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