A ROOM IN NEW YORK
We will now leave Peg for a while and return to one who claimed so much
of the reader's attention in the early pages of this history--O'Connell.
It had not been a happy month for him.
He felt the separation from Peg keenly. At first he was almost
inconsolable. He lived in constant dread of hearing that some untoward
accident had befallen her.
All the days and nights of that journey of Peg's to England, O'Connell
had the ever-present premonition of danger. When a cable came, signed
Montgomery Hawkes, acquainting O'Connell with the news of Peg's safe
arrival, he drew a long breath of relief.
Then the days passed slowly until Peg's first letter came. It contained
the news of Kingsnorth's death--Peg's entrance into the Chichester
family, her discontent--her longing to be back once more in New York.
This was followed by more letters all more or less in the same key.
Finally he wrote urging her to give it all up and come back to him. He
would not have his little daughter tortured for all the advantages
those people could give her. Then her letters took on a different
aspect. They contained a curious half-note of happiness in them. No
more mention of returning. On the contrary, Peg appeared to be making
the best of the conditions in which she was placed.
These later letters set O'Connell wondering. Had the great Message of
Life come to his little Peg?
Although he always felt it WOULD come some day, now that it seemed
almost a very real possibility, he dreaded it. There were so few
natures would understand her.
Beneath all her resolute and warlike exterior, it would take a keenly
observing eye to find the real, gentle, affectionate nature that
flourished in the sunshine of affection, and would fret and pine amid
unsympathetic surroundings.
That Peg was developing her character and her nature during those few
weeks was clear to O'Connell. The whole tone of her letters had
changed. But no word of hers gave him any clue to the real state of her
feelings, until one day he received a letter almost entirely composed
of descriptions of the appearance, mode of speech, method of thought
and expression of one "Jerry." The description of the man appealed to
him, he apparently having so many things in common with the mysterious
person who had so vividly impressed himself on Peg.
Apparently Peg was half trying to improve herself.
There was a distinct note of seriousness about the last letter. It was
drawing near the end of the month and she was going to ask her aunt to
let her stay on for another month if her father did not mind. She did
not want him to be unhappy, and if he was miserable without her, why
she would sail back to New York on the very first steamer. He wrote her
a long affectionate letter, telling her that whatever made her happy
would make HIM, too, and that she must not, on any account, think of
returning to New York if she found that she was helping her future by
staying with her aunt. All through the letter he kept up apparent high
spirits, and ended it with a cheery exhortation to stay away from him
just as long as she could; not to think of returning until it was
absolutely necessary.
It was with a heavy heart he posted that letter. Back of his brain he
had hoped all through that month that Peg would refuse to stay any
longer in England.
Her determination to stay was a severe blow to him.
He lived entirely alone in the same rooms he had with Peg when she was
summoned abroad.
He was preparing, in his spare time, a history, of the Irish movement
from twenty years before down to the present day. It was fascinating
work for him, embodying as it did all he had ever felt and thought or
done for the "Great Cause."
In addition to this work--that occupied so many of his free hours--he
would give an occasional lecture on Irish conditions or take part as
adviser in some Irish pageant. He became rapidly one of the best liked
and most respected of the thoughtful, active, executive Irishmen in New
York City.
The night of the day following the incidents in the preceding
chapter--incidents that determined Peg's future--O'Connell was sitting
in his little work room, surrounded by books of reference, and loose
sheets of manuscript, developing his great work--the real work of his
life--because in it he would incorporate everything that would further
the march of advancement in Ireland--to work and thought and government
by her people.
A ring at the bell caused O'Connell to look up frowningly. He was not
in the habit of receiving calls. Few people ever dared to intrude on
his privacy. He preferred to be alone with his work. It passed the time
of separation from Peg quicker than in any other way.
He opened the door and looked in amazement at his visitor. He saw a
little, round, merry-looking, bald-headed gentleman with gold-rimmed
spectacles, an enormous silk-hat, broad cloth frock-coat suit, patent
boots with grey spats on them, and a general air of prosperity and good
nature that impressed itself on even the most casual observer.
"Is that Frank O'Connell?" cried the little man.
"It is," said O'Connell, trying in vain to see the man's features
distinctly in the dim light. There was a familiar ring in his voice
that seemed to take O'Connell back many years.
"You're not tellin' me ye've forgotten me?" asked the little man,
reproachfully.
"Come into the light and let me see the face of ye. Yer voice sounds
familiar to me, I'm thinkin'," replied O'Connell.
The little man came into the room, took of his heavy silk-hat and
looked up at O'Connell with a quizzing look in his laughing eyes.
"McGinnis!" was all the astonished agitator could say.
"That's who it is! 'Talkative McGinnis,' come all the way from ould
Ireland to take ye by the hand."
The two men shook hands warmly and in a few moments O'Connell had the
little doctor in the most comfortable seat in the room, a cigar between
his lips and a glass of whiskey--and--water at his elbow.
