"When you asked me to become your wife this evening, you deserved a
straightforward answer, and instead I replied in a spirit of
capriciousness and disingenuousness, which I now earnestly regret, and
which ask you to pardon and to ignore.
"I allowed myself to tell you that you might find encouragement in my
foolishly spoken words. I am deeply sorry that I should have so
forgotten what was due to my own self-respect and to your sincerity.
"If I have permitted myself to convey to you the impression that I
would ever be willing to be your wife, let me hasten to correct it.
Whatever I said to you this evening, I must answer now--as I should
have answered then--truthfully and unhesitatingly, no.
"This, I insist, must be the last word between us upon this unfortunate
subject, if we are to continue, as I hope, very good friends.
"Cordially yours,
"LAURA DEARBORN."
She sealed, stamped, and directed the three envelopes, and glanced at
the little leather-cased travelling clock that stood on the top of her
desk. It was nearly two.
"I could not sleep, I could not sleep," she murmured, "if I did not
know they were on the way."
In answer to the bell Henry appeared, and Laura gave him the letters,
with orders to mail them at once in the nearest box.
When it was all over she sat down again at her desk, and leaning an
elbow upon it, covered her eyes with her hand for a long moment. She
felt suddenly very tired, and when at last she lowered her hand, her
fingers were wet. But in the end she grew calmer. She felt that, at all
events, she had vindicated herself, that her life would begin again
to-morrow with a clean page; and when at length she fell asleep, it was
to the dreamless unconsciousness of an almost tranquil mind.
She slept late the next morning and breakfasted in bed between ten and
eleven. Then, as the last vibrations of last night's commotion died
away, a very natural curiosity began to assert itself. She wondered how
each of the three men "would take it." In spite of herself she could
not keep from wishing that she could be by when they read their
dismissals.
Towards the early part of the afternoon, while Laura was in the library
reading "Queen's Gardens," the special delivery brought Landry Court's
reply. It was one roulade of incoherence, even in places blistered with
tears. Landry protested, implored, debased himself to the very dust.
His letter bristled with exclamation points, and ended with a prolonged
wail of distress and despair.
Quietly, and with a certain merciless sense of pacification, Laura
deliberately reduced the letter to strips, burned it upon the hearth,
and went back to her Ruskin.
A little later, the afternoon being fine, she determined to ride out to
Lincoln Park, not fifteen minutes from her home, to take a little walk
there, and to see how many new buds were out.
As she was leaving, Annie gave into her hands a pasteboard box, just
brought to the house by a messenger boy.
The box was full of Jacqueminot roses, to the stems of which a note
from Corthell was tied. He wrote but a single line:
"So it should have been 'good-by' after all."
Laura had Annie put the roses in Page's room.
"Tell Page she can have them; I don't want them. She can wear them to
her dance to-night," she said.
While to herself she added:
"The little buds in the park will be prettier."
She was gone from the house over two hours, for she had elected to walk
all the way home. She came back flushed and buoyant from her exercise,
her cheeks cool with the Lake breeze, a young maple leaf in one of the
revers of her coat. Annie let her in, murmuring:
"A gentleman called just after you went out. I told him you were not at
home, but he said he would wait. He is in the library now."
"Who is he? Did he give his name?" demanded Laura.
The maid handed her Curtis Jadwin's card.
V
That year the spring burst over Chicago in a prolonged scintillation of
pallid green. For weeks continually the sun shone. The Lake, after
persistently cherishing the greys and bitter greens of the winter
months, and the rugged white-caps of the northeast gales, mellowed at
length, turned to a softened azure blue, and lapsed by degrees to an
unruffled calmness, incrusted with innumerable coruscations.
In the parks, first of all, the buds and earliest shoots asserted
themselves. The horse-chestnut bourgeons burst their sheaths to spread
into trefoils and flame-shaped leaves. The elms, maples, and
cottonwoods followed. The sooty, blackened snow upon the grass plats,
in the residence quarters, had long since subsided, softening the turf,
filling the gutters with rivulets. On all sides one saw men at work
laying down the new sod in rectangular patches.
There was a delicious smell of ripening in the air, a smell of sap once
more on the move, of humid earths disintegrating from the winter
rigidity, of twigs and slender branches stretching themselves under the
returning warmth, elastic once more, straining in their bark.
On the North Side, in Washington Square, along the Lake-shore Drive,
all up and down the Lincoln Park Boulevard, and all through Erie,
Huron, and Superior streets, through North State Street, North Clarke
Street, and La Salle Avenue, the minute sparkling of green flashed from
tree top to tree top, like the first kindling of dry twigs. One could
almost fancy that the click of igniting branch tips was audible as
whole beds of yellow-green sparks defined themselves within certain
elms and cottonwoods.
Every morning the sun invaded earlier the east windows of Laura
Dearborn's bedroom. Every day at noon it stood more nearly overhead
above her home. Every afternoon the checkered shadows of the leaves
thickened upon the drawn curtains of the library. Within doors the
bottle-green flies came out of their lethargy and droned and bumped on
the panes. The double windows were removed, screens and awnings took
their places; the summer pieces were put into the fireplaces.
All of a sudden vans invaded the streets, piled high with mattresses,
rocking-chairs, and bird cages; the inevitable "spring moving" took
place. And these furniture vans alternated with great trucks laden with
huge elm trees on their way from nursery to lawn. Families and trees
alike submitted to the impulse of transplanting, abandoning the winter
quarters, migrating with the spring to newer environments, taking root
in other soils. Sparrows wrangled on the sidewalks and built ragged
nests in the interstices of cornice and coping. In the parks one heard
the liquid modulations of robins. The florists' wagons appeared, and
from house to house, from lawn to lawn, iron urns and window boxes
filled up with pansies, geraniums, fuchsias, and trailing vines. The
flower beds, stripped of straw and manure, bloomed again, and at length
the great cottonwoods shed their berries, like clusters of tiny grapes,
over street and sidewalk.
At length came three days of steady rain, followed by cloudless
sunshine and full-bodied, vigorous winds straight from out the south.
Instantly the living embers in tree top and grass plat were fanned to
flame. Like veritable fire, the leaves blazed up. Branch after branch
caught and crackled; even the dryest, the deadest, were enfolded in the
resistless swirl of green. Tree top ignited tree top; the parks and
boulevards were one smother of radiance. From end to end and from side
to side of the city, fed by the rains, urged by the south winds, spread
billowing and surging the superb conflagration of the coming summer.
Then, abruptly, everything hung poised; the leaves, the flowers, the
grass, all at fullest stretch, stood motionless, arrested, while the
heat, distilled, as it were, from all this seething green, rose like a
vast pillar over the city, and stood balanced there in the iridescence
of the sky, moveless and immeasurable.
From time to time it appeared as if this pillar broke in the guise of
summer storms, and came toppling down upon the city in tremendous
detonations of thunder and weltering avalanches of rain. But it broke
only to reform, and no sooner had the thunder ceased, the rain
intermitted, and the sun again come forth, than one received the vague
impression of the swift rebuilding of the vast, invisible column that
smothered the city under its bases, towering higher and higher into the
rain-washed, crystal-clear atmosphere.
Then the aroma of wet dust, of drenched pavements, musty, acute--the
unforgettable exhalation of the city's streets after a shower--pervaded
all the air, and the little out-door activities resumed again under the
dripping elms and upon the steaming sidewalks.
The evenings were delicious. It was yet too early for the exodus
northward to the Wisconsin lakes, but to stay indoors after nightfall
was not to be thought of. After six o'clock, all through the streets in
the neighbourhood of the Dearborns' home, one could see the family
groups "sitting out" upon the front "stoop." Chairs were brought forth,
carpets and rugs unrolled upon the steps. From within, through the
opened windows of drawing-room and parlour, came the brisk gaiety of
pianos. The sidewalks were filled with children clamouring at "tag,"
"I-spy," or "run-sheep-run." Girls in shirt-waists and young men in
flannel suits promenaded to and fro. Visits were exchanged from "stoop"
to "stoop," lemonade was served, and claret punch. In their armchairs
on the top step, elderly men, householders, capitalists, well-to-do,
their large stomachs covered with white waistcoats, their straw hats
upon their knees, smoked very fragrant cigars in silent enjoyment,
digesting their dinners, taking the air after the grime and hurry of
the business districts.
