The Bunsby Papers (second series): Irish Echoes

"It well becomes me," thought he, "to be demeanin' myself before the cat," and away flew his thoughts again.

Of course, all this was very perplexing to Nelly, who, in the expectation of hearing something interesting, remained patiently silent. There was another considerable pause; at last, remembering his friend Mike's advice, and, moreover, cheered by a most encouraging smile from the rapidly-thawing Nell, Ned wound up his feelings for one desperate effort, and bolted out —

"Isn't it fine to day, Miss Malone?"

Breaking the silence so suddenly that Nelly started from her chair, the lark fluttered in the cage, and puss made one jump bang into the garden.

Amazed and terrified by the results of his first essay, fast to the roof of his mouth Ned's tongue stuck once more, and finding it of no earthly use trying to overcome his embarrassment – that the more he floundered about the deeper he got into the mud, he gathered himself up, made one dash through the door, and was off like lightning. Nelly sighed as she resumed her knitting, and this time she was sad in earnest.

"Well, what luck?" said Mike, as, nearly out of breath from running, Ned rejoined him in the meadow. "Have you broke the ice?"

"Bedad, I have," said Ned, "and more betoken, fell into the wather through the hole."

"Why, wouldn't she listen to you?"

"Yes, fast enough, but I didn't give her a chance; my ould complaint came strong upon me. Ora! what's the use in havin' a tongue at all, if it won't wag the words out of a fellow's head. I'm a purty speciment of an omad-haun; there she sot, Mike, lookin' out of the corners of her eyes at me, as much as to say, spake out like a man, with a soft smile runnin' about all over her face, and playing among her beautiful dimples, like the merry moonbame dancin' on the lake. Oh, murther! Mike, what the mischief am I to do? I can't live without her, an' I haven't the heart to tell her so."

"Well, it is disgraceful," replied Mike, "to see a good-lookin' man disparage his country by flinchin from a purty girl; may-be it might do you good to go an' kiss the Blarney Stone."

"That's it," exclaimed Ned, joyously clapping his hands together, and cutting an instinctive caper, "that's it. I wonder I niver thought of it before; I'll walk every stitch of the way, though my legs should drop off before I got half there. Do you think it 'ud do me good to kiss it?"

"Divil a doubt of it – sure it never was known to fail yet," said Mike, oracularly.

"Why, then, may I niver ate a male's vittles, if there's any vartue in the stone, if I don't have it out of it." And that very night, so eager was Ned to get cured of his bashfulness, off he started for Killarney. It was a long and tedious journey, but the thought of being able to speak to Nelly when he returned, was sufficient to drive away fatigue; in due time he reached the far-famed castle,

"On the top of whose wall,But take care you don't fall,There's a stone that contains all the Blarney!"

Mike climbed with caution, discovered the identical spot, and believing implicitly that his troubles were now at an end, knelt, and with a heart-whole prayer for his absent Nelly, reverently kissed The Blarney Stone.

True, devoted love had lent him strength to overcome the difficulties of access, and imagination, that powerful director of circumstance, did the rest. It was with humility and diffidence he had approached the object of his pilgrimage, but he descended from it with head erect and countenance elated; he could now tell his burning thoughts in her ear; he was a changed man; a very pretty girl, who officiated as guide, and upon whose pouting lips, report says, the efficacy of the charm has been frequently put to the test, met him at the archway of the castle – for no other reason in the world than merely to try if he were sufficiently imbued with the attractive principle – Ned watched an opportunity, and, much more to his own astonishment than to hers, gave her a hearty kiss, starting back to watch the effect. She frowned not, she did not even blush. Ned was delighted; his end was obtained.

"He could kiss who he plazed with his Blarney;" consequently, feeling supremely happy, without losing another moment, he retraced his steps homeward.

Meantime, Nelly missed her silent swain, whose absence tended materially to strengthen the feeling of affection which she entertained for him; day after day crept on, yet he came not; and each long hour of watching riveted still more closely her heart's fetters. Now, for the first time, she acknowledged to herself how essential he was to her happiness, and with a fervent prayer that the coming morning might bring him to her side, she closed each day. Her wonder at last at his continued absence quickened into anxiety, and from anxiety into alarm. Jealousy, without which there cannot be a perfect love, spread its dark shadow o'er her soul, and she was wretched. In vain she reasoned with herself; the sun of her existence seemed suddenly to be withdrawn, and all was gloom; even the very bird, appearing to share his mistress's mood, drooped his wing and was silent; so much are externals influenced by the spirit of the hour, that her homey chamber felt comfortless and solitary. Nelly loved with a woman's love, devotedly, intensely, wholly; to lose him would be to her the loss of all that rendered life worth living for; hers was an affection deserving that which was given in lieu, although as yet she knew it not.

