Hart's design for the school had finally been accepted by the trustees,
and the plans were placed on exhibition in the Art Institute. Little
knots of people--students, draughtsmen, and young architects--gathered
in the room on the second floor, where the elevations had been hung,
and had their say about the plans. Occasionally a few older men and
women, interested in the nobler aspects of civic life, drifted into the
room, having stolen some moments from their busy days to see what the
architect had done with his great opportunity.
"Gee! Ain't it a hummer, now!" exclaimed one of Wright's men, who had
known Hart in the old days. "He's let himself out this time, sure. It
will cover most two blocks."
"The main part of the design is straight from the Hotel de Ville," one
of the young architects objected disdainfully. He and his friends
thought there were many better architects in the city than F. Jackson
Hart, and grumbled accordingly. "I bet I could find every line in the
design from some French thing or other. Hart's an awful thief; he
can't think for himself."
"Where is the purpose of the structure expressed?" another demanded
severely. "It would do just as well for the administration building of
a fair as for a school!"
"A voluptuous and ornamental design; the space is wickedly wasted in
mere display. The money that ought to go into education will be eaten
up in this pretentious, flaunting building that will cover all the
land." ...
"What have I been telling you?" commented an admiring citizen to his
neighbor. "Chicago ain't a village any more. A few buildings like
this and the university ones, and the world will begin to see what we
are doing out here!"
"What's the dome for?" ...
"I say the people should have the best there is."
"Pull, pull--that's what's written all over this plan! The architect
was some sort of relation to the man who gave the school, wasn't he?"
Even Wright, who happened to be in the city, stepped into the Institute
to look at the plans. He studied them closely for a few minutes, and
then, with a smile on his face, moved off.
Hart had, indeed, "let himself out." It was to be a master work, and
by its achievement raise him at once into the higher ranks of his
profession. For the first time he had felt perfectly free to create.
As often happens, when the artist comes to this desired point and looks
into his soul, he finds nothing there. The design was splendid, in a
sense--very large and imposing: an imperial flight of steps, a lofty
dome which fastened the spectator's eyes, and two sweeping wings to
support the central mass. Nevertheless, the architect had not escaped
from his training; it was another one of the Beaux Arts exercises that
Wright used to "trim." Years hence the expert would assign it to its
proper place in the imitative period of our arts, as surely as the
literary expert has already placed there the poet Longfellow. Though
Hart had learned much in the past six years, it had been chiefly in the
mechanics of his art: he was a cleverer architect, but a more wooden
artist. For the years he had spent in the workshop of the great city
had deadened his sense of beauty. The clamor and excitement and gross
delight of living had numbed his sense of the fine, the noble, the
restrained. He had never had time to think, only to contrive, and
facility had supplied the want of ideas. Thus he had forgotten Beauty,
and been content to live without that constant inner vision of her
which deadens bodily hunger and feeds the soul of the artist.
So Wright read the dead soul beneath the ambitious design.
Mrs. Phillips came rustling in with friends, to whom she exhibited the
plans with an air of ownership in the architect.
"It's the cleverest thing that has been done in this city; every one
says so. I tell Harrison that he has me to thank for this. It was a
case of poetic justice, too. You know the story? One forgets so
easily here; it's hard to remember who died last month. Why, the old
man Jackson left pretty nearly every cent of his money to found this
school. I think he was crazy, and I should have fought the will if I
had been a relative. At any rate, it was a nasty joke on this Mr.
Hart, who was his nephew and every one thought would be his heir.
"But he has made such a plucky fight, got the respect of every one,
gone right along, and succeeded splendidly in his profession. He
married foolishly, too. Poor girl, not a cent, and not the kind to
help him one bit, you know,--no style, can't say a word for herself.
She's done a good deal to keep him back, but he has managed to survive
even that. I wonder he hasn't broken with her. I do, really! They
haven't a thing in common. They had a pleasant home out in the Park,
you know, and a good position--every one knew them there. He is the
kind to make friends everywhere. And what do you think? She made him
give up his house and come into town to live! The Park was too far
away from her friends, or something of the sort--wanted to educate her
children in the city, and all that. I believe it was jealousy of him.
He was popular, and she wasn't. No woman will stand that sort of
thing, of course.
"So now they have taken a house on Scott Street,--a little,
uncomfortable box, the kind of place that is all hall and dining-room.
