Oneof the penalties of success (according to the successful) being the malignant envy of those who have not succeeded, it is not surprising that in time there began to creep into Wall Street some stories that E. & W. was no better than it should be, nor even quite so good, and that there was no reason why the stock should be so high when solider securities were selling below par.
The management, assisted by the entire E. & W. clique, laughed all such “bear” stories to scorn, and when scorn seemed somewhat insufficient they greatly increased the volume of sales and maintained the price by the familiar, simple, but generally successful expedient of buying from one another through many different brokers in the stock-market. The bear party rallied within a day or two, and returned to the charge with an entirely new set of lies, besides an accidental truth or two; but the E. & W. clique was something of a liar itself, and arranged for simultaneous delivery, at different points on the street, of a lot of stories so full of new mineral developments on the line of the road, and so many new evidences of the management’s shrewdness, that criticism was silenced for a while.
But bears must live as well as bulls, and the longer they remain hungry the harder they are sure to fight for their prey: so the street was soon favored with a fresh assortment of rumors. This time they concerned themselves principally with the alleged bad condition of the track and rolling stock in the West, and with doubts as to the mineral deposits said to have been discovered. The market was reminded that other railroad companies, by scores, had made all sorts of brilliant discoveries and announcements that had failed to materialize, and that some of these roads had been managed by hands that now seemed to be controlling E. & W.
Then the E. & W. management lost its ordinary temper and accused the bears of malignant falsehood. There was nothing unusual in this, in a locality where no one is ever suspected of telling the truth while he can make anything by lying. When, however, E. & W. issued invitations to large operators, particularly in the company’s stock, for a special excursion over the road, with opportunities for thorough investigation, the bears growled sullenly and began to look for a living elsewhere.
The excursion-start was a grand success in the eyes of Mr. Marge, who made with it his first trip in the capacity of an investigating investor. There were men on the train to whom Marge had in other days scarcely dared to lift his eyes in Wall Street, yet now they treated him as an equal, not only socially but financially. He saw his own name in newspapers of cities through which the party passed; his name had appeared in print before, but only among lists ofguests at parties, or as usher or a bridegroom’s best man at a wedding,—not as a financier. It was gratifying, too, to have presented to him some presidents of Western banks who joined the party, and be named to these financiers as one of the most prominent investors in E. & W.
He saw more, too, of his own country than ever before; his eyes and wits were quick enough to make him enter heartily into the spirit of a new enterprise or two which some of the E. & W. directors with the party were projecting. It might retard a little his accumulation of E. & W. stock, but the difference would be in his favor in the end. To “get in on the ground-floor” of some great enterprise had been his darling idea for years; he had hoped for it as unwearyingly as for a rich wife; now at last his desire was to be granted: the rich wife would be easy enough to find after he himself became rich. Unaccustomed though he was to slumbering with a jolting bed under him, his dreams in the sleeping-car were rosier than any he had known since the hair began to grow thin on the top of his head.
But as the party began to look through the car windows for the bears of the Rocky Mountains, the bears of Wall Street began to indulge in pernicious activity. They all attacked E. & W. with entirely new lots of stories, which were not denied rapidly enough for the good of the stock, for some of the more active managers of the E. & W. clique were more than a thousand miles away. Dispatches began to hurry Westward for new and bracing information, but the whole excursion-party had taken stages, afew hours before, for a three days’ trip to see some of the rich mining-camps to which E. & W. had promised to build a branch. No answers being received, E. & W. began to droop; as soon as it showed decided signs of weakness, and seemed to have no friends strong enough to support it, the bears sprang upon iten masseand proceeded to pound and scratch the life out of it. It was granted a temporary breathing-spell through the assistance of some operators in other stocks, who feared their own properties might be depressed by sympathy, but as soon as it became evident that E. & W. was to be the only sufferer all the bulls in the market sheathed their horns in bears’ claws and assisted in the annihilation of the prostrate giant who had no friends.
The excursion-party returned from the mines in high spirits: even the president of the company declared he had no idea that the property was so rich. He predicted, and called all present to remember his words, that the information he would send East would “boom” E. & W. at least ten points within ten days. Marge’s heart simply danced within him: if it was to be as the president predicted, his own hoped-for million by the beginning of the stagnant season would be nearer two. He smiled pityingly as Lucia’s face rose before him: how strange that he had ever thought seriously of making that chit his wife, and being gratified for such dowry as the iron trade might allow her father to give!
The stages stopped at a mining-village, twenty miles from the station, for dinner. The president said to the keeper of the little hotel,—
“Is there any telegraph-station here?”
“There’s a telephone ’cross the road at the store,” said the proprietor. “It runs into the bankin’-house at Big Stony.”
“Big Stony?” echoed the president. “Why, we’ve done some business with that bank. Come, gentlemen, let’s go across and find out how our baby is being taken care of.”
Several of the party went, Marge being among them. The president “rang up” the little bank, and bawled,—
“Got any New York quotations to-day?”
“Yes,” replied a thin, far-away voice.
“How’s the stock market?”
“Pretty comfortable, considering.”
“Any figures on E. & W.?”
“El,” was the only sound the president could evolve from the noise that followed.
“Umph!” said he; “what does that mean? ‘El’ must be ‘twelve,’—hundred and twelve. Still rising, you see; though why it should have gone so high and so suddenly I don’t exactly see. Hello,” he resumed, as he turned again to the mouth-piece; “will you give me those figures again, and not quite so loud? I can’t make them out.”
Again the message came, but it did not seem any more satisfactory, for the president looked astonished, and then frowned; then he shouted back,—
“There’s some mistake; you didn’t get the right letters: I said E. & W.,—Eastern and Western. One moment. Mr. Marge, won’t you kindly take my place? My hearing isn’t very keen.”
Marge placed the receiver to his ear, and shouted, “All right; go ahead.” In two or three seconds he dropped the receiver, turned pale, and looked as if about to fall.
“What is it?” asked several voices in chorus.
