SOLD.
SOLD.
On the 14th of May, the Pullman palace, Cleopatra, was waiting on a side-track at London, ready to take its first trip. It had been chartered, John the porter said, by a chap from St. Louis, who was going to take quite a party there. A bridal party it was. How large the party was to be, the porter did not know, though it was important enough to him. But he had dusted the new plush, clean as it was, and had wiped off the wood-work, though he could not stain his cloth on it.
Presently the party came, headed by a dark gentleman talking to the station-master. The station-master introduced him to the conductor as Mr. De Alcantara. The eagle eye of the porter saw that there were twelve in the party. He waited for no introduction, but seized the hand-baggage and distributed it to the different sections. Meanwhile the party entered the car.
But though the porter had assigned to each of their grandeurs a section of four seats, they did not mount each a separate throne. On the contrary, a pleasant-looking young lady, who might perhaps be the bride, and two children, sat down in the middle of the car. The rest were distributed according to their different degrees of lack of acquaintanceship.
"I want to bid you good-by now, dears," said the bride to the children. "You see there'll be a great row when you go to bed, and to-morrow morning I'll have hardly time to kiss you. So while they're setting supper ready, and he's talking to papa, I'll tell you each one of my old stories—no, you're so old now, Edward, that I'll tell Amelia two stories, and you can listen if you want to. Then we'll have just as good a good-by as if it were to-morrow, and two—no, three sets of kisses."
"But it's not so very far to St. Louis—so far as to make much of a fuss about; and we'll come and see you, sha'n't we?" said Edward stoutly.
"Yes, if I stay in St. Louis all the time;" and the poor girl told how often she would have to go down the river, and sometimes even across the ocean to Amsterdam. But presently she began on her stories, and the children at least were happy till they were all called to supper.
And then, to the surprise of the porter, the splendid Mr. De Alcantara took out a dried-up little woman whom he had hardly noticed, while Mr. Bryan and the bride filled up the table.
And such a supper as it was! Though it was past eight, the cook gave them as solid a first course as his French education would allow him before he covered the little tables with salads and ices.
To old Bryan's surprise, Hester took a little of De Alcantara's champagne—not as much as her cousins behind her; but he had never known her to take wine even in his flush times. Not that he cared,—he saw two full bottles opposite,—but yet he noticed it. Perhaps it was that which gave her rosier cheeks than she had had for a month; and perhaps it was that which put her in such good spirits.
"I am quite relieved," said she, as the last waiter went out. "I really expected to see a wedding-cake come on after this luxury, and hear that Mr. Prayerbook was in the next car, ready to marry me or bury me."
"If I had known you expected it," said De Alcantara, "I should have had it ready. And even now, I dare say, there is a priest on the train, my dear."
"Oh no, indeed," said Mrs. Goole, who took everything in earnest; "it will be far better for you to retire now with the children. It's nine o'clock, and just think how hard a day you'll have to-morrow."
"I don't know," said Hester. "I think that it is never so hard to do a thing as to make up one's mind to it; and as for going to bed, I don't care to. Perhaps Mr. De Alcantara has a pack of cards or so with him, and then you can have some whist, aunt, and we— Shall we have Sancho Pedro or euchre, your Grace?"
"Grace me no grace," said De Alcantara, as cards were produced—to his credit, be it said, from a friend's portmanteau. "I vote for euchre, if it be for four hands; Pedro by itself is far from exciting."
"Not when it's played for love, your Grace?" said Hester.
Who shall say how much the Don understood of the gambling terms of Great Britain? He stumbled and said, "Certainly, if you put it in that way."
But Hester would not, and so De Alcantara took the home-bridemaid, Lucy Lander, as his partner, and a "son of St. Louis" sat opposite Hester.
"I didn't quite know what to think," said Lucy Lander, afterward, to her sister. "Sometimes I thought she had made up her mind to it, and then again I thought something awful would happen. You see, he kept calling her 'my dear,' and she never blushed nor anything, except once, when she was leaning back, shading her face with her cards, and then her eyes sort of glittered; it could hardly have been the light, you know. And once she had dealt, and the cards fell ace, two, three, four, and then Mr. Gardner, the St. Louis man, said, in a sort of hesitating way, 'That means kiss the dealer, you know'; and then the duke took up her hand, which was lying on the table, but she pulled it away, and said, 'Wait—till to-morrow.' That could have meant anything, you know."
