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The Fourth, of July had never before been kept in the like manner in
Chicago. There was a row or two at Grand Crossing between the strikers and
the railroad officials, several derailed cars and spiked switches, a row at
Blue Island, and a bonfire in the stock yards. People were not travelling
on this holiday, and the main streets were strangely silent and dull.
Sommers had found no one at the office in the Athenian Building. Lindsay
had not been in since the strike began. Probably he would not appear until
the disorderly city had settled down. Sommers had taken the clinic
yesterday; to-day there was nothing for him to do except exercise his horse
by a long ride in the blazing sunshine. Before he left the office a
telegram came from Lake Forest, announcing that a postponed meeting of the
board of managers of the summer sanitarium for poor babies would be put off
indefinitely. Sommers knew what that meant--no appropriation for carrying
on the work. At the last meeting the board of managers, who were women for
the most part, had disagreed about the advisability of undertaking the work
this season, when every one was feeling poor. Some women had been
especially violent against supporting the charity in those districts where
the strikers lived.
Miss Hitchcock, who was the secretary, and Sommers had got the heated
members of the board to suppress their prejudices for the present, and vote
a temporary subsidy. The telegram meant that under the present
circumstances it would be hopeless to try to extract money from the usual
sources. The sanitarium and creche would have to close within a week, and
Sommers was left to arrange matters. After he had taken the necessary
measures, he started on his ride. He had in mind to ride out of the city
along the lines of railroad to the southwest to see whether the newspaper
reports of the strike were justified or, as he suspected, grossly
exaggerated. The newspapers, at first inclined to side with the Pullman men
in their demand for arbitration, had suddenly turned about and were
denouncing the strikers as anarchists. They were spreading broadcast
throughout the country violent reports of incendiarism and riot.
Outside of the stations and the adjacent yards Sommers found little to see.
A great stagnation had settled over the city this hot July day. Somewhat
disappointed in his search for excitement he came back at nightfall to the
cool stretches of the South Parks. He turned into the desolate Midway,
where the unsightly wheel hung an inert, abortive mass in the violet dusk.
His way home lay in the other direction, and his horse trotted languidly.
He had determined to turn back, when suddenly a tongue of flame shot up a
mile away toward the lake. This first long tongue ran out, followed by
another and another, and yet others that raced north and south and up into
the night.
"The Fair Buildings!" a man on a bicycle shouted, and sped away.
The broad flames now illuminated the dome of the Administration Building
and the facades of the Court of Honor. Sommers spurred his horse, while the
loungers suddenly, with one cry, poured from the park along the rough paths
of the Midway, streaming out across the prairie toward the fire. He plunged
into the cool gulf under the Illinois Central tracks, then out into a glare
of full day, before the wild, licking flames. The Court of Honor with its
empty lagoon and broken bridges was more beautiful in the savage glow of
the ravaging fire than ever on the gala nights of the exposition. The
fantastic fury of the scene fascinated man and beast. The streaming lines
of people raced on, and the horse snorted and plunged into the mass. Now
the crackling as of paper burning in a brisk wind could be heard. There was
a shout from the crowd. The flames had gained the Peristyle--that noble
fantasy plucked from another, distant life and planted here above the
barbaric glow of the lake in the lustrous atmosphere of Chicago. The
horseman holding his restive steeds drove in a sea of flame. Through the
empty arches the dark waters of the lake caught the reflection and sombrely
relighted the scene.
Sommers almost knocked over a woman who was gazing in speechless absorption
at the panorama of flame. In the light of the fire he could see that it was
Mrs. Preston. She seemed entranced, fascinated like an animal by the
savagery of the fierce fire.
"It is grand, beautiful," she murmured to Sommers, who had dismounted. Her
large frame trembled with suppressed excitement, and her face glowed.
"Beauty eating beauty," Sommers replied sadly.
"They ought to go, just like this--shoot up into the sky in flame and die,
expire in the last beauty."
The excitement of the scene loosened her tongue, gave her whole being
expression, and made her words thrill. She took off her hat as if to free
her body, even by that little, while she drank in the scene of leaping
flames, the crescendo of light, the pathetic, noble emptiness between the
fire-eaten pillars of the Peristyle.
"That is better than the Fair itself. It is fiercer--not mere play."
"Nature has taken a hand," Sommers said grimly, "and knocks about man's
toys. Look!"
