Kitabı oku: «The Bunsby Papers (second series): Irish Echoes», sayfa 10

"The Fairies!– An' why the divil shouldn't they give one man a taste of good luck, as well as another? I'll do it – I will – this very blessed night —I'll do it!"

"Do what?" interrupted Mary, in alarm.

"Oh, nothing, nothing! – an' yet, I've niver kept anything from you, Molly, an' I don't know why I should now! Sure, it's you that'll have the binifit of it, if it comes to good."

"Dear Corney," replied Mary, "I'm happy enough as it is, so long as Heaven gives us strength to provide for each other's wants, an' you continue to be, what you always have been, a good husband to me. I'd rather not be throubled with any more."

"It's nothin' but right for you to say so, Mary, darlin'," returned Corney; "but now, supposin' that I could make a lady of you – eh? Think of bein' able to wear a fine silken gound, an' a beautiful sthraw bonnet, wid a real feather stuck in it; wouldn't you jerk your showlders to show off the silk, an' toss your purty head for to humor the feather?"

I must confess Mary's heart did flutter a little, at the mention of the silk gown and the feather. Corney saw his advantage, and continued,

"You know how it was Phil got his money; it was by sleepin in a fairy circle. I know where there's one, an' wid a blessin', I'll thry it meself."

"You won't be so foolish, Corney?"

"May I niver taste glory, if I don't do it!"

Of course, after that solemn, though doubtful obligation, Mary dared not endeavor to dissuade him from following out his intention, notwithstanding the most melancholy forebodings of kidnapping, fairy-blighting, and all the terrors associated with supernatural agency, filled her imagination.

The evening was now far advanced, and Corney, having finished his pipe, rose to go.

"Come, Molly," he exclaimed, gaily, "kiss me before I start, an' wish me iligant luck."

Mary, with tearful eyes, replied, "Dear Corney, if you had all the luck I wish you, you wouldn't have to go out into the cowld to hunt for it."

"Well, God bless you, darlin', if I don't come back to you Cornalius O'Carrol, Esquire."

"You'll come home my own dear, contented husband."

"We'll see," said Corney, and away he went.

It was nothing but reasonable that he should pay a visit to the "Cross Kays" before he went on his fairy hunt, and it was nothing but natural upon his arrival there, to find his resolution had receded so far that it took sundry pots of beer to float it up again. At last, brimful of that unthinking recklessness, which the intoxicated generally mistake for courage, off he started on his expedition, singing remarkably loud, in order to persuade any lurking feeling of cowardice that might be within him, that he wouldn't be influenced by it a morsel. As he neared the village church, however, his voice unconsciously subsided into utter silence; there was a short cut through the churchyard to the place of his destination, but he made a full stop at the little stile; many and many a time had he crossed it night and morning, without a thought, and now it seemed to call up ghostly images; the wind as it moaned through the trees, appeared to address itself particularly to him; it wasn't more than a stone's throw to the other side, and he wanted to clear it with a bound. At this moment the rusty old clock suddenly squeaked and boomed out upon the startled air. The first stroke, so sharp and unexpected, shattered Corney's nerves like a stroke of paralysis; recovering from his fright, he laughed at his folly, but the sound of his own voice terrified him still more. It was not familiar to him – he didn't know it! A fancy came into his head that somebody was laughing for him, and he fairly shivered!

A sudden thought relieved him: there was no occasion to go through the churchyard at all!

"What a fool I am," thought he, "it isn't so far round, and there's plenty of time. Divil take me if I wouldn't go home agin, only Mary would think me such a coward, besides, didn't Phil do it? That's enough; faint heart never won anything worth spakin' of – so here goes."

About half an hour's walk brought him to the meadow in which lay the object of his search – a fairy-circle. Now this same fairy-circle, is nothing more nor less than a ring of grass, which, from some cause or another, probably known to botanists, but certainly a mystery to most people, is of a different shade of color to that which surrounds it. Tradition celebrates such places as the favorite resort of fairies, by whom they were formed, that they might pursue their midnight revelry without fear of danger from inimical powers. The Irish peasantry carefully avoid trespassing on those sacred precincts, and indeed scarcely ever pass them without making a reverential bow.

