“He’s his father’s son,” said Ellen, bitingly.
The list of names was gone quickly through; those intending to walk in the cortège as far as the church fell in, and all moved slowly down the street, O’Connor at their head.
Larry Murphy’s recollections of what followed were but dim; through a sort of haze he heard the chanting priests, and saw the swinging censers, and his mind retained but little of what the pastor said in regard to the old man’s life and acts. He had been but a child when his father lay at the same altar rail, but his remembrance of that was vivid. The organ was silent then; the church was deserted save for a few friends, and a single priest performed the hurried service. It came back to him that he had cried bitterly; not that he had much idea of what was happening, but the dull light that crept in through the stained windows seemed to add to the gloom that filled the church, and a vague sense of loss had clutched at his childish heart. He did not begrudge the pomp that marked his grandfather’s burial services, but he thought that the old man could have spared a little from his store, that his dead son might have gone to the grave in a fitting manner, and not wait until death’s hand was upon him before giving a sign.
But it was all over now; the pall-bearers had drunk their glasses of red wine, crumbled their pieces of sweet cake, shaken hands with Larry and departed. The Kellys had remained until Johnnie Kerrigan had informed them that the entire property had gone to Larry, and then left in a gust of anger.
The young man and Mary were alone. She sat by the window, crying softly; he stood with his back to the stove, his hands clasped behind him, staring at the bright pattern in the carpet.
He was trying to think of something to say that would ease her grief; but all that came to his mind seemed vapid and without much meaning. He had been thinking of her a great deal during the last few days and it hurt him to see her cry. He had never spoken to her before the day of his grandfather’s death; but he had seen her often on the street and at the church—when he went there—and he had often marvelled at the calm purity of her face. He had heard much of her in different ways; of her goodness of heart, of her gentle ways, of her deep love and veneration for the faith in which she had been reared. He had lived rough, a young man in his place could hardly help it; and he had seen, and said, and done things which would have made him hang his head had she known; but, for all, he liked, as most men do, reverence for holy things in a woman. It was Mary that broke the silence.
“Mrs. McGonagle will take care of the house for you until you have time to get settled,” she said. And he looked at her blankly, not understanding. “I will stay with a friend for a while,” she continued, “for I haven’t had time to think of anything yet.”
“You’re goin’ away, then?”
“To be sure!” wonderingly. “This is your home now, and I can’t stay here, you know.”
“That’s so,” said he. He hadn’t thought of it before; and now that he did his heart sank a little at her helplessness. She fumbled at the catch of her mourning glove; he looked at her for a long time, thinking of another—of the tall, splendid girl whom he had known best as a child and playmate. But she seemed far away now; her people were his people no longer. Ah, yes that was it: Education had done much for this girl of whom he had dreamed since boyhood; but association had done more; and she seemed as far away as though she had dwelt upon a star. He could never reach her plane; and of late years he had only thought of her as one thinks of the dream-built hopes of youth. At last he said to Mary: