NEW YORK
June 4, 1901.
I
At eight o'clock in the inner vestibule of the Auditorium Theatre by
the window of the box office, Laura Dearborn, her younger sister Page,
and their aunt--Aunt Wess'--were still waiting for the rest of the
theatre-party to appear. A great, slow-moving press of men and women in
evening dress filled the vestibule from one wall to another. A confused
murmur of talk and the shuffling of many feet arose on all sides, while
from time to time, when the outside and inside doors of the entrance
chanced to be open simultaneously, a sudden draught of air gushed in,
damp, glacial, and edged with the penetrating keenness of a Chicago
evening at the end of February.
The Italian Grand Opera Company gave one of the most popular pieces of
its repertoire on that particular night, and the Cresslers had invited
the two sisters and their aunt to share their box with them. It had
been arranged that the party should assemble in the Auditorium
vestibule at a quarter of eight; but by now the quarter was gone and
the Cresslers still failed to arrive.
"I don't see," murmured Laura anxiously for the last time, "what can be
keeping them. Are you sure Page that Mrs. Cressler meant here--inside?"
She was a tall young girl of about twenty-two or three, holding herself
erect and with fine dignity. Even beneath the opera cloak it was easy
to infer that her neck and shoulders were beautiful. Her almost extreme
slenderness was, however, her characteristic; the curves of her figure,
the contour of her shoulders, the swell of hip and breast were all low;
from head to foot one could discover no pronounced salience. Yet there
was no trace, no suggestion of angularity. She was slender as a willow
shoot is slender--and equally graceful, equally erect.
Next to this charming tenuity, perhaps her paleness was her most
noticeable trait. But it was not a paleness of lack of colour. Laura
Dearborn's pallour was in itself a colour. It was a tint rather than a
shade, like ivory; a warm white, blending into an exquisite, delicate
brownness towards the throat. Set in the middle of this paleness of
brow and cheek, her deep brown eyes glowed lambent and intense. They
were not large, but in some indefinable way they were important. It was
very natural to speak of her eyes, and in speaking to her, her friends
always found that they must look squarely into their pupils. And all
this beauty of pallid face and brown eyes was crowned by, and sharply
contrasted with, the intense blackness of her hair, abundant, thick,
extremely heavy, continually coruscating with sombre, murky
reflections, tragic, in a sense vaguely portentous,--the coiffure of a
heroine of romance, doomed to dark crises.
On this occasion at the side of the topmost coil, a white aigrette
scintillated and trembled with her every movement. She was
unquestionably beautiful. Her mouth was a little large, the lips firm
set, and one would not have expected that she would smile easily; in
fact, the general expression of her face was rather serious.
"Perhaps," continued Laura, "they would look for us outside." But Page
shook her head. She was five years younger than Laura, just turned
seventeen. Her hair, dressed high for the first time this night, was
brown. But Page's beauty was no less marked than her sister's. The
seriousness of her expression, however, was more noticeable. At times
it amounted to undeniable gravity. She was straight, and her figure,
all immature as yet, exhibited hardly any softer outlines than that of
a boy.
"No, no," she said, in answer to Laura's question. "They would come in
here; they wouldn't wait outside--not on such a cold night as this.
Don't you think so, Aunt Wess'?"
But Mrs. Wessels, a lean, middle-aged little lady, with a flat, pointed
nose, had no suggestions to offer. She disengaged herself from any
responsibility in the situation and, while waiting, found a vague
amusement in counting the number of people who filtered in single file
through the wicket where the tickets were presented. A great, stout
gentleman in evening dress, perspiring, his cravatte limp, stood here,
tearing the checks from the tickets, and without ceasing, maintaining a
continuous outcry that dominated the murmur of the throng:
"Have your tickets ready, please! Have your tickets ready."
"Such a crowd," murmured Page. "Did you ever see--and every one you
ever knew or heard of. And such toilettes!"
With every instant the number of people increased; progress became
impossible, except an inch at a time. The women were, almost without
exception, in light-coloured gowns, white, pale blue, Nile green, and
pink, while over these costumes were thrown opera cloaks and capes of
astonishing complexity and elaborateness. Nearly all were bare-headed,
and nearly all wore aigrettes; a score of these, a hundred of them,
nodded and vibrated with an incessant agitation over the heads of the
crowd and flashed like mica flakes as the wearers moved. Everywhere the
eye was arrested by the luxury of stuffs, the brilliance and delicacy
of fabrics, laces as white and soft as froth, crisp, shining silks,
suave satins, heavy gleaming velvets, and brocades and plushes, nearly
all of them white--violently so--dazzling and splendid under the blaze
of the electrics. The gentlemen, in long, black overcoats, and satin
mufflers, and opera hats; their hands under the elbows of their
women-folk, urged or guided them forward, distressed, preoccupied,
adjuring their parties to keep together; in their white-gloved fingers
they held their tickets ready. For all the icy blasts that burst
occasionally through the storm doors, the vestibule was uncomfortably
warm, and into this steam-heated atmosphere a multitude of heavy odours
exhaled--the scent of crushed flowers, of perfume, of sachet, and
even--occasionally--the strong smell of damp seal-skin.
Outside it was bitterly cold. All day a freezing wind had blown from
off the Lake, and since five in the afternoon a fine powder of snow had
been falling. The coachmen on the boxes of the carriages that succeeded
one another in an interminable line before the entrance of the theatre,
were swathed to the eyes in furs. The spume and froth froze on the bits
of the horses, and the carriage wheels crunching through the dry,
frozen snow gave off a shrill staccato whine. Yet for all this, a crowd
had collected about the awning on the sidewalk, and even upon the
opposite side of the street, peeping and peering from behind the broad
shoulders of policemen--a crowd of miserables, shivering in rags and
tattered comforters, who found, nevertheless, an unexplainable
satisfaction in watching this prolonged defile of millionaires.
So great was the concourse of teams, that two blocks distant from the
theatre they were obliged to fall into line, advancing only at
intervals, and from door to door of the carriages thus immobilised ran
a score of young men, their arms encumbered with pamphlets, shouting:
"Score books, score books and librettos; score books with photographs
of all the artists."
However, in the vestibule the press was thinning out. It was understood
that the overture had begun. Other people who were waiting like Laura
and her sister had been joined by their friends and had gone inside.
Laura, for whom this opera night had been an event, a thing desired and
anticipated with all the eagerness of a girl who had lived for
twenty-two years in a second-class town of central Massachusetts, was
in great distress. She had never seen Grand Opera, she would not have
missed a note, and now she was in a fair way to lose the whole overture.
"Oh, dear," she cried. "Isn't it too bad. I can't imagine why they
don't come."
Page, more metropolitan, her keenness of appreciation a little lost by
two years of city life and fashionable schooling, tried to reassure her.
