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.
When at last they were on the cable-car, north bound, Craig broke the silence that had held through the latter half of the journey.
“Do you suppose we could get them all together to-night—the boy, and the girl and her husband? We could have a supper somewhere.”
“I think so. It will be a little late before I can get George back from Evanston—half-past eight or nine o'clock, probably.”
The Captain winced at the words. He knew now that George was a charity boy in the home of his own father.
“If you would like to set it for half-past eight, I will see Le Duc and then go out for George.” The Captain, whose head was in no condition for planning even so much as a supper, accepted this arrangement without a word. They were silent again until they left the car.
“I wonder if she'll know me,” Craig mused, as they walked along, “I ain't the same as I was then—it's a long time, Mr. Halloran, a long time. She was a pretty girl—always had a laugh for one—I've often thought of her energy and nerve. She had a way of going at things, I tell you. When she got a notion she ought to earn her own living there couldn't anything stop her. Are we getting near it?”
“Just a little way now.”
“That's good. It's queer how long a day can be—and after most twenty years, too.”
At the door Halloran paused. It was in a mean street, meaner even than the old quarters near Hoffman's saloon, and the stairs leading up to the living-rooms above were crowded in between a cheap restaurant and a much less respectable saloon than Hoffman's.
“Well, Captain, I'll leave you here.”
“Why—aren't you coming in?”
“No; I haven't any too much time. I know Le Duc's address—I read it in the paper this morning. We will meet here at half-past eight.” Craig was about to protest, but Halloran hurried off; and the Captain started alone up the stairway.
The Le Ducs were living at an apartment hotel not far from the Lake Shore Drive. From the appearance of the building and the neighbourhood Halloran inferred that the corn market was proving a profitable field for Apples. He inquired for him and was taken up in the elevator and shown into a neat little parlour on an upper floor, commanding a view of the lake. Being received by a maid in a cap and apron, he repeated his inquiry, only to learn that Mr. Le Duc was not at home—had not yet returned from his office. Could he see Mrs. Le Duc? The maid hesitated. But as time was pressing, he persisted. Would she please tell her mistress that Mr. Halloran had come with an important message from Mrs. Le Duc's mother and grandfather. The maid turned away and had nearly crossed the room when she was intercepted by a loud whisper from behind the double doors of the next room:
“Ask him to wait.”
So Halloran sat down and looked at the photographs of actors and actresses that crowded the walls—prominent among which were large prints of Appleton Le Duc and Elizabeth Le Duc and Elmer Le Duc—until Apples himself, wearing a prosperous air, better dressed, but still dapper, still with a flash somewhere in his get-up, opened the door, and Halloran rose to meet him.
“How—how are you? Oh, this must be Halloran. I knew you at college. How are you? What can I do for you? Sit down, Halloran. Excuse me a minute while I take off my coat.”
Apples disappeared into the next room, and as the door closed behind him there was an audible smack, followed by whispering. He shortly returned with a puzzled expression.
“Excuse me for keeping you waiting, Halloran. There are so many claims on me these days that I can't get away from my office as early as I'd like. Now tell me what I can do for you?”
“It is a long story, Apples”—the Corn King seemed to dislike the word—“but you'll hear it all soon enough. What it amounts to is, that Mrs. Craig's father, who is a steamer captain, is working for the same company that employs me, and——-”
“So you're a sailor now, eh?”
“Not exactly that.”
“Let me see, you went in for that sort of thing a good deal in the old days, didn't you? Weren't you on the Life-Saving Crew at college?”
“Yes, I was. Captain Craig has come down here to take Mrs. Craig back home with him.”
“Well, you don't say so!”
“And he would like you and Mrs. Le Duc to meet him and Mrs. Craig at her rooms to-night and take supper with them—at half-past eight. I'm going out now for George.” He rose to go.
“Well, I'll tell you, Halloran”—Apples had risen, too, and was speaking in a low, confidential voice—“between ourselves, my wife isn't going out much now, and I'm afraid we can't do it. We'd like to very much, you know.”
Again came the whisper from behind the door. “Appleton!”
“Yes, dearie. Excuse me a second, Halloran.” He slipped out again and there was more whispering. When he returned it was to say: “My wife would be very glad to have you all come here instead. We will have the supper up here in our apartment. Tell them we'll be very glad to see them—and you, too.”
“Thank you. I'll tell them.”
