The Intoxicated Ghost Part 15

The old man clutched her hands desperately for a moment, and then seemed to recover a little his reason. He sank down again and closed his eyes.

For a time he lay there silent. Then he said with strange solemnity:--

"'T is a vision meself has had this night, Louizy."

She thought his mind still wandering, but in a moment he went on with more calmness: "I'll tell it to ye all, Louizy. Give me a sup till I get strength. I'm no more strong than a blind kitten that's just born."

She gave him nourishment and stimulant, and Tim feebly and with many pauses told his dream. The force of a natural dramatic narrator still shaped his speech, and as he became excited, he spoke with more and more strength, until he was sitting up in bed, and speaking with a voice more clear than he had used for many a day.

"But it was a fearsome dream's had holt on me the night. 'T is meself's been palarvering with the blessed St. Peter face to face and tongue to tongue; and if I'd ought to be some used to it through having been dead once already by drowning, this time I was broke up by being dead in good earnest, by the same token that when St. Peter set his two piercing black eyes on me, I could tell by the look of 'em that it was straight through me whole body he was seeing.

"And the first thing I knew in my dream I was going all sole alone on a frightsome road all sprinkled over with ashes and bones, and I that crawly in my back I could feel the backbone of me wiggling up and down like a caterpillar, so my heart was choking in my throat with the fear of it. And I went on and I went on; and all the time it was in the head of me there was that coming behind was more fearsome than all the bones and skelingtons forninst. And I went on and I went on, seeming to be pushed along like, and not able to help meself; and all the time something was creeping, and creeping, and creeping behind, till all the blood in my body was that chilled the teeth of me chattered. And I went on and I went on till I could n't stand it one mortal minute more; but I had to turn if the life went out of me for it. And there behind was a mite of a girl, a wee bit thing, thin and starved looking, and seeming that weak it was pitiful to see. 'Poor thing,' sez I to my own ghost, 'it's pitying her the day is Tim Calligan, if I be him,' sez I, 'and not some other body, for having no body perhaps I ain't anybody at all, but just a spook in this place that ain't nowhere.' And all the time I was that scared of the wee bit child, being as it were where it could n't be, and me dead before it and it dead behind me, and always following and following; so without thinking deeply what was to be done, I starts up and runs as hard as my legs that was turned into ghost shanks would let me. And I run through them ashes, stumbling on bones and seeing shadows that would get in the way and I had to run through 'em, and the weight of the horror of it words would n't tell.

"And when I run, the wee bit child run; and it scared me worse than ever when the further I run away from it the closer it was to me, till at last it had a grab on the tail of my coat; and it clung on, and I that mad with fear I had no more sense than a hen with its head cut off and goes throwing itself round about for anger at the thought of being killed, and not knowing it is dead already. And oh, Louizy, the scaresomeness of the places I run through a-trying to get rid of that wee bit thing! It's downright awful to think of the things that can happen to a dead man while he's alive all the time and forgetful of it through dreaming!

"So when I'd been going on till mortal man could n't stand it no longer, let alone a ghost, there I was just forninst the gate of Heaven, not in the least knowing how I come there or would I get in; and blessed St.

Peter himself on a white stone outside the gate sitting and smiling and looking friendly so the terror went out of me like a shadow in the sun.

And I sc.r.a.ped my foot, and I went up close to him, standing that way would I hide the child ahind of me; for sez I to meself: 'What'll I say to his Reverence and he axes me about the girl?' And St. Peter he sez to me, mighty polite and condescending: 'Good-morning,' sez he. 'The top of the morning to your Reverence, and thank ye kindly,' sez I. 'And what'll be your name?' sez he. 'Tim Calligan, your honor,' sez I, answering as pert as ever I could; for there was that in his manner of speaking that made me feel s.h.i.+very, as if me heart'd been out all night in a snowstorm. 'It's a decent, respectable body I am, your Reverence,' sez I, 'though I say it as should n't, having n.o.body else at hand that would put in a word for me.' 'And was ye buried in holy ground?' sez he. 'I was that,' sez I; 'and many's the weary year I've been sc.r.a.ping to do that,' sez I. 'And what'll that be behind ye?' sez he. And I looked this way and that way, trying to make as if I did n't know; and at last I pretended to spy the child, and to be that surprised he could n't suspect I ever clapped eyes on the wee bit thing before. 'That, your Reverence,' sez I, 'has the look of a sc.r.a.p of a girl. Is it one your Reverence is bringing up?' sez I, being that desperate I was as bold as a bra.s.s kettle. 'And what'll she be doing here?' sez his Reverence, paying no heed to the impertinence of the question. 'Sure, how'll I know that?' sez I. 'Will she be coming with you?' sez he. 'Don't she belong hereabouts?' sez I, trying hard to brazen it out, and feeling my heart go plump down out of my mouth into my boots, more by token that I was barefoot the time. 'Will she be coming with you?' sez he again. 'Sorra a bit,' sez I; 'I just could n't get away from her,' sez I. 'And what for'll you be trying to get away from her, and her no bigger than a bee's knee?' sez he, looking at me so hard that I could n't hold up my face forninst him. 'Well, your Reverence,' sez I, looking down at the stones, and seeing the weeds trying to grow between them in the very face of Heaven itself, 'it's inconvenient traveling with a child anywhere, let alone the ondecent places I've been through this night; and the girl was n't mine, and I might get blamed for keeping her out late, with her folks getting scared about her, not knowing where she was, and not understanding she was where your Holiness would be after caring for her.' And with that St. Peter put out his hand, looking that sharp his eyes went through me like needles; and he pulled the wee bit child from behind me, and he sez to her: 'What is the name of yer?'

