The public mind, though often obtuse and stupid in many matters, is
in others sometimes extremely acute and penetrating. For some years
previous to the time laid in our tale, the family of Condy Dalton began
to decline very perceptibly in their circumstances. There had been
unpropitious seasons; there had been failure of crops and disease
among the cattle--and, perhaps what was the worst scourge of all, there
existed a bad landlord in the person of Dick-o'-the-Grange. So long,
however, as they continued prosperous, their known principles of
integrity and strict truth caused them to be well spoken of and
respected, in spite of the imputation which had been made against them
as touching the murder of Sullivan. In the course of time, however, when
the evidences of struggle succeeded those of comfort and independence,
the world began to perceive the just judgments of God as manifested in
the disasters which befel them, and which seemed to visit them as with
a judicial punishment. Year after year, as they sank in the scale of
poverty, did the almost forgotten murder assume a more prominent and
distinct shape in the public mind, until at length it became too certain
to be doubted, that the slow but sure finger of God's justice was laid
upon them as an additional proof that crime, however it may escape the
laws of men, cannot veil itself from the all-seeing eye of the Almighty.
There was, however, an individual member of the family, whose piety and
many virtues excited a sympathy in her behalf, as general as it was deep
and compassionate. This was Mrs. Dalton, towards whom only one universal
impression of good-will, affection, and respect prevailed. Indeed, it
might be said that the whole family were popular in the country;
but, notwithstanding their respectability, both individually and
collectively, the shadow of crime was upon them; and as long as the
people saw that everything they put their hand to failed, and that a
curse seemed to pursue them, as if in attestation of the hidden murder,
so long did the feeling that God would yet vindicate His justice by
their more signal punishment, operate with dreadful force against them,
with the single exception we have mentioned.
Mrs. Dalton, on her return home from her unsuccessful visit to the
miser's, found her family in the same state of grievous privation in
which she had left them. 'Tis true she had not mentioned to any of them
her intention of appealing to the gratitude or humanity of Skinadre; yet
they knew, by an intuitive perception of her purpose, that she had gone
to him, and although their pride would not allow them to ask a
favor directly from him, yet they felt pleased that she had made the
experiment, and had little doubt that the miser, by obliging her in
the request she went to prefer, would gladly avail himself of the
circumstance to regain their good will, not so much on their own
account, as for the sake of standing well in the world, in whose opinion
he knew he had suffered by his treachery towards them in the matter of
their farm. She found her husband seated in an old arm-chair, which,
having been an heir-loom in the family for many a long year, had, with
one or two other things, been purchased in at the sheriff's sale.
There was that chair, which had come down to them from three or four
generations; an old clock, some smaller matters, and a grey sheep, the
pet of a favorite daughter, who had been taken away from them by decline
during the preceding autumn. There are objects, otherwise of little
value, to which we cling for the sake of those unforgotten affections,
and old mournful associations that invest indifferent things with a
feeling of holiness and sorrow by which they are made sacred to the
heart.
Condy Dalton was a man tolerably well stricken in years; his face was
pale, but not unhealthy looking; and his hair, which rather flowed about
his shoulders, was almost snow white--a circumstance which, in this
case, was not attributed to the natural progress of years, but to that
cankered remorse which turns the head grey before its time. Their family
now consisted of two sons and two daughters, the original number having
been two sons and three daughters--one of the latter having fallen a
victim to decline, as we have already stated. The old man was sitting in
the arm-chair, in which he leant back, having his chin at the same time
on his breast, a position which gave something very peculiar to his
appearance.
As Mrs. Dalton had occupied a good deal of time in unsuccessfully
seeking for relief from other sources, it is unnecessary to say that the
day had now considerably advanced, and the heavy shadows of this dismal
and unhealthy evening had thrown their gloom over the aspect of all
nature, to which they gave an appearance of desolation that was in
painful keeping with the sickness and famine that so mercilessly
scourged the kingdom at large. A pot of water hung upon a dark slow
fire, in order that as little time as possible might be lost in
relieving their physical wants, on Mrs. Dalton's return with the relief
which they expected.
