David Lockwin--The People's Idol Part 31

No!

One reason for quitting the old life was the desire to pa.s.s a studious life.

Well, then, he must wait patiently for that period when his mind will be quiet. A certain thought at last reanimates him.

Would it not be well to act as a clerk until the weariness of servitude should make freedom pleasing? This is both philosophical and thrifty.

Robert Chalmers therefore advertises for a situation as book-keeper.

This occupation will support him in his determination to neglect the Chicago newspapers.

"Greatest man I ever saw to sit stretched out, his hands deep in his pockets, his feet crossed, his head far down on his s.h.i.+rt bosom," says the chambermaid at Gramercy Square. "He must be an inventor. He thinks, and thinks, and thinks. Dear sakes, but he is homely."

An advertis.e.m.e.nt secures to Robert Chalmers a book-keeper's place in a dry-goods agency on Walker street. The move is a wise one. The labor occupies his time, improves his spirits and emanc.i.p.ates him from the unpleasant conclusions that were forcing themselves on him. He is not liked by the other clerks because he is not social, but he is able to consider, once more, the humiliations which he escaped by avoiding a contested election, and by a successful evasion of a wedding compact which was a part of his foolish political ambition.

Several months pa.s.s away. If Chalmers is to be anything better than a book-keeper at nine hours' work each day he must move, but he who so willingly took the great step is now afraid to resign his book-keepers.h.i.+p. He dreads life away from his tall desk. This problem is engaging his daily attention. This afternoon the clerks are arguing about Chicago. He cannot avoid hearing. He is the only party not engaged in the debate. They desire his arbitration. Does Clark street run both north and south of the river in Chicago? Here, for instance, is the route of a procession. Is it not clear that Clark street must run north if the procession shall follow this route?

They lay a Chicago Sunday paper on his desk. The portrait of David Lockwin confronts Robert Chalmers. There is a page of matter concerning the dedication of a monument on the following Sat.u.r.day.

The arbiter stammers so wretchedly that the losing side withdraw their offer of arbitration.

"Chalmers doesn't know," they declare, and take away the paper while Chalmers strives to read to the last syllable.

He is sick. He cannot conclude his day's work. His evident distress secures a leave for the day.

"Get somebody in my place if I am not here tomorrow," he says, thoughtfully, for they have been his only friends, little as they suspect it. "Chicago in mourning for David Lockwin!" he cries in astonishment, as he purchases great files of old Chicago papers.

"Chicago dedicating a monument to David Lockwin! It is beyond conception! And so soon! The monument of Douglas waited for twenty years."

The air and the ride revive the man. He even enters a restaurant and tries to eat a _table d'hote_ dinner with a bottle of Jersey wine, all for 50 cents, To do a perfunctory act seems to resuscitate him. He takes up his heavy load of newspapers and finds a boy to carry them.

He remembers that he is a book-keeper on a small salary, and discharges the boy at half-way.

He reaches his apartments and prepares for the long perusal of his files of Chicago news. Each item seems to feed his self-love. He is not Robert Chalmers. He is David Lockwin.

Hour by hour the reader goes on. Paper after paper falls aside, to be followed by the succeeding issue. At last the tale is complete. David Lockwin, dead, is the idol of the day at Chicago.

The man stretches his legs, puts one ankle over the other, sinks his hands deep in his pockets, a newspaper entering with the left arm, and lowers his head far down on his chest. The clock strikes and recalls him to action.

"I can reach Chicago in time for that dedication," he says. "I guess, after all, that I am David Lockwin's chief mourner."

Ah, yes! Why has not this second life brought more joy? The man ponders and questions himself.

"I am Davy's chief mourner, too!" he says, and sobs. "By heaven, it is Davy that has made me unhappy! I thought it was Chicago. I thought it was politics. I thought it was Esther. It must have been Davy!"

"If it were Davy," he says, an hour later, "I have made a mistake."

Down he looks into his heart, whither he has not dared to search before. He is homesick. n.o.body loves Robert Chalmers. n.o.body respects Robert Chalmers. David Lockwin dead is great and good. How about David Lockwin living?

