Father Corraine stood with his chin in his hand and one arm supporting
the other, thinking deeply. His eyes were fixed on the northern horizon,
along which the sun was casting oblique rays; for it was the beginning of
the winter season.
Where the prairie touched the sun it was responsive and radiant; but on
either side of this red and golden tapestry there was a tawny glow and
then a duskiness which, curving round to the north and east, became blue
and cold--an impalpable but perceptible barrier rising from the earth,
and shutting in Father Corraine like a prison wall. And this shadow
crept stealthily on and invaded the whole circle, until, where the
radiance had been, there was one continuous wall of gloom, rising are
upon are to invasion of the zenith, and pierced only by some intrusive
wandering stars.
And still the priest stood there looking, until the darkness closed down
on him with an almost tangible consistency. Then he appeared to remember
himself, and turned away with a gentle remonstrance of his head, and
entered the hut behind him. He lighted a lamp, looked at it doubtfully,
blew it out, set it aside, and lighted a candle. This he set in the one
window of the room which faced the north and west.
He went to a door opening into the only other room in the hut, and with
his hand on the latch looked thoughtfully and sorrowfully at something in
the corner of the room where he stood. He was evidently debating upon
some matter,--probably the removal of what was in the corner to the other
room. If so, he finally decided to abandon the intention. He sat down
in a chair, faced the candle, again dropped his chin upon his hand, and
kept his eyes musingly on the light. He was silent and motionless a long
time, then his lips moved, and he seemed to repeat something to himself
in whispers.
Presently he took a well-worn book from his pocket, and read aloud from
it softly what seemed to be an office of his Church. His voice grew
slightly louder as he continued, until, suddenly, there ran through the
words a deep sigh which did not come from himself. He raised his head
quickly, started to his feet, and turning round, looked at that something
in the corner. It took the form of a human figure, which raised itself
on an elbow and said: "Water--water--for the love of God!"
Father Corraine stood painfully staring at the figure for a moment, and
then the words broke from him "Not dead--not dead--wonderful!" Then he
stepped quickly to a table, took therefrom a pannikin of water, and
kneeling, held it to the lips of the gasping figure of a woman, throwing
his arm round the shoulder, and supporting the head on his breast. Again
he spoke "Alive--alive! Blessed be Heaven!"
The hands of the woman seized the hand of the priest, which held the
pannikin, and kissed it, saying faintly: "You are good to me. . . .
But I must sleep--I must sleep--I am so tired; and I've--very far--to go
--across the world."
This was said very slowly, then the head thick with brown curls dropped
again on the priest's breast, heavy with sleep. Father Corraine,
flushing slightly at first, became now slightly pale, and his brow was a
place of war between thankfulness and perplexity. But he said something
prayerfully, then closed his lips firmly, and gently laid the figure
down, where it was immediately clothed about with slumber. Then he rose,
and standing with his eyes bent upon the sleeper and his fingers clasping
each other tightly before him, said: "Poor girl! So, she is alive. And
now what will come of it?"
He shook his grey head in doubt, and immediately began to prepare some
simple food and refreshment for the sufferer when she should awake. In
the midst of doing so he paused and repeated the words, "And what will
come of it?" Then he added: "There was no sign of pulse nor heart-beat
when I found her. But life hides itself where man cannot reach it."
Having finished his task, he sat down, drew the book of holy offices
again from his bosom, and read it, whisperingly, for a time; then fell to
musing, and, after a considerable time, knelt down as if in prayer.
While he knelt, the girl, as if startled from her sleep by some inner
shock, opened her eyes wide and looked at him, first with bewilderment,
then with anxiety, then with wistful thankfulness. "Oh, I thought--
I thought when I awoke before that it was a woman. But it is the good
Father Corraine--Corraine, yes, that was the name."
The priest's clean-shaven face, long hair, and black cassock had, in her
first moments of consciousness, deceived her. Now a sharp pain brought
a moan to her lips; and this drew the priest's attention. He rose, and
brought her some food and drink. "My daughter," he said, "you must take
these." Something in her face touched his sensitive mind, and he said,
solemnly: "You are alone with me and God, this hour. Be at peace. Eat."
