The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 26 May 1921, Page 3

The Storyteller

WHEN WE WERE BOYS

(By William O’Brien.) CHAPTER XXll.— (Continued.) All creeds, races, and castes agree once a dayat dinner-hour. ' Men may differ as to the form of grace before meat, but all the family of Adam acknowledge a common parentage as to what follows. The keen mountain air, and perhaps a certain platonic recollection of the old monk’s bleak penances and meagre larder, diffused a general feeling of present comfort at sight of Mrs. Motherwell assuming the command of the* game-pie, and Father Phil carving the ham with an expression of face* as cheerily frosted as that decorated joint itself. Even disinterested readers sometimes linger to take in the savor of such toothsome human festivities receive one of Mrs. Motherwell’s plentiful helpings from the grouse pie; to see the Rector cut up the partridge, with dashing digressions into the neat’s tongue; to hear the American Captain demanding the pleasure of wine all round, even to the youngest Miss Neville, who had never before seen such a droll man, and nearly spilled her wine with laughing; to behold Katie Rohan trotting up triumphantly with a dish of bursting potatoes smoking hot, which that wonderful Mrs. Motherwell and she had cooked over a fire which these conspirators had set going somehow in the cobwebbed kitchen grate at the Lodge; to see, the great Guardsman nervously'escorting dishes of trembling jelly from the hampers and escorting back precarious pyramids of plates; to hear the clink and the gaiety and prattlethe hundred pretty idiotic tricks and innocent nothings, which on these occasions light up young hearts (and, if the truth were told, mayhap, old ones too) with more genuine joy than half a dozen Dr. Johnsons flashing and blazing around Sir Joshua’s table. Most of the business that makes life pleasantest is transacted in exceedingly small coin, luckily for those who are but scantily furnished with Bank of England notes, in wit or in stamped paper. Of course the American Captain felt obliged under the influence of emotions to which the young Republican heart of Great America was as susceptible as the more historic but played-out shrines of European chivalry and romance —emotions which he hoped were not altogether dead even in the extinct volcano which once kicked up shines at the head of C company, Ninth Massachusetts Volunteers—felt coerced by every sentiment of homage to youth and beauty joined with goodness which he need not apologise to St. Finn Barr for describing as unsurpassable, and a sumptuous hospitality which would not discredit the First Floor Room at Delmonico’s — coerced, in short, to get on his legs and propose the health of Miss Westropp in a speech which would have made her sink into the earth \ had not so thoroughly enjoyed it from beginning to end. The Rector, entering into the humor of the moment, took it upon himself to respond in the name of the young lady, explaining, with a quizzical look around*, to see whether Mrs. Motherwell, who was stowing away the des-sert-plates, was out of hearing, that he had by no means resigned his own interest in youth and beauty, although circumstances over which he had no control might possibly render it dangerous for him to proclaim that sentiment in too high a key at the present moment, whereat good Mrs. Motherwell smiled and said: “Fie, Edward; I heard you! I’ll tell Miss Deborah!” The Rector concluded by, to His horror, proposing Father Phil, in glowing and generous terms,.which grew terribly in earnest as he proceeded. The old priest fidgeted and blushed, and smiled all the while, with exclamations of “Oh, dear me!” Did you ever hear such a thing ?”i “Listen to that now!” “Mrs. Motherwell! who’d ever have thought he was such a play-boy!” and when the Rector wound up the “three cheers more” by calling for “a Protestant one,” . which he gave as lustily as Luther’s Latin, Father Phil could be by no means tempted on his legs, but kept murmuring, in a state of amused indignation— “l’m sure it was all that rascal Jack’s doing.” . . ' N

