The Storyteller,

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXVII, Issue 10, 8 March 1900, Page 23

The Storyteller,

THE STORY OF A RUIN.

This is a story told in prose, for want of the skill to tell it in verse.

Behind the ruins of a sheer cliff, crowned with a plume of pines . touching the feet of this cliff a broad dark 1 Jic with one dim islet resting on its waters ; in front, and beyond the lake, a shallow plaiu cut oft by a chain of \otly peaks , to the left, lo»v mountains ; to the right, a comb of ragged hills ; and over all the cool grey twilight of a summer night, spangled with the everlasting stars.

The lake of Inisard is a thousand feet above the level of the sea. It rests between the topmost spears of four converging systems of mountains. Its waters are always cold and still, and never vary an inch in height. No Btream feeds it, yet from the western angle there is a continuous outflow, both winter and summer. The people who dwell near the lake regard this circumstance with superstitious awe, and those who would explain the phenomenon out of the handbooks of science are at a loss to assign a situation to the reservoirs which feed it, for there are no higher mountains than those around it in a radius of twenty miles. The only path leading from the valley to Inisard is by the stream which falls from the western lip of the lake. Upon gaining the level of the lake the path bends slightly to the right, gradually narrows until it is no broader than a man's back, and finally, after going a hundred yard", expuids into an open piece of level ground. Along this path, and backing the open ground to which it leads, i 8i 8 a perpendicular cliff, varying in height from fifty to eighty feet. Thus, there is no means of gaining this patch of level land save by the narrow causeway under the cliff. Many centuries ago there stood upon this isolated patch a little cottage inhabited by Thomas Flynn. Thomas had a wife named Brigid, and a daughter Mary : and h^re the three dwelt happily and contentedly, holding slight intercourse with the world below Thomas wove baskets from willows growing upon the opposite shore of the lake. Occasionally strangers came to Ini.sard to enjoy the clear air and solitude of the lake. Thomas had a boat, and rowed the visitors hither and thither, and so in summer considerably supplemented the profits of his basket-making. His wife was well skilled in spinning aud knitting, and when Tom went wuh his baskets down the hills he always had some serviceable stockings and hanks of Btout yarn to sell too.

Now, it so happened that when strangers came down into the valley from Inisard the most vivid memory they brought with them was that of Mary Flynn. They said she was no great beauty, but only the sweetest mount lin maid eye ever saw. Her voice and her eyes seemed to haunt them continually, and when they advised their friends to climb the hills they always sjiid ' You ought to go and see Mary of Inisard,' not itnVard itself. So, as time went on. her name crept gradually down the mo antains until it spread over the \ alley, and roach' d the village of Kilfa'ie.

From the wllige of Kilfane to the top of Inisard, and as far a« the rye could see from the heights above the lake, lay the land of O'Neil. The district was always spjken of by those who lived in it as ' O'Neil's countiy,' At the liuie this sNryopms the lord of the va9t tract was away in foreign hinds, and he hid left during his absence full power with Timothy Da\in, O'Xeil was not more than three-and-twenry. His father had died but a year before. Davin had acted under the former O'Xeil. He was still short of 'M) years old. Davin. in the absence or O'Xeil, liv«.d ia Kilfane Castle, hard by the village ot Kilfane.

The fame of Mary's loveliness in time came to the ears of Davin. Hi.s curiosity was exiiied, and one bright, clear, hearty spring day he climbed the mount lins and called upon Tom. The ba-kei-imiker showed all due hospitality and respect to the representative of the- gi eat O'Xeil. He entertained him as best he could. He rowed him all o\er the lake in his boat, and set before him the best of the simple fare his ottage afforded. Tom's wife let no opportunity slip of trying to do honour to their guent, and Mary moved hither and thither, and waited upon them, to the music of her own laughter and the rhythm of her simple pongs ; for she, like the bird*, sing sweetly ; not with diffidence, not as an art, but as a natural expression of h-r varying moods. The visitor was fascinated. He had never before sera anything like this simple maiden of the lake. Her pure, unconscious blue eyes, her clear, sympathetic voice, her simple grace subdued and elevated him. He ha 1 ben in the great city, ,r>o, r >o miles from Kilfane ; he had travelled through the valley below, and never felt so touched before. Ho talked of getting *Tom a better place — perhaps land down below. He asked her if she would not like to

live in Kilfane. But she raid no. She loved to be near the blue sky and the blue lake and the purple heather. The day wore into evening and the evening into night. He could not leave the place. He told Tom «hould stay till morning. Tom was overj >yed, for the lnendly Jioticc of the deputy meant good to him. The ua-ket-weavor s.iid that as the cott ige was very small he should himself sleep in a shed without and srive up his little room to Davin. Hut the other woald nothearof such a thing, and, when Tom pressed, declared that he would rather start for

