'She's mine, willingly mine, thanks to thy kindly help.Physician, cure thyself—now 'Learn to forgive.'"Gerald."
'She's mine, willingly mine, thanks to thy kindly help.Physician, cure thyself—now 'Learn to forgive.'
'She's mine, willingly mine, thanks to thy kindly help.
Physician, cure thyself—now 'Learn to forgive.'
"Gerald."
"Gerald."
It having been shown that Gerald's diabolical scheme, so far as the abduction went, was carried out with entire success, pass we now a month. Gerald has established himself in the capital, having provided Mary with an elegant suite of apartments, under the same roof with himself, although not immediately adjoining. His behavior to her was studiously kind, tempered with thorough respect; hoping by such means slowly and insidiously to reach his aim through the medium of her own affection.
Poor Mary herself hardly dared to think; for her temperament was of that soft and womanly nature, which rendered it impossible for her to contend energetically against the assaults of the world—that most beautiful of all female characteristics, which is content to look up to and to reverence, yearning for some natural support and protection, and clinging to it when discovered with an enduring tenacity, only to be found in such a woman's love.
To all her inquiries concerning Frank, Gerald answered evasively, but to her satisfaction; still treating her with the greatest possible show of reserve and kindness, his manner imperceptibly increasing in fervor day by day—letting it be inferred more by his looks than words that she was dearer to him than he dared to acknowledge. The consequence of this specious manœuvering began gradually to make itself evident in the state of Mary's feelings. Now she involuntary hoped for his coming—seriously deploring his departure; his fiend-like intent was in a fair way to be completed, when his own impetuosity destroyed the vile fabric. Encouraged by her quiet, passive manner, he ventured prematurely to unfold his guilty purpose. Who can describe the terrible revulsion of feeling which took place in Mary's soul when the full certainty of his guilty design was made apparent? With a mighty effort she checked the burning flood of passion which swelled up from her heart, and subduing herself into perfect calmness, listened to his infamous proposal. A deep hectic glow on each cheek, and a slight difficulty in respiration only evidencing her intense emotion. What more he said she knew not—heard not—for while he was pouring forth some wild rhapsody she was in deep communion with her soul. Construing her submissive silence advantageously to himself, he quitted the apartment. The instant he left her presence, the pent up current of her feelings burst all bounds. She flung herself upon her knees and wept a prayer of agony—the helpless, almost hopeless appeal of innocence within the very grasp of vice; kissing her mother's gift, the Gospel Charm, she bathed it in tears, imploring it to save her from this dreadful crisis. This outpouring of her spirit calmed and soothed her, for in her extremity there came a thought of safety. To think was to resolve, and ere many moments had elapsed, with a firm reliance on the help of a merciful Providence, Mary quitted the house. It was nearly midnight—dark and bitterly cold—yet she cared not for the darkness—felt not the chilling blast; unknown and friendless, she knew not where to go, but wandered street after street, satisfied that she was away from him who had so cruelly insulted her. Hurrying on, she knew not whither, she suddenly came in contact with a well-known form; recoiling a step or two, they gazed on each other for an instant. 'Twas thus met the brother and his sister. That chance which he had hungered for, week after week, had occurred at last; seizing her in a nervous gripe, Frank dragged her to the nearest lamp. "Mary," he exclaimed, in a voice trembling from suppressed passion, a wild fire flashing from his eyes, "are you still worthy to be called my sister?"
"Brother, I am," meekly replied Mary.
"You are nothiscast-away?"
"No! by my mother's dying gift."
"To a merciful God be all the praise," fervently cried Frank, as he folded her to his heart with a thrill of rapture.
"My own blessed, sorely-tempted lamb! But where is he? Come, show me where to find him. He shall not escape. 'Tis no fault of his, curse him, that you are not foul as sin; lead me to the place."
"Not now, dear Frank," touchingly exclaimed Mary. "Perhaps I may have feared more wrong than was intended. Who is there amongst us that can say, I have never harbored an evil design? Let us be thankful that the wicked hour is passed, and leave the punishment inHispower whose province it is to judge the hearts of men."
"Do you forgive him?"
"From my inmost soul, and more for his sake than my own, rejoice that his bad design is unaccomplished."
"You love him, then?" fiercely inquired Frank.
Mary was silent.
"The snake—the fiend—had you not been all angel, the specious villain would have succeeded. Mary, I will, I must see him; if I do not give my burning thoughts an utterance, they will consume my very heart."
"Let it be to-morrow, then, dear Frank."
"Be it so. Come, dear one, I have still a home for you; a pure, though lowly one. Had you been guilty, tempted as you were, your brother's arms would never have closed against you; but now your triumphant innocence will bless with happiness our frugal meal, and make your humble couch a bed of flowers."
Upon the morrow Frank redeemed his word. With a heart thirsting for revenge he sought Gerald's apartment, but did not meet there the bold, reckless libertine that he expected. Throwing himself at Frank's very feet, in wild but heart-uttered tones, Gerald cried:
"I know why you have come, but she has left me; know you anything of her? Oh! for heaven's sake relieve my anxiety—you have not harmed her—upon me, wreak all your vengeance, for I deserve it, but she is pure, pure as the spotless snow. My base, black-hearted villainy has recoiled upon myself. I would have destroyed her, and am myself destroyed if she is lost to me. Say but that she is safe, and I'll coin my very heart for her and you."
Softened, subdued by the now evident sincerity of Gerald's manner, Frank assured him of her safety.
"I thank thee, merciful heaven," fervently cried Gerald, "that one sin more damning than the rest is spared my guilty soul. Mary, beloved Mary, 'tis thy angelic virtue which has crushed the fiend-spirit that has hitherto controlled my sense. 'Tis she, and she only can protect and guide the heart which her innocence has reclaimed."
"What do you mean, Gerald?"
"That if she will receive in marriage this guilty but repentant wretch, it may be that the destroyer shall have one victim the less. Frank, dare I to call you once more brother? Intercede for me, will you not? The happiness of my life, nay, the sole hope of my eternal soul rests now with her."
