The Bunsby Papers (second series): Irish Echoes

THE MORNING DREAM

 
The dream of the night, there's no reason to rue,
But the dream of the morning is sure to come true.
 

Old Saying.

Pretty Peggy May; a bright-eyed, merry-hearted, little darling you are, Peggy! there's no gainsaying that fact; a cunning little gipsy, and most destructive too, as many an aching heart can testify. But who can blame thee for that? as well might the summer's sun be blamed for warming the sweet flowers into life. It is a natural ordination that all who see you should love you.

Pretty Peg has just completed her eighteenth year; in the heedless gaiety of youth, she has hitherto gambolled through the road of life, without a grief, almost without a thought. Oh! for the sunny days of childhood, ere, wedded to experience, the soul brings forth its progeny of cares. Why can we not add the knowledge of our wiser years, and linger over that most blessed, least prized period of our existence, when every impulse is at once obeyed, and the ingenuous soul beams forth in smiles, its every working indexed in the face – ere Prudence starts up like a spectre, and cries out: "Beware! there is a prying world that watches every turn, and does not always make a true report." Prudence! how I hate the cold, calculating, heartless phrase. Be loyal in word, be just in act, be honest in all; but Prudence! 'tis twin-brother to Selfishness, spouse of Mistrust, and parent of Hypocrisy! But, me-thinks I hear some one say, "This is a most cavalierly way of treating one of the cardinal virtues" – to which I reply, "It certainly has, by some means or another, sneaked in amongst the virtues, and thereby established a right to the position; but it is the companionship only which makes it respectable, and it must be accompanied by all the rest to neutralize its mischievous tendency."

But what has all this to do with Peggy and her dreams? Pshaw! don't be impatient – we are coming to that. If you have taken the slightest interest in little Peg, prepare to sympathize in her first heart-deep sorrow. She is in love! Now, if she herself were questioned about the matter, I'm pretty sure she would say it's no such thing; but I take upon myself to declare it to be true, and for fear you should think that I make an assertion which I cannot substantiate, permit me to relate the substance of a conversation which took place between Peg and her scarcely less pretty, but infinitely more mischievous cousin, Bridget O'Conner. They had just returned from one of those gregarious merry-meetings, where some spacious granary, just emptied of its contents, gives glorious opportunity for the gladsome hearts of the village, and "all the country round" to meet and astonish the rats – sleek, well-fed rascals, dozing in their holes – with uproarious fun and revelry.

A sudden, and indeed, under the circumstances, extremely significant sigh from Peg, startled Bridget from the little glass where she was speculating as to how she looked, for the last hour or two. I may as well say the scrutiny was perfectly satisfactory – she had not danced all her curls out.

"Gracious me!" she exclaimed, "Peg, how you do sigh!"

"And no wonder," rejoined Peggy, with a slight squeeze of acid, "after having danced down twenty couple twenty times, I should like to know who wouldn't?"

"Ah! but that wasn't a tired sigh, Peg. I know the difference; one needn't dive as low as the heart for them; a tired sigh comes flying out upon a breath of joy, and turns into a laugh before it leaves the lips; you are sad, Peg!"

"How you talk; why, what on earth should make me sad?"

"That's exactly what I want to know; now there's no use in your trying to laugh, for you can't do it. Do you think I don't know the difference between a laugh and that nasty deceitful croak?"

"Bridget!" exclaimed Peg, with a look which she intended should be very severe and very reproachful, "I'm sleepy."

"Well, then, kiss me, and go to bed," replied Bridget. "Ho! ho!" thought she, "there's something curious about Peg to-night. I think what I think, and if I think right, I'm no woman if I don't find out before I sleep." Craftily she changed the conversation, abused the women's dresses, and criticised their complexions, especially the pretty ones. At last, when she had completely lulled the commotion of Peg's thoughts into a calm, she suddenly cried out: "Oh! Peg, I forgot to tell you, that one of the boys we danced with had his leg broke coming home to-night!"

