The Alchemist's Secret

by Isabel Cecilia Williams

NANCY'S TALE.

"Dear, dear! but God's ways are wonderful, there's no denyin' that. Many a time we poor mortals think if we only had the handlin' of things, the world would be a pleasanter place for some of us, but I reckon the Lord knows His own business best. He usually manages to bring things out right in the end, so He does."

Nancy sat before the kitchen stove, rocking to and fro, and gazing abstractedly before her. Her mood was a reminiscent one and I knew if I gave her time enough she would launch forth into one of the interesting narratives of which she possessed a goodly store. To have interrupted her train of thought by even a whisper would have been fatal; silence and patience must be my watch-words. Presently she turned to me with the query:

"'Member Mona, the old apple-woman you met here about a year ago?"

Remember the apple-woman? Indeed I did; once having met Mona it was impossible to forget her. Besides, she was, one might say, one of the landmarks of the town, the frail, shadowy little woman who sold her apples and peanuts and candy from her stand on the street-corner. Nancy's words reminded me that I had not seen Mona lately at her usual place of business.

"Well," resumed Nancy, "Mona's gone, gone forever. Poor Mona! It's the hard life she's had, and I'm after thinkin' she's not sorry that it's over and she's found peace an' happiness at last. Want to know her story? Well, I'll tell it to you, for it's me that can, havin' known her since we was wee scraps of babies playin' on the floor together back there in the old country. Yes, indeed, we were babies together, we grew up together, an' we come out here to America on the same ship. Dear, dear, how long ago that was, an' it don't seem much more than yesterday.

"Well, as I was sayin', times was mighty hard in Ireland that year, specially in the little town where me an' Mona was born an' reared. Crops failed, work was slack; finally, famine an' pestilence took possession of the land. Ah! child, child, you cannot dream what them words mean, famine an' pestilence. To see the rich growin' poor, the poor starvin' an' dyin' on every hand; the little children cryin' with cold an' hunger, an' the fathers an' mothers with ne'er a scrap of food to give 'em. That was the state of things in Ireland the year we left it.

"The plague had carried off my father an' mother, my brothers was all married an' moved away, an' my only sister was at service in London, so when Mona begged me to come to America with her an' Michael an' the little ones, I just jumped at the chance. Michael was a good fellow, sober an' industrious, but there was no work to be had at home and he had heard such wonders of the land across the sea. There, a man that was a man had no trouble in findin' work an' making a comfortable livin' for himself an' family. He wanted to leave Mona with his sister in Dublin, who offered to care for her an' the children until he'd made a home for 'em in the country he was goin' to. But no, Mona wouldn't hear to that. She'd promised at God's altar to take him for better or worse an' to cling to him till death. Because the worse had come, she wasn't goin' to desert him an' let him go out alone to the cold land of the stranger to fight his battle all by himself. She'd go with him an' stand by him and help an' comfort him in his struggles. She knew she could help him. She'd been taught by the nuns an' could do all sorts of fine sewin'. In America, as in Dublin, there must be rich ladies who would pay well for a bit of fine embroidery or hand-made lace. No, no, Mona wouldn't be left behind; he must take her an' the little ones, no matter what was before them. It was settled at last that we was all to go together, an' so, one bright mornin' we stood on the deck of the ship that was carryin' us far away from home an' all we loved, far away to the strange land across the sea. With the tears runnin' down our faces, we waved farewell to the shores of Ireland, an' Mona, though she didn't know it, was wavin' farewell to happiness in this world. Poor girl, it's little she knew from that day on but grief an' trouble an' sufferin'.

"Well, child, as I was sayin', it was the fine, bright mornin' that we left Ireland, but the good weather held for only a few days after. Then, there blew up such a storm as I never see before an' hope never to see again. It was fearful, fearful. I couldn't describe it to you if I tried. We just lay in our berths, every one of us, our backs agin the wall, our knees braced agin the board in front, an' we holdin' on for dear life expectin' every moment to be dashed out on to the floor an' have all our bones broken. We was too frightened to say a word, but we prayed, oh, my! how we did pray, every mother's son of us. For nigh onto three days that poor boat struggled on bravely agin the ragin' storm, but the ship wasn't built that could live in that sea, an' the end was bound to come sooner or later. Come, it did, at last. An officer stood on the stairs orderin' us all up onto the deck; the ship had sprung a leak, the water was pourin' in faster than they could pump it out, an' we must take to the boats at once.

"I never can remember rightly what happened then. It seems now such a confusin' jumble of men, women and childer, all screamin' an' rushin' for the stairs, and all the time the wind was a howlin' an' the vessel was groanin' an' pitchin' so you had to cling to whatever was nearest to keep on your feet at all. I don't know how we got there, but the next thing I remember was standin' on the deck an' hangin' on to something to keep from bein' washed overboard by the great waves that broke over the ship an' flooded her from stem to stern. Mona stood near me with the baby on her arm an' holdin' tight to the hand of little Gerald who hid his face in her skirt an' sobbed in terror. Michael was beside her, one arm holdin' her close while with the other he hung onto the railin' just as I was doin'. Pretty soon, the boats was lowered an' everyone made a rush for 'em. There was a shout of: