"Within the circle of your own estate,Confine yourself, nor yearn for brighter fate."
"Within the circle of your own estate,Confine yourself, nor yearn for brighter fate."
"Within the circle of your own estate,
Confine yourself, nor yearn for brighter fate."
And now let us return to the cobbler's cabin, and see how matters are progressing there. Peggy has just brought over the tureen of soup so fervently longed for by the changed Squire; with a cry of joy, for he is very hard set, indeed, he seized the welcome gift, and placing it between his knees as he sat on the low workstall, prepared to dive into its savory contents, but a groan of horror and disappointment broke from his lips when, on taking off the cover, he found the tureen was empty.
"The pippin-squeezing ruffian," cried he, "he's sent it over without as much as a smell, and I so mortial hungry that I could bite a tenpenny nail in two; if he was here, bad 'cess to me if I wouldn't smash this upon his head."
"That's mighty strange, entirely," said Peggy, "for I'll be on me oath there was plenty in it when I took it off the Squire's sideboard."
"If there was, you must have gobbled it up yourself, or spilt it on the street, you unconsiderate faymale," said Bulworthy.
"Is it me, indeed, Dan, jewel? it's well you know that if it was goold, an' you could ate it, I wouldn't put a tooth into it, when I knew you wanted it so dhreadful," replied Peggy, reproachfully.
"Well, may-be you wouldn't," doggedly observed Bulworthy; "but do, for Heaven's sake, get me somethin' to put an end to the wobblin' that's goin' on in the inside of me; may I never leave this place alive if I think I've had a male's vitells for a month."
"How outrageous you are, Dan," sorrowfully replied the other. "Where am I to get it?"
"Go out an' buy it, ov coorse."
"Arrah what with? I'd like to know; sure, an' won't we have to wait until that purse-proud ould rap over the way pays us the shillin' that he owes us."
A reproachful pang shot through the heart of Bulworthy at that observation. "The ould skinflint," said he, "if I ever get near him again, may-be I won't touch him up for not doin' that same."
"Indeed, an' it would sarve him right," Peggy went on. "Swimmin' in plenty as he is, it's little that he thinks of the pinchin' hunger we feel."
"Don't don't," cried Bulworthy, pressing his hands against his gastronomic regions. "I feel it now, fairly sthranglin' me; it's just as if some wild savage beast was runnin' up and down here, sarchin' for somethin' to devour, and not bein' able to find it, is takin' mouthfuls out of my intayrior by the way of a relish; oh! murdher, I never knew what hunger was before."
"Didn't you, raylly?" Peggy replied, with a queer expression. "Faith, then, it wasn't for the want of chances enough."
"I mean—don't bother—it's famished I am, and crazy a'most; is there a dhrop of dhrink in the house?"
"Not as much as would make a tear for a fly's eye," said Peg.
"No! then what the Puck are we to do?"
"Bear it, I suppose, as well as we can; we've often done it afore, an' what's worse, will have to do it agin, unless the hearts of the rich changes towards us."
"Oh! if ever I get back to myself again," muttered the hungry Squire. "Peg, darlin', go over to the old schamer, an' tell him that av he doesn't send me the shillin' I'll expose him, I know more about him than he thinks for; if he's black conthrary, you might just whisper in his lug that I'm up to his thricks when he was in the grocery line; ax him for me, who shoved the pennies into the butther, wathered the whisky, and sanded the shugar, who"——
"Why, for gracious sake, Dan, where did you pick up all that knowledgeableness?" interrupted Peggy.
"Hem! no matther—never you mind—may-be I only dhreamt it," replied Bulworthy, with some hesitation. "I don't know exactly what I was talkin' about; it's the imptyness that's speakin', so I wouldn't mention it; only go and get somethin' somewhere, av it was only a brick."
"I'll be at him again, Dan, sence you wish it; but it's little blood I'm thinking, we'll be able to squeeze out of his turnip of a heart," said Peggy, putting on her shawl and bonnet, to make the thankless attempt. As she was going out of the door, however, she saw the Squire hobbling across the street.
"Talk of the—what's his name—May I never, but here the ould reprobate comes, hoppin' gingerly over the stones, like a hen walkin' on a hot griddle. May the saints soften him all over, an' make his heart as tendher as his toes this blessed day. I'll lave you wid him, Dan, darlin', for I'm not over partial to his company. So I'll take the babby out for a blast o' fresh air while yez are convarsin'."
Peggy's preparations for her promenade were quickly made, which resulted in her leaving the place before the gouty visitor had accomplished his short but painful transit from house to house.
"A pretty thingI'vedone for myself," groaned Bulworthy, suffering alike from thirst, hunger, and cold, as he vainly strove, by slapping his hands against his chest, to make the blood circulate warmly through his finger-ends. "Ov coorse that cobblin' scoundrel will never consent to come back to his starvation and poverty—he'd be a greater fool even than I was if he did. Ah! if I ever do get back to a good dinner again, there shan't be a poor devil within a mile of me that'll ever want one while I live. Here comes the cripple; the only chance I have is to pretend that I'm in a sort of second-hand paradise here." So saying, he commenced to sing, in a voice of exaggerated jollity, a verse of
"The jug o' punch,"
accompanying the tune by vigorous whacks of his hammer upon the piece of sole-leather he was beating into the requisite toughness.
The united sounds of merriment and industry smote upon Dan's heart like a knell.
"Listen at the happy ragamuffin, working away like a whole hive o' bees, and chirpin' like a pet canary-bird," said he to himself. "Oh, it's aisy seen he won't want to renew his acquaintance wid this murdherin' gout an' the useless money—but, hit or miss, it won't do to let him see me down in the mouth."
So, putting on a careless swagger, and forcing a tone of joyousness into his voice:
"Hallo, cobbler," he cried, "there you are, bellusin' away like a bagpiper. What an iligant thing it is to see such poor wretches whistlin' themselves into an imitation of comfort."
"How do you know but I'm crammed full of real comfort, bad luck to yer mockin' tongue?" said Bulworthy, disgusted at the other's satisfied demeanor.
"It's pleased I am to see your foggy moon of a face, anyway," he went on. "Where's me shillin'?"
"Why, you poor, miserable attenuation of humanity, how dare you address yourself to me in that orthodox manner?" observed Dan, with an ambitious attempt at Bulworthy's magniloquence.
"Miserable, eh?" replied the other, with a chirp. "Is it me miserable, wid such a home as this?"