“He said, ‘E. & W. is dead as a smelt; knocked to pieces two days ago.’ ”
“What is it quoted at now?” asked one, quickly.
True enough: who could want to know more than Marge? It was in a feeble voice, though, and after two or three attempts to clear his throat, that he asked,—
“How did it close to-day?”
Again, as the answer came back, Marge dropped the receiver and acted as if about to fall.
“What is it? Speak, can’t you?”
“Thirty-seven!” whispered Marge.
There was an outburst of angry exclamations, not unmixed with profanity. Then nearly all present looked at the president inquiringly, but without receiving any attempt at an explanation, for the president was far the heaviest owner of E. & W. stock, and he looked as stony of face as if he had suddenly died but neglected to close his eyes.
Marge hastily sought the outer air; it seemed to him he would lose his reason if he did not get away from that awful telephone. Thirty-seven! he knew what that meant; his margin might have saved his own stock had the drop been to a little below par, but it had tumbled more than half a hundred points, so of course his brokers had closed the account when the margin was exhausted, and Marge, who a fortnightbefore had counted himself worth nearly a million dollars (Wall Street millions), was now simply without a penny to his credit in Wall Street or anywhere else; what money he chanced to have in his pocket was all he could hope to call his own until the first of the next month, when the occupants of his tenement-houses would pay their rent.
It was awful; it was unendurable; he longed to scream, to rave, to tear his hair. He mentally cursed the bears, the brokers, the directors, and every one else but himself. He heard some of his companions in the store bawling messages through the telephone, to be wired to New York; these were veterans, who assumed from past experience that a partial recovery would follow and that they would partly recoup their losses. But what could he do? There was not on earth a person whom he could ask, by telegraph, for the few hundred dollars necessary to a small speculation on the ruins.
He heard the outburst of incredulity, followed by rage, as the passengers who had remained at the little hotel received the unexpected news, which now seemed to him to be days old. Then he began to suspect everybody, even the crushed president and directors. What could be easier, Marge said to himself, than for these shrewd fellows to unload quietly before they left New York, and then get out of reach so that they could not render any support in case of a break? He had heard of such things before. It certainly was suspicious that the crash should have come the very day after they got away from the telegraph-wires. Likely enough they now, throughtheir brokers, were quietly buying up all the stock that was being offered, to “peg it up,” little by little, to where it had been. The mere suspicion made him want to tear them limb from limb,—to organize a lynching-party, after the fashion of the Territory they were in, and get revenge, if not justice.
It was rather a dismal party that returned to New York from the trip over the E. & W. The president, fearing indignant Western investors, and still more the newspaper reporters, whom he knew would lie in wait for him until they found him, quietly abandoned the train before reaching Chicago, and went Eastward by some other route. A few of the more hardened operators began to encourage each other by telling of other breaks that had been the making of the men they first ruined, but they dropped their consoling reminiscences when Marge approached them; they had only contempt for a man who from his manner evidently was so completely “cleaned out” as to be unable to start again, even in a small way. The majority, however, seemed as badly off as himself; some of them were so depressed that when the stock of cigars provided specially for the excursion was exhausted they actually bought common pipes and tobacco at a way station, and industriously poisoned the innocent air for hundreds of miles.
This, then, was the end of Marge’s dream of wealth! Occasionally, in other days, he had lost small sums in Wall Street, but only he and his broker knew of it; no one ever knew in what line of stock he operated. But now—why, had not hisname been printed again and again among those of E. & W.’s strongest backers? Every one would know of his misfortune: he could no longer pose as a shrewd young financier, much less as a man with as large an income as he had time to enjoy.
Would that he had not been so conceited and careless as to mentally give up Lucia, who now, for some reason, persisted in appearing in his mind’s eye! Had he given half as much attention to her as to E. & W., she might now be his, and their wedding-cards might be out. And iron was still looking up, too! How could any one not a lunatic have become so devoted to chance as to throw away a certainty? for she had been a certainty for him, he believed, had he chosen to realize. Alas! with her, as with E. & W., he had been too slow at realizing.
WhenTramlay bade good-by to his new partner a few moments after the partnership was verbally formed he wondered which to do first,—return to the club and announce his good fortune to the several other iron men who were members, or go home and relieve the mind of his wife. As he wondered, he carelessly remarked,—
“Which way are you going, Phil?”
The young man, who was already starting off at a rapid pace, returned, and said, in a low tone,—
“Can’t you imagine?”
The older man took his partner’s hand, and seemed to want to say something.
“What is it, Mr. Tramlay?” asked Phil, for the silence was somewhat embarrassing.
“My dear fellow,” said the merchant, “a man who has just given away his daughter is usually supposed to have done a great favor.”
“As you certainly have done,” Phil replied.
“Thank you; for I want to ask one in return. Fathers aren’t sole proprietors of their daughters, you know. Mrs. Tramlay—when you speak to her about the affair, as of course you will, be as—be all—do be your most considerate, courteous self, won’t you?”
“I beg you will trust me for that,” said Phil.
“I’m sure I can,—or could, if you understood mothers as well as some day you may.”
“I have a mother, you know,” suggested Phil.
“True, but she had no daughters, I believe? Mothers and daughters—well, they’re not exactly like mothers and sons. Mrs. Tramlay respects you highly, I know, but she may not have seemed as friendly to your suit as you could have liked. Try to forget that, won’t you?—and forgive it, if it has made you uncomfortable?”
“I would forgive a bitter enemy to-night, if I had one,” said the excited youth.
“That’s right; that’s right: a man has so few chances to feel that way that he ought to improve them all. You’ll even be patient, should it be necessary?”
“As patient as Job,” promised Phil.
“Thank you! God bless you!” said the merchant, wringing Phil’s hand and turning away. Phil again started. The merchant walked toward the club, stopped after taking a few steps, looked in the direction Phil had taken, drew his hat down over his eyes, hurried to his house, entered the basement door, sneaked up the back stairway as if he were a thief, and quietly entered his own room, which, to his great relief, was empty.
