It was a cold night in early spring. It seemed as if the winter had
forgotten something, and had returned to look for it. Its search
being futile, it had relieved its feelings by howling up and down
the streets, feebly tweaking the noses of pedestrians in its senile
disappointment.
As an atmospheric crazy-quilt, early spring in New York is a success.
The modern craving for variety is fully satisfied in the metropolis,
so far as the weather is concerned, from the last of February to the
first of June. Between those dates no New Yorker is astonished at
anything that may be hurled at him from the skies, from a sunstroke to
a blizzard.
John Fenton had had a fire lighted in his grate, and was puffing his
after-dinner cigar before the blaze, bewailing inwardly the fact that
he was due at the office of the _Trumpet_ within the hour. He would
have preferred to spend the evening revising his general theories of
life than in correcting proofs at high pressure in the overwrought
atmosphere of a newspaper office.
He had much to think about and a weighty decision to make. He had been
drifting in a current that had carried him far in a direction that he
had long ago determined never to take again. For the moment, he could
not say whether he was happy or discontented. For the first time in
his life, as he fully realized, he was thoroughly in love; but, as he
pondered the situation calmly, there seemed to be insuperable obstacles
in the path that led toward happiness.
“What am I, after all, Richard?” he said to his friend, as Stoughton
entered the room and quietly seated himself at the opposite side of
the fireplace. “A wreck that has been patched up; a failure, not
quite hopeless; a man who has been condemned by the world, with a
recommendation to mercy.”
“I don’t like your mood, John,” remarked Richard, lighting a
cigarette, and puffing the smoke slowly into the air. “No game is lost
until the hand is played out. I think you stand to win, if you don’t
lose your pluck. I had good news for you to-day.”
“No? What was it?” asked Fenton, with no great show of interest.
“When I reached the office this morning,” continued Richard, unawed by
his friend’s coldness, “I found two letters and a bundle on my desk.”
“Yes?”
“One of the letters was from the dark-eyed girl I saw at La Ria’s.”
Fenton smiled, but said nothing.
“I tore it up, John. I suppose you will call me very young--your pet
accusation.”
“Hardly, my boy, hardly. You have simply proved that you are wiser in
the morning than you are at night.”
“Well, most men are, I suppose. There is nothing eccentric or
meritorious in that. And so much for ‘Gorgonzola.’ Let her rest in
peace. But the other letter, John, was of more importance. It will
interest you.”
“Yes?”
“You see, old man, I have played you false. I have come here to confess
and to ask forgiveness. You remember you gave me the manuscript
of ‘Ephemeræ’ to read. Well, I took it to a well-known publisher,
suppressing the name of the author, and asking for an expression of
opinion regarding its merits.”
Fenton knocked the ashes from his cigar with a gesture of annoyance,
but said nothing.
“Have you no curiosity, John?” exclaimed Richard impatiently. “Don’t
you care to hear the verdict?”
Without waiting for a reply the youth arose, and, fumbling in his
overcoat for a moment, took therefrom a roll of manuscript and a letter.
“I am tempted to punish your indifference, John; but the game is not
worth the candle, I fear. Never mind a light. The letter is short. I
can read it by the fire, if you will deign to listen. The publisher,
John, expresses himself as much pleased with the book, and is inclined
to think that it would find a ready market. He objects, however, to the
title, and to one or two small details in the _dénouement_. If you will
make the changes he suggests, however, he will bring out the story at
once. In closing he politely hints that a type-written copy be returned
to him.”
Fenton puffed on in silence for a time, and then leaned forward and
took the roll of manuscript from Richard’s hand. Hesitating an instant,
as if to make sure that the decision he had reached was irrevocable, he
threw the bundle of paper into the fire. Richard sprang forward, but
Fenton seized him by the arm and forced him back into his seat.
“Let it burn, Richard. Let it burn. It has had two narrow escapes from
publication already. It shall never have another.”
“But are you mad, John? The story would make you famous. Good Heavens,
man! it is too late. I call it a crime, John, a crime! Do you hear?”
“Come, come, Richard! don’t grow hysterical,” remarked Fenton calmly,
as he leaned back in his chair and resumed his cigar, to dissipate the
odor of burnt paper that filled the room.
“But why, John, did you do such a reckless thing? You’re the last man
in the world to act like a child.”
Fenton remained silent for some moments, and then said gently,--
“We can’t hark back in this life, Richard. Time is an inexorable
tyrant. If you try to take a liberty with him you are certain to
be punished. What I wrote in my youth would do no credit to my
maturity--no matter what you or a publisher or the public might say
to the contrary. One of the strangest things about the life of an
intellectual man, Richard, is that his views regarding the fundamental
problems of existence are in a constant state of change. How we regard
death and love and friendship and immortality, and other matters of
more or less significance, at twenty-five has little, if anything, to
do with the way we look at these matters twenty years later. I know of
no greater wrong you could do to a man of intelligence than to present
to him in type a record of the opinions he openly expressed ten years
ago, and inform him that it was imperative that he should go before the
public on that basis. In fact, Richard, I have grown very suspicious of
those chameleons we so proudly call convictions. Lucky is the man who
can reach middle life and still feel absolutely certain that two and
two make four.”
Richard remained silent for a time after Fenton had ceased to speak,
but finally said gently,--
“I think, John, that I can see as much through a knot-hole as most men
of my age, when the points of interest are called to my attention; but
I must acknowledge that I had never expected to hear you preach the
doctrine of uncertainty.”
“You mistake me, boy. I preach nothing!” exclaimed Fenton, arising
and peering at his watch in the darkness. “Nothing but the glorious
doctrine that hard work is the only relief from futile questionings.
Good-night, my boy. I am sorry to rush off, but I must get to the
office at once. And you?”
“Can’t you guess?” asked Richard, smiling.
“I might if I tried,” answered Fenton, holding his friend’s hand a
moment; “but I sha’n’t try. But bear in mind, Richard, that the glory
of a renunciation lies in the strength of the temptation.”
“I thought, John, that you had no convictions!” exclaimed Richard
pointedly.
“You are mistaken, boy,” returned Fenton, with a touch of his old
cynicism. “Every man has a large supply of them--to offer to his
friends. Good-night.”