It would make a much longer story than I have the conscience to inflict upon you, to tell how Mary Mahony came to fall in love with Remmy Carroll-for fall in love she certainly did. Perhaps it was out of gratitude. Perhaps it might have been his fine person and handsome face. Perhaps, because she heard every girl of her acquaintance praise him. Perhaps, because he was her father's favorite. Perhaps, because they were so constantly thrown together, and he was the only young man with whom she frequently associated. Perhaps she loved him, because she could not help it. Why strive to find a reason for woman's love? It is like a mighty river springing up one knows not where-augmented one knows not how-ever sweeping onward, sometimes smoothly, sometimes in awful rapids, and bearing on its deep and constant current, amid weeds and flowers, rocks and sands, many a precious freight of hope and heart, of life and love.
Fathers and husbands are so proverbially the very last to see the progress which Love clandestinely makes under their roof, that it will not be considered a special miracle, if Bartle Mahony noticed nothing of the game which was in hand-hearts being trumps! Mary's merry cousin, Nancy Doyle, quietly smiled at the flirtation, as "fine fun," but did not seriously see why it should not end in a wedding, as Mary had fortune enough for both.
Winter passed away, and Spring waved her flag of emerald over the rejoicing world. Mary Mahony was walking in one of her father's meadows, for Remmy Carroll was expected, and he was now-though she blushed with a soft consciousness-the very pole-star of her constant thought. He came up, and was welcomed with as sweet a smile as ever scattered sunshine over the human heart. They walked side by side for a little time, and then, when the continued silence became awkward, Remmy stated, for the maiden's information, what she knew very well before, that it was very fine weather.
"True for you, Remmy," answered she: "see how beautiful everything looks. The sunbeams fall upon the meadow in a soft shower of light, and make the very grass look glad."
"It is beautiful," said Remmy, with a sigh, "but I have too heavy a heart to look upon these things as you do."
"Surely," inquired Mary, "surely you've no real cause to say that? Have you heard any bad news?"
"No cause!" and here the pent-up feelings of his heart found utterance: "Is it no cause? – Oh, Mary dear-for you are dear to me, and I may say it now, for may be I may never be here to say it again-is it no cause to have a heavy heart, when I have nobody in this wide world that I can speak to about her that's the very life of my life, while I know that I am nothing to her, but one that she sees to-day and will forget to-morrow! Is it no cause, when I know that the little linnet that's now singing on that bough, has as much chance of becoming an eagle, as I have of being thought lovingly of by the one that I love? Haven't I cause to be of a heavy heart, knowing that I would be regarded no more than that little bird, if I were to try and fly beyond the state I'm in, when I know that I am not many removes from a beggar, and have been for months dreaming away as if I was your equal? You are kind and gentle, and when I am far away, perhaps you may think that I would have tried to deserve you if I could, and then think well of one who loves you better than he loves himself. Oh, Mary Mahony! may God's blessing rest upon you, and keep you from ever knowing what it is to love without hope."
Overcome by his emotion-aye, even to tears, which flowed down his comely cheeks-poor Remmy suddenly stopped. Mary Mahony, surprised at the unexpected but not quite unpleasing matter of his address, knew not, for a brief space, what answer to make. But she was a woman-a young and loving one-so she let her heart speak from its fulness.
"May-be," said she, with a blush, which made her look more beautiful than ever, – "may-be, tis a foolish thing, Remmy, to love without hoping;" and she looked at him with an expressive smile, which, unfortunately, he was unable to distinguish through the tears which were now chasing each other down his face, as round and nearly as large as rosary-beads.
"It's of no use," he said, not perceiving the nature of her words; "it's of no use trying to banish you from my mind. I've put a penance on myself for daring to think of you, and it's all of no use. The more I try not to think, the more I find my thoughts upon you. I try to forget you, and as I walk in the fields, by day, you come into my mind, and when I sleep at night you come into my dreams. Wherever I am, or whatever I do, you are beside me, with a kind, sweet smile. Every morning of my life, I make a promise to my heart that I will never again come here to look upon that smile, far too sweet and too kind for such as me, and yet my steps turn towards you before the day is done. But it's all of no use. I must quit the place altogether. I will go for a soldier, and if I am killed in battle, as I hope I may be, they will find your name, Mary, written on my heart."
To a maid who loved as well as Mary Mahony did, there was a touching pathos in the simple earnestness of this confession; – aye, and eloquence, too, for surely truth is the living spirit of eloquence. How long she might have been inclined to play the coquette I cannot resolve, but the idea of her lover's leaving her put all finesse to flight, and she said, in a low tone, which yet found an echo, and made a memory in his heart: "Remmy! dear Remmy, you must not leave me. If you go, my heart goes with you, for I like you, poor as you are, better than the richest lord in the land, with his own weight of gold and jewels on his back."
What more she might have said puzzles conjecture-for these welcome words were scarcely spoken, when all further speech was arrested by an ardent kiss from Remmy. Oh! the first, fond kiss of mutual love! what is there of earth with so much of the soft and gentle balm of heaven?
There they stood, by the ruins of that old castle, the world all forgot. There they whispered, each to each, that deep passion with which they had so long been heart-full. The maiden had gentle sighs and pleasant tears-but these last, Remmy gallantly kissed away. Very wrong, no doubt, for her to have permitted him to do so, and, in truth, she sometimes exhibited a shadow of resistance. There was, in sooth,
"A world of whispers, mixed with low response,
Sweet, short, and broken, as divided strains
Of nightingales."
"And you won't think the worse of me, Remmy, for being so foolish as to confess how I love you?"
"Is it me, life of my heart? not unless you say that it was foolish to love me. Sure, they were the happiest words I ever heard."
"And you will love me always, even as now?"
"Ah, Mary, I see that you are joking now."
"And you won't go as a soldier?"
"Not I, darling; let those who have heavy hearts, and no hope, do that same."
Much more, was spoken, no doubt. Very tender confessions and confidences, in truth, which I care not to repeat, for such are of the bright holidays of youth and love, and scarcely bear to be reported as closely as an oration in the Senate, or a lawyer's harangue at Nisi Prius, in a case of Breach of Promise. Such tender confessions and confidences resemble those eastern flowers which have a sweet perfume on the soil to which they are native, but lose the fragrance if you remove them to another clime.
At last, with many a lingering "one word more," many a gentle pressure of the hands, and several very decided symptoms, belonging to the genus "kiss," in the sweet botany of love, Mary and Remmy parted. Happy, sweetly and sadly happy (for deep love is meditative, rather than joyful), Mary Mahony returned home. She hastened to that apartment peculiarly called her own, threw herself on the bed, and indulged in the luxury of tears, for it is not Sorrow alone that seeks relief in tears, – they fall for hope fulfilled as truly, though less often, as for hope deferred. Weep on, gentle girl, weep in joy, while you can. Close at hand is the hour in which, ere you have done more than taste it, the sparkling draught of happiness may be snatched from your lips.
CHAPTER IV. – HOW THE PIPER BECAME