_JOHN KEENE'S EDUCATION._
"If the world had no mean people, there'd be little use fer kindness,"
remarked Nancy McVeigh to Moore, the operator at the railway junction,
who always enjoyed a smoke and a half-hour chat with his hostess after
his midday meal. They were discussing the escapades of young John
Keene in the little parlor upstairs, whither Mistress McVeigh had gone
to complete a batch of home-knit socks for her son, Cornelius, who
lived in Chicago.
"I can't understand such a difference in the natures of father and
son," Moore continued, after Nancy's interruption. "The father starts
life penniless, without education, friends or business training. He
settles in a locality where the majority of his neighbors find it a
heart-breaking struggle to make ends meet, and amasses a fortune. Such
a performance in a country where business is brisk and natural
facilities favorable to the manipulations of a clever man would not be
so surprising, but we all know the Monk Road has no gold mines or
streams of commerce to disturb its dreamlike serenity."
A tone of irony pervaded Moore's words, for he was past forty, and had
but a paltry bank account and a living salary to show for his ten
years' sojourn in the place.
"Compare the father's record with that of his son. The boy is given
all the advantages that money can obtain, and plenty of time for
growth, and he has also the example of his parent. Why, the lad was
the terror of the school, never out of mischief, and costing his father
a pretty sum to keep him from serious consequences. Before he was
fifteen he spent his Saturdays carousing with the wildest set in the
town, and incidentally built up a very unenviable reputation. Then he
was sent to a city college. Did you hear the rumors that came back of
what he did there?"
"There was some talk," Nancy agreed.
"Talk! Mistress McVeigh; downright scandal, I should call it! I know
he was expelled for attending a party at the Principal's own home in an
intoxicated condition, and afterwards fighting with a teacher who
undertook to reprimand him."
Nancy looked up from her knitting, and an amused twinkle was in her
eyes.
"The lad sowed wild oats sure enough, Mr. Moore, and good, tall ones,
with full heads at that, but he's only an image o' his father, in that
old John's recklessness runs to makin' money, and young John's to
spendin'. It's not that I like bringin' up bygones, but the father was
a bit loose in his day, too. I can remember, before old John married,
he would come from town takin' the width o' the road fer his path, and
singin' at the top o' his voice something he learnt out o' a Burns'
book o' poetry. It was the wife that he brought from the city, bless
her good soul, that turned his work into a gold-mine. She guided him
out o' his evil way and kept him hard at his dealin's from morning till
night. It'll be the same with young John. He's spendin' his money
now, and makin' the whole countryside ring with his pranks, but a foine
miss'll spy him out some day, and then his mind'll forget his throat
and dwell on his pocket. He'll never fail, fer he takes after his
mother in the face, and she was the envy of the people the length o'
the Monk Road, and farther. It's an old woman I'm gettin' now, an'
I've watched many young men developin' character, an' I'm just a bit o'
a judge. Ye'll admit I've had a grand opportunity to study their evil
side, and what I don't see is told me by the neighbors; then their good
side turns up after awhile, like a rainbow after a shower. I find it
takes wise men to be really bad ones, but, after they've learnt their
lesson, they see what a dried-up skeleton an evil life is, and then
it's a race to make up fer their wasted years. Course, if a fool is
led into idle habits, he must be led out again, and it's doubtful
whether the process is very purifyin'. But it's different when a man
like John Keene's son sees the error o' his ways. I tell ye, Mr.
Moore, it's only a question o' time, an' young John'll be as set as his
father, but he'll no be as tight, I'm thinkin'. He's got his mother's
heart, ye know."
"You have rare assurance in the strength of human nature, Mistress
McVeigh. Perhaps it is because you're fairly strong in that quarter
yourself," commented Mr. Moore, after he had digested Nancy's crude
philosophy.
A smile crept into the corners of Nancy's mouth at the compliment, and
she let it rest there a few minutes before replying.
"Ye've noticed that young John's a regular visitor at the tavern
lately?" she asked.
"I have."
"Doubtless ye think I'm profitin' mightily with the money he passes
over my bar."
"The gain will do you no good if you are," Moore declared, stoutly.
His hostess was a very plain-spoken woman, and he knew that he could be
equally outspoken and yet incur no disfavor.
Nancy lingered over his remark, carefully revolving its significance in
her mind before attempting to defend herself.
