The Bunsby Papers (second series): Irish Echoes

"Mary, Mary!" he cried, in choking accents, but her soft voice did not reply; looking round, his eye suddenly rested on an open letter; it was his – most completely had the fiend triumphed. At his own suggestion, the being to whom his very soul was linked had given herself up to the power of the seducer. The following words were written in pencil on the outside: —

'She's mine, willingly mine, thanks to thy kindly help.Physician, cure thyself – now 'Learn to forgive.'"Gerald."

It having been shown that Gerald's diabolical scheme, so far as the abduction went, was carried out with entire success, pass we now a month. Gerald has established himself in the capital, having provided Mary with an elegant suite of apartments, under the same roof with himself, although not immediately adjoining. His behavior to her was studiously kind, tempered with thorough respect; hoping by such means slowly and insidiously to reach his aim through the medium of her own affection.

Poor Mary herself hardly dared to think; for her temperament was of that soft and womanly nature, which rendered it impossible for her to contend energetically against the assaults of the world – that most beautiful of all female characteristics, which is content to look up to and to reverence, yearning for some natural support and protection, and clinging to it when discovered with an enduring tenacity, only to be found in such a woman's love.

To all her inquiries concerning Frank, Gerald answered evasively, but to her satisfaction; still treating her with the greatest possible show of reserve and kindness, his manner imperceptibly increasing in fervor day by day – letting it be inferred more by his looks than words that she was dearer to him than he dared to acknowledge. The consequence of this specious manœuvering began gradually to make itself evident in the state of Mary's feelings. Now she involuntary hoped for his coming – seriously deploring his departure; his fiend-like intent was in a fair way to be completed, when his own impetuosity destroyed the vile fabric. Encouraged by her quiet, passive manner, he ventured prematurely to unfold his guilty purpose. Who can describe the terrible revulsion of feeling which took place in Mary's soul when the full certainty of his guilty design was made apparent? With a mighty effort she checked the burning flood of passion which swelled up from her heart, and subduing herself into perfect calmness, listened to his infamous proposal. A deep hectic glow on each cheek, and a slight difficulty in respiration only evidencing her intense emotion. What more he said she knew not – heard not – for while he was pouring forth some wild rhapsody she was in deep communion with her soul. Construing her submissive silence advantageously to himself, he quitted the apartment. The instant he left her presence, the pent up current of her feelings burst all bounds. She flung herself upon her knees and wept a prayer of agony – the helpless, almost hopeless appeal of innocence within the very grasp of vice; kissing her mother's gift, the Gospel Charm, she bathed it in tears, imploring it to save her from this dreadful crisis. This outpouring of her spirit calmed and soothed her, for in her extremity there came a thought of safety. To think was to resolve, and ere many moments had elapsed, with a firm reliance on the help of a merciful Providence, Mary quitted the house. It was nearly midnight – dark and bitterly cold – yet she cared not for the darkness – felt not the chilling blast; unknown and friendless, she knew not where to go, but wandered street after street, satisfied that she was away from him who had so cruelly insulted her. Hurrying on, she knew not whither, she suddenly came in contact with a well-known form; recoiling a step or two, they gazed on each other for an instant. 'Twas thus met the brother and his sister. That chance which he had hungered for, week after week, had occurred at last; seizing her in a nervous gripe, Frank dragged her to the nearest lamp. "Mary," he exclaimed, in a voice trembling from suppressed passion, a wild fire flashing from his eyes, "are you still worthy to be called my sister?"

"Brother, I am," meekly replied Mary.

"You are not his cast-away?"

"No! by my mother's dying gift."

"To a merciful God be all the praise," fervently cried Frank, as he folded her to his heart with a thrill of rapture.

"My own blessed, sorely-tempted lamb! But where is he? Come, show me where to find him. He shall not escape. 'Tis no fault of his, curse him, that you are not foul as sin; lead me to the place."

"Not now, dear Frank," touchingly exclaimed Mary. "Perhaps I may have feared more wrong than was intended. Who is there amongst us that can say, I have never harbored an evil design? Let us be thankful that the wicked hour is passed, and leave the punishment in His power whose province it is to judge the hearts of men."

"Do you forgive him?"

"From my inmost soul, and more for his sake than my own, rejoice that his bad design is unaccomplished."

"You love him, then?" fiercely inquired Frank.

Mary was silent.

"The snake – the fiend – had you not been all angel, the specious villain would have succeeded. Mary, I will, I must see him; if I do not give my burning thoughts an utterance, they will consume my very heart."

"Let it be to-morrow, then, dear Frank."

"Be it so. Come, dear one, I have still a home for you; a pure, though lowly one. Had you been guilty, tempted as you were, your brother's arms would never have closed against you; but now your triumphant innocence will bless with happiness our frugal meal, and make your humble couch a bed of flowers."

Upon the morrow Frank redeemed his word. With a heart thirsting for revenge he sought Gerald's apartment, but did not meet there the bold, reckless libertine that he expected. Throwing himself at Frank's very feet, in wild but heart-uttered tones, Gerald cried:

"I know why you have come, but she has left me; know you anything of her? Oh! for heaven's sake relieve my anxiety – you have not harmed her – upon me, wreak all your vengeance, for I deserve it, but she is pure, pure as the spotless snow. My base, black-hearted villainy has recoiled upon myself. I would have destroyed her, and am myself destroyed if she is lost to me. Say but that she is safe, and I'll coin my very heart for her and you."

Softened, subdued by the now evident sincerity of Gerald's manner, Frank assured him of her safety.

"I thank thee, merciful heaven," fervently cried Gerald, "that one sin more damning than the rest is spared my guilty soul. Mary, beloved Mary, 'tis thy angelic virtue which has crushed the fiend-spirit that has hitherto controlled my sense. 'Tis she, and she only can protect and guide the heart which her innocence has reclaimed."

"What do you mean, Gerald?"

"That if she will receive in marriage this guilty but repentant wretch, it may be that the destroyer shall have one victim the less. Frank, dare I to call you once more brother? Intercede for me, will you not? The happiness of my life, nay, the sole hope of my eternal soul rests now with her."

Gerald's repentance having been proved sincere, it was not long ere Mary yielded a heartful assent to his proposition, and as Frank at the holy altar delivered her over to the sweet custody of a husband, his heart whispered to him that he was now tasting most exquisite revenge. The sacred influence of a virtuous love haloed the after lives of Gerald and Mary with content most ample, and, although her state was changed from humility to comparative affluence, she never laid aside her mother's parting gift, but regarding it as her protection in the hour of danger, still cherished near her heart The Gospel Charm.

THE TEST OF BLOOD

"Thou shalt do no murder."

"You won't dance with me, Kathleen?"

"No, Luke, I will not."

"For what reason?"

"I don't choose it. Besides, I'm engaged to Mark Dermot."

The above, very slight conversation in itself, was to the individuals, full of the greatest import. To explain it, it will be necessary to take a Parthian glance at our subject. Kathleen Dwyer was the pretty, spoiled, village pet, with quite sufficient vanity to know that the preference was deserved. Every young man in the place was anxious to pay court to her, and sooth to say, she impartially dispensed her smiles to all, reserving, it must be admitted, her more serious thoughts for one alone. That one was Luke Bryant, and as he really loved her, the flightiness of her conduct, and her interminable flirtations gave him very great uneasiness. Often and often would he reason with her, imploring her to dismiss the crowd of purposeless suitors that ever fluttered round, and select one, even though that selection would doom him to misery.

"No, no!" the little madcap would say, with a bright smile, "I cannot give up altogether the delight of having so many male slaves in my train; they are useful, and if you don't like it you know your remedy."

"But do you think it is right?" he would say; "suppose there may be some, even one who loves you truly, to lead him on by the false light of your encouraging smile, to perish at last?"

"Pshaw!" would she answer, "men are not made of such perishable stuff."

"Well, well, Kathleen, have a care; if any one of your numerous admirers feels towards you as I do, to lose you would be the loss of everything."

As may be reasonably supposed, these conversations usually ended in a little tiff, when the wild, good-hearted, but giddy-headed girl would select some one from her surrounding beaux, to play off against Luke; generally pitching upon the person most likely to touch his feelings to the very quick; herself, the while, I must do her the justice to say, quite as miserable if not more so, than her victim.

