A week passed; the hour was twelve o’clock on a Saturday night. The clocks were striking midnight but the streets were still crowded with people. A boat could be heard hooting on the Broomielaw; a train whistling at Enoch Street station. A woman came along a narrow lane on the Cowcaddens, shouldering her way amongst the people, and abusing in no polite terms those who obstructed her way. She wore a shawl almost torn to shreds and she staggered a little as she walked. Her features were far from prepossessing; dry hacks dented her cheeks and brow; her lips were rough and almost bloodless and wisps of draggled hair hung over her face. As she walked along she broke into snatches of song from time to time. Under the gaslight staring eyes set in sickly or swarthy faces glared at her; rude remarks and meaningless jokes were made; sounds of laughter rose, echoed and died away. Suddenly a noise, loud as a rising gale, swept through the lane; a man hurried past and rushed along the streets, a young girl followed. The crowd, as if actuated by one common impulse, scurried past the woman, yelling and shrieking. A drunken man stared stupidly after the mob, then fell like a wet sack to the pavement; a labourer struck against the prostrate body; “What are ye greetin’ for?” asked the woman in the ragged shawl. “Have ye lost yerself?” “I want me mither!” wailed the child. “Ye’re here, are ye?” cried a stout, brazen-faced woman, ambling up and seizing the infant, who was trying to chew a penny which the stranger had just given it. “It’s a lass that’s fainted on the pavement,” explained the mother, pointing to the crowd. “I think the corner boys, rascals that they are, were playin’ tricks on her.” “That’s always the way with people,” said the strange woman. “See and don’t let the child swallow the bawbee.” With these words she hurried into the press of people, the corners of her shawl fluttering round her. A group of ragged men and women stood on the pavement, chattering noisily. Against the wall a frail form was propped up between two young girls, one of whom had a frightened look on her face; the other was smiling and chewing an orange. A man, lighting a pipe and sheltering the match under the palm of his hand, made some suggestion as to what should be done, but nobody paid any heed. The woman with the torn shawl elbowed her way through the crowd, and came to a standstill when she caught sight of the girl propped up on the pavement. “It’s Norah Ryan!” she exclaimed. “That’s the name,” a female in the crowd said. “She lives up 42. She’s a woman of the kind that.... But ye ken what I mean.” “And ye’d let her die here, wi’out givin’ a hand to help her!” cried the new-comer, turning fiercely on the speaker. “Help me to take the lass to her house.” The two girls assisted by two men helped the woman to carry Norah upstairs. The crowd followed, pressing in and shoving against those in front. Someone made a rude remark and the laughter which greeted it floated far up even to the topmost landing, where the paralysed beggar, somewhat the worse for liquor, was singing one of his cheery songs. IITHE accident to Norah happened in this way. After seeing the Irish diggers come out of the chapel, she felt a sudden desire to go and confess her sins to the young priest. This desire she did not strive to explain or analyse; she only knew that she would be happy in some measure if she went to the chapel again. The memory of her sins began to trouble her. How many they had been! she thought. From that night when a ring sparkled in the darkness outside Morrison’s farmhouse up till now, when she was a common woman of the streets, what a life she had led! With her mind aspiring towards heaven she became conscious of the mire in which her feet were set; the religion of childhood was now making itself heard in the heart of the woman. Nature had given Norah a power peculiarly her own that enabled her to endure suffering and in turn counselled resignation; but that power was now gone. She required something to lean against, and her heart turned to the faith of which the little black crucifix on the mantelpiece was the emblem. On the Saturday evening following her meeting with the potato-diggers she went to confession. She entered the chapel, her shawl drawn tightly over her head and almost concealing her face, which looked fair, white and childlike, seen through the half-light of the large building. Although she tried to walk softly her boots made a loud clatter on the floor and the echo caught the sound and carried it far down through nave and chancel. A few candles, little white ghosts with halos of feeble flame around their heads, threw a dim light on the golden ornaments of the altar and the figure of the Christ standing out in bold relief against the darkness over the sacristy door. The sanctuary lamp, hanging from the roof and swaying backwards and forwards, showed like a big red eye. Outside the confessional a number of men and women were seated on long forms; one or two were kneeling, their rosaries clicking as the beads ran through their fingers. Those seated, with eyes sparkling brightly whenever they turned their heads, looked like white-faced spirits. An old man was shuffling uneasily, his nailed boots rasping on the floor from time to time; a woman having been seized with the hiccough rose and went out, and the row on the seat gathered closer, each no doubt pleased at the prospect of getting in advance of at least one other sinner. Norah sat down at the end of the row, a strange fluttering in her heart, and her fingers opening and closing nervously. She felt that the penitents knew her, that they would arise suddenly and accuse her of her sins. A man opposite looked fixedly at her and she hung her head. The low mumbling voice of the priest saying the words of absolution over a sinner could be heard coming from the confessional. But had there ever been a sinner as bad as she was? Norah asked herself. For her sins it was so hard to ask forgiveness. “Never, never will I get absolution,” she said under her breath. Then she began to wonder if the young, pleasant-faced priest who talked to the potato-diggers was in the confessional. He would not be hard on her; he looked so kind and gentle! “I’m afeared, very afeared,” she whispered to herself. “I’ll not go in this time; I’ll go away and come back again.” But even as she spoke the woman with the hiccough came back and took up her position on the end of the seat. Norah found that she could not get away now without disturbing the woman. She