CHAPTER XXV. (Continued.)

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXI, Issue XXI, 7 April 1893, Page 21

CHAPTER XXV. (Continued.)

THE " black sheep " were even more wretched than the unhappy tenanta-at-will who ventured to disobey the landlord's ukase. Many of them shrank from meeting their neighb urs, and stole away in the early morning on the following Sunday to hear Mass in another parish, or remained at home on the plea of illness. There was quite an epidemic of " terrible headaches" and " pains in the back " that Sunday morning in the parish of Shannaclough, and particularly in that portion of it of which Mr Percy Perrington was lord and master. But those of the " black Bheep"who had the courage to show their faces among their fellow parishioners were agreeably Burprised to find that popular indignation in their regard was tempered with a good deal of popular sympathy. The rumour had gone abroad that pr or Martin Dwyer, of Corriglea, was doomed— that he bad already " got notice "—and a feeling pretty generally prevailed that, after all, it was hard to blame a tenant-at-will for refusing to incur the displeasure of his landlord. Father Feehan, however, was not in the mood to take this charitable view of the case. He layed the poor " black sheep '" alive in bis address from the altar. There were many burning che3ks and 6ore hearts under the roof of Shannaclough chapel that bright summer sabbath morning. Tom Dwyer could not help turning his eyes in the direction of Ned Corrnack's pew. Ned Cormack himself was not at Mass that day ; but his wife and daughters occupied their usual places in the pew— which was not a front pew like Martin Dwyer's. •• For what were the Cormack'a," as Mrs Dwyer used to say, " when that old chapel was first built ? " Tom saw Mrs Cormack raise her veil with a steady hand, and look calmly and apparently unmoved i towards the altar. In Margaret's beautiful faca there was somehing like scornful defiance. But Alice I The moment Tom Dwyer's eyes rested upon Alice's face the tears welled into tbsm. He turned bis [

bead quickly away, and pretended to stoop down to pick up his pocket handkerchief, lest his emotion should be observed. A sound, as if some oaa had fallen heavily upon the floor behind him, caused him to look around and spring to his feet ; end in another instant Tom Dwyer was rushing from the chapel, with Alice Cormack, apparently lifelesp, in hi 9 aims. Thay were followed by Nannie and Nellie in an agony of grief and terror ; for the children thought that Alice was really dead. But Mrs Cormack and Margaret showed wonderful presence of mini and command over themselves as with quick but steady steps they left the gallery. The people in the body of the chapel knew nothing of what had happeoed in the gsllery. But Davy Lacy remarked that Father Feehan had stopped speafcing " very unexpectedly," and like as if what he had to say suddenly " left his mind. " * • * • • " Get your hats," said Tom Dwytr to bii little twin-sisters in the evening, " and I'll go over to see Alice with ye." " Mind not to stay too long, an' lava me here by myself," said the mother wailingly, as the children returned to the kitchen tying on their batß ; " and I so nervous." " Sure my father is in the parlour," returned Tom. "I think the two of ye ought to go out for a walk." " 'Tia little trouble walking is giving me, ' said Mrs Dwyer, who was sitting on a low stool by the fire. "Ye can walk, and pay visits and amuse yourselves " Mrs Dwyer stopped suddenly on seeing Nannie clasp her two little bands together and turn her blue eyes upwards with a look of intense pain. The poor child's eyes were red with crying. She was already enduring the bitter anguish of leaving the dear old home for evtr, and even Mrs Dwyer felt a sense of shame at her own selfishness. \ " Well," she went on, changing her tone, " Bure 'tis right for you to 'go over an 1 see poor Alice ; an' they all so kind to U3 ; an' your father thinkin' that the best thing to do is to make a bargain with Ned Coimack about the good-will. Though," she added mysteriously, and through her clenched teeth, •• Molly Manogue told me 'twould be easy enough to get any one settled that would dare to middle with my farm."

