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diff --git a/24351-h/24351-h.htm b/24351-h/24351-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1b8896e --- /dev/null +++ b/24351-h/24351-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1774 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The Triumph of Night, by Edith Wharton + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Triumph Of Night, by Edith Wharton + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Triumph Of Night + 1916 + +Author: Edith Wharton + +Release Date: January 17, 2008 [EBook #24351] +[Last updated: August 30, 2017] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRIUMPH OF NIGHT *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE TRIUMPH OF NIGHT + </h1> + <h2> + By Edith Wharton <br /><br /> Copyright, 1916, By Charles Scribner’s Sons + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> V </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + It was clear that the sleigh from Weymore had not come; and the shivering + young traveller from Boston, who had counted on jumping into it when he + left the train at Northridge Junction, found himself standing alone on the + open platform, exposed to the full assault of night-fall and winter. + </p> + <p> + The blast that swept him came off New Hampshire snow-fields and ice-hung + forests. It seemed to have traversed interminable leagues of frozen + silence, filling them with the same cold roar and sharpening its edge + against the same bitter black-and-white landscape. Dark, searching and + sword-like, it alternately muffled and harried its victim, like a + bull-fighter now whirling his cloak and now planting his darts. This + analogy brought home to the young man the fact that he himself had no + cloak, and that the overcoat in which he had faced the relatively + temperate air of Boston seemed no thicker than a sheet of paper on the + bleak heights of Northridge. George Faxon said to himself that the place + was uncommonly well-named. It clung to an exposed ledge over the valley + from which the train had lifted him, and the wind combed it with teeth of + steel that he seemed actually to hear scraping against the wooden sides of + the station. Other building there was none: the village lay far down the + road, and thither—since the Weymore sleigh had not come—Faxon + saw himself under the necessity of plodding through several feet of snow. + </p> + <p> + He understood well enough what had happened: his hostess had forgotten + that he was coming. Young as Faxon was, this sad lucidity of soul had been + acquired as the result of long experience, and he knew that the visitors + who can least afford to hire a carriage are almost always those whom their + hosts forget to send for. Yet to say that Mrs. Culme had forgotten him was + too crude a way of putting it Similar incidents led him to think that she + had probably told her maid to tell the butler to telephone the coachman to + tell one of the grooms (if no one else needed him) to drive over to + Northridge to fetch the new secretary; but on a night like this, what + groom who respected his rights would fail to forget the order? + </p> + <p> + Faxon’s obvious course was to struggle through the drifts to the village, + and there rout out a sleigh to convey him to Weymore; but what if, on his + arrival at Mrs. Culme’s, no one remembered to ask him what this devotion + to duty had cost? That, again, was one of the contingencies he had + expensively learned to look out for, and the perspicacity so acquired told + him it would be cheaper to spend the night at the Northridge inn, and + advise Mrs. Culme of his presence there by telephone. He had reached this + decision, and was about to entrust his luggage to a vague man with a + lantern, when his hopes were raised by the sound of bells. + </p> + <p> + Two sleighs were just dashing up to the station, and from the foremost + there sprang a young man muffled in furs. + </p> + <p> + “Weymore?—No, these are not the Weymore sleighs.” + </p> + <p> + The voice was that of the youth who had jumped to the platform—a + voice so agreeable that, in spite of the words, it fell consolingly on + Faxon’s ears. At the same moment the wandering station-lantern, casting a + transient light on the speaker, showed his features to be in the + pleasantest harmony with his voice. He was very fair and very young—hardly + in the twenties, Faxon thought—but his face, though full of a + morning freshness, was a trifle too thin and fine-drawn, as though a vivid + spirit contended in him with a strain of physical weakness. Faxon was + perhaps the quicker to notice such delicacies of balance because his own + temperament hung on lightly quivering nerves, which yet, as he believed, + would never quite swing him beyond a normal sensibility. + </p> + <p> + “You expected a sleigh from Weymore?” the newcomer continued, standing + beside Faxon like a slender column of fur. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Culme’s secretary explained his difficulty, and the other brushed it + aside with a contemptuous “Oh, <i>Mrs. Culme!</i>” that carried both + speakers a long way toward reciprocal understanding. + </p> + <p> + “But then you must be—” The youth broke off with a smile of + interrogation. + </p> + <p> + “The new secretary? Yes. But apparently there are no notes to be answered + this evening.” Faxon’s laugh deepened the sense of solidarity which had so + promptly established itself between the two. + </p> + <p> + His friend laughed also. “Mrs. Culme,” he explained, “was lunching at my + uncle’s to-day, and she said you were due this evening. But seven hours is + a long time for Mrs. Culme to remember anything.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Faxon philosophically, “I suppose that’s one of the reasons + why she needs a secretary. And I’ve always the inn at Northridge,” he + concluded. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but you haven’t, though! It burned down last week.” + </p> + <p> + “The deuce it did!” said Faxon; but the humour of the situation struck him + before its inconvenience. His life, for years past, had been mainly a + succession of resigned adaptations, and he had learned, before dealing + practically with his embarrassments, to extract from most of them a small + tribute of amusement. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, there’s sure to be somebody in the place who can put me up.” + </p> + <p> + “No one <i>you</i> could put up with. Besides, Northridge is three miles + off, and our place—in the opposite direction—is a little + nearer.” Through the darkness, Faxon saw his friend sketch a gesture of + self-introduction. “My name’s Frank Rainer, and I’m staying with my uncle + at Overdale. I’ve driven over to meet two friends of his, who are due in a + few minutes from New York. If you don’t mind waiting till they arrive I’m + sure Overdale can do you better than Northridge. We’re only down from town + for a few days, but the house is always ready for a lot of people.” + </p> + <p> + “But your uncle—?” Faxon could only object, with the odd sense, + through his embarrassment, that it would be magically dispelled by his + invisible friend’s next words. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my uncle—you’ll see! I answer for <i>him!