"'Give me that gun, Johnny,' she called, softly.""'Give me that gun, Johnny,' she called, softly."
"'Give me that gun, Johnny,' she called, softly.""'Give me that gun, Johnny,' she called, softly."
"God! how you frightened me!" the young man ejaculated, as he wheeled around, and then continued shamefacedly: "I was just thinking of my mother, and wondering if she could see me now, when you spoke. I almost thought it was her voice."
Nancy stood over him, her masterful eyes looking into his, and her great hand reaching outwards. He laughed recklessly, but he handed her the weapon.
"Now, Johnny, I want ye to tell me all about it," she said, quietly.
"Mrs. McVeigh, I don't deserve your kindness. I'm not fit. But you are the only person in the world to whom I can turn. Those cads who just left me fleece me to my face, and then tell me I'm a fool to let them do it. My father has no faith in me. He never tried to find out if there was any good in my rotten carcass. And there is another who has weighed me in the balance of her judgment and found me sadly wanting."
"Now, Johnny, it's no like yerself to be talkin' like that. Haven't I told ye that yer conscience would rise up and smite ye. It's yer own fault that yer frien's are droppin' from ye like rats from a sinkin' ship. Yer plan o' life has been wrong, an' yer friends have been a curse to ye, an' it's only yer manhood and that gal who kin save ye now." A fire burned in Nancy's eyes as she gazed at him, and John Keene felt a thrill of power, as if her strength was eating into his veins.
"You don't know the worst, Mrs. McVeigh, but I am ready to confess, and I don't expect you to pity me after I have spoken. I have cashed a forged note against my father at the bank for three hundred dollars, and the money is gone."
Nancy bent near to him and whispered as if telling her unspoken thoughts, "Ye have done wrong by yer father's money, John!"
The young man put his face in his hands and rocked to and fro for some minutes, while his body shook with suppressed emotion. A great joy surged through Nancy McVeigh's being, and her hand stole lovingly over his head and rested there. She knew that the change was upon him, and if victory came of it, John Keene of the past would be forgotten.
"Johnny, I've a letter from Corney in Chicago, and he says he could find a place fer just such a man as you. Ye must take it and work hard, and the first money ye earn ye must use it to make it right with your father."
"'Twould be sending me to hell to go there," John replied, looking up: and then, as if his answer was not as he wished, he was about to speak again, but Nancy continued in even tones:
"There was a certain young lass—I'll no tell ye her name, but she is fit fer the best man in the world—came to me to-day and asked me to speak to ye fer her sake. Man, ye must be up and doin', fer she loves ye. She told me so with her own lips. Ye can go away fer two years. It's no time fer youngsters to abide, and when ye have proved yerself, come back an' she'll be waitin' and proud o' ye."
Young John Keene slowly rose to his feet. He took Nancy's hand in his and looked her squarely in the eye.
"You are not joking, Mrs. McVeigh?" he asked.
"As I hope to live, John Keene, I'm tellin' ye the honest truth," she replied.
"I'll do it," he muttered, hoarsely.
When Nancy went to her bed she gazed awhile at the two photos tacked on the wall, then at the sleeping face of Katie Duncan. "I've won him, thank God!" she murmured, and fell asleep smiling.
The widow McVeigh's face was a picture of sobriety, in fact, almost severity. The features were conspicuous because of the abrupt falling in of her cheeks, and her grey eyes were deep set and touched at the corners by plenteous crowsfeet. Yet when the world looked at her casually it saw a smiling countenance. Some thought her face hard, and the smile bold rather than a kindly one; others, that she was of coarse intellect and smiled because she could not appreciate the daily trials and troubles of the poor. These opinions were more generally shared by the good temperance folk of the neighborhood and in the town. They only saw a tall, grey-haired woman, standing amidst the surroundings of a ramshackle inn of the country road, and taking toll from the rougher classes that passed to and fro. But had they probed farther into her life they might have unearthed the beautiful from the clay.
Moore, the operator at the railroad junction, was a patron of Nancy McVeigh's tavern, of ten years' duration. He was a quiet fellow, a plodder at his work, and without great ambitions. He knew his signals, the hour when trains were due, the words that the ticker in his little glass office spoke occasionally, and so far he was valuable to the Company. He never had had an accident, and because of his reliability his employers thought of him once every two or three years and added a hundred dollars to his salary. They made no allowance for illness or holidays, and it was Moore's proudest boast that he had never missed a day in all that time. One afternoon the superintendent stopped his car at the Junction and called the little man into his sanctum. Moore chatted with him for an hour or so, and that night his face was radiant as he smoked a pipe after supper and retold the conversation to Mrs. McVeigh. "It will mean higher pay and more responsibility," he observed, with a self-satisfied smile.
"And they'll make it a reg'lar station, ye say?" Nancy asked.
"That they will, Mrs. McVeigh. A company of city men are going to buy a large portion of the point and build on it a summer hotel. Then the people will be coming by the hundreds during the hot season, and there'll be baggage to check, tickets to sell, and a great deal of extra work. I am to have assistants, and a young fellow to handle the key, and I'll be stationmaster.
