GILDERMAN awoke in the morning suddenly and keenly wide-awake. The
sleep, such as it had been, was of that sort that cuts sharply and
distinctly across the thread of life, and for a few moments he could
not join the severed skeins of thought that he held in his hand to
those which had gone before. There had been something uncomfortable.
What was it? Then instantly the broken ends were joined and
recollection came like a flash. Oh yes; that was it!
He lay in bed inertly thinking about it. A feeling of stronger and
stronger distaste grew up every instant within him, but he made no
effort to detach his mind from its thought. By-and-by he found that
he hated it; that he was deathly tired of it all; but still he let
his thoughts dwell upon it. How unnatural, how unwholesome it had all
been, how revolting to all that was sweet and lucid. Again he realized
that if he tampered too much with these things he would unhinge his
mind. Yesterday he had almost believed that he had seen a miracle;
now, in the calmer, saner morning light of a new day, he recognized
how impossible it was. It could have been nothing but a hideous trick,
devised to deceive those poor, ignorant, superstitious wretches who
followed that strange Man and believed in Him. No; it could not have
been all a trick, either, for the grief of those two women had been
a real grief and not a simulated agony. What had it been? Maybe that
other man had had a cataleptic fit. Ach! how ugly it all was--how poor,
how squalid. That woman who had fallen against him in a fit--he could
conjure up an almost visible picture of how she had looked as she lay
struggling upon the ground. She wore coarse yarn stockings, and one of
her shoes was burst out at the side. He writhed upon his bed. Ach! he
was sick, sick of it. He wished he could think of something pleasanter.
He tried to force his mind to think of the great and coming hope of
his life. In a little while now he would be a father, and he tried to
forecast the joys of his coming paternity. But when he made the attempt
he found he could not detach his mind from that other thing.
He got up and rang for his man, who came almost instantly at his
call. But even as he dressed he found his mind groping back into the
recollections of yesterday.
When he went down-stairs he found that Mrs. Gilderman had not yet come
down to breakfast. He picked up the paper, but he did not read it, but
went to the window and stood looking out into the street. The sky was
still cloudy and gray, and there was a drizzling rain falling. The
day seemed to be singularly in keeping with his mood and the strong
distaste of life that lay upon him. How wretchedly he had slept the
night before--that must be what ailed him now, to make him feel so
depressed. It must be lack of sleep. He remembered how he had heard
the clock strike four. He was just dropping off into a doze, and he
had awakened almost as with a shock at the tinkling, silver stroke
of the bell in the next room. He must have fallen asleep soon after
that. What was so incomprehensible in the affair of yesterday was the
expression of that face looking up to the sky with the tears running
down the cheeks. Why did He weep? Oh, if he could only forget it all!
He was sick of it--sick almost to a physical repulsion. If he went on
thinking about this thing he would certainly go crazy. Again he vowed
that he would give up this morbid tampering with and brooding upon
religious things; it was not wholesome, and the time would surely come
when his mind could no longer stand it. Why did not Florence come down
to breakfast? Almost as in answer to the thought he heard the rustle
of her dress, and, turning around, he found that she had come into the
dining-room. "Why did you not go on with your breakfast, Henry?" she
said; "why did you wait?"
"Oh, I don't know," he said. "I wasn't hungry."
"What's the matter? Aren't you feeling well?" She looked briefly at him
as she sat at her place smoothing back the folds of her morning-gown.
"Oh yes," he said, "I'm all right. No, I don't feel very well. How are
you this morning, Florence?"
"Oh, I feel very well, indeed."
She held up her face as he passed behind her, and he bent over and
kissed it. Then a sudden feeling of straining pity for her coming
motherhood seized him. He hesitated for a moment, and then he took her
face in both his hands and, raising it, kissed it again. She laughed
and blushed a little. "What is it, Henry?" she said.
"Nothing," he answered, and then he went around to his place.
The waiter offered him a dish of fruit, but he shook his head. "Fetch
me a cup of coffee," he said.
"Aren't you going to eat anything?" said Mrs. Gilderman as the man
poured out a black stream of coffee into a cup.
"No; I'm not hungry."
"What's the matter with you?"
"Nothing; only I didn't sleep very well. Maybe I'll eat something
by-and-by down at the club."
He had almost finished his cup of coffee, and had just opened the
paper, when the man came in to say that Mr. Furgeson was down-stairs
and wanted to know if he could see Mr. Gilderman. Furgeson was one of
Gilderman's agents, and he had gone down the day before to the Lenning
sale to buy a famous hunter and two road-horses.
