He laid on a dash of crimson alongside some glaring green.
"Isn't it fierce?" he said. "They wouldn't hang this sort of thing in
the Louvre but it's what makes the public buy." He squinted at it
ruefully--"This love business is beyond me. Who would think that I
could stumble on Nina where I did? You know that song of Euripides.
'This Cyprian
Is a thousand, thousand things
She brings more joy than any God,
She brings
More woe. Oh may it be
An hour of mercy when
She looks at me.'
I'd given the whole matter up in disgust--and it was solved for
me.--Say. I need to work in a little raw blue here. Green pickles, red
pepper, blue--oh yes--a blue label on the bottle. Sweet! isn't it?
"You know sometimes I think we are all wrong trying to join brains. You
wouldn't call Nina exactly my intellectual equal, but I don't know any
chap married to a college graduate who's got anything on me. I'll put
up Marie against any highbrow offspring."
He pulled out the tacks and set his sketch up on the mantel-piece and
walked across the room to get the effect. He jerked his head, gestured
with his hand and his lips moved as though he were arguing with it. He
pinned it down again and began putting in the lettering.
"Of course," he took up the thread of his thoughts, "there are people
who say that it isn't marriage at all, that I've just legalized my
mistress. But I've seen a lot of people striving, breaking their necks,
for something they'd call finer, more spiritual--and getting nothing at
all. I know I'm happier than most. I'm satisfied with _my_ luck.
That's the point. I can't call it anything but luck--By the way.
There's a pile of letters for you."
And so I dipped back in the rut. In the Tombs I sought out new duties,
tried to lose myself--forget the mess I had made of things--in work.
Nina and Norman stood beside me in those days with fine sweet loyalty.
They asked no questions, but seemed to know what was wrong. Always I
felt myself in the midst of a conspiracy of cheer. It was during these
dreary months that I first began to like children. Marie's prattle,
after the gloom and weariness of the Tombs, was bright indeed.
I know nothing more beautiful than the sight of a little child's soul
gradually taking shape. The memory of my own lonely, loveless childhood
has given me, I suppose, a special insight into the problems of the
youngsters. The fact that I succeeded in gaining this little girl's
love and confidence has compensated me for many things which I have
missed.
*VIII*
Shortly after my return from Europe, I came into communication again
with my family. First it was a letter from the Father. He regretted
that so many years had passed without hearing from me. Knowing him as I
did, I recognized in this a real apology for having tried to starve me
into obedience. He had read my book with great pleasure and had been
especially proud to learn that I had been chosen to represent our nation
abroad. Then there was a little news of the village--a list of those
who had died and been born and married. Oliver, he wrote, had recently
been called to a pastorate in New York City. He gave me his address so
that I might call. And he ended with the hope that I had conquered the
doubts which had troubled my youth and won to the joy of religious
peace.
It was a hard letter to answer. I had no more of the bitterness I once
felt towards him. I wanted very much to give him news which would cheer
him. And yet I knew that the one question which seemed really important
to him--in regard to my religious beliefs--I could not answer frankly
without giving him pain. I did the best I could to evade it.
About Oliver I was less certain. I had never liked him. I did not want
to revive the connection. But I knew that it would please the Father to
have me. I resolved to call, but having no enthusiasm for it, other
engagements seemed more important, I kept postponing it.
But coming home to the Teepee one winter afternoon about five, I found
that he had forestalled me by calling first. As I opened the door, I
heard Nina's voice and then one that was strange--but I knew at once it
was a clergyman's voice. They had not lit a lamp yet and the library
was illumined only by the open fire. Norman was sitting on the divan
playing with Marie's pig-tail--it was a habit with him, just as some men
play with their watch charm. Nina had on her company manners and was
doing the entertaining. The clergyman rose as I entered. He was tall
and broad, on the verge of rotundity. He wore a clerical vest and
collar and the fire light sparkled on a large gold cross which hung from
his watch chain.
"Here he is," Nina said as I came in.
"I--am--very--glad--to--see--you--again--Arnold."