It was on such an evening as this, well on towards the last days of the
spring, that Laura Dearborn and Page joined the Cresslers and their
party, sitting out like other residents of the neighbourhood on the
front steps of their house. Almost every evening nowadays the Dearborn
girls came thus to visit with the Cresslers. Sometimes Page brought her
mandolin.
Every day of the warm weather seemed only to increase the beauty of the
two sisters. Page's brown hair was never more luxuriant, the exquisite
colouring of her cheeks never more charming, the boyish outlines of her
small, straight figure--immature and a little angular as yet--never
more delightful. The seriousness of her straight-browed, grave,
grey-blue eyes was still present, but the eyes themselves were, in some
indefinable way, deepening, and all the maturity that as yet was
withheld from her undeveloped little form looked out from beneath her
long lashes.
But Laura was veritably regal. Very slender as yet, no trace of fulness
to be seen over hip or breast, the curves all low and flat, she yet
carried her extreme height with tranquil confidence, the unperturbed
assurance of a chatelaine of the days of feudalism.
Her coal-black hair, high-piled, she wore as if it were a coronet. The
warmth of the exuberant spring days had just perceptibly mellowed the
even paleness of her face, but to compensate for this all the splendour
of coming midsummer nights flashed from her deep-brown eyes.
On this occasion she had put on her coat over her shirt-waist, and a
great bunch of violets was tucked into her belt. But no sooner had she
exchanged greetings with the others and settled herself in her place
than she slipped her coat from her shoulders.
It was while she was doing this that she noted, for the first time,
Landry Court standing half in and half out of the shadow of the
vestibule behind Mr. Cressler's chair.
"This is the first time he has been here since--since that night," Mrs.
Cressler hastened to whisper in Laura's ear. "He told me about--well,
he told me what occurred, you know. He came to dinner to-night, and
afterwards the poor boy nearly wept in my arms. You never saw such
penitence."
Laura put her chin in the air with a little movement of incredulity.
But her anger had long since been a thing of the past. Good-tempered,
she could not cherish resentment very long. But as yet she had greeted
Landry only by the briefest of nods.
"Such a warm night!" she murmured, fanning herself with part of Mr.
Cressler's evening paper. "And I never was so thirsty."
"Why, of course," exclaimed Mrs. Cressler. "Isabel," she called,
addressing Miss Gretry, who sat on the opposite side of the steps,
"isn't the lemonade near you? Fill a couple of glasses for Laura and
Page."
Page murmured her thanks, but Laura declined.
"No; just plain water for me," she said. "Isn't there some inside? Mr.
Court can get it for me, can't he?" Landry brought the pitcher back,
running at top speed and spilling half of it in his eagerness. Laura
thanked him with a smile, addressing him, however, by his last name.
She somehow managed to convey to him in her manner the information that
though his offence was forgotten, their old-time relations were not,
for one instant, to be resumed.
Later on, while Page was thrumming her mandolin, Landry whistling a
"second," Mrs. Cressler took occasion to remark to Laura:
"I was reading the Paris letter in the 'Inter-Ocean' to-day, and I saw
Mr. Corthell's name on the list of American arrivals at the
Continental. I guess," she added, "he's going to be gone a long time. I
wonder sometimes if he will ever come back. A fellow with his talent, I
should imagine would find Chicago--well, less congenial, anyhow, than
Paris. But, just the same, I do think it was mean of him to break up
our play by going. I'll bet a cookie that he wouldn't take part any
more just because you wouldn't. He was just crazy to do that love scene
in the fourth act with you. And when you wouldn't play, of course he
wouldn't; and then everybody seemed to lose interest with you two out.
'J.' took it all very decently though, don't you think?"
Laura made a murmur of mild assent.
"He was disappointed, too," continued Mrs. Cressler. "I could see that.
He thought the play was going to interest a lot of our church people in
his Sunday-school. But he never said a word when it fizzled out. Is he
coming to-night?"
"Well I declare," said Laura. "How should I know, if you don't?"
Jadwin was an almost regular visitor at the Cresslers' during the first
warm evenings. He lived on the South Side, and the distance between his
home and that of the Cresslers was very considerable. It was seldom,
however, that Jadwin did not drive over. He came in his double-seated
buggy, his negro coachman beside him the two coach dogs, "Rex" and
"Rox," trotting under the rear axle. His horses were not showy, nor
were they made conspicuous by elaborate boots, bandages, and all the
other solemn paraphernalia of the stable, yet men upon the sidewalks,
amateurs, breeders, and the like--men who understood good stock--never
failed to stop to watch the team go by, heads up, the check rein
swinging loose, ears all alert, eyes all alight, the breath deep,
strong, and slow, and the stride, machine-like, even as the swing of a
metronome, thrown out from the shoulder to knee, snapped on from knee
to fetlock, from fetlock to pastern, finishing squarely, beautifully,
with the thrust of the hoof, planted an instant, then, as it were,
flinging the roadway behind it, snatched up again, and again cast
forward.
On these occasions Jadwin himself inevitably wore a black "slouch" hat,
suggestive of the general of the Civil War, a grey "dust overcoat" with
a black velvet collar, and tan gloves, discoloured with the moisture of
his palms and all twisted and crumpled with the strain of holding the
thoroughbreds to their work.
He always called the time of the trip from the buggy at the Cresslers'
horse block, his stop watch in his hand, and, as he joined the groups
upon the steps, he was almost sure to remark: "Tugs were loose all the
way from the river. They pulled the whole rig by the reins. My hands
are about dislocated."
"Page plays very well," murmured Mrs. Cressler as the young girl laid
down her mandolin. "I hope J. does come to-night," she added. "I love
to have him 'round. He's so hearty and whole-souled."
Laura did not reply. She seemed a little preoccupied this evening, and
conversation in the group died away. The night was very beautiful,
serene, quiet; and, at this particular hour of the end of the twilight,
no one cared to talk much. Cressler lit another cigar, and the
filaments of delicate blue smoke hung suspended about his head in the
moveless air. Far off, from the direction of the mouth of the river, a
lake steamer whistled a prolonged tenor note. Somewhere from an open
window in one of the neighbouring houses a violin, accompanied by a
piano, began to elaborate the sustained phrases of "Schubert's
Serenade." Theatrical as was the theme, the twilight and the muffled
hum of the city, lapsing to quiet after the febrile activities of the
day, combined to lend it a dignity, a persuasiveness. The children were
still playing along the sidewalks, and their staccato gaiety was part
of the quiet note to which all sounds of the moment seemed chorded.
After a while Mrs. Cressler began to talk to Laura in a low voice. She
and Charlie were going to spend a part of June at Oconomowoc, in
Wisconsin. Why could not Laura make up her mind to come with them? She
had asked Laura a dozen times already, but couldn't get a yes or no
answer from her. What was the reason she could not decide? Didn't she
think she would have a good time?
"Page can go," said Laura. "I would like to have you take her. But as
for me, I don't know. My plans are so unsettled this summer." She broke
off suddenly. "Oh, now, that I think of it, I want to borrow your
'Idylls of the King.' May I take it for a day or two? I'll run in and
get it now," she added as she rose. "I know just where to find it. No,
please sit still, Mr. Cressler. I'll go."
And with the words she disappeared in doors, leaving Mrs. Cressler to
murmur to her husband:
"Strange girl. Sometimes I think I don't know Laura at all. She's so
inconsistent. How funny she acts about going to Oconomowoc with us!"
Mr. Cressler permitted himself an amiable grunt of protest.
"Pshaw! Laura's all right. The handsomest girl in Cook County."
"Well, that's not much to do with it, Charlie," sighed Mrs. Cressler.
"Oh, dear," she added vaguely. "I don't know."
"Don't know what?"
"I hope Laura's life will be happy."
"Oh, for God's sake, Carrie!"
"There's something about that girl," continued Mrs. Cressler, "that
makes my heart bleed for her."
