PART IV.

Fardorougha stood amazed and confounded, looking from one to another

like a man who felt incapable of comprehending all that had passed

before him. His forehead, over which fell a few gray thin locks, assumed

a deadly paleness, and his eye lost the piercing expression which

usually characterized it. He threw his Cothamore several times over his

shoulders, as he had been in the habit of doing when about to proceed

after breakfast to his usual avocations, and as often laid it aside,

without being at all conscious of what he did. His limbs appeared to

get feeble, and his hands trembled as if he labored under palsy. In this

mood he passed from one to another, sometimes seizing a constable by the

arm with a hard, tremulous grip, and again suddenly letting go his hold

of him without speaking. At length a singular transition from this state

of mind became apparent; a gleam of wild exultation shot from his eye;

his sallow and blasted features brightened; the Cothamore was buttoned

under his chin with a rapid energy of manner evidently arising from the

removal of some secret apprehension.

“Then,” he exclaimed, “it's no robbery; it's not robbery afther all; but

how could it? there's no money here; not a penny; an' I'm belied, at any

rate; for there's not a poorer man in the barony--thank God, it's not

robbery!”

“Oh, Fardorougha,” said the wife, “don't you see they're goin' to take

him away from us?”

“Take who away from us?”

“Connor, your own Connor--our boy--the light of my heart--the light of

his poor mother's heart! Oh, Connor, Connor, what is it they're goin' to

do to you?”

“No harm, mother, I trust; no harm--don't be frightened.”

The old man put his open hands to his temples, which he pressed

bitterly, and with all his force, for nearly half a minute. He had,

in truth, been alarmed into the very worst mood of his habitual vice,

apprehension concerning his money; and felt that nothing, except a

powerful effort, could succeed in drawing his attention to the scene

which was passing before him.

“What,” said he; “what is it that's wrong wid Connor?”

“He must come to jail,” said one of the men, looking at him with

surprise; “we have already stated the crime for which he stands

committed.”

“To jail! Connor O'Donovan to jail!”

“It's too true, father; Bartle Flanagan has sworn that I burned Mr.

O'Brien's haggard.”

“Connor, Connor,” said the old man, approaching him as he spoke, and

putting his arms composedly about his neck, “Connor, my brave boy, my

brave boy, it wasn't you did it; 'twas I did it,” he added, turning to

the constables; “lave him, lave him wid her, an' take me in his place!

Who would if I would not--who ought, I say--an' I'll do it--take me;

I'll go in his place.”

Connor looked down upon the old man, and as he saw his heart rent, and

his reason absolutely tottering, a sense of the singular and devoted

affection which he had ever borne him, overcame him, and with a full

heart he dashed away a tear from his eye, and pressed his father to his

breast.

“Mother,” said he; “this will kill the old man; it will kill him!”

“Fardorougha, a hagur,” said Ha wife, feeling it necessary to sustain

him as much as possible, “don't take it so much to heart, it won't

signify--Connor's innocent, an' no harm will happen to him!”

“But are you lavin' us, Connor? are they--must they bring you to jail?”

“For a while, father; but I won't be long there I hope.”

“It's an unpleasant duty on our part,” said the principal of them;

“still it's one we must perform. Your father should lose no time in

taking the proper steps for your defence.”

“And what are we to do?” asked the mother; “God knows the boy's as

innocent as I am.”

“Yes,” said Fardorougha, still upon dwelling the resolution he had made;

“I'll go stand for you, Connor; you won't let them bring me instead of

you.”

“That's out of the question,” replied the constable; “the law suffers

nothing of the kind to take place; but if you will be advised by me,

lose no time in preparing to defend him. It would be unjust to disguise

the matter from you, or to keep you ignorant of its being a case of life

and death.”

“Life and death! what do you mane?” asked Fardorougha, staring vacantly

at the last speaker.

“It's painful to distress you; but if he's found guilty, it's death.”

“Death! hanged!” shrieked the old man, awaking as it were for the

first time to a full perception of his son's situation; “hanged! my boy

hanged! Connor, Connor, don't go from me!”

“I'll die wid him,” said the mother; “I'll die wid you, Connor. We

couldn't live widout him,” she added, addressing the strangers; “as God

is in heaven we couldn't! Oh Connor, Connor, avourneen, what is it that

has come over us, and brought us to this sorrow?”

The mother's grief then flowed on, accompanied by a burst of that

unstudied, but pathetic eloquence, which in Ireland is frequently

uttered in the tone of wail and lamentation peculiar to those who mourn

over the dead.

“No,” she added, with her arms tenderly about him, and her streaming

eyes fixed with a wild and mournful look of despair upon his face; “no,

he is in his loving mother's arms, the boy that never gave to his father

or me a harsh word or a sore heart! Long were we lookin' for him, an'

little did we think it was for this heavy fate that the goodness of God

sent him to us! Oh, many a look of lovin' affection, many a happy heart

did he give us! Many a time Connor, avillish, did I hang over your

cradle, and draw out to myself the happiness and the good that I hoped

was before you. You wor too good--too good, I doubt--to be long in

such a world as this, an' no wondher that the heart of the fair young

colleen, the heart of the _Colleen dhas dhun_ should rest upon you and

love you; for who ever knew you that didn't? Isn't there enough, King

of heaven! enough of the bad an' the wicked in this world for the law to

punish, an' not to take the innocent--not to take away from us the only

one--the only one--I can't--I can't--but if they do--Connor--if they do,

your lovin' mother will die wid you!”

The stern officers of justice wiped their eyes, and were proceeding to

afford such consolation as they could, when Fardorougha, who had sat

down after having made way for Honor to recline on the bosom of their

son, now rose, and seizing the breast of his coat, was about to speak,

but ere he could utter a word he tottered, and, would have instantly

fallen, had not Connor caught him in his arms. This served for a moment

to divert the mother's grief, and to draw her attention from the son

to the husband, who was now insensible. He was carried to the door by

Connor; but when they attempted to lay him in a recumbent posture, it

was found almost impossible to unclasp the deathlike grip which he held

of the coat. His haggard face was shrunk and collapsed; the individual

features sharp and thin, but earnest and stamped with traces of alarm;

his brows, too, which were slightly knit, gave to his whole countenance

a character of keen and painful determination. But that which struck

those who were present, most, was the unyielding grasp with which he

clung even in his insensibility to the person of Connor.

If not an affecting sight, it was one at least strongly indicative of

the intractable and indurated attachment which put itself forth with

such vague and illusive energy on behalf of his son. At length he

recovered, and on opening his eyes he fixed them with a long look of

pain and distraction upon the boy's countenance.

“Father,” said Connor, “don't be cast down--you need not--and you ought

not to be so much disheartened--do you feel better?”

When the father heard his voice he smiled; yes--his shrunk, pale,

withered face was lit up by a wild, indescribable ecstasy, whose

startling expression waa borrowed, one would think, as much from the

light of insanity as from that of returning consciousness. He sucked in

his thin cheeks, smacked his parched, skinny lips, and with difficulty

called for drink. Having swallowed a little water, he looked round him

with more composure, and inquired--

“What has happened me? am I robbed? are you robbers? But I tell you

there's no money in the house. I lodged the last penny yesterday--afore

my God I did--but--oh, what am I sayin'? what is this, Connor?”

“Father dear, compose yourself--we'll get over this throuble.”

“We will, darlin',” said Honor, wiping the pale brows of her husband;

“an' we won't lose him.”

“No, achora,” said the old man; “no, we won't lose him! Connor?”

“Well, father dear!”

“There's a thing here--here”--and he placed his hand upon his

heart--“something it is that makes me afeard--a sinkin'--a weight--and

there's a strugglin', too, Connor. I know I can't stand it long--an'

it's about you--it's all about you.”

“You distress yourself too much, father; indeed you do. Why, I hoped

that you would comfort my poor mother till I come back to her and you,

as I will, plase God.”

“Yes,” he replied; “yes, I will, I will.”

“You had better prepare,” said one of the officers; “the sooner this is

over the better--he's a feeble man and not very well able to bear it.”

“You are right,” said Connor; “I won't delay many minutes; I have only

to change my clothes, an' I am ready.”

In a short time he made his appearance dressed in his best suit; and,

indeed, it would be extremely difficult to meet, in any rank of life, a

finer specimen of vigor, activity, and manly beauty. His countenance,

at all times sedate and open, was on this occasion shaded by an air of

profound melancholy that gave a composed grace and dignity to his whole

bearing.

“Now, father,” said he, “before I go, I think it right to lave you and

my poor mother all the consolation I can. In the presence of God, in

yours, in my dear mother's, and in the presence of all who hear me, I

am as innocent of the crime that's laid to my charge as the babe unborn.

That's a comfort for you to know, and let it prevent you from frettin';

and now, good by; God be with you, and strengthen, and support you

both!”

Fardorougha had already seized his hand; but the old man could neither

speak nor weep; his whole frame appeared to have been suddenly pervaded

by a dry agony that suspended the beatings of his very heart. The

mother's grief, on the contrary, was loud, and piercing, and vehement.

She threw herself once more upon his neck; she kissed his lips, she

pressed him to her heart, and poured out as before the wail of a wild

and hopeless misery. At length, by the aid of some slight but necessary

force, her arms were untwined from about his neck; and Connor then,

stooping, embraced his father, and, gently placing him on a settle--bed,

bade him farewell! On reaching the door he paused, and, turning about,

surveyed his mother struggling in the hands of one of the officers

to get embracing him again, and his gray--haired father sitting in

speechless misery on the settle. He stood a moment to look upon them,

and a few bitter tears rolled, in the silence of manly sorrow, down his

cheeks.

“Oh, Fardorougha!” exclaimed his mother, after they had gone, “sure it

isn't merely for partin' wid him that we feel so heart--broken. He may

never stand under this roof again, an' he all we have and had to love!”

“No,” returned Fardorougha, quietly; “no, it's not, as you say, for

merely partin' wid him--hanged! God! God! Mm--here--Honor--here,

the thought of it--I'll die--it'll break! Oh, God support me! my

heart--here--my heart'll break! My brain, too, and my head--oh! if God

'ud take me before I'd see it! But it can't be--it's not possible that

our innocent boy should meet sich a death!”

“No, dear, it is not; sure he's innocent--that's one comfort; but,

Fardorougha, as the men said, you must go to a lawyer and see what can

be done to defind him.”

The old man rose up and proceeded to his son's bedroom.

“Honor,” said he, “come here;” and while uttering these words he gazed

upon her face with a look of unutterable and hopeless distress; “there's

his bed, Honor--his bed--he may never sleep on it more--he may be cut

down like a flower in his youth--an' then what will become of us?”

“Forever, from this day out,” said the distracted mother, “no hands

will ever make it but my own; on no other will I sleep--we will

both sleep--where his head lay there will mine be too--avick

machree--machree! Och, Fardorougha, we can't stand this; let us not take

it to heart, as we do; let us trust in God, an' hope for the best.”

Honor, in fact, found it necessary to assume the office of a comforter;

but it was clear that nothing urged or suggested by her could for a

moment win back the old man's heart from the contemplation of the loss

of his son. He moped about for a considerable time; but, ever and anon,

found himself in Connor's bedroom, looking upon his clothes and such

other memorials of him as it contained.

During the occurrence of these melancholy incidents at Fardorougha's,

others of a scarcely less distressing character were passing under the

roof of Bodagh Buie O'Brien.

Our readers need not be informed that the charge brought by Bartle

Flanagan against Connor, excited the utmost amazement in all who heard

it. So much at variance were his untarnished reputation and amiable

manners with a disposition so dark and malignant as that which must have

prompted the perpetration of such a crime, that it was treated at first

by the public as an idle rumor. The evidence, however, of Phil Curtis,

and his deposition to the conversation which occurred between him and

Connor, at the time and place already known to the reader, together with

the corroborating circumstances arising from the correspondence of

the footprints about the haggard with the shoes produced by the

constable--all, when combined together, left little doubt of his guilt.