Kilfane, lat» as it was, than disturb a member of the family ; so the visitor was accommodated in the shed, and had for a couch a bundle of dry aromatic rushes. He was not a man accustomed to endure disappointment or delay. His temper was violent and his nature undisciplined. He was prosperous, and far übove the poor basket-maker in social position. He could make or mar the fortunes of anyone on O'Neil'e land. Before he rose the next morning he had sworn to himself

that he would make Mary his wife. His passions were headlong* and tempestuous, and those who knew him well had often seen that once he set an object before his eye 3he did not allow an ordinary obstacle to bar the way.

He slept badly, and day was just dawning when he rose. He went forth, and paced up and down the little patch of level land. As the day broadened in the east, the plover began to cry to one another, and the crows Bailed over the pines above his head, cawing and wheeling before drifting down through the blue air to seek food in the valley.

They were early risers in thp cottage, and before the sun had climbed above the rusrged hills to the right he heard sounds indicating that the family of th** bipket-maker were astir. Presently he paused, threw up his head, and listened eagerly. Mary waa humming some old tune. In a little while the humming ceased, and she sang in a clear, soft voice, which seemed like the hymn of early day, breathed by the morning wind to the purpl9 heath.

When the song was finished, Davin stood a while pondering. Then he muttered in a tone of dissatisfaction : ' Only a song she picked up somewhere. Yet,' he added, after another little while, •it is wonderfully true of her position."

That day wore away into evening, and Davin signified hia intention of using the bed of rushes in the shed a second time. Upon the third day he called the old man aside and spoke to him. He told him that he was rich. He had a house upon O'Neil's demesne —there was no farmer on the whole lands of Kilfane as well off aa he. Mary was a poor, portionless girl He could have the daughter of any man on the lands, with a dowry of cattle, and sheep, and money, too ; but he coul 1 afford to choose, and his choice was Mary.

Flynn was overwhelmed with astonishment. If the O'Neil himself had come and asked for the girl he could scarcely have been more atnaz-d. After some talk, Flynn said he would consult with his wife and speak to his daughter.

The basket-maker moved away, leaving Davin wondering what need there could be for consultation or reflection, when he had made such an offer. There was not a father in all the valley would not eagerly embrace his proposal. Davin never thought at all of Mary herself in the matter. Her compliance was a matter of course. What girl could resist the fascinations of his figure, the allurements of his position ? Ho walked up and down for some minutes nursing the ill-humour born of Flynn's deliberate manner of treating hia contemplated sacrifice. As time went on his ill humour changed to anger, and when, at the end of half an hour, the basket-maker did not appear, his anger rose to rage. He was not accustomed to delay or denial ; how dare this low pauper hesitate ? How dare he keep him waiting? His steps grew hasty, hia eyes flashed; he waa already half regretting the act which had subjeoted him to the indignity of allowing consideration for anyone or anything to come between him and his object. ' Why did I speak to that old fool at all ? ' he exclaimed, angrily stamping the grass. • Why did I not speak to the girl herself / She would have taken no time for consideration.' He surveyed the reflection of himself in the placid lake.

As he stood there the door of the cottage opened, and the father came forth and approached the deputy with bent head, apprehensive glance, and uncertain steps. Dawn turned sharply as Flynn drew near. ' Well,' he demanded, savngely. Flynn started as he began ' I have spoken t > my wife.' ' Well.' reiterated the other, harshly. ' And, Mr. Davin, she said what I say, that your offer is an honour — an honour which we could neither deserve nor look for.'

• Well ' "

The tone was as brutal as ever

1 But ' He paused, horrified by the expression which passed across the man's face. ' But, Mary — Mr. Davin — you musn't mind.' ' (lo on, you idiot. What did she say ? ' ' You niui'ii't mm.l her, bir ; she's very young, and young girls — '

' Are you going to stand preaching there all day 1 Do you think I'm here to listen to you until sundown? Out with it, I say or I won't answer for keeping my hands off you.' He turned white and shook his fi->t in the old man's face. ' She says she'll never marry, Mr. Davin.' 1 Did you tell her it was I—l,I — I, Timothy Davin, asked her 1 ' He was livid now. ' Yes." The old man trembled with fear. ' Then as sure as that sun is shining on yuur cottage, it will shine through the roof before the year is out.'

