CHAPTER IV
THE BRIDEGROOM
Esther Lockwin's wedding day is at hand. Her mansion is this afternoon a suite of odorous bowers. Happy the man who may be secure in her affection!
Such a man is George Harpwood. Let the November mists roll in from Lake Michigan. "It is no bed out there for me," thinks the bridegroom, whose other days have often been gloomy enough in November.
Let the smoke of the tall chimneys tumble into the streets and pirouette backward and forward in black eddies, giving to the city an aspect forbidding to even the manner-born. George Harpwood feels no mist. He sees no smoke. It is the tide of industry. It is the earnest of Esther's five millions.
"My God, what a prize!" he exclaims. The marriage license is procured. The minister is well and cannot fail. There is a bank-bill in the vest pocket, convenient for the wedding fee.
It is wise to visit the hotel once more and inspect one's attire. This city is undeniably sooty. A groom with a sooty shirt bosom would not reflect credit on Esther Lockwin.
"Magnificent woman!" he cries, as he changes his linen once more. He thinks he would marry her if she were poor.
It is getting well toward the event. Would it be correct to go early? Where would he stay? Would he annoy the bride? What time is it? Let us see. Four-thirty! Yes, now to keep this linen white. How would it do to put a silk handkerchief over it--this way? Where are those silk handkerchiefs? Must have one! Must have one! Not a one! Where is that bell?
He touches the bell. He awaits the boy, who comes, and goes for a handkerchief.
He sits upon the side of the bed and listens to the bickerings of the waiters in the hall of the dining-room below. Dinner is now to be served.
He studies the lock-history of the door.
"Lots of people have broken in here," he muses.
He passes over the rules--well he knows them!
The electric lights on the street throw dim shadows on the gas-lit wall--factories, depots, vessels, docks, saw-mills. The phantasmagoria pleases Mr. Harpwood.
"At 6 o'clock," he smiles, "I shall be the most powerful man in these parts. I shall have the employment of nearly 15,000 men. I shall be the husband of the woman who built the David Lockwin Annex--"
The man pauses.
"The David Lockwin Annex," he sneers, "No! No! No! It was a splendid pile. It was a splendid pile."
The man grows sordid.
"But it cost a splendid pile. Pshaw, George Harpwood, will anything ever satisfy you? How about that hospital? Didn't it give you your opportunity?"
The boy returns. The man sits on his bed and muses:
"How differently things go in this world! See how easily Lockwin fell into all this luck! See how I have hewn the wood and drawn the water!"
Something of disquiet takes possession of the bride-groom.
"I'm awfully tired of consolatory epistles. I must keep Esther from being a hen. She's dreadfully in earnest."
As the goal is neared, this swift runner grows weary. The David Lockwin Annex never seemed so unpleasant before.
It has taken longer to rearrange his linen and secure a faultless appearance than he would have believed. He hastens to don his overcoat. He smiles as he closes the door of his little bedroom at the hotel. He goes to take the vast Wandrell mansion.
Why is his coachman so careless? After 5 o'clock already. The bridegroom is late! He must bargain with a street jehu. But, pshaw! where can he find a clean vehicle? He hurries along the pavement.
His own driver, approaches. "I went to the stables to put the last touches on her. Come around to Wabash avenue and see how she shines."
It is not too late after all, and the groom will turn out of a faultless equipage at the very moment. Ladies of experience, like Mrs. Lockwin, notice all such things.
"In fact," says George Harpwood, "there is no other man in town whom she could marry, even if she loved him. Might as well expect her to marry Corkey. Poor dead Corkey!"
It is pleasant, this riding down Prairie avenue to one's wedding.
"Splendid! Splendid!" cries the ardent soldier of fortune, as the blaze of the Wandrell mansion flashes through the plate-glass windows, of his carriage. It is the largest private residence in the city. "Splendid!" he repeats, and leaps out on the curb. A messenger is hurrying away.
"Is that Esther on the portico? What an impulsive woman."
His back is towards the carriage to close the silver-mounted door. He turns.
It must be a mistake! Is he blind? The mansion, which was a moment before ablaze, is now all dark! But the bride still stands under the lamp on the portico, statuesque as Zenobia or Medea. The statue grasps a paper. Like Galatea, she speaks:
"Is that you, George?"
[Illustration: But the bride still stands under the lamp on the portico, statuesque as Zenobia or Medea.]
"I have come, my love. What has happened?"
"Listen!" she commands, and reads by the portico light:
Thursday Afternoon, Nov. 30.