Our ambitious friend, Corney, hesitated for some time, before he entered the magic enclosure, exceedingly doubtful as to the treatment he should receive; at last, swallowing his trepidation with a spasmodic gulp, he placed one foot within the circle, taking care to propitiate the invisibles on whose exclusive property he was so unceremoniously intruding.

"The blessin's on all here," said he, "an' I hope I'm not disturbin' any frolic or business that yez may be indulgin' in. It's mighty sleepy that I am, an' if yer honors would give me lave to recline meself atop of the grass, an' make it convanient not to stick any rheumaticks into me for takin' such a liberty, I'd recaive it as a compliment. If it's a thing that I happen promiscuously to thread on anybody's toes, I have no manin' whativer in it. By your laves, I'm goin' to lie down, an' I'll drop aisy, in order that I mayn't hurt anything."

So saying, Corney let himself down very gingerly, and lay full length within the fairy circle; he was one of those weather-proof individuals to whom the meadow-grass was as good as a feather-bed. Consequently what with the walk and the beer, it wasn't many minutes before he was snoring fast.

He hadn't been asleep, as he thought, an instant, before he felt an innumerable quantity of tiny feet traversing him all over; with regular step they marched up his throat, and scaled his chin; making two divisions up his cheeks, they arrived at his eyes, where they commenced tugging at the lids until they were forced open; the sight that met his view filled him with dreadful wonder. The circle of meadow, in which he had barely room to stretch himself out, formed all he could see of earth. Church, village, country, all had vanished; he rubbed his eyes and looked again, but there was nothing; with an inexpressible sensation of awe, he turned round, and creeping cautiously to the edge of the circle, gazed downward, and could just discover the village he had quitted about a mile below; with still increasing dread, he was now aware that he was gradually mounting higher and higher. One more look, villages, cities, countries, were blended into an undistinguishable mass, and soon the globular form of the earth appeared, thoroughly defined, swinging in the air.

He then became sensible of a tremendous heat, which increased in intensity, until he found to his dismay that he was rapidly shrinking in size; his flesh dried up, shrivelled, cracked, and clasped his diminishing bones tighter, until at last he was not bigger than a respectable fly. "This is mighty quare," thought Corney, "there's a great lot of things like me frolicin' about. I feel as light as a feather. I wonder if I couldn't make one among them." So saying, he bounded up, and to his great amazement found that he had literally jumped out of his skin. He perched upon his own head, which had resumed its natural size and flying off, found himself floating securely in the air, while the carcass which he had just deserted fell, fairy-circle and all, rapidly towards the earth, and finally, also disappeared. Oh! the pranks that Corney played in the first delight of being able to fly; he dived down, he careered up, he threw mad summersets like a tumbler-pigeon – so light and buoyant had he become, that the passing vapors served him for a resting-place; he was happy, intoxicated with glee, thousands upon thousands of atomies gambolled around him like gnats in a sunbeam, the whole surrounding expanse was instinct with joyous life.

And they knew Corney, and saluted him as he passed by, with a compliment.

"Hallo!" said they, "here's Corney O'Carrol; how are you, Corney? It's well you're looking;" and Corney was astonished at the extensive nature of his atmospheric acquaintance.

"How do you like a fairy's life, Corney?" said one slim, midge-waisted chap.

"Iligant, your fairyship, iligant," said Corney.

"Then, I'd advise you to make the most of it, while it lasts. You'll soon have to appear before our king, and if you don't give a satisfactory reason for seeking him, woe betide you."

"Don't be frightened, sir," said Corney; "I've rayzon enough for comin', to satisfy any dacint-disposed fairy."

"Doubtful," said the good-natured elf, and off he flew.

"Stupid sperrit," thought Corney, and over he tumbled in mad recklessness, enjoying actually, that delicious sensation which sometimes occurs to people in dreams – the ability to skim through the air with the speed and safety of a bird. What struck Corney most particularly was the universal expression of glee which prevailed; nothing could he hear but a universal hum, which rose and fell on the ear with a purr-like undulation, such as one might imagine would proceed from a paradise of remarkably happy cats.

While Corney was thus revelling in his new-found element, he was suddenly accosted by two very genteel fairies. "Mr. Cornelius O'Carrol, we presume?" said they.

