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He and Jadwin are good friends, I'm told. Hello, it's raining a little. Well, I've got to be moving. See you at lunch to-morrow." As Cressler turned into La Salle Street the light sprinkle of rain suddenly swelled to a deluge, and he had barely time to dodge into the portico of the Illinois Trust to escape a drenching.
"I never heard of him before the theatre party." But Mrs. Cressler promptly supplied information. Curtis Jadwin was a man about thirty-five, who had begun life without a sou in his pockets. His people were farmers in Michigan, hardy, honest fellows, who ploughed and sowed for a living. Curtis had only a rudimentary schooling, and had gone into business with a livery-stable keeper.
"There are others who never know when they've got enough wheat." "Oh, you mean the 'Unknown Bull." "I mean the unknown damned fool," returned Crookes placidly. There was not a trace of the snob about Charles Cressler. No one could be more democratic. But at the same time, as this interview proceeded, he could not fight down nor altogether ignore a certain qualm of gratified vanity.
"But you loved him, Laura?" demanded Mrs. Cressler. "You love him now?" Laura was silent. Then at length: "I don't know," she answered. "Why, of course you love him, Laura," insisted Mrs. Cressler. "You wouldn't have promised him if you hadn't. Of course you love him, don't you?" "Yes, I I suppose I must love him, or as you say I wouldn't have promised to marry him.
Cressler has shot himself. I found him dead in his library. She never shed a tear, and she spoke, oh, in such a terrible monotone. Jadwin with us, and get him back to be as he used to be, always so light-hearted, and thoughtful and kindly. He used to be making jokes from morning till night. Oh, I loved him just as if he were my father."
Cressler turned to the artist, passing him her opera glasses, and asking: "Who are those people down there in the third row of the parquet see, on the middle aisle the woman is in red. Aren't those the Gretrys?" This left Jadwin and Laura out of the conversation, and the capitalist was quick to seize the chance of talking to her.
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.
He always called the time of the trip from the buggy at the Cresslers' horse block, his stop watch in his hand, and, as he joined the groups upon the steps, he was almost sure to remark: "Tugs were loose all the way from the river. They pulled the whole rig by the reins. My hands are about dislocated." Cressler as the young girl laid down her mandolin. "I hope J. does come to-night," she added.
Cressler turned about. "Oh," he said. "Hullo, hullo yes, they know me all right. Especially that red and white hen. She's got a lame wing since yesterday, and if I don't watch, the others would drive her off. The pouter brute yonder, for instance. He's a regular pirate. Wants all the wheat himself. Don't ever seem to get enough." "Well," observed the newcomer, laconically, "there are others."
Some people are born to trouble, Charlie; born to trouble, as the sparks fly upward. And you mark my words, Charlie Cressler, Laura is that sort. There's all the pathos in the world in just the way she looks at you from under all that black, black hair, and out of her eyes the saddest eyes sometimes, great, sad, mournful eyes." "Fiddlesticks!" said Mr. Cressler, resuming his paper.
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