_A DESERTER FROM THE MONK ROAD._
Father Doyle had just stepped from the white heat of an August day on
the Monk Road into the modest parlor of the widow McVeigh. He was
growing very stout as his years advanced upon him, and trudging through
the dust was warm exercise. But the sultriness without made the cool
interior of the tavern (for such the people still called the old place,
although Mrs. McVeigh no longer extended hospitality to the public)
more appreciable. Wild pea vines clambered over the windows, and the
ancient copings protruded outwards far enough to cast a shade, so that
the breeze which entered was freshened and sweetened with a gentle
aroma of many-colored blossoms.
Nancy McVeigh was unburdening a whole week's gossip whilst the priest
helped himself generously to the jug of buttermilk which she had
brought in from her churning.
"I have seen wonderful changes on the Monk Road in my time," he said,
reflectively, in answer to Nancy's observations concerning the summer
hotel on the Point, now filled to overflowing with people seeking
health and pleasure in its picturesque surroundings.
"One would scarcely know the place. What with grand rigs full o'
chatterin' women and children a-drivin' past the door, and the whole
Point a picture o' lawns an' pretty dresses," sighed Nancy. "But it
does me heart good to see the brown on the cheeks o' the little 'uns
after they've been here awhile."
"Doubtless you find some trade with them?" the priest surmised.
"Considerable; first in the mornin' it's someone askin' if I have fresh
eggs, then it's milk or butter or home-made bread, and so it keeps
agoin' all day long. I'm no needin' much o' their money, now that
Corney sends me my allowance once a month as regular as the sun, but
I've still quite a family to support, so I just charge 'em enough to
make them appreciate what they're gettin'. I've got Mrs. Conors an'
old Donald still on me hands, an' Katie Duncan's at an age whin she
wants a little spendin' fer ribbons and fancy things. So many foine
people about just pricks the envy o' the child, an' I wouldn't, fer the
sake o' a dollar or two, have her ashamed o' her position. It's
different from the old days, as ye say, Father Doyle."
"It is that, sure enough," he agreed.
"I'm thinkin' o' takin' a trip," she remarked, with an air of mystery.
"And where are you going?" he asked, in surprise.
"To Chicago," she vouchsafed, proudly.
"Is that not rather far for your old bones?" he inquired, with a merry
twinkle.
"Ye're fergittin', Father Doyle, that I'm only as ould as I feel, an'
that's not beyond a bit o' pleasure an' the sight o' my boy. It's such
a time since I've seen the lad that I'm most afeared I'll not be
knowin' me own son."
"Tut, tut! You don't think that. I'd know a McVeigh anywhere if I met
him," the priest expostulated.
"I've been savin' me odd change these two or three years, an' I've
plinty to pay me way comfortably. I'm wonderin', though, how the ould
place would git on without me!" Nancy remarked, dubiously.
"Never suffer in the least," the priest affirmed.
"Ye may think so, but whin I've been here day in an' day out since me
hair was as fair as Katie Duncan's, ye can understand it takes a deal
o' courage fer me to trust to others," she retorted.
The priest nodded his head slowly in acquiescence.
Two weeks of laborious calculations and preparations preceded the day
set for Nancy's departure, and during the interval her many friends
discussed the journey so fully with her that her mind was a maze of
conflicting doubts. But her contumacious nature did not permit a
retreat from her decision, and to make it utterly impossible she went
over to the new station and gave over forty-eight dollars for a ticket.
It seemed a reckless expenditure, but a peep every night at the
photographs on the wall of her room drove the mercenary aspect of it
from her and left her firmly resolved and intensely happy.
