The Pit

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The impression remained long with her, and not even the gaiety of
their little supper could altogether disperse it. She was a little
frightened--frightened of the vast, cruel machinery of the city's
life, and of the men who could dare it, who conquered it. For a
moment they seemed, in a sense, more terrible than the city
itself--men for whom all this crash of conflict and commerce had no
terrors. Those who could subdue it to their purposes, must they not
be themselves more terrible, more pitiless, more brutal? She shrank
a little. What could women ever know of the life of men, after all?
Even Landry, extravagant as he was, so young, so exuberant, so
seemingly innocent--she knew that he was spoken of as a good
business man. He, too, then had his other side. For him the Battle
of the Street was an exhilaration. Beneath that boyish exterior was
the tough coarseness, the male hardness, the callousness that met
the brunt and withstood the shock of onset.

Ah, these men of the city, what could women ever know of them, of
their lives, of that other existence through which--freed from the
influence of wife or mother, or daughter or sister--they passed
every day from nine o'clock till evening? It was a life in which
women had no part, and in which, should they enter it, they would no
longer recognise son or husband, or father or brother. The
gentle-mannered fellow, clean-minded, clean-handed, of the breakfast
or supper table was one man. The other, who and what was he? Down
there in the murk and grime of the business district raged the
Battle of the Street, and therein he was a being transformed, case
hardened, supremely selfish, asking no quarter; no, nor giving any.
Fouled with the clutchings and grapplings of the attack, besmirched
with the elbowing of low associates and obscure allies, he set his
feet toward conquest, and mingled with the marchings of an army that
surged forever forward and back; now in merciless assault, beating
the fallen enemy under foot, now in repulse, equally merciless,
trampling down the auxiliaries of the day before, in a panic dash
for safety; always cruel, always selfish, always pitiless.

To contrast these men with such as Corthell was inevitable. She
remembered him, to whom the business district was an unexplored
country, who kept himself far from the fighting, his hands
unstained, his feet unsullied. He passed his life gently, in the
calm, still atmosphere of art, in the cult of the beautiful,
unperturbed, tranquil; painting, reading, or, piece by piece,
developing his beautiful stained glass. Him women could know, with
him they could sympathise. And he could enter fully into their lives
and help and stimulate them. Of the two existences which did she
prefer, that of the business man, or that of the artist?

Then suddenly Laura surprised herself. After all, she was a daughter
of the frontier, and the blood of those who had wrestled with a new
world flowed in her body. Yes, Corthell's was a beautiful life; the
charm of dim painted windows, the attraction of darkened studios
with their harmonies of color, their orientalisms, and their
arabesques was strong. No doubt it all had its place. It fascinated
her at times, in spite of herself. To relax the mind, to indulge the
senses, to live in an environment of pervading beauty was
delightful. But the men to whom the woman in her turned were not
those of the studio. Terrible as the Battle of the Street was, it
was yet battle. Only the strong and the brave might dare it, and the
figure that held her imagination and her sympathy was not the
artist, soft of hand and of speech, elaborating graces of sound and
color and form, refined, sensitive, and temperamental; but the
fighter, unknown and un-knowable to women as he was; hard, rigorous,
panoplied in the harness of the warrior, who strove among the
trumpets, and who, in the brunt of conflict, conspicuous,
formidable, set the battle in a rage around him, and exulted like a
champion in the shoutings of the captains.

They were not long at table, and by the time they were ready to
depart it was about half-past five. But when they emerged into the
street, it was discovered that once more the weather had abruptly
changed. It was snowing thickly. Again a bitter wind from off the
Lake tore through the streets. The slush and melted snow was
freezing, and the north side of every lamp post and telegraph pole
was sheeted with ice.

To add to their discomfort, the North State Street cars were
blocked. When they gained the corner of Washington Street they could
see where the congestion began, a few squares distant.

"There's nothing for it," declared Landry, "but to go over and get
the Clarke Street cars--and at that you may have to stand up all the
way home, at this time of day."

They paused, irresolute, a moment on the corner. It was the centre
of the retail quarter. Close at hand a vast dry goods house, built
in the old "iron-front" style, towered from the pavement, and
through its hundreds of windows presented to view a world of stuffs
and fabrics, upholsteries and textiles, kaleidoscopic, gleaming in
the fierce brilliance of a multitude of lights. From each street
doorway was pouring an army of "shoppers," women for the most part;
and these--since the store catered to a rich clientele--fashionably
dressed. Many of them stood for a moment on the threshold of the
storm-doorways, turning up the collars of their sealskins, settling
their hands in their muffs, and searching the street for their
coupes and carriages.

