A Tale.
by Lady Harriette D'Orsay.
Originally published in Ainsworth's Magazine: A Miscellany of Romance (Chapman and Hall) vol.II #8 (Aug 1847).
Part II.—Maurice Mahoney.
On leaving old Alice's cottage, Mary had avoided the village, and taken a shorter road, leading through a deep, thickly-wooded ravine, at the bottom of which flowed, over a rocky bed, a rapid stream. She had hastened onward, unmindful of anything save anxiety to reach her destination, when her child began to cry, and she sat down to endeavour to soothe it. She herself, also, began to feel the effects of fatigue, and was glad to rest for a few moments. The sun had just set, and there was a loneliness and stillness about the scene and hour, interrupted only by the murmuring of the mountain stream, or the carol of some solitary bird, that brought back to Mary's mind scenes of past days that she would gladly have altogether banished from her recollection. But it is hard to drive away the obtrusive thought, and to hush the still, small voice of conscience within the breast. Mary, like most of the lower orders of Irish, was superstitious; and she could almost fancy, in that lonely spot, that she beheld the shade of one she half hoped, half feared was among the dead, hover round her, and fix on her the fierce dark eyes, under whose piercing glance she had so often quailed in life.
Instinctively she clasped her child, and thought of its father—the beloved one with whom she had linked her destiny—and then she remembered how rudely those links might be severed any moment; how all her earthly happiness depended on the fate of the man she hated; and, starting to her feet, was once more hastening homewards, when her arm was firmly grasped, and a voice inquired, in no very gentle tone—
"Young woman, can you tell me the nearest road to K—?" At this moment the falling of a leaf would have startled Mary; it is no wonder, then, that she was alarmed by the presence of a stranger in this lonely spot.
She turned quickly round, and her eyes met those of the inquirer, whose tall figure was enveloped in a large cloak, He was gazing intently on her face, and she, scarcely knowing why, felt as if spellbound.
She made a rapid sign with her hand in the direction of K—, and was again hurrying forwards when the stranger once more seized her arm, and in a low, hollow voice, that seemed to come from the recesses of an overburdened heart, but which sounded like a peal of thunder in her ears, he whispered, "Mary!" It was enough; she reeled backwards, everything seemed to swim before her eyes, and she fell senseless on the ground. On recovering, she found herself reclining against a bank, and, for an instant, she hoped that what she had seen and heard were but the creations of her own foolish fancy; but on raising her eyes, she beheld the stranger standing but a few steps from her: his arms were folded across his breast, and there was in his countenance a look of savage determination, that made her blood freeze in her yeins.
She endeavoured to rise and make her escape, but her strength failed her, and she sunk back on the same spot. Her companion smiled bitterly, and then drew near, and seated himself by her side. Mary's slight frame trembled, and again she made a desperate effort to rise, but he held her arm, and with a look that filled her with terror, he said—
"You wont have the throuble of tellin' me your story, Mary; some one's been before you there, and troth a mighty pleasant one it is for a husband's ears to listen to. Thank you for havin' a baby all ready for me; shure that was very considerate of you."
These words were uttered in a tone of fierce and bitter mockery, that sent the blood rushing to Mary's heart. She almost mechanically pressed her icy lips to her infant's warm, rosy cheek. A smile played round its coral mouth, as it looked up in her face with a crow of delight. This caused her tears to flow, and she muttered in broken accents—
"Och, smile on, my little one, for you know not the weight of grief that's pressin' on my poor heart, and niver another smile or song will your poor mother have for you again! Dennis, my own darling, this will be a sore day for you!"
Maurice Mahoney fiercely grasped her arm, and said, in accents of smothered fury—
"Hould your audacious tongue, woman! or I'll dash you and your accursed brat down into the ravine yonder; and then what will your darling Dennis say?"
A deep groan was Mary's sole reply. Fain would she have lifted up a prayer to God; but she felt she was guilty, and had no right to claim his support and consolation at this trying hour. She had sinned against his holy law, and He hid his face in the hour of her calamity.
I have already said that Maurice loved her. She had been the object of a boyish passion, and though his love had been unrequited, and she had married him in fear of her life, yet he loved her still, and not even the roving life of a smuggler had been able to destroy his early impressions. His feelings of fury on finding her, on his return, the wife of another, may easily be imagined, and, unaccustomed to struggle against the violence of his passions, he thirsted for revenge, and was resolved, at all hazards, to obtain it.
