you could not avoid saying." After the usual forms of salutation at jDarting, Harry and his mother entered the old caiTiage and proceeded on their way home. " Well, Harry," said his mother, " what do you think ? " "A hit," he repUed ; "a Lit with both, THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 729 but especially -with the niece, who certainly ' is a fine g"irl. K there is to be any oppo- sition, it will be with that comical old buf- foon, her uncle. He says he sleeps with one eye open, and I believe it. You told me it could not be determined whether he was more fool or knave ; but, from all I have seen of him, the devil a bit of fool I can per- ceive, but, on the contrary, a great deal of the knave. Take my word for it, old Cockle- town is not to be imposed upon." , " Is there no likelihood of that wi-etch, Alice Goodwin, dving ? " said his mother. "That is a case I must take in hand," | returned the son. "I shall *^o to Ballyspellan ! and put an end to her. After that we can ' meet old Cockletown with courage. I feel that I am a favorite with his niece, and she, j you must have perceived, is a favoi*ite with | him, and can manage him as she wishes, and ! that is one great point gained — indeed, the greatest." ! "No," replied his mother, "the greatest '' is the death of Alice Goodwin." ! " Be quiet," said her worthy son ; " that ; shall be accompUshed." CHAPTER XVn. Description of the Original Tory. Sicearing. ■ Tlieir Manner of We have introduced an Irish outlaw, or tory, in the person of Shaivn-na-Middogue, and, as it may be necessary to aifoi'd the reader a clearer insight into this subject, we shall give a short sketch of the cliaracter and habits of the wild and lawless class to which he belonged. The tirst description of those savage banditti that has come down to us with a distinct and characteiistic designation, ' is known as that of the wild band of tories who overran the South and West of Ireland both before the Revolution and after it. i The actual signification of the word torif, though now, and for a long time, the appel- lative of a political party, is scarcely known except to the Irish scholar and historian. The term proceeds from the Irish noun toir, a pursuit, a chase ; and from that comes its cognate, toiref, a person chased, or pursued — thereby meaning an oxdlmv, from the fcict that the individuals to whom it was fii*st ap- pUed were such as had, by their murders I and robberies, occasioned themselves to be i put beyond the protection of all laws, and, ; consequently, were considered outlaws, or iories, and liable to be shot down without | the intervention of judge or jury, as they 1 often were, wherever they could be seen or j apprehended. We believe the word first as- sumed its distinct character in the wars of Cromwell, as apphed to the wild freebooters of Ireland. Tory-hunting was at one time absolutely a pastime in IreLmd, in consequence of this desperate body of people having proved the common enemy of every class, witliout refer- ence to either I'eUgious or political distinction. We all remember the old nursery song, which, however simple, is very significant, and affords us an excellent illustration of theii" unfortunate condition, and the places of their usual reti'eat. " I'll tell you a story ahoat Johnny Magrory, Who went to the icjod and shot a tory ; I'll tell you another about bis brother, Who went to the woo party found a resemblance between the courtiers and the Popish banditti in Ireland, on whom the appellation of tory was afiixed. And after this manner these foolish terms of reproach came into public and genei-ai use." It is evident, from Irish history, that the * The word whig is taken from the fao^, that in Scotland it was ajiplied to milk that had become »imr ; and to this day milk that has lost its sweet- ne.<5S is termed by the Scotch, and their descendants in the north of Ireland, whigged milk. 730 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. original tones, politically speaking, belonged to no party whatever. They were simply thieves, robbers, and murderers on theii- own account. Every man's hand was against them, and certainly their hands were against every man. The fact is, that in consequence of the predatory nature of Iiish warfare, which plundered, burned, and devastated as it went along, it was impossible that thousands of the wretched Ii'ish should not themselves be di-iven by the most cruel neces- sity, for the preservation of their hves and of those of their families, to become thieves and plunderers in absolute self-defence. Their habitations, such as they were, having been destroyed and laid in ruins, they were neces- sarily driven to seek shelter in the woods, caves, and other fastnesses of the country, from which they issued forth in desj)erate hordes, armed as well as the}' could, to rob and to plunder for the very means of life. Goaded by hunger and distress of every' kind, those formidable and ferocious " wood kernes " only joaid the country back, by in- flicting on it that plunder and devastation which they had received at its hands. Neither is it surprising that they should make no distinction in their depredations, because they experienced, to their cost, that no "hosting," on either or any side, ever made a distinction with them. Whatever hand was upi3ermost, whether in tlie sangui- nary' struggles of tlieir riv;d chiefs, or in those between the Irish and English, or Anglo- Irish, the result was the same to them. If they were not robbed or burned out to-day, they might be to-morrow ; and under such circumstances to what purpose could the}' be expected to exercise industrious or laborious habits, when they knew that they might go to bed in comfort at night, and rise up beggars in the morning ? It is easy to see, then, that it was the lawless and turbulent state of the country that reduced them to such a mode of life, and drove them to make repi'isals upon the property of others, in the absence of any safe or systematic way of liv- ing. There is no doubt that a principle of revenge and retaliation animated their pro- ceedings, and that they stood accountable for acts of great cruelty and murder, as M'ell ns of robbery. The consequence necessarily was, that they felt themselves beyond the protection of all law, and fearfully distinct in the ferocity of their character fi-om the more civilized poi^ulation of the country, which waged an exterminating warfare against them under the sanction and by the assistance of whatever government existed. It was about the year 1689 that they began to assume or to be characterized by a different designation — we mean that of rap- parees ; so called, it is said, from the fact ol their using the half pike or short rapier, although, for our part, we are inclined to think that they were so termed fi-om the word rapio, to plunder, which strikes us as the most appropriate and obvious. At all events it is enough to say that the tories were absorbed in the rapparees, and their name in Ireland and Great Britain, except as a political class, was forgotten and lost in that of the rapparees, who loHg sm-vived them. BaiTiey Casey was, as the reader must have perceived, a young fellow of good sense and very acute observation. He had been, since an early period of his j'outh, domesti- cated in the family of I\Ir. Lindsay, who respected him highly for his attachment and integrity. He had a brother, however, who, with his many good qualities, was idle and headstrong. His name was Mi chael, and, sooth to say, the wild charm of'rrn-ee bboter's life, in addition to his own indisposition to labor for his living, were more than the weak materials of his character could resist. He consequently joined Shawn-na-Middogue and his gang, and preferred the dangerous and licentious life of a robber and plunderer to that of honesty and labor — j^recisely as many men connected with a seafaring Hfe prefer the habits of the smuggler or the pirate to those of the more honorable or legitimate profession. Poor Barne}' exerted all his in- fluence with his brother with a hope of res- cuing him from the society and habits of hia dissolute companions, but to no purj)ose. It was a life of danger and excitement — of jDlana and projects, and changes, and chases, and unexjiected encounters — of retaliation, and, occasionally, the most dreadful revenge. Such, however, was the state of society at that time, that those persons who had con- nected themselves with these desperate out- laws were by no means afraid to pay occa- sional visits to their own relatives, and from time to time to hold communication \\i\h. them. Nay, not only was this the fact, but, what is still more strange, many persons who were related to individuals connected with this daring and unmanageable class were in the habit of attending their nightly meetings, sometimes for the purpose of pre- venting a robbery, or of setting a family whom they wished to suffer. One night, during this j^eriod of our nar- rative, Barney's brother contrived to have a secret interview with him for the purj^ose of communicating some information to him which had reached his ears from Shawn-nO' Middogue, to the effect that Caterine ColUns had admitted to him (Shawn), ujDon his promise of marrying her — a promise made THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE^ 731 only for the puii:)ose of gettLn<:j into her con- fidence, and mukin{^ her useful as an agent to his designs — that she knew, she said, that it was not his brother Charles who had brought unfortunate Grace Davoren to ruin, but Harry Woodward, and, she added, when it was too late, she suspected something from his manner, of his intention to send Charles, on that disastrous night, in his stead. But Shawn, who knew Caterine and her connections well, recommended Michael Casey to apprise his brother that he couid not keeji too sharp an eye uix)n the move- ments of both, but, above all things, to try and induce him to Bel Woodward in such a way that he could repair the blow upon him, which, in mistake, he had dealt to his inno- cent brothci". Now, although Banie}' almost detested Woodward, yet he was incapable of abetting vShawn's designs upon Hiiil Jinlor. "No," said he to his brother, "I would die first. It is true I do not like a bone in his body, but I will never lend myself to such a cowardly act as that ; besides, from all I know of Shawn, I did not think he would stoop to murder." "Ay, but think of our companions," re- plied his brother, " and think too, of what a nc'tion they have of it. Sliawn, however, is a tiilTerent man fx-om most, if not all, of them — and he saj's he was urged on by a fit of fury when he found the man, that he thought tho destroyer of Grace Davoren, speaking to h*i' in such a lonely and suspicious place. It -,vas his intention to have bidden him to 8t^rnd on his guard and defend himself, but je:r lousy and revenge overcame him at the mnraent, and he stiiick the blow. Thank God that it failed ; but you may take my word that the next won't— because Shawn now swears, that without preface or apology, or one moment's warning, he will stab him to the heart wherever he can meet him." "It's a bad life," replied Bame}', "that Shawn's leading ; but, poor fellow, he and his resaved hard treatment — their house and place torn down and laid in ruins, and in- stead of protection from government, tliey found themselves proclaimed outlaws, ^^^lat could he and they do? But, Michael, it was a diiierent thing with you. Our family were comfortable — too much so, indeed, for you ; you got idle habits and a distaste for work, and so, i-ather than settle down to in- dustry, you should join them." " Ay, and so would you, if you knew the life we lead." " That might be," replied his brother, " if I didn't happen to think of the death you die." " As to that," said INIichael, " we have all made up our minds ; shooting and hanging %vill get nothing out of i.s but the death« laugh at our enemies." "Ay, enemies of your 'J^vn miking," said Barney ; " but as to the 'ieath-iaugh on tha gallows, remember that that is at your own expense. It will be wha*; we call on the wrong side of the mouth, I tlunk. But in regard of these nightly meetiugs of yoiu^, I would have no objection to see one of them. Do you think I would be allowed to join you for an hour or two, that I might hear and see what you say and do ? " " You may, Baniey ; but you know it isn't eveiy one that would get that jDrivilege ; but i in ordher to make sure, 111 spake to Shawn about it. Leave is light, they say ; and as he knows you're not hkely to turn a spy upon our hands, I'm certain he won't have any objection."' "When and where will you meet next?" asked Barney. " On the very spot where Shawn struck his middogue into the body of Masther Charles," replied his brother. "Shawn has some oath of revenge to make against Wood- ward, because he suspects that the villain knows where poor Granua Davoren is." "Well, on that subject he may take his own coor.se," repUed Barney ; "but as for me, ^Michael, I neither care nor will think of the murdher of a fellow-cratore, no matther how wicked he may be, especially when I know that it is planned for him. As a man and a Christian, I cannot lend myself to it, and of coorse — but this is between ourselves — I will put Mr. Woodward on his guai'd." Those were noble sentiments, considering the wild and licentious jieriod of which we wi'ite, and the dreadfully low estimate at which human life was then held. "Act as you like," replied Michael ; "but this I can t«ll you, and this I do tell you, that if, for the safety of this villain, you take a single step that may bring Shawn-na-Mid- dnrjue into danger, if you were my brother ten times over I will not prevent him — Shawn I mean — from letting loose his ven- geance ujjon you. No, nor upon Eathfillan House and all that it contains, you among the number." " I will do nothing," replied Barney, firm- ly, " to bring Shawn or any of you into danger ; but as sure as I have a Christian soiU to be saved, and my life in my body, I will, as I said, put IMr. Hany 'SA'oodward upon his pfuard against him. So now, if you think it proper to let me be present at your meeting, knowing what you know, I will go, but not otherwise." "I feel, Baniey," said his brother. " that my mind is much hardened of late by the society I keep. I remember when I thought 732 WILLIAM CARLETOJ^'S WORKS. murder as horiible a thing as you do, but now it is not so. The planning and the plotting of it is considered only as a good joke among us." "But wliy don't you lave them, then?" said Barney. " The pious principles of our father and mother were never such as they practise and preach among you. Why don't you lave them, I say ? " " Don't you know," rephed Michael, " that that step would be my death warrant ? Once we join them we must remain with them, let what may happen. No man laving them, unless he gets clear of the countiy alto- gether, may expect more than a week's lease of life ; in general not so much. They look upon him as a man that has been a spy among them, and who has left them to make his peace, and gain a fortune fi-om goverimient for betra}dng them ; and you know how often it has happened." "It is too ti-ue, Michael," replied his bro- ; ther, " for unfortunately it so happens that, I whether for good or evil, Irishmen can never be got to stand by each other. Ay, it is tnie — too true. In the meantime call on me to-morrow with hberty from Shawn to attend your meeting, and we wiU both go there together." "Very weU," replied his brother, "I mil do so." The next night was one of tolerably clear moonlight ; and about the hour of twelve or one o'clock some twenty or twenty-five out- laws were assembled immediately adjoining the spot where Charles Lindsay was so severely and dangerously wounded. The ajD- pearance of those men was singular and striking. Tbeir garbs, we need scarcely in- form our readers, Avere different from those of the present day. Many — nay, most, if not all of them, were bitter enemies to the law, which rendered it penal for them to wear theii- glibs, and in consequence most of those present had them in fiiU perfection around their heads, over which was worn the barrad or Irish cap, which, however, was then be- ginning to fall into desuetude. There was scarcely a man of them on whose counten- ance was not stamped the expression of care, inward suffering, and, as it would seem, the recollection of some giief or sorrow which had befallen themselves or their families. There was something, consequently, deter- mined and utterly reckless in their faces, ■which denoted them to be men who had set at defiance both the world and its laws. They all wore the tr\nH, the brogue, and beneath the cloaks which covered them were concealed the celebrated Irish skean or mid- dogue, so that at the first glance they pre- sented the appearance of men who were in a peaceful garb and unarmed. The persons oi some of them were powerful and admirably symmetrical, as could be guessed from their