"Furgeson?" said Gilderman. Then he remembered that he had commissioned
him to buy the roan mare. "Oh yes," he said. "Show him into the study
and tell him I'll be down directly." Furgeson must have bought Lady
Maybell at the sale, then. As Gilderman recollected the beautiful horse
and thought that she was now his own, he felt a distinct and positive
ray of pleasure shoot athwart the gloomy mood of his mind. Lady Maybell
was something worth having, at any rate--something that would bring a
wholesome pleasure to him.
"What does Furgeson come to see you about, Henry?" asked Mrs. Gilderman.
"Well, I intended it for a surprise," said Gilderman, "but I may as
well tell you now. He went down to the sale at Mountain Brook Farm
yesterday. I sent him down to buy Lady Maybell. There was a pair of
road-horses, too, I thought would do for the Graystone stable."
"Lady Maybell!" cried out Mrs. Gilderman. "Oh, I'm so glad you've
bought Lady Maybell, Henry."
Gilderman laughed. "Don't be in too much of a hurry, my dear. Maybe
Furgeson hasn't bought the horse, after all." He felt sure in his own
mind, however, that his agent had bought the horse, and it made him
very happy to think of it. He clung to the sense of pleasure all the
more closely because he recognized that it made him forget that other
thing. It was something pleasant, and he let himself take pleasure in
it. He finished his cup of coffee and then went down into the study.
Furgeson was sitting by the table, silently and patiently awaiting his
coming. He arose as Gilderman came in, and stood holding his hat in his
hand.
"Well, Furgeson," said Gilderman, "I suppose you bought Lady Maybell
yesterday. Where is she? At the stable?"
"Why--no, sir," said Furgeson, "I didn't buy her."
Gilderman stood, suddenly struck motionless. Not buy the horse! What
did the man mean? Why had he not bought the horse? Had there been no
sale? Then the dreadful thought grew slowly into his mind. Was it
possible that Lady Maybell was not to be his, after all--that he had
missed obtaining what he wanted? "What!" he cried out, "you didn't buy
the horse as I told you to do? Why didn't you buy her?"
"Why, you see, Mr. Gilderman," said Furgeson, "Dawson--that's Mr.
Dorman-Webster's man--was there. He ran the price up against me until
six thousand dollars was bid. The horse ain't worth the half of that,
and I was afraid to go any more."
Gilderman still stood motionless. The sudden and utter disappointment
had fallen on him like a blow, and had struck down and shattered
asunder all the gladness that had come to him. Was he, then, not to
have Lady Maybell, after all? Was, then, this pleasure to be taken away
from him? It seemed to him, almost as with an agony, that he never
wanted anything so badly as he wanted that horse. There was a feeling
within him that was almost like despair. What had possessed Furgeson
that he had not done what he had been bidden to do? A sudden fury of
anger flamed up within Gilderman. "Do you mean to tell me," he cried,
"that you didn't buy that horse when I especially told you to buy her?"
He found that his throat was choking, and as soon as he began to speak
the violent rush of rage seemed to sweep him away. "Why, confound you!"
he cried out, "what do you mean by coming and coolly telling me such a
thing as that? What do you suppose I sent you down to Mountain Brook
for?"
"I didn't know what to do, Mr. Gilderman," said the man. "The horse
wasn't worth the half of six thousand dollars, and I was afraid to bid
any more. If I'd paid that for her and you hadn't been satisfied--"
"Confound you!" burst out Gilderman, cutting him short. He was so
furious that he hardly knew what he was saying, and he stuttered as
he spoke. "Confound you! I didn't send you down there to ap-appraise
the horse, did I? I sent you down there to buy the horse, not to put
a price on her. It was none of your confounded business if I chose to
pay a hundred thousand dollars for her--your business was to buy her,
as I told you to do." He stood glaring at the man, his bosom panting.
Furgeson stood perfectly silent, looking down into his hat. "The
trouble with you is, Furgeson," he cried out, harshly, "you've got too
confounded much Scotch caution to suit me." He wanted to say something
savage, but that was all that came into his mind. It seemed to him to
be very inadequate. "You can't be my agent," he said, "if you don't do
as I tell you. You'd better go now."
"I bought the two roadsters at a bargain, sir," said Furgeson.
"Damn the roadsters! I didn't care anything about them." Gilderman went
straight back to the breakfast-room. What should he do; he could not
bear to lose that horse. He tried to comfort himself by thinking that
he owned a half-dozen horses finer and more valuable than Lady Maybell;
but he found no comfort in the thought. He wanted Lady Maybell; she
would have exactly suited Florence next fall, and he could not bear
to have her so snatched away from him. Would Dorman-Webster sell her?
