The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXII, Issue 4, 28 January 1904, Page 23

The Storyteller

FATHER BANNON'S UMBRELLA

Things might have arranged themselves better if Sabina Murphy's father had been less anxious for his daughter's union with Cornelius O'Donovan ;if Cornelius's mother had looked less wistful whenever she saw the young couple together. Sabina's farm joined Corney's. Both farms were much of a size and in tho Eink of condition. They were unimportant taken separaely ; joined together, none could look for a prettier farm, and people' were as fond of the land in the 30 's in Ireland as they are to-day. But the resolute intention of relatives and friends to force the young people together only succeeded in defeating its own ends. Sibbie, as all the world called her, was something of a spoiled child — a beauty, an heiress, her father's darling. She had only to send a glance from under her long black eyelashes at any swain of them all to bring him to her side. Corney, on the other hand, was, from his own point of view, nothing; at all of a match for her. He had the soft, rugged, melancholy looks which often belong to the Celt and are as appealing to the sensitive as the sadness of animals. Ari^artist would have found Corney beautiful. To his own class he made no appeal' at all. He was heavy, clumsy, dark, his features shapeless, his limbs cast in a great mould that he carried ungracefully. Whereas Ribbie— Sibbie had a Japanese daintiness of aspect, though they knew nothing of Japan in Corrieglen. Her smooth hair was like black satin, her black eyebrows were exqusitely arched over long eyes, she was milk-white of skin and had delicate, disdainful red lips. No one person in the world suspected that Sibbie had sometimes said to herself, in the seclusion of her own' pretty room, ' Why is he such an omadhaun ? ' stamping her foot angrily at the safme time ; nor if they had, would they have suspected any connection between the speech and Corney O'Donovan. When Terence Murphy in his last illness spoke of the wish of his heart to Sibbi-e, she leaned over him and smoothed his pillow tenderly. 1 He's a great old omadhauh,' she said, and he will never ask me.' 'Is that how it is ? ' asked Terence, a sudden enlightenment coming into his sunken eyes. ' That's how it is ! ' answered Sibbie, nodding her head emphatically. ' 'Tis surprising, the foolishness of people and things,' said Terence. And that night he died in his sleep, so that Sibbie's secret died with him. The next to go was Peggy O'Donovan, a kind, hardworking woman for whom the neighbors had nothing but good words when she went. I wish I could have seen you settled, Corney,' she said, wistfully. ' Sure, I never had eyes but for the one girl,' Corney answered, ' and she won't look at me. 1 ' Are you sure, Corney ? ' ' Sure? It's too sure I am.' ' Whether, she doesn't know what's good. A better son never walked the world, and a good son makes a good husband 'Tis her loss, Corney.' ' Maybe , I know it's mine.' 1 I've longed this many a day for your children on my knee I'll never see their faces now.' ' I wouldn't want children unless they were hers and mine,' he said ' And if she holds out against me to the end, I think 'tis an old bachelor I'll be dying, like my Uncle Peter ' ' Sho bids fair to be an old maid herself, the wayshe's letting all the boys go by her,' said the mother, with a little bitterness. Corney looked at her in amazement. 'Is it she an old maid, 1 he asked, ' that could have any boy in the country, from old James Fogarty, that's worth ten thodsand pounds if he's worth a penny, down to Lanty Whelan, that hasn't got two pennies to call his own nor the first hair on his chin ? Sure, why would she be an old maid ? ' His eyes kindled in sudden violence, but he curbed htmself. He wasn't going to distress the old dying mother with a revelation of the depths? of his hopeless love and the fury of jealousy that shook him when he thought of another man winning Sibbie. But the mother had comfort. Old Father Bannon, of Newtowncross, who had a great and deserved reputation for sanctitity, which extended as far as Dublin itself, knew her desires and assured her at the last that he believed they would be satisfied. Perhaps he knew something, perhaps he did not. Anyhow, she died easy in her mind about her son's future.

