THE SYMPATHISER

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1510, 7 February 1901, Page 26

THE SYMPATHISER

(By Lettiee Jansen.)

About half a mile from the end of the town where the road slopes up towards the priest’s house, two figures were coming along in opposite directions; both evidently in a hurry. It was a girl who was coming down hill. She wore over her homespun dress a black jacket, and neither it nor the hat trimmed with gaudy flowers became her, if she had but known it, half so well as the head' shawl and neat ’kerchief which she was wont to* wear on week days. But this was Sunday morning, and that probably was why the young man who approached her was, clad so smartly in a spruce new suit with a posy in his buttonhole for a finishing touch. When they came near enough he recognised her as the girl -who assisted Mrs McGrath, the priest’s housekeeper. She knew his face well, having seen him at chapel, but had. no speaking acquaintance with him. He was one of the Doherty’s—that much she -was sure of —though she could not rightly remember wdiich family of them he belonged to. Even before they had reached one another he had addressed her, calling out:

“Will Father Dan be left home yet. can ye tell me kindly?” She cam® up to him, and they stood together under the shelter of the newlybudded hedge. She pondered a moment before answering, and wondered what great hurry was on him, for l : e had taken off his hat, and was wiping bis brow.

“If it’s a sick call,” she said, “unless it is ai pressing wan, ’twill be a pity t o fluster him. He has second mass to say. yet, and a weddin' after that. .An’ Father McCourt is gone up by the mountain.”

“We’ll have no weddin’, to my sartin knowledge,” said the young man, with an air of irritation which excited her curiosity. “An’ how’ll that be now?” she asked eagerly.- : - “ ’Twas my. weddin’, an’ ’tis bruk off.”

“Dear, dear; how’s that? Have 7/ou rued the match, or disagreed about ths fortune?”

“The whole countryside’ll know it soon enough,” sam he, “so don’t keep me here talking. Tell me, is the priest in or out?”

“ ’Tis out h© is,” said she, “an’ you need be in no< hurry for a bit. Sit down here at yer aise. Ye’ll see him drivin’ up, an' if you went to the house like as not you’d miss him.” She seated herself on the bank, tnd mechanically he sat down beside her. “Ye’re all in a heat an’ worry.” There was an air of consideration in her voice which soothed him. “In a heat and worry I am/’ he agreed, “an’ no wonder. Sure I’ve been run off my feet. An’ to be made a laughin’ stock at the end of it all!” “’Twas Annie mcCusker I heerd tell ye wor for marryin'. A purty girl, but a wag-by-the-bush from all they say cf her.”

“Well ye may say it! A sore dance she led me following her here an‘ there

up an’ clown the parish, at wakes an’ wedin’s an’ fairs an’ hirin’ days, spendin’ and givin’ continually, an’ standin’ trates at all set seasons an’ holidays to her whole tribe of brothers, cousins an’ uncles. A fine penny it cost me. An’ was it dacent treatment, I ask ye. for any well-doin’, well-meanin’ boy to pitch him over at the long run when he had her courted up to the point of marryin’ an’ the priest bespoke an’ all ?” The oolleen agreed that it was most shameful treatment, gnd added, shaking her head dolefully: “ ’Twill be a sore disappointment to Father Dan.” “Ay,” said he, “it will in troth. J had a dacent bit of marriage money ready for him-. An’ ’twill be added to her account her doin’ the poor, haruwcrkin’, God-fearin’ priest o’ her own parish ut of his honest day’s pay.’ “That’s just what I’m thinkin’ of,” said she, gravely. "Mrs McGrath was sayin’ lie seemed in fine feather about it, for weddin’s is scarce thee times. What with the emigratin’ an’ the boys marry in’ away on the Tyrone side where they’re hired, ’ bis little ho makes on his fees nowadays. An’ ’tis but a poor parish, Aughadooey, other ways, an? not much cornin’ to him off the Easter dues.” She paused—theu repeated with a sigh, “Ay, ’twill surely be a sore disappointment to Father Dan.” Softened by her sympathy he had fallen into a discursuve mood. He went over the story of the courtship.

“It was up beyond the lough side I first met her the night of old Molshie Ward’s wake. She was aunt to me by marriage on the father’s side, bein’ a Doherty of the Moss, as ye may have heerd tell. Annie was the purtiest girl there, and’ more nor me wor dancin’ attendance on her. Above an’ beyond all, an’ never from beside her, was big Mick Bierne, o’ Carrigalt, that’s home out of America. She favoured me, but I’m thinkin’ now it was all to draw iiim on. But, as it turned out, he took a buff an’ away with him, an’ wouldn’t look next or near her, an’ there she was left, from that to this, to make the best of me. There were others, too. that she tried to put her soft-sawther on, but not a wan o’ them spoke up to marriage but myself, though they were willin’ enough to pass the joke with her. It was Shrove when I asked her, an’ the match was made. ‘An, oh, rear, dear!’ said she, as if she was in great distress about it. ‘We’ll have to wait till Lent is over, an’ why didn’t ye spake sooner, Patrick Doherty?’ And now,” he went on, snapping a twig between his fingers with sudden fierceness, “the time has come, and ■”

