The Fortunes of Hector O'Halloran, and His Man, Mark Antony O'Toole. W. H. Maxwell

which he descanted most learnedly; and, a little military pedantry apart, his advice and opinions were sound and soldierly. He reprobated play—gave serious warnings against debt—discouraged gallantry, and inculcated the necessity of duelling. He lamented, in the course of his harangue, the loss of my ancient preceptor Father Dominic; to himself, he stated, that the loss was irreparable—he could not, unfortunately, drink the left hand against the right, nor uncork a bottle without being bothered by a d——d servant. He complained that he felt a twinge in his infirm shoulder—well, that was rheumatism; he had also an obnubilation in his eyes—but that was bile; it could not be what he drank:—by the way, he had two bottles of Page’s best in.—He should go to bed—exhorted me to be up at cock-crow—gave me some parting admonitions—an order on a Dublin tailor for an outfit—a bundle of country bank-notes—his blessing into the bargain—shook my hand—and, with the assistance of Sergeant Brady, toddled off to his apartment.

      The Commander was scarcely gone, when Susan’s black eye peered into the room cautiously, to ascertain that all was quiet.

      “Hist! Master Hector! Is the Colonel gone to bed?”

      “He’s safe for the night, my fair Susan. The house is all our own. Come in—shut the door, for I want to confess you.”

      “And finish the godly exercise you commenced in the flower-garden! No, no, Master Hector; no more of that. Come, your mother wants to see you alone—I’ll light you to her dressing-room.”

      I attended the demoiselle immediately, and was inducted to her lady’s chamber. When the door opened I found her seated at a work-table, with a book of religious exercises and a huge rosary before her. Bursting into tears, she clasped me to her bosom, and muttered in an under voice, “Sit down, Hector—many months have elapsed since we met, and many more may probably pass over before we meet again. And so they have destined you for that horrible profession—and you are going to-morrow?”

      “Yes, madam, by peep of day.”

      “Well, Hector, will you in one thing oblige me, and grant your mother a request?”

      “Undoubtedly, madam.”

      She placed a purse in my hand—and taking from the leaves of her Missal a small silken bag, opened my shirt collar, and bound it round my neck. I smiled at the ceremony, and submitted. It was, of course, some charm or reliquary; and though the one-armed commander would have laughed, at what he would have considered on my part a symptom of apostasy, I thought it was no crime to carry an inch or two of silk upon my person, when my compliance would render happy a mother who loved me so tenderly.

      “Hector,” said she, after investing me with this important amulet, “promise, for my sake, that you will wear it night and day; and, until misfortune overtakes, and all other hope fails—which Heaven grant may never happen!—that you will not unclose the cover, or read the writing of the Gospel.” *

      * Gospels are worn in Ireland as a protection against

       diseases and “diablerie.”

      I gave the pledge she required; took an affectionate leave; and, lighted by Susan, returned to the parlour.

      Lobbies, like flower-knots, are dangerous places for adieux! Poor Susan was faintly remonstrating against a second kiss, when a third actor popped upon the stage unexpectedly, and terminated at once the contest. The intruder was my foster-brother. All parties evinced annoyance; Marc Antony looked very silly, and the demoiselle, bounding up the stairs, leaned over the balustrades, and spoke a hurried farewell.

      “Heaven bless you, Master Hector—mind your poor mother’s parting words, and all prosperity attend you.” Then, turning a wrathful look at the “fosterer,” * she continued, “Don’t mind what that false villain says. Ah, you wicked wretch! are you not afraid the roof will fall?” and, shaking her clenched hand at him, vanished.

      What could have roused the anger of the dark-eyed Abigail was to me a puzzle: I entered the parlour, and the crest-fallen fosterer followed, and closed the door.

      “Why, Marc, what’s the matter? Your old friend, Susan, seems in but indifferent temper with you.”

      Mr. O’Toole fiddled with his hat, picked the wool off by pinches, and appeared wofully confused.

      “Did you want me, Marc? or was it Susan you were looking for?”

      “I just wanted to speak to you,” said my foster-brother, “for fear I should miss you in the morning.”

      “Well, Marc, here I am.”

      “I’m going, Master Hector, to try my fortune either in England, or the North.”

      “What! and quit my father’s service? Think well of this, Marc.”

      “Why, troth, I can’t hold the place, and all on account of an accident.”

      “Indeed! what happened you?”

      Marc picked the hat anew. “I’m in the middle of trouble, and the sooner I’m off, the better.”

      “Broken heads or broken vows; or, probably, a mixture of both?”

      “Devil a head I broke since the fair of Carrick, and the Carneys brought it on themselves; and in honesty I’m at every man’s defiance,” returned the fosterer.

      “Then what would you do in England, may I ask?”

      “What would I do in England?” he repeated, like an echo. “Can’t I do anything?—shear, mow, wisp a horse, whip hounds, jump two-and-twenty feet, throw stone and sledge—and take my own part in fair and pattern?”

      “Friend Marc, most of these accomplishments would only secure you a lodging in the cage, or a settlement in the stocks. But, in a word, what brings you away?”

      “Just Biddy O’Dwyer, the dairymaid—the devil’s luck attend her!”

      “Phew! Go on, Marc.”

      “She wants me to marry her!”

      “And, I suppose, has pressing reasons for making the request?”

      “The devil a reason, only she took me to a cake.” ** “I comprehend the rest.”

      “Feaks! it was all her own fault—she would keep dancing to the last. The night was dark, and we were hearty. *** I lost my way—and she her character.”

      * Anglice, foster-brother.

       ** Cakes are nightly assemblies common in the ‘west of

       Ireland, and holden for the purposes of dancing, drinking,

       and courting. In returning from these festive meetings,

       ladies’ reputations and gentlemen’s skulls are occasionally

       severely damaged.

       *** Anglicê, nearly drunk.

      “Well! and why not repair the damage, Marc?”

      “Is it me! and she four years older? By this book”—and he kissed his hat religiously—“for all the ladies and priests that ever wore cap or vestment, I would not marry ye, Kitty O’Dwyer!”

      “Well, Marc, you are upon this point the best judge.”

      “There’s no use in concealing anything, and you, my foster-brother, Master Hector. Kitty’s a great Catholic, and a Carmelite to boot—and my lady and Father Grady will fairly banish me the country, when they hear that it was through me she got the blast.”

      “Rebel, Marc! Refuse, point-blank. Hold out manfully—and neither priest, nor bishop, can make you marry, if you don’t like it.”

      “And then I’ll be made a world’s wonder of!” and Marc Antony groaned at the very thought. “Called out in the chapel—cursed from the altar—bundled off to Ball—trotted up Croagh Patrick—ay,