Suppose he should go to him and tell him that Florence wanted the
horse. Dorman-Webster was very fond of Florence; maybe he would let him
have Lady Maybell for her sake. All this he thought as he walked to the
dining-room. "What do you think, Florence?" he burst out, as soon as he
came into the room. "That fool of a Furgeson did not buy Lady Maybell,
after all."
"Oh, Henry!" cried Mrs. Gilderman.
"Dorman-Webster's man was there and bid against Furgeson, and Furgeson
funked when the other fellow ran the price up to six thousand, and let
the chance of getting her go."
"Six thousand dollars! Lady Maybell wasn't worth that much; was she,
Henry?"
"Perhaps not; but it was the horse I wanted, and not the money."
"It's too bad," said Mrs. Gilderman. "Mr. Furgeson ought to have done
as you told him."
"Of course he ought," said Gilderman. "Confounded, stupid Scotchman!"
But he felt a distinct feeling of comfort in Mrs. Gilderman's sympathy.
"Maybe Mr. Dorman-Webster will be willing to sell her to you," said
Mrs. Gilderman.
"I don't believe he will," said Gilderman. Nevertheless, a sudden ray
of hope came into his mind. "I'll tell you what; I'll ask him and
see what he says," he added. He looked at his watch. "Let me see;
there's a business meeting or something down at the International this
morning. Maybe, if I go around there now, I'll catch him before he goes
down-town."
He did find Mr. Dorman-Webster at the club. One of the club servants
was just in the act of helping the old gentleman on with his overcoat.
Gilderman plunged directly into the business upon which he had come.
"My dear boy," said Mr. Dorman-Webster, settling himself into his
overcoat and straightening the collar, "I can't sell you the horse. The
fact is, Edith--(Edith was his youngest daughter)--Edith fell in love
with the horse last summer. No matter how high your man had bid, I was
bound to have the animal."
"I'll give you seven thousand dollars for her," said Gilderman, making
a last effort.
Mr. Dorman-Webster shook his head, smiling. "Can't do it," he said. And
then, almost in Gilderman's own words that morning: "It isn't the money
I want; I want the horse."
Then he went away, leaving Gilderman full of a bitter disappointment
that seemed to blacken all his life. He had not hoped for much, but now
he hoped for nothing. He was not to have the horse, after all, and his
heart fell away with despair. Why, oh, why had not Furgeson bought her
in?
He went up into the reading-room and sat himself down in a chair and
picked up a paper. As he did so, Latimer-Moire came into the room.
"Hello, Gildy!" he called out. "You're in for it, my boy!"
"In for it! In for what?" said Gilderman. "What do you mean?" He had a
dreadful feeling that something else was going to happen amiss to him.
Then he recollected what it must be--the yacht-race. It came to him
like a flash. Yesterday was the day of the yacht-race. In the things
that had happened to him he had forgotten about it. Had that also gone
wrong? It could not be.
"Why, didn't you hear?" said Latimer-Moire. "The cablegram came half an
hour ago, and it's posted up on the bulletin-board. _La Normandie_ beat
the _Syrinx_ one minute twenty seconds, time allowance."
Was it then true? Gilderman's heavy heart fell away like a plummet
to a still lower depth. It was not the loss of the money he had bet
Ryan, but the argument they had had before all those fellows. They
had all been against him, and he had been very angry and excited. He
had been very positive that the _Syrinx_ would win. What a bitter
shame to be proved to have been in the wrong, after all. How could
he bear to acknowledge to all those fellows that he had been in the
wrong? But even yet he could not accept such defeat. "I don't believe
it," he said. "There's a mistake. Why, just look at the _Syrinx's_
time against the _Petrel_, and the _La Normandie's_ time against the
_Majestic_."
Latimer-Moire burst out laughing. "What's the use of arguing now,
Gildy?" he said. "Facts are facts, and the fact in this case is that
Tommy Ryan and the rest of us were right and that you were wrong. Come,
Gildy, knuckle under and eat your humble-pie like a man."
"I'll not knuckle under till I have to," said Gilderman, savagely.
"I believe there is some mistake in the cablegram, and I'll keep on
believing it till I have proof to the contrary."
Again Latimer-Moire burst out laughing. "By Jove! Gildy, I didn't
believe the loss of a five-thousand-dollar bet would hit you in such a
sore spot."
Gilderman was so angry at being misunderstood that he did not know what
to do. He shut his teeth closely. He wanted to say something savage,
but he could think of nothing to say. He got up and flung down the
paper, and, without another word, went into the smoking-room beyond.
