Sons of an Ancient Glory (33 page)

She knew she was disappointing Aunt Nora and Uncle Evan by refusing to hold their new baby. She had seen the looks that passed between them when they thought she didn't notice.

It was just that they didn't understand. How could they? They had not been there that day when Little Tom was carried from the pond, his wee body limp and lifeless. How could they possibly understand what she had felt at that moment…what she had been feeling ever since?

It had been her fault, her fault entirely. Had she not grown so impatient with him, lost track of time, forgotten him—oh, dear Jesus, forgive her—she had
forgotten
him, her own little brother!

Didn't they realize why she could not care for Teddy? Didn't they know that something awful might happen
again
? And just see how they loved him! They had forgiven her for Little Tom's death—he had not been their own, after all—but, sure, they would
never
forgive her if anything should happen to their Teddy! Just as she could never forgive
herself
for not having saved Little Tom.

This, then, would be her penance for neglecting her own brother—and a means of making sure she could never hurt the new baby boy. She would not allow herself to become fond of him or attached to him, not at all.

It was a terrible fierce hurt, when she wanted so much to be his big sister. It would be a fine thing to have a little brother to play with and look after again.

Perhaps if she accepted her penance and tried her utmost to be entirely responsible from now on, the Lord Jesus would forgive her. Perhaps she would even come to forgive herself, and eventually, to trust herself with little Teddy.

Of course, by then Teddy might no longer need—or want—a big sister.

Late that evening, Sergeant Denny Price was standing at the station desk, scanning a number of police reports for the preceding week when he came across the name
Dempsey, B.
It sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn't think why. He went on reading, then stopped. His eyes went back up the page to rest on the name and the statistics that followed:

Dempsey, B., longshoreman. Accidental death from head injury while loading freight.

Denny frowned over the entry, suddenly remembering the Irish girl he had come upon in the Bowery some months back, the feisty one who had been looking for her friend. Hadn't the friend's name been
Dempsey
?

Sure, that was it.
Bobby Dempsey.
The girl had fairly begged Denny to try to find this Dempsey fellow, to let him know where she would be staying. And he had asked after the man during the next day or two. When he learned nothing, however, it had slipped his mind shortly thereafter.

More than likely, this was the fellow. Too bad. The lass had looked as if she could use a friend.

What had she called herself? He rubbed his chin, searching his memory.
O'Shea
, he thought. Aye, that was it:
Quinn O'Shea.

Poor lass. Whoever this Dempsey character had been, the girl had called him her
friend.
Denny hoped by now Quinn O'Shea had found herself another friend, for wasn't it hard enough as it was, being Irish and strange to America, without having to go it alone? And herself such a wee thing, at that.

Perhaps he ought to look her up, just so she'd know. But she wouldn't likely be at the Shelter after all this time, and those places seldom kept account of anyone's whereabouts once they'd gone. Still, next time he was in the Bowery, perhaps he would just stop by and inquire.

Consumption has no pity
For blue eyes and golden hair.

R
ICHARD
D'
ALTON
W
ILLIAMS
(1822-1862)

D
aniel Kavanagh swallowed hard, looking on in misery at the exchange taking place between Dr. Grafton and Elizabeth Ward, a widow and young mother who was slowly dying of consumption.

At one time, Mrs. Ward had obviously been quite beautiful, before the killing disease had so mercilessly ravaged that beauty. She had delicate, perfectly balanced features, large blue eyes, and a full cascade of dark blond hair. There was a way about the woman that spoke of a genteel, sensitive nature. But her body was now wasted, her skin dry and flushed with fever, and her refined voice often thin and strained.

Mrs. Ward no longer came to the mission clinic on a regular basis. These days her visits were sporadic. Usually she brought her baby daughter with her, but today she had left the child with a neighbor. “I have a responsibility to little Amanda that depends upon your answer to my question,” she had told Dr. Grafton. “I would not tax your kindness to the extreme, Doctor, for you have been most generous already with your concern and your time. But I simply must have an idea from you as to how long I may expect to live so that I can make arrangements for my little girl in advance of the end.”

Even Dr. Grafton, who, according to his own admission, had seen “about all there is to see of sorrow in this city of broken hearts,” was obviously shaken by the woman's directness.

Daniel had been at the clinic the day Elizabeth Ward calmly related her background to Dr. Grafton. The daughter of a wealthy English barrister and his wife, she had left her home and family to wed an Irish stable hand employed on the estate. Her mother was deceased by then, and her father, still living, had disowned her entirely. Daniel still remembered the look in her eyes that day when she told Dr. Grafton, “I am as good as dead to my father.”

Apparently the husband had succumbed to typhus only weeks after their arrival in America, and not long after that, their child—now thirteen months old—had been born. The young widow had been forced to take in piecework at their flat, earning not nearly enough to pay the rent and buy food as well. Charity from one of the Mulberry Street missions helped them survive, but barely.