'Everybody looked happy, Mabel silently noted with joy— to Bow-wow, who after invoking saintly , assistance at the Holy Well, steered his withered limbs and his tiny donkey-cart within respectful hail of the picnic party, and experienced substantial proof of the efficacy of his pilgrimage, in the shape of a piled plateful of colcl fowl and ham, which Katie Rohan tripped down to present him with Mrs.‘.Matherwell’s compliments. Presently that rascal Jack himself was on his feet, to observe that “there was one present -here amongst them whom it would be a stain on national hospitality, a libel on national -gratitude should he not say it, parbleu —a blot on the national escutcheon if they were to separate without honoring”; and he proceeded to propose Mr, Neville’s health as a man, as an Englishman, as a philanthropist, as a geologist, in language which he considered highly felicitous, and which he by no means intended to exceed the limits of goodnatured pleasantry proper to such occasions. The toast was a great success in all quarters except that where young Neville sat communing with his moustache and looking excessively sulky. 1 Mr. Neville himself rose to reply with as much modest diffidence and painful distillation of words as distinguished him on the few occasions when he ventured to catch Mr. Speaker’s eye during the dinner-hour, when Mr. Speaker’s was almost the only eye open of the half-a-dozen or so pairs of eyes present. He declared that he did not at all take the perfervid eulogies of his vivacious young friend au serieux; but for all that he was frankly obliged to them all. And then, finding the words flow more readily when he had not to describe his feelings, the honest gentleman launched out into a short summary of his own observations, social, statistical, mineralogical, 'on the condition of Ireland, with an earnest promise of his own humble co-opera-tion in any efforts for the amelioration of that beautiful country and its gifted race. Nothing attested Mr. Neville’s real popularity all round better than the fact that his excellent but slightly dry observations were received with every demonstration of enthusiasm, Jack’s voice and glass sounding loudest in the chorus. The young Guardsman alone preserved a gloomy demeanor, and held even darker consultations with his moustache in reference to the applause than while his father’s eloquence was in progress. Mrs. Motherwell and her happy little aide-de-camp Katie arrived with tea, which was hailed with great applause, and of which thereupon Mrs. Motherwell declared that Katie had had the brewing all to herselfa statement which instantly dashed poor Katie’s happiness to earth, and very nearly dashed the teapot which she was carrying to the earth also. Nor were her nerves quieted when Harry .Westropp developed a sudden and inordinate passion for tea-drinking. The poor lad, whose thirst had been allayed with copious draughts of other liquids during the speechmaking, carried his cup again and again to be filled out of Katie’s teapot, remarking each time “Never drank such a thing!” “It’s delicious!” “It’s divine!” until Mabel seized a favourable moment to snatch the cup out of his hand with a frown, and released poor Katie, who ran in a state of horrible confusion to Mrs. Motherwell’s side and snuggled there. , The party broke into groups. The old fellows lighted their cigars (the Rector would not surrender his own trusty and well-beloved meerschaum). They enlisted Katie’s services for a supply of hot water and lemons, with an ultimate view to whiskey-punch. The girls had brought their croquet balls and mallets, and Jack Harold was looking up an eligible piece of sward. ■ “You meant to be insulting just now, did you ” he heard, in a harsh voice at his ear, and looking around saw young Neville black as thunder. “You wanted' to try your damned French jackanape’s jokes with my father?” Harold s cheeks paled slightly before this angry apparition, but die answered in his usual airy way: “How, my friend? Is it that the wine of Champagne has conquered the Life Guards Grey and avenged Waterloo? Or is it thy insuccess in Miss Georgey’s donkey race that has shaded thy young days? The donkey is one of the least considerate of animals.” ‘ The donkeys are less objectionable animals to me than curs,” hissed Neville furiously. “I wish you would come aside and speak plain English, confound you.”

- Miss Westropp was standing beside 'them and had overheard the last words, having already noted Reggy Neville’s, frowning looks. She looked him now steadily in the face with an expression of angry reproach that he shrank under. i “You are engaged, Mr. Neville, as Miss O’Meagher’s partner. They are beginning. Mr. Harold has promised to take me to hear the echoes at Mullagh. It is time for us to bo off, Mr. Harold. You must make the echoes sing to me.” And to his 1 ” unutterable joy and amazement Jack Harold marched off with Miss Westropp by his side. Young Neville stood looking after them as rigid as if he were looking at Medea’s head, until a gay, silvery voice carolled in his ear: “Upon my word, Captain Neville, you are a most valuable partner — one finds you. Even if ,you are a big Englishman, you needn’t drive a poor Irish girl to hunt the mountain for your highness to beseech you to accept —your mallet.” He turned abruptly and met Georgey O’Meagher’s laughing dark eyes. “Thanks!” he said simply. “I am a donkey.” “Goodness gracious!” cried the owner of the dark eyes, opening them wide r in wonder and alarm. “No, indeed, you’re not! —you’re—oh ! there, you’re an Englishman! —and I wish they were all as good as you! Come along, and help me to beat your sister,” said this most audacious girl. He came along.

