It was to be looked
upon merely as a parting gift. Matthew decided to spend it on
travel. It would fit him the better for his journalistic career, so
he explained to Ann. But in his heart he had other ambitions. It
would enable him to put them to the test.
So there came an evening when Ann stood waving a handkerchief as a
great liner cast its moorings. She watched it till its lights grew
dim, and then returned to West Twentieth Street. Strangers would
take possession of it on the morrow. Ann had her supper in the
kitchen in company with the nurse, who had stayed on at her request;
and that night, slipping noiselessly from her room, she lay upon the
floor, her head resting against the arm of the chair where Abner had
been wont to sit and smoke his evening pipe; somehow it seemed to
comfort her. And Matthew the while, beneath the stars, was pacing
the silent deck of the great liner and planning out the future.
To only one other being had he ever confided his dreams. She lay in
the churchyard; and there was nothing left to encourage him but his
own heart. But he had no doubts. He would be a great writer. His
two hundred pounds would support him till he had gained a foothold.
After that he would climb swiftly. He had done right, so he told
himself, to turn his back on journalism: the grave of literature.
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