Through stained glass
Page 52
CHAPTER LII
Through that winter Lewis worked steadily forward to a goal that he knewhis father could not cavil at. He knew it instinctively. His graspsteadied to expression with repression, or, as one of his envious, buthonest, competitors put it, genius had bowed to sanity.
It is usual to credit these rebirths in individual art to some greatgrief, but no great grief had come to Lewis. His work fulfilled itspromise in just such measure as he had fulfilled himself. In as much ashe had matured, in so much had his art. Man is not ripened by a shock,but by those elements that develop him to the point of feeling andknowing the shock when it comes to him. In a drab world, drab would havebeen Lewis's end; but, little as he realized it, his world had not beendrab.
Three steady, but varying, lights had shone upon him. The influence ofNatalie, as soft and still as reflected light; of H lne, worldly beforethe world, but big of heart; and of Leighton, who had been judged in allthings that he might judge, had drawn Lewis up above his self-chosenlevel, given sight to his eyes, and reduced Folly to the proportions ofa little final period to the paragraph of irresponsible youth.
To maturity Lewis had added a gravity that had come to him with therealization that in distancing himself from youth he had alsounwittingly drawn away from the hearts that had done most towardbringing him emancipation. He had no psychological turn of mind. Hecould not penetrate the sudden reserve that had fallen upon his fatheror the apparent increasing distraction with which H lne met his visits.He did not know that it is in youth and in age that hearts attain theirclosest contact and that the soul that finds itself, generally does soin solitude.
He was hurt by the long silence of his father--a silence unbroken now inmonths, and by H lne's withdrawal, which was marked enough to make himprolong the intervals between his visits to her, and baffled him onthose rare occasions when they met.
His life became somber and, as lightning comes only to clouds, so to hisclouded skies came the flash and the blow of a letter from Africa. Itwas not from his father, but from Old Ivory. He found it on thebreakfast table and started to open it, but some premonition arrestedhim. He laid it aside, tried to finish his meal, and failed. A thicknessin his throat would not let him eat. He left the table and went into theliving-room, closing the door behind him.
He opened the letter and read the first few words, then he sat andstared for many a long minute into the fire, the half-crumpled sheetsheld tightly in his hand.
Nelton opened the door.
"Excuse me, sir," he said; "you have an engagement at ten."
"Break it by telephone," said Lewis. "Don't come in again unless I ring.I'm out if anybody calls."
When Nelton had closed the door, Lewis spread the letter on his knee andread:
Dear Lew:
All is well with your dad at last. I'm a poor hand to talk and a poorer to write, for my finger is crooked to hold a trigger, not a pen. But he gave me it to do. Don't take it too hard that a man with only plain words is blunt. Your father is gone.
I don't have to tell you that in the last few weeks before he left you your dad grew old. He's grown old before, but never as old as that. The other times, the mere sight and smell of Africa started his blood again. But this time he stayed old--until to-day.
To-day we were out after elephant, and your dad had won the toss for first shot. We hadn't gone a mile from camp when a lone bull buffalo crossed the trail, and your dad tried for him--a long, quick shot. The bullet only plowed his rump. The bull charged up the wind straight for us, and before the thunder of him got near enough to drown a shout, your dad yelled out "He's mine, Ive! He's mine!" I held my fire, God help me; so did your dad--held it till the bull had passed the death-line. You know with charging buffalo there's more to stop than just life. There's weight and momentum and there's a rage that no other, man or beast, can equal.
Your dad got him--got him with the perfect shot,--but not before the bull had passed the death-line. And so, dear boy, they broke even, a life for a life. And your dad was glad. With the bones of his body crushed to a pulp, he could smile as I've never seen him smile before. He pulled me down close to him and he said: "Bury me here--right here, Ive, and tell my boy I stopped to take on a side-tracked car. That's a part of our language. He'll understand."