"You won't lose much," she said. "The air of the overture is repeated
in the first act--I've heard it once before."
"If we even see the first act," mourned Laura. She scanned the faces of
the late comers anxiously. Nobody seemed to mind being late. Even some
of the other people who were waiting, chatted calmly among themselves.
Directly behind them two men, their faces close together, elaborated an
interminable conversation, of which from time to time they could
overhear a phrase or two.
"--and I guess he'll do well if he settles for thirty cents on the
dollar. I tell you, dear boy, it was a _smash!"_
"Never should have tried to swing a corner. The short interest was too
small and the visible supply was too great."
Page nudged her sister and whispered: "That's the Helmick failure
they're talking about, those men. Landry Court told me all about it.
Mr. Helmick had a corner in corn, and he failed to-day, or will fail
soon, or something."
But Laura, preoccupied with looking for the Cresslers, hardly listened.
Aunt Wess', whose count was confused by all these figures murmured just
behind her, began over again, her lips silently forming the words,
"sixty-one, sixty-two, and two is sixty-four." Behind them the voice
continued:
"They say Porteous will peg the market at twenty-six."
"Well he ought to. Corn is worth that."
"Never saw such a call for margins in my life. Some of the houses
called eight cents."
Page turned to Mrs. Wessels: "By the way, Aunt Wess'; look at that man
there by the box office window, the one with his back towards us, the
one with his hands in his overcoat pockets. Isn't that Mr. Jadwin? The
gentleman we are going to meet to-night. See who I mean?"
"Who? Mr. Jadwin? I don't know. I don't know, child. I never saw him,
you know."
"Well I think it is he," continued Page. "He was to be with our party
to-night. I heard Mrs. Cressler say she would ask him. That's Mr.
Jadwin, I'm sure. He's waiting for them, too."
"Oh, then ask him about it, Page," exclaimed Laura. "We're missing
everything."
But Page shook her head:
"I only met him once, ages ago; he wouldn't know me. It was at the
Cresslers, and we just said 'How do you do.' And then maybe it isn't
Mr. Jadwin."
"Oh, I wouldn't bother, girls," said Mrs. Wessels. "It's all right.
They'll be here in a minute. I don't believe the curtain has gone up
yet."
But the man of whom they spoke turned around at the moment and cast a
glance about the vestibule. They saw a gentleman of an indeterminate
age--judged by his face he might as well have been forty as
thirty-five. A heavy mustache touched with grey covered his lips. The
eyes were twinkling and good-tempered. Between his teeth he held an
unlighted cigar.
"It is Mr. Jadwin," murmured Page, looking quickly away. "But he don't
recognise me."
Laura also averted her eyes.
"Well, why not go right up to him and introduce ourself, or recall
yourself to him?" she hazarded.
"Oh, Laura, I couldn't," gasped Page. "I wouldn't for worlds."
"Couldn't she, Aunt Wess'?" appealed Laura. "Wouldn't it be all right?"
But Mrs. Wessels, ignoring forms and customs, was helpless. Again she
withdrew from any responsibility in the matter.
"I don't know anything about it," she answered. "But Page oughtn't to
be bold."
"Oh, bother; it isn't that," protested Page. "But it's just because--I
don't know, I don't want to--Laura, I should just die," she exclaimed
with abrupt irrelevance, "and besides, how would that help any?" she
added.
"Well, we're just going to miss it all," declared Laura decisively.
There were actual tears in her eyes. "And I had looked forward to it
so."
"Well," hazarded Aunt Wess', "you girls can do just as you please. Only
I wouldn't be bold."
"Well, would it be bold if Page, or if--if I were to speak to him?
We're going to meet him anyways in just a few minutes."
"Better wait, hadn't you, Laura," said Aunt Wess', "and see. Maybe
he'll come up and speak to us."
"Oh, as if!" contradicted Laura. "He don't know us,--just as Page says.
And if he did, he wouldn't. He wouldn't think it polite."
"Then I guess, girlie, it wouldn't be polite for you."
"I think it would," she answered. "I think it would be a woman's place.
If he's a gentleman, he would feel that he just couldn't speak first.
I'm going to do it," she announced suddenly.
"Just as you think best, Laura," said her aunt.
But nevertheless Laura did not move, and another five minutes went by.
Page took advantage of the interval to tell Laura about Jadwin. He was
very rich, but a bachelor, and had made his money in Chicago real
estate. Some of his holdings in the business quarter of the city were
enormous; Landry Court had told her about him. Jadwin, unlike Mr.
Cressler, was not opposed to speculation. Though not a member of the
Board of Trade, he nevertheless at very long intervals took part in a
"deal" in wheat, or corn, or provisions. He believed that all corners
were doomed to failure, however, and had predicted Helmick's collapse
six months ago. He had influence, was well known to all Chicago people,
what he said carried weight, financiers consulted him, promoters sought
his friendship, his name on the board of directors of a company was an
all-sufficing endorsement; in a word, a "strong" man.
"I can't understand," exclaimed Laura distrait, referring to the delay
on the part of the Cresslers. "This was the night, and this was the
place, and it is long past the time. We could telephone to the house,
you know," she said, struck with an idea, "and see if they've started,
or what has happened."
"I don't know--I don't know," murmured Mrs. Wessels vaguely. No one
seemed ready to act upon Laura's suggestion, and again the minutes
passed.
"I'm going," declared Laura again, looking at the other two, as if to
demand what they had to say against the idea.
"I just couldn't," declared Page flatly.
"Well," continued Laura, "I'll wait just three minutes more, and then
if the Cresslers are not here I will speak to him. It seems to me to be
perfectly natural, and not at all bold."
She waited three minutes, and the Cresslers still failing to appear,
temporised yet further, for the twentieth time repeating:
"I don't see--I can't understand."
Then, abruptly drawing her cape about her, she crossed the vestibule
and came up to Jadwin.
As she approached she saw him catch her eye. Then, as he appeared to
understand that this young woman was about to speak to him, she noticed
an expression of suspicion, almost of distrust, come into his face. No
doubt he knew nothing of this other party who were to join the
Cresslers in the vestibule. Why should this girl speak to him?
Something had gone wrong, and the instinct of the man, no longer very
young, to keep out of strange young women's troubles betrayed itself in
the uneasy glance that he shot at her from under his heavy eyebrows.
But the look faded as quickly as it had come. Laura guessed that he had
decided that in such a place as this he need have no suspicions. He
took the cigar from his mouth, and she, immensely relieved, realised
that she had to do with a man who was a gentleman. Full of trepidation
as she had been in crossing the vestibule, she was quite mistress of
herself when the instant came for her to speak, and it was in a steady
voice and without embarrassment that she said:
"I beg your pardon, but I believe this is Mr. Jadwin."