But when in her deep despair, Mary turned upon him her soft blue eyes, faded and dim with weeping, a gleam of pity shot through his heart; he addressed her in gentler accents,—"Mary, you have grievously injured me, and you deserve nothing less than death at my hands; but I haven't in my heart, could and hard as you may think it, to harm a hair of your head; besides, Mary, there's a holy tie between us, one that no human hands can break. You are my wedded wife! and, strange as' it may seem, afther what I know of you, you're still as dear to my heart as when you were a bright, gladsome lass, bounding over the green near ould Alice Connor's cottage. Och, aroon! but you were a swate crathur thin—there wasn't in the wide world, let alone ould Ireland, anither like yourself! but, Mary, you never loved me; though I take Heaven and the blessed Virgin to witness, you were dear to me, and dearer than the life-blood of my heart,—and why couldn't you love me, darling? When I was rough and fierce to all, wasn't I as gentle as a lamb to you?—and when your head ached, didn't I pillow it as tenderly as you would that baby's yonder?—and when there was a tear in your blue eye, didn't I wipe it away as kindly as if I were the mother that bare you?—and what was there, had I been king of the world, I would not have given you, and gladly, too? Ah! sure now, Dennis can't love you as I do!—tell me he doesn't, and I'll forgive you all."
Maurice had passed his arm round Mary's waist, but she started from his embrace, and covering her face with her hands, she exclaimed, passionately—
"Maurice Mahoney, treat me as you list!—hate me, curse me, murder me—but jist don't spake to me of loving me, for I can't bear it. I'd rather you'd dash me at once into the ravine there; and troth, maybe, it would be the best thing that could happen to me now."
Maurice's eyes sparkled with fury, but he subdued his indignant feeling, and said quietly,—"You're an ungrateful woman, and not worth the thinkin' about at all at all. I'm shure I was a fool ever to have cared for the like of you. I thought, for the sake of by-gone days, and your mother who's dead, I'd thry what kindness would do; but I see it's no use rasoning with you, poor wake crathur that you are; so just be so obligin' as to put your best foot foremost, and come along with me. We'll be off, plase the fates, this blessed night, in my little craft, and Masther Dennis may go a whistlin' for you, my jewil. As to this bonny babby, we may jist drop it at yer dour, or down the ravine."
Mary feared Maurice—she knew his fierce and reckless character, alike unmindful of God or man; but when does not the deep love of a woman's heart overcome any selfish terrors? Her adoration for Dennis rose in proportion as her hatred for the man beside her increased. She clasped her baby firmly to her breast; and, turning her flashing eyes upon Maurice, said, with energy—
"Could-blooded man, you may talk of touchin' my babby, but I tell you, it will be at your peril, for I'll defend it with my life. As to my going away with you, Ill never stir one step with the likes of you. I never loved you. I married you, because I was a coward and feared you, and I have raped my reward; for better would it have been to die a bloody death, than call such a one as you my husband! And, if I must die, it will be near Dennis, in my own home, and on my own hearth;—and now, Maurice Mahoney, you know my mind."
"I do," he replied, sullenly; "but you have got to learn mine; for as yet, I've spoken softly to you, for the sake of ould times; but know, Mary, that none ever dared to brave me, and by the blessed Virgin, you shall not be the first to begin! So jist come along quietly, for it's no use strugglin'."
He put forth his powerful arm, and was about to sieze her, when she sprang forward, and, in a moment, stood on the verge of the precipice. She made signs to him that if he should venture to approach her with hostile intentions, she would dash herself down—and he felt that she would do so without hesitation. He remained standing at a few yards' distance, uncertain how to act. When he next addressed her, it was in a more conciliatory tone.
"Well, Mary, I see it's jist no use talkin' to you; so, I'll tell you what I'll do with you. You've left your child here near me—(and he took it in his arms)—now I'll make a bargain with you. You say you want to go back to Dennis—curses on him! Well, and so you may; but if you're not here at this place by sunset to-morrow, it's little this crathur will see of its risin'—so you can take your choice. You know you're my wife; who cares whether or no you married me from choice?—you're mine in the sight of God and man; and its only my wake nathur that lets you go back at all at all. Remember the bargain; for, by the blessed Virgin, I'll be as good as my word! and, as to Masther Dennis, let him look to himself."
The ghastly paleness that overspread poor Mary's face could even be perceived by the light of the moon, which had just risen. Her first impulse was to follow her child, no matter where; but the thought that a vessel would tear her away from all she loved and valued, overcame every other feeling. Between this and the morrow, something might be done; and so with a heavy heart, she parted from her babe.
"Fear nothin' in life for it! If you come back here to-morrow evening, you'll find the crathur as safe as when you left it; but if not—" and Maurice significantly passed his hand across his throat, and disappeared in the thicket.
