It was an ordinary tenement house of the poorest class, exactly like its
neighbors, which lined both sides of the dingy street. The door was
always open, more than half the time hanging by one hinge, the stairways
were dark and crooked, the rooms small and dirty. In a back kitchen on
the topmost floor, a man sat, or rather huddled, in a chair drawn close
to the stove. His eyes were closed and his head drooped wearily against
the back of the chair. That last spell of coughing had been unusually
severe and had left him weak and breathless. A plague on the cough,
anyway. Why was it he could not get rid of it? The doctor from the
dispensary, the district nurse, even Maggie, had assured him that with
the coming of summer this cold of his would be better. Summer was here,
though you would not think so to-day with this raw east wind and
drizzling rain, and instead of being better he was worse, decidedly
worse. Could it be that they were all wrong and Nancy alone was in the
right? Nancy, who, of all that approached him, was the only one who
dared to tell him the truth. The truth? No, it was a lie, a lie; he was
not dying, he was going to be well and strong again as soon as he could
shake this cold that had settled upon him. Nancy was a meddlesome old
woman. He had told her so not more than an hour ago and had sent her off
about her business. He had been harsh to her and rude, and after all she
was old and had probably meant to do him a kindness. But, then, he was
not sorry; she'd not come bothering him any more now with her dismal
croakings of death and eternity. Death? He defied it. Eternity? Time
enough to think of that.
He opened his eyes and they rested upon the chair which Nancy had
occupied one hour ago, which she had occupied so frequently during the
past few months. She had been almost a daily visitor since he and Maggie
had been living in these wretched lodgings in "Nancy's Alley," as it was
called. Evidently, the old woman seemed to think the entire street was
her personal property and that she was responsible for the welfare of
all the dwellers thereon. Well, he guessed he had taught her not to come
meddling in his affairs. He hoped he had anyway. Dying? The idea of such
a thing; how dared she tell him he was dying when everyone else fed him
with the hope that he would be better to-morrow, next week, next month.
Ah! yes, but to-morrow never came; or rather, when it did come, it was
no longer to-morrow with its promise of renewed health. It was to-day,
with the same disappointment, the same pains, the same racking cough,
which he had endured on so many other to-days that had come and gone
before it.
Watching the chair she had so lately occupied, he could see once more
the figure of Nancy, her bright eyes and cheery smile, and hear the
nimble tongue which chattered so merrily or soothed so gently according
to the needs of her listener. He could see the little, stooped figure in
its ragged gown, the work-worn hands, the smooth, grey hair. He would
miss her visits; yes, indeed, he would miss them sorely. But what right
had she to go talking to him of death? Still, she was old, she had been
kind to him, and he had driven her away in anger. He had called her a
meddlesome busybody who went about poking and prying into other people's
affairs and had ordered her to leave the house and never enter it again.
"Pokin' an' pryin' is it?" she had answered quietly as she made her way
towards the door. He remembered now how difficult it had been for her to
walk even on the level floor; what a task it must have been for her to
climb those three long flights of stairs as she had been doing every day
for these months past. "Pokin' an' pryin' is it? Maybe so, maybe so. But
Nancy didn't mean it that way, no, lad, indeed she didn't. Nancy was
thinkin' of her own boy lyin' at rest out yonder with the green grass
growin' over him, her own boy that went the same way you're a goin' now.
He'd be about the same age as you, too, an' there's the look on your
face that I seen on his so often, the desperate, despairin' look that it
breaks my heart to see. I figured that if you was my boy, I'd be glad
for some one to tell you the truth an' try to bring you back to God
before it's too late. I'd figured, too, that most likely you had a
mother somewheres. She may be still on the earth prayin' for you an'
longin' for you, same as I prayed an' longed for my Danny for so many
years. She may be in heaven lookin' down on us now, but wherever she is
she'll be glad to know that I tried to bring you back. It's for her sake
that I'm doing this, for the sake of your poor mother wherever she may
be."
