A Tale.
by Lady Harriette D'Orsay.
Originally published in Ainsworth's Magazine: A Miscellany of Romance (Chapman and Hall) vol.II #1 (1847).
Part I.—Alice Connor.
"Troth, Mary, aroon! but I'm glad to see you. I hope it's well and happy you are; for I was afther thinkin' that on yer weddin' day you did not look quite as merry as you might have done, considherin' the fine match you made, and yer own choice too. Shure, hinny, where's the boy about this to be named in the same breath with Dennis O'Brien? And you love him, don't you, darlin'?"
"That I do, Kathleen!" rejoined Mary, as she leaned forwards and put more turf on the blazing fire; "and sure I'd be most wicked if I didn't, for there isn't a betther nathured crathur breathin' than my Dennis, or a fonder husband. Besides that, only think, aroon, we've been man and wife but two short months, and surely if we were not all to each ither now it would be but a poor look out for the future."
"Troth, and it would, aroon! But there's no fear of that, plase God, and I trust I'll live to see you the mither of a fine family as cliver and honest as Dennis O'Brien." Mary sighed; and Kathleen thought, though perhaps it was merely her own fancy, that she wiped a tear from her eye. "Och! but you're a strange crathur, Mary. I can't make you out at all, at all. I thought when you had got the wish of your heart, and were married to Dennis, all would go well, and that you'd cease frettin'; and there you are sittin' forenenst me jist as pale and woe-begone as ever. Shure some people are hard to plase; do as you will, they'll be grumbling and discontinted. Och, hinny, take care you're not ungrateful to a good God, who has given you so many blessins to be thankful for."
"I'm not ungrateful, Kathleen, dear, at laste I hope not—for 'tis a black sin, and one, I think, furrin' to my heart. But you know that iver since my poor mother's death I haven't been the same crathur I was before. There seems always like her shadow over my spirit, and it sinks me intirely."
"Well, jewel, we've all got our thrials in one shape or anither; we must only thry and be cheerful under them. Shure I lost my cow the ither day, that was almost as good as a mither tome. She was as beautiful a crathur as iver your eyes rested on. Well, she fell sick and died, and a sore loss this has been to me; yet I jist thry to make the bist of it, and keep up my poor old man's heart under the throuble. Now, everything thrives with you: your cattle are the fattest, and your cottage is the snuggest; and besides that, even if he hadn't a penny, there's not a girl in K-- who wouldn't be right glad to be the wile of handsome Dennis O'Brien."
"And proud I am of that same," answered Mary.
"And I'm shure few would guess it afther looking at you. Well, now I must say good evening, aroon, for the children will be looking out for me, to give them their supper; and truth it's a poor one, now the cow's dead." Kathleen put on her beret and cloak, and then added, "Ould Alice is mighty poorly! I saw her yestreen, and she seemed very bad, poor sowl! I tould her of yer return, and promised her a visit from you and Dennis; so go there as soon as you can."
No sooner was Kathleen out of sight, than Mary, who had watched her retreating figure till it had vanished in the distance, took her bonnet and cloak, and hurried towards the cabin where lived the above-mentioned Alice Connor, her mother's foster-sister. It was a dark, dreary evening, in the middle of October, and every gust of wind brought with it the few leaves that still remained upon the trees. The sky was covered with large heavy clouds, which seemed to threaten a tremendous downpour of rain. Mary's delicate frame shivered in the cutting blast, but still she hurried forward, and at length found herself at the entrance of Alice's hut.
On opening the door a cloud of smoke almost suffocated her, and it was not till after some seconds that she could distinguish, by the aid of the faint glimmering of a miserable farthing rushlight, the object of her search. The old woman was in bed, if the wretched grabat on which she lay could be dignified by such a name. Her sole covering consisted of a scanty patchwork quilt, which seemed but ill adapted to guard her from the piercing draughts of air that whisked through the miserable tenement. Her eyes were closed, and such was the livid hue of her cheeks and lips, that had it not been for her deep breathing, she might have passed for one dead.
Mary seated herself beside the sick woman's bed, on a low stool, which, with a three-legged table formed the only furniture of the room. She seemed, however, to take no notice of the intruder; her eyes remained closed, and her whole form motionless. Mary cast around her a look akin to terror; the howling of the winds, the flickering light that the candle cast on the cold, damp walls, and, above all, the unearthly aspect of the aged crone, all conspired to shake her nerves. She was resolved to break the silence at all risks.
"Do you not know me, Mother Alice?" she whispered, gently.
The old woman still kept her eyes closed, but answered in a hollow voice, "Is that you, Mary Mahony?"
