The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, Volume LI, Issue 8, 21 February 1924, Page 3

The Storyteller

(By C. J. Kiokham.)

Knockif, agow os The Homes of Tipperary

CHAPTER L.—(Continued.) Edmund Kiely looked the very opposite of the pale, slightly built student whose thin hand he grasped in his warm palm, while his blue eyes and fresh, laughing face beamed with hearty good-nature. Edmund, as his little sister Ciace used to say, was a- “jolly fellow,” never by any chance out of spirits for more than five minutes at a time. And yet the two friends whose society he most loved were Arthur O’Connor and Hugh Kearney. His father wished him to commence the study of the law, as he had a strong dislike to his own profession. But the young man had set his heart upon an open-air life, and in order to prevent his flying away to the antipodes, or to hunt buffaloes on the pi airies of the W est, Doctor Kiely promised to purchase some land for him in Ireland when a favorable opportunity presented itself. And Mr. Edmund Kiely is now one of those enviable mortals who have nothing on earth to trouble them. He and Arthur and Father Carroll had made several tours together, which proved such out-and-out pleasant affairs, that he is now bent upon adding one more to the number. “I like the look of your house,” ho said, as he shook hands with the priest at the door of his thatched domicile. “There is something suggestive of the romantic about it. I have no doubt many a runaway couple dismounted at this door in the good old times, to demand the services of Father Cleary. Oh,” he exclaiemd on entering the parlor, “surely that armchair in the corner must have belonged to him. I can almost fancy I see the venerable old soggarth sitting in it at the present moment. \es; it and all the rest of the furniture belonged to him,” Father Carroll replied. “I bought them all at the auction; and though, as you see, they arc not over elegant or expensive articles, I am in debt on account of them for the first time in my life.” “And talking of romance,” Edmund went on, “of course, it was in this room Sir Thomas Butler’s brother- was married. I’d like to know all about it. Did you ever see his wife?” “No; but Arthur can tell you all about it. She was his cousin.” So she was, sir,” old Mrs. Hayes, the housekeeper, who was laying the table, quietly observed—somewhat to Edmund’s surprise. “You'd think he’d break his heart crying after poor Miss Annie. ‘ 0 uncle,’ he used to say, what made you let that old man take her away?’ An’ sure he wasn't an old man, though he was stooped and deli-cate-looking. We all thought he was only a painter, or an artist, as he used to say; but he told Father Ned who he was, an’ when he saw poor Miss Annie so given for him consent to the marriage. The poor thing got delicate soon after, an when she found that his brother and family were makin’ little of him, I know it used to fret her. He took her away to Italy for the air, for he was as fond of her as o his life. But she only held two years, an’ her last . letter to her uncle would bring tears from a rock, ’twas so movin’. Her husband, she said, was as kind an’ lovin’ as ever an’ she was sure he’d be kind an’ lovin’ to her little Annie when she was gone.” “How did they happen to become acquainted first?” Edmund asked, as Mrs. Hayes took her bunch of keys from her pocket, and ostentatiously shook them, preparatory to unlocking one of the drawers of the brass-mounted desk. “Well,” Mrs. Hayes replied, as she selected the key she wanted from the bunch, “herself an’ Father Ned mave three weeks that year at the water. An’, it seems, Air. Butler spent all his time abroad learning the paintin’ business—an sure, I never see a man so fond of anything as he was of makin’ pictures. He painted all Major French’s

