HIS ARM IS NOT SHORTENED
hen Anna had to choose between love and religion—the religion of an institution—she chose love. Her faith in God remained unshaken, but her methods of approach were the forms of love rather than the symbols or ceremonies of a sect. Twelve times in a quarter of a century she appeared publicly in the parish church. Each time it was to lay on the altar of religion the fruit of her love. Nine-tenths of those twelve congregations would not have known her if they had met her on the street. One-tenth were those who occupied the charity pews.
Religion in our town had arrayed the inhabitants into two hostile camps. She never had any sympathy with the fight. She was neutral. She pointed out to the fanatics around her that the basis of religion was love and that religion that expressed itself in faction fights must have hate at the bottom of it, not love. She had a philosophy of religion that worked. To the sects it would have been rank heresy, but the sects didn't know she existed and those who were benefited by her quaint and unique application of religion to life were almost as obscure as she was. I was the first to discover her "heresy" and oppose it. She lived to see me repent of my folly.
In a town of two thousand people less than two hundred were familiar with her face, and half of them knew her because at one time or another they had been to "Jamie's" to have their shoes made or mended, or because they lived in our immediate vicinity. Of the hundred who knew her face, less than half of them were familiar enough to call her "Anna." Of all the people who had lived in Antrim as long as she had, she was the least known.
No feast or function could budge her out of her corner. There came a time when her family became as accustomed to her refusal as she had to her environment and we ceased to coax or urge her. She never attended a picnic, a soirée or a dance in Antrim. One big opportunity for social intercourse amongst the poor is a wake—she never attended a wake. She often took entire charge of a wake for a neighbor, but she directed the affair from her corner.
She had a slim sort of acquaintance with three intellectual men. They were John Galt, William Green and John Gordon Holmes, vicars in that order of the parish of Antrim. They visited her once a year and at funerals—the funerals of her own dead. None of them knew her. They hadn't time, but there were members of our own family who knew as little of her mind as they did.
She did not seek obscurity. It seemed to have sought and found her. One avenue of escape after another was closed and she settled down at last to her lot in the chimney-corner. Her hopes, beliefs and aspirations were expressed in what she did rather than in what she said, though she said much, much that is still treasured, long after she has passed away.
Henry Lecky was a young fisherman on Lough Neagh. He was a great favorite with the children of the entries. He loved to bring us a small trout each when he returned after a long fishing trip. He died suddenly, and Eliza, his mother, came at once for help to the chimney corner.
"He's gone, Anna, he's gone!" she said as she dropped on the floor beside Anna.
"An' ye want me t' do for yer dead what ye'd do for mine, 'Liza?"
"Aye, aye, Anna, yer God's angel to yer frien's."
"Go an' fetch 'Liza Conlon, Jane Burrows and Marget Houston!" was Anna's order to Jamie.
The women came at once. The plan was outlined, the labor apportioned and they went to work. Jamie went for the carpenter and hired William Gainer to dig the grave. Eliza Conlon made the shroud, Jane Burrows and Anna washed and laid out the corpse, and Mrs. Houston kept Eliza in Anna's bed until the preliminaries for the wake were completed.
"Ye can go now, Mrs. Houston," Anna said, "an' I'll mind 'Liza."
"The light's gone out o' m' home an' darkness fills m' heart, Anna, an' it's the sun that'll shine for m' no more! Ochone, ochone!"
"'Liza dear, I've been where ye are now, too often not t' know that aanything that aanybody says is jist like spittin' at a burnin' house t' put it out. Yer boy's gone—we can't bring 'im back. Fate's cut yer heart in two an' oul Docther Time an' the care of God are about the only shure cures goin'."
"Cudn't the ministher help a little if he was here, Anna?"
"If ye think so I'll get him, 'Liza!"
"He might put th' love of God in me!"
"Puttin' th' love of God in ye isn't like stuffin' yer mouth with a pirta, 'Liza!"
"That's so, it is, but he might thry, Anna!"
"Well, ye'll haave 'im."
Mr. Green came and gave 'Liza what consolation he could. He read the appropriate prayer, repeated the customary words. He did it all in a tender tone and departed.
"Ye feel fine afther that, don't ye, 'Liza?"
"Aye, but Henry's dead an' will no come back!"
"Did ye expect Mr. Green t' bring 'im?"
"No."
"I dunno."
"Shure ye don't. Ye didn't expect aanything an' ye got jist what ye expected. Ah, wuman, God isn't a printed book t' be carried aroun' b' a man in fine clothes, nor a gold cross t' be danglin' at the watch chain ov a priest."
"What is he, Anna, yer wiser nor me; tell a poor craither in throuble, do!"
