_Mr. ’Gene Carey finds a right-hand man for the Altonia, and Glen
Darrow joins the noble army of labor._
IF Dr. Darrow, in the celestial realms of whose actuality he had
expressed a deathbed doubt, was cognizant of terrestrial affairs he
must have grinned triumphantly and complacently over Luke Mander’s
swift fulfillment of his prophesies. His progress was little short of
being marvelous. He had galloped through business college at a speed
which broke all their comfortable records, and his rapid rise at the
mill was a never-ending wonder to his fellow workers. He was silent,
tireless; he was the first one at work in the morning and the last one
to leave at night; work was an obsession with him, a rapture and a dear
delight.
“By gad,” ejaculated Mr. ’Gene Carey to his superintendent, “you know
that boy _likes_ to _work_! He does, by the eternal! And you listen to
me, Ben, I want him pushed on, fast as he can go!”
The middle-aged and work-weary superintendent was nothing loath. The
genial and gentle old owner knew very little more about the actual
working of his mill than his daughter did, far away in her Northern
finishing school, and Ben Birdsall, a dour and conscientious employee,
carried all the load. He was an industrious, slow-minded, well-meaning
creature, and after the death of the old superintendent and his own
promotion from foreman he had felt decidedly out of his depths.
“I haven’t got the head fo’ it, suh, an’ that’s the Lawd’s truth,” he
said earnestly, protesting his advancement. “I’m a willing worker, suh,
yo’ know that; I’m free to admit it fo’ myself, but I’m no office man,
and that gal that’s markin’ up our books, suh, she’s a little worse’n
what I am!”
Mr. Carey put a kind hand on his shoulder. “Now, now, Ben, you just
quit running yourself down! You suit me! I reckon I know honesty and
ability when I see ’em. You’ve been with us----”
“Oh, I know all that, suh,” old Ben shook his head. “I’m honest, and I
can boss the hands, but I’m no office man. Now, if you was to get rid
of Miss Minnie----”
“But what do you reckon you’d find for her to _do_, Ben?” the owner
worried.
“Lawd, I wasn’t fixing to find her another job, suh! I was just aiming
to get her out of this one, and get that boy Luke _in_!”
“I could give her a mighty nice letter, of course,” Mr. Carey mused.
“Luke, did you say? Why, Ben, do you reckon that boy could do our
books, young as he is, and green?”
“He’s young, but he’s not green,” the superintendent contested. “Why,
that feller handles figgers as easy as you’n me handles a knife and
fork! And he’s right from business college, you might say--two--three
years--right hot off the griddle, and you know in time there never was
a harder worker.”
Mr. Carey, a little dazed at the suddenness of it, agreed with the
proviso that Miss Minnie be provided for, and the thing worked out for
Luke Manders as swiftly and smoothly as if Dr. Darrow had motivated it
by his wishes, or the ancient granddam who had seen in him “a young-un
with a headpiece, smartest of ary Manders ever heerd tell of.” Miss
Minnie was comfortably placed in a needlework shop and the young
mountaineer climbed up on her stool in the dim and breathless office
of the Altonia Mill, and dived deep into the sea of difficulties and
discrepancies which she had abandoned to him.
“By gad, Luke,” the owner wiped his steaming forehead, “I never dreamed
poor Minnie was getting us into such a snarl! Of course, I knew she was
no lightning striker, but her father was my father’s third cousin, and
when he died and left her without a penny, why I naturally had to keep
an eye on her--blood’s thicker than water-- But, good Lord, I believe
it’d have been cheaper to board her at the hotel and hire a man here!”
“I reckon so, sir,” Luke Manders agreed with him gravely. Gravely was
the word for Luke Manders. He talked gravely, and walked gravely, and
worked gravely, and it was to be seen that he thought gravely. There
was no jest and youthful jollity in the young man from the mountains.
He was as silent as one of the tall trees he had left behind him, and
as strong, yet with always the sense of leashed action--action and
power. Mr. ’Gene Carey and old Ben Birdsall felt it and leaned on it,
and Miss Ada Tenafee felt it and feared it, and Glen Darrow felt it and
rejoiced and exulted.
The kindly, rather innocent and futile old owner of the Altonia leaned
on him pathetically, but the youth never overstepped; he never presumed
for an instant on the man’s amiable familiarity; he maintained the
delicate balance of their relationship.
He listened gravely when his employer told him things he already knew,
and better than he did.
