Chapter III.
HOW THE PIPER GOT ON WITH MARY MAHONY.
The aim and the result of Remmy Carroll's newly-acquired habits ofeconomy and self-denial became evident, at length, when his appearance,one Sunday, in the Chapel of Fermoy--it was the Old Chapel, with mudwalls and a thatched roof, which stood in that part of Cork Hill whencenow diverges the narrow passage called Waterloo Lane--caused a mostuncommon sensation. It was Remmy's first appearance, on any stage, inthe character of a country-beau. His ancient coat was put into ScheduleA (like certain pocket-boroughs in the Reform Bill), and was replaced bya garment from the tasty hands of Dandy Cash, at that time the Stultz ofFermoy and its vicinity. This was a broad-skirted coat of bluebroadcloth, delicately embellished with the brilliancy of shining giltbuttons, each not much larger than a half-dollar. A vest of brightyellow kerseymere, with a double-row of plump mother-of-pearl studs; anew pair of closely-fitting unmentionables, with a liberal allowance ofdrab ribbons pensile at the knees; gray worsted stockings, of therig-and-furrow sort, displaying the muscular calf and the arched instep;neat pumps, with soles not quite half an inch thick, and the uppers made"elegant" by the joint appliances of lampblack and grease (considered to_nourish_ the leather much better than "Warren's jet blacking, the prideof mankind");--a well-fitting shirt of fine bandle-linen, bleached to anexquisite whiteness, and universally looked upon as a _noli me tangere_of provincial buckism, with a silk _grinder_ "round his nate neck," anda tall Carlisle hat, encircled with an inch-wide ribbon--such were thecomponent parts of Remmy Carroll's new costume. True it is, that he lefta little too much to the taste of Dandy Cash, the dogmatic andsingularly conceited Snip; but still, Nature had done so much for himthat he appeared quite a new man, the handsomest of the wholecongregation, gentle or simple, and many a bright glance fell upon himadmiringly, from eyes which had looked scorn at his chrysalis condition;and not a few fair bosoms fluttered at the thought, "what a fine,handsome, likely boy is Remmy Carroll, now that he is dressed dacent."He was not the first man whose qualifications have remainedunacknowledged until such an accident as fine apparel has brought theminto notice.
Mary Mahony was at Chapel on that Sunday when Remmy Carroll shone out,like the sun emerging from behind a rack of heavy clouds. A casuallooker-on might have fancied that she was one of the very few who did_not_ mind Remmy Carroll. Indeed, she rather hung down her head, as shepassed him,--but that might have been to hide the blushes which suffusedher face when she met his eye. Her father, a kind-hearted man, who had acordial salute for every friend, insisted that they should not hurryaway without speaking to the piper. Accordingly, they loitered untilnearly all the congregation had left the chapel, and, among the last,Remmy Carroll was quietly stealing away. Bartle Mahony accosted him,with a hearty grasp of the hand, and warmly thanked him for having savedMary's life, adding, "It is not until now I'd be waiting to thank you,man-alive, but Mary never let me know the danger she'd been in, untilthis blessed morn, when her cousin, Nancy Doyle, made me sensible of theins and outs of the accident. But I _do_ thank you, Remmy, and 'twill gohard with me if I don't find a better way of showing it than by words,which are only breath, as one may say."
Then Bartle Mahony slapped Remmy on the back, in a familiar manner, andinsisted that he should walk home with them and take share of theirdinner. "Don't hang down your head like a girl, but tuck Mary under yourarm, and off to Carrigabrick, where I follow in less than no time, withthe heartiest of welcomes. Don't dawdle there, man-alive, like a goose,but walk off like a man."
So through the town of Fermoy did Mary Mahony walk with RemmyCarroll--down Cork Hill and King-street, and across the Square, andalong Artillery-quay, and by Skelhorne's paper-mill, and Reid'sflour-mill, and then, on the Inches, by the Blackwater. History has notrecorded whether Mary did actually take Remmy's arm--but it isconjectured that he was too shy to offer it, deeming _that_ too great aliberty--but it is said that it was she who took the field-route toCarrigabrick, and, though she blushed deeply the while, she did not makeany very violent objection to his taking her in his arms across thatchasm, the passage of which, on a former day, had so nearly proved fatalto her. If I said that, while performing this pleasant duty, RemmyCarroll did _not_ press her to his heart, I am pretty sure that no onewould believe me. Well, then, there _was_ this gentle pressure, but ofcourse Mary Mahony believed he could not help it.--Do you think hecould?
They proceeded to Carrigabrick, but the short cut through the fieldsproved the longest way round on this occasion. Bartle Mahony had reachedthe house fully half an hour before they did, and yet he had gone by theroad, which, as every one knows, is nearly a mile round. They hadexchanged few words during their walk; it was not quite the lady'splace to make conversation, and Remmy's thoughts were all too deep forutterance. In the earlier stage of love, passion is contemplative, andsilence often has an eloquence of its own.
