PADDY AND PEGGY
Not seeming to hear the children, the old man used to work in silence,
gathering the bottles and rags and things and putting them in his bag.
Once a week he sold all he had found and brought the money home to his
wife.
Now Paddy and his wife lived in a little cottage on the far side of the
common. And Paddy's wife was always sick. The poor woman had had a
terrible accident in which she had been so badly crushed and twisted
that she was never free from pain a single moment.
Paddy would rise early in the morning, and, before he left to go to his
work, he would put her in her chair by the window so that she could look
out on the common, and here she sat knitting socks all day long.
She did not know many people, so she was much alone. None of the
neighbours in Jefferson Square were aware that such a person as
Mrs. Paddy existed, though they might have seen her, if they had
taken the trouble, every time they looked out of a front window;
for she lived in plain view of all the dwellings on the Square.
But though none of the "well-bred" people ever knew of Mrs. Paddy's
existence, sometimes the mother of the little outcasts who were too
common to be the associates of fine ladies would drop in "to straighten
things up a bit."
"Well, Mrs. Myer," she would say, "the top of the mornin' to ye. It's to
market I've just been and the butcher sent ye a posy," and she would put
a gay flower or two in the blue glass vase that stood on the sick
woman's window-sill.
Or maybe one of the little outcasts would bring a bowl of steaming soup.
"Mother thought you might like something to warm you up inside," the
child would say, and Mrs. Paddy, unknown and unknowing of the fine
world, would kiss and thank her with a smile that she must have learned
from the angels.
But no other soul ever visited Mrs. Paddy, and knitting at her window,
she led a solitary life indeed.
[Illustration]
And the whole heart of Mrs. Paddy was bound up in Paddy, strange as that
may seem. But, you must know, Paddy was a very different sort of a
person from what the children imagined him. No matter what she was
suffering, Mrs. Paddy had always a bright look for him, while, with her,
Paddy would grow so tender and his knotty features would smooth out so,
the children never would have recognised him.
And Paddy's thousand attentions could only have been prompted by a
loving heart. He even grudged every penny that he had to spend on
himself; and indeed he had often gone hungry that his Peggy might
have some little comfort.
You see, before she was hurt--before that dreadful day when the heavy
four-horse team knocked her down and all but crushed the life out of
her--he used to spend most of his earnings in drink. In fact, to tell
you the honest truth, he was almost always drunk. And sometimes--it
makes the tears come into his eyes to think of it now--he used to beat
her. When he was drunk, you know; never except when liquor had stolen
his brains.
Well, after she was brought in mangled and bleeding, he was so sorry he
had ever treated her unkindly that he nearly lost his mind. He prayed
to God to let her stay with him long enough for him to prove how much he
really loved her.
Afterwards when she lived, although but a crippled, suffering being, he
was so afraid that he might forget himself and abuse her again, that he
never touched a drop of anything stronger than coffee. The poor woman
used to say that it was worth all the pain, and more, too, to have her
husband always himself.
Giving up strong drink was not an easy task for him, and he often wanted
it; but he shunned the society of his drinking friends, and never once
went where he would be tempted.
He pretended not to hear the children's teasing, but it was only
pretence. You see, he loved children dearly. He once had two little
ones of his own, but God took them. For their dear sakes he had tender
feelings toward all children, and it hurt him that these on Jefferson
Square should run away from him every time he came near.
He also disliked their name for him; for his real name was Jerry, not
Paddy at all. He could not help telling his Peggy about it, especially
when they had been unusually thoughtless and teasing.
It was after one of such times that he said to her: "I think I'll have a
little speech with 'em. I'll tell 'em that far from wanting to hurt 'em,
I'll be their friend if they'll let me."
"Do, lovey," replied Mrs. Peggy, "for I'm hatin' to have 'em misjudge
you."
So the very next day he pretended to be raking and sifting until they
came nearer and nearer shouting their jibes and their jeers, when he
quickly turned around and facing them began his speech:
"Don't fear me, chil--" was all the further he got when the rosy cheeks
became as white as sheets and such scampering and rushing over one
another you never saw in all your life.
After that it was three whole days before a single one of them was bold
enough to come even in sight when he was bending over his work, and he
missed them so that he resolved never to attempt any conversation with
them again as long as he lived.