When the lid was lifted and Margaret and the two girls looked in, a merry shout went up. Not a drop of soup was in the tureen! The boy craned his head in amazement, and Mrs. Mulligan, who stood by with the plates, and who had broken out into violent gestures at the sight was about to upbraid the boy for his stupidity, when Margaret's quick eye discovered a trail of grease running down the table-cloth, along the floor and out of the door. Whereupon everybody got up, including Richard, and with roars of laughter followed the devious trail out into the hall and so on down the staircase as far as they could see. Only when Mrs. Mulligan on their return to the room held up the tureen and pointed to a leak in its bottom, was the mystery explained.
And so the merry dinner went on.
Ah, dear old man, if these happy days could only have gone on till the end.
On the afternoon of the day following this joyous night--the day the contracts were to be signed, a culmination which would make everybody happy--Margaret hurried up the stairs of her building, and pushed open the door. She knew she should find the inventor waiting for her, and she wanted to be the first to get the glad news from his lips. It was varnishing day at the Academy, and she had gone down to put the last touches on her big portrait--the one of "Madame X." that she had begun in Paris the year before.
Richard did not move when she entered. He was leaning back in the chair she had placed for him, his head on his hand, his attitude one of thoughtful repose, the light of the fast-fading twilight ****** a silhouette of his figure. She thought he was dozing, and so crept up behind him to make sure.
"Ah, my dear, is that you?" he asked. The voice did not sound like Richard's.
"Yes--I thought you were asleep."
"No, my child--I'm only greatly troubled. I'm glad you have come"--and he took her hand and smoothed it with his own. "Bring your stool; I have something to say to you."
Without taking off her bonnet and cloak, she took her place at his feet. The tones of his voice chilled her. A great fear rose in her heart. Why she could not tell.
"Has anything happened to Oliver?" she asked, eagerly.
"No, nothing so terrible as that. It is about the motor. The bankers have refused the loan, and the attorneys have withdrawn the papers."
"Withdrawn the papers! Oh, no it can't be!"
She had leaned forward now, her anxious, startled eyes looking into his.
"Yes, my dear; a Mr. Gorton from Maine has perfected a machine which not only accomplishes what I claim for my own, but is much better in every way.
The attorneys have been looking into this new motor for a week past, so I learn now. Here is their letter"--and he put his hand in his pocket and took out a white envelope. "They will, perhaps, take up Mr. Gorton's machine instead of mine. I made a hasty examination of this new motor this morning with my old friend Professor Morse, and we both agree that the invention is all Mr. Gorton claims for it. It is only a beginning, of course, along the lines of galvanic energy, but it is a better beginning than mine, and I feel sure it is all the inventor claims for it. I have so informed them, and I have also written a letter to Mr. Gorton congratulating him on his success."
The calmness and gentleness of his voice thrilled her.
"I suppose I ought to have telegraphed the news to Mrs. Horn, as I promised," he continued, slowly, as if each word gave him pain, "but I really had not the heart, so I came up here. I've been here all the afternoon hoping you would come in. The room felt a little cold, my dear, and your good woman made a fire for me, as you see. You don't mind, do you?"
Margaret bowed her head on his hands and kissed the thin fingers that lay in her own. Her heart was full to bursting. The pathos of the bent figure, the despairing sound of his voice--so unlike his buoyant tones; the ghostly light that permeated the room, so restful always before, so grewsome and forbidding now, appealed to her in a way she had never known.
She was not thinking of herself, nor of Oliver, nor of the wife waiting for the news at home; she was only thinking of this dear old man who sat with bowed head, his courage gone, all the joyousness out of his life. What hurt her most was her own utter helplessness.
In most things she could be of service: now she was powerless. She knew it when she spoke.
"Is it ended?" she asked at last, her practical mind wanting to know the worst.
"Yes, my child, ended. I wish I could give you some hope, but there is none. I shall go home to-morrow and begin again;--on what I do not know--something--I cannot tell."