"Tavern-keepin' is a mighty peculiar business, Mr. Moore. Ye're open
to a lot o' criticism, and sometimes ye know in yer heart it's not
quite fair. When I was married, my friends thought the inn would be a
foine chance fer us to get along, so McVeigh bought it. I cooked good
vittals, and waited on table meself in those days, an' times were
brisk, because the railroad was bein' built past our door. Then
McVeigh died, an' I had to stay by the old place, because I had nowhere
else to go. 'Twas after that people began accusin' me o' fattenin' on
the bones o' their misfortunes. And d'ye know why?"
Moore remained silent, but his looks were expectant, so Nancy
continued: "Because I was makin' enough money to pay me debts with and
keep a respectable house. I have always endeavored to give honest
value, and let no man go beyond his means in the spendin'. Of course,
I must have my trade, fer my expenses are high, seein' that I keep a
few children about me whom nobody else wants, an' I have my Corney to
do fer occasionally, but I never made more'n I could comfortably get
along with. My interest to John Keene is no such a small item, an' why
should I refuse if the son helps me to pay it with his trade? It's no
so unjust, ye see. But, for all that, I have a mother's love for young
John. Ever since he was ten years old I have carried him into town in
me buggy, wheniver he had a mind to go. Ye see, he an' me had some
great talks then, an' since he brings all his troubles to me. While
other people have been blamin' him fer his capers I've been makin' up
my mind whether he will turn into the right again or no."
"And what think you about him now?" questioned Moore, won into a more
conciliatory frame of mind.
"Ye can mark my words, Mr. Moore, the day is not far distant when young
John Keene'll be the most respected man in the country."
Moore laughed doubtfully as he said, "I hope so," and then hurried out,
for it was past the hour when he should be at work. The day was very
warm, and the sun's rays smote the grey sand of the Monk Road,
reflecting back with trebled intensity. The traffic had ceased
completely, and the quietness of Nancy McVeigh's tavern was
undisturbed. Old Donald lay asleep in the haymow above the barn. Will
Devitt had gone to town early in the morning, and Jennie and Katie
Duncan were over at the cool edge of the lake, which lay a half-mile
down the side road. Nancy was still sitting in the little parlor, but
her knitting had dropped from her fingers, her eyes were closed, and
her head pillowed against the chair-back.
A sudden noise awakened her, and going to the top of the stairs she saw
two ladies hesitating in the entrance, as if they wished to come in but
were somewhat doubtful of their welcome. One she recognized as Miss
Sophia Piper, the housekeeper for James Piper, who owned the big house
down the road; the other was a much younger woman and a stranger.
"Come up to my parlor, ladies," she invited, wondering what meant this
unexpected visit.
"Thank you, Mrs. McVeigh," called Miss Piper, and the two of them
ascended the stairs and took the seats which Nancy pushed into the
middle of the room, dusting them carefully with her apron as she did
so. Miss Piper had shown a kindly feeling to Nancy ever since the
death of her brother Tom, and she addressed the tall, grey-haired woman
before her with a cordiality of manner and a lack of reserve unusual in
her conversations with the commoners of the countryside.
"I hope you are well, Mrs. McVeigh," she began, as she seated herself
comfortably.
"I'm not complainin', miss," Nancy answered.
"I've brought my dear friend Miss Trevor with me because we are both
very anxious to do a little missionary work for the benefit of a mutual
acquaintance whom we are interested in," Miss Piper explained with
winning directness.
"Indade, Miss Piper, an' ye think I can help ye, doubtless."
"Yes, we are sure of it. It's Mr. Keene that we wish to speak about."
"Ye mean young John, of course," Nancy interrupted, as a smile gathered
slowly over her rugged face.
"Young Mr. Keene, yes. I was his Sunday-school teacher, years ago, but
since then, I am afraid, I have lost touch with him, until recently,
when Miss Trevor brought him back to my mind."
"It's about his drinking," Miss Piper continued, nervously, as if at a
loss to know how to broach the subject without giving offence.
"Ye come to blame me fer servin' him, I suppose?" Nancy suggested,
without the slightest trace of animosity in her tones.
"We don't blame you, Mrs. McVeigh. Please do not misunderstand our
intentions. The fact is, we know you to be--er--different from most
women, and your house is your living, but Mr. Keene is a young man with
an exceptionally bright future, if he will only settle down to it. I
have heard a great deal about you, Mrs. McVeigh, and I know the
goodness of your heart from the part you took at Brother Tom's death.