Among the number of those thus engaged, one, suddenly catching sight
of Laura, waved a muff in her direction, then came quickly forward.
It was Mrs. Cressler.

"Laura, my dearest girl! Of all the people. I am so glad to see
you!" She kissed Laura on the cheek, shook hands all around, and
asked about the sisters' new home. Did they want anything, or was
there anything she could do to help? Then interrupting herself, and
laying a glove on Laura's arm:

"I've got more to tell you."

She compressed her lips and stood off from Laura, fixing her with a
significant glance.

"Me? To tell me?"

"Where are you going now?"

"Home; but our cars are stopped. We must go over to--"

"Fiddlesticks! You and Page and Mrs. Wessels--all of you are coming
home and dine with me."

"But we've had dinner already," they all cried, speaking at once.

Page explained the situation, but Mrs. Cressler would not be denied.

"The carriage is right here," she said. "I don't have to call for
Charlie. He's got a man from Cincinnati in tow, and they are going
to dine at the Calumet Club."

It ended by the two sisters and Mrs. Wessels getting into Mrs.
Cressler's carriage. Landry excused himself. He lived on the South
Side, on Michigan Avenue, and declaring that he knew they had had
enough of him for one day, took himself off.

But whatever Mrs. Cressler had to tell Laura, she evidently was
determined to save for her ears only. Arrived at the Dearborns'
home, she sent her footman in to tell the "girl" that the family
would not be home that night. The Cresslers lived hard by on the
same street, and within ten minutes' walk of the Dearborns. The two
sisters and their aunt would be back immediately after breakfast.

When they had got home with Mrs. Cressler, this latter suggested hot
tea and sandwiches in the library, for the ride had been cold. But
the others, worn out, declared for bed as soon as Mrs. Cressler
herself had dined.

"Oh, bless you, Carrie," said Aunt Wess'; "I couldn't think of tea.
My back is just about broken, and I'm going straight to my bed."

Mrs. Cressler showed them to their rooms. Page and Mrs. Wessels
elected to sleep together, and once the door had closed upon them
the little girl unburdened herself.

"I suppose Laura thinks it's all right, running off like this for
the whole blessed night, and no one to look after the house but
those two servants that nobody knows anything about. As though there
weren't heaven knows what all to tend to there in the morning. I
just don't see," she exclaimed decisively, "how we're going to get
settled at all. That Landry Court! My goodness, he's more hindrance
than help. Did you ever see! He just dashes in as though he were
doing it all, and messes everything up, and loses things, and gets
things into the wrong place, and forgets this and that, and then he
and Laura sit down and spoon. I never saw anything like it. First
it's Corthell and then Landry, and next it will be somebody else.
Laura regularly mortifies me; a great, grown-up girl like that,
flirting, and letting every man she meets think that he's just the
one particular one of the whole earth. It's not good form. And
Landry--as if he didn't know we've got more to do now than just to
dawdle and dawdle. I could slap him. I like to see a man take life
seriously and try to amount to something, and not waste the best
years of his life trailing after women who are old enough to be his
grandmother, and don't mean that it will ever come to anything."

In her room, in the front of the house, Laura was partly undressed
when Mrs. Cressler knocked at her door. The latter had put on a
wrapper of flowered silk, and her hair was bound in "invisible
nets."

"I brought you a dressing-gown," she said. She hung it over the foot
of the bed, and sat down on the bed itself, watching Laura, who
stood before the glass of the bureau, her head bent upon her breast,
her hands busy with the back of her hair. From time to time the
hairpins clicked as she laid them down in the silver trays close at
hand. Then putting her chin in the air, she shook her head, and the
great braids, unlooped, fell to her waist.

"What pretty hair you have, child," murmured Mrs. Cressler. She was
settling herself for a long talk with her protege. She had much to
tell, but now that they had the whole night before them, could
afford to take her time.

Between the two women the conversation began slowly, with detached
phrases and observations that did not call necessarily for
answers--mere beginnings that they did not care to follow up.

"They tell me," said Mrs. Cressler, "that that Gretry girl smokes
ten cigarettes every night before she goes to bed. You know the
Gretrys--they were at the opera the other night."

Laura permitted herself an indefinite murmur of interest. Her head
to one side, she drew the brush in slow, deliberate movements
downward underneath the long, thick strands of her hair. Mrs.
Cressler watched her attentively.

