“_There’s an organ in the parlour,
Just to give the house a tone,
And you’re welcome every evening,
At Maggie Murphy’s home._”
HARRIGAN.
NOT many steps from St. Michael’s is the Academy of the Sacred Heart,
where the girls of the parish are taught by the gentle-mannered
sisters; and not far from that again, was the home of Maggie Dwyer.
Time was, and not so many years before, when Owen Dwyer mixed the
mortar for McMullen the builder and lived in one of the little houses
in McGarragles’ Alley. But Owen made good wages and was a saving man
and a sober one. All his neighbours knew that he had an account in
the savings bank; but when he sent his daughter to the Normal School
and thereby showed that he had sufficient to educate and support her
it excited much comment; and when he bought the Second Street house,
and Fitzmaurice, the real estate man, caused it to be known that four
thousand dollars was the price paid, a cry of wonder went up, and the
old country tale of the finding of “a crock of gold,” began to be
whispered from one to the other.
And, although he shortly afterward gave up his job with McMullen, Owen
was still the same quiet, good-natured man, passing the collection
plate in the church on Sunday morning and acting as president of the T.
A. B. society, as he had been accustomed to do for years.
His daughter was his darling. Splendid, capable Maggie! whose fine eyes
and handsome form were the talk of all who knew her. Owen had some
influence in a political way, and after her graduation, Maggie was made
a teacher at the Harrison School; her strong young voice was soon heard
in the church choir; she sketched, embroidered, composed, and adorned
their pretty home with pictures, dainty bric-a-brac and other things
that a refined taste delights in, until Owen walked about the rooms in
awe, and admired with all his soul.
One evening about a week after the funeral at Murphy’s, Maggie, in a
close-fitting gown that displayed the splendid lines of her figure,
sat at her piano softly playing over some music which she was to use
at a concert of the teachers’ society; Owen read the evening paper and
smoked his brier pipe by the shaded lamp.
“I’m afeered, Maggie,” said he, in a troubled tone, laying down the
paper, “that these goings on av the Motor Traction Company’ll bring
sorra’ till many a body yet.”
“What is it, Daddy?” asked Maggie, pausing in her playing.
“They do be after the franchise av the new company,” answered Owen.
“An’ the politicians are sidin’ wid ’em in their rascality. I have
put more money in this than I shud,” added he, soberly, “an’ iv the
franchise is revoked be the next set av councilmen, it’s in a bad way
we’ll be, Maggie.”
She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, in the motherly fashion
that Owen loved.
“Don’t worry, Daddy, you’ll see that all will come right in the end.
And what matter, even if the stocks you own are made worthless; we
still have our home.”
“Bud we can’t ate bricks an’ mortar, sure,” complained he. “An’ I’m too
owld till go till work, now, Maggie.”
“But I am not,” said Maggie, with a laugh. “Why you have said yourself,
Daddy, that I earn more in a month than you ever did with Mr. McMullen.”
“Is it have me sponge on yez bit av wages ye’d have me do?” exclaimed
the old man. “God forgimme, Maggie, I couldn’t do that.”
The door bell rang at this moment.
“It’s Mr. Mason, I suppose,” said Maggie. “He told me that he would
drop in during the evening, and said that he wanted to speak to you.”
But it was Annie Clancy, the grocer’s daughter, a quiet, pretty girl,
and a great favourite of Maggie’s.
“I only came in to say that Mary Carroll is coming around to see you,”
announced Annie. “She said that she was afraid you’d be goin’ out, so
she asked me to run around and tell you to wait.”
“An’ how is young McGonagle, Annie?” asked Owen, banteringly.
“Now, Daddy!” warned Maggie, with uplifted finger.
“What harm?” persisted Owen, who delighted to twit the girl about her
sweetheart. “Sure, they tell me, Annie, that he do sarve yez father wid
better milk than any av his other customers.”
Annie tossed her head.
“He don’t,” denied she. “And even if he did,” regretfully, “Pop
wouldn’t like him any better.”
“An’ does not take till Goose?” inquired Owen.
“You know he don’t. And it’s all because Goose is in debt to Mr.
