--Bryan M'Mahon is Cautioned against Political Temptation--He Seeks
Major Vanston's Interest with the Board of Excise.
The consequences of the calamity which was hanging over Bryan M'Mahon's
head, had become now pretty well understood, and occasioned a very
general and profound sympathy for the ruin in which it was likely to
involve him. Indeed, almost every one appeared to feel it more than he
himself did, and many, who on meeting him, were at first disposed to
offer him consolation, changed their purpose on witnessing his cheerful
and manly bearing under it. Throughout the whole country there was but
one family, with another exception, that felt gratified at the blow
which had fallen on him. The exception we speak of was no other than Mr,
Hycy Burke, and the family was that of the Hogans. As for Teddy
Phats, he was not the man to trouble himself by the loss of a moment's
indifference upon any earthly or other subject, saving and excepting
always that it involved the death, mutilation, or destruction in some
shape, of his great and relentless foe, the Gauger, whom he looked upon
as the impersonation of all that is hateful and villainous in life, and
only sent into this world to war with human happiness at large.
That great professional instinct, as the French say, and a strong
unaccountable disrelish of Hycy Burke, were the only two feelings that
disturbed the hardened indifference of his nature.
One night, shortly after Bryan's visit to his landlord, the Hogans and
Phats were assembled in the kiln between the hours of twelve and one
o'clock, after having drunk nearly three quarts of whiskey among
them. The young savages, as usual, after the vagabond depredations or
mischievous exercises of the day, were snoring as we have described them
before; when Teddy, whom no quantity of liquor could affect beyond a
mere inveterate hardness of brogue and an indescribable effort at mirth
and melody, exclaimed--“Fwhy, dhen, dat's the stuff; and here's bad luck
to him that paid fwor it.”
“I'll not drink it, you ugly _keout_,” exclaimed Philip, in his deep and
ruffianly voice; “but come--all o' yez fill up and drink my toast. Come,
Kate, you crame of hell's delights, fill till I give it. No,” he added
abruptly, “I won't drink that, you leprechaun; the man that ped for it
is Hycy Burke, and I like Hycy Burke for one thing, an' I'll not dhrink
bad luck to him. Come, are yez ready?”
“Give it out, you hulk,” said Kate, “an' don't keep us here all night
over it.”
“Here, then,” exclaimed the savage, with a grin of ferocious mirth,
distorting his grim colossal features into a smile that was frightful
and inhuman--“Here's may Bryan M'Mahon be soon a beggar, an' all his
breed the same! Drink it now, all o' yez, or, by the mortal counthryman,
I'll brain the first that'll refuse it.”
The threat, in this case, was a drunken one, and on that very account
the more dangerous.
“Well,” said Teddy, “I don't like to drink it; but if--”
“_Honomondiaul!_ you d----d disciple,” thundered the giant, “down wid
it, or I'll split your skull!”
Teddy had it down ere the words were concluded.
“What!” exclaimed Hogan, or rather roared again, as he fastened his
blazing eyes on Kate--“what, you yalla mullotty, do you dar to refuse?”
“Ay, do dar to refuse!--an' I'd see you fizzin' on the devil's
fryin'-pan, where you'll fiz yet, afore I'd dhrink it. Come, come,” she
replied, her eye blazing now as fiercely as his own, “keep quiet, I bid
you--keep calm; you ought to know me now, I think.”
“Drink it,” he shouted, “or I'll brain you.”
“Howl him,” said Teddy--“howl him; there's murdher in his eye. My soul
to happiness but he'll kill her.”
“Will he, indeed?” said Bat, with a loud laugh, in which he was joined
by Ned--“will he, indeed?” they shouted. “Go on, Kate, you'll get
fair play if you want it--his eye, Teddy! ay, but look at her's, man
alive--look at her altogether! Go on, Kate--more power!”
Teddy, on looking at her again, literally retreated a few paces from
sheer terror of the tremendous and intrepid fury who now stood before
him. It was then for the first time that he observed the huge bones and
immense muscular development that stood out into terrible strength
by the force of her rising passion. It was the eye, however, and the
features of the face which filled him with such an accountable dread.
The eyes were literally blazing, and the muscles of the face, now cast
into an expression which seemed at the same time to be laughter and
fury, were wrought up and blended together in such a way as made the
very countenance terrible by the emanation of murder which seemed to
break from every feature of it. “Drink it, I say again,” shouted Philip.
