For the first time Brant felt
the courage to address him, and resolved to wait until the deputation
retired. As they left the gallery he lingered in the ante-room for
the President to appear. But, as he did not come, afraid of losing his
chances, he returned to the gallery. Alone in his privacy and shadow,
the man he had just left was standing by a column, in motionless
abstraction, looking over the distant garden. But the kindly, humorous
face was almost tragic with an intensity of weariness! Every line of
those strong, rustic features was relaxed under a burden which even
the long, lank, angular figure--overgrown and unfinished as his own
West--seemed to be distorted in its efforts to adjust itself to; while
the dark, deep-set eyes were abstracted with the vague prescience of the
prophet and the martyr. Shocked at that sudden change, Brant felt his
cheek burn with shame. And he was about to break upon that wearied man's
unbending; he was about to add his petty burden to the shoulders of this
Western Atlas. He drew back silently, and descended the stairs.
But before he had left the house, while mingling with the crowd in one
of the larger rooms, he saw the President reappear beside an important,
prosperous-looking figure, on whom the kindly giant was now smiling with
humorous toleration.
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