by Frank Norris
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 gue
ss 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 chanc
e 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.”
VI
The months passed. Soon three years had gone by, and the third winter since the ceremony in St. James’ Church drew to its close.
Since that day when — acting upon the foreknowledge of the French import duty — Jadwin had sold his million of bushels short, the price of wheat had been steadily going down. From ninety-three and ninety-four it had dropped to the eighties. Heavy crops the world over had helped the decline. No one was willing to buy wheat. The Bear leaders were strong, unassailable. Lower and lower sagged the price; now it was seventy-five, now seventy-two. From all parts of the country in solid, waveless tides wheat — the mass of it incessantly crushing down the price — came rolling in upon Chicago and the Board of Trade Pit. All over the world the farmers saw season after season of good crops. They were good in the Argentine Republic, and on the Russian steppes. In India, on the little farms of Burmah, of Mysore, and of Sind the grain, year after year, headed out fat, heavy, and well-favoured. In the great San Joaquin valley of California the ranches were one welter of fertility. All over the United States, from the Dakotas, from Nebraska, Iowa, Kansas, and Illinois, from all the wheat belt came steadily the reports of good crops.