The Catholic World Volume I Part 113

In each tower, the bells of silver, Bronze or iron, swayed so proudly, Tolling deep and swinging cheerly, Beating fast and beating loudly.

One! Two! Three! Four! ever sounding; Two! Four! One! Three! still repeating; Five! Seven! Six! Eight! hurrying, chasing; Bim-bom-bing-bang merry beating.

All the day the dancing s.e.xtons Dragged at bell-ropes, rising, falling; Clanging bells, inquiring, answering, From the towers were ever calling.

Cardinals, in crimson garments, Stood and listened to the chiming; And within his lofty chateau Sate the pope, and beat the timing.

Minstrels, soldiers, monks, and jesters Laughed to hear the merry clamor, As above them in the turrets Music clashed from many a hammer.

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Avignon was a joyous city: Far away across the bridges, 'Mong the vine-slopes, upward lessening, To the brown cliffs' highest ridges, Clamored those sonorous bells; In the summer's noontide wrangling, In one silver knot of music All their chimes together tangling.

Showering music on the people Round the town-house in the mornings; Scattering joy and jubilations, Hope and welcome, wrath and scornings; Ushering kings, or mourning pontiffs; Clanging in the times of thunder, And on nights when conflagrations Clove the city half asunder.

Nights and nights across the river, Through the darkness starry-dotted, Far across the bridge so stately.

Now by lichens blurred and blotted, Came that floating, mournful music, As from bands of angels flying, With the loud blasts of the tempest Still victoriously vieing.

Who could tell why Avignon All its bells was ever pealing?

Whether to scare evil spirits, Still round holy cities stealing.

Yet, perhaps, that ceaseless chiming, And that pleasant silver beating, Was but as of children playing, And their mother's name repeating.

One! Two! Three! the bells went prattling, With a music so untiring; One! Two! Three! in merry cadence, Rolling, crashing, clanging, firing.

Hence it was that in past ages, When 'mid war those sounds seemed sweeter, _La Ville Sonnante_ people called it, City sacred to Saint Peter.

Years ago! but now all silent, Lone and sad, the gra.s.s-grown city, Has its bell-towers all deserted By those ringers--more's the pity.

Pope and cardinal are vanished, And no music fills the night-air; Gone the red robes and the sable; Gone the crosier and the mitre.

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From The Lamp.

ALL-HALLOW EVE; OR, THE TEST OF FUTURITY.

BY ROBERT CURTIS.

CHAPTER X.

It is not to be wondered at that two persons, equally clever in all respects, and having a similar though not identical object in view, should have pretty much the same thoughts respecting the manner of carrying it out, and finally pursue the same course to effect their purpose. But the matter involves some nicety, if not difficulty, when it so happens that those two persons have to work upon each other in a double case. It is then a matter of diamond cut diamond; and if, as I have suggested, both are equally clever, the discussion of the subject between them would make no bad scene in a play. Winny wanted to find out something from Kate Mulvey, and at the same time to hide something from her. Kate Mulvey was on precisely the same intent with Winny Cavana in both ways; so that some such tournament must come off between them the first time they met, with sufficient opportunity to "have it out" without interruption.

You have seen that Winny had determined to sound her friend Kate, as to how her land lay between these two young men. If Kate had not made a like determination as to sounding Winny, she was, at all events, ready for the encounter at any moment, and had discussed the matter over and over in her own mind. Their mutual object, then, was to find out which of the young men was the real object of the other's affections; and up to the present moment each believed the other to be a formidable rival to her own hopes.

Winny was not one who hesitated about any matter which she felt to require immediate performance; and as she knew that some indefinite time might elapse before an opportunity could occur to have her chat out with Kate Mulvey, she was resolved to make one.

Her father's house, as the reader has seen in the commencement, was not on the roadside. There was no general pa.s.s that way; and except persons had business to old Cavana's or Mick Murdock's, they never went up the lane, which was common to both the houses of these rich farmers. It was not so with the house where Kate Mulvey resided. Its full front was to the high-road, with a s.p.a.ce not more than three perches between. This s.p.a.ce had been originally what is termed in that rank of life "a bawn," but was now wisely converted into a cabbage-garden, with a broad clean gravel-walk running through the centre of the plot, from the road to the door. It was about half a mile from Cavana's, and there was a full view of the road, for a long stretch, from the door or window of the house--that is, of Mulvey's.

