Chapter 26

"A SOUND OF REVELRY BY NIGHT"

"Poverty," says Ben Franklin, "often deprives a man of all spirit and virtue. It is hard for an empty bag to stand upright."

David Lockwin has but one familiar acquaintance in the world and that is Corkey. Corkey will now start in search of the body of David Lockwin!

David Lockwin has but a few hundred dollars in cash. His fortune is in a ruined bank. He hopes to get something out of it. His experience tells him he may expect several thousand dollars.

Is it wise to return to New York? Yes. A situation awaits him there. He can protect his rights as a depositor. He can enjoy the pleasant apartments at Gramercy Park.

But the expense! Ah! yes, he must take cheaper quarters. It is the first act of despotism which poverty has ever ventured to impose on David Lockwin.

It makes New York seem inhospitable. It makes Chicago seem like home. Still, as David Lockwin seeks his hotel, noting always the complete solitude in which he dwells among the vast crowds that once knew him familiarly or by sight, it chills him to the marrow.

He enters the hotel dining-room. The head waiter seats his guest at a table where three men are eating. Every one of them is a business acquaintance of Lockwin.

The excitement of the moment drives away the brain terrors which were entering the man's head. The men regard the newcomer with that look which is given to an uninvited banqueter whose appearance is not imposing. The best-natured of the group, however, breaks the silence. He speaks to the diner on his left.

"Where did you get the stone for that sarcophagus you put up yesterday?"

"In Vermont."

"Who ordered the job--Lockwin or the widow?"

"She did."

"Well, it's a pretty thing. I wish I were rich. I lost a little boy too."

The monument-maker at this begins a discourse on the economies of his business and shows that he can meet the requirements of any income or purse.

"Did you see Lockwin's portrait at the institute?" asks the third party,

"No. Is it good?"

"I hardly think so. I don't remember that he ever looked just like it. Everybody knew Lockwin, yet I doubt if he had more than one close acquaintance and that was Tarpion--Doc. Tarpion."

"Does the doctor act as her adviser in all these affairs? Did you read about the dedication? Did you know about the hospital? She had better keep her money. She'll need it."

"She? Not much. She had a big estate from Judge Wandell's sister who died. The judge himself has no other heir. I shouldn't wonder if he advised the erection of the hospital to give her the credit of what he intended to do for himself."

"Well, I never knew a town to be so full of one man as this town is of Lockwin. You'd think he was Douglas or Lincoln."

"Worse than that! Douglas and Lincoln are way behind. Take this city to-day and it's all Lockwin. Going to the banquet to-night?"

David Lockwin has finished his meal. He rises.

"Coming back," says the monument-maker confidentially to his inquirer, "I can fix you a beautiful memorial for much less money and it will answer every purpose."

"I'll see you again," says the customer, cooling rapidly away from the business. "I must go to the North Side and get back here by 9 o'clock."

Why shall not David Lockwin take the night train and leave this living tomb in which the world has put him?

"In which I put myself!" he corrects.

It all hurts him yet it delights him. "She loved me after I was dead," he vows and forgets the sting of poverty.

Now about this going to New York to-night. He would like to be prevented from that journey. What shall do that for David Lockwin?

"Davy's sarcophagus!"

The thought seizes him with violence. Of course he cannot go. He seeks his room. He throws himself on his bed and gives way to all his grief. It takes the form of love for Davy. David Lockwin weeps for golden-head. He weeps for the past. He is living. He ought to be dead. He is poor. He is misshapen in feature. He is hungry for human sympathy. The world is giving him a stone. Oh, Davy! Davy!

The outside electric lights make a thousand monuments, hospitals, sarcophagi, portraits and panics on the chamber walls. The hours go past. There is a bustle in the hotel. There is a sound of merriment in the banqueting hall, directly below. The satisfaction of having dealt tenderly by the beloved dead is expressing itself in choice libations and eloquent addresses.

The man listens for these noises. There is a loud clapping of hands. An address has concluded.

The glasses tinkle. Doors open and shut. Waiters and servants run through the hall giving orders and carrying on those quarrels which pertain to the unseen parts of public festivities.

"Why did I not go?" David Lockwin asks. "Ah! yes. Davy! Davy's tomb. I will see it, if it shall kill me to live until then. But how shall I pass this night? What shall I do? What shall I do?"

The glasses tinkle. The laughter bursts forth unrestrainedly. The banquet is moving to the inn-keeper's taste.

The electric lights swing on long wires. The glass in the windows is full of imperfections and sooty. The phantasmagoria on the wall distracts the suffering man. Why not have a light? He rises and turns on the gas. Perhaps there will be a paper or a book in the room. That will help.

Poverty of hotel life! There is only the card of rules hung on the door. Lockwin reads the rules and is thankful. He studies the lock history of the door, as represented in the marks of old locks and staples. Here a burglar has bored. Here a chisel has penetrated to push back the bolt. Yes, it was a burglar, for there is now a brass sheath to prevent another entry. Most of these breakages, however, have been made by the hotel people, as can be seen by the transom locks.

That brings up suicides. David Lockwin has committed suicide once. The subject is odious.

The laughter below resounds. The man above will read from the lining of some bureau drawer.

He goes to that piece of furniture. The dressing-case is completely empty excepting a laundry bill on pink paper.

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 glasses 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? God 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 passes 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 nobler. 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 glasses chink, and heavy feet tramp on soft carpets, making a muffled 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."