children while he was here, an’ ’tis little they thought ’twas a near cousin of their own was paintin’ ’em. There is the three of ’em beyondfine young women now,” said Mrs. Hayes, pointing to the ladies who so annoyed the oversensitive student a few minutes before. “But the pictures are all there still, an’ if ever you are at the Castle ’twould be worth your while to look at ’em you’d think they wor alive. But he was always practisin’. That an’ playin’ the flute was all that troubled him.” “So, ’twas while he was at the castle he saw Miss Cleary?” “Yes, sir; but he was shipwrecked, an’ a’ most dimmed, an’ Father Ned took him to the house where he lodged, an’ Miss Annie nursed him; for ’twas thought he’d never get over it. An’, afther that, he went about paintin’ at the great houses. An’ that’s the way it came about. Poor Miss Annie was an orphan, you know, sir, an’ lived wud her uncle ever since she came from the convent where she was educated. I’m told they had nothin’ to live on but what he was able to earn, an’ his brother an’ all his family turned against him. ’Tis said now that Sir Thomas is near his end, an’, as he never got married, Miss Annie’s husband, I suppose, will come in for the property.” “And the title,” added Father Carroll. “By the way, I trust it may turn out well for our friends at Ballinaclash.” “Why, what difference can it make to them?” Edmund asked. “Oh, ’tis a matter of no little anxiety to a farmer to know what sort his new landlord will he. But any change is likely to be for the better in this case; for the present man is a rack-renter.” “I never heard Mr. Kearney say anything against him,” returned Edmund. “Though he is by no means sparing of censure,” he added, laughing. “ ’Tis a treat to listen to his comments sometimes.” ‘Yes, but he has a lease,”- replied Father Carroll. “But numbers of his tenants have been smashed trying to pay impossible rents. I should not wonder if his agent, old Pender, is urging him on in this course. But I’m inclined to think his brother will be a kind landlord, unless he is led astray; and it is said, too, Sir Thomas will leave the property greatly incumbered.” “Why, Arthur,” exclaimer Edmund, “as your cousin’s black eyes made so deep an impression on your boyish heart, I can’t help thinking, if her daughter bo at all like her, you had better keep out of her way, or she will spoil your vocation.” “I am not likely to come in contact with her,” returned Arthur. “Though, for her mother’s sake, I should like to know her.” “Of course, if he succeeds to the property, he will return to Ireland.” “I think not,” Arthur replied. “It is said he is a complete Frenchman in his tastes and habits, and I suspect , he will always live on the Continent. But where are we going to go?” “To Tramore,” Edmund answered. ‘‘Nonsense,” returned Arthur. “Let us go somewhere where there will be no crowds. I detest the class of people you meet at these bathing places.” “Oh, yes,” rejoined Edmund, laughing. “I remember your notions in that respect. You used to say you could imagine yourself marrying a peasant girl or a high-born lady; but that you could not abide the bourgeoisie.” “That is my idea still,” replied the student. “They are a compound of ridiculous pride and vulgarity. But a peasant girl is seldom vulgar to my mind.” “Well, I have seen something of all classes,” Father Carroll observed, “and I must say I have met some women of the class you condemn, who certainly were neither ignorant nor vulgar.” “He’s a humbug,” said Edmund Kiely, as if his friend’s remark had nettled him a little. “ ’Tis sour grapes with him, because a certain lady had the bad taste to prefer mo to himself, once upon a time. You know we were, always sure to be smitten by the same divinity, and though I gave him every fair play, he was never able to win a single smile

the moment I entered the lists against him. And that’s why he detests the sort of people one meets at the seaside. But what do you say to Tramore?” “I vote for it,” Father Carroll replied. “I suppose old associations have something to do with it, but I can enjoy a stroll along the ‘ Great Strand,’ more than I can the grandest cliffs and finest scenery we have. And then we’ll be sure to meet some old friends there.” “Hear, hear,” Edmund exclaimed. “We start to-mor-row. I’ll introduce you,” he continued, turning to Arthur, “to the brightest and most fascinating little being that ever turned a wise man’s head. And an heiress, too, for she is an only child, and her father is as rich as a Jew.” “I don’t want to be introduced to her,” was the reply, “The less I see of such people the better I like it.” “I suppose it is Miss Delany?” said Father Carroll. “! heard something about her. She has got an immense deal of polishing at all events.” “And it has not been thrown away— nor has it spoiled her m the least,” returned Edmund. “But, by the way, I’m told Mary Kearney has turned out a downright beauty. My little sister Grace says I must marry her. She is twenty times handsomer, Grace says, than Minnie Delany. But I always thought her sister Anne would be a finer girl.” “I have not seen them for a long time,” said Father Can oil. “I’m in the black books with their mother, it is so long since I paid her a visit. Father Hannigan tdld me she was saying to him that the world was gone when one s own flesh and blood will forget you and pass by your door without inquiring whether you are dead or alive." In fact, I got what Barney Brodherick calls c Ballyhooly ’ from her. ‘After getting him the best servant in the three counties, said she, ‘ never as much as to say “Thank you!”’ I am quite agraid to show my face to her. I suppose you have met Richard in Dublin?”, “Yes, we had some pleasant evenings at his uncle’s He will soon be a foil-blown surgeon. lam promising myself a few days’ shooting with Hugh shortly, and, if you could manage to come while I am there, I’ll make your peace with Mrs. Kearney, as I am a great favorite of hers.” “Do you know any of them, Arthur?” Father Carroll asked. “No, I never met any of them,” he replied. “But I often heard of them.” “Come,” said Edmund, pushing away his plate, “let US go out and look about us. - Do you ever venture into Major French’s grounds? I’d like to get a nearer view of t lose nymphs I caught a glimpse of as I was coming in. unless it be that ‘ distance lends enchantment to the view,’ they are worth looking at.” •n “Yes, we can cross the river by the weir,” returned Father Carroll. “There is a place there in a grove of largo fir-trees called the Priest’s Walk. Poor Father Cleary was accustomed to read his Office there for more' than ' forty years; and it is even whispered that he may be met there ■still on a moonlight night. It was there his niece and her husband always walked, too, Mrs. Hayes tells me. Rut, accor mg to Tom Doherty, there are other associations of not quite so innocent a character connected with the Priset’s Walk; particularly one in which a French governess figures.” “Oh let us go to the place at once,” exclaimed Edmund, tossing his white hat carelessly on his brown curls, “and you can tell the story of the governess; and who knows but we may catch a glimpse of the old priest and his beautiful niece? I wish I could believe in such things.” ‘Just wait till I tell Tom Doherty that we are to start early in the morning. But what do you say to a glass of punch before going out?” , , Oh, wait till we come back, and sitting in that old chair 1 11 drink the health of all true lovers, and sympathising uncles, who, like kind old'Father Ned, will let them bo happy.” ' (To be continued.)