'Nellie,' sez she, her voice so thin you could n't hear it, only knowing what she said from the moving of her lips like shadows on the wall.

'And how came you here?' sez he. 'I was beat and starved to death,'

sez she, s.h.i.+vering till 't was a mercy she did n't go to pieces like a puff of smoke. And with that St. Peter looked at me once more, and the cold sweat run down my backbone like rain down a conductor in a thunder-storm. 'Your Reverence,' sez I, trembling, 'I did n't beat and starve the girl.' 'That may be,' sez he, 'but there'll be some reason why she's hanging on to your coat-tail like a burr on a dog,' sez he.

'What for are you following Tim Calligan,' sez he to the girl, 'and he dead and resting in holy ground?' And with that she put you her little front finger, that was as thin as a sparrow's claw that's starved to death in winter, and she pointed to me, and sez she: 'He would n't give the money to send me to my folks,' sez she; 'and my own father saved the life of him when he was dead and drownded before I was born,' sez she.

'What for would n't you give the money, Tim?' sez St. Peter, sitting there on that white stone like a judge trying the life of a man. 'Your Reverence,' sez I, falling down on the stones at the feet of him, 'twenty years was I struggling, and saving, and sc.r.a.ping to get the bit money for a grave in holy ground! If I'd give it to the child, I'd be down this blessed minute I'm having the honor of conversing with your Holiness--and it's proud I am of your condescending so far!--lying in unconsecrated ground all cheek by jowl with heretics, and like as not getting my bones mixed with theirs at the blessed resurrection. Sorra a bit did I know the suffering of this poor wee bit thing.' 'And did her father save your life?' sez he. 'He did that,' sez I, 'and a good, decent, G.o.d-fearing man he were,' sez I, 'barring he were a heretic, your Reverence, owing to his not being asked, it's likely, would he be born a good Catholic,--and I hope your Reverence ain't been too hard on Bill Trafton if he's come this way,' sez I. 'Tim,' sez St. Peter, looking at me with a look like one of the long isuckles on the north side of the barn in January,--'Tim, 't is no use trying the palarver on me,' sez he. 'Ye know ye let this child get bound to that Betts woman, and now she'll be bate to death, and who's to bear the blame if not ye that might have stopped it? Do ye think, Tim Calligan,' sez he, raising his voice so the blessed angels come a-looking over the holy walls of Heaven to see what would be the matter,--by the same token that the little gold hoops floating round their heads kept clas.h.i.+ng together and sounding like sleigh-bells, their heads was that close together on top of the wall, and all their eyes looking at me that sorrowful like it nigh broke my heart,--'do ye think,' sez he, 'you're sleeping in holy ground when the price of the grave your worthless old carca.s.s is in was the life of this wee bit child?' And all the angels shook their heads, and looked at me that reproachful the heart in me got so big it would have killed me with its swelling only saving that I was dead already, not to say being dead twice; and I fell to sobbing and praying to St.

Peter for mercy,--and the first thing I knew I woke up in bed, praise be to the handiworks of G.o.d! made alive again, this being the third time, counting the time I was first born."

Tim's tale was long, and it was interrupted by frequent intervals of rest made necessary by his weakness. When he ended, the pale forecast of dawn shone into the squalid room. Louizy was crying softly, in the suppressed fas.h.i.+on of folk unaccustomed to give full vent even to grief.

Tim lay quiet for a long time. At last he aroused himself to feel beneath the mattress, and to bring to light a dirty bag of denim. This he pressed into the hand of his nurse.

"It'll take you both," he murmured feebly. "Blessings go with ye, and the saints be good to the soul of Tim Calligan, coming up at the Day of Judgment like a scared woodchuck out of unblessed ground!"

III

Tim failed rapidly. The excitement of his dream and the moral struggle through which he had pa.s.sed had worn upon his enfeebled powers. On the second day after his seizure the priest came from Tiverton to administer the last rites. When this was over, Tim lay quiet, hardly seeming alive. Thus he was when Springer, who drove over late in the afternoon, came in to see him.

"Tim," Springer said, "Mrs. Dooling has told me what you have done. The ground you lie in will make little difference to a man that would do a thing so white as that."

"Thank you kindly," Tim answered, in the shadow of a voice. "Father O'Connor's promised to bless my grave. It's not the same as being at Tiverton where the ground would be soaked with the blessing all round, but leastways St. Peter 'll not be after flinging it in my face that the blood of the child's on me."

