Squire Egan, with his lady and Fanny Dawson, had now arrived in London; Murtough Murphy, too, had joined them, his services being requisite in working the petition against the return of the sitting member for the county. This had so much promise of success about it, that the opposite party, who had the sheriff for the county in their interest, bethought of a novel expedient to frustrate the petition when a reference to the poll was required.

They declared the principal poll-book was lost.

This seemed not very satisfactory to one side of the committee, and the question was asked, “how could it be lost?” The answer was one which Irish contrivance alone could have invented: “It fell into a pot of broth, and the dog ate it.” [Footnote: If not this identical answer, something like it was given on a disputed Irish election, before a Committee of the House of Commons.]

This protracted the contest for some time; but eventually, in spite of the dog's devouring knowledge so greedily, the Squire was declared duly elected and took the oaths and his seat for the county.

It was hard on Sackville Scatterbrain to lose his seat in the house and a peerage, nearly at once; but the latter loss threw the former so far into the shade, that he scarcely felt it. Besides, he could console himself with having buttered his crumbs pretty well in the marriage-market; and, with a rich wife, retired from senatorial drudgery to private repose, which was much more congenial to his easy temper.

But while the Squire's happy family circle was rejoicing in his triumph—while he was invited to the Speaker's dinners, and the ladies were looking forward to tickets for “the lantern,” their pleasure was suddenly dashed by fatal news from Ireland.

A serious accident had befallen Major Dawson—so serious, that his life was despaired of; and an immediate return to Ireland by all who were interested in his life was the consequence.

Though the suddenness of this painful event shocked his family, the act which caused it did not surprise them; for it was one against which Major Dawson had been repeatedly cautioned, involving a danger he had been affectionately requested not to tempt; but the habitual obstinacy of his nature prevailed, and he persisted in doing that which his son—and his daughters—and friends—prophesied would kill him some time or other, and did, at last. The Major had three little iron guns, mounted on carriages, on a terrace in front of his house; and it was his wont to fire a salute on certain festival days from these guns, which, from age and exposure to the weather, became dangerous to use. It was in vain that this danger was represented to him. He would reply, with his accustomed “Pooh, pooh! I have been firing these guns for forty years, and they won't do me any harm now.”

This was the prime fault of the Major's character. Time and circumstances were never taken into account by him; what was done once, might be done always—ought to be done always. The bare thought of change of any sort, to him, was unbearable; and whether it was a rotten old law or a rotten old gun, he would charge both up to the muzzle and fire away, regardless of consequences. The result was, that on a certain festival his favourite gun burst in discharging; and the last mortal act of which the Major was conscious, was that of putting the port-fire to the touchhole, for a heavy splinter of iron struck him on the head, and though he lived for some days afterwards, he was insensible. Before his children arrived he was no more; and the only duty left them to perform was the melancholy one of ordering his funeral.

The obsequies of the old Major were honoured by a large and distinguished attendance from all parts of the country; and amongst those who bore the pall was Edward O'Connor, who had the melancholy gratification of testifying his respect beside the grave of Fanny's father, though the severe old man had banished him from his presence during his lifetime.

But now all obstacle to the union of Edward and Fanny was removed; and after the lapse of a few days had softened the bitter grief which this sudden bereavement of her father had produced, Edward received a note from Dick, inviting him to the manor-house, where all would be glad to see him.

In a few minutes after the receipt of that note Edward was in his saddle, and swiftly leaving the miles behind him till, from the top of a rising ground, the roof of the manor-house appeared above the trees in which it was embosomed. He had not till then slackened his speed; but now drawing rein, he proceeded at a slower pace towards the house he had not entered for some years, and the sight of which awakened such varied emotions.

To return after long years of painful absence to some place which has been the scene of our former joys, and whence the force of circumstance, and not choice, has driven us, is oppressive to the heart. There is a mixed sense of regret and rejoicing, which struggle for predominance; we rejoice that our term of exile has expired, but we regret the years which that exile has deducted from the brief amount of human life, never to be recalled, and therefore as so much lost to us. We think of the wrong or the caprice of which we have been the victims, and thoughts will stray across the most confiding heart, if friends shall meet as fondly as they parted; or if time, while impressing deeper marks upon the outward form, may have obliterated some impressions within. Who has returned after years of absence, however assured of the unflinching fidelity of the love he left behind, without saying to himself, in the pardonable yearning of affection, “Shall I meet smiles as bright as those that used to welcome me? Shall I be pressed as fondly within the arms whose encompassment were to me the pale of all earthly enjoyment?”