"An' what in the wurrld brings ye here, docthor?" asked O'Connell.
"Didn't ye hear?"
"I've heard nothin', I'm tellin' ye."
"Ye didn't hear of me old grand-uncle, McNamara of County Sligo
dyin'--after a useless life--and doin' the only thing that made me
proud of him now that he's gone--may he slape in peace--lavin' the
money he'd kept such a close fist on all his life to his God-fearin'
nephew so that he can spind the rest of his days in comfort? Didn't ye
hear that?"
"I did not. And who was the nephew that came into it?"
"Meself, Frank O'Connell!"
"You! Is it the truth ye're tellin' me?"
"May I nivver spake another wurrd if I'm not."
O'Connell took the little man's hand and shook it until the doctor
screamed out to him to let it go.
"What are ye doin' at all--crushin' the feelin' out of me? Sure that's
no way to show yer appreciation," and McGinnis held the crushed hand to
the side of his face in pain.
"It's sorry I am if I hurt ye and it's glad I am at the cause. So it's
a wealthy man ye are now, docthor, eh?"
"Middlin' wealthy."
"And what are ye doin' in New York?"
"Sure this is the counthry to take money to. It doubles itself out here
over night, they tell me."
"Yer takin' it away from the land of yer birth?"
"That's what I'm doin' until I make it into enough where I can go back
and do some good. It's tired I am of blood-lettin', and patchin' up the
sick and ailin', fevers an' all. I've got a few years left to enjoy
meself--an' I'm seventy come November--an' I mane to do it."
"How did ye find me?"
"Who should I meet in the sthreet this mornin'--an' me here a week--but
Patrick Kinsella, big as a house and his face all covered in
whiskers--him that I took into me own home the night they cracked his
skull up beyant the hill when O'Brien came to talk to us."
"'What are yer doin' here at all?' sez I. 'Faith, it's the foine thing
I'm in,' sez he. 'An' what is it?' sez I. 'Politics!' sez he, with a
knowin' grin. 'Politics is it?' I asks, all innocent as a baby. 'That's
what I'm doin',' sez he. 'An' I want to tell ye the Irish are wastin'
their time worryin their heads over their own country when here's a
great foine beautiful rich one over here just ripe, an' waitin' to be
plucked. What wud we be doin' tryin' to run Ireland when we can run
America. Answer me that,' sez he. 'Run America?' sez I, all dazed.
'That's what the Irish are doin' this minnit. Ye'd betther get on in
while the goin's good. It's a wondherful melon the Irish are goin' to
cut out here one o' these fine days,' an' he gave me a knowin' grin,
shouted to me where he was to be found and away he wint."
"There's many a backslider from the 'Cause' out here, I'm thinkin',"
continued the doctor.
"If it's me ye mane, ye're wrong. I'm no backslider."
"Kinsella towld me where to find ye. Sure it's many's the long day
since ye lay on yer back in 'The Gap' with yer hide full o' lead, and
ye cursin' the English government. Ye think different now maybe to what
ye did then?"
"Sure I think different. Other times, other ways. But if it hadn't been
for the methods of twenty years ago we wouldn't be doin' things so
peaceably now. It was the attitude of Irishmen in Ireland that made
them legislate for us. It wasn't the Irish members in Westminster that
did it."
"That's thrue for ye."
"It was the pluck--and determination--and statesmanship--and
unflinchin' not-to-be-quieted-or-deterred attitude of them days that's
brought the goal we've all been aimin' at in sight. An' it's a happier
an' more contented an' healthier an' cleaner Ireland we're seein'
to-day than the wun we had to face as childhren."
"Thrue for ye agen. I see ye've not lost the gift o' the gab. Ye've got
it with ye still, Frank O'Connell."
"Faith an' while I'm talkin' of the one thing in the wurrld that's near
our hearts--the future of Ireland--I want to prophesy--"
"Prophesy is it?"
"That's what I want to do."
"An' what's it ye'd be after prophesying?"
"This: that ten years from now, with her own Government, with her own
language back again--Gaelic--an' what language in the wurrld yields
greater music than the old Gaelic?--with Ireland united and Ireland's
land in the care of IRISHMEN: with Ireland's people self-respectin' an'
sober an' healthy an' educated: with Irishmen employed on Irish
industries, exportin' them all over the wurrld: with Ireland's heart
beatin' with hope an' faith in the future--do ye know what will happen?"
"Go on, Frank O'Connell. I love to listen to ye. Don't stop."
