Every man has,
and with most men it is a fight until the head is gray, and the brain
weary with the ceaseless struggle. The world is utterly merciless; it
will trample you down relentlessly if it can, and if your vigilance
relaxes for a moment, it will steal your crust and leave you to starve.
Every time I think of this incessant sullen contest, with no quarter
given or taken, I shudder, and pray that I may die before I am at the
mercy of the pitiless world. When I came to London, I saw, for the first
time in my life, that hopeless, melancholy promenade of the sandwich-men;
human wreckage drifting along the edge of the street, as if cast there by
the rushing tide sweeping past them. They--they seemed to me like a
tottering procession of the dead; and on their backs was the announcement
of a play that was making all London roar with laughter. The awful comedy
and tragedy of it! Well, I simply couldn't stand it. I had to run up a
side-street and cry like the little fool I was, right in broad daylight.'
Jennie paused and tried to laugh, but the effort ended in a sound
suspiciously like a sob. She dashed her hand with quick impatience across
her eyes, from which Wentworth had never taken his own, seeing them
become dim, as if the light from the window proved too strong for them,
and finally fill as she ceased to speak. Searching ineffectually about
her dress for a handkerchief, which lay on the table beside her parasol
unnoticed by either, Jennie went on with some difficulty:
'Well, these poor forlorn creatures were once men--men who have gone
down--and if the world is so hard on a man with all his strength and
resourcefulness, think--think what it is for a woman thrown into this
inhuman turmoil--a woman without friends--without money--flung among
these relentless wolves--to live if she can--or--to die--if she can.
Pages:
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283