No sooner had this impression become general, than the spirit of

the father was immediately imputed to the son, and many sagacious

observations made, all tending to show, that, as they expressed it, “the

bad drop of the old rogue would sooner or later come out in the young

one;” “he wouldn't be what he was, or the bitter heart of the miser

would appear;” with many other apothegms of similar import. The family

of the Bodagh, however, were painfully and peculiarly circumstanced.

With the exception of Una herself, none of them entertained a doubt that

Connor was the incendiary. Flanagan had maintained a good character, and

his direct impeachment of Connor, supported by such exact circumstantial

evidence, left nothing to be urged in the young man's defence. Aware as

they were of the force of Una's attachment, and apprehensive that the

shock, arising from the discovery of his atrocity, might be dangerous

if injudiciously disclosed to her, they resolved, in accordance with the

suggestion of their son, to break the matter to herself with the utmost

delicacy and caution.

“It is better,” said John, “that she should hear of the misfortune from

ourselves; for, after breaking it to her as gently as possible, we can

at least attempt to strengthen and console her under it.”

“Heaven above sees,” exclaimed his mother, “that it was a black and

unlucky business to her and to all of us; but now that she knows what a

revingeful villain he is, I'm sure she'll not find it hard to banish him

out of her thoughts. _Deah Grasthias_ for the escape she had from him at

any rate!”

“John, bring her in,” said the father; “bring the unfortunate young

crature in. I can't but pity her, Bridget; I can't but pity ma colleen

voghth.”

When Una entered with her brother she perceived by a glance at the

solemn bearing of her parents, that some unhappy announcement was about

to be made to her. She sat down, therefore, with a beating heart and a

cheek already pale with apprehension.

“Una,” said her father, “we sent for you to mention a circumstance that

we would rather you should hear from ourselves than from strangers. You

were always a good girl, Una--an' obadient girl, and sensible beyant

your years; and I trust that your good sinse and the grace of the

Almighty will enable you to bear up undher any disappointment that may

come upon you.”

“Surely, father, there can be nothing worse than I know already,” she

replied.

“Why, what do you know, dear?”

“Only what you told me the day Fardorougha was here, that nothing

agreeable to my wishes could take place.”

“I would give a great deal that the business was now as it was even

then,” responded her father; “there's far worse to come, Una, an' you

must be firm, an' prepare to hear what'll thry you sorely.”

“I can't guess it, father; but for God's sake tell me at once.”

“Who do you think burned our property?”

“And I suppose if she hadn't been undher the one roof wid us that it's

ourselves he'd burn,” observed her mother.

“Father, tell me the worst at once--whatever it may be;--how could I

guess the villain or villains who destroyed our property?”

“Villain, indeed! you may well say so,” returned the Bodagh. “That

villain is no other than Connor O'Donovan!”

Una felt as if a weighty burden had been removed from her heart; she

breathed freely; her depression and alarm vanished, and her dark eye

kindled into proud confidence in the integrity of her lover.

“And, father,” she asked, in a full and firm voice, “is there nothing

worse than that to come?”

“Worse! is the girl's brain turned?”

“_Dhar a Lhora Heena_, she's as mad I believe as ould Fardorougha

himself,” said the mother; “worse! why, she has parted wid all the

reasing she ever had.”

“Indeed, mother, I hope I have not, and that my reason's as clear as

ever; but, as to Connor O'Donovan, he's innocent of that charge, and of

every other that may be brought against him; I don't believe it, and I

never will.”

“It's proved against him; it's brought, home to him.”

“Who's his accuser?”

“His father's servant, Bartle Flanagan, has turned king's evidence.”

“The deep-dyed villain!” she exclaimed, with indignation; “father, of

that crime, so sure as God's in heaven, so sure is Connor O'Donovan

innocent, and so sure is Bartle Flanagan guilty--I know it.”

“You know it--explain yourself.”

“I mean I feel it--ay, home to the core of my heart--my unhappy heart--I

feel the truth of what I say.”

“Una,” observed her brother, “I'm afraid you have been vilely deceived

by him--there's not the slightest doubt of his guilt.”

“Don't you be deceived, John; I say he's innocent--as I hope for heaven

he's innocent; and, father, I'm not a bit cast down or disheartened by

anything I have yet heard against him.”

“You're a very extraordinary girl, Una; but for my part I'm glad you

look upon it as you do. If his innocence appears, no man alive will be

better plazed at it than myself.”

“His innocence will appear,” exclaimed the faithful girl; “it must

appear; and,--father, mark this--I say the time will tell yet who is

innocent and who is guilty. God knows,” she added, her energy of manner

increasing, while a shower of hot tears fell down her cheeks, “God knows

I would marry him to-morrow with the disgrace of that and ten times as

much upon him, so certain am I that his heart and hand are free from

thought or deed that's either treacherous or dishonorable.”

“Marry him!” said her brother, losing temper; “nobody doubts but you'd

marry him on the gallows, wid the rope about his neck.”

“I would do it, and unite myself to a true heart. Don't mistake me,

and mother, dear, don't blame me,” she added, her tears flowing still

faster; “he's in disgrace--sunk in shame and sorrow--and I won't conceal

the force of what I feel for him; I won't desert him now as the world

will do; I know his heart, and on the scaffold to-morrow I would become

his wife, if it would take away one atom of his misery.”

“If he's innocent,” said her father, “you have more pinetration than

any girl in Europe; but if he's guilty of such an act against any one

connected with you, Una, the guilt of all the divils in hell is no

match for his. Well, you have heard all we wanted to say to you, and you

needn't stay.”

“As she herself says,” observed John, “perhaps time will place

everything in its true light. At present all those who are not in love

with him have little doubt of his guilt. However, even as it is, in

principle Una is right; putting love out of the question, we should

prejudge no one.”

“Time will,” said his sister, “or rather God will in His own good time.

On God I'm sure he depends; on his providence I also rely for seeing

his name and character cleared of all that has been brought against him.

John, I wish to speak to you in my own room; not that I intend to make

any secret of it, but I want to consult with you first.”

“_Cheerna dheelish_,” exclaimed her mother; “what a wife that child

would make to any man that desarved her!”

“It's more than I'm able to do, to be angry with her,” returned the

Bodagh. “Did you ever know her to tell a lie, Bridget?”

“A lie! no, nor the shadow of a lie never came out of her lips; the

desate's not in her; an' may God look down on her wid compunction this

day; for there's a dark road I doubt before her!”

“Amen,” responded her father; “amen, I pray the Saviour. At all evints,

O'Donovan's guilt or innocence will soon be known,” he added; “the

'sizes begin this day week, so that the business will soon be settled

either one way or other.”

Una, on reaching her own room, thus addressed her affectionate brother:

“Now, John, you know that my grandfather left rue two hundred guineas in

his will, and you know, too, the impossibility of getting any money from

the clutches of Pardorougha. You must see Connor, and find out how he

intends to defend himself. If his father won't allow him sufficient

means to employ the best lawyers--as I doubt whether he will or

not--just tell him the truth, that whilst I have a penny of these two

hundred guineas, he mustn't want money; an' tell him, too, that all the

world won't persuade me that he's guilty; say I know him to be innocent,

and that his disgrace has made him dearer to me than he ever was

before.”

“Surely, you can't suppose for a moment, my dear Una, that I, your

brother, who, by the way, have never opened my lips to him, could

deliberately convey such a message.”

“It must be conveyed in some manner; I'm resolved on that.”

“The best plan,” said the other, “is to find out whatsoever attorney

they employ, and then to discover, if possible, whether his father has

furnished sufficient funds for his defence. If he has, your offer is

unnecessary; and if not, a private arrangement may be made with the

attorney of which nobody else need know anything.”

“God bless you, John! God bless you!” she replied; “that is far better;

you have been a good brother to your poor Una--to your poor unhappy

Una!”

She leaned her head on a table, and wept for some time at the trying

fate, as she termed it, which hung over two beings so young and so

guiltless of any crime. The brother soothed her by every argument in his

power, and, after gently compelling her to dry her tears, expressed his

intention of going early the next day to ascertain whether or not

any professional man had been engaged to conduct the defence of her

unfortunate lover.

In effecting this object there was little time lost on the part of young

O'Brien. Knowing that two respectable attorneys lived in the next market

town, he deemed it best to ascertain whether Fardorougha had applied to

either of them for the purposes aforementioned, or, if not, to assure

himself whether the old man had gone to any of those pettifoggers, who,

rather than appear without practice, will undertake a cause almost on

any terms, and afterwards institute a lawsuit for the recovery of a

much larger bill of costs than a man of character and experience would

demand.

In pursuance of the plan concerted between them, the next morning found

him rapping, about eleven o'clock, at the door of an attorney named

Kennedy, whom he asked to see on professional business. A clerk, on

hearing his voice in the hall, came out and requestedm him to step into

a back room, adding that his master, who was engaged, would see him the

moment he had despatched the person then with him. Thus shown, he was

separated from O'Halloran's office only by a pair of folding doors,

through which every word uttered in the office could be distinctly

heard; a circumstance that enabled O'Brien unintentionally to overhear

the following dialogue between the parties:

“Well, my good friend,” said Kennedy to the stranger, who, it appeared,

had arrived before O'Brien only a few minutes, “I am now disengaged;

pray, let me know your business.”

The stranger paused a moment, as if seeking the most appropriate terms

in which to express himself.

“It's a black business,” he replied, “and the worst of it is I'm a poor

man.”

“You should not go to law, then,” observed the attorney. “I tell you

beforehand you will find it is devilish expensive.”

“I know it,” said the man; “it's open robbery; I know what it cost me

to recover the little pences that wor sometimes due to me, when I broke

myself lending weeny trifles to strugglin' people that I thought honest,

and robbed me aftherwards.”

“In what way can my services be of use to you at present? for that I

suppose is the object of your calling upon me,” said Kennedy.

“Oh thin, sir, if you have the grace of God, or kindness, or pity in

your heart, you can sarve me, you can save my heart from breakin'!”

“How--how, man?--come to the point.”

“My son, sir, Connor, my only son, was taken away from his mother an'

me, an' put into jail yesterday mornin', an' he innocent; he was put in,

sir, for burnin' Bodagh Buie O'Brien's haggard, an' as God is above me,

he as much burnt it as you did.”

“Then you are Fardorougha Donovan,” said the attorney; “I have heard

of that outrage; and, to be plain with you, a good deal about yourself.

How, in the name of heaven, can you call yourself a poor man?”

“They belie me, sir, they're bitther enemies that say I'm otherwise.”

“Be you rich or be you poor, let me tell you that I would not stand in

your son's situation for the wealth of the king's exchequer. Sell your

last cow; your last coat; your last acre; sell the bed from under you,

without loss of time, if you wish to save his life; and I tell you that

for this purpose you must employ the best counsel, and plenty of them.

The Assizes commence on this day week, so that you have not a single

moment to lose. Think now whether you love your son or your money best.”

“Saver of earth, amn't I an unhappy man! every one sayin' I have money,

an' me has not! Where would I get it? Where would a man like me get it?

Instead o' that, I'm so poor that I see plainly I'll starve yet; I see

it's before me! God pity me this day! But agin, there's my boy, my boy;

oh, God, pity him! Say what's the laste, the lowest, the very lowest you

could take, for defendin' him; an' for pity's sake, for charity's sake,

for God's sake, don't grind a poor, helpless, ould man by extortion. If

you knew the boy--if you knew him--oh, afore my God, if you knew him,

you wouldn't be apt to charge a penny; you'd be proud to sarve sich a

boy.”

“You wish everything possible to be done for him, of course.”

“Of coorse, of coorse; but widout extravagance; as asy an' light on a

poor man as you can. You could shorten it, sure, an' lave out a grate

dale that 'ud be of no use; nu' half the paper 'ud do; for you might

make the clerks write close--why, very little 'ud be wanted if you wor

savin'.”

“I can defend him with one counsel if you wish; but, if anxious to save

the boy's life, you ought to enable your attorney to secure a strong bar

of the most eminent lawyers he can engage.”

“An' what 'ud it cost to hire three or four of them?”

“The whole expenses might amount to between thirty and forty guineas.”

