The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXIII, Issue 36, 7 September 1905, Page 23

The Storyteller

A MOTHER OF SORROWS

I don't think I ever knew a more thoroughly happy family than that of James Kerrigan, who lived on the boreen leading up the mountain to the village of •' Dooleys' Street,' as the collection of houses was called. He was one of the most comfortable farmers in the parish— a hard-working, honest, muoh-respected man. He had managed by shrewdness and unremitting industry to save money sufficient,, at least, to provide ' fortunes ' for his two (daughters. He had this money invested in the Loan Bank at A., and was drawing a tidy income from the interest on it. Hence there was a fair prosthat his darling colleens would ' get settled ' at home, instead of being obliged to emigrate — the lot, a& a rule, of the portionless girl in Ireland. They were girls that a parent might well be proud of — handsome, sensible, and industrious. ' As good as goold,' was tiho term the neighbors applied to them. And the three boys also were model young men— quiet, steady, self-respecting, and inoffensive. Tom, the oldest boy, was generally regarded as a ' rock of sinse ' ; Jim was voted ' a nice-goin', respectable chap ' ; while Paddy, the youngest of the whole family, was spoken of as ' a fine, promisin', likely gossoon.'

' But, kind father for them, for that,' as my old housekeeper said when 1 asked her about this family. soon after my first acquaintance with them—' kind father for them to be decent arad good ; for where would you meet the likes of James Kerrigan and his wife Anne for industry, and keeping up their respect ? ' My housekeeper, I should remark, was a native of the Mountain Parish, and took a proper pride in maintaining its fair fame cm every avail aLlLe opportunity. Mrs. Kerrigan had been considered in her young days, I was informed, the belle of the parish. At the time to which I refer she was about forty-five, but so freshfaced, unwrinkled, and smooth-cheeked that she looked still younger. I used to think that I always felt the better fox seeing her pleasant, cheerful, sonsy face, it was always so calmly and placidly happy-looking. Her smile, especially, was peculiarly sweet and winning— a smile eloquent of a soul attuned to peace and joy, and of a heart that knew no guile. Ah, me ! that the cankerworm of grief and care sHvould— but I must not anticipate.

None of us, I dare to say, need go far for evidence of the truth of the Scriptural sayings, ' God's ways are not our ways ' . and ' Whom the Lord lovcth He chastiseth.' The family of James Kerrigan furnished, I think, a %cry staking example of the incomprehensibility of the workings of Providence, who yet ' ordereth all things sweetly,' and who takes cognisance of e\cn the sparrow s fall. Mayhap, the- story of their Job-like afflictions will gi\e solace to some sorrowladen soul.

The first of the series of misfoi tunes with which Providence was pleased to afflict this happy family occurred in the fohpinni'nig of my second year jn ihc parish. It wag the failure of the Loan Bank in A., owing to the dishonesty of its manager, who, after losing in speculations on the Stock Exchange all its funds, committed suicide. James Kerrigan thus lost every penny ho had in the world. The utterly unexpected misfortune had the effect of .somewhat deranging his mind. He became moody and silent, and moped about, disconsolate at the wreck of his fortune and the fair prospects of his children. At any rate, one morning he was found drowned in a small river that ran through his farm. Ho had gone out very early, as was his wont, to bring in the milch-cows ; and, in passing over the footlbridgie, doiil/Jcss in a fit of abstraction, stumbled into the river, which at the time was flooded, and at that particular place was deep enough to drown a man who could not swim.

The idea of suicide in his case was not to be thought of, considering the pious, God-feaiing man he had always rben. Nevertheless, the circumstance of his having lost his little all in the Loan Bank eras'h gave a color of probability to Ihe notion of solNlestruction, and the thoughtless coi respondent of an obscure local paper, in reporting the sad occurreme, made some unhappy reference 1o this point, that sorely wounded the feelings of the bercavod family.

The Irish poas ant 1 nnws no greater calamity than for any one 'to die without the priest '—that is, the rites of the Church ; for in that he considers the soul's /ilvation is grievously imperilled. Tlence the Kerrigan family were inconsolable, not only on account of the loss of a good and kind father, but 'quite as much on ac-

cou<nt of the sad, mysterious, and sudden manner in which he met his end. I was on the scene soon after the finding of the body, wMch lodged in the shallows of the river a few yards from the narrow footbridge ; and I nevier saw such a scene ot wild, distracted grief, or witnessed Suoh a frenzy of wailing, as occurred when the drowned man was brought home. His wife and daughters screamed, shouted, and wrung their hands in violent paroxysms of grief, till they sobbed themselves into low moanings of heaJrtfelt languish ; while his sons shook and shuddered in the violent throes of manly grief. It was, indeed „ a very affecting scene and one that few could witness with dry eyes. One must have had a heart of stone not to be affected by it.

