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

the sufferer’s voice failed totally,” continued the lady, “she said that the child was still unchristened, and prayed that rite might be performed when convenient.”

      “There will be no difficulty in complying with her request,” replied my father; “there are now two learned Thebans in Knockloftie. To which of the professors does the poor baby belong?”

      “His parents were Roman Catholics,” said my mother.

      “Then, Father Dominic, a cast of your office will be necessary. Ring for Sergeant Brady—and then parade the child.”

      In a few moments the non-commissioned officer and the soldier’s orphan were introduced.

      “What name shall I give him?” said the priest.

      “His father’s,” rejoined the Colonel.

      “That was Marc,” observed the sergeant.

      “What’s in a name?” said Dr. Hamilton.

      “More than one would suppose, Doctor,” replied my father. “Our red-headed adjutant married a Bath heiress almost at sight, for after but a two hours’ siege she surrendered at discretion, declaring that it was utterly impossible to hold out against a lover whose appellatives were Julius Cæsar.”

      “Then add Antony to his patronymic, and your protégé will prove irresistible.”

      “Marc Antony be it then,” replied the priest; and in five minutes the ceremony was complete. The sergeant retired to finish his supper below stairs, and the orphan was returned to the nursery, named after that amorous Roman, who “for a queen of fifty” gave up a world.

      Original

      The clock struck eleven.—My mother retired for the night, and the priest had been called out to prescribe for a sick soldier,—for his reverence united leechcraft to divinity, and thus was doubly useful. My father and Dr. Hamilton were consequently left alone, and both for some minutes had been communing with their own thoughts—my father broke the silence.

      “I know not wherefore,” said he, “but something whispers me that this night is fated to be an important one in the history of the old house. I’m not inclined for sleep, and I feel a sort of restlessness, as if the day’s events had not yet closed.”

      “It is the mental reaction which follows some unusual excitement, replied the divine.

      “It may be so,” returned my father. “On with more wood. We’ll order a light supper, and borrow an hour from the night.”

      The Doctor threw some billets on the fire, while my father filled his glass, and transferred the wine duly to the churchman.

      “Did you remark the opposition which Hackett made when I gave orders to admit the soldiers?”

      “I watched him attentively,” replied the Doctor. “His lips grew pale, his brows lowered, and with great difficulty he suppressed a burst of angry feelings which seemed almost too strong to be controlled. Be assured, my dear Colonel, that man is dangerous. If he be not traitor, I wrong him sorely.”

      “Hush!” said my father, “the dog is growling. What! more late visitors? This is indeed a busy night; and again honest Cæsar proves himself a worthy sentinel. Wherever treachery may lurk, there’s none within his kennel, Doctor.”

      The Colonel reconnoitred from his embrasure, but there was nothing to excite alarm. The moon had risen, and the sky, spangled with frost-stars, was bright and clear. Cæsar, advanced to the full length of his chain, was patted upon the head by a person closely wrapped up, who spoke to him with the admitted familiarity of an old acquaintance. To the Colonel’s demand of name and business, a female voice replied, “I beg your honour’s pardon, it’s me, Mary Halligan. My mother-in-law won’t put over the night. She wants to see his reverence in private, and sent me with some lines * to the priest. None of the boys would venture to the Castle after dark, for fear of Cæsar and your honour.”

      * The term “lines” is generally used by the Irish peasantry

       instead of “letter.”

      “Well, Mary, late as it is, we’ll allow you in. Will you, Hamilton, unlock the door, and let us have the lady here—for entre nous, she belongs to a faithless family.”

      The peasant now in waiting at the hall-door was decidedly the handsomest woman in the parish. For time immemorial her fathers had been servants in Knockloftie, and she an occasional inmate of the house. Her brother, educated by my grandfather, had discharged the double duty of schoolmaster and driver—the latter, in plain English, meaning the factotum of an Irish gentleman of small estate. In this department, Halligan had been found dishonest, was disgracefully turned off, joined lawless men, obtained among them a bad pre-eminence, and now, under the double ban of murder and sedition, was skulking in the hills with a reward of fifty pounds offered for his apprehension. After her brother’s disgrace, Mary had seldom visited the mansion of her former master—and, as report said, she was affianced to one of the most troublesome and disaffected scoundrels in the barony.

      Mary Halligan, and much against her own inclination, was inducted by the churchman into my father’s presence. “It was too much trouble to his honour,” she muttered; “Mr. Hackett the butler would do all she wanted, and give the lines to Father Dominic.”

      “Mary,” said my father, as he handed her a glass of wine, “you tremble. Has anything alarmed you?”

      “It is very, very cold, your honour, out of doors.”

      “Cold it is, certainly, and Father Dominic will have a dreary ride. ‘Where is the letter for him?”

      Mary Halligan’s colour went and came, for my father’s searching eye was turned upon her, and that added to her confusion. She-fumbled in her bosom—pulled out one paper,—a second fell upon the carpet—one she caught up—the other she hastily delivered—and the latter, was the wrong one.

      My father carelessly looked over it, while Mary Halligan scrutinized his face with deep attention. As he read it—she became pale as death, and seemed hanging in fearful expectation upon the first words that Colonel O’llalloran would litter.

      “Ha!” said my father carelessly, “so the old woman’s bad it seems. She wants, I suppose, to make her will—leave you an heiress, Mary,—and Father Dominic will assist her. Well, the priest will be here directly. Come, Mary, ‘for auld lang syne’ we’ll have a glass. What has become of your brother, the schoolmaster?”

      “May God forgive the liars! They slandered him, and turned your honour again him. He would die for a dog belonging to Knockloftie,—and if he didn’t, the bigger villain he!”

      “And the young miller, Mary? people say you are about to marry him. Is he slandered, too?”

      “God sees he is,” was the response.

      “Any nightly meetings at the chapel, Mary?” said the Colonel. The girl changed colour again: “None, your honour—not one. Thanks be to God! the bad people have left the parish.”

      “When did you see your brother? To-night?” said the Colonel sharply.

      “To-night!” returned the girl, in tones which indicated deep confusion.

      “I am jesting, Mary. Where is he now?”

      “In Connaught, your honour, with a cousin of my mother’s.”

      “There let him remain, Mary. There, he will be safe until things become more quiet. But, Mary, the times are not as they were five years ago, when you and I used to meet by moonlight near the bouilee. * Pshaw! don’t blush;—it was only to gather bilberries, and exchange