"It's all over," thought Dan, "the ould brute's as happy as a bird. Bad luck to the minute that my own pelt made a cage for him."
"Go home," Bulworthy continued, with a grin. "Home to yer wretched hospital of a gazebo."
"Wretched!" retorted Dan, "you wouldn't call it wretched if you saw the dinner I had to-day; enough, yer sowl to glory, to satisfy half a dozen families."
"That were starvin' around you," cried Bulworthy, with a severe internal spasm, induced by the mention of the dinner.
"Aha! you're beginnin' to think of that now, are you?" said Dan, tauntingly. "How do you like dinin' on spoonfuls of air, and rich men's promises to pay? Bedad, I'm thinkin I have the best of you there."
"Hould yer prate, you ould Turk, an' give me me shillin'," roared Bulworthy, getting impatient.
"The divil a shillin' you get out o' me, that I can tell you. I've got the upper hand of ye this time, an' I'll keep it. It's hungry enough that you've seen me before now, an' tit for tat's fair play all the world over."
"He's content and comfortable, there's no mistake about that," thought Bulworthy, "and I'm booked for starvation all the rest of my miserable days."
"Gout's my lot; I can see that with half an eye," said Dan to himself. "The ould blaggard will never consent to get into these legs again."
"Squire!" cried the cobbler, suddenly, "do you know that the hunger sometimes puts desperate thoughts into a man's head? You owe me a shillin'. I want something to ate. Are you goin' to give it to me?"
"Supposin' I didn't?" said Dan, coolly.
"Bad luck attind me if I don't shake it out o' you, you iron-hearted ould Craysus," replied the other, doggedly.
"I'd like to see you thryin' that," said Dan, flourishing a huge blackthorn stick dangerously. "You're wake wid the want, an' I'm sthrong wid vittles an' wine. It's aisy to foretell whose head would be cracked first."
"Oh, murdher, Squire, jewel, it's right that you are, for Iamjust as wake as wather itself, an' the jaws of me is fairly rustin' in their sockets for the want of dacent exercise," cried the now subdued Bulworthy. "For the tindher mercy of goodness, then, av you've got the laste taste ov compassion in yer throat, give us a thrifle, av it was only the price ov a salt herrin' or a rasher o' bakin'."
"Oh, ho! it's there you are," thought Dan, as, rendered more hopeful by this injudicious outburst, he assumed a still more severe aspect.
"It's good for you to feel that way," said he, "an' it's mighty little else you can ever expect while you're throublin' the earth, you impidint cobbler. Look at me, you ungrateful thief o' the world—what's all your hungry nibblin's compared wid the sharp tooth that's perpetually gnawin' at my exthremities? To be sure, the jingle of the goold here in my pockets, keeps the pain undher considherably."
"I know it, I know it," groaned Bulworthy. "Oh, av there was only a market for fools, wouldn't I fetch a high price?"
"Purvided that it wasn't overstocked," said Dan, with a mental addition, which he wisely kept to himself, as, suppressing the violent pain he was suffering, he burst into a merry laugh at the doleful appearance of his companion in distress. "Cheer up, man alive," cried he, through his enforced joyousness; "take example by your neighbors, and content yourself wid your condition. I'm sure it's a mighty agreeable one. See how comfortable I am, an' there's no knowin' what a numberless conglomeration of annoyances men in my responsible station have to put up wid."
"Why, then it's aisy for you to chat," replied Bulworthy, bitterly, "wid your belly full of prog, rattlin' yer money in yer pockets, and greggin' a poor empty Christian wid the chink; but av you had only dined wid me to-day, you wouldn't be so bumptious, I'll be bound."
"Me dine wid you, is it? bedad, an' that's a good joke," said Dan, with another explosion of laughter. "Ho, ho! my fine fella, av jokes was only nourishin', what a fine feed of fun you might have, to be sure."
"Oh, then, by the king of Agypt's baker, that was hanged for makin' his majesty's loaf short weight—the divil's cure to him—it's starved I'd be that way too, for the fun's pinched right out o' me," replied the Squire, in a melancholy tone.
"Why, you don't mane to be tellin' me that you're unhappy in yer present lot?" Dan asked, in the hope of coming to the point at once.
"Where would be the use in sayin' I'm not?" replied the other, cautiously.
"Only just for the pleasure of gettin' at the thruth."
"Bedad, he'd be a wise man that could crack that egg. If it comes to that, how do you like them legs o' yours? It isn't much dancin' you do now, I'm thinkin'."
"Well, not a great dale, seein' that it's a foolish sort of exercise for a man of my consequence," said Dan, shaking the guineas about in his pockets with increased vigor.
"An' how do you find the Misthress's timper now, might I ax?" inquired Bulworthy, with a meaning look.
"Aisy as an ould glove, I'm obliged to you," Dan replied, with wondrous placidity of countenance.
"Peg, my Peg's a real blessin' in a house; an' as for that jewel of a babby"——
"Howld yer decateful tongue, you circumventin' ould tory," cried Dan, shaking his fist in the other's face, rendered almost beside himself by the allusion to his lost treasures; "do you mind this, you chatin' disciple, av you dare to brag ov havin' any property in them two people I'll give your dirty sowl notice to quit the tinimint that it's insultin' every second o' time you dhraw a breath."
"How can you help yerself, I'd like to know?" demanded Bulworthy, in an insolent tone. "Doesn't Peg belong to me now, an' the child?"
"Be the mortial o' war, av ye don't stop your tongue from waggin' in that way, bad luck to me av I don't take ye be the scruff o' the neck, an shake ye out o' me skin, you robber," shouted Dan, still more furiously—unfortunately losing sight of his discretion in the blindness of his rage, for Bulworthy, thinking he saw a gleaming of hope, determined to pursue his advantage; so he continued:
"The devil a toe will you ever come near them again, my fine fella. Possession's nine points of the law; an' as it's your own countenance that I'm carryin', you can't swear me out o' my position. More betoken, there's no use in yer gettin' obsthropulous, for I've only to dhrop the lapstone gingerly upon yer toes, to make you yell out like a stuck pig."
At hearing these conclusive words, Dan's policy and his philosophy fled together, and he poured forth the feelings of his heart without concealment or restraint.
