Chapter 4

"The plague had carried off my father an' mother, my brothers was all married an' moved away, an' my only sister was at service in London, so when Mona begged me to come to America with her an' Michael an' the little ones, I just jumped at the chance. Michael was a good fellow, sober an' industrious, but there was no work to be had at home and he had heard such wonders of the land across the sea. There, a man that was a man had no trouble in findin' work an' making a comfortable livin' for himself an' family. He wanted to leave Mona with his sister in Dublin, who offered to care for her an' the children until he'd made a home for 'em in the country he was goin' to. But no, Mona wouldn't hear to that. She'd promised at God's altar to take him for better or worse an' to cling to him till death. Because the worse had come, she wasn't goin' to desert him an' let him go out alone to the cold land of the stranger to fight his battle all by himself. She'd go with him an' stand by him and help an' comfort him in his struggles. She knew she could help him. She'd been taught by the nuns an' could do all sorts of fine sewin'. In America, as in Dublin, there must be rich ladies who would pay well for a bit of fine embroidery or hand-made lace. No, no, Mona wouldn't be left behind; he must take her an' the little ones, no matter what was before them. It was settled at last that we was all to go together, an' so, one bright mornin' we stood on the deck of the ship that was carryin' us far away from home an' all we loved, far away to the strange land across the sea. With the tears runnin' down our faces, we waved farewell to the shores of Ireland, an' Mona, though she didn't know it, was wavin' farewell to happiness in this world. Poor girl, it's little she knew from that day on but grief an' trouble an' sufferin'.

"Well, child, as I was sayin', it was the fine, bright mornin' that we left Ireland, but the good weather held for only a few days after. Then, there blew up such a storm as I never see before an' hope never to see again. It was fearful, fearful. I couldn't describe it to you if I tried. We just lay in our berths, every one of us, our backs agin the wall, our knees braced agin the board in front, an' we holdin' on for dear life expectin' every moment to be dashed out on to the floor an' have all our bones broken. We was too frightened to say a word, but we prayed, oh, my! how we did pray, every mother's son of us. For nigh onto three days that poor boat struggled on bravely agin the ragin' storm, but the ship wasn't built that could live in that sea, an' the end was bound to come sooner or later. Come, it did, at last. An officer stood on the stairs orderin' us all up onto the deck; the ship had sprung a leak, the water was pourin' in faster than they could pump it out, an' we must take to the boats at once.

"I never can remember rightly what happened then. It seems now such a confusin' jumble of men, women and childer, all screamin' an' rushin' for the stairs, and all the time the wind was a howlin' an' the vessel was groanin' an' pitchin' so you had to cling to whatever was nearest to keep on your feet at all. I don't know how we got there, but the next thing I remember was standin' on the deck an' hangin' on to something to keep from bein' washed overboard by the great waves that broke over the ship an' flooded her from stem to stern. Mona stood near me with the baby on her arm an' holdin' tight to the hand of little Gerald who hid his face in her skirt an' sobbed in terror. Michael was beside her, one arm holdin' her close while with the other he hung onto the railin' just as I was doin'. Pretty soon, the boats was lowered an' everyone made a rush for 'em. There was a shout of:

"'Stand back, there, stand back! Women an' children first; only the women an' children.'

"The ship's officers an' sailors beat back the men an' commenced puttin' the women into the boats as fast as they could. One of 'em caught Mona by the arm an' tried to hurry her away. She struggled with him an' begged to be left with Michael. The sailor swore at her an' then I heard Michael's voice, calm an' steady, above the din of the storm:

"'Go at once, asthore,' say he; 'for the sake of the childer, go at once. Sure, dearie,' says he, 'we're in the Lord's hands anyway! can't ye trust Him on the water just the same as on the land?'