Gerald's repentance having been proved sincere, it was not long ere Mary yielded a heartful assent to his proposition, and as Frank at the holy altar delivered her over to the sweet custody of a husband, his heart whispered to him that he was now tasting most exquisite revenge. The sacred influence of a virtuous love haloed the after lives of Gerald and Mary with content most ample, and, although her state was changed from humility to comparative affluence, she never laid aside her mother's parting gift, but regarding it as her protection in the hour of danger, still cherished near her heartThe Gospel Charm.
"Thou shalt do no murder."
"You won't dance with me, Kathleen?"
"No, Luke, I will not."
"For what reason?"
"I don't choose it. Besides, I'm engaged to Mark Dermot."
The above, very slight conversation in itself, was to the individuals, full of the greatest import. To explain it, it will be necessary to take a Parthian glance at our subject. Kathleen Dwyer was the pretty, spoiled, village pet, with quite sufficient vanity to know that the preference was deserved. Every young man in the place was anxious to pay court to her, and sooth to say, she impartially dispensed her smiles to all, reserving, it must be admitted, her more serious thoughts for one alone. That one was Luke Bryant, and as he really loved her, the flightiness of her conduct, and her interminable flirtations gave him very great uneasiness. Often and often would he reason with her, imploring her to dismiss the crowd of purposeless suitors that ever fluttered round, and select one, even though that selection would doom him to misery.
"No, no!" the little madcap would say, with a bright smile, "I cannot give up altogether the delight of having so many male slaves in my train; they are useful, and if you don't like it you know your remedy."
"But do you think it is right?" he would say; "suppose there may be some, even one who loves you truly, to lead him on by the false light of your encouraging smile, to perish at last?"
"Pshaw!" would she answer, "men are not made of such perishable stuff."
"Well, well, Kathleen, have a care; if any one of your numerous admirers feels towards you as I do, to lose you would be the loss of everything."
As may be reasonably supposed, these conversations usually ended in a little tiff, when the wild, good-hearted, but giddy-headed girl would select some one from her surrounding beaux, to play off against Luke; generally pitching upon the person most likely to touch his feelings to the very quick; herself, the while, I must do her the justice to say, quite as miserable if not more so, than her victim.
And now to return, let me describe the individual whom she has this time chosen to inflict torture upon her lover, and I think you will agree with me that he has cause for more than discontent.
Mark Dermot, or, as he was most generally denominated, Black Mark, was one of those persons we sometimes meet with in the world, on whom prepossessing appearance and great natural ability are bestowed, only to be put to the basest possible uses. Character he had none, except of the very worst kind; his ostensible pursuit was smuggling, but crimes of the darkest nature were freely whispered about him, and yet, in spite of all this, his dashing dare-devil nature and indomitable impudence, enabled him to show himself in places where, although his evil reputation was well known, he was tolerated either from supineness, or more likely from the fear of his enmity.
It is not to be wondered at then, that as Luke stood by and saw this ruffian carry off his soul's beloved, his very heart should quake from apprehension. He was unaware until this moment that she ever knew him, and his feelings, as ever and anon Mark would seem to whisper something in Kathleen's ear, to which she would seem to smile an approval, can only be imagined by such of my readers, if any there be, who have seen another feeding upon smiles which they would fain monopolize.
Jealousy of the most painful nature took possession of Luke; he had often experienced sensations of annoyance before, but never to this extent. Her fame—her character—were compromised; for he knew Black Mark to be the very worst description of man for a woman to come in contact with at all, caring nothing for the ties of morality, or for the world's opinion—reckless, bad-hearted, and moreover uncomfortably handsome in the eyes of a lover.
The dance now over, Luke imagined that she would give up her partner and join him; but no, the silly girl seemed proud of her conquest, and to take a sort of mad delight in wounding Luke's feelings to the uttermost. She approached the spot where Luke with folded arms was standing, and leaning familiarly upon the arm of Mark, said laughingly:
"Why don't you dance, Luke? Come, I'll find a partner for you."
Galled to the very quick, Luke answered with asperity—"Thank you, Miss Dwyer, you have found one for yourself, and"—looking at Black Mark, as a jealous lover only can look—"you'll pardon me, but I don't like the sample."
Mark regarded him with a scowl of the deepest malignity, while Kathleen, the real feelings of her heart kept down by coquetry, exclaimed with a laugh:—
"Don't mind him, Mark, he's only jealous, poor fellow. Come, will you not dance again?"
"Aye, and again, and for ever," impetuously replied Mark; "Come."
And as they went to rejoin the dancers, Kathleen caught the expression of Luke's features, and there saw so much misery depicted, that she would have given worlds to have recalled her words. She yearned to implore his forgiveness, but her insatiable appetite for admiration restrained her. "Never mind," thought she, "when the dance is over, I can easily make it up with him," and away she went, thinking no more about it.
At the conclusion of the dance, her better feelings all predominating, she quitted Mark and rushed over to the place where Luke had been standing, but he was gone; with that unfeeling speech rankling in his heart, he had left. It was now her turn to be miserable; not all the soft speeches that were poured into her ear had power to console her, but her annoyance was at its height when Black Mark, presuming upon the encouragement which she had given him, seated himself beside her, and in ardent language declared himself her passionate lover. Poor, unthinking Kathleen, she had evoked a spirit which she had not power to quell.
It was more than a week after, before Luke could bring himself to venture near Kathleen; but finding that each succeeding day only made him still more wretched, he determined to know his fate at once, and with a sorely palpitating heart he neared her abode, lifted the latch, and entered; the first sight that met his eyes was Mark and Kathleen, sitting near to each other, the deep blush that crimsoned her to the very throat, evinced to Luke the interesting nature of their conversation. She could not speak, neither could he, but giving her one look which sank into her very brain, he left the place; in vain she called after him, he turned but once—a deep curse was on his lips but his noble heart refused to sanction it. "Farewell, beloved Kathleen," he cried, while bitter tears flowed fast as he spoke, "May the good God protect you now, for you will need it." And Luke rapidly strode towards the village, inly determining to go to sea on the morrow, and never look upon her or his loved home again.
