Tales told by the Fireside

Front matter

Tales Told by the Fireside BY THE REV. CHARLES D. BELL, D.D., Late Rector of Cheltenham, and Honorary Canon of Carlisle, AUTHOR OF ' reminiscences of a boyhood,' ' POEMS old and new,' 4 diana's looking-glass and other poems,' 'the name above every name.' * Fiction may be used as one of the Gateways to the Temple of Truth.' LONDON : ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C. 1896. CONTENTS. PAGE INTRODUCTORY I MY FATHER'S STORY 5 MY MOTHER'S STORY - 47 MY UNCLE'S STORY 87 MY AUNT'S STORY *33 my grandmother's story 172 my cousin's story 202 THE VICAR'S STORY TALES TOLD BY THE FIRESIDE INTRODUCTORY. In looking over the drawers of an old oak escritoire, highly polished, and fragrant with the scent of cedar-wood, which for some reason or other had been long left unopened, I came upon several things of interest to myself and the members of my family.

Had I had any idea that the escritoire con tained such relics, not, indeed, of any great intrinsic value, but precious as belonging to those who had been loved and lost, it would not have remained so long neglected in a small dressing-room, seldom used, because attached to a bedroom which had a cold northern aspect. AA'hy I visited the room on this particular occasion, I cannot say. Perhaps it was that I was kept indoors by a wet, dreary day, and being tired of reading, and having nothing better to do, I ranged through the house, and found myself at last in the presence of the escritoire, with its black panels and brass handles. I was seized, as I looked at it, with a curiosity to know what the upper cabinet contained, and what was in the lower compartment; so, after a long but successful search for the keys, I threw the large valves open, and unlocked the drawers in succession.

The contents were neatly arranged, many of them wrapped in silver paper, and tied up with T^L£S TOLD BY THE FIRESIDE 2 ribbon. There was a jewel-case lined with faded green satin, in which reposed [a miniature set in small pearls ; there were two large signet-seals engraved with coats-of arms and other devices : one of red cornelian had a dog deeply graven on it, with the motto ' Grouse,' a setter's name, I imagine (my father had a favourite spaniel so called) ; the other was of white cornelian with a dove bearing an olive-branch in its mouth cut on it, and the motto 'Peace'; this latter is now attached to my watch-chain, and I use it when I seal a letter. There were also some silver coins of the reigns of AVilliam and Mary and the Georges, and a large golden guinea or two. There were bundles of old letters tied up with discoloured blue ribbon, with several manu scripts neatly folded, and all written in the same bold and clear hand.

Chapter I

Rose O'Reilly — Rose Oge, or young Rose, as she was called — was a pretty girl, and, like most pretty girls, very wilful, especially in matters of the heart, which caused her mother, who was a widow, no little anxiety. Rose con sidered her heart to be her peculiar property, and to be disposed of as best suited her inclination and its own peculiar bent ; on the other hand, her mother, leaving the heart altogether out of the question, or, at any rate, regarding it as a matter of secondary importance, looked upon Rose as being her property, to be disposed of to the best possible advantage. Quoth she, ' Age and experience are surer guides than youth and inclination !' Of course, the widow was right. Had she herself not tasted the bitter fruits of disobedience, yet not altogether so bitter that under similar temptation — ah, well, well, well !

Rose Oge had many sweethearts ; she had also two true lovers, and one whom she believed to be false — Felix O'Flanagan. One of the two was called Willie O'Connor. He was the only child of a well-to-do farmer, with richly cultivated land, and was suspected of having money in the bank. O'Connor was AVidow O'Reilly's favourite. The other was Dennis Maguire, the son of old Peter, who had never been known to succeed in anything. Dennis, to all appearance, was the man most favoured by Rose. I have said that Rose Oge was pretty, but beautiful had been the more appropriate word — beautiful as the wild-rose in the hedge, which receives an added charm from the homeliness of its ungraceful surroundings. Did Rose know that she was beautiful ? Of course she did. Did not all the ' boys ' for miles and miles round testify to her charms ?

