Chapter 9

A Family Debate--Honest Speculations.

Kathleen's refusal to dance, at the kemp, with Hycy Burke, drew down upon her the loud and vehement indignation of her parents, both of whom looked upon a matrimonial alliance with the Burkes as an object exceedingly desirable, and such as would reflect considerable credit on themselves. Gerald Cavanagh and his wife were certainly persons of the strictest integrity and virtue. Kind, charitable, overflowing with hospitality, and remarkable for the domestic virtues and affections in an extraordinary degree, they were, notwithstanding, extremely weak-minded, and almost silly, in consequence of an over-weening anxiety to procure “great matches” for their children. Indeed it may be observed, that natural affection frequently assumes this shape in the paternal heart, nor is the vain ambition confined to the Irish peasant alone. On the contrary, it may be seen as frequently, if not more so, in the middle and higher classes, where it has ampler scope to work, than in humbler and more virtuous life. It is this proud and ridiculous principle which consigns youth, and beauty, and innocence, to the arms of some dissipated profligate of rank, merely because he happens to inherit a title which he disgraces. There is, we would wager, scarcely an individual who knows the world, but is acquainted with some family laboring under this insane anxiety for connection. Sometimes it is to be found on the paternal side, but, like most of those senseless inconsistencies which entail little else than ridicule or ruin, and sometimes both, upon those who are the object of them, it is, for the most part, a female attribute.

Such as it is, however, our friend, Gerald Cavanagh, and his wife--who, by the way, bore the domestic sceptre in all matters of importance--both possessed it in all its amplitude and vigor. When the kemp had been broken up that night, and the family assembled, Mrs. Cavanagh opened the debate in an oration of great heat and bitterness, but sadly deficient in moderation and logic.

“What on earth could you mane, Kathleen,” she proceeded, “to refuse dancin' wid such a young man--a gintleman I ought to say--as Hycy Burke, the son of the wealthiest man in the whole parish, barring the gentry? Where is the girl that wouldn't bounce at him?--that wouldn't lave a single card unturned to secure him? Won't he have all his father's wealth?--won't he have all his land when the ould man dies? and indeed it's he that will live in jinteel style when he gets everything into his own hands, as he ought to do, an' not go dhramin' an' dhromin' about like his ould father, without bein' sartin whether he's alive or not. He would be something for you, girl, something to turn out wid, an' that one could feel proud out of; but indeed, Kathleen, as for pride and decency, you never had as much o' them as you ought, nor do you hold your head as high as many another girl in your place would do. Deed and throth I'm vexed at you, and ashamed of you, to go for to hurt his feelins as you did, widout either rhyme or raison.”

“Troth,” said her father, taking up the argument where she left it, “I dunno how I'll look the respectable young man in the face afther the way you insulted him. Why on airth wouldn't you dance wid him?”

“Because, father, I don't like him.”

“An' why don't you like him?” asked her mother. “Where is there his aquil for either face or figure in the parish, or the barony itself? But I know the cause of it; you could dance with Bryan M'Mahon. But take this with you--sorra ring ever Bryan M'Mahon will put on you wid my consent or your father's, while there's any hope of Hycy Burke at any rate.”

Kathleen, during this long harangue, sat smiling and sedate, turning her beautiful and brilliant eyes sometimes upon one parent, sometimes upon another, and occasionally glancing with imperturbable sweetness and good nature at her sister Hanna. At length, on getting an opportunity of speaking, she replied,--

“Don't ask me, mother, to give anything in the way of encouragement to Hycy Burke; don't ask me, I entrate you, for God's sake--the thing's impossible, and I couldn't do it. I have no wish for his father's money, nor any wish for the poor grandeur that you, mother dear, and my father, seem to set your heart upon. I don't like Hycy Burke--I could never like him; and rather than marry him, I declare solemnly to God, I would prefer going into my grave.”

As she uttered the last words, which she did with an earnestness that startled them, her fine features became illuminated, as it were, with a serene and brilliant solemnity of expression that was strikingly impressive and beautiful.

“Why couldn't you like him, now?” asked her father; “sure, as your mother says, there's not his aquil for face or figure within many a mile of him?”

“But it's neither face nor figure that I look to most, father.”

“Well, but think of his wealth, and the style he'll live in, I'll go bail, when he gets married.”

“That style maybe won't make his wife happy. No, father, it's neither face, nor figure, nor style that I look to, but truth, pure affection, and upright principle; now, I know that Hycy Burke has neither truth, nor affection, nor principle; an' I wondher, besides, that you could think of my ever marrying a man that has already destroyed the happiness of two innocent girls, an' brought desolation, an' sorrow, an' shame upon two happy families. Do you think that I will ever become the wife of a profligate? An' is it you, father, an' still more you, mother, that's a woman, that can urge me to think of joining my fate to that of a man that has neither shame nor principle? I thought that if you didn't respect decency an' truth, and a regard for what is right and proper, that, at all events, you would respect the feelings of your child that was taught their value.”

Both parents felt somewhat abashed by the force of the truth and the evident superiority of her character; but in a minute or two her worthy father, from whose dogged obstinacy she inherited the firmness and resolution for which she had ever been remarkable, again returned to the subject.

“If Hycy Burke was wild, Kathleen, so was many a good man before him; an' that's no raison but he may turn out well yet, an' a credit to his name, as I have no doubt he will. All that he did was only folly an' indiscretion--we can't be too hard or uncharitable upon our fellow-craytures.”

“No,” chimed in her mother, “we can't. Doesn't all the world know that a reformed rake makes a good husband?--an' besides, didn't them two huzzies bring it on themselves?--why didn't they keep from him as they ought? The fault, in such cases, is never all on one side.”

Kathleen's brow and face and whole neck became crimson, as her mother, in the worst spirit of a low and degrading ambition, uttered the sentiments we have just written. Hanna had been all this time sitting beside her, with one arm on her shoulder; but Kathleen, now turning round, laid her face on her sister's bosom, and, with a pressure that indicated shame and bitterness of heart, she wept. Hanna returned this melancholy and distressing caress in the same mournful spirit, and both wept together in silence.

Gerald Cavanagh was the first who felt something like shame at the rebuke conveyed by this tearful embrace of his pure-hearted and ingenuous daughters, and he said, addressing his wife:--

“We're wrong to defend him, or any one, for the evil he has done, bekaise it can't be defended; but, in the mane time, every day will bring him more sense an' experience, an' he won't repute this work; besides, a wife would settle him down.”

“But, father,” said Hanna, now speaking for the first time, “there's one thing that strikes me in the business you're talkin' about, an' it's this--how do you know whether Hycy Burke has any notion, good, bad, or indifferent, of marrying Kathleen?”

“Why,” replied her mother, “didn't he write to her upon the subject?”

“Why, indeed, mother, it's not an easy thing to answer that question,” replied Hanna. “She sartinly resaved a letther from him, an' indeed, I think,” she added, her animated face brightening into a smile, “that as the boys is gone to bed, we had as good read it.”

“No, Hanna, darling, don't,” said Kathleen--“I beg you won't read it.”

“Well, but I beg I will,” she replied; “it'll show them, at any rate, what kind of a reformation is likely to come over him. I have it here in my pocket--ay, this is it. Now, father,” she proceeded, looking at the letter, “here is a letter, sent to my sister--'To Miss Cavanagh,' that's what's on the back of it--and what do you think Hycy, the sportheen, asks her to do for him?”

“Why, I suppose,” replied her mother, “to run away wid him?”

“Na”

“Then to give her consent to marry him?” said her father.

“Both out,” replied Hanna; “no, indeed, but to lend him five-and-thirty pounds to buy a mare, called Crazy Jane, belonging to Tom Burton, of the Race Road!”

“'My Dear Bryan--For heaven's sake, in addition to your other generosities--for-which I acknowledge myself still in your debt--will you lend me thirty-five pounds, to secure a beautiful mare belonging to Tom Burton, of the Race Road? She is a perfect creature, and will, if I am not quick, certainly slip through my fingers. Jemmy, the gentleman'--

“This is what he calls his father, you must know.

“'Jemmy, the gentleman, has promised to stand to me some of these days, and pay off all my transgressions, like a good, kind-hearted, soft-headed old Trojan as he is; and, for this reason, I don't wish to press him now. The mare is sold under peculiar circumstances; otherwise I could have no chance of her at such a price. By the way, when did you see Katsey'--

“Ay, Katsey!--think of that, now--doesn't he respect your daughter very much, father?

“'By the way, when did you see Katsey Cavanagh?--'”

“What is this you're readin' to me?” asked her father. “You don't mean to say that this letter is to Kathleen?”

“Why, no; but so much the better--one has an opportunity now of seein' what he is made of. The letter was intended for Bryan M'Mahon; but he sent it, by mistake, to Kathleen. Listen---

“'When did you see Katsey Cavanagh? She certainly is not ill-looking, and will originate you famous mountaineers. Do, like a good fellow, stand by me at this pinch, and I will drink your health and Kat-sey's, and that you may--' (what's this?) 'col--colonize Ahadarra with a race of young Colossusses that the world will wonder at.

“'Ever thine,

“'H. Burke.'

“Here's more, though: listen, mother, to your favorite, that you want to marry Kathleen to:--

“'P.S. I will clear scores with you for all in the course of a few months, and remember that, at your marriage, I must, with my own hand, give you away to Katsey, the fair Oolossa.'”

The perusal of this document, at least so far as they could understand it, astonished them not a little. Until they heard it read, both had been of the opinion that Hycy had actually proposed for Kathleen, or at least felt exceedingly anxious for the match.

“An' does he talk about givin' her away to Bryan M'Mahon?” asked her mother. Sorrow on his impidence!--Bryan M'Mahon indeed! Throth, it's not upon his country side of wild mountain that Kathleen will go to live. An' maybe, too, she has little loss in the same Hycy, for, afther all, he's but a skite of a fellow, an' a profligate into the bargain.”

“Paix an' his father,” said Gerald--“honest Jemmy--tould me that he'd have it a match whether or not.”

“His father did!” exclaimed Mrs. Cavanagh; “now, did he say so, Gerald?”

“Well, in troth he did--said that he had I set his heart upon it, an' that if she hadn't a gown to her back he'd make him marry her.”

“The Lord direct us for the best!” exclaimed his wife, whose opinion of the matter at this last piece of information had again changed in favor of Hycy. “Sure, afther all, one oughtn't to be too sevare on so young a man. However, as the sayin' is, 'time will tell,' an' Kathleen's own good sense will show her what a match he'd be.”

The sisters then retired to bed; but before they went, Kathleen approached her mother, and putting an open palm affectionately upon each of the good woman's cheeks, said, in a voice in which there was deep feeling and affection:--

“Good-night, mother dear! I'm sure you love me, an' I know it is because you do that you spake in this way; but I know, too, that you wouldn't make me unhappy and miserable for the wealth of the world, much less for Hycy Burke's share of it. There's a kiss for you, and good-night!--there's another for you, father; God bless you! and good-night, too. Come, Hanna darling, come!”

In this state matters rested for some time. Bryan M'Mahon, however, soon got an opportunity of disclosing his intentions to Kathleen, if that can be called disclosing, which was tolerably well known for a considerable time previous to the disclosure. Between them it was arranged that he and his father should make a formal proposal of marriage to her parents, as the best means of bringing the matter to a speedy issue. Before this was done, however, Gerald, at the instigation of his wife, contrived once more to introduce the subject as if by accident, in a conversation with Jemmy Burke, who repeated his anxiety for the match as the best way of settling down his son, and added, that he would lay the matter before Hycy himself, with a wish that a union should take place between them. This interview with old Burke proved a stumbling-block in the way of M'Mahon. At length, after a formal proposal on the behalf of Bryan, and many interviews with reference to it, something like a compromise was effected. Kathleen consented to accept the latter in marriage, but firmly and resolutely refused to hear Burke's name as a lover or suitor mentioned. Her parents, however, hoping that their influence over her might ultimately prevail, requested that she would not engage herself to any one for two years, at the expiration of which period, if no change in her sentiments should take place, she was to be at liberty to marry M'Mahon. For the remainder of the summer and autumn, and up until November, the period at which our narrative has now arrived, or, in other words, when Bryan M'Mahon met Nanny Peety, matters had rested precisely in the same position. This unexpected interview with the mendicant's daughter, joined to the hints he had already received, once more caused M'Mahon to feel considerably perplexed with regard to Hycy Burke. The coincidence was very remarkable, and the identity of the information, however limited, appeared to him to deserve all the consideration which he could bestow upon it, but above all things he resolved, if possible, to extract the secret out of Nanny Peety.

One cause of Hycy Burke's extravagance was a hospitable habit of dining and giving dinners in the head inn of Ballymacan. To ask any of his associates to his father's house was only to expose the ignorance of his parents, and this his pride would not suffer him to do. As a matter of course he gave all his dinners, unless upon rare occasions, in Jack Shepherd's excellent inn; but as young Clinton and he were on terms of the most confidential intimacy, he had asked him to dine on the day in question at his father's.

“You know, my dear Harry,” he said to his friend, “there is no use in striving to conceal the honest vulgarity of Jemmy the gentleman from you who know it already. I may say ditto to madam, who is unquestionably the most vulgar of the two--for, and I am sorry to say it, in addition to a superabundant stock of vulgarity, she has still a larger assortment of the prides; for instance, pride of wealth, of the purse, pride of--I was going to add, birth--ha! ha! ha!--of person, ay, of beauty, if you please--of her large possessions--but that comes under the purse again--and lastly--but that is the only well-founded principle among them--of her accomplished son, Hycy. This, now, being all within your cognizance already, my dear Hal, you take a pig's cheek and a fowl with me to-day. There will be nobody but ourselves, for when I see company at home I neither admit the gentleman nor the lady to table. Damn it, you know the thing would be impossible. If you wish it, however, we shall probably call in the gentleman after dinner to have a quiz with him; it may relieve us. I can promise you a glass of wine, too, and that's another reason why we should keep him aloof until the punch comes. The wine's always a _sub silencio_ affair, and, may heaven pity me, I get growling enough from old Bruin on other subjects.”

“Anything you wish, Hycy, I am your man; but somehow I don't relish the idea of the quiz you speak of. 'Children, obey your parents,' says Holy Scripture; and I'd as soon not help a young fellow to laugh at his father.”

“A devilish good subject he is, though--but you must know that I can draw just distinctions, Hal. For instance, I respect his honesty--”

“And copy it, eh?”

“Certainly--I respect his integrity, too--in fact, I appreciate all his good qualities, and only laugh at his vulgarity and foibles.”

“You intend to marry, Hycy?”

“Or, in other words, to call you brother some of these days.”

“And to have sons and daughters?”

“Please the fates.”

“That will do,” replied Clinton, dryly.

“Ho! ho!” said Hycy, “I see. Here's a mentor with a vengeance--a fellow with a budget of morals cut and dry for immediate use--but hang all morality, say I; like some of my friends that talk on the subject, I have an idiosyncrasy of constitution against it, but an abundant temperament for pleasure.”

“That's a good definition,” said Clinton; “a master-touch, a very correct likeness, indeed. I would at once know you from it, and so would most of your friends.”

“This day is Friday,” said Hycy, “more growling.”

“Why so?”

“Why, when I eat meat on a Friday, the pepper and sauce cost me nothing. The 'gentlemen' lays on hard, but the lady extenuates, 'in regard to it's bein' jinteel.'”

“Well, but you have certainly no scruple yourself on the subject?”

“Yes, I have, sir, a very strong one--in favor of the meat--ha! ha! ha!”

“D--n me, whoever christened you Hycy the accomplished, hit you off.”

“I did myself; because you must know, my worthy Hal, that, along with all my other accomplishments, I am my own priest.'

“And that is the reason why you hate the clergy? eh--ha! ha! ha!”

“A hit, a hit, I do confess.”

“Harke, Mr. Priest, will you give absolution--to Tom Corbet?”

“Ah! Hal, no more an' thou lovest me--that sore is yet open. Curse the villain. My word and honor, Hal, the gentleman' was right there. He told me at the first glance what she was. Here comes a shower, let us move on, and reach Ballymacan, if possible, before it falls. We shall be home in fair time for dinner afterwards, and then for my proposal, which, by the word and honor--”

“And morality?”

“Nonsense, Harry; is a man to speak nothing but truth or Scripture in this world?--No--which I say by the honor of a gentleman, it will be your interest to consider and accept.”

“Very well, most accomplished. We shall see, and we shall hear, and then we shall determine.”

A ham and turkey were substituted for the pig's cheek and fowl, and we need not say that Hycy and his friend accepted of the substitution with great complacency. Dinner having been discussed, and a bottle of wine finished, the punch came in, and each, after making himself a stiff tumbler, acknowledged that he felt comfortable. Hycy, however, anxious that he should make an impression, or in other words gain his point, allowed Clinton to grow a little warm with liquor before he opened the subject to which he had alluded. At length, when he had reached the proper elevation, he began:--

“There's no man, my dear Harry, speaks apparently more nonsense than I do in ordinary chat and conversation. For instance, to-day I was very successful in it; but no matter, I hate seriousness, certainly, when there is no necessity for it. However, as a set-off to that, I pledge you my honor that no man can be more serious when it is necessary than myself. For instance, you let out a matter to me the other night that you probably forget now. You needn't stare--I am serious enough and honorable enough to keep as an inviolable secret everything of the kind that a man may happen to disclose in an unguarded moment.”

“Go on, Hycy, I don't forget it--I don't, upon my soul.”

“I allude to M'Mahon's farm in Ahadarra.”

“I don't forget it; but you know, Hycy, my boy, I didn't mention either M'Mahon or Ahadarra.”

“You certainly did not mention them exactly; but, do you think I did not know at once both the place and the party you allude to? My word and honor, I saw them at a glance.”

“Very well, go on with your word and honor;--you are right, I did mean M'Mahon and Ahadarra--proceed, most accomplished, and most moral--”

“Be quiet, Harry. Well, you have your eye upon that farm, and you say you have a promise of it.”

“Something like it; but the d--d landlord, Chevydale, is impracticable--so my uncle says--and doesn't wish to disturb the M'Mahons, although he has been shown that it is his interest to do so--but d--n the fellow, neither he nor one of his family ever look to their interests--d--n the fellow, I say.”

“Don't curse or swear, most moral. Well, the lease of Ahadarra has dropped, and of Carriglass too;--with Carriglass, however, we--that is you--have nothing at all to do.”

“Proceed?'

“Now, I have already told you my affection for your sister, and I have not been able to get either yes or no out of you.”

“No.”

“What do you mean?”

“That you have not been able to get yes or no out of me--proceed, most accomplished. Where do you get your brandy? This is glorious. Well!”

“Now, as you have a scruple against taking the farm in any but a decent way, if I undertake to manage matters so as that Bryan M'Mahon shall be obliged to give up his farm, will you support my suit with Miss Clinton?”

“How will you do it?”

“That is what you shall not know; but the means are amply within my power. You know my circumstances, and that I shall inherit all my father's property.”

“Come; I shall hold myself neuter--will that satisfy you? You shall have a clear stage and no favor, which, if you be a man of spirit, is enough.”

“Yes; but it is likely I may require your advocacy with Uncle; and, besides, I know the advantage of having an absent friend well and favorably spoken of, and all his good points brought out.”

“Crazy Jane and Tom Burton, to wit; proceed, most ingenuous!”

“Curse them both! Will you promise this--to support me so far?”

“Egad, Hycy, that's a devilish pretty girl that attends us with the hot water, and that waited on us at dinner--eh?”

“Come, come, Master Harry, 'ware spring-guns there; keep quiet. You don't answer?”

“But, worthy Hycy, what if Maria should reject you--discard you--give you to the winds?--eh?”

“Even in that case, provided you support me honestly, I shall hold myself bound to keep my engagement with you, and put M'Mahon out as a beggar.”

“What! as a beggar?”

“Ay, as a beggar; and then no blame could possibly attach to you for succeeding him, and certainly no suspicion.”

“Hum! as a beggar. But the poor fellow never offended me. Confound it, he never offended me, nor any one else as far as I know. I don't much relish that, Hycy.”

“It cannot be done though in any other way.”

“I say--how do you call that girl?--Jenny, or Peggy, or Molly, or what?”

“I wish to heaven you could be serious, Harry. If not, I shall drop the subject altogether.”

“There now--proceed, O Hyacinthus.”

“How can I proceed, when you won't pay attention to me; or, what is more, to your own interests?”

“Oh! my own interests!--well I am alive to them.”

“Is it a bargain, then?”

“It is a bargain, most ingenuous, most subtle, and most conscientious Hycy! Enable me to enter upon the farm of Ahadarra--to get possession of it--and calculate upon my most--let me see--what's the best word--most strenuous advocacy. That's it: there's my hand upon it. I shall support you, Hycy; but, at the same time, you must not hold me accountable for my sister's conduct. Beyond fair and reasonable persuasion, she must be left perfectly free and uncontrolled in whatever decision she may come to.”

“There's my hand, then, Harry; I can ask no more.”

After Clinton had gone, Hycy felt considerably puzzled as to the manner in which he had conducted himself during the whole evening. Sometimes he imagined he was under the influence of liquor, for he had drunk pretty freely; and again it struck him that he manifested an indifference to the proposal made to him, which he only attempted to conceal lest Hycy might perceive it. He thought, however, that he observed a seriousness in Clinton, towards the close of their conversation, which could not have been assumed; and as he gave himself a good deal of credit for penetration, he felt satisfied that circumstances were in a proper train, and likely, by a little management, to work out his purposes.

Hycy, having bade him good night at the hall-door, returned again to the parlor, and called Nanny Peety--“Nanny,” said he, “which of the Hogans did you see to-day?”

“None o' them, sir, barrin' Kate: they wor all out.”

“Did you give her the message?”

“Why, sir, if it can be called a message, I did.”

“What did you say, now?”

“Why, I tould her to tell whichever o' them she happened to see first, that St. Pether was dead.”

“And what did she say to that?”

“Why, sir, she said it would be a good story for you if he was.”

“And what did she mean by that, do you think?”

“Faix, then, I dunna--barrin' that you're in the black books wid him, and that you'd have a better chance of gettin' in undher a stranger that didn't know you.”

“Nanny,” he replied, laughing, “you are certainly a very smart girl, and indeed a very pretty girl--a very interesting young woman, indeed, Nanny; but you won't listen to reason.”

“To raison, sir, I'll always listen; but not to wickedness or evil.”

“Will you have a glass of punch? I hope there is neither wickedness nor evil in that.”

“I'm afraid, sir, that girls like me have often found to their cost too much of both in it. Thank you, Masther Hycy, but I won't have it; you know I won't.”

“So you will stand in your own light, Nanny?”

“I hope not, sir; and, wanst for all, Mr. Hycy, there's no use in spakin' to me as you do. I'm a poor humble girl, an' has nothing but my character to look to.”

“And is that all you're afraid of, Nanny?”

“I'm afear'd of Almighty God, sir: an' if you had a little fear of Him, too, Mr. Hycy, you wouldn't spake to me as you do.”

“Why, Nanny, you're almost a saint on our hands.”

“I'm glad to hear it, sir, for the sinners is plenty enough.”

“Very good, Nanny; well said. Here's half a crown to reward your wit.”

“No, no, Mr. Hycy: I'm thankful to you; but you know I won't take it.”

“Nanny, are you aware that it was I who caused you to be taken into this family?”

“No,” sir; “but I think it's very likely you'll be the cause of my going out of it.”

“It certainly is not improbable, Nanny. I will have no self-willed, impracticable girls here.”

“You won't have me here long, then, unless you mend your manners, Mr. Hycy.”

“Well, well, Nanny; let us not quarrel at all events. I will be late out to-night, so that you must sit up and let me in. No, no, Nanny, we must not quarrel; and if I have got fond of you, how can I help it? It's very natural thing, you know, to love a pretty girl.”

