The Storyteller,

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXVIII, Issue 50, 13 December 1900, Page 23

The Storyteller,

MOLLY MERLIN.

Mt old friend Father John Manby had been some years stationed at the mission of Canriih. It i e a quaint little town, with an old ruined castle, and stands high above the valley, with a grand view of the mountains not far off. The air is bracing, and the spot is fnll of sunshine. Even when the storm rages on the hills and mountains ouuie few miles away, the ran shine" at Cnnrit-h Father Manby wrote to say that he wanted to go south on business, and if I would tako a Sunday for him, he could «npp]y for me, and the arrangement would be profitable to both of us. He knew I didn't mind the winter in the country, and so I arranged to go. I thought I should not find much to do, but there are lovely walkß in the neighborhood, and I had before experienced the good effects of the fresh keen breezes of the winter time in that mountain district. It waa early in January. I knew the locality well, and many of the good simple Catholic country folk recognised me, and heartily welcomed me as I called at their cottages on my daily -walks. 'Did your reverenoe hear that old Molly Merlin, up along Wimblewood valley, over the fells, near the cairn, was veiy ill /' said a man to me, one morning soon after my arrival. ' Yes ; Father Manby told me he had seen her before he left, and I intended going over to see her to-morrow.' 'I saw her to-day,' replied the man, 'and although she was about she seemed not so well, and said that if I saw the priest would I tell him she would like to see him as soon as he could go.' That settled the question. I had determined to go the next morning directly after my breakfast ; but I now changed my rniud and thought it would be best to go at once. I returned tq, the presbytery, and after my early dinner set out to administer the last Sacraments to the good woman. The cottage by the oairn was a long way up Wimblewood Valley, and four or five miles from the presbytery. For some distance the road waß sheltered and pleasant, but when the fella were reached and the valley opened out it became more open and exposed. It was one of those peculiarly raw winter days that one meets occasionally in the north. There was a grey sky, but at times the sun shone and there were strong gusts of wind. As I turned up the desolate and bleak part of the valley I passed the last cottage, some two miles from the cairn near which Molly Merlin's cottage stood. At the best of times this place wan very dreary and desolate, and the wind came sweeping down dismally and keenly. The old man who dwelt there was standing at the door and looking up the valley. ' Be going to see the old woman up by the cairn '' he asked. I told him such was my object. ' I'm afeared, sir, you'll have a naaty walk. I don't like the look of the weather ; it's beating up for a big scow storm I think ' I began to think so too. As I pushed along, the wind howled down the hills and through the valley, sending at times the frozen sleet cutting mto my face. Then the dark clouds came over, and snow and hail were driven along by the angry wind. I crept along under what shelter I could find, but it was hard work. I shall never forget the last mile. The snow came in gusts like a blizzard, and beveral times I had to crouch under some protecting boulder of rock or low bußh to protect myself from the biting blast. I was fairly beaten at times, and wondered should I ever reach the cottage. My breath was knocked out of me by the cruel pelting storm, and I felt that I must give up. I never knew bow I managed to get to the end of that journey. It was one of the most terrible experiences I have ever had in the whole of my missionary career. I found out afterwards that those two last miles had taken me more than an hour to accomplish. Faint, weary, and with my strength fairly beaten out of me, I at length reached the cottage. I placed my hand on the latch ; the wind swung the door open and dashed me into the room. When I had shut the door and sufficiently recovered myself I looked round. It was a neat little room, with white-washed walls and ceiling. There was not much furniture— a little deal table and a couple of chairs. In a kind of a rude arm-chair, seated by a fire of blazing turf and wood, was the object of my journey. Mis Molly Merlin was a fine old woman of nearly eighty years. £jhem»st have been very beautiful as a young woman, for her face aid Matures still bore traces of their former comeliness. Her hair was as white as the snow on the hillside. She raised herself to her feet and lifting her hand cried out in astonishment, ' Ah. Father dear, how could you come out on such a cruel afternoon ? God and His blesaed Mother and all the Saints protect you as they have done in this dreadful storm.' I then explained to her that I had heard how ill she was, and that I did not like to put off my visit. ' But,' I exclaimed, ' I thought to find you in bed.' ' Well, Father dear,' she replied, ' it was so cold, and I was able just to get about, so I thought I'd better be near to the fire, where I oould keep it alight, and get a little warmth into my poor old frame.' I then told her of the real object of my visit/which was to prepare her for the reception of the last Sacraments. Never shall I forget the good soul's gratitude. She had prayed, she said, that she might reoeive the great blessing of the last rites of Holy Church : that she might not pass away without the holy annointing and the last blessing. • Father, all through the terrible storm thia afternoon something seemed to be saying to me : ' Molly, your end is coming, and jour soul will go on the storm-cloud into the great world beyond

