It has never been our disposition, either in the living life we lead,
or in the fictions, humble and imperfect as they are, which owe their
existence to our imagination, to lay too heavy a hand upon human
frailty, any more than it has been to countenance or palliate vice,
whether open or hypocritical. Peggy Murtagh, with whose offence and
death the reader is already acquainted, was an innocent and affectionate
girl, whose heart was full of kind, generous, and amiable feelings. She
was very young, and very artless, and loved not wisely but too well;
while he who was the author of her sin, was nearly as young and artless
as herself, and loved her with a first affection. She was, in fact, one
of those gentle, timid, and confiding creatures who suspect not evil in
others, and are full of sweetness and kindness to every one. Never did
there live--with the exception of her offence--a tenderer daughter, or
a more affectionate sister than poor Peggy, and for this reason, the
regret was both sincere and general, which was felt for her great
misfortune. Poor girl! she was but a short time released from her early
sorrows, when her babe followed her, we trust, to a better world, where
the tears were wiped from her eyes, and the weary one got rest.
The scene in her father's house on this melancholy night, was such as
few hearts could bear unmoved, as well on account of her parents' grief,
as because it may be looked upon as a truthful exponent both of the
destitution of the country, and of the virtues and sympathies of our
people.
Stretched upon a clean bed in the only room that was off the kitchen,
lay the fair but lifeless form of poor Peggy Murtagh. The bed was, as is
usual, hung with white, which was simply festooned about the posts and
canopy, and the coverlid was also of the same spotless color, as
were the death clothes in which she was laid out. To those who
are beautiful--and poor Peggy had possessed that frequently fatal
gift--death in its first stage, bestows an expression of mournful
tenderness that softens while it solemnizes the heart. In her case there
was depicted all the innocence and artlessness that characterized her
brief and otherwise spotless life. Over this melancholy sweetness lay a
shadow that manifested her early suffering and sorrow, made still
more touching by the presence of an expression which was felt by the
spectator to have been that of repentance. Her rich auburn hair
was simply divided on her pale forehead, and it was impossible to
contemplate the sorrow and serenity which blended into each other upon
her young brow, without feeling that death should disarm us of our
resentments, and teach us a lesson of pity and forgiveness to our poor
fellow-creatures, who, whatever may have been their errors, will never
more offend either God or man. Her extreme youthfulness was touching in
the highest degree, and to the simplicity of her beauty was added that
unbroken stillness which gives to the lifeless face of youth the only
charm that death has to bestow, while it fills the heart I to its utmost
depths with the awful conviction that that is the slumber which no human
care nor anxious passion shall ever break, The babe, thin and pallid,
from the affliction of its young and unfortunate mother, could hardly
be looked, upon, in consequence of its position, without tears. They
had placed it by her side, but within her arm, so that by this touching
arrangement all the brooding tenderness of the mother's love seemed to
survive and overcome the power of death itself. There they lay, victims
of sin, but emblems of innocence, and where is the heart that shall,
in the inhumanity of its justice, dare to follow them out of life,
and disturb the peace they now enjoy by the heartless sentence of
unforgiveness?
It was, indeed, a melancholy scene. The neighbors having heard of her
unexpected death, came to the house, as is customary, to render every
assistance in their power to the bereaved old couple, who were now left
childless. And here too, might we read the sorrowful impress of the
famine and illness which desolated the land. The groups around the poor
departed one were marked with such a thin and haggard expression as
general destitution always is certain to leave behind it. The skin of
those who, with better health and feeding, had been fair and glossy
as ivory, was now wan and flaccid;--the long bones of others
projected sharply, and as it were offensively to the feelings of the
spectators--the over-lapping garments hung loosely about the wasted
and feeble person, and there was in the eyes of all a dull and languid
motion, as if they turned in their socket by an effort. They were
all mostly marked also by what appeared to be a feeling of painful
abstraction, which, in fact, was nothing else than that abiding desire
for necessary food, which in seasons of famine keeps perpetually
gnawing, as they term it, at the heart, and pervades the system by that
sleepless solicitation of appetite, which, like the presence of guilt,
mingles itself up, while it lasts, with every thought and action of
one's life.
