"For I say this is death and the sole death,--
When a man's loss comes to him from his gain,
Darkness from light, from knowledge ignorance,
And lack of love from love made manifest."
--_A Death in the Desert._
"Harry might have stopped!" thought Brown, as a stalwart young man
strode briskly past with a short "Good evening." "I've not had a chance
to speak to him for a month." He hesitated as if doubtful whether or not
to follow and overtake the other, then turned in his original direction.
His delight in the scene about him was too exquisite to be interrupted
even for a talk with his friend. Dusk was just falling. For an instant a
purple glow lingered upon the spires of the beautiful gray cathedral
whose chimes were softly echoing above the murmur of the city; then the
light slipped upward and upward, until, touching the topmost point, it
vanished into the shadows.
All about him jingled the sleighbells; long lines of equipages carrying
richly dressed women moved in continuous streams in each direction;
hundreds of lamps began to gleam in the windows and along the avenue; a
kaleidoscopic electric sign, changing momentarily, flashed parti-colored
showers of light across the housetops; big automobiles, full of gay
parties of men and women in enormous fur coats and grotesque visors,
buzzed and hissed along; newsboys shrilly called their items; warm,
humid breaths of fragrance rolled out from the florist's shops; and
smells of confections, of sachet, of gasoline, of soft-coal smoke,
together with that of roses and damp fur, hung on the keen air.
The greatest pleasure in Brown's life, next to his friendship for Harry
Rogers, was his continuously fresh wonder at and appreciation for the
complex, brilliant, palpitating life of the great city in which he, the
taciturn New Englander, had come to live. The richness of his present
experience glowed against the somber background of his past, touching
emotions hitherto dormant and unrecognized. He realized as yet only the
mysterious charm, the overwhelming attraction of his new surroundings;
and every sense, dwarfed by inheritance, chilled by the east wind,
throbbed and tingled in response. So far as Brown knew happiness this
was its consummation and it was all due to Rogers. As Brown wandered
along the crowded thoroughfare his mind dwelt fondly upon his friend. He
recalled their chance introduction two years before at the Colonial Club
in Cambridge, through Rogers's friend Winthrop, and how his heart had
instantly gone out to the courteous and responsive stranger. That
meeting had been the first shimmer of light through the musty chrysalis
of Brown's existence.
Shortly afterwards he had given up his place in the English Department
at Harvard at the suggestion of one of the faculty and accepted a
position at Columbia. The professor had hinted that he was too good a
man to wait for the slow promotion incident to a scholastic career in
Cambridge, and had mentioned New York as offering immeasurably greater
opportunities. The advice had appealed to Brown and he had acted upon
it.
He remembered how lonely he had been the first few weeks after his
arrival. In that hot and sultry September the city had seemed a prison.
He had longed for the green elms, the hazy downs, the earthy dampness of
his solitary evening walks. One broiling day he had encountered Rogers
on the elevated railroad. The latter had not recognized him at first,
but presently had recalled their first meeting.
Brown in his enthusiasm had spoken familiarly of Winthrop, explaining in
detail his own departure from Cambridge and his plans for the future. He
was nevertheless rather surprised to receive within a week a note from
Mrs. Rogers inviting him to spend a Sunday with them at their country
place. What had that not meant to him!
At college he had taken high rank and was graduated at the top of his
class, but he had made no friends. He would have given ten years of his
life for a single companion to throw an arm around his shoulder and call
him by his Christian name. He had never been "old man" to anybody--only
"Mr. Brown." At night when he had heard the clinking of glasses and the
bursts of laughter in the adjoining rooms as he sat by his kerosene lamp
reading Milton or Bacon or "The Idio-Psychological Theory of Ethics," he
would sometimes drop his books, turn out the light and creep into the
hall, listening to what he could not share. Then with the tears burning
in his eyes he would stumble back to his lonely room and to bed.
When he had achieved the ambition of his college days and by
heartbreaking and unremitted drudgery had secured a position upon the
faculty, he had found his relations still unchanged. His shell had
hardened. From Mr. Brown he had become merely "Old Brown."
