“_That’s how they showed their respects for Paddy Murphy,
That’s how they showed their honour and their pride,
They said it was a shame for Pat, and winked at one another,
Everything in the wake-house went, on the night that Murphy died._”
MURPHY’S WAKE.
O’CONNOR’S wagon had come and gone several times; a black streamer hung
from the bell knob; the shutters were bowed with a ribbon of the same
sombre hue. Groups of children sat upon cellar doors and talked in
whispers; slatternly women stood on doorsteps, morbidly watching all
who came or went at the house where old Larry lay dead. Mrs. Nolan, her
head muffled in a woollen shawl, was leaning out at her kitchen window,
likewise engaged, when Hogan the policeman came through the court upon
his evening round.
“Are yez goin’ in?” asked he, pausing.
“Not the noight,” replied Mrs. Nolan, “all me bits av rags is in the
wash, an’ sorra’ a t’ing have I till put on me back. Bella an’ Dick
will, though, an’ mesilf will t’morry noight, plaze God.”
Hogan drummed lightly upon a fireplug with his club. “It’s a Solemn
High Mass they’ll be havin’,” said he.
“Divil doubt it! An’ there’ll be a power av hacks at the funeral; Dick
wint for wan till McGrath’s, bud they wur all spoken.”
“Yez’ll not be at the Holy Cross, thin?”
“Faith, yiz. We have a hack av O’Connor’s, an’ it’s go in stoyle
we will.” Mrs. Nolan was looking toward Murphy’s as she spoke, and
suddenly exclaimed, in a startled voice:
“Who is that, Micky, that young McGonagle have be the scruff av the
neck? Glory be! Is it foightin’ he’d be in front av the house where the
corpse is?”
A thick-set young man had staggered drunkenly up the steps of Murphy’s
house, just as Goose McGonagle halted before the door.
“Say Kelly,” Goose had remarked, “don’t youse t’ink ye’d better sober
up a little before youse go in there?”
The man on the steps swayed to and fro and regarded him with
drink-reddened eyes.
“Wha’s it your bizh’ness?” demanded he. “Don’t ye put yer beak in
thish, McGonagle. D’ye hear?”
“Put yer head to work,” advised Goose, “an’ have some sense, Murphy’s
got enough trouble now wit’out youse botherin’ him, Mart.”
“I’m goin’ in,” declared Martin Kelly, his thick voice raising angrily,
“an’ what’s more I’m a-goin’ to lick Larry Murphy! He’s done me dirt;
an’ I’m a-goin’ to do him up.”
He tried to open the door, but McGonagle whirled him off the steps.
“Ye ain’t a-goin’ to kick up no muss here, and that goes,” said Goose,
decisively; “youse must be daffy, ain’t ye?”
Kelly had just aimed a wild blow at McGonagle when Hogan pounced upon
him.
“So it’s yezsilf, Martin,” sneered the policeman; “it’s a great
foighter yez are gittin’ to be!”
“Take yer paws off a-me, Hogan,” growled the drunken youth, struggling.
“Me old man’ll have youse broke for this.”
“If ye don’t quit makin’ a monkey av yezsilf it’s a ride in the wagon
yez’ll git.”
“Take the lush away,” begged McGonagle; “he’ll have the whole bloomin’
neighbourhood up.”
The expostulating Martin was hustled down the street just as Mary
Carroll opened the door.
“It’s on’y Mart Kelly,” Goose informed her, lifting his hat.
“I’m glad he’s gone away,” said Mary; “for he was here this afternoon
when Mr. Murphy was out, and his talk was shameful. Are you coming in?”
“For a little while. Don’t stand in the draf’; it makes youse cough.”
McGonagle followed her into the sitting room where the black box rested
upon a pair of low trestles. A number of wax lights burned at its
head and an aged woman knelt at the foot, her withered lips muttering
prayers for the repose of the departed soul. A dozen more women
neighbours sat around the room talking lowly.
“The men are all in the kitchen,” said Mary to the young man, “and I
suppose you will want to go there, too.”
“Arrah, then, Mary,” spoke his mother who sat among the group of women,
“it’s himself that ’ud stay here till the cows come home iv Annie
Clancy were on’y here.”
A titter ran about and Goose looked embarrassed. “Don’t mind her,” said
he.
“Annie’s a nice girl,” said Mary, smiling at him with her kind eyes.
“Do Goose still droive the milk wagon, Mrs. McGonagle?” asked Mrs.
