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

established himself in the good opinions of my father and myself; and no one was better able to turn a favourable impression to advantage.

      Breakfast had scarcely ended on the morrow, when my uncle dropped in. He was dying to be informed of every particular we had learned concerning the stranger; and, unluckily, our scanty stock of information was anything but satisfactory.

      “Why, hang it!” said Josiah Rawlings, “have you given that chap dinner and drink, and made out nothing in return for the outlay, but that he calls himself Seymour, and says that he’s a dragoon? I don’t believe either story.”

      “You don’t?”

      “Not one syllable,” said the lawyer.

      “And why?” returned my father.

      “Because,” responded Josiah, “it’s very easy to tell a lie; and sometimes, also, very convenient.”

      “Pshaw! nonsense,” said the quarter-master.

      “And wherefore,” pursued the lawyer, “do you believe the fellow’s what he says he is?”

      “First, because his language and manners are those of a gentleman; and secondly, because he has the air and carriage of a soldier.”

      “I could come nearer to the mark,” returned Josiah, with a grin.

      “Could you? Well, then, what do you suppose the stranger is?” The lawyer looked suspiciously around him; and then, in a lowered voice, slowly replied, “A highwayman.”

      My father burst into a roar of laughter.

      “Ay, you may laugh,” observed Josiah, “but I am not far astray, for all that. Bless you! trust nothing to appearances. I have known a footpad pass current for a lord; and, for two reasons, I know I’m right about that chap at the Rose and Crown.”

      “And what may these reasons be?” asked the quarter-master.

      “First,” replied the lawyer, “he has plenty of money; and second, he has no marks upon his linen. It’s stolen, you may depend upon it, and the initials carefully picked out.”

      “And how the devil can you know any thing regarding either the contents of his purse or his baggage?”

      “Ha, ha! leave me to scent out things. I made George Gripp bribe the chambermaid. It cost me two pints of ale and a shilling; but she let the eat out of the bag. They’ll try his portmanteau tomorrow morning, when he goes to the Cliffs. George thinks he has a key at home that will fit the lock exactly.”

      My father sprang from his chair.

      “Josh,” he exclaimed, “I have always despised, but never hated you till now. Is there no blush upon your cheek? Look, man, mine is burning! By Heaven! I’ll mar your villany. The stranger shall know all; and if that caitiff ventures—”

      When the lawyer noticed the unusual warmth of my father, he grew pale. “Softly, softly,” he said, “you are so weak, Dick. You overdose one with that silliness which you call honesty. I was but half jesting. Why should I bother myself about the fellow? But—look to that young lady there!” and with a malignant side-glance at my father and myself, he shuffled through the door-way, muttering and cursing, as was his wont.

      Whatever the stranger’s secret might have been, it remained at that time undiscovered. In person, he received his letters at the postoffice; and as the patent lock with which his portmanteau was secured resisted all attempts to open it, at the end of a fortnight, the chambermaid might have been a sadder but not a wiser woman.

      Another year came round; I ripened into womanhood, and early promises of beauty were confirmed. The stranger appeared again, but his coming now was not so startling in effect as formerly. For six months after his departure, Josiah Rawlings had carefully perused the “Hue and Cry,” but found that no highwayman answered the description. Now, mercifully abandoning his charge of felony, the lawyer opined that the stranger had merely bolted from his creditors. He might have also passed the interval in jail; if so, a change of air would be both useful and agreeable. And thus, Josiah accounted as he thought satisfactorily for Seymour’s re-appearance.

      Our intimacy was renewed. The flattering praises bestowed upon me as a girl, were changed into declarations of passionate attachment; and I returned his love.

      It was the eventful period of my life—my brother was absent, and the quarter-master occupied generally with friends at home, or in the arrangement of some village differences. Hence the intimacy of Seymour and myself was unrestricted; and in a short time he obtained over my young affections a complete ascendancy. And yet our course of love, even from the beginning, did not run smooth. Our relative positions in society were far removed: I, the daughter of an humble soldier—he, the younger son of a family old* as the Conquest, and high and haughty even beyond what their ancient lineage would warrant. Could it be expected by me that they would approve of their kinsman’s choice, and receive a relative with neither birth nor fortune to recommend her, and whose sole possession was a blameless reputation and an honest name? Seymour himself, undesignedly, betrayed a similar uneasiness, hinting that it might be advisable to break the matter by degrees, and cautiously prepare his family for the disclosure. To effect this important object, a secret marriage would be necessary. His interests must be dear to me as to himself. It was a proof of my confidence in him that circumstances demanded,—and one, if given, that would bind him to me for ever.

      “What will not woman when she loves?” Would not a village girl, influenced by a first passion, listen favourably to a suitor’s pleading, and consult the heart rather than the judgment? For me Seymour had forsaken rank and wealth, and perilled the displeasure of his family; and should I not, in return, sacrifice largely where his interests were involved? Love’s sophistry was unanswerable. I gave a timid consent,—we were united in another parish; and so well had arrangements been made to ensure concealment, that, with the exception of one chosen friend, to all besides our marriage remained a secret.

      Of this occurrence my father had not the most remote suspicion; and William’s absence from home gave us facilities for frequent meetings that could not otherwise have happened. For a fortnight, Seymour continued a nominal lodger at the Rose and Crown,—but most of his time was passed in my society. At my father’s table he had a constant place, while the honest quarter-master little dreamed that in his high-born guest he might have claimed a son-in-law.

      The hour of sorrow was at hand. Letters,—most unwelcome ones,—were received. My husband seemed heavily depressed; and when urged to tell the cause of his uneasiness, mentioned that he had been suddenly recalled to join his regiment, and apprised me that the term of his absence was dependent upon some military movements; and consequently, that his return must be uncertain. This unexpected separation caused me the first real sorrow I had yet endured; and, alas! harbingered too faithfully, the misery and misfortunes which followed in quick succession.

      Upon the head of my ill-starred parent, it was fated that the phial of wrath should be poured; and, sadder still, the first blow that smote him, came from the hand of one who would have laid down life to avert an hour of suffering from a father he loved so tenderly.

      My brother returned; the quarter-master had shaken him by the hand,—I, pressed him to my heart,—and our cottage once more looked what it had ever been—the abiding place of peace and joy. As evening closed, William strolled to his favourite haunt, the cliffs; my father pulled in his easy chair, lighted his pipe, and settled himself in humble luxury beside a well-trimmed fire.

      I retired to my own room. Mine were indeed melancholy musing.

      I recalled to memory how brief the period of my wedded happiness had been, and sighed to think that in the story of a human life, bliss and misery should be so intimately blended. But I was young, and “gay hope by fancy fed” whispered that there was happiness in store. I rallied my spirits,—wiped every trace of sorrow from my cheek,—and, in another hour, was seated opposite my dear father, and plying my needle as demurely as if I had never listened to a light dragoon, nor given my hand and heart irrevocably away, and