The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XLIX, Issue 27, 6 July 1922, Page 3

The Storyteller

(By Mrs. J. Sadlier.)

.Aliee Riorclaii

(CHAPTER ll.—(Continued.) "Why, faith, I don't trouble the church very often," said Harry, as ho drew himself up and stretched down his vest over his capacious paunch. I haven't got much time for that I leave it to them that has nothing else to mind. A man that has got business on his hands has no time to spare for going to church, or saying his prayers: the old women in Ireland do all that for us." "Right again, Harry," cried two or three together, "you wouldn't be half so good a fellow as you are if you were a church-goer. They're the greatest bores in creation, with their everlasting prayers and fal-de-rals. Here, old boy, send us over another pint of rum — last was capital, and just set us a-going in prime style. Here's your health, Mr. Maloneand yours, ma'am, wishing you both all sorts of good luck." Then, having emptied his glass, he clapped it down, saying, with a hearty smack, "And, for my own sake, I wish I may never toast either of you in worse stuff. By jolly! it's the real stingo, and no mistake." "Many thanks to you, Alick," said Mrs. Malone, as she opened the door to retire; "it always does me good to hear you talk, for you're never without your joke. I've a great mind to have the blind man of Jericho, as Harry calls him, offer up a pater and ave for you. Good-night, boys," and off went Mrs. Malone. "0 Lord my God!" murmured Cormac, in deep, deep sorrow, as he arose and groped his way out of the room, fearful of hearing yet more hurtful discourse. "0 Lord my Lord! keep me and mine from being engrossed by the things of this wretched forgettin' himself and his God that way ! Oh ! sweet Lord Jesus, take me an' my little one out of this place, if it be your holy will to save us. I don't care how poor our lodgin' may be, only to be where your name is honored, an' religion attended to." Just then he heard the door opening, and the next minute the soft voice of Alice calling, "Father! are you here, father?" "I am, Alice; but what's wrong with you?" "Oh, nothing at all, father, only when I went back to where I left you, an' didn't find you there, I wondered where you went to. Sure, it's quite dark in here." "Well, you know it's all the same to me, Alice," said her father, and he tried to speak cheerfully; "but you needn't tell me that there's nothing the matter with you, for I know by your voice that something has disturbed you. Tell me, my child, what is it?" "Why, then, it's nothin' in the world, father, but some talk that I heard goin' on in the shop there abroad as I was passin' through the big room where I left you a while ago. I hope you'll not ask me to tell you what I heard, father, for indeed I couldn't bring myself to come over it." She did all she could to keep from crying, but her father heard the' deep sobs which she, nevertheless, strove to stifle, and he knew that the little girl heard that which oppressed her young heart with a load of sorrow. "She has heard them makin' game of her poor blind father," said he to himself, "an' the words they said have touched her to the quick." "Alice," said he, "I heard them at it myself, so I can guess what it is that grieves you. But never' mind, they slight us an' mock us for three things that we have no cause to be ashamed of. First, because it has pleased God to deprive me of my sight; next, because we're poor, and dependin' on others —at least they think so—an', last of all, because we profess to serve God. Now, my daughter, you have sense enough, an' I hope, religion enough to know that my blindness an' our poverty came from God, an' if we bear them as wo ought, they'll be crowns of glory to us hereafter; an' as for the other, it ought to be our only pride an' glory in this world, because we serve an' follow a Master that's above all the kings o' the earth. So long as we don't do anything to anger Him or to disgrace Him we need care but little who laughs at us. But

