_THE KERRY DANCERS._
Nancy McVeigh treasured her disappointment over the visit to Chicago
for many months, but only Katie Duncan and those who saw her daily knew
of it. She was not the strong, self-reliant Nancy whom people had so
long associated with the ramshackle inn of Monk Road. But her smile
grew sweeter and her sympathies ran riot on every side where little
troubles beset her less fortunate neighbors. Her mind turned oftener
to the church which stood on the side-road, beyond the home of Father
Doyle, and her influence for a better life was remarkable with the
younger generation. The stormy period of her own existence was past,
and like a silvery rivulet twinkling in the sun at the mountain crest,
speeding downward until it roars and foams in an angry cataract, then
emerging into the cool, placid stream, lazily flowing past the village
cottages and on through the silent woodland, she had reached a stage
where only goodness and friendship mattered.
Her great neighbor, the summer hotel proprietor, was perhaps the
solitary person who did not understand her. In vain he waited
patiently, as the seasons opened and closed, for her to accede to his
importunities to sell her property. There the old inn stood, a blot
within the terraced grounds and clean-cut park, unsightly to his eyes,
and the humorous butt of his patrons. But Nancy had made her plans
when the new order of things was first suggested, and she turned her
rugged face to the sandy Monk Road and held her peace.
Cornelius, her son, had written her often and voluminously since her
trip southwards. He had also made a definite promise that he would
come home the very next summer. 'Twas this that brightened her eyes
and put a lightness into her step. It also provided a subject of
constant conversation between herself and Katie Duncan. Together they
would count out the months and weeks and days to the time when he
should arrive.
"The lad's worried, so he is, an' he wants to see his ould mother, in
spoite o' his foine clothes an' his dealin's," she repeated, during
those happy confidences.
Although Nancy had abandoned the public service, yet hers was no
humdrum existence. She still had duties to perform which occupied her
thoughts from daylight to dusk. She frequently visited the Dodonas,
who lived in the big Piper house. And the Piper children played about
her front door, much as her own son and Johnny Keene had done so many
years before. Other children, too, found the vicinity of the widow
McVeigh's a very tempting resort, and their parents were well
satisfied, for they had learned to love and respect the white-haired
woman who chose to be their guardian.
"I'll niver get enough o' the dears," she would say to the mothers, and
they quite believed her.
In the winter of the following year Will Devitt came home from the
North-West. He had been absent three years, and during that time had
secured a grant of land. He boasted of his possessions to his
foster-mother, and she was almost as proud of them as he was himself.
"It's a grand country, sure, this Canada of ours, an' were I younger
I'd go back wi' ye, Will. D'ye think we could find business fer a
tavern?" she asked him one day.
"You would just make your fortune," Will responded, enthusiastically.
Nancy smiled and shook her head.
"I'm only talkin' like a silly ould woman, laddie. In the first place,
I'm no fit to run a tavern, an' in the second, it's no fittin'
occupation fer the loikes o' me."
Will had been home a short while when Nancy's suspicions were aroused,
and being unable to lay them bare to Katie Duncan, she told them to
Mrs. Doctor Dodona.
"There's somethin' mysterious in the behavior o' the young folk," she
confided. "I'm uncommon versed in the language of sighs an' tender
looks, an' it's comin' to somethin' before long."
"You don't mean that Will Devitt is in love?" the doctor's wife asked,
in mild surprise.
"I'm afeard it's just that," Nancy admitted, regretfully.
"And with whom, pray?"
Nancy bent forward and whispered in her ear.
"Your Katie!" Sophia Dodona exclaimed.
Nancy nodded, and they both laughed.
Nancy knew instinctively that her two foster-children had something
they wished to say to her, and she purposely kept them at arm's length,
whilst she enjoyed their discomfiture.
"It's rare fun," she told Sophia.
Will Devitt was becoming desperate, for he must soon get himself back
to his prairie farm. So, after a lengthy twilight consultation with
his heart's desire, he came tramping awkwardly into the presence of the
widow McVeigh.
"Ye're lookin' serious the night," she greeted, as she paused with her
knitting.
"I'm feeling that way, too," he conceded, sighing.
"Maybe ye're thinkin' o' the closeness o' yer leavin'?" she questioned.
"It's partly that," he admitted, sheepishly.
"Only partly, ye say. Fer shame, to let anythin' else be a part o'
such thoughts," she observed, somewhat severely.
"Now, granny, it is no use you being cross with me. I'm full of love
for you and the old place, and you know it," he expostulated. "There's
something else, all the same," he continued, with a forlorn pleading in
his voice.
"Then ye had better out wi' it, lad," she replied, giving him her whole
attention.
