He moved his hand toward the door and Tomlinson went out, a tottering old man once more.
For a long minute the president of the road stood staring at the closed door. The hand that had pointed to it had not trembled; but now it began subtly, as if of its own will, to move. Slowly the vibration communicated itself to the whole frame till the man threw himself into a chair, broken from head to foot. He leaned toward his desk, gasping a little. “My God!” he said under his breath, “My God!” He lifted his hand and wiped the moisture from his forehead with the dazed look of one who has come through some mighty upheaval unharmed.
XIII
Another week went by before John was free to go back. The day before his return he received a letter, addressed in a huge, sprawling hand:
I seen him. I cursed him.
Hugh Tomlinson.
Simeon made no reference to the visit or the curse, and John waited, wondering a little whether it might be possible, even now, to undo the consequences of the old man’s folly.
That there was any connection between Simeon’s growing weakness and the old Scotchman’s visit did not occur to him. There were difficulties enough in the office to account for it without going outside. As the days went by and he watched the worn face, he grew more anxious. A look haunted the eyes—something almost crafty—they gazed at the simplest thing as if unseen terror lurked in it; and he started at any sudden noise as one pursued.... When John, leaning across the desk, pushed a book to the floor, he leaped to his feet, his hand upraised to strike, his lip drawn back from his teeth in quick rage.