"I'll tell ye what will happen! Back will go the Irishmen in tens o'
thousands from all the other counthries they were dhriven to in the
days o' famine an' oppression an' coercion an' buck-shot--back they
will go to their mother counthry. An' can ye see far enough into the
future to realise what THAT will do? Ye can't. Well, I'll tell ye that,
too. The exiled Irish, who have lived their lives abroad--takin' their
wives, like as not, from the people o' the counthry they lived in an'
not from their own stock--when they go back to Ireland with different
outlooks, with different manners an' with different tastes, so long as
they've kept the hearts o' them thrue an' loyal--just so long as
they've done that--an' kept the Faith o 'their forefathers--they'll
form a new NATION, an' a NATION with all the best o' the old--the great
big Faith an' Hope o' the old--added to the prosperity an' education
an' business-like principles an' statesmanship o' the NEW--an' it's the
BLOOD o' the great OLD an' the POWER o' the great NEW that'll make the
Ireland o' the future one o' the greatest NATIONS in PEACE as she has
always been in WAR."
O'Connell's voice died away as he looked out across the years to come.
And the light of prophecy shone in his eyes, and the eerie tone of the
seer was in his voice.
It was the Ireland he had dreamed of! Ireland free, prosperous,
contented--happy. Ireland speaking and writing in her national tongue!
Ireland with all the depth of the poetic nature of the peasant equal to
the peer! Ireland handling her own resources, developing her own
national character, responsible before the WORLD and not to an alien
nation for her acts--an Ireland triumphant.
Even if he would not live to see the golden harvest ripen he felt proud
to be one of those who helped, in the days of stress that were gone,
her people, to the benefiting of the future generations, who would have
a legacy of development by PACIFIC measures, what he and his
forefathers strove to accomplish by the loss of their liberty and the
shedding of their blood.
"Sure it's the big position they should give you on College Green when
they get their own government again, Frank O'Connell," the little
doctor said, shaking his head knowingly.
"The race has been everythin' to me: the prize--if there's one--'ud be
nothin'. A roof to me head and a bite to eat is all I need by day--so
long as the little girl is cared for."
"An' where is the little blue-eyed maiden? Peg o' your heart? Where is
she at all?"
"It's in London she is."
"London!"
"Aye. She's with an aunt o' hers bein' educated an' the like"
"Is it English ye're goin' to bring her up?" cried the doctor in horror
and disgust. "No, it's not, Docthor McGinnis--an' ye ought to know me
betther than to sit there an' ask me such a question. Bring her up
English? when the one regret o' me life is I never knew enough Gaelic
to tache her the language so that we'd be free of the English speech
anyway. Bring her up English! I never heard the like o' that in me
life."
"Then what is she doin' there at all?"
"Now listen, McGinnis, and listen well--an' then we'll never ask such a
question again. When the good Lord calls me to Himself it's little
enough I'll have to lave little Peg. An' that thought has been
throublin' me these years past. I'm not the kind that makes money
easily or that kapes the little I earn. An' the chance came to give Peg
advantages I could never give her. Her mother's people offered to take
her and it's with them she has been this last month. But with all their
breedin' an' their fine manners and soft speech they've not changed
Peg--not changed her in the least. Her letthers to me are just as sweet
an' simple as if she were standin' there talkin' to me. An' I wish she
were standin' here--now--this minnit," and his eyes filled up and he
turned away.
McGinnis jumped up quickly and turned the tall, bronzed man around with
a hand on each shoulder--though he had to stand tip-toe to do it, and
poured forth his feelings as follows:
"Send for her! Bring her back to ye! Why man, yer heart is heavy
without her; aye, just as yer HAIR is goin' grey, so is yer LIFE
without the one thing in it that kapes it warm and bright. Send for
her! Don't let the Saxons get hold of her with their flattherin' ways
and their insincerities, an' all. Bring her back to ye and kape her
with ye until the right man comes along--an' he must be an
Irishman--straight of limb an' of character--with the joy of livin' in
his heart and the love of yer little girl first to him in the wurrld,
an' then ye'll know ye've done the right thing by her; for it's the
only happiness yer Peg'll ever know--to be an Irish wife an' an Irish
mother as well as an Irish daughther. Send for her--I'm tellin' ye,
Frank O'Connell, or it's the sore rod ye'll be makin' for yer own back."
McGinnis's words sank in.
When they parted for the night with many promises to meet again ere
long, McConnell sat down and wrote Peg a long letter, leaving the
choice in her hands, but telling her how much he would like to have her
back with him. He wrote the letter again and again and each time
destroyed it. It seemed so clumsy.
It was so hard to express just what he felt. He decided to leave it
until morning.
All that night he tossed about in feverish unrest. He could not sleep.
He had a feeling of impending calamity.
Toward dawn he woke, and lighting a lamp wrote out a cable message:
Miss Margaret O'Connell
c/o Mrs. Chichester
Regal Villa, Scarboro, England
Please come back to me. I want you.
Love from
Your Affectionate Father
Relieved in his mind, he put the message on the table, intending to
send it on his way to business. Then he slept until breakfast-time
without a dream.
His Peg would get the message and she would come to him.
At breakfast a cable was brought to him.
He opened it and looked in bewilderment at the contents:
"Sailing to-day for New York on White Star boat Celtic. Love. Peg."