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

the cypher, I presume them to have been your father’s.” He sprang the ramrods—“Clean and effective,” he said. “In travelling, there are two things I never delegate to another—my horse and my weapons. The first I see attended to before myself; and the second, I take especial care shall not be found wanting when required. You will find ammunition in that drawer, and I beg you to excuse me for five minutes.”

      When he was gone, I reloaded my pistols—filled another glass of wine—wondered what the devil would come next—heard the door open—looked round, and saw mine host leading his fair daughter in.

      “Isidora,” he said, “comes to bid you farewell. I overheard you ask pardon for some imaginary offending, and she will confirm it. My love, give the gentleman that ring.”

      In deep confusion, the blushing girl pulled a jewel from her finger.

      “No—no, love—a diamond would be ill suited for the hand that in a brief space may be cold upon a battle-field.‘Twould be to gorge with treasure they could not estimate, the human vultures which follow to batten on kindred carrion. No love, that other. It is, Mr. O’Halloran, the trophy of an early adventure—a simple hoop of gold—pure as it comes from the mine. As a remembrance, rich as if it had issued from Golconda—and as a bauble valueless, and therefore the fitter for a soldier.”

      Isidora placed the keepsake on my finger, and with my lips I pressed her trembling hand. Her father gave a signal—and she hastily left the room by one door, as the blue-coated attendant entered by another to say that “my horse was waiting.”

      “I will attend you to the gate,” said my host; and we proceeded down the long corridor together. At the entrance I found my mare, full of life and fit for any thing. Blue-coat housed my pistols in the holsters, Mr. Hartley squeezed my hand, and I sprang into the saddle, muttering thanks, which mine host returned with something like a blessing. He turned towards the door—I rode round the angle of the court-yard. Casting my eyes back I took a last look at the house, and from an upper window a white arm waved its parting farewell. Who sent that mute addio?—who—but Isidora!

CHAPTER VII. I JOIN THE TWENTY-FIRST.

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      “Davy.—Doth the man of war stay all night?

      “Shallow,—Yes, Davy—I will use him well.”

      Shakspeare.

      As I rode from Mr. Hartley’s, I could scarcely persuade myself that the transactions of the last two days were aught but a coinage of the brain, and took the liberty of respectfully inquiring of myself whether I were actually compos mentis. As I looked around, I received on this point a mute affirmative. I was sitting in mine own saddle—bestrode the best mare that ever cleared a broken bridge—identified the holsters at my pommel—my cloak-bag was duly secured upon its pad—and, stronger proof, “a gay gold ring” glittered on my finger.

      It was a sweet September evening, and for the first mile or two the scenery harmonized well with that hour “which poets love.” But when the natural wood that encircled Mr. Hartley’s domain was left behind, I found before me a large expanse of dull brown moorland, which must be traversed before I could reach the solitary house where I purposed to take up my quarters for the night. The inn was ten miles distant, and the gentle reader will please to hold in recollection, that these miles were Irish miles; therefore, had I been inclined to sentimentalize, there was neither time nor place for musing. I gave Miss Malone accordingly permission to step out; and as the sun made his parting bow from behind a mountain ridge, I pulled up at the Yellow Lion and received an honourable welcome.

      Standing at the door, Andy Beg appeared as if he had been for some time in waiting. He held a letter in his hand, and had a gun-case under his arm. Having grinned what he intended to be a civil recognition, he took my pistols and cloak bag, and led the way into this mountain caravansera. If for me the fatted calf had not been killed, still preparations had been made for supper—for a Nora Crina sort of cook, in short petticoats and a gown curiously tucked up, crossed me in the passage with a brace of moor-fowls ready for the brander. Miss Malone was stabled as became her worth—and I duly inducted into a cheerful chamber, the “great one” of the Yellow Lion, and evidently reserved for honourable guests. Having seated myself before the fire, I broke the seal of the packet which Andy Beg had delivered, and found it to be a valedictory epistle from that mysterious personage, Mr. Hartley. The letter ran thus:—

      “Our acquaintance has commenced under such singular circumstances that I trace in it the hand of destiny—for chance could not have thus brought us together, when to meet was every thing but impossible. In me, know one who influences your fortunes—one, who by a breath can confer or withhold what men erroneously consider the passport to human happiness—wealth! For the future, I shall watch your career, and every action of your life shall be under a rigid surveillance. Be prudent, and I promise you a goodly independence. Disappoint my hopes, and you never see me more. To suppose that youth will not err occasionally, would be to plead ignorance of what mankind is. But remember, for folly there is pardon—for vice none. May you pass the ordeal unscathed!

      “No one is secure against the frowns of fortune; and it may be decreed that you shall not escape. Mark me, boy! When friends fall off, the future is overcast, and all around seems desperate, write freely—let nothing be held back—and even in that heavy hour I may step between you and your fate. The address I enclose will always find me.

      “Farewell; Isidora sends a kind remembrance.

      “Yours, as you conduct yourself,

      “John Hartley.”

      “P.S.—You admired a gun of Manton’s; I beg you to accept it. You can safely forward it to Dublin by the stage coach which passes the inn to-morrow morning.”

      Another postscript was annexed: it commanded me to keep profoundly secret my recent escapade among the smugglers, as well as my subsequent introduction to this my most mysterious correspondent. To this strange epistle, I returned a dutiful reply; and having despatched Andy Beg with my letter, I supped—went to sleep—and dreamed till cockcrow of the strange dramatis personae who had figured so prominently in my late adventures.

      On the fourth evening I reached the metropolis in safety—reported myself next morning to the Colonel—obtained a barrack-room in George’s-street—was introduced to my brother officers, and committed duly to be drilled. I mounted the “red-rag”—and satisfied myself by a sly inspection as I passed every hatter’s shop, from the effigy of the great King William even unto Stephen’s Green, that the jacket was accurate in its proportions, and conferred immortal honour upon the builder of the same.

      Among some introductory letters, one had been given me by my father, addressed to a respectable merchant to whom he annually consigned his wool. His name was Pryme—he lived on one of the quays, was reputed to be very wealthy, and was a rigid quaker. When I called at his counting-house I found that he had been absent for a day or two, and was gone to the country on business; but from his son I received much civility and any information that I required. The young quaker was a little older than I, but in height and general appearance singularly like me. Indeed, we might have passed for twin brothers, had not the cut and colour of our garments announced that no relationship could exist between a flashy flanker and a sober youth, whose conversation and outer man told plainly that he had eschewed the pomps and vanities of this wicked world. According to my father’s orders, Mr. Pryme was not only to supply me with good advice, but also to furnish me with money when required—and one fine evening the young quaker, after mess, visited my barrack-room, and then and there replenished a treasury which a military outfit had nearly exhausted.

      Of course he was hospitably entertained. The bottle passed freely—some of the younger hands dropped in—the kettle was put in requisition—and it was decreed that whisky punch should complete what port wine had handsomely