A BUBBLE BURSTS
ALLAN was on his feet, his eyes shining.
“That’s great!” he said. “That’s great.”
Mr. Round motioned him to sit down again.
“It isn’t altogether on high moral grounds I’m deciding this way,” he
said. “It’s because I don’t think a strike, starting from such a fool
cause, will hurt us. I think it will help us. We need public sympathy
and public confidence. The public has been weaned away from us by a lot
of muck-rakers. Here’s a chance to get it back. And now, Ed,” he added,
“you’ve got to make a grand-stand play.”
“All right,” agreed Mr. Schofield. “What is it?”
“You’ve got to bribe Nixon.”
“Bribe Nixon?”
“And show him up.”
A light broke over Mr. Schofield’s face.
“Oh!” he said. “I see.”
“You and I will talk it over,” said Mr. Round. “But it’s lunch time,” he
added, looking at his watch. “Of course you’re coming with me.”
So the three went out to lunch together, and for a time forgot the cares
of railroading. Only once was the road referred to.
“I’ve got to see Mr. Heywood before I go back,” Mr. Schofield remarked.
“There’s one or two little matters I want to take up with him.”
Mr. Round’s face darkened.
“You won’t see him to-day,” he said.
“Why not?” questioned Mr. Schofield.
“The fact of the matter is,” said Mr. Round, after a moment’s
hesitation, “Heywood hasn’t been at his office for three days.”
“Hum!” said Mr. Schofield, his face darkening too. “Has it got that bad?
I’d heard stories, of course, but I’d hoped they were exaggerated.”
“He’s been getting worse and worse, and I don’t believe he’ll hold his
job much longer. He may be let down easy, because he’s been a good
man—and he’d be a good man yet if he could let drink alone. But it’s
getting more and more hold on him all the time. He knows it and is
ashamed of it, but he don’t seem to have strength enough to break away
from it. It’s too bad.”
“Yes, it is,” agreed Mr. Schofield. “What I hate about it most is the
humiliation his daughter must suffer. I don’t know whether you knew her
or not—Betty Heywood—but she was a mighty nice girl.”
“No, I didn’t know her,” said Mr. Round. “But she seems to have saved
herself. I heard the other day that she was going to get married.”
Allan’s heart bounded suddenly, and his face reddened, but neither of
his companions noticed his agitation.
“That’s a good thing,” said Mr. Schofield. “Who’s the man?”
“I don’t remember his name,” answered Mr. Round. “I heard some of the
boys talking about it the other day—of course there may be nothing in
it.”
“Well, I hope it’s so,” remarked the other. “It would solve a mighty
unpleasant situation. Now, I’m going to turn you loose for the
afternoon, Allan,” he added. “Meet me in time to catch Number Two and
we’ll have dinner together on the diner.”
“Very well, sir,” said Allan, welcoming the opportunity to be alone with
his thoughts. “I’ll be there.”
He walked slowly up the street, seeing nothing of the busy life about
him, turning over and over in his mind the bit of gossip which Mr. Round
had repeated. Could it be true, he wondered. Suppose it were, what would
it mean to him? It had been years since he had seen Betty Heywood; it
was very probable that the girl whose image lived in his heart was very
different from the reality. At any rate, it was absurd to suppose that
she would have anything more than the faintest of remembrances of the
boy she had befriended in years gone by.
Shaking such thoughts away, at last, he considered for a moment where he
should spend the afternoon. He decided in favour of the Art Museum, and
boarding a car, started on the long, beautiful ride to Eden Park. The
route carried him up one of the long inclines, which are a unique
feature of Cincinnati’s street railway system. The city proper is built
in the valley along the river, and is surrounded by hills two or three
hundred feet in height, where the most exclusive residence sections are.
These are reached by inclines, where the cars are hoisted and lowered by
means of massive wire cables.
As the car rose slowly up the incline, Cincinnati lay spread below him,
a charming city, marred only by the haze of coal smoke which a
too-indulgent city government made little effort to suppress. Half an
hour later, he was at his destination and entered the museum, whose
collection of paintings, statuary and other works of art is one of the
most famous in the middle west. He spent a most enjoyable hour wandering
from room to room, and was about ready to go, when, in one of the far
galleries, he noticed a woman at work before an easel, and, strolling
nearer, saw that she was making a copy of one of the larger paintings.
He was about to turn away, fearing that he was intruding, when she
glanced up and saw him.
“Why, Allan West,” she cried, and started up, hand outstretched, and he
saw that it was Betty
Heywood. “It _is_ Allan West, isn’t it?” she asked, as he stood for an
instant chained to the spot.
“It certainly is,” he answered, clasping the welcoming hand. “But I
didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Nor I to see you,” she broke in. “What has a train dispatcher to do
with picture galleries?”
“Mighty little, I’m sorry to say. I didn’t know you were an artist!”
“I’m not,” she said, laughing merrily. “I’m only a copyist. What do you
think of it?” she added, with a gesture toward the picture on the easel.
Allan gazed at it with unfeigned admiration, though to a more critical
eye, its shortcomings would have been evident enough.
“It’s fine,” he said. “It’s splendid! Where did you learn how?”