Such thoughts crowded on Edward as he approached the house. There was not a lane, or tree, or hedge, by the way, that had not for him its association. He reached the avenue gate; as he flung it open he remembered the last time he passed it; Fanny had then leaned on his arm. He felt himself so much excited, that, instead of riding up to the house, he took the private path to the stables, and throwing down the reins to a boy, he turned into a shrubbery and endeavoured to recover his self-command before he should present himself. As he emerged from the sheltered path and turned into a walk which led to the garden, a small conservatory was opened to his view, awaking fresh sensations. It was in that very place he had first ventured to declare his love to Fanny. There she heard and frowned not; there, where nature's choicest sweets were exhaling, he had first pressed her to his heart, and thought the balmy sweetness of her lips beyond them all. He hurried forward in the enthusiasm the recollection recalled, to enter that spot consecrated in his memory; but on arriving at the door, he suddenly stopped, for he saw Fanny within. She was plucking a geranium—the flower she had been plucking some years before, when Edward said he loved her. She, all that morning, had been under the influence of feelings similar to Edward's; had felt the same yearnings—the same tender doubts—the same fond solicitude that he should be the same Edward from whom she parted. But she thought of more than this; with the exquisitely delicate contrivance belonging to woman's nature, she wished to give him a signal of her fond recollection, and was plucking the flower she gathered when he declared his love, to place on her bosom when they should meet. Edward felt the meaning of her action, as the graceful hand broke the flower from its stem. He would have rushed towards her at once, but that the deep mourning in which she was arrayed seemed to command a gentler approach; for grief commands respect. He advanced softly—she heard a gentle step behind her—turned—uttered a faint exclamation of joy, and sank into his arms! In a few moments she recovered her consciousness, and opening her sweet eyes upon him, breathed softly, “dear Edward!”—and the lips which, in two words, had expressed so much, were impressed with a fervent kiss in the blessed consciousness of possession, on that very spot where the first timid and doubting word of love had been spoken.

In that moment he was rewarded for all his years of absence and anxiety. His heart was satisfied; he felt he was dear as ever to the woman he idolised, and the short and hurried beating of both their hearts told more than words could express. Words!—what were words to them?—thought was too swift for their use, and feeling too strong for their utterance; but they drank from each other's eyes large draughts of delight, and, in the silent pressure of each other's welcoming embrace, felt how truly they loved each other.

He led her gently from the conservatory, and they exchanged words of affection “soft and low,” as they sauntered through the wooded path which surrounded the house. That live-long day they wandered up and down together, repeating again and again the anxious yearnings which occupied their years of separation, yet asking each other was not all more than repaid by the gladness of the present—

“Yet how painful has been the past!” exclaimed Edward.

“But now!” said Fanny, with a gentle pressure of her tiny hand on Edward's arm, and looking up to him with her bright eyes—“but now!”

“True, darling!” he cried; “'tis ungrateful to think of the past while enjoying such a present and with such a future before me. Bless that cheerful heart, and those hope-inspiring glances! Oh, Fanny! in the wilderness of life there are springs and palm-trees—you are both to me! and heaven has set its own mark upon you in those laughing blue eyes which might set despair at defiance.”

“Poetical as ever, Edward!” said Fanny, laughing.

“Sit down, dearest, for a moment, on this old tree, beside me; 'tis not the first time I have strung rhymes in your presence and your praise.” He took a small note-book from his pocket, and Fanny looked on smilingly as Edward's pencil rapidly ran over the leaf and traced the lover's tribute to his mistress.

THE SUNSHINE IN YOU

I

II

Fanny liked the lines, of course. “Dearest,” she said, “may I always prove sunshine to you! Is it not a strange coincidence that these lines exactly fit a little air which occurred to me some time ago?”

“'Tis odd,” said Edward; “sing it to me, darling.”

Fanny took the verses from his hand, and sung them to her own measure. Oh, happy triumph of the poet!—to hear his verses wedded to sweet sounds, and warbled by the woman he loves! Edward caught up the strain, adding his voice to hers in harmony, and thus they sauntered homewards, trolling their ready-made duet together. There were not two happier hearts in the world that day than those of Fanny Dawson and Edward O'Connor.