Peggy, surprised into an emotion she found it impossible to conceal, started up, pale as snow, and gasped out:

"Who was it – who?"

Ha! ha! thought the other, the fox is somewhere about – now to beat the cover.

"Did you hear me ask you who?" said Peg, anxiously.

"I did, dear," replied Bridget, "but I'm trying to recollect. I think," and she looked steadily into Peggy's eyes, "I think it was Ned Riley." Peg didn't even wink.

She doesn't care about him, and I'm not sorry for that, thought Bridget, thereby making an acknowledgment to herself, which the sagacious reader will no doubt interpret truly.

"No, it wasn't Ned," she continued, "now I think of it, it was – it was – a" —

"Who? who?" cried Peg, now sensibly agitated, "do tell me, there's a dear."

Not she, not a bit of it, but lingered with feminine ingenuity, now making as though she recollected the name, and then with a shake of her head, pretending to dive back into memory, just as the inquisitors of old used to slacken the torture, to enable the recipient to enjoy another dose.

"Now I have it," said she, "no, I haven't; I do believe I've forgotten who it was, but this I know, it was the pleasantest-mannered and nicest young fellow in the whole heap."

"Then it must have been Mark!" exclaimed Peg, throwing prudence overboard, and fixing her large, eloquent eyes full on Bridget's mouth, as if her everlasting fate depended upon the little monosyllable about to issue from it.

"It was Mark! that was the name!"

Peggy gave a gasp, while Bridget went on, with a triumphant twinkle in her wicked little eye which did not show over-favorably for her humanity.

"Mark Brady!" dwelling on the name with slow, distinct emphasis, which made Peggy's heart jump at each word as though she had received an electric shock.

She knew the tenderest part of the sentient anatomy, Bridget did, and took intense delight in stabbing exactly there; not mortal stabs, that would be mercy, but just a little too far for tickling. That sort of a woman was Bridget, who, if possessed of an incumbrance in husband shape, would take infinite pains to discover the weakest points in his temper, and industriously attack those quarters, piling up petty provocations, one upon another; none in themselves of sufficient importance to induce a sally, but making altogether a breastwork of aggravation, that must at last o'ertop the wall of temper. And if the unfortunate besieged don't take his hat, and make a not very honorable retreat, philosophy will be obliged to strike its flag, the signal for a civil war, which, like all such unnatural conflicts, strikes at the root of all domestic comfort, and whichever side may remain the victors, the trophy is a home destroyed.

But to return to Peg, for whose benefit I have indulged in the foregoing rather spiteful digression, in order that she might have time to recover herself; or rather, I should say, to be thoroughly conscious of the extent of her unhappiness. Remember, 'tis her first grief, so pardon its intensity. Phantoms of crutches and of wooden legs came crowding on her imagination, contrasting themselves with the curious agility with which poor Mark had "beat the floor" in the merry jig, until he made it echo to every note of the pipes. Then rose up vague spectres of sanguinary-minded surgeons, with strange butcherly instruments; then she saw nothing but fragmentary Marks, unattached legs, a whole room-full dancing by themselves; there they were, twisting and twirling about, in the various difficult complications of the "toe and heel," "double shuffle," "ladies' delight," and "cover the buckle;" she shut her eyes in horror, and was sensible of nothing but a gloomy blood-red. There's no knowing to what lengths her terrible fancies might have gone, had they not been dispersed like wreaths of vapor by a hearty laugh from the mischievous Bridget. Peggy opened her eyes in astonishment. Was she awake? Yes, there was her cousin enjoying one of the broadest, merriest, wickedest laughs that ever mantled over the face of an arch little female.

"Poor Mark!" she cried, and then burst forth again into ringing laughter, which dimpled her crimson cheeks like – what shall I say? – like a fine healthy-looking cork-red potatoe, an Irish simile, I must say; but had we seen Bridget, and were acquainted with the features of the aforesaid esculent, I'm pretty certain you would acknowledge its aptness.

