The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, Volume L, Issue 6, 8 February 1923, Page 3

The Storyteller

(By Mrs. J. Sadlieu.)

Alice Riordan

It happened that evening that several of the boarders were absent, some on parties of pleasure, some gone to the country for the day so that there was only young Richardson, aforesaid, and two elderly men of respectable appearance. Richardson was a good-looking young man of some six or eight and twenty, with a frank, open countenance, somewhat bronzed from exposure to the weather, and a well-formed, manly figure. He was, on the whole, a young man of whose attentions any girl in his own station might well be proud, and this Alice Riordan knew very well, hence the blushing and embarrassment attending on her aunt’s communication.

Harry and Cormac were still sitting together in a small room adjoining the dining-room, and Lizzie told Alice to go in for them, which Alice was very glad to do, for more reasons than one. As she entered the room, her uncle shook his head with a warning gesture, and then, slapping Cormac on the shoulder, he arose: “Come along, Cormac, my man; here’s Alice come to tell us that tea is ready.”

“Well, I'm ready to go, Harry. Where are you, Alice dear?”

“Here, father,” said Alice, taking his hand, and speaking in as cheerful a tone as she could command. “Aunty and I were long about getting the tea; but you must both of you forgive us this time; you know Uncle Harry told us to have a chat together,” she added archly.

“And I’ll go bail you took me at my word,” said her uncle. “Get along there, you young witch; I suppose you were making a charm on my little Lizzie. Was she with you all the time?” he added, with a look of sly humor.

“Well, not exactly all the time, uncle: she came upstairs for something she wanted,”

“To be sure she did; I saw her eye shining through the keyhole there. I declare to my sins, I don’t know what to do with her; I wish she was as deaf as a stone.”

“Fie, fie, uncle!” said Alice, reprovingly; “what great harm was it for her to hear what passed between you and my father? I suppose you weren’t plotting treasonwere you?”

“Maybe ay, and maybe no,” replied her uncle, with one of his merry laughs; “but see, there’s Mr. Richardson placing a chair for you, and Lizzie has on her vinegar face so I see it’s the best of our play to sit down at once and * fall to,’ as they say in the old country.”

The evening passed away very pleasantly; Richardson took every opportunity of making court to Alice, and Alice received his attentions so graciously that Lizzie was delighted. Every now and then she would nudge Harry with her elbow, or call his attention to what going on with one of her knowing winks. Even the , two elderly gentlemen were made acquainted with her plans and wishes. “Now, Mr. Rogers, don’t you think they’d make a very handsome couple? I declare, I think they were made for one another. What do you say, Mr. Green?”

Mr. Rogers thought it highly probable, and Mr. Green sagely observed that “more unlikely things had come to pass.” .

Cormac was the only one who knew nothing of the matter, he seemed unusually depressed; and though he entered into conversation with Richardson, and even argued religion for some time with Green, yet Alice and Harry were both painfully sensible that he was forcing a cheerfulness which he did not feel. About nine o’clock Alice approached him and asked, if he did not think it time to go home. “Well; yes, Alice, I think we had as well be moving. We have a long walk before us.” i - *

; Richardson proposed to see them home, and after some polite objections from both father and daughter, his offer was accepted, and they all three set out together. Harry and Lizzie went with them to the door, the former to tell Alice, in a significant tone, that he would be over next day to see them, as he had some business in Craig Street, not far from where they lived, and Lizzie to charge Richardson

to take good care of Alice on the way, “for good people are scarce, you know, Mr. Richardson.”

“Oh, never fear, Mrs. Malone, never fear; we’ll get along well, I promise you.” So off they went, Alice leaning on her father’s arm, and Richardson walking by her side. On the way, he gradually turned the conversation to his own affairs. It appeared he was the son of a widowed mother, who was “at home in Ireland,” as he said, with two young daughters, who were yet but mere children. “My poor mother,” said he, “was left a widow when my sisters were only infants, and since then she has had some hard times, though in my father’s lifetime she was very well off. She strained every nerve to give me a good education, and it is now four or five years since I came to America with the intention of bringing out my mother and sisters, as soon as I had a good way of doing. Every year since I came I sent home some money: last year I sent thirty pounds.”

“Thirty pounds, Mr. Richardson!” said Cormac; “why, you must have good wages.”

“Yes, I have now eight dollars a week.”

“Well, and do you still think of sending for your mother?”

“That depends on circumstances,” replied Richardson, with some hesitation. “In her last letter my mother told me she had got into business, and was beginning to do very well. I think she would just as soon stay where she is, and have me send her money, as I have been doing. She would like me to go home; butbut I don’t think I shall go—at least for some time.”

“How did you come by your un-Catholic name, Mr. Richardson?” said Alice; “was your family always Catholic?”

“No,” replied Richardson; “my father was a Protestant and an Englishman but as he died when we were all quite young my dear mother w r as enabled to bring us up in the true faith. I owe everything to my mother,” he added, in a tone of deep feeling.

“God bless you, Mr. Richardson,” said Cormac, fervently; “it does my heart good to hear you speak that, way of your mother. There’s no fear but you’ll have a blessing. Are we near home, Alice?”

“Very near, father,” said Alice, in a low voice; “we have only a block or two farther to go. Mr. Richardson, it is getting late; had you not better turn back?”

“Not till I see you safe at home — is, provided you have no objection. If you have just say so, and I’ll be off at once.”

