Mr. Bigelow sat in the chair: behind and around him were the speakers
of the evening, grouped with the Committee of the Society of the
Preservation of the Home; before him extended rows upon rows of
citizens, all of them vigorously applauding the last speaker, all of
them, without regard to private cellars, bent upon stamping out the
saloon evil in their suburb.
An usher mounted the platform and laid a folded slip of paper on the
table. The Chairman unfolded it, read it with great composure, and
inclined his head to signify an affirmative reply. This was the note:
“Mr. G. Hyde Bigelow.
“_Dear Sir:_ May I see you for a few moments after the meeting, on
business of great importance.
“Appleton Le Duc.”
“Probably a reporter,” thought the Chairman. A draft of his opening
speech lay in his inside pocket, and if this man was attached to a
reputable paper he would be welcome to it. Mr. Bigelow made it an
invariable rule to be courteous to newspaper men.
At the close of the meeting, therefore, as he was donning his coat, the
usher touched him on the arm.
“This is the man who wished to see you, Mr. Bigelow.”
The Chairman turned and beheld a tall, thin individual, with a long
face, wearing somewhat conspicuous clothes.
“How do you do,” he said, in a genial tone, extending his hand.
The thin man took it and glanced sharply at Mr. Bigelow--a glance full
of curious interest. A change had been taking place in Apples since we
last saw him. Evidently the care of his wife and his wife's mother,
and the prospect of a visit from the stork at once reducing the
family income and materially increasing the outgo, had quieted the
effervescence of his youth and set him thinking.
“If you have no objection,” said Le Duc, “I will walk along with you.”
“None whatever,” replied Mr. Bigelow.
They walked together out of the building and followed that part of the
crowd which had turned westward.
“Well, sir,” observed, the Chairman, “what can I do for you?”
Le Due answered in a low, even voice--a voice which, if it showed
embarrassment and effort, showed also determination.
“You were formerly married, I believe, to a woman who is now known as
Mrs. Craig.”
Dwelling, as it had been, on the plaudits, the hearty enthusiasms of
the evening, on the written speech reposing in an inside pocket, Mr.
Bigelow's mind came to earth with a shock. He stopped abruptly, threw
a quick look at the thin man, and then, recalling that the sidewalk was
still covered with people, he moved on.
“Have you come here to discuss my private affairs?” he said brusquely.
“In a sense, yes. The matter has been put into my hands, and I thought
the most satisfactory thing would be to come out here and talk to you.
Of course, if you'd rather I'd see somebody else, it makes no difference
to me.”
Mr. Bigelow was silent for a moment. Le Due glanced sideways at him as
they passed under a corner light, and was glad to observe that he had
penetrated the man's armour.
“Are you a lawyer?” was the Chairman's abrupt question.
“No, sir.”
“In what capacity have you come here?”
“Why, you see, Lizzie, Mrs. Craig's daughter, is my wife.”
Mr. Bigelow's reply was a half-audible grunt. “Mrs. Craig, you
understand, is really suffering. She has no income and we have been
keeping her with us; but I am not in a position to do much for her--not
as much as I should like.”
“What do you want of me?”
“I believe--that you agreed to support her.”
“Well, how much do you want?”
“That isn't it, you see.” Somewhat eagerly this. “It wasn't only that
you agreed to support her, but the courts decided that you should. So it
isn't a question of what you might offer or me accept, but of how much
is owing on past years. I think I can understand it--I suppose a man
gets tired of paying out money he doesn't get any return for--and of
course it's been a good many years----”
“Never mind about that.”
“Well--you see--I've thought there was some misunderstanding about the
business. She says you told her to go to law if she wanted to, but I
thought she must have misunderstood you. Of course, she could, you know,
but her case is very good, I think. It would be expensive all 'round;
and it mightn't be pleasant.”
Very true, Apples. It might be decidedly unpleasant, now that a voluble
young man, with apparently no regard for the proprieties, has sprung up
from nowhere to push matters.
“Well, what _do_ you want?”
“I've talked it all over with Mrs. Craig and she has told me just how
things stand. She has kept a pretty regular account of everything; and
she figures it out about like this. There were five years, nearly five,
anyhow--we don't want to quibble over that--when she was to all
intents and purposes paid up. Since then there haven't been any regular
payments, except about five hundred dollars that's been given her in
small sums. It was to be a thousand dollars a year, I believe. Five
thousand five hundred from seventeen thousand leaves eleven thousand
five hundred still due her--call it an even eleven thousand.”
“You say you are not a lawyer?”
“No, sir.”
“What is your business?”
“I'm--I'm an actor.”
“Where do you play?”