"It's about our Kate," he commenced.
"I thought as much. Ye go away an' get a plot o' land somewhere, an' a
bit o' a cabin, an' then ye come back pretendin' it was yer love fer
yer poor granny. But ye had other plans, which ye wouldn't tell till
ye were driven to it," Nancy interrupted, with a strange lack of
sympathy.
Her words aroused Will's latent passion, and drove him to a confession,
regardless of consequences.
"Katie an' I have been lovin' each other fer years, in fact, ever since
we were children. We made it up then that we should marry some day.
When I went West it was to earn enough money to buy a home fer us.
I've got a farm now, an' I can keep her. We've talked it over every
night fer a month, an' she's willin' to go if ye will give yer
consent," he burst out, earnestly.
Mistress McVeigh listened in silence, rocking her chair to and fro. As
the night became darker only her outline was visible to the youth, who
poured into her ears his love story with an unfettered tongue. He
talked rapidly of his plans, his chances and his faith in his ability
to maintain Katie Duncan as comfortably as she had been at the tavern.
When he had finished, Nancy called sharply to Katie, whom she rightly
guessed was not far away, to fetch a lamp. Katie obeyed with
commendable alacrity, and deposited it on the table. She had never
seemed so grown-up and pretty to her foster-parent as she did at that
moment.
"Katie," began Nancy, with ominous slowness, "Will has been tellin' me
that ye have been courtin' under me very nose. Do ye love him truly,
lass?"
"Yes, granny," the girl answered, almost defiantly.
"God bless ye, children. The sooner ye're married, then, the better,"
Nancy exclaimed, and she drew them both to her and kissed them again
and again.
It was a real old-fashioned country dance that followed the wedding of
Katie Duncan and Will Devitt. The ceremony was performed by Father
Doyle in the early morning, and all afternoon the preparations for the
evening were being rushed to completion with tireless energy.
"Katie's the last o' my children, an' I'll give her a fittin'
send-off," Nancy explained to Sophia Dodona, and her words were not
idly spoken.
The doctor's wife was in the kitchen, superintending the baking. As a
result, such an array of good things to eat had never before graced the
modest board. The task of decorating was in the care of Will Devitt
and his bride, and a gay dress they were putting on the interior of
their old home. Flags were draped over the walls, evergreens fastened
to cover the door and window-tops, and flowers from the Piper
conservatory were placed wherever space would permit. Nancy had no
especial work, so she assumed the _rôle_ of general advisor and final
court of appeal. Such a concourse of guests had been invited that it
was doubtful if the accommodation was sufficient. But, as Will Devitt
suggested, they danced closer together nowadays, so that the room
required would not be so much.
By eight o'clock the merry sleigh-bells were jingling over the Monk
Road. Boys and girls, some older than the term would imply, were
tumbling out of the robes in the glare of the big tin lamp, hung to the
gable end, which Nancy had borrowed from the church gate. The fiddlers
arrived early, and after a warm at the hall stove, began tuning up on
the improvised platform at the end of the parlor. The floor manager, a
tall young Irishman named O'Connell, raised his voice above the babel
of talking and laughing, and proclaimed the opening number.
"Partners fer the Lancers!" he shouted.
A hush ensued, and Sophia Dodona and her staff came from the kitchen to
see the start off.
"No, doctor, I'm too ould," Nancy was saying to Dr. Dodona, who wished
to set the pace for the younger guests. But her words did not ring
true, and amidst the hearty plaudits of the rest she took the doctor's
arm. The others fell in line as if by magic, and then the fiddles
began with vim. Oh, how they danced! Everyone, old and
young--quadrilles, reels, polkas, Irish Washerwoman, Old Dan Tucker,
and all. Even Mrs. Conors, after much persuasion, did a jig as it was
performed "whin I was a gal in ould Ireland," and Patrick Flynn, the
aspiring County Member, was her partner. How the old tavern creaked
and groaned with the unusual tax upon its timbers, and how bright the
windows looked from every side of the rambling edifice! When midnight
was past the tables were set in the bar-room of ancient times, and the
cleverest productions of Sophia Dodona disappeared like snow before an
April sun. As Dr. Dodona remarked afterwards to his wife, "'Twould be
a round century of health to the bride and groom should the wishes of
the feasters be realized."
When it was all over, and the last "Good-night" had passed the
threshold, Nancy went to her room. She sat a long while, resting in
her big rocking-chair and reflecting on the changes in the future which
the day had meant for her. Her eyes gradually centred on her
photographs of Cornelius, and her face immediately brightened.
"Heigho," she sighed, "it's no my religion to worry."