</i> I daresay you’ve + heard of him—John Lavington?” + </p> + <p> + John Lavington! There was a certain irony in asking if one had heard of + John Lavington! Even from a post of observation as obscure as that of Mrs. + Culme’s secretary the rumour of John Lavington’s money, of his pictures, + his politics, his charities and his hospitality, was as difficult to + escape as the roar of a cataract in a mountain solitude. It might almost + have been said that the one place in which one would not have expected to + come upon him was in just such a solitude as now surrounded the speakers—at + least in this deepest hour of its desertedness. But it was just like + Lavington’s brilliant ubiquity to put one in the wrong even there. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, I’ve heard of your uncle.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you <i>will</i> come, won’t you? We’ve only five minutes to wait.” + young Rainer urged, in the tone that dispels scruples by ignoring them; + and Faxon found himself accepting the invitation as simply as it was + offered. + </p> + <p> + A delay in the arrival of the New York train lengthened their five minutes + to fifteen; and as they paced the icy platform Faxon began to see why it + had seemed the most natural thing in the world to accede to his new + acquaintance’s suggestion. It was because Frank Rainer was one of the + privileged beings who simplify human intercourse by the atmosphere of + confidence and good humour they diffuse. He produced this effect, Faxon + noted, by the exercise of no gift but his youth, and of no art but his + sincerity; and these qualities were revealed in a smile of such sweetness + that Faxon felt, as never before, what Nature can achieve when she deigns + to match the face with the mind. + </p> + <p> + He learned that the young man was the ward, and the only nephew, of John + Lavington, with whom he had made his home since the death of his mother, + the great man’s sister. Mr. Lavington, Rainer said, had been “a regular + brick” to him—“But then he is to every one, you know”—and the + young fellow’s situation seemed in fact to be perfectly in keeping with + his person. Apparently the only shade that had ever rested on him was cast + by the physical weakness which Faxon had already detected. Young Rainer + had been threatened with tuberculosis, and the disease was so far advanced + that, according to the highest authorities, banishment to Arizona or New + Mexico was inevitable. “But luckily my uncle didn’t pack me off, as most + people would have done, without getting another opinion. Whose? Oh, an + awfully clever chap, a young doctor with a lot of new ideas, who simply + laughed at my being sent away, and said I’d do perfectly well in New York + if I didn’t dine out too much, and if I dashed off occasionally to + Northridge for a little fresh air. So it’s really my uncle’s doing that + I’m not in exile—and I feel no end better since the new chap told me + I needn’t bother.” Young Rainer went on to confess that he was extremely + fond of dining out, dancing and similar distractions; and Faxon, listening + to him, was inclined to think that the physician who had refused to cut + him off altogether from these pleasures was probably a better psychologist + than his seniors. + </p> + <p> + “All the same you ought to be careful, you know.” The sense of + elder-brotherly concern that forced the words from Faxon made him, as he + spoke, slip his arm through Frank Rainer ‘s. + </p> + <p> + The latter met the movement with a responsive pressure. “Oh, I <i>am</i>: + awfully, awfully. And then my uncle has such an eye on me!” + </p> + <p> + “But if your uncle has such an eye on you, what does he say to your + swallowing knives out here in this Siberian wild?” + </p> + <p> + Rainer raised his fur collar with a careless gesture. “It’s not that that + does it—the cold’s good for me.” + </p> + <p> + “And it’s not the dinners and dances? What is it, then?” Faxon + good-humouredly insisted; to which his companion answered with a laugh: + “Well, my uncle says it’s being bored; and I rather think he’s right!” + </p> + <p> + His laugh ended in a spasm of coughing and a struggle for breath that made + Faxon, still holding his arm, guide him hastily into the shelter of the + fireless waiting-room. + </p> + <p> + Young Rainer had dropped down on the bench against the wall and pulled off + one of his fur gloves to grope for a handkerchief. He tossed aside his cap + and drew the handkerchief across his forehead, which was intensely white, + and beaded with moisture, though his face retained a healthy glow. But + Faxon’s gaze remained fastened to the hand he had uncovered: it was so + long, so colourless, so wasted, so much older than the brow he passed it + over. + </p> + <p> + “It’s queer—a healthy face but dying hands,” the secretary mused: he + somehow wished young Rainer had kept on his glove. + </p> + <p> + The whistle of the express drew the young men to their feet, and the next + moment two heavily-furred gentlemen had descended to the platform and were + breasting the rigour of the night. Frank Rainer introduced them as Mr. + Grisben and Mr. Balch, and Faxon, while their luggage was being lifted + into the second sleigh, discerned them, by the roving lantern-gleam, to be + an elderly greyheaded pair, of the average prosperous business cut. + </p> + <p> + They saluted their host’s nephew with friendly familiarity, and Mr. + Grisben, who seemed the spokesman of the two, ended his greeting with a + genial—“and many many more of them, dear boy!” which suggested to + Faxon that their arrival coincided with an anniversary. But he could not + press the enquiry, for the seat allotted him was at the coachman’s side, + while Frank Rainer joined his uncle’s guests inside the sleigh. + </p> + <p> + A swift flight (behind such horses as one could be sure of John + Lavington’s having) brought them to tall gateposts, an illuminated lodge, + and an avenue on which the snow had been levelled to the smoothness of + marble. At the end of the avenue the long house loomed up, its principal + bulk dark, but one wing sending out a ray of welcome; and the next moment + Faxon was receiving a violent impression of warmth and light, of hot-house + plants, hurrying servants, a vast spectacular oak hall like a + stage-setting, and, in its unreal middle distance, a small figure, + correctly dressed, conventionally featured, and utterly unlike his rather + florid conception of the great John Lavington. + </p> + <p> + The surprise of the contrast remained with him through his hurried + dressing in the large luxurious bedroom to which he had been shown. “I + don’t see where he comes in,” was the only way he could put it, so + difficult was it to fit the exuberance of Lavington’s public personality + into his host’s contracted frame and manner. Mr. Laving ton, to whom + Faxon’s case had been rapidly explained by young Rainer, had welcomed him + with a sort of dry and stilted cordiality that exactly matched his narrow + face, his stiff hand, and the whiff of scent on his evening handkerchief. + “Make yourself at home—at home!” he had repeated, in a tone that + suggested, on his own part, a complete inability to perform the feat he + urged on his visitor. “Any friend of Frank’s... delighted... make yourself + thoroughly at home!