Meanwhile, Phil had reached the house and been admitted. He had not to ask for Lucia, for he heard through the open door of the parlor some piano-chords which he knew were touched only by her fingers. Lucia did not hear him enter, and as hestopped to look at her she seemed to be in a revery that was not cheerful. He had never seen her looking so-so plain, he would have said, had she been any one else. There was no color in her face, and her cheeks seemed thin and drawn. An involuntary motion startled her, and she turned, exclaiming,—
“How you frightened me!”
“I wish you might punish me in some way for it,” said Phil, approaching her.
“It was so late that I did not imagine any one would call,” the girl explained.
“I was quite busy in the earlier part of the evening,” said Phil,” and I needed to see your father.”
“Business is horrid,” said Lucia. “I should think men would attend to it by daylight. Well, I believe papa went to the club.”
“Yes; I found him.”
“And, as usual, he sent you home for some horrid papers of some kind?”
“No, not exactly,” said Phil. How uncomfortable it is to have a dream dispelled—even a day-dream! All along the way to the house he had imagined just how she would look; he could see the flush of her cheek through the half-mile of darkness that he had traversed, his path had seemed illumined by the light of her eyes, yet now she was pallid, and her eyes had none of their customary lustre, and her mental condition—it did not seem at all appropriate to the conversation which he had a hundred times imagined and upon which he had set his heart that night. Well, he would be patient: “Faint heart never won fair lady.”
“Aren’t you a little severe on your father for his devotion to business?” he ventured to ask. “Out in the country we have an old saying, ‘Make hay while the sun shines.’ The sun never shone brighter than now in the iron-business.”
“Yes, I know,” replied Lucia, wearily. “It’s always something for business’ sake. Yes, we have that same dreadful saying in New York.”
“But it’s all for the sake of women that men are so absorbed in business,” argued Phil. “What would your father care for business, if it weren’t for his wife and charming daughters and younger children? He never sees iron, I imagine, while he is talking about it, nor even thinks of the money, for its own sake. Greenbacks and gold and notes and bonds all transform themselves, in his eyes, I suppose, into dresses and cloaks and bonnets and opera-boxes and trips to Europe, and——”
“You silly fellow!” said Lucia, with the first smile upon which she had ventured that evening; “I wonder where you get such notions. If you don’t give them up you will some day find yourself writing poetry,—something about the transmutation of railroad-iron into gold. Think how ridiculous that would seem!”
“But when iron attempts ‘to gild refined gold,—to paint the lily,’ ” said Phil, “as it does in your father’s case, why, ’twould be worth dropping into poetry to tell of at least one instance where Shakespeare’s conclusion was wrong. You know the rest of the quotation?”
Yes, evidently Lucia knew it, for her cheek glowedprettily under the compliment, which, while somewhat awkward, reached its mark by the help of Phil’s eyes. As for Phil, his heart began to be itself again: whose heart wouldn’t, he asked himself, under the consciousness of having given one second of pleasure to that dear girl?
“You seem to be in a sermonizing mood to-night,” said Lucia. “I know my father is the best man alive, and I supposed you liked him,—a little; but I can’t imagine what should have impressed you so strongly with him to-night.”
Phil studied the toes of his boots, the tints of the patternless rug, the design of the frescoed ceiling. Lucia watched him with an amused face, and finally said, “Even you don’t seem to know.”
“I know,” said Phil, slowly, “and I’m trying to think how to express it properly.”
Poor fellow! how he did despise himself, that what he had hurried there to say would not come to his lips properly! Such a story had seemed easy enough when he had read, in books, of how other men told it,—so easy, indeed, that he had come to have very little patience with that portion of novels. Of course he could not tell it while Lucia was laughing,—laughing at him, too. Perhaps he could lead conversation back to the desired tone; but no; for just at that instant Margie flew into the room, exclaiming, before she fairly entered,—
“Oh, Lu, isn’t it awful? I just went across the room for something, and my dress caught the table-cover, and over went an inkstand on my very, veriestwhite—— Why, Phil, I didn’t know you were here.”
“I wish I knew what would take ink-stains from very, veriest white——”
“Oh, so do I. What shall I do, Lu? Do tell me at once.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Phil, with a gleam of hope for Margie and several for himself, “your laundress can tell.”
“The very thing,” said Margie. “What a blessing you are! I wish you were always here.” Then she flew out of the room, but not until she had flung a meaning look at her sister and another at Phil. Both blushed, and Phil felt uncomfortable, but as he stole a look at Lucia he mentally blessed Margie, for Lucia was no longer laughing, and she was looking unusually pretty; her eyes, slightly downcast, seemed a more heavenly blue than ever.
“The reason I have your father’s goodness on my mind to-night,” said Phil, breaking the silence to abate the awkwardness of the situation, “is because to-night he has made me his partner in business,—his own equal.”
“Oh, Phil!” exclaimed Lucia, her whole face suddenly aglow and her eyes looking full into his. “I’m so glad—so glad for you—for him, I mean; for both of you. What I meant to say was—— Oh, how did it happen?”
“Oh, I chanced to get an order which he was kind enough to think the greatest stroke of business that any firm has made this season. So he asked me my price, and while I was wondering what to say he made me the offer.”
“Just like his dear, noble heart,” said Lucia.
“Yes,” said Phil, rising, and pacing to and fro in front of the piano, and fixing his eyes on the floor; “and all the nobler it seemed on account of the sordid, grasping way in which I took it. I wasn’t satisfied with that, but wanted more. I hope he’ll never have cause to think unkindly of me for it.”
“More?” said Lucia, wonderingly, and somewhat soberly. “What more could you want than to be a prominent merchant?”
“As we say in the country, guess,” said Phil, approaching the piano-stool and opening his arms.
Lucia guessed.