"There's not a doubt of it, gintlemen," replied Corney.

"We have come to have the honor of conducting you into the presence of our king," they continued.

"With a heart and a half," said Corney; "where might his majesty domesticate?"

"In yonder goold-tinted cloud, a few seconds' fly from this; follow us."

Upon nearing the regal abode, Corney observed sundry small substances, like duck-shot, dropping downward. "What's thim?" inquired he of his conductors.

"Oh!" answered one, "only a few discontented souls, who, like you, have sought our king, and haven't given sufficient reason for troubling him with their complaints."

Corney began to feel nervous, but coming to the conclusion that he had as good a right to be enriched through fairy agency as ever Phil Blake had, he put on a bold front, and was ushered into the presence of the fairy potentate. There, a sight of such dazzling splendor presented itself to his view, that, as he said himself, "You might as well try to count the stars of a frosty night, or look right into the sun's heart of a summer's day, as to give the slightest notion of the grandeur that surrounded me." All he could compare it to, was, a multitude of living jewels of every variety of hue, sparkling and flashing in perpetual light.

As soon as he could collect his scattered senses, he heard a voice exclaim, "What, ho! soul of O'Carrol, approach!"

"So I'm thravelin' without my trunk this time, any way," thought Corney, as he advanced toward the voice.

It continued, "Soul of a mortal, why hast thou sought our presence?"

"May it plaze yer majesty," Corney began to stammer out, "bekase I was a trifle unaisy in me mind."

"What about?"

"In regard of the scarcity of money, plaze your reverence."

"What is your trade?"

"A shoemaker, sir."

"Cobbler, you mean," said the voice, severely. "No lying here; recollect your poor, miserable, naked soul stands before us."

Corney thought of the height he'd have to fall, and trembled.

"You can't get work, I suppose," the voice returned.

"Too much of it, if it plaze yer honor. I niver have a minute to spare."

"For what?"

"Why, yer honor, to – to – "

"Remember the punishment of prevarication. To what?"

"To take a drink."

"Then you have no home?"

"Oh, yes, but I have, sir."

"But 'tis pleasanter to lounge in a tap-room?"

"A trifle, may-be, your honor."

"Perhaps you have no wife to make your home comfortable?"

"Have't I though; the best that ever drew the breath of life," cried Corney, with a loving remembrance of Mary.

"Poor fellow," continued the voice; "your situation is deplorable, it appears. You have a good trade, an excellent wife, a comfortable home, and yet you are discontented."

Corney felt himself resolving into a leaden pellet.

"One question more," said the voice; "when did you first feel dissatisfied?"

"Why, to tell the truth, yer honor, as soon as that fellow, Phil Blake, began to build his big brick house opposite to my little mud cabin. Before that, I was as gay as a lark, but it stood like a great cloud between me and the sun."

"Envy was the cloud, envy, that gloomiest of all earthly passions. Why do you covet this man's fortune?"

"Because, sir, he always looks so smilin', and jinks his money about, an' dispises the poor boys he used to be friendly with."

"Foolish, foolish soul!" said the voice, in accents of commiseration, "but not yet wholly tainted. Thy love of home hath partially redeemed thee. Listen to me. Dost thou see yonder piled up mass of rainbow-tinted clouds. Do they not look gloriously, as the rising sun flings his beams through them, as though revelling in their embrace? Wouldst thou not like to behold such magnificence closer?"

"Nothing in life betther, yer majesty," said Corney.

"Then away; a wish will place you in their midst – a thought return you here."

So with the wish and thought Corney went and came back.

"Well, what didst thou see?" inquired the Fairy King.

"The divil a haperth," replied Corney, "but a mighty black and most unwholesomely damp cloud."

"What should that teach you?"

"Never to thravel without an umbrella, yer honor, I suppose," answered Corney, who to say the truth, was a little obtuse.

"Fool," said the fairy, "since I cannot lesson thee, go to thy kindred earth, and learn experience from realities. Proceed to the chamber of the man whose good fortune thou enviest; then to thine own, and if thou art not satisfied with thy condition, seek me again, and meet with thy reward. Away!"

As if by magic, the brilliant assembly dispersed like clouds of gold-dust floating on the wind, and Corney was left alone.

