“_Oh they laid him away,
On one bleak Winter day,
An’ the sun he’ll never see more._”
BALLADS OF BACK STREETS.
THURSDAY morning broke clear, and before the factory whistles had done
blowing, O’Connor and Roddy Ferguson had carried in the coffin, the
great brass candelabra, and all the other things that went to make
up O’Connor’s first-class funeral. O’Connor’s arrival was followed
promptly by that of old Mrs. Sweeney, and under their practised hands
things progressed rapidly; for when the clock of St. Michael’s struck
the hour of nine, and then began tolling sadly, all was ready and the
doors thrown open.
Hacks from neighbouring livery stables began arriving and lined up at
the curb, and the friends of the departed began to gather. The women
went in, but the men, for the most part, collected upon the sidewalk.
Frowsy-haired women stood in groups at the mouth of each alley in the
block, blue faced and shivering, but anxious to miss nothing. A crowd
of young men were smoking and laughing near Clancy’s coal box; the
drivers of the hacks, in shabby livery coats and grotesque high hats,
called to each other from their high seats.
It wanted but a half hour of the time when the cortège was to move when
Goose McGonagle pushed his way through the people who were crowding
in at the front door; he had a band of crape about his arm and was
hatless. Approaching the group at Clancy’s, he said hurriedly:
“I’m goin’ to be a pall bearer, fellas, and Larry wants five o’ youse
to help. Talk quick!”
Nolan and McGlory promptly volunteered.
“That makes three,” said Goose. “Won’t youse help to carry him, Larkin?”
“Try to get somebody else,” begged Jimmie. And with a nod of his head
toward the smoky grey tower from which came the doleful strokes of the
bell, he added: “I don’t go there, ye know; an’ it might make talk
about Larry, see? Here’s Casey an’ Mike McCarty comin’ up; give ’em a
brace.”
Danny Casey who worked for Contractor McGlory, and Mike McCarty,
who drove a truck for Shannon, the teamster, and was considered the
best-dressed young man in the ward, were promptly “braced” and gave
consent.
“I’ll git another one and give Ferguson yer names,” said Goose, “an’
he’ll fix youse up with gloves and crape for yer skypieces.”
And McGonagle plunged into the house with the crowd. The prospective
pall-bearers resumed their comments upon the passing throng; a pastime
at which they had been interrupted.
“Here comes Kelly and his wife,” remarked McGlory.
“With Mart pluggin’ along behind. And he’s half lit up, too.”
“Good mornin’, Mr. McGlory,” saluted Casey to his employer.
“How are yez, Danny?” answered the contractor as he went by with his
wife. “Good mornin’ gintlemen.”
“Gee!” whispered Casey, “ain’t the old lady a swell!”
“Git onto Clancy’s stove-pipe lid! Ain’t it a bird!”
“It was made during the siege o’ Limerick,” said McCarty, “an’ Clancy’s
wore it at every funeral an’ at every A. O. H. procession since then.”
“Hello, Schwartz; goin’ to the funeral?”
“Say,” said McGlory, “don’t Rosie O’Hara look nice in black? Look at
the two old ones givin’ their wipes a shower bath! Say, Larkin, there’s
Rosie wavin’ her hand, on the quiet; she wants youse.”
Her aunts had gone in, but Rosie paused upon the step, and Jimmie was
at her side in a moment.
“Who are ye goin’ to walk with?” said she.
“With youse, if ye’ll let me!” eagerly.
Rosie looked pleased. “Git our names down,” said she, “so’s we’ll be
called out.”
She entered the house just as Roddy Ferguson came out, his hands full
of black cotton gloves and streamers of crape.
“Hold out yer fin, McCarty,” commanded Roddy. “Say, Casey, youse kin
tie a bow knot, so gimme a lift with these. I’d ask youse to come
inside, gents,” went on O’Connor’s aid, “but the house is packed with
women, and I know youse ain’t proud.”
“Who’s got the list, Furgy?” asked Larkin.
“O’Connor. Him and Larry’s makin’ it up in the kitchen.”
Jimmie Larkin took off his hat in the entry and pushed into the room
where the body lay exposed to view. Mary sat at the head of the casket;
beside her were the Kellys, the mother with her handkerchief to her
eyes, the father talking across the corpse to a friend, the son half
asleep in his chair. Tall candles shed their light about the room; the
walls were draped in dead black; the polished lid of the casket stood
awesomely in a corner; the flowers sent by friends and the potted
plants furnished by the undertaker smelt sickeningly sweet and heavy in
the close, crowded room.
