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

and witnessed a brother’s departure; and lost in painful reveries, allowed hours to slip unnoticed. The moon had gone down; the night was unusually dark; and the stillness was unbroken. I heard the dry leaves rustle; was it the wind that moved them? I looked suspiciously abroad; a human figure was standing underneath, and a voice so hoarse and hollow that I could not recognise its tones, softly pronounced my name. I flung the casement open, and demanded, “who was there?”

      “I, Julia; your lover, your husband,” and Seymour in another minute held me nearly fainting in his arms.

      “And was my voice forgotten, Julia?” he murmured, half reproachfully. “Well, I cannot wonder at it, for I have been ill, and am hoarse as a raven. How cold the night is!”

      “Cold! Why, Edward, your hand is burning. Stay, I will bring lights, and get you some refreshment.”

      “No, no,” he answered, hastily; “no lights, love; some curious eye might observe them. But I am thirsty; I could drink, drink deeply. Bring me some wine, Julia; no supper, love—I cannot eat, I am weary, very weary.”

      And was this Seymour? that hollow voice the same, to whose soft pleadings I had yielded a young heart, and renounced the sacred allegiance which a father claims and merits? That fevered hand, too,—was it the ardent glow which warms the husband when he hastens to the home of her he loves? Why this strange fancy for darkness and concealment? The coming and the conduct of Seymour were equally mysterious, and I dreaded to ask my husband the cause of this ominous and unexpected return.

      But I was not left long in suspense,—Seymour half drained the flask;—and habits so temperate before, appeared to have undergone a rapid change; for he drank like a man whose shattered nerves require some powerful stimulus.

      “Julia,” he said, “you did not expect this visit?”

      “Indeed, I did not.”

      “Nor when I left you did I anticipate that my return would be so sudden. Circumstances, which for a time must remain unexplained, have rendered it imperative that I should claim you, and our marriage no longer shall be secret.”

      “Heaven be praised!” I murmured.

      “To-night, Julia, you shall go with me.”

      “To-night! impossible! My father’s proud, he never would consent that his daughter should steal from her home.”

      “Your father? He shall know nothing of it. No, Julia, we must leave the cottage privately; and, for a brief season, duty to the parent must give place to the stronger claims of wedded love.”

      “Am I dreaming? Seymour,—what would you have me do? Desert my father heartlessly, and leave the good old man without humbling myself at his feet, and begging the pardon I require,—the forgiveness he would grant? Fly from this once happy home!—‘Twould break my father’s heart.—I’ll never do it.”

      “Then, Julia, we part for ever.”

      “Part for ever! Seymour. Do I hear aright? Is this, indeed, your voice? and do you tell her who proved her love at the expense of filial duty, that she must either fly from her home like a guilty woman, or be deserted by the man who led her into error?”

      Seymour perceived the threat of parting had produced a different effect to what he had expected, and at once he changed his tone to that of entreaty and persuasion; and, with admirable tact, appealed to my feelings and my love. He pleaded that the separation from my father would be but brief. I should return united to one whose position in society was far above my own. My parent’s anger would be shortlived, and his sorrow would be turned into joy. Where a woman’s heart is advocate, her mind is easily convinced. I yielded a reluctant consent; and before we parted, it was arranged that in two hours I should be ready to accompany him, and quit a happy home to follow the fortunes of an unknown lover. I packed some clothes, and addressed an exculpatory letter to my father, breaking to him as gently as I could, the sad tidings that his daughter had deserted him. Many a tear blistered the paper while I wrote. He was in bed—possibly sleeping. I stole softly down to place the billet on his table—but he heard the door unclose, and inquired “if that were Julia!”

      “Yes, my father; I come to say, Good night.”

      The old man kissed me tenderly; and with unusual solemnity muttered as I left the room, “Child of my heart; may God for ever bless thee!” They were the last words I ever heard him speak.

      What followed may be briefly told. At the appointed hour Seymour was waiting, and unperceived, we quitted the village in a vehicle he had procured. We travelled all night; and when morning was breaking, my husband discharged the cart, and we entered an obscure inn to obtain the rest and refreshment which to both were wanting. The morning light, feeble at first, grew stronger; and I nearly fainted, when for the first time I remarked the altered appearance of my husband. His light brown hair, once so sedulously attended to, was clipped short, and the very colour changed to raven blackness, and his skin was bronzed like that of a gipsy. Formerly, he dressed with simple elegance; but now his clothes were actually shabby, and put on with the marked indifference of a man who is reckless of appearances. He had no luggage with him—the few articles he possessed were tied up in a little bundle.

      I felt assured that some terrible reverse had overtaken him; and in this sad hour recollected the evil auguries of my uncle Josiah. But my situation was hopeless. The last rash action was far beyond recall; and mustering a desperate resolution, I determined to bow to my destiny, and share the fate of my ill-starred husband. One thing I believed, that the worst was known, and we had descended fortune’s ladder to the lowest step. I was wrong: the extent of my debasement remained still to be disclosed.

      We appeared to wander over the country without any settled object; and provided the route led from the metropolis, my husband seemed indifferent whither our footsteps turned.