W
henthe bill-boards announced that I was to deliver a lecture on "England in the Soudan" in the only hall in the town, Antrim turned out to satisfy its curiosity. "How doth this man know, not having learned," the wise ones said, for when I shook the dust of its blessed streets from my brogues seven years previously I was an illiterate.
Anna could have told them, but none of the wise knew her, for curiously enough to those who knew of her existence, but had never seen her, she was known as "Jamie's wife." Butchers and bakers and candlestick makers were there; several ministers, some quality, near quality, the inhabitants of the entries in the "Scotch quarter" andall the newsboys in town. The fact that I personally bribed the newsboys accounted for their presence. I bought them out and reserved the front seats for them. It was in the way of a class reunion with me. Billy O'Hare had gone beyond—where there are no chimneys, and Ann where she could keep clean: they were both dead. Many of the old familiar faces were absent, they too had gone—some to other lands, some to another world. Jamie was there. He sat between Willie Withero and Ben Baxter. He heard little of what was said and understood less of what he heard. The vicar, Mr. Holmes, presided. There was a vote of thanks, followed by the customary seconding by public men, then "God save the Queen," and I went home to tell Anna about it.
Jamie took one arm and Withero clung to the other.
"Jamie!" shouted Withero in a voice that could be heard by the crowd that followed us, "d'ye mind th' first time I seen ye wi' Anna?"
"Aye, 'deed I do!"
"Ye didn't know it was in 'er, did ye, Jamie?"
"Yer a liar, Willie; I know'd frum th' minute I clapped eyes on 'er that she was th' finest wuman on God's futstool!"
"Ye can haave whativer benefit ov th' doubt there is, Jamie, but jist th' same any oul throllop can be a father, but by G— it takes a rale wuman t' be th' mother ov a rale maan! Put that in yer pipe an' smoke it."
"He seems t' think," said Jamie, appealing to me, "that only quality can projuce fine childther!"
"Yer spakin' ov clothes, Jamie; I'm spakin' ov mind, an' ye wor behind th' doore whin th' wor givin' it out, but begorra, Anna was at th' head ov th' class, an' that's no feerie story, naither, is it, me bhoy?"
At the head of Pogue's entry, Bob Dougherty, Tommy Wilson, Sam Manderson, Lucinda Gordon and a dozen others stopped for a "partin' crack."
The kettle was boiling on the chain. The hearth had been swept and a new coat of whitening applied. There was a candle burning in her sconce and the thin yellow rays lit up the glory on her face—a glory that was encased in a newly tallied white cap. My sister sat on one side of the fireplace and she on the other—in her corner. I did not wonder, I did not ask why they did not make a supreme effort to attend the lecture—I knew. They were more supremely interested than I was. They had never heard a member of the family or a relative speak in public, and their last chance had passed by. There they were, in the light of a peat fire and the tallow dip, supremely happy.
The neighbors came in for a word withAnna. They filled the space. The stools and creepies were all occupied.
"Sit down, Willie," my father said. "Take a nice cushioned chair an' be at home." Withero was leaning against the table. He saw and was equal to the joke.
"Whin nature put a pilla on maan, it was intinded fur t' sit on th' groun', Jamie!" And down he sat on the mud floor.
"It's th' proud wuman ye shud be th' night," Marget Hurll said, "an Misther Armstrong it was that said it was proud th' town shud be t' turn out a boy like him!"
Withero took his pipe out of his mouth and spat in the ashes—as a preface to a few remarks.
"Aye," he grunted, "I cocked m' ears up an' dunched oul Jamie whin Armshtrong said that. Jamie cudn't hear it, so I whispered t' m'self, 'Begorra, if a wee fellaturnsupwhin Anthrim turns 'im out it's little credit t' Anthrim I'm thinkin'!'"
Anna laughed and Jamie, putting his hand behind his ear, asked:
"What's that—what's that?"
The name and remarks of the gentleman who seconded the vote of thanks were repeated to him.
"Ha, ha, ha!" he laughed as he slapped me on the knee. "Well, well, well, if that wudn't make a brass monkey laugh!"
"Say," he said to me, "d'ye mind th' night ye come home covered wi' clabber—"
"Whisht!" I said, as I put my mouth to his ear. "I only want to mind that he had three very beautiful daughters!"
"Did ye iver spake t' aany o' thim?" Jamie asked.
"Yes."
"Whin?"
"When I sold them papers."
"Ha, ha, a ha'penny connection, eh?"
"It's betther t' mind three fine things about a maan than wan mean thing, Jamie," Anna said.
"If both o' ye's on me I'm bate," he said.
"Stop yer palaver an' let's haave a story ov th' war wi' th' naygars in Egypt," Mrs. Hurll said.
