NELLY NOWLAN’S EXPERIENCE.

———

BY MRS. S. C. HALL.

———

“I broke off in my last without an ending, which I could not help; I am not a bit more mistress of my own time than if I was a born lady, and oh, aunt dear, but I do pity them ladies—you’d never believe how hard they work—not with their heads or their hands, but in a way twice as bad. You think it hard enough to put on your things of a Sunday. Oh! if you knew the dressing and undressing, the shopping, the driving round and round and round in a place they call a park—where there’s no sign of a mountain or any thing to raise the spirits—the visiting! not having a bit of friendly talk with those they like, but wearing the life and liveries off their servants, posting from house to house, and just leaving little squares of pasteboard at the doors.”

“ ‘Has Lady Jane Vivian never inquired how I am?’ asked my poor mistress.

“ ‘Never, Ma’am,’ I said.

“Well, she had a puzzled look on her face, and there it ended for awhile.

“ ‘Ellen,’ she said again, a few days after, ‘Mrs. Brett tells me, Lady Jane Vivian called every day, and left cards.’

“Well, I was fairly bothered about the cards.

“ ‘Sure, Ma’am,’ I said, ‘what would make her leave the cards here, we’re no gamblers;’ this was when first I was own maid to my mistress—so she smiled again, and said how it was I did not understand that ladies left their names printed on pasteboard squares; and that was the same thing as a visit. Well! I had my own thought of what a cold, unnatural thing it was to send a square of pasteboard up to a poor sick lady, instead of comforting her, with a bright smile and kind words, and all sorts of cheerful discourse. But I supposed it was manners, and every people have their own; and then she asked for the cards. Now, the mistress of the house we lodged in, scrambled up every bit of them pasteboards with a title, and stuck them round the looking-glass, in her little, dingy back-parlor, for a nobility show. So I had to go and ask her to pick out all the Lady Jane Vivians, which she did, and gave them with a toss of her head, saying, ‘She did not want such a scrap of an ould maid’s title for the matter of that, she had lords and dukes! calling on her, before now.’ It was on the tip of my tongue to say, ‘Calling on your lodgers, you mean, ma’am,’ but I held my peace. Well! would you believe it? My own mistress was as proud of them five bits of pasteboard, as I’d be of five shillings! And she bade me bring her a fine chaney dish with a small tea-party painted on it, up in the air and down on the earth, beside a little railway, and little tufty houses one atop of the other, and bells at the corners—a fine ancient dish it is, like nothing on the earth or in the sea, which she says shows its imagination; well, she takes every one of the cards up in her poor, thin, trembling fingers, and then she rubs them clean and puts them right; the Misters and Mistresses, and the young Misses all down below, and the Sirs and Lords and Ladies on the top; mighty neat entirely to look at; and all the time, the darling! she was railing at the vanity of the lodging-house woman who wanted to show off the fine names, and never seemed to think that she was doing the same thing; to be sure, she had a right to them, and right is right; but the vanity, to my thinking, was all one. I had a deal more to tell you about that church—but one who knows said, it was fitter for me to hold my tongue; the reason is this, that it’s better for us, you understand, to keep on never heeding them, and not to put them in mind of what they are doing, and they will all walk, as easy as any thing, back to the fine, true, ould, ancient church of Rome: they call it High Church now, but if they’re let alone, one who knows says, they’ll soon be higher, on the highest pinnacle of St. Peter’s! so all we have to say, aunt dear, is just good luck to every poor traveler on the right road.

“Do you mind Mary Considine, who you used to call the blue-bell of the Shannon? She was the beauty of the place, I have heard, when she married her own first cousin, Ned Considine? don’t you also mind telling me how cruel hard she was to be pleased; and how, after she had married him, she said she intended taking a house, but changed her mind, and took Ned, and was greatly disappointed in taking him, for he was very deaf?

“Well, who should I chance to find out but this very Mr. and Mrs. Considine; and indeed it’s little remains of beauty she has now; the country, or rather the town life, does not agree any how with beauty, living as they do, at the back of ‘God speed,’ in a small court; though, as you will see by’n bye, they have lashings^[21] of money: they’ve one son and a daughter. I met the young girl (she was born to them, I may say, in their old age, a last rose of their summer) at mass, and I think we knew each other by nature: my mistress gave me leave to run over and see her, and when she came to me took great delight in her smiling, innocent face, and the sweet voice I told her she had; and she sang some of the Irish melodies like an angel, if you can think of an angel singing any thing but holy psalms. And this young Mary is well brought up, quite above the common; reading and writing is nothing to her; and as to other accomplishments she’s wonderful; and can tell every fortune out of a book, except her own! Now, among the many prides her mother has gathered, the one that bothers Mary the most, is that she does not like any body to think she is Irish; she thinks she turns her tongue so purty on the English, and as my poor mistress says (for she heard her at it) with a brogue, a rale Cork brogue; not the same as our pretty, delicate Leinster accent; but (as the mistress says) ‘a brogue strong enough to carry St. Paul’s to St. Peter’s,’ and so I thought, particularly now, when it’s on the road. My mistress says it’s quite absurd to look at her courtesey; and when you talk to her of her country, to hear her cry out—‘Why then, how did you know I was Irish?’ The Irish divert my poor mistress a great deal. She encourages me to tell all about my country, and she has been more like a mother than a lady to Mary Considine.

