Chapter IV
“When yer flat on yer back, wit’ a doctor as referee an a train’d nurse holdin’ the towel, why it’s up t’ youse, Cull, it’s up t’ youse!”
“When yer flat on yer back, wit’ a doctor as referee an a train’d nurse holdin’ the towel, why it’s up t’ youse, Cull, it’s up t’ youse!”
Chip Nolan’s Remarks.
A RED-FACED, bare-armed woman opened a door in Murphy’s court and threw a pan of garbage into the gutter. Her next door neighbour was walking up and down the narrow strip of sidewalk, hushing the cry of a weazened baby.
“Is Jamsie not well, Mrs. Burns?” inquired the red-faced woman.
“Sorry the bit, Mrs. Nolan; he’s as cross as two sticks. It’s walk up an’ down the floor wid him I’ve been doin’ all the God’s blessed night. Scure till the wink av slape I’ve had since I opened me two eyes at half after foive yisterday mornin’.”
“Poor sowl! Yez shud git him a rubber ring tillcut his teeth on; it’s an illigant t’ing for childer’, I’m towld.”
Contractor McGlory’s stables and cart sheds stood on the opposite side of the court. A young man sat on a feed-box in the doorway polishing a set of light harness; a group of dirty children were playing under an up-tilted cart, and a brace of starving curs fought savagely up the alley over a mouldy bone. Mrs. Nolan called to the young man:
“An’ sure, is it out drivin’ yez’ed be goin’ so arly on Sunday mornin’, Jerry?”
“On’y a little spin,” said the youth. “I want to try out a new skate what the old gent bought at the bazar.” He rubbed away in industrious silence for a moment and then, nodding toward a clean-looking brick house at the end of the court, inquired:
“Did youse see Johnnie Kerrigan go in?”
“Is it young Kerrigan go intill Murphy’s!” Mrs. Nolan seemed dumbfounded.
“Not the saloon-keeper’s son that do be at the ’torneyin’!” cried Mrs. Burns.
“That’s the guy,” said Jerry. “He went in a couple o’ minutes ago.”
Mrs. Nolan looked at her neighbour, and the latter lady returned the look with interest.
“I declare till God!” said the former, “Iv that don’t bate all I iver heerd since the day I wur born. Sure an’ his father an’ owld Larry have been bitter at wan another for years.”
“It’s forgivin’ his enemies he’ll be doin’ now that the breath do be lavin’ him,” said Mrs. Burns. “Divil the fear av him forgivin’ me the bit av rint I owes him, though,” she added bitterly.
“There’s worse than old Murphy,” said Jerry. “Kelly’s got his net out after the court, an’ if he lands it, it won’t be long before youse find it out, either.”
But Mrs. Burns could only think of the crusty old harpy who went from door to door down the court on the first day of the month, the skinny old claw that reached out so graspingly for the rent, the leathery old face frowning blackly upon delay, of the bitter tongue that spat venom into the faces of all not ready to pay. And for the life of her, the good woman could think of none worse than old Larry Murphy to deal with.
“Faix an’ he’d take the bit av bread out av the children’s mouths,” declared she.
A flock of grimy sparrows suddenly lit upon the roof of the stable, chattering, fluttering and fighting madly; one of the quarrelling dogs had been defeated and licked his wounds and howled dolefully; a drunken man, passing the end of the court, pitched into the gutter and lay there.
“Mother av Heaven!” exclaimed Mrs. Nolan with a suddenness that caused her neighbour to jump. She was pointing toward the house spoken of as Murphy’s. “Look there!”
Young Larry Murphy was standing upon the white stone step; he had just pulled the door bell softly; and catching the astonished stare of the two women, he swore at them under his breath.
“They’re next already,” he muttered. “They’ll chew me up, an’ spit me out, an’ laugh about it! Why don’t the fagots stay in the house!”
The door opened and he went in, leaving them staring at the house over which death was hovering.
