The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XLIX, Issue 24, 15 June 1922, Page 3

The Storyteller

(By Mbs. J. Sadlier.)

_A.liee Riordan

CHAPTER I. “Young, very young she is, but wholly vanished, Youth’s morning colors from her cheek are gone; All gayer and all careless thoughts are banished By the perpetual presence of but one. “And yet that sweet face is not all of sorrow, It wears a softer and a higher m6od; And seemeth from the world within to borrow A holy and a constant fortitude.” —Miss Landon. Twelve years ago, .when the brief, bright spring of Lower Canada'was fast merging into summer—fervid summer —a steamboat from Quebec arrived at Montreal, heavily laden with — With flannels and broad-cloths, and stuffs from the looms of ,Yorkshire and Lancashire —or with muslins and cottons, shawls and kerchiefs from Greenock or Paisley with spices, or coffee, or tea from the faroff climes of Asia Reader, no!her freight was a crowd of human beings: some with the swart, coarse features, and strong, burly frames which usually belong to the Dutch and Germans; others with that unmistakable cast of countenance w'hich distinguishes the children of the “Land o’ Cakes”; but by far the greater number were the sons and daughters of that Western Isle, which has enriched the countries of the New World with a hardy, toiling race — the bone and sinew of society. Irish they were — greater part of that crowd of emigrants. Irish, by their cheerful and somewhat shrewd look, by the rosy hue of health on their weather-bronzed features, and by the peculiarity of their costume the men with their gray or blue frieze coats, short knee-breeches, round Caroline hats, and gaycolored cravats; and the women with their modest-looking caps and hooded cloaks; and the girls'with plain straw bonnets of the coarsest kind, with an undue profusion of ribbon, and woollen plaid shawls, though the season was summer. Yes, they were indeed Irish, chiefly from the northern and north-western counties; but they were far removed from that squalid wretchedness, which, of late years, too often marks the appearance of the Irish emigrant.

Nearly all had landed on the wharf, and already were the boat’s crew preparing to take away the gangway, when they perceived that a few of the emigrants were still on the deck, and they roughly called out to them to be off quickly— were they loitering there for? “Sure, we were jist helpin’ this poor dark man and the little girl to get their things ashore. Will jou let the boords stan’ for one minnit, till we get them over, with this box of theirs?” The speaker was a sturdy, farmer-like man, who, with his son, a lad of sixteen or seventeen, had remained behind to assist those who were indeed totally dependent on others. The father and son carried between' them a good-sized box, or sea-chest, clasped with iron at the corners, and fastened with a hasp and padlock, while after them came its owner, feeling the way before him with a thick blackthorn staff, and 'holding by the hand a little girl of some twelve or thirteen years. Alas 1 poor Cormac Riordan, but little protection was his arm for that delicate-looking child, though he was still in the prime of life, and of hale, hearty appearance; and it was pitful to mark the confiding air with which he followed the impulse of her touch for he was blind, stone blind, and his daughter led him on, lovingly and tenderly, as one would a little child, watching his steps with anxious care, and drawing him dexterously away from the slightest appearance of danger. Both were comfortably, even neatly clad and there was that- about father and daughter which spoke of better days. Cormac was attired in a brown body-coat of good cloth, with kneebreeches of drab ' cassimere, a double-breasted vest of light color, and a black silk ' cravat. His tightfitting hose were of gray wool, finely spun, and his shoes were much finer in their quality, and of better workmanship, than the common shoes or brogues of the Irish

peasantry. Little Alice was equally well clad; and many a lady might have envied the simple grace of her girlish figure, in her plain calico dress of a pretty lilac color, with a large tippet of the same material falling around her shoulders, and a neat straw bonnet, simply tied down with a broad blue ribbon. Her light fair hair was carefully drawn back under her bonnet, leaving the whole of her face exposed—and a sweet mild-looking face it was, though somewhat grave for one so young. Alice Riordan seldom smiled, and when she did the smile was anything but cheerful; it was the bright and beautiful sunbeam falling for an instant on the cold, white snow, and vanishing as quickly as it came. The habitual expression of her face was sadness, particularly when her eyes rested, as they very often did, on the sightless countenance of her father.

