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A DISCOVERY
In a chair of curious carving, his feet on a pile of books which hadbeen unpacked, but for which there was as yet no place, WinthropLaine leaned back, partly relaxed, partly tense, and with half-shuteyes looked at a picture on the wall opposite. For an hour, twohours, he had sat like this. On his desk was an unfinished article,but "The Punishments of Progress" did not interest to-night, andafter vain effort to write he had thrown the pages aside and yieldedto the unrest which possessed him.
In his hands was a small calendar, and with it he tappedunconsciously the arm of his chair; but after a while he again lookedat it and with his pencil marked the date of the month. It was thefifteenth of December. Miss Keith was going home on the eighteenth.Three days of her visit yet remained, a month of it had passed, andafter she went-- He stirred uneasily, changed his position, put downthe calendar, then got up and began to walk the length of the roombackward and forward. A long mirror filled the space between the twosouthern windows, and for some time as he reached it he avoided theface seen therein; but after a while he stopped in front of it, handsin his pockets, and spoke with smiling bitterness to it.
"Take it off, man, take it off! All men wear masks, but they needn'tgo to bed with them. For years you've pretended, smiled, sworn,played with all the toys, worked with the best you had, and believedyou were content. And you're finding out at forty what a fool you'vebeen. You love her. She isn't married yet, if she is engaged toanother man--and if you've no fight in you, go make a hole and get init!"
In the glass he saw his face whiten, saw the lines on his foreheadswell, saw his eyes grow dark with rebellious pain, and, turningaway, went to a window, opened it, and let the cold air blow uponhim. Few people were on the street, and in the windows opposite waslittle light. The neighborhood was exclusively correct; and onlythat evening walking home from the club the man with him had franklyenvied his manner of life, his freedom and independence. He closedthe window, turned off some of the lights, and went back to hischair. "I am an entirely free and independent person," he saidaloud. "A most desirable condition for a man without a heart." Whydid men have hearts, anyhow, and especially such a queer kind as hehad. In the days of his youth he had expected the days of hismaturity to find him married, find him with the responsibilities andobligations of other men; but he had strange views of marriage. Oneby one his friends had entered the estate; he had helped them enterit, but he had acquired an unhealthy habit of watching their venturewith wonder at its undertaking and with doubt of its success, and theyears had gone by with no desire on his part to assume the risk.What he saw was not the life he wanted. Just what he did want he wasnot sure; but years of contact with much that blights and withers hadnot killed his belief in certain old-fashioned things, and if theycould not come true the journey would be made alone.
What whimsical ways fate had of deciding great issues. Four weeksago he was something of a piece of mechanism, fairly content with hisdrab-colored life; and now a girl had entered it and brought to himvisions too fair and beautiful to be viewed unveiled, and he knew atlast the mystery and power of love. Almost a week of her stay hadgone before he met her. In those that followed, he had seen her manytimes, but frequently he had to stand back and know that others weretaking her time when there was none for him to lose.
Should love come to him, he had imagined he would pursue it with thesame directness and persistence which had impelled the securing ofwhatever was determined upon, and instead he was that most despicableof things--a coward.
She was so young--fourteen years younger than he--and what was his tooffer in exchange for her life of varied interests, of sweet, sane,helpful, happy things of which he knew so little? He had thought heknew life, its all sides; and unknown to herself she had shown himwhat had not been understood before, and his was cold and colorlessby the side of the warmth and glow of hers.
Yesterday he had known, however, he would not wait long. After shehad returned to her home he would go to it and tell her why he hadcome. All through the day certain words had sung in his ears, andover his books had danced and blurred the figures he was making; andbefore him in fancy she was waiting for his coming when the day wasdone, was in the room with outstretched hands to give him greeting ashe entered the door. The light of a new vision had blinded, and inits fire the loneliness of his life had stood out in chill clearness,and no longer could it be endured. Some one to care if the days weredark, some one to share the giving and taking of life. At thethought of trust so sacred, his face had whitened, and in his heartunconscious prayer had sprung.
That was yesterday. This afternoon he had stopped at his sister'shome for tea, as he had done for days past now, and, Dorothea beingsick, he had gone up to see her and give her the book bought for her.As usual, she had much to say, and he let her talk uninterruptedly.It was of Claudia that she talked, always of Claudia, and he hadlistened in a silence that gave chance for much detail.
"She gets more letters!" Dorothea's hands came together as if veryfull. "Every day there is one from the same person, sometimes two,and specials and telegrams; and sometimes he talks over thetelephone. I know his handwriting now. She lets me come in her roomwhenever I want to. I don't see how one person could have so much tosay. I knew he must be her sweetheart, and I asked mother, andmother says she's engaged to a, man in Washington. Miss Robin Frenchtold her. Mother thinks it's real strange Claudia didn't tell her."And he had answered nothing, but had gone down the steps and out ofthe house, and to no one said good night.
The Man in Lonely Land Page 10