well-defined outlines. They arranged them- selves in a kind of circle around Shaicn-na- Middogue, who stood in the centre as their chief and leader. A spectator, however, could not avoid obsening that, owing to the peculiarity of their costume, which, in conse- quence of their exclusion from society, not to mention the poverty and hardship which they were obliged to suffer, their appearance as a body was wild and almost savage. In their countenances was blended a twofold expression, comjDosed of ferocity and des- pair. They felt themselves excommunicated, whether justly or not, from the world and its institutions, and knew too well that society, and the laws by which it is regulated and protected, were hunting them like beasts of prey for their destruction. Perhaps they deserved it, and this consideration may still more strongh^ account for their fierce and relentless-looking aspect. There is, in the meantime, no doubt that, however wild, fero- cious, and savage they may have aj^peared, the strong and terrible hand of injustice and oppression had much, too much, to do with the crimes which they had committed, and which drove them out of the pale of civihzed life. Altogether the spectacle of their ap- pearance there on that night was a melan- choly, as well as a fearful one, and ought to teach statesmen that it is not by oppressive laws that the heart of man can be improved, but that, on the contrary, when those who pro- ject and enact them come to reaj) the harvest of their poUcy, they uniformly find it one of \iolence and crime. So it has been since the world began, and so it wiU be so long as it lasts, unless a more genial and humane principle of legislation shall become the gen- eral system of managing, and consequently, of improving society. "Now, my friends," said Shaion-na-Mid- dogue, "you all know why we are here. Un- foi'tunate Granna Davoren has disapjDeared, and I have brought you together that we may set about the task of recovering her, whether she is living or dead. Even her heart-broken parents would feel it a con- solation to have her corpse in order that they might give it Christian Ijurial. It will be a shame and a disgrace to us if she is not found, as I said, living or dead. Will you all promise to rest neither night nor day till she is found ? In that case swear it on your skeans." In a moment every skean was out, and, with one voice, they said, " By the contents of this blessed iron, that has been sharpened for the heai'ts of oui- oppressors, we will THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTliE. 733 never rest, either by night or by day, till we find her, living or dead " — every man then crossed himself and kissed his skean — "and, what is UKn-e," they added, " we wiW. tiike vengeance upon the villain that ruined her." " Hould,' said Shawn ; " do you know •who he is ? " "By aU accounts," they i*eplied, "the man that you stiaick." "No.'" exclaimed Shawn, "I struck the wrong man ; and poor Granua was right when she screamed out that I had murdered the innocent. But now," he added, " why am / here among you ? I will tell you, al- though I suppose the most of you know it already: it was good find generous iVIr. Lindsay's she-devil of a wife that did it ; and it was her he-devil of a son, Harry Woodward, that ruined Gnmuji Davoi'en. iMy mother happened to say that she was a heartless and tyrannical woman, that she hid the Evil Eye, and tliat a devil, under the name of Shan-dhinnt'-dhac, belonged to her family, and put her up to every kind of ■wickedness. This, which was only the com- mon report, reached her ears, and the conse- quence was that because we were behind in the rent only a single g;ile, she sent in her baDififs without the knowledge of her hus- band, who was from home at the time, and left neither a bed under us nor a roof over us. At all events, it is well for her that she is a woman ; but she has a son born in her own image, so far, at least, as a bad heart is concerned ; that son is the destroyer of Granua Davoreu ; but not a man of you must raise his hand to him : he must be left to my vengeance. Caterine Collins has told me much more about him, but it is useless to ; mention it. The Evil Spirit I spoke of, the Slian-dhinne-dhuc, and he have been often seen together ; but no matter for that ; he'll find the same spirit badly able to protect him ; so, as I said before, he must be left to my vengeance." " You mentioned Caterine Collins ? " said one of them. " Caterine has friends here, Shawn. What is your opinion of her ? " " Yes," obsened another, " she has friends here ; but, then, she has enemies too ; men who have a good right to hate the gi-oimd she wallcs on." " Whatever my opinion of Caterine Collins may be," said Shawn, "I will keep it to my- self; I only sxy, that the man who injiu-es her is no fiiend of mine. Isn't she a woman ? And, surely, we are not to quar- rel with, or injure a defenceless woman." By this piece of poUcy Shawn gained con- siderable advantage. His pui-pose was to preserve such an ascendency over that cun- ning and treacherous woman as might ena- ble him to make her useful in working out his own designs, his object being, not only on that account, but for the sake of his own personal s^ifety, to stand well with both her friends and her enemies. Other matters were discussed, and plans of vengeance proposed and assented to, the details of which would alYord our readers but slight gi-atitication. iVfter their jirojects had been ai-ranged, this wild and savage, but melancholy group, dispersed, and so inti- mately were they acquainted with the intri- cacies of cover and retreat which then char- actei-ized the surface of the country, that in a few minutes they seemed rather to have vanished hke spectres than to have disap- peai'ed like living men. Shawn, however, remained behind in order to hold some pri- vate convei-satiou \vith Barney Casey, "Baniey," said he, "I wish to speak to you about that villain WoodwcU'd.' "I don't at all doubt," replied this honest and manly peasant, " that he is a villain : but at the same time, Shawn, you must re- member that I am not a torj', and that I will neither aid nor assist you in your designs of murdher upon him. I received betther principles from my fsither and the mother who bore me ; and indeed I think the same thing may be said of yourself, Shawm. Still and all, there is no doubt but that, unhke that seK-willed brother of mine, you had heavy provocation to join the life you did." " Well, Baniey," replied Shawn, in a mel- ancholy tone of voice, " if the same oppres- sions were to come on us again, I think I would take another course. My die, how- ever, is cast, and I must abide by it. What I wanted' to say to you, however, is this • — You are livin' in the same house with Wood- ward ; keep your eye on him — watch him well and closely ; lie is plotting evil for somebody." " "Whv," said Bainev, " how do you know that?" " " I have it," repHed Shawn, " from good authority. He has paid three or four mid- night visits to Sol, the herb docthor, and you know that a gi-eater old scoundrel than he is doesn't breathe the breath of hfe. It has been long suspected that he is a poisoner, and they say that in spite of the j^overty he takes on him, he is rich and full of money. It can be for no good, then, that Woodward consults him at such unseasonable hours." " Ay ; but who the devil could he tliuik of poisoning ?" said Barney. "I see nobody he could wish to poison." "Maybe, for all that, the deed is done," replied Sha^vn. " ^Vhere, for instance, is unfortunate Granua? Wlio can tell that he hasn't dosed her ? " " I beheve him villain enough to do it," re 734 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. 'umed the other ; " but still I don't think he did. He was at home to my own knowledge the night she disappeared, and could know .-othing of what became of her. I think chat's a sm-e case." "Well," said Shawn, "it may be so; but in the manetime his stolen visits to the ould herb docthor are not for nothing. I end, then, as I began — keep your eye on him ; watch him closely — and now, good night." These hints were not thrown away upon Barney, who was naturally of an obsei"V'ant turn ; and accordingly he kept a stricter eye than ever ujDon the motions of Harry Wood- ward. This accomplished gentleman, like eveiy villain of his class, was crafty and se- cret in everything he did and said ; that is to say, his ol^ject was always to lead those with whom he held intercourse, to draw the wi'ong inference from his words and actions. Even his mother, as the reader will learn, was not in his full confidence. Such men, however, are so completely absorbed in the management of their own plans, that the la- tent principle or motive occasionally becomes apparent, without any consciousness of its exhibition on their part. Barney soon had an opportunity of suspecting this. His brother Charles, after what appeared to be a satisfac- tory convalescence, began to relapse, and a fresh fever to set in. The first person to com- municate the melancholy intelligence to Wood- ward happened to be Barne}' himself, who, on meeting him early in the mornmg, said, — "I am sorry. Mr. Woodward, to tell you that Masther Charles is a great deal worse ; he spent a bad night, and it seems has got very fevei-ish." A gleam of satisfaction — short and transi- ent, but which, however, was too significant to be misunderstood by such a sagacious observer as Barney — flashed across his coun- tenance — but only for a moment. He re- composed his features, and assuming a look expressive of the deepest sorrow, said, — " Good heavens, Casey, do you tell me that my poor brother is worse, and we all in such excellent spirits at what we considered his certain but gradual recovery ? " "He is much worse, sir ; and the masther this morning has strong doubts of hisrecov- er}^ He's in gi-eat afiiiction about him, and so are they all. His loss would be felt in the neighborhood, for, indeed, it's he that was well beloved by all who knew him." "He certainly was a most amiable and af- fectionate young fellow," said Woodward, " and, for my part, if he goes from us through the means of that murdering blow, I shall hunt Shawn -na-Middocjue to the death." " Will you take a fi-iend's advice ? " re- pUed Barney : "" we all of us wish, of coorse, to die a Christian death upon our beds, that we may think of the sins we have committed, and ask the pardon of our Saviour and in- thersessor for them. I say, then, if you wish to die such a death, and to have time to repent of your sins, avoid coming across Shawn-na-Middogue above all men in the world. I tell you this as a fi-iend, and now you're warned." Woodwaixl paused, and his face became black with a spirit of vengeance. " How does it happen, Casey," he asked, " that you are able to give me such a warn- ing ? You must have some particular infor- mation on the subject." " The only information I have on the sub- ject is this — that you are set down among most peojDle as the man who destroyed Grace Davoren, and not your brother ; Shavm believes this, and on that account, I say, it will be well for you to avoid him. He be lieves, too, that you have her concealed somewhere — although I don't think so ; but if you have, Mr. Woodward, it would be an act of gi-eat kindness— an act becomiu' both a gentleman and a Christian — to restore the unfortunate girl to her parents." " I know no more about her than you do, Casey. How could I? Perhaps my poor brother, when he is capable of it, may be able to afibrd us some information on the subject. As it is I know nothing of it, but I shall leave nothing undone to recover her if she be alive, or if the thing can be accom- plished. In the meantime all I can think of is the relapse of my poor brother. Until he gets better I shall not be able to fix my mind upon anything else. What is Grace Davoren or Shaivn-im-Middogue — the accursed scoun- drel — to me, so long as my dear Charles is in a state of danger?" "Now," said he, when they parted "now to work earth and hell to secure Shaivn-na- Middogue. He has got my secret concerning the girl Davoren, and I feel that while he is at .large I cannot be safe. There is a reward for his head, whether alive or dead, but that I scorn. In the meantime, I shall not lose an hour in getting together a band who Avill scour the countiy along with myself, until we secure him. After that I shall be at per- fect liberty to work out my plans without either fear of, or danger from, this murder- ing: ruffian." CHAPTER XVm. The Toir, or Tory Hunt. Harry Woodw-ivrd now began to apprehend that, as the reader sees, either his star or that of Shawn-na-Middogue must be in the ascen- THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 735 dant. He accordinj^ly set to work with all his skill and craft to seciu-e his person and offer him up as a victim to the oiitruj^jed laws of his counti-y, and to a <^oveniment that had set a price upon his head, as the leader of the outlaws ; or, wluit came nearer to his wish, either to shoot him down with his own hand, or have him shot by tliose who were on tlie alert for such persons. The tirst in- dividual to whom he applied upon the sub- ject was his benevolent step-father, who he knew was a magistrate, and whose duty was to have the wretched class of whom we write arrested or shot as best they might. '"Sir," said he, "Itliink after what has be- fallen my dear brother Charles that this mxu'dering villain, Shaicn-na-^Iiddofjue, who is at the head of the tories and outlaws, ought to be shot, or taken up and handed over to government." "Why," asked Mr. Lindsay, "what has happened in connection with Shawn-na-Mid- dogne and your brother? " " Why, that it was fi'om his hand he re- ceived the woimd that may be his death. That, I think, is sufficient to make you exert yourself ; and indeed it is, in my opinion, both a shame and a scandal that the subject lias not been taken up with more energy by the magistracy of the country." "But who can tell," replied Lindsay, " whether it was Shawn-na-Middofjue that stabbed Charles ? Charles himseK does not know the individual who stabbed him." " The language of the girl, I think," rephed Woodward, "might indicate it. He was once her lover " " But she named nobody," repUed the other ; " and as for lovers, she had enough of them. If Shawn-na-Middogue is an outlaw MOW, I know who made him so. I remember when there wasn't a better conducted boy on vour mothers property. He was a credit to uis family and the neighborhood ; but they Vere turned out in my absence by your un- feehng motlier there, Harry ; and the fine ^'oung fellow had nothing else for it but the life of an outlaw. Confound me if I can much blame him." " Thank you, Lindsay," rephed his \6ie ; * as kind as ever to the woman who brought fou that property. But you forget what the young scoundrel's mother said of me — do you ? that I had the Evil Eye, and that there was a familiar or devil connected with me and my family ? " " Egad ! and I'm much of her opinion," replied her husband ; " and if she said it, I give you my honor it is only what every one who knows you says, and what I, who know vQu best, say as well as they. Begone, madam — leave ihe room ; it was 3'our damn- ed oppression made the boy a tory. Begone, I say — I will bear with yoirr insolence no longer." He stood up as he spoke — his eye flashed, and the stamp of his foot made the floor shake. jMi-s. Lindsay knew her husband well, and without a single syllable in reply she arose and left the room. " Harry," proceeded his stepfather, " I shall take no jiroceedings against that un- fortunate young man — tory though he be ; I would resign my magistracy sooner. Do not, therefore, count on me. " " Well, sir," said he, with a calm but black expression of countenance, "I will not enter into domestic quarrels ; but I am my ; mother's son." ( " You are," replied Lindsay, looking close- j ly at him — " and I regi'et it. I do not hke I the expression of your face — it is bad ; worse ' I have seldom seen." "Be that exjjression what it may, sir," re- j plied Woodwai'd, " by the heavens above me I I shall rest neither night nor day until I jjut an end to Shaion-na-Middogue." " In the meantime you shall have no as- sistance from me, Harzy ; and it iU becomes youi' mother's son — the woman whose crueU ty to the family made him what he is — to attempt to hunt him down. On the con- trary, I tell you as a fiiend to let him pass ; the young man is despei'ate, and his venge- ance, or that of his followers, may come on you when you least expect it. It is not liis death that will secure you. If he dies through your means, he will leave those be- hind him who will afford you but short space to settle your last account." "Be the consequences what they may," replied Woodwai-d, " either he or I shall faU." He left the room after expi*essing this de- termination, and his step-father said, — " I'm afraid, jNIaria, we don't projDerly understand jMaster Harry. I am much trou- bled by what