The Storyteller THE LAST LEAF.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXII, Issue 51, 22 December 1904, Page 23

The Storyteller THE LAST LEAF.

A near neighbor of mine was Mr. Matthias Power an ex-sergeant of the police, retired on pansion, who lived un a noat cottage close to my hause. There was something uncommon about the man, as well as about his Ohnstian name lo all outward seeming he v. as a stern, leseived, cold, and unsympathetic sort of man. Such, at least, was my impression of him until x kn-'\v him better. In time, however, I discovered that beneath this mask of apparent harshness and crustiness there was, at least for one individual, a depth of love and tenderness Which it would bo hard to equal. That ona was his only surviving child, a girl of some twelve years when 1 came to the parish. My old housekeeper told me all about his history since he came to kve in Killanure, about eight years previously. His wite, a young and strikingly handsome woman, asi 1 learned, died the ftist year of theur residence in the nice little cottage, leaving him the legacy of a baby boy, who followed her to heaven a few weeks after. It was a ha-d blow for a man who had only just retired on a comfortable competence after long years ot arduous labor. He had married late in life, and he might have been the father ot the gentle, winsome girl who, as he tondly hoped, would cheer and sjqotjhe tftie evening of his life in the quiet anld blissful repose ot domestic happiness.

Old Nancy dilated at lengbh on tjhe smbject of his chivalrous devotion and respectful attentions to hi* yqung wife. 'He doted down on her,' aihe said, ' and he dressed her like a queen ; faith they weie tihe talk of the parish m a lew weeks, with everyone praising them. Well, when the poor thing died, sure half the parisih came to her funeral, short a time and all as they were »n the place, it nearly broke the poor man's heart, and onlly he had little Lticy left tp him lit was people's opinion that he'd soon follow her, he was that floind of hejr, the poor, dear crdature ! Ah, there was the p.urty child ! Jb,\eryone called her " little Lucy," and she smiled at everybody and everybody smiled at her as she passpd through the village with her father, always holding his hand and skipping aLong by his side like a little lamb, God bless her ! '

Aftor -his wife's death he centred all his affections in this child. She was everything to him now ; and as she grew up sihe display (id more and mmc one graces of her dead mother, ot wliom e\erybady said that ohc was the perfect image If anything, rwleed, K'er mother's charms were intensified and peifertod in her, just as the natUr,al beauty of a lonely landscape* is made still more beautiful by tthe artist's brush which touches UP tihe little lmperfectiimns seemingly cnerlooked by natjure.

The neighbors told me tihat when Lucy was able to go to school it was with great reluctance that the old man agreed t|o let her uut of 'his sight o\en for a few hours daily. He accompanied her to the school door every morning, went to meet ,her at ivaon whein she came home for lunch and again went to bring her home at three o'clock. Indeed, he was oftentimes \sccn hr. lining round the school all tihe time from early morning until iplaytime, and trom then till the ho-wr for breaking \\p, keeping gmard over the place whi-ch held his little darlimig, the treasure of his heart. She was infrleed, m the expressive Irish phrase, his ' grad'h geal mo croidh ' —bright love of my heart.'

Of oourse I was not Long in the -parish without making, the acqoiafnt'ance of my interesting neighbors Mr PiOwor, (as everybody called him, was a fre.Mh-fareU man, slightly sto/copeid, always very trim afld neat in dress and appearance even on weekdays. On Sundays (he wore a blaqk siut tihat seemed ever as bran-new as the day it left the hari(ds of the tailor. Oin Christmas- Day and Easier Sunday he donned a br,own cloth overcoat with velvet collar, that, apparently, was absolutely proof agjainst tne ravages of time.