By then the young mother was consumptive and had been failing steadily ever since. To Daniel, she seemed a very brave woman who appeared to be reconciled to her coming death, although greatly concerned for her child's future.

“Surely if you write to your father,” Dr. Grafton was saying to her now, “he will relent. From your own account, little Amanda is his only grandchild.”

Looking dangerously fragile and extremely ill, Mrs. Ward sat without moving on a straight wooden chair. “Yes,” she said, nodding sadly, “that's true. And I have written to my father, Doctor—many times, in fact—but he has never once answered my letters. My father isn't a heartless man, Dr. Grafton, not really. But he is a very stubborn man, and I disappointed his hopes for me.”

The thought seemed to distress her, and the doctor moved to put a gentle hand to her shoulder. “Is there any way I can help you, Mrs. Ward? Anything I can do?”

As Daniel watched, the young widow drew a deep breath, as if to calm herself. “You can tell me the truth, Doctor. Please. I must know how long.”

Dr. Grafton studied her for a moment, then nodded and straightened. “You understand, of course, that all I can do is tell you what I think. There's no way in the world to be exact.”

By now, Daniel had come to know his employer for a tenderhearted, compassionate man, and he had no doubt that this was extremely difficult for him.

When Dr. Grafton finally spoke again, his tone was low and almost apologetic. “In my estimation…you can expect a few weeks. Perhaps as long as two months.” He paused, and Daniel sensed the conflict taking place inside the man. “I'm so sorry, Mrs. Ward. I truly am.”

The young widow appeared remarkably serene in the face of such an appalling pronouncement. She raised her head and even managed a faint smile. “Thank you, Doctor. I had to know. And now, I must ask you for one more kindness, in addition to those you've already extended to me.”

Dr. Grafton inclined his head. “You've only to ask, my dear.”

“As I told you, I've had no reply—not a single one—to my letters. I do believe, however, that if my father were to receive a message in a strange hand, with a respectable address from a professional like yourself, he might not be so quick to disregard it. I was wondering if you'd mind terribly…if you would write to him…just a brief note to explain my circumstances and tell him about Amanda. Ask him if—” She broke off, covering her face with her hands. For the first time, she seemed overwhelmed by the hopelessness of her situation.

Daniel thought she would break down entirely. But after a moment, she looked up and, with visible force of will, went on with her request. “Ask him if he would consider taking Amanda in and raising her. Not because of me, I wouldn't expect that. He will never forgive me for the way I hurt him. But she
is
his only grandchild—my brother is unmarried—and I know he would grow to love Amanda in no time at all if he would only make the effort. Would you do that for me, please, Dr. Grafton?”

“Of course I will,” the doctor replied quietly. “I'll make a note of the address before you leave and write to him this very night.”

After Mrs. Ward had gone, Daniel and Dr. Grafton stood looking at each other, neither speaking for a long time. Finally, the doctor let out a weary sigh. “She is quite a courageous young woman, isn't she? These things defy all understanding. I must confess that a patient like Elizabeth Ward tests my faith to the extreme.”

Daniel looked at him in surprise. The physician rarely ventured comments of a personal nature.

For a while they worked in silence, collecting instruments and supplies, then packing them in the doctor's medical case.

“It strikes me,” Dr. Grafton finally said, “that it must take a supreme act of grace on God's part to keep a doctor from becoming either mortally cynical or altogether mad. The peculiar thing is that my faith in Infinite goodness seems to have grown in direct proportion to the tragic cases I've encountered over the years.”

Daniel found himself intensely interested in the doctor's words. He struggled almost daily with anger and unanswered questions about Little Tom's accident. For some reason, he had found this latest sorrow even more difficult to accept than the tragic deaths in his own family.

He wondered if it wasn't partly because of Johanna. Little Tom's death had devastated her, and she seemed as sad and as lost today as when it happened. Everything was so much harder for Johanna, living in her silent world, so out of touch with others. Her ongoing grief was a torturous thing to watch, and somehow seemed to fuel Daniel's own frustration.

He looked up to find Dr. Grafton watching him. “I'm not sure I understand what you mean, sir.”

The doctor closed his medical case, then looked up. “I suppose it has to do with the idea that a man's faith grows only as it's stretched. Some would say that faith untried is no faith at all.” He paused, regarding Daniel with a thoughtful look. “It's been a while since we've talked about
your
plans for medicine, son. Are you still committed to becoming a doctor?”

Daniel frowned. “I thought I was. In truth, I never hoped to do anything else. But…I confess I'm no longer certain. I can't make plans anyway, not for a time. Not with things as they are at home. They need me there for now.”

Dr. Grafton nodded. “The thing is, Daniel, you really need to be thinking of going on to university soon. I've taught you just about everything I know.”