The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXIII, Issue 12, 23 March 1905, Page 23

The Storyteller

MATT

Matt was old Tom Sheridan's only son, and the pride and hope of his heart — in so far as anything but his own ease and self-indulgence could find a place in that hardened, selfish, worldly old muscle. Matt was a fine dashing young fellow, honest and upright, with a light heart that had always taken life gaily witih a song and a jest, a kind word for everyone, and a hand ever ready to do a good turn ; an athlete and a musician ; the most popular young man in the parish. In Lizzie Meagher's eyes he was simply peifection. There was no one before him and no one abo\e him. They were betrothed when Lizzie was very young, and Matt now thought they were betrothed long enough ; that it was time to get married, for, as he said in his droll way, ' it was a poor house that had no woman in it.' He was tired of Qoing a woman's work with occasional assistance from his married sisters, who lived at an inconvenient distance, and from his next neighbor, old Nancy Iloirrke, who was growing too helpless to make even a cup of tea But his father had forbidlden the banns, on "the grounds t(hat Lizzie had no fortune. She was the eldesft of a large family, in the bringing up of which j-ihe was her mother's right hand. He had no fault to Pnd wit»h either her or her parents, who were good, respectable, hard-working people, but no girl without a fortune should ever cross his threshold. If he needed the money, as Matt said, there would be some excuse for him ; but he did not need it. I-low-e\er, the practice of marrying for money has become .such an established law in Ireland that to many people it would seem to a certain extent a disgrace to marry without) it, in the fame wav as it would seem a disgrace to make a bad bargain at fair or market in the sale of horse or cow. And as people are incline*! to boast of and exaggerate the price of horse or cow, sio they are inclined to boast of and exaetferate fortune. When all entreaty had failed to move the old man it was at last arranged lint Lizzie should go t n Ameiica to earn the required fortune— one hundred po"nds 1 Not a halfpenny less,' he repeated, dctermimldly, when Matt appealed to him once more upon this srnny Sunday afternoon. ' I know myself what I want with the money. I'm not goin' to he depondin' on you or an yon a else in the end of my days. Your sisters had to get their share out of this, and I want some of it back. I'm leWin' ye off easy. A hundred pounds is very little. Your mother (Cod rest her soul !) brought one hiundred and fifty here. And you'd get two hi'ndrod to-morrow beyond wiih Andy Nolan's <rirl — to go no Jurther. lie proffered it himself ; and I know well if I pressed him he'd make it two hvndred and fifty. For where would he got ? ' — ' I d^nH. care if he made it two hundred and fifty thousand, I wouldn't marry her,' Matt said, petulantly. ' I'll ne\er puti mv wife in my pocket. I'll new* marry any but the girl I've asked. So that settles that.' ' Very well , as you're plcasin 1 yourself in the wife it's only about fan that I should please myself in the fortune' ' Fo you dfn't mind what Father O'Connell said— that a good wife is better a million times than a fortune, that there's no comparison at all, and that for-tune-hhinting is one of t<he curses of Ireland. You know how vexed lie was when he heard Lizzie was going 1o America. He'll ne\er forget it to you if you push it to the last. America is such a bad place for girls in e\ery way.' ' Let her nnnd luerself. Slie has the grace of Cod as well as another. Many a decent father's and mother's child went to America before, and came back none the worse of it. And mind you, if she comes home the wo>r>se of it — fond of dress or gee-gaws, or galliviantin', or &i\y of that .sort of thing, in here shei'll never set her foot. Mind that.' ' I see,' Matt retorted, with painfully heightened color, his heart swelling with indignation. ' All you Want is an excuse — any excuse — to keep her out. But she will come in— or I'll go out— whichever you like.' ' No one is askiln' ye to go out,' his fatJier said, in a less domineering tone, frir he knew he had to calculate upon a certain vein of obstinacy in his son's character, an obstinacy very mild indeed compared with that which formed so remarkable a feature of his own. Matt was already halfway across the yard. Tears of anger and disappointment fi led his eyes for a moment, but he dashed them impatiently away and strode

