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Chapter II.

Dame fortune, in this case, seemed determined to assist her votary. He had not proceeded many yards on the road leading homewards, when the figure of Kathleen Doran once more presented itself to his view. He followed as closely as he could without attracting observation, in the hope that something would occur—short of any dangerous accident—by which he might draw her attention towards him; when suddenly a portion of the covering of her fair neck which had not been properly fastened on, and had escaped from its happy imprisonment, was wafted off by a rude breeze and borne to the feet of Owen. He was not long in securing the precious relic, which he found to be a silk handkerchief of the finest texture, the colour being a light-blue, with a border of white flowers. While he quickened his pace for the purpose of overtaking and restoring to its owner the truant article of finery—which he trusted, if well managed, might prove a passport to a future acquaintance—he was checked by perceiving that she was joined by another person, whom he recognised as her father. After considering for a moment what course he ought to pursue, he quietly folded up the handkerchief, placed it in his pocket, and made the best of his way home.

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It was on the evening of the day succeeding that on which the matters we have just related occurred, that Owen O'Sullivan might have been seen issuing from the doorway of his neglected-looking homestead. His habiliments were adjusted with somewhat greater care than usual, and there was altogether an appearance about him which testified that he was bent on business of more than ordinary importance. In a short time he had passed through the town, and was now traversing a road stretching along the coast, on one side of which, with considerable intervals between them, stood several neat cottages, each boasting of its well-cared flower and vegetable garden. Towards the nearest of those Owen bent his steps, and his heart bounded with joy as he saw before him, busily engaged in the mysteries of gardening, the form of her who had so much engrossed his thoughts since the preceding day. Now, bashfulness was a failing that the young farmer could never in justice be charged with, but, strange to say, on the present occasion, although he laid "the flattering unction to his soul" that he had come armed with a sufficient excuse for thus presenting himself at the miser's dwelling, he experienced a feeling of timidity, almost approaching to reluctance in following up the line of conduct he had determined to pursue. Was it the voice of his better angel, warning him from a path, to him fraught with misery and destruction? If so, the warning was unheeded.

Advancing towards Kathleen with one of his best bows— "Excuse me, Miss Doran," said he, accosting her, but I have some business with you."

"Business, and with me," exclaimed Kathleen, "pray, sir, what may it be?"

"Allow me first to ask you," he enquired, "if you can remember having seen me in the chapel yesterday?"

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Kathleen, looking earnestly in his features, answered a little confusedly, "Yes—that is—I am not quite sure, but I think I observed some person resembling you—but what of that?"

"I fear less to you than to me," replied O'Sullivan, "but my business is this," continued he: "On your way home you dropped a silk handkerchief, which I was so fortunate as to pick up, and which I now beg leave to return to its fair owner; I I scarcely know why I didn't give it back before, but I have kept it safe—here next my heart ever since." At the same time he pulled forth the handkerchief from his breast, and handed it to his companion.

Kathleen, who seemed rather prepossessed in the stranger's favour, could by no means prevent the blood from rising in a rather remarkable manner at the implied compliment.

"I am really sorry," said she, "that you should have had all this trouble on my account. The handkerchief is scarcely worth anything. I'm sure I do not value it in the least."

"Then let me have it again," eagerly ejaculated O'Sullivan, "that I may keep it for your sake," and as he spoke he withdrew it gently from her hands, which offered but slight resistance to his efforts. He little thought, as he replaced it in his breast, that the same handkerchief—Kathleen's first gift of love we may call it—would be closely connected with his future destiny. But we must not anticipate the events of out tale.

At this moment the door of the cottage opened, and the hard-featured visage of the old miser made its appearance, while in his shrill and creaking voice he cried out—

"Kathleen, you baggage, what in the name of all the saints keeps you in the garden so late? Get along in there, and see that ye bar up the windows fast for the night."

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Owen had just time to wave his hand in adieu, and without being observed by the worthy Mr. Doran returned to his home —to his sleep—as well as his dreams of the miser's daughter would allow him.

It may easily be imagined that, after such a favourable beginning, Owen O'Sullivan contrived to have many and frequent interviews with Kathleen Doran. Although he was in reality an idle and worthless man, and perhaps one of little principle, still he was capable of loving well and sincerely, for that heart must indeed be a perverse and black one which is impervious to the sunshine of love, and is not purified by its salutary influence.

As for Kathleen herself, she was too young and too confiding to seek for any dark spot in the character of her lover; and regarded him rather as what she wished him to be than as he actually was.