When the two were left alone they seemed more contrary to each other than ever. They bore their griefs in a lonely isolation, Sibbie prouder than ever now that her oheek was pate and her eyes ringed with purple, while Corney walked with a stoop of the shoulders, as though a burden pressed them down, and a face that had more than ever the dumb sadness of an animal's Often they were within hail of eaoh other across the dividing; hedgerows of the farms. Sibbie had taken to looking after things herself since her father's death Once on a time they used to be friendly ; now no greeting passed between the girl on the one side of the hedge superintending this or that farming operation, and the man on the other side, ploughing with his heavy, oldfashioned plough— an austere, lonely figure against the gray sky of winter going up and down the furrows. Rumors came presently to Sibbie that Uorney was sadly neglected since his mother's death. She could have told the gossips that she knew more about it than they did, for although she never lifted her head to send a glance across the hedgerow that divided her from Corney at his ploughing nothing escaped her of his increasingly unkempt and untidy air. When she re-entered her own neat and clean house at the end of the short day and sat to the comfortable meal which Bessie, her excellent maid of all work, had set out for her in bright lamplight and firelight, her thoughts would wander to Corney in his neglected house, at the mercy of the thriftless- woman who was supposed to serve him. Somehow it took keeness of her appetite and her appreciation of the pleasant things with which she was surrounded. She missed her old father greatly ; indeed, it was the ache of missing him that had driven her to take his placo in the fields, instead of leaving things to Nick Brophy, who had been her father's right-hand man in his latter days. She grew sharp with those about her, which was due partly, no doubt, to that gnawing tooth of grief which made a perpetual discomfort in her life. And she was sharpest of all to the suitors who came thicker than ever now that she was alone. When she had succeeded in getting rid of the most eligible of them, she smiled grimly to herself. 1 You're shaping well for an old maid, Sibbie Murphy,' she said, and then added : ' And, upon my word, things being as they are, I don't know but what you're right. You're very comfortable as you are. And they are too sure themselves and too keen after the money except one, and he's nothing but an omadhaun.' Her grief and dissatisfaction had their effect on her looks, as her friends and neighbors weren't slow about telling her. Even Father Bannon, the least observant of men, noticed it. ' You're not looking well, Sibbie,' he said, with the kind, anxious, far-off look of one who saw the world and its troubles from a groat distance. 1 It'll be that I'm getting old, father,' said Sibbie with a flout at herself. ' I pulled out a gray hair this morning.' ' It seems like yesterday since I christened you, and it can't be more than twenty three years ago. Twentyfour, is it ? Well, we can't call you old yet, child. I've been visiting that poor neighbor of yours, Corney (>' Donovan. His house is- in a miserable state, enough to make the kind woman, his mother, troubled even where she is I gave him good advice.' 'To turn out Biddy Flaherty and get a clean, honest girl in her place ?' ITo get a wife ; he'll never be comfortable till he does.' The kind, old, far-off eyes looked away from Sibbie, o\er whose face the color had rushed in a flood. ' I hear you've a great contrivance for keeping off the rain,' she said, in a confused effort to get away from what was apparently an awkward subject. 'It was sent a present to me from Dublin,' Father Bannon answered, brightening. ' Indeed, I'm afraid to go out with it, for all the children in the place will be following me and the dogs barking at my heels. You wouldn't believe how it holds the rain off. For all the world like a little roof it is.' ' So I heard,' said Sibbie, not greatly interested in Father Bannon's acquisition, but pretending to be so ' What at all do they call it ?' 'It has a queer name— it's called an umbrella. I have a good many people dropping in to see what it's like. It shuts up very handy, too.' ' Indeed ' v said Sibbie, politely interested. ' I would like to see it, so I would.' ' 'Tis a long time, Sibbie, child, since you came to sec me Supposing you come over to tea on Sunday ? I know tea's a treat to you— it is to all women.' Sibbdo looked eager ; finally confessed that tea was her temptation— lfc was nearly as scarce a thing in the parish of Newtowncross at that date as the umbrella which Father Bannon had just acquired.

