CHAPTER XXXIV
In this world of ours the activities of animal life seem to be limited to a plane
or circle, as if that were an inherent necessity to
the creatures of a planet
which is perforce compelled to swing about the sun. A fish, for instance,
may not pass out of the circle of the seas without courting annihilation; a
bird may not enter the domain of the fishes without paying for it dearly.
From the parasites of the flowers to the monsters of the jungle and the deep
we see clearly the circumscribed nature of their movements—the emphatic
manner in which life
has limited them to a sphere; and we are content to
note the ludicrous and invariably fatal results which attend any effort on
their part to depart from their environment.
In the case of man, however, the operation of this theory of limitations has
not as yet been so clearly observed. The laws governing our social life are
not so clearly understood as to permit of a clear generalization. Still, the
opinions, pleas, and judgments of society serve
as boundaries which are
none the less real for being intangible. When men or women err—that is,
pass out from the sphere in which they are accustomed to move—it is not as
if the bird had intruded itself into the water, or the wild animal into the
haunts of man. Annihilation is not the immediate result. People may do no
more than elevate their eyebrows in astonishment,
laugh sarcastically, lift
up their hands in protest. And yet so well defined is the sphere of social
activity that he who departs from it is doomed. Born and bred in this
environment, the individual is practically unfitted for any other state. He is
like a bird accustomed to a certain density of atmosphere, and which cannot
live comfortably at either higher or lower level.
Lester sat down in his easy-chair by the window after his brother had gone
and gazed ruminatively out over the flourishing city. Yonder was spread out
before him life with its concomitant phases of energy, hope, prosperity, and
pleasure, and here he was suddenly struck by a wind of misfortune and
blown aside for the time being—his prospects and purposes dissipated.
Could he continue as cheerily in the paths he had hitherto pursued? Would
not his relations with Jennie be necessarily affected by this
sudden tide of
opposition? Was not his own home now a thing of the past so far as his old
easy-going relationship was concerned? All the atmosphere of unstained
affection would be gone out of it now. That hearty look of approval which
used to dwell in his father's eye—would it be there any longer? Robert, his
relations with the manufactory, everything that
was a part of his old life,
had been affected by this sudden intrusion of Louise.
"It's unfortunate," was all that he thought to himself, and therewith turned
from what he considered senseless brooding to the consideration of what, if
anything, was to be done.
"I'm thinking I'd take a run up to Mt. Clemens to-morrow, or Thursday
anyhow, if I feel strong enough," he said to Jennie after he had returned.
"I'm not feeling as well as I might. A few days will do me good." He wanted to
get off by himself and think. Jennie packed his
bag for him at the given
time, and he departed, but he was in a sullen, meditative mood.
During the week that followed he had ample time to think it all over, the
result of his cogitations being that there was no need of making a decisive
move at present. A few weeks more, one way or the other, could not make
any practical difference. Neither Robert nor any other member of the family
was at all likely to seek another conference with him. His business relations
would necessarily go on as usual, since they were coupled with the welfare
of the manufactory; certainly no attempt to coerce him would be attempted.
But the consciousness that he was at hopeless
variance with his family
weighed upon him. "Bad business," he meditated—"bad business." But he
did not change.
For the period of a whole year this unsatisfactory state of affairs continued.
Lester did not go home for six months;
then an important business
conference demanding his presence, he appeared and carried it off quite as
though nothing important had happened. His mother kissed him
affectionately, if a little sadly; his father gave him his customary greeting, a
hearty handshake; Robert, Louise, Amy, Imogene, concertedly, though
without any verbal understanding, agreed to ignore the one real issue. But
the feeling
of estrangement was there, and it persisted. Hereafter his visits to
Cincinnati were as few and far between as he could possibly make them.
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