What a deal he had to say to her, while still they stood there! He knew it was not polite to keep a lady standing, but while he was supporting her so strongly, though tenderly, it did not seem that Lucia would weary of the position; nor did she. And what a lot of questions each asked and answered!—questions and answers that would seem as silly to any one else as they were interesting to those they concerned. Perhaps there came occasional moments when neither was speaking, but during these Phil could look down at the golden tangle just about at the level of his lips, and think how much more precious it was than all the gold that railroad-iron could be changed into by the alchemy of endeavor.
How long they might have stood there, if undisturbed, they never knew, for they were so heedless of all that might be going on about them that they did not note the entrance of Margie, who was returning from an interview with the laundress in the basement. That young lady was quick to discernthe situation, and was about to depart quietly and with celerity; but, acting upon the promptings of her second thoughts, she returned, threw her arms around the couple, and exclaimed,—
“Oh, isn’t this splendid!”
There was a rapid separation of the trio, and then Margie attempted to whirl Lucia about the room in a waltz, that being the younger sister’s most natural method of expressing joy. But, somehow, Lucia did not feel like waltzing; on the contrary, she kissed her sister several times, hid her own face a great deal, and finally made a great effort to be calm as she pointed at Phil and said, with a sprightly toss of her head,—
“Papa’s partner. Tramlay and Hayn is to be the sign over the store hereafter.”
Margie’s eyes opened in amazement for a moment; then it was Phil’s turn to be whirled about the room,—an operation in which he displayed the astounding awkwardness peculiar to young men who cannot dance. Suddenly she paused, and said,—
“Mamma must know at once. The idea of there being some one within reach to tell it to, and I wasting all this time!”
“Margie!” exclaimed Lucia, as the girl’s dress rustled up the stair, “Margie, come back a moment,—do.” Then there was some rapid whispering, and Margie re-ascended, saying, in very resigned tones,—
“Very well.”
“I suspect,” said Phil, when Lucia returned, “that you’ve suggested that I am the proper person to break the news.”
“Isn’t it better?” asked Lucia, timidly.
“Infinitely.”
“Mamma is not always easy to speak to, on some subjects,” Lucia suggested.
“No task could be hard to me to-night,” responded Phil.
Yet in a moment or two, when Mrs. Tramlay was heard approaching, the young man’s looks belied his brave words. Lucia pitied him; she pressed closely to his side, as if to assist him, but when her mother’s footstep was heard in the hall the girl’s courage deserted her, and she fled, and left the young man to whatever fate might be impending.
“Margie tells me you have some great news,” said Mrs. Tramlay to Phil.
“Bless Margie!” said Phil to himself; then, instead of at once addressing himself to the duty before him, he gave Mrs. Tramlay as full a report of the rise, progress, and result of the Lake and Gulfside operation as if she, instead of her husband, were the head of the iron-house.
“And you have told Mr. Tramlay, I think you said,” the lady remarked.
“Yes; I looked him out at the club, for the purpose.”
“He was pleased, of course?”
“Greatly, I am happy to say.”
Mrs. Tramlay looked thoughtful. Phil was puzzled by her manner. Did she know or care so little about business as not to estimate at its true value the importance of the Lake and Gulfside order? She was so calm about it that Phil himself began to think lessthan before of his success. He even wondered whether it would be worth while to tell her of the worldly fortune the operation had brought to him. Probably she was one of the large class of women, of whom he had heard, who have no heads for business.
“Did Mr. Tramlay say anything in reply?” asked the lady, after a moment or two of thought.
“Why, yes,” said Phil, with some hesitation, for he wondered if, after all, it might not be better that Tramlay himself should tell the story of his clerk’s promotion. Mrs. Tramlay eyed him keenly; then she asked,—
“Did he say anything concerning your future,—and ours also, as related to it?”
“Yes,” said Phil, now satisfied that Tramlay’s offer had been premeditated, and not made in the excitement of the moment; “and,” he continued, with his best smile and bow, “I am happy to assure you that I was simply delighted to agree with him.”
“My dear son!” exclaimed Mrs. Tramlay.
Phil’s astonishment reached almost the stage of petrifaction, but before he could betray it his prospective mother-in-law had depressed his head so that she might kiss him on both cheeks.
Such a prayer of thanksgiving as Phil’s heart sent up as he returned Mrs. Tramlay’s salutation! Meanwhile, two young women who had been flagrantly transgressing one of the most imperative rules of their breeding flew at each other from the two doors that opened from the hall into the parlor: at last Margie had found some one who was both able and willing to be waltzed madly about. They were evenreckless enough to float into the parlor, right before their mother’s eyes. Then Mrs. Tramlay, conscious for the first time that her eyes were wet, flew to the seclusion of her own room, where, to her great surprise, she fell into the arms of her husband.
Mr. Margereached New York with only the distinct impression that he would like at once to turn his single bit of real estate into cash, shake the dust of the city from his feet forever, and begin life and business anew at some place where he was not known, and where the disgrace—as it seemed to him—of his altered fortunes would be unknown to any one. There was his interest in the Haynton Bay property, to be sure, but he cursed the day he had ever put nearly two thousand dollars into property which at best would not be likely to return any amount of cash for years to come. He might sell that also; but who would buy it? Nobody knew much about it but the other owners; of these, two were Tramlay and Phil, to neither of whom would he admit that he needed money: he would rather lose all he had invested. As for Agnes Dinon, who held most of the remaining shares, he could not make a business-offer to a woman who had refused his hand and heart several years before.
Perhaps his broker had saved something for him from the wreck. Marge sought an obscure hotel instead of going to his apartments or his club, and, fearing even to meet any one he knew on Wall Street,went to his broker’s house by night. The interview was not satisfactory: the broker had not only been obliged to close Marge’s account, but, infected by his customer’s success, had operated so largely in E. & W. on his own account that he also had been ruined, and contemplated selling his seat in the Exchange so as to make good some of his indebtedness to members.
As for E. & W., instead of recovering it had gone lower and lower, until operations in it almost ceased. The president, utterly ruined, retired from office, turned over all his property to his creditors, and went abroad to recover his shattered health or to die, he did not much care which.
