Chapter 71

           

           Thedull,redglowofawoodfire—fornolamporcandleburntwithintheroom—showedhimafigure,seatedonthehearthwithitsbacktowardshim,bendingoverthefitfullight.Theattitudewasthatofonewhosoughttheheat.Itwas,andyetwasnot.Thestoopingpostureandthecoweringformwerethere,butnohandswerestretchedouttomeetthegratefulwarmth,noshrugorshivercompareditsluxurywiththepiercingcoldoutside.Withlimbshuddledtogether,headboweddown,armscrosseduponthebreast,andfingerstightlyclenched,itrockedtoandfrouponitsseatwithoutamoment’spause,accompanyingtheactionwiththemournfulsoundhehadheard.

           Theheavydoorhadclosedbehindhimonhisentrance,withacrashthatmadehimstart.Thefigureneitherspoke,norturnedtolook,norgaveinanyotherwaythefaintestsignofhavingheardthenoise.Theformwasthatofanoldman,hiswhiteheadakinincolourtothemoulderingembersuponwhichhegazed.He,andthefailinglightanddyingfire,thetime-wornroom,thesolitude,thewastedlife,andgloom,wereallinfellowship.Ashes,anddust,andruin!

           Kittriedtospeak,anddidpronouncesomewords,thoughwhattheywerehescarcelyknew.Stillthesameterriblelowcrywenton—stillthesamerockinginthechair—thesamestrickenfigurewasthere,unchangedandheedlessofhispresence.

           Hehadhishanduponthelatch,whensomethingintheform—distinctlyseenasonelogbrokeandfell,and,asitfell,blazedup—arrestedit.Hereturnedtowherehehadstoodbefore—advancedapace—another—anotherstill.

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