O’Hara. Pop says he’ll never be able to keep a wife; and that he’ll be
sold out.”
Owen saw the tears in the girl’s eyes, and said gently.
“Don’t mind, Annie. You’ll have him, never fear. Goose is a good b’y
till his mother an’ that kind do have luck.”
“I’ll have to go now, Maggie,” said the grocer’s daughter. “Pop’s going
to the Clan-na-Gael meeting to-night and I have to tend store.”
Annie had hardly left when Mason came, and he had barely been welcomed
when Mary Carroll followed. The two men were left in the parlour to
discuss the matter of Mason’s visit, while the girls withdrew to the
sitting room upstairs.
“I could not delay telling you any longer, Maggie dear,” said Mary. “It
came so sudden after poor Uncle Larry’s death that we have been keeping
it a secret.”
“A secret?” exclaimed Maggie. “Tell me, quick.”
“Larry Murphy has asked me to be his wife.”
A quick change came over Maggie’s face; she paled, then flushed, and
faltered when she tried to speak.
“Why, Maggie,” said Mary, anxiously. “What’s the matter?”
But Maggie had recovered quickly and replied:
“I am only glad, Mary--glad for your sake; you will be very happy; for
Larry has a good heart.”
“It came so strangely, too,” said Mary, a happy light in her quiet
eyes. “We barely knew each other, I mean in the conventional sense,
but I must have loved him and he must have loved me for ever so long
without either of us knowing it. And, oh, he thinks so much of you,
Maggie; why, you and he were boy and girl together, and yet I don’t
remember ever hearing you speak of him.”
“We have not seen much of each other for a long time,” said Maggie
quietly.
When they finally came down into the parlour, Mason was ready to take
his leave; he had his hat and stick in his hand and was exchanging some
last words with Owen.
“Every man,” he was saying, “who has the good of the city at heart,
and who has the slightest sense of justice, will do everything in his
power to prevent this proposed steal. I have made up my mind that the
only way to prevent its consummation is to canvass persons who have
influence in their own neighbourhood, acquaint them with the facts and
endeavour to organize an opposition at the primaries.”
“There yez have it,” said Owen, approvingly. “The primaries is
the place till make the fight; lave thim wanst git control av the
convintions in the different wards, an’ they’ll put their own bla’gards
on the regular ticket an’ thin the divil himself couldn’t bate thim.”
“And this young man whom you advised me to see; where can he be found?”
“Oh, Larry Murphy? Yis, yez could do worse thin have Larry wid yez.
Sure, he’s so solid in his own division that McQuirk himself has till
take second place, there.
“Mary,” and Owen turned to the girl, “Is Larry at home?”
“Yes,” answered Mary.
“If you want to find Mr. Murphy,” laughed Maggie, “we will provide a
way for you. Mr. Mason, this is Miss Carroll.” The introduction being
acknowledged, Maggie continued: “You can be of mutual service to each
other, Mr. Mason--you as escort, and Miss Carroll as guide.”
But, after their visitor had gone, and Maggie had sought her own room,
the laugh vanished and she threw herself upon the bed and burst into a
storm of tears.
Her thoughts went back to the time of her childhood, to the little home
in McGarragles’ Alley. She once more saw the dark-eyed boy who had been
her very slave, who was always ready to fight for her, and who was
happiest when by her side. But as they grew up the years had separated
them; she lived in her present home, went to the Normal School and
found new friends very different from the old, though her heart was
still true to them. And Larry only saw the change from the outside.
When she came tripping along on Sunday morning, prayer book in hand, on
her way to church, he, standing on the corner in front of Regan’s cigar
store, rigged out in a cream-coloured overcoat with pearl buttons,
saluted her with a nod of assumed indifference and she would return it
in kind and continue on her way, wondering: “What in the world Larry
Murphy saw in standing on Regan’s corner all day of a Sunday.”
An incident had occurred later that should have ended this
misunderstanding; and it would have done so had not the sense of
distance between them been magnified, in Larry’s mind, by the very
nature of the happening.
Shannon, the teamster by whom he was employed, had one day called Larry
into the little office down by the river.