And then how easily he had stepped into this other life! The Rogers had
received him with open arms; their house had become the only real home
he had ever known; and his affection for his new friends had blossomed
for him almost into a romance. Even when Harry was busy or away, Brown
would drop in on Mrs. Rogers of an evening and read aloud to her from
his favorite authors. He tried to guide her reading and sent her books,
and little Jack he loved as his own child.
The friendship, beginning thus auspiciously, continued for many months.
Rogers put him up at the club and introduced him to his friends, so that
Brown slipped into a delightful circle of acquaintances, and found his
horizon broadening unexpectedly. Life assumed an entirely fresh
significance, and although, by reason of a constitutional bluntness of
perception, he failed utterly to discriminate between superficial
politeness on the part of others and genuine interest, the world in
which he was now living seemed to overflow with the milk of human
kindness.
Brown had been making afternoon calls. The friendly cup of tea was to
him a delightful innovation, and he cultivated it assiduously. He paused
in front of a large corner house and hopefully ascended the steps.
"Not at 'ome," intoned the butler in response to his inquiry.
He turned down a side street, but no better success awaited him. He had
found no one "at home" that afternoon. Usually he had better luck. But
it was getting late and almost time to dress for dinner, and, although
Brown usually dined alone, he had become very particular about dressing
for his evening meal. His heart was bursting with good nature as he
sauntered along in the brisk evening air.
This New York was a great place! There rose before him the vision of his
little room in the Appian Way in Cambridge. Had he remained he would be
just about going over to Memorial for his supper at the ill-assorted and
uncongenial "graduates' table" to which he had belonged. Jaggers would
have been there, and the Botany man, and that fresh chap, who ran the
business end of _The Crimson_, and was always chaffing him about
society. He smiled as he thought of the quiet corner of the club, and of
the little table with its snowy linen by the window, which he had
appropriated.
In Cambridge he had passed long months without experiencing anything
more stimulating than a Sunday afternoon call on a professor's daughter
or an occasional trip into Boston for the theater, supplemented by a
solitary Welsh rabbit at Billy Park's. Other men in the department had
belonged to the Tavern Club, in Boston, or the Cambridge Dramatic
Society, but he had never been asked to join anything, nor had he
possessed the _entrée_ even to the modest society of Cambridge. He was
obliged to acknowledge--and it was in a measure gratifying to him to do
so, since it threw his success into the higher relief--that judged by
present standards his old life had been an absolute failure. No matter
how genial he had tried to be, he had elicited little or no response.
The days had been one dull round of tramping from his meals to lectures,
and from lectures to the library. Although he had had no friends among
his classmates, he had at least known their faces, but after graduation
he had found himself, as it were, alone among strangers. As time went on
he had become desperately unhappy and his work had suffered in
consequence.
Then he had come to New York. As if sent by Fate, Rogers had appeared,
sought his companionship, made much of him. He began to think that
perhaps he had misinterpreted the attitude of his quondam
associates--they were such a quiet, prosaic, hard-working lot--so
different from these debonair New Yorkers. And was not the cane they had
presented to him on his departure a good evidence of their esteem? He
swung it proudly. How well he recalled the moment when old Curtis had
placed the treasure of gold and mahogany in his hands and, in the
presence of his colleagues, had made his little speech, expressing their
regret at losing him and wishing him all success. Then the others had
clapped and cheered and he had stammered out his thanks. The
presentation had been a tremendous surprise. Well, they were a good
sort; a little dull, perhaps, but a good sort!
Then, too, he felt himself a better man for his association with Rogers
and his friends. It was such a new sensation to be appreciated and made
something of that he had grown spiritually broader and taller. It had
been very hard in Cambridge, where he had felt himself neglected and
passed over, not to be selfish and spiteful. His standards had
imperceptibly lowered. He had "looked at mean things in a mean way."
