Kitabı oku: «The Bunsby Papers (second series): Irish Echoes», sayfa 5
"You murdherin' ould vagabone," he cried; "you've got the upper hand of me, an' full well you know it; the divil take yer dirty money, that's weighin' down my pockets; but weighin' my heart down more nor that, av it wasn't that I don't know exactly what harum I'd be doin' to meself; may I never sin av I wouldn't pelt the life out o' you wid fistfulls of it; but it sarves me right, it sarves me right," he went on, swaying his body to and fro, as he sat on the little stool. "Oh! wirra, wirra! what a born natheral I was to swap away my darlin' Peg, that's made out of the best parts of half a dozen angels, for that wizen-faced daughter of ould Nick beyont; an' the blessed babby, too, that's so fresh from the skies that the smell o' Heaven sticks about him yet; to get nothin' for him but a pair of legs that can't lift me over a thranieen; oh! it's mad that it's dhrivin' me, intirely."
"Don't take it so much to heart; gruntin', and growlin', an twistin' yerself into a thrue lover's knot, won't do any good now, you know," said Bulworthy, with a quiet smile.
"I know it won't, and that's what makes me desperate," replied Dan, starting up, with clenched teeth, and a dangerous glance in his eye.
"One word for all," he continued, "are you going to give me back meself?"
"I'd be a purty fool to do that, accordin' to your own story," said the other, calmly, now tolerably sure of his ground.
"Then Heaven forgive me, but here goes," cried Dan, resolutely. "Peg, jewel, it's for your sake an' the child; I can't live widout yez, anyhow, an' so I may's well thravel the dark road at oncet."
"What do you mane, you wild-lookin' savage?" shouted Bulworthy, as he saw the other advance threateningly towards him.
"I mane to thry and squeeze the breath out ov you, or get meself throttled in the attempt," said Dan, sternly; "I know that I'm no match for you now, bad 'cess to your podgey carcass that I'm obleeged to carry, whether I will or no; come on, you thief o' the world, come on; it doesn't matther a sthraw which of us is sint into kingdom come, only it's mighty hard for me to have the since knocked out o' me by me own muscles."
So saying, he put forth all the strength he could muster, and clenched Bulworthy manfully; short, but decisive was the struggle, for the superior vigor of the latter, enabled him to shake off Dan like a feather, and when he rushed again to the attack, Bulworthy seized the ponderous lapstone, and raising it at arm's length, let its whole force descend upon Dan's unprotected head, crushing him down prone and senseless as though he had been stricken by a thunderbolt.
It was some time before Dan returned to full consciousness; but when he did, what was his intense delight to find Peggy bending over him, tenderly bathing a trifling wound in his head.
"Hurrah, Peg! it is back I am to myself in airnest," he cried. "Give us a bit of the lookin'-glass, darlin'; oh! the butcherin' ruffian, what a crack he gev me on me skull."
"Whisht, don't talk, Dan, acush," said Peggy, in a low, musical voice; "shure, its ravin' you've been, terrible; oh! that whisky, that whisky!"
A sudden thought flashed across Dan's mind, which he judiciously kept to himself; and, inasmuch, as the reader may, without much exercise of ingenuity imagine what that thought was, the narrator will be silent, also.
It will be no abuse of confidence, however, to say that the lesson Dan received, did him good, for he never was known to repine at his lot, but, redoubling his exertions, was enabled, after a few years had elapsed, to sport his top-boots on Sundays, and Peggy to exhibit her silk "gound," as well as the purse-proud Squire and his gay madame, over the way.
THE BLARNEY STONE
Oh, did you ne'er hear of the Blarney,
'Tis found near the banks of Killarney,
Believe it from me, no girl's heart is free,
Once she hears the sweet sound of the Blarney.
Lover.
"I tell you, Mike, agra! it's no manner o' use, for do it I can't, an' that's the long an' the short of it."
"Listen at him, why it isn't bashful that you are, eh, Ned, avic?"
"Faix, an' I'm afeard it is."
"Gog's bleakey! why, they'll put you in the musayum along wid the marmaids an' the rattlin' sneaks; a bashful Irishman! why, a four-leaved shamrogue 'ud be a mutton-chop to that, man alive."
"So they say; but I've cotch the complaint anyway."