And now to return, let me describe the individual whom she has this time chosen to inflict torture upon her lover, and I think you will agree with me that he has cause for more than discontent.

Mark Dermot, or, as he was most generally denominated, Black Mark, was one of those persons we sometimes meet with in the world, on whom prepossessing appearance and great natural ability are bestowed, only to be put to the basest possible uses. Character he had none, except of the very worst kind; his ostensible pursuit was smuggling, but crimes of the darkest nature were freely whispered about him, and yet, in spite of all this, his dashing dare-devil nature and indomitable impudence, enabled him to show himself in places where, although his evil reputation was well known, he was tolerated either from supineness, or more likely from the fear of his enmity.

It is not to be wondered at then, that as Luke stood by and saw this ruffian carry off his soul's beloved, his very heart should quake from apprehension. He was unaware until this moment that she ever knew him, and his feelings, as ever and anon Mark would seem to whisper something in Kathleen's ear, to which she would seem to smile an approval, can only be imagined by such of my readers, if any there be, who have seen another feeding upon smiles which they would fain monopolize.

Jealousy of the most painful nature took possession of Luke; he had often experienced sensations of annoyance before, but never to this extent. Her fame – her character – were compromised; for he knew Black Mark to be the very worst description of man for a woman to come in contact with at all, caring nothing for the ties of morality, or for the world's opinion – reckless, bad-hearted, and moreover uncomfortably handsome in the eyes of a lover.

The dance now over, Luke imagined that she would give up her partner and join him; but no, the silly girl seemed proud of her conquest, and to take a sort of mad delight in wounding Luke's feelings to the uttermost. She approached the spot where Luke with folded arms was standing, and leaning familiarly upon the arm of Mark, said laughingly:

"Why don't you dance, Luke? Come, I'll find a partner for you."

Galled to the very quick, Luke answered with asperity – "Thank you, Miss Dwyer, you have found one for yourself, and" – looking at Black Mark, as a jealous lover only can look – "you'll pardon me, but I don't like the sample."

Mark regarded him with a scowl of the deepest malignity, while Kathleen, the real feelings of her heart kept down by coquetry, exclaimed with a laugh: —

"Don't mind him, Mark, he's only jealous, poor fellow. Come, will you not dance again?"

"Aye, and again, and for ever," impetuously replied Mark; "Come."

And as they went to rejoin the dancers, Kathleen caught the expression of Luke's features, and there saw so much misery depicted, that she would have given worlds to have recalled her words. She yearned to implore his forgiveness, but her insatiable appetite for admiration restrained her. "Never mind," thought she, "when the dance is over, I can easily make it up with him," and away she went, thinking no more about it.

At the conclusion of the dance, her better feelings all predominating, she quitted Mark and rushed over to the place where Luke had been standing, but he was gone; with that unfeeling speech rankling in his heart, he had left. It was now her turn to be miserable; not all the soft speeches that were poured into her ear had power to console her, but her annoyance was at its height when Black Mark, presuming upon the encouragement which she had given him, seated himself beside her, and in ardent language declared himself her passionate lover. Poor, unthinking Kathleen, she had evoked a spirit which she had not power to quell.

It was more than a week after, before Luke could bring himself to venture near Kathleen; but finding that each succeeding day only made him still more wretched, he determined to know his fate at once, and with a sorely palpitating heart he neared her abode, lifted the latch, and entered; the first sight that met his eyes was Mark and Kathleen, sitting near to each other, the deep blush that crimsoned her to the very throat, evinced to Luke the interesting nature of their conversation. She could not speak, neither could he, but giving her one look which sank into her very brain, he left the place; in vain she called after him, he turned but once – a deep curse was on his lips but his noble heart refused to sanction it. "Farewell, beloved Kathleen," he cried, while bitter tears flowed fast as he spoke, "May the good God protect you now, for you will need it." And Luke rapidly strode towards the village, inly determining to go to sea on the morrow, and never look upon her or his loved home again.

Meanwhile, Kathleen, apprehensive that he would do something desperate, implored Mark to follow and bring him back. With a contemptuous sneer, he answered, "Do you think I'm a fool? No, no! Kathleen, you've gone too far with me to retract now. The world sees and knows our intimacy; the only barrier to our happiness was your foolish lover, Luke – he has taken the sulks, and gone away – our road is now clear. I love you better than a hundred such milk-sops as he could, so come – say the word!"