"That's a mighty high sort o' chap," said Corney, "but I suppose I'd betther do what he towld me for fear'd he'd turn spiteful."

So Corney wished himself within the chamber of Blake, and there he saw the most piteous sight earth can produce: a young mother weeping tears of agony over the body of her first-born. A man stood beside her with features set and hard, as though turned to stone by hopeless grief.

"My God," thought Corney, "and these are the people whose lot I have envied, and my own blue-eyed darling, is he safe? Home, home," cried he, and with the wish was there. In his little cradle lay the beautiful boy steeped in the angel-watched, the holy sleep of infant innocence, while Mary, on her knees, mingled her prayer for her absent husband. Corney was rushing towards her, but suddenly remembering himself: "What a fool I am," thought he, "I forgot I was a sperrit, at all events, I can kiss the babby." With that, he bounded into the cradle, and nestled on the boy's lip. Mary, seeing the child smile in his sleep, exclaimed: "Good angels are putting sweet thoughts into your head, my blessed babe," and she softly kissed him too.

"Oh! murdher," thought Corney, "this will never do; I must go and look afther my body and bring it home. Thanks to the good fairies, I've larned a lesson that shall last my life and my boy's, too, if I have any influence over him."

So saying, Corney wished himself in the meadow where his tangible proportions were extended, and having kicked and got in, shook himself carefully to see if he had obtained absolute possession.

"It's all right," said he, "I've come back." Looking up and around him, he was surprised to see the bright sunlight of morning, and still more so to observe Mary trudging through the churchyard to meet him.

"Oh, well," said Mary, anxiously, when they encountered, "what luck?"

"A power of knowledge, but no money," said Corney, sententiously.

"Did you see the fairies?"

"Did I see them! bedad, I was one myself."

"Oh! be aisy!"

"The divil a doubt of it; wasn't I at home a bit ago, unbeknownt to you? Answer me this, didn't you kiss the babby just before you came out?"

"As thrue as life, I did," said Mary, slightly awe-struck.

"I was there and saw you do it."

"Where were you, Corney?"

"Sittin' on the end of his nose."

Of course that was proof positive, but inasmuch as Mary always did kiss the boy before she left the house, the coincidence becomes less remarkable.

It only remains for me to say, that the circumstance made a very favorable change in Corney's disposition, or rather dissipated the cloud which obscured his real character. Mary found her account in it, by an increase of industry on his part, and he was rewarded by a corresponding anxiety in her, to make his home happy. Many and many a time would he give an account of his aerial journey, religiously convinced of its reality; once only Mary just ventured to insinuate that it might possibly have been a dream, but the I-pity-your-ignorance-look which Corney gave her, made her heartily ashamed of having hazarded so stupid an opinion, and, as a matter of course, she soon believed as implicitly as her husband, the wonderful adventure of The Fairy Circle.

O'BRYAN'S LUCK. A TALE OF NEW YORK

CHAPTER I.
THE MERCHANT-PRINCE

In the private office of a first-class store sat two individuals, each thoroughly absorbed in his present employment, but with very different feelings for the work. One – it was the head of the establishment, the great Mr. Granite, the millionaire merchant – was simply amusing himself, as was his usual custom at least once a day, figuring up, by rough calculation, the probable amount of his worldly possessions, they having arrived at that point when the fructifying power of wealth made hourly addition to the grand total; while the other, his old and confidential clerk, Sterling, bent assiduously over a great ledger, mechanically adding up its long columns, which constant use had enabled him to do without the possibility of mistake. With a profound sigh of relief, he laid down his pen, and rubbing his cramped fingers, quietly remarked:

"Accounts made up, sir."

"Ah, very good, Sterling," replied the stately principal, with a smile, for his arithmetical amusement was very satisfactory, "how do we stand?"

"Balance in our favor, two hundred and fifty-seven thousand eight hundred and forty-seven dollars, and twenty-three cents," slowly responded the old clerk, reading from his abstract.

"You're certain that is correct, Mr. Sterling?" inquired the merchant-prince, in a clear, loud voice, which indicated that the old, time-worn machine was wearing out. He was so deaf that it was only by using his hand as a conductor of the sound, that he could hear sufficiently to carry on a conversation.

