That night upon which Rufus Black visited Heather Hills, and was sent away again in despair, was a wild night throughout Great Britain and upon its coasts. Ships were wrecked upon the Goodwin Sands, and upon the south and west coasts. Over the open moors and heaths of the country the winds went roaring like unloosed demons, bent upon terrible mischief. Women with husbands at sea cowered before their blazing fires that night, and children in their beds snuggled closer and held their breaths with very fear. Houses were unroofed in many places, chimneys were blown down, and lives were lost upon bridges and country roads through falling timbers and uprooted trees. The gale that night was one long to be remembered for its wild violence, one so severe not having been experienced in Great Britain for years.
Mr. Atkins, the Canterbury solicitor, sat in his office until a late hour that night. His house was in a pleasant, quiet street, in a good neighborhood, and the lower floor was occupied by him as his office, the drawing-room being upon the second floor, and the family rooms above. The main office had an independent entrance from the street, with a door opening directly into the office—a convenient arrangement duly appreciated by Mrs. Atkins, as it left the house entrance free to her family and guests.
The solicitor had changed somewhat since his first introduction to the reader. His honest face had grown thin and sallow, his hair was streaked with gray, and there were anxious lines about his mouth and eyes that told of unrest and trouble.
He sat in a lounging chair before the fire, his feet on the fender. His family had long since retired, and the hour was wearing on toward eleven o’clock. His fire flamed up in a wild glow, the gas burned brightly, the red fire gleams lighted the dull office carpet and the well-polished furniture, making the room seem especially cozy and delightful. The shutters were lowered, but no care could shut out the sound of the mad winds careering through the streets, clutching at resisting outer blinds, and bearing along now and then some clattering sign-board or other estray.
“An awful night,” sighed the solicitor. “I have a strange feeling as if something were going to happen!”
He shifted uneasily in his chair, and bent forward and laid fresh coals upon the fire. Then he leaned back again and thought.
The office clock struck eleven, and the loud clangor struck upon Mr. Atkins in his nervous mood with singular unpleasantness. Before the echo of the last stroke had died out, footsteps were heard in the street, unsteady and wavering, as if the pedestrian were battling with the storm, and found it difficult to advance against it.
“Some poor fellow,” thought Mr. Atkins. “He must be homeless, to be out at this hour and in such a gale.”
The steps came nearer still and nearer, their sound being now and then lost in the tumult of the winds. They paused at the foot of the solicitor’s office steps, and then slowly mounted to the door.
“Who can it be at this time of night?” muttered Mr. Atkins. “Some vagabond who means to sleep on my steps? Or is it some houseless wanderer who sees my light through the shutters, and is come to beg of me?”