We were sure of your co-operation, and that is why we have come to you."
"And what can I do?" Nancy asked, kindly.
"Stop his drinking, please," burst out the younger woman, impetuously,
and then she blushed furiously, while Miss Piper frowned. Nancy,
however, let the remark pass unnoticed, and asked, with feigned
innocence, "Is he yer young man, Miss Trevor?"
The girl, for she was easily under twenty-one, was more embarrassed
than ever at the keen intuition of the old tavern-keeper, and an
awkward silence ensued, during which Miss Piper vainly tried to say
something to bring the conversation back to more conventional lines.
"Do you love him?" Nancy questioned further, relentless in her desire
to enjoy the privileges of being a confidant in Miss Piper's plans.
Miss Trevor would have answered haughtily enough if it had been an
ordinary acquaintance who thus probed into her secrets, but the strong,
trustful influence of this woman humbled her into a school-girl
demeanor.
"Yes," she answered, simply, and Miss Piper became more uncomfortable.
"Does he know it?" Nancy persisted.
"No,--er--perhaps. Oh, Mrs. McVeigh, you seem to have taken all my
sense out of me," the girl gasped, helplessly, and covered her crimson
face with her handkerchief.
"I'm glad to know this. Begging your pardon, Miss Piper, but if you
come to me fer advice I must have more than half-truths. I've known
Johnny Keene since he was a baby, and it's little good I've to his
credit either, but I'm no sayin' it's not there. He takes after his
mother, ye know. He's about run his course, and if Miss Trevor will
take the word of an ould woman, who has learned from long experience,
I'm thinkin' he'll be a good man fer her."
"You think so?" asked Miss Piper, brightening up.
"I'm sure of it, miss; it's in the blood, so it is."
The three women were now on a basis of plain understanding, and the
balance of the conversation was easier and productive of results.
After the two had departed, Nancy sat a long time gazing out of the
window, and pondering the situation which had arisen. She did not
entertain a doubt as to the ultimate fulfilment of her prophecies, but
she wondered how long. The afternoon waned into evening, and she had a
grand opportunity to knit and think, which two occupations were her
chief enjoyments.
After supper, the usual company dropped into the bar. It was the
common meeting-place for gossip and good-fellowship, and during the
early hours Will Devitt did a lively business. But a curious change
was taking place within Nancy McVeigh. From her rocker, in the rear
apartment, where she and the girls spent their evenings, she could hear
the loud laughs and talking that passed between her customers, mingled
with the clink of glasses, and the noise was offensive to her. The
thought repeated itself in her mind, Was the continued harassing of her
teetotaller friends awakening a new phase in her life? For the first
time, perhaps, since her deceased husband had bought the tavern, her
surrounding's appeared distasteful, and almost sordid. More than once
she arose and walked into the bar, where her presence was the signal
for doffing of caps and a lowering of voices. She went for no
particular purpose, and the men who were buying her liquor were
surprised at the frown and curt replies which they received to their
greetings.
"Nancy's in a bad humor," blurted one old fellow, who was a nightly
caller, as she turned her back. Mistress McVeigh heard the remark, and
it aroused her anger more than she would have cared to admit. She
retraced her steps, and her glance wandered severely over the
half-dozen men present.
"Ye should be at home with yer wife, Mr. Malone, and not wastin' yer
toime waitin' about my premises fer some one to buy ye a drink," she
said to the man who had spoken.
Malone laughed foolishly, and treated her words as a joke. He was on
the verge of a maudlin state, and prepared to contest his rights to be
there.
"Another drink, Mr. Devitt, and a glass all round," he blustered,
throwing a piece of silver on to the bar.
"No, Mr. Malone, ye have had yer fill, an' it's no more ye'll git the
night," Nancy insisted.
Malone grumbled a reply, and some of the others took sides with him,
and their demands were aggressively loud.
"I tell ye, it's no more liquor'll be served in this bar to-night,"
Nancy again declared, and stepping from behind, she began a steady
movement towards the door. The men shot a few irresolute glances at
Will Devitt, but his face gave no encouragement to disobey, and
gradually they dispersed, all but Malone, who had a wish to be
troublesome. His mutiny was short-lived, however, for Nancy's fingers
suddenly clutched his collar, and she precipitated him on to the
verandah, with scarce an apparent effort.