Did not all the girls bear witness to her grace after the manner of their kind ? Did not her looking-glass, did not the clear, cool well whence she daily drew water for the house, reflect the same sweet truth, just as it mirrored the blue skies and twinkling stars? How could she doubt evidence so pleasant and convincing ? Rose Oge was rather above the middle height, well formed, graceful, and agile as a mountain fawn. Her abundant golden-brown hair was drawn back from her low, broad forehead, so as to display the small shapely white ears, and was coiled in a heavy mass behind. Her ' bonny brown ee,' large and liquid, and fringed with long silken lashes, looked dark as a sloeberry in winter. Her nose was neither Grecian, Roman, nor Milesian, but was simply beautiful, recognising no nationality and recognised by none.

Her curved mouth — though, if truth must be told, somewhat large — was redeemed by sweet, pouting lips, scarlet as hollyberries at Yule-tide. As Rose was passing through the gate of her little garden, fragrant with lavender and gillyflower, carrying a milk pail, a voice arrested her steps : ' Rose darlin', don't be a-stayin' out late. They say we're goin' to have throublesome toimes ; an', sure, whin sorrow's in the air, no one knows where it may light.' It was the widow who spoke. 'Och, mother, never fear for me! Who would injure Rose Oge ?' She laughed with saucy merriment at the fear. 'Sure, there's not a chapel boy would do me hurt — not even Black Rody himself. An' as for the Prodestants, they're as civil spoken as if they belonged to the true Church.' She lingered a moment, and then said hesitatingly, 'Mother, when I've done milkin', I'll just run with a quart o' the strippin's to ould Peter Maguire.

He's doncy, they say, and a drop might comfort him. Sure, it would be a charity.' ' Troth, an' that same charity's a mighty convaynient virtue,' returned her mother, with the slightest suspicion of irony in her pleasant voice. ' But I'll just take over the milk meself; when an ould man's doncy, an' has no female of his own to look after him, it's age an' experience he wants about him, especially when he has a son. Rose alanna !' — she resumed apologetically, seeing the colour deepen on her daughter's cheeks — ' I don't misdoubt your charity ' (which, to say the very least, was an equivocation), 'but the world is a quare one, and has two evil thoughts for one good word.' The Widow O'Reilly was a fond mother, but an im politic woman. Rose stood leaning on the gate in silence. Probably she would have treated her mother's hint more resentfully had not a graver anxiety held her in bondage.

She felt that her mother ought to have known her better than to suppose she would have gone alone, especially at so late an hour, to visit old Maguire, had his son been at home. Not that she feared Dennis, but simply because such an act would have been opposed to all her feelings. Rose knew (what her mother did not know) that Dennis was not in the neighbourhood. She had received an urgent message from him that morning imploring her to meet him at the usual trysting-place under the gnarled thorn by the Fairy Well. When they met, he told her that he was com pelled to leave home for a time, and entreated her to see his father that very evening, and, giving him the money he placed in her hands, to tell him not to feel uneasy on his account, as he would soon come back. He also implored her to look in on the old man sometimes, and not leave him quite desolate.

He dared not go near the house him self, he said, as it would be watched by the police, and he might be taken. While he was speaking, a shrill whistle was heard, and, straining her to his heart for an instant, he hurried away without a further word of explanation, leaving Rose like one awaking from a strange bewildering dream. She was fully aware that for three or four years Dennis Maguire had been a 'Patriot,' and that in his devotion to his country he had so neglected his farm that his homestead was in a state of semi-dilapidation, his land unfilled, and his garden a wilderness of weeds. He also neglected to pay his rent ; but men who are born to be the saviours of their country cannot stoop to manual labour, and rent was made for slaves to pay. Rose stood irresolute. She did not wish to disobey her mother, or to break the promise tacitly given to her lover.

