“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.
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.”