The Bunsby Papers (second series): Irish Echoes

"Then, Luke Bryant," said the coroner, "you deny having committed this crime?"

"On my knees – before the throne of mercy – I do!"

"I trust, then, that you may cause a jury of your countrymen to believe so; but for me, I have only one duty to perform, and circumstances clearly bear me out in my assumption. I must send you to trial!"

At this juncture, one of the jurymen, who thought he could perceive a meaning in Mark's peculiar, ill-concealed glance of savage delight, begged to be heard: keeping his eye steadily fixed on Mark's face, he said, with solemnity:

"When the judgment of man is in perplexity as to the author of crimes like these, the aid of Heaven may well be solicited, that it might be mercifully pleased to give some indication by which the innocent might be prevented from suffering for the guilty. We have an old tradition here, that if the accused lays his right hand upon the breast of the corpse, swearing upon the Holy Gospel that he had no act or part in the deed, speaking truly, no results will follow; but if he swears falsely, the dead itself will testify against him; for the closed wounds will re-open their bloody mouths, and to the confusion of the guilty one, the stream of life will flow once more for a short space! It seems to me that this is a case in which The Test of Blood might be applied not vainly."

"Willingly! – most willingly will I abide the test," exclaimed Luke.

"And you?" said the juror, with a penetrating glance at Mark.

"I!" said the latter, with an attempt at recklessness, "What is it to me? – why should I be subject to such mummery – who accuses me?"

"I do!" thundered Luke, "and I now insist upon his going through the trial – myself will point out the way." So saying, he approached the lifeless body, and sinking on his knees, laid his right hand reverently on the heart, saying —

"My blessed angel! if thy spirit lingers near, thou knowest that this hand would rather let my life-blood forth, than offer thee the shadow of an injury!"

They waited an instant – all was quiet; meantime, Mark, persuading himself that it was but a form, and yet trembling to the very core, advanced. All eyes were upon him; he paused – cast a glance around, and grinding his teeth savagely, cried out:

"Why do you all fix your gaze on me? I'm not afraid to do this piece of folly." He advanced another step – again he hesitated; heartless – brutal – though he was, the spell of a mighty dread was on his soul. His face grew livid; the blood started from his lips; large round drops burst from his forehead and rolled down his ashy cheeks. At last, with a tremendous effort, he knelt, and attempted to stretch forth his hand – it seemed glued to his side. Starting to his feet again, he cried fiercely:

"I will not do it – why should I?"

"You cannot! – you dare not!" solemnly ejaculated Luke. "If you are guiltless, why should you fear?"

"Fear!" screamed the other, "I fear neither man nor devil – dead nor living," suddenly placing his hand upon the breast of the dead!

"See – see!" cried Luke, wildly, "the blood mounts up – it overflows!"

"It's a lie!" madly exclaimed Mark.

But it was no lie; the ruddy stream welled upward through those gaping wounds, and flowed once more adown her snowy breast, a murmur of awe and surprise breaking from the assembled group; whilst shivering to the very heart, the terrors of discovered guilt and despair seized upon Mark.

"Curse ye all!" he roared. "You would juggle my life away; but you shall find I will not part with it so readily." Hastily drawing a pistol, it was instantly wrested from him. Several of the bystanders flung themselves upon him; but the desperate resistance which he made, added to the frightful internal agony which he had just endured, caused him to break a blood-vessel; and in raving delirium, the hardened sinner's soul wended to its last account in the presence of those whom, in his reckless villainy, he had expected to destroy.

Wonder succeeded wonder; and the mystery was soon discovered to be no mystery at all, but the natural instrument in the hands of Providence to confound the guilty. As relapsing into his former listlessness, Luke was intently gazing on the body of his beloved, suddenly his heart gave one tremendous throb.

"Hush!" he exclaimed, with anxious, trembling voice; "For Heaven's love, be silent for an instant! I thought I heard a sound like – Ha! there it is again – a gasp – a gentle sob, and scarcely audible, but distinct as thunder within my soul – there's warmth about her breast – her eyelids tremble. The God of Mercy be thanked! – she lives – she lives!" and Luke sunk upon his knees; a copious flood of tears, the first he had ever shed, relieved his overcharged feelings.

