EPILOGUE.
Wewere disputing in the train as to whether it was five or six years since Quarry’s death. I said six, and was told that I was always wrong. My adversary evidently considered this second-rate rejoinder a retort. Presently he said, “You may be right, for I think Jarlsen’s boy is five.”
Jerry Black met us at the station; he wore a bailiff’s uniform of corduroy. The Bentleys were very English now, but kinder than ever. We got into an omnibus,and asked Jerry to come too. He had to be urged, for he is still modest.
“How are the Stonepastures?” said I, anxious to start the conversation.
“Lean livin’ yet,” he answered, sighing; “but we’ve got a home for the aged indigent, and a hospital.”
He began to talk in earnest, and, among other things, told us that Emma paid the doctor the week after Quarry died. He said she felt as if she had killed Quarry, but that her marriage had put it out of her head. “The Jarlsens are getting on fine,” he remarked confidentially, “more than happy in their fortunes. August has sold his idea for freight couplers to theplant, and he’s living in the back of the new schoolhouse, and he goes away singing and gets paid for it. He bought a piano with his savings.”
“Emma’s too fine to shave me, I suppose,” said I.
“Don’t name it to her, please,” implored Jerry.
We arrived at the church—it was Bentley’s wedding we were attending—and on either side of the walk through the yard the men and women of the plant waited for the bride. There was not a foot of space left in the church. Bowa stood next me, and with him was Martha Long. “It’s a pleasanter time than the last,” she said as I greeted her. We had been stayingat the plant in the strike when Quarry had gone under, and I was pleased that she remembered it. Black was everywhere. At last he pushed us all back to clear the path for the bride. Bentley was in the church at the chancel.
Then there broke on our eager ears the finest tenor I had ever heard. They say he sang a Swedish wedding song. I don’t care what it was—I almost cried when he stopped. His voice rose high and strong, and seemed to spread like perfume; he sang gladly.
“Who is that?” I asked.
Every one within hearing answered proudly, “Jarlsen.”
THE END.