THE END OF THE STORY
"Our years pass like a tale that is told badly."
--MOLESKIN JOE.
The darkness had long since fallen over the tumbledown rookeries of the
Glasgow alley wherein this story is to end, but the ragged children
still played in the gutters and the old withered women still gossiped on
the pavements. Two drunken men fought outside a public-house and another
lay asleep on the dirty kerbstone. When Moleskin and I came to the close
which was well known to my mate we had to step over the drunken man in
making an entrance.
We passed through a long arched passage and made our way up a flight of
rickety wooden stairs, which were cracked at every step, while each
crack was filled with the undisturbed dirt of months.
"In there," said Joe, pointing to a splintered door when we gained the
top landing. "I'm goin' to stop outside and wait till you come back
again."
I rapped on the door, but there was no response. I pushed against the
handle and it opened inwards. An open door is a sure sign of poverty. It
is a waste of time to lock a door on an empty house. Here where the
wealth of men was not kept, the purity of women could not be stolen.
Probably Death had effected his entrance before me, but he is one whom
no door can hold. I looked into the room.
How bare it looked! A guttering candle threw a dim light over the place
and showed up the nakedness of the apartment. The paper on the walls was
greasy to the height of a man's head and there was no picture or
ornament in the place to bring out one reviving thought. The floor was
dirty, worn, and uncarpeted; a pile of dead ashes was in the fireplace
and a frying-pan without a handle lay in one corner of the room. No
chair was to be seen. A pile of rags lay on the floor and these looked
as if they had been used for a bed. The window was open, probably to let
the air into the room, but instead of the pure fresh air, the smoke of a
neighbouring chimney stole into the chamber.
This much did my eyes take in vaguely before I saw the truckle bed which
was placed along the wall near the window. On the bed a woman lay
asleep--or maybe dead! I approached quietly and stood by the bedside. I
was again looking at Norah, my sweetheart, grown fairer yet through sin
and sorrow. The face was white as the petals of some water flower, and
the shadow of the long wavy hair about it seemed to make it whiter
still. She was asleep and I stood there lost in contemplation of her, a
spirit which the first breeze might waft away. Her sleep was sound. I
could see her bosom rising and falling under the ragged coverlet and
could hear the even breath drawn softly in between the white lips now
despoiled of all the cherry redness of six years ago. Instinctively I
knew that the life of her was already broken in the grip of sorrow and
death.
Suddenly she opened her soft grey eyes. In their calm and tragic depths
a strange lustre resembling nothing earthly shone for a moment. There
was in them the peace which had taken the place of vanished hopes and
the calm and sorrowful acceptance of an end far different from her
childish dreams.
She started up in the bed and a startled look stole into her face. A
bright colour glowed faintly in her cheeks, and about her face there was
still the girlish grace of the Norah whom I had met years before on the
leading road to Greenanore.
"I was dreamin' of ye, Dermod," she said in a low silvery voice. "Ye
were long in comin'."
Sitting up with one elbow buried in the pillow, her chemise slipped from
her shoulders and her skin looked very pink and delicate under the
scattered locks of brown hair. I went down on my knees by the bedside
and clasped both her hands in mine. She was expecting me--waiting for
me.
"Ellen told me that ye were lookin' for meself," she continued. "A man
came this mornin'."
"I sent him, Norah," I said. "'Tis good to see you again, darling. I
have been looking for you such a long time."
"Have ye?" was all her answer, and gripping my two big hands tightly
with her little ones she began to sob like a child.
"It's the kindly way that ye have with ye, Dermod," she went on, sinking
back into the bed. Her tearless sobs were almost choking her and she
gazed up at the roof with sad, blank eyes. "Ye don't know what I am and
the kind of life I have been leadin' for a good lot of years, to come
and speak to me again. It's not for a decent man like ye to speak to the
likes of my kind! It's meself that has suffered a big lot, too, Dermod,
and I deserve pity more than hate. Me sufferin's would have broke the
heart of a cold mountainy stone."
