The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, Volume LI, Issue 28, 2 July 1924, Page 3

The Storyteller

(By C. J. Kiokham.)

Kn o ekn agow om ... _ The Homes of Tipperary

CHAPTER LXL—(Continued.)

“Begob, Phil,” Barney answered, when he had smacked his lips and wiped his mouth after the Ballinaclash bacon, “ ’tis all like a dhramo to me; but I don’t much care as Bobby came home safe, as that was what was throublin’ me.” And Barney did look contented, and in a very happy frame of mind. " , . • “But tell us where you went to and what kept you away so long.” “Well, whin the steamer dhrove off wud Mat, I felt so down-hearted I didn’t know what to do wud myse’f. An’ as Bobby wanted a rest, I walked up an’ down lookin’ at the ships. • There was wan big wan full uv people,- an’ the sailors shoutin’ an’ singin’ an’ pullin’ ropes, an’ women an’ childher roarin’ an’ bawlin’-for the bare life, till you wouldn’t know where you wor standin’. ‘ls that Barney?’ says some wan out from the middle uv ’em. An’ who was id but a b’y from Ballingarry side that challenged Mat Donovan to rise a weight wan day at the colliery; an’ begob he put Mat to the pin uv his collar the same day. So out he comes, an’ pulls me in on the deck; an’ who the blazes did I see sittin’ furninst me but Patherson the piper play in away for the bare life. Thin three or four more follows that wor in the habit uv coinin’ to the dance at the Bush med at me, an’ you’d think they’d shake the hand off uv me. The divil a wan uv ’em that hadn’t a bottle, an’ I should take a small dhrop out uv every wan uv e’em for the sake uv ould times, as they said. Thin nothin’ ’d do but I should dance a bout; an’ Patherson changed the ‘ Exile of Eryin ’ to ‘ Tatthered Jack Walsh ’ while you’d be lookin’- about you. Well, Phil, you know that’s wan of Callaghan’s doubles, an’ if I didn’t show ’em what dancin’ was, my name isn’t Barney. But some way or other some wan knocked up agin me, an’ my fut slipped on the boords, an’ down I fell.”

Here Barney scratched his head and fell into a reverie “Well?” said Phil Lahy. “What happened you when you fell?” V "That’s what I’m thryin’ to make out, Phil,” returned Barney, ‘but I can’t. Baitin’ that I suppose I forgot to get up; for whin I kern to myse’l there I was ondher a hape uv canvas, an’ Patherson lyin’ o’ top uv me 'gruntin’ . ike an oul sow. ’Twasn’t long any way 'till a couple uv sailors pulled us out, an’ whin I stood up the divil a stand I could stand no more thin a calf-afore his mother licks Jura. o° there I was. spinnin’ about thryin’ to studdy mysef, when the flure slanted down, for .all the world like as if a cart heeled an’ you standin’ in id, an’ I was pitched head foremost, an’ was d n near dhrivin’ my head through-the captain’s stummuck. < ‘ Where’s your passageticket? says he, shoutin’ out loud; for you couldn’t hear j our ears wud the wind, and the say dashin’ up agin the sides uv the ship, till you’d think we wor goin’ to be - swolheq. afore you could bless yourse’f. ( Where’s your ticket?’ says the captain again, seem’ that I had my arms twisted round a rope, an’ I houldin’ on for the bare life. ' Arra, what ’d I be doin’ wud a passage-ticket?’ says I ‘ whin I’m not goin’ anywhere.’ ‘ Come, my good fellow,’ : says he, ‘ I want none of your .humbugging Hand me your ticket, an’ go below.’ ‘ I’m not a coddy at all,’ says ■ I. * Let me go look afther me little ass.’ * He’s a stole- ■ away,’ says the captain, turnin’ to the mate. ‘That’s what they’ll say at home,’ says I, ‘an’ if you don’t let ’ mo out, Bobby’ll be a stole-away, too, God-help me,’ says I. ‘An’ where do you want to go?’ says the captain, an I see he couldn’t help laughin’. ‘Good look to you captain,’ says I, ‘ an’ let me out on the quay uv_Wather- ; ' : ford, an’ .that’s all I’ll ax,’ -says I. ‘We have another here;’ says the mate, pintin’ to Patherson, ‘ rowlin’ hether 4 an’ over on the .broad of his back.’ '.That’s the piper,’ said the captain. ‘ What: are, we to do wud . ’em?’. ‘ ‘Let

