In the train Calaiswards, Rivière felt as though he had just plunged into an ice-cold lake fed by torrents from the snow-peaks, and had emerged tingling in every fibre with the glow of health.
The course before him was straight; the issue clean-cut. He had only to confront