"You murdherin' ould vagabone," he cried; "you've got the upper hand of me, an' full well you know it; the divil take yer dirty money, that's weighin' down my pockets; but weighin' my heart down more nor that, av it wasn't that I don't know exactly what harum I'd be doin' to meself; may I never sin av I wouldn't pelt the life out o' you wid fistfulls of it; but it sarves me right, it sarves me right," he went on, swaying his body to and fro, as he sat on the little stool. "Oh! wirra, wirra! what a born natheral I was to swap away my darlin' Peg, that's made out of the best parts of half a dozen angels, for that wizen-faced daughter of ould Nick beyont; an' the blessed babby, too, that's so fresh from the skies that the smell o' Heaven sticks about him yet; to get nothin' for him but a pair of legs that can't lift me over athranieen; oh! it's mad that it's dhrivin' me, intirely."
"Don't take it so much to heart; gruntin', and growlin', an twistin' yerself into a thrue lover's knot, won't do any good now, you know," said Bulworthy, with a quiet smile.
"I know it won't, and that's what makes me desperate," replied Dan, starting up, with clenched teeth, and a dangerous glance in his eye.
"One word for all," he continued, "are you going to give me back meself?"
"I'd be a purty fool to do that, accordin' to your own story," said the other, calmly, now tolerably sure of his ground.
"Then Heaven forgive me, but here goes," cried Dan, resolutely. "Peg, jewel, it's for your sake an' the child; I can't live widout yez, anyhow, an' so I may's well thravel the dark road at oncet."
"What do you mane, you wild-lookin' savage?" shouted Bulworthy, as he saw the other advance threateningly towards him.
"I mane to thry and squeeze the breath out ov you, or get meself throttled in the attempt," said Dan, sternly; "I know that I'm no match for you now, bad 'cess to your podgey carcass that I'm obleeged to carry, whether I will or no; come on, you thief o' the world, come on; it doesn't matther a sthraw which of us is sint into kingdom come, only it's mighty hard for me to have the since knocked out o' me by me own muscles."
So saying, he put forth all the strength he could muster, and clenched Bulworthy manfully; short, but decisive was the struggle, for the superior vigor of the latter, enabled him to shake off Dan like a feather, and when he rushed again to the attack, Bulworthy seized the ponderous lapstone, and raising it at arm's length, let its whole force descend upon Dan's unprotected head, crushing him down prone and senseless as though he had been stricken by a thunderbolt.
It was some time before Dan returned to full consciousness; but when he did, what was his intense delight to find Peggy bending over him, tenderly bathing a trifling wound in his head.
"Hurrah, Peg! it is back I am to myself in airnest," he cried. "Give us a bit of the lookin'-glass, darlin'; oh! the butcherin' ruffian, what a crack he gev me on me skull."
"Whisht, don't talk, Dan, acush," said Peggy, in a low, musical voice; "shure, its ravin' you've been, terrible; oh! that whisky, that whisky!"
A sudden thought flashed across Dan's mind, which he judiciously kept to himself; and, inasmuch, as the reader may, without much exercise of ingenuity imagine what that thought was, the narrator will be silent, also.
It will be no abuse of confidence, however, to say that the lesson Dan received, did him good, for he never was known to repine at his lot, but, redoubling his exertions, was enabled, after a few years had elapsed, to sport his top-boots on Sundays, and Peggy to exhibit her silk "gound," as well as the purse-proud Squire and his gay madame, over the way.
Oh, did you ne'er hear of the Blarney,'Tis found near the banks of Killarney,Believe it from me, no girl's heart is free,Once she hears the sweet sound of the Blarney.Lover.
Oh, did you ne'er hear of the Blarney,'Tis found near the banks of Killarney,Believe it from me, no girl's heart is free,Once she hears the sweet sound of the Blarney.
Oh, did you ne'er hear of the Blarney,
'Tis found near the banks of Killarney,
Believe it from me, no girl's heart is free,
Once she hears the sweet sound of the Blarney.
Lover.
Lover.
"I tell you, Mike, agra! it's no manner o' use, for do it I can't, an' that's the long an' the short of it."
"Listen at him, why it isn't bashful that you are, eh, Ned, avic?"
"Faix, an' I'm afeard it is."
"Gog's bleakey!why, they'll put you in the musayum along wid the marmaids an' the rattlin' sneaks; a bashful Irishman! why, a four-leaved shamrogue 'ud be a mutton-chop to that, man alive."
"So they say; but I've cotch the complaint anyway."
"Well,tear an aigers, I never heerd the likes; it makes me mighty unhappy, for if modesty gets a footin' among us it'll be the ruin of us altogether. I shouldn't wonder but some of them retirin' cockneys has inoculated us with the affection, as they thravelled through the country. Well, an' tell us, how d'you feel whin you're blushin' Ned?"
"Arrah! now don't be laughin' at me, Mike; sure we can't help our wakeness—it's only before her that the heart of me melts away intirely."
"Never mind, avic; shure it's a good man's case anyway; an' so purty Nelly has put thecometherover your sinsibilities?"
"You may say that, Mike,aroon. The niver a bit of sinse have I left, if it's a thing that I iver happened to have any; an' now, Mike, without jokin', isn't it mighty quare that I can't get the cowardly tongue to wag a word out o' my head when her eye is upon me—did you iver see Nelly's eye, Mike?"
"Scores o' times."
"May-be that isn't an eye?"
"May-be there isn't a pair of thim, since you come to that?"
"The divil such wicked-lookin' innocince iver peeped out of the head of a Christian afore, to my thinkin'."
"It's nothin' but right that you should think so, Ned."
"Oh, Mike! to me, the laugh that bames out of thim, whin she's happy, is as good to a boy's feelin's as the softest sun-ray that iver made the world smile; but whin she's sad—oh, murdher, murdher! Mike—whin them wathery dimonds flutthers about her silky eye-lashes, or hangs upon her downy cheek, like jew upon a rose-lafe, who the divil could endure it? Bedad, it's as much as I can do to stand up agin them merry glances; but when her eye takes to the wather, be the powers of war, it bothers the navigation of my heart out an' out."
"Thrue for you, Ned."
"An' thin her mouth! Did you iver obsarve Nelly's mouth, Mike?"
"At a distance, Ned."
"Now, that's what I call a rale mouth, Mike; it doesn't look like some, only a place to ate with, but a soft-talkin', sweet-lovin' mouth, wid the kisses growin in clusthers about it that nobody dare have the impudence to pluck off, eh! Mike?"
"Howld your tongue, Ned."
