As it was well known that Prescott was as ready and able with his revolver as with his pen, his views on current events were respected, and seldom openly disputed. He was the mortal enemy of fools and fogies, and found his chief joy in outraging that chaos of ignorance and prejudice we call public opinion. In short he was brilliant, bold, witty, kind and cruel—a tremendous engine with sand in the joints.
Mrs. Doring found her new field of activity stimulating and delightful. It had been her belief that happiness could be made of but two ingredients—companionship and congenial employment. Now that she had the latter, the want of the former troubled her less. Besides, she met many people, and the contact of sympathetic minds is to another what moisture is to vegetation—keeping it alive and invigorating it. In a day, as it were, the world had expanded, and she was in touch with its heart, vibrating in sympathy with its deep pulsations.
She learned much of human nature, particularly gifted human nature, for the Register had literary leanings, and many of its friends, men and women, who came to chat a vast half-hour in the informal editorial den, were toiling up the narrow way that leads to eminence and fame.
Some have achieved the fulfilment of their dreams and are now enjoying their little day of renown. Others had but a taste of the delirious cup of renown when they were called into the silence. Some grew weary and ceased to strive, and some are still plodding on in the old road, having neither lost nor gained ground.
As a matter of course, enemies arose. The spiteful, the envious, the jealous, the bitter-hearted, the undeveloped must needs have their little fling at the woman whose pen was a power. But Cartice was too busy to heed them. Scarcely had she time to ask herself if she were happy. “Almost,” she said, when she thought of it, though it was a different kind of happiness from that of her earlier dreams.
CHAPTER VIII.
DEATH’S NARROW SEA.
The child that enters life comes not with knowledge or intent;
So those who enter death must go as little children sent.
Nothing is known, but I believe that God is overhead;
And as life is to the living, so death is to the dead.
—Mary Mapes Dodge.
One morning Cartice met Colonel Layton in the hall, as he was about to go out for the day. His unusual appearance struck her at once. He was clean shaven and carefully dressed; his face was pale and no signs or fumes of liquor were upon or about him. This, of itself, was enough to attract particular attention; but there was more. An indefinable something in his manner asked for sympathy in a silent way, like an animal; and in his eyes which of late were unusually glassy and vacant, was an expression of reminiscent sadness, such as comes to the eyes of those who in a quiet, self-questioning hour, look back upon their lives and see scenes that bring regret. Cartice felt her heart stirred by a wish to comfort him.
Perhaps he was conscious of that vibration of sympathy, for he smiled and the smile was singularly sweet and winning, revealing a glimpse of his old-time handsome self, when he had won the Butterfly’s heart.
In conversation the Colonel was ever a failure. His ability in that art did not go much beyond a few stock expletives, eked out with significant shrugs and emphatic grunts. But now he tried to make talk, and lingered as though he had something to say and knew not how to begin.