DEMOCRITUS ARRIVES TO STAY
General Carden in his smoking-room was listening, waiting. Fifty times
already in the last half-hour he had looked over the curtain that
veiled the lower half of the window. Fifty times he had looked at the
clock on the mantelpiece and compared it with his watch.
An orange envelope lay on the table beside him, and with it a strip of
pink paper. He knew the words thereon verbatim; certainly they were few
in number:
"Found. Arrive Euston four o'clock to-day.--LANCING."
On the receipt of this brief missive General Carden's heart had thumped
violently. He had found voice to pass the good news on to the devoted
Goring, but it was well on half an hour before voice and heart were
under his normal control.
Muriel had descended on him radiant, triumphant, a-bubble with joy and
glee, showering her congratulations.
"Come to Mrs. Cresswell's dance to-morrow night," she implored, "and
bring him with you. I want to shake hands with Don Quixote. I have
never before met him in the flesh." But behind this desire, and
stronger than it, was the knowledge that Anne would be there, and,
woman-like, she longed for an immediate meeting of the two.
"We'll see," promised General Carden, smiling indulgently as at a
pleading child. In his heart he longed to parade London with his son
and let the whole world be witness to his return, to their reunion.
Again he glanced at the clock. Any moment now! He tried to quell the
tumult of expectation within him.
Dare one penetrate a little way into the mind of the reserved old man,
guess at the tide of memory he had at last allowed to flow back to his
heart? For years he had kept it relentlessly at its ebb, a long barren
shore between him and its waters. He had feared to be submerged in
its flood; he had feared that, should it approach him, it would come
swiftly, remorselessly, drowning him in its depths, choking the life
out of him with a deadly, icy cold. Now, and now only, he realized the
sweetness of its waters, realized that their approach would be not
to submerge but to lift him on buoyant waves--waves warm, exuberant,
joyous. Oh, it might come now, come in all its strength, come bearing
life in its flow! No longer a barren, desolate shore between him and
those waters. Throughout the day the wavelets had lapped ever softly,
gently nearer. Now calmly, joyously, they lifted him on their surface.
There was the old house down in the country, with the pear-tree
whose branches reached the window of that octagon-room. It should be
restored, re-inhabited. There was the river that ran below its grounds,
wherein speckled trout and silver salmon abounded. Many were the fish
he had caught there, many the fish Peter had caught. What was to
prevent them from catching more? Already in thought the speckled trout
lay gasping on the bank, the silver salmon were giving play in the long
reaches of water between the meadows. There was the shooting, too--the
pheasants, the partridges, the snipe in the swampy ground beyond the
old mill, the wild duck where some seven miles distant the arm of the
sea ran up to meet the river. The old days again! Memory carried him on
her tide towards the future.
And then into the midst of his thoughts came a sound that brought his
old heart fluttering to his throat--the sound of the front-door bell.
He held on to the arms of his chair, his eyes upon the door. It opened.
"Mr. Peter!" Goring's voice was on a note of exultation.
And into the room came a tall, lean man, a mongrel dog at his heels.
"Hullo, father!"
"Well, my boy!"
There was a grip of hands. Then the old man was sitting again by the
fire, Peter opposite to him. There was a little silence. Democritus,
sniffing at the black, hairy hearthrug, was completely engrossed with
his own occupation. In the silence the two men watched him.
Presently he curled down with a thump. A quivering sigh of satisfaction
passed through his body.
"It is evident," said Peter with a little laugh, "that Democritus has
come to stay."