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + In spite of the balmy temperature and complicated conveniences of Faxon’s + bedroom, the injunction was not easy to obey. It was wonderful luck to + have found a night’s shelter under the opulent roof of Overdale, and he + tasted the physical satisfaction to the full. But the place, for all its + ingenuities of comfort, was oddly cold and unwelcoming. He couldn’t have + said why, and could only suppose that Mr. Lavington’s intense personality—intensely + negative, but intense all the same—must, in some occult way, have + penetrated every corner of his dwelling. Perhaps, though, it was merely + that Faxon himself was tired and hungry, more deeply chilled than he had + known till he came in from the cold, and unutterably sick of all strange + houses, and of the prospect of perpetually treading other people’s stairs. + </p> + <p> + “I hope you’re not famished?” Rainer’s slim figure was in the doorway. “My + uncle has a little business to attend to with Mr. Grisben, and we don’t + dine for half an hour. Shall I fetch you, or can you find your way down? + Come straight to the dining-room—the second door on the left of the + long gallery.” + </p> + <p> + He disappeared, leaving a ray of warmth behind him, and Faxon, relieved, + lit a cigarette and sat down by the fire. + </p> + <p> + Looking about with less haste, he was struck by a detail that had escaped + him. The room was full of flowers—a mere “bachelor’s room,” in the + wing of a house opened only for a few days, in the dead middle of a New + Hampshire winter! Flowers were everywhere, not in senseless profusion, but + placed with the same conscious art that he had remarked in the grouping of + the blossoming shrubs in the hall. A vase of arums stood on the + writing-table, a cluster of strange-hued carnations on the stand at his + elbow, and from bowls of glass and porcelain clumps of freesia-bulbs + diffused their melting fragrance. The fact implied acres of glass—but + that was the least interesting part of it. The flowers themselves, their + quality, selection and arrangement, attested on some one’s part—and + on whose but John Lavington’s?—a solicitous and sensitive passion + for that particular form of beauty. Well, it simply made the man, as he + had appeared to Faxon, all the harder to understand! + </p> + <p> + The half-hour elapsed, and Faxon, rejoicing at the prospect of food, set + out to make his way to the dining-room. He had not noticed the direction + he had followed in going to his room, and was puzzled, when he left it, to + find that two staircases, of apparently equal importance, invited him. He + chose the one to his right, and reached, at its foot, a long gallery such + as Rainer had described. The gallery was empty, the doors down its length + were closed; but Rainer had said: “The second to the left,” and Faxon, + after pausing for some chance enlightenment which did not come, laid his + hand on the second knob to the left. + </p> + <p> + The room he entered was square, with dusky picture-hung walls. In its + centre, about a table lit by veiled lamps, he fancied Mr. Lavington and + his guests to be already seated at dinner; then he perceived that the + table was covered not with viands but with papers, and that he had + blundered into what seemed to be his host’s study. As he paused Frank + Rainer looked up. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, here’s Mr. Faxon. Why not ask him—?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Lavington, from the end of the table, reflected his nephew’s smile in + a glance of impartial benevolence. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. Come in, Mr. Faxon. If you won’t think it a liberty—” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Grisben, who sat opposite his host, turned his head toward the door. + “Of course Mr. Faxon’s an American citizen?” + </p> + <p> + Frank Rainer laughed. “That’s all right!... Oh, no, not one of your + pin-pointed pens, Uncle Jack! Haven’t you got a quill somewhere?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Balch, who spoke slowly and as if reluctantly, in a muffled voice of + which there seemed to be very little left, raised his hand to say: “One + moment: you acknowledge this to be—?” + </p> + <p> + “My last will and testament?” Rainer’s laugh redoubled. “Well, I won’t + answer for the ‘last.’ It’s the first, anyway.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a mere formula,” Mr. Balch explained. + </p> + <p> + “Well, here goes.” Rainer dipped his quill in the inkstand his uncle had + pushed in his direction, and dashed a gallant signature across the + document. + </p> + <p> + Faxon, understanding what was expected of him, and conjecturing that the + young man was signing his will on the attainment of his majority, had + placed himself behind Mr. Grisben, and stood awaiting his turn to affix + his name to the instrument. Rainer, having signed, was about to push the + paper across the table to Mr. Balch; but the latter, again raising his + hand, said in his sad imprisoned voice: “The seal—?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, does there have to be a seal?” + </p> + <p> + Faxon, looking over Mr. Grisben at John Lavington, saw a faint frown + between his impassive eyes. “Really, Frank!” He seemed, Faxon thought, + slightly irritated by his nephew’s frivolity. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s got a seal?” Frank Rainer continued, glancing about the table. + “There doesn’t seem to be one here.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Grisben interposed. “A wafer will do. Lavington, you have a wafer?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Lavington had recovered his serenity. “There must be some in one of + the drawers. But I’m ashamed to say I don’t know where my secretary keeps + these things. He ought to have seen to it that a wafer was sent with the + document.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, hang it—” Frank Rainer pushed the paper aside: “It’s the hand + of God—and I’m as hungry as a wolf. Let’s dine first, Uncle Jack.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I’ve a seal upstairs,” said Faxon. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Lavington sent him a barely perceptible smile. “So sorry to give you + the trouble—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I say, don’t send him after it now. Let’s wait till after dinner!