Читать книгу The Lonely Warrior - Claude C. Washburn - Страница 11

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The evening, pleasant as it was, left Stacey with a feeling of emptiness. When he had finally said good night to his father and gone upstairs to his own study he wandered about it restlessly, smoking cigarettes and staring blankly at one after another of the objects with which he had once affectionately filled it. Everything and every one, he said to himself, were just the same—or almost. It was inconceivable. He had gone through something that had destroyed every particle of his former self, and now he came back to just what he had left. Not, he reflected, that he wanted his people changed, certainly not in the way he was changed—whatever that was. What the devil did he want?

Well, for one thing, he would rather like to be able to feel a little more. Toward Phil and Catherine Blair, for example. He knew that he had treated them badly. What sort of gratitude had he returned them for their open-hearted welcome? He shrugged his shoulders. He couldn’t help it. It was all he had felt.

Nevertheless, even though only intellectually, he was sorry. And all at once he found something he could do about it, and felt immediate relief. To do something had become his sole means of relief in any situation. He sat down at the desk in his study and drew out paper and ink.

Then he paused for a moment, reflecting. Of course he might be mistaken about it. Phil might be prospering. He remembered that he hadn’t even asked. But he shook his head. No, the signs were clear enough. And, if he was mistaken, it would anyway do no harm to write. He dashed off the brief letter at once, never pausing for the best word or expression.