CHAPTER VIII.
While the father was resting quietly at Kildare Villa, as Uncle Gilbert's home was called, Chester and Lucy spent a few days in looking about.
"Are there any sights worth seeing around here?" asked Chester of Lucy.
"Are there?" she replied in surprise. "Did you ever hear of the Blarney Stone?"
Yes; he had.
"Well, that's not far away; and those were the Shandon bells you heard last evening,
'The bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee,'"
she quoted.
The fact of the matter was that Chester was quite content to remain quietly with Lucy and her father and the other good people of the place. Traveling around the country would, without doubt, separate them, and that disaster would come soon enough, he thought; but when Lucy announced that she was ready for a "personally conducted tour to all points of interest," he readily agreed to be "conducted." She was well enough to do so, she said; and in fact it did look as if health were coming to her again.
The morning of the second day at Kildare Villa Chester and Lucy set out to see the town, riding in Aunt Sarah's car behind the pony. There had been a sprinkle of rain during the night, so the roads were pleasant. Lucy pointed out the places of interest, consulting occasionally a guide book.
"While viewing the scenery, it is highly educational to get the proper information," said Lucy as she opened her book. "It states here that Cork is a city of 76,000 people. According to one authority it had a beginning in the seventh century. Think of that now, and compare its growth with that of Kansas City, for instance."
"I have always associated this city with the small article used as stoppers for bottles," said Chester.
"You thought perhaps the British needed a cork to stop up their harbor," said Lucy, gravely; "but you are entirely mistaken. The book says the name is a corruption of Corcach, meaning a marsh. The town has, however, long since overflowed the water, and now occupies not only a large island in the river, but reaches up the high banks on each side."
They were evidently in Ireland.
"A most noticeable peculiarity of Cork is its absolute want of uniformity, and the striking contrasts in the colors of the houses. The stone of which the houses in the northern suburb is built is of reddish brown, that on the south, of a cold gray tint. Some are constructed of red brick, some are sheathed in slate, some whitewashed; some reddened, some yellowed. Patrick may surely do as he likes with his own house. The most conspicuous steeple in the place, that of St. Ann, Shandon's, is actually red two sides and white the others,
'Parti-colored, like the people,
Red and white stands Shandon steeple.'
and there it is before us," said Lucy.
The tower loomed from a low, unpretentious church. The two visitors drove up the hill, stopped the horse while they looked at the tower and heard the bells strike the hour.
"What Father Prout could see in such commonplace things to inspire him to write his fine poem, I can not understand," said Lucy. "There is a peculiar jingle in his lines which stays with one. Listen:
"'With deep affectation and recollection
I often think of the Shandon bells,
Whose sounds so wild would, in days of childhood
Fling round my cradle their magic spells—
On this I ponder, where'er I wander,
And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork of thee
With thy bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.'"
Lucy read the four stanzas.
"It's fine," agreed Chester; "and I think I can answer your question of a moment ago. Father Prout, as he says, listened to these bells in childhood days, those days when 'heaven lies about us' and glorifies even the most common places, and the impressions he then received remained with him."
Lucy "guessed" he was right.
Then they drove by St. Fin Barre's cathedral, considered the most noteworthy and imposing building in Cork. "'It is thought probable the poet Spenser was married in the church which formerly stood on the site,'" Lucy read. "'His bride was a Cork lady, but of the country, not of the city. Spenser provokingly asks:
"'Tell me, ye merchants' daughters, did ye see
So fayre a creature in your town before?
Her goodlie eyes, like sapphyres shining bright;
Her forehead, ivory white,
Her lips like cherries charming men to byte.'"
"Well," remarked Chester as they drove homeward, and he thought he was brave in doing so. "I don't know about the merchants' daughters of Cork, but I know a minister's daughter of Kansas City, Missouri, U.S.A., who tallies exactly with Spenser's description."
"Why, Mr. Lawrence!"
"I might say more," he persisted, "were it not for some foolish promises I made that same minister a few days ago—but here we are. Where shall we go after lunch?"
"I thought we were to go to Blarney Castle."
"Sure. I had forgotten. That's where the Blarney Stone is?"
"Sure," repeated the girl mischievously.
So that afternoon they set out. It was but a short distance by train through an interesting country. Lucy was the guide again.
"Do you have an Irish language?" asked Chester. "I heard some natives talking something I couldn't understand."