Her eyes swam with instant tears. "I know--I am alone--with God," she
said. Again he gently urged the food upon her, and she took a little;
but now and then she put her hand to her side as if in pain. And once,
as she did so, she said: "I've far to go and the pain is bad. Did they
take him away?"
Father Corraine shook his head. "I do not know of whom you speak," he
replied. "When I went to my door this morning I found you lying there.
I brought you in, and, finding no sign of life in you, sent Featherfoot,
my Indian, to Fort Cypress for a trooper to come; for I feared that there
had been ill done to you, somehow. This border-side is but a rough
country. It is not always safe for a woman to travel alone."
The girl shuddered. "Father," she said "Father Corraine, I believe you
are?" (Here the priest bowed his head.) "I wish to tell you all, so
that if ever any evil did come to me, if I should die without doin'
what's in my heart to do, you would know, and would tell him if you ever
saw him, how I remembered, and kept rememberin' him always, till my heart
got sick with waitin', and I came to find him far across the seas."
"Tell me your tale, my child," he patiently said. Her eyes were on the
candle in the window questioningly. "It is for the trooper--to guide
him," the other remarked. "'Tis past time that he should be here. When
you are able you can go with him to the Fort. You will be better cared
for there, and will be among women."
"The man--the man who was kind to me--I wish I knew of him," she said.
"I am waiting for your story, my child. Speak of your trouble, whether
it be of the mind and body, or of the soul."
"You shall judge if it be of the soul," she answered.
"I come from far away. I lived in old Donegal since the day that I was
born there, and I had a lover, as brave and true a lad as ever trod the
world. But sorrow came. One night at Farcalladen Rise there was a crack
of arms and a clatter of fleeing hoofs, and he that I loved came to me
and said a quick word of partin', and with a kiss--it's burnin' on my
lips yet--askin' pardon, father, for speech of this to you--and he was
gone, an outlaw, to Australia. For a time word came from him. Then I
was taken ill and couldn't answer his letters, and a cousin of my own,
who had tried to win my love, did a wicked thing. He wrote a letter to
him and told him I was dyin', and that there was no use of farther words
from him. And never again did word come to me from him. But I waited,
my heart sick with longin' and full of hate for the memory of the man
who, when struck with death, told me of the cruel deed he had done
between us two."
She paused, as she had to do several times during the recital, through
weariness or pain; but, after a moment, proceeded. "One day, one
beautiful day, when the flowers were like love to the eye, and the larks
singin' overhead, and my thoughts goin' with them as they swam until they
were lost in the sky, and every one of them a prayer for the lad livin'
yet, as I hoped, somewhere in God's universe--there rode a gentleman down
Farcalladen Rise. He stopped me as I walked, and said a kind good-day to
me; and I knew when I looked into his face that he had word for me--the
whisperin' of some angel, I suppose, and I said to him as though he had
asked me for it, 'My name is Mary Callen, sir.'
"At that he started, and the colour came quick to his face; and he said:
'I am Sir Duke Lawless. I come to look for Mary Callen's grave. Is
there a Mary Callen dead, and a Mary Callen livin'? and did both of them
love a man that went from Farcalladen Rise one wild night long ago?'
"'There's but one Mary Callen,' said I, 'but the heart of me is dead,
until I hear news that brings it to life again?'
"'And no man calls you wife?' he asked.
"'No man, Sir Duke Lawless,' answered I. 'And no man ever could, save
him that used to write me of you from the heart of Australia; only there
was no Sir to your name then.'
"'I've come to that since,' said he.
"'Oh, tell me,' I cried, with a quiverin' at my heart, 'tell me, is he
livin'?'
"And he replied: 'I left him in the Pipi Valley of the Rocky Mountains a
year ago.'
"'A year ago!' said I, sadly.
"'I'm ashamed that I've been so long in comin' here,' replied he; 'but,
of course, he didn't know that you were alive, and I had been parted from
a lady for years--a lover's quarrel--and I had to choose between courtin'
her again and marryin' her, or comin' to Farcalladen Rise at once. Well,
I went to the altar first.'
