"A world of whispers, mixed with low response,Sweet, short, and broken, as divided strainsOf nightingales."
"A world of whispers, mixed with low response,Sweet, short, and broken, as divided strainsOf nightingales."
"A world of whispers, mixed with low response,
Sweet, short, and broken, as divided strains
Of nightingales."
"And you won't think the worse of me, Remmy, for being so foolish as to confess how I love you?"
"Is it me, life of my heart? not unless you say that it was foolish to loveme. Sure, they were the happiest words I ever heard."
"And you will love me always, even as now?"
"Ah, Mary, I see that you are joking now."
"And you won't go as a soldier?"
"Not I, darling; let those who have heavy hearts, and no hope, do that same."
Much more, was spoken, no doubt. Very tender confessions and confidences, in truth, which I care not to repeat, for such are of the bright holidays of youth and love, and scarcely bear to be reported as closely as an oration in the Senate, or a lawyer's harangue at Nisi Prius, in a case of Breach of Promise. Such tender confessions and confidences resemble those eastern flowers which have a sweet perfume on the soil to which they are native, but lose the fragrance if you remove them to another clime.
At last, with many a lingering "one word more," many a gentle pressure of the hands, and several very decided symptoms, belonging to the genus "kiss," in the sweet botany of love, Mary and Remmy parted. Happy, sweetly and sadly happy (for deep love is meditative, rather than joyful), Mary Mahony returned home. She hastened to that apartment peculiarly called her own, threw herself on the bed, and indulged in the luxury of tears, for it is not Sorrow alone that seeks relief in tears,--they fall for hope fulfilled as truly, though less often, as for hope deferred. Weep on, gentle girl, weep in joy, while you can. Close at hand is the hour in which, ere you have done more than taste it, the sparkling draught of happiness may be snatched from your lips.
Alike delighted and surprised at thus finding Mary Mahony a sharer in the emotions which so wildly filled his own heart, Remmy Carroll returned to Fermoy, in that particular mood which is best denoted by the topsy-turvy description—"he did not know whether he stood upon his head or his heels." He rested until evening at a friend's, and was not unwilling to have some hours of quiet thought before he again committed himself to commerce with the busy world. About dusk, he started with his friend for a farmer's, on the Rathcormac side of Corran Thierna, where there was to be a wedding that night, at which Remmy and his pipes would be almost as indispensable as the priest and the bridegroom.
As they were passing on the mountain's base, taking the soft path on the turf, as more pleasant than the dusty highway, a little lower down, Remmy suddenly stopped.
"There's music somewhere about here," said he, listening.
"May-be it's only a singing in your head," observed Pat Minahan. I've known such things, 'specially if one had been taking a drop extra overnight."
"Hush!" said Remmy, "I hear it again as distinctly as ever I heard the sound of my own pipes. There 'tis again: how it sinks and swells on the evening breeze!"
Minahan paused and listened. "Sure enough, then, there is music in the air. Oh, Remmy Carroll, 'tis you and the lucky boy, for this must be fairy music, and 'tis said that whoever hears it first, as you did, is surely born to good luck."
"Never mind the luck," said Remmy, with a laugh. "There's the fairy ring above there, and I'll be bound that's the place it comes from. There's fox-glove, you see, that makes night-caps for them; and there's heath-bells that they have for drinking-cups; and there's sorrell that they have for tables, when the mushrooms aren't in; and there's the green grass within the ring, as smooth as your hand, and as soft as velvet, for 'tis worn down by their little feet when they dance in the clear light of the full moon. I am sure the music came from that fairy-ring."
"May-be it does," replied Minahan, "and may-be it doesn't. If you please, I'd rather move on, than stand here like a pillar of salt, for 'tis getting dark, and fairies aren't exactly the sort of people I'd like to meet in a lonely place. 'Twas somewhere about here, if I remember right, that Phil Connor, the piper, had a trial of skill with the fairies, as to who'd play best, and they turned him into stone, pipes and all. It happened, Remmy, before your father came to these parts,—but, surely you heard of it before now?"
"Not I," said Remmy; "and if I did, I wouldn't heed it."
"Oh, then," said his companion, with an ominous shake of the head at Remmy's incredulity, "it's all as true as that you're alive and kicking at this blessed moment. I heard my mother tell it when I was a boy, and she had the whole of it from her aunt's cousin's son, who learned the ins and outs of the story from a faymale friend of his, who had it on the very best authority. Phil Connor was a piper, and a mighty fine player entirely. As he was coming home from a wedding at Rathcormac, one fine moonshiny night, who should come right forenenst him, on this very same mountain, but a whole bundle of the fairies, singing, and skipping, and discoursing like any other Christians. So, they up and axed him, in the civilest way they could, if he'd favor them with a planxty on his pipes. Now, letting alone that Phil was as brave as a lion, and would not mind facing even an angry woman, let alone a batch of hop-o'-my-thumb fairies, he never had the heart to say no when he was civilly axed to do anything.
"So Phil said he'd oblige them, with all the veins of his heart. With that, he struck up that fine, ancient ould tune, 'The Fox-hunter's Jig.' And, to be sure and sartain, Phil was the lad that could play:—no offence to you, Remmy, who are to the fore. The moment the fairies heard it, they all began to caper, and danced here and there, backward and forward, to and fro, just like the motes you see dancing in the sunbeams, between you and the light. At last, Phil stopped, all of a sudden, and they gathered round him, the craturs, and asked him why he did not go on? And he told them that 'twas dying with the drought he was, and that he must have something to wet his whistle:—which same is only fair, particularly as far as pipers is concerned.