" Don't let any one hear you talk such nonsense," said Tom, in a tone that seemed lo frighten the good woman, for she started and cowered over the fire, though the evening was soft and sunny. " The Cormacks got it to-day, Cauth," said Mrs Dwyer, when the roast was clear, and her face lit up with a look of triumphant deligh'. " Begor, they did, ma'am," returned Cauth, who was sitting in the threshold of the door chewing a straw, and calmly observing the efforts of & red bull calf to choke himself with an old apron of hit mistress' that happened to be hanging out of the dairy window. " What good is their money f " continued Mrs Dwyer contemptuously. " I wouldn't be like 'em for all the wealth of Darner.' " Faith, an' 'tis thrue for you, ma'am," returned Cauth, notquite comprehending what bid beea said, so absorbed was she in the proceedings of the bull calf, who, finding the swallowing of the whole apron impracticable, was now convulsively endeavouring to disgorge the moiety he had succeeded in getting into bis gullet. "O — o — oh I " shouted Cautb, giving vent to one of her customary yells. " What is it, Ciuth 1 " her mistress asked calmly. * " The calf that's after gettin' a tumble, ma'am," Cauth replied, ejecting the masticated portion of the straw, and biting off a fresh bit. " He's lyin' on his side an' kickin' away like fun." Fortunately Martin Dwyer looked through the parlour window, and by jumping over Cauth'a legs, and running across the yard, he was just in time to save the bull calf from suffocation by pulling the apron out of his throat. " Come, Eddy," said Ned Cormack, " you and I and Tom Dwyer will take a ride over to Knockgrana." He was very glad to see Tom Dwyer in his house that evening, and took the opportunity of letting people see him and Tom D*ryer taking a drive together. Alice was reclining upon a lounge, with Nellie and Nannie i'anding on either side of her. " I was very foolish," said Alice Bmiling, as she took a hand in each of hers and clapped them together. " But I'll be quite well tomorrow."

But Alice was not well the next nor the nett day ; and oq the third day the doctor was Bent for. One day early in the following week Mr Rob°rt O'Keeffa was sitting with his uncle in the priest's parlour, when eonnwhat to their surprise a man of Mr Cornaack's rode up to the hall door and gave a load doable knock. In a minute or two the man rode away again. Both gentlemen glanced toward the door, expecting somebody would open it and deliver a note or message or give some explanation of the circumstance just mentioned. The door was not opened, however, and both the priest and his nephew turned rather quickly to the table and had recourse to the spoons in their tamblew, as if each wished to conceal from the other that so ordinary an event ai a servant on horseback riding up to the door had awakened bis) curiosity. The priest remembered that Mrs Slattery had gone to visit a friend of hers in the village, and made up his mind to remain in ignorance of the why and wherefore of Ned Cormack'a sending bis servant to the house till her return. But when Mr O'Keefe Baw Father Clancy mount his grey mare opposite the window and ride down the shady avenue at a rather lively pace for the curate, he could not resist throwing up the window and asking Joe Cooney, who had led round the grey mare, what the matter was. " Miss Alice Cormack, tir," Joe replied, "that has the faver." And Joe Cooney then turned quickly upon his heel And walked back to the stable, with his eyes fixed upon the ground. He was sorry to hear of Miss Alice Cormack's illness, and sorry to see that Mr O'Keeffe was not sorry. Honest Joe felt that be bad made a mistake in bis manner of replying to Mr O'Keeffe'a question ; it it disappointing to find only indifference when one expects sympathy. Mr O'Keeffe, when Joe Cooney told him that Alice Cormack had fever, evinced no concern whatever, either by word or look. Stroking bis thin, light -coloured whisker with his dainty fingers, he took a rapid glance at bis whole course of love, and what had and what yet might possibly come of it. He certainly had not played his cards uoskilfully ; yet, so far, the game had gone against him. His expectations were entirely realised bo far as the young lady herself was concerned ; but the young lady's father had proved a far harder nut to crack thao Mr Robert O'K?effe anticipated. During the whole