The old man looked very peaceful; death had removed the hard, crabbed
lines from his face, and the pale hands, twined about with a rosary,
and holding a small crucifix, seemed, to the tenants, very different
from the grasping old claws that he had been accustomed to thrust out
for the rent. Some of the people sat, some stood, others again knelt,
hurrying over the set prayers for the dead.
“What a beautiful corpse!” ejaculated Ellen O’Hara, in a loud whisper.
“Loike a child gone till slape,” said her sister.
“He have fallen away a good bit,” commented Mrs. McGonagle.
“Yis,” said Mrs. Clancy; “but not so much as I expected.”
“He vas der hardest corbse to shafe I ever dackled,” Schwartz informed
the latter lady’s husband.
“What an illigant ‘Gates Ajar’!” exclaimed Mrs. McGlory. “Is that the
piece that the A. O. H. sent, Mary?”
“It takes Kate Sweeney till make thim look daysint in the coffin,”
remarked Mrs. Nolan. “What splindid flowers she have put under his
head!”
“Tell me, Mrs. Clancy,” whispered Bridget O’Hara; “who will walk wid
Larry?”
“Why, Mary, av corse.”
“Divil a fear av her!”
“Is she settin’ her cap for him, I dunno?” said Ellen.
Mrs. Clancy turned to Mrs. McGonagle. “D’yez harken till the talk av
thim two?” asked she.
“God save uz,” answered Mrs. McGonagle, “they’ed talk about any wan.
But, whist; is that not Mrs. Noonen’s black skirt, Casey’s wife have
on?”
“Av coorse. She borryed it yisterday; for scure till the stitch av
black she have av her own.”
“Is the Father Matt’oo comin’?” inquired Mrs. Nolan.
“Is it the T. A. B. yez mean?” questioned Mrs. Contractor McGlory.
“What ilce?”
“Sure Larry wur not a mimber.”
“D’yez tell me so! An’ did he take the sup av drink, thin? Begorry I’d
niver a-t’ought it.”
Mrs. Nolan blinked at the corpse with renewed interest. O’Connor came
into the room with Larry and handed Mary a slip of paper.
“Iv there’s any other names ye want down,” said he, “just say the word.”
But Mary shook her head and returned it. Roddy Ferguson pushed his way
into the room and drew his employer aside.
“Callahan’s outside with the hearse,” said he in a whisper, “and if we
want to catch the Solemn High Mass we’d better push t’ings.”
The undertaker drew himself up to his full height and looked gravely
about him; then in his deepest and most professional voice, he said:
“The relatives an’ friends of the family will take a last farewell look
at the departed before proceedin’ till the church.”
Veils were dropped, gloves were put on, and a subdued sobbing and
whispering began. All pushed forward anxious to see everything at this
critical and interesting moment. Larry was moved but silent; Mary
sobbed, quietly; Mrs. Kelly’s grief was stormy; but her husband and son
regarded the body stolidly, then gave way to those behind. In a few
moments the casket lid was screwed down and the six young men had borne
it through the door to the waiting hearse. Young Ferguson took the list
of names and stationed himself by the door.
“Mr. Lawrence Murphy and Miss Mary Carroll,” called he.
“Do she go afore me?” demanded Mrs. Kelly. “Mr. O’Connor is a black
stranger till walk ahead av a sister av the corpse?”
Kelly sneered. “Sure they have it all their own way, Honora,” said he.
“Mr. James Kelly and wife,” called Ferguson.
“Thanks be!” cried the angry lady. “I wur expectin’ till be left till
the last!” and out she went on the arm of her husband, to treat the
watching crowd to an energetic exhibition of sisterly grief.
“Mr. Martin Kelly!” cried Roddy. He hesitated a moment, then added:
“and Miss Bella Nolan.”
Bella came forward, smiling, and took the young man’s arm. The sisters
O’Hara threw looks of malice toward Mrs. McGlory; but the good woman
disdained to notice them.
“Go on, Roddy!” directed O’Connor. “Is it aslape ye are?”