has occiu'red just now. I ff^r he is a hyjDOcrite in morals, and mthou r, a single atom of honorable principle. L'id you obsei've the expression of his fa^.e? Curse me if I think the devil himself hai* so bad a one. Besides, I have heai-d something about him that I don't hke — sometljjng which I am not going to mention to you ; but I say that in future we must bewart; of him." " I was sorry, papa, to see the expression of his face," replied Maria ; "it was f'iarful ; and above all things the expression ot his eye. It made me feel weak wheuefer he turned it on me." " Egad, and it had something of tbe aame effect on myself," replied her fattier- * There 730 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. is some damned expression in it that takes away one's strenj^tli. Well, as I said, we must beware of him." Woodward's next step was to pay a visit to Lord Cockletown, who, as he had gained his Title in consequence of his success in tory-hunting, and capturing the most trouble- some and distinguished outlaws of that day, Was, he thought, the best and most experi- enced person to whom he could apply for infcu-mation as to the most successful means of accomplishing his object. He accordingly waited on his lordship, to whom he thought, very naturalh', that this exploit would recom- mend him. His lordship was in the garden, where Woodward found him in hobnailed shoes, digging himself into what he called his daily perspirations. " Don't be surprised, Mr. Woodward," said he, " at my emplojinent ; I am taking my every-day sweat, because I feel that I could not drink as I do and get on without it. WeU, what do you want with me ? Is it anything about Tom ? Egad, Tom says she rather likes you than otherwise ; and if you can satisf}'^ me as to property settlements, and all that, I won't stand in j^our way ; but, in the meantime, what do you want with me now ? If it's Tom's affair, the state of your property comes first." " No, my lord, I shall leave all dealings of business between you and my mother. This is a different affair, and one on which I wish to have your lordship's advice and dii'ection." " Ay, but what is it ? Confound it, come to the point." " It is a tory-hunt, my lord." "Who is the tory, or who are the tories? Come, I'm at home here. What's your plan ? " "Why, simple pui'suit. We have the posse comitatua." " The 2)osse comitat us ! — the posse devil; what do the tories care about the posse comi- tatus ? Have j'ou bloodhounds ? " "No, my lord, but I think we can procure them." "Because," proceeded his lordship, "to go hunt a tory without bloodhounds is like looking for your grandmother's needle in a bottle of straw." " I am thankful to your lordship for that hint," replied Harry Woodward ; " but the truth is, I have been almost since my infancy out of the country, and am, consequently, verj' ignorant of its usages." " What particular tory are you going to himt ? " " A fellow named Shawn-na-Middogue." "Ah! Shawn-na-Middogue, youv mother's victim ? Don't hunt him. If you're wise you'U keep your distance fi'om that young fellow. I tell you, Mr. Woodward, there will be more danger to yourself in the hunt than there will be to liim. It's a well-known fact that it was your mother's severity to his family that made a tory of him ; and, as I said before, I would strongly recommend 5'ou to avoid him. How many bloodhounds have you got ? " " Why, I think we can muster haK a dozen." "Av, but do you know how to hunt them ? " " Not exactly ; but I suppose we may de- pend upon the instinct of the dogs." " No, sir, you may not, lanless to a very- limited extent. Those tories alwaj's, ^hen pursued by bloodhounds, go down the wind whenever it is possible, and, consequently, leave very little trail behind them. Your object will be, of course, to hunt them against the wind ; they will consequently have little chance of escajDe, unless, as they are often in the habit of doing, they administer a, sop." " Wliat is a sop, my lord ? " " A piece of raw beef or mutton, kept for twenty -four hours under the armpit until it becomes saturated with the moisture of the body ; after this, administer it to the dog, and instead of attacking he will follow j'ou over the world. The other sop resorted to by these fellows is the middogue, or skean, and, as they contrive to manage its applica- tion, it is the surer of the two. Should you like to see Tom ? " " Unquestionably, my lord. I intended before going to have requested the honor oi a short interview." " Ay, of course, to make love. Well, J teU you that Tom, hke her uncle, has her wits about her. Go up, then, you will find her in the withdrawing-room ; and listen — I desire that you wiU tell her of your tory- hunting project, and ask her opinion upon it. Now, don't forget that, because I will make inquiries about it." Woodward certainty found her in what was then termed the withdrawing-room. She was in the act of embroideiing, and re- ceived him with much courtesy and kindness. "I hope your mother and family are all well, Mr. Woodward," she said ; " as for your sister Maria she is quite a stay-at-home. Does she ever visit any one at all ? " "Very rarely, indeed, Miss Riddle ; but I think she will soon do herself the pleasure of calling upon you." " I shall feel much obliged, Mr. Wood- ward. From what I have heard, and the little I have seen of her, a most amiable girL You have had a chat ^vith my kind-hearted, but eccentric uncle ? " THE EVIL EYE; OB, THE BLACK SPECTBjl. 7Z1 " I have ; and lie imposed it on me as a condition that I should mention to you an entei^prise on which I am bent." " Aji enterprise ! Pray, what is it ? " " Why, a tory-hunt ; I am going to hunt down Shawn-na-Middofjuc, as he is called, and I think it will be rendeiing the country a service to get rid of him." Miss Riddle's face got pale as ashes ; and she looked earnestly and solemnly into Woodward's /face. "]VIr. Woodward," said she, "would you oblige me with one simple request ? Do not hunt down Shawn-na-Middogue : my tmcle and I owe him our lives." " How is that. Miss Eiddle ? " " Do you not know that my uncle was a tory hiuiter ? " " I have certainly heard so," replied Woodward ; " and I am, besides, aware of it from the admirable instructions which he gave me concerning the best method of hunt- ing them down." " Yes, but did he encoiu'age you in your determination of hvinting down Shawn-na- Middogue 1 " " No, certainly ; but, on the contrary, ad- vised me to pass him by — to have nothing to do with him." " Did he state his reasons for giving you such advice ? " " He mentioned something with reference to certain legal proceedings taken by my mother against the family of Shawn-na-Mid- dogue. But I presume my mother had her own rights to vindicate, and beyond tliat I know nothing of it. He nearly stabbed my brother to death, and I will leave no earthly means unattempted to shoot the villain down, or other\vise secvu'c him." " Well, you are aware tliat my uncle was the most successful and celebrated tory-hunt- er of his day, and rendered important ser- vices to the government in that capacity — services which have been liberally re- warded." "I am aware of it. Miss Riddle." " But you are not aware, as I am, that this same Shawn-na-Middogue saved my uncle's life and mine on the night before last ? " "How could I, Miss Riddle ? " " It is a fact, though, and I beg you to mark it ; and I trust that if you respect my uncle and myself, you will not engage in this ci-uel and inhuman expedition." "But 3'our uncle mentioned nothing of this to me. Miss Riddle." " He does not know it yet. I have been all yesterday thinking over the circumstance, with a view of getting his lordship to inter- fere with the government for this unfor- tunate youth ; but I felt myself placed in 24 circumstances of great difficulty and deli- cacy with respect to your family and oura I hope you understand me. Mi'. Woodward. I allude to the circumstances which forced him to become an outlaw and a toiy, and ib struck me that my uncle could not urge any application in his favor without adverting to them." " O, Miss Riddle, if you feel an interest in his favor, he shall experience no molesta- tion from me." " The only interest which I feel in him ia that of humanity, and gi-atitude, Mr. Wood- ward ; but, indeed, I should rather say that the gratitude should not be common to a man who saved my uncle's life and mine." " And i^ray may I ask how that came about? At aU events he has made me his fiiend forever." " My uncle and I were returning home from dinner, — we had dined at Squire Da\vson's, — and on coming to a lonely jjart of the road we found oiu' carriage surround- ed by a party of the outlaws, who shout- ed out, ' This is the old tory-hunter, who got his wealth and title by persecuting us. and now we will pa}' him home for all,' 'Ay. observed another, ' and his niece is \Wth him, and we will have her off to the mountains.' The carriage- was immediately surrounded, and I know not to what an extent their vio- lence and revenge might have proceeded, when Shawn same bounding among them with the air of a man who possessed authority over them. " * Stop,' said he ; 'on this occasion they must go free, and on every occasion. Lord Cockletowni, let him be what he may before, is of late a good landlord, and a friend to the people. His niece, too, is ' He then compHmented me upon some trifling acts oi kindness I had paid to his family when — hem — ahem — in fact, when they stood much in need of it." This was a delicate evasion of any allusion to the cruel conduct of his mother towards the outlaw's f imily. " When," she went on, " he had succeeded in restraining the meditated violence of the tories, he approached me — for they had al- ready dragged me out, and indeed it was my screaming that brought him with such haste to the spot. 'Now, Miss Riddle,' said he, in a low whisper which my uncle covdd not hear, ' one good act deserves another ; you were kind to my family when they stood sorely in need of it. You and your uncle are safe, and, what is more, will be safe : I will take care of that ; but forget Shaum-na Middogu(\ the outlaw and tory, or if ever you mention his name, let it be in a spirit oi 73S yiLLTAM CARLETON'8 WORKS. mere}' and forgiveness.' jVIt. Woodward, you will not hunt down this generous young man ?" " I would as soon hunt down my father, Miss Riddle, if he were aUve. I tinist you ion't imagine that I can be insensible to 3uch noble conduct." "I do not think you are, Mr. "Woodward ; and I hope you will allow the unfortunate jouth to remain unmolested until my uncle, to whom I shall mention this circumstance this day, may strive to have him restored to society." We need scarcely assure our readers that Woodward pledged himseK in accordance with her wishes, after which he went home and prepared such a mask for his face, and such a disguise of di-ess for his person, as, when assumed, rendered it impossible for any one to recognize him. Such was the spirit in which he kept his promise to Miss Riddle, and such the honor of every word that proceeded from his hypocritical lips. In the meantime the preparations for the chase were made with the most extraordinary energy and caution. Woodward had other persons engaged in it, on whom he had now made up his mind to devolve the conse- quences of the whole proceedings. The sher- iff and thepo.ss'e comitatus, together with as- sistance from other quarters, had all been engaged ; and as some vague intelligence of Shawn-) la-Middog lies retreat had been ob- tained. Woodward proceeded in comiDlete disguise before daybreak with a party, not one of whom was able to recognize him, well armed, to have what was, in those days, called a toiy-hunt. The next morning was dark and gloomy. Gray, hea\'y mists lay upon the mountain- tops, from which, as the light of the rising sun fell upon them, they retreated in broken masses to the valleys and lower grounds be- neath them. A cold, chilly aspect lay upon the surface of the earlh, and the white mists that had descended from the mountain-tops, or were dra^\^l up from the gi'ound by the influence of the sun, were, although more condensed, beginning to get a warmer look. Notwithstanding the secrecy with which this eutei*prise was projected it had taken wind, and many of those who had suffered by the depredations of the tories were found joining the band of ^Dui'suers, and many others who were friendly to them, or who had relations among them, also made their appearance, but contrived to keep somewhat aloof from the main body, though not at such a distance as might seem to render them suspected ; their object being to afford whatever assistance they could, with safety to themselves and without incurring any suspicion of affinity to the anfortunate toi-ies. The country was of intricate passage and full of thick woods. At this distance of time, now that it is cleai-ed and cultivated, our readers could form no conception of its appearance then. In the fastnesses and close brakes of those woods lay the liiding-places and retreats of the tories — " the wood kernes " of Spenser's day. A torj'-hunt at that time, or at any time, was a pastime of no common danger. Those ferocious and determined banditti had little to render life desirable. They consequently set but a slight value upon it. The result was that the j)ur- suits after them by foreign soldiers, and other persons but slightly acquainted with the country, generally ended in disaster and death to several of the pursuers. On the morning in question the tory- hunters literally beat the woods as if they had been in the pui'suit of game, but for a considerable time ■\\ith little effect. Not the appearance of a single tory was anywhere visible ; but, notwithstanding this, it so hajDjDened that some one of their enemies occasionally dropped, either dead or wound- ed, by a shot from the intricacies and covers of the woods, which, ujion being searched and examined, afforded no trace whatsoever of those who 'did the mischief. This was harassing and provocative of vengeance to the m.ilitary and such wretched police as existed in that day. No search could dis- cover a single trace of a tory, and many of those in the piu'suit were obhged to with- draw from it — not unreluctantly, indeed — in order to bear back the dead and wounded to the town of Rathlillan. As they were entering an open space that lay between two wooded enclosures, a white hax-e started across their path, to the iitter consternation of those who were in pursuit. Woodward, now disguised and in his mask, had been for a considerable time looking be- hind him, but this circumstance did not escape his notice, and he felt, to say the least of it, startled at her second apj^earance. It reminded him, however, of the precautions which he had taken ; and he looked back fi'om time to time, as we have said, in expec- tation of something appertaining to the pur- suit. At length he exclaimed, — " Wliere are the pai-ty with the blood- hounds ? Wliy have they not joined us and come up with us ? " " They have started a wolf," reiDlied one of them, "and the dogs are after him; and some of them have gone back upon the trail of the wounded men." " Return for them," said he ; " without theii' assistance we can never find the trail THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 739 of these accursed tories ; but, above all, of 67w ? on -na-Middufj ue." In due time the dogs were brought up, but the trails were so various that they sep- arated mostly into single hunts, and went at such a rapid speed that they were lost in the woods. At length two of tliem who came up first, gave tongue, and the body of pursuers concentrated themselves on the newly-dis- covered trail, keeping as close to the dogs as they could. Those two had quartered the woods and returned to the party again when thej' fell upon the slot of some unfortunate victim who had recently escaped fi'om the place. The pursuit now became energetic and full of interest, if we could forget the melancholy and murderous fact that the game pursued were human victims, who had nothing more nor less to expect from their pursuers than the savage wolves which then infested the forests — a price having been laid upon the heads of each. After some time the p;u*ty arrived at the outskirts of the wood, and an individual was seen bounding along in the direction of the mountains — the two dogs in full pursuit of him. The noise, the animation, and the tu- mult of the pursuit were now astounding, and rang long and loud over the surface of the excited and awakened neighborhood, whilst the ■v\T.ld echoes of their inhuman en- joyment were giving back their tenible re- sponses fi'om the hills and valleys ai'ound them. The shouting, the lU'ging on of the dogs by ferocious cries of encouragement, were loud, incessant, and full of a spirit wiiich, at this day, it is terrible to reliect ui:)on. The whole countiy was alive ; and the loud, vociferous agitation which disturbed •it, resembled the influence of one of those storms