"Aye, that's right," one of the Gainer boys said. "Tell us what th' queen give ye a medal fur!"
They wanted a story of blood, so I smeared the tale red. When I finished Anna said, "Now tell thim, dear, what ye tuk th' shillin' fur!"
"You tell them, mother."
"Ye tuk it t' fight ignorance an' not naygars, didn't ye?"
"Yes, but that fight continues."
"Aye, with you, but—"
"Ah, never mind, mother, I have taken it up where you laid it down, and longafter—" that was far as I got, for Jamie exploded just then and said:
"Now get t' h—l home, ivery wan o' ye, an' give 's a minute wi' 'im jist for ourselves, will ye?"
He said it with laughter in his voice and it sounded in the ears of those present as polite and pleasing as anything in the domain of their amenities.
They arose as one, all except Withero, and he couldn't, for Jamie gripped him by a leg and held him on the floor just as he sat.
In their good-night expressions the neighbors unconsciously revealed what the lecture and the story meant to them. Summed up it meant, "Sure it's jist wondtherful ye warn't shot!"
When we were alone, alone with Withero, Mary "wet" a pot of tea and warmed up a few farrels of fadges! and we commenced. Little was said, but feeling ran high. It was like a midnight mass.Anna was silent, but there were tears, and as I held her in my arms and kissed them away Jamie was saying to Withero:
"Ye might take 'im fur a dandther out where ye broke whin we first met ye, Willie!"
"Aye," Willie said, "I'm m' own gaffer, I will that."
I slept at Jamie Wallace's that night, and next morning took the "dandther" with Withero up the Dublin road, past "The Mount of Temptation" to the old stone-pile that was no longer a pile, but a hole in the side of the road. It was a sentimental journey that gave Willie a chance to say some things I knew he wanted to say.
"D'ye mind the pirta sack throusers Anna made ye onct?"
"Yes, what of them?"
"Did ye iver think ye cud git used t' aanything if ye wor forced t' haave nothin' else fur a while?"
"What's the point, Willie?"
"Sit down here awhile an' I'll tell ye."
We sat down on the bank of the roadside. He took out his pipe, steel and flint, filled his pipe and talked as he filled.
"Me an' Jamie wor pirta sack people, purty damned rough, too, but yer Ma was a piece ov fine linen frum th' day she walked down this road wi' yer Dah till this minit whin she's waitin' fur ye in the corner. Ivery Sunday I've gone in jist t' hai a crack wi' 'er an' d'ye know, bhoy, I got out o' that crack somethin' good fur th' week. She was i' hell on sayin' words purcisely, but me an' Jamie wor too thick, an' begorra she got used t' pirta sack words herself, but she was i' fine linen jist th' same.
"Wan day she says t' me, 'Willie,' says she, 'ye see people through dirty specs.' 'How's that?' says I. 'I don't know,' says she, 'fur I don't wear yer specs, but I think it's jist a poor habit ov yer mind.Aych poor craither is made up ov some good an' much that isn't s' good, an' ye see only what isn't s' good!'
"Thin she towld m' somethin' which she niver towld aanyone else, 'cept yer Dah, ov coorse. 'Willie,' says she, 'fur twenty years I've seen th' Son ov Maan ivery day ov m' life!'
"'How's that?' says I.
"'I've more'n seen 'm. I've made tay fur 'im, an' broth on Sunday. I've mended 'is oul duds, washed 'is dhirty clothes, shuk 'is han', stroked 'is hair an' said kind words to 'im!'
"'God Almighty!' says I, 'yer goin' mad, Anna!' She tuk her oul Bible an' read t' me these words; I mind thim well:
"'Whin ye do it t' wan o' these craithers ye do it t' me!'
"Well, me bhoy, I thunk an' I thunk over thim words an' wud ye believe it—I begun t' clane m' specs. Wan day th' 'Dummy' came along t' m' stone-pile.Ye mind 'er, don't ye?" (The Dummy was a harlot, who lived in the woods up the Dublin road in summer, and Heaven only knows where in winter.)
"Th' Dummy," Willie continued, "came over t' th' pile an' acted purty gay, but says I, 'Dummy, if there's anythin' I kin give ye I'll give it, but there's nothin' ye kin give me!'
"'Ye break stones fur a livin',' says she.
"'Aye,' says I.
"'What wud ye do if ye wor a lone wuman an' cudn't get nothin' at all t' do?'
"'I dunno,' says I.
"'I don't want to argufy or palaver wi' a dacent maan,' says she, 'but I'm terrible hungry.'
