His hands lay on the table, half
clenched as though they had let go and didn't care any more. He looked
at Robert wide-eyed with a sudden absolute knowledge.
"That's it," he said. "Not worth bothering about--nothing in this whole
beastly, rotten, world. . . . . ."
3
A convenient uncle found him a berth as clerk to a trading firm in West
Africa, and with a cheap Colonial outfit and 10 pounds in his pocket,
Cosgrave set out for the particular swamp which was to be the scene of
his future career. He went docilely, with limp handshakes and dull,
pathetic eyes. If he betrayed any feeling at all, it was a sort of
relief at getting away from everybody. But emotionally he was dead--like
cheap champagne gone flat, as he expressed it in one twisted mood of
self-revelation.
Probably he was thinking of Connie Edwards and of their last spree
together.
But he never spoke of her.
And it was very unlikely that the swamp would give him a chance to see
any of them again.
After all, he had stood for something. He was a rudderless little craft
that had come leaking and tumbling willy-nilly in the wake of the bigger
vessel. But also he had been a sort of talisman. He had protected
Robert as the weak, when they are humble and loving, can protect the
strong, giving them greater confidence, making their defeat impossible.
With his going went security. Little old fears came crawling out of
their hiding-places. At night when Robert climbed the dark stairs to
their stable-attic, they set upon him.
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