Yet they were old papers. He had sailed in May, 1867.
"My God!" he cried, in agony, "I HAVE LOST A YEAR."
This thought crushed him. By and by he began to carry this awful idea
into details. "My Rosa has worn mourning for me, and put it off again. I
am dead to her, and to all the world."
He wept long and bitterly.
Those tears cleared his brain still more. For all that, he was not yet
himself; at least, I doubt it; his insanity, driven from the intellect,
fastened one lingering claw into his moral nature, and hung on by it.
His soul filled with bitterness and a desire to be revenged on mankind
for their injustice, and this thought possessed him more than reason.
He joined the family at breakfast; and never a word all the time. But
when he got up to go, he said, in a strange, dogged way, as if it went
against the grain, "God bless the house that succors the afflicted."
Then he went out to brood alone.
"Dick," said Phoebe, "there's a change. I'll never part with him: and
look, there's Collie following him, that never could abide him."
"Part with him?" said Reginald. "Of course not. He is a gentleman, and
they are not so common in Africa."
Dick, who hated Falcon, ignored this speech entirely, and said, "Well,
Pheeb, you and Collie are wiser than I am.
Pages:
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406