“On the North Side.”
“What can you earn?”
“Well, the three of us--we are the three Le Ducs, you know--my wife and
I, and Elmer, can get sixty a week for our turn.”
“You don't mean to say you have a son old enough to play with you?”
“Oh, no, no--we only call him Elmer Le Duc. We haven't been married so
long as that. But-----” However, this was not business, and he checked
the confidence that was never far from the end of his tongue nowadays.
“How long have you been on the stage?”
“Nearly three years.”
“What did you do before that?”
“I was at college.”
“What college?”
“Here, in Evanston.”
“So?”
They were now standing in front of the wide grounds of G. Hyde Bigelow.
Peeping out from its screen of trees, far back behind the spacious lawn,
could be seen the granite turrets of Mr. Bigelow's new house. The owner
turned toward them as he reflected.
“I will tell you what you do, Mr.--Mr. --------”
“Le Duc.”
“Mr. Le Duc. You come to my office to-morrow at eleven. I think that by
that time I will have a proposition that will interest you. Meantime,
suppose we let this matter stand just where it is now. Is that
satisfactory?”
“Why--certainly; perfectly so.”
“Very well, I shall look for you to-morrow at eleven. Good-night.”
“Maybe I had better leave one of my cards with you, sir.”
“Very well. Good-night.”
“Good-night.”
Mr. Bigelow turned into the grounds and disappeared among the trees, and
Apples, bubbling with self-congratulations, hurried over to the trolley
line.
*****
Margaret was tired to-night. She was glad to be at home; and she threw
herself on the library couch to rest for an hour while she awaited the
final report of the day's labours. For George had been released from
jail, thanks to the benevolence of the judge--himself a suburbanite--and
to the clearness of the facts. It had called for very little effort on
the part of Mr. Babcock, who had taken the case on his own shoulders,
to make plain that George had been merely the cat's-paw of a gang of
roughs. And now Mrs. Bigelow had promised Mr. Babcock that she would
take in the boy and give him work about the house; so that apparently he
was at last to have a start.
At length Mr. Babcock himself came in. He was almost jaunty this
evening; and his voice was pitched higher than usual.
“How do you do, Miss Davies?” he exclaimed. “Here I am with my report.”
“You brought him out, did you?”
“Yes. Mrs. Bigelow has him and promises to take the best of care of him.
He seems a likely boy--unfortunate he wasn't better brought up. But of
course he may take a brace--such things have happened.”
“You know I have faith in George,” said Margaret warmly.
“Yes, I know. I hope you're right. Maybe you are. He'll be kept busy for
awhile anyway, learning to groom the horses and milk the cows. That'll
be good for him. Queer case, isn't it. Quite like a story. It has
interested me immensely. Been a queer sort of day all around for me. If
every day was like it I'd never get any business done. Came right in a
busy season, too. Oh, I don't mean about the boy. That was because you
were interested in him. I'd do as much any time you asked it--do it
gladly. But I ran across Myers while I was over at the court building.
He is going West, you know, for his wife's health, and wants to sell his
house. You know it, don't you?--over on the Lake Front. He wants to
sell bad and offers the place for next to nothing, so I promised him I'd
stroll down there to-night and have a look at it. How would you like to
go along? Your taste's rather better than mine, I think.”
“Why--isn't it a little late?” He had never talked like this before; she
was puzzled.
“No--not so very--about nine. But I see you're tired, so don't think of
it. Tell you what I'll do--I'll get him to let me have the plans, and
we'll look them over together, and you tell me how they strike you. If
it is in as good shape as I think I believe I'll buy--that is, if I can
get a clear title.”
“It is very attractive along the shore.”
“That's the way it strikes me. And with good horses you'd hardly mind
the distance. He says his library is finished in rose tints and Flemish
oak. How does that sound?”
“Very pretty, I should think.”
“Yes, doesn't it? So you really like the idea? I'm glad of that. You're
the one I care most about pleasing.” He rose and looked down at her.
“There's no use telling me you aren't tired: I can see it. You've worked
like a good one to-day, and I'm going to let you get a little rest.” She
rose.
“I'll bring up the plans sometime before Sunday, and we'll go over them
and see what we make of it. Good-night.”
She smiled wearily and stood there until he had left the house; then she
went upstairs and into Mrs. Davies's room.
“Mother,” she said, with an odd little smile, “I want to go away.”
“Where, child?”
“I don't know---East, perhaps.”
Mrs. Davies looked quietly up from her knitting. “'How long have you
been thinking of this?” she asked.
“Not very long--just to-day.”
