“_Ding, dong, ding-el, ding-el, dong,
Listen to the echo in the dell,
Hurry, little children, Sunday morn,
There goes the old Church bell._”
HARRIGAN.
IT was Sunday morning. The iron heart of the bell that hung in the
tower of St. Michael’s beat against its brazen ribs, and the clangour
went rioting over the housetops. Streams of people, dressed in their
Sunday best, picked their way across the railroad toward the sound;
heavy faces peered through bedroom windows and sleep-dry lips murmured
curses at the noise; a shifting engine panted heavily as it dragged a
milk train over the rails, and spat cinders into the face of day.
In the kitchen of a squat, shabby building fronting on the railroad, a
lean, yellow-faced old woman sat beside the range, nursing her knees
and drawing at a black clay pipe. Another, almost her counterpart, was
sweeping the floor with the worn stump of a broom.
“God be good till uz, Ellen!” suddenly exclaimed the first. “What are
yez about?”
“What talk have ye, Bridget?”
“Sure ye wur as near as a hair till swapin’ the bit av dust out av the
dure!”
“Divil a fear av me. Is it swape the luck from the house I’d be doin’?”
Ellen scraped up the sweepings. “There do be bad luck enough about the
place,” she continued, as she slid the dust into the fire and watched
it burn, the flame lighting up her old, faded face, her dirty white
cap, her bony, large-veined hands. “Malachi tells me that the biz’ness
do be poorly.”
“Little wonder,” declared Bridget, knocking the ashes from her pipe
and laying it carefully on the top of a tin at the back of the stove.
“I know’d what ’ud come av havin’ the son av a Know-nothin’ glosterin’
about the place! Sure the curse av God is on the loike!”
“True for yez,” assented her sister. “Owld Larkin wur the spit av the
owld felly himself; he wur a Derry man an’ as black a Presbyterian as
iver cried ‘To h--l wid the Pope!’”
Ellen took up the hot pipe and charged it from the tin, shaking her
head ominously.
“Ah, the Orange thafe!” piped the other. “Well do I raymember him,
years ago, at the riots at the Nanny-Goat Market, that stood beyant
there where the railroad is. Sure it wur him that put the divil in
their heads till burn down St. Michael’s; an’ wid me own two eyes I see
him shoutin’ an’ laffin’ as the cross tumbled intill the street!”
Ellen made a hurried sign of the cross and muttered some words in
Gaelic.
“An’ they say,” whispered she, awed, “that he barked loike a dog iver
after!”
“Sorra the lie’s in it, avic. Owld Mrs. Flannagan, that lived nixt dure
till him, towld me, wid her own two lips, that it wur so. Bud he always
said it wur asthma he wur after havin’.”
“Oh, the robber! It wur himself that cud twist t’ings till serve his
turn. More like it wur the divil in him, cryin’ till be let out.”
“An’ d’yez raymember at the toime av the riots, Ellen, whin he stood be
the fince, overight our back yard, wid Foley’s musket, waitin’ for any
av uz till pop out our heads?”
Ellen, through some mischance, had swallowed some of the rank pipe
smoke, and she gasped and strangled, with waving hands and protruding
eyes.
“Well do I, asthore,” she panted between her fits of coughing. “Oh, the
Crom’ell!”
“Bridget,” cried a voice from the storeroom in front, “have ye not me
bit av breakfast ready? It’s late for Mass I’ll be iv yez don’t stir
yezself, woman.”
Malachi O’Hara stood in his shop among his stock in trade. About him
were heaped the rakings of low auction rooms and pawnbrokers’ sales;
stacks of half-worn clothing lay upon the counter; the shelves were
loaded with crockery, oil lamps, plaster of paris images, table
cutlery, clocks, fly-specked pictures and a heterogeneous mass of
battered, greasy and utterly useless articles for which it would be
impossible to find names. In the window hung a banjo with two broken
strings; a family Bible, its pages held open by a set of steel “knuckle
dusters” lay just below, and it was garnished on all sides with
old-fashioned silver watches, seal rings, black jacks and so on down
the list of articles that clutter such establishments.