"That word," replied Kathleen, firmly, "shall never be said by me."

"Have a care, girl!" fiercely retorted Mark, "I'm not a man to be trifled with; you have led me to believe that you liked me, and you shall redeem the pledge your eyes at least have given."

"Never! Mark Dermot, never!" exclaimed Kathleen, rising from her seat; but with a fierce gesture, and a determined fire in his eye, Mark forced her down again, saying, in a clear, but terribly earnest manner: "Kathleen, from my youth up, I never allowed the slightest wish of my soul to be thwarted; think you that I shall submit to be led or driven, coaxed near, or sent adrift, at the caprice of any living thing? – no! if you can't be mine from love, you shall from fear; for," ratifying his threat by a fearful oath, "no obstacle shall exist between me and my desire."

"What mean you, Mark Dermot?" cried the terrified girl.

"No matter," he replied, "the choice rests with you. You cannot deny that your manner warranted me in soliciting your hand. Remember, love and hate dwell very near each other – the same heart contains them both. Be mine, and every wish of your soul shall be anticipated – refuse me, and tremble at the consequences."

"Heaven forgive, and help me," inly prayed Kathleen, as the result of her weak conduct now made itself so awfully apparent. Thinking to enlist some good feeling from Mark's generosity, she frankly acknowledged to him that her affections were entirely bestowed upon the absent Luke.

She knew not the demon-heart in which she had trusted; instead of inclining him to mercy, her words only inflamed him into tenfold rage.

"Vile woman!" he exclaimed, starting to his feet. "Have you then been making a scoff and jest – a play-thing and a tool of me? Better for you had you raised a fiend than tampered with me thus. How know I that you do not lie, even now, woman-devil? One word for all! – by your eternal hope, who is it that you do love?"

"On my knees – Luke Bryant," fervently said Kathleen.

"Then wo to ye both!" cried Mark, casting her rudely from him, and, with a look of intense hate, rushing from the cottage.

There was a perfect tempest of rage in Mark's breast, as he quitted Kathleen; plans of revenge, deadly and horrible, suggested themselves to him, and he nursed the devilish feeling within his heart until every humanizing thought was swallowed up in the anticipation of a sweeping revenge. On reaching the village, his first care was to find Luke; upon seeing him, he started as though a serpent stood in his path.

"Keep away from me, Mark Dermot," he sternly exclaimed. "If you are come to triumph in your success, be careful, for there may be danger in it."

"Luke," replied the other, in a sad tone, "we are rivals no longer. Nay, listen, I bring you good news, there are not many who would have done this; but what care I now – the fact is, like a sensible man, I am come to proclaim my own failure. Kathleen has refused me."

"She has?"

"As true as I'm alive – rejected me for you, Luke. Nay, as good as told me that she merely flirted with me to fix your chains the tighter. Cunning little devil – eh, Luke? Come, you'll shake hands with me now, I know."

"If I could believe you, Mark," said Luke, the joy dancing in his very eyes.

"I tell you she acknowledged to me that she never could love any one but you. Now am I not a generous rival, to carry his mistress's love to another? She requested me to ask you to call in this morning, if you would have conclusive proof of her sincerity, and you would then find that she could never use you so again. But now 'tis getting late, and as I have delivered my message, I shall leave you to dream of Kathleen and happiness. Good night – be sure and see her in the morning;" and they parted.

Soon afterwards, Luke missed his clasp-knife with which he had been eating his supper, but, after a slight search, thought no more of the matter, his very soul glowing with renewed delight at the thought of seeing his loved one on the morrow – that their differences should be made up, and all again be sunshine.