How might she reconcile a divided duty? Having gained her point, the widow prudently retreated. In all such little disagreements, she never dared to follow up her victory, for Rose had such a winning way that con quest was often turned into disastrous defeat. As Rose stood pondering, she began to hum the air of an old song, as if seeking counsel in music. Presently her lips began to form the words, and this was the song she sang : ' I would I were on yonder hill ; 'Tis there I'd sit and cry my fill, And every tear would turn a mill. Is go de tu murnin sl2m. Shule, shule, shule aroon, Shule go succir, agus shule aroon.' As she was ending the last verse, a gentle hand was placed on her shoulder. AArith a slight exclamation of terror, she started, and, looking round, saw Grace Ormond, her foster sister, standing by her side, clad in a dark blue riding-habit. ' Oh, Rose ! did you think I was a ghost ?' cried Grace, laughing. ' How very sad and sentimental that song of yours is !

Very sweet, but quite out of place this evening.' ' Sure, it's one of your own favourites, miss, an' 'You learned it to please me? Quite true. But the evening is bright, and the song is gloomy. But,' she added in haste, ' I am in a hurry, Rose ; so, as I have something to say to you, you will have to come with me part of the way home. But what are you doing, Rose ?' she added, as she observed a sudden movement on the part of her foster sister. ' Sure, miss, I was only pushin' a bit of bush a wee thought to one side, thinkin' Danny might fancy a taste of sweet fresh grass with the dew on't this blessed evenin'.' ' But there was the gate — why not leave it open ?' de manded Grace, with pardonable surprise. ' Oh, if I had done that, the misdoubting neighbours might have said it was on purpose to let Danny, the inno cent craytur, elope with a mouthful of Willie O'Connor's clover.' Her manner and the tones of her voice were the per sonification of innocence ; but there was a malicious gleam in her dark eyes which Miss Ormond observed, although she made no remark.

They walked side by side, their steps growing slower and slower as their conversation became more animated — if that, indeed, can be called conversation where one alone plays the orator. Miss Ormond spoke with a subdued earnestness which showed how much her heart was in her words — an earnest ness which deepened in proportion to her companion's un willingness to utter a syllable beyond those conventional replies which are so chilling. Soon the foster-sisters came in sight of a groom holding two horses, one of which was evidently intended for Miss Ormond. She stopped to say a few last words, and, placing herself on the low wall of the old moss-covered bridge, motioned Rose to seat herself by her side. The latter, with a deprecatory air of pretty humility, sat down on a stone at the feet of her mistress.

A very beautiful picture they formed, reclining on that ancient time-discoloured bridge. The tranquil lake on one side, like a sea of glass, mingled with the fires of the glowing sunset; on the other were the deep-grassed meadows, and in the distance the purple mountains, with the heavens bending tenderly over all. ' AVe used to have no secrets from each other when we played together as children, Rose ; why should things be different now ?' Rose, who was pulling to pieces the fronds of a delicate fern, remained silent. She was debating within herself whether it would not be more politic to confess, with ap parent voluntariness, a secret which she felt would be won from her sooner or later by her questioner's persistency. She knew of old that Grace was exceedingly wilful, as well as resolute, in winning her point in all matters between them.

She had a pretty little tyrannous way about her which would have ensured obedience on her part had she ever dreamed of rebellion, which she never did. ' Papa says that it is a great misfortune when a girl has too many admirers. She is always sure to choose the worst.' Grace was resolved to bring the engagement to close quarters. ' I'd rather choose with my own pair of eyes than rny father's, rest his sowl ! Sure, Miss Grace alanna, a girl knows best what is for her own happiness !' There was a slight flush on her cheek as she looked up in her companion's face. ' Papa says not,' returned Grace, with the air of one who had settled a disputed point for ever. ' Rose, I saw Dennis Maguire this evening.' ' You !' cried Rose, in startled surprise. ' I thought that it would be better for me to break the sorrowful news to him, and at the same time explain his landlord's intentions.

Our agent, Mr. Casey, tells my father that the old man must be evicted in order to obtain legal possession of his farm. He has paid no rent for I am afraid to say how many years. He is to be reinstated in his house and garden (which is as much as he will be able to manage) at a merely nominal rent, always provided that he will not hold it as a home for his son.' ' What did Dennis say to that ?' asked Rose, in a low, tremulous voice. ' He seemed dazed— bewildered — as if he did not quite comprehend what I said. I think that he must have partly understood me, for before he left he kissed my hand, and bade God bless me, and my glove was wet with his tears.' As she spoke, her own sweet eyes grew dim. ' Poor Dennis 1' said Rose softly, with a little sob. ' Oh, Rose ! how can you still care for one who has forfeited the sympathy of all right-minded persons by his conduct ?

