Little
Margret, poor little Margret! struggling there day after day for
the old father and mother. What a pale, cold little child she
used to be! such a child! yet kindling at his look or touch, as
if her veins were filled with subtile flame. Her soul was--like
his own, he thought. He knew what it was,-- he only. Even now
he glowed with a man's triumph to know he held the secret life of
this woman bare in his hand. No other human power could ever
come near her; he was secure in possession. She had put him from
her;--it was better for both, perhaps. Their paths were separate
here; for she had some unreal notions of duty, and he had too
much to do in the world to clog himself with cares, or to idle an
hour in the rare ecstasy of even love like this.
He passed the office, not pausing in his slow step. Some sudden
impulse made him put his hand on the door as he brushed against
it: just a quick, light touch; but it had all the fierce passion
of a caress. He drew it back as quickly, and went on, wiping a
clammy sweat from his face.
The room he had fitted up for himself was whitewashed and barely
furnished; it made one's bones ache to look at the iron bedstead
and chairs. Holmes's natural taste was more glowing, however
smothered, than that of any saffron-robed Sybarite. It needed
correction, he knew; here was discipline. Besides, he had set
apart the coming three or four years of his life to make money
in, enough for the time to come.
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