Sometimes it came upon him softly, in enervating reveries. Sometimes it
battered him like the cannon rolling in the hold of the vessel. Always,
now, it brought with it a sense of quickened life, of stimulating
danger. To-night it came upon him suddenly, as he was walking the floor,
after his wife left him. It seemed impossible; he could not believe it.
He glanced entreatingly at the door, as if to call her back. He heard
voices in the hall below, and knew that he must go down. Going over to
the window, he looked out at the lights across the river. How could this
happen here, in his own house, among the things he loved? What was it
that reached in out of the darkness and thrilled him? As he stood
there he had a feeling that he would never escape. He shut his eyes and
pressed his forehead against the cold window glass, breathing in the
chill that came through it. "That this," he groaned, "that this should
have happened to ME!"
On New Year's day a thaw set in, and during the night torrents of rain
fell. In the morning, the morning of Alexander's departure for England,
the river was streaked with fog and the rain drove hard against the
windows of the breakfast-room. Alexander had finished his coffee and
was pacing up and down. His wife sat at the table, watching him. She was
pale and unnaturally calm. When Thomas brought the letters, Bartley sank
into his chair and ran them over rapidly.
"Here's a note from old Wilson. He's safe back at his grind, and says he
had a bully time.
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