ruddy and above all so happy, that she took heart. "We're sound and
young, thanks be to God, and we'll earn an honest living," said Mike,
proudly. "'T is the childher I'm thinkin' of all the time, an' how
they'll get a chance the best of us niver had at home. God bless old
Bantry forever in spite of it. An' there's a smart rid-headed man that
has every bother to me why 'ont I go with him and keep a tidy bar.
He's been in the same business this four year gone since he come out,
and twenty pince in his pocket when he landed, and this year he took a
month off and went over to see the ould folks and build 'em a dacint
house intirely, and hire a man to farm wid 'em now the old ones is
old. He says will I put in my money wid him, an he'll give me a great
start I wouldn't have in three years else."
"Did you have the fool's head on you then and let out to him what
manes you had?" whispered Biddy, fiercely and lifting herself to look
at him.
"I did then; 't was no harm," answered the unsuspecting Mike.
"'T was a black-hearted rascal won the truth from you!" and Biddy
roused her waning forces and that very afternoon appeared on deck. The
red-headed man knew that he had lost the day when he caught her first
scornful glance.
"God pity the old folks of him an' their house," muttered the
sharp-witted wife to Mike, as she looked at the low-lived scheming
fellow whom she suspected of treachery.
"He said thim was old clothes he was wearin' on the sea," apologized
Mike for his friend, looking down somewhat consciously at his own
comfortable corduroys. He and Biddy had been well to do on their
little farm, and on good terms with their landlord the old squire.
Poor old gentleman, it had been a sorrow to him to let the young
people go. He was a generous, kindly old man, but he suffered from the
evil repute of some shortsighted neighbors. "If I gave up all I had in
the world and went to the almshouse myself, they would still damn me
for a landlord," he said, desperately one day. "But I never thought
Mike Bogan would throw up his good chances. I suppose some worthless
fellow called him stick-in-the-mud and off he must go."
There was some unhappiness at first for the young people in America.
They went about the streets of their chosen town for a day or two,
heavy-hearted with disappointment. Their old neighbors were not housed
in palaces after all, as the letters home had suggested, and after a
few evenings of visiting and giving of messages, and a few days of
aimless straying about, Mike and Biddy hired two rooms at a large rent
up three flights of stairs, and went to housekeeping. Litte Dan rolled
down one flight the first day; no more tumbling on the green turf
among the daisies for him, poor baby boy. His father got work at the
forge of a carriage shop, having served a few months with a smith at
home, and so taking rank almost as a skilled laborer. He was a great
favorite speedily, his pay was good, at least it would have been good
if he had lived on the old place among the fields, but he and Biddy
did not know how to make the most of it here, and Dan had a baby
sister presently to keep him company, and then another and another,
and there they lived up-stairs in the heat, in the cold, in daisy time
and snow time, and Dan was put to school and came home with a
knowledge of sums in arithmetic which set his father's eyes dancing
with delight, but with a knowledge besides of foul language and a
brutal way of treating his little sisters when nobody was looking on.
Mike Bogan was young and strong when he came to America, and his good
red blood lasted well, but it was against his nature to work in a hot
half-lighted shop, and in a very few years he began to look pale about
the mouth and shaky in the shoulders, and then the enthusiastic
promises of the red-headed man on the ship, borne out, we must allow,
by Mike's own observation, inclined him and his hard earned capital to
the purchase of a tidy looking drinking shop on a side street of the
town. The owner had died and his widow wished to go West to live with
her son. She knew the Bogans and was a respectable soul in her way.
She and her husband had kept a quiet place, everybody acknowledged,
and everybody was thankful that since drinking shops must be kept, so
decent a man as Mike Bogan was taking up the business.
II.
The luck of the Bogans proved to be holding true in this generation.