And as Lucy sat and wondered, Hester sat and played, better than Lucy did, perhaps. She did not let De Alcantara kiss her hand, but she did laugh with him, and at him a little. She asked the St. Louis man if her hands were large enough to pass muster there, and then explained that her father took a Chicago paper. Indeed, so loud was the laughter of the gentlemen that Mrs. Goole kept looking round in an anxious way, and trying to catch Hester's eye. But Hester kept her back resolutely turned, and Lucy would not understand any telegrams from the chaperon; so when Mrs. Goole found, to her joy, that it was eleven, she broke up the somewhat shaky whist-table, and spoke to Hester.
"My dear," said she, "it is really too late for any one to stay up any longer. My girls must go, and you too."
So Hester jumped up, kissed her father good-night, and badeau revoirto De Alcantara. Then she turned to section six, directed by the obsequious John.
"Wait," said De Alcantara, "I have a surprise for you;" and he led her to number nine, where her immense Saratoga stood on the sofa. "If you need anything," said he, "you yourself have been careful that you will find it here." And he kissed his hand and walked forward. As Mr. Bryan was following, Mrs. Goole stopped him. Looking round to see that Hester had disappeared, she said,—
"Fergus, that girl of yours doesn't mean to be married to-morrow."
"How do you know that?" said old Bryan.
"I can see it; I've been watching her," said Mrs. Goole. "You see that you have the forward section; I have the rear one. She won't pass me in the night, whatever she does at your end."
"Do you mean to sit up all night?" said poor Bryan.
"Of course I do, fool!" said his tender sister, "and that you shall sit up all night, too. If you don't, there'll be no wedding to-morrow."
"Well," said Bryan, as his sister left him.
He thought it over with a cigar on the front platform, and decided that his sister was right. So he worked his way back to her section, and found her there, sitting on the edge of the berth, as grim as a sentinel at Pompeii.
"I'll do it," said he.
"You'd better," said she.
And so all night he sat on the edge of his berth and tried to read, and then took another cigar on the platform, and then back and forth, till his cigars were gone; but not a wink of sleep passed his eyes that night.
As for Mrs. Goole, who shall say what passed in her vigils? Certain she was that on that night no one passed her but the two conductors and one brakeman. She was once startled at Chimborazo as a new black face appeared; but it was explained that there was a change of porters, and whether Mungo or John it mattered little to her.
And so morning came. No, it is no business of mine to tell who slept and who did not; who dreamed, or what the dreams portended. Sunrise is sure, or well-nigh sure; and even in a sleeping-car morning comes. Mrs. Goole looked a little more scraggy and haggard than usual. The bridemaids did their best, in the way of toilet, in their somewhat limited dressing-room. Baltasar was radiant in a fresh paper collar,—the utmost that even wealth like his could produce, as one travelled forty miles an hour, on the morning of one's wedding-day. Mungo, the porter, "made up" the several sections one after another. From beds they became elegant sofas again, and only section six, Hester's section, was intact. Its heavy curtains hung as at midnight, secured half-way down, as one might see, by a heavy brooch which Baltasar himself had given her.
"Let her sleep," said Lucy Lander. "Perhaps she did not sleep well at first. I did not."
"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Goole grimly; "let her sleep. I never can sleep in these things. I sat up all night without a wink."
"Oh, yes, let her sleep," said her father; and so they dashed on. Eight o'clock passed, half-past eight, nine o'clock, and yet no sign from number six.
Meanwhile obsequious waiters came in from the kitchen-car. The breakfast would be spoiled,—one breakfast had been spoiled already. De Alcantara consulted with old Bryan.
"Lucy," said old Bryan at last to Lucy Lander, "you must wake her. You girls will faint without your coffee. And in half an hour more there will be no breakfast."
Lucy assented, a little unwillingly, went to number six, withdrew the brooch, and put her head inside the curtains, and then—a shriek from Lucy. She flung the curtains back, and no Hester was there!
What was worse, no Hester had been there. The compartment had not been "made up," it would seem. Here were the two sofas, here was theWreck of the Grosvenor, here was a faded nosegay, just as they had left them when they fell to playing euchre. But here was no Hester Bryan. Where was the girl? What had she done with herself?