"Of course there's an Irish language," explained his fair instructor. "Anciently the Irish spoke the Gaelic, a branch of the Celtic. In this reign of Queen Elizabeth, the Irish language was forbidden. The English is now universal, but many still speak the Gaelic. In recent years there has been an awakening of interest in the old tongue. 'One who knows Irish well,' an Irish historian claims, 'will readily master Latin, French, Spanish, Portuguese, and Italian;' and he adds that to the Irish-speaking people, the Irish language is 'rich, elegant, soul-stirring, and expressive.'"
"I can well believe the latter statement when I remember the actions of those using it," said Chester.
"Here we are," announced Lucy, as they alighted and walked to the entrance of the park. "It will cost us six pence to get in."
Chester paid the man at the gate a shilling. The castle loomed high on the side of a hill, its big, square tower being about all that now remains of the ancient structure. A woman was in charge of the castle proper.
"The stone that you kiss is away up to the top," explained Lucy. "You will have to go up alone, as I dare not climb the stairs. I'll wait here. But stop a minute; the impressions will be more lasting if you get the proper information first. Here, we'll sit on this bench while I tell you about the castle."
Chester readily agreed to this.
"To sentimental people," began the girl, as she looked straight at the high walls in front, "Blarney Castle is the greatest object of interest in Southern Ireland; and, of course, the Blarney Stone is the center of attraction. It was built by Cormack McCarthy about 1446. Of the siege of the castle by Cromwell's forces, under Irton, we have the following picturesque account in verse, which, I must say, has a Kipling-like ring."
She opened her book and read:
"'It was now the poor boys of the castle looked over the wall,
And they saw that ruffian, ould Cromwell, a-feeding on powder and ball,
And the fellow that married his daughter, a-chawing grape-shot in his jaw,
'Twas bowld I-ray-ton they called him, and he was his brother-in-law.'
"The word 'Blarney' means pleasant, deludin' talk, said to have originated at the court of Queen Elizabeth. McCarthy, the then chieftain over the clan of that name who resided at Blarney, was repeatedly asked to come in from 'off his keeping.' He was always promising with fair words and soft speech to do what was desired, but never could be got to come to the sticking point. The queen, it is told, when one of his speeches was brought to her, said: 'This is all Blarney; what he says, he never means.'
"Now, this is the reason for kissing the stone up there in the tower. Listen:
"'There is a stone there, whoever kisses,
Oh! he never misses to grow eloquent;
'Tis he may clamber to a lady's chamber,
Or become a Member of Parliament.
A clever spouter, he'll sure turn out, or
An "out—an'—outer" to be let alone;
Don't hope to hinder him, or to bewilder him,
Sure, he's a pilgrim from the Blarney Stone.'
"Now, then, these are the facts in the case," concluded Lucy. "Proceed to do."
Chester climbed the long stairs to the top. From the western edge, he looked down and waved at Lucy, then hurriedly scanned the beautiful prospect about him. The wonderful stone then drew his attention. It is set in the parapet wall, being one of the under stones in the middle of the tower. This parapet does not form part of the wall, but is detached from it, being built out about two feet and supported by a sort of scaffolding brace of masonry. This leaves a space between the battlement and the wall, which in olden times, enabled the defenders to drop stones and other trifles on to the heads of assailants one hundred twenty feet below. Two iron bands now reach around the famous stone, spanning the open space, and fastened to the wall. The aspirant who wishes to kiss the stone, must grasp these irons, one in each hand, and hang on for dear life. As the stone is underneath the parapet, the feat of kissing it is not easy. In the first place, one must lie on one's back, then with head extended over the wall, the head must be bent down and back far enough to touch the lips to the stone. To perform the feat safely, there must be assistants at hand who must hold one's legs in steady grip, and others who must sit on the lower part of the body to assure the proper equilibrium.
Being entirely alone, it is needless to say, Chester did not kiss the Blarney Stone. He was satisfied with reaching under and touching it with his hand. Then he returned to Lucy.
"You did not kiss the stone," she immediately declared.
"You know, don't you, that it takes two to kiss—the Blarney Stone?"
"I've heard it so stated. I've never been up to it."
The park around the castle is very inviting, especially on a fine, warm afternoon. There are big trees, grass, and neatly kept walks. Chester and Lucy sauntered under the trees. A tiny brook gurgled near by, the birds were singing. Lucy chattered merrily along, but Chester was not so talkative. She noticed his mood and asked why he was so silent.
"I was thinking of that promise. I fear I am not doing right."
"O, that reminds me—Father, of course could not—"
"Could not what?"
"Well, the night before he became so ill on the boat he told me he was going to release you from any promise not to meet me and talk religion to me."
"Did he say that?" They paused in their walk.
"Yes; and he meant it—he means it now, if he could but say as much."
