Part 36 (1/2)
”I want to work when I feel so inclined, when the mood is on me, whether it's two o'clock of the afternoon or of the morning,'” he had explained; ”and I can't do it without interruption here with you and your friends.”
For the same reason he had chosen to live near the sky. There, high above the noise and confusion, he could observe and catch the influence of the activity which is in itself a powerful stimulant, without experiencing its unpleasantness. Essentially, the man was an aesthete. If he went to a race or a football game he wished to view it at a distance.
To be close by, to mingle in the dust of action, to smell the sweat of conflict, to listen to the low-voiced imprecations of the defeated, detracted from his pleasure. He could not prevent these features--therefore he avoided them.
This particular evening he was doing nothing, which was very unusual for him. The necessity for society, or for activity, physical or mental, had long ago become as much a part of his nature as the desire for food.
Dilettante musician as well as artist, when alone at this time of the evening he was generally at the upright piano in the corner. Even Alec noticed the unusual lack of occupation on this occasion, and exposed the key-board suggestively; but, observing the action, Sidwell only smiled.
”Think I ought to, Alec?” he queried.
The negro rolled his eyes. Despite his long service, he had never quite lost his awe of the man he attended.
”Sho, yo always do that, or something, sah,” he said.
Sidwell smiled again; but it was not a pleasant smile. So this was the way of it! Even his servant had observed his habitual restlessness, and had doubtless commented upon it to his companions in the way servants have of pa.s.sing judgment upon their employers. And if Alec had noticed this, then how much more probable it was that others of Sidwell's numerous acquaintances had noticed it also! He winced at the thought.
That this was his skeleton, and that he had endeavored to keep it hidden, Sidwell did not attempt to deny to himself. One of the reasons he had _not_ given to his family for establis.h.i.+ng these down-town quarters was this very one. Time and again, when he had felt the mood of protest strong upon him, he had come here and locked the doors to fight it out alone. But after all, it had been useless. The fact had been obvious, despite the trick; mayhap even more so on account of it. Like the Wandering Jew he was doomed, followed by a relentless curse.
He shook himself, and walking over to the sideboard poured out a gla.s.s of Cognac and drank it as though it were wine. Sidwell did not often drink spirits. Experience had taught him that to begin usually meant to end with regret the following day; but to-night, with his present mood upon him, the action was as instinctive as breathing. He moved back to his chair by the window.
The evening was hot, on the street depressingly so, but up here after the sun was set there was always a breeze, and it was cool and comfortable. The man looked out over the sooty, gravelled roofs of the surrounding lower buildings, and down on the street, congested with its flowing stream of cars, equipages, and pedestrians. Times without number he had viewed the currents and counter-currents of that scene, but never before had he so caught its vital spirit and meaning. Born of the elect,--reared and educated among them,--the supercilious superiority of his cla.s.s was as much a part of him as his name. While he realized that physically the high and the low were constructed on practically the same plan, he had been wont to consider them as on totally separate mental planes. That the clerk and the roustabout on ten dollars a week, breathing the same atmosphere,--seeing daily, hourly, minute by minute, from separate viewpoints, the same life,--that they should have in common the constant need of diversion had never before occurred to him.
Mult.i.tudes of times, as a sociologist, or as a literary man in search of realism, he had visited the haunts of the under-man. Languidly, critically, as he would have observed at the ”zoo” an animal with whose habits he was unacquainted, he had watched this rather curious under-man in his foolish, or worse than foolish, endeavor to find amus.e.m.e.nt or oblivion. He had often been interested, as by a clown at a circus; but more frequently the sight had merely inspired disgust, and he had returned to his own diversions, his own efforts to secure the same end, with an all but unconscious thankfulness that he was not such as that other. To-night, for the first time, and with a wonder we all feel when the obvious but long unseen suddenly becomes apparent, the primary fact of human brotherhood, irrespective of caste, came home to him. To-night and now he realized, diminutive in the distance as they were, that the swarm of figures that he had hitherto considered mere animals vain of display were impelled upon the street, compelled to keep moving, moving, without a pre-arranged destination, by the same spirit of unrest that had sent him to the buffet. At that moment he was probably nearer to his fellow-man than ever before in his life; but the truth revealed made him the more unhappy. He had grown to consider his own unhappiness totally different and infinitely more acute than that of others; he had even taken a sort of morbid, paradoxical pleasure in considering it so; and now even this was taken from him. Not only had his own secret skeleton been visible when he believed it concealed, but all around him there suddenly sprang up a very cemetery of other skeletons, grinning at his blindness and discomfiture. His was not a nature to extract content from common discomfort, and but one palliative suggested itself,--the dull red decanter on the sideboard. Rising again and filling a gla.s.s, he returned and stood for a moment full before the open cas.e.m.e.nt of the window gazing down steadily.
How long he stood there he hardly knew. Once Alec's dark face peered into the room, and disappeared as suddenly. At last there was a knock at the door.
”Come in,” invited Sidwell, without moving. The door opened and closed, and Winston Hough stood inside. The big man gave one glance at the surroundings, saw the empty gla.s.s, and backed away. ”Pardon my intrusion,” he said with his hand on the k.n.o.b.
Sidwell turned. ”Intrusion--nothing!” He placed the decanter with gla.s.ses and a box of cigars on a convenient table. ”Come and have a drink with me,” and the liquor flowed until both gla.s.ses were nearly full.
Hough hesitated in a reluctance that was not feigned. He felt that discretion was the better part of valor, and that it would be well to escape while he could, even at the price of discourtesy.
”Really,” he said, ”I only dropped in to say h.e.l.lo. I--”
”Nonsense!” interrupted Sidwell. ”You must think I'm as innocent as a new-born lamb. Come over here and sit down.”
Hough hesitated, but yielded.
Sidwell lifted his gla.s.s. ”Here's to--whatever the trouble may be that brought you here. People don't visit me for pleasure, or unless they have nowhere else to go. Drink deep!”
They drank; and then Sidwell looking at Hough said, ”Well, what is it this time? Going to reform again, or something of that kind, are you?”
Hough did not attempt evasion. He knew it would be useless. ”No,” he said; ”to tell you the truth, I'm lonesome--beastly lonesome.”
Sidwell smiled. ”Ah, I thought so. But why, pray? Aren't you a married man with an ark of refuge always waiting?”
Hough made a grimace. ”Yes, that's just the trouble. I'm too much married, too thoroughly domesticated.”
The other looked blank. ”I fail to understand. Certainly you and Elise haven't at last--”
”No, no; not that.” Hough repelled the suggestion with a gesture as though it were a tangible object. ”Elise left to-day to spend a month with her uncle up in northern Wisconsin, and I can't get out of town for a week. I feel as I fancy a small bird feels when it has fallen out of the nest while its mother is away. The bottom seems to have dropped out of town and left me stranded.”
The host observed his guest humorously--a bit maliciously. ”It is good for you, you complacent benedict,” he remarked unsympathetically. ”You can understand now the normal state of mind of bachelors. Perhaps after a few more days you'll have been tortured enough to retract the argument you made to me about matrimony. I repeat, it's poetic justice, and good for a man now and then to have a dose of his own medicine.”