"I'm not well the night, Will, and the noise hurts my head," she
explained to Will Devitt, as she passed into her sitting-room.
A crunching of wheels sounded from the roadway, and presently a rig
came to a stop in the open sheds. Boisterous talking ensued, and then
four young men came into the light of the hallway. They were all well
dressed, and of a different class to the usual run of custom.
"Ho, Mistress McVeigh, a room please, and a few bottles of the best in
your house." Almost simultaneously Nancy appeared, and a tolerant
smile again hovered in the corners of her mouth.
"Faith, an' are ye back again, John Keene?" she asked.
"I am, most assuredly; who could pass your welcome doorway without
dropping in?" young John answered, laughing.
"It's high time ye quit yer loose ways," Nancy commenced, trying to
frown, but her voice had none of the harshness of her previous
ill-humor.
"No preaching, now, Mistress McVeigh," young John interposed, as he
flung his arm affectionately across her shoulders.
"Ye're always takin' advantage of a poor ould woman," Nancy retorted,
good-naturedly, as she led the way upstairs to the parlor, where Jennie
had already placed a lamp.
"I've a bad head the night, sirs, so I'll be thankful if ye make no
noise," she said, before descending the stairs.
The hours passed quietly enough, and, when it was closing time, she
ordered Will Devitt to lock up the house and blow out the lights. The
four young men still occupied the parlor, and the steady cadence of
their voices came down to her. Will Devitt had supplied their order at
the commencement, so that it was unnecessary to give them any further
attention. It had been the rule for young John Keene and his
companions to stay as long as it pleased them, and, when they had
finished, to let themselves out with a key which he had coaxed out of
the indulgent hostess. Nancy knew that young John was using her rooms
for gambling purposes. At first the knowledge disturbed her peace of
mind, and she had determined to speak to him about it, but after mature
consideration, her theory that until his sin had lost its pleasure it
would be only driving him away from under her watchful eye to
interfere, made her decide to wait.
"Sin in the loikes o' young John Keene is the same as a person
sufferin' from the fever, and no remedy can successfully combat its
ravages until the poison has worn itself out," she declared to Jennie,
who had mildly criticised the appearance of the room after a night's
occupation. The night previous to the call of Miss Piper and her
friend young John had held Nancy in a serious conversation. From it
she gathered that his conscience was disturbed, for he had made
repeated references to his losses at the game, and vowed that could he
forsake his idle habits without running the gauntlet of his friends'
derision, he would be better pleased with himself.
"'Tis the work of a lady, Mistress McVeigh," he had confessed, and
Nancy went to her bed with a light heart when she heard of it.
Nancy did not retire after Will Devitt had reported everything closed
for the night. Instead, she went to her room and started a letter to
Corney, her second effort in that direction in three months. Her
correspondence was one of the sweetest trials of her existence. She
took weeks of silent reflection between her busy spells to plan out
what she would write before she was satisfied to take up her pen, and
then her trouble began in earnest. This night it was next to
impossible to compose her thoughts, as young John Keene's affairs had
been thrust before her with startling vividness. The midnight hour
passed, and still she sat by her little table, with pen lying flat on
the paper and a great daub spreading outward from its point. Her head
dropped upon her arm, and she was dreaming of Corney. The disturbance
of the party breaking up in the adjoining room made her eyes open, and
she listened intently, for she had a premonition that she had not seen
the last of them. The men were talking in low tones, but with evident
suppressed passion. Presently one spoke up clearly, as if in temper,
and then she heard John Keene laugh, but it was a bitter, mirthless
sound, as he replied, "I tell you, lads, I'm done with you all, so
clear out; and I'll bide here till morning."
"Well, do as you d---- please," the one addressed answered, and then
a scuffling of feet echoed in the passage and went noisily down the
stair. Nancy waited until they had closed the entrance door behind
them, and then she stole out on tiptoe into the hallway. The door of
the room which they left was ajar, and the lamp's rays struck out
brightly from it. She stepped over and looked in cautiously. As she
expected, young John was still there, seated tightly against the table,
a pile of cards and some stained glasses in front of him. Something in
his hand, and on which he was bestowing much attention, made her gulp
down a sudden choking sensation.
"Give me that gun, Johnny," she called, softly.
[Illustration: "'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.