Then he turned back into his study. The wild
south wind brought wet drift-leaves whirling against the panes. It was
here that he had stood looking out into the dark, when Fiorsen came down
to ask for Gyp a year ago. Why had he not bundled the fellow out neck
and crop, and taken her away?--India, Japan--anywhere would have
done! She had not loved that fiddler, never really loved him.
Monstrous--monstrous! The full bitterness of having missed right action
swept over Winton, and he positively groaned aloud. He moved from the
window and went over to the bookcase; there in one row were the few
books he ever read, and he took one out. "Life of General Lee." He
put it back and took another, a novel of Whyte Melville's: "Good for
Nothing." Sad book--sad ending! The book dropped from his hand and fell
with a flump on the floor. In a sort of icy discovery, he had seen his
life as it would be if for a second time he had to bear such loss. She
must not--could not die! If she did--then, for him--! In old times they
buried a man with his horse and his dog, as if at the end of a good run.
There was always that! The extremity of this thought brought relief. He
sat down, and, for a long time, stayed staring into the fire in a sort
of coma. Then his feverish fears began again. Why the devil didn't they
come and tell him something, anything--rather than this silence, this
deadly solitude and waiting? What was that? The front door shutting.
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