Their proverbial good fortune seemed to come rather from an absence of
bad fortune than any special distinction granted the generation or two
before Mike's time. The good fellow sometimes reminded himself
gratefully of Peggy Muldoon's blessing, and once sent her a pound to
keep Christmas upon. If he had only known it, that unworthy woman
bestowed curses enough upon him because he did not repeat it the next
year, to cancel any favors that might have been anticipated. Good news
flew back to Bantry of his prosperity, and his comfortable home above
the store was a place of reception and generous assistance to all the
westward straying children of Bantry. There was a bit of garden that
belonged to the estate, the fences were trig and neat, and neither
Mike nor Biddy were persons to let things look shabby while they had
plenty of money to keep them clean and whole. It was Mike who walked
behind the priest on Sundays when the collection was taken. It was
Mike whom good Father Miles trusted more than any other member of his
flock, whom he confided in and consulted, whom perhaps his reverence
loved best of all the parish because they were both Bantry men, born
and bred. And nobody but Father Miles and Biddy and Mike Bogan knew
the full extent of the father's and mother's pride and hope in the
cleverness and beauty of their only son. Nothing was too great, and no
success seemed impossible when they tried to picture the glorious
career of little Dan.
Mike was a kind father to his little daughters, but all his hope was
for Dan. It was for Dan that he was pleased when people called him
Mr. Bogan in respectful tones, and when he was given a minor place of
trust at town elections, he thought with humble gladness that Dan
would have less cause to be ashamed of him by and by when he took his
own place as gentleman and scholar. For there was something different
about Dan from the rest of them, plain Irish folk that they were. Dan
was his father's idea of a young lord; he would have liked to show the
boy to the old squire, and see his look of surprise. Money came in at
the shop door in a steady stream, there was plenty of it put away in
the bank and Dan must wear well-made clothes and look like the best
fellows at the school. He was handsomer than any of them, he was the
best and quickest scholar of his class. The president of the great
carriage company had said that he was a very promising boy more than
once, and had put his hand on Mike's shoulder as he spoke. Mike and
Biddy, dressed in their best, went to the school examinations year
after year and heard their son do better than the rest, and saw him
noticed and admired. For Dan's sake no noisy men were allowed to stay
about the shop. Dan himself was forbidden to linger there, and so far
the boy had clear honest eyes, and an affectionate way with his father
that almost broke that honest heart with joy. They talked together
when they went to walk on Sundays, and there was a plan, increasingly
interesting to both, of going to old Bantry some summer--just for a
treat. Oh happy days! They must end as summer days do, in winter
weather.
There was an outside stair to the two upper stories where the Bogans
lived above their place of business, and late one evening, when the
shop shutters were being clasped together below, Biddy Bogan heard a
familiar heavy step and hastened to hold her brightest lamp in the
doorway.
"God save you," said his reverence Father Miles, who was coming up
slowly, and Biddy dropped a decent courtesy and devout blessing in
return. His reverence looked pale and tired, and seated himself
wearily in a chair by the window--while Biddy coasted round by a
bedroom door to "whist" at two wakeful daughters who were teasing each
other and chattering in bed.
"'T is long since we saw you here, sir," she said, respectfully. "'T
is warm weather indade for you to be about the town, and folks sick
an' dyin' and needing your help, sir. Mike'll be up now, your
reverence. I hear him below."
Biddy had grown into a stout mother of a family, red-faced and
bustling; there was little likeness left to the rose of Glengariff
with whom Mike had fallen in love at early mass in Bantry church. But
the change had been so gradual that Mike himself had never become
conscious of any damaging difference. She took a fresh loaf of bread
and cut some generous slices and put a piece of cheese and a knife on
the table within reach of Father Miles's hand. "I suppose 'tis waste
of time to give you more, so it is," she said to him. "Bread an'
cheese and no better will you ate I suppose, sir," and she folded her
arms across her breast and stood looking at him.
"How is the luck of the Bogans to-day?" asked the kind old man. "The
head of the school I make no doubt?" and at this moment Mike came up
the stairs and greeted his priest with reverent affection.
"You're looking faint, sir," he urged. "Biddy get a glass now, we're
quite by ourselves sir--and I've something for sickness that's very
soft and fine entirely."
"Well, well, this once then," answered Father Miles, doubtfully. "I've
had a hard day."
He held the glass in his hand for a moment and then pushed it away
from him on the table. "Indeed it's not wrong in itself," said the
good priest looking up presently, as if he had made something clear to
his mind. "The wrong is in ourselves to make beasts of ourselves with
taking too much of it. I don't shame me with this glass of the best
that you've poured for me. My own sin is in the coffee-pot. It wilds
my head when I've got most use for it, and I'm sure of an aching
pate--God forgive me for indulgence; but I must have it for my
breakfast now, and then. Give me a bit of bread and cheese; yes,
that's what I want Bridget," and he pushed the glass still farther
away.