In this instance it may be remembered, that the aid which the poor girl
had come to ask from Skinadre was, as she said, 'for the ould couple,'
who had, indeed, been for a long time past their last meal, a very
common thing during such periods, and were consequently without a morsel
of food. The appearance of her corpse, however, at the house, an event
so unexpected, drove, for the time, all feelings of physical want from
their minds; but this is a demand which will not be satisfied, no matter
by what moral power or calamity it may be opposed, and the wretched
couple were now a proof of it. Their conduct to those who did not
understand this, resembled insanity or fatuity more than anything else.
The faces of both were ghastly, and filled with a pale, vague expression
of what appeared to be horror, or the dull staring stupor, which
results from the fearful conflict of two great opposing passions in the
mind--passions, which in this case were the indomitable ones of hunger
and grief. After dusk, when the candles were lighted, they came into
the room where their daughter was laid out, and stood for some time
contemplating herself and her infant in silence. Their visages were
white and stony as marble, and their eyes, now dead and glassy,
were marked by no appearance of distinct consciousness, or the usual
expression of reason. They had no sooner appeared, than the sympathies
of the assembled neighbors were deeply excited, and there was nothing
heard for some minutes, but groans, sobbings, and general grief. Both
stood for a short time, and looked with amazement about them. At length,
the old man, taking the hand of his wife in his, said--
“Kathleen, what's this?--what ails me? I want something.”
“You do, Brian--you do. There s Peggy there, and her child, poor thing;
see how quiet they are! Oh, how she loved that child! an' see her
darlin'--see how she keeps her arm about it, for fear anything! might
happen it, or that any one might take it away from her; but that's her,
all over--she loved everything.”
“Ay,” said the old man, “I know how she loved it; but, somehow, she was
ever and always afeard, poor thing, of seemin' over fond of it before
us or before strangers, bekaise you know the poor unhappy--bekaise you
know--what was I goin' to say? Oh, ay, an' I'll tell you, although I
didn't let on to her, still I loved the poor little thing myself--ay,
did I. But, ah! Kathleen, wasn't she the good an' the lovin' daughter?”
The old woman raised her head, and looked searchingly around the room.
She seemed uneasy, and gave a ghastly smile, which it was difficult to
understand. She then looked into her husband's face, after which she
turned her eyes upon the countenances of the early dead who lay before
her, and going over to them, stooped and looked closely into their still
but composed faces, She then put her hand upon her daughter's forehead,
touched her lips with her fingers, carried her hand down along her arm,
and felt the pale features of the baby with a look of apparent wonder;
and whilst she did this, the old man left the room and passed into the
kitchen.
“For God's love, an' take her away,” said a neighboring woman, with
tears in her eyes; “no one can stand this.”
“No, no,” exclaimed another, “it's best to let her have her own will;
for until they both shed plenty of tears, they won't get the betther of
the shock her unexpected death gave them.”
“Is it thrue that Tom Dalton's gone mad, too?” asked another; “for it's
reported he is.”
“No; but they say he's risin' the counthry to punish Dick o' the
Grange and Darby Skinadre--the one, he says, for puttin' his father
and themselves out o' their farm; and the other for bein' the death, he
says, of poor Peggy there and the child; an' for tak in', or offerin' to
take, the farm over their heads.”
The old woman then looked around, and, asked--
“Where is Brian? Bring him to me--I want him here. But wait,” she added,
“I will find him myself.”
She immediately followed him into the I kitchen, where the poor old man
was found searching every part of the house for food.
“What are you looking for, Brian?” asked another of his neighbors.