Kate made no reply, but, walking over to where he stood, she looked
closely into his eyes, and said, with grinding teeth--“Not if it was to
save you from the gallows, where you'll swing yet; but listen.” As she
spoke her words were hoarse and low, there was a volume of powerful
strength in her voice which stunned one like the roar of a lioness.
“Here,” she exclaimed, her voice now all at once rising or rather
shooting up to a most terrific scream--“here's a disgraceful death to
Hycy Burke! and may all that's good and prosperous in this world, ay,
and in the next, attend Bryan M'Mahon, the honest man! Now, Philip, my
man, see how I drink them both.” And, having concluded, she swallowed
the glass of whiskey, and again drawing her face within an inch of his
she glared right into his eyes.
“Howl me,” he shouted, “or I'll sthrike, an' we'll have a death in the
house.”
She raised one hand and waved it behind her, as an intimation that they
should not interfere.
The laughter of the brothers now passed all bounds. “No, Kate, go on--we
won't interfere. You had better seize him.”
“No,” she replied, “let him begin first, if he dar.”
“Howl me,” shouted Philip, “she'll only be killed.”
Another peal of laughter was the sole reply given to this by the
brothers. “He's goin',” they exclaimed, “he's gone--the white fedher's
in him--it's all over wid him--he's afeerd of her, an' not for nothing
either--ha! ha! ha! more power, Kate!”
Stung by the contemptuous derision contained in this language, Philip
was stepping back in order to give himself proper room for a blow, when,
on the very instant that he moved, Kate, uttering something between a
howl and a yell, dashed her huge hands into his throat--which was, as
is usual with tinkers, without a cravat--and in a moment a desperate and
awful struggle took place between them. Strong as Philip was, he found
himself placed perfectly on the defensive by the terrific grip which
this furious opponent held of his throat. So powerful was it, indeed,
that not a single instant was allowed him for the exercise of any
aggressive violence against her by a blow, all his strength being
directed to unclasp her hands from his throat that he might be permitted
to breathe. As they pulled and tugged, however, it was evident that the
struggle was going against him--a hoarse, alarming howl once or twice
broke from him, that intimated terror and distress on his part.
“That's right, Kate,” they shouted, “you have him--press tight--the
windpipe's goin'--bravo! he'll soon stagger an' come down, an' then you
may do as you like.”
They tugged on, and dragged, and panted, with the furious vehemence of
the exertion; when at length Philip shouted, in a voice half-stifled by
strangulation, “Let g--o--o--o, I--I sa--y--y; ah! ah! ah!”
Bat now ran over in a spirit of glee and triumph that cannot well be
described, and clapping his wife on the back, shouted--“Well done,
Kate; stick to him for half a minute and he's yours. Bravo! you clip o'
perdition, bravo!”
He had scarcely uttered the words when the giant carcass of Philip
tottered and fell, dragging Kate along with it, who never for a moment
lost or loosened her hold. Her opponent now began to sprawl and kick
out his feet from a sense of suffocation, and in attempting to call for
assistance, nothing but low, deep gurgling noises could issue from his
lips, now livid with the pressure on his throat and covered with foam.
His face, too, at all times dark and savage, became literally black, and
he uttered such sternutations as, on seeing that they were accompanied
by the diminished struggles which betoken exhaustion, induced Teddy to
rush over for the purpose of rescuing him from her clutches.
“Aisy,” said the others; “let them alone--a little thing will do it
now--it's almost over--she has given him his gruel--an' divil's cure to
him--he knew well enough what she could do--but he would have it.”
Faint convulsive movements were all now that could be noticed in the
huge limbs of their brother, and still the savage tigress was at his
throat, when her husband at length said:--
“It's time, Ned--it's time--she may carry it too far--he's quiet enough
now. Come away, Kate, it's all right--let him alone--let go your hoult
of him.”
Kate, however, as if she had tasted his blood, would listen to no such
language; all the force, and energies, and bloody instincts of the
incarnate fury were aroused within her, and she still stuck to her
victim.
“Be japers she'll kill him,” shouted Bat, rushing to her; “come,
Ned, till we unclasp her--take care--pull quickly--bloody wars, he's
dead!--Kate, you divil!--you fury of hell! let go--let go, I say.”
