“It was his diary. Shall I read you from it?”
“If you think it is right.”
“Yes. Just an extract or two. To show you the kind of man he is.”
The book was in the side pocket of her coat. Opening it, and leaning forward to get the light of the fire, she read:
“April 29th: The ice is preparing to go out. Great booming cracks have been issuing from the river all day at intervals. When the jam at the head of the rapids goes it will be a great sight. To-morrow I’ll take a bite to eat with me, and go down to the falls to watch what happens. Thank God for the coming of Spring! I’m pretty nearly at the end of my resources. I’ve read and re-read my few books and papers until I can almost repeat the contents by heart. I’ve finished my desk, and the candlesticks, and the frame for Clare’s picture. But now I’ll be able to make my garden. And I can sod a little lawn in front of the house with buffalo-grass.”
Clare looked at Stonor for an expression of opinion.
The policeman murmured diffidently: “A real good sort.”
“Wait!” she said. “Listen to this. One of the first entries.” She read in a moved voice:
“They say that a man who lives cut off from his kind is bound to degenerate swiftly, but, by God! I won’t have it so in my case. I’ll be on my guard against the first symptoms. I shave every day and will continue to do so. Shaving is a symbol. I will keep my person and my house as trim as if I expected her to visit me hourly. Half of each day I’ll spend in useful manual labour of some kind, and half in reading and contemplation. The power is mine to build or destroy myself with my thoughts. Well, I choose to build!”
Clare looked at Stonor again.