Part 20 (2/2)

As he asked himself these questions a gray shroud of melancholy was wrapped about him and all the brightness of youth was quenched in him.

Probably this was the inevitable reaction after the strain of his long effort. But none the less it left him looking forward to the end of his life, and he saw himself withered and racked with pain; he saw his young wife worn and ugly, perhaps dead--and the ghastly vision of the grave glimpsed before him; he saw his boy dead also, dead in youth; and he saw himself left alone and lonely in his old age, and still struggling, struggling, struggling in vain and forever.

Then he became morbid even, and he felt he was truly alone now, as every one of us must be always. He loved his wife and she loved him, and there was sympathy and understanding between them; but he doubted if he really knew her, for he felt sure she did not really know him. There were thoughts in his heart sometimes that he was glad she did not guess; and no doubt she had emotions and sentiments she did not reveal to him.

After all, every human being must be a self-contained and repellent ent.i.ty; and no two of them can ever feel alike or think alike. He and his wife came of different stocks, with a different training, with a different experience of life, with different ideals; and although they were united in love, they could not but be separate and distinct to all eternity. And as his wife was of another s.e.x from his, so his boy was of another generation, certain to grow up with other tastes and other aspirations.

Wilson Carpenter's marriage had been happy, and his boy was all he could wish,--and yet--and yet--Is this all that life can give a man? A little joy for the few who are fortunate, a little pleasure, and then--and then--For the first time he understood how it was that a happy man sometimes commits suicide. And he smiled as he thought that if he wished to choose death at the instant of life when the outsider would suppose his future to be brightest, now was the moment. He knew that there ought to be a revolver in the upper drawer of the table at the side of the bed. He turned gently; and then he lay back again, smiling bitterly at his own foolishness.

A heavy wagon rumbled along down the next street, and he heard also the whistle of a train on the river-front. These signs of returning day did not interest him at that moment when--so it seemed to him, although he was aware this was perfectly unreasonable--when he was at a crisis in his life.

Then there came to him another quatrain of Omar's, a quatrain he had often quoted with joy in its stern vigor and its lofty resolve:

So when the Angel of the darker Drink At last shall find you by the river-brink, And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul Forth to your Lips to quaff--you shall not shrink.

And youth came to his rescue again, and hope rose within him once more; and his interest in the eternal conflict of humanity sprang up as keen as ever.

The mood of craven surrender pa.s.sed from him as abruptly as it had come, leaving him older, and with a vague impression as though he had had a strange and unnatural experience. He knew again that life is infinitely various, and that it is worth while for its own sake; and he wondered how it was that he had ever doubted it. Even if struggle is the rule of our existence in this world, the fight is its own reward; it brings its own guerdon; it gives a zest to life; and sometimes it even takes the sting from defeat. The ardor of the combat is bracing; and fate is a foeman worthy of every man's steel.

So long as a man does his best always, his pay is secure; and the ultimate success or failure matters little after all, for, though he be the sport of circ.u.mstance, he is the master of himself. To be alone--in youth or in age--is not the worst thing that can befall, if the man is not ashamed of the companions.h.i.+p of his own soul. If his spirit is unafraid and ready to brave the bludgeon of chance, then has man a stanch friend in himself, and he can boldly front whatever the future has in store for him. Only a thin-blooded weakling casts down his weapons for nothing and flees around the arena; the least that a man of even ordinary courage can do is to stand to his arms and to fight for his life to the end.

Wilson Carpenter had no idea how long it was that he had been lying awake motionless, staring at the ceiling. There were signs of dawn now, and he heard a cart rattle briskly up to the house next door.

Perhaps his wife heard this also, for she turned and put out one arm caressingly, smiling at him in her sleep. He took her hand in his gently and held it. Peace descended upon him, and his brain ceased to torment itself with the future or with the present or with the past.

He was conscious of no effort not to think, nor indeed of any unfulfilled desire on his part. It seemed to him that he was floating lazily on a summer sea, not becalmed, but bound for no destination. And before he knew it, he was again asleep.

(1899)

[Ill.u.s.tration: Her Letter

to His Second Wife]

She was gayly humming a lilting tune as she flitted about the s.p.a.cious sitting-room, warm with the mellow suns.h.i.+ne of the fall. From the broad bow-window she looked down on the reddened maples in Gramercy Park, where a few lingering leaves were dancing in the fitful autumn breeze.

Turning away with a graceful, bird-like movement, she floated across to the corner and glanced again into a tall and narrow mirror set in the door of a huge wardrobe. She smiled back at the pretty face she saw there reflected. Then she laughed out merrily, that she had caught herself again at her old trick. Yet she did not turn away until she had captured two or three vagrant wisps of her pale-gold hair, twisting them back into conformity with their fellows. When at last she glided off with a smile still lingering on her dainty little mouth, the whole room seemed to be illuminated by her exuberant happiness.

And this was strong testimony to the brightness of the bride herself, for there was nothing else attractive in that sitting-room or in the rest of the house. The furniture was stiff and old-fas.h.i.+oned throughout, and the hangings were everywhere heavy and somber. The mantelpiece was of staring white marble; and on each side of this was a tall bookcase of solid black walnut highly varnished and overladen with misplaced ornament. The rectangular chairs were covered with faded maroon reps.

The window curtains were of raw silk, thickly lined and held back by cords with black-walnut ta.s.sels. The least forbidding object in the room was a shabby little desk, of which the scratched white paint contrasted sharply with the dull decorum of the other furniture.

The bride had brought this desk from the home of her youth to her husband's house, and she cherished it as a possession of her girlhood.

By the side of it was a low, cane-backed rocking-chair, and in this she sat herself down at last. A small rectangular package was almost under her hand on the corner of the desk; and she opened it eagerly and blushed prettily as she discovered it to contain her new visiting-cards--”Mrs. John Blackstock.” She repeated the name to herself with satisfaction at its sonorous dignity. _John Blackstock_ seemed to her exactly the name that suited her husband, with his gentleness and his strength. Next to the cards was another package, a belated present from a schoolmate; it contained a silver-mounted calendar. She held it in her hand and counted back the days to her wedding--just twenty, and it seemed to her hardly a week. Then she remarked that in less than a fortnight it would be Thanksgiving; and she thought at once of the many blessings she would have to give thanks for this year, many more than ever before--above all, for John!

Suddenly it struck her that a year could make startling changes in a woman's life--or even half a year. Twelve months ago in the New England mill-town where her parents lived she had no thought of ever coming to New York to stay or of marrying soon. Last Thanksgiving she had never seen John; and indeed, it was not till long after Decoration Day that she had first heard his name; and now there was a plain gold ring on her finger, and John and she were man and wife. If she had not accepted Mary Morton's invitation she might never have met John! She shuddered at the fatal possibility; and she marveled how the long happiness of a woman's life might hang on a mere chance. When the Mortons had asked her to go to Saratoga with them to spend the Fourth of July she had hesitated, and she came near refusing after Mary had said that Mr. Blackstock was going to be there, and that he was a widower now, and that there was a chance for her. She detested that kind of talk and thought it was always in bad taste. But then Mary Morton was a dear, good girl; and it was natural that Mr. Morton should be interested in Mr. Blackstock, since Mr.

Blackstock was the head of the New York house that took all the output of the Morton mills. She had decided to go to Saratoga at last, partly because her father thought it would amuse her, and partly just to show Mary Morton that she was not the kind of girl to be thrown at a man's head.

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