"Ye'll be gettin' married, surely?" suggested Nancy, with a sly twinkle in her eye.
"Well, no saying, but it will be a sore trial for me to quit your board," Moore answered.
"Ye understand I'm becomin' fairly old fer the tavern, and if those city men build a big house an' put in a big stock of liquors I guess there'll be no more fightin' about the license."
Moore deprecated any such result, and endeavored to argue Nancy into a like belief, but in his heart he knew that she was speaking the truth, and he really felt sorry for her.
From that day Moore began to study his work with greater zeal. Morning, afternoon and nighttime found him at his post, and the thoughts of his prospective advancement seemed to worry him. He grew thin on it, and also took a severe cold while tramping back and forth during bad weather. He would not take time to secure a doctor's advice, nor would he listen to Nancy when she scolded him for his neglect. The summer passed and the first brush of snow had come and yet he would not give in. His chief sent a letter explaining that the planned changes would go into effect the following spring. The news only added a glitter to his eye and a stimulant to his anxiety to prove his worth, but his cough still remained.
"The man'll break down and spoil everythin'," Nancy predicted to a crowd of gossips in her bar. Her prophecy came true sooner than she expected.
Moore received orders to throw the switch over to the sidetrack at the Junction, so that a work train might leave a few cars of gravel for the section-men to use the following morning. This train was due during the half-hour which he took for his supper at the tavern. He shifted the rails ready before leaving, intending to hasten back in plenty of time to connect the main line over which the No. 4 passenger would pass about nine o'clock. It was quite a usual occurrence in his routine of work, so that the matter did not cost him a second thought.
Nancy noticed the tired look about his eyes as he sat at his meal, and she determined to talk to him seriously about his health at the first favorable opportunity. Out of doors the night was intensely black, and a drizzling rain added to its inclemency.
"It's just sich a spell o' weather as'll make his cough very much worse if he don't attend to himself," Nancy told Jennie, her adopted daughter, as they saw Moore go to his room before setting out for the Junction. The tavern settled down to its accustomed quietness, Nancy and the girls knitting in the kitchen, Will Devitt leaning over the bar and talking to a few who found it more comfortable there than in the raw dampness without. Old Donald was in the stables finishing up, and a chance wayfarer snored upon the sitting-room lounge. Katie Duncan had occasion to go upstairs, and she came down with the startling news that Mr. Moore had not left his room.
"He'll no git to be the station-master if he continues the likes," Nancy remarked, as she ascended to see what was the matter with him. She found him lying on his bed apparently asleep, so she shook him, in righteous indignation at his conduct. A bottle from her bar, standing on the table, added suspicions to her wrath. Moore did not respond to her efforts as a healthy man should. Instead he turned a sickly white face to her and groaned.
"Are ye sick?" she asked.
"I must be. I can't stand up, I'm so weak," he answered faintly.
"Have ye been drinkin'?" Her eyes snapped as she asked the question.
"I've taken a little, because I'm ill, but— Heavens, woman! what is the time?" he almost shrieked.
"It's about nine o'clock," she answered.
"Nine," he spoke as if struggling with a failing memory. "The switch is wrong, and there's a gravel train on the sidetrack. God! Mistress McVeigh, help me to get up." He tottered to his feet, groping for the door like a blind man, and then Nancy caught him in her strong arms and laid him back on the bed.
"Jennie, Mr. Moore's sick. Ye'll attend to him," she called, as she threw a heavy shawl over her head.
If those who doubted Nancy's unselfish heart and courage could have seen her plodding through the darkness, with the rain pelting down upon her, and the mud halfway to her knees, they might have forgiven much that they had believed against her. She knew the turnings of the switches and the different tracks, and it was to save Moore from disgrace, rather than to avert a disaster, that caused her to tax her old bones to their utmost, as she climbed over the fences and ran across the fields. A whistle sounded far over on the town side, and she was conscious of a dull throbbing in the air. Foot by foot she counted her chances, listening to the approaching train and exerting herself to the limit. The headlight of the locomotive was glaring at her as she climbed the sandy embankment of the track, and then, as her hands closed over the lever, the great machine went thundering by over the wrong rails. The engineer evidently had read that the signals were somewhat amiss, for his air brakes were already screaming, and he was leaning far out of his cab with his hand shading his eyes. The sand cars were a short distance up the track, and the moving train struck them with a terrific rending of iron and hissing of escaping steam. The force of the contact was lessened because of the sudden slowing up of No. 4, but it was sufficient to send two of the passenger coaches tumbling on to the boggy earth six or eight feet below the track level. The engine stood still on the rails in a cloud of steam, and the engineer was out of his cab limping towards Nancy before her mind had regained its normal conception of things. His appearance roused her to instant action. She made no explanations, nor were any questions asked of her, but the two of them ran to where the crying of pain-stricken humanity came from the derailed cars. A chaos of confusion reigned. People who were not hurt were shouting hysterically, others were making efforts to liberate the wounded. Nancy was strangely cool. She sent one to the tavern to summon help, another to the Junction to telegraph into town for doctors, and then she turned to those in the wreckage. One after another was extricated from the mass, and as they came before her on the wet grass, where coats and everything that could be found were used to lay them upon, she examined their hurts, bound up bleeding cuts, and did all that her knowledge could suggest. Soon a crowd from the neighborhood gathered and they joined in the work, and then the doctors came. By this time a second woman was helping by Nancy's side. The old inn-keeper paused once to see who it was, and nodded in recognition.