Marge sold his house at auction, and, while wearily awaiting the circumlocution of “searching title” which necessarily preceded his getting full payment, he betook himself to Boston. To avoid speculation was impossible, it had been his life for years; and, as he found mining-shares were within his reach, he began again to operate, in a small way. The little he had seen of mines while on the fateful E. & W. excursion was so much more than the majority of those about him knew on the subject that he made a few lucky turns, and he finally interested some acquaintances in a promising silver property he had seen in the West. His acquaintances succeeded in getting the property “listed” at one of the New York exchanges, and Marge, with new hopes and a great deal of desperation, risked nearly all he had on the Brighthope mine.
The scheme worked finely for some weeks. It wasskilfully managed by the Bostonians interested; they even succeeded in getting a great deal about it into the newspapers of both cities. But—alas for the wickedness of human nature!—one day the company were horrified to learn that their title to the property was hopelessly defective. When this fact became indisputable, Brighthope stock tumbled farther than E. & W.,—tumbled utterly out of sight; and all the assets of the company, except the safe and two desks, were sold to a paper-stock dealer at a cent a pound.
Then Marge thought seriously of suicide. He had but a thousand or two dollars left: how could he operate in anything on that small sum and support himself besides? He could add something to the sum by selling his horses and carriage, but such things always had to go at a sacrifice; besides, there would be a terrible bill to be paid for the maintenance of the animals during the two or three months in which he had been absent from New York.
Still, the thought of suicide did not improve on acquaintance. While there was life there was hope. Why shouldn’t he go back to New York, brave everything, and start anew to the best of his ability? Other men had pocketed their pride; and, although his own pride was frightfully large to be submitted to such treatment, he did not know that the operation would give him any more discomfort than he was already enduring.
The thought resolved itself into decision when one day he chanced to meet in Boston a New Yorker with whom he had a casual acquaintance. After alittle chat the man, who had been away from the city for months, remarked,—
“You’re not married yet?”
“No,” said Marge, with a grim smile.
“I thought I had heard that you were engaged to Miss Tramlay; and I wanted to congratulate you. An iron-house traveller whom I met a short time ago told me that Tramlay was getting rich very fast.”
“I supposed,” said Marge, with a dawn of interest, “that Miss Tramlay was to marry young Hayn.”
“What! that country clerk of her father’s?” said the man, with the confidence born of ignorance. “Nonsense! why, it seems only the other day that I heard some one laughing about that fellow’s infatuation. Oh, no; now that they’re rich, they’ll want to marry their daughter to some one of social standing: indeed, I heard some one say as much. The mother is very ambitious in that line, you know.”
Marge soon excused himself, lit a strong cigar, and betook himself to a solitary walk and some hard thinking. There was perhaps a grand point to be made on that fellow’s suggestion. From what he knew of Mrs. Tramlay,—and he informed himself that no one knew that lady better,—he would not be surprised if an approved society man might now be entirely welcome as a husband for Lucia, even if he were as poor as a church mouse. And Lucia herself—had she not always longed for larger and more prominent society than she had yet enjoyed?
Before his cigar was burned out, Marge had bought a ticket for New York, determined to make a bold stroke for fortune where he felt that he had at heartone faithful friend to aid him. His imagination and pride combined to cheer him on; he would reappear at Tramlay’s, see how the land lay, and if the signs were encouraging he would propose at once, first taking Mrs. Tramlay into his confidence. He had lost enough by hesitation; now he would adopt entirely new tactics, and there was no pleasanter way to begin than by proposing to Lucia. As he had told himself before, she was a very pretty girl, and fully competent, with such guidance as he would give her, to make the most of her new advantages.
Reaching New York at nightfall, he lost no time in dressing with extreme care and making his way to the Tramlay abode. He would have no difficulty in explaining his long absence to the ladies; perhaps they had heard of his disaster in E. & W., but he could tell them that he had been largely interested in a rich silver-mine ever since. There would be nothing untrue in that statement; had he not been so deeply interested that he could not sleep a wink during the week while the title to the Brighthope mine—curse the rocky hole!—was first in doubt? Besides, women were sure to talk, and equally sure not to diminish the size of a story while telling it: quite likely his tale, repeated by Mrs. Tramlay and Lucia, might have the effect of restoring him to the regard of the many people who estimate a man solely by his money.
As he entered the house he was satisfied that his operations would not be postponed by the announcement “not at home,” for through the open door he heard familiar voices in the rear of the parlor, and hesaw several heads bent over a table. None of them seemed to belong to strangers: so he entered with the freedom to which long acquaintance entitled him. The backs of the entire party were towards him, so his presence was not observed: besides, an animated discussion seemed to be going on between Lucia and Margie.
“I think you’re real mean,” he heard Margie say. Then he heard Lucia reply,—
“No, I’m not. Am I, mamma?”
“No,” said Mrs. Tramlay, as Marge approached close enough to see that they were looking at the floor-plan of a house, spread upon the table.
“My heart is set upon having that room for my very own,” said Margie. “The young lady of the family always has first choice, after her parents.”
“Not where there is a bride to be provided for,” Mrs. Tramlay replied.
“Well said, mamma. There, Margie,” said Lucia; “that room is for Phil and me.”
“Here,” said Tramlay, entering from the library, with a large sheet of paper in his hand, “is the plan of—— Why, Marge!—bless my soul!—when did you get back, old fellow?”
“Mr. Marge!” exclaimed the three ladies in chorus, as they hastily arose.
“What! only just come in?” asked Tramlay. “And of course there was such a clatter here, there being three women together, that nobody could hear a word.”
Apparently the ladies did not agree with the head of the family, for Mrs. Tramlay looked at the visitorpityingly and Lucia dropped her eyes and blushed. But Margie was equal to the situation: her eyes danced as she exclaimed,—
“Just in time to see the plans of the villa we’re to have at Haynton Bay. See? This is the principal chamber floor; it fronts that way, toward the water, and I’ve just been cheated out of the darlingest room of all: it’s been set apart as sacred to the bride and groom. As if the silly things would care to look at water or anything else but each other!”
