Chapter 1

_THE WOMAN OF THE INN._

During the _régime_ of Governor Monk, of Upper Canada, the military road was cut through the virgin pine from Lake Ontario to the waters leading into Georgian Bay. The clearings followed, then the homesteads, then the corners, where the country store and the smithy flourished in primitive dignity. The roadside hostelry soon had a place on the highway, and deep into its centre was Nancy McVeigh's.

Nancy McVeigh's tavern was famed near and far. In earliest days the name was painted in letters bold across the high gabled face, but years of weather had washed the paint off. Its owner, however, had so long and faithfully dominated its destiny that it was known only as her property, and so it was named. A hill sloped gently for half a mile, traversed by a roadway of dry, grey sand, flanked on either side by a split-rail snake fence, gradually widening into an open space in front of the tavern. The tavern had reached an advanced stage of dilapidation. A rickety verandah in front shaded the first story, and a gable projected from above, so that the sill almost touched the ridge-board. A row of open sheds, facing inwards, ranged along one side of the yard, terminated by a barn, which originally had been a low log structure, but, with the increase of trade, had been capped with a board loft. Midway between the sheds and the house stood the pump, and whilst the owners gossiped over the brimming ale mugs within the house, the tired beasts dropped their muzzles into the trough. Some of the passers-by were of temperate habits, and did not enter the door leading to the bar, but accepted the refreshment offered by Nancy's pump, and thought none the less of the woman because their principles were out of sympathy with her business. The place lived only because of its mistress, and an odd character was she. Fate had directed her life into a peculiar channel, and she followed its course with a sureness of purpose that brought her admiration. She was tall, raw-boned, and muscled like a man. Her face was deeply lined, patient, and crowned with a mass of fine, fair hair turning into silvery grey, and blending so evenly that a casual observer could scarcely discern the change of color. It was her eyes, however, that betrayed the soul within, their harshness mocking the goodness which was known of her, and their softness at times giving the lie to the roughness which, in a life such as hers, might be expected.

Nancy McVeigh, the tavern and the dusty Monk Road were synonymous, and to know one was to know all three.

Nancy was within the bar when two wayfarers, whose teams were drinking at the trough, entered.

"It's a foine day, Mistress McVeigh," greeted old Mr. Conors, at the sight of her.

"It is that, and more, too, Mr. Conors," she assented, including the two men before her in her remark.

"This spell o' weather's bad fer the crops. I'll have to stop at the pump altogether if it don't rain soon."

"You're welcome to your choice. If ye want a drink and can pay fer it, I am pleased to serve ye, but I ask no man fer what he cannot afford," was Nancy's rejoinder, as she wiped her hands on her apron after drawing the mugs.

"Been to town?" she inquired, after a minute's reflection.

"Yes, and a bad place it is to save money. The women folk have so many things to buy that I often wonder where the pay for the seed grain'll come from. Had to buy the missus a shawl, and two yards of flannel for the kids to-day, and heaven only knows what they will be wanting next week, when school begins again," commented Mr. Conors.

"'Tis a God's blessing to have your childer, the bright, wee things! They keep us from fergittin' altogether," said Nancy, sighing, and looking abstractedly out of the window.

"She is thinkin', poor woman," observed Mr. O'Hagan, in a low tone.

"Ye have quite a squad yerself, Nancy," ventured Mr. Conors.

"Yes," she agreed, "there's Sam Duncan's little girl. You remember big Sam, who was drowned in his own well?" Mr. Conors nodded. "And Jennie--but she's a rare young lass now, and waits on table as well as I can do. If I could spare her I'd send her to school, fer she needs book learnin' more than she's got at present, but it's hard work I have to keep up the old place, and I'm not as able fer it as I was the first years after McVeigh died. Then I have Will Devitt's boy. He's past eighteen now, and handy about the stables. If it was not fer him I'm thinkin' old Donald would never manage at all."

"An' you'd take in the very nixt waif that comes along," declared Mr. O'Hagan.

"Maybe," answered Mistress McVeigh, thoughtfully.

Mr. Conors broke in with the question, "Where's yer own boy, Corney? It's a long while since he was about the place with his capers and curly head. Only t'other day my missus was talkin' about the time he and my Johnny learned to smoke behind my barn, and almost burnt the hull of us into the bargain."

