The day of my beloved father's funeral was that of my birth! It is not improbable that he had often looked forward to that day as the crowning event of his whole life, destining great rejoicings, and planning every species of festivity; and now the summer clouds were floating over the churchyard, and the gay birds were carolling over the cold grave where he lay.

What an emblem of human anticipation, and what an illustration of his own peculiar destiny! Few men ever entered upon life with more brilliant prospects. With nearly every gift of fortune, and not one single adverse circumstance to struggle against, he was scarcely launched upon the ocean of life ere he was shipwrecked! Is it not ever thus? Is it not that the storms and seas of adverse fortune are our best preservatives in this world, by calling into activity our powers of energy and of endurance? Are we not better when our lot demands effort, and exacts sacrifice, than when prosperity neither evokes an ungratified wish, nor suggests a difficult ambition?

The real circumstances of his death were, I believe, never known to my mother, but the shock of the event almost killed her. Her cousin, Emile de Gabriac, had just arrived at Castle Carew, and they were sitting talking over France and all its pleasant associations, when a servant entered hastily with a letter for MacNaghten. It was in Fagan's handwriting, and marked “Most private, and with haste.”

“See,” cried Dan, laughing,—“look what devices a dun is reduced to, to obtain an audience! Tony Fagan, so secret and so urgent on the outside, will be candid enough within, and beg respectfully to remind Mr. MacNaghten that his indorsement for two hundred and something pounds will fall due on Wednesday next, when he hopes—”

“Let us see what he hopes,” cried my mother, snatching the letter from him, “for it surely cannot be that he hopes you will pay it.”

The terrific cry she uttered, as her eyes read the dreadful lines, rang through that vast building. Shriek followed shriek in quick succession for some seconds; and then, as if exhausted nature could no more, she sank into a death-like trance, cold, motionless, and unconscious.

Poor MacNaghten! I have heard him more than once say that if he were to live five hundred years, he never could forget the misery of that day, so graven upon his memory was every frightful and harrowing incident of it. He left Castle Carew for Dublin, and hastened to the courthouse, where, in one of the judge's robing-rooms, the corpse of his poor friend now lay. A hurried inquest had been held upon the body, and pronounced that “Death had ensued from natural causes;” and now the room was crowded with curious and idle loungers, talking over the strange event, and commenting upon the fate of him who, but a few hours back, so many would have envied.

Having excluded the throng, he sat down alone beside the body, and, with the cold hand clasped between his own, wept heartily.

“I never remember to have shed tears before in my life,” said he, “nor could I have done so then, if I were not looking on that pale, cold face, which I had seen so often lighted up with smiles; on those compressed lips, from which came so many words of kindness and affection; and felt within my own that hand that never till now had met mine without the warm grasp of friendship.”

Poor Dan! he was my father's chief mourner,—I had almost said his only one. Several came and asked leave to see the body. Many were visibly affected at the sight. There was decent sorrow on every countenance; but of deep and true affliction MacNaghten was the solitary instance.

It was late on the following evening as MacNaghten, who had only quitted the rooms for a few minutes, found on his return that a stranger was standing beside the body.

“Ay,” muttered he, solemnly, “the green and the healthy tree cut down, and the old sapless, rotten trunk left to linger on in slow decay!”

“What! Curtis, is this you?” cried MacNaghten.

“Yes, sir, and not mine the fault that I have not changed places with him who lies there. He had plenty to live for; I nothing, nor any one. And it was not that alone, MacNaghten!” added he, fiercely, “but think, reflect for one moment on what might have happened had they condemned and executed me! Is there a man in all Ireland, with heart and soul in him, who would not have read that sentence as an act of Government tyranny and vengeance? Do you believe the gentry of the country would have accepted the act as an accident, or do you think that the people would recognize it as anything else than a murder solemnized by the law? And if love of country could not stimulate and awake them, is it not possible that fears for personal safety might?”

“I have no mind for such thoughts as these,” said MacNaghten, sternly; “nor is it beside the cold corpse of him who lies there I would encourage them. If you come to sorrow over him, take your place beside me; if to speculate on party feuds or factious dissensions, then I beg you will leave me to myself.”

Curtis made him no reply, but left the room in silence.