Kate, however, heard him not, but still tugged and stuck to the throat
of Philip's quivering carcass, until by a united effort they at length
disentangled her iron clutches from it, upon which she struggled and
howled like a beast of prey, and attempted with a strength that seemed
more akin to the emotion of a devil than that of a woman to get at him
again and again, in order to complete her work.
“Come, Kate,” said her husband, “you're a Trojan--by japers you're a
Trojan; you've settled him any way--is there life in him?” he asked, “if
there is, dash wather or something in his face, an' drag him up out o'
that--ha! ha! Well done, Kate; only for you we'd lead a fine life wid
him--ay! an' a fine life that is--a hard life we led until you did
come--there now, more power to you--by the livin' Counthryman, there's
not your aquil in Europe--come now, settle down, an' don't keep all
movin' that way as if you wor at him again--sit down now, an' here's
another glass of whiskey for you.”
In the mean time, Ned and Teddy Phats succeeded in recovering Philip,
whom they dragged over and placed upon a kind of bench, where in a few
minutes he recovered sufficiently to be able to speak--but ever and anon
he shook his head, and stretched his neck, and drew his breath deeply,
putting his hands up from time to time as if he strove to set his
windpipe more at ease.
“Here Phil, my hairo,” said his triumphant brother Bat, “take another
glass, an' may be for all so strong and murdherin' as you are wid others
you now know--an' you knew before what our woman' can do at home wid
you.”
“I've--hoch--hoch--I've done wid her--she's no woman; there's a devil
in her, an' if you take my advice, it's to Priest M'Scaddhan you'd bring
her, an' have the same devil prayed out of her--I that could murdher ere
a man in the parist a'most!”
“Lave Bryan M'Mahon out,” said Kate.
“No I won't,” replied Phil, sullenly, and with a voice still hoarse,
“no, I won't--I that could make smash of ere a man in the parish, to be
throttled into perdition by a blasted woman. She's a devil, I say; for
the last ten minutes I seen nothin' but fire, fire, fire, as red as
blazes, an' I hard somethin' yellin', yellin', in my ears.”
“Ay!” replied Kate, “I know you did--that was the fire of hell you seen,
ready to resave you; an' the noise you hard was the voices of the devils
that wor comin' for your sowl--ay, an' the voices of the two wives you
murdhered--take care then, or I'll send you sooner to hell than you
dhrame of.”
The scowl which she had in return for this threat was beyond all
description.
“Oh, I have done wid you,” he replied; “you're not right, I say--but
never mind, I'll put a pin in M'Mahon's collar for this--ay will I.”
“Don't!” she exclaimed, in one fearful monosyllable, and then she added
in a low condensed whisper, “or if you do, mark the consequence.”
“Trot, Phil,” said Teddy, “I think you needn't throuble your head about
M'Mahon--he's done fwhor.”
“An' mark me,” said Kate, “I'll take care of the man that done for him.
I know him well, betther than he suspects, an' can make him sup sorrow
whenever I like--an' would, too, only for one thing.”
“An' fwhat's dhat wan thing?” asked Phats.
“You'll know it when you're ouldher, may be,” replied Kate; “but you
must be ouldher first--I can keep my own secrets, thank God, an' will,
too--only mark me all o' yez; you know well what I am--let no injury
come to Bryan M'Mahon. For the sake of one person he must be safe.”
“Well,” observed Teddy, “let us hear no more about them; it's all
settled that we are to set up in Glen Dearg above again--for this
Hycy,--who's sthrivin' to turn the penny where he can.”
“It is,” said Bat; “an', to-morrow night, let us bring the things
up--this election will sarve us at any rate--but who will come in?” (*
That is, be returned.)
“The villain of hell!” suddenly exclaimed Kate, as if to herself; “to
go to ruin the young man! That girl's breakin' her heart for what has
happened.”
“What are you talkin' about?” asked her husband.
“Nothing,” she replied; “only if you all intend to have any rest
to-night, throw yourselves in the shake-down there, an' go sleep. I'm
not to sit up the whole night here, I hope?”
Philip, and Ned, and Teddy tumbled themselves into the straw, and in a
few minutes were in a state of perfect oblivion.
“Hycy Burke is a bad boy, Bat,” she said, as the husband was about to
follow their example; “but he is marked--I've set my mark upon him.”
“You appear to know something particular about him,” observed her
husband.
“Maybe I do, an' maybe I don't,” she replied; “but I tell you, he's
marked--that's all--go to bed now.”
