“_The weird sisters hand in hand._”
MACBETH, ACT I; SCENE III.
“IT’S an ill wind that blows nobody good,” muttered Malachi O’Hara, as
he stood looking through his store window, his eyes resting upon Goose
McGonagle who had just drawn his wagon up at the curb. “She’s the lucky
girl, so she is.”
Goose swung himself from the step of the wagon, a milk-pail in his
hand. Filling the pitcher, resting for the purpose upon the counter,
Goose addressed O’Hara.
“I’m sorry,” said he, “that election comes off so soon after Mary
Carroll’s funeral. Larry ain’t feelin’ fit for a bruisin’ fight, yet.”
“I’ve heard,” said O’Hara, “that yez are both goin’ on the ticket at
the primaries.”
“It’s a gift! We’ll go t’rough to beat the band, for both divisions is
behind us, solid.”
“Ye’ll get it if yez are for James Kelly. It’s a walk over he’ll have,
I’m told.”
“Rats! We go to the convention and we don’t carry no banner for Kelly,
either, see? And if he t’inks he’s got this t’ing cinched he’s sold.
The boss is with him this time, but then, McQuirk ain’t the on’y fish
in the swim. Gartenheim kin have the nomination if he wants it, in
spite o’ him; and then there’s O’Connor; he wouldn’t shake Kelly’s fin
if it was made out o’ gold.”
“Sure thim two won’t go afore the convintion! It’s inside information I
have, from Moran.”
“Moran misses it more times than any guy I know, but he’s put ye next
to the right graft this time. Gartenheim an’ O’Connor both blowed in
a bunch o’ money last ’lection, an’ they’ve sort o’ got it into their
heads that they can’t stand for any more. If Gartenheim’s named he
could not win out unless O’Connor turned in for him, see? An’ youse kin
stake yer coin on it, that O’Connor ain’t a-doin’ that--he don’t forget
so easy.”
“Faith an’ that’s jist what the Judge told me, an’ he says, says he,
‘They’ll pick Kelly in the end, never fear,’ says he.”
“Ah, we ain’t losin’ any sleep worryin’ about old Kelly scoopin’ the
pot. The gang’s got their coats off an’ say we’ve got a graft to throw
into the fight that’ll make him look like t’irty-seven cents. Look out
for the papers the day after.”
After McGonagle had gone, O’Hara walked back into the kitchen where his
sisters were crouched behind the range.
“Where’s Rosie?” asked he, glancing about the room.
“She’s above stairs,” answered Ellen, “an’ cryin’ the two eyes out av
her head!”
“And for why?”
“Troth, Malachi, it’s well enough ye shud know, avic. I niver, since
Gawd made me, see any wan stand so in their own loight as she.”
He wrinkled his brows, his round little eyes snapping angrily. Going
to the stairs he called: “Rosie! D’yez hear me? Come down here, this
minyute!”
“Talk till her, Malachi,” urged Ellen.
“Show yez authority,” approved Bridget; “are ye not her father, faith!”
Rosie descended into the kitchen, slowly; her face was flushed, her
eyes were red and swollen.
“Will ye tell me the manin’ av this?” demanded her father. She sat
down, not answering; and he continued: “Yez hay bin cryin’ agin! Will
yez not give over?”
“I can’t help it,” said the girl. “You’re all against me and I can’t
help it.”
“Is it thinkin’ av young Larkin yez are!” exclaimed Ellen. “Shame on
ye, Rosie!”
“Wud yez hav a black sin on yez sowl?” cried Bridget. “An’ wud ye break
yez promis till the dead? Glory be! Bud the young wans now-a-days t’ink
nawthin’ av the hereafter.”
“I can’t marry Larry,” sobbed Rosie, “I don’t like him--not that way.
And then I’ve promised Jimmie!”
“Powers above!” gasped Bridget.
“The son av a ‘Know Nawthin’,” cried Ellen in horror. “Did yez iver
witness the bate av that?”
“Hold yez tongues!” snapped their brother, “sure a body can’t git in
a word edgeways for yez cacklin’. Listen till me, Rosie; did ye not
promise Mary, an’ she a-dyin’, that yez wud be Larry’s wife? Answer me
that.”
“I didn’t know what I was a-sayin’,” protested Rosie; “I was so took
back and frightened!”
“Divil a bit do that alter the case! Ye promised, an’ it howlds good in
the soight av God!”
“An’ the blessed can’ls burnin’ in the room!” cried Ellen.
“An’ she jist after bein’ anointed!” added Bridget.
“Will yez howld yes whist!” exclaimed O’Hara, enraged. “Faix, yez
tongues do be goin’ from Monday mornin’ till Saturday noight, an’ divil
raysave the voice kin be heerd bud yez own!”
“She’s yez own choild, Malachi,” admitted Ellen, as though to wash her
hands of the whole affair.
“Talk till her, an’ good luck!” muttered her sister.
“I will iv yez giv me a chance.” And O’Hara once more turned to his
sobbing daughter and proceeded with his arguments.
Rosie had been an infant when her mother died, and she had been reared
by her two aunts in an atmosphere loaded with superstition and reeking
of omens of good and ill. If the wind but stirred of a night among the
housetops, Ellen detected the wail of a banshee, and if a lonely dog
howled at the moon, Bridget, in hushed tones, announced the presence
of death in the street. They crowded the corners of dimly lit rooms
with the shadows of those departed, and the very teachings of religion
were so distorted as to be made to supply exorcisms against agencies
of evil and tokens calculated to render powerless their incantations.
The girl was saturated with this; from her childhood she had drawn it
in with every breath; and it was taught to her as an article of faith,
to disbelieve which was to imperil her salvation. The father was well
aware of this. He was far too practical to give heed to such things
himself, but he was willing enough that they should help him finger
some of old Larry’s hoarded dollars.
So, like the crafty old fox that he was, he conjured up dreadful
pictures of the fate that awaited her should she break her promise. The
girl listened, terrified.
“Glory be! That ye shud even t’ink av sich a t’ing!” cried her father
in conclusion. “Don’t ye know that Mary do be harknin’ till yez?”
“She hears ivery wurd ye say,” put in Bridget, unable to hold her peace.
“No!” said the poor girl, her face growing pale, “don’t say that, Aunt
Ellen!”
“Don’t deny it, girl!” exclaimed her father seizing quickly upon the
suggestion, “for divil the lie’s in it. She’ll go moanin’ about iver
God’s blessed night wringin’ her two han’s an’ cryin’ the heart out av
her! Scure till the bit av pace she’ll see till yez word’s made good.”
“Wud yez hav us visited by her?” demanded Bridget.
At this Ellen began a muttering; Bridget took it up, and Rosie stared
at them, the fear in her heart showing in her wide-open eyes.
That night Malachi O’Hara waited upon his customers with looks of great
satisfaction; and in the little room above the store, Rosie cried
herself to sleep thinking of the letter she had sent Jimmie Larkin.