"Dear, dear! but God's ways are wonderful, there's no denyin' that. Many
a time we poor mortals think if we only had the handlin' of things, the
world would be a pleasanter place for some of us, but I reckon the Lord
knows His own business best. He usually manages to bring things out
right in the end, so He does."
Nancy sat before the kitchen stove, rocking to and fro, and gazing
abstractedly before her. Her mood was a reminiscent one and I knew if I
gave her time enough she would launch forth into one of the interesting
narratives of which she possessed a goodly store. To have interrupted
her train of thought by even a whisper would have been fatal; silence
and patience must be my watch-words. Presently she turned to me with the
query:
"'Member Mona, the old apple-woman you met here about a year ago?"
Remember the apple-woman? Indeed I did; once having met Mona it was
impossible to forget her. Besides, she was, one might say, one of the
landmarks of the town, the frail, shadowy little woman who sold her
apples and peanuts and candy from her stand on the street-corner.
Nancy's words reminded me that I had not seen Mona lately at her usual
place of business.
"Well," resumed Nancy, "Mona's gone, gone forever. Poor Mona! It's the
hard life she's had, and I'm after thinkin' she's not sorry that it's
over and she's found peace an' happiness at last. Want to know her
story? Well, I'll tell it to you, for it's me that can, havin' known her
since we was wee scraps of babies playin' on the floor together back
there in the old country. Yes, indeed, we were babies together, we grew
up together, an' we come out here to America on the same ship. Dear,
dear, how long ago that was, an' it don't seem much more than yesterday.
"Well, as I was sayin', times was mighty hard in Ireland that year,
specially in the little town where me an' Mona was born an' reared.
Crops failed, work was slack; finally, famine an' pestilence took
possession of the land. Ah! child, child, you cannot dream what them
words mean, famine an' pestilence. To see the rich growin' poor, the
poor starvin' an' dyin' on every hand; the little children cryin' with
cold an' hunger, an' the fathers an' mothers with ne'er a scrap of food
to give 'em. That was the state of things in Ireland the year we left
it.
"The plague had carried off my father an' mother, my brothers was all
married an' moved away, an' my only sister was at service in London, so
when Mona begged me to come to America with her an' Michael an' the
little ones, I just jumped at the chance. Michael was a good fellow,
sober an' industrious, but there was no work to be had at home and he
had heard such wonders of the land across the sea. There, a man that was
a man had no trouble in findin' work an' making a comfortable livin' for
himself an' family. He wanted to leave Mona with his sister in Dublin,
who offered to care for her an' the children until he'd made a home for
'em in the country he was goin' to. But no, Mona wouldn't hear to that.
She'd promised at God's altar to take him for better or worse an' to
cling to him till death. Because the worse had come, she wasn't goin' to
desert him an' let him go out alone to the cold land of the stranger to
fight his battle all by himself. She'd go with him an' stand by him and
help an' comfort him in his struggles. She knew she could help him.
She'd been taught by the nuns an' could do all sorts of fine sewin'. In
America, as in Dublin, there must be rich ladies who would pay well for
a bit of fine embroidery or hand-made lace. No, no, Mona wouldn't be
left behind; he must take her an' the little ones, no matter what was
before them. It was settled at last that we was all to go together, an'
so, one bright mornin' we stood on the deck of the ship that was
carryin' us far away from home an' all we loved, far away to the strange
land across the sea. With the tears runnin' down our faces, we waved
farewell to the shores of Ireland, an' Mona, though she didn't know it,
was wavin' farewell to happiness in this world. Poor girl, it's little
she knew from that day on but grief an' trouble an' sufferin'.
"Well, child, as I was sayin', it was the fine, bright mornin' that we
left Ireland, but the good weather held for only a few days after. Then,
there blew up such a storm as I never see before an' hope never to see
again. It was fearful, fearful. I couldn't describe it to you if I
tried. We just lay in our berths, every one of us, our backs agin the
wall, our knees braced agin the board in front, an' we holdin' on for
dear life expectin' every moment to be dashed out on to the floor an'
have all our bones broken. We was too frightened to say a word, but we
prayed, oh, my! how we did pray, every mother's son of us. For nigh onto
three days that poor boat struggled on bravely agin the ragin' storm,
but the ship wasn't built that could live in that sea, an' the end was
bound to come sooner or later. Come, it did, at last. An officer stood
on the stairs orderin' us all up onto the deck; the ship had sprung a
leak, the water was pourin' in faster than they could pump it out, an'
we must take to the boats at once.
"I never can remember rightly what happened then. It seems now such a
confusin' jumble of men, women and childer, all screamin' an' rushin'
for the stairs, and all the time the wind was a howlin' an' the vessel
was groanin' an' pitchin' so you had to cling to whatever was nearest to
keep on your feet at all. I don't know how we got there, but the next
thing I remember was standin' on the deck an' hangin' on to something
to keep from bein' washed overboard by the great waves that broke over
the ship an' flooded her from stem to stern. Mona stood near me with the
baby on her arm an' holdin' tight to the hand of little Gerald who hid
his face in her skirt an' sobbed in terror. Michael was beside her, one
arm holdin' her close while with the other he hung onto the railin' just
as I was doin'. Pretty soon, the boats was lowered an' everyone made a
rush for 'em. There was a shout of:
"'Stand back, there, stand back! Women an' children first; only the
women an' children.'