"Why don't you wear your hair that new way, Laura," she remarked,
"farther down on your neck? I see every one doing it now."

The house was very still. Outside the double windows they could hear
the faint murmuring click of the frozen snow. A radiator in the
hallway clanked and strangled for a moment, then fell quiet again.

"What a pretty room this is," said Laura. "I think I'll have to do
our guest room something like this--a sort of white and gold effect.
My hair? Oh, I don't know. Wearing it low that way makes it catch so
on the hooks of your collar, and, besides, I was afraid it would
make my head look so flat."

There was a silence. Laura braided a long strand, with quick,
regular motions of both hands, and letting it fall over her
shoulder, shook it into place with a twist of her head. She stepped
out of her skirt, and Mrs. Cressler handed her her dressing-gown,
and brought out a pair of quilted slippers of red satin from the
wardrobe.

In the grate, the fire that had been lighted just before they had
come upstairs was crackling sharply. Laura drew up an armchair and
sat down in front of it, her chin in her hand. Mrs. Cressler
stretched herself upon the bed, an arm behind her head.

"Well, Laura," she began at length, "I have some real news for you.
My dear, I believe you've made a conquest."

"I!" murmured Laura, looking around. She feigned a surprise, though
she guessed at once that Mrs. Cressler had Corthell in mind.

"That Mr. Jadwin--the one you met at the opera."

Genuinely taken aback, Laura sat upright and stared wide-eyed.

"Mr. Jadwin!" she exclaimed. "Why, we didn't have five minutes'
talk. Why, I hardly know the man. I only met him last night."

But Mrs. Cressler shook her head, closing her eyes and putting her
lips together.

"That don't make any difference, Laura. Trust me to tell when a man
is taken with a girl. My dear, you can have him as easy as that."
She snapped her fingers.

"Oh, I'm sure you're mistaken, Mrs. Cressler."

"Not in the least. I've known Curtis Jadwin now for fifteen
years--nobody better. He's as old a family friend as Charlie and I
have. I know him like a book. And I tell you the man is in love with
you."

"Well, I hope he didn't tell you as much," cried Laura, promising
herself to be royally angry if such was the case. But Mrs. Cressler
hastened to reassure her.

"Oh my, no. But all the way home last night--he came home with us,
you know--he kept referring to you, and just so soon as the
conversation got on some other subject he would lose interest. He
wanted to know all about you--oh, you know how a man will talk," she
exclaimed. "And he said you had more sense and more intelligence
than any girl he had ever known."

"Oh, well," answered Laura deprecatingly, as if to say that that did
not count for much with her.

"And that you were simply beautiful. He said that he never
remembered to have seen a more beautiful woman."

Laura turned her head away, a hand shielding her cheek. She did not
answer immediately, then at length:

"Has he--this Mr. Jadwin--has he ever been married before?"

"No, no. He's a bachelor, and rich! He could buy and sell us. And
don't think, Laura dear, that I'm jumping at conclusions. I hope I'm
woman of the world enough to know that a man who's taken with a
pretty face and smart talk isn't going to rush right into matrimony
because of that. It wasn't so much what Curtis Jadwin said--though,
dear me suz, he talked enough about you--as what he didn't say. I
could tell. He was thinking hard. He was hit, Laura. I know he was.
And Charlie said he spoke about you again this morning at breakfast.
Charlie makes me tired sometimes," she added irrelevantly.

"Charlie?" repeated Laura.

"Well, of course I spoke to him about Jadwin, and how taken he
seemed with you, and the man roared at me."

"_He_ didn't believe it, then."

"Yes he did--when I could get him to talk seriously about it, and
when I made him remember how Mr. Jadwin had spoken in the carriage
coming home."

Laura curled her leg under her and sat nursing her foot and looking
into the fire. For a long time neither spoke. A little clock of
brass and black marble began to chime, very prettily, the half hour
of nine. Mrs. Cressler observed:

"That Sheldon Corthell seems to be a very agreeable kind of a young
man, doesn't he?"

"Yes," replied Laura thoughtfully, "he is agreeable."

"And a talented fellow, too," continued Mrs. Cressler. "But somehow
it never impressed me that there was very much to him."

"Oh," murmured Laura indifferently, "I don't know."

"I suppose," Mrs. Cressler went on, in a tone of resignation, "I
suppose he thinks the world and all of _you?_"

Laura raised a shoulder without answering.