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Lavington continued to smile on <i>his</i> guest, and the latter, as + if under the faint coercion of the smile, turned from the room and ran + upstairs. Having taken the seal from his writing-case he came down again, + and once more opened the door of the study. No one was speaking when he + entered—they were evidently awaiting his return with the mute + impatience of hunger, and he put the seal in Rainer’s reach, and stood + watching while Mr. Grisben struck a match and held it to one of the + candles flanking the inkstand. As the wax descended on the paper Faxon + remarked again the strange emaciation, the premature physical weariness, + of the hand that held it: he wondered if Mr. Lavington had ever noticed + his nephew’s hand, and if it were not poignantly visible to him now. + </p> + <p> + With this thought in his mind, Faxon raised his eyes to look at Mr. + Lavington. The great man’s gaze rested on Frank Rainer with an expression + of untroubled benevolence; and at the same instant Faxon’s attention was + attracted by the presence in the room of another person, who must have + joined the group while he was upstairs searching for the seal. The + new-comer was a man of about Mr. Lavington’s age and figure, who stood + just behind his chair, and who, at the moment when Faxon first saw him, + was gazing at young Rainer with an equal intensity of attention. The + likeness between the two men—perhaps increased by the fact that the + hooded lamps on the table left the figure behind the chair in shadow—struck + Faxon the more because of the contrast in their expression. John + Lavington, during his nephew’s clumsy attempt to drop the wax and apply + the seal, continued to fasten on him a look of half-amused affection; + while the man behind the chair, so oddly reduplicating the lines of his + features and figure, turned on the boy a face of pale hostility. + </p> + <p> + The impression was so startling that Faxon forgot what was going on about + him. He was just dimly aware of young Rainer’s exclaiming; “Your turn, Mr. + Grisben!” of Mr. Grisben’s protesting: “No—no; Mr. Faxon first,” and + of the pen’s being thereupon transferred to his own hand. He received it + with a deadly sense of being unable to move, or even to understand what + was expected of him, till he became conscious of Mr. Grisben’s paternally + pointing out the precise spot on which he was to leave his autograph. The + effort to fix his attention and steady his hand prolonged the process of + signing, and when he stood up—a strange weight of fatigue on all his + limbs—the figure behind Mr. Lavington’s chair was gone. + </p> + <p> + Faxon felt an immediate sense of relief. It was puzzling that the man’s + exit should have been so rapid and noiseless, but the door behind Mr. + Lavington was screened by a tapestry hanging, and Faxon concluded that the + unknown looker-on had merely had to raise it to pass out. At any rate he + was gone, and with his withdrawal the strange weight was lifted. Young + Rainer was lighting a cigarette, Mr. Balch inscribing his name at the foot + of the document, Mr. Lavington—his eyes no longer on his nephew—examining + a strange white-winged orchid in the vase at his elbow. Every thing + suddenly seemed to have grown natural and simple again, and Faxon found + himself responding with a smile to the affable gesture with which his host + declared: “And now, Mr. Faxon, we’ll dine.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <p> + “I wonder how I blundered into the wrong room just now; I thought you told + me to take the second door to the left,” Faxon said to Frank Rainer as + they followed the older men down the gallery. + </p> + <p> + “So I did; but I probably forgot to tell you which staircase to take. + Coming from your bedroom, I ought to have said the fourth door to the + right. It’s a puzzling house, because my uncle keeps adding to it from + year to year. He built this room last summer for his modern pictures.” + </p> + <p> + Young Rainer, pausing to open another door, touched an electric button + which sent a circle of light about the walls of a long room hung with + canvases of the French impressionist school. + </p> + <p> + Faxon advanced, attracted by a shimmering Monet, but Rainer laid a hand on + his arm. + </p> + <p> + “He bought that last week. But come along—I’ll show you all this + after dinner. Or <i>he</i> will, rather—he loves it.” + </p> + <p> + “Does he really love things?” + </p> + <p> + Rainer stared, clearly perplexed at the question. “Rather! Flowers and + pictures especially! Haven’t you noticed the flowers? I suppose you think + his manner’s cold; it seems so at first; but he’s really awfully keen + about things.” + </p> + <p> + Faxon looked quickly at the speaker. “Has your uncle a brother?” + </p> + <p> + “Brother? No—never had. He and my mother were the only ones.” + </p> + <p> + “Or any relation who—who looks like him? Who might be mistaken for + him?” + </p> + <p> + “Not that I ever heard of. Does he remind you of some one?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s queer. We’ll ask him if he’s got a double. Come on!” + </p> + <p> + But another picture had arrested Faxon, and some minutes elapsed before he + and his young host reached the dining-room. It was a large room, with the + same conventionally handsome furniture and delicately grouped flowers; and + Faxon’s first glance showed him that only three men were seated about the + dining-table. The man who had stood behind Mr. Lavington’s chair was not + present, and no seat awaited him. + </p> + <p> + When the young men entered, Mr. Grisben was speaking, and his host, who + faced the door, sat looking down at his untouched soup-plate and turning + the spoon about in his small dry hand. + </p> + <p> + “It’s pretty late to call them rumours—they were devilish close to + facts when we left town this morning,” Mr. Grisben was saying, with an + unexpected incisiveness of tone. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Lavington laid down his spoon and smiled interrogatively. “Oh, facts—what + <i>are</i> facts? Just the way a thing happens to look at a given + minute....” + </p> + <p> + “You haven’t heard anything from town?” Mr. Grisben persisted. + </p> + <p> + “Not a syllable. So you see.... Balch, a little more of that <i>petite + marmite</i>. Mr. Faxon... between Frank and Mr. Grisben, please.” + </p> + <p> + The dinner progressed through a series of complicated courses, + ceremoniously dispensed by a prelatical butler attended by three tall + footmen, and it was evident that Mr. Lavington took a certain satisfaction + in the pageant. That, Faxon reflected, was probably the joint in his + armour—that and the flowers. He had changed the subject—not + abruptly but firmly—when the young men entered, but Faxon perceived + that it still possessed the thoughts of the two elderly visitors, and Mr. + Balch presently observed, in a voice that seemed to come from the last + survivor down a mine-shaft: “If it <i>does</i> come, it will be the + biggest crash since ‘93.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Lavington looked bored but polite. “Wall Street can stand crashes + better than it could then. It’s got a robuster constitution.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but—” + </p> + <p> + “Speaking of constitutions,” Mr. Grisben intervened: “Frank, are you + taking care of yourself?” + </p> + <p> + A flush rose to young Rainer’s cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “Why, of course! Isn’t that what I’m here for?” + </p> + <p> + “You’re here about three days in the month, aren’t you? And the rest of + the time it’s crowded restaurants and hot ballrooms in town. I thought you + were to be shipped off to New Mexico?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’ve got a new man who says that’s rot.