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قراءة كتاب Kilgorman: A Story of Ireland in 1798
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
unto the faithful assembled at the hour of evening service at H—; to H— the beloved banker, and S— our brother, and H— our joyous counsellor, and all and sundry, greeting: peace be with you! Know, brethren, that I am with you in the spirit; neither is there any chair in which I would not sit, nor pipe I would not smoke, nor drink I would not drink, so as I might be one with you, and hear your voices. In good sooth, I would travel far to catch the wisdom that droppeth from the lips of H—, or sit among the philosophers with S—, or laugh with the great laugh of H—. I would do all this, and more also, could I make one with you around the familiar hearth.
“Yet know, brethren, that I shall come presently, and strictly demand an account of what is said and done, what mighty problems are solved, what joys are discovered, what tribulations are endured, in my absence.
“Meanwhile, I would have you to know that I am here, not without my teachers, for I read daily in the great missal of Nature, writ by the scribe Autumn in letters of crimson and gold; also in the trim pages of the gathered fields, with borders of wood-cut; also in the ample folios of ocean, with its wide margins of surf and sand. These be my masters, set forth in a print not hard to read, yet not so easy, methinks, as the faces of friends. Perchance when she cometh, in whose light I interpret many things, I shall have rest to learn more therefrom; for now I am as a sail without wind, or a horn without his blower, or a stone without his sling.
“Yet am I not here to no purpose. There is a certain coy nymph, ‘Health’ by name, who is reported in these parts—her I am charged to seek. Where she hides ’twere hard to say; whether on the hill-side, golden with bracken, or in the spray of the sea, or on the bluff headland, or by the breezy links—in all these I seek her. Sometimes I spy her afar off; but the wanton comes and goes. Yet I am persuaded I shall presently find her, and bring her home rejoicing to them that sent me.
“Finally, brethren, I pray you, have me often in your remembrance, and report to me such things as concern our common welfare, for I desire ardently to hear of you.
“Farewell, from one who loves you and counts himself your brother.
“T.B. Reed.”
Alas! “the coy nymph, ‘Health’ by name,” was never found. Within a week or two of the despatch of this letter, he became so much worse that he was advised by the Belfast doctors to return at once to London. He suffered from a hopeless internal malady, which he bore with heroic patience.
At Highgate, on 28th November 1893, he passed peacefully away.
It was given to him in his short life—for he condensed into the span of forty-two years the literary labours of a long life—to materially add by his charming boys’ books to the happiness of the youth of his generation. It was given to him also by his labour and research to make a solid contribution to the learning of his time. He has enriched many lives by his friendship, and by the example of his unceasing thoughtfulness for the welfare of others. To all who had the inestimable privilege of knowing Talbot Reed, there will be the remembrance of a man “matchless for gentleness, honesty, and courage,”—the very ideal of a chivalrous English gentleman.
John Sime.
Highgate, London, February 1894.
Chapter One.
Wandering Lights.
It was the first time Tim and I had fallen out, and to this day I could scarcely tell you how it arose.
We had gone out on to the headland to drive in the sheep; for the wind was blowing up from seaward, and it was plain to tell that the night would be a wild one. Father was away with the trawlers off Sheep Haven, and would be ill pleased should he return to-morrow to find any of the flock amissing. So, though mother lay sick in the cottage, with none to tend her, Tim and I, because of the dread we had of our father’s displeasure, left her and went out to seek the sheep before the storm broke.
It was no light task, for the dog was lame, and the wind carried back our shouts into our very teeth. The flock had straggled far and wide in search of the scanty grass, and neither Tim nor I had our hearts in the work.
Presently Tim took a stone to dislodge one stubborn ewe, where it hid beside a rock, and, as luck would have it, struck not her but my cheek, which received a sharp cut.
“Faith, and you’ll make a fine soldier when you’re grown,” said I, in a temper, “if that’s the best you can shoot.”
Tim often said he would be a soldier when he came to be a man, and was touchy on the point.
“Shoot, is it?” said he, picking up another stone; “you blackguard, stand where ye are and I’ll show yez.”
And he let fly and struck me again on the self-same place; and I confess I admired his skill more than his brotherly love.
I picked up the stone and flung it back. But the wind took it so that it struck not Tim but the ewe. Whereat Tim laughed loudly and called me a French spalpeen. That was more than I could bear.
“I’ll fight you for that,” said I, flinging my cap on the ground and stamping a foot on it.
“Come on wid ye,” retorted Tim, giving his buckle a hitch.
And there, on the lonely, wind-swept cliff, we two brothers stood up to one another. Con, the dog, limped between us with a whine.
“You might tie the dog to the gate till we’re done, Barry,” said Tim.
“You’re right, Tim,” said I; “I will.”
It took no long time, but ’twas long enough to cool my blood, and when I returned to Tim I had less stomach for the fight than before.
“Was it ‘Frenchman’ you said?” asked I, hoping he might say no.
“Troth and I did,” said he.
But it seemed to me he too was less fiery than when he spoke last.
So we fought. And I know not how it went. We were a fair match. What I lacked in strength I made up for in quickness, and if Tim hit me hard I hit him often.
But it was a miserable business, and our hearts were sorer than our bodies. For we loved one another as we loved our own lives. And on a day like this, when mother lay dying at home, and father was out with the trawlers in the tempest, we lacked spirit to fight in earnest. Only when Tim called me “Frenchman” it was not in me to stand meekly by.
I know that when it was over, and we parted sulky and bruised each his own way, I flung myself on my face at the edge of the cliff and wished I had never been born.
How long I lay I know not.
When I looked up the day was dark with tempest. The whistle of the wind about my ears mingled with the hoarse thunder of the surf as it broke on the beach, four hundred feet below me, and swept round the point into the lough. The taste of brine was on my lips, and now and again flakes of foam whirled past me far inland. From Dunaff to Malin the coast was one long waste of white water. And already the great Atlantic rollers, which for a day past had brought their solemn warning in from the open, were breaking miles out at sea, and racing in on the shore like things pursued.
As for me, my spirits rose as I looked out and saw it all. For I loved the sea in its angry moods. And this promise of tempest seemed somehow to accord with the storm that was raging in my own breast. It made me forget Tim and the sheep, and even mother.
I tried to get up on my feet, but the wind buffeted me back before I reached my knees, and I was fain to lie prone, with my nose to the storm, blinking through half-closed eyes out to sea.
For a long time I lay thus. Then I seemed to descry at the point of the bay windward a sail. It was a minute or more before I could be certain I saw aright. Yes, it was a sail.
What craft could be mad enough in such weather to trust itself to the mercies of the bay? Even my father, the most daring of helmsmen,