He tumbled after the rest, Kate stretched herself in an, opposite
corner, and in a few minutes this savage orchestra was in full chorus.
What an insoluble enigma is woman! From the specimen of feminine
delicacy and modest diffidence which we have just presented to the
reader, who would imagine that Kate Hogan was capable of entering into
the deep and rooted sorrow which Kathleen Cavanagh experienced when made
acquainted with the calamity which was about to crush her lover. Yet so
it was. In truth this fierce and furious woman who was at once a thief,
a liar, a drunkard, and an impostor, hardened in wickedness and deceit,
had in spite of all this a heart capable of virtuous aspirations, and
of loving what was excellent and good. It is true she was a hypocrite
herself, yet she detested Hycy Burke for his treachery. She was a thief
and a liar, yet she liked and respected Bryan M'Mahon for his truth and
honesty. Her heart, however, was not all depraved; and, indeed, it is
difficult to meet a woman in whose disposition, however corrupted by
evil society, and degraded by vice, there is not to be found a portion
of the angelic essence still remaining. In the case before us, however,
this may be easily accounted for. Kate Hogan, though a hell-cat and
devil, when provoked, was, amidst all her hardened violence and general
disregard of truth and honesty, a virtuous woman and a faithful wife.
Hence her natural regard for much that was good and pure, and her strong
sympathy with the sorrow which now fell upon Kathleen Cavanagh.
Kathleen and her sister had been sitting sewing at the parlor window, on
the day Bryan had the interview we have detailed with Chevydale and the
agent, when they heard their father's voice inquiring for Hanna.
“He has been at Jemmy Burke's, Kathleen,” said her sister, “and I'll
wager a nosegay, if one could get one, that he has news of this new
sweetheart of yours; he's bent, Kathleen,” she added, “to have you in
Jemmy Burke's family, cost what it may.”
“So it seems, Hanna.”
“They say Edward Burke is still a finer-looking young fellow than Hycy.
Now, Kathleen,” she added, laughing, “if you should spoil a priest
afther all! Well! un-likelier things have happened.”
“That may be,” replied Kathleen, “but this won't happen for all that,
Hanna. Go, there he's calling for you again.”
“Yes--yes,” she shouted; “throth, among you all, Kathleen, you're making
a regular go-between of me. My father thinks I can turn you round my
finger, and Bryan M'Mahon thinks--yes, I'm goin',” she answered again.
“Well, keep up your spirits; I'll soon have news for you about this
spoiled priest.”
“Poor Hanna,” thought Kathleen; “where was there ever such a sister? She
does all she can to keep my spirits up; but it can't be. How can I see
him ruined and beggared, that had the high spirit and the true heart?”
Hanna, her father, and mother, held a tolerably long discussion
together, in which Kathleen could only hear the tones of their voices
occasionally. It was evident, however, by the emphatic intonations of
the old couple, that they were urging some certain point, which her
faithful sister was deprecating, sometimes, as Kathleen could learn, by
seriousness, and at other times by mirth. At length she returned with
a countenance combating between seriousness and jest; the seriousness,
however, predominating.
“Kathleen,” said she, “you never had a difficulty before you until now.
They haven't left me a leg to stand upon. Honest Jemmy never had any
wish to make Edward a priest, and he tells my father that it was all
a trick of the wife to get everything for her favorite; and he's now
determined to disappoint them. What will you do?”
“What would you recommend me?” asked Kathleen, looking at her with
something of her own mood, for although her brow was serious, yet there
was a slight smile upon her lips.
“Why,” said the frank and candid girl, “certainly to run away with Bryan
M'Mahon; that, you know, would settle everything.”
“Would it settle my father's heart,” said Kathleen, “and my
mother's?--would it settle my own character?--would it be the step that
all the world would expect from Kathleen Cavanagh?--and putting all the
world aside, would it be a step that I could take in the sight of God,
my dear Hanna?”
“Kathleen, forgive me, darlin',” said her sister, throwing her arms
about her neck, and laying her head upon her shoulder; “I'm a foolish,
flighty creature; indeed, I don't know what's to be done, nor I can't
advise you. Come out and walk about; the day's dry an' fine.”
“If your head makes fifty mistakes,” said her sister, “your heart's an
excuse for them all; but you don't make any mistakes, Hanna, when
you're in earnest; instead of that your head's worth all our heads put
together. Come, now.”