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you don’t look as if your new man were right,” said Mr. Grisben + bluntly. + </p> + <p> + Faxon saw the lad’s colour fade, and the rings of shadow deepen under his + gay eyes. At the same moment his uncle turned to him with a renewed + intensity of attention. There was such solicitude in Mr. Lavington’s gaze + that it seemed almost to fling a shield between his nephew and Mr. + Grisben’s tactless scrutiny. + </p> + <p> + “We think Frank’s a good deal better,” he began; “this new doctor—” + </p> + <p> + The butler, coming up, bent to whisper a word in his ear, and the + communication caused a sudden change in Mr. Lavington’s expression. His + face was naturally so colourless that it seemed not so much to pale as to + fade, to dwindle and recede into something blurred and blotted-out. He + half rose, sat down again and sent a rigid smile about the table. + </p> + <p> + “Will you excuse me? The telephone. Peters, go on with the dinner.” With + small precise steps he walked out of the door which one of the footmen had + thrown open. + </p> + <p> + A momentary silence fell on the group; then Mr. Grisben once more + addressed himself to Rainer. “You ought to have gone, my boy; you ought to + have gone.” + </p> + <p> + The anxious look returned to the youth’s eyes. “My uncle doesn’t think so, + really.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re not a baby, to be always governed by your uncle’s opinion. You + came of age to-day, didn’t you? Your uncle spoils you.... that’s what’s + the matter....” + </p> + <p> + The thrust evidently went home, for Rainer laughed and looked down with a + slight accession of colour. + </p> + <p> + “But the doctor—” + </p> + <p> + “Use your common sense, Frank! You had to try twenty doctors to find one + to tell you what you wanted to be told.” + </p> + <p> + A look of apprehension overshadowed Rainer’, gaiety. “Oh, come—I + say!... What would <i>you</i> do?” he stammered. + </p> + <p> + “Pack up and jump on the first train.” Mr. Grisben leaned forward and laid + his hand kindly on the young man’s arm. “Look here: my nephew Jim Grisben + is out there ranching on a big scale. He’ll take you in and be glad to + have you. You say your new doctor thinks it won’t do you any good; but he + doesn’t pretend to say it will do you harm, does he? Well, then—give + it a trial. It’ll take you out of hot theatres and night restaurants, + anyhow.... And all the rest of it.... Eh, Balch?” + </p> + <p> + “Go!” said Mr. Balch hollowly. “Go <i>at once</i>,” he added, as if a + closer look at the youth’s face had impressed on him the need of backing + up his friend. + </p> + <p> + Young Rainer had turned ashy-pale. He tried to stiffen his mouth into a + smile. “Do I look as bad as all that?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Grisben was helping himself to terrapin. “You look like the day after + an earthquake,” he said. + </p> + <p> + The terrapin had encircled the table, and been deliberately enjoyed by Mr. + Lavington’s three visitors (Rainer, Faxon noticed, left his plate + untouched) before the door was thrown open to re-admit their host. Mr. + Lavington advanced with an air of recovered composure. He seated himself, + picked up his napkin and consulted the gold-monogrammed menu. “No, don’t + bring back the filet.... Some terrapin; yes....” He looked affably about + the table. “Sorry to have deserted you, but the storm has played the deuce + with the wires, and I had to wait a long time before I could get a good + connection. It must be blowing up for a blizzard.” + </p> + <p> + “Uncle Jack,” young Rainer broke out, “Mr. Grisben’s been lecturing me.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Lavington was helping himself to terrapin. “Ah—what about?” + </p> + <p> + “He thinks I ought to have given New Mexico a show.” + </p> + <p> + “I want him to go straight out to my nephew at Santa Paz and stay there + till his next birthday.” Mr. Lavington signed to the butler to hand the + terrapin to Mr. Grisben, who, as he took a second helping, addressed + himself again to Rainer. “Jim’s in New York now, and going back the day + after tomorrow in Olyphant’s private car. I’ll ask Olyphant to squeeze you + in if you’ll go. And when you’ve been out there a week or two, in the + saddle all day and sleeping nine hours a night, I suspect you won’t think + much of the doctor who prescribed New York.” + </p> + <p> + Faxon spoke up, he knew not why. “I was out there once: it’s a splendid + life. I saw a fellow—oh, a really <i>bad</i> case—who’d been + simply made over by it.” + </p> + <p> + “It <i>does</i> sound jolly,” Rainer laughed, a sudden eagerness in his + tone. + </p> + <p> + His uncle looked at him gently. “Perhaps Grisben’s right. It’s an + opportunity—” + </p> + <p> + Faxon glanced up with a start: the figure dimly perceived in the study was + now more visibly and tangibly planted behind Mr. Lavington’s chair. + </p> + <p> + “That’s right, Frank: you see your uncle approves. And the trip out there + with Olyphant isn’t a thing to be missed. So drop a few dozen dinners and + be at the Grand Central the day after tomorrow at five.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Grisben’s pleasant grey eye sought corroboration of his host, and + Faxon, in a cold anguish of suspense, continued to watch him as he turned + his glance on Mr. Lavington. One could not look at Lavington without + seeing the presence at his back, and it was clear that, the next minute, + some change in Mr. Grisben’s expression must give his watcher a clue. + </p> + <p> + But Mr. Grisben’s expression did not change: the gaze he fixed on his host + remained unperturbed, and the clue he gave was the startling one of not + seeming to see the other figure. + </p> + <p> + Faxon’s first impulse was to look away, to look anywhere else, to resort + again to the champagne glass the watchful butler had already brimmed; but + some fatal attraction, at war in him with an overwhelming physical + resistance, held his eyes upon the spot they feared. + </p> + <p> + The figure was still standing, more distinctly, and therefore more + resemblingly, at Mr. Lavington’s back; and while the latter continued to + gaze affectionately at his nephew, his counterpart, as before, fixed young + Rainer with eyes of deadly menace. + </p> + <p> + Faxon, with what felt like an actual wrench of the muscles, dragged his + own eyes from the sight to scan the other countenances about the table; + but not one revealed the least consciousness of what he saw, and a sense + of mortal isolation sank upon him. + </p> + <p> + “It’s worth considering, certainly—” he heard Mr. Lavington + continue; and as Rainer’s face lit up, the face behind his uncle’s chair + seemed to gather into its look all the fierce weariness of old unsatisfied + hates. That was the thing that, as the minutes laboured by, Faxon was + becoming most conscious of. The watcher behind the chair was no longer + merely malevolent: he had grown suddenly, unutterably tired. His hatred + seemed to well up out of the very depths of balked effort and thwarted + hopes, and the fact made him more pitiable, and yet more dire. + </p> + <p> + Faxon’s look reverted to Mr. Lavington, as if to surprise in him a + corresponding change. At first none was visible: his pinched smile was + screwed to his blank face like a gas-light to a white-washed wall. Then + the fixity of the smile became ominous: Faxon saw that its wearer was + afraid to let it go. It was evident that Mr. Lavington was unutterably + tired too, and the discovery sent a colder current through Faxon’s veins. + Looking down at his untouched plate, he caught the soliciting twinkle of + the champagne glass; but the sight of the wine turned him sick. + </p> + <p> + “Well, we’ll go into the details presently,” he heard Mr. Lavington say, + still on the question of his nephew’s future. “Let’s have a cigar first. + No—not here, Peters.” He turned his smile on Faxon. “When we’ve had + coffee I want to show you my pictures.