University of Virginia Library

MARY NEILLY.

BY MRS. JENNIE DOWLING DE WITT.

“Ha! ha! our Paddy friend is far enough gone now
we'll make him take us over to Widow Neilly's to-night to
see his pretty sweetheart; I guess she will not be saying much
to him in this plight.” The speaker gave a significant glance
at a young man lying at full length on one of the boxes at the
furthest corner of a low groggery (of which so many can be
found in every city and town in our Western country), and,
advancing towards him, administered a plentiful shower of
oaths and kicks, in order to assist to his feet his almost senseless
victim. “Here, Joe,” shouted the first speaker, “come
along and help me, or I'll have hard work to get him home.
We are goin' home with you, Bill, for fear you'll break your
neck before you get there; ain't we mighty kind to you, old
boy?” As he spoke, he leered triumphantly over his fallen
rival, and said in an under tone to his less intoxicated companion:
“Very kind; if I play my cards well, I'll get Mary
Neilly yet, with her pretty face, and may be her rosy cheeks
will come back again, if she leaves off her eternal worrying
over this drunken fool. Come on, Bill, or it'll be dark before
we get over there.”

The drunken man looked vacantly up, and made a vain
effort to free himself from the firm grasp of his companions.
“I—I'll be afther gitting along as well without the like of ye's.
Mary don't like me to be fetchin' ye home with me, so ye had
bitter stay here and—”

“Ha! ha! ha!” shouted he; “she'll not like you to be
bringing yerself home to-night, I'll warrant you; she'll like me
better than you this time, so come along.”

The young Irishman, intoxicated as he evidently was,
staggered round to face his tormentor, muttering: “You'll not
be daring to say that, when it was yersel' that lured me to the
drhink, and faith, I'd knock any other man down that would
be afther sayin' it.”

“You look like knocking anybody down, don't you?
You don't think I made you drunk on purpose to get your pet
done away from you; never fear, I'll have her yet in spite of
you.”

“Hould yer lying tongue,” answered the other, at the
same time aiming a blow at his persecutor, which the other
avoided, thereby precipitating his assailant over the steps into
the street. A loud laugh echoed from his two comrades just
as a female figure appeared at the side of the fallen man. She
laid her hand on his arm, and whispered, in a choking voice:
“Willie, for my sake, for Heaven's sake, come away home;
why did ye come with the two bad men that'd take the life
o'ye if they dared? Come quick, they are coming.”

“Here she is,” cried the one inside, coming towards them:
“come now, we'll see which your beauty likes best.” The
speaker pushed the veil and hat from the face of the anxious
and terrified girl. Her lover, intoxicated as he was, rushed
in between them, but the other mockingly pushed him aside,
and threw his arm about her neck, exclaiming in a jeering
tone: “Now for a dozen kisses, if I like; your protector isn't
in a very fit condition to hinder me.”

One glance at his lovely Mary, pale and trembling, a
second vain attempt to interpose, and he seized a knife lying
upon a barrel, and plunged it into the bosom of his tormentor.
They rolled over together upon the ground, while the terror-stricken
girl could only gaze in mute horror upon the deed of
murder that she thought had been committed.

Three months passed away, and the trial of William
Harty, for an assault, with intent to kill, upon the person of
George Brown, was brought before the court. The prosecution
was carried on with all the energy that hatred, revenge,
and jealousy could prompt. George Brown, on his recovery,
had spent the earnings of years in the attempt to have his
rival put out of his way, for since the affray, Mary had so
effectually avoided him, that he had not once seen her. The
trial was one of unusual length, enlisting the warmest sympathy
of the spectators in behalf of the prisoner and the fair
young girl who was compelled to testify against him. It was
difficult to imagine that, beneath the open, manly brow, and
mild blue eye, a heart was hidden so full of guilt and evil passions,
as the charge preferred against him implied. But justice,
not mercy, were demanded at the hands of the court; it
was theirs to decide, not from the appearance of the prisoner,
but from the facts of the case.