Gazing out one day in the faint hope of seeing something of her beloved, her heart gave one sudden and tremendous bound. She saw him – he had returned at last. But how changed in demeanor. Can her eyes deceive her? No. Her heart tells her it is he, and it could not err.

Instead of the downcast look and hesitating step, joy laughed forth from his face, and his tread was easy, rollicking, and careless; as he came nearer, she thought she heard him sing; he did sing! what could it portend? Had he found one who knew how to break the shell of reserve? 'Twas torture to think so, and yet it was the first image that presented itself to her anxious heart. It was now her turn to be tongue-tied, dumb from agitation; she could not utter a syllable, but trembling to the very core, sat silently awaiting what she feared was to prove the funeral knell of her departed happiness.

With a merry song upon his lips, Ned lightly bounded over the little paling, and in a minute more was in her presence. Speak or move she could not, nor did his first salutation place her more at ease.

"Nelly," said he, "you drove me to it, but it's done! it's done!"

"What's done – what can he mean?" thought Nelly, more agitated than ever.

"It's all over now," he continued, "for I've kissed it. Don't you hear me, Nelly? I say I've kissed it."

"In heaven's name," cried the pale, trembling girl, "what do you mean – kissed who?"

"No who at all," said Ned, laughingly, "but it, I've kissed it."

"Kissed what?"

"Why, the Blarney Stone, to be sure," screamed out Ned, flinging his hat at pussy, and executing an extremely complicated double-shuffle in the delight of the moment; indeed, conducting himself altogether in a manner which would have jeopardized the sanity of any one but a love-stricken Irishman.

"Sure it was all for you, Nelly, mavourneen, that I did it; it has loosened the strings of my tongue, and now I can tell you how deeply your image is burnin' within my very heart of hearts, you bright-eyed, beautiful darling!"

What more he said or did, it will be unnecessary for me to relate; suffice it to say that the world-renowned talisman lost none of its efficacy on this particular occasion. One observation of pretty Nell's, I think is worthy of record. At the close of a most uninteresting conversation, to anybody but themselves, the affectionate girl whispered to him:

"Dear Ned, you needn't have gone so far!"

The course of true love sometimes does run smooth, a great authority to the contrary, nevertheless, for in about three weeks' time, the chapel bells rang merrily for the wedding of Edward and Nelly. Aye, and what's more, neither of them had ever cause to regret Ned's visit to The Blarney Stone.

THE GOSPEL CHARM

A finer looking fellow could not be met with in a day's walk than Gerald Desmond, the only son of the wealthy widow Desmond, her pride and sole comfort; tall and strikingly handsome, he had that buoyant, reckless air and continuous flow of spirits which would indicate the possessor of a heart, over whose welfare the gales of adversity had but lightly swept.

At the period which commences my narrative, he is holding an animated conversation with his foster-brother and fast friend, Frank Carolan. Frank is also a fine, manly specimen of humanity, much more humbly dressed than his companion, yet still with a something of superiority about him, which would prevent a stranger from passing by without a second look. The substance of their conversation may afford a key to their pursuits and feelings.

"Don't talk to me about Biddy Magra. I tell you she's not to be compared to Judy Murphy," said Gerald.

"May-be she isn't, and then again, may-be she is," very logically replied Frank, with the manner of one who did not exactly like to contradict his superior, or altogether give up his own opinion.

"Did you ever see a prettier girl than Judy?" inquired Gerald.

"Hum! It strikes me that I have, once or twice," said Frank, which was very probable, seeing that he had the prettiest girl in the county for a sister, a fact which Gerald well knew, although, as yet, he hardly dared to acknowledge it to himself.

"No you haven't – you couldn't, there isn't, there shan't be anything to equal her within a hundred miles," continued Gerald, partly for the sake of argument, and partly because he really did think so at the moment. "And if I could only bring myself to abandon the delicious society of the charming sex, and concentrate the affections of Gerald Desmond upon one individual, she would be the enviable person."

