The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXX, Issue 27, 3 July 1902, Page 23

The Storyteller

THE OLD HATRED.

We are the the Uniackes of Castle Dare, and our cousins are the Uni- < ackea of Burren Castle. There is not ' a quarter of a mile of country from j ono doorstep to another, but it was j a distance no bniacke had crossed for many generations. The distance between us in other matters was indeed a world wide. We are of the old religion and they of the now We are gentle and they violent. And now at Dare we were shrunk to but two of vs — my father, the Lord Uniacke, and myself, his daughter, Ursula. Once there had been three ! gallant gentlemen of our name, my brothers Ulrick, Terence, and Maurice. But they had followed Sarsfield and were dead in h rench Flanders, and so there was none to keep up the honor of our house saving only a girl. My father was a veny grave and somewhat sorrowful man, with one solace and one pastime in the pur- i suit of astronomy When ho had the j heavenly globe between his hands | he forgot for a time, 1 behove, how ! much of earthly happiness had slip- | ped out of them with the death of • my mother in her lovely youth and j the following after her of her sons. I I used to .sit by him like a mouse i at my needlework while he pursued j his studies, and if we spoke not for ; hours there wes still a comfortable ; and loving communion between us. j He had his study high m air, a lantern-room with four windows which surveyed the countryside, and from ono corner of it a little winding stair ascended to the telescope on the tower-top Often he has called me to follow him to tho telescope end of a starry night, and then, applying his own eye to it, hi^s forgotten all about me. Nor would I recall him by so much as plucking at his sleeve, but have waited patiently by him till lie returned from heaven to earth, when it was his habit to be most repentant and to upbraid himself for his forgotfulness Indeed, ho never seemed to love me less, but rather more, that 1 was a girl, and he was proud of mo in his gentle way because 1 was fearless, and could ride and swim like any | gentleman, and could shoot, too, if ! need bo, though not the deer nor the birds, for they wero all old fi tends to me, and I could ne\ er bear to j hurt dumb creatures. But, although ■ I could do these things, and had : learned the dead languages from ; Father Kichard. whom we had shel- j tered from the storms outside till . wo found him ono day with his kind . old gray head fallen between his \ crucifix and skull, and the last j sands of his hour glass long run out, i I was yet skilled m household mat- j tcrs. Indeed, 1 coaild candy with i any one or distill .sweet waters or : make cordials or salvos and L ! could ncvci bo of opinion that a \ woman was tho worse loi being ' nblo to spin and sew j However, 'tis too much of myself ' Tho Uniackes of Burren were also at thus time shrunken to ono representative of the name, a j oimq man, Sir James Uniacke, who had lived much in England and abioad, and at this time was doing- tho grand tour, as was the fashion with young men of rank, out in the world beyond the trials and poverty of Dare He had had a brother, Ralph, a wastrel and a soldier, but he was reputed killed in the wars of tho Low Countries. Often, often at night, when I have stood waiting for my father to remember me on the towei , I have looked across to tho dark mass of Burren, black against tho sky, with its woods and waters at its feot. and ; my thoughts could not help but play i about the unknown cousin, the only other of our blood living-, whom my father had taught me, as much as

