CHAPTER XXI.--Thomas M'Mahon is forced to determine on Emigration.

Gerald Cavanaugh felt himself secretly relieved by the discharge of his

message to M'Mahon.

“It is good,” thought he, “to have that affair settled, an' all

expectation of her marriage with him knocked up. I'll be bound a little

time will cool the foolish girl, and put Edward Burke in the way of

succeeding. As for Hycy, I see clearly that whoever is to succeed, he's

not the man--an' the more the pity, for the sorra one of them all so

much the gentleman, nor will live in sich style.”

The gloom which lay upon the heart of Kathleen Cavanagh was neither

moody nor captious, but on the contrary remarkable for a spirit of

extreme gentleness and placidity. From the moment she had come to the

resolution of discarding M'Mahon, she was observed to become more

silent than she had ever been, but at the same time her deportment was

characterized by a tenderness towards the other members of the family

that was sorrowful and affecting to the last degree. Her sister Hanna's

sympathy was deep and full of sorrow. None of them, however, knew her

force of character, nor the inroads which, under guise of this placid

calm, strong grief was secretly making on her health and spirits. The

paleness, for instance, which settled on her cheeks, when the news

of her lover's apostacy, as it was called, and as she considered it,

reached her, never for one moment left it afterwards, and she resembled

some exquisitely chiselled statue moving by machinery, more than

anything else to which we can compare her.

She was sitting with Hanna when her father returned, after having

delivered her message to M'Mahon. The old man seemed, if one could judge

by his features, to feel rather satisfied, as in fact was the case, and

after having put up his good hat, and laid aside his best coat, he

said, “I have delivered your message, Kathleen, an' dear knows I'm glad

there's an end to that business--it never had my warm heart.”

“It always had mine, then,” replied Hanna, “an' I think we ought not to

judge our fellow creatures too severely, knowin' as we do that there's

no such thing as perfection in this world. What the sorra could have

come over him, or tempted him to vote as he did? What did he say,

father, when you brought him the message?”

“Afther I declared it,” replied her father, “he was struck dumb, and

never once opened his lips; but if he didn't spake, his sister Dora

did.”

“An' what did she say--generous and spirited little Dora!--what did she

say, father?”

He then repeated the message as accurately as he could--for the honest

old man was imbued with too conscientious a love for truth to disguise

or conceal a single syllable that had been intrusted to him on either

side--“Throth,” said he, “the same Dora has the use of her tongue when

she pleases; 'ax her,' said she, spakin' of Kathleen, here, 'if it's

either religion or common justice that makes her condemn my brother

without hearin' his defence. Good-bye, now,' says she; 'give my love to

Hanna, and tell her 'she's worth a ship-load of her stately sister.'”

“Poor Dora!” exclaimed Hanna, whilst the tears came to her eyes, “who

can blame her for defending so good and affectionate a brother? Plague

on it for an election! I wish there was no sich thing in the country.”

“As for me,” said Kathleen, “I wouldn't condemn him without a hearing,

if I had any doubt about his conduct, but I have not. He voted for

Vanston--that can't be denied; and proved himself to have less honesty

and scruple than even that profligate Hycy Burke; and if he made a

bargain with Vanston, as is clear he did, an' voted for him because the

other got his fine reduced, why that is worse, because then he did it

knowingly an' with his eyes open, an' contrary to his conscience--ay,

an' to his solemn promise to myself; for I'll tell you now what I never

mentioned before, that I put him on his guard against doing so; and he

knew that if he did, all would and must be over between him and me.”

“Is that true, Kathleen?” said Hanna with surprise; “but why need I ask

you such a question--it's enough that you say it--in that case then I

give him up at last; but who, oh, who could a' believed it?”

“But that is not all,” continued Kathleen, in the same mournful and

resigned tone of voice--“there's the bribe--didn't hundreds hear him

acknowledge publicly in the chapel that he got it? What more is wanting?

How could I ever respect a man that has proved himself to be without

either honesty or principle? and why should it happen, that the man who

has so openly and so knowingly disgraced his religion and his name fall

to my lot? Oh, no--it matters little how I love him, and I grant that in

spite of all that has happened I have a lingering affection for him

even yet; still I don't think that affection will live long--I can now

neither respect or esteem him, an' when that is the case I can't surely

continue long to love him. I know,” she proceeded, “that it's not

possible for him ever to clear himself of this shocking and shameful

conduct; but lest there might be any chance of it, I now say before you

all, that if something doesn't come about within three months, that may

and ought to change my feelings towards him, I'll live afterwards as if

I had never known him.”

“Mightn't you see him, however, an' hear what he has to say for

himself?” asked Hanna.

“No,” the other replied; “he heard my message, and was silent. You may

rest assured if he had anything to say in his own defence, he would

have said it, or asked to see me. Oh, no, no, because I feel that he's

defenceless.”

In this peculiar state of circumstances our readers need not feel

surprised that every possible agency was employed to urge her beyond the

declaration she had made, and to induce her to receive the addresses of

Edward Burke. Her own parents, old Jemmy Burke, the whole body of her

relatives, each in turn, and sometimes several of them together, added

to which we may mention the parish priest, who was called in by both

families, or at least by old Jemmy Burke and the Cavanaghs--all we say

perpetually assailed her on the subject of a union with Edward Burke,

and assailed her so pertinaciously, that out of absolute apathy, if not

despair, and sick besides of their endless importunities, she at last

said--“If Edward Burke can be satisfied with a wife that has no heart to

give him, or that cannot love him, I don't care much how I am disposed

of; he may as well call me wife as another, and better, for if I cannot

love, I can at least respect him.”

These circumstances, together with the period allowed to M'Mahon for

setting himself, if possible, right with Kathleen, in due time reached

his ears. It soon appeared, however, that Kathleen had not all the

pride--if pride it could be called--to herself. M'Mahon, on being made

acquainted with what had occurred, which he had heard from his sister

Dora, simply said--“Since she has not afforded myself any opportunity

of tellin' her the truth, I won't attempt to undeceive her. I will be as

proud as she is. That is all I say.”

“And you are right, Tom,” replied Dora, “the name of M'Mahon mustn't be

consarned with anything that's mane or discreditable. The pride of our

old blood must be kept up, Tom; but still when we think of what she's

sufferin' we musn't open our lips against her.”

“Oh, no,” he replied; “I know that it's neither harshness nor weakness,

nor useless pride that makes her act as she's doin', but a great mind

and a heart that's full of truth, high thoughts, and such a love for her

religion and its prosperity as I never saw in any one. Still, Dora, I'm

not the person that will ever sneak back to entreat and plead at her

feet like a slave, and by that means make myself look still worse in her

eyes; I know very well that if I did so she'd despise me. God bless her,

at all events, and make her happy! that's the worst I wish her.”

“Amen,” replied Dora; “you have said nothing but the truth about her,

and indeed. I see, Tom, that you know her well.”

Thus ended the generous dialogue of Dora and her affectionate brother,

who after all might have been induced by her to remain in his native

country and share whatever fate it might allot him, were it not that in

a few days afterwards, his father found that the only terms on which he

could obtain his farm were such as could scarcely be said to come within

the meaning and spirit of the landlord's adage, “live and let live.”

It is true that for the terms on which his farm was offered him he was

indebted to Chevydale himself, who said that as he knew his father had

entertained a high respect for old M'Mahon, he would not suffer him to

be put out. The father besides voted for him, and always had voted for

the family. “Do what you please with the son,” he proceeded--“get rid of

him as you like, but I shan't suffer the father to be removed. Let him

have the farm upon reasonable terms; and, by the way, Fethertonge, don't

you think now it was rather an independent act of the young fellow to

vote for Vanston, although he knew that I had it in my power to send him

about his business?”

“It was about as impudent a piece of gratitude and defiance as ever I

witnessed,” returned the other. “The wily rascal calculated upon your

forbearance and easiness of disposition, and so imagined that he might

do what he pleased with impunity. We shall undeceive him, however.”

“Well, but you forget that he, had some cause of displeasure against us,

in consequence of having neglected his memorial to the Commissioners of

Excise.”

“Yes; but as I said before, how could we with credit involve ourselves

in the illegal villany of a smuggler? It is actually a discredit to have

such a fellow upon the estate. He is, in the first place, a bad

example, and calculated by his conduct and influence to spread dangerous

principles among the tenantry. However, as it is, he is, fortunately for

us, rather well known at present. It is now perfectly notorious--and I

have it from the best authority--one of the parties who was cognizant

of his conduct--that his vote against you was the result of a deliberate

compact with our enemy, Vanston, and that he received a bribe of fifty

pounds from him. This he has had the audacity to acknowledge himself,

being the very amount of the sum to which the penalty against him was

mitigated by Vanston's interference. In fact the scoundrel is already

infamous in the country.”

“What, for receiving a bribe!” exclaimed Chevydale, looking at the agent

with a significant smile; “and what, pray, is the distinction between

him who gives and him who takes a bribe? Let us look at home a little,

my good Fethertonge, and learn a little charity to those who err as we

do. A man would think now to hear you attack M'Mahon for bribery, that

you never had bribed a man in your life; and yet you know that it is

the consciousness of bribery on our own part that prevents us from

attempting to unseat Vanston.”

“That's all very true, I grant you,” replied the other; “but in the

mean time we must keep up appearances. The question, so far as regards

M'Mahon, is--not so much whether he is corrupt or not, as whether he has

unseated you; that is the fatal fact against him; and if we allow that

to pass without making him suffer for it, you will find that on the

next election he may have many an imitator, and your chances will not be

worth much--that's all.”

“Very well, Fethertonge,” replied the indolent and feeble-minded man,

“I leave him to you; manage him or punish him as you like; but I do beg

that you will let me hear no more about him. Keep his father, however,

on the property; I insist on that; he is an honest man, for he voted for

me; keep him on his farm at reasonable terms too, such,--of course, as

he can live on.”

The reasonable terms proposed by Fethertonge were, however, such as old

Tom M'Mahon could not with any prospect of independence encounter. Even

this, however, was not to him the most depressing consideration. Faith

had been wantonly and deliberately broken with him--the solemn words

of a dying man had been disregarded--and, as Fethertonge had made him

believe, by that son who had always professed to regard and honor his

father's memory.

“I assure you, M'Mahon,” replied the agent, in the last interview he

ever had with him, “I assure you I have done all in my power to bring

matters about; but without avail. It is a painful thing to have to do

with an obstinate man, M'Mahon; with a man who, although he seems quiet

and easy, will and must have everything his own way.”

“Well, sir,” replied M'Mahon, “you know what his dying father's words

wor to me.”

“And more than I know them, I can assure you,” he whispered, in a very

significant voice, and with a nod of the head that seemed to say,

“your landlord knows them as well as I do. I have done my duty, and

communicated them to him, as I ought.”

M'Mahon shook his head in a melancholy manner, and said,--

“Well, sir, at any rate I know the worst. I couldn't now have any

confidence or trust in such a man; I could depend upon neither his word

or his promise; I couldn't look upon him as a friend, for he didn't

prove himself one to my son when he stood in need of one. It's clear

that he doesn't care about the welfare and prosperity of his tenantry;

and for that raison--or rather for all these raisons put together--I'll

join my son, and go to a country where, by all accounts, there's better

prospects for them that's honest and industrious than there is in this

unfortunate one of ours,--where the interest of the people is so much

neglected--neglected! no, but never thought of at all! Good-bye, sir,”

he added, taking up his hat, whilst the features of this sterling and

honest man were overcast with a solemn and pathetic spirit, “don't

consider me any longer your tenant. For many a long year has our names

been--but no matther--the time is come at last, and the M'Mahon's of

Carriglass and Ahadarra will be known there no more. It wasn't our

fault; we wor willin' to live--oh! not merely willin' to live, but

anxious to die there; but it can't be. Goodbye, sir.” And so they

parted.

M'Mahon, on his return home, found Bryan, who now spent most of his time

at Carriglass, before him. On entering the house his family, who were

all assembled, saw by the expression of his face that his heart had been

deeply moved, and was filled with sorrow.

“Bryan,” said he, “you are right--as indeed you always are. Childre',”

he proceeded, “we must lave the place that we loved so much; where we

have lived for hundreds of years. This counthry isn't one now to prosper

in, as I said not long since--this very day. We must lave the ould

places, an' as I tould Fethertonge, the M'Mahons of Ahadarra and

Carriglass will be the M'Mahons of Ahadarra and Carriglass no more; but

God's will be done! I must look to the intherest of you all, childre';

but, God help us, that's what I can't do here for the future. Every one

of sense and substance is doin' so, an' why shouldn't we take care of

ourselves as well as the rest? What we want here is encouragement and

fair play; but _fareer gair_, it isn't to be had.”

The gloom which they read in his countenance was now explained, but this

was not all; it immediately settled upon the other members of the family

who were immediately moved,--all by sorrow, and some even to tears.

Dora, who, notwithstanding what her brother had said with regard to his

intention of emigrating, still maintained a latent hope that he might

change his mind, and that a reconciliation besides might yet be brought

about between him and Kathleen, now went to her father, and, with tears

in her eyes, threw her arms about his neck, exclaiming: “Oh, father

dear, don't think of leaving this place, for how could we leave it? What

other country could we ever like as well? and my grandfather--here he's

creepin' in, sure he's not the same man within the last few months,--oh,

how could you think of bringin' him, now that he's partly in his grave,

an' he,” she added, in a whisper full of compassion, “an' he partly

dotin' with feebleness and age.”

“Hush!” said her father, “we must say nothing of it to him. That must be

kept a secret from him, an' it's likely he won't notice the change.”

Kitty then went over, and laying her hand on her father's arm, said:

“Father, for the love of God, don't take us from Carriglass and

Ahadarra:--whatever the world has for us, whether for good or evil, let

us bear it here.”

“Father, you won't bring us nor you won't go,” added Dora; “sure we

never could be very miserable here, where we have all been so happy.”

“Poor Dora!” said Bryan, “what a mistake that is! I feel the contrary;

for the very happiness that I and all of us enjoyed here, now only adds

to what I'm sufferin'.”

“Childre',” said the father, “our landlord has broken his own father's

dyin' promise--you all remember how full of delight I came home to you

from Dublin, and how she that's gone”--he paused;--he covered his face

with his open hands, through which the tears were seen to trickle.

This allusion to their beloved mother was too much for them. Arthur

and Michael sat in silence, not knowing exactly upon what grounds their

father had formed a resolution, which, when proposed to him by Bryan,

appeared to be one to which his heart could never lend its sanction.

No sooner was their mother named, however, than they too became deeply

moved, and when Kitty and Dora both rushed with an outcry of sorrow to

their father, exclaiming, “Oh, father dear, think of her that's in the

clay--for her sake, change your mind and don't take us to where we can

never weep a tear over her blessed grave, nor ever kneel over it to

offer a prayer within her hearin' for her soul!”

“Childre,” he exclaimed, wiping away his tears that had indeed flowed

in all the bitterness of grief and undeserved affliction; “childre',”

he replied, “you must be manly now; it's because I love you an' feels

anxious to keep you from beggary and sorrow at a future time, and

destitution and distress, such as we see among so many about us every

day in the week, that I've made up my mind to go. Our landlord wont give

us our farm barrin' at a rent that 'tid bring us down day by day, to

poverty and distress like too many of our neighbors. We have yet some

thrifle o' money left, as much as will, by all accounts, enable us to

take--I mane to purchase a farm in America--an' isn't it betther for us

to go there, and be independent, no matther what it may cost our hearts

to suffer by doin' so, than to stay here until the few hundre' that

I've got together is melted away out of my pocket into the picket of a

landlord that never wanst throubles himself to know how we're gettin'

on, or whether we're doin' well or ill. Then think of his conduct to

Bryan, there; how he neglected him, and would let him go to ruin widout

ever movin' a finger to save him from it. No, childre', undher sich a

man I won't stay. Prepare yourselves, then, to lave this. In biddin' you

to do so, I'm actin' for the best towards you all. I'm doin' my duty by

you, and I expect for that raison, an' as obedient childre'--which I've

ever found you--that you'll do your duty by me, an' give no further

opposition to what I'm proposin' for your sakes. I know you're all

loath--an' you will be loath--to lave this place; but do you think?--do

you?--'that I--I--oh, my God!--do you think, I say, that I'll feel

nothing when we go? Oh! little you know of me if you think so! but, as

I said, we must do our duty. We see our neighbors fallin' away into

poverty, and distress, and destitution day by day, and if we remain in

this unfortunate country, we must only folly in their tracks, an' before

long be as miserable and helpless as they are.”

His family were forced to admit the melancholy truth and strong sense

of all he had uttered, and, although the resolution to which he had come

was one of bitterness and sorrow to them all, yet from a principle of

affection and duty towards him, they felt that any opposition on their

part would have been unjustifiable and wrong.

“But, sure,” the old man proceeded, “there's more than I've mentioned

yet, to send us away. Look at poor Bryan, there, how he was nearly

ruined by the villany of some cowardly scoundrel, or scoundrels, who set

up a still upon his farm; that's a black business, like many other black

business that's a disgrace to the country--an inoffensive young man,

that never made or did anything to make an enemy for himself, durin' his

whole life! An' another thing, bekaise he voted for the man that saved

him from destruction, as he ought to do, an' as I'm proud he did do,

listen now to the blackguard outcry that's against him; ay, and by a

crew of vagabonds that 'ud sell Christ himself, let alone their country,

or their religion, if they were bribed by Protestant goold for it!

Throth I'm sick of the counthry and the people; for instead of gettin'

betther, it's worse they're gettin' every day. Make up your minds then,

childre'; there's a curse on the counthry. Many o' the landlords are

bad enough, too bad, and too neglectful, God knows; but sure the people

themselves is as bad, an' as senseless on the other hand; aren't they

blinded so much by their bad feelin's, and short-sighted passions, that

it is often the best landlords they let out their revenge upon. Prepare

then, childre'; for out of the counthry, or at any rate from among the

people, the poverty and the misery that's in it, wid God's assistance,

we'll go while we're able to do so.”

CHAPTER XII.--Mystery Among the Hogans

--Finigan Defends the Absent.

The three Hogans, whom we have lost sight of for some time, were, as our

readers already know, three most unadulterated ruffians, in every

sense of that most respectable term. Yet, singular as it may appear,

notwithstanding their savage brutality, they were each and all possessed

of a genius for mechanical inventions and manual dexterity that was

perfectly astonishing when the low character of their moral, and

intellectual standard is considered. Kate Hogan, who, from her position,

could not possibly be kept out of their secrets, at least for any length

of time, was forced to notice of late that there was a much closer and

more cautious intimacy between Hycy Burke and them than she had ever

observed before. She remarked, besides, that not only was Teddy Phats

excluded from their councils, but she herself was sent out of the way,

whenever Hycy paid them a visit, which uniformly occurred at a late

hour, in the night.