"If ye'll lie very quiet, 'Liza—jist cross yer hands and listen—if ye do, I'll thry!"
"Aye, bless ye, I'll blirt no more; go on!"
"Wee Henry is over there in his shroud, isn't he?"
"Aye, God rest his soul."
"He'll rest Henry's, 'Liza, but He'll haave the divil's own job wi' yours if ye don't help 'im."
"Och, aye, thin I'll be at pace."
"As I was sayin', Henry's body is jist as it was yesterday, han's, legs, heart an' head, aren't they?"
"Aye, 'cept cold an' stiff."
"What's missin' then?"
"His blessed soul, God love it."
"That's right. Now when the spirit laves th' body we say th' body's dead, but it's jist a partnership gone broke, wan goes up an' wan goes down. I've always thot that kissin' a corpse was like kissin' a cage whin the bird's dead—there's nothin' in it. Now answer me this, 'Liza Lecky: Is Henry a livin' spirit or a dead body?"
"A livin' spirit, God prosper it."
"Aye, an' God is th' same kind, but Henry's can be at but wan point at once, while God's is everywhere at once. He's so big He can cover the world an' so small He can get in be a crack in th' glass or a kayhole."
"I've got four panes broke, Anna!"
"Well, they're jist like four doores."
"Feeries can come in that way too."
"Aye, but feeries can't sew up a broken heart, acushla."
"Where's Henry's soul, Anna?" Eliza asked, as if the said soul was a naavy over whom Anna stood as gaffer.
"It may be here at yer bedhead now, but yer more in need of knowin' where God's Spirit is, 'Liza."
Jamie entered with a cup of tea.
"For a throubled heart," he said, "there's nothin' in this world like a rale good cup o' tay."
"God bless ye kindly, Jamie, I've a sore heart an' I'm as dhry as a whistle."
"Now Jamie, put th' cups down on th' bed," Anna said, "an' then get out, like a good bhoy!"
"I want a crack wi' Anna, Jamie," Eliza said.
"Well, ye'll go farther an' fare worse—she's a buffer at that!"
Eliza sat up in bed while she drank the tea. When she drained her cup she handed it over to Anna.
"Toss it, Anna, maybe there's good luck in it fur me."
"No, dear, it's a hoax at best; jist now it wud be pure blasphemy. Ye don't need luck, ye need at this minute th' help of God."
"Och, aye, ye're right; jist talk t' me ov Him."
"I was talkin' about His Spirit when Jamie came in."
"Aye."
"It comes in as many ways as there's need fur its comin', an' that's quite a wheen."
"God knows."
"Ye'll haave t' be calm, dear, before He'd come t' ye in aany way."
"Aye, but I'm at pace now, Anna, amn't I?"
"Well, now, get out here an' get down on th' floor on yer bare knees and haave a talk wi' 'im."
Eliza obeyed implicitly. Anna knelt beside her.
"I don't know what t' say."
"Say afther me," and Anna told of an empty home and a sore heart. When she paused, Eliza groaned.
"Now tell 'im to lay 'is hand on yer tired head in token that He's wi' ye in yer disthress!"
Even to a dull intellect like Eliza's the suggestion was startling.
"Wud He do it, Anna?"
"Well, jist ask 'im an' then wait an' see!"
In faltering tones Eliza made her request and waited. As gently as falls an autumn leaf Anna laid her hand on Eliza's head, held it there for a moment and removed it.
"Oh, oh, oh, He's done it, Anna, He's done it, glory be t' God, He's done it!"
"Rise up, dear," Anna said, "an' tell me about it."
"There was a nice feelin' went down through me, Anna, an' th' han' was jist like yours!"
"The han' was mine, but it was God's too."
Anna wiped her spectacles and took Eliza over close to the window while she read a text of the Bible. "Listen, dear," Anna said, "God's arm is not shortened."
"Did ye think that an arm could be stretched from beyont th' clouds t' Pogue's entry?"
"Aye."
"No, dear, but God takes a han' where ever He can find it and jist diz what He likes wi' it. Sometimes He takes a bishop's and lays it on a child's head in benediction, then He takes the han' of a dochter t' relieve pain, th' han' of a mother t' guide her chile, an' sometimes He takes th' han' of an aul craither like me t' give a bit comfort to a neighbor. But they're all han's touch't be His Spirit, an' His Spirit is everywhere lukin' fur han's to use."
Eliza looked at her open-mouthed for a moment.
"Tell me, Anna," she said, as she put her hands on her shoulders, "was th' han' that bro't home trouts fur th' childther God's han' too?"
"Aye, 'deed it was."
