SHANDON BELLS.*

New Zealand Herald, Volume XIX, Issue 6566, 2 December 1882, Page 3

SHANDON BELLS.*

I BY WILLIAM BLACK.

CHAPTER VII (CONTIFOED). AN APPARITION. "Asdy," Bays he, "do you remember th young lady that came down to Inisheen, am stayed in Widow Flanagan's house for : fS time?" " Fair I do," said Andy, with a facetiou grin. " Sare I remimber well enough th poor gyurl your honour made a fool ef." He flushed resentfully. But how could hi complain of this familiarity? He hat 3- brought it on himself by hia injudicioui questioning. And then, no doubt, And) considered this a little bit of astute flatter) to regard the young master as a ga) Lothario. "She did not break her heart though v< did lave her, Masther Willie, and that'; thrue," he added, with another pull at th« pipe. "How do you know? How do you knon anything about her?" said Fitzgerald, angrily " 'Twas Corney Malone," continued Andy, with the composure of indifference—for hi doubtless thought this was but as anothei )r of his items of news—"was up at Cork, tc i- see his daughter Biddy and the two boys — a that's Pathrick with the squint eye and young Corney—he was afther seeing them away to Americay—and sure, your honour, that's the way wid em all now, and soon there'll be nobody left in the country but the gossoons and the ould women—and when he came back to luisheen he was in the kitchen at the Impayrial. and says he, ' Sure the foine young lady that Masther Willie was sportin' about wid hasn't broken her heart for his laving of her.' 'What d'ye mane, Corney?' says I, for I was in the kitchen too—if it was not for a shnipe or two, or a mallard mebbe, how could a poor roan earn his living, your honour?—and say* I, ' Corney, what d'ye mane ?' ' Faix,' says he, ' 'tis another one now she's sportin' about '• wid—a young spark from Dublin.' " k For a morrent to Fitzgerald the world seemed to whirl round ; a kind of blackness - came before his eyes ; life was slipping away from him. But the next instant there was a backward rush—of contempt and indignation. " Who the devil told you to bring your g kitchen babble here ?" he said, in a tone that . made Andy drop his pipe. Then he was deeply mortified with himself. As if it was the slightest consequence rrhat reports might be going about Kitty in lnisheen or elsewhere ! And was it not shamea ul that he should have allowed himself to bo startled ? He instantly assumed a forcedly tranqnil air; and said, quite goodhumouredly : " Well, Andy, I suppose there isn't much doing just now in Inisheen ; no doubt the people about the Imperial are glad to have things to talk about, howover, foolish they may be—" 1 "Thrue for you, sorr," said Andy, contentedly ; he seemed quite unaware of having caused any quick pang of dismay. "Mr. Corney Malone has been putting a lot of nonsense in your head," said .Fitzgerald, presently. "I suppose he is vexed because the young lady did not buy any , ribbons or poekct-haudkerchiofs at his shop —things that he buys in Cork and sells to you Inisheen people at double the price." "The divil sweep him !" said Andy, with heartfelt satisfaction : it was enough for him that Master Willie had declared against Corney Malone. He invited Andy to continue his gossip; but that was less interesting now. He scarcely listened. He was thinking of Kitty's letters — the very breathings of her soul; could any one who had read these charming, inconsequent, affectionate prattlings doubt the honesty of her who had written them ? It was at himself lift was wondering. Why should he have felt, for even £. second, this blackness of death grip hia heart? It was for this, then, that she had given him the great treasure of her love —that, at the first idle tale, ha ahould imagine it possible for her to be a common flirt? What Hilton Clarke had said, then, was true ? She should not have been left alone? Perhaps she also had the "unappeasable heart?" Perhaps lie was ready to believe that the little shoots of tenderness had already gone out to cliug to somebody else ? Thus it was, that while Andy the Hopper was giving a religiously accurate account of the sayings and doings of everybody in Inisheen, Master Willie—fighting for poor Kitty, who was so far away—was proving to himself that he had never deserved to have her love, or he would not have