“Is it a dream?” he asked, “or is it really you, Mamie?”
“Oh, it isn’t a dream,” she answered, laughing.
He drew a deep breath of relief as he looked up at her, and then glanced about the familiar room.
“I’ve dreamed so many times,” he said, “and always you were bending over me—a sort of guardian2 angel—‘guarding me, out of all the world.’”
Her colour heightened and her eyes grew bright.
“It’s sweet of you to say that,” she said.
“And you’re sure I’m not dreaming?”
“No—but you were; you were crying out—”
“Yes—I thought I was still in that old stone house. And I was crying for you, Mamie!”
“For me?”
“Yes, for you—just as I have done a dozen times before.”
He stopped for an instant and gazed up into her eyes, and his lips were trembling.
“Do you know why, Mamie?” he asked, at last. “Can’t you guess why?”
Something in his face brought the hot colour to her cheeks, and she struggled to free herself from his arm.
“Let me go, Allan,” she pleaded. “You mustn’t—”
“Not yet. Not just for a moment. Do you know what you are to me, Mamie? The dearest thing in life! And I’m going to kiss you.”
“No, no!” she cried. “Allan—”
But he drew her lips down to his—such tender lips they were, so sweet, so dewy.
“And I’m going to marry you as soon as I get well,” he announced, his cheek against hers. “And we’ll live happy ever after, like the prince and princess in the fairy tale. That is, of course, provided the princess is agreeable.”
She drew a quick, startled breath, and lay still for a moment, warm against his heart; then she drew his hands away, raised herself and looked down at him with shining eyes.
“Do you mean it, Allan?” she whispered.
“Mean it? I mean it as I never meant anything else. Put that little ear of yours down to my lips, Mamie. I want to tell you something.”
“Put your ear down.”
And Mamie bent a pink ear to his lips.
“I love you!” he whispered into it, and kissed it.
Again a quick breath shook that gentle bosom—a breath of sheerest ecstasy—then, with a quick movement, Mamie turned her head and laid her lips to his.
“And I you!” she said. “And, oh, Allan, you have made me happy!”
“Nothing to what I am.”
“Oh, yes,” she contradicted, seriously. “Much happier. You see, I never thought that you—that I—”
“Well, go on.”
“I never thought that I was good enough.”
“Good enough! You’re a thousand times too good. That’s what worries me, Mamie.”
“I—I thought maybe, after you were married, you—you’d let me keep house for you, or something of that sort, so that I could see you—”
“I won’t listen!” cried Allan, and stopped her lips.
“Oh, but you must,” she said, freeing herself, “because I want you to know. I would have been quite happy doing that.”
“Poor little Cinderella!”
“But the Prince has come, and the slipper4 fits. I shall always believe in fairy tales, after this,” she added, her eyes shining, “because I know one that’s come true.”
They were silent for a moment, too full of their new happiness for any need of words. Then she snuggled her cheek close to his.
“When did you begin to love me, Allan?” she whispered, shyly.
“That day when I picked you up from in front of the locomotive.”
“Seriously, Allan; tell me.”
“I don’t know,” he said, drawing back so that he could see her rosy5, tender face. “I started long before I knew it—away back when you were a little girl, I guess. I can see now how it grew and grew and made its foundation more and more secure, so that there was no shaking it; but I never woke to it till that night I came home from Cincinnati and you met me at the door. Then it struck me all of a sudden, and it was all I could do to keep from taking you in my arms—”
Mamie gave a delighted little wiggle.
“I knew it!” she said. “I saw it—and—I’m ashamed to confess it, Allan!”
“To confess what?”
“How badly I wanted you to—and how I tried to make you.”
He laughed delightedly.
“Really? Why, you little siren!”
“Yes; but then, you know, I’d loved you much longer than you had me.”
“How much longer?”
“Oh, ages longer; since that very first time, I think. You know, I kissed you then.”
“Yes, I seem to remember something of the sort.”
“Only, of course, at first,” she added, “I didn’t think about your loving anybody else, or care.”
