The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, Volume LI, Issue 10, 6 March 1924, Page 3

The Storyteller

(By C. J. Kiokham.)

Knocknago^ OB The Homes of Tipperary

CHAPTER Ll. DONOVAN IN TRAMORE—MRS. KEARNEY AND HER "OWN CAR"—THE "COULIN." Tramore — "Great Strand"— a household word in very many Tipperary homes. There the child gets the first sight of those waves, whose singing had been so often listened to in the sea-shell on the parlor chimney-piece and there the grandsire, leaning upon his staff, gazes for the last time upon the same waves with wonder and delight more childish than the child's. Few married couples will you meet along the Golden Vale, and for many a mile to right and left of it, who have not wandered over that level, velvety strand, or reclined upon the sloping turf above the steep shore, while the bay flashed in the autumn sun, when life's journey seemed to them a very "path of rays." And when the corn is "drawn in," and the orchard "shook," and October frosts make it pleasant to come within the glow of the farmer's fire, see if the mention of "Tramore" will not call a dreamy look into the eyes of stalwart youths and blushing maidens! Yes, pleasant memories of the. sea are cherished in the homes of Tipperary. Yet who could ever look upon the sea without a sigh for the- homes of Tipperary—and the homes of Ireland? Father Carroll and his two young friends were walking down the steep street towards the beach,- when Edmund exclaimed: "Surely, that is Mat Donovan with the spade in his hand. What on earth can have brought him here?" Mat was greeted as an old acquaintance by both Edmund and Father Carroll, but Arthur O'Connor had never seen him before, and contented himself with admiring the broad shoulders and sinewy limbs of the young peasant. "Miss Mary, an' Miss Ann, an' the Misthress, sir," said Mat, in reply to a question from Father Carroll. "We're goin' home to-morrow, an' the misthress wouldn't be satisfied to have anyone dhrive 'em but myse'f, an' she sent for the car the week before last, so that I'm here now nearly a fortnight." The fact was, Mrs. Kearney found that her neighbor, Mrs. -O'Shaughnessy, had her own car at the seaside, and discovered at the same time that she herself was by no means well, and required 'the sea air" to bring her round. Mary pointed to the window-curtain, which was fanning her mother's face at the moment, as she watched the breakers leaping up tp clasp the dusky .cliffs in their white arms, and then slide down and hide themselves in the bosom of the blue waves that rolled in as if to call back the truants to their proper home. "What do you mean?" says Mrs. Kearney with severity, on observing the laugh in Mary's blue eyes. "Is there not sea air enough here?" returned Mary. "And sure you can sit* on the rocks, or on one of the seats on the Doneraile Walk. You have the sea air wherever you go." But Mrs. Kearney had made up her mind that the sea air could only be taken in its purity while driving in "her own car" down to the Rabbit-burrow and back again. And so the car and the old mare. and Ma!, Donovan were sent for and every day after their arrival Mrs. Kearney might be seen, with rer plump hands foMed over her stomacher, jogging slowly by the tide—which ever and anon glided under the old mare's feet and startled &e two young ladies on the other side of the car, whose exclamations were utterly ignored by their mamma, as she gave her whole mind to the "sea air"; with Mat Donovan "in an ezad"— borrow his own expression—on the driver's seat. For Mat's legs were long and the driver's seat was low, and he always descended from his throne after a long drive, vowing that he was metamorphosed into the last letter of the alphabet. {'.; ■ \