There were three or four men gathered at the farther window sitting
looking out into the street and talking together. There was no one
at the window nearest him, and he pulled up a chair and sat down,
resting his feet on the window-sill and pulling his hat down over his
eyes. Then he gave himself up utterly to the black gloom of the mood
that lay upon him. What was there in life that was worth the living?
Nothing--nothing. Everything went wrong, and there was not a single
thing to give pleasure to him. How miserably depressed and gloomy he
felt. What could he do to escape it? Such moods as this had come upon
him before, but it seemed to him that they had never before been as
black as this. It must be the wretched night he had passed that made
him so depressed.
He tried to fix his mind upon some higher and nobler thought--something
to lift his spirit out of its depths. He almost prayed as he sat there,
feeling about in the gloomy mood for some standing place whereon to
rest. But he could find nothing whereon to rest. He could not lift
himself into any ray of brightness out of the vapors that beset him.
Why the mischief had not Furgeson bought Lady Maybell yesterday; then
he would not have been suffering as he was now suffering. And the
yacht-race--confound it!--if he only hadn't been led into that argument
it would not have been so hard to bear.
Suddenly some one tapped him with a cane from behind upon the top of
the hat. He turned his head sharply and saw that it was Palliser.
"Hey-o, Gildy!" he said, "_La Normandie_'s beat _Syrinx_. Did you see?"
Again that blind and sudden anger flamed up in Gilderman's heart.
"Well, what if she did?" said he, almost savagely. "Is that any reason
for you to come around, like a fool, knocking me over the head with
your cane?" He took off his hat as he spoke, smoothed the nap with his
coat-sleeve, and then put it back very carefully upon his head.
Palliser stood staring at him. "By Jove! Gildy," he said, almost
blankly; and then he asked, "Feeling rusty this morning?"
"Rusty!" said Gilderman. "No, I'm not rusty, but I don't like a fellow
to come knocking my hat over my eyes with his walking-stick."
Palliser did not reply. He moved awkwardly over to the window and stood
there for a while looking out into the street. Somehow the young fellow
did not like to go away directly as though acknowledging that he was
snubbed. For a while there was silence, except for a sudden burst of
laughter from the men at the farther window. "By-the-way, Gildy," said
Palliser, as though suddenly recollecting something, "I was down at the
Mountain Brook sale yesterday. Dorman-Webster's man kind of knocked
your man out, didn't he, eh?"
Gilderman aroused himself almost violently. Why couldn't the man let
him alone. "See here, Palliser," he said, "I don't want to be rude,
but I ain't feeling well, and I wish you'd let me alone. I've got a
headache, and don't feel well."
"Bilious?" inquired Palliser.
"Oh, I don't know. I just want to be let alone--that's all."
"Oh, all right. I'll let you alone," said Palliser, and then he
moved away and joined the group at the farther window, and presently
Gilderman heard his high tenor voice sounding through the distant talk.
Again Gilderman sat by himself, feeling very miserable. He was ashamed
of himself for being so angry, and yet he could not repent it. What
should he do? He did not want to go home at this hour of the day; it
would be very dull and stupid. And yet if he stayed any longer at the
club all the men would be presently coming in, and he knew perfectly
well that each would have something in turn to say either about the
yacht-race or the Mountain Brook sale. He could not bear it. Where
could he go to escape?
Then suddenly, for some unaccountable reason, the thought of the face
of Him whom he had seen the day before flashed upon his mind. Was there
any truth at all in what was said about Him? Maybe that Man could
help him. Why not go and find Him and speak to Him? A dull, latent
acknowledgment of the absurdity of the sudden notion that had seized
him lay inertly beneath the thought, but the thought itself had somehow
seized upon him very closely, just as it had seized upon him the day
before. Why not go and find this strange Man and talk with Him? Anyhow,
it would be something to do to distract him from thinking about his
disappointments, and he would escape the annoyance of meeting the men
as they came into the club. Maybe to-morrow, after he had had a good
night's sleep, he could better bear meeting and answering them. Just
now this other thing would give him something to do.
He aroused himself and jerked back his chair. He looked at his watch
and saw that it was half-past twelve. Then he went up into the
dining-room and ordered himself a breakfast. As he sat looking up,
passively, at Norcott's great picture of the nude Venus surrounded by
a flock of naked, fluttering Cupids, he again inertly made up his mind
that he would go down to Brookfield by the two-twenty train. "Anyhow,"
he repeated to himself, "it will give me something to do." Then the
waiter came, bringing the cocktail that he had ordered.