Chapter 36

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?"

"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."