“But about poor Mary. She was overjoyed that her father and mother took so to me, and, indeed, so was I, for the music of home is in Mary’s sweet voice; and it is the next best thing to being in my own land, to hear her sing ‘The Exile of Erin;’ and then, while the tears are wet on my cheek, she tunes up ‘Shielan-a-guira,’ with a heart and a half; her eyes are so beaming with light, that you wonder where the dark place is in them, and yet it’s all the time a light in darkness. I can’t discourse you now her features one by one, but altogether: the poor Irish never pass her in the street without a blessing, or the English without a stare—still I saw that Mary was far from happy. I have not much time to watch or inquire, but I could not sleep for thinking of her—Mrs. Considine’s mouth was full of the titles of the great quality she’d see in the Park, and she traveled about with a book she called a peerage, in her pocket, while poor Mary would show me the bits of flowers she’d pick out of the grass, or bring my mistress a bunch of violets from Covent Garden Market. As to her father, he hardly ever stirs out, except to watch that his son, who has a situation at Blackwall, does not spend his pence on an omnibus—he makes a fair god of his money; how the priest gets over it I don’t know, for he’s the greatest miser I ever heard of—a fair neager^[22]—not like his countrymen.

“Well, aunt; at last poor little Mary let me into the very heart of her trouble. She was in love—in love with maybe you think some delicate dandy chap of an Englishman; for Mary is very little—a fairy of a thing, (God bless us!) that might pass for a real ‘fairy’ in her own country—as thin as a willow-wand, as straight as a bullrush, but small, you understand. I wanted her to tell me who it was, and she used to hide her face and cry, and then look up, blushing like a rose among the dew-drops. At last, she said she’d show him to me next evening; she was going to confession, and he would do the same, and meet her at the door. So away they went. There were three or four young men at the door, one with a sky-blue tie and a fine waistcoat. I was so sure that was him, that I never looked at any one else; but she passed on, tossing her head disdainfully at the blue tie.

“ ‘He’s not here,’ she whispered; and the little creature trembled on my arm. She soon made a clean breast, and I waited, as I had leave to do; the sky-blue tie waited also, but Mary was too quick for him, she darted round the corner, while he was admiring his own shadow, thrown by the full moon on the wall, and I after her.

“ ‘Come on,’ she said, almost breathlessly; ‘come on; that’s the man my father wants me to marry, but I’ll die first!’ We walked fast, but she took, as I thought, the wrong turning—I told her so, but she looked up in my face, and smiled. It was a narrow court, and at the far end, a smith’s forge. I heard the bang of the hammer, and saw the light, all in a glow, and a thousand sparkles like falling stars! Mary got under the shadow of the houses—she crept on, the hammer going, the fire glowing, the sparkles falling all the time, and the shadow as of a giant, forging the red bar, as if the hammer was a wand. Well, she avoided the door, but drew me on to a slit in the window, still keeping in the shadow—‘that’s him,’ she whispered. Aunt, dear, the sweetheart that mite of a little beauty had set her love on, was—just there and then—a rale giant! He looked strong enough to fling a thunderbolt, and active enough to make a play-fellow of the lightning. When he stopped, and threw back his hair, I thought I had never seen so noble a head, but his face looked pale in the flashing light. Mary never spoke but the one word, she never sighed, nor signed to him in any way, yet he wiped his brow, pulled down his sleeves, and came to the window.

“ ‘Mary, Mary,’ he whispered, and his voice was as soft as the coo of a wood-quest.^[23] ‘Speak, Mary, I know you are there, it’s no use hiding from me, I know it as well as if my eyes were looking into yours, and as if you had told me so.’

“ ‘I am here, Philip,’ she said. ‘My friend was with me, and as you were not at the Priest’s, I thought you had something to do particular.’

“ ‘Yes, Mary,’ he answered; ‘but that did not keep me. Your father came here to-night; he gave me clearly to understand, and without civility, he did not wish me to continue to keep your company; he said, your mind, as well as his own, turned another way.’

“ ‘And you believed him?’

“Her voice was like the murmur of a young bird in its nest.

“ ‘I believed my own eyes,’ he answered, folding his great arms over his chest, his eyes glaring in his dusky face like coals of fire. ‘I went to the Priest’s door, and saw that clean, done-up youth, with his blue tie round his throat, and his boyish hands, only fit to finger a yard measure, scenting the place with his white pocket-handkerchief. O, Mary, fancy my hands dangling a scented handkerchief!’ and he dashed them passionately forward. ‘When you did change,’ he added, ‘you might have chosen a man—not a monkey.’

“ ‘And you misdoubted me,’ she said, standing firm and straight in her pride. ‘Well, then, Philip, I’ll just say good-bye at once;’ and then she struggled and struggled to untwist something from her neck, and flung it right in through the window. The fire, which had been flickering and flickering, flamed up, and there, lying on the black floor, shone a little golden locket, and a broken velvet.