Cressler frowned, puzzled and astonished.
"Hey--what!" he exclaimed. "You're crazy, Carrie!"
"Just the same," persisted Mrs. Cressler, "I just yearn towards her
sometimes like a mother. Some people are born to trouble, Charlie; born
to trouble, as the sparks fly upward. And you mark my words, Charlie
Cressler, Laura is that sort. There's all the pathos in the world in
just the way she looks at you from under all that black, black hair,
and out of her eyes the saddest eyes sometimes, great, sad, mournful
eyes."
"Fiddlesticks!" said Mr. Cressler, resuming his paper.
"I'm positive that Sheldon Corthell asked her to marry him," mused Mrs.
Cressler after a moment's silence. "I'm sure that's why he left so
suddenly."
Her husband grunted grimly as he turned his paper so as to catch the
reflection of the vestibule light.
"Don't you think so, Charlie?"
"Uh! I don't know. I never had much use for that fellow, anyhow."
"He's wonderfully talented," she commented, "and so refined. He always
had the most beautiful manners. Did you ever notice his hands?"
"I thought they were like a barber's. Put him in 'J.'s' rig there,
behind those horses of his, and how long do you suppose he'd hold those
trotters with that pair of hands? Why," he blustered, suddenly, "they'd
pull him right over the dashboard."
"Poor little Landry Court!" murmured his wife, lowering her voice.
"He's just about heart-broken. He wanted to marry her too. My goodness,
she must have brought him up with a round turn. I can see Laura when
she is really angry. Poor fellow!"
"If you women would let that boy alone, he might amount to something."
"He told me his life was ruined."
Cressler threw his cigar from him with vast impatience.
"Oh, rot!" he muttered.
"He took it terribly, seriously, Charlie, just the same."
"I'd like to take that young boy in hand and shake some of the nonsense
out of him that you women have filled him with. He's got a level head.
On the floor every day, and never yet bought a hatful of wheat on his
own account. Don't know the meaning of speculation and don't want to.
There's a boy with some sense."
"It's just as well," persisted Mrs. Cressler reflectively, "that Laura
wouldn't have him. Of course they're not made for each other. But I
thought that Corthell would have made her happy. But she won't ever
marry 'J.' He asked her to; she didn't tell me, but I know he did. And
she's refused him flatly. She won't marry anybody, she says. Said she
didn't love anybody, and never would. I'd have loved to have seen her
married to 'J.,' but I can see now that they wouldn't have been
congenial; and if Laura wouldn't have Sheldon Corthell, who was just
made for her, I guess it was no use to expect she'd have 'J.' Laura's
got a temperament, and she's artistic, and loves paintings, and poetry,
and Shakespeare, and all that, and Curtis don't care for those things
at all. They wouldn't have had anything in common. But Corthell--that
was different. And Laura did care for him, in a way. He interested her
immensely. When he'd get started on art subjects Laura would just hang
on every word. My lands, I wouldn't have gone away if I'd been in his
boots. You mark my words, Charlie, there was the man for Laura
Dearborn, and she'll marry him yet, or I'll miss my guess."
"That's just like you, Carrie--you and the rest of the women,"
exclaimed Cressler, "always scheming to marry each other off. Why don't
you let the girl alone? Laura's all right. She minds her own business,
and she's perfectly happy. But you'd go to work and get up a sensation
about her, and say that your 'heart bleeds for her,' and that she's
born to trouble, and has sad eyes. If she gets into trouble it'll be
because some one else makes it for her. You take my advice, and let her
paddle her own canoe. She's got the head to do it; don't you worry
about that. By the way--" Cressler interrupted himself, seizing the
opportunity to change the subject. "By the way, Carrie, Curtis has been
speculating again. I'm sure of it."
"Too bad," she murmured.
"So it is," Cressler went on. "He and Gretry are thick as thieves these
days. Gretry, I understand, has been selling September wheat for him
all last week, and only this morning they closed out another
scheme--some corn game. It was all over the Floor just about closing
time. They tell me that Curtis landed between eight and ten thousand.
Always seems to win. I'd give a lot to keep him out of it; but since
his deal in May wheat he's been getting into it more and more."
"Did he sell that property on Washington Street?" she inquired.
"Oh," exclaimed her husband, "I'd forgot. I meant to tell you. No, he
didn't sell it. But he did better. He wouldn't sell, and those
department store people took a lease. Guess what they pay him. Three
hundred thousand a year. 'J.' is getting richer all the time, and why
he can't be satisfied with his own business instead of monkeying 'round
La Salle Street is a mystery to me."
But, as Mrs. Cressler was about to reply, Laura came to the open window
of the parlour.
"Oh, Mrs. Cressler," she called, "I don't seem to find your 'Idylls'
after all. I thought they were in the little book-case."
"Wait. I'll find them for you," exclaimed Mrs. Cressler.
"Would you mind?" answered Laura, as Mrs. Cressler rose.
Inside, the gas had not been lighted. The library was dark and cool,
and when Mrs. Cressler had found the book for Laura the girl pleaded a
headache as an excuse for remaining within. The two sat down by the
raised sash of a window at the side of the house, that overlooked the
"side yard," where the morning-glories and nasturtiums were in full
bloom.
"The house is cooler, isn't it?" observed Mrs. Cressler.
Laura settled herself in her wicker chair, and with a gesture that of
late had become habitual with her pushed her heavy coils of hair to one
side and patted them softly to place.
"It is getting warmer, I do believe," she said, rather listlessly. "I
understand it is to be a very hot summer." Then she added, "I'm to be
married in July, Mrs. Cressler."
Mrs. Cressler gasped, and sitting bolt upright stared for one
breathless instant at Laura's face, dimly visible in the darkness.
Then, stupefied, she managed to vociferate:
"What! Laura! Married? My darling girl!"
"Yes," answered Laura calmly. "In July--or maybe sooner."
"Why, I thought you had rejected Mr. Corthell. I thought that's why he
went away."
"Went away? He never went away. I mean it's not Mr. Corthell. It's Mr.
Jadwin."
"Thank God!" declared Mrs. Cressler fervently, and with the words
kissed Laura on both cheeks. "My dear, dear child, you can't tell how
glad I am. From the very first I've said you were made for one another.
And I thought all the time that you'd told him you wouldn't have him."
"I did," said Laura. Her manner was quiet. She seemed a little grave.
"I told him I did not love him. Only last week I told him so."
"Well, then, why did you promise?"
"My goodness!" exclaimed Laura, with a show of animation. "You don't
realize what it's been. Do you suppose you can say 'no' to that man?"
"Of course not, of course not," declared Mrs. Cressler joyfully.
"That's 'J.' all over. I might have known he'd have you if he set out
to do it."
"Morning, noon, and night," Laura continued. "He seemed willing to wait
as long as I wasn't definite; but one day I wrote to him and gave him a
square 'No,' so as he couldn't mistake, and just as soon as I'd said
that he--he--began. I didn't have any peace until I'd promised him, and
the moment I had promised he had a ring on my finger. He'd had it ready
in his pocket for weeks it seems. No," she explained, as Mrs. Cressler
laid her fingers upon her left hand, "That I would not have--yet."
"Oh, it was like 'J.' to be persistent," repeated Mrs. Cressler.
"Persistent!" murmured Laura. "He simply wouldn't talk of anything
else. It was making him sick, he said. And he did have a fever--often.
But he would come out to see me just the same. One night, when it was
pouring rain--Well, I'll tell you. He had been to dinner with us, and
afterwards, in the drawing-room, I told him 'no' for the hundredth time
just as plainly as I could, and he went away early--it wasn't eight. I
thought that now at last he had given up. But he was back again before
ten the same evening. He said he had come back to return a copy of a
book I had loaned him--'Jane Eyre' it was. Raining! I never saw it rain
as it did that night. He was drenched, and even at dinner he had had a
low fever. And then I was sorry for him. I told him he could come to
see me again. I didn't propose to have him come down with pneumonia, or
typhoid, or something. And so it all began over again."
"But you loved him, Laura?" demanded Mrs. Cressler. "You love him now?"
Laura was silent. Then at length:
"I don't know," she answered.