allowed that foolish rumour to have dealt him such a blow. Still, he wished to get out into the open air. "Andy," said he, looking at his watch, " I have an engagement now ; but 1 shall be back by a quarter-past seven. You can't go away down to Limehouse to-night ; you would never get there. I will see if the landlady here can get you a bed for the night I somewhere ; and you'il want some supper. ' Wait here till I come back." "A word wid ye, your honour," said Andy, anxiously. "May I make so bouhl as to bolt the door when your honour's gone ?" "Oh, ye 3, certainly. Rut there is no chance of the black gentleman coming back." It was still raining, out here in the dark night; and he put up his umbrella unconsciously ; but there were not many objects he passed during his rapid walk up to Hyde Park Gardens that he noticed or could have remembered. His thoughts were faraway. Why should poor Kitty have been made the subject of idle rumours like these? What could Corney Malone know of her ? Corney Malone was a small shopkeeper in Inisheen ; apparently he had been unable to keep his family or to procure work for them in the old country, so that he had been drafting them off to America. And it was likely that, during that short visit to Cork, he should get to know anything of Mi.-s Romayne ! Even if he saw her walking with any one—which was absurb—how could he till that the person was from Dublin ? What would Kitty say when he should tell her, as he certainly should—that this bit of tittle-tattle, coming unexpectedly, had very nearly parted .soul and body? lie recalled that sensation with a sort of shudder. It seemed as if the world were falline away from around him, and that he was blind. And all because Corney Malone, in the back-kitchen of tiie Imperial, had been chattering spiteful nonsense to the idlers about Perhaps it was well for the symmetry of Mr. Malcne's features—which was not much to boast of at the best—that he was not anywhere about Fitzgerald's neighbourhood just at this present moment. He reached Hyde Park Gardens, and set to work to get through the hour mechanically. Fortunately that w.is easy, for he had brought with him a newly-published volume of Arctic travel—which was exceedingly interesting, and was making much stir —and he had had time to mark the salient passages. How strange it was to read of that far white land, and to see behind it all the time the harbour and the hills of Inisheen ! It was Inisheen lie was thinking of, not Cork. He did not like to think of the streets of Cork. And then, all of a sudden, there sprang into his recollection a phrase in one of Kitty's letters, written long ago when she was in Dublin—" Willie, there's a man bothering me with bouquets." His face grew red. He stumbled on with his reading. But the redness of his face was caused by anger with himself that this recollection could annoy him. lie had no time to argue the matter with himself; he was reading about the Arctic zone; sometimes Mrs. Chetwynd, said " Poor fellows, how they must have enjoyed that Christmas feast,' 1 or " Dear me, that w;is a narrow , escape and he had to read on and on, with the streets of Cork, instead of Inisheen, thrusting themselves in as a background to all his hurried, staccato, agonised thinking. So glad he was when that hour of unimaginable torture was over ; and he could rush out into the night to wrestle with the demona that were seeking to devour him ! He would not face them ; for he would not acknowledge their existence. He w uld not admit to himself that he could have nny doubts of Kitty's love, her faith, and honour. He hurried on his way ; persuading himself that he was sorry for Andy's waiting there alone. It was kind of Doctor Bude to have interested himself in John Ross ; and to have got some friend to olfer to take two more sketches. Ross must see Andy the Hopper ; and make a drawing of him. Ross might make a little copy of it ; and lie would send that to Kitty to amuse her; to Kitty who was so lonely away up there on the hill. "Just tell them there's a poor girl in Ireland, who is breaking her heart for your sake"—that was what she had written." As | fur any one sending her bouquets—why not? '

■Tho Proprietors of the If kw Zealand Hkiiam> ht.T« BKefcusd the sole rijht o< pnblishiar " SlMcctan K«lt»"ta«MB«.lour.