onward, seeing nothing but the glare of the suns&ine upon field and hedgerow, until .suddenly he came face to face with his fiancee, who was struggling over a fence 4 a sturdy baby brother in her arms. lie took the child from her arms and placed him on the ground. ' Where are you of! t 0 now, Lizzie ? ' he asked presently. ' Cher to Kelly's to^'say good-bye.' ' Will jou be \cry lonely going away? You wi.l, I'm afraid.' ' Oh, no , nul \eiy. Of course it'll come strange at first, for I ne\er spent a night away from home in my life '—trying to Keep back the rising tears. ' But then it's only for a short time, a couple of years or so* for you know I expect to save e\ery penny.' ' 1 know. But what if some Yank of the almighty dollar comes along and coaxes you,' he said, in a tone winch was perhaps not all jocose. ' They say an Irish colleen's face has a great attraction for them over there, and such a face as yours ' fciho looked up at him, smiling through her tears, and there was that in her smile which assured him that not all the gold of Columbia could win from him that loyal yo mg heart. 1 Well, I have something to tell you. Sit down on yonder stone. It's just a little story I came across in a newspaper some time ago— a true story. It was about an Irish girl, young and ignoraint of the world like yomself, Lizzie, who went to America. She expected her broriher to meet her on landing. He had instructed her if he was not there when she arrived to wait for him, on no condition to stir until h« came. Well, he was not there, and she sat down upon her little trunk and waited patiently, watching the strange sights around her. She was a pret/ty girl, a little West of Ireland beauty, and after some time a lady came up to her, a very handsome lady, dressed in silks and satins and jewels, as they say. She spoke to her very sweetly, aeked ncr wny she was alone, remarked how tired she looked and offered her some fruir. The .gill felt flattered and \ery grateful, and explained her situation. Then the lady asked her brother's address, and after a while ottered to drive her to it, saying that very likely ne could not come. Remembering her instructions, the girl at first declined, but the lady persisted. Something nmist surely have happened to prevent her brother fiom com,iing, she had taken a fancy to her charming lush face, and could not bear to go away anyl leave her alone -and unprotected. At last the girl consented, and would na\e pone, only—. But before Igo a ny furIher let me ask you a question, Lizzie. What would you ■hane dome in hor place ? Would you have anne with the lady "> ' 1 Well, when she was f 0 kind, I suppose I would,' she replied in an uncertain voice. ' Why shouldn't 1 ? ' ' The priest who looks after emigrant girls on landing would have told you wny you shouldn't. He came ujron the scene as they were about to drive off in a cab, and with flashing eyes ordered the woman— the ' painted landshark,' as a bystander called her— to give tip her prey. She cowered before him and instantly surrendered the girl, and he took her in charge until her brother came. But surely you must have heard some warning against the dangers whioh girls have sometimes to meet on going to America. Have you no idea why you shouldn't have gone with that woman ? ' She remained silent, with such a look of painful uneasiness that the little fellow nestled closer to her and wound his dimfpled alrms around her neck as thou-gh conscious that some danger menaced her. Although almost a woman in years, in knowledge of the world's evil she wa's a mere child. So sheltered had been her life under a good mother's protecting love, with the little ones for her life-long- companions that her ideas of the suffering which lay somewhere far beyond her hapipy home were very vague indeed He studied her face with keen anxiety, wondering whether after all innocence was the best safeguard, and what a. swoet face it was ! So pure, so true, so ' c n- ad*d, witih the bloom of youth and health upon the soft rounded cheek, the dark locks clustering in some disorder around the smooth white brow. As ncr blue eye met his inquiring!* with that look of dawning fear it struck him that the look in the baby's eyes was scarcely less guileless, ard a passionate desire seized .his heart to keep her always just, as she was in her innocence pure an! unspotted from the world. ' 1 Li/zie, you won't go to America,' he said with sudden determination. ' I'll go myself instead! You haven't, one belonging; to you there, not one to turn i'o for ad/vice or assistance in any trouble. You needn't look so astonished. The only wonder is that I never thought of it before, never until this moment. I'll coe o amd earn the money myself. A man can rough it better than a woman.'