“I’m going to tell you something that’ll surprise you, Luke,” he
said confidently. “I’m no business man. I’ve run the Altonia Mill,
man and boy, most of my life, but that’s just because it was sort of
wished on me by my father. I never liked it; I never--in a way, I
mean--understood it; during my father’s lifetime, I depended on him,
and after he left us, why, I just counted on my partner.”
“Yes, sir,” Luke listened respectfully.
“My partner, Mr. Oliver Parker, of Pasadena, you know.”
“Yes, sir.” Luke Manders said _sir_ now, very handily, but it carried
no servility with it.
“A fine man, Mr. Parker; mighty fine man! Great pity going as early as
he did. _I_ miss him, I can tell you! Only came on here once or twice
a year, but when he did, well, things _moved_! Never saw anybody to
equal him. Often wonder,” he mused, “whether that son of his--young
Peter--has his father’s brains and his energy. Hope so, the Lord knows,
now that _he’s_ my partner!” He chuckled. “Reckon he’s not worrying
much about the old Altonia! Typical millionaire’s son, from all I hear.
_This_ was just a drop in the bucket for Parker, of course. He dipped
into everything--cotton, oil, mines--and pulled out a plum every time.
But I reckon there won’t be many plums for the boy, way poor Minnie let
things go, and old Ben kind of slowing down.”
“Well, we aim to pull things up, sir,” Luke Manders promised quietly.
“I hope to the Lord we can,” Mr. ’Gene Carey said fervently. “I
certainly do hope to the Lord we can! I’ve got a young lady daughter
coming on, and I want to do handsomely by her. I certainly do hope to
the Lord we can make the old mill speed up, Luke.”
“That’s what we’re aiming to do, sir,” his new bookkeeper pledged
again, gravely, and the senior partner went away heartened.
The next day he listened cordially to the youth’s suggestion that they
make a place for Dr. Darrow’s daughter in the mill.
“She has finished business college, sir, and she will be a good worker.
I can promise that.”
“But--look here, Luke, didn’t Dr. Darrow leave her provided for? Why,
good land, he was the busiest man in town--always saw that old buggy of
his rattling ’round!”
“I reckon he never crowded people to pay their bills,” young Manders
offered. “She has that house, and a few hundred dollars in the bank,
and that’s all.”
Mr. ’Gene Carey rumpled his abundant gray hair. “Shame, that’s what it
is--man who spent his life taking care of folks-- Well, that’s the way
it goes, Luke! Certainly, we’ll make a place for her! Want her in here
with you?”
Luke Mander’s dark gaze did not waver. “I was figuring to have her in
here at first, sir, till we saw just where we could use her best.”
“Well, you go ahead and hire her, Luke,” the old gentleman was hearty.
“You go right ahead and hire her, and if there isn’t anything she can
do, why you make up something! Nice girl like that, pretty girl, too,
seems to me I remember--red hair?”
“Yes, sir,” said Luke steadily.
“All right, then, I’ll leave it to you, Luke!” He went away well
pleased with himself. It would be, no doubt, another case of poor
Minnie, but with Luke at the books they could afford a passenger.
He found, however, directly Glen Darrow was installed at the Altonia,
that it was not in the very least another case of poor Minnie. The
girl was as silent as young Manders, almost as efficient, and with
an equally hearty appetite for work. It worried the old gentleman a
little; here was a girl who was his daughter’s sort--hadn’t she gone to
Miss Josephine’s when they were little tads? Certainly she had! Well,
then!--turned out into the cold world to earn her bread and butter!
How’d he feel if it was his Nancy, eh? And a pretty piece, too, with
that blaze of red hair round her face and those eyes and that skin,
by gad! But when all was said and done, Glen Darrow seemed to be the
kind of girl who could look out for herself. Pleasant enough, or at
least civil enough, but--well, edgy. The doctor had been a crusty old
customer; girl was a chip of the old block.
It was a matter of satisfaction to Mr. ’Gene Carey that his kinswoman
had gone to live with her within the first year of her orphanhood; Ada
Tenafee, he felt as did his Cousin Amos, the head of the clan, was a
fine woman, a fine, high-spirited woman, all Tenafee, and a fatherless,
motherless girl could not be more wisely and genteelly guarded and
guided.
