“If you would have my light, first you must destroy the sun.”
In Quincy’s ideal world, the problem was just so unreal and just so reasonless. Yet—though he argued it away into non-existence—there it was! A sun that would not shine, save he denied the moon; and a moon that left dark the night, save he destroyed the sun through which not alone the day but herself had come to life! The petty wisdom of the savage, Quincy did not possess. For the young race, in its tactful henotheism, says by day: “O sun, thou art the one God”—and by night: “O moon, thou alone reignest.” But Quincy had gone beyond such paltry compromise. Morality and faith and an inflexible law buoyed him up. By all means and forever, his sun and moon should shine at once—and side by side—in the astonished heavens. He would have it so! With commendable courage, he set about his task.
Any little human spark may strike clear to heaven. And it is probable that heaven linked up the immemorial conflicts of the stars and of the races of men, with this infinitely small yet infinitely old attempt of Quincy’s to wed what he wanted, with what he had.
Like a somnambulist, he had tasted a balm in his walking-sleep. His waking had ever been so painful! And now, again, his eyes were being opened. Surely, he would fight well for his dreams!
In March, came the note from Julia.
Professor Deering had gone to Chicago. Here, for two weeks, he was to represent his college at a conference. Quincy was bidden to dinner. He was told that they would be alone.
He went, armed with his resolution to beat down as superficial and untrue, any discrepancy between his ideal and his reality. He was eager to go, yet fearful. Knowledge had pricked him that this woman could do with him, according to her will; and that her will might disagree with his.
She received him, in a simple, straight-cut, black gown—caught up close, like all her garments, below her breast—a soft and singing thing. Quincy was in a dinner coat which he had had two years and had outgrown. The padded shoulder and artificial box effect made his slenderness seem gaunt. But he was really pale.
It was a plain meal and took little time. There was no wine. And, with academic grace, Julia Deering carved the chicken and served the fruit, herself. But when Quincy arose from the table, he was flushed and exalted as if the little supper had been a feast. A glow fretted the green pallor of his cheeks.
He followed Julia into her room and sank upon the primmest chair, holding his knees. When she went to light a lamp, he did not offer to assist her. He watched her supple figure bend over the table. He saw the gap caused by her posture, between her breast and the garment. The glow gave a red note to her hair. Then, she passed him, her dress forever singing, and composed herself upon the couch—cushions supporting her back and one of gleaming copper, which she had carefully smoothed, before her to rest her hand. The other arm was flung behind her head. She faced him, erect from her waist, with her gown lost in the shadow.