consistent with his meekness and re- [ ligiousness, to hate. For it was his ' t conviction that nothing good could j come out of Burren, so that to hate i the last Uniacke of Burren was as i though one hated a Sin. But ono night, ns 1 stood there by | my father, a summer night of stars | and purple, when hardly a leaf I stirred in the woods below the I tower, I saw that there was a light I in Burren, m every window of the | long range that ran to westward of I the hall door. And, though it starj tied me, 1 said nothing, for I felt my | father would not like mo to think upon the house or the family. The next mor.mng I climbed the tower again. It was a shining, morning of early June, and the woods! for miles around sang a sleepy song, as though they rocked many cradles, which doubtless they did. And, j standing there, 1 looked across to i Burren, and as I looked 1 saw a ser- | vant leading a horse up and down Then tho doors opened and a gentleman came out on the steps. I I shrank behind the telescope, Jest he ; should look up and see me outlined i against the sky, and from thene I i saw him mount and ride away. ; Even at the distance I coufd perj ceivo that ho looked a gallant and j dignified figure and made no doubt ! that my cousin James had come I home, but 1 kept my counsel to myself. However, it was not a week from that time when a servant came to my father, where he and I sat together in the tower-room, and announced a visitor, and no less a one than Sir James Lmmcke. 1 saw my father's face whiten and then turn a dark red, as though some one had struck him. ' Tell Sir .lamps Uniacke that Lord Umacke receives no visitors,' he said, controlling himself, as I perceived, with diflietilty. But when the servant had gone he hroko forth into .such a passion of \iolenco that I had not believed him capable of His meekness and his piety seemed to have dropped away from him, and, seeing him in these transports of fury, I realised all nt once that we wero sprung from the same bloody and violent stock which had produced tne Uniackes of Burren, j with all their rough riding and cruel 1 doeds Nor could 1 forgot him as lie •' appeared then, although afterwards j ho did penance and wore himself thin 1 with fasting, and was more meek , than ever before. i A few days later Sir Jnmrs i Imiacko wrote, but my father, seeing tho superscription, laid the letter upon tho faggots unread and watched gi nnlv the wax and the ribbons sucked in by tho (ire and the parchment roll itsoli up and disappear I sat with my eyes down while this happened, as becomes a girl, and kept my hands folded on mm v \ lap. vet. 1 will confess that T had to struggle with myself to sit by so ealmlv ami see the letter burn Indeed., 1 was half ashamed of m} self, a. Uniacko of Dare, because something whispered within me that it was time the old hatred was forgotten Yet, there was my father, as neat a samt as I ever knew a man to he. and lie could not forgive, and was T to be bettor than he ? Very soon after that tho old flaino of persecution, which had sunk low, suddenly sprang up again and the fines and throats of imprisonment came faster than e\ er ' They will have all Dare before they aio done,' said my father Alas, as though it wore prophetic, the trouble was already on its way Within a few hours wo heard that Daro was no longer our own It had passed from us to the younger branch of the house A Papist had

no rights to lands nor houses, nor to anythmg of value. All that was ours had passed to Sir James Umacke. I thought in the first moments that tne blow would have killed my father But as soon as he had somewhat recovered himself, though trembling pitifully, he commanded me to put together the barest necessities and leave Dare free to James Umacke to enter it. In Dublin we found our refuge lnere was just one friend in the woild with whojji ujj father had kept up communication, and that ww S nrt * y v, Barbara de la r °cr, a the? y ° Uth £Uld my B°^°Lady Barbara found us lodging in Domimck street near her own, and it was very pleasant to be so near orchards and open country, and since we must be citizens, to have oun lodging high on the steep hill which overlooks the city from the north thonth T n t Ve J een Banbara, though I had always associated her with pleasant things, since many a gilt such as g ir ls love had come from her year after year to her godchild. Now, when 1 saw her I thought I had never seen anything so pretty. She wore diamonds in her powdered fhi 'w Ut L they Were no bri «hter than the black eyes under their black brows, which sparkled and laughed incessantly. l do not know how much her cheeks owed to the rouge pot. 1 was not skilled in city ways. But their delicate carmine repeated wit hi, PS ' ontraste d delightfully with her powdered head. And her T\ W , here llttle fain * lines were, she had set a patch here and there to distract the gaze from them, and on her cheeks there was a crescent moon and a coach-and-horses to point the road to her dimples. She was on her way from some iout or other when I first saw her, and she was wearing a sacque and quilted petticoat of pink satin, with a large brown velvet hat, its feathera clasped by a diamond buckle, set astride on her curled head. 1 had taken her to be very rich by Jf Sff n ts and her jewels, but I knew la ten that she was poor! She was very reckless at the gaming tables and royally generous with her friends, so she had stripped herself of wealth, but, as she had never seemed to want for a fine frock or a guinea her poverty, i took it, was not the sort that irked When she had taken me in hen arms— she was littler than I, and the plumes of her hat tickled my noseshe broke out m praises of me saving she would show me at court. Hut my father .shook his head, smiling at her as though she was pleasant to him ; and so must she have been to any man, though he were a saint or an anchorite ( ' No, no, .Lady Babs ! • ho said. We are too poor to go to court, * mcc ' ;^n what remains of our pornnl S^ oni i j ? to James Uniacke's pouch. We shall bide at home, or pray m the church yonder. We have no fine, extravagant tastes.' 'If Ursula have none,' said she, looking at him from under her great feathers, then she is less or mom than woman ' ' She has had a different training from most women,' my father reminded her i'£V , but " ndor th e scholar you shall find the woman,' she answered, stopping lightly to his side, and shining in the dark room hko a pink moth. r 'Ursula is grave,' said my father. Because you have made her so lorrence,' said the lady. Still, she had not her will of taking me to court, although she tempted my fancy with the fine clothes she would have ghon me. My father, had indeed withdrawn from the world and taken nio with him We ™ en } nowhere except to the Church of the White Friars, over against our lodging, and, when the weather served, wo took long walks through the applo and cherry orchards of