It was, indeed, a most excellent arrangement for the woman as well as
the girl: Miss Ada punctiliously paid her board, and--in the first week
of her occupancy--sent the yellow slattern Emma-_leen_ packing and
installed a decent black woman in her place. The hideous house became
clean and orderly again, meals were well cooked and served, and the
very presence of a Tenafee in a Darrow house had a soothing--almost
a sanctifying effect. Glen, feeling the pressure of her father’s
prejudice, had faithfully tried half a dozen boarders before she
asked Miss Ada to live with her--school-teachers, clerks in stores, a
librarian--but without satisfaction, and her conscience was clear. She
let herself enjoy the gentleness which the faded spinster brought with
her, and the increased serenity of daily living, but she held herself
sternly faithful to her father’s codes. The thing had seemed to arrange
itself; “Miz-_za_da” was to come to her; they were predestined to live
together.
And she had exactly the same feeling with regard to her position in
the mill. Sensing her one woman friend’s antagonism to Luke, in spite
of her careful tact, she tried honestly to settle herself in other
situations--a book shop, the little city’s one big department store,
a tea room--but the hours, the work, the pay, the surroundings, left
something always to be desired, and when Luke told her Mr. Carey would
make a place for her at the mill she went gladly. That, too, apparently
had been decided for her; she and Luke Manders were to work together.
Her father, she felt sure, would be glad to have her there, among his
mill people, studying them, befriending them, discovering ways to
better conditions.
As for the association with Luke, she approached it steadily, but
with a tiny inward quiver of curiosity. Luke had been wonderful in
his attitude since Dr. Darrow’s death; never by look or word had
he betrayed his knowledge of her father’s dying wish, or urged her
compliance. He came seldom, especially after Miss Ada’s establishment
as duenna, and when he came he said little, but there was hardly a
waking hour when the girl was not aware of him--his bold beauty, his
eagle gaze, his poise, the strength and depth of his silence. “Wait
till you’re nineteen ... twenty ...” the doctor had said, “and no
foolishness in the meantime ... no hand-holding ... no mooning ’round
...” and she had obeyed him. It had been easy to obey him, with the
fine austerity of Luke’s conduct. It was easy, still, in their close
and constant companionship at the mill, for the young mountaineer never
relaxed his vigilant curb upon himself. She was aware, however, that
there was a curb; increasingly aware. On her nineteenth birthday she
woke early to a riotous duet between a cardinal and a mocking bird on
a bough beside her window, and they seemed, between them, to be giving
rapturous expression to her morning meditations.
“Wait till you’re nineteen ... twenty....”
She was nineteen. She had waited. Need she wait any longer? Little as
she had been about with boys and girls, few as were her contacts with
the young life about her, and meager as had been her romantic reading
(even after the doctor’s death she had kept on with the histories
and philosophies and the fiery weeklies) she knew that theirs was an
amazing friendship, an astonishing romance. He had never brought her
a flower; they had never sat side by side on stools at the drug-store
counter on summer evenings, drinking ice-cream sodas; they had never
gone to a moving picture together. He came sometimes to the dull
house in the dull street, and they sat on the veranda if Miss Ada was
reading in the sitting room, in the sitting room, if she happened to
be upstairs--the cheerful, tidy, ugly room with its golden oak and
strident carpet, and Effie Darrow’s one treasure, the Persian rug, but
their talk was always of work, his work, hers, or theirs, if she did
not read aloud to him from her father’s books.
But that, she told herself, leaping from her bed, taking the frigid
shower of her father’s prescribing, flying into vest and knickers and
the stern simplicity of her business dress, all that belonged to the
past, before she was nineteen ... twenty....
“My dear,” Miss Ada remarked with solicitude, “you’ve hardly sipped
your coffee, and you haven’t touched your cereal!”
“I’m not hungry, Miss Ada.”
Her friend began a soft and anxious clucking. “You’re _quite_ sure,
honey, that you are perfectly well?”
Then Glen Darrow did a startling thing. She jumped up from her place at
the breakfast table and made a disconcerting dash for the faded teacher
and gathered her into a breathless young hug.
“Yes, Miss Ada, dear,” she spoke with her lips against the
gentlewoman’s pallid cheek, “yes! I’m quite sure that I’m perfectly
well and perfectly happy!”--and, leaving her wide-eyed and trembling,
she sped out of the house and down the hill.
Miss Tenafee rang the bell and directed Phemie to bring her another
cup of coffee, and she drank it black. “It’s come,” she told herself
unhappily. “It can’t be anything else. She’s made up her mind to marry
that young savage, and the doctor has beaten me. I’m helpless ...
_helpless_....” she pushed her chair back and the slow tears welled up
in her eyes and spilled over and ran down her lean cheeks and the taste
of them was salt in her mouth. “She’ll marry him, and I’d rather see
her in her grave!”