The fateful hour came at last, and quite a gathering of familiar faces
was at the station to see her depart. Father Doyle, Mrs. Jim Bennet
and family, Katie Duncan, Mrs. Conors, old Donald, Dr. Dodona and wife,
the two Piper children and a host of others saw that she was
comfortably established in the big car, much to the evident amusement
of the loitering tourists. She must have kissed at least twenty people
before the conductor came briskly on the scene and sent them pell-mell
on to the platform. The whistle shrieked and the train glided slowly
away. Nancy, a strange figure, with widow's bonnet, bright colored
shawl and face wreathed in smiles, leaned far out of the window, waving
an answer to the shouted farewells.
Mistress McVeigh spent a major portion of the evening in getting
acquainted with her environments. Her previous ride in the cars had
been her honeymoon, but that was so long ago that she had forgotten
even the sensation. Its novelty now intruded on her peace of mind, and
she enjoyed it, although it was tiring. She sat gazing about in silent
contemplation until the lamps had been lighted and the negro porter was
shouting his evening dinner call. His words reminded her that she had
a basket of good things, so she took off her bonnet, spread her shawl
on the adjacent seat and proceeded to lay out the contents. Most of
the people in the coach were going forward to the diner, but such
extravagance did not appeal to her. But she did notice that a very
delicately featured lady, with a small baby and a boy of two or three,
was endeavoring with patient though apparently ineffectual effort to
satisfy the fretful wants of her little ones. The worried flush in the
young mother's cheek, and the trembling of her lips, roused Nancy's
compassionate nature, and, although she would not have confessed it,
she was lonesome. To be amongst people unspoken to and unnoticed was a
revelation that had never existed in her tiny world. She watched the
struggling woman covertly for a short time, while she nibbled at her
lunch, and then she could bear it no longer, so she stepped across the
aisle.
"If ye please, ma'am, I'll take the baby fer a spell, while ye give the
boy his supper," she volunteered.
The lady shot a grateful glance at the queer old body who had accosted
her.
"If you don't mind the bother," she replied, sweetly.
"It's no bother, sure," Nancy declared, emphatically, and her eyes
dwelt over-long on her new acquaintance. The lady reminded her of
someone, then like a flash it came to her, and she looked again so
persistently that the lady was embarrassed. It was Jennie's mother she
remembered, the night she came, sick and broken, into the tavern, with
her baby in her arms.
"The poor wee thing's fair excited," she murmured, as she cuddled the
tiny bundle against her breast.
"Won't you take tea with us?" the mother inquired, her face lighting up
at the prospect.
"Ye must just help yerselves from my basket, then," Nancy protested, as
she brought it over.
Mrs. Morris, for such was the lady's name, proved an excellent
travelling companion. She was not only a splendid conversationalist,
but also she knew how to procure warm tea from the porter. Soon she
and Nancy were quite at ease with each other, Nancy contributing her
share at the entertaining, with her homely gossip of the Monk Road and
its people. The baby was her chief solace, however, and its mother
only had it during the midnight hours, so constant a nurse was she.
And the atom itself was tractable beyond its own mother's belief.
The process of making up the beds in the sleeper gave Nancy an
unpleasant half-hour. She did not admire the masculine performances of
the porter.
"It's no work for an ignorant black man," she informed Mrs. Morris, in
a deprecatory tone. Then she spoke directly to the negro: "Ye can just
pull down the cover, an' I'll do me own fixin'."
[Illustration: "Ye can just pull down the cover, an' I'll do me own
fixin'."]
"Yes, mum," he answered, grinning, but he did not desist from his
duties.
"He's one of thim furriners, who don't know what ye're sayin', I
suppose," she observed, resignedly.
When the conductor made his last round of the cars, before the lamps
were extinguished, Nancy stopped him and questioned anxiously, "Ye'll
be sure to waken me at Chicago?"
"Why, ma'am, we won't arrive there until tomorrow evening," he answered.
"So ye say, but I'm strange to the run o' trains, an' I don't want to
be goin' miles past the place and niver know it," she objected.
"Never fear, missus, you'll be looked after properly," he said,
consolingly.
