THERE
was
no
hope
for
him
this
time:
it
was
the
third
stroke.
Night
after
night
I had passed the
house
(it
was
vacation time)
and
studied the lighted
square
of
window:
and
night
after
night
I had found
it
lighted
in
the
same
way,
faintly
and
evenly.
If
he
was
dead, I thought, I would
see
the
reflection
of
candles
on
the darkened blind
for
I knew
that
two
candles
must
be
set
at
the
head
of
a
corpse.
He
had
often
said
to
me: "I
am
not
long
for
this
world,"
and
I had
thought
his
words idle.
Now
I knew
they
were
true.
Every
night
as
I gazed
up
at
the
window
I said softly
to
myself
the
word
paralysis.
It
had
always
sounded strangely
in
my ears,
like
the
word
gnomon
in
the Euclid
and
the
word
simony
in
the Catechism. But
now
it
sounded
to
me
like
the
name
of
some
maleficent
and
sinful
being.
It
filled
me
with
fear,
and
yet
I longed
to
be
nearer
to
it
and
to
look
upon
its
deadly
work.
Old
Cotter
was
sitting
at
the fire, smoking,
when
I came downstairs
to
supper.
While
my
aunt
was
ladling
out
my stirabout
he
said,
as
if
returning
to
some
former
remark
of
his: "No, I wouldn't
say
he
was
exactly... but there
was
something
queer... there
was
something
uncanny
about
him. I'll
tell
you
my opinion...."
He
began
to
puff
at
his
pipe, no
doubt
arranging
his
opinion
in
his
mind. Tiresome
old
fool!
When
we
knew
him
first
he
used
to
be
rather
interesting, talking
of
faints
and
worms; but I
soon
grew tired
of
him
and
his
endless
stories
about
the distillery. "I
have
my
own
theory
about
it,"
he
said. "I
think
it
was
one
of
those...
peculiar
cases.... But it's
hard
to
say...."
He
began
to
puff
again
at
his
pipe
without giving
us
his
theory. My
uncle
saw
me
staring
and
said
to
me: "Well,
so
your
old
friend
is
gone, you'll
be
sorry
to
hear." "Who?" said I. "Father Flynn." "Is
he
dead?" "Mr. Cotter here has
just
told us.
He
was
passing
by
the house." I knew
that
I
was
under
observation
so
I continued eating
as
if
the
news
had not interested me. My
uncle
explained
to
old
Cotter. "The
youngster
and
he
were
great
friends. The
old
chap taught
him
a
great
deal,
mind
you;
and
they
say
he
had
a
great
wish
for
him." "God
have
mercy
on
his
soul," said my
aunt
piously.
Old
Cotter looked
at
me
for
a
while. I felt
that
his
little
beady
black
eyes
were
examining
me
but I would not
satisfy
him
by
looking
up
from
my plate.
He
returned
to
his
pipe
and
finally
spat
rudely
into
the grate. "I wouldn't
like
children
of
mine,"
he
said, "to
have
too
much
to
say
to
a
man
like
that." "How
do
you
mean, Mr. Cotter?" asked my aunt. "What I
mean
is," said
old
Cotter, "it's
bad
for
children. My
idea
is:
let
a
young
lad
run
about
and
play
with
young
lads
of
his
own
age
and
not be...
Am
I right, Jack?" "That's my principle, too," said my uncle. "Let
him
learn
to
box
his
corner. That's
what
I'm
always
saying
to
that
Rosicrucian there:
take
exercise. Why,
when
I
was
a
nipper
every
morning
of
my
life
I had
a
cold bath,
winter
and
summer.
And
that's
what
stands
to
me
now.
Education
is
all
very
fine
and
large.... Mr. Cotter
might
take
a
pick
of
that
leg
mutton,"
he
added
to
my aunt. "No, no, not
for
me," said
old
Cotter. My
aunt
brought the dish
from
the
safe
and
put
it
on
the table. "But
why
do
you
think
it's not
good
for
children, Mr. Cotter?"
she
asked. "It's
bad
for
children," said
old
Cotter, "because
their
minds
are
so
impressionable.
