Chapter XIII
That afternoon Mary Blaine and Monty Camp left for Chicago. Monty decided that that was a good base from which to operate. He was interested in numerous enterprises. He was a professional gambler and he knew that Chicago would present many opportunities.
Yekial Meigs had gone off into the fields. Nor did he return before they left. His life lay in ruins about him. He was a fool, a miserable fool. He never desired Mary as much as in that moment when he lost her. He made no attempt to work but simply lay flat on his back and shouted curses to God. He pleaded with God to strike him dead. But as usual God was not moved.
In Chicago Mary and Monty Camp rented a furnished flat in a small wooden house not too far from the centre of the town. She decided to take on the name of Louella Leota again. For professional reasons it was better. Mary Blaine once more ceased to exist.
Monty made no objection to her switch in names.
"Your body is as soft as ever," he said, "and your cheeks are as fresh. Until you change the contour of your figure I shall not complain."
She did not care particularly for Monty Camp but the place was good enough to live in until she could make definite plans for the future. At least he was away most of the time. She could please and amuse herself.
It was good to be in the glamour of a large city once more. Farm life was stultifying. It made one small and mean. It dwarfed one's vision. She was through with that sort of life forever. Actually she rebelled against it because it made her think. The eternal silence did something to her. It made her restless, sombre, even sad. She breathed freely now that she was away from the farm—because she was afraid of it.
Chicago was kind to Monty Camp. He was having a streak of luck. Money flowed in and out again because Monty was a free-spender. He bought Louella everything she wanted, hats, dresses, jewels. Sometimes they dined at the Palmer House and Louella was thrilled by the elegance about her. But there was no woman in the dining room who was more beautiful, nor more tastefully attired. It was not until her later years when she grew stout and took snuff that Louella commenced to dress atrociously. In her Chicago days with Monty Camp her beauty was at its most perfect blooming.
"You are a stunner," he told her frankly, "and were it not for the fact that I am already married I would ask you to be my wife. All I've got is yours anyway and I'll look after you always."
"Don't say that," she said. "I'd hate to think that my future was all planned and settled. I like the thought that adventure may be just around the corner. An easy-going, carefree, happy, well-planned life would nauseate me. I live for uncertainty. Like you, I guess I'm somewhat of a gambler."
"You surprise me," he told her, "always new moods, new thoughts. You talk like a lost lady and yet I feel sure that you've been true to me ever since we've been in Chicago. Understand I haven't asked you to be. I don't want to place any irksome inhibitions upon you, but nevertheless I have the feeling that you haven't strayed."
"That's true," she admitted, "but I deserve no credit for it. I haven't been true intentionally and even though I've had no other lovers I've looked around a bit. I may split my ticket at any time as soon as I grow bored voting straight. But tell me something about this wife of yours.'"
"There isn't much to tell," he said moodily. "She is the only woman in the world I really hate. I've always hated her. I think that is what made her so fascinating. She is quite a handsome woman and deals out her body as one deals cards. She only plays when the stakes are high enough. I was drunk when I married her, but I soon sobered up. We've been married nine years, but I haven't seen her for ages. She detests me; she loathes me. It is the exact feeling I have for her. Thus we are perfectly mated. She won't divorce me because she wants to stay married to me in order to ruin my life. I make no protest. At least I have the extreme pleasure of knowing I'm ruining hers. She has plenty of money. So have I at present. And we're each waiting patiently for the other to die so that one of us will inherit. She often told me that as soon as I was permanently dead she'd give a swell party for all the folks who hate me and pay for it with the money I leave. Then they could all sit and drink and gloat and tear apart what little reputation I still possessed at my demise."
"She must be a lovely woman," declared Louella sarcastically.
"She is in many ways," he reflected. "She is a woman well worth hating. In fact I love to hate her."
"I daresay though, you didn't hate to love her."
"I should say not. When the spirit moved her she was superb." Louella laughed softly.
"What's the joke?" he queried.
"I was simply thinking how droll life is," she mused. "You married her and can't live with her. Whereas you live with me and can't marry me."
"It is odd," he admitted.
"Cheer up," said she. "Perhaps some day your wife will die and you'll get even."
"At that," he reflected. "I'd rather miss her. It is so seldom one finds a perfect enemy."