"It's a sad business, Miss Piper," she remarked, huskily.
Soon a long procession slowly wound its way across the fields to the tavern, men carrying those unable to walk, and the others who were not so badly hurt leaning on the shoulders of their companions. Nancy and Miss Piper went with the first to prepare beds and other necessaries, and all that night the two women stayed by their grim task.
"You should be a nurse," young Dr. Dodona observed to Sophia Piper, during a moment's respite.
"I would, gladly, if I had that woman to help me," she answered, and they both turned to watch Nancy, who was deftly binding a fresh bandage on the crushed leg of an elderly gentleman who seemed more concerned over the soiling of his clothes than his wound.
"Are you tired, Mrs. McVeigh?" she asked, kindly.
Nancy only smiled back a reply, and bent her grey head over her patient again.
Thirteen slightly injured, three seriously, and no deaths, was the result of the accident, and after a few days everything at the Junction was as it had been always, excepting that Nancy McVeigh's tavern had won a new guest and lost an old one. Moore had recovered from his attack a few hours after his seizure, and was taken into custody by the law to stand his trial for wilful neglect of duty, and Mr. Lawrence Hyden lay in his room with a very impatient temper and a badly crushed leg. The Wednesday of the following week was set as the day for Moore's trial, and Nancy received a summons to appear as a witness.
"I'll do that with pleasure, sure, fer it's meself that's doubtin' the senses of yon pack o' lawyers. It's jist capital they are tryin' to make out o' this affair to injure me in the eyes of the Commissioners, I'm thinkin'," she said, when the blue paper was handed to her.
The scene in the courtroom was highly interesting to her, and she wondered, as she listened to the learned talking, how their charge against Moore could have any foundation. When her name was called she was fully prepared to give them all a piece of her mind.
"Now, Mrs. McVeigh, the whole case against Mr. Moore rests on your testimony. We want to know from you if the accused was addicted to the use of liquor," the presiding counsel asked, in suave tones.
"He was not, yer worship," she answered, promptly.
"But one witness states that liquor was found in the accused man's room, and also that his breath was strongly tainted shortly after the time of the accident," the counsel continued.
The whole truth of the misunderstanding suddenly came home to Nancy, and after some bickering between the lawyers, she was allowed to narrate, in her own homely way, the current of events from the first time she had noticed the illness coming over Mr. Moore, until she had stood by the switch watching the train going to destruction. Every man in the room had heard somewhat of Nancy's peculiar existence, and they listened with doubly aroused interest to her simple tale. Suddenly an interruption came from a very unexpected quarter. Moore was swaying unsteadily, and but for the timely arm of the officer near him, would have collapsed on the floor. The court immediately adjourned whilst a doctor was sent for.
"There'll be no case, Mrs. McVeigh. It is clear in my mind that the prisoner is a very sick man and should be sent at once to the hospital. If I have my way the verdict of this examination will be a testimonial of some substantial nature to be given to a very generous-hearted old lady," the counsel said, shaking her hand warmly.
"An' who are ye blarneyin' now, Judge?" Nancy asked, not the least bit abashed at the learned man's importance.
"A certain Widow McVeigh, of the Monk Road," he answered, laughing.
'Twas a short time after this that ugly rumors of rowdyism were spread over the countryside, and while matters were at white heat the question of cancelling Nancy McVeigh's tavern license was again brought before the Commissioners. Miss Sophia Piper heard of the complaint, and made it her business to interview the stout gentleman on the Board with whom she was on friendly terms.
"You came to me once to urge the abolition of this license, but now you defend the woman," he said to her, in surprise.
"I know that Mrs. McVeigh is honorable and good, and this report is being circulated by parties who wish to secure her rights for their own purposes. If liquor is to be sold on the Monk Road, then, sir, I can speak for the whole temperance people of that section. Let Mrs. McVeigh have the selling," she answered, pleadingly; and so the license was extended for another year, as usual. But Moore did not receive the appointment as master at the new station of Monk the following spring.
Mr. Lawrence Hyden stayed at Nancy McVeigh's tavern on the Monk Road while his leg, which had received a severe crushing in the railroad accident at the Junction, healed sufficiently for him to depart for his home in the city. During his sojourn the widow McVeigh was ofttimes sorely tempted to take him out and stand him on his head in the horse-trough, so cantankerous was he over his enforced idleness. She had plenty and to spare of compassion for weaklings, who had not physical strength such as hers to carry them through troubles, but this irate old man only annoyed her. She had not been well herself since that long night's work in the rain, when half of the passenger train had toppled into the ditch, and her patience was correspondingly short-lived. The doctor who attended Mr. Hyden noticed the weary look about her eyes, and offered his advice.
"You should go to bed for at least a fortnight," he suggested.
