The Storyteller.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXVII, Issue 9, 2 March 1899, Page 23

The Storyteller.

ORANGE AND GREEN.

A STORY OF NINETY-EIGHT.

The battle of Wexford had been won and lost again. What undisciplined valour and scorn of death could do had been done ; but courage, armed with pikes and pitchforks, though victorious foi awhile, could not prevail against discipline protected by artillery and musketry. So the country waß filled with peasantry soldiers fleeing unarmed from the vengeance of the brutal and infuriated Yeomanry. There was no quarter given, and although the more humane officers of the regular troops strove hard to keep their men from murder and pillage, the evil example of the Militia and the Yeomanry was stronger than discipline and the habit of obedience. Neither age nor sex was spared, for Papist was synonymous for rebel ; and whether he carried a pike or not, every peasant was regarded as a rebel at heart. Like the other young men of his parish, Martin O'Connor had joined the army of the Union that was to set Ireland free, and, with his heart full of hope, he had followed the green banner that was to wave over an independent nation. But a few short weeks had put an end to all these hopes, and now Martin himself was a fugitive, with little expectation of escaping the pitch cap or the rope. So he made for his native village of Greenane, whither love drew him in spite of the folly of his steps. He hoped, too, to cross the mountains and join General Holt, who still held out, with hi--brave band of followers, as yet undefeated. But it was a long journey, and Martin had been sorely wounded in the leg, so that his progress was slow and painful. He was weak with hunger and fatigue, for he had not dared to enter a village to beg for food lest an enemy should meet him — and such were the conditions of the times that it was hard to distinguish a friend from an enemy. At length he reached the top of the hill which looks down into the valley where lies the little village of Greenane. By the moonlight he could almost distinguish his father's cabin. The silence and what little there was of sound were peaceful. A sob rose in his throat when he thought how different it all seemed on the day on which he set out to take his share in the freeing of Ireland. Then the sun was shining, and he, with some half hundred of the bravest boys of the district, all in their Sunday clothes, with green cockades in their hats and green scarf* on their breasts, had marched bravely up the hill, each with his new made pike on his shoulder. The girls of the village, clad in white and green, had come to wish them God speed, and none had any thoughts of defeat. Now he hid come back alone, and no sound greeted him save the bleating ot sheep on the mountains far away. Weakness and despair iell upon him, so that he had no strength to go further He crept from the road iato a field and threw himself down under a tree and in a few minutes fell fast asleep. For hours lie slept dreamless] yin the fading moonlight, and knew not when the dawn crept shyly our the hill and the moon grew pale and dim. Suddenly a quiver shook his tired bones. Did he dioam. or w.is it a real voice that sang ' The summer is come and the grass i-, green The leaves are budding on every tree. The ships are sailing upon the sea, And I'll soon find tidings of Graniachree.' He raiw d himself on his arm and looked m the direction whence the sound came. It was no dream, for at a littl-j di-t.uiee from him a young girl fat milking a cow and beguiling the uvk with song. Her lace was turned from him, but lie knew tlu.t the long, slender neck and graceful '-boulder-, could btlong to none other than to Mary Moore, the dauglr^r of a Yeoman farmer at Greenane. Many a jig they had <1 mi ed together in the old peaet ful times, when the freeing of Ireland was a delightful dream ot the future, and no voice had been so sweet to him :^ her?, although her father wore the Orange on every Twelfth ot .! uly. But Farmer Moore was a wise man withal, and whiV the country was at peace he showed no disposition to quanel with hi^ neighbours because they were for King .lanus and he for King William. But when the insurrection broke out it was another matter ; so he took his Orange scarf and set out to join the Yios, leaving his daughter to mind hia farm. He had littlt fear for her, as she was much beloved; and to the United lushuien no ■woman was an enemy. These things were in Martin's mind a-* he watched the j-oung girl and delayed his purpose ; but sore hunger wa-- upon him. .She might betray him, but to die of hunger was as bad as any other. and maybe her heart was tender. So he rot-e to his feet and went towards her. His shadow fell on her. and she ceased h< r Mngmg. ' Martin !' she exclaimed, and the blood left her cheeks. ' Aye, Mary, it's me. Worse luck '" 1 What brought you here ?' she began. 'Hunger,' he answered, looking at the milk. She lifted the milk pail and gave it to him. He put it eagerly to his lips and took a long draught. The warm milk was new hie to him. The colour came back to his haggard cheeks. ' Thank you, Mary,' he said. '\ ou have saved my life, though it is of little use to me.' Then he turned away. ' Where will ye be going, Martin ' the girl cried after him. 'Where else but down to the ould cabin beyant.' 'Sure it's mad you are, Martin, to think of it." ' Aye, maybe I am, but I would like to see the ould people again before I die.' ' Before you die, Martin V ' Aye, before I die, Mary.' 1 Then I'm thinking they'll be dead before you."

