The characteristic fury of the latter shot out in a burst that resembled momentary madness as much as rage. “Is that my answer?” he shouted, in the hoarse, quivering accents of passion; and with the rapid energy of the dark impulse which guided him, he snatched up a stone from a ditch, and flung it at his brother, whose back was towards him. Felix fell forward in an instant, but betrayed after his fall no symptoms of motion—the stillness of apparent death was in every limb. Hugh, after the blow had been given, stood rooted to the earth, and looked as if the demon which possessed him had fled the moment the fearful act had been committed. His now bloodless lips quivered, his frame became relaxed, and the wild tremor of horrible apprehension shook him from limb to limb. Immediately a fearful cry was heard far over the field's, and the words—“Oh! yeah! yeah, yeah, Felix, my brother, agra, can't you spake to me?” struck upon the heart of Maura and the servant-men, with a feeling of dismay, deep and deadly.

“O God!” she exclaimed, with clasped hands and upturned eyes, “O God! my boy, my boy—Felix, Felix, what has happened to you?”

Again the agonized cry of the brother was heard loud and frantic.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, Felix, are you dead? brother, agra, can't you speak to me?”

With rapid steps they rushed to the spot; but, ah! what a scene was there to blast their sight and sear the brain of his sister, and indeed of all who could look upon it. The young bridegroom smote down when his foot was on the very threshold of happiness, and by the hand of a brother?

Hugh, in the mean time, had turned up Felix from the prone posture in which he lay, with a hope—a frenzied, a desperate hope of ascertaining whether or not life was extinct. In this position the stricken boy was lying, his brother, like a maniac, standing over him, when Maura and the servants arrived. One glance, a shudder, then a long ghastly gaze at Hugh, and she sank down beside the insensible victim of his fury.

“What,” said Hugh, wildly clenching his hands, “Mother of glory, have I killed both? Oh, Felix, Felix! you are happy, you are happy, agra, brother; but for me, oh, for me, my hour of mercy is past an' gone. I can never look to heaven more! How can I live,” he muttered furiously to himself, “how can I live? and I daren't die. O God! O God! my brain's turnin'. I needn't pray to God to curse the hand that struck you dead, Felix dear, for I feel this minute that His curse is on me.”

Felix was borne in, but no arm would Hugh suffer to encircle him but his own. Poor Maura recovered and although in a state of absolute distraction, yet she had presence of mind to remember that they ought to use every means in their power to restore the boy to life if it were possible. Water was got, with which his face was sprinkled; in a little time he breathed, opened his eyes, looked mournfully about him, and asked what had happened him. Never was pardon to the malefactor, nor the firm tread of land to the shipwrecked mariner, so welcome as the dawn of returning life in Felix was to his brother. The moment he saw the poor youth's eyes fixed upon him, and heard his voice, he threw himself on his knees at the bedside, clasped him in his arms, and with an impetuous tide of sensations, in which were blended joy, grief, burning affection, and remorse, he kissed his lips, strained him to his bosom, and wept with such agony, that poor Felix was compelled to console him.

“Oh! Felix, Felix,” exclaimed Hugh “what was it I did to you? or how could the devil out of hell tempt me to—to—to—oh! Felix agra, say you're not hurted—say only that you'll be as well as ever, an I take God and every one present to witness, that from this minute till the day of my death, a harsh word 'll never crass my lips to you. Say you're not hurted, Felix dear! Don't you know, Felix, in spite of my dark-temper's putting me into a passion with you sometimes, that I always loved you?”

“Yes you did, Hugh,” replied Felix, “an' I still knew you did. I didn't often contradict you, because I knew, too, that the passion would soon go off of you, and that you'd be kind to me again.”

“Yeah, yeelish,” said the other, while the scalding tears flowed profusely down his cheeks, and the deep sobs almost choked him. “Oh, yeah, yeelish! what could come over me! As judgment's before me, he was the best brother ever God created—you were, Felix darling—you were, you were!” He again pressed him to his heart, and kissed his lips with an overwhelming fulness of remorse and love.

“An' another thing, Felix dear—but first tell me are you gettin' betther?”

“I am,” replied the youth, “my head is a little confused, but I have no pain.”

Hugh raised his hands and streaming eyes to heaven.