'O Father dear,' said Mrs. Kerrigan, 'do you think is there any fear of his poor soul ? Do you think he's saved ? Oh, what matter, after all, if he only got the benefits of his Church and his clergy before he went to God ! Oh, who is ready to die that way» without warning or time to prepare to meet their Judge ? Oh, if I was only sure that his soul was safe, I'd bear his loss patiently ; although be was a good husband to me and a good father to his children, working and slaving late and early to make us comfortable. But, Father jewel, only say he's saved, an'd 1 I'll cry no more for my poor aear James ; though God knows my heart is scalded.'

After her husband's sad end I noticed that Mrs. Kerrigan no lonigier wore the happy, sunshiny expression of countenance that was habitual to her formerly ; and her open, pleasing smile grew wan and sickly. Indeed, as if to confirm the truth of the saying that one trouble ne\or comes without bringing another with it, things went Madly with her after that untimely death ; for her husband was an economical farmer, who, as his neiglib'ors remarked, would live and thrive Where another man would starve. Certainly, by managing to save money on a highly-rented farm of poor soil, he went as near afl| might be to solving the problem of, how to extract blood from a turnip. At any rate, what with the loss of all their ' dry money ' through the failure of the Loan Bank, and unexpected and serious losses in ciops and stock as well that same year, the Kerrigans became very poor, as was plain to be seen. The heyday of their prosperity was gone ; but that, after all, was a small thing compared with the sorrows still in store for them.

Just as the Widow Kerrigan was beginning to forget her first awful grief, under the blessed influence of the great healer, Time, a dread calamity overtook her family ; and this time the hand of the Lord smote her far more severely than before. Her eldest boy, Tom, now the manager of the farm and the mainstay of the family, topk typhoid fever, and after a short illness died. Ho was scarcely a week in the grave when the two girls also caught the faivcr— which evidently was of a maligjnant type— and succumbed to it, the older girl on the ninth day, the younger on the tenth. Both, in fact, were buried on Iho same day. I attended, of course, in their illness all three victims of the plague— in truth, I was present at each deathbed— and Ido not know anything in my missionary experiences so pathetically sad as Mrs. Kerrigan's sudden berea\oment. It was, indeed, an awful visitation of Providence to be deprived of three of her children in as many weeks : her brave boy, the flower of the flock, and her gentle, winsome colleens— all curt off in the fain springtime of their glad young lives. Poor woman ! she was jjust beginning to hope that a brighter day was about to dawn for her ; but instead there came a black night of woe.

I shall never forget the scene the house of death presented on the day of the funeral of the two girls. Except a flew immediate relatives, no one came to it. The first funeral was attended by the whole coamtryside, for Tom was universally beloved ; but when an j other of the family fell ill and died, and yet another succumbed to the malady, the terrible words, ' Fever, the I ortl save us ' ' were whispered abroad ; and then the house of the Kcrirgans A\a& avoided as were the lepers of old. Scarce sufficient help could be procured ' to lay out ' the poor remains of the sisters, cr to lower their coffins into the grave.

I n<*' er saw such a picture- of blank misery as that sid mother presented when Hive hearse had left, her door with its double fii-icyht'. She sat on a stool in the chimney-corner, rocking her body to and fro, and uttering low, pitiful moaJis like a dumb creature in its death a-jpny. ' Lie.h'l, griefs,' it is said, ' cry out, but great ones are silent.' Hex grief was of this latter kind. She could not cry now ; she had passed through the stage of violent, hvstieriea.l weeping She could only ivoan and moan, with head bowed down, bruised, crushed, and broken under the burden of her sorrows'. Her own mother— a very old woman— sat by her side, seeking to comfort her with soft, soothing words of con-

Bolatdon, just as if she were once more the pettish child whom; she rocked to sleep long ago with some old crooning lullaby. What a picture that was of the octogenarian mother pouring the balm of consolation on the bruised heart of her stricken daughter in the dark hour of her voiceless misery !

When I offered a few words of condolence, Mrs. Kerrigan thanked me for my attention to her dear ones in their illness'; and said, with a simple pathos that brought a lump into my throat :

' Ah, Father avournecn, do you think will God leave me any of them at all ? Pray to Him to spare me the two that are left. But maybe the Lord wants them all ; and if He does, I won't grudge them to Him. I'll soon follow them, anyhow ; for my heart is broken.'

After this dread calamity the Widow Kerrigan and the two tjoys that remained struggled on bravely to keep the nolofl over their heads ; b*it the ojl'ds were against them. About half a year before, l left Killanure she was evicted from her holding for non-payment of rent ; and the farm was given to another tenant, an under-bailiff of the landlord's. After this Mrs. Kerrigan lived in a poor, tumbied-down cottage situated on John MaoCqghlam's farm ; and her sons supported her by, working ' for their day's hire ' round tho countryside, where\er they could get employment. I often called to see the 'toroikcta-foeartckl widow in her Jonely caft|in i; although after a few visits I felt somewh|at reluctant to call again, for the si^jht of me seemed to renew her sorrow by reminding her of her lost and lo\ed ones. Two streams of tears would course down her worn checks, while her eyes turned heavenward m meetk resignation, as if seeking solace from there only. I noticed that, try as 1 would to amuse and cheer her by some little pleasantry, she never sm(led. 'Formerly she) coiukl la'mpfh like a bell, and her $ace was generally wreathed in smiles' • now it wore a look of settled melancholy and sadness. Tho source of all merriment and joyous feeling was frozen forever, while the fountain of tears seemeti inexhaustible. Ah, ib was pitiful — very pitiful ' The memory of that grief-scarred face will always haunt me, I think.