“To my dying day, I shall never forget the look that strong man cast from the locket to Mary, but I know he could not see her face, it was in the darkness to him, though I saw, plain enough, her quivering lips and glowing cheeks—he stamped on the locket, and I heard it scrunch beneath his foot. She flew like a rapid over a rock of the Shannon, and was away in a minute—I turned to follow her, but the strong grasp of the smith was on my shoulder.

“ ‘Why did she come here at all?’ he said, and his voice was deep and husky. ‘What brought her? why should she come to torture me? it’s all along of the old man’s love of money, and her mother’s mad love of fine names. She told me my name, Philip Roche, was vulgar. O, to think of the love I bore her, slaving by day and night to make her a home, keeping to my pledge, and working—and well able to do it—on water.’

“Mary, I told him, knew nothing of it, she had no hand in it: I wanted to tell him how she took me to the door to see him, and not finding him there, drew me to the forge—her innocent heart full of love for him, and for him alone; the thoughts came fast enough into my head, but I could not speak them—I was bewildered, the despair written in his face haunted me—the look he gave, and the iron hand on my shoulder, stupefied me altogether, and though we walked on fast—fast after her—I trembled in every limb, and lost all power of speech.

“Words he certainly spoke betimes, and they hissed off his lips, as water hisses off a smoothing-iron. We tramped faster and faster, past the houses, and under the light of the lamps, and through the people, until we came to the court where they lived—there he stopped in sight of the door, and such a sight it was to him!—for there, on the very step, waiting to have it opened, stood Mary Considine, and the blue neck-tie. I cannot tell you, aunt dear, how it was that I felt so interested for that strange, strong smith, Philip Roche, whom I had never, to say rightly, seen. No wonder the people stopped and stared after him, for he was without a hat, and his long hair tossicated about his head: I looked up to him, and maybe it was best that I could not see his features, I only heard him mutter—‘Do you see, do you see? Has she no hand in it now?’ He staggered forward, but I caught him.

“ ‘Have patience,’ I said; ‘have patience, it will all come right, she has no hand in it.’ He threw me off as if I had been a child, and the last I saw of him was his head above the people that had gathered round the court. I walked quietly on, and when I entered the house there stood Mary, white as a sheet, while Mr. and Mrs. Considine were doing all manner of civilities to the young man, who was acting the gentleman, smiling and bowing and twisting a seal—set the likes of him up with a seal—at the end of his watch-chain—a seal which was big enough for the rapper of a hall-door—and dangling a ring he had on his starved, crooked, little finger, right in the foolish old man’s eyes. ‘And wont you sit down, Mr. Henry Highley,’ said one, ‘and wont you stop for tay,’ says the other. And seeing me staring at him, Mrs. Considine adds—

“ ‘A young lady-friend of my daughter’s, who stops mostly with a friend of her own at the West-end.’

“Now, aunt, I didn’t care about her calling me a lady, but I couldn’t bear being put on a level with my mistress, a rale lady born.

“And I said, ‘my mistress lives at the West-end, sure enough.’ Mrs. Considine frowned at me, and Mary left the little room.

“ ‘Come back, Mary,’ called her father; ‘bring her back,’ whispered her mother.

“It was well I followed her—she had fainted: I laid her on the bed, and did all I could for her. When she was coming to herself, she put up her hand—I thought, maybe, to feel for the locket, but that might be my fancy. It was long before I could make her deaf father understand that she was too ill to return, but her mother saw it at once, and after we put her to bed, and she drank a cup of tea, and said she thought to go to sleep, we left her—I staid a few minutes below, though I saw the old man wished me gone. And now, aunt, don’t be angry, but I think I could have found it in my heart to give that Cub-een of a fellow, a glass of poison: his face was not only vicious, sharp, and thin, and active, like a rat’s—but he had his eyes every where. I saw him weigh the tea-spoon on his fore-finger in a balancing sort of fashion, and then look at the mark to be sure it was silver: he drew the old people on in such a way, getting more out of Mr. Considine than ever was got out of him before, as to his property and means—getting him to talk of interest and bankers, and the like: and the old man cursed the savings banks, and said money was never so safe as in one’s own house, and that the best of all banks for him was his leather bag—the more I looked at Mr. Henry Highley, the more I hated him, and sorry enough was I to know that young Considine had gone a journey for his employer, and was not to the fore, when most wanted.