“But not so natural to lave her, Mr. Hycy, as you have left others before now--I needn't name them--widout name, or fame, or hope, or happiness in this world.”

“I won't be in until late, Nanny,” he replied, coolly. “Sit up for me. You're a sharp one, but I can't spare you yet a while;” and, having nodded to her with a remarkably benign aspect he went out.

“Ay,” said she, after he had gone; “little you know, you hardened and heartless profligate, how well I'm up to your schemes. Little you know that I heard your bargain this evenin' wid Clinton, and that you're now gone to meet the Hogans and Teddy Phats upon some dark business, that can't be good or they wouldn't be in it; an' little you know what I know besides. Anybody the misthress plaises may sit up for you, but I won't.”

CHAPTEE XI.--Death of a Virtuous Mother.

It could not be expected that Bryan M'Mahon, on his way home from Fethertonge's, would pass Gerald Cavanagh's without calling. He had, in his interview with that gentleman, stated the nature of his mother's illness, but at the same time without feeling any serious apprehensions that her life was in immediate danger. On reaching Cavanagh's, he found that family over-+shadowed with a gloom for which he could not account. Kathleen received him gravely, and even Hanna had not her accustomed jest. After looking around him for a little, he exclaimed--“What is the matther? Is anything wrong? You all look as if you were in sorrow.”

Hanna approached him and said, whilst her eyes filled with tears--“We are in sorrow, Bryan; for we are goin', we doubt, to lose a friend that we all love--as every one did that knew her.”

“Hanna, darling,” said Kathleen, “this won't do. Poor girl! you are likely to make bad worse; and besides there may, after all, be no real danger. Your mother, Bryan,” she proceeded, “is much worse than she has been. The priest and doctor have been sent for; but you know it doesn't follow that there is danger, or at any rate that the case is hopeless.”

“Oh, my God!” exclaimed Bryan, “is it so? My mother--and such a mother! Kathleen, my heart this minute tells me it is hopeless. I must leave you--I must go.”

“We will go up with you,” said Kathleen. “Hanna, we will go up; for, if she is in danger, I would like to get the blessing of such a woman before she dies; but let us trust in G-od she won't die, and that it's only a sudden attack that will pass away.”

“Do so, Kathleen,” said her mother; “and you can fetch us word how she is. May the Lord bring her safe over it at any rate; for surely the family will break their hearts afther her, an' no wondher, for where was her fellow?”

Bryan was not capable of hearing these praises, which he knew to be so well and so justly her due, with firmness; nor could he prevent his tears, unless by a great effort, from bearing testimony to the depth of his grief. Kathleen's gaze, however, was turned on him with an expression which gave him strength; for indeed there was something noble and. sustaining in the earnest and consoling sympathy which he read in her dark and glorious eye. On their way to Carriglass there was little spoken. Bryan's eye every now and then sought that of Kathleen; and he learned, for the first time, that it is only in affliction that the exquisite tenderness of true and disinterested love can be properly appreciated and felt. Indeed he wondered at his own sensations; for in proportion as his heart became alarmed at the contemplation of his mother's loss, he felt, whenever he looked upon Kathleen, that it also burned towards her with greater tenderness and power--so true is it that sorrow and suffering purify and exalt all our nobler and better emotions.

Bryan and his companions, ere they had time to reach the house, were seen and. recognized by the family, who, from the restlessness and uncertainty which illness usually occasions, kept moving about and running out from time to time to watch the arrival of the priest or doctor. On this occasion Dora came to meet them; but, alas! with what a different spirit from that which animated her on the return of her father from the metropolis. Her gait was now slow, her step languid; and they could perceive that, as she approached them, she wiped away the tears. Indeed her whole appearance was indicative of the state of her mother; when they met her, her bitter sobbing and the sorrowful earnestness of manner with which she embraced the sisters, wore melancholy assurances that the condition of the sufferer was not improved. Hanna joined her tears with hers; but Kathleen, whose sweet voice in attempting to give the affectionate girl consolation, was more than once almost shaken out of its firmness, did all she could to soothe and relieve her.

On entering the house, they found a number of the neighboring females assembled, and indeed the whole family, in consequence of the alarm and agitation visible them, might not inaptly be compared to a brood of domestic fowl when a hawk, bent on destruction, is seen hovering over their heads.

As is usual with Catholic families in their state of life, there were several of those assembled, and also some of themselves, at joint prayer in different parts of the house; and seated by her bedside was her youngest son, Art, engaged, with sobbing voice and eyes every now and then blinded with tears, in the perusal, for her comfort, of Prayers for the Sick. Tom M'Mahon himself went about every now and then clasping his hands, and turning up his eyes to heaven in a distracted manner, exclaiming--“Oh! Bridget, Bridget, is it come to this at last! And you're lavin' me--you're lavin' me! Oh, my God! what will I do--how will I live, an' what will become of me!”

On seeing Bryan, he ran to him and said,--“Oh! Bryan, to what point will I turn?--where will I get consolation?--how will I bear it? Sure, she was like a blessin' from heaven among us; ever full of peace, and charity, and goodness--the kind word an' the sweet smile to all; but to me--to me--oh! Bridget, Bridget, I'd rather die than live afther you!”

“Father, dear, your takin' it too much to heart,” replied Bryan; “who knows but God may spare her to us still? But you know that even if it's His will to remove her from amongst us”--his voice here failed him for a moment--“hem--to remove her from amongst us, it's our duty to submit to it; but I hope in God she may recover still. Don't give way to sich grief till we hear what the docthor will say, at all events. How did she complain or get ill; for I think she wasn't worse when I left home?”

“It's all in her stomach,” replied his father. “She was seized wid cramps in her stomach, an' she complains very much of her head; but her whole strength is gone, she can hardly spake, and she has death in her face.”

At this moment his brother Michael came to them, and said--“Bryan--Bryan”--but he could proceed no farther.

“Whisht, Michael,” said the other; “this is a shame; instead of supportin' and cheer-in' my father, you're only doing him harm. I tell you all that you'll find there's no raison for this great grief. Be a man, Michael--”

“She has heard your voice,” proceeded his brother, “and wishes to see you.”