De Alcantara turned on Mrs. Goole like a wild creature. He was ready to throttle her in his rage. "This is some confounded joke of yours, ma'am!" But no; she was no such actress as to feign that dismay and horror.
"It is he," she shrieked, pointing at her speechless brother, "it is he! He fell asleep, and the minx passed him at his door."
No. Old Bryan was no such fool as to sleep at his post. "Sartin" he had not slept a wink since this porter came upon the train at Chimborazo. Porter and brakemen were alike confident that no one had left the car at either door. The brakemen testified for the whole time. The porter was certain after Chimborazo.
Then the window of number six was examined,—a double window, and stuck fast with new varnish. Everyone remembered that they could not start it the day before, when Hester tried to throw out a banana-peel. And if she had opened both windows, not Rebecca of York herself could have closed them after her, poised upon nothing, and the train rushing underneath at the rate of forty miles.
From section nine, however, which had not been made up, and of which the windows were ajar, Miriam Kuh, one of the St. Louis bridemaids, produced a handkerchief. It had lain on the top of the Saratoga trunk. It was Hester's handkerchief,—one of thetrousseauhandkerchiefs,—and tied in a close knot was the engagement-ring Baltasar de Alcantara had given her. Those windows—the windows of section nine—were ajar. But that proved nothing. Baltasar himself said he started those windows for more air after everyone was asleep. Besides, a hawk could not crowd out of those cracks; and if Hester had opened them further, how did she close them again?
All the same the porter and the brakemen were sure she had flung herself from number nine—most likely when they were crossing "the bridge." The brakeman offered confidentially to show any man for five dollars how it could be done.
Old Bryan was sure Mrs. Goole had slept on her post. Mrs. Goole was sure old Bryan had slept on his.
Baltasar de Alcantara was mad with rage, and the bridemaids were faint with hunger. Miss Kuh gave him the ring and handkerchief, and he flung both out of the open window.
The groomsmen stole forward into the kitchen and ate cold chops and flattened omelets. Some cold coffee was smuggled back to the bridemaids.
And so the express-train arrived at St. Louis, and the loafers at the station watched the arrival of the "special bridal-car," and no bride emerged therefrom! only some very sick bridemaids, some very cross groomsmen, a disgusted bridegroom, an angry father and a frightened aunt, and the gigantic Saratoga trunk.
"Where to?" asked the porters, who staggered under the trunk.
"Nowhere," answered De Alcantara, with a useless oath. "Leave it in your baggage-room till it is called for."
And he went his way.
CAUGHT AND TOLD.
CAUGHT AND TOLD.
Yet there was a wedding after all! The sexton and organist at St. Jude's had not been summoned for nothing, nor the parsons. It was not in vain that Ax, Kidder, & Co. had spread a whole piece of Brussels carpet across the wide pavement of Eleventh Street, from the curb-stone up the church-steps into the very porch.
For, as Baltasar de Alcantara left the Central Station, just as he was stepping into the elegant coupé which awaited him, a wild, foreign-looking woman, with a little child in her arms, sprang across his way.
"Take your baby to your wedding," the wild creature cried, crazy with excitement.
Baltasar de Alcantara stopped a full minute without speech, looking at her. Then he laughed grimly. "Hold your jaw," he said. "You're just in time. You'll do. Stop your howling. Go dress yourself decently in a travelling dress, and be at the church at twelve,—not one minute late nor one minute early,—and, mind, a thick veil. Moses, go with her, and see that she is there."
And so he entered his coupé and rode to his hotel. And at noon his party passed up his aisle, and this Bohemian woman, led by Moses Gardner, walked up the other aisle. There was the least hitch in the service, as De Alcantara bade the minister substitute the name of Faris for Hester. But of the company assembled, not ten people knew that it was not the Ohio beauty who passed on De Alcantara's arm from the chancel to the vestry.
In the vestry, however, there was a different scene. Baltasar, black with rage, was still trying to be civil to the minister's clerk, whom he found there with a book, waiting for the bridegroom's signature. As he took the pen, from the side-door another gentleman entered, and, without giving the bridegroom time to write, said to him, "You will please come with me, sir."
"And who are you?" said De Alcantara, with another useless oath.