"'Luk here,' says I, 'I've got a dozen pirtas I'm goin' t' roast fur m' dinner. I'll roast thim down there be that gate, an' I'll lave ye six an' a dhrink ov butthermilk. Whin ye see m' lave th' gate ye'll know yer dinner's ready.'
"'God save ye,' says she, 'may yer meal barrel niver run empty an' may yer bread foriver be roughcasted wi' butther!'
"I begun t' swither whin she left. Says I, 'Withero, is yer specs clane? Kin ye see th' Son ov Maan in th' Dummy?' 'Begorra, I dunno,' says I t' m'self. I scratched m' head an' swithered till I thought m' brains wud turn t' stone.
"Says I t' m'self at last, 'Aye, 'deed there must be th' spark there what Anna talks about!' Jist then I heard yer mother's voice as plain as I hear m' own now at this minute—an' what d'ye think Anna says?"
"I don't know, Willie."
"'So ye haave th' Son ov Maan t' dinner th' day?' 'Aye,' says I.
"'An' givin' 'im yer lavins!'
"It was like a piece ov stone cuttin' the ball ov m' eye. It cut deep!
"I ran down th' road an' says I t' th' Dummy, 'I'll tie a rag on a stick an' whinye see m' wavin' it come an' take yer dinner an' I'll take what's left!'
"I didn't wait fur no answer, but went and did what I shud.
"That summer whin she was hungry she hung an oul rag on th' thorn hedge down be the wee plantain where she camped, and I answered be a rag on a stick that she cud share mine and take hers first. One day I towld 'er yer mother's story about th' Son ov Maan. It was th' only time I ever talked wi' 'er. That winther she died in th' poorhouse and before she died she sint me this." He pulled out of an inside pocket a piece of paper yellow with age and so scuffed with handling that the scrawl was scarcely legible:
Mr. WitheroStone breakerDublin RoadAntrim"I seen Him in the ward last night and I'm content to go now. God save you kindly.The Dummy."
Withero having unburdened, we dandered down the road, through Masserene and home.
I proposed to Anna a little trip to Lough Neagh in a jaunting car.
"No, dear, it's no use; I want to mind it jist as Jamie and I saw it years an' years ago. I see it here in th' corner jist as plain as I saw it then; forby Antrim wud never get over th' shock of seein' me in a jauntin' car."
"Then I'll tell you of a shorter journey. You have never seen the Steeple. It's the most perfect of all the Round Towers in Ireland and just one mile from this corner. Now don't deny me the joy of taking you there. I'll guide you over the strand and away back of the poorhouse, out at the station, and then it's just a hundred yards or so!"
It took the combined efforts of Jamie, Withero, Mary and me to persuade her, but she was finally persuaded, and dressedin a borrowed black knitted cap and her wee Sunday shawl, she set out with us.
"This is like a weddin'," Jamie said, as he tied the ribbons under her chin.
"Oh, it's worse, dear. It's a circus an' wake in wan, fur I'm about dead an' he's turned clown for a while." In five minutes everybody in Pogue's entry heard the news. They stood at the door waiting to have a look.
Matty McGrath came in to see if there was "aanythin'" she could do.
"Aye," Anna said, smiling, "ye can go over an' tell oul Ann Agnew where I'm goin' so she won't worry herself t' death findin' out!"
"She won't see ye," Jamie said.
"She'd see a fly if it lit within a hundred yards of her!"
We went down the Kill entry and over the rivulet we called "the strand." There were stepping stones in the water and the passage was easy. As we crossed she said:
"Right here was th' first place ye ever came t' see th' sun dance on th' water on Easter Sunday mornin'."
We turned to the right and walked by the old burying ground of the Unitarian meeting-house and past Mr. Smith's garden. Next to Smith's garden was the garden of a cooper—I think his name was Farren. "Right here," I said, "is where I commited my first crime!"
"What was it?" she asked.
"Stealing apples!"
"Aye, what a townful of criminals we had then!"
We reached the back of the poorhouse. James Gardner was the master of it, and "goin' t' Jamie Gardner" was understood as the last march of many of the inhabitants of Antrim, beginning with "Totther Jack Welch," who was a sort of pauperprimus inter paresof the town.
As we passed the little graveyard, we stood and looked over the fence at thelittle boards, all of one size and one pattern, that marked each grave.
"God in Heaven!" she exclaimed, "isn't it fearful not to git rid of poverty even in death!" I saw a shudder pass over her face and I turned mine away.
Ten minutes later we emerged from the fields at the railway station.
"You've never seen Mr. McKillop, the station master, have you?" I asked.
"No."
"Let us wait here for a minute, we may see him."
"Oh, no, let's hurry on t' th' Steeple!" So on we hurried.