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, by the way, Uncle Jack—Mr. Faxon wants to know if you’ve got a + double?” + </p> + <p> + “A double?” Mr. Lavington, still smiling, continued to address himself to + his guest. “Not that I know of. Have you seen one, Mr. Faxon?” + </p> + <p> + Faxon thought: “My God, if I look up now they’ll <i>both</i> be looking at + me!” To avoid raising his eyes he made as though to lift the glass to his + lips; but his hand sank inert, and he looked up. Mr. Lavington’s glance + was politely bent on him, but with a loosening of the strain about his + heart he saw that the figure behind the chair still kept its gaze on + Rainer. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think you’ve seen my double, Mr. Faxon?” + </p> + <p> + Would the other face turn if he said yes? Faxon felt a dryness in his + throat. “No,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “Ah? It’s possible I’ve a dozen. I believe I’m extremely usual-looking,” + Mr. Lavington went on conversationally; and still the other face watched + Rainer. + </p> + <p> + “It was... a mistake... a confusion of memory....” Faxon heard himself + stammer. Mr. Lavington pushed back his chair, and as he did so Mr. Grisben + suddenly leaned forward. + </p> + <p> + “Lavington! What have we been thinking of? We haven’t drunk Frank’s + health!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Lavington reseated himself. “My dear boy!... Peters, another + bottle....” He turned to his nephew. “After such a sin of omission I don’t + presume to propose the toast myself... but Frank knows.... Go ahead, + Grisben!” + </p> + <p> + The boy shone on his uncle. “No, no, Uncle Jack! Mr. Grisben won’t mind. + Nobody but <i>you</i>—to-day!” + </p> + <p> + The butler was replenishing the glasses. He filled Mr. Lavington’s last, + and Mr. Lavington put out his small hand to raise it.... As he did so, + Faxon looked away. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then—All the good I’ve wished you in all the past years.... I + put it into the prayer that the coming ones may be healthy and happy and + many... and <i>many</i>, dear boy!” + </p> + <p> + Faxon saw the hands about him reach out for their glasses. Automatically, + he reached for his. His eyes were still on the table, and he repeated to + himself with a trembling vehemence: “I won’t look up! I won’t.... I + won’t....” + </p> + <p> + His fingers clasped the glass and raised it to the level of his lips. He + saw the other hands making the same motion. He heard Mr. Grisben’s genial + “Hear! Hear!” and Mr. Batch’s hollow echo. He said to himself, as the rim + of the glass touched his lips: “I won’t look up! I swear I won’t!—” + and he looked. + </p> + <p> + The glass was so full that it required an extraordinary effort to hold it + there, brimming and suspended, during the awful interval before he could + trust his hand to lower it again, untouched, to the table. It was this + merciful preoccupation which saved him, kept him from crying out, from + losing his hold, from slipping down into the bottomless blackness that + gaped for him. As long as the problem of the glass engaged him he felt + able to keep his seat, manage his muscles, fit unnoticeably into the + group; but as the glass touched the table his last link with safety + snapped. He stood up and dashed out of the room. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV + </h2> + <p> + In the gallery, the instinct of self-preservation helped him to turn back + and sign to young Rainer not to follow. He stammered out something about a + touch of dizziness, and joining them presently; and the boy nodded + sympathetically and drew back. + </p> + <p> + At the foot of the stairs Faxon ran against a servant. “I should like to + telephone to Weymore,” he said with dry lips. + </p> + <p> + “Sorry, sir; wires all down. We’ve been trying the last hour to get New + York again for Mr. Lavington.” + </p> + <p> + Faxon shot on to his room, burst into it, and bolted the door. The + lamplight lay on furniture, flowers, books; in the ashes a log still + glimmered. He dropped down on the sofa and hid his face. The room was + profoundly silent, the whole house was still: nothing about him gave a + hint of what was going on, darkly and dumbly, in the room he had flown + from, and with the covering of his eyes oblivion and reassurance seemed to + fall on him. But they fell for a moment only; then his lids opened again + to the monstrous vision. There it was, stamped on his pupils, a part of + him forever, an indelible horror burnt into his body and brain. But why + into his—just his? Why had he alone been chosen to see what he had + seen? What business was it of <i>his</i>, in God’s name? Any one of the + others, thus enlightened, might have exposed the horror and defeated it; + but <i>he</i>, the one weaponless and defenceless spectator, the one whom + none of the others would believe or understand if he attempted to reveal + what he knew—<i>he</i> alone had been singled out as the victim of + this dreadful initiation! + </p> + <p> + Suddenly he sat up, listening: he had heard a step on the stairs. Some + one, no doubt, was coming to see how he was—to urge him, if he felt + better, to go down and join the smokers. Cautiously he opened his door; + yes, it was young Rainer’s step. Faxon looked down the passage, remembered + the other stairway and darted to it. All he wanted was to get out of the + house. Not another instant would he breathe its abominable air! What + business was it of <i>his</i>, in God’s name? + </p> + <p> + He reached the opposite end of the lower gallery, and beyond it saw the + hall by which he had entered. It was empty, and on a long table he + recognized his coat and cap. He got into his coat, unbolted the door, and + plunged into the purifying night. + </p> + <p> + The darkness was deep, and the cold so intense that for an instant it + stopped his breathing. Then he perceived that only a thin snow was + falling, and resolutely he set his face for flight. The trees along the + avenue marked his way as he hastened with long strides over the beaten + snow. Gradually, while he walked, the tumult in his brain subsided. The + impulse to fly still drove him forward, but he began feel that he was + flying from a terror of his own creating, and that the most urgent reason + for escape was the need of hiding his state, of shunning other eyes till + he should regain his balance. + </p> + <p> + He had spent the long hours in the train in fruitless broodings on a + discouraging situation, and he remembered how his bitterness had turned to + exasperation when he found that the Weymore sleigh was not awaiting him. + It was absurd, of course; but, though he had joked with Rainer over Mrs. + Culme’s forgetfulness, to confess it had cost a pang. That was what his + rootless life had brought him to: for lack of a personal stake in things + his sensibility was at the mercy of such trifles.... Yes; that, and the + cold and fatigue, the absence of hope and the haunting sense of starved + aptitudes, all these had brought him to the perilous verge over which, + once or twice before, his terrified brain had hung. + </p> + <p> + Why else, in the name of any imaginable logic, human or devilish, should + he, a stranger, be singled out for this experience? What could it mean to + him, how was he related to it, what bearing had it on his