The
Bishop had a busy morning. He went from friend to friend, until the
needed sum was collected. Nor did money satisfy him: he gathered
together a suit of clothes from the tallest Northerners of benevolent
impulses. Talboys was too short to be a donor of clothes, but he gave
more money than all the others united,--a munificence that rebuked
the Bishop, for he had sought the young Boston man last of all
and reluctantly; somehow, he could not feel acquainted with him,
notwithstanding many meetings in many places. Moreover, he held him
in slight esteem, as an idle fellow who did little good with a great
fortune. In his gratitude he became expansive: told Talboys about
his acquaintance with the cracker, described his experiences and
perplexities, and at last invited the young man to go to the funeral,
the next day. Talboys was delighted to accept the invitation; yet it
could not be said that he was often delighted. But he admired the
Bishop, and, even more warmly, he admired the Bishop's daughter; hence
he caught at any opportunity to show his friendliness. Martin Talboys
was never enthusiastic, and at times his views of life might be called
cynical; but it would be a mistake to infer, therefore, that, as is
common enough, he, having a mean opinion of other people, struck a
balance with a very high one of himself. In truth, Martin was too
modest for his own peace of mind. For years he had contrived to meet
Louise, by accident, almost everywhere she went. She travelled a good
deal, and her image was relieved against a variety of backgrounds. It
seemed to him fairer in each new picture. His love for the Bishop's
daughter grew more and more absorbing; but at the same time he became
less and less sanguine that she would ever care for him. Although he
was not enthusiastic, he was quite capable of feeling deeply; and he
had begun to suspect that he was capable of suffering. Yet he could
not force himself to decide his fate by speaking. It was not that
Louise disliked him; on the contrary, she avowed a sincere liking; she
always hailed his coming with pleasure, telling him frankly that no
one amused her as did he. There, alas! was the hopeless part of it; he
used to say bitterly to himself that he wasn't a man, a lover, to her;
he was a mimic, a genteel clown, an errand boy, never out of temper
with his work; in short, she did not take him seriously at all. He
knew the manner of man she did take seriously,--a man of action, who