Rutherford went to the doorway and stood there and Clara took her sewing to the table, where Alexander already sat under the lamplight.
"Have you done your lessons?" she asked him.
"To-morrow'll do."
"To-night, my son. There might be an earthquake to-morrow, and it would be a pity to leave anything unfinished."
Edward Webb gave a little chuckle. Great drops of rain hissed on the fire, and Rutherford, beyond the circle of light, began to pace the floor.
"Jim, I'll play chess with you."
"I think I'll have to get a breath of air."
"Not to-night. I shouldn't go out to-night."
He made no answer, but went to the door again and stood there. Edward Webb could hear him shifting from one foot to another, and he felt in the air a disturbance he could not name. Outside, the wind was shrieking, dashing itself against trees, walls, and counter-winds. It played with the rain, and tried to outcry the steady roaring of the streams. Within there was firelight, Clara sewing, Alexander at his books, and a man growing drowsy in the armchair; but peace was not there, for desire was trying to break through its prison-house, and its struggles could be felt.
Rutherford cleared his throat and again marched to and fro in the gloom. "Well, I think I'll get on my boots," he said, and gave out another cough.