Kimberly took up the matters of the new day heavy with thought. But he
sent none the less immovably for Nelson and the troublesome codicil for
the school was put under immediate way. He should feel better for it,
he assured himself, even in hell. And whether, he reflected, it should
produce any relief there or not, it would silence criticism. With his
accustomed reticence he withheld from Nelson the name of the
beneficiaries until the final draught should be ready, and in the
afternoon rode out alone.
McCrea and Cready Hamilton came out later with the treasurer. They had
brought a messenger who carried balance sheets, reports, and estimates
to be laid before Kimberly. He kept his partners for dinner and talked
with them afterward of the affairs most on their minds. He told them he
would go over the estimates that night alone and consult with them in
the morning. The type-written sheets were spread with some necessary
explanations on his table in the library upstairs and after his usual
directions for their comfort for the night he excused his associates.
He closed his door when they had gone. The table lamp was burning and
its heavy shade shrouded the beamed ceiling and the distant corners of
the sombre room. But the darkness suited Kimberly's mood. He seated
himself in a lounging chair to be alone with his thoughts and sat
motionless for an hour before he moved to the table and the papers. The
impressive totals of figures before him failed to evoke any possible
interest; yet the results were sufficient to justify enthusiasm or, at
least, to excite a glow of satisfaction. He pushed the reports back and
as he stared into the gloom Alice's deathbed rose before him. He heard
her sharp little cry, the only cry during that fortnight of torture. He
saw her grasp the crucifix from Annie's hand and heard Annie's answering
cry, "Christ, Son of God, have mercy!"
Christ, Son of God! Suppose it were true? The thought urged itself. He
walked to a window and threw it open. The lake, the copses and fields
lay flooded with moonlight, but his eyes were set far beyond them. What
if it were true? He forced himself back to the lamp and doggedly took
up the figures.
Mechanically he went over and over them. One result lost its meaning
the moment he passed to the next and the question that had come upon him
would not down. It kept knocking disagreeably and he knew it would not
be put away until the answer was wrung from him.
The night air swept in cool from the lake and little chills crept over
him. He shook them off and leaned forward on the table supporting his
head with his hands. "It is not true," he cried stubbornly. There was
a savage comfort in the words. "It is not true," he muttered. His
hands tightened and he sat motionless.
His head sank to the table, and supporting it on his forearm, with the
huge typewritten sheets crumpled in his hands, he gave way to the
exhaustion that overcame him. "It is not true," he whispered. "I never
will believe it. He is not the Son of God. There is no God."
Yet he knew even as he lost consciousness that the answer had not yet
come.