Burns after the young man had gone into the kitchen.
“He do that same,” proudly, “an’ arns a good profit ivery wake.”
The street door had opened and voices were heard in the entry.
“It sounds like the O’Hara’s,” said Mrs. McGlory, wife of the
contractor, who sat in a corner fanning herself, with all the dignity
of her social position. Mrs. Burns elevated her hands in dismay.
“They’ll be keenin’, jewel!” she cried to Mary.
“I wouldn’t have it!” declared Mrs. Clancy, the grocer’s wife. “What’ll
people t’ink?”
The O’Hara sisters came bobbing into the room in queer-looking
quilted bonnets that hid their faces, and triangularly folded shawls
pulled tightly about their narrow shoulders. Espying Mary, they threw
themselves upon her with lamentations.
“Mary, darlin’,” cried Bridget, “it’s a heart full av trouble yez have
this noight!”
“God be good till yez, allanna!” exclaimed Ellen, “an’ kape death from
uz all for many a day!”
Then they crouched down beside the ice box, betraying every symptom of
great grief.
“Divil a tear did I see in her eyes,” muttered Ellen.
“She’s vexed at not gittin’ the bit av money,” said her sister in the
same low tone.
Then they began muttering prayers in the Irish tongue; the others
watched them, silently, from time to time exchanging intelligent nods.
Then the sisters began swaying their bodies back and forth in unison,
and the other old woman rose to her feet.
“It’s comin’,” said she, “divil choke thim!”
A long, low wail burst from them that immediately filled the kitchen
doorway with the grinning faces of the men. It was the weird death cry
of the Irish race, with which they lamented the passage of a soul, in
their island home. Mary quickly approached the women and spoke a few
determined words; they bounced upon their feet angrily.
“Shame on yez, Mary Carroll,” cried Ellen.
“Is it prevint our showin’ our rayspects till the dead ye’d be doin?”
demanded Bridget.
“The custom is not understood in this country,” said Mary quietly; and
they flounced indignantly down upon the sofa and glowered about them.
“Luk at that stuck-up shtrap, McGlory’s wife, makin’ game av uz,”
muttered Bridget. “Sure an’ iv she’d git her drunken brother out av the
House av Correction ’t wud be fitter for her!”
“Ah, the big, fat hussy!” exclaimed Ellen, “it’s well I raymimber the
toime whin her owld man drove an ash cart, an’ hersilf tuk in washin’.”
All unknowing, Mrs. McGlory was smoothing out her silk dress and hoping
that the others noticed the sparkle of her chip diamond ring.
“Mary,” inquired she, leaning forward as far as her tight waist would
permit, “is it owld Kate Sweeney yez’ll have till lay him out?”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” answered Mary, “but I suppose so.”
“Kate do have illigant taste,” affirmed Mrs. Clancy.
“Troth she do that!” spoke Mrs. McGonagle, “an’ sorra a few have doide
in the parish in the last thirty years that she haven’t put the shroud
on. Ye’ll have till have some wan, Mary, an’ yez moight as well put the
troifle av money in the poor owld crayture’s way.”
The door bell rang softly, and Mary went to answer it.
“Is Rosie not here the noight Ellen?” asked Mrs. Burns.
“She do be in her bed, the crayter,” answered Ellen rather stiffly.
“It’s up t’ree nights han’ runnin’ she’s bin wid him,” with a nod
toward the box, “as he lay sick; an’ a bit av slape’ll do her no hurt.”
“Rosie have a good heart,” said Mrs. Clancy.
“True for yez,” put in Mrs. McGonagle, “sure an’ iv it hadn’t been for
her, what ’ud Mary done at all, at all!”
“Spakin’ av Mary,” said Mrs. McGlory; “where did she get her
eddycation? It’s carry herself very ladyloike, she do.”
“She wur taught in a convent in Dublin,” said Mrs. Clancy.
“I t’ought it wur somethin’ av the koind,” said the contractor’s wife,
“seein’ that she goes till the altar ivery second Sunday. It’s a good
livin’ girl she is.”
“None better. But, God betune us an’ all harm, it’s delicate she is.
She have a bad cough.”
Mary re-entered, accompanied by a pretty girl, very showily dressed,
and a young man.
“How do yez do, Bella?” greeted Mrs. McGonagle. “An’ is it yezsilf
Dick?”