“You were afraid of that?”
“You did, you know,” she said, accusingly.
“Not really, Mamie,” he protested, earnestly. “Not like this—not in the least like this. Betty Heywood was right when she said I was never in love with her—it was with girls in general, but not with her.”
“Oh, yes, it does; it isn’t in the least like being in love with an individual. Mamie,” he asked, suddenly, “I’ve never been able to understand. What was it led you to me out there in that old house?”
“My love,” she answered, promptly7. “I don’t think it the least strange, Allan. When you fell down the stairs, you called me and I heard. How could I have helped but hear?”
“Yes; I suppose that was it,” he agreed, holding her closer. “But it was wonderful just the same.”
“I think anything else would have been wonderful. It seems to me the most natural thing in the world. I shall always hear, when you call me, Allan.”
“Will you? Well, we’ll see. When are we going to get married, Mamie?”
“Oh,” she said, and pulled herself away, and sat upright, with flaming cheeks. “Not for a long time—two years, anyway. You know, I’m only seventeen.”
“You thought that was a great age, not so very long ago.”
“It doesn’t seem so great now—and since we know we love each other, what does anything else matter?”
“It matters a good deal. I’ll see about it just as soon as I can get about.”
“Maybe I won’t marry you after all!”
“I’m not afraid. You’re dying for me—come now, own up.”
For an instant Mamie hesitated—the traditions of her sex held her back. Then she flung herself forward upon him and hugged him tight.
“I am—I am,” she cried. “And it shall be whenever you say, Allan!”
And just then, Mary opened the door and looked in.
“Mamie,” she began, and then stopped astonished at the sight that met her eyes.
But Mamie had rushed to her and thrown her arms around her neck and was holding her tight.
“Oh, mummy, mummy!” she cried. “Guess! You could never guess! Allan—we’re—”
She stopped, stammering10 with sheer joy, and Mary, taking her by the shoulders, held her off and looked at her—at the starry11 eyes, at the blushing cheeks, at the smiling lips; and then, for the first time in her life, Mary Welsh quite gave way, collapsed12 into a chair, threw her apron13 over her head and sobbed14 as though her heart would break.
“Why, mummy!” cried Mamie.
“It’s nothin’! It’s nothin’!” sobbed that good woman. “Let—let me be—don’t you see it’s for joy, you foolish children,” and the storm passing as quickly as it had come, she pulled her apron down again, and kissed them both. “It’s the happiest day of my life—Oh, I have hoped for it and prayed for it—but I never thought—wait till I tell Jack15! An’ him out on th’ road an’ not comin’ back till t’morrer night! Mamie,” she added, eyeing her offspring sternly, “do you know where you ought t’ be? You ought t’ be down on your knees thankin’ heaven fer such a man—the best an’ kindest on God’s green earth!”
“Oh, come!” protested Allan, laughing. “No, he’s not; not by a good deal.”
“An’ if ever,” she continued, “you give him cause for sorrow or misgivin’, you’ll answer to me, young lady—that you will!”
And then, suddenly relenting, she caught Mamie to her and kissed her again.
“An’ now I guess I’d better take you away,” she added. “You’ll be excitin’ the boy too much.”
“Oh, nonsense!” Allan cried. “Exciting me, indeed! Don’t you see I’m a hundred per cent. better—there never was such medicine. Take her away, and I’ll go into a decline right off!”
“Well, I’ll leave her, then,” said Mary; “but mind you take your medicine!”
And she went out and closed the door after her.
Mamie came back and sat down by the bedside.
“I’ve got a lot to learn, you know, Allan,” she began seriously. “There’s the cooking—”
“Why, you’re a splendid cook.”
“Not nearly so good as mummy. And I wouldn’t have you miss her cooking.”
“Why, I won’t miss anything, you little goose, if I have you. I’ll have to look for a house. There’s a new one going up right back on Second street—it looks pretty nice—”
But just then, his instrument began to call him.
“There’s Mr. Schofield,” he said, and answered, as Mamie handed the board up to him.
