He went through the fields, his heavy step crushing
the snow, a dry heat in his blood, his eye intent, still, until
he came within sight of the farm-house; then he went on, cool and
grave, in his ordinary port.
The house was quite dark; only a light in one of the lower
windows,--the library, he thought. The broad field he was
crossing sloped down to the house, so that, as he came nearer, he
saw the little room quite plainly in the red glow of the fire
within, the curtains being undrawn. He had a keen eye; did not
fail to see the marks of poverty about the place, the gateless
fences, even the bare room with its worn and patched carpet:
noted it all with a triumphant gleam of satisfaction. There was
a black shadow passing and repassing the windows: he waited a
moment looking at it, then came more slowly towards them,
intenser heats smouldering in his face. He would not surprise
her; she should be as ready as he was for the meeting. If she
ever put her pure hand in his again, it should be freely done,
and of her own good-will.
She saw him as he came up on the porch, and stopped, looking out,
as if bewildered,--then resumed her walk, mechanically. What it
cost her to see him again he could not tell: her face did not
alter. It was lifeless and schooled, the eyes looking straight
forward always, indifferently. Was this his work? If he had
killed her outright, it would have been better than this.
The windows were low: it had been his old habit to go in through
them, and he now went up to one unconsciously.
Pages:
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193