His mother! What memories that name conjured up! His mother who had
kissed and blessed him as she closed her eyes forever so many, many
years ago. He was still looking at the chair which Nancy had occupied
but he saw it not. He was a boy once more standing by his mother's
bedside, her soft, white hand in his, and was promising her--ah! how
many promises he had made holding that dear hand for the last time, and
how readily he had broken those promises every one!
His mind wandered on and he saw himself a boy at school, a youth at
college, a grown man filling a position of trust in a large business
concern. In those days, wherever he might turn, there was one figure
standing out before all others, one friend, tried and true. When boys at
school this friend had saved his life; when young men at college, it was
to this friend's continued help he owed any little success he may have
attained. After leaving college, his position was secured through the
kindly offices of this same friend whose desk was next his own in the
office in which they were employed.
His gaze still rested on the vacant chair but he saw only a pretty
little suburban cottage with flower garden and smooth green lawn and
box-bordered gravel paths. Once upon a time that cottage was his, and
the sweet-faced girl, who trod those paths so daintily, tripping to the
gate to meet him on his return in the evening, was his wife. Upstairs in
the nursery their children slept, two fair little girls with their
mother's pretty eyes and dainty ways. All that had been his, once upon a
time.
He still watched that vacant chair but he saw only the day they
discovered the loss of that money which had disappeared so mysteriously
from the firm's safe. Suspicion rested upon that one true friend of his,
the friend to whom he owed all he was, all he had. There was not
sufficient evidence to prove that he was the thief, but in the minds of
his employers there was no doubt as to his guilt. The supposed
delinquent was dismissed and the cloud of suspicion rested upon him
wherever he went thereafter. Only two people had known the truth, the
man now sitting by the stove in the tenement house kitchen and the
friend who had suffered in silence rather than betray him. They had
never met again, and not long after the robbery, the man now sitting by
the stove had heard of his friend's death; the physicians said it was
typhoid, but he knew better. Disappointment, anxiety, heartbreak, were
the real causes of his friend's early taking off.
He still gazed at the empty chair but he saw only the series of
misfortunes that had befallen him since the day his friend died. He had
launched into business on his own account; the result was dire disaster.
His home was burned in the dead of night; they barely escaped with their
lives. Everything was gone; there was no insurance and ruin and despair
confronted them. His children died suddenly of a malignant fever and the
heartbroken mother had followed them to the grave within a few weeks. He
was alone, all alone, and from that day to this had gone steadily
downward until now he found himself in this dirty tenement depending for
his daily bread upon the faded, ragged little woman who was now his
wife. Poor Maggie, how she irritated him at times and yet she had been
a good faithful wife to him. But for her, they would not have even this
miserable apology for a home. Yes, even Maggie, with her watery eyes and
thin, unkempt hair, Maggie, who scrubbed floors for a living and could
not write so much as her own name nor read the simplest child's primer;
even Maggie was far too good for the worn-out drunkard and gambler whom
she tended so faithfully.
A light tap upon the door, but the man by the stove was too much
occupied with those phantoms of the past to pay heed to it. The door
opened quietly and a priest stepped into the room. The man's gaze
shifted from the vacant chair to the black-robed figure standing by the
door and looking at him in puzzled amazement. Phantoms of the past? Yes,
indeed, and here was one more come to torment him and to mock at him.
The two watched each other in silence for a moment. Then, the man
crouching in his chair by the fire found voice at last:
"What brings you here, you, of all men? Have you come to taunt me, to
upbraid me, to delight your eyes with the sight of my misery? Have you
come to laugh at me in my downfall?"
"Nay, friend," returned the priest gently, "none of those things has
brought me to you to-day. I come only on a mission of mercy, to bring
you peace and pardon."
"But how did you find me; who sent you to me?" demanded the man by the
fire.
"A little old woman, Nancy by name, told me there was one here sadly in
need of the ministrations of a priest. I did not dream that I should
find _you_."
"You know me then; you remember me?"
"I remember you perfectly and recognized you at once, though you have
changed almost beyond recognition."
"You say you know me, but you do not, you do not. You may know _who_ I
am, but you don't know _what_ I am. You don't know that I'm a thief.