summer and autumn, af ter <hato\eningr in the drawing-ro<>tn of Bockvifw House, when Margaret answered •• Yes" to all bis qneßtior.s, Mr O'Keeffe was seen very ofUn in company with Ned Cornoack's beautiful daughter. He followed her to the seaside, and it waa known throughout tbe parish that Miss Cormack was constantly seen walking with Mr O Kreflh on the beach, and leaning upon his arm ; and according to the oode that regulated such maters in Shannacloa°b, the arm-in-arm proceeding meant either "some understanding" or impropriety. And of the latter no one would dream of suspecting the beautiful and accomplished Miss Cormack, of Rockview House. Mrs Cormack, however, thought it wise to keep her eyes open. You remember how she hurried away from the orchard on Lady-Day without waiting for Molly Hanrahan's song, when she saw Mr O'Keeffe riding up tbe avenue. Bat Ned Oormack was inexorable. The Waffled suitor then suddenly changed his tactics, and without absolutely breaking off the engagement, almost altogether diecon'iaaed his visits to Bock view, Even Father Feehan thought that the matrimonial project was abandoned when he found bis nephew quite approving of his intention to hit Ned Oormack hard for voting with tha landlord and making his parish "the laughing-stock of the whole county." But the young gentleman knew what be waa about. He'd offer bis services as mediator, make his uncle forg6t aod forgive, and this, he hoped, would prove no small inducement to Ned Cormack to come to terms with him. Tom Dwyer's carrying Alice out of the chapel the only circumstances in connection with the parish priest's invective that annoyed him. But why trouble himself about this young Dwyer 1 He and his would soon be out of the way. Yet Mr Hubert O'Keeffe, as ho fixed his cold grey eyes npon that old homestead at the foot of the mountain, felt an indefinite dread that young Tom Dwyer, of Oorriglea, would one day croßs his path and defeat him. ' He feared that the young farmer cherished a hopeless passion for Margaret Cormack, and Mr OEseffe derived intense gratification from tbe thought that he was the successful rival of the man for whom be had conceived as instinctive dislike from the first moment he met him. In fact this jealouily had a good deal to do with the tenacity of purpose displayed by Mr Robert O'Keeffe in his wooing. He had gone so far as to have made up his mind to take Margaret even with only the one thousand pounds, and sell his farm and residence to pay his debts if Lord Allavogga sacceeded in getting the promise 1 appointment for him. And now a new thought strikes Mr O'Keeffe— if one daughter died, would not the dowry of the other be doubled? He turned quickly round and looked at th« parish priest. The honied smile was npon Father Feehan'd lips, as, with half-closed eyes, he went on toying with the silver spoon upon which hiß crest (or some crest) was duly engraven, in the inevitable tumbler. Both tumblers were empty pince Father Clancy had left the table an hour before, and there was no in'entian of replenishing them. But for some iascrutabla reason men were never kaown to sit together in Sbannaclough without each having a glass or tumbler, or both, before him. We have Been the inevitable tumbler ficished from a feeling of sheer compassion towards a merry-faced, talkative advocate of teetotalism, because " he looked so lonesome ' without the inevitable tumbler, " Did you hear what Joe is af er Baying? ' Mr O'Keeffe a'ked, with a somewhat scrutinising glance at the round, ruddy face. '• Yes," replied Father Feeban softly, with a slight inclination of the head. The parish priest of Shannaclou^h is not at all like some other Irish priests whose portraits it has fallen to our lot to paint. How much pleas-ioter it was to paint a great-hearted 'Father McMahoc," or a kindly, loving, '• Father O'Gorm in '' ? But what can wa do? Look at th 8 poor peasant woman. She sUrts ia fear an 1 terror, and turns wildly to the right and to the left as if hoping to find some metna to escape from a deadly acd imminent danger. Her heart ceases to beat ; objects around her become confused and dim. And feeling her limbs winking under her weight, she drops a hurried obeisance, and, recovering herself with an eff )rt, totters forward upon her way. What di 1 it mean? Tho sky above her is blue and sunny. Everything around speaks of peaca and holiness and love aa she hastens homeward from the village between two rowd of scented hawtborj. When i*t a bend of the lonely road the cause of ncr terror unexpectedly cjroes in view. It is her pastor. He sees her terror, her anguish, her misery. Bat he rides on and doe* not seem to care. Then the poor frightened woman, having bent ber knees in humble obeisance, totters forward upon her way, clasping her hinds convulsively together, and turning her eyes to that sky beyond which — oh, blessed thought — there is pity and compassion never failing and pirennial for us all. Come a little further on between the scented hawthorns, till you meet those sunburnt children returning from school. Mark bow they haag their heads and draw shriukingly close to the hedge. See tbe little barefooted girl's hands tremble till her book falls upon the dusty road, Bat he rides on.

