It was dark when they reached the suburban station, and the rain fell steadily. They crossed the covered platform to Wickham’s car. The chauffeur held the door open, they got in, and the car started.
“I don’t know how it was,” said Charles, “but whenever I used to think of home it was always like this—cold, rainy nights, and the little houses lighted up. Sort of a charm about it, don’t you think?”
There was some curious quality about Charles, something vivid in him, which conjured up visions for the wanderer’s brother. He looked out of the window, and it seemed to him that he could see as Charles saw—the pleasant suburban street, lined with bare trees, and the comfortable houses, lighted now, here a window with a red-shaded lamp, here a bedroom light behind curtains, all of them so snug and safe from the wind and the cold rain. Men were coming home and dinners were being served, as men had been coming home to rest and eat since the dark beginning of things. A bitter thing, to have no home, no welcome or refuge!
“Yes, I see,” said Wickham.
At least Charles could share his home.
“Unless he marries,” thought Wickham. “No reason why he shouldn’t do well with Carrick—soon be in a position to marry[Pg 548] and have a place of his own. No reason at all!”
A peculiar feeling of disquiet came over him, something shadowy and elusive. He felt abashed, as if some one had rebuked him. Well, perhaps it was a little hard to imagine Charles working in an office, making money, catching the five forty to go home to some cozy little house of his own; but it was not impossible.
“He’s only forty,” thought Wickham, “and I have influence enough to help him. No reason why it shouldn’t be like that!”
He glanced uneasily at his brother. The car was lighted, and he could see clearly that bold and arrogant profile.
“No reason at all!” he told himself once more.