When, some eighteen months after this, it was Gerald Barry's ill-fortune to break his collar-bone by a fall from his horse, in a steeple-chase, there arose a general conviction, in the minds of all the Fermoy believers in fairy-lore, that this was a punishment inflicted upon him by "the good people," for his impertinent intrusion into their peculiar haunts.
CHAPTER V. — HOW IT ALL ENDED.
Slowly, but surely, does the tide of Time carry year after year into the eternity of the Past. As wave chases wave to the shore, on which it breaks—sometimes in a gentle and diffusing ripple, sometimes into feathery foam, if it strike against a rock—so does year chase year away into the memory of what has been. It is the same with empires and villages, with the crowded haunts of men, and the humble huts wherein the poor do vegetate. For each and for all, Time sweeps on; carrying on its tide, amid many things of little value, some with which are linked sweet and tender associations. To look back, even for a single year, and contrast what has been with what is! How mournful the retrospect, in the generality of cases! Hopes fondly cherished, alleviating the actual pains of life by the promise of an ideal improvement; day-dreams indulged in, until they become fixed upon the mind, as if they were realities; resolutions made, which the heart found it impossible to carry into practice; sunny friendships in full luxuriance, which a few hasty words, too quickly taken up, were to throw into shade, at once and forever; love itself, which promised so much in its glorious spring, grown cold and careless. Talk of the changes of a year!—look back, and recollect what even a single day has given birth to; but, think not that there is always change, or that all changes are for the worst. Sometimes the bright hopes will have the glad fulfilment; the day-dreams, after passing through the ordeal of expectation, which, when deferred, maketh the heart sick, will be happily realized; the friendship on which we relied will have gone through the trial, and have stood the test; the love will have proved itself all that the heart had ventured to anticipate, and have thrown upon the realities of life, an enduring charm, mingling strength and softness, including in its magic circle, endurance as strong as adamant, and tenderness which subdues even while it sustains. Aye, life has its lights and shadows; and, in the circling course of time and circumstance, the shadow of to-day glides gently on, until it be lost in the sunshine of the morrow.
Let us return to our story. Imagine, if you please, that six years have passed by since the mysterious and unforgotten disappearance of Remmy Carroll, our very humble hero. Many changes have taken place, locally and generally. Fermoy, rapidly rising into opulence, as the greatest military depôt in Ireland, still kept a memory of Remmy Carroll. Death had laid his icy hand upon Mr. Bartle Mahony, whose fair daughter, Mary, had succeeded to his well-stocked farm and his prudent accumulations, which, joined with her own possessions, made her comparatively wealthy. But, in her, and in such as her, who derive their nobility from God, fortune could make no change—except by enlarging the sphere of her active virtues. In a very humble and unostentatious way, Mary Mahony was the Lady Bountiful of the place. The blessings of the poor were hers. Wherever distress was to be relieved—and Heaven knows that the mournful instances were not a few—there did the quiet bounty of Mary Mahony flow, scattering blessings around by that gentle personal expression of feeling and sympathy, which the highly imaginative and excitable Irish prize far more than the most liberal dole which mere Wealth can haughtily bestow. Oh, that those who give, could know, or would pause to think, how much rests on the manner of giving! Any hand can dispense the mere largesse, which is called "Charity," but the voice, the glance, the touch of hearted kindness soothes the mental pangs of the afflicted. In Ireland, where there are countless calls upon benevolence, casual relief has been demanded as a sort of right; but a kind word, a gentle tone, a sympathizing look, makes the gift of double value. And where was there ever kindness and gentleness to equal those exercised by Mary Mahony? She had had her own experiences in sorrow, and was, therefore, well qualified to yield to others that touching sympathy which most forcibly awakens gratitude. She had suffered, and, therefore, she sympathized.
Her beauty remained undimmed, but its character was somewhat changed. If there was less of the fire of earlier days, there was more of intellectual expression, the growth at once of her mind's development into maturity, and of the sorrows which had chastened her, as well as of the circumstances which had thrown her thoughts into contemplation. At her age—she was barely three-and-twenty—it appears absurd to talk of her loveliness having had its peach-like bloom impaired. As Wordsworth says,
"She seemed a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years."
What the same true poet has said of that fair Lucy, who yet lives in his exquisite lyric, might have been said, without any breach of truth, of our own Mary Mahony:
"Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flower
On earth was never sown;