|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 13
[Illustration: He stared into the smoldering fire.]
By the pitiless searchlight of hopelessness, he saw himself for the
first time as he was--surely devoted and sincere, but narrow, limited, a
man lacking outward expression of inward and spiritual grace. He had
never had the gift to win hearts. That had not troubled him much,
earlier, but lately he had longed for a little appreciation, a little
human love, some sign that he had not worked always in vain. He
remembered the few times that people had stopped after service to praise
his sermons, and to-night he remembered not so much the glow at his
heart that the kind words had brought, as the fact that those times had
been very few. He did not preach good sermons; he faced that now,
unflinchingly. He was not broad minded; new thoughts were unattractive,
hard for him to assimilate; he had championed always theories that were
going out of fashion, and the half-consciousness of it put him ever on
the defensive; when most he wished to be gentle, there was something in
his manner which antagonized. As he looked back over his colorless,
conscientious past, it seemed to him that his life was a failure. The
souls he had reached, the work he had done with such infinite effort--it
might all have been done better and easily by another man. He would not
begrudge his strength and his years burned freely in the sacred fire, if
he might know that the flame had shone even faintly in dark places, that
the heat had warmed but a little the hearts of men. But--he smiled
grimly at the logs in front of him, in the small, cheap, black marble
fireplace--his influence was much like that, he thought, cold, dull,
ugly with uncertain smoke. He, who was not worthy, had dared to
consecrate himself to a high service, and it was his reasonable
punishment that his life had been useless.
Like a stab came back the thought of the junior warden, of the two more
empty pews, and then the thought, in irresistible self-pity, of how hard
he had tried, how well he had meant, how much he had given up, and he
felt his eyes filling with a man's painful, bitter tears. There had been
so little beauty, reward, in his whole past. Once, thirty years before,
he had gone abroad for six weeks, and he remembered the trip with a
thrill of wonder that anything so lovely could have come into his sombre
life--the voyage, the bit of travel, the new countries, the old cities,
the expansion, broadening of mind he had felt for a time as its result.
More than all, the delight of the people whom he had met, the unused
experience of being understood at once, of light touch and easy
flexibility, possible, as he had not known before, with good and serious
qualities. One man, above all, he had never forgotten. It had been a
pleasant memory always to have known him, to have been friends with him
even, for he had felt to his own surprise and joy that something in him
attracted this man of men. He had followed the other's career, a career
full of success unabused, of power grandly used, of responsibility
lifted with a will. He stood over thousands and ruled rightly--a true
prince among men. Somewhat too broad, too free in his thinking--the old
clergyman deplored that fault--yet a man might not be perfect. It was
pleasant to know that this strong and good soul was in the world and was
happy; he had seen him once with his son, and the boy's fine, sensitive
face, his honest eyes, and pretty deference of manner, his pride, too,
in his distinguished father, were surely a guaranty of happiness. The
old man felt a sudden generous gladness that if some lives must be
wasted, yet some might be, like this man's whom he had once known, full
of beauty and service. It would be good if he might add a drop to the
cup of happiness which meant happiness to so many--and then he smiled at
his foolish thought. That he should think of helping that other--a man
of so little importance to help a man of so much! And suddenly again he
felt tears that welled up hotly.
He put his gray head, with its scanty, carefully brushed hair, back
against the support of the worn armchair, and shut his eyes to keep them
back. He would try not to be cowardly. Then, with the closing of the
soul-windows, mental and physical fatigue brought their own gentle
healing, and in the cold, little study, bare, even, of many books, with
the fire smoldering cheerlessly before him, he fell asleep.
* * * * *
A few miles away, in a suburb of the same great city, in a large library
peopled with books, luxurious with pictures and soft-toned rugs and
carved dark furniture, a man sat staring into the fire. The six-foot
logs crackled and roared up the chimney, and the blaze lighted the wide,
dignified room. From the high chimney-piece, that had been the feature
of a great hall in Florence two centuries before, grotesque heads of
black oak looked down with a gaze which seemed weighted with age-old
wisdom and cynicism, at the man's sad face. The glow of the lamp,
shining like a huge gray-green jewel, lighted unobtrusively the generous
sweep of table at his right hand, and on it were books whose presence
meant the thought of a scholar and the broad interests of a man of
affairs. Each detail of the great room, if there had been an observer of
its quiet perfection, had an importance of its own, yet each exquisite
belonging fell swiftly into the dimness of the background of a picture
when one saw the man who was the master. Among a thousand picked men,
his face and figure would have been distinguished. People did not call
him old, for the alertness and force of youth radiated from him, and his
gray eyes were clear and his color fresh, yet the face was lined
heavily, and the thick thatch of hair shone in the firelight silvery
white. Face and figure were full of character and breeding, of life
lived to its utmost, of will, responsibility, success. Yet to-night the
spring of the mechanism seemed broken, and the noble head lay back
against the brown leather of his deep chair as listlessly as a tired
girl's. He watched the dry wood of the fire as it blazed and fell apart
and blazed up brightly again, yet his eyes did not seem to see
it--their absorbed gaze was inward.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|