The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 11 May 1911, Page 843

The Storyteller

DAN’S DILEMMA CHAPTER I. Dan’s love story began under very romantic circumstances. I shall tell you as briefly , as' possible how it all came about. Dan O’Connor was just about tor start for South America (tempted thither by the enthusiastic letters of a cousin of his, who was rapidly making his fortune in the Argentine), when fate stepped inas , all his Irish friends declaredand at the eleventh hour altered his entire plans for the future. An old bachelor uncle of Dan’s died just in the nick of time and left his favorite nephew and namesake a fine old property in West Cork, within half a mile of Glandore. The two conditions of this bequest were that ,Dan should spend at least eight months of every year at Droumgarrif—as the old place was called — that none of the ancient oaks and beeches, for which the estate was remarkable, should fall beneath the sacrilegious axe.’ This puts an end to all my wild dreams of making a fortune in the Argentine,’ Dan said to his widowed mother on the afternoon of the reading of his uncle’s will. ‘Henceforward’, mother, I am to live the simple, uneventful, tranquil life of a country squire. I daresay I shall like it well enough, too; but I am sorry that you dislike the country so lynch.’ Mrs. O’Connor had been an invalidsuffering from an affection of the heart — since her husband’s death, s me five years before this epoch. Since that great sorrow had fallen upon her she had been a martyr to nervous depression, and she had found the monotony of a small country town absolutely unendurable henceforward. Dan’s father (the late Dr.,,.Robert O’Connor, a well known medical practitioner in the South of Iceland) had left his widow and his only son fairly well off, and Dan, who had been a briefless barrister in Dublin, had abandoned his profession when, about five years after his father’s death ; he had decided on seeking his fortune in South America. Mrs. O’Connor had settled down in Dublin, where a great many old friends and relations of hers resided. She was constantly, indeed, surrounded by these people, and she had no time at her disposal to indulge in those dreadful moods of depressed spirits from which she had suffered so acutely while residing in the small country town. Her loved and only sister, Alice, who for many years had been the matron of a well-known Dublin hospital, had about this time retired into private life, owing to an incurable. malady, and had gone to live with Dan’s mother in the comfortable, old-world house in Merrion square. ‘ I shall never move from here,’ Mrs. O’Connor often told her son, The thought of returning to the country sends a chill through every vein of my body. This, then, was Dan’s sole regret when he proceeded tn Glandore to take up his inheritance and follow the conditions of his uncle’s will; for Dan O’Connor was passionately devoted to his mother, and it would have entirely reconciled him to face the lonely life which he anticipated in his new home had Mrs. O’Connor decided to accompany him thither and spend the remainder of her days at Droumgarrif. But although Dan’s mother found it impossible to entertain the idea of burying herself alive in the heart of rugged Carbery, it was by no means her intention that her beloved son should not be well looked after by a specially selected deputy. She accordingly decided, with no email reluctance, to part with Martha Hanlon, who for upwards of thirty-five years had been'a faithful servant of hers, first in the home of her girlhood, and afterwards in the country town whore Mrs. O’Connor had settled down with her husband. Martha Hanlon was a woman of mature years, and of unimpeachable loyalty to ‘ the family.’ Mrs. O’Connor, therefore, felt perfectly satisfied and happy in committing her boy to the tender mercies of Martha. ‘ And you will drop; me a line every week at least, Martha,’ Mrs. O’Connor said to her faithful and confidential old retainer, ‘ just to let me know exactly how Master Dan is getting along, so that I can always feel that 1 am in spirit with him at Droumgarrif, although unfortunately compelled, owing to my state of health, to remain bodily here in Merrion square.’ And good old Martha, the soul of discretion, faithfully promised to obey this parting request. Dan O’Connor arrived in Droumgarrif on a glorious afternoon in October. He had visited his Uncle Dan once or twice during the previous ten years; but these visits had been brief ones, so that he knew very little of the neighborhood, and nothing at all, so to speak, as to the inhabitants. He now completely lost his heart to his new home, and to the people whom he met day by day, hour by hour after his arrival. # ... ’ Droumgarrif is an ancient, weather-slated house, standing in a sheltered nook, among healthv hills’ and surrounded with magnificent old oaks, leeches, and sycamores.

