CHAPTER XIX
EXEUNT OMNES, AS SHAKESPEARE HAS IT
At four in the morning Baldpate Inn, wrapped in the arms of winter, hadall the rare gaiety and charm of a baseball bleechers on Christmas Eve.Looking gloomily out the window, Mr. Magee heard behind him the steps onthe stairs and the low cautions of Quimby, and two men he had broughtfrom the village, who were carrying something down to the dark carriagethat waited outside. He did not look round. It was a picture he wishedto avoid.
So this was the end--the end of his two and a half days of solitude--theend of his light-hearted exile on Baldpate Mountain. He thought ofBland, lean and white of face, gay of garb, fleeing through the night,his Arabella fiction disowned in the real tragedy that had followed. Hethought of Cargan and Max, also fleeing, wrathful, sneering, by Bland'sside. He thought of Hayden, jolting down the mountain in that blackwagon. So it ended.
So it ended--most preposterous end--with William Hallowell Magee madly,desperately, in love. By the gods--in love! In love with a fairgay-hearted girl for whom he had fought, and stolen, and snapped hisfingers at the law as it blinked at him in the person of ProfessorBolton. Billy Magee, the calm, the unsusceptible, who wrote of a popularcupid but had always steered clear of his shots. In love with a girlwhose name he did not know; whose motives were mostly in the fog. And hehad come up here--to be alone.
For the first time in many hours he thought of New York, of the fellowsat the club, of what they would say when the jocund news came that BillyMagee had gone mad on a mountainside, He thought of Helen Faulkner,haughty, unperturbed, bred to hold herself above the swift catastrophiesof the world. He could see the arch of her patrician eyebrows, the shrugof her exquisite shoulders, when young Williams hastened up the avenueand poured into her ear the merry story. Well--so be it. He had nevercared for her. In her superiority he had found a challenge, in her icyindifference a trap, that lured him on to try his hand at winning her.But he had never for a moment caught a glimmering of what it was reallyto care--to care as he cared now for the girl who had gone fromhim--somewhere--down the mountain.
Quimby dragged into the room, the strain of a rather wild night in UpperAsquewan Falls in his eyes.
"Jake Peters asked me to tell you he ain't coming back," he said. "Mis'Quimby is getting breakfast for you down at our house. You better packup now and start down, I reckon. Your train goes at half past six."
Mrs. Norton jumped up, proclaiming that she must be aboard that train atany cost. Miss Thornhill, the professor and Kendrick ascended thestairs, and in a moment Magee followed.
He stepped softly into number seven, for the tragedy of the rooms wasstill in the air. Vague shapes seemed to flit about him as he lighted acandle. They whispered in his ear that this was to have been the sceneof achievement; that here he was to have written the book that shouldmake his place secure. Ah, well, fate had decreed it otherwise. It hadset plump in his path the melodrama he had come up to Baldpate to avoid.Ironic fate, she must be laughing now in the sleeve of her kimono.Feeling about in the shadows Magee gathered his things together, putthem in his bags, and with a last look at number seven, closed the doorforever on its many excitements.
A shivering group awaited him at the foot of the stair. Mrs. Norton'shat was on at an angle even the most imaginative milliner could not haveapproved. The professor looked older than ever; even Miss Thornhillseemed a little less statuesque and handsome in the dusk. Quimby led theway to the door, they passed through it, and Mr. Magee locked it afterthem with the key Hal Bentley had blithely given him on Forty-fourthStreet, New York.
So Baldpate Inn dropped back into the silence to slumber and to wait. Towait for the magic of muslin, the lilt of waltzes, the tinkle oflaughter, the rhythm of the rockers of the fleet on its verandas, theformal tread of the admiral's boots across its polished floors, theclink of dimes in the pockets of its bell-boys. For a few brief hoursstrange figures had replaced the unromantic Quimby in its rooms, theyhad come to talk of money and of love, to plot and scheme, and as theycame in the dark and moved most swiftly in the dark, so in the dark theywent away, and Baldpate's startling winter drama took reluctantly itsfinal curtain.
Down the snowy road the five followed Quimby's lead; Mr. Magee picturingin fancy one who had fled along this path but a short time before; theothers busy with many thoughts, not the least of which was of Mrs.Quimby's breakfast. At the door of the kitchen she met them, maternal,concerned, eager to pamper and to serve, just as Mr. Magee rememberedher on that night that now seemed so long ago. He smiled down into hereyes, and he had an engaging smile, even at four-thirty in the morning.
"Well, Mrs. Quimby," he cried, "here is the prodigal straight from thatold husk of an inn. And believe me, he's pretty anxious to sit down tosome food that woman, starter of all the trouble since the world began,had a hand in."