There were some legal difficulties raised before the funeral could be performed. The circumstances of Rutledge's death required to be cleared up; and Fagan—to whom my father had made a full statement of the whole event—underwent a long and close examination by the law authorities of the Castle. The question was a grave one as regarded property, since if a charge of murder could have been substantiated, the whole of my father's fortune would have been confiscated to the Crown. Fagan's testimony, too, was not without a certain disqualification, because he held large liens over the property, and must, if the estate were estreated, have been a considerable loser. These questions all required time for investigation; but, by dint of great energy and perseverance, MacNaghten obtained permission for the burial, which took place with strict privacy at the small churchyard of Killester,—a spot which, for what reason I am unaware, my father had himself selected, and mention of which desire was found amongst his papers.

Fagan accompanied MacNaghten to the funeral, and Dan returned to his house afterwards to breakfast. Without any sentiment bordering on esteem for the “Grinder,” MacNaghten respected him generally for his probity, and believed him to be as honorable in his dealings as usury and money-lending would permit any man to be. He was well aware that for years back the most complicated transactions with regard to loans had taken place between him and my father, and that to a right understanding of these difficult matters, and a satisfactory adjustment of them, nothing could conduce so much as a frank intercourse and a friendly bearing. These were at all times no very difficult requirements from honest Dan, and he did not assume them now with less sincerity or willingness that they were to be practised for the benefit of his poor friend's widow and orphan.

MacNaghten could not help remarking that Fagan's manner, when speaking of my father's affairs, was characterized by a more than common caution and reserve, and that he strenuously avoided entering upon anything which bore, however remotely, upon the provision my mother was to enjoy, or what arrangements were to be made respecting myself. There was a will, he thought, in Crowther's possession; but it was of the less consequence, since the greater part, nearly all, of the Carew property was under the strictest entail.

“The boy will be rich, one of the richest men in Ireland, if he lives,” said MacNaghten; but Fagan made no reply for some time, and at last said,—

“If there be not good sense and moderation exercised on all sides, the Carews may gain less than will the Court of Chancery.”

MacNaghten felt far from reassured by the cautious and guarded reserve of Fagan's manner; he saw that in the dry, sententious tone of his remarks there lurked difficulties, and perhaps troubles; but he resolved to devote himself to the task before him in a spirit of patience and calm industry which, unhappily for him, he had never brought to bear upon his own worldly fortunes.

“There is nothing either obtrusive or impertinent,” said he, at last, to Fagan, “in my making these inquiries, for, independently of poor Walter's affection for me, I know that he always expected me to take the management of his affairs, should I survive him; and if there be a will, it is almost certain that I am named his executor in it.”

Fagan nodded affirmatively, and merely said,—

“Crowther will be able to clear up this point.”

“And when shall we see him?”

“He is in the country, down south, I think, at this moment; but he will be up by the end of the week. However, there are so many things to be done that his absence involves no loss of time. Where shall I address you, if I write?”

“I shall return to Castle Carew this evening, and in all probability remain there till I hear from you.”

“That will do,” was the dry answer; and MacNaghten took his leave, more than ever puzzled by the Grinder's manner, and wondering within himself in what shape and from what quarter might come the storm, which he convinced himself could not be distant.

Grief for my father's death, and anxiety for my poor mother's fate, were, however, the uppermost thoughts in his mind; and as he drew nigh Castle Carew, his heart was so much overpowered by the change which had fallen upon that once happy home that he totally forgot all the dark hints and menacing intimations of his late interview.

It was truly a gloom-stricken mansion. The servants moved about sadly, conversing in low whispers; save in one quarter, all the windows were closed, and the rooms locked up,—not a voice nor a footstep was to be heard. Mourning and woe were imprinted on every face and in every gesture. MacNaghten knew not where to go, nor where to stay. Every chamber he entered was full of its memories of the past, and he wandered on from room to room, seeking some spot which should not remind him of days whose happiness could never return. In this random search he suddenly entered the chamber where M. de Gabriac lay at full length upon a sofa, enjoying, in all the ease of a loose dressing-gown, the united pleasures of a French novel and a bottle of Bordeaux. MacNaghten would willingly have returned at once. Such a scene and such companionship were not to his taste; but the other quickly detected him, and called out,—

“Ah! M. MacNaghten, how delighted am I to see you again! What days of misery and gloom have I been passing here,—no one to speak to, none to sit with.”