They took the Carriglass road, but had not gone far when they met Dora
M'Mahon who, as she said, “came down to ask them up a while, as the
house was now so lonesome;” and she added, with artless naivete, “I
don't know how it is, Kathleen, but I love you better now than I ever
did before. Ever since my darlin' mother left us, I can't look upon you
as a stranger, and now that poor Bryan's in distress, my heart clings to
you more and more.”
Hanna, the generous Hanna's eyes partook of the affection and admiration
which beamed in Dora's, as they rested on Kathleen; but notwithstanding
this, she was about to give Dora an ironical chiding for omitting to
say anything gratifying to herself, when happening to look back, she saw
Bryan at the turn of the road approaching them.
“Here's a friend of ours,” she exclaimed; “no less than Bryan M'Mahon
himself. Come, Dora, we can't go' up to Carriglass, but we'll walk back
with you a piece o' the way.”
Bryan, who was then on his return from Chevydale's, soon joined them,
and they proceeded in the direction of his father's, Dora and Hanna
having, with good-humored consideration, gone forward as an advanced
guard, leaving Bryan and Kathleen to enjoy their tete-a-tete behind
them.
“Dear Kathleen,” said Bryan, “I was very anxious to see you. You've
h'ard of this unfortunate business that has come upon me?”
“I have,” she replied, “and I need not say that I'm sorry for it. Is it,
or will it be as bad as they report?”
“Worse, Kathleen. I will have the fine for all Ahadarra to pay myself.”
“But can nothing be done. Wouldn't they let you off when they come to
hear that, although the Still was found upon your land, yet it wasn't
yours, nor it wasn't you that was usin' it?”
“I don't know how that may be. Hycy Burke tells me that they'll be apt
to reduce the fine, if I send them a petition or memorial, or whatever
they call it, an' he's to have one Written for me to-morrow.”
“I'm afraid Hycy's a bad authority for anybody, Bryan.”
“I don't think you do poor Hycy justice, Kathleen; he's not, in my
opinion, so bad as you think him. I don't know a man, nor I haven't
met a man that's sorrier for what has happened me; he came to see me
yesterday, and to know in what way he could serve me, an' wasn't called
upon to do so.”
“I hope you're right, Bryan; for why should I wish Hycy Burke to be a
bad man, or why should I wish him ill? I may be mistaken in him, and I
hope I am.”
“Indeed, I think you are, Kathleen; he's wild a good deal, I grant,
and has a spice of mischief in him, and many a worthy young fellow has
both.”
“That's very true,” she replied; “however, we have h'ard bad enough of
him. There's none of us what we ought to be, Bryan. If you're called
upon to pay this fine, what will, be the consequence?”
“Why, that I'll have to give up my farm--that I won't be left worth
sixpence.”
“Who put the still up in Ahadarra?” she inquired. “Is it true that it
was the Hogan's?”
“Indeed I believe there's no doubt about it,” he replied; “since I
left the landlord's, I have heard what satisfies me that it was them and
Teddy Phats.”
Kathleen paused and sighed. “They are a vile crew,” she added, after a
little; “but, be they what they may, they're faithful and honest, and
affectionate to our family; an' that, I believe, is the only good about
them. Bryan, I am very sorry for this misfortune that has come upon you.
I am sorry for your own sake.”
“And I,” replied Bryan, “am sorry for--I was goin' to say--yours; but
it would be, afther all, for my own. I haven't the same thoughts of you
now, dear Kathleen.”
She gazed quickly, and with some surprise at him, and asked, “Why so,
Bryan?”
“I'm changed--I'm a ruined man,” he replied; “I had bright hopes of
comfort and happiness--hopes that I doubt will never come to pass.
However,” he added, recovering himself, and assuming a look of
cheerfulness, “who knows if everything will turnout so badly as we
fear?”
“That's the spirit you ought to show,” returned Kathleen; “You have
before you the example of a good father; don't be cast down, nor look
at the dark side; but you said you had not the same thoughts of me just
now; I don't understand you.”
“Do you think,” he replied, with a smile, “that I meant to say my
affection for you was changed? Oh, no, Kathleen; but that my situation
is changed, or soon will be so; and that on that account we can't be the
same thing to one another that we have been.”
“Bryan,” she replied, “you may always depend upon this, that so long as
you are true to your God and to yourself, I will be true to you. Depend
upon this once and forever.”
