After a long time he heard his uncle sigh in his sleep, and the tears began to run down his cheeks. It must be almost morning; he would wrap himself in his coat and await the striking of the hour, then, if it was not too early to disturb his uncle, he would make up the fire. Moreover, he would make it up with these hideous writings for which he had spent good money.
But deliberation brought better counsel—Ellen would have no encounter with war! Besides, it was a Russian story and Ellen did not mean to go to Russia. He would read the other books.
The next evening he did not wait until Grandfather had gone to bed; but laid his book inside the manuscript of "The Mystic Dove" and began. A great deal of "Evelyn Innes" he did not understand, but he understood enough. He read like a child for the story, all else escaping his immature attention. The technique of music was an uncharted sea; the ambitions of Mr. Innes he did not comprehend; he had never seen an opera, nor was he able to picture one. But he saw clearly what had happened to Evelyn. A cold perspiration broke out upon him. It was well for Ellen that he had set out to discover the world!
Then he was guilty of a curious and natural inconsistency. He concluded that it was his duty to acquaint himself further with wickedness, so that he might the better resist it. When he had finished "Evelyn," he returned to the book of Russian stories, laying it, too, between the pages of "The Mystic Dove." He saw a dark river which carried on its strong current a raft, and understood that a young man, a pious Christian, worked at the stern and watched his wife made much of in a shameful way by his own father in the bow.
But still he read on. "The Raft" was short; midnight was still far away; he opened the third book. Again the accident of his choice was unfortunate. The story was simply and plainly told. Bertha Garlan, widowed and with a little child, sought out, under pressure of irresistible desire for affection, an old sweetheart who had attained fame and who lived grossly, and had with him a brief liaison. Her passion and her shame were pictured with equal skill—it was a moving tale, and it pointed as bitter a lesson as the pen of moralist could present.
It was not strange that when he tried to work at his "Mystic Dove," the language proved dull and meaningless. He ceased to translate and began to walk about, traveling over the frozen roads at night like one condemned to wander for his sins. The world was a whirlpool of crime in which each hour betrayed and murdered thousands were sucked down to destruction. His uncle had been right.
At last he began to think of another way to help Ellen. His uncle believed and had taught him that a man's first concern should be the eternal safety of his own soul. Might there not be a higher duty? Speculating, he felt his cheeks burn, his heart throb quickly.