It took a good deal of courage to enter when we got there, for the far-famed Round Tower of Antrim isprivate property. Around it is a stone wall enclosing the grounds of an estate. The Tower stands near the house of the owner, and it takes temerity in the poor to enter.They seldom do enter, as a matter of fact, for they are not particularly interested in archeology.
We timidly entered and walked up to the Tower.
"So that's th' Steeple!"
"Isn't it fine?"
"Aye, it's wondtherful, but wudn't it be nice t' take our boots off an' jist walk aroun' on this soft nice grass on our bare feet?"
The lawn was closely clipped and as level as a billiard table. The trees were dressed in their best summer clothing. Away in the distance we caught glimpses of an abundance of flowers. The air was full of the perfume of honeysuckle and sweet clover. Anna drank in the scenery with almost childish delight.
"D'ye think heaven will be as nice?" she asked.
"Maybe."
"If it is, we will take our boots off an'sit down, won't we?" And she laughed like a girl.
"If there are boots in the next world," I said, "there will be cobblers, and you wouldn't want our old man to be a cobbler to all eternity?"
"You're right," she said, "nor afther spending seventy-five years here without bein' able to take my boots off an' walk on a nice lawn like this wud I care to spend eternity without that joy!"
"Do we miss what we've never had?"
"Aye, 'deed we do. I miss most what I've never had!"
"What, for instance?"
"Oh, I'll tell ye th' night when we're alone!"
We walked around the Tower and ventured once beneath the branches of a big tree.
"If we lived here, d'ye know what I'd like t' do?"
"No."
"Jist take our boots off an' play hide and go seek—wudn't it be fun?"
I laughed loudly.
"Whisht!" she said. "They'll catch us if you make a noise!"
"You seem bent on getting your boots off!" I said laughingly. Her reply struck me dumb.
"Honey," she said, so softly and looking into my eyes, "do ye realize that I have never stood on a patch of lawn in my life before?"
Hand in hand we walked toward the gate, taking an occasional, wistful glance back at the glory of the few, and thinking, both of us, of the millions of tired feet that never felt the softness of a smooth green sward.
At eight o'clock that night the door was shutand barred.
Jamie tacked several copies of theWeekly Budgetover the window and we were alone.
We talked of old times. We brought back the dead and smiled or sighed over them. Old tales, of the winter nights of long ago, were retold with a new interest.
The town clock struck nine.
We sat in silence as we used to sit, while another sexton tolled off the days of the month after the ringing of the curfew.
"Many's th' time ye've helter-skeltered home at th' sound of that bell!" she said.
"Yes, because the sound of the bell was always accompanied by a vision of a wet welt hanging over the edge of the tub!"
Jamie laughed and became reminiscent.
"D'ye mind what ye said wan time whin I bate ye wi' th' stirrup?"
"No, but I used to think a good deal more than I said."
"Aye, but wan time I laid ye across m' knee an' give ye a good shtrappin', then stud ye up an' says I, 'It hurts me worse than it hurts ye, ye divil!'
"'Aye,' says you, 'but it dizn't hurt ye in th' same place!'
"I don't remember, but from time immemorial boys have thought and said the same thing."
"D'ye mind whenIbate ye?" Anna asked with a smile.
"Yes, I remember you solemnly promised Jamie you would punish me and when he went down to Barney's you took a long straw and lashed me fearfully with it!"
The town clock struck ten.
Mary, who had sat silent all evening, kissed us all good night and went to bed.
I was at the point of departure for the New World. Jamie wanted to know what I was going to do. I outlined an ambition, but its outworking was a problem. It was beyond his ken. He could not take in the scope of it. Anna could, for she had it from the day she first felt the movement of life in me. It was unpretentious—nothing the world would call great.
"Och, maan, but that wud be th' proud day fur Anna if ye cud do it."
When the town clock struck eleven, Anna trembled.
"Yer cowld, Anna," he said. "I'll put on a few more turf."
"There's plenty on, dear; I'm not cold in my body."
"Acushla, m' oul hide's like a buffalo's or I'd see that ye want 'im t' yerself. I'm off t' bed!"
We sat in silence gazing into the peat fire. Memory led me back down the road to yesterday. She was out in the future and wandering in an unknown continent with only hope to guide her. Yet we must get together, and that quickly.
"Minutes are like fine gold now," she said, "an' my tongue seems glued, but I jist must spake."
"We have plenty of time, mother."
"Plenty!" she exclaimed. "Every clang of th' town clock is a knife cuttin'th' cords—wan afther another—that bind me t' ye."
"I want to know about your hope, your outlook, your religion," I said.
"Th' biggest hope I've ever had was t' bear a chile that would love everybody as yer father loved me!"
