A Complete Story

New Zealand Tablet, Volume LI, Issue 43, 15 October 1924, Page 11

A Complete Story

(By W. J. Fitzpatrick in the Dublin Weekly Freeman.)

AN EXCHANGE OF SHAMROCKS A ROMANCE OF ST. PATRICK’S DAY.

CHAPTER I. “In the folds of my heart is the Shamrock there It grows in my love, wide-spreading, fair. And a thousand times dearer than rose or sedge Tall-flowering, by the grey sea’s edge,” The bright March sun was shining down on the rugged Irish coast, on the Irish sea, and on the Irish mountains rising in lovely grandeur behind it. Along the deserted country road, two figures were pacing slowly, a girl with a, face like the dawn, in its freshness and its fairness, and a young man who looked at her with all his heart in his dark eyes. Madge Bartley and Owen O’Driscoll had known each other all their lives, had been friends and playmates from the time when they were tiny, toddling children, and now that they had grown up to young man and maidenhood the early intimacy had ripened and deepened into something sweeter and tender, consciously on Owen’s part, but as yet Madge had not analysed her feelings for her old playmate. She only knew that she was perfectly happy and contented when they were together, and that the day seemed long and dull if Owen did not come and see her some time during its length. Just now her thoughts were in rather a chaotic state, for Owen had told her that ho was going away. The firm with which he was engaged had offered him a post in their London branch, and ho had practically decided to accept it. “You see, Madge,” he said, slipping his hand inside her arm, “it would be madness for me to refuse this offer, because it is certain to lead to something good eventually. And if I refused it —well, they would probably overlook me altogether, and I might never get another chance ,of promotion. So I really think I ought to accept it.” There was a wistful ring in his young voice, for he dreaded the imminent parting more than he could express. “Your —your mother will miss you dreadfully,” said Madge, in a rather tremulous voice, for Owen was the “only one son of his mother, and she was a "widow.” “Mother'will come and live in London, too,” replied Owen. “She will like it, for although she married an Irishman, her heart is always with her native London.” “How could anyone who had once lived in this dear beautiful land go back to England?” exclaimed Madge, with her eyes on the distant mountains, those flower blue, sweet eyes of hers which held the dawning of a now strange pain in their starry depths. “Well, I daresay mother felt something like that when

she left home, but, you see, Madge, it was to follow the man she loved. "Oh, yes," Madge sighed, "but you, you—you will not like leaving home?" "I will not;" he returned, with vehemence. "There is only one thing that could make me go. Madge, oh, Madge —say you will miss me a little bit." He had stopped and- faced her, his hands on her Shoulders as they stood in the deserted road, a world of love and longing in his eyes. "Madge, dear, tell me that my going will make some difference to you. I —I —could not bear to think that you did not care." Madge lifted her eyeswet now, and gazed into his as she answered instantly: "Care? Of course I care, Owen. I shall miss you — oh, dreadfully. I —l do not know what I shall do without you." "Dear," he said, "I know I have not the smallest right to speak to you now and I do not ask you for anything—remember that. But just want you to know that I am going away to try to get on, so that some day I may have the right to speak to you. Oh, Madge, dearest," the passionate, eager words pouring out as if he was moved by some force outside of himself; "I know.what people would say to me if I tried to bind you now by any promise to me, and I should deserve all that they could say. But at least I may tell you what you are to me. That can do you no hurt. Madge, I love you, I love you ! I think I have loved you since the first day I played with you on the sands down there. Dear, I did not mean to betray- myself. I did not intend to say anything of this to you, but somehow when I saw your face just now, and your dear eyes wet " He stopped, mightily moved and shaken by the force of his emotions, while she said gently: "Why should you not tell me, Owen? Do you think," very softly, "that I do not care to hear it?" "God bless you, Madge. It has been such a comfort to me to tell you that I love you, and I do not think I have done you any wrong, since I have not asked you for anything. 1 have not asked you to give me any promise. Stop, dear," as she was about to, speak. "I know, perhaps, what your, dear, generous heart would say, but I will not let you say it. 1 will not let you promise me a lathing." "Why?" she asked him, brave in the knowledge that she loved him, too. "Because it may 'be years before I can come back to you with anything to offer you except"—with a slight laugh—"my love. And, dear," pressing closely the two little hands now taken into his close clasp, "I am not going to bind you down to anything indefinite. Other men," with a sharp, short sigh, as if the very thought of his own suggestion were agony to him, "will love you, better men than I, and though none of them," with passionate assurance, "can ever love you more than I do, yet they may be able to give you more . in the way of position and wealth." "As .if," said Madge, proudly, "I should care about that," "God bless you, dear. I know you wouldn't. But your parents, Madge. They might, very naturally, have something to say about it. No, dear; I absolutely refuse to bind you now, but if I do get on well, when I have got something to offer you, may I come back then, Madge, and ask you for what I dare not ask you now?" "Whenever you come," she said, steadily, though the tears stood thick in her sad eyes, "I will be waiting for you." "And you will not forget me, dear?" "I will never forget you, Owen." For one long minute the brown eyes held the blue, and then—for there was no one to see— arms went round her and folded her close. "Kiss me, dear," he whispered, "just once, so that I may have something to remember." And as she raised her face to his, it seemed to them as if the world stood still for that first lover's kiss. "There," he said, as he released her, "no one can ever take that from me in all the years to be. Madge, give me something to keep, something in remembrance of