“I stole up for another look at Mary. She was, or purtended to be, asleep; but it was put into my heart to kneel down and pray for her. The words were not many, but the Lord knew their meaning. I dipped my finger in the holy-water cup, that hung at the head of her bed, and signed the blessed sign over her forehead, without touching her. She looked so helpless, and so lonely there—her young innocent face, still wet with tears, turned up to the heavens—the moonlight was hindered from shining on her by the fog that hangs about the London streets by day and night; and maybe so best, for moonlight lays heavy on a throbbing brow, and is not over lucky, particularly—as you know—when it’s full moon. So I did not go into the little room again, but hurried home, for I had overstaid my time by more than an hour. I was near my own street, when who came to my side but Mr. Henry Highley: and he said, it was dull walking my lone,^[24] and he’d see me home, and I told him I had the sight of my eyes, and could see myself and him too. And he said I was very witty, and I said, I was sorry I could not return the compliment. Then he thought to fish out about my mistress—she must be a rich lady to keep the likes of me. And I answered riches had nothing to do with that: I did not want to sell myself, or buy any one, and that I should be happier to serve for love than for money; but he stuck to the question—Had she plate and jewels? So, turning sharp on him, I said that any one would think he was a house-breaker, and I laughed: this was at the door; and there was a policeman passing, who stopped. Well, aunt, Mr. Henry Highley, without another word—with your leave or by your leave—whisked off.

“ ‘What do you know of that young man?’ inquired the blue-coat.

“ ‘Nothing pleasant,’ I said.

“ ‘Where did you meet him?’

“ ‘You are neither judge or jury, to be questioning me,’ I answered; for it isn’t the nature of an Irish girl to put up with a policeman.

“ ‘I mark you,’ he said very stiff—but they are all that—‘and when the time comes, young woman, I’ll find a way to make you tell,’ and he walked off.

“Now, aunt dear, sure I had enough of walking on and off that night! My mistress was angry; but I did as you told me often enough—instead of making excuses, and inventions, which come mighty pleasant and natural, I just told the plain truth—quiet and easy—all except the last, for I did not wish to make her uneasy, as I was myself, having a cruel bad opinion of Mr. Henry Highley.

“It’s mighty quare how, in this wonderful city of business and bother, how your little, peaceful sayings, darling aunt! and the songs you sung to the wheel of a winter’s evening, with none but the pusheen-cat, and myself, and a cricket or two to the fore, come into my head, or one of Watts’ hymns, in the very bustle of the town: I often dust the room to ‘Aileen Mavourneen,’ and brush my lady’s hair to ‘Eveleen’s bower,’ played on the chords of my heart. Sometimes, when I draw back the curtain, and shade the light of the pale night-lamp, with my hand, for fear it might wake her—the mistress I mean—for I never lay down until she is asleep: often, when I watch her features, worn with pain, yet so still, and gentle-looking, and see her pale, pink lips, half open, and such a sweet smile on them, I think—the sleeping face differs so from the waking one—that angels must be whispering the joys that will come. When the last dull sleep is ended, aunt, I am sure I should go mad if I thought that dear innocent woman, so tortured in this world, yet so meek in herself, so thoughtful and generous to the poor, so kind in her judgments, so fond to take the sorrows of all who have sorrow into her bosom, and turn them to blessings—I should indeed break my heart, if I believed that, for reading the one book another way, we should never meet in the world that’s to come. I can’t believe it, so there’s enough about it. As I looked at her, the song of ‘The Angels’ Whisper,’ came for a second time into my head that night, and then I crooned over that ‘Savourneen delish’ you are so fond of; and that brought poor Tom and his motherless children before me! Aunt, dear—maybe I didn’t use Tom well! I couldn’t help it: though you often told me I should not cast out dirty water until I could get clean—not a grate compliment to Tom either!—yet to be obliged, after a few words, to be a mother all out to three sharp children; and if he was cold and weary, and didn’t smile and talk every day the same, to have the creeping chill steal over me like the shake,^[25] that he was thinking of his first wife, and maybe comparing us in his own mind—that would drive me as wild as the other thing I tould you of a while ago; and yet, I own to you, I have thought more of poor Tom since I left home, than ever I did while I was there.

“The next day, and the next day, and the next passed, and no word from Mary, and my mistress was ill. Once I ran as far as the turn to the lane, and looked down at the forge. The fire was burning low, and there was no sound of the hammer on the anvil. At last, Mrs. Considine herself called; she was very full of prate: she had the dirty red book, as usual, half sticking out of her black bag: she said, that indeed Mary had demeaned herself by taking up with nothing but a smith, a great friend of her brother’s, and one she would not deny who had done him more than one good turn, and would be right well to do in the world if he had a little capital to push him on, which neither her nor her husband would give to a man of the name of Roche. Roche, indeed! Roches were as plentiful as black-berries, and as common, where she came from. Set her Mary before the priest with a Roche? No, no; Mr. Henry Highley was the man for their money, so nice a gentleman; for every sovereign her husband laid down as Mary’s fortune, he would lay down another, or could two! And such jewelery as he had; rings for every finger, and fine watches, one set with precious stones—which had belonged to his grandmother—a Talbot itself! There was all about the family printed in the peerage, and sure it wouldn’t be there if it wasn’t true—but indeed she couldn’t tell what was come over Mary: she had no pride, no spirit in her; her husband would weigh the watches in his hand, and look at the rings all day, and ask what they were worth over and over again, and take them to bed with him, if he was let, he had such delight in them. But they might be so much pinchback, for any thing Mary cared; they would have the wedding at once, and when it was over, she’d know better. Mr. Highley was so fond of her, he wouldn’t hear of delay, not even until her brother came home! She let on that Mary, when married, would be too grand company for the likes of me, but that she would not be proud. I might look in sometimes, she’d be glad to see my mistress when they got into a new lodging, which Mr. Highley said they must after the wedding—for his sake, dear, sweet, well-born, well-bred young gentleman!

