THE VIRTUE OF CHARITY

New Zealand Tablet, 8 July 1915, Page 7

THE VIRTUE OF CHARITY

Conor Gilligan had taken home a new wife to Carrig-a-durrisli, a town-bred girl, who opened wide eyes at the customs of the country, but whose sympathy won all hearts to her. The farm lay on the highway, and at first the coming and going of the beggars had broken the monotony of the long days when Conor was out at work, but when the spring time came and the workhouse wards ent out their winter inmates to ‘ travel ’ for the summer," Mrs. Gilligan began to tire of the frequent calls on her time and charity.„ There’s nothing for you.’ The applicant was the fifth since morning and midday had not yet come. ‘ For God’s sake.’ Mrs. Gilligan hesitated. so many coming;- . -’ ' ,;. . , -

‘ Amh t I in Carrig-a-durrish ?’ asked the beggar in surprise. .. ‘Can’t you see that for yourself?’ replied Mrs. Gilligan, and she glanced proudly over the fields that fell away beyond the road to the little bog lake in the distance.

There were no other fields in the parish to be compared with these. ‘ I’m dark,’ said the woman, ‘ but God’s will be done,’ and she tapped the flag-stone before the door with her knotted thorn stick.

‘ It’s sorry, I am,’ cried Mrs. Gilligan quickly, this time really meaning it; ‘may God help you. I didn’t notice you were blind.’ She threw open the half demand led the woman to the fireside, putting her on the low seat that Conor had made for herself, and bidding her rest until the dinner was served

‘ Thanks be to God for this,’ said the beggar. ‘ I was afearcd when yon spoke that the luck was going from Carrig-a-durrish.’ ‘The luck? What’s that at all?’ Everything was prepared for the midday meal, and, waiting for the potatoes and the bacon and cabbage to boil, Mrs. Gilligan drew forward a stool and sat facing the beggar, her fingers busied with a grey wool sock. ‘ Hasn’t Conor told you of the Luck of Carrig-a-durrish ?’ asked the woman incredulously. ‘ Never a word,’ said Conor’s wife. ‘ Tell on, yourself.’ And this is the story Mayneeu Gilligan heard from the blind beggar on the hearth : Years and years ago, long before the Great Famine was sent to Ireland, there used to be times of poverty and hardship that, not knowing what was to come, the people thought of very badly. There was hunger in the farmers’ houses and in the poor man’s cottage, want and fever, starvation and death : and many an honest family that struggled along for generations in the little home were forced to travel the roads, begged their bread for God’s sake from these more fortunate, if little less poor, than themselves.

The Gilligan, who was in Carrig-a-durrish in those days was an honest, poor man, but times were bad, the family at home was big and weak, and there was bl ight upon the corn and the potatoes.

Morning and all day long they came here to the door, asking food for God’s sake, and when night fell still they came, but now begging for the shelter of the barn roof over themselves and the helpless children in their arms.

And the Gilligans gave what they could, at first with all their hearts, then the man began to grudge the giving of what they had so little themselves, and he’d grumble time and again, so that it was mostly when lie was out that the woman gave for God’s sake.

One night himself and the eldest boy had been out all the day, trying to save the little crop of hay that lay late and rotting in the fields, and his heart was heavy seeing the poor promise of the harvest, and coming in there was a charity man before them at the door.

‘Where can I sleep,’ asked the charity man, and his beard was white upon his breast. But Conor Gilligan, for it was a Conor that was in it then, as now, Conor Gilligan, after thinking all day of the want that was waiting for his own, turned on the stranger. l ln the back of the ditch and bad— to you,’ he cried in sudden passion. ‘ls it a lodging house you think I’m keeping for every idle vagabond in Ireland to sleep in?’ But the mistress had come out and now she spoke softly. ‘There’s two in the barn already, Conor,’ she said. ‘ What harm will it do us to give shelter to another ?’ ‘ Two, is there ! then there’s two too many, bad luck.’ But his wife checked him. ‘You’re hungry and tired, avick,’ she said, as she pulled him by the sleeve. ‘Goin to your supper and I’ll see'lo this man.’ Conor, grumbling still, did her bidding, and the stranger, too, obeyed her when she signed to him to follow.