“How are you?” was the first question.
“Coming along fine,” Allan answered. “Will be out in a day or two.”
“That’s great. We need you. Things here are in pretty bad shape, but I’m hoping they will calm down. All the trouble is caused by a lot of loafers, and I’m trying to find out who it is that’s behind them. You heard about the fire at the stock-yards?”
“Yes, Stanley told me.”
“We’ve got the men who did that, and intend to put them through, but I’m sure there’s somebody back of them, and we’re trying to get a confession17.”
“Do you think it’s the strikers?”
“No; or if it is, it’s a gang of the less scrupulous18 ones.”
“That’s what Stanley thinks. He says Bassett’s at the head of it.”
“That’s a good idea—worth working on, anyway. Suppose you tell Stanley to have one of his best men keep an eye on Bassett. If he starts for Cincinnati, let me know and I’ll have him shadowed at this end. How are things at Wadsworth?”
“Stanley was just here and reported everything quiet. He says he’s worried, though, by a lot of tough-looking strangers who have showed up recently in the depot19 saloons.”
“Well, don’t take any chances. Swear in all the deputies you need. And keep everybody out of the yards.”
“I’ve already ordered that. Have we men enough to run the trains?”
“We’re a little short, but there’s another squad20 coming on from the east to-night. There have been a lot here looking for jobs, but I’m afraid to hire them. Don’t hire anybody at Wadsworth, unless you’re sure of them. We must hold our men together. I think the strikers are getting tired and another week will see the end of it.”
“I hope so.”
“The only thing I’m afraid of and want to guard against is a flare-up at the end. And that’s what I want you to watch for and try to prevent. Some of the young fire-eaters may feel so sore when they know they’ve lost the strike that they’ll try to take it out on us.”
“All right; and I’ll get out myself just as soon as I can.”
“Take your time—I don’t want you to get a relapse. I’ve heard all about that adventure of yours. I’ll tell you what I think about it when I see you.”
“I didn’t do anything. It was Jack Welsh and Reddy Magraw.”
“I’ve heard about them, too. And what’s this story about a young damsel leading the rescuers?”
“That was Welsh’s daughter.”
“I want to meet her when I get back to Wadsworth.”
“What is it, Allan?” asked Mamie. “I know you’re saying something about me by the way you’re laughing.”
But Allan silenced her with a wave of the hand.
“You know what you ought to do,” added Mr. Schofield.
“What?”
“Marry her.”
“Keep me posted about Bassett.”
“I will.”
“Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” clicked Allan, and pushed the instrument away.
“I see I’ll have to learn telegraphy,” said Mamie. “I can’t have you talking about me to people right before me and me not understanding a word of it! What was he saying?”
“He said he wanted to meet the heroine.”
“Yes; and what else?”
“He said it was up to me to marry her.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“I told him she was willing, but I hadn’t made up my mind.”
“Yes,” said Mamie, reflectively, looking sternly at his laughing face, “I’ll certainly have to learn telegraphy.”
“There’s only three words you need know,” said Allan. “Here they are,” and, finger on key, he clicked off slowly, .. — .. ...-. .. .. . . ..-
“And what do they mean?”
“‘I love you,’” he answered.
“I think I like them better spoken,” said Mamie; “and I suppose I’ll have to forgive you.”
Joy is a great restorer, and the next twenty-four hours worked a big improvement in Allan’s condition. The wound on his head was healing nicely, and he had almost recovered from the weakness which the loss of blood had occasioned. A broken collar-bone is at no time a very dangerous injury, and in the case of this young and vigorous fellow it had already begun to knit, though, of course, his shoulder would stay in splints for a fortnight yet. From the general shock which he had suffered, his strong young body rallied quickly, and on the afternoon of the day following the conversation just recorded, the doctor announced that he might leave his bed and sit up a while.
“And to-morrow, doctor,” Allan added, “I’m going down to the office.”
“We’ll see,” said the doctor, laughing. “I don’t say you sha’n’t go; but I hope it won’t be necessary. I’d like to keep you quiet here for a day or two yet—you’ll gain by it in the end.”