"I've been at a sorry place this night," he went on a moment later,
"the smell of the stuff can't but remind me. 'T is a comfort to come
here and find your house so clean and decent, and both of you looking
me in the face. God save all poor sinners!" and Mike and his wife
murmured assent.
"I wish to God you were out of this business and every honest man with
you," said the priest, suddenly dropping his fatherly, Bantry good
fellowship and making his host conscious of the solemnity of the
church altar. "'T is a decent shop you keep, Mike, my lad, I know. I
know no harm of it, but there are weak souls that can't master
themselves, and the drink drags them down. There's little use in doing
away with the shops though. We've got to make young men strong enough
to let drink alone. The drink will always be in the world. Here's your
bright young son; what are they teaching him at his school, do ye
know? Has his characther grown, do ye think Mike Bogan, and is he
going to be a man for good, and to help decent things get a start and
bad things to keep their place? I don't care how he does his sums, so
I don't, if he has no characther, and they may fight about beer and
fight about temperance and carry their Father Matthew flags flying
high, so they may, and it's all no good, lessen we can raise the young
folks up above the place where drink and shame can touch them. God
grant us help," he whispered, dropping his head on his breast. "I'm
getting to be an old man myself, and I've never known the temptation
that's like a hounding devil to many men. I can let drink alone, God
pity those who can't. Keep the young lads out from it Mike. You're a
good fellow, you're careful, but poor human souls are weak, God
knows!"
"'T is thrue for you indade sir!" responded Biddy. Her eyes were full
of tears at Father Miles's tone and earnestness, but she could not
have made clear to herself what he had said.
"Will I put a dhrap more of wather in it, your riverence?" she
suggested, but the priest shook his head gently, and, taking a handful
of parish papers out of his pocket, proceeded to hold conference with
the master of the house. Biddy waited a while and at last ventured to
clear away the good priest's frugal supper. She left the glass, but he
went away without touching it, and in the very afterglow of his
parting blessing she announced that she had the makings of a pain
within, and took the cordial with apparent approval.
Mike did not make any comment; he was tired and it was late, and long
past their bedtime.
Biddy was wide awake and talkative from her tonic, and soon pursued
the subject of conversation.
"What set the father out wid talking I do' know?" she inquired a
little ill-humoredly. "'T was thrue for him that we kape a dacint shop
anyhow, an' how will it be in the way of poor Danny when it's finding
the manes to put him where he is?"
"'T wa'n't that he mint at all," answered Mike from his pillow.
"Didn't ye hear what he said?" after endeavoring fruitlessly to repeat
it in his own words--"He's right, sure, about a b'y's getting thim
books and having no characther. He thinks well of Danny, and he knows
no harm of him. Wisha! what 'll we do wid that b'y, Biddy, I do' know!
'Fadther,' says he to me today, 'why couldn't ye wait an' bring me
into the wurruld on American soil,' says he 'and maybe I'd been
prisident,' says he, and 't was the thruth for him."
"I'd rather for him to be a priest meself," replied the mother.
"That's what Father Miles said himself the other day," announced Mike
wide awake now. "'I wish he'd the makings of a good priest,' said he.
'There'll soon be need of good men and hard picking for 'em too,'
said he, and he let a great sigh. ''T is money they want and place
they want, most o' them bla'guard b'ys in the siminary. 'T is the old
fashioned min like mesilf that think however will they get souls
through this life and through heaven's gate at last, wid clane names
and God-fearin', dacint names left after them.' Thim was his own words
indade."
"Idication was his cry always," said Bridget, blessing herself in the
dark. "'T was only last confission he took no note of me own sins
while he redded himself in the face with why don't I kape Mary Ellen
to the school, and myself not an hour in the day to rest my poor
bones. 'I have to kape her in, to mind the shmall childer,' says I,
an' 't was thrue for me, so it was." She gave a jerk under the
blankets, which represented the courtesy of the occasion. She had a
great respect and some awe for Father Miles, but she considered
herself to have held her ground in that discussion.
"We'll do our best by them all, sure," answered Mike. "'T is tribbling
me money I am ivery day," he added, gayly. "The lord-liftinant himsilf
is no surer of a good bury-in' than you an' me. What if we made a
priest of Dan intirely?" with a great outburst of proper pride. "A son
of your own at the alther saying mass for you, Biddy Flaherty from
Glengariff!"
