He caught the sway of the pacing figure whose shadow
moved in regular rhythm across the yellow shades.
It entered his mind, clung there, and finally he began
to pace in the same cadence, up and down the room.
With every step he felt that he was entering deeper
into the danger which threatened John Woodbury.
What danger? For answer to himself he stepped
to the windows and pulled down the shades. At
least he could be alone.
JOHN BARD
There is no cleanser of the mind like a morning bath.
The same cold, whipping spray which calls up the pink
blood, glowing through the marble of the skin, drives
the ache of sleep from the brain, and washes away at
once all the recorded thoughts of yesterday. So
in place of a crowded slate of wonders and doubts,
Anthony bore down to the breakfast table a willingness
to take what the morning might bring and forget the
night before.
John Woodbury was already there, helping himself from
the covered dishes, for the meal was served in the
English style. There was the usual “Good-morning,
sir,” “Good-morning, Anthony,” and
then they took their places at the table. A cautious
survey of the craglike face of his father showed no
traces of a sleepless night; but then, what could a
single night of unrest mean to that body of iron?
He ventured, remembering the implied command to remain
within the house until further orders: “You
asked me to speak to you, sir, before I left the house.
I’d rather like to take a ride this morning.”
And the imperturbable voice replied: “You’ve
worn your horses out lately. Better give them
a day of rest.”
That was all, but it brought back to Anthony the thought
of the shadow which had swept ceaselessly across the
yellow shades of his father’s room; and he settled
down to a day of reading. The misty rain of the
night before had cleared the sky of its vapours, so
he chose a nook in the library where the bright spring
sun shone full and the open fire supplied the warmth.
At lunch his father did not appear, and Peters announced
that the master was busy in his room with papers.
The afternoon repeated the morning, but with less
unrest on the part of Anthony. He was busy with
L’Assommoir, and lost himself in the story
of downfall, surrounding himself with each unbeautiful
detail.
Lunch was repeated at dinner, for still John Woodbury
seemed to be “busy with papers in his room.”
A fear came to Anthony that he was to be dodged indefinitely
in this manner, deceived like a child, and kept in
the house until the silent drama was played out.
But when he sat in the library that evening his father
came in and quietly drew up a chair by the fire.
The stage was ideally set for a confidence, but none
was forthcoming. The fire shook long, sleepy
shadows through the room, the glow of the two floor-lamps
picked out two circles of light, and still the elder
man sat over his paper and would not speak.
