It was the old defect--or glory--of his
character; the quality that had caused him more anxiety, more
self-reproach, more bitterness of soul than any other, the Rolling Stone
spirit that--though now he could not see it--even if it gathered no moss
of respectable achievement, might carry him far.
So as he rode he peered into the scheme of things for the final
satisfaction. In what did it lie? Not for him in mere activity, nor in
the accomplishment of the world's work, no matter how variedly
picturesque his particular share of it might be. He felt his interest
ebbing, his spirit restless at its moorings. The days passed. He arose
in the morning: and it was night! Four years ago he had come to
California. It seemed but yesterday. The days were past, gone, used. Of
it all what had he retained? The years had run like sea sands between
his fingers, and not a grain of them remained in his grasp. A little
money was there, a little knowledge, a little experience--but what
toward the final satisfaction, the justification of a man's life? Bob
was still too young, too individualistic to consider the doctrine of the
day's work well done as the explanation and justification of all.
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