Another circumstance also occurred about this time which puzzled her not

a little: we mean the unusual absence of Philip for about a fortnight

from home. Now, there certainly nothing more offensive, especially to a

female, than the fact of excluding her from the knowledge of any secret,

a participation in which she may consider as a right. In her case

she felt that it argued want of confidence, and as she had never yet

betrayed any trust or secret reposed in her, she considered their

conduct towards her, not merely as an insult, but such as entitled them

to nothing at her hands but resentment, and a determination to thwart

their plans, whatever they might be, as soon as she should succeed in

making herself acquainted with them. What excited her resentment the

more bitterly was the arrival of a strange man and woman in company with

Philip, as she was able to collect, from the metropolis, to the former

of whom they all seemed to look with much deference as to a superior

spirit of the secret among them this man and his wife were clearly

in possession, as was evident from their whisperings and other

conversations, which they held apart, and uniformly out of her hearing.

It is true the strangers did not reside with the Hogans, but in a small

cabin adjacent to that in which Finigan taught his school. Much of the

same way of thinking was honest Teddy Phats, whom they had now also

abandoned, or rather completely cast off, and, what was still worse,

deprived of the whole apparatus for distillation, which, although

purchased by Hycy Burke's money, they very modestly appropriated to

themselves. Teddy, however, as well as Kate, knew that they were never

cautious without good reason, and as it had pleased them to cut him, as

the phrase goes, so did he, as Kate had done, resolve within himself to

penetrate their secret, if human ingenuity could effect it.

In this position they were when honest Philip returned, as we have said,

after a fortnight's absence, from some place or places unknown. The

mystery, however, did not end here. Kate observed that, as before, much

of their conversation was held aloof from her, or in such enigmatical

phrases and whisperings, as rendered the substance of it perfectly

inscrutable to her. She observed, besides, that two of them were

frequently absent from the kiln where they lived; but that one always

remained at home to make certain that she should not follow or dog them

to the haunt they frequented. This precaution on their part was uniform.

As it was, however, Kate did not seem to notice it. On the contrary, no

one could exhibit a more finished appearance of stupid indifference than

she assumed upon these occasions, even although she knew by the removal

of the tools, or a portion of them, that her friends were engaged in

some business belonging to their craft. In this manner matters proceeded

for some weeks subsequent to the period of Philip's return.

Kate also observed, with displeasure, that among all those who joined in

the outcry against Bryan M'Mahon, none made his conduct, such as it was

conceived to have been, a subject of more brutal and bitter triumph than

the Hogans. The only circumstance connected with him which grieved them

to the heart, was the fact that the distillation plot had not ruined him

as they expected it would have done. His disgrace, however, and unjust

ejectment from Ahadarra filled them with that low, ruffianly sense of

exultation, than which, coming from such scoundrels, there is scarcely

anything more detestable in human nature.

One evening about this time they were sitting about the fire, the three

brothers, Kate, and the young unlicked savages of the family, when

Philip, after helping himself to a glass of quints, said,--

“At any rate, there'll be no match between Miss Kathleen and that

vagabond, Bryan M'Mahon. I think we helped to put a nail in his coffin

there, by gob.”

“Ay,” said Kate, “an' you may boast of it, you unmanly vagabone; an' yet

you purtind to have a regard for the poor girl, an' a purty way you tuck

to show it--to have her as she is, goin' about wid a pale face an' a

broken heart. Don't you see it's her more than him you're punishin', you

savage of hell?”

“You had betther keep your tongue off o' me,” he replied; “I won't get

into grips wid you any more, you barge o' blazes; but, if you provoke me

wid bad language, I'll give you a clink wid one o' these sotherin'-irons

that'll put a clasp on your tongue.”

“Never attempt that,” she replied fiercely, “for, as sure as you do,

I'll have this knife,” showing him a large, sharp-pointed one, which, in

accordance with the customs of her class, hung by a black belt of strong

leather from her side--“I'll have this customer here greased in your

puddins, my buck, and, when the win's out o' you, see what you'll be

worth--fit for Captain James's hounds; although I dunno but the very

dogs themselves is too clane to ait you.”

“Come,” said Bat, “we'll have no more o' this; do you, Philip, keep

quiet wid your sotherin'-iron, and, as for you, Kate, don't dhraw me

upon you; _na ha nan shin_--it isn't Philip you have. I say I'm right

well plaised that we helped to knock up the match.”

“Don't be too sure,” replied Kate, “that it is knocked up; don't now,

mind my words; an' take care that, instead of knockin' it up, you

haven't knocked yourselves down. Chew your cud upon that now.”

“What does she mane?” asked Ned, looking on her with a baleful glance,

in which might be read equal ferocity and alarm. “Why, traichery, of

coorse,” replied Philip, in his deep, glowing voice. “Kate,” said her

husband, starting into something' like an incipient fit of fury, but

suddenly checking himself--“Kate, my honey, what do you mane by them

words?”

“What do I mane by them words?” she exclaimed, with an eye which turned

on him with cool defiance; “pick that out o' your larnin', Bat, my pet.

You can all keep your saicrets; an' I'll let you know that I can keep

mine.”

“Be the Holy St. Lucifer,” said her husband, “if I wanst thought that

traichery 'ud enter your head, I'd take good care that it's in hell

you'd waken some fine mornin' afore long. So mind yourself, Kate, my

honey.”

“Are you in nobody else's power but mine?” she replied, “ax yourselves

that--an' now do you mind yourself, Bat, my pet, and all o' yez.”

“What is the raison,” asked her husband, “that I see you an' Nanny Peety

colloguin' an' huggermuggerin' so often together of late?”

“Ah,” she replied, with a toss of disdain, “what a manly fellow you are

to want to get into women's saicrets! you may save your breath though.”

“Whatever you collogue about, all I say is, that I don't like a bone in

the same Nanny Peety's body. She has an eye in her head that looks as if

it knew one's thoughts.”

“An' maybe it does. One thing I know, and every one knows it, that it's

a very purty eye.”

“Tell her, then, to keep out o' this; we want no spies here.”

“Divil a word of it; she's my niece, an' the king's highway is as free

to her as it is to you or anybody else. She'll be welcome to me any time

she comes, an' let me see who'll dare to mislist her. She feels as she

ought to do, an' as every woman ought to do, ay, an' every man, too,

that is a man, or anything but a brute an' a coward--she feels for that

unfortunate, heart-broken girl 'ithout;' an' it'll be a strange thing

if them that brought her to what she's sufferin' won't suffer

themselves yet; there's a God above still, I hope, glory be to His name!

Traichery!” she exclaimed; “ah, you ill-minded villains, it's yourselves

you're thinkin' of, an' what you desarve. As for myself, it's neither

you nor your villainy that's in my head, but the sorrowful heart that's

in that poor girl 'ithout--ay, an' a broken one; for, indeed, broked it

is; and it's not long she'll be troub'lin' either friend or foe in this

world. The curse o' glory upon you all, you villains, and upon every one

that had a hand in bringing her to this!”

Having uttered these words, she put her cloak and bonnet upon her, and

left the house, adding as she went out, “if it's any pleasure to you to

know it, I'll tell you. I'm goin' to meet Nancy Peety this minute,

an' you never seen sich colloguin' an' hugger-muggerin' as we'll have,

plaise goodness--ah, you ill-thinkin', skulkin' villains!”

Kate Hogan, though a tigress when provoked, and a hardened, reckless

creature, scarcely remarkable for any particular virtue that could be

enumerated, and formidable from that savage strength and intrepidity

for which she was so well known, was yet not merely touched by the

sufferings of Kathleen Cavanagh, but absolutely took an interest in

them, at once so deep and full of sympathy, as to affect her temper and

disturb her peace of mind. Notwithstanding her character she was still

a woman; and, in matters involving the happiness of an innocent and

beautiful creature of her own sex, who had been so often personally kind

to herself, and whose family were protectors and benefactors to her and

her kindred, she felt as a woman. Though coarse-minded upon most many

matters, she was yet capable of making the humane distinction which her

brutal relatives could not understand or feel;--we mean the fact that,

in having lent themselves to the base conspiracy planned and concocted

by Hycy Burke, and in having been undoubtedly the cause of M'Mahon's

disgrace, as well as of his projected marriage with Kathleen having been

broken up, they did not perceive that she was equally a sufferer; or,

if they did, they were either too cunning or too hardened to acknowledge

it. For this particular circumstance, Kate, inasmuch as it involved deep

ingratitude on their part, could not at all forgive them.

At this time, indeed, the melancholy position of Kathleen Cavanagh was

one which excited profound and general sorrow; and just in proportion

as this was sincere, so was the feeling of indignation against him whose

corruption and want of principle were supposed to have involved her

in their consequences. Two months or better of the period allotted by

Kathleen to the vindication of his character, had now elapsed, and yet

nothing had been done to set himself right either with her or the world.

She consequently argued and with apparent reason, that everything in the

shape of justification was out of his power, and this reflection only

deepened her affliction. Yes, it deepened her affliction; but it did

not; on that account succeed in enabling her to obliterate his image

the more easily from her heart. The fact was, that despite the force and

variety of the rumors that were abroad against him--and each succeeding

week brought in some fresh instance of his duplicity and profligacy,

thanks to the ingenious and fertile malignity of Hycy the

accomplished--despite of this, and despite of all, the natural reaction

of her heart had set in--their past endearments, their confidence their

tenderness, their love, now began, after the first vehement expression

of pride and high principle had exhausted the offended mind of its

indignation, to gradually resume their influence over her. A review,

besides, of her own conduct towards her lover was by no means

satisfactory to her. Whilst she could not certainly but condemn him,

she felt as if she had judged him upon a principle at once too cold and

rigorous. Indeed, now that a portion of time had enabled her mind to

cool, she could scarcely understand why it was that she had passed, so

harsh a sentence upon him. She was not, however, capable of analyzing

her own mind and feelings upon the occasion, or she might have known

that her severity towards the man I was the consequence, on her part, of

that innate scorn and indignation which pure and lofty minds naturally

entertain against everything dishonorable and base, and that it is a

very difficult thing to disassociate the crime from the criminal, even

in cases where the latter may have had a strong hold upon the affections

of such a noble nature. Nay, the very fact of finding that one's

affections have been fixed upon a person capable of such dishonor,

produces a double portion of indignation at the discovery of their

profligacy, because it supposes, in the first place, that something like

imposture must have been practised upon us in securing our affections,

or what is still more degrading, that we must have been materially

devoid of common penetration, or we could not have suffered ourselves to

become the dupe of craft and dissimulation.