Nancy smiled as she replied: "'Twould be a merry riot, surely, doctor, if I gave in to my complaints, with noisy customers downstairs and two cranky patients above."
However, she gave over the attendance on the obdurate old gentleman, who from force of necessity was her guest, to Jennie, her adopted daughter.
"If he finds too many faults, Jennie, just leave him a spell without his food. That'll teach him to value the fare with a kinder grace," she explained.
Contrary to Nancy's expectations, Jennie wrought a wonderful change for the better in her patient. Mr. Hyden seemed to form an attachment for the girl from the very beginning.
"You remind me of someone," he remarked during the first few hours of her service; and afterwards he would listen to Jennie for a whole evening while she struggled through some reading matter. One evening he told her about a grandchild of his whom he had lost through being over-harsh with the mother, and his words impressed Jennie so much that she retailed them to Mistress McVeigh the very next morning.
"It's no unloike yer own mother's troubles," Nancy observed, critically.
"And will ye tell me of them, Granny?" Jennie asked, eagerly, for it had often been hinted to her that Nancy McVeigh was not her grandmother.
"It's a burden o' sorrow, dear, and not fit for young ears to listen to," Nancy replied, evasively. Jennie, however, was not satisfied, and the next time that Mr. Hyden was in a talkative mood she introduced the subject to him. He seemed deeply interested, and promised that he would endeavor to persuade Mistress McVeigh to divulge her secret. After Mr. Hyden could hobble from his room to other parts of the house, a photo of Jennie's, taken when she was a very young child, disappeared from the upstairs parlor, and Nancy suspected at once that her guest had taken it. She told Jennie to look for it when she was cleaning up his room, and sure enough, she found it amongst a miscellany of papers and letters which littered his table. This was enough to rouse Nancy's ire to a point where an understanding of all grievances up-to-date was necessary, so she proceeded upstairs, with a sparkle in her eye which boded ill for the victim of her wrath. He was in his room, writing, and without waiting for him to finish, as was her custom, she demanded the lost photo.
"I have it, Mistress McVeigh. I meant to put it back in its place, but it slipped my memory," he stammered, guiltily; and then he asked her, frankly, "May I keep it?"
"Kape the swate child's picture, the only wan I have, barrin' her own silf! Ye have great assurance to ask it!" Nancy exclaimed, though somewhat mollified at his mild explanation.
"My son married beneath him, and I treated his wife very badly. They had one child, a girl, and I have often wished since that I could discover her whereabouts. I have a sort of guilty feeling that I was not exactly honorable in my dealings with my daughter-in-law, and it has so preyed on my mind that I think every strange child may be hers. I remember seeing the mother two or three times, and her face peers at me now when I am in reverie. A vengeance of fate for a social crime, I expect," he said, laughing nervously. Then he continued: "You may wonder, Mistress McVeigh, why I am telling you this, but your Jennie's face is that of my son's wife. It may be the result of long years of remorse which have created a myth in my brain, but when she comes to wait on me the likeness is very real. I hope you will excuse my action in taking that photo, and perhaps you will sell it." Mr. Hyden spoke seriously, lest Nancy should suspect him of subterfuge.
"Sure, sir, ye think it is like yer own flesh and blood?" Nancy questioned, softly, her eyes filling suddenly.
Mr. Hyden's brow contracted into a frown, and he seemed on the point of regretting the confidences which he had spoken, but Nancy interrupted him.
"Jennie is not my own," she said, sadly.
"Not your own!" he ejaculated, pausing in the act of handing back the photo. "I knew it, for that child is no more of your family than I am, even to the eyes of a stranger, begging pardon if I speak too freely."
"Perhaps ye would care fer the story?" Nancy asked, beaming with renewed friendliness.
"Please tell it, Mistress McVeigh," he answered, eagerly, as he pushed a chair towards Nancy and seated himself. Nancy gave herself over to silent musing for a few minutes, and Mr. Hyden prepared his pipe in the interval.
"Jennie'll be eighteen come twentieth o' March," Nancy began, then checked herself while she counted on her fingers. "No, maybe nineteen," meditatively. "Ye see, Mr. Hyden, times on the Monk Road are so much the same that one fergits the exact date o' things. Anyhow, it all occurred the year before the railroad was completed through these parts, fer well I remember takin' Jennie in me arms across the fields to see the first passenger train go by the Junction, with her engine all flags, and banners hung the length o' the cars with mottoes in big red letters on them. Dan Sullivan, Heaven rest his soul, was the engineer that day, and fer five years afterwards he took time fer lunch at the tavern until he was killed up the line somewheres. There were a lot o' officials on board that day, too, and the Superintendent came out o' his car to pat Jennie's head. He could not help it, fer the child had a winsome mass o' golden curls, if I do say it meself." Nancy paused to sigh, and Mr. Hyden interposed:
"I was on that train, Mistress McVeigh, and I remember the scene, now you mention it."
"Were ye?" Nancy exclaimed, incredulously.
"To finish about Jennie's comin' to me. It was the previous year that they built the bridge over the Narrows a mile or two back from the Junction. I had most o' the men stayin' at the tavern, and the likes o' the business I have never had since. But I was younger then, and the work never tired me. The foreman's name was Green, and he occupied the big room with the gable window."
