“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’?’