The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 24 January 1918, Page 3

The Storyteller

(By D. P. Conyngham, LL.D.)

THE O'DONNELLS OF GLEN COTTAGE A TALE OP THE FAMINE YEARS IN IRELAND.

CHAPTER XXIX SEPARATION—- - - ■ : ' ' -- ; EXECUTION.

Our tale is fast drawing to a close. It is melancholy, indeed, to dwell upon the fate of two strong young men consigned to an ignominious death for a crime of which they had not the slightest knowledge. The Cormacks clung to life with a hope; but there was no hope for them. Notwithstanding their conviction, still there was a general feeling abroad that they were innocent. ' A petition, numerously and respectively signed by the leading gentry and clergy of the countyeven by the archbishop—was got up in their favor; but offended law should take its course, and two innocent men should die to strike terror into the guilty. It was even said that this petition was submitted to the consideration of the judge that tried them, but he saw no reason why the law shouldn’t take its course. Afterwards, when one of the witnesses felt some remorse of conscience, and began to make some unpleasant disclosures, it is thought that the same judge besought the Viceroy to grant a reprieve; but the fiat had gone forth and could not be revoked. In fact, a special commission seems called to strike terror into the people, and this can never be effective without victims. But to return to the poor doomed Cormacks.

After the reply to the petition, all hope of life was shut out from them. They gave all their thoughts to God, and joined their spiritual guide in devotion and prayer. There was a melancholy kind of resignation about them, more saddening than the most callous indifference. Poor fellows, it was no wonder that they should fret. The bright world was about closing on them they were sinking into a dishonored grave for the crime of others. But the dreadful day drew near, and the parting time had come. The day previous to that on which they were to give up their young lives upon the scaffold, the mother and discarded sister entered their cell. The old woman was supported by one of the turnkeys. So thin, so emaciated, and worn was she, that she seemed as if risen from the grave. She cast a vacant,' unmeaning look about the cell, but as her sons approached to embrace her for the last time, she exclaimed—

“My darlin’, my darlin’ boys! Shure they can’t murther you. Oh, no shure ye never hurt or injured any one, ye that were so thender-hearted and kind to your poor old mother. O God! O God!” Silently she sat down between them upon the seat, and took their hands in hers and bathed them with kisses and tears.

“Ah! mother, mother, God pity you!” At length the jailer came to separate them she wildly clung to them, screaming “Spare them!” As she was torn away from their embrace, she stretched out her thin hands to them in an agony of despair, and then fell senseless upon the floor. She was borne into a house near the gaol, but the crimson tide gushed from her pale lips; ere the following morning broke, that poor bruised,, bleeding heart was at rest. The condemned men had scarcely recovered their composure after that sad interview when Kate O’Donnell and Mary Cahill were admitted into the cell.

We will not attempt to paint that last and awful meeting, when two fond young hearts, that were united by the sacred ties of love, were striken for ever: All their bright dreams and hopes of happiness had van-, ished with that wild frenzied embrace. . All were gone, and they were left to commune with -the God before whose awful tribunal'they were to appear on the morrow. ; i. .

At the appointed hour the prisoners . were led to the fatal drop. They, appeared calm and reconciled. They joined the priest in' prayerj and supplication. James Cormack looked down at the crowd for a moment, and then, in a firm voice, said 1 ■

“Good people, before God, who is shortly to judge us, we. declare that we are innocent of the murder of Mr. Ellis as the child unborn. We had neither hand, act, nor part in it. May God forgive- our prosecutors.” . - - - • . ■

: ; An exclamation of sympathy arose from the people, and at a sign from the priest they fell upon their knees in fervent; prayer. ' The executioner had now adjusted the rope, and as he settled the knot about James Cormack’s neck, he hissed into his ear- v

“Blood for blood ! I have sworn it. You crossed my love for Mary Cahill, you spilt my blood, and now I have yours.” James Cormack turned upon him a withering look, blit then his awful position recurred to him, and he bent his head in prayer, and muttered, “God -forgive you.” A few moments and they had passed into' eternity. They were laid to rest in the same grave with their poor mother. May they rest in peace ! Their sister Nelly soon followed; for, unable to bear up against her heavy grief, she heart-broken, soon went to the happy land where, the weary are at rest and sin no more.

CHAPTER XXX.—THE WRECK—MEETING OF OLD FRIENDS— LOVE REWARDED. It is a fearful sight to see a noble ship, crowded with human beings, drifting helplessly upon an angry sea. . The good ship Mary Jane sailed proudly with her freight of passengers. Over three hundred emigrants were upon her—some going to meet old friends—some going to try their fortunes in foreign lands; but all full of hope and spirit. For a few days the noble vessel sped merrily along, like a thing of life. A storm set in, and the angry seas hissed, and boiled, and foamed, tossing her about like a plaything, as if to mock the powers of man. Her sails and rigging were torn, and her masts were gone, leaving her absolutely helpless. The sea swept over her deck, and on she went before the relentless storm, until she fiercely dashed against some projecting rocks. She.bumped and tossed about. The shouts and screams and cries for mercy that rose from that fated ship were fearful; but there was no one to hear them but God and his angels, for the tossing waves and roaring elements had drowned them to the ears of men. In the stern of that ill-fated vessel two men clung to a rope; they clung for lifebut in vain.