"A sort of John-three-sixteen in miniature."
"Aye."
"The aim is high enough to begin with!"
"Not too high!"
"And your religion?"
"All in all, it's bein' kind an' lovin' kindness.Thattakes in God an' maan an' Pogue's entry an' th' world."
The town clock struck twelve. Each clang "a knife cutting a cord" and each heavier and sharper than the last. Each one vibrating, tingling, jarring along every nerve, sinew and muscle. A feeling of numbness crept over me.
"That's the end of life for me," she said slowly. There was a pause, longer and more intense than all the others.
"Maybe ye'll get rich an' forget."
"Yes, I shall be rich. I shall be a millionaire—a millionaire of love, but no one shall ever take your place, dear!"
My overcoat served as a pillow. An old quilt made a pallet on the hard floor. I found myself being pressed gently down from the low creepie to the floor. I pretended to sleep. Her hot tears fell on my face. Her dear toil-worn fingers were run gently through my hair. She was on her knees by my side. The tender mysticism of her youth came back and expressed itself in prayer. It was interspersed with tears and "Ave Maria!"
When the first streak of dawn penetrated the old window we had our last cup of tea together and later, when I held her in a long, lingering embrace, there were no tears—we had shed them all in the silenceof the last vigil. When I was ready to go, she stood with her arm on the old yellow mantel-shelf. She was rigid and pale as death, but around her eyes and her mouth there played a smile. There was a look ineffable of maternal love.
"We shall meet again, mother," I said.
"Aye, dearie, I know rightly we'll meet, but ochanee, it'll be out there beyond th' meadows an' th' clouds."
W
henI walked into Pogue's entry about fifteen years later, it seemed like walking into another world—I was a foreigner.
"How quare ye spake!" Jamie said, and Mary added demurely:
"Is it quality ye are that ye spake like it?"
"No, faith, not at all," I said, "but it's the quality of America that makes me!"
"Think of that, now," she exclaimed.
The neighbors came, new neighbors—a new generation, to most of whom I was a tradition. Other boys and girls had left Antrim for America, scores of them in the course of the years. There was a popular supposition that we all knew each other.
"Ye see th' Wilson bhoys ivery day, I'll bate," Mrs. Hainey said.
"No, I have never seen any of them."
"Saints alive, how's that?"
"Because we live three thousand miles apart."
"Aye, well, shure that 'ud be quite a dandther!"
"It didn't take ye long t' git a fortune, did it?" another asked.
"I never acquired a fortune such as you are thinking of."
"Anna said ye wor rich!"
"Anna was right, I am rich, but I was the richest boy in Antrim when I lived here."
They looked dumbfounded.
"How's that?" Mrs. Conner queried.
"Because Anna was my mother."
I didn't want to discuss Anna at that time or to that gathering, so I gave the conversation a sudden turn and diplomatically led them in another direction. I explained how much easier it was for a policeman than a minister to make a "fortune" and most Irishmen in America had a special bias toward law! Jamie had grown so deaf that he could only hear when I shouted into his ear. Visitors kept on coming, until the little house was uncomfortably full.
"Wouldn't it be fine," I shouted into Jamie's ear, "if Billy O'Hare or Withero could just drop in now?"
"God save us all," he said, "th' oul days an' oul faces are gone foriver." After some hours of entertainment the uninvited guests were invited to go home.
I pulled Jamie's old tub out into the center of the floor and, taking my coat off, said gently: "Now, good neighbors, I have traveled a long distance and need a bath, and if you don't mind I'll have one at once!"
They took it quite seriously and went home quickly. As soon as the house wascleared I shut and barred the door and Mary and I proceeded to prepare the evening meal.
I brought over the table and put it in its place near the fire. In looking over the old dresser I noticed several additions to the inventory I knew. The same old plates were there, many of them broken and arranged to appear whole. All holes, gashes, dents and cracks were turned back or down to deceive the beholder. There were few whole pieces on the dresser.
"Great guns, Mary," I exclaimed, "here are two new plates and a new cup! Well, well, and you never said a word in any of your letters about them."
"Ye needn't get huffed if we don't tell ye all the startlin' things!" Mary said.
"Ah!" I exclaimed, "there'shercup!" I took the precious thing from the shelf. The handle was gone, there was a gash at the lip and a few new cracks circlingaround the one I was familiar with twenty years previously.
What visions of the past came to me in front of that old dresser! How often in the long ago she had pushed that old cup gently toward me along the edge of the table—gently, to escape notice and avoid jealousy. Always at the bottom of it a teaspoonful ofhertea and beneath the tea a bird's-eye-full of sugar. Each fairy picture of straggling tea leaves was our moving picture show of those old days. We all had tea leaves, but she had imagination. How we laughed and sighed and swithered over the fortunes spread out all over the inner surface of that cup!