The Overseer regarded him with such tenderness as did not often s.h.i.+ne within the doors of the poor-farm.

"Tim," he said, leaning forward as if he were half ashamed of his good impulse, "don't worry any more. I'll pay for your grave at Tiverton, and see that you are put in it."

The old pauper turned upon him a glance of positive rapture. He clasped his thin, withered hands, trembling like rushes in the winds of autumn.

"Holy and Blessed Virgin," he prayed, almost with a sob, "be good to him for giving a poor old dying creature the wish of his heart! Blessed St.

Peter--"

But the rush of joy was too great. With a face of ecstasy the old man died.

MISS g.a.y.l.o.r.d AND JENNY

When Alice g.a.y.l.o.r.d was, by the death of her grandmother, set free from the long servitude of attending upon the invalid, it might have seemed that nothing need hinder the fulfilling of her protracted engagement to Dr. Carroll. The friends of both the young people expressed, in decorous fas.h.i.+on, their satisfaction that old Mrs. g.a.y.l.o.r.d, ninety and bed-ridden, should at last have been released, and it was entirely well understood that what they meant was to signify their pleasure at the ending of Alice's tedious waiting. Some doubt in regard to the girl's health, however, still clouded the prospect. Long care and confinement had told on her; and when a decent interval had pa.s.sed after the death, and the wedding did not take place, people began to say that it was such a pity that Alice was not well enough to be married.

Dr. Carroll was thinking of her health as, one gloomy November afternoon, he walked down West Cedar Street to the house where g.a.y.l.o.r.ds had dwelt from the time when West Cedar Street began its decorous existence, and where Alice declared she had herself lived for generations. He glanced up at the narrow strip of sky like dull flannel overhead, around at the dwellings like a row of proper spinsters ranged on either side of the way, and at the g.a.y.l.o.r.d house itself, a brick and gla.s.s epitome of old Boston respectability. He reflected impatiently that of course Alice could be no better until he got her out of an atmosphere so depressing. Then he remembered that he had always liked West Cedar Street, and he began to wonder whether he were not getting so morbid over Alice that some other physician should be called in.

He had long been baffled by being unable to discover anything wrong, beyond the fact that the girl was worn out with the strain of ministering to an imperious and exacting invalid. She was nervously exhausted; and he said to himself for the hundredth time that rest was the only thing needed. A few months would set everything right. The difficulty was that time had thus far not come up to what was expected of it. Carroll was forced to acknowledge that, in spite of tonics and rest, Alice was really not much better, and he had come almost to feel that the real cause of her languor and weakness was involved in teasing mystery.

The prim white door, with its fan-light overhead and the discreetly veiled side-windows fantastically leaded, was opened by Abby, a sort of housekeeper, who had the air of being coeval with the house, if not with Boston itself. George always smiled inwardly at the look with which he was received by this primeval damsel, a look of virginal primness at the idea of allowing in the house a man who was professedly a suitor, and he declared to Alice that he was still, after long experience, a little afraid of Abby's regard. To-day her customary look vanished quickly, to give place to one more vivid and spontaneous. Abby put up a lean finger, mysteriously enjoining silence, and spoke instantly in a sibilant whisper.

"Will you please come in here, sir, before you go upstairs?" she said.

She waved her thin hand toward the little reception-room, and the doctor, in mild wonderment, obeyed the gesture and entered. Abby closed the door softly, and came toward him with an air of concern.

"I must tell you, sir," the old servant said in a half voice, "a queer thing's come."

"A queer thing's come," he repeated, leaning against the mantel. "Come from where?"

"It's come, sir," repeated Abby, a certain relish of her mystery seeming to his ear to impart an unctuous flavor to her tone. "It's just come.

n.o.body knows where things come from, I guess."

"Oh, you mean something's happened?"

"Yes, sir; that's what I said."

"But what is it?"

"I don't know, sir; but it's queer."

He looked at her wrinkled old face, where now the mouth was drawn in as if she had pulled up her lips with puckering-strings lest some secret escape. He smiled at her important manner, and, leaning his elbow on the mantel, prepared for the slow process of getting at what the woman really meant. It proved in the event less laborious than usual, and he reflected that the directness with which Abby gave her information was sufficient indication of the seriousness with which she regarded it.

"Miss Alice ain't right, sir. She does what she don't know."

"What do you mean?" he demanded, really startled.

"She wrote a letter to you last night, and then instead of mailing it she cut it all up into teenty tonty pieces, postage stamp and all; and then said she did n't know who did it."

Carroll stared at the woman. Whimsies and mysteries were alike so foreign to Alice that his first and natural thought was that Abby had lost her mind.

"It's true, sir, every word," Abby insisted, answering his unspoken incredulity. "She did just 's I say."

"If she said she did n't know who did it," the young man said sharply, "she did n't know."

"Of course she did n't know. That 's what's queer."

"But she could n't have done it herself."