Chapter XXII
“Some people’s born with the notion that for sharpness they’ve got the rest o’ the world tied hand an’ foot; and they are sharp, in their way—but they don’t weigh much.”—Chip Nolan’s Remarks.
“The cool shades of evening their mantles were spreading,
And Maggie, all smiling, was listening to me,
The moon through the valley her pale light was shedding,
When I won the heart of the rose of Tralee.”
Old Song.
CLANCY was reading the news of the convention in the evening paper behind his counter; the rush was over for the night, and he pulled at his pipe contentedly, for O’Hara had failed to keep his threat, and Clancy fancied that his creditor had thought better of it.
“Sure, Young Murphy is the b’y for thim,” said Clancy, as he finished the account. It was a McQuirk sheet and lauded that gentleman’s action to the skies. Its story of the convention teemed with such phrases as “Magnificent battle against organized greed,” “Opponent of municipal corruption,” “Able friend of the working class,” etc. “But, divil take thim,” continued the grocer, “yez’d t’ink, from this, that McQuirk done it all.”
He adjusted his steel-rimmed glasses and was about to resume his reading when a step sounded upon the floor and a shadow fell across the newspaper; looking up he saw O’Hara.
“Good avenin’,” said the visitor. “I wur passin’ an’ t’ought I’d drop in on yez.”
“An’ welcome,” said Clancy, but his looks belied his tongue.
“Yez towld me this mornin’, Mr. Clancy,” said O’Hara, “that yez could not pay me the troifle av money yez owe me.”
“An’ I towld yez the truth.”
“On con-sider-rayshun av yez bein’ an ’owld frind av mine,” said O’Hara, “I have daysided till give yez back the note, widout the payin’ av a cint—upon wan condition.”
“Give me back me note!” Clancy could not believe his ears.
“Upon wan condition,” repeated O’Hara.
“An’ wat’s that?”
“That yez give yez consint till Annie’s marriage wid young McGonagle.”
Clancy looked thunderstruck; he gazed at the other with mingled wonder and anger.
“What call have yez till meddle wid me family affairs?” demanded he, indignantly. “An’ what rayson have ye till be pullin’ wid McGonagle?”
“Sorra the t’ing hav that till do wid it. Give yez consint, an’ I will give ye a raysate for the money ye owe me the minyute the marriage lines are wrote.”
Clancy’s objection to Goose was solely because of his poverty, but a son-in-law with money could do no more than pay off his debt, so the grocer figured it out, and the reluctance with which he at last consented to O’Hara’s proposition was more assumed than real.
“The ceremony must take place t’morry,” said O’Hara.
“I have no objection till offer,” said Clancy, resignedly.
THE door bell of Larry’s home at the end of Murphy’s Court kept up an almost constant ringing next morning, and old Mrs. Coogan’s breath grew short through answering the calls.
First it was McGonagle and Larkin, dressed in their best, with beaming faces and movements of suppressed excitement.
“Everyt’ing’s all to the velvet,” said Goose airily. “The girls have been up and dressed since five o’clock, and Father Dawson’ll do his turn at eleven, sharp.”
“Say, Larry,” put in Jimmie, “one bridesmaid’s goin’ to do for both; who d’youse t’ink it is?”
“I don’t know,” replied Larry.
“It’s Maggie Dwyer,” said Jimmie. “Say, there’s a girl for yer life! She’s got ’em all tied hand an’ foot.”
“If there was no Annie,” remarked Goose, “and I had the drag with Maggie that youse have, why her name’d be McGonagle in short order, le’me tell ye that.”
“G’way,” said Larry. “Quit yer stringin’.”
“This is on the level,” insisted McGonagle. “I’ve heard it talked about for years. Everybody in the ward knowed that she wanted ye,—everybody but yerself. But, say, youse seemed so dead leary about the t’ing that nobody had the nerve to say anyt’ing to youse.”
After the two young men departed, a perfect stream of reporters began to call, all anxious to get Larry’s views upon the political situation; and when this had subsided, Mason and Kerrigan came in, to talk over yesterday and confer about to-morrow.
“Did youse see McQuirk since yesterday?” asked Larry, after some time spent in this fashion.
“No,” answered Kerrigan, “but I received a note from him late last night, asking me to call upon him this afternoon.”
Larry nodded. “I was at his house when he wrote it,” said he. “Youse don’t need to worry any about him; he’s right in line. He kin carry the ward, with youse on the ticket, hands down. And that’s McQuirk’s game, every time. As long as he’s on the side that wins he can make good, ye know, and any time they need the ward in a deal they have to come to him with the money.”
“Owen Dwyer seems to think,” said Mason, “that the election is only a matter of the size of Kerrigan’s majority.”
