The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, Volume LI, Issue 5, 31 January 1924, Page 3

The Storyteller

(By C. J. Kiokham.)

Knoeknagow OB

The Homes of Tipperary

CHAPTER XLIX.—IN THE LONESOME MOOR—TATING MURDER DARBY RUADH THINKS HIMSELF BADLY USED—TOM HOGAN HAS AN ARGUMENT AGAINST PHIL LAHY. The light in Mat Donovan's little window called a third dreamer back from the dead Past to the living Present. He too, was gazing on the moon, which shed its silvery light upon him as softly as upon the pale face and mild eyes of the lovely girl who at the same moment sat alone in the window of the old cottage among the trees. His dream, is of a golden autumn evening. He is standing in the shade of a row of elders, at the back of a thatched farmhouse, looking out upon the stooks in a newly reaped corn-field. His hand rests on the shoulder of a blushing girl; and he tells her that the field is his, and points out how thickly it is studded wih stooks, and what a rich harvest it will prove. The scene changes to a bright fireside. The blushing girl is a happy wife with an infant at her breast, listening to the prattle of three rosy children who crowd about their father's knees as he takes his accustomed place by the hearth after the day's toil. And, though his toil was hard, he did not grudge it so long as he could keep that hearth warm for those happy prattlers, and feel that at least the dread of want would never-cast a shadow upon that dear face bent so sweetly over the sleeping infant. But the gleam of light from Mat Donovan's little window makes him start to his feet. The bright hearth is quenched for ever. The mother and children are cowering over a few embers in a wretched hovel. The fields which his toil had made fruitful are added to the broad acres of his wealthy neighbor, .whose gold induced the irresponsible absentee landlord to do the deed that left him a pauper, with no prospect in the wide world before him but a pauper's grave. He had been leaning against a bank out in the lonesome bog—rone of those banks upon which Billy Heffernan loved to recline, and revel in bliss till he would scorn to claim relationship to royalty . itself! But far different from Billy Heffernan's visions were those of him who now, kneeling upon one knee, and with one hand resting upon the black mould, looked cautiously around the desolate moor. There scarcely could have been any necessity for this caution for at that hour, and in that place, it was extremely unlikely that any human eye could observe his movements. He took a gun from where it lay beside the bank, and after carefully examining the lock, placed it half cock. As he was about letting down the hammer again, a sound like a sigh, or a deep breathing, close to his ear, made him pause, and a sensation of fear crept through his frame. A shadowy object passed over his head, and, casting his eyes upwards, he , beheld something between him and the sky which filled [ him with amazement and terror. In shape it was a bird; but of such monstrous dimensions, that it seemed like a great cloud hanging in the air. For a moment he thought it was only a cloud; but the slow, regular waving of the huge wings satisfied, him that it was a living thing. The long snake-like head and neck were thrust out towards him, and in his terror he let the gun fall from his nerveless grasp. The head was quickly drawn back, and the monstrous bird waved its huge wings, and sailed away through the moonlit air. He followed it with his eyes till it dropped on the brink of the water that covered a large portion of the bog like a lake. And now he saw it was only a heron that had lodged for a moment on the bank above his head. While he thought it high up in the air, the bird was within a few feet of him; and. hence the illusion by which he was so terrified With an exclamation of.-. scorn at being frightened like a, child, he stooped to pick up his gun. But he : had been lying near the brink of a square bog-hole filled with water, and the gun had fallen' into it, and, of course, sunk to the bottom/ r He knew the hole was eight or ten feet deep, and that to attempt recovering the gun would be useless.

H© ground his teeth, with rage; but after gazing round the silent moor, and up at the peaceful moon, it occurred .to him that the weapon had been snatched, as it were, by the hand of Providence, from his grasp; and the thirst for vengeance ceased to burn within him, and he felt as if God had hot abandoned him. . . \

' “I must see about gettin’ id up anyway,”'he observed to himself, “or poor Barney might get into throuble about id. Pie tould me he was bringin’ id to Mat Donovan to put a piece on the stock, where the doctor broke id when he fell on the ice. But he’s such a fool he won’t remimber the bush he stuck r id in when he med off afther the hounds. I don’t know what put id into my head to take a. fancy to such an ould Queen Anne, when this is handier and surer.” And he took a horse-pistol from his breast and clutched it firmly in his hand. He looked down into the square bog-hole, and touched the smooth black surface of the water with his hand. The action reminded him of the holy water with which he used to sprinkle himself on entering and leaving the chapel before his clothes had become too ragged to allow him to appear with decency among the congregation; and involuntarily he sprinkled his forehead, and made the sign of the cross.