Our high-minded heroine, however, had no other theory upon the subject

of her own feelings, than that she loved her religion and its precepts,

and detested every word that was at variance with truth, and every act

inconsistent with honesty and that faithful integrity which resists

temptation and corruption in whatever plausible shapes they may approach

it.

Be this, however, as it may, she now found that, as time advanced, her

heart began to fall into its original habits. The tumult occasioned by

the shock resulting from her lover's want of integrity, had now nearly

passed away, and the affection of the woman began to supersede the

severity of the judge. By degrees she was enabled, as we have said, to

look back upon her conduct, and to judge, of her lover through the more

softened medium of her reviving affection. This feeling gained upon her

slowly but surely, until her conscience became, alarmed at the excess

of her own severity towards him. Still, however, she would occasionally

return, as it were, to a contemplation of his delinquency, and endeavor,

from an unconscious principle of self-love, to work herself up into that

lofty hatred of dishonor which had prompted his condemnation; but the

effort was in vain. Every successive review of his guilt was attended

by a consciousness that she had been righteous overmuch, and that the

consequences of his treason, even against their common religion, were

not only rapidly diminishing in her heart, but yielding to something

that very nearly resembled remorse.

Such was the state of her feelings on the day when Kate Hogan and her

male relatives indulged in the friendly and affectionate dialogue we

have just detailed. Her heart was smitten, in fact, with sorrow for the

harsh part she had taken against her lover, and she only waited for

an opportunity to pour out a full confession of all she felt into the

friendly ear of her sister.

Gerald Cavanagh's family at this period was darkened by a general spirit

of depression and gloom. Their brother James, from whatever cause it may

have proceeded, seemed to be nearly as much cast down as his sister; and

were it not that Cavanagh himself and his wife sustained themselves by a

hope that Kathleen might ultimately relax so far as to admit, as she had

partly promised to do, the proposals of Edward Burke, it would have

been difficult to find so much suffering apart from death under the same

roof.

On the day in question, our friend O'Finigan, whose habits of

intemperance had by no means diminished, called at Cavanagh's, as he had

been in the habit of doing. Poor Kathleen was now suffering, besides,

under the consequences of the injunction not to mention M'Mahon's name,

which she had imposed upon her own family--an injunction which they had

ever since faithfully observed. It was quite evident from the unusually

easy fluency of O'Finigan's manner, that he had not confined his

beverages, during the day, to mere water. Hanna, on seeing him enter,

said to Kathleen, in a whisper,--

“Hadn't you better come out and take a walk, Kathleen? This O'Finigan is

almost tipsy, and you know he'll be talking about certain subjects you

don't wish to hear.”

“Time enough, dear Hanna,” she replied, with a sorrowful look at her

sister, “my heart is so full of suffering and pain that almost anything

will relieve it. You know I was always amused by Finigan's chat.” Her

sister, who had not as yet been made acquainted with the change which

had taken place in her heart, on hearing these words looked at her

closely, and smiled sorrowfully, but in such a manner as if she had

at that moment experienced a sensation of pleasure, if not of hope.

Hitherto, whenever a neighbor or stranger came in, Kathleen, fearing

that the forbidden name might become the topic of conversation, always

retired, either to another room or left the house altogether, in order

to relieve her own family from the painful predicament in which their

promise of silence to her had placed them. On this occasion, however,

Hanna perceived with equal surprise and pleasure that she kept her

ground.

“Sit ye, merry jinteels!” said Finigan, as he entered; “I hope I see

you all in good health and spirits; I hope I do; although I am afraid if

what fame--an' by the way, Mrs. Cavanagh, my classicality tells me, that

the poet Maro blundered like a Hibernian, when he made the same fame a

trumpeter, in which, wid the exception of one point, he was completely

out of keeping. There's not in all litherature another instance of a

female trumpeter; and for sound raisons--if the fair sex were to get

possession of the tuba, God help the world, for it would soon be a noisy

one. However, let me recollect myself--where was I? Oh! ay--I am afraid

that if what fame says--an' by the way, her trumpet must have been a

speaking one--be true, that there's a fair individual here whose spirits

are not of the most exalted character; and indeed, and as I am the

noblest work of God--an honest man--I feel sorry to hear the fact.”

The first portion of this address, we need scarcely say, was the only

part of it which was properly understood, if we except a word or two at

the close.

“God save you, Misther Finigan.”

“O'Finigan, if you plase, Mrs. Cavanagh.”

“Well, well,” she replied, “O'Finigan, since it must be so; but in troth

I can!t always remember it, Misther Finigan, in regard that you didn't

always stand out for it yourself. Is there any news stirrin', you that's

abroad?”

“Not exactly news, ma'am; but current reports that are now no novelty.

The M'Mahon's--”

“Oh, never mind them,” exclaimed Mrs. Cavanagh, glancing at her

daughter, “if you have any 'other news let us hear it--pass over the

M'Mahons--they're not worth our talk, at least some o' them.”

“Pardon me, Mrs. Cavanagh;--if Achilles at the head of his myrmidons was

to inform me to that effect, I'd tell him he had mistaken his customer.

My principle, ma'am--and 'tis one I glory in--is to defend the absent in

gineral, for it is both charitable and ginerous to do so--in gineral, I

say; but when I know that they are unjustly aspersed, I contemplate it

as' an act of duty on my part to vindicate them.”

“Well,” replied Mrs. Cavanagh, “that's all very right an' thrue, Mr.

Finigan.”

“It is, Mr. Finig--O'Finigan,” observed James Cavanagh, who was present,

“and your words are a credit and an honor to you.”

“Thanks, James, for the compliment; for it is but truth. The scandal I

say (he proceeded without once regarding the hint: thrown out by Mrs.

Cavanagh) which has! been so studiously disseminated against Bryan

M'Mahon--spare your nods and winks, Mrs. Cavanagh, for if you winked at

me with as many eyes as Argus had, and nodded at me wid as many heads as

Hydra, or that baste in the Revelaytions, I'd not suppress a syllable of

truth;--no, ma'am, the _suppressio veri's_ no habit of mine; and I say

and assert--ay, and asseverate--that that honest and high-spirited

young man, named Bryan or Bernard M'Mahon, is the victim of villany

and falsehood--ay, of devilish hatred and ingenious but cowardly

vituperation.”

“Kathleen,” whispered her sister, “will you come out, darlin'? this talk

must be painful to you.”

Kathleen gave her a look of much mingled sorrow and entreaty as went to

her heart. Hanna, whose head had been lovingly reclining on her sister's

bosom, pressed her gently but affectionately to her heart, and made no

reply.

“You wor always a friend of his,” replied Mrs. Cavanagh, “an' of course

you spake as a friend.”

“Yes,” said Finigan, “I always was a friend of his, because I always

knew his honesty, his love of truth, his hatred of a mane action, ay,

and his generosity and courage. I knew him from the very egg, I may

say--_ab ovo_--Mrs. Cavanagh; it was I instilled his first principles into

him. Oh! I know well! I never had a scholar I was so proud out of.

Hycy Burke was smart, quick, and cunning; but then he was

traicherous--something of a coward when he had his match--strongly

addicted to fiction in most of his narratives, and what was still a

worse point about him, he had the infamous ingenuity, whenever he had a

point to gain--such as belying a boy and taking away his characther--of

making truth discharge all the blackguard duties of falsehoood. Oh! I

know them both well! But who among all I ever enlightened wid

instruction was the boy that always tould the truth, even when it went

against himself?--why, Bryan M'Mahon. Who ever defended the

absent?--why, Bryan M'Mahon. Who ever and always took the part of the

weak and defenceless against the strong and tyrannical?--why, Bryan

M'Mahon. Who fought for his religion, too, when the young heretics used

to turn it, or try to turn it, into ridicule--ay, and when cowardly and

traicherous Hycy used to sit quietly by, and either put the insult in

his pocket, or curry favor wid the young sneering vagabonds that abused

it? And yet, at the time Hycy was a thousand times a greater little

bigot than Bryan. The one, wid a juvenile rabble at his back, three to

one, was a tyrant over the young schismatics; whilst Bryan, like a brave

youth as he was, ever and always protected them against the disadvantage

of numbers, and insisted on showing them fair play. I am warm, Mrs.

Cavanagh,” he continued, “and heat, you know, generates thirst. I know

that a drop o' the right sort used to be somewhere undher this same

roof; but I'm afraid if the _fama clamosa_ be thrue, that the side of

the argument I have taken isn't exactly such as to guarantee me a touch

at the native--that is, taking it for granted that there's any in the

house.”

This request was followed by a short silence. The Cavanagh's all, with

the exception of Kathleen, looked at each other, but every eye was

marked either by indecision or indifference. At length Hanna looked at

her sister, and simply said, “dear Kathleen!”

“He has done,” replied the latter, in a low voice, “what I had not the

generosity to do--he has defended the absent.”

“Darling Kathleen,” Hanna whispered, and then pressed her once more to

her heart. “You must have it, Mr. O'Finigan,” said she--“you must have

it, and that immediately;” and as she spoke, she proceeded to a cupboard

from which she produced a large black bottle, filled with that peculiar

liquid to which our worthy pedagogue was so devotedly addicted.