The young man's face grew a shade paler. ' What do you mean, Mary V 'If the l'eos hear that you have been with them they will know for sure that the ould people are United.' Martin stood for a moment with a drooping head. Then he turned to the girl. ' You are right, Mary, and so I'd better be going over the hill.' ' Martin.' Something in her voice struck his heart and sent the blood to his head. ' Belike you're hungry.' ' Perhaps I am, if I had time to think of it ; but what's the differ to a dade man whether he's hungry or not when the cause is lost V ' Thafs a coward's word, Martin.' ' Aye, that's what they call a man when he's beat ; but who cares.' • There's them that cares, Martin.' ' Mary.' ' Aye, Martin.' ' Why didn't you finish your singing V The girl looked questioningly at him for a moment. Then her cheeks grew crimson. Without answering she broke out passionately : ■ 0, Martin, Martin, I love you well, I love you better than tongue can tell ; I love my friends and relations, too, But I'd leave them all, love, and go with you.' ' D'ye mean it, Mary v ' Aye, do I mean it, Martin, and have, ever since the night you danced at ould Widow Malone's down beyond, and kissed me in the Lane coming home, only for fun, because I was a girl and they dared you. seeing that I was my father's daughter.' ' Sure I thought, Mary, it was Bill Brown that was courting you. ' Aye, why shouldn't he, when you had no eyes in your head.' ' I was wishing I had no ears in my head after the blow you gave me in the same lane. Why was your hand so heavy, Mary *?' ' Maybe because you didn't think of kissing me sooner, but you had little thought for me, for you were always made for pikes and green cockades and banners. It is little good they have done you, Martin.' ' Little enough, Mary, now that we are beat.' ' It might be worse.' ■ Aye. it might.' ' If you did not come back at all.' • Or if you married Bill Brown.' • Who else wants to marry me /' ' I'm a broken man, Mary.' • You're the best dancer in the parish.' ' I was.' ' You will be again. ■ Will you marry me, Mary " ' Aye, will 1. Martin.' ■ And wear the green '' 1 Sure in my heart 1 have always worn it.' She stood before him with the sunlight in her face. There was no i -hrinkiii» in the eyes that answered his. He clasped her suddenly in his arms and kissed her cheeks and lips. ' (iod forgive me, Mary, if I wronged you,' he said. ' You lo\e me, Martin '" ■ Aye. Mary. I do lo\u you.' ' Then j ou can do me no wrong.' S'>, they went down the hill together. Albeit the sun was high and the day well begun, none met thorn on the way, nor was the stillne-s without suggestion of tear. When they reached the gate leading to the farm hou-.e, the young man paused. The girl threw open the gate and motioned him to enter ; but still he hesitated. ' I mwloubt whether I ought to go in, Mary,' he said. •■'IV not pushing the door you'd be, like a stranger, and you tired and hungiy, to '' ■ Twould be better than bringing trouble on you." ■'Twill be harder again to lea\e you, Mary.' • You'll be stronger when the hunger is driven out, and no one will know but old Tom, and him you needn't fear, for he'd have been out with you if the rlieumati-m had let him." ' And your father, Mary .'" A sh;uiow fell on the girl's face. ' He's out with the Yeos, and wish he was sale at home. 'Twas hard to have to go, but he daren't refuse.' ' He went against his friends when he did.' ' Maybe he'd be dead if he didn't.' 'He might be so. 1 Martin rejoined sorrowfully, thinking on the many that w ere. Then they entered the house, and the girl set about preparing food for him. When he had eaten, she washed and dressed his wound with much skill, for love softened her touch to the torn flesh. Then the youth was for going leot he should bring trouble on the girl he loved ; but she begged him to wait till night fall, so that he might reach the mountains unpereuved. So he stayed, for in truth, he found it hard enough to leave her. Then he told her of how they had fought for the Green, at hrsl with success, until defeat followed hard on the heels of victory. Of his own part he said but little, but the girl's eyes glistened and her bosom heaved since her imagination supplied what he had omitted. She sighed, too, and wept a little over tho.se who would never again return to the village. Her father's absence troubled her, too, albeit Martin assured her that the Yeos had little now to fear. So they talked on unconscious of the waning day, and as if their love bad been confessed long since, and not only that morning. Suddenly the sound of voices outside them. The girl rushed to the door, and looked up the road. A loiy of men