O’Hara, a pot-bellied man, bald, broad-faced and with hard little eyes,
walked back to the kitchen.
“We wur talkin’ av owld Jimmie Larkin,” said Bridget putting the
crockery upon the table. “Look till the sup av coffee, Ellen,” she
whispered, hurriedly, “d’ye not see that it’s b’ilin’ over!”
O’Hara glowered at them, angrily.
“An’ it’s only startin’ yez are!” he cried. “D’ye si’ here like a pair
av owld cacklin’ hens, an’ the bell just rung for Mass!”
The bell had just ceased and people were still hurrying on; the red sun
peeped at them from behind the church tower; the hands of the big clock
reproachfully pointed out the fact that they were late. Bridget glanced
through the side window.
“There goes Clancy’s wife in her new silk,” said she. “It’s proud
enough she’s gettin’ till be, since her husband opened the grocery.”
“May the divil fly away wid Clancy’s wife an’ her silks as well! Faix
an’ there do be other things that Clancy could do wid his money!”
O’Hara was in a stormy mood.
“Sit down till yez bit av breakfast,” soothed Ellen. “Clancy do be
doin’ well an’ will pay the money he borried av ye, Malachi. It’s drink
yez coffee black yez’ll have till,” she added, “for young McGonagle
have not come wid the milk yet.”
He sat down with a crabbed laugh.
“McGonagle is it!” exclaimed he. “Faith an’ there’s another wan. The
toime is drawin’ on, so it is, but divil the dollar richer is he. It’s
wait for me bit av money he’ll be wantin’ me till, but scure till the
day will I. I’ll sell him out, the spalpeen! He do not trate me wid
rayspect.”
A rattling of wheels ceased at the door, and it shook under a
thundering hand.
“Spake av the divil!” remarked Ellen. She took a pitcher from the table
and opened the door. “A pint,” she said.
The youth with the milk-pail dexterously dipped out the required
quantity.
“Heard the news?” inquired he.
“We’ve heerd nothin’,” returned Ellen, “barrin’ that Hogan as he passed
on his bate this mornin’, towld uz that his b’y Tom wur near kilt las’
noight at yez bla’gard club.”
“Ah, Hogan’s daffy! I meant did ye hear about old man Murphy a-dyin’?”
“What!” exclaimed O’Hara, his mouth full, “is owld Larry cold, thin?”
“Not yet; but he’ll die before the day’s over.” And with this the
milkman threw himself and can into the wagon at the curb, and rolled
down the street. Ellen closed the door and put the pitcher upon the
table.
“So he’ll be goin’ at las’,” said she.
“Small wonder,” put in the sister; “sure he’s been poorly this long
time.”
“The owld man made a tidy bit av money in his day,” said the brother,
admiringly. “Bud,” with a sigh, “it’s lavin’ it all he’ll be.”
“An’ tell me, Malachi,” said Bridget, “d’yez think the gran’son’ll git
any av it?”
O’Hara spilled some of the milk into his coffee.
“Divil a cint,” answered he, positively. “Sure, the owld man have
niver noticed him since the day he wur born. An’ small blame till him,”
rapping upon the table with his spoon, “for what call had his son till
take up wid a Jewess?”
“But,” reasoned Ellen, “now that he do be dyin’ he might call him in
an’--”
“Sorra the fear av that! Faix an’ whin Mike lay dead at O’Connor’s, the
undertaker, he wint naythur nixt nor near him. Some say Kelly wur the
cause av that, but owld Larry had timper enough av his own, God knows.”
“An’ do ye t’ink he’ll lave the property till the Church?”
“Ayther that or till Mary Carroll. Kelly t’inks there do be a chance
for his boy, Martin; but Martin’s a hard drinker an’ the owld man niver
liked a bone in his body.”
