A WOMAN BY THE WAY.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVII, Issue 20, 24 January 1936, Page 15

A WOMAN BY THE WAY.

Such a bowed little woman she was, trudging down the road with the sorrow 1,1 face, that I had in truth to stop and ask her if I couldn't be helping her witli a lift in my car.

She seemed not to hear me call, for she went by me without a word or a look, the wind from the hills blowing her whitening hair before her. °

Mother. I called louder. And at that wold she stopped dead and turned about, and I could see that in her days she must have been a handsome colleen

I 's er I . c « ves had an unconquerable blue that the years had failed to dim, and her mouth must have spelt a fine tale lor many a man's heart.

■ttould you be speaking to me, now? she asked in the low lilting way of the people of the south; but the smile that they have was missing from her lips and she seemed not to see me well. Tis the truth, I was," I said, stepping down with my hat off. "I W as thinking the way "would be weary for you in this cold and might I not be taking you in this car wherever it is that you are goinn-?"

"Yes," she said, after a pause, "'tis a kind face you have—a kind face. But you must not think," she added, "that all faces are kind. Ah, no, I have seen them very cruel."

She came a step nearer to me. "But you'll not be knowing me now?" she said, with her eyes full upon mine. I shook my head with a smile at the quaint garrulity of the old. jSo, mother. I'm a stranger this way and I know no one down here." "Yes, you have not the sound." She looked beyond me :to my car. " 'Tis a pretty carriage you have to carry vou along. . "Will"you not ride in it, mother? Tis di auglity here in the wind, and with the rain coming in that cloud. You'll be home at your lire before the wet touches the grass." "Home!" She pondered in the considering way old people have. "Myself lias ever had my own legs or the back of a horse to take me along. Never liave I gone about in these unnatural things. "But," she added in a voice grown strangely gay, "I'll be coming with you, for you. have a kind face, and I am feeling tired—very tired." And with that I helped her in. Verv graceful she .was in her torn dress and with those-proud eyes; and she sat back on the cushions in a -way that knew no cravenness, with her ungloved .hands slim in her lap and enjewelled by a .ring. She told me where her house sat on the side of the 'Mil' behind the village, and thither the engine hummed its way through the torn morning. "'Tis a black day in. the town," I said, by way' of something to be talking about. "I passed ,the prison an hour back and saw the people with their hats off outside the .-walls. The, -law was hanging a man /v:„, "It was that, and I was there," she said. " 'Tis the same reason that brought me to the town —to see the notice put up to say that he was dead." "Is that the case?"'said I surprisingly, for in truth I had not thought she was of jbhose melancholy people who gather where the death lies.. ."He was a brutal man, they tell me."

"He killed a woman, and so they hanged him," said the old woman by my side. "A woman! Faith, and then he deserved to die!" I said in anger. She smiled at me with her mouth. " 'Twas ever the way of young men to think like that. To kill a man, you say—Ah, well, men were made for the killing of each other; mostly they kill each other slowly by starvation and the like; but if one should be kinder and kill with a gun or knife, you say — "Hang him and give him a prayer! But a woman! Mother of God! The man who kills a woman you. would have roast in hell-fire for ever." The little laugh she gave was hitter. "What, then," I answered her, "would you be showing some sorrow for the man that killed your daughter?" "I would that," she said, "if his tale was the same as the man who is dead now in the town behind us." "I have not heard it," I said with a frown down my nose. "But still I cannot see how a man should kill a woman and not be ciirsed —unless, if you'll tell me, it was an accident." "No accident that, young man. He strangled her in the night while she was sleeping in her bed. He wanted her to die." "And you should have pity for such!"

"A fine man to look at," she eaid, not noticing my remark. "In the street they turned to look back at him as he walked along; and the smile of him warmed your heart, so bright it was and quick to come." "They have ever a smile for the women, these —murderers."