"'Oh, sir, you've come with the speed of the wind, for now that I've news
of him, it is only yesterday that he went away, not years agone. But
tell me, does he ever think of me?' I questioned.
"'He thinks of you,' he said, 'as one for whom the masses for the dead
are spoken; but while I knew him, first and last, the memory of you was
with him.'
"With that he got off his horse, and said: 'I'll walk with you to his
father's home.'
"'You'll not do that,' I replied; 'for it's level with the ground. God
punish them that did it! And they're lyin' in the glen by the stream
that he loved and galloped over many a time.'
"'They are dead--they are dead, then,' said he, with his bridle swung
loose on his arm and his hat off reverently.
"'Gone home to Heaven together,' said I, 'one day and one hour, and a
prayer on their lips for the lad; and I closin' their eyes at the last.
And before they went they made me sit by them and sing a song that's
common here with us; for manny and manny of the strength and pride of
Farcalladen Rise have sailed the wide seas north and south, and
otherwhere, and comin' back maybe and maybe not.'
"'Hark,' he said, very gravely, 'and I'll tell you what it is, for I've
heard him sing it, I know, in the worst days and the best days that ever
we had, when luck was wicked and big against us and we starvin' on the
wallaby track; or when we found the turn in the lane to brighter days.'
"And then with me lookin' at him full in the eyes, gentleman though he
was,--for comrade he had been with the man I loved,--he said to me there,
so finely and kindly, it ought to have brought the dead back from their
graves to hear, these words:
"'You'll travel far and wide, dear, but you'll come back again,
You'll come back to your father and your mother in the glen,
Although we should be lyin' 'neath the heather grasses then
You'll be comin' back, my darlin'!'
"'You'll see the icebergs sailin' along the wintry foam,
The white hair of the breakers, and the wild swans as they roam;
But you'll not forget the rowan beside your father's home--
You'll be comin' back, my darlin'.'"
Here the girl paused longer than usual, and the priest dropped his
forehead in his hand sadly.
"I've brought grief to your kind heart, father," she said.
"No, no," he replied, "not sorrow at all; but I was born on the Liffey
side, though it's forty years and more since I left it, and I'm an old
man now. That song I knew well, and the truth and the heart of it too.
. . . I am listening."
"Well, together we went to the grave of the father and mother, and the
place where the home had been, and for a long time he was silent, as
though they who slept beneath the sod were his, and not another's;
but at last he said:
"'And what will you do? I don't quite know where he is, though; when
last I heard from him and his comrades, they were in the Pipi Valley.'
"My heart was full of joy; for though I saw how touched he was because of
what he saw, it was all common to my sight, and I had grieved much, but
had had little delight; and I said:
"'There's only one thing to be done. He cannot come back here, and I
must go to him--that is,' said I, 'if you think he cares for me still,
--for my heart quakes at the thought that he might have changed.'
"'I know his heart,' said he, 'and you'll find him, I doubt not, the
same, though he buried you long ago in a lonely tomb,--the tomb of a
sweet remembrance, where the flowers are everlastin'.' Then after more
words he offered me money with which to go; but I said to him that the
love that couldn't carry itself across the sea by the strength of the
hands and the sweat of the brow was no love at all; and that the harder
was the road to him the gladder I'd be, so that it didn't keep me too
long, and brought me to him at last.
"He looked me up and down very earnestly for a minute, and then he said:
'What is there under the roof of heaven like the love of an honest woman!
It makes the world worth livin' in.'
"'Yes,' said I, 'when love has hope, and a place to lay its head.'
"'Take this,' said he--and he drew from his pocket his watch--'and carry
it to him with the regard of Duke Lawless, and this for yourself'--
fetching from his pocket a revolver and putting it into my hands; 'for
the prairies are but rough places after all, and it's better to be safe
than--worried. . . . Never fear though but the prairies will bring
back the finest of blooms to your cheek, if fair enough it is now, and
flush his eye with pride of you; and God be with you both, if a sinner
may say that, and breakin' no saint's prerogative.' And he mounted to
ride away, havin' shaken my hand like a brother; but he turned again
before he went, and said: 'Tell him and his comrades that I'll shoulder
my gun and join them before the world is a year older, if I can. For
that land is God's land, and its people are my people, and I care not
who knows it, whatever here I be.'
