“_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 till cut 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-smelling drains 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 wax candles 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 young man’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?”