Has not his idleness, his selfishness, his recklessness helped to bring all this unhappiness upon his poor father ?' 'Oh, Miss Grace! isn't he workin' mornin', noon, and night for the good of his country?' cried Rose unguardedly, betraying her lover's secret in order to save his character. ' I suspected as much,' returned Grace, shaking her shapely head with gravity. ' A full-fledged " Patriot," I presume, and one who prefers trading on the passions and weaknesses of excited men to gaining his bread by the honest sweat of his brow. Playing at rebellion is much more amusing than handling a spade, and infinitely less fatiguing. Have you heard of this hero's latest patriotic act ?' No ; Rose had not heard. ' He met Micky Devlin, the process-server, this afternoon, and, suspecting that he had a notice of eviction against his father, knocked him down, and beat him so unmercifully that the poor man's life is in danger.

A warrant of arrest is out against Dennis Maguire.' 'Thank Heaven it's no worse!' cried Rose piously, and evidently greatly relieved. ' Could it be much worse ?' exclaimed Grace, with some thing of indignation. ' The man may die !' ' It's bad enough, intirely ; but he's only a bailiff, after all.' ' Has Dennis Maguire taught you that dark creed so popular with our poor countrymen? Is not human life altogether sacred, no matter what its calling may be ? Is not a man gaining an honest livelihood more to be respected than one who lives by robbing his creditors, be they landlords or shopkeepers ?' This evangel was too new to be accepted at once by Rose. ' AA'ho is to have Peter Maguire's land, Miss Grace ?' ' Mr. Casey wrote to my father that he had persuaded AVillie O'Connor to purchase it. You know the two farms are close together, and no one could take Maguire's without trespassing either on O'Donnell's little patch, or passing through O'Connor's. After the insolent manner in which Dennis defied my father some time ago, he never could be received as a tenant on the Avonrath estate, even were he to retrieve his character, which is not likely.' Grace spoke in a decided tone ; but, seeing the effect which her words had on Rose, she placed her hand tenderly on the arm of her foster-sister, and asked sadly : ' Why are you crying, Rose ?' ' Bekase — bekase Och ! will he never see his home again, where his forbears lived time out of mind, an' ages before that? — never see his ould father again, who will be listening every day for his footsteps, and lookin' out of the door to catch a sight of his boy comin' across the fields ?

Oh, Miss Grace alanna ! the neighbours had the hard word on him ; an' maybe he was proud, rash, and outspoken, but the heart within him was tender and true.' Grace thought of the bailiff's wounds, but said nothing. ' Tender and true,' repeated Rose, swaying backwards and forwards, ' an' he loved ' 'Ah, tell me about that !' whispered Grace, with a winning smile ; ' whom did he love ?' ' His ould father, miss,' replied Rose Oge demurely, casting down her eyes on the ground. Grace rose up somewhat hurt. She had never found Rose so wayward before, and, being prejudiced against Dennis Maguire, naturally attributed her want of candour and confidence to his influence. Moreover, it was very hard. In the impulsive kindness of a sympathetic nature, brimming over with goodness and womanly tenderness, she had sought Rose, who neither appeared to appreciate the one nor reciprocate the other.

She said rather coldly : ' I hear that Maguire has been seen frequently on this road at midnight, when he was generally supposed to be miles away.' Rose was silent. ' He has been seen in your garden.' ' Maybe the poor — the — the boy — was goin' to see his ould father. It was nothing but his duty, miss ; an' as he passed the gate, he just stepped in to ask after my mother's health.' ' Did your mother see him ?' ' She was after sleepin' when he called, and I hadn't the heart to wake her.' She paused, and, clasping her hands, looked imploringly in Miss Ormond's face. ' Och, Miss Grace machree ! must — must O'Connor have Peter Maguire's land ?' 'So Colonel Ormond has decided,' was the emphatic rejoinder. ' O'Connor is a most steady man, and is greatly respected by Mr. Casey. The Colonel, I know, thinks very highly of him' (this was said with marked emphasis as the climax of all praise); 'besides, he is not a "Patriot."' Now, although Rose Oge was on friendly terms with Willie O'Connor, and admired his good looks, she did not like to hear him spoken of in such terms of lavish praise.