“Thanks, thanks, oh thanks an' praise be to God for that news! thanks an' praise be to you, blessed Father, for what he has said this minute, for it takes the weight, the dead crushin' weight that lay on my heart, off it. And now, Felix jewel, here, alanna, lay over your head upon my breast, an' I'll hould you anything I whisper into your own ear what 'll make you as stout as ever—keep away all of yees—the nerra one o' ye 'll hear it but himself. Sure, Felix dear,” he continued, in a lower voice, “sure I'm willin' that you should marry your own Alley Bawn. An' listen, sure, I'll give her a portion myself—I'm able to do it an' I will too.”

Felix, on hearing her name, looked around and endeavored, as appeared by his manner, to collect himself. He put his hand to his head for a moment and his eyes were without meaning. Hugh observed it, and felt his grief instantly checked by a fearful surmise as to a possible consequence of the blow which he had not contemplated.

“Felix dear,” said he in a voice low, hollow, and full of terror, “what ails you? Is the pain coming back?”

Felix spoke not for about a minute, during which time he had become quite collected. Then with an affectionate look towards his brother, he replied—

“God bless you, Hugh, for the words you have said to me! Poor Alley? Hugh, God bless you! Would Maura consent? Will you consent, agra, to it, Maura dear?”

Maura, who had been all this time weeping, now advanced, and, smiling through her tears, embraced him tenderly. “Yes, Felix, darling, an' I'm only heart-broken, that ever Hugh or myself refused to consent, or ever set ourselves against it.”

The boy's eyes sparkled with a light more brilliant than had ever shone from them before: his whole face became animated, and the cloud of sorrow which had rested on his pale brow melted away before the effulgence of reviving hope. In a few minutes he arose and expressed his determination to proceed and keep his appointment. Hugh and Maura requested to accompany him, and the latter begged to be allowed the privilege to give the bride away.

“Maura,” said Felix, “will you desire the servants to have a decent dinner prepared, and we'll eat it here. I intend, if you and Hugh will let me, to bring her home at once!”

“Och, God help the poor boy!” exclaimed Maura—“yes, darling, all that must be done.”

When ready to depart, he again put his hand to his head—“It comes on here,” said he, “for about a minute or so—this confusion—I think I'll tie a handkerchief about my head. It 'ill be an asy thing for me to make some excuse, or I can take it off at the chapel.”

This was immediately acquiesced in; but at Hugh's suggestion a car was prepared, a horse yoked in a few minutes, and Felix, accompanied and supported by his brother and sister, set out for Mass. On arriving at the “green,” he felt that his short journey had not been beneficial to him; on the contrary, he was worse, and very properly declined to go into the heated atmosphere of the chapel. A message by his sister soon brought the blushing, trembling, serious, yet happy-looking girl to his side. Her neat white dress, put on with that natural taste which is generally accompanied by as clear sense of moral propriety, and her plain cottage bonnet, bought for the occasion, showed that she came prepared, not beyond, but to the utmost reach of her humble means. And this she did more for Felix's sake than her own, for she resolved that her appearance should not, if possible, jar upon the feelings of one who, she knew, in marrying her, had sacrificed prospects of wealth and worldly happiness for her sake. At sight of her, Felix smiled, but it was observed that his face, which had a moment before been pale, was instantly flushed, and his eye unusually bright. When he had kissed her, she replied to the friendly greetings of his brother and Maura with the most comely dignity, well suited to her situation and circumstances. Then turning to the elected husband of her heart, she said—

“Why thin, Felix, but it's little credit you do me this happy morning, coming with your night-cap on, as if you weren't well;” but as she saw the smile fade from his lips, and the color from his cheek, her heart sank, and “pallid as death's dedicated bride,” with her soft blue eyes bent upon his changing color and bandaged head, she exclaimed, “God be merciful to us! Felix dear, you are ill—you are hurted! Felix, Felix darling, what ails you? What is wrong?”

“Don't be frightened, jewel,” he replied, “Don't, darling—it won't signify—my foot slipped afther laving you last night on my way home, and my head came against a stone—it's only a little sore outside. It 'ill be very well as soon as the priest puts your heart and mine together—never to be parted—long—long an' airnestly have I wished an' prayed for this happy day. Isn't your mother here, jewel, an' my own little Ellen?”

Her eye had been fixed upon his countenance with all the love and anxiety of a young bride about to be united to the husband of her heart's first choice. She saw that despite of every effort to the contrary, there was in his mind a source of some secret sorrow. A single tear rolled down her cheek, which he kissed away, and as he did it, whispered her in a tone of affectionate confidence, that it was but a trifle and signified nothing. Maura took her hand, and assured her that no cause for apprehension existed; so did Hugh, but as he held her hand in his, he perceived that she got pale again, and trembled as if seized with some sudden fear.

