The Apple of Discord
TextEPILOGUE
Big Sam was as good as his word. As soon as Moon Ying was pronounced in a state to receive callers, his Chinese merchant abated so much of his dignity as to pay a stately visit to the Kendrick house. He fell several points below the standard of eligibility set by Miss Kendrick and Miss Fillmore. But Moon Ying asserted her individuality to the extent of approving him with such earnestness as to weep at unfavorable comments. At this demonstration of affinity, Mercy Fillmore promptly surrendered her doubts. Miss Kendrick went around with her nose tip-tilted for a full day, but as Moon Ying continued to weep, she finally said:
"Well, I suppose you couldn't expect to get anything better out of Chinatown."
This form of approval was not resented, either by the enamored merchant or the fair Moon Ying. So the marriage was celebrated in double form: First, and with many protests, one of which went even to the length of a temporary rupture of the marriage negotiations, there was a lawful Christian ceremony at the Kendrick house. On this point the protectresses were inexorable. Therefore, before the Reverend Doctor Western, appeared Lan Yune Yow, portly, shiny, erect, dressed like a rainbow and looking convinced that he was making a fool of himself; and Moon Ying, radiant in silks, dazzling with pearls and embroideries, and beaming with celestial happiness; and in lawful form they were pronounced man and wife. Secondly, there was a wedding in Chinatown, which was reported to be the most magnificent celebration ever witnessed in the oriental quarter. We were not favored with an invitation to this part of the marriage ceremonies, but we were participants in the wedding-feast, for there descended on the Kendrick house such a shower of Chinese confections and nuts and fruits that it seemed impossible that any could be left for the bidden guests.
So Moon Ying went out of our lives, and carried with her our lasting gratitude for the services she had unconsciously rendered.
Mr. Baldwin affected not to see me the next time we met, and then repenting of his churlishness gave me his congratulations; but he never called again at the Kendrick house, and presently consoled himself by marrying the heiress of the Bellinger fortune.
Wharton Kendrick recovered strength slowly, but at last resumed his place at the head of his business. He enlivened his convalescence by telling me how much better he could have managed certain details of our campaign if he could have been in command; but when he was wholly himself again he made more handsome acknowledgments of his approval–both verbal and financial–than I had a right to expect. While he was still on his sick-bed, I asked him if he would mind telling me the origin of the Bolton-Kendrick feud, now that it was all over.
"I'm ashamed to tell it," he said. "But if you will have it, the whole thing started with a blackboard caricature that I drew of Bolton when we were barefoot boys together at the old school-house. He retaliated by drawing attention to a caricature I had made of the teacher, and I can feel the tingle yet from the licking I got. It went on from one thing to the other, like a fire spreading from a little match, until even San Francisco wasn't big enough to hold both of us. Sounds foolish when you tell it, doesn't it? But it's been serious enough."
When the subject of an approaching wedding was broached to Wharton Kendrick, I had an indistinct impression that he thought his niece could have done better. But as the date drew near, I had no fault to find with his growing enthusiasm, and indeed had to enter into conspiracy with Laura to curb his extravagance. He gave away the bride with exemplary dignity, made a speech that set the wedding-table in a roar, and as we drove away, sent a farewell shoe after me with such unerring aim that I spent the first part of the honeymoon in an odor of arnica and opodeldoc. And even now a whiff of liniment carries me back in fancy to that happy time.
Mercy Fillmore made a most charming bridesmaid at our wedding, and General Wilson was so loud in her praise, and so frank in telling what he would do if he were thirty years younger, that she went through the evening with an unwonted color in her face. But a few months later she was married–at our house, and with many misgivings on our part–to Parks. But we were happily disappointed in our fears. Whether from the calming influence of Mercy, or the black eye bestowed upon him by an ungrateful constituency, Parks ceased to be a militant reformer, and turned his energies to the prosaic but more remunerative business of selling groceries. He cut his hair, and though on occasion he delivers addresses before numberless clubs, in which he declares that the remedy for the evils of society is to be found in socialism, he is careful to insist that this panacea is to be applied in the distant future, and is not adapted to present conditions.
It is a good many years since I married my wife, and it is my candid opinion that she is prettier than ever. I can join the children in testifying that her talent for managing a family is unsurpassed. Perhaps there is a little more of it than is absolutely necessary, but it is some time since I ceased to offer that suggestion. As for me–well, I've grown stouter than in the hurrying days of old; but Mrs. Hampden affects to believe that a portly form is highly becoming in a man, and I shouldn't think of being the one to contradict her.
POSTSCRIPT
The author offers his apologies to the Muse of History for a few liberties that have been taken with chronology in the tale. Kearney's rise to prominence followed instead of preceding the riots of 1877. Otherwise, the history of the time, where touched on, has been faithfully followed, and, I hope, the spirit of the self-reliant men who organized a city for its own defense has given some inspiration to these pages.
The city of which the tale is told is gone. Such buildings of the era as had survived the march of time and progress were swept away by the mightiest conflagration of history, and all that is left of the old San Francisco is a memory. That the new city that springs from its ashes may prove as picturesque as the old, and be animated by the same spirit, is the hope of the author of these pages.