Each word in his favour rang like a stronger condemnation of Maguire. As Grace was proceeding to catalogue his manifold virtues, Rose interrupted her sarcastically : ' Och, and it's he's the mighty well-behaved young boy, intirely ! — shuns all divarshins at chapel or wake ; never puts the spoke on a girsha at all, at all ; an' follows me about like a tame gander that hasn't the heart to say "Boh !" to a goose !' ' I see, Rose, it's of no use,' said Miss Ormond, turning to go ; ' my advice is lost upon you, and a wilful woman they say must have her way. I hope that you may not end in sorrow. Good-bye ; I have only spoken for your good.'

Chapter II

When Miss Ormond mounted her pony and rode off, the mind of Rose Oge was sorely perplexed. One thought, however, stood out clear and defined : she saw intuitively that, although Peter Maguire was fated to lose his farm, O'Connor must in no wise be allowed to take it. He must be induced to withdraw the offer which he had made. To permit the farm to pass into alien hands was to pronounce the sentence of banishment on Maguire for ever. The bailiff might live — while there was life there was hope; and might not the softening tendencies of time win Colonel Ormond to pardon the folly of a rash, impulsive boy? She never for an instant considered the possibility of any of the other small farmers in the neighbourhood bidding for the land — they were all too poor ; and the valley in which the holding lay was separated from the wealthier class by a narrow range of low-lying barren hills.

Nor was this all. Young Maguire had achieved such fame for independence, daring, and courage (the euphemisms of love for outlawry, rashness, and an impulsive nature), that it would be a barrier sufficiently powerful to prevent most people from coming between him and that which he looked upon as his birthright — his own by the unwritten traditions of the past — the home that had given him birth ; the land that his forefathers had tilled, but which had scarcely pro vided them with bread, and which he held dearer than any spot upon earth. Again, no matter how strongly popular opinion might condemn Maguire's act, it would never become an offence which would reach its climax in murder. The Maguires were popular, and this was an unanswerable argument in favour of their security. Wild and idle as Dennis Maguire was, he had a friend in the priest, Father Moriarty ; and with good reason, too, for his dues were paid by old Maguire regularly at Christmas and Easter, and he never forgot to send the good Father a fat goose, or fatter turkey, at Michaelmas or Yule-tide, accompanied by a big black bottle of undoubted fragrance and strength ; so the Maguires weie universally regarded as under the especial protection of Holy Church.

Supposing that Willie O'Connor were placed in the farm, would he be safe ? Maguire was a member of a secret society, whose decrees were only known by their execution, and with whom 'justice ' and ' revenge ' were convertible terms. Rose thought of the bailiff — thought how much more certain and deadly a weapon a gun was than a blackthorn, even though the stick was knotted and weighted with lead. The result of Rose's meditations was that she resolved to intrust O'Connor with young Maguire's message to his father. She had considered the ways and means most certain to gain the desired end, and formed a little plot in which the unconscious Danny was to play the undignified role of Black-foot. The purple shadows of evening had melted into gray, and the silver mists were slowly creeping over the lake and valley, when she reached the field where Danny ought to have been and was not.