"You know me very well. I could have arrested you upstairs, but I am good-natured. I have the governor's warrant to deliver you to this gentleman, who arrived from London this morning. He represents the chief of police there. You are to answer in London for receiving Lady Eustace's diamonds. We have been waiting for you since Tuesday, but this gentleman only arrived this morning."
De Alcantara turned speechless upon the other, who, with the well-trained civility of an officer of high rank in the English police, hardly smiled. But the two recognized each other at a glance. De Alcantara had known the other long before. And even he felt that rage and oaths were useless.
"No," he said, as the other offered handcuffs; "parole d'honneur." But the handcuffs were put on. And the officers declined his civil offer of his own coupé.
On the registry of St. Jude's Church there is one certificate which lacks the signature of the bridegroom and the bride.
In the state-prison at Amsterdam, prisoner No. 57, in Corridor D, is sentenced to hard labor for fourteen years. He is the Duke de Alcantara, without his mustache, and with very little of the rest of his hair. The London authorities gave him up to the Dutch, when they found that these last had the heaviest charges against him.
De Alcantara had known that the United States had no extradition treaty with Holland, but he had not rightly judged the ingenuity of the Dutch police.
Whoever else was at this wedding, old Bryan was not there, nor was Mrs. Goole. But thanks to the enterprise of the evening press of St. Louis, old Bryan learned, before five o'clock, where his son-in-law that was to be was spending his honeymoon. So did Mrs. Goole.
She waited on her brother to ask where she should go next. He bade her go home, and never let him see her face again. Nor did she, so far as I know.
For him, the poor "old" man—one can but pity him—took a return ticket to Blunt Axe, which is the station nearest to the bridge. There must be some watchman at the bridge, and perhaps he would know something. At the Central Station the obsequious Pullman's porter met him.
"Cleopatra, sir? Have your choice of berths, sir. Going home empty, sir."
So little did the porter remember the haggard man. Old Bryan did not reply. He shuffled by the porter. But the question reminded him of the Saratoga trunk, and after a moment's doubt he went to claim it.
"No, sir. Bring the check, sir. No baggage given here, sir, without the checks." Poor old man, he could even see the trunk. But the check, most likely, was in De Alcantara's pocket. He tried to explain.
"No use talking, sir. You keep this gentleman waiting. Bring the check." And all poor old Bryan could do was to select a seat in the car most distant from that fatal Cleopatra. The Pullman porter could enlist but three passengers for her,—Lucy Lander and the frightened Bryan children.
No! it was morning before they had any companions to whom to tell dreams or adventures. But, early in the morning, the train stops at Chimborazo. Poor old Bryan had left it in the night at Blunt Axe, and was even then scanning the rails of the fatal bridge and peering down into the river. Was this blood or iron-rust? Was yonder white gleam a bit of his child's clothing?
The train stops at Chimborazo. And Lucy Lander and the children are not to be longer alone. Horace Ray enters. Jane Forsyth enters. And here are Fanny and Alice and Emma—all the girls—and Walter and Siegfried and James—all the boys. We change porters. Here comes John, the boy we started with on the wedding journey.
Scree! Scree! "All aboard!" The train dashes away.
"John, you make up six," says Horace, to the amazement of all the others; and Horace stands by as John unbolts the upper berth and lets it down.
And there, as fresh as a rose, as if she were just waking from happy dreams—there lies, there smiles, our Hester! Yes, it is she. She rises on her elbow, she jumps into Horace's arms. Fairly before all these people—are they not friends, and true friends?—kisses her, and she kisses him.
"Did you sleep well, my darling?"
"I believe—well, I believe it has not seemed long. Yes, I must have slept sometimes."
And Horace slipped the old engagement-ring upon the naked finger.
"You may bring in breakfast, John."
And this time the breakfast was hot, the appetites were sure, and, without champagne, the party was merry.
Lucy Lander told the fate of Baltasar. Jane Foryth asked where the Saratoga trunk was, and Hester produced the check from her own pocket.
At the crossing at New Dutzow the Cleopatra was detached from the express-train, and, to the marvel of waiting Buckeye boys, passed up on the virgin rails of the Scioto Valley Line, unaccustomed to such wonders. A special engine was waiting. A short hour brought the merry party to Kiowa Centre. There was Horace's buggy, there were carriages galore, and a more modest procession than that of yesterday took them to the Methodist meeting-house.