“Ah,” said he, on receiving a bumper from the fair hand of Hanna,

“let the M'Mahons alone for the old original--indeed I ought to

say--aboriginal hospitality. Thanks, Miss Hanna; in the meantime I will

enunciate a toast, and although we shall not draw very strongly upon

sentiment for the terms, it shall be plain and pithy; here is 'that the

saddle of infamy may be soon placed upon the right horse,' and maybe

there's an individual not a thousand miles from us, and who is besides

not altogether incognizant of the learned languages, including a

tolerably comprehensive circle of mathematics, who will, to a certain

extent, contribute to the consummation of that most desirable event;

here then, I repate, is the toast--'may the saddle of infamy soon be

placed upon the right horse!'”

Having drunk off the glass, he turned the mouth of it down upon his

corduroy breeches, as an intimation that he might probably find it

necessary to have recourse to it again.

Hanna observed, or rather we should say, felt, that as Finigan proceeded

with his reminiscences of M'Mahon's school-boy days and the enumeration

of his virtues, her sister's heart and bosom quivered with deep and

almost irrepressible emotion. There was a good deal of enthusiasm in the

man's manner, because he was in earnest, and it was quite evident that

Kathleen's spirit had caught it as he went along, and that her heart

recognized the truth of the picture which he was drawing. We say she

literally felt the quiverings of her sister's heart against her own,

and to do the admirable girl justice, she rejoiced to recognize these

manifestations of returning affection.

“It was only yesterday,” continued Finigan, resuming the discourse,

“that I met Bryan M'Mahon, and by the way, he has sorrow and distress,

poor fellow, in his face. 'Bryan,' said I, 'is it true that you and

your father's family are preparing to go to that _refugium peccatorum_,

America--that overgrown cupping-glass which is drawing the best blood of

our country out of it?'

“'The people of Ireland,' he replied, 'have a right to bless God that

there is such a country to fly to, and to resave them from a land

where they're neglected and overlooked. It is true, Mr. O'Finigan,' he

proceeded--!' we have nothing in this country to live for now.'

“'And so you are preparing?' I asked.

“'I ought rather say,' he replied, 'that we are prepared; we go in

another month; I only wish we were there already.'

“'I fear, Bryan,' said I, 'that you have not been well trated of late.'

He looked at me with something like surprise, but said nothing; and in

a quarter, I added, 'that was the last from which you were prepared to

expect justice without mercy.'

“'I don't understand you,' he replied sharply; 'what do you mean?'

“'Bryan,' said I, 'I scorn a moral circumbendibus where the direct truth

is necessary; I have heard it said, and I fear it is burthened wid too

much uncomfortable veracity, that Kathleen Cavanagh has donned the black

cap* in doing the judicial upon you, and that she considers her sentence

equal to the laws of the Medes and Persians, unchangeable--or,

like those of our own blessed church--wid reverence be the analogy

made--altogether infallible.' His eye blazed as I spoke; he caught me

where by the collar wid a grip that made me quake--'Another word against

Kathleen Cavanagh,' he replied, 'and I will shake every joint of your

carcass out of its place.' His little sister, Dora, was wid him at the

time; 'Give him a shake or two as it is,' she added, egging him on, 'for

what he has said already;' throth she's a lively little lady that,

an' if it wasn't that she has a pair of dark shining eyes, and sweet

features--ay, and as coaxin' a figure of her own--however, sorra may

care, somehow, I defy any one to, be angry wid her.”

* Alluding to the practice of putting on the black cap when

the Judge condemns a felon to death.

“Come, Mr. O'Finigan,” said James, approaching him, “you must have

another glass.”

“Well no, James,” he replied, “I think not.”

“Faith, but I say you will; if it was only to hear what Dora--hem--what

Bryan said.

“Very well,” said the master, allowing him to take the glass which he

received again brimming, “thanks, James.”

“'Well,' said Bryan, lettin' go my collar, 'blame any one you like;

blame me, blame Vanston, blame Chevydale, Fethertonge, anybody,

everybody, the Priest, the Bishop, the Pope,--but don't dare to blame

Kathleen Cavanagh.'

“'Why,' said I, 'has she been right in her condemnation of you?'

“'She has,' he replied, with a warmth of enthusiasm which lit up his

whole features; 'she has done nothing but what was right. She just acted

as she ought, and all I can say is, that I know I'm not worthy of her,

and never was. God bless her!'

“'And don't let me hear,' said Dora, taking up the dialogue, 'that ever

you'll mention her name wid disrespect--mark that, Mr. O'Finigan, or

it'll be worse for you a thrifle.'

“Her brother looked on her wid complacent affection, and patting her on

the head, said, 'Come, darling, don't beat him now. You see the risk you

run,' he added, as they went away, 'so don't draw down Dora's vengeance

on your head. She might forgive you an offence against herself; but she

won't forgive you one against Kathleen Cavanagh; and, Mister O'Finigan,

neither will I.'”

“Masther,” said James Cavanagh, “you'll stop to-night with us?”

“No, James, I have an engagement of more importance than you could ever

dhrame of, and about--but I'm not free or at liberty to develop the

plot--for plot it is--at any greater length. Many thanks to you in the

mane time for your hospitable intentions; but before I go, I have a word

to say. Now, what do you think of that young man's ginerosity, who would

rather have himself thought guilty than have her thought wrong; for,

whisper,--I say he's not guilty, and maybe--but, no ruatther, time will

tell, and soon tell, too, plaise God.”

So saying he took up his hat, and politely wished them a pleasant

evening, but firmly refused to taste another drop of liquor, “lest,”

he added, “it might denude him of the necessary qualifications for

accomplishing the enterprise on which he was bint.”

When he was gone, Kathleen brought her sister to their own room, and

throwing herself on her bosom, she spoke not, but wept calmly and in

silence for about twenty minutes.

“Kathleen,” said Hanna, “I am glad to see this, and I often wished for

it.”

“Whisht, dear Hanna,” she replied; “don't speak to me at present.

I'm not fit to talk on that unfortunate subject yet. 'Forgive us our

trespassess as we--we--forgive them that trespass against us!' Oh!

Hanna darling, how have I prayed?” They then rejoined the family.

CHAPTER XXIII.--Harry Clinton's Benevolence Defeated

--His Uncle's Treachery--The Marriage of Kathleen and Edward Burke

Determined on

This partial restoration of M'Mahon to the affections of Kathleen

Cavanagh might have terminated in a full and perfect reconciliation

between them, were it not for circumstances which we are about to

detail. From what our readers know of young Clinton, we need not assure

them that, although wild and fond of pleasure, he was by no means devoid

of either generosity or principle. There were indeed few individuals,

perhaps scarcely any, in the neighborhood, who felt a deeper or

manlier sympathy for the adverse fate and evil repute which had come

so suddenly, and, as he believed in his soul, undeservedly, upon Bryan

M'Mahon. He resolved accordingly to make an effort for the purpose of

setting the unfortunate young man's character right with the public, or

if not with the public, at least in that quarter where such a service

might prove most beneficial to him, we mean in Gerald Cavanagh's family.

Accordingly, one morning after breakfast as his uncle sat reading the

newspaper, he addressed him as follows:--

“By the way, uncle, you must excuse mo for asking you a question or

two.”

“Certainly, Harry. Did I not often desire you never to hesitate asking

me any question you wish? Why should you not?”

“This, however, may be trenching a little upon the secrets of

your--your--profession.”

“What is it?--what is it?”

“You remember the seizure you made some time ago in the townland of

Ahadarra?”

“I do perfectly well.”

“Now, uncle, excuse me. Is it fair to ask you if you know the person who

furnished you with information on that subject. Mark, I don't wish nor

desire to know his name; I only ask if you know it?”

“No, I do not.”

“Do you not suspect it? It came to you anonymously, did it not?”

“Why, you are raking me with a fire of cross-examination, Harry; but it

did.”

“Should you wish to know, uncle?”

“Undoubtedly, I wish to know those to whom we are indebted for that

fortunate event.”

“Don't say we, uncle; speak only for yourself.”

“I should wish to know, though.”

“Pray have you the letter?”

“I have: you will find it in one of the upper pigeon holes; I can't

say which; towards the left hand. I placed it there yesterday, as it

turned up among some other communications of a similar stamp.”

In a few moments his nephew returned, with the precious document in his

hands.

“Now, uncle,” he proceeded, as he seated himself at the table, “you

admit that this is the letter?”

“I admit--why, you blockhead, does not the letter itself prove as much?”

“Well, then, I know the scoundrel who sent you this letter.”

“I grant you he is a scoundrel, Harry; nobody, I assure you, despises

his tools more than I do, as in general every man does who is forced to

make use of them. Go on.”

“The man who sent you that letter was Hycy Burke.”

“Very likely,” replied the cool old Still-Hound; “But I did not think he

would ever place us--”

“You, sir, if you please.”

“Very well, me, sir, if you please, under such an important obligation

to him. How do you know, though, that it was he who sent it?”

His nephew then related the circumstance of his meeting with Nanny

Peety, and the discovery he had made through her of the letter having

been both written and sent by Hycy to the post-office. In order,

besides, to satisfy his relative that the getting up of the still was a

plan concocted by Hycy to ruin M'Mahon, through the, medium of the fine,

he detailed as much of Hycy's former proposal to him as he conveniently

could, without disclosing the part which he himself had undertaken to

perform in this concerted moment.

“Well, Harry,” replied the old fellow after a pause, “he's a d--d

scoundrel, no doubt; but as his scoundrelism is his own, I don't see why

we should hesitate to avail ourselves of it. With respect, however, to

M'Mahon, I can assure you, that I was informed of his intention to set

up a Still a good while before I made the capture, and not by anonymous

information either. Now, what would you say if both I and Fethertonge

knew the whole plot long before it was put in practice?”

As he spoke, he screwed his hard keen features into a most knavish

expression.

