voice, “like it was a tramp that had dumb the fence by the bridge and
was sneakin' along the bank. Here, now, hold on a minute,”--he caught
the boy's arm--“I was a-standin' right here. Now look down between
them piles--past the mill. See that little strip o' the river where
the bridge light's a-shinin'? It looked to me like somethin' black went
acrost it.”
They went on, giving a quarter of an hour to winding through the alleys,
throwing a light into every dark corner. “A feller can't be expected
to see everything--not in yards as big as these here. We needn't go out
around the P'int. I guess there ain't nothin'. Here's Du Bois a-waitin'
by the _Number One_. I'll leave you with him. You got a whistle, ain't
you?”
“Yes; Mr. Halloran gave me one.”
“You know about it? If you blow, it means fire. So don't get gay with
it.”
“Hallo, there,” said Du Bois, as they joined him on the wharf in the
little patch of light that fell from the steamer's engine-room. “You're
purty poor. Where's your tramp?”
“He wasn't to home. We 'lowed we'd call again. So long.”
“So long, there.”
The engine-room was snug and comfortable, a capital headquarters for
patrol duty. So the old Inspector took immediate precedence of his
associate. “Now, young man, we'll have to break you in first thing. You
better go over and patrol the fence f'r'n hour. Then you come back here
and report. Be kind o' cautiouslike about your whistle.”
“I don't know------”
“No, I guess you don't--not such a dam sight. What's the matter? What
you waitin' f'r?”
“Why--when we was going around the yards, he said he guessed we wouldn't
go out as fur's the Point--and I thought mebbe I'd go now, jes so's to
be sure.”
“So you've took to thinkin', eh? I s'pose you was a-thinkin' you'd send
me over to the fence.”
“No, I didn't mean to send you, but I thought mebbe------”
“Git along with you. You talk too much. You make me sick.” And the
Inspector, with a chuckle, made slowly toward the gate, leaving the boy
to his own resources.
George walked to the end of the wharf and stood a moment, debating
whether to keep on along the bank or to turn in among the lumber-piles.
He decided on the latter course and crowded through, with the help of
his lantern, by crawling over and under the projecting ends of planks
between two huge piles. This brought him into an alley that led,
with one turn, to the narrow space of open ground at the end of the
peninsula. He closed his lantern and felt his way along. He had nearly
reached the turn, he thought, when it was suddenly revealed to him by
a light flickering on the lumber. He stopped short and held his breath.
The light was growing rapidly. He rushed forward around the turn--and
again he stopped. A blaze that had evidently started at the base of a
pile of inch stuff was now curling upward, was already half way up
to the top; and it crackled ominously as it wreathed around the thin,
resinous boards. Standing a little way off at the edge of the bank,
looking stupidly at the fire, was the worst specimen from the land of
trampdom George had ever seen. His clothing hung about him in rags, his
hair and beard were grizzled and matted, his face was red; and his whole
body seemed to tremble as if from a nervous affection. He looked
up frantically, called out something in a husky voice and held up a
blackened clay pipe, then, on an impulse, he dropped the pipe, turned
and dove out into the river. There was a splash, the firelight glistened
for an instant on the spray, and he had disappeared.
George remembered his whistle and blew it sharply half a dozen times His
first thought was to turn back to the steamer, and he had taken a few
steps when a shout told him that his signal was heard, that probably
the fire could be seen now, for it was already licking at the topmost
boards; and so he threw his lantern away and took a running dive off the
bank.
Du Bois, walking slowly, had nearly reached the gate when he heard
George's whistle. “The boy's crazy,” he muttered. “Wonder they wouldn't
give us unweaned infants f'r patrol.” He looked down the centre roadway,
but could see no light. However, his duty was obvious, and he turned and
ran back to the wharf, growling as he went. The men were aroused on both
steamers. As he passed the _Number Two_ he saw the hands dragging out
a coil of hose with the nozzle ready attached. On the upper deck of the
_Number One_ Captain Craig, with a pair of trousers hastily drawn on and
his nightgown partly tucked in at the waist, was leaning on the rail and
peering out over the yards. The deckhouse door was open, throwing the
light on him. In the fainter light, on the main deck, MacGregor was
hanging out.
“How is it, Cap'n?” he was calling.
The Captain made a sign of impatience, straightened up and shaded his
eyes with one hand to shut off the light from the steamer; then gave a
shout, and pointing toward the end of the peninsula, he plunged into the
wheel-house and pulled the whistle-cord. MacGregor disappeared in the
engine-room.
At the moment Du Bois was midway between the two steamers running along
the wharf. He stopped now and retraced a few steps. “Hi, there!” he
called to the men who were at work on the _Number Two_, “uncouple that
hose and bring 'er up to the _Number One_.”
“What for?” asked some one.
“What for? You--you------ Hi, Cap'n Craig! I'm a-bringin' up the Number
Two's line---- Will you have yours uncoupled for us? Now, you louts,
gimme a hold o' the line. All together, now! _Heave_ f'r it! Over the
rail with 'er! Lay hold now, lively! Did you think you was a-sprinklin'
the front yard _an_ the tulip-bed? Ryan, if you fall over them feet of
yourn again I'll be darned if I don't soak you. All together, now!--
right in the solar plexus, b' th' divvel. Now _heave!_ HEAVE! What's the
trouble, there. Damn that Ryan! Say, you've got more feet to the square
inch than any man a-walkin'. Here she is, Cap'n. Take off that nozzle,
one o' you, while I couple 'er. Hold on, Robbie, we'll holler when we
want water. Jest heave that Ryan overboard, a couple o' you. All right,
Cap'n. Will we take the nozzle? Here we go, now! Run 'er out! Quick,
there------You're the craziest lot o' hare-lipped bungholes I ever see!”
They were stretching out the hose to its fullest extent, but they were
still some distance from the fire that now was roaring and crackling
before them. Already they could hear the wind, swelling from a night
breeze; it was whipping the flames into madness.
“Hi! Robbie! Let 'er go! Pass the word there Let 'er go!”
The men shouted; MacGregor responded; the flat line of hose swelled and
writhed as the water was forced through. “Hold hard, Cap'n!” The nozzle
was almost wrenched from their hands; the stream rushed out and curved
high over the lumber.
“Are we a-gettin' at it?”
“I don't think so. I can't see. Here, work out into the roadway.”
“Lord, no, we ain't reachin' 'er by three rods. An' she's a-burnin' to beat
the yellow devils. What's the matter with the boys? Damn it, they
must think we're a-doin' it f'r fun! This ain't no Fourth o' July
pyrotechnics.”
“They'll be here. It's not much more'n a minute since George signaled.”
“There's some more of the boys, I think.”
“I can't see much--this light's in my eyes. It's no use trying to reach
it. Here, let's wet down these here piles. That's good. Now hold her
there.”
“Gettin' pretty hot here, Cap'n.”
“Can't help that. It'll be hotter before we get through. Have an eye out
to see that we don't get cut off behind. Here come the buckets.”
“Here you are, boys--this way! How many is they of you?”
“I dunno--about a dozen, I guess. The boys is comin' right in.”
“Form a line here along the road. If you keep your clothes wet there's
no danger, I guess. Stir along, now. Mr. Halloran come?”
