The Black Bag | Page 4

dear friend; my Romance died a natural death half an hour
since."
"There spoke Youth--blind, enviable Youth!... On the contrary, you are
but turning the leaves of the first chapter of your Romance, Philip."
"Romance is dead," contended the young man stubbornly.
"Long live the King!" Brentwick laughed quietly, still attentive to the
fire. "Myself when young," he said softly, "did seek Romance, but
never knew it till its day was done. I'm quite sure that is a poor

paraphrase of something I have read. In age, one's sight is
sharpened--to see Romance in another's life, at least. I say I envy you.
You have Youth, unconquerable Youth, and the world before you.... I
must go."
He rose stiffly, as though suddenly made conscious of his age. The old
eyes peered more than a trifle wistfully, now, into Kirkwood's. "You
will not fail to call on me by cable, dear boy, if you need--anything? I
ask it as a favor.... I'm glad you wished to see me before going out of
my life. One learns to value the friendship of Youth, Philip. Good-by,
and good luck attend you."
Alone once more, Kirkwood returned to his window. The
disappointment he felt at being robbed of his anticipated pleasure in
Brentwick's company at dinner, colored his mood unpleasantly. His
musings merged into vacuity, into a dull gray mist of hopelessness
comparable only to the dismal skies then lowering over London-town.
Brentwick was good, but Brentwick was mistaken. There was really
nothing for Kirkwood to do but to go ahead. But one steamer-trunk
remained to be packed; the boat-train would leave before midnight, the
steamer with the morning tide; by the morrow's noon he would be upon
the high seas, within ten days in New York and among friends; and
then ...
The problem of that afterwards perplexed Kirkwood more than he
cared to own. Brentwick had opened his eyes to the fact that he would
be practically useless in San Francisco; he could not harbor the thought
of going back, only to become a charge upon Vanderlip. No; he was
resolved that thenceforward he must rely upon himself, carve out his
own destiny. But--would the art that he had cultivated with such
assiduity, yield him a livelihood if sincerely practised with that end in
view? Would the mental and physical equipment of a painter,
heretofore dilettante, enable him to become self-supporting?
Knotting his brows in concentration of effort to divine the future, he
doubted himself, darkly questioning alike his abilities and his temper
under trial; neither ere now had ever been put to the test. His eyes

became somberly wistful, his heart sore with regret of Yesterday--his
Yesterday of care-free youth and courage, gilded with the ineffable,
evanescent glamour of Romance--of such Romance, thrice refined of
dross, as only he knows who has wooed his Art with passion passing
the love of woman.
Far away, above the acres of huddled roofs and chimney-pots, the
storm-mists thinned, lifting transiently; through them, gray, fairy-like,
the towers of Westminster and the Houses of Parliament bulked
monstrous and unreal, fading when again the fugitive dun vapors
closed down upon the city.
Nearer at hand the Shade of Care nudged Kirkwood's elbow,
whispering subtly. Romance was indeed dead; the world was cold and
cruel.
The gloom deepened.
In the cant of modern metaphysics, the moment was psychological.
There came a rapping at the door.
Kirkwood removed the pipe from between his teeth long enough to say
"Come in!" pleasantly.
The knob was turned, the door opened. Kirkwood, turning on one heel,
beheld hesitant upon the threshold a diminutive figure in the livery of
the Pless pages.
"Mr. Kirkwood?"
Kirkwood nodded.
"Gentleman to see you, sir."
Kirkwood nodded again, smiling if somewhat perplexed. Encouraged,
the child advanced, proffering a silver card-tray at the end of an
unnaturally rigid forearm. Kirkwood took the card dubiously between
thumb and forefinger and inspected it without prejudice.

"'George B. Calendar,'" he read. "'George B. Calendar!' But I know no
such person. Sure there's no mistake, young man?"
The close-cropped, bullet-shaped, British head was agitated in vigorous
negation, and "Card for Mister Kirkwood!" was mumbled in
dispassionate accents appropriate to a recitation by rote.
"Very well. But before you show him up, ask this Mr. Calendar if he is
quite sure he wants to see Philip Kirkwood."
"Yessir."
The child marched out, punctiliously closing the door. Kirkwood
tamped down the tobacco in his pipe and puffed energetically,
dismissing the interruption to his reverie as a matter of no
consequence--an obvious mistake to be rectified by two words with this
Mr. Calendar whom he did not know. At the knock he had almost
hoped it might be Brentwick, returning with a changed mind about the
bid to dinner.
He regretted Brentwick sincerely. Theirs was a curious sort