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

and rain.

      It was yet but seven, and some time must elapse before the family would be afoot. Out of doors, all looked cold and comfortless, and I was obliged to betake myself to bed again, and there await patiently the advent of my sable physician.

      Sleep I could not; my brain was in a whirl, as the events of yesterday crossed my mind in fast succession; all, or any, being sufficiently exciting to stamp the day adventurous to a novice like myself, just started on the world. But one engrossing recollection obliterated all the rest, and the picture and supper-scene occupied my thoughts exclusively.

      As I pondered on the singular resemblance between the figures in the painting and those of Isidora and “mine host,” my eyes involuntarily rested on the arms which hung above the mantel-pieee. The sabre and pistols rivetted my attention. They were the very identical weapons with which the corsair in the picture was accoutred! Hartley’s eulogy upon the sword, and the boast of his former prowess, confirmed the belief, that though a “worthy Thane” at present, there was a period when his calling was but indifferent, and himself, “if a man should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked.” Just then I heard a gentle tap, and Dominique made his appearance to ascertain how far I had benefited by his leech-craft, and if necessary, to assist me at my toilet.

      “Your master, Dominique, went early abroad to-day.”

      “Yes, sir. He had business at some short distance from the house, but he will not delay long. How much better your wounds look than could have been expected from their appearance last night!” and the negro embrocated my bruises again. “Pray, do you know, sir, any of the persons who assailed you on the road?”

      “Not I, in faith. From what I can collect, I was mistaken for another.”

      “It was a bad blunder for you; but, all considered, you have escaped wonderfully. It was very doubtful whether you could have left your room this morning; and Miss Isidora begs to know whether you will have breakfast in your chamber, or venture to the parlour.”

      “To the parlour, certainly.” Up I sprang, dressed rapidly, and following the sable functionary to the end of the corridor; he pointed to the drawing-room door, bowed, left me, and I entered.

      The room was still untenanted, and, to all appearance, precisely as I had left it the preceding night. Reckless of the confusion it had already caused, I determined to satisfy my curiosity again, and take a second peep at the mysterious picture. From the doorway the massive frame was visible, for my eyes had turned involuntarily to the place where my thoughts had already wandered. I walked on and stood before the painting.‘Twas passing strange; there was the frame, but both lady and corsair had vanished; and the parting scene of love had changed to one of vengeance. How opposite the subject, too—Blue Beard about to shorten Fatima by the head, for being over curious, like myself, in a strange house and on a first visit. Was this pointed as a hint to me? I’faith, it looked very like it, but, before I could determine whether the painting was designed to convey this silent lesson, a light step behind announced the presence of Isidora. She had entered from the adjoining room unperceived, and came to tell me that breakfast waited.

      All things considered, the meal passed over with less embarrassment than might have been expected from a tête à tête between two novices like us, who had parted in the unpromising manner we had done the night before. Although timid as one unacquainted with the world will naturally be when she is first addressed by a stranger, Isidora’s was the diffidence of maiden modesty rather than mauvais honte; while I, appertaining to that numerous class intituled “bashful Irishmen,” mustered my small stock of assurance, as I whispered to myself old Chapman’s lines—

      “Ah! crrared sheep’s-head, hast thou liv’d thus long,

      And dar’st not look a woman in the face?”

      Certain it is, that, after having duly ascertained that my mare and baggage had passed through the hands of the Philistines uninjured, I returned gallantly to the drawing-room. There I behaved as a soldier of promise should do; ending by proposing a walk to the fair hostess, which invitation on her part was gracefully accepted.

      The day had improved considerably; and we strolled arm-in-arm to the brow of a small hill, which, rising boldly above the copse that encircled it, commanded a splendid view of a spacious lake, with woodlands in the foreground and mountains in the distance. This was a favourite spot, and frequently, as my companion told me, visited by herself and Mr. Hartley. We placed ourselves on a rustic bench under the shading of a fine old elm; and, while I could not but admire the romantic scenery that everywhere met the eye, I marvelled that one who had mingled in the world, and had ample means to do so—as all about his domicile inferred—should seclude the young beauty beside me in a wilderness, fitted for men only of lawless habits and broken fortunes.

      “Do you not, at times, find this place solitary, Miss Hartley?” I asked, in a careless tone.

      “It is retired, certainly; but I have been accustomed from my childhood to retirement,” she replied.

      “Yes, but one who has been in the world—”

      “Would, no doubt, find this mansion disagreeable. I have been secluded from infancy.”

      “Indeed!”

      “For fifteen years I never set my foot beyond the convent garden.”

      “Were you intended for a religieuse?”

      “I believe not.”

      “Why, then, seclude you from the world?”

      “The cloister is surely the best asylum for those who need protection.”

      “You lost your mother when young?”

      To judge by its effect on my fair companion, the allusion was particularly unfortunate. The cheek, “but feebly touched with red” just now, flushed, and told that I had committed a fresh indiscretion. By a sudden impulse I seized her hand:—

      “Have I again offended? Alas, Miss Hartley, I am inexcusable! But, as it was perfectly unintentional, may I once more entreat forgiveness?”

      Original

      “For what?” exclaimed the deep voice of my host, as, to our mutual astonishment and dismay, he stepped from the thicket. In confusion, I dropped his daughter’s hand.

      “Pray, young sir, what may be the offending which required such earnest supplication to be pardoned?”

      “An impertinent question,” I replied.

      “Repeat it,” he continued, as he fixed his eye steadily on mine.

      “I inquired whether Miss Hartley had not been designed to take the veil, that for so long a period of her life she had lived the inmate of a convent.”

      “It was a silly and a harmless question,” he answered drily. “Know you not that it is customary in catholic countries to entrust the daughters of the noblest families to religious communities for instruction? Well, Isidora, the pardon may be granted: for it is, possibly, the last offending he shall perpetrate or you forgive. Come, my girl, dinner has been ordered two hours earlier than usual, to enable Mr. O’Halloran to proceed this evening on his route. This may sound inhospitable, sir, but it is necessary. Isidora, let us look upon that lake, and these mountains: we look upon them for the last time!”

      I started. What did all this mean? I looked at Mr. Hartley, but his face wore the same expression it always did; and if on the tablet of memory the past and present were fast careering, the volume was sealed to me. Dinner was served: it was a hurried and unsocial meal; and when the cloth was lifted, Isidora left the room.

      “Drink, sir,” said the host—“time flies; and in half an hour you will be on the road, and I preparing for a longer journey. Those pistols