Here it was different. With genial, broad-minded associates he had
become warm-hearted and liberal. His drooping ideals had reared their
heads. He felt new confidence in and respect for himself. Now he looked
the world squarely in the eye. His work was improving, and the faculty
at Columbia had expressed their appreciation of it. Life had never been
so worth living. No one, he resolved, should ever suspect how small and
narrow he had been before. He would always be the cheerful, generous,
kindly chap for whom everybody seemed to take him. He had become a new
man by reason of a little human sympathy.
"How busy people are!" he thought. "I guess I'll have another try at
Rogers." He crossed the avenue, found the house, and rang the bell. The
bay window of the drawing-room was on a level with where he stood, and
he caught a glimpse of Mrs. Rogers sitting beside a cozy tea table, and
of little Jack playing by the fire. The maid, slipping aside the silk
curtain before opening the door, inspected the visitor.
"Mrs. Rogers is not at home," she remarked.
Brown was paralyzed at such open prevarication.
"I--I beg your pardon. But I think Mrs. Rogers is in."
"Mrs. Rogers is not receiving," curtly replied the maid.
Brown, vanquished but unconvinced, turned down the steps. At the bottom
he stopped with a quick breath and glanced back at the house. Then he
gave his trousers leg a cut with his gold-headed cane, and with a
courageous whistle started up the avenue again.
He was a bit puzzled. He was sure he could have done nothing to
displease his friends. It was probably just a mistake; they had
visitors, perhaps, or the child was not well. He would call up Rogers on
the telephone next day and inquire.
He walked to the boarding house and in the little hall bedroom he called
"his rooms" put on the dinner coat of which he was so proud. It had
cost sixty dollars at Rogers's tailor. He had never owned anything of
the sort before. When he had been invited out to tea in Cambridge, which
had been but rarely, he had always worn a "cutaway."
He found Tomlinson, the club bore, in the coat room, invited him to
dinner, and insisted on ordering a bottle of fine old claret. Tomlinson,
in his opinion, was most clever and entertaining. After the meal his
companion hurried away to an engagement, and Brown, lighting a cigar,
strolled into the common-room, drew an armchair into the embrasure of a
window, and sat there dreaming, at peace with all the world. The kindly
faces of Rogers, his wife, and little Jack mingled together in a drowsy
picture above the fragrant smoke wreaths. The bitterness of his past was
all forgotten. The poverty and loneliness of his college days, the
torture of his isolation in Cambridge, the regret for his youth's lost
opportunities faded from his mind, and in their place he felt the warm
breath of love and friendship, of kindness and appreciation, and the
tiny clasp of the hand of little Jack. "God bless them all!" he closed
his eyes. It seemed as though the boy were lying in his arms, the little
head pressed against his shoulder. He held him tight and kissed the
curly hair; his own head dropped lower; the cigar fell from his hand;
behind the curtain Brown fell fast asleep.
Half an hour later into his dream floated the voices of Rogers and
Winthrop. A slight draught of air flowed beneath the curtain. Some one
struck a bell close by and ordered coffee and cigars, and the cracking
of six or seven matches marked the number of those who had sat down
together beside the window. He listened vaguely, too comfortably happy
to disclose himself.
"You've got a lot of college men, I hear, in the district attorney's
office," remarked one of the group, evidently to Rogers. "How do you
like the work down there?"
"Oh, well enough," came the reply. "Trying cases is always interesting,
you know. By the way, Win, speaking of college men, exactly who is your
friend Brown?"
The dreamer behind the curtain smiled to himself. "Rogers may well ask
that," he thought.
"Brown?" returned Winthrop. "You wrote me he was in New York, didn't
you? Why, you must have known him in Cambridge. He was the great light
of my class--don't you remember?--president of the 'Pudding,' stroked
the 'Varsity, and took a commencement part besides. A kind of 'Admirable
Crichton.' I'm glad you've seen something of him here."
There was silence for a moment or two. Obviously, thought Brown,
Winthrop was confusing him with some one else.
