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

acceptable. You understand me?”

      “Indeed I do; and believe me, my good Mentor, that your friend’s fair daughter has little to fear from one who has had death in expectancy for two hours.”

      “So much the better,” said the stranger. “Proceed; and you have but to tell your wants at the house, and have them attended to. You will however require a guide, for probably Mr. Hartley’s dogs might annoy you.”

      He whistled; and the same boatman again obeyed the signal. To him he gave orders to attend me; bade me good night; and turned into an opening in the copse, leaving me with my guide, and with the pleasant necessity of presenting myself to Mr. Hartley,—an unexpected, an unbidden, and, not improbably, an unwelcome guest.

CHAPTER VI. A CHANGE FOR THE BETTER.

       Table of Contents

      Mirandi.—“Be of comfort;

      My fathers of a better nature, sir,

      Than he appears by speech.”—The Tempest.

      As we proceeded, I endeavoured to lead my companion into conversation, and glean from him some information touching the place and the personage we were about to honour with a midnight visit. At first, Andy Beg *—for so the other boatmen named him—affected ignorance of Mr. Hartley’s general history; and said that all he knew “for certain” was, that he had been a great traveller, and bought, a few years ago, a large mountain property, whose extent and revenues bore most ridiculous proportions;—the one exceeding some square miles, the other not amounting in value to the rental of an English farm. He added, that “he had plenty of money, few acquaintances, lived entirely to himself, kept a very good house, and kept every body out of it.” In short, the total of my intelligence was small and not encouraging. Mr. Hartley being wealthy and inhospitable, having

      “One fair daughter, and no more,

      The which he loved passing weir’

      the reception of a stranger like myself, making an unceremonious call after sunset, seemed indeed rather a questionable matter. But it was necessary to make an attempt to gain admission; for, assuredly, any thing was better than to be cooped up on that infernal island.

      * Anglice, Little Andy.

      As we issued from the wooded avenue, the moon had risen above the trees, and showed us a solitary building standing in the centre of an open glade, and surrounded by a rustic paling. A terrier promptly gave the alarm, and dogs of divers sizes and descriptions joined in the challenge. But Andy appeared to be an old acquaintance; they ceased barking when his voice was recognised, and permitted us to pass through a wicket in the enclosure, and enter a gravelled walk that approached the dreaded mansion.

      “Now, sir, you require me no longer; and I have particular business to transact before morning. Knock and fear nothing. The dogs will not annoy you.” So saying, Andy passed through the wicket, and left me to myself.

      I stood for a minute to gain time for recollection, and examine the appearance of the building. There was nothing remarkable in the exterior, and all within the house appeared dark and silent; at least, the latticed window? were so jealously blinded, that it was impossible to discover aught of the interior. I took courage—advanced to the door, and tapped modestly like one rather dubious of admission. Again, I repeated the knock, and a slight bustle within told that the summons was heard. Presently a chain was removed, bolts were withdrawn, and an old man dressed in plain blue livery stood in the doorway, and civilly inquired my business. My tale was briefly told. The servant bowed, and left me in the hall, while he went to apprize his master that a late visitor had arrived. Returning directly, he requested me to follow him—and leading the way down a long passage, conducted me to a well-lighted chamber, and announced that Mr. Hartley would wait upon me immediately.

      Here I was, in military parlance, safe within the body of the place, and all the approaches carried without opposition. So far the work went bravely on; and, like a prudent soldier, I occupied the interval of expectation in examining the interior, to enable me if possible to form some idea of the quality of the inmates.

      The room, though small, exhibited good taste and considerable elegance. The furniture and hangings were designed with great simplicity, but formed evidently of costly materials. A harp and guitar, numerous music-books, and several cases filled with well-bound volumes, bespoke the refinement of the owner. But the pictures were still more striking; they were generally oil paintings, and framed magnificently; and with these the walls were completely covered from the ceiling to the very base. The mantel-piece was still more remarkable. It was crowded with what are termed articles of vertu, being curious carvings in ivory and porcelain, of great value. There were also some oriental toys in silver filagree, shell snuff-boxes of unequalled beauty, and others of massive gold. But what fixed my attention at once, was a cabinet picture of small size, that rested on the centre of the slab—and which, even to an unpractised eye, appeared in its style and execution a chef-d’oeuvre.

      The painting represented a young man, dressed in the fanciful costume of an Eastern rover, holding a midnight interview with a beautiful girl, who wore the habit of a religieuse. Moonlight, a seashore, a monastic building half-hidden by trees of tropic growth, with a vessel in the distance, formed the scene. One arm of the corsair clasped the nun; while the other pointed to the ship, whose canvas, hanging loosely, indicated a readiness for sailing—and the rover’s action seemed as if he was “whispering her fears away,” and urging the novice to accompany him. The character of both figures was admirably marked. In the rover’s handsome features there was much to admire, and more to fear. The expression was that of high courage, mingled with a haughty recklessness, that might either be caused by personal indifference to danger or a disregard of suffering in others. But in the beautiful religieuse there was a confiding love so gentle, so fixed, so unsuspecting, that one dwelt with pleasure on a face, where every best property of woman seemed combined.

      The dresses of the twain were even more dissimilar than the character of the features. His costume was a tight jacket and expansive trowsers, belted with an Indian sash, which, while it displayed the symmetry of a faultless figure, permitted the wearer to put forth his strength with graceful freedom. Had his wild profession been doubtful, the Albanian cap, ornamented pistols, sabre and poniard, would have betrayed his calling. His beautiful companion wore the dress of the Ursulines; the back-turned hood displayed the sweetest face imaginable, while the hand that rested on the rover’s arm, as if to stay his departure, might have formed a study for Canova.

      The picture fascinated me; all was forgotten while I gazed upon it. I looked again. Despite the darkening influence of sun and storm, a thick moustache, and foreign costume, the corsair’s aspect was decidedly British. It was a fair skin embrowned by climate, with which a wild and martial carriage and hair of raven blackness accorded well.

      Wrapped in silent admiration—now gazing on “the bold brigand”—now enraptured with the sweet gentleness of the confiding girl, who seemed ready to abandon “home and heaven” for “her wild love,” I did not hear the door open until the host was almost standing at my side. Addressing me in a voice of peculiar sweetness, he bade me a warm welcome, apologized for not receiving me in the hall; and then telling me that supper was in readiness, he led me with excellent tact into a general conversation.

      We talked on indifferent subjects for a few minutes, while gradually my self-possession returned. Although described by the unknown as stern and suspicious, and by Andy as misanthropic and unamiable, my host seemed kind and hospitable to a marvel. Just then the door opened again, a girl of remarkable beauty glided in, and Mr. Hartley led her forward. “This, sir,” said he, “is my daughter; and this gentleman, Isidora, is our guest.” We both cast down our eyes; she in maiden timidity colouring to the very brow, and I—I shame to own it—blushing like a country orator addressing “the unwashed” for the first time. I muttered a confused apology for an intrusion