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All I could say, this afternoon, only rubbed him the wrong way, and increased the notion that he's cherishing, the notion that he's an uncomprehended genius. In heaven's name, Reed," and Whittenden's fist came crashing down on the arm of his chair; "is anything in this whole world more hard to fight than that same pose of being misunderstood? Nine times out of ten, it is mere pose.
Spine or conscience, it's all one, once it begins to raise a ruction. But about Brenton: how do you diagnose his disease?" Whittenden's reply came on the instant. "Trying to believe too many things too hard." "Hm!" Opdyke appeared to be considering. "Well, I think perhaps you've hit it. However, there are some extenuating circumstances.
Then the arm came down, and the heavy eyes met Whittenden's. "That's why I sent for you," Reed said. "I wanted you." Ramsdell, in the next room, had quite a little doze, before once more the voices waked him. "You see," Reed said at last, as if there had been no pause at all; "I was a little in the state those fellows were in, up at the mine. I needed something equivalent to their extreme unction.
In the meantime, Reed's face was losing somewhat of its look of strain; Whittenden's clear eyes were growing gentler, yet infinitely more full of courage. To both of them, the future was less of a blank wall than it had seemed, the night before. Already, they both were gathering a little more perspective. Towards noon, though, Opdyke roused himself and spoke.
Now, Brenton's accent showed that he resented the correction. "Ours, if you will; at least, for the present. But, after all, what is the good?" Whittenden's reply came promptly. "A common platform, where we can stand side by side, while we are doing our individual work." "But, if you don't believe in it?" A sudden gleam of mirth came into Whittenden's clear eyes.
"In the final analysis, Brenton, what are you making out of your life?" The answer astounded him by its terse abruptness. "Chaos," Brenton said. Whittenden's mouth settled to the outlines of a whistle, albeit no sound came out of it. "Chaos is a good, strong word, Brenton," he said, after a minute. "Exactly what is it that you mean?"
"Or else, hang on to it, and keep still. But it's your belief I want, your creed, your working platform." "How do you know I have one?" Brenton asked rather irritably, for Whittenden's attitude was distinctly less satisfying to him than it had been of yore. "Because I know the kind of men Saint Peter's has been accustomed to demand. Also because I have talked to Reed Opdyke."
The cases are analogous; though, after all, I am not sure it would be quite as hard to die into the next world as I'm finding it to die out of this." Whittenden's clear eyes flickered. Then he braced himself and asked the direct question to which his friend, for two long hours, had been so plainly leading. "Reed, do you mean this thing is permanent?" "Yes." "You know it for a fact?" "Yes."
The change had started a good two months earlier, had dated, as nearly as she could reckon backwards, from the time of Whittenden's brief visit. And the change, whatever else its alterations in the life of Opdyke, had made not one grain of difference with their friendship.
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