"That's a hard word," she said with the cold in her face. "But a true one for all that," I answered, as we turned into the long hill road with the rain now fiercely lashing the screen in front of us. "He had a kind heart, and he loved Ker dearly." The old voice was a whisper. ' I thought she was nodding to sleep, but a second's glimpse at her showed me my error. "To be sure this is a proud way of travelling, isn't it now?" "Oh," said I airily, for I was proud of my ear, "it goes well enough. And for what would you be sticking up for the man with the blood 011 his hands?" "Devil a bit of blood was there," she cried, in the precise way of the aped women. "His hands were clean, and aye—God help him—his soul, too. Don't be thinking now he was a bad man." "But. mother, what else?" "What else?" By the saints, the like of him was rare. Shall Ibe telling you his story?" "If yoii know of it. Were you in the Court, then ?" "I was that. I sat on a hard seat against the wall and heard that they had to say—all the his*h-talkins;, clever lot of them. Oh, and they are clever, those men; tliey could huv and sell the likes of ourselves while we would be winking our eves. But have no % hearts and they are quite daft." —

The gnarled hand bearing the ring crept into the crook of my arm. "They said, that Sean —such was his name, Sean MacDermott—had confessed to killino- the woman in the bed, and there was before the lot of them with the courage of his heart shining in his face.

(SHORT STORY.)

(By BRIAN O'HARE.)

"They had him there three days, tor- . "l 1 }"tb the reading of the i ttei 6 he bad sent to the wwman, telling ber that he loved her above, all the other things in the world.

And when they asked him for why he had done this thing, lie told them she had proved herself false, had made him mad, and so he kilted her. And lor hnnself he had no wish to live.

... " F ° r </. oull know >" said the old himself was the/- man who lived only once, and that forever. Deep did «i? ve the strangled woman with t] V ? te ? her , for llis wife, and him ,Vn,l 6 , Ver lload of his making more money than you could be carrying win° f T P ° C M et ! with ease - And" her with the smile for him on'her face, but the treachery m li er heart and all, takwh;i» l T- d ! isteni,) S to his talk, while behind his back she laughed in tne arms of someone else. When _ the man Seaai found out the truth of it, continued the low voice at my shoulder, "he weret wild with the madness of it, and he ."killed her. They "5 e< ) , him to-day. Now he is dead." ■ 1 "a man should not kill a woman because she loves someone else. Its cowardly.."

Did you ever liaveia deep love for a woman, young man?"' "I have a wife." j "And if she should fee " "Catherine!" But if she shoaild behind your back—"

"No," I cried. "Sifcop that talk, Cath erine!"

"You see, although; yon might not be knowing 1 it, it's thesre inside—the rage to those who "break your faith." She .pointed with a finger through the window. . "There ify is where I live." In the gloom of tine rain I saw a pale cabin standing apaift from the village '.halfway up the hill.- I approached the car beneath it and. came to- a stop. "'Twas good of you, my dear," said the old woman, as"l helped her to the ■ground. "You hasve a kind face and I'm thanking-you.'V ; "Indeed," I-said.f "'tis yourself that's honoured me. Bint go no more to the hangings, another, df I might be telling you so. They are< no pleasant business. jAnd that's a nice ring you'have on your :finger," I added, as my hand touched it in helping her out. She held it up find looked at it reflectively in the dull flight. ! "Sean gave it to me," she said at last, i "Sean?" I murmured the name, and ;saw some terrible thing deep down in her- fine eyes. • j "God rest his sjoul," she said. "I was ;his ; mother." ' | And she left me there like a daft man jstaring after her, and walked up the hill to her home. . * » • ■' ,V» ■■ - < When slie reached the door of the lonely cabin, sest so apart from the houses in the village, all her old years seemed to huddle on her back, and she hesitated "before she felt for the latch and passed in.. Then the door closed behind her. I knew I could aay nothing. But I sent the car down the road with the thunder of the engine seeking to ,dr.o.wi*~tfie~w.i3d.-curseS-.iii~ my heart.