“Yes,” he added; “and I can tell you that both the agent and I forwarned

M'Mahon against suffering himself to engage in anything illegal--which

was our duty as his friends you know--hem!”

“Is that possible?” said his nephew, blushing for this villianous

admission.

“Quite possible,” replied the other; “however, as I said, I don't see

why we should hesitate to avail ourselves of his villany.”

“That is precisely what I was about to say, sir,” replied his nephew,

still musing on what he had heard.

“Right, Harry; the farm is a good thing, or will be so, at least.”

“The farm, sir! but I did not speak with reference to the farm.”

“Then with reference to what did you speak?”

“I meant, sir, that we should not hesitate to avail ourselves of his

villany, in setting M'Mahon right with the public as far as we could.”

“With the whole public!--whew! Why, my good young man, I thought the

days of giants and windmills had gone by.”

“Well, sir,” continued the nephew, “at all events there is one thing you

must do for me. I wish you to see old Gerald Cavanagh, and as far as

you can to restore his confidence in the honesty and integrity of young

M'Mahon. State to him that you have reason to know that his son has a

bitter enemy in the neighborhood; that great injustice had been done

to him in many ways, and that you would be glad that a reconciliation

should take place between the families.”

“And so I am to set out upon the wild goose chase of reconciling a

wench, and a fellow, without knowing why or wherefore.”

“No, sir--not at all---I will make Cavanough call upon you.”

“I don't understand this,” replied the uncle, rubbing behind his ear; “I

don't perceive; but pray what interest have you in the matter?”

“Upon my honor, uncle, none in life, unless an anxiety to serve poor

M'Mahon. The world is down upon him about that vote which, considering

all the circumstances, was more creditable to him than otherwise. I

know, however, that in consequence of the estrangement between him and

Miss Cavanagh, he is bent on emigrating. It is that fact which presses

upon him most. Now will you oblige me in this, uncle?”

“Let Cavanagh call upon me,” he replied, “and if I can say anything to

soften the old fellow, perhaps I will.”

“Thank you, uncle--thank you--I shall not forget this kindness.”

“Well, then,” said his uncle, “I am going down to Fethertonge on a

certain matter of business, you understand, and--let me see--why, if

Cavanagh calls on me tomorrow about eleven, I shall see him at all

events.”

Young Clinton felt surprised and grieved at what his uncle had just

hinted to him; but on the other hand, he felt considerably elated at the

prospect of being able to bring about a reconciliation between these two

families, and with this excellent motive in view he went to Cavanagh,

with whom he had a private conversation. Having been made aware

by M'Mahon himself of Cavanagh's prejudice against him, and the

predilections of himself and his wife for an alliance into Burke's

family, he merely told him that his uncle would be glad to see him the

next day about eleven o'clock, upon which the other promised to attend

to that gentleman.

Old Clinton, on his way to Fethertonge's, met that worthy individual

riding into Ballymacan.

“I was going down to you,” said he; “but where are you bound for?”

“Into town,” replied the agent; “have you any objection to ride that

way?”

“None in the world; it is just the same to me. Well, how are matters

proceeding?”

“Not by any means well,” replied the other, “I begin to feel something

like alarm. I wish we had those M'Mahons out of the country. Vanston

has paid that d--d goose Chevydale a visit, and I fear that unless the

Ahadarra man and his father, and the whole crew of them, soon leave the

country, we shall break down in our object.”

“Do you tell me so?” said the gauger, starting; “by Jove, it is well I

know this in time.”

“I don't understand.”

“Why,” continued. Clinton, “I was about to take a foolish step to-morrow

morning, for the express purpose, I believe, of keeping him, and

probably the whole family in the country.”

He then detailed the conversation that he had with his nephew, upon

which Fethertonge convinced him that there was more in the wind with

respect to that step, than either he or his nephew, who he assured

him was made a cat's paw of in the business, suspected. “That's a deep

move,” said the agent, “but we shall defeat them, notwithstanding.

Everything, however, depends upon their leaving the country before

Chevydale happens to come at the real state of the case; still, it will

go hard or we shall baffle both him and them yet.”

Whether Clinton Was sure that the step urged upon him by his nephew was

the result of a generous regard for M'Mahon, or that the former was made

a mere tool for ultimate purposes, in the hands of the Ahadarra man, as

he called him it is not easy to determine. Be this as it may, when

the hour of eleven came the next morning, he was prepared to set his

nephew's generosity aside, and act upon Fethertonge's theory of doing

everything in his power to get the whole connection out of the country,

“Ha,” he exclaimed, “I now understand what Harry meant with respect to

their emigration--'It is that fact which presses upon him most.' Oh ho!

is it so, indeed! Very good, Mr. M'Mahon--we shall act accordingly.”

Gerald Cavanaugh had been made acquainted by his wife on the day before

with the partial revival of his daughter's affection for Bryan M'Mahon,

as well as with the enthusiastic defense of him made by Finigan, two

circumstances which gave him much concern and anxiety. On his return,

however, from Clinton's, his family observed that there was something of

a satisfactory expression mingled up with a good deal of grave thought

in his face. The truth is, if the worthy man thought for a moment that

the ultimate loss of M'Mahon would have seriously injured her peace

of mind, he would have bitterly regretted it, and perhaps encourage

a reconciliation. This was a result, however, that he could scarcely

comprehend. That she might fret and pine for a few months or so was the

worst he could calculate upon, and of course he took it for granted,

that the moment her affection for one was effaced, another might step

in, without any great risk of disappointment.

“Well, Gerald,” said his wife, “what did Ganger Clinton want with you?”

Gerald looked at his two daughters and sighed unconsciously. “It's not

good news,” he proceeded, “in one sense, but it is in another; it's

good news to all my family but that girl sittin' there,” pointing to

Kathleen.

Unfortunately no evil intelligence could have rendered the unhappy

girl's cheek paler than it was; so that, so far as appearances went, it

was impossible to say what effect this startling communication had upon

her.

“I was down wid Misther Clinton,” he proceeded; “he hard a report that

there was about to be a makin' up of the differences between Kathleen

there and Bryan, and he sent for me to say, that, for the girl's

sake--who he said was, as he had heard from all quarthers, a

respectable, genteel girl--he couldn't suffer a young man so full of

thraichery and desate, as he had good raisons to know Bryan M'Mahon

was, to impose himself upon her or her family. He cautioned me,” he

proceeded, “and all of us against him; and said that if I allowed a

marriage to take place between him and my daughter, he'd soon bring

disgrace upon her and us, as well as himself. 'You may take my word for

it, Mr. Cavanagh,' says he, 'that is not a thrifle 'ud make me send for

you in sich a business; but, as I happen to know the stuff he is made

of, I couldn't bear to see him take a decent family in so distastefully.

To my own knowledge, Cavanagh,' said he, 'he'd desave a saint, much less

your innocent and unsuspectin' daughter.'”

“But, father,” said Hanna, “you know there's not a word of truth in that

report; and mayn't all that has been said, or at least some of what has

been said against Bryan, be as much a lie as that? Who on earth: could

sich a report come from?”

“I axed Mr. Clinton the same question,” said the father, “and it appears

that it came from Bryan himself.”

“Oh, God forbid!” exclaimed Hanna; “for, if it's a thing that he said

that, he'd say anything.”

“I don't know,” returned the father, “I only spake it as I hard it, and,

what is more, I believe it--I believe it after what I hard this day;

everybody knows him now--man, woman, an' child, Gheernah! what an escape

that innocent girl had of him!”

Kathleen rose up, went over to her father, and, placing her hand upon

his shoulder, was about to speak, but she checked herself; and, after

looking at them all, as it were by turns, with a look of distraction and

calm but concentrated agony, she returned again to her seat, but did not

sit down.

“After all,” she exclaimed, “there has been no new crime brought against

him, not one; but, if I acted wrongly and ungenerously once, I won't

do so again. Hanna, see his sister Dora, say I give him the next three

weeks to clear himself; and, father, listen! if he doesn't do so within

that time, take me, marry me to Edward Burke if you wish--of course

Hycy's out of the question--since you must have it so, for the sooner

I go to my grave the better. There's his last chance, let him take it;

but, in the mean time, listen to me, one and all of you. I cannot bear

this long; there's a dry burning pain about my heart, and a weight upon

it will soon put me out of the reach of disappointment and sorrow. Oh,

Bryan M'Mahon, can you be what is said of you! and, if you can, oh, why

did we ever meet, or why did I ever see you!”

Her sister Hanna attempted to console her, but for once she failed.

Kathleen would hear no comfort, for she said she stood in need of none.

“My mind is all dark,” said she, “or rather it is sick of this miserable

work. Why am I fastened upon by such suffering and distraction? Don't

attempt at present to console me, Hanna; I won't, because I can't be

consoled. I wish I knew this man--whether he is honest or not. If he is

the villain they say he is, and that with a false mask upon him, he has

imposed himself on me, and gained my affections by hypocrisy and deceit,

why, Hanna, my darling sister, I could stab him to the heart. To think

that I ever should come to love a villain that could betray his church,

his country, me--and take a bribe; yes, he has done it,” she proceeded,

catching fire from the force of her own detestation of what was wrong.

“Here, Hanna, I call back my words--I give him no further warning than

he has got: he knows the time, the greater part of it is past, and has

he ever made a single attempt to clear himself? No, because he cannot.

I despise him; he is unworthy of me, and I fear he ever was. Here,

father,” she said with vehemence, “listen to me, my dear father; and

you, my mother, beloved mother, hear me! At the expiration of three

weeks I will marry Edward Burke; he is a modest, and I think an

honest young man, who would not betray his religion nor his country,

nor--nor--any unhappy girl that might happen to love him; oh, no, he

would not--and so, after three weeks--I will marry him. Go now and tell

him so--say I said so; and you may rest assured I will not break my

word, although--I may break--break my heart--my heart! Now, Hanna, come

out and walk, dear--come out, and let us chat of other matters; yes,

of other matters; and you can tell me candidly whether you think Bryan

M'Mahon such a villain.” Struck by her own words she paused almost

exhausted, and, bending down, put her face upon her hands, and by a long

persevering effort, at length raised her head, and after a little time

appeared to have regained a good deal of composure; but not without

tears--for she had wept bitterly.