They looked at each other for a moment in that same quiet way--Margaret
still smiling, but with a suspicious shine in her eyes. Then suddenly
she came over, slipped to the floor, and buried her face on her arms in
her mother's lap.
After a long silence Mrs. Davies asked:
“When would you like to go, dear?” There was no reply. “Very soon?”
Margaret raised her head a little way and was apparently about to speak,
then lowered it again. “Would you like to go this week?” Still there
was silence. But Mrs. Davies seemed to understand. “We might get away by
Thursday or Friday, dearie, if you can get ready. Can you?”
And Margaret murmured, without looking up: “Oh, yes, yes! I can be ready
to-morrow.”
As time went by the wisdom of Halloran's method of buying lumber became
apparent. If the orders had not gone in almost simultaneously to the
offices of the different companies the directors would probably have
put their heads together and declined meeting such an unusually heavy
demand. As it fell out, however, when the heads did finally go together,
it was discovered that the mischief had been done, that nearly six
million feet of lumber had been sold, in thirty or forty different lots,
and for about $50,000 less than it would have brought at the normal
rates. The possibility of speculators buying in the lumber had been
discussed from the first; but the directors had not dreamed that such a
movement could be actually completed before they could know it was going
on. And then they found that each of the twenty odd companies had been
pledged to these orders through its own authorized agents. Even now,
after the door had been closed on an empty stable, it was not plain what
per cent, of the sales had gone to speculators; for nearly every order
had come from a regular dealer in one of a score of different cities and
towns.
Halloran soon found it difficult to buy, except in occasional small
lots. His instructions to his agents still held good, however; and he
hoped to increase his stock until he should have enough on hand to make
good all the losses resulting from the fight. That was his idea--to make
Bigelow pay the bills. Once this point was reached he would show his
hand by bringing all the lumber to Wauchung.
At this stage of the fight there was a pause. On one hand Halloran's
countermove was practically ended; on the other, the Bigelow forces
appeared as determined as ever to keep down prices and force Higginson
out of business. Rumours were floating now and then, to be sure,
that there was trouble in Kentucky Coal, but there was nothing at all
definite. .
One morning in the office--a nearly idle morning, as came about
frequently now--Crosman remarked casually over his paper:
“There's a big fight on in corn on the Board of Trade.”
“Something new, eh?”
“Yes. It seems the secret has just leaked out. A man named Le Duc------”
“Le Duc!”
“Yes--Appleton Le Duc--sounds like a Frenchman, doesn't it?”
Halloran left his chair and came over to Cros-man's side.
“Excuse me,” he said. “May I see it?”
“Certainly; take it, if you like. I'm through with it. It's a queer
story.” He went on talking while Halloran was reading. “It seems he's
a new man at the business, but they're calling him the new Com King
already. They say he shows a regular genius for it. It looks as if he
was going to corner the market. The paper says he used to be an actor.”
Halloran laid down the paper and perched himself on the corner of
Crosman's flat-top desk.
“That's queer business,” he observed. “The last time I heard of Apples
he was playing at a third-class variety house.”
“Friend of yours?”
“I knew him in college. If the paper weren't so sure about it, I'd say
it was a mistake. He never did it himself--he hasn't any money, to begin
with. Somebody's using him for a cat's-paw, plain enough; but I'd like
to know how the Moses he ever got hold of a snap like that?” Halloran
shook his head over it. “Do you ever read Mark Twain?”
“I have--some.”
“Do you remember the story of the bad little boy that got rich and went
to Congress, and died universally respected?”
“Never read that.”
“Well, it makes me think of Apples. The two poorest skates we had in
college are turning out about the same way. The other fellow was a lazy
beggar from down in Indiana. Came up to college to play baseball, but he
didn't have grit enough to make the team. He never got anywhere in his
work--spent three years in his fourth year Academy, I believe, before he
gave it up. And no one ever knew how he lived. But one of the directors
of a big steel company used to live out there, and this fellow scraped
up money enough to buy a dress suit and join the local club, and took to
playing billiards and drinking with the director's son, and finally got
invited around to meet the family. Now he's the assistant secretary of
the steel company, and has announced his engagement to the director's
daughter. Enough to make you wonder a little sometimes, isn't it?”
The office door opened, just then, so abruptly that they both started.
Looking up, they saw Captain Craig standing in the doorway, hatless,
holding an open letter in his hand. He looked straight at Halloran as if
he saw nothing else in the office.
“I want to see you,” he said.
At the odd sound of his voice, Crosman got up without a word and brushed
by him into the outer office, gently pushing the door to behind him.
“Sit down, Captain,” said Halloran.
The Captain took the chair by the desk.
“I went up to the house to see the Old Gentleman, but they wouldn't let
me in.”