"'To be sure,' said a knowledgeable ould fairy, that seemed king of them all, 'it's but reasonable the boy is; get a cup to comfort him, the dacent gossoon.' So they handed Phil one of the fairy's fingers full of something that had a mighty pleasant smell, and they filled a hare-bell cup of the same for the king. 'Take it, me man,' said the ould fairy, 'there isn't a headache in a hogshead of it. I warrant that a guager's rod has never come near it. 'Twas made in Araglyn, out of mountain barley,—none of your taxed Parliament stuff, but real Queen's 'lixir.' Well, with that he drank to Phil, and Phil raised the little dawny measure to his lips, and, though it was not the size of a thimble, he drank at laste a pint of spirits from it, and when he took it away from his lips, that I mightn't, if 'twasn't as full as 'twas at first. Faith, it gave Phil the boldness of a lion, that it did, and made him so that he'd do anything. And what was it theomadhaundid, but challenge the whole box and dice of the fairies to beat him at playing the pipes. Some of them, which had tender hearts, advised him not to try. But the more they tried to persuade him, the more he would not be persuaded. So, as a wilful man must have his way, the fairies' piper came forward, and took up the challenge. Phil and he played against each other until the cock crew, when the lot all vanished into a cave, and whipped Phil away with them. And, because they were downright mad, at last, that Phil should play so much better than their own musicianer, they changed poor Phil, out of spite, into a stone statute, which remains in the cave to this very day. And that's what happened to Phil Connor and the fairies."
"You've made a pretty story of it," said Remmy; "it's only a pity it isn't true."
"True!" responded Minahan, with tone and action of indignation. "What have you to say again it? It's as true as Romilus and Ramus, or the Irish Rogues and Rapparees, or the History of Reynard, the Fox, and Reynardine, his son, or any other of the curious little books that people do be reading—that is, them thatcanread, for diversion's sake, when they've got nothing else to do. I suppose you'll be saying next, that fairies themselves ain't true? That I mightn't, Remmy, but 'twouldn't much surprise me in the laste, to hear you say, as Paddy Sheehy, the schoolmaster, says, that the earth is round, like an orange, and that people do be walking on the other side of it, with their heads downwards, and their feet opposite to our feet!"
"And if I did say so?" inquired Remmy, who—thanks to his schooling from the redoubtable Tim Daly—happened to know more of the Antipodes than his companion.
"Faith, Remmy, if you did say so, I know one that would misbelieve you, and that's my own self. For it stands to reason, all the world to a Chany orange, that if people was walking on the other side of the world, with their feet upwards and their heads down, they'd be sure to fall off before one could say 'Jack Robinson.'"
To such admirable reasoning as this, Remmy Carroll saw it would be quite useless to reply, so he allowed Minahan to rejoice in the advantage, usually claimed by a female disputant, of having "the last word."
They proceeded to the farmer's, Minahan, as they went along, volunteering a variety of particulars relative to the Petrified Piper—indulging, indeed, in such minuteness of detail, that it might have been taken for granted that he had, personally, seen and heard the matters he described.
It is to be feared that Remmy Carroll was but a so-so listener. He had no great faith in fairies, and his mind was just then preoccupied with thoughts of his own darling Mary Mahony. At last, Minahan's conversation ended, for they had reached the farmer's house, where Remmy and his pipes received the very warmest of welcomes.
You need not fear that I have any intention of inflicting a description of the marriage upon you. It is enough to say that the evening was one of thorough enjoyment—Irish enjoyment, which is akin to a sort of mirthful madness. Perhaps Remmy was the only person who did not thoroughly enter into theestroof the hour, for though successful love may intoxicate the mind, it subdues even the highest spirits, and embarrasses while it delights. There is the joy at the success—the greater if it has been unexpected—but this is a joy more concentrated than impulsive. Its seat is deep within the heart, and there it luxuriates, but it does not breathe its secret to the world,—it keeps its treasure all to itself, at first, a thing to be thought of and exulted over privily. Love, when successful, has a compelling power which subdues all other feelings. The causes which commonly move a man, have little power when this master-passion fills the breast.
In compliance with the custom at all wedding-feasts in Ireland, the company freely partook of the national nectar (by mortals called whiskey-punch), which was as plenty as tea at an ancient maiden's evening entertainment, where sally-lun and scandal are discussed together, and a verdict is given, at one and the same time, upon character and Souchong. Remmy, of course, imbibed a fair allowance of that resistless and potent mixture, the boast of which is, that "there is not a headache in a hogshead of it." Blame him not. The apostle of Temperance had not then commenced his charitable crusade. How could mortal man refuse the draught, brewed as it specially had been for him by the blushing bride herself, who, taking a dainty sup out of the horn which did duty for a tumbler, had the tempting gallantry to leave a kiss behind—even as "rare Ben Jonson" recommends. What marvel, if, when so many around him were rapidly passing the Rubicon of the cup, Remmy should have taken his allowance like "a man and a brother"—no, like a man and a piper,—particularly, when it is remembered that Love, as well as Grief, is proverbially thirsty. Still, Remmy Carroll had not exceeded the limits of sobriety. He had drank, but not to excess—for his failing was not in that wise. And even if he had partaken too freely of the charmed cup, it is doubtful whether, with strong passion and excited feeling making a secret under-current in his mind on that evening, any quantity of liquor could have sensibly affected him. There are occasions when the emotions of the heart are so powerful as to render it almost impossible for a man, even if he desired it, thus to steep his senses in forgetfulness.
Remmy, therefore, was not "the worse for liquor"—although he certainly had not refrained from it. Minahan, on the other hand, who was quite a seasoned vessel, most buoyant in the ocean of free-drinking, and to whom a skinful of strong liquor was quite a god-send, had speedily and easily contrived to get into that pleasant state commonly called "half-seas-over,"—that is, he was not actually tipsy, but merry and agreeable; and as he insisted on returning to Fermoy, though he was offered a bed in the barn, the trouble of escorting him devolved on Remmy.
They left the house together, lovingly linked arm-in-arm, for Minahan then had a tendency to zig-zag movements. The next day, Minahan was found lying fast asleep, with a huge stone for his pillow, near the footpath, at the base of Corran Thierna. It was noticed by one of those who discovered him, that his feet were within the fairy-ring which Remmy had observed on the preceding evening. But of Remmy himself there was no trace. If the earth had swallowed him up, he could not have vanished more completely. His pipes were found on the ground, near Minahan, and this was all that remained of one who, so often and well, had waked their soul of song.