“Here's my mother,” said one of her daughters, looking with a pale cheek
and languid eye out of the door; for she, too, had been visited by
the prevailing illness; “an', my God! she's comin' as she went--empty
handed!”
The other sister and Con, her brother, went also to look out, and there
she was, certainly without relief.
“She isn't able to carry it herself,” said their father; “or maybe she's
comin' to get one of you--Con, I suppose--to go for it. Bad as Skinadre
is, he wouldn't have the heart to refuse us a lock o' meal to keep the
life in us. Oh! no, he'd not do that.”
In a few moments Mrs. Dalton entered, and after looking upon the scene
of misery about her, she sat down and burst into tears. “Mother,” said
the daughter, “there's no relief, then? You came as you went, I see.”
“I came as I went, Nanty; but there is relief. There's relief for the
poor of this world in Heaven; but on this earth, an' in this world,
there is none for us--glory be to the name of God, still.”
“So Skinadre refused, then?” said her husband; “he wouldn't give the
meal?”
“No,” she replied, “he would not; but the truth is, our woful' state
is now so well known, that nobody will trust us; they know there's no
chance of ever bein' paid, an' they all say they can't afford it.”
“I'm not surprised at what Tom says,” observed our friend, young Con,
“that the meal-mongers and strong farmers that keep the provisions up
on the poor desarves to be smashed and tramped under foot; an' indeed
they'll get it, too, before long, for the people can't stand this,
especially when one knows that there's enough, ay, and more than enough,
in the country.”
“If had tobacco,” said the old man, “I didn't care--that would keep
the hunger off o' me; but it's poor Mary, here, now recoverin' from the
sickness, that I pity; don't cry, Mary, dear; come here, darlin', come
here, and turn up that ould creel, and sit down beside me. It's useless
to bid you not to cry, avourneen machree, bekaise we all know what
you feel; but you have one comfort--you are innocent--so are you
all--there's nothing on any of your minds--no dark thought to lie upon
your heart--oh, no, no; an' if it was only myself that was to suffer, I
could bear it; but to see them that's innocent sufferin' along wid me,
is what kills me. This is the hand of God that's upon us, an' that will
be upon us, an' that has been upon us, an' I knew it would be so;
for ever since that black night, the thought--the thought of what
happened!--ay, it's that that's in me, an' upon me--it's that that has
put wrinkles in my cheek before their time, an' that has made my hair
white before its time, and that has--”
“Con, dear,” observed his wife, “I never wished you to be talkin' of
that before them; sure you did as much as a man could do; you repented,
an' were sorry for it, an' what more could be expected from you?”
“Father, dear,” said Mary, drying, or struggling to dry her tears,
“don't think of me, or of any of us, nor don't think of anything that
will disturb your mind--don't think of the, at any rate--I'm very
weak, but I'm not so hungry as you may think; if I had one mouthful
of anything just to take this feelin' that I have inwardly, an' this
weakness away, I would be satisfied--that would do me; an' although
I'm cryin' it's more to see your misery, father dear, an' all your
miseries, than for what I'm sufferin' myself; but there's a kiss for
you, it's all I have to give you.”
“Mary, dear,” said her sister, smote to the heart by her words, “you're
sufferin' more than any of us, you an' my father,” and she encircled
her lovingly and mournfully in her arms as she spoke, and kissed her
wan lips, after which she went to the old man, and said in a voice of
compassion and consolation that was calculated to soothe any hearers--
“Oh, father, dear, if you could only banish all uneasy thoughts from
your mind--if you could only throw that darkness that's so often over
you, off you, we could bear anything--anything--Oh, anything, if we seen
you aisy in your mind, an' happy!”