"Oh, glory be t' God—thin I'm at pace—isn't it gran' t' think on—isn't it now?"
Eliza Conlon abruptly terminated the conversation by announcing that all was ready for the wake.
"Ah, but it's the purty corpse he is," she said, "—luks jist like life!" The three women went over to the Lecky home. It was a one-room place. The big bed stood in the corner. The corpse was "laid out" with the hands clasped.
The moment Eliza entered she rushed to the bed and fell on her knees beside it. She was quiet, however, and after a moment's pause she raised her head and laying a hand on the folded hands said: "Ah, han's ov God t' be so cold an' still!"
Anna stood beside her until she thought she had stayed long enough, then led her gently away. From that moment Anna directed the wake and the funeral from her chimney-corner.
"Here's a basket ov flowers for Henry, Anna, the childther gethered thim th' day," Maggie McKinstry said as she laid them down on the hearthstones beside Anna.
"Ye've got some time, Maggie?"
"Oh, aye."
"Make a chain ov them an' let it go all th' way aroun' th' body, they'll look purty that way, don't ye think so?"
"Illigant, indeed, to be shure! 'Deed I'll do it." And it was done.
To Eliza Conlon was given the task of providing refreshments. I say "task," for after the carpenter was paid for the coffin and Jamie Scott for the hearse there was only six shillings left.
"Get whey for th' childther," Anna said, and "childther" in this catalog ran up into the twenties.
For the older "childther" there was something from Mrs. Lorimer's public house—something that was kept under cover and passed around late, and later still diluted and passed around again. Concerning this item Anna said: "Wather it well, dear, an' save their wits; they've got little enough now, God save us all!"
"Anna," said Sam Johnson, "I am told you have charge of Henry's wake. Is there anything I can do?"
Sam was the tall, imperious precentor of the Mill Row meeting-house. He was also the chief baker of the town and "looked up to" in matters relating to morals as well as loaves.
"Mister Gwynn has promised t' read a chapther, Mister Johnson. He'll read, maybe, the fourteenth of John. If he diz, tell him t' go aisy over th' twelth verse an' explain that th' works He did can be done in Antrim by any poor craither who's got th' Spirit."
Sam straightened up to his full height and in measured words said:
"Ye know, no doubt, Anna, that Misther Gwynn is a Churchman an' I'm a Presbyterian. He wouldn't take kindly to a hint from a Mill Row maan, I fear, especially on a disputed text."
"Well, dear knows if there's aanything this oul world needs more than another it's an undisputed text. Couldn't ye find us wan, Misther Johnson?"
"All texts are disputed," he said, "but there are texts not in dispute."
"I think I could name wan at laste, Mister Johnson."
"Maybe."
"'Deed no, not maybe at all, but sure-be. Jamie dear, get m' th' Bible if ye plaze."
While Jamie got the Bible she wiped her glasses and complained in a gentle voice about the "mortal pity of it" that texts were pins for Christians to stick in each other's flesh.
"Here it is," she said, "'Th' poor ye haave always with ye.'"
"Aye," Sam said, "an' how true it is."
"'Deed it's true, but who did He mane by 'ye'?"
"Th' world, I suppose."
"Not all th' world, by a spoonful, but a wheen of thim like Sandy Somerville, who's got a signboard in front of his back that tells he ates too much while the rest of us haave backbones that could as aisily be felt before as behine!"
"So that's what you call an undisputed text?"
She looked over the rim of her spectacles at him for a moment in silence, and then said, slowly:
"Ochane—w-e-l-l—tell Mister Gwynn t' read what he likes, it'll mane th' same aanyway."
Kitty Coyle came in. Henry and she were engaged. They had known each other since childhood. Her eyes were red with weeping. Henry's mother led her by the arm.
"Anna, dear," Eliza said, "she needs ye as much as me. Give 'er a bit ov comfort."
They went into the little bedroom and the door was shut. Jamie stood as sentry.
When they came out young Johnny Murdock, Henry's chum, was sitting on Jamie's workbench.
"I want ye t' take good care of Kitty th' night, Johnny. Keep close t' 'er and when th' moon comes out take 'er down the garden t' get fresh air. It'll be stuffy wi' all th' people an' the corpse in Lecky's."
"Aye," he said, "I'll do all I can." To Kitty she said, "I've asked Johnny t' keep gey close t' ye till it's all over, Kitty. Ye'll understand."
"Aye," Kitty said, "Henry loved 'im more'n aany maan on th' Lough!"
"Had tay yit?" Willie Withero asked as he blundered in on the scene.
"No, Willie, 'deed we haaven't thought ov it!"
"Well, t' haave yer bowels think yer throat's cut isn't sauncy!" he said.