"So you've said to every decent-lookin' colleen that came near you ever since you've had a heart to feel. You're as changeable as the moon."

"I was, I was; but now I'm fixed, settled, constant as the sun."

"Mighty like the sun, that has a warm beam for every planet, or may-be more like a parlor stove, that burns up any sort of coal. You'll never be steady to one, Gerald."

"Well, we'll see. I've loved Judy three weeks without stopping, and that's a good sign; but I'm going to have a game at loo, and top up with a jollification; you must come along, Frank."

"No, no, master Gerald; it's well enough for you golden-spoon folks to waste time, but I am one of the unfortunate wooden-ladle people. I must go to work."

"Work! Hang work," cried Gerald, who never suffered an obstacle to remain which opposed his will or pleasure. "You needn't want money while I'm with you, Frank. Come, only this once; deuce take it, let us enjoy the present, and let to-morrow look out for itself. I shan't ask you again —only this once."

"Well, then," said Frank, irresolutely, "I'll go, but remember, 'tis only for this once."

"Only for this once." How often, without thinking of its awful import, has this lie been uttered! Let the soul but for once diverge from the appointed path, how difficult to return! But when to each seductive voice which beckons from the way-side, the victim cries, I shall enjoy thee but for once, 'tis led so far astray, through such deep windings and such adverse mazes, that when it would retrace its steps, the consequences of each evil deed have so obscured, planted with thorns, or destroyed the road, 'tis the finger of infinite mercy alone which can conduct it safely back.

Gerald Desmond and his foster-brother passed that night, as too many had been passed before, in drunkenness and riot.

Now, although engaged in the same vicious employment, there was great difference in the actuating principles of these two young men. Gerald, as yet unchecked by reason, was at this time an uncompromising roué, plunging in every degree of dissipation, with a heart resolved to drain the cup of enjoyment to the very dregs, and have it filled and filled again. Whereas, Frank's easy, yielding disposition, acted upon by the charm of companionship and the circumstances of the moment, caused him to be placed in such situations, actually against his better judgment; association only leading him into vicious scenes, which a lack of prudential resolution prevented him from being able to avoid. In fact, Gerald invariably said, yes! and Frank, had not sufficient self-command to say, no!

The strong friendship which frequently attends the adventitious relationship of foster-brotherhood, brought them almost always together, and as Gerald, from his position, was naturally the leader, their lives were passed in a continual round of miscalled amusement.

However, as we often find that when very dear friends quarrel, it is with a bitterness more than equal to their former kindliness of feeling, so it was with Gerald and Frank. They fell out, during one of their drinking encounters; something trivial commenced it, but one word brought on another, until the little spark swelled to a flame, and the poor remains of reason, left uninjured by the liquor, were scorched to fury in the fire of anger. The difference in their dispositions evinced itself powerfully. Gerald, foaming with rage, was violent and ungovernable, while Frank, whose mind was infinitely superior, was cool and calm, though inly suffering from suppressed choler.

"Where," exclaimed the former, dashing his hand on the table, "where would you have been now, were it not for me?"

"Where?" replied Frank, with a smile which looked real; "why, in my bed, dreaming quiet dreams; a thing I shall never do again."

"Whose fault is that?"

"Yours," said Frank, sternly regarding him, "yours. Is this my place? Would I have been here of my own will? No – you led me step by step from content into this brutal degradation."

"But you had your wits about you," fiercely retorted Gerald; "this is my thanks for condescending to make you my companion; the base blood is in you; ingratitude is the sure sign of the low-born."

Frank's cheeks flushed crimson, his teeth ground together, and the blood rushed to his head with a bound; after a moment's pause, he replied, with a terrible effort to be calm, "Gerald Desmond, I am, as you say, low-born, but not base; a son of toil, but no slave; a poor, but still an independent man; nursed in poverty, I own that I am no fit company for you. My hand would bear no comparison with yours; 'tis labor-hardened, while yours is lady-soft, and yet, if our hearts were put into the scale, I mistake much if the overweight would not make up the difference."

Annoyed by the quiet coolness of his manner, Gerald lost all control.

"You poor, miserable child of beggary," he cried, "avoid my sight. Leave me. Dare to cross my path again, and I shall strike you to my feet."

At these words Frank smiled; it was a small but most expressive smile; Gerald felt its influence in his very brain.