Meanwhile, Kathleen, apprehensive that he would do something desperate, implored Mark to follow and bring him back. With a contemptuous sneer, he answered, "Do you think I'm a fool? No, no! Kathleen, you've gone too far with me to retract now. The world sees and knows our intimacy; the only barrier to our happiness was your foolish lover, Luke—he has taken the sulks, and gone away—our road is now clear. I love you better than a hundred such milk-sops as he could, so come—say the word!"
"That word," replied Kathleen, firmly, "shall never be said by me."
"Have a care, girl!" fiercely retorted Mark, "I'm not a man to be trifled with; you have led me to believe that you liked me, and youshallredeem the pledge your eyes at least have given."
"Never! Mark Dermot, never!" exclaimed Kathleen, rising from her seat; but with a fierce gesture, and a determined fire in his eye, Mark forced her down again, saying, in a clear, but terribly earnest manner: "Kathleen, from my youth up, I never allowed the slightest wish of my soul to be thwarted; think you that I shall submit to be led or driven, coaxed near, or sent adrift, at the caprice of any living thing?—no! if you can't be mine from love, you shall from fear; for," ratifying his threat by a fearful oath, "no obstacle shall exist between me and my desire."
"What mean you, Mark Dermot?" cried the terrified girl.
"No matter," he replied, "the choice rests with you. You cannot deny that your manner warranted me in soliciting your hand. Remember, love and hate dwell very near each other—the same heart contains them both. Be mine, and every wish of your soul shall be anticipated—refuse me, and tremble at the consequences."
"Heaven forgive, and help me," inly prayed Kathleen, as the result of her weak conduct now made itself so awfully apparent. Thinking to enlist some good feeling from Mark's generosity, she frankly acknowledged to him that her affections were entirely bestowed upon the absent Luke.
She knew not the demon-heart in which she had trusted; instead of inclining him to mercy, her words only inflamed him into tenfold rage.
"Vile woman!" he exclaimed, starting to his feet. "Have you then been making a scoff and jest—a play-thing and a tool of me? Better for you had you raised a fiend than tampered with me thus. How know I that you do not lie, even now, woman-devil? One word for all!—by your eternal hope, who is it that you do love?"
"On my knees—Luke Bryant," fervently said Kathleen.
"Then wo to ye both!" cried Mark, casting her rudely from him, and, with a look of intense hate, rushing from the cottage.
There was a perfect tempest of rage in Mark's breast, as he quitted Kathleen; plans of revenge, deadly and horrible, suggested themselves to him, and he nursed the devilish feeling within his heart until every humanizing thought was swallowed up in the anticipation of a sweeping revenge. On reaching the village, his first care was to find Luke; upon seeing him, he started as though a serpent stood in his path.
"Keep away from me, Mark Dermot," he sternly exclaimed. "If you are come to triumph in your success, be careful, for there may be danger in it."
"Luke," replied the other, in a sad tone, "we are rivals no longer. Nay, listen, I bring you good news, there are not many who would have done this; but what care I now—the fact is, like a sensible man, I am come to proclaim my own failure. Kathleen has refused me."
"She has?"
"As true as I'm alive—rejected me for you, Luke. Nay, as good as told me that she merely flirted with me to fix your chains the tighter. Cunning little devil—eh, Luke? Come, you'll shake hands with me now, I know."
"If I could believe you, Mark," said Luke, the joy dancing in his very eyes.
"I tell you she acknowledged to me that she never could love any one but you. Now am I not a generous rival, to carry his mistress's love to another? She requested me to ask you to call in this morning, if you would have conclusive proof of her sincerity, and you would then find thatshe could never use you so again. But now 'tis getting late, and as I have delivered my message, I shall leave you to dream of Kathleen and happiness. Good night—be sure and see her in the morning;" and they parted.
Soon afterwards, Luke missed his clasp-knife with which he had been eating his supper, but, after a slight search, thought no more of the matter, his very soul glowing with renewed delight at the thought of seeing his loved one on the morrow—that their differences should be made up, and all again be sunshine.
About an hour after, as he was preparing to retire for the night, it suddenly occurred to him that he would like to take a walk towards Kathleen's cottage—perchance he should see her shadow on the curtain—he might hear her sweet voice—no matter, to gaze upon the home that contained her would at least be something; so off he started in that direction, a happy feeling pervading his every sense. Arrived within sight of her abode, he fancied he heard a stifled groan, but his thoughts, steeped in joy, dwelt not on it. In a moment after, a distinct and fearful scream, as of one in agony, burst on the stillness of the night. It came from the direction of Kathleen's cottage. Inspired with a horrible fear, he ran wildly forward—another, and another terrible scream followed; there was no longer doubt—it was the voice of his Kathleen. With mad desperation, he reached the place just in time to see the figure of a man, who, in the doubtful light, he could not recognize, rush from the door and disappear in darkness. In breathless horror Luke entered. Great Heaven! what a sight met his eyes. His beloved Kathleen lay on the blood-dabbled floor, in the last agony of departing nature, her beating heart pierced with many wounds; she saw and evidently recognized Luke, for 'mid the desperate throes of ebbing life, she clutched his hand in hers, essaying, but in vain, to articulate—she could but smile; her eye glazed over—her hand relaxed its grasp—and with her gentle head resting on his breast, her spirit passed away.
All this was so sudden and fearfully unexpected to Luke, that he scarcely knew 'twas reality, until several of the surrounding neighbors, who had been alarmed by the out-cry, came hastily in.
"See!" cried one, "'Tis as I thought; murder has been done."
"And here is the fatal instrument with which it has been effected," said another, as he picked up a gory knife from the floor. It caught the eye of Luke. "That knife is mine," said he, in the measured tone of one stricken down by terrible calamity.
"Yours?" they all exclaimed at once. "Then you have murdered her?"
Luke only smiled—a ghastly, soul-crushed smile, most awful to look upon at such a time; his heart was too full for words. Reason, which had been dethroned by this unexpected blow, had scarcely yet returned to its seat, for all unconsciously he still held the lifeless form tightly clasped in his arms, gazing, with a sort of stony expression, upon the face of her who had been to him the world.
It was not until they approached to seize him for killingher, that he seemed to be thoroughly aware of his position.