to-day. Give me a piece of that shamrock you are wearing:" It was St. Patrick's Day, and Madge had pinned in the front of her dress a huge spray of the national emblem, "the green, immortal shamrock." She unpinned tho brooch which kept it in place, and held out the spray to Owen. "There," she said, "take it all. It is a nice piece. I gathered it myself this morning,'and"—with a little unsteady laugh"l hope it will bring you the very best of luck." Owen took the shamrock almost reverently from her, and raised it to his lips. '"lt will bo my charm," he said, "for it will speak to me of Ireland and of you. I shall always keep it, Madge, always. And see," detaching the piece he wore in his coat, "I will give you mine. Will you keep it dear? And, perhaps it will sometimes remind you of the boy who is working and thinking of you far away. And, oh, Madge, if ever you should want me, if ever you should need a friend, then send me that piece of shamrock, dear, and I will come to you from the ends of the earth. "I will remember," she said softly; I will always remember Owen." Ten days later Owen bade adieu to his native laud, and to Madge. The parting was a trial to both of them, for in the hearts of both was the thought that it "might be for years and it might be for ever," but they bade each other a brave farewell, with the simple blessing which comes so readily to the lips of the Gael, and the hope was a prayer for their speedy reunion. CHAPTER 11. Madge Bartley stood before the mirror and surveyed her dainty reflection with satisfaction which comes from the knowledge that one is perfectly and becomingly gowned. The soft sheen of the pearl-tinted satin showed off to perfection the fresh tintiiigs of her flower-like face, with its soft crown of gold-brown hair. "Money certainly is a satisfaction," thought Madge, with a little smile at the dazzling image in the glass, but tho next instant the smile faded, and the blue eyes grew sombre as she reflected that there are some things in tho world that money cannot buy, the things best worth having, such as love and joy and great abiding happiness. Some months after Owen's departure a great and unexpected change of fortune had come to the Hartley's. A great uncle of Mrs. Hartley's had died leaving to her tho whole of his immense fortune. Consequently Madge had tho delightful experience of possessing as much money for her gloves as she had previously been obliged to make cover her whole yearly expenditure. Her parents moved into a better neighborhood and society took them up, and when it realised that Madge was an heiress it discovered also that she was a beauty, and she was in a fair way to have her head turned. But through all her change of fortune and position Madge's heart remained loyal to the boy who had kissed her and gone away, taking with him her love and constant prayers. No one knew why she remained so deaf to all the suitors — and oldwho came awooing; no one even guessed why there was sometimes a wistful look in her flower blue eyes, or why her smiling face was sometimes clouded, with a shadow, as if pain and she were not unacquainted. Only the stars could have told of tho restless, sleepless hours when Madge lay wideeyed, and miserable, wondering why Owen had given up writing to her, if he had forgotten her, if his passionate love-words had been but the outcome of a hoy's passing fancy, if absence had taught him that he had not really cared. "If I might know that he had forgotten me I could, bear it easier than this suspense, this eternal wondering why," she thought. But the days grew into weeks, and the weeks lengthened into months, and no word came from him after one brief note in which he had congratulated her on their unexpected good fortune. "It could not be the money that has come lie'sveen us," she thought, sick at heart with wondering why tho chill of silence had fallen between them, and why her last letter remained unanswered.