It was now a fine mild day toward the end of November. Old Mick Murdock's party had ceased to be spoken of, and perhaps forgotten, except by the few with whom we have to do. Winny Cavana put on her everyday bonnet and her everyday cloak, and started for a walk.

Bully-dhu capered round her in an awkward playful manner, with a deep-toned howl of joy when he saw these preparations, and trotted down the lane before her. As may be antic.i.p.ated, she bent her steps down the road toward Mulvey's house. She knew she could be seen coming for some distance, and hoped that Kate might greet her from the door as she pa.s.sed. She {786} was not mistaken; Kate had seen her from the first turn in the road toward the house, and was all alive on her own account. She had tact and vanity enough, however,--for she had plenty of time before Winny came alongside of the house,--to slip in and put on a decent gown, and brush her beautiful and abundant hair; and she came to the door, as if by mere accident, but looking her very best, as Winny approached. Kate knew that she was looking very handsome, and Winny Cavana, at the very first glance, felt the same fact.

"Good morrow, Kate," said Winny; "that's a fine day."

"Good morrow kindly, Winny; won't you come in and sit down awhile?"

"No, thank you; the day is so fine, I'm out for a walk. You may as well put on your bonnet, and come along with me; it will do you good, Kitty."

"With all my heart; step up to the house, and I'll be ready in two twos." But she was not so sure that it would do her good.

The girls then turned up to the house, for Kate had run down in her hair to shake hands with her friend. Winny would not go in, but stood at the door, ordering Bully-dhu not to growl at Captain, and begging of Captain not to growl at Bully-dhu. Kate was scarcely the "two twos"

she gave herself until she came out ready for the road; and the two friends, and the two dogs, having at once entered into most amicable relations with each other, went off together.

Winny was resolved that no "awkward pause" on her part should give Kate reason to suppose there was anything unusual upon her mind, and went on at once, as if from where she had left off.

"The day was so fine, Kate," she continued, "that I was anxious to get some fresh air. I have been churning, and packing b.u.t.ter, every day since Monday, and could not get out. Biddy Murtagh is very clean and honest, but she is very slow, and I could not leave her."

"It is well for you, Winny, that has the b.u.t.ter to pack."

"Yes, Kate, I suppose it will be well for me some day or other; but as long as my poor father lives--G.o.d between him and harm!--I don't feel the want of anything."

"G.o.d spare him to you, Winny _mavourneen!_ He's a fine hale old man, and I hope he'll live to be at the christening of many a grandchild.

If report speaks thrue, Winny dear, that same is not unlikely to come round."

"Report does not always speak the truth, Kate; don't you know that?"

"I do; but I also know that there's seldom smoke without fire, and that it sometimes makes a good hit. And sure, nothin's more reasonable than that it's right this time. Tom's a fine young fellow; an' like yourself, sure, he's an only child. There wasn't such a weddin' this hundred years--no, nor never--in the parish of Rathcash, as it will be--come now!"

"Tom is a fine young man, Kate; I don't deny it--"

"You couldn't--you couldn't, Winny Cavana! you'd belie yoursel' if you did," said Kate, with a little more warmth of manner than was quite politic under the circ.u.mstances.

"But I don't, Kate; and I can't see why _you_ need fly at me in that way."

"I beg your pardon, Winny dear; but sure everybody sees an' knows that you're on for one another; an' why not?--wasn't he as cross as a bag of cats at his father's party because he let 'that whelp' (as he called him) Edward Lennon take you out for the first dance?"

"Emon-a-knock is no whelp; he couldn't call him a whelp. Did he call him one?"

"Didn't you hear him? for if you didn't you might; it wasn't but he spoke loud enough."

"It is well for him, Kate, that Emon did not hear him. He's as good a man as Tom Murdock at any rate. {787} He didn't fall over the poker and tongs as Tom did."

"That was a mere accident, Winny. I seen the fung of his pump loose myself; didn't I help to shut it for him, afther he fell?"

"You were well employed indeed, Kate," said Winny sneeringly.

"You would have done it yourself if he axed you as he did me," replied Kate.

"Certainly not," said Winny.

So far they seemed both to have the worst of it, in spite of all their caution. What they wanted was to find out how the other's heart stood between these two young men, without betraying their own--which latter they had both nearly done.