“Oh,” he replied, “I am dyin' wid fair hunger--wid fair hunger, an' I
want something to ait;” and as he spoke, a spasm of agony came over his
face. “Ah,” he added, “if Alick was livin' it isn't this way we'd be,
for what can poor Peggy do for us afther her 'misfortune?' However, she
is a good girl--a good daughter to us, an' will make a good wife, too,
for all that has happened yet; for sure they wor both young and foolish,
an' Tom is to marry her. She is now all we have to depend on, poor
thing, an' it wrings my heart to catch her in lonesome places, cryin'
as if her heart would break; for, poor thing, she's sorry--sorry for her
fault, an' for the shame an' sorrow it has brought her to; an' that's
what makes her pray, too, so often as she does; but God's good, an'
he'll forgive her, bekaise she has repented.”
“Brian,” said his wife, “come away till I show you something.”
As she spoke, she led him into the other room.
“There,” she proceeded, “there is our dearest and our best--food--oh,
I am hungry, too; but I don't care for that--sure the mother's love is
stronger than hunger or want either: but there she is, that was wanst
our pride and our delight, an' what is she now? She needn't cry now, the
poor heartbroken child; she needn't cry now; all her sorrow, and all her
shame, and all her sin is over. She'll hang her head no more, nor her
pale cheek won't get crimson at the sight of any one that knew her
before her fall; but for all her sin in that one act, did her heart ever
fail to you or me? Was there ever such love an' care, an' respect, as
she paid us? an' we wouldn't tell her that we forgave her; we wor too
hardhearted for that, an' too wicked to say that one word that she
longed for so much--oh an' she our only one--but now--daughter of our
hearts--now we forgive you when it's too late--for, Brian, there they
are! there they lie in their last sleep--the sleep that they will never
waken from! an' it's well for them, for they'll waken no more to care
an' throuble, and shame! There they lie! see how quiet an' calm they
both lie there, the poor broken branch, an' the little withered flower!”
The old man's search for food in the kitchen had given to the neighbors
the first intimation of their actual distress, and in a few minutes it
was discovered that there was not a mouthful of anything in the house,
nor had they tasted a single morsel since the morning before, when they
took a little gruel which their daughter made for them. In a moment,
with all possible speed, the poor creatures about them either went or
sent for sustenance, and in many a case, almost the last morsel was
shared with them, and brought, though scanty and humble, to their
immediate assistance. In this respect there is not in the world any
people so generous and kind to their fellow-creatures as the Irish,
or whose sympathies are so deep and tender, especially in periods of
sickness, want, or death. It is not the tear alone they are willing to
bestow--oh no--whatever can be done, whatever aid can be given, whatever
kindness rendered, or consolation offered, even to the last poor
shilling, or, “the very bit out of the mouth,” as they say themselves,
will be given with a good will, and a sincerity that might in vain
be looked for elsewhere. But alas! they know what it is to want this
consolation and assistance themselves, and hence their promptitude and
anxiety to render them to others. The old man, touched a little by the
affecting language of his wife, began to lose the dull stony look we
have described, and his eyes turned upon those who were about him with
something like meaning, although at that moment it could scarcely be
called so.
“Am I dhramin'?” he asked. “Is this a dhrame? What brings the people
all about us? Where's Alick from us--an' stay--where's her that I loved
best, in spite of her folly? Where's Peggy from me--there's something
wrong wid me--and yet she's not here to take care o' me?”
“Brian, dear,” said a poor famished-looking woman approaching him,
“she's in a betther place, poor thing.”
“Go long out o' that,” he replied, “and don't put your hands on me. It's
Peggy's hands I want to have about me, an' her voice. Where's Peggy's
voice, I say? 'Father, forgive me,' she said, 'forgive me, father, or
I'll never be happy more;' but I wouldn't forgive her, although my heart
did at the same time; still I didn't say the word: bring her here,” he
added, “tell her I'm ready now to forgive her all; for she, it's she
that was the forgivin' creature herself; tell her I'm ready now to
forgive her all, an' to give her my blessin' wanst more.”
It was utterly impossible to hear this language from the stunned and
heart-broken father, and to contemplate the fair and lifeless form
of the unhappy young creature as she lay stretched before him in the
peaceful stillness of death, without being moved even to tears. There
were, indeed, few dry eyes in the house as he spoke.