"I thank you for telling me * * * Let us sit down here on this rustic seat. Do you know, I believe your father has gotten over his first dislike for me."
"O, yes, he has. I think he likes you very much."
"I was not surprised at his actions when I told him I was a 'Mormon.' He can hardly be blamed, in view of the life-long training he has had. And then, knowing that you have been in danger from that source before made him over-sensitive on the point. I marvel now that he treats me so well."
Lucy looked her happiness, rather than expressed it. The guide book lay open on her lap. Chester picked it up, looked at a picture of Blarney Castle, and then read aloud:
"'There's gravel walk there,
For speculation,
And conversation
In sweet solitude.
'Tis there the lover
May hear the dove, or
The gentle plover
In the afternoon.'
"Lucy," said Chester, as he closed the book, "I'm going to call you Lucy—I can't call you Miss Strong in such a lovely place as this. We have an hour or two before we must return, and I want to talk over a few matters while we have the chance. In the first place, I want you to tell me where you are going when you leave Ireland. I want to keep track of you—I don't want to lose you. If your father would not object, I should like to travel along with you."
"Father may remain here a long time, so long that we may not get to see much of Europe, and of course, you can't wait here for us."
"Now listen, Lucy. You are Europe to me. I believe you are the whole world."
She did not turn from him, though she looked down to the grass where the point of her sunshade now rested. Her face was diffused with color.
"Forgive me for saying so much," he continued, "for I realize I am quite a stranger to you."
"A stranger?" she asked.
"Yes; we have not known each other long. You don't know much about me."
"I seem to have known you a long time," she said, looking up. "I often think I have met you before. Sometimes I imagine you look like the young missionary whom I first heard on the streets of Kansas City; but of course, that can't be."
"No; I never was on a mission. But I'm glad you think of me as you do, for then you'll let me come and see you in London, in Paris and wherever you go. I assure you, it would be rather uninteresting sight-seeing without your presence, if not always in person, then in spirit. After all, much depends on the condition of the eyes with which one looks on an object whether it is interesting or not."
Then the talk led to personal matters. He spoke of his experiences in Utah—some of them—and she fold him her simple life's story. Her mother had died many years ago; she had no very distinct recollection of her. She and her father had lived with housekeepers for many years. What with school and home, the one trip before to Europe, a number of excursions to various parts of her own country, her life had passed very smoothly and very quietly among her friends and books. As Chester listened to her he thought how like in some respects her story was to that of Julia Elston's. And as she sat there under the trees, she again looked like Julia, yet with a difference. Somehow the first girl had vanished but she had left behind in his heart a susceptibility to a form and face like this one beside him. Julia had come into his heart, not to dwell there, but to purify it, adorn it, and to make it ready for someone else;—and that other person had come. She filled the sanctuary of his heart. Peace and love beyond the telling were inmates with her. Had he not come to his own at last.
That afternoon, as he sat with Lucy under the trees at Blarney, listening to her story, told in simplicity with eyes alternating between smiles and tears, he felt so near heaven that his prayers went easily ahead of him to the throne of mercy and love, bearing a message of praise and gratitude to the Giver of all good.
These two were quite alone that afternoon. Even the care-taker went within the thick walls of the castle, remembering, perhaps, that she also had been young once. Birds may have eyes to see and ears to hear, but they tell nothing to humans.
On the way back to Cork there was only one other passenger in the car,—an Irish girl carrying a basket in which were two white kittens. About half way to the city, the train stopped, and much to the travelers' surprise, a company of about two hundred Gordon Highlanders boarded the train, filling the cars completely.
"What," asked Chester. "Have the Scotch invaded Ireland?"
"I suppose it's a company just out for a bit of exercise," suggested Lucy.
Their bare, brown legs, kilts and equipment were matters of much interest to Chester. When the train arrived in Cork, the soldiers formed, and with bagpipes squeeling their loudest, they marched into St. Patrick's street. Chester and Lucy and the girl with the basket followed.
"This is quite an honor," remarked Chester, "to have a company of soldiers come to meet us, and to be escorted into town by music like this. How did they know?"
"Know what?" escaped from Lucy before she discerned his meaning.
"Why, you silly man," she replied, "the honor is for the kittens!"
Uncle Gilbert met them at the door. "Your father is sleeping—getting along fine," he explained. "Now then, young man, did you kiss the Blarney Stone?"
"Why—no—I—"
"You didn't! You missed the greatest opportunity in your life."
"Oh, no, I didn't." replied Chester. "Far from it."
Lucy, rosy red, fled past her teasing uncle into the house.