“That's a fine young fellow,” said he to the sheriff, after they had left him.
“He is a gentleman,” replied the sherif “by nature a gentleman; and a very uncommon one, too. I defy a man to doubt word that comes out of his lips; all he says is impressed with the stamp of truth itself and by h——n's he never committed the felony he's in for! Keep him as comfortable as you can.”
They then separated.
The love of life is the first and strong principle in our nature, and what man is there except some unhappy wretch pressed down by long and galling misery to the uttermost depths of despair, who, knows that life was forfeited, whether justly or it matters little, to the laws of his country will not feel the mercy which bids him live with a corresponding sense of gratitude. The son of the pious mother acted, as if she was still his guide and monitress.
He knelt down and poured out his gratitude to that great Being who had the final claim upon it, and whose blessing he fervently invoked upon the heads of those true friends by whose exertions and influence he knew that life was restored to him.
Of his life while he remained in this country there is little more to be said than what is usually known to occur in the case of of convicts similarly circumstanced, if we exclude his separation from the few persons who were dear to him. He saw his father the next day and the old man felt almost disappointed discovering that he was deprived of the pleasure which he proposed to himself of be the bearer of such glad tidings to him. Those who visited him, however, noticed with a good deal of surprise, that he appeared as laboring under some secret aim which, however, no tact or address on their part could induce him to disclose. Many of them, actuated by the best motives, asked him in distinct terms why he appeared to be troubled; but the only reply they received was a good-humored remark that it was not to be expected that he could leave forever all that was dear to him on earth with a very cheerful spirit.
It was at this period that his old friend Nogher M'Cormick came to pay him a visit; it being the last time, as he said, that he would ever have an opportunity of seeing his face. Nogher, whose moral impressions were by no means so correct as Connor's, asked him, with a face of dry, peculiar mystery, if he had any particular wish unfulfilled; or if there remained behind him any individual against whom he entertained a spirit of enmity. If there were he begged him to make no scruple in entrusting to him a full statement of his wishes on the subject, adding that he might rest assured of having them accomplished.
“One thing you may be certain of, Nogher,” said he, to the affectionate fellow, “that I have no secrets to tell; so don't let that go abroad upon me. I have heard to-day,” he added, “that the vessel we are to go in will sail on this day week. My father was here this mornin'; but I hadn't heard it then. Will you, Nogher, tell my mother privately that she mustn't come to see me on the day I appointed with my father? From the state of health she's in, I'm tould she couldn't bear it. Tell her, then, not to come till the day before I sail; an' that I will expect to see her early on that day. And, Nogher, as you know more about this unhappy business than any one else, except the O'Briens and ourselves, will you give this little packet to my mother? There's three or four locks of my hair in it; one of them is for Una; and desire my mother to see Una, and to get a link of her hair to wear next my heart. My poor father—now that he finds he must part with me—is so distracted and distressed, that I couldn't trust him with this message. I want it to be kept a secret to every one but you, my mother, and Una; but my poor father would he apt to mention it in some fit of grief.”
“But is there nothing else on your mind, Connor?”
“There's no heavy guilt on my mind, Nogher, I thank my God and my dear mother for it.”