What more natural ? They threw them U her on the concert-stage; why not senc them ? She had not even seen the man How could they know that Kitty was married already; thnt her vow had beer registered in the unseen world ; that hei faithfulness had been celebrated in the great hall where the little people sounded theit f silver gongs and the care of "Catherine" was given over to them ? He kuew and she a knew ; that was enough ; the outside world might go its w.iy. " Let this be a loves night," Kitty had said, down by the running 0 water; she could scarcely be got to repea° the curse ; she knew there never would be ? auy occasion for that. And to speak of poor Kitty as having been jilted ! Well, no 5 matter. He and she knew; the little [ ringlets round her ears had heard their ' secrets ; the outside world might go its way. ' From these dreams, that seemed to grow brighter and brighter the faster he walked, 2 he was awakened by his arrival at his lodg- * ing, and the necessity of supptying Andy : with some supper and a bed in the neighbourhood. There was no difSeulty about ' either. At supper (John Ross could not be " found, or he would have been invited to join), Andy insisted on observing the eti- ! quette of the luncheons on the mountain. That is to say, he would wait about until ' the young master had finished—helping now " and again to hand things as well as he knew. Then, when he had followed, and disposed of a hasty meal, he had no objection to light a pipe and chat on the ordinary familiar terms. 1 But all the fascination had gone from : Andy the Hopper's gossip. He fouud the young master sorely distraught; more than thaf, he seemed to become impatient from time to time, as though he could not bear having his thoughts disturbed. "Sure, Masther Willie." said Andy at length, "there was nothing to vex ye in the shtory that Corney Malone brought back from Cork—bart luck to the omadhaun !—" "Oh, hold your tongue, Andy!" said Fitzgerald, rising and goini; to the window. "It is still raining. See here, now. Will you be able to make your way back to Limehouse to-morrow ?" " Y'erra, your honour, as I came here, I can go back." " If there's any sun, you can make straight south till you meet the river. If there isn't, ask the nearest way. Then you'll find yourself near Chelsea pier ; and the boat will tako you down. Can you remember that, now ? "Sure we'll shpake of it in the marniu', your honour," said Andy, who was very comfortable now by the fire. "I shan't see you in the morning," said Fitzgerald, briefly. " I am going away from Lonlon for a day or two—" "The Lord be merciful to us, Masther Wil lie ! but is it bad news ye've got ?" "No, no. I am coming back in a day or two—long before the Molly Bawn can get in her cargo. I'll find yon out at Limehouse, and bring you back here. I'll have your portrait painted, Andy ; but where's the jacket with the red sleeves ?" " Sure I thought if your honour wanted a sarvint, 't«vasn't the otilcl jacket you'd be afther wishing to have about the house. But that was the jacket that tased the bull into the bog-d'ye mind that, Masther Willie?" " Don't I !" This resolution of his once taken—that come what might, he would start by the Irish 7nail in the morning, and take the long journey to Cork, and seek out Kitty, just for a moment of holding her two shoulders and gazing into the beautiful soft eyes— Andy's gossip seemed far more bearable. What was not bearable was that, amid all the vague thoughts conjured up by this aimless talking, now and again his heart should stop short suddenly, a:s if there was something ho dared not face. He could not banish from him the consciousness that, however he might argue nimself out of foolish doubt in the daytime, in the night dark things would occupy his mind. And Kitty's eyes were so loving ; they would have no reproach in them if he went to her and asked her to help him to banish for ever thi9 ghastly nightmare. Just to take her hand for a moment—that would be enough. Was it not the hand ho had held over the little stream running down to the Blackwater and the sea ? CHAPTER XV 111. STORM AND CALM. Tin's was a strange setting out to go and seo Kitty. Where was the gladness of it ? Why should there be fear, and a tough of shame, and a hundred horrible distractions and suggestions, instead of the simple joyousnsss of the thought that soon he would have Kitty's love-lit eyes regarding him? He had not slept much that night. Long before there was any need he had dressed and gone out, making his way to the station through the dark empty streets. Iα