“Don’t be cross with me, Mr. Barslow,” said she, “for really, really—I am in great perplexity.”
“I am not cross,” said I, “but don’t you see how hard it is for me to advise? Things conflict so, and all among your friends!”
“They do conflict,” she assented, “they do conflict, every way, and all the time—and do, do give me a little credit for keeping the conflict from getting beyond control for so long; for there are conflicts within, as well as without! Don’t blame Helen altogether, or me, whatever happens!”
She hung on my arm, as she took me to the door, and seemed deeply troubled. I left her, and walked several times around the block, ruminating upon the extraordinary way in which these dissolving views of passion were displaying themselves to me. Not that the mere matter of outburst of confidences surprised me; for people all my life have bored me with their secret woes. I think it is because I early formed a habit of looking sympathetic. But these concerned me so nearly that their gradual focussing to some sort of climax filled me with anxious interest.
The next day I spent in the sleeping-car, running into Chicago. As the clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack of the wheels vibrated through my couch, I pondered on the ridiculous position of that cautious Eastern bank as to the Fleischmann Brothers’ failure; then on the Lattimore & Great Western and Belt Line sale; and finally worked around through the Straits of Sunda, in a suspicious lateen-rigged craft manned by Malays and Portuguese. Finally, I was horrified at discovering Cornish, in a slashed doublet, carrying Josie away in one of the boats, having scuttled the vessel and left Jim bound to the mast.
“Chicago in fifteen minutes, suh,” said the porter, at this critical point. “Just in time to dress, suh.”
And as I awoke, my approach toward New York brought to me a sickening consciousness of the struggle which awaited me there, and the fatal results of failure.
CHAPTER XXII.