The Storyteller.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXVIII, Issue 48, 29 November 1900, Page 23

The Storyteller.

THE DISAPPEARANCE OF TESSIE.

The strand at Kilfaroge is a fine one. broad and level, and, like the bay, of a horseshoe shape. On a bright September morning it presented a very lively hc«ut,, fui Kilfaio^o hu.,l lately blncuiti ir.i n " fashionable watering place. It is true that the accommodation was not oi the mont luxurious foi lUo native.-, v,cio poor, ai.d that amusements, save those derived from Nature's great theatre, were of the most limited, for the same reason. Indeed, these simple fisherfolk would have only stared at you in wonder had you hinted that you found the place rather dull.

_ My cousin, Meg, and I. being simple-minded girls, were at one with the natives on this point. We asked no greater pleasure than that which the wild Western ocean and the scarcely less wild Western mainland afforded. And when, now and again, we yearned for less aesthetic enjoyments, it sufficed for us to loiter by the sea wall and Btudy humanity as represented on the beach or the promenade.

We eat on the one seat available on the strand— a massive beam of wood, part of the cargo of some hapless ship which the pitiless sea had sucked into its bosom. One wondered at the giant strength which had borne it — so stout and heavy — ashore. Now it lay, half embedded in the sand, presenting an immovable front to th^'fury of the incoming tide, which dashtd against it with as little effect as if it were some sturdy rock, whose base, thick and bolid, stretched » hundred feet below the water's surface.

We amused ourselves with watching the evolutions of the bathers, sometimes not a little laughable, and observing those coming to and from the bathing- boxes. 'Do look at this lady coming towards uh, Kitty,' whispered Meg presently. ' No, not that one, the one with the little girl Is she not pretty ?'

A tall, fair-faced young woman in widow's raiment, leading by the hand a pretty, flaxen-haired child, was approaching. They passed on to the bathing boxes, and after some time we saw the little one borne out to her dip, while the mother looked on from the strand.

By and bye the child reappeared fresh and rosy, and we heard the lady say :

Now, Tessie, you must be very good while I am bathing.' Ihen turning to the old woman who was the keeper of the bathin-"-box she said • ' You will look after her, Joanie >' * 1 Indeed, then, I will, ma'am. Sure the little angel wJI be all right digging away there m the sand.' We observed the child's movements for a little while, but presently some newcomers diverted our attention, putting her entirely out of our minds.

We were about going away when we notice 1 some commotion near Joanie's domains. Several women and girls were gathered around that worthy personage, \\ ho was talking and gestr ulating excitedly. The fair-faced lady, her face white and frightened, broke away from her impatiently ;h we drew near, and ran wildly towards the water. In a moment we grasped the cause of the excitement. Her little girl had disappeared ! I shall not attempt to describe the scene that followed Everyone in Kilfaroge seemed immediately to be aware of what had happened. Everyone in Kilfaroge was on the strand looking in vain for a flaxen-haired child dre.ssed in a pink frock. But the time Bped, and no one found her. The distracted mother, possessed with the idea that she had slipped unnoticed into the water, ran up to her waist into the sea, wildly searching for her beneath the waves. Of course, it was ridiculous to think that she could have drowned with such a number of people about, but the mother could not be convinced of that. Her fears pointed to the worst, and to allay them several boats were got out, but no trace of the child was found. Then someone suggested that the little one might have gone back to their lodge. Everyone felt immediately relieved. Of course, that was it. Why had they not thought of it before ' And while the mother, hope springing up in her breast, sped to see if it was really so, the crowd laughed at her fears and at their own. But she was not long away, and her face was paler now than before. No, the child had not been to the lodge, and again the wild search began, to end as the previou*. one, m failure. People began to look at each other strangely. It was plain the child had disappeared as completely and as myoteriouwly as if the sand had opened out and drawn her down into its soft, deadly bosom. It transpired that Meg and I were the la^Uhat had been her Joanie, thinking her quite safe haJ not noticed bar at all. It was such a queer thing !