A deep groan of dismay, astonishment, and anguish, was the only reply

made to this for some time.

“Oh, heavens above!” he screamed, “what will--what will become of me!

I'd rather be dead, as I'll soon be, than hear this, or know it at all.

How could I get it? I'm as poor as poverty itself! Oh, couldn't you feel

for the boy, an' defend him on trust; couldn't you feel for him?”

“It's your business to do that,” returned the man of law, coolly.

“Feel for him; me! oh, little you know how my heart's in him; but any

way, I'm an unhappy man; everything in the world wide goes against me;

but--oh, my darlin' boy--Connor, Connor, my son, to be tould that I

don't feel for you--well you know, avourneen machree--well you know that

I feel for you, and 'ud kiss the track of your feet upon the ground:

Oh, it's cruel to tell it to me; to say sich a thing to a man that his

heart's braakin' widin him for your sake; but, sir, you sed this minute

that you could defend him wid one lawyer?”

“Certainly, and with a cheap one, too, if you wish; but, in that case, I

would rather decline the thing altogether.”

“Why? why? sure if you can defind him chapely, isn't it so much saved?

isn't it the same as if you definded him at a higher rate? Sure, if one

lawyer tells the truth for the poor boy, ten or fifteen can do no more;

an' thin maybe they'd crass in an' puzzle one another if you hired too

many of them.”

“How would you feel, should your son be found guilty; you know the

penalty is his life. He will be executed.”

O'Brien could hear the old man clap his hands in agony, and in truth he

walked about wringing them as if his heart would burst.

“What will I do?” he exclaimed; “what will I do? I can't lose him, an' I

won't lose him! Lose him! oh God, oh God, it is to lose the best son and

only child that ever man had! Wouldn't it be downright murdher in me to

let him be lost if I could prevint it? Oh, if I was in his place, what

wouldn't he do for me, for the father that he always loved!”

The tears ran copiously down his furrowed cheeks; and his whole

appearance evinced such distraction and anguish as could rarely be

witnessed.

“I'll tell you what I'll do,” he added; “I'll give you fifty guineas

after my death if you'll defind him properly.”

“Much obliged,” replied the other; “but in matters of this kind we make

no such bargains.”

“I'll make it sixty, in case you don't axe it now.”

“Can you give me security that I'll survive you? Why, you are

tough-looking enough to outlive me.”

“Me tough!--no, God help me, my race is nearly ran; I won't be alive

this day twelve months--look at the differ atween us.”

“This is idle talk,” said the attorney; “determine on what you'll do;

really my time is valuable, and I am now wasting it to no purpose.”

“Take the offer--depind on't it'll soon come to you.”

“No, no,” said the other, coolly; “not at all; we might shut up shop if

we made such _post obit_ bargains as that.”

“I'll tell you,” said Fardorougha; “I'll tell you what;” his eyes

gleamed with a reddish, bitter light; and he clasped his withered hands

together, until the joints cracked, and the perspiration teemed from his

pale, sallow features; “I'll tell you,” he added--“I'll make it seventy!”

“No.”

“Aighty!”

“No.”

“Ninety!”--with a husky shriek

“No, no.”

“A hundhre'--a hundhre'--a hundhre',” he shouted; “a hundhre', when I'm

gone--when I'm gone!”

One solemn and determined No, that precluded all hopes of any such

arrangement, was the only reply.

The old man leaped up again, and looked impatiently and wildly and

fiercely about him.

“What are you?” he shouted; “what are you? You're a divil--a born divil.

Will nothing but my death satisfy you? Do you want to rob me--to

starve me--to murdher me? Don't you see the state I'm in by you? Look at

me--look at these thremblin' limbs--look at the sweat powerin' down from

my poor ould face! What is it you want? There--there's my gray hairs

to you. You have brought me to that--to more than that--I'm dyin' this

minute--I'm dyin'--oh, my boy--my boy, if I had you here--ay,

I'm--I'm--”

He staggered over on his seat, his eyes gleaming in a fixed and intense

glare at the attorney; his hands were clenched, his lips parched, and

his mummy-like cheeks sucked, as before, into his toothless jaws. In

addition to all this, there was a bitter white smile of despair upon his

features, and his thin gray locks, that were discomposed in the paroxysm

by his own hands, stood out in disorder upon his head. We question,

indeed, whether mere imagination could, without having actually

witnessed it in real life, conceive any object so frightfully

illustrative of the terrible dominion which the passion of avarice is

capable of exercising over the human heart.

“I protest to Heaven,” exclaimed the attorney, alarmed, “I believe the

man is dying--if not dead, he is motionless.”

“O'Donovan, what's the matter with you?”

The old man's lips gave a dry, hard smack, then became desperately

compressed together, and his cheeks were drawn still further into his

jaws. At length he sighed deeply, and changed his fixed and motionless

attitude.

“He is alive, at all events,” said one of his young men.

Fardorougha turned his eyes upon the speaker, then upon his master, and

successively upon two other assistants who were in the office.

“What is this?” said he, “what is this?--I'm very weak--will you get me

a dhrink o' wather? God help me--God direct me! I'm an unhappy man; get

me a dhrink, for Heaven's sake! I can hardly spake, my mouth and lips

are so dry.”

The water having been procured, he drank it eagerly, and felt evidently

relieved.

“This business,” he continued, “about the money--I mane about my poor

boy. Connor, how will it be managed, sir?”

“I have already told you that there is but one way of managing it, and

that is, as the young man's life is at stake, to spare no cost.”

“And I must do that?”

“You ought, at least, remember that he's an only son, and that if you

lose him--”

“Lose him!--I can't--I couldn't--I'd die--die--dead--”

“And by so shameful a death,” proceeded Cassidy, “you will not only be

childless, but you will have the bitter fact to reflect on that he died

in disgrace. You will blush to name him! What father would not make any

sacrifice to prevent his child from meeting such a fate? It's a trying

thing and a pitiable calamity to see a father ashamed to name the child

that he loves.”

The old man arose, and, approaching Cassidy, said, eagerly, “How much

will do? Ashamed to name you, alanna, Ghierna--Ghierna--ashamed to name

you, Connor! Oh! if the world knew you, as thore, as well as I an' your

poor mother knows you, they'd say that we ought to be proud to hear your

name soundin' in our ears. How much will do? for, may God stringthen me,

I'll do it.”

“I think about forty guineas; it may be more, and it may be less, but we

will say forty.”

“Then I'll give you an ordher for it on a man that's a good mark. Give

me pin an' paper, fast.”

“The paper was placed before him, and he held the pen in his hand for

some time, and, ere he wrote, turned a look of deep distress on Cassidy.

“God Almighty pity me!” said he; “you see--you see that I'm a poor

heart--broken creature--a ruined man I'll be--a ruined man!”

“Think of your son, and of his situation.”

“It's before me--I know it is--to die like a dog behind a ditch wid

hunger!”

“Think of your son, I say, and, if possible, save him from a shameful

death.”

“What! Ay--yis--yis--surely--surely--oh, my poor boy--my innocent boy--I

will--I will do it.”

He then sat down, and, with a tremulous hand, and lips tightly drawn

together, wrote an order on P----, the county treasurer, for the money.

Cassidy, on seeing it, looked alternately at the paper and the man for a

considerable time.

“Is P----your banker?” he asked.

“Every penny that I'm worth he has.”

“Then you're a ruined man,” he replied, with cool emphasis. “P----

absconded the day before yesterday, and robbed half the county. Have you

no loose cash at home?”

“Robbed! who robbed?”

“Why, P----has robbed every man who was fool enough to trust him; he's

off to the Isle of Man, with the county funds in addition to the other

prog.”

“You don't mane to say,” replied Fardorougha, with a hideous calmness of

voice and manner; “you don't, you can't mane to say he has run off wid

my money?”

“I do; you'll never see a shilling of it, if you live to the age of a

Hebrew patriarch. See what it is to fix the heart upon money. You are

now, what you wish the world to believe you to be, a poor man.”

“Ho! ho!” howled the miser, “he darn't, he darn't--wouldn't God consume

him if he robbed the poor--wouldn't God stiffen him, and pin him to the

airth, if he attempted to run off wid the hard earnings of strugglin'

honest men? Where 'ud God be, an' him to dar to do it! But it's a

falsity, an' you're thryin' me to see how I'd bear it--it is, it is, an'

may Heaven forgive you!”

“It's as true as the Gospel,” replied the other; “why, I'm surprised

you didn't hear it before now--every one knows it--it's over the whole

country.”

“It's a lie--it's a lie!” he howled again; “no one dar to do such an

act. You have some schame in this--you're not a safe man; you're a

villain, an' nothin' else; but I'll soon know; which of these is my

hat?”

“You are mad, I think,” said Cassidy.

“Get me my hat, I say; I'll soon know it; but sure the world's all in a

schame against me--all, all, young an' ould--where's my hat, I say?”

“You have put it upon your head this moment,” said the other.

“An' my stick?”

“It's in your hand.”

“The curse o' Heaven upon you,” he shrieked, “whether it's thrue or

false!” and, with a look that might scorch him to whom it was directed,

he shuffled in a wild and frantic mood out of the house.

“The man is mad,” observed Cassidy; “or, if not, he will soon be so; I

never witnessed such a desperate case of avarice. If ever the demon of

money lurked in any man's soul, it's in his. God bless me! God bless

me! it's dreadful! Richard, tell the gentleman in the dining-room I'm at

leisure to see him.”

The scene we have attempted to describe spared O'Brien the trouble

of much unpleasant inquiry, and enabled him to enter at once into the

proposed arrangements on behalf of Connor. Of course he did not permit

his sister's name to transpire, nor any trace whatsoever to appear, by

which her delicacy might be compromised, or her character involved.

His interference in the matter he judiciously put upon the footing of

personal regard for the young man, and his reluctance to be even the

indirect means of bringing him to a violent and shameful death. Having

thus fulfilled Una's instructions, he returned home, and relieved her of

a heavy burthen by a full communication of all that had been done.

The struggle hitherto endured by Fardoroug--he was in its own nature

sufficiently severe to render his sufferings sharp and pungent; still

they resembled the influence of local disease more than that of a malady

which prostrates the strength and grapples with the powers of the whole

constitution. The sensation he immediately felt, on hearing that his

banker had absconded with the gains of his penurious life, was rather

a stunning shock that occasioned for the moment a feeling of dull, and

heavy, and overwhelming dismay. It filled, nay, it actually distended

his narrow soul with an oppressive sense of exclusive misery that

banished all consideration for every person and thing extraneous to his

individual selfishness. In truth, the tumult of his mind was peculiarly

wild and anomalous. The situation of his son, and the dreadful fate that

hung over him, were as completely forgotten as if they did not exist.

Yet there lay, underneath his own gloomy agony, a remote consciousness

of collateral affliction, such as is frequently experienced by those

who may be drawn, by some temporary and present pleasure, from the

contemplation of their misery. We feel, in such cases, that the darkness

is upon us, even while the image of the calamity is not before the mind;

nay, it sometimes requires an effort to bring it back, when anxious to

account for our depression; but when it comes, the heart sinks with a

shudder, and we feel, that, although it ceased to engage our thoughts,

we had been sitting all the time beneath its shadow. For this reason,

although Fardorougha's own loss absorbed, in one sense, all his powers

of suffering, still he knew that something else pressed with additional

weight upon his heart. Of its distinct character, however, he was

ignorant, and only felt that a dead and heavy load of multiplied

affliction bent him in burning anguish to the earth.

There is something more or less eccentric in the gait and dress of every

miser. Fardorougha's pace was naturally slow, and the habit for which,

in the latter point, he had all his life been remarkable, was that of

wearing a great-coat thrown loosely about his shoulders. In summer it

saved an inside one, and, as he said, kept him cool and comfortable.

That he seldom or never put his arms into it arose from the fact that

he knew it would last a much longer period of time than if he wore it in

the usual manner.