When she saw that the bush which she had pushed to one side was removed out of its place, a curious little smile of triumph played over her red lips. She stooped. Yes, there were the hoof-prints distinctly traced on the dewy grass, all bearing in one direction — to the bohereen which led directly to O'Connor's cottage, and the clover-field beloved of Danny. ' Danny ! Danny !' she called, half frightened at the sound of her own voice, as she entered the shadowed lane. It was a tremulous call ; no one could hear it— that is, no hungry cow intent upon clover and trespass. ' I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel, I'll sell my only spinning-wheel, To buy my love a sword of steel. Is go de tu murnin slan, Shule, shule, shule aroon.' So sang Rose, gaining courage from the sound of her own voice, but breaking off in the middle of the refrain. 'I wonder where Danny is now?' she said to herself; ' maybe she's galavantin' in Mr. O'Connor's clover, an' if he catches her,' (singing) ' None but you can heal my woe.' ' It's myself never can get the fences made up,' (singing) ' Since the lad of my heart from me did go.' ' Well, the last time Danny was caught in the clover Mr. O'Connor threatened me with trespass, an' Willie, when the ould man's back was turned, tried to make me pay it on the spot ; but he's a mighty dacent civil boy intirely, an' was aisily put off.

Danny ! Danny ! Danny !' she called, and ' Danny ! Danny ! Danny !' floated in music up the green avenue of sweet-scented hawthorn. The moon had risen, and hill and dale were silvered with her light. In the stillness the lowing of a cow could be distinctly heard. ' That's Danny's voice,' said Rose, and hastened her steps a little. ' That's Danny's voice — and there's Danny's self— an' there's Willie O'Connor.' She hesitated a moment whether to advance or retreat. For the first time the difficulty of her position presented itself to her in its true colours ; she was going to plead the almost hopeless cause of her lover — plead it with one whom she knew in her secret heart to be his rival. She slowly retraced her steps, and, standing at the entrance of the lane, in sight of her mother's cottage, waited until AVillie and his prisoner, caught in the act, came up.

He was a good specimen of a country farmer, tall, strong, and muscular ; broad-shouldered, deep-chested, with shapely limbs — some would have called him fine-looking rather than handsome. ' I was afeared you might be lookin' for Danny, Rose, so I druv her to you.' ' An' sorry I am to throuble you,' was the not strictly truthful rejoinder. Danny turned and looked at Rose, tossed her horns, and began to ruminate in a contemplative manner. ' No throuble in life ! for, shure, she was in the clover] whispered Willie, looking rather shy. ' It's meself wonders where she learned such bad manners as to make free with other people's property,' quoth Rose Oge with great asperity. 'Shure, you know, Rose, she's welcome to the best bite about the place,' said Willie gallantly, as he inwardly wondered if he only dared claim the trespass-offering. ' Maybe it's like her neighbours she is, an' is a trifle fond o' makin' more free than welcome,' was the malicious rejoinder demurely given.

AVillie understood the allusion and the rebuff it contained. They stood for some time silent — he, supremely happy in the presence of Rose Oge ; she, secretly pondering how best to make her petition. Danny, disapproving of this dilatory state of affairs, began to move byrewards with discreet gravity. The action warned her young mistress that time was flying and her home close at hand. ' AArillie,' she said diffidently, ' they say the ould man's very bad.' ' What ould man ?' 'Och ! shure you know. Him beyant there — ould Peter Maguire,' she replied petulantly, blushing saintly as she mentioned his name. ' I heard so,' he said coldly — so coldly that Rose became resentful. ' Father Moriarty says he'll never get over it, an' he's as larned as any doctor. But it's nothing to you, I suppose ; some people don't care how the wind blows, so as their own corn's safe.' ' I thought you know'd me better,' he replied simply.

There was something in his manner, in the very tone of his voice, that softened her. In an instant she was all contrition. ' Don't be mindin' my foolish spaiches. Shure, all the counthry knows you have a kind and feelin' heart. Oh, Willie !' she continued, looking up into his face pathetically, ' they say it's the loss of his land is killin' him.' 1 AVhy did he not fight harder to keep it, then ?' returned Willie, with a faint suggestion of scorn in his voice. ' AArith his landlord ?' cried Rose, open-eyed with sur prise. 'God forbid! It's a strange love, Rose, that lets the thing it loves go to rack and ruin. He had as good a chance as my father, but, Heaven help him ! he hadn't the careful hand an' steady will. He was a kindly man, an' would help a neighbour to save his crop, though his own was in greater danger.