"Well, tear an aigers, I never heerd the likes; it makes me mighty unhappy, for if modesty gets a footin' among us it'll be the ruin of us altogether. I shouldn't wonder but some of them retirin' cockneys has inoculated us with the affection, as they thravelled through the country. Well, an' tell us, how d'you feel whin you're blushin' Ned?"
"Arrah! now don't be laughin' at me, Mike; sure we can't help our wakeness – it's only before her that the heart of me melts away intirely."
"Never mind, avic; shure it's a good man's case anyway; an' so purty Nelly has put the comether over your sinsibilities?"
"You may say that, Mike, aroon. The niver a bit of sinse have I left, if it's a thing that I iver happened to have any; an' now, Mike, without jokin', isn't it mighty quare that I can't get the cowardly tongue to wag a word out o' my head when her eye is upon me – did you iver see Nelly's eye, Mike?"
"Scores o' times."
"May-be that isn't an eye?"
"May-be there isn't a pair of thim, since you come to that?"
"The divil such wicked-lookin' innocince iver peeped out of the head of a Christian afore, to my thinkin'."
"It's nothin' but right that you should think so, Ned."
"Oh, Mike! to me, the laugh that bames out of thim, whin she's happy, is as good to a boy's feelin's as the softest sun-ray that iver made the world smile; but whin she's sad – oh, murdher, murdher! Mike – whin them wathery dimonds flutthers about her silky eye-lashes, or hangs upon her downy cheek, like jew upon a rose-lafe, who the divil could endure it? Bedad, it's as much as I can do to stand up agin them merry glances; but when her eye takes to the wather, be the powers of war, it bothers the navigation of my heart out an' out."
"Thrue for you, Ned."
"An' thin her mouth! Did you iver obsarve Nelly's mouth, Mike?"
"At a distance, Ned."
"Now, that's what I call a rale mouth, Mike; it doesn't look like some, only a place to ate with, but a soft-talkin', sweet-lovin' mouth, wid the kisses growin in clusthers about it that nobody dare have the impudence to pluck off, eh! Mike?"
"Howld your tongue, Ned."
"If Nelly's heart isn't the very bed of love, why thin Cupid's a jackass, that's all. An' thin her teeth; did you notice thim teeth? why pearls is pavin'-stones to them; how they do flash about, as her beautiful round red lips open to let out a voice that's just for all the world like talkin' honey, every word she says slippin' into a fellow's soul, whether he likes it or not. Oh! Mike, Mike, there's no use in talkin', if she isn't an angel, why she ought to be, that's all."
"You're mighty far gone, Ned, an' that's a fact. It's wonderful what a janius a boy has for talkin' nonsense when the soft emotions is stirrin' up his brains. Did you ever spake to her?"
"How the divil could I? I was too busy listenin'; an' more betoken, between you an' me, the rale truth of the matter is, I couldn't do it. Whether it was bewitched I was, or that my sinses got dhrounded wid drinkin' in her charms, makin' a sort of a mouth of my eye, I don't know, but ev'ry time I attempted to say somethin', my tongue, bad luck to it, staggered about as if it was corned, an' the divil a word would it say for itself, bad or good."
"Well, now, only to think. Let me give you a word of advice, Ned; the next time you see her, take it aisy, put a big stone upon your feelin's an' ax about the weather; you see you want to bowlt out all you have to say at once, an' your throat is too little to let it through."
"Be the mortial, an' that's a good advice, Mike, if I can but folly it. This love is a mighty quare affection, ain't it?"
"Thremendious. I had it oncet myself."
"How did you ketch it?"
"I didn't ketch it at all. I took it natural."
"And did you ever get cured, Mike? Tell us."
"Complately."
"How?"
"I got married."
"Oh! let us go to work."
From the foregoing characteristic conversation between Mike Riley and his friend, Ned Flynn, it would appear pretty evident that the blind boy's shaft,
"Feathered with pleasure and tipped with pain,"
was fast embedded in the heart of the latter, or in plainer and not less expressive phrase, he was bothered entirely by Miss Nelly Malone.
During an interval of rest from mowing, the dialogue took place; that over, they resumed their labor; the convalescent "married man" humming a sprightly air, which kept time to the stroke of his scythe, while the poor wounded deer, Ned, came in now and then with an accompaniment of strictly orthodox sighs.
It certainly was a most extensive smite on the part of pretty Nell; and a nobler heart never beat under crimson and gold, than the honest, manly one which now throbbed with the first ardor of a passion pure and unselfish. A short time longer, and they rested again. Ned was sad and silent; and the never-forgotten respect, which makes suffering sacred in the eyes of an Irish peasant, kept Mike mute also; at last, Ned, with a half downcast, whole sheepish expression, said, the ghost of a smile creeping over his features:
"Mike, do you know what?"