the cold railwaycarriage he sat distraught; the spectacle of the grey dawn disclosing itself over the sleeping landscape had no interest for him. He was as one in a dream. And then sometimes he would ask himself sharp and angry questions. Supposing this rumour to be true, had he not himself to blame ? Why had he ever left Cork ? What had the wretched ambition to play a part in literature to do with the happiness of his life ? Why had he been content to live in a fool's paradise in London, when he ought to have been by Kitty's side? Was it not his place ? But he must needs go and leave her alone— she young and fender-eyed, and wandering from one town to another. How could that fool of a woman be a proper guardian for her ? And what more natural that here or there some one should wish to pay Kitty some attention ; she was so quick in sympathy ; S3 gentle hearted; with "her young eyes atill wounding where they looked." And then again he reproached himself for entertaining for a moment the monstrous supposition that his faithful Kitty, who had sworn her love to him over the brook on that wonderful moonlit night, should encourage the attentions of any one. And how was he going to approach her ? How make an excuse for appearing in Audley Place? Should he play the spy, then? This was a strange setting out to go and see Kitty. But when lie got near to Holyhead the first glimpse of the sea made his heart leap up. Had not tiiese gloomy fancies and forebodings been the product of a town life ? The cold sea-air seemed to drive them away. Of course he should meet Kitty as of old ; and they would talk about Inisheen ; and if the winter roads arc rather too muddy for country walks, they would be quite content with the wide pavements of the town, and would be happy enough in the South Mall, or in St. I'atrick's-street, or the Mardyku Parade. Kitty's warm little hand would be on his arm, They would talk about their future life together. Would she look up trustingly, or look down shyly, «lien lie told her of the quaint little house by the river with its woodwork of white and green. He grew so hopeful that he had even time to think of John Ross ; and to wish that he. also were on board this great steamer. Would not these wonders be suflieient for him ? For at one momcut they were slowly steaming through a fog that was suffused with a yellow sutilisht—the fog-horn booming and answering similar warnings from ships that were invisible—and then again they would suddenly emerge into a perfectly clear space —tiie sea quite smooth and glassy and blue, perhaps some massive brig or heavy schooner lying motionless on the mirror-like surface, with all its idle sails accurately reflected It was a tedious crossing on the whole. Sometimes they stole out from oue of thesu cnericHng fogs to find another steamer, or motionless sailing-vessel, most dangerously near. But before they reached Kingstown they had left the fogs completely behind them, and the sun was shining pleasantly on the harbour and shipping and houses, as if his native country were giving him a friendly and smiling welcome. Iu tiiu long jourhcy, moreover, away to the south, he had distraction in the society of a middle-aged priest, a person of meagre aspect and of sallow complexion, who had grey eyes with black eyebrows and eyelashes. Fitzgerald very soon found that these grey eyes were capable of expressing a good deal of passionate feeling—especially angov. The priest was a perfervid politician ; and his language was far fioin temperate. Now Fitzgerald was scarcely a politician at all. The Cork Chronicle had not seen fit to tako the affairs of the Bmpire under its care. At Inisheen, again, he had generally preferred to the Tim or Pat who skulked out of the town for midnight drill (frightening away the wild-fowl, besides,) the Tim or Pat who worked contentedly at his little farm, and had a. pleasant "(iood morrow" for the passer-by, and knew whereabouts a hare was to be found. He had his doubts about the wonderful magic to be wrought by the " Repeal;" and had a vaguo sort of belief that, even under tho present system, an Irishman, if he condescended to work, had just as good a chance of getting on as a Scotchmen or an Englishman. It will be seen that these were not very definite convio