"I worked my way across the sea, and stayed awhile in the East earning
money to carry me over the land and into the Pipi Valley. I joined a
party of emigrants that were goin' westward, and travelled far with them.
But they quarrelled and separated, I goin' with these that I liked best.
One night though, I took my horse and left; for I knew there was evil in
the heart of a man who sought me continually, and the thing drove me mad.
I rode until my horse could stumble no farther, and then I took the
saddle for a pillow and slept on the bare ground. And in the morning I
got up and rode on, seein' no house nor human being for manny and manny a
mile. When everything seemed hopeless I came suddenly upon a camp. But
I saw that there was only one man there, and I should have turned back,
but that I was worn and ill, and, moreover, I had ridden almost upon him.
But he was kind. He shared his food with me, and asked me where I was
goin'. I told him, and also that I had quarrelled with those of my party
and had left them nothing more. He seemed to wonder that I was goin' to
Pipi Valley; and when I had finished my tale he said: 'Well, I must tell
you that I am not good company for you. I have a name that doesn't pass
at par up here. To speak plain truth, troopers are looking for me, and
--strange as it may be--for a crime which I didn't commit. That is the
foolishness of the law. But for this I'm making for the American border,
beyond which, treaty or no treaty, a man gets refuge.'
"He was silent after that, lookin' at me thoughtfully the while, but in a
way that told me I might trust him, evil though he called himself. At
length he said: 'I know a good priest, Father Corraine, who has a cabin
sixty miles or more from here, and I'll guide you to him, if so be you
can trust a half-breed and a gambler, and one men call an outlaw. If
not, I'm feared it'll go hard with you; for the Cypress Hills are not
easy travel, as I've known this many a year. And should you want a name
to call me, Pretty Pierre will do, though my godfathers and godmothers
did different for me before they went to Heaven.' And nothing said he
irreverently, father."
Here the priest looked up and answered: "Yes, yes, I know him well--an
evil man, and yet he has suffered too . . . Well, well, my daughter?"
"At that he took his pistol from his pocket and handed it. 'Take that,'
he said. 'It will make you safer with me, and I'll ride ahead of you,
and we shall reach there by sundown, I hope.'
"And I would not take his pistol, but, shamed a little, showed him the
one Sir Duke Lawless gave me. 'That's right,' he said, 'and, maybe, it's
better that I should carry mine, for, as I said, there are anxious
gentlemen lookin' for me, who wish to give me a quiet but dreary home.
And see,' he added, 'if they should come you will be safe, for they sit
in the judgment seat, and the statutes hang at their saddles, and I'll
say this for them, that a woman to them is as a saint of God out here
where women and saints are few.'
"I do not speak as he spoke, for his words had a turn of French; but I
knew that, whatever he was, I should travel peaceably with him. Yet I
saw that he would be runnin' the risk of his own safety for me, and I
told him that I could not have him do it; but he talked me lightly down,
and we started. We had gone but a little distance, when there galloped
over a ridge upon us, two men of the party I had left, and one, I saw,
was the man I hated; and I cried out and told Pretty Pierre. He wheeled
his horse, and held his pistol by him. They said that I should come with
them, and they told a dreadful lie--that I was a runaway wife; but Pierre
answered them they lied. At this, one rode forward suddenly, and
clutched me at my waist to drag me from my horse. At this, Pierre's
pistol was thrust in his face, and Pierre bade him cease, which he did;
but the other came down with a pistol showin', and Pierre, seein' they
were determined, fired; and the man that clutched at me fell from his
horse. Then the other drew off; and Pierre got down, and stooped, and
felt the man's heart, and said to the other: 'Take your friend away, for
he is dead; but drop that pistol of yours on the ground first.' And the
man did so; and Pierre, as he looked at the dead man, added: 'Why did he
make me kill him?'