The planks were replaced, the box deposited on the wharf; and Cormac, grasping the hand of Barney Dolan, warmly thanked him for his timely help. “The more so,” said he, “as I was a stranger to you.”

“Sthranger!” interrupted Barney; “ah, then, what do you say that for, man alive? Didn’t we come from home together any rate we left Ireland together, an’ that ought to make us the best of friends. Never say it again God bless you, and don’t. Sure, when people from the same counthry meets, an’ them far away from home, among the raal sthrangers, they ought to do all they could for one another;that’s my notion.”

“Well, God bless you, honest man! God bless you!” said Cormac, still more warmly; “an’ when that’s your way of thinkin’, perhaps you wouldn’t think it too much trouble to help us to make some inquiries about friends that we have here?”

“Why, then, indeed, it’ll be the greatest o’ pleasure to me,” returned Barney, “an,’ bedad, .Tm mighty glad to hear that you have friends to go topoor lone creatures as ye are.”

“Alice,” said the blind man, taking out a leather pocket-book and handing it to his daughter, “just look for your uncle’s addressyou know you put the slip o’ paper that it was wrote on into one o’ the pockets there.” While the little girl was looking through the leaves for the scrap of paper, a. carter drew near, perceiving that our little party had a respectable appearance, and his question of “Do you want a cart, sir?” was answered by a ready “Yes, yes,” from Cormac.

“Where do you want to go?” inquired the carter. “That will tell you,” said Alice, handing him the paper, which she had just found.

“ ‘ Mr. Henry Malone, St. Lawrence Street,’ ” read the man slowly, and then he gave a long, significant whistle. “An’ what is Mr. Malone to you?” “He’s my uncle,” replied Alice; “an’ it was he that sent for us. Do you know my uncle?” Ah, that I do,” was the reply “an’ I can tell you, my good little girl, that you have a good home to go to; there not many men in the city, out from the grand quality, that’s better off than he is; an’ what’s more, he has the heart to divide his substance with them that wants it.”

“I am glad to hear that my brother-in-law bears so good a character,” said Cormac; “for it’s many a year since I saw him an’ time often changes people for the worse. Since you know his place, my good man, you can take us there at once, I suppose?” “Troth, an’ I will, then. Yourself an’ this purty little girl, of yours will be snug and comfortable in Misther Malone’s parlour before five minutes. I say, honest man,” he called out to Barney, who was helping his son to arrange their own goods and chattels on another cart, “I say will you jist give me a lift here?” ’

“Bedad, I will so,” said Barney, coming up at a swinging pace. “I was hurryin’ with our own things there to. get helpin’ this dacent man with his. Here’s for it, now,” and with one vigorous effort the two succeeded in placing the box on the cart. “Now, you’ll walk beside the cart, Misther Malone,” said the carter, as he turned his horse towards his destination, “you an’ the little girl.”

“My name is not Malone,” said Cormac, quietly; “my name is Riordan. Henry Malone is not my brother, but my wife’s—heaven be her bed! But can’t we sit up on the cart beside the box ?” >

The carter laughed but Barney broke in, before ha could answer; “Och, the sorra that you could, Mr. Riordan, if it’s that they call you. Sure, it isn’t like a cart at all it’s like a step-lather more than anything else, with big long pegs to keep the boxes from cornin’ off. Musha, but it’s the quare place all out, when that’s the sort o’ carts they have.”

“You can take a cab, sir,” said the carter, laughing all the time at Barney’s simple wonder. A’oil’ll only have to pay a British shilling, an’ you’ll be left at the very door.”

So the cab was called; and after taking a kind leave of Barney and his son, with a few others of their fellowpassengers, Cormac and his daughter got in and were conveyed to the house of their relative, where their box arrived almost as soon as themselves. “I declare, father, they’ve a hall-door with a bright brass knocker,” said Alice. The cabman got down and knocked at the door. “Do you tell me so, Alice?” “Indeed, —an’ there’s as many windows on the house as there was on the big house* at home.” Before Cormac could reply, ..the door was opened, and a small, thin woman made her appearance, who, on seeing the cab, instinctively put up her hand to arrange her headdress, then advanced a step to see who her visitors were. First stepped out Alice, who quickly turned to assist her father, and no sooner did the lady catch a glimpse of him than she ran to the door of a tavern close by and called out, “Harry! Harry!come here quickly!Here’s your niece and her father, both together!— Why don’t you come at once?”