Again she laughed, though her cheeks flushed a little at his praise.
“I’ve been working at it for a long time,” she said. “But don’t deceive
yourself—it isn’t a work of art—it’s merely a pot-boiler.”
“A what?”
“A pot-boiler—designed, in other words, not for fame, but to furnish
food and raiment. But, come,” she added, “I’ve worked enough for one day
and I need some fresh air. Will you come along?”
“I certainly will!” he said, his face lighting, and he watched her while
she stowed her paints away in a box, giving them, together with the
easel and the unfinished painting, into the care of one of the
attendants.
“Now wait till I get my hat and coat,” she said, “and off we go.”
She was back in a few moments, her piquant face set off by a most
becoming toque, and her painting apron replaced by a long wrap.
“All right,” she said, and a moment later they were walking down the
steps together.
Not till then did he have an opportunity to look at her, and he was
struck with a sudden sense of strangeness. This was not the Betty
Heywood he had known, but a woman brighter, more dashing, more
self-assured. He was surprised, in a way, to find that there was no
shadow of her father’s failure on her. He had expected to find her
labouring with that sorrow, or at least showing visible traces of it,
and he wondered how she had escaped so completely.
She glanced at him once or twice, as they turned together along one of
the paths of the park, and opened her lips to speak, but closed them
again, as though hesitating how to begin.
“You’re still at Wadsworth?” she asked, at last.
“Oh, yes.”
“In the dispatchers’ office?”
“Chief dispatcher now,” he said.
“Are you?” she said. “Isn’t that fine! But I knew you’d work your way
right up. Do you know, you’ve developed into just the sort of man that
you were a boy.”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
“Oh, no indeed. Very few people do. Most of us grow crooked—there’s
always something in the path that throws us out of line. Sometimes it
throws us up and sometimes it throws us down, but you’ve grown right
straight ahead. Now I can tell by the way you look at me that I’m not at
all the kind of woman you expected I would be.”
He was a little disconcerted at this frankness.
“No,” he said, at last, “you’re right there. I can’t quite make you
out.”
“I’ve had obstacles, you see,” she said, her face clouding for an
instant. “I’ve grown crooked.”
“I heard of your mother’s death,” he said, gently. “I shall never forget
her, though I met her only once.”
“Yes—dear mother. She thought a great deal of you. So did father.”
“Your father was very kind to me,” he said.
She looked quickly into his face.
“Things have not been well with us,” she said, with a little catch in
her voice. “I had to go to work. I found I had some little artistic
talent, and I turned it to account. And I’ve made a lot of good friends
here.”
She looked at him again.
“You’ve heard that I’m going to be married?” she asked, suddenly.
“Yes,” he answered, as evenly as he could. “Mr. Round said something
about it to-day.”
“It’s going to be next month. His name’s Knowlton—Robert Underwood
Knowlton—he’s a lawyer, and the dearest fellow that ever was. I wish you
could meet him. I know you’d like him,” she went on, rapidly. Then she
stopped suddenly and looked at him.
“See here, Allan,” she said, her hand on his arm. “Don’t look like that.
It’s not I you’re in love with—you’re not in love with anybody. You
never have been with me. You happened to meet me when you were lonely,
and you gave me a little niche in your heart. But you don’t love
me—that’s not what love is. I’m not at all the kind of woman you
imagined—you’ve seen that already. Now you mustn’t be foolish—shake
hands, like a brother.”
He looked down into her face, and suddenly it seemed as though a veil
were swept away, and he saw that she was right. It wasn’t love he felt
for her—it was only affection. Her eyes, watching him anxiously,
brightened as she saw the change in his face.
“You’re the dearest girl that ever was,” he said, clasping her hand,
“and the bravest. I’m not sure that I’m not falling in love with you
now.”
“No, you’re not!” she cried, patting him on the arm. “I knew I was
right!” she added, her face beaming. “You’ve made me so happy—for I
couldn’t help worrying a little, sometimes. Will you come to the
wedding, if I ask you?”
“Ask me and see,” he retorted, laughing.
“Miss Elizabeth Heywood requests the favour of Mr. Allan West’s
attendance at her wedding, February 16th, at two o’clock P. M. R. S. V.
P.”
“Mr. Allan West acknowledges the receipt of Miss Heywood’s kind
invitation and accepts with pleasure.”
“Good!” she cried, clapping her hands. “Then you’ll meet Bob and you’ll
see what a lucky girl I am.”
“I think I’ll be more apt to see what a lucky fellow he is.”
“Well, we’re both lucky, and we’re going to be very, very happy.”
“I hope you will,” he said, heartily.
“Thank you, Allan; I know you do. And now here comes my car. Stop it for
me. Good-bye,” she added, as the car came to a stop opposite them. “And
I can’t tell you how glad I am I met you this afternoon. Good-bye!”
She waved her hand to him from the platform, and was gone.
He stood for a moment, watching the car, then turned slowly back toward
the museum. He, also, was glad that he had met Betty Heywood—glad that
she had been brave enough and clear-sighted enough to set him right with
her and with the world.
And yet he realized dimly that there was suddenly a place vacant in his
heart.
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