The story of Mr. Britton's life impressed Darrell deeply. In the days
following his friend's departure he would sit for hours revolving it in
his mind, unable to rid himself of the impression that it was in some
way connected with his own life. Impelled by some motive he could
scarcely explain, he recorded it in his journal as told by Mr. Britton
as nearly as he could recall it.
Left to himself he worked with unabated ardor, but his work soon grew
unsatisfying. The inspiring nature of his surroundings seemed to
stimulate him to higher effort and loftier work, which should call into
play the imaginative faculties and in which the brain would be free to
weave its own creations. Stronger within him grew the desire to write a
novel which should have in it something of the power, the force, of the
strenuous western life,--something which would seem, in a measure at
least, worthy of his surroundings. His day's work ended, he would walk
up and down the rocks, sometimes far into the night, the plot for this
story forming within his brain, till at last its outlines grew distinct
and he knew the thing that was to be, as the sculptor knows what will
come forth at his bidding from the lifeless marble. He made a careful
synopsis of the plot that nothing might escape him in the uncertain
future, and then began to write.
The order of his work was now reversed, the new undertaking being given
his first and best thought; then, when imagination wearied and refused
to rise above the realms of fact, he fell back upon his scientific work
as a rest from the other. Thus employed the weeks passed with incredible
swiftness, the monotony broken by an occasional visit from Mr. Britton,
until August came, its hot breath turning the grasses sere and brown.
One evening Darrell came forth from his work at a later hour than usual.
His mind had been unusually active, his imagination vivid, but, wearied
at last, he was compelled to stop short of the task he had set for
himself.
The heat had been intense that day, and the atmosphere seemed peculiarly
oppressive. The sun was sinking amid light clouds of gorgeous tints, and
as Darrell watched their changing outlines they seemed fit emblems of
the thoughts at that moment baffling his weary brain,--elusive,
intangible, presenting themselves in numberless forms, yet always beyond
his grasp.
Standing erect, with arms folded, his pose indicated conscious strength,
and the face lifted to the evening sky was one which would have
commanded attention amid a sea of human faces. Two years had wrought
wondrous changes in it. Strength and firmness were there still, but
sweetness was mingled with the strength, and the old, indomitable will
was tempered with gentleness. All the finer susceptibilities had been
awakened and had left their impress there. Introspection had done its
work. It was the face of a man who knew himself and had conquered
himself. The sculptor's work was almost complete.