When
children
see
things
like
that,
you
know,
it
has an effect...." I crammed my
mouth
with
stirabout
for
fear
I
might
give
utterance
to
my anger. Tiresome
old
red-nosed imbecile!
It
was
late
when
I
fell
asleep. Though I
was
angry
with
old
Cotter
for
alluding
to
me
as
a
child, I puzzled my
head
to
extract
meaning
from
his
unfinished sentences.
In
the dark
of
my
room
I imagined
that
I
saw
again
the heavy grey face
of
the paralytic. I drew the blankets
over
my
head
and
tried
to
think
of
Christmas. But the grey face
still
followed me.
It
murmured;
and
I understood
that
it
desired
to
confess
something. I felt my soul receding
into
some
pleasant
and
vicious
region;
and
there
again
I found
it
waiting
for
me.
It
began
to
confess
to
me
in
a
murmuring voice
and
I wondered
why
it
smiled continually
and
why
the lips
were
so
moist
with
spittle. But
then
I remembered
that
it
had died
of
paralysis
and
I felt
that
I
too
was
smiling feebly
as
if
to
absolve
the simoniac
of
his
sin. The
next
morning
after
breakfast
I went
down
to
look
at
the
little
house
in
Great
Britain Street.
It
was
an unassuming shop, registered under the
vague
name
of
Drapery. The
drapery
consisted mainly
of
children's bootees
and
umbrellas;
and
on
ordinary
days
a
notice used
to
hang
in
the window, saying: Umbrellas Re-covered. No notice
was
visible
now
for
the shutters
were
up.
A
crape
bouquet
was
tied
to
the door-knocker
with
ribbon.
Two
poor
women
and
a
telegram
boy
were
reading
the
card
pinned
on
the crape. I
also
approached
and
read: The
reading
of
the
card
persuaded
me
that
he
was
dead
and
I
was
disturbed
to
find
myself
at
check. Had
he
not been
dead
I would
have
gone
into
the
little
dark
room
behind
the shop
to
find
him
sitting
in
his
arm-chair
by
the fire, nearly smothered
in
his
great-coat.
Perhaps
my
aunt
would
have
given
me
a
packet
of
High Toast
for
him
and
this
present
would
have
roused
him
from
his
stupefied doze.
It
was
always
I
who
emptied the
packet
into
his
black
snuff-box
for
his
hands trembled
too
much
to
allow
him
to
do
this
without spilling half the
snuff
about
the floor.
Even
as
he
raised
his
large
trembling
hand
to
his
nose
little
clouds
of
smoke
dribbled through
his
fingers
over
the
front
of
his
coat.
It
may
have
been
these
constant showers
of
snuff
which
gave
his
ancient
priestly
garments
their
green
faded
look
for
the
red
handkerchief, blackened,
as
it
always
was,
with
the snuff-stains
of
a
week,
with
which
he
tried
to
brush
away
the fallen grains,
was
quite
inefficacious. I wished
to
go
in
and
look
at
him
but I had not the
courage
to
knock. I walked
away
slowly
along
the
sunny
side
of
the street,
reading
all the theatrical advertisements
in
the shopwindows
as
I went. I found
it
strange
that
neither
I
nor
the
day
seemed
in
a
mourning
mood
and
I felt
even
annoyed
at
discovering
in
myself
a
sensation
of
freedom
as
if
I had been freed
from
something
by
his
death. I wondered
at
this
for,
as
my
uncle
had said the
night
before,
he
had taught
me
a
great
deal.
He
had studied
in
the Irish
college
in
Rome
and
he
had taught
me
to
pronounce
Latin properly.