"What?" said Mike.
"I've writ a song about Nelly."
"No," rejoined his friend, with that ambiguous emphasis which might as well mean yes. Adding, with dexterous tact, "Is it a song? An' why the mischief shouldn't you; sure an' haven't you as illigant a heart to fish songs up out as anybody else? Sing us it."
"I'm afeard that you'll laugh if I do, Mike."
"Is it me?" replied Mike, so reproachfully that Ned was completely softened. After the making-your-mind-up minute or two, with a fine, clear voice, he sung.
THE ROSE OF TRALEE
All ye sportin' young heroes, wid hearts light an' free,
Take care how you come near the town of Tralee;
For the witch of all witches that iver wove spell
In the town of Tralee, at this moment does dwell.
Oh, then, don't venture near her, be warned by me,
For the divil all out is the Rose of Tralee.
She's as soft an' as bright as a young summer morn,
Her breath's like the breeze from the fresh blossom'd thorn,
Her cheek has the sea shell's pale delicate hue,
And her lips are like rose leaves just bathed in the dew;
So, then, don't venture near her, be warned by me,
For she's mighty desthructive, this Rose of Tralee.
Oh! her eyes of dark blue, they so heavenly are
Like the night sky of summer, an' each holds a star;
Were her tongue mute as silence, man's life they'd control;
But eyes an' tongue both are too much for one's soul.
Young men, stay at home, then, and leave her to me,
For I'd die with delight for the Rose of Tralee.
And now, after this toploftical illustration of the state of Ned's feelings, and inasmuch as they are about to resume their labor, let us leave them to their mowing, and see after Miss Nelly Malone, for love of whom poor Ned had tasted of the Pierian spring.
In a neat little chamber, bearing about it the unmistakable evidence of a tidy woman's care, sits the individual herself, her little fingers busily employed in knitting a very small stocking – her own; no trace of wealth is to be seen in this humble abode, but of its more than equivalent, comfort, it is redolent. At the open casement there peep in the blossoms of the honey-suckle and the sweet-pea, filling the air with a perfume, more grateful than art could ever obtain; sundry artless prints, and here and there a ballad on some heart-breaking subject, probably amongst them the highwayman's autoballadography, wherein he heroically observes,
"I robbed Lord Mansfield, I do declare,
And Lady Somebody in Grosvenor Square,"
are fastened to the walls, decorated with festoons of cut paper of most dazzling variety of color; a fine, plump, contented lark, in an open cage, which he scorns to leave, returns his mistress's caress with a wild, grateful song, whilst, tutored into friendliness, a beautiful sleek puss, whose furry coat glances like satin in the sun-ray, dozes quietly upon the window-sill, indulging in that low purr, which is the sure indication of a happy cat. It is the home of innocence and beauty, fitly tenanted.
And what are pretty Nelly's thoughts, I wonder; a shade of something, which may be anxiety or doubt, but scarcely sorrow, softens the brightness of her lovely face. She speaks, 'twill be no treason to listen. You will perceive that the cat is her confidante– a discreet one it must be confessed.
"It's foolishness, so it is; isn't it puss?"
Puss doesn't condescend to notice the remark.
"Now, Minny, isn't it, I ask you, isn't it folly, the worst of folly to be thinkin' of one who doesn't think of me? I won't do it any more, that I won't. Heigh 'ho! I wonder if he loves me. I somehow fancy he does, and yet again if he did, why couldn't he say so; there's one thing certain, and that is, I don't love him, that is to say, I won't love him; a pretty thing, indeed, to give my heart to one who wouldn't give me his in return. That would be a bad bargain, wouldn't it, puss?"
Pussy acquiesced, for silence, they say, is synonymous.
"But, oh!" resumed Nelly, "if I thought he did love me – there, now, I've dropped a stitch – what am I thinkin' of? – I mustn't give way to such foolishness. Why, the bird is done singin', and Minny is looking angry at me out of her big eyes – don't be jealous, puss, you shall always have your saucer of milk, whatever happens, and – hark! that's his step, it is! he's comin'! I wonder how I look," and running to her little glass, Nelly, with very pardonable vanity, thought those features could not well be improved, and – the most curious part of the matter – she was right.