He pointed to the fairylike brightness of the island in the lagoon. The
green leafage of the shrubbery was suffused in tender light; the waters
reflected calmly all their drapery, but none of the savage desolation of
the pyre in the Court of Honor. Beyond where the gracious pile of the Art
Building stretched across the horizon the light clouds of smoke floated, a
gray wreath in the night. The seething mass of flame began to abate, to
lessen almost imperceptibly, exhausting itself slowly with deep groans like
the dying of a master passion.
Sommers suggested that they should circle the fire to the south, where they
could see to better advantage the Peristyle now burning almost alone. They
made the circuit slowly, Sommers leading his frightened animal among the
refuse of the grounds. Mrs. Preston walked tranquilly by his side, her face
still illuminated by the fading glow. The prairie lay in gloomy vastness,
lighted but a little way by the waning fire. Along the avenue forms of men
and women--mere mites--were running to and fro. The figures were those of
gnomes toiling under a gloomy, uncertain firmament, or of animals furtively
peeping out of the gloom of dusk in a mountain valley. Helpless shapes
doomed to wander on the sandy strand of the earth!
The two found a place above the little inlet, directly across from the
burning Peristyle. The fire had burned itself out now, and was dying with
protests of reviving flame spurting here and there from the dark spots of
the Court. The colossal figure rising from the lagoon in front of the
Peristyle was still illuminated,--the light falling upon the gilded ball
borne aloft,--solemnly presiding even in the ruins of the dream. And behind
this colossal figure of triumph the noble horseman still reined in his
frightened chargers. The velvet shadows of the night were falling once more
over the distant Art Building, creeping over the little island, leaving the
lagoons in murky silence. The throngs of curious people that had clustered
about the western end of the fire were thinning out rapidly. A light night
breeze from the empty spaces of prairie wafted the smoke wreaths northward
toward the city of men whose plaything had been taken. At their feet a
white column of staff plunged into the water, hissed and was silent. The
passion was well-nigh spent.
Mrs. Preston sighed, like a child waking from a long revery, a journey into
another land.
"I never felt that the fierce things, the passions of life, could bring
their happiness too. It seemed that happiness was something peaceful, like
the fields at night or this lake when it is still. But that is but
_one_ kind. There are many others."
Her low voice, powerful in its restraint, took up the mood of the place.
"It dies," Sommers replied. "Burnt out!"
"No," she protested eagerly; "it remains in the heart, warming it in dull,
cold times, and its great work comes after. It is not well to live without
fierceness and passion."
The last lights from the fire flickered over her dark hair and sombre face.
She was breathing heavily close by his side, throwing into the soft night a
passionate warmth of feeling. It set his pulses beating in response.
"You are so insistent upon happiness," the man cried.
"Yes," she nodded. "To die out without this"--her hand pointed to the
blackened Court of Honor--"is to have lived unfulfilled. That is what I
felt as a child in the rich fields of Wisconsin, as a girl at the chapel of
the seminary."
And she began, as if to explain herself, to tell the story of the Wisconsin
farm, sleeping heavily in the warm sun among the little lakes; of the crude
fervor that went on under the trees of the quiet seminary hill; of the
little chapel with its churchyard to the west, commanding the lakes, the
woods, the rising bosom of hills. The story was disconnected, lapsing into
mere exclamations, rising to animated description as one memory wakened
another in the chain of human associations. Bovine, heavy, and animal, yet
peaceful, was that picture of Wisconsin farm lands, saturated with a few
strong impressions,--the scents of field and of cattle, the fertile soil,
and the broad-shouldered men, like Holstein cattle.
The excitement of the evening had set free the heart, and a torrent of
feelings and memories surged up,--disordered, turbulent, yet strangely
unified by the simple nature, the few aims of the being that held them. The
waters of the past had been gathering these past weeks, and now she found
peace in their release, in the abandonment of herself through speech. The
night crept on, cooler now and clouded, the heavens covered with filaments
of gray lace; the horse tied near by stamped and whinnied. But the two
sitting on the shore of the silent lake felt neither the passing of time
nor the increasing cold of the night.
At the end of her tale the dominant note sounded once more: "Eight or
wrong, happiness! for if we make happiness in the world, we know God. God
lives upon our happiness."
This belief, which seemed laboriously gathered from the tears of tortured
experience, had become an obsession. She was silent, brooding over it; but
she herself was there, larger, less puzzling and negative than
hitherto,--an awakening force. The man lost his anchor of convention and
traditional reasoning. He felt with her an excitement, a thirst for this
evanescent treasure of joy.