The night and day journey to Chicago was so full of pleasant happenings
that Nancy could scarcely realize it was almost over. With the Morris
baby asleep in her arms, she would gaze from the window at the panorama
of country drifting past, interested in its strangeness only in a
superficial sort of way, while her inmost thoughts pictured the great
city to which she was going, and wherein she expected her son to be the
most predominant figure. Each hour seemed to be bringing him closer to
her, and a mild yearning centred about her heart. Occasionally a
twinge of apprehension would mar her tranquillity. She wondered if he
would know her, and if he had received the postcard which she had
written with so much care a week previous. She was too conscious of
her happiness to let such thoughts disturb her for long, and then Mrs.
Morris lived in Chicago and had promised to watch over her welfare
until she was safe in Corney's keeping.
The gradual increase in houses clustered into villages along the way
warned her of the near approach to her destination.
"I hope I may see more of ye," she observed to Mrs. Morris, after a
long silence of reflection.
"It's a big city, and you will be very busy," the little lady
explained. "But I shall never forget your kindness to me. I should
have been very lonely and tired if you hadn't made friends," she
continued.
"It's been a God's blessin', the knowin' o' ye an' the kiddies," Nancy
assured her.
This simple-minded old body had made a deep inroad into the city
mother's affections, and her joy at the early prospect of meeting her
husband was tempered with a sincere sadness at the parting which it
would entail.
The evening was growing quickly into darkness as they sped along, and
an unusual bustle amongst the other passengers had commenced. Now that
the hugeness of the outlying districts of Chicago were being unfolded
to Nancy with the long lines of lighted street, and starry streaks of
electric cars flashing by like meteors in a southern sky, she became
aware of a keen sense of fear. It was all so different from anything
in her past experience. It seemed as if she had broken ties with
everything familiar except the sweet face of her companion and the two
sleeping children. The roar of the city had now enveloped the train,
and presently it began to slacken speed, as it had done a score of
times before in the last hour. The conductor came into the car,
calling out, "Chicago!" and Nancy's heart beat so that it almost choked
her. The bright glare of the station came down into their window from
the roofs of adjacent trains, and then, before she rightly understood
what was happening, she was out on to the platform with her arms full
of her own and Mrs. Morris' bundles. A short man detached himself from
a crowd that waited without the gates far in front, and came dashing
towards them.
"It is my husband," Mrs. Morris whispered, breathlessly. Next moment
she was locked in his arms. Nancy gazed furtively about, peering at
the faces, and hoping that one might be her son. After a long
scrutiny, she turned a despairing, helpless face to her late travelling
companion. Mrs. Morris understood, and came to her rescue quickly.
"You are a stranger in this big city, so you had better come home with
us for to-night," she suggested.
"I wrote him to be waitin' fer me, but he must have forgotten," Nancy
returned, brokenly.
"Yes, you must come, Mrs.--" Mr. Morris began, then hesitated.
"Mrs. McVeigh, from the Monk Road," his wife told him, with a happy
smile.
"The Monk Road, where is that, pray?" Mr. Morris asked, in puzzled
tones.
"D'ye not know that?" Nancy exclaimed, incredulously.
The man shook his head.
She considered awhile, then made a gesture of utter helplessness. She
knew no adequate description of the geographical position of her home.
It was just the Monk Road, running from an indefinite somewhere to an
equally mysterious ending, and anyone who did not know that was lacking
in their education. They threaded their way through the press of
people to the narrow street, and entered a cab. Then, while the
husband and wife talked in subdued tones, Nancy listened to the babel
of clanging gongs and footsteps of many people on the pavements over
which they were passing. She suddenly bethought herself of questioning
Mr. Morris as to his knowledge of her son Cornelius. His answer was as
perplexing as everything else she had encountered in that strange new
world. He had never heard of him. Fortunately she had a business card
of her son's firm, and after much cogitation Mr. Morris decided that he
could find the establishment in the morning.