“Not yet. Mr. Crosman's couplin' up the yard hose an' he'll be along
here'n a minute.”
The fire was giving rise to the wind; the wind was lashing the fire. The
crackling was loud now; the roar made it hard to talk. As they worked
and watched a gust of wind came sweeping across the harbour, and
catching up the top row of boards from an exposed pile, it tossed them,
burning, high in the air. The sparks were flying high, coursing the
length of the yards, some falling far beyond. Men were pouring into the
yards. Somewhere across the river the town fire-engine was clanging out
toward the bridge.
A man, hatless, in a purple sweater, carrying a tin pail in each hand,
came running through the gate and down the central roadway. Some one
shouted “Here he comes!” and here and there other men, working with
hose or bucket, heard the shout and caught it up for sheer excitement,
heedless of the cause.
“What's that?” said Du Bois. “It's all clear behind, ain't it? We ain't
cut off?”
“Oh, no; we aren't cut off.”
“Say, Cap'n, I can't stand this; let's drop back a step or so. Lord
knows we ain't doin' much good here. See her burn! I guess it's all day
with Higginson & Company. Here come the fire boys--I see a helmet back
there--------No, they've quit. They're a-runnin' back, an' draggin'
their hose with 'em. Who's this here a-comin' f'r us?”
“I don't know; I can't see.”
“It's himself--it's Mr. Halloran. Hi! What's that?”
[Illustration: 0267]
“Back with you, quick!” Halloran was shouting. “Never mind the hose. Let
it go. You'll have to run for it. One's enough here.”
“Good Lord, he's goin' to try the dynamite. Hold on, there, Mr.
Halloran! You'll never make it; the fire's too close.”
“_Get back there!_ What do you mean by talking back to me?” Halloran's
eyes were blazing. “Get back or I'll throw you back Drop that hose,
Cap'n. Don't say a word!”
“All right, Cap'n. I guess we can get the hose back with us. Heave,
now!”
Halloran jerked it away from them, took the Captain by the shoulders and
spun him around. “I'll give you three seconds to get to the gate. Now
_get!_ And none of your talk!”
They ran, without a word.
The fire had eaten its way almost to the widening of the peninsula,
almost to the last point where the dynamite could be expected to stop
it. A narrow strip could be blasted out, but once the flames had swept
on into the main yards nothing could check them. The steamers were far
enough away, Halloran thought, to be safe; and he had warned all the men
back. They stood now at the gate, waiting. The watchmen and deckhands
were there, and the twenty- or thirty amateur and the dozen professional
fire-fighters. Crosman came hurrying over from the mill-plug and
addressed himself to the Wauchung chief.
“Have your boys run the hose right down the minute you hear the second
explosion.”
“There'll be only two?”
“Only two. I've got my hose ready to take down the other road. The rest
of you boys be ready with your buckets, and when the Chief here gives
the word you run for it, every one of you. Understand?” Then he hurried
back to his station.
“Here he comes,” said a Wauchung fireman.
Down the narrow roadway they could see a black figure running. Nearer he
came, his shadow leaping grotesquely before. And just as he reached them
and put out his hand to check his progress, the whole south end of the
yards seemed to rise high in the air--once, and then again.
“Come on, boys,” called Halloran, turning before he had fairly caught
his breath. “Cap'n, go to the steamer and see that she's all right. This
way, boys!” Eager hands laid hold of the hose and ran forward with it.
Over by the mills they could hear Crosman urging his men on. And ahead
of all was the bucket brigade.
The explosion had cleared a path from bank to bank. Many of the blazing
timbers had fallen into the yards, but the buckets and Crosman's hose
were turned on these, while the firemen gave their attention to the wide
heap of débris that seemed on the point of blazing up again. A third
line of hose was soon brought up, and within a quarter of an hour the
Chief had the satisfaction of saying to Halloran, “We've got her in
hand now.” An hour more and the fire was over, excepting the smouldering
piles, on which streams of water would be kept for the rest of the
night. Halloran assigned a few men to stay on watch with the firemen
and, leaving the responsibility in the hands of the Chief, he went over
to the _Number One_. Craig was on the wharf.
“Any harm done, Cap'n?”
“No--not to speak of. About all the glass is broken, and some sparks
came aboard, but we put them out easy enough.”
“Say, Cap'n, I don't know just what I said to you to-night------”
“That's all right, Mr. Halloran--don't you speak of it. You were tending
to your business, that was all. You haven't seen anything of George,
have you?”
“George? No. Isn't he here?”
“No, he ain't. He was out at the Point. He gave us the signal, but he
didn't come back.”
“Well, here, we'll look into this. Du Bois, there, did you see George
after he gave the alarm?”
“No, I ain't seen 'im since he went out to the P'int. What's the matter,
ain't he around?”
“No, he hasn't been seen. Look him up, will you? Ask the boys, and look
around the yards a bit.”
“Here he is now.”
Craig and the Manager turned and saw, sure enough, George, leading, with
the assistance of a local policeman, a villainous-looking tramp. George
himself looked almost as disreputable as the tramp, and the policeman
had evidently not been treading paths of ease.
“Here's the man that done it, Mr. Halloran,” said George excitedly. “The
copper said he didn't mind bringing him here so's you could see him
before he gets run in. He won't say nothing, though.”
Halloran soon drew out George's story, but the tramp was silent, beyond
claiming stoutly that he had been smoking and had fallen asleep, only
to awake and find the flames starting up. There was nothing to do but to
turn him over to the law for the present. And at last, as the hour
crept on toward two o'clock in the morning, Halloran and Crosman, after
sending a reassuring message to the Higginsons, left the yards together
for home and bed.
CHAPTER V--The Meeting
One afternoon young Corrigan appeared at the office. “I wish you would
repeat,” he said, when the civilities had been exchanged, “what you said
to me a little while back.”
“About Mr. Bigelow?”
“Yes. Please tell me just what you think, and why you think so. You
understand that I couldn't go on with this without pretty good authority
behind me.”
“I have no documentary proof, if that's what you mean. But to my
notion, that isn't necessary.” And Halloran simply repeated his former
statements.
“Tell me again about this Le Duc--what is his relationship to Mr.
Bigelow?”
“I may as well give you the whole story, Mr. Corrigan. The daughter of
our Captain Craig went to Chicago some twenty years ago as Bigelow's
private secretary. They were married and had two children, and then they
were divorced. The courts allowed Mrs. Bigelow a decent income by way
of alimony, most of which was never paid, and in some letters Bigelow
admitted that it was unpaid. A little while ago, Le Duc, a fellow I had
known in college, who had drifted on the stage and was rather up against
it, married the daughter, Elizabeth Bigelow. They were all poor--Mrs.
Bigelow (or Mrs. Craig, as she is now known) was really in want--and
finally Le Duc got the letters from her and went out one evening to
Evanston to demand money from Bigelow. Instead of giving it to him,
Bigelow bought him off by offering him a position as the nominal head of
the corner he was contemplating on the Board. Le Duc accepted, kept the
letters, and cast off Mrs. Craig, who is now living here in Wauchung
with her father. Just before I saw you he told me himself that Bigelow
was the man behind him in his operations. That's the story.”