Mrs. Dalton had dried her tears, and sat upon a low stool musing and
silent, and apparently revolving in her mind the best course to be
pursued under such circumstances. It was singular to observe the change
that had taken place in her appearance even within a few hours; the
situation of her family, and her want of success in procuring them food,
had so broken down her spirits and crushed her heart, that the lines of
her face were deepened and her features sharpened and impressed with
the marks of suffering as strongly as if they had been left there by the
affliction of years. Her son leant himself against a piece of the broken
wall that partially divided their hut into something like two rooms, if
they could be called so, and from time to time he glanced about him, now
at his father, then at his poor sisters, and again at his heart-broken
mother, with an impatient agony of spirit that could scarcely be
conceived.
“Well,” said he, clenching his hands and grinding his teeth, “it is
expected that people like us will sit tamely undher sich tratement as we
have resaved from Dick o' the Grange. Oh, if we had now the five hundre
good pounds that we spent upon our farm--spent, as it turned out, not
for ourselves, but to enable that ould villain of a landlord to set it
to Darby Skinadre; for I b'lieve it's he that's to get it, with strong
inthrest goin' into his pocket for all our improvements; if we had now,”
he continued, his passion rising, “if we had that five hundre pounds
now, or one hundre, or one pound, great God! ay, or one shillin' now,
wouldn't it save some of you from starving”
This reflection, which in the young man excited only wrath, occasioned
the female portion of the family to burst into fresh sorrow; not so the
old man; he arose hastily, and paced up and down the floor in a state of
gloomy indignation and fury which far transcended that of his son.
“Oh!” said he, “if I was a young man, as I was wanst--but the young men
now are poor, pitiful, cowardly--I would--I would;” he paused suddenly,
however, looked up, and clasping his hands, exclaimed--“forgive me,
O God! forgive the thought that was in my unhappy heart! Oh, no, no,
never, never allow yourself, Con, dear, to be carried away by anger,
for 'fraid you might do in one minute, or in a short fit of anger, what
might make you pass many a sleepless night, an' maybe banish the peace
of God from your heart forever!”
“God bless you for them last words, Condy!” exclaimed his wife, “that's
the way I wish you always to spake; but what to do, or where to go, or
who to turn to, unless to God himself, I don't know.”
“We're come to it at last,” said their daughter Peggy; “little we
thought of it, but at all events, it's betther to do that than to do
worse--betther than to rob or steal, or do an ondaicent act of any
kind. In the name of God, then, rather than you should die of hunger,
Mary--you an' my father an' all of yez--I'll go out and beg from the
neighbors.”
“Beg!” shouted the old man, with a look of rage--“beg!” he repeated,
starting to his feet and seizing his staff--“beg! you shameless and
disgraceful strap. Do you talk of a Dalton goin' out to bee? taka that!”
And as he spoke, he hit her over the arm with a stick he always carried.
“Now that will teach you to talk of beg-gin'. No!--die--die first--die
at wanst; but no beggin' for any one wid the blood of a Dalton in their
veins. Death--death--a thousand times sooner!”
“Father--oh! father, father, why, why did you do that?” exclaimed his
son, “to strike poor kind an' heart-broken Peggy, that would shed her
blood for you or any of us. Oh! father, I am sorry to see it.”
The sorrowing girl turned pale by the blow, and a few tears came down
her cheeks; but she thought not of herself, nor of her sufferings. After
the necessary pause caused by the pain, she ran to him, and, throwing
her arms about his neck, exclaimed in a gush of sorrow that was
perfectly heart-rending to witness--
“Oh! father dear, forgive me--your own poor Peggy; sure it was chiefly
on your account and Mary's I was goin' to do it. I won't go, then, since
you don't wish it; but I'll die with you.”
The old man flung the stick from him, and clasping her in his arms, he
sobbed and wept aloud.
“My darlin' child,” he exclaimed, “that never yet gave one of us a bad
word or angry look--will you forgive your unhappy father, that doesn't
know what he's doin'! Oh! I feel that this state we're in--this outher
desolation an' misery we're in--will drive me mad! but that hasty blow,
_avourneen machree_--that hasty blow an' the hot temper that makes me
give it, is my curse yet, has always been my curse, an' ever will be
my curse; it's that curse that's upon me now, an' upon all of us this
minute--it is, it is!”