"The scamp—er—I beg your pardon, Mistress McVeigh, but I knew that fellow, and his name wasn't Green," interrupted Mr. Hyden.
"I thought as much, sir," continued Nancy, "for he carried on something awful with the table help and the girls along the road, and it was just his way to leave no traces o' his real name behind him. But he was not a bad fellow, mind ye. As liberal in his spendin' as if he couldn't abide the feelin' o' money, and as nice a gentleman about the house as any one could wish fer. He was a handsome chap, too, and lively with his tongue. The pick o' the whole countryside was his, and it was the joke o' the tavern, who'd be his next love. I was terrible busy at the time, but I heard the men talkin' at the bar and at their meals, an' I knew there was scarcely two girls on speakin' terms with each other over him. Finally he settled down to courtin' Florence Raeburn, the daughter of old Silas, who owns the big stock farm on the fourth concession. The Raeburns were English, an' they had high notions o' their position. The mother was dead, and the three girls managed the home. Florence was the youngest, and the other two were older than her by ten years or more. Consequently, they thought her a bit flighty, an' needin' o' some restriction. They did not let her associate with any o' the neighbors, an' a great fuss they raised when she made friends with me while her horse took a drink at the trough when she was passing. I pitied the child, fer she had a pretty face, an' big, sad eyes that seemed to yearn fer companions. After that, the sisters drove her in to town to school in the old buggy which their father had brought from England. However, she managed to see me quite often, and I encouraged her, although, mind ye, I never let her know the looseness o' the ways o' a tavern. The sisters had the Methodist parson picked out fer her, an' he, poor man, was fair crazy fer her heart, too, but she had the givin' o' it herself, and this it was that caused all the trouble.
"Green, the foreman, spied her talkin' to me on the verandah one day, an' he came out an' praised her horse—a sure way to win her approval, fer she was very fond o' the animal. I believe the young minx had seen him before, fer she was over-ready to converse with him, an' whin I left them they were talkin' and laughin' like old friends. That was the beginnin', and soon the rumor went about that the foreman had at last met his match. She occupied his time so much that the bridge work was like to suffer, an' I heard that a letter came from the city askin' about the delay. The sisters bitterly resented the clandestine meetings when they heard o' them, an' Florence had a weary time o' it between their scoldin's and the tongues of envious neighbors, but she was a wilful child an' liked to have her own way regardless o' their interferin'. I was afeard o' the outcome mesel', an' I spoke my mind freely to Mr. Green. He resented my words at first, an' then, whin he saw that I was really anxious, he told me that he loved her an' would do what was honorable in the matter. I knew that he was earnin' big pay, an' was well brought up an' educated, so I tried to convince meself that he would make Florence a good husband; but I can't abide people flyin' in the faces o' their families in such matters, an' I told Florence so one day when she had dropped in fer a drink o' buttermilk. She just took my hands in hers, an', lookin' me in the eye, said, 'Mrs. McVeigh, ye do not understand. He is a fine, strong man, an' will take me away to the city, where my sisters can't make my life a burden. They are like ye, and doubt the worth o' him, but I have had more chance than any o' ye to study his character, and I know that he can make me happy.' I just couldn't reason with her against that opinion, so I prayed every night that she wouldn't be disappointed, and every day I lectured Green about his sinful habits, an' impressed him with the sweet smile that fortune was beamin' upon him, and how careful he must be not to shake the maid's faith in him. 'Never fear, Mistress McVeigh, I'm solid forever now,' he answered, laughing at my seriousness.
"'Twas only a short while afterwards that a telegram came to Green to go to the city. He told me o' it with a very grave face, an', says he, 'We must be married to-night, an' I will return in a week, after I have completed my arrangements in the city.' I knew he meant it to be a secret ceremony at my tavern, fer the sisters would niver permit it at home. I worried all day long, wonderin' what was my duty in the matter, one moment ready to go over an' tell the family o' their plans, an' nixt feelin' guilty at my disloyalty to the brave girl. The preacher came, an' they were married that night."
"They were married that night?" interrogated Mr. Hyden, who had been following Nancy's story intently.
"They were, surely," declared Nancy, positively, as if resenting the interruption.
"Thank God!" he muttered, as he resumed the smoking of his pipe.
Nancy gazed at him queerly for a few moments, and then continued: "Green left for the city nixt mornin', an' Florence went back to her home with my kiss on her lips as a weddin' gift. A month passed, an' I was wonderin' why Florence had not been over to see me, an' then Silas Raeburn came into my tavern in a mighty rage. 'Ye old witch, where's my girl?' he roared.
"I was so surprised at his words that I didn't know what to say, but I knew my face was a guilty one to him.
"'Ye have encouraged her in her disobedience against her own family, and then ye let a drunken rascal steal her from me to crown our disgrace,' he went on fiercely. Fer once in my life I stood silent, too ashamed to answer him, while he heaped words upon me that would be unfit to repeat in decent company. He was fair torn with anguish and temper, an' I let him have his say. Then, when he was calmer, I told him all I knew, from the first meetin' o' Florence with the bridge foreman. He listened, breathing sort o' sharp, as if my words hurt him, an' then of a sudden he went white an' tremblin', an' dashed out into the darkness o' the night.
