That was one of the days when everybody was unhappy, everybody except
the Altruist. But it was against the Altruist’s principles to let the
world know his changes in mood, and he may have been sad underneath his
smile.
It began with the Man of the World. He came down to breakfast with a
dragging step, and took his seat wearily. His face looked faded, and his
eyes were dull.
“I wish somebody would give me something to make me sleep,” he said. “I
lie awake every night until almost morning.”
A laugh went round the table. The habits of the Man of the World were
notoriously conducive to sleeplessness. Late suppers too often robbed
him of the slumber due his years.
The laughter offended him. He rose with dignity and went away. When I
followed him a few minutes later I found him sulking in the hall. The
look of age in his blue eyes moved me to pity, and I drew the Man of the
World toward me, as if he were a child.
I do not know what I said to him. It was something about changing all
this, and beginning over again, without the smoking and the cards and
the horses. He did not mind. In fact, he seemed to like having me touch
him, and laid his cheek against my hand, very much as Jean liked to do.
But he straightened up again.
“No,” he said firmly, “you are barking up the wrong tree. I mean,—I beg
your pardon,—it doesn’t do any good. I might have done it once, but I
can’t now.” And saying “Good morning” very courteously, he went up to
his room.
I had promised the Doctor to visit with her a patient on Traffic Street,
near Edgerley Bend. For once even the Doctor had lost courage. As we
threaded our way along the crowded sidewalks of the East End she
bewailed her unfitness for her work. Evidently she was disheartened
because she could not cure the incurable.
I walked on in silence, too miserable to speak. The air was stifling,
for there seemed to be but little space between the sky and the mud in
the street. Gazing at the faces that drifted past us, some bad, some
apathetic, some despairing, I wondered which were the more pitiful,
those that had lost hope, or those that had never known it.
The Doctor’s mood changed when she reached her patient and found
something to do; but I, who had not that means of relief, came home as
wretched as before.
In the afternoon I went to Janet for comfort. As I crossed the street,
the quaint stucco houses looked more than ever like the scenery of a
stage. Through the half-drawn curtains I caught a glimpse of the Lad,
and smiled. The play had really begun.
I had come for consolation, but I was disappointed. The Lad was alone
with baby Jean. He looked up when I entered, and I saw that his eyes
were clouded.
“Isn’t it cold?” he said, with an absentminded air.
I asked where everybody was. Jean’s father and mother were away. Yes.
Miss Janet was at home, and had been here, but was now upstairs. He did
not know if she was coming back.
We relapsed into silence. The Lad took Jean upon his knee. Something
made the child feel neglected; neither by holding up her new bronze
shoes nor by winking both her eyes could she win the Lad’s attention. He
had forgotten us both. Suddenly he lifted the child to his face and
kissed her passionately, murmuring, “Janet! Janet!”
I escaped to Janet’s room. The girl was pretending to read. Her lips
were tight-set, and her eyes unnaturally bright.
“Do you know that you have a guest downstairs?” I asked.
“It is time that my guest went away,” was her answer.
“You haven’t a very polite way of inducing him to do it,” I said.
“Child, what are you doing? Do you know what you are doing?”
She came and put her arms around my neck.
“I am finding out what happens when an insurmountable obstacle is met by
an irresistible force. I cannot consent to be the Lad’s wife. I am not
happy enough.”
“Don’t you care for him?” I asked.
“Perhaps I care too much to do that,” she answered slowly.
I was silent for very pity. I knew that all the obstinacy and
incredulity of the girl’s nature had risen in battle against this new
emotion. Love had come to her, but had come like a great sorrow.