"What would you do, friends?" said he, mournfully, as they endeavored to force him away. "Would you deny me the sad comfort of dying in her presence?"
"Have you not murdered her, wretch?" cried one of the by-standers.
"What!—murderher—God in heaven forbid," he exclaimed.
"Is not this your knife?"
"It is!"
"And how came it here—if not used by you—in this unknown manner?"
"It was stolen from me by that arch-demon, Mark Dermot," said Luke, shuddering to the very heart, as he mentioned that name.
"That has got to be proved," cried one of the crowd, who happened to be a friend of Mark's, "we can't take your bare word for it. Let him be secured."
But Luke needed no securing. Listlessly he suffered them to pinion his arms; and in the same room with the precious casket which once contained his heart's treasure, he abided the remainder of the night, in a state of mental torture utterly incapable of being rendered into words.
The morning after this awful occurrence, a coroner's jury was summoned, and the identity of the knife having been proved, added to his own admission, and the fact of his having had a quarrel with her the day before being testified to, every circumstance tended to fix the guilt upon him; a verdict was delivered accordingly, and Luke Bryant stood charged with the murder of one for whom he would willingly have shed his last drop of blood.
With a degree of effrontery consonant with his general character, Black Mark made his appearance amongst the spectators who attended the inquiry, and was loudest in denunciation against the supposed criminal. It only remained now for the accused, who had been removed during the inquest, to be brought into the chamber of death, previously to the warrant being drawn out for his final committal, to be tried at the ensuing quarter sessions. He was conducted into the room; with a listless, apathetic gaze he looked around him mechanically, for he cared not now what fate might do to him, when suddenly his eyes rested on Mark Dermot. The consciousness of everything that had taken place seemed all to flash through his brain at once.
"Murderer!" he cried. "Can it be that Heaven's lightning slumbers! Friends!—behold that fiend; who, not content with the life's blood of one victim, now comes to triumph in a double murder!"
"What means the fool?" contemptuously exclaimed Mark. "Does he suppose that reasoning men will credit his ravings, or help him to shift his load of crime upon another's shoulders?"
"As I am a living man—as there is a just God who knows the secrets of all hearts, there stands the murderer, Mark Dermot!" solemnly replied Luke. "It is not for myself I care, for Heaven knows that I would rather die than bear about this load of misery; but that he should brave the angels with a shameless brow, he whose hands are crimsoned with her precious blood—it is too much!—too much!"
"Then, Luke Bryant," said the coroner, "you deny having committed this crime?"
"On my knees—before the throne of mercy—I do!"
"I trust, then, that you may cause a jury of your countrymen to believe so; but for me, I have only one duty to perform, and circumstances clearly bear me out in my assumption. I must send you to trial!"
At this juncture, one of the jurymen, who thought he could perceive a meaning in Mark's peculiar, ill-concealed glance of savage delight, begged to be heard: keeping his eye steadily fixed on Mark's face, he said, with solemnity:
"When the judgment of man is in perplexity as to the author of crimes like these, the aid of Heaven may well be solicited, that it might be mercifully pleased to give some indication by which the innocent might be prevented from suffering for the guilty. We have an old tradition here, that if the accused lays his right hand upon the breast of the corpse, swearing upon the Holy Gospel that he had no act or part in the deed, speaking truly, no results will follow; but if he swears falsely, the dead itself will testify against him; for the closed wounds will re-open their bloody mouths, and to the confusion of the guilty one, the stream of life will flow once more for a short space! It seems to me that this is a case in whichThe Test of Bloodmight be applied not vainly."
"Willingly!—most willingly will I abide the test," exclaimed Luke.
"And you?" said the juror, with a penetrating glance at Mark.
"I!" said the latter, with an attempt at recklessness, "What is it to me?—why should I be subject to such mummery—who accuses me?"
"I do!" thundered Luke, "and I now insist upon his going through the trial—myself will point out the way." So saying, he approached the lifeless body, and sinking on his knees, laid his right hand reverently on the heart, saying—
"My blessed angel! if thy spirit lingers near, thou knowest that this hand would rather let my life-blood forth, than offer thee the shadow of an injury!"
They waited an instant—all was quiet; meantime, Mark, persuading himself that it was but a form, and yet trembling to the very core, advanced. All eyes were upon him; he paused—cast a glance around, and grinding his teeth savagely, cried out:
"Why do you all fix your gaze on me? I'm not afraid to do this piece of folly." He advanced another step—again he hesitated; heartless—brutal—though he was, the spell of a mighty dread was on his soul. His face grew livid; the blood started from his lips; large round drops burst from his forehead and rolled down his ashy cheeks. At last, with a tremendous effort, he knelt, and attempted to stretch forth his hand—it seemed glued to his side. Starting to his feet again, he cried fiercely:
"I will not do it—why should I?"
"You cannot!—you dare not!" solemnly ejaculated Luke. "If you are guiltless, why should you fear?"
"Fear!" screamed the other, "I fear neither man nor devil—dead nor living," suddenly placing his hand upon the breast of the dead!
"See—see!" cried Luke, wildly, "the blood mounts up—it overflows!"
"It's a lie!" madly exclaimed Mark.
But it was no lie; the ruddy stream welled upward through those gaping wounds, and flowed once more adown her snowy breast, a murmur of awe and surprise breaking from the assembled group; whilst shivering to the very heart, the terrors of discovered guilt and despair seized upon Mark.
"Curse ye all!" he roared. "You would juggle my life away; but you shall find I will not part with it so readily." Hastily drawing a pistol, it was instantly wrested from him. Several of the bystanders flung themselves upon him; but the desperate resistance which he made, added to the frightful internal agony which he had just endured, caused him to break a blood-vessel; and in raving delirium, the hardened sinner's soul wended to its last account in the presence of those whom, in his reckless villainy, he had expected to destroy.
Wonder succeeded wonder; and the mystery was soon discovered to be no mystery at all, but the natural instrument in the hands of Providence to confound the guilty. As relapsing into his former listlessness, Luke was intently gazing on the body of his beloved, suddenly his heart gave one tremendous throb.
"Hush!" he exclaimed, with anxious, trembling voice; "For Heaven's love, be silent for an instant! I thought I heard a sound like—Ha! there it is again—a gasp—a gentle sob, and scarcely audible, but distinct as thunder within my soul—there's warmth about her breast—her eyelids tremble. The God of Mercy be thanked!—she lives—she lives!" and Luke sunk upon his knees; a copious flood of tears, the first he had ever shed, relieved his overcharged feelings.
It was true—she did live; from loss of blood only had she fainted, and the excessive weakness had thus far prolonged the insensibility; none of the stabs had reached a vital part, and it was the first effort of nature to resume its suspended functions which had caused the blood once more to circulate, just at the instant which so signally established the guilt of the intended murderer.
It only remains for me to say that Mark Dermot's previous bad character prevented much sympathy being felt for a fate so well deserved. In process of time Luke's devoted love was well rewarded. Kathleen recovered from the effects of her wounds—gave him her hand, and profiting by the terrible lesson which she had received, made an estimable, virtuous, and affectionate wife.
The dream of the night, there's no reason to rue,But the dream of the morning is sure to come true.Old Saying.
The dream of the night, there's no reason to rue,But the dream of the morning is sure to come true.
The dream of the night, there's no reason to rue,
But the dream of the morning is sure to come true.
Old Saying.
Old Saying.
Pretty Peggy May; a bright-eyed, merry-hearted, little darling you are, Peggy! there's no gainsaying that fact; a cunning little gipsy, and most destructive too, as many an aching heart can testify. But who can blametheefor that? as well might the summer's sun be blamed for warming the sweet flowers into life. It is a natural ordination that all who see you should love you.
Pretty Peg has just completed her eighteenth year; in the heedless gaiety of youth, she has hitherto gambolled through the road of life, without a grief, almost without a thought. Oh! for the sunny days of childhood, ere, wedded to experience, the soul brings forth its progeny of cares. Why can we not add the knowledge of our wiser years, and linger over that most blessed, least prized period of our existence, when every impulse is at once obeyed, and the ingenuous soul beams forth in smiles, its every working indexed in the face—ere Prudence starts up like a spectre, and cries out: "Beware! there is a prying world that watches every turn, and does not always make a true report." Prudence! how I hate the cold, calculating, heartless phrase. Be loyal in word, be just in act, be honest in all; but Prudence! 'tis twin-brother to Selfishness, spouse of Mistrust, and parent of Hypocrisy! But, me-thinks I hear some one say, "This is a most cavalierly way of treating one of the cardinal virtues"—to which I reply, "It certainly has, by some means or another, sneaked in amongst the virtues, and thereby established a right to the position; but it is the companionship only which makes it respectable, and it must be accompanied byall the restto neutralize its mischievous tendency."
But what has all this to do with Peggy and her dreams? Pshaw! don't be impatient—we are coming to that. If you have taken the slightest interest in little Peg, prepare to sympathize in her first heart-deep sorrow. She is in love! Now, if she herself were questioned about the matter, I'm pretty sure she would say it's no such thing; but I take upon myself to declare it to be true, and for fear you should think that I make an assertion which I cannot substantiate, permit me to relate the substance of a conversation which took place between Peg and her scarcely less pretty, but infinitely more mischievous cousin, Bridget O'Conner. They had just returned from one of those gregarious merry-meetings, where some spacious granary, just emptied of its contents, gives glorious opportunity for the gladsome hearts of the village, and "all the country round" to meet and astonish the rats—sleek, well-fed rascals, dozing in their holes—with uproarious fun and revelry.
A sudden, and indeed, under the circumstances, extremely significant sigh from Peg, startled Bridget from the little glass where she was speculating as to how she looked, for the last hour or two. I may as well say the scrutiny was perfectly satisfactory—she had not danced all her curls out.
"Gracious me!" she exclaimed, "Peg, how you do sigh!"
"And no wonder," rejoined Peggy, with a slight squeeze of acid, "after having danced down twenty couple twenty times, I should like to know who wouldn't?"
"Ah! but that wasn't a tired sigh, Peg. I know the difference; one needn't dive as low as theheartfor them; a tired sigh comes flying out upon a breath of joy, and turns into a laugh before it leaves the lips; you are sad, Peg!"
"How you talk; why, what on earth should make me sad?"
"That's exactly what I want to know; now there's no use in your trying to laugh, for you can't do it. Do you think I don't know thedifferencebetween a laugh and that nasty deceitful croak?"
"Bridget!" exclaimed Peg, with a look which she intended should be very severe and very reproachful, "I'm sleepy."
"Well, then, kiss me, and go to bed," replied Bridget. "Ho! ho!" thought she, "there's something curious about Peg to-night. I think what I think, and if I think right, I'm no woman if I don't find out before I sleep." Craftily she changed the conversation, abused the women's dresses, and criticised their complexions, especially the pretty ones. At last, when she had completely lulled the commotion of Peg's thoughts into a calm, she suddenly cried out: "Oh! Peg, I forgot to tell you, that one of the boys we danced with had his leg broke coming home to-night!"
Peggy, surprised into an emotion she found it impossible to conceal, started up, pale as snow, and gasped out:
"Who was it—who?"
Ha! ha! thought the other, the fox is somewhere about—now to beat the cover.
"Did you hear me ask you who?" said Peg, anxiously.
"I did, dear," replied Bridget, "but I'm trying to recollect. I think," and she looked steadily into Peggy's eyes, "I think it was Ned Riley." Peg didn't even wink.
She doesn't care about him, and I'm not sorry for that, thought Bridget, thereby making an acknowledgment to herself, which the sagacious reader will no doubt interpret truly.
"No, it wasn't Ned," she continued, "now I think of it, it was—it was—a"——
"Who? who?" cried Peg, now sensibly agitated, "do tell me, there's a dear."
Not she, not a bit of it, but lingered with feminine ingenuity, now making as though she recollected the name, and then with a shake of her head, pretending to dive back into memory, just as the inquisitors of old used to slacken the torture, to enable the recipient to enjoy another dose.
"Now I have it," said she, "no, I haven't; I do believe I've forgotten who it was, but this I know, it was the pleasantest-mannered and nicest young fellow in the whole heap."
"Then itmusthave been Mark!" exclaimed Peg, throwing prudence overboard, and fixing her large, eloquent eyes full on Bridget's mouth, as if her everlasting fate depended upon the little monosyllable about to issue from it.
"ItwasMark! thatwasthe name!"
Peggy gave a gasp, while Bridget went on, with a triumphant twinkle in her wicked little eye which did not show over-favorably for her humanity.
"Mark Brady!" dwelling on the name with slow, distinct emphasis, which made Peggy's heart jump at each word as though she had received an electric shock.
She knew the tenderest part of the sentient anatomy, Bridget did, and took intense delight in stabbing exactly there; not mortal stabs,thatwould be mercy, but just a little too far for tickling. That sort of a woman was Bridget, who, if possessed of an incumbrance in husband shape, would take infinite pains to discover the weakest points in his temper, and industriously attack those quarters, piling up petty provocations, one upon another; none in themselves of sufficient importance to induce a sally, but making altogether a breastwork of aggravation, that must at last o'ertop the wall of temper. And if the unfortunate besieged don't take his hat, and make a not very honorable retreat, philosophy will be obliged to strike its flag, the signal for a civil war, which, like all such unnatural conflicts, strikes at the root of all domestic comfort, and whichever side may remain the victors, the trophy is a home destroyed.
But to return to Peg, for whose benefit I have indulged in the foregoing rather spiteful digression, in order that she might have time to recover herself; or rather, I should say, to be thoroughly conscious of the extent of her unhappiness. Remember, 'tis her first grief, so pardon its intensity. Phantoms of crutches and of wooden legs came crowding on her imagination, contrasting themselves with the curious agility with which poor Mark had "beat the floor" in the merry jig, until he made it echo to every note of the pipes. Then rose up vague spectres of sanguinary-minded surgeons, with strange butcherly instruments; then she saw nothing but fragmentary Marks, unattached legs, a whole room-full dancing by themselves; there they were, twisting and twirling about, in the various difficult complications of the "toe and heel," "double shuffle," "ladies' delight," and "cover the buckle;" she shut her eyes in horror, and was sensible of nothing but a gloomy blood-red. There's no knowing to what lengths her terrible fancies might have gone, had they not been dispersed like wreaths of vapor by a hearty laugh from the mischievous Bridget. Peggy opened her eyes in astonishment. Was she awake? Yes, there was her cousin enjoying one of the broadest, merriest, wickedest laughs that ever mantled over the face of an arch little female.
"Poor Mark!" she cried, and then burst forth again into ringing laughter, which dimpled her crimson cheeks like—what shall I say?—like a fine healthy-looking cork-red potatoe, an Irish simile, I must say; but had we seen Bridget, and were acquainted with the features of the aforesaid esculent, I'm pretty certain you would acknowledge its aptness.
"What in the name of gracious are you laughing at?" exclaimed Peggy, a gleam of hope breaking on the darkness of her thought.
"Why, that you should take on so, when I told you Mark had broken his leg," gaily replied Bridget.
"Hasn't he?"
"Not half as much as your poor little heart would have been broken if he had," said the tormentor.
"Bridget! Cousin!" said poor Peg, now enduring much more pain from the sudden revulsion of feeling, "you should not have done this; you have crowded a whole life-time of agony in those few moments past."
"Well, forgive me, dear Peggy. I declare I didn't know that you had the affection so strong on you, or I wouldn't have joked for the world. But now, confess, doesn't it serve you right, for not confiding in me, your natural born cousin? Did I ever keep a secret from you? Didn't I tell you all about Pat Finch, and Johnny Magee, and Jack, the hurler, eh?"
"But not one word about Edward Riley, with whom you danced so often to-night," observed Peg, with a very pardonable dash of malice.
It was now Bridget's turn to change color, as she stammered out, "I—I was going to, not that I care much abouthim; no, no, Mark is the flower of the flock, and I've a mighty great mind to set my cap at him myself."
Peggy smiled, a very small, but a peculiar, and it might have been, perfectly self-satisfied smile, as she replied: "Try, Miss Bridget, and I wish you success."
"Truth is scarce when liars are near," said Bridget. "But I say, Peg, does Mark know you love him so hard?"
"Don't be foolish; how should he?"
"Did you never tell him?"
"What do you take me for?"
"Did he never tellyou?"
"What do you takehimfor?"
"For a man, and moreover a conceited one; don't you mean to let him know his good fortune?"
"It isn't leap year, and if it was, I'd rather die than do such a thing," said Peggy!
"Come, I'll bet you a new cap, that I mean to wear at your wedding, youwilllet him know the state of your feelings, and that, before a week is over your head," provokingly replied Bridget.
Peggy, said nothing. Prudent Peg.
"Is it a bet?"
"Yes, yes, anything, but go to sleep, or we shan't get a wink to-night."
"True for you, cousin, for it'sto-morrowalready! Look at the daybreak, how it has frightened our candle, until it's almost as pale as your cheek."
"Good night, Bridget."
"Good night, dear Peg, don't forget to remember your dreams. Recollect it's morning, now, and whatever we dream,is sure to come true."
Before she slept, Bridget formed a project in her mind to ensure the winning of her bet. What it was, it will be time enough to find out by-and-by.
Very early in the day, Mark Brady and Ned called to inquire after the health of their respective partner. It so happened that Bridget received them; and very quickly, for she was one of those tyrants in love who make their captives feel their chains, on some frivolous pretence or another, dismissed her swain and began to develop her plot with Mark.
Now, Mark, I may as well tell you now as at any other time, was a very favorable specimen of a class I regret to say, not over numerous in Ireland; a well to-do farmer, his rent always ready, his crops carefully gathered, and a trifle put by yearly, so that he enjoyed that most enviable condition in life, "a modest competence." As to his personal appearance, there's scarcely any occasion to describe that, for, with the exception of one individual, I don't suppose he has a feature or characteristic which would be considered by any one at all uncommon or interesting. Suffice it to say, Mark was aman! A volume of eulogy could not say more.