which lash the quiet sea into mad- ness. Fresh crowds joined them, as we have said, and the tumult still became louder and stronger. In the meantime, Shawn-iia- Middogue's case- — it was he — became hope- less — for it was the speed of the fleetest runner that ever hved to that of two power- ful bloodhounds, animated, as they were, by thou* ferocious instincts. Indeed, the inter- est of the chase was heightened by the man- ner and conduct of the dogs, which, when they came upon the trail of the indiridual, in question, yelped aloud with an ecstatic dehght that gave fi'esh courage to the vocif- erous band of pvu'suers. "^\Tio can that man be?" asked one of them; "he seems to have wings to his feet." "By the sacred Hght of day," exclaimed another, "it is no other than the famous Shaum-na-Middogue himseli I know him well ; and even if I did not, who could mis- take him by his speed of foot ? " " Is that he ? " said the mask ; " then fifty pounds in addition to the government re- ward to the man who will shoot him down, or secure him, hving or dead : ouh" let him be taken." Just then four or five persons, friends of course to the unfortunate outlaw, came in before the dogs across the trail, in conse- quence of which the' animals became puzzled, and lost considerable time in regaining it, whilst Shawn, in the meantime, was fast making his way to the mountains. The rewiU'd, however, oliered by the man in the black mask — for it was a black one — accelerated the speed of the pursuers, be- tween whom a competition of tenible energy and action arose as to which of them should seciu'e the pubhc rewai'd and the premium that were oflered for his blood. Shawn, however, had been evidently exhausted, and sat down considerably in advance of them, on the mountain side, to take breath, in or- der to better the chance of effecting his es- cape ; but whilst seated, panting after his race, the dogs gained rapidly upon him. Having put his hand over his eyes, and looked keenly down — for he had the sight of an eagle — the approach of the dogs did not seem at all .to alarm him. " Ah, thank God, they will have him soon," said the mask, " and it is a pity that we cannot give them the reward. Who owns those noble dogs ? " " You wiU see that verv' soon, sir," replied a man beside him ; " 3'ou will see it very soon — you may see it now." As he uttered the words the dogs sprang upon Shawn, wagged their tails as if in a state of most ecstatic dehght, and began to caress him and lick his face. " Finn, my brave Finn ! " he exclaimed, patting him affectionately, " and is this you ? and Oonah, my dai-ling Oouah, did the vil- lains think that my best fi-iends would pur- sue vie for my blood? Come now," said he, "follow me, and we will lead them a chase." During this brief rest, however, four of the most active of his pursuers, who knew what is called the lie of the country-, succeeded, by passing thi'ough the skirt of the wood in a direction where it was impossible to observe them, in coming up behind the spot where he had sat, and consequently, when he and his dogs, or tliose which had been once his, ascended its flat summit, the four men pounced upon him. Four against one would, in ordinary cases, be fearful odua ; but Sba%\-n knew that he had two stan'^h and faithful fi-icnds to support him. Quick as hghtning his middogue was into one ot 740 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. their hearts, and ahnost as quickly were two more of them seized by the throats and dragged down by the jDowerful animals that defended him. The fourth man was as rapidly despatched by a single blow, whilst the dogs were HteraUy teai'ing out the throats of their victims. In the course of about ten minutes, what between Shawn's middogue and the terrible fangs and strength of those dreadful animals, the four men lay there four corpses. Shawn's danger, however, notwithstanding his success, was only increasing. His pursuers had now gained upon him, and when he looked ai'ound he found himself hemmed in, or neai'ly so. Speed of foot was everything ; but, what was worst of all, with reference to his ultimate esca^je, foui* other dogs were making theii- way up the mountains — dogs to which he was a stranger, and he knew right well that they would hunt him with all the deadly instincts of blood. They were, however, far in the distance, and he felt httle apprehension fi'om ihem. Be this as it may, he bounded off accomjDanied by his faithful fi'iends, and not less than twenty shots were fired after him, none of which touched him. The number of his pursuers, dogs included, almost made his heart sink ; and would have done so, but that he was probably desperate and reckless of Hfe. He saw himself elmost encompassed ; he heard the bullets whistHng about him, and per- ceived at a glance that the chances of his escape were a thousand to one against him. "With a rapid sweep of his eye he marked the locality. It also was all against him. There was a shoreless lake, abrupt and deep to the very edge, except a shp at the oppo- site side, lying at his feet. It was oblong, but at each end of it there was nothing hke a pass for at least two or three miles. If he could swdm across this he knew that he was safe, and that he could do so he felt certain, provided he escaped the bullets and the dogs of the pursuers. At all events he dashed down and plunged in, accompanied by his faithful attendants. Shot after shot was sent after him ; and so closely did some of them reach him, that he was obhged to dive and swim under water from time to time, in order to save himself from their aim. The stx'ange bloodhounds, however, which had entered the lake, were gaining rapidly on him, and on looking back he saw them with- in a dozen yards of him. He was now, how- ever, beyond the reach of their bullets, un- less it might be a longer shot than ordinary, but the four dogs were upon him, and in the extremity of despair he shouted out, — " Finn and Oonah, won't you .save me i " Shame upon the friendship and attach- ment of man ! In a moment two of the most powerful of the strange dogs were in some- thing that resembled a death struggle with his brave and gallant defenders. The other two, however, were upon himself ; but by a stab of his middogxie he despatched one oi them, and the other he pressed under water until he was di'owned. In the meantime, whilst the four other dogs were fighting fm-iously in the water, Shawn, having felt exhausted, was ob- hged to lie on his back and float, in order to regain his strength. A little before this contest commenced, the black mask and a number of the pur- suing party were standing on the edge of the lake looking on, conscious of the impos- sibility of theii" interference. " Is there no stout man and good S"\vim- mer present," exclaimed the mask, "who wiU earn the fifty poimds I have offered for the capture of that man ? " "Here am I," said a powerful young fel- low, the best swimmer, mth the exception of Shaivn-na-Middogue, in the i^rovince. " I am like a duck in the water ; but upon my sowl, so is he. If I take him, you will give me the fifty pounds ? " " Unquestionably ; but you know you will have the government reward besides." " WeU, then, here goes. I cannot bring my carbine with me ; but even so — we will have a tug for it "uith my skean." He thi-ew off his coat and barrad, and immediately plunged in and swam \nth as- tonishing raj^idity towards the spot where Shawn and the dogs— the latter still engag- ed in their ferocious contest — were in the lake. Shawn now had regained considerable strength, and was about to despatch the enemies of his brave defenders, when, on looking back to the spot on the margin of the lake where his pursuers stood, he saw the powerful young swimmer within a few yards of him. It was well for him that he had regained his strength, and such was his natural courage that he felt rather gratified at the appearance of only a single individual. '' Shaion-na-Middogue," said the young fel- low, " I come to make you a prisoner. WiU you fight me fairly in the water ? " " I am a hunted outlaw — a tory," replied Shawn, " and will fight you the best way I can. If we were on firm earth I would fight you on your owti tei'ms. If there is to be a fight between us, remember that you are fighting for the government reward, and I for my life." " WiU you fight me," said the man, " with- out using your middogue ? " " I saw you take a skean from between yoiir teeth as I turned round," repHed THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 741 vSLawn, " and I know now that you are a villain and a treacherous ruffian, who would take a cowardly advantage of me if you could." The fellow made a plunge at Shawn, who was somewhat taken by sui-prise. They met and grappled in the water, and the contest between them was, probably, one of the fiercest and most original that ever occurred between man and man. It was distinctly visi- ble to the spectators on the shore, and the interest which it excited in them can sc irce- ly be described. A terrible grapple ensued, but as neither of them wished to die by drowning, or, in fact, to die under such peculiar circumstances at all, there was a de- gree of caution in the contest which required gi'eat skill and power on both sides. Not- withstanding this caution, however, still, when we consider the unsubstantial element on which the battle between them raged — for rage it did — there were frightful alterna- tives of i^lunging and sinking between them. Shawn's opponent was the stronger of the two, but Sha\vn possessed in activity what the other possessed in strength. The waters of the lake were agitated by their struggles and foamed white about them, whilst, at the same time, the four bloodhounds tear- ing each other beside them added to the agitation. Shawn and his opponent clasped each other and frequently disappeared for a very brief sj^ace, but the necessity to breathe and rise to the air forced them to relax the grasps and seek the surface of the water ; so was it with the dogs. At length, Shawn, feehng that his middogue had got entangled in his dress, which the water had closely contracted about it, rendering it difficult, distracted as he was by the contest, to ex- tricate it, turned round and swam several strokes from his enemy, who, however, pur- sued him with the ferocity of one of the bloodhounds beside them. This ruse was to enable SIkuvu to disengage his middogue, which he did. In the meantime this expe- dient of Shawn's afforded his opponent time to bring out^his skean, — two weapons which differed very little except in name. They once more approached one another, each with the ai-med hand up, — the left, — and a fiercer and more terrible contest was re- newed. The instability of the element, how- ever, on which they fought, prevented them fi'om using their weapons \di\\ effect. At all events they jjlayed about each other, offer- ing and warding off the blows, when Shawn exclaimed, — having grasped his opponent with his right arm, — " I am tired of this ; it must be now sink or s^^'im between us. To die here is better than to die on the gallows." As he spoke both sank, and for about luili a minute became invisible. The spectators from the shore now gave them both over for lost ; one of them only emerged with the fatal middogue in his hand, but his oppon- ent ajipeared not, and for the best reason in the world : he was on his way to the bot- tom of the lake. Shawn's exhaustion after such a struggle now rendered his situation hopeless. He was on the point of going down when he exclaimed : " It is all in vain now ; I am sinking, and me so near the only slij) that is in the lake. Finn and Oonah, save me ; I am drown- ing." The words were scarcely out of his lips when he felt the two faithful, powerful, and noble animals, one at each side of him — see- ing as they did, his sinking state — seizing him by his dress, and dragging him forward to the shjD we have mentioned. M'ith great difficulty he got upon land, but, having done so, he sat down ; and when his dogs, in the gambols of their joy at his safety, caressed him, he wept like an infant — this proscribed outlaw and tory. He was now safe, how- ever, and his pursuers returned in a spirit of sullen and bitter disapjjointment, finding that it was useless to continue the hunt any longrer. CHAPTER XDL Plans and Negotiations. We have already said that Woodward was a man of personal coui-age, and without fear of anything either living or dead, yet, not- withstanding all this, he felt a terror of Shaicn-na-Middogue which he could not overcome. The escape — the extraordinary escape of that celebrated young tory — de- pressed and vexed him to the heart. He was conscious, however, of his own villany and of his conduct to Grace Davoren, whom Shawn had loved, and, as Shakespeare saj's, " conscience makes cowards of us all." One thing, however, afforded him some consola- tion, which was that his disguise prevented him from from being known as the principal penson engaged in the attempt to hunt do^vn the outlaw. He knew that after the solemn pi'omise he had given Miss Riddle, any knowledge on her pai't of his participation in the pursuit of that generous but unfor- tunate 3'oung man would have so completely sunk him in her oj^inion, as jm individiuU profes.sing to be a man of honor, that she wovild have treated his proposrds with con- tempt, and rejected him with disdain. At all events, his chief object now was to lose r42 WILLI AM CARLETON'S WORKS. no time in prosecuting his suit with her. For this purpose he urged his mother to pay Lord Cockle town another visit, in order to make a formal proposal for the hand of his niece in his name, with a view of bringing the matter to an issue wdth as little delay as might be. His brother, who had relapsed, was in a very precarious condition, but still slightly on the recovery, a circumstance which filled him with alarm. He only went out at night occasionally, but still he went out, and, as before, did not return until about twelve, but much more frequently one, two, and sometimes thi'ee o'clock. Nobody in the house could understand the mystery- of these midnight excursions, and the servants of the family, who were well aware of them, began to look on him with a certain undefined ter- ror as a man whose unaccountable move- ments were associated with something that was evil and supernatm-al. They felt occa- sionally that the jDower of his eye Avas dread- ful ; and as it began to be whispered about that it was by its evil influence he had brought Alice Goodwin to the very verge of the grave for the purpose of getting at the property, which was to revert to him in case she should die without issue, there was not one of them who, on meeting him, either in or about the house, would run the risk of looking him in the face. In fact, they ex- perienced that kind of fear of him which a person might be si;pposed to feel in the case of a spirit ; and this is not surprising when we consider the period in which they lived. Be this as it may, his mother got up the old cari'iage once more and set out on her journey to Cockle Hall — her head filled with many an iniquitous design, and her heart with fraud and deceit. On reachmg Cockle Hall she was ushered to the withdrawing- room, where she found his lordship in the self-same costume which we have already de- scribed. Miss Eiddle was in her own room, so that she had the coast clear — which was precisely what she wanted. " Well, ]\Irs. Lindsay, I'm glad to see you. How do you do, madam ? Is your son with you? " he added, shaking hands with her. " No, my lord." " O ! an embassadress, then ? " "Something in that capacity, my lord." " Then I must be on my sharps, for I am told you are a keen one. But tell me— do you sleep with one eye open, as I do ? " " Indeed, my lord," she replied, laughing, " I sleep as other people do, with both eyes shut." " Well, then, what's your proposal ? — and, mark me, I'm wide awake." " By all accounts, my lord, you have sel- dom been otherwise. How could you have played your cards so well and so succassfullj if you had not ? " " Come, that's not bad — ^just what I ex- pected, and I like to deal with clever people. Did you put yourself on the whetstone be- fore you came here ? I'U go bail you did." " If I did not I would have httle chance in dealing with your lordship," replied Mr& Lindsay. " Come, I hke that, too ; — well said, and nothing but the ti-uth. In fact it will be diamond cut diamond between us — eh ? " " Precisely, my lord. You will find me as sharp as your lordship, for the hfe of you." " Come, confound me, I hke that best of all — a touch of my own candor ; — we're kin- dred sjDirits, INIrs. Lindsay," " I think so, my lord. We should have been man and wife." " Egad, if we had I shouldn't have played second fiddle, as I'm told poor Lindsay does ; however, no matter about that — even a good second is not so bad. But now about the negotiations — come, give a speci- men of your talents. Let us come to the point." " WeU, then, I