"I hoped that Florence had met her husband in the city, an' that they were happy, an' I comforted myself with these reflections, but always had to fight a doubtin'. The people talked o' it fer a long while, but it was a forbidden subject in my house, an' one man went out o' my bar with more speed than dignity, for mentionin' her name in my hearin'.
"One bitterly cold night in December, a farmer came in from the road with strange news. 'I found a woman an' child freezin' by the roadside, an' I just brought them on to ye,' he said. 'Bring them in an' welcome,' I answered, an' then the woman slipped by him an' was sobbin' in my arms.
"'Florence, darlin', is it ye?' I asked, with my own feelin's stirred so that I could scarcely speak. She pushed me away from her with a sort o' frenzy, an' she says, 'Ye should not shelter the likes o' me, whose own people have turned their backs fer the shame o' it.'
"'Ye trust me, surely, darlint,' I answered, takin' her baby from her arms, an' leadin' the way to the kitchen, where we would be alone, with a great, cracklin' fire in the stove to sit by. I gave her food and comforted her, an' tended the baby, while she told me about hersilf, with an occasional spell o' cryin' an' a wild, weird expression on her face that gave me bad dreams fer many a night.
"'He was more than bridge foreman,' she said, 'he was a son o' the contractor himself, an' when he left for the city, the mornin' after our marriage, it was to go away to forrin parts, South America or some other outlandish place. His father made him do it, fer he was full o' pride, and wanted no country lass as a wife fer his son. I stayed at home as long as I could, an' then my sisters discovered the truth. They scolded me dreadfully, an' my father threatened to lock me up. That evening I walked into town, an' took the train fer the city. I searched fer two or three days before I learned the true name o' my husband, an' when I went to his home, which was grander than any building I had seen before, they told me I was crazy. I had married a man named Green, and he was not their son. I knew that they were deceivin' me, but I was frightened an' I hurried away. I struggled fer a while alone, an' then, when the baby came, a good woman out o' pity took me in an' kept me till I could go to my work again. Then his family heard o' the child an' sent fer me. When I called, they told me that they were sorry for me an' wished to help me, although they would not admit that they were bound by law to do so. They had secured permission to place my baby in a home, an' I was glad enough o' the chance, fer I was afeared that I could never support it myself. I had the privilege of seeing her once or twice a week, an' those visits were the bright spots in my life. I worked very hard, thinkin' that it would cure my broken spirit an' the yearnin' which I had fer my child. But it seemed useless to try, fer my will power was weakened by my sufferin', so I went over to the home, an' the good people, knowin' that I was her mother, let me take her out with me for an airin'. I just couldn't part with her again, so I went to my rooms, gathered my clothes into a bundle, and started fer home. I was sort o' wild then, an' did not know what I was doing, but now I know that I did wrong, fer there is no welcome fer me under my father's roof.
"'Will ye keep me fer a week, till I am stronger, Nancy McVeigh?' says she, 'an' then I'll go back, an' perhaps I'll be more content.'
"I tell ye, Mr. Hyden, my heart bled fer the lass. The likes o' her pleadin' with a rough old tavern-keeper fer her very livin'. 'Ye did right to come home to me, Florence Raeburn. I'm not ashamed to have ye here,' I answered her."
Mrs. McVeigh paused in her story to wipe away the tears which were stealing down the furrows in her cheeks, but Hyden, in a strange, hard voice, bade her proceed.
"The mother died two weeks afterwards, sir. I think it was her lungs that were affected, but never a word of it did I send to Silas Raeburn or his people. I could not fergit the sting of the words he had spoken to me. I felt that it was my secret, an' when I took the baby from Florence's arms fer the last time, she smiled and whispered, 'Ye'll no give Jennie up, Nancy. Ye'll be a mother to her yersilf?'"
"I am judged! I am judged!" broke in Mr. Hyden, standing before her, his features working in a desperate struggle with his emotions. Then he spoke with more calmness. "She is my grandchild," he said.
The days that followed were full of torture for the old keeper of the inn. Mr. Hyden wanted to take Jennie back to the city with him to be educated. He would do for her all that he could, as the repentance for his harshness to Jennie's mother was upon him. He waited day by day, until Nancy could make up her mind. Of all Nancy's troubles this was the sorest, for Jennie had been closer to her than her own son. Her years were creeping over her, and she leaned on the young girl for sympathy and advice. Yet in her heart she knew that Jennie must go, and it was her duty to permit it. Her victory came suddenly, and one morning saw her face free from clouds, and in their place a glimpse of her old kindly smile.
"Take her, Mr. Hyden, an' make her a lady, fer the lass is above the best that I can give her. You'll let her come to see me sometimes, an' ye'll promise to be good to her?" she asked, wistfully. So it was that Jennie left the old tavern on the Monk Road, jubilant in her innocent way at the happy prospects which old Nancy painted for her, but when she was gone Nancy turned to her work again with a heavy heart.