When the ceremony was concluded, those who attended it of course returned to Felix's house to partake of the wedding-dinner. He, indeed, seemed to be gifted with new life; his eyes sparkled, and a deep carmine of his cheek was dazzling to look upon. Courtesy, and the usages prevalent on such occasions, compelled him to drink more than his state of health was just then capable of bearing; he did not, however, transgress the bounds of moderation. Still the noise of many tongues, the sounds of laughter, and the din of mirth, joined to the consciousness that his happiness was now complete, affected him with the feverish contagion of the moment. He talked hurriedly and loud, and seemed to feel as if the accomplishment of his cherished hopes was too much for his heart to bear.

In the midst of all this jollity a change which none observed came over him. His laugh became less frequent than his shudder or his sigh, and taking Alley aside, he begged she would walk with him to the beach.

“The say-breeze,” said he, “and a sate upon the rocks—upon our thyme-bank, where we've often sat happily, Alley dear, will bring me to myself soon. I am tired, asthore machree, of all this noise and confusion. Come away, darling, we'll be happier with one another than with all these people about us.”

His young bride accompanied him, and as they went, her happy heart beating under that arm to whose support she had now a right, her love the while calm and secure in its own deep purity, she saw before them, in bright perspective, many, many years of domestic affection and peace.

There they sat in the mellow sunset, until the soft twilight had gradually melted away the lengthened shadows of the rocks about them. Their hands were locked in each other, their hearts burned within them, and a tenderness which can be felt only by souls equally pure and innocent touched their delighted converse into something that might be deemed beautiful and holy.

Artless, humble, and happy pair! Sit on and enjoy the only brief glimpse of this earth's heaven which you will ever get. It is the last time that heart will beat responsive to heart, and soul tremble to and mingle with soul between you.

Long before the hour of their, return, Felix had felt much worse than during any preceding part of the day. The vivid and affectionate hopes of future happiness expressed by Alley added to his concern, and increased his tenderness towards her, especially when he contrasted his own physical sensations with the unsuspicious character of her opinion concerning his illness and the cause that produced it. 'Tis true he disguised all this as long as he could; but at length, notwithstanding his firmness, he was forced to acknowledge that pain overcame him. With the burning chill of fever bubbling through his blood—shivering yet scorching—he complained of the shooting pain in his head, and a strange confusion of mind, which the poor girl, from some of his incoherent expressions, had attributed to his excess of affection. With words of comfort she soothed him; her arm now returned the support she had received from his; she led him home, languid and half-delirious, whilst she herself felt stunned as well by the violence as by the unaccountable nature of his illness. On reaching home they found that the noise of social enjoyment had risen to the outrage of convivial extravagance; but the moment he staggered in, supported only by the faithful arm of his wife, a solemn and apprehensive spirit suddenly hushed their intemperance, and awed them into a conviction that such an illness upon the marriage day must be as serious as it was uncommon. Felix was put to bed in pain and danger; but Alley smoothed his pillow, bound his head, and sat patient, and devoted, and wife-like, by his side. During all that woeful night of sorrow she watched the feverish start, the wild glare of the half-opened eye, the momentary conscious glance, and the miserable gathering together of the convulsed limbs, hoping that each pang would diminish in agony and that the morning might bring ease and comfort.

We feel utterly incapable of describing, during the progress of this heavy night, the scorching and fiery anguish of his brother Hugh, or the distracted and wailing sorrow of poor Maura. The unexpected and delightful revulsion of feeling produced upon both, especially on the former, by his temporary recovery, now utterly incapacitated them from bearing his relapse with anything like fortitude. The frantic remorse of the guilty man, and the stupid but pungent grief of his sister, appeared but as the symptoms of weak minds and strong passions, when contrasted with the deep but patient affliction of his innocent and uncomplaining wife. She wasted no words in sorrow; for during this hopeless night, self, happiness, affection, hope, were all forgotten in the absorbing efforts at his recovery. Never, indeed, did the miseries and calamities of life draw from the fruitful source of a wife's attached and faithful heart, a nobler specimen of that pure and disinterested devotion which characterizes woman, than was exhibited by the stricken-hearted Alley Bawn.