“Like her impudence, it was: My mistress itself! MY MISTRESS! visit with her: och hone! What would the cards on the fine china dish say to it, if they could but speak? But, aunt dear, what do you think I did, when she, and her bag, and her book were cleared out of the house? I told my mistress every word she had said. Now it was a mercy that she was quite herself that morning, and sure enough she has a head almost as clear for business as our dear QUEEN’S! God bless it for ever, for a right, royal, noble head!—the Queen’s, I mean—She did not ponder long, but laying her spectacles in her Bible, for a mark, she set it besides the china dish.

“ ‘Ellen,’ she said, ‘have you ever seen the policeman, who spoke to you, since that night?’

“And I said I had: that very morning he was on our beat.

“ ‘Bring him to me, Ellen.’

“My heart was leping—leping up into my mouth.

“ ‘Bring him into the house?’ I repeated.

“ ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘into the house.’

“ ‘Have I done any thing wrong, ma’am?’

“So she smiled.

“ ‘Nothing, but very right: do as I tell you.’

“That ‘Do as I tell you,’ is the same thing as ‘Hold your tongue.’ So, aunt dear, if you please, you must just fancy me looking for a real, living policeman; and for a wonder, I found him when he was wanted. He soon stood like a statute before my mistress.

“She told him word for word what I have told you: he noted it all down in a bit of a book, and was mighty particular over the number of rings and the Talbot watch; he then looked at me, and my mistress nodded for me to leave the room. Now, wasn’t that too bad?

“I never felt more hard set to put up with any thing in my born days; but I went—and, only my mistress has nerves, wouldn’t I have banged the door? When the bell rung he was gone: she told me I was to go over in the evening, and see Mary. When I got there, Mrs. Considine was watching for the postman, who was coming down the court. She took a letter from him, which I saw was directed to Mary: she read it hastily, and tossed it into the fire. ‘My relations,’ she said, with a toss of a different kind, ‘hearing of the fine match Mary is going to make, write constantly to get them situations.’ A double story—I was so ashamed for her. Aunt dear, God bless you for teaching me that there is no such thing as an ‘innocent lie.’ The old miser of a man was in a little inner room they have, divided by a passage from the one we were in, where they sleep themselves: the windows open into a lane, dark as dungeon by day or night. He was fumbling at his leather bag, and came out talking to himself, muttering such things as these—

“ ‘At first he said it should be guinea for guinea; but now, it’s two guineas for one—two guineas for one! Ah! Nelly Nowlan, a fine match! The smith had nothing but his four bones, and would have wanted my hard-earned, little savings, and no guinea for guinea, or one to two:’ and his eyes, so dim and glassy, rolled within their seamed lids, and he rubbed his skinny, bloodless hands together, as if joy and gold were all one. ‘Money makes the man,’ he continued, ‘all England owns that: they are a wise people, the English, they never ask what you are, but what you have. When my pretty daughter sits on her own car, wont every one bow to her and I? O, if I was back in my own place, instead of poor ould Ned Considine, wouldn’t I be Mr. Edward, sir, with a ’squire to it! Ah, ah, I know the world, but the world does not know me!’

“ ‘Has there been no letter?’ I heard the low, trembling voice of Mary inquire, as she entered the house.

“ ‘The girl’s foolish to be asking after letters. One from Ireland, from our people, wanting places,’ was her mother’s reply.

“When Mary saw me, she burst into tears, and hung about my neck like a child. She whispered that she was not long for this world, that Philip had forgotten her, that she should never be happy more. She would obey her parents and die—my mistress had warned me to hear all and say nothing. I comforted poor Mary as well as I could, and was asked to the wedding the next day—I told my mistress, and again she saw the policeman. O, aunt, wasn’t it cruel of the mistress not to trust me? I didn’t care what she had to say, but I did want to be trusted. She said she did not fear my zeal, only my discretion. Wasn’t it hard?

“I went to the wedding—there was the Priest, a fine, ould, ancient Clargy, of the right sort: there was the bridegroom, looking pale and wicked, with as much finery on him as would set up a jeweler’s shop. There was the father and mother, all excited; there were a couple of bridesmaids, new-fangled acquaintances, and two or three strangers, friends of the bridegroom’s, that Mr. and Mrs. Considine made a great fuss over, and called by the finest of names: there was a dinner, half-laid out in an upper room, that no one on the banks of the Shannon ever saw the like of: little puff things, all ornamented out by a real confectioner, in a white apron, such a sight of folly and nonsense. I was quite set on one side, and looked on any thing but kindly by the whole of them, except the old man, who kept on talking about his money. They seemed all unnatural to me, as if they only wanted the bride as a part of the ceremony, while all over the world, if a woman is ever as a queen, it’s from the morning till the evening of her wedding day, what she is after that depends upon another. The bridesmaids kept going in and out, and at last, one had the manners to tell me, the bride wanted me. I knew that long ago.

