Chapter XI
THE POT OF GOLD
Mary had not been in the Dolan home an hour until Katy knew all
she could tell of her trouble. Mrs. Dolan was practical. "Go
to see Father Michael," she said. "What's he for but
to hilp us. Go ask him what Jimmy told him. Till him how you feel
and what you know. He can till you what Dannie knows and thin
you will understand where you are at."
Mary was on the way before Mrs. Dolan fully finished. She went
to the priest's residence and asked his housekeeper to inquire
if he would see her. He would, and Mary entered his presence strangely
calm and self-possessed. This was the last fight she knew of that
she could make for happiness, and if she lost, happiness was over
for her. She had need of all her wit and she knew it. Father Michael
began laughing as he shook hands.
"Now look here, Mary," he said, "I've been expecting
you. I warn you before you begin that I cannot sanction your marriage
to a Protestant."
"Oh, but I'm going to convart him!" cried Mary so quickly
that the priest laughed harder than ever.
"So that's the lay of the land!" he chuckled. "Well,
if you'll guarantee that, I'll give in. When shall I read the
banns?"
"Not until we get Dannie's consint," answered Mary,
and for the first her voice wavered.
Father Michael looked his surprise. "Tut! Tut!" he said.
"And is Dannie dilatory?"
"Dannie is the finest man that will ever live in this world,"
said Mary, "but he don't want to marry me."
"To my certain knowledge Dannie has loved you all your life,"
said Father Michael. "He wants nothing here or hereafter
as he wants to marry you."
"Thin why don't he till me so?" sobbed Mary, burying
her burning face in her hands.
"Has he said nothing to you?" gravely inquired the priest.
"No, he hasn't and I don't belave he intinds to," answered
Mary, wiping her eyes and trying to be composed. "There is
something about Jimmy that is holding him back. Mrs. Dolan thought
you'd help me."
"What do you want me to do, Mary?" asked Father Michael.
"Two things," answered Mary promptly. "I want you
to tell me what Jimmy confissed to you before he died, and then
I want you to talk to Dannie and show him that he is free from
any promise that Jimmy might have got out of him. Will you?"
"A dying confession--" began the priest.
"Yes, but I know--" broke in Mary. "I saw them
fight, and I heard Jimmy till Dannie that he'd lied to him to
separate us, but he turned right around and took it back and I
knew Dannie belaved him thin; but he can't after Jimmy confissed
it again to both of you."
"What do you mean by `saw them fight?'" Father Michael
was leaning toward Mary anxiously.
Mary told him.
"Then that is the explanation to the whole thing," said
the priest. "Dannie did believe Jimmy when he took it back,
and he died before he could repeat to Dannie what he had told
me. And I have had the feeling that Dannie thought himself in
a way to blame for Jimmy's death."
"He was not! Oh, he was not!" cried Mary Malone. "Didn't
I live there with them all those years? Dannie always was good
as gold to Jimmy. It was shameful the way Jimmy imposed on him,
and spint his money, and took me from him. It was shameful! Shameful!"
"Be calm! Be calm!" cautioned Father Michael. "I
agree with you. I am only trying to arrive at Dannie's point of
view. He well might feel that he was responsible, if after humoring
Jimmy like a child all his life, he at last lost his temper and
dealt with him as if he were a man. If that is the case, he is
of honor so fine, that he would hesitate to speak to you, no matter
what he suffered. And then it is clear to me that he does not
understand how Jimmy separated you in the first place."
"And lied me into marrying him, whin I told him over and
over how I loved Dannie. Jimmy Malone took iverything I had to
give, and he left me alone for fiftane years, with my three little
dead babies, that died because I'd no heart to desire life for
thim, and he took my youth, and he took my womanhood, and he took
my man--" Mary arose in primitive rage. "You naden't
bother!" she said. "I'm going straight to Dannie meself."
"Don't!" said Father Michael softly. "Don't do
that, Mary! It isn't the accepted way. There is a better! Let
him come to you."
"But he won't come! He don't know! He's in Jimmy's grip tighter
in death than he was in life." Mary began to sob again.
"He will come," said Father Michael. "Be calm!
Wait a little, my child. After all these years, don't spoil a
love that has been almost unequaled in holiness and beauty, by
anger at the dead. Let me go to Dannie. We are good friends. I
can tell him Jimmy made a confession to me, that he was trying
to repeat to him, when punishment, far more awful than anything
you have suffered, overtook him. Always remember, Mary, he died
unshriven!" Mary began to shiver. "Your suffering is
over," continued the priest. "You have many good years
yet that you may spend with Dannie; God will give you living children,
I am sure. Think of the years Jimmy's secret has hounded and driven
him! Think of the penalty he must pay before he gets a glimpse
of paradise, if he be not eternally lost!"