His assistant had followed Bella and her partner with moody eyes,
and now stood gazing at the empty doorway. But he roused himself at
O’Connor’s voice and before his abstraction was noticed by anyone else
he continued:
“James Larkin, and Miss Rosie O’Hara.”
“Divil the bit will she,” broke in the latter’s father. “Rosie walks
wid me, an’ not wid the son av an’ Orangeman!”
Rosie grew red, and the tears sprang into her eyes; Jimmie hesitated,
uncertain how to act, but at a glance from Rosie, he drew back and
allowed her father to lead her out.
“What a shame!” said good-natured Mrs. McGonagle.
“Will nothin’ do the cub but Rosie?” sneered Bridget.
“I don’t like his trade,” said Mrs. Clancy, “but he’s a foine young
felly.”
“He’s his father’s son,” said Ellen, bitingly.
The list of names was gone quickly through; those intending to walk in
the cortège as far as the church fell in, and all moved slowly down the
street, O’Connor at their head.
Larry Murphy’s recollections of what followed were but dim; through
a sort of haze he heard the chanting priests, and saw the swinging
censers, and his mind retained but little of what the pastor said in
regard to the old man’s life and acts. He had been but a child when
his father lay at the same altar rail, but his remembrance of that was
vivid. The organ was silent then; the church was deserted save for a
few friends, and a single priest performed the hurried service. It
came back to him that he had cried bitterly; not that he had much idea
of what was happening, but the dull light that crept in through the
stained windows seemed to add to the gloom that filled the church, and
a vague sense of loss had clutched at his childish heart. He did not
begrudge the pomp that marked his grandfather’s burial services, but
he thought that the old man could have spared a little from his store,
that his dead son might have gone to the grave in a fitting manner, and
not wait until death’s hand was upon him before giving a sign.
But it was all over now; the pall-bearers had drunk their glasses of
red wine, crumbled their pieces of sweet cake, shaken hands with Larry
and departed. The Kellys had remained until Johnnie Kerrigan had
informed them that the entire property had gone to Larry, and then left
in a gust of anger.
The young man and Mary were alone. She sat by the window, crying
softly; he stood with his back to the stove, his hands clasped behind
him, staring at the bright pattern in the carpet.
He was trying to think of something to say that would ease her grief;
but all that came to his mind seemed vapid and without much meaning. He
had been thinking of her a great deal during the last few days and it
hurt him to see her cry. He had never spoken to her before the day of
his grandfather’s death; but he had seen her often on the street and at
the church--when he went there--and he had often marvelled at the calm
purity of her face. He had heard much of her in different ways; of her
goodness of heart, of her gentle ways, of her deep love and veneration
for the faith in which she had been reared. He had lived rough, a young
man in his place could hardly help it; and he had seen, and said, and
done things which would have made him hang his head had she known; but,
for all, he liked, as most men do, reverence for holy things in a
woman. It was Mary that broke the silence.
“Mrs. McGonagle will take care of the house for you until you have
time to get settled,” she said. And he looked at her blankly, not
understanding. “I will stay with a friend for a while,” she continued,
“for I haven’t had time to think of anything yet.”
“You’re goin’ away, then?”
“To be sure!” wonderingly. “This is your home now, and I can’t stay
here, you know.”
“That’s so,” said he. He hadn’t thought of it before; and now that he
did his heart sank a little at her helplessness. She fumbled at the
catch of her mourning glove; he looked at her for a long time, thinking
of another--of the tall, splendid girl whom he had known best as a
child and playmate. But _she_ seemed far away now; her people were his
people no longer. Ah, yes that was it: Education had done much for this
girl of whom he had dreamed since boyhood; but association had done
more; and she seemed as far away as though she had dwelt upon a star.
He could never reach her plane; and of late years he had only thought
of her as one thinks of the dream-built hopes of youth. At last he said
to Mary:
“This house’s been your home for a good while, now; and it’ed look like
drivin’ youse away, wouldn’t it?--I mean if ye went.”
“I don’t know,” answered she doubtfully.
“Anyway, I don’t want ye to go,” said he, with sudden courage. “Stay
here--and marry me!”
He looked into the pure, candid eyes and saw sweeping into them a quiet
happiness that caused him to stoop and kiss her cheek.
“Uncle Larry spoke of that just before he died,” she said; “and if you
are sure you want me, I’ll stay.”