The gong over the store door rattled sharply. A plump little woman with
a rosy, chubby face had entered; she wore a bright scarlet shawl shot
with green and saffron, and upon her head was perched a tiny black
bonnet with blue strings.
“Good mornin’ all,” greeted this lady with a sweeping flourish of a
big brass-clasped prayer book. “An’ Bridget, acushla, have ye heard
about poor owld Larry Murphy?”
“God luk down on uz, I have,” answered Bridget, wagging her head from
side to side. “Ah bud death’s a sad t’ing, Mrs. McGonagle.”
“True for ye, asthore, true for ye!” And Mrs. McGonagle wagged her head
also. “But,” she continued, “what will become av the houses in the
alley, an’ the power av money they say he have in bank?”
“We wur this minit spakin’ av that same,” said Ellen; “an’ Malachi
t’inks the gran’son’ll git sorra the cint av it.”
“God be good till uz, Malachi! An’ d’ye t’ink so?”
Mrs. McGonagle caught her breath and stared at O’Hara in horror. “Till
t’ink,” she added, in an awed tone, “av him holdin’ the grudge an’ him
a-dyin’.”
O’Hara had finished his breakfast and was putting on his coat.
“I can see nothin’ ilce for it,” remarked he, sagely.
“Young Larry is a study, sober, hard workin’ boy!” exclaimed Mrs.
McGonagle, “an’ its a sin an’ a shame for him till be treated so. He
have lodged in me third story for a long time, now, an’ I have the
first time till see him wid a sup av drink in him; an’ I’d say that iv
it wur me last breath, so I wud!”
The gong rattled; the door slammed; and a girl, flushed and breathless,
darted through the store and into the kitchen.
“Aunt Ellen,” cried she, “give me the candles we had from last
Candlemas Day; an’ I want the ivory crucifix, too, for they’ve sent for
Father Dawson.”
Ellen began a hurried rummaging for the articles named; the girl caught
sight of Mrs. McGonagle and grasped her by the arm.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, “is it you, Mrs. McGonagle? I’m glad you’re here;
I was just a-goin’ to run around to your house.”
“For why?”
“Here!” cried Ellen pushing a parcel into the girl’s hand. “Here’s what
yez want; away wid ye, now, an’ don’t be stan’in’.”
“You’ll hurry home, won’t you, Mrs. McGonagle,” the girl was now at the
door, her hand on the latch, “an’ tell Larry Murphy his gran’father
wants to see him before he dies.”
And with that the side door closed behind her and she went by the
window like a flash.
“Be the powers av Moll Kelly!” exclaimed O’Hara, his broad face blank
with wonder, “but that bates the Owld Nick.”
He stood staring at his sisters, who had their withered hands in the
air in gestures of amazement. Mrs. McGonagle’s face shone with glee and
she cackled rapturously.
“I must hurry home,” said she, “an’ waken Larry.”
“Is he still in bed?” cried Ellen.
“Do he not go till Mass?” cried Bridget.
“Why, not very often,” admitted Mrs. McGonagle, reluctantly. “He
an’ Jimmie Larkin slapes till a’most dinner toime ivery Sunday. But
Larry’s a daysint b’y for all that. Good day till yez.” And with that
the good little woman bolted into the street and went sailing toward
McGarragles’ Alley, her bright shawl fluttering in the breeze.
The two old crones clawed mystic signs in the air over the spot where
their visitor had lately stood and began muttering in Gaelic. O’Hara
was brushing his Sunday high hat with the sleeve of his coat and paused
as he caught the words.
“What humbuggin’ are yez at now?” demanded he.
“Would yez be after lettin’ the curse stay in the house?” cried Bridget.
“Sure, she hav the evil eye!” asserted Ellen.
O’Hara regarded them fixedly for a moment; then with a snort he put on
his hat, took his black-thorn stick from behind the door, and started
off for church.