"I'll do it now," he screamed, foaming with rage, and springing full at Frank's throat; but he calmly disengaged himself, and with one effort of his tremendous strength, took Gerald up in his powerful arms, and could have dashed him to the ground, but contented himself with quietly replacing him in the chair, exclaiming —

"Learn to forgive, Gerald Desmond, and condescend to accept a lesson from your inferior. Farewell," and ere the other could reply, maddened as he was by rage and mortification, he was gone.

"The ruffian!" savagely exclaimed Gerald. "If I don't wring his heart for this may I inherit everlasting torture."

How he fulfilled his oath we shall see in time.

In no very enviable mood, Frank Carolan sought his humble home; bitterly he repented ever having known Desmond, and firmly he resolved to give up all acquaintance which had grown out of this association, and depend for the future upon his own honest exertions. Brave resolve, seriously and sacredly intended at the time, as all good resolutions usually are.

The only being that Frank cared for in the world was his sister Mary – a bright and beautiful young creature, just bursting into womanhood, graceful as a wild fawn, and as timid; unselfishly and wholly, with a most absorbing love, he loved her. Upon reaching home, he found her in tears, grieving for his prolonged absence, for it was early morning; but the moment he appeared, the rain-drops of sorrow fled, and joy's own bright ray sparkled in her face once more.

"Where have you been so late, dear Frank?" she murmured, as he kissed her dewy eyes.

"Where, I solemnly promise, my own Mary, never to go again."

"You were with Gerald Desmond, were you not?"

"I was! But he and I are brothers, friends, no longer."

"The saints be praised for it," fervently cried his sister. "There is something about Desmond's eyes that frightens me. 'Tis good for neither of us that he should be too near."

"Has he been here, Mary?"

"Oh! yes, several times, but only to inquire for you," she added, hastily.

"You must avoid him, Mary, for he is a serpent; there's a fascination about that man that even I cannot resist. He has destroyed me; lured me from my contented humbleness to taste of luxury; and now, like the beast which has once drunk of blood, 'twill be hard for me to avoid the seductive banquet. Shun him, Mary, for your brother's sake."

"Dear Frank, doubt me not," firmly replied Mary. "If you do fear my womanly weakness, I here swear, by this blessed Gospel Charm my mother placed around my neck, before she died, never to do the deed which shall cause her spirit to frown, or my brother's cheek to glow with shame."

"My bright-eyed, beautiful Mary, I believe you. God bless you, core of my heart; 'tis for your well-doing only I exist," fervently exclaimed Frank. "Go to your rest, darling; 'tis the last time it shall be broken by me; to-morrow shall find me a new man. Good night."

Mary retired, and her brother felt relieved at heart, for a more solemn oath could not be imagined than that which she had sworn. The Gospel Charm, which consists of a text from Scripture, selected and consecrated by the priest, is held to be of peculiar efficacy, and a promise made by it is scarcely ever known to be broken.

No man ever went to bed with a more fixed determination to begin a new and better life on the morrow than did Frank, and yet that very morrow saw his resolution shaken, nay, altogether abandoned. During the night a plan of terrible revenge had been conceived by Gerald Desmond, and to carry out his design, it was necessary that the breach between him and Frank should be apparently healed up.

Frank began the day well, cultivating his little farm, inly rejoicing in his emancipation from evil society, and glowing with that proud self gratification which the exercise of industrious habits ever produces. In the midst of this happy feeling, who should he perceive but Gerald Desmond rapidly approaching? His first impulse was, as usual, right. "I will not listen to him," he thought, retiring in an opposite direction, when he was arrested by the hilarious voice of Gerald calling to him:

"Frank, my friend! my brother, will you not forgive?"

The tones reached into his inmost heart; he paused for an instant, but 'twas enough – Gerald reached him, and, looking cordially in his face, held forth his hand. Frank grasped it earnestly, and ere many moments had elapsed their friendship was renewed, with full sincerity by one, and crafty dissimulation by the other. Alas for good intentions, when unassisted by Heaven's pardoning grace! The vitiating practices of former days were again indulged in, and all Frank's so seemingly virtuous resolutions were drowned in the accursed, soul-enslaving drink.

Some few days after this reconciliation, Gerald took Frank aside, and having first bound him to secrecy, thus began to unfold his design.

