A Gamble with Life Part 19

"You want to live?"

"Now I do. For the moment I have something to live for. Something that gives zest to existence and fills all my dreams."

"I am so sorry to have delayed its execution. Perhaps you will come to it with more zest and insight after the long rest."

"I think I shall," he answered, slowly, looking beyond her to where the day grew red in the west.

"I wish I could help you," she said, as if thinking aloud; "but women can do so little."

He withdrew his eyes from the window and looked at her again.

"You will do much," he said, speaking earnestly.

"How?"

"By inspiring someone to be great. A clod would become a hero with your--your----" then he broke off suddenly and withdrew his eyes.

"Won't you finish the sentence?" she questioned, looking at him shyly.

"Not to-day," he answered, and a few minutes later she rose to go.

CHAPTER XII

FAIRYLAND

Madeline did not put in an appearance the next day or the day following that. But on the third day she came into the room like a ray of suns.h.i.+ne.

"Well, I'm here," she said, in her bright, eager fas.h.i.+on; "but I was just terribly afraid I wasn't going to get--there now, isn't that a sentence to be remembered?"

Rufus showed his welcome in every line of his face. It was a dull, rainy day, with a bl.u.s.tering wind from the west and a sky that had not revealed a speck of blue since morning. He had lain mostly in one position, looking through the small window, watching the trees on the other side of the road swaying in the wind, and listening to the fitful patter of the rain.

His thoughts had not been always of the most cheerful kind. The days and weeks were pa.s.sing surely, if slowly, while the great scheme on which he had set his heart and his hopes was at a standstill. He was conscious, too, of a new and terrible hunger that was steadily growing upon him--a hunger for companions.h.i.+p, for sympathy, for love. The coming of Madeline had changed his life, changed his outlook, changed the very centre of gravity. Nothing seemed exactly the same as it did before. Even death had changed its face, and the possibility of a life beyond forced itself upon his brain with a new insistence.

To win success had been his ambition--the one dream of his life. The only immortality he desired was to live in a beneficent invention he had wrought out. Now a new desire possessed him. There was something better than success, something sweeter than fame. If he could win love. If he could know the joy of a perfect sympathy. If--if----.

His thoughts always broke off at a certain point. It seemed so hopeless, so foolish. Until he had won some kind of position for himself it was madness to think of love. At present he was working on borrowed capital, and there was always before him the grim possibility that he might fail, and failure meant the end of all things for him. Felix Muller should never have reason to doubt his courage or his honour.

Then he would start again, dreaming of Madeline. The two preceding days had seemed painfully long. He had listened for her footsteps from noon to night. He had watched for her coming more than they who wait for the morning. He had pictured her smile a thousand times, and felt the warm pressure of her hand in his.

When at length she glided into the room his heart was too full for speech. How bright she was, how winsome, how overflowing with life and vivacity! The gloom and chill of autumn went out of the room as if by magic, and the air was full of the perfume of spring violets and the warmth of summer suns.h.i.+ne.

She pulled off her gloves and threw them on the table and seated herself in a chair near him.

"Have you been very dull these last two or three days?" she questioned.

"Rather," he answered. "You see, the fine weather has come to a sudden end."

"But I guess it will soon clear up again, though I am told your English climate is not to be relied upon."

"The only certain thing about it is its glorious uncertainty."

"Well, there may be advantages in that; there's always a certain interest in not knowing. Don't you think so?"

"Most things have their compensations," he said, with a smile.

"Then there's a chance of your being compensated for this long spell of suffering and idleness."

"As a matter of fact I have been compensated already."

"No! in which way?"

"Ah, that is not easy to explain," he said, turning away his eyes. "And you might not understand me if I tried."

"Am I so dense?"

"I don't think you are dense at all. But I am not good at saying things as they ought to be said. You will sympathise with me in that, I know."

"Oh, that is mere equivocation. You simply don't want to tell me."

"I would tell you a lot if I dared."

"Dared?"

"Yes. I should not like to drive you away or make you angry. Your friends.h.i.+p is very sweet to me--that is one of the compensations."

"The friends.h.i.+p of a mere girl is worth nothing to a grown, busy man, who is fighting big problems and aiming at great conquests. If I could only help you that would be just fine. But it is of no use hankering after impossible things, is it? So I am going to read to you."

"What are you going to read?"

"A piece called 'Snow Bound.' Now listen," and for half-an-hour he did not speak. Her voice rose and fell in musical cadence. He closed his eyes so that he might catch all the melody of her voice. The lines she read did not interest him at first. All his interest was in the sweet-eyed reader.

But he grew interested after awhile, and was touched unconsciously by the beautiful faith and tender humanity that flashed out here and there.

When she reached the end he opened his eyes and looked at her, her lips were still apart, her eyes aglow with emotion. She was no longer the bright, merry irresponsible girl. She seemed to have changed suddenly into a strong, great-souled woman.

"Would you mind reading a few stanzas over again?" he questioned, after a pause.

"With pleasure."

"Beginning, 'O time and change.'"

"Yes, I know," and she opened the book again. He listened with intense eagerness. She dropped her voice a little when she came to the words:

Alas for him who never sees The stars s.h.i.+ne through his cypress trees!

Who, hopeless, lays his dead away, Nor looks to see the breaking day Across the mournful marbles play!