On leaving the attorney's office, he might be seen creeping along

towards the County Treasurer's, at a pace quite unusual to him; his

hollow, gleaming eyes were bent on the earth; his Gothamore about his

shoulders; his staff held with a tight desperate grip, and his whole

appearance that of a man frightfully distracted by the intelligence of

some sudden calamity.

He had not proceeded far on this hopeless errand, when many bitter

confirmations of the melancholy truth, by persons whom he met on their

return from P----'s residence, were afforded him. Even these, however,

were insufficient to satisfy him; he heard them with a vehement

impatience, that could not brook the bare possibility of the report

being true. His soul clung with the tenacity of a death--grip to the

hope, that however others might have suffered, some chance might,

notwithstanding, still remain in Ms particular favor. In the meantime,

he poured out curses of unexampled malignity against the guilty

defaulter, on whose head he invoked the Almighty's vengeance with a

venomous fervor which appalled all who heard him. Having reached

the treasurer's house, a scene presented itself that was by no means

calculated to afford him consolation. Persons of every condition, from

the squireen and gentleman farmer, to the humble widow and inexperienced

orphan, stood in melancholy groups about the deserted mansion,

interchanging details of their losses, their blasted prospects, and

their immediate ruin. The cries of the widow, who mourned for the

desolation brought upon her and her now destitute orphans, rose in a

piteous wail to heaven, and the industrious fathers of many struggling

families, with pale faces and breaking hearts, looked in silent misery

upon the closed shutters and smokeless chimneys of their oppressor's

house, bitterly conscious that the laws of the boasted constitution

under which they lived, permitted the destroyer of hundreds to enjoy,

in luxury and security, the many thousands of which, at one fell and

rapacious swoop, he had deprived them.

With white, quivering lips and panting breath, Fardorougha approached

and joined them.

“What, what,” said he, in a broken sentence, “is this true--can it, can

it be true? Is the thievin' villain of hell gone? Has he robbed us,

ruined us, destroyed us?”

“Ah, too thrue it is,” replied a farmer; “the dam' rip is off to that

nest of robbers, the Isle of Man; ay, he's gone! an' may all our bad

luck past, present, and to come, go with him, an' all he tuck!”

Fardorougha looked at his informant as if he had been P----himself; he

then glared from one to another, whilst the white foam wrought up to his

lips by the prodigious force of his excitement. He clasped his hands,

then attempted to speak, but language had abandoned him.

“If one is to judge from your appearance, you have suffered heavily,”

observed the farmer.

The other stared at him with a kind of angry amazement for doubting it,

or it might be, for speaking so coolly of his loss. “Suffered!”

said he, “ay, ay, but did yeea thry the house? we'll

see--suffered!--suffered!--we'll see.”

He immediately shuffled over to the hall door, which he assaulted with

the eagerness of a despairing soul at the gate of heaven, throwing into

each knock such a character of impatience and apprehension, as one might

suppose the aforesaid soul to feel from a certain knowledge that the

devil's clutches were spread immediately behind, to seize and carry him

to perdition. His impetuosity, however, was all in vain; not even

an echo reverberated through the cold and empty walls, but, on the

contrary, every peal was followed by a most unromantic and ominous

silence.

“That man appears beside himself,” observed another of the sufferers;

“surely, it he wasn't half-mad, he'd not expect to find any one in an

empty house!”

“Devil a much it signifies whether he's mad or otherwise,” responded a

neighbor. “I know him well; his name's Fardorougha Donovan, the miser

of Lisnamona, the biggest shkew that ever skinned a flint. If P----did

nothin' worse than fleece him, it would never stand between him an' the

blessin' o' Heaven.”

[Illustration: PAGE 245-- He rattled, and thumped, and screamed]

Fardorougha, in the mean time, finding that no response was given from

the front, passed hurriedly by an archway into the back court, where he

made similar efforts to get in by attempting to force the kitchen door.

Every entrance, however, had been strongly secured; he rattled, and

thumped, and screamed, as if P----himself had actually been within

hearing, but still to no purpose; he might as well have expected to

extort a reply from the grave.

When he returned to the group that stood on the lawn, the deadly

conviction that all was lost affected every joint of his body with

a nervous trepidation, that might have been mistaken for _delirium

tremens_. His eyes were full of terror, mingled with the impotent fury

of hatred and revenge; whilst over all now predominated for the first

time such an expression of horror and despair, as made the spectators

shudder to look upon him.

“Where was God,” said he, addressing them, and his voice, naturally thin

and wiry, now became lmsky and hollow, “where was God, to suffer this?

to suffer the poor to be ruined, and the rich to be made poor? Was it

right for the Almighty to look on an' let the villain do it? No--no--no;

I say no!”

The group around him shuddered at the daring blasphemy to which his

monstrous passion had driven him. Many females, who were in tears,

lamenting audibly, started, and felt their grief suspended for a moment

by this revolting charge against the justice of Providence.

“What do you all stand for here,” he proceeded, “like stocks an stones?

Why don't yees kneel with me, an' let us join in one curse; one, no, but

let us shower them down upon him in thousands--in millions; an' when we

can no longer spake them, let us think them. To the last hour of my life

my heart 'ill never be widout a curse for him; an' the last word afore

I go into the presence of God, 'll be a black, heavy blessin' from hell

against him an' his, sowl an' body, while a drop o' their bad blood's

upon the earth.”

“Don't be blasphamin', honest man,” said a bystander; “if you've lost

money, that's no rason why you should fly in the face o' God for P----'s

roguery. Devil a one o' myself cares if I join you in a volley against

the robbin' scoundril, but I'd not take all the money the rip of hell

ran away wid, an' spake of God as you do.”

“Oh, Saver!” exclaimed Fardorougha, who probably heard not a word he

said; “I knew--I knew--I always felt it was before me--a dog's death

behind a ditch--my tongue out wid starvation and hunger, and it was he

brought me to it!”

He had already knelt, and was uncovered, his whitish hair tossed by

the breeze in confusion about a face on which was painted the fearful

workings of that giant spirit, under whose tremendous grasp he writhed

and suffered like a serpent in the talons of a vulture. In this

position, with uplifted and trembling arms, his face raised towards

heaven, and his whole figure shrunk firmly together by the intense

malignity with which he was about to hiss out his venomous imprecations

against the defaulter, he presented at least one instance in which the

low, sordid vice of avarice rose to something like wild grandeur, if not

sublimity.

Having remained in this posture for some time, he clasped his withered

hands together and wrung them until the bones cracked; then rising up

and striking his stick bitterly upon the earth--

“I can't,” he exclaimed, “I can't get out the curses against him; but my

heart's full of them--they're in it--they're in it!--it's black an'

hot wid them; I feel them here--here--movin an if they war alive, an'

they'll be out.”

Such was the strength and impetuosity of his hatred, and such his

eagerness to discharge the whole quiver of his maledictions against the

great public delinquent, that, as often happens in cases of overwhelming

agitation, his faculties were paralyzed by the storm of passion which

raged within him.

Having risen to his feet, he left the group, muttering his wordless

malignity as he went along, and occasionally pausing to look back with

the fiery glare of a hyena at the house in which the robbery of his

soul's treasure had been planned and accomplished.

It is unnecessary to say that the arrangements entered into with

Cassidy, by John O'Brien, were promptly and ably carried into effect. A

rapid ride soon brought the man of briefs and depositions to the prison,

where the unhappy Connor lay. The young man's story, though simple, was

improbable, and his version of the burning such as induced Cassidy,

who knew little of impressions and feelings in the absence of facts,

to believe that no other head than his ever concocted the crime. Still,

from the manly sincerity with which his young client spoke, he

felt inclined to impute the act to a freak of boyish malice and

disappointment, rather than to a spirit of vindictive rancor. He

entertained no expectation whatsoever of Connor's acquittal, and hinted

to him that it was his habit in such cases to recommend his clients

to be prepared for the worst, without, at the same time, altogether

abolishing hope. There was, indeed, nothing to break the chain of

circumstantial evidence in which Flanagan had entangled him; he had been

at the haggard shortly before the conflagration broke out; he had met

Phil Curtis, and begged that man to conceal the fact of his having seen

him, and he had not slept in his own bed either on that or the preceding

night. It was to no purpose he affirmed that Flanagan himself had

borrowed from him, and worn, on the night in question, the shoes whose

prints were so strongly against him, or that the steel and tinder--box,

which were found in his pocket, actually belonged to his accuser, who

must have put them there without his knowledge. His case, in fact, was a

bad one, and he felt that the interview with his attorney left him more

seriously impressed with the danger of his situation, than he had been

up till that period.

“I suppose,” said he, when the instructions were completed, “you have

seen my father?”

“Everything is fully and liberally arranged,” replied the other, with

reservation; “your father has been with me to--day; in fact, I parted

with him only a few minutes before I left home. So far let your mind be

easy. The government prosecutes, which is something in your favor;

and now, good-by to you; for my part, I neither advise you to hope or

despair. If the worst comes to the worst, you must bear it like a man;

and if we get an acquittal, it will prove the more agreeable for its not

being expected.”

The unfortunate youth felt, after Cassidy's departure, the full force of

that dark and fearful presentiment which arises from the approach of

the mightiest calamity that can befall an innocent man--a public and

ignominious death, while in the very pride of youth, strength, and those

natural hopes of happiness which existence had otherwise promised.

In him this awful apprehension proceeded neither from the terror of

judgment nor of hell, but from that dread of being withdrawn from life,

and of passing down from the light, the enjoyments and busy intercourse

of a breathing and conscious world, into the silence and corruption of

the unknown grave. When this ghastly picture was brought near him by the

force of his imagination, he felt for a moment as if his heart had

died away in him, and his blood became congealed into ice. Should this

continue, he knew that human nature could not sustain it long, and he

had already resolved to bear his fate with firmness, whatever that fate

might be. He then reflected that he was innocent, and, remembering the

practice of his simple and less political forefathers, he knelt down and

fervently besought the protection of that, Being in whose hands are the

issues of life and death.

On rising from this act of heartfelt devotion, he experienced that

support which he required so much. The fear of death ceased to alarm

him, and his natural fortitude returned with more than its usual power

to his support. In this state of mind he was pacing his narrow room,

when the door opened, and his father, with a tottering step, entered and

approached him. The son was startled, if not terrified, at the change

which so short a time had wrought in the old man's appearance.

“Good God, father dear!” he exclaimed, as the latter threw his arms with

a tight and clinging grasp about him; “good heavens! what has happened

to change you so much for the worse? Why, if you fret this way about me,

you'll soon break your heart. Why will you fret, father, when you know

I am innocent? Surely, at the worst, it is better to die innocent than

to live guilty.”

“Connor,” said the old man, still clinging tenaciously to him, and

looking wildly into his face, “Connor, it's broke--my heart's broke

at last. Oh, Connor, won't you pity me when you hear it--won't you,

Connor--oh, when you hear it, Connor, won't you pity me? It's gone, it's

gone, it's gone--he's off, off--to that nest of robbers, the Isle of

Man, and has robbed me and half the county. P----has; I'm a ruined man,

a beggar, an' will die a dog's death.”

Connor looked down keenly into his father's face, and began to entertain

a surmise so terrible that the beatings of his heart were in a moment

audible to his own ear.

“Father,” he inquired, “in the name of God what is wrong with you? What

is it you spake of? Has P----gone off with your money? Sit down, and

don't look so terrified.”

“He has, Connor--robbed me an' half the county--he disappeared the

evenin' of the very day I left my last lodgment wid him; he's in that

nest of robbers, the Isle of Man, an' I'm ruined--ruined! Oh God!

Connor, how can I stand it? all my earnin's an' my savin's an' the

fruits of my industry in his pocket, an' upon his back, an' upon his

bones! My brain is reelin'--I dunna what I'm doin', nor what I'll do.

To what hand now can I turn myself? Who'll assist me! I dunna what I'm

doin', nor scarcely what I'm sayin'. My head's all in confusion. Gone!

gone! gone! Oh see the luck that has come down upon me! Above all men,

why was I singled out to be made a world's wondher of--why was I? What

did I do? I robbed no one; yet it's gone--an' see the death that's afore

me! oh God! oh God!”