"Come right in, all of you," chirruped Mrs. Quimby, ushering them into apleasant odor of cookery. "Take off your things and sit down.Breakfast's most ready. My land, I guess you must be pretty nigh starvedto death. Quimby told me who was cooking for you, and I says to Quimby:'What,' I says, 'that no account woman-hater messing round at a woman'sjob, like that,' I says. 'Heaven pity the people at the inn,' I says.'Mr. Peters may be able to amuse them with stories of how Cleopatrawhiled away the quiet Egyptian evenings,' I says, 'and he may be able tothrow a little new light on Helen of Troy, who would object to having itthrown if she was alive and the lady I think her, but,' I says, 'when itcomes to cooking, I guess he stands about where you do, Quimby.' Yousee, Quimby's repertory consists of coffee and soup, and sometimes it'shard to tell which he means for which."
"So Mr. Peters has taken you in on the secret of the book he is writingagainst your sex?" remarked Billy Magee.
"Not exactly that," Mrs. Quimby answered, brushing back a wisp of grayhair, "but he's discussed it in my presence, ignoring me at the time.You see, he comes down here and reads his latest chapters to Quimby o'nights, and I've caught quite a lot of it on my way between thecook-stove and the sink."
"I ain't no judge of books," remarked Mrs. Norton from a comfortablerocking-chair, "but I'll bet that one's the limit."
"You're right, ma'am," Mrs. Quimby told her. "I ain't saying that someof it ain't real pretty worded, but that's just to hide the falsehoodunderneath. My land, the lies there is in that book! You don't need toknow much about history to know that Jake Peters has made it over to fithis argument, and that he ain't made it over so well but what the oldseams show here and there, and the place where the braid was is plain asdaylight."
After ten more minutes of bustle, Mrs. Quimby announced that they couldsit down, and they were not slow to accept the invitation. The breakfastshe served them moved Mr. Magee to remark:
"I want to know where I stand as a judge of character. On the firstnight I saw Mrs. Quimby, without tasting a morsel of food cooked by her,I said she was the best cook in the county."
The professor looked up from his griddle cakes.
"Why limit it to the county?" he asked. "I should say you were tooparsimonious in your judgment."
Mrs. Quimby, detecting in the old man's words a compliment, flushed aneven deeper red as she bent above the stove. Under the benign influenceof the food and the woman's cheery personality, the spirits of the crowdrose. Baldpate Inn was in the past, its doors locked, its seven keysscattered through the dawn. Mrs. Quimby, as she continued to press foodupon them, spoke with interest of the events that had come to pass atthe inn.
"It's so seldom anything really happens around here," she said, "I justbeen hungering for news of the strange goings-on up there. And I mustsay Quimby ain't been none too newsy on the subject. I threatened tocome up and join in the proceedings myself, especially when I heardabout the book-writing cook Providence had sent you."
"You would have found us on the porch with outstretched arms," Mr. Mageeassured her.
It was on Kendrick that Mrs. Quimby showered her attentions, and whenthe group rose to seek the station, amid a consult
ation of watches thatrecalled the commuter who rises at dawn to play tag with a flippanttrain, Mr. Magee heard her say to the railroad man in a heartfelt aside:
"I don't know as I can ever thank you enough, Mr. Kendrick, for puttingnew hope into Quimby. You'll never understand what it means, when you'vegiven up, and your life seems all done and wasted, to hear that there'sa chance left."
"Won't I?" replied Kendrick warmly. "Mrs. Quimby, it will make me a veryhappy man to give your husband his chance."
The first streaks of dawn were in the sky when the hermits of Baldpatefiled through the gate into the road, waving good-by to Quimby and hiswife, who stood in their dooryard for the farewell. Down through sleepylittle Asquewan Falls they paraded, meeting here and there a tired manwith a lunch basket in his hand, who stepped to one side and franklystared while the odd procession passed.
In the station Mr. Magee encountered an old friend--he of the mop ofginger-colored hair. The man who had complained of the slowness of thevillage gazed with wide eyes at Magee.
"I figured," he said, "that you'd come this way again. Well, I must sayyou've put a little life into this place. If I'd known when I saw youhere the other night all the exciting things you had up your sleeve, I'da-gone right up to Baldpate with you."
"But I hadn't anything up my sleeve," protested Magee.
"Maybe," replied the agent, winking. "There's some pretty giddy storiesgoing round about the carryings-on up at Baldpate. Shots fired, andstrange lights flashing--dog-gone it, the only thing that's happenedhere in years, and I wasn't in on it. I certainly wish you'd put me wiseto it."
"By the way," inquired Magee, "did you notice the passengers from hereon the ten-thirty train last night?"
"Ten-thirty," repeated the agent. "Say, what sort of hours do you thinkI keep? A man has to get some sleep, even if he does work for arailroad. I wasn't here at ten-thirty last night. Young Cal Hunt was onduty then. He's home and in bed now."
No help there. Into the night the girl and the two hundred thousand hadfled together, and Mr. Magee could only wait, and wonder, as to themeaning of that flight.
Two drooping figures entered the station--the mayor and his faithfullieutenant, Max. The dignity of the former had faded like a flower, andthe same withered simile might have been applied with equal force to theaccustomed jauntiness of Lou.