h Z£Z P^°r n , anaw « in «f : ' No » I'w prayed for the priert to be with me, and I know God will answer my poor prayers : I shan't die till my good Father has seen men." And so I hoped-nmd wa « '„ ?d,? d , yoa are praised be God's holy Name.' Molly told me where to find the blessed candles and the holy water and a clean white doth, and there vat a little vaie with some I v£T n h^ at^ er - whioh some of her far-off neighbors had brought her. So I made a little decent altar for the repose of the t,'rr!h?p?T fc - J * h . enßatdowa for a while « «* wrted^ter the terrible fatigue of the journey. i-**i ' Fafch « r ' before you attend to me, you'll find some coffee in that little cupboard, and perhaps you'll be able to help me to make™ cup You must need it badly— or something : there's a little bottle with some brandy in it whicti Father Manby brought, as the doctor said I should i have some. Anyhow you'll see what there is in the cupboar-1. God help us, what an awful atorm it is I' said Molly, as Sisi&rSis^yss&r 4 *• doot •* u " waSo " I found a little coffee-pot and the requisites, and soon vna regaling myself with a steaming and comforting cup of ooSe! leeling quite refreshed and perfectly warm, and having satisfied the z^:dXn g A:i^z^ a r^ d to ?«—? «— ardeS t 3*fiS*&Bk £ of the Divine Master's word*-' I confess to Thee, O Father, because h 2^ l 8 rom the ™"* prUnt -*- ~ And while the good old faithful child of the Church made her thanksinvmg to the Divine Guest, and poured out her soul in grateful prayer I tookout my Breviary and recited a portion of my office. abated fu°ry VeUre St ° rm ' Whi ° h ™ ***** th iff! 180 , 0 . 11 for^° r t I . the . Bfcorm outside, and the poverty within that little cottage. The time passed quickly. I busied in/self in reader? ing what assistance I could to that saintly old woman. lam not a bad hand at making a cup of tea or, at a push, at preparing a meal ; so finding a not badly stored cupboard, I manLedtolet wfthiJJ * & V6ry iUVitiDg U " le repMt ' which IsharS She was very weak, but full of animation. She reminded me of former visit* 1 had made to her cottage with Father Manby ; and IT^XiTZZ^oZ? her grandau * hter ' whom l ** The old woman's eyes were dimmed with tears as she laid father, her a is a sad etory ; shall I tell it to you ?' At my request she informed me that she herself had been left with an only child who married a soldier. The husband of her daughter had died in India, leaving his wife with an infant. When this child was seven years old her mother died. The good Molly theu took charge of her grandchild, whose name was Kate Penton It was, she explained, but a poor life for the child. She herself had lived in the old cottage from the days of her own widowhood, and her life had been passed in the shadow of those moantains — Kat* grew up a fine, strong, handsome girl : but she was headstrong and wayward. She had a knack~a very unhappy one— of quarelling with all who wished to do her good. She imagined all were against her ; and her proud spirit often resented evenaots of kindness. She was continually getting herself into scrapes. When she was lo she left her grandmother's cottage, and nothing was heard of her for a year, when she returned quite suddenly. She had obtained a situation at a distance, but left it in a fit of temper and had gone back to the cottage near the oairn. She knew, she paid, that granny would forgive her, and that she would find the door open. 'And,' added the good woman, < Bhe was right— the door was always on the latch. I never locked it, for as I told Her when she asked tne why : "Darling," I said, "I knew you'd come back : but if you'd found the door locked you might hare tamed back and never come home 1" ' Kate stayed with her grandmother for more than two yearn and then she went away again. Her wayward, aotive spirit oould not rest ; ehe found no scope for her energetic nature in those wild and rustic scenes. Her grandmother had heard from her onoe or twice from London, and she had sent money, but she would not give an address, and so she oould not be communicated with. In fact she had sent her money some ooaple of months back, and this had enabled the good woman to lire in some degree of comfort but, she added, -it is five years since she left me, and she'll be about 2.S nuw. Ah, how I would wish to see her before I die I to know that she is happy and well and keeping good. You remember when she was with me the last time, you saw her, Father, and irave her a mtdal of Our Lady. She always wore it, and took it away with her You, she said, were alwaya kind with her : and you never scolded her for being naughty. She only knew you when you ca-i.^ down here ; but somehow she often spoke about you fco-iu- •) «y. perhaps, when she hears that her old granny is dead she may c.,im- to fee, you. I know you'll be kind to her, for she was not and is not, I'm sure, a bad and wicked girl. But sometimes Iye thought— yeo, often and often I've thought—and prayed that I might see her before I die. God has been good to me— oh Iso good and perhaps He may grant me this one more great favor in this life' to see my darling Katie's face once more.' ' I could not chide the good woman for this fancy : but I felt she was nearer the end of her long, quiet good life than she herself expeeteJ. I said some little prayers with her, and then prevailed upon her to retire to rest. 'It is impossible,' I said, ' for me to return to-night : the storm is still raging, I must remain here till daylight. I will stop by the fire and watch. To-morrow I can send up someone to look after yoa, for you must not be left alone.' When I had seen that she waa comfortably resting, and had supplied her with some warm beverage, I settled myself down to a comfortable rest m the old woman's quaint armchair 1 had piled