There was something in this peculiar case, as, indeed there are in all family occurrences of a similar nature, which induced them to try upon the suffering boy the full extent of their humble skill, rather than call in a strange physician to witness the disastrous, perhaps fatal, effects of domestic violence. Had the cause of Felix's illness been unknown to Hugh or Maura, they would have procured medical advice in the early part of the night. Let us, however, not press too severely on the repentant brother. Shame, and remorse, and penitence, ought to plead strongly for “the hope deferred that made his heart sick.” Hugh's passions arose to violence, but not to murder, a distraction which both law and morality too frequently forget to make.

When Hugh saw, however, that nothing except medical skill could save him, he forgot his crime and its consequences. Stung to madness by his love of Felix, and his fears for his recovery, he mounted a horse, and had almost broken down the animal by over-exertion, ere he reached the village of B———, where the doctor he sought lived.

After an impetuous and violent knocking the door was opened, and a man pale and horror-struck entered, whom the doctor was inclined to receive rather as the patient than the messenger. Yes! haggard, wild, yet weak and trembling, he staggered into the room, and, sinking on a seat, in a voice husky and hoarse said—

“Docthor! oh, docthor, you won't refuse to come! It's thrue he was my brother—but I had not—I had not—oh—no—no—I had it not in my heart to murdher him! My brother is dyin'. Oh, come, docthor! come to my brother, he's dyin', and 'twas I that struck, the blow.”

With a vehemence of grief that was pitiable, and an exhibition of the wildest gestures which characterize despair, he then uttered a cry that rang through the house.

“Oh, Felix agra, my brother, I'm your murdherer! My sister and I are both wealthy—he's dyin' docthor—come, come. Oh, agra Felix—agra Felix! To see you well—to see you well—the wealth of the world, if I had it, would go. My life—my life—docthor! Oh, that would be but little—but it, too, would go—I'd give it—all we have, my sister and I, to our blanket—to the shoes on our feet, and the coat and gown on our backs—all—all—you'll get—if you can save our brother, that I struck down and murdhered!”

The doctor, a man of great skill and humanity, immediately ordered his horse, and mounting him, accompanied Hugh to the sick bed of his brother. On arriving there, they found him worse; and never before, nor during his whole professional experience, had the doctor witnessed such a scene. Hugh took his place behind Felix, who, by the doctor's direction, was placed in a half-sitting, half-recumbent posture in the bed; his arms were placed distractedly about him, his breast was his pillow, and his cheek, wildly and with voracious affection, laid to his. He was restrained from crying aloud, but his groans were enough to wrench the heart from which they proceeded to pieces. Sympathy, in fact, was transferred from the sick boy to his brother; and perhaps more tears were shed by the lookers-on from pity towards Hugh than Felix.

But where was she, the bride and wife of a changeful day—of a day, in which the extremities of happiness and misery met? Oh, where but where she should and ought to be, at his bed-side, hoping against hope, soothing his wild ravings by her soft sweet voice; and when, in his delirium, the happy scene of the past day seemed reacted, then she knelt, ever ready to lead him, by her words and caresses, into a forgetfulness of his present pain. In his desperate struggles he fancied they were tearing her from him; and when the strength of several men could scarce restrain him, then came the mildness of her power. With her gentle hands and her fond, kind words she laid him in peace once more, and, kneeling by his side, cooled his burning temples with her pale fingers, and wetted his parched lips with the draught prescribed by the physician. When the crisis, however, approached, she saw by the keen glance of observant affection, that the doctor's manner betrayed his hopelessness of her husband's recovery. Then did her strength give way, and one violent fit of hysteric sobbing almost broke down her reason and physical powers. Unavailing was all their tenderness, and fruitless every attempt at consolation. Even her own beloved mother failed. “Alley, asthore agruc machree,” said she, “don't give way to this, for it's sinful; it's wrong to cry so bitterly for the livin'. You know that while there's life there's hope. God is merciful, and may think fit to pity you, anien machree, and to spare him for the sake of our prayers, that your heart mayn't be broken. Here's the priest, too, an' sure it's a comfort, if the Lord does take him from us, that he's not goin' widout the holy sacraments of the Church, to clear away any stain of sin that may be on him.”

Felix, tranquilized by the satisfaction that always results from the consciousness of having received the rites of the Church, yet moved by the deep sobbings of his miserable brother, took his hand, and thus addressed him—

“Hugh dear!”

“Oh, Felix, Felix, Felix darling, if you spake kind to me my brain will turn, and my heart will burst to pieces! Harsh, harsh, avourneen, speak harshly, cruelly, blackly—oh, say you won't forgive me—but no, that I couldn't bear—forgive me in your heart, and before God, but don't spake wid affection to me, for then I'll not be able to bear it.”

