Burned Bridges by Bertrand W. Sinclair (bearly read books txt) 📕

And So On. But This Flare Of Passionate Tenderness Focussing Upon One

Slender Bit Of A Girl Was Something He Could Not Quite Fathom. He Would

Have Contradicted With Swift Anger Any Suggestion That Perhaps It Was

Merely Wise Old Nature's Ancient Method Efficiently At Work For An

Appointed End. He Had Been So Thoroughly Grounded In The Convention Of

Decrying Physical Impulses,  Of Putting Everything Upon A Pure And

Spiritual Plane,  That In This First Emotional Crisis Of His Life He

Could No More Help Dodging First Principles Than A Spaniel Pup Can Help

Swimming When He Is First Tossed Into Deep Water.

Still--He Was Not A Fool. He Knew That His Concern Was Not For Sophie

Carr's Immortal Soul,  Nor For The Beauty And Sweetness Of Her Spirit,

When He Was Near Her,  When He Touched Her Hand,  Nor Even In That Supreme

Moment When He Crushed Her Close To His Unquiet Heart And Pressed That

Hot Kiss On Her Lips. It Was The Sheer Flesh And Blood Womanliness Of

Her That Made His Heart Beat Faster,  The Sweet Curve Of Her Lips,  The

Willowy Grace Of Her Body,  The Odd Little Gestures Of Her Hands,  The

Melody Of Her Voice And The Gray Pools Of Her Eyes,  Eyes Full Of Queer

Gleams And Curious Twinkles--All These Things Were Indescribably

Beautiful To Him. He Loved Her--Just The Girl Herself. He Wanted Her,

Craved Her Presence; Not The Pleasant Memory Of Her,  But The Forthright

Physical Nearness Of Her He Desired With An Intensity That Was Like A

Fever.

Just The Excitement Of Feeling--As According To His Lights He Had A

Right To Feel--That They Stood Pledged,  Made It Hard For Him To Get Down

To Fundamentals And Consider Rationally The Question Of Marriage,  Of

Their Future,  Of How His Appointed Work Could Be Made To Dovetail With

The Union Of Two Such Diverse Personalities As Himself And Sophie Carr.

A Hodge Podge Of This Sort Was Turning Over In His Mind As He Sat There,

Now And Then Absently Feeling The Dusky Puffiness Under One Eye And The

Tender Spot On The Bridge Of His Nose Where Tommy Ashe's Hard Knuckles

Had Peeled Away The Skin. He Still Had A Most Un-Christian Satisfaction

In The Belief That He Had Given As Good As He Had Got. He Was Not

Ashamed Of Having Fought. He Would Fight Again,  Any Time,  Anywhere,  For

Sophie Carr. He Did Not Ask Himself Whether The Combative Instinct Once

Aroused Might Not Function For Lesser Cause.

He Came Out Of This Reverie At The Faint Rustle Of Footsteps Beyond His

Door--Which Was Open Because Of The Hot Fire He Had Built.

He Did Not Suspect That The Source Of Those Footsteps Might Be Sophie

Carr Until She Stood Unmistakably Framed In The Doorway. He Rose To His

Feet With A Glad Cry Of Welcome,  Albeit Haltingly Articulated. He Was

Suddenly Reluctant To Face Her With The Marks Of Conflict Upon His Face.

"May I Come In?" She Asked Coolly--And Suited Her Action To The Request

Before He Made Reply.

She Sat Down On A Box Just Within The Door And Looked Soberly At Him,

Scanning His Face. Her Hands Lay Quietly In Her Lap And She Did Not

Seem To See Thompson's Involuntarily Extended Arms. There Was About Her

None Of The Glowing Witchery Of Yesterday. She Lifted To Him A Face

Thoughtful,  Even A Little Sad. And Thompson's Hands Fell,  His Heart

Keeping Them Company. It Was As If The Somberness Of Those Wind-Swept

Woods Had Crept Into His Cabin. It Stilled The Rush Of Words That

Quivered On His Lips. Sophie,  Indeed,  Found Utterance First.

"I'm Sorr Mr.

Fairfield,  For He,  In Common With Others Of His Age,  Delighted In

Flinging In A Scrap Of Latin Or French On Every Possible Occasion. They

Were Industrious Investigators Of The Thesaurus In Those Days.

The First Home Of The Union,  At No. 1 Bond Street,  Was In Reality The

House Of Its Secretary,  John H.L. Mccrackan. In 1837 A Building On

Broadway Near Leonard Street Was Secured,  And The Club Moved Into It,

There To Remain For Three Years. Then,  For Seven Years,  It Was In A

House On The Other Side Of Broadway,  And In 1847,  Obeying The Prevalent

Impulse Up-Townward,  It Shifted Its Quarters To The Spot From Which It

Was Later To Remove To The Twenty-First Street Home. That Structure At

Broadway And Fourth Street Was The Property Of The Stuyvesant Family,

And After The Departure Of The Men Of The Union,  Was Occupied By The

Confectioner Maillard As A Hotel And Restaurant. In 1852 The Question Of

A Permanent Building Began To Be Discussed,  And In 1854 The Land At The

Twenty-First Street Corner Was Secured And The Work Of Erecting The

Structure That In Its Day Was The Most Imposing Of All That Lined Fifth

Avenue Between Waverly Place And The Broadway Junction Begun. The Club

Moved Into The New Quarters In May,  1855,  At A Time When Its Membership

Numbered Approximately Five Hundred. In Writing Of The Union As It Was

In 1871 Mr. Fairfield Made The Comment That Literature Was Hardly

Represented At All,  And Journalism Only By Manton Marble Of The "World."

As Had Been The Case Of Thackeray And The Athenæum Of London,  Mr.