And there Asbury Perham, who told me the end of the story, asked Horace Ray if he would have this woman to be his wedded wife. And he said, "I will."
And there the existence of Hester Bryan, my pretty friend, under that particular name which she had borne from her infancy, ended.
Yes, Mr. Keesler told me the story, virtually in confession. It is a queer story, and I was somewhat at loss as to the counsel I was to give him. So I take the gentle reader into my confidence and his. I may as well say, as I begin, that it was not in Boston or in Brooklyn or in New York that this happened. The place was a sea-board town, where most of the people lived in a pretty suburb, but came into the old compact city for their work and for their amusements.
THE PAINT-SHOP.
THE PAINT-SHOP.
"It all began with the paint-shop," he said.
I knew that "the dumb man's borders still increase," so I asked no question what the paint-shop was, and by listening I learned.
"The paint-shop was in the garden of the little house Bertha and I had hired just after Elaine was born. When the agent gave me the keys, he said, 'There is a paint-shop in the garden, but you can make that useful for something.'"
So, indeed, it proved. Max Keesler and Bertha Keesler did make the paint-shop good for something, as you shall see, if you dare keep on with the story. But he never thought of it at the beginning.
Max had married Bertha, prudently or imprudently, as you may think—prudently, I think—just because he loved her and she loved him. They were not quite penniless; they were not at all penniless. He had two or three thousand dollars in the savings-bank, and she had rather more in bonds. Max had a good berth, the day he was married, in a piano-forte factory. He earned his twenty-five dollars a week, with a good chance to earn more. I do not think they were imprudent at all.
But while they were on their wedding journey a panic began. Max always remembered afterward that he read of the first gust of misfortune in a Tribune which he bought in the train as they came from Niagara. That was the first gust, but by no means the last. The last? I should think not. Gusts, blasts, hurricanes, and typhoons came. Half the business establishments of the country went to the bottom of the oceans they were cruising on, and among the rest poor Max's own piano-forte factory. Nay, it seemed to Max that every other piano factory he ever heard of had gone under, or was likely to.
So that when the little Elaine was born, and they wanted to leave the boarding-house, which they hated, Max was out of work, and they were as economical as they could be. Still they determined that they would hire rooms somewhere, and keep house. Bertha knew she could manage better than that odious Mrs. Odonto, who polished their teeth so with her horrid steaks. And it ended in their hiring—dog-cheap, because times were so bad—this tumble-down old house on the corner of Madison Avenue and Sprigg Court, which, as you know, had a paint-shop in the garden.
"The truth is," said the agent, "that the Cosmopolitan Railway Company, when they began, hired the barn and fitted it up for a paint-shop. They would leave their cars there to dry. But that was long ago. And no one has wanted to hire these premises till now. You don't happen to know a painter you could underlet the shop to?"
No. Max knew no such painter. But he figured to himself better times, when they would fit up the paint-shop as a sort of summer music-room. And it was pleasant to know that they had something to let, if only any one wanted to hire.
All the same, as he said to me when he began his confession, all his guilt, if it were guilt, all the crime, where there was crime, was "along of the paint-shop," as the reader, if he be patient, shall see.
THE WOMAN BEGAN IT.
THE WOMAN BEGAN IT.
"Did you ever notice," said Bertha, at tea one night, "that the rails still run into the paint-shop, just as when the railway people painted their cars there?"
"Why, of course I have," said Max, surprised. "They took up the frog in the avenue, but the old rails were not worth taking."
"I suppose so," said Bertha meekly. "I have been thinking," she said—"I have been wondering whether—don't you think we might—just while business is so dull, you know—have a car of our own?"
"Have a car of our own!" screamed Max, dropping knife and fork this time. "What do we want of a car?"
"We don't want it," said Bertha, "of course, unless other people want it." But then she went on to explain that, no matter how hard were the times, she observed that the street-cars were always full. People had to stand in them at night coming out from the theatre, although that did not seem right or fair. Bertha had measured the paint-shop, and had found that there was room enough in it not only for a car, but for two horses. The old loft of its early days, when it served for a stable, was left as it was made, big enough for a ton or two of hay. It had occurred to Bertha that, as Max had nothing else to do, he might buy two horses and a street-car, and earn a penny or two for Elaine's milk and oatmeal by running an opposition to the Cosmopolitan Company.
