David Lockwin--The People's Idol Part 34

He clutches that. He examines the printer's mark. He strives to recall the particular printing-office.

He has not the courage to go forth into the street. He does not want to read, except as it shall ease him from the cruel torment which he feels.

The gla.s.ses jingle and chime. The stores across the street close their doors and darken their show windows. Why not go below and buy the latest novel?

The suggestion fairly sickens the man. He did not know he was so nervous. To read ror pastime while a great city is filled with his obsequies--he cannot do it!

There is but one course--to read the rules, to study the history of the door until it reaches the stage of suicide--ah! to feel in one's pockets! That is it! That is it!

David Lockwin cons his bank-book. He opens his worn letters---letters to the Hon. David Lockwin. He grows timid as he descends into the vale of despair.

Why did he do it? These details of the electoral campaign seem trivial now. Easy difficulties!

He reaches the last letter of the packet. Marvelous that he should wait to unseal it until an hour so fraught with need!

It is Esther's letter--probably some cold missive such as she wrote during their courtship and engagement.

David Lockwin is beginning to love his wife as a dog worships its master. He looks to her for safety. He wants to think of her as she is now--a sincere mourner for a dead friend, husband and protector; a superior being, capable of pity for David Lockwin.

"Is it wise to read it?" he asks in a dread. "But why should I not be generous? Why should I not love her--as I do love her? G.o.d forgive me! I do love her! I love her though she smite me now--cold, cold Esther!"

The man is crying. He cannot hear the banqueters. He has at last escaped from their world. His hands shake and he unseals the letter, careful to the last that no part of the envelope be torn.

He will read the cold letter. Cold, cold Esther! He kisses the envelope again and again. The sheets are drawn from the inclosure.

She never wrote at such length before. He scans the first page. His face grows cold with the old look of disappointment. He wishes he had not read. He turns to the next page. The text changes in tone. There succeeds a warmth that heats the heart aglow.

David Lockwin pa.s.ses his hands across his eyes. He is dazed. He reads on:

"Come back to me, my darling, and see how happy we shall be! Let the politics go--that killed Davy and makes us all so unhappy. You were created for something n.o.bler. Let us go to Europe once more. Let's seek the places where we have met in the past."

How much more of this can David Lockwin endure?

His temples rise and grow blood-red. The gas seems to give no light.

He reads like a man of short sight. His eyes kiss the sacred sheet.

"I love you! I love you! I shall die without you! Come home to me, and save me! I love you! I love you! I love you! I love--!"

David Lockwin has fainted.

The gla.s.ses c.h.i.n.k, and heavy feet tramp on soft carpets, making a m.u.f.fled sound.

"'Scuse me!" says a thick-voiced banqueter in the hall. "I thought it was my hat! Hooray! 'Scuse me! I know it's pretty late. Whoop!

'Scuse me!"

The waiters bicker hotly; the counting-room bell rings afar off. There is a smothered cry of "Front!"

"All trains for the East--" comes a monotonous announcement in the corridors.

"Sixty-six! Number sixty-six!" screeches the carriage-crier.

A drunken refrain floats on the air from Wabash avenue:

"We won't go home till morn-i-n-g, T-i-l-l daylight doth appear."

CHAPTER V

LETTERS OF CONSOLATION

On the Africa David Lockwin loved but one person, and that was David Lockwin.

On this morning after the banquet David Lockwin hates but one person, and that is David Lockwin.

He had lately hungered for somebody more charitable to himself than he himself could be. He had experienced a mean, spiritless happiness in noting the honors which the widow was heaping on his memory. Now he is furiously in love with that widow. He sallies from the hotel in haste to her residence.

Three blocks away from his goal, with the old home in sight, he awakens to his danger. A moment more and the whole shameful truth had been known!

"No, base as I am, I cannot do that," he shudders.

Besides, he is a true lover, and what one ever dared to take the great risk?

Here she lives! And between her and her lover, her husband, yawns the chasm of death! Was it not a black act that could so enrobe a woman? He recalls her garb as she appeared at the dedication yesterday--solemn, solemn!

It is unsafe to stay in this neighborhood, yet let this man creep nearer and gaze on the house where Davy died.

The balcony--it seems to him, dimly, that he made a speech from that balcony. But Davy's death is not now the calamity it was yesterday. It seems more like a pleasant memory--a small memory. The gigantic thought is Esther, Esther--Esther the beautiful, the n.o.ble, the generous, the faithful. She shall be the wife of Ulysses, waiting for his return, and he shall return!

The husband again starts for Esther's door. There are two men within him--one is David Lockwin dead, the other is David Lockwin living. Once more the eminent man who is dead seizes the maddened lover who is living and prevents a disaster.

Love this house as he may, therefore, David Lockwin must avoid it until he can control himself. It is true his books are in there, his ma.n.u.scripts, his chronicles, "Josephus," and a thousand things without which he cannot lay hold on the true dignity of life. It is true he is slipping down the declivity that invites the easy descent of the obscure and powerless citizen. If he have true hope--and what lover has it not--he must hurry away. He is not safe in Chicago just at present, because the abstraction of a lover, joined with the self-forgetfulness of a man in the second life, will a.s.suredly lead him to ruin.

His eyes leave that house with utter regret. He makes the long ride to Davy's tomb and finds it covered with fresh flowers. The tenderest of care is visible. The lawn is perfect--not a leaf of plantain, not a spear of dandelion. Money will not produce such stewardship of the sepulcher. It is Esther's own devotion.

He goes to the site of the cenotaph. Is it not a difficulty for a lover?

Yet love sustains him. His invention suggests method after method by which he may undo the past.

He visits the foundations of the David Lockwin Annex. He notes the character of the materials that are strewn over three streets. His love for Esther only increases.

Thence to the Art Inst.i.tute he hastens. They said it was a poor likeness of Lockwin. He vows it is good. It is good because Esther has done it!

He has seen all--all but Esther. He starts blindly for Esther's house once more. As he walks rapidly southward, his own team comes up the avenue. It is Esther within the carriage. She looks at a man in gray business dress, with colored nose and a drunkard's complexion. She notes the large watch-chain. She finds him no different from all other living men. She is looking for David. "Come back, my n.o.ble husband," she sobs, "come back from the grave, or let me join you."

A moment afterward she fears she may die before her work shall be done.

That was a sharp sting at her heart just then.

David Lockwin is frozen with that cold look. The carriage is past. He was on his way to Esther's to tell her all. If he had not risen out of his abstraction ere it should be too late, he would have confronted this cold lady--this mature builder of cenotaph and hospital.