Davin had the power to make his throat good — and he used it. During the absence of O'Neill there was no one to dispute his will or question his acts. He ruled absolutely over the land of Kilfane. The lord of the soil was not expected back for months, so there was plenty of time to look for a pretext. Althongh Davin exercised full control he did not like to do any act which might possibly give rise tf> fin unpli'i-'ant inquiry hereafter ; consequently he sought for an excuse, good or bad. Failing, after every search, to discover anything, he b'ca-r.e solicitous about the game upon the hills It was badly preserved. Birds and hares — aye, and deer — were continually destroyed by idle vagabonds and professional poachers. It was absolutely necessary, in the interest of his master, that this state of things should be remedied Some one should be appointed to preserve the giime. The keeper's house ought to be in a good central position. What better situation could be selected than Inisard ? Of course there was only one house in the district, but, much as it went against his feelings, he found it incumbent upon him to give Flynn warning, in order that he might install the gamekeeper in the cottage.

Such was the explanation given by him to the people with whom he spoke. At that time game was taken small heed of, and

upland game was comparatively disregarded The people heard him in silence. He was too powerful and arbitrary to permit expostulition or suggestion. In time, when tho st >ry of his prop »-al got abroad, the people paw through the whol" scheme, but held their peace. The act only went to sho v how dangerous it wo aid bo to cross puch a man as Timothy Davin.

Two months after Pavin's visit to the eo'tage. word came to Flynn tha" he should be out of tho pi u-.e by the 1 Ith of December. The deputy was too cunning to display vindictive haste. He wanted to acoomp'ish his object without needless rsk Ho wanttd to ruin tho basket-m iker without- injuring himself. Like most bullies, he svaw v e.o.\,ii\] ; I' l -" ">^r tyrant*, he '.trove to avoid acquiring the name of one. fie g i.ye a long day, but he select d a season when the family of ;hr U"b 1 j'py Flynn would feel hi-i cruelty the most keenly. 'They will take the"]a«t day,' he calculated. ' They will not stir from the old lvarth until they are forced, and when at length they hive no choice bat to go, they will find snow upon the mountain", and maybe a grave before tVy reach the valley.'

In the meantime, he let f.ill certain apparently careless win'", which had tho force of law in Kilfane 'I hope,' he '•ail to Hugh G-arrett, ' that Flynn won't try to Kettle on any other pait ,->f O N\ ll h land, for he is an idle, good-for-nothing fellow, and anyone tha*would be such a fool a? to give hitn or hi* family a nighCs lo Iging would be only keeping a pest on the land '

The people grew afraid even to mention Flynn's n.ime ; for it never was spoken in his presence that the swarthy face of the deputy did not flu«h, and a certain angry fi isli (iart I'iora hi-, eyes. As the winter drew nigh, the heart of the basket-maker sank within him He had tried, over and over again, to liud pocne little cottage or cabin into which he might creep when the day of departure arrived. He was in despair as the winter approached. He felt too old and too heartbroken to think of adventuring into the distant city, and every door in Kilfane seemed shut against him. One hope buoyed him up. Perhaps, after all, Davin would not persist, lie might be moved by entreaties He might, at the last moment, relent. Surely when he heard that no cottage, no roof, no shelter could be found in Kilfane, he would not carry out his cruel throat.

Towards the end of November another sorrow was added to his burden. His wife fell ill. Day after day she sank under the malign influence of a wasting disease. At first she had only to give up going to Kilfane for the few necessities required by the cottage — now she was barely able to cross from one side of the room to. the other. When December came whe could no longer rise , and all through the long, bleak days and the cold, dreary nights Mary sat by her ministering to her — now singing softly some smoothing, simple song, not bathing the aching head, now moistening the feeble, bloodle a s lips.

As the dreaded I.lth approached, the baskctimker felt his hope revive. Nothing direct or indirect had come from 1) ivin to show that he intended carrying out his throat. Mr-*. Flynn was slowly sinking. Upon the morning of the 1 *>th «he could not raise her hand to her head. It v\as bitterly cdl. Overhead. b!a"k snowclouds hung in sullen, ominous masses. Below, a taint, bitter north wind rustled in the frozen heath. There was a thin skin of i,- e upon the lake. Towar is noon gentle, feathery fl ikes of snow beg -n to fall silently and s< ftly All within the cottage wns mlliu, '1 he old man sat opposite the bed upon which hi« dying wife l.ij , M iry had fallen asd»ep on the stool by the turf fite. 'lh<ie was no sound abroad, save the low, bitter whisper of the wind in the brittle heather.

1 They will not ccune to-d i_v,' said the oid man to him=< If, for the snow, the first wiow of the year, is tailing, and no one aouUI face these hills in a 11.'