"He's no mind for it, more's the grief," answered the mother,
unexpectedly, shaking her head gloomily on the pillow, "but marruk me
wuds now, he'll ride in his carriage when I'm under the sods, give me
grace and you too Mike Bogan! Look at the airs of him and the toss of
his head. 'Mother,' says he to me, 'I'm goin' to be a big man!' says
he, 'whin I grow up. D' ye think anybody 'll take me fer an
Irishman?'"
"Bad cess to the bla'guard fer that then!" said Mike. "It's spoilin'
him you are. 'T is me own pride of heart to come from old Bantry, an'
he lied to me yesterday gone, saying would I take him to see the old
place. Wisha! he's got too much tongue, and he's spindin' me money for
me."
But Biddy pretended to be falling asleep. This was not the first time
that the honest pair had felt anxiety creeping into their pride about
Dan. He frightened them sometimes; he was cleverer than they, and the
mother had already stormed at the boy for his misdemeanors, in her
garrulous fashion, but covered them from his father notwithstanding.
She felt an assurance of the merely temporary damage of wild oats; she
believed it was just as well for a boy to have his freedom and his
fling. She even treated his known lies as if they were truth. An
easy-going comfortable soul was Biddy, who with much shrewdness and
only a trace of shrewishness got through this evil world as best she
might.
The months flew by. Mike Bogan was a middle-aged man, and he and his
wife looked somewhat elderly as they went to their pew in the broad
aisle on Sunday morning. Danny usually came too, and the girls, but
Dan looked contemptuous as he sat next his father and said his prayers
perfunctorily. Sometimes he was not there at all, and Mike had a heavy
heart under his stiff best coat. He was richer than any other member
of Father Miles's parish, and he was known and respected everywhere as
a good citizen. Even the most ardent believers in the temperance cause
were known to say that little mischief would be done if all the
rumsellers were such men as Mr. Bogan. He was generous and in his
limited way public spirited. He did his duty to his neighbor as he saw
it. Every one used liquor more or less, somebody must sell it, but a
low groggery was as much a thing of shame to him as to any man. He
never sold to boys, or to men who had had too much already. His shop
was clean and wholesome, and in the evening when a dozen or more of
his respectable acquaintances gathered after work for a social hour or
two and a glass of whiskey to rest and cheer them after exposure,
there was not a little good talk about affairs from their point of
view, and plenty of honest fun. In their own houses very likely the
rooms were close and hot, and the chairs hard and unrestful. The wife
had taken her bit of recreation by daylight and visited her friends.
This was their comfortable club-room, Mike Bogan's shop, and Mike
himself the leader of the assembly. There was a sober-mindedness in
the man; his companions were contented though he only looked on
tolerantly at their fun, for the most part, without taking any active
share himself.
One cool October evening the company was well gathered in, there was
even a glow of wood fire in the stove, and two of the old men were
sitting close beside it. Corny Sullivan had been a soldier in the
British army for many years, he had been wounded at last at
Sebastopol, and yet here he was, full of military lore and glory, and
propped by a wooden leg. Corny was usually addressed an Timber-toes by
his familiars; he was an irascible old follow to deal with, but as
clean as a whistle from long habit and even stately to look at in his
arm-chair. He had a nephew with whom he made his home, who would give
him an arm presently and get him home to bed. His mate was an old
sailor much bent in the back by rheumatism, Jerry Bogan; who, though
no relation, was tenderly treated by Mike, being old and poor. His
score was never kept, but he seldom wanted for his evening grog. Jerry
Bogan was a cheerful soul; the wit of the Celts and their pathetic
wilfulness were delightful in him. The priest liked him, the doctor
half loved him, this old-fashioned Irishman who had a graceful
compliment or a thrust of wit for whoever came in his way. What a
treasury of old Irish lore and legend was this old sailor! What
broadness and good cheer and charity had been fostered in his sailor
heart! The delight of little children with his clever tales and
mysterious performances with bits of soft pine and a sharp jackknife,
a very Baron Munchausen of adventure, and here he sat, round backed
and head pushed forward like an old turtle, by the fire. The other men
sat or stood about the low-walled room. Mike was serving his friends;
there was a clink of glass and a stirring and shaking, a pungent odor
of tobacco, and much laughter.
