Free Shanty Irish by Jim Tully Page B

nest—may your bed be made of roses in Heaven.”
    He turned and looked into the unyielding eyes of his mother, then walked toward her. Sons and husband assembled in a group about the old lady. The horse thief pushed them aside.
    â€œLet me hug you mother—once for all and forever—there is much to forgive me mother—”
    He held the flinty old woman in his arms.
    â€œJohn—John—” she half moaned—“I forgive—I forgive—maybe it was you that suffered—maybe—” Her voice trailed. Her aged arms went around him. Her limbs bent at the knees. She crooned to herself: “God—God—God—the breakin’ heart o’ me.”
    Her old face went stern and hard again. Her limbs straightened. “I’ll forgive ye John and swallow the hard words I’ve said even if they choke me—an’ belaive me my son—who came first—may the sun niver shine on my grave if I don’t mane it.”
    â€œI believe ye Mother—you and all—for all has been done that ever can be done—I’ll die of my own poison like a snake in the mud.”
    My father stood apart. My mother stepped close to her own aged mother.
    The door opened. Another uncle entered.
    He wore a mackintosh with a cape. Rain drops glistened upon it. My father offered him liquor. He accepted quickly. Finishing his glass, he sighed with satisfaction.
    He took my father’s arm and stepped into the corner. All eyes followed him.
    â€œSay nothing to the women,” was the uncle’s advice.
    John Lawler caught my father’s expression.
    â€œIt’s time I’m going—good-bye to ye father—mother—” his eyes half circled the room—“and you Biddy of the good heart—and—and all—and all.”
    â€œWe’d better hurry,” advised the uncle in the mackintosh, “it may rain harder—and we’ve got some muddy road to travel—I’ve got the curtains up—no one can see you.”
    â€œBut no one would know him after all these years,” declared my father.
    â€œNot even God,” said the ex-horse thief.
    My grandmother sobbed … “That the Lawlers be brought to this—sneakin’ out agin in the night.”
    Soon mother love conquered shame. “Oh—oh—oh,” she moaned.
    John Lawler and his brother in the mackintosh hurried toward the door. Biddy Lawler and her father followed them. “My peace be with you,” murmured my grandfather.
    The old man’s dignity must have touched John Lawler. Saying, “Father—Father—what a good man you are,” he put his arm about him. “Peace can never be with me father—so long as I remember you.” The old man stood, with weather beaten hands trembling and wrinkled.
    Seven months with child, my mother, with sudden vehemence rushed into her horse thief brother’s arms. Her hair fell in heavy red waves on her shoulders. All were astonished.
    The pet of the Lawler tribe had fainted.
    My father dashed a glass of water in her face.
    The horse thief knelt suddenly and kissed her tragic wet mouth.
    â€œAnother drink Jim—please—please—the hard heart of me must be harder made—not even a hangman—”
    My father cut in with:
    â€œTake this quart with you,—it’s a twelve mile drive you have.”
    The horse thief jerked the cork from the bottle impatiently.
    â€œLet’s all drink,” he sucked at the bottle feverishly and handed it to his brother in the mackintosh. It ended in my father’s hands. One more swig and it was empty.
    My grandfather helped my mother rise.
    Rain slashed at the window viciously.
    â€œIt’s far ye can go yet—they don’t expect ye here till to-morrow,” a voice said.
    The horse thief patted the shoulders of his mother and sisters.
    The rain swept into the house as the door