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Antony Dart had not learned this
thing and the clamor had had its
hideous way with him. Physicians
would have given a name to his
mental and physical condition. He
had heard these names often--applied
to men the strain of whose lives had
been like the strain of his own, and
had left them as it had left him--
jaded, joyless, breaking things. Some
of them had been broken and had
died or were dragging out bruised and
tormented days in their own homes
or in mad-houses. He always shuddered
when he heard their names,
and rebelled with sick fear against
the mere mention of them. They
had worked as he had worked, they
had been stricken with the delirium
of accumulation--accumulation--
as he had been. They had been
caught in the rush and swirl of the
great maelstrom, and had been borne
round and round in it, until having
grasped every coveted thing tossing
upon its circling waters, they
themselves had been flung upon the shore
with both hands full, the rocks about
them strewn with rich possessions,
while they lay prostrate and gazed
at all life had brought with dull,
hopeless, anguished eyes. He knew
--if the worst came to the worst--
what would be said of him, because
he had heard it said of others. "He
worked too hard--he worked too
hard." He was sick of hearing it.
What was wrong with the world--
what was wrong with man, as Man
--if work could break him like this?
If one believed in Deity, the living
creature It breathed into being must
be a perfect thing--not one to be
wearied, sickened, tortured by the
life Its breathing had created. A
mere man would disdain to build
a thing so poor and incomplete.
A mere human engineer who constructed
an engine whose workings
were perpetually at fault--which
went wrong when called upon to
do the labor it was made for--who
would not scoff at it and cast it aside
as a piece of worthless bungling?
"Something is wrong," he muttered,
lying flat upon his cross and
staring at the yellow haze which
had crept through crannies in window-sashes
into the room. "Someone
is wrong. Is it I--or You?"
His thin lips drew themselves
back against his teeth in a mirthless
smile which was like a grin.
"Yes," he said. "I am pretty
far gone. I am beginning to talk to
myself about God. Bryan did it just
before he was taken to Dr. Hewletts'
place and cut his throat."
He had not led a specially evil
life; he had not broken laws, but
the subject of Deity was not one
which his scheme of existence had
included. When it had haunted
him of late he had felt it an untoward
and morbid sign. The thing
had drawn him--drawn him; he
had complained against it, he had
argued, sometimes he knew--shuddering--
that he had raved. Something
had seemed to stand aside and
watch his being and his thinking.
Something which filled the universe
had seemed to wait, and to have
waited through all the eternal ages,
to see what he--one man--would
do. At times a great appalled wonder
had swept over him at his realization
that he had never known or
thought of it before. It had been
there always--through all the ages
that had passed. And sometimes--
once or twice--the thought had in
some unspeakable, untranslatable way
brought him a moment's calm.
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