to tion3 ; and this good father got himself inti id white heat in showing Fitzgerald how shame i. ful it was of an Irishman to be so indifferent is Fitzgerald took no shame to himself. Poll in tics had not been much in his way. A :r young man who has to earn his own living it must think of that first before proceeding tc ir look after the affiiirs of the country (unless, " indeed, he is the younger son of a nobleman, e when he may have au opportunity of accomd plishing the former at the expense of the !• latter), and though Fitzgerald was quite g willing to listen to this impassioned clerical t —and rather glad, perhapy, to have the e tedium of the long railway journey so rer lievfid—it was not to be expecled that he 3 should suddenly acquire an inteuse interest a in party strife. Indeed it may afford an r illustration of certain influences that had . been at work on him to say that while the r priest was denouncing the action of the , Government as having being the direct and - obvious cause of Irish disaffection, Fitzr gerald, regarding the grey eyes, was wondering whether anv colour or any art tistic skill could convey to canvas the 3 curious light that glowed there. But as they drew nearer and nearer to Cork—it was now the middle of the night— neither political discussion nor artistic contemplation was sufficient to distract his mind. He scarcely heard what the good man said. He assented to anything. He was thinking of his meeting with Kitty in the morning; and his heart was heavy with fear—fear of he scarcely knew what. It was so strange that he should be afraid of meeting Kitty! Would she believe that? Would she see it ? What explanation could he make ? TliL-n he thought of her recent letters. It is true that, once or twice, she had seemed to grow despondent, and perhaps even a little bit tired of waiting ; hut for the most part she had written as cheerfully and kindly as ever. What reason, then, could he give for this sudden visit? Could he confess to her that lie had formed suspicions of her—and that on the authority of a rumour broui>ht by such a messenger as Andy the Hopper ? "You don't believe my letters, then," would she not say ? "You consider I have been playing the hypocrite? My affection for you was a pretence. You cannot trust what I tay ; you have to come ever and see for yourself; is it thus you recognise the sacredness of the vow that we swore iu the glen? That is the importance you yourself attach to it ; that it is so slight a tie it can have melted away already ; you come over to see who it is that has so soon come between usi two !" How could he withstand the reproachful look of Kitty's eyes ? How could he show to her how weak had been his faith in her? I£ it were so easily snapped on so slight a strain, how could it withstand the rougher usage, the long wear and tear of the world ? But then Kitty was so honest and so kind ; if he were quite frank with hsr, and told her that his better reason knew how groundless these fears were, and that only to show himself how absurd they were had he taken this long journey—if he were to throw himself on her mercy—if he were to say, "Kitty, j laugh at inn as you like ; but lonely living I in London has weakened my nerves ; and I can't hear anything about you but my heart jumps ; so here I am, jnst to have a look at you, and to laugh at myself, if you like, for my idle fright." Would Kitty laugh ! ] Not she. She was too kind for that. Her j warm and gentle heart had no malice in it at I all. She would say "Then look at me. Lcok down into my eyes? Can you find anything but love, and truth, and constancy ?" On arriving at Cork, ho went to the Imperial Hotel ; it was between two and three in the morning. He was very tired, und he slept well. On awaking, he could not understand where he was — for a second ; the uext second his heart almost stood still : he had to face Kitty. Then, if so, the sooner the better. When he went out into the wide thoroughfares on this quiet Sunday morning, they were shining just as cheerfully in the sunlight as on that former Sunday morning when his life seemed i to be rejoicing within him at the thought of I his climbing the steep little thoroughfare at the top of which Kitty lodged. Now he kept his eyes about him, as if people might be watching him. Would they know what had brought him to Cork ? There might be a friend of Kitty's somewhere about who would wonder to see him. Perhaps— But no ; he could not consider that possible. And yet it was wonderful to him that perhaps so late as eveu yesterday Kitty had been looking at these very quays and boats ; and had crossed this bridge and had been opposite yonder house. That was the interest of the scene to him ; John Ross's teaching was forgotteu ; he was not thinking of the colour of the sea, or of the greens aud greys and whites of this steep little