ONCE AGAIN.
In half an hour's time Murdoch had left Broxton far behind him. He left
the open road and rambled across fields and through lanes. The people in
the farm-houses, who knew him, saw him pass looking straight before him
and walking steadily like a man with an end in view.
His mind was full of one purpose--the determination to control himself
and keep his brain clear.
"_Now_," he said, "let me think it over--now let me look at it in cold
blood."
The effort he made was something gigantic; it was a matter of physical
as well as mental force. He had wavered and been vague long enough. Now
the time had come to rouse himself through sheer power of will, or give
up the reins and drift with the current, a lost man.
At dusk he reached Dillup, and roamed about the streets, half conscious
of his surroundings. The Saturday-night shopping was going on, and
squalid women hurrying past him with their baskets on their arms glanced
up, wondering at his dark face and preoccupied air.
"He's noan Dillup," they said; one good woman going so far as to add
that "she did na loike th' looks on him neyther," with various
observations upon the moral character of foreigners in general. He saw
nothing of the sensation he created, however. He rambled about
erratically until he felt the need of rest, and then went into a clean
little shop and bought some simple food and ate it sitting upon the tall
stool before the counter, watched by the stout, white-aproned matron in
charge.
"Tha looks poorly, mester," she said, as she handed him his change.
He started a little on hearing her voice, but recovered himself readily.
"Oh no," he said. "I'm right enough, I think. I'm an American, and I
suppose we are rather a gaunt-looking lot as a rule."
"'Merikin, art tha?" she replied. "Well to be sure! Happen that's it"
(good naturedly). "I've allus heerd they wur a poor color. 'Merikin!
Well--sure-_ly_!"
The fact of his being an American seemed to impress her deeply. She
received his thanks (she was not often thanked by her customers) as a
mysterious though not disagreeable result of his nationality, and as he
closed the door after him he heard, as an accompaniment to the tinkling
of the shop-bell, her amiably surprised ejaculation, "A 'Merikin!
Well--sure-_ly_!"
A few miles from Broxton there was a substantial little stone bridge
upon which he had often sat. In passing it again and again it had
gradually become a sort of resting place for him. It was at a quiet
point of the road, and sitting upon it he had thought out many a
problem. When he reached it on his way back he stopped and took his
usual seat, looking down into the slow little stream beneath, and
resting against the low buttress. He had not come to work out a problem
now; he felt that he had worked his problem out in the past six hours.
"It was not worth it," he said. "No--it was not worth it after all."
When he went on his way again he was very tired, and he wondered
drearily whether, when he came near the old miserable stopping place, he
should not falter and feel the fascination strong upon him again. He had
an annoying fear of the mere possibility of such a thing. When he saw
the light striking slantwise upon the trees it might draw him toward it
as it had done so often before--even in spite of his determination and
struggles.
Half a mile above the house a great heat ran over him, and then a deadly
chill, but he went on steadily. There was this for him, that for the
first time he could think clearly and not lose himself.
He came nearer to it and nearer, and it grew in brightness. He fancied
he had never seen it so bright before. He looked up at it and then away.
He was glad that having once looked he could turn away; there had been
many a night when he could not. Then he was under the shadow of the
trees and knew that his dread had been only a fancy, and that he was a
saner man than he had thought. And the light was left behind him and he
did not look back, but went on.
When he reached home the house was utterly silent. He entered with his
latch-key and finding all dark went upstairs noiselessly.
The door of his own room was closed, and when he opened it he found
darkness there also. He struck a match and turned on the light. For a
moment its sudden glare blinded him, and then he turned involuntarily
toward the farther corner of the room. Why he did so, he did not know at
the time,--the movement was the result of an uncontrollable
impulse,--but after he had looked he knew.
The light shone upon the empty chair in its old place--and upon the
table and upon the model standing on it!
He did not utter any exclamation; strangely enough, he did not at first
feel any shock or surprise. He advanced toward it slowly. But when at
last he stood near it, the shock came. His heart beat as if it would
burst.
"What falseness is there in me," he cried, "that I should have
_forgotten_ it?"
He was stricken with burning shame. He did not ask himself how it was
that it stood there in its place. He thought of nothing but the lack in
himself which was so deep a humiliation. Everything else was swept away.
He sank into the chair and sat staring at it.
"I had forgotten it," he said,--"_forgotten_ it."
And then he put out his hand and touched and moved it--and drew it
toward him.
About an hour afterward he was obliged to go downstairs for something he
needed. It was to the sitting-room he went, and when he pushed the door
open he found a dim light burning and saw that some one was lying upon
the sofa. His first thought was that it was his mother who had waited
for him, but it was not she--it was Christian Murdoch, fast asleep with
her face upon her arm.
Her hat and gloves were thrown upon the table and she still wore a long
gray cloak which was stained and damp about the hem. He saw this as soon
as he saw her face, and no sooner saw than he understood.
He went to the sofa and stood a moment looking down at her, and, though
he did not speak or stir, she awakened.
She sat up and pushed her cloak aside, and he spoke to her.
"It was you who brought it back," he said.
"Yes," she answered quietly. "I thought that if you saw it in the old
place again, you would remember."
"_You_ did not forget it."
"I had nothing else to think of," was her simple reply.
"I must seem a poor sort of fellow to you," he said wearily. "I _am_ a
poor sort of fellow."
"No," she said "or I should not have thought it worth while to bring it
back."
He glanced down at her dress and then up at her face.
"You had better go upstairs to bed," he said. "The dew has made your
dress and cloak damp. Thank you for what you have done."
She got up and turned away.
"Good-night," she said.
"Good-night," he answered, and watched her out of the room.
Then he found what he required and went back to his work; only, more
than once as he bent over it, he thought again of the innocent look of
her face as it had rested upon her arm while she slept.