“Well--well,” observed Corrigan, with a distressed expression.
“And in telling it to you, I'm assuming that you don't want a Board of
Trade plunger at the head of your combination.”
“No, no, of course we don't. Now, Mr. Halloran, what is it exactly that
you have to suggest?”
“Say to Mr. Bigelow at your meeting that you have been told that he is
behind the corner and request an explanation.”
“Yes?”
“If he can explain, well and good. You can refer the whole matter to me.
But if he can't--there you are.”
Corrigan pondered. “That seems fair. I'll talk it over with my father.
I'm much obliged to you, anyhow.”
“Not at all.”
A reaction had followed the fire and the long strain leading up to it.
They all felt it. Crosman, wearied by the comparative idleness that was
forced upon him, was irritable and inclined to chafe against the steady
disapproval of Mrs. Higginson. Halloran was plunged in gloom most of the
time. And to add to the depression Captain Craig decided to give up his
post.
“You see, Mr. Halloran,” he said, in speaking of it, “you maybe wouldn't
think to look at me that I'm a great-grandfather, but I've known it by
my feelings since the fire. I didn't stand it very well--the running and
the wet and all; and my eyes have been bothering me, too. Jennie and me,
we've been talking it over, and she thinks I ought to just quit now, and
look after the garden, and take it kind of easy. There's no room for us
old fellows now, anyhow. A man had better make up his mind to it before
he gets crowded out. I've saved a little something--enough to live on,
and I've got my place, and I guess that's enough for anybody.”
“You're mistaken, Captain. There's not a better man on the Lakes, and
I'm glad to tell you so. The _Number One_ is yours as long as you'll
keep her.”
There were tears in the Captain's eyes. “That's all right--I'm obliged
to you. But I guess it's time to quit now while we're shut down and you
have a good chance to look around for somebody else. There's only one
thing that's been bothering me. Do you think you're going to have a
place for George?”
“I'm sure of it. He's going to make a good man before he gets through
with it.”
“I'm glad you think so. I must tell Jennie--it'll please her. And
say--here's a little something--George says he's owed you three-fifty
for a long while. He's managed to save it up now, and he wanted me to
hand it to you.”
Halloran had to think. “Oh, that--that's nothing--I couldn't take it.”
“If you don't mind--I think you'd better. And I--I want to say, Mr.
Halloran, before I quit you, that it's been a great thing for Mr.
Higginson to have you here. I guess there ain't no doubt you've saved
his business for him.”
This brought the gloom back to the Manager's face. He shook his head.
“That's all right now--I've watched the business some. It's your nerve
and grit----”
“Captain,” Halloran broke in bitterly, “I------”
“I guess I know what you mean. You've been carrying a load that would
have broke most men, and now you're sort of unstrung.”
Halloran shook his head again. “Damn the load.” He looked around the
office. Crosman was out; the door was shut. “Captain, I've lost the girl
I want to marry, for want of nerve.”
“Are you sure?”
He nodded.
“Is she married already?”
“Oh, no; she's gone away.”
“Where?”
“Down East. She didn't leave word.”
“And she ain't married anybody else? Then she ain't lost. Why don't you
go after her?”
“I know. I've thought of that.”
“Thinking 'll never do it. You better go.” Halloran looked up and caught
the Captain's eye. It was beaming with good-will, and it opened to him a
glimpse of a new world. “I believe I will,” he said, holding his breath.
“You can get the eleven o'clock on the Père Marquette and connect with
the Central Limited to-night at Detroit. I'll take care of the fire
department while you're gone.”
“Will you?” He caught at the Captain's hand.
“Sure. You'd better move right along------Lord, yes, there's only
twenty-five minutes, and it'll take you most of that to get home and
pack. I'll call up the livery and have a carriage go right up after
you.”
“Good. Tell Crosman I've been called East.”
“I'll see to everything. Good-by. And say, don't hurry back. Wire your
address, and if we need you we'll let you know. Good-by. Good luck.”
“Thanks. Good-by.” He was gone with a rush, leaving his desk open behind
him.
It so chanced that on this morning when Halloran went plunging off to
seek his fortune, Mr. G. Hyde Bigelow, in an equally uncertain frame of
mind, was fronting _his_. Matters were going awry down in Chicago. The
Board of Trade deal, thanks to the elation and consequent intermeddling
of the paid figurehead, was wobbling dangerously. And at ten o'clock,
while Le Duc was hearing sharp, straight-out words in the mahogany
office, the heads of nearly a score of Michigan lumber firms were
gathering in the city office of the Corrigans, not far away. Hard-headed
old fellows they were, most of them--men with slouch hats and unkempt
beards, men who wore high boots beneath their bagging trousers, and
swore as they talked and breathed. And there they waited for Bigelow, to
ask him where their money had gone and how he proposed to get it back.
At length he came.
“Good-morning, gentlemen,” he observed, as he laid aside his coat and
stick and his silk hat.
“Good-morning,” came from Corrigan, and “How are you?” from one or two
others. One graybeard murmured to a neighbour that he wished he'd a
known in the first place that Bigelow wore a silk hat. “You can't trust
a dude,” he muttered.
“Well, gentlemen,” the managing director began, drawing his report
from his pocket, “I suppose a statement of what we have accomplished
will----”
But young Corrigan couldn't wait. “Excuse me, Mr. Bigelow--and
gentlemen. I think we all know just about where we stand in this
business. And------”
“One moment, Mr. Corrigan. It is usual------”
“What I have to say is not usual, Mr. Bigelow. It's so important that it
takes precedence, to my notion. It concerns our existence as a working
body and our relations with you, sir. And this meeting can't go forward
until it has been laid before you, and you've had the chance to convince
us that what has been reported to me is untrue--that it is, as we should
hope, a malicious lie. Before we think of the question of going forward
or backward as a combination we must settle the question of our mutual
confidence as individuals. A shadow has been cast upon this confidence;
and you know, every man of you--” the graybeards, some startled, others
condescending, looked at him; Bigelow looked at him, too--“You know
that our whole structure must rest on complete confidence in the men we
choose to direct our affairs. If this is removed, we can't do business a
day.”
“I should suggest, Mr. Corrigan, that what you have to say had better
come in the discussion that will follow the reading of the report. It
is the object of this report to answer in advance all inquiries, to tell
every fact about our work.”
“You'd better wait, Harry,” observed a man in boots. “Let him read it.”
“If this were a fact of our work it could wait, sir; but it ain't.”
Corrigan was warming up. “It concerns you, personally, Mr. Bigelow.
We have accepted your guidance so far because we believed you to be a
certain kind of a man, and to stand for certain principles in business.
We want to go on believing this, and we don't want to wait a minute,
now that we're all together here. I've been told that you're the real
operator of the big corner on the Board, that your money is in it, and
that the man named Le Duc has been put up so that your name wouldn't be
known. Is that so?”
Every face in the room changed expression. The blood rushed into
Bigelow's.
“If you've been taking our time to make wild charges against my
character------”
“You aren't answering,” shouted Corrigan. “Tell me that. That's what I
ask.”
“You'd better cool down a bit, Harry.”
“No, Mr. Anderson, I won't cool down.”
