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, [pg 304]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.”