it's time to go to bed, Alice, an' if you'll jist go an' ask a candle for yourself from the'girl in the kitchen —but now I think of it, where's the one you had upstairs?" "I left it in the kitchen, father, before I went to look for you." "Here, Alice, give me your hand to the foot o' the stairs, an' I can find my way up. I want no light, that's one comfort!" In order to reach the stairs, they had to go through the passage which ran parallel with the shop, and they could not avoid hearing what was going on at the moment. "I tell you what it is, now," said a voice which they had not heard before in the conversation, "I'll not stand this; by the good daylight, I will not! I'll take a joke . as well as any man, and give one, too; but I wouldn't let the best man that ever stepped in shoe leather make little of a priest before me, or despise my religion. If Mr. Malone there chooses to let such work go on in his place, it's more shame for him; but I'm blessed if I'll stand by and hear it." While Cormac was endeavoring to think of where it was that he had heard that voice before, Alice whispered to him, "Ah, then, father, do you hear the man that brought our things herethe carrier they call him—do you hear how well he stands up for his religion?" "I do, Alice dear, I do hear him," replied her father. "God bless him, poor fellow, let him be what he may. You're right enough, child, it is him, an' no other. But listen a minute." "Why, Dan Corrigan," said a hoarse, rough voice, in a jibing tone, "is it you that takes it upon you to defend the priests. If the old blind chap inside here was to take it up, one wouldn't so much mind, for he's what I call a real thorough-going papist, trooping off with his daughter to church early in the morning the very first Sunday he was here, and being to confession the day before. He might speak up for religion; but, by Jove, if you profess the same religion, I rather think you don't live up to it; so you're no more than the name of a papist. I'd advise you to let the priests fight their own battles, my finelellow! They're able enough to do it, and what is more, by all accounts, there can be nothing said of them that they don't deserve. Take my advice, and don't disturb yourself about them. Now, I ask you, as a friend, Dan, how long is it since you set your foot inside a church door? Eh, my lad, tell me that?" ''lt's no business of yours, Sam Thompson," retorted Corrigan, in a raised voice; "if I went oftener to church, it isn't here I'd be this evening, or in company with you; and if I don't go as often as I should it's all the worst for myself; but I tell you again, don't speak that way of the clergy in my presence, or, by this and by that! I'll let you feel the weight of a pair of Irish fists." "Take care of that, Dan," cried Thompson, angrily; "two can use them weapons! I owe you no ill-will; but don't threaten me, if you value your bones— I tell you!" Here Malone interposed, and came between the belligerent parties, throwing the blame, however, on Corrigan. "I'm surprised at you, Dan," he said, "to come into my shop and raise such a row of a Sunday evening; I'm sure you'd be the last man I'd suspect of doing such a thing." "Me raise a row!" cried Dan, growing more and more excited. "What for do you say that I did it? You don't throw the blame on them that was blackenin' and slanderm' your religion—but sure you have no religion'— and runnin' down the clergy; but when I stand up and take their part, then I'm down for raisin' a row The back o' my hand to you, Mr. Malone!" he added contemptuously; "I always took you for a decent man, and stood up for you, as I'll never do again; for a man that would call himself a Catholic, and let these lads go on as they do in his presence, isn't worth a traneen. I'm done with you, Mister Malone, and indeed you'll lose many a customer by this evening's work. Now, San Thompson," he added, going up to the surly Englishman, notwithstanding Harry's attempts to keep him back, "now, look here Sam this is Sunday evening, an' I don't wish to raise my hand to you; but to-morrow, or any other day that you choose to appoint, I'm ready and willing to try my hand on v you. for backbiting and slandering of our clergy; so be on the look-out, for I don't want to take you short.'"

Thompson's reply was a heavy blow with his shut fist, which, striking poor Corrigan right on the breast? sent him reeling across the floor. In another minute Dan was pummelling the Englishman with all his might, interlarding his blows with various exclamations of defiance and contempt. "There now, you treacherous bulldog! Take that, you black-hearted villain!—that'll teach you to talk hard of the priests! Ha! you rascal! you thought to do for me that time; you want to murder me, but, by jingo, I'll give you as good as you bring!" Alas! Thomposn had a party to back him, and poor Dan had only his own good fists. Malone was heard dragging him away, while two or three of the others, taking an ungenerous advantage of his being alone, scrupled not to lend a hand against him. Bravely and stoutly he continued to hold his own, though he had no longer time or breath to season his buffets with words, and the combat was still going on, for Dan had got his back against the wall and armed himself with a stick, which, fortunately for himself, had caught his eye standing in a corner; but just then the inner door flew open, and Mrs. Malone rushed out, crying: "Why, what in the world are you about, or have you all taken leave of your senses? Harry Malone, isn't this a fine story for the neighbors to have? Not another word with any of you now, or I'll send off for the police this very minute." Malone, with becoming submission, retired on the word to his sanctum behind the counter, and Corrigan's assailants falling back, he was left standing "alone in his glory," stick in hand, whereupon Mrs. Malone ordered him to quit tho house instantly, "For," said she, "there can't be luck where such, a vagabond frequents." "Oh, then, never say it twice, ma'am," replied Dan, as, replacing the friendly stick in its corner, he wiped the perspiration from his heated brow. "If ever you catch me here again, you may swear that I've lost my senses; for, please God, I'll never cross your threshold again so long as my name's Dan Corrigan. For Thompson and these other cowardly fellows, perhaps I'd be even with them some of these fine days; and as for you, Mr. Malone, the worst I wish you is, that you mayn't be sorry for all this when it's too late!" Cormac waited to hear no more, but with a heavy sigh ascended the stairs. Alice would not quit him till she had conducted him to his bedside, aid bidden him "Good-night." He charged her not to forget praying for her uncle, that God might turn his heart back into the ways of peace and holiness. "I'd like for us to offer up our prayers together, Alice," said he; "but I don't wish to keep you too long now, for fear your aunt might be wantin' you. Go now, my child, an' may God bless you this night an' for evermore." "Where's your father, Alice?" inquired her uncle some time after, when she went down stairs, and entered the room, where he and his wife were pledging Sam Thompson (and he them) in nut-brown ale, the shop being now closed, and the day's turmoil over. "He's gone to bed, uncle." And so saying, Alice sat down quietly in a remote corner of the room. "Well, to be sure, what an unsociable man that is!" cried Harry. over here, Alice," said Mrs. Malone, in a coaxing tone; "come over, dear, and take a drink of ale. Here, Harry, fill out some for her in this tumbler.'* "No, thank you, ma'am," said Alice, "I don't wish for any." "Ho! ho!" said Thompson, who, by-the-by, bore the mark of Dan Corrigan's Irish fist in the guise of a black eye. "Ho! ho now I remember what you told me about the prudishness of your young niece, who would not even - taste tho punch, because the old hunk forbid her. I say, my little wench, wouldn't you take a tumbler of ale from me?" And he tipped a wink at Mrs. Malone. "See here, I'll give you this brand new shilling to buy sugarstick if you'll only come and drink my health. Come; that's a good lass." "Indeed, then, I'll not, Mr. Thompson," -said Alice rising from her seat, and speaking in a tone so decided that it was evident her feelings were excited. "I wouldn't taste beer, ale, or spirits of any kind if you'd give me a guinea instead of a shilling." "And why not, my pretty May-bird?" + m " W Sr? pM Alice, coming a step.nearer the table, while her glowing cheek and kindling eye told how

