Chapter 9

_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."