ESTHER, MY WIFE AND WIDOW:
It is absolutely necessary that you should come at once to the drug store formerly kept by Dr. Floddin, at 803 State street.
Bring an escort.
This step must be taken in your own interest--certainly not in the interest of your husband.
DAVID LOCKWIN.
"Come!" she says, taking her lover by the hand as a teacher might take a child.
But George Harpwood is not at his wits' end.
"Get into my carriage, Esther," he suggests softly.
"No," she says sternly. "We will walk thither."
The pair go round the corner into a mist made azure by a vast building which is lighted at every window to the seventh story. It rises three blocks away like a storm-cloud over the lake.
It is the David Lockwin Annex. The bride hurries faster than the bridegroom would have her walk. He seizes her arm.
"My dear," he whispers in those accents which seem to have lost their magic power, "it is merely a claimant. I was expecting it, and I'll put him in the penitentiary for it. Do not be alarmed by forgers. It is only a forgery."
CHAPTER V
AT SIX O'CLOCK
Through the mist and the smoke a red and a green light shine out on State street.
The door of the little store is locked. The bride's hand has rattled the latch.
A silver star can be seen in the store. It is an officer in charge of the premises. He hurries to the door.
"Are you Mrs. Lockwin?"
"I am. Let him in, too." The officer has willed to exclude the bridegroom.
"Hadn't he better wait outside?"
"Let him in!"
"Here is a packet addressed to you." The officer hands to the bride a thick letter. "Take this chair, madam."
The bride sits down, her back toward the lights in the window. The bridegroom stands close behind her.
"Be firm, Esther. I'll put him in the penitentiary. I'll put him in the penitentiary!"
The bride opens the packet. Many folded documents fall to her lap. She is quick to spread out the chief letter.
The bridegroom pulls the silk handkerchief off his white shirt-front and wipes his perspiring forehead again and again. He leans over her shoulder to read. The writing is large and distinct:
Thursday Afternoon, Nov. 30.
MY DEARLY BELOVED WIFE AND WIDOW:
It may be barely possible that I have lived these years of shame and degradation to some good purpose, and for the following reasons: The man whom you now love so well--the man whom you are about to marry--George Harpwood--is an adventurer and a criminal.
I inclose documents which show that on Monday, the 4th of August, 1873, this George Harpwood, described and photographed, married Mary Berners, who now lives at Crescentville, a suburb of Philadelphia. She bears the name of Mrs. Mary Harpwood, and has not been divorced to her knowledge. Beside deserting her, Harpwood robbed her and reduced her to penury.
I inclose documents showing that five years earlier, or on Wednesday, the 8th of January, 1868, George Harpwood eloped with a child wife, Eleanor Hastings, and basely deserted her within four weeks. She now resides with her sister-in-law, Mrs. Moses Hastings, on Ox-Bow Prairie, a few miles south of Sturgis, Michigan.
It is my request that the little store and its belongings, including the bank account of Robert Chalmers, so-called, be given to the widow of the late Walter B. Corkey.
The bitterness of life is yours. But the bitterness of death is mine.
Your husband, who loves you,
DAVID LOCKWIN.
There is a click at the door. The bride hears it not. The documents fall to the floor. There are photographs of George Harpwood; there are green seals; there are many attestations.
The bride must raise her eyes now. She sees the star of the officer. She reads the number--803. Is that from David, too?
Ah, yes, she must turn her head. The bridegroom is gone!
A man enters, in hot haste and intense excitement. Is it the bridegroom returning?
It is Dr. Tarpion. He seizes her by the hand.
"My dear friend!" he cries. "My dear friend!" he repeats, "I have just now learned that your husband is still living."
But she does not hear it. She can only look gratefully toward the administrator, clinging to his hand.
She gazes in a dazed way on the white prescription-booth beyond the square stove; on the bottles of blue copper-water on each corner. Higher, the partition rises into view.
She meets the eyes of the officer.
A patrol wagon clangs and clamors down State street. It will stop before the door.
Officers enter from the patrol wagon. "Where is that suicide?" they ask in a low voice, seeing a bride.
The officer in charge steps to the side of the bride. He speaks tenderly--the tenderness of a rough man with a kind heart. "Madam," he says, "you can go behind the partition and see the body. No one will come in for a few moments."
The bride rises. She hurries toward the little room where Robert Chalmers suffered and died.
"Oh, David!" she cries. "Oh, David! Oh, God!"
"I guess we will not need the wagon," the officers say among themselves, and step out on the sidewalk.
The little clock behind the partition strikes 6.
A dozen factory whistles set up their dismal concert out in the blue mist.