Lovers' Saint Ruth's, and Three Other Tales — John Shaqi
Lovers' Saint Ruth's, and Three Other TalesGuiney, Louise Imogen
General
Lovers' Saint Ruth's, and Three Other Tales
Guiney, Louise Imogen
American fiction -- 19th century; Short stories, American
His mother broke down, and could toil no longer. Mrs. Drogan, who
lived downstairs, began to come up with her mending, and sit between
the bed and the window. Nora was clever, for so young a girl; but she
stumbled a great deal in her roomy charity boots, and had to be scolded
for awkwardness by Mrs. Drogan, who had brought up sixteen rebels, and
was disposed to command. As for Winny and Dan, they made a noise, and
therefore had to be exiled to the street, foul and dangerous as it was,
almost all day, while the invalid slept the sleep of utter exhaustion.
It occurred often to Hughey, and with increasing force, that to secure
a future good, he was doing a very vicious wrong; that it would be far
better for his mother to have the money now, to provide comforts and
make her well, than for her to do without it now, and be too feeble
in consequence to enjoy it when it would come, all in a lump. Heavy
and sharp was this dilemma to the little fellow, as he labelled the
great bales, or set Mr. Hoggett's dusted ledgers back on their shelves.
"Phwhat ought I be doin'?" he would groan aloud, when he was alone.
If he confessed to his mother, and handed over hereafter the total of
his wages, there was an end to the big income sprouting and budding
wondrously at Belfast, the income which would be hers yet, with ever so
little patience. But if he should not confess, and, meanwhile, if she
should not recover,--what would all the world's wealth be then to poor
Hughey?
October was damp and dispiriting; Mrs. O'Kinsella coughed more, but
apparently suffered little. Hughey still brought her, week by week,
his pittance of a shilling and sixpence. Ill as she was, her alert
instinct divined that something ailed him; she pitied him, and worried
about him, and kissed his tears away with a blessing, very often.
Doctor Nugent was called in for the first time, one rainy noon. He
told Mrs. Drogan, laconically, that his patient was going to die, and
stopped her gesture of remonstrance. "Say nothing to those children of
hers," he added, aside, on the threshold; "there is no immediate need
of it, and the eldest looks melancholy enough without it."
But the eldest was at his elbow. With a still ardor painful to see,
he raised himself close to the tall doctor, and whispered into his
ear. "Phwhat wud save me mother? Wudn't money do it, MONEY?" The boy
looked so thrillingly, impressively earnest that the doctor rose to the
occasion. "Perhaps! That is, a winter in France or Italy might delay
the end. But dear me! how on earth--" His voice wavered, and he hurried
down.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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