"Frank, my boy," said he, "I am in great need of your assistance; will you give it to me?"

"That will I, Gerald," uttered Frank, "with all my heart."

"Nay, but you must promise to do so, even though against your inclination; it is a matter of the most vital moment to me?"

"If I can help you, I will."

"Say that you will, for I know you can."

"Well, then, I will, whatever it is."

"Enough. Then you must know that I have a little affair of the heart."

"Another?"

"The last, as I am a true lover; all I want you to do is to write a note for me. I am fearful that my own hand-writing would be known, added to which, I have disabled my fingers by an accident."

"Yes, but may I not know who the object is?" inquired Frank.

"Come, come, you wouldn't ask that. It would be dishonorable in me to tell you; suffice it to say that she is a lovely creature, young, innocent, and confiding. I have everything arranged to carry her off this very night."

"You mean to marry her, of course?" said Frank, seriously.

"Marry?" laughingly replied Gerald; "come, that's a devilish good joke; do you see any symptoms of insanity about me? No, no, I mean to honor her with my society for a few months, and then" —

"Then cast her off, to the scorn of an uncharitable world. Gerald, friend, pause a moment, think! I know your heart is not entirely rotten."

"My dear fellow, I have thought, reasoned with myself, but all to no avail; one word for all. 'Tis necessary to my happiness that I should possess this girl. You pretend to be my friend; will you prove it by doing this small service for me?"

Good intent said no, but irresolution stepped in as usual, and all was lost.

"Dictate," said Frank, sadly; "'tis sorely against my inclination, but rather than you should doubt my friendship, I will do it."

"Good fellow," delightedly exclaimed Gerald; "now, let me see; we must use stratagem. Begin —

"'Dear Mary.'"

At the mention of that name, Frank gave an involuntary shudder. He looked straight into the eyes of Gerald, but they returned his gaze without a change of expression, and the monstrous thought was smothered in its birth.

"Have you written 'Dear Mary?'" said Gerald, calmly.

"I have! go on."

"'Business of a sudden and imperative nature calls me away. I shall need your presence and advice; trust yourself unhesitatingly to the man who delivers this; he is my dearest friend.'"

"Whom is this supposed to come from?" inquired Frank.

"Oh," said Gerald, carelessly, "from her brother."

"Her brother! has she then a brother? God in heaven help him! Ah! Gerald, this is frightful; let me entreat of you to abandon your intent; think of the load of misery the indulgence of one evanescent, selfish gratification will entail on all this poor girl's friends;" and Frank knelt and took Gerald's hand in his. For an instant, all the good in the heart of the latter floated to the surface, but he thought of the degradation he had endured, and revenge sank it down again.

"Come, come," he cried, "no more sermons if you please; you have obliged me so much that I can scarcely tell you, and now remain here until I return. I shall not be long; there's a bottle of Inishowen, sugar, lemons, and hot water; make yourself quite at home. Depend upon it, you shall soon be amply repaid for all you have done for me." So saying, he went out, and Frank was left alone.

Half an hour, an hour, passed away, and Gerald did not return. In spite of himself, sad, fearfully sad thoughts brooded over Frank's spirits. In vain he resorted to the stimulant so lavishly provided for him; the more he drank, the more terrible were the imaginings which crowded into his very heart and brain; at last, unable longer to endure the suspense, and actuated by an impulse for which he could not account, he suddenly started up to return home – what was his surprise to find the door locked? He rushed to the window – it was strongly secured. A vague, indefinite sensation of terror crept through his frame – he was a prisoner, for what purpose – great heaven! if it should be that to which his imagination sometimes pointed, only to be abandoned again from its very intensity of horror. He screamed aloud – echo only answered him. Lost, bewildered, almost bereft of reason, now would he pace rapidly to and fro; now stand stone still. The live-long night he remained in that lonely chamber, a prey to every torture that could reach the soul of man – minutes swelled into days, a long year of common-place existence was compressed into those few hours. He prayed, cursed, raved alternately, nor could the fearful quantity he drank drown reason in forgetfulness. Slowly the dim grey of morning began to break – anon, the gleesome lark flew upward to greet the sun with his matin song, and yet no sign of Gerald. The door was at last unlocked – Frank rushed through, and with instinctive dread sought his home. Scarcely pausing to draw breath, in a state of utter exhaustion he reached the cottage, burst open the door, and flew into the room – it was empty!