Apples showed him out, and as he left the building and headed for the State Street trolley he found himself thinking much of Apples and his rise in life.
When he was on the Evanston train, however, he had something else to think about. In order to get George he must go either to the Bigelows' home or to Margaret's. Not one of the letters he had written since that evening had been answered. Besides, he was not in the right frame of mind to see her—or he thought he was not, which amounted to the same thing. All day he had been deep in the trouble of the Craig family, and in his talk about coming out after George he had not taken time to think just how he was to manage it. But he was realizing it now as he left the train and started up toward the Ridge; and as this is to be an honest history, the facts of what followed must be told.
Half-way up from the station, while he was walking briskly along, boasting inwardly that he was calm and ready to see Margaret, his legs, without warning him, turned him off on a side street. When he had rounded the block, and had convinced himself that now he was headed straight for the Ridge, they deceived him again. This was humiliating, and, more, was not the way to march to victory. Twice he walked around the square, but the third time, by a strong effort, he succeeded in passing the fatal corner. Soon he could see the house a little way ahead. It occurred to him that he was rushing along at an absurd speed, and he walked more slowly. A moment more and he was in front of the house, was turning in up the walk—but, no, he was mistaken; for the legs, suddenly out of all control, carried him by and nearly a block farther up the street before he could check them and get them headed straight. He found he could manage them better by stepping once on each square of the cement walk, squarely in the middle each time; and he could keep this up by giving all his mind to it. This made it necessary to take rather long steps, but the twilight was deepening, and, besides, there were few other pedestrians on the street. Again he drew near. He looked up at the windows—they were dark, excepting a light in the rear and one upstairs. Something forbidding about the square old house, with its rows of unlighted windows, chilled his heart, struck deep into the energy that had carried him thus far, and he faltered. But this would not do. He forced his eyes down to the sidewalk and resolutely put his right foot on the next square of cement—then his left on the second square—and on, step by step, up the front walk. He mounted the steps and crossed the wide veranda to the door—then hurriedly pushed the bell.
There was a long wait. After a time he heard doors opening and closing within, and the sound of a person moving; finally there were footsteps in the hall and the door was opened.
“Is—is Miss Davies here?”
“Why—no. Miss Davies and her mother have gone East.”
“Gone East!”
“Yes; they are in the mountains—in Woodland Valley.”
“Woodland Valley!”
“Yes. I couldn't tell you when they'll be back. They didn't know themselves when they left.”
A moment more and the door had closed and Halloran was down on the sidewalk. He turned aimlessly up the street. Gone East!—and no word for him! Perhaps his letters had not even reached her. Why had he not come straight back to Evanston that same week and claimed his answer? What an invertebrate creature he was, anyway! What a gloomy evening! How the shadows of the maples and elms closed down on his thoughts! The arc lamps at the corners, the long row of houses glowing with light, all smiled at him and drove him deeper into the gloom. Gone East!
It occurred to him that he had come out for another purpose. There was nothing for it now but to go to the Bigelows'; and with a glance at his watch, he turned in that direction.
The family were at dinner, he was informed, but Mrs. Bigelow would see him in a few moments. He was shown into a reception-room, where he could drop into a chair in the bay window and look in between the portières down the length of the living-room. The furniture was rich and heavy; the mantels and tables and bookcases were laden with bric-à-brac; the walls were covered with paintings and engravings, some of them fairly good, all of them very costly. From the dining-room came the jingle of knives and forks and the laughter of children, and now and then the heavy voice of Mr. Bigelow dominating. Then he heard the rustle of skirts and in came Mrs. Bigelow.
“How do you do, John? It is a long time since we have seen you. You must have gone away from Evanston when you left college.
“Yes; I'm not living here.”
“Where are you now, John?”
“I'm up in Michigan.”
“You have a position there?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I have heard Mr. Bigelow say that there are really about as good openings in the country as in the city. It is so overcrowded in Chicago. Are you getting on well?”
“I—I guess so—as well as I could expect.”
“I am very glad to hear that—and Mr. Bigelow will be, too. He really took quite an interest in you, John. He is always glad to know that the young men he has been interested in are getting on.”
“I have come down to Chicago to-day, Mrs. Bigelow, to look for a boy; and I have heard he is here. His name is George—George Bigelow.”