me out, sir,? says I, c or I’ll have no business to show my . -face to the misthress,’ says I. ‘ You’re fifty miles from ■ "Watherford,’ says he/' an’ I suspect this is a schame uv yours to chate mef says he. Wud that the b’y from Ballingarry came up a step-laddher out uv a place they, call the houltan’'the divil’s own hoult the same place is >• — an’ he explained all to the captain, an’ said I’d be handy ; about\ the cookin’, an’ as for the piper, if the weather i cleared up, he’d give ’em a tune, an’ keep ’em alive. An’ J that’s the way myse’f an’ Patherson went to New-found-ryv land. We wor home together, too, an’ he wanted to keep v up the partnership, we did so well in St. John’s, he playin’ ;>* an’ I dancin’. But, good luck to you, Phil, an’ let me out to see Bobby, an’ I’ll tell you all another time.” “Just tell mo, Barney,” said Hugh, who had been listening unobserved to the latter part of his narration, “what did you do with the gun you were desired to bring - -- to Mat Donovan, to have the stock mended?” ; “Oh, for God’s sake, Misther Hugh,” Barney exclaimed showing such decided symptoms of a desire to run away, that Billy Heffernan closed the door and placed his back against it — “don’t get me into a hobble about the gun, an’ I afther goin’ through such hardship. Let me go to see Bobby an’ my poor ould mother. Sure I’m bad enough, . God help me.” “I don’t want to get you into any trouble about it,” said Hugh. “But, by telling the truth, you will get your - friend Mat Donovan out of trouble. Why did you not bring the gun to him, and where did you bring it?” “ ’Twas all on . account uv Peg Brady,” Barney answered moodily. “An’ see all the throublo I brought on myse’f for wan slob uv a kiss.” “WqII, tell me how it happened.” “I see her goin’ home by the short-cut, sir,” returned Barney, looking the very picture of repentance, “an’ Wint across to meet her, thinkin’ id ’d he a fine thing to let her see me wud a fire-lock on my shoulder. An’ thin I wint to help her over the double-ditch' above the "forth. An’ as . I was cornin’ back I hear the beagles givin’ tongue, an’ ; .the hare wint poppin’ through the nine-acre field, and was makin’ for the furze over Balloon. Thin the hounds come on’ kcepin’ on the thrale elegant, and the fust man I see toppin’ the double-ditch was yourse’f, and the huntsman after you. So I stuck the gun into a brake uv briers, an’ cut off to see the fun; an’ the divil a wan uv me ever thought uv the gun till the day uv the hurlin’, whin Father ' McMahon tould me ’twas in Billy Heffernan’s bog-hole; and what use would id be for me to go look for id in a hole that’s as deep as the top uv the house?” “Did he tell you who put it in that hole?” Hugh asked. ' ; ' “Not a word, sir,” Barney replied, “on’y that ’twas there.” - “All right, Barney,” said Hugh. “You may go see Bobby and your mother as soon as you like now. Let him out, Billy; he won’t run away again, never fear,” he .added, on observing Billy Heffernan’s look of alarm. “Be my sowl, ’tis runnin’ enough I’m afther gettin’,” returned Barney. “An’ that I may never die in sin if ever I put a fut on a ship again, anyway. Will I ride Bobby to see my mother, Misther Hugh?” The permission was granted, and in a few minutes Barney passed by the side of Knocknagow, that was left - at full gallop; in his excitement either not seeing or not heeding Kit Cummins, who ran to her door holding up a bottle and glass invitingly; nor even seeming to notice Peg .Brady, who, with the dragoon, stood behind her. CHAPTER. EXIT.— SAD NEWS FROM B ALLIN ACL A SH. -<-i : ■ Another year has elapsed, and Grace has never once - visited the old cottage. She shrinks from it now, as she shrank from Norah Lahy’s pale face. Yet she feels that : A Norah Lahy has done her good, and is glad to think that V - she won the love of the poor sick girl for Mary Kearney mentioned in her letters that Norah had spoken affectionjkjt' ately of ■ her to the last. Grace says to herself that she ought to spend some time with Mary in her lonely home — Hy that it -“would be right”; and, as in Norah Lahy’s case, she feels it would have done her good. But she has such troops of pleasant acquaintances now, and so many invita-

. -■' - v--. *: . / ;•- •••—. .a-/-;. .»v * r i/'- Awv< ; tions to all sorts of parties, and is so admired and flattered, ; that she scarcely has time even to think of her old friends; She is reminded of them this morning by a letter from Mary. Mary tells her they are all well that Anne writes from her convent in her old, cheerful way, but that Ellie did not come home at Christmas; that there was a letter from the Cape from Richard, who -was delighted with the voyage. (He had gone as surgeon in an Australian vessel.) ' “Billy Heffernan’s house in ,the bog,” the letter went on to say, “was swept away by the flood after the heavy rains and he was barely able to save himself ..and his mule from drowning. But he is now hard at work building another house, as Mr. Lloyd has given him a lease for ever of twenty acres of his bog, for the yearly rent of a creel of turf ;" and though my father says a single sod would be too much for it, Billy thinks himself quite independent, and says he has an estate while grass grows and water runs, and no landlord can turn him out. Whether grass can be made to grow on the * estate,’ however, is doubtful. - Nelly Donovan has given her heart to Billy Heffernan; but his heart, I really think, is in Norah Lahy’s grave. And Mat, too, loves not wisely, but too well; and has become quite a grave and thoughtful character, devoting all the time he can spare to reading. Old Phil Morris is dead, and Bessy is gone to live with her aunt in Dublin. She had been very unhappy on account of the unkind things people used to say of her and that foolish dragoon, encouraged, it is said, by Peg Brady, kept persecuting her to the last. Peg is our dairy-maid now; and she has confessed, with a flood of tears, that she- deceived Mat Donovan about a letter of Bessy’s, and is sorry she had not the courage to tell the truth before Bessy went away. As I have said so much of the course of true love ’ running in the usual way in this part of the globe, I must tell you that a little circumstance which accidentally came under my notice the other day has convinced me that your friend, ‘ Dion n Macool ’ is, after all, in love with somebody; but, for the life of me, I cannot guess who.she may. be, though I could tell you the color of her hair. Strange to say, I thought of Bessy Morris, but —though you will say that is just what might be expected from an ‘ oddity ’ — am sure it is not she. Might it be Miss Delany? He praised her beauty and agreeable manners more than ever I heard him praise anyone else. But, take my word for it, Hugh is gone about somebody, as sure as the sun is at this moment sinking down behind the poplar trees on the —which trees always remind me of you and Bessy Morris, and all the chat we used to have about her father, and her anxiety to find him and live with him in their old home, after all his wanderings. That’s what made me like Bessy, and I never could believe her heartless, as she had the name of being. '