“See here,” said Bigelow, his voice rising with the others. “This has
nothing whatever to do with this meeting.”
Corrigan leaned over the table and looked him keenly in the eyes.
“If you mean to withdraw here and now, Mr. Bigelow, to dissolve this
agreement, then I'm with you; it has nothing to do with it. But if you
mean to go on as our managing director, then you've got to answer that
question.”
The other men looked at one another. “I guess that's fair, Mr. Bigelow,”
observed the man in boots. “So long as Harry's sprung this on us we
wouldn't any of us feel quite easy about it.”
“Well, sir, is it true?” asked Corrigan.
“I claim that this is impertinent.”
“Is it true?”
“I decline to answer. My private investments are simply none of your
business.”
Corrigan sank back in his chair and drew a long breath. “There,” he
said, “that's all I wanted to know. I think you'll agree with me,
gentlemen, that we can't keep up these relations any longer. Suppose we
hear the report now.”
It was half-past two when the door was opened and a score of heated,
hungry men came out for lunch. Bigelow had recovered and made a strong
fight, but the sentiment was overwhelmingly against him. The managership
had been offered to Corrigan; he had declined and stood out for
dissolution on the ground that during the dozen or fifteen years that
remained before the timber should be all cut out there was room for them
all without any damaging competition. And so before they broke up the
lumber agreement was abrogated. And in a few days, as soon as matters
could be settled, the lumber world would know it.
Eastward sped Halloran, on to the Hudson, on up the crooked mountain
railroad to the junction village, on up the wagon road behind a team
of crawling white horses; reaching at last the house perched on the
mountainside, lost in billows of autumn flame. Yes, Miss Davies was
still there. The wife of the proprietor had seen her shortly before,
walking up the trail behind the house.
He found her standing in a tangle of late blackberries, hatless, her
sleeves rolled to the elbow, reaching up to break off a crimson maple
branch. She heard him crashing through brake and bramble, and turned. He
did not see that she changed colour, she was so browned by the mountain
sun--but she was startled. She did not move, but stood, holding the
branch and looking at him without a word.
“How do you do?” he said, shaking hands. “Hardly expected to see me, did
you?”
“No. This is a surprise. When did you get here?”
“Just now.”
“Well, you're just in time to walk back with me.”
He was disappointed. “Don't go right down. I came because they told me
you were here, and now it would be too bad not to see you.”
“I'm going to play tennis, and there's only an hour before dark. Here,
you may carry these branches. Aren't they beautiful? You walk ahead so I
can look at them.”
There was no other way; the trail was narrow, and with the great bundle
of branches in his arms he had all he could do to pick his way down the
rocky path. Near the house they were met by a big young man in flannels,
carrying tennis rackets. He looked curiously at Halloran, and passing
him, walked with Miss Davies.
“Mr. Halloran,” she said, “Mr. Green.”
Mr. Green bowed and said, “How are you?” with an eastern drawl. And that
was the last Halloran saw of her until supper time. He might have sat
on the veranda and watched the game, but he did not; instead, he walked
down to the road, and in the same plunging mood that had brought him
East he went swinging up the valley. The bold splashes of crimson and
yellow and golden brown on the long slopes, brought sharply out by the
somber pines; the fringe of Queen Anne's lace along the road, and the
masses of goldenrod and mint; the hum of millions of bees; the tumbling
brook a rod away, with its pebbly ripples and dark pools; these he
hardly saw. Even the Wittenberg, standing rugged against the sky, its
crown of balsams now a trembling, luminous purple under the shafts of
the setting sun, could not move him.
After supper, by some managing, he caught her alone in the hall. “Come,”
he said, “let's go outside.”
She hesitated, but yielded. “I can't stay out but a minute. It's too
cold.”
“Get a wrap or something. If you bundle up we could sit awhile. It's
stuffy in there.”
“Oh, no, I can't. We're going to play euchre to-night.”
“We----”
“Oh, everybody. That means you, too, of course. Come in and let me
introduce you. The people are jolly, most of them. There are always some
queer ones, you know, at a place like this.”
“But, Margaret, I didn't come to play euchre. I don't want to know these
people. Can't you see? I came on purpose to see you, and to talk to you.
Get your things and take a walk with me. Never mind the euchre.”
“Oh, no, I couldn't do that. The people--it wouldn't look right.”
“What do we care for them?”
“No, I mustn't. We had really better go in.” And in she went, with
Halloran, crestfallen, following.
After an insufferable evening he tried again to see her, and again it
was accomplished only by maneuvering.
“Margaret,” he said, when he had drawn her into the corner of the
emptying room, “tell me what it means. What's the matter?”
She looked at him and slowly shook her head. “Nothing,” she replied;
“nothing at all.”
“Did you get my letters?”
She nodded.
“I didn't know--you didn't answer. Why didn't you write, Margaret?”
No answer.
“Won't you tell me? I've come a long way to ask you.”
“I--why, I just couldn't.”
“Didn't you have anything to say to me?”
“No, I don't believe I did.”
“And have you nothing to say to me now?”
A long, long silence. Then this from Miss Davies:
“Oh, please don't now. It's very late--and I'm tired.”
“But when am I to see you?” he broke out impatiently.
“Oh, there will be plenty of time. But not to-night--please. You aren't
going away before morning.”
“I am here only for a day or so. I--I am down East on--on business.” He
had quailed again. “I just stopped off here.”
“Oh, you just happened to come?”
“No, I meant to come--I had to, I couldn't stay away. It's a long time
since I've seen you, Margaret.
“I know. You called in Evanston, didn't you? Mrs. Bigelow wrote me that
you had taken George. How is he doing?”
“Well. But when can I talk with you--alone somewhere? I can't say
anything when you seem so hurried.”
“Why--to-morrow, perhaps.”
“To-morrow morning?”
“No, not the morning. I'm going to climb the Terrace.”
“Why not drop that and come with me?”
“I can't. I promised Mr. Green. He's getting up a party. You--you might
come along.” He shook his head. There was another pause. “Margaret,” he
said then, “who is Mr. Green?”
“He's a Boston man.”
“Is he--is he----?”
Some one was looking for Miss Davies. “She's in the card-room, I think,”
said a voice.
“Here I am. I'll be there directly.”
“Wait, Margaret. Do you plan to get back for lunch?”
“Yes--I don't think we're going to take any with us.”
“Then I'll order a carriage for two o'clock, and we'll drive.”
“Well----”
“Of course”--and every word he uttered sounded like “Mr. Green--Mr.
Green”--“of course, if you'd rather not------”
“Oh, no--thank you very much. I'd enjoy going. At two, did you say?”