When I was changed from the parish I lost sight of the Widow Kerrigan for about seven years. I then met her again in tho following circumstances. I was curate in the town of A., and chaplain to a large workhouse there. On the occasion of my first visit .to the 'poorhouse,' as the Irish peasant invariably stylos the bated institution, I wemt into the chapel and knelt in a corner just inside tiho 'door. A woman in pauper dress, with a very pale face, was going round the Stations of tho Cross. When she came nearer to me I recognised her. It was the Widow Kerrigan, looking old, bent, and feeble. She did not notice me, as she kept her enraptured gaze fixed on the Stations. I watched her in charmed silence as she passed from one to the other, kissing tnh© ground before each ; anjd so mild and heavenly was the) placidity of her features that the slight! kept me .spellbound. Those Stations that brought ttie Blessed Virgin prominently on the scene seemed to touch her most, for the reason, probably, that, she must ha\e felt a sort of kinship of sorrow with the Mater Dolorosia. Acquainted with grief 'herself, she knew how to appreciate the sorrows of others.

I felt 'keen regret at seeing, as an inmate of the poorhousc,, one whom I had known in the heyday of happiness and prosperity ; and my mind unconsciously went back to the time when she was my smiling, hospitable hostess of the station breakfast — very loivg ago, as it then seemed to me. As 'soon as she left the chapel after performing the Stations, I intercepted her on her way to ' the body of the house,' ami addressed her. Then only did I learn the full extent of her misfortunes. She had drunk the chalice of suffering to- the dregs. She had supped full of sorrow. On seeing me and hearing my voice, she essayed the old smile of welcome that I knew so well in happier days ; but presently she burst into tears. After she had solJbcd herself into a calmer mood, sho told me her history since I saw her last.

' O Father O'Carroll,' she said, ' I didn't thm'k that I'd cry like thai, ever again ' God forgive me for having such httle patience under my trials ! Rut tho sight, of your reverence reminded me so much of the poor dear children that are gone, I could not help it.' ' How is it I find you here 7 ' I asked. Have you not your two sons to support you ? ' ' Ah, Father dear,' she replied, ' I have no sons now — ne'er a civ I'd art all ' Thoy'rc ail gone— aU ig-one, blessed he God's holy will ! Maybe you don't know that my poor little Patrick, that doted down on your reverence, got the decline and died a couple of years sifter we went to li\e in that old, damp, unhealthy house. Well Jim, the only one I had left then, wenti off to Dublin to look for better work than he could get

near home, intending to bring me there too if he got on well. But I suppose God wanted them all. He met with an accident in a mill— the poor fellow— and died in a hospital oft there. But he had the priest to attend him— thanks <b(o to God for that ! He was a good, quiet boy, that never had an enemy, and never begrudged any one his/ share ; and he tried to keep me? out of the poorhouse as well as he could, although I had to come to it at last. But what matter abomt that ? I won't be long in it, anyhow. I'll soon follow them; and the sooner the better. I'm happy and contented now when all's over ; for sure I can attend entirely to my poor soul,/ and pray for my darling, dear, fine children that are gone— all gone. Blessed be God for everything ! Aye, it must \b© for the ibest, or He would not take them all.'

She had, evidently, settled her accounts with this woria and set her thoughts on the things that are aib(ovq waiting for ' the Lord to call her,' as she said. Firetried in the ordeial of sufferings and poverty, crowned with a diaidem of sorrow, she waited calmly, serenely, resignedly for the Angel of Death to whisper in her ear that her time had come to go to join her dear ones in the land where sorrow is no more, nor mourning nor weeping nor bitter separation. I never saw a grander or more soul-soothing example of true Christian resignation.

On returning from the hospital, half an hour later, I passed through the chapel and fomid her there again. I was informed sho spent the greater part of the ~ day there, pray ingi— her lip's always moving in prayer. She ■vv/afi looMni^ toward the Tabernacle with a rapt and q»iasi-gilon fieri expression of countenance, her hands raised HI c one surprised by a -vision. No doubt, after passing through the fiery furnace of tribulation, she was now drinking in deep draughts of peace Or was she listening in spirit to the ' unheard melodies ' of the angelic choirs ?

She spoke prophetically when she said she would soon follow her beloved children ; for she did. I was by her deatlVbed in the hospital when she passed away. Hor last faint, whispered words were :

' It's 'all over now, 'thanks be to God ! I'll soon be at peace and rest : for I'm going home. I'm going home to my God anid to my children ! '—' Aye Maria.'