CHAPTER.—XXIII. What the Echoes Heard. The moment after proposing to walk to Mullagh, Miss Westropp repented it. She desired to 'punish that sulky Reggy, who ought to have known better, and this occurred to her as a sharp and ready form of correction but, like most young ladies of her age who will have their own way, she did not find her way such a primrose path when she had it. She was not, however, the girl to turn back merely because there were difficulties about going forward. Jack Harold, for his part, was walking in a dream of bliss. He could not feel that his feet were touching the earth. If the beautiful, lightsome creature by his side had suddenly developed wings it would only have seemed the due completion of his experiences. He had fallen wildly, madly in love with a star millions of millions of miles away, and lo! the star had stepped down and was at this moment enveloping him in its rapturous ethereal flame. If one’s longing for the stars were to be gratified, the first sensation of mixing with the celestial rays would most likely be one of considerable confusion. Jack Harold was a pretty bold aerial navigator but his first rush of whirling emotions—surprise, gratitude, and rendered him merely stupid and speechless. He replied to Miss Westropp’s remarks in a constrained and incoherent way. Having to paint her as no better and no worse than she is, I am afraid it must be hinted that she experienced a glow, possibly ever so faint, of triumph to . find this-bright child of the people—this hardy young condottiere,: with the confident tongue and the glittering sword of fancy so manifestly' subdued by her presence. Like the knowing young person she was, she did her girlish best to rally him out of his embarrassment. There can be no better proof how completely Jack’s conflagration of heart had mastered him than that she should have found any necessity for doing so; but she did. . . “I do believe we have missed the path,” she had to say at last, catching a glimpse of the. water almost beneath them. • “Delicious I” he cried, looking at'her fixedly as if to make sure she had not vanished in a train of light. Good heavens, stop ! It is a precipice exclaimed the girl,, pulling him back just as he stepped on a ledge of rock which fell sheer down into the lake. , * / rCt w»“ e ca ! It was a trapee. If one could only make it eternal by stepping over!” "" ■ It would not be fair to pull me over with you, instead of bringing me to Mullagh, would it?” , No it would be fairer for you to pitch me over all by myself, for an imbecile,” he exclaimed, now thoroughly awake and brisk. “But they are quite near, our echoes, you are going to see. It . is necessary to descend. There is no danger. But then ; you are braye^as-"—-” As a goat. Yes; I was brought up in the same manner,” laughed Mabel, bounding gaily down from one rocky

foothold or clump of broom to another into the woody ravine below, and maliciously baffling every plot of her youfig guide to lehd her manual assistance, in the descent. “They are heavetily she cried, as she stood with her hands clasped, listening to the ravishing orchestra of Silver’ trumpets .that was. set pealing in the deep purple heart of Mullagh by Jack Harold’s performance on the key-bugle (which he had snatched out of the trembling hands of the old man whose “tirade it was to entertain rare visitors with the echoes). The story went that the secret musicians were a band of sorcerers from the Far East who had one© alighted in Gdugaun Barra in the guise of angels to bewitch the old monks with their eyes of unholy blue. The stern, saint banished them to a prison in the unsunned centre of the mountain, where they have ever since been purging their offence with penitential song, and where of a stormy winter night you can hear the imprisoned damsels loading the night wind with the mysterious wail of the Miserere . “Many’s the time I heard it myself, sure enough,” said the old owner of the key-bugle. “But sure the ould strain must be in ’em yet, afther all their pinances, for troth- they’re as .fond of a twist of a love-song as ever to this day. It seems the saint don’t be always listenin’, an’ whinever they gets his back turned, they’ll give you out praise of a purty lady sweeter and readier, I’ll warrant you, than ever they chants the Seven Penitential Psalms.” “I go to try whether the saint is listening now,” said Jack, throwing aside the old bugle and preparing to sing. “Begor, the saint himself wouldn’t say agin praising Miss Mabel. The birds on the bushes do that,” said the old fellow in his soft dulcet patois, with the homage of an ancient cavalier beaming out of every old wrinkle of his worn hungry face. “Pray don’t!” cried Mabel, laying a hand earnestly on Jack’s arm. “Why spoil the delicious calm of the place? Don’t be wicked!” y “If I were to be banished into the heart of Mullagh myself for it, I must!” was the reply, and the next instant he broke into the rich cooing notes of a Provencal serenade, in which the quaint conceit was that of a nightingale who grows intoxicated with love for a fair lady, outside whose window he used to sing, and, after pouring out his soul in ecstasies of hopeless passion, beats himself to death against the barred casement of his mistress. The melody was warm with the voluptuous breath of almond-blossoms and violet-fields, and giddy with the wine and sunbrightness and passion of the south; and every verse died away in long low flute-like sighings, as if the overwrought bird would expire of delicious pain. Either the saint AAas dozing or he relented for the silvery choir inside the caverns of Mullagh took up the notes as though they found in the love song the passionate compensation for many a dreary night of penance and as the singer paused after every bar, the tremendous sounding-board of the precipitous heights in front of him caught up the burden, and back in a very ecstasy of ethereal music warbled the notes, dying, rallying, swooning—dying until the very heart of the great mountain seemed to be sick with love. When all was over, truth to tell, the singer was almost as faint as the nightingale. He had never before found the process of singing a French love song so enthralling, so agonising. (To be continued.)