As you drive along the rugged road from Glandore to the Glen of Roury, you obtain a glimpse of the steep roofs, the tall chimneys," and the grey walls of Droumgarrf, peeping forth from the ancestral trees. You see ‘the blue., blue smoke curling softly upward from the many chimneys into the sunlit air. You hear the mellow cawing of the rooks in the trees, where they have made their undisturbed homo for centuries. ■ . . It was no wonder that Dan O’Connor, impressionable young Celt that he was, in every fibre and in every vein, should fall in love with Droumgarrif and with its surroundings; for the scenery in that neighborhood is like the scenery of a dream, the people who live there seem to have stepped straight out of the pages of on old Irish novel. And in this old place, in the mellow month of October, under the very eyes, although he knew it not, of the watchful Martha, Dan O’Connor’s love-romance began during the first week after his arrival at Droumgarrif. CHAPTER 11. - Dan O’Connor had always loved the sea, and his favorite walks during these first days at Droumgarrif led him southward to the magnificently rugged coast extending between Cregg and the entrance to the sheltered harbor of Glandore. One sunny afternoon in the second week in October, Dan was strolling along the heathy sward in the direction of the mouldering beacon-tower of Reenogriana, half-a-dozen dogs careering ahead of him, a huge pipe between his lips. . . Dan was a handsome fellow —exactly six feet two m his stockingsbroad-shouldered, well set-up, with an erect, graceful carriage and an easy swing of the body as he walked. . Dan had the jet-black, curly hair, the fair, clear skin and the blue-grey, long-lashed eyes of the typical southern Celt. The expression of his face, while in repose, was somewhat dreamy and pensive; but when Dan smiled —and Dan often smileda beam of sunshine seemed suddenly to illumine every feature and to sparkle in the eyes, until they flashed like jewels. . Dan was drinking in the loveliness of the scene around —the sapphire sea, the grey crags, the brown moorland covered in parts with golden bracken and faded heather — when just as he had reached the ruined beacon-tower he heard a woman’s scream from the summit of the cliffs immediately below. With startled eyes he glanced in the direction whence the cry had come, and then he beheld a middle-aged, welldressed woman waving frantically to him, with wildly uplifted arms, while scream after scream broke from her lips. ‘Good heavens! is she mad? What can be the matter?’ Dan cried, as he hastened down the hillside to the cliff-top. ‘Oh, come as quickly as you can, for God’s sake!’ the woman gasped, as he approached. ‘My daughter has fallen over the cliff. She was climbing down to get hold of a wounded sea-bird, which someone must have shot in the wing, when she slipped and fell. She is clinging on to the face of the cliff about twenty feet from the summit.’ Almost before, this explanation was finished Dan had beheld the terrified girl, who was, as her mother had stated, clinging on to a tuft of coarse grass growing in a crevice of the precipice, and a moment later he had begun the gallant work of rescue. It was, afteiv-all, an easy matter enough to climb down to the spot where the unknown girl stood on a narrow ledge of the cliff-wall ; and a minute or two later Dan, with one arm about the girl’s waist, had succeeded in scrambling back to the summit of the cliff. * Oh, how can I ever, ever thank you sufficiently for this!’ the girl’s mother said —she was a handsome, kindlyfaced woman, and her dark eyes were now full of tears. ‘I warned Delia not to attempt such a mad thing, as tho cldfs are so abrupt and dangerous-looking just here; but she persisted in having her own way. Delia, you look like a ghost! You seem to be on the point of fainting.’ The girl was, indeed, alarmingly pale. S.he was a tall, slender, very beautiful girl, with dark hair and darkbrown eyes, and something extraordinarily winning and arresting in the expression of her face. Dan O’Connor was gazing at her with open, undisguised admiration, as she partly rested against the rugged, heathy bank. Her large blue felt hat, with its blue and white feathers, had been put somewhat out of shape as the result of he” accident. Her exquisitely-fitting dark-blue gown and jacket were soiled and slightly torn. ‘ I am so glad I appeared at that moment,’ Dan said, glancing from the girl to her mother. ‘ When did the accident happen? Was it only just then?’ About a minute before I caught sight of you,’ the elder woman said. She was gazing as she spoke with a peculiar intentness into Dan’s handsome face. . ... All of a sudden a look of recognition— of surprised certaintyflashed into her dark-grey eyes. ‘ Either I am making a very great mistake, or you are a son of Lucy O’Connor’s?’ she said; then: Lucy O’Connor, who was before her marriage to Dr. Robert O’Connor, Lucy Ronayne, of Kilronayne, near Bantry?’ ‘ Lucy O’Connor is my mother’s name,’ Dan said smiling. ‘ Dr. Robert O’Connor was my father. lam their only child.’

