“_A gadder kin put more good t’ings to the bad in a three-minute
round, than a draught horse could pull from here to the corner._”
CHIP NOLAN’S REMARKS.
MRS. BURNS was bending over her washtub, placed upon a bench in the
alley, taking the skin from her knuckles rubbing one of Tim’s red
flannel shirts. It was wash day in Murphy’s Court and a network of
clothes lines was strung from dwelling to stable, making a constant
bending necessary to safe progress. Mrs. Nolan was hanging out her
wash in her allotted space, her mouth stopped with clothes-pins and
her skirts tucked up out of the damp; Mrs. McGonagle, who was making a
social call, sat upon Mrs. Burns’ doorstep watching the efforts of her
hostess across the drifting steam.
“Glory be!” exclaimed that lady, at length, pausing and wiping the
perspiration from her face with one bleached and wrinkled hand, “the
owld felly himself cud do nawthin’ wid it! Sure I’ve rubbed it, an’
I’ve b’iled it; I’ve bleached it, an’ I’ve got down on me two knees an’
scrubbed it, but sorra the cleaner it’ll git!”
“God love yez, avic, don’t I know,” said her caller. “Faith Goose gits
his shirts in sich a state from his bit av work, that the washin’ fair
takes me breath from me.”
“An’ it’s Murphy’s wash I’ll have till do after me own,” said Mrs.
Burns, grappling once more with the labor at hand, half hidden in the
thick cloud of steam. “It’s a-most dead I’ll be afore noight.”
Mrs. Nolan flung a bedspread to the breeze and clamped it down with
pins.
“How is Mary gittin’?” inquired she.
“About the same,” answered Mrs. Burns. “Poor sowl; she’s failin’ fast.”
“Tis a sin an’ a shame till hark till the cacklin’ that do be goin’
aroun’ about her,” said Mrs. McGonagle. “Thim Kelly’s is spalpeens, so
they are!”
“Divil pull the tongues out av thim!” cried Mrs. Burns. “Did she not
feed me two children whin I hadn’t a bite nor a sup in the house?”
“Ah! An’ did she iver pass a body widout a good word?”
“Yez may say so, Mrs. Nolan. Iv I wur Larry, it’s have thim afore Judge
Moran, I wud!”
But a little time had elapsed since the events narrated in the
preceding chapters. Mary’s frail health had suddenly failed, and Larry
passed most of his time hovering about the sick-room. Their engagement
had caused much comment in the parish and afforded the Kellys a chance
to rid themselves of much of the venom which the willing of the estate
had distilled.
“Scure till the bit av luck cud they expect,” Mrs. Kelly had declared.
“The owld man’s eyes were hardly closed afore they were makin’ eyes at
wan another. The white-faced t’ing is mad after him!”
“It’s the bit av money she wants,” her husband had said. “She do be a
sly one for all her quietness.”
It was this sort of thing--and worse--that had caused the indignation
of the trio of ladies in the court; it had gotten about the
neighbourhood and had long been the topic for conversation over cans of
beer.
“Here comes Rosie, again,” said Mrs. Nolan.
“Arrah, what wud Larry do at all, at all, widout her? Divil the bit av
good owld Mrs. Coogan is as a housekeeper. Rosie t’inks a power av Mary
an’ tinds till her loike a sister. An’ Maggie Dwyer, God bless her,
she’s the good girl till thim.”
Mrs. Nolan’s red face became solemn. “Whisper!” said she, “did yez hear
the talk about Rosie an’ Larry?”
“Divil take ye, Mrs. Nolan!” Mrs. McGonagle fairly bristled. “Is it
help till carry it around ye’d be doin’?”
“Sure, I’m not sayin’ it’s true.”
“Ye had better luk at home,” muttered Mrs. Burns from amid her cloud of
steam.
Larry was in the kitchen washing his hands at the sink. He had just
been raking the fire so that it would burn brighter, and the remains
of his breakfast still littered the table. Mary was in the adjoining
room propped up by pillows in a big rocker; she had just awakened from
a light sleep and had been watching his efforts, a faint smile upon her
lips. When Rosie O’Hara came into the kitchen by the back door, Larry
greeted her, ruefully.
“I’ve bin tryin’ to make the fire come up,” said he with a glance at
the grey grate.
Rosie laughed. She set the steaming pitcher of broth, which she
carried, upon the table.
“I’ve brought that for Mary,” said she, attacking the range with
vigour; “I thought she might like it. How is she?”
“She had a bad night--had a hemorrhage after youse went home, and she
don’t breathe very easy. She’s asleep now, though.”
“You mustn’t get frightened, Larry; the doctor says there’s no danger
yet, you know.” Rosie tied an apron, which she took from a nail, about
her trim waist. “I’ll wash these dishes for ye,” she said. “I couldn’t
get in to get your breakfast, for Aunt Ellen kept me busy.”
“I burnt the steak to cinders,” said Larry forlornly, “and youse could
cut the coffee in slices.”
“Poor fellow!” She looked so bright, so sisterly, so helpful, that the
poor, strangely circumstanced young man felt his heart go out to her in
thanks. He never knew what prompted him to do it, but he leaned forward
and kissed her upon the cheek. She looked up, frightened; but the
expression in his eyes reassured her and the bright tears sprang to her
own.
And when he went into the room where Mary sat he thought she looked
whiter than usual.
“Hello!” he cried gladly, “Yer awake, eh?” He took her slim hand in his
own strong, rough one, and it was trembling. She looked into his face
strangely; for her visitors had been many since her illness and she had
heard things of which she had never spoken.
“D’ye feel worse?” asked he anxiously.
“No! Only a little faint,” she answered.
And from that day her failure was more rapid; from that day her
patience, her gentleness was more marked; from that day, if the truth
be known, she grew anxious to die.