"Why, of course you love him, Laura," insisted Mrs. Cressler. "You
wouldn't have promised him if you hadn't. Of course you love him, don't
you?"
"Yes, I--I suppose I must love him, or--as you say--I wouldn't have
promised to marry him. He does everything, every little thing I say. He
just seems to think of nothing else but to please me from morning until
night. And when I finally said I would marry him, why, Mrs. Cressler,
he choked all up, and the tears ran down his face, and all he could say
was, 'May God bless you! May God bless you!' over and over again, and
his hand shook so that--Oh, well," she broke off abruptly. Then added,
"Somehow it makes tears come to my eyes to think of it."
"But, Laura," urged Mrs. Cressler, "you love Curtis, don't you?
You--you're such a strange girl sometimes. Dear child, talk to me as
though I were your mother. There's no one in the world loves you more
than I do. You love Curtis, don't you?"
Laura hesitated a long moment.
"Yes," she said, slowly at length. "I think I love him very
much--sometimes. And then sometimes I think I don't. I can't tell.
There are days when I'm sure of it, and there are others when I wonder
if I want to be married, after all. I thought when love came it was to
be--oh, uplifting, something glorious like Juliet's love or
Marguerite's. Something that would--" Suddenly she struck her hand to
her breast, her fingers shut tight, closing to a fist. "Oh, something
that would shake me all to pieces. I thought that was the only kind of
love there was."
"Oh, that's what you read about in trashy novels," Mrs. Cressler
assured her, "or the kind you see at the matinees. I wouldn't let that
bother me, Laura. There's no doubt that '_J._' loves you."
Laura brightened a little. "Oh, no," she answered, "there's no doubt
about that. It's splendid, that part of it. He seems to think there's
nothing in the world too good for me. Just imagine, only yesterday I
was saying something about my gloves, I really forget what--something
about how hard it was for me to get the kind of gloves I liked. Would
you believe it, he got me to give him my measure, and when I saw him in
the evening he told me he had cabled to Brussels to some famous
glovemaker and had ordered I don't know how many pairs."
"Just like him, just like him!" cried Mrs. Cressler. "I know you will
be happy, Laura, dear. You can't help but be with a man who loves you
as 'J.' does."
"I think I shall be happy," answered Laura, suddenly grave. "Oh, Mrs.
Cressler, I want to be. I hope that I won't come to myself some day,
after it is too late, and find that it was all a mistake." Her voice
shook a little. "You don't know how nervous I am these days. One minute
I am one kind of girl, and the next another kind. I'm so nervous
and--oh, I don't know. Oh, I guess it will be all right." She wiped her
eyes, and laughed a note. "I don't see why I should cry about it," she
murmured.
"Well, Laura," answered Mrs. Cressler, "if you don't love Curtis, don't
marry him. That's very simple."
"It's like this, Mrs. Cressler," Laura explained. "I suppose I am very
uncharitable and unchristian, but I like the people that like me, and I
hate those that don't like me. I can't help it. I know it's wrong, but
that's the way I am. And I love to be loved. The man that would love me
the most would make me love him. And when Mr. Jadwin seems to care so
much, and do so much, and--you know how I mean; it does make a
difference of course. I suppose I care as much for Mr. Jadwin as I ever
will care for any man. I suppose I must be cold and unemotional."
Mrs. Cressler could not restrain a movement of surprise.
"You unemotional? Why, I thought you just said, Laura, that you had
imagined love would be like Juliet and like that girl in 'Faust'--that
it was going to shake you all to pieces."
"Did I say that? Well, I told you I was one girl one minute and another
another. I don't know myself these days. Oh, hark," she said, abruptly,
as the cadence of hoofs began to make itself audible from the end of
the side street. "That's the team now. I could recognise those horses'
trot as far as I could hear it. Let's go out. I know he would like to
have me there when he drives up. And you know"--she put her hand on
Mrs. Cressler's arm as the two moved towards the front door--"this is
all absolutely a secret as yet."
"Why, of course, Laura dear. But tell me just one thing more," Mrs.
Cressler asked, in a whisper, "are you going to have a church wedding?"
"Hey, Carrie," called Mr. Cressler from the stoop, "here's J."
Laura shook her head.
"No, I want it to be very quiet--at our house. We'll go to Geneva Lake
for the summer. That's why, you see, I couldn't promise to go to
Oconomowoc with you."
They came out upon the front steps, Mrs. Cressler's arm around Laura's
waist. It was dark by now, and the air was perceptibly warmer.
The team was swinging down the street close at hand, the hoof beats
exactly timed, as if there were but one instead of two horses.
"Well, what's the record to-night J.?" cried Cressler, as Jadwin
brought the bays to a stand at the horse block. Jadwin did not respond
until he had passed the reins to the coachman, and taking the stop
watch from the latter's hand, he drew on his cigar, and held the
glowing tip to the dial.
"Eleven minutes and a quarter," he announced, "and we had to wait for
the bridge at that."
He came up the steps, fanning himself with his slouch hat, and dropped
into the chair that Landry had brought for him.
"Upon my word," he exclaimed, gingerly drawing off his driving gloves,
"I've no feeling in my fingers at all. Those fellows will pull my hands
clean off some day."
But he was hardly settled in his place before he proposed to send the
coachman home, and to take Laura for a drive towards Lincoln Park, and
even a little way into the park itself. He promised to have her back
within an hour.
"I haven't any hat," objected Laura. "I should love to go, but I ran
over here to-night without any hat."
"Well, I wouldn't let that stand in my way, Laura," protested Mrs.
Cressler. "It will be simply heavenly in the Park on such a night as
this."
In the end Laura borrowed Page's hat, and Jadwin took her away. In the
light of the street lamps Mrs. Cressler and the others watched them
drive off, sitting side by side behind the fine horses. Jadwin,
broad-shouldered, a fresh cigar in his teeth, each rein in a double
turn about his large, hard hands; Laura, slim, erect, pale, her black,
thick hair throwing a tragic shadow low upon her forehead.
"A fine-looking couple," commented Mr. Cressler as they disappeared.
The hoof beats died away, the team vanished. Landry Court, who stood
behind the others, watching, turned to Mrs. Cressler. She thought she
detected a little unsteadiness in his voice, but he repeated bravely:
"Yes, yes, that's right. They are a fine, a--a fine-looking couple
together, aren't they? A fine-looking couple, to say the least."
A week went by, then two, soon May had passed. On the fifteenth of that
month Laura's engagement to Curtis Jadwin was formally announced. The
day of the wedding was set for the first week in June.
During this time Laura was never more changeable, more puzzling. Her
vivacity seemed suddenly to have been trebled, but it was invaded
frequently by strange reactions and perversities that drove her friends
and family to distraction.
About a week after her talk with Mrs. Cressler, Laura broke the news to
Page. It was a Monday morning. She had spent the time since breakfast
in putting her bureau drawers to rights, scattering sachet powders in
them, then leaving them open so as to perfume the room. At last she
came into the front "upstairs sitting-room," a heap of gloves,
stockings, collarettes--the odds and ends of a wildly disordered
wardrobe--in her lap. She tumbled all these upon the hearth rug, and
sat down upon the floor to sort them carefully. At her little desk near
by, Page, in a blue and white shirt waist and golf skirt, her slim
little ankles demurely crossed, a cone of foolscap over her forearm to
guard against ink spots, was writing in her journal. This was an
interminable affair, voluminous, complex, that the young girl had kept
ever since she was fifteen. She wrote in it--she hardly knew what--the
small doings of the previous day, her comings and goings, accounts of
dances, estimates of new acquaintances. But besides this she filled
page after page with "impressions," "outpourings," queer little
speculations about her soul, quotations from poets, solemn criticisms
of new novels, or as often as not mere purposeless meanderings of
words, exclamatory, rhapsodic--involved lucubrations quite meaningless
and futile, but which at times she re-read with vague thrills of
emotion and mystery.
On this occasion Page wrote rapidly and steadily for a few moments
after Laura's entrance into the room. Then she paused, her eyes growing
wide and thoughtful. She wrote another line and paused again. Seated on
the floor, her hands full of gloves, Laura was murmuring to herself.
