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The Pit

F >> Frank Norris >> The Pit




"To take you away," he answered, gently, holding her in his arms,
looking down into her eyes. "To take you far away with me. To give
my whole life to making you forget that you were ever unhappy."

"And you will never leave me alone--never once?"

"Never, never once."

She drew back from him, looking about the room with unseeing eyes,
her fingers plucking and tearing at the lace of her dress; her voice
was faint and small, like the voice of a little child.

"I--I am afraid to be alone. Oh, I must never be alone again so long
as I shall live. I think I should die."

"And you never shall be; never again. Ah, this is my birthday, too,
sweetheart. I am born again to-night."

Laura clung to his arm; it was as though she were in the dark,
surrounded by the vague terrors of her girlhood. "And you will
always love me, love me, love me?" she whispered. "Sheldon, Sheldon,
love me always, always, with all your heart and soul and strength."

Tears stood in Corthell's eyes as he answered:

"God forgive whoever--whatever has brought you to this pass," he
said.

And, as if it were a realisation of his thought, there suddenly came
to the ears of both the roll of wheels upon the asphalt under the
carriage porch and the trampling of iron-shod hoofs.

"Is that your husband?" Corthell's quick eye took in Laura's
disarranged coiffure, one black lock low upon her neck, the roses at
her shoulder crushed and broken, and the bright spot on either
cheek.

"Is that your husband?"

"My husband--I don't know." She looked up at him with unseeing eyes.
"Where is my husband? I have no husband. You are letting me
remember," she cried, in terror. "You are letting me remember. Ah,
no, no, you don't love me! I hate you!"

Quickly he bent and kissed her.

"I will come for you to-morrow evening," he said. "You will be ready
then to go with me?"

"Ready then? Yes, yes, to go with you anywhere."

He stood still a moment, listening. Somewhere a door closed. He
heard the hoofs upon the asphalt again.

"Good-by," he whispered. "God bless you! Good-by till to-morrow
night." And with the words he was gone. The front door of the house
closed quietly.

Had he come back again? Laura turned in her place on the long divan
at the sound of a heavy tread by the door of the library.

Then an uncertain hand drew the heavy curtain aside. Jadwin, her
husband, stood before her, his eyes sunken deep in his head, his
face dead white, his hand shaking. He stood for a long instant in
the middle of the room, looking at her. Then at last his lips moved:

"Old girl.... Honey."

Laura rose, and all but groped her way towards him, her heart
beating, the tears streaming down her face.

"My husband, my husband!"

Together they made their way to the divan, and sank down upon it
side by side, holding to each other, trembling and fearful, like
children in the night.

"Honey," whispered Jadwin, after a while. "Honey, it's dark, it's
dark. Something happened.... I don't remember," he put his hand
uncertainly to his head, "I can't remember very well; but it's
dark--a little."

"It's dark," she repeated, in a low whisper. "It's dark, dark.
Something happened. Yes. I must not remember."

They spoke no further. A long time passed. Pressed close together,
Curtis Jadwin and his wife sat there in the vast, gorgeous room,
silent and trembling, ridden with unnamed fears, groping in the
darkness.

And while they remained thus, holding close by one another, a
prolonged and wailing cry rose suddenly from the street, and passed
on through the city under the stars and the wide canopy of the
darkness.

"Extra, oh-h-h, extra! All about the Smash of the Great Wheat
Corner! All about the Failure of Curtis Jadwin!"






CONCLUSION





The evening had closed in wet and misty. All day long a chill wind
had blown across the city from off the lake, and by eight o'clock,
when Laura and Jadwin came down to the dismantled library, a heavy
rain was falling.

Laura gave Jadwin her arm as they made their way across the
room--their footsteps echoing strangely from the uncarpeted boards.

"There, dear," she said. "Give me the valise. Now sit down on the
packing box there. Are you tired? You had better put your hat on. It
is full of draughts here, now that all the furniture and curtains
are out."

"No, no. I'm all right, old girl. Is the hack there yet?"

"Not yet. You're sure you're not tired?" she insisted. "You had a
pretty bad siege of it, you know, and this is only the first week
you've been up. You remember how the doctor--"

"I've had too good a nurse," he answered, stroking her hand, "not to
be fine as a fiddle by now. You must be tired yourself, Laura. Why,
for whole days there--and nights, too, they tell me--you never left
the room."

She shook her head, as though dismissing the subject.

"I wonder," she said, sitting down upon a smaller packing-box and
clasping a knee in her hands, "I wonder what the West will be like.
Do you know I think I am going to like it, Curtis?"

"It will be starting in all over again, old girl," he said, with a
warning shake of his head. "Pretty hard at first, I'm afraid."

She laughed an almost contemptuous note.

"Hard! Now?" She took his hand and laid it to her cheek.

"By all the rules you ought to hate me," he began. "What have I done
for you but hurt you and, at last, bring you to--"

But she shut her gloved hand over his mouth.

"Stop!" she cried. "Hush, dear. You have brought me the greatest
happiness of my life."

Then under her breath, her eyes wide and thoughtful, she murmured:

"A capitulation and not a triumph, and I have won a victory by
surrendering."