He
had told
me
stories
about
the catacombs
and
about
Napoleon Bonaparte,
and
he
had explained
to
me
the meaning
of
the
different
ceremonies
of
the
Mass
and
of
the
different
vestments
worn
by
the priest. Sometimes
he
had amused
himself
by
putting
difficult
questions
to
me, asking
me
what
one
should
do
in
certain
circumstances
or
whether
such
and
such
sins
were
mortal
or
venial
or
only
imperfections.
His
questions showed
me
how
complex
and
mysterious
were
certain
institutions
of
the Church
which
I had
always
regarded
as
the simplest acts. The duties
of
the
priest
towards
the Eucharist
and
towards
the
secrecy
of
the
confessional
seemed
so
grave
to
me
that
I wondered
how
anybody had
ever
found
in
himself
the
courage
to
undertake
them;
and
I
was
not surprised
when
he
told
me
that
the fathers
of
the Church had written books
as
thick
as
the
Post
Office
Directory
and
as
closely printed
as
the
law
notices
in
the newspaper, elucidating all
these
intricate
questions.
Often
when
I
thought
of
this
I
could
make
no
answer
or
only
a
very
foolish
and
halting
one
upon
which
he
used
to
smile
and
nod
his
head
twice
or
thrice. Sometimes
he
used
to
put
me
through the responses
of
the
Mass
which
he
had
made
me
learn
by
heart; and,
as
I pattered,
he
used
to
smile
pensively
and
nod
his
head,
now
and
then
pushing
huge
pinches
of
snuff
up
each
nostril
alternately.
When
he
smiled
he
used
to
uncover
his
big
discoloured teeth
and
let
his
tongue
lie
upon
his
lower
lip—a
habit
which
had
made
me
feel uneasy
in
the
beginning
of
our
acquaintance
before I knew
him
well.
As
I walked
along
in
the
sun
I remembered
old
Cotter's words
and
tried
to
remember
what
had happened afterwards
in
the dream. I remembered
that
I had noticed
long
velvet
curtains
and
a
swinging
lamp
of
antique fashion. I felt
that
I had been
very
far
away,
in
some
land
where
the customs
were
strange—in Persia, I thought.... But I
could
not
remember
the
end
of
the dream.
In
the
evening
my
aunt
took
me
with
her
to
visit
the
house
of
mourning.
It
was
after
sunset; but the window-panes
of
the houses
that
looked
to
the west reflected the
tawny
gold
of
a
great
bank
of
clouds. Nannie received
us
in
the hall; and,
as
it
would
have
been
unseemly
to
have
shouted
at
her, my
aunt
shook hands
with
her
for
all. The
old
woman
pointed upwards interrogatively and,
on
my aunt's nodding, proceeded
to
toil
up
the
narrow
staircase before us, her bowed
head
being scarcely
above
the
level
of
the banister-rail.
At
the first landing
she
stopped
and
beckoned
us
forward encouragingly
towards
the
open
door
of
the dead-room. My
aunt
went
in
and
the
old
woman,
seeing
that
I hesitated
to
enter, began
to
beckon
to
me
again
repeatedly
with
her hand. I went
in
on
tiptoe. The
room
through the
lace
end
of
the blind
was
suffused
with
dusky
golden
light
amid
which
the candles looked
like
pale
thin
flames.
He
had been coffined. Nannie gave the lead
and
we
three
knelt
down
at
the
foot
of
the bed. I pretended
to
pray
but I
could
not
gather
my thoughts
because
the
old
woman's mutterings distracted me. I noticed
how
clumsily her
skirt
was
hooked
at
the
back
and
how
the heels
of
her
cloth
boots
were
trodden
down
all
to
one
side. The fancy came
to
me
that
the
old
priest
was
smiling
as
he
lay
there
in
his
coffin. But no.
When
we
rose
and
went
up
to
the
head
of
the
bed
I
saw
that
he
was
not smiling. There
he
lay,
solemn
and
copious, vested
as
for
the altar,
his
large
hands loosely retaining
a
chalice.