"No, no!" exclaimed Rogers impatiently "_you_ mean Nelson Brown; but
he's on a tobacco plantation down in Cuba. The man I speak of is a
little chap with a big head and protruding ears. You introduced me to
him at the Colonial Club a year ago last spring."
"Oh, well, I may have done so," answered Winthrop. "I don't recall it I
think there was a fellow named Brown who used to hang around there--but
he's no friend of mine. Who said he was?"
"Hang it! You did yourself, in your letter to me," came Rogers's retort.
"Nonsense! I was writing about Nelson!"
Rogers smothered an ejaculation more forcible than elegant, but his
annoyance seemed presently to give way to amusement, and he laughed
heartily.
"Look here, boys, what do you think of this? Two years ago I run on to
Cambridge, and while there happen to meet a chap named Brown. A year
later he turns up on the Elevated and greets me like a long-lost
brother. I mention the incident in a letter to Win. He replies that
Brown is the finest thing that ever came down the pike. _He_ refers to
_Nelson_ Brown. _I_ suppose he means _my_ Brown. Thereupon I take this
unknown person to my bosom and place my home at his disposal. He
promptly squats on the premises, drives my wife nearly frantic, bores
all my friends to death, and in a short time makes himself an
unmitigated nuisance. Fortunately, he hasn't asked me for money. Now,
who the devil is he?"
"Don't know him from Adam!" said Winthrop.
"I know who he is," interjected one of the others. "Took a course of his
on the 'Philology of Psychology' or the 'Psychology of Philology' or
something. He's just an ass--a surly beggar--a sort of--of--curmudgeon!"
The window curtain trembled slightly, but no one noticed it.
"I can tell you rather a good story about Brown," spoke up a voice that
had hitherto been silent. "You know I taught for a time in the English
Department last year. Brown meant well enough, I guess, but he was an
odd creature. His great ambition evidently was to get into society.
Every Sunday he would put on his togs and call on all the unfortunate
people he knew. Finally, everybody showed him the door. He got to be so
intolerable that the department fired him, to our intense relief. No
one cared what became of him--so long as he only went. But Curtis--you
remember old Curtis with the white hair and mustache?--he felt sorry for
Brown and thought we ought at least to make a pretense of regret at
having him leave. He suggested various things, but his ideas didn't
arouse any sympathy, and we thought that was going to end the matter.
Not a bit of it. Curtis went into town, all alone, and, although he is
rather hard up himself, bought a gold-headed mahogany cane for
forty-five dollars, and next day, when we were all at a department
meeting, presented it to Brown, from the crowd, and got off a whole lot
of stuff intended to cheer our departing friend. Of course we had to be
decent enough to see the thing through, and Brown took it all in and
almost wept when he thanked us. A few days afterwards Curtis came around
and wanted us all to contribute to pay for the cane."
"Well!" responded Rogers. "Even my little boy knew there was something
wrong with him the first time they met--children are like dogs, you
know, in that way. Jack whispered to his mother while Brown was
grimacing at him, 'Mamma, is that a gentleman?' Thought Brown was a gas
man or a window cleaner, you know."
"Poor brute!" commented Winthrop. "Anyhow, Harry, your mistake has
probably given him a lot of pleasure. No wonder he seized the
opportunity. You can drop him by degrees so that, perhaps, he'll never
suspect. Still, if he's as thick as you say he may give you trouble yet!
Hello, it's a quarter past eight already! We shall have to run if we
expect to see the first act. Come on, fellows!"
Half hidden behind the curtain in the window, Brown sat staring out into
the night.
Hour after hour passed; the servants looked into the deserted room,
observed him, apparently asleep, and departed noiselessly. One o'clock
came, and Peter, the doorman, crossed over and touched him gently on the
shoulder, saying that it was time to close the club. Brown mechanically
arose, followed Peter to the coat room, and then, with eyes still fixed
vacantly before him, silently passed out.
"You've left your cane, sir!" Peter called after him.
But Brown paid no heed.