"What in the name of gracious are you laughing at?" exclaimed Peggy, a gleam of hope breaking on the darkness of her thought.

"Why, that you should take on so, when I told you Mark had broken his leg," gaily replied Bridget.

"Hasn't he?"

"Not half as much as your poor little heart would have been broken if he had," said the tormentor.

"Bridget! Cousin!" said poor Peg, now enduring much more pain from the sudden revulsion of feeling, "you should not have done this; you have crowded a whole life-time of agony in those few moments past."

"Well, forgive me, dear Peggy. I declare I didn't know that you had the affection so strong on you, or I wouldn't have joked for the world. But now, confess, doesn't it serve you right, for not confiding in me, your natural born cousin? Did I ever keep a secret from you? Didn't I tell you all about Pat Finch, and Johnny Magee, and Jack, the hurler, eh?"

"But not one word about Edward Riley, with whom you danced so often to-night," observed Peg, with a very pardonable dash of malice.

It was now Bridget's turn to change color, as she stammered out, "I – I was going to, not that I care much about him; no, no, Mark is the flower of the flock, and I've a mighty great mind to set my cap at him myself."

Peggy smiled, a very small, but a peculiar, and it might have been, perfectly self-satisfied smile, as she replied: "Try, Miss Bridget, and I wish you success."

"Truth is scarce when liars are near," said Bridget. "But I say, Peg, does Mark know you love him so hard?"

"Don't be foolish; how should he?"

"Did you never tell him?"

"What do you take me for?"

"Did he never tell you?"

"What do you take him for?"

"For a man, and moreover a conceited one; don't you mean to let him know his good fortune?"

"It isn't leap year, and if it was, I'd rather die than do such a thing," said Peggy!

"Come, I'll bet you a new cap, that I mean to wear at your wedding, you will let him know the state of your feelings, and that, before a week is over your head," provokingly replied Bridget.

Peggy, said nothing. Prudent Peg.

"Is it a bet?"

"Yes, yes, anything, but go to sleep, or we shan't get a wink to-night."

"True for you, cousin, for it's to-morrow already! Look at the daybreak, how it has frightened our candle, until it's almost as pale as your cheek."

"Good night, Bridget."

"Good night, dear Peg, don't forget to remember your dreams. Recollect it's morning, now, and whatever we dream, is sure to come true."

Before she slept, Bridget formed a project in her mind to ensure the winning of her bet. What it was, it will be time enough to find out by-and-by.

Very early in the day, Mark Brady and Ned called to inquire after the health of their respective partner. It so happened that Bridget received them; and very quickly, for she was one of those tyrants in love who make their captives feel their chains, on some frivolous pretence or another, dismissed her swain and began to develop her plot with Mark.

Now, Mark, I may as well tell you now as at any other time, was a very favorable specimen of a class I regret to say, not over numerous in Ireland; a well to-do farmer, his rent always ready, his crops carefully gathered, and a trifle put by yearly, so that he enjoyed that most enviable condition in life, "a modest competence." As to his personal appearance, there's scarcely any occasion to describe that, for, with the exception of one individual, I don't suppose he has a feature or characteristic which would be considered by any one at all uncommon or interesting. Suffice it to say, Mark was a man! A volume of eulogy could not say more.

And, moreover, Mark did love pretty Peggy May; with a whole-hearted, manly, and unselfish love, he loved her. I tell you this, dear reader, in order that you may not waste time in speculating on the subject of Mark's thoughts, as he sat silent and fidgety, a passive victim to the mischievous Bridget, who, shrewd little puss, knew every turn of his mind as though imprinted on his face; and for the matter of that, so they were, in nature's own characters, type most readable.

Mark was apparently very busy, sketching imaginary somethings on the floor with his blackthorn stick, and seemingly unconscious of Bridget's presence, when she suddenly interrupted his revery by saying:

"A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Brady!"