At last the search was given up as hopeless, and the i»i .Her given into the hands of the police. The poor young mo )nr, all hope dead, gave vent to her detraction in a fit of piteous wailmThough many turned to comfort her, we toon learned th'tt (.lie h i 1 no friends in Kilfaroge, that she was a Mr*. MacM.ihon, who.sj husband had but lately died, and that the child was her only one! Beeing that her grief would completely overwhelm her if left, tv herself, Meg and I constituted ourselves her friends, and insisted on bringing her with us to our lodge, where we did our best to cheer and comfort her. But though a vigorous search was made by the police, no trace of the child was found that day nor any succeeding day. But for our companionship— for we would not let Mrs MacMahon go— l am sure the poor young thing must have lost her senses. As it was her distress was terribe to witness, and when at last the police desisted from the inquiry as hopeless, it burst forth in a passionate tide, which we thought it wise not to restrain' Poor Emily ! when it was spent she was like a child, so quiet and p ssive. Meg aud I did our utmost to rouso her, and after a while succeeded. Then her gratitude was excessive ; for though charity

prompted our action at first, after a day or two it became a labor of love to minister to the poor stricken creature, whose gentle nature showed even through this weary time. She. on her part, oonoeived a great affection for both of us, and was most pleased, aa we were to learn that we lived in the same locality as herself When at length she returned to her own lonely abode in Ceoil street, I accompanied her. Thus she became our dearest friend. and if. as she often gratefully reminded us, we were sent to her by God in her hour of sorrow, so she was given us by Him as an addition in nnr happiness

In a low shieling, within a mile of Kiifaroge and the sea, tat a sad-faced woman gazing vacantly at the grey hills whioh rose sheer and cold not a dozen yards before her. Pale and wan and careworn ; she looked old, though her age could not have been above 30 perhaps not so much ; her hair, brown and thick and luxuriant was here and there sprinkled with grey ; her eyes, of a liquid colorless hue, were entirely devoid of light or fire ; her hands, thin and worn, were clasped listlessly upon her lap ; in faot, her whole appearance bespoke a deep and habitual spirit of dejection whioh was most disheartening to behold. , H £ er « urroun <lings were even more suggestive of this spirit than .herself, if that were possible. There was nothing of comfort within the four mud walls of the cabin. The few necessary article* ol furniture and the cooking utensils were of the poorest The earthen floor was rugged and uneven, the walla were rude and grimy, and but a single sod of turf smouldered among the ashes on the hearth. A tiny window, no bigger than a skylight, discovered all too clearly the cheerlessness of the humble abode. Outside the prospect was scarcely more inviting. It was compo«ed of a small valley, so small as to be almost a glen, shut in on every side by steep hills and containing no human habitation save the rude hovel we have been describing. A wild, lonely place it was, as lonely as if the nearest village were a doiea miles away yet Kiifaroge nestled beyond that southern hill. But the health and pleasure-seekers there knew nought of this little nook in the hills, the cliffs and the shore alone had charms for them, and Winnie's domain was shut in as much from these as from the town. Thus it was that the sad-faced young woman and her history were known but to a few fishermen and their families, who had been her friends in happier days— the days before Tade, her husband, died of fever, and while yet her little Nonie lived. Now, when they saw her coming down the hill of a Sunday on her way to Macs they only shook their heads and smiled pityingly. For it was well known among their htrle circle that poor Winnie was 'touched' The death of her husband and her only child had been too much for her and what with her utter friendlessness— she had no relations— and the loneliness in which she lived, her grief had told on her poor, weak head, and now she saw things through strange lights And yet on every point save one she was almost as sane as anybody else Her Nome, her rosy-ceeeked, bright-eyed darling of two summers, had not died— no, she had been taken away by the ' Good People' They had envied her her happiness and had snatched her darling from her— her darling, who was now the brightest of all their fairy band. *

Sometimes Winnie had hopes. It was possible— Maureen, the knowledgeable woman in the mountains had told her bo— that her darling might some time, somehow, be restored to her. Such an event was very rare she knew. Yet it wae posasble, and often when the sun was sinking behind the western hills, she sat at her cabin door and watched the path which led towards the rath— the path also to Kiltaroge— lest her darling should come to her unseen.

Her thoughts ever on the subject, pressed on her mind with such force ihi.s evening that she gave them vent in words. ■An' do ye think of yer poor mother at all, asthoreen, when yer d:.ncm' an* smgin' an' all covered with flowers ? yer poor mother that pines for ye, an' longs for ye !' She sprang to h-r fret, and gazed with distended eyea towards the hill, on the summit of whi<h the figure of a child was risible. Was it her darling returning from fairyland ? Hut she must not issue forth to make sure, for Maureen had said that she must not go to meet the child, but let her waJk in of her own accord.