‘ Where do you come from ?’ she asked, but he seemed' not to hear her question’ right, for the answer he gave as lie threw himself down and drew the cleanstraw over him sounded to have no sense in it at all. Charity,’ he said. ‘ And that’s the love of God.’ In the morning, before going out. to the fields, Conor Gilligan went to fetch in for his wife a measure of meal from the store in the barn that was to last them till the harvest ripened, and God knew whether the poor crop that year would ever show gold at all. The sack was gone. Worse than that, another unopened sack and the few potatoes that were all their dependence were gone as well. He had been angry the night before when the charity man came in, but now— — Oh! Now the children ran away and hid their faces in their mother’s skirts to see the passion of him and the words he flung upon her in his wrath. Even the woman herself was cowed, but at last she ventured to put in a word. ‘ Perhaps it wasn't the charity man,’ she said timidly. And who else could it be?’ cried Conor, pickin' up a groat stick that lay at hand. Then he strode across the yard, and she and the children after him. The barn door was set to, and inside at first they thought it empty, but looking again they saw that the last man to come in was still sleeping. ‘Get up out of that!’ cried Conor, and he made as though to strike him with the stick, only his wife held him back.

Get up out of that 1’ repeated Conor, but now that the old man’s eyes were on him, he spoke more quietly. ‘ Get up and tell me where they’ve gone who’ve robbed me.’

‘ How do I know?’ replied tlie charity man, sitting up. ‘ I slept early and when I awoke they were gone. What is it they’ve stolen —your happiness?’ ‘ N no.’ Conor was surprised to hear such a one speak. ‘One of your children?’ ‘ No —o.’ 1 Your character?’ ‘No, no, they’ve stolen all the meal and potatoes we have, all we're likely to have the winter through.’ Then,’ said the charity man, ‘ they’ve taken nothing but what you can get again. What will you give me if I give you back as much as what you’ve lost?’ ‘What will I give you?’ asked Conor, and he was more and more surprised. ‘ What do you want me to give you V ‘ The key of your barn,’ replied lie charity man quickly. * So that you can come again, I suppose ?’ ‘ Yes, I, or others. You would lose more than you would gain by keeping out those who ask shelter in God’s name.’ Conor went over to the door, and pulled out the rusty key. ‘ Well,’ he said, holding it in his hand, 1 how are you going to give me back my meal?’ The charity man stood up and walked out into the yard. He went up to the fence and looked out over the fields that run down to the lake below. ‘ In a month’s time,’ he said, and he stretched out his hands, ‘ there will be more grain in those fields than the work of one man can save in a harvest time.’ Conor looked down with gloomy doubting eyes over the poor heads of corn, sprouting weakly through the soil. ‘ If there is,’ he said scoffingly, ‘ you can come back for the key.’ And with that he turned to the empty barn. When he came out into the yard again the charity man was gone. ‘ And did he ever come back again ?’ asked Mrs. Gilligan, leaning forward. Her hands had long been idle because of her interest in the story. ‘ Never again,’ said the blind beggar. ‘ But when the harvest came, hadn’t Connor to call the neighbors

in, one and ,all, to help him with the corn? And the potatoes that he thought were black and done for were the finest crop that ever was seen/ ‘ What then asked Mrs. Gilligan. ‘ Then,’ went on the storyteller, ‘ they put their heads together about what to do with the key. ‘ Says Conor, “We don’t know his name, nor his home, so how can we keep our promise ?” ‘“He came from the world at large,” she said, “and he told me his name was Charity, and that’s the love of God,’’ he said.

‘ Then they knew that it was no right charity man they had had in it, and Connor, going to the lough side, he threw in the key to-where no man has ever measured the deepness of the water, and the bog stuff underneath. But that was only part of their promise, and the other part they kept as well, God helping them, them and their children after them.’ ‘How was that?’ asked .the young wife, not fully understanding. From that day to this,’ said the blind beggar, ‘ the barn door has stood open, and never one, man, woman, or child, who came to Carrig-a-durrish has ever been sent away with empty hands. Out of every three that come in it, two may be idle, good-for-nothing pilferers, but if God sends the third, by giving to all there’s no danger that Gpd’s one man should be refused. And the luck has been in it since. Is there a farm in the country better now than Carrig-a-durrish ‘Not a one,’ replied Mrs. Gilligan. Is there a happier home?’ ‘ No, indeed, nor as happy.’ ‘The reason for that,’ said the blind beggar, is because there’s charity in it, and that, as God’s own messenger said, that is the love of God.’ English .1 lessen ger.