Of course they don't have to live like that; he's making money. But
she says she doesn't want to be bothered--has ideas about simple
living. The trouble is, she hasn't any ambition, and he's brimful of
it. He could get anywhere if it weren't for her. It's a shame! I
don't believe she half appreciates even this. Isn't it splendid? He
has such large ideas!
"Venetia is thick with her, of course. You might know she would be.
It's through Mrs. Hart she meets those queer, tacky people. I tell
you, the woman counts much more than the man when it comes to making
your way in the world; don't you think so?" ...
And with further words of praise for the plans and commiseration for
the architect, the widow wandered into the next room with her friends,
then descended to her carriage, dismissing art and life together in the
prospect of dinner.
Helen made a point of taking the boys to see their father's work, and
explained carefully to them what it all meant. They followed her
open-eyed, tracing with their little fingers the main features of the
design as she pointed them out, and saying over the hard names. It was
there Venetia Phillips found her, seated before the large sketch of the
south elevation, dreaming, while the boys, their lesson finished, had
slipped into the next room to look at the pictures.
"Have you seen my mother?" she asked breathlessly, seating herself
beside Helen. "I brought Dr. Coburn, and we almost ran into Mrs.
Phillips the first thing. So I dodged into the Greek room and left him
there to study anatomy. She had that horrid Rainbow woman with her and
would have been nasty to the doctor. Mother is such a splendid snob!"
she explained frankly.
"Well, well, our Jackie has done himself proud this time, hasn't he?
He's a little given to the splurge, though, don't you think?"
Helen did not answer. She did not like to admit even to herself that
her husband's greatest effort was a failure. Yet she was a terribly
honest woman, and there was no glow in her heart. Indeed, the school
and all about it had become unpleasant to her, covered as it was with
sordid memories of her husband's efforts to get the work. Latterly
there had been added to these the almost daily bickerings with the
trustees, which the architect reported. The plans had not been
accepted easily.
"All the same, Jack's got some good advertising out of it," Venetia
continued encouragingly, noticing Helen's silence. "The newspapers are
throwing him polite remarks, I see. But I want to talk to you about
something else. Mamma has been losing a lot of money; bad investments
made in boom times; sure things, you know, like copper and steel.
She's very much pressed, and she wants to put my money up to save some
of the stocks. Uncle Harry is raging, and wants me to promise him not
to let her have a cent. Stanwood has come home--there doesn't seem to
be anything else for him to do. It's all rather nasty. I don't know
what to say about the money; it seems low to hold your mother up in her
second youth. And yet the pace Mrs. Phillips keeps would finish my
money pretty soon. It's a pity Mrs. Raymond won't die and give mother
a chance to make a good finish."
"Venetia!"
"What's the harm in my saying what all the world that knows us is
saying? It's been a ten years' piece of gossip. I feel sorry for her,
too. It must be rough to get along in life and see you have muckered
your game.... Do you know, I am terribly tempted to let her have the
money, all of it, and skip out myself. Perhaps some of these days
you'll read a little paragraph in the morning paper,--'Mysterious
Disappearance of a Well-known Young Society Woman.' Wouldn't that be
original? Just to drop out of everything and take to the road!"
"What would you do?"
"Anything, everything--make a living. Don't you think I could do
that?" She embroidered this theme fancifully for a time and then lapsed
into silence. Finally she burst forth again: "Good Lord, why can't we
get hold of life before it's too late? It's going on all around
us,--big, and rich, and full of blood. And folks like you and me sit
on the bank, eating a picnic lunch."
"Perhaps," mused Helen, "it would be different if one had to earn the
lunch."
"Who knows? Will you try it? Will you cut loose from Jackie?"
A rather sad smile crossed the older woman's face, and Venetia seizing
her arm impulsively gave it a little squeeze. Just then Coburn
strolled into the room with the boys, whom he had found in the
corridor, and nodding abruptly toward Helen, stood before the plans,
studying them with his sharp, black eyes. His little ironical smile
hung on his parted lips. Turning to Venetia, he said good-humoredly:--
"Thinks he's doing something, don't he, Venetia?"
Helen rose and called the boys.
"A building is just four walls and a roof to me," he continued,
addressing Helen. "But Jack Hart seems to have got what he
wanted--that's the chief thing, ain't it?"
Helen nodded, and they left the room without looking again at the
plans. As they descended the broad flight of steps to the street,
Venetia laid her hand on Helen's arm.
