Part 37 (1/2)
”Young and ould, _achushla machree_, is fallin' about us in every direction; but may the Father of Mercy spare you to us, my darlin'
child, for if anything was to happen you, where--Oh, where could we look upon your aiquil, or find anything that could console us for your loss?”
”If it's my fate to go, father, I'll go, an if it isn't G.o.d will take care of me; whatever comes, I'm resigned to His will.”
”Ay, dear, an' you ever wor, too--and for the same raison G.o.d's blessin'
will be upon you; but what makes you look so low, avourneen? I trust in my Saviour, you are not unwell, Mave, dear.”
”Thanks be to G.o.d, no, father; but there's a thing on my mind, that's distressin' me very much, an' I hope you'll allow me my way in it.”
”I may say so, dear; because I know you wouldn't ax me for anything that 'ud be wrong to grant you. What is it, Mave?”
”It's the unhappy an' miserable state that these poor Daltons is in,”
she replied. ”Father, dear, forgive me for what I'm about to say; for, although it may make you angry, there's nothin' farther from my heart than to give you offence.”
”You needn't tell me so, Mave; you need not, indeed; but sure you know, darlin', that unfortunately, we have nothing in our power to do for them; I wish to the Lord we had! Didn't we do all that people in our poor condition could do for them? Didn't you, yourself, achora, make us send them such little a.s.sistance as we could spare?--ay, even to sharin'
I may say, our last morsel wid them; an' now, darlin', you know we haven't it.”
”I know that,” she replied, as she wiped away the tears; ”where is there a poorer family than we are, sure enough? but, father, dear; we can a.s.sist them--relieve them; ay, maybe save them--for all that.”
”G.o.d be praised then!” exclaimed Sullivan; ”only show me how, an' we'll be glad to do it; for I can forget everything now, Mave, but their distress.”
”But do you know the condition they're in at this moment?” she asked, ”do you know, father, that they're stretched on the bed of sickness? I mean Nancy an'--an' young Con, who has got into a relapse; poor Mary is scarcely able to go about, she's so badly recovered from the fever; an'
Tom, the wild unfortunate young man, is out of his senses, they say.
Then there's n.o.body to look to them but Mrs. Dalton herself; an' she, you know, has to go 'out' to ask their poor bit from the neighbors. Only think,” she proceeded, with a fresh burst of sorrow, ”oh, only think, father, of sich a woman bein' forced to this!”
”May the Lord pity her an' them, this woeful day!” exclaimed Sullivan.
”Now, father,” proceeded Mave; ”I know--oh who knows better or so well--what a good an' a kind an' a forgivin' heart you have; an' I know that even in spite of the feelin' that was, and maybe is, upon your mind against them, you'll grant me my wish in what I'm goin' to ask.”
”What is it then?--let me hear it.”
”It's this: you know that here, in our family I can do nothing to help ourselves--that is, there is nothing for me to do--an' I feel the time hang heavy on my hands. I have been thinkin', father dear, of this miserable state the poor Daltons is in, without any one to attend them in their sickness--to say a kind word to them, or to hand them even a drink of clean water, if they wanted it. Them that hasn't got the fever yet, won't go near them for fear of catchin' it. What, then, will become of them? There they are, without the face, or hand, or voice of kindness about them. Oh, what on G.o.d's blessed earth will become of them? They may die an' they must die, for want of care and a.s.sistance.”
”But sure that's not our fault, dear Mave; we can't help them.”
”We can, father--an' we must; for if we don't they'll die. Father,” she added, laying her wasted hand in his; ”it is my intention to go over to them--an' as I have nothing that I can do at home, to spend the greater part of the day with them in takin' care of them--an'--an' in doin' what I can for them, Yes, father dear--it is my intention--for there is none but me to do it for them.”
”Saviour of earth, Mave dear, is it mad you are? You, _achora machree_, that's! dearer to us all than the apple of our eye, or the very pulse of our hearts--to let you into a plague-house--to let you near the deadly faver that's upon them--where you'd be sure to catch it; an' then--oh, blessed Father. Mave what's come over you, to think of sich a thing?--ay, or to think that we'd let you expose yourself? But it's all the goodness and kindness of your affectionate heart; put it out of your head, however--don't name it, or let us hear of it again.”
”But, father, it's a duty that our religion teaches us.”
”Why--what's come over you, Mave?--all at wanst too--you that was so much afeard of it that you wouldn't go on a windy side of a feverish house, nor walk near any one that was even recoverin' from it. Why, what's come over you?”
”Simply, father, the thought if I don't go to them and help them, they will die. I was afeard of the fever, and I am afeard of it--but am I to let my own foolish fears prevent me from doin' the part of a Christian to them? Let us put ourselves in their place--an' who knows--although may G.o.d forbid!--but it may be our own before the season pa.s.ses--suppose it was our own case--an' that all the world was afeard to come near us; oh, what would we think of any one, man or woman, that trustin' in G.o.d, would set their own fears at defiance, an' come to our relief.”
”Mave, I couldn't think of it; if anything happened you, an' that we lost you, I never would lay my head down without the bitther thought that I had a hand in your death.”
At this moment, the mother who had been in another room, came in to the kitchen--and having listened for a minute to the subject of their conversation, she immediately joined her husband; but still with feelings of deep and almost tearful sympathy for the Daltons.
”It's like her, poor affectionate girl,” she exclaimed, looking tenderly at her daughter; ”but it's a thing, Mave, we could never think of; so put it out of your head.”