She dressed herself in her best to do honor to the occasion. Her best was a scarlet petticoat, a closely fitting jacket of some flowered stuff, white and scarlet, caught in with a scarlet ribbon at the waist, blue knitted stockings and stout, pretty little shoes. It was a fashion of dress that never went out of Newtowncross and when she took off her blue hooded cloak and revealed her finery the old priest took snuff and paid her a compliment. He was reading his breviary when Sibbie arrived by the window that overlooked the valley of the Daugh River, with rampart of the mountains behind it. ' You're fine enough for a wedding, Sibbie,' he said.' 1 Sit down, child, while I make the tea. I'm expecting another visitor. Ah, here ho is ! How aie you, Coiney V He looked away from Sibbie's red cheek and wore a half guilty air. When he looked back again it seemed as though a hedge of briars and thorns had grown up about the girl during the little interval. Instead of the sweet naturalness of the Siblbie of a few moments ago, this Sibbie sat on the edge of her chair in an uneasy attitude ; her mouth was prim ; she looked so chilly, so unfriendly that it was no wonder poor Corney, in his bottle-green coat with brass buttons, his knee breeches and frilled shirt and gray worsted stockings, felt all of a sudden chilled and depressed. He had taken his best clothes from the chest of drawers, where his mother's hand had last smoothed them out, to do credit to the great occasion of drinking tea with the priest. They had become him remarkably well, too. He had not known Siblbie was to be there. But there she was, lookind more beautiful than he had ever seen her. But so cold, so angry almost. Why, he had done (nothing, td bring that look to her face. Father Bannon's housekeeper came in and drew the curtains, hiding the mountains and the cold glimmer of the river in its valley under the evening winter sky. She lit the lamps and stirred the fire. The room with its books in dull bindings '.that had only an odd glimmer of gilding, its few good pictures, the sacred emblems on the mantel' shelf, the dog lying in the faded hearth rug, the snowy cloth, with china and silver laid for the tea, were very grand and imposing in' the eyes of Corney and Sibbie. They almost forgot their shyness of each other in watching the priest ladle from the aid silver caddy a few precious spoonfuls of tea and pour \ the boihng water upon it. The tea was delicious — most grateful to Sibbie's feminine palate ; bait it did not unlock her tongue. She had seemed quite willing to chatter when she came in, but the arrival of her fellow-guest had frozen the current of her speech. And as for Corney, Corney was as dumb as though he had been born so. While they sipped their tea from saucers, sitting at arm's length from the table, Father Bannon eyed them with an expression half despairing, half waggish. He was obliged to talk for three. A cold curtain of constraint hung over the room. He rallied, he coaxed, he tried all his arts to make the two talk to each other, but in vain. This afternoon had been very still. As the darkness gathered there was a moan of wind ; again a clapping of wind which seemed to rattle the invisible sails before it died away. After tea, in a hospitable endeavor to please his guests, the priest brought out a domino board and instructed them in the rules of the game. It had been his beloved companion since he had been a student at the College of Douai, in France. But while the game passed the time, he was aware that neither of the young couple shared his interest in it. About eight o'clock the housekeeper came in. ' 'Tis pouring with rain,' she said, ' and your reverence's weather gjass t that ran up as if it were running a race this morning, is tumbling down all as fast. Glory to be goodness, listen' to the wind.' Father Bannon had been engrossed by the game, and the thick shutters had nearly kept out sound. Sure enough, the wind was crying along the valley with an ominous moan ; through the shutters he could hear the streaming of the rain upon the glass. 4 We'd best be getting home,' said Sibbie, standing up. There was a pattering of hailstones on the window and the wind cried in' the chimney. 1 Yes,' assented the priest. ' It's not a long way, and you'll be home before the storm breaks. That reminds me, you never saw the umbrella after all. You shall go home under it. You think you can hold it over Sibbie's head, Corney ?' ' Never fear, your reverence !' * I wouldn't be taking Mr. O'Donovan so far out of his way,' said Sibbie, in a mincing voice. • Sure, 'tis my own way,' said Corney, turning red. ' Only for that I wouldn't be troubling you.' ' I'd take no harm with my cloak,' said Sibbie. 1 And the umbrella,' said the priest. ' You couldn't hold it over yourself, but Corney 'll hold it for you. you'll bring it back safe and sound /Jto me, Corney?