“Oh, yes; George. It is odd that he should have our name. He is a Settlement boy—Mr. Babcock rescued him from I don't know what distress. I wondered if there were any distant branch of the family that could have dropped in the world, but Mr. Bigelow says there is no connection whatever. It is a very common name in Chicago, he says. It seems that the boy's family is worthless, and he himself has already been in jail. But he seems to feel some remorse, and I am not letting it make any difference here.”
“Captain Craig, his grandfather, heard to-day from George's mother, after a long separation. We happen to be employed by the same company and I have come down with him to find his family. He wants to take them all back with him.”
“To take him back? Why, he has been here only a little while. Did you mean to take him yourself?”
“Captain Craig plans to give them all a supper this evening, and I promised him I would be on hand with George.”
“Very well; I will send for him.”
She stepped to the hall and rang a bell. While she was speaking to the maid Mr. Bigelow came into the hall, with a little girl hanging to each arm. He paused in the doorway of the reception-room and nodded to Halloran.
“How do you do,” he said.
“How do you do, sir.”
“This is John Halloran, dear,” said his wife, turning. “He has come to take George away. George's grandfather, he tells me, is really quite respectable.”
Mr. Bigelow had shaken off the children and was getting into his overcoat.
“It is just as well,” he replied, without looking around. “We really have no work for him here.” At this moment the subject of the talk himself appeared, advancing bashfully, overcome by the splendour about him, and not yet knowing why he had been summoned. He looked at Halloran for a moment before he recognized him.
“How are you, George,” said Halloran, advancing and holding out his hand. “Do you remember me?”
George blushed, grinned and took his hand; and as he did so, Mr. Bigelow, with his coat buttoned and one glove on, turned around. He looked at George—a tall, awkward, ill-dressed boy of sixteen—with a curious, gruff expression, then his eyes shot one quick, inquiring look at Halloran.
“You'll excuse me,” he said, recovering. And without speaking further he went out and shut the door hard behind him.
“Come, George,” said Halloran; “I'm going to take you to a new home. Have you any truck to carry?”
“Nothing much.”
“Get your coat, then, and come along.”
“When they had reached the tenement and were nearly at the top of the stairway Halloran pushed George ahead.
“Go in there, George. You'll find them together.”.
“Yes, I hear 'em talking. But ain't you coming?”
“No, not yet. Go ahead.”
George opened the door and Halloran went back a little way down the stairs and sat down. It was dark and dirty. On all sides, above and below, were noises—babies squalling, men and women quarreling—but he heard little; his thoughts were speeding of! to the eastern mountains. There was a young woman in those mountains—where the leaves were beginning to turn, perhaps, as here in the West—only a thousand miles away. What had he been waiting for? Was it for her to write? How had he supposed her answer was to come? What stood in the way—circumstances? Some other one? Or was it that the only obstacle was a certain person sitting, at this moment, on a dark stairway in a tenement? More likely the latter—but how was he to discover it so close home? It was rather more fun to be miserable. Family reunion on one side of his thoughts, all hopes a thousand miles removed on the other side—on the whole, he preferred dark stairways.
“Mr. Halloran, are you there? It's so dark I can't see.”
“Yes; coming right up.”
“I was afraid you'd get away from us.”
“No, but I must be off now.” They were entering the room. “Le Duc wants you all over there to supper.”
“Over there?”
“Yes.”
“You mustn't go now, Mr. Halloran. He asked you, too, didn't he? Of course he did.”
“Why, I'd like to, but——
“Now, see here, after the turn things have taken we couldn't have the supper without you. That's a part of it, you see—it's the way I planned it. You've got to come.”
“Well, if you feel that way———”
“We do, and that's all there is about it. I guess we'd better be starting over, hadn't we? It's most half-past now. Where's your jacket, Jennie?” Mrs. Craig had no jacket, it appeared; but the Captain helped her on with her shawl. “Got your hat, George? Better let me have your arm, Jennie, going down the stairs. It's pretty dark.”
“Oh, I know these stairs, father.”
“That's so; I suppose you do. All ready, Mr. Halloran?”
“All ready, Captain. I'll put out the light. Go ahead.”
They went down the stairs two and two, Mrs. Craig and the Captain, Halloran and George, and walked toward the lake, through the vicious quiet of the side streets, through the merriment of North Clark Street, through the sober, comfortable region of stone houses and big churches—on to the imposing private hotel where dwelt the Le Ducs.
“I'm afraid, father,” whispered Mrs. Craig, “that I'm not exactly dressed for this.”
