The Pit [51]
when you must be both engaged and married. You _must_ ask yourself _some time_ if you love the man who wishes to be your husband. Why not ask yourself now?"
"I do," she answered. "I do ask myself. I have asked myself."
"Well, what do you decide?"
"That I don't know."
"Don't you think you would love me in time? Laura, I am sure you would. I would _make_ you."
"I don't know. I suppose that is a stupid answer. But it is, if I am to be honest, and I am trying very hard to be honest--with you and with myself--the only one I have. I am happy just as I am. I like you and Mr. Cressler and Mr. Corthell--everybody. But, Mr. Jadwin"--she looked him full in the face, her dark eyes full of gravity--"with a woman it is so serious--to be married. More so than any man ever understood. And, oh, one must be so sure, so sure. And I am not sure now. I am not sure now. Even if I were sure of you, I could not say I was sure of myself. Now and then I tell myself, and even poor, dear Aunt Wess', that I shall never love anybody, that I shall never marry. But I should be bitterly sorry if I thought that was true. It is one of the greatest happinesses to which I look forward, that some day I shall love some one with all my heart and soul, and shall be a true wife, and find my husband's love for me the sweetest thing in my life. But I am sure that that day has not come yet."
"And when it does come," he urged, "may I be the first to know?"
She smiled a little gravely.
"Ah," she answered, "I would not know myself that that day had come until I woke to the fact that I loved the man who had asked me to be his wife, and then it might be too late--for you."
"But now, at least," he persisted, "you love no one."
"Now," she repeated, "I love--no one."
"And I may take such encouragement in that as I can?"
And then, suddenly, capriciously even, Laura, an inexplicable spirit of inconsistency besetting her, was a very different woman from the one who an instant before had spoken so gravely of the seriousness of marriage. She hesitated a moment before answering Jadwin, her head on one side, looking at the rose leaf between her fingers. In a low voice she said at last:
"If you like."
But before Jadwin could reply, Cressler and Aunt Wess' who had been telling each other of their "experiences," of their "premonitions," of the unaccountable things that had happened to them, at length included the others in their conversation.
"J.," remarked Cressler, "did anything funny ever happen to _you_--warnings, presentiments, that sort of thing? Mrs. Wessels and I have been talking spiritualism. Laura, have _you_ ever had any 'experiences'?"
She shook her head.
"No, no. I am too material, I am afraid."
"How about you, 'J.'?"
"Nothing much, except that I believe in 'luck'--a little. The other day I flipped a coin in Gretry's office. If it fell heads I was to sell wheat short, and somehow I knew all the time that the coin would fall heads--and so it did."
"And you made a great deal of money," said Laura. "I know. Mr. Court was telling me. That was splendid."
"That was deplorable, Laura," said Cressler, gravely. "I hope some day," he continued, "we can all of us get hold of this man and make him solemnly promise never to gamble in wheat again."
Laura stared. To her mind the word "gambling" had always been suspect. It had a bad sound; it seemed to be associated with depravity of the baser sort.
"Gambling!" she murmured.
"They call it buying and selling," he went on, "down there in La Salle Street. But it is simply betting. Betting on the condition of the market weeks, even months, in advance. You bet wheat goes up. I bet it goes down. Those fellows in the Pit don't own the wheat; never even see it. Wou'dn't know what to do with it if they had it. They don't care in the least about the grain. But there are thousands upon thousands of farmers out here in Iowa and Kansas or Dakota who do, and hundreds of thousand of poor devils in Europe who care even more than the farmer.
"I do," she answered. "I do ask myself. I have asked myself."
"Well, what do you decide?"
"That I don't know."
"Don't you think you would love me in time? Laura, I am sure you would. I would _make_ you."
"I don't know. I suppose that is a stupid answer. But it is, if I am to be honest, and I am trying very hard to be honest--with you and with myself--the only one I have. I am happy just as I am. I like you and Mr. Cressler and Mr. Corthell--everybody. But, Mr. Jadwin"--she looked him full in the face, her dark eyes full of gravity--"with a woman it is so serious--to be married. More so than any man ever understood. And, oh, one must be so sure, so sure. And I am not sure now. I am not sure now. Even if I were sure of you, I could not say I was sure of myself. Now and then I tell myself, and even poor, dear Aunt Wess', that I shall never love anybody, that I shall never marry. But I should be bitterly sorry if I thought that was true. It is one of the greatest happinesses to which I look forward, that some day I shall love some one with all my heart and soul, and shall be a true wife, and find my husband's love for me the sweetest thing in my life. But I am sure that that day has not come yet."
"And when it does come," he urged, "may I be the first to know?"
She smiled a little gravely.
"Ah," she answered, "I would not know myself that that day had come until I woke to the fact that I loved the man who had asked me to be his wife, and then it might be too late--for you."
"But now, at least," he persisted, "you love no one."
"Now," she repeated, "I love--no one."
"And I may take such encouragement in that as I can?"
And then, suddenly, capriciously even, Laura, an inexplicable spirit of inconsistency besetting her, was a very different woman from the one who an instant before had spoken so gravely of the seriousness of marriage. She hesitated a moment before answering Jadwin, her head on one side, looking at the rose leaf between her fingers. In a low voice she said at last:
"If you like."
But before Jadwin could reply, Cressler and Aunt Wess' who had been telling each other of their "experiences," of their "premonitions," of the unaccountable things that had happened to them, at length included the others in their conversation.
"J.," remarked Cressler, "did anything funny ever happen to _you_--warnings, presentiments, that sort of thing? Mrs. Wessels and I have been talking spiritualism. Laura, have _you_ ever had any 'experiences'?"
She shook her head.
"No, no. I am too material, I am afraid."
"How about you, 'J.'?"
"Nothing much, except that I believe in 'luck'--a little. The other day I flipped a coin in Gretry's office. If it fell heads I was to sell wheat short, and somehow I knew all the time that the coin would fall heads--and so it did."
"And you made a great deal of money," said Laura. "I know. Mr. Court was telling me. That was splendid."
"That was deplorable, Laura," said Cressler, gravely. "I hope some day," he continued, "we can all of us get hold of this man and make him solemnly promise never to gamble in wheat again."
Laura stared. To her mind the word "gambling" had always been suspect. It had a bad sound; it seemed to be associated with depravity of the baser sort.
"Gambling!" she murmured.
"They call it buying and selling," he went on, "down there in La Salle Street. But it is simply betting. Betting on the condition of the market weeks, even months, in advance. You bet wheat goes up. I bet it goes down. Those fellows in the Pit don't own the wheat; never even see it. Wou'dn't know what to do with it if they had it. They don't care in the least about the grain. But there are thousands upon thousands of farmers out here in Iowa and Kansas or Dakota who do, and hundreds of thousand of poor devils in Europe who care even more than the farmer.