A grim, chilling sight
enough, as solitary and impenetrable as the Sphinx. He did not
like such faces in this genial and gracious time, so hurried over
his examination. The eye was cool, the pulse steady, the man's
body, battered though it was, strong in its steely composure.
"Ja wohl!--ja wohl!" he went on chuffily, summing up: latent
fever,--the very lips were blue, dry as husks; "he would
go,--oui?--then go!"--with a chuckle. "All right, gluck Zu!"
And so shuffled out. Latent fever? Doubtless, yet hardly from
broken bones, the doctor thought,--with no suspicion of the
subtile, intolerable passion smouldering in every drop of this
man's phlegmatic blood.
Evening came at last. He stopped until the cracked bell of the
chapel had done striking the Angelus, and then put on his
overcoat, and went out. Passing down the garden walk a miserable
chicken staggered up to him, chirping a drunken recognition. For
a moment, he breathed again the hot smoke of the mill,
remembering how Lois had found him in Margret's office, not
forgetting the cage: chary of this low life, even in the peril of
his own. So, going out on the street, he tested his own nature
by this trifle in his old fashion. "The ruling passion strong in
death," eh? It had not been self-love; something deeper: an
instinct rather than reason. Was he glad to think this of
himself? He looked out more watchful of the face which the
coming Christmas bore. The air was cold and pungent.
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