"I have never found it hard," she said cynically. "I've had an almost endless procession of lovers and among them were many it would have been quite easy for me to hate. A few attained to that position. But there was not one among them that I could love, not one who had the material out of which I could make a friend. The only man I ever knew who aroused my interest was the only man among them who was not my lover. He is dead but I shall never forget him. Yet memory is not of my choosing. Some of his thoughts are strangely disturbing. It was to forget him that I annexed you."
"And eventually what will you do to forget me?" he asked drily.
"Absolutely nothing," she replied. "It won't be necessary for up to now you have never mattered. Sometimes I have to pause and try to recall who you are when you walk into the room. As far as you are concerned my mind is a mirror. Your image is reflected in it when you are about but when you walk away the reflection vanishes."
"That," said he, "is a knock-out. I'm taking the count. You have completely destroyed my conceit. But I am not wholly desolated because you still dwell in my flat."
"That is very little," she declared.
"A little of your love," he said, "means more to me than all the love any other woman has to offer."
"At least you are dependable," she told him. "You are true to me, too true. Sometimes I think I'd be happier if I had to fight for you."
Louella's life in Chicago was one round of pleasure, theatres, parties, dances, dinners at the best hotels, occasional trips to nearby summer resorts. Sometimes on Sundays Monty hired a rig and they drove along the lake front.
Monty introduced her to many of his friends, including their wives and their near-wives. But Louella made no close friendships. She wanted to be free. She dreaded any sort of entanglements. Occasionally she even regretted her affair with Monty. It was taking on much too definite an air of permanence. Some day she would break off with him. She would live her own life. She was no longer Mary Blaine. But this new woman was not Louella Leota. Where was that endless parade of men? Had they vanished never to reappear?
Months rolled by and still Louella and Monty remained together. It was an easy life. She was not quite happy but she was also far from miserable. If only she had been able to really love Monty it would have been an ideal existence. This somehow was impossible. She admired him but that was as far as her affections went. As a lover he meant no more to her than any other of the men who had passed by.
Sometimes at night they remained at home, drinking whiskey and soda and playing pinochle. Louella had always been careful of her drinking. She only drank in moderation. Now however the bars were down. Frequently they were drunk when they retired. It was an easy habit to fall into and a bad one. At intervals she regretted it. She wanted to be free. No girl could be utterly free who permitted her faculties to be deadened with liquor. When she endeavored to quit, Monty laughed at her.
"What's wrong about drinking in your own home?" he wanted to know.
"There isn't anything wrong with murder if you are broadminded," she said.
"Of course there isn't," he agreed. "Murder is an excellent thing if it is used with discretion and directed toward the right people."
"Have you ever committed any murders?" she asked wickedly.
"Scarcely any," said he. "I'm afraid I'm a bit out of practice. But I always carry a gun in case the spirit moves me. How about yourself?"
"Oh, I think I ended a man's career once," she said easily. "At least if I didn't I gave him a headache that was perfect in its way. He was a rat and when I attempted to dispatch him I was guilty of performing a noble deed. However I imagine he recovered. Fellows like that live charmed lives."
Monty lighted a cigarette. "I hope you don't decide some night to catch up on your study of murder," he drawled. "I have a distinct aversion to dying, and I'm downright against being dead."
"As long as you behave yourself," said she, "I'll grant you immunity. But one false step, and I'll graduate."
"Gosh!" he cried. "Can it be possible that from now on I'm going to have two perfect enemies? What have I done to be so favored by the gods?"
One night Louella awakened suddenly from her sleep, choking, breathless, gasping. The room was filled with smoke and it was frightfully hot. She put out her hand to feel for Monty but he was not in bed beside her. Perhaps he was in the living room smoking. Often he sat up, drinking, after she retired.
She sprang from the bed, tore across the room and threw open the window. It was good to be able to breathe the cool air again. She felt as though she had been smothering. The air was refreshing. As she hurriedly dressed she could hear cries coming up from the street. Before the door a huge crowd was collecting. Shouts of, "Fire! Fire!" could be heard all round.