He took off his hat, evidently a little nonplussed that she should know
his name, and by now she was ready even to browbeat him a little should
it be necessary.
"Yes, yes," he answered, now much more confused than she, "my name is
Jadwin."
"I believe," continued Laura steadily, "we were all to be in the same
party to-night with the Cresslers. But they don't seem to come, and
we--my sister and my aunt and I--don't know what to do."
She saw that he was embarrassed, convinced, and the knowledge that she
controlled the little situation, that she could command him, restored
her all her equanimity.
"My name is Miss Dearborn," she continued. "I believe you know my
sister Page."
By some trick of manner she managed to convey to him the impression
that if he did not know her sister Page, that if for one instant he
should deem her to be bold, he would offer a mortal affront. She had
not yet forgiven him that stare of suspicion when first their eyes had
met; he should pay her for that yet.
"Miss Page,--your sister,--Miss Page Dearborn? Certainly I know her,"
he answered. "And you have been waiting, too? What a pity!" And he
permitted himself the awkwardness of adding: "I did not know that you
were to be of our party."
"No," returned Laura upon the instant, "I did not know you were to be
one of us to-night--until Page told me." She accented the pronouns a
little, but it was enough for him to know that he had been rebuked.
How, he could not just say; and for what it was impossible for him at
the moment to determine; and she could see that he began to experience
a certain distress, was beating a retreat, was ceding place to her. Who
was she, then, this tall and pretty young woman, with the serious,
unsmiling face, who was so perfectly at ease, and who hustled him about
and made him feel as though he were to blame for the Cresslers'
non-appearance; as though it was his fault that she must wait in the
draughty vestibule. She had a great air with her; how had he offended
her? If he had introduced himself to her, had forced himself upon her,
she could not be more lofty, more reserved.
"I thought perhaps you might telephone," she observed.
"They haven't a telephone, unfortunately," he answered.
"Oh!"
This was quite the last slight, the Cresslers had not a telephone! He
was to blame for that, too, it seemed. At his wits' end, he entertained
for an instant the notion of dashing out into the street in a search
for a messenger boy, who would take a note to Cressler and set him
right again; and his agitation was not allayed when Laura, in frigid
tones, declared:
"It seems to me that something might be done."
"I don't know," he replied helplessly. "I guess there's nothing to be
done but just wait. They are sure to be along."
In the background, Page and Mrs. Wessels had watched the interview, and
had guessed that Laura was none too gracious. Always anxious that her
sister should make a good impression, the little girl was now in great
distress.
"Laura is putting on her 'grand manner,'" she lamented. "I just know
how she's talking. The man will hate the very sound of her name all the
rest of his life." Then all at once she uttered a joyful exclamation:
"At last, at last," she cried, "and about time, too!"
The Cresslers and the rest of the party--two young men--had appeared,
and Page and her aunt came up just in time to hear Mrs. Cressler--a
fine old lady, in a wonderful ermine-trimmed cape, whose hair was
powdered--exclaim at the top of her voice, as if the mere declaration
of fact was final, absolutely the last word upon the subject, "The
bridge was turned!"
The Cresslers lived on the North Side. The incident seemed to be closed
with the abruptness of a slammed door.
Page and Aunt Wess' were introduced to Jadwin, who was particular to
announce that he remembered the young girl perfectly. The two young men
were already acquainted with the Dearborn sisters and Mrs. Wessels.
Page and Laura knew one of them well enough to address him familiarly
by his Christian name.
This was Landry Court, a young fellow just turned twenty-three, who was
"connected with" the staff of the great brokerage firm of Gretry,
Converse and Co. He was astonishingly good-looking, small-made, wiry,
alert, nervous, debonair, with blond hair and dark eyes that snapped
like a terrier's. He made friends almost at first sight, and was one of
those fortunate few who were favoured equally of men and women. The
healthiness of his eye and skin persuaded to a belief in the
healthiness of his mind; and, in fact, Landry was as clean without as
within. He was frank, open-hearted, full of fine sentiments and
exaltations and enthusiasms. Until he was eighteen he had cherished an
ambition to become the President of the United States.
"Yes, yes," he said to Laura, "the bridge was turned. It was an
imposition. We had to wait while they let three tows through. I think
two at a time is as much as is legal. And we had to wait for three.
Yes, sir; three, think of that! I shall look into that to-morrow. Yes,
sir; don't you be afraid of that. I'll look into it." He nodded his
head with profound seriousness.
"Well," announced Mr. Cressler, marshalling the party, "shall we go in?
I'm afraid, Laura, we've missed the overture."
Smiling, she shrugged her shoulders, while they moved to the wicket, as
if to say that it could not be helped now.
Cressler, tall, lean, bearded, and stoop-shouldered, belonging to the
same physical type that includes Lincoln--the type of the Middle
West--was almost a second father to the parentless Dearborn girls. In
Massachusetts, thirty years before this time, he had been a farmer, and
the miller Dearborn used to grind his grain regularly. The two had been
boys together, and had always remained fast friends, almost brothers.
Then, in the years just before the War, had come the great movement
westward, and Cressler had been one of those to leave an "abandoned"
New England farm behind him, and with his family emigrate toward the
Mississippi. He had come to Sangamon County in Illinois. For a time he
tried wheat-raising, until the War, which skied the prices of all
food-stuffs, had made him--for those days--a rich man. Giving up
farming, he came to live in Chicago, bought a seat on the Board of
Trade, and in a few years was a millionaire. At the time of the
Turco-Russian War he and two Milwaukee men had succeeded in cornering
all the visible supply of spring wheat. At the end of the thirtieth day
of the corner the clique figured out its profits at close upon a
million; a week later it looked like a million and a half. Then the
three lost their heads; they held the corner just a fraction of a month
too long, and when the time came that the three were forced to take
profits, they found that they were unable to close out their immense
holdings without breaking the price. In two days wheat that they had
held at a dollar and ten cents collapsed to sixty. The two Milwaukee
men were ruined, and two-thirds of Cressler's immense fortune vanished
like a whiff of smoke.
But he had learned his lesson. Never since then had he speculated.
Though keeping his seat on the Board, he had confined himself to
commission trading, uninfluenced by fluctuations in the market. And he
was never wearied of protesting against the evil and the danger of
trading in margins. Speculation he abhorred as the small-pox, believing
it to be impossible to corner grain by any means or under any
circumstances. He was accustomed to say: "It can't be done; first, for
the reason that there is a great harvest of wheat somewhere in the
world for every month in the year; and, second, because the smart man
who runs the corner has every other smart man in the world against him.
And, besides, it's wrong; the world's food should not be at the mercy
of the Chicago wheat pit."
As the party filed in through the wicket, the other young man who had
come with Landry Court managed to place himself next to Laura. Meeting
her eyes, he murmured:
"Ah, you did not wear them after all. My poor little flowers."