Nancy secured a much-needed night's rest at the home of the Morris
family, and was up and had the kettle boiling on the range before the
appearance of the household.
"I'd no enjoy the day at all if I wasn't doin' somethin' o' the sort!
An' ye're tired," she responded to Mr. Morris' surprised ejaculation.
She had to curb her anxiety to be off until after the noon hour, and
then, with a promise to return, if her plans miscarried, she was
piloted aboard the Overhead by Mr. Morris.
"I'll drop you off in front of the block in which your son's offices
are situated," he informed her by the way. The run through the city
was perhaps a distance of four miles, and while Nancy gazed in
open-mouthed wonder, the little man pointed out to her the places of
note along the route.
"It's all just wonderful," was the text of her replies.
They drew up at a little station, and from it descended to the
pavement, and at a great door in a block that made her neck ache to see
its top, he left her, with a list of directions that only served to
shatter the remnant of location which her mind contained. She looked
uncertainly about her until her eyes rested on the sign, "Beware of
Pickpockets!" then she clutched her old leathern wallet, and with
frightened glances hurried inside. But here a second labyrinth opened
to her. A glass door led into a very spacious apartment, where a
number of men were counting money in little iron cages. She boldly
marched in and asked the nearest one, "Please, sir, is this Cornelius
McVeigh's office?" The man addressed stopped his counting and scowled
at her, but something in her wrinkled, serious face caused him to
relent of his churlishness.
"A moment, ma'am," he replied.
Next instant he was by her side, and very gallantly led her to the
outer hall and over to the elevator man. That Mecca of information
scratched his head before venturing to assist them, then he hazarded,
briskly, "Fifth floor, No. 682."
"If that's wrong, come back," the young man said, kindly, as he left
her.
The elevator drew her up almost before she could catch her breath, and
landed her on the fifth floor. The man pointed along a hallway, and
she followed this until a name in big gilt letters arrested her
attention and caused her heart to flutter spasmodically. "Cornelius
McVeigh--Investments," it read. And this was really her son's
Eldorado! A mist crept over her eyes as she turned the brass knob and
entered. A score of young men and women were before her, busily
engaged at desks, writing and sorting over papers. Beyond them, other
doors led to inner offices, and from some invisible quarter a peculiar
clicking cast a disturbing influence. Whilst she was taking it in, in
great sweeping glances, a small boy stepped saucily up and demanded her
wishes.
"I'm Mistress McVeigh, o' the Monk Road, an' I've come to see
Cornelius," she told him.
The boy looked at her, whistled over his shoulder and grimaced.
"What yer givin' us, missus?" he asked.
"I'll have ye understand I'll take no impudence," she retorted,
wrathfully, shaking her parasol handle at him.
"If yer wants the boss, he's out," he informed her, with more civility.
"Is there anything I can do?" a young lady asked, coming over to her
from her desk.
"It's just Mister McVeigh that I want to see. I'm his mother," Nancy
replied, simply.
"You are his mother!" the girl exclaimed, doubtfully.
"That I am," Nancy declared, emphatically.
"Mr. McVeigh is out of the city, but Mr. Keene is here. Will he do?"
she again questioned.
At this juncture someone stepped briskly from an inner room, and then a
man dashed impetuously across the general office, scattering books and
clerks in his eagerness, and crying, "Why, it's Mrs. McVeigh!" as he
caught her gaunt body in his arms.
"Johnny, me lad, is it yerself?" she gasped, after he had desisted from
his attempts to smother her.
Young John Keene held Nancy's hand within his own whilst he showed her
everything of interest in the office, for the mother loved it all
because it was her son's. The clerks were courteous and attentive, and
the girls fell in love with the quaint old lady on the spot.
"It's fer all the world like a school," she murmured in young John's
ear.
"And I'm the big boy," he answered, laughing.
