It seemed to be another man who was hurrying along the margin of the river, in and out over the mighty water-worn stones, with the water rushing between, till he was brought up short by the whizzing sound made by his winch, for the hook had caught in a bush, and his rod was bent half double.
“I can’t fish to-day,” he said, turning back, and winding in till he could give the hook a sharp jerk and snap the gut bottom. “I must go home and think.”
He hurried back, with the feeling growing upon him that all the past trouble was at an end. For the moment he felt intoxicated with the new sense of elation which thrilled him, and it was as if all the young hope and joy which were natural to his age, and had been clouded now, had suddenly burst forth like so much sunshine. But this was short lived.
As he reached the bridge, a couple of fishermen whom he had known from boyhood were standing with their backs to the parapet, chatting and smoking, but as soon as they saw him approach they turned round, leaned over the side, and began to stare down at the river.
It was like a cold dark mist blown athwart him, but he strode on.
“Fools!” he muttered; and increasing his pace, he began to note more than ever now that his coming was the signal for people standing at their doors to go inside, and for the fishermen to turn their backs.
All this had occurred every time he had been out of late, but he had grown hardened to it, and laughed in his stubborn contempt; but this day, after the fit of elation he had passed through,—it all looked new, and he hurried on chilled to the heart; the bright, sunshiny day was clouded over again, and all was once more hopeless and blank.
So bitter was the feeling of despair which now sunk deep into his breast, that he shrank from Wimble, who was standing at his door in the act of saying good-day to a customer, both looking hard at him till he had entered the cottage.