Yes, a thief, for it was I who took that money he was accused of
stealing. Do you know that?"
"I know it," answered the priest calmly, "and still I say I bring you
peace and pardon."
"Perhaps you know, too, that I am a murderer, for it was grief,
heartbreak, which weakened him so that when disease attacked him he had
not sufficient strength to combat the fever. Do you now that, you who
talk to me so easily of peace and pardon?"
"I know that, too, and it is in his name that I offer you forgiveness
for your sins."
"You know all then? He told you?"
"He told me in the delirium of fever. He never knew he told; he died
thinking he carried the secret with him to the grave. He was faithful
even unto death."
"Faithful even unto death. And you, his brother, come to me now and,
knowing all, dare to hold out to me the hope of forgiveness and of
peace?" and the man stared incredulously into the kind, pitying eyes
bent upon him.
"I, his brother, offer you now forgiveness of all your sins and peace
which surpasseth all understanding."
The sick man was seized with a violent fit of coughing and when it had
passed, he lay back in his chair exhausted, with closed eyes and white,
pain-drawn face. The priest, wishing to give him a moment to rest and
recover his breath, walked to the window and looked out. In the field
below more than a score of ragged men, women and children were
scratching and digging among piles of ashes, eagerly searching for and
gathering up the half-burned cinders; searching, too, in the forlorn
hope of finding something of greater value that might have been thrown
away by accident. The rain beat noisily on the window pane and the
priest shivered as he looked at those scantily-clad little children, not
one of whom could boast of shoes and stockings, and at the white heads
and bent figures of old women on whose unprotected shoulders the rain
fell so pitilessly. What mattered the inclemency of the weather to them?
Winter would be here by and by; they must gather in all the fuel
possible before it was upon them with its snow and sleet and icy blasts.
In fact, even when winter came, many of these same little children and
old women, even grown men who either could not find other work to do or
did not care to seek it, many of these same people would be seen day
after day scratching and digging in this same field of ashes.
The priest turned from the window with a sigh of pity for the miserable
creatures below. His glance strayed over the untidy kitchen which bore
all the marks of the most extreme poverty and he gave another sigh of
pity for the man who had been brought so low in the last days of his
life, the man whom he had known in the time of his success and
prosperity.
He approached the chair beside the stove and the tired eyes opened
slowly and looked at him. Unaccustomed tears filled those eyes and the
hard voice softened marvelously.
"Nancy was right," that changed voice was saying. "I am dying. Father,
you say you bring me forgiveness in his name, forgiveness for the great
wrong I did him. In his name, I will accept the gift. Father, I will
confess my sins to you and beg God's pardon for them."
Two hours later, when poor, tired Maggie, with aching arms and aching
back, returned from her day's work, she was surprised at the gentleness
with which he greeted her. Never had he been so kind before: she was
more accustomed to harsh words and even curses than kindness from him.
She set about preparing their evening meal and he actually ate what she
put before him without even once finding fault with the food or with
her. She could not understand it and felt vaguely alarmed.
Again the door opened and a face peered in anxiously. It would look as
if the owner of the face was fully prepared to slam the door and take to
her heels at a second's notice. The man in the chair by the stove smiled
faintly and called:
"Come in, Nancy; it's all right."
The little stooped figure sidled into the room but stood with her hand
upon the door ready for flight at any moment. She could not trust her
eyes and ears, she knew they must be deceiving her.
"Come in, Nancy," the man repeated. "Come in and sit down there in the
chair you occupied this afternoon when you dared to tell me the truth
that all others feared to tell. You're a brave little woman, Nancy, and,
thanks to you, all is well with me at last. As he said, he brought me
forgiveness for my sins and peace which surpasseth all understanding.
Thanks to you, Nancy, thanks to you."
"Thanks to me is it, lad? Not a bit of it, not a bit of it. Thanks be
to God!" ejaculated Nancy fervently.
"Thanks be to God!" whispered Maggie, as a tear rolled down her worn and
faded cheek and splashed into the pan of water in which she was washing
the supper dishes. "Thanks be to God for bringin' him back even at the
eleventh hour!"