"O God ! O God ! we'll be lost; lost here and hereafter; damned, damned forever!" shrieked the perjured Splane. "The blood of the Cormacks is rising up in judgment against us now—to be damned, to be damned forever in hell's fire! Isn't it fearful? What use is our blood-money to us now, Burkem ? Yes, it will help to drag us down deeper into the pits of hell. May my curse light upon you but for you I'd never have their blood to answer for. No, you " A fierce sea swept over the vessel ;_ the rope they clung to snapped asunder; and ere the recording angel had registered the oath, they were swept into eternity.

*** * - * We must take our readers for a moment to a thriving town in the Western States of America. Look at that r pretty shop beyond the windows well filled with green and blue and yellow bottles, full of leeches and the like, tell us plainly as words that it is a doctor's establishment. What name is this over the door? "William Shea, M.D."i ~

In a snug little parlor that bespoke comfort sat Willy Shea. We cannot bring ourselves to call him

doctor : there is something formal in it, and we like to be on the most intimate terms with old friends. Willy sat : near the fire reading a V paper. He looked . much • fleshier and manlier' than - when we last saw him. The china cups and saucers, and the fresh rolls and the golden butter,. all stood i ready upon the tea-table, waiting - for the : kettle, which seemed to boil very leisurely. ' ■ v ; : v V' ■‘ - Willy had on his slippers, and he looked so happy and contented in his easy-chair that one might envy him.

Near him sat his wife, a fine blooming-looking young woman. She had a prattling little baby of about a year old in her lap. The little thing kicked and crowed lustily, to the great delight of the doting mother and fond father, for the latter occasionally raised his eyes from the paper he was reading to reward the little prattler with a smile.

“I declare, Willy, but she knows you. The little ducky tries to go to you,”, said the mother, as the baby stretched her hands to her father. 1

“She does, the darling. Come, little pet. I’ll take her while you’re getting the tea, Kate.” “Do, love,” and the mother, after kissing her, handed her to her father. '

Sitting at the other sicfe of the fire was a young man of about thirty. His face was covered with beard, and he looked sunburnt, if he were after coming from some warm clime. He, too, played with a little boy of about two years, that he nursed upon his knee. Tea being ready, they sat around the table, and began to converse upon various subjects. “I declare, Frank,” said Mrs. Shea, “you ought to remain with us. You could buy a nice property here, and have us all settle together.”

“You know, Kate, there is a talisman in old Ireland for me yet; besides, despite all her wrongs and miseries, the love of native land has become strong with me while toiling for wealth in the golden fields of California. No, Kate, I long to meet old friends; to ramble through the old haunts, where you and I, and others that are now in heaven, chased the butterfly and pulled the wild flowers, or listlessly sat upon some mossy bank, listening to the rippling of the stfeam or the merry notes of the birds. No, Kate, somehow I could not live from that old land where my father’s and mother’s bones are laid to rest.”

“But, Frank, so few of us have escaped the fatal ruin of our family, we ought to try add live near one another.”

“I should like it very much. I’ll tell you what yoxi might do: I have more wealth than I can well want! now, come to Ireland with me; I’ll set you up, and buy a small property for you. What do you say to that, sister mine ?”

Mrs. Shea looked enquiringly at her husband. “Really, Frank,” said he, “I have seen so much misery and wretchedness and oppression in Ireland that my heart grows sick at the thought of encountering it again. Since.l set up here Ihave a good lucrative practice, and would not like to change, if it’s the same to my dear Kate. There is a field here, Frank, for an active man that cannot be found in Ireland.”

"Willy, do as you think best," said Kate, like a dutiful wife. "Did my father ever get his reason rightly said Frank, changing the conversation. 'Yes; he had a lucid interval before his deathj and when he learned our-sad history, and how we were scattered, he wept like a child, and then sank again into his childish ways, until he died." "And. poor Uncle Corny?" "Poor man! he was always raving about battles and sieges,- and other things of the kind, until he died, exactly six months "after you left." V;. : "And our good, kind uncle, Father O'Donnell, how did he bear up?" A < -

; 7 ‘‘Poorly, Frank. After ,our father’s death he sank rapidly; he was always speaking of you You know I went to live with him after father’s death; That noble girl, - Alice Maher— cannot - esteem her too * highly, Frank— spent many an evening with us. We often wept over old times, and breathed many a sigh to heaven for your safe return. Father O’Donnell \ was like a child near Alice. . At length we found that' he was getting childish ; for he used to ask Alice where you were, and when did she see you, and the like.” Frank held down his head and wept. ‘‘He then sank rapidly,” continued Kate; “and about a month before his death Willy, here, returned; the old man was just able to perform the marriage ceremony, but it was his last, for he was soon after laid to rest in his own little chapel. We sold his effects; they were barely able to cover his debts ; then, with what money Willy had, and the last cheque I got from you, we came and established ourselves here.” Frank held his sister’s hand in his and wept, as the thoughts of home and old friends rose to his memory.