"Eh! what!" he replied, blushing 'till it fairly stung his cheek like a million of needles. "A penny, is it, Miss? faith, an' it's dear they'd be at that same."

"And what might you be thinking of, may I ask, Mr. Mark?" said Bridget, accompanying the question with one of her very sweetest smiles.

"Just nothing at all, Miss," replied Mark.

"'Nothing!' then they would be 'dear,' and that's true Mark; but supposing, now," she continued, archly; "I only say, supposing it happened to be your sweetheart you were thinking of, you might find another meaning for that same little word!"

Mark felt as though he had been detected in some fault, as he replied, sketching away on the floor faster than ever, "But what if I hadn't a sweetheart to think of, Miss O'Conner." It was a miserable attempt at prevarication, and he felt that it was.

"Why, then, I should say, as you're not blind, it's mighty lucky that you don't carry such a thing as a heart about you. I'd be ashamed if I were you, rising twenty years old, and neither crooked nor ugly; it's disgraceful to hear you say so – a pretty example to set to the boys!"

"True for you, and so it is," said Mark, "and more betoken, it's a much greater shame for me to tell any lies about the matter; I have a sweetheart, though she doesn't know it; ay, and have had one for this nigh hand a twelve-month."

"Only to think," replied Bridget, casting down her eyes, and affecting to conceal some sudden emotion, "and for a twelve-month nigh hand! Oh, dear! I don't feel well!"

Mark was puzzled, in point of fact, embarrassed. There was something in Bridget's manner which he couldn't understand; he had a vague presentiment that there was a mistake somewhere, but when she, pretending to be overcome, flung herself into his arms, the truth burst upon him at once. He was in a precious dilemma; Bridget was in love with him, and he felt downright ashamed of himself for being so fascinating. What he was to do, or how to extricate himself, he couldn't tell, as she, casting a fascinating glance right at him, said, softly:

"Dear Mark, those good-looking eyes of yours told me of your love, long, long before your lazy tongue."

"Love," interrupted Mark, endeavoring to put in a demurrer.

"To be sure," said she, "I saw it, I knew it and well;" she continued, seeing he was about to speak. "When do you mean to talk to Aunty? You know my fifty pounds are in her hands." She was an heiress, was Bridget.

"Pounds! Aunty! yes, to be sure," replied Mark, perfectly bewildered, "but I thought Ned Riley was" —

"Peggy's sweetheart – well, we all know that," interrupted Bridget, inly enjoying the consternation that painted Mark's cheek a livid white. "And you to be so jealous of Riley," she went on, "not to dance with me last night; I knew the reason, but the jealousy that springs from love is soon forgot, so I forgot yours."

"Peggy! his sweetheart? Riley's?"

"To be sure, don't you know they are going to be married?"

"No!" vacantly replied the sorely bewildered Mark.

"Oh, yes! and now I want to tell you a pet plan of mine, if you don't think me too bold, Mark, and that is, how nice and cozy it would be, if we could only all be married on the same day."

This was too much for Mark; he couldn't endure it any longer; he started up, pushed his hat very far on his head, saying, in what he intended to be a most severe tone:

"Miss O'Conner, I don't know what could have put such an idea into your head. Marry, indeed! I've enough to do to take care of myself. No, I'm sorry to wound your feelings, but I shall never marry!"

"Oh! yes, you will," said Bridget, placing her arm in his, which he disengaged, saying bitterly:

"Never! never!"

"Nonsense, I'll bet you will, and, if it was only to humor me, Mark, on the very same day that Peggy is!"

"Bridget, I didn't think I could hate a woman as I'm beginning to hate you."

"Better before marriage than after, Mr. Mark. Come, I'll bet you a new Sunday coat, against a calico gown, and that's long odds in your favor, that what I've said will come true."

"Nonsense!"

"Is it a bet?"

"Pooh! I'll bet my life, against" —

"What it's worth, Mr. Mark – just nothing at all."