Mrs. Flynn seemul u<ior, She clo-ed her eyes in -deep, llcr husband ro<*e, and, u iJ ing to the fire, bru-hed away the ashe-< and drew the turf together. ' They won't come to-d.iy.' be repeated. taking comfort of the thought, and sitting opposite his sleeping daughter. They had been awake all night with the s'lffeiing woman.

In an hour the wind bad fallen. ar,d no sound broke the solitude of the mountain height^. The snow had ceat-ei, but still overhead hung the dark clouds. The blue s.ty was n uvhere vi-ib'e, and the whole scene had that hideous, unnatural appearance observed when the light appears to come from the earth and not the »ky. Almost another hour pasged before the stillness was broken; then voices could have been heard from the cottage ; and presently the figures of three men ewived from the dip m the glen, and took the narrow pathway to the house. They knocked und entered without speaking. Davin had kept his word. Let us from the out-*i<*e see what followed th<; entrance of the three men.

After the lapse of hilf an hour old Flynn, assisted by the three men, appeared, carrying a low b dstead, upon whi -h lay a figure, concealed under covering. Thoy bore their harden into the shed at the side of the house. Tnen the four, assisted by 51 jry, prccci ded to remove all the furniture of the cottage into the shed When this was done one of the men climbed to the roof of the cott i;. c. tied a rope to a rafter, and descended. p lhe three men then palled with all their might at the rope, until the root shook, tottered, and finally collapsed within the four bare walls.

As the roof fell, old Flyun appeared fioni the f-hed, a^d threw up his hands towards Heaven with a gesture of despair. Tue three men turned, and moved away along the narrow causeway by tht lake's ■ ide. The basket-maker sat down ou a low wall and buried his f*ce in his hands. The men had not walked more than half the length of the causeway when one of them stopped and beckoneu the other two to halt. They stood a moment speaking together; then each man put hia hand into hi-< pocket and drew forth something. The man who had beckoned them to .stop opened his hand, and the others each placed homething in it. Then he went back to

where old Flynn bent over him, and slipped what he held in his hand into the hand of the basket-maker. The latter rose to hia feet ; but the man pushed him into a sitting posture again, patted him on the back, and ran back to his companions. In a moment the- three strangers disappeared.

The old man «at in the gathering twilight, with his face turned towards the ruins of his old home Half an hour more passed. Now Mary camp out of the shed, and, going to her father, sat down beside him and drew his head to her and rested it upon her shoulder, and smoothed his grey hair->, and kissed his wrinkled forehead, and soothed his cold, hard h^inds with her own. After a while the two ro=e and re-entered the bhed, she still clinging to uun. xv 1 Mi h ip iitl.ig hi:;:, and firming his oold. worn hands. Then in a little while it was night. Abroal lay the thin sheet of snow, la^unl ami torn he" rrnd rh^rp where large masses touched the wind. Above, upon the dark, rode the portentous clouds at anchor, like huge ships of battle awaiting the signal to de-troy. The giant lull*, cons ious of their strength, slept and took no care. As the night deepened the little stream at the western end of Ihe lake t >ok courage, and began whispering timidly in the sulky shadows of the overhanging rocks and stones. No light, save the hat -fill liw grouodlight of the snow; no sound but the murmur of the little fearful stream ; no hope on earth. But, beyond the embattled clouds, beyond the glittering concave of the stars, beyond the realms of the remotest sun, Hope — the hope of simple faith.

Tt was Christmas Eve in Kilfane. Over all the landscape spread a thick sheet of snow. In the lowland it was three feet thick ; on the windward side of the hills it was thin and frozen ; but to leeward, and in the glens and gorges, it lay in vast billows, reaching half-way up to the feathery plumes of the pinea. But the courtyard of Kilfane Cattle was clear of snow, and full of men. Huge fires were kindled here and there, and the followers of O'Neil wandered hith«r and thither. Lights flamed in the halls and nickered through corridors, for the young Lord of Kilfane had come back to his own from foreign lands ; and those who loved hitn had gathered to give him welcome, and wish him a happy Christmas under his own roof.

The O'Neil sat in the great hall. At his feet slept three huge hounds. Around him thronged the chief m^n of Kilfane. Behind him the florid face of Davin, the deputy, shone against the dark. Upon the right of O'Xeil «at a bent, venerable-looking man, the priest of Kilfane ; his hand shook with the palsy, and his grey hair trembled when it moved.