“That’s right,” said Larry. “In this ward, and in all the others for that matter, the fightin’s done at the primaries; the guy what’s named in the regular way by the party what runs the ward, has got the election cinched.”
When he and Mason were ready to go, Kerrigan said:
“I am glad that Nolan and Ferguson came out of their matter all right. I know Cullen, one of the doctors at St. Mary’s, and he told me that Mart Kelly’s condition, while painful, is not necessarily serious.”
“O’Connor an’ Gartenheim talked to McQuirk,” said Larry; “and McQuirk squared it all right at the front office. They had to give bail but the case’ll never come to trial, because Jim Kelly won’t push it; he knows what Mart was done up for, and he dasn’t.”
“McGonagle tells me that things are all O. K. in his matter,” remarked Kerrigan, as they stood upon the steps, Larry in the doorway. “I’ll be on hand promptly at noon to attend to my end of it.”
Larry closed the door after they had departed and returned to the sitting room. He was glad that matters political had turned out as they did—but only because it would prevent the loss of Owen Dwyer’s savings, and thereby please Maggie—outside of that he seemed to have lost all zest of the battle, all exultation in the victory.
Maggie was in his thoughts, Maggie and Maggie only. Since his talk with her the morning before, she seemed to have grown nearer to him. He did not dream that this was caused by a lessening of his sense of inferiority—by a gradual growth of faith in himself, which had its conception in the hardly realized fact that he had been the dominant spirit in a matching of wits which, in result, meant not a little to her.
He only thought of her kind manner, her smile and invitation to call again; he only remembered Kerrigan’s half-jesting remark after they had left the house. And then there were McGonagle’s words; Goose was a friend of his and would not deceive him. He had said that Maggie was not indifferent! Could this be so? Had he been so blind, so full of self-pride as to not see it? Could it be that the aloofness with which he had long secretly charged her had all been of his own doing? It is not often that a man wishes himself in the wrong; but that, at this moment, was Larry’s most earnest desire.
“I’ll settle it to-night,” he said to himself. “I’ll brace up and give her a chance to flag me.”
Half past eleven saw Larry hurrying toward Clancy’s. Two of O’Connor’s hacks were drawn up at the curb before the grocery, from one of which McGonagle and Larkin were assisting Rosie, Annie and Maggie. Clancy and O’Hara were alighting from the second, which they had shared with the two bridegrooms; a flock of marvelling children were gathered upon the sidewalk; and the heads of their elders were popping out of windows and doorways full of wonder and surprise.
Larry raised his hat and took the hand which Maggie offered him.
“I’m sorry,” said she, “that I can’t remain to see the result of your planning. It is very clever!” Larry caught the look in her eyes and it said as plainly as words that it was no more than she had expected of him. A sudden tumult was raised in his breast and perhaps he pressed her hand a little; at any rate she flushed and withdrew it quickly.
“I must get back to my class before the morning session is over,” she continued. “The principal would only give me an hour’s leave of absence.”
“I’m comin’ to see you to-night,” said he, courageously.
He did not even ask her permission! She gasped a little, in surprise, but laughed as though she liked it.
“I shall be at home,” said she. Then she kissed the two girls. “Good-by, I shall run around this afternoon to see you both, and,” with a sly glance at O’Hara, “to hear of the fun.”
When she had gone, Larry followed the others into the house, Mrs. Clancy embraced Annie and sobbed; then Annie and Rosie began to sob also, while Goose and Jimmie looked uncomfortably at one another, each with a feeling of guilt heavy upon him.
“Here is yez raysate, Mister Clancy,” said O’Hara, handing the grocer a slip of paper. “It’s a man av me word I am.”
“Youse’ll get your cash, as soon as the fortune comes along, O’Hara,” McGonagle informed him reassuringly.
It was at this point that Kerrigan walked into the room.
“It’s a queer thing to do right after a wedding,” said the young attorney, after he had congratulated the happy couples, “but the fact is, Mr. Clancy, I am here to read a will. And as all the persons spoken of in the document are present, I will, with your permission, get down to business.”
He took a neatly folded paper from his breast pocket.
“The will,” he continued, “is that of the late Honora Cassidy, spinster.”
“Ah! Ah!” exclaimed Clancy, striking the table with his fist; “Now we’ll know the rights av it. Faith an’ I knew Honora had money.”
“So it’s Honora Cassidy that yez meant?” said O’Hara looking at Larry. Then he turned to Kerrigan. “Sure, I wur acquainted wid her in Skibereen whin I wur a young felly.”
“I am aware of the fact,” returned Kerrigan, dryly. “The document reads this way:
“I, Honora Cassidy, being in sound physical and mental health, do make this my last will and testament. Having remained a spinster up to this date and recognizing the emptiness and loneliness of such a state, I, in this instrument, do all in my power to prevent my half-brother’s child, Annie Clancy, from following my example.