"If Nelly's heart isn't the very bed of love, why thin Cupid's a jackass, that's all. An' thin her teeth; did you notice thim teeth? why pearls is pavin'-stones to them; how they do flash about, as her beautiful round red lips open to let out a voice that's just for all the world like talkin' honey, every word she says slippin' into a fellow's soul, whether he likes it or not. Oh! Mike, Mike, there's no use in talkin', if she isn't an angel, why she ought to be, that's all."
"You're mighty far gone, Ned, an' that's a fact. It's wonderful what a janius a boy has for talkin' nonsense when the soft emotions is stirrin' up his brains. Did you ever spake to her?"
"How the divil could I? I was too busy listenin'; an' more betoken, between you an' me, the rale truth of the matter is, I couldn't do it. Whether it was bewitched I was, or that my sinses got dhrounded wid drinkin' in her charms, makin' a sort of a mouth of my eye, I don't know, but ev'ry time I attempted to say somethin', my tongue, bad luck to it, staggered about as if it was corned, an' the divil a word would it say for itself, bad or good."
"Well, now, only to think. Let me give you a word of advice, Ned; the next time you see her, take it aisy, put a big stone upon your feelin's an' ax about the weather; you see you want to bowlt out all you have to say at once, an' your throat is too little to let it through."
"Be the mortial, an' that's a good advice, Mike, if I can but folly it. This love is a mighty quare affection, ain't it?"
"Thremendious. I had it oncet myself."
"How did you ketch it?"
"I didn't ketch it at all. I took it natural."
"And did you ever get cured, Mike? Tell us."
"Complately."
"How?"
"I got married."
"Oh! let us go to work."
From the foregoing characteristic conversation between Mike Riley and his friend, Ned Flynn, it would appear pretty evident that the blind boy's shaft,
"Feathered with pleasure and tipped with pain,"
was fast embedded in the heart of the latter, or in plainer and not less expressive phrase, he was bothered entirely by Miss Nelly Malone.
During an interval of rest from mowing, the dialogue took place; that over, they resumed their labor; the convalescent "married man" humming a sprightly air, which kept time to the stroke of his scythe, while the poor wounded deer, Ned, came in now and then with an accompaniment of strictly orthodox sighs.
It certainly was a most extensive smite on the part of pretty Nell; and a nobler heart never beat under crimson and gold, than the honest, manly one which now throbbed with the first ardor of a passion pure and unselfish. A short time longer, and they rested again. Ned was sad and silent; and the never-forgotten respect, which makes suffering sacred in the eyes of an Irish peasant, kept Mike mute also; at last, Ned, with a half downcast, whole sheepish expression, said, the ghost of a smile creeping over his features:
"Mike, do you know what?"
"What?" said Mike.
"I've writ a song about Nelly."
"No," rejoined his friend, with that ambiguous emphasis which might as well mean yes. Adding, with dexterous tact, "Is it a song? An' why the mischief shouldn't you; sure an' haven't you as illigant a heart to fish songs up out as anybody else? Sing us it."
"I'm afeard that you'll laugh if I do, Mike."
"Is it me?" replied Mike, so reproachfully that Ned was completely softened. After the making-your-mind-up minute or two, with a fine, clear voice, he sung.
THE ROSE OF TRALEE.All ye sportin' young heroes, wid hearts light an' free,Take care how you come near the town of Tralee;For the witch of all witches that iver wove spellIn the town of Tralee, at this moment does dwell.Oh, then, don't venture near her, be warned by me,For the divil all out is the Rose of Tralee.She's as soft an' as bright as a young summer morn,Her breath's like the breeze from the fresh blossom'd thorn,Her cheek has the sea shell's pale delicate hue,And her lips are like rose leaves just bathed in the dew;So, then, don't venture near her, be warned by me,For she's mighty desthructive, this Rose of Tralee.Oh! her eyes of dark blue, they so heavenly areLike the night sky of summer, an' each holds a star;Were her tongue mute as silence, man'slifethey'd control;But eyes an' tongue both are too much for one'ssoul.Young men, stay at home, then, and leave her to me,For I'd die with delight for the Rose of Tralee.
THE ROSE OF TRALEE.
THE ROSE OF TRALEE.
All ye sportin' young heroes, wid hearts light an' free,Take care how you come near the town of Tralee;For the witch of all witches that iver wove spellIn the town of Tralee, at this moment does dwell.Oh, then, don't venture near her, be warned by me,For the divil all out is the Rose of Tralee.
All ye sportin' young heroes, wid hearts light an' free,
Take care how you come near the town of Tralee;
For the witch of all witches that iver wove spell
In the town of Tralee, at this moment does dwell.
Oh, then, don't venture near her, be warned by me,
For the divil all out is the Rose of Tralee.
She's as soft an' as bright as a young summer morn,Her breath's like the breeze from the fresh blossom'd thorn,Her cheek has the sea shell's pale delicate hue,And her lips are like rose leaves just bathed in the dew;So, then, don't venture near her, be warned by me,For she's mighty desthructive, this Rose of Tralee.
She's as soft an' as bright as a young summer morn,
Her breath's like the breeze from the fresh blossom'd thorn,
Her cheek has the sea shell's pale delicate hue,
And her lips are like rose leaves just bathed in the dew;
So, then, don't venture near her, be warned by me,
For she's mighty desthructive, this Rose of Tralee.
Oh! her eyes of dark blue, they so heavenly areLike the night sky of summer, an' each holds a star;Were her tongue mute as silence, man'slifethey'd control;But eyes an' tongue both are too much for one'ssoul.Young men, stay at home, then, and leave her to me,For I'd die with delight for the Rose of Tralee.
Oh! her eyes of dark blue, they so heavenly are
Like the night sky of summer, an' each holds a star;
Were her tongue mute as silence, man'slifethey'd control;
But eyes an' tongue both are too much for one'ssoul.
Young men, stay at home, then, and leave her to me,
For I'd die with delight for the Rose of Tralee.
And now, after this toploftical illustration of the state of Ned's feelings, and inasmuch as they are about to resume their labor, let us leave them to their mowing, and see after Miss Nelly Malone, for love of whom poor Ned hadtastedof the Pierian spring.