"I have!" exclaimed Mary. "And it is nothing to
the fact that he took Dannie from me, and yet kept him in my home
while he possessed me himsilf for years. May he burn----"
"Mary! Let that suffice!" cried the priest. "He
will! The question now is, shall I go to Dannie?"
"Will you till him just what Jimmy told you? Will you till
him that I have loved him always?"
"Yes," said Father Michael.
"Will you go now?"
"I cannot! I have work. I will come early in the morning."
"You will till him ivirything?" she repeated.
"I will," promised Father Michael.
Mary went back to Mrs. Dolan's comforted. She was anxious to return
home at once, but at last consented to spend the day. Now that
she was sure Dannie did not know the truth, her heart warmed toward
him. She was anxious to comfort and help him in the long struggle
which she saw that he must have endured. By late afternoon she
could bear it no longer and started back to Rainbow Bottom in
time to prepare supper.
For the first hour after Mary had gone Dannie whistled to keep
up his courage. By the second he had no courage to keep. By the
third he was indulging in the worst fit of despondency he ever
had known. He had told her to stay a week. A week! It would be
an eternity! There alone again! Could he bear it? He got through
to mid- afternoon some way, and then in jealous fear and foreboding
he became almost frantic. One way or the other, this thing must
be settled. Fiercer raged the storm within him and at last toward
evening it became unendurable.
At its height the curling smoke from the chimney told him that
Mary had come home. An unreasoning joy seized him. He went to
the barn and listened. He could hear her moving about preparing
supper. As he watched she came to the well for water and before
she returned to the cabin she stood looking over the fields as
if trying to locate him. Dannie's blood ran hotly and his pulses
were leaping. "Go to her! Go to her now!" demanded passion,
struggling to break leash. "You killed Jimmy! You murdered
your friend!" cried conscience, with unyielding insistence.
Poor Dannie gave one last glance at Mary, and then turned, and
for the second time he ran from her as if pursued by demons. But
this time he went straight to Five Mile Hill, and the grave of
Jimmy Malone.
He sat down on it, and within a few feet of Jimmy's bones, Dannie
took his tired head in his hands, and tried to think, and for
the life of him, he could think but two things. That he had killed
Jimmy, and that to live longer without Mary would kill him. Hour
after hour he fought with his lifelong love for Jimmy and his
lifelong love for Mary. Night came on, the frost bit, the wind
chilled, and the little brown owls screeched among the gravestones,
and Dannie battled on. Morning came, the sun arose, and shone
on Dannie, sitting numb with drawn face and bleeding heart.
Mary prepared a fine supper the night before, and patiently waited,
and when Dannie did not come, she concluded that he had gone to
town, without knowing that she had returned. Tilly grew sleepy,
so she put the child to bed, and presently she went herself. Father
Michael would make everything right in the morning. But in the
morning Dannie was not there, and had not been. Mary became alarmed.
She was very nervous by the time Father Michael arrived. He decided
to go to the nearest neighbor, and ask when Dannie had been seen
last. As he turned from the lane into the road a man of that neighborhood
was passing on his wagon, and the priest hailed him, and asked
if he knew where Dannie Macnoun was.
"Back in Five Mile Hill, a man with his head on his knees,
is a- settin' on the grave of Jimmy Malone, and I allow that would
be Dannie Macnoun, the damn fool!" he said.
Father Michael went back to the cabin, and told Mary he had learned
where Dannie was, and to have no uneasiness, and he would go to
see him immediately.
"And first of all you'll tell him how Jimmy lied to him?"
"I will!" said the priest.
He entered the cemetery, and walked slowly to the grave of Jimmy
Malone. Dannie lifted his head, and stared at him.
"I saw you," said Father Michael, "and I came in
to speak with you." He took Dannie's hand. "You are
here at this hour to my surprise."
"I dinna know that ye should be surprised at my comin' to
sit by Jimmy at ony time," coldly replied Dannie. "He
was my only friend in life, and another mon so fine I'll never
know. I often come here."
The priest shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and
then he sat down on a grave near Dannie. "For a year I have
been waiting to talk with you," he said.
Dannie wiped his face, and lifting his hat, ran his fingers through
his hair, as if to arouse himself. His eyes were dull and listless.
