“What?”
“To stop teaching. When the term’s over, in a few weeks, I’m going to take the money I make and go to New York. It will be just enough to get me there and buy me a pretty hat, with a few dollars over. I am going with those into a café and get a bottle of champagne, and pick out the man with the best clothes. I’ll tell him I’m a poor school-teacher from the South who came to New York to meet a man who promised to marry me, but who had not kept his word. I’ll tell him that I’m good—I can, you know; no man has ever fooled anything out of me—and that I bought wine to get the courage to kill myself.”
“It sounds right smart,” he admitted; “you can do it too, you can lie like hell. But,” he added importantly, “I don’t know that I will let you.” This, he assured himself, was purely experimental. He had decided nothing; his course in the future was hidden from him absolutely. He thought discontentedly of his home, of the imagined long, dun vista of years.
He was now, he realized dimly, at the crucial point of his existence: with Meta Beggs, in that world of which Paris was the prefigurement, he might still wring from life a measure of the sharp pleasures of tempestuous youth and manhood; he might still dance to the piping of the senses. With Lettice in Greenstream he would rapidly sink into the dullness of increasing age.
He was vaguely conscious of the baseness of the mere weighing of such a choice; but he was engulfed in his overmastering egotism; his sense of obligation was dulled by the supreme selfishness of a lifetime, of a lifetime of unbridled temper and appetite, of a swaggering self-esteem which the remorseless operation of fate had ignored, had passed indifferently by, leaving him in complete ignorance of the terrible and grim possibilities of human mischance.
He had suffered at the loss of his dwelling, but principally it had been his pride that had borne the wound; Clare’s death had affected him finally as the arbitrary removal of a sentimental object for his care, on which to lavish the gifts of his large generosity.
He sat revolving in his mind the choice of paths which seemed to open for his decision in such different directions, which seemed to await the simple ordering of his footsteps as he chose. The night deepened to its darkest hour; the moon, in obedience to its automatic, fixed course, had vanished behind the mountains; the frogs, out of their slime, raised their shrill plaint of life in death.