“Well, father, let it go--you have still your health; you have still

my poor mother to console you; and I hope you'll soon have myself, too;

between us well keep you comfortable, and, if you'll allow us to take

our own way, more so than ever you did--”

Pardorougha started, as if struck by some faint but sudden recollection.

All at once he looked with amazement around the room, and afterwards

with a pause of inquiry, at his son. At length, a light of some

forgotten memory appeared to flash at once across his brain; his

countenance changed from the wild and unsettled expression which it

bore, to one more stamped with the earnest humanity of our better

nature.

“Oh, Connor!” he at last exclaimed, putting his two hands into those of

his son: “can you pity me, an' forgive me? You see, my poor boy, how I'm

sufferin', an' you see that I can't--I won't--be able to bear up against

this long.”

The tears here ran down his worn and hollow cheeks.

“Oh,” he proceeded, “how could I forget you, my darlin' boy? But I

hardly think my head's right. If I had you with me, an' before my eyes,

you'd keep my heart right, an' give me strength, which I stand sorely in

need of. Saints in glory! how could I forget you, acushla, an' what now

can I do for you? Not a penny have I to pay lawyer, or attorney, or any

one, to defind you at your trial, and it so near!”

“Why, haven't you settled all that with Mr. Cassidy, the attorney?”

“Not a bit, achora machree, not a bit; I was wid him this day, an' had

agreed, but whin I wint to give him an ordher on P----, he--oh saints

above! he whistled at me an' it--an' tould me that P----was gone to

that nest o' robbers, the Isle of Man.”

“Connor,” said he, feebly, “I am unwell--unwell--come and sit down by

me.”

“You are too much distressed every way, father,” said his son, taking

his place upon his iron bedstead beside him.

“I am,” said Fardorougha, calmly; “I am too much distressed--sit nearer

me, Connor. I wish your mother was here, but she wasn't able to come,

she's unwell too; a good mother she was, Connor, and a good wife.”

The son was struck, and somewhat alarmed, by this sudden and

extraordinary calmness of the old man.

“Father dear,” said he, “don't be too much disheartened--all will be

well yet, I hope--my trust in God is strong.”

“I hope all will be well,” replied the old man, “sit nearer me, an'

Connor, let me lay my head over upon your breast. I'm thinkin' a great

dale. Don't the world say, Connor, that I am a bad man?”

“I don't care what the world says; no one in it ever durst say as much

to me, father dear.”

The old man looked up affectionately, but shook his head apparently in

calm but rooted sorrow.

“Put your arms about me, Connor, and keep my head a little more up; I'm

weak an' tired, an', someway, spakin's a throuble to me; let me think

for a while.”

“Do so, father,” said the son, with deep compassion; “God knows but

you're sufferin' enough to wear you out.”

“It is,” said Fardorougha, “it is.” A silence of some minutes ensued,

during which, Connor perceived that the old man, overcome with care and

misery, had actually! fallen asleep with his head upon his bosom. This

circumstance, though by no means extraordinary, affected him very much.

On surveying the pallid face of his father, and the worn, thread--like

veins that ran along his temples, and calling to mind the love of the

old man for himself, which even avarice, in its deadliest power, failed

to utterly overcome, he felt all the springs of his affection loosened,

and his soul vibrated with a tenderness towards him, such as no

situation in their past lives had ever before created.

“If my fate chances to be an untimely one, father dear,” he slowly

murmured, “we'll soon meet in another place; for I know that you will

not long live after me.”

He then thought with bitterness of his mother and Una, and wondered at

the mystery of the trial to which he was exposed.

The old man's slumber, however, was not dreamless, nor so refreshing

as the exhaustion of a frame shattered by the havoc of contending

principles required. On the contrary, it was disturbed by heavy groans,

quick startings, and those twitchings of the limbs which betoken a

restless mood of mind, and a nervous system highly excited. In the

course of half an hour, the symptoms of his inward commotion became

more apparent. From being, as at first, merely physical, they assumed

a mental character, anil passed from ejaculations and single words, to

short sentences, and ultimately to those of considerable length.

“Gone!” he exclaimed, “gone! Oh God my curse--starved--dog--wid my tongue

out!”

This dread of starvation, which haunted him through life, appeared in

his dream still to follow him like a demon.

“I'm dyin',” he said, “I'm dyin' wid hunger--will no one give me a

morsel? I was robbed an' have no money--don't you see me starvin'? I'm

cuttin' wid hunger--five days without mate--bring me mate, for God's

sake--mate, mate, mate!--I'm gaspin--my tongue's out; look at me, like a

dog, behind this ditch, an' my tongue out!”

The son at this period would have awoke him, but he became more

composed, for a time, and enjoyed apparently a refreshing sleep. Still,

it soon was evident that he dreamt, and as clear that a change had come

o'er the spirit of his dream.

“Who'll prevent me!” he exclaimed. “Isn't he my son--our only child? Let

me alone--I must, I must--what's my life?--take it, an' let him live.”

The tears started in Connor's eyes, and he pressed his father to his

heart.

“Don't hould me,” he proceeded. “O God! here, I'll give all I'm worth,

an' save him! O, let me, thin--let me but kiss him once before he dies;

it was I, it was myself that murdhered him--all might 'a been well; ay,

it was I that murdhered you, Connor, my brave hoy, an' have I you in

my arms? O, aviek agus asthore machree, it was I that murdhered you, by

my--but they're takin' him--they're bearin' him away to--”

He started, and awoke; but so terrific had been his dream, that on

opening his eyes he clasped Connor in his arms, and exclaimed,--

“No no, I'll hould him till you cut my grip; Connor, avick machree,

hould to me!”

“Father, father, for God's sake, think a minute, you wor only dreaming.”

“Eh--what--where am I? Oh, Connor, darling, if you knew the dhrames I

had--I thought you wor on the scaffie; but thanks be to the Saver, it

was only a dhrame!”

“Nothing more, father, nothing more; but for God's sake, keep your mind

aisy. Trust in God, father, everything's in _His_ hands; if; it's His

will to make us suffer, we ought to submit; and if it's not His will,

He surely can bring us out of all our throubles. That's the greatest

comfort I have.”

Fardorougha once more became calm, but still there was on his

countenance, which was mournful and full of something else than simple

sorrow, some deeply fixed determination, such as it was difficult to

develop.

“Connor, achora,” said he, “I must lave you, for there's little time

to be lost. What attorney would you wish me to employ? I'll go home and

sell oats and a cow or two. I've done you harm enough--more than you

know--but now I'll spare no cost to get you out of this business.

Connor, the tears that I saw awhile agone run down your cheeks cut me to

the heart.”

The son then informed him that a friend had taken proper measures for

his defence, and that any further interference on his part would only

create confusion and delay. He also entreated his father to make no

allusion whatsoever to this circumstance, and added, “that he himself

actually knew not the name of the friend in question, but that, as the

matter stood, he considered even a surmise to be a breach of confidence

that might be indelicate and offensive. After the trial, you can and

ought to pay the expenses, and not be under an obligation to any one of

so solemn a kind as that.” He then sent his affectionate love and duty

to his mother, at whose name his eyes were again filled with tears, and

begged the old man to comfort and support her with the utmost care and

tenderness. As she was unwell, he requested him to dissuade her against

visiting him till after the trial, lest an interview might increase her

illness, and render her less capable of bearing up under an unfavorable

sentence, should such be the issue of the prosecution. Having then bade

farewell to, and embraced the old man, the latter departed with more

calmness and fortitude than he had up to that period displayed.

When Time approaches the miserable with calamity in his train, his

opinion is swifter than that of the eagle; but, alas! when carrying them

towards happiness, his pace is slower than is that of the tortoise. The

only three persons on earth, whose happiness was involved in that of

O'Donovan, found themselves, on the eve of the assizes, overshadowed by

a dreariness of heart, that was strong in proportion to the love they

bore him. The dead calm which had fallen on Fardorougha was absolutely

more painful to his wife than would have been the paroxysms that

resulted from his lust of wealth. Since his last interview with Connor,

he never once alluded to the loss of his money, unless abruptly in

his dreams, but there was stamped upon his whole manner a gloomy and

mysterious composure, which, of itself, wofully sank her spirits,

independently of the fate which impended over their son. The change,

visible on both, and the breaking down of their strength were indeed

pitiable.

As for Una, it would be difficult to describe her struggle between

confidence in his innocence, and apprehension of the law, which she knew

had often punished the guiltless instead of the criminal. 'Tis true she

attempted to assume, in the eyes of others, a fortitude which belied

her fears, and even affected to smile at the possibility of her lover's

honor and character suffering any tarnish from the ordeal to which they

were about to be submitted. Her smile, however, on such occasions, was

a melancholy one, and the secret tears she shed might prove, as they did

to her brother, who was alone privy to her grief, the extent of those

terrors which, notwithstanding her disavowal of them, wrung her soul

so bitterly. Day after day her spirits became more and more depressed,

till, as the crisis of Connor's fate arrived, the roses had altogether

flown from her cheeks.

Indeed, now that the trial was at hand, public sympathy turned rapidly

and strongly in his favor; his father had lost that wealth, the

acquisition of which earned him so heavy a portion of infamy; and, as he

had been sufficiently punished in his own person, they did not think it

just to transfer any portion of the resentment borne against him to a

son who had never participated in his system of oppression. They felt

for Connor now on his own account, and remembered only his amiable and

excellent character. In addition to this, the history of the mutual

attachment between him and Una having become the topic of general

conversation, the rash act for which he stood committed was

good-humoredly resolved into a foolish freak of love; for which it

would be a thousand murders to take away his life. In such mood were the

public and the parties most interested in the event of our story,

when the morning dawned of that awful day which was to restore Connor

O'Donovan to the hearts that loved him so well, or to doom him, a

convicted felon, to a shameful and ignominious death.

At length the trial came on, and our unhappy prisoner, at the hour of

eleven o'clock, was placed at the bar of his country to stand the brunt

of a government prosecution. Common report had already carried abroad

the story of Una's love and his, many interesting accounts of which had

got into the papers of the day. When he stood forward, therefore, all

eyes were eagerly riveted upon him; the judge glanced at him with calm,

dispassionate scrutiny, and the members of the bax, especially the

juniors, turned round, surveyed him through their glasses with a gaze

in which might be read something more than that hard indifference which

familiarity with human crime and affliction ultimately produces even in

dispositions most human and amiable. No sooner had the curiosity of the

multitude been gratified, than a murmur of pity, blended slightly with

surprise and approbation, ran lowly through the court-house. One of

the judges whispered a few words to his brother, and the latter again

surveyed Connor with a countenance in which were depicted admiration

and regret. The counsel also chatted to each other in a low tone,

occasionally turning round and marking his deportment and appearance

with increasing interest.

Seldom, probably never, had a more striking, perhaps a more noble

figure, stood at the bar of that court. His locks were rich and brown;

his forehead expansive, and his manly features remarkable for their

symmetry; his teeth were regular and white, and his dark eye full of a

youthful lustre, which the dread of no calamity could repress. Neither

was his figure, which was of the tallest, inferior in a single point to

so fine a countenance. As he stood, at his full height of six feet, it

was impossible not to feel deeply influenced in his favor, especially

after having witnessed the mournful but dignified composure of his

manner, equally remote from indifference or dejection. He appeared,

indeed, to view in its proper light the danger of the position in which

he stood, but he viewed it with the calm, unshrinking energy of a

brave man who is always prepared for the worst. Indeed, there might be

observed upon his broad, open brow a loftiness of bearing such as is not

unfrequently produced by a consciousness of innocence, and the natural

elevation of mind which results from a sense of danger; to which we may

add that inward scorn which is ever felt for baseness, by those who are

degraded to the necessity of defending themselves against the villany of

the malignant and profligate.

When called upon to plead to the indictment, he uttered the words “not

guilty” in a full, firm and mellow voice, that drew the eyes of the

spectators once more upon him, and occasioned another slight hum of

sympathy and admiration. No change of color was observable on his

countenance, or any other expression, save the lofty composure to which

we have just alluded.

