Something he had heard before: something he had already suffered. Again, there was the strident tongue of metal and the lips that bled. Again, the lips lay quiveringly forward, piteous and eloquent, while the tongue lurked back and darted forth in the swings of pain. And behind the mouth were words; below the rhythm was a music, as fire is beneath the smoke.
It was his own experience; it was his family; it was his life. All of the City spoke it—sang it—the obscure, muffled rooms, and the frangent traffic; the glimmer of breath in the dark hallways and the flash of commerce on the elevated structure, as a train met ice with its current. The entire symphony of twisted, agonizing life, bent upon false errands, hungering with false lusts, deforming the red heart of nature, spoke out to Quincy. And that which he heard was that which he already knew, that whence he had come bleeding and whither he must return to bleed some more.
And so, with subtle intertwinings, this vast impersonal life and his own narrow living became one, as the Pattern whirled.
There were many other salient parts of it; many other clarified events, as he traced back. And the veins and curvings were to dispart and spread and multiply. But even the tight seed was a weighty form, lodged in his mind....
Greatly increased with the new year, Quincy had returned to college.
VIII
At this point, Fortune resumed a hand. She had been singularly absent in Quincy’s life since her intrusive visit of his first two years when the fate of the two eldest children, the accident to Marsden and the Burt finances had so obliquely glanced against his own. From then, his life had been pure enough of hazard to be in that regard exceptional. For hazard is the term we apply to striking moments; and each life by its own testimony, is replete with such. But now, upon his return to college, after that purging and clarifying fortnight, an apt facilitation came to his affairs. The Deerings gave a party. There were about a score of guests. And Quincy was among them.
He was the one member of his class to be invited. Garsted was his sole haven from the social waves. And Garsted, having other friendships there, had other responsibilities. In consequence, the boy was somewhat lost. The gathering had the proclivity of breaking up into small groups, discussing in hushed and exclusive tones. Over these fragmentary units, the clear loud laughter of Professor Deering rolled at times, himself the heart of the largest fragment. Quincy was afraid to make himself one of this, since his relation with Professor Deering might be so easily abused. He did not know how to join with any of the others. So not long after the onset of the evening, there he was dangling, miserable at first, then conscious of his misery and at length fearful lest this consciousness in him project to those about him and so crystallize his discord with them. In this state his hostess rescued him.
He had scarce noticed her before. She was a much used pigment in the bright picture’s pallet. But she had scarcely been a figure. Her general affability with her reserve kept her from distinctness. But now he saw her coming, directly toward him. Her air was not that of a rescuer. She seemed to be saying: “I know you are having a splendid time without me. But I’m greedy. I’m not having a splendid time without you.” This was half the battle. She began casually and soon they were seated together. Fitfully, others joined her. But he alone remained. She left him to persuade an eminent pianist to perform. But she returned to listen to the music. The artist played several complex pieces—modern—that stirred Quincy potently.
“I can’t understand that music,” said Mrs. Deering.