But she showed him a single American Beauty, pinned to the shoulder of
her gown beneath her cape.
"Yes, Mr. Corthell," she answered, "one. I tried to select the
prettiest, and I think I succeeded--don't you? It was hard to choose."
"Since you have worn it, it is the prettiest," he answered.
He was a slightly built man of about twenty-eight or thirty; dark,
wearing a small, pointed beard, and a mustache that he brushed away
from his lips like a Frenchman. By profession he was an artist,
devoting himself more especially to the designing of stained windows.
In this, his talent was indisputable. But he was by no means dependent
upon his profession for a living, his parents--long since dead--having
left him to the enjoyment of a very considerable fortune. He had a
beautiful studio in the Fine Arts Building, where he held receptions
once every two months, or whenever he had a fine piece of glass to
expose. He had travelled, read, studied, occasionally written, and in
matters pertaining to the colouring and fusing of glass was cited as an
authority. He was one of the directors of the new Art Gallery that had
taken the place of the old Exposition Building on the Lake Front.
Laura had known him for some little time. On the occasion of her two
previous visits to Page he had found means to see her two or three
times each week. Once, even, he had asked her to marry him, but she,
deep in her studies at the time, consumed with vague ambitions to be a
great actress of Shakespearian roles, had told him she could care for
nothing but her art. He had smiled and said that he could wait, and,
strangely enough, their relations had resumed again upon the former
footing. Even after she had gone away they had corresponded regularly,
and he had made and sent her a tiny window--a veritable
jewel--illustrative of a scene from "Twelfth Night."
In the foyer, as the gentlemen were checking their coats, Laura
overheard Jadwin say to Mr. Cressler:
"Well, how about Helmick?"
The other made an impatient movement of his shoulders.
"Ask me, what was the fool thinking of--a corner! Pshaw!"
There were one or two other men about, making their overcoats and opera
hats into neat bundles preparatory to checking them; and instantly
there was a flash of a half-dozen eyes in the direction of the two men.
Evidently the collapse of the Helmick deal was in the air. All the city
seemed interested.
But from behind the heavy curtains that draped the entrance to the
theatre proper, came a muffled burst of music, followed by a long salvo
of applause. Laura's cheeks flamed with impatience, she hurried after
Mrs. Cressler; Corthell drew the curtains for her to pass, and she
entered.
Inside it was dark, and a prolonged puff of hot air, thick with the
mingled odours of flowers, perfume, upholstery, and gas, enveloped her
upon the instant. It was the unmistakable, unforgettable, entrancing
aroma of the theatre, that she had known only too seldom, but that in a
second set her heart galloping.
Every available space seemed to be occupied. Men, even women, were
standing up, compacted into a suffocating pressure, and for the moment
everybody was applauding vigorously. On all sides Laura heard:
"Bravo!"
"Good, good!"
"Very well done!"
"Encore! Encore!"
Between the peoples' heads and below the low dip of the overhanging
balcony--a brilliant glare in the surrounding darkness--she caught a
glimpse of the stage. It was set for a garden; at the back and in the
distance a chateau; on the left a bower, and on the right a pavilion.
Before the footlights, a famous contralto, dressed as a boy, was bowing
to the audience, her arms full of flowers.
"Too bad," whispered Corthell to Laura, as they followed the others
down the side-aisle to the box. "Too bad, this is the second act
already; you've missed the whole first act--and this song. She'll sing
it over again, though, just for you, if I have to lead the applause
myself. I particularly wanted you to hear that."
Once in the box, the party found itself a little crowded, and Jadwin
and Cressler were obliged to stand, in order to see the stage. Although
they all spoke in whispers, their arrival was the signal for certain
murmurs of "Sh! Sh!" Mrs. Cressler made Laura occupy the front seat.
Jadwin took her cloak from her, and she settled herself in her chair
and looked about her. She could see but little of the house or
audience. All the lights were lowered; only through the gloom the
swaying of a multitude of fans, pale coloured, like night-moths
balancing in the twilight, defined itself.
But soon she turned towards the stage. The applause died away, and the
contralto once more sang the aria. The melody was simple, the tempo
easily followed; it was not a very high order of music. But to Laura it
was nothing short of a revelation.
She sat spell-bound, her hands clasped tight, her every faculty of
attention at its highest pitch. It was wonderful, such music as that;
wonderful, such a voice; wonderful, such orchestration; wonderful, such
exaltation inspired by mere beauty of sound. Never, never was this
night to be forgotten, this her first night of Grand Opera. All this
excitement, this world of perfume, of flowers, of exquisite costumes,
of beautiful women, of fine, brave men. She looked back with immense
pity to the narrow little life of her native town she had just left
forever, the restricted horizon, the petty round of petty duties, the
rare and barren pleasures--the library, the festival, the few concerts,
the trivial plays. How easy it was to be good and noble when music such
as this had become a part of one's life; how desirable was wealth when
it could make possible such exquisite happiness as hers of the moment.
Nobility, purity, courage, sacrifice seemed much more worth while now
than a few moments ago. All things not positively unworthy became
heroic, all things and all men. Landry Court was a young chevalier,
pure as Galahad. Corthell was a beautiful artist-priest of the early
Renaissance. Even Jadwin was a merchant prince, a great financial
captain. And she herself--ah, she did not know; she dreamed of another
Laura, a better, gentler, more beautiful Laura, whom everybody,
everybody loved dearly and tenderly, and who loved everybody, and who
should die beautifully, gently, in some garden far away--die because of
a great love--beautifully, gently in the midst of flowers, die of a
broken heart, and all the world should be sorry for her, and would weep
over her when they found her dead and beautiful in her garden, amid the
flowers and the birds, in some far-off place, where it was always early
morning and where there was soft music. And she was so sorry for
herself, and so hurt with the sheer strength of her longing to be good
and true, and noble and womanly, that as she sat in the front of the
Cresslers' box on that marvellous evening, the tears ran down her
cheeks again and again, and dropped upon her tight-shut, white-gloved
fingers.
But the contralto had disappeared, and in her place the tenor held the
stage--a stout, short young man in red plush doublet and grey silk
tights. His chin advanced, an arm extended, one hand pressed to his
breast, he apostrophised the pavilion, that now and then swayed a
little in the draught from the wings.
The aria was received with furor; thrice he was obliged to repeat it.
Even Corthell, who was critical to extremes, approved, nodding his
head. Laura and Page clapped their hands till the very last. But Landry
Court, to create an impression, assumed a certain disaffection.
"He's not in voice to-night. Too bad. You should have heard him Friday
in 'Aida.'"