Drumcondra, and out into the open country beyond. We attended none of Lady Barbara's receptions, and if we found anyone with her when we went we would withdraw But once or twice we were discovered there by fine visitors, to my father's vexation, and once, when we left almost in haste, as much as my father s bi ceding would allow, a gentleman who was entering held the door foi us to pass through. He was dt et>sud \t-i \ nnel.v in Coat and waistcoat of pearl gray silk and white breeches., but it was iiu such foolish pretty things that atti acted me. Littlo time though i had 1 perceived that his face had a clear j>al lor and was most interesting, with fine hazel eyes, and — an uncommon thing in those days — he woie his own hair. Ho bowed profoundly as I passed, and though I did not seem to lift my eyes, I saw as plainly as possible how his chestnut hair waived from the parting and fell in a profufusion of curls upon his shoulders. And, strange as it may seem, after that I thought much upon the gentleman, and was scarcely surpt lsed when, two days later, 1 saw him l ide slowly past our lodgings on as fine a black mare as ever I wished to see. And, a day or two later, 1 met him again, and his hat swept the pavement. Indeed aftet that tlieie was hardly a day when 1 did not see him, either when I was out with my maul, Driscoll, or with my father. The meetings weie enough to gild my days and my dreams at night. Even my father noticed a change in me Some evenings later, when mj father and myself were returning late from Lady Barbara's we weie set upon by a crowd of toughs who had imbibed too freely. Mv iather iemonstrated with them, when suddenly the leader, a tall villain, pinioned his arms, while another threw 7 a cloak over his head .Just at this moment who should come to our ,issistanco but the gallant gentleman I had met so often 110 spoke out boldly to the leadei s of the roisterers 'These are a noble gentleman and a noble lady,' he said , and wh.it tollowed I could not hear, lor theie began such a lost ling and svveai ing and laughing all together that m\ eaus were deafened Whatever was said, whatevei urged, I know not , yet it had its effect, for in an instant the tall villain was bowing over niv hand and .iskmg that he might have the honor of seeing me to mv lodging 1 was gladder than if he had made me ft cc of the gate of heaven ; and so, holding me by my finger-tips, damtilv as though ho had me out to dance, he brought me to the door of the house, and, having handed me within, retned, leaving mv poor father, choking- with anger, beside me God knows that T was relieved enough to forgive them, though my father was not We saw them fiom tho windows go westwaid m search of other victims, their touches dancing 1 like fireflies m the mght M,v father raged helplessly Doubtless it, was to the bettering of his health. as it had been befot c, when lie --aid that his anger acted like a blood-let-ting. I was beginning to think of late that mv father's meekness was acquired and not natural and the unnatural is ever t lie unwholesome I had to tell him of th.it gentleman whosr- intervention had s cl ved us such indignities- for, it will b<i iemembered that t hey had Mided my father while their tnsoh rice was proceeding 'Whoever, he be ' ct ied mv father, 'I am his friend v,, lite ' I sweat it by all tilings I hold s.tcied ' I said nothing of having seen him before. I know not win, only that my lips were sealed legaidmg him But he was to be levelled soon enough, for as w e s,,t to our moi ning cup of chocolate l.,\>]\ 15arli.ua was announced ' So you fell m with the Mohocks last night,' she said