A smile flitted across Nancy McVeigh's face at the recollection. "My Corney's a wonderful lad, Mr. Conors. He doesn't take after either of his parents, fer he'd give over the best game in the world fer a book. He's livin' in Chicago, and he writes home now and then. He's makin' lots of money, too, the scamp, but he's like his father fer spendin'. Sometimes he borrows from me, just to tide him over, but he says that he will make enough money some day to turn the old tavern into a mansion. Then I'll be a foine lady, with nothin' to do but sit about and knit, with a lace cap on me head, and servants to do all the work. Though I'm afraid me old bones would never submit to that."

"Do ye believe the nonsense he writes, Mistress McVeigh?" questioned Mr. Conors.

"Aye, an' I do that, sir. It's me, his old mother, that knows the grit o' him, and the brains he has."

Tears were shining in Nancy's eyes, and she dried them on her apron, under cover of a sharp order which she called to a maid in the dining-room.

"Ye have a rare good heart in ye, Nancy McVeigh," Mr. O'Hagan commented.

"Heart, ye call it, sor. It's a mother's heart, and nothin' else," she answered, quickly, and then continued, somewhat bitterly, "It's nigh broke with anger and trouble this day. It's not that the work is hard, nor the trade fallin' away, for it has kept me and mine these many years, and it'll never fail while I have me health. But my interest falls due this month."

"It's a power o' interest ye hev paid that old miser, John Keene, since McVeigh took over the tavern," Mr. Conors observed.

"It is that, Mr. Conors, and he treats me none the better fer it. A week come Tuesday he stalks into the bar here, and, before my customers, he threatens to put me into the road if I fail to have the amount fer him on the due date. I jest talked back to him with no fear in me eye, and he cooled off wonderfully. I have since got the money together, and a hundred dollars to pay on the principal, and to-morrow I'm goin' to give it to him with me compliments."

"Ye need not be afraid o' his puttin' ye out, Mistress McVeigh, begorra. He knows right well the place wouldn't be fit to stable horses in if ye were to leave it, and then who'd pay him his dirty interest?" sagely remarked Mr. Conors.

"Well, if that ain't James Bennet comin' along the road, and tipsy, too," broke in Mr. O'Hagan, catching sight of a new arrival from townwards.

"The likes o' him!" sniffed Nancy, contemptuously. "Not a drop will I serve him, the good-fer-nothin'! There's his poor wife with a two-weeks-old baby, and two other childer scarce able to walk, and him carryin' on and spendin' money as if he could afford it."

The three waited, watching in silence, whilst the semi-intoxicated fellow tumbled out of his rig and walked with uncertain footsteps to the tavern door.

"An' what be ye wantin' the night?" spoke up Nancy, barring his entrance, and all the softness gone from her voice.

"Wantin', ye silly woman! what d'ye suppose I'd chance breakin' me neck gettin' out o' me buggy fer, but a drink o' yer best brewed?"

"Not a drop, James Bennet. Ye needn't come round my door askin' fer liquor. You, with a sick wife and a house full o' childer! It's a wonder ye're not ashamed. Better put yer head under the pump and then git ye home. Ye're no man at all, James, and I've told ye so before."

"It's not refusin' an old frien', are ye, Mistress McVeigh?" Bennet asked, coaxingly.

"Ye're no frien' o' mine, I'd like ye to understand, and if Mary O'Neil had taken my advice years ago, ye'd hev niver had the chance o' abusin' her."

"Ye're not doubtin' that I have the change?" pleaded Bennet, digging his hands deeply into his pocket, as if to prove his statement.

"More's the pity, then, fer it should be at home with yer wife, who'd know how to keep it."

"Ye're very hard on me," he whined, edging up the steps.

"Ye may thank yer stars I'm no harder," threatened the unyielding Nancy.

"I tell ye, Mrs. McVeigh, I'm burnin' with thirst, and I'm goin' to have only one."

"Ye're not, sor."