The whole district became alarmed; for, independent of regret and wonder, on account of Remmy's personal popularity, a serious thing in a country district is the loss of its only Piper. At length, Father Tom Barry, the parish priest of Fermoy, thought it only his duty to pay a domiciliary visit to Minahan, to come at the real facts of the case, and solve what was felt to be "a most mysterious mystery."
Minahan was found in bed. Grief for the sudden loss of his friend had preyed so heavily upon his sensitive mind, that, ever since that fatal night, he had been drowning sorrow—in whiskey. It was now the third day since Remmy Carroll's disappearance; and when Father Tom entered the house, he found Minahan sleeping off the combined effects of affliction andpotheen. He was awakened as soon as could be, and his first exclamation was, "Oh, them fairies! them thieves of fairies!" It was some time before he could comprehend the cause of Father Tom's visit, but even when he did, his words still were, "Oh, them fairies! them thieves of fairies! they beat Bannagher, and Bannagher beats the world!"
A growl from the priest, which, from lay lips, might have been mistaken for an execration, awoke Minahan to his senses—not that he was ever troubled with a superfluity of them. He testily declared his inability to tell his story, except upon conditions. "My memory," said he, "is just like an eel-skin, your Reverence. It don't stretch or become properly limber until 'tis wetted." On this hint, Father Tom sent for a supply of Tommy Walker;5and after summarily dispatching a noggin of it, Minahan thus spoke:—
"'Twas Remmy and myself, your Reverence, that was meandering home together, when, as bad luck would have it, nothing would do me, being pretty-well-I-thank-you at that same time, but I must make a commencement of discourse with Remmy about the fairy people: for, your worship, I'd been telling him before, as we went to the wedding of Phil Connor, who was transmographied into a stone statute. Well and good, just as Remmy came right forenent the fairy-ring, says he, 'Faith, I would not object myself to have a lilt with them!' No sooner had he said the words, your honor, than up came the sweet music that we heard the night before, and with that a thousand lights suddenly glanced up from the fairy-ring, just as if 'twas an illumination for some great victory. Then, the music playing all the while, myself and Remmy set our good-looking ears to listen, and, quick as I'd swallow this glass of whiskey—here's a good health to your Reverence!—a thousand dawny creatures started up and began dancing jigs, as if there was quicksilver in their heels. There they went, hither and thither, to and fro, far and near, coursing about in all manner of ways, and making the earth tremble beneath 'em, with the dint of their quickness. At last, your Reverence, one of them came out of the ring, making a leg and a bow as genteel as ould Lynch, the dancing-master, and said, 'Mister Carroll,' says he, 'if you'd please to be agreeable, 'tis we'd like to foot it to your pipes (and you should have seen the soothering wink the villain gave as he said the words), 'for,' says he, ''tis ourselves have often heard tell of your beautiful playing.' Then the weeny little mite of a fairy fixed his little eyes upon Remmy, and, that I mightn't, if they did not shine in his head like two coals of red fire, or a cat's eye under a blanket!
"'I'm no player for the likes of ye,' says Remmy, modest-like. But they'd take no excuse, and they all gathered around him, and what with sootherin' words, and bright looks, and little pushes, they complately put theircomehetherupon him, and coaxed him to play for them, and then, the cajoling creatures! they fixed a big stone for a sate, and he struck upGarryowen, sharp and quick, like shot through a holly-bush. Then they all set to at the dancing, like the blessed Saint Vitus and his cousins, and surely it was a beautiful sight to look at. The dawny creatures worn't much bigger than your middle finger, and all nately dressed in green clothes; with silk stockings and pumps, and three-cocked hats upon their heads, and powdered wigs, and silk sashes across their breasts, and swords by their sides about the size of a broken needle. 'Faith, 'twas beautiful they footed it away, and remarkable they looked.
"Well, your honor,hewas playing away like mad, and they were all capering about, male and faymale, young and old, just like the French who eat so many frogs that they do ever and always be dancing, when one of the faymale fairies come up to Remmy's elbow, and said, in a voice that was sweeter than any music, 'May-be, Mister Carroll, you'd be dry?' Then Remmy looked at her a moment, till the faymale fairy hung down her head, quite modest. 'Well,' says Remmy, 'youarea nice little creature, and no words about it!' She looked up at him, and her cheeks got as red as a field-poppy, with delight at Remmy's praising her;—for faymales, your Reverence, is faymales all the world over, and a little blarney goes a great way with them, and makes them go on as smoothly as a hall-door upon well-oiled hinges. Then, she asked him again if he did not feel dry, and Remmy said he'd been to a wedding, and wasn't dry in particular, but he'd just like to drink a good husband to her, and soon, and many of them. So, she laughed, and blushed again, and handed him a little morsel of a glass full of something that, I'll be bound for it, was stronger, any how, than holy water. She kissed the little glass as he took it, and he drank away, and when he was handing her back the glass, his eyes danced in his head again, there was so much fire in them. So, thinking that some of the same cordial would be good for my own complaint, I calls out to Remmy to leave a drop for me. But, whoop! no sooner had I said the words, than, all of a sudden, the whole tote of them vanished away, Remmy throwing me his pipes, by way of keepsake, as he dashed down through the earth with the rest of them. I dare say he did not want to be bothered with the pipes, knowing that in the place he was going to be could use those that Phil Connor had taken down before. And that's all that I know of it."
Here Minahan, overpowered with grief and the fatigue of speaking, perpetrated a deep sigh and a deeper draught, which exhausted the remnant of the whiskey.
"But, Minahan," said Father Barry, "you certainly don't mean to pass off this wild story for fact."
"But Ido, your Reverence," said Minahan, rather testily. "Sure none but myself was to the fore, and it only stands to reason that as one piper wasn't enough for the fairies, they seduced Remmy Carroll away, bad cess to 'em for that same. And, indeed, your worship, I dreamed that I saw him last night, made up into a stone statute, like poor Phil Connor; and sure there's great truth in dreams, entirely."
Father Barry, of course, did not believe one word of this extraordinary story, but his parishioners did, and therefore he eschewed the heresy of publicly doubting it. He contented himself with shaking his head, somewhat after the grave fashion of a Chinese Mandarin in a grocer's window, whenever this subject was alluded to, and this Burleigh indication, as well as his silence, obtained for him an immense reputation for wisdom.
