Chapter XIV

“Sweet came the hallowed chiming,Of the Sabbath bell,Borne on the morning breezes,Down the woody dell;On a bed of pain and anguish,Lay dear Annie Lisle,Changed were the lovely features,Gone the happy smile.”Annie Lisle.

“Sweet came the hallowed chiming,

Of the Sabbath bell,

Borne on the morning breezes,

Down the woody dell;

On a bed of pain and anguish,

Lay dear Annie Lisle,

Changed were the lovely features,

Gone the happy smile.”

Annie Lisle.

IT was a pleasant evening and the groups of children were playing “a ring, a ring o’roses,” in front of Clancy’s grocery. Clancy was whirling at the handle of the coffee mill; and Annie was attending to the other wants of Mrs. McGonagle, who stood at the counter.

“They say that Mary do be very low,” panted the grocer.

“God help uz, yis,” said Mrs. McGonagle, sorrowfully.

“Your heart’d ache to see poor Larry,” remarked Annie. “That’s tea, soft soap, two cents’ worth of syrup, and a mackerel, Mrs. McGonagle, what elce?”

“That’s all to-noight, barrin’ the bit av coffee. It’s a sore trial for him, poor sowl!”

“He thinks the world av her, do Larry, an’ it’ll be a hard job for him till lose her.” As he spoke Clancy dumped the ground coffee into a paper bag and with deft fingers tied it up. The song of the children came through the door:

“There came two dukes a-riding,Riding, riding,There came two dukes a-riding,All on a summer’s day.”

“There came two dukes a-riding,

Riding, riding,

There came two dukes a-riding,

All on a summer’s day.”

“Go ’long out av that wid yez!” shouted Clancy; but the joyous little crew sang on unheeding:

“What are ye riding here for,Here for, here for?What are ye riding here for,All on a summer’s day?”

“What are ye riding here for,

Here for, here for?

What are ye riding here for,

All on a summer’s day?”

The exact nature of the noble twain’s errand still remains a mystery, for the grocer bounced through the doorway and scattered the tots in every direction.

“Ye young villyans!” shouted Clancy with a great assumption of anger; “sure a body can’t hear themselves think, for yez. Don’t yez know that Mary Carroll do be at death’s dure, ye bla’gards!”

James Kelly polished the walnut top of his bar and nodded a “Good Luck” to Schwartz as the barber was about to swallow his evening glass of beer.

“I hear that young Murphy’s intended wife do be dyin’,” said he.

Schwartz wiped his mouth upon the towel hanging outside the bar.

“It vas doo pad,” returned he. “An’ she vas sutch a young vooman, doo!”

“She have the con-sum-shun,” went on Kelly, cheerfully, “an’ sorra a few av thim iver git well av that.”

“Ach nine! Dey hafe a ferry boor chanct.” And the barber shook his head.

“Oh, well! It’s not any of our doin’, Schwartz,” said Kelly, his voice full of comfortable irresponsibility.“But hacks will bring a power av money on the day av the berryin’.”

A group of “somewhat drunk” young men sat upon the cellar door in McGarragles’ Alley, howling out a popular song between pulls at a can of beer. Goose McGonagle, who was passing, paused and regarded them disdainfully.

“Did somebody hit youse mugs with a bar rag!” demanded he. “Ain’t none o’ youse got no sense? Here’s Mary Carroll a-dyin’ and youse people raisin’ hell almost under the window.”

The singing stopped; the young roughs had always taken off their hats to Mary, a degree of reverence that they showed no one else, except, perhaps, young Father Dawson; and Goose passed on, confident that their uproar for that night, at least, was done.

And so it went through all the neighbourhood; in every court and alley the news was known; in every kitchen and on every street corner it was talked of.

Mike McCarty heard it while stripping the harness from his horses’ backs in Shannon’s stables; Tim Burns was told of it while still on his way from work;and it was the first thing that fell upon the ears of Danny Casey as he entered his mother’s house.

“Mary’s dyin’,” trembled upon every lip that had smiled in answer to her kindness; and as the night grew old, a hush seemed to fall over the district; the very moon, as it sailed across the sky, attended by myriads of stars, seemed to blink solemnly down, and ponder sadly.

Yes, the serene, white soul was passing; the shadow of the death angel’s wings had fallen across the bed where Mary lay. Larry sat near the window, his arm thrown along the back of the chair, his forehead resting upon it; Rosie, the only other person in the room, wiped the death damp from the pale brow, her eyes bright with tears.

“Don’t take it so hard, Larry,” whispered the sick girl. “It had to come, you know, and you’ll be happy, afterward.”

Happy! With a return of the old bare life—the rough, purposeless life that she had made bloom with new thoughts? He would drift back to the old conditions; there would be nothing to keep him from itwhen her gentle influence had relaxed. And that “afterward” of which she spoke so often, and so hopefully! It would be black and barren enough, his heart whispered to him—she would be where her voice could not reach him and he would be alone with his sorrow.

A picture of the crucifixion hung upon the wall; a slanting ray from the dim light brought out the world’s great tragedy with piteous distinctness. But the lesson brought no consolation to Larry. He looked at the picture with vacant eyes, for his brain was numb, and he could think of nothing but his impending loss. Philosophy is a meaningless word to such as he; for they who grapple with poverty, and go wrestling through a gloom from birth to death, find it hard to submit.

“Are you crying, Rosie?” asked the weak voice. “Don’t, dear; you promised not to, you know.”

Rosie’s face rested upon the pillow beside her, and Mary stroked the tear-wet cheek, softly.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t see it long ago,” said she, sadly; “sorry for you, and Larry. But it won’t belong now, and you both will be very happy.” Her voice trembled a little but she continued, bravely: “Promise me that you will think of me sometimes, Rosie?”

“I’ll never forget you, Mary,” sobbed the girl.

“And don’t let Larry forget me, either,” eagerly. “And try and be a good wife to him, Rosie.”

Both Rosie and the young man lifted their heads quickly and looked at each other, searchingly.

From far down the street came a faint, musical drone as of minor voices singing; the bell of St. Michael’s boomed the hour solemnly; quick footsteps went by the house, grew faint and then died away.

“Do you think,” Rosie’s voice trembled in dread, “that she’s dyin’, Larry?”

He had approached the bed and was looking down at the pale face framed in the dark, loose hair. She smiled up into his eyes.

“She will be good to you, Larry; she has a kind heart and will be a better wife to you than I could have been.”

“Mary!”

“You were kind to me when I was left alone, Larry; you would have married me because you felt sorry for me. But you’ll be free now; and I have prayed that she’ll be as happy as I was—before I knew!”

“Don’t talk like that, Mary! It was you that was sorry for me! It was you—” but his voice broke in a dry sob.

“Hush!” a pleading look crept into her eyes. “Don’t let anything stand in the way of your happiness, Larry; don’t let any thoughts of me—any regrets—keep you apart. Promise me that!”

He knelt and covered his face with his hands, the deep, hard sobs racking him from head to foot; and as he made no answer, Mary turned her eyes upon Rosie.

“You will promise, I know,” said she.

“Oh, Mary, Mary I can’t! Please don’t ask me!”

But seeing the look of sorrow that crept into the death-dulled eyes, she added frantically—despairingly, thinking of nothing save the soothing of her friend.

“Yes, yes, Mary, I will! If it’ll give ye peace, I’ll promise.”

The clock ticked on through the hours; the breathing of the man and girl was long and heavy, and their eyes were blood-shot with watching. And when dawn drew aside the sky’s black draperies, the gray light stole into the room and lighted up a face that was calm and still.

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