He was precise of speech hut reticent ; although he wotuld always reply, I noticed, to little Lucy's q,ue>vti/ans, however trivial they migjit be ; and ha would listen with a .pleased expression to her aitles's babble, as if her voice possessed for him the charms of sweetest m|usic. And often I noticed how the storm, sad face of the fond father relaxed into a smile when he looked with pride and joy on the sunny countenance of her who hung ojn his arm ; afld the thought crossed my mind sometimes, as I watched them going ttous for their eKcnina; walk — with a whole-hearted absdt tamen, needless t o say— what woful'd become of that main should God caU home that an,gel~child in the first flush of her baptismal innocence to join her little 'brother in the better land ? Alas ! 1 little thought that tin's random and mnwel-

come suggestion ah 0,11 Id ever be realised; and leasit of Iri r fft n r iy u elf sh > ould sa^ to th at beautiful gin, so full of bounding lite, the hard words : ' depart aho was iin reality a most b|pauti?uL girl, well grown for her age, and having all the appearance of perfect .W>ya,nl health. She was gitted also with intelligence ot a high order. Her features were almost faultlessly poitoct and pleading; eyes ot cerulean blue, rupplmg brow.ii hair, cheeks mantling \vit|h the roses of Health and \igor. Judged, v\hcuo\ei 1 ww her I übtii U Uunk 01 liuikcs glowing eulogium of the c*ar,ins of the Danipimiiess, aiLei wards tne 111-tatca C^ueeii Mane Antoi.iieue . ' Ne\er lighted on tins orb a n^ord delightfiul M.sron. I saw her just above the 'horizon, K htteriing like the mprning star, full of life and spleridor and joy.' Well, toward the end of my third year in the parish an epidemic of scarlatina of a virulent tytpe broke out 111 the district, and Lucy anuwigst other scih,ool childrem contracted it. As might be expected, her father was well nigh distracted witti grief apd anxiety about his Idarling, and f,or diays> ana nights oojiild witih difficulty be torn from her bedside. Fortunately the attack proved t:o be a slight one, and she rapidly recovered. Llowe\er, soon alter tihe scah'ng process was ciom.pleted—which lett her complexion even clearer and fairer than beioic— she unaccountably caught a chill which developed into meningitis. Thus the fair promise of a s'pecldy an,d perfect reqovery proved to be of that delusive k,imd winch ' the word of promise to qur ears aiild breaks it to our hope.' God, in the inscrutable way of His Divine Providence, which are not our ways, had 'decreed that this virgin lily should not run the risk of being scaled or s'ulHed by the usages of this rude Worl|d, and chose this occasion to smatch hex away to jomx his throng of white-robefd virgins ' who follpw the Lamb whithersoever He goetih.'

It was my sad duty to attend her in this illness, amd the memory ot it will, 1 tlunk, haunt me always, it, i.s assonatad with sadness np doubt— sadness tender, patihetic, and yet strangely soot/hitig ; but I have long suuee ceased to tlhwiik ot it as merely a sad episode. It ha^J betvome to me a memory of gladness, of hppe, of odification and s'pintiu.al onlightenment, more soul-nnspir-rng than whole vohimes ot ascetical th oology ; fqr 1 am co"jh\ i,nccd that 1 assisted at the passung away of an <\ngcl tio God's home, and that the sad words, ' Depart, L'hn->Uan soul,' but ushered in her tfue natal day to gloiy. Yos, her fifteen years, I verily believe, had left uiKSulliod the snow-white robe of her baptismal inHocGiice

When she fully realised the •da-ngerotus nature of this seoanid illness her lesigiikition was admirable and very ddityimg. She piofessed herself perfectly 'willing and rqaidy to die. '1 he doctor found it necessary to cutoff her bo.au fcitul and abunida,'nt hair ; and when she slaw the so\ore,d and once miuch-pn/ed tresses m t<he ha,nds of her wetlpiing nurse,, alhe said in the nitost uncancerned way : 1 Don't mind, Ellen ; put it in the coffin with me.'