am here, my lord, to pro- pose, in the name of my son Woodward, for the hand of Miss Eiddle, 3'our niece." " I see ; no regard for the property she is to have, eh ? " " Do you think me a fool, my lord ? Do you imagine that any one of common sense would or should overlook such an element between parties who propose to maiTy ? Whatever my son may do — who is deeply attached to Miss Eiddle — I am sure I do not, nor will not, overlook it ; you may rest assured of that, my lord." Old Cockleto-RTi looked keenly at her, and their eyes met ; but, after a long and steady gaze, the eyes of the old peer quailed, and he felt, when put to an encounter with hers, that to which was attriljuted such extraordinary influence. There sparkled in her steady black orb a venomous exultation, mingled with a spirit of strong and contemj)tuous de- rision, which made the eccentric old noble- man feel rather uncomfortable. His eye fell, and, considering his age, it was decidedly a keen one. He fidgeted upon the chair — he coughed, hemmed, then looked about the room, and at length exclaimed, rather in a soliloquy, — " Second fiddle ! egad, I'm afraid had we been man and wife I should never have got beyond it. Poor Lindsay ! It's confound- edly odd, though." " Well, j\Irs. Lindsay — ahem — pray pro- ceed, madam ; let us come to the pi'oper- ty. How does your son stand in that re- spect ? " THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 743 " He will have twelve hundred a year, my ford." I " I told you before, Mrs. Lindsay, that I don't like the future tense — the present for me. What has he ? " " It can scai'cely be called the future tense, my lord, wliich you seem to abhor so much. Nothing stands between him and it but a dyinj,' ^vcV " How is that, madam ? " " Why. my lord, his Uncle Hamilton, my brother, ]iat should have any thing to do in his pursuit or capture. You understand me. It is my intention to try what I can do to get him a pardon from government, and rescue him fi-om the wild and lawless Hfe he is leading." IMi's. Lindsay merely said, — " If my son Woodward could render you any assistance, I am sure he would feel great pleasvu-e in doing so, notwithstanding that it was this same Shaicn-na-Middogue who, perhaps, has miirdered his brother, for he is, by no means out of danger." " "VMiat — he ? Shaivn-na-Middogue ! Have you an}' proof of that ? " " Not positive or legal proof, my lord, but at least a strong moral certainty. However, it is a subject on which I do not wish to speak." " By the way, I am veiy stupid ; but no wonder. When a man approaches seventy he can't be expected to remember everything. You will excuse me for not inquiring after your son's health ; how is he ? " " Indeed, my lord, Ave know not what to say ; neither does the doctor who attends him — the same, by the way, who attended Miss Goodwin. At present he can say neither yes or no to his recovery." " No, nor will not as long as he can ; I know those gentry Avell. Curse the thing on earth frightens one of them so much as any appearance of convalescence in a patient. I had during my hfe about half a dozen fits of illness, and whenever they found that I was on the recoveiy, they always contrived to throw me back with their damned nostrums, for a month or six weeks together, that they might squeeze all they could out of me. O, devilish rogues ! devilish rogues ! " IMi'S. Lindsay now asked to see his niece, and the peer said he would send her down, after which he shook hands with her, and once more cautioned her against alluding to the ar- rangement into which they had entered touch- ing the matrimonial affixirs ah'eady discussed. It is not our intention to give the conversation between the two ladies, which was, indeed, not one of long duration. ]\ifs. Lindsay simply stated that she had been deputed by her son, Woodward, to have the honor of making a projDosal in his name to her uncle, in which proj^osal she, IVIiss Riddle, was deep- ly concerned, but that her son himself would soon have the greater honor of pleading his own cause with the fair object of his most enthusiastic aftection. To this Miss Riddle said neither yes nor no ; and, after a further THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 745 cliat upon indififerent topics, the matron took her departure, much satisfied, however, with the ajjparent suavity of the worthy peer's fair niece. It matters not how hard and iniquitous the hearts of mothers may be, it is a difficult thinpf to extinguish in them the sacred prin- ciple of maternal affection. ^Irs. Lindsay, dui'iug her son Cliarles's illness, and whilst laboring under the apprehension that she was about to lose him, went to his sick room after lier return from Lord Cockletown's, and, finding he was but slightly improving, — if improving at all, — she felt hex-self much moved, and asked him how he felt. "Luleed, my dear mother," he rephed, "I can scarcely say ; I hai'dly know whether I am better or worse." Harry was in the room at the time, having gone up to ascertain his condition. " O, come, Charles," said she, " you were always an affectionate sou, and you must strive and recover. K it may give you strength and hope, I now tell you that the projjerty which I intended to leave to Harry here, I shall leave to you. Harry will not require it ; he will be well off — much better than you imagine. He will have back that twelve hundred a year when that puny girl dies. She is. probably, dead by this time, and he will, besides, become a wealthy man by marriage." *' But I think, my dear mother, that Harry has the best claim to it ; he is your first- born, and your eldest son." " He will not require it," repUed his motlier ; " he is about to be man-ied to ^liss Riddle, the niece of Lord Cockletown." *'Ai"e you quite sure of that, mother?" asked Harry, with a brow as black as mid- night. " There is an arrangement made," she replied ; " the marriage settlements are to be drawn up, but left unsigned until the death of Alice Goodwin." Charles here gave a groan of agony, which, for the life of him, he could not suppress. " She will not die, I hope," said he ; " and, mother, as for the property, leave it to Harry. I don't think you ought to change your contemplated arrangements on my ac- count, even should I recover." " Yes, Charles, but I will — only contrive and hve ; you are my son, and as sure as I have life you will be heir to my property." " But Maria, mother," replied the gener- ous young man ; " Maria " and he looked imploringly and affectionately into her face. " Maria will have an ample portion ; I have taken care of that. I will not leave my property to those who are strangers to my blood, as a son-in-law must be. No, Charley j you shall have m}' property. As for Harry, I as I said before, he won't stand in need of I it." I " Of course you saw Miss Riddle to-day, I mother ? " asked Han-v. I " I did." I "Of course, too, you mentioned the matter to her ? " I •' To be sure I did." " And what did she say ? " "Why, I think she acted just as every I dehcate-minded gii'l ought. I told her you i would have the honor of proposing to her- self in person. She heard me, and did not i utter a syllable either for or against you. What else should any lady do ? You would not have her jump at you, woidd you? Nothing, however, could be kinder or more gracious than the reception she gave me." " Certainly not, mother ; to give her consent before she was sohcited would not be exactly the thing ; but the uncle is will- iug?" " Upon the conditions I said ; but his niece is to know nothing of these conditions : so be cautious when you see her." "I don't know how it is," replied Harry ; " I have been thinking our last interview over ; but it strikes me there is, notwith- standing her courtesy of manner, a hard, dry air about her which it is difficult to penetrate. It seems to me as if it were no easy task to ascertain whether she is in jest or earnest. Her eye is too calm and reflect- ing for my taste." " But," rephed his mother, " those, surely, are two good qualities in any woman, es- pecially in her whom you expect to become your wife." "Perhaps so," said he; "but she is not my wife yet, my dear mother." "I ^\-ish she was, HaiTV," observed his brother, " for by all accounts she is an ex- cellent girl, and remarkable for her charity and humanity to the poor." His mother and Hany then left the room, and both went to her o\rw apartment, where the following conversation took place be- tween them : "Harry," said she, "I hope you are not angi-y at the detei*mination I expressed to leave my property to Chai'les should he re- cover ? " "^^^ly should I, my dear mother?" he rephed ; " your property is your own, and of course you may leave it to whomsoevei you wish. At all events, it will remain in your own family, and won't go to strangers, like that of my scoundrel old uncle." "Don't speak so, Harrj-, of my brother. r46 WILLIAM CAIiLETON'S WORKS. silly, besotted, and overreached he was when he acted sis he did ; but he never was a scoundrel, Harry." "Well, well, let that pass," replied her son ; "but the question now is, What am I to do ? What step should I first take ? " " I don't understand you." "Why, I mean whether should I start directly' for Bally spellan and put this puling girl out of pain, or go m a day or two and put the question at once to Miss Kiddle, against whom, somehow, I feel a strong an- tipathy." "Ah, Harry, that's your grandfather all over ; but, indeed, our family were fuU of strong antipathies and bitter resentments. ^^^ly do you feel an antipathy against the gii-r? " " Who can account for antipathies, moth- er? I cannot account for this." " And perhaps on her part the poor girl is attached to you." "WeU, but you have not answered my question. How am I to act ? WTiich step should I take first — the quietus of ' curds-and- whey,' or the courtship ? The sooner matters come to a conclusion the better I A\'ish, if possible, to know what is before me : I can- not bear uncertainty in this or anything else." " I scarcely know how to advise you," she replied ; " both steps are of the deepest im- portance, but certainly which to take first is a necessary consideration. I am of opinion that our best plan is simply to take a day or two to think it over, after which we will compare notes and come to a conclusion : " and so it was determined. We need scarcely assure our readers that honest and affectionate Bame^y Casey felt a deep interest in the recovery of the generous and kind-hearted Charles Lindsay, nor that he allowed a single day to pass without going, at least two or three times, to ascer- tain whether there was any appearance of his convalescence. On the day following that on which Mrs. Lindsay had declared the future disposition of her property he went to see Charles as usual, when the latter, after hav- ing stated to him that he felt much better, and the fever abating, he said, — " Casey, I have rather strange news for you." "Be it good, bad, or indifferent, sir," re- pUed Barney, "you could tell me no news that would plaise me half so much as that there is a certainty of your gettin' well again." "Well, I think there is, Barney. I feel much better to-day than I have done for a long while — but the news, are you not anx- ious to hear it ? " "Why, I hope I'U hear it soon, Masthei Charles, especially if it's good ; but if it's not good I'm jack-indifferent about it." " It is good, Barney, to me at least, but not so to my brother Woodwai'd." Barney's ears, if possible, opened and ex- panded themselves on hearing this. To him it was a double gratification : first, be- cause it was favorable to the invalid, to whom he was so sincerely attaclied ; and sec- ondly, because it was not so to Woodward, whom he detested. " My mother yesterday told me that she has made up her mind to leave me all her property if I recover, instead of to Harry, for whom she had originally intended it." Barney, on hearing this intelligence, was commencing to dance an Irish jig to his own music, and would have done so were it not that the dehcate state of the patient pre- vented him. " Blood ahve, Masther Charles ! " he ex- claimed, snapping his fingers in a kind of wild triumph, "what are you lying there for ? Bounce to your feet like a two-year ould. O, holy Moses, and Melchisedek the divine, ay, and Solomon, the son of St. Pether, in all his glory, but that is news ! " " She told my bi'other Woodward, face to face, that such was her fixed determine tion." " Good again ; and what did he say? " " Nothing pai'ticular, but that he was glad it was to stay in the family, and not go to strangers, like our uncle's — alluding, of course, to his will in favor of dear Ahce Goodwin." " Ay, but how did he look ? " asked Bar- ney. "I didn't observe, I was rather in pain at the time ; but, from a passing glimjise I got, I thought his countenance darkened a httle ; but I may be mistaken." " Well, I hoj)e so," said Barney. " I hope so — but — well, I am glad to find you are betther, Masther Charles, and to hear the good piece of fortune you have mentioned. I trust in God your mother will keep her word — that's all." "As to myself," said Charles, " I am indif- ferent about the property ; all that presses upon my heart is my anxiety for IVIiss Good- %\Tja's recovery." "Don't be alai-med on that account,'' said Casey ! " they say the waters of Bally spellan would bring the dead to life. >'.ow, good- by, Masther Charles ; don't be cast down — keep up your spirits, for something tells me that's there's luck before you, and good luck, too." After leaving him Barney began to rumi- nate. He had remarked an extraordinai7 TUB EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. r47 change in the countenance and deportment of Harn' Woodward during the evening be- fore and the earher part of that day. The pUiusible serenity of his manner was replaced by unusual gloom, and that abstraction which is produced by deep and absorbing thought. He seemed so completely wrapped up in constant meditation upon some partic- ular subjcrt, that he absolutely forgot to guard himself against observation or re- mark, by liis usual artifice of manner. He walked alone in the garden, a thing he was not accustomed to do ; and during these walks he would stop and pause, then go on slowly and musingly, and stop and pause again. Barney, as we have said before, was a keen obsen'er, and having watched him from a remote comer of the garden in whicli he was temporarily engaged among some flowers, he came at once to the conclusion that Woodward's mind was burdened with something which hea\'ily depressed his spirits, and occupied his whole attention. "Ah," exclaimed Barney, "the villain is brewing mischief for some one, but I wiU watch his motions if I should pass sleepless nights for it. He requires a sharji eye after him, and it will go hard with me or I shall know what his midnight wanderings mean ; but in the meantime I must keep calm and quiet, and not seem to watch him." Whilst Barney, who was unseen by Wood- ward, having been separated from him by a fruit hedge over which he occasionally peep- ed, indulged in this soliloquy, the latter, in the same deep and moody meditation, ex- tended his walk, his brows contracted, and dark as midnight. " The damned hag," said he, speaking un- consciously aloud, " is this the attection which she professed to bear me ? Is this the proof she gives of the preference which she often expressed for her favorite son ? To leave her proi:)erty to that misei^able milksop, my half-brother ! What devil could have tempted her to this? Not Lindsaj-, certainly, for I know he would scom to ex- ercise am' control over her in the disposition of her property, and as for Maria, I know she would not. It must then have been the milksop liimself in some puling fit of pain or illness ; and ably must the beggarly knave have managed it when he succeeded in changing the stem and flinty heart of Such a she-devil. Yes, unquestionably that must be the tnie meaning of it ; but, be it so for the present ; the future is a different question. My plans are laid, and I wiU put them into operation according as circmstan- ces may guide me." Whatever those plans were, he seemed to have completed them in his own mind. The dai-kness departed from his brow ; his face assumed its usual expression ; and, having satisfied himself by the contemplation of his future course of action, he walked at his usual pace out of the garden. "Egad," thought Barney, "I'm half a prophet, but I can say no more than I've said. There's mischief in the ^vind ; but whether agjiinst Masther Charles or his mother, is a puzzle to me. Wliat a dutiful son, too ! A she-devil ! Well, upon my sowl, if he weren't her son I could forgive him for thai, because it hits her off' to a hair — but fi-om the lips of a son ! O, the blast- ed scoundrel ! Well, no matther, there's a shiiiij pair of eyes upon him ; and that's all 1 can say at present." When the medical attendant called that day to see his patient he found, on examin- ing Charles, and