She must get out. Panic seized her as she opened the bedroom door but a tongue of red flame shot into the room and she banged the door shut again. Fortunately there was a fire-escape outside the window. She had thought that it spoiled the face of the building. It looked, she declared, like the bridge of an ugly nose. Now she was thankful for it as a means of escape. In a few seconds she was down in the street, almost unperceived. The crowd was concerned with the fire itself and with the clatter of hoofs as a fire engine drawn by three mighty horses came clanging around the corner.
Louella retreated to a shadowy doorway. Once more her life was being altered by Destiny. It was being burned away from her. She gazed at the conflagration impersonally. She wondered if Monty had escaped or whether he had lost his life. She was strangely unmoved. She did not love him. She was sure of that. By living with him she had only taken the line of least resistance.
It was a wooden building, old and dry, a veritable tinder-box and the Fire-god smacked his lips as he devoured the tasty morsel. All Louella's possessions, her clothes, her jewels would be irrevocably lost. Fortunately she had her most valuable rings on her fingers. A costly breastpin and watch were in her pocketbook which she had had the foresight to bring with her. The pocketbook contained considerable ready cash and her check book. She also had savings accounts in banks in Chicago and Peoria. She had never closed out the account which she had opened while she was living with Hattie Holt. She was far from destitute even though all her clothes except those she wore were lost.
She smiled cryptically. Fate was pointing the way. Why not disappear now while the commotion was at its height? She would make no inquiries about Monty Camp. If he had been saved well and good. She would be glad. If he were dead there was no necessity for her to know it. There was a bare possibility that he hadn't been in the flat at all. He often rambled about town after she had retired. Why should she mourn for a man with whom she had lived too long in any case? She desired to be free, to get out of a humdrum rut even though it had been to a certain degree a pleasant one.
If Monty Camp were all right, he would not be surprised at her disappearance. He would naturally conclude that she had been burned to death while she slept. At least he would never bother looking for her. It was a grand finale to a mildly interesting play.
Perhaps in her decision she was hard and selfish. If so, what matter? Selfishness was the back-bone of civilization. It emphasized one's education.
Unperceived she slipped out of the crowd. Sie hired a hansom cab and drove down to the Palmer House. It would be pleasurable to spend a day or two at the elegant hostelry. In her love of the famous hotel she was much like a little girl.
She slept until almost noon the next day and awoke much refreshed. She took a warm bath and then had breakfast served in her room. Once more she was being reborn. It was fun planning a new life. As soon as she was dressed, she sauntered out to browse around the shops. She had to buy a complete new wardrobe. It was somewhat like buying a trousseau.
Perhaps that's what it was. She was going off on a honeymoon and would snatch a husband enroute. She laughed softly as this thought came to her. Dying might be a great adventure but living was interesting too. At least now and then she had found life worth while.
Over lunch, she tried to make up her mind what to do. There was no use remaining at the Palmer House. It would be too dangerous. If they caught her trying to smuggle men up to her room, she would be thrown out. There was never a question but what she would go back to the trade for which she was most fitted.
However she decided that it would not be wise to remain in Chicago. If Monty Camp were alive some day she would be sure to meet him, and she had no intention of resuming residence with him. She did not wish to quarrel with him. He had treated her too decently for that. Far better would it be for her to leave town. There was nothing to hold her in Chicago. It was a fine city but all cities were interesting.
She decided after due deliberation that she would return to Peoria but she had no intention of going back to live with Hattie Holt. Louella lived solely in the present. The past was a closed door. She did not wish to open it again. There was no going back. The past was dead. The future was living, filled with promise. She had no liking to walk among corpses. If she looked back, she might be plagued by regrets. But by looking forward there could be no regrets.
She did not consider it looking backward to keep in touch with her brother. While still at the Palmer House she wrote him one of her rare letters. She was, she informed him, again visiting in Chicago, on her annual vacation. She would love to hear from him and how he and his wife—whom she one day hoped to know—were getting along.
Would he drop her a few lines in Peoria? And he had best send it to General Delivery, since she would be changing her boarding house when she returned, and did not yet know where she would be.
Three weeks later—in Peoria—Mary, not Louella, got a letter. It made her laugh, then wonder if she were getting old.
She was an aunt!
She solved the problem by sending to her new niece in New York a dozen hand-knitted pairs of bootees and caps.