In a chair of curious carving, his feet on a pile of books which had
been unpacked, but for which there was as yet no place, Winthrop
Laine leaned back, partly relaxed, partly tense, and with half-shut
eyes looked at a picture on the wall opposite. For an hour, two
hours, he had sat like this. On his desk was an unfinished article,
but "The Punishments of Progress" did not interest to-night, and
after vain effort to write he had thrown the pages aside and yielded
to the unrest which possessed him.
In his hands was a small calendar, and with it he tapped
unconsciously the arm of his chair; but after a while he again looked
at it and with his pencil marked the date of the month. It was the
fifteenth of December. Miss Keith was going home on the eighteenth.
Three days of her visit yet remained, a month of it had passed, and
after she went-- He stirred uneasily, changed his position, put down
the calendar, then got up and began to walk the length of the room
backward and forward. A long mirror filled the space between the two
southern windows, and for some time as he reached it he avoided the
face seen therein; but after a while he stopped in front of it, hands
in his pockets, and spoke with smiling bitterness to it.
"Take it off, man, take it off! All men wear masks, but they needn't
go to bed with them. For years you've pretended, smiled, sworn,
played with all the toys, worked with the best you had, and believed
you were content. And you're finding out at forty what a fool you've
been. You love her. She isn't married yet, if she is engaged to
another man--and if you've no fight in you, go make a hole and get in
it!"
In the glass he saw his face whiten, saw the lines on his forehead
swell, saw his eyes grow dark with rebellious pain, and, turning
away, went to a window, opened it, and let the cold air blow upon
him. Few people were on the street, and in the windows opposite was
little light. The neighborhood was exclusively correct; and only
that evening walking home from the club the man with him had frankly
envied his manner of life, his freedom and independence. He closed
the window, turned off some of the lights, and went back to his
chair. "I am an entirely free and independent person," he said
aloud. "A most desirable condition for a man without a heart." Why
did men have hearts, anyhow, and especially such a queer kind as he
had. In the days of his youth he had expected the days of his
maturity to find him married, find him with the responsibilities and
obligations of other men; but he had strange views of marriage. One
by one his friends had entered the estate; he had helped them enter
it, but he had acquired an unhealthy habit of watching their venture
with wonder at its undertaking and with doubt of its success, and the
years 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 was
not sure; but years of contact with much that blights and withers had
not killed his belief in certain old-fashioned things, and if they
could not come true the journey would be made alone.
What whimsical ways fate had of deciding great issues. Four weeks
ago he was something of a piece of mechanism, fairly content with his
drab-colored life; and now a girl had entered it and brought to him
visions too fair and beautiful to be viewed unveiled, and he knew at
last the mystery and power of love. Almost a week of her stay had
gone before he met her. In those that followed, he had seen her many
times, but frequently he had to stand back and know that others were
taking her time when there was none for him to lose.
Should love come to him, he had imagined he would pursue it with the
same directness and persistence which had impelled the securing of
whatever was determined upon, and instead he was that most despicable
of things--a coward.
She was so young--fourteen years younger than he--and what was his to
offer in exchange for her life of varied interests, of sweet, sane,
helpful, happy things of which he knew so little? He had thought he
knew life, its all sides; and unknown to herself she had shown him
what had not been understood before, and his was cold and colorless
by the side of the warmth and glow of hers.
Yesterday he had known, however, he would not wait long. After she
had returned to her home he would go to it and tell her why he had
come. All through the day certain words had sung in his ears, and
over his books had danced and blurred the figures he was making; and
before him in fancy she was waiting for his coming when the day was
done, was in the room with outstretched hands to give him greeting as
he entered the door. The light of a new vision had blinded, and in
its 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 were
dark, some one to share the giving and taking of life. At the
thought of trust so sacred, his face had whitened, and in his heart
unconscious prayer had sprung.
That was yesterday. This afternoon he had stopped at his sister's
home for tea, as he had done for days past now, and, Dorothea being
sick, 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 had
listened in a silence that gave chance for much detail.
"She gets more letters!" Dorothea's hands came together as if very
full. "Every day there is one from the same person, sometimes two,
and specials and telegrams; and sometimes he talks over the
telephone. I know his handwriting now. She lets me come in her room
whenever I want to. I don't see how one person could have so much to
say. I knew he must be her sweetheart, and I asked mother, and
mother says she's engaged to a, man in Washington. Miss Robin French
told 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 of
the house, and to no one said good night.