"Correct to a cypher, sir," he replied. "I have been up and down the columns a dozen times."

"Good."

"Did you speak, sir?"

"No."

"Ah! my poor old ears," the old clerk whispered, half aside. "Five and forty years in this quiet office has put them to sleep. They'll never wake up again, never, never."

"You have been a careful and useful assistant and friend, Sterling," said the merchant, in a kindly tone, touching him on the shoulder with unaccustomed familiarity, "and I thank you for the great good your services have done the house."

"Bless you, sir, bless you – you are too good. I don't deserve it," replied Sterling, unable to restrain the tears which this unusual display of good feeling, had forced up from the poor old man's heart.

"I shall have no further need of you to-day, Sterling, if you have any business of your own to transact."

"I have, I have, my good, kind friend, and thank you for granting me the opportunity," said Sterling, descending with difficulty from his place of torture. – Why will they not abolish those inflexible horrors, those relics of barbarism, those inquisitorial chattels – office-stools? "I'll go now, and mingle my happiness with the sweet breath of Heaven – and yet, if I dared to say what I want – I" —

"Well, speak out, old friend." The merchant went on, with an encouraging look: "If your salary be insufficient" —

"Oh! no, no!" interposed the other, suddenly, "I am profusely paid – too much, indeed – but" – and he cast down his eyes hesitatingly.

"This reserve with me is foolish, Sterling. What have you to say?"

"Nothing much, sir; indeed, I hardly know how to bring it out, knowing, as I well do, your strange antipathy" – Granite turned abruptly away. He now knew what was coming, and it was with a dark frown upon his brow he paced the office, as Sterling continued:

"I saw him to-day."

"Travers?"

"Yes," replied the other, "Travers. But don't speak his name as though it stung you. I was his father's clerk before I was yours."

"You know what I have already done for him," moodily rejoined the merchant.

"Yes, yes – I know it was kind, very kind of you – you helped him once; but he was unsuccessful. He is young – pray, pray, spare him some assistance. You won't miss it – indeed you won't," pleaded the clerk.

"Sterling, you are a fool," Granite replied, sternly. "Every dollar lent or lost is a backward step that must be crawled up to again by inches. But I am inclined to liberality to-day. What amount do you think will satisfy this spendthrift?"

"Well, since your kindness emboldens me to speak – it's no use patching up a worn coat, so even let him have a new one – give him another chance – a few hundred dollars, more or less, can't injure you, and may be his salvation. About five thousand dollars will suffice."

"Five thousand dollars! are you mad, Sterling?" cried the merchant, starting to his feet in a paroxysm of anger.

"Your son will have his half a million to begin with," quietly suggested Sterling.

"He will, he will!" cried the other, with a strange, proud light in his eye, for upon that son all his earthly hopes, and haply those beyond the earth, were centered. "Wealth is power, and he will have sufficient; he can lift his head amongst the best and proudest; he can wag his tongue amongst the highest in the land – eh, my old friend?"

"That can he, indeed, sir, and be ashamed of neither head nor tongue, for he's a noble youth," replied the clerk.

"Here, take this check, Sterling. I'll do as you wish this time; but mind it is the last. I have no right to injure, even in the remotest degree, my son's interests, of which I am simply the guardian. You can give it to – to —him, and with this positive assurance."

"Bless you – this is like you – this is noble, princely," murmured the old clerk, through his tears, which now were flowing unrestrainedly; "when I tell" —

"Hold! repeat his name again, and I recall the loan. I repent already of having been entrapped into this act of folly."

"You wrong your own liberal nature," said Sterling, mildly. "You are goodness itself, and fear not but you will receive your reward four-fold for all you have done for" —

"Away, you prating fool," cried Granite, in a tone that hurried the old clerk out of the office, full of gratitude for the service done, and of unaffected joy, that Providence had selected him to be the bearer of such happy intelligence to the son of his old employer.

Meantime, the merchant-prince flung himself into his comfortable easy-chair, a spasm of agony passing across his harsh features. "Oh! Travers, Travers!" he inly ejaculated, "must that black thought ever thrust itself like a grim shadow across the golden sun-ray of my prosperity?"