“Nonsense! My daughter needn't be ashamed to go anywhere. I wouldn't give that for a girl that wouldn't be glad to see her own mother, no matter if she came in a sunbonnet. There's nothing the matter with this shawl, I guess.”
“Why, no; but it's old. And they're not wearing shawls now.”
“What do we care about that?”
“I don't care if you don't.” And so determined was she not to care that she managed to force a little smile as her feet sank into the carpet and the door-boy stood aside to let her pass.
Le Duc himself opened the door and greeted the group in the hall with a “How are you? Come in!”
They filed into the room, where a table was spread for them, and stood about awkwardly. Mrs. Craig busied herself with her bonnet and shawl, George stood on one leg and then on the other, and looked at the carpet; and Halloran slipped into the background. But the Captain broke the silence by advancing toward Le Duc.
“This must be Appleton, I take it. I'm glad to see you, young man—glad to welcome you into my family.”
Apples took the outstretched hand and murmured something.
“And where's Lizzie? I've got to see her before you can make me believe I've got a granddaughter old enough to be married. You'd never think it to look at Jennie, there, would you? Isn't she coming?”
“Here I am,” said the young woman herself, appearing in the doorway.
The Captain looked at her while the others stood silent; finally he walked around the table to meet her.
“I—I can't believe it. I'm just going to kiss you, my dear. I guess your husband won't object if you kiss your own grandfather, will he?”
“Oh, no; certainly not,” said Le Duc.
“Well, well, so here we really are—all of us! Now we must have a good time of it. Where are we to sit, granddaughter? Don't forget to put me next to yourself. This almost makes me feel as if I was back in the old house.”
They took their places, and two waiters from the hotel restaurant appeared to serve them. And then Le Duc, with some sense of his responsibility as host, endeavoured to set the talk going, but without marked success. For both Mrs. Craig and her daughter felt awkward, and the Captain could not entirely master the oppressiveness of the surroundings and of the waiters in their dress suits. Halloran made one effort to enliven matters.
“Captain, Apples”—Le Duc's nose went up a little at the word—“Apples was on the beach the night you came ashore in the surf-boat.”
“You don't say so? Strange, isn't it, the way things come around, and the people you've met once are sure to turn up again? If I don't remember you, Appleton, it's because I wasn't feeling in shape to see anything that night but what was left of the old steamer. An ugly time that was. There was an hour or so before you lighted up your fire when I wouldn't have given half a dollar for our chances. The steamer was breaking up fast.”
“Let me see,” said Apples, “that must have been in my college days. Do you remember just when it was, Halloran?”
“I'm not likely to forget it.”
“It was up the shore toward Glencoe, wasn't it? I remember one wreck up that way—you crew fellows had quite a time of it, didn't you?”
After this feeble light on the conversation, darkness fell again; and the little family ate almost in silence, until the waiters brought in a platter of ducks and set them before Le Duc. The host looked suspiciously on them, then glanced at Lizzie. Finally, while his fingers toyed nervously with the carving knife and fork, his eyes sought the waiters; but one had left the room and the other was busy with the vegetables. Evidently he was expected to begin carving—the table waited, silently and expectantly—so he planted the fork in the right wing of the first duck and began. It did not go well. A brown fringe of gravy decorated the table-cloth around the platter, and little specks flew out occasionally toward the guests. Lizzie turned to Halloran and asked if he was living in the city now; and he replied that he was not. The brown fringe was widening; and George was watching the performance with increasing interest. Lizzie persisted: “Are you going to be here long, this visit?” No, he was going back to-morrow. The diversion failed here, and they waited in silence. Apples was breathing hard. At length, a quick, unskilful movement caused something to slip, and the end duck hopped neatly out on the table-cloth and settled down in a pool of gravy. Apples leaned back in his chair and looked at Lizzie.
“My dear”—he began. But the waiter was at his elbow, saying,
“Shall I serve it, sir?”
At this point the Captain rose, napkin in hand.
“I'll tell you what, Appleton,”, he said, “you just change places with me. If there's one thing I know, it's ducks.”
After this, in spite of the gloom that settled on the host, the evening went better. And when the party broke up, at what the Captain called a scandalous hour, and scattered to hotel and tenement, there was some cordiality in the chorus of good-nights and good-byes. In the morning, by an early train, the three members of the Craig family and Halloran returned to Wauchung.