In a neat little chamber, bearing about it the unmistakable evidence of a tidy woman's care, sits the individual herself, her little fingers busily employed in knitting a very small stocking—her own; no trace of wealth is to be seen in this humble abode, but of its more than equivalent, comfort, it is redolent. At the open casement there peep in the blossoms of the honey-suckle and the sweet-pea, filling the air with a perfume, more grateful than art could ever obtain; sundryartlessprints, and here and there a ballad on some heart-breaking subject, probably amongst them the highwayman's autoballadography, wherein he heroically observes,
"I robbed Lord Mansfield, I do declare,And Lady Somebody in Grosvenor Square,"
"I robbed Lord Mansfield, I do declare,And Lady Somebody in Grosvenor Square,"
"I robbed Lord Mansfield, I do declare,
And Lady Somebody in Grosvenor Square,"
are fastened to the walls, decorated with festoons of cut paper of most dazzling variety of color; a fine, plump, contented lark, in an open cage, which he scorns to leave, returns his mistress's caress with a wild, grateful song, whilst, tutored into friendliness, a beautiful sleek puss, whose furry coat glances like satin in the sun-ray, dozes quietly upon the window-sill, indulging in that low purr, which is the sure indication of a happy cat. It is the home of innocence and beauty, fitly tenanted.
And what are pretty Nelly's thoughts, I wonder; a shade of something, which may be anxiety or doubt, but scarcely sorrow, softens the brightness of her lovely face. She speaks, 'twill be no treason to listen. You will perceive that the cat is herconfidante—a discreet one it must be confessed.
"It's foolishness, so it is; isn't it puss?"
Puss doesn't condescend to notice the remark.
"Now, Minny, isn't it, I ask you, isn't it folly, the worst of folly to be thinkin' of one who doesn't think of me? I won't do it any more, that I won't. Heigh 'ho! I wonder if he loves me. I somehow fancy he does, and yet again if he did, why couldn't he say so; there's one thing certain, and that is, I don't lovehim, that is to say, Iwon'tlove him; a pretty thing, indeed, to give my heart to one who wouldn't give me his in return. Thatwouldbe a bad bargain, wouldn't it, puss?"
Pussy acquiesced, for silence, they say, is synonymous.
"But, oh!" resumed Nelly, "if I thought hedidlove me—there, now, I've dropped a stitch—whatamI thinkin' of?—I mustn't give way to such foolishness. Why, the bird is done singin', and Minny is looking angry at me out of her big eyes—don't be jealous, puss, you shall always have your saucer of milk, whatever happens, and—hark! that's his step, it is! he's comin'! I wonder how I look," and running to her little glass, Nelly, with very pardonable vanity, thought those features could not well be improved, and—the most curious part of the matter—she was right.
"He's a long time coming," thought she, as, stealing a glance through the white window-curtain she saw Ned slowly approach the garden gate; gladly would she have flown to meet him, but maidenly modesty restrained her; now he hesitates a moment, takes a full gulp of breath, and nears the house; at every approaching step, Nelly's pulse beat higher; at last she bethought herself it would be more prudent to be employed; so, hastily taking up her work, which was twisted and ravelled into inextricable confusion, with a seeming calm face she mechanically plied her needles, her heart giving one little shiver as Ned rapped a small, chicken-livered rap at the door. Nelly opened it with a most disingenuous, "Ah! Ned, is that you? whowouldhave thought it! Come in, do."
The thermometer of Nelly's feelings was about fever heat, yet she forced the index to remain at freezing point. "Take a chair, won't you?"
And there sat those two beings, whose hearts yearned for each other, looking as frigid as a pair of icicles, gazing on the wall, the floor, pussy, or the lark. Ned suddenly discovered something that wanted a deal of attending to in the band of his hat; whilst Nelly, at the same time, evinced an extraordinary degree of affection for the cat. To say the truth, they were both very far from comfortable. Ned had thoroughly made up his mind to speak this time if ruin followed, and had even gone so far as to have settled upon his opening speech, but Nelly's cold and indifferent "take a chair," frightened every word out of his head; it was essentially necessary that he should try to recover himself, and he seemed to think that twisting his hat into every possible form and tugging at the band were the only possible means by which it could be accomplished. Once more all was arranged, and he had just cleared his throat to begin, when the rascally cat turned sharply round and stared him straight in the face, and in all his life he thought he never saw the countenance of a dumb creature express such thorough contempt.
"It well becomes me," thought he, "to be demeanin' myself before the cat," and away flew his thoughts again.
Of course, all this was very perplexing to Nelly, who, in the expectation of hearing something interesting, remained patiently silent. There was another considerable pause; at last, remembering his friend Mike's advice, and, moreover, cheered by a most encouraging smile from the rapidly-thawing Nell, Ned wound up his feelings for one desperate effort, and bolted out—
"Isn't it fine to day, Miss Malone?"
Breaking the silence so suddenly that Nelly started from her chair, the lark fluttered in the cage, and puss made one jump bang into the garden.
Amazed and terrified by the results of his first essay, fast to the roof of his mouth Ned's tongue stuck once more, and finding it of no earthly use trying to overcome his embarrassment—that the more he floundered about the deeper he got into the mud, he gathered himself up, made one dash through the door, and was off like lightning. Nelly sighed as she resumed her knitting, and this time she was sad in earnest.
"Well, what luck?" said Mike, as, nearly out of breath from running, Ned rejoined him in the meadow. "Have you broke the ice?"
"Bedad, I have," said Ned, "and more betoken, fell into the wather through the hole."
"Why, wouldn't she listen to you?"
"Yes, fast enough, but I didn't give her a chance; my ould complaint came strong upon me. Ora! what's the use in havin' a tongue at all, if it won't wag the words out of a fellow's head. I'm a purty speciment of an omad-haun; there she sot, Mike, lookin' out of the corners of her eyes at me, as much as to say, spake out like a man, with a soft smile runnin' about all over her face, and playing among her beautiful dimples, like the merry moonbame dancin' on the lake. Oh, murther! Mike, what the mischief am I to do? I can't live without her, an' I haven't the heart to tell her so."
"Well, it is disgraceful," replied Mike, "to see a good-lookin' man disparage his country by flinchin from a purty girl; may-be it might do you good to go an' kiss theBlarney Stone."
"That's it," exclaimed Ned, joyously clapping his hands together, and cutting an instinctive caper, "that's it. I wonder I niver thought of it before; I'll walk every stitch of the way, though my legs should drop off before I got half there. Do you think it 'ud do me good to kiss it?"
"Divil a doubt of it—sure it never was known to fail yet," said Mike, oracularly.
