Thus he alternated between hell and heaven.
If he had been enabled to penetrate but a very little way into the future, I suspect, his thoughts and his emotions would have been of a quite different order.
“I must have been here at least an hour by this time,” he said. “It must be almost time for her to get here.”
With stiffened fingers he drew out his watch.
Having looked at it: “Yes; she may get here any minute now.” Oh, how the prospect made his heart throb! “She may be not further than a few yards away.—Ah!—Hark! I—I hear a footstep. I swear, I hear a footstep. Is it she? It comes down the path in this direction. God—God grant that it is she. Nearer—nearer—nearer——”
What was this? Bending forward, every muscle strained, every nerve on tension, to follow the footstep that he seemed to hear—suddenly his voice failed him, and expired in a low, guttural murmur; suddenly a dreadful spasm contracted all his features; his face flushed scarlet, then paled as white as marble; his arm flew up into the air, the fingers clutching at emptiness; foam flecked his lips; a groan burst from his throat; he tottered; he fell headlong to the earth; a brief, horrible convulsion, a protracted shudder; and he lay there, rigid, immobile, as if dead.
The footstep that he had heard passed on into silence.
The pine-trees that sheltered the rock, screened him from sight. This he had used to account one of the chief advantages of the spot. Was it an advantage now? Perhaps so; but he would be very bold indeed, who should dare to say yes for certain.
The cold settled down upon him, and wrapped him in its stony embrace. The afternoon wore away. The daylight faded into twilight, the twilight into night. And still Elias lay there, alone with the deadly cold.
In the Bacharach house, on Stuyvesant Square, the family were at dinner, with Elias for their topic. Where was he now, and what doing? they wondered. Enjoying himself, they hoped.