“Kathleen, that's like yourself, but I could not think of bringing you
to shame.” He paused, and turning his eyes full upon her, added--“I'm
allowin' myself to sink again. Everything will turn out better than we
think, plaise God.”
“I hope so,” she added, “but whatever happens, Bryan do you always act
an open, honest, manly part, as I know you will do; act always so as
that your conscience can't accuse you, or make you feel that you have
done anything that is wrong, or unworthy, or disgraceful; and then, dear
Bryan, welcome poverty may you say, as I will welcome Bryan M'Mahon with
it.”
Both had paused for a little on their way, and stood for about a minute
moved by the interest which each felt in what the other uttered. As
Bryan's eye rested on the noble features and commanding figure of
Kathleen, he was somewhat started by the glow of enthusiasm which
lit both her eye and her cheek, although he was too unskilled in the
manifestations of character to know that it was enthusiasm she felt.
They then proceeded, and after a short silence Bryan observed--“Dear
Kathleen, I know the value of the advice you are giving me, but will you
let me ask if you ever seen anything in my conduct, or heard anything in
my conversation, that makes you think it so necessary to give it to me?”
“If I ever had, Bryan, it's not likely I'd be here at your side this day
to give it to you; but you're now likely to be brought into trials and
difficulties--into temptation--and it is then that you may think maybe
of what I'm sayin' now.”
“Well, Kathleen,” he replied, smiling, “you're determined at all events
that the advice will come before the temptation; but, indeed, my own
dearest girl, my heart this moment is proud when I think that you are
so full of truth, an' feelin', and regard for me, as to give me such
advice, and to be able to give it. But still I hope I won't stand in
need of it, and that if the temptations you spoke of come in my way,
I will have your advice--ay, an' I trust in God the adviser, too--to
direct me.”
“Are you sure, Bryan,” and she surveyed him closely as she spoke--“are
you sure that no part of the temptation has come across you already?”
He looked surprised as she asked him this singular question. “I am,”
said he; “but, dear Kathleen, I can't rightly understand you. What
temptations do you mane?”
“Have you not promised to vote for Mr. Vanston, the Tory candidate, who
never in his life voted for your religion or your liberty?”
“Do you mane me, dearest Kathleen?”
“You, certainly; who else could I mean when I ask you the question?”
“Why, I never promised to vote for Vanston,” he replied; “an' what is
more--but who said I did?”
“On the day before yesterday,” she proceeded, “two gentlemen came to our
house to canvass votes, and they stated plainly that you had promised to
vote for them--that is for Vanston.”
“Well, Kathleen, all I can say is, that the statement is not true.
I didn't promise for Vanston, and they did not even ask me. Are you
satisfied now? or whether will you believe them or me?”
“I am satisfied, dear Bryan; I am more than satisfied; for my heart
is easy. Misfortune! what signifies mere misfortune, or the loss of a
beggarly farm?”
“But, my darling Kathleen, it is anything but a beggarly farm.”
Kathleen, however, heard him not, but proceeded. “What signifies
poverty, Bryan, or struggle, so long as the heart is right, and the
conscience clear and without a spot? Nothing--oh, nothing! As God is to
judge me, I would rather beg my bread with you as an honest man, true,
as I said awhile ago, to your God and your religion, than have an estate
by your side, if you could prove false to either.”
The vehemence with which she uttered these sentiments, and the fire
which animated her whole mind and manner, caused them to pause again,
and Bryan, to whom this high enthusiasm was perfectly new, now saw with
something like wonder, that the tears were flowing down her cheeks.
He caught her hand and said “My own darling Kathleen, the longer I know
you the more I see your value; but make your mind easy; when I become a
traitor to either God or my religion, you may renounce me!”
“Don't be surprised at these tears, Bryan; don't, my dear Bryan; for you
may look upon them as a proof of how much I love you, and what I would
feel if the man I love should do anything unworthy, or treacherous, to
his religion or his suffering country.”
“How could I,” he replied, “with my own dear Kathleen, that will be a
guardian angel to me, to advise and guide me? Well, now that your mind
is aisy, Kathleen, mine I think is brighter, too. I have no doubt but
we'll be happy yet--at least I trust in God we will. Who knows but
everything may prove betther than our expectations; and as you say, they
may make a poor man of me, and ruin me, but so long as I can keep my
good name, and am true to my country, and my God, I can never complain.”