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Updated: June 22, 2025
She had cost him his belief in himself. Her last words had crystallized his own sense of failure. "I admit all your good qualities, Clay. Heaven knows they are evident enough. But you are the sort people admire. They don't love you. They never will." Yet that night he had had a curious sense that old Buckham loved him. Maybe he was the sort men loved and women admired.
She knew his mother, who had a large family, and she had, indeed, given the boy his place that he might be trained under the great Mr. Buckham, who was coachman and head of the stables. She said encouraging things which quite cheered him, and she spoke privately to Mr. Buckham about him. Then she walked in the park a little, but not for long. When she came back Rosalie was waiting for her.
Come in. Shall I have Buckham light a fire?" She came in, slowly. "Do you suppose that cable is reliable?" "I should think so." "He may have a relapse." "We mustn't worry about what may come. He is better now. The chances are that he'll stay better." "Probably. I suppose, because I have been so ill " He felt the demand for sympathy, but he had none to give. And he felt something else.
When he went into the library Buckham was there stooping over the fire, his austere old face serious and intent. "Well, another year almost gone, Buckham!" he said. "Yes, Mr. Spencer." "It would be interesting to know what the New-year holds." "I hope it will bring you peace and happiness, sir." "Thank you." And after Buckham had gone he thought that rather a curious New-year's wish.
"There's the dearest little old gentleman," says James Buckham, "who goes into town every morning on the 8.30 train. I don't know his name, and yet I know him better than anybody else in town. He just radiates cheerfulness as far as you can see him. There is always a smile on his face, and I never heard him open his mouth except to say something kind, courteous, or good natured.
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