“It will be as handsome a house as there is on the coast,” said Tramlay, “though your humble servant will be its owner. Say, old fellow, you need New York air: you don’t look as well as usual.”
“A long day of travel,—that is all,” said Marge, with a feeble smile that seemed reluctant to respond to the demand imposed upon it.
Mrs. Tramlay rang for a servant, and whispered,—
“A glass of wine for Mr. Marge.”
“Haynton Bay is booming,” remarked Tramlay. “Have you heard any particulars recently?”
“None at all,” drawled Marge: “I have been so busy that—— Thank you, Mrs. Tramlay,” he said, with a nod and a glance, as the wine appeared.
“We’re doing capitally,” said Tramlay. “It begins to look as if, in spite of all the extra land on which old Hayn bought us options, there won’t be enough sites to meet the demand.”
The news and the wine—both were needed—raised Marge’s spirits so that he ceased to fear he would faint. He finally collected wits and strength enough to say,—
“It’s just the time for me to sell out, then?”
“Sell out?” echoed Tramlay. “It’s just the time to hold on to it. I don’t know of anything, anywhere, that’s making a respectable fraction of the profit that there is in our little company, when the smallness of the investment is considered. I believe, too, we could make twice as much if there was some one who knew buyers well enough to charge appropriate prices. We’ve been selling at set figures, regardless of what some people might be persuaded to pay; prices of such property may as well be fancy, you know, for those who want it will have it at any price. But we’ve nobody to give proper attention to it: Phil’s time is so fully occupied——”
“On account of——” interpolated Margie, pinching her sister’s arm.
“Margie!” said Mrs. Tramlay, severely.
“He is so very busy——” resumed Tramlay.
“Being papa’s partner,” said Margie. “Have you seen the new sign ‘Tramlay and Hayn’ yet? Lu goes down town every day in our carriage, and I don’t believe it’s for anything but to look at that sign——Oh, mamma, you hurt me cruelly then.”
“Well,” said Tramlay, “if I may be permitted to finish a sentence, I’d like to say that if you’ve an hour or two a day of spare time on your hands you could do a first-rate thing for the company, as well as yourself, by keeping an eye on this property. There’s so much in it that I’ve had half a mind to devote myself to it and leave Phil to attend to iron; there’s——”
“For Phil can do it,” said Margie. “You musthave heard of his great Lake and Gulfside order: everybody said it was the greatest——”
“Margie,” said Mrs. Tramlay, in ill-disguised anger, “go to your room, at once. Your father shall be allowed to talk without interruption.”
“Thank you, my dear,” said Tramlay. “As I was saying, Marge, there’s no easier way to make that property bring twice as much money than for you, with your knowledge of who is who in New York, to give some personal attention to it.”
“Thanks for the suggestion,” said Marge. “I’ll think about it. At present, however, I think I’ll say good-by and seek some rest. I merely dropped in for a moment, to pay my respects.”
“Lu,” shouted Margie from the head of the stairs, as Marge was donning his light overcoat in the hall, “don’t let Mr. Marge go until you show him that cunning little lovers’-nook on the plan of the house-front.”
Mrs. Tramlay hurried to the hall and pressed Marge’s hand: he looked down an instant, whispered, “Thank you,” and departed.
“Well, Lou Ann,” said farmer Hayn one morning when the month of May had reached that stage when farmers forget their coats except on Sundays, “it’ll seem ’most like takin’ boarders again to have such a big crowd of city folks in the house, won’t it?”
“Not quite as bad as that,” said Mrs. Hayn, carefully moving an iron over one of the caps which she reserved for grand occasions. “Only Mr. and Mrs. Tramlay an’ the two gals.”
“Well, you ortn’t to forget that Phil is city folks now, an—— I declare to gracious, I believe I forgot to tell you that Miss Dinon,—that splendid gal I told you about, that owns a lot of stock in the company,—Phil’s writ that like enough she’ll come down too. She an’ her mother want to pick a lot for a house for themselves before it’s too late for much of a choice.”
“Well, I can’t understand it yet,” said Mrs. Hayn, carefully picking the lace edging of the cap into the propernégligéeeffect. “It seems like a dream. Here’s me, that’s sometimes been almost a-dyin’ to get away from this farm an’ into the city, an’ there’s a whole passel of city folks goin’ to leave their palaces in New York an’ come down here to live on little pieces ofour farm an’ other farms along the ridge. I tell you, I can’t understand it.”
“Well,” said the farmer, picking some bits of oat chaff from his shirt-sleeve, “it ain’t always easy to understand city folks at first sight. Now, there’s that feller Marge. When I fust saw him in New York I wouldn’t have give him his salt for any work he’d do in the country. Yet now look at him! Them roads an’ drives through the company’s property wouldn’t have been half so near done if he hadn’t come down here an’ took hold to hurry things along for the spring trade. Why, some of them fellers that’s doin’ the work has worked for me on the farm, off an’ on, for years, an’ I thought I knowed how to get as much out of ’em as ther’ was in ’em; but, bless your soul, he manages ’em a good deal better.”
“They do say he’s a master-hand at managin’,” Mrs. Hayn admitted, “an’ that it’s partly because he takes right hold himself, instead of standin’ round bossin’, like most city men.”
“Takes hold? Why, he works as if he’d been brought up at it, which I’m certain sure he never was. You can’t see the fun of it, because you never saw him in New York. Why, if you could have seen him there you’d have thought that a gate-post with two pegs in the bottom of it would have had as much go as him. I’ve reelly took a likin’ to him. More’n once I’ve let him know that I wouldn’t mind if he’d leave the hotel in the village an’ put up with us, but somehow he didn’t seem to take to it.”