The opera continued. The great soprano, the prima donna, appeared and
delivered herself of a song for which she was famous with astonishing
eclat. Then in a little while the stage grew dark, the orchestration
lapsed to a murmur, and the tenor and the soprano reentered. He clasped
her in his arms and sang a half-dozen bars, then holding her hand, one
arm still about her waist, withdrew from her gradually, till she
occupied the front-centre of the stage. He assumed an attitude of
adoration and wonderment, his eyes uplifted as if entranced, and she,
very softly, to the accompaniment of the sustained, dreamy chords of
the orchestra, began her solo.
Laura shut her eyes. Never had she felt so soothed, so cradled and
lulled and languid. Ah, to love like that! To love and be loved. There
was no such love as that to-day. She wished that she could loose her
clasp upon the sordid, material modern life that, perforce, she must
hold to, she knew not why, and drift, drift off into the past, far
away, through rose-coloured mists and diaphanous veils, or resign
herself, reclining in a silver skiff drawn by swans, to the gentle
current of some smooth-flowing river that ran on forever and forever.
But a discordant element developed. Close by--the lights were so low
she could not tell where--a conversation, kept up in low whispers,
began by degrees to intrude itself upon her attention. Try as she
would, she could not shut it out, and now, as the music died away
fainter and fainter, till voice and orchestra blended together in a
single, barely audible murmur, vibrating with emotion, with romance,
and with sentiment, she heard, in a hoarse, masculine whisper, the
words:
"The shortage is a million bushels at the very least. Two hundred
carloads were to arrive from Milwaukee last night."
She made a little gesture of despair, turning her head for an instant,
searching the gloom about her. But she could see no one not interested
in the stage. Why could not men leave their business outside, why must
the jar of commerce spoil all the harmony of this moment.
However, all sounds were drowned suddenly in a long burst of applause.
The tenor and soprano bowed and smiled across the footlights. The
soprano vanished, only to reappear on the balcony of the pavilion, and
while she declared that the stars and the night-bird together sang "He
loves thee," the voices close at hand continued:
"--one hundred and six carloads--"
"--paralysed the bulls--"
"--fifty thousand dollars--"
Then all at once the lights went up. The act was over.
Laura seemed only to come to herself some five minutes later. She and
Corthell were out in the foyer behind the boxes. Everybody was
promenading. The air was filled with the staccato chatter of a
multitude of women. But she herself seemed far away--she and Sheldon
Corthell. His face, dark, romantic, with the silky beard and eloquent
eyes, appeared to be all she cared to see, while his low voice, that
spoke close to her ear, was in a way a mere continuation of the melody
of the duet just finished.
Instinctively she knew what he was about to say, for what he was trying
to prepare her. She felt, too, that he had not expected to talk thus to
her to-night. She knew that he loved her, that inevitably, sooner or
later, they must return to a subject that for long had been excluded
from their conversations, but it was to have been when they were alone,
remote, secluded, not in the midst of a crowd, brilliant electrics
dazzling their eyes, the humming of the talk of hundreds assaulting
their ears. But it seemed as if these important things came of
themselves, independent of time and place, like birth and death. There
was nothing to do but to accept the situation, and it was without
surprise that at last, from out the murmur of Corthell's talk, she was
suddenly conscious of the words:
"So that it is hardly necessary, is it, to tell you once more that I
love you?"
She drew a long breath.
"I know. I know you love me."
They had sat down on a divan, at one end of the promenade; and
Corthell, skilful enough in the little arts of the drawing-room, made
it appear as though they talked of commonplaces; as for Laura, exalted,
all but hypnotised with this marvellous evening, she hardly cared; she
would not even stoop to maintain appearances.
"Yes, yes," she said; "I know you love me."
"And is that all you can say?" he urged. "Does it mean nothing to you
that you are everything to me?"
She was coming a little to herself again. Love was, after all, sweeter
in the actual--even in this crowded foyer, in this atmosphere of silk
and jewels, in this show-place of a great city's society--than in a
mystic garden of some romantic dreamland. She felt herself a woman
again, modern, vital, and no longer a maiden of a legend of chivalry.
"Nothing to me?" she answered. "I don't know. I should rather have you
love me than--not."
"Let me love you then for always," he went on. "You know what I mean.
We have understood each other from the very first. Plainly, and very
simply, I love you with all my heart. You know now that I speak the
truth, you know that you can trust me. I shall not ask you to share
your life with mine. I ask you for the great happiness"--he raised his
head sharply, suddenly proud--"the great honour of the opportunity of
giving you all that I have of good. God give me humility, but that is
much since I have known you. If I were a better man because of myself,
I would not presume to speak of it, but if I am in anything less
selfish, if I am more loyal, if I am stronger, or braver, it is only
something of you that has become a part of me, and made me to be born
again. So when I offer myself to you, I am only bringing back to you
the gift you gave me for a little while. I have tried to keep it for
you, to keep it bright and sacred and un-spotted. It is yours again now
if you will have it."
There was a long pause; a group of men in opera hats and white gloves
came up the stairway close at hand. The tide of promenaders set towards
the entrances of the theatre. A little electric bell shrilled a note of
warning.
Laura looked up at length, and as their glances met, he saw that there
were tears in her eyes. This declaration of his love for her was the
last touch to the greatest exhilaration of happiness she had ever
known. Ah yes, she was loved, just as that young girl of the opera had
been loved. For this one evening, at least, the beauty of life was
unmarred, and no cruel word of hers should spoil it. The world was
beautiful. All people were good and noble and true. To-morrow, with the
material round of duties and petty responsibilities and cold, calm
reason, was far, far away.
Suddenly she turned to him, surrendering to the impulse, forgetful of
consequences.
"Oh, I am glad, glad," she cried, "glad that you love me!"
But before Corthell could say anything more Landry Court and Page came
up.
"We've been looking for you," said the young girl quietly. Page was
displeased. She took herself and her sister--in fact, the whole scheme
of existence--with extraordinary seriousness. She had no sense of
humour. She was not tolerant; her ideas of propriety and the amenities
were as immutable as the fixed stars. A fine way for Laura to act,
getting off into corners with Sheldon Corthell. It would take less than
that to make talk. If she had no sense of her obligations to Mrs.
Cressler, at least she ought to think of the looks of things.
"They're beginning again," she said solemnly. "I should think you'd
feel as though you had missed about enough of this opera."
They returned to the box. The rest of the party were reassembling.
"Well, Laura," said Mrs. Cressler, when they had sat down, "do you like
it?"
"I don't want to leave it--ever," she answered. "I could stay here
always."
"I like the young man best," observed Aunt Wess'. "The one who seems to
be the friend of the tall fellow with a cloak. But why does he seem so
sorry? Why don't he marry the young lady? Let's see, I don't remember
his name."
"Beastly voice," declared Landry Court. "He almost broke there once.