The trial at length proceeded; and, after a long and able statement from

the Attorney-General, Bartle Flanagan was called up on the table. The

prisoner, whose motions were keenly observed, betrayed, on seeing him,

neither embarrassment nor agitation; all that could be perceived was

a more earnest and intense light in his eyes, as they settled upon his

accuser. Flanagan detailed, with singular minuteness and accuracy,

the whole progress of the crime from its first conception to its

perpetration. Indeed, had he himself been in the dock, and his evidence

against Connor a confession of his own guilt, it would, with some

exceptions, have been literally true. He was ably cross-examined, but no

tact, or experience, or talent, on the part of the prisoner's counsel,

could, in any important degree, shake his testimony. The ingenuity

with which he laid and conducted the plot was astonishing, as was his

foresight, and the precaution he adopted against detection. Cassidy,

Connor's attorney, had ferreted out the very man from whom he purchased

the tinder-box, with a hope of proving that it was not the prisoner's

property but his own; yet this person, who remembered the transaction

very well, assured him that Flanagan said he procured it by the desire

of Fardorougha Donovan's son.

During his whole evidence, he never once raised his eye to look upon the

prisoner's face, until he was desired to identify him. He then turned

round, and, standing with the rod in his hand, looked for some moments

upon his victim. His dark brows got black as night, whilst his cheeks

were blanched to the hue of ashes--the white smile as before sat upon

his lips, and his eyes, in which there blazed the unsteady fire of a

treacherous and cowardly heart, sparkled with the red turbid glare of

triumph and vengeance. He laid the rod upon Connor's head, and they

gazed at each other face to face, exhibiting as striking a contrast as

could be witnessed. The latter stood erect and unshaken--his eye calmly

bent upon that of his foe, but with a spirit in it that seemed to him

alone by whom it was best understood, to strike dismay into the very

soul of falsehood within him. The villain's eyes could not withstand the

glance of Connor's--they fell, and his whole countenance assumed such a

blank and guilty stamp, that an old experienced barrister, who watched

them both, could not avoid saying, that if he had his will they should

exchange situations.

“I would not hang a dog,” he whispered, “on that fellow's evidence--he

has guilt in his face.”

When asked why he ran away on meeting Phil. Curtis, near O'Brien's

house, on their return that night, while Connor held his ground, he

replied that it was very natural he should run away, and not wish to

be seen after having assisted at such a crime. In reply to another

question, he said it was as natural that Connor should have ran away

also, and that he could not account for it, except by the fact that God

always occasions the guilty to commit some oversight, by which they

may be brought to punishment. These replies, apparently so rational and

satisfactory, convinced Connor's counsel that his case was hopeless, and

that no skill or ingenuity on their part could succeed in breaking down

Flanagan's evidence.

The next witness called was Phil. Curtis, whose testimony corroborated

Bartle's in every particular, and gave to the whole trial a character of

gloom and despair. The constables who applied his shoes to the footmarks

were then produced, and swore in the clearest manner as to their

corresponding. They then deposed to finding the tinder-box in his

pocket, according to the information received from Flanagan, every

tittle of which they found to be remarkably correct.

There was only one other witness now necessary to complete the

chain against him, and he was only produced because Biddy Nulty, the

servant--maid, positively stated, and actually swore, when previously

examined, that she was ignorant whether Connor slept in his father's

house on the night in question or not. There was no alternative,

therefore, but to produce the father; and Fardorougha Donovan was

consequently forced to become an evidence against his own son.

The old man's appearance upon the table excited deep commiseration for

both, and the more so when the spectators contemplated the rooted sorrow

which lay upon the wild and wasted features of the woe-worn father.

Still the old man was composed and calm; but his calmness was in an

extraordinary degree mournful and touching. “When he, sat down, after

having been sworn, and feebly wiped the dew from his thin temples, many

eyes were already filled with tears. When the question was put to him if

he remembered the night laid in the indictment, he replied that he did.

“Did the prisoner at the bar sleep at home on that night?”

The old man looked into the face of the counsel with such an eye of

deprecating entreaty, as shook the voice in which the question was

repeated. He then turned about, and, taking a long gaze at his son, rose

up, and, extending his hands to the judges, exclaimed:

“My lords, my lords! he is my only son--my only child!”

These words were followed by a pause in the business of the court, and a

dead silence of more than a minute.

“If justice,” said the judge, “could on an occasion waive her claim to a

subordinate link in the testimony she requires, it would certainly be

in a case so painful and affecting as this. Still, we cannot permit

personal feeling, however amiable, or domestic attachment, however

strong, to impede her progress when redressing public wrong. Although

the duty be painful, and we admit that such a duty is one of unexampled

agony, yet it must be complied with; and you consequently will answer

the question which the counsel has put to you. The interests of society

require such sacrifices, and they must be made.”

The old man kept his eyes fixed on the judge while he spoke, but when he

had ceased he again fixed them on his son.

“My lord,” he exclaimed again, with clasped hands, “I can't, I can't!”

“There is nothing criminal, or improper, or sinful in it,” replied the

judge; “on the contrary, it is your duty, both as a Christian and a man.

Remember, you have this moment sworn to tell the truth, and the whole

truth; you consequently must keep your oath.”

“What you say, sir, may be right, an' of coorse is; but oh, my lord,

I'm not able; I can't get out the words to hang my only boy. If I said

anything to hurt him, my heart 'ud break before your eyes. May be you

don't know the love of a father for an only son?”

“Perhaps, my lords,” observed the attorney-general, “it would be

desirable to send for a clergyman of his own religion, who might succeed

in prevailing on him to--”

“No,” interrupted Fardorougha; “my mind's made up; a word against him

will never come from my lips, not for priest or friar. I'd die widout

the saykerment sooner.”

“This is trifling with the court,” said the judge, assuming an air of

severity, which, however, he did not feel. “We shall be forced to commit

you to prison unless you give evidence.”

“My lord,” said Fardorougha, meekly, but firmly, “I am willin' to go to

prison--I am willin' to die with him, if he is to die, but I neither can

nor will open my lips against him. If I thought him guilty I might; but

I know he is innocent--my heart knows it; an' am I to back the villain

that's strivin' to swear his life away? No, Connor avourneen, whatever

they do to you, your father will have no hand in it.”

The court, in fact, were perplexed in the extreme. The old man was not

only firm, from motives of strong attachment, but intractable from an

habitual narrowness of thought, which prevented him from taking that

comprehensive view of justice and judicial authority which might

overcome the repugnance of men less obstinate from ignorance of legal

usages.

“I ask you for the last time,” said the judge, “will you give your

evidence? because, if you refuse, the court will feel bound to send you

to prison.”

“God bless you, my lord! that's a relief to my heart. Anything,

anything, but to say a word against a boy that, since the day he was

born, never vexed either his mother or myself. If he gets over this,

I have much to make up to him; for, indeed, I wasn't the father to him

that I ought. Avick machree, now I feel it, may be whin it's too late.”

These words affected all who heard them, many even to tears.

“I have no remedy,” observed the judge. “Tipstaff, take away the witness

to prison. It is painful to me,” he added, in a broken voice, “to feel

compelled thus to punish you for an act which, however I may respect the

motives that dictate it, I cannot overlook. The ends of justice cannot

be frustrated.”

“Mylord,” exclaimed the prisoner, “don't punish the old man for refusing

to speak against me. His love for me is so strong that I know he

couldn't do it. I will state the truth myself, but spare him. I did not

sleep in my own bed on the night Mr. O' Brien's haggard was burned, nor

on the night before it. I slept in my father's barn, with Flanagan; both

times at his own request but I did not then suspect his design in asking

me.”

“This admission, though creditable to your affection and filial duty,

was indiscreet,” observed the judge. “Whatever you think might be

serviceable, suggest to your attorney, who can communicate it to your

counsel.”

“My lord,” said Connor, “I could not see my father punished for loving

me as he does an' besides I have no wish to conceal anything. If the

whole truth could be known I would stand but a short time where I an nor

would Flanagan be long out of it.”

There is an earnest and impressive tone in truth, especially when

spoken under circumstances of great difficulty, where it is rather

disadvantageous to him who utters it, that in many instances produces

conviction by an inherent candor which all feel, without as process

of reasoning or argument. Theis was in those few words a warmth of

affection towards his father, and a manly simplicity heart, each of

which was duly appreciated by the assembly about him, who felt, without

knowing why, the indignant scorn of falsehood that so emphatically

pervaded his expressions. It was indeed impossible to hear them, and

look upon his noble countenance and figure, without forgetting the

humbleness of his rank in life, and feeling for him a marked deference

and respect.

The trial then proceeded; but, alas! the hopes of Connor's friends

abandoned them at its conclusion; for although the judge's charge was

as favorable as the nature of the evidence permitted, yet it was quite

clear that the jury had only one course to pursue, and that was to

bring in a conviction. After the lapse of about ten minutes, they

returned to the jury--box, and, as the foreman handed down their

verdict, a feather might have been heard falling in the court. The faces

of the spectators got pale, and the hearts of strong men beat as if the

verdict about to be announced were to fall upon themselves, and not

upon the prisoner. It is at all times an awful and trying ceremony to

witness, but on this occasion it was a much more affecting one than had

occurred in that court for many years. As the foreman handed down the

verdict, Connor's eye followed the paper with the same calm resolution

which he displayed during the trial. On himself there was no change

visible, unless the appearance of two round spots, one on each cheek, of

a somewhat deeper red than the rest. At length, in the midst of the dead

silence, pronounced in a voice that reached to the remotest extremity of

the court, was heard the fatal sentence--“Guilty;” and afterwards, in

a less distinct manner--“with our strongest and most earnest

recommendation for mercy, in consequence of his youth and previous good

character.” The wail and loud sobbings of the female part of the crowd,

and the stronger but more silent grief of the men, could not, for many

minutes, be repressed by any efforts of the court or its officers. In

the midst of this, a little to the left of the dock, was an old man,

whom those around him were conveying in a state of insensibility out of

the court; and it was obvious that, from motives of humane consideration

for the prisoner, they endeavored to prevent him from ascertaining that

it was his father. In this, however, they failed; the son's eye caught a

glimpse of his grey locks, and it was observed that his cheek paled

for the first time, indicating, by a momentary change, that the only

evidence of agitation he betrayed was occasioned by sympathy in the old

man's sorrows, rather than by the contemplation of his own fate.

The tragic spirit of the day, however, was still to deepen, and a more

stunning blow, though less acute in its agony, was to fall upon the

prisoner. The stir of the calm and solemn jurors, as they issued out

of their room; the hushed breaths of the spectators, the deadly silence

that prevails, and the appalling announcement of the word “Guilty,” are

circumstances that test in man fortitude, more even than the passing of

the fearful sentence itself. In the latter case, hope is banished, and

the worst that can happen known; the mind is, therefore, thrown back

upon its last energies, which give it strength in the same way in which

the death-struggle frequently arouses the muscular action of the I

body--an unconscious power or resistance that forces the culprit's heart

to take refuge in the first and strongest instincts of its nature,

the undying principle of self-preservation. No sooner was the verdict

returned and silence obtained, than the judge, now deeply affected, put

on the black cap, at which a low wild murmur of stifled grief and pity

rang through the court-house; but no sooner was his eye bent on the

prisoner than their anxiety to hear the sentence hushed them once more

into the stillness of the grave. The prisoner looked upon him with an

open but melancholy gaze, which, from the candid and manly character of

his countenance, was touching in the extreme.

“Connor O'Donovan,” said the judge, “have you anything to say why

sentence of death should not be passed upon you?”

“My lord,” he replied, “I can say nothing to prevent it. I am prepared

for it. I know I must bear it, and I hope I will bear it as a man ought,

that feels his heart free from even a thought of the crime he is to die

for. I have nothing more to say.”