"He's a long time coming," thought she, as, stealing a glance through the white window-curtain she saw Ned slowly approach the garden gate; gladly would she have flown to meet him, but maidenly modesty restrained her; now he hesitates a moment, takes a full gulp of breath, and nears the house; at every approaching step, Nelly's pulse beat higher; at last she bethought herself it would be more prudent to be employed; so, hastily taking up her work, which was twisted and ravelled into inextricable confusion, with a seeming calm face she mechanically plied her needles, her heart giving one little shiver as Ned rapped a small, chicken-livered rap at the door. Nelly opened it with a most disingenuous, "Ah! Ned, is that you? who would have thought it! Come in, do."
The thermometer of Nelly's feelings was about fever heat, yet she forced the index to remain at freezing point. "Take a chair, won't you?"
And there sat those two beings, whose hearts yearned for each other, looking as frigid as a pair of icicles, gazing on the wall, the floor, pussy, or the lark. Ned suddenly discovered something that wanted a deal of attending to in the band of his hat; whilst Nelly, at the same time, evinced an extraordinary degree of affection for the cat. To say the truth, they were both very far from comfortable. Ned had thoroughly made up his mind to speak this time if ruin followed, and had even gone so far as to have settled upon his opening speech, but Nelly's cold and indifferent "take a chair," frightened every word out of his head; it was essentially necessary that he should try to recover himself, and he seemed to think that twisting his hat into every possible form and tugging at the band were the only possible means by which it could be accomplished. Once more all was arranged, and he had just cleared his throat to begin, when the rascally cat turned sharply round and stared him straight in the face, and in all his life he thought he never saw the countenance of a dumb creature express such thorough contempt.
"It well becomes me," thought he, "to be demeanin' myself before the cat," and away flew his thoughts again.
Of course, all this was very perplexing to Nelly, who, in the expectation of hearing something interesting, remained patiently silent. There was another considerable pause; at last, remembering his friend Mike's advice, and, moreover, cheered by a most encouraging smile from the rapidly-thawing Nell, Ned wound up his feelings for one desperate effort, and bolted out —
"Isn't it fine to day, Miss Malone?"
Breaking the silence so suddenly that Nelly started from her chair, the lark fluttered in the cage, and puss made one jump bang into the garden.
Amazed and terrified by the results of his first essay, fast to the roof of his mouth Ned's tongue stuck once more, and finding it of no earthly use trying to overcome his embarrassment – that the more he floundered about the deeper he got into the mud, he gathered himself up, made one dash through the door, and was off like lightning. Nelly sighed as she resumed her knitting, and this time she was sad in earnest.
"Well, what luck?" said Mike, as, nearly out of breath from running, Ned rejoined him in the meadow. "Have you broke the ice?"
"Bedad, I have," said Ned, "and more betoken, fell into the wather through the hole."
"Why, wouldn't she listen to you?"
"Yes, fast enough, but I didn't give her a chance; my ould complaint came strong upon me. Ora! what's the use in havin' a tongue at all, if it won't wag the words out of a fellow's head. I'm a purty speciment of an omad-haun; there she sot, Mike, lookin' out of the corners of her eyes at me, as much as to say, spake out like a man, with a soft smile runnin' about all over her face, and playing among her beautiful dimples, like the merry moonbame dancin' on the lake. Oh, murther! Mike, what the mischief am I to do? I can't live without her, an' I haven't the heart to tell her so."
"Well, it is disgraceful," replied Mike, "to see a good-lookin' man disparage his country by flinchin from a purty girl; may-be it might do you good to go an' kiss the Blarney Stone."
"That's it," exclaimed Ned, joyously clapping his hands together, and cutting an instinctive caper, "that's it. I wonder I niver thought of it before; I'll walk every stitch of the way, though my legs should drop off before I got half there. Do you think it 'ud do me good to kiss it?"
"Divil a doubt of it – sure it never was known to fail yet," said Mike, oracularly.
"Why, then, may I niver ate a male's vittles, if there's any vartue in the stone, if I don't have it out of it." And that very night, so eager was Ned to get cured of his bashfulness, off he started for Killarney. It was a long and tedious journey, but the thought of being able to speak to Nelly when he returned, was sufficient to drive away fatigue; in due time he reached the far-famed castle,
"On the top of whose wall,
But take care you don't fall,
There's a stone that contains all the Blarney!"
