It was, indeed, a scene to delight the eye and charm the mind of any beholder. Across the broad river were the rocks of Rathhely, clothed here and there with larches and pines, those pleasant evergreens—before him swept the deep and rapid waters—and, a little lower down, like a stately sentinel over the fine country around, rose the tall and precipitous rock, on which stood the ruins, proud in their very decay, of the ancient castle of Carrigabrick,—one of the round, lofty, lonely towers, whose origin and use have puzzled so many antiquaries, from Ledwich and Vallancey, to Henry O'Brien and Thomas Moore, George Petrie and Sir William Betham.
With an eager and yet a saddened spirit, the stranger gazed intently and anxiously upon the scene, varied as it is picturesque, his mind drinking in its quiet beauty—a scene upon which, in years long since departed, my own boyhood loved to look. And now, in the softened effulgence of the setting sun, and the silence of the hour, the place looked more like the embodiment of a poet's dream, or a painter's glorious imagining, than anything belonging to this every-day world of hard and cold reality.
The Stranger gazed upon the scene silently for a time, but his feelings might thus be embodied in words:—"It is beautiful, and it is the same; only, until I saw other places, praised for their beauty, I did not know how beautiful were the dark river, and the quiet meadows, and the ivy-covered rock, and the gray ruin. Change has heavily passed over myself, but has lightly touched the fair Nature around me. Heaven knows whether she may not be changed also. I would rather be dead than hear she was another's. The lips that my lips have kissed—the eyes that my eyes have looked into—the hand that my hand has pressed—the form that my arms have folded; that another should call them his—the very thought of it almost maddens me. Or, she may be dead? I have not had the heart to inquire. This suspense is the worst of all,—let me end it."
Thus he thought—perhaps the thoughts may have unconsciously shaped themselves into words: but soliloquies may be thought as well as uttered audibly. He rose from the damp sward, sprang across the chasm, proceeded rapidly on, and in ten minutes was sitting on the stile, by which, in other days, he had often parted from Mary Mahony—for, by this time, my readers must have recognized Remmy Carroll in the Stranger.
How long he rested here, or with what anxious feelings he gazed upon the house, just visible through the trees, I am not able to state,—but I can easily imagine what a contention of hope and fear there must have been in his heart. The apprehension of evil, however, was in the ascendant, for, though two or three half-familiar faces passed him, he could not summon courage to ask after Mary and her father. At last, he determined to make full inquiries from the next person he saw.
The opportunity was speedily afforded. A female appeared, slowly advancing up the path. Could it indeed be herself? She came nearer. One glance, and he recognized her, the star of his spirit—bright, beaming, and as beautiful as Memory and Fancy (the dove-winged ministers of Love) had delighted to paint her, amid the darkness and perils of the Past.
He sprang forward to meet her. There was no recognition upon her part. Nor was this very wonderful—though the lover of romance might expect, as a matter of course, that, from pure sympathy, the maiden should have instantly known who was before her. Years, which had passed so gently over her, softening and mellowing her beauty, had bronzed his face, and almost changed its very expression. The dark moustache and thick whiskers, which he now wore, his altered appearance, his military bearing,—all combined to make him very different from the rustic, however comely, whom she had last seen six years before.
Seeing a stranger advance towards her, Mary paused. He accosted her, with an inquiry whether Mr. Bartle Mahony was to be seen?
"He is dead," said she. "He has been dead nearly six years."
Carroll started back, for the unwelcome news chilled him, and the well-remembered tones struck some of the most responsive chords of his heart.