On that night she told her sister that the last resolution she had come

to was that by which she was determined to abide.

“You would not have me like a mere girl,” she said, “without the power

of knowing my own mind--no; let what may come I will send no messages

after him--and as sure as I have life I will marry Edward Burke after

the expiration of three weeks, if Bryan doesn't--but it's idle to talk

of it--if he could he would have done it before now. Good-night, dear

Hanna--good-night,” and after many a long and heavy sigh she sank to an

uneasy and troubled slumber.

The next morning Gerald Cavanagh, who laid great stress upon the

distracted language of his daughter on the preceding night paid an early

visit to his friend, Jemmy Burke. He found the whole family assembled

at breakfast, and after the usual salutations, was asked to join them,

which invitation, however, having already breakfasted, he declined. Hycy

had of late been very much abroad--that is to say he was out very much

at night, and dined very frequently in the head-inn of Ballymacan,

when one would suppose he ought to have dined at home. On the present

occasion he saluted honest Gerald with a politeness peculiarly ironical.

“Mr. Cavanagh,” said he, “I hope I see you in good health, sir. How

are all the ladies?--Hannah, the neat, and Kathleen--ah, Kathleen, the

divine!”

“Troth, they're all very well, I thank you, Hycy; and how is yourself?”

“Free from care, Mr. Cavanagh--a chartered libertine.”

“A libertine!” exclaimed the honest farmer; “troth I've occasionally

heard as much; but until I heard it from your own lips divil a word of

it I believed.”

“He is only jesting, Mr. Cavanagh,” said his brother; “he doesn't mean

exactly, nor indeed at all, what you suppose he does.”

“Does he mean anything at all, Ned?” said his father, dryly, “for of

late it's no aisy matther to understand him.”

“Well said, Mr. Burke,” replied Hycy; “I am like yourself, becoming

exceedingly oracular of late--but, Mr. Cavanagh, touching this exquisite

union which is contemplated between Adonis and Juno the ox-eyed--does

it still hold good, that, provided always she cannot secure the corrupt

clod-hopper, she will in that ease condescend upon Adonis?”

“Gerald,” said the father, “as there's none here so handy at the

nonsense as to understand him, the best way is to let him answer

himself.”

“Begad, Jemmy,” said Cavanagh, “to tell you the truth, I haven't

nonsense enough to answer the last question at any rate; unless he

takes to speakin' common-sense I won't undhertake to hould any further

discourse wid him.”

“Why will you continue,” said his brother in a low voice, “to render

yourself liable to these strong rebuffs from plain people?”

“Well said, most vituline--_Solomon secundus_, well said.”

“Hycy,” said his mother, “you ought to remimber that every one didn't

get the edi cation you did--an' that ignorant people like your father and

Gerald Kavanagh there can't undhercomestand one-half o' what you say.

Sure they know nothing o' book-lamin', and why do you give it them?”

“Simply to move their metaphysics, Mrs. Burke. They are two of the most

notorious metaphysicians from this to themselves; but they don't possess

your powers of ratiocination, madam?”

“No,” replied his father; “nayther are we sich judges of horseflesh,

Hycy.”

Hycy made him a polite bow, and replied, “One would think that joke

is pretty well worn by this time, Mr. Burke. Couldn't you strike out

something original now?”

“All I can say is,” replied the father, “that the joke has betther

bottom than the garran it was made upon.”

Edward now arose and left the parlor, evidently annoyed at the empty

ribaldry of his brother, and in a few minutes Hycy mounted his horse and

rode towards Ballymacan.

It is not our intention here to follow Gerald Cavanagh in the account,

unconsciously one sided as it was, of the consent which he assured them

Kathleen had given, on the night before, to marry their son Edward.

It is sufficient to say, that before they separated, the match was

absolutely made by the two worthies, and everything arranged, with, the

exception of the day of marriage, which they promised to determine on at

their next meeting.

CHAPTER XXIV.--Thoughts on Our Country and Our Countrymen

--Dora and Her Lover.

The state of the country, at this period of our narrative, was full

of gloom and depression. Spring had now set in, and the numbers of our

independent and most industrious countrymen that flocked towards our

great seaports were reckoned by many thousands; and this had been the

case for many a season previously. That something was wrong, and that

something is wrong in the country must, alas! be evident from the

myriad's who, whilst they have the means in their hands, are anxious to

get out of it as fast as they can. And yet there is not a country in the

world, a population so affectionately attached to the soil--to the place

of their birth--as the Irish. In fact, the love of their native fields,

their green meadows, the dark mountains, and the glorious torrents that

gush from them, is a passion of which they have in foreign lands

been often known to die. It is called Home Sickness, and we are aware

ourselves of more than one or two cases in which individuals, in a

comparatively early stage of life, have pined away in secret after their

native hills, until the malady becoming known, unfortunately too late,

they sought once more the green fields and valleys among which they had

spent their youth, just in time to lay down their pale cheeks and rest

in their native clay for ever those hearts which absence and separation

from the very soil had broken.

Now, nothing can be a greater proof of the pressure, the neglect, the

hopelessness of independence or comfort, which the condition of the

people, and the circumstances which occasioned it, have produced, than

the fact that the strong and sacred attachment which we have described

is utterly incapable of attaching them as residents in a country so

indescribably dear to their best affections. People may ask, and do ask,

and will ask, why Ireland is in such a peculiarly distressed state--why

there is always upon its surface a floating mass of pauperism without

parallel in Europe, or perhaps in the world? To this we reply simply

because the duties of property have uniformly been neglected. And in

what, may it be asked, do the duties of property consist? To this we

reply again, in an earnest fixed resolution to promote, in the first

place, the best social and domestic interests of the people, to improve

their condition, to stock their minds with, useful and appropriate

knowledge, to see that they shall be taught what a sense of decent

comfort means, that they shall not rest satisfied with a wad of straw

for a bed, and a meal of potatoes for food, and that they shall,

besides, come to understand the importance of their own position as

members of civil society. Had the landlords of Ireland paid attention

to these and other matters that directly involve their own welfare and

independence, as well as those of their neglected tenantry, they would

not be, as they now are, a class of men, some absolutely bankrupt, and

more on the very eve of it; and all this, to use a commercial phrase

painfully appropriate,--because they neglect their business.

Who, until lately, ever heard of an Irish landlord having made the

subject of property, or the principles upon which it ought to be

administered, his study? By this we do not mean to say that they did not

occasionally bestow a thought upon their own interests; but, in doing

so, they were guided by erroneous principles that led them to place

these interests in antagonism with those of the people. They forgot

that poverty is the most fertile source of population, and that in every

neglected and ill-regulated state of society, they invariably reproduce

each other; but the landlords kept the people poor, and now they

are surprised, forsooth, at their poverty and the existence of a

superabundant population.

“We know,” said they, “that the people are poor; but we know also that,

by subsisting merely upon the potato, and excluding better food and a

higher state of comfort, of course the more is left for the landlord.”

This in general was their principle--and its consequences are now upon

themselves.

This, however, is a subject on which it is not our intention to

expatiate here. What we say is, that, in all the relations of civil

life, Her people were shamefully and criminally neglected. They were

left without education, permitted to remain ignorant of the arts of

life, and of that industrial knowledge on which, or rather on the

application of which, all public prosperity is based.

And yet, although the people have great errors, without which no people

so long neglected can ever be found, and, although they have been for

centuries familiarized with suffering, yet it is absolute dread of

poverty that drives them from their native soil; They understand,

in fact, the progress of pauperism too well, and are willing to seek

fortune in any clime, rather than abide its approach to themselves--an

approach which they know is in their case inevitable and certain. For

instance, the very class of our countrymen that constitutes the great

bulk of our emigrants is to be found among those independent small

farmers who appear to understand something like comfort. One of these

men holding, say sixteen or eighteen acres, has a family we will suppose

of four sons and three daughters. This family grows up, the eldest son

marries, and the father, having no other way to provide for him, sets

apart three or four acres of his farm, on which he and his wife settle.

The second comes also to marry, and hopes his father won't treat him

worse than he treated his brother. He accordingly gets four acres more,

and settles down as his brother did. In this manner the holding is

frittered away and subdivided among them. For the first few years--that

is, before their children rise--they may struggle tolerably well; but,

at the expiration of twenty or twenty-five years, each brother finds

himself with such a family as his little strip of land cannot adequately

support, setting aside the claims of the landlord altogether; for rent

in these cases is almost out of the question.

What, then, is the consequence? Why, that here is to be found a

population of paupers squatted upon patches of land quite incapable of

their support; and in seasons of famine and sickness, especially in a

country where labor is below its value, and employment inadequate to the

demand that is for it, this same population becomes a helpless burthen

upon it--a miserable addition to the mass of poverty and destitution

under which it groans.

Such is the history of one class of emigrants in this unhappy land,

of ours; and what small farmer, with such a destiny as that we have

detailed staring him and his in the face, would not strain every nerve

that he might fly to any country--rather than remain to encounter the

frightful state of suffering which awaits him in this.