“No; he is not allowed to see anybody. Will I do?”
Craig seemed not to hear the reply. “I got a letter just now--and I
wondered if I couldn't get away for a little while--I guess I won't be
needed on the steamer?”
“Certainly not.”
“I got a letter this morning--I didn't know as I read it straight--I
haven't got my glasses with me-----” It seemed difficult for him to
speak naturally, and he paused, staring at a glass paper-weight on the
desk. His seamed, harsh old face was working. “My God! Mr. Halloran,” he
broke out, “I don't hardly dare believe it! Here, read it.”
Halloran took the letter and read what follows:
“_Father_: I have waited a long, long time, and now I'm tired and I want
to come home. You were right always--it was all a mistake. Now when I
look back there are some parts of it that are like dreams to me. Do you
think you could forgive me? Do you think you could let me come back and
take care of your house for you?
“I was all wrong, but I am older now--I have a girl of my own who has
grown up and married--and I think I could understand better. I can
imagine better, too, how you have suffered--how I have made you
suffer--and now that there are times when my life seems clouded and
unreal--some days and weeks even, when I look back I can hardly remember
what I have said or done, or how I have lived--when I think of this, and
think how my life seems to be slipping away from me, a little at a time,
I feel that I just must come back to you. Of course, nothing can be
undone, nothing can be lived over. I know that bitterly now--I feel it
all the time, and especially at night when I lie awake and all these
years come whirling up in my mind and confuse me and discourage me. But
I have tried not to grow bitter. I have been hungry a good many times,
and cold, and haven't had much to wear, but I have tried always to
remember that the only way out is just the patient, honest way.
“There may not be many years left to us, but wouldn't it be better to
try to make them happy years? You see I'm writing as if I felt you had
already forgiven me--I can't help it.
“Elizabeth is married, as I told you, and hasn't room for me any more.
But, George is not a bad boy--you will like George, father, I know. And
perhaps he will grow up into something better than I and make you feel
yet that it was worth while.
“It is nineteen years to-day since you brought me down here on the old
_Number One_--do you remember? I have never forgotten how you looked
when you stood on the bridge and waved good-by. Well, my married life
was not what I thought it would be, but somehow now, while I am writing
this, it seems almost as if I could cut this long part of my life right
out, and take up the first part again where I left it off that day. You
will find me changed--I am getting to be quite an old woman--if all goes
well, I may be a grandmother before the year is gone. Think of that!
“Oh, father, I don't know what I am thinking of to be writing like this,
when I ought to be down on my knees to you. But I can't help it. Can you
forgive me, and let me begin again?
“Jennie Craig.”
Halloran gazed at the letter until the silence grew oppressive and then
he looked out the window. Craig was still staring at the paperweight;
and when he finally spoke it was without shifting his eyes.
“She was only eighteen when she went down to Chicago to work for
Bigelow. She didn't know any better--G. Hyde Bigelow wasn't above
marrying his clerk in those days. And then she found him out and got
a divorce; and I've never heard since, until to-day. I guess--I guess
there's a little pride in our family--she's never written--and I
haven't. But, oh, God! Mr. Halloran------”
Halloran turned at the exclamation, and then, with such a sense of
helplessness as he had never before known, he lowered his eyes. For the
Captain was crying.
“I'm going right down there,” the broken voice went on. “Have you a
time-table here?” Halloran fumbled in his drawer, found the time-table,
looked over the train schedule, marked the right column with his pencil
and laid it before the Captain.
“When is that? Ten-thirty?”
“Yes; ten-thirty.”
“That's in about an hour. Well, then, I suppose-----” He made as if to
rise, but settled back again. Finally Halloran spoke.
“I think I know your daughter, Captain.”
“You know her?”
“Yes; I saw her several times a few years ago. I can tell you a good
deal about George, too.”
“She's a good girl. We used to think she took after me a little. I think
maybe--I think I'll bring her right back with me to-night or tomorrow;
and then you can come around and see us.”
“Yes. What would you say if I were to go down with you, Captain. Perhaps
I could help you find her and George.” He hesitated a moment. “We'll
bring the boy back, too. I guess we can manage to keep him busy around
the office until the mills start up again.”
“Do you know how old he is?”
“George must be about sixteen, I should say.”
“And the girl is married--she must be older--I guess I'm a little
bewildered.” He got up now and stood silent by the desk.
“I'll be ready for you in half an hour, Captain.” There seemed to be
nothing more to say; and after another silence Craig went out. But
later, during the hours on the train, Halloran had to tell over and over
what he knew about George and Lizzie, their mother, and Le Duc.