"Hush, hush, dear mother!" almost shrieked Mary, and she threw herself wildly on the woman's bed, and whispered in her ear.
"Och, daughter, I had forgotten that. I am ould now, and the mimory's slippin' from my brain. Let me look at you, child. Bring me that light, that I may see you, for my sight's failin' me, too."
Mary O'Brien rose with a faltering step, and brought the candle. Alice shaded her eyes with one of her withered hands, as she gazed with apparent emotion on the slight form beside her. She then shook her head slowly and mournfully, and sunk back on her bed.
"Heaven help you, darlint, but you're sorely changed. Your cheek's jist for all the world as white as the sweet lilies you used to be gatherin' me. I'm an ould woman, with more than one foot in the grave; but it pains me at my heart to see you, Mary, look as you do."
Mary pressed the crone's withered hand, and replied gently, "Mother, I'm very happy now. At laste I hope all may yet go well. If I do look ill, why shure it's no wondher, when you but think of all I've gone through for many a long year now."
"Thrue, thrue, hinny; yours has been a bitther fate, and yet you were not made for sorrow. I think I see you now as you were when a babe on my knee, with your cheek as fresh as a damask rose, and your eyes—God bless you!—sparkling like two bright stars. Would I have believed any one who'd have tould me then that the child I was rearing with so much care and tenderness was only born for misery and shame! But God's will be done! Our time is short here, and there'll be rest hereafther."
"Don't spake of that, Alice; I can't bear it; for shure there'll be no rest for a poor lost crathur like me. But let me thry and make you more comfortable, mother dear. This is but a poor bed for a sick body to lie on."
"It matters little, child, how I am for the few days I have to stay on in this world. I shall soon lie where the cauld wind may blow over me without making me shiver. Och! but it's hard to die with the burden that's lyin' on my heart and on my conscience; and yet you, girl, can lay your head in peace on your husband's breast, for they tell me you are married—married to Dennis O'Brien."
Mary kept her eyes fixed upon the ground while the aged woman spoke; but when she had finished, she said in a calm, decided voice, "Mother, what is past is past, and cannot be undone. The thought of it all has cost me many a sleepless night, and will, I dare say, cost me many more; but it must be borne, and we must only hope for the best, and, at all events, keep our own secrets. Now, I must say goodnight, Alice dear, for Dennis will be waitin' at home for his supper."
Mary, on her return to her cottage, found her husband sitting by the fire-side; he seemed half annoyed as well as surprised at her absence. "Where on the face of the earth have you been, Mary, at this hour?"
A slight shade of embarrassment crossed her brow, as she replied, hastily, "Oh, only jist down to see poor widow Connor, who's sick."
"It's too late for you to walk alone, dear. Why didn't you wait for me? low pale and tired you look, aroon!"
"Do I, dear Dennis?" And Mary pushed back the rich tresses of her dark chesnut hair. Her husband seated himself beside her, and surveyed her with looks of fondness and admiration. He passed his hand through her luxuriant hair, out of which she had taken the comb, and which fell like a dark mantle round her shoulders.
"My own Mary, am I not a happy man to be your wedded husband this blessed day, till death do us part—to be always near you to shield you, and guide you, and protect you—I will not say comfort, for God keep you from sorrow!"
A cold shudder passed over Mary's frame, and she involuntarily shrunk from his warm embrace.
"You do not love me as I do you, mavourneen, though sometimes I thry to think you do. You meet me with a smile, and appear happy and continted near me; and then, at other moments, you seem quite to start away from me. How's this, jewel?"
Mary pressed her husband's hand affectionately between her own. The look she raised to his inquiring glance was a look of love; but at the same time she suppressed a sigh.
"Tell me, darlin', did you ever love any one afore me? Och, but it's a horrid thought, which stales over myMeart at times in spite of me, and do what I will I can't dhrive it away. There always seems as if some bitther memory divided you from me."
Mary's check grew very pale. She turned away her head, and then, with a slight gesture of impatience, said,
"Ah now, Dennis, dear, why wont you be contint with knowin' I do love you betther than anything in the world now that my poor mother's dead. What can you wish more than that?"
"Nothing, nothing, Mary. ‘That's all my heart wants, Heaven knows; but when I see you looking pale and sad, I fear you may be thinking of some one else, and I can't bear it."
Mary shook her head, and the conversation dropped.
Some months passed away, and found Mary O'Brien the mother of a lovely boy. The look of deep sorrow that had been impressed on her countenance during the first months of her wedded life had, in a great measure, disappeared, and if at times a shade of anxiety crossed her brow, it was but for a moment, and her dear Dennis's affectionate smile or her baby's infantine endearments had soon power to dispel the cloud.