A telegram searched the far corners of Mexico that afternoon, and at an
unheard-of place, with an unpronounceable name, it found Cornelius
McVeigh, the centre of a group of gentlemen. The party had just
emerged from the yawning mouth of a mine, and were resting in the
sunshine and expelling the foul air from their lungs, whilst the young
promoter of the western metropolis was explaining, from a sheet of
paper covered with figures, the cost of base metal to the producer.
The mine foreman suddenly interrupted his remarks with a yellow
envelope, which he thrust respectfully forward. "A telegram, sir," he
said, and withdrew. The array of men sighed gratefully at the respite,
and Cornelius McVeigh hastily scanned the message.
"Your mother in Chicago, much disappointed at your absence. When may
we expect you?" so it read.
The young man folded it carefully, put it into his pocket and continued
his discourse, but his words were losing their pointedness, and he was
occasionally absent-minded.
"It's dinner-time. I move an adjournment to the hotel," one of the
grey-haired capitalists suggested, and, with scant dignity for men of
such giant interests, they hurried to take advantage of the break in
the negotiations. Cornelius McVeigh did not go in to lunch, but
strolled the length of the verandah for a full hour, absorbed in
thought, then with characteristic energy he hastened to the little
telegraph room and wrote a reply to his home office:
"Will close a great deal if I stay. Cannot leave for a week at least.
Persuade mother to wait."
He then walked to the smoking apartments, where his late associates
were trying to forget business.
"I am ready, gentlemen," he observed, in his crisp, convincing manner
of speech.
Young John Keene handed the message to the Widow McVeigh. He knew it
would hurt, and his arm stole about her shoulders as it did when he was
the scamp of the Monk Road gossip.
"I'm tired o' this great noisy city," she faltered, after she had
studied the message a long time. "I'm no feelin' meself at all, at
all, an' my head hurts. I must be goin' home."
"You shall stay with me, Nancy. Corney will be back in ten days at the
least. My wife wishes it, as well as myself, and we want you to see
our little Nancy. That's our baby," he said, in lower tones.
Nancy gazed at the hurrying people on the hot pavements below, at the
buildings that shot upwards past her line of vision, at the countless
windows and tangled wires; then she turned to young John and he knew
that she had seen none of them.
"I'll try, Johnny," she answered.
The days that followed were battles with weariness to Nancy McVeigh.
She did not complain, but her silence only aggravated the loneliness
which had crept into her soul. Young John Keene talked to her, amused
her, cajoled her, pleaded with her, and yet her mood was impenetrable.
Even tiny Nancy Keene's dimpled fingers could not take away the strange
unrest in her eyes. Then, when the ten days had elapsed, a second
message came: "Kiss mother and tell her to wait. Can't return for
another week. Am writing." Nancy read it and cried; not weakly, like
a woman, but with harsh, dry sobs.
"I'll be goin' home in the mornin'," she said, firmly.
The train took her away in the damp, sunless early hours, when the city
was just awakening.
"She's crazed with homesickness," young John's wife confided to her
husband, in a hushed, sad voice.
The way home was long, and Nancy chafed at the slowness of the express.
So long as it was light she watched from the car window, and not till
the pleasant quiet of the vicinity of Monk Road was reached did the
gloom-cloud rise from her face. Her heart seemed to beat free once
more, and her eyes were full of tears, but they were tears of
happiness. She left the train at Monk, and the first person to greet
her was Father Doyle, who by chance was at the station. He read a tale
of disappointment in his old friend's appearance, and he remarked,
sympathetically, "You are looking thin and tired, Mistress McVeigh."
"It's a weary day, sure enough," she admitted. The two walked side by
side, the stout priest carrying her heaviest travelling bags, until
they came to the road which the summer hotel management had built in a
direct line from the station to their gate, and here Nancy stopped
abruptly.
"Well, if the old tavern isn't right over there, just as I left it,"
she ejaculated, and a smile broke over her countenance the like of
which it had not known for days past.