thoroughfare lie had scarcely a look for Sliandon tower, when he had climbed the hill; he did not notice the hor.r-frost on the ground where the sun had not reached it; nor the extent of the wintry landscape, with its leafless trees and hedges. He only kucw that not a soul was visible along the little terrace, and that he dared not go near the house. He must see Kitty alone aud here. He waited and waited ; walking this way and that, but not passing the house. The clock in Shandon tower over there struck half-past ten ; but still she did not come. Why should she ? ICo country walks were possible now ; no doubt the wet weather had left the lanes full of mud. And if she were not to stir forth at all—bright as the morning happened to be '! Then the whole aspect of tho world changed : Kitty was there. The day seemed fuller and richer ; delight took possession of him ; he lost fear. Kitty did not see him at first ; she looked abroad over the country a3 she came down to the little iron gate ; and as she came along he noticed that she carried a prayer-book in her hand. "Kitty!" She looked up—with something of fear as he thought, iu her startled glance. He seized her hands ; and kissed her. " You are not glad to see me, then?" he he said, cheerfully. "Well, but —but—" she said, "but nothing has happened?" " Nothing," said he. " I have come to see you, that is all." " You have given me a groat fright," said she, and she was still a little pale. " Why did you not write to me ? Whac is the meaning of it?" He was so delighted with regarding her — the pretty outline of her cheek and chin— the soft, timid blackness of her eyes—the bits of curls that were around her small ears —that he scarcely heard what she said. " You have not altered a bit, Kitty," said he in bis gladness. " You are just as much my Kitty as ever—and ever so much nicer to look at than your portrait. It hasn't been satisfactory, Kitty, trying to get that portrait to speak to me of an evening, when I was quite alone. It looked at me, but not as you look now. But still—why do you look so-so—so—Kitty, are you not glad to see me?" " Well, of course," said she, but not with the greatest of cordiality. "You need not have frightened me. It was a Jack-in-the-box kind of way of coming to see one. Why did you not write?" " Well, the surprise—" He could not tell her the truth ; nay there was happily no need for him to tell it her. Ho had looked in her eyes ; that was enough. "And the cost, too, I suppose," said she. "Do you think it is very wise, Willie, to throw away money like that ? 1 did not understand >ou were getting on so very well." He stared at her in astonishment; not hurt nor vexed, but simply wondering. " Kitty, you talk as if you really were not glad that I have come to sec you. You don't talk like my Kitty at all!" " Of course lam glad," she said. "But people can't always have what they like. I really don't see that it is wise to go throwing away money on these constant trips—especially in the ease of people whose future does not look over bright." "Constant trips, Kitty! This is the second since I went to London : and the first was eight or nine- months ago—" " But what is the use of it'/" "There is no use in it—there is no use in it, Kitty, "said lie, rather bewildered. "And if I had thought; that this was to be my reception—" "Oh, but we are not going to quarrel," said she, with something more of her ordinary kindness in her manner. " If you have been extravagant, wo must make the best of it. I am going to church ; I suppose you will come with me." 1 She put her hand in his arm, in the old familiar way ; he could not but take it and pat it. " I will go to church with you, if you like, Kitty ; but might we not have a walk and a chat instead ? There must be a lot to say after such a long separation." "We cannot walk about," ahe said ; "tho roads aro too wet. Besides, I told Miss Patience I was going to church. And beeides," she added with a little laugh, " we

» have not been quite idle in letter-writing, Willie; there cannot be so very much to ■ say." • "Oh, very well, Kitty. I will go to ■ church with you ; I don't care much where ' we go, so long as I am by your side. And when you have been to church, Kitty, yon will be a little more gentle and civii in your manner." " But I am gentleness and civility itself I" she remonstrated. "It is you who are recklcse and wild. You dou't care what any freak costs you. I believe I was mad when I engaged myself to you." "Xo use in saying that now, Kitty, it is past praying for." " I suppose so." [To be continued.]