This proof of her affection for him, at the very moment when he was attempting to console others, was almost more than he could bear. Bryan knew that he himself had been her favorite son, so far as a heart overflowing with kindness and all the tender emotions that consecrate domestic life and make up its happiness, could be said to have a favorite. There was, however, that almost imperceptible partiality, which rarely made its appearance unless in some slight and inconsiderable circumstances, but which, for that very reason, was valuable in proportion to its delicacy and the caution with which it was guarded. Always indeed in some quiet and inoffensive shape was the partiality she bore him observable; and sometimes it consisted in a postponement of his wishes or comforts to those of her other children, because she felt that she might do with him that which she could not with the others--thus calculating as it were upon his greater affection. But it is wonderful to reflect in how many ways, and through what ingenious devices the human heart can exhibit its tenderness.

Arthur, as Bryan entered, had concluded the devotions he had been reading for her, and relinquished to him the chair he had occupied. On approaching, he was at once struck by the awful change for the worse, which so very brief a period had impressed upon her features. On leaving home that morning she appeared to be comparatively strong, and not further diminished in flesh than a short uneasy ailment might naturally occasion. But now her face, pallid and absolutely emaciated, had shrunk into half its size, and was, beyond all possibility of hope or doubt, stamped with the unequivocal impress of death.

Bryan, in a state which it is impossible to describe and very difficult to conceive, took her hand, and after a short glance at her features, now so full of ghastliness and the debility which had struck her down, he stooped, and, kissing her lips, burst out into wild and irrepressible sorrow.

“Bryan, dear,” she said, after a pause, and when his grief had somewhat subsided, “why will you give way to this? Sure it was on you I placed my dependence--I hoped that, instead of settin' the rest an example for weakness, you'd set them one that they might and ought to follow--I sent for you, Bryan, to make it my request that, if it's the will of God to take me from among you, you might support an' console the others, an' especially your poor father; for I needn't tell you that along wid the pain I'm bearin', my heart is sore and full o sorrow for what I know he'll suffer when I'm gone. May the Lord pity and give him strength!--for I can say on my dyin' bed that, from the first day I ever seen his face until now, he never gave me a harsh word or an unkind look, an' that you all know.”

“Oh how could he, mother dear? how could any one give you that? Who was it that ever knew you could trate you with anything but respect and affection?”

“I hope I always struv to do my duty, Bryan, towards God an' my childre', and my fellow-creatures; an' for that raison I'm not frightened at death. An', Bryan, listen to the words of your dyin' mother--”

“Oh, don't say that yet, mother,” replied her son, sobbing; “don't say so yet; who knows but God will spare your life, an' that you may be many years with us still; they're all alarmed too much, I hope; but it's no wondher we should, mother dear, when there's any appearance at all of danger about you.”

“Well, whether or not, Bryan, the advice I'm goin' to give you is never out o' saison. Live always with the fear of God in your heart; do nothing that you think will displease Him; love your fellow-creatures--serve them and relieve their wants an' distresses as far as you're able; be like your own father--kind and good to all about you, not neglectin' your religious duties. Do this, Bryan, an' then when the hour o' death comes, you'll feel a comfort an' happiness in your heart that neither the world nor anything in it can give you. You'll feel the peace of God there, an' you will die happy--happy.”

Her spirit, animated by the purity and religious truth of this simple but beautiful morality, kindled into pious fervor as she proceeded, so much so indeed, that on turning her eyes towards heaven, whilst she uttered the last words, they sparkled with the mild and serene light of that simple but unconscious enthusiasm on behalf of all goodness which had characterized her whole life, and which indeed is a living principle among thousands of her humble countrywomen.

“This, dear Bryan, is the advice I gave to them all; it an' my love is the only legacy I have to lave them. An' my darlin' Dora, Bryan--oh, if you be kind and tendher to any one o' them beyant another, be so to her. My darlin'Dora! Oh! her heart's all affection, an' kindness, an' generosity. But indeed, as I said, Bryan, the task must fall to you to strengthen and console every one o' them. Ay!--an' you must begin now. You wor ever, ever, a good son; an' may God keep you in the right faith, an' may my blessin' an' His be wid you for ever! Amin.”

There was a solemn and sustaining spirit in her words which strengthened Bryan, who, besides, felt anxious to accomplish to the utmost extent the affectionate purpose which had caused her to send for him.

“It's a hard task, mother darlin,” he replied; “but I'll endeavor, with God's help, to let them see that I haven't been your son for nothing; but you don't know, mother, that Kathleen's here, an' Hanna. They wish to see you, an' to get your blessin'.”

“Bring them in,” she replied, “an' let Dora come wid them, an' stay yourself, Bryan, becaise I'm but weak, an' I don't wish that they should stay too long. God sees its not for want of love for the other girls that I don't bid you bring them in, but that I don't wish to see them sufferin' too much sorrow; but my darlin' Dora will expect to be where Kathleen is, an' my own eyes likes to look upon her, an' upon Kathleen, too, Bryan, for I feel my heart bound to her as if she was one of ourselves, as I hope she will be.”

“Oh, bless her! bless her! mother,” he said, with difficulty, “an' tell her them words--say them to herself. I'll go now and bring them in.”

He paused, however, for a minute or two, in order to compose his voice and features, that he might not seem to set them an example of weakness, after which he left the apartment with an appearance of greater composure than he really felt.

In a few minutes the four returned: Bryan, with Kathleen's hand locked in his, and Hanna, with her arm affectionately wreathed about Dora's neck, as if the good-hearted girl felt anxious to cherish and comfort her under the heavy calamity to which she was about to be exposed, for Dora wept bitterly. Mrs. M'Mahon signed to Hanna to approach, who, with her characteristic ardor of feeling, now burst into tears herself, and stooping down kissed her and wept aloud, whilst Dora's grief also burst out afresh.

The sick woman looked at Bryan, as if to solicit his interference, and the look was immediately understood by Kathleen as well as by himself.

“This is very wrong of you, Hanna,” said her sister; “out of affection and pity to them, you ought to endeavor to act otherwise. They have enough, an' to much, to feel, without your setting them example; and, Dora dear, I thought you had more courage than you have. All this is only grieving and disturbing your mother; an' I hope that, for her sake, you'll both avoid it. I know it's hard to do so, but it's the difficulty and the trial that calls upon us to have strength, otherwise what are we better than them that we'd condemn or think little of for their own weakness.”

