CHAPTER II.

Still Introductory.

The great throng from the hall surged along the streets in an Amazonian

network of streams, gathering in boiling lakes in the great hotels,

dribbling off into the boarding-house districts in the suburbs, seeping

down into the slimy fens of vice. Again I found myself out of touch with

it all. I gave my companions the slip, and started for my hotel.

All at once it occurred to me that I had not dined, and with the thought

came the remembrance of my pair of lovers, and their supper together.

With a return of the feeling that these were the only people in Chicago

possessing spirits akin to mine, I shaped my course for Auriccio's. My

country dazedness led me astray once or twice, but I found the place,

retreated into the farthest corner, sat down, and ordered supper.

It was not one of the places where the out-of-town visitors were likely

to resort, and it was in fact rather quieter than usual. The few who

were at the tables went out before my meal was served, and for a few

minutes I was alone. Then the Empress and Sir John entered, followed by

half a dozen other playgoers. The two on whom my sentimental interest

was fixed came far down toward my position, attracted by the quietude

which had lured me, and seated themselves at a table in a sort of

alcove, cut off from the main room by columns and palms, secluded enough

for privacy, public enough, perhaps, for propriety. So far as I was

concerned I could see them quite plainly, looking, as I did, from my

gloomy corner toward the light of the restaurant; and I was sufficiently

close to be within easy earshot. I began to have the sensation of

shadowing them, until I recalled the fact that, so far, it had been a

case of their following me.

I thought his manner toward her had changed since the afternoon. There

was now an openness of wooing, an abandonment of reserve in glance and

attitude, which should have admonished her of an approaching crisis in

their affairs. Yet she seemed cooler and more self-possessed than

before. Save for a little flutter in her low laugh, I should have

pronounced her entirely at ease. She looked very sweet and girlish in

her high-necked dress, which helped make up a costume that she seemed to

have selected to subdue and conceal, rather than to display, her charms.

If such was her plan, it went pitifully wrong: his advances went on from

approach to approach, like the last manoeuvres of a successful siege.

"No," I heard her say, as I became conscious that we three were alone

again; "not here! Not at all! Stop!"

When I looked at them they were quietly sitting at the table; but her

face was pale, his flushed. Pretty soon the waiter came and served

champagne. I felt sure that she had never seen any before.

"How funny it looks," said she, "with the bubbles coming up in the

middle like a little fountain; and how pretty! Why, the stem is hollow,

isn't it?"

He laughed and made some foolish remark about love bubbling up in his

heart. When he set his glass down, I could see that his hands were

trembling as with palsy,--so much so that it was tipped over and broken.

"I'll fill another," said he. "Aren't you sorry you broke it?"

"I?" she queried. "You're not going to lay that to me, are you?"

"You're the only one to blame!" he replied. "You must hold it till it's

steady. I'll hold your glass with the other. Why, you don't take any at

all! Don't you like it, dear?"

She shrank back, looked toward the door, and then took the hand in both

of hers, holding it close to her side, and drank the wine like a child

taking medicine. His arm, his hand still holding the glass, slipped

about her waist, but she turned swiftly and silently freed herself and

sat down by the chair in which he had meant that both should sit,

holding his hands. Then in a moment I saw her sitting on the other side

of the table, and he was filling the glasses again. The guests had all

departed. The well-disciplined waiters had effaced themselves. Only we

three were there. I wondered if I ought to do anything.

They sat and talked in low tones. He was drinking a good deal of the

champagne; she, little; and neither seemed to be eating anything. He sat

opposite to her, leaning over as if to consume her with his eyes. She

returned his gaze often now, and often smiled; but her smile was drawn

and tremulous, and, to my mind, pitifully appealing. I no longer

wondered if I ought to do anything; for, once, when I partly rose to go

and speak to them, the impossibility of the thing overcame my half

resolve, and I sat down. The anti-quixotic spirit won, after all.