“The Messrs. Pender are carrying things with a high hand. Poor Father McMahon is heart-broken at the sufferings of the people. The poor-house is crowded, and the number of deaths is fearful. Last Sunday, when requesting the prayers of the congregation in the usual way for the repose of the souls of those who died during the week, the list was so long that poor Father McMahon stopped in the middle of it, exclaiming with a heart-piercing cry, “0 my poor people! my poor people!’ and then turned round and prostrated himself at the'foot of the altar convulsed with grief, and could not go on reading the list of deaths for a long time. Then - he got into a rage and denounced the governments as a ‘ damnable government.’ I was quite frightened at the excitement of the people. Some faces were quite white, and others almost blacli. But a very affecting incident turned their anger into pity, though one would think it ought only to incense them all the more against their rulers. When he resumed the reading of the list, a woman shrieked out and fell senseless upon the floor. She was one of the paupers in' the auxiliary workhouse, who are marched to the parish chapel every Sunday, as the chapel in the regular workhouse is too small even to accommodate the inmates of that house. This poor woman was only admitted the week before with her husband and children, from whom, according to their infamous rules, she was at once separated. She now heard her husband’s name read from the altar, and with a wild shriek of agony fell down, and was borne senseless out of the chapel.: They did not even take the trouble to inform her that her Ims-

band, was dead! Were human beings’ever treated before as our poor people are treated? .I..often-wondered at the almost wild looks of the paupers while the list of deaths . was being road. But I understand it now! Oh ! I must drive away the thought of such barbarous cruelty, and not .distress you with such pictures of human suffering. But /perhaps it is well to think of these things sometimes, ¥?Grace, and pray to God. to alleviate the misery around us. VI do my best to keep up my spirits. I sit in poor Norah’s E. chair every evening till the light in Mat Donovan’s window reminds me to go down and read the newspaper or play a : tune for my father, while mamma is making her favorite ' -cake for tea. Hugh, as usual, is nearly -always in his own room, where I spend an occasional hour with him. He is, however, becoming amiable, and comes out of his den when our Castleviow friends make their appearance. I am always glad to see them, and they cheer us up a good deal. Miss Lloyd scarcely recognises them now, and maybe she. doesn’t get it from Rose, with whom Johnny Wilson -is again ‘the white-headed boy.’ Can you make out this mystery about Hugh as you did the tracks in the snow? .-v “Ah, we had not so merry a Christmas as that since! But I can’t realise that idea of the poet you used to quote about a ‘ sorrow’s crown of sorrow.’ I like to remember ‘ happier things,’ and would say with our own bard — “ ‘ Long, long be my heart with such memories filled.’ I take my walk nearly every evening. Great news of Tommy Lahy! His uncle, who is very rich, has adopted him. He is in college, and from his likeness he must be a fine fellow. Do you remember his laughing blue eyes , and luxuriant curls? Fancy Tommy Lahy coming home a polished gentleman to us. Would he have any chance ; of yoih? It would be quite romantic. I’m glad I have one more pleasant item to relieve the gloom of this tiresome letter. Nancy Hogan is married to Tom Cary, the carpenter, and they are as happy as the day is long. Tell mo all about your great ball. i am all anxiety to know whether. it is the white or the pink you have decided on; but.. as you will have decided before you can get this, I : won’t ; give you .opinion, though you say you Mould he guided by it. Of course you will be the belle, as Eva would have been the beauty. Hom- I should like to go to her profession; but I fear it will be impossible for me to leave home. ' Mr. Lloyd says still he will never love again. It : is a great loss to Edmund that he is not at home, as you have such pleasant parties. I am so thankful to you to give me such graphic descriptions of them. Edmund writes to ; me sometimes. Ho and Arthur O’Connor will soon come to spend a feu- days with Father Carroll, and they all promise to pay us a visit. Hom- glad_ I’d be if you would come. s The light is fading. I’ll take to thinking ' how, till Nelly Donovan lights her caudle. Good-bye, dear- ’ est Grace,., and believe me ever your affectionate friend, "■r’.V ’ ’ ‘ • “Mary Kearney.” -vEy,; ■’ (To be continued.) .