W ith a wildly-beatinjf heart she waited. Shawn, the old grey dog, her one friend, roused by her excited exclamations, walked soberly out to discover what had caused them. No sooner did he cuch sight of the little figure standing irresolute on the slope than he wagged his shaggy tail and bounded up the hill, barking joyously, to Winnie's intense delight for it seemed confirmation of her hopes. She saw the child stoop down to caress him, then follow hi in quickly down the path. Now they were near enough to see whether the child was her Nonie or not. Yes, it was a flaxenhair.'d, fmr-fac-ed little girl that approached, only taller and hA-nthior looking than the Nonie of U months ago. And how prettily hhe was dressed. Surely the fairies had been kind to her to clorhe her in that lovely pink frock. Oh, would she never, never, reach the cabin that she might clasp her to her heart and cover her Lice with ki^e^ ! But at last, led by the faithful Shawn she stands on the threshold and glances timidly around. There are traces of tears upon her face, and her blue eyea are red aa if with weeping. With a great cry of joy Winnie starts forward and clasps her m her arms, half smothering the child with her wild caresses. ' I have ye at last, Nonie,' she crooned. The child stared at her bewilderedly. 'Me not Nonie, me Teßsie,' she said. <Me want to go home to mother.' °

Winnie laughed happily. ' Listen to the crathur ! an' they changed yer name, did they ? No wondher ye wouldn't know yer own mother, alanna for she wouldn't know ye, only for the signs an 1 tokeni, ye are that

changed. Big and well-lookin' ye got, an 1 yer eyes are bluer than ever, pet ?

Winnie brought a piece of bread and a bowl of sweet milk from the dresser. The child ate and drank eagerly. ' No wonder ye would be tired and hungry, acushla," said Winnie compassionately. ' I suppose 'tis a long journey from where ye kern. Were ye comin' all day t' ' All day,' returned the little one, 'an me tired and me want mother. • An, ye ii soon get iv knuw mother, aslLuieeu, «,u' jo'll Lc a. nappy as the days are long.' ' rhec^ lld . 8 tears were quickly dried, fur bet, worn Llic heal of the fire and Winnie's crooning voice weariness overcame her, and soon the tirea eyes were closed in heavy slumber. Then Winnie laid her gently on the bed, and sitting beside her gazed with infinite love into the fair childish face which had grown so beautiful dnnng those weary months of absence. And as she gazed her heart overflowed with happiness, and casting herself on her knees she poured out her gratitude to God, who had after all turned her sorrow to joy. 111. ' Oh, I'm so tired ! Do sit down. Kitty. But no, as we have come so far let us go to the very top. and see what lies at the other side of this terrible hill.' It was Meg who spoke. Time— a gorgeous August afternoon nearly a year from the day we first met Emily MacMahon. Scene —a hill a little to the east of Kilfaroge. Dramatis persome— said Meg, her cousin, Kitty, viz. — the writer. We had been so charmed with Kilfaroge during our former stay that we decided on again spending our holidays there. We even succeeded in inducing Emily to come with us. The place, instead of being abhorrent to her as the scene of her great sorrow, had for her, as is sometimes the case, a special attraction, as having witnessed the last happy days spent with her loved one. Never in all those weary months had she received a single clue as to the child's fate. As time wore on the hopes, which, in the absence of positive proof of the little one's death, would not wholly die, gradually grew fainter, and resolved themselves into a calm and Bettled resignation. She had not felt equal to the stiff climb which Meg had proposed on this day of which I write so we left her behind with Aunt Hannah. ' Heigho !' cried Meg, when we had at last reached the summit. ' Squat down on the grass, Kit, and, like Mirza, turn thy face eastwards. Well, nothing much, after all. only a wild glen shut in by hills and adorned with one stately edifice. What a wee shieling and how lonely I' ' A primitive piece of architecture, certainly, Meg. Yet I doubt not it shelters worthy souls. Would you feel equal to visiting it when you are rested V 'The very thing I should like. But on what plea would you enter ?' J ' The poorest Irish peasant requires no apology from anyone who enters his dwelling,' I answered reproachfully : ' but in this case there is no need to invent one, for lam dreadfully thirsty. I daresay I shall get a bowl of goat's milk, or at least a glass of water.' ( Well, are you ready ' All right. Who 11 be down first '' And Meg ran down the hill like a deer. I followed more leisurely. Our laughter and chatter brought a -woman and a little child to the door of the cabin. The woman waited till we drew near, thus giving us an opportunity of noticing her appearance. She had a pale, sad-looking face, and her figure was thiu and scanty ; her eyes, however, were bright, but it struck me at once that they shone with a strange, unnatural light. We exchanged salutations, on which the woman invited us to enter the cottage. We did so, seating ourselves on two rickety stools, while she got me the drink I asked for. Meanwhile the child had crept up to me, and my first idea on looking at her was the striking contrast she presented to the mother. My second was a vague notion that she reminded me of someone I knew intimately — I could not remember whom. ' What a pretty child,' said Meg. ' What is your name, dear ?' ' Nonie,' answered the little one with a blush and a smile. ♦Nonie ! and a very nice name, too. She is your daughter '" to the woman, who was presenting each of us with a measure of milk 'Yes ; whose else's should she be .' Me that lives all by myself here in the hills, especially since she kern back to me.' ♦ Was she away for a time, then /' I inquired. ' Did I say she was away?' she asked, somewhat uneasily. 'Well an' if I did 'tis no harm to tell ladies that know nothin' about it,' Bhe added, half to herself. ' Aye, AUbs, she was away a whole year, an' she kern back that beautiful an' grandly dressed that I wouldn't know her only for the signs an' tokens.' ' The signs and tokens /' interrogatively. ' Aye. the signs an' tokens, she repealed, her eyes assuming a far away, dreamy look. ' I had them from ould Maureen. She was to come in the fall of the evenin' from the west, for the rath is westwards. I was not to meet her or lead her, but to wait till she walked in to me. An' sure enough, it all came to pass.' I was quite mystified, and so, I could see, was Meg. I did not understand the woman at all. ' But why should you not meet her ? Where was she " I asked. The woman smiled as if compassionating my ignorance. ' Ah, I see you don't understand me, Miss. Where should she be but wid the good people / ' ' With the good people ? ' we both exclaimed simultaneously, and interchanged glances.