It would, indeed, have been strange if she had not been happy; for she had many blessings, nor was she ungrateful for them—and though there were sometimes the trace of tears upon her cheek, yet all agreed there was no better wife and mother than Mary O'Brien.
Alice Connor was still living; and as her infirmities increased with her years, Mary endeavoured to alleviate her sufferings as much as lay in her power, by bringing her such little comforts as her poverty prevented her from procuring.
It happened one day, that at Alice's request she brought her baby to see her; after the usual friendly greetings had passed between them, Alice said,—
"My eyes are very dim now, Mary darlint, and I can't see much of you; but, methinks, your cheek is not quite as wan as it was. Your babe's a sweet crathur, intirely—and your husband's as good and as clever a lad as ivir stepped God's earth. Och! that you had been his wife many a long year ago!"
"Would that I had, mother; but there's no use breakin' one's heart wishin' for things that can't be—so I jist thry not to think of what's gone by, and can niver be minded."
"Ah? that's all well enough, honey, at your age. You are young, and happy, and likely to live many a year to repint, and make your pace with God and man,—but if you were like me, standin' with one toot in the grave, how would you feel thin? Would all that's gone by appear nothin', though cryin' can't mend it? Oh! Mary, pulse of my heart, may you niver have cause, even in this world, to weep tears of blood over the past, for surely our sin finds us out. I could find it in my ould withered heart to weep them for you. I lie awake through the wearisome night, thinkin' of you as ye were a gay, merry little miss, and Maurice such a bonny lad—and all the misery that's come over us all; and then, jewel, I'm glad I shall so soon be out of this poor world, where there's more sorrow than joy, any how."
Mary raised her soft blue eyes imploringly to Alice's face, and replied, in faltering tones, "Ah! mother dear, don't be afther remindin' me of all this. Why did you mention his name?—I have not heard it since I married Dennis. I hoped never to hear it agin. I am a miserable crathur, unworthy of having such a husband as mine—and all I pray, to die before he ever knows the fatal thruth."
Mary's tears flowed fast on her infant's rosy cheeks as she spoke; she clasped it closer to her breast, and went on slowly.
"My hope is, mother,—oh, it's a wicked hope, but one sin makes many—you know my manin', though I cannot spake it—the words would burn up my tongue. But, dear, good Alice, don't you think, with the wild life he led, that—"
She leaned forward anxiously to catch the crone's reply, but Alice shook her head.
God forgive you that wish, child. It's a fearful thing to gain one's ends by the loss of an immortal sowl; and it's a heavy sin to wish an unprepared spirit in the presence of God. But you've been sorely thried—and it's hard, when the chain is lyin' heavy on the heart, not to wish it snapped asunder. It may be that it is as you wish, but I cannot think it. Punishment follows our misdoin', and I had a fearful drame last night. In my sleep, I thought he was come back to claim you, and there were bitther words, and sealdin' tears, and your heart's blood poured out like wather."
Mary groaned aloud.
"I do not like that drame, Alice. You were iver a clever one in your sleep, and many a strange thing you've fancied that way has come thrue. But if he does live, perhaps he may have forgotten me, and found some one to take my place. What does he want now with me: I am an altered woman; and why should he return to make me wretched, when he knows I never loved him."
"Mary, mark my words. He will return. I had not that awful drame for nothin'. He will return, and a fearful meetin' yours will be. Forget you, Mary? Do not hope it, child. The likes of you are not easily forgotten; and wild and fierce as he was, he loved you truly; and he has often tould me, before he went to say, that to lose you would jist dhrive him mad."
It was now time for Mary to return home; the words of the old crone had left a heavy sadness on her heart, and she felt anxious to return to her cheerful fireside; so, folding her infant to her breast, she hastily bid farewell to Alice, and left the cottage on her way homewards.
Hour after hour passed away as Dennis O'Brien sat in his dwelling, anxiously awaiting his wife's return. He sent to Alice Connor's, but found she had left some time; then to Kathleen's, and all the neighbours whom she was in the habit of visiting, but could hear no tidings of Mary. Though it was in August, when the days are long, the sun had set, the twilight hour had passed away, and the shades of hight were closing round, without bringing any news of the wanderer. Dennis had remained at home, fearful of missing her; but he had just formed the resolution of going out himself to seck her, when she entered the room without her child, and looking so pale and haggard, that poor Dennis could scarcely believe he held his own beloved in his arms. In vain he questioned her as to what had occurred, and as to Where was their darling child; Mary could give no reply, and after some incoherent sentences, fell senseless on her husband's bosom.