‘There’s some great change afther cornin’ over me,” he thought. “My mind is someway ’asier; an’ the madness is gone off uv me.”

And looking at the pistol again, he replaced it in his breast.

“I’ll do nothin’ to-night,” he continued with a deep sigh, like a man overpowered by fatigue. “If I could lie down here in the heath an’ fall asleep, an’ never waken againl’d be all right. But,” he added, rousing himself by an effort, “but l musn’t forget poor Mary!” Pie walked towards a road which looked like a high embankment, the surface of the bog having been cut away at both sides of it; and as he climbed up this embankment, the light in Mat Donovan’s window again caught his eye.

“ ’Tis long since I exchanged a word wud any uv the ould neighbors,” he continued, “till Billy Hefferhait chanced to come on me th’ other night, an’ I makin’ a show uv myse’f. An’ sure ’tis little wish I had to talk to any wan. But someway I think now I’d like to hear a few friendly words from some wan. An’ that light in Mat’s window reminds me how I used hardly ever pass by wudout callin’ in to light the pipe.”

He looked wistfully towards the light, and then looked down upon his tattered habiliments.

“I’m a quare object,” he muttered with a bitter smile, “to go anywhere. “But as ’tis afther cornin’ into my mind I’ll turn back.”

Instead of following the road or “togher” upon which he stood, he crossed an angle of the bog till he came to the stream or canal in which Dr. Richard Kearney left the leg of his nether garment, and following it for a few hundred yards came out on the public road.

The road was quite deserted. He reached the hamlet without meeting a living thing; and as he stood at the “cross,” and looked up along the silent street, he felt a strange wish to steal through it without being seen by any one. He moved on like a spectre, treading lightly as he passed those houses the doors of which were open, and glancing furtively to the right and left at the lights in the window panes. On coming to the beech-tree he stood still and looked up at the pointed gables and thick chimneys of the “barrack”; and happening to glance through the kitchen window, he caught a glimpse of Norah Lahy’s pale face. She was praying, with clasped hands and eyes raised to Heaven; and there was something in her look that moved him instantly to tears. ~

“I wondher is id dhramin’ I am?” he said to himself, “I can’t remember what’s after happenin’ to me, or what brought me here, except like a man’d feel afther the fayer, or somethin’ uv that soart. On’y I’d be afeard I’d frighten her, I’d go in an’ ax her to pray for me, an’ I know ’twould do me good. An’ as id is I feel I’m the betther of lookin’ at her for no wan could see such a look as that an’ not know there was another world besides ' this. I could kneel down on the road here an’ pray myse’f; what I didn’t do this many a day—right, at any rate. I might

go on my knees an’ say the words; but id wasn’t prayin’* The curses used to choke the prayers I I could hardly keep from tollin’ God that He was a bad God! But I’m not that way now at all; an’ maybe ’twas the Lord that sint me round this way. No wan lookin’ at her could doubt there was a heaven. The angels are talkin’ to, her this minute ! An’ someway I think ’tis for unfortunate sinners like me she is prayin’. For sure she don’t want to pray for herse’f. Oh, an’ look at her now,” h© exclaimed in surprise, “an’ how she smiles an’ laughs like a child whin her mother came in. She wants to cheer up the poor mother that knows she won’t have her long. The Lord save us! I feel my heart laughin’ wud her! But I’d betther not let anyone see me standin’ here,” he observed, as he walked on, hearing Kit Cummins calling to her husband to come home to his supper, and judged from -the pitch of Kit’s voice that Jack was down towards the forge, and must necessarily pass by the beech-tree on his way home.

