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.
II
THE 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.