Remmy Carroll had the good fortune to win the particular favor of Mr.Bartle Mahony, who, as he was retiring to rest, kissed his fair child,as usual, and emphatically declared that Remmy Carroll was "a realdecent fellow, and no humbug about him." He added, that as he had foundhis way to their hearth, he must be a stranger no more. And it came topass, thenceforth, somehow or other, that Remmy paid a visit toCarrigabrick twice or thrice a week. These visits were ostensibly to Mr.Mahony, but it usually happened that Remmy had also a glimpse of Mary,and sometimes a word or two with her. It came to pass that BartleMahony, at length, fancied that a dull day in which he did not see hisfriend Remmy. Finally, as by a great effort of ingenuity, and in orderto have a legitimate excuse for having his favorite frequently with him,Bartle Mahony announced his sovereign will and pleasure that Mary shouldlearn music. Accordingly, when Remmy next came, he communicated thisintention to him in a very dignified manner, and appointed Remmyforthwith to commence instructing her. But Remmy could play only uponone instrument, and the pipes happen to be so unfeminine, that heventured to doubt whether the young lady would quite approve of theproposition. Having hinted this difficulty to Bartle Mahony, that worthywas impressed with its force, but, rather than relinquish his project,declared that, all things considered, he thought it best that he himselfshould be the musical tyro.
If the truth were known, it would have appeared that the poor man had nodesire to learn, and certainly no taste. But as Remmy Carroll, proud ashe was poor, had peremptorily refused the money offered as a substantialmark of gratitude for having saved Mary Mahony's life, this was herfather's indirect and rather clumsy mode of rewarding him. Verymagnificent were the terms which he insisted on making with the piper:he could have been taught flute, harp, violin, psaltery, sackbut, andpiano at less cost. Very little progress did the kind old man make, buthe laughed soonest and loudest at his own dulness and discords. However,if the pupil did not make good use of his time, the teacher did. Beforethe end of the first quarter, Mary Mahony had half confessed to her ownheart with what aptitude she had involuntarily taken lessons in the artof love.
It would make a much longer story than I have the conscience to inflictupon you, to tell how Mary Mahony came to fall in love with RemmyCarroll--for fall in love she certainly did. Perhaps it was out ofgratitude. Perhaps it might have been his fine person and handsomeface. Perhaps, because she heard every girl of her acquaintance praisehim. Perhaps, because he was her father's favorite. Perhaps, becausethey were so constantly thrown together, and he was the only young manwith whom she frequently associated. Perhaps she loved him, because shecould not help it. Why strive to find a reason for woman's love? It islike a mighty river springing up one knows not where--augmented oneknows not how--ever sweeping onward, sometimes smoothly, sometimes inawful rapids, and bearing on its deep and constant current, amid weedsand flowers, rocks and sands, many a precious freight of hope and heart,of life and love.
Fathers and husbands are so proverbially the very last to see theprogress which Love clandestinely makes under their roof, that it willnot be considered a special miracle, if Bartle Mahony noticed not
hing ofthe game which was in hand--hearts being trumps! Mary's merry cousin,Nancy Doyle, quietly smiled at the flirtation, as "fine fun," but didnot seriously see why it should not end in a wedding, as Mary hadfortune enough for both.
Winter passed away, and Spring waved her flag of emerald over therejoicing world. Mary Mahony was walking in one of her father's meadows,for Remmy Carroll was expected, and he was now--though she blushed witha soft consciousness--the very pole-star of her constant thought. Hecame up, and was welcomed with as sweet a smile as ever scatteredsunshine over the human heart. They walked side by side for a littletime, and then, when the continued silence became awkward, Remmy stated,for the maiden's information, what she knew very well before, that itwas very fine weather.
"True for you, Remmy," answered she: "see how beautiful everythinglooks. The sunbeams fall upon the meadow in a soft shower of light, andmake the very grass look glad."
"It _is_ beautiful," said Remmy, with a sigh, "but I have too heavy aheart to look upon these things as you do."
"Surely," inquired Mary, "surely you've no real cause to say that? Haveyou heard any bad news?"