Clean and fresh-looking the house stood among its squalid surroundings of dirty stables, frowsy, ill-smellingdrains and pestilential manure pits. Its stone steps were spotless, the brass bell knob was as bright as burnished gold, the pretty curtains at the windows like snow. And this was the home of the landlord of the court—the clean, bright, comfortable home he had dreamed of years before, when he stepped from the emigrant ship to begin life in a new land.
He was dying now, and the money for which he had slaved and demeaned himself—the money which he had hoarded and loved—was about to pass from him. Once more he was going to begin in a new land, and a land where hard craft was as nothing beside clean hands. Not that old Larry had ever exacted more than his due; but he had stood flat-footed for that, in spite of prayers and tears; and the reckoning was now at hand.
The door had been opened for young Larry by a stout, heavy-browed man, dressed in decent black; and as he stood aside for the youth to pass him in the narrow entry, he showed his discoloured teeth in a sneer.
“So ye have hurried here at wanst, eh?” said he.“Divil the foot have yez iver put in the house afore, Larry?”
“It’s manners to wait till yer asked,” returned Larry gruffly.
The stout man closed the door. The house was soundless, and there was a heavy smell of sickness; the door of the sitting room stood partly open, and Larry caught the rustle of skirts.
“I knowed yez’ed come,” continued the man who had admitted him. “Ah, but it’s the sharp wan yez are, Larry.”
The youth turned and grasped the door knob. “I knowed how it’d be,” snarled he, looking savagely over his shoulder at the stout man. “I’ll lick youse for this, Kelly!”
He jerked open the door and was about to depart when a woman’s voice called:
“Mr. Murphy!” A girl had come into the entry from the sitting room; she was tall and slim; a bright spot burned in each cheek and she coughed slightly as the draft from the open door struck her. She held out her hand.
“I’m glad that you’ve come,” said she. “Your grandfather has been asking for you again. Were you going away?”
“Yes,” said Larry. He closed the door and took the proffered hand, ashamed of the anger which Kelly had awakened. She looked into his face with quiet, candid eyes.
“That was wrong,” she said. “He is very low; will you come up?”
He silently followed her up stairs. Kelly entered the sitting room and stood by the window; his heavy brows were bent and his lips were muttering. The people were streaming back from the church, across the railroad; the sooty shifting engine was still making up its train, panting and whistling like some asthmatic animal; a priestly-looking young man paused at the door of the house and looked up at the number.
“Father Dawson,” muttered Kelly hurrying to open the door. “He tuk his toime comin’, faith.”
The sick man, parchment-faced and wasted by disease, lay upon his bed; his lips were moving, and his gaunt hands clutched the ivory crucifix. The waxcandles burned upon a table; beside them stood a glass bowl of water blessed at Easter time; a bisque image of the Virgin stood upon a shelf, and Rosie O’Hara knelt before it, her head bent, her eyes fixed upon the floor. Young Kerrigan sat beside the bed, reading a newly written paper; the sun slanted in between the partly closed blinds and lay like a bar of gold upon the floor.
“You have stated your wishes very clearly, Mr. Murphy,” said the attorney, “and I see nothing that should be changed.”
The old man opened his eyes and tried to sit up. “Mary!” said he. “Where’s Mary?”
“Here, Uncle Larry.” The girl knelt beside him and smoothed his pillow. “You must lie still,” said she, gently.
“Ye will be a witness till me mark,” said he, faintly, “an’ so must Rosie. Is she here?”
“Yes Uncle, she’s here.”
“The sight do be lavin’ me. An’ the b’y? Did he say he’d come, Mary?”
“He’s here, Uncle Larry.” She took the youngman’s hand and placed it within that of his grandfather: and once more the old man strove to lift himself, peering at the other with dim eyes.
“An’ this is Mike’s son?” he muttered.
“Yes, sir.” Larry would have liked to have said “Grandfather,” but somehow it stuck in his throat. He looked upon the old man with awed, wondering eyes; it was the first person he had ever seen upon the threshold of death; and the drawn face, wet with the death damp, sent a chill through him.
“I didn’t do right by yez father, Larry,” said the sick man, “I t’ought a curse lay upon him for marryin’ yez mother!”