There was one of his congregation who shared, to the full, the good priest's disbelief of Minahan's "tough yarn" about the fairies. This was Mary Mahony, who was convinced, whatever had befallen Remmy,—and her fears anticipated even the worst,—that he had not fallen into the hands of the fairies. Indeed, she was bold enough to doubt whether there were such beings as fairies. These doubts, however, she kept to herself. Poor thing! silently but sadly did she miss her lover. She said not one word to any one of what had passed between them on the memorable day of his disappearance. But that her cheek grew pale, and that melancholy gently brooded in the deep quiet of her eyes, and that her voice, always low, was now sad and soft as the mournful murmur of the widowed cushat-dove, even vigilant observation could notice little difference in her. Not a day passed without her father lamenting Remmy's absence, and when he spoke approvingly of our vanished hero, tears would slowly gather in her eyes, and her heart would swell with a sorrow all the deeper for suppression. It was great consolation for her to find, now that he was gone, how all lips praised the good qualities of Remmy Carroll. It is pleasant to feel that one's love is not unworthily bestowed.
Meantime, the deportation of Remmy, by the fairies, became duly accredited in Fermoy and its vicinity. If he had solely and wholly vanished, it might have been attributed to what Horatio calls "a truant disposition;" but his pipes were left behind him, circumstantial evidence of Minahan's narrative. Mightily was this corroborated, a few months after, when Gerald Barry, the priest's nephew, being out one day, coursing on Corran Thierna, discovered a sort of cave, the entrance to which had been concealed by the huge rock which lay close to the magic circle of the fairies! His terrier had run into it, after a refractory rabbit, who would not wait to be caught, and, from the length of his stay, it was conjectured that the cave must be of immense extent. True it is, that no one harbored the audacious thought of examining it; for what mortalcouldbe so reckless as to venture into the stronghold of the "good people,"—but the very fact of there being such a cavity under the rock, dignified with the brevet-rank of a cavern, satisfied the Fermoy folks that Remmy Carroll was within it, changed into aPetrified Piper!
Some weeks later, Gerald Barry's dog again ran into the cave, and remained there until the young man, unwilling to lose a capital terrier, dug him out with his own hands; for neither love nor money could tempt any one else to do such a fool-hardy exploit. He declared that the mysterious cave was no cave, but only an old rabbit-burrow! All the old women, in and out of petticoats, unanimously announced that it was clear ("as mud in a wineglass," no doubt), that the cavehadbeen there, but that the fairies had changed the whole aspect of the place, to prevent the discovery of their petrified victims; for, argued they, if they could make men into marble statues, they certainly must possess the minor power of making a cave look as insignificant as a rabbit-burrow. Logic, such as this, was sufficient to settle the mooted point, and then it became a moral and physical certainty, in the Fermoy world, that Phil Connor and Remmy Carroll were petrified inmates of the mountain cavern!
When, some eighteen months after this, it was Gerald Barry's ill-fortune to break his collar-bone by a fall from his horse, in a steeple-chase, there arose a general conviction, in the minds of all the Fermoy believers in fairy-lore, thatthiswas a punishment inflicted upon him by "the good people," for his impertinent intrusion into their peculiar haunts.
Slowly, but surely, does the tide of Time carry year after year into the eternity of the Past. As wave chases wave to the shore, on which it breaks—sometimes in a gentle and diffusing ripple, sometimes into feathery foam, if it strike against a rock—so does year chase year away into the memory of what has been. It is the same with empires and villages, with the crowded haunts of men, and the humble huts wherein the poor do vegetate. For each and for all, Time sweeps on; carrying on its tide, amid many things of little value, some with which are linked sweet and tender associations. To look back, even for a single year, and contrast whathas beenwith whatis! How mournful the retrospect, in the generality of cases! Hopes fondly cherished, alleviating the actual pains of life by the promise of an ideal improvement; day-dreams indulged in, until they become fixed upon the mind, as if they were realities; resolutions made, which the heart found it impossible to carry into practice; sunny friendships in full luxuriance, which a few hasty words, too quickly taken up, were to throw into shade, at once and forever; love itself, which promised so much in its glorious spring, grown cold and careless. Talk of the changes of a year!—look back, and recollect what even a single day has given birth to; but, think not that there is always change, or that all changes are for the worst. Sometimes the bright hopes will have the glad fulfilment; the day-dreams, after passing through the ordeal of expectation, which, when deferred, maketh the heart sick, will be happily realized; the friendship on which we relied will have gone through the trial, and have stood the test; the love will have proved itself all that the heart had ventured to anticipate, and have thrown upon the realities of life, an enduring charm, mingling strength and softness, including in its magic circle, endurance as strong as adamant, and tenderness which subdues even while it sustains. Aye, life has its lights and shadows; and, in the circling course of time and circumstance, the shadow of to-day glides gently on, until it be lost in the sunshine of the morrow.
Let us return to our story. Imagine, if you please, that six years have passed by since the mysterious and unforgotten disappearance of Remmy Carroll, our very humble hero. Many changes have taken place, locally and generally. Fermoy, rapidly rising into opulence, as the greatest military depôt in Ireland, still kept a memory of Remmy Carroll. Death had laid his icy hand upon Mr. Bartle Mahony, whose fair daughter, Mary, had succeeded to his well-stocked farm and his prudent accumulations, which, joined with her own possessions, made her comparatively wealthy. But, in her, and in such as her, who derive their nobility from God, fortune could make no change—except by enlarging the sphere of her active virtues. In a very humble and unostentatious way, Mary Mahony was the Lady Bountiful of the place. The blessings of the poor were hers. Wherever distress was to be relieved—and Heaven knows that the mournful instances were not a few—there did the quiet bounty of Mary Mahony flow, scattering blessings around by that gentle personal expression of feeling and sympathy, which the highly imaginative and excitable Irish prize far more than the most liberal dole which mere Wealth can haughtily bestow. Oh, that those who give, could know, or would pause to think, how much rests on the manner of giving! Any hand can dispense the merelargesse, which is called "Charity," but the voice, the glance, the touch of hearted kindness soothes the mental pangs of the afflicted. In Ireland, where there are countless calls upon benevolence, casual relief has been demanded as a sort ofright; but a kind word, a gentle tone, a sympathizing look, makes the gift of double value. And where was there ever kindness and gentleness to equal those exercised by Mary Mahony? She had had her own experiences in sorrow, and was, therefore, well qualified to yield to others that touching sympathy which most forcibly awakens gratitude. She had suffered, and, therefore, she sympathized.