breathlessly, ' and a gentleman interfered to save you.' ' You had the news early,' said my father. ' The town has it,' she replied. ' And your deliverer was shot in the right side by the liuck this morning. Tli ere were some sharp words spoken last night, in misunderstanding, before the thing was cleared up They say that I lie Buck is the sorriest man uli\e that he had to light , but his honor demanded it ' My fatJv r turned pale ' I would see the gentleman,' he said ' Where (loot h<> livp *> ' ' No further than Henrietta street And, by the way, J am his messenger Ho asks to see you and Ursula while he yet lives.' JMy father expressed no surprise, feeling, perhaps, that a dying man's humor must be sati-slied. ' \Ve will come,' he answered, rising and taking his three-cornered hat. ' Make yourself ready quickly, Ursula. Who is the gentleman, .Lady Babs '■> ' ' You will know soon enough. He is as dear to me as my son.' I saw the tears in hen bright eyes and loved her the more for it, if that wore possible And yet, if this wound should prove fatal, what woman on earth would have a right to weep save me '> ' 1 put on my feathered hat and my cloak of pure camnelite, which wrapped me to my feet, hiding the roses ami lilies of my gown, and Lady Barbara and 1, taking an arm of my father, walked the little distance that separated us fi oni Henrietta street All three of us were ushered into the chamben where our deliverer lay with his c.v es watching the door, and as we came in they hlled with satisfaction Hut, lest lie should see my face, so vviung with love and pity, 1 moved a little atvav behind the head of Ins couch, while my father went straight to him and kissed his cheek in t lie foreign fashion ' IWy daughter, and J are v-ours for e\er, sir,' he .said Then. I saw that the sick gentleman had a parchment with many great seals damping from it under his hand. ' I sent for >ou, Lord Uniacke,' he said, speaking wuh dilliculty. ' to restoi c you this m case niv wound should not heal My stewai dship may be neailv at an i nd ' ' Your stewardship ° ' repeated mv father, staring ,\\k\ reach ing absently for t he pat chment 1 1 took the title deeds,' the other said, ' lest mv brother Ilalph should have them 'What, did you not know that Ralph had conn 1 home from the Low ('outlines, moie loose-living than ever, and jet a zealot '> 1 pray I ni.iv still live, for v our sake, to hold t lie deeds safe ' ' You ate — .James 1 maike 9 ' said mv father, stannnei ing ' I am .James Uniacke 1 tried to tell you, but you would neither see mn nor read mv letter, that I took v our deeds in tiust, for fear of Ralph \\ \\\ you not go ba< k to Dare ° ' Then mv father slowly replaced tho deeds whete the.v had lain above the bandages and closed the pale hand upon them. * Keep them for us,' he said Live to keep voui titist, and wo will ti\irvel back to Dare together Then I saw a light of ioy bieak over the (]i?av and noble lace, which happily now is never far from me Hut Ins cv es strained back as though he sought something. J came forward a step oi two, and my father took mv hand ' Salute v our kinsman, I,'isula,' he said. 'The old feud between Bun en and Pan 1 is over for ever.' 1 stopped to kiss mv cousin's cheek, but he turned his face to mmo and our lipt. met ' Live for me,' T whispered, and knew not if I spoke the words or only thought them J!ut he hoard them — in his heart, peihaps. '1 will live, beloved,' ho answered. After all, T left Dare only for Burreti , nor was my father lonely,

for soon after I was a happy wedded wife he brought home the Lady Barbara de la Poor as his bride. — Katherino Tynan, in ' Boston Journal.'