"Hey--what?" demanded Jadwin. "I didn't hear."

"Never mind," she answered. "It was nothing. 'The world is all
before us where to choose,' now, isn't it? And this big house and
all the life we have led in it was just an incident in our lives--an
incident that is closed."

"Looks like it, to look around this room," he said, grimly. "Nothing
left but the wall paper. What do you suppose are in these boxes?"

"They're labelled 'books and portieres.'"

"Who bought 'em I wonder? I'd have thought the party who bought the
house would have taken them. Well, it was a wrench to see the place
and all go so dirt cheap, and the 'Thetis', too, by George! But I'm
glad now. It's as though we had lightened ship." He looked at his
watch. "That hack ought to be here pretty soon. I'm glad we checked
the trunks from the house; gives us more time."

"Oh, by the way," exclaimed Laura, all at once opening her satchel.
"I had a long letter from Page this morning, from New York. Do you
want to hear what she has to say? I've only had time to read part of
it myself. It's the first one I've had from her since their
marriage."

He lit a cigar.

"Go ahead," he said, settling himself on the box. "What does Mrs.
Court have to say?"

"'My dearest sister,'" began Laura. "'Here we are, Landry and I, in
New York at last. Very tired and mussed after the ride on the cars,
but in a darling little hotel where the proprietor is head cook and
everybody speaks French. I know my accent is improving, and Landry
has learned any quantity of phrases already. We are reading George
Sand out loud, and are making up the longest vocabulary. To-night we
are going to a concert, and I've found out that there's a really
fine course of lectures to be given soon on "Literary Tendencies,"
or something like that. Quel chance. Landry is intensely interested.
You've no idea what a deep mind he has, Laura--a real thinker.

"'But here's really a big piece of news. We may not have to give up
our old home where we lived when we first came to Chicago. Aunt
Wess' wrote the other day to say that, if you were willing, she
would rent it, and then sublet all the lower floor to Landry and me,
so we could have a real house over our heads and not the under side
of the floor of the flat overhead. And she is such an old dear, I
know we could all get along beautifully. Write me about this as soon
as you can. I know you'll be willing, and Aunt Wess, said she'd
agree to whatever rent you suggested.

"'We went to call on Mrs. Cressler day before yesterday. She's been
here nearly a fortnight by now, and is living with a maiden sister
of hers in a very beautiful house fronting Central Park (not so
beautiful as our palace on North Avenue. Never, never will I forget
that house). She will probably stay here now always. She says the
very sight of the old neighbourhoods in Chicago would be more than
she could bear. Poor Mrs. Cressler! How fortunate for her that her
sister'--and so on, and so on," broke in Laura, hastily.

"Read it, read it," said Jadwin, turning sharply away. "Don't skip a
line. I want to hear every word."

"That's all there is to it," Laura returned. "'We'll be back,'" she
went on, turning a page of the letter, "'in about three weeks, and
Landry will take up his work in that railroad office. No more
speculating for him, he says. He talks of Mr. Jadwin continually.
You never saw or heard of such devotion. He says that Mr. Jadwin is
a genius, the greatest financier in the country, and that he knows
he could have won if they all hadn't turned against him that day. He
never gets tired telling me that Mr. Jadwin has been a father to
him--the kindest, biggest-hearted man he ever knew--'"

Jadwin pulled his mustache rapidly.

"Pshaw, pish, nonsense--little fool!" he blustered.

"He simply worshipped you from the first, Curtis," commented Laura.
"Even after he knew I was to marry you. He never once was jealous,
never once would listen to a word against you from any one."

"Well--well, what else does Mrs. Court say?"

"'I am glad to hear,'" read Laura, "'that Mr. Gretry did not fail,
though Landry tells me he must have lost a great deal of money.
Landry tells me that eighteen brokers' houses failed in Chicago the
day after Mr. Gretry suspended. Isabel sent us a wedding present--a
lovely medicine chest full of homoeopathic medicines, little pills
and things, you know. But, as Landry and I are never sick and both
laugh at homoeopathy, I declare I don't know just what we will do
with it. Landry is as careful of me as though I were a wax doll. But
I do wish he would think more of his own health. He never will wear
his mackintosh in rainy weather. I've been studying his tastes so
carefully. He likes French light opera better than English, and
bright colours in his cravats, and he simply adores stuffed
tomatoes.

"'We both send our love, and Landry especially wants to be
remembered to Mr. Jadwin. I hope this letter will come in time for
us to wish you both bon voyage and _bon succes._ How splendid of Mr.
Jadwin to have started his new business even while he was
convalescent! Landry says he knows he will make two or three more
fortunes in the next few years.

"'Good-by, Laura, dear. Ever your loving sister,

"'PAGE COURT.

"'P.S.--I open this letter again to tell you that we met Mr.
Corthell on the street yesterday. He sails for Europe to-day.'"

"Oh," said Jadwin, as Laura put the letter quickly down,
"Corthell--that artist chap. By the way, whatever became of him?"

Laura settled a comb in the back of her hair.

"He went away," she said. "You remember--I told you--told you all
about it."