.: I This jogging by the tide was a severe penance to Mary Kearney; and her sister, who often turned round to gaze with longing looks at the promenaders on the "Doneraile Walk"; and we fear Miss Anne sometimes wished that the wheel would fall off, or that the old mare would obstinately refuse to walk or trot upon sea sand foT love or money. But really, young ladies, you must have patience. The moon will be bright to-night; anddon't you see the O'Shaughnessys driving behind you? " 'Twould be worth your while, sir," said Mat Donovan, "to go out in a boat to the Metal-man's Cave, an' fire a shot in id. Such an ai-cho you never heard in your life 1 I'd give a crown to get wan box at the Knocknagow dhrum in id. Twould be like the end uv the world ! Mr. Richard fired a shot in id a few days ago, an' id made the hair stand on my head. But I know a box uv the big dhrum would be a show intirely!" "So we have Richard here," said Edmund; "that's fortunate." "No, sir"; returned Mat, "he cut away home. All they could say couldn't stop him. The minute he laid his eyes on that bit uv paper stuck on that windy above," continued Mat, pointing to a window they were just passing, "nothin' could keep him. You'd think that little scrap was a latitat, he was so frightened when he see it." "Do you mean the label with 'Lodgings' on it?" Father Carroll asked. "Yes, sir," replied Mat, 'the Miss Hanlys wor lodgin' there; but their father came to bring 'em home unexpected." / "Oh, I understand," said Edmund, laughing. "He is now rambling under the shadow of the old castle with the fair Kathleen." As they walked along the beach by the "storm "wall" they were obliged to cross to the other side of the road, as some hundred yards of the footway were enclosed by a high paling with a gate at each end. This arrangement puzzled Arthur O'Connor a good deal, and he wondered what was the object of locking out the public from this portion of the walk. "The gates will be open by-an'-by, sir," Mat Donovan observed. "That palin' was put up to keep the men from speculatin' on the ladies." "Speculating on the ladies?" Arthur repeated, inquiringly. "Yes, sir," replied Mat seriously. "They're here from all partsthey're here from London," he added, with emphasis, as if London were at the other end of the world. "There's a Lady Elizabeth, an' a Lady Mary, an' ladies the divil knows what here." "How did you happen to learn the names of those distinguished visitors, Mat?" Father Carroll asked with a smile. "Well, sir," Mat answered, with a very solemn expression of countenance, "Phil Morris is here, an' he's lodgin' at a mantymaker's up near the chapel, an' their women do be in there. You might as well thry to understand a turkey-cock as to understand wan uv 'em," added Mat with a blending of astonishment and indignation in his tone. "But about the speculating?" asked Arthur O'Connor, who was able to make nothing of Mat Donovan's explanation of the paling along the storm wall. "He means that the paling is intended to keep the men from looking over the wall at the ladies bathing," returned Edmund. "That's what he' calls speculating on the ladies. But, Mat, what are you going to do with the spade?" "To bury Phil Morris, sir," Mat answered. "Is old Phil dead? I'm very sorry to hear it. It was a treat to listen to him telling of his adventures when he was ' out ' in '98." "He's as stout as a buck," returned Mat. "I'm on'y goin' to bury him for the pains. If you walk down as far as the mast of the ship that was wracked last winther you'll see him buried in the sand, wud on'y his head above

ground, and the sweat runnin' down his face from the weight on him. He says wan buryin' is betther than twenty baths." "Was there a vessel lost in the bay last winter?" "There was, sir. Wanst they get in apast them two white pillars they're done for. Though the fishermen at the Boat-cove tells me there's not an honester bay in Ireland, if the captain would on'y run the vessel in on the strand, instead uv tryin' to get back again." "By the way, Mat," said Edmund, "has old Phil Morris his pretty granddaughter with him?" "He has, sir," returned Mat; "he couldn't live wudout her, I b'lieve. An', begor, she'd surprise you. She's able to talk to the best uv 'em, an' to undherstand what they'd say. An' she was able to show the dressmaker how to manage some turns an' twists in a new-fashioned gown that she wasn't able to come at herself, afther takin' id asundher. I was standin by myse'f; an' she might as well thry to make a watch as put id together, on'y for Bessy." Mat did not mind telling that he spent good deal of his time picking shells with Bessy Morris—which shells, in after days, he could never catch the slightest glimpse' of, on the fire-board to which they were glued, in Bessy's own little room, without a sigh and a mental "God be with old times." The bathers were now flocking up from the strand, and Edmund Kiely, recognising a light-footed nymph among them, with her silky tresses hanging down her back, was about giving instant chase, when Arthur caught him by the arm, and requested that he would take the world easy. "It is Minnie Delany," exclaimed Edmund, keeping his eyes on the shining tresses. "Just let me see where she is stopping." "I'll show you the house," said Mat Donovan, who seemed to be a walking edition of that interesting weekly sheet, The Tramore Visitor. - "She's too damp yet," Arthur observed; "and possibly her nose is blue, for the water must be rather cold to-day. Let us get a boat and go to the cave, and you can see your friends in the evening." "They'll be out in all the colors uv the rainbow, by-an'-by," Mat Donovan observed. "But I can't see wan uv 'em to equal Miss Mary." "Then this lady Mr. Kiely was about running after does not come up to Miss Kearney, in your opinion?" asked Arthur, who was greatly amused by Mat's free-and-easy remarks on things in general. "Not at all!" returned Mat indignantly. "She's a nice lively little girl, an' she has so many bows, an' feathers, an' goold chains, an' sich things,that people take notice uv her. But she's on'y Ally Blasther near Miss Mary. But I see Phil Morris waitin' for me, an' I must be off to bury him." "But who is Ally Blaster?" Arthur asked. . "Ha'penny dolls are called Ally Blasters," j replied Father Carroll. "I suspect it is a corruption of 'alabaster.' " "I hope you will introduce me to your Ally Blaster," said Arthur. Edmund Kiely was too disgusted to reply, and, button- , nig up his "zephyr," he strode on towards the Boat-cove in advance of his friends, looking as if' he considered their observations quite beneath contempt. "This is really a nice bathing place," Arthur O'Connor , remarked as he sat at the window "of his room in the evening. "But is it not a wonder that the people who build these handsome houses never plant a tree?" "Come, brush yourself up and be ready to come out," • said Edmund, who had run up to his friend's bed-room to, protest against his shutting himself up for the evening. "The belles you see, are just about to appear in all the colors of the rainbow, as Mat Donovan said." And Edmund pointed to a young lady at a door a little lower down the street, opening and shutting her parasol. The evening was calm and sultry, and as Edmund ran his eye along the row ofihouses opposite, he remarked that all the windows were thrown open and pretty faces were , visible at more than one; but for some reason or other