Nancy McVeigh was in her garden behind the tavern when young John Keene called on her for the first time since his return from Chicago, after two years' absence from the homely atmosphere of the Monk Road.
Nancy's garden was a source of great enjoyment to her, and many happy hours she spent within the enclosure, which old Donald had built so securely that not even a chick could trespass to harm the sprouting seeds. Early spring saw her with tucked-up skirt, a starched sun-bonnet on her head, and hoe or rake in her hand, availing herself of every quiet hour in the day to plant and mark out the beds. Then followed a ceaseless watchfulness, throughout the hot summer, to regulate the watering and weeding, interspersed with pleasant speculation as to the results, and in the later months her well-merited boastings over her success.
She was picking beans for the dinner, and incidentally noting the progress of her early vegetables, when Katie Duncan ushered young John Keene through the tavern to the rear door and into the garden.
"At your old tricks, Mistress McVeigh," the new-comer called, cheerily, as he advanced with out-stretched hand.
"Well, bless me soul, Johnny!" she exclaimed, rising and kissing him with motherly blindness to his manly appearance. "I heard yesterday that ye had returned. Mrs. Conors told me, an' she said ye might be takin' a wife before ye leave. She's a rare gossip, that body, an' knows a thing a'most before it happens," Nancy added, in an explanatory way.
"As if you didn't know that yourself," young John answered, laughing.
"The two years went by so quick like, that I scarce felt the loss o' ye. Faith, an' the older one gets the shorter the days, it seems. The garden's lookin' promisin'," she observed, inviting his opinion.
"Splendid!" he replied, giving it a hasty scrutiny.
"I've beans, an' radishes, an' new potatoes already, an' the cucumbers and corn'll be fit to pick in a week," Nancy said, proudly. Then she remembered her hospitality.
"We'll go in the house, fer it's not a very clean place fer ye to be wi' all yer fine clothes."
"I'd rather we just sit down on those two chairs by the porch and have a good talk," he suggested. They seated themselves in the shade, for the morning sun was very warm, and young John lighted a cigar.
"Have ye been doin' well since ye left?" Nancy inquired.
"Aye, Mistress McVeigh. Corney helped me, you know. I went to work in his office the very day of my arrival in Chicago, and, thanks to your advice, I never allowed my old habits to interfere with my progress."
"Ye didn't think I doubted yer ability to do that?" she asked, reproachfully. Then, with a twinkle of humor in her eyes, she added, "It was yer love fer a certain young lady that kep' ye at it."
"Maybe," he assented, meditatively.
"An' I suppose Corney has a grand place, wi' a desk and books as thick as a family Bible?"
Young John laughed. "His office is as big as your house. He has twenty desks and a clerk for each one, and a private room, all glass, and leather-bound furnishings. I tell you, Mrs. McVeigh, your son has developed a wonderful business, and you will live to see him a rich man, too," he remarked, enthusiastically.
"Well, d'ye hear that now, the brains o' him! I always knew it!" Nancy ejaculated, with tears of pride glistening for a moment in her eyes. "It's been in me mind these ten years to go there an' see him. D'ye think he'll likely be Mayor o' Chicago?" she asked, wistfully.
Young John quibbled with an easy conscience. "His chances are as good as the best of them," he said. "But tell me about yourself, Nancy. How have you been keeping? And have you had any more young men to reform since I left?" he asked, suddenly changing the subject.
"Oh, barrin' the cold I got whin Moore left the switch open at the Junction, an' the pain at me heart over losin' Jennie, I'm as fit as iver," she answered, complacently. "Ye heard about Jennie's leavin'?"
"Corney read your letter to me," young John replied, sympathetically.
"It was a trial, to be sure, but I'm not complainin'. It's better fer the lass, and Katie Duncan helps me a'most as much. Ye see, Johnny, I'm goin' to be satisfied in this life, no matter what troubles I meet. I've plinty o' belongin's, an' a deal o' honest work to do, which leaves no time fer frettin'. I've had me ups and downs, an' it seems I've known all the sorrows o' me neighbors as well as me own, but I just keep smilin' an' fergittin'. There's so many bright spots whin one looks hard fer them. It's one thing to be wishin' fer somethin' in the future that never comes, and another to be content wi' the blessin's that we get every day. I try fer the last. Some people, if they had me tavern, would be wantin' a better house, or a fresh coat o' paint every year er two. If they had me garden they'd hope that a good angel would grow them enough fer themselves and a profit on what they could sell. They'd be always envyin' the Raeburns' fine horses, an' the grand house o' James Piper, an' their servants, and thinkin' the world was treatin' them unkindly because wishin' wouldn't satisfy their desires. But it's me honest pride in makin' the best o' things, and bein' thankful they're no worse, that keeps me smilin'."
"You are quite a philosopher," observed young John, gazing at her with the old affection lighting up his features.
"Philosopher or not, I care not a whit, but so long as Nancy McVeigh runs a tavern on the Monk Road there'll be no lost sunshine," she declared.
"Father tells me that the city company are building a summer hotel on the Point, and also that you may have to sell out," young John remarked, cautiously, lest he hurt the old inn-keeper's feelings.