feeUng his pulse, that he was decidedly and rapidly on the recovery. On his way down stairs he was met by Wood- wai'd, who said,^ " Well, doctor, is there any chance of my dear brother's recover}- ? " " It is beyond a chance now, !Mr. Wood- wai'd ; he is out of danger ; and although his convalescence will be slow, it wiU be sure." " Thank God," said the cold-blooded hyp- ocrite ; " I have never heard intelligence more gratifying. My mother is in the \vith- drawing-room, and desired me to s-iy that she wishes to speak with you. Of course it is about my brother ; and I am glad that you can make so favorable a report of him." On going down he found ^Ii*s. Lindsay alone, and having taken a seat and made his daily report, she addressed him as follows : " Doctor, you have taken a great weight off my mind by your account of my son's cei*tain recovery." " I can say with confidence, as I have al- ready said to his anxious brother, madam, that it is certain, although it AviU be slow. He is out of danger at last. The woimd is beginning to cicatiize, and generates laudable 2)t()i. His fever, too, is gone ; but he isvei-y weak still, — quite emaciated, — and it -will require time to place him once more on his legs. Still, the gi*eat fixct is, that his recov- ery is certain. Nothing unless agitation of mind can retard it ; and I do not see any* thing which can occasion that." " Nothing, indeed, doctor ; but, doctor, 1 wish to .speak to you on another subject You have been attending Miss Goodwin dur- ing her veiT sti-ange juid severe illness. Yon have visited her, too, at Bally spellan." "I liave, madam. She went thei-e by mj directions." How long is it since you have seen her ? " 748 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. "1 saw her tliree days ago." " And how was she ? " " I am afraid beyond hope, madam. She is certainl}' not better, and I can scai'cely siiy she is worse, because worse she cannot be. The comjDlaint is on her mind ; and in that case we all know how difficult it is for a phy- sician to minister to a mind diseased." "You think, then, she isj^ast recoveiy?" " Indeed, madam, I am certain of it, and I deeply regi'et it, not only for her own sake, but for that of her heart-broken parents." "My deal' doctor — O, by the way, here is youi' fee ; do not be surjDrised at its amount, for, although your fees have been regularly paid " • "And hberally, madam." "Well, in consequence of the favorable apd gratifying report which you have this day made, you must pardon an affectionate mother for the compensation which she now offers you. It is far beneath the value of your skill, jour anxiety for my son's recoveiy, and the punctuality of your attendance." "What! fifty pounds, madam! I cannot accept it," said he, exhibiting it in his hand as he spoke. " 0, but you must, my dear doctor ; nor shall the liberality of the mother rest here. Come, doctor, no remonstrance ; put it in yoiu' pocket, and now hear me. You say Miss Goodwin is past all hope. W^ould you have any objection to wiite me a short note stating that fact?" " How could I. madam ? " replied the good- natirred, easy man, who, of course, could never dream of her design in asking him the question. Still, it seemed singular and un- usual, and quite out of the range of his ex- peiience. This consideration startled him into reflection, and something hke a curios- it}' to ascertain why she, who, he felt aware, was of late at bitter feud with Miss Good- win and her family — the cause of which was well knoAvn throughout the country— should wish to obtain such a document from him. " Pardon me, madam ; pray, may I inquire for what purpose you ask me to furnish such a document ? " " V/hy, the truth is, doctor, that there are secrets in aU fmiilies, and, although this is not, strictly speaking, a secret, yet it is a thing that I should not wish to be mentioned out of doors." " Madam, you cannot for a moment do me such injustice as to imagine that I am capable of violating professional confidence. I consider the confidence you now repose in me, in tlie capacity of your family physician, as coming under that head." " You will have no objection, then, to write the note I ask of you ? " " Certainly not, madam." " But there is Dr. Lendrum, who joined you in consultation irTmy soil's case, as well, I believe, as in ]\Iiss Goodwin's. Do you think you could get him to write a note to me in accordance with youi'S ? Sjaeak to him, and teU him that I don't thinlc he has been sufficiently remunerated for his trouble in the consiiltations you have had with him here." "I shall do so, madam, and I think he mil do himself the pleasure of seeing you in the course of to-morrow." Both doctors could, with a very good con- science, furnish ]\Ii-s. Lindsay with the opin- ions which she requii-ed. She saw the other medical gentleman on the following day, and, after handing him a handsome douceur, he felt no hesitation in corroborating the opinion of his brother physician. Having procured the documents in ques- tion, she transmitted them, enclosed in a letter, to Lord Cockleto^vn, stating that her son Woodward, who had been seized by a pleuritic attack, would not be able, she feared, to pay his intended visit to Miss Riddle so soon as he had expected ; but, in the meantime, she had the honor of enclosing him the documents she alluded to on the occasion of her last visit. And this she did with the hope of satisfying his lordship on the subject they had been discussing, and with a further hope that he might become an advocate for her son, at least until he should be able to plead his own cause with the lady herself, which nothing but indispo- sition j)revented him fi'om doing. The doc- tor, she added, had ad^dsed him to try the waters of the Sjm of Ballyspellan for a short time, as he had little doubt that they would restore him to jDerfect health. She sent her Jove to dear Miss Riddle, and hoj^ed ere long to have the j^leasure of clasping her to her heai't as a daughter. CHAPTER XX Woodward's Visit to Ballyspdlan. After a consultation with his mother our worthy hero prepared for his journey to this, once celebrated Spa, v>^hich possessed even then a certain local celebrity, that subse- quently widened to an ampler range. The little village was filled with invahds of all classes ; and even the farmers' houses in the vicinity were occupied with individuals in quest of health. The family of the Good- wins, however, were still in deep affliction THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 749 although Alice, for the last few days, was progresaing favorably. Still, such was her weakness, that she was unable to walk un- less supported by two persons, usually her maid and her mother or her father. The terrible influence of the Evil Eye had made too deep and deadly an impression ever, she feared, to be effaced ; for, idthough removed from Woodward's blighting gaze, that eye was perpetually upon her, thi'ough the medium of her strong but diseased imagina- tion. And who is there who does not know how strongly the force of imagination acts ? On this subject she had now become a per- fect h>-pochondriac. She could not shake it off, it haunted her night and day ; and even the influence of society could scarcely banish the dread image of that mysterious and fear- ful look for a moment. Tlie society at Ballysijellan was, as the society in such places usually is, veiT much mixed and heterogeneous. !Many gentry were there — gentlemen attempting to repair constitutions broken do%\*n by dissipation and profligac}' ; and ladies afflicted with a disease peculiar, in those days, to both sexes, called the i^pleen — a malady which, under that name, has long since disappeared, and is now kno%vn by the title of nervous afl^c- tion. There was a large public room, in imitation of the more celebrated English watering-places, where the more respectable portion of the company met and became acquainted, and where, also, balls and din- ners were occasionally held. Not a wreck of this edifice is now standing, although, down to the days of Swift and Delany, it possessed con.siderable celebrity, as is evident from the ingenious verses written by his friend to the Dean upon this subject. The principal individuals assembled at it on this occasion were Squire^ Manifold, whose complaint, as was evident by his three chins, consisted in a rapid tendency to obesity, which his physician had told him might be checked, if he could prevail on himself to eat and drink with a less glut- tonous appetite, and take more exercise. He had ah'eady had a fit of apoplexy, and it was the apprehension of another, with which he was threatened, that brought him to the Spa. The next was Parson Topertoe, whose great enemy was the gout, brought oi), of course, by an ascetic and apostolic life. The third was Captiun Culverin, whose constitution had suffered severely in the wars, but wliich he attempted to rein\'igor- ate by a course of hard drinking, in which he found, to his cost, that the remedy was worse than the disease. There were also a great variety of others, among whom were severaj ■widows whose healthy complexions \ were anything but a justification for theii ' presence there, especially in the character ' of invalids. ^Ir. Good\vin, his wife, and j daughter, we need not enumerate. They ' lodged in the house of a respectable farmer, who lived convenient to the ^illage, where \ they found themseh-es exceedingly snug and comfortable. In the next house to thern lodged a Father Mulrenin, a friar, who, al- though he atferxdecftferroom and drank the waters, was an admirable specimen of comic humor and robust health. There was also a ^lis s Ro sebud, accompanied by her mother, a bloommg widow, who had married old Roae^d, a wealthy bachelor, when he was near sixty. The mother's complaint was 1 also the spleen, or vapoi"S ; indeed, to tell the truth, she was moved by an unconquer- able Jiiid heroic detennination to repLtce poor old Rosebud by a second husband. The last whom we shall enumerate, although not the least, was a very remai-kable char- acter of that day, being no other than Cooke, the Pythagorean, from the county of Waterford. He held, of course, the doc- trines of Pytlui;j;oraSj and beheved in the transmigration of souls. He lived uix)n a vegetable diet, and wore no clothing which had been tixken or made fi'om the wool or skins of animals, because he knew that tliey must have been killed before these exucia could be apphed to human use. His di'ess, consequently, during the inclemency of win- , ter and the heats of summer, consisted alto- gether of linen, and even his shoes were o! vegetable fabric. Our readers, con.sequently, , need not feel suqorised at the complaint ol the philosopher, which was a chronic and most excniciating rheumatism that njcked every bone in has Pythagorean body. He was, however, like a certain distinguished teetotaller and peace preserver of our own city and our own da}^ a mild and benevolent man, whose monomania affected nobody but himself, and him it did affect through every bone of his body. He was attended by hia own servants, especially by his own cook — for he was a man of wealth and considemble rank in the country — in order that he could rely upon their fidehty in seing that notliing contrary to his princijjles might be foisted upon him. He had his carriage, in which he- drove out everj' day, and into which and out of which his senauts assisted him We need scarcely assure our readers that he wis the lion of the place, or that no individu;^. there excited either so much interest or cuiiusity. Of the many others of vai-ious, but sul>ordi- nate classes we shall not speak. "Wealtliy farmers, pi-ofessional men, among whom, however, we cannot omit Counsellor Puzzle- . well, who, by the way, had one eye upon 750 WILLIAM CARLETON'S WORKS. Miss Rosebud and another upon the comely widow herself, together with several minor grades dov.-n to the very paupers of society, were all there. About this period it was resolved to have a dinner, to be followed by a ball in the lat- ter part of the evening. This was the pro- ject of Squire ^Manifold, whose jDhysician at- tended him like, or very unlike, his shadow, for he was a small thin man, with sharp eyes and keen features, and so slight that if put into the scale against the shadow he would scarcely weigh it up. The squii'e's wife, who was a crijDple, insisted that he should ac- company her husband, in order to see that he might not gorge himself into the apo- plectic fit with which he was threatened. His first had a pecuHar and melancholy, though, to spectators, a ludicrous effect upon him. He was now so stu23id, and made such blunders in conversation, that the comic effect of them was ii'resistible ; especially to to those who were not aware of the cause of it, but looked upon the whole thing as his natural manner. He had been, ever since his arrival at the accui'sed Spa, kept by Doc- tor Doohttle iipon short commons, both as to food and drink ; and what with the effect of the waters, and severe pui-gatives admin- istered by the doctor, he felt himself in a state little short of piu-gatory itself. The meagi'e regimen to which he was so merci- lessly subjected gave him the appetite of a shark. Indeed, the bill of fare prescribed for him was scarcely sufficient to sustain a boy of twelve years of age. In consec[uence of this he had got it into his head that the season was a season of famine, and on this calamitous disi^ensation of Providence he kept harping fi-om morning to night. The idea of the dinner, however, was hailed by them aU as a very agreeable project, for which the squire, who only thought of the opportunity it would give himself to enjoy a surfeit, was highly compHmented. It was to be in the shape of a modern table d'hote : every gentleman was to pay for himself and such of his party as accompanied him to it. Even the Pythagorean rehshed the proposal, for although pecuhar in his opinions, he was sufficiently liberal, and too much of a gen- tleman, to quarrel \n.i\\ those who differed from him. j\Ir. Goodwin, too, was a con- senting party, and mentioned the subject to Alice in a cheerful sj^irit, and with a hope that she might be able to rally and attend it. She promised to do so if she could ; but said it chiefly depended on the state of health in which she might find herself. In- deed, if ever a beautiful and interesting girl was to be pitied, she, most unquestionably, was an object of the deepest compassion. It was not merely what she had to suffet from the Evil Eye of the demon Woodward, but from the fact which had reached her eara of what she considered the profligate con- duct of his brother Charles, once her be- trothed lover. This latter reflection, associ" ated with the probabihty of his death, when joined to the terrible malady which Wood- ward had inflicted on her, may enable our readers to perceive what the poor girl had to suffer. Still she told her father that she would be present if her health permitted her, " especially," she added, " as there was no possibility of Woodward being among the guests." " AMay, my dear child," said her father, " what could put such an absurd apprehen- sion into your head ? " "Because, j^apa, I don't think he will ever let me out of his power tmtil he kills me. I don't think he will come here ; but I di-ead to return home, because I fear that if I do he will obtiTide himself on me ; and I feel that another gaze of his eye would occasion my death." "I would call him out," replied the father, " and shoot him hke a dog, to which honest and faithful animal it is a sin to compare the villain." " And then I might be left fatherless ! " she exclaimed. " O, pajDa, promise me that you never will have recourse to that dread- ful alternative." " But my darling, I only said so upon the supjDosition of your death by him." " But mamma ! " "Come, come, Alice, get up your spirits, and be able to attend this dinner. It will cheer you and do you good. We have been discussing soajD bubbles. Give up thinking of the scoundrel, and you will soon feel your- self well enough. In about another month we will start for Killarney, and see the lakes and the magnificent scenery by which they are surrounded." " Well, dear jDapa, I shall go to this din- ner if I am at all able ; but indeed I do not expect to be able.'' In the meantime every preparation was made for the forthcoming banquet. It was to be on a large scale, and many of the neighboring gentry and their families were asked to it. The knowledge that Cooke, the Pythagorean, was at the Well had tr.ken wind, and a strong curiosity had gone abroad to see him. This eccentric gentleman's ap- pearance was exceedingly original, if not startling. He was, at least, six feet two, but so thin, fleshless, and attenuated, that he re- sembled a living skeleton. This was the more strange, inasmuch as in his earlier days he had been robust and stout, ap- THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 751 preaching even to corpulency. His dress was .IS remarkable as his person, if not more BO. It consi.sted of bleached hnen, and was exceed iagly white ; and so particuhu* was he in point of cleanliness, that he put on a fresh dress every day. He wore a pair of long pantaloons that, unfortunately for his sym- metry, adhered to his legs and thighs as closely as the skin ; and as the aforesaid legs and thighs were skeletonic, nothing could be more ludicrous than his appeai-ance in them. His vest was equally close ; and as the hang- ing cloak which he wore over it did not reach far enough down his back, it was im- possible to view him behind ^s'ithout con- vulsive laughter. His shoes were made of some description of foreign bark, which had by some chemical process been tanned into toughness, and on his head he wore a tur- ban of linen, made of the same material . which furnisiied his other garments. Alto- I gether, a more ludicrous fignire could not be ' seen, especiidly if a person happened to ' stand behind him when he bowed. Not- withstanding all this, however, he possessed the manners and bearing of a gentleman ; the only thing remai-kable about him, beyond what we have described, being a pecuhar wildness of the eyes, accompanied, however, by an iinquestionable expression of great benignity. i We leave the company at the Well prepar- ing for the forthcoming dinner and return to Rathtillan House, where Harry Woodward is making arrangements for his jom*ney to Ballyspellan, which now we believe goes by the name of Johnstown. Under every cir- cumstance of his life he was a plotter and a plannei', and had at all times some private speculation in view. On the present occasion, in addition to his murderous design upon ]Miss Goodwin, he resolved to become a wife- hunter, for, being well acquainted, as he was, with the tone and temper of Eughsh society at its most celebrated watering places, and i the matrimonial projects and intrigues which ' abound at them, he took it for granted that he might stand a chance of making a suc- cessful hit with a view to matrimony. One thing struck him, however, which was, that ; he had no horse, and could not go there mounted, as a gentleman ought. It is true ' his step -father had several horses, but not one of them beyond the character of a com- mon hack. He resolved, therefore, to pur- chase a becoming nag for his journey, and with this object he called upon a neighboi-ing fai'mer, named Muiray. who possessed a ver^' beautiful animal, rising four, and which he learned was to be di.sposed of, ! "Mr. Murraj'," Siiid he, " I understand | you have a young horse for sale." I "I have, sir," rephed Murray; "and • better piece of flesh is not in the country he stands in." " Could I see him ? " " Certainly, sir, and try him, too. He is not flesh and bone at all. sir — devil a thing he is but quicksilver. Here, Paudeen, sad- dle Brien Boro for this gentleman. You won't require wings, Mr. Woodward ; Brien Boro will show you how to fly without them." " Well," rephed Woodward, " trial's all ; but at any rate, I'm willing to prefer good flesh and bone to quicksilver." In a few minutes the horse was brought out, saddled and bridled, and Woodward, who certainly was an excellent horseman, mounted him and tried his paces. "Well, sir," said Murray, "how do you like him '? " "I like him weU," said Woodwaid. "His temper is good, I know, by his docihty to the bit." "Yes, but you haven't tried him at a ditch ; foUow me and I'll show you as pretty a one as ever a horse cx'ossed, and you mny take my word it isn't every horse could cross it. You have a good firm seat, sir ; and I know you wiU both do it in sjxjrtsman-like style." Having reached the ditch, which certainly was a rasper, Woodward reined round the animal, who crossed it like a swallow. "Now," said Murray, "unless you wish to ride half a mile in order to get back, you must cross it again." This was accordingly done in admirable style, both by man and horse ; and Wood- ward, having ridden him back to the fann- yard, dismounted, highly satisfied with the animal's action and powers. "Now, !Mr. Murray," said he, "what's his price ? " ""'' " Fifty guineas, sir ; neither more nor lesa" "Say thirty and well deal" " I don't want money, sir," rephed the sturdy farmer, " and I won't part ^-ith the horse under his value. I will get \7hat J ask for him." " Say thirty-five." " Not a cross imder the roimd half hun- dred ; and I'm glad it is not your mother that is bu\'ing him." " ^^^ly so ? " asked Woodward ; and his eye darkly sparkled with its miilignant influence. " Why, sir, because if I didn't sell him to her at her ovm terms, he would be worth vers' httle in a few days afterwards." The observation was certainly an offensive one, especially when made to her son. "Wil you take forty for him? "asked Woodward, coolly. 752 WILLIAM CAB LET O If' S WORKS. "Not a penny, sir, under what I said. You ai-e clearly a good judge of a horse, IVIr. Woodward, and I wonder that a gentleman like you Avould oifer me less than I ask, be- cause you cannot but know that it is under his value." " I will give no more," rephed Woodward ; " so there is an end to it. Let me see the horse's eyes." He placed liimself before the animal, and looked steadily into his eyes for about five minutes, after which he said, — "I think, jMr. Murray, you would have acted more prudently had you taken my offer. I bade you full value for the horse." To Murray's astonishment the animal be- gan to tremble excessively ; the pers^Dira- tion was seen to flow from him in torrents ; he appeared feeble and collapsed ; and seemed scarcely able to stand on his Hmbs, which were shaking as if with terror under him. "Why, ]Mi\ Mm-ray," said Woodward, " I am veiy glad I did not buy him ; the beast is ill, and will be for the dogs of the neighborhood in three days' time." " Until the last five minutes, sir, there wasn't a sounder horse in Europe." "Look at him now, then," said Wood- ward; "do you call that a sound horse? Take him into the stable ; before the ex- pii-ation of thi'ee days you will be flaying him." His words were prophetic. In three days' time the fine and healthy animal was a car- cass. " Ah ! " said the fai-mer, when he saw the horse Ijang dead before him, " this fellow is his mother's son. From the time he looked into the horse's eyes the j)oor beast sank so rapidly that he didn't pass the third day ahve. And there are fifty guineas out of my pocket. The curse of God on him wherever he goes ! " Woodward j)^ovided himself, however, with another horse, and in due time set out for the Spa at BaUyspellan. The dinner was now fixed for a certain day, and Squire Manifold felt himself in high spiiits as often as he could recollect the circumstance — which, indeed, was but rarely, the worthy epicure's memory having nearly abandoned him. Topertoe, of the gout, and he were old acquaintances and companions, and had spent many a merry night together — both, as the proverb has it, being tarred with the same stick. Topertoe was as great a glutton as the other, but without his desperate voracity in food, whilst in drink he equalled if he did not surpass him. Manifold would have forgotten every thing about the dinner had he not from time to time been reminded of it by his companion. " Manifold, we will have a great day ov Thursday." " Great ! " exclaimed Manifold, who in addition to his -other stupidities, was a» deaf as a post; "great — eh? What size wHl it be ? " " What size will it be ? WTiy, confoimd it, man, don't you know what I'm saying ? " No, I don't— yes, I do — you ai-e talking aboiit something great. O, I know now — your toe you mean — where the gout lies. They say, it begins at the great toe, and goes up to the stomach. I suppose Alexander the Great was gouty and got his name from that." "I'm talking of the great dinner we're to have on Thursday," shouted Toj)ertoe. " We'll have a splendid feed then, my fa- mous old trencherman, and I'll take care that Doctor Doolittle shall not stint you." " There won't be any toast and water — eh?" " Devil a mouthful ; and we are to have the celebrated Cooke, the Pythagorean." " Ay, but is he a good cook ? " " He's the celebrated Pythagorean, I tell you." " Pythagorean — what's that ? I thought you said he was a cook. Does he under- stand venison properly ? O, good Lord ! what a hfe I'm leading ! Toast and water — toast and water. But it's all the result of this famine. And yet they know I'm wealthy. I say, what's this your name is ? " " Never mind that — an old acquaintance. Hell and torments ! what's this ? ! " " The weather's pleasant, Topertoe. I say, Toj^ertoe, what's this your name is ? " " O ! O ! " exclaimed Topertoe, who felt one or two desperate twinges of his prevailing malady ; " curse me. Manifold, but I think I would exchange with you ; your complaint is an easy one compared to mine. You are a mere block, and will pop off without pain, instead of being racked like a soul in per- dition as I am." " Your soul in perdition — weU I suppose it will. But don't groan and scream so — you ai'e not there yet ; when you are you will have plenty of time to groan and scream. As for myself, I \\dll be likely to sleep it out there. I think, by the way, I had the plea- sure of knowing you before ; your face is famihar to me. What's this you call the man that attends sick people ? " " A doctor. O ! O ! Hell and torments 1 what is this ? Yes, a doctor. O ! O ! " " Ay, a doctor. Confound me, but I think my head's going around like a top. Yes, a — a — a — a doctor. Well, the doctor says THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 753 that I and Parson Topertoe led a nice life of it — one a glutton and the other a drunkard. Do you know Topertoe ? Because if you don't I do. He is a damned scoundrel, and squeezed his tithes out of the people with pincers of blood." " Manifold, your gluttony has brought you to a fine pass. Are you alive or not V " " Eh ? Curse all dry toast and water ! But it's all the consequence of this year of famine. Pra}-, sir, what do you eat ? " " Beef, mutton, venison, fowl, ham, turbot, salmon, black sole, with all the projier and corresponding sauces and condiments." " O Lord ! and no toast and water, beef tea, and oatmeal gruel ? Heavens ! how I wish this year of famine was j^ast. It Mill be the death of me. I say, what's this your name is ? Your face is familiar to me some- how. Could you aid me in jioisoning the — the — what you call him — ay, the doctor ? " " Nothing more easily done, my dear Manifold. Contrive to let him take one of his own doses, and he's done for." "Wouldn't ratsbane do? I often think he's a rat." "In face and eyes he certainly looks very like one." "Are you aware, sir, that my wife's a cripple? She's paralvzed in her lower limbs." " I am perfectly aware of that melancholy fact." "Are you aware that she's jealous of me?" " No, not that she's jealous of you now ; but perfectly aware that she had good cause to be so." " Ay, but the devil of it is that the pa- ralysis you sj)eak of never reached her tongue." " / speak of — 'twas yourself spoke of it." "She sent me here because it happens to be a yeai" of famine — what is commonly called a hard season — and she stitched the little blasted doctor to me that I might die legitimately under medical advice, isn't that very like murder — isn't it ? " "Ah, my dear fi'iend, thank God that you are not a parson, having a handsome wife and a handsome curate, with the gout to supj^ort you and keep you comfortable. You would then feel that there are other twinges worse than those of the gout." " Ay, but is there anything wrong about your head ? " "Heaven knows. About a twelvemonth ago I felt as if there were two sprouts bud- ding out of my forehead, but on putting up my hand I could feel nothing. It was as smooth as ever. It must have been hji^o- chondriasis. The curate, though, is a hand- j some dog, and, like yourself, it waa my wife ) sent me here." "la your wife a cripple?" " Faith, anything but that." "How is her tougue? No paralysis in that quai'ter ? " " On the contrary, she is calm and soft- spoken, and perfectly sweet and angelic in her manner." "But was it in consequence of the famine she sent you here ? Toast and water ! — toast and water ! O Lord ! " This dialogue took place in INIanifold's lodgings, where Topertoe, Jiided by a crutch and his servant, was in the habit of visiting him. To Manifold, indeed, this was a penal settlement, in consequence of the reasons which we have akeady stated. The Pythagorean, as well as Topertoe, was also occasionally forced to the use of crutches • and it was certainly a strange and remarkable thing to witness two men, each at the extreme point of social indulgence, and each depart- ing from reason and common- sense, suffer- ing fi'om the consequences of their respec- tive errors ; Manifold, a most voracious fel- low, knocked on the head by an attack of apoplexy, and Cooke, the jihilosopher, suf- fering the tortures of the damned from a most violent rheumatism, produced bj' a monomania which compelled him to decliu* the simple enjoyment of reasonable food an A dress. Cooke's monomania, however, was a rare one. In Blackivood's Magazine there ap- peared, several years ago, an admirable wri- ter, whose name we now forget, under the title of a modern Pj'thagorean ; but that was merely a «o/?i de guerre, adopted, probably, to excite a stronger interest in the perusal of his productions. Here, however, was a man in whom the principle existed upon what he considered rational and philosophic grounds. He had gotten the philosophicjxl blockhead's crotchet into his head, anl car- ried the principle, in a practical point of view, much further than ever the old fool himseK did in his life. CHAPTEE XXL 1^ Dinner at BaMyspeUan — The Appearance tf Woodward. — Valentine Oreatrakes. The Tliursday appointed for the dinner at length arrived. The little village was all alive with stir and bustle, inasmuch as for several months no such important event had taken place. It was, in fact, a gala day ; and the poorer inhabitants crowded about the 754 WILLIAM CARLETOj^'S WORKS. inn to watcli the guests arriving, and the paupers to soUcit their alms. Twelve or one was then the usual hour for dinner, but in consequence of the large scale on which it was to take place and the unusual prepara- tions necessary, it was not until the hour of two that tLe guests sat down to table. Some of the principal names we have already men- tioned — all the males, of course, invalids — but, as we have said, there were a good number of the surrounding gentry, their wives and daughters, so that the fete was expected to come off with gi-eat eclat. Toper- toe was dressed, as was then the custom, in full canonical costume, with his silk cassock and bands, for he was a doctor of divinity ; and Manifold was habited in the usual dress of the day — his fiolling coUar exhibiting a neck whose thickness took away all surprise as to his tendency to apoplexy. The lengthy figure of the unsubstantial Pythagorean was cased in Hnen garments, almost snow-white, through which his anatomy might be read as distinctly as if his li^-ing skeleton was naked before them. IVIi-s. Rosebud was blooming and expanded into full flower, whilst Miss Rosebud was just in that inter- esting state when the leaves are apparently in the act of bursting out and besto^ving their beauty and fragrance on the gratified senses of the beholder. Dr. DooHttle, who was a regular wag — indeed too much so ever to succeed in his profession — entered the room with his three-cocked hat under his arm, and the usual gold-headed cane in his hand ; and, after saluting the company, looked about after Manifold, his patient. He saluted the Pythagorean, and compli- mented him upon his j)hilosophy, and the healthful habits engendered by a vegetable diet, and so primitive a linen dress— a di-ess, he said, which, in addition to its other ad- vantages, ought to be generally adopted, if only for the sake of its capacity for showing off the symmetry of the figure. He was him- self a warm admirer of the principle, and begged to have the honor of shaking hands with the gentleman who had the courage to cany it out against aU the prejudices of a besotted world. He accordingly seized the philosopher's hand, which was then in a desperately rheumatic state, as the little scoundrel well knew, and gave it such a squeeze of respect and admiration that the Pythagorean emitted a yell which astonished and alarmed the whole room. "Death and torture, sir — why did you squeeze my rheumatic hand in such a manner ? " " Pardon me, Mr. Cooke — respect and admiration for your principles." " Well, sir, I will thank you to express what you may feel in plain language, feut not in such damnable squeezes as that." " Pardon me, again, sir ; I was ignorant that the rheumatism was in your hand ; you know I am not your physician ; perhaps if 1 were you could bear a friendly shake of it without all that agony. I very much regret the pain I unconsciously, and from motives of the highest I'espect, have put you to." " It is gone — do not mention it," said the benevolent phHosoi^her. "Perhaps I may try your skill some of these days." " I assure you, sir," said Doolittle, " that I am forcing ^Ir. Manifold here to avail him- self of your sj'stem — a simj^le vegetable diet." " O Lord ! " exclaimed Manifold, in a so- liloquy — for he was perfectly unconscious of what was going on — " toast and water, toast and water ! That and a season of famine — what a i^rospect is before me ! Doolittle is a rat, and I will hire somebody to give him ratsbane. Nothing but a vegetable diet, and be hanged to him ! ^\Tiat's ratsbane an ounce ? " " You hear, su'," said Doolittle, addressing the Pythagorean ; " you perceive that I am adopting your system ? " " jMr. Doolittle," replied Cooke, "from this day forth you are vay physician — I in- trust you with the management of my rheu- matism ; but, in the meantime, I think the room is derilishly cold." Captain Culverin now entered, swathed up, and, as was evident, somewhat tipsy. " Eh ! confound me, philosopher, your hand," he exclaimed, putting out his own to shake hands with him. "I can't, sir," rejshed Cooke; "I am af- flicted with rheumatism. You seem luiweU, captain ; but if you gave up spirituous liquors — such as wine and usquebaugh — ^you would find yourself the better for it.". " What does all this mean ? " asked Mani- fold. "At all events Doohttle's a rat. A vegetable diet, a year of famine, toast, and water— O Lord ! " Dinner, however, came, and the Httle wag- gish doctor could not, for the life of him, avoid his jokes. Cooke's dish of vegetables was placed for him at a particular part of the table ; but the doctor, taking Manifold by the hand, j)laced him in the philosopher's seat, whom he afterwards set before a mag- nificent sirloin of beef — for, truth to speak, the Httle man acted as a kind of master of the ceremonies to the company at Bally- spellan. "^^^Iat's this?" exclaimed Maniifold. " Perdition ! here is nothing but a dish of asparagus before me ! What kind of treat- ment is this ? Were we not to have a great dinner, Topertoe ? Alexander the Great 1 " THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPJi.CTLiE. 