"True for you, now, Bridget; true for you," and Mark suddenly quitted the house in such real sorrow that it touched for a moment even Bridget's heart; but only for a moment. Pshaw! thought she, let him fret; it will do him good, and make the joy greater when he comes to know the truth. A hunt would be nothing without hedges and ditches. Proceeding to the window, she uttered an exclamation of surprise.

"Ha! as I live, here comes Peg herself. She must meet Mark; what fun! He sees her and stops short; what a quandary he's in. She sees him! How the little fool blushes; now they meet. Mark doesn't take her hand. I wonder what he's saying. 'It's a fine day,' I suppose, or something equally interesting; he passes on, and Peg looks as scared as if she had seen a ghost."

A sudden thought at this moment seemed to strike Bridget; she clapped her hands together and laughed a little, sharp laugh, saying, "I'll do it, I will; I'll have a bit of fun with Peg, too," so she pretended to be very busy at her spinning-wheel as Peggy entered, and hanging up her, cloak and bonnet, sat down without saying a word.

"Ah! Peg," Bridget began, "is that you? Mark has just been here."

"Indeed?" replied Peggy, twisting up one pretty curl so tightly as to hurt her head.

"The blessed truth," continued the wicked little tormentor. "Did you meet him?"

A very desponding "yes," was the response.

"Well," demanded Bridget, anxiously, "did he say anything – I mean, anything particular?"

"He only said the weather was pleasant, and then passed on, without ever even shaking hands with me," sadly replied Peggy.

"Mark needn't have done that; whatever happens, he ought to be civil to you," said Bridget, with a peculiar expression that made Peggy's heart flutter within her like a pigeon.

"Civil to me! what do you mean, Bridget?"

Bridget hummed an air, and, as if suddenly wishing to change the conversation, said, gaily:

"Oh! I forgot, we were to tell each other's dreams this morning. Peg, you begin, what did you dream about?"

"Nothing, Bridget, I didn't sleep."

"Then you couldn't have dreamed," sagely responded the other, "but I did."

"What?"

"I dreamed that I had a beautiful new gown given to me, and by whom do you think?"

"I don't know; Ned Riley, may-be."

"Ned Riley, indeed," replied Bridget with a sneer; "not a bit of it. By a finer man than ever stood in his shoes. Who but Mark Brady?"

Peg's heart sank within her.

"That wasn't all I dreamed," and she fixed her wild eyes full on Peg, in a way that made hers fall instantly, "I dreamed that I was married to him."

"To Mark?" whispered Peggy.

"To Mark!"

Peggy didn't utter another syllable; didn't even look up, but sat motionless and pale, very pale. Bridget couldn't understand her seeming apathy; a more acute observer would have but contrasted it with the intense emotion which she felt within – an emotion not a whit lessened as Bridget continued, with marked expression:

"I dreamed all that this blessed morning, and morning dreams, you know, always come true."

Peggy, still silent, seemed to be wholly occupied in demolishing, piece by piece, the remnant of a faded flower which she had taken from her bosom, lingering over its destruction as though a portion of her heart went with each fragment – when Bridget suddenly started up, exclaiming, "Here comes Mark, I declare."

A painful spasm shot through Peggy's frame, yet she did not stir from her seat; the only evidence that she heard Bridget's exclamation was that her lips grew as pallid as her cheek.

"But, law, what am I thinking about? I must go and tidy my hair."

And away flew Bridget up to her room, from whence she crept stealthily down, and snugly ensconced herself behind the door. Naughty girl! to listen to what transpired.

Mark, who, since his conversation with Bridget, had seriously contemplated suicide, but was puzzled about the best mode of making away with himself, had come to the conclusion that to enter the army as a common soldier would be the least criminal, although certainly the most lingering process, and it was to lacerate his feelings by a parting interview with his dearly-loved Peg, before he consummated the act of enlistment, that he now came.