“It is, indeed, a sad mansion,” sighed MacNaghten, heavily.

“So, then, it is all true?” asked the other. “Poor fellow, what a sensitive nature,—how impressible. To die just for a matter of sentiment; for, after all, you know it was a sentiment, nothing else. Every man has had his affairs of this kind,—few go through life without something unpleasant; but one does not die broken-hearted for all that. No, parbleu, that is a very poor philosophy. Tell me about the duel; I am greatly interested to hear the details.”

To escape as far as possible any further moralizings of his companion, Dan related all that he knew of the fatal rencontre, answering, so well as he might, all the Frenchman's questions, and, at the same time, avoiding all reference to the provocation which led to the meeting.

“It was a mistake, a great mistake, to fight in this fashion,” said Gabriac, coldly. “There is an etiquette to be observed in a duel, as in a dinner; and you can no more hurry over one than the other, without suffering for it afterwards. Maybe these are, however, the habits of the country.”

MacNaghten calmly assured him that they were not.

“Then the offence must have been an outrage,—what was it?”

“Some expression of gross insult; I forget the exact nature of it.”

“Poor fellow!” said the other, sipping his wine, “with so much to live for,—a magnificent chÂteau, a pretty wife, and a good fortune. What folly, was it not?”

MacNaghten afterwards acknowledged that even the Grinder's sententious dryness was preferable to the heartless indifference of the Frenchman's manner; but a deferential regard for her whose relative he was, restrained him from all angry expression of feeling on the subject, and he suffered him to discuss the duel and all its consequences, without the slightest evidence of the suffering it cost him.

“Josephine will not be sorry to leave it,” said Gabriac, after a short silence. “She told me that they never understood her, nor she them; and, after all, you know,” said he, smiling, “there is but one France!”

“And but one Ireland!” said MacNaghten, heartily.

“Heureusement!” muttered the Frenchman, but employing a word which, happily, the other did not understand.

“Her state is one of great danger still,” said Dan, alluding to my mother.

“They say so; but that is always the way with doctors. One may die of violent anger, rage, ungratified vengeance, jealousy, but not of mere grief. Sorrow is rather a soothing passion,—don't you think so?”

Had MacNaghten been in the mood, he might have laughed at the remark, but now it only irritated and incensed him; and to such an extent did the heartless manner of the Frenchman grate upon his feelings that he was in momentary danger of including my poor mother in the depreciatory estimate he conceived of France and all that belonged to it. Nor was his temper improved by the inquiries of Gabriac concerning the property and estates of my father; in fact, unable any longer to continue a conversation, every portion of which, was an outrage, he arose abruptly, and, wishing him a good night, left the room.

“Poor Walter,” said he, as he slowly sauntered along towards his chamber, “is it to such as these your memory is to be intrusted, and your name and fortune bequeathed?” And with this gloomy reflection he threw himself upon his bed, to pass a sad and a sleepless night.

It was in a curious reverie—a kind of inquiring within himself, “How came it that qualities so calculated to make social intercourse delightful in days of happiness, should prove positively offensive in moments of trial and affliction?” for such he felt to be the case as regarded Gabriac—that MacNaghten lay, when a servant came to inform him that Mr. Crowther had just arrived at the Castle, and earnestly requested to see him.

“At once,” replied he, “show him up to me here;” and in a few moments that most bland and imperturbable of solicitors entered, and, drawing a chair to the bedside, sat down.

“This is a sad occasion, Mr. MacNaghten. I little thought when I last saw you here that my next visit would have been on such an errand.”

MacNaghten nodded sorrowfully, and Crowther went on:

“Sad in every sense, sir,” sighed he, heavily. “The last of his name—one of our oldest gentry—the head of a princely fortune—with abilities, I am assured, of a very high order, and, certainly, most popular manners.”

“You may spare me the eulogy,” said MacNaghten, bluntly. “He was a better fellow than either you or I should be able to describe, if we spent an hour over it.”

Crowther took the rebuke in good part, and assented to the remark with the best possible grace. Still, he seemed as if he would like to dwell a little longer on the theme before he proceeded to other matters. Perhaps he thought by this to secure a more favorable acceptance for what he had to say; perhaps he was not fully made up in mind how to approach the subject before him. MacNaghten, who always acted through life as he would ride in a steeplechase, straight onward, regardless of all in his way, stopped him short, by saying,—

“Carew has left a will in your hands, I believe?”