Larry stepped back from the bedside, and Mary Carroll’s quiet eyes alone kept back the angry words that leaped to his lips in his mother’s defence. His mother—that oriental-eyed mother—bring a curse upon anyone! The words still sounded in his ears as he looked down at the shrunken form, pity contending with anger in his heart.
His mother had died a Christian; she had deserted, in fear and trembling, the faith of her fathers; she had knelt before the altar raised to the Nazarene Carpenter,and strove with all the power of her tortured soul to believe that He was the same God who had spoken to the Law-Giver of her tribe upon the heights of Sinai. And she had done all this through love for his father, the father whom this hard old man had disowned.
“I wud niver knowed better iv it hadn’t a-been for Mary; she made me see it; it wur her that towld me av the black wrong I done yez, both. I’ll make up for it, Larry, I’ll make it up, never fear!” The old man paused for a moment, his face twitching. “D’ye t’ink it’s too late?” he added eagerly.
“It’s never too late.” And thinking to soothe the fears that gripped at the darkening brain, Larry added. “It wasn’t much, ye know.”
“But it wur, lad, it wur. Ye don’t know the gredge I wanst held in me heart agin yez both. Didn’t I walk the flure, when he lay dead beyant there at O’Connor’s, half mad wid the thinkin’? I t’ought till give him a daysint berryin’ an’ bring yezself home here; but the divil got the better av me, lad, so he did! Yez don’t know the black bitterness I’ve held against yez; yez don’t know!”
The agitation seemed to exhaust him; he sank back, a thin streak of blood showing on his purple lips.
“Don’t excite yourself, Uncle Larry,” said Mary. “That is all past and gone now; Larry has forgiven you, and his father has, too.”
A smile of hope flickered over the face of the sick man, and the girl kissed the withered cheek. The youth with the screed leaned forward.
“Hadn’t he better attend to this,” whispered he; “he may die at any moment, now. This meeting, or rather the prospect of it, was all that kept him up.”
The old man caught the words.
“Is that young Kerrigan?” breathed he; “yez are r’ght, Johnnie; soign me name, lad, an’ I’ll make me mark.”
The name was attached to the paper, the mark was made and the two girls witnessed it. Kerrigan folded the paper and put it into his pocket; the old man lay back upon his pillow and seemed scarce to breathe; his chest was sunken, his eyes stared vacantly. A dog yelped dolefully below in the court; from the railroad came the hiss of escaping steam and the grind of wheels. Kelly opened the door softly, and said:
“Father Dawson’s comin’ up.” He returned into the passage and looked over the stair rail. “This way, Father,” said he.
The pure-faced young priest came into the room. Mary’s lips trembled and her voice broke slightly as she greeted him.
“Bear up,” said he gently; “death is the common lot; and then he is very old.” He bent over the bed; the bar of light had shifted and old Larry’s hair shone like silver under its warm touch. “He should have the last rites of the Church,” said the priest. Then turning to Kelly and Larry he added: “I will ask you to leave the room for a few moments, please. You may stay,” to Kerrigan, who had moved toward the door with the others. “I may need you.”
The two men stood in the passage for a time in silence; Rosie could be heard sobbing heavily, and the priest’s voice murmured holy words. At length Kelly spoke:
“What wur Kerrigan called in for?” asked he.
“I didn’t know he was called in,” answered Larry.
Kelly regarded him for a moment, disbelief written upon his face. Then he resumed, anxiously:
“Did the owld man put his mark till anything?”
“Yes!”
“Ah!” and Kelly bent his heavy brows. “Wur there anything mention av Martin an’ meself?”
“I didn’t hear nobody mentioned.”
“Humph!” Kelly bit the nail of his thumb viciously and spat over the stair rail. Then, after a pause, longer than the first, he said: “How is the toide?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tim Burns says it’s on the stan’,” said Kelly. “An’ whin it goes down, he’ll go out wid it.”
They waited in silence after this; Rosie’s sobs had ceased, the clergyman was reciting the litany for the dying, and the others were giving the responses. And then their voices were hushed; there was a stir in the room; the door opened and Mary came out.
“Mr. Murphy,” said she, “will you hurry over to O’Connor’s and tell him to come, at once?”