none of them as yet emerged into the open air. "What are they waiting for?" the young gentleman thought to himself, as the parasols at the doors became more numerous. "By Jove, Arthur, I'm in luck!" he exclaimed, aloud. "There she is in the bow-window just "opposite!" t "What are you talking about?" returned Arthur. "But I must warn you to take care of your heart and vocation," Edward ran on, "for I am positively haunted by the thought that sooner or later you will come to look upon mo as the destroyer of your happiness."' "In the name of common sense what are you talking about?" "Look at that dazzling little being in the bow-window." "I see her, but can see nothing wonderful about her." "But, my dear fellow, don't you see it is sweet little Minnie Delany." Here Edmund Kiely bowed and smiled, but the young lady seemed quite unconscious that the eyes of her admirer were on her. She had leant out of the window and looked up at the sky, and Edmund Kiely, following her example, saw that a heavy cloud was hanging like a pall above them. The bay, which an hour or two before looked so sunny, was now almost black. The fringe of white along the strand had become broader, and little eruptions of foam were bursting up here and there far out between the Metal-man and the two white pillars on the opposite side of the bay, marking where those treacherous rocks, so. dangerous to the mariner, lifted their iron foreheads almost to the surface of the heaving billows, which now seemed roused from sleep by some mysterious agency; for "There was not wind enough in the air To move away the ringlet curl" from Minnie Delany's cheek, as, with her chin resting on her gloved hand, she leant out of the bow-window and glanced up at the great black cloud hanging in the sky. "I fear the evening is likely to be wet," Edmund observed ruefully. "I'll ask Father Carroll to step over to see Mrs. Delany, and manage to have us all asked to tea. There will be no walking. There is Somerfield's carriage going back to the stable-yard, too. A splendid pair they are; Mat Donovan pointed them out to me as we were coming up, and I was honored by a nod of recognition from one of the ladies." "Who are they?" Arthur asked. "Sam Somerfield's daughters, of Woodlands," returned Edmund. "It is he, or rather his father, keeps the harriers. Hugh Kearney and I have often had- a good run with them." , Arthur O'Connor gave very little attention to what.his friend was saying. He was listening with a look of surprise to. the soft sweet tones of a flute, which he could hear distinctly through the hoarse chant of the breakers. The circumstance which excited his' surprise was, that the music, suddenly stopped almost as-soon -as it- had commenced, and then began again, to cease as suddenly as before. This-was repeated, over and over till Arthur's 'surprise* began to change to some ike irritation.: for the strain] seymed;''familiar; to bimf and |ffeatsL often happen ill 111 ;,, j "Should, spme { notes: we ; .used _}}!; In days /boyhood meet our ear." ..'..', „ C "Can you recognise the air?" he added, turning to Edmund, who""was pensively contemplating the■ nibveh'ieifts ■of Miss Mini -': ]De l a . ns n if rs as she -twisted «uj> ferj ri hl^blmnet—anjj* violent stretch of the'.imagination to suppose ,that Miss Delany had at least a ( slignt suspicion Kiely' was so engaged. .'• • ' I "Yes," he replied, after listening for a moment, " 'tis! an-Irish-air." But- ■itf'^oppigd^^Tr'lrer^i^li6 , TcSuW-Tre ; sure what praticular Irish 'air it was. • •' - - | .*/• ji^'j%P< f?' of melody WETe/bdeomirfg^ x fain^r-afc&: fainteri, i as" ir the' -performer. from them; but they soon noticed them becoming mora

