“But it will last—if you resolve that it shall,” he said. “Why make up your mind to the worst? Why not the best? Just keep your eyes on the present until it frowns. Then the future will be bright by contrast, and you can look at it.”
“This city makes me feel painfully small and weak.” Emily hid her earnestness in a light tone and smile. “And I’m not able to take myself so very seriously.”
“You should be glad of that. It seems to me absurd for one to take himself seriously. It interferes with one’s work. But one ought always to take his work seriously, I think, and sacrifice everything to it. Do you remember what Cæsar said to the pilot?”
“No—what was it?”
“The pilot said, ‘It’s too stormy to cross the Adriatic to-night. You will be drowned.’ And Cæsar answered: ‘It is not important whether I live or die. But it is important that, if I’m alive to-morrow morning, I shall be on the other shore. Let us start!’ I read that story many years ago—almost as many as you’ve lived. It has stood me in good stead several times.”
At the next slowing down, Marlowe went on:
“You’re certain to win. All that one needs to do is to keep calm and not try to hurry destiny. He’s sure to come into his own.” He hesitated, then added. “And I think your ‘own’ is going to be worth while.”
They swung into the Riverside Drive—the sun was making the crest of the wooded Palisades look as if a forest fire were raging there; the Hudson, broad and smooth and still, was slowly darkening; the breeze mingled the freshness of the water and the fragrance of the trees. And Emily felt a burden, like an oppressively heavy garment, falling from her.
“What are you thinking?” asked Marlowe.
“Of Stoughton—and this,” she replied.