About an hour after, as he was preparing to retire for the night, it suddenly occurred to him that he would like to take a walk towards Kathleen's cottage – perchance he should see her shadow on the curtain – he might hear her sweet voice – no matter, to gaze upon the home that contained her would at least be something; so off he started in that direction, a happy feeling pervading his every sense. Arrived within sight of her abode, he fancied he heard a stifled groan, but his thoughts, steeped in joy, dwelt not on it. In a moment after, a distinct and fearful scream, as of one in agony, burst on the stillness of the night. It came from the direction of Kathleen's cottage. Inspired with a horrible fear, he ran wildly forward – another, and another terrible scream followed; there was no longer doubt – it was the voice of his Kathleen. With mad desperation, he reached the place just in time to see the figure of a man, who, in the doubtful light, he could not recognize, rush from the door and disappear in darkness. In breathless horror Luke entered. Great Heaven! what a sight met his eyes. His beloved Kathleen lay on the blood-dabbled floor, in the last agony of departing nature, her beating heart pierced with many wounds; she saw and evidently recognized Luke, for 'mid the desperate throes of ebbing life, she clutched his hand in hers, essaying, but in vain, to articulate – she could but smile; her eye glazed over – her hand relaxed its grasp – and with her gentle head resting on his breast, her spirit passed away.

All this was so sudden and fearfully unexpected to Luke, that he scarcely knew 'twas reality, until several of the surrounding neighbors, who had been alarmed by the out-cry, came hastily in.

"See!" cried one, "'Tis as I thought; murder has been done."

"And here is the fatal instrument with which it has been effected," said another, as he picked up a gory knife from the floor. It caught the eye of Luke. "That knife is mine," said he, in the measured tone of one stricken down by terrible calamity.

"Yours?" they all exclaimed at once. "Then you have murdered her?"

Luke only smiled – a ghastly, soul-crushed smile, most awful to look upon at such a time; his heart was too full for words. Reason, which had been dethroned by this unexpected blow, had scarcely yet returned to its seat, for all unconsciously he still held the lifeless form tightly clasped in his arms, gazing, with a sort of stony expression, upon the face of her who had been to him the world.

It was not until they approached to seize him for killing her, that he seemed to be thoroughly aware of his position.

"What would you do, friends?" said he, mournfully, as they endeavored to force him away. "Would you deny me the sad comfort of dying in her presence?"

"Have you not murdered her, wretch?" cried one of the by-standers.

"What! – murder her– God in heaven forbid," he exclaimed.

"Is not this your knife?"

"It is!"

"And how came it here – if not used by you – in this unknown manner?"

"It was stolen from me by that arch-demon, Mark Dermot," said Luke, shuddering to the very heart, as he mentioned that name.

"That has got to be proved," cried one of the crowd, who happened to be a friend of Mark's, "we can't take your bare word for it. Let him be secured."

But Luke needed no securing. Listlessly he suffered them to pinion his arms; and in the same room with the precious casket which once contained his heart's treasure, he abided the remainder of the night, in a state of mental torture utterly incapable of being rendered into words.

The morning after this awful occurrence, a coroner's jury was summoned, and the identity of the knife having been proved, added to his own admission, and the fact of his having had a quarrel with her the day before being testified to, every circumstance tended to fix the guilt upon him; a verdict was delivered accordingly, and Luke Bryant stood charged with the murder of one for whom he would willingly have shed his last drop of blood.

With a degree of effrontery consonant with his general character, Black Mark made his appearance amongst the spectators who attended the inquiry, and was loudest in denunciation against the supposed criminal. It only remained now for the accused, who had been removed during the inquest, to be brought into the chamber of death, previously to the warrant being drawn out for his final committal, to be tried at the ensuing quarter sessions. He was conducted into the room; with a listless, apathetic gaze he looked around him mechanically, for he cared not now what fate might do to him, when suddenly his eyes rested on Mark Dermot. The consciousness of everything that had taken place seemed all to flash through his brain at once.

"Murderer!" he cried. "Can it be that Heaven's lightning slumbers! Friends! – behold that fiend; who, not content with the life's blood of one victim, now comes to triumph in a double murder!"

"What means the fool?" contemptuously exclaimed Mark. "Does he suppose that reasoning men will credit his ravings, or help him to shift his load of crime upon another's shoulders?"

"As I am a living man – as there is a just God who knows the secrets of all hearts, there stands the murderer, Mark Dermot!" solemnly replied Luke. "It is not for myself I care, for Heaven knows that I would rather die than bear about this load of misery; but that he should brave the angels with a shameless brow, he whose hands are crimsoned with her precious blood – it is too much! – too much!"