"Then the two tied the body to the horse, and the man rode away with it.
We travelled on without speakin' for a long time, and then I heard him
say absently: 'I am sick of that. When once you have played shuttlecock
with human life, you have to play it to the end--that is the penalty.
But a woman is a woman, and she must be protected.' Then afterward he
turned and asked me if I had friends in Pipi Valley; and because what he
had done for me had worked upon me, I told him of the man I was goin' to
find. And he started in his saddle, and I could see by the way he
twisted the mouth of his horse that I had stirred him."
Here the priest interposed: "What is the name of the man in Pipi Valley
to whom you are going?"
And the girl replied: "Ah, father, have I not told you? It is Shon
McGann--of Farcalladen Rise."
At this, Father Corraine seemed suddenly troubled, and he looked
strangely and sadly at her. But the girl's eyes were fastened on the
candle in the window, as if she saw her story in it; and she continued:
"A colour spread upon him, and then left him pale; and he said: 'To Shon
McGann--you are going to him? Think of that--that!' For an instant I
thought a horrible smile played upon his face, and I grew frightened, and
said to him: 'You know him. You are not sorry that you are helping me?
You and Shon McGann are not enemies?'
"After a moment the smile that struck me with dread passed, and he said,
as he drew himself up with a shake: 'Shon McGann and I were good friends-
as good as ever shared a blanket or split a loaf, though he was free of
any evil, and I failed of any good.... Well, there came a change. We
parted. We could meet no more; but who could have guessed this thing?
Yet, hear me--I am no enemy of Shon McGann, as let my deeds to you
prove.' And he paused again, but added presently: 'It's better you should
have come now than two years ago.
"And I had a fear in my heart, and to this asked him why. 'Because then
he was a friend of mine,' he said, 'and ill always comes to those who are
such.' I was troubled at this, and asked him if Shon was in Pipi Valley
yet. 'I do not know,' said he, 'for I've travelled long and far from
there; still, while I do not wish to put doubt into your mind, I have a
thought he may be gone. . . . He had a gay heart,' he continued, 'and
we saw brave days together.'
"And though I questioned him, he told me little more, but became silent,
scannin' the plains as we rode; but once or twice he looked at me in a
strange fashion, and passed his hand across his forehead, and a grey look
came upon his face. I asked him if he was not well. 'Only a kind of
fightin' within,' he said; 'such things soon pass, and it is well they
do, or we should break to pieces.'
"And I said again that I wished not to bring him into danger. And he
replied that these matters were accordin' to Fate; that men like him must
go on when once the die is cast, for they cannot turn back. It seemed to
me a bitter creed, and I was sorry for him. Then for hours we kept an
almost steady silence, and comin' at last to the top of a rise of land he
pointed to a spot far off on the plains, and said that you, father, lived
there; and that he would go with me still a little way, and then leave
me. I urged him to go at once, but he would not, and we came down into
the plains. He had not ridden far when he said sharply:
"'The Riders of the Plains, those gentlemen who seek me, are there--see!
Ride on or stay, which you please. If you go you will reach the priest,
if you stay here where I shall leave you, you will see me taken perhaps,
and it may be fightin' or death; but you will be safe with them. On the
whole, it is best, perhaps, that you should ride away to the priest.
They might not believe all that you told them, ridin' with me as you
are.'
"But I think a sudden madness again came upon me. Rememberin' what
things were done by women for refugees in old Donegal, and that this man
had risked his life for me, I swung my horse round nose and nose with
his, and drew my revolver, and said that I should see whatever came to
him. He prayed me not to do so wild a thing; but when I refused, and
pushed on along with him, makin' at an angle for some wooded hills, I saw
that a smile played upon his face. We had almost reached the edge of the
wood when a bullet whistled by us. At that the smile passed and a
strange look came upon him, and he said to me:
"'This must end here. I think you guess I have no coward's blood; but I
am sick to the teeth of fightin'. I do not wish to shock you, but I
swear, unless you turn and ride away to the left towards the priest's
house, I shall save those fellows further trouble by killin' myself here;
and there,' said he, 'would be a pleasant place to die--at the feet of a
woman who trusted you.'