It was true – she did live; from loss of blood only had she fainted, and the excessive weakness had thus far prolonged the insensibility; none of the stabs had reached a vital part, and it was the first effort of nature to resume its suspended functions which had caused the blood once more to circulate, just at the instant which so signally established the guilt of the intended murderer.

It only remains for me to say that Mark Dermot's previous bad character prevented much sympathy being felt for a fate so well deserved. In process of time Luke's devoted love was well rewarded. Kathleen recovered from the effects of her wounds – gave him her hand, and profiting by the terrible lesson which she had received, made an estimable, virtuous, and affectionate wife.

THE MORNING DREAM

The dream of the night, there's no reason to rue,But the dream of the morning is sure to come true.Old Saying.

Pretty Peggy May; a bright-eyed, merry-hearted, little darling you are, Peggy! there's no gainsaying that fact; a cunning little gipsy, and most destructive too, as many an aching heart can testify. But who can blame thee for that? as well might the summer's sun be blamed for warming the sweet flowers into life. It is a natural ordination that all who see you should love you.

Pretty Peg has just completed her eighteenth year; in the heedless gaiety of youth, she has hitherto gambolled through the road of life, without a grief, almost without a thought. Oh! for the sunny days of childhood, ere, wedded to experience, the soul brings forth its progeny of cares. Why can we not add the knowledge of our wiser years, and linger over that most blessed, least prized period of our existence, when every impulse is at once obeyed, and the ingenuous soul beams forth in smiles, its every working indexed in the face – ere Prudence starts up like a spectre, and cries out: "Beware! there is a prying world that watches every turn, and does not always make a true report." Prudence! how I hate the cold, calculating, heartless phrase. Be loyal in word, be just in act, be honest in all; but Prudence! 'tis twin-brother to Selfishness, spouse of Mistrust, and parent of Hypocrisy! But, me-thinks I hear some one say, "This is a most cavalierly way of treating one of the cardinal virtues" – to which I reply, "It certainly has, by some means or another, sneaked in amongst the virtues, and thereby established a right to the position; but it is the companionship only which makes it respectable, and it must be accompanied by all the rest to neutralize its mischievous tendency."

But what has all this to do with Peggy and her dreams? Pshaw! don't be impatient – we are coming to that. If you have taken the slightest interest in little Peg, prepare to sympathize in her first heart-deep sorrow. She is in love! Now, if she herself were questioned about the matter, I'm pretty sure she would say it's no such thing; but I take upon myself to declare it to be true, and for fear you should think that I make an assertion which I cannot substantiate, permit me to relate the substance of a conversation which took place between Peg and her scarcely less pretty, but infinitely more mischievous cousin, Bridget O'Conner. They had just returned from one of those gregarious merry-meetings, where some spacious granary, just emptied of its contents, gives glorious opportunity for the gladsome hearts of the village, and "all the country round" to meet and astonish the rats – sleek, well-fed rascals, dozing in their holes – with uproarious fun and revelry.

A sudden, and indeed, under the circumstances, extremely significant sigh from Peg, startled Bridget from the little glass where she was speculating as to how she looked, for the last hour or two. I may as well say the scrutiny was perfectly satisfactory – she had not danced all her curls out.

"Gracious me!" she exclaimed, "Peg, how you do sigh!"

"And no wonder," rejoined Peggy, with a slight squeeze of acid, "after having danced down twenty couple twenty times, I should like to know who wouldn't?"

"Ah! but that wasn't a tired sigh, Peg. I know the difference; one needn't dive as low as the heart for them; a tired sigh comes flying out upon a breath of joy, and turns into a laugh before it leaves the lips; you are sad, Peg!"

"How you talk; why, what on earth should make me sad?"

"That's exactly what I want to know; now there's no use in your trying to laugh, for you can't do it. Do you think I don't know the difference between a laugh and that nasty deceitful croak?"

"Bridget!" exclaimed Peg, with a look which she intended should be very severe and very reproachful, "I'm sleepy."

"Well, then, kiss me, and go to bed," replied Bridget. "Ho! ho!" thought she, "there's something curious about Peg to-night. I think what I think, and if I think right, I'm no woman if I don't find out before I sleep." Craftily she changed the conversation, abused the women's dresses, and criticised their complexions, especially the pretty ones. At last, when she had completely lulled the commotion of Peg's thoughts into a calm, she suddenly cried out: "Oh! Peg, I forgot to tell you, that one of the boys we danced with had his leg broke coming home to-night!"

