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Unjudged
by
August 30. I finished to-day and expressed him the last scrap of copy. I wanted to sing, I was so happy. Then I bethought me, it is her birthday. I went down town and picked out a stone that pleased me. Their messenger will deliver it, and she can choose her own setting. How I’d like to carry it myself, but I have a little more work to do before I go. Only two more days, and then–
I have been counting the time since she left: almost two months; it seems incredible when I think of it.
How I have worked! Next time I write, my journal confessor, I will have something to tell: I will have seen her–she who wears my ring…. Ah! here comes my man for orders. A few of my bachelor friends help me celebrate here to-night. I have not told them it is the last time.
September 5. Let me think; I am confused. This hotel is vile, abominable, but there is no other. That cursed odor of stale tobacco, and of cookery!
The landlord says they were here yesterday and went West. It’s easy to trace them–everybody notices. A tall man, dark, with a firm jaw; the most beautiful woman they have ever seen–they all say the same. My God! and I’m hung up here, inactive a whole day! But I’ll find them, they can’t escape; and then they’ll laugh at me, probably.
What can I do? I don’t know. I can’t think. I must find them first … that cursed odor again!
Oh, what a child, a worse than fool I have been! To sit there in town pouring the best work of my life into his hands! I must have that book, I will have it. To think how I trusted her–waited until my hair began to turn–for this!
But I must stop. This is useless, it’s madness.
September 9. It is a beautiful night. I have just come in from a long walk, how long I don’t know. I went to the suburbs and through the parks, watching the young people sitting, two and two, in the shadow. I smiled at the sight, for in fancy I could hear what they were saying. Then I wandered over to the lakefront and stood a long time, with the waves lapping musically against the rocks below, and the moonlight glistening on a million reflectors. The great stretch of water in front, and the great city behind me sang low in concord, while the stars looked down smiling at the refrain. “Be calm, little mortal, be calm,” they said; “calm, tiny mortal, calm,” repeated endlessly, until the mood took hold of me, and in sympathy I smiled in return.
Was it yesterday? It seems a month since I found them. Was it I who was so hot and angry? I hold up my hand; it is as steady as my mother’s when, years ago, as a boy, she laid it on my forehead with her good-night. The murmur of this big hotel speaks soothingly, like the voice of an old friend. The purr of the elevator is a voice I know. It all seems incredible. To-day is so commonplace and real, and yesterday so remote and fantastic.
He was lounging in the lobby, a hand in either pocket, when I touched him on the shoulder. He turned, but neither hands nor face failed him by a motion.
“I presume you would prefer to talk in private?” I said, “Will you come to my room?”
A smile formed slowly over his lips.
“I don’t wish to deprive my–” He paused, and his eyes met mine,”–my wife of a pleasant chat with an old friend. I would suggest that you come with us to our suite.”
I nodded. In silence we went up the elevator; in equal silence, he leading, we passed along the corridor over carpets that gave out no telltale sound.
She was standing by the window when we entered. Her profile stood out clear in the shaded room, and in spite of myself a great heart-throb passed over me. She did not move at first, but at last turning she saw him and me. Then I could see her tremble; she started quickly to leave, but he barred the way. The smile was still upon his face.