"If ye stand there affrontin' our poor oul delf all night we won't haave aany tea at all!" Mary said. The humor had gone from my face and speech from my tongue. I felt as one feels when he looks for the last time upon the face of his best friend. Mary laughed when I laid the old cup ona comparatively new saucer at my place. There was another laugh when I laid it out for customs inspection in the port of New York. I had a set of rather delicate after-dinner coffee cups. One bore the arms of Coventry in colors; another had the seal of St. John's College, Oxford; one was from Edinburgh and another from Paris. They looked aristocratic. I laid them out in a row and at the end of the row sat the proletarian, forlorn and battered—Anna's old tea-cup.
"What did you pay for this?" asked the inspector as he touched it contemptuously with his official toe.
"Never mind what I paid for it," I replied, "it's valued at a million dollars!" The officer laughed and I think the other cups laughed also, but they were not contemptuous; they were simply jealous.
Leisurely I went over the dresser, noting the new chips and cracks, handling them,maybe fondling some of them and putting them as I found them.
"I'll jist take a cup o' tay," Jamie said, "I'm not feelin' fine."
I had less appetite than he had, and Mary had less than either of us. So we sipped our tea for awhile in silence.
"She didn't stay long afther ye left," Jamie said, without looking up. Turning to Mary he continued, "How long was it, aanyway, Mary?"
"Jist a wee while."
"Aye, I know it wasn't long."
"Did she suffer much?" I asked.
"She didn't suffer aany at all," he said, "she jist withered like th' laves on th' threes."
"She jist hankered t' go," Mary added.
"Wan night whin Mary was asleep," Jamie continued, "she read over again yer letther—th' wan where ye wor spakin' so much about fishin'."
"Aye," I said, "I had just been appointedmissionary to a place called the Bowery, in New York, and I wrote her that I was no longer her plowman, but herfisher of men."
"Och, maan, if ye cud haave heard her laugh over th' different kinds ov fishes ye wor catchin'! Iv'ry day for weeks she read it an' laughed an' cried over it. That night she says t' me, 'Jamie,' says she, 'I don't care s' much fur fishers ov men as I do for th' plowman.' 'Why?' says I.
"'Because,' says she, 'a gey good voice an' nice clothes will catch men, an' wimen too, but it takes brains t' plow up th' superstitions ov th' ignorant.'
"'There's somethin' in that,' says I.
"'Tell 'im whin he comes,' says she, 'that I put th' handles ov a plow in his han's an' he's t' let go ov thim only in death.'
"'I'll tell 'm,' says I, 'but it's yerself that'll be here whin he comes,' says I. She smiled like an' says she, 'What ye don't know, Jamie, wud make a pretty biglibrary.' 'Aye,' says I, 'I haaven't aany doubt ov that, Anna.'"
"There was a loud knock at the door."
"Let thim dundther," Mary said. He put his hand behind his ear and asked eagerly:
"What is 't?"
"Somebody's dundtherin'."
"Let thim go t' h——," he said angrily.
"Th' tuk 'im frum Anna last time, th' won't take 'im frum me an' you, Mary."
Another and louder knock.
"It's Misthress Healy," came a voice. Again his hand was behind his ear. The name was repeated to him.
"Misthress Healy, is it; well, I don't care a d—n if it was Misthress Toe-y!"
For a quarter of a century my sister has occupied my mother's chimney-corner, but it was vacant that night. She sat on my father's side of the fire. He and I sat opposite each other at the table—I on the same spot, on the same stool where I usedto sit when her cup toward the close of the meal came traveling along the edge of the table and where her hand with a crust in it would sometimes blindly grope for mine.
But she was not there. In all my life I have never seen a space so empty!
My father was a peasant, with all the mental and physical characteristics of his class. My sister is a peasant woman who has been cursed with the same grinding poverty that cursed my mother's life. About my mother there was a subtlety of intellect and a spiritual quality that even in my ignorance was fascinating to me. I returned equipped to appreciate it and she was gone. Gone, and a wide gulf lay between those left behind, a gulf bridged by the relation we have to the absent one more than by the relation we bore to each other.
We felt as keenly as others the kinship of the flesh, but there are kinships transcendentally higher, nobler and of a purernature than the nexus of the flesh. There were things to say that had to be left unsaid. They had not traveled that way. The language of my experience would have been a foreign tongue to them.Shewould have understood.
"Wan night be th' fire here," Jamie said, taking the pipe out of his mouth, "she says t' me, 'Jamie,' says she, 'I'm clane done, jist clane done, an' I won't be long here.'
