And it was all
so lonely, so hostile, so limitless. But no more lonely and hostile
and limitless than the desolate future which stretched away and away
before his gaze.
As yet he dared not trust his mind to rest too much upon the past.
The future demanded his whole attention. It was a far cry for him
from the present up to his limit of threescore years and ten. Still,
he would not funk it now. That was the part of a sneak. Now, as
always, he would stand by his young resolution to play out the game,
to abide by the rules and to take the consequences. Nevertheless, it
would be weary work to play out the game to its end, when the end
held nothing for him in its keeping. His mind trailed off upon all
sorts or vague corollaries scarcely connected with the fact. He
recalled it with a jerk.
The Captain was dead. Ethel had loved the Captain. She had told the
Captain of her love. As consequence, she could not love himself,
Harvard Weldon. But he loved her. He had loved her for thirteen
months and twenty-one days. Carefully he reckoned up the time; then,
to make sure, he counted it off upon his fingers. Yes, he had loved
her ever since that first lunch on the steamer, when she had snubbed
him so roundly.
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