I guessed it the moment I looked straight into your face. Why, You are the very image of your mother. Lucy Ronayne was the friend of my childhood 5 and' girlhood. Before my marriage I was Kate O’Meara. I married John McCarthy, of Ba'llinternple.’ ‘ I’ve heard ray mother speak of Kate O’Meara,’ Dan said impulsively. ‘At least, I’m almost sure I have,’ he added quickly, as-a flush of embarrassment swept over his face. ‘ I daresay you have; and I know why 'you have changed color now!’ Mrs. McCarthy rapidly returned. ‘Your mother quarrelled-with me just before her marriage. She accused me of having endeavored to make mischief by means of an anonymous letter between Robert O’Connor and herself. I denied it; but it was no use. She was quite positive in her opinion; and certainly all the circumstances seemed to point to my guilt; and she at once broke off our old friendship, and she has never since forgiven me. So I can quite understand, Mr. O’Connor, that anything you may have heard of me from her lips cannot have been flattering to me, to say the least of it!’ ‘ Oh, I assure you I did not mean to convey anything like that,’ Dan said hastily. ‘ As a matter of fact, I cannot now remember exactly what my mother said about you; but I am sure —’ - ’ . ‘Well, whatever she may have said,’ Mrs. McCarthy quickly interposed, ‘I am as attached to her as ever. I’ve never changed my./old feelings for Lucy. I’ve never really lost sight of her during all the long years of our separation. From friends of mine, and of her’s, I’ve always learned as to how she was getting on. I was sincerely genuinely grieved when I heard of your father’s death five years ago/ ‘I am certain of that; and I roust say I feel drawn to you as to an old and valued friend!’ Dan said, in his characteristically impulsive way, and he sndden’y extended his hand and took Mrs. McCarthy’s fingers within his very cordial grasp. ‘I am really delighted that we’ve met to—really,’Mrs. McCarthy returned smiling. ‘Only you had better not tell your mother of this meeting,’ she went on, with a little sigh, ‘for I’m certain she would not like it at all. Is she staying with you at Droumgarrif at present? Of course. I heard of your Uncle Dan’s death, but I did not know that you had come to this neighborhood,’ ‘ I came only last week. My mother is living in Merrion square. I could not persuade her to accompany me to Droumgarrif. She seems to loathe the country.’ Poor dear Lucy! How glad 1 should be to see her again !’ ‘ Aunt Alice is living with her now,’ Dan said, feeling more and more drawn to his mother’s old friend, and conscious of a wistful longing in his heart to be introduced to this old friend’s lovely daughter, who still partly lay against the heathy bank. ‘Of course, you remember Aunt Alice?’ A swift shadow passed across Mrs. McCarthy’s fact. ‘Oh, yes, of course, I remember her,’ she said, after a little pause. ‘ But Alice and I were never as intimate as your mother and 1. Alice and Lucy were, as girls, at least, totally unlike each other.’ 1 And they are totally unlike each other still ! * I must say I never particularly cared for Aunt Alice. I cannot account for the odd feeling; but, frankly speaking, I never quite believed in hernever really trusted her! My mother, however, swears by her, and has always done so, so long as I can remember.’ ° Yes, Lucy was passionately devoted to Alice. I used to be quite jealous long ago of Lucy’s love for her sister, Mrs. McCarthy said, with another sigh. ‘But I am a very selfish person, I fear,’ she went on, in an altered voice, and she glanced smilingly at her daughter. # Here am I, monopolising all the conversation and giving no one else the chance of getting in a word edgewise. Delia,_ dear, there seems no need of an introduction. This chivalrous young man’s mother was at one time my best friend in the whole world!’ ‘ Why, I’ve known Lucy Ronayne, or seemed to know her, all my life, Delia McCarthy said, smiling, as she now extended her hand towards Dan. ‘A thousand thanks, Mr. U Connor, for rescuing me from a very risky position to-day. I really think I should have lost my life but for you.’ CHAPTER 111. , Thus began Dan Connor love-story; for a love-story it was destined to be, and that in an amazingly short time moreover. ’ Mrs. McCarthy and her daughter were staying In Glandore— had resided there since the previous August —and from the day on which Dan made their acquaintance he became a frequent visitor at their pretty cottage overlooking the sea, a little bit to the westward of Kilfinane Castle. In his letters to his mother Dan, however, took care never to mention the name of Mrs. McCarthy and he” daughter. ' ‘ Full well he knew that his mother had never forgiven Mrs. McCarthy for that mysterious affair of the past whatever the true solution of it may have been. ’ Many a time had Dan heard his mother speak of Kate 0 Meara, and always with intense bitterness and anger. ‘ I am certain mother cruelly wronged her old friend ’ Dan often said to himself at this time. ‘Nothing could convince me that Delia’s mother'is other than the very soul and essence of honor, sincerity, and kind-heartedness And