“She was standing like a spirit, all in white, in the middle of her little room. She seemed turned into stone, stiff and stark as a corpse in its shroud: her mother was wringing her hands by her side, her face like scarlet, and if ever she spoke with a brogue she did then.

“ ‘Och Mary a lanna machree!—Sure it isn’t disgracing us you’d be, going back of your word, Mary, my own darlin’ child. Sure, darlin’, I hated the very ground yer father walked on, even after I had married him a good while. I was disappointed in him, dear: but when I got over thinking of love, and all that sort of nonsense, when my heart dried up, and I was all head, I knew what a fine, savin’ man I had got, who understood the value, even of a brass farthing: he was ould enough to be my father—let alone yours; but what does that signify, he helped me to grow ould before my time: and look at the money he’s able to give you, and win you, Mary mavourneen—what’s come to you, child? sure you consented all out, and what ails you now?’

“I pressed her cold hands within mine: they felt turned into bone, cold and hard and dry.

“ ‘You’re murderin’ your own child, Mrs. Considine,’ I said: ‘you are killing her as surely as if you put a pistol to her head, or poison to her lips.’

“The wicked old man called to Mary from the bottom of the stairs to go down, and added a curse on her delay: the bridesmaids—one in particular, who was as hard as the rest at first, had kept on saying—God forgive her—that love one side was like a fire, and would soon catch the other—now looked terrified, and pity-struck.

“Again the call and the curse were repeated: Mary started, as if from a dream: she drank off a glass of water from her mother’s hand, who kept repeating—‘That’s a jewel, there’s a darlin’, corra machree was she,’ and such like nonsense; to which the poor girl made no reply, but pressed her hands on her temples, and whispered to me—‘Pray to God for me!’ She walked straight into the room: the bridegroom met her with ‘Sweet Love,’ and a flourish of his pocket-handkerchief, a smile on his lips—but such oak-sticks between his eyes. She put him on one side with her little hand, and advancing to the priest, knelt down reverently before him: there was a hush in the room, nothing heard but the clink of the gold in the leather bag the old man was shaking out of pride.

“O, it would have melted a heart of stone to look at that young creature! Tears overflowing her face, so that she could not speak, and her hands wrung together.

“The bridegroom whispered something to her mother about her being nervous, but it would soon go off: I could have killed him! He then handed round the ring for us to look at; aye, while SHE was weeping and trembling at the priest’s feet. When he held it to me, I struck it down. Aunt, I could not help it! What a look he gave! It rolled along the floor; but his attention was drawn to Mary’s words.

“ ‘Father,’ she sobbed, to the priest, ‘save me—save me from my own people; save me, a young, helpless girl; save me from marrying him I hate. Oh, do not let them put the sin of a false oath upon my young head—I cannot love him. Father, you know I owned to you in holy confession, but ten days past, that I loved another—that I love him still. I will never, never speak to him, or write to him, or ask to set eyes on him again; I will quit the world, and go into a holy house if you think me fit for it—but oh, save me, save me from perjuring my soul—save me,’ she repeated wildly, ‘or I shall go mad!’ To see the holy priest raise her up; to see him place her in his own chair; to see him put his hands upon her head, and hear his words of comfort! ‘Trust in me, my dear child; I will never join a willing to an unwilling hand; be calm, my child; and you,’ he said, turning to the bridegroom, ‘and you, have you the feelings of a man, to stand by and see this, and wish to keep her to her promise?’

“ ‘I never promised him—I never promised him,’ sobbed Mary—‘the most I ever said, and that was in anger and agony—was—that I would do my parents’ bidding. Father! Mother!—you cannot be so cruel at the last.’

“Mr. Considine edged up to his reverence—‘Talk to her, holy father,’ he muttered, ‘talk to her: he’s so rich—rings, and watches and goolden guineas two to one, holy father, think of that? two to one! her mother married me for my goold, and we’ve been happy—two to one, holy father!’

“ ‘Begone!’ said the priest sternly, in such grand English, ‘and do not dare to stain this holy sacrament by the money-loving spirit that crushes your soul to destruction. If this dear child persists in her refusal, I myself forbid the marriage.’

“Oh, aunt dear, the lep I gave, and found myself at his holy feet as if he was the Pope of Rome! and surely no pope could have looked more like a guardian angel than he did at that minute.

“ ‘I must speak with you in private,’ said the bridegroom to his intended father-in-law as meek as a lamb, ‘just one word;’ and he laid his hand so gently on the old man’s arm: ‘this can be arranged.’ They went out of the room together, Mrs. Considine exclaiming, while clapping her hands so vulgarly! ‘Och-e-yah! the poor, dear young man! Ah, then! Och Mary, my gra girl, how could you have the heart to refuse such a match? and he, after promising you a car—a cab, I mean, of your own. Och Mary, darlin’, be friends with him, Mary Machree! Och yah! poor broken-hearted crayther that I am!’