"Those are good ... and those, and the black suedes make eight.... And
if I could only find the mate to this white one.... Ah, here it is.
That makes nine, nine pair."
She put the gloves aside, and turning to the stockings drew one of the
silk ones over her arm, and spread out her fingers in the foot.
"Oh, dear," she whispered, "there's a thread started, and now it will
simply run the whole length...."
Page's scratching paused again.
"Laura," she asked dreamily, "Laura, how do you spell 'abysmal'?"
"With a y, honey," answered Laura, careful not to smile.
"Oh, Laura," asked Page, "do you ever get very, very sad without
knowing why?"
"No, indeed," answered her sister, as she peeled the stocking from her
arm. "When I'm sad I know just the reason, you may be sure."
Page sighed again.
"Oh, I don't know," she murmured indefinitely. "I lie awake at night
sometimes and wish I were dead."
"You mustn't get morbid, honey," answered her older sister calmly. "It
isn't natural for a young healthy little body like you to have such
gloomy notions."
"Last night," continued Page, "I got up out of bed and sat by the
window a long time. And everything was so still and beautiful, and the
moonlight and all--and I said right out loud to myself,
"My breath to Heaven in vapour goes--
You know those lines from Tennyson:
"My breath to Heaven in vapour goes,
May my soul follow soon."
I said it right out loud just like that, and it was just as though
something in me had spoken. I got my journal and wrote down, 'Yet in a
few days, and thee, the all-beholding sun shall see no more.' It's from
Thanatopsis, you know, and I thought how beautiful it would be to leave
all this world, and soar and soar, right up to higher planes and be at
peace. Laura, dearest, do you think I ever ought to marry?"
"Why not, girlie? Why shouldn't you marry. Of course you'll marry some
day, if you find--"
"I should like to be a nun," Page interrupted, shaking her head,
mournfully.
"--if you find the man who loves you," continued Laura, "and whom
you--you admire and respect--whom you love. What would you say, honey,
if--if your sister, if I should be married some of these days?"
Page wheeled about in her chair.
"Oh, Laura, tell me," she cried, "are you joking? Are you going to be
married? Who to? I hadn't an idea, but I thought--I suspected."
"Well," observed Laura, slowly, "I might as well tell you--some one
will if I don't--Mr. Jadwin wants me to marry him."
"And what did you say? What did you say? Oh, I'll never tell. Oh,
Laura, tell me all about it."
"Well, why shouldn't I marry him? Yes--I promised. I said yes. Why
shouldn't I? He loves me, and he is rich. Isn't that enough?"
"Oh, no. It isn't. You must love--you do love him?"
"I? Love? Pooh!" cried Laura. "Indeed not. I love nobody."
"Oh, Laura," protested Page earnestly. "Don't, don't talk that way. You
mustn't. It's wicked."
Laura put her head in the air.
"I wouldn't give any man that much satisfaction. I think that is the
way it ought to be. A man ought to love a woman more than she loves
him. It ought to be enough for him if she lets him give her everything
she wants in the world. He ought to serve her like the old
knights--give up his whole life to satisfy some whim of hers; and it's
her part, if she likes, to be cold and distant. That's my idea of love."
"Yes, but they weren't cold and proud to their knights after they'd
promised to marry them," urged Page. "They loved them in the end, and
married them for love."
"Oh, 'love'!" mocked Laura. "I don't believe in love. You only get your
ideas of it from trashy novels and matinees. Girlie," cried Laura, "I
am going to have the most beautiful gowns. They're the last things that
Miss Dearborn shall buy for herself, and"--she fetched a long
breath--"I tell you they are going to be creations."
When at length the lunch bell rang Laura jumped to her feet, adjusting
her coiffure with thrusts of her long, white hands, the fingers
extended, and ran from the room exclaiming that the whole morning had
gone and that half her bureau drawers were still in disarray.
Page, left alone, sat for a long time lost in thought, sighing deeply
at intervals, then at last she wrote in her journal:
"A world without Love--oh, what an awful thing that would be. Oh, love
is so beautiful--so beautiful, that it makes me sad. When I think of
love in all its beauty I am sad, sad like Romola in George Eliot's
well-known novel of the same name."
She locked up her journal in the desk drawer, and wiped her pen point
until it shone, upon a little square of chamois skin. Her writing-desk
was a miracle of neatness, everything in its precise place, the
writing-paper in geometrical parallelograms, the pen tray neatly
polished.
On the hearth rug, where Laura had sat, Page's searching eye discovered
traces of her occupancy--a glove button, a white thread, a hairpin.
Page was at great pains to gather them up carefully and drop them into
the waste basket.
"Laura is so fly-away," she observed, soberly.
When Laura told the news to Aunt Wess' the little old lady showed no
surprise.
"I've been expecting it of late," she remarked. "Well, Laura, Mr.
Jadwin is a man of parts. Though, to tell the truth, I thought at first
it was to be that Mr. Corthell. He always seemed so
distinguished-looking and elegant. I suppose now that that young Mr.
Court will have a regular conniption fit."
"Oh, Landry," murmured Laura.
"Where are you going to live, Laura? Here? My word, child, don't be
afraid to tell me I must pack. Why, bless you."
"No, no," exclaimed Laura, energetically, "you are to stay right here.
We'll talk it all over just as soon as I know more decidedly what our
plans are to be. No, we won't live here. Mr. Jadwin is going to buy a
new house--on the corner of North Avenue and State Street. It faces
Lincoln Park--you know it, the Farnsworth place."
"Why, my word, Laura," cried Aunt Wess' amazed, "why, it's a palace! Of
course I know it. Why, it takes in the whole block, child, and there's
a conservatory pretty near as big as this house. Well!"
"Yes, I know," answered Laura, shaking her head. "It takes my breath
away sometimes. Mr. Jadwin tells me there's an art gallery, too, with
an organ in it--a full-sized church organ. Think of it. Isn't it
beautiful, beautiful? Isn't it a happiness? And I'll have my own
carriage and coupe, and oh, Aunt Wess', a saddle horse if I want to,
and a box at the opera, and a country place--that is to be bought day
after to-morrow. It's at Geneva Lake. We're to go there after we are
married, and Mr. Jadwin has bought the dearest, loveliest, daintiest
little steam yacht. He showed the photograph of her yesterday. Oh,
honey, honey! It all comes over me sometimes. Think, only a year ago,
less than that, I was vegetating there at Barrington, among those
wretched old blue-noses, helping Martha with the preserves and all and
all; and now"--she threw her arms wide--"I'm just going to live. Think
of it, that beautiful house, and servants, and carriages, and
paintings, and, oh, honey, how I will dress the part!"
"But I wouldn't think of those things so much, Laura," answered Aunt
Wess', rather seriously. "Child, you are not marrying him for carriages
and organs and saddle horses and such. You're marrying this Mr. Jadwin
because you love him. Aren't you?"
"Oh," cried Laura, "I would marry a ragamuffin if he gave me all these
things--gave them to me because he loved me."
Aunt Wess' stared. "I wouldn't talk that way, Laura," she remarked.
"Even in fun. At least not before Page."
That same evening Jadwin came to dinner with the two sisters and their
aunt. The usual evening drive with Laura was foregone for this
occasion. Jadwin had stayed very late at his office, and from there was
to come direct to the Dearborns. Besides that, Nip--the trotters were
named Nip and Tuck--was lame.
As early as four o'clock in the afternoon Laura, suddenly moved by an
unreasoning caprice, began to prepare an elaborate toilet. Not since
the opera night had she given so much attention to her appearance. She
sent out for an extraordinary quantity of flowers; flowers for the
table, flowers for Page and Aunt Wess', great "American beauties" for
her corsage, and a huge bunch of violets for the bowl in the library.
She insisted that Page should wear her smartest frock, and Mrs. Wessels
her grenadine of great occasions. As for herself, she decided upon a
dinner gown of black, decollete, with sleeves of lace. Her hair she
dressed higher than ever. She resolved upon wearing all her jewelry,
and to that end put on all her rings, secured the roses in place with
an amethyst brooch, caught up the little locks at the back of her head
with a heart-shaped pin of tiny diamonds, and even fastened the ribbon
of satin that girdled her waist, with a clasp of flawed turquoises.