“That’s strange, ain’t it?” said Mrs. Hayn, with a quizzical look that made her husband stare.
“Oh!” said the old man, after a little reflection.
“You’re growin’ dretful old an’ short-sighted, Reuben,” said Mrs. Hayn; and the farmer made haste to change the subject of conversation.
A day or two later the party from the city arrived, and great was the excitement in the village. Sol Mantring’s wife, who had learned of what was expected, made a trip to Hayn Farm daily on one pretext or other, reaching there always just before the time of the arrival of the train from the city, received the deserved reward of her industry, and before sunset of the day on which the party arrived everybody in the village knew that when Lucia stepped from the carriage, at the farm-house door, Mrs. Hayn caught her in her arms and almost hugged the life out of her. Everybody knew, also, that the party was to be there for only twenty-four hours.
The shortness of the time at their disposal was probably the reason that Phil and Lucia disappeared almost immediately after the meal which quickly followed their arrival. They went to the lily-pond; there were no lilies yet upon the water, but the couple did not notice their absence; they could see them just where they should be,—just where they were, ten months before. They got again into the old birch-bark canoe; it was not as clean as it should have been for the sake of Lucia’s expensive travelling-dress, for the small boys of the Hayn family had not taken as good care of it as Phil would do, but Phil made a cushion of leaves, which Lucia slowly expanded into a couch, as she half reclined while she identified the scenes which her farmer-boy guideand boatman had shown her the summer before. Phil thought her expression angelic as she dreamily gazed about her; yet when her eyes reverted to him, as they frequently did, he informed himself that there were even gradations of angelic expression.
They even rode in the old beach-wagon; the ocean was still as cold as winter; bathing was out of the question; but Phil had a persistent fancy for reminding his sweetheart of every change there had been in their relations, and in himself; and Lucia understood him.
“It’s dreadfully mean of those two to go off by themselves, and not help us have any fun,” complained Margie to Agnes Dinon, when the latter returned from a stroll with Mr. and Mrs. Tramlay, during which she had selected a satisfactory cottage-site. “Let’s have a run. I know every foot of this country. Do you see that clump of dwarfed cedars off yonder on the ridge, with the sky for a background? They’re lovely: I’ve tried again and again to sketch them. Come over and look at them.”
Away the couple plodded. As they approached the clump they saw that a road had been partly sunk in front of it; and as they drew nearer they saw a man sodding a terrace which sloped from the ridge to the road.
“That’s not right,” said another man, who was looking on. “That sod must be laid more securely, or the first rain will wash it away. I’ll show you how to do it. See here.”
“Agnes Dinon!” exclaimed Margie, in a tone which suggested that a mouse, or at least a snake, was inclose proximity. “Do you hear that voice?—do you see that man? Do you know who he is? That is the elegant Mr. Marge.”
Miss Dinon manifested surprise, but she quickly whispered,—
“Sh-h-h! Yes, I knew he was here, looking after the company’s interests. He is one of the directors, you know.”
“Yes, I know; but see his hat and his clothes,—and his brown hands. This is simply killing! Oh, if I had crayons and paper, or, better still, a camera! The girls at home won’t believe me when I tell them: they’ll think it too utterly preposterous.”
“Why should you tell them?” asked Agnes, turning away. “Isn’t it entirely honorable for a man to be caring for his own and fulfilling his trust, especially when so valuable a property as this is demands his attention?”
“Yes, yes, you dear old thing; but——”
“Sh-h!” whispered Agnes, for just then Marge climbed the slope and appeared a little way in front of them, shouting back at the man,—
“Cut your next sod here: this seems to have thicker grass.”
Suddenly he saw the ladies and recognized them. It was too late to run, as he assuredly would have done if warned in time, but he had the presence of mind to shout to his workman,—
“No, it isn’t, either. Get the next from the old place!”
“Good-morning, Mr. Marge,” said Miss Dinon, with a frank smile and an outstretched hand.
Marge raised his hat, bowed, and replied,—
“The hand of the laboring-man is sometimes best shaken in spirit. I assure you, though, I appreciate the compliment.”
“Then don’t deny me the honor,” said Miss Dinon. “It’s a positive pleasure to see a man doing something manly. It is my misfortune that I see men only in the city, you know, and doing nothing.”
Her hand was still extended, so Marge took it, again raising his hat. Margie turned away; the situation was so comical to her that she felt she must laugh, and she knew by experience that her laughter was sometimes uncontrollable when fairly started.
“Mr. Tramlay says you’ve worked wonders since you’ve been here,” said Miss Dinon, as Marge released her hand; “and, as old Mr. Hayn is his authority, I have no doubt it is so.”
“I imagine that I deserve the company’s thanks,” Marge replied, “though I’m astonished at having mastered some portions of the work so quickly. I think I can astonish you, also, by an honest confession: I really wish something of this sort had turned up years ago; I’m a great deal happier at it than I ever was while worrying my wits over stocks in Wall Street. I think the work far more honorable and manly, too. You’re quite at liberty to repeat this to any of our mutual friends in the city: I’m sure ’twill amuse them, and their laughter won’t annoy me a particle.”
“They wouldn’t laugh,” said Miss Dinon, “if they could breathe this glorious air awhile, and foresee thegold which this ground will yield, unless appearances are deceitful.”
The old beach-wagon, a quarter of a mile away, crawled up the grassy slope from the long stretch of sand, and Phil stopped, as of old, to let the horse breathe after his hard tug at the deep-sinking wheels.
“What a picture those two people make on the hill yonder, beside that green clump!” said Lucia. “Why, the woman is Agnes,—there is Margie, picking daisies far to the right,—and the man Agnes is talking to is some common workman. What a splendid woman she is! She can be as independent as she likes, and no one ever mistakes her meaning. Imagine any other girl of our set standing on a country hill-side, chatting with some boor!”
“Boor?” echoed Phil, running a whole gamut of intonations. “Do you know who that boor is? I recognized him at sight: he was in the village as we passed through, but it didn’t seem kind to call attention to him.”