“Oh, Brian dear,” said her weeping mother, “we helped ourselves to break
her heart, as well as the rest. We wouldn't forgive her; we wouldn't
say the word, although her heart was breakin' bekaise we did not. Oh,
Peggy,” she commenced in Irish, “oh, our daughter--girl of the one
fault! the kind, the affectionate, and the dutiful child, to what corner
of the world will your father an' myself turn now that you're gone from
us? You asked us often an' often to forgive you, an' we would not.
You said you were sorry, in the sight of God an' of man, for your
fault--that your heart was sore, an' that you felt our forgiveness
would bring you consolation; but we would not. Ould man,” she exclaimed
abruptly, turning to her husband, “why didn't you forgive our only
daughter? Why, I say, didn't you forgive her her one fault--you wicked
ould man, why didn't you forgive her?”
“Oh, Kathleen, I'll die,” he replied, mournfully, “I'll die if I don't
get something to ait. Is there no food? Didn't Peggy go to thry Darby
Skinadre, an' she hoped, she said, that she'd bring us relief; an' so
she went upon our promise to forgive her when she'd come back wid it.”
“I wish, indeed, I had a drop o' gruel or something myself,” replied his
wife, now reminded of her famished state by his words.
At this moment, however, relief, so far as food was concerned, did
come. The compassionate neighbors began, one by one, to return each
with whatever could be spared from their own necessities, so that in
the course of a little time this desolate old couple were supplied with
provisions sufficient to meet the demands of a week or fortnight.
It is not our intention to describe, or rather to attempt to describe,
the sorrow of Brian Murtagh and his wife, as soon as a moderate meal
of food had awakened them, as it were, from the heavy and stupid frenzy
into which the shock of their unhappy daughter's death, joined to the
pangs of famine, had thrown them. It may be sufficient to say, that
their grief was wild, disconsolate, and hopeless. She was the only
daughter they had ever had: and when they looked back upon the gentle
and unfortunate girl's many virtues, and reflected that they had, up
to her death, despite her earnest entreaties, withheld from her their
pardon for her transgression, they felt, mingled with their affliction
at her loss, such an oppressive agony of remorse as no language could
describe.
Many of the neighbors now proposed the performance of a ceremony, which
is frequently deemed necessary in cases of frailty similar to that of
poor Peggy Murtagh:--a ceremony which, in the instance before us,
was one of equal pathos and beauty. It consisted of a number of these
humble, but pious and well-disposed people joining in what is termed
the Litany of the Blessed Virgin, which was an earnest solicitation of
mercy, through her intercession with her Son, for the errors, frailties,
and sins of the departed; and, indeed, when her youth and beauty, and
her artlessness and freedom from guile, were taken into consideration,
in connection with her unexpected death, it must be admitted that this
act of devotion was as affecting as it was mournful and solemn. When
they came to the words, “Mother most pure, Mother most chaste, Mother
undefiled, Mother most loving, pray for her!”--and again to those,
“Morning Star, Health of the Weak, Refuge of Sinners, Comfortress of the
Afflicted, pray for her!”--their voices faltered, became broken, and,
with scarcely a single exception, they melted into tears. And it was a
beautiful thing to witness these miserable and half-famished creatures,
shrunk and pinched with hunger and want, laboring, many of them, with
incipient illness, and several only just recovered from it, forgetting
their own distress and afflictions, and rendering all the aid and
consolation in their power to those who stood in more need of it
than themselves. When these affecting prayers for the dead had been
concluded, a noise was heard at the door, and a voice which in a moment
hushed them into silence and awe. The voice was that of him whom the
departed girl had loved with such fatal tenderness.
“In the name of God,” exclaimed one of them, “let some of you keep that
unfortunate boy out; the sight of him will kill the ould couple.” The
woman who spoke, however, had hardly concluded, when Thomas Dalton
entered the room, panting, pale, tottering through weakness, and almost
frantic with sorrow and remorse. On looking at the unhappy sight before
him, he paused and wiped his brow, which was moistened by excitement and
over-exertion.