755 "And who placed me before a sirloin of beef?" asked the philosopher; "I, who fol- low the ijrincijjles of the Great Pythagorean. I am nearly sick already with the fume of it. Good heavens ! a sirloin of beef before a vegetaiian." Of course Manifold and the philosopher exchanged places, and the dinner proceeded. Ml', and Mrs. Goodwin were present, but Alice was unable to come, although anxious to do so in order to obhge her parents. It is unnecessary- to describe the gastric feats of Manifold and Topertoe. The voracity of the former was astonishing, nor was tint -of the latter much less ; and when the dishes were removed and the tables cleared for their compotations, the faces of both gentle- men appeared as if they were about to ex- plode. The table was now supphed with eveiy variety of liquor, and the conversation began to assume that convivial tone peculiar to such assemblies. The little doctor was placed between jNIanifold and the Pythago- rean, who, by the way, was exceedingly short-sighted ; and on the other side of him sat Parson Topertoe, who seemed to feel something like a reprieve from his gout. When the liquor was placed on the table, after dinner, the Pythagorean got to his feet, filled a large glass of water, and taking a gulp of it, leaving it about half full, he pro- ceeded as follows : " Gentlemen : considering the state of morals in our imfortunate country, arising as it does from the use of intoxicating hquors and the flesh of animals, I feel my- self called upon to impress upon the con- sciences of this respectable auditoiy the necessity of studying the admirable princi- ples of the great philosopher whose simplic- ity of life in food and drink I humbly en- deavor to imitate. Modern society, my friends, is all wrong, and, of course, is pro- ceeding upon an erroneous and pernicious sys- tem — tliat of eating tlie flesh of animals and indulging in the use, or rather the abuse, of liquors, that heat the blood and intoxicate the brain into the indulgence of passion and the commission of crime." Here the little doctor threw a glass of usquebaugh — now called whiskey — into the half-emptied cup which stood before Cooke. " A vegetable diet, gentlemen, is that which was appointed for us by Providence, and water lilie this our di-ink. And, indeed, water like this is delicious drink. The Spa of Ballyspellan stands imrivalled for strength and flavor, and its capacity of exhilarating the animal spirits is extraordinary. You see, gentlemen, how copiously I drink it ; ser- vant, till my glass again — thank you." In the meantime, and before he touched it, the doctor whipped another glass of whiskey into it — an act which the Pytha- gorean, who was, as we have saiel, unusually tall, and kept his eye upon the compimy, could neither suspect nor see. "It has been ignorantly said that the, structui'e of the human mouth is an argu- ment against me as to the quality of oui' food, and that the gi'owth of gi-apes is a proof that wine was ordained to be drank by men. It is perfectly well known that a man may eat a bushel of grajies without getting drunk ; because the jjure vegetable possesses no intoxicating power any more than the water which I am now di-inking — and deli- cious water it is ! " Here the doctor dug his elbow into the fat ribs of To])ertoe, whose face, in the mean- time, seemed in a blaze of indignation. " I teU you wliat, philosopher, curse me but you are an intidel." "I have the honor, sir," he replied, "to be an infidel — as every philosoplier is. The truth of what I am stating to you has been tested by philosophers, and it has been as- certained that no quantity of grapes eaten by an individual could make him drunk." The doctor gave the parson another dig, and winked at him to keej) quiet. " Sii*," said the jDarson, unable, however, to restrain himself, "confound me if ever ] heard such intidel opinions ex2:)ressed in my life. Damn your philosophy' ; it is cursed nonsense, and nothmg else." "A vegetable diet," proceeded Cooke, "is a guarantee for health and long life O Lord ! " he exclaimed, " this accursed rheu- matism will be tlie death of me." " Wliat is he saying V " asked Manifold. "He is talking philosophy," replied the doctor, Avith a comic grin, " and recommend- ing a vegetable diet and pure Avater." " A devilish scoundrel," said iManifold. " He's a rat, too. Doolittle's a rat ; but I'll poison him ; yes. I'D dose him with ratsbane, and then I can eat, drink, and swill awny. la the i:)hilosopher's wife a crijiijle ? " "He has no wife," replied Doolittle. " And what the devil, then, is he a philos- opher for ? "What on earth challenges philos- ojihy in a husband so much as a wife, — es peciaUy if she's a cripple and has the use oJ her tongue ? " "Not being a maiTieo\\er of Scjuire Greatrakea, who cui-ed her. And, besides, I have ralson to know thixt he will be arrested this very night for attempting to poison his brother. I sun a humble young man. Miss Riddle, but I am afeard that if you many liim you will stand but a bad chance for hajDpiness."' " She was again silent, but, after a paiise> she safd — "Shawn, do you want money?" "I thank you, Miss Riddle," he replied. " I don't want mone}' : all I want is, tliat 3'ou will not he desaved by one of the most dan:inable villiiins on the face of the earth.'' There was an earnestness and force of tiiith in what the generous young tory said that could not be mistaken. He arose, and was about to take his leave, when he said, — " Miss Riddle, I understand he is about to be married to you to-morrow. Should he become your husband, he is safe from my hand — and that on your account ; but as it may not yet be too late to spake, I warn 3*ou against his hypocrisy and ^'iUany — against the man Avho destroyed Grace Davorcn — who would have killed ^liss Goodwin Nvith his Evil Eye, m order to get back the j^rop- erty which his uncle left lier, and who would have poisoned his o^^'n brother out of his way bekase his mother told him she had changed her mind in leaving it to him (Woodward), and came to the resolution of leaving it to his brother, and that was the raison why he attempted to poison him. All these tilings have been proved, and I have raison to believe that he \\'ill sleep — if sleep he can — in Waterford jail before to-morrow mornin'. But," he added, with a look which was so replete with vengeance and terror, that it perfectly stunned the girl, " porhapb he won't, though. It is likely that the fate of Grace Davoren ^\■ill i)rev8nt him from it." He did not give her time to reply, but in- stantly disapiiearod. and left her in a state of mind which our readers may yery well im- derstand. Slie immediately went to her uncle's li- brary, where the following brief di;ilogue oo cun'ed : "Uncle, this marriage must not and shall not take place." " TSHiat !" replied the peer; "then he is none of the twelve apostles." "You are there mistaken," said she ; "he is one of them. Remember Judas." WILLIAM CARLETON'S WOBES. " Judae f What tlie deuce are you at, my dear niece ? " " Why, that he is a most treacherous vil- lain : that's what I'm at," and her face be- came crimson with indignation, "But what's in the wind? Don't keep me in a state of susjjense. Judas ! Con- tound it, what a comijarison ! Well, I per- ceive you are not disjDosed to become Mi*s. Judas. You know me, however, well enough : I'm not going to jDress you to it. Do you think, my dear niece, that Judas was a gentleman ? " " Precisely such a gentleman, pex-haps, as Mr. Woodward is." • " And you think he would betray Christ ? " " He would poison his brother, uncle, be- cause he stands between him and his moth- er's property, which she has recently ex- pressed her intention of leaving to that bro- ther — a fact which awoke something hke comijassion in my breast for AVoodward." " Well, then, lack him to heU, the scoun- drel. I liked the fellow in the beginning, and, indeed, all along, because he had badg- ered me so beautifully, — which I thought few persons had caj^acity to, — and in conse- quence, I entertained a high ojjinion of his intellect, and be hanged to him ; kick him to hell, though." " Well, my dear lord and uncle, I don't think I Avould be capable of kicking him so far ; nor do I think it will l)e at all neces- saiy, as my opinion is, that he vvill be able to reach that region without any assist- ance." " Come, that's very well said, at all events —one of your touchers, as I call them. There, then, is an end to the match and mar- riage, and so be it." She here detailed at further length, the conversation which she had with Shaum-na- Middogue ; mentioned the fact, which had somehow become well kno'vvn, of his liaving wrought the iniin of Grace Davoren, and concluded by stating that, notwithstanding his gentlemanly manners and deportment, he was unworthy either the notice or regard of any respectable female. "Well," said the peer, "from all you have told me I must say you have had a nar- row escape ; I did suspect him to be a for- tune-hunter ; but then who the deuce can blame a man for stri\ing to advance himself in life ? However, let there be an end to it, and you must only wait until a better man comes." " I assure you, my dear uncle, I am in no hurry; so let that be your comfort so far as I am concerned." " Well, then," said the peer, "I shall write to him to say that the marriage, in conse- quence of what we have heard of his chax*' acter, is ofl"." "Take whatever steps you please," re^ plied his admu'able niece ; "for most assur- edly, so far as I am concerned, it zs off. Do you imagine, uncle, that I could for a mo- ment think of marrying a seducer and a poisoner ? " " It would be a very queer thing if you did," replied her uncle ; " but was it not a fortunate cu'cum stance that you came to dis- cover his real character in time to prevent you fi'om becoming the wife of such a scoun- drel?" " It was the providence of God," said his niece, " that would not suffer the innocent to become associated with the guilty." Greatrakes, in the meantime, was hard at work. He and the other magistrates had collected evidence, and received the infor- mations against Woodward, the herbalist, and the mysterious individual who was in the habit of appearing about the Haunted House as the Shan-dhinne-dhuv, or the Black Spectre. Villany hke this cannot be long concealed, and will, in due time, come to hght. During the dusk of the evening preceding Woodward's intended marriage, an individual came to j\Ii-. Lindsay's house and requested to see Mr. Woodward. That gentleman came down, and immediately recognized the person who had, for such a length of time, fiightened the neighborhood as the Hhan- dhinne-dhnv or the Black Spectre. He was shown into the parlor, and, as there was no one present, the following dialogue took place, fi-eely and confidentially, between them : — " You must fly," said the Si^ectre, or, in other words, the conjurer, whom we have already described, — "you must fly, for you are to be arrested this night. Our estab- lishment for the forgery of bad notes must also be given up, and the Haunted House must be deserted. The magistrates, some- how, have smelled out the trutli, and we must change our lodgings. We dodged them pretty well, but, after all, these things can't last long. On to-morrow night I bid farewell to the neighborhood ; but you can- not Avait so long, because on this very night you are to be arrested. It is very well that you sent Grace Davoren, at my suggestion, from the Haunted House to what is sup- posed to be the haunted cottage, in the mountains, where Nannie Morrissy soon joined her. I supplied them with pro- visions, and had a bed and other articles brought to them, according to your own in- structions, and I think that, for the present, the safest place of concealment will be there." THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTRE. 773 Wootlwai-d became terribly alarmed. It was on the eve of his marriage, and the in- telligence almost drove him into distraction. "I vrill follow your advice," said he, " and will take refuge in what is cjilled the haunted cottage, for this night." His mysterious friend now left him, and Woodward prepared to seek the haunted cot,- tage in the mountains. Poor Grace Davoren was in a painful and critical condition, but Woodward had engaged Caterine Collins to attend to her : for what object, ^^'ill soon be- come evident to our readers. Woodward, after night had set in, — it was a mild night with fjiiut moonlight, — took his way towards the cott:ige that was supposed to be haunted, and which, in tliose days of witclicraft and superstition, nobody would think of entering. We have already de- scribed it, and that must suffice for our readers. On entering a dark, but level moor, he was startled by the appearance of the Black S/)ertr<', which, as on two occasions be- fore, pointed its middogue three times at his heart. He rushed towards it, but on arriving at the spot he could find nothing. It had vanished, and he was left to meditate on it as best he might. We now pass to the haunted cottage itself. There lay Grace Davoren, after having given birth to a child ; there she lay — the victim of the seducer, on the very eve of dissolution, and beside her, sitting on the bed, the un- fortunate Nannie Morrissy, now a con- firmed and dying maniac. " Grace," said Nannie, "you, like me, were ruined." "I was," replied Grace, in a voice scarcely audible. " Ay, but you didn't murder your father, though, as I did ; that's one advantage I have over you — ha ! ha ! ha I " " I'm not so sure of that, Nannie," rephed the dying gui ; " but where's my baby ? " " O ! yes, you have had a baby, but Catei-ine Collins took it away with her." " My child ! my child ! where is my child ? " she exclaimed in a low, but husky voice ; " where's my child ? and besides, ever since I took that bottle she gave me I feel deadly sick." " Will I go for your father and mother — but above all things for your father ? ]3ut then if he punished the villain that ruined you and brought disgi-ace upon your name, he might be lianged as mine was." "Ah ! Nannie," replied poor Grace ; "my father won't die of the gallows ; but he will of a broken heart." " Better to be hanged," said the maniac, whose reason, after a lapse of more than a year, was in some degree retiiming, precisely as life was ebbing out, "bekase, thank God, there's then an end to it." " I agree with you, Nannie, it might be only a long life of suti'ering ; but I wouldn't wish to see my father hanged." " Do you know," said Namiie, relapsing into a deeper mood of lier mania, — " do you know tliat when I saw vii/ father last he wouldn't nor didn't spixke to me ? The house was tilled with people, and my little brother Frank — why now i.su't it .strange that I feel somehow as if I will never wash his face again nor comb his white hea