“Who is he? Do tell me.”
“Mr. Marge.”
“Philip Hayn!” exclaimed Lucia. “Do turn the wagon away, so we don’t seem to be looking at them.”
“Consistency, thy name is not woman,” said Phil, after complying with the request, for Lucia was kneeling on the back seat of the wagon and peering through the little window in the dingy old curtain.
“Not to revive any unpleasant memories,” said Marge, after he and Miss Dinon had chatted several moments, as co-investors, about the property, “but merely to call attention to the irony of fate, it seemsodd to me to contrast to-day and a certain day several years ago. Laugh about it, I beg of you, because I call attention to it only for its laughable side. To-day you do me the honor—which I never shall forget—of pressing your hand upon me, although no stranger could distinguish me from one of my workmen. Then, when in a different sense I wanted your hand, and had the temerity to think myself worthy of it, you withheld it.”
Miss Dinon did not laugh; she looked off toward the sea, and said,—
“You were not then as you are to-day.”
“Thank you. But if I had been?”
Again Miss Dinon looked toward the sea, and said,—
“I might perhaps have been more appreciative.”
“And to-day,” said Marge, gently taking the lady’s finger-tips,—“no, not to-day, but hereafter, is it impossible that I should honestly earn it?”
“Who knows,” said Agnes, gently, “but you?”
“Phil!” gasped Lucia, from the back of the old beach-wagon, “he is kissing her hand!”
“Umph!” said Phil: “what can that mean?”
Lucia looked at him soberly, and replied,—
“What a question for you, of all men, to ask!”
“Why, ’tis only an old-fashioned form of salutation or adieu,” said Phil, “I have your own word for it: don’t you remember?”
For answer, Lucia’s eyes looked from beneath their lashes so provokingly that Phil stepped across his seat and hid each under his moustache for a second or two.
AsMrs. Tramlay remarked at an earlier stage of this narrative, June was as late in the season as was fashionable for a wedding. Thanks, however, to a large infusion of the unexpected into the plans of all concerned, Lucia’s wedding did not have to be deferred until after June. All the invited guests pronounced it as pretty an affair of its kind as the season had known, and the more so because the bride and groom really made a very handsome and noteworthy couple,—an occurrence quite as unusual in the city as in the country.
The only complaints that any one heard were from Haynton and vicinity. The friends and acquaintances of the Hayn family held many informal meetings and voted it an outrage that when such a lot of money was to be spent on a wedding it should all be squandered on New York people, who had so much of similar blessings that they did not know how to appreciate them, instead of Haynton, where the couple would sooner or later make their home; for had not Phil selected a villa-site for himself, on his father’s old farm?
No invitations by card reached Haynton, but Phil’spastor went down quietly to the city to assist at the marriage-service, by special arrangement, and Hayn Farm of course sent a large delegation, and the head of the family saw to it that none of the masculine members wore garments of the Sarah Tweege cut longer than was required to make a thorough change at a reputable clothing-store. As for Mrs. Hayn, her prospective daughter found time enough to assume filial duties in advance, and the old lady was so pleased with the change that ever afterward she was what the late lamented Mr. Boffin would have termed “a high-flyer at fashion.”
But there are souls who laugh to scorn any such trifling obstructions as lack of formal invitation, and one of these was Sol Mantring’s wife. She tormented her husband until that skipper found something that would enable him to pay the expense of running his sloop to New York and back; his wife sailed with him as sole passenger, and on the morning of the wedding she presented herself at the church an hour before the appointed time, and in raiment such as had not been seen in that portion of New York since the days when sullen brownstone fronts began to disfigure farms that had been picturesque and smiling. She laid siege to the sexton; she told him who she was, and how she had held Phil in her arms again and again when he had the whooping-cough, and yet again when he had scarlet fever, although she ran the risk of taking the dread malady home to her own children, and the sexton, in self-defence, was finally obliged to give her a seat in the gallery, over the rail of which, as near the altar as possible, her elaborately-trimmed Sunday bonnet caught the eyes of every one who entered. What all Haynton did not know about that wedding, three days later, was not worth knowing: it was a thousand times more satisfactory than the combined reports in the morning papers, all of which Mrs. Mantring carried home with her and preserved between the leaves of her family Bible for the remainder of her days, and every one in the village read them, even Sarah Tweege, who magnanimously waived the apparent slight implied by Phil not having his wedding-suit made by her.
Mrs. Hayn, Senior, no longer had to wish in vain for a place in the city where she might sometimes forget the cares and humdrum of farm-house life. Risky as the experiment seemed from the society point of view, Lucia, backed by Margie, insisted upon making her at home in the city whenever she chose to come; and, although some friends of the family would sometimes laugh in private over the old lady’s peculiarities of accent and grammar, there were others who found real pleasure in the shrewd sense and great heart that had been developed by a life in which the wife had been obliged to be the partner and equal of her husband.
Before a year passed there was another wedding. Agnes Dinon changed her name without any misgivings; she had previously confessed to Lucia, who in spite of the difference in years seemed to become her favorite confidante, that she had always admired some things about Mr. Marge, and that the business-misfortunes which had compelled him to become the active manager of the Haynton Bay ImprovementCompany seemed to supply what had been lacking in his character and manner.
Other people who were no longer young were gainers by the culmination of the incidents narrated in this tale. Tramlay and his wife seemed to renew their youth under the influence of the new love that pervaded their home, and almost daily the merchant blessed his partner for gains more precious than those of business. He never wearied of rallying his wife on her early apprehensions regarding the acquaintance between her daughter and the young man from the country. Mrs. Tramlay’s invariable reply was the question,—
“But who could have foreseen it? I can’t, to this day, understand how it all came about.”
“Nor I,” her husband would reply. “As I’ve said before, it’s country luck. Nine men of every ten who amount to anything in New York come from the country. Remember it, my dear, when next you have a daughter who you think needs a husband.”
THE END.