As the night wore on and the festivity deepened, O'Neil came down from the dais and mingled freely with those in the hall. As soon as the singing and dancing commenced the Lord of Kilfane moved to where the obi prie«t was placed, and. sitting down beside tho old man, entered into conversation with him. They had not been long talking when a marled change came over the face of O'Xeil. Suddenly the smile left his face, and was succeeded by a Hu-ih. Then his brow contracted, and he darted an antrry glance at I'.ivin. In a few moments he sprang hastily to his feet, and, making a gesture to the harper to stop, motioned all the men in the h ill around to approach. He spoke to the men for a few minutes. At first they Miiiled and wa\ei their hands, but as he went on cluvr rose upon cheer, u.itil the li;ht3 of the torches nickered, and great clanging echoes gathered behind the brazen shields which hung upon the walls. l T pon the first shout of joy and approval l>a\m sit tank away lrom the place like an evil spirit that hears the cock crow before it is light.

O'Xeil had n > Mjoii' r fi i^hed speaking than the cattle hall be. arae a scene ot the mo-t tumultuous confusion of preparation. Lrters and torches and i opes were brought and piled up in the cmrty ml. Men shouldered shovels ami long poles, and slung ■sheave s of torches over their .shoulders. Bottles of wine and u-quebaugh were wound into a thick bundle of warm woollen wrapper-*. It was dose upon nine o'clock when the men thrust their torches into the wood fires in the courtyard, and headed by th^ 0 Neil, carrying a coil of rope and a long pole, marched quickly, m a long line, towards the snow-clad hills of Inisard.

The chill dawn of Christmas Day had come into the east before 0 Xeil and his followers returned from the hills. Two litters were borne on the shoulders of some- of the men, and the faces of all were sad. The Lord of lvlfane walked beside one of the litters, and now and then i ti was lowered for a moment. All anxiety was evidently respeiting the burden of the second, for the men only altered their position when ir change 1 bearers. Full daylight filled the gnat hall of Kilfane Castle as the bearers laid down the litters and turned to have.

The covering was removed from the one by which O'Neil walked, and there, emaciated and pale, seeming almost dead, lay the young girl. She was only half conscious, her eyes were wide open, her hands clapped.

They had found the daughter and the body of the mother in the shed It was afterwards learned, when Mary recovered, that the basketmaker had attempted to cross the ice of the lake through the snow, and, as his body was never found, the supposition prev.ii'ed 'hut he had peri^h»d in tho attempt, and that upon the breaking up of tho frost his body bank into the mysterious depths of the lake.

It was May before Mary had fully recovered" from the effects of that dreadful December time. She hid from the night of her rescue remained at the castle. O'Neil said that all he could do should be done to wipe out the crirue his dtputy had done in his name. lie had placed her under the charge ot the aged priest who had fust told him of her peiil. He had given orders that she should be treated with the utmost consideration. He had considered it first a duty, then a privilege, and finally a delight to visit her daily ; und before the cowslips were yellow in the meadows the sweet, pale face, and the large, gentle eyes, and the tender, clinging voice haunted him day and night, and the Lord of Kilfane proved

no stronger than his deputy, though he possessed the wider experience.

One evening in June, as O'Neil was walking in the fields around the castle he came upon Mary. Her back waa turned towards him as he approached. Her old habit of singing to herself had returned with health, and she was humming in a low Toice.

He called her name softly, and went to her and took her hand. All through the changing twilight till the dusk they wandered in the fields. As he told her his story her face grew sad, and the words she ppoke were tender and soothing. He showed her the lauds oC Kilfanc , he pointed out the castle ; he told her of hia love All, all were hers. Would she not, could Bhe not say that perhaps in a month, •* year, her mind might change ? Why had she, so young, so lovely, resolved never to marry ?

It was dark when they returned. That very night the Lord of Kilfane left his own home for foreign lands once more and never returned again.

She kept the vow she had made by the shores of Inisard, and before the winter came entered the convent in the city, 50 miles away from Kilfane.

In time word came from O'Neil, and builders were set to work upon the narrow strip of flat ground by the lake, and by-and-by a stately pile rose in the shadow of the cliff. When it was finished a letter came all the way from Rome for one of thegood nuns in the city. He did not know what name she had taken ; but this house and the townland of Gaulteer were a Christmas gift from the Lord of Kilfane to her who had been known as Mary of Inisard.

When 50 summers more had burned, and 30 winters bleached the heather heights, the first la^y superior of the Convent of Inisard was laid to rest by the shore of the quiet lake where she had first opened her eyes, where she had learned to look up towards the blue skies and the stars for comfort and peace, rather than down into the fretful valley beneath.

The ruins of the convent still remain, but there is no means of determining where she lies buried. The people say it is in the little angle by the rock, the only place where the violets blow, the last spot upon which the sunset lingers. — R. Dowling in Catholic Opinion,