“Oh, not' at all,” said Alice, quickly. “I’m sure we’re very much obliged to you, and very glad of your company; but then' the trouble ”

“I am very glad to hear that you’re glad of my company,” he rejoined, taking her up quickly; “as to the trouble, that’s my affair. Suppose the trouble, as you call it, were only a very great pleasure—what then?” “Why, I suppose we must not deprive you of it, that’s all,” said Alice, laughing. “But here we are at the door.” “Well, good-night, then,” said Richardson; “as my services are no longer needed, I’ll be going.” y “Won’t you come in?” said Cormac. Richardson hesitated: he was evidently waiting for Alice to second the invitation but she did not so he hastily excused himself, saying that if Miss Riordan would permit him he would come some evening during the week, and spend an hour or two. The permission was given, and Richardson walked away with a light heart, humming as he went, the refrain of “The Days When We Went Gipsying.” Late as it was when they got home, Cormac lit his pipe and sat down to “take a draw” before he went to bed. “Alice,” said he, “will you just get * Thomas a Kempis ’ and read me a chapter; you always happen on something in it that seems if it was every word written on purpose for me. There’s a deal of consolation in that book, mv daughter.”

“So there is, father, for those who need it; I’m thankful that neither you nor I stand much in need of consolation. God is so good to both of us that we don’t want either Thomas a Kempis, or any other writer, to comfort us —at least I can say that much for myself.” She watched her father narrowly as she said this, and she saw that he was making an effort to imitate the cheerfulness of ! her tone!

“And I, too, Alice dear; I’m sure between God and the Blessed Virgin, and my dear daughter, they leave nothing undone to make me - happy an’ lam happy.Oh, indeed, an’ indeed, lam happy! God knows 1 am —an’ why wouldn’t I? I have everything that my heart could wish.”

“I’m delighted to hear you say so, father dear,” said Alice, still keeping her eye on him “for, do you know, I have sometimes feared that you were not happy, after all.” The blood mounted to Cormac’s face as ho replied quickly. “Why, then, you were wrong Alice, all wrong; I’m as happy as the day’s long, and full of gratitude to God and you; but, then, I can’s help thinkin’, now and then, that I must be goiu’ some of these days, and ” ‘Going, father! —going where?” said Alice, affecting not to catch his meaning.

“Why, to the kingdom come, my daughter; in the course of nature my time can’t be long now. I must follow them that are gone before me; an’ if I could only hope to take my place among them, I’d be well pleased to go when God sees fit to call me. But then it’s hard, hard, to think that one must lie down an’, moulder into dust where there’s not one belongin’ to usamong the black strangers.”

By this time the tears were running down poor Cormac s cheeks, and to say the truth, Alice’s own eyes were not dry, but yet she rallied her energies to make light of her father’s trouble.

“Why, then, what in the world puts such thoughts in your head, father dear?—you never used to have such thoughts, an’ I’m sure you ought to have more sense than to be disturbing your minds about such things. With God’s help, it will be many a long year before you’ll want a grave anywhere; and, for my part, so as it’s consecrated ground, I don’t care where I’m buried. It’s all one to the poor body, and I’d just as soon lie in the French burying-ground there above as in Kilshanaghan. I’m surprised at you, father dear.” “Well, I can’t help it, Alice; I know myself it’s foolish; but, as I was just sayin’ to Harry this evenin’, I can’t get it out of my head, do what I will. But don’t be cast down, Alice dear; I, didn’t mean to tell you anything about these childish notions: I suppose it’s beginnin’ to dote I am,” he added, with a forced smile.

‘ At any rate, father,” said Alice, as she took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes, “itss just as well for me to know, all about it; you know very well that your trouble is my trouble; and even if these fancies of yours are somewhat childish, we must do our best to get you over them. Let us say one Rosary to-night with that intention; and as we’ll both be going to Communion on Sunday next, let us offer it up for the same purpose. You’ll see it will be all right very soon, and that you’ll get rid of these notions.”

“God grant it, Alice, God grant it! I’d be glad and thankful if I did. But,” he added, with a sudden change of manner, ‘ isn’t that Mr. Richardson a fine young man? believe he’s a Catohlic, isn’t he?”

“Oh, dear, yes, father,” said Alice, quickly; “I used to see him regularly in St, Patrick’s Church before ever he went to my aunt’s—long before I knew who he was. Oh, indeed, he is a Catholic, and a good one too.” Cormac smiled, and took a draw or two of the pipe without saying anything, and Alice, not noticing the smile, supposed the matter was ended. But not so: after a little while Cormac resumed the subject. “I’m well pleased,” said he, “with his kind remembrance of his mother;—a good son is sure to make a good husband.” Alice laughed as she replied: “Very likely, father; but let us leave that to whoever it may concern. He said he’d come some evening this week to sit and chat awhile. I’m glad on your account, father, for he has seen a good deal of the world, and read a good deal,, too.” “And I’m glad on your account, my daughter,” said Cormac, quietly. !

“On my account, father?” cried Alice, with a start and a blush. , • ■

- “Just- so, Alice, just so. But I think it’s late in the night; let us get our prayers over and go to bed.” ; On Tuesday evening Richardson made his appearance, and though Alice was at first somewhat embarrassed, remembering her aunt’s avowed scheme and her father’s

broad hint, yet after some time the young man’s easy, natural manner reassured her, and she gradually recovered her usual composure. The evening passed pleasantly away; and when Richardson rose to take his leave the regret was 1 common to all parties. Cormao expressed a hope that he would come very soon again ; and if Alice did not say as much, there was a tell-tale blush on her face that did say as much — more, too—-quite enough, in short, to send him away in the best of spirits. The next time he came. Uncle Harry was with him, brimful of Cormac s secret ; but Alice soon gave him to understand that it was no ‘‘secret now.” Harry sat down, took out his handkerchief, and rubbed his face over and over again; “And so I’ve had my walk for nothing?”-he said, in a low voice, to Alice; but lowering his voice to a whisper, he added, “maybe not all for nothing. Can’t you guess some other business I might have?” .

(To be concluded.)