"The ship's officers an' sailors beat back the men an' commenced puttin'
the women into the boats as fast as they could. One of 'em caught Mona
by the arm an' tried to hurry her away. She struggled with him an'
begged to be left with Michael. The sailor swore at her an' then I heard
Michael's voice, calm an' steady, above the din of the storm:
"'Go at once, asthore,' say he; 'for the sake of the childer, go at
once. Sure, dearie,' says he, 'we're in the Lord's hands anyway! can't
ye trust Him on the water just the same as on the land?'
"The sailor lifted Mona an' the baby in his arm (it's the wee bit of a
thing she was always) an' passed her on to another to be lowered into
the boat. Michael caught up little Gerald an' cried out to me: 'Take the
boy with you, Nancy; take him quick, girl.' But before I could lay my
hand on the child I was seized and put into the boat beside Mona. The
poor girl screamed and held out her arms for the little lad, but the
boat was shoved off an' the last thing I can remember, as a mountain of
water rolled up between us an' the ship, was seein' Michael still
clingin' to the rail an' holdin' little Gerald on his arm. Then Mona
fainted agin my shoulder and I had my hands full tendin' her an' the
baby.
"It was nearly dusk when we took to the boat, an' pretty soon it was so
dark you could scarce see your hand before you. I'll never forget the
horrors of that night, indeed then I won't, tossin' on top of waves as
big as mountains an' the next minute goin' down, down, down, till I
thought sure we'd strike bottom before ever we come up again. But even
the longest night must wear away, an' when day broke we seen a big
vessel comin' towards us an' in the course of an hour or so we was all
transferred to her decks. She cruised around for a time, hopin' to pick
up some of the other boats, but couldn't find none of 'em. There was no
tellin' how far away from the wreck an' the boats we'd drifted in the
night. The vessel that picked us up was bound for America an' so we
continued our voyage to this country.
"I've often heard people complain of the coldness an' hardness of the
world; by 'the world,' always meanin' the folks that live in it, I
suppose. To my way of thinkin' there's a deal more kindness in the world
than there is selfishness an' badness, an' the people on that steamer
proved me right in one case anyway. They made up a purse among 'em an'
give a share to each of us that had been picked out of the sea, as you
might say. So, when we landed, we each had a little money to start in
with. I soon found work in a mill, an' my poor Mona managed to keep
herself an' the baby by doin' fine sewin'. For a long time we kep' house
together, me an' Mona, then I married an' moved away to another town. My
own troubles come on me thick an' fast after that an' what with one
thing an' another, an' movin' here an' there, it was years before I set
eyes on her again. Then we met quite by accident an' I found she was
livin' not far from here with an old woman who peddled shoestrings an'
pencils on the street. Mona herself kep' a stand on a corner where she
sold apples an' peanuts an' such stuff.
"That night she come to see me here an' we talked over old times an' all
that had happened since last we met. She'd done well at her sewin', she
said, and brought up the baby in tolerable comfort. Then, just as the
child was growin' into a woman that could be of help to her mother an'
pay her back for her years of workin' an' strugglin', she was took down
with consumption. All the little poor Mona had managed to save went in
carin' for her sick daughter an' buryin' her when she died. By that
time, Mona's health was pretty well broke up, her eyes was not as good
as they used to be, an' she had to give up the sewin'. She fell in with
the old woman who peddled shoestrings, and, by her advice, started in
with her apple-stand. They'd been together ever since an' managed to
earn a livin' between 'em. We talked an' we talked that night, an' when
Mona was goin' she turned to me an' says:
"'Nancy,' says she, 'I can't tell you how thankful I am to have seen
you again. An' I can't tell you how much good you've done me. Nancy,'
says she, 'I've been a wicked woman, a wicked, rebellious woman,' says
she. 'I've said dreadful things in my heart an' felt hard an' bitter at
times against Almighty God for all the trials an' sufferin' He sent me.
When I look at you, I'm ashamed of myself. I've lost a husband, so have
you; I lost a daughter, you lost two; my son sleeps at the bottom of the
sea, but your son--.Nancy, Nancy, when I go home to-night, I'll get down
on my knees an' thank God that my boy is sleepin' at the bottom of the
sea instead of wanderin' the earth a shame an' a disgrace to me.'
"You see, child, that was before my Danny come back to me to be
reconciled to His God. It was while he was still wanderin' I didn't know
where, an' goin' from one piece of villainy to the next.