The husband of that terrified woman— the father of thoM trembling children — was the very poorest of the tenants-at* will you saw one day in the winter standing in the rain in fiont of Mr Percy Perrington'a hall-door, and he " voted against the priest." Then, ought we not go on with our portrait of the parish priest of Bhannaclough ? Are we not bound to paint the picture as truthlully and completely as we are able ? No 1 We see a wasted arm, raised up from a pallet of Btraw, warning us to desist. Beside the wretched coach the same peasant woman and those sunburnt children — whom \ou have seen tremble at the sight of their pastor — are kneeling upon the damp clay floor. The poor over-worked rent-maker, prematurely worn oat, lies stretched upon his bed of srraw, feeble and wasted, and with the damp of death npon his furrowed face. The storm howls so wildly outside that the dying man looks up every now and tten as if he expected to see the frail roof to which he had clang so desperately and go long, swept from over his hetd at last. But there is comfort in the thought that this would not be bo bad aa to hare it pulled down by order of the landlord ; for his wife and children might make a shelter for themselves with the fallen rafters. There is such a great dread as well as great sorrow at the heart of the poor woman herself that she is indifferent to the storm ana its possible consequences. This dread is shared by the children— even by the youoget>t— and she and they pray together in low, fervent murmurs to the Mother of God t) avert by her intercession the dreaded calamity, whatever elsa may happen to them. The dying man, whose mind i% quite clear, thinks how difficult and even dangerous the deep and narrow road leading to the cabin mast be this pitch dark and stormy night ; and, beckoning his wife to him, he tells her to place the rush-light in the little window. Before doing so she holds it up, tonching it with her finger first at one end and then at the other, to call his attention to its length, for she bad noticed with a feeling of relief that so much of the rush-light remained unburned that the night could not be so far advanced as she had imagined, The sick man understands her action and ■miles. She kneel 8 down again, and the murmured prayers are renewed in clearer though not louder tones. Their hearts are lightened by the discovery that the time is not so long as they thought since the father got the change for the worse and the oldest boy left the house. He knows the way so well there ia not much reason to fear that he has fallen into any of the deep and dangeroaß pools along the narrow road, even on that pitch-dark night, . . , But a great cry of anguish bursts from mother and children all at onee — " He is dead ! He'd dead 1 " But no. Thank God ! Oh, thanks be to the merciful God I his eyes open and he breathes again 1 The murmured prayer is renewed once more— but in accents hurried and tremulous, and with agonised clasp of the hands and swaying of the body to and fro. Suddenly they all— mother and children — leap to their feet, their faces lit tip with a great joy. The dying man raises his emaciated arms, and a firm, audible voice utters the words " God be praised I' 1 No other word was spoken. But if the great God ' f Heaven had come down from His throne of light to banish sin and sorrow from this earth for ever more, His presecce could not have filled human souls with more perfect joy and happiness than that with which the presence of their pastor filled the hearts of the dwellers under tbo thatched roof of that comfortless Iriab cabin on that dark and stormy wioter night I He had left his warm bed without a murmur of complaint. When the rain beat into bis face, and the wind, like the arms of a giaot seemed endeavouring to push him back ; wheu be looked up on hear* ing a crash of a great bough torn from a tree in the avenue, and tried in vain to catch the faintest glimmer of light in the black sky, he recoiled not. On, on, on he pushed his horse through the storm and darkness of that fearful night, without fear or hesitation. Only once did he feel Lia heart sink. It was when he had left the highroad and turned into the narrow and crooked byway. He knew what the light in the cabin window meant, and with the spur he urged his horse forward, when the animal's fore-feet sunk deep into the soft brokea road, and the priest thought for a moment he wan coming down. Thee, for a moment, his heart sank ; but it was sot of his own danger he thought. His only fear was lest he should be too late. The priest knelt down for a minute or two by the bedside, and then, putting on bis stole, stood leaning over the dying man to hear his confession. The mother and children knelt down again till the last rites were administered. Then Father Feehan spoke a few kindly words to the poor woman, and, tightening his shawl about his neck, went oat to face the wind and rain and darkness again. He met the boy who had been sent to call him, all dripping wet and covered with mud, at the door. But what did that poor, sobbing boy care for wind or weather, for cold or wet, or bungtr, as long aa bis father got the priest 1

The poor fellow ran himself out of breath to keep up with the priest's horse, but he was left far behind. Yts ; they were all full of happiness and gratitude, and resumed their watching in tbe assured hope that he who loved them and toiled for them would soon be in a better world, where nobody ever felt hungry or cold, where the poor were not scorned and trampled upon, where there were no savage bailiff", no tyrant landlords, or notices to quit. (To be continued )