Valentine M'Clutchy, The Irish Agent. William Carleton

without cause; I have been somewhat disturbed, but it will not signify; I shall be quite well in a moment—but where did you come from?”

      “They told me you had gone up to poor Widow Carrick's—and I took the short way, thinking to find you there. But what has disturbed you, my dear Mary? Something has, and greatly too.”

      She looked up with an affectionate smile into his face, although there trembled a tear upon her eyelids, as she spoke—

      “Do not ask me, my dear Frank; nor don't think the circumstance of much importance. It is a little secret of mine, which I cannot for the present disclose.”

      “Well, my love, I only ask to know if the woman that left you was Poll Doolin.”

      “I cannot answer even that, Frank; but such as the secret is, I trust you shall soon know it.”

      “That is enough, my darling. I am satisfied that you would conceal nothing from either your family or me, which might be detrimental either to yourself or us—or which we ought to know.”

      “That is true,” said she, “I feel that it is true.”

      “But then on the other hand,” said he, playfully, “suppose our little darling were in possession of a secret which we ought not to know—what character should we bestow on the secret?”

      This, though said in love and jest, distressed her so much that she was forced to tell him so—“my dear Francis,” she replied, with as much composure as she could assume, “do not press me on the subject;—I cannot speak upon it now, and I consequently must throw myself on your love and generosity only for a short time, I hope.”

      “Not a syllable, my darling, on the subject until you resume it yourself—how are Widow Carrick's sick children?”

      “Somewhat better,” she replied, “the two eldest are recovering, and want nourishment, which, with the exception of my poor contributions, they cannot get.”

      “God love and guard your kind and charitable heart, my sweet Mary,” said he, looking down tenderly into her beautiful face, and pressing her arm lovingly against his side.

      “What a hard-hearted man that under agent, M'Clutchy, is,” she exclaimed, her beautiful eye brightening with indignation—“do you know that while her children were ill, his bailiff, Darby O'Drive, by his orders or authority, or some claim or other, took away her goose and the only half-dozen of eggs she had for them—indeed, Frank, he's a sad curse to the property.”

      “He is what an old Vandal was once called for his cruelty and oppression—the Scourge of God,” replied Harman, “such certainly the unhappy tenantry of the Topertoe family find him. Harsh and heartless as he is, however, what would he be were it not for the vigilance and humanity of Mr. Hickman? But are you aware, Mary, that his graceful son Phil was a suitor of yours?”

      “Of mine—ha, ha, ha!—oh, that's too comical, Frank—but I am not—Had I really ever that honor?”

      “Most certainly; his amiable father had the modesty to propose a matrimonial union between your family and his!”

      “I never heard of it,” replied Mary, “never;—but that is easily accounted for—my father, I know, would not insult me by the very mention of it.”

      “It's a fact though, that the illegitimate son of the blasphemous old squire, and of the virtuous and celebrated Kate Clank, hoped to have united the M'Loughlin blood with his!”

      “Hush!” exclaimed Mary, shuddering, “the very thought is sickening, revolting.”

      “It's not a pleasant subject, certainly,” said Harman, “and the less that is said about it the more disgust we shall avoid, at any rate.”

      Her lover having safely conducted Mary home, remained with her family only a few minutes, as the evening was advanced, and he had still to go as far as Castle Cumber, upon business connected with the manufactory, which M'Loughlin and his father had placed wholly under his superintendence.

      Upon what slight circumstances does the happiness of individuals, nay, even of states and kingdoms, too frequently depend! Harman most assuredly was incapable of altogether dismissing the circumstance of the evening—involved in mystery as they unquestionably were—out of his mind; not that he entertained the slightest possible suspicion of Mary's prudence or affection; but he felt a kind of surprise at the novelty of the position in which he saw she was placed, and no little pain in consequence of the disagreeable necessity for silence which she admitted had been imposed on her. His confidence in her, however, was boundless; and from this perfect reliance on her discretion and truth, he derived an assurance that she was acting with strict propriety under the circumstances, whatever might be their character or tendency.

      It may be necessary to mention here that a right of passage ran from Beleeven, the name of the village in which M'Loughlin resided, to the Castle Cumber high road, which it joined a little beyond Constitution Cottage, passing immediately through an angle of the clump of beeches already mentioned as growing behind the house. By this path, which shortened the way very much, Harman, and indeed every pedestrian acquainted with it, was in the habit of passing, and on the night in question he was proceeding along it at a pretty quick pace, when, having reached the beeches just alluded to, he perceived two figures, a male and female, apparently engaged in close and earnest conversation. The distance at first was too great to enable him to form any opinion as to who they were, nor would he have even asked himself the question, were it not that the way necessarily brought him pretty near them. The reader may form some conception then of his surprise, his perplexity, and, disguise it as he might, his pain, on ascertaining that the female was no other than Poll Doolin, and her companion, graceful Phil himself—the gallant and accomplished owner of Handsome Harry.

      It appeared quite evident that the subject matter of their conversation was designed for no other ears than their own, or why speak as they did in low and guarded tones, that implied great secrecy and caution. Nay, what proved still a plainer corroboration of this—no sooner was the noise of his footsteps heard, than Poll squatted herself down behind the small hedge which separated the pathway from the space on which they stood, and this clearly with a hope of concealing her person from his observation. Phil also turned away his face with a purpose of concealment, but the impression left by his lank and scraggy outline, as it stood twisted before Harman, was such as could not be mistaken. Poll's identity not only on this occasion, but also during her hasty separation from Mary, was now established beyond the possibility of a doubt; a fact which lent to both her interviews a degree of mystery that confounded Harman. On thinking over the matter coolly, he could scarcely help believing that Her appearance here was in some way connected with the, circumstances which had occasioned Mary so much agitation and alarm. This suspicion, however, soon gave way to a more generous estimate of her character, and he could not permit himself for a moment to imagine the existence of anything that was prejudicial to her truth and affection. At the same time he felt it impossible to prevent himself from experiencing a strong sense of anxiety, or perhaps we should say, a feeling of involuntary pain, which lay like a dead weight upon his heart and spirits. In truth, do what he might and reason as he would, he could not expel from his mind the new and painful principle which disturbed it. And thus he went on, sometimes triumphantly defending Mary from all ungenerous suspicion, and again writhing under the vague and shapeless surmises which the singular events of the evening sent crowding to his imagination. His dreams on retiring to seek repose were frightful—several times in the night he saw graceful Phil squinting at him with a nondescript leer of vengeance and derision in his yellow goggle eyes, and bearing Mary off, like some misshapen ogre of old, mounted upon Handsome Harry, who appeared to be gifted with the speed of Hark-away or flying Childers, whilst he himself could do nothing but stand helplessly by, and contemplate the triumph of his hated rival.

      In the mean time the respected father and grandfather of that worthy young gentleman were laboring as assiduously for his advancement in life as if he had been gifted with a catalogue of all human virtues. Old Deaker, true to his word, addressed the very next day the following characteristic epistle—

      “To