"The sailor lifted Mona an' the baby in his arm (it's the wee bit of a thing she was always) an' passed her on to another to be lowered into the boat. Michael caught up little Gerald an' cried out to me: 'Take the boy with you, Nancy; take him quick, girl.' But before I could lay my hand on the child I was seized and put into the boat beside Mona. The poor girl screamed and held out her arms for the little lad, but the boat was shoved off an' the last thing I can remember, as a mountain of water rolled up between us an' the ship, was seein' Michael still clingin' to the rail an' holdin' little Gerald on his arm. Then Mona fainted agin my shoulder and I had my hands full tendin' her an' the baby.

"It was nearly dusk when we took to the boat, an' pretty soon it was so dark you could scarce see your hand before you. I'll never forget the horrors of that night, indeed then I won't, tossin' on top of waves as big as mountains an' the next minute goin' down, down, down, till I thought sure we'd strike bottom before ever we come up again. But even the longest night must wear away, an' when day broke we seen a big vessel comin' towards us an' in the course of an hour or so we was all transferred to her decks. She cruised around for a time, hopin' to pick up some of the other boats, but couldn't find none of 'em. There was no tellin' how far away from the wreck an' the boats we'd drifted in the night. The vessel that picked us up was bound for America an' so we continued our voyage to this country.

"I've often heard people complain of the coldness an' hardness of the world; by 'the world,' always meanin' the folks that live in it, I suppose. To my way of thinkin' there's a deal more kindness in the world than there is selfishness an' badness, an' the people on that steamer proved me right in one case anyway. They made up a purse among 'em an' give a share to each of us that had been picked out of the sea, as you might say. So, when we landed, we each had a little money to start in with. I soon found work in a mill, an' my poor Mona managed to keep herself an' the baby by doin' fine sewin'. For a long time we kep' house together, me an' Mona, then I married an' moved away to another town. My own troubles come on me thick an' fast after that an' what with one thing an' another, an' movin' here an' there, it was years before I set eyes on her again. Then we met quite by accident an' I found she was livin' not far from here with an old woman who peddled shoestrings an' pencils on the street. Mona herself kep' a stand on a corner where she sold apples an' peanuts an' such stuff.

"That night she come to see me here an' we talked over old times an' all that had happened since last we met. She'd done well at her sewin', she said, and brought up the baby in tolerable comfort. Then, just as the child was growin' into a woman that could be of help to her mother an' pay her back for her years of workin' an' strugglin', she was took down with consumption. All the little poor Mona had managed to save went in carin' for her sick daughter an' buryin' her when she died. By that time, Mona's health was pretty well broke up, her eyes was not as good as they used to be, an' she had to give up the sewin'. She fell in with the old woman who peddled shoestrings, and, by her advice, started in with her apple-stand. They'd been together ever since an' managed to earn a livin' between 'em. We talked an' we talked that night, an' when Mona was goin' she turned to me an' says:

"'Nancy,' says she, 'I can't tell you how thankful I am to have seen you again. An' I can't tell you how much good you've done me. Nancy,' says she, 'I've been a wicked woman, a wicked, rebellious woman,' says she. 'I've said dreadful things in my heart an' felt hard an' bitter at times against Almighty God for all the trials an' sufferin' He sent me. When I look at you, I'm ashamed of myself. I've lost a husband, so have you; I lost a daughter, you lost two; my son sleeps at the bottom of the sea, but your son--.Nancy, Nancy, when I go home to-night, I'll get down on my knees an' thank God that my boy is sleepin' at the bottom of the sea instead of wanderin' the earth a shame an' a disgrace to me.'

"You see, child, that was before my Danny come back to me to be reconciled to His God. It was while he was still wanderin' I didn't know where, an' goin' from one piece of villainy to the next.

