"Poor beggar!"
"Yes," Whittenden assented, with sudden gravity; "that is just it. Poor
beggar! And now, the worst of it all is that, unless we break it up at
once, it will have to run its course, like any other disease."
"You call it a disease?"
"In his case, I do. Brenton isn't after any working truth to help along
the rest of us; he's started hunting the _ignis fatuus_ of abstract
verity, provable to its utmost limit. Taken as mental gymnastics, it is
doubtless a fine exercise. Taken as a spiritual tonic to a lot of
world-tired fellow mortals, I confess I doubt its inherent value."
"You told him so?"
"In all honour, as an older man inside the same profession, I couldn't
do much else."
"And he?"
"Resented it, exactly as you or I would have resented it, if we had
happened to be standing in his spiritual shoes. I couldn't blame him,
Reed; and yet I'm sorry."
Reed nodded.
"I know. Those things always take it out of one. Besides, it's hard
lines to help in upsetting your own pedestal. I'm sorry that Brenton
took it badly, Whittenden. I didn't think it of him; you have counted
so much to him, for years."
Whittenden spoke a little sadly.
"He thinks that he has outgrown me, Reed; therefore he won't feel the
hurt of it, one half so much."
Opdyke looked up sharply, a world of comprehension in his brave brown
eyes.
"But it has hurt you, Whittenden."
"Yes," his companion confessed. "It has. It has hit me hard on my
besetting sin, Reed, the liking to know that I'm of use to people. And
I was of use to Brenton; I'd hoped to keep the old relation to the end;
but it's impossible. I found that out, to-day."
"It depends on what you call being of use," Opdyke retorted. "You may
not have coddled up his Ego, and patacaked his nerves; but there's
sometimes a long way more helpfulness in a good thrashing than in all
the coddlings since the world began. And Brenton has had an infernal
amount of coddling lately; there's no denying that. It's not alone the
women; it is sensible men like Doctor Keltridge and my father, men who
ought to be filing his teeth, not softening them up with goodies.
However, that's as it is. What will be the end of it, do you think?"
"Smash; unless you hold him, Reed."
"Me? I?"
"Yes, you. I don't mean--I'm in earnest now; I hate to see a good man
chucking a good profession, and, unless he steadies down, he is bound
to chuck it--I don't mean any nonsense about your owing it to him. I
mean that you can hold him steady longer than anybody else."
"Not you?" Opdyke's accent was incredulous.
"My grip on him is gone. In the past, I may have helped him. All I
could say, this afternoon, only rubbed him the wrong way, and increased
the notion that he's cherishing, the notion that he's an uncomprehended
genius. In heaven's name, Reed," and Whittenden's fist came crashing
down on the arm of his chair; "is anything in this whole world more
hard to fight than that same pose of being misunderstood? Nine times
out of ten, it is mere pose. The tenth time, it is mere paranoia, and
hence more manageable. No. My hold on Brenton is all gone. As I say, he
has outgrown me; I still believe in my immortal soul, and a few such
other trifles that no laboratory can prove. To be sure, you believe
them, too; but, if you're going to manage Brenton, keep the beliefs
tucked out of sight."
"Where's my hold on him, then?" Reed queried.
Whittenden, bending forward, laid his hand across the rug.
"This," he said quietly; and, strange to say, the words brought no
sting to Reed Opdyke's mind.
Nevertheless, he objected to the fact.
"It seems so much like gallery play, Whittenden," he urged. "It's a bit
nasty to be making capital out of a thing like that."
Whittenden shook his head, as, settling back again, he flung his hand
up into the old resting place.
"Not if it's given you for just that purpose," he answered then. "No,
Reed, hear me out. It never has been your way to dodge responsibilities;
in the end, you're sure to buck up against this one, so you may as well
take it now as ever. This thing appears to be your present asset.
Properly managed, it can bring you no end of influence. Your friends,
who really know you, will watch you hanging on to yourself like grim
death; and, in time, they'll come to where they'll trust your grip to
pull them out of danger, too, when they get to funking. It's an
almighty hard job you've got ahead of you, and an endless one; still,
knowing you, I know you will put it through and come out of it with
your colours flying. Meanwhile," the clear eyes came back to focus;
"hang on to Brenton."
"If I can."
"As long as you can, I mean. The time may come when, like myself,
you'll have to let him go. In the mean time, though, he is worth the
holding."
"Brenton is pure gold," Reed said quietly. "I have known him for many
years."
But his companion shook his head.
"Gold, if you will; but not the purest. There is a dash of alloy we may
as well admit, at the start. Else, it will only muddle things, later
on. Brenton is good stuff, but a little weak. There's something in him
that always will make him stumble and fall down just short of his
ideals."
"Naturally, being human," Opdyke assented rather dryly. "For that
matter, Whittenden, which one of us does not?"
But Whittenden made no answer. His hands clasped now at the back of his
head, his eyes were resting thoughtfully upon the bright, brave face
before him, a thinner face than it had been used to be, more hollow
about the temples where the wavy hair clung closely; upon the swaddled
figure which, only a year before, had tramped the Colorado mountains,
lording it over many men. And now, to the burden of his own that Reed
was bearing, he had added the responsibility of watching over Brenton,
of guarding Brenton's weakness with his own great strength. Was it just
and right to thrust this second burden on to Opdyke? However,
self-forgetfulness comes best by focussing all one's energy upon the
victim next in line; and Reed Opdyke, just at the present crisis,
needed nothing else one half so much as self-forgetfulness.
Nevertheless, the pity of it all, the seeming heartlessness, surged in
on Whittenden. It would have been far easier for him to have tried to
lighten Opdyke's burden than to increase its heaviness. But ease was
not the main thing, after all.
Suddenly he flung himself forward in his chair, and put his two hands
down upon the straight, lean shoulders underneath the rug.
"Reed," he said, with an abruptness he did not often show to any one;
"if one man ever loved another, it's I with you. For God's sake, then,
don't let the time ever come between us when I must stop being of some
little use to you, as I've just had to do in the case of Brenton."
But, even while he spoke, he knew there was no need for Opdyke's prompt
reply,--
"I fancy it never would come to that between the two of us. We've faced
too many bad half-hours together. If only I could--"
Whittenden understood. He rose, thrust his hands into his pockets,
turned away and tramped across the room.
"You always have, old man; now more than ever. And, every now and then,
we parsons need it, need to be plucked out of our studies and set down
face to face with life. It's because I'm owing you so much that I'd
like to square up the account a little. Reed, I'm glad you sent for me,
no matter if the reason was an ugly one."
And then, quite of his own initiative, he went away in search of
Ramsdell. All at once there had swept over him the memory of their
talk, the night before, and the memory overwhelmed him with its
tragedy.