She was gone; and Halloran went outside and paced the veranda, alone
with a cigar. His regular footfall sounded for a long time--during two
cigars, in fact; and the thoughts he finally carried to bed with him
were not the sort to put him into a condition for the diplomacy the
morrow was to demand. In the morning, long before daylight he was up and
dressed. He breakfasted late to avoid the climbing party, and from his
window he watched them start up the road. He saw Green take Margaret's
jacket and tie the sleeves through his belt. An annoying fellow he
was with his easy manners, his faultless clothes, his calm reserve. He
grated on Halloran; he reminded him of his own blunt western way; he
forced him to recall again those rough antecedents of his. And that
Halloran was keen enough to recognize the difference, indefinable as it
seemed, aggravated matters. For an hour or so he sat in the library and
tried to read, but failed. He thought a little fresh air might fix him
up, and he went out for a six-mile tramp up the Panther Kill, through
the ravine where the rock walls shine with moisture, and the trout lie
deep in the pools below the falls, and the trees mat closely to shut out
the day; but this was worse than the book. He came back over a spur of
the Panther Mountain and here he had his first occupation of the day,
scrambling up the ledges, fighting through the brambles, placing his
feet carefully on the treacherous moss-covered rocks; here drawing
himself by a finger grip up a sheer precipice, there elbowing up a
chimney.
He reached the top of the ridge and plunged down through the forest. He
saw a clearing ahead, and, pushing on, found the whole valley spread out
below, the stream splashing and glittering in the sun, the white road
winding out here and there from the shelter of the trees, and all the
tumbling mountain land blazing with colour. To the south towered the
Wittenberg, to the north lay the peaceful slopes of North Dome and Mount
Sheridan. He was knee-deep in fragrant mint, and surrounded by droning
bees. A look, and he was crashing on, covered with thistledown from the
tangle of brush. It was a pleasure to jump the great hemlock logs that
the tanners had left to rot thirty years before. Once a birch of six
inches diameter snapped off short under his hand and gave him a tumble
and a roll down the slope. He got up, shook out his joints and went on
with a laugh, chasing a porcupine that lumbered off and tried to hide
its head under a stone. And when at last he ran out into the upper
meadows behind the house he was no longer thinking of Green.
But at noon the climbing party did not appear in the dining-room. At two
o'clock, when the carriage appeared, there was no sign of them. At three
the horse was still waiting and Halloran had gone back to his cigars.
At half-past three he called the boy and ordered him shortly to take
the horse back to the barn. At four the party, disheveled, flushed with
exercise, laughing merrily together over the little jokes and incidents
of the climb, came wearily up the walk. Halloran stood on the
veranda and watched them as they climbed the steps. Margaret met him
half-defiantly, half-apologetically.
“I'm sorry,” she murmured, as she passed him, the last of the party;
“Mr. Green did take some sandwiches in his pockets. We--we went on about
half way up the Wittenberg. I must change my things now; but if you
still want to go I can be ready in a few minutes.”
“No--I've sent the horse back. You couldn't go now--you need a rest.”
“Well”--with a little toss of her head, “that's just as you like. We can
go to-morrow, perhaps.”
“I think I shall have to go away this afternoon.” Here he was, forcing
her to speak out and urge him; and she had no notion of being forced to
speak.
“Oh, must you go so soon?”
“I think so.”
“That's too bad. You've not much more than got here. You really should
have gone with us; we had a glorious climb. I'm all torn to pieces.”
She put out a shoe that was cut and tom in two or three places. “I never
worked so in my life before.”
Halloran was thawing rapidly; he could not stand there looking at
her and still keep all his resentment. And when she said, with an
embarrassed little laugh, “Well, I simply must go in,” he delayed her:
“Margaret, wait just a minute. Haven't you anything to say to me. It all
rests with you. If you would tell me--to stay----”
He could not get further. She looked at him, then away. “Why--why--if
you------ Of course you know best how much time you have.”
He turned away impatiently, and she hurried into the house, pausing only
to add, “I shall be down in a few minutes.”
But when the few minutes, lengthened to half an hour, had passed, and
she had come down and looked with a curious expression into the parlours
and out about the veranda, Halloran was half a mile away, driving
rapidly toward the railway station in the junction village. And not
until the evening did she know certainly that he had gone.
One Père Marquette train reached Wauchung early in the morning, to
connect with the car-ferry across the lake; and this was the train that
brought Halloran back home. Walking up the street, bag in hand, he met
the Captain, who was getting home from the yards for breakfast. Craig
stopped when he saw him, and waited. They shook hands with only a
greeting, but the Captain's shrewd old eyes were searching Halloran's
face.
“Well, Mr. Halloran, we weren't looking for you quite so soon.”
“I've taken the best part out of a week. I couldn't stay longer than
that. I'll see you after breakfast and go over things. No news?”
“No; everything's lovely. But say, Mr. Halloran, how about it?”
Halloran shook his head and would have hurried on.
“Pshaw, now; it wasn't no, was it?”
“Not exactly.”
“Well, say--then maybe it's all right.”
“It's nothing, Captain--worse than nothing.”
“You don't mean--you ain't telling me you've come back without either no
or yes?”
Halloran made no answer. He simply wanted to get away.
“Mr. Halloran, I didn't think it of you; honest, I didn't. Say, now,” he
reached down and caught hold of the bag, not heeding Halloran's protest,
“let's step back this way. There hasn't a soul seen you--not a soul.”
His eyes swept the street. “Just step along a little quicker. The early
train 'll be pulling out before long, and you can pick up some breakfast
at Reed City. I'd take you home with me--Jennie'd never peep--but I'm
afraid some of the boys might be around when you come out, and anyhow
you'd have to wait till the later train, and when you come to things
like this time's worth saving. I guess prob'ly there's some other fellow
hanging around down there these days and you've gone and given him a
cool two days' start of you--you've just handed it to him. Now you get
right back by the fastest train you can make. There's a good many things
you know a heap more about than I do, but I guess maybe women ain't one
of 'em.”
They reached the station, Halloran walking moodily without a word. At
the edge of the platform he turned. “Captain, do you really think I
ought to do it?”
“My boy, you've got to do it. You ain't going to lie down here, are you?
And that's what it means if you don't. There's your train waiting there.
You get right aboard before anybody shows up to ask questions. Good-by;
good luck to you.”
Halloran got aboard, moody still; pulled up his collar, pulled down his
hat, slid down low in the seat, and fixed his eyes on a worn spot in the
back of the seat ahead. And when the train pulled into Reed City he was
still gazing at the worn spot.
The invigorating autumn air still held in Woodland Valley. Halloran,
finding that the sleepy white horses and their driver were likely to be
delayed in the village, threw his bag under a seat and set out on
foot, following the road up through the notch by the bronze patches of
cornstalks. He caught up a handful of young winter-green and munched it
as he tramped. There was a lift in the air, and he threw open his coat
and walked with a swing.
At the house he asked for Miss Davies and was told that she was in her
room, so he wrote a line in the library and gave it to a maid to take to
her.
She came in a moment.
“Get your things, Margaret,” he said; “let's go outside.”
“But--when did you come?”
“Just now. I walked up. I've been out to Wauchung since I saw you the
other day, but there was no use trying to stay there. You see--what I
said about being down here on business was all a fib--I was afraid to
own up.”
“Afraid,” she stood looking at him, with such a peculiar expression that
he feared another delay.
“Never mind now; I'll tell you all about it when we get out. I want to
walk up to the blackberry patch where I saw you the first day.” She went
without a word for her things, still with that odd, sober expression;
and in a few moments they were walking up the path toward the lower
slopes of the mountain.
“You--you said you had been to Wauchung?” she remarked by way of
breaking the silence.