“You have this day been found guilty,” proceeded the judge, “and, in the

opinion of the court, upon clear and satisfactory evidence, of a crime

marked by a character of revenge, which I am bound to say must have

proceeded from a very malignant spirit. It was a wanton act, for the

perpetration of which your motives were so inadequate, that one must

feel at a loss to ascertain the exact principle on which you committed

it. It was also not only a wicked act, but one so mean, that a young man

bearing the character of spirit and generosity which you have hitherto

borne, as appears from the testimony of those respectable persons who

this day have spoken in your favor, ought to have scorned to contemplate

it even for a moment. Had the passion you entertained for the daughter

of the man you so basely injured, possessed one atom of the dignity,

disinterestedness, or purity of true affection, you never could have

stooped to any act offensive to the object of your love, or to those

even in the remotest degree related to her. The example, consequently,

which you have held out to society, is equally vile and dangerous. A

parent discharges the most solemn and important of all duties, when

disposing of his children in marriage, because by that act he seals

their happiness or misery in this life, and most probably in that which

is to come. By what tie, by what duty, by what consideration, is not a

parent bound to consult the best interests of those beloved beings whom

he has brought into the world, and who, in a great measure, depend upon

him as their dearest relative, their guardian by the voice of nature,

for the fulfilment of those expectations upon which depend the principal

comforts and enjoyments of life? Reason, religion, justice, instinct,

the whole economy of nature, both in man and the inferior animals, all

teach him to secure for them, as far as in him lies, the greatest sum

of human happiness; but if there be one duty more sacred and tender than

another, it is that which a parent is called upon to exercise on behalf

of a daughter. The son, impressed by that original impulse which moves

him to assume a loftier place in the conduct of life, and gifted also

with a stronger mind, and clearer judgment, to guide him in its varied

transactions, goes abroad into society, and claims for himself a bolder

right of thought and a wider range of action, while determining an event

which is to exercise, as marriage does, such an important influence upon

his own future condition, and all the relations that may arise out of

it. From this privilege the beautiful and delicate framework of woman's

moral nature debars her, and she is consequently forced, by the graces

of her own modesty--by the finer texture of her mind--by her greater

purity and gentleness--in short, by all her virtues, into a tenderer

and more affecting dependence upon the judgment and love of her natural

guardians, whose pleasure is made, by a wise decree of God, commensurate

with their duty in providing for her wants and enjoyments. There is no

point of view in which the parental character shines forth with greater

beauty than that in which it appears while working for and promoting the

happiness of a daughter. But you, it would seem, did not think so. You

punished the father by a dastardly and unmanly act, for guarding the

future peace and welfare of a child so young, and so dear to him. What

would become of society if this exercise of a parent's right on behalf

of his daughter were to be visited upon him as a crime, by every

vindictive and disappointed man, whose affection for them he might, upon

proper grounds, decline to sanction? Yet it is singular, and, I confess,

almost inexplicable to me at least, why you should have rushed into the

commission of such an act. The brief period of your existence has

been stained by no other crime. On the contrary, you have maintained

a character far above your situation in life--a character equally

remarkable for gentleness, spirit, truth, and affection--all of which

your appearance and bearing have this day exhibited. Your countenance

presents no feature expressive of ferocity, or of those headlong

propensities which lead to outrage; and I must confess, that on no

other occasion in my judicial life have I ever felt my judgment and my

feelings so much at issue. I cannot doubt your guilt, but I shed those

tears that it ever existed, and that a youth of so much promise should

be cut down prematurely by the strong arm of necessary justice,

leaving his bereaved parents bowed down with despair that can never

be comforted. Had they another son--or another child, to whom their

affections could turn--”

Here the judge felt it necessary to pause, in consequence of his

emotions. Strong feelings had, indeed, spread through the whole court,

in which, while he ceased, could be heard low moanings, and other

symptoms of acute sorrow.

“It is now your duty to forget every earthly object on which your heart

may have been fixed, and to seek that source of consolation and mercy

which can best sustain and comfort you. Go with a penitent heart to the

throne of your Redeemer, who, if your repentance be sincere, will in no

wise cast you out. Unhappy youth, prepare yourself, let me implore you,

for an infinitely greater and more awful tribunal than this. There,

should the judgment be in your favor, you will learn that the fate,

which has cut you off in the bloom of early life, will bring an

accession of happiness to your being for which no earthly enjoyment

here, however prolonged or exalted, could compensate you. The

recommendation of the jury to the mercy of the crown, in consideration

of your youth and previous good conduct, will not be overlooked; but in

the mean time the court is bound to pronounce upon you the sentence

of the law, which is, that you be taken from the prison from which you

came, on the eighth of next month, at the hour of ten o'clock in the

forenoon, to the front drop of the jail, and there hanged by the neck,

until you be dead; and may God have mercy on your soul!”

“My lord,” said the prisoner, unmoved in voice or in manner, unless it

might be that both expressed more decision and energy than he had shown

during any other part of the trial; “my lord, I am now a condemned man,

but if I stood with the rope about my neck, ready to die, I would not

exchange situations with the man that has: been my accuser. My lord,

I can forgive him, and I ought, for I know he has yet to die, and

must meet his God. As for myself, I am thankful that I have not such a

conscience as his to bring before my Judge; and for this reason I am not

afraid to die.”

He was then removed amidst a murmur of grief, as deep and sincere as

was ever expressed for a human being under circumstances of a similar

character. After having! entered the prison, he was about to turn along

a passage which led to the apartment hitherto allotted to him.

“This way,” said the turnkey, “this way; God knows I would be glad to

let you stop in the room you had, but I haven't the power. We must put

you into one of the condemned cells; but by ---, it'll go hard if I

don't stretch a little to make you as comfortable I as possible.

“Take no trouble,” said Connor, “take no trouble. I care now but little

about my own comfort; but if you wish to oblige me, bring me my father.

Oh, my mother, my mother!--you, I doubt, are struck down already!”

“She was too ill to attend the trial to-day,” replied the turnkey.

“I know it,” said Connor; “but as she's not here, bring me my father.

Send out a messenger for him, and be quick, for I wont rest till I see

him--he wants comfort--the old man's heart will break.”

“I heard them say,” replied the turnkey, after they had entered the cell

allotted to him, “that he was in a faint at Mat Corrigan's public house,

but that he had recovered. I'll go myself and bring him in to you.”

“Do,” said Connor, “an' leave us the moment you bring him.”

It was more than an hour before the man I returned, holding Fardorougha

by the arm, and, after having left him in the cell, he instantly locked

it outside, and withdrew as he had been desired. Connor ran to support

his tottering steps; and wofully indeed did unfortunate parent stand

in need of his assistance. In the picture presented by Fardorougha the

unhappy young man forgot in a moment his own miserable and gloomy fate.

There blazed in his father's eyes an excitement at once dead and wild--a

vague fire without character, yet stirred by an incomprehensible energy

wholly beyond the usual manifestations of thought or suffering. The son

on beholding him shuddered, and not for the first time, for he had on

one or two occasions before become apprehensive that his father's mind

might, if strongly pressed, be worn down, by the singular conflict

of which it was that scene, to that most frightful of all

maladies--insanity. As the old man, however, folded him in his feeble

arms, and attempted to express what he felt, the unhappy boy groaned

aloud, and felt even in the depth of his cell, a blush of momentary

shame suffuse his cheek and brow. His father, notwithstanding the

sentence that had been so shortly before passed upon his son--that

father, he perceived to be absolutely intoxicated, or, to use a more

appropriate expression, decidedly drunk. There was less blame, however,

to be attached to Fardorougha on this occasion, than Connor imagined.

When the old man swooned in the court-house, he was taken by his

neighbors to a public-house, where he lay for some minutes in a state of

insensibility. On his recovery he was plied with burnt whiskey, as well

to restore his strength and prevent a relapse, as upon the principle

that it would enable him to sustain with more firmness the dreadful and

shocking destiny which awaited his son. Actuated by motives of mistaken

kindness, they poured between two and three glasses of this fiery

cordial down his throat, which, as he had not taken so much during the

lapse of thirty years before, soon reduced the feeble old man to the

condition in which we have described him when entering the gloomy cell

of the prisoner.

“Father,” said Connor, “in the name of Heaven above, who or what has put

you into this dreadful state, especially when we consider the hard, hard

fate that is over us, and upon us?”

“Connor,” returned Fardorougha, not perceiving the drift of his

question, “Connor, my son, I'll hang--hang him, that's one comfort.”

“Who are you spaking about?”

“The villain sentence was passed on to--to--day. He'll swing--swing for

the robbery; P----e will. We got him back out of that nest of robbers,

the Isle o' Man--o' Man they call it--that he made off to, the villain!”

“Father dear, I'm sorry to see you in this state on sich a day--sich a

black day to us. For your sake I am. What will the world say of it?”

“Connor, I'm in great spirits all out, exceptin' for something that I

forget, that--that--li--lies heavy upon me. That I mayn't sin, but I

am--I am, indeed--for now that we've cotch him, we'll hang the villain

up. Ha, ha, ha, it's a pleasant sight to see sich a fellow danglin' from

a rope!”

“Father, sit down here, sit down here upon this bad and comfortless bed,

and keep yourself quiet for a little. Maybe you'll get better soon. Oh,

why did you drink, and us in such trouble?”

“I'll not sit down; I'm very well able to stand,” said he, tottering

across the room. “The villain thought to starve me, Connor, but you

heard the sentence that was passed on him to-day. Where's Honor, from

me? she'll be glad, whin--whin she hears it, and my son, Connor, will

too--but he's, he's--where is Connor?--bring me, bring me to Connor. Ah,

avourneen, Honor's heart's breaking for him--'t any rate, the mother's

heart--the mother's heart--she's laid low wid an achin', sorrowful head

for her boy.”

“Father, for God's sake, will you try and rest a little? If you could

sleep, father dear, if you could sleep.”

“I'll hang P----e--I'll hang him--but if he gives me back my money, I'll

not touch him. Who are you?”

“Father dear, I'm Connor, your own son, Connor.”

“I'll marry you and Una, then. I'll settle all the villain robbed me

of on you, and you'll have every penny of it _after my death_. Don't be

keepin' me up, I can walk very well; ay, an' I'm in right good spirits.

Sure, the money's got, Connor--got back every skilleen of it. Ha, ha,

ha, God be praised! God be praised! We've a right to be thankful--the

world isn't so bad afther all.”

“Father, will you try and rest?”

“It's not bad, afther all--I won't starve, as I thought I would, now

that the _arrighad_ is got back from the villain. Ha, ha, ha, it's

great, Connor, ahagur!”

“What is it, father dear.”

“Connor, sing me a song--my heart's up--it's light--arn't you

glad?--sing me a song.”

“If you'll sleep first, father dear.”

“The _Uligone_, Connor, or _Shuilagra_, or the _Trougha_--for,

avourneen, avourneen, there must be sorrow in it, for my heart's low,

and your mother's heart's in sorrow, an' she's lyin' far from us, an'

her boy's not near her, an' her heart's sore, sore, and her head achin',

bekase her boy's far from her, and she can't come to him!”

The boy, whose noble fortitude was unshaken during the formidable trial

it had encountered in the course of that day, now felt overcome by

this simple allusion to his mother's love. He threw his arms about his

father's neck, and, placing his head upon his bosom, wept aloud for

many, many minutes.

“Hiisth, Connor, husth, asthore--what makes you cry? Sure, all 'ill

be right now that we've got back the money. Eh? Ha, ha, ha, it's great

luck, Connor, isn't it great? An' you'll have it, you an' Una, _afther

my death_--for I won't starve for e'er a one o' yees.”

“Father, father, I wish you would rest.”

“Well, I will, avick, I will--bring me to bed--you'll sleep in your own

bed to-night. Your poor mother's head hasn't been off of the place where

your own lay, Connor. No, indeed; her heart's low--it's breakin'--it's

breakin'--but she won't let anybody make your bed but herself. Oh, the

mother's love, Connor--that mother's love, that mother's love--but,

Connor--”

“Well, father, dear.”

“Isn't there something wrong, avick: isn't there something not right,

somehow?”