"'Och, don't spake s' downmouth'd, Anna,' says I. 'Shure ye'll feel fine in th' mornin'.'
"'Don't palaver,' says she, an' she lukt terrible serious.
"'My God, Anna,' says I, 'ye wudn't be lavin' me alone,' says I, 'I can't thole it.'
"'Yer more strong,' says she, 'an' ye'll live till he comes back—thin we'll be t'gether.'"
He stopped there. He could go no farther for several minutes.
"I hate a maan that gowls, but—"
"Go on," I said, "have a good one and Mary and I will wash the cups and saucers."
"D'ye know what he wants t' help me fur?" Mary asked, with her mouth close to his ear.
"No."
"He wants t' dhry thim so he can kisshercup whin he wipes it! Kiss hercup, ye mind; and right content with that!"
"I don't blame 'im," said he, "I'd kiss th' very groun' she walked on!"
As we proceeded to wash the cups, Mary asked:
"Diz th' ministhers in America wash dishes?"
"Some of them."
"What kind?"
"My kind."
"What do th' others do?"
"The big ones lay corner-stones and the little ones lay foundations."
"Saints alive," she said, "an' what do th' hens do?"
"They clock" (hatch).
"Pavin' stones?"
"I didn't say pavin' stones!"
"Oh, aye," she laughed loudly.
"Luk here," Jamie said, "I want t' laugh too. Now what th' —— is't yer gigglin' at?"
I explained.
He smiled and said:
"Jazus, bhoy, that reminds me ov Anna, she cud say more funny things than aany wan I iver know'd."
"And that reminds me," I said, "that the word you have just misusedshealways pronounced with a caress!"
"Aye, I know rightly, but ye know I mane no harm, don't ye?"
"I know, but you remember whensheused that word every letter in it was dressed in its best Sunday clothes, wasn't it?"
"Och, aye, an' I'd thravel twinty miles jist t' hear aany wan say it like Anna!"
"Well, I have traveled tens of thousands of miles and I have heard the greatest preachers of the age, but I never heard any one pronounce it so beautifully!"
"But as I was a-sayin' bhoy, I haaven't had a rale good laugh since she died; haave I, Mary?"
"I haaven't naither," Mary said.
"Aye, but ye've had double throuble, dear."
"We never let trouble rob us of laughter when I was here."
"Because whin ye wor here she was here too. In thim days whin throuble came she'd tear it t' pieces an' make fun ov aych piece, begorra. Ye might glour an' glunch, but ye'd haave t' laugh before th' finish—shure ye wud!"
The neighbors began to knock again. Some of the knocks were vocal and as plainas language. Some of the more familiar gaped in the window.
"Hes he hed 'is bath yit?" asked McGrath, the ragman.
We opened the door and in marched the inhabitants of our vicinity for the second "crack."
This right of mine own people to come and go as they pleased suggested to me the thought that if I wanted to have a private conversation with my father I would have to take him to another town.
The following day we went to the churchyard together—Jamie and I. Over her grave he had dragged a rough boulder and on it in a straggling, unsteady, amateur hand were painted her initials and below them his own. He was unable to speak there, and maybe it was just as well. I knew everything he wanted to say. It was written on his deeply furrowed face. I took his arm and led him away.
Our next call was at Willie Withero'sstone-pile. There, when I remembered the nights that I passed in my new world of starched linen, too good to shoulder a bundle of his old hammers, I was filled with remorse. I uncovered my head and in an undertone muttered, "God forgive me."
"Great oul bhoy was Willie," he said.
"Aye."
"Och, thim wor purty nice times whin he'd come in o' nights an' him an' Anna wud argie; but they're gone, clane gone, an' I'll soon be wi' thim."
I bade farewell to Mary and took him to Belfast—for a private talk. Every day for a week we went out to the Cave hill—to a wild and lonely spot where I had a radius of a mile for the sound of my voice. The thing of all things that I wanted him to know was that in America I had been engaged in the same fight with poverty that they were familiar with at home. It was hard for him to think of awolf of hunger at the door of any home beyond the sea. It was astounding to him to learn that around me always there were thousands of ragged, starving people. He just gaped and exclaimed:
"It's quare, isn't it?"
We sat on the grass on the hillside, conscious each of us that we were saying the things one wants to say on the edge of the grave.
"She speyed I'd live t' see ye," he said.
"She speyed well," I answered.
"Th' night she died somethin' wontherful happened t' me. I wasn't as deef as I am now, but I was purty deef. D'ye know, that night I cud hear th' aisiest whisper frum her lips—I cud that. She groped fur m' han; 'Jamie,' says she, 'it's nearly over, dear.'
"'God love ye,' says I.
