Free Strumpet City by James Plunkett

One has moral responsibilities in the case of a servant.’
    But Mary’s departure was delayed by the illness of Miss Gilchrist. The old woman’s collapse was gradual. In the course of the Christmas cleaning Mary helped her to shift the heavy furniture and noted the toll it took of her strength. She refused to rest on the grounds that the work had to be done. One day when they had moved the sideboard near the piano they discovered Father O’Connor’s beads, an amber and silver rosary in a worn purse. Miss Gilchrist put them in her apron pocket, saying she would return them personally later. Father O’Connor had become a favourite of hers and she recognised his property at once. She regarded him as something of a saint and never missed going to him for her monthly confession.
    Less than an hour later she collapsed. Mary shouted for Mrs. Bradshaw and together they managed to take her to her room. They got her to bed. Mary lit the lamp and drew the curtains, cutting out the gloom of the December evening. The pallor of Miss Gilchrist’s face and her heavy breathing frightened her. They stayed watching her for a while until Mrs. Bradshaw said: ‘I think it would be as well to go for the doctor.’
    During the next few days Mary, in between frequent errands, found an opportunity to contact Fitz again. She asked him to be near the gate at midnight on the following Sunday. Sunday was an early night in the Bradshaw household. When the rest had retired she would somehow get out to see him.
    She made it a habit to sit with Miss Gilchrist during the night until after midnight. The old woman recovered a little, but remained too weak to be allowed up. On Sunday evening Father O’Connor called to see her. She had asked Mary to summon him. Mary left everything ready for the priest and withdrew. He gave no sign of being aware of the pending dismissal. When Miss Gilchrist had confessed to him he removed his purple stole, kissed it and folded it. He looked round the room. Miss Gilchrist smiled.
    ‘Haven’t I the height of comfort, Father,’ she said.
    ‘You have indeed,’ Father O’Connor said. ‘You’re the lucky woman.’
    ‘That shows you that I’m highly thought of.’
    ‘Are you long here?’ Father O’Connor asked.
    ‘Over thirty years.’
    ‘Then why wouldn’t you be highly thought of?’ he bantered, not without difficulty. He found it difficult to be easy and natural with a servant.
    ‘It isn’t always so,’ she said. ‘There’s some would dump you in an attic without fire or comfort.’
    ‘And who would have the heartlessness to do that?’ Father O’Connor reproved.
    ‘Many’s the one. I seen it and I know. Or pack you off to the Union the minute you showed a sign of feebleness. And why not, I suppose, when a poor body is not of their blood.’
    ‘Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw are good people,’ he said.
    ‘That’s what I’m saying, Father.’
    ‘And most people are good too, but gossip doesn’t give them credit.’ He felt it might be no harm to slip in a few words about the danger of uncharitable talk. But he got no chance.
    The old woman said next: ‘Hand me across my apron, Father.’
    He looked around, searching, and saw it draped on a chair. A tiny wave of irritation at being commanded by the old woman moved inside him but was suppressed. He handed it to her. She rooted for the pocket and gave him the purse.
    ‘I found them for you when we were cleaning,’ she said, with wonderful pleasure.
    He opened the purse and let the beads fall into his hands. To have them again choked him with happiness.
    ‘My rosary,’ was all he could say, ‘how can I thank you . . . ?’
    ‘You can say a little prayer for me.’
    ‘They were my mother’s. I’d rather lose anything than these.’
    Miss Gilchrist lay still, taking in his happiness, smiling in sympathy with it.
    ‘God bless you,’ he said. On an impulse he placed his hand lightly on her head and murmured his formal blessing. She closed her eyes