Too bad. He's not what he used to be. It seems he's terribly
dissipated--drinks. Yes, sir, like a fish. He had delirium tremens once
behind the scenes in Philadelphia, and stabbed a scene shifter with his
stage dagger. A bad lot, to say the least."
"Now, Landry," protested Mrs. Cressler, "you're making it up as you go
along." And in the laugh that followed Landry himself joined.
"After all," said Corthell, "this music seems to be just the right
medium between the naive melody of the Italian school and the elaborate
complexity of Wagner. I can't help but be carried away with it at
times--in spite of my better judgment."
Jadwin, who had been smoking a cigar in the vestibule during the
entr'acte, rubbed his chin reflectively.
"Well," he said, "it's all very fine. I've no doubt of that, but I give
you my word I would rather hear my old governor take his guitar and
sing 'Father, oh father, come home with me now,' than all the
fiddle-faddle, tweedle-deedle opera business in the whole world."
But the orchestra was returning, the musicians crawling out one by one
from a little door beneath the stage hardly bigger than the entrance of
a rabbit hutch. They settled themselves in front of their racks,
adjusting their coat-tails, fingering their sheet music. Soon they
began to tune up, and a vague bourdon of many sounds--the subdued snarl
of the cornets, the dull mutter of the bass viols, the liquid gurgling
of the flageolets and wood-wind instruments, now and then pierced by
the strident chirps and cries of the violins, rose into the air
dominating the incessant clamour of conversation that came from all
parts of the theatre.
Then suddenly the house lights sank and the footlights rose. From all
over the theatre came energetic whispers of "Sh! Sh!" Three strokes, as
of a great mallet, sepulchral, grave, came from behind the wings; the
leader of the orchestra raised his baton, then brought it slowly down,
and while from all the instruments at once issued a prolonged minor
chord, emphasised by a muffled roll of the kettle-drum, the curtain
rose upon a mediaeval public square. The soprano was seated languidly
upon a bench. Her grande scene occurred in this act. Her hair was
un-bound; she wore a loose robe of cream white, with flowing sleeves,
which left the arms bare to the shoulder. At the waist it was caught in
by a girdle of silk rope.
"This is the great act," whispered Mrs. Cressler, leaning over Laura's
shoulder. "She is superb later on. Superb."
"I wish those men would stop talking," murmured Laura, searching the
darkness distressfully, for between the strains of the music she had
heard the words:
"--Clearing House balance of three thousand dollars."
Meanwhile the prima donna, rising to her feet, delivered herself of a
lengthy recitative, her chin upon her breast, her eyes looking out from
under her brows, an arm stretched out over the footlights. The baritone
entered, striding to the left of the footlights, apostrophising the
prima donna in a rage. She clasped her hands imploringly, supplicating
him to leave her, exclaiming from time to time:
"Va via, va via--
Vel chieco per pieta."
Then all at once, while the orchestra blared, they fell into each
other's arms.
"Why do they do that?" murmured Aunt Wess' perplexed. "I thought the
gentleman with the beard didn't like her at all."
"Why, that's the duke, don't you see, Aunt Wess'?" said Laura trying to
explain. "And he forgives her. I don't know exactly. Look at your
libretto."
"--a conspiracy of the Bears ... seventy cents ... and naturally he
busted."
The mezzo-soprano, the confidante of the prima donna, entered, and a
trio developed that had but a mediocre success. At the end the baritone
abruptly drew his sword, and the prima donna fell to her knees,
chanting:
"Io tremo, ahime!"
"And now he's mad again," whispered Aunt Wess', consulting her
libretto, all at sea once more. "I can't understand. She says--the
opera book says she says, 'I tremble.' I don't see why."
"Look now," said Page, "here comes the tenor. Now they're going to have
it out."
The tenor, hatless, debouched suddenly upon the scene, and furious,
addressed himself to the baritone, leaning forward, his hands upon his
chest. Though the others sang in Italian, the tenor, a Parisian, used
the French book continually, and now villified the baritone, crying out:
"O traitre infame
O lache et coupable"
"I don't see why he don't marry the young lady and be done with it,"
commented Aunt Wess'.
The act drew to its close. The prima donna went through her "great
scene," wherein her voice climbed to C in alt, holding the note so long
that Aunt Wess' became uneasy. As she finished, the house rocked with
applause, and the soprano, who had gone out supported by her
confidante, was recalled three times. A duel followed between the
baritone and tenor, and the latter, mortally wounded, fell into the
arms of his friends uttering broken, vehement notes. The chorus--made
up of the city watch and town's people--crowded in upon the back of the
stage. The soprano and her confidante returned. The basso, a
black-bearded, bull necked man, sombre, mysterious, parted the chorus
to right and left, and advanced to the footlights. The contralto,
dressed as a boy, appeared. The soprano took stage, and abruptly the
closing scene of the act developed.
The violins raged and wailed in unison, all the bows moving together
like parts of a well-regulated machine. The kettle-drums, marking the
cadences, rolled at exact intervals. The director beat time furiously,
as though dragging up the notes and chords with the end of his baton,
while the horns and cornets blared, the bass viols growled, and the
flageolets and piccolos lost themselves in an amazing complication of
liquid gurgles and modulated roulades.
On the stage every one was singing. The soprano in the centre,
vocalised in her highest register, bringing out the notes with vigorous
twists of her entire body, and tossing them off into the air with sharp
flirts of her head. On the right, the basso, scowling, could be heard
in the intervals of the music repeating
"Il perfido, l'ingrato"
while to the left of the soprano, the baritone intoned
indistinguishable, sonorous phrases, striking his breast and pointing
to the fallen tenor with his sword. At the extreme left of the stage
the contralto, in tights and plush doublet, turned to the audience,
extending her hands, or flinging back her arms. She raised her eyebrows
with each high note, and sunk her chin into her ruff when her voice
descended. At certain intervals her notes blended with those of the
soprano's while she sang:
"Addio, felicita del ciel!"
The tenor, raised upon one hand, his shoulders supported by his
friends, sustained the theme which the soprano led with the words:
"Je me meurs
Ah malheur
Ah je souffre
Mon ame s'envole."
The chorus formed a semi-circle just behind him. The women on one side,
the men on the other. They left much to be desired; apparently scraped
hastily together from heaven knew what sources, after the manner of a
management suddenly become economical. The women were fat, elderly, and
painfully homely; the men lean, osseous, and distressed, in misfitting
hose. But they had been conscientiously drilled. They made all their
gestures together, moved in masses simultaneously, and, without
ceasing, chanted over and over again:
"O terror, O blasfema."
The finale commenced. Everybody on the stage took a step forward,
beginning all over again upon a higher key. The soprano's voice
thrilled to the very chandelier. The orchestra redoubled its efforts,
the director beating time with hands, head, and body.