Toward the end she became delirious and raved a good deal, an,d s>ang snatches of the 'hyirmvs she used to sing in the children's choir. Her last fcuewell vprds t o her broken-hearteid f.atmo: were very touching, and moved me, 1 Cyontess, to tears. ' Father,' she b,ai(d, ' don't fret for me, for I'm goiJng home to God. And it I'm leading jou, sure I'm g,o*ng t,o meet mother, and we'll wait for you in God's house , and won't it be lovely for us all to be together ? athcr, if 1 lived to be a big girl you might dio before me, mightn't you *' And than I'd be very loncs|ome all by myselt, ajid I might have a long time to wait bcflo'c 1 co'uFd joun mother and you m heaven. 80 it's just as well lor me to go first. Oh, 1 see the Blosised Virgin uhe.re in the picture '— pointmg to a prtnt 'ot the Assumption of Our Blessed Lady — ' and she's smiling at me alnd beckoning lio me ! And all the little angels are flying round her. I'm g,oing to be one ot t,hem, am ,1 not", Father O'Oarroll ? Oil, won't that be gra^nd— to fly aw,ay to heaven with the Blessed Virgin "' '

T\he old m,a.n held her 'hand to the last in a dazed .sart 'of speechless agony and bewildermont. S-he pressed it to Her lips nn a last fand effort of filial Lave ajrtd dieid in the act. When the women round the deathbetd had raiseld her little hea,d, I thought that <her hips were parted in a smile, just like that with which she used to greet mo whan I met her— t-»he sweet, wmning smile of transparent lryioccnce and childish simplicity. Ah, m,ayI!\> it was caused by the warm parting kis,s of her Guardian Angel as he left his earthly charge, his taslk done, to gUve back into God's hand a soul pure and spotless as it came from Him !

V\lhe,n the bereaved fiatlher Sully realised that his heart's treasure had left him — and Mie dead lips pressed his hand for a long time ere he felt their fatal colU-

ness-,his grief was pitiable in the extreme : aye all toe more pitiable for being undemonsrtratyve a*d sileut He wuW ga ? e for hours in ralpt ecstasy, as it weie on the fair tare o t the dead girl, wliiie the tear^ oowrsed down his cheeks in streams that would seem niexbaiustibie. And at times he nuirmwreri broke,n wirds of endearment Uo the ears that heard them not ; flor dtfubtlefes they were h^nmg to the music of the celesi Lai c/rijo us.

The Whole scene reminded me stiongly of Dickens' description ol the death of little Nell, aid her laUuoi s inco.nsoi.ible gnei i<u hci lo4*—a s,Leue s«uti by some to be t«he most touching and pathetic thing in Uteratlure. 'l',he school-children, her playmates had placed a cliaplet of lilies on her head and a bouquet in the dead haunts, which were joined as it in p~aye>r A. cnuciiix rested on her breast, With her closed eyes and Up a parted i,n Uie smile tlbey wore wheai they pressed a last kiss on her lather's hand, and the siiowy whiteneas. 01, the radiantly beautiful iace, siie seemed to me hike a tared aingel that had falkh inro a gcmtle slumber or, tio use Dickens' language despribitig the a,npeara J uce of p,oor little dead JNiell : 'She seemed li/ke a creature fresin trom the hand of God anKt waiting for tihe breath ot hie ; not' one wlxo had lived atid stuftered death ' It happenqd Uhat I was changed from Killamure piansn s,ome few months after little Lmcy's deatih but durng that time 1 frequently visited Matthias Power's cottage, and tried by every means to console avid cheer him ijn l.is loneliness, but I Qould see that although grateful flor my visits, he would not be consoled His was a sonow whtase roots were entwined around his heart, and cauld m>t be plucked oait without the heart's qonulng with tjiem.

1 Welcome Le tihe will of God,' he s&id. ' Aye welcome a thousand times ' Amd Uad f,orgi\e me if I'm rifit as resigned as 1 ought to be uinider my heavy trials ! But, your reverence, I'll have a lonely road to travel till 1 join them— a lonely, dreary road. And I think it will be a short one, tpo , for I feel tfliat mv Iheairt is broKeai.'