"Why, then, may I niver ate a male's vittles, if there's any vartue in the stone, if I don't have it out of it." And that very night, so eager was Ned to get cured of his bashfulness, off he started for Killarney. It was a long and tedious journey, but the thought of being able to speak to Nelly when he returned, was sufficient to drive away fatigue; in due time he reached the far-famed castle,
"On the top of whose wall,But take care you don't fall,There's a stone that contains all the Blarney!"
"On the top of whose wall,But take care you don't fall,There's a stone that contains all the Blarney!"
"On the top of whose wall,
But take care you don't fall,
There's a stone that contains all the Blarney!"
Mike climbed with caution, discovered the identical spot, and believing implicitly that his troubles were now at an end, knelt, and with a heart-whole prayer for his absent Nelly, reverently kissedThe Blarney Stone.
True, devoted love had lent him strength to overcome the difficulties of access, and imagination, that powerful director of circumstance, did the rest. It was with humility and diffidence he had approached the object of his pilgrimage, but he descended from it with head erect and countenance elated; he could now tell his burning thoughts inherear; he was a changed man; a very pretty girl, who officiated as guide, and upon whose pouting lips, report says, the efficacy of the charm has been frequently put to the test, met him at the archway of the castle—for no other reason in the world than merely to try if he were sufficiently imbued with the attractive principle—Ned watched an opportunity, and, much more to his own astonishment than to hers, gave her a hearty kiss, starting back to watch the effect. She frowned not, she did not even blush. Ned was delighted; his end was obtained.
"He could kiss who he plazed with his Blarney;" consequently, feeling supremely happy, without losing another moment, he retraced his steps homeward.
Meantime, Nelly missed her silent swain, whose absence tended materially to strengthen the feeling of affection which she entertained for him; day after day crept on, yet he came not; and each long hour of watching riveted still more closely her heart's fetters. Now, for the first time, she acknowledged to herself how essential he was to her happiness, and with a fervent prayer that the coming morning might bring him to her side, she closed each day. Her wonder at last at his continued absence quickened into anxiety, and from anxiety into alarm. Jealousy, without which there cannot be a perfect love, spread its dark shadow o'er her soul, and she was wretched. In vain she reasoned with herself; the sun of her existence seemed suddenly to be withdrawn, and all was gloom; even the very bird, appearing to share his mistress's mood, drooped his wing and was silent; so much are externals influenced by the spirit of the hour, that her homey chamber felt comfortless and solitary. Nelly loved with a woman's love, devotedly, intensely, wholly; to lose him would be to her the loss of all that rendered life worth living for; hers was an affection deserving that which was given in lieu, although as yet she knew it not.
Gazing out one day in the faint hope of seeing something of her beloved, her heart gave one sudden and tremendous bound. She saw him—he had returned at last. But how changed in demeanor. Can her eyes deceive her? No. Her heart tells her it is he, and it could not err.
Instead of the downcast look and hesitating step, joy laughed forth from his face, and his tread was easy, rollicking, and careless; as he came nearer, she thought she heard him sing; he did sing! what could it portend? Had he found one who knew how to break the shell of reserve? 'Twas torture to think so, and yet it was the first image that presented itself to her anxious heart. It was now her turn to be tongue-tied, dumb from agitation; she could not utter a syllable, but trembling to the very core, sat silently awaiting what she feared was to prove the funeral knell of her departed happiness.
With a merry song upon his lips, Ned lightly bounded over the little paling, and in a minute more was in her presence. Speak or move she could not, nor did his first salutation place her more at ease.
"Nelly," said he, "you drove me to it, but it's done! it's done!"
"What's done—what can he mean?" thought Nelly, more agitated than ever.
"It's all over now," he continued, "for I've kissed it. Don't you hear me, Nelly? I say I've kissed it."
"In heaven's name," cried the pale, trembling girl, "what do you mean—kissed who?"
"Nowhoat all," said Ned, laughingly, "butit, I've kissedit."
"Kissed what?"
"Why, the Blarney Stone, to be sure," screamed out Ned, flinging his hat at pussy, and executing an extremely complicated double-shuffle in the delight of the moment; indeed, conducting himself altogether in a manner which would have jeopardized the sanity of any one but a love-stricken Irishman.
"Sure it was all for you, Nelly, mavourneen, that I did it; it has loosened the strings of my tongue, and now I can tell you how deeply your image is burnin' within my very heart of hearts, you bright-eyed, beautiful darling!"
What more he said or did, it will be unnecessary for me to relate; suffice it to say that the world-renowned talisman lost none of its efficacy on this particular occasion. One observation of pretty Nell's, I think is worthy of record. At the close of a most uninteresting conversation, to anybody but themselves, the affectionate girl whispered to him:
"Dear Ned, you needn't have gone so far!"
The course of true love sometimesdoesrun smooth, a great authority to the contrary, nevertheless, for in about three weeks' time, the chapel bells rang merrily for the wedding of Edward and Nelly. Aye, and what's more, neither of them had ever cause to regret Ned's visit toThe Blarney Stone.
A finer looking fellow could not be met with in a day's walk than Gerald Desmond, the only son of the wealthy widow Desmond, her pride and sole comfort; tall and strikingly handsome, he had that buoyant, reckless air and continuous flow of spirits which would indicate the possessor of a heart, over whose welfare the gales of adversity had but lightly swept.
At the period which commences my narrative, he is holding an animated conversation with his foster-brother and fast friend, Frank Carolan. Frank is also a fine, manly specimen of humanity, much more humbly dressed than his companion, yet still with a something of superiority about him, which would prevent a stranger from passing by without a second look. The substance of their conversation may afford a key to their pursuits and feelings.
"Don't talk to me about Biddy Magra. I tell you she's not to be compared to Judy Murphy," said Gerald.
"May-be she isn't, and then again, may-be she is," very logically replied Frank, with the manner of one who did not exactly like to contradict his superior, or altogether give up his own opinion.
"Did you ever see a prettier girl than Judy?" inquired Gerald.
"Hum! It strikes me that I have, once or twice," said Frank, which was very probable, seeing that he had the prettiest girl in the county for a sister, a fact which Gerald well knew, although, as yet, he hardly dared to acknowledge it to himself.
"No you haven't—you couldn't, there isn't, there shan't be anything to equal her within a hundred miles," continued Gerald, partly for the sake of argument, and partly because he really did think so at the moment. "And if I could only bring myself to abandon the delicious society of the charming sex, and concentrate the affections of Gerald Desmond upon one individual, she would be the enviable person."
"So you've said to every decent-lookin' colleen that came near you ever since you've had a heart to feel. You're as changeable as the moon."