"Il perfido, l'ingrato"
thundered the basso.
"Ineffabil mistero,"
answered the baritone, striking his breast and pointing with his sword;
while all at once the soprano's voice, thrilling out again, ran up an
astonishing crescendo that evoked veritable gasps from all parts of the
audience, then jumped once more to her famous C in alt, and held it
long enough for the chorus to repeat
"O terror, O blasfema"
four times.
Then the director's baton descended with the violence of a blow. There
was a prolonged crash of harmony, a final enormous chord, to which
every voice and every instrument contributed. The singers struck
tableau attitudes, the tenor fell back with a last wail:
"Je me meurs,"
and the soprano fainted into the arms of her confidante. The curtain
fell.
The house roared with applause. The scene was recalled again and again.
The tenor, scrambling to his feet, joined hands with the baritone,
soprano, and other artists, and all bowed repeatedly. Then the curtain
fell for the last time, the lights of the great chandelier clicked and
blazed up, and from every quarter of the house came the cries of the
programme sellers:
"Opera books. Books of the opera. Words and music of the opera."
During this, the last entr'acte, Laura remained in the box with Mrs.
Cressler, Corthell, and Jadwin. The others went out to look down upon
the foyer from a certain balcony.
In the box the conversation turned upon stage management, and Corthell
told how, in "L'Africaine," at the Opera, in Paris, the entire
superstructure of the stage--wings, drops, and backs--turned when Vasco
da Gama put the ship about. Jadwin having criticised the effect because
none of the actors turned with it, was voted a Philistine by Mrs.
Cressler and Corthell. But as he was about to answer, Mrs. Cressler
turned to the artist, passing him her opera glasses, and asking:
"Who are those people down there in the third row of the parquet--see,
on the middle aisle--the woman is in red. Aren't those the Gretrys?"
This left Jadwin and Laura out of the conversation, and the capitalist
was quick to seize the chance of talking to her. Soon she was surprised
to notice that he was trying hard to be agreeable, and before they had
exchanged a dozen sentences, he had turned an awkward compliment. She
guessed by his manner that paying attention to young girls was for him
a thing altogether unusual. Intuitively she divined that she, on this,
the very first night of their acquaintance, had suddenly interested him.
She had had neither opportunity nor inclination to observe him closely
during their interview in the vestibule, but now, as she sat and
listened to him talk, she could not help being a little attracted. He
was a heavy-built man, would have made two of Corthell, and his hands
were large and broad, the hands of a man of affairs, who knew how to
grip, and, above all, how to hang on. Those broad, strong hands, and
keen, calm eyes would enfold and envelop a Purpose with tremendous
strength, and they would persist and persist and persist, unswerving,
unwavering, untiring, till the Purpose was driven home. And the two
long, lean, fibrous arms of him; what a reach they could attain, and
how wide and huge and even formidable would be their embrace of
affairs. One of those great manoeuvres of a fellow money-captain had
that very day been concluded, the Helmick failure, and between the
chords and bars of a famous opera men talked in excited whispers, and
one great leader lay at that very moment, broken and spent, fighting
with his last breath for bare existence. Jadwin had seen it all.
Uninvolved in the crash, he had none the less been close to it,
watching it, in touch with it, foreseeing each successive collapse by
which it reeled fatally to the final catastrophe. The voices of the two
men that had so annoyed her in the early part of the evening were
suddenly raised again:
"--It was terrific, there on the floor of the Board this morning. By
the Lord! they fought each other when the Bears began throwing the
grain at 'em--in carload lots."
And abruptly, midway between two phases of that music-drama, of passion
and romance, there came to Laura the swift and vivid impression of that
other drama that simultaneously--even at that very moment--was working
itself out close at hand, equally picturesque, equally romantic,
equally passionate; but more than that, real, actual, modern, a thing
in the very heart of the very life in which she moved. And here he sat,
this Jadwin, quiet, in evening dress, listening good-naturedly to this
beautiful music, for which he did not care, to this rant and fustian,
watching quietly all this posing and attitudinising. How small and
petty it must all seem to him!
Laura found time to be astonished. What! She had first met this man
haughtily, in all the panoply of her "grand manner," and had promised
herself that she would humble him, and pay him for that first
mistrustful stare at her. And now, behold, she was studying him, and
finding the study interesting. Out of harmony though she knew him to be
with those fine emotions of hers of the early part of the evening, she
nevertheless found much in him to admire. It was always just like that.
She told herself that she was forever doing the unexpected thing, the
inconsistent thing. Women were queer creatures, mysterious even to
themselves.
"I am so pleased that you are enjoying it all," said Corthell's voice
at her shoulder. "I knew you would. There is nothing like music such as
this to appeal to the emotions, the heart--and with your temperament."
Straightway he made her feel her sex. Now she was just a woman again,
with all a woman's limitations, and her relations with Corthell could
never be--so she realised--any other than sex-relations. With Jadwin
somehow it had been different. She had felt his manhood more than her
womanhood, her sex side. And between them it was more a give-and-take
affair, more equality, more companionship. Corthell spoke only of her
heart and to her heart. But Jadwin made her feel--or rather she made
herself feel when he talked to her--that she had a head as well as a
heart.
And the last act of the opera did not wholly absorb her attention. The
artists came and went, the orchestra wailed and boomed, the audience
applauded, and in the end the tenor, fired by a sudden sense of duty
and of stern obligation, tore himself from the arms of the soprano, and
calling out upon remorseless fate and upon heaven, and declaiming about
the vanity of glory, and his heart that broke yet disdained tears,
allowed himself to be dragged off the scene by his friend the basso.
For the fifth time during the piece the soprano fainted into the arms
of her long-suffering confidante. The audience, suddenly remembering
hats and wraps, bestirred itself, and many parties were already upon
their feet and filing out at the time the curtain fell.
The Cresslers and their friends were among the last to regain the
vestibule. But as they came out from the foyer, where the first
draughts of outside air began to make themselves felt, there were
exclamations:
"It's raining."
"Why, it's raining right down."
It was true. Abruptly the weather had moderated, and the fine, dry snow
that had been falling since early evening had changed to a lugubrious
drizzle. A wave of consternation invaded the vestibule for those who
had not come in carriages, or whose carriages had not arrived. Tempers
were lost; women, cloaked to the ears, their heads protected only by
fichus or mantillas, quarrelled with husbands or cousins or brothers
over the question of umbrellas. The vestibules were crowded to
suffocation, and the aigrettes nodded and swayed again in alternate
gusts, now of moist, chill atmosphere from without, and now of stale,
hot air that exhaled in long puffs from the inside doors of the theatre
itself. Here and there in the press, footmen, their top hats in rubber
cases, their hands full of umbrellas, searched anxiously for their
masters.
