The Angel of His Presence Read Online Free PDF Page B

erately up and down that room, smoking away as hard as he could, and when he thought his equilibrium was restored , he raised his eyes to the picture as he passed, just casually as anyone might who had never thought of it before. His eyes fell and he went on, back and forth, looking every time at the picture, and every time the eyes of that central figure watched him with that same sad, loving look. At last he went to the window again and angrily threw up the screen, threw his half-smoked cigar far out into the shrubbery of the garden, saying as he did so, "Confound it all!"
    It was the evening before the recept ion. It was growing toward nine o'clock, and John Stanley had retired to his wing to watch the fire and consider what a fool he was becoming. He had not smoked in that room since the first night of his return. He had not yielded to such weakness all at once nor with the consent of himself. He had thought at first that he really chose to walk in the garden or smoke on the side piazza, but as the days went by he began to see that he was avoiding his own new room. And it was all because of that picture. He glanced vengefully in the direction where it hung. He did not look at it willingly now if he could help it. His elegant smoking set was reposing in the chimney cupboard, locked there with a vicious click of the key by the hand of the young owner himself.
    It was not only smoking, but other things that the picture affected. There for in stance was the pack of cards he had placed upon the table in their unique case of dainty mosaic design. He had been obliged to put them elsewhere. They seemed out of place. Not that he felt ashamed of the cards. On the contrary he had expected to be quite proud of the accomplishment of playing well which he had acquired abroad, having never been particularly led in that direction by his surroundings before he had left home. Was this room becoming a church that he could not do as he pleased? Then there had been a sketch or two and a bit of statuary which he had brought in his trunk because they had been overlooked in the packing of the other things. That morn ing he brought them down to his room, but the large picture refused to have them there. There was no harm in the sketches, only they did not fit into the same wall with the great picture, there was no harmony in their themes. The statuary was associated with heathenism and wickedness, true, but it was beautiful and would have looked wonderfully well on the mantel against the rich, dark red of the dull tiles, but not under that picture. It was becoming a bondage , that picture, and after tomorrow night he would banish it to—where? Not his bedroom, for it would work its spell there as well.
    Just h ere there came a tap on the win dowsill, followed by a hoarse, half-shy whisper:
    "Mr. Stanley, ken we come in?"
    He looked up, startled. The voice had a familiar n ote in it, but he did not recog nize the two tall, lank figures outside in the darkness, clad in cheap best clothes and with an air of mingled self-depreciation and self-respect.
    "Who is it?" he asked sharply and suspi ciously.
    "It's me, Mr. Stanley; Joe Andrews. You ain't forgot me yet, I know. And this one's my fri end, Bert; you know him all right too. May we come in here? We don't want to go to the front door and make trouble with the door bell and see folks; we thought maybe you'd just let us come in where you was. We hung around till we found your room. We knowed the new part was yours, 'cause your father told the committee, you know, when they went to tell about the picture."
    Light began to dawn on the young man. Certainly he remembered Joe Andrews, and had meant to hunt him up someday and tell him he was glad to hear he was doing well and living right, but he was in no mood to see him tonight. Why could he not have waited until tomorrow night when the others were to come? Was not that enough? But of course he wanted to get a word of thanks all his own. It had been on