"I was, I was; but now I'm fixed, settled, constant as the sun."
"Mighty like the sun, that has a warm beam for every planet, or may-be more like a parlor stove, that burns up any sort of coal. You'll never be steady to one, Gerald."
"Well, we'll see. I've loved Judy three weeks without stopping, and that's a good sign; but I'm going to have a game at loo, and top up with a jollification; you must come along, Frank."
"No, no, master Gerald; it's well enough for you golden-spoon folks to waste time, but I am one of the unfortunate wooden-ladle people. I must go to work."
"Work! Hang work," cried Gerald, who never suffered an obstacle to remain which opposed his will or pleasure. "You needn't want money while I'm with you, Frank. Come, only this once; deuce take it, let us enjoy the present, and let to-morrow look out for itself. I shan't ask you again—only this once."
"Well, then," said Frank, irresolutely, "I'll go, but remember, 'tisonly for this once."
"Only for this once." How often, without thinking of its awful import, has thisliebeen uttered! Let the soul butfor oncediverge from the appointed path, how difficult to return! But when to each seductive voice which beckons from the way-side, the victim cries, I shall enjoy theebut for once, 'tis led so far astray, through such deep windings and such adverse mazes, that when it would retrace its steps, the consequences of each evil deed have so obscured, planted with thorns, or destroyed the road, 'tis the finger of infinite mercy alone which can conduct it safely back.
Gerald Desmond and his foster-brother passed that night, as too many had been passed before, in drunkenness and riot.
Now, although engaged in the same vicious employment, there was great difference in the actuating principles of these two young men. Gerald, as yet unchecked by reason, was at this time an uncompromisingroué, plunging in every degree of dissipation, with a heart resolved to drain the cup of enjoyment to the very dregs, and have it filled and filled again. Whereas, Frank's easy, yielding disposition, acted upon by the charm of companionship and the circumstances of the moment, caused him to be placed in such situations, actually against his better judgment; association only leading him into vicious scenes, which a lack of prudential resolution prevented him from being able to avoid. In fact, Gerald invariably said,yes!and Frank, had not sufficient self-command to say,no!
The strong friendship which frequently attends the adventitious relationship of foster-brotherhood, brought them almost always together, and as Gerald, from his position, was naturally the leader, their lives were passed in a continual round of miscalled amusement.
However, as we often find that when very dear friends quarrel, it is with a bitterness more than equal to their former kindliness of feeling, so it was with Gerald and Frank. They fell out, during one of their drinking encounters; something trivial commenced it, but one word brought on another, until the little spark swelled to a flame, and the poor remains of reason, left uninjured by the liquor, were scorched to fury in the fire of anger. The difference in their dispositions evinced itself powerfully. Gerald, foaming with rage, was violent and ungovernable, while Frank, whose mind was infinitely superior, was cool and calm, though inly suffering from suppressed choler.
"Where," exclaimed the former, dashing his hand on the table, "where would you have been now, were it not for me?"
"Where?" replied Frank, with a smile whichlookedreal; "why, in my bed, dreaming quiet dreams; a thing I shall never do again."
"Whose fault is that?"
"Yours," said Frank, sternly regarding him, "yours. Is this my place? Would I have been here of my own will? No—you led me step by step from content into this brutal degradation."
"But you had your wits about you," fiercely retorted Gerald; "this is my thanks for condescending to make you my companion; the base blood is in you; ingratitude is the sure sign of the low-born."
Frank's cheeks flushed crimson, his teeth ground together, and the blood rushed to his head with a bound; after a moment's pause, he replied, with a terrible effort to be calm, "Gerald Desmond, I am, as you say, low-born, but not base; a son of toil, but no slave; a poor, but still an independent man; nursed in poverty, I own that I am no fit company for you. My hand would bear no comparison with yours; 'tis labor-hardened, while yours is lady-soft, and yet, if our hearts were put into the scale, I mistake much if the overweight would not make up the difference."
Annoyed by the quiet coolness of his manner, Gerald lost all control.
"You poor, miserable child of beggary," he cried, "avoid my sight. Leave me. Dare to cross my path again, and I shall strike you to my feet."
At these words Frank smiled; it was a small but most expressive smile; Gerald felt its influence in his very brain.
"I'll do it now," he screamed, foaming with rage, and springing full at Frank's throat; but he calmly disengaged himself, and with one effort of his tremendous strength, took Gerald up in his powerful arms, and could have dashed him to the ground, but contented himself with quietly replacing him in the chair, exclaiming—
"Learn to forgive, Gerald Desmond, and condescend to accept a lesson from your inferior. Farewell," and ere the other could reply, maddened as he was by rage and mortification, he was gone.
"The ruffian!" savagely exclaimed Gerald. "If I don't wring his heart for this may I inherit everlasting torture."
How he fulfilled his oath we shall see in time.
In no very enviable mood, Frank Carolan sought his humble home; bitterly he repented ever having known Desmond, and firmly he resolved to give up all acquaintance which had grown out of this association, and depend for the future upon his own honest exertions. Brave resolve, seriously and sacredly intended at the time, as all good resolutions usually are.
The only being that Frank cared for in the world was his sister Mary—a bright and beautiful young creature, just bursting into womanhood, graceful as a wild fawn, and as timid; unselfishly and wholly, with a most absorbing love, he lovedher. Upon reaching home, he found her in tears, grieving for his prolonged absence, for it was early morning; but the moment he appeared, the rain-drops of sorrow fled, and joy's own bright ray sparkled in her face once more.
"Where have you been so late, dear Frank?" she murmured, as he kissed her dewy eyes.
"Where, I solemnly promise, my own Mary, never to go again."
"You were with Gerald Desmond, were you not?"
"I was! But he and I are brothers, friends, no longer."
"The saints be praised for it," fervently cried his sister. "There is something about Desmond's eyes that frightens me. 'Tis good for neither of us that he should be too near."
"Has he been here, Mary?"
"Oh! yes, several times, but only to inquire for you," she added, hastily.
"You must avoid him, Mary, for he is a serpent; there's a fascination about that man that even I cannot resist. He has destroyed me; lured me from my contented humbleness to taste of luxury; and now, like the beast which has once drunk of blood, 'twill be hard for me to avoid the seductive banquet. Shun him, Mary, for your brother's sake."