Mat Donovan was humming “The little house under the hill” by the fireside, while Nelly was turning the “quarters” of a griddle of whole-meal bread that was baking over the fire, when the latch was raised, and a tall, gaunt figure stood between them and the candle in the window. The fire, being covered with the large griddle, did not afford sufficient light to enable them to recognise the new-comer; and the candle being behind his back only showed the outline of his figure, in which Nelly fancied she saw something wild; and she felt and looked somewhat frightened as she thought of the “gang,” which, according to common report, were just then prowling nightly about the neighborhood. Mrs. Donovan, too, seemed alarmed, as she dropped her knitting on her knees, and stared over her spectacles at the man, who stood looking at them for nearly a minute without speaking. “God save all here,” said he at last.

“God save you, kindly,” returned Mat, starting from his chair, and moving towards him till he was able to see his face. “Is id Mick Brien?”

“The very man,” was the reply. Mrs. Donovan and Nelly exchanged looks of the deepest pity, but remained quite silent.

“Sit down,” said Mat, placing a chair for him.

“I don’t know,” he replied, irresolutely. “I just sc© the candle in the windy, an’ id reminded me to come in.”

“Sit down and take a hate uv the fire,” said Nelly, in a subdued tone, and as if it required an effort to address him. “I hope herse’f an’ the'childher is in good health?” “They’re on’y middlin’, then, Nelly,” he replied. “The winther was very hard.”

■ He sat down, however, and said more cheerfully: “I’m glad to see you .lookin’• so well, Mrs. Donovan. You’re as young-lookin’ this minute as you wor the night uv poor little Sally’s wake; God rest her sowl. But sure I needn’t, pray for her; for she had as little sin on her as an infant, though I b’lieve she was goin’ on thirteen years when she died.” f

“She was a beautiful child,” returned Mrs. Donovan. “But God is good; and maybe ’twas for her good, and your good, and her mother’s good, that she was taken from you. God knows what is best for us all.”

“That’s thrue,” rejoined Mick Brien. “An’ ’tis of’en I think ’twould be well for the whole uv ’em if they went too.” '

“Don’t say that, Mick,” returned Mrs. Donovan. “Ye had yer own share uv sufferin’ and throuble ; but' there’s no knowin’ what might be in store for ye yet.”

“I’m afeard,” said he in a hollow voice, “ ’tis gone too far for that.”

> , While his mother was speaking, Mat was hurriedly filling his pipe, which, after lighting, he presented to Mick ■Brien, who took it eagerly, but checked himself as he was putting it to his mouth.

V- “No, Mat, I’m obliged to you,” said he, handing back the pipe. _ “’Tis a good start since I tuck a blast; an’ maybe ’twould be betther for me not to mind id.” Nelly and her mother exchanged looks again, and the old woman shook her head sorrowfully.

Drawing his chair to the fire, he held the backs of his

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hands close to the blaze that struggled from under the griddle.

I' “Was id in the bog you wor?” Mat asked. “Your hands are black wud the turf-mould. An’, begor, there’s enough uv id stuck to your old brogues, too.” i Mick Brien was taken by surprise, and seemed embarrassed. He could have had no legitimate business in the bog at that late hour, and felt at a loss what reply to make.

| Mat noticed his embarrassment, and, with instinctive delicacy, appeared to forget the question altogether; and turning to his sister, he said:

“Are you goin’ to let that bread be burnt?”

She turned the four quarters of bread, and finding them properly baked, placed them standing on their ends on the griddle, so that the thick edges cut by the knife in dividing the circular cake into four quarters might be fully baked. While she was thus employed, the door as opened, and two men walked in with an apologetic grin, holding their pipes in their hands.

“God save ye!” said the foremost, as he approached the fire to light a piece of paper, which he held between his fingers.

"God save you kindly!" returned Mat, in a manner that plainly showed they were no welcome guests. The second man was advancing to light his pipe at the fire also. But the moment their eyes fell upon Mick Brien, both wheeled quickly round, and, lighting their bits of paper at the candle in the window, hurriedly applied them to their pipes as they made for the door, where they encountered something which drove them backwards into the kitchen again. (To be continued.) <*><►