"Good morning," said Mr. Magee in greeting. "Taking an early train, too,eh? Have a pleasant night?"
"Young man," replied Cargan, "if you've ever put up at a hotel in a townthe size of this, called the Commercial House, you know that lastquestion has just one answer--manslaughter. I heard a minister say oncethat all drummers are bound for hell. If they are, it'll be a pleasantchange for 'em."
Mr. Max delved beneath his overcoat, and brought forth the materials fora cigarette, which he rolled between yellow fingers.
"If I was a drummer," he said dolefully, "one breakfast--was that whatthey called it, Jim?--one breakfast like we just passed through woulddrive me into the awful habit of reading one of these here books of_Drummers' Yarns_."
"Sorry," smiled Magee. "We had an excellent breakfast at Mrs. Quimby's.Really, you should have stayed. By the way, where is Bland?"
"Got shaky in the knees," said Cargan. "Afraid of the reformers. Ain'thad much experience in these things, or he'd know he might just as welltremble at the approach of a blue-bottle fly. We put him on a traingoing the other direction from Reuton early this morning. He thinks he'dbetter seek his fortune elsewhere." He leaned in heavy confidence towardMagee. "Say, young fellow," he whispered, "put me wise. That littlesleight of hand game you worked last night had me dizzy. Where's thecoin? Where's the girl? What's the game? Take the boodle and welcome--itain't mine--but put me next to what's doing, so I'll know how myinstalment of this serial story ought to read."
"Mr. Cargan," replied Magee, "you know as much about that girl as I do.She asked me to get her the money, and I did."
"But what's your place in the game?"
"A looker-on in Athens," returned Magee. "Translated, a guy who hadbumped into a cyclone and was sitting tight waiting for it to blow over.I--I took a fancy to her, as you might put it. She wanted the money. Igot it for her."
"A pretty fairy story, my boy," the mayor commented.
"Absolutely true," smiled Magee.
"What do you think of that for an explanation, Lou," inquired Cargan,"she asked him for the money and he gave it to her?"
Mr. Max leered.
"Say, a Broadway chorus would be pleased to meet you, Magee," hecommented.
"Don't tell any of your chorus friends about me," replied Magee. "Imight not always prove so complacent. Every man has his moments offalling for romance. Even you probably fell once--and what a fall wasthere."
"Can the romance stuff," pleaded Max. "This chilly railway stationwasn't meant for such giddy language."
Wasn't it? Mr. Magee looked around at the dingy walls, at the soiledtime-cards, at the disreputable stove. No place for romance? It was herehe had seen her first, in the dusk, weeping bitterly over the seeminglyhopeless task in which he was destined to serve her. No place forromance--and here had begun his life's romance. The blue blithe sailorstill stood at attention in the "See the World" poster. Magee winked athim. He knew about it all, he knew, he knew--he knew how alluring shehad looked in the blue corduroy suit, the bit of cambric pressedagonizingly to her face. Verily, even the sailor of the posters saw theworld and all its glories.
The agent leaned his face against the bars.
"Your train," he called, "is crossing the Main Street trestle."
They filed out upon the platform, Mr. Magee carrying Mrs. Norton'sluggage amid her effusive thanks. On the platform waited a strangerequipped for travel. It was Mr. Max who made the great discovery.
"By the Lord Harry," he cried, "it's the Hermit of Baldpate Mountain."
And so it was, his beard gone, his hair clumsily hacked, his body garbedin the height of an old and ludicrous fashion, his face set bravelytoward the cities once more.
"Yes," he said, "I walked the floor, thinking it all over. I knew itwould happen, and it has. The winters are hard, and the sight of you--itwas too much. The excitement, the talk--it did for me, did for my oath.So I'm going back to her--back to Brooklyn for Christmas."
"A merry one to you," growled Cargan.
"Maybe," replied Mr. Peters. "Very likely, if she's feeling that way. Ihope so. I ain't giving up the hermit job altogether--I'll come back inthe summers, to my post-card business. There's money in it, if it'shandled right. But I've spent my last winter on that lonesome hill."
"As author to author," asked Magee, "how about your book?"
"There won't be any mention of that," the hermit predicted, "inBrooklyn. I've packed it away. Maybe I can work on it summers, if shedoesn't come up here with me and insist on running my hermit businessfor me. I hope she won't, it would sort of put a crimp in it--but if shewants to I won't refuse. And maybe that book'll never get done.Sometimes as I've sat in my shack at night and read, it's come to methat all the greatest works since the world began have been those thatnever got finished."
The Reuton train roared up to them through the gray morning, and pausedimpatiently at Upper Asquewan Falls. Aboard it clambered the hermits,amateur and professional. Mr. Magee, from the platform, waved good-by tothe agent standing forlorn in the station door. He watched the buildinguntil it was only a blur in the dawn. A kindly feeling for it was in hisheart. After all, it had been in the waiting-room--