“We’re done for,” he told the dog; “we’re finished this time. Everything has gone to hell.”
XVII
He felt strangely lost in the sudden emptiness of his existence, an existence that, only a few hours before, had welcomed the prospect of release from its bewildering fullness. He had gathered the results of his slowly-formulating consciousness, his tragic memory, to a final resolve in the return of the options to a county enhanced by the coming of a railroad whose benefits he would distribute to all. And now the railroad was no more than a myth, it had vanished into thin, false air, carrying with it....
He swept his hand through the papers of his vain endeavor, bringing a sudden confusion upon their order. His arm struck the glass of shot, and, for a short space, there was a continuous sharp patter on the floor. He rose, and paced from wall to wall, a bent shape with open, hanging hands and a straggling grey wisp of hair across his dry, bony forehead.
Footsteps crossed the porch, a knock fell upon the door, and Gordon responded without raising his head.
It was Simeon Caley.
He had not been in the house since, together with his wife, he had left it after Lettice’s death. Sim’s stained felt hat was pushed back from a wet brow, his gestures were urgent.
“Get your horse in the buggy!” he exclaimed; “I’ll help you. Light out.”