'lihese were the words he used on the occasion of my farewell \ioit to him the day before 1 left the pansih. He lc o kod broken-hearted, in tuutth, and, \e-iily years older than he did a lew mionths agio. It was hilly seien years before 1 saw Matthias Power again. I returncld to mv old liwnc on a visit to a very particular triend, then the curate of the mountain (p\an,sh. in the long interval 1 must confess that, although tihe episode I have 'marrate'd often lector red to my memory, J had, in line distraction of other interests and the Jormatuom oJ new fiicnd^htjpa, m.ore or le.s fiorgotten the old pensioner carrying his load of Morrow alo;ng his lonely road. 1 had witnessed sio mun/ sccinea of suflcxuig and sorrow suite them Uhat tftie micident of 111 tie l,ucy's untimely death began t 0 fariefiom my rooolle-ctian. No soiomer, however, had I looked out from the window ol the oM familiar parlor of the c)u rate's mountain cottage than tiie name of Aiatthias Power came at qnce to my lrps, tor ins house was tho first object 1 saw.

Eagerly 1 i-nqmued about li'ic old petitioner, and howhe hald tared duung all the k.ng yeais sin- e little Liiicy left him to plod his lonely v.iay alone Ids history was s,oon tol,d, and it rilled me with sadhess. lie still lived in the dottuge, Oared for and tended by the fuithflul old woman who fihared his joys and sorrows and witnessed the wreck of all his bo.pcs Alas, lie needed pitying care a,nxl sympathy now, for he was a child agiaim- His mund had g,i\en way under th© weight of his slorrows, and he was a poor, childish imbecile

I learned fiom my friend, Father Cummijis, that tue 01/ d mian, alter Lucy's death, pined aw.ay sensibly a. id m|oped about in a ( n aimless fashion, seldom speak i,ng to ajiy one. He spent a g.ood portioin of each day in the gxiaveyard where his loved ones were buried, and who. c he erected a bca,uLiful marble monument over their jsp&ve. The impress of his knees cm the green n.ound Was plainly visible ; for the daily visit was made 'with religions regularity in all weatlhers By degrees tJhis settled melancholy and constant communing with the dead undermined his mental powers, and he became childish , alternating his time between the Churchyard and the mountain chapel, wfaere he attemided daily Mass and prayed for hours every day, doubtless for hi« loved and lost ones.

Next day I met him Coming o,u t of tihe churoh, and it was with di'hculty I recognised him as the Matthias Power of seven years ago. lie Was siaflly chamged ; thim, haggard, ghosctly m appear,air>ce, careless in dross and weak and shambling in gail|. lie was bent and broken, and his hair was snow-white — in fine, the merest qWaidow of his lormer self 1 acCosied him by name, asking him if he did not remember me. He shoiok his head «n reply, peering at me the while as> if trying to cattclh some va^gue, fleetyng associations of the past.

' Don't yo,u remember Father O'Garroll,' I said, 'who attended hltle Lucy long ago ? ' ' Oh, little Lucy/ he answetrqd, ' lifetle Lucy, is iit ? She's up there '—pointing heavenward— s waiting for me with Kate and little Matt ; and I'm s,oon g,ome to them, aye, soon, please Wod ! '

His lace wore a mild, calm, untroubled expression, as tie said these words ; and hJa/siufoke.rtreVe.s Drightcjned as he sihu fifed oil homewand, rriutterjng %6 himself or perhaps commuting with the spirit;' wiotMr^E^Mefntly ho was neari,ng the cud of his 10-nely roail. 'The ia^t leaf, 1 T soliloquised. 'Verily the last leaf ! '

' Wtoat is that •' ' said my comp'a.nkvn, wh 0 eviilently h*i ryot read Ohvec Wendell Holmes' beautiful poem, ' l\he Last Leaf.'

1 Listen to this,' I answered, ' and s,ay if it does not describe him :

' But now he walks the streets, Afifi he looks at all he meets, Sad and wan ; And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as it he s,aid, " they are gone ! "

1 The mossy marbles rest : On the lips that he has pressedln their bloom ;

Aditi the names he loved to hear Have been carVeid for many a year Un the tomb.'

— ' Aye Maria.'