“Yes. I stayed there about twenty minutes. You see--I can laugh at it
now, but I couldn't then--I've been sort of a fool. When I wrote those
letters and you didn't answer, and then when I went to your house and
found that you'd come down here without a word to me, I was all broken
up, and my nerve just left me. And then finally I did manage to get down
here, and you didn't seem very glad to see me, and I don't doubt
I was jealous of the Green fellow. I had forgotten then that after that
night in Evanston--that when you had once let me know what you let me
know then--you never would change. You see, I know you better than you
think, Margaret. I've seen since that it was my fault--that I've been
expecting you to say things it was my business to say for myself--and
that there couldn't anything but little misunderstandings come between
us after--after that. And--and------”
He paused to look at her. She would have liked a broad hat, a sunbonnet,
anything that would have shielded her face from him, but her little tarn
was merciless, and she could only study the path. Another moment and he
had to fall behind her.
“Well, I guess that's all there is about it, Margaret. I was a fool, but
I'm not a fool any longer. Here we are, where I saw you. Let's sit down
on this log.” She slipped to the ground and deliberately faced away from
him, looking off at the tumbling slopes of Cross Mountain. But he came
around to the other side. “Now, Margaret, I've told you once, and you
know all I could say without my telling you again. I love you: that's
all. I can't go on any longer this way. I can't live without you--I've
tried it--it's no use--so why can't we understand each other right now,
and stop this playing at cross-purposes, and just be happy! You--you're
all that I want in this world, Margaret--everything--everything.” He
was leaning forward, playing nervously with a thorny twig and eagerly
searching her face. “Tell me, Margaret--tell me if you will come right
now into my life and make it worth something. I've been working day and
night for other people--now I want to work for you. I want to see if
I can't make a home for you--if I can't make you happy. When I've been
working the hardest I've wondered, a good many times, what was the use
of it all--what good it would do me if I should succeed, and make a lot
of money and direct a lot of men. There's a passion for money, and
there's a passion for power--I know a good many men that have one or the
other or both of them--but one thing I've learned this year, Margaret,
is that neither could ever fill my life and make it what I want to make
it. Nothing, nobody but you can do that. Money and power mean worse than
nothing to me unless they are means toward making you happy. That's what
I want to do, Margaret, if you'll only give me the chance. Will you?”
There was a long, long time before she could do more than look off
at the cloud-shadows floating up the opposite mountainside. They sat
motionless; Halloran's hand had dropped from the twig; and the wonderful
silence of the mountains wrapped them about. She wondered why he did not
go on; he waited, breathless. She half turned; he caught her hand and
gripped it with a nervous grasp. Her eyes sought the shadows again,
wavered, were drawn, slowly, in spite of herself, to his face. And then
he had her in his arms.
Oh, the glory of the painted mountains, the joy of the world about them!
A hawk circled overhead, flew whistling off and lost himself in the
forest. The squirrels and chipmunks, peering out from tree and rock,
recalled their own young days and whisked away. The bees alone kept them
company, but bee-workers have no time for love-making. And all those two
knew was that the world was young and the world was many-tinted; that
the sky was blue-and-white above; that all, everything, was theirs
forever, in this world and in the world to come.
“Dear girl,” he murmured, with his lips at her ear, “there is no mistake
this time? This is for always?”
Before the words were spoken her arms were around his neck, her lips
were close to his, her heart was beating against his own. “Always,” she
was repeating with him--“always--always!”
CHAPTER VII--Three Announcements
When they reached the house, a little late for dinner, they found a
telegram for Halloran on the mail-rack. Margaret started at the sight of
it. “What is it, John? What does it mean?”
He read it, then looked at it gloomily. “I suppose I ought to be glad,”
he said.
“Is it good news? I never can wait to see what's in a telegram.”
He handed it to her. “I don't know whether you can make anything out of
it. It is good news--it's what I've been hoping for for months. And now
I'm sorry.”
“_Price has risen_” she read. “_Understand that combine is broken.
Crosman_. What does that mean? What price? And who is Crosman?”
“I'll tell you all about it after dinner. I'm going to run up now and
throw my things together. I shall have to take the evening train.”
“Oh--John!”
He could not reply; but with a quick look around the halls he took both
her hands.
“Don't go, John. Why, it's------”
“I know, dear. It hurts--but I must.” And then, afraid of that
unmanageable little imp within him that had a way of taking the reins
now and then, he only managed to add, “I'll pack now so we can talk
after dinner,” and bolted upstairs.
After a hasty dinner he found her waiting with her coat and hat on. “I'm
going to the station with you,” she said. “Mother thinks it will be all
right, with Baker to drive. Now come out and tell me about it.” After
saying which, she herself began, as soon as they were pacing the veranda
arm in arm, on an entirely different subject. “I've talked with mother,
John. I--I suppose I ought to have waited--it was really your place,
wasn't it? But I'm so happy I couldn't wait. And dear old mother was so
surprised--I was excited, I guess, and I laughed a little, and------”
“I wanted to see her anyway, before I go.”
“You can't now, John. She's so tired and stirred up she has gone right
to bed. But--I don't think you'll find her very hard to talk with when
you do see her.”
“Does she think she can give you up?”
They were standing at the end of the veranda, and Margaret was leaning
back with both hands on the railing. She shook her head and looked
mischievously at him. “I don't know but I shall have to be a little
jealous of mother. I couldn't let many people talk about you like she
does.”
Halloran had never seen her in such spirits. It was slowly coming to him
that this was neither of the Margarets he had known in the past. He had
never seen her so well, for one thing; and now, besides, she was happy.
And all the playful tenderness, the mischief, the devotion of her honest
heart were his. Was it a wonder, then, that she captivated him as never
before? That her fancy played about him, and led his wits such a mad,
happy chase that it was she, at the last, who had to tell him that the
carriage was waiting for them and that they really must go! And as they
rolled along toward the village--as the first mile-post gleamed in the
moonlight and slipped away behind them; as the rushing Panther Kill
roared a moment in their ears and then, too, slipped behind; as they
passed the quarry and came slowly in sight of the red and green lights
of the railroad, Halloran's heart failed him. They were on the back seat
of the mountain wagon, deep in the shadow; she was in his arms for the
last time until--when? They were dropping into silence as the parting
drew near.
“Margaret,” he whispered, “I've been thinking--I can't go to-night--it's
no use.”
“No, John, don't go.”
“We'll turn around--we'll go to-morrow night--you and your mother can
start then, too--we'll all go West together. I'll wire Crosman to begin
selling. Yes, we'll drive on to the station, and I'll send the message.”
“I'm afraid, John, I couldn't get mother ready to go to-morrow. You
don't quite understand--it would unsettle her dreadfully to get ready
and go all in a rush like that. She has her mind made up for two weeks
more--and I'm afraid I couldn't shorten it to less than one. Stay a
week; it isn't much. You deserve a vacation. Mr. Crosman won't mind.”
The little imp already had his hands on the reins; but at the sound of
the whistle, far up the Shandaken Valley, Halloran roused. “I don't know
what I'm thinking of, Margaret. They need me there. Good-by; don't say
anything--I'm afraid I'll stay. Good-by.”