Her beauty remained undimmed, but its character was somewhat changed. If there was less of the fire of earlier days, there was more of intellectual expression, the growth at once of her mind's development into maturity, and of the sorrows which had chastened her, as well as of the circumstances which had thrown her thoughts into contemplation. At her age—she was barely three-and-twenty—it appears absurd to talk of her loveliness having had its peach-like bloom impaired. As Wordsworth says,
"She seemed a thing that could not feelThe touch of earthly years."
"She seemed a thing that could not feelThe touch of earthly years."
"She seemed a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years."
What the same true poet has said of that fair Lucy, who yet lives in his exquisite lyric, might have been said, without any breach of truth, of our own Mary Mahony:
"Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flowerOn earth was never sown;This child I to myself will take;She shall be mine, and I will makeA lady of my own.'"
"Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flowerOn earth was never sown;This child I to myself will take;She shall be mine, and I will makeA lady of my own.'"
"Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flower
On earth was never sown;
This child I to myself will take;
She shall be mine, and I will make
A lady of my own.'"
At first, after her father's death, when it was known in what a prosperous state she had been left (and rumor, as usual, greatly exaggerated the fact), she had been pestered with the addresses of various persons who would have been happy to obtain a fair bride with her goodly heritage, but it was soon found that she was not matrimonially inclined, so, by degrees, they left her "maiden meditation fancy-free." Among her suitors were a few who really were not influenced by interested motives, and sought to win her, out of their admiration for herself. Gently, but decidedly, they were repulsed, and many of them, who were much above her in wealth and station, were proud to be reckoned among her warm friends at a later period. It seemed as if she could not have made an enemy—as if she could not awaken unkind feelings in any mind. Even scandal never once thought of inventing stories about her,—goodness and innocence were around her, like a panoply.
Mary Mahony remained true to the cherished passion of her youth. It flowed on, a silent and deep stream. None knew what she felt. None were aware of the arrow in her heart, and her pain was the intenser for its concealment. So wholly unsuspected was her secret, that when, immediately after her father's death, she received Remmy Carroll's bed-ridden relative as an inmate at her own residence; people only admired the charity which had led her to succour the helpless. No one appeared to think, for they did not know, that Remmy could ever have awakened an interest in her heart.
The destinies of Europe had been adjusted. The Imperial Eagle of France had been struck down at Waterloo, when Napoleon and Wellington had met and battled. After peace bad been proclaimed, the Ministry of the day proceeded to reduce the war establishment, by disbanding the second battalions of many regiments. The result was that some thousands of ex-soldiers wended home. Very many of them were from Ireland, and came back mere wrecks of manhood—for the casualties of battle, and the certainties of sharp hospital practice, are only too successful in removing such superfluities as arms and legs.
In the spring of 1816, two or three persons might have been seen walking down the main street of Fermoy. If there could have existed any doubt as to what theyhadbeen, their measured walk and martial bearing would have promptly removed it. They, indeed, were disabled soldiers. The youngest might have numbered some eight-and-twenty years, and, though he wasminushis left arm, few men could be found whose personal appearance was superior to his own.
They passed on, unnoticed, as any other strangers might have passed on, and found "choicest welcome" in a hostelrie, "for the accommodation of man and beast," at the lower end of the town. What creature-comforts they there partook of I am unable to enumerate, for the bill of fare, if such a document ever existed in that neat but humble inn, has not been preserved. The sun had nearly gone down, however, before any of the peripatetic trio manifested any inclination towards locomotion. At last, he, to whom I have more particularly drawn attention, told his companions that he had some business in the town—some inquiries to make—and would rejoin them in an hour or two at the latest. He might as well have spoken to the wind, for they had walked that day from Cork (a trifle of some eighteen Irish miles), and were already fast asleep on the benches. Their companion wrapped himself up in a large military cloak, lined with fur—whilom, in Russia, it had covered the iron-bound shoulders of a captain in Napoleon's Old Guard. This completely concealed his figure, and drawing his hat over his face, so as to shade his features, he sallied forth, like Don Quixote, in search of adventures.
When he reached the Sessions House, at the extremity of the town, instead of pursuing the high road which leads to Lismore, he deviated to the extreme left, crossed the meadow-bound by the papermill, and found himself on the Inch, by that rapid branch of the Blackwater which has been diverted from the main current for the use of the two mills—illegally diverted, I think, for it renders the natural course of the river a mere shallow, and prevents a navigation which might be carried on with success and profit, from Fermoy, by Lismore, down to the sea at Youghall.
Rapidly pressing forward, the Stranger soon came to the chasm which has already been mentioned as that from which, some years since, Remmy Carroll, the piper, had rescued Mary Mahony from drowning. He threw himself, at listless length, on the sward by the gurgling stream, and gazed, in silence, on the fair scene before him.
It was, indeed, a scene to delight the eye and charm the mind of any beholder. Across the broad river were the rocks of Rathhely, clothed here and there with larches and pines, those pleasant evergreens—before him swept the deep and rapid waters—and, a little lower down, like a stately sentinel over the fine country around, rose the tall and precipitous rock, on which stood the ruins, proud in their very decay, of the ancient castle of Carrigabrick,—one of the round, lofty, lonely towers, whose origin and use have puzzled so many antiquaries, from Ledwich and Vallancey, to Henry O'Brien and Thomas Moore, George Petrie and Sir William Betham.