Mike climbed with caution, discovered the identical spot, and believing implicitly that his troubles were now at an end, knelt, and with a heart-whole prayer for his absent Nelly, reverently kissed The Blarney Stone.
True, devoted love had lent him strength to overcome the difficulties of access, and imagination, that powerful director of circumstance, did the rest. It was with humility and diffidence he had approached the object of his pilgrimage, but he descended from it with head erect and countenance elated; he could now tell his burning thoughts in her ear; he was a changed man; a very pretty girl, who officiated as guide, and upon whose pouting lips, report says, the efficacy of the charm has been frequently put to the test, met him at the archway of the castle – for no other reason in the world than merely to try if he were sufficiently imbued with the attractive principle – Ned watched an opportunity, and, much more to his own astonishment than to hers, gave her a hearty kiss, starting back to watch the effect. She frowned not, she did not even blush. Ned was delighted; his end was obtained.
"He could kiss who he plazed with his Blarney;" consequently, feeling supremely happy, without losing another moment, he retraced his steps homeward.
Meantime, Nelly missed her silent swain, whose absence tended materially to strengthen the feeling of affection which she entertained for him; day after day crept on, yet he came not; and each long hour of watching riveted still more closely her heart's fetters. Now, for the first time, she acknowledged to herself how essential he was to her happiness, and with a fervent prayer that the coming morning might bring him to her side, she closed each day. Her wonder at last at his continued absence quickened into anxiety, and from anxiety into alarm. Jealousy, without which there cannot be a perfect love, spread its dark shadow o'er her soul, and she was wretched. In vain she reasoned with herself; the sun of her existence seemed suddenly to be withdrawn, and all was gloom; even the very bird, appearing to share his mistress's mood, drooped his wing and was silent; so much are externals influenced by the spirit of the hour, that her homey chamber felt comfortless and solitary. Nelly loved with a woman's love, devotedly, intensely, wholly; to lose him would be to her the loss of all that rendered life worth living for; hers was an affection deserving that which was given in lieu, although as yet she knew it not.
Gazing out one day in the faint hope of seeing something of her beloved, her heart gave one sudden and tremendous bound. She saw him – he had returned at last. But how changed in demeanor. Can her eyes deceive her? No. Her heart tells her it is he, and it could not err.
Instead of the downcast look and hesitating step, joy laughed forth from his face, and his tread was easy, rollicking, and careless; as he came nearer, she thought she heard him sing; he did sing! what could it portend? Had he found one who knew how to break the shell of reserve? 'Twas torture to think so, and yet it was the first image that presented itself to her anxious heart. It was now her turn to be tongue-tied, dumb from agitation; she could not utter a syllable, but trembling to the very core, sat silently awaiting what she feared was to prove the funeral knell of her departed happiness.
With a merry song upon his lips, Ned lightly bounded over the little paling, and in a minute more was in her presence. Speak or move she could not, nor did his first salutation place her more at ease.
"Nelly," said he, "you drove me to it, but it's done! it's done!"
"What's done – what can he mean?" thought Nelly, more agitated than ever.
"It's all over now," he continued, "for I've kissed it. Don't you hear me, Nelly? I say I've kissed it."
"In heaven's name," cried the pale, trembling girl, "what do you mean – kissed who?"
"No who at all," said Ned, laughingly, "but it, I've kissed it."
"Kissed what?"
"Why, the Blarney Stone, to be sure," screamed out Ned, flinging his hat at pussy, and executing an extremely complicated double-shuffle in the delight of the moment; indeed, conducting himself altogether in a manner which would have jeopardized the sanity of any one but a love-stricken Irishman.
"Sure it was all for you, Nelly, mavourneen, that I did it; it has loosened the strings of my tongue, and now I can tell you how deeply your image is burnin' within my very heart of hearts, you bright-eyed, beautiful darling!"
What more he said or did, it will be unnecessary for me to relate; suffice it to say that the world-renowned talisman lost none of its efficacy on this particular occasion. One observation of pretty Nell's, I think is worthy of record. At the close of a most uninteresting conversation, to anybody but themselves, the affectionate girl whispered to him:
"Dear Ned, you needn't have gone so far!"
The course of true love sometimes does run smooth, a great authority to the contrary, nevertheless, for in about three weeks' time, the chapel bells rang merrily for the wedding of Edward and Nelly. Aye, and what's more, neither of them had ever cause to regret Ned's visit to The Blarney Stone.