"Soombody, whoiver it was, thrun a cat down in Tom Auley's well las'
night," announced Corny Sullivan with more than usual gravity.
"They'll have no luck thin," says Jerry. "Anybody that meddles wid
wather 'ill have no luck while they live, faix they 'ont thin."
"Tom Auley's been up watchin' this three nights now," confides the
other old gossip. "Thim dirty b'y's troublin' his pigs in the sthy,
and having every stramash about the place, all for revinge upon him
for gettin' the police afther thim when they sthole his hins. 'T was
as well for him too, they're dirty bligards, the whole box and dice of
them."
"Whishper now!" and Jerry pokes his great head closer to his friend.
"The divil of 'em all is young Dan Bogan, Mike's son. Sorra a bit o'
good is all his schoolin', and Mike's heart 'll be soon broke from
him. I see him goin' about wid his nose in the air. He's a pritty boy,
but the divil is in him an' 't is he ought to have been a praste wid
his chances and Father Miles himself tarkin and tarkin wid him tryin'
to make him a crown of pride to his people after all they did for him.
There was niver a spade in his hand to touch the ground yet. Look at
his poor father now! Look at Mike, that's grown old and gray since
winther time." And they turned their eyes to the bar to refresh their
memories with the sight of the disappointed face behind it.
There was a rattling at the door-latch just then and loud voices
outside, and as the old men looked, young Dan Bogan came stumbling
into the shop. Behind him were two low fellows, the worst in the town,
they had all been drinking more than was good for them, and for the
first time Mike Bogan saw his only son's boyish face reddened and
stupid with whiskey. It had been an unbroken law that Dan should keep
out of the shop with his comrades; now he strode forward with an
absurd travesty of manliness, and demanded liquor for himself and his
friends at his father's hands.
Mike staggered, his eyes glared with anger. His fatherly pride made
him long to uphold the poor boy before so many witnesses. He reached
for a glass, then he pushed it away--and with quick step reached Dan's
side, caught him by the collar, and held him. One or two of the
spectators chuckled with weak excitement, but the rest pitied Mike
Bogan as he would have pitied them.
The angry father pointed his son's companions to the door, and after a
moment's hesitation they went skulking out, and father and son
disappeared up the stairway. Dan was a coward, he was glad to be
thrust into his own bedroom upstairs, his head was dizzy, and he
muttered only a feeble oath. Several of Mike Bogan's customers had
kindly disappeared when he returned trying to look the same as ever,
but one after another the great tears rolled down his cheeks. He never
had faced despair till now; he turned his back to the men, and fumbled
aimlessly among the bottles on the shelf. Some one came, in
unconscious of the pitiful scene, and impatiently repeated his order
to the shopkeeper.
"God help me, boys, I can't sell more this night!" he said brokenly.
"Go home now and lave me to myself."
They were glad to go, though it cut the evening short. Jerry Bogan
bundled his way last with his two canes. "Sind the b'y to say," he
advised in a gruff whisper. "Sind him out wid a good captain now,
Mike,'t will make a man of him yet."
A man of him yet! alas, alas--for the hopes that had been growing so
many years. Alas for the pride of a simple heart, alas for the day
Mike Bogan came away from sunshiny old Bantry with his baby son in his
arms for the sake of making that son a gentleman.
III.
Winter had fairly set in, but the snow had not come, and the street
was bleak and cold. The wind was stinging men's faces and piercing the
wooden houses. A hard night for sailors coming on the coast--a bitter
night for poor people everywhere.
From one house and another the lights went out in the street where the
Bogans lived; at last there was no other lamp than theirs, in a window
that lighted the outer stairs. Sometimes a woman's shadow passed
across the curtain and waited there, drawing it away from the panes a
moment as if to listen the better for a footstep that did not come.
Poor Biddy had waited many a night before this. Her husband was far
from well, the doctor said that his heart was not working right, and
that he must be very careful, but the truth was that Mike's heart was
almost broken by grief. Dan was going the downhill road, he had been
drinking harder and harder, and spending a great deal of money. He had
smashed more than one carriage and lamed more than one horse from the
livery stables, and he had kept the lowest company in vilest dens. Now
he threatened to go to New York, and it had come at last to being the
only possible joy that he should come home at any time of night rather
than disappear no one knew where. He had laughed in Father Miles's
face when the good old man, after pleading with him, had tried to
threaten him.