"Charlie can't abide him," said Mrs. Cressler. "Funny, isn't it what
prejudices men have? Charlie always speaks of him as though he were
a higher order of glazier. Curtis Jadwin seems to like him.... What
do you think of him, Laura--of Mr. Jadwin?"

"I don't know," she answered, looking vaguely into the fire. "I
thought he was a strong man--mentally I mean, and that he would be
kindly and--and--generous. Somehow," she said, musingly, "I didn't
think he would be the sort of man that women would take to, at
first--but then I don't know. I saw very little of him, as I say. He
didn't impress me as being a woman's man."

"All the better," said the other. "Who would want to marry a woman's
man? I wouldn't. Sheldon Corthell is that. I tell you one thing,
Laura, and when you are as old as I am, you'll know it's true: the
kind of a man that men like--not women--is the kind of a man that
makes the best husband."

Laura nodded her head.

"Yes," she answered, listlessly, "I suppose that's true."

"You said Jadwin struck you as being a kindly man, a generous man.
He's just that, and that charitable! You know he has a Sunday-school
over on the West Side, a Sunday-school for mission children, and I
do believe he's more interested in that than in his business. He
wants to make it the biggest Sunday-school in Chicago. It's an
ambition of his. I don't want you to think that he's good in a
goody-goody way, because he's not. Laura," she exclaimed, "he's a
fine man. I didn't intend to brag him up to you, because I wanted
you to like him. But no one knows--as I say--no one knows Curtis
Jadwin better than Charlie and I, and we just _love_ him. The
kindliest, biggest-hearted fellow--oh, well, you'll know him for
yourself, and then you'll see. He passes the plate in our church."

"Dr. Wendell's church?" asked Laura.

"Yes you know--the Second Presbyterian."

"I'm Episcopalian myself," observed Laura, still thoughtfully gazing
into the fire.

"I know, I know. But Jadwin isn't the blue-nosed sort. And now see
here, Laura, I want to tell you. J.--that's what Charlie and I call
Jadwin--J. was talking to us the other day about supporting a ward
in the Children's Hospital for the children of his Sunday-school
that get hurt or sick. You see he has nearly eight hundred boys and
girls in his school, and there's not a week passes that he don't
hear of some one of them who has been hurt or taken sick. And he
wants to start a ward at the Children's Hospital, that can take care
of them. He says he wants to get other people interested, too, and
so he wants to start a contribution. He says he'll double any amount
that's raised in the next six months--that is, if there's two
thousand raised, he'll make it four thousand; understand? And so
Charlie and I and the Gretrys are going to get up an amateur play--a
charity affair--and raise as much money as we can. J. thinks it's a
good idea, and--here's the point--we were talking about it coming
home in the carriage, and J. said he wondered if that Miss Dearborn
wouldn't take part. And we are all wild to have you. You know you do
that sort of thing so well. Now don't say yes or no to-night. You
sleep over it. J. is crazy to have you in it."

"I'd love to do it," answered Laura. "But I would have to see--it
takes so long to get settled, and there's so much to do about a big
house like ours, I might not have time. But I will let you know."

Mrs. Cressler told her in detail about the proposed play. Landry
Court was to take part, and she enlisted Laura's influence to get
Sheldon Corthell to undertake a role. Page, it appeared, had already
promised to help. Laura remembered now that she had heard her speak
of it. However, the plan was so immature as yet, that it hardly
admitted of very much discussion, and inevitably the conversation
came back to its starting-point.

"You know," Laura had remarked in answer to one of Mrs. Cressler's
observations upon the capabilities and business ability of "J.,"
"you know I never heard of him before you spoke of our theatre
party. I don't know anything about him."