“With this end in view I bequeath all my estate, both real and personal, with Charles Mason as Trustee, to the man who marries the said Annie Clancy, on the condition that the ceremony is performed within thirty (30) days after my decease.”
“Ha! An’ so yez knew av this, O’Hara!” exclaimed Clancy. “Yez knew av it an’ played me the darty trick till git yez money out av McGonagle!”
“A stroke av business, Clancy,” murmured O’Hara soothingly, “A mere stroke av business, sir.”
“But say, Kerrigan,” put in Larry, with great innocence, “if Annie hadn’t got married within the thirty days?—what then?”
“Then,” replied the attorney, referring to the will, “the estate would have gone to the only man who ever made a proposal of marriage to the deceased—and whom she refused.”
Larry had his eyes fixed upon O’Hara, who at these words, started suddenly, and sat bolt upright.
“An’ who wur that, Johnnie?” asked Mrs. Clancy, who, womanlike, felt a great curiosity upon this point.
“Our esteemed friend, Malachi O’Hara.”
“What!” shrieked Clancy, leaping to his feet. “D’yez mane till say, Goose, me b’y, that yez made the owld harp do himself out av a fort’in?”
“Not me,” said McGonagle, modestly; “it was Murphy.”
O’Hara had slowly arisen, his dumpy form quivering, his face crimson with wrath.
“It wur a conspiracy!” exclaimed he, thumping the floor with his cane; “a conspiracy to defraud me out av me possible roights!”
“’Twur a nate bit av wurk,” cried Clancy, enthusiastically shaking his son-in-law by the hand. “An’ I forgi’ yez for my part av it. Sure, yez are all great b’ys together!”
O’Hara continued to stamp about the room; Rosie wept on Jimmie’s shoulder, frightened at her father’s anger. At last the second-hand dealer grabbed up his hat and made for the door.
“Come home wid me, Rosie!” commanded he. “Don’t be stayin’ here till see yez father chated an’ robbed.”
“She’ll go home with me, after this,” said Jimmie Larkin, as he fondly kissed the tears from her cheek.
“Thin, the divil do her good av ye!” O’Hara swept the room with a stormy glance. “It’s the law I’ll have on yez,” foamed he, “Ivery wan av yez’ll sup sorra for yez divilment, raymimber that!”
And he banged the door after him and was gone.
IT was a beautiful night; the moon was sailing through the heavens attended by countless myriads of jewel-like stars; the breeze rustled gently through the street, and as Larry neared Maggie’s home he caught the soft notes of an old, old song.
Owen sat upon the step, enjoying the fineness of the night, and as the young man came up he arose and gripped him by the hand.
“God bless ye, Larry,” said he, with a subdued emotion rare in the Celt. “God bless ye for what yez done for me and mine! I niver towld Maggie till the day, but iv Kelly had won, it’s find another home we’d had till do, for ivery dollar I could rake an’ scrape were in that stock. I took a great risk, b’y, I see it now; but it wur all for her sake, Larry, all for her sake.”
Larry entered, leaving the old man smoking peacefully upon the steps. The hallway was dim, and he walked softly to avoid knocking against things. But a shaded lamp threw a soft light about the parlour, and he paused in the doorway to listen to the faint music and the words of the song. Maggie sat at the piano, her back toward him; she was dressed in white, clinging stuff that displayed the full charm of her fine figure; her fingers touched the keyboard lightly, caressingly and she sang in a subdued, brooding way:
“Oh promise to meet me when twilight is falling,
Beside the blue waters that slumber so fair,
Each bird in the meadow your name will be calling,
And every sweet rose-bud will look for you there.”
She paused, her fingers still straying over the keys, and Larry took up the song:
“In morning and evening for you I am sighing,
The heart in my bosom is yours evermore,
I’ll watch for you, darling, when daylight is dying,
Sweet rose of Killarney, Mavourneen asthore.”
She arose and slowly turned toward him. Her face was rosy, her eyes shining with a light that was good to see.
He advanced half way, then paused, his arms outstretched. She understood, on the instant, and came the remainder of the way; then the strong arms were around her and he had kissed her upon the lips.
“When shall it be?” he asked, in a masterful way.
“Not for a long, long time,” she answered. “Remember Mary!”
“I’ll never forget her.” His eyes were dim with feeling.
“Poor Mary,” whispered Maggie, softly. “Dear, sweet, gentle Mary!”
THE END
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.
No attempt has been made to regularize dialect and brogue.
There was a typesetting error that occurred at the beginning of Chapter VIII, and the affected chapter numbers have been corrected.