Arrived at the door, he hesitated a moment, then giving one big gulp, he lifted the latch and entered. There he saw Peggy herself, looking straight into the fire, never once turning aside or raising her eyes, proof positive to Mark, if he wanted it, that she cared nothing for him. He sat down, and for several minutes there was a dead silence. Mark had fully intended to say something frightfully cutting to his sweetheart, but as he gazed upon her white, sad face, his resentment vanished, and he felt more inclined to implore than to condemn. He wanted to speak, but what to say he had not the remotest idea. At last Peg broke the silence, by murmuring softly, as though it were but a thought, to which she had given involuntary expression —

"May you be happy, Mark! May you be happy!"

"Happy!" echoed Mark, with a sharp emphasis, that thrilled painfully through Peggy, "Faith, it's well for you to be wishing me happiness."

"Indeed, indeed I do, Mark – I mean Mr. Brady," meekly replied the poor girl.

"Oh, that's right!" said Mark, bitterly. "Mr. Brady! It used to be Mark."

"But never can again."

"You're right! never!"

"Never!" and poor Peggy sighed deeply.

After another embarrassing pause, broken only by a sort of smothered sound, which might have been the wind, but wasn't, Mark started up, exclaiming:

"I see my company is displeasing to you, but I shan't trouble you long. That will be done to-morrow which will separate us for ever."

"To-morrow! so soon?" replied Peggy, with a stifled sob.

"Yes! the sooner the better. What is it now to you?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing! But I thought – that is – I'm very, very foolish."

Poor Peggy's heart overflowed its bounds; burying her face in her hands, she burst into tears.

Mark didn't know what to make of it. She must have liked me a little, thought he, or why this grief? Well, it's all my own fault. Why didn't I tell her of my love, like a man? and not sneak about, afraid of the sound of my own voice. I've lost her, lost the only thing that made life to me worth enduring, and the sooner I relieve her of my presence the better.

"Miss May! Peggy!" he said, with an effort at calmness, "this is the last time we may meet on earth; won't you give me your hand at parting?"

Peggy stretched out both hands, exclaiming through her tears – "Mark! Mark! this is, indeed, cruel!"

"It is, I know it is!" said Mark, brushing away an obtrusive tear. "So, God bless you, and good angels watch over you; and if you ever cared for me" —

"If I ever cared for you! oh, Mark!"

"Why! did you?" inquired Mark.

"You were my only thought, my life, my happiness!" There was the same curious sound from the chamber door, but the innocent wind had again to bear the blame. Peggy continued – "Mark, would that you had the same feeling for me!"

"I had! I had!" frantically he replied. "And more, oh! much more than I have words to speak. Why didn't we know this sooner?"

"Ah! why, indeed?" sadly replied Peggy, "but it is too late."

"Too late!" replied Mark, "too late!"

"Not a bit of it!" exclaimed Bridget, bursting into the room, streaming with tears of suppressed laughter, "Don't look so frightened, good people; I'm not a ghost. Who lost a new cap? eh, Peg. And more, betoken, who is likely to lose a new gown? I'll have my bets, if I die for it. So, you've spoke out at last, have you? You're a pretty pair of lovers. You'd have gone on everlastingly, sighing and fretting yourselves, until there wouldn't have been enough between you to make a decent fiddlestring, if I hadn't interfered."

"You?" cried Peggy and Mark, simultaneously.

"Yes, indeed, it made me perfectly crazy to see the two of you groaning and fussing, without the courage to say what your hearts dictated. There, go and kiss each other, you pair of noodles."

It is hardly necessary to say that Bridget's explanation brought about a pleasant understanding between all parties, and it will be only needful to add that a few weeks afterwards there was a double wedding at the little parish chapel. One of the brides wore a bran new calico gown of such wonderful variety of color, and moreover a new cap of so elaborate a style of decoration, that she was the admiration and, of necessity, the envy of the entire female population.

Bridget had won both her wagers, thereby establishing, just as infallibly as all such matters can be established, the truth of the old saying:

 
The dream of the morning is sure to come true.