And, moreover, Markdidlove pretty Peggy May; with a whole-hearted, manly, and unselfish love, he loved her. I tell you this, dear reader, in order that you may not waste time in speculating on the subject of Mark's thoughts, as he sat silent and fidgety, a passive victim to the mischievous Bridget, who, shrewd little puss, knew every turn of his mind as though imprinted on his face; and for the matter of that, so they were, in nature's own characters, type most readable.
Mark was apparently very busy, sketching imaginary somethings on the floor with his blackthorn stick, and seemingly unconscious of Bridget's presence, when she suddenly interrupted his revery by saying:
"A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Brady!"
"Eh! what!" he replied, blushing 'till it fairly stung his cheek like a million of needles. "A penny, is it, Miss? faith, an' it'sdearthey'd be at that same."
"And what might you be thinking of, may I ask, Mr. Mark?" said Bridget, accompanying the question with one of her very sweetest smiles.
"Just nothing at all, Miss," replied Mark.
"'Nothing!' then theywouldbe 'dear,' and that's true Mark; but supposing, now," she continued, archly; "I only say, supposing it happened to be your sweetheart you were thinking of, you might find another meaning for that same little word!"
Mark felt as though he had been detected in some fault, as he replied, sketching away on the floor faster than ever, "But what if I hadn't a sweetheart to think of, Miss O'Conner." It was a miserable attempt at prevarication, and he felt that it was.
"Why, then, I should say, as you're not blind, it's mighty lucky that you don't carry such a thing as a heart about you. I'd be ashamed if I were you, rising twenty years old, and neither crooked nor ugly; it's disgraceful to hear you say so—a pretty example to set to the boys!"
"True for you, and so it is," said Mark, "and more betoken, it's a much greater shame for me to tell any lies about the matter; Ihavea sweetheart, though she doesn't know it; ay, and have had one for this nigh hand a twelve-month."
"Only to think," replied Bridget, casting down her eyes, and affecting to conceal some sudden emotion, "and for a twelve-month nigh hand! Oh, dear! I don't feel well!"
Mark was puzzled, in point of fact, embarrassed. There was something in Bridget's manner which he couldn't understand; he had a vague presentiment that there was a mistake somewhere, but when she, pretending to be overcome, flung herself into his arms, the truth burst upon him at once. He was in a precious dilemma; Bridget was in love with him, and he felt downright ashamed of himself for being so fascinating. What he was to do, or how to extricate himself, he couldn't tell, as she, casting a fascinating glance right at him, said, softly:
"Dear Mark, those good-looking eyes of yours told me of your love, long, long before your lazy tongue."
"Love," interrupted Mark, endeavoring to put in a demurrer.
"To be sure," said she, "I saw it, I knew it and well;" she continued, seeing he was about to speak. "When do you mean to talk to Aunty? You know my fifty pounds are in her hands." She was an heiress, was Bridget.
"Pounds! Aunty! yes, to be sure," replied Mark, perfectly bewildered, "but I thought Ned Riley was"——
"Peggy's sweetheart—well, we all know that," interrupted Bridget, inly enjoying the consternation that painted Mark's cheek a livid white. "And you to be so jealous of Riley," she went on, "not to dance with me last night; I knew the reason, but the jealousy that springs from love is soon forgot, so I forgot yours."
"Peggy!hissweetheart? Riley's?"
"To be sure, don't you know they are going to be married?"
"No!" vacantly replied the sorely bewildered Mark.
"Oh, yes! and now I want to tell you a pet plan of mine, if you don't think me too bold, Mark, and that is, how nice and cozy it would be, if we could only all be married on the same day."
This was too much for Mark; he couldn't endure it any longer; he started up, pushed his hat very far on his head, saying, in what he intended to be a most severe tone:
"Miss O'Conner, I don't know what could have put such an idea into your head. Marry, indeed! I've enough to do to take care of myself. No, I'm sorry to woundyourfeelings, but I shall never marry!"
"Oh! yes, you will," said Bridget, placing her arm in his, which he disengaged, saying bitterly:
"Never! never!"
"Nonsense, I'll bet you will, and, if it was only to humor me, Mark, on the very same day that Peggy is!"
"Bridget, I didn't think I could hate a woman as I'm beginning to hate you."
"Better before marriage than after, Mr. Mark. Come, I'll bet you a new Sunday coat, against a calico gown, and that's long odds in your favor, that what I've said will come true."
"Nonsense!"
"Is it a bet?"
"Pooh! I'll bet my life, against"——
"What it's worth, Mr. Mark—just nothing at all."
"True for you, now, Bridget; true for you," and Mark suddenly quitted the house in such real sorrow that it touched for a moment even Bridget's heart; but only for a moment. Pshaw! thought she, let him fret; it will do him good, and make the joy greater when he comes to know the truth. A hunt would be nothing without hedges and ditches. Proceeding to the window, she uttered an exclamation of surprise.
"Ha! as I live, here comes Peg herself. She must meet Mark; what fun! He sees her and stops short; what a quandary he's in. She seeshim! How the little fool blushes; now they meet. Mark doesn't take her hand. I wonder what he's saying. 'It's a fine day,' I suppose, or something equally interesting; he passes on, and Peg looks as scared as if she had seen a ghost."
A sudden thought at this moment seemed to strike Bridget; she clapped her hands together and laughed a little, sharp laugh, saying, "I'll do it, I will; I'll have a bit of fun with Peg, too," so she pretended to be very busy at her spinning-wheel as Peggy entered, and hanging up her, cloak and bonnet, sat down without saying a word.
"Ah! Peg," Bridget began, "is that you? Mark has just been here."
"Indeed?" replied Peggy, twisting up one pretty curl so tightly as to hurt her head.
"The blessed truth," continued the wicked little tormentor. "Did you meet him?"
A very desponding "yes," was the response.
"Well," demanded Bridget, anxiously, "did he say anything—I mean, anythingparticular?"
"He only said the weather was pleasant, and then passed on, without ever even shaking hands with me," sadly replied Peggy.
"Mark needn't have done that; whatever happens, he ought to be civil toyou," said Bridget, with a peculiar expression that made Peggy's heart flutter within her like a pigeon.
"Civil to me! whatdoyou mean, Bridget?"