as for Delia herself, she is a darling ! I’m falling head over ears in love with'her day by day.’ -Pv This was perfectly true, and that beautiful Delia McCarthy- reciprocatedin some measure at leastthe inflammable young man’s ardent feelings was perfectly evident as the weeks and months rolled by. k ‘I shall ask her to marry me!’ Dan decided one afternoon in January. If she consents, our engagement can be kept a secret for the present— I see my way to breaking the news to mother, I shall try to contrive some scheme of bringing my mother and this girl together without the mater suspecting who Delia really is.’ i ‘This will secure from mother a wholly unprejudiced Opinion of Delia. And I’ve not the slightest doubt that such an opinion will be entirely favorable in every respect. Then when mother has learned to love Delia, for her own sake, it will be time enough to break the full story to her —and then I shall have cornered her, and she cannot possibly withhold her consent to our marriage.’ It was a delightful and exciting project, and Dan proceeded to carry out the first part of it without a moment’s delay. He proceeded straight to Mrs. McCarthy’s cottage, and was luojiy enough to find Delia all alone in the tiny parlor, seated in the light of a glowing bog-wood fire. In an incredibly short space of time Dan’s arm was wound about the girl’s slender waist, and he was pouring red-hot eloquence into her ears. ‘I. love you, Delia — I’ve loved you from the first day we met on the cliffs below Reenogriana. And I want you to marry me, dearest! I think you love me a little, don’t you? _ You always seem glad to see me, at least.’ This speech was so ingenuous so devoid of conceit and self-assurancethat Delia’s heart, already captured in part, was now wholly, unconditionally won. V, A long sigh escaped the girl’s lips, and it needed rid words whatever to convey to Dan O’Connor that his impetuous wooing was crowned with full success. ‘Darling!’ Dan cried, as he took her bodily into his arms, and kissed her so rapidly and so vehemently that the girl gasped for breath. ‘l’ll send for the engagement ring to-morrow. Let me see ! This is January. I cannot run the risks of a long delay. You must marry me in March, Delia, and in the meantime I shall at once take steps to secure my mother’s consent.’ At these words a shadow darkened Delia’s glowing face, and a little shiver passed over her. ‘Your mother will never consent, Dan. never!’ she said in a whisper. ‘Leave it to me, dearest— leave it to me,’ Dan answered, with a brave show of conviction. ‘ I’ve partly arranged a plan that, I’m positive, will work out all right. The Lynams— live in Clare street — are friends of mother’s, and your mother, Delia, used to know them intimately at one time. I will ask Mrs. Lynam— who is a special favorite of mine—to invite you on a visit to Clare street, and I. will go to my mother at the same time; and I shall arrange with Mrs. Lynam to ask my mother some afternoon to her house and to introduce you under some assumed name. Then the mater will judge you on .your merits alone—and you’ll see she will be completely bowled over!’ It seemed a simple scheme enough, and Delia’s hopes, rose, again, and Dan returned to Droumgarrif in hilarious spirits. He was singing a merry West Cork folk song as he entered the dining-room, and old Martha Hanlon, who chanced to be placing some blocks of wood on, the fire at the moment," turned quickly and directed a searching glance of her keen, yet kindly grey eyes on Dan’s face. ‘ Wisha,' glory to yon, Master Dan! It’s well for you, faith, to be in such high spirits.’ All I want now is a wife, Martha, and then you’d always find me; in high spirits. But with the help of God, I won’t be a lonely man much longer.’ ‘Wisha, amen ! Master Dan —if it’s for your good, why ? ’ Martha returned, after a pause, during which her "eyes seemed to probe Dan to the marrow of his bones. ‘ And I’m sure the poor dear mistress would be only too overjoyed to hear that you were after selecting a suitable young lady— a suitable young lady, Master Dan,’ the old woman added, with a significant emphasis on the word ‘suitable’ that at once caused Dan to have certain misgivings as to the wisdom of : his impetuous words. , ‘Good Gracious! I hone she suspects nothing,’’ Dan thought, uneasily, as Martha Hanlon presently withdrew. * The mater and she are as thick as thieves. It would never, never -do if Martha guessed the truth. . . But, then, of course/ she doesn’t. How could she?/ She never stirs outside the door, except on Sundays arid holidays to go to Leap to Mass. And I don’t believe she is intimate with any of the people here.’ However, there, was a slight risk, all the same; and Dan decided to lose no time in writing to his confidential friend, Mrs. Lynam, of Clare street, and enlisting her kindly assistance in his little scheme. By the same post that conveyed Dan’s letter next day to Dublin, a letter from Martha Hanlon to Mrs. O’Connormarked ‘private and urgent’ also travelled to the metropolis. ; ‘My dear Mistress,—This is only a line or two to tell you something I kept from you since the first week I came here, as I did »pt like to trouble you, if J could help it.

