Robert Kimberly

"What is First Communion, Hamilton?" he asked.

Hamilton shook his head.

"I think," Kimberly said, pausing, "it must bethe expression upon her face now."

During the day he hardly spoke. Much of thetime he walked in the hall or upon the belvedereand his silence was respected. Those of hishousehold asked one another in turn to talk withhim. But even his kindness repelled communication.

In the early morning when the white couch hadbeen placed to receive her for the grave hereturned to the room with Dolly and they stoodbeside Alice together.

"This is my wedding day, Dolly. Did youremember it?"

"Robert!"

"I tried for once to do better; to treat Alice asa woman should be treated. This is my reward-mywedding day."

He lifted her in his arms like a child and as helaid her in her coffin looked at her stonily. "Mybride! My Alice!"

Dolly burst into tears. The harshness of hisdespair gave way as he bent over her for the lasttime and when he spoke again the tenderness ofhis voice came back. "My darling! With you Ibury every earthly hope; for I take God to witness,in you I have had all my earthly joy!" Hewalked away and never saw her face again.

The unintelligible service in the church did notrouse him from his torpor and he was only aftera long time aware of a strange presence on thealtar. Just at the last he looked up into thesanctuary. Little clouds of incense rising from aswinging thurible framed for an instant the faceof a priest and Kimberly saw it was the archbishop.

The prelate stood before the tabernacle facingthe little church filled with people. But his eyeswere fixed on the catafalque and his lips weremoving in prayer. Kimberly watched with astrange interest the slender, white hand rise ina benediction over the dead. He knew it wasthe last blessing of her whom he had loved.

Dolly had dreaded the scene at the grave butthere was no scene. Nor could Kimberly everrecollect more than the mournful trees, the greenturf, and the slow sinking of a flowered pall intothe earth. And at the end he heard only thewords of the archbishop, begging that they whoremained might, with her, be one day receivedfrom the emptiness of this life into one that is bothbetter and lasting.

CHAPTER XLIII

In the evening of the day on which they hadburied Alice, and the family were all at TheTowers, Dolly, after dinner, asked DoctorHamilton to walk with her. Robert Kimberly had dinedupstairs and Hamilton upon leaving Dolly wentup to Kimberly's rooms.

The library door was closed. Hamilton, picking up a book in an adjoining room, made a placeunder the lamp and sat down to read. It was latewhen Kimberly opened the closed door. "Do youwant to see me, doctor?" he asked abruptly.

"Not particularly. I am not sleepy."

Kimberly sat down in the corner of adavenport. "Nor am I, doctor. Nor am Italkative-you understand, I know."

"I have been reading this pretty little Frenchstory." Hamilton had the book in his hand."Mrs. MacBirney gave it to you. I have beenthinking how like her it seems-the storyitself-elevated, delicate, refined-"

"It happens to be the only book she ever gave me."

Hamilton looked again at the inscription on thefly-leaf, and read in Alice's rapid, nervous hand:

"From Alice, To Robert."

"What slight chances," the doctor went on,"contribute sometimes to our treasures. You willalways prize this. And to have known and lovedsuch a woman-to have been loved by her-somuch does not come into every man's life."

Kimberly was silent. But Hamilton had cometo talk, and disregarding the steady eyes bentsuspectingly upon him he pursued his thought. "Tomy mind, to have known the love of one womanis the highest possible privilege that can cometo a man. And this is the thought I find in thisbook. It is that which pleases me. Whatsurprises me in it is the light, cynical view that theman takes of the responsibility of life itself."

"All sensualists are cynical."

"But how can a man that has loved, or treasures,as this man professes to treasure, the memory ofa gifted woman remain a sensualist?"

Kimberly shrugged his shoulders. "Men areborn sensualists. No one need apologize for beinga sensualist; a man should apologize for beinganything else."

"But no matter what you and I are born, wedie something other."

"You mean, we progress. Perhaps so. Butthat we progress to any more of respect for man orfor life, I have yet to learn. We progress from amoment of innocence to an hour of vanity, andfrom an hour of vanity to an eternity of ashes."

"You are quoting from the book."

"It is true."

"She did not believe it true. She died clingingto a crucifix."

Kimberly shrank under the surgeon's blade.

"A memory is not vanity," persisted Hamilton."And the day some time comes when it embodiesall the claim that life has upon us; but it is nonethe less a valid claim. In this case," the surgeonheld up the book, "Italy and work proved such a claim."

"My work would be merely more money-getting.I am sickened of all money-getting. And my Italylies to-night-up there." His eyes rolled towardthe distant hill. "I wish I were there with her."

"But between the wishing and the reality,Robert-you surely would not hasten the momentyourself."

Kimberly made no answer.

"You must think of Alice-what would shewish you to do? Promise me," Hamilton, rising, laid his hand on Kimberly's shoulder, "thatto-night you will not think of yourself alone. Suicideis the supreme selfishness-remember your ownwords. There was nothing of selfishness in her.Tell me, that for to-night, you will think of her."

"That will not be hard to do. You are verykind. Good-night."

In the morning Kimberly sent for Nelson andlater for Charles. It was to discuss detailsconcerning their business, which Robert, conferringwith his brother, told him frankly he must nowprepare to take up more actively. Charles, uneasy, waited until they had conferred some time andthen bluntly asked the reason for it.

Kimberly gave no explanation beyond what hehad already given to Nelson, that he meant totake a little rest. The two worked until Charles, though Robert was quite fresh, was used up. Herose and going to an open window looked out onthe lake, saying that he did not want to workany longer.

The brothers were so nearly of an age that thereseemed no difference in years between them.Robert had always done the work; he liked to doit and always had done it. To feel that he wasnow putting it off, appalled Charles, and he hidhis own depression only because he saw themental strain reflected in Robert's drawn features.

Charles, although resolutely leaving the tableand every paper on it, looked loyally back aftera moment to his brother. "It's mighty good ofyou, Bob," he said slowly, "to explain these thingsall over again to me. I ought to know them-I'mashamed that I don't. But, somehow, you alwaystook the load and I like a brute always let youtake it. Then you are a lot brainier than I am."

Robert cut him off. "That simply is not true,Charlie. In matter of fact, that man has the mostbrains who achieves happiness. And you havebeen supremely happy."

"While you have done the work!"

"Why not? What else have I been good for?If I could let you live-if even one of us couldlive-why shouldn't I?"

The elder brother turned impulsively. "Why?Because you have the right to live, too. Becausesunshine and bright skies are as much for you asthey are for me."

They were standing at the window together.Robert heard the feeling in the words.

"Yes," he answered, "I know the world is fullof sunshine, and flowers are always fresh and lifeis always young and new hands are alwayscaressing. This I well know, and I do not complain.The bride and the future are always new. ButCharlie," he laid his hand on his brother'sshoulder, "we can't all play the game of life with thesame counters; some play white but some mustplay black. It's the white for you, the black forme. The sun for you, the shadow for me. Don'tspeak; I know, I have chosen it; I know it is myfault. I know the opportunities wasted. I mighthave had success, I asked for failure. But it allcomes back to the same thing-some play thewhite, some the black."

CHAPTER XLIV