Bridget hummed an air, and, as if suddenly wishing to change the conversation, said, gaily:
"Oh! I forgot, we were to tell each other's dreams this morning. Peg, you begin, what didyoudream about?"
"Nothing, Bridget, I didn't sleep."
"Then you couldn't have dreamed," sagely responded the other, "but I did."
"What?"
"I dreamed that I had a beautiful new gown given to me, and by whom do you think?"
"I don't know; Ned Riley, may-be."
"Ned Riley, indeed," replied Bridget with a sneer; "not a bit of it. By a finer man than ever stood inhisshoes. Who but Mark Brady?"
Peg's heart sank within her.
"That wasn't all I dreamed," and she fixed her wild eyes full on Peg, in a way that made hers fall instantly, "I dreamed that I was married to him."
"To Mark?" whispered Peggy.
"To Mark!"
Peggy didn't utter another syllable; didn't even look up, but sat motionless and pale, very pale. Bridget couldn't understand her seeming apathy; a more acute observer would have but contrasted it with the intense emotion which she felt within—an emotion not a whit lessened as Bridget continued, with marked expression:
"I dreamed all that this blessed morning, and morning dreams, you know,always come true."
Peggy, still silent, seemed to be wholly occupied in demolishing, piece by piece, the remnant of a faded flower which she had taken from her bosom, lingering over its destruction as though a portion of her heart went with each fragment—when Bridget suddenly started up, exclaiming, "Here comes Mark, I declare."
A painful spasm shot through Peggy's frame, yet she did not stir from her seat; the only evidence that she heard Bridget's exclamation was that her lips grew as pallid as her cheek.
"But, law, what am I thinking about? I must go and tidy my hair."
And away flew Bridget up to her room, from whence she crept stealthily down, and snugly ensconced herself behind the door. Naughty girl! to listen to what transpired.
Mark, who, since his conversation with Bridget, had seriously contemplated suicide, but was puzzled about the best mode of making away with himself, had come to the conclusion that to enter the army as a common soldier would be the least criminal, although certainly the most lingering process, and it was to lacerate his feelings by a parting interview with his dearly-loved Peg, before he consummated the act of enlistment, that he now came.
Arrived at the door, he hesitated a moment, then giving one big gulp, he lifted the latch and entered. There he saw Peggy herself, looking straight into the fire, never once turning aside or raising her eyes, proof positive to Mark, if he wanted it, that she cared nothing for him. He sat down, and for several minutes there was a dead silence. Mark had fully intended to say something frightfully cutting to his sweetheart, but as he gazed upon her white, sad face, his resentment vanished, and he felt more inclined to implore than to condemn. He wanted to speak, but what to say he had not the remotest idea. At last Peg broke the silence, by murmuring softly, as though it were but a thought, to which she had given involuntary expression—
"May you be happy, Mark! May you be happy!"
"Happy!" echoed Mark, with a sharp emphasis, that thrilled painfully through Peggy, "Faith, it's well foryouto be wishing me happiness."
"Indeed, indeed I do, Mark—I mean Mr. Brady," meekly replied the poor girl.
"Oh, that's right!" said Mark, bitterly. "Mr. Brady! It used to be Mark."
"But never can again."
"You're right! never!"
"Never!" and poor Peggy sighed deeply.
After another embarrassing pause, broken only by a sort of smothered sound, whichmighthave been the wind, but wasn't, Mark started up, exclaiming:
"I see my company is displeasing to you, but I shan't trouble you long. That will be done to-morrow which will separate us for ever."
"To-morrow! so soon?" replied Peggy, with a stifled sob.
"Yes! the sooner the better. What is itnowto you?"
"Oh, nothing, nothing! But I thought—that is—I'm very, very foolish."
Poor Peggy's heart overflowed its bounds; burying her face in her hands, she burst into tears.
Mark didn't know what to make of it. She must have liked me a little, thought he, or why this grief? Well, it's all my own fault. Why didn't I tell her of my love, like a man? and not sneak about, afraid of the sound of my own voice. I've lost her, lost the only thing that made life to me worth enduring, and the sooner I relieve her of my presence the better.
"Miss May! Peggy!" he said, with an effort at calmness, "this is the last time we may meet on earth; won't you give me your hand at parting?"
Peggy stretched out both hands, exclaiming through her tears—"Mark! Mark! this is, indeed, cruel!"
"It is, I know it is!" said Mark, brushing away an obtrusive tear. "So, God bless you, and good angels watch over you; and if you ever cared for me"——
"If I ever cared for you! oh, Mark!"
"Why! did you?" inquired Mark.
"You were my only thought, my life, my happiness!" There was the same curious sound from the chamber door, but the innocent wind had again to bear the blame. Peggy continued—"Mark, would that you had the same feeling for me!"
"I had! I had!" frantically he replied. "And more, oh! much more than I have words to speak. Why didn't we know this sooner?"
"Ah! why, indeed?" sadly replied Peggy, "but it is too late."
"Too late!" replied Mark, "too late!"
"Not a bit of it!" exclaimed Bridget, bursting into the room, streaming with tears of suppressed laughter, "Don't look so frightened, good people; I'm not a ghost. Who lost a new cap? eh, Peg. And more, betoken, who is likely to lose a new gown? I'll have my bets, if I die for it. So, you've spoke out at last, have you? You're a pretty pair of lovers. You'd have gone on everlastingly, sighing and fretting yourselves, until there wouldn't have been enough between you to make a decent fiddlestring, if I hadn't interfered."
"You?" cried Peggy and Mark, simultaneously.
"Yes, indeed, it made me perfectly crazy to see the two of you groaning and fussing, without the courage to say what your hearts dictated. There, go and kiss each other, you pair of noodles."
It is hardly necessary to say that Bridget's explanation brought about a pleasant understanding between all parties, and it will be only needful to add that a few weeks afterwards there was adoublewedding at the little parish chapel. One of the brides wore a bran new calico gown of such wonderful variety of color, and moreover a new cap of so elaborate a style of decoration, that she was the admiration and, of necessity, the envy of the entire female population.
Bridget had won both her wagers, thereby establishing, just as infallibly as all such matterscanbe established, the truth of the old saying:
The dream of the morning is sure to come true.