“You can scarcely call it a will, sir. The document is very irregular, very informal.”

“It was his act, however; he wrote or dictated it himself?”

“Not even that, sir. He suggested parts of it, made trifling corrections with his own pen, approved some portions, and left others for after-consideration.”

“It is, at all events, the only document of the kind in existence?”

“That would be too much to affirm, sir.”

“I mean that you, at least, know of no other; in fact, I want to hear whether you conceive it to be sufficient for its object, as explaining Carew's wishes and intentions.”

A dubious half-smile, and a still more dubious shake of the head, seemed to infer that this view of the subject was far too sweeping and comprehensive.

“Come, come,” said Dan, good-humoredly, “I'm not the Chancellor, nor even Master of the Rolls. Even a little indiscretion will never injure your reputation in talking with me. Just tell me frankly what you know and think about my poor friend's affairs. His widow, if she ever recover, which is very doubtful, is but little suited to matters of business; and as it is not a case where any adverse litigation is to be apprehended—What do you mean by that shake of the head? You surely would not imply that the estate, or any part of it, could be contested at law?”

“Who could say as much for any property, sir?” said Crowther, sententiously.

“I know that; I am well aware that there are fellows in your tribe who are always on the lookout for a shipwrecked fortune, that they may earn the salvage for saving it; but here, if I mistake not very much, is an estate that stands in need of no such aids. Carew may have debts.”

“Very large debts,—debts of great amount indeed!”

“Well, be it so; there ends the complication.”

“You have a very concise and, I must say, a most straightforward mode of regarding a subject, sir,” said Crowther, blandly. “There is an admirable clearness in your views, and a most business-like promptitude in your deductions; but we, poor moles of the law, are condemned to work in a very different fashion; and, to be brief, here is a case that requires the very nicest management. To enable Madame Carew to take out letters of administration to her late husband's property, we must prove her marriage. Now, so far as I can see, sir, this is a matter of considerable difficulty.”

“Why, you would not dare to assert—to insinuate even—”

“Nothing of the kind, sir. Pray be calm, Mr. Mac-Naghten. I am as incapable of such a thought as yourself. Of the fact, I entertain no more doubt than you do. The proof of it,—the legal proof,—however, I am most anxious to obtain.”

“But, with search amongst his papers—”

“Very true, sir; it may be discovered. I have no doubt it will be discovered. I only mean to say that such a document is not to be met with amongst those in my hands, and I have very carefully gone over a large packet, labelled 'Papers and letters relating to France during my last residence there in '80-81,' which, you may remember, was the period of his marriage.”

“But he alludes to that event?”

“Not once, sir; there is not a single passage that even bears upon it. There are adventures of various kinds, curious incidents, many of them in love, play, and gallantry; but of marriage, or even of any speculation on the subject, not the remotest mention.”

“This is most singular!”

“Is it not so, sir? But I have thought, perhaps, that you, who were always his most attached friend,—you, at least, possessed some letters which should throw light upon this matter, even to indicate the exact date of it, where it occurred, who the witnesses.”

“Not a line, not a syllable,” said MacNaghten, with a sigh.

“This is more unfortunate than I expected,” said Crowther. “I always said to myself, 'Well, in his private correspondence, in the close relations of friendship, we shall come upon some clew to the mystery.' I always understood that with you he was frankness itself, sir?”

“So he was,” rejoined MacNaghten.

“This reserve is therefore the more remarkable still. Can you account for it in any way, sir?”

“Why should I account for it?” cried Dan, passionately. “My friend had his own reasons for whatever he did,—good and sufficient ones, I 'll be sworn.”

“I feel assured of that, sir; don't mistake me for a moment, or suppose I am impugning them. I merely desired to learn if you could, from your intimate knowledge of your friend's character, trace this reserve on his part to any distinct cause.”

“My knowledge of him goes this far,” said MacNaghten, haughtily, “that he had an honorable motive for every aet of his life.”

It required some address on Crowther's part to bring back MacNaghten to that calm and deliberate tone of mind which the subject demanded. After a while, however, he perfectly succeeded; and Dan arose, and accompanied him to the library, where they both proceeded to search among my father's papers, with which several boxes were filled.