The jury brought in a verdict of guilty, and William
Harty was sentenced to ten years' solitary confinement. As
the sentence was pronounced, Mary Neilly uttered a cry of
pain, and her brother rushed forward, only to carry her half-fainting
from the court. The prisoner started up as if to follow,
but sank back with a burst of uncontrollable agony, as he
remembered that he was not at liberty.

All that night poor Widow Neilly watched over her child,
while James glided about holding his breath, as if fearful of
the young life flickering out from his sister's breast. “Ah!”
wept the mother; “my swate, swate child, ye was the darlint
o' my life; little did I iver think to see ye so for Willie's sake.
Sorra's the day for ye that ye let him away from ould Ireland.
Not all the gould o' the counthry could ha' tempted ye if ye'd
dhramed o' this. Poor Willie! I love ye yet, though it's nigh
enough ye ha' come to laying my wee Mary in the ground;

but it was the dhrink that did it, not yer own thrue heart.
Bad luck to the wretches that made ye the slave o the crathur
when we weren't by to kape ye. Oh! Mary mavourneen!
Mary mavourneen!”

James was active during the next month in obtaining
signers to a petition drawn up by a kind clergyman in behalf
of the unfortunate prisoner. The circumstances of the case,
combined with the young Irishman's earnest pledges of his
friend's future abstinence from intoxicating drink, the indulgence
in which seemed, to nine out of every ten who heard
the case, the only absolute crime of which he was guilty, that
he found no difficulty in obtaining names.

With the greatest confidence, he presented his petition,
signed by over a thousand persons, but, to his utter dismay,
was positively refused. For several weeks the household was
gloomier than ever. Mary seemed failing under her weight
of sorrow; her mother could do nothing but watch her and
weep with her, while James hung over his twin sister almost
with the sadness of despair.

One day, when the governor was seated in his private
study, he heard a timid knock at the door. Upon opening
it, what was his surprise to see a middle-aged woman, plainly,
but neatly dressed, standing without! Not waiting for him to
speak, she immediately explained the cause of her intrusion.
“Yer honor, it's for life and death I'm come; an' I thought
may be your servants wouldn't be letting the likes o' me in to
see the governor. But it's meself that has heard o' the kind
heart in yer honor's bosom, an' I thought ye'd like enough give
a helping-hand even to a poor ould body like me.”

“Come in, my good woman,” answered he; “I am not in
the habit of refusing to do what I can for my fellow-beings.”

His kind tone encouraged her, and she held out to him a
folded paper. A shade passed over his brow as he glanced at

the contents, and he returned it instantly, saying: “Indeed, it
is utterly impossible for me to yield to your desires in this respect;
I have examined this case before, and felt it my duty
to refuse the petition. There have been half a dozen similar
cases lately, and we must make an example of him that shall
intimidate others. The community, as well as the individual,
requires justice, and one must suffer for the good of many.”

The poor woman burst into tears, exclaiming, “Indade, sir,
its Willie'd be killed hisself before he'd be killing another, if
the dhrink didn't dhrive him beside hisself. Don't I know
him better than them all, an' sure ye'll not belave me word.
Ye must listen to me, sir, for a little, I'll not kape ye long. It
was fourteen years agone that I was left a widow in ould Ireland,
with my two blessed childher. Ye see Willie Harty's
mother and I were always sisters like, bekase we lived in the
one house, from the time we weren't more nor two year old.
When she died (that was just afther I was married), she tould
me to take care of her orphan baby, and God would reward
me for the dade of mercy. Poor Ellen! it would almost make
her wape, though she's a blessed angel in heaven now, to see
her Willie where he is this day. A good many years went
on, an' I got childher o' my own, but I always loved Willie
just the same; and faith, niver could yer honor ha' found in
all Ireland a cleverer or a nicer boy.