"I will, ye old shrew! Out o' my way!" he exclaimed, with an ugly showing of temper, and moved as if to force an entrance. But Nancy McVeigh had learned life from the standpoint of a man, and, reaching forward, she sent him tottering from the verandah. Nor did she hesitate to follow up her advantage. With masculine swiftness and strength she seized him by the collar, and in a trice had him head downwards in the horse-trough.

"Now will ye go home, ye vagabond?" she exclaimed, with grim certainty of her power. The man spluttered and wriggled ineffectually for a few minutes, and then called "Enough!"

"Off with ye," she said, releasing him, but with a menace in her tones which suggested that to disobey would mean a second ducking. The drunken coward climbed into his buggy, muttering imprecations on the head of the obdurate hostess of the tavern as he did so. But he had no stomach for further resistance. Mr. Conors and Mr. O'Hagan had been interested spectators, and now came forward to untie their own horses, laughing loudly at the discomfiture of Bennet as they did so.

In the quiet of the early evening, when the modest list of boarders had eaten of the fare which the tavern provided, with small consideration of the profits to be made, Mrs. McVeigh put on her widow's bonnet, and a shawl over her gaunt shoulders, and, leaving a parting injunction to old Donald to tend to the bar during her absence, she set off down the road to the Bennets'. The night was setting in darkly and suggestive of rain, and the way was lonely enough to strike fear into the heart, but the old tavern-keeper apparently had no nerves or imagination, so confidently did she pursue her intention to see how fared the sick wife of her troublesome customer of the afternoon.

Bennet met her at the door, and he held up his finger for quietness as he made way for her to enter. He was sober now, and evidently in a very contrite mood. He knew it was not for him that Nancy McVeigh had come, and he expressed no surprise. "She be worse the night," he whispered, hoarsely. Nancy shot a glance at him, half-pitying, half-blaming, as she stepped into the dimly-lighted bedroom, where a wasted female form lay huddled, with a crying baby nestled close beside her. Two children in an adjoining bed peeped curiously from under the edge of a ragged blanket, and laughed outright when they saw who the visitor was.

"Go to sleep, dears," Nancy said, kindly, to hush their noisy intentions.

"It's you, Mistress McVeigh?" a weak voice asked from the sick-bed.

"It is, Mary, and how are ye?"

Mrs. Bennet was slow in answering, so her husband spoke for her, and his tones were tense with anxiety.

"She's not well at all, at all."

Nancy turned impatiently to Bennet and bade him light the kitchen fire.

"I've brought somethin' with me to make broth, and it's light food I'm sure that ye're wantin', Mary," she explained.

As soon as Bennet's back was turned, Nancy took off her wraps and drew a chair into the middle of the room.

"Give me the baby, Mary; yer arms must be weary holdin' it, and I will see if I can put it to sleep."

One thing Mrs. McVeigh's widowhood had not spoilt, and that was her motherly instincts in the handling of a baby, and the room seemed brighter and more hopeful from the moment she began to rock, singing a lullaby in a strange, soothing tone.

Mrs. Bennet gazed in silent gratitude for awhile, then she spoke again.

"The doctor was here."

"And what did he say?" Nancy inquired.

"I'm not goin' to get better," she faltered.

"Tut, tut, Mary! Ye're jest wearied out and blue, and ye don't know what ye say. Think of yer poor childer. What would they do without their mother?"

"I don't know," murmured Mrs. Bennet, beginning to cry. "The doctor says I might recover if I had hospital treatment and an operation. But it's a terrible expense. Just beyond us altogether. He said it would cost a hundred dollars at least."

"And would ye be puttin' yer life in danger fer the sake o' a sum like that?" Nancy said, feigning great unbelief.

"It may not seem much to such as you, Mrs. McVeigh, who has a business, and every traveller spending as he passes by, but Jim is none too saving, and with three crying babes and a rented farm it's more than we can ever hope fer," answered Mrs. Bennet.

"Don't you worry one bit more about it, Mary. Maybe the good Lord'll find a way to help you fer the sake o' Jim and the childer," Nancy said, encouragingly, and then she went into the kitchen to direct Bennet in the preparation of the broth, the baby still tucked under her arm, sleeping peacefully.

