The man started and looked round. Their eyes met; it was Phil Joyce and Owen who now confronted each other. But how unlike were both to what they were at their last parting! Then, vindictive passion, outraged pride, and vengeance, swelled every feature and tingled in every fibre of their frames. Now, each stood pale, care-worn, and dispirited, wearied out by sorrow, and almost brokenhearted. Owen was the first to speak.
“I axed your pardon before I saw you, Phil Joyce, and I ax it again now, for disturbing you; but I didn't know you, and I wanted to put my poor father's body in the grave.”
“I didn't know he was dead,” said Phil, in a hollow voice, like one speaking to himself. “This is poor little Billy here,” and he pointed to the mound at his feet.
“The heavens be his bed this night!” said Owen, piously; “Good night!” and he turned to go away; then stopping suddenly, he added, “Maybe, after all, you'll not refuse me, and the Lord might be more merciful to us both, than if we were to part like enemies.”
“Owen Connor, I ask your forgiveness,” said Phil, stretching forth his hand, while his voice trembled like a sick child's. “I didn't think the day would come I'd ever do it; but my heart is humble enough now, and maybe 'twill be lower soon. Will you take my hand?”
“Will I, Phil? will I, is it? ay, and however ye may change to me after this night, I'll never forget this.” And he grasped the cold fingers in both hands, and pressed them ardently, and the two men fell into each other's arms and wept.
Is it a proud or a humiliating confession for humanity—assuredly it is a true one—that the finest and best traits of our nature are elicited in our troubles, and not in our joys? that we come out purer through trials than prosperity? Does the chastisement of Heaven teach us better than the blessings lavished upon us? or are these gifts the compensation sent us for our afflictions, that when poorest before man we should be richest before God? Few hearts there are which sorrow makes not wiser—none which are not better for it. So it was here. These men, in the continuance of good fortune, had been enemies for life; mutual hatred had grown up between them, so that each yearned for vengeance on the other; and now they walked like brothers, only seeking forgiveness of each other, and asking pardon for the past.
The old man was laid in his grave, and they turned to leave the churchyard.
“Won't ye come home with me, Owen?” said Phil, as they came to where their roads separated; “won't ye come and eat your supper with us?”
Owen's throat filled up: he could only mutter, “Not to-night, Phil—another time, plaze God.” He had not ventured even to ask for Mary, nor did he know whether Phil Joyce in his reconciliation might wish a renewal of any intimacy with his sister. Such was the reason of Owen's refusal; for, however strange it may seem to some, there is a delicacy of the heart as well as of good breeding, and one advantage it possesses—it is of all lands, and the fashion never changes.