The fire was low and the kettle cold.
"Here, Johnny," Withero said, "jist run over t' Farren's for a ha'p'orth ov turf an' we'll haave a cup o' tay fur these folks who're workin' overtime palaverin' about th' dead! Moses alive, wan corpse is enough fur a week or two—don't kill us all entirely!"
Shortly after midnight Anna went over to see how things were at the wake. They told her of the singing of the children, of the beautiful chapther by Misther Gwynn, and the "feelin'" by Graham Shannon. The whey was sufficient and nearly everybody had "a dhrap o' th' craither" and a bite of fadge.
"Ah, Anna dear," Eliza said, "shure it's yerself that knows how t' make a moi'ty go th' longest distance over dhry throats an' empty stomachs! 'Deed it was a revival an' a faste in wan, an' th' only pity is that poor Henry cudn't enjoy it!"
The candles were burned low in the sconces, the flowers around the corpse had faded, a few tongues, loosened by stimulation, were still wagging, but the laughter had died down and the stories were all told. There had been a hair-raising ghost story that had sent a dozen home before the respectable time of departure. The empty stools had been carried outside and were largely occupied by lovers.
Anna drew Eliza's head to her breast and pressing it gently to her said, "I'm proud of ye, dear, ye've borne up bravely! Now I'm goin' t' haave a few winks in th' corner, for there'll be much to do th' morra."
Scarcely had the words died on her lips when Kitty Coyle gave vent to a scream of terror that brought the mourners to the door and terrified those outside.
"What ails ye, in th' name of God?" Anna asked. She was too terrified to speak at once. The mourners crowded closely together.
"Watch!" Kitty said as she pointed with her finger toward Conlon's pigsty. Johnny Murdock had his arm around Kitty's waist to keep her steady and assure her of protection. They watched and waited. It was a bright moonlight night, and save for the deep shadows of the houses and hedges as clear as day. Tensely nerve-strung, open-mouthed and wild-eyed stood the group for what seemed to them hours. In a few minutes a white figure was seen emerging from the pigsty. The watchers were transfixed in terror. Most of them clutched at each other nervously. Old Mrs. Houston, the midwife who had told the ghost story at the wake, dropped in a heap. Peter Hannen and Jamie Wilson carried her indoors.
The white figure stood on the pathway leading through the gardens for a moment and then returned to the sty. Most of the watchers fled to their homes. Some didn't move because they had lost the power to do so. Others just stood.
"It's a hoax an' a joke," Anna said. "Now wan of you men go down there an' see!"
No one moved. Every eye was fixed on the pigsty. A long-drawn-out, mournful cry was heard. It was all that tradition had described as the cry of the Banshee.
"The Banshee it is! Ah, merciful God, which ov us is t' b' tuk, I wondther?" It was Eliza who spoke, and she continued, directing her talk to Anna, "An' it's th' long arm ov th' Almighty it is raychin' down t' give us a warnin', don't ye think so now, Anna?"
"If it's wan arm of God, I know where th' other is, 'Liza!" Addressing the terror-stricken watchers, Anna said:
"Stand here, don't budge, wan of ye!"
Along the sides of the houses in the deep shadow Anna walked until she got to the end of the row; just around the corner stood the sty. In the shadow she stood with her back to the wall and waited. The watchers were breathless and what they saw a minute later gave them a syncope of the heart that they never forgot. They saw the white figure emerge again and they saw Anna stealthily approach and enter into what they thought was a struggle with it. They gasped when they saw her a moment later bring the white figure along with her. As she came nearer it looked limp and pliable, for it hung over her arm.
"It's that divil, Ben Green!" she said as she threw a white sheet at their feet.
"Hell roast 'im on a brandther!" said one.
"The divil gut 'im like a herrin'!" said another. Four of the younger men, having been shamed by their own cowardice, made a raid on the sty, and next day when Ben came to the funeral he looked very much the worse for wear.
Ben was a friend of Henry's and a good deal of a practical joker. Anna heard of what happened and she directed that he be one of the four men to lower the coffin into the grave, as a moiety of consolation. Johnny Murdock made strenuous objections to this.
"Why?" Anna asked.
"Bekase," he said, "shure th' divil nearly kilt Kitty be th' fright!"
"But she was purty comfortable th' rest of th' time?"
"Oh, aye."
"Ye lifted a gey big burden from 'er heart last night, didn't ye, Johnny?"
"Aye; an' if ye won't let on I'll tell ye, Anna." He came close and whispered into her ear: "Am goin' t' thry danged hard t' take th' heart as well as th' throuble!"
"What diz Kitty think?"
"She's switherin'."