“Condy,” said his wife, “we all know that you're not as bad as you make
yourself. Within the last few years your temper has been sorely tried,
and your heart too, God knows; for our trials and our downcome in this
world has been great. In all these trials, however, and sufferings, its
a consolation to us, that we never neglected to praise an' worship the
Almighty--we are now brought almost to the very last pass--let us go to
our knees, then, an' throw ourselves upon His mercy, and beg of Him to
support us, an' if it's His holy will, to aid us, and send us relief.”
“Oh, Mary dear,” exclaimed her husband, “but you are the valuable and
faithful wife! If ever woman was a protectin' angel to man, you wor to
me. Come children, in the name of the merciful God, let us kneel and
pray.”
The bleak and depressing aspect of twilight had now settled down upon
the sweltering and deluged country, and the air was warm, thick, moist,
and consequently unhealthy. The cabin of the Daltons was placed in a
low, damp situation; but fortunately it was approached by a remnant of
one of those old roads or causeways which had once been peculiar to the
remote parts of the country, and also of very singular structure, the
least stone in it being considerably larger than a shilling loaf. This
causeway was nearly covered with grass, so that in addition to the
antique and desolate appearance which this circumstance gave it, the
footsteps of a passenger could scarcely be heard as they fell upon the
thick close grass with which its surface was mostly covered.
Along this causeway, then, at the very hour when the Daltons, moved by
that piety which is characteristic of our peasantry, had gone to prayer,
was the strange woman whom we have already noticed, proceeding with that
relief which it may be God in His goodness had ordained should reach
them in answer to the simple but trustful spirit of their supplications.
On reaching the miserable looking cabin, she paused, listened, and heard
their voices blend in those devout tones that always mark the utterance
of prayer among the people. They were, in fact, repeating a Rosary, and
surely, it is not for those who differ with them in creed, or for any
one who feel the influence of true charity, to quarrel with the form
of prayer, when the heart is moved as theirs were, by earnestness and
humble piety.
The strange woman on approaching the door more nearly, stood again for a
minute or two, having been struck more forcibly by something which
gave a touching and melancholy character to this simple act of domestic
worship. She observed, for instance, that their prayers were blended
with many sighs, and from time to time, a groan escaped from one of
the males, which indicated either deep remorse or a sense of some great
misery. One of the female voices, too, was so feeble as scarcely to be
heard, yet there ran through it, she felt, a spirit of such tender and
lowly resignation, mingled with such an expression of profound sorrow,
as almost moved her to tears. The door was open, and the light so dim,
that she could not distinctly see their persons--two circumstances which
for a moment induced her to try if it were possible to leave the meal
there without their knowledge. She determined otherwise, however, and as
their prayers were almost immediately concluded, she entered the house.
The appearance of a stranger in the dusky gloom carrying a burden,
caused them to suppose that it was some poor person coming to ask
charity, or permission to stop for the night.
“Who is this?” asked Condy. “Some poor person, I suppose, axin'
charity,” he added. “But God's will be done, we haven't it to give this
many a long day. Glory be to his name!”
“This is Condy Dalton's house?” said the strange woman in a tone of
inquiry.
“Sich as it is, it's his house, an' the best he has, my poor creature. I
wish it was betther both for his sake and yours,” he replied, in a calm
and resigned voice, for his heart had been touched and solemnized by the
act of devotion which had just concluded.
Mrs. Dalton, in the meantime, had thrown a handful of straw on the fire
to make a temporary light.
“Here,” said the stranger, “is a present of meal that a' friend sent
you.”
“Meal!” exclaimed Peggy Dalton, with a faint scream of joy; “did you say
meal?” she asked.
“I did,” replied the other; “a friend that heard of your present
distress, and thinks you don't desarve it, sent it to you.”