“To my mind ’twas too soon ye spoke,” said the sympathiser. “An’ ye'd been wiser had ye niver spoke at all.” Her kindly eyes were gazing at him with deep concern, and she gave from time to time little exclamations of pity as he proceeded. Looking at her soft young face, he could not help but think that here was a girl who would not have played with a poor boy’s feelings. He felt inclined to tell her more of his troubles, and settled himself into an easy position for his narration. It was evident to her that he was ro longer in a hurry to> be gone. He pushed liis hat further back on his fair head, crossed his. legs comfortably, and clasped his big brawny hands upon one knee. His blue eyes held a woe-begone exprssion, and his voice had an almost childlike note of complaint. “An’ to think,” he continued, “of the way I’ve toiled and moiled an’ scraped an’ saved this while back to have things well-gathered for her coming to me. A young horse bought at Glenties Fair, so that she might ride to market in her cart like the best o’ them. An’ another milch cow, forbye the two I had_in the

byre; for I heel’d tell always that she had a nate hand at the butter, li >d scran to her.”

He was working himself into a fit of wholesome anger. “An’ how does she think I'm to handle for myself ail’ mind the house, with i o woman body in it; for my mother, I may tell ye, had words with me about bringing the wife inti-1 her, an’ I told her, plump an’ plain, that if she couldn’t thole it she’d be to let it alone. So she up and away with her to Barnageeha, where my sister Kitty’s married to a man o’ the MacGinleys. How am I to have the face to ask her hack now when she took a cart-load o’ her belongin’s with her, an’ who, I’d like to know, is to milk them cows ?”

She laid one hand! upon his and patted it consolingly. “Don’t take on,” she said kindly. “Don’t take on so bad. There’s a way out o’ every -wood, an’ an answer to every riddle. Ae’ll find many an able an’ smart woman glad o’ the work. Maybe there’s some poor desolate widow up your side that the wee bit o’ the wage would be welcome to for cornin’ an’ doin’ the like.”

“Divil a widda do I know,” said he, “ but -I know ’tis like a lone widda man meself will up there on the braeside. Ay, in troth, an’ a widda-man without the credit o’ bein’ married.”

She gave a gay little laugh, and looked at him archly.

“Weil, if so ye he, it’ll be by yer own will an’ wish that ye be so.” He met her bright eyes, and his face relaxed into a smile. It suddenly dawned upon him that Nellie Haughey was prettier than he had ever thought her. Plow was it that he had never noticed this before, nor ever exchanged- a word with her when she came in his way. He had had l eyes for none but fickle Annie McCusker, and words for her alone.

But now that he could look at this other colleen with disillusioned eyes, he had to admit that there was a charm and air of good humour about her that had been totally lacking in Annie’s more regularly handsome face. And Nellie wa- freh coloured and robu,st; she would make a rare worker, and would Lave tidy and tasty ways with her after all she had learnt at Father Dan’s.

“Hmv’ii I dar to ask any girl again after the way I’ve been affronted? Once bitten, twice shy. That was a sayin’ o’ my mother’s, an’ I’ll show you the truth o’ it. For ’tis shy I’ll be from now on, save an’ except,” he added, and looked at her meaningly, ‘I might ineec with a girl who’cl take me then an’ there at the askin’ without any dallyin’ or delay. I’ve had enough, an’ more than enough, o’ courtin’; ’tis for marryin’ 1 am now.”

Nellie plucked at the springing grass blades and daisies, keeping her eyes modestly louvered. He had leisure to study the coils of shining black liair which appeared under the rim of that gaudy hat. Her shyness gave him « r n unwonted feeling of pleasure, for in his previous courtship it was he who had been abashed.

He grew more courageous, recollecting that in this case there would be no match-making, father and mother tc haggle with over the fortune. Nellie, as ail in the village knew, -was an orphan. He put his hand into his pocket, and, taking out the ring, laid it in ids palm. ByO gazed at it reflectively. Nellie lifted her head and eyed it also.

“There ’tis,” said he ; “a good guinea’s worth* An’ what am I to do with it now, I’d like to know ?” Before she could answer, or he continue, the noise of wheels startled them.

“ xis Father Dan,” said Nellie, and they withdrew into the shadow of the big thorn bush. The car roiled past; then they peeped forth to look after the retreating form of the burly priest. “ ’Twill be a sore disappointment for him,” said she, “there bein’ no weddin’.”

"But there could be a weddin’ for him yet, Nellie dear, if the two of us agreed to it.”

Nellie was silent for a moment, then she demurred :

“But Father Dan ’ud be quarely surprised.” “Ay,” said Patrick, and he took 1 er hand in his, “but ’twill be better for mm to be surprised nor disappointed.”

As they stepped briskly down the read towards the Chapel he remembered, with, a sense of triumph, that the disdainful Annie always accompanied her parents to the second Mass, and wouldn’t he be in bis glory before her, going with his little bride up to the altar!

—Lettice Jansen, in “M.A.P.”