With an eager and yet a saddened spirit, the stranger gazed intently and anxiously upon the scene, varied as it is picturesque, his mind drinking in its quiet beauty—a scene upon which, in years long since departed, my own boyhood loved to look. And now, in the softened effulgence of the setting sun, and the silence of the hour, the place looked more like the embodiment of a poet's dream, or a painter's glorious imagining, than anything belonging to this every-day world of hard and cold reality.
The Stranger gazed upon the scene silently for a time, but his feelings might thus beembodied in words:—"Itisbeautiful, and it is the same; only, until I saw other places, praised for their beauty, I did not know how beautiful were the dark river, and the quiet meadows, and the ivy-covered rock, and the gray ruin. Change has heavily passed over myself, but has lightly touched the fair Nature around me. Heaven knows whethershemay not be changed also. I would rather be dead than hear she was another's. The lips that my lips have kissed—the eyes that my eyes have looked into—the hand that my hand has pressed—the form that my arms have folded; that another should call them his—the very thought of it almost maddens me. Or, she may be dead? I have not had the heart to inquire. This suspense is the worst of all,—let me end it."
Thus he thought—perhaps the thoughts may have unconsciously shaped themselves into words: but soliloquies may be thought as well as uttered audibly. He rose from the damp sward, sprang across the chasm, proceeded rapidly on, and in ten minutes was sitting on the stile, by which, in other days, he had often parted from Mary Mahony—for, by this time, my readers must have recognized Remmy Carroll in the Stranger.
How long he rested here, or with what anxious feelings he gazed upon the house, just visible through the trees, I am not able to state,—but I can easily imagine what a contention of hope and fear there must have been in his heart. The apprehension of evil, however, was in the ascendant, for, though two or three half-familiar faces passed him, he could not summon courage to ask after Mary and her father. At last, he determined to make full inquiries from the next person he saw.
The opportunity was speedily afforded. A female appeared, slowly advancing up the path. Could it indeed be herself? She came nearer. One glance, and he recognized her, the star of his spirit—bright, beaming, and as beautiful as Memory and Fancy (the dove-winged ministers of Love) had delighted to paint her, amid the darkness and perils of the Past.
He sprang forward to meet her. There was no recognition upon her part. Nor was this very wonderful—though the lover of romance might expect, as a matter of course, that, from pure sympathy, the maiden should have instantly known who was before her. Years, which had passed so gently over her, softening and mellowing her beauty, had bronzed his face, and almost changed its very expression. The dark moustache and thick whiskers, which he now wore, his altered appearance, his military bearing,—all combined to make him very different from the rustic, however comely, whom she had last seen six years before.
Seeing a stranger advance towards her, Mary paused. He accosted her, with an inquiry whether Mr. Bartle Mahony was to be seen?
"He is dead," said she. "He has been dead nearly six years."
Carroll started back, for the unwelcome news chilled him, and the well-remembered tones struck some of the most responsive chords of his heart.
"I am grieved to hear of his death. I knew him once. He was kind to me in former days, when kindness was of value, and I came to thank him now. God's blessing on his soul! He was a good man." There was a slight pause, and he resumed, "Perhaps you can tell me, young lady, whether his daughter is alive, and where she may be seen? The trifles which I have brought from foreign countries, to mark my recollection of his goodness to me, perhaps she may accept?"
"You are speaking to her," said Mary.
"My little presents are in this parcel," said Remmy. "They are relics from the field of battle. These silver-mounted pistols were given to me by a French officer, whose life I saved,—this Cross of the Legion of Honor was hastily plucked from the bosom of one of his dead comrades, after a fierce charge at Waterloo. Take them:—I destined them for your father from the moment they became mine."
He placed the parcel in her hand.—One question would bring hope or despair. He feared to ask it. He drew closer, and, as composedly as he could, whispered into her ear, "Are you married?"
The blood flushed up into Mary's face. She drew back, for his questioning vexed her, and she wished to get rid of the inquisitive stranger. She handed him back the parcel, and said, "I hope, sir, that you do not mean to annoy or insult me? If you do, there are those within call who can soon release me from your intrusion. I cannot retain the presents which a mere stranger tells me were intended for my poor father.—And, if I must answer your last question, I amnotmarried."
"Thank God!" was Carroll's earnest and involuntary exclamation.
People may talk as they please of the quick-sightedness of love. Mary certainly had little of it, for she didnotrecognize her lover, and, turning round, prepared to return home. Carroll gently detained her, by placing his hand upon her arm.
"I pray your pardon," said he, "but I may not have an opportunity of again speaking to you, and I have a word to say about a person whom you once knew, but have probably forgotten. There was a poor, worthless young man, named Carroll, in this neighborhood a few years ago. He was a weak creature, fool enough to love the very ground on which you trod, and vain enough to think that you were not quite indifferent to him."
"I do not know," said Mary, with a flushed cheek, and flashing eyes, "why you should continue to intrude your presence and your conversation when you see that both are unpleasant to me. I do not know why you should ask me questions which a sense of common decency would have avoided. If I answer you now, it is that my silence may not appear to sanction imputations upon one over whom, I fear, the grave has closed—whom, be he alive or dead, it was no dishonor to have known and have regarded. I did know this Carroll whom you name, but cannot imagine how you, a stranger, can have learnt that I did. It was his misfortune to have been poor, but he never was worthless, nor could have been."
"One word more," exclaimed Remmy, "but one more word. Remmy Carroll, so long believed to have been dead, is alive and in health—after many sufferings he returns home, poor as when he left it, rich in nothing but an honest name. He comes back, a disabled soldier, and he dare not ask whether, beautiful and wealthy as you are, you are the Mary Mahony of other years, and love him still?"
Mary looked at him with intent anxiety. The color which emotion had sent into her face paled, and then rushed back in a quickened life-tide, mantling her very forehead. Even then she had not recognized her lover!
"If he be indeed returned," said she, in a voice so low that Remmy did not know whether the words were addressed to him, or were the mere impulse of her thought, involuntarily framed into utterance, "and if he be the same in heart—the same frank and honest mind—the same true and loving spirit—the same in his contempt of all that is bad, and his reverence for whatever is good—his poverty is nothing, forIhave wealth; and if his health be broken, I yet may soothe the pain I may not cure. Tell me," said she, and the words came forth, this time, freely spoken, as if she had determined to be satisfied and to act, "tell me, you who seem to know him, though your description wrongs him, where has Remmy Carroll been during all these long years? Why did he leave us? Why did he not write to relieve the anxiety of those who cared for him? Where is he now?"