.', A y 0 ' a y e » ladie s- 'Tis two years ago now since they Btole her, lann there on the bed the appearance of her corpse, But 1 knew

my darlin' was not dead, an' afther talkin' to Maureen, the knowledgable woman, I began [to hope. An' sure enough the ginthry sent my darlin' back to me. She was lonesome afther them, too, an' cried an' cried for weeks. Twas just an evenin' like this,' she added, 'but later. The 16th September it was, for I kept an account of the time Nonie was away.' 1 The lGth September,' I exclaimed excitedly, and again looked at Meg. reading in her eyes the thought that flashed into my own mind. Could it be possible/ An, now I remembered to whom the child bcrc the resemblance whiVh bad so pn/rled me. In fact, I recognised the child herself, and Meg's face told me that she, too recognised her. Motioning my coimn to Veep «ilent I renewed my conveieation with Winnie. • How was she dressed when she returned ? ' 'In a soft pink dress, and the nicest underclothes at all. Sure I have them yet there in the box, as I thought 'twould plaze the ginthry to threasure them.' ' Have you, really ? We should so much like to see them.' And while her back was turned Meg and I compared notes in suppressed whispers. There was Bcarcely a doubt that the child was Emily MacMahon's. She had probably strayed away from Kilfaroge, wandering on till she reached this lonely spot. But we must get all the proofs we could. Presently from the recesses of a rude deal box the woman took a neatly-folded paroel, which she opened, disclosing the very pink frock which little Tessie had worn on that fatal morning. How often had not Emily described it to me ? I took it in my hand to see if it bore a mark, but it did not. The underclothing, however, was all marked T.M. We made no remark, but when handing them back I said, as if casually— 'I know a lady who would be delighted to see those pretty things. Would you show them to her if I brought her here ! ' ' Sure, I'll be only too proud to do it, Miss.' answered Winnie. She was evidently flattered by our admiration of the clothes. ' Did Nonie answer to her name at first ? ' asked Meg. 'That she did not, miss. She used to cry when I would call her Nonie, and say " Me name Tessie." but now she knows better,' smiling at the child, who was staring at us with round eyes of wonder. Catching the sound of the name, she cried suddenly : ' Yes, yes, me Tessie," and even her very voice was the counterpart of Emily's. ' Well, we shall go back to Kilfaroge now for the lady of whom I spoke. Perhaps if you dressed her m the things it would show them off better. Has she outgrown them ?' ' She has then ; but they look lonely on her for all that, though 'tis but once or twice that I let her wear them. Never fear I'll have her grand and settled out whin ye come back wid the lady.' In a state of feverish excitement we hurried from the shieling. What joy was in store for Emily ! and how wonderful were the workings of Proyidence in leading us to this secluded spot ! I thought it better that Teesie fchould be dressed exactly as she had been on the morning of her disappearance, so that the mother should have no difficulty in recognising her. We decided on telling her nothing till she was confronted with the child, but the unwonted excitement in our faces, and our mysterious way of insisting that she should come with us must have awakened strange thoughts in her breast, for during the quick walk towards the valley she was very pale and unusually silent. Before seeking her out we had gone to the barrack and told the sergeant of the discovery we had made. He readily consented to follow us with a constable, as we feared there would be trouble with the poor, half-witted creature who was about to be co terribly disillusioned. Emily's face expressed surprise when on doubling the hill she perceived that our destination was the miserable cabin at itß foot. Still she maintained that eloquent silence, though we noticed that ehe trembled with sheer excitement. But when Winnie appeared with the little one that excitement could no longer be restrained, and clutching my arm tightly she stared at the child with amazed, incredulous eyes. Suddenly she gave vent to a wild cry, and starting forward caught the child's hand and gazed long and anxiously into her face. Then her own countenance became transfigured with joy as, all doubt dispelled, she clasped her darling to her breast, the while she tremulously called her by every endearing name. Then a wonderful thing happened. The child, who had been rather startled at first on hearing herself called ' Tessie, 1 suddenly started and stared up into Emily's face with eyes that showed she was struggling with some half-awakened memory. Then she looked down at her own unusual attire, still perplexed. Raising her eyes once more, they chanced to rest on the rings which glistened on Emily's fingers. These somehow formed the missing link to the infant mind— we all know what delight children take in jewellery and all gaudy, glittering things — for, laying her chubby finger on the emeralds which shone on the guard to the wedding circlet, she lifted her pretty face, now all aglow with light, and lisped, ' That mamma's ring — you mamma and me Tesßie — me not Nonie,' and to Emily's delight she nestled closer in her arms. Winnie's face was a study during the above scene. Its expression changed from surprise to wonder, from wonder to understanding, but from that again to fear and rage, as she at length realised what was taking place. With a cry like the howl of a wild beast she darted forward, and would have snatched Tessie from the arms or her real mother had not the two policemen who had stolen up unobserved, suddenly intervened and held her between them by main force. The poor creature's frenzy was pitiable. The sergeant and all of ub tried to reason with her and explain matters. But she would listen to no reason, and only laughed a fierce, maniacal laugh when we told her how Teeaie had disappeared