“Take it easy, Lizzie dear!” replied a- loud, cheerful voice, and forthwith a round, red face popped out from the door of the tavern, and after it came a low, squarebuilt figure, with a remarkable good paunch to match the rubicund visage aforesaid. “Take it easy,” he repeated. “Where’s Cormac and the girl?” Here we are, Henry,” said the blind man, advancing by his daughter’s guidance, and holding out his hand in the direction of the voice. “I know you weren’t looking for me; but when the time came for Alice to leave home, I couldn t bring myself to let her go alone; so you see you’ve one more than you expected.” “Well, you’re heartily welcome, Cormac,” replied his brother-in-law, with a cordial shake of the hand: “though I think you were a fool to leave your good warm quarters in Dinny’s snug corner;—l wish you may be half as well off here.”

Oh, as to that, I’m willin’ to take my chance. I thought it was a good opportunity for my little girl to get cornin’ out here; an’, thinks I to myself, Harry Malone is greatly changed if he’d grudge Cormac Riordan a shelter for a little while; besides, I have a few pounds with me that Dinny put in my pocket-book when we were partin’.” By this time Alice had received a kind and friendly welcome from her uncle—and perhaps these last words of her father had no small share in the exuberant joy of her aunt’s greeting. “Indeed, indeed,” said she, “I’m overjoyed to see you both. Why, bless my heart, Harry, you didn t tell me 1 that your niece was so very pretty and genteel;— me, she looks quite the lady!” “How did I know what she was?” retorted her worthy spouse. “I never laid eyes on her since she was two years old, and how could I tell what way she -turned out? But let us go in an’ have something to drink.” The box was taken in, the cabman and carter paid off, and, these preliminaries settled, Mrs. Malone drew Alice into the' narrow hall which separated the shop from the “snug parlour” spoken of by the carter. Leaving the two men together, she took her upstairs and introduced her to a very comfortable little bedroom, which she told her was intended for herself. “Why, aunt, how can I ever thank you an’ uncle enough for. all your kindness—sending for me’all the way to Ireland, an’ having everything prepared for me before I came at all?”

“Oh-, that’s nothing, child,” returned Mrs. Malone, carelessly ; “you know we have no children of our own’ and we intend to bring you up as our daughter. Upon

my word, I’m well pleased to see you such as you are; why, not one in the world would take you for a greenhorn I”

“For a greenhorn, aunt!” repeated Alice, in surprise; “what is that?” Mrs. Malone laughed. “Oh, I forgot that you didn’t know. Anyone that’s just come out from home we call them greenhorns, becausebecause —oh, I declare I don’t know why they’re called so; but you’ll soon get used to the word. There now, put your bdrinet and cap on the bed, and come down stairs, till we see what the men are ■about. I’m sure you’re not out of the need of some dinner

Harry had just mixed a second tumbler of punch for himself, and was insisting on his brother-in-law to take another. “Why, by the hole o’ my coat, Cormac Riordan, that’ll never do. Tut, man! —take another tumbler. Sure it’s many a long year since we took a drop together before; and you wouldn’t be the man to throw a damp on a meetin’ like this. Here, I’ll mix you a tumbler that’ll warm the very heart in you— the laws, I will;—why, Cormac, you don’t know how glad I am to see you.”

“Thank you, Harry, thank you kindly,” said Cormac, laying his hand on his brother-in-law’s arm. “I know you’re glad to see me, an’ only I thought you would you’d never have seen me here. But you must excuse me from takin’ any more punch, for I make it a rule never to exceed one tumbler at a sittin’. I’m just as much obliged to you as if I took it.”

Harry was still insisting, and Cormac begging himself off, when the door opened, and in walked Mrs. Malone, and after her came Alice. This put “mine host” on a new scent. Jumping from his seat, with an alacrity little to be expected from his clumsy figure, he laid hold of his niece with one hand, and in the other he seized the glass of punch which Cormac had so steadily refused. “Here, now, Alice, drink your aunt’s health and —that’s the girl.”

(To be continued.)