"Poor Mona, I don't believe she was half as bad as she made herself out to be, an' certainly from that day to this I've never heard a complaint or a murmur cross her lips. She's been sick, too, most all the time, an' there's been many a day when she'd ought to be home in bed but off she'd go an' stand on her corner an' peddle her apples because the old woman that lived with her was sicker than she an' they wouldn't have no money, come rent day, unless Mona went out an' earned it for 'em. Talk about the heroes that done such wonderful things that folks has to write whole books about 'em! I tell you what, child, there's many a hero hid away in the dirty little side-streets and alley-ways of every big city; only folks don't know about 'em. To my mind, Mona was one of them heroes; so sweet an' patient, pretty well on in years herself, an' all crippled with the rheumatism, but goin' out day after day to sell her apples; a slavin' an' a killin' herself for a woman a little older an' a little sicker than she was. An' all this because the old woman had been kind to her in her hour of greatest need.

"Well, after findin' her again, I seen Mona every day; she used to come here in the evenin' an' we'd sit an' talk of them that was gone. She was with me when my Danny died, an' she thanked God with me for havin' brought him back to me in the end. Then, one night, Mona didn't come, but they brought me a message sayin' she was in the hospital, dyin' from an accident, an' wanted to see me right away. I didn't let the grass grow under my feet you may be sure, an' before long I stood beside the bed where she was lyin', her poor, pale face all drawn with sufferin'. I've called her a hero for the life she'd led, an' her end was sure enough a hero's end. That afternoon a child had started to run across the street at the corner where Mona's apple-stand was. He didn't see the horse an' team that come tearin' up the street, an' the driver was too busy lashin' the horse to see the child. In spite of her rheumatism, Mona dashed in front of the team, and with a quick shove, sent the child flyin' out of harm's away. He rolled over an' over on the street, but beyond a scratch or two wasn't hurt. But Mona fell an' the team passed over her ankles crushin' both of 'em badly. Her age an' the shock, together with her injury, made 'em sure she couldn't live long. The chaplain had been sent for, they told me, an' would come at any moment now.

"She was sleepin' when I reached her, so I sat down beside the bed an' waited. The priest come an' stood lookin' down at her, an' the kindness an' pity on his face was wonderful to see. He looked at me an' I fair jumped out of my chair with the shock his eyes sent through me.

"'Glory be to God!' I says, blessin' myself, for I was all a tremble with the fright of it. 'Sure it's Michael Conners himself come back from the dead.'

"That very minute Mona's eyes opened slowly an' fixed themselves on the priest's face. A smile that brought the tears to my eyes, it was that beautiful, crossed her face an' she held out her thin, white hand to him, whisperin', 'Michael.' Then she closed her eyes again an' was off unconscious once more.

"The priest looked first at her, then at me, an' his face was all puzzled an' amazed like.

"'How do you know that my name is Michael Conners?' says he.

"'How do you know it yourself, Father?' says I, for I had my suspicions by that time.

"'Because of this,' says he, showin' me a strangely carved little black wooden crucifix attached to his beads. 'This was on my neck when I was saved from the wreck in which my father an' mother perished.'

"'Well,' says I, 'you're wrong. 'Tain't Michael, but Gerald, is your name, an' praise be the Lord but this'll be the happy day for my poor Mona when she finds out the truth. That crucifix with the name of Michael Conners on it was given to your father on his marriage day by the priest that married him. Here's the mate to it that he give your mother on the same day,' an' I picked up Mona's rosary lyin' on the bed an' showed him the cross on it. They was as like as two peas, only on the back of hers was carved the name of Mona Conners.

"Well, we had to break the news to her gently, an' it's the happy woman she was for the next few days in spite of all the pain she suffered. She'd just lie there holdin' Gerald's hand an' gazin' at him an' makin' him tell over an' over again of how he'd been saved from the wreck. He was only a wee lad of three at the time, but he could still remember of his father standin' there on the deck of the sinkin' ship an' holdin' him in his arms. He could still hear the words his father spoke to him an' feel the father's hand slippin' the rosary over his head an' claspin' the little fingers around the cross as it lay on his breast. Michael had passed him to a sailor an' he was lowered into one of the boats, where a kind-hearted woman took compassion on his loneliness an' cared for him. They'd been picked up by a sailin' vessel bound for France, an' the woman who first cared for him, took him with her from France to America an' finally adopted him. She brought him up, educated him, an' at last he became a priest of God.