"Poor Norah! well do I know what you have suffered," I said. "I have
been looking for you for a long while and I want to make you happy now
that I have found you."
"Make me happy!" she exclaimed, withdrawing her hands from mine. "What
would ye be doin' wantin' to make me happy? I'm dead to ev'rybody, to
the people at home, and to me own very mother! What would she want with
me now, me, her daughter, and the mother of a child that never had a
priest's blessin' on its head? A child without a lawful father! Think of
it, Dermod! What would the Glenmornan people say if they met me on the
streets? It was a dear child to me, it was. And ye are wantin' to make
me happy. Ev'ry time ye come ye say that ye are goin' to make me happy.
D'ye mind seein' me on the streets, Dermod?"
"I remember it, Norah," I said. She had spoken of the times I came to
see her and I did not understand. Perhaps I came to her in dreams.
"It was the child, Dermod," she rambled on; "it was the little boy and
he was dyin', both of a cough that was stickin' in his throat and of
starvation. I hadn't seen bread or that what buys it for many's a long
hour, even for days itself. I could not get work to do. I tried to beg,
but the peelis was goin' to put me in prison, and then there was nothin'
for me, Dermod, but to take to the streets.... There was long white
boats goin' out and we were watchin' them from the strand of Trienna
Bay, Dermod and me. I called him Dermod, but he never got the
christenin' words said over him or a drop of holy water.... Where is
Ellen? Ellen, ye're a good friend to me, ye are. The people that are sib
to meself do not care what happens to one of their own kind, but it's ye
yerself that has the good heart, Ellen. And ye say that Dermod Flynn is
comin' to see me? I would like to see him again.... I called me little
boy after him, too.... Little Dermod, I called him, and now he's dead
without the priest's blessin' ever put over him."
"I'm here, Norah," I said, for I knew that her mind was wandering. "I am
here, Norah. I am Dermod Flynn. Do you know me now?"
The long lashes dropped over her eyes and hid them from my sight.
"Norah, do you remember me?" I repeated. "I am Dermod, Dermod Flynn. Say
Dermod after me."
She opened her eyes again and looked at me with a puzzled glance.
"Is it ye, Dermod?" she cried. "I knew that ye were comin' to see me. I
was thinkin' of ye often and many's the time that I thought ye were
standin' be me bed quiet like and takin' a look at me. Ye're here now,
are ye? Say true as death."
"True as death," I repeated after her. The phrase was a Glenmornan one.
"Then where is Ellen and where is the man that came here this mornin'
and left a handful of money to help us along?" she asked. "He was a good
kindly man, givin' us so much money and maybe needin' it himself, too.
Joe was his name."
"Moleskin Joe," I said.
"There were three men on the street and they made fun of me when I was
passin' them," said Norah, and her mind was wandering again. "And one of
the men caught me and I tried to get away and I struggled and fought.
For wasn't I forgiven for me sins at the chapel that day and I was goin'
to be a good woman all the rest of me life? I told the men to let me
alone and one of them kicked me and I fell on the cold street. No one
came to help me. Who would care at all, at all, for a woman like me? The
very peelis will not give me help. 'Twas Ellen that picked me up when
the last gasp was almost in me mouth. And she has been the good friend
to me ever since. Sittin' up at night be me side and workin' her fingers
to the bone for me durin' the livelong day. Ellen, ye're very good to
me."
"Ellen is not here, Norah," I said, and the tears were running down my
cheek.
I placed my hand on Norah's forehead, which was cold as marble, and at
that moment somebody entered the room. I was aware of the presence of
the newcomer, but never looked round. Norah's face now wore a look of
calm repose and her lashes falling slowly hid the far-away look in her
grey eyes. For a moment I thought that she held silent council with the
angels.
