_JENNIE._
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.