The letter was written in the cramped hand of Brother Spencer. Through
its faulty diction ran a plainly discernible undernote of disapproval
for Samson, though there was no word of reproof or criticism. It was
plain that it was sent as a matter of courtesy to one who, having
proven an apostate, scarcely merited such consideration. It informed
him that old Spicer South had been "mighty porely," but was now better,
barring the breaking of age. Every one was "tolerable." Then came the
announcement which the letter had been written to convey.
The term of the South-Hollman truce had ended, and it had been renewed
for an indefinite period.
"Some of your folks thought they ought to let you know because they
promised to give you a say," wrote the informant. "But they decided
that it couldn't hardly make no difference to you, since you have left
the mountains, and if you cared anything about it, you knew the time,
and could of been here. Hoping this finds you well."
Samson's face clouded. He threw the soiled and scribbled missive down
on the table and sat with unseeing eyes fixed on the studio wall. So,
they had cast him out of their councils! They already thought of him as
one who had been.
In that passionate rush of feeling, everything that had happened since
he had left Misery seemed artificial and dream-like. He longed for the
realities that were forfeited. He wanted to press himself close to the
great, gray shoulders of rock that broke through the greenery like
giants tearing off soft raiment. Those were his people back there. He
should be running with the wolf-pack, not coursing with beagles.
He had been telling himself that he was loyal, and now he realized
that he was drifting like the lotus-eaters. Things that had gripped his
soul were becoming myths. Nothing in his life was honest--he had become
as they had prophesied, a derelict. In that thorn-choked graveyard lay
the crude man whose knotted hand had rested on his head just before
death stiffened it bestowing a mission.
"I hain't fergot ye, Pap." The words rang in his ears with the agony
of a repudiated vow.
He rose and paced the floor, with teeth and hands clenched, and the
sweat standing out on his forehead. His advisers had of late been
urging him to go to Paris He had refused, and his unconfessed reason
had been that in Paris he could not answer a sudden call. He would go
back to them now, and compel them to admit his leadership.