Max loved Bertha, and he greatly respected her judgment. But he was human, and therefore he pooh-poohed her plan as absurd—really because it was hers. All the same, after supper he went out and looked at the paint-shop; and the next morning he climbed into the loft and measured it. Poor Max, he had little enough else to do. He sawed and split all the wood. He made the fire. He would fain have cooked the dinner and set the table, but Bertha would not let him. He had nothing else to do. Not a piano-forte hammer was there to cover between the Penobscot and the Pacific, and the panic seemed more frightened and more frightful than ever. So Max did not waste any valuable time, though he did spend an hour in the old hay-loft.
And at dinner it was he who took up the subject.
"Who did you suppose would drive the horse-car, Bertha?"
"Why, I had thought you would. I knew you were on their list for a driver's place at the Cosmopolitan office. And I thought, if you had your own car, you could be your own driver."
"And who was to be conductor?"
Then Bertha shut the window, for fear the little birds should hear. And she said that it had made so much fun at Christmas when she dressed up in Floyd's ulster, and that even Max's father had not known her, that she had been thinking that if they only made evening trips, when it was dark, if Max always drove she should not be afraid to be conductor herself.
Oh, how Max screamed! He laughed, and he laughed, as if he had never laughed before. Then he stopped for a minute for breath, and then he laughed again. At first Bertha laughed, and then she was frightened, and then she was provoked.
"Why should I not be conductor? If you laugh any more, I shall offer myself to the company to-morrow, and I will wear a crimson satin frock, and a hat with an ostrich feather. Then we will see which car is the fullest. Cannot I hand a gentleman in quite as well as this assiduous squinting man who hands me in? Can't I make change as fast as that man who gave you a fifteen-cent bill for a quarter? I will not be laughed at, though I am a woman."
So Max stopped laughing for a minute. But he had laughed so much that they discussed no more details that day. Any allusion to fares or platforms or the rail was enough to make his face redden, and to compel him to crowd his handkerchief into his mouth. And Bertha would not encourage him by laughing when he did.
A LODGMENT MADE.
A LODGMENT MADE.
All the same a lodgment had been made. The idea had been suggested to Max, and the little seed Bertha had planted did not die. Poor fellow! his name was on the lists of all the railway companies, and so were the names of five thousand other fellows out of work. His name was also on the postmaster's list of applicants for the next vacancy among clerks or carriers. The postmaster was amazingly civil; asked Max to write the name himself, so that there need be no mistake. So Max observed that his name came at the bottom of the seventh long column of K's, there being so many men whose name began with K who needed employment. He calculated roughly, from the size of the book, that about seven thousand men had applied before him. Then he went to the mayor to see if he could not be a policeman, or a messenger at the City Hall. He had first-rate introductions. The mayor's clerk was very civil, but he said that they had about eight thousand people waiting there. So Max's chances of serving the public seemed but poor.
And thus it was that he haunted the paint-shop more and more. At first he had no thought, of course, of anything so absurd as Bertha's plan; still, all the same, it would do no harm to think it over, and the thinking part he did, and he did it carefully and well. He went through all the experiences of driver and of conductor in his imagination. He made it his duty to ride on the front platform always as he went to town or returned, that he might catch the trick of the brakes, and be sure of the grades. Nay, he learned the price of cars, and found from what factories the Cosmopolitan was supplied.
When a man thus plans out a course of life, though he thinks he does it only for fun, it becomes all the more easy to step into it. If he has learned the part, he is much more likely to play it than he would be if he had it still to learn. And as times grew harder and harder, when at last Max had to make a second hole in his bank deposit, and a pretty large one too, tired with enforced idleness, as he had never been by cheerful work, Max took one of those steps which cannot be retraced. He wrote, what he used to call afterward "the fatal letter," on which all this story hangs.
But this was not till he had had a careful and loving talk with Bertha. He loved her more than ever, and he valued her more than ever, after this year and a half of married life. And Bertha could have said the like of Max. There was nothing she would not do for him, and she knew that there was nothing he would not do for her.
