Chapter 27

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 noble, 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 manuscripts, 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 assuredly 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 Institute 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 noble 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.

He is terrified--a lover's panic. She does not love him, or she would have called to him as they passed.

So thinks David Lockwin, for he cannot see himself except as he once was. People call him Chalmers when they address him, which is not more than once a day, but it is like the salutation to Judge Wandrell. He does not call himself "Judge" nor sign himself "Judge." "My dear judge," writes a friend. "Your friend, H. M. H. Wandrell," answers the same man.

It is easy for David Lockwin to answer to the name of Robert Chalmers. He has found it totally impossible to become Robert Chalmers in fact. He is David Lockwin, disinherited--a picture of the prodigal son---but David Lockwin in every bone and muscle--no one else.

Esther Lockwin has refused to know David Lockwin.

Sharp as may be his hurt at this event, he is, nevertheless, once more recalled to the expediencies. If he shall be in hope of Esther, it would be well to escape from a situation so dangerous.

"And I am poor! Why did I not think of that? It was easy to marry her, because I was wealthy. I am a poor man now." He repeats it over and over.

It would be well to hurry to New York and attend to that matter of the Coal and Oil Trust Company institution. He could not go but for the lover's hope of preparing something for the reunion.

Between Chicago and New York one may fall into a wide abyss of despair. The late Honorable David Lockwin has tarried in Chicago, has assisted at the public dedication of his own cenotaph, has visited the David Lockwin Annex, has looked his own widow in the face. His pride is torn out by the roots. A man once exalted is now humbled. And, added to the horrors of his situation, every fiber of his body, every aspiration of his spirit, proclaims his love of the woman who once wearied him.

His dilemma is dreadful without this catastrophe of love. He thanks the fates that he is in love. It gives him business. He will not sell his claim against the ruined bank. He will work as book-keeper. He will wait and collect all. Patience shall be his motto. He will communicate with Esther through a spiritual medium. He will--better yet--write to her anonymously. Every day a type-written missive shall be sent to her. He will have her! It is all possible!

"It is all easy!" David Lockwin says, and goes resolutely at work to save the remnants of his fortune.

For a year he turns the inertia of his love into his daily business. Esther is building at Chicago, David will build at New York--a fabric of love, airy, it may be, but graceful and beautiful.

Each night he indites in type-writer and addresses to Esther Lockwin an essay on the value of hope in great afflictions. The tone grows familiar, as the weeks pass by. "My dear madam" becomes "my dear Mrs. Lockwin," and at last "my dear friend." To-night, far into the small hours, he pours out his advice and comfort:

"Be brave, my dear friend," he proceeds. "Undreamed-of happiness may still be yours, if you can but come to place confidence in your faithful correspondent. There are things more strange than anything which the books give us. As a matter of fact, dear friend, the writers do not dare to make life as it is, for fear of outrunning the bounds of fiction. Let me give you comfort, and at the proper time I shall be able, not to reveal myself, perhaps, but to offer you opportunity to give me a signal that my services are valuable to you.

"Preserve your health. This admonition has been iterated in the hundreds of different treatises I have placed before you. My diligence and patience must recommend themselves. My hope must reinspire your drooping energies. Until to-morrow at eventide, adieu!"

The time is ripe to learn the effect of these courteous ministrations. David Lockwin dares not intrust his secret to a chance acquaintance like Corkey, who is completely devoted to Mrs. Lockwin. What man can now be found who will support a possible relation of mutual friend in this singular case?

The thought of Dr. Tarpion comes again and again.

Clearly a lover cannot wait forever. And he must know whether or not Esther reads the letters. But, of course, she reads them!

"And they comfort her, God bless her!" cries the happy lover. But he must not wait too long. She needs him. She must be rescued from Chicago.

Why not write to Dr. Tarpion? He is a dear old friend.

He seems very dear, now that Lockwin needs him. The doctor is the administrator of the estate, if we come to recollect. Certainly!

Now, therefore, let David undertake an interrogatory, and tremblingly mail it to Dr. Tarpion. To be sure, this is better. Suppose David Lockwin the unknown monitor, had invited Esther to advertise in a newspaper, and the advertisement had been left out! Or, suppose he had suggested a certain signal at her house, or in New York--anywhere! It would be a chance too great to take. No lover should leave anything to fortune. Dr. Tarpion will give the information. He shall be the mutual friend--the go-between to unravel this tangled web of deception.

If David Lockwin shall in future discover himself to Esther, he must have the aid of a discreet and loving friend. Dr. Tarpion is the man. This letter will open the way for further disclosures. It is as follows:

PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL.

DEAR SIR:--For about a year I have seen fit to offer to Mrs. Lockwin such consolation as I thought might lessen her grief. Will you kindly inform me if my suggestions have at any time mitigated her sorrow? I shall be happy to know that an earnest and faithful labor has done some little good. You may inclose a letter to the care of Robert Chalmers, New York City, who will deliver it to me.

The reply is prompt:

CHICAGO, May 1.--I am in receipt of a type-written communication from an unknown party, and am not unwilling to inform the writer that Mrs. Lockwin's mail all comes to me. I have for a year burned every one of the consolatory letters alluded to, in common with thousands of other screeds, which I have considered as so many assaults on the charity of an unhappy lady.

The series of letters from New York have, however, been the most persistent of these demonstrations. I have expected that at the proper time we should have a claimant, like the Tichborne estate. Some experience in administrative affairs, together with the timely suggestions of a friend, lead me to note the opportunity for a claimant in our case. David Lockwin's body was not found. I have, therefore, kept a sharp eye out for claimants, and will say to the writer of the "consolatory letters" that our proofs of Lockwin's death are ample. Two persons saw him die. Mrs. Lockwin is a sagacious woman, keenly aware of the covetousness aroused by the public mention of her great wealth.

The writer will therefore, if wise, abandon his attentions and intentions. If I receive any more of his "consolatory letters" I shall look up Robert Chalmers with detectives. Respectfully,

IRENAEUS TARPION, M. D.