“Hugh,” said Felix, from whose eyes the keenness of his brother's repentance wrung tears, despite his burning agony; “Hugh dear”—and he looked pitifully in the convulsed face of the unhappy man. “Hugh, dear, it was only an accident, for if you had thought—that it would turn out—as it has done——But no matter now—you have my forgiveness—and you deserve it; for Hugh dear, it was as much and more my own thoughtlessness and self-will that caused it. Hugh dear, comfort and support Alley here, and Maura, too, Hugh; be kind to them both for poor Felix's sake.” He sank back, exhausted, holding his brother's hand in his left, and his mute heart-broken bride's in his right. A calm, or rather torpor, followed, which lasted until his awakening spirit, in returning consciousness of life and love, made a last effort to dissolve in a farewell embrace upon the pure bosom of his virgin wife.

“Alley,” said he, “are you not my wife, and amn't I your husband? Whose hand should be upon me—in what arms but yours should I die? Alley, think of your own Felix—oh, don't let me pass altogether out of your memory an' if you'd wear a lock of my hair (many a time you used to curl it over on my cheek, for you used to say it was the same shade as your own, and you used to compare them together), wear it for my sake, next your heart, and if ever you think of doin' a wrong thing, look at it, and you'll remember that Felix, who's now in the dust, always desired you to pray for the Almighty's grace, an' trust to Him for strength against evil. But where are you, asthore? My eyes want a last look of you; I feel you—ay, I feel you in my breakin' heart, and sweet your presence in it, avourneen machree; but how is it that I cannot see you? Oh, my wife, my young wife, my spotless wife, be with me—near me!” He clasped her to his heart, as if while he held her there he thought it could not cease to beat; but in a moment, after one slight shudder, one closing pang, his grasp relaxed—his head fell upon her bosom—and he, Felix, who that morning stood up in the bloom of youth and manly beauty, with the cup of happiness touching his lips, was now a clod of the valley. Half unconscious—almost unbelieving that all could be over, she gently laid him down. On looking into his face, her pale lips quivered; and as her mute wild gaze became fixed upon the body, slowly the desolating truth forced itself upon her heart. She then sank upon her knees, and prayed to God that, if it were His will, and lawful for her in her misery to utter such a prayer, He would not part her in death from him who had been to her far dearer than all that life now contained—without whom the world was now empty to her for ever.

Quietly and calmly she then arose, and but for the settled wretchedness of her look, the stillness of her spirit might have been mistaken for apathy. Without resistance, without a tear, in the dry agony of burning grief she gently gave herself up to the guidance of those who wept, while they attempted to soothe her. In reply to their attempts at consolation she only uttered one brief sentence in Irish. “Oh,” said she, “God is good—still, still, this was a dark day to Felix and to me!”

At the inquest which followed, there was no proof to criminate the wretched brother; nor, to speak truly, were the jury anxious to find any. The man's shrieking misery was more wild and frightful than death itself. From “the Dark Day” until this on which I write, he has never been able to raise his heart or his countenance. Home he never leaves, except when the pressure of business compels him; and when he does, in every instance he takes the most unfrequented paths and the loneliest by-roads, in order to avoid the face and eye of man. Better, indeed, to encounter flood or fire, than to suffer what he has borne, when the malicious or coarse-minded have reproached him, in what we trust, is his repentance, with his great affliction.

Alley contrary to the earnest solicitations of Hugh and Maura, went back to reside with her mother. Four years have now passed, and the virgin widow is constant to her grief. With a bunch of yarn on her arm, she may be occasionally seen in the next market-town; the chastened sorrow of her look agreeing well with her mournful weeds. In vain is she pressed to mingle in the rustic amusements of her former companions; she cannot do it, even to please her mother; the poor girl's heart is sorrow-struck for ever. She will never smile again. As it is, however, the steady subdued melancholy of her manner increases the respect, without lessening the love, of all who know her. Who, indeed, could see her, and hear her sad history without loving her purity, and her devoted affection to the memory of him that was only the husband of a day, without pitying the stricken girl who suffered so much, and wishing that time, which weans us from our greatest sorrows, may, by its influence, mellow her afflictions, until the bitterness of their spirit passes out of her soul.

Reader, if you want a moral, look upon the wasted brow of Hugh O'Donnell, and learn to restrain your passions and temper within its proper limits.