"'Aye,' says she, 'if He'll jist love me as ye've done it'll be fine.' Knowin' what a rough maan I'd been, I cudn't thole it.
"'Th' road's been gey rocky an' we've made many mistakes.'
"'Aye,' I said, 'we've barged (scolded) a lot, Anna, but we didn't mane it.'
"'No,' says she, 'our crock ov love was niver dhrained.'
"I brot a candle in an' stuck it in th' sconce so 's I cud see 'er face."
"'We might haave done betther,' says she, 'but sich a wee house, so many childther an' so little money.'
"'We war i' hard up,' says I.
"'We wor niver hard up in love, wor we?'
"'No, Anna,' says I, 'but love dizn't boil th' kittle.'
"'Wud ye rather haave a boilin' kittle than love if ye had t' choose?'
"'Och, no, not at all, ye know rightly I wudn't.'
"'Forby, Jamie, we've given Antrim more'n such men as Lord Massarene.'
"'What's that?' says I.
"'A maan that loves th' poorest craithers on earth an' serves thim.'
"She had a gey good sleep afther that."
"'Jamie,' says she whin she awoke, 'was I ravin'?'
"'Deed no, Anna,' says I.
"'I'm not ravin' now, am I?'
"'Acushla, why do ye ask sich a question?'
"'Tell 'im I didn't like "fisher ov men" as well as "th' plowman." It's aisy t' catch thim fish, it's hard t' plow up ignorance an' superstition—tell 'im that fur me, Jamie?'
"'Aye, I'll tell 'im, dear.'
"'Ye mind what I say'd t' ye on th' road t' Antrim, Jamie? That "love is Enough"?'
"'Aye.'
"'I tell ye again wi' my dyin' breath.'
"I leaned over an' kiss't 'er an' she smiled at me. Ah, bhoy, if ye could haave seen that luk on 'er face, it was like a picture ov th' Virgin, it was that.
"'Tell th' childther there's only wan kind ov poverty, Jamie, an' that's t' haave no love in th' heart,' says she.
"'Aye, I'll tell thim, Anna,' says I."
He choked up. The next thought that suggested itself for expression failed of utterance. The deep furrows on his face grew deeper. His lips trembled. When he could speak, he said:
"My God, bhoy, we had to beg a coffin t' bury 'er in!"
"If I had died at the same time," I said, "they would have had to do the same for me!"
"How quare!" he said.
I persuaded him to accompany me to one of the largest churches in Belfast. I was to preach there. That was more than he expected and the joy of it was overpowering.
I do not remember the text, nor could I give at this distance of time an outline of the discourse: it was one of those occasions when a man stands on the borderland of another world. I felt distinctly the spiritual guidance of an unseen hand. I took her theme and spoke more for her approval than for the approval of the crowd.
He could not hear, but he listened with his eyes. On the street, after the service, he became oblivious of time and place and people. He threw his long lean arms around my neck and kissed me before a crowd. He hoped Anna was around listening. I told him she was and he said he would like to be "happed up" beside her, as he had nothing further to hope for in life.
In fear and trembling he crossed the Channel with me. In fear lest he should die in Scotland and they would not bury him in Antrim churchyard beside Anna. We visited my brothers and sisters for several days. Every day we took long walks along the country roads. These walks were full of questionings. Bigvital questions of life and death and immorality. They were quaintly put:
"There's a lot of balderdash about another world, bhoy. On yer oath now, d'ye think there is wan?"
"I do."
"If there is wud He keep me frum Anna jist because I've been kinda rough?"
"I am sure He wouldn't!"
"He wudn't be s' d—d niggardly, wud He?"
"Never! God is love and love doesn't work that way!"
At the railway station he was still pouring in his questions.
"D'ye believe in prayer?"
"Aye."
"Well, jist ax sometimes that Anna an' me be together, will ye?"
"Aye."
A little group of curious bystanders stood on the platform watching the little trembling old man clinging to me as thetendril of a vine clings to the trunk of a tree.
"We have just one minute, Father!"
"Aye, aye, wan minute—my God, why cudn't ye stay?"
"There are so many voices calling me over the sea."
"Aye, that's thrue."
He saw them watching him and he feebly dragged me away from the crowd. He kissed me passionately, again and again, on the lips. The whistle blew.
"All aboard!" the guard shouted. He clutched me tightly and clung to me with the clutch of a drowning man. I had to extricate myself and spring on board. I caught a glimpse of him as the train moved out; despair and a picture of death was on his face. His lips were trembling and his eyes were full of tears.
A few months later they lowered him to rest beside my mother. I want to goback some day and cover them with a slab of marble, on which their names will be cut, and these words:
"Love is Enough."