But Madge was not the girl to wear the willow in public, and, however, her heart ached at times, she presented a gay and smiling face to the world. She had come to London to stay with a girl friend, Lily Kinsella, and was in the midst of a round of gaiety and pleasure, enjoying to the full her first glimpse of the great capital. It was the 17th of March, and they were going to the theatre that evening to. see an Irish play— tribute to Madge's nationality. She sighed as she fastened a huge spray of shamrock in the front of her dress, as she remembered last St. Patrick's Day, and she thought how she would give all the light and. glitter of her present surroundings to be back once more on a lonely road, within sight of the Irish mountains and sound of the Irish sea, to hear once more a voice, young, ardent, passionate, a voice long heard in dreams alone, to feel again on her lips that first lover's kiss. Madge was not in the least interested in the piece. She felt a contemptuous amusement for the stage Irishman, and wondered if anyone who.had once heard the beautiful rippling music of the brogue could really accept as a faithful rendering of its sweetness the atrocious mixture of accent which came from the lips of the actors. Exceedingly bored by the whole performance, her glance left the stage and wandered round the crowded theatre, idly scanning the sea of more or less interested faces. Then in the semi-darkness, one face turned to her own seemed to stand out distinctly, and she felt as if her heart stopped, and then raced madly on. Then the light* went up and her eyes met his for it was Owen—Owen —who sat there, just the same as of old, but with a tired expression on his handsome face. For an instant they looked in grave surprise into each other's eyes, then Madge smiled and bowed. "Is it to you young O'Driscoll has just bowed?" asked Tom Kinsella. "Do you know him?" she asked, quickly, "I used to know him when he lived in Ireland." a Oh, I only know him slightly. He always strikes me as a poor beggar who is rather down on his luck." "Down on his luck!" The expression haunted Madge for the rest of the evening.' "Down on his luck." When fortune had smiled on her. How she yearned over him and longed to comfort him. She would like to have asked Tom innumerable questions about him, but shyness restrained her. However, as they left the theatre, Owen himself came forward to speak to her; conventionally polite and courteous, but it seemed to her a little strained in his manner. "How do you do?" she said, —this is a surprise, I did not expect to see you." "Nor I you," he returned, and then she introduced him to Lilly Kinsella, and the four young people left the theatre together. "You —you are quite well,: Owen?" she asked, "and your mother? You have quitefforgotten us, I think," speaking nervously and hurriedly, for they had only a moment or two together. "I did not flatter myself I had any right to remember you," he said a trifle bitterly. "You are a very different person now, you know from the little girl I used to play with. Fortune has not been as kind to me as she has to you." "Then it is the money," was Madge's swift inward thought. "Oh, what a silly, proud boy he .is." There was no time for more, for the Kinsella's motor had come up, and Owen was making his adieux. But as he held Madge's hands in his own he looked into her eyes, because although he might school "his tongue and his manner, he had not so much control over the "windows of his soul," and Madge looked into their unhappy depths, and read the truth there. He loved her still, he loved her just as much as ever but because she was rich and he was poor he considered he was for ever debarred from telling her so. All the way home her thoughts were in a whirl, for she realised that all her life's happiness was linked irrevocably with his. She scarcely heard the merry chatter of the others, but as she bade Tom good night, she said carelessly, "So

you know Mr. O'Driscoll's address? I quite forgot to ask him." "Something, Thornley terrace," he answered. "I. expect Thornley terrace would find him if he has been living there any length of time." . Madge thanked him and said no more, but that very evening a sealed envelope addressed to Owen O'Driscoll, Esq., lay in her writing case ready to be posted on the morrow, and it contained nothing but a withered brown spray of what had once been living green shamrocks. Madge had always carried it about with her and guarded it as her most priceless possession. The next evening he came. As Madge went to meet him in the library, she was seized with a fit of shyness, and could find no words with which to greet him. But he came towards her with his hands outstretched. "Madge," he said, "Madge, darling, I have no right to come to you,l, a penniless nobody. They will say," with a. catch in his voice, "that I am a fortune hunter. They will not believe what is God's own truth, that I love you dear, and have loved you ever since." "Dear," said Madge, bravely, though the color flamed in her face, "what does it matter what people say? Is your pride stronger than your love for me?" Then Owen's hands went round her, and that love had conquered and that pride was slain. "It was the shamrock that did it Madge," he replied. "I should never have had the courage to come if you had not sent to me and told me by it that you were just, the same little girl as the Madge of long ago." "It has brought us back Owen," she said softly, and he answered reverently:

“God bless it, darling; It has brought me back to YOU.”