What was the response? Softly and suddenly an arm wound itself around that graceful form, warmly and lovingly fell a shower of kisses on the coral beauty of those luxuriant lips.
Was she not angry—fiercely indignant? Did not her outraged feelings manifest their anger? Was not her maidenly modesty in arms at the liberty thus taken, and by a stranger?Thiswas the crowning misconduct—did she not reprove it?
No! for, in tones which thrilled through her loving heart, Remmy Carroll whispered "Mary!—my own, true, dear Mary!" In the struggle (for Marydidstruggle at first) which immediately preceded these words, the large cloak and the hat fell off, and then she recognized the forehead and the eyes—then she knew him whom she had loved so well, and mourned so long—then she threw her arms around his neck, in the very abandonment of affection and delight—then she clung close and yet closer to him, as if they never more must part—then, remembering how she was yielding to the warm impulses of her nature, she hid her burning face in his bosom, and then, when he embraced her again and again, she could not find words to protest against the gentle deed.
Then, arm in arm, they walked into the house, and there Remmy's aged relative, whose condition and sufferings had been so much improved and alleviated by the kindness and bounty of Mary Mahony—simply because she was Remmy's relative—was made happy by the presence of him over whom she had shed so many bitter tears. Perhaps her happiness was augmented by perceiving on what excellent terms the heiress and he were—perhaps her eyes filled with pleasant tears, when Mary Mahony whispered into her ear "Minny, he will stay with us now, forever, and will never leave us." Perhaps, too, the whisper was not unheard by Remmy—and it would be a difficult point to decide whether or not it were intended to reachhisear, as well as Minny's. And then, all that both had to learn. There was so much to be told on both sides. All that Carroll cared to know was this—that he loved, and that his love was warmly returned. A thousand times, that evening, and forever, did Mary exclaim against herself for not having recognized him immediately, and a thousand times smilingly aver, that, from his changed appearance and studied efforts at concealment, the recognition was all but impossible. And then they sat together, hand clasped in hand, eyes looking into eyes, until an hour far into the night, talking of old times and present happiness, and future hopes. And they spoke, too, of the good old man who had passed away, in the fulness of years, into the far and better land. Old memories were revived, brightened by new hopes. Oh, how happy they were! it was the very luxury of love—the concentrated spirit of passion, purified by suffering, and tried by absence—the repayment, in one brief hour, for years of doubt, pain, and sorrow.
At last came the time to part; but with it came the certainty of a speedy meeting. The next day, and day after day, until that arrived when holiest rites made them man and wife, Remmy Carroll was to be found by the side of his beloved Mary Mahony; and soon, when the news of his return were noised about, crowds came to see him, and far and near was spread the announcement that a wedding was on thetapis. General was the surprise—general, too, the satisfaction, for the young people were universal favorites, and time and circumstances had removed the principal objections which even the worldly-minded might have raised to the union of Mr. Bartle Mahony's daughter and heiress to one who, a few years before, had occupied a position in society so much beneath her. It was universally conceded that, in every sense, the match was extremely suitable and proper; but Remmy and Mary did not require popular opinion to sanctify their attachment. They were all in all to each other.
It is not to be supposed that Mary Mahony was allowed to continue ignorant of the vicissitudes through which Remmy Carroll had passed. He told his story, and
"She gave him for his tale a world of sighs."
"She gave him for his tale a world of sighs."
It may be expected that of this tale some notice be here given. But, in very truth, those who look for a romantic elucidation of the mysterious disappearance, and prolonged absence, and unexpected return of Remmy Carroll, will be greatly disappointed. The main incidents were simple enough, and here they are.
It may be remembered that Remmy had acted as escort to Minahan, on their return from that wedding at which the Piper had made his last professional appearance. He had found some difficulty in piloting his companion along the high road from Rathcormac to Fermoy; and, indeed, when they reached the mountain, Minahan, in a fit of drunken obstinacy,wouldthrow himself upon the heathy sward, where, in a few minutes, he was fast in the gentle bonds of sleep. Remmy Carroll, having accompanied him so far, did not like to leave him, and sat down beside him to watch for his awakening, with the purpose, also, of seeing that he fell into no mischief. But, after a time, from the combined influences of the fresh air, want of rest, and what he had partaken at the wedding, Remmy found himself quite unable to keep his eyes open. He was conscious that sleep was creeping over him, and so, taking off his pipes, for fear that he might injure them by lying upon them, he carefully placed them upon the grass, beside him, and resigned himself to slumber.
On awaking, he found—to his excessive amazement—that he was lying "on the sunny side of a baggage-cart," with his head reposing on the lap of a soldier's wife. In reply to his inquiries, he was recommended to take it coolly, and, at any rate, not to make any noise until they reached Glanmire, about four miles from Cork, to which city he was informed that he was bound. "When the cavalcade of baggage-carts and soldiers reached Glanmire, he was summarily acquainted with the novel information that he had been duly enlisted as a recruit, and his informant—a fierce-looking, hook-nosed, loud-voiced martinet of a Sergeant—asked him to put his hand into his pocket, andthatwould satisfy him that he had regularly and irrevocably become attached to the military service of "his Most Gracious Majesty King George the Third." Accordingly, Remmy did as he was desired, and in the pocket as aforesaid found a bright shilling, which certainly had not been there on the previous night—more particularly, as tenpenny pieces were the current coin in Ireland at the period. To Remmy's possession of the solitary shilling, among a little handful of tenpenny and fivepenny pieces (the sum-total realized by his performance at the wedding), the modern Sergeant Kite triumphantly appealed in proof that he had been regularly enlisted. It is needless to observe that, of this transaction, Remmy Carroll—albeit the person chiefly concerned—had not the slightest recollection. He appealed to one of the officers, and was told that, if the Sergeant said he was enlisted, there could be no doubt of the fact, and that his Majesty was fortunate in having obtained such a promising recruit, as the regiment was on the eve of embarkation. His remonstrances, and denials, and appeals, were in vain. The significant hint was added, that death was the punishment usually awarded for desertion. So, making a virtue of necessity—the more so, as he perceived that he was so strongly and suspiciously watched that flight would have been useless—he had no alternative but to proceed to Cork with the regiment, as cheerfully as he could, and, in despite of himself, as it were, was duly attested, magistrates not being very particular in those days. To all his assertions, that he had not the slightest recollection of having been enlisted, the reply was that, if he could procure a substitute, they did not require his company—but to do this was impossible.
