________________________________________________
_ CHAPTER XXIII. SUNSET
One of the sudden changes characteristic of the Chicago climate had
taken place. The wintry chill had left the air before the advance of
a soft, warm breeze that blew out of the west. It might have been
early spring instead of late fall.
Marsh waited outside the music school on Michigan Avenue for Jane
Atwood. Presently she appeared, and Marsh was conscious of a
quickened beating of the heart as he watched the slender, graceful
figure approach. He noted the becoming flush, which spread over her
features as she recognized him, and he was certain that no woman
ever before had such sparkling eyes and so sweet a smile.
"This is a pleasant surprise," she greeted him.
"I knew you had a lesson today," explained Marsh, "and the weather
was so fine that I thought you might enjoy a walk before you went
home."
"I should love it!" she exclaimed. "I was just dreading the thought
of going straight home to that plain little room in the hotel. Hotel
rooms never do seem homelike, do they?"
"Most of my life has been spent in hotels," returned Marsh, as they
strolled toward the curb. "My parents died before I was twenty, and
since then I have led a roving life." He signaled a passing taxi,
and directed the chauffeur to take them to Lincoln Park.
Marsh glanced down Oak Street as the car flashed by. The mysterious
shadows that hung over the street at night, and the recent tragic
incident which had taken place there, seemed almost like a dream to
Marsh, as he saw the street stretch peacefully toward the west in
the light of the late afternoon sun. Marsh's attention was quickly
diverted, however, for at this point the tall buildings, the smoky
streets, and the crowds were left behind. At one side began the long
line of palatial residences that has brought to this section of
Chicago the sobriquet of "The Gold Coast." On the other side lay a
strip of park, and beyond that stretched the rolling waters of Lake
Michigan, as far as the eye could see.
"This is what I like about Chicago," exclaimed Marsh. "After a day
in the hurry and bustle and grind of the business district, you are
swept in a few minutes into a region of trees, grass and spreading
waters. At one stroke you seem to leave the seething city behind and
enter into the wide spaces of the earth."
"You speak like a poet," declared the girl, "rather than a plain
business man."
"Perhaps," returned Marsh, in a low voice, "it is because of
something new that has come into my life."
The girl's eyes looked into his for a moment, and seemed to read
something there, for she turned with heightened color to look out
over the lake.
They sat in silence for the next few minutes; then Marsh leaned
forward and opened the door of the taxi. "We'll stop here," he
called to the driver.
"Have you been in Lincoln Park before?" he inquired, as they
strolled north.
"Only to pass through in the bus," returned Jane.
"I think," commented Marsh, "that this is one of the prettiest
parks. I presume that those rolling hills are artificial, but they
are certainly a relief, after the monotonous flatness of the rest of
the city. There is one, just ahead of us, that is the highest in the
park. I want to take you there, for it is a place where I have often
sat during the last few months, when I wanted to be alone and
think."
"I believe," said Jane, "that this is the first time you have really
told me anything abort yourself."
"Frankly," replied Marsh, "that is one of the reasons why I
suggested this walk today. This favorite spot of mine appealed to me
as just the place to tell you something of my story. There it is,"
he added, pointing across the driveway to a little tree-clad hill.
He guided her across the drive, up the winding path through the
trees, to an open space on the hilltop, where they found a bench and
sat down.
"It is beautiful," agreed the girl.
Several miles of the shore line lay stretched before them, and
beyond it miles and miles of blue-green water rolled in, to break
into miniature waves against the embankment. The sun had nearly
touched the treetops behind them, and the gray of evening already
lay out over the lake. The distant horizon changed from a deep
purplish tint, where it met the water, through many, shades, until
it turned to rich gold, where the light of the setting sun fell full
upon fleecy clouds that drifted slowly, far up in the air.
"You asked me a few days ago," began Marsh, "about the nature of my
business. I did not feel free to tell you at that time, because I
was engaged in working out one of my most important cases. That case
is completed; and so is my work along that line. I am a detective,
Miss Atwood--for the last ten years in the Secret Service Division
of the United States Government."
"How interesting," she exclaimed.
"No, you are wrong," returned Marsh. "I thought it was interesting,
but I have found out my mistake. It was a wandering, unnatural life,
full of nervous days and sleepless nights. No home life, no family,
no friends--lacking all the things that really make life worth
living. Miss Atwood, the men who work down there in those great
buildings during the day, and go to a little home at night, to be
greeted by a cheery wife and romping children, are the most
fortunate men in the world. Some of them grow restless at times, and
may long for what they think is the glamour and excitement of a life
like mine. Work such as mine is necessary to the peace, happiness
and progress of the world--but I have come to the conclusion that I
would rather let the other fellow do it."
"What do you plan to do, then?" the girl asked softly.
"Unfortunately, my training has been along one line only, and I must
stick to that. But I intend to follow it in a way that will permit
me to have a home, and some of the things in life which other men
enjoy. I have already sent in my resignation to the Secret Service.
As soon as it is accepted I plan to open an office in Chicago, to do
private investigative work. There is an immense opportunity for this
among the thousands of great business houses here. Then I am going
to have a home--and," he added, leaning toward her and gazing
straight into her eyes, "I want you to help me start that home."
Jane flushed. "What do you mean?" she murmured.
"That I love you," replied Marsh, as he took her small, soft hand in
his.
"But you have known me such a short time," protested Jane.
"Jane," he said, "I have watched over you for nearly two years. When
you walked along St. Louis streets and entered shops; when you
passed back and forth to your music school in Chicago; I was many
times close at hand."
She gazed at him in startled surprise. "I don't understand," she
said.
"My work took me to St. Louis," Marsh explained. "There I saw you
and fell in love. The same work brought me to Chicago, soon after
you arrived here, and though you did not know me--probably not even
by sight--I was there, watching over you, and worshipping day by
day. Perhaps a week is too short a time for you to begin to care,
but I had hoped that you would."
"I do care," she half whispered, "but I did not know that you
thought so much of me. I have often longed for a real home myself.
You know, my own home was never really a happy one. For years my
mother was sickly and nervous, and it was I who incurred all the
household responsibilities. It has been years since I had the care
and companionship that most girls receive from a mother. My father
always provided liberally for us, but, he was seldom at home."
"Then we will start a real home together?" he pleaded.
"Yes," she whispered.
The sun sank out of sight and the twilight folded them in friendly
seclusion as Marsh took her in his arms.
[THE END]
Paul Thorne's Book: Sheridan Road Mystery
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