I was still aware of the presence. Somebody came forward, bent tenderly
over the bed and softly brushed the stray tresses back from Norah's
brow. It was the woman, Gourock Ellen. At that moment I felt myself an
intruder, one who was looking on things too sacred for his eyes.
"Norah, are you asleep?" Ellen asked, and there was no answer.
"Norah! Norah!" The woman of the streets bent closer to the girl in the
bed and pressed her hand to Norah's heart.
"Have ye come back, Ellen?" Norah asked, in a quiet voice without
opening her eyes. "I was dreamin' in the same old way. I saw him comin'
back again. He was standin' be me bed and he was very kind, like he
always was."
"He's here, little lass," answered Ellen; then to me, "Speak to her,
man! She's been wearin' her heart awa' thinkin' of you for a lang, lang,
weary while. Speak to her and we'll save her yet. She's just wanderin' a
bit in her heid."
"Then it's not dreamin' that I was!" cried Norah. "It's Dermod himself
that's in it and back again. Just comin' to see me! It's himself that
has the kindly Glenmornan heart and always had. Dermod, Dermod!"
Her voice became low and strained and I bent closer to catch her words.
"It was ye that I was thinkin' of all the time and I was foolish when
we were workin' with Micky's Jim. It's all me fault and sorrow is on me
because I made ye suffer. Maybe ye'll go home some day. If ye do, go to
me mother's house and ask her to forgive me. Tell her that I died on the
year I left Micky's Jim's squad. I was not me mother's child after that;
I was dead to all the world. My fault could not be undone--that's what
made the blackness of it: Niver let yer own sisters go into a strange
country, Dermod. Niver let them go to the potato-squad, for it's the
place that is evil for a girl like me that hasn't much sense. Ye're not
angry with me, Dermod, are ye?"
"Norah, I was never angry with you," I said, and I kissed her lips. They
were hot as fire. "Darling, you didn't think that I was angry with you?"
"No, Dermod, for it's ye that has the kindly way!" said the poor girl.
"Would ye do something for me if iver ye go back to yer own place?"
"Anything you ask, Norah," I answered, "and anything within my power to
do."
"Will ye get a mass said for me in the chapel at home, a mass for the
repose of me soul?" she asked. "If ye do I'll be very happy."
When I raised my head, Moleskin was in the room. He had stolen in
quietly, tired of waiting, and perhaps curious to see the end. He
removed his cap and stood in the middle of the floor and looked
curiously around. Norah sat up in bed and beckoned Ellen to approach.
She opened her mouth as if to speak, but there was a rattle in her
throat, her teeth chattered, her hands opened and closed like those of a
drowning man who clutches at floating sedge, and she dropped back to the
pillow. Ellen and I hastened to help her, and laid her down quietly on
the bed. Her eyes were open, her mouth wide apart showing two rows of
white teeth. The spirit of the girl I loved had passed away. Without
doubt, outside and over the smoke of the large city, a great angel with
outspread wings was waiting for her soul.
I was conscious of a great relief. Death, the universal comforter, had
smoothed out things in a way that was best for the little girl, who knew
the deep sorrows of an erring woman when only a child.
Joe looked awkwardly around. There was something weighing on his mind.
Presently he touched me on the arm.
"Would there be any harm in me goin' down on my knees and sayin' a
prayer?" he asked.
"No harm, Joe," I said, as I knelt again by the bedside.
Ellen and Joe went down on their knees beside me. Outside the sounds of
the city were loud in the air. An organ-grinder played his organ on the
pavement; a crowd of youngsters passed by, roaring out a comic song.
Norah lay peacefully in the Great Sleep. I could neither think nor pray.
My eyes were riveted on the dead woman.
The candle made a final splutter and went out. Inside the room there was
complete darkness. Joe hardly breathed, and not knowing a prayer, he was
silent. From time to time I could hear loud sobs, the words of a great
prayer--the heart prayer of a stricken woman. Gourock Ellen was weeping.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's Children of the Dead End, by Patrick MacGill