Peggy, surprised into an emotion she found it impossible to conceal, started up, pale as snow, and gasped out:

"Who was it – who?"

Ha! ha! thought the other, the fox is somewhere about – now to beat the cover.

"Did you hear me ask you who?" said Peg, anxiously.

"I did, dear," replied Bridget, "but I'm trying to recollect. I think," and she looked steadily into Peggy's eyes, "I think it was Ned Riley." Peg didn't even wink.

She doesn't care about him, and I'm not sorry for that, thought Bridget, thereby making an acknowledgment to herself, which the sagacious reader will no doubt interpret truly.

"No, it wasn't Ned," she continued, "now I think of it, it was – it was – a" —

"Who? who?" cried Peg, now sensibly agitated, "do tell me, there's a dear."

Not she, not a bit of it, but lingered with feminine ingenuity, now making as though she recollected the name, and then with a shake of her head, pretending to dive back into memory, just as the inquisitors of old used to slacken the torture, to enable the recipient to enjoy another dose.

"Now I have it," said she, "no, I haven't; I do believe I've forgotten who it was, but this I know, it was the pleasantest-mannered and nicest young fellow in the whole heap."

"Then it must have been Mark!" exclaimed Peg, throwing prudence overboard, and fixing her large, eloquent eyes full on Bridget's mouth, as if her everlasting fate depended upon the little monosyllable about to issue from it.

"It was Mark! that was the name!"

Peggy gave a gasp, while Bridget went on, with a triumphant twinkle in her wicked little eye which did not show over-favorably for her humanity.

"Mark Brady!" dwelling on the name with slow, distinct emphasis, which made Peggy's heart jump at each word as though she had received an electric shock.

She knew the tenderest part of the sentient anatomy, Bridget did, and took intense delight in stabbing exactly there; not mortal stabs, that would be mercy, but just a little too far for tickling. That sort of a woman was Bridget, who, if possessed of an incumbrance in husband shape, would take infinite pains to discover the weakest points in his temper, and industriously attack those quarters, piling up petty provocations, one upon another; none in themselves of sufficient importance to induce a sally, but making altogether a breastwork of aggravation, that must at last o'ertop the wall of temper. And if the unfortunate besieged don't take his hat, and make a not very honorable retreat, philosophy will be obliged to strike its flag, the signal for a civil war, which, like all such unnatural conflicts, strikes at the root of all domestic comfort, and whichever side may remain the victors, the trophy is a home destroyed.

But to return to Peg, for whose benefit I have indulged in the foregoing rather spiteful digression, in order that she might have time to recover herself; or rather, I should say, to be thoroughly conscious of the extent of her unhappiness. Remember, 'tis her first grief, so pardon its intensity. Phantoms of crutches and of wooden legs came crowding on her imagination, contrasting themselves with the curious agility with which poor Mark had "beat the floor" in the merry jig, until he made it echo to every note of the pipes. Then rose up vague spectres of sanguinary-minded surgeons, with strange butcherly instruments; then she saw nothing but fragmentary Marks, unattached legs, a whole room-full dancing by themselves; there they were, twisting and twirling about, in the various difficult complications of the "toe and heel," "double shuffle," "ladies' delight," and "cover the buckle;" she shut her eyes in horror, and was sensible of nothing but a gloomy blood-red. There's no knowing to what lengths her terrible fancies might have gone, had they not been dispersed like wreaths of vapor by a hearty laugh from the mischievous Bridget. Peggy opened her eyes in astonishment. Was she awake? Yes, there was her cousin enjoying one of the broadest, merriest, wickedest laughs that ever mantled over the face of an arch little female.

"Poor Mark!" she cried, and then burst forth again into ringing laughter, which dimpled her crimson cheeks like – what shall I say? – like a fine healthy-looking cork-red potatoe, an Irish simile, I must say; but had we seen Bridget, and were acquainted with the features of the aforesaid esculent, I'm pretty certain you would acknowledge its aptness.

"What in the name of gracious are you laughing at?" exclaimed Peggy, a gleam of hope breaking on the darkness of her thought.

"Why, that you should take on so, when I told you Mark had broken his leg," gaily replied Bridget.

"Hasn't he?"

"Not half as much as your poor little heart would have been broken if he had," said the tormentor.