"No cause!" and here the pent-up feelings of his heart found utterance:"Is it no cause?--Oh, Mary dear--for you _are_ dear to me, and I may sayit now, for may be I may never be here to say it again--is it no causeto have a heavy heart, when I have nobody in this wide world that I canspeak to about her that's the very life of my life, while I know that Iam nothing to her, but one that she sees to-day and will forgetto-morrow! Is it no cause, when I know that the little linnet that's nowsinging on that bough, has as much chance of becoming an eagle, as Ihave of being thought lovingly of by the one that I love? Haven't Icause to be of a heavy heart, knowing that I would be regarded no morethan that little bird, if I were to try and fly beyond the state I'm in,when I know that I am not many removes from a beggar, and have been formonths dreaming away as if I was your equal? You are kind and gentle,and when I am far away, perhaps you may think that I would have tried todeserve you if I could, and then think well of one who loves you betterthan he loves himself. Oh, Mary Mahony! may God's blessing rest uponyou, and keep you from ever knowing what it is to love without hope."
Overcome by his emotion--aye, even to tears, which flowed down hiscomely cheeks--poor Remmy suddenly stopped. Mary Mahony, surprised atthe unexpected but not quite unpleasing matter of his address, knew not,for a brief space, what answer to make. But she was a woman--a young andloving one--so she let her heart speak from its fulness.
"May-be," said she, with a blush, which made her look more beautifulthan ever,--"may-be, tis a foolish thing, Remmy, to love withouthoping;" and she looked at him with an expressive smile, which,unfortunately, he was unable to distinguish through the tears which werenow chasing each other down his face, as round and nearly as large asrosary-beads.
"It's of no use," he said, not perceiving the nature of her words; "it'sof no use trying to banish you from my mind. I've put a penance onmyself for daring to think of you, and it's all of no use. The more Itry not to think, the more I find my thoughts upon you. I try to forgetyou, and as I walk in the fields, by day, you come into my mind, andwhen I sleep at night you come into my dreams. Wherever I am, orwhatever I do, you are beside me, with a kind, sweet smile. Everymorning of my life, I make a promise to my heart that I will never againcome here to look upon that smile, far too sweet and too kind for suchas me, and yet my steps turn towards you before the day is done. Butit's all of no use. I must quit the place altogether. I will go for asoldier, and if I am killed in battle, as I hope I may be, they willfind your name, Mary, written on my heart."
To a maid who loved as well as Mary Mahony did, there was a touchingpathos in the simple earnestness of this confession;--aye, andeloquence, too, for surely truth is the living spirit of eloquence. Howlong she might have been inclined to play the coquette I cannot resolve,but the idea of her lover's leaving her put all _finesse_ to flight, andshe said, in a low tone, which yet found an echo, and made a memory inhis heart: "Remmy! dear Remmy, you must not leave me. If you go, myheart goes with you, for I like you, poor as you are, better than therichest lord in the land, with his own weight of gold and jewels on hisback."
What more she might have said puzzles conjecture--for these welcomewords were scarcely spoken, when all further speech was arrested by anardent kiss from Remmy. Oh! the first, fond kiss of mutual love! what isthere of earth with so much of the soft and gentle balm of heaven?
There they stood, by the ruins of that old castle, the world all forgot.There they whispered, each to each, that deep passion with which theyhad so long been heart-full. The maiden had gentle sighs and pleasanttears--but these last, Remmy gallantly kissed away. Very wrong, nodoubt, for her to have permitted him to do so, and, in truth, shesometimes exhibited a shadow of resistance. There was, in sooth,
"A world of whispers, mixed with low response, Sweet, short, and broken, as divided strains Of nightingales."
"And you won't think the worse of me, Remmy, for being so foolish as toconfess how I love you?"
"Is it me, life of my heart? not unless you say that it was foolish tolove _me_. Sure, they were the happiest words I ever heard."
"And you will love me always, even as now?"
"Ah, Mary, I see that you are joking now."
"And you won't go as a soldier?"
"Not I, darling; let those who have heavy hearts, and no hope, do thatsame."
Much more, was spoken, no doubt. Very tender confessions andconfidences, in truth, which I care not to repeat, for such are of thebright holidays of youth and love, and scarcely bear to be reported asclosely as an oration in the Senate, or a lawyer's harangue at NisiPrius, in a case of Breach of Promise. Such tender confessions andconfidences resemble those eastern flowers which have a sweet perfume onthe soil to which they are native, but lose the fragrance if you removethem to another clime.
At last, with many a lingering "one word more," many a gentle pressureof the hands, and several very decided symptoms, belonging to the genus"kiss," in the sweet botany of love, Mary and Remmy parted. Happy,sweetly and sadly happy (for deep love is meditative, rather thanjoyful), Mary Mahony returned home. She hastened to that apartmentpeculiarly called her own, threw herself on the bed, and indulged in theluxury of tears, for it is not Sorrow alone that seeks relief intears,--they fall for hope fulfilled as truly, though less often, as forhope deferred. Weep on, gentle girl, weep in joy, while you can. Closeat hand is the hour in which, ere you have done more than taste it, thesparkling draught of happiness may be snatched from your lips.