It was in his chair that Stanley found him when he came to make his report.
“No special developments,” he said. “A few more strangers, but none of them has offered to give any trouble. I got the police to railroad a few of them out of town. I think the mayor’s seein’ a light. You know, this strike hasn’t been conducted any too well—or maybe it was because our side of it has been handled right—but the strikers are sort of losin’ heart. Bassett’s made a blamed fool of himself since it started. He’s been drunk most of the time, and had a fight last night, at the lodge23 meetin’ with Jim Adams, one of the oldest engineers on the road. You know he’s always had a grudge24 ag’in Adams, anyway—he’s tried t’ do fer him afore this.”
“Yes,” said Allan. “We’ve always suspected he tried to send him through the Jones Run bridge by running past it that night it was on fire.”
“I don’t doubt he did,” said Stanley. “Anyway, he got white-hot last night. I hear that even the special delegate sided ag’in him, and told him that if it happened ag’in, he’d be fired from the brotherhood25. And I hear that Bassett’s drunker’n ever to-day, and threatens t’ cause more trouble at the meetin’ to-night. If he does, I think the jig’s up.”
“Well, we won’t count on it. Have you got enough men to patrol the yards thoroughly26?”
“I’ve got thirty—that ought to be enough. I’ve got a string all around the yards. Nobody can git in who can’t show his business.”
“Not even after night?”
“Are the trains moving all right?”
“On the dot—and another thing—I hear that the conductors have definitely refused to join the strike. I guess they see which way the wind’s blowin’.”
“I’m glad of that—if all the brotherhoods28 were as sensible.”
“Oh, they’ll make you pay fer it the next time they have a grievance,” said Stanley, with a grin. “They’ll remind you how they stood by you, and so will the brakemen.”
Evening came, and with it, Jack. Allan heard him coming up the stairs, and called to him to come in before he had time to knock.
“Come in and sit down,” said Allan. “How’s everything out on the line?”
“Foine as silk. An’ it certainly does me good t’ see you settin’ up. That doctor’s all right.”
“Oh, it wasn’t the doctor,” cried Allan. “Jack, don’t you know—didn’t they tell you?”
Jack’s honest face was a-gleam, as he took Allan’s outstretched hand.
“Yes,” he said, “they told me. An’ it’s a happy man I am, Allan West—happier ’n I ever thought I could be!”
“And it’s a happy man I am, Jack Welsh,” said Allan. “You can trust her to me, Jack,” he added, earnestly. “I’ll be good to her.”
“Don’t I know it, boy! It’s a lucky girl she is—an’ a lucky family. It’s—it’s—Allan, boy, if I’d thought an’ thought, I couldn’ ’a’ thought of anything that would make me happier. Who’s that?” he added, as a heavy step sounded on the stair.
“Faith, an’ it’s Reddy Magraw!” cried a familiar voice. “Your old woman was jest tellin’ me, Jack, when I come in t’ ask after th’ boy, there—tellin’ me about him an’ Mamie. An’ I jest couldn’t go away without seein’ both of you. Jack Welsh,” he added, sternly, “what have ye got t’ say?”
“Nothin’. I’m too full t’ say anything, Reddy.”
“Well, then, I’ll say it fer ye,” said Reddy; “an’ it’s this. I’d rather have a darter of mine wife to that boy there than t’ the king of England. Yes, an’ if I had a dozen darters, an’ he wanted ’em, I’d say take ’em—an’ I’d be sorry I hadn’t more!”
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1
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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4
slipper
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| n.拖鞋 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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6
pouted
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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7
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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8
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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9
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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10
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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11
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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12
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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13
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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14
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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15
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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16
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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17
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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18
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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19
depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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squad
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| n.班，小队，小团体；vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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21
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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23
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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24
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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25
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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26
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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27
owls
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| n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
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28
brotherhoods
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| 兄弟关系( brotherhood的名词复数 )； （总称）同行； （宗教性的）兄弟会； 同业公会 | |
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