There was now the silence of death in the room so deep, that the
shooting of a spark from one of the death-candles was heard by every
one present, an incident which, small as it was, deepened the melancholy
interest of the moment.
“An' that's it,” he at last exclaimed, in a voice which, though weak,
quivered with excess of agony--“that's it, Peggy dear--that's what your
love for me has brought you to! An' now it's too late, I can't help
you now, Peggy dear. I can't bid you hould your, modest face up, as the
darlin' wife of him who loved you betther than all this world besides,
but that left you, for all that a stained name an' a broken heart! Ay!
an' there's what your love for me brought you to! What can I do now for
you, Peggy dear? All my little plans for us both--all that I dreamt of
an' hoped to come to pass, where are they now, Peggy dear? And it wasn't
I, Peggy, it was poverty--oh you know how I loved you!--it was the
downcome we got--it was Dick-o'-the-Grange, that oppressed us--that
ruined us--that put us out without house or home--it was he, and it was
my father--my father that they say has blood on his hand, an' I don't
doubt it, or he wouldn't act the part he did--it was he, too that
prevented me from doin' what my heart encouraged me to do for you! O
blessed God,” he exclaimed, “what will become of me! when I think of the
long, sorrowful, implorin' look she used to give me. I'll go mad!--I'll
go mad!--I've killed her--I've murdhered her, an' there's no one to take
me up an' punish me for it! An' when I was ill, Peggy dear, when I had
time to think on my sick bed of all your love and all your sorrow and
distress and shame on my account, I thought I'd never see you in time
to tell you what I was to do, an' to give consolation to your breakin'
heart; but all that's now over; you are gone from me, an' like the
lovin' crathur you ever wor, you brought your baby along wid you! An'
when I think of it--oh God, when I think of it, before your shame, my
heart's delight, how your eye felt proud out of me, an' how it smiled
when it rested on me. Oh, little you thought I'd hould back to do you
justice--me that you doted on--an' yet it was I that sullied you--I! me!
Here,” he shouted--“here, is there no one to saize a murdherer!--no one
to bring him to justice!”
Those present now gathered about him, and attempted as best they might,
to soothe and pacify him; but in vain.
“Oh,” he proceeded, “if she was only able to upbraid me--but what am I
sayin'--upbraid! Oh, never, never was her harsh word heard--oh, nothing
ever to me but that long look of sorrow--that long look of sorrow, that
will either drive me mad, or lave me a broken heart! That's the look
that'll always, always be before me, an' that, 'till death's day, will
keep me from ever bein' a happy man.”
He now became exhausted, and received a drink of water, after which he
wildly kissed her lips, and bathed her inanimate face, as well as those
of their infant, with tears.
“Now,” said he, at length; “now, Peggy dear, listen--so may God never
prosper me, if I don't work bitther vengeance on them that along wid
myself, was the means of bringin' you to this--Dick-o'-the-Grange, an'
Darby Skinadre, for if Darby had given you what you wanted, you might
be yet a livin' woman. As for myself, I care not what becomes of me; you
are gone, our child is gone, and now I have nothing in this world that
I'll ever care for; there's nothing in it that I'll ever love again.”
He then turned to leave the room, and was in the act of going out of it,
when her father, who had nearly recovered the use of his reason, said:
“Tom Dalton, you are lavin' this house, an' may the curse of that girl's
father, broken-hearted as you've left him, go along wid you.”
“No,” exclaimed his wife, “but may the blessin' of her mother rest upon
you for the sake of the love she bore you!”
“You've spoken late, Kathleen Murtagh,” he replied; “the curse of the
father is on me, an' will folly me; I feel it.”
His sister then entered the room to bring him home, whither he
accompanied her, scarcely conscious of what he did, and ignorant of the
cloud of vengeance which was so soon to break upon his wretched father's
head.