"Tell Jack we are all proud of him. Mamma brags of him daily. And
look out for the paragraph in the paper. They'd give me a paragraph,
don't you think?"
The winter twilight had descended upon the murky city, filling the long
vistas of the cross streets with a veil of mystery. But the roar of
the place mounted to the clouds above, which seemed to reverberate with
the respirations of the Titan beneath. Here, in the heart of the city,
life clamored with a more direct note than in any other spot in the
world. Men were struggling fiercely for their desires, and their cries
ascended to the dull heavens.
Helen walked home with the boys, soothed by the human contact of the
streets. There was something exhilarating to her in the jostle of the
throng,--the men and women leaving their labors, bent homeward for the
night. Her heart expanded near them--those who won their daily bread
by the toil of the day.
It was in part true, what the widow had said. For it was she who had
willed to return to the city from the pleasant niche where she had
spent her married life, desiring in the growing emptiness of her heart
to get closer to the vast life of a human people, to feel once more the
common lot of man. So she had taken the little house on Scott Street,
and reduced their living to the simplest scale, declaring that she
wanted her time for herself and her children. Her husband was so busy
that as yet he hardly noticed any change in her. They went out less
than they had gone in previous years, and sometimes he thought the
people he found calling on his wife were "queer." Her interest in a
new kind of education for the children bored him. She seemed to be
going her own way without thought of him, and now and then he wondered
what it meant. He did not like aggressive, faddish persons; he wanted
women to be personal and sympathetic, with a touch of "style," social
tact, and a little dash.
To-night he had come from his office early, and while he waited for
Helen he looked about the little drawing-room disapprovingly, with a
sense of aggrieved discomfort. Helen was taking to economy and
simplicity altogether too seriously to please him. To be sure, she
made no objection to his keeping his hunters at the Shoreham Club, or
his polo-playing, or other expensive diversions.
In a vague way he was aware of the subtle separation of soul that
existed between them. He looked at his wife closely when she came in
with the boys. She seemed older, more severe in face than he had
thought, than her photograph on his office desk said. When this school
business was done with, he reflected, they must run over to Europe for
a few months' vacation, get shaken up, and then live differently on
their return....
"Nell," he said to her, when they were alone, "it's settled at last,
you will be glad to know, everything. We let the contracts to-day."
"For the school?" she asked indifferently. "You must be relieved to
have it off your mind."
Her lips, which curved so tenderly, had grown strangely firm. He put
his arm over her shoulder and drew her toward him.
"Yes, it's a great relief. I thought at one time Pemberton would make
them throw the whole thing up and start again. But the others had more
sense. Well, when the building is finished, we must have a spree, and
get to be lovers once more."
"Yes, dear. This afternoon I've been to the Institute with the boys to
let them see the plans."
"They are well spoken of. I saw Wright to-day for a moment. He
stopped to congratulate me, but I couldn't tell what he really thought.
Well, after all the trouble with them, I got pretty much what I wanted,
thanks to Everett and the doctor. Everett's been a good friend all
through. The idea of their kicking so hard because the thing was going
to cost a little more than they had made up their minds to spend on the
building! Pemberton thinks he knows all about architecture. It's a
pity he couldn't have drawn the plans himself."
"But you saved your design. There were only a few changes, I thought."
"Yes, I've won the second round all right."
In his joy over the thought he put his strong arms about his wife and
lifted her bodily from the floor, as he had often done, boyishly, in
the years before. Holding her close to him he kissed her lips and
neck. She returned his kisses, but the touch of her lips was cool.
She seemed limp in his arms, and he felt vaguely the want of something.
She was less loving, less passionate than ever before. He missed the
abandon, the utter self-forgetfulness, the rush of ecstatic emotion,
which from the first moment of their love had made her for him all
woman, the woman of women.... He let her slip from his embrace and
looked at her. Was it age? Was it the penalty of living, which
dampens the fire of passion and dulls desire? He was troubled,
distressed for the loss of something precious that was getting beyond
his reach, perhaps had gone forever.
"Oh!" he exclaimed. "It's bad to be always on the dead push. Come!
Let's go out somewhere and have dinner and a bottle of champagne the
way we used to."
She hesitated a moment, unwilling to disappoint him.
"I can't very well to-night, Francis. I promised Morton Carr I should
be home this evening. He wants me to help him raise some money for his
new building, and we were to discuss it."
"Oh!" he said, his egotism subtly wounded. "I remember you said
something about it."