distinct again, .till every note of the few oft-repeated bars could be plainly heard. "I see how it is," said Arthur. "He began to play at this side of the street,. and now he is coming back at the other side." "Yes, there he is," returned Edmund, "and a. most picturesque-looking figure he is, with his cloak and ! :mg white hair. He must be a foreigner, I should say." The musician commenced his melody for the twentieth time; but the window before which he stood was pulled down, and he let his flute drop into the hollow of his arm and, hesitating for a moment, walked a few steps, and commenced again— only to meet with the same reception. He tried again and again with no better success, till he came within a door or two of the house at the window of which Miss Delany stood toying with her curls. "He must be new to the business," said Edmund, "or it would not be so easy to shut him up. Did you remark the way his hands trembled when that window was polled down with such unnecessary violence? And, by the way what thin, delicate hands they are. And there is something striking in his pale, melancholy face, too. He certainly must have seen better days." "'Tis a shame!" exclaimed Arthur O'Connor, as the poor flute-player met with still another repulse. ' "What sort of people must these be?" "I know the air," said Edmund, ' _t is the Coulin." For the poor musician had walked on to the next house without taking the flute from his lips. v "Hang her!" muttered Arthur, as Miss Minnie Delany, too, pulled down her window; though she did it so slowly and hesitatingly, that the old minstrel played on seemingly unconscious of this last repulse. Or it might be that lie was borne away to other scenes by the sweet melody—- " The home-loving Coulin, That's sobbing, like Eire, with Sorrow and Love"— and that poverty and sorrow and humiliation were all forgotten. This, indeed, must have the case, for the two friends observed, as he turned his mild, melancholy face sideways, towards the sea, that his eyes were closed. Edmund Kiely reddened, and bit his lips. Yet pretty Minnie Delany had done only what she had seen others do. She had not the courage to do as her own heart prompted. And, perhaps, the same excuse, such as it is, may be pleaded for some of the others who so rudely spurned the poor flute-player from their doors. When the Misses Somerfield, of Woodlands, would not listen to the "Coulin"—for the splendid pair of bays champing their bits before the Miss Somerfields' door induced the old musician to begin with them— could those who. had no carriages-and-pairs at all venture to listen to it? But if the Misses Somerfield, of Woodlands, had the faintest suspicion of who that poor flute-player was, they would have been charmed with the "Coulin," or any other tune he might choose to play, even though it were as Irish "as '"Garryowen" itself. ■ r He played on now with his face, towards,,the "melancholy occafij*<|<i) P g e s [tfajinl jn la dre'Jm., A % f k v_ Thol KriifHvitli 'see, §{ pTet w h ei 'w&n,ltikml"*art will seem Erin to me. I t ln e^fe%p!? QP m shall! .still* be, my home/ :.i»«.»PI lj ,|And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam" i *....•. - t . ■ ■ . „ :■.-.., -....*•, | Jiidnrund "had murmured the words'softly to the air, and |nva.T'ccmmencmg-thirnext verse, wdien"the sweet tones of the fejVTt #P?W lec iip# %oices®m fff f agges l Ur |fe S >Jo Avh ?- a^ fhmselyes wStajaTniJt Ufcusicaj pre i'M 1 ?* f JHg^ g 'il? at % wkm f» I -"but of the way; old Dan Tucker'^''" * wM 1 - You're too late to get your supper." I .: The window /was thrown up again Miss£Delany''s AvW seemed jfuife farmed'' by, |tli lydeons Anj ||and:.ve^<»jv:Mi*iwfe- ; stopped twisting her curls, and beat time i|to it with her little rosy fingers upon her shoulder. But

still the old musician played on,'with his pale face turned towards the sea. ' v ' ' ' ' A hand—an exquisitely, fair and delicate handwas " laid upon his arm, v and a pair of large dark lustrous eyes were raised to his. It could be seen at a glance that she was his daughter. The old man started as his eyes met hers; and after casting a bewildered look'around, a painful smile passed over his pale face, as he hid his flute hurriedly in the folds of his,cloak. The girl was tall, and, in spite of her worn and faded apparel, singularly graceful. Her lips trembled" and her eyes filled with 4ears as she drew her father away from the crowd of idlers that began to collect around the boys, who "yah, yahed," and rattled their "castanets," till Mrs. Delany seemed to be getting quaint faint from the excess of her delight. They had not moved many steps from the crowd when Arthur O'Connor stood by the young girl's side and pressed a piece of silver into her hand. She blushed deeply ;and before she could recover from her surprise, a second piece was placed in the same hand, and, on looking round, the fairest face and the heavenliest blue eyes, she thought, she had ever beheld, met her gaze. For a moment all three seemed spellbound. The musician's daughter looked from one to the other of her benefactors, while they looked at each other. Arthur O'Connor thought, too, that the young girl who, like himself, had run after the poor flute-player, was the. loveliest creature he had ever seen. She was the first to recover presence of mind, and turning quickly round hurried past the grinning vocalists, who were becoming alarmingly black in the face from the vigor of their exertoins, and entered a house within a few doors of Mrs. Delany's. ; The musician's daughter gazed after her with eyes brimful of admiration and gratitude; but observing that her father had walked on without appearing to miss her from his side, she thanked the student with a smile, and hastened after him. y (To be continued.)