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

      The sky was clear, the country had become picturesque, the birds sang merrily, the road was sprinkled by an early shower, and on a pleasanter morning a light-bosomed traveller never wended on his way. Alas!

      “The merry heart goes all the day.

      But the sad one tires in a mile a;”

      and before half the journey was completed, the girl showed symptoms of fatigue.

      “You are weary, Julia,” said the fosterer; “sit down, avourneein. In yonder corner there is a shady bank, and a stream too; ay, and with water blue and sparkling as your own soft eyes. Come, dearest.”

      The pale girl looked steadily and suspiciously at her companion; but one glance dispelled her fears. The face she scrutinized was honest; and without hesitation, she quitted the high road, and seated herself on a fallen tree in the sheltered glade to which Mark Antony had pointed. Well,—she might do so safely. In grain, the fosterer was a gentleman; and, for a queen’s ransom, he would not have abused confidence placed in his honour, or have imagined aught that was evil against a woman whose helplessness called upon him for protection. He flung himself at her feet upon the sward, and opening the widow’s basket, produced a chicken, some oaten cakes, and a cruiskeeine of native whisky. The fowl was speedily dismembered; the contents of the flask diluted with the clear cold water of the rivulet; and, with kindly warmth, her companion urged the wanderer to refresh herself. But, poor girl! her heart was full. She gently put aside the food presented to her; tears fell fast, and hiding her face between her hands, she seemed to give way to some secret sorrow, too deep, too poignant for concealment.

      The fosterer, but in vain, endeavoured to cheer her sinking spirits. The cruislteeine was laid down untasted; and while with youth’s ardent eloquence, Mark Antony pointed to happiness in the distance, the deep sobs of his companion told that from her bosom that hope which cheers the darkest hour of life, was long departed.

      “Come, come, Julia,” he said, pressing her hand in his, “why will you be so down-hearted?”

      The poor girl raised her eyes. She did not reply; but her look betrayed the agony of the heart, and its sad and silent expression had “the calmness of settled despair.”

      “And have you been very—very unfortunate, Julia?” pursued the fosterer.

      The wanderer mournfully shook her head.

      “And left home, and friends, and—”

      “Father!” exclaimed the girl, wildly, with a maniac’s suddenness.

      “Were you decoyed away by a villain?

      “He who wrecked my peace is in the grave. May Heaven pardon him as sincerely as I wish it!”

      “Probably under the promise of marriage?” said the fosterer, with the hesitation that a man feels who asks a question which possibly may cause pain or give offence.

      “The promise!” exclaimed the girl, while her pale cheeks flushed, and her eye lightened as if repelling a derogatory insinuation. No, no; it was indeed a sad reality, although the act was villanous and putting her hand into her bosom, she drew forth a wedding-ring, secured by a black ribbon. “There is the token that I was a lawful wife; and there, also, a memorial that I was a—” She paused.

      “What?” exclaimed the fosterer.

      “A worthless daughter. Worthless! worse far;—a parricide! Yes, yes; I murdered him. My misconduct broke his heart. My ingratitude quenched his broken spirit. I did not drug him to death; but I poisoned his happiness, and sent him to the grave. Am I not, then, a murderess?”

      She flung herself wildly upon the fallen tree, and sobbed convulsively. “Be calm;” said Mark Antony, pressing her hand; “I have given you pain; but Heaven knows I would not, if—”

      “No, no,” exclaimed the girl, “you meant no harm; but where guilt abides, the conscience takes alarm. For a sad, sad, twelvemonth your’s is the only heart that has warmed to me; your’s the only ear to which I would confide my story. Hear me; and then say whether the crime or the retribution has been the greater. I am calm; but it seems to me a melancholy pleasure to disclose to a being who will sympathize, how much I have sinned, and how much I have suffered.”’ She rose,—walked a few paces to a rock from which the mountain streamlet dropped into a basin which itself had formed; and having bathed her aching temples in the water, returned, and, to a most attentive listener, she thus detailed her history.

CHAPTER XI. THE STORY OF THE WANDERING ACTRESS

       Table of Contents

      “What will not woman, when she loves?

      “Yet lost, alas! who can restore her?

      She lifts the latch—the wicket moves-

      And now the world is all before her.”

      Rogers.

      I was born in a village on the coast of Sussex. My father, after five-and-twenty years’ service, had retired from the army on a pension, with a small sum of money he had saved while acting in the West Indies as a quarter-master; and settling in his native village, he married the orphan daughter of a clergyman. The union was happy; and the evening of an adventurous life promised to wear quietly way. But, like all mortal expectations, my father’s dream of happiness proved unreal, for my mother died in giving birth to me, leaving another child behind her, a boy, two years older than myself. My parents were warmly attached to each other, and the old soldier felt his bereavement acutely; but he bore up against his visitation like a man, and endeavoured by a devoted attachment to the living, to show how fondly he regarded the memory of the dead.

      Indeed, it was little wonder that in my brother and myself, the widower should centre his affections. No relative of my mother was alive; and the only kinsman of my father was a half-brother, a dozen years older than himself; a man in every way unamiable.

      Josiah Rawlings was the village lawyer; a being without a heart, or such a heart as is untouched by the widow’s agony, unmoved by the orphan’s tears. He was mean, sordid, and vindictive; had realized much wealth; but on that ill-acquired money, the bitter curses of many a ruined family were entailed.

      Josiah’s appearance was very remarkable. As for as respected height, he was tall enough for a grenadier, and in his fleshy proportions, light enough for a jockey. His hollow cheek and small grey eyes were in good keeping with his gaunt and bony figure; and at a look the stranger would set him down a knave, a miser, or a union of both.

      Never were two persons more opposite in disposition than the brothers. The lawyer listened without emotion to a tale of sorrow—human suffering was a matter of indifference to him; while the soldier’s heart was as open as his honest countenance, and his purse answered the appeal of poverty to the fullest extent of his means. Unrelieved, no beggar left his door; and when a comrade eame that way, then indeed the fatted calf was killed,—for with him my father would have shared his last flask, ay, and his last shilling.

      Years passed away. My sixteenth summer came. My father still remained a widower: and no home from which its chief comfort had been taken, could be happier than our cottage was. Time had softened the sorrow which my mother’s death had caused; and while the old soldier often alluded to his loss, he blessed Heaven that my brother and myself had been spared to be the stay and comfort of life’s winter. Alas! he little dreamed that by both he would be deserted; and tinder circumstances whieh would render his bereavement additionally distressing.

      It was late in October. The few visitors who, during the bathing season, made the village a temporary abode, had taken their departure. The hamlet was left to its retirement—and our quiet course of life was unvaried, except by incidents of the humblest character. The soldier’s kind and charitable disposition