"He was with his mother to the very end, an' it was his hand that give her the last blessin' of the Church an' his voice recited the prayers that send the departin' soul safe on its journey to the throne of God. It's the happy woman my Mona was in them last few days upon earth, an' it's the happy woman she is this day, all her troubles over, all her sufferin's gone, an' she in Paradise for ever an' ever."

During Nancy's recital, the shadows of twilight had gathered and deepened, and now her little kitchen was wrapped in darkness. Still, she sat for several moments buried in thought which I cared not to interrupt. Then, with a sigh, she rose to light the lamp and I noticed that tears filled her eyes though the brave lips were smiling.

"Yes, yes," she repeated. "God's ways are wonderful, they are that. Even if we don't understand things in this world, we're sure to in the next, for the Lord knows His own business best every time."

PATSY.

Patsy was wide awake in a second. What was it those men were talking about; what was it they were planning to do? That name, and "the brown house on the hill"! By a strong effort, he kept his eyes closed and breathed regularly and deeply as though still sleeping. He must not let them suspect that he was listening, but he must catch every word they said, every word. How he hated them, this band of rascals that had gotten his David into their clutches and were slowly but surely making him as bad as they! His David bad? No, no! David was kind and good and gentle to him always. David was not bad, he would not listen to their dreadful scheme. He would refuse to help them; surely he would. His David a thief? It was impossible. But that dreadful plan they were discussing! "The brown house on the hill"; "to-morrow night"; and David was promising to go with them.

Patsy shivered beneath the bedclothes and bitter tears gathered in his eyes and trickled down the pale, sunken cheeks. The men were leaving and David was renewing his promise to accompany the expedition to the brown house on the hill to-morrow night. In fact, he was to act as guide to the man appointed to commit the deed, for who, so well as David, could show them the way to the library in which was the safe that they were going to rob?

They had gone now and Patsy felt that David was standing beside the bed and looking down at him. He opened his eyes and two more tears escaped, which he hastily brushed away. Immediately David was on his knees, the little cripple's hand clasped tenderly in his.

"What's the trouble, kid?" he questioned anxiously. "Is it the pain that's bad to-night?"

"'Tain't the pain, Davy, 'tain't the pain at all," sobbed the child.

"What is it then, youngster? Come now, tell your own Davy what's troubling you, there's a good boy."

"David, how long is it since mother was taken away from us? It seems so long. I was thinkin' of mother, Davy, and wishing she was here with us this night."

"You poor kid, poor little crippled kid," muttered David, patting the small, thin hand. "It's natural, I suppose, for you to pine for your mother, but ain't Davy been almost like a mother to you, Patsy? He's tried hard, that he has, to be father and mother and big brother all in one." And the man smiled somewhat wistfully.

"You've been all that and more too, Davy. 'Twasn't on my account I was wishin' for mother, 'twas on yours. If she was here, she'd know how to keep you from going with them men to-morrow night. She'd know how to keep you to home, and I don't know what to say or to do to stop you from going."

David's face darkened slightly and there was a note of sternness in his voice as he said:

"So you was listening, was you, and heard what we was talkin' about?"

"I didn't listen a purpose, David; at least, not at first. I happened to wake and heard 'em speak of the brown house on the hill. Then I wanted to hear everything and I listened a purpose after that. Oh, Davy! Davy!" the child cried imploringly, sitting up in the bed and clasping his hands in petition; "don't do it, Davy; don't be a thief to please those wicked men; don't go robbing the brown house on the hill."

A fearful fit of coughing racked the little form and David held him gently in his arms until the paroxysm had passed. Then, laying the boy back upon the pillows, he said quietly:

"You mustn't get excited, Patsy, it's bad for you. We'll not talk no more to-night. In the morning I'll tell you the story of the house on the hill and you'll see I'm not tacklin' this job to please anyone but myself. Go to sleep now, kid, for I'll not say another word to-night, not another word."