“Good--good-by, John. Write to me.” She saw him on the train; she walked
to the end of the platform to wave when his car passed; and then, deep
in the gloom of the night, she walked slowly back to the carriage.
Halloran sent a message on ahead, and Crosman, all excitement, met him
at the station.
“It's all over, Mr. Halloran,” he burst out, as they shook hands. “Mr.
Corrigan's been down here to see you about advancing prices to cover
losses.”
“We don't need to advance prices. We haven't lost anything.”
“Well--he only went back last night. He says he hopes you'll write him.”
“I'll see to it. Does Mr. Higginson know?”
“Only what Mamie could tell him. He wants to see you. I asked the doctor
about it, and he says you can go in if you have some good news for
him; if you haven't, you'd better stay away. I told him I guessed there
wasn't much doubt about that.”
“I'll go over after supper.”
“All right; I'll leave word so's they'll be ready. And say, Mr.
Halloran, there's another thing. I was going to talk to Mrs. Higginson
to-day about--about Mamie and me, but Mamie doesn't want me to. She says
her mother wouldn't listen to a word from me. And we've been talking
it over, and we wondered if you'd be willing to say a word for us.” He
hurried to add: “I know it's sort of a funny thing to ask, but we're
just up a tree. If I could see her father I could manage it, but it's
pretty tough to go on like this and feel all the while that she's down
on me.” Halloran pursed his lips. “It's Mrs. Higginson that you want me
to talk to?”
“Well, no--not since they're going to let you see him. Now don't you do
it, Mr. Halloran, if you'd rather not. I know how------”
“If I see a good chance I'll try to put in a word. You won't mind if I
go in now and wash up?”
“No. Say, it's mighty square of you------”
“Never mind that. I suppose I'll see you this evening?”
After supper Halloran walked around to the Higginson home and was met at
the door by Mamie, blushing and smiling.
“Come in, Mr. Halloran,” she said. “Papa's been impatient to see you.
You can go right up. Mamma asked me to excuse her to you. She isn't
feeling well.”
Mr. Higginson, looking ten years older for his long sickness, was
propped up in an arm chair. He smiled eagerly at the sight of his
manager in the doorway, and held out his hand. “Come in, John,” he said.
“I'm glad to see you. Sit down. You've been having a little vacation,
haven't you?”
[Illustration: 0303]
“Yes--I've been East.”
“I'm glad of it. You deserve it. Now I want you to tell me all about
things.”
Halloran hesitated, looking at the white, wrinkled face and wondering if
there was yet strength behind it to go into the details of the business.
“It's a good deal of a story.”
“But it's ended, isn't it? Mamie's right in what she tells me?”
“Yes, it's about over.”
“And we've won?”
“I guess we have. There isn't any combine now.”
“And Bigelow-----?”
“Bigelow's broken. It was in the paper this morning.”
“Broken,” Mr. Higginson repeated, half dazed. “I didn't think our fight
could break him.”
“We didn't do it all. He's been punctured all around. I guess his Board
of Trade deal hit him the hardest.”
“What's this I've been hearing about this great lot of lumber in the
yards--whose is it? I feel like Rip Van Winkle.”
“It's ours. When the trust cut prices we bought in all we could get.”
“But--but where did you get the money?”
“From the National City.”
“And you're going to sell now?”
“We've begun already. It will just about cover our losses. I understand
Corrigan wants to raise prices a peg or so, but I've been thinking we'll
hold the advantage better if we refuse.”
“You've had a fire, I understand?”
“Yes--didn't amount to much--less than the insurance premium would have
cost us.”
“Did you ever find out how it started?”
“Yes--and no. It was done by a tramp. He claims he was smoking and fell
asleep. We put the screws on him, but couldn't get a word more than
that. They're still holding him, but I've about decided to let him go.
There may be something behind it, of course, but if he won't tell I
don't know who will. I hardly think it would pay us to push it any
further.”
“No, I suppose not, so long as we're well out of it. Are you keeping a
close watch?”
“Yes, I've put on an extra man since the fire.” While he was answering
these eager questions, Halloran had been looking for an opportunity
to open the subject that was uppermost in his mind. Now, dropping his
voice, he began:
“There's one thing, Mr. Higginson---”
But his employer did not hear. “Who was this Le Duc I've been hearing
about?”
“He's Captain Craig's son-in-law. Bigelow put him up as his operator in
corn.” Again his voice lost its assurance. “I have something to tell--”
“Craig's son-in-law. Strange I never heard of him.”
“I didn't put it quite right--Le Duc married his granddaughter. Bigelow
was Craig's son-in-law.”
“Bigelow!”
“Yes--that makes Le Duc Bigelow's son-in-law. You see, the Captain's
daughter has been found in Chicago, and he's brought her back home. She
was divorced from Bigelow a good while back.”
“Divorced from Bigelow!”
It dawned on Halloran that he was stirring the old gentleman's brain
into a muddle, and he stopped.
“I guess we won't go into it now, John--I seem to be a little tired.
It's strange--strange. More seems to have happened in these months than
in all the rest of my life put together. But didn't I interrupt you a
moment ago? What were you going to say?”
Halloran had no more than started, in that same altered voice, than a
dress rustled behind him and Mr. Higginson broke in with: “Come in, my
dear. Here is John Halloran.”
Mrs. Higginson, becomingly pale, a pink-and-white shawl drawn about her
shoulders, came languidly in and took Halloran's hand. “Don't stand,”
she said; “I heard your voice and thought I would come in for a moment.
I am hardly able to get downstairs yet, but I try to walk about a little
on this floor. Doctor Brown fairly orders me to keep very quiet, but I
feel sure that a little exercise is the best thing. How are we ever to
get about if we take no exercise? Don't you feel that draught, dear?
John, would you mind shutting the door? I have to be a little careful
about such things. I'm glad you've brought Mr. H. some good news. Doctor
Brown said it was the one thing that might help him. 'Tell Mr. Halloran
to come if he brings good news,' he said. 'If he doesn't, he'd better
stay away.' Well, we've had a pretty serious time of it here, haven't
we? I told Mr. H. he simply must get well--for what was to become of
Mamie and me if he didn't. We haven't seen much of you lately, John. Of
course, things have been rather broken up with my sickness, and Mr.
H.'s., but I am sure Mamie would have been glad to see you any time.”
“John has been away,” said Mr. Higginson.
There was a pause, and Halloran, seeing his opportunity, girded up his
courage and plunged forward. “It's been a pretty important trip to me,”
he began. This was clumsy, but it was go ahead or nothing with him
now, and he went ahead. “Since I went away--I went down to see
Margaret Davies, of Evanston; she has been staying down there, in the
mountains--and she has promised to be my wife.”
The words were out. Mr. Higginson sat up straight in his chair and
stared at him. Mrs. Higginson leaned back and stared. Halloran could
only turn red. Finally, Mrs. Higginson, the first to recover, repeated
the name, “Margaret Davies! I've never heard any Evanston people speak
of her. Has her family lived there long?”
“Yes, all her life”
“Um--it's not a wealthy family, I suppose?”
“I guess so. They have a fine old place on the Ridge.”
Again Mrs. Higginson's tongue failed her, and she rose to go. “I hope
you won't mind if I tell Mamie, Mr. Halloran. She will be interested.”
