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Molly would probably have brooded to a morbid degree over these angry suspicions, but that another side of life was soon pressed upon her, a new source of human interest, in the dying husband of a charwoman. This woman, Mrs. Moloney, had cleaned out the flat before Molly and Miss Carew took possession.
"He must have air " the whisper was a snort. At that moment there was a knock on the outer door. On the iron outer stairs was standing the priest. "It's just the curate," said Mrs. Moloney, looking out of the window; and then she disappeared into the tiny passage. Molly stood defiantly, her figure drawn to its full height.
Her mind seemed more satisfied than it had ever been before. She did not know in what she believed, but she felt a different view of life in which men seemed less utterly mean, and women less of hypocrites. Externally it worked something in this way. The day on which Pat Moloney died at dawn she could not rest so much as she intended, to make up for the short night.
"Yes, Mrs. Moloney, you must watch him carefully, and here I am if there is any change. I'm sure that lady is an excellent nurse, and we mustn't let any chance slip of keeping him alive, must we?" She shook her head; this was only an English curate, still he must be obeyed. Molly was profoundly irritated by Mrs.
But, just as they had never succeeded in silencing the voice of that great drama of faith and prayer through the ages, so she could not dull to her own consciousness the strange, spiritual vitality that poured out in this triumphant call to the powers on high to come forth in all their glory to receive the inestimable treasure of the redeemed soul of Pat Moloney.
"If there is a hell," she muttered, "it must be ready to punish such brutality as that." Mrs. Moloney opened the door as wide as possible, and the priest came in. Miss Dexter looked at him in amazement; how, and where had she seen him before? He went straight to the bed and looked at the man in silence, while Molly looked at him.
High up in a small room in a block of workmen's buildings in West Kensington, Pat Moloney lay dying. He and his wife had been thriftless and uncertain, they drifted into marriage, drifted in and out of work, and, having watched their children grow up with some affection and a good deal of neglect, had now seen them drift away, some back to the old country, and some to the Colonies. Mrs.
Molly eyed the woman with supreme contempt. "It isn't at all certain that he's going to die, he'll make a good fight yet if you will give him a chance." Mrs. Moloney looked deeply offended. It had been all very well to be guided by a lady at the beginning of the illness, but now it was very different.
"There'll no holly'n'ivy go up on these walls to-night, if I'm to be let have a say in the business!" said Mrs. Moloney. "Sich trash and nonsense! making mess and trouble for them that has plenty to do without that! And as for the Crib, let it stop where it is ..."
A sandy coloured cat came from under the bed, looked at them, and then rubbed her arched back against the unsteady leg of the only table, which was laden with bottles and basins, finally retired into a further corner, and upset and broke one of the pink candles that belonged to the neighbour. But Mrs. Moloney never took her eyes off the priest's pale face.
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