In a few days, the regiment embarked for the Peninsula, and his friend, the Sergeant, told him on the voyage, as an excellent joke, in what manner they had trepanned him—namely, that, as the regiment was passing by the mountain, early in the morning, en route for embarkation, one of the officers who rode above the highway (for the road is literally cut out of and into the hill) had noticed Remmy and Minahan asleep, and had remarked what an admirable soldier the former would make; Minahan, it seems, was thought nothing of, being, like Othello, "declined into the vale of years." The remark was taken as a hint, and Remmy was removed, even as he was, fast asleep, to one of the baggage-carts, with the least possible delay. The details of the transaction had been executed by the Sergeant, who chuckled over this narrative, piquing himself not a little on the dexterity of the trick.
Carroll was unable to write to Mary Mahony, on account of what had befallen him, being afraid of his letter falling into other hands than her own. He did write to Minahan, in the hope that, in that circuitous way, Mary might obtain a knowledge of his misadventure. The letter, if ever posted, never came to hand, and thus, for more than six weary years, Mary Mahony in particular, with the inhabitants of Fermoy in general, was profoundly ignorant of Remmy's fate.
It was fortunate that Remmy was of that easy temperament which takes the world as it finds it, readily accommodates itself to circumstances, and wisely acts on the sensible aphorism, "what can't be cured must be endured." While he bitterly lamented his enforced absence from the girl of his heart—just at the crisis, too, when he learned that he occupied an enviable position in her affections—he knew that all the regrets in the world would not bring him one furlong nearer to her. He determined to make the best of his situation. In a short time he even came to like it. Good conduct, good temper, and his ability to read and write, soon recommended him to his superiors, and obtained his promotion to the rank of Sergeant. In this capacity, he contrived to save a sum of money, which, in former years, he would have considered quite a treasure, and which, at any rate, was sufficiently large as to warrant its possessor against the imputation of fortune-hunting, should he return to Ireland, find Mary Mahony unmarried, and pay his addresses to her.
When the short peace of 1814 was made, the regiment in which Remmy served returned to England, and Remmy made application for his discharge, and would have purchased it if he could not procure it by other means. But immediately came the renewal of war, by the return of Napoleon from Elba, and Remmy's regiment was one of the first to return to the Continent. In the battle of Waterloo, Remmy received a severe wound in the left arm, which rendered amputation necessary, after prolonged and painful sufferings. At length, he was able to return to England, with a handsome gratuity for his wound, and a respectable pension, which, with what he had already picked up "in the wars," really made him quite a man of independent means. His plea of poverty had been only aruseto try the strength of the maiden's affection. But, in her eyes, of much greater value than his hoard or his pension was a testimonial of courage and character given him by his Colonel, and especially countersigned by the Duke of Wellington, who had personally noticed his conduct during the six years he had been in the service. Great pride, be sure, had Carroll in handing over this precious document to Mary Mahony. Many tears did she shed over the vicissitudes which had earned it—but tearswillflow from bright eyes, when there is a handsome lover at hand to kiss them off.
The wedding followed, in due course.Sucha wedding! that of Camacho was a fool to it. Mr. and Mrs. Carroll, it is true, violated the usage of Irish society (of their rank of life) by quitting the farm, on a honeymoon excursion, shortly after Father Barry had united them "for better, for worse," as it was fully expected that, according to the immemorial custom among the extensive class which embraces all ranks from the wealthy farmer to the poor peasant, the bride and bridegroom should have presided at the nuptial feast, opened the post-prandial festivities by leading off the dance, and finally gone through the loosening the bride's garters, and be followed by the ceremonial of her "throwing the stocking." But, except during the performance of the nuptial service, the company at Carrigabrick farm saw little, on that day of days, of either Remmy Carroll or his fair and faithful helpmate. Enough, however, for the gay bachelors to admire the beauty (now bright with happiness) of the bride, while the Waterloo medal and the Waterloo wound of our hero won him favor in the eyes and from the lips of all the womankind who were "on their promotion." Despite the speedy flight of "the happy couple," the rites of hospitality were duly celebrated in their homestead, and, indeed, a general holiday was kept in the neighborhood. The warmth of Irish hearts had its effervescence on that occasion, and it wished an infinity of joy to Remmy Carroll and his bride.
About this time, Minahan's character for veracity fell into disrepute, it being pretty clear that Remmy Carroll was anything but a petrifaction—at least Mary Mahony's testimony would go a great way to disprovethatimputation. But there ever are people who will manfully maintain the superiority of the ideal over the real, and a few of these, vegetating at Fermoy, used to shake their heads when Remmy Carroll walked by, and, having said, all along, that, beyond all doubt, some supernatural agency had removed our hero, think themselves somewhat aggrieved in the unromantic commonplace explanation of his enforced absence. To the hour of his death, Minahan was ready to say or swear thathehad told no more than the truth—or an equivalent for the truth—and was wont to appeal, when in his cups (which was whenever he had anything to put into them), to Carroll's good fortune in proof of the advantageous influence of fairy favor. He had a few semi-converts—who believed that Remmy Carroll was as much petrified as Phil Connor. Indeed, without any very remarkable development of the organ of marvellousness, I think so too.
It but remains to add that, in due season, Mr. and Mrs. Carroll returned to their farm. Remmy never more played the pipes save for his own amusement (as the Marquis of Carrabas' cat caught mice), and he and his wife lived happily together, after their many trials. One of their family is settled in the State of New York, and doing well.