“Oh, no; not at all. It's not a secret.”
“We are all very glad to hear it. It's rather a sudden affair, isn't
it?”
“Oh, dear, no. It's years old.”
“Years--indeed? I hope you'll do some very careful thinking. It is
asking a good deal of a woman to bring her here to Wauchung--a city
woman especially, with culture and refined tastes. I hope you aren't
making a mistake. It would be such a pity for her life to turn out
unhappily.” She went out; and Halloran, after fidgeting a moment, began
to think that the best thing he could do would be to go, too. But Mr.
Higginson checked him. “Sit down, John; sit down. So you're going to
be married? Well, I'm glad to hear it. Let me shake hands with you.”
Halloran was nervous and he rose again.
“Wait a minute; I haven't said what I wanted to see you about yet.
There's a matter that's been in my mind a good deal while I've been
lying here, and I guess this is a good time to bring it up. I jotted
down some memoranda this morning--there on the table, those folded
papers. I wish you'd take them with you and look them over. I want your
opinion on them before we do anything about it.”
Halloran took the papers, opened the first one, and ran his eye over it.
At the first words he started, flushed, muttered something, and looked
up, speechless with gratitude. “Why--why------”
“That's all right,” Mr. Higginson interrupted. “Never mind giving your
decision now. Go home and think it over. If you see anything about it
that you think could be improved, talk it over with me the next time you
come around and I guess we won't make much difficulty over it. Higginson
& Halloran doesn't look quite so well as Higginson & Co. A shorter name
would look better. But we never did go in much for looks.”
“I don't need to think over this, Mr. Higginson.”
“Take it along; take it along. I guess I've talked enough for this
afternoon. I'm a little tired.”
There was nothing to do now but to go. As he passed down the stairs he
saw Crosman and Mamie standing anxiously in the parlour doorway.
“Did they say anything about our coming up?” said Crosman.
Halloran stopped short. “By Jove!” he said; and then: “Say, I'm sorry,
but I clean forgot you. It comes to the same thing, anyhow; I never
could have said a word. I guess it's up to you.”
He stood aside. Mamie looked at Crosman.
“Well, say, Mamie, where is she?”
“In her room, I guess.”
“You go up ahead, Mamie, and find out if I can see her.”
So with a dejected expression, Mamie piloting him, Crosman started up
the stairs just as Halloran left the house.
CHAPTER VIII--Leveling Down
Margaret and Halloran were married in the late spring. For their
honeymoon they went back to the mountains at the time when the apple
buds were bursting into billows of pink and white in hillside orchards.
The song-sparrows and robins sang for them as they drove up from the
village; the brook, boisterous with a burden drained from higher slopes
where the snow still lingered under northern ledges, brawled almost at
the carriage wheels; millions of violets dotted the roadside, and white
strawberry blossoms and the first daisies, and forget-me-nots that had
escaped from some old-time garden. The smell of spring was in the air,
the intoxicating sense of youth and health and happiness. And as they
rolled comfortably along behind the jogging white horses they could only
look at each other and draw in deep breaths of the fragrant, buoyant
air, and be glad.
Their first climb was up to the blackberry patch, under the maples. As
they sat there on a well-remembered log, and looked out on the green
wonder of the opposite slope, where the cloud-shadows were mounting
as on that day of the autumn before, Margaret slipped her hand into
Halloran's. “Listen,” she said.
Far back in the hollow of the mountain a winter wren was caroling,
welcoming them back to the highlands with all the melody in his little
throat. His neighbours took it up, and piped their shrillest; and all
along the slope chirped the dainty babel of welcome.
“John,” she murmured.
“Yes, Margaret.”
“They can't send you any telegrams now?”
“It wouldn't do them any good if they did. I've ordered the station
agent to hold all messages until I call for them, and I'm not going to
call.”
She smiled; and again they were silent, listening to the merry strains
behind them and to the far-off sounds from the valley, and watching the
men at work in the fields below.
We have followed them thus far, but now, in telling an odd incident of
this little journey, we take leave. One evening, at supper, some active
bodies at the house busied themselves in getting up an expedition to the
village. There was to be a “show” in the village hall. These things were
said to be great fun, and Margaret and Halloran were in the first wagon
that went down. A band of broken-down actors, the latest coon songs, an
elaborate silver table set to be raffled off--a number being given
with each and every ticket sold to the performance--these were the
attractions. It was hinted that the same silver set would probably
figure again in other years; for the raffle included all the towns along
the railroad, and the winning ticket seemed always to be held in some
other town. But the natives of the mountains were always glad to be
swindled, and silverware was not to be resisted. Small farmers, who
build shingled bay windows and buy cabinet organs before the rear of the
house is boarded up, fall an easy prey to these allurements. So the hall
was crowded, and the party found some difficulty in getting seats.
At length the cracked piano began to jingle.. The janitor lighted the
lamps that served for footlights, and a voice, somewhere behind the
curtain, was heard singing.
The giggling, chatting audience was hushed. The kerosene lamps smoked
and flickered unheeded. A village aristocrat, daughter of the general
storekeeper, with her gum-chewing escort, sat next to Halloran,
rapt with expectancy. The voice swelled out louder and louder, as it
approached the refrain. Margaret, finding the audience more odorous and
less picturesque than she had looked for, turned to suggest an early
departure, and was surprised to see her husband leaning forward, his
hands on the back of the chair in front, his eyes fixed on the stage.
There were signs that the curtain was to be drawn; and as the voice
swung into the refrain, “For Golden-haired Mary, dee-doodle-dee-fairy,
dee-iddle-dee airy, ta-raddle-my-own,” the singer was disclosed, a
long-legged black-face comedian, in a gorgeous, if shabby, cake-walk
costume. Halloran muttered, “Well, I'm blest!”
“What is it, John?” she whispered.
“Don't you know him? It's Apples!”
Sure enough, Le Duc, after a vain chase for the gold that glitters above
the corn-pit on the Board of Trade, had returned to the path that leads
to Shakespeare. The Bard was not quite within hail, to be sure, for
Apples had lost his place in the line and must begin farther back than
ever, but the road was still there. As they watched and listened, a
woman, also in black-face, joined the comedian; and they recognized his
wife.
The next morning Halloran walked to the village after breakfast for a
talk with Le Duc, but the “company” had left by an early train. “I don't
know,” he said to Margaret when they talked it over later in the day;
“there's not much use being sorry for them. They'd have landed on this
level sooner or later anyhow--nothing could stop them. And he can't do
anything like the harm with his silver-set swindle that he could have if
Bigelow had succeeded in putting his deal through.”
“I'm a little sorry for Lizzie, though. I used to think she might amount
to something. You see, John, I can't quite forget that if it hadn't been
for her and George we might not--maybe we wouldn't have come to know
each other so well.” They were walking in the orchard. As she spoke she
picked a cluster of apple blossoms and turned to pin them on his coat.
“Perhaps not,” he said, looking down at her and smiling, “but I don't
know. Maybe we'd have landed on this level, too, no matter how we
started. I like to think so.”
She looked up with one of the quick, shy glances he was learning to
expect; and as quickly looking down again, and lowering her head over
the blossoms, she murmured, “So do I.”
THE END