Mrs. Dalton raised the burning straw, and looked for about half a minute
into her face, during which the woman carried the meal over and placed
it on the hearth.
“I met you to-day, I think,” said Mrs. Dalton, “along with Donnel Dhu's
wife on your way to Darby Skinadre's?”
“You might,” replied the woman; “for I went there part o' the road with
her.”
“And who are we indebted to for the present?” she asked again.
“I'm not at liberty to say,” replied the other; “barrin' that it's from
a friend and well-wisher.”
Mrs. Dalton clasped her hands, and looking with an appearance of
abstraction, on the straw as it burned in the fire, said in a voice that
became infirm by emotion--
“Oh! I know it; it can be no other. The friend that she speaks of is
the girl--the blessed girl--whose goodness is in every one's mouth--_Gra
Gal_ Sullivan. I know it, I feel it.”
“Now,” said the woman, “I must go; but before I go, I wish to look on
the face of Condy Dalton.”
“There's a bit of rush on the shelf there,” said Mrs. Dalton to one of
her daughters; “bring it over and light it.”
The girl did so, and the strange woman, taking the little taper in her
hand, approached Dalton, and looking with a gaze almost fearfully solemn
and searching into his face.
“You are Condy Dalton?” she asked.
“I am,” said he.
“Answer me now,” she proceeded, “as if you were in the presence of God
at judgment, are you happy?”
Mrs. Dalton, who felt anxious for many reasons, to relieve her
unfortunate husband from this unexpected and extraordinary catechist,
hastened to reply for him.
“How, honest woman, could a man be happy who is in a state of such
destitution, or who has had such misfortunes as he has had;” and as she
spoke her eyes filled with tears of compassion for her husband.
“Don't break it upon me,” said the woman, solemnly, “but let me ax my
question, an' let him give his answer. In God's name and presence, are
you a happy man?”
“I can't speak a lie to that, for I must yet meet my judge--I am not.”
“You have one particular thought that makes you unhappy.”
“I have one particular thought that makes me unhappy.”
“How long has it made you unhappy?”
“For near two-and-twenty years.”
“That's enough,” she replied; “God's hand is in it all--I must now go.
I have done what I was axed to do; but there's a higher will at work.
Honest woman,” she added, addressing Mrs. Dalton, “I wish you and your
childre good night!”
The moment she went they almost ceased to think of her. The pot still
hung on the fire, and little time was lost in preparing a meal of food.
From the moment _Gra Gal_ Sullivan's name was mentioned, the whole
family observed that young Con started and appeared to become all at
once deeply agitated; he walked backwards and forwards--sat down--and
rose up--applied his hands to his forehead--appeared sometimes flushed,
and again pale--and altogether seemed in a state which it was difficult
to understand.
“What is the matter with you, Con?” asked his mother, “you seem
dreadfully uneasy.”
“I am ill, mother,” he replied--“the fever that was near taking Tom
away, is upon me; I feel that I have it by the pains that's in my head
and the small o' my back.”
“Lie down a little, dear,” she added, “its only the pain, poor boy, of
an empty stomach--lie down on your poor bed, God help you, and when the
supper's ready you'll be better.”
“It's her,” he replied--“it's her--I know it”--and as he uttered the
words, touched by her generosity, and the consciousness of his own
poverty, he wept bitterly, and then repaired to his miserable bed, where
he stretched himself in pain and sorrow.
“Now, Con,” said his wife, in a tone of consolation and encouragement,
“will you ever despair of God's mercy, or doubt his goodness, after what
has happened?”
“I'm an unhappy man, Nancy,” he replied, “but it never went to that with
me, thank God--but where is that poor wild boy of ours, Tom,--oh, where
is he now, till he gets one meal's mate?”
“He is up at the Murtaghs,” said his sister, “an' I had better fetch
him home; I think the poor fellow's almost out of his senses since Peggy
Murtagh's death--that an' the dregs of the fever has him that he doesn't
know what he's doin', God help him.”