“Come, come, don’t be childish,” said Willy. “You must come with me to-morrow, Frank, to see an old friend.”

“Who is it, Willy?” said Frank. “You recollect Mary Cahill ; she’s now Sister Mary Joseph. She never raised her head, poor girl, after the execution — murder, I ought to call it—of the two young Connacks; so she’s now a Sister of Charity.” “The Connacks, poor fellows, and faithful Mary. I will go, Willy ; and her convent will not regret my visit. Do you know what became of Parson Sly and Hugh Pembert ?’ ’ “Really I couldn’t say, Frank. After squandering the property between them, they went— nobody knew nor cared where—it is thought, to a foreign land.” * -X -K -K- *

We must now return to the old country- Though times went hard with many a wealthy man in Ireland, still Mr. Maher, owing to his good, kind landlord, throve and increased in wealth. He is much changed since we saw him last ; the grey hair is fast thinning over his brow. Alice, too, looks thin and pale. Instead, of that old gay, sprightly appearance, she, looks rather sad and more spiritual.

"Alice," said her father, as she poured out the tea at the breakfast table, "I see that Mr. Ellis's place, including the ■ O'Donnell's • old farm, has been bought upon trust. I should like to know who is the purchaser. Tell me, Alice," and Mr. Maher put down his cup, after imbibing about half its contents —"tell me, Alice, isn't it strange that we have had no letter this long time from Frank. Why, the five years will be up in a month.. If he doesn't keep his word, I think you oughtn't refuse Mr. any longer. You know he's a rich man." Alice sighed, and the tears started to her eyes. "Ah ! I might as well let you alone. What strange beings you girls are!" and Mr. Maher drank off his tea, as if it were the aggressor, and then walked over to the window. .•. "Alice!" said he, looking out, "come here. Who the deuce is this strange-looking fellow? He might cut off some of his beard, anyway." . The stranger drove up and jumped off the car. Mr. Maher, in answer to his knock, went to open the hall door. "You don't know me, sir," said the visitor, as Mr. Maher looked at him in perfect bewilderment. Alice was standing at the parlor door, her little heart beating violently, she couldn't tell why ; but a 1 soon as she heard the stranger's voice she ran out. "Alice! Alice!" said the stranger, extending his hands towards her.

“Frank! Frank she replied, and sank swooning into his arms. -

: "I declare'."'said Mr. Maher. "Frank, my boy Bring here something to recover her-—a cup of <-, water. Bun, Mrs. Moran!" 5 - : ,^i Alice quickly recovered, for joy seldom kills.

v '.'Alice! my own fond, -faithful Alice!" said Frank, pressing her to* his bosom.'.•.' - T 1 have returned with ? means beyond your father's conception. I strove„and toiled for wealth for you, love.-- In 1 that rich land everything I touched seemed to turn into gold, for 1 I became a regular Fortunatus, and seemed to have possessed the gift of Midas; but it was all the fruits of love." '' ""■-' : "'■ ' ""' A '""'-': '* ' y /" ■ '" '"''-■''. '■ r - "God bless you, children !" said Mr. Maher, wiping his eyes with a big red handkerchief, and giving his nose a few great blows that made it resound ■ like a horn. " •' ' - :r : ~ \ :'.-\ ". -\-.._ ..,...:, ; ".: ".'•...: "Didn't I always tell you," said Mrs. Moran, with her apron to her eyes, "that God never made two such loving hearts to be unhappy." ■- "I would wish," said Frank, next morning, to Mr. Maher, to take a drive to see where the old house stood, and to shed a tear over the grave of my parents." Mr. Maher consented, and Alice and he and Frank set out together. Frank, after visiting the graves of the household, expressed a wish to see Glen Cottage, as it was uninhabited but by a keeper. "As to that," said Mr. Maher, "it has been bought in the Incumbered Estates' Court; it has gone to the hammer like all Lord Clearall's property. So, I'm sure who ever bought so sweet a place will shortly come to live in it." • . *■ - - Having reached the cottage, they walked from room to room. It was richly furnished with Turkey carpets, rich papers, costly furniture, and splendid drawings and paintings. . "How very civil the servants are," said Mr Maher. "It's a little paradise of a place," said Alice, looking out of a window that commanded a magnificent view, and then resting her eyes upon the costly furniture and works of art. _

“Would you like to live here, Alice?” said Frank, with a smile.

"Oh! yes, Frank dear, how happy one could be here with those they loved." 'Alice," said Frank, pressing her to him, "you have been true and faithful to me in all my trials and troubles. Sweet love, this is your home: I am the purchaser of it!" Alice turned her tearful, loving eyes upon Frank's and Mr. Maher again used the red handkerchief, exclaiming—• "God bless you! God bless you! my darling children !" A few years have passed over, and the place is different from what it was in Mr. Ellis's time. Peace and plenty, love and happiness, now reign around Glen Cottage. The End.