"If you think that--if your whole story turns out that way--why did you--"
But he paused, unwilling to force her by a brutal proof of illogicality.
"How is _he_?" he asked at last, with effort.
Her head had drooped forward, but with this question she moved quickly, as
if suddenly lashed.
"He is better, always better."
"My God!" the man groaned.
"But his mind is weaker--it wanders. Sometimes it is clear; then it is
dreadful."
"You must not endure it!"
She laid her hand lightly upon his arm, warning him of the inutility of his
protest.
"I think we must endure it now. If it had been done earlier, before--" she
answered tranquilly; and added definitely, "it is too late now for any
relief."
It was on his lips to cry out, "Why, why?" but as his eyes looked into her
face and met her warm, wistful glance, he acquiesced in the fate she had
ordained. He took her hand, the one that had touched him, and for the time
he was content that things should be as they were. She was looking out into
the ruined buildings, where embers hissed; at last she lowered her eyes,
and whispered:
"It is very good even as it is, now."
But he rebelled, manlike, unwilling to be satisfied with mere feeling,
desirous of retrieving the irretrievable. "Fool," he muttered, "a weak fool
I have been! _I_ have fastened this monstrous chain about you--about
_us_."
"Let us not think of it----to-night," she murmured, her eyes burning into
his face.
* * * * *
The first gray of the morning was revealing the outlines of the scrub oaks
in the field as the two came back to the cottage. Sommers tied his horse to
a fence-post at the end of the lane, and went in to warm himself from the
chill of the night air. Mrs. Preston prepared some coffee, while he built a
fire in the unused stove. Then she drew up her work-table before the fire
and poured out the coffee into two thick cups. As there was no cream, she
remarked with a little smile, "It is very late for after-dinner coffee!"
She moved and spoke with extreme caution, not to disturb Mrs. Ducharme and
Preston, who became excitable when awakened suddenly. They drank their
coffee in silence, and Sommers had stood up to leave.
"I shall come very soon," he was saying, and her face responded with a
little smile that lit up its sober corners and hard lines. Suddenly it grew
rigid and white, and her eyes stared beyond the doctor into the gloom of
the room. Sommers turned to follow her gaze. The door moved a little. There
was some one outside, peering in. Sommers strode across the floor and threw
the door open. In the dim light of the dawn he could see Preston, half
dressed. He had slunk back from the door.
"Come in," the doctor ordered sternly.
The man obeyed, shambling into the room with an air of bravado.
"Oh, it's you, is it, doctor?" he remarked quite naturally, with an air of
self-possession. "Haven't seen you for a long time; you don't come this way
often, at least to see _me_," he added insinuatingly, looking at his
wife. "I heard voices, and I thought I would come down to see what my wife
was up to. Women always need a little watching, doctor, as you probably
know."
He walked toward the table. As he stood there talking in a sneering voice,
in full flesh, shaved and clean, he certainly did not look like a man
stricken with paresis. Yet the doctor knew that this fitful mood of sanity
was deceitful. The feeble brain had given a momentary spurt.
"Coffee?" Preston continued, as the others remained silent. "Haven't you
got anything better than coffee? Where have you been, Mrs. Preston and
Dr.--?"
Mrs. Preston tremblingly poured out some coffee and handed it to him. The
act enraged the doctor. It seemed symbolical. Preston threw the cup to the
floor.
"None of your rot," he shouted. "I bet _you_ have had something more
than coffee, you--" he glared at his wife, his limbs trembling and
twitching as the nervous irritation gained on him. Sommers sprang forward.
"Go upstairs," he commanded sternly. "You are not fit to be here."
"Who are you to give me orders in my own house before _my_ wife?" The
man balanced himself against the table. "You get out of this and never come
back. I am a gentleman, I want you to know, and I may be a drunkard and all
that, but I am not going to have any man hanging--"
Sommers seized Preston by the collar of his shirt and dragged him to the
stairs. The man fought and bit and cursed. A black slime of words fell from
his lips, covering them all with its defilement. Finally the struggles
subsided, and with one mighty effort the doctor threw him into the upper
chamber and closed the door behind them. In a few moments he came
downstairs, bolting the door carefully. When he entered the room, he saw
Mrs. Preston staring at the door as if entranced, her face marble with
horror.
"I gave him a hypodermic injection. He will sleep a few hours," Sommers
muttered, throwing himself into a chair.
Mrs. Preston sat down at the table and folded her arms about her face. Her
figure shook with her silent sobs.
Read next: PART I#CHAPTER XX
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