Max told her at last that he felt discouraged. Everybody said, "Go West": but what could he do at the West? He did not know how to plough, and she did not know how to make cheese. No. He said he had laughed at her plan of the street-car at first, but he believed there was "money in it." They would have to spend most of their little capital in the outfit. A span of horses and a car could not be had for nothing. But once bought, they were property. He did not think they had better try to run all day. That would tire Bertha, and the horses could not stand it. But if she were serious, he would try. He would write to Newcastle, to a firm of builders whom the Cosmopolitan had sometimes employed. He would look out for a span of horses and proper harness. If she would have her dress ready, they could at least try when the car arrived. If she did not like it, he would make some appeal to the builders to take the car off his hands. But, in short, he said, if she did not really, in her heart, favor the plan, he would never speak of it nor think of it again.
He was serious enough now. There was no laughing nor treating poor Bertha's plan as a joke. And she replied as seriously. They had always wished, she said, that his work was what she could help in. Here seemed to be a way to earn money, and, for that matter, to serve mankind too, where they could work together. True, the custom had been to carry on this business by large companies. But she saw no reason why a man and his wife should not carry it on as well as forty thousand shareholders. If it took her away from the baby, it would be different. But if they only went out evenings, after the little girl had gone to sleep, why, she always slept soundly till her father and mother came to bed, and Bertha would feel quite brave about leaving her.
So, as I said, the lodgment was made. After this serious talk, Max wrote the fatal letter to the car-builders.
It was in these words:—
"351 MADISONAVENUE, April 1, 1875.
"DEARSIR,—Can you furnish one more car, same pattern and style as the last furnished for the Cosmopolitan Company? The sooner the better. You will be expected to deliver on the Delaware Bay Line of steamers for this port, and forward invoice to this address.
"Respectfully yours,"MAXKEESLER."
To which came an answer that fortunately they had on hand such a car as he described, and that as soon as the last coat of paint and lettering could be put on, it should be shipped. Max wrote by return mail to order the words "Madison Avenue Line" painted on each side, to direct that the color should be the same as that of the Madison Avenue Line, and he inclosed a banker's draft for the amount. Never had the Newcastle builders been better pleased with the promptness of the pay.
And everything happened, as Max told me afterward, to favor his plans. TheRichard Pennsteamer chose to arrive just before seven o'clock in the afternoon. Max was waiting at the pier with his span of horses. The car could be seen prominent in the deck cargo. The clerks and agents were only too glad to be rid of her at once. Quarter of an hour did not pass before some sturdy Irishmen had run her upon the branch-rails which went down the pier. The horses behaved better than he dared expect. When he brought his new treasure in triumph into the paint-shop, and found Bertha, eager with excitement, waiting for him there, he told her that he had rejected, he believed, a hundred passengers by screaming, "Next car—next car!" as he had driven up through the city into the more sequestered avenue.
It was too late to go back, had they doubted.
But they did not doubt.
AN EXPERIMENT.
AN EXPERIMENT.
Bertha heard with delight, listened eagerly, and sympathized heartily. When Max had told his tale, he went round to his handsome span of horses to take off their collars and headstalls.
"Stop a minute, Max," said Bertha, who held his lantern; "stop a minute,—if you are not too tired. We shall do nothing else to-night. Suppose we just try one trip,—just for fun."
"But you are not ready."
"I? I will be ready as soon as you are. See!" and she vanished into the harness-room. Max hardly believed her; but he did unfasten his horses, a little clumsily, led them round to the other end of the car, and hooked on the heavy cross-bar; ran open the sliding-door of the shop, and looked out upon the stars; went to the back platform and loosened the brake there; and then, as he stepped down, he met a spruce, wide-awake young fellow, who said, "Hurry up, driver! Time's up; can't wait all night here."
"Bertha, my child," cried Max, "your own mother would not know you!"
"As to that, we'll see," said the young man. "All aboard!" and she struck the bell above her head with the most knowing air.
The trouble was, as Max said afterward, to run the wheels into the street-rails when no one was passing. But he had, with a good deal of care, wedged in some bits of iron, which made an inclined plane on the outside of the outer rail, and as the car was always light when he started, the horses and he together soon caught the knack. A minute, and they were free of the road, bowling along at the regulation pace of seven miles an hour. For their trip down and back they were quite free from official criticism. The office was at the upper end of Madison Avenue, a mile or more above them.