up the turf and wood on the fire, and the little room was warm and ooey. Before composing myself I had glanced out into the night. It was still snowing, and the wind was blowing, but not so furiously as it had before. I greatly hoped that before the morning broke the storm would have passed. Then I began to review the past history of old Molly Merlin and her grand-child, Kate Penton. What had happened to the girl ? No longer a girl, but a fine young woman ; and in the great, cruel, wicked metropolis, the huge city of evil, alone and friendless. If she were not afraid of me, why had she not Bought me out ? She evidently was not badly off, or she could not have forwarded the »uma of money mentioned by her grandmother. But why should she not have given more information ? She was, I knew, wayward and headstrong. Had she drifted into wicked ways of the sinful city ? How could she be saved ? I had fonnd on the shelf a well-worn edition of the beautiful story of Fabiola, and I interested myself in its contents. The time passed. At length, what with reading and musing, I began to feel sleepy ; so I looked to the fire, turned down the lamp, and dozed. How long I had been sleeping I know not. I woke with a ■tart. The fire had burnt low, and there was a cold keen blast of air in the room. The door was open, and in the open doorway stood the figure of a woman. A shawl was thrown over her head, and her drees was hidden by her waterproof, but shawl and waterproof were covered with snow. I speedily roused myself. Placing my finger on my lips, and pointing to the room in which the sick woman was resting, I motioned to my strange visitor to close the door and to be silent. I then turned up the lamp. In a whisper of suspense the stranger said : ' What, Father Cuthbert I are you here ? And where and how is is my granny V Yes, it was no other than Kate Penton herself. 1 Sit down,' I said, ' and I will tell you all ; but first you must let me know how you have come here on this awful night, and by means you reached the cottage. I will first see that our dear old patient is quite comfortable.' I passed into the little bedroom, and found Molly Merlin sleeping peacefully. ' Now,' I said, ' before you begin your story, you mußt haye 1 some refreshment, after your buffeting with the storm.' The kettle was handy, and it did not take long for the young woman to provide herself and me with a well made cup of tea. I had prided myself some hours previously on my operations ; but the quiet, noiseless and speedy way in which Kate Penton set to work quite startled me. She had put aside her shawl, her waterproof and her goloshes, and stood attired in the travelling dress of a lady, and a line, tall, handsome lady she was. ' Now, Father,' she said, ' I will tell you how I got here. Somehow or other I couldn't rest in London. I felt I must come back to the old cottage by the cairn, and see granny once more. So I came on to Canrith. There I got a trap and intended to drive up the valley to granny's cottage, but when I got to the last cottage, about two miles from here, the coachman refused to go a step further. The storm was then beginning to rage in all its fury. So he put up his horse and trap in an old disused cowshed and Ptable, and we took Bhelter in the cottage. The old cottager told me that the priest had gone on some time before to see Molly Merlin. That is why I wasn't surprised to see you, The old man only wondered how you could have faced t*o terrific a storm. 'It was impossible to proceed at once, I waited. I've known many a terrible snowstorm in these parts, but I think I have never witnessed anything like this present one. How you ever reached the cottage I can't imagine. And so I waited, and waited, and the hours were so long, so dreary, so terrible, the suspense so great that at last, when there came a lull, I determined to face the fury of the night and battle my way to to the old cottage. What if I should not find granny living 1 It was only two miles and I knew every foot of the way, and co I set out. I came on, and am, thank God ! here.' • I think,' I said, ' I hear your good granny calling, so I'll just Blip in and see what she wants.' Yes the good woman was awake, and gently I broke to her the jjlad tidings of the wanderer's return. 4 Ah,' she exclaimed. ' How can I sufficiently thank God for this great favor and blessing ! Now, indeed, I shall die happy. Bring her to me, dear Father I ' She was in a very exhausted Btate and very weak ; so I bade her be as calm as she could. The happy meeting of the aged woman and her grandchild I shall not attempt to describe. I left them together for some time and returned to the fireside, where I sat muring over the Providence that had so wonderfully arranged all the strange incidents of that night. At length I was roueed to consciousness of my surroundings by a gentle hand placed on my shoulder. It was Kate Penton. Tears were in her eyes and on her check. She ppoke in a broken voice. Her granny was worse : she wished to see me. When I came to the bedside I saw that the end wai not far distant. Poor old Molly Merlin had nearly finished her long life journey. Her voice was weak, and Hhe spoke in a broken whisper. She begged me to read the prayers for the dying, and to pray for her happy death. Full of beautiful Bentiinents of ardent gratitude to God for all his mercies, she commended herself and her granddaughter to the fostering care of her gentle Saviour. 'Don't fret, Katie darling.' phe whispered, 'Father Cuthbert will be always a kind friend and father to you ; and I know you'll keep the promises you have made to me. God ever bless you ! ' We watched and prayed. As the dawn came, a faint light lit up the dying woman's face, a sweet smile flickered on her countenance, a sigh parted from her lips. All was still. The merciful angel of death had taken to her eternal home the soul