His
face
was
very
truculent, grey
and
massive,
with
black
cavernous
nostrils
and
circled
by
a
scanty
white
fur. There
was
a
heavy
odour
in
the room—the flowers.
We
blessed ourselves
and
came away.
In
the
little
room
downstairs
we
found Eliza seated
in
his
arm-chair
in
state. I groped my
way
towards
my
usual
chair
in
the
corner
while
Nannie went
to
the sideboard
and
brought
out
a
decanter
of
sherry
and
some
wine-glasses.
She
set
these
on
the table
and
invited
us
to
take
a
little
glass
of
wine. Then,
at
her sister's bidding,
she
filled
out
the
sherry
into
the glasses
and
passed
them
to
us.
She
pressed
me
to
take
some
cream crackers
also
but I declined
because
I
thought
I would
make
too
much
noise
eating them.
She
seemed
to
be
somewhat
disappointed
at
my refusal
and
went
over
quietly
to
the
sofa
where
she
sat
down
behind
her sister. No
one
spoke:
we
all gazed
at
the empty fireplace. My
aunt
waited
until
Eliza sighed
and
then
said: "Ah, well, he's gone
to
a
better
world." Eliza sighed
again
and
bowed her
head
in
assent. My
aunt
fingered the
stem
of
her wine-glass before sipping
a
little. "Did he... peacefully?"
she
asked. "Oh,
quite
peacefully, ma'am," said Eliza. "You couldn't
tell
when
the
breath
went
out
of
him.
He
had
a
beautiful death,
God
be
praised." "And everything...?" "Father O'Rourke
was
in
with
him
a
Tuesday
and
anointed
him
and
prepared
him
and
all." "He knew then?" "He
was
quite
resigned." "He looks
quite
resigned," said my aunt. "That's
what
the
woman
we
had
in
to
wash
him
said.
She
said
he
just
looked
as
if
he
was
asleep,
he
looked
that
peaceful
and
resigned. No
one
would
think
he'd
make
such
a
beautiful corpse." "Yes, indeed," said my aunt.
She
sipped
a
little
more
from
her glass
and
said: "Well,
Miss
Flynn,
at
any
rate
it
must
be
a
great
comfort
for
you
to
know
that
you
did
all
you
could
for
him.
You
were
both
very
kind
to
him, I
must
say." Eliza smoothed her dress
over
her knees. "Ah,
poor
James!"
she
said. "God knows
we
done all
we
could,
as
poor
as
we
are—we wouldn't
see
him
want
anything
while
he
was
in
it." Nannie had leaned her
head
against the sofa-pillow
and
seemed
about
to
fall
asleep. "There's
poor
Nannie," said Eliza, looking
at
her, "she's wore out. All the
work
we
had,
she
and
me, getting
in
the
woman
to
wash
him
and
then
laying
him
out
and
then
the
coffin
and
then
arranging
about
the
Mass
in
the chapel.
Only
for
Father O'Rourke I don't
know
what
we'd
have
done
at
all.
It
was
him
brought
us
all
them
flowers
and
them
two
candlesticks
out
of
the
chapel
and
wrote
out
the notice
for
the Freeman's
General
and
took
charge
of
all the papers
for
the
cemetery
and
poor
James's insurance." "Wasn't
that
good
of
him?" said my
aunt
Eliza closed her eyes
and
shook her
head
slowly. "Ah, there's no friends
like
the
old
friends,"
she
said, "when all
is
said
and
done, no friends
that
a
body
can
trust." "Indeed, that's true," said my aunt. "And I'm
sure
now
that
he's gone
to
his
eternal
reward
he
won't
forget
you
and
all your
kindness
to
him." "Ah,
poor
James!" said Eliza. "He
was
no
great
trouble
to
us.