Marble,  At The Time Of His First Candidacy,  Had Been Blackballed. The

Objection,  Also As In The Case Of Thackeray,  Was Ascribed Not To The

Personality Of The Man,  But To His Profession. But Mr. Marble Was

Eventually Admitted Through The Efforts Of A Member Of The Board Of

Directors,  Who Declared Boldly That Not A New Member Should Be Elected

Until The Blackballs Against The Journalist Had Been Withdrawn. Robert

J. Dillon,  Landscape Gardener,  And J.H. Lazarus,  Portrait Painter,  Were

Almost The Sole Art Representatives,  And In 1871 J. Lester Wallack Was

The Only Actor On The Club List. Wallack's Great Contemporary Of The

Stage,  Edwin Booth,  Was A Member Of The Century And Of The Lotos. The

Law Of The Day Was Represented By Such Men As Mayor Hall,  Until He

Resigned As A Result Of The Criticism Of Fellow-Members Growing Out Of

The Exposures Of The Tammany Frauds In The Summer And Autumn Of 1871,

W.M. Evarts,  Judge Garvin,  Judge Gunning S. Bedford,  Eli P. Norton,  And

John E. Burrill. Of Men Prominent In Political And Municipal Life Were

August Belmont,  Samuel J. Tilden,  Peter B. Sweeny,  Former Mayor George

Opdyke,  Isaac Bell,  And Andrew H. Green,  Later To Become The "Father Of

Greater New York." Among The Dominant Financial Figures,  In Addition To

August Belmont,  Were A.T. Stewart,  John J. Cisco,  Henry Clews,  And John

Jacob Astor. From The Army Were U.S. Grant,  Then The Nation's President,

John H. Coster,  George W. Cullom,  Samuel W. Crawford,  Howard Stockton,

Rufus Ingalls,  J.L. Rathbone,  I.U.D. Reeve,  And Stewart Van Vliet. From

The Navy,  James B. Breese,  James Alden,  Edward C. Gratton,  Thomas M.

Potter,  Henry O. Mayo,  James Glynn,  W.C. Leroy,  L.M. Powell,  And John H.

Wright.

By Virtue Of Its Descent From The Sketch And The Column,  The Century

Association Might Lay Claim To Seniority Among The Clubs Of Fifth

Avenue. The Sketch Club Was The Result Of The Union Of The Literary And

Artistic Elements Of New York,  Which,  In 1829,  Were Producing An Annual

Called "The Talisman." Among The Writers In The Sketch Were Bryant,

Verplanck,  And Sands,  And Later Washington Irving And J.K. Paulding

Joined It. There Was No Regular Home,  The Club Meeting At The Houses Of

Members In Turn. For Six Months,  During 1830,  It Did Not Exist,  Having

Been Dissolved In May Of That Year,  And Reorganized In December.

Thereafter,  For A Few Years,  It Met In The Council Room Of The National

Academy Of Design,  And Then Returned To The Custom Of Meeting At The

Homes O Your Sense Of The Word," She Said. "I Don't Even

Want To Be. It Would Take All The Joy Out Of Living. I Want To Sing And

Dance And Be Vibrantly Alive. I Want To See Far Countries And Big

Cities,  To Go About Among People Whose Outlook Isn't Bounded By A Forest

And A Lake Shore,  Nor By The Things You Set Store By. And I'll Be A

Discontented Pendulum Until I Do.

"Why," She Burst Out Passionately,  "I'd Be The Biggest Little Fool On

Earth To Marry You Just Because--Just Because I Like You,  Because You

Kissed Me And For A Minute Made Me Feel That Life Could Be Bounded By

You And Kisses. You're Only The Second Possible Man I've Ever Seen. You

And Tommy Ashe. And Before You Came I Could Easily Have Persuaded Myself

That I Loved Tommy."

"Now You Think Perhaps You Love Me,  But That You Might Perhaps Care In

The Same Way For The Next Attractive Man Who Comes Along? Is That It?"

Thompson Asked With A Touch Of Bitterness.

"I Might _Think_ So--How Can One Tell?" She Sighed. "But I'm Very Sure

My Impulses Will Never Plunge Me Into Anything Headlong,  As You Would

Have Me Plunge. Don't You See," She Made An Impatient Gesture,  "We're

Just Like A Couple Of Fledgling Birds Trying Our Wings. And You Want To

Proceed On The Assumption That We're Equal To Anything,  Sure Of

Everything. I _Know_ I'm Not. You--"

She Made Again That Quick,  Expressive Gesture With Her Hands. Something

About It Made Thompson Suddenly Feel Hopeless And Forlorn,  The Airy

Castles Reared Overnight Out Of The Stuff Of Dreams A Tumbled Heap

About Him. He Sat Down On One Of The Rude Chairs,  And Turned His Face To

Look Out The Window,  A Lump Slowly Gathering In His Throat.

"All Right," He Said. "Good-By."

If His Tone Was Harsh And Curt He Could Not Help That. It Was All He

Could Say And The Only Possible Fashion Of Saying It. He Wanted To Cry

Aloud His Pain,  The Yearning Ache That Filled Him,  And He Could Not,

Would Not--No More Than He Would Have Whined Under Pure Physical Hurt.

But When He Heard The Faint Rustle Of Her Cotton Dress And Her Step

Outside He Put His Face On His Hands And Took His Breath With A

Shuddering Sigh.

At That,  He Was Mistaken. Sophie Had Not Gone. There Was The Quick,

Light Pad Of Her Feet On The Floor,  Her Soft Warm Hands Closed Suddenly

About His Neck,  And He Looked Up Into Eyes Bright And Wet. Her Face

Dropped To A