XXX

The countryside, it appeared to Howat Penny, flamed with autumn and faded in a day.  Throughout the night he heard the crisp sliding of dead leaves over the roof, the lash of the wind swung impotently about the rectangular, stone block of his dwelling.  At the closing of shutters the December gales only penetrated to him in a thin, distant complaint.  The burning hickory curtained the middle room with a ruddy warmth.  It was a period of extreme peace; he slept for long hours in a deep chair, or sat lost in a simulation of sleep, living again in the past.  The present was increasingly immaterial, unimportant; old controversies occupied him, long since stilled; and among the memories of opera, of Eames as a splendid girl, forgotten roles, were other, vaguer associations, impressions which seemed to linger from actual happenings, but persistently evaded definition.  At times, his eyes closed, the glow of his fireplace burned hotter, more lurid, and was filled with faintly clamorous sounds; at times there was, woven through his half-wakeful dreaming, a monotonous beat ... such as the fall of a hammer.  He saw, too, strange and yet familiar faces—­a girl in silk like an extravagant tea rose; a countenance seamed and glistening with pain floated in shadow; and then another mocked and mocked him.  Once he heard the drumming of rain, close above; and the illusion was so strong that he made his way to the door; a black void was glistening with cold and relentless stars....  Now he was standing by a dark, hurrying river, nothing else was visible; and yet he was thrilled by a sense of utter rapture.

He developed a feeling of the impermanence of life, his hold upon it no stronger than the tenuous cord of a balloon straining impatiently in great, unknown currents.  The future lost all significance, reality; there were only memories; the vista behind was long and clear, but the door to to-morrow was shut.  Looking into his mirror the reflection was far removed; it was hollow-cheeked and silvered, unfamiliar.  He half expected to see a different face, not less lean, but more arrogant, with a sharply defined chin.  The actual, blurred visage accorded ill with his trains of thought; it was out of place among the troops of gala youth.

A wired letter, a customary present of cigarettes, came from Mariana on Christmas, gifts from Charlotte and Bundy Provost.  There was champagne at his place for dinner; and he sealed crisp money in envelopes inscribed Rudolph, Honduras, and the names of the cook and maid.  He drank the wine solemnly; the visions were gone; and he saw himself as an old man lingering out of his time, alone.  There was, however, little sentimental melancholy in the realization; he held an upright pride, the inextinguishable accent of a black Penny.  His disdain for the commonality of life still dictated his prejudices.  He informed Rudolph again that the present opera was without song; and again Rudolph gravely echoed the faith that melody was the heart of music.