When Charles came over in the morning, Robert made a pretence of
discussing the budget with his associates. It was hardly more than a
pretence. Figures had palled upon him and he dragged himself each day
to his work by force of will.
The city offices he ceased to visit. Every matter in which his judgment
was asked or upon which his decision was needed was brought to The
Towers. His horses were left to fret in the stables and he walked,
usually alone, among the villa hills.
Hamilton, even when he felt he could not penetrate the loneliness of
Kimberly's moods, came out regularly and Kimberly made him to know he
was welcome. "It isn't that I want to be alone," he said one night in
apology to the surgeon. "The only subjects that interest me condemn me
to loneliness. Charles asked me to meet a Chicago friend of his last
night--and he talked books to me and pictures! How can I talk pictures
and books? McCrea brought out one of our Western directors the other
day," as Kimberly continued his chin went down to where it sank when
matters seemed hopeless, "and he talked railroads!"
"Go back to your books," urged Hamilton.
"Books are only the sham battles of life."
"Will you forego the recreation of the intellect?"
"Ah! The intellect. We train it to bring us everything the heart can
wish. And when our fairy responds with its gifts the appetite to enjoy
them is gone. Hamilton, I am facing an insupportable question--what
shall I do with myself? Shall I stop or go on? And if I go on, how?
This is why I am always alone."
"You overlook the simplest solution. Take up life again; your
difficulties will disappear."
"What life? The one behind me? I have been over that ground. I should
start out very well--with commendable resolutions to let a memory guide
me. And I should end--in the old way. I tell you I will never do it.
There is a short cut to the end of that road--one I would rather take at
the beginning. I loathe the thought of what lies behind me; I know the
bitterness of the flesh." His hands were stretched upon the table and
he clenched them slowly as he drew them up with his words, "I never will
embrace or endure it again."
"Yet, for the average man," he went on, "only two roads lie
open--Christianity or sensuality--and I am just the average man. I
cannot calmly turn back to what I was before I knew her. She changed
me. I am different. Christians, you know," his voice dropped as if he
were musing, "have a curious notion that baptism fixes an indelible mark
on the soul. If that is so, Alice was my baptism."
"Then your choice is already made, Robert."
"Why do you say that? When I choose I shall no longer be here. What I
resent is being forced to choose. I hate to bow to law. My life has
been one long contempt for it. I have set myself outside every law that
ever interfered with my desires or ambitions. I have scorned law and
ignored it--and I am punished. What can a man do against death?"
"Even so, there is nothing appalling in Christianity. Merely choose the
form best adapted to your individual needs."
"What would you have me do? Fill myself with sounding words and echoing
phrases? I am doing better than that where I am. There is only one
essential form of Christianity--you know what it is. I tell you I never
will bow to a law that is not made for every man, rich or poor, cultured
or crude, ignorant or learned. I never will take up the husks of a 'law
adapted to individual needs.' That is merely making my own law over
again, and I am leaving that. I am sick of exploiting myself. I
despise a law that exploits the individual. I despise men in religious
thought that exploit themselves and their own doctrines. I need wholly
another discipline and I shall never bring myself to embrace it."
"You are closer to it than you think. Yet, for my part, I hate to see
you lose your individuality--to let some one else do your thinking for
you."
"A part of my individuality I should be gainer for losing. A part of it
I wish to God some one had robbed me of long ago. But I hate to see
you, Hamilton, deceive yourself with phrases. 'Let some one else do your
thinking for you,'" Kimberly echoed, looking contemptuously away. "If
empty words like that were all!"
"You are going a good way, Robert," said the surgeon, dryly.
"I wish I might go far."
"Parting company with a good many serious minds--not to say brilliant
ones."
"What has their brilliancy ever done for me? I am tired of this rubbish
of writing and words. Francis was worth libraries. I esteem what he did
with his life more than I do the written words of ten thousand. He
fought the real battle."
"Did he win?"
Kimberly's hand shot out. "If I knew! If I knew," he repeated
doggedly. And then more slowly. "If I knew--I would follow him."