carrying arms and wearing orange ribbons were comiog down the hill. They talked loudly, and at times broke out into laughter. A ingle glance convinoed Mary of the danger. She hurried back to the house. ' Martin, it is the Yeoa,' she cridd ; ' go in there and I will speak with them,' and she opened the door into an inner room. Bat Martin hesitated. ' 'Twould be fafer for you, Mary, if I hid in the fields.' ' But not for you, Martin, ' and she pushed him gently into the room and closed the door. Then taking a basin of food, she went to the door of the farmhouse and calling the fowl 1 * about her began to feed them. The band of Yeomen halted at the gate and =poke awhile together. Then one of them opened the gate and entered. He was a young man with a red face and a very important air. He wore an orange rosette in his hat. 1 Good evening to you, Mary,' said he. 1 Good evening to yourself. Bill Brown. 1 ' You are glad to see me, Mary V ' I am sorry yon ever went away.' • Are you so.' 1 The place is grown lonesome with none but old men and women ' It will soon be filled with better men than the Croppies. ' I misdoubt it, Bill ; and I liked it as it was.' t ' Sure, you are a loyal woman, Mary.' « Who doubts it, Bill ?' and her eyes blazed at him. ' I thought maybe — but the Croppies are beat.' c So I hear tell.' ' Who's been telling you ?' he asked, suspiciously. <■ Who but yourself, Bill " ' And maybe I did. Do you see that little bit of ribbon, Mary ?' and he pointed to the orange favour. ' Sure I'm not blind.' i ii t '\\ be making a rich man of me, Mary.' « Will it so V 1 Aye will it, for I've got my eye on a tidy little farm that s as good as promised to me. You know Murtagh's there beyond .'" ' Aye will it, for I ye got my eye on a tidy little farm that's as good as promised to me. You know Murtagh's there beyond .'' 1 Aye, I know it ; and where Is Murtagh ?' ' Dead, I think ; and if he's not, he soon will be.' The girl shuddered. 1 Then, maybe I'll be asking you a question, Mary, for such a fine farm will want a woman to look after it,' and be looked at the girl's fair face with a kindling eye. ' You'll give me an answer >' ' Aye will when my father comes back.' ' Sure I wouldn't ask it before ; and to think '—and he broke off with a laugh. ' What v 1 111 tell you, Mary, and you'll laugh when 1 do. One time I thought you had a liking for the Croppy dog, Martin O'Conuor. you now T and the girl turned away her face. ' Aye did I— and he a Papist, too, and you a good Protestant.' ' He was good at the wrestling.' The man's face grew dark for Martin had thrown him. ' He may have been, but we'll wnstle no more I'm thinking." ' Why so .'" ' He's dead, or soon will be. ' Where are you poing, Bill V ' Down to the \illage to see if there are any Croppy dogs in hiding.' 'Then it's wasting your time you are. •Maybe I am, and ho I'd better be going.' ' if you meet my father, tell him I'm lonesome for him.' ' Aye that I will. Mtiry. When night fell Mary took leave of lirr lover, and her heart cried a Godspeed after him a* she watched hi^ tall form disappear over the brow of the bill. That lv'glu '-he cried hers-elf to sleep for loneliness and because thtre warned to be no hope for her love in the Weeks parsed, and every day brought news of the insurgents' sufferings, a<> that, the country was filled with mourning. Through Mary's intervention, and because the was her father's daughter, Martin d father was spared and his f.irm lift him, for thry thought that Martin himself was d"ad. Of her own lather Mary beard nothing and was mu< h troubled, for h^ was a good father and loved her At last Bill Brown came to tell htr that he had been captured and k'lled by Holt's men, in the mountnins ; but she refused to believe it Neither would she give Bill the answer which she had promised when her father came back, albeit he importuned her 901:6 So weeks passed into months. General Holt had surrendered, and where they dared the insurgents returned to thi-ir homes, often only to be cut down by the Kings troops, in spite of the protection promised them by the Government. v ,«..,,•*■ One dark wintry night Mary sat alone by the fireside, listening to the sighing of the wind in the trees, and the rain ratthug on the window panes. Suddenly a light tapping was beard at the door. She got up and unbarred it cautiously then throwing it open bhe tell into her father's arms. Behind him stood another figure. 'The lad has saved my life, Mary,' f.aid the oh l man. 'So we must do our best to save his until the times are quiet, Why. what ails the friil " for Mary had burst out lauarhirg and weeping together at such great and unexpected joy. Then while the girl prepared supper for them the old man told how he and his comrades had been surrounded by a band of Holt's men and carried into the mountains. There they were kept prisoner*, ttaoueh kindly treated, until Martin joined them, arid procured their release ; but Mary s father fell ill trorn cold and exposure, and would have died but lor Martin's tender nursing. At this the girl fell on the young mans ne ° k ' We wili e save'him, father : for if he were to die, I should die, too, since I love him.'

' But he is a Papist.' ' His people shall be my people, and his God my God,' the girl answered. And so it was ; and if yon wish to hear more of Martin and Mary, you v, ill find it in Father Cahill's narrative of that happy time ; for it was Father Oahill that married them in his little church down in the village of Greenane. And though he does not say so, I think Mary's father went no longer to meetings, but to Mass with his son and daughter. — H. A. HINKSTON in the Wce/ord People.