“She kept on that way for some time, until a fall, which shook the house, and the dull, hoarse scream of murder startled us into silence. The priest and myself rushed to the door; but the two groomsmen came between us, exclaiming, ‘It was in the court.’ I saw the whole thing then, like a flash of lightning, bright and clear. Again the cry. We cleared the way somehow; the window of their bed-room was open, and the poor old man, blinded by the blood which gushed from a wound in his head, was groveling on the floor.

“We lifted him up: his fingers kept on grappling the air, while his cries of ‘Murder!’ and ‘Help!’ were broken by such words as ‘My money! my bag! my hard-earned money! catch him! two to one indeed! Oh let me after him!’

“It was an awful sight—the roars of the old man for his money, the shrieks of Mrs. Considine, the still more terrible calmness of Mary, who, while binding up her father’s head, said ‘This is my doing.’

“There was a scuffling at the outward door. ‘Keep a brave heart, Mary Considine,’ said the priest, ‘he’s not hurt to signify.’

“ ‘A hundred and fifty in the bag, not a farthing less, the murdering young villain; oh, I can’t live—I wont live.’

“ ‘Shame upon you,’ said the silver voice of the fine old priest. ‘Give God thanks for your deliverance, first from the man, next from your money.’

“ ‘They are both here,’ said my policeman, who came upon us unawares; ‘it would be strange if we were not up to Bill Soames. We caught him on the bound, but I managed badly this time; I ought to have saved you that tap on the head, old gentleman; though I must say it serves you right, to want to give that poor girl to a fellow once tried for bigamy, and a house-breaker to boot!’

“Aunt, I tore a silk handkerchief to ribands, trying to keep my hands off the blue tie, who stood as if nothing had happened, between two other policemen.

“ ‘It’s but a step to the court, and the magistrate is sitting,’ continued the superintendent; ‘half an hour will send my old acquaintance to his quarters.’ Of course there was plenty of people outside; and in the midst of it all the two groomsmen had cleared the table of every spoon, and Mr. Considine’s own watch, during the time we were with the old man. Oh, what a deliverance for poor Mary!

“My heart flew into my mouth—I was as light as a lark leaving the corn-field for the sky in the early morning, and from the same cause, both thankful for the new light!

“Oh, I was so happy!—‘He’s of a high family, ma’am,’ said the policeman, with a knowing look at Mrs. Considine; ‘all that I heard of, traveled at the expense of government, while some—you understand me?—’

“He made a sign round his throat, not pleasant to look at, while Mrs. Considine’s grief took a new turn, and she bemoaned the disgrace to her family, and the loss of the family plate! It was delightful how brisk the old man grew when he knew that his money was found—he called the cut a scratch, and said ‘his head would be all the better for a taste of the ould times,’ and away they went, the whole party—barring^[26] his reverence, and Mary, Mrs. Considine (who declared nothing should force her to enter a police-court) and myself—were cleared out of the house, and I had the satisfaction of seeing Mr. Henry Highley in the grasp of two policemen; Mary came wonderful to herself, considerin’, and went to her room. I peeped through a crack, and saw her on her knees before the image of the blessed Virgin. Mrs. Considine continued sobbing, and exclaiming all the time she wandered about the house—I was just going to see how they were getting on in the court, when the priest called me back.

“ ‘Nelly,’ he says; I made my courtesy—‘Nelly,’ he says again—‘it is a beautiful dinner.’

“ ‘Indeed, your reverence,’ I answered, ‘it would be that certainly when the solid things come on the table; there was to be a roast turkey, and a ham, and such a lovely piece of boiled beef—poor Mrs. Considine was bemoaning it all to me not a minute ago.’

“ ‘A ham, a roast turkey, and a fine piece of boiled beef,’ repeated his reverence slowly, ‘besides all the kickshaws—and wine?’

“ ‘The finest of port, (thick round the bottles with age) and champagne, that the villain of a bridegroom brought,’ I answered.

“ ‘Say nothing about who brought it, Nelly, if it’s there, and he’s not,’ said his reverence—he paused awhile, but I knew by the twinkle of his eyes, he was thinking of something past the common—

“ ‘It’s a mighty fine dinner, Nelly!’

“ ‘It is, your reverence.’

“ ‘Nelly, it’s a sin and a shame to have such a dinner as that in the house, and no wedding.’

“ ‘True, for your reverence.’

“ ‘Nelly, we must have a wedding!’ and he looked me through and through.

“ ‘Your reverence,’ I said—hardly knowing how to answer, ‘knows best; but I don’t see how at this present time; it’s my ignorance, your reverence.’ He shook his head and smiled.

“ ‘I know the secrets of more hearts than one, and instead of going down to the court, just step away to Philip Roche, and tell him what happened and how Mary kept true to her old love, and let him dress himself at once—we’re not tied to canonical hours like our neighbors—and tell him from me, to come here, and before the evening’s out, Nelly, we’ll have a wedding, and a dinner, and a dance!’

“Oh, how I flew! There was Philip in the thick of cold iron, reading a paper about emigration. I never saw a man so altered: he was but the ghost of himself, bent and bowed and broken-hearted, he seemed, and his voice as changed as himself, he knew me at once, and knew that it was her wedding day.