This question occasioned the son to feel as if his heart would literally

burst to pieces, especially when he considered the circumstances under

which the old man put it. Indeed, there was something so transcendently

appalling in his intoxication, and in the wild but affecting tone of his

conversation, that, when joined to his pallid and spectral appearance,

it gave a character, for the time being, of a mood that struck the heart

with an image more frightful than that of madness itself.

“Wrong, father!” he replied, “all's wrong, and I can't understand it.

It's wel for you that you don't know the doom that's upon us now, for

I feel how it would bring you down, and how it will, too. It will kill

you, my father--it will kill you.”

“Connor, come home, avick, come home--I'm tired at any rate--come home

to you mother--come, for her sake--I know I'm not at home, an' she'll

not rest till I bring you safe back to her. Come now, I'll have no put

offs--you must come, I say--I ordher you--I can't and won't meet her wid

out you. Come, avick, an' you can sing mi the song goin' home--come wid

your owi poor ould father, that can't live widout you--come, a sullish

machree, I don't feel right here--we won't be properly happy till we go

to your lovin' mother.”

“Father, father, you don't know what you're making me suffer! What

heart, blessed heaven, can bear--”

The door of his cell here opened, and the turnkey stated that some five

or six of his friends were anxious to see him, and, above all things, to

take charge of his father to his own home. This was a manifest relief to

the young man, who then felt more deeply on his unhappy father's account

than on his own.

“Some foolish friends,” said he, “have given my father liquor, an'

it has got into his head--indeed, it overcame him the more as I never

remember him to taste a drop of spirits during his life before. I can

see no body now an' him in this state; but if they wish me well, let

them take care of him, and leave him safe at his own house, and tell

them I'll be glad if I can see them tomorrow, or any other time.”

With considerable difficulty Fardorougha was removed from Connor, whom

he clung to with all his strength, attempting also to drag him away. He

then wept bitterly, because he declined to accompany him home, that he

might comfort his mother, and enjoy the imagined recovery of his

money from P----e, and the conviction which he believed they had just

succeeded in getting against that notorious defaulter.

After they had departed, Connor sat down upon his hard pallet, and,

supporting his head with his hand, saw, for the first time, in all its

magnitude and horror, the death to which he found himself now doomed.

The excitement occasioned by his trial, and his increasing firmness, as

it darkened on through all its stages to the final sentence, now had--in

a considerable degree abandoned him, and left his heart, at present,

more accessible to natural weakness than it it had been to the power of

his own affections. The image of his early-loved Una had seldom since

his arrest been out of his imagination. Her youth, her beauty, her wild

but natural grace, and the flashing glances of her dark enthusiastic

eye, when joined to her tenderness and boundless affection for

himself--all caused his heart to quiver with deadly anguish through

every fibre. This produced a transition to Flanagan--the contemplation

of whose perfidious vengeance made him spring from his seat in a

paroxysm of indignant but intense hatred, so utterly furious that the

swelling tempest which it sent through his veins caused him to reel with

absolute giddiness.

“Great God!” he exclaimed, “you are just, and will this be suffered?”

He then thought of his parents, and the fiery mood of his mind changed

to one of melancholy and sorrow. He looked back upon his aged father's

enduring struggle--upon the battle of the old man's heart against the

accursed vice which had swayed its impulses so long--on the protracted

conflict between the two energies, which, like contending fivmies in

the field, had now left little but ruin and desolation behind them. His

heart, when he brought all these things near him, expanded, and like a

bird, folded its wings about the gray-haired martyr to the love he bore

him. But his mother--the caressing, the proud, the affectionate, whose

heart, in the vivid tenderness of hope for her beloved boy, had shaped

out his path in life, as that on which she could brood with the fondness

of a loving and delighted spirit--that mother's image, and the idea

of her sorrows prostrated his whole strength, like that of a stricken

infant, to the earth.

“Mother, mother,” he exclaimed, “when I think of what you reared me for,

and what I am this night, how can my heart do otherwise than break, as

well on your account as on my own, and for all that love us! Oh! what

will become of you, my blessed mother? Hard does it go with you that

you're not about your pride, as you used to call me, now that I'm in

this trouble, in this fate that is soon to cut me down from your loving

arms! The thought of you is dear to my heart, dear, dearer, dearer than

that of any--than my own Una. What will become of her, too, and the

old man? Oh, why, why is it that the death I am to suffer is to fall so

heavily on them that love me best?”

He then returned to his bed, but the cold and dreary images of death

and ruin haunted his imagination, until the night was far spent, when at

length he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

By the sympathy expressed at his trial, our readers may easily conceive

the profound sorrow which was felt for him, in the district where he

was known, from the moment the knowledge of his sentence had gone abroad

among the people. This was much strengthened by that which, whether in

man or woman, never fails to create an amiable prejudice in its favor--I

mean youth and personal beauty. His whole previous character was now

canvassed with a mournful lenity that brought out his virtues into

beautiful relief; and the fate of the affectionate son was deplored

no less than that of the youthful, but rash and inconsiderate lover.

Neither was the father without his share of compassion, for they could

not forget that, despite of all his penury and extortion, the old man's

heart had been fixed, with a strong but uncouth affection, upon his

amiable and only boy. It was, however, when they thought of his mother,

in whose heart of hearts he had been enshrined as the idol of her

whole affection, that their spirits became truly touched. Many a mother

assumed in her own person, by the force of imagination, the sinking

woman's misery, and poured forth, in unavailing tears, the undeniable

proofs of the sincerity with which she participated in Honor's

bereavement. As for Flanagan, a deadly weight of odium, such as is

peculiar to the Informer in Ireland, fell upon both him and his. Nor was

this all. Aided by that sagacity which is so conspicuous in Irishmen,

when a vindictive or hostile feeling is excited among them, they

depicted Flanagan's character with an accuracy and truth astonishingly

correct and intuitive. Numerous were the instances of cowardice,

treachery, and revenge remembered against him, by those who had been his

close and early companions, not one of which would have ever occurred

to them, were it not that their minds had been thrown back upon the

scrutiny by the melancholy fate in which he had involved the unhappy

Connor O'Donovan. Had he been a mere ordinary witness in the matter,

he would have experienced little of this boiling indignation at their

hands; but first to participate in the guilt, and afterwards, for the

sake of the reward, or from a worse and more flagitious motive, to turn

upon him, and become his accuser, even to the taking away of the young

man's life--to stag against his companion and accomplice--this was

looked upon as a crime ten thousand times more black and damnable than

that for which the unhappy culprit had been consigned to so shameful a

death.

But, alas, of what avail was all this sympathy and indignation to the

unfortunate youth himself or to those most deeply interested in his

fate? Would not the very love and sorrow felt towards her son fall upon

his mother's heart with a heavier weight of bitterness and agony? Would

not his Una's soul be wounded on that account with a sharper and more

deadly pang of despair and misery? It would, indeed, be difficult to say

whether the house of Bodagh Buie or that of Fardorougha was then in the

deeper sorrow. On the morning of Connor's trial, Una arose at an earlier

hour than usual, and it was observed when she sat at breakfeast,

that her cheek was at one moment pale as death, and again flushed

and feverish. These symptoms were first perceived by her affectionate

brother, who, on witnessing the mistakes she made in pouring out the

tea, exchanged a glance with his parents, and afterwards asked her to

allow him to take her place. She laid down the tea-pot, and, looking him

mournfully in the face, attempted to smile at a request so unusual.

“Una, dear,” said he, “you must allow me. There is no necessity for

attempting to conceal what you feel--we all know it--and if we did not,

the fact of your having filled the sugar-bowl instead of the tea-cup

would soon discover it.”

She said nothing, but looked at him again, as if she scarcely

comprehended what he said. A glance, however, at the sugar-bowl

convinced her that she was incapable of performing the usual duties of

the breakfast table. Hitherto she had not raised her eyes to her father

or mother's face, nor spoken to them as had been her wont, when meeting

at that strictly domestic meal. The unrestrained sobbings of the mother

now aroused her for the first time, and on looking up, she saw her

father wiping away the big tears from his eyes.

“Una, avourneen,” said the worthy man, “let John make tay for us--for,

God help you, you can't do it. Don't fret, achora machree, don't, don't,

Una; as God is over me, I'd give all I'm worth to save him, for your

sake.”

She looked at her father and smiled again; but that smile cut him to the

heart.

“I will make the tea myself, father,” she replied, “and I _won't_ commit

any more mistakes;” and as she spoke she unconsciously poured the tea

into the slop--bowl.

“Avourneen,” said her mother, “let John do it; acushla machree, let him

do it.”

She then rose, and without uttering a word, passively and silently

placed herself on her brother's chair--he having, at the same time,

taken that on which she sat.

“Una,” said her father, taking her hand, “you must be a good girl, and

you must have courage; and whatever happens, my darling, you'll pluck up

strength, I hope, and bear it.”

“I hope so, father,” said she, “I hope so.”

“But, avourneen machree,” said her mother, “I would rather see you

cryin' fifty times over, than smilin' the way you do.”

“Mother,” said she, “my heart is sore--my heart is sore.”

“It is, ahagur machree; and your hand is tremblin' so much that you

can't bring the tay--cup to your mouth; but, then, don't smile so

sorrowfully, anein machree.”

“Why should I cry, mother?” she replied; “I know that Connor is

innocent. If I knew him to be guilty, I would weep, and I ought to

weep.”

“At all events, Una,” said her father, “you know it's the government,

and not us, that's prosecuting him.”

To this Una made no reply, but, thrusting away her cup, she looked with

the same mournful smile from one to the other of the little circle about

her. At length she spoke.

“Father, I have a request to ask of you.”

“If it's within my power, Una darling, I'll grant it; and if it's not,

it'll go hard with me but I'll bring it within my power. What is it,

asthore machree?”

“In case he's found guilty, to let John put off his journey to Maynooth,

and stay with me for some time--it won't be long I'll keep him.”

“If it pleases you, darling, he'll never put his foot into Maynooth

again.”

“No,” said the mother, “dhamnho to the step, if you don't wish him.”

“Oh, no, no,” said Una, “it's only for a while.”

“Unless she desires it, I will never go,” replied the loving brother;

“nor will I ever leave you in your sorrow, my beloved and only

sister--never--never--so long as a word from my lips can give you

consolation.”

The warm tears coursed each other down his cheeks as he spoke, and both

his parents, on looking at the almost blighted flower before them, wept

as if the hand of death had already been upon her.

“Father, and John are going to his trial,” she observed; “for me I like

to be alone;--alone; but when you return to-night, let John break it to

me. I'll go now to the garden. I'll walk about to-day--only before you

go, John, I want to speak to you.”

Calmly and without a tear, she then left the parlor, and proceeded

to the garden, where she began to dress and ornament the hive which

contained the swarm that Connor had brought to her on the day their

mutual attachment was first disclosed to each other.

“Father,” said John, when she had gone, “I'm afraid that Una's heart

is broken, or if not broken, that she won't survive his conviction

long--it's breaking fast--for my part, in her present state, I neither

will nor can leave her.”

The affectionate father made no reply, but, putting his handkerchief to

his eyes, wept, as did her mother, in silent but bitter grief.

“I cannot spake about it, nor think of it, John,” said he, after some

time, “but we must do what we can for her.”

“If anything happens her,” said the mother, “I'd never get over it. Oh

marciful Savior! how could we live widout her?”

“I would rather see her in tears,” said John--“I would rather see her

in outrageous grief a thousand times than in the calm but ghastly

resolution with which she is bearing herself up against the trial of

this day. If he's condemned to death, I'm afraid that either her health

or reason will sink under it, and, in that case, God pity her and us,

for how, as you say, mother, could we afford to lose her? Still let us

hope for the best. Father, it's time to prepare; get the car ready. I am

going to the garden, to hear what the poor thing has to say to me, but I

will be with you soon.”

Her brother found her, as we have said, engaged calmly, and with a

melancholy pleasure, in adorning the hive which, on Connor's account,

had become her favorite. He was not at all sorry that she had proposed

this short interview, for, as his hopes of Connor's acquittal were

but feeble, if, indeed, he could truly be said to entertain any, he

resolved, by delicately communicating his apprehensions, to gradually

prepare her mind for the worst that might happen.