"I knew by the look in his eye he would keep his word. "'Oh, is this
so?' I said.
"'It is so,' he replied, 'and it shall be done quickly, for the courage
to death is on me.'
"'But if I go, you will still try to escape?' I said. And he answered
that he would. Then I spoke a God-bless-you, at which he smiled and
shook his head, and leanin' over, touched my hand, and spoke low: 'When
you see Shon McGann, tell him what I did, and say that we are even now.
Say also that you called Heaven to bless me.' Then we swung away from
each other, and the troopers followed after him, but let me go my way;
from which, I guessed, they saw I was a woman. And as I rode I heard
shots, and turned to see; but my horse stumbled on a hole and we fell
together, and when I waked, I saw that the poor beast's legs were broken.
So I ended its misery, and made my way as best I could by the stars to
your house; but I turned sick and fainted at the door, and knew no more
until this hour. . . . You thought me dead, father?"
The priest bowed his head, and said: "These are strange, sad things, my
child; and they shall seem stranger to you when you hear all."
"When I hear all! Ah, tell me, father, do you know Shon McGann? Can you
take me to him?"
"I know him, but I do not know where he is. He left the Pipi Valley
eighteen months ago, and I never saw him afterwards; still I doubt not he
is somewhere on the plains, and we shall find him--we shall find him,
please Heaven."
"Is he a good lad, father?"
"He is brave, and he was always kind. He came to me before he left the
valley--for he had trouble--and said to me: 'Father, I am going away, and
to what place is far from me to know, but wherever it is, I'll live a
life that's fit for men, and not like a loafer on God's world;' and he
gave me money for masses to be said--for the dead."
The girl put out her hand. "Hush! hush!" she said. "Let me think.
Masses for the dead.... What dead? Not for me; he thought me dead long,
long ago."
"No; not for you," was the slow reply.
She noticed his hesitation, and said: "Speak. I know that there is
sorrow on him. Someone--someone--he loved?"
"Someone he loved," was the reply.
"And she died?" The priest bowed his head.
"She was his wife--Shon's wife?" and Mary Callen could not hide from her
words the hurt she felt.
"I married her to him, but yet she was not his wife." There was a keen
distress in the girl's voice. "Father, tell me, tell me what you mean."
"Hush, and I will tell you all. He married her, thinking, and she
thinking, that she was a widowed woman. But her husband came back.
A terrible thing happened. The woman believing, at a painful time, that
he who came back was about to take Shon's life, fired at him, and wounded
him, and then killed herself."
Mary Callen raised herself upon her elbow, and looked at the priest in
piteous bewilderment. "It is dreadful," she said. . . . "Poor woman!
. . . And he had forgotten--forgotten me. I was dead to him, and am
dead to him now. There's nothing left but to draw the cold sheet of the
grave over me. Better for me if I had never come--if I had never come,
and instead were lyin' by his father and mother beneath the rowan."
The priest took her wrist firmly in his. "These are not brave nor
Christian words, from a brave and Christian girl. But I know that grief
makes one's words wild. Shon McGann shall be found. In the days when I
saw him most and best, he talked of you as an angel gone, and he had
never sought another woman had he known that you lived. The Mounted
Police, the Riders of the Plains, travel far and wide. But now, there
has come from the farther West a new detachment to Fort Cypress, and they
may be able to help us. But listen. There is something more. The man
Pretty Pierre, did he not speak puzzling words concerning himself and
Shon McGann? And did he not say to you at the last that they were even
now? Well, can you not guess?"
Mary Callen's bosom heaved painfully and her eyes stared so at the candle
in the window that they seemed to grow one with the flame. At last a new
look crept into them; a thought made the lids close quickly as though it
burned them. When they opened again they were full of tears that shone
in the shadow and dropped slowly on her cheeks and flowed on and on,
quivering too in her throat.