case?... Unless, + indeed, it was just because he was a stranger—a stranger everywhere—because + he had no personal life, no warm screen of private egotisms to shield him + from exposure, that he had developed this abnormal sensitiveness to the + vicissitudes of others. The thought pulled him up with a shudder. No! Such + a fate was too abominable; all that was strong and sound in him rejected + it. A thousand times better regard himself as ill, disorganized, deluded, + than as the predestined victim of such warnings! + </p> + <p> + He reached the gates and paused before the darkened lodge. The wind had + risen and was sweeping the snow into his race. The cold had him in its + grasp again, and he stood uncertain. Should he put his sanity to the test + and go back? He turned and looked down the dark drive to the house. A + single ray shone through the trees, evoking a picture of the lights, the + flowers, the faces grouped about that fatal room. He turned and plunged + out into the road.... + </p> + <p> + He remembered that, about a mile from Overdale, the coachman had pointed + out the road to Northridge; and he began to walk in that direction. Once + in the road he had the gale in his face, and the wet snow on his moustache + and eye-lashes instantly hardened to ice. The same ice seemed to be + driving a million blades into his throat and lungs, but he pushed on, the + vision of the warm room pursuing him. + </p> + <p> + The snow in the road was deep and uneven. He stumbled across ruts and sank + into drifts, and the wind drove against him like a granite cliff. Now and + then he stopped, gasping, as if an invisible hand had tightened an iron + band about his body; then he started again, stiffening himself against the + stealthy penetration of the cold. The snow continued to descend out of a + pall of inscrutable darkness, and once or twice he paused, fearing he had + missed the road to Northridge; but, seeing no sign of a turn, he ploughed + on. + </p> + <p> + At last, feeling sure that he had walked for more than a mile, he halted + and looked back. The act of turning brought immediate relief, first + because it put his back to the wind, and then because, far down the road, + it showed him the gleam of a lantern. A sleigh was coming—a sleigh + that might perhaps give him a lift to the village! Fortified by the hope, + he began to walk back toward the light. It came forward very slowly, with + unaccountable sigsags and waverings; and even when he was within a few + yards of it he could catch no sound of sleigh-bells. Then it paused and + became stationary by the roadside, as though carried by a pedestrian who + had stopped, exhausted by the cold. The thought made Faxon hasten on, and + a moment later he was stooping over a motionless figure huddled against + the snow-bank. The lantern had dropped from its bearer’s hand, and Faxon, + fearfully raising it, threw its light into the face of Frank Rainer. + </p> + <p> + “Rainer! What on earth are you doing here?” + </p> + <p> + The boy smiled back through his pallour. “What are <i>you</i>, I’d like to + know?” he retorted; and, scrambling to his feet with a clutch oh Faxon’s + arm, he added gaily: “Well, I’ve run you down!” + </p> + <p> + Faxon stood confounded, his heart sinking. The lad’s face was grey. + </p> + <p> + “What madness—” he began. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it <i>is</i>. What on earth did you do it for?” + </p> + <p> + “I? Do what?... Why I.... I was just taking a walk.... I often walk at + night....” + </p> + <p> + Frank Rainer burst into a laugh. “On such nights? Then you hadn’t bolted?” + </p> + <p> + “Bolted?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I’d done something to offend you? My uncle thought you had.” + </p> + <p> + Faxon grasped his arm. “Did your uncle send you after me?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he gave me an awful rowing for not going up to your room with you + when you said you were ill. And when we found you’d gone we were + frightened—and he was awfully upset—so I said I’d catch + you.... You’re <i>not</i> ill, are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Ill? No. Never better.” Faxon picked up the lantern. “Come; let’s go + back. It was awfully hot in that dining-room.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I hoped it was only that.” + </p> + <p> + They trudged on in silence for a few minutes; then Faxon questioned: + “You’re not too done up?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no. It’s a lot easier with the wind behind us.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. Don’t talk any more.” + </p> + <p> + They pushed ahead, walking, in spite of the light that guided them, more + slowly than Faxon had walked alone into the gale. The fact of his + companion’s stumbling against a drift gave Faxon a pretext for saying: + “Take hold of my arm,” and Rainer obeying, gasped out: “I’m blown!” + </p> + <p> + “So am I. Who wouldn’t be?” + </p> + <p> + “What a dance you led me! If it hadn’t been for one of the servants + happening to see you—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; all right. And now, won’t you kindly shut up?” + </p> + <p> + Rainer laughed and hung on him. “Oh, the cold doesn’t hurt me....” + </p> + <p> + For the first few minutes after Rainer had overtaken him, anxiety for the + lad had been Faxon’s only thought. But as each labouring step carried them + nearer to the spot he had been fleeing, the reasons for his flight grew + more ominous and more insistent. No, he was not ill, he was not distraught + and deluded—he was the instrument singled out to warn and save; and + here he was, irresistibly driven, dragging the victim back to his doom! + </p> + <p> + The intensity of the conviction had almost checked his steps. But what + could he do or say? At all costs he must get Rainer out of the cold, into + the house and into his bed. After that he would act. + </p> + <p> + The snow-fall was thickening, and as they reached a stretch of the road + between open fields the wind took them at an angle, lashing their faces + with barbed thongs. Rainer stopped to take breath, and Faxon felt the + heavier pressure of his arm. + </p> + <p> + “When we get to the lodge, can’t we telephone to the stable for a sleigh?” + </p> + <p> + “If they’re not all asleep at the lodge.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’ll manage. Don’t talk!” Faxon ordered; and they plodded on.... + </p> + <p> + At length the lantern ray showed ruts that curved away from the road under + tree-darkness. + </p> + <p> + Faxon’s spirits rose. “There’s the gate! We’ll be there in five minutes.” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke he caught, above the boundary hedge, the gleam of a light at + the farther end of the dark avenue. It was the same light that had shone + on the scene of which every detail was burnt into his brain; and he felt + again its overpowering reality. No—he couldn’t let the boy go back! + </p> + <p> + They were at the lodge at last, and Faxon was hammering on the door. He + said to himself: “I’ll get him inside first, and make them give him a hot + drink. Then I’ll see—I’ll find an argument....” + </p> + <p> + There was no answer to his knocking, and after an interval Rainer said: + “Look here—we’d better go on.” + </p> + <p> + “No!” + </p> + <p> + “I can, perfectly—” + </p> + <p> + “You sha’n’t go to the house, I say!” Faxon redoubled his blows, and at + length steps sounded on the stairs. Rainer was leaning against the lintel, + and as the door opened the light from the hall flashed on his pale face + and fixed eyes. Faxon caught him by the arm and drew him in. + </p> + <p> + “It <i>was</i> cold out there.” he sighed; and then, abruptly, as if + invisible shears at a single stroke had cut every muscle in his body, he + swerved, drooped on Faxon’s arm, and seemed to sink into nothing at his + feet. + </p> + <p> + The lodge-keeper and Faxon bent over him, and somehow, between them, + lifted him into the kitchen and laid him on a sofa by the stove. + </p> + <p> + The lodge-keeper, stammering: “I’ll ring up the house,” dashed out of the + room. But Faxon heard the words without heeding them: omens mattered + nothing now, beside this woe fulfilled. He knelt down to undo the fur + collar about Rainer’s throat, and as he did so he felt a warm moisture on + his hands. He held them up, and they were red.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V + </h2> + <p> + The palms threaded their endless line along the yellow river. The little + steamer lay at the wharf, and George Faxon, sitting in the verandah of the + wooden hotel, idly watched the coolies carrying the freight across the + gang-plank. + </p> + <p> + He had been looking at such scenes for two months. Nearly five had elapsed + since he had descended from the train at Northridge and strained his eyes + for the sleigh that was to take him to Weymore: Weymore, which he was + never to behold!... Part of the interval—the first part—was + still a great grey blur. Even now he could not be quite sure how he had + got back to Boston, reached the house of a cousin, and been thence + transferred to a quiet room looking out on snow under bare trees. He + looked out a long time at the same scene, and finally one day a man he had + known at Harvard came to see him and invited him to go out on a business + trip to the Malay Peninsula. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve had a bad shake-up, and it’ll do you no end of good to get away + from things.” + </p> + <p> + When the doctor came the next day it turned out that he knew of the plan + and approved it. “You ought to be quiet for a year. Just loaf and look at + the landscape,” he advised. + </p> + <p> + Faxon felt the first faint stirrings of curiosity. + </p> + <p> + “What’s been the matter with me, anyway?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, over-work, I suppose. You must have been bottling up for a bad + breakdown before you started for New Hampshire last December. And the + shock of that poor boy’s death did the rest.” + </p> + <p> + Ah, yes—Rainer had died. He remembered.... + </p> + <p> + He started for the East, and gradually, by imperceptible degrees, life + crept back into his weary bones and leaden brain. His friend was patient + and considerate, and they travelled slowly and talked little. At first + Faxon had felt a great shrinking from whatever touched on familiar things. + He seldom looked at a newspaper and he never opened a letter without a + contraction of the heart. It was not that he had any special cause for + apprehension, but merely that a great trail of darkness lay on everything. + He had looked too deep down into the abyss.... But little by little health + and energy returned to him, and with them the common promptings of + curiosity. He was beginning to wonder how the world was going, and when, + presently, the hotel-keeper told him there were no letters for him in the + steamer’s mail-bag, he felt a distinct sense of disappointment. His friend + had gone into the jungle on a long excursion, and he was lonely, + unoccupied and wholesomely bored. He got up and strolled into the stuffy + reading-room. + </p> + <p> + There he found a game of dominoes, a mutilated picture-puzzle, some copies + of <i>Zion’s Herald</i> and a pile of New York and London newspapers. + </p> + <p> + He began to glance through the papers, and was disappointed to find that + they were less recent than he had hoped. Evidently the last numbers had + been carried off by luckier travellers. He continued to turn them over, + picking out the American ones first. These, as it happened, were the + oldest: they dated back to December and January. To Faxon, however, they + had all the flavour of novelty, since they covered the precise period + during which he had virtually ceased to exist. It had never before + occurred to him to wonder what had happened in the world during that + interval of obliteration; but now he felt a sudden desire to know. + </p> + <p> + To prolong the pleasure, he began by sorting the papers chronologically, + and as he found and spread out the earliest number, the date at the top of + the page entered into his consciousness like a key slipping into a lock. + It was the seventeenth of December: the date of the day after his arrival + at Northridge. He glanced at the first page and read in blazing + characters: “Reported Failure of Opal Cement Company. Lavington’s name + involved. Gigantic Exposure of Corruption Shakes Wall Street to Its + Foundations.” + </p> + <p> + He read on, and when he had finished the first paper he turned to the + next. There was a gap of three days, but the Opal Cement “Investigation” + still held the centre of the stage. From its complex revelations of greed + and ruin his eye wandered to the death notices, and he read: “Rainer. + Suddenly, at Northridge, New Hampshire, Francis John, only son of the + late....” + </p> + <p> + His eyes clouded, and he dropped the newspaper and sat for a long time + with his face in his hands. When he looked up again he noticed that his + gesture had pushed the other papers from the table and scattered them at + his feet. The uppermost lay spread out before him, and heavily his eyes + began their search again. “John Lavington comes forward with plan for + reconstructing Company. Offers to put in ten millions of his own—The + proposal under consideration by the District Attorney.” + </p> + <p> + Ten millions... ten millions of his own. But if John Lavington was + ruined?... Faxon stood up with a cry. That was it, then—that was + what the warning meant! And if he had not fled from it, dashed wildly away + from it into the night, he might have broken the spell of iniquity, the + powers of darkness might not have prevailed! He caught up the pile of + newspapers and began to glance through each in turn for the head-line: + “Wills Admitted to Probate.” In the last of all he found the paragraph he + sought, and it stared up at him as if with Rainer’s dying eyes. + </p> + <p> + That—<i>that</i> was what he had done! The powers of pity had + singled him out to warn and save, and he had closed his ears to their + call, and washed his hands of it, and fled. Washed his hands of it! That + was the word. It caught him back to the dreadful moment in the lodge when, + raising himself up from Rainer’s side, he had looked at his hands and seen + that they were red.... + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Triumph Of Night, by Edith Wharton + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRIUMPH OF NIGHT *** + +***** This file should be named 24351-h.htm or 24351-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/3/5/24351/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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