The Cactus By O Henry

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The Cactus

O Henry

The nearly notable thing about Fourth dimension is that it is so purely relative. A big corporeality of

reminiscence is, by common consent, conceded to the drowning man; and information technology is not past

belief that one may review an entire courtship while removing one'south gloves.

That is what Trysdale was doing, standing by a tabular array in his available apartments. On the

table stood a singular-looking green establish in a cherry-red earthen jar. The establish was one of the

species of cacti, and was provided with long, tentacular leaves that perpetually swayed

with the slightest breeze with a peculiar beckoning motion.

Trysdale'due south friend, the brother of the bride, stood at a sideboard complaining at existence

allowed to potable lonely. Both men were in evening dress. White favors like stars upon

their coats shone through the gloom of the apartment.

As he slowly unbuttoned his gloves, there passed through Trysdaldue east's mind a swift,

scarifying retrospect of the last few hours. Information technology seemed that in his nostrils was however the

scent of the flowers that had been banked in odorous masses well-nigh the church building, and in his

ears the lowpitched hum of a thousand well-bred voices, the rustle of well-baked garments,

and, most insistently recurring, the drawling words of the minister irrevocably binding

her to another.

>From this last hopeless point of view he still strove, every bit if it had get a habit of his

mind, to reach some theorize equally to why and how he had lost her. Shaken rudely by the

uncompromising fact, he had suddenly institute himself confronted by a thing he had never

before faced --his own innermost, unmitigated, arid unbedecked self. He saw all the

garbs of pretence and egoism that he had worn now turn to rags of folly. He shuddered

at the thought that to others, before now, the garments of his soul must have appeared

sorry and threadbare. Vanity and conceit? These were the joints in his armor. And how

free from either she had ever been--But why--

As due southhe had slowly moved upward the aisle toward the chantry he had felt an unworthy, sullen

exultation that had served to support him. He had told himself that her paleness was

from thoughts of another than the homo to whom she was about to give herself. But even

that poor consolation had been wrenched from him. For, when he saw that swift, limpid,

upward expect that she gave the homo when he took her hand, he knew himself to be

forgotten. Once that same look had been raised to him, and he had gauged its meaning.

Indeed, his conceit had crumbled; its last prop was gone. Why had it ended thus? There

had been no quarrel between them, nothing--

For the thousandth time he remarshalled in his mind the events of those last few twenty-four hourss

before the tide had so suddenly turned.

She had e'er insisted upon placing him upon a pedestal, and he had accepted her

homage with royal grandeur. It had been a very sweetness incense that she had burned before

him; and then modest (he told himself); so artless and worshipful, and (he would one time have

sworn) so sincere. She had invested him with an near supernatural number of high

attributes and excellencies and talents, and he had captivated the oblation as a desert

drinks the rain that can coax from it no promise of flower or fruit.

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As Trysdale grimly wrenched apart the seam of his final glove, the crowning instance of

his fatuous and tardily mourned egoism came vividly dorsum to him. The scene was the

night when he had asked her to come upward on his pedestal with him and share his

greatness. He could not, at present, for the pain of it, let his mind to dwell upon the

memory of her convincing beauty that night--the careless moving ridge of her hair, the

tenderness and virginal charm of her looks and words. But they had been plenty, and

they had brought him to speak. During their conversation she had said:

"And Helm Carruthers tells me that you speak the Spanish language similar a native.

Why accept y'all hidden this accomplishment from me? Is there anything you do not

know?"

Now, Carruthers was an idiot. No doubt he (Trysdale) had been guilty (he sometimes

did such things) of airing at the order some old, canting Castilian saying dug from the

hotchpotch at the back of dictionaries. Carruthers, who was one of his incontinent

admirers, was the very human being to take magnified this exhibition of doubtful erudition.

Just, alas! the incense of her adoration had been and then sweetness and flattering. He allowed the

imputation to pass without denial. Without protest, he immune her to twine almost his

forehead this spurious bay of Castilian scholarship. He permit information technology grace his acquisition caput, and,

among its soft convolutions, he did not experience the prick of the thorn that was to pierce him

later on.

How glad, how shy, how tremulous she was! How she fluttered likdue east a snared bird when

he laid his mightiness at her anxiety! He could take sworn, and he could swear now, that

unmistakable consent was in her eyes, but, coyly, she would requite him no direct reply.

"I will send y'all my reply to-morrow," she said; and he, the indulgent, confident

victor, smilingly granted the delay. The side by side day he waited, impatient, in his rooms for

the word. At noon her groom came to the door and left the strangeast cactus in the red

earthen jar. There was no note, no message, only a tag upon the institute bearing a

vicious foreign or botanical name. He waited until night, but her answer did not

come. His large pride and hurt vanity kept him from seeking her. Two evenings afterwards

they met at a dinner. Their greetings were conventional, but she looked at him,

incoherent, wondering, eager. He was courteous, adamant, waiting her explanation. With

womanly swiftness she took her cue from hidue south manner, and turned to snow and ice. Thus,

and wider from this on, they had drifted apart. Where was his fault? Who had been to

arraign? Humbled now, he sought the answer amid the ruins of his self-conceit. If--

The voice of the other man in the room, querulously intruding upon his thoughts,

aroused him.

"I say, Trysdale, what the deuce is the matter with you? Y'all wait unhappy as if y'all

yourself had been married instead of having acted merely every bit an accomplice. Look at me,

some other accessory, come up two thousand miles on a garlicky, cockroachy assistant steamer

all the way from S America to connive at the sacrifice--please to observe how

lightly my guilt rests upon my shoulders. Only footling sis I had, also, and now she's

gone. Come now! take something to ease your censor."

"I don't drink simply now, cheers," said Endeavorsdale.

"Your brandy," resumed the other, coming over and joining him, "is abominable. Run

downwards to encounter me some time at Punta Redonda, and try some of our stuff that old Garcia

smuggles in. It's worth the, trip. Hallo! here's an old acquaintance. Wherever did you

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rake upward this cactus, Trysdale?"

"A present," said Trysdale, "from a friend. Know the species?"

"Very well. Information technology's a tropical concern. See hundreds of 'due eastchiliad around Punta every day. Here's

the name on this tag tied to it. Know any Spanish, Trysdale?"

"No," said Trysdale, with the bitter wraith of a smile--"Is information technology Castilian?"

"Aye. The natives imagine the exitsouth are reaching out and beckoning to y'all. They call it

by this name--Ventomarme. Name ways in English language, 'Come and have me.'"

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The Cactus By O Henry,

Source: https://livros01.livrosgratis.com.br/ln000043.pdf

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