"Bridget! Cousin!" said poor Peg, now enduring much more pain from the sudden revulsion of feeling, "you should not have done this; you have crowded a whole life-time of agony in those few moments past."

"Well, forgive me, dear Peggy. I declare I didn't know that you had the affection so strong on you, or I wouldn't have joked for the world. But now, confess, doesn't it serve you right, for not confiding in me, your natural born cousin? Did I ever keep a secret from you? Didn't I tell you all about Pat Finch, and Johnny Magee, and Jack, the hurler, eh?"

"But not one word about Edward Riley, with whom you danced so often to-night," observed Peg, with a very pardonable dash of malice.

It was now Bridget's turn to change color, as she stammered out, "I – I was going to, not that I care much about him; no, no, Mark is the flower of the flock, and I've a mighty great mind to set my cap at him myself."

Peggy smiled, a very small, but a peculiar, and it might have been, perfectly self-satisfied smile, as she replied: "Try, Miss Bridget, and I wish you success."

"Truth is scarce when liars are near," said Bridget. "But I say, Peg, does Mark know you love him so hard?"

"Don't be foolish; how should he?"

"Did you never tell him?"

"What do you take me for?"

"Did he never tell you?"

"What do you take him for?"

"For a man, and moreover a conceited one; don't you mean to let him know his good fortune?"

"It isn't leap year, and if it was, I'd rather die than do such a thing," said Peggy!

"Come, I'll bet you a new cap, that I mean to wear at your wedding, you will let him know the state of your feelings, and that, before a week is over your head," provokingly replied Bridget.

Peggy, said nothing. Prudent Peg.

"Is it a bet?"

"Yes, yes, anything, but go to sleep, or we shan't get a wink to-night."

"True for you, cousin, for it's to-morrow already! Look at the daybreak, how it has frightened our candle, until it's almost as pale as your cheek."

"Good night, Bridget."

"Good night, dear Peg, don't forget to remember your dreams. Recollect it's morning, now, and whatever we dream, is sure to come true."

Before she slept, Bridget formed a project in her mind to ensure the winning of her bet. What it was, it will be time enough to find out by-and-by.

Very early in the day, Mark Brady and Ned called to inquire after the health of their respective partner. It so happened that Bridget received them; and very quickly, for she was one of those tyrants in love who make their captives feel their chains, on some frivolous pretence or another, dismissed her swain and began to develop her plot with Mark.

Now, Mark, I may as well tell you now as at any other time, was a very favorable specimen of a class I regret to say, not over numerous in Ireland; a well to-do farmer, his rent always ready, his crops carefully gathered, and a trifle put by yearly, so that he enjoyed that most enviable condition in life, "a modest competence." As to his personal appearance, there's scarcely any occasion to describe that, for, with the exception of one individual, I don't suppose he has a feature or characteristic which would be considered by any one at all uncommon or interesting. Suffice it to say, Mark was a man! A volume of eulogy could not say more.

And, moreover, Mark did love pretty Peggy May; with a whole-hearted, manly, and unselfish love, he loved her. I tell you this, dear reader, in order that you may not waste time in speculating on the subject of Mark's thoughts, as he sat silent and fidgety, a passive victim to the mischievous Bridget, who, shrewd little puss, knew every turn of his mind as though imprinted on his face; and for the matter of that, so they were, in nature's own characters, type most readable.

Mark was apparently very busy, sketching imaginary somethings on the floor with his blackthorn stick, and seemingly unconscious of Bridget's presence, when she suddenly interrupted his revery by saying:

"A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Brady!"

"Eh! what!" he replied, blushing 'till it fairly stung his cheek like a million of needles. "A penny, is it, Miss? faith, an' it's dear they'd be at that same."

"And what might you be thinking of, may I ask, Mr. Mark?" said Bridget, accompanying the question with one of her very sweetest smiles.

"Just nothing at all, Miss," replied Mark.

"'Nothing!' then they would be 'dear,' and that's true Mark; but supposing, now," she continued, archly; "I only say, supposing it happened to be your sweetheart you were thinking of, you might find another meaning for that same little word!"

Mark felt as though he had been detected in some fault, as he replied, sketching away on the floor faster than ever, "But what if I hadn't a sweetheart to think of, Miss O'Conner." It was a miserable attempt at prevarication, and he felt that it was.

"Why, then, I should say, as you're not blind, it's mighty lucky that you don't carry such a thing as a heart about you. I'd be ashamed if I were you, rising twenty years old, and neither crooked nor ugly; it's disgraceful to hear you say so – a pretty example to set to the boys!"

"True for you, and so it is," said Mark, "and more betoken, it's a much greater shame for me to tell any lies about the matter; I have a sweetheart, though she doesn't know it; ay, and have had one for this nigh hand a twelve-month."

"Only to think," replied Bridget, casting down her eyes, and affecting to conceal some sudden emotion, "and for a twelve-month nigh hand! Oh, dear! I don't feel well!"

Mark was puzzled, in point of fact, embarrassed. There was something in Bridget's manner which he couldn't understand; he had a vague presentiment that there was a mistake somewhere, but when she, pretending to be overcome, flung herself into his arms, the truth burst upon him at once. He was in a precious dilemma; Bridget was in love with him, and he felt downright ashamed of himself for being so fascinating. What he was to do, or how to extricate himself, he couldn't tell, as she, casting a fascinating glance right at him, said, softly:

"Dear Mark, those good-looking eyes of yours told me of your love, long, long before your lazy tongue."

"Love," interrupted Mark, endeavoring to put in a demurrer.

"To be sure," said she, "I saw it, I knew it and well;" she continued, seeing he was about to speak. "When do you mean to talk to Aunty? You know my fifty pounds are in her hands." She was an heiress, was Bridget.

"Pounds! Aunty! yes, to be sure," replied Mark, perfectly bewildered, "but I thought Ned Riley was" —

"Peggy's sweetheart – well, we all know that," interrupted Bridget, inly enjoying the consternation that painted Mark's cheek a livid white. "And you to be so jealous of Riley," she went on, "not to dance with me last night; I knew the reason, but the jealousy that springs from love is soon forgot, so I forgot yours."

"Peggy! his sweetheart? Riley's?"

"To be sure, don't you know they are going to be married?"

"No!" vacantly replied the sorely bewildered Mark.

"Oh, yes! and now I want to tell you a pet plan of mine, if you don't think me too bold, Mark, and that is, how nice and cozy it would be, if we could only all be married on the same day."

This was too much for Mark; he couldn't endure it any longer; he started up, pushed his hat very far on his head, saying, in what he intended to be a most severe tone:

"Miss O'Conner, I don't know what could have put such an idea into your head. Marry, indeed! I've enough to do to take care of myself. No, I'm sorry to wound your feelings, but I shall never marry!"

"Oh! yes, you will," said Bridget, placing her arm in his, which he disengaged, saying bitterly:

"Never! never!"

"Nonsense, I'll bet you will, and, if it was only to humor me, Mark, on the very same day that Peggy is!"

"Bridget, I didn't think I could hate a woman as I'm beginning to hate you."

"Better before marriage than after, Mr. Mark. Come, I'll bet you a new Sunday coat, against a calico gown, and that's long odds in your favor, that what I've said will come true."

"Nonsense!"

"Is it a bet?"

"Pooh! I'll bet my life, against" —

"What it's worth, Mr. Mark – just nothing at all."

"True for you, now, Bridget; true for you," and Mark suddenly quitted the house in such real sorrow that it touched for a moment even Bridget's heart; but only for a moment. Pshaw! thought she, let him fret; it will do him good, and make the joy greater when he comes to know the truth. A hunt would be nothing without hedges and ditches. Proceeding to the window, she uttered an exclamation of surprise.

"Ha! as I live, here comes Peg herself. She must meet Mark; what fun! He sees her and stops short; what a quandary he's in. She sees him! How the little fool blushes; now they meet. Mark doesn't take her hand. I wonder what he's saying. 'It's a fine day,' I suppose, or something equally interesting; he passes on, and Peg looks as scared as if she had seen a ghost."

A sudden thought at this moment seemed to strike Bridget; she clapped her hands together and laughed a little, sharp laugh, saying, "I'll do it, I will; I'll have a bit of fun with Peg, too," so she pretended to be very busy at her spinning-wheel as Peggy entered, and hanging up her, cloak and bonnet, sat down without saying a word.

"Ah! Peg," Bridget began, "is that you? Mark has just been here."

"Indeed?" replied Peggy, twisting up one pretty curl so tightly as to hurt her head.