"Never, never hard to me."
Left alone, he paced up and down his
study. He was at home again, among all the
dear familiar things that spoke to him of so
many happy years. His house to-night would
be full of charming people, who liked and
admired him. Yet all the time, underneath his
pleasure and hopefulness and satisfaction, he
was conscious of the vibration of an unnatural
excitement. Amid this light and warmth and
friendliness, he sometimes started and shuddered,
as if some one had stepped on his grave.
Something had broken loose in him of which
he knew nothing except that it was sullen
and powerful, and that it wrung and tortured him.
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.
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