It was almost midnight when Nancy arrived at the tavern. She carried a key for the front door, and passed up through the deserted hallway to her room. A child's heavy breathing a few feet away told her that Katie Duncan was in dreamland. Jennie had left a lamp burning low on her table, and Nancy carried it over to the cot and looked at the little plump face of her latest adoption. "Her own mother would smile down from Hiven if she could see her now," she thought. Presently she set the lamp back on the table, and ensconced herself comfortably in her capacious rocking-chair. Directly in front of her, two photos were tacked on the wall, side by side, and her eyes centred upon them. One was that of a boy, sitting upright, dressed in a suit of clothes old-fashioned in cut and a size too large for his body. The other, that of a young man with an open, smiling countenance, a very high collar, and a coat of immaculate neatness of fit. It was a strange contrast, but Nancy saw them through the eye of a proud mother. A debate progressed within her mind for some time, and then she arose, with decision prominently expressed in her every movement. She unlocked a small drawer in the ancient black walnut bureau and withdrew a tattered wallet. Returning to her seat, she carefully spread out the contents, counting the value of each crumpled bill as she laid it on her knee.

"I'm not afeard o' old John Keene. There's sufficient to pay him his interest, and plenty left to keep Mary O'Neil at the hospital for a month or two," she muttered. She replaced the money with a sigh, but it was of pleasure, for Nancy never felt a pang when she had a good action to perform.

Next morning she sent Jennie over for Father Doyle, the parish priest. The good man was always pleased to call on Nancy, because she was a life-long friend, and her solid common-sense often helped him over the many difficulties which were continually cropping up in his work.

"It's something that has to be done at once, Father Doyle, and I think it lies with me to do it," she said, after they had gossiped awhile.

"I've known Mary O'Neil since she was the size o' my Katie, and many a day have I watched her and my boy Corney, as they played, before McVeigh was taken. It's no fault o' hers that their cupboard is empty, and it's something I can do that will not lose its value because of the habits o' the husband. But ye must arrange a compact with Bennet not to take another drop if I help him. He loves his wife and would be a good man to her if he could control his appetite."

"But ye will be damaging your trade with your precious sentiments," Father Doyle remarked, to test, in a joking way, the principles of his charitable parishioner.

"I'm no excusin' my business, Father Doyle, and ye've known me long enough to leave off askin' me such questions. I have never taken the bread out o' a livin' creature's mouth yet, to my knowledge, and another might run a much, rougher house, should I give it up."

"It's only a joke, I'm telling you," put in the priest, hastily; then he added, kindly, "You are a strange woman, Nancy McVeigh, and the road is no longer for your open doorway and the free pump. I have a mind to put in half of the amount with you in this case, though it is only one of many that I would do something to help if I could."

"Thank ye, Father Doyle. Ye have a keen understandin' o' what is good yerself; but ye'll be sure to name the compact with Bennet," cautioned Nancy, as she counted out fifty dollars from her assortment of bills.

"That I will," he answered.

The priest immediately went over to the Bennet place, and called the husband aside before mentioning his errand. He had long waited for some chance to secure an advantage over his thriftless neighbor, and now that it had come he drove it home with all the solemnity and earnestness that he could command. Bennet listened with eyes staring at the earth, and the veins throbbing in his bared neck, until the talk had reached a point where he must promise.

"Father Doyle," he began, thickly, "I have been a sad failure since the day ye married me to Mary O'Neil, and Nancy McVeigh's tavern has been a curse to me an' mine; but, if ye will do this fer me, I'll swear never to touch a drop again."

"Say nothing against Mistress McVeigh. You owe her more than you think," Father Doyle interjected sharply.

"Perhaps," admitted Bennet, grudgingly.

"It's a compact, then," the priest observed, smiling away the wrinkles of severity, and they clasped hands over it.

That afternoon a covered rig passed by the tavern while the hostess was serving the wants of a few who had stepped in.

"It's Jim Bennet, takin' his wife to the hospital. Poor thing, she'll find a deal more comfort there than in her own home!" Nancy explained, in answer to the exclamations of curiosity.

"It's a wonder he doesn't stop for a drink," one of the bystanders remarked. But Nancy did not heed it, for she was thinking of two children playing in the road when she had a husband to shoulder the heavier duties of life.