Until five in the afternoon she was in the gayest spirits, and went
down to the dining-room to supervise the setting of the table, singing
to herself.
Then, almost at the very last, when Jadwin might be expected at any
moment, her humour changed again, and again, for no discoverable reason.
Page, who came into her sister's room after dressing, to ask how she
looked, found her harassed and out of sorts. She was moody, spoke in
monosyllables, and suddenly declared that the wearing anxiety of
house-keeping was driving her to distraction. Of all days in the week,
why had Jadwin chosen this particular one to come to dinner. Men had no
sense, could not appreciate a woman's difficulties. Oh, she would be
glad when the evening was over.
Then, as an ultimate disaster, she declared that she herself looked
"Dutchy." There was no style, no smartness to her dress; her hair was
arranged unbecomingly; she was growing thin, peaked. In a word, she
looked "Dutchy."
All at once she flung off her roses and dropped into a chair.
"I will not go down to-night," she cried. "You and Aunt Wess' must make
out to receive Mr. Jadwin. I simply will not see any one to-night, Mr.
Jadwin least of all. Tell him I'm gone to bed sick--which is the truth,
I am going to bed, my head is splitting."
All persuasion, entreaty, or cajolery availed nothing. Neither Page nor
Aunt Wess' could shake her decision. At last Page hazarded a
remonstrance to the effect that if she had known that Laura was not
going to be at dinner she would not have taken such pains with her own
toilet.
Promptly thereat Laura lost her temper.
"I do declare, Page," she exclaimed, "it seems to me that I get very
little thanks for ever taking any interest in your personal appearance.
There is not a girl in Chicago--no millionaire's daughter--has any
prettier gowns than you. I plan and plan, and go to the most expensive
dressmakers so that you will be well dressed, and just as soon as I
dare to express the desire to see you appear like a gentlewoman, I get
it thrown in my face. And why do I do it? I'm sure I don't know. It's
because I'm a poor weak, foolish, indulgent sister. I've given up the
idea of ever being loved by you; but I do insist on being respected."
Laura rose, stately, severe. It was the "grand manner" now,
unequivocally, unmistakably. "I do insist upon being respected," she
repeated. "It would be wrong and wicked of me to allow you to ignore
and neglect my every wish. I'll not have it, I'll not tolerate it."
Page, aroused, indignant, disdained an answer, but drew in her breath
and held it hard, her lips tight pressed.
"It's all very well for you to pose, miss," Laura went on; "to pose as
injured innocence. But you understand very well what I mean. If you
don't love me, at least I shall not allow you to flout
me--deliberately, defiantly. And it does seem strange," she added, her
voice beginning to break, "that when we two are all alone in the world,
when there's no father or mother--and you are all I have, and when I
love you as I do, that there might be on your part--a little
consideration--when I only want to be loved for my own sake, and
not--and not--when I want to be, oh, loved--loved--loved--"
The two sisters were in each other's arms by now, and Page was crying
no less than Laura.
"Oh, little sister," exclaimed Laura, "I know you love me. I know you
do. I didn't mean to say that. You must forgive me and be very kind to
me these days. I know I'm cross, but sometimes these days I'm so
excited and nervous I can't help it, and you must try to bear with me.
Hark, there's the bell."
Listening, they heard the servant open the door, and then the sound of
Jadwin's voice and the clank of his cane in the porcelain cane rack.
But still Laura could not be persuaded to go down. No, she was going to
bed; she had neuralgia; she was too nervous to so much as think. Her
gown was "Dutchy." And in the end, so unshakable was her resolve, that
Page and her aunt had to sit through the dinner with Jadwin and
entertain him as best they could.
But as the coffee was being served the three received a genuine
surprise. Laura appeared. All her finery was laid off. She wore the
simplest, the most veritably monastic, of her dresses, plain to the
point of severity. Her hands were bare of rings. Not a single jewel,
not even the most modest ornament relieved her sober appearance. She
was very quiet, spoke in a low voice and declared she had come down
only to drink a glass of mineral water and then to return at once to
her room.
As a matter of fact, she did nothing of the kind. The others prevailed
upon her to take a cup of coffee. Then the dessert was recalled, and,
forgetting herself in an animated discussion with Jadwin as to the name
of their steam yacht, she ate two plates of wine jelly before she was
aware. She expressed a doubt as to whether a little salad would do her
good, and after a vehement exhortation from Jadwin, allowed herself to
be persuaded into accepting a sufficiently generous amount.
"I think a classical name would be best for the boat," she declared.
"Something like 'Arethusa' or 'The Nereid.'"
They rose from the table and passed into the library. The evening was
sultry, threatening a rain-storm, and they preferred not to sit on the
"stoop." Jadwin lit a cigar; he still wore his business clothes--the
inevitable "cutaway," white waistcoat, and grey trousers of the
middle-aged man of affairs.
"Oh, call her the 'Artemis,'" suggested Page.
"Well now, to tell the truth," observed Jadwin, "those names look
pretty in print; but somehow I don't fancy them. They're hard to read,
and they sound somehow frilled up and fancy. But if you're satisfied,
Laura--"
"I knew a young man once," began Aunt Wess', "who had a boat--that was
when we lived at Kenwood and Mr. Wessels belonged to the
'Farragut'--and this young man had a boat he called 'Fanchon.' He got
tipped over in her one day, he and the three daughters of a lady I knew
well, and two days afterward they found them at the bottom of the lake,
all holding on to each other; and they fetched them up just like that
in one piece. The mother of those girls never smiled once since that
day, and her hair turned snow white. That was in 'seventy-nine. I
remember it perfectly. The boat's name was 'Fanchon.'"
"But that was a sail boat, Aunt Wess'," objected Laura. "Ours is a
steam yacht. There's all the difference in the world."
"I guess they're all pretty risky, those pleasure boats," answered Aunt
Wess'. "My word, you couldn't get me to set foot on one."
Jadwin nodded his head at Laura, his eyes twinkling.
"Well, we'll leave 'em all at home, Laura, when we go," he said.
A little later one of Page's "young men" called to see her, and Page
took him off into the drawing-room across the hall. Mrs. Wessels seized
upon the occasion to slip away unobserved, and Laura and Jadwin were
left alone.
"Well, my girl," began Jadwin, "how's the day gone with you?"
She had been seated at the centre table, by the drop light--the only
light in the room--turning over the leaves of "The Age of Fable,"
looking for graceful and appropriate names for the yacht. Jadwin leaned
over her and put his hand upon her shoulder.
"Oh, about the same as usual," she answered. "I told Page and Aunt
Wess' this morning."
"What did they have to say?" Jadwin laid a soft but clumsy hand upon
Laura's head, adding, "Laura, you have the most wonderful hair I ever
saw."
"Oh, they were not surprised. Curtis, don't, you are mussing me." She
moved her head impatiently; but then smiling, as if to mitigate her
abruptness, said, "It always makes me nervous to have my hair touched.
No, they were not surprised; unless it was that we were to be married
so soon. They were surprised at that. You know I always said it was too
soon. Why not put it off, Curtis--until the winter?"
But he scouted this, and then, as she returned to the subject again,
interrupted her, drawing some papers from his pocket.
"Oh, by the way," he said, "here are the sketch plans for the
alterations of the house at Geneva. The contractor brought them to the
office to-day. He's made that change about the dining-room."
"Oh," exclaimed Laura, interested at once, "you mean about building on
the conservatory?"
"Hum--no," answered Jadwin a little slowly. "You see, Laura, the
difficulty is in getting the thing done this summer. When we go up
there we want everything finished, don't we? We don't want a lot of
workmen clattering around. I thought maybe we could wait about that
conservatory till next year, if you didn't mind."
Laura acquiesced readily enough, but Jadwin could see that she was a
little disappointed. Thoughtful, he tugged his mustache in silence for
a moment. Perhaps, after all, it could be arranged. Then an idea
presented itself to him. Smiling a little awkwardly, he said:
"Laura, I tell you what. I'll make a bargain with you."
