The Bunsby papers Part 13

"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 In vain she reasoned with herself; the sun of her existence seemed suddenly to be withdrawn, and all was gloom; even the very bird, appearing to share his mistress's mood, drooped his wing and was silent; so much are externals influenced by the spirit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 sh.e.l.l 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 p.u.s.s.y, 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.

THE GOSPEL CHARM.

A finer looking fellow could not be met with in a day's walk than Gerald Desmond, the only son of the wealthy widow Desmond, her pride and sole comfort; tall and strikingly handsome, he had that buoyant, reckless air and continuous flow of spirits which would indicate the possessor of a heart, over whose welfare the gales of adversity had but lightly swept.

At the period which commences my narrative, he is holding an animated conversation with his foster-brother and fast friend, Frank Carolan.

Frank is also a fine, manly specimen of humanity, much more humbly dressed than his companion, yet still with a something of superiority about him, which would prevent a stranger from pa.s.sing by without a second look. The substance of their conversation may afford a key to their pursuits and feelings.

"Don't talk to me about Biddy Magra. I tell you she's not to be compared to Judy Murphy," said Gerald.

"May-be she isn't, and then again, may-be she is," very logically replied Frank, with the manner of one who did not exactly like to contradict his superior, or altogether give up his own opinion.

"Did you ever see a prettier girl than Judy?" inquired Gerald.

"Hum! It strikes me that I have, once or twice," said Frank, which was very probable, seeing that he had the prettiest girl in the county for a sister, a fact which Gerald well knew, although, as yet, he hardly dared to acknowledge it to himself.

"No you haven't--you couldn't, there isn't, there shan't be anything to equal her within a hundred miles," continued Gerald, partly for the sake of argument, and partly because he really did think so at the moment. "And if I could only bring myself to abandon the delicious society of the charming s.e.x, and concentrate the affections of Gerald Desmond upon one individual, she would be the enviable person."

"So you've said to every decent-lookin' colleen that came near you ever since you've had a heart to feel. You're as changeable as the moon."

"I was, I was; but now I'm fixed, settled, constant as the sun."

"Mighty like the sun, that has a warm beam for every planet, or may-be more like a parlor stove, that burns up any sort of coal. You'll never be steady to one, Gerald."

"Well, we'll see. I've loved Judy three weeks without stopping, and that's a good sign; but I'm going to have a game at loo, and top up with a jollification; you must come along, Frank."

"No, no, master Gerald; it's well enough for you golden-spoon folks to waste time, but I am one of the unfortunate wooden-ladle people. I must go to work."

"Work! Hang work," cried Gerald, who never suffered an obstacle to remain which opposed his will or pleasure. "You needn't want money while I'm with you, Frank. Come, only this once; deuce take it, let us enjoy the present, and let to-morrow look out for itself. I shan't ask you again--_only this once_."

"Well, then," said Frank, irresolutely, "I'll go, but remember, 'tis _only for this once_."

"ONLY FOR THIS ONCE." How often, without thinking of its awful import, has this _lie_ been uttered! Let the soul but _for once_ diverge from the appointed path, how difficult to return! But when to each seductive voice which beckons from the way-side, the victim cries, I shall enjoy thee _but for once_, 'tis led so far astray, through such deep windings and such adverse mazes, that when it would retrace its steps, the consequences of each evil deed have so obscured, planted with thorns, or destroyed the road, 'tis the finger of infinite mercy alone which can conduct it safely back.

Gerald Desmond and his foster-brother pa.s.sed that night, as too many had been pa.s.sed before, in drunkenness and riot.

Now, although engaged in the same vicious employment, there was great difference in the actuating principles of these two young men. Gerald, as yet unchecked by reason, was at this time an uncompromising _roue_, plunging in every degree of dissipation, with a heart resolved to drain the cup of enjoyment to the very dregs, and have it filled and filled again. Whereas, Frank's easy, yielding disposition, acted upon by the charm of companions.h.i.+p and the circ.u.mstances of the moment, caused him to be placed in such situations, actually against his better judgment; a.s.sociation only leading him into vicious scenes, which a lack of prudential resolution prevented him from being able to avoid. In fact, Gerald invariably said, _yes!_ and Frank, had not sufficient self-command to say, _no!_

The strong friends.h.i.+p which frequently attends the advent.i.tious relations.h.i.+p of foster-brotherhood, brought them almost always together, and as Gerald, from his position, was naturally the leader, their lives were pa.s.sed in a continual round of miscalled amus.e.m.e.nt.

However, as we often find that when very dear friends quarrel, it is with a bitterness more than equal to their former kindliness of feeling, so it was with Gerald and Frank. They fell out, during one of their drinking encounters; something trivial commenced it, but one word brought on another, until the little spark swelled to a flame, and the poor remains of reason, left uninjured by the liquor, were scorched to fury in the fire of anger. The difference in their dispositions evinced itself powerfully. Gerald, foaming with rage, was violent and ungovernable, while Frank, whose mind was infinitely superior, was cool and calm, though inly suffering from suppressed choler.

"Where," exclaimed the former, das.h.i.+ng his hand on the table, "where would you have been now, were it not for me?"

"Where?" replied Frank, with a smile which _looked_ real; "why, in my bed, dreaming quiet dreams; a thing I shall never do again."

"Whose fault is that?"

"Yours," said Frank, sternly regarding him, "yours. Is this my place?

Would I have been here of my own will? No--you led me step by step from content into this brutal degradation."

"But you had your wits about you," fiercely retorted Gerald; "this is my thanks for condescending to make you my companion; the base blood is in you; ingrat.i.tude is the sure sign of the low-born."

Frank's cheeks flushed crimson, his teeth ground together, and the blood rushed to his head with a bound; after a moment's pause, he replied, with a terrible effort to be calm, "Gerald Desmond, I am, as you say, low-born, but not base; a son of toil, but no slave; a poor, but still an independent man; nursed in poverty, I own that I am no fit company for you. My hand would bear no comparison with yours; 'tis labor-hardened, while yours is lady-soft, and yet, if our hearts were put into the scale, I mistake much if the overweight would not make up the difference."

Annoyed by the quiet coolness of his manner, Gerald lost all control.

"You poor, miserable child of beggary," he cried, "avoid my sight.

Leave me. Dare to cross my path again, and I shall strike you to my feet."

At these words Frank smiled; it was a small but most expressive smile; Gerald felt its influence in his very brain.

"I'll do it now," he screamed, foaming with rage, and springing full at Frank's throat; but he calmly disengaged himself, and with one effort of his tremendous strength, took Gerald up in his powerful arms, and could have dashed him to the ground, but contented himself with quietly replacing him in the chair, exclaiming--