from the strand at Kilfarogue on that memorable 16th September, how we all as well as her mother had now recognised her, and how there were many others who could do so too, and who could prove that these clothes she had on were the very clothes she had worn on the day of her disappearance. That laugh frightened us, but when she declared between her screams that we were 'good people' in disguise come to steal her Nonie again, we looked at one another significantly. Clearly the shock was too much for the poor creature, and her vmall stock of reason was already giving way. The sergeant evidently thongM as much, for he quietly urged her in the direction of the town. But long before we reached it poor Winnie was a raving, babbling lunatic.

With hearts glad for the recovery of the child, yet sad for the price at which the recovery had been effected, we returned to our lodgings.

Emily's happiness of course I cannot attempt to describe. It was amazing what a short time Tessie took to recall all that which she had forgotten, and if such proof were wanting we had abundance of it in the questions she asked about things and people which if she had not been Tessie she could not possibly have had any knowledge of. But in the midst of our pleasure at this Winnie's white, agonised face would raise itself before our eyes, and all our hearts — even Emily's — were sad in consequence.

Winnie had grown so violent that it was deemed necessary to put her under restraint. For months she remained in this condition, incessantly chattering about her Nonie and the good people come to steal her. But by degrees the fever of her br,iin abated, and in less than a year she left the asylum completely restored to reason — I say completely with intention, for all her strange fancies about the fairies had vanished, and she had listened with comprehension when the child's story had been explained to her, only smiling pitifully at her own weakness in believing that the little one was her dead Nonie. She could understand it all now, and expressed a wish to see Emily that she might ask her forgiveness of the wrong she in her poor wavering state of mind had done her.

Emily came, bringing Tessie with her. The interview was long and touching, and poor Winnie was found bathed in tears when the attendant came to lead her visitor away. But that was the last day of her confinement, for on the next day fhe left the institution in company with Emily, whose house has been her home ever since. Winnie is now a gentle, patient woman — but for the remembrance of bygone days a happy woman. Yet content at least id hert<. and love for the child whom she once deluded herself into believing her own sweetens her life and gives it interest. — Weeldy Freeman.