She looked up as he hesitated. Jadwin sat down at the table opposite
her and leaned forward upon his folded arms.
"Do you know," he began, "I happened to think--Well, here's what I
mean," he suddenly declared decisively. "Do you know, Laura, that ever
since we've been engaged you've never--Well, you've never--never kissed
me of your own accord. It's foolish to talk that way now, isn't it?
But, by George! That would be--would be such a wonderful thing for me.
I know," he hastened to add, "I know, Laura, you aren't demonstrative.
I ought not to expect, maybe, that you-- Well, maybe it isn't much. But
I was thinking a while ago that there wouldn't be a sweeter thing
imaginable for me than if my own girl would come up to me some
time--when I wasn't thinking--and of her own accord put her two arms
around me and kiss me. And--well, I was thinking about it, and--" He
hesitated again, then finished abruptly with, "And it occurred to me
that you never had."
Laura made no answer, but smiled rather indefinitely, as she continued
to search the pages of the book, her head to one side.
Jadwin continued:
"We'll call it a bargain. Some day--before very long, mind you--you are
going to kiss me--that way, understand, of your own accord, when I'm
not thinking of it; and I'll get that conservatory in for you. I'll
manage it somehow. I'll start those fellows at it to-morrow--twenty of
'em if it's necessary. How about it? Is it a bargain? Some day before
long. What do you say?"
Laura hesitated, singularly embarrassed, unable to find the right words.
"Is it a bargain?" persisted Jadwin.
"Oh, if you put it that way," she murmured, "I suppose so--yes."
"You won't forget, because I shan't speak about it again. Promise you
won't forget."
"No, I won't forget. Why not call her the 'Thetis'?"
"I was going to suggest the 'Dart,' or the 'Swallow,' or the 'Arrow.'
Something like that--to give a notion of speed."
"No. I like the 'Thetis' best."
"That settles it then. She's your steam yacht, Laura."
Later on, when Jadwin was preparing to depart, they stood for a moment
in the hallway, while he drew on his gloves and took a fresh cigar from
his case.
"I'll call for you here at about ten," he said. "Will that do?"
He spoke of the following morning. He had planned to take Page, Mrs.
Wessels, and Laura on a day's excursion to Geneva Lake to see how work
was progressing on the country house. Jadwin had set his mind upon
passing the summer months after the marriage at the lake, and as the
early date of the ceremony made it impossible to erect a new building,
he had bought, and was now causing to be remodelled, an old but very
well constructed house just outside of the town and once occupied by a
local magistrate. The grounds were ample, filled with shade and fruit
trees, and fronted upon the lake. Laura had never seen her future
country home. But for the past month Jadwin had had a small army of
workmen and mechanics busy about the place, and had managed to
galvanise the contractors with some of his own energy and persistence.
There was every probability that the house and grounds would be
finished in time.
"Very well," said Laura, in answer to his question, "at ten we'll be
ready. Good-night." She held out her hand. But Jadwin put it quickly
aside, and took her swiftly and strongly into his arms, and turning her
face to his, kissed her cheek again and again.
Laura submitted, protesting:
"Curtis! Such foolishness. Oh, dear; can't you love me without
crumpling me so? Curtis! Please. You are so rough with me, dear."
She pulled away from him, and looked up into his face, surprised to
find it suddenly flushed; his eyes were flashing.
"My God," he murmured, with a quick intake of breath, "my God, how I
love you, my girl! Just the touch of your hand, the smell of your hair.
Oh, sweetheart. It is wonderful! Wonderful!" Then abruptly he was
master of himself again.
"Good-night," he said. "Good-night. God bless you," and with the words
was gone.
They were married on the last day of June of that summer at eleven
o'clock in the morning in the church opposite Laura's house--the
Episcopalian church of which she was a member. The wedding was very
quiet. Only the Cresslers, Miss Gretry, Page, and Aunt Wess' were
present. Immediately afterward the couple were to take the train for
Geneva Lake--Jadwin having chartered a car for the occasion.
But the weather on the wedding day was abominable. A warm drizzle,
which had set in early in the morning, developed by eleven o'clock into
a steady downpour, accompanied by sullen grumblings of very distant
thunder.
About an hour before the appointed time Laura insisted that her aunt
and sister should leave her. She would allow only Mrs. Cressler to help
her. The time passed. The rain continued to fall. At last it wanted but
fifteen minutes to eleven.
Page and Aunt Wess', who presented themselves at the church in advance
of the others, found the interior cool, dark, and damp. They sat down
in a front pew, talking in whispers, looking about them. Druggeting
shrouded the reader's stand, the baptismal font, and bishop's chair.
Every footfall and every minute sound echoed noisily from the dark
vaulting of the nave and chancel. The janitor or sexton, a severe old
fellow, who wore a skull cap and loose slippers, was making a great
to-do with a pile of pew cushions in a remote corner. The rain drummed
with incessant monotony upon the slates overhead, and upon the stained
windows on either hand. Page, who attended the church regularly every
Sunday morning, now found it all strangely unfamiliar. The saints in
the windows looked odd and unecclesiastical; the whole suggestion of
the place was uncanonical. In the organ loft a tuner was at work upon
the organ, and from time to time the distant mumbling of the thunder
was mingled with a sonorous, prolonged note from the pipes.
"My word, how it is raining," whispered Aunt Wess', as the pour upon
the roof suddenly swelled in volume.
But Page had taken a prayer book from the rack, and kneeling upon a
hassock was repeating the Litany to herself.
It annoyed Aunt Wess'. Excited, aroused, the little old lady was never
more in need of a listener. Would Page never be through?
"And Laura's new frock," she whispered, vaguely. "It's going to be
ruined."
Page, her lips forming the words, "Good Lord deliver us," fixed her
aunt with a reproving glance. To pass the time Aunt Wess' began
counting the pews, missing a number here and there, confusing herself,
always obliged to begin over again. From the direction of the vestry
room came the sound of a closing door. Then all fell silent again. Even
the shuffling of the janitor ceased for an instant.
"Isn't it still?" murmured Aunt Wess', her head in the air. "I wonder
if that was them. I heard a door slam. They tell me that the rector has
been married three times." Page, unheeding and demure, turned a leaf,
and began with "All those who travel by land or water." Mr. Cressler
and young Miss Gretry appeared. They took their seats behind Page and
Aunt Wess', and the party exchanged greetings in low voices. Page
reluctantly laid down her prayer book.
"Laura will be over soon," whispered Mr. Cressler. "Carrie is with her.
I'm going into the vestry room. J. has just come." He took himself off,
walking upon his tiptoes.
Aunt Wess' turned to Page, repeating:
"Do you know they say this rector has been married three times?"
But Page was once more deep in her prayer book, so the little old lady
addressed her remark to the Gretry girl.
This other, however, her lips tightly compressed, made a despairing
gesture with her hand, and at length managed to say:
"Can't talk."
"Why, heavens, child, whatever is the matter?"
"Makes them worse--when I open my mouth--I've got the hiccoughs."
Aunt Wess' flounced back in her seat, exasperated, out of sorts.
"Well, my word," she murmured to herself, "I never saw such girls."
"Preserve to our use the kindly fruits of the earth," continued Page.
Isabel Gretry's hiccoughs drove Aunt Wess' into "the fidgets." They
"got on her nerves." What with them and Page's uninterrupted murmur,
she was at length obliged to sit in the far end of the pew, and just as
she had settled herself a second time the door of the vestry room
opened and the wedding party came out; first Mrs. Cressler, then Laura,
then Jadwin and Cressler, and then, robed in billowing white,
venerable, his prayer book in his hand, the bishop of the diocese
himself. Last of all came the clerk, osseous, perfumed, a gardenia in
the lapel of his frock coat, terribly excited, and hurrying about on
tiptoe, saying "Sh! Sh!" as a matter of principle.
Jadwin wore a new frock coat and a resplendent Ascot scarf, which Mr.