' ‘ But now I cannot keep the truth from you any longer. Mrs. MacCarthy— Kate O’Meara that was is staying near Glandore with her daughter, Miss Delia. Master Dan is, constantly with them, ;/ I thought - there was no danger in this friendship at first, Now I think different. - ' - : ‘ The sooner you can., come here yourself . the better, dear mistress. Then I will tell you all about —for ray eyes were open and my ears,. too, during the past' three months. . . . ‘ Ever your devoted old servant and faithful friend, ‘ Martha Hanlon, Please, dear mistress, do not pretend to Master Dan that I told you about this.’ ’ (."■ CHAPTER IV. ■ - Dan’s letter to Mrs. Lynam was answered in a way he little expected. Frank Lynam Mrs. Lynam’s eldest son, and always a chum of Dan’s—appeared at Droumgarrif on the day following the receipt of Dan’s letter in Dublin, • greatly to Dan’s delight. .-.c. . Frank was a civil engineer, and had been staying for the previous months in Kerry in connection with the making of a new railway line. 13 ‘I had a note from my mother this morning, Dan, ami when I read it I started here at once to see you. I’m taking holidays for a week or two, so I’ll stay with you, old chap, until you turn me out.’ Then he proceeded to discuss . with Dan the matter of Delia MacCarthy’s visit to Clare street. ‘ My mother told me about your letter, Dan, and she will be delighted to do what you ask. She will write to you on the subject in a day or two.' There’s no great hurry—because, as I suppose you know, your mother is laid up with an attack of influenza, and she will probably not be able to venture , over to Clare street for a week or two at least.’ ‘I wonder Aunt Alice has not written to tell me, Dan said, a shadow crossing his face. ‘ It is just like her, though —a selfish, unfeeling old thing! I never did like Aunt Alice. It was always a puzzle to me how mother could bo so fond of her.’ • . That same afternoon Dan took his friend Frank to call, on Mrs, MacCarthy and Delia, and Frank was loud in his praises of the girl. T . ‘l’m «ot one bit surprised you are so gone on her, Dan. She s a splendid girl— inclined to envy you!’ And Frank sighed, and his eyes were suddenly" averted from Dan’s face. 4 ' t v , By 1 had forgotten, old chap!’ Dan said hastily. • You v had a romance of your own—that time you were in Scotland two years ago. How has it gone on* since, is it any harm to ask?’ ‘ Let it rest in peace,. Dan,’ Frank Lynam said very gravely, and his handsome face was shadowed. * I can’t bring. myself to talk of it even to you—just yet!’ During the days that followed the two young men were constantly at Mrs. MacCarthy’s hospitable cottage. . Mrs. Lynam had answered Dan’s, letter, promising to assist him in his matrimonial schemes in every way she possibly could. ‘ I am sorry to say your mother is not yet fully recovered, the letter went on, ‘ although she is certainly very much better. Next week I hope to have Delia MacCarthy here in Clare street.’ Dan was in wild spirits when he read this letter- bub on the following morning he was destined to receive a verv unexpected shock. When Frank Lynam entered the breakfast-room at Droumgarrif he beheld Dan pacing excitedly up and down the floor, an open letter in his hand. * Frank, I’ve had most unexpected news,’ Dan said, suddenly pausing. ‘This letter is from the mater. She’s quite well again— well enough, at least, t’o undertake a lon- journey. She sto be here this afternoon. She travelled to Cork yesterday, and she is coming on to Skibbereen by thg mid-day train to-day!’ . ! I—l wonder why she’s coming, Dan?’ Frank asked, considerably surprised and curious. , ‘Fm almost certain that silly old Martha has been telling her tales!’ Dan cried excitedly. ‘I was a bit too outspoken one evening lately when talking to Martha, and 1 had an instantaneous misgiving, which 1 now believe was well founded. • My, mother would never dream of coming here—at such a time of the year, unless there -was some urgent reason of that kind. And she’s not coming alone, either. She s bringing a girl along with her.’ ‘A girl! What girl, Dan?’ ‘ She doesn’t tell her name, but she declares her to be the “most charming creature in the wide world—an heiress, too—highly accomplished,” etc., etc., etc. And she winds up by saying, with profuse underlining; Only ait until you meet her, Dan. You will fully agree with my opinion. And here’s a secret for you—she is dying to meet you. She told me so last night.’ (To be concluded.)