of the faithful old Catholic. The morning light broke over the old cottage by the cairn, and shone on the placid features of the dead. In that place, made sacred by the presence of the dear departed one, Katie told me the history of her life in London. fc*he had a good voice and a fine figure, she was fond of singing and of dancing, and so she soon found her way to the Music Hall stage. • Oh, Father,' she said, ' it was terrible work in the beginning, struggling for existence, but I struggled and kept myself straight ; and I succeeded in the profession. But in the midst of all my temptations I thank God I never drifted into a sinful life. I never dragged my womanhood in the mire. My Mother Mary has saved me from that. \ou know this medal, don't you, Father Cuthbert ? It is the one you gave me when you were once on a visit here. I've kept it ever since, and 1 hope I shall wear it all my life. You see,' she added, ' I wear it now not on a piece of ribbon, but on a golden chain. I bought that chain as soon as I could afford it. The medal deserves all the honor thai I can give it. Again and again, in trial and trouble, I've looked at it, I've kissed it, I've treasured it. At times I've almost tired of life ; and when I've left the music hall I've strolled down, in the Bilent hours, to the dark river that runs through the gay wicked city, and have thought how manj sad lives ita murky waters have ended. But I've clutched my medal, and it has stood between me and temptation and despair. My sweet Mother Mary, whom granny taught me as a child to love, she has saved me. 'I've been, I know, a giddy, foolish, wayward, worldly girl. I've been spoilt and petted. My life has been full of flattery and gaiety. I remember once I accepted an invitation to supper. Somehow or other my medal was hanging exposed. The brute who was entertaining me passed a blasphemous remark. My blood was up ; he had insulted one most dear to me, for whose sake I'd forfeit all. I dashed the champagne I was drinking into the wretch's face ; I struck him with the glass and cut his sleek handsome coward face. They knew me then; they respected the lone girl; they knew they could not insult me with impunity. ' See, then, Father, what I owe to my heavenly Mother. Somehow or other she has kept me straight. She — and — and the good dear old granny who has gone to her eternal bleßsed reward. I know I've been wild and haven't kept to my religion, but generally I've been to Mass, and I have never forgotten a little prayer and my trust in God's holy Mother. I don't deserve all the blessings and favors I've had, but I thank God for them ; I realise them all now as I never did before. I've promised the dead to lead a better life, to mend my ways. It's never too late to begin again, and bo I promise God to serve Him better.' * • * Time went on. Kate Penton kept her word. She gave up the life which had been full of temptation and where the struggle for virtue was hard, and in time became a trained nurse in one of the great hospitals in London. She edified all by her quiet practice of her holy religion. The other day she wrote to me to ask my prayers. She was leaving England with the Army Nursing Sisters for service with the South African Field Force. — Rev. LANOTON G. Vere, in the C.T.S. Series.