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

son!”

      “My father!” responded a voice, and my brother clasped the old man in his arms.

      A moment passed in silence.

      “Is this foul story true, William’ said the quarter-master, and in tones which seemed to dread an answer to the inquiry.

      “False as hell!” was boldly responded, and again the son was locked more closely in his father’s arms.

      “The tale is short. Accident brought me to the cliffs; I witnessed an unequal conflict—one man was assailed by three—and I joined him.”

      “Right—by Heaven!” and for the first time my father lifted his head proudly.

      “I took the weaker side, and as it would appear, I undesignedly have rescued a criminal.”

      “If you can support that statement by evidence, I’ll undertake,” said the lawyer, “to get you off with transportation.”

      “Off with the Devil!” roared my father.

      My brother smiled. “Well, uncle, you hold out a pleasant prospect, and after I have travelled at the public expense, I shall feel myself bound in gratitude to come back, improved in morals and manners, and tell you what I have seen; but after all, there will be no necessity to undertake the voyage. When the true history of this unfortunate affray is known, it will not be difficult to prove that I am blameless, and that I was neither engaged in unlawful enterprises, nor knew aught of the fatal consequences that followed. For a time, however, I will leave home, not from any fears upon my own account, but to avoid the painful duty of being called upon to criminate the guilty.”

      To all, my brother’s determination seemed right. My kind-hearted parent approved the motives, and gave a ready consent. The lawyer observed, that it would afford ample time, should it be found advisable, to buy off the evidence; while George Gripp proved the value of a friend in need, by volunteering to swear an alibi himself,—an offer which elicited a warm eulogium from his virtuous patron.

      In half-an-hour William came to my room to say farewell, he had made up some necessaries in a bundle, which he threw from the window to a friend, who was waiting for him in the garden.

      “Julia,” he said, taking me in his arms, and kissing me with ardent affection; “Julia, I must confide to you what would pain our dear father, were it told to him—mine will not be a temporary absence. No tears, Julia; be firm, and listen to a brother who loves you tenderly as I do. The hand of destiny beckons me on; for months I have been wretched; while every post bears tidings of some glorious deed, I, in the pride of youth, am dreaming life away; my days passed idling on the beach, or listening at some cottage fire-side to the gossip of the humble villagers. This evening as I stood upon the cliffs, I saw a noble frigate close in shore, with her head turned to the coast of France. The wind fell, not a breath ruffled her canvas, and as she lay motionless on the sea, I could almost look down upon her decks. Presently a boat was lowered, and it pulled directly for the cove a league eastward from our landing-place, to obtain fresh water at the spring. Before that boat returns, I shall have time to board the frigate. Hold, Julia; nothing can shake that resolution, and, therefore, listen to me attentively. When I am gone, you must be to our father all—for then you will be his only stay, his only comfort. You must watch his declining years, cheer him when he droops, smile with him when he’s happy in illness, your task will be to smooth his pillow; in death, your hand must close his eyes. Come, Julia, no weeping. If it be fated that I fall, except you and the old man, few will weep for me. If I return, it will be ‘with war’s red honours on my crest,’ to gladden my father’s age, and find some one to whom I can safely entrust thy happiness, dear Julia—one, who can estimate the value of a woman, whose thoughts are pure and cloudless as the light of yonder blessed moon.”

      My conscience smote me bitterly as William again pressed me to his breast; I felt the burning blush of shame steal over my pale cheeks, as my heart whispered how much I had deceived that brother, who believed me incapable of artifice or concealment; and though the confession of my offence must be humiliating, I determined that it should be made. From him I might not only ask for pardon, but advice; and the words were almost upon my lips, when suddenly a voice from below was heard in under tones.

      “William!” said the stranger, “the signal’s given. See, that rocket bursting in the air! the boat’s returning to the frigate.”

      “Then, there’s not a moment to be lost.”

      “Stop! my brother,” I exclaimed; “stop, for pity’s sake. Oh! I have much, very much to tell you.”

      He caught me warmly to his bosom; kissed me again and again; whispered in my ear: “Look to our father, Julia—and wed not till I return, or till you hear I am no more.” lie said, sprang lightly from the window, bounded across the garden hedge, and in another minute, the sounds of receding footsteps died away, and all was night and silence.

      From the hour when William departed, sorrow and misfortune seemed to choose our cottage for an abiding place. Letters through a private hand came from Seymour; but, alas! they brought no consolation with them. The affected indifference of the style, and the inconsistency of the statements, gave sad evidence that the writer was diseased in mind, or body, or in both. The fatal affray which had unluckily compromised my brother’s character for a time, and occasioned the necessity for his concealment, was supposed to be sufficient cause for my being desponding and depressed; and my poor father, ignorant of impending misery, and unconscious of the trials that awaited him, vainly endeavoured to dispel my melancholy, and remove all fears upon account of William. As he had foretold himself, his innocence was completely established; and those who were bitterly exasperated against the real offenders, bore honourable testimony to the motives that had induced my brother to commit himself; and while they regretted that through his intervention a criminal had escaped, they admitted that his conduct had been that of a man, who, under mistaken views, performs a brave and generous action. No offence was imputed to him now, and wherefore should he stay away longer? But, I knew too well that many a long month must elapse before the wanderer would return.

      It was a part of my evening’s occupation to read the newspaper to my father; and a fortnight after William’s departure, I was engaged in my customary duty. An event had occurred in London to which public attention seemed to have been painfully directed, and the paper contained a long statement, headed, “Farther particulars of the forgeries and suicide committed by Captain Smith.” The details thus given, stated that the unfortunate individual was the illegitimate offspring of a noble lord, whose name was mentioned. That early in life he had obtained a commission in the army,—had moved in the best circles,—indulged in fashionable follies,—and dissipated large sums of money, with which, from time to time, his father had supplied him. The earl died suddenly, leaving his natural son totally unprovided for; and he was thus thrown upon the world, with incurable habits of expense, and not a guinea to support them. His fall was consequently rapid. He sold his commission, spent its small produce in a short time, dropped step by step from the high position he once held,—and in fast succession became a gambler, a cheat, a forger, and a suicide! His delinquencies were detected. The officers of justice were already at the door of a mean lodging in which he had concealed himself, when the criminal contrived to get out of a back window and effect a temporary escape. But it was only to add crime to crime. His clothes, next morning, were found upon the bank of the river near Wandsworth, and beside them lay an empty phial, which it was ascertained had contained a deadly poison; and it was conjectured that the unfortunate suicide had swallowed the contents before he took the fatal plunge. It was, indeed, a melancholy story of profligate life; for, it was added, that an imposing person and fascinating address had been turned to a bad account; and that many a family had reason to curse the day on which the accomplished roué, had been introduced to their acquaintance.

      I could not tell wherefore, but as I read this miserable narrative, my blood chilled, my lips grew white, and I could scarcely reach its close. And yet, why should it affect me? Was it not an every-day event? the regular advance of crime—beginning with improvidence, and ending in ignominy and death. But still the story of the suicide seemed to haunt my memory; and sleeping or