At last a waiter, returning with the change for the bill with which I

had paid my score, was hailed by Sir John, and was paid for their

supper. I looked to see them as they started for home. The girl rose and

made a movement toward her wrap. He reached it first and placed it about

her shoulders. In so doing, he drew her to him, and began speaking

softly and passionately to her in words I could not hear. Her face was

turned upward and backward toward him, and all her resistance seemed

gone. I should have been glad to believe this the safe and triumphant

surrender to an honest love; but here, after the dances and Stamboul

spectacles, hidden by the palms, beside the table with its empty bottles

and its broken glass, how could I believe it such? I turned away, as if

to avoid the sight of the crushing of some innocent thing which I was

powerless to aid, and strode toward the door.

Then I heard a little cry, and saw her come flying down the great hall,

leaving him standing amazedly in the archway of the palm alcove.

She passed me at the door, her face vividly white, went out into the

street, like a dove from the trap at a shooting tournament, and sprang

lightly upon a passing street-car. I could act now, and I would see her

to a place of safety; so I, too, swung on by the rail of the rear car.

She never once turned her face; but I saw Sir John come to the door of

the restaurant and look both ways for her, and as he stood perplexed and

alarmed, our train turned the curve at the next corner, we were swept

off toward the South Side, and the dark young man passed, as I supposed,

"into my dreams forever." I made my way forward a few seats and saw her

sitting there with her head bowed upon the back of the seat in front of

her. I bitterly wished that he, if he had a heart, might see her there,

bruised in spirit, her little ignorant white soul, searching itself for

smutches of the uncleanness it feared. I wished that Alice might be

there to go to her and comfort her without a word. I paid her fare, and

the conductor seemed to understand that she was not to be disturbed. A

drunken man in rough clothes came into the car, walked forward and

looked at her a moment, and as I was about to go to him and make him sit

elsewhere, he turned away and came back to the rear, as if he had some

sort of maudlin realization that the front of the train was sacred

ground.

At last she looked about, signalled for the car to stop, and alighted. I

followed, rather suspecting that she did not know her way. She walked

steadily on, however, to a big, dark house with a vine-covered porch,

close to the sidewalk. A stout man, coatless, and in a white shirt,

stood at the gate. He wore a slouch hat, and I knew him, even in that

dim light, for a farmer. She stopped for a moment, and without a word,

sprang into his arms.

"Wal, little gal, ain't yeh out purty late?" I heard him say, as I

walked past. "Didn't expect yer dad to see yeh, did yeh? Why, yeh ain't

a-cryin', be yeh?"

"O pa! O pa!" was all I heard her say; but it was enough. I walked to

the corner, and sat down on the curbstone, dead tired, but happy. In a

little while I went back toward the street-car line, and as I passed the

vine-clad porch, heard the farmer's bass voice, and stopped to listen,

frankly an eavesdropper, and feeling, somehow, that I had earned the

right to hear.

"Why, o' course, I'll take yeh away, ef yeh don't like it here, little

gal," he was saying. "Yes, we'll go right in an' pack up now, if yeh say

so. Only it's a little suddent, and may hurt the Madame's feelin's, y'

know--"

* * * * *

At the hotel I was forced by the crowded state of the city to share the

bed of one of my fellow delegates. He was a judge from down the state,

and awoke as I lay down.

"That you, Barslow?" said he. "Do you know a fellow by the name of

Elkins, of Cleveland?"

"No," said I, "why?"

"He was here to see you, or rather to inquire if you were Al Barslow who

used to live in Pleasant Valley Township," the Judge went on. "He's the

fellow who organized the Ohio flambeau brigade. Seems smart."

"Pleasant Valley Township, did he say? Yes, I know him. It's Jimmie

Elkins."

And I sank to sleep and to dreams, in which Jimmie Elkins, the Empress,

Sir John, Alice, and myself acted in a spectacular drama, like that at

McVicker's. And yet there are those who say there is nothing in dreams!