She would have turned away her head, but he laid a hand upon her
shoulder.

"I remember," he answered, looking squarely into her eyes, "I
remember nothing--only that I have been to blame for everything. I
told you once--long ago--that I understood. And I understand now,
old girl, understand as I never did before. I fancy we both have
been living according to a wrong notion of things. We started right
when we were first married, but I worked away from it somehow and
pulled you along with me. But we've both been through a great big
change, honey, a great big change, and we're starting all over
again.... Well, there's the carriage, I guess."

They rose, gathering up their valises.

"Hoh!" said Jadwin. "No servants now, Laura, to carry our things
down for us and open the door, and it's a hack, old girl, instead of
the victoria or coupe."

"What if it is?" she cried. "What do 'things,' servants, money, and
all amount to now?"

As Jadwin laid his hand upon the knob of the front door, he all at
once put down his valise and put his arm about his wife. She caught
him about the neck and looked deep into his eyes a long moment. And
then, without speaking, they kissed each other.

In the outer vestibule, he raised the umbrella and held it over her
head.

"Hold it a minute, will you, Laura?" he said.

He gave it into her hand and swung the door of the house shut behind
him. The noise woke a hollow echo throughout all the series of
empty, denuded rooms. Jadwin slipped the key in his pocket.

"Come," he said.

They stepped out from the vestibule. It was already dark. The rain
was falling in gentle slants through the odorous, cool air. Across
the street in the park the first leaves were beginning to fall; the
lake lapped and washed quietly against the stone embankments and a
belated bicyclist stole past across the asphalt, with the silent
flitting of a bat, his lamp throwing a fan of orange-coloured haze
into the mist of rain.

In the street in front of the house the driver, descending from the
box, held open the door of the hack. Jadwin handed Laura in, gave an
address to the driver, and got in himself, slamming the door after.
They heard the driver mount to his seat and speak to his horses.

"Well," said Jadwin, rubbing the fog from the window pane of the
door, "look your last at the old place, Laura. You'll never see it
again."

But she would not look.

"No, no," she said. "I'll look at you, dearest, at you, and our
future, which is to be happier than any years we have ever known."

Jadwin did not answer other than by taking her hand in his, and in
silence they drove through the city towards the train that was to
carry them to the new life. A phase of the existences of each was
closed definitely. The great corner was a thing of the past; the
great corner with the long train of disasters its collapse had
started. The great failure had precipitated smaller failures, and
the aggregate of smaller failures had pulled down one business house
after another. For weeks afterward, the successive crashes were like
the shock and reverberation of undermined buildings toppling to
their ruin. An important bank had suspended payment, and hundreds of
depositors had found their little fortunes swept away. The
ramifications of the catastrophe were unbelievable. The whole tone
of financial affairs seemed changed. Money was "tight" again, credit
was withdrawn. The business world began to speak of hard times, once
more.

But Laura would not admit her husband was in any way to blame. He
had suffered, too. She repeated to herself his words, again and
again:

"The wheat cornered itself. I simply stood between two sets of
circumstances. The wheat cornered me, not I the wheat."

And all those millions and millions of bushels of Wheat were gone
now. The Wheat that had killed Cressler, that had ingulfed Jadwin's
fortune and all but unseated reason itself; the Wheat that had
intervened like a great torrent to drag her husband from her side
and drown him in the roaring vortices of the Pit, had passed on,
resistless, along its ordered and predetermined courses from West to
East? like a vast Titanic flood, had passed, leaving Death and Ruin
in its wake, but bearing Life and Prosperity to the crowded cities
and centres of Europe.

For a moment, vague, dark perplexities assailed her, questionings as
to the elemental forces, the forces of demand and supply that ruled
the world. This huge resistless Nourisher of the Nations--why was it
that it could not reach the People, could not fulfil its destiny,
unmarred by all this suffering, unattended by all this misery?

She did not know. But as she searched, troubled and disturbed for an
answer, she was aware of a certain familiarity in the neighbourhood
the carriage was traversing. The strange sense of having lived
through this scene, these circumstances, once before, took hold upon
her.

She looked out quickly, on either hand, through the blurred glasses
of the carriage doors. Surely, surely, this locality had once before
impressed itself upon her imagination. She turned to her husband, an
exclamation upon her lips; but Jadwin, by the dim light of the
carriage lanterns, was studying a railroad folder.

All at once, intuitively, Laura turned in her place, and raising the
flap that covered the little window at the back of the carriage,
looked behind. On either side of the vista in converging lines
stretched the tall office buildings, lights burning in a few of
their windows, even yet. Over the end of the street the
lead-coloured sky was broken by a pale faint haze of light, and
silhouetted against this rose a sombre mass, unbroken by any
glimmer, rearing a black and formidable facade against the blur of
the sky behind it.

And this was the last impression of the part of her life that that
day brought to a close; the tall gray office buildings, the murk of
rain, the haze of light in the heavens, and raised against it, the
pile of the Board of Trade building, black, monolithic, crouching on
its foundations like a monstrous sphinx with blind eyes, silent,
grave--crouching there without a sound, without sign of life, under
the night and the drifting veil of rain.

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