"Faith, an' he's speakin' the truth, too," Nancy replied quite unconcernedly, and then she laughed quickly to herself at some recollection.
"I must tell ye about it, Johnny," she explained. "When the agent came up from the city to go over the property, he walks up and down past the tavern wi' a sheet o' paper in his hand, an' a map, or somethin' o' that nature. I went out on the verandah to see if he had lost his way, an' he comes over an' takes off his hat as politely as if I was the Queen.
"'Your tavern stands just where we want to put the gateway,' he remarked, consultin' his paper.
"'Is that so?' says I, my temper suddenly risin', fer I had heard a lot o' talk about the big hotel an' the driveway fer the carriages, an' the parks.
"'Of course, we will allow ye a fair price fer yer property when we need it,' he explained.
"'If ye think yer price'll put a gateway here, ye're sadly mistaken,' I said. 'Ye can put up yer hotel, an' every drop o' spirits that's sold in the country can go to ye, an' I'll no complain, but I warn ye that I've spent thirty-five years gettin' this tavern into my keepin', an' it'll take forty more to get it out again.' I jist let him have it straight, an' then I wint in an' slammed the door to show me contempt fer the loikes o' him.
"Then, a few days afterwards, two gentlemen called on me, an' they said they wanted to make a proposition to me, but I just told them to see me lawyers about it, an' they sort o' fidgitted awhile, an' then they asked me who I was employin' to look after my interests. I just bid them go and find out if they thought it worth while, an' I left them sittin' there like two bad boys in school," Nancy stopped while she laughed again, and young John broke in with a question.
"Was my father one of those two men?"
"Now, Johnny, ye needn't be mixin' yer father in the talk at all. Ye know he an' I never agreed," Nancy demurred.
"But I want to know for a reason," he persisted. "You have a payment—the last, I believe—on the mortgage falling due shortly?" he inquired.
"I have," she answered, somewhat perplexed.
"Well, my father would like you to miss making that payment, because he wants to get a commission for securing the sale of your property, and that would give him a hold on you. I can appreciate your desire to stay with the old place, so I would advise you to be early in sending him this amount. Can you raise it?" young John asked.
Nancy sat for awhile in mental perturbation, and then somewhat dubiously answered, "Yes."
"Oh, that just reminds me that Corney bade me give you a hundred dollars," young John said, hurriedly, his face lighting up.
"Now, John, it's yer wish to help me that's makin' ye talk nonsense," Nancy put in, but young John did not heed her.
"You will take the money?" he asked, pleadingly.
Nancy gazed back at her old ramshackle hotel, and then her eyes rested softly on young John's face.
"You made me promise once, now it's your turn," he continued.
"Ye're not deceivin' me, John?" she said, hesitatingly.
"It's from Corney, sure," he affirmed, handing her the roll of bills.
"It's in me will fer Corney an' the girls, an' it's all I have to leave them. I couldn't give it up," she said, brokenly, as she took the money.
"Faith, it's dinner time, an' I'm sittin' out a-gossipin' when I should be at work," she announced, springing up. "Ye'll stay fer dinner, surely?" she asked of young John.
"I will with pleasure, Nancy," he assented.
Miss Sophia Piper dropped into the tavern during the afternoon. She could not help it, for she was full of news, and her aversion to the premises was fast drifting from her. In her heart she loved the strange old woman with the kindly eyes and rugged manner. Her talk was all of young John Keene's return, and she confided with happy tears stealing down her cheeks that his marriage with Miss Trevor would take place the following week.
"The wedding will take place at our house, and I'm here especially to ask you to come," she added.
"And what would ye be thinkin' o' me, without fittin' clothes, a-mixin' wi' all yer foine folk?" Nancy asked.
"You are my friend, Mrs. McVeigh, and your dress will not alter that. Promise you'll come."
"Well, it's more than loikely I will," Nancy assented. "I'm thinkin' o' givin' up the bar and livin' quiet loike fer the rest o' me days," she remarked, reflectively.
Sophia Piper's heart gave a bound of delight, and she seized Nancy's hands in both of hers.
"I'm so glad to hear you say it," she burst out, and then she added, seriously, "Can you afford it?"
"Ye see," Nancy explained, "I've had a letter from my son Corney, an' he says he is goin' to make me a steady allowance. Anyhow, I'm tired o' the noise o' drunken men and the accusin' glances o' the good folk that passes. I've decided that it's not a fittin' occupation fer the mother o' the future mayor o' Chicago to be sellin' the stuff. Others want the license, an' they can have it. I used to like the servin' o' the public, but somehow me mind has been changed o' late," she sighed.
When young John Keene and Miss Mary Trevor were made a happy unit the next week, Nancy was there with a new silk dress, which she and Katie Duncan had worked long into the previous nights to finish. Her sweet old face was radiant with smiles, and when it was all over, and she had a chance to speak alone to Sophia Piper, she whispered:
"I'm celebratin' doubly, ye see, miss; I've just sold me stock o' spirits to the summer hotel people and had a big sign put over the bar door marked 'Privit.'"
"God bless you, Nancy McVeigh," Sophia Piper whispered back.