Now, Sibbie, are you ready ? I'll open jt for you when I get outside the door. ' Tis too big to open in the house.' The umbrella of the late '30's, the first, which had found its way into the parish of Newtowncross, was very unlike the slender, elegant umbrella of to-day. This particular example was as large as the canopy of a four-poster bed. It had huge ribs of whalebone, and a stick great enough for a giant's walking, stick. The wind was blowing a half gale by this time, and it was with great difficulty Uorney was ahle to carry the umbrella. However, he was a bit of a yachtsman, and very soon he learned the secret of holding the umbrella against the wind, which was now blowing furiously from the southwest. ' If it was to get under,' said Corney to his silent companion, « it 'ud, maybe, blow me away to the moon, for, of course, I'd never let go of it— a thing that belongs to the priest.' A little later : ' I think the best thing I could do 'd be to shut it up. I'm misdoubting that maybe it'll carry me over the edge.' They were at this time on a steep, descending path, on one side of which was a wall of rock, on the other a precipitous fall into the valley below. Sibbie uttered a little shriek and suddenly caught at his arm and clung to it. The wind blew and buffeted them ; the umbrella was blown this way and that. If the hurrying moon amid her ragged clouds had had time to shed a ray on Corney's face, it would have revealed an expression of amazed and incredulous delight. ' Sure, you wouldn't be telling me to let the priest's umbrella fly away ?' he faltered. ' Your life's more than the umbrella,' she whispered back. Corney 's face grew roguish in the shadow. ' You'd better not be holding me,' he said, ' or oou'H maybe go over along with me. If I was only out of this place I'd be shutting it up as his reverence did.' He staggered before the force of the wind and the umbrella leaned to the precipice. Sibbie caught him with both hands and held his arm tight to her. He had an idea that through her thick cloak he could feel the beatingl of her heart. However, he still held on to the umbrella. The wind sighed and died away just long enough to allow them to pass the most dangerous part of the path. They came to a point at which it was possible to clamber over the boulders to a bit of a field on top. ' I think we'll be shutting it up here,' said Corney, making the most of the lull. He climbed up the bit of path to the field, planted the umbrella like an enormous mushroom in the nearest ridge, and was back again to help her over the last bit of the climb. ' Now to shut it up,' said he. But that was easier saad than. 1 done. They pushed and pulled and squeezed and felt for hinges in the ribs, all to no purpose. They remembered too late that Father Bannon had not taught them how to close the umbrella. ' Let us get home before the wind rises,' said Sibbie ' I can see the light in the kitchen window where Bessie is waiting up for me. There isn't a house we could get into, but there's great shelter inside the four walls of the garden.' On the instant there was a great flash of lightning, and then, as though it had let loose the wind, the storm broke over them with incredible violence. The umbrella was whirled away from them and went flying over the gray fields. Whether they followed it of their own will or whether they were simply blown before the storm, as everything in its path was that night, Sibbie never knew. She only knew that she was carried off her feet for some distance and then' flung with great force to the ground. As she fell some one caught her and averted the worst part of her fall. ' You're not hurt, Sibbie, darling ?' said Corney's voice through the roar of the tempest. ' Lie still a minute and get your breath. No, don't try to stand up. The wind 'ud throw you down again. Creep, acushla, creep. The old dun in the corner of the field there is safe. If we once get to that the storm won't hurt us.' The dun was a square keep with an open lower story in which the cattle took refuge from wind and rain. It was of iron strength and so old that the antiquaries had grown tared of discussing the purposes for which it was built. Sibbie always said that she could never had reached the dun if it had not been for Corney. As they wriggled along the ground they were lashed with all sorts of debris the wind carried with it. Every second the storm increased the force. Fortunately they were in the open field with no trees under them, for the trees that night came down in their thousands. At last she felt herself, beaten, blind and exhausted, dragged within the dun, the mouth of which was fortunately away from the storm.

1 Your terrified, darling, and no wonder,' said Corney's ( voice at her ear. • But now we're auite safe ttieTrMiturer' 0 *" 16 in here> We needn>t *"»» them out,' • No, indeed ! ' 1 And here's a manfger full of hay. I'll spread my coat on the hay and you can sit down, or lie down if you like better, why, is it shivering you are Sibbie V She found herself caught to Corney's breast and held there. She felt kisses «pon her h»ir. The cattle had come closer to them for protection. She felt the warmth Q l their breath and heard the deep sound of it They were in a little space of peace and quietness' while the world seemed given over to destruction outside. ' Will it ever be over V she sighed against his ear •Is it the storm ? Sure, I don't care. To-morrow you'll be freezin 1 to me again.' Her uplifted arms held him about the neck He could see her eyes shining in the obscurity • I always loved you,' she said. • Why were you such an omaahaun as never to ask me ?' ' Never to ask you, light of my eyes ! Sure. I thought you wouldn't look at me.' ! i never looke d at any one else, not in that way ' •Sure how am Itogo to Father Bannon ?' he If e A happily. 'Isn't his umbrella gone off to the North Pole somewhere ? ' • We'll get him another. I don't believe in them contrivances. Sure, U God sends rain, it must be good.' I m obliged to the umbrella,' said Corney. • Only for it you'd have gone on freezin' me.' ' And you breakin' my heart.' • If it wasn't for that, I'd have got you home before the storm, though the brunt of it^would have fallen on me. • What'll the neighbors say ? ' she asked, clinging to him m sudden terror. • It isn't because of that you've asked me, Corney ? ' The look and tender caress with which he answered her was all-satisfying. When the storm had lulled, they found that the chimney of Sibbie's room was down on the bed where she would have slept. In her passionate thanksgiving the ravages of the storm vexed them but little. A report came from somewhere about Tory Island of a strange apparition in the sky the night of the storm like a queer, unchancey sort of boat sailing and a bare mast stuck up out of it. That was the last overheard of Father Bannon's umbrella.— Exchange.