1 And your father ? ' she gasped, when she had found her voice. ' What will he say or do ? ' ' Let him say or do as he likes. He has only himself to thaak for it all. He can pay a man to work the farm, and he will get along all right. I sometimes think he would get along all right if he was the last man in the woirld. Even if he never takes me back I don't care. I can make a home for you beyond.' Lime, who would much prefer going to America than remaining behind, sought With many tears to dissuade nim from his purpose, but in vain ; his determination was as complete as it was sudden ' 1 ha\e my plans formed already,' he explained. ' I won't stay in the city— l'd smother in a city before a month. 111 go West, as we are so often advised, ami get work upon a farm, what I'm used to. I won't say a word to my father until I'm walking out of the door. It's no use, nothing would soften him. But you might run across to him now and then when I'm gone, Lizzie. There's many a little thing I used to do for him that he can't very well do for himself, and I wouldn't like t 0 think that he w.as in any way neglected. I believe he'll miss me, for all his brag and bluster, and maybe I wouldn't be throe months gone until he sends for me. He has his faults, but who hasn't ? ' Ere another week Matt left for America. He announced his intention to his father at the last moment, and suddenly bursting into tears as he wrung his hand, he hurried from the house ere the old man had time to recover from his amazement. The first time Lizzie appeared to minister to the latter's comfort she was received with a torrent of abuse and a point-blank refusal of admittance. But she came again and again, ran over the fields at dawn of day to milk the cows, placing the milk outside the door, and returning in the e\eming to perform the same and other services until at length she gained admittance to the house, and what a transformation she made in the house, rubbing, scrubbing, brushing, and polishing until e\ery nook shone with cleanliness and brightness. She grew thinner and paler, partly because of her anxiety on Matt's aacount and partly because of the additional work of attending in both houses ; but it was a labor of love and she never flinched, bearing meekly with the old man's complaints and fault-finding, and at last he veered round to Matt's opinion that after all ' it was a poor house that had no woman in it.' Meanwhile cheering news came from Matt. lie was working upon a farm far out West. The work was Aery hard, but the wages were e;ood, and he expected to be home Jit the end of two years if his father did not relent before that. The latter showed some signs of relenting, influenced no doubt by consideration of the expense of keeoing a hired man, but the old spirit of obstinacy triumphed. It was too hard to surrender his colors. lie would let him see his folly out. Winter and spring passed, summer came round again, and still Matt was on the farm out West. He wrote as cheertally as e\er. Although he thought they should scarcely recognise him when he returned, the bla/ing sun had scorched and turned him as black as a nigger, and he had lost many pounds in weight, for he had to do the work of three men. AH at once his father made up his mind that it was time for him to come home and do the work of three men on his own farm, where in his opinion the hired laborer was far from doing the work of one lie instructed Lizizie to write for him, and Li///ie, needless to say, made no delay. On the Sunday after the letter was posted, when she had got through with her work at home, she hurried over to her prospective father-in-law's to tidy up the house for the evening. She haa" counted the tiays and the hours required for transmission of the letter to Matt and the hours and days which must elapse before he reached home. Joy was singing in her heart. How radiantly the sun shone, how blithely the birds carolled ; what a happy world it was after all ; how sweet, how beautiful was life. She busieS* herself about the kitchen, wi l th difficulty repressing the little snatches of song which rose to her lips, for the old man was reading a religious book by the window. 4 God siave all here ! ' Father O'Conncll said, his tall form shadowing the doorway as he entered, stooping beneath the low lintel. After the first greetings, which lacked tyhe usual che'dry ring, he placed his breviary on the table, and, declining & seat, passed back and forth for a while, rubbing his hands slowly one over the other. ' So you've taken my advice at last and written for Matt ? Ah r yes, when late, too late,' he murmured, in a tone of soliloquy. ' Ariel how often it is thus. The message of peace, forgiveness, or love, the Kindly word or act>— too late. Ah, me'! Shall we ever realise in time the sad significance of these two words ? '

'I'm afraid he won't be with you as soon as you expected,' he added, bracing himself for an effort. ' Not so soon. No, I'm afraia not. Matt has met with an accident.' Botlh remained perfectly silent, their eyes riveted upon the priest's grave face. He drew a letter from his pocket and slowly unfolded it, smoothiig out the creases with unnecessary caie 'Itis my way,' he said, clearing his throat, ' always to deliver bad news with as little delay as passible. I think that even the worst news is less painful than the suspense which precedes it. 1 shall now read for you this letter, which I received this morning, only asking you to remember that nothing, except sin, can haippen to us save by God's consent.' lie read the letter from Matt's late employer, a brief, commonplace account of a commonplace accident, such as may happen every week in every year. One evening at the close of his work Matt went— as he had often gone before before— with some companions to bathe in a lake close by the farm on which he worked. He was sei/ed with cramp and carried beyond his depth ; all the efforts of hi'svtcomp&nions failed to save him, a nd ftihe waters closed over him and stilled forever his noble heart. That was all. The old man sat motionless in his chair, a grey pallor creeping slowly over his face, the lower jaw protruding slightly, a da/.e'd look in his eyes. The girl made her way to the 'door, partly supporting herself ,by tne wall as she went, until she reached the bench outside. ' Not the tears— The ling'rin^, lasting misery of years Could match that moment's anguish.' She heard in a vague wav the priesl's words of consolation addressed to the afflicted father, while, with a sense of doom, the chill of death seeming to creep around her heart, she thought how strange it was, how awful and how strange, that of all the millions of peonle in America that fatal accident should have befallen Matt alone— her Matt. At lcnpjlh Father O'Connell came out. ' This is sad, my child,' he said, compassionately, ' \Qiy sad, and \ery hard to "bear. But, dark though Ihe picture is, it has a bright side. Matt was so good, his life was so pure and blameless— just the kind of yo^m; man so dear fo God's heart — we have every reason to hope that all is well with him. And life is &o short, so quickly do we glide into eternity, that, after all, it is 1 but a little time ,tmtil, I hope, we shall all meet him acain. Ever remember, even in the darkest hour, that although God's ways are not ours, His way is always best.—' Weekly Freeman.'