How Mary got home, it is impossible to say—her brain was on fire—and she rushed onwards, scarcely knowing whither her feet were carrying her. When the village doctor arrived, he found her in a most alarming state: the extreme excitement and anguish of mind had brought on violent fever and delirium—for two days she lay without recognising any one round her. She frequently called on Dennis and her child, which made him dread that some fatal accident had occurred; but researches were made in vain.
The third day, however, she fell into a deep sleep, and woke apparently composed and refreshed. Her cheeks were no longer flushed, and her eyes had lost the wild and fearful brilliancy which fever had lent them for a time.
Dennis was seated beside his wife's bed, watching over her with the most unwearied solicitude: the deep anxiety he felt for the fate of their child, and the fears he entertained for the life of her he loved so fondly, had produced a sad alteration in poor Dennis O'Brien's once happy and healthful countenance.
"You look ill, Dennis asthore," said Mary, affectionately gazing on her husband's face; "what ails you, darling?"
"Oh, nothin', nothin', mavoureen"—for he had been forbidden to allude to the disappearance of the infant till his wife was quite restored to health and strength—"nothin', that seeing you yourself again wont cure; and thank God, you're gettin' round now."
"Yes, yes, Dennis, dear—I'm well enough now;" and Mary sighed, for the remembrance of past events was fast returning on her brain—it was too much for her exhausted frame, and for some moments she was unable to speak. At length she ventured to ask, in a faint, trembling voice, whether the sun was set—for she had no recollection of how long she had been ill.
"No, jewel, not yet, and it's as fine an evenin' as you'd wish to see; it would do your heart good if you could feel how soft the air blows in from our little garden."
A bright smile, for a moment, illumined Mary's pale face; and she said—"God be praised—then it's all right! I must get up, Dennis, darling,"
"Not to-day, dear—you're not well enough; to-morrow, perhaps."
"That wont do—I must get up to-day—this moment!"
And then the thought that she was probably leaving her beloved Dennis for ever, rushed upon her with overpowering force; and fixing her eyes intently on him, she sunk into his arms, bursting into a torrent of tears.
"Och, Dennis, jewel! if iver I've grieved you by my foolishness and odd ways—if iver I've made your precious heart ache, forgive me!—forget it, darling!—and when I'm far away—when, maybe, some one else, younger and purter than me is sittin' by your hearth, singin' to you the songs I've thried to divart you with—och, pulse of my heart! then just remember me, for I loved you, Heaven knows, only too well!"
"What do you mane, Mary asthore? what are you talkin' about? Sure you're not goin' to lave me—you'll be as well and as lively as iver in a day or two."
But Mary slowly and sorrowfully shook her head.
"The sun's goin' down, and I must be gone!"
Dennis thought her senses still wandered, and endeavoured to compose her; but, when he said, "Sure, Mary, afther havin' been three days in bed with a fever, you cannot think of goin' out"—she shrieked wildly, and exerting her utmost strength, sprang from the bed, and rushed out of the house. She never stopped running frantically on, till she reached the spot where she had met Maurice. In vain Dennis endeavoured to arrest her progress. She was armed with a strange supernatural energy, that rendered every effort to detain her fruitless. The spot was quite solitary—and a sort of desperate hope came over Mary, that it was all a hideous dream, and that she and Maurice Mahoney had never met. But this illusion was of short duration.
Near the bank where she had been seated three days before, lay the corpse of her beautiful child. Alice's words had come true—there was blood, innocent blood, between her and Dennis; and the punishment, deep, bitter punishment, had followed the offence.
* * * * *
Years have elapsed since the events recorded in my tale took place. The long grass now grows over the head of Dennis O'Brien. He died soon after the dreadful catastrophe before related. Maurice Mahoney was shipwrecked, in attempting to escape after the crime he had committed. Old Alice sleeps with her fathers, and Mary, poor Mary!—has she survived the wreck of all her hopes—of all her happiness? Alas!—
"Life's strange principle will often lie
Deepest in those who long the most to die."
She lived on, if it could be called life, for her reason was completely gone ever since the dreadful shock she had received. Some pitied her—many blamed her; but she heeded not their pity or their blame. Faithful to him she had loved, she still sat at Dennis's grave, and suffered none to disturb, as she thought, his repose. Year after year rolled on, and found her still watching there. She is now unheeded, and if any stranger asks who is that wild-looking woman, sitting on that grave, a careless answer is given—"Only poor Mary!" That lonely, neglected grave is now the only home of the once lovely and happy Mary O'Brien!