He had acted for the best—it was for the best, he thought!—but the result was not satisfactory, and the future beyond was the grey density at which he had recoiled, when crossing the Channel on the day he came to man's estate.
If he had died on that day, or the ship had gone down with him, how much better he thought then; better for her, for him—even for his father, perhaps, he could not tell at that time!
He went indoors at last, feigned for awhile the old demeanour, and failed at a task beyond his strength for once. He gave it up, and, looking vacantly at his amazed father, said,
"I'm not well to-night. I think I'll go to my room."
"Not well!—you not well, Sid?" exclaimed the father, as though the assertion were the most improbable to make in the world.
"Not very well—a head-ache."
"Ah! too much book-work. Be careful, Sid, don't overtask yourself."
"I shall be well enough to-morrow. Good night."
He left the room abruptly, and turned the key in his own apartment a few minutes afterwards. In his own room, he hunted for a few letters which she had written to him during their brief engagement, and proceeded to burn them in the empty fire-grate.
"So much the best," he muttered, "so much the best!" as though they were charmed words, that kept him strong.