Wilder sprang off the train, jostled his way through the crowd on the
platform, and dashed up the steps to the street, scowling with
impatience; and yet, when he got there, he stopped short.
The trolley car that met the train was waiting in front of him, and
there was a rush of commuters toward it. He had meant to get on that
car, but he could not. He was too tired, too mortally sick and tired of
his fellow creatures. He could not and would not be crowded in there. He
wanted miles of uninhabited space about him. He felt that it was
impossible to endure the sight of a human face or the sound of a human
voice.
Then, just behind him, some one called out cheerily:
“Hello, Wilder!”
He pretended not to hear, and set off down the street, with that
headlong gait of his.
“Let me _alone_!” he said to himself. “Oh, Lord! I’m so tired!”
All he asked was to be let alone, but he never was. At this moment
Marian was waiting for him.
“Let her wait!” he thought.
But, just the same, he hurried home to her.
“I’m a slave!” he thought. “I’m a fool, an ass, an idiot, an imbecile!”
These weaknesses were not obvious in Leonard Wilder’s appearance. A big
fellow, well set up, lean and vigorous, he looked like one abundantly
able to take care of himself. His face, with its big, bold nose, its
keen gray eyes, and that out-thrust underlip, looked like a clever face.
He was by no means handsome, but there was something about him that
pleased the eye. People were inclined to stare at him. People who knew
him detested and loved him at the same time. He was impossible to get on
with; yet, once you got used to him, it was hard to get on without him.
He was an architect; but he said that if he could choose again, he would
be a house wrecker. There was, he said, no room on earth for an
architect until ninety-five per cent of all buildings now standing had
been razed to the ground. Feeling as he did, he nevertheless helped in
the erection of more monstrosities. The owners of a “development park”
employed him to design houses.
“Regular little love nests!” said Connolly, the senior partner.
“Why d’you call these things ‘nests’?” asked Wilder. “Haven’t you ever
_seen_ a nest? Don’t you realize the fundamental _decency_ of birds?
Why, man, birds _hide_ their nests! ‘Love nests,’ eh? Sheep pens, you
mean!”
Connolly laughed; but he always arranged to keep his architect and his
clients as far apart as possible. When this could not be done, he took
care to explain in advance that Wilder was a genius. Connolly believed
this. He believed that only a genius could be so outrageous; that only a
genius would do such good work for so little money. He liked geniuses.
Leonard’s own opinion of himself was less flattering. He called himself
a fool. For instance, here he was, hurrying home, when he so violently
did not want to go home, simply because it would upset Marian if he were
late. He always hurried home, and not out of good will. He felt no good
will toward anybody on earth. He was the complete cynic. He did not love
his fellow man. If he caught trains, it was only through a very
contemptible weakness.
The sun had gone, but it was not yet dusk. As he reached his own corner,
the street lamps suddenly came alive, glowing with a faint, luminous
violet against the pallor of the sky. He was startled and enchanted by
the effect. He stopped, to stare up at them, to watch the delicate
changes in the sky.
“Extraordinary thing!” he thought. “I spend my life looking for the
beautiful line--the clean, strong, inevitable line; and here is beauty
without line, almost without form or color--half tints, shadows--of
nothing. Why is this beautiful to me?”
He wanted a formula, and could find none. He lit a cigarette, and leaned
back against the lamp-post, meditating. Marian saw this from the window.
She saw her brother-in-law standing on the street corner, smoking a
cigarette and staring at the sky, when he knew very well that dinner was
ready. Let him! She made up her mind that she would not say one word.
She put everything into the oven to keep hot, went out on the veranda,
and sat down there.
When, at last, Wilder came down the street, and saw her, he knew by her
face that she was not saying a word. Instead of admiring this
forbearance, a fierce exasperation rose in him. He wanted her to say a
word, so that he could reply in other words. He desired a barrage of
peppery words. He had stopped, just to look at the sky--and she
begrudged him that!
“Good evening, Leonard,” she said, quite politely.
“Oh! Good evening!” said he, as if surprised. “You here?”
Then he sat down on the top step and lit another cigarette.
“And here I sit until you do say something!” he thought.
“I will not be drawn into a dispute with Leonard,” thought Marian. “He’s
simply looking for a chance to be nasty; but I shan’t say a word.”
From inside the house came a sound of hammering. It was Evan Wilder,
doing some little carpentering job; and this--this creditable and
helpful thing--filled Leonard with still greater exasperation.
He was weary and hot. He wanted peace. He wanted a dim and lofty dining
room, a silent and highly competent manservant, and a rare sort of
dinner; and when he thought of what he was actually going to get--
He had meant not to speak, but that hammering was too much.
“_Peter Pan_, the Boy Scout who never grew up,” he observed. “What good
turn is he doing now?”
Marian still said nothing, but the effort she made to hold her tongue
vibrated through the air.
“He is misguided,” Leonard went on. “If he were to follow our example,
Marian! Here we sit, developing serenity of soul in contemplation. I’m
happy to see you contemplative, Marian. Don’t you feel strengthened by
it?”
“Leonard,” she replied, in a voice unsteady from many suppressed
emotions, “if, instead of sneering at Evan--”
“Shan’t I put dinner on the table?” interrupted a voice.
It was the voice of Marian’s young sister, Violet. Leonard rose.
“Why didn’t you tell me she was here?” he asked sternly.
“Why should I?” returned Marian. “I didn’t want to disturb you in your
soulful contemplations.”
She, too, had risen. He admitted that she was a nice looking girl, but
it exasperated him to see that she was tired. It made him feel that
every one in the world was tired. He thought of Marian working all day
in this detestable little house. He thought of Evan sitting in his
office, waiting for the patients who did not come. Everything was awful!
Violet disturbed him. He was sorry for her, just entering upon life in
all its awfulness; and she was so unsuspicious. She did not look either
tired or discouraged. She was a designer, working in a fashion studio,
and she did not seem to mind it.
There she stood in the doorway. The light behind her shone on her bright
hair, making it glitter like gold wire. She had a nice color in her
cheeks, and across her nose was a band of freckles that seemed to Wilder
funny and very touching. She had serious blue eyes. She was a serious
girl altogether, but he always felt that the seriousness was not quite
honest. He strongly suspected that there were moments when she laughed.
She glanced at Leonard as he came in, and smiled seriously. He would
have said that he was sorry he was late, only that Marian would have
heard, and it would have been mean to be sorry to Violet and not to
her.
As he went upstairs to wash, he met his brother Evan coming down, with a
clean collar, and his dark hair still damp. He looked neat and subdued,
yet cheerful. Evan was always cheerful. His valiant smile did not soothe
the cynic, who came downstairs worse than ever.
They all sat down at the table.
“Ah! Tomato soup!” said Evan, bravely and brightly.
“Tomatoes have gone up awfully,” observed Marian.
“Listen!” said Violet. “That taxi--isn’t it stopping here?”
“Good Lord!” cried Evan, springing up. “A patient!”
“Probably an accident who can’t afford to pay,” said Marian.
Evan retired, so that he might be mysteriously invisible to any patient,
and Marian went to open the door.