When David spoke in that tone of voice Patsy knew there was nothing for him to do but to obey. Turning his face to the wall, he closed his eyes, but sleep did not visit him that night. He lay listening for the stroke of the town clock as it sounded, one after another, the slowly dragging hours; he lay listening to David's regular breathing and wondered how a man could sleep so calmly with such a deed in prospect; he lay anxiously turning over in his mind various schemes by which he could frustrate the plan in case he failed in persuading David to abandon it altogether. Several times fits of coughing shook him nearly to pieces, and at those times the pain in his poor little chest was well-nigh unbearable. He smothered the cough as well as he could beneath the bedclothes for fear of disturbing David. As for the pain--well, pain and Patsy had been companions so long now that he had grown quite accustomed to it.

The next day was cold and dismal, with a leaden sky threatening snow, and a bitter wind blowing that searched the very marrow of one's bones. The few neighbors who chanced to glance out of their windows at an early hour in the afternoon were surprised to see Patsy making his way along the street, slowly and painfully, with the aid of his crutches. They had never known him to be abroad on a day like this; indeed, it was many a day since he had attempted going upon the street at all. Poor little Patsy, his crutches were once a familiar sight going up and down the pavements on pleasant days in the summer time, but they had thought never to see him leave his room again. Did David know? Some one should stop the child; he was too weak to wander out alone like that. But then, it was no affair of theirs; David could probably be trusted to look after the boy.

As no one was willing to make it his business to interfere, Patsy went on his way unmolested. A strange look of determination battled with the pain on the sickly, childish face as he made his way bravely against the biting wind that sought to drive him back. He had learned the mystery of the house on the hill; he knew now why David hated so bitterly that house and all connected with it; he knew why David was willing and eager to help the men in the plan they were to carry out that night. David had told him all about it, and for the first time in his life he had felt afraid of this dearly loved brother of his. It had been a revelation to Pasty. Surely, this bitter, unforgiving, revengeful man could not be the same who had been father, mother and big brother to the little cripple for whom he had cared so tenderly since their mother had been taken from them.

It had sounded like a fairy tale to Patsy; he could scarcely believe his own ears. Just to think of it; that brown house on the hill had once been their mother's home, and the man who lived there, the man whom David hated with undying hatred, was their mother's brother and their uncle. On the day she married, she had left her home forever, her brother vowing that never as long as he lived would he set eyes upon her face again; to him she would be as though dead. Once, when father lay dying (Patsy could not remember it, but David had told him of it), mother had written to their uncle imploring a little help in their misery. It was not for herself she had asked but for the dying husband and sickly baby. Her letter had been returned to her with these harsh words written on the back: "Some mistake here. No woman has the right to call me brother. My only sister died years ago." David had kept the letter ever since; he had been old enough at the time to understand. He had vowed then to have revenge some day and he kept the letter to remind him of the vow should he ever be in danger of forgetting it.

Patsy knew now why his brother so hated the house on the hill, and why David had been so cross on that day last summer when he, Patsy, had come home and told of the young lady who had been so kind to him, the lady who lived in the house on the hill. As a rule, every one was good to Patsy. Even the children on the street, who quarrelled among themselves, striking, reviling, pelting one another with stones, had, nothing but kind words and smiles for Patsy. But that day last summer he had wandered farther from home than usual and a crowd of rough boys had stopped and commenced tormenting him, laughing at him, calling him names, jeering at his deformity, and even pulling his hair and pinching his ears. The child had tried to push past them, but they closed in on him and it might have fared ill with Patsy but for the timely arrival on the scene of the young lady from the house on the hill.

She quickly scattered the band of hoodlums and then walked with Patsy until he was well on his way home and safe from further attack. She had been kind to him, and made him promise to come and see her. That was how he knew her name and where she lived. He had wanted to see her again and had thought of her so often but David would not let him go.