"I am afraid I am no fit to talk sensibly," he said.
"I am much troubled. Some other time----"
"Could you tell me your trouble?" asked Father Michael.
Dannie shook his head.
"I have known Mary Malone all her life," said the priest
softly, "and been her confessor. I have known Jimmy Malone
all his life, and heard his dying confession. I know what it was
he was trying to tell you when he died. Think again!"
Dannie Macnoun stood up. He looked at the priest intently. "Did
ye come here purposely to find me?"
"Yes."
"What do ye want?"
"To clear your mind of all trouble, and fill your heart with
love, and great peace, and rest. Our Heavenly Father knows that
you need peace of heart, and rest, Dannie."
"To fill my heart wi' peace, ye will have to prove to me
that I'm no responsible fra the death of Jimmy Malone; and to
give it rest, ye will have to prove to me that I'm free to marry
his wife. Ye can do neither of those things."
"I can do both," said the priest calmly. "My son,
that is what I came to do."
Dannie's face grew whiter and whiter, as the blood receded, and
his big hands gripped at his sides.
"Aye, but ye canna!" he cried desperately. "Ye
canna!"
"I can," said the priest. "Listen to me! Did Jimmy
get anything at all said to you?"
"He said, `Mary,' then he choked on the next word, then he
gasped out `yours,' and it was over."
"Have you any idea what he was trying to tell you?"
"Na!" answered Dannie. "He was mortal sick, and
half delirious, and I paid little heed. If he lived, he would
tell me when he was better. If he died, nothing mattered, fra
I was responsible, and better friend mon never had. There was
nothing on earth Jimmy would na have done for me. He was so big
hearted, so generous! My God, how I have missed him! How I have
missed him!"
"Your faith in Jimmy is strong," ventured the bewildered
priest, for he did not see his way.
Dannie lifted his head. The sunshine was warming him, and his
thoughts were beginning to clear.
"My faith in Jimmy Malone is so strong," he said, "that
if I lost it, I never should trust another living mon. He had
his faults to others, I admit that, but he never had ony to me.
He was my friend, and above my life I loved him. I wad gladly
have died to save him."
"And yet you say you are responsible for his death!"
"Let me tell ye!" cried Dannie eagerly, and began on
the story the priest wanted to hear from him. As he finished Father
Michael's face lighted.
"What folly!" he said, "that a man of your intelligence
should torture yourself with the thought of responsibility in
a case like that. Any one would have claimed the fish in those
circumstances. Priest that I am, I would have had it, even if
I fought for it. Any man would! And as for what followed, it was
bound to come! He was a tortured man, and a broken one. If he
had not lain out that night, he would a few nights later. It was
not in your power to save him. No man can be saved from himself,
Dannie. Did what he said make no impression on you?"
"Enough that I would have killed him with my naked hands
if he had na taken it back. Of course he had to retract! If I
believed that of Jimmy, after the life we lived together, I would
curse God and mon, and break fra the woods, and live and dee there
alone."
"Then what was he trying to tell you when he died?"
asked the bewildered priest.
"To take care of Mary, I judge."
"Not to marry her; and take her for your own?"
Dannie began to tremble.
"Remember, I talked with him first," said Father Michael,
"and what he confessed to me, he knew was final. He died
before he could talk to you, but I think it is time to tell you
what he wanted to say. He--he--was trying--trying to tell you,
that there was nothing but love in his heart for you. That he
did not in any way blame you. That--that Mary was yours. That
you were free to take her. That----"
"What!" cried Dannie wildly. "Are ye sure? Oh,
my God!"
"Perfectly sure!" answered Father Michael. "Jimmy
knew how long and faithfully you had loved Mary, and she had loved
you----"
"Mary had loved me? Carefu', mon! Are ye sure?"
"I know," said Father Michael convincingly. "I
give you my priestly word, I know, and Jimmy knew, and was altogether
willing. He loved you deeply, as he could love any one, Dannie,
and he blamed you for nothing at all. The only thing that would
have brought Jimmy any comfort in dying, was to know that you
would end your life with Mary, and not hate his memory."
"Hate!" cried Dannie. "Hate! Father Michael, if
ye have come to tell me that Jimmy na held me responsible fra
his death, and was willing fra me to have Mary, your face looks
like the face of God to me!" Dannie gripped the priest's
hand. "Are ye sure? Are ye sure, mon?" He almost lifted
Father Michael from the ground.
"I tell you, I know! Go and be happy!"