“At last I found out that he an' my swate Mary loved each
other. I was as glad as the childher at the betrothal, an' right
proud was I when I heard the people whispering, as they went
home from church, that Willie and Mary would be the prettiest
couple in Ailendeen. Jist a twelvemonth afore the wedding
was to ha' been, we thought we'd come to Ameriky,
bekase ever since my husband died we had tight work to get
along. Willie came first to find us a place. How well do, I
mind that first letter that we got, telling us that he was so

lonely, and wanted so much to see us. Well, after a while,
we came, too; we were all in a bustle at first, hurrying to get
ready for the weddin', and two happier hearts niver beat than
theirs. But Willie had a new frind, that I didn't like at all
at all, an' that was George Brown. He used to be coaxin'
Mary to go out with him when Willie was away, an' I could
see plain enough that he'd ha' put 'em apart if he could, but
Mary couldn't bear him, an' at first he seemed angry at 'em
both, but all of a suddint he got very friendly like wi' Willie,
and purtended to be very fond o' him. But by-and-by Willie
would come in wi' the fire o' the dhrink in his eyes, an' I
can't be saying how it was that he got such a fast hold on the
boy, but I'm sure he maned to make Mary lave him, though
he didn't often come to see her hisself, for fear we'd be having
suspicions of his black heart. He'd watch for him where-ever
he could find him, and get him away wi' him. Mary
would sometimes go out, o' dark nights, after him hersel', an'
she growing pale an' sick when the wedding was put off so
many times, for she wouldn't marry Willie till he'd lave off
dhrinking. George Brown niver said any thing to Mary for
a good while afore Willie stabbed him, nor I don't belave he
would then, barrin' he'd been taking a little o' the crathur.
He thought he'd get her after a while, when nobody stood in
his way. When Willie was better o' the liquor they'd been
pouring down his throat, he hardly minded a thing he'd done,
an' when I went to the prison to see him, he asked me what
he was there for, and told me the next day, when he was free,
he'd sign the pledge.

“When the sentence was spoke, my poor Mary fainted,
and her brother brought her home, but she acted wild like all
night, an' didn't get off her bed for two weeks; now she goes
about more like a shadow nor a young, hopeful girl, an' I'm
sure she'll niver live ten years, with the shame, an' grief, an'

a', to see poor Willie out again. He's his own blissed silf
again now, I saw it in his eyes in the coort.

“Oh! your ixcellence,” cried the weeping mother, dropping
on her knees, “if ye've e'er a child at home to bless ye,
an' call ye father, ye'll not send mine to the grave, for if ye
but say the word, ye can save her.”

The tears sparkled in the eyes of the governor. “Hold,
hold! my good woman,” said he, “yours is an extraordinary
case. Before night the prisoner will be set at liberty.” The
sobs so choked her utterance that she could not thank him;
but the savior of her child was never forgotten in her prayers.

Before nightfall Mary Neilly was clasped rapturously, yet
tearfully, to the bosom of her repentant lover and affianced
husband.

Eight or ten years after the above events, when the merciful
governor was travelling in Illinois, his carriage-wheel
broke, and he alighted at a nice, snug-looking farm-house, to
repair it. What was his surprise to recognize in the fine
sturdy farmer the pardoned prisoner of former years, and to
receive again the tearful thanks of the old mother, joined to
the blessings of the happy wife, while two or three rosy children,
with clean frocks and faces, peeped from behind grandmother's
dress upon the illustrious stranger! He discovered
that James also was married and settled close by, but he had
never been able to prevail upon his mother to leave her favorite
child. Willie and Mary declared that they had ceased to
look with sorrow upon the events of that memorable trial,
and could only thank God for the never-to-be-forgotten lesson
they had received, and pray blessings upon his head who had
changed the night of sorrow into the morning of joy, and
given them the peace of a happy life, instead of the misery of
a disgraceful punishment.