“ ‘It’s all over by this time, I know,’ he said, with a ghastly smile; ‘and I suppose you have brought me the bride-cake tied with green riband.’

“ ‘Here was the place,’ he continued, going across a little yard, ‘where I thought she might live quiet and content; a pretty, bright room for London, and two others inside it—she could sit in that window at her sewing, and sing; and, if she raised her head, see me at work at the forge—she never even answered my letters—for I was too hasty that evening; but it’s over now. She never can be any thing more to me; yet this day’s post brought me a letter, telling of an uncle’s death in New York, who has left a good thousand English pounds, to be divided between my brother and myself; so I’ll just sell off, and go after it. Old Considine might have kept his money; it was not that I wanted; but it’s all over!’ Such a wail as there was in the voice of the strong, broken down man, like the sough of the winter’s wind, I could keep silent no longer. I believe he thought me wild—mad; I could hardly begin my tale for joy—joy throbbing in my heart—joy beating in my throat, and keeping back my words. I got it out at last, all that passed in one little hour, on which depended so much happiness or misery; oh, aunt, he is such a great darlint! Not a bit of exultation over Mr. and Mrs. Considine; only bitter reproaches to himself for not having understood Mary better; wondering if she could ever forgive him!—and so glad her father was not badly hurt. Oh, how my heart warmed to him! And when, at last, I bid him trust all to his reverence, to see how quickly he dressed! and maybe he didn’t look like an O’Brian, or an O’Sullivan, or some of the great, grand O’s—so plenty about Killarney in the ancient times. I didn’t know my own shadow on the wall, side-beside his; and yet he was so overcome, that at times he stopped from downright weakness.

“The priest opened the door with his own blessed hands: they had returned from the police-court, and his reverence had both the old people crying. I don’t think Mr. Considine heard all he said; but, indeed, his heart was softened; he was ashamed of having been imposed on by a well-known London thief; and who can say that he was not grateful for his deliverance? for, next to his money, he loved his child.

“ ‘Come in, Philip Roche,’ said the priest; ‘there has been a bit of a misunderstanding here, which we are sorry for; but it’s well to forget and forgive. Mrs. Considine says she never believed Mary thought so much about you, or she would not have put between you: if you can make friends with the little girl up-stairs, we’ll have the wedding!—and the dinner!—and now, Nelly Nowlan, I trust to you to bring Mary Considine down, without telling her why. Leave that to me.’

“Oh, then, isn’t that priest a rale minister? The delight he took in his little innocent plot, and all to make those young people happy! He hid away Philip in the back-room, and Mary came with me, easy enough, when I told her her father and mother were crying.

“ ‘Now, Mary, my child,’ says the priest, ‘you’ll obey me, wont you?—that’s right. I must give you a penance, Mary: I saved you from one husband, my darling—I have found you another!’

“The life that had come slowly back to the poor girl seemed leaving her altogether, but Philip could not bear it—he rushed forward, and caught her in his arms.

“I can’t tell you what he said, aunt, or what any one said; but in less than five minutes the priest had opened his book.

“ ‘What will be done for a ring?’ sobbed Mrs. Considine.

“I had picked up the one I struck from the hand of that wicked man, and said so.

“ ‘Use his ring!’ exclaimed Philip; and he flung it into the fire.

“ ‘Oh, the sinful waste!’ screamed old Considine; ‘it was pure gold.’

“He would have raked the fire out to find it, but the priest commanded him to be still. Oh, but he’s a fine man; only terrible in anger. Aunt, I’ll tell you the truth; if I had a very heavy sin, it’s not to him I’d go.

“ ‘The key of the door will do as well,’ he said; ‘it’s the sign of the Eternal Union we want, nothing more.’ No one gainsaid him, and in another five minutes they were bound together in the sight of God and man.

“ ‘And now for her fortune, Mr. Considine,’ said the good priest, so considerate.

“The young smith stood straighter than ever on the floor; straight and firm. With one arm he drew his little bride to his heart, the other he held out.

“ ‘It would all feel to me like a dream,’ he said, ‘but for this.’ He pressed her more closely to him, bent down and kissed her.

“ ‘Keep your money, Mr. Considine; cross or coin of yours, sir, I’ll never touch. Mary was all I ever cared for, and only this blessed morning did I learn that it has pleased God to give me what you think so much of. Mary, your husband has five hundred good pounds of his own: keep your money, Mr. Considine, I never cared for it; but I must say—’

“ ‘No more,’ interrupted the priest. ‘Let us have in some of our good friends and neighbors; and, Nelly Nowlan, sure it’s a comfort that the beautiful dinner wont be wasted.’

“And so, aunt darling, there’s an end of Mary Considine; for in all the books I read my mistress, there seems an end of a woman when she marries—a wife and a mother go for nothing! And maybe, I haven’t something to tell you about that, for sure enough, the women (some of them) want to change places; now who do you think with, aunt? I am sure your simple head would never find out. Shall I tell you next time?”