"Some ither day I will try to thank ye," said Dannie,
turning away. "Noo, I'm in a little of a hurry." He
was half way to the gate when he turned back. "Does Mary
know this?" he asked.
"She does," said the priest. "You are one good
man, Dannie, go and be happy, and may the blessing of God go with
you."
Dannie lifted his hat.
"And Jimmy, too," he said, "put Jimmy in, Father
Michael."
"May the peace of God rest the troubled soul of Jimmy Malone,"
said Father Michael, and not being a Catholic, Dannie did not
know that from the blessing for which he asked.
He hurried away with the brightness of dawn on his lined face,
which looked almost boyish under his whitening hair.
Mary Malone was at the window, and turmoil and bitterness were
beginning to burn in her heart again. Maybe the priest had not
found Dannie. Maybe he was not coming. Maybe a thousand things.
Then he WAS coming. Coming straight and sure. Coming across the
fields, and leaping fences at a bound. Coming with such speed
and force as comes the strong man, fifteen years denied. Mary's
heart began to jar, and thump, and waves of happiness surged over
her. And then she saw that look of dawn, of serene delight on
the face of the man, and she stood aghast. Dannie threw wide the
door, and crossed her threshold with outstretched arms.
"Is it true?" he panted. "That thing Father Michael
told me, is it true? Will ye be mine, Mary Malone? At last will
you be mine? Oh, my girl, is the beautiful thing that the priest
told me true?"
"THE BEAUTIFUL THING THAT THE PRIEST TOLD HIM!"
Mary Malone swung a chair before her, and stepped back. "Wait!"
she cried sharply. "There must be some mistake. Till me ixactly
what Father Michael told you?"
"He told me that Jimmy na held me responsible fra his death.
That he loved me when he died. That he was willing I should have
ye! Oh, Mary, wasna that splendid of him. Wasna he a grand mon?
Mary, come to me. Say that it's true! Tell me, if ye love me."
Mary Malone stared wide-eyed at Dannie, and gasped for breath.
Dannie came closer. At last he had found his tongue. "Fra
the love of mercy, if ye are comin' to me, come noo, Mary"
he begged. "My arms will split if they dinna get round ye
soon, dear. Jimmy told ye fra me, sixteen years ago, how I loved
ye, and he told me when he came back how sorry ye were fra me,
and he--he almost cried when he told me. I never saw a mon feel
so. Grand old Jimmy! No other mon like him!"
Mary drew back in desperation.
"You see here, Dannie Micnoun!" she screamed. "You
see here----"
"I do," broke in Dannie. "I'm lookin'! All I ever
saw, or see now, or shall see till I dee is `here,' when `here'
is ye, Mary Malone. Oh! If a woman ever could understand what
passion means to a mon! If ye knew what I have suffered through
all these years, you'd end it, Mary Malone."
Mary gave the chair a shove. "Come here, Dannie," she
said. Dannie cleared the space between them. Mary set her hands
against his breast. "One minute," she panted. "Just
one! I have loved you all me life, me man. I niver loved any one
but you. I niver wanted any one but you. I niver hoped for any
Hivin better than I knew I'd find in your arms. There was a mistake.
There was an awful mistake, when I married Jimmy. I'm not tillin'
you now, and I niver will, but you must realize that! Do you understand
me?"
"Hardly," breathed Dannie. "Hardly!"
"Will, you can take your time if you want to think it out,
because that's all I'll iver till you. There was a horrible mistake.
It was YOU I loved, and wanted to marry. Now bend down to me,
Dannie Micnoun, because I'm going to take your head on me breast
and kiss your dear face until I'm tired," said Mary Malone.
An hour later Father Michael came leisurely down the lane, and
the peace of God was with him.
A radiant Mary went out to meet him.
"You didn't till him!" she cried accusingly. "You
didn't till him!"
The priest laid a hand on her head.
"Mary, the greatest thing in the whole world is self-sacrifice,"
he said. "The pot at the foot of the rainbow is just now
running over with the pure gold of perfect contentment. But had
you and I done such a dreadful thing as to destroy the confidence
of a good man in his friend, your heart never could know such
joy as it now knows in this sacrifice of yours; and no such blessed,
shining light could illumine your face. That is what I wanted
to see. I said to myself as I came along, `She will try, but she
will learn, as I did, that she cannot look in his eyes and undeceive
him. And when she becomes reconciled, her face will be so good
to see.' And it is. You did not tell him either, Mary Malone!"