"Poor Mona, I don't believe she was half as bad as she made herself out
to be, an' certainly from that day to this I've never heard a complaint
or a murmur cross her lips. She's been sick, too, most all the time, an'
there's been many a day when she'd ought to be home in bed but off she'd
go an' stand on her corner an' peddle her apples because the old woman
that lived with her was sicker than she an' they wouldn't have no money,
come rent day, unless Mona went out an' earned it for 'em. Talk about
the heroes that done such wonderful things that folks has to write whole
books about 'em! I tell you what, child, there's many a hero hid away in
the dirty little side-streets and alley-ways of every big city; only
folks don't know about 'em. To my mind, Mona was one of them heroes; so
sweet an' patient, pretty well on in years herself, an' all crippled
with the rheumatism, but goin' out day after day to sell her apples; a
slavin' an' a killin' herself for a woman a little older an' a little
sicker than she was. An' all this because the old woman had been kind to
her in her hour of greatest need.
"Well, after findin' her again, I seen Mona every day; she used to come
here in the evenin' an' we'd sit an' talk of them that was gone. She was
with me when my Danny died, an' she thanked God with me for havin'
brought him back to me in the end. Then, one night, Mona didn't come,
but they brought me a message sayin' she was in the hospital, dyin' from
an accident, an' wanted to see me right away. I didn't let the grass
grow under my feet you may be sure, an' before long I stood beside the
bed where she was lyin', her poor, pale face all drawn with sufferin'.
I've called her a hero for the life she'd led, an' her end was sure
enough a hero's end. That afternoon a child had started to run across
the street at the corner where Mona's apple-stand was. He didn't see the
horse an' team that come tearin' up the street, an' the driver was too
busy lashin' the horse to see the child. In spite of her rheumatism,
Mona dashed in front of the team, and with a quick shove, sent the child
flyin' out of harm's away. He rolled over an' over on the street, but
beyond a scratch or two wasn't hurt. But Mona fell an' the team passed
over her ankles crushin' both of 'em badly. Her age an' the shock,
together with her injury, made 'em sure she couldn't live long. The
chaplain had been sent for, they told me, an' would come at any moment
now.
"She was sleepin' when I reached her, so I sat down beside the bed an'
waited. The priest come an' stood lookin' down at her, an' the kindness
an' pity on his face was wonderful to see. He looked at me an' I fair
jumped out of my chair with the shock his eyes sent through me.
"'Glory be to God!' I says, blessin' myself, for I was all a tremble
with the fright of it. 'Sure it's Michael Conners himself come back from
the dead.'
"That very minute Mona's eyes opened slowly an' fixed themselves on the
priest's face. A smile that brought the tears to my eyes, it was that
beautiful, crossed her face an' she held out her thin, white hand to
him, whisperin', 'Michael.' Then she closed her eyes again an' was off
unconscious once more.
"The priest looked first at her, then at me, an' his face was all
puzzled an' amazed like.
"'How do you know that my name is Michael Conners?' says he.
"'How do you know it yourself, Father?' says I, for I had my suspicions
by that time.
"'Because of this,' says he, showin' me a strangely carved little black
wooden crucifix attached to his beads. 'This was on my neck when I was
saved from the wreck in which my father an' mother perished.'
"'Well,' says I, 'you're wrong. 'Tain't Michael, but Gerald, is your
name, an' praise be the Lord but this'll be the happy day for my poor
Mona when she finds out the truth. That crucifix with the name of
Michael Conners on it was given to your father on his marriage day by
the priest that married him. Here's the mate to it that he give your
mother on the same day,' an' I picked up Mona's rosary lyin' on the bed
an' showed him the cross on it. They was as like as two peas, only on
the back of hers was carved the name of Mona Conners.
"Well, we had to break the news to her gently, an' it's the happy woman
she was for the next few days in spite of all the pain she suffered.
She'd just lie there holdin' Gerald's hand an' gazin' at him an' makin'
him tell over an' over again of how he'd been saved from the wreck. He
was only a wee lad of three at the time, but he could still remember of
his father standin' there on the deck of the sinkin' ship an' holdin'
him in his arms. He could still hear the words his father spoke to him
an' feel the father's hand slippin' the rosary over his head an'
claspin' the little fingers around the cross as it lay on his breast.
Michael had passed him to a sailor an' he was lowered into one of the
boats, where a kind-hearted woman took compassion on his loneliness an'
cared for him. They'd been picked up by a sailin' vessel bound for
France, an' the woman who first cared for him, took him with her from
France to America an' finally adopted him. She brought him up, educated
him, an' at last he became a priest of God.
"He was with his mother to the very end, an' it was his hand that give
her the last blessin' of the Church an' his voice recited the prayers
that send the departin' soul safe on its journey to the throne of God.
It's the happy woman my Mona was in them last few days upon earth, an'
it's the happy woman she is this day, all her troubles over, all her
sufferin's gone, an' she in Paradise for ever an' ever."
During Nancy's recital, the shadows of twilight had gathered and
deepened, and now her little kitchen was wrapped in darkness. Still, she
sat for several moments buried in thought which I cared not to
interrupt. Then, with a sigh, she rose to light the lamp and I noticed
that tears filled her eyes though the brave lips were smiling.
"Yes, yes," she repeated. "God's ways are wonderful, they are that. Even
if we don't understand things in this world, we're sure to in the next,
for the Lord knows His own business best every time."