Twelve months had now passed away, during which time the two lovers had become more fond and attached to each other. Their interviews had, always, however, been carried on in a clandestine manner, which seemed but to enhance their value. It was at length determined that Kathleen should broach to her father the subject of their union. Aided by all the eloquence of tears and beauty she, on her knees, pleaded, but to no purpose. The hard-hearted and unrelenting Doran could find no sympathy with feelings which his sordid nature had never experienced. With a savage rudeness he drove from him the gentle suppliant, and, with a fearful oath, vowed vengeance on her head if the name of O'Sullivan should ever again pass her lips in his presence.

When the weeping maiden related to Owen the unsuccessful result of her petition, his dark brows were contracted, and even page 312she felt a strange fear creeping over her as she witnessed the fierce expression which for a moment clouded his features.

"Kathleen, my dear girl," he at length said, taking her hand, "if circumstances permitted it, I would entreat you to become mine despite of your father and all the world, but I am not so well off in the things of this life as I perhaps at first led you to suppose. In fact, I am a poor—almost a ruined man. Some way or another luck was always against me. I hoped, although I had some fear to the contrary, that your father would not have opposed our marriage, and that, as he has the name of being rich, he would have given with you a dowry which might have helped me out of my difficulties."

Kathleen made no remark, but stood with her tearful eyes cast on the ground.

"Do you think," resumed her companion, "that there is any chance of his changing his mind?"

"None whatever, I am afraid," was the reply.

"There is but one course to pursue, then," said O'Sullivan. "It is this: If you really and truly love me, you must become my wife this night——and that secretly. To-morrow I will lead you to the old man's feet, where we will both sue for forgiveness, which in the end he will surely grant. Even if it comes to the worst, Kathleen, I have still a strong arm left, and while it can work you shall not want. Sure, as I told you, I always had bad luck, and isn't that a sign it's going to change now?"

We will not repeat all the arguments which the young farmer used to convince the hesitating and trembling maiden of the wisdom of his plans. Suffice it to say that she was convinced for what reason can withstand the solicitations of love?—and in page 313an evil hour consented, let what would betide, to become the bride of O'Sullivan. The ceremony was performed by the parish priest, none others than the necessary witnesses being present, after which Owen led his weeping bride to her new abode.

We must now beg the reader to suppose that two years have elapsed since the events just narrated occurred. It was on a dark and stormy night in the month of August that two figures, a male and a female, were sitting over the dying embers of a turf fire in the only room of a wretched hovel situated just outside the town of Killala. They carried on a low dialogue, which was ever anon interrupted as the speakers paused to listen to the sound of the fierce gusts of wind, which momentarily seemed to threaten the destruction of the ill-secured door and patched-up window. The only furniture which the place contained consisted of a broken chair, two low stools, a wretched-looking bed stretched on the earthen floor, and a ricketty deal table, on which burned the remains of a rush candle—the flame of which, flickering in the draughts that in many places found entrance, cast an uncertain and sickly glare over the scene. The dress and appearance of the persons before mentioned accorded in every respect with the melancholy aspect of all around. Their garments were threadbare and scanty, and as the rays of that dim light fell upon their emaciated features, where dire want appeared to have already set his seal, few could have recognised in them those of the once lovely Kathleen Doran and Owen O'Sullivan.

"I have just one shilling left," said the latter, in a voice now hoarse and husky. "It is almost useless by itself: I must either lose, or double it this night."

"Owen, dear!" said Kathleen, as beseechingly she looked page 314up towards her husband, "how often you have promised me to give up that gambling! You know it never brought you luck. If you did win money now and then, somehow it didn't seem to do the same good to us as any other money—just as if there was no blessing came with it.

"It is too late now to think of retracing my steps," answered O'Sullivan. "I know that I have in a great measure been to blame for all this, and, if the punishment fell on myself only, I could endure it without a murmur; but to see you so resigned and patient, even while wanting the most common necessaries of life, drives me, at times, almost to madness. Your confinement will take place in a few days. You will then require many things which money alone can procure, and that money must and shall be forthcoming!" And, as he spoke, the unhappy man, regardless of the raging elements, rushed forth into the darkness, in a state of mind bordering on frenzy.

In most of the Irish county towns there used formerly to be low public-houses, where gambling was carried on to a fearful extent, considering the humble station in life and slender means of those who resorted to them for indulgence in that vice. In such places, insignificant as they may have appeared, were often exhibited passions as fierce and uncontrollable as those which were displayed at the more élite and fashionable tables of the London "hells"; and the peasant who risked his last shilling experienced a no less intensity of excitement as to the result of his venture than did the unfortunate noble who, in a fit of desperation, staked his only remaining thousand.

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It was towards a house of this description that O'Sullivan now bent his way. A projecting signboard, which swung and creaked in the wind, pointed out the traveller a place of "refreshment for man and beast"—an invitation which few would have been inclined to resist on a night like the present.