You
wouldn't
hear
him
in
the
house
any
more
than
now. Still, I
know
he's gone
and
all
to
that...." "It's
when
it's all
over
that
you'll
miss
him," said my aunt. "I
know
that," said Eliza. "I won't
be
bringing
him
in
his
cup
of
beef-tea
any
more,
nor
you, ma'am, sending
him
his
snuff. Ah,
poor
James!"
She
stopped,
as
if
she
were
communing
with
the past
and
then
said shrewdly: "Mind you, I noticed there
was
something
queer coming
over
him
latterly. Whenever I'd
bring
in
his
soup
to
him
there I'd find
him
with
his
breviary
fallen
to
the floor, lying
back
in
the chair
and
his
mouth
open."
She
laid
a
finger
against her
nose
and
frowned:
then
she
continued: "But
still
and
all
he
kept
on
saying
that
before the
summer
was
over
he'd
go
out
for
a
drive
one
fine
day
just
to
see
the
old
house
again
where
we
were
all born
down
in
Irishtown
and
take
me
and
Nannie
with
him.
If
we
could
only
get
one
of
them
new-fangled carriages
that
makes no
noise
that
Father O'Rourke told
him
about—them
with
the
rheumatic
wheels—for the
day
cheap—he said,
at
Johnny Rush's
over
the
way
there
and
drive
out
the
three
of
us
together
of
a
Sunday evening.
He
had
his
mind
set
on
that....
Poor
James!" "The Lord
have
mercy
on
his
soul!" said my aunt. Eliza took
out
her handkerchief
and
wiped her eyes
with
it.
Then
she
put
it
back
again
in
her
pocket
and
gazed
into
the empty
grate
for
some
time
without speaking. "He
was
too
scrupulous
always,"
she
said. "The duties
of
the
priesthood
was
too
much
for
him.
And
then
his
life
was,
you
might
say, crossed." "Yes," said my aunt. "He
was
a
disappointed man.
You
could
see
that."
A
silence took
possession
of
the
little
room
and, under cover
of
it, I approached the table
and
tasted my
sherry
and
then
returned quietly
to
my chair
in
the comer. Eliza seemed
to
have
fallen
into
a
deep
revery.
We
waited respectfully
for
her
to
break
the silence:
and
after
a
long
pause
she
said slowly: "It
was
that
chalice
he
broke....
That
was
the
beginning
of
it.
Of
course,
they
say
it
was
all right,
that
it
contained nothing, I mean. But still....
They
say
it
was
the boy's fault. But
poor
James
was
so
nervous,
God
be
merciful
to
him!" "And
was
that
it?" said my aunt. "I heard something...." Eliza nodded. "That affected
his
mind,"
she
said. "After
that
he
began
to
mope
by
himself, talking
to
no
one
and
wandering
about
by
himself.
So
one
night
he
was
wanted
for
to
go
on
a
call
and
they
couldn't find
him
anywhere.
They
looked high
up
and
low
down;
and
still
they
couldn't
see
a
sight
of
him
anywhere.
So
then
the clerk suggested
to
try
the chapel.
So
then
they
got the keys
and
opened the
chapel
and
the clerk
and
Father O'Rourke
and
another
priest
that
was
there brought
in
a
light
for
to
look
for
him....
And
what
do
you
think
but there
he
was, sitting
up
by
himself
in
the dark
in
his
confession-box, wide-awake
and
laughing-like softly
to
himself?"
She
stopped suddenly
as
if
to
listen. I
too
listened; but there
was
no
sound
in
the house:
and
I knew
that
the
old
priest
was
lying
still
in
his
coffin
as
we
had seen him,
solemn
and
truculent
in
death, an idle
chalice
on
his
breast. Eliza resumed: "Wide-awake
and
laughing-like
to
himself....
So
then,
of
course,
when
they
saw
that,
that
made
them
think
that
there
was
something
gone
wrong
with
him...."