Cressler had bought for him and Page knew at a glance that he was
agitated beyond all measure, and was keeping himself in hand only by a
tremendous effort. She could guess that his teeth were clenched. He
stood by Cressler's side, his head bent forward, his hands--the fingers
incessantly twisting and untwisting--clasped behind his back. Never for
once did his eyes leave Laura's face.
She herself was absolutely calm, only a little paler perhaps than
usual; but never more beautiful, never more charming. Abandoning for
this once her accustomed black, she wore a tan travelling dress, tailor
made, very smart, a picture hat with heavy plumes set off with a clasp
of rhinestones, while into her belt was thrust a great bunch of
violets. She drew off her gloves and handed them to Mrs. Cressler. At
the same moment Page began to cry softly to herself.
"There's the last of Laura," she whimpered. "There's the last of my
dear sister for me."
Aunt Wess' fixed her with a distressful gaze. She sniffed once or
twice, and then began fumbling in her reticule for her handkerchief.
"If only her dear father were here," she whispered huskily. "And to
think that's the same little girl I used to rap on the head with my
thimble for annoying the cat! Oh, if Jonas could be here this day."
"She'll never be the same to me after now," sobbed Page, and as she
spoke the Gretry girl, hypnotised with emotion and taken all unawares,
gave vent to a shrill hiccough, a veritable yelp, that woke an
explosive echo in every corner of the building.
Page could not restrain a giggle, and the giggle strangled with the
sobs in her throat, so that the little girl was not far from hysterics.
And just then a sonorous voice, magnificent, orotund, began suddenly
from the chancel with the words:
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and
in the face of this company to join together this Man and this Woman in
holy matrimony."
Promptly a spirit of reverence, not to say solemnity, pervaded the
entire surroundings. The building no longer appeared secular,
unecclesiastical. Not in the midst of all the pomp and ceremonial of
the Easter service had the chancel and high altar disengaged a more
compelling influence. All other intrusive noises died away; the organ
was hushed; the fussy janitor was nowhere in sight; the outside clamour
of the city seemed dwindling to the faintest, most distant vibration;
the whole world was suddenly removed, while the great moment in the
lives of the Man and the Woman began.
Page held her breath; the intensity of the situation seemed to her,
almost physically, straining tighter and tighter with every passing
instant. She was awed, stricken; and Laura appeared to her to be all at
once a woman transfigured, semi-angelic, unknowable, exalted. The
solemnity of those prolonged, canorous syllables: "I require and charge
you both, as ye shall answer at the dreadful day of judgment, when the
secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed," weighed down upon her
spirits with an almost intolerable majesty. Oh, it was all very well to
speak lightly of marriage, to consider it in a vein of mirth. It was a
pretty solemn affair, after all; and she herself, Page Dearborn, was a
wicked, wicked girl, full of sins, full of deceits and frivolities,
meriting of punishment--on "that dreadful day of judgment." Only last
week she had deceived Aunt Wess' in the matter of one of her "young
men." It was time she stopped. To-day would mark a change.
Henceforward, she resolved, she would lead a new life.
"God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost ..."
To Page's mind the venerable bishop's voice was filling all the church,
as on the day of Pentecost, when the apostles received the Holy Ghost,
the building was filled with a "mighty rushing wind."
She knelt down again, but could not bring herself to close her eyes
completely. From under her lids she still watched her sister and
Jadwin. How Laura must be feeling now! She was, in fact, very pale.
There was emotion in Jadwin's eyes. Page could see them plainly. It
seemed beautiful that even he, the strong, modern man-of-affairs,
should be so moved. How he must love Laura. He was fine, he was noble;
and all at once this fineness and nobility of his so affected her that
she began to cry again. Then suddenly came the words:
"... That in the world to come ye may have life everlasting. Amen."
There was a moment's silence, then the group about the altar rail broke
up.
"Come," said Aunt Wess', getting to her feet, "it's all over, Page.
Come, and kiss your sister--Mrs. Jadwin."
In the vestry room Laura stood for a moment, while one after another of
the wedding party--even Mr. Cressler--kissed her. When Page's turn
came, the two sisters held each other in a close embrace a long moment,
but Laura's eyes were always dry. Of all present she was the least
excited.
"Here's something," vociferated the ubiquitous clerk, pushing his way
forward. "It was on the table when we came out just now. The sexton
says a messenger boy brought it. It's for Mrs. Jadwin."
He handed her a large box. Laura opened it. Inside was a great sheaf of
Jacqueminot roses and a card, on which was written:
"May that same happiness which you have always inspired in the lives
and memories of all who know you be with you always.
"Yrs. S. C."
The party, emerging from the church, hurried across the street to the
Dearborns' home, where Laura and Jadwin were to get their valises and
hand bags. Jadwin's carriage was already at the door.
They all assembled in the parlor, every one talking at once, while the
servants, bare-headed, carried the baggage down to the carriage.
"Oh, wait--wait a minute, I'd forgotten something," cried Laura.
"What is it? Here, I'll get it for you," cried Jadwin and Cressler as
she started toward the door. But she waved them off, crying:
"No, no. It's nothing. You wouldn't know where to look."
Alone she ran up the stairs, and gained the second story; then paused a
moment on the landing to get her breath and to listen. The rooms near
by were quiet, deserted. From below she could hear the voices of the
others--their laughter and gaiety. She turned about, and went from room
to room, looking long into each; first Aunt Wess's bedroom, then
Page's, then the "front sitting-room," then, lastly, her own room. It
was still in the disorder caused by that eventful morning; many of the
ornaments--her own cherished knick-knacks--were gone, packed and
shipped to her new home the day before. Her writing-desk and bureau
were bare. On the backs of chairs, and across the footboard of the bed,
were the odds and ends of dress she was never to wear again.
For a long time Laura stood looking silently at the empty room. Here
she had lived the happiest period of her life; not an object there,
however small, that was not hallowed by association. Now she was
leaving it forever. Now the new life, the Untried, was to begin.
Forever the old days, the old life were gone. Girlhood was gone; the
Laura Dearborn that only last night had pressed the pillows of that
bed, where was she now? Where was the little black-haired girl of
Barrington?
And what was this new life to which she was going forth, under these
leaden skies, under this warm mist of rain? The tears--at last--were in
her eyes, and the sob in her throat, and she found herself, as she
leaned an arm upon the lintel of the door, whispering:
"Good-by. Good-by. Good-by."
Then suddenly Laura, reckless of her wedding finery, forgetful of
trivialities, crossed the room and knelt down at the side of the bed.
Her head in her folded arms, she prayed--prayed in the little unstudied
words of her childhood, prayed that God would take care of her and make
her a good girl; prayed that she might be happy; prayed to God to help
her in the new life, and that she should be a good and loyal wife.
And then as she knelt there, all at once she felt an arm, strong, heavy
even, laid upon her. She raised her head and looked--for the first
time--direct into her husband's eyes.
"I knew--" began Jadwin. "I thought--Dear, I understand, I understand."
He said no more than that. But suddenly Laura knew that he, Jadwin, her
husband, did "understand," and she discovered, too, in that moment just
what it meant to be completely, thoroughly understood--understood
without chance of misapprehension, without shadow of doubt; understood
to her heart's heart. And with the knowledge a new feeling was born
within her. No woman, not her dearest friend; not even Page had ever
seemed so close to her as did her husband now. How could she be unhappy
henceforward? The future was already brightening.
Suddenly she threw both arms around his neck, and drawing his face down
to her, kissed him again and again, and pressed her wet cheek to
his--tear-stained like her own.
"It's going to be all right, dear," he said, as she stood from him,
though still holding his hand. "It's going to be all right."
"Yes, yes, all right, all right," she assented. "I never seemed to
realise it till this minute. From the first I must have loved you
without knowing it. And I've been cold and hard to you, and now I'm
sorry, sorry. You were wrong, remember that time in the library, when
you said I was undemonstrative. I'm not. I love you dearly, dearly, and
never for once, for one little moment, am I ever going to allow you to
forget it."
Suddenly, as Jadwin recalled the incident of which she spoke, an idea
occurred to him.
"Oh, our bargain--remember? You didn't forget after all."
"I did. I did," she cried. "I did forget it. That's the very sweetest
thing about it."