And never did young lover by the side of his mistress drive his span of bays through Central Park with more delight than Max drove Bertha in that glad minute when she stood on the platform by his side, before they were hailed by their first passenger.
Bertha will remember that old woman to her dying day,—an old Irishwoman, who, as Bertha believes, kept a boarding-house. She had with her an immense basket, redolent of cabbage, and of who shall say what else. No professional conductor would have let her carry that hundredweight of freight without an extra fare. But Bertha was so frightened as she asked for one fare that she had no thought of claiming two. Bertha made a pretext of helping the woman with the basket, knowing, as she did so, that it would have anchored her to the roadway had she been left alone with it. When basket and owner were well inside the car, Bertha put her head into the doorway, and said, as gruffly as she knew how, "You must put that basket with the driver if you expect us to take it." The poor woman was used to being bullied more severely, and meekly obeyed.
Next three giggling girls with two admirers, glorious in white satin neckties, all on their way to the Gayety, all talking together with their highkeyed voices, and each of the three determined not to be the one neglected in the attentions of the two. Great frolic, laughter, screaming on the high key, and rushing back and forward, before they determined whether they would sit all on one side, or three on one seat and two on the other, and in the latter case, which girl should be the third. Riot and screaming not much silenced by the entrance of three old gentlemen, also in white neckties, on their way to the Thursday Club. Two paper-hangers, late from an extra job, have to place their pails on the front platform, and stand there with their long boards. Next comes a frightened shop-girl from the country. It is her first experiment in going down to the city at night, and long ago she wished she had not tried it. But Bertha hands her in so pleasantly, and insists on making a seat for her so bravely that the poor, pale thing looks all gratitude as she cuddles back in the corner and makes herself as small as she can.
And at last there are so many that poor Bertha must force herself to go through the car and take up the fares. Nor is it so hard as it seemed. Some give unconsciously. Some are surprised, and dig out the money from deep recesses, as if it were an outrage that they should be expected to pay. One old gentleman even demands change for five dollars. But Bertha was all ready for that. She is more ready for the hard exigencies than she is for the easy ones. And when she comes to the front platform she taps the two paper-hangers quite bravely, and has quite a gruff voice as she bids Max to be sure and stop at the South Kensington crossing before they come to the gutter.
By and by, as they come nearer the city proper, the car and platforms fill up. Bertha pushes through on her second and third tour of collection, and at last, at a stop, runs forward to her husband. "Be sure you stop at Highgate. I shall be inside. But all these theatre people leave there." This aloud, and then she leaned down to whisper, "There are three men smoking on the platform, and they make me sick. What can I do?"
"I should like to thrash them," said Max, in a rage. "But you must bully them yourself. I'll stand by you, and will call an officer if there is a row."
Bertha gained new life, worked steadily back through the crowded passage, opened the door, and spoke:—
"Smoking not permitted, gentlemen. Lady faint inside."
Without a whisper the three men emptied their pipes and pocketed them, and Bertha had won her first great victory. The second never costs so much as the first, nor is it ever so remembered.
"Could you know—should you know—can you tell—about when we come to 97 Van Tromp Street, and would you kindly stop there?" This was the entreating request of the poor, frightened shop-girl.
"Certainly, ma'am; you said 97?" said Bertha, as grimly as before to the boarding-house keeper, but determined that that girl should go right, even if the car stopped an hour.
And when they came to 97, Bertha handed her down, and led her to the door, and pealed at the bell as if she had been a princess. "Oh, I thank you so!" said the poor, shrinking girl. "And please tell me when your car goes back. I will be all ready."
This, as Bertha says to this hour, was the greatest compliment of her life.
They came home light, for it was in that dead hour before the theatres and concerts are pouring out their thousands. Bertha did not forget 97 Van Tromp Street, and her poor little ewe-lamb was waiting at the door as the great car stopped itself, uncalled. As they approached Sprigg Court there was but one passenger left,—a poor tired newspaper man, going out to Station 11 to see who had cut his throat in that precinct, or what child had been run over.
"Far as we go," said Bertha, in her gruffest voice.
And the poor fellow, who was asleep, tumbled out, not knowing where he was, and unable, of course, to express his surprise.