It was in singular contrast to the
snapping fire which had been theirs all the days of his life till
now--the snapping fire of action, will and design. It still was there
when they said to him suddenly that the wind had changed, and that the
flame and sparks were now blowing toward the saw-mill. Even when he gave
orders, and set to work to defend the saw-mill, arranging a line of men
with buckets on its roof, and so saving it, this look remained. It was
something spiritual and unmaterial, something, maybe, which had to do
with the philosophy he had preached, thought and practised over long
years. It did not disappear when at last, after midnight, everyone had
gone, and the smouldering ruins of his greatest asset lay mournful in the
wan light of the moon.
Kind and good friends like the Clerk of the Court and the New Cure had
seen him to his bedroom at midnight, leaving him there with a promise
that they would come on the morrow; and he had said goodnight evenly, and
had shut the door upon them with a sort of smile. But long after they had
gone, when Sebastian Dolores and Seraphe Corniche were asleep, he had got
up again and left the house, to gaze at the spot where the big white mill
with the red roof had been-the mill which had been there in the days of
the Baron of Beaugard, and to which time had only added size and
adornment.
Pages:
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243