His hands go deeper in his pockets at this. The motion rustles the newspaper. He strives to shake free of the sheet. His eye rests on the railway timetables.

He falls into profound meditation again. He considers himself miserable. He is, in fact, happy, if absence of dreadful pain and turmoil be a human blessing. At last his eye lights up, and the heavy face grows cheerful.

"I will go to Chicago!" he says.

CHAPTER III

BEFORE THE TELEGRAPH OFFICE

Robert Chalmers is in Chicago this morning of the dedication, and has slept well. He tossed in his bed at New York. He snores at the Western inn.

He asks himself why this is so, and his logic tells him that nature hopes to re-establish him as David Lockwin. There is a programme in such a course. At New York there was neither chart nor compa.s.s. It was like the Africa in mid-sea, foundering.

Now Robert Chalmers is nearing land. And the land is David Lockwin.

The welcoming sh.o.r.e is the old life of respectability. Banish the difficulties! They will evaporate. Listen to the bands, and the marching of troops!

He goes to the window. The intent of these ceremonies smites him and he falls on the bed. But nature restores him. Bad as it is, here is Chicago. David Lockwin is not dead. That is certain. He is not pursued by the law, for another congressman has been chosen. David Lockwin has tried to kill himself, but he has not committed murder.

Is it not bravado to return and court discovery? But is not Robert Chalmers in the mood to be discovered? "What disguise is so real as mine?" he asks, as friend after friend pa.s.ses him by.

True, he wears a heavy watch-chain and a fas.h.i.+onable collar. His garb was once that of a professional man. Now his face is entirely altered.

Gouts of carmine are spotted over his cheeks; wounds are visible on his forehead. His nose is crooked and his teeth are misshapen. His voice is husky.

He enters a street-car for the north. It startles him somewhat to have Corkey take a seat beside him.

"Will this car take me to the dedication?" Chalmers makes bold to ask the conductor.

"That's what it will!" answered Corkey. "Going there? I'm going up myself. I reckon it will be a big thing. Takes a big thing to git me out of bed this time of day. I'm a great friend of Mrs. Lockwin's!"

"You are?"

"That's what I am. I was on the old tub when she go down. May be you've heard of me. My name is Corkey."

"Clad to meet you. My name is Chalmers. I have read the account."

"Yes, I've got tired of telling it. But it's a singular thing, about Lockwin's yawl. Next week I go out again. I'll find that boat, you hear me? I'll find it. I tell the dame that, the other day."

"Mrs. Lockwin?"

"I tell her the other day that I find the yawl. I'll never forget that boat. Lord! how unsteady she was! I'm sorry for the dame. Women don't generally feel so bad as she does. It's a great act, this monument--all her--every bit! These prominent citizens--say, they make me weary! You've heard about the hospital--the memorial hospital. She blow hundred and fifty thousand straight cases against that hospital--the David Lockwin Annex. Oh, it's a cooler. It's all iron and stone and terra cotta. She's spent a fortune already. She doesn't cry much--none, I reckon. But no one can bluff her out."

Robert Chalmers is pleased in a thousand ways. He is so glad that he scarcely notes the facts about the annex. Since he was cast away no other person has talked freely with him. The open Western manner rejoices his very blood.

"Lockwin was a pretty fair-sized man, like you. I guess you remind me of him a trifle. They was a fine pair. I never was stuck on him, for I was in politics against him; but somehow or other I've hearn the dame praise him so much, and he die in the yawl, and so on, until I feel like a brother to him. Just cut across with me," as they leave the car. "Want a seat with the reporters? Oh, that will be all right out here. Say you're from the outside--where is it? Eau Claire? Say Eau Claire. Here is some copy paper. Sit side of me. Screw your nut out of my place, young feller," to a mere sight-seer. "Bet your life.

Don't take that seat neither! Go on, now!"

David Lockwin is to report the dedication of his own monument. He trembles and grows thankful that Corkey has ceased to talk. The audience gathers slowly. David Lockwin wonders it he be a madman thus to expose himself. A memorial hospital! Did not Corkey speak of that?

The David Lockwin Annex!