“The possibilities, hellish or otherwise, active or dormant, lie in every man of us born of woman, Philip. If we are, at bottom, creatures of heredity, on the surface we are pretty strictly creatures of environment; by which I mean that the environment calls to the surface only those qualities in us that are in harmony with it—that will respond to it. Back home, I take it, you had your little commonplace round and lived in it. Out here, all the traditional strings are off, and we are free to revert to type, if we feel like it.”
“M-m,” said Philip, thin-lipped; “very pretty—in theory. But it doesn’t get me anywhere. You can’t argue from the general to the particular; not in my case, anyway.”
There was the wisdom of the wise fools of all the ages in Bromley’s smile.
“Of course; you want to be specialized. We all do. I’ve prophesied for you before, and I can do it again if you want me to. You are of the tribe of those who have to emerge through great tribulation. There is a strong man and a broad man inside of you, Philip, and some day he will break out and come to his own. When he does, there will probably be a great smashing of window-panes and a kicking-out of door panels—wreckage a-plenty—and after it is all over you will doubtless wonder why there had to be an earthquake in your particular case. But the fact will remain.”
Philip grunted. “Are you trying to tell me that I am hidebound?”
“Call it that, if you like. Life is little to you yet; some day you will see how wide the horizons really are. But, as I say, you are likely to pay for the privilege—pay in advance. It’s coming to you.”
Silence for a few moments while the smoke curled upward in delicate little rings from Bromley’s pipe. Then Philip said soberly: “You spoke a while back of reversion to type. I don’t know what type it is that I am reverting to. My people are all decent and well behaved, as far back as I know anything about them.”
“Oh, that,” said Bromley lightly. “When it comes to ancestors and the heredities, most of us can find anything we are looking for, if we go back far enough. It is a family tradition of ours that there was once a Wigglesworth who was a raw-head-and-bloody-bones pirate and wound up by getting himself hanged in chains. I shouldn’t worry, if I were you.”
“That is just the difference between us, Harry,” was the somber rejoinder. “You wouldn’t worry if you knew the world were coming to an end to-morrow. I don’t happen to be built that way. For a time this evening, while I was with Jean Dabney, I was able to recognize myself as the normal Philip Trask. But a few minutes after we parted I was a bloody murderer—in all but the actual accomplishment of the thing; I could have killed Middleton without a qualm. If the crazy fit had lasted a minute or two longer, I don’t doubt but I should have killed him.”
“Well, you didn’t kill him; which is the main thing, after all. Let it go. You’ve got it out of your system now. I suppose your silly conscience will make you go and apologize to the masher, but that’s a future—a bridge to be crossed when you come to it. Let’s talk about me for a while. I’ve had a jolt, too, to-night.”