The truth and moral force of the words, and the firmness of manner that marked Kathleen as she spoke, were immediately successful. The grief of the two girls was at once hushed; and, after a slight pause, Mrs. M'Mahon called Kathleen to her.

“Dear Kathleen,” she said, “I did hope to see the day when you'd be one of my own family, but it's not the will of God, it appears, that I should; however, may His will be done! I hope still that day will come, an' that your friends won't have any longer an objection to your marriage wid Bryan. I am his mother, an' no one has a better right to know his heart an' his temper, an' I can say, upon my dyin' bed, that a better heart an' a better temper never was in man. I believe, Kathleen, it was never known that a good son ever made a bad husband. However, if it's God's will to bring you together, He will, and if it isn't, you must only bear it patiently.”

Bryan was silent, but his eye, from time to time, turned with a long glance of love and sorrow upon Kathleen, whose complexion became pale and red by turns. At length Dora, after her mother had concluded, went over to Kathleen, and putting her arms around her neck, exclaimed, “Oh! mother dear, something tells me that Kathleen will be my sisther yet, an' if you'd ask her to promise--”

Kathleen looked down upon the beautiful and expressive features of the affectionate girl, and gently raising her hand she placed it upon Dora's lips, in order to prevent the completion of the sentence. On doing so she received a sorrowful glance of deep and imploring entreaty from Bryan, which she returned with another that seemed to reprove him for doubting her affection, or supposing that such a promise was even necessary. “No, Dora dear,” she said, “I could make no promise without the knowledge of my father and mother, or contrary to their wishes; but did you think, darling, that such a thing was necessary?” She kissed the sweet girl as she spoke, and Dora felt a tear on her cheek that was not her own.

Mrs. M'Mahon had been looking with a kind of mournful admiration upon Kathleen during this little incident, and then proceeded. “She says what is right and true; and it would be wrong, my poor child, to ask her to give such a promise. Bryan, thry an' be worthy of that girl--oh, do! an' if you ever get her, you'll have raison to thank God for one of the best gifts He ever gave to man. Hanna, come here--come to me--let me put my hand upon your head. May my blessin' and God's blessin' rest upon you for ever more. There now, be stout, acushla machree.” Hanna kissed her again, but her grief was silent; and Dora, fearing she might not be able to restrain it, took her away.

“Now,” proceeded the dying woman, “come to me, you Kathleen, my daughter--sure you're the daughter of my heart, as it is. Kneel down and stay with me awhile. Why does my heart warm to you as it never did to any one out o' my own family? Why do I love you as if you were my own child? Because I hope you will be so. Kiss me, asthore machree.”

Kathleen kissed her, and for a few moments Mrs. M'Mahon felt a shower of warm tears upon her face, accompanied by a gentle and caressing pressure, that seemed to corroborate and return the hope she had just expressed. Kathleen hastily wiped away her tears, however, and once more resuming her firmness, awaited the expected blessing.

“Now, Kathleen dear, for fear any one might say that at my dyin' hour, I endeavored to take any unfair advantage of your feelings for my son, listen to me--love him as you may, and as I know you do.”

“Why should I deny it?” said Kathleen, “I do love him.”

“I know, darlin', you do, but for all that, go not agin the will and wishes of your parents and friends; that's my last advice to you.”

She then placed her hand upon her head, and in words breathing of piety and affection, she invoked many a blessing upon her, and upon any that was clear to her in life, after which both Bryan and Kathleen left her to the rest which she now required so much.

The last hour had been an interval from pain with Mrs. M'Mahon. In the course of the day both the priest and the doctor arrived, and she appeared somewhat better. The doctor, however, prepared them for the worst, and in confirmation of his opinion, the spasms returned with dreadful violence, and in the lapse of two hours after his visit, this pious and virtuous woman, after suffering unexampled agony with a patience and fortitude that could not be surpassed, expired in the midst of her afflicted family.

It often happens in domestic life, that in cases where long and undisturbed affection is for the first time deprived of its object by death, there supervenes upon the sorrow of many, a feeling of awful sympathy with that individual whose love for the object has been, the greatest, and whose loss is of course the most irreparable. So was it with the M'Mahons. Thomas M'Mahon himself could not bear to witness the sufferings of his wife, nor to hear her moans. He accordingly left the house, and walked about the garden and farm-yard, in a state little short of actual distraction. When the last scene was over, and her actual sufferings closed for ever, the outrage of grief among his children became almost hushed from a dread of witnessing the sufferings of their father; and for the time a great portion of their own sorrow was merged in what they felt for him. Nor was this feeling confined to themselves. His neighbors and acquaintances, on hearing of Mrs. M'Mahon's death, almost all exclaimed:--

“Oh, what will become of him? they are nothing an will forget her soon, as is natural, well as they loved her; but poor Tom, oh! what on earth will become of him?” Every eye, however, now turned toward Bryan, who was the only one of the family possessed of courage enough to undertake the task of breaking the heart-rending intelligence to their bereaved father.

“It must be done,” he said, “and the sooner it's done the better; what would I give to have my darlin' Kathleen here. Her eye and her advice would give me the strength that I stand so much in need of. My God, how will I meet him, or break the sorrowful tidings to him at all! The Lord support me!”

“Ah, but Bryan,” said they, “you know he looks up to whatever you say, and how much he is advised by you, if there happens to be a doubt about anything. Except her that's gone, there was no one--”

Bryan raised his hand with an expression of resolution and something like despair, in order as well as he could to intimate to them, that he wished to hear no allusion made to her whom they had lost, or that he must become incapacitated to perform the task he had to encounter, and taking his hat he proceeded to find his father, whom he met behind the garden.

It may be observed of deep grief, that whenever it is excited by the loss of what is good and virtuous, it is never a solitary passion, we mean within the circle of domestic life. So far from that, there is not a kindred affection under the influence of a virtuous heart, that is not stimulated, and strengthened by its emotions. How often, for instance, have two members of the same family rushed into each other's arms, when struck by a common sense of the loss of some individual that was dear to both, because it was felt that the very fact of loving the same object had now made them dear to each other.