“I’m very well, thanks,” answered the girl, stealing a side glance at
the looking-glass and arranging her fluffy bang. “How have you been?”
“I have me health, thanks be till God.”
“Tim wur tellin’ me, Dick,” said Mrs. Burns, “that yez have got him a
job av wurk. It’s pray for yez this noight, I will.”
“I need it,” laughed young Nolan, “so fire ahead, Mrs. Burns.”
He walked back toward the kitchen, his sister following him.
“Bella!” called Mary, “won’t you sit here? The men are all in there,
you know.”
“I’ll be back in a second,” said Bella, over her shoulder. “I on’y want
t’ take a peep.” And she disappeared into the kitchen.
“Hark till that!” exclaimed Bridget O’Hara, looking about, grimly.
“It’s young Kelly she do be lookin’ after.”
“She’s a bowld wan, that t’ing,” chimed in her sister.
“Yez shud be ashamed av yezselves, both av yez!” cried Mrs. McGlory,
reddening with indignation. “Wud yez take away the girl’s ker-act-er!”
“We’re sayin’ nawthin’ bud the truth, sure.”
“Raymimber, yez hav a nace av yer own!”
“An’ I wud have yez till know, Mary Ann McGlory, that she do be a
daysint girl!”
“Wud ye say that Bella Nolan is not?”
“Oh, hush!” said Mary, pained beyond expression at this outbreak.
“Please do hush!”
When Bella came back into the room she sat down beside Mary, and began
twisting a ring about her finger, and giggling.
“I just wanted to see if Mart Kelly was in there,” she said.
The sisters threw glances of triumph at the contractor’s wife, and the
other women looked slyly at each other and shook their heads.
Two dishes stood upon the kitchen table, one filled with loose tobacco,
and the other with clay pipes; the air was heavy with smoke; the elder
men leaned back and talked of times past; the younger grouped together
and discussed current events of a sporting character. Larry sat upon
the edge of the table, swinging his feet slowly and stirring up the
tobacco with the yellow tipped stem of a pipe, a thoughtful look upon
his face.
“It’s a foine lot ye hav for him at the Holy Cross,” said Clancy,
“marble at the head an’ feet, an’ iron rails all about it.”
“That so? I never seen it,” Larry had answered.
But he had seen another grave, away near the fence, in the same
cemetery--a narrow, neglected grave, flat and bare, with a wooden
cross above it--a grave that lay at the end of a long row of others,
the cramped resting places of poor wretches whose lives had been as
cramped, and as bare, and as flat.
“Wid his side face to’ard ye, he luks like the gran’father,” said
O’Hara, lowly.
“Is it loike old Larry?” said Tim Burns.
“No; the other.”
“Old Cohen, thin. Sure, now that I t’ink av it, he do. But thin he hav
the blood in him, an’ why not?”
“D’yez raymember owld Aaron, Clancy?”
“Well do I. Faix an’ I got me clothes av him up till the toime he died.
Divil a-far from crazy he wur whin his girl ran off wid Mike Murphy!
An’ iv owld Larry wur mad at his b’y’s marryin’ a Jewess, the other wur
worse at his dawther for takin’ up wid a Christian. By dad, he cursed
her up hill an’ down dale; he frothed at the mouth, an’ groun’ his
stumps av teeth together loike a madman; an’ nothin’ ud do him bud he’d
hav her taken be the police. But Moran towld him he cud do nawthin’.
He’d a tramped her under his feet wan day beyant on Second Street whin
he met her, iv it hadn’t bin for Peter Nolan, Dick’s father, God rist
his sowl in glory! Peter jumped out av his cart an’ dragged him away.
Put Aaron an’ owld Larry in a bag together, an’ scure till the wan cud
tell which ’ud jump out the first, for timper.”
The clock ticked and struck through the hours; the people came and went
as is the custom. When the hands approached the hour of one, Tim Burns
arose.
“I wur goin’ till offer till sit up wid ye, Larry,” said he, “but as I
have me job till go till in the mornin’ I mus’ git a bit av slape.”
“Much obliged, all the same,” said Larry. “Larkin an’ McGonagle are
goin’ to stay with me.”
“I’ll be goin’ mesilf,” said Clancy, reaching for his hat. “I mus’ have
me grocery open be four, be the day.”
There was a general arising, putting on of hats and shaking of hands
with Larry; the women had gone long before; and when the clock struck
again the three watchers were nodding together beside the kitchen
range.