thought that preyed upon him most; and as he cursed his own reckless folly, the tears filled the eyes of Manus O’Flaherty as he drew a mental and scarcely an exaggerated picture of his young brother’s sufferings.
“May the divil take the ould fellow’s money, and himself along with it,” he muttered, as after a few more minutes of reflection he decided on the wise course of depositing the notes without delay in the hands of some “respectable man,” if such were to be found in the neighbourhood of the solitary-looking little station. This resolution was no sooner arrived at, than with almost a mechanical action he felt in his pocket for the unlucky cause of all his misery; and lo!—horror of horrors! and to his terror unutterable, the notes were no longer there.
“My God!” he exclaimed aloud, as he made certain of the awful fact; “I’m ruined and desthroyed entirely!” and Manus O’Flaherty, rushing madly from the place where he had been left standing, flew to the station-master with his complaint.
The man took the news very coolly—so coolly, indeed, that the poor young fellow grew exasperated thereat, and his Milesian blood getting the better of his fear of consequences, he was preparing to enforce his arguments in a manner anything but agreeable to the official, when a hand was laid upon the student’s shoulder, and a “peeler,” alias a policeman, informed him that he was a prisoner.
Manus was in a state of mind which rendered him incapable of the sensation of surprise, or he would have been wonderstruck at the celerity with which, by electric means, justice had thus come so quickly on his track. But, though bewildered and miserable, he was anything but silenced, and continued, in spite of the policeman’s warnings, to pour forth explanations which, in the eye of the law, were so many evidences of his guilt.
There is no reason to dwell in detail on the examination, trial, and committal to prison of the unfortunate lad, whose wealth of juvenile spirits had led him into a “fix” so inextricable. The money was gone, and, by his own confession, he had been the purloiner. What was it to either judge or jury that Manus and his brother had both told the same (in the opinion of most) improbable story? What mattered it that their family was respectable, themselves of good repute, and that their widowed mother was broken-hearted? Facts and circumstances were against them, and Manus O’Flaherty was condemned to expiate his crime by a lengthened term of imprisonment, whilst Val—who had forgotten himself to the extent of using strong language on the occasion to the judicial authorities—was severely admonished, and removed with ignominy from the precincts of the court.
Months passed away after this sad event, and the eldest brother was still in prison; whilst the youngest, who had lacked courage to return to his college, where he had already begun to give good promise of future success, was living in gloomy retirement on the hundred-acre estate with his mother, and fancying the while that he saw contempt for and avoidance of him everywhere.—Months, I repeat, had passed away, and the adventure had almost become forgotten save by those who had suffered from it, when one bright spring morning, as Val was in melancholy mood watching the turf-cutting, and thinking regretfully of his happy college days, when he and Manus were together, he was roused from his sad thoughts by the approach of the old parish priest. He was a good, kind man was Father Moriarty, and one who had not only entered warmly into the family sorrows, but had from the first believed in the innocence of the boys whom from their infancy he had loved. The priest came forward on this occasion with a kinder smile than usual on his face.
“Val, my son,” he said, “God bless you!”
“What is it, sir?” responded the lad, as he took the offered hand. “Your reverence has heard good news the day, I’m thinking.”
“Indeed an’ I have. The best news I have to tell this many a day. I’ve got the notes, boy! There, now, don’t cry out, because of the mother, and she so wake and ailing. They’re restitution from a poor sinner who is gone this day to God.” And Father Moriarty crossed himself devoutly, whilst tears of gratitude rolled slowly down the pale cheeks of the once robust-looking Galway student. “It’s all to the fore but twenty pounds, and we’ll make that up amongst us by the blessing of God! In with ye, boy! and tell the mother gently, now.”
And patting him on the back, whilst he placed the recovered money in his hands, Father Moriarty went with a light heart upon his way.
My story is nearly over now, for the restoration of the notes worked a miracle in the belief of the two brothers’ story, and soon liberated, and once more light of heart and countenance, Manus clasped his mother in his arms. From that time, too, all prosperity has attended them, for Val, successful in a competitive examination, obtained a comfortable little civil service post in Dublin, while Manus, living on in the old homestead, and still watching with filial care the declining years of his only remaining parent, has been fortunate enough to obtain the agency of a neighbouring estate, the duties of which he fills to the satisfaction of his employer, and—what is far more rare—for the welfare, as far as lies in his power, of those who, despite the many assertions to the contrary, are still, and it is to be feared ever will be, poor indeed!
SHAKESPEARE’S BIRTHDAY AND NAME.
First in point of time, the Stage, and then the Printing Press, have made familiar to mankind the illustrious name of William Shakespeare. He (“the divine William,” as actors affect to call him) has stood long prior to the Hanoverian succession—long prior to the fall of the House of Stuart—anterior to the Revolution—anterior to the Restoration—anterior to the Protectorate—the Great Genius of our Land, unapproached, and apparently unapproachable.
But who was he? Why the very spelling of