The father, on seeing Bryan approach, stood for a few moments and looked at him eagerly; he then approached him with a hasty and unsettled step, and said, “Bryan, Bryan, I see it in your face, she has left us, she has left us, she has left us all, an' she has left me; an' how am I to live without her? answer me that; an then give me consolation if you can.”

He threw himself on his son's neck, and by a melancholy ingenuity attempted to seduce him as it were from the firmness which he appeared to preserve in the discharge of this sorrowful task, with a hope that he might countenance him in the excess of his grief--“Oh,” he added, “I've have lost her, Bryan--you and I, the two that she--that--she--Your word was everything to her, a law to her; and she was so proud out of you--I an' her eye would rest upon you smilin', as much as to say--there's my son, haven't I a right to feel proud of him, for he has never once vexed his mother's heart? nayther did you, Bryan, nayther did you, but now who will praise you as she did? who will boast of you behind your back, for she seldom did it to your face; and now that smile of love and kindness will never be on her blessed lips more. Sure you won't blame me, Bryan--oh, sure above all men livin', you won't blame me for feelin' her loss as I do.”

The associations excited by the language of his father were such as Bryan was by no means prepared to meet. Still he concentrated all his moral power and resolution in order to accomplish the task he had undertaken, which, indeed, was not so much to announce his mother's death, as to support his father under it. After a, violent effort, he at length said:--

“Are you sorry, father, because God has taken my mother to Himself? Would you wish to have her here, in pain and suffering? Do you grudge her heaven? Father, you were always a brave and strong, fearless man, but what are you now? Is this the example you are settin' to us, who ought to look up to you for support? Don't you know my mother's in heaven? Why, one would think you're sorry for it? Come, come, father, set your childre' an example now when they want it, that they can look up to--be a man, and don't forget that she's in God's Glory, Come in now, and comfort the rest.”

“Ay, but when I think of what she was, Bryan; of what she was to me, Bryan, from the first day I ever called her my wife, ay, and before it, when she could get better matches, when she struggled, and waited, and fought for me, against all opposition, till her father an' mother saw her heart was fixed upon me; hould your tongue, Bryan, I'll have no one' to stop my grief for her, where is she? where's my wife, I tell you? where's Bridget M'Mahon?--Bridget, where are you? have you left me, gone from me, an' must I live here widout you? must I rise in the mornin,' and neither see you nor hear you? or must I live here by myself an' never have your opinion nor advice to ask upon anything as I used to do--Bridget M'Mahon, why did you leave me? where are you from me?”

“Here's Dora,” said a sweet but broken voice; “here's Dora M'Mahon--your own Dora, too--and that you love bekaise I was like her. Oh, come with me, father, darlin'. For her sake, compose yourself and come with me. Oh, what are we to feel! wasn't she our mother? Wasn't she?--wasn't she? What am I sayin'? Ay, but, now--we have no mother, now!”

M'Mahon still leaned upon his son's neck, but on hearing his favorite daughter's voice, he put his arm round to where she stood, and clasping her in, brought her close to him and Bryan, so that the three individuals formed one sorrowing group together.

“Father,” repeated Dora, “come with me for my mother's sake.”

He started. “What's that you say, Dora? For your mother's sake? I will, darlin'--for her sake, I will. Ay, that's the way to manage me--for her sake. Oh, what wouldn't I do for her sake? Come, then, God bless you, darlin', for puttin' that into my head. You may make me do anything now, Dora, jewel--if you just ax it for her sake. Oh, my God! an is it come to this? An' am I talkin' this way?--but--well, for her sake, darlin'--for her sake. Come, I'll go in--but--but--oh, Bryan, how can I?”

“You know father,” replied Bryan, who now held his arm, “we must all die, and it will be well for us if we can die as she died. Didn't father Peter say that if ever the light of heaven was in a human heart, it was in hers?”

“Ay, but when I go in an' look upon her, an' call Bridget, she won't answer me.”

“Father dear, you are takin' it too much to heart.”

“Well, it'll be the first time she ever refused to answer me--the first time that ever her lips will be silent when I spake to her.”

“But, father,” said the sweet girl at his side, “think of me. Sure I'll be your Dora more than ever, now. You know what you promised me this minute. Oh, for her sake, and for God's sake, then, don't take it so much to heart. It was my grandfather sent me to you, an' he says he want's to see you, an' to spake to you.”

“Oh!” he exclaimed, “My poor father, an' he won't be long afther her. But this is the way wid all, Bryan--the way o' the world itself. We must go. I didn't care, now, how soon I followed her. Oh, no, no.”

“Don't say so, father; think of the family you have; think of how you love them, and how they love you, father dear. Don't give way so much to this sorrow. I know it's hard to bid you not to do it; but you know we must strive to overcome ourselves. I hope there's happy days and years before us still. We'll have our leases soon, you know, an' then we'll feel firm and comfortable: an' you know you'll be--we'll all be near where she sleeps.”

“Where she sleeps. Well, there's comfort in that, Bryan--there's comfort in that.”

The old man, though very feeble, on seeing him approach, rose up and met him. “Tom,” said he, “be a man, and don't shame my white hairs nor your own. I lost your mother, an' I was as fond of her, an' had as good a right, too, as ever you were of her that's now an angel in heaven; but if I lost her, I bore it as a man ought. I never yet bid you do a thing that you didn't do, but I now bid you stop cryin', an don't fly in the face o' God as you're doin'. You respect my white hairs, an' God will help you as he has done!”

The venerable appearance of the old man, the melancholy but tremulous earnestness with which he spoke, and the placid spirit of submission which touched his whole bearing with the light of an inward piety that no age could dim or overshadow, all combined to work a salutary influence upon M'Mahon. He evidently made a great effort at composure, nor without success. His grief became calm; he paid attention to other matters, and by the aid of Bryan, and from an anxiety lest he should disturb or offend his father by any further excess of sorrow, he was enabled to preserve a greater degree of composure than might have been expected.