bowed her head and began to pray. IIISHE could not see the priest in the confessional, but could hear him breathing in short, laboured pants like a very fat old woman. It couldn’t be the young man, Norah thought, as she went down on her knees and began the “Confiteor.” The priest hurried over the words in a weary voice; Norah repeated them after him, stopping now and again to draw her breath. A sensation, almost akin to that which precedes drowning, gripped her throat. “What sins have ye committed?” asked the priest. “Tell me the greatest first.” “I am a woman of the streets.” She had now taken the plunge and felt calmer as she waited to be asked a question. “God’s merciful,” said the priest, and his voice was tinged with interest. “Go on.” “I am the mother of a child that died but was never christened,” said Norah. “It was all through my own fault.” “You haven’t been married?” “No,” said the girl, with a shudder. “I often thought of takin’ my own life.” “Yes.” “I took to drink and then threw the picture of the Blessed Virgin and a stoup of holy water into the fire.” She paused. “Ye’ve given up the life of the streets?” enquired the priest in a voice teeming with curiosity. “I have,” answered Norah. “Did ye like it?” “No.” The answer was the echo of a whisper almost. “God’s merciful,” said the priest. His tones seemed hoarse with the passion of a sensuous youth. “And yer other sins?” he asked. IVSHE prayed for a long time before the altar, mingling tears with her prayers. Footfalls came and went, but nobody paid any heed to the kneeling woman. Of this she was glad. Norah wanted to do good, as other people commit evil actions, secretly. The trembling shadows thrown by the sanctuary lamp played round the Christ who, with outstretched hand, stood over the sacristy door. How great and serious the Saviour looked! The girl imagined that He was thinking of some great secret belonging to humanity but hidden so deeply that it was unknown to man. At ten o’clock she returned to her room and sat there for a long while. A great peace had stolen into her soul, a peace that was mingled with no regrets. She had forgotten the pain in her shoulder, forgotten everything but the figure of the Christ over the sacristy door, and the hand that was held out above her head as if in blessing. It was near midnight when she went out to buy provisions “Ah! here’s one that’ll hae some siller, the kip-shop wench!” shouted one of the roughs, a big, round-shouldered rascal, on seeing Norah. “Fork out, my pretty, and gie us some tin.” “Fork out!” roared the rest of the gang in chorus. Norah stood undecided, one foot in the gutter, one on the pavement. The grocer’s shop was a dozen paces away. “The cops will be here in a jiffy,” someone shouted in a tense whisper. “Search her!” Then followed a wild rush and Norah was conscious of many things in the next few minutes. The air seemed suddenly charged with the fumes of alcohol; hands seized her, rough fingers fumbled at her blouse, opened it and rested on her breasts; a whistle was blown, she fell to the pavement, got dragged for a few paces on the wet street and was pulled to her feet again. Someone laid hands on her purse and took it out; a scramble ensued, then a fight for the money. Norah was thrown down again and trampled upon. The hooligans tore the purse and several coins fell to the ground. A second whistle was blown, and the crowd disappeared, leaving Norah lying in a dead faint on the pavement. VWHEN she recovered consciousness she was in her own room, lying on the bed. The lamp was lit and she could hear the coal crackling in the fire. She raised herself up in bed and looked enquiringly around. “And how are ye, Norah Ryan?” asked the stranger. “It’s Ellen that’s in it,” exclaimed Norah, sinking back on the pillow, but more from surprise than from weariness. “Where have ye come from, Ellen?” “I was in the street,” explained the woman, who was indeed Ellen—Gourock Ellen. “I saw ye lyin’ on the pavement and I kent ye at once. A woman in the crowd knew where ye lived.... Ye hae nae muckle changed, Norah Ryan. Ye’re just the same as ye was when I saw ye last in Jim Scanlon’s squad. And d’ye mind how me and ye was in the one bed?” “Ellen, I’m glad that ye came,” said Norah in a low voice. “I used to be often thinkin’ of ye, Ellen.” “Thinkin’ of me, lass?” exclaimed Ellen, bending over the bed, but keeping her lips as far away as possible from Norah lest the young woman should detect the smell of whisky off her breath. “Why were ye thinkin’ about me? Someone worthier should be in your thoughts.... The rascals in the streets! Ah, the muckle scamps! They should be run into the nick and never let out again. Ill-treatin’ a little lassie like you!” Norah looked up at the woman. Ellen’s pock-marked face was still full of the same unfailing good nature which belonged to her years before when she worked in Micky’s Jim’s squad. “Where is Annie?” “I dinna ken. She went off with a man and I haven’t seen her never since.” Ellen smiled, but so slightly that the smile did not change the expression of her eyes. “Ye don’t tell me! And ye’ve never been back at the squad again?” “Never back. I was times workin’ at the rag-pickin’ and times gatherin’ coal from the free coup.” “That’s what Mary Martin done,” Norah exclaimed. “She was a woman known to me.” “And ye kent old Mary!” said Ellen. “Me and her have worked together for many’s a day, makin’ a shillin’ a day each at the job.” The woman paused. “Are ye feelin’ a wee better, Norah?” she asked presently. “I’m fine, Ellen,” was the answer. “I could get up and run about and I’m not in the least sleepy. What were the corner boys wantin’ to do?” “They wanted siller——” “My purse, Ellen! Have they taken it from me?” Norah searched nervously in the pockets of her dress. “I’m afeared that they have.” “Mother of God! I haven’t one penny now, Ellen, not one brown penny!” Norah exclaimed. “It’ll be the streets for me again.” “We’ll get along somehow, if we work together,” said Ellen. “We’ll work together; that’s the way,” Norah whispered after a moment’s consideration. “Twa is always better than yin,” Ellen replied. Norah looked closely at the woman as if puzzling out something; then her eyes closed gently and quietly and she fell asleep. She awoke several times during the night, mumbled incoherent words, then sank into a deep slumber again. And all night Gourock Ellen watched over Norah Ryan. Morning found her still sitting beside the bed, weary-eyed but patient, her eyes fixed on the face of the sleeping girl. |