"Dear Frank, doubt me not," firmly replied Mary. "If you do fear my womanly weakness, I here swear, by this blessedGospel Charmmy mother placed around my neck, before she died, never to do the deed which shall cause her spirit to frown, or my brother's cheek to glow with shame."
"My bright-eyed, beautiful Mary, I believe you. God bless you, core of my heart; 'tis for your well-doing only I exist," fervently exclaimed Frank. "Go to your rest, darling; 'tis the last time it shall be broken by me; to-morrow shall find me a new man. Good night."
Mary retired, and her brother felt relieved at heart, for a more solemn oath could not be imagined than that which she had sworn. The Gospel Charm, which consists of a text from Scripture, selected and consecrated by the priest, is held to be of peculiar efficacy, and a promise made by it is scarcely ever known to be broken.
No man ever went to bed with a more fixed determination to begin a new and better life on the morrow than did Frank, and yet that very morrow saw his resolution shaken, nay, altogether abandoned. During the night a plan of terrible revenge had been conceived by Gerald Desmond, and to carry out his design, it was necessary that the breach between him and Frank should be apparently healed up.
Frank began the day well, cultivating his little farm, inly rejoicing in his emancipation from evil society, and glowing with that proud self gratification which the exercise of industrious habits ever produces. In the midst of this happy feeling, who should he perceive but Gerald Desmond rapidly approaching? His first impulse was, as usual, right. "I will not listen to him," he thought, retiring in an opposite direction, when he was arrested by the hilarious voice of Gerald calling to him:
"Frank, my friend! my brother, will you not forgive?"
The tones reached into his inmost heart; he paused for an instant, but 'twas enough—Gerald reached him, and, looking cordially in his face, held forth his hand. Frank grasped it earnestly, and ere many moments had elapsed their friendship was renewed, with full sincerity by one, and crafty dissimulation by the other. Alas for good intentions, when unassisted by Heaven's pardoning grace! The vitiating practices of former days were again indulged in, and all Frank's so seemingly virtuous resolutions were drowned in the accursed, soul-enslaving drink.
Some few days after this reconciliation, Gerald took Frank aside, and having first bound him to secrecy, thus began to unfold his design.
"Frank, my boy," said he, "I am in great need of your assistance; will you give it to me?"
"That will I, Gerald," uttered Frank, "with all my heart."
"Nay, but you must promise to do so, even though against your inclination; it is a matter of the most vital moment to me?"
"If Icanhelp you, I will."
"Say that you will, for I know you can."
"Well, then, I will, whatever it is."
"Enough. Then you must know that I have a little affair of the heart."
"Another?"
"The last, as I am a true lover; all I want you to do is to write a note for me. I am fearful that my own hand-writing would be known, added to which, I have disabled my fingers by an accident."
"Yes, but may I not know who the object is?" inquired Frank.
"Come, come, you wouldn't ask that. It would be dishonorable in me to tell you; suffice it to say that she is a lovely creature, young, innocent, and confiding. I have everything arranged to carry her off this very night."
"You mean to marry her, of course?" said Frank, seriously.
"Marry?" laughingly replied Gerald; "come, that's a devilish good joke; do you see any symptoms of insanity about me? No, no, I mean to honor her with my society for a few months, and then"——
"Then cast her off, to the scorn of an uncharitable world. Gerald, friend, pause a moment, think! I know your heart is not entirely rotten."
"My dear fellow, I have thought, reasoned with myself, but all to no avail; one word for all. 'Tis necessary to my happiness that I should possess this girl. You pretend to be my friend; will you prove it by doing this small service for me?"
Good intent said no, but irresolution stepped in as usual, and all was lost.
"Dictate," said Frank, sadly; "'tis sorely against my inclination, but rather than you should doubt my friendship, Iwilldo it."
"Good fellow," delightedly exclaimed Gerald; "now, let me see; we must use stratagem. Begin—
"'Dear Mary.'"
At the mention of that name, Frank gave an involuntary shudder. He looked straight into the eyes of Gerald, but they returned his gaze without a change of expression, and the monstrous thought was smothered in its birth.
"Have you written 'Dear Mary?'" said Gerald, calmly.
"I have! go on."
"'Business of a sudden and imperative nature calls me away. I shall need your presence and advice; trust yourself unhesitatingly to the man who delivers this; he is my dearest friend.'"
"Whom is this supposed to come from?" inquired Frank.
"Oh," said Gerald, carelessly, "from her brother."
"Her brother! has she then a brother? God in heaven helphim! Ah! Gerald, this is frightful; let me entreat of you to abandon your intent; think of the load of misery the indulgence of one evanescent, selfish gratification will entail on all this poor girl's friends;" and Frank knelt and took Gerald's hand in his. For an instant, all the good in the heart of the latter floated to the surface, but he thought of the degradation he had endured, and revenge sank it down again.
"Come, come," he cried, "no more sermons if you please; you have obliged me so much that I can scarcely tell you, and now remain here until I return. I shall not be long; there's a bottle of Inishowen, sugar, lemons, and hot water; make yourself quite at home. Depend upon it, you shall soon be amply repaid for all you have done for me." So saying, he went out, and Frank was left alone.
Half an hour, an hour, passed away, and Gerald did not return. In spite of himself, sad, fearfully sad thoughts brooded over Frank's spirits. In vain he resorted to the stimulant so lavishly provided for him; the more he drank, the more terrible were the imaginings which crowded into his very heart and brain; at last, unable longer to endure the suspense, and actuated by an impulse for which he could not account, he suddenly started up to return home—what was his surprise to find the door locked? He rushed to the window—it was strongly secured. A vague, indefinite sensation of terror crept through his frame—he was a prisoner, for what purpose—great heaven! if it should be that to which his imagination sometimes pointed, only to be abandoned again from its very intensity of horror. He screamed aloud—echo only answered him. Lost, bewildered, almost bereft of reason, now would he pace rapidly to and fro; now stand stone still. The live-long night he remained in that lonely chamber, a prey to every torture that could reach the soul of man—minutes swelled into days, a long year of common-place existence was compressed into those few hours. He prayed, cursed, raved alternately, nor could the fearful quantity he drank drown reason in forgetfulness. Slowly the dim grey of morning began to break—anon, the gleesome lark flew upward to greet the sun with his matin song, and yet no sign of Gerald. The door was at last unlocked—Frank rushed through, and with instinctive dread sought his home. Scarcely pausing to draw breath, in a state of utter exhaustion he reached the cottage, burst open the door, and flew into the room—it was empty!
"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:—