Such, then, is an illustration of the motives which prompt one class

of emigrants to seek their fortune in other climes, while it is yet in

their power to do so. There is still a higher class, however, consisting

of strong farmers possessed of some property and wealth, who, on looking

around them, find that the mass of destitution which is so rapidly

increasing in every direction must necessarily press upon them in time,

and ultimately drag them down to its own level. But even if the naked

evils which pervade society among us were not capable of driving these

independent yeomen to other lands, we can assure our legislators

that what these circumstances, appalling as they are, may fail in

accomplishing, the recent act for the extra relief of able-bodied

paupers will complete--an act which, instead of being termed a Relief

Act, ought to be called an act for the ruin of the country, and the

confiscation of its property, both of which, if not repealed, it will

ultimately accomplish. We need not mention here cases of individual

neglect or injustice upon the part of landlords and agents, inasmuch as

we have partially founded our narrative upon a fact of this description.

It has been said, we know, and in many instances with truth, that the

Irish are a negligent and careless people--without that perseverance and

enterprise for which their neighbors on the other side of the channel

are so remarkable. We are not, in point of fact, about to dispute the

justice of this charge; but, if it be true of the people, it is only so

indirectly. It is true of their condition and social circumstances in

this country, rather than of any constitutional deficiency in either

energy or industry that is inherent in their character. In their own

country they have not adequate motive for action--no guarantee that

industry shall secure them independence, or that the fruits of their

labor may not pass, at the will of; their landlords, into other hands.

Many, therefore, of the general imputations that are brought against

them in these respects, ought to be transferred rather to the depressing

circumstances in which they are placed than to the people themselves.

As a proof of; this, we have only to reflect upon their industry,

enterprise, and success, when relieved from the pressure of these

circumstances in other countries--especially in America, where exertion

and industry never, or at least seldom, fail to arrive at comfort and

independence. Make, then, the position of the Irishman reasonable--such,

for instance, as it is in any other country but his own--and he can

stand the test of comparison with any man.

Not only, however, are the Irish flying from the evils that are to come,

but they feel a most affectionate anxiety to enable all those who are

bound to them by the ties of kindred and domestic affection to imitate

their example. There is not probably to be found in records of human

attachment such a beautiful history of unforgotten affection, as that

presented by the heroic devotion of Irish emigrants to those of their

kindred who remain here from inability to accompany them.*

*The following extract, from a very sensible pamphlet by

Mr. Murray, is so appropriate to this subject, that we cannot

deny ourselves the pleasure of quoting it here:--

“You have been accustomed to grapple with and master

figures, whether as representing the produce of former

tariffs, or in constructing new ones, or in showing the

income and expenditure of the greatest nation on the earth.

Those now about to be presented to you, as an appendix to

this communication, are small, very small, in their separate

amounts, and not by any means in the aggregate of the

magnitude of the sums you have been accustomed to deal with;

but they are large separately, and heaving large in the

aggregate, in all that is connected with the higher and

nobler parts of our nature--in all that relates to and

evinces the feelings of the heart towards those who are of

our kindred, no matter by what waters placed asunder or by

what distance separated. They are large, powerfully large,

in reading lessons of instruction to the statesman and

philanthropist, in dealing with a warm-hearted people for

their good, and placing them in a position of comparative

comfort to that in which they now are. The figures represent

the particulars of 7,917 separate Bills of Exchange, varying

in amount from £1 to £10 each--a few exceeding the latter

sum; so many separate offerings from the natives of Ireland

who have heretofore emigrated from its shores, sent to their

relations and friends in Ireland, drawn and paid between the

1st of January and the 15th of December, 1846--not quite one

year; and amount in all to £41,261 9s. 11d. But this list,

long though it be, does not measure the number and amount of

such interesting offerings. It contains only about one-third

part of the whole number and value of such remittances that

have crossed the Atlantic to Ireland during the 349 days of

1846. The data from which this list is complied enable the

writer to estimate with confidence the number and amount

drawn otherwise; and he calculates that the entire number,

for not quite one year, of such Bills, is £24,000, and the

amount £125,000, or, on an average, £5 4s. 3d. each. They

are sent from husband to wife, from father to child, from

child to father, mother, and grand-parents, from sister to

brother, and the reverse; and from and to those united by

all the ties of blood and friendship that bind us together

on earth.

In the list, you will observe that these offerings of

affection are classed according to the parts of Ireland they

are drawn upon, and you will find that they are not confined

to one spot of it, but are general as regards the whole

country.”--_Ireland. its Present Condition and Future

Prospects, In n letter addressed to the Right Honorable Sir

Robert Peel, Baronet, by Robert Murray. Esq. Dublin, James

M'Olashan, 21 D'Olier Street, 1847_.

Let it not be said, then, that the Irishman is deficient in any of the

moral elements or natural qualities which go to the formation of such

a character as might be made honorable to himself and beneficial to the

country. By the success of his exertions in a foreign land, it is clear

that he is not without industry, enterprise, and perseverance; and we

have no hesitation in saying that, if he were supplied at home with due

encouragement and adequate motive, his good qualities could be developed

with as much zeal, energy, and success as ever characterized them in a

foreign country.

We trust the reader may understand what the condition of the country, at

the period of our narrative to which we refer, must have been, when such

multitudes as we have described rushed to our great seaports in order to

emigrate; the worst feature in this annual movement being that, whilst

the decent, the industrious, and the moral, all influenced by creditable

motives, went to seek independence in a distant land, the idle, the

ignorant, and the destitute necessarily remain at home--all as a

burthen, and too many of them as a disgrace to the country.

Our friends the M'Mahons, urged by motives at once so strong and

painful, were not capable of resisting the contagion of emigration

which, under the circumstances we have detailed, was so rife among

the people. It was, however, on their part a distressing and mournful

resolve. From the, moment it was made, a gloom settled upon the

whole family. Nothing a few months before had been farther from their

thoughts; but now there existed such a combination of arguments for

their departure, as influenced Bryan and his father, in spite of their

hereditary attachment to Ahadarra and Carriglass. Between them and the

Cavanaghs, ever since Gerald had delivered Kathleen's message to Bryan,

there was scarcely any intercourse. Hanna, 'tis true, and Dora had an

opportunity of exchanging a few words occasionally, but although the

former felt much anxiety for a somewhat lengthened and if possible

confidential conversation with her sparkling little friend, yet the

latter kept proudly if not haughtily silent on one particular subject,

feeling as she did, that anything like a concession on her part was

humiliating, and might be misconstrued into a disposition to compromise

the independence of her brother and family. But even poor Dora,

notwithstanding her affectionate heart and high spirit, had her own

sorrows to contend with, sorrows known only to her brother Bryan, who

felt disposed to befriend her in them as far as he could. So indeed

would every one of the family, had they known them, for we need scarcely

say that the warm and generous girl was the centre in which all their

affections met. And this indeed was only justice to her, inasmuch as she

was willing on any occasion to sacrifice her interests, her wishes, or

anything connected with her own welfare, to their individual or general

happiness. We have said, however, that she had her own sorrows, and

this was true. From the moment she felt assured that their emigration

to America was certain, she manifested a depression so profound and

melancholy, that the heart of her brother Bryan, who alone knew its

cause, bled for her. This by the rest of the family was imputed to the

natural regret she felt, in common with themselves, at leaving the old

places for ever, with this difference to be sure--they imagined that she

felt the separation more acutely than they did. Still, as the period

for their departure approached, there was not one of the family,

notwithstanding what she felt herself, who labored so incessantly to

soothe and sustain the spirits of her father, who was fast sinking under

the prospect of being “forever removed,” as he said, “from the places

his heart had grown into.” She was in fact the general consoler of the

family, and yet her eye scarcely ever met that of her brother that a

tear did not tremble in it, and she felt disposed to burst out into an

agony of unrestrained grief.

It was one evening in the week previous to their departure, that she

was on her return from Ballymacan, when on passing a bend of the road

between Carriglass and Fenton's farm, she met the cause of the sorrow

which oppressed her, in the handsome person of James Cavanaugh, to

whom she had been for more than a year and a half deeply and devotedly

attached, but without the knowledge of any individual living, save her

lover himself and her brother Bryan.

On seeing him she naturally started, but it was a start of pleasure, and

she felt her cheek flush and again get pale, and her heart palpitated,

then was still a moment, and again resumed its tumultuous pulsations.

“Blessed be God, my darlin' Dora, that I've met you at last,” said

James; “in heaven's name how did it happen that we haven't met for such

a length of time?”

“I'm sure that's more than I can tell,” replied Dora, “or rather it's

what both, you and I know the cause of too well.”

“Ah, poor Dora,” he exclaimed, “for your sake I don't wish to spake

about it at all; it left me many a sore heart when I thought of you.”

Dora's natural pale cheek mantled, and her eyes deepened with a

beautiful severity, as she hastily turned them on him and said, “what do

you mane, James?”

“About poor Bryan's conduct at the election,” he replied, “and that

fifty-pound note; and may hell consume it and him that tempted him with

it!”

“Do you forget,” she said, “that you're spaking to his sister that knows

the falsehood of it all; an' how dare you in my presence attempt to say

or think that Bryan M'Mahon would or could do a mane or dishonest act?

I'm afeard, James, there's a kind of low suspicion in your family that's

not right, and I have my reasons for thinking so. I fear there's a want

of true generosity among you; and if I could be sure of it, I tell you

now, that whatever it might cost me, I'd never--but what am I sayin'?

that's past.”

“Past! oh, why do you spake that way, Dora dear?”

“It's no matter what I may suffer myself,” she replied; “no matter at

all about that; but wanst and for all, I tell you that let what may

happen, I'm not the girl to go into a family that have treated my dear

brother as yours has done. Your sister's conduct has been very harsh and

cruel to the man she was to be married to.”

“My sister, Dora, never did anything but what was right.”

“Well, then, let her go and marry the Pope, with reverence be it spoken,

for I don't know any other husband that's fit for her. I'd like to see

the girl that never did anything wrong; it's a sight I never saw yet, I

know.”