But Mrs. Cressler promptly supplied the information. Curtis Jadwin
was a man about thirty-five, who had begun life without a sou in his
pockets. He was a native of Michigan. His people were farmers,
nothing more nor less than hardy, honest fellows, who ploughed and
sowed for a living. Curtis had only a rudimentary schooling, because
he had given up the idea of finishing his studies in the High School
in Grand Rapids, on the chance of going into business with a livery
stable keeper. Then in time he had bought out the business and had
run it for himself. Some one in Chicago owed him money, and in
default of payment had offered him a couple of lots on Wabash
Avenue. That was how he happened to come to Chicago. Naturally
enough as the city grew the Wabash Avenue property--it was near
Monroe Street--increased in value. He sold the lots and bought other
real estate, sold that and bought somewhere else, and so on, till he
owned some of the best business sites in the city. Just his ground
rent alone brought him, heaven knew how many thousands a year. He
was one of the largest real estate owners in Chicago. But he no
longer bought and sold. His property had grown so large that just
the management of it alone took up most of his time. He had an
office in the Rookery, and perhaps being so close to the Board of
Trade Building, had given him a taste for trying a little deal in
wheat now and then. As a rule, he deplored speculation. He had no
fixed principles about it, like Charlie. Only he was conservative;
occasionally he hazarded small operations. Somehow he had never
married. There had been affairs. Oh, yes, one or two, of course.
Nothing very serious, He just didn't seem to have met the right
girl, that was all. He lived on Michigan Avenue, near the corner of
Twenty-first Street, in one of those discouraging eternal yellow
limestone houses with a basement dining-room. His aunt kept house
for him, and his nieces and nephews overran the place. There was
always a raft of them there, either coming or going; and the way
they exploited him! He supported them all; heaven knew how many
there were; such drabs and gawks, all elbows and knees, who soaked
themselves with cologne and made companions of the servants. They
and the second girls were always squabbling about their things that
they found in each other's rooms.

It was growing late. At length Mrs. Cressler rose.

"My goodness, Laura, look at the time; and I've been keeping you up
when you must be killed for sleep."

She took herself away, pausing at the doorway long enough to say:

"Do try to manage to take part in the play. J. made me promise that
I would get you."

"Well, I think I can," Laura answered. "Only I'll have to see first
how our new regime is going to run--the house I mean."

When Mrs. Cressler had gone Laura lost no time in getting to bed.
But after she turned out the gas she remembered that she had not
"covered" the fire, a custom that she still retained from the daily
round of her life at Barrington. She did not light the gas again,
but guided by the firelight, spread a shovelful of ashes over the
top of the grate. Yet when she had done this, she still knelt there
a moment, looking wide-eyed into the glow, thinking over the events
of the last twenty-four hours. When all was said and done, she had,
after all, found more in Chicago than the clash and trepidation of
empire-making, more than the reverberation of the thunder of battle,
more than the piping and choiring of sweet music.

First it had been Sheldon Corthell, quiet, persuasive, eloquent.
Then Landry Court with his exuberance and extravagance and
boyishness, and now--unexpectedly--behold, a new element had
appeared--this other one, this man of the world, of affairs, mature,
experienced, whom she hardly knew. It was charming she told herself,
exciting. Life never had seemed half so delightful. Romantic, she
felt Romance, unseen, intangible, at work all about her. And love,
which of all things knowable was dearest to her, came to her
unsought.

Her first aversion to the Great Grey City was fast disappearing. She
saw it now in a kindlier aspect.

"I think," she said at last, as she still knelt before the fire,
looking deep into the coals, absorbed, abstracted, "I think that I
am going to be very happy here."

III

On a certain Monday morning, about a month later, Curtis Jadwin
descended from his office in the Rookery Building, and turning
southward, took his way toward the brokerage and commission office
of Gretry, Converse and Co., on the ground floor of the Board of
Trade Building, only a few steps away.

It was about nine o'clock; the weather was mild, the sun shone. La
Salle Street swarmed with the multitudinous life that seethed about
the doors of the innumerable offices of brokers and commission men
of the neighbourhood. To the right, in the peristyle of the Illinois
Trust Building, groups of clerks, of messengers, of brokers, of
clients, and of depositors formed and broke incessantly. To the
left, where the facade of the Board of Trade blocked the street, the
activity was astonishing, and in and out of the swing doors of its
entrance streamed an incessant tide of coming and going. All the
life of the neighbourhood seemed to centre at this point--the
entrance of the Board of Trade. Two currents that trended swiftly
through La Salle and Jackson streets, and that fed, or were fed by,
other tributaries that poured in through Fifth Avenue and through
Clarke and Dearborn streets, met at this point--one setting in, the
other out. The nearer the currents the greater their speed.
Men--mere flotsam in the flood--as they turned into La Salle Street
from Adams or from Monroe, or even from as far as Madison, seemed to
accelerate their pace as they approached. At the Illinois Trust the
walk became a stride, at the Rookery the stride was almost a trot.
But at the corner of Jackson Street, the Board of Trade now merely
the width of the street away, the trot became a run, and young men
and boys, under the pretence of escaping the trucks and wagons of
the cobbles, dashed across at a veritable gallop, flung themselves
panting into the entrance of the Board, were engulfed in the turmoil
of the spot, and disappeared with a sudden fillip into the gloom of
the interior.

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