Outside upon the sidewalks and by the curbs, an apparently inextricable
confusion prevailed; policemen with drawn clubs laboured and
objurgated: anxious, preoccupied young men, their opera hats and gloves
beaded with rain, hurried to and fro, searching for their carriages. At
the edge of the awning, the caller, a gigantic fellow in gold-faced
uniform, shouted the numbers in a roaring, sing-song that dominated
every other sound. Coachmen, their wet rubber coats reflecting the
lamplight, called back and forth, furious quarrels broke out between
hansom drivers and the police officers, steaming horses with jingling
bits, their backs covered with dark green cloths, plunged and pranced,
carriage doors banged, and the roll of wheels upon the pavement was as
the reverberation of artillery caissons.
"Get your carriage, sir?" cried a ragged, half-grown arab at Cressler's
elbow.
"Hurry up, then," said Cressler. Then, raising his voice, for the
clamour was increasing with every second: "What's your number, Laura?
You girls first. Ninety-three? Get that, boy? Ninety-three. Quick now."
The carriage appeared. Hastily they said good-by; hastily Laura
expressed to Mrs. Cressler her appreciation and enjoyment. Corthell saw
them to the carriage, and getting in after them shut the door behind
him. They departed.
Laura sank back in the cool gloom of the carriage's interior redolent
of damp leather and upholstery.
"What an evening! What an evening!" she murmured.
On the way home both she and Page appealed to the artist, who knew the
opera well, to hum or whistle for them the arias that had pleased them
most. Each time they were enthusiastic. Yes, yes, that was the air.
Wasn't it pretty, wasn't it beautiful?
But Aunt Wess' was still unsatisfied.
"I don't see yet," she complained, "why the young man, the one with the
pointed beard, didn't marry that lady and be done with it. Just as soon
as they'd seem to have it all settled, he'd begin to take on again, and
strike his breast and go away. I declare, I think it was all kind of
foolish."
"Why, the duke--don't you see. The one who sang bass--" Page laboured
to explain.
"Oh, I didn't like him at all," said Aunt Wess'. "He stamped around
so." But the audience itself had interested her, and the decollete
gowns had been particularly impressing.
"I never saw such dressing in all my life," she declared. "And that
woman in the box next ours. Well! did you notice that!" She raised her
eyebrows and set her lips together. "Well, I don't want to say
anything."
The carriage rolled on through the darkened downtown streets, towards
the North Side, where the Dearborns lived. They could hear the horses
plashing through the layer of slush--mud, half-melted snow and
rain--that encumbered the pavement. In the gloom the girls' wraps
glowed pallid and diaphanous. The rain left long, slanting parallels on
the carriage windows. They passed on down Wabash Avenue, and crossed
over to State Street and Clarke Street, dark, deserted.
Laura, after a while, lost in thought, spoke but little. It had been a
great evening--because of other things than mere music. Corthell had
again asked her to marry him, and she, carried away by the excitement
of the moment, had answered him encouragingly. On the heels of this she
had had that little talk with the capitalist Jadwin, and somehow since
then she had been steadied, calmed. The cold air and the rain in her
face had cooled her flaming cheeks and hot temples. She asked herself
now if she did really, honestly love the artist. No, she did not;
really and honestly she did not; and now as the carriage rolled on
through the deserted streets of the business districts, she knew very
well that she did not want to marry him. She had done him an injustice;
but in the matter of righting herself with him, correcting his false
impression, she was willing to procrastinate. She wanted him to love
her, to pay her all those innumerable little attentions which he
managed with such faultless delicacy. To say: "No, Mr. Corthell, I do
not love you, I will never be your wife," would--this time--be final.
He would go away, and she had no intention of allowing him to do that.
But abruptly her reflections were interrupted. While she thought it all
over she had been looking out of the carriage window through a little
space where she had rubbed the steam from the pane. Now, all at once,
the strange appearance of the neighbourhood as the carriage turned
north from out Jackson Street into La Salle, forced itself upon her
attention. She uttered an exclamation.
The office buildings on both sides of the street were lighted from
basement to roof. Through the windows she could get glimpses of clerks
and book-keepers in shirt-sleeves bending over desks. Every office was
open, and every one of them full of a feverish activity. The sidewalks
were almost as crowded as though at noontime. Messenger boys ran to and
fro, and groups of men stood on the corners in earnest conversation.
The whole neighbourhood was alive, and this, though it was close upon
one o'clock in the morning!
"Why, what is it all?" she murmured.
Corthell could not explain, but all at once Page cried:
"Oh, oh, I know. See this is Jackson and La Salle streets. Landry was
telling me. The 'commission district,' he called it. And these are the
brokers' offices working overtime--that Helmick deal, you know."
Laura looked, suddenly stupefied. Here it was, then, that other drama,
that other tragedy, working on there furiously, fiercely through the
night, while she and all those others had sat there in that atmosphere
of flowers and perfume, listening to music. Suddenly it loomed
portentous in the eye of her mind, terrible, tremendous. Ah, this drama
of the "Provision Pits," where the rush of millions of bushels of
grain, and the clatter of millions of dollars, and the tramping and the
wild shouting of thousands of men filled all the air with the noise of
battle! Yes, here was drama in deadly earnest--drama and tragedy and
death, and the jar of mortal fighting. And the echoes of it invaded the
very sanctuary of art, and cut athwart the music of Italy and the
cadence of polite conversation, and the shock of it endured when all
the world should have slept, and galvanised into vivid life all these
sombre piles of office buildings. It was dreadful, this labour through
the night. It had all the significance of field hospitals after the
battle--hospitals and the tents of commanding generals. The wounds of
the day were being bound up, the dead were being counted, while, shut
in their headquarters, the captains and the commanders drew the plans
for the grapple of armies that was to recommence with daylight.
"Yes, yes, that's just what it is," continued Page. "See, there's the
Rookery, and there's the Constable Building, where Mr. Helmick has his
offices. Landry showed me it all one day. And, look back." She raised
the flap that covered the little window at the back of the carriage.
"See, down there, at the end of the street. There's the Board of Trade
Building, where the grain speculating is done,--where the wheat pits
and corn pits are."
Laura turned and looked back. On either side of the vista in converging
lines stretched the blazing office buildings. But over the end of the
street the lead-coloured sky was rifted a little. A long, faint bar of
light stretched across the prospect, and silhouetted against this rose
a sombre mass, unbroken by any lights, rearing a black and formidable
facade against the blur of light behind it.
And this was her last impression of the evening. The lighted office
buildings, the murk of rain, the haze of light in the heavens, and
raised against it the pile of the Board of Trade Building, black,
grave, monolithic, crouching on its foundations, like a monstrous
sphinx with blind eyes, silent, grave,--crouching there without a
sound, without sign of life under the night and the drifting veil of
rain.