David Lockwin--The People's Idol Part 35

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

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 inst.i.tution. 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 a.s.sisted 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 pa.s.s 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, G.o.d 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 advertis.e.m.e.nt 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 a.s.saults 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.

CHAPTER VI

THE YAWL

It is about 10 o'clock at night in the office of the great newspaper.

The night editor sits at his desk reading the latest exchanges. The telegraph editor labors under a bright yellow light, secured by the use of a vast expanse of yellow paper.

The a.s.sistant telegraph editor is groaning over a fraudulent dispatch from a correspondent whose repute is the worst.

A place is still vacant at the tables. The marine dispatches are piling high.

"Where is the sea-dog?" asks the night editor, who is in command of the paper.

"Good evening, Corkey," says the telegraph editor. "I trust we are spared for another day of usefulness," says the night editor, with an unction which is famous in the office.

"How is the ooze of the salt deep, commodore?" asks the night editor.

"How is the coral and green amber?" asks the telegraph editor.

"Green nothing!" mutters Corkey. He feels weary.

"How did you leave great Neptune?" asks the a.s.sistant telegraph editor.

These questions are wholly perfunctory. The telegraph editor has dedicated five minutes to the history and diary of the triple alliance.

When Corkey is happy this inquisition flatters him. When he is black in the face there is an inclination to deal harshly with these wits. A thousand clever things flash into his black eyes but escape his tongue.

He struggles to say something that will put the laugh on the telegraph editor, and begins choking. The head vibrates, the little tongue plays about the black tobacco, the mouth grows square.