keenly she felt the insult offered her. "Why, because I know it's wrong; that's the raison." "And how do you know that?" persisted Thompson. "Because my father says'so; an' when he says it, that's enough for me!" s "Your father says it!" repeated Sam, with infinite contempt; "but what's that to the purpose?the old fellow ain't here now, and his opinion is not worth much at the best!" "God tells me to honor my father," replied Alice, firmly; "an' my religion tells me that if I don't do it I'll be lost. It's not only when he's to the fore that I am to obey him, but jist as well when his back's turned; because God didn't say, Honor your father and your mother when they're present, but only Honor your father and your mother; an' another thing, Mr. Thompson, I don't like to hear anyone callin' my father an old fellow; I'd rather be called any ugly name myself." She was entirely overcome by her feelings, and burst into tears, covering her face with both her hands. "Hillo!" cried Thompson, "what a fuss is here about nothing! What did I say to make her cry so?" "Don't cry, Alice, don't cry," said her uncle, kindly; for he was touched by the sight of her tears. "He was only joking, Alice, for he thinks a great deal of your father; indeed he does. Dry up your tears and come over here; here's a sixpence for you to buy candy to-morrow when you go out. Mr. Thompson musn't joke any more with you, for I see you're not up to his ways." "Get a candle from Betty," said her aunt, "and go off to bed. What a foolish girl you are to be so easy made cry! But never mind, it'll be all over to-morrow don't say anything of it to your father." "Indeed, I'll not, ma'am, not a word; for I never tell my poor father anything that 'id grieve him, if I can help it. He has sorrow an' trouble enough without me carryin' stories to make him worse." So saying she left the room. Not a word was spoken for some minutes after Alice had disappeared, but the three sat looking at each other in mute wonder. "After all, Lizzie," said Malone, speaking slowly and earnestly, "after all, the child is in the right, and we were all wrong." His wife and Thompson laughed out on hearing him speak so. "Hoity-toity!" cried Lizzie, "is that Harry Malone, or is it not ? A = I live, Cormac Riordan or the daughter has bit him, and we'll have him mad with religion like them. Look at him, Sam, wouldn't you think his face grew two inches longer since that little prate-box gave us our lesson?" "I quite agree with you, Mrs. Malone," said her worthy ally; "a serious face doesn't at all become my friend Harry. Nature intended him for ' a right good fellow,' and I'd be sorry to see him turning canter on our hands. He's not cut out for that, I promise you!" Harry only shook his head, and fetched something like a sigh; but the next minute he was as jovial as ever, and quaffed draught after draught of his own brown stout, till even Thompson thought it high time to follow Mrs. Malone's example, and retire to bed, which that excellent woman had done half an hour before. When Alice Riordan got into her own little room, she carefully closed the door, and then sitting down on her bed she wept with all the abandon of childish grief. When she had somewhat eased her heart, she wiped her eyes, and knelt to say her prayers, not forgetting her father's injunction to pray for her uncle. "I'll say five paters and five aves for him," murmured she to herself, "in honor of the five wounds of our Blessed Saviour." So she did, and then, arising from her knees, she undressed herself and went to bed, with a lighter heart and a more hopeful spirit. (To be continued.)