“Larry,” said he, “I’m after havin’ great call from the mills above in
Kensington, as ye know. Sure the bell av me telyphone’s jingling all
the God’s blessed day, an’ I have the divil’s own job gittin’ me teams
up there in time. Yesterday I bought six pair av the foinest jacks yez
iver laid eyes on, an’ five trucks as good as new; I have rinted the
back room av Kavanaugh’s on the Frankford road as an up-town branch;
an’ it’s yezsilf I want till take charge av it. The work will be asey
an’ genteel an’ I’ll pay yez twinty dollars a week.”
After a moment’s sober thought Larry had replied:
“The job’s a cinch, an’ the money’s good; but, say, Pat, how do youse
t’ink I’ll size up to the work? I can’t write a’tall an’ on’y kin read
a little.”
“Now God forgi’mine for an ijit!” exclaimed Shannon. “Sure an I niver
wanst thought av that. That puts an end till it, Larry; the work is
beyant yez, b’y.”
Larry understood this and felt it keenly. He endeavoured to convey an
impression of carelessness; but Shannon was not deceived.
“Common since’ll tell yez, Larry,” said he, kindly, “that the man that
takes howld av me up-town branch must have a bit av larnin’. Give up
runnin’ wid the gang, lad, an’ go till the night school.”
Larry paid very little attention to what the boss was saying; he was
wrestling with the bitterness within him. But that night, as he was
crossing the railroad on his way to the club, he noticed that a broad
shaft of light flowed from each window of the old Harrison School, and
then Shannon’s words came back to him. A group of boys were skylarking
in the entry where a single gas light flared redly in the gloom.
“Night school?” inquired he of one of these.
“Sure,” answered the boy. “Started last week.”
His mind was made up in an instant, and he started up the stairs toward
the principal’s room. But with his hand upon the door knob, he paused.
What would the gang say when they heard? He pictured himself standing
in the midst of them, an object of derision; he saw two of them meet
upon the street and heard the laugh that greeted the words, “Larry
Murphy’s goin’ to school, like a kid.” But he drove these visions from
him, muttering:
“If they kid me, there’ll be somethin’ broke, that’s all!”
He half expected the principal to laugh when he stated his business;
but, on the contrary, that gentleman seemed to regard the matter
approvingly; this made Larry feel better, and he entered the schoolroom
indicated with scarcely a tremor. A number of young men of his own age
sat at the little desks, handling the spelling books with pathetic
care. There were two teachers in the room, flitting helpfully from
desk to desk; no one noticed Larry and he slid into a vacant seat, and
awaited developments.
One of the teachers was working from pupil to pupil up the aisle toward
him. His back was turned to her, but he knew, from the sound of her
voice, that she was young. In a few moments she was, as Larry afterward
expressed it, “givin’ points to the guy right back o’ me.”
It was not until then that he recognized the voice; and a panic
immediately possessed him.
“Gee!” he mentally exclaimed, “what did I drift into this joint for,
anyhow; I might a-knowed she’d be here.” He looked longingly toward the
door. “If I t’ought nobody was next, I’d take a chance, and fly the
coop!”
But he delayed until too late; in another moment Maggie had sat down
beside him, inquiring:
“How are you getting on with--?” then in great astonishment. “Why,
Larry Murphy!”
He began to stammer a confused explanation; but she knew of his
shortcomings and realized the situation like a flash.
“I didn’t t’ink I’d see youse here,” he finished awkwardly.
Maggie knew this; she also knew that if he had dreamed of her presence
wild horses could not have dragged him there. Her tact soon put him
more at his ease, and, finally her manner of putting things, awoke an
interest in the lessons that almost made him forget his situation.
When the class was dismissed she had called him aside.
“You will return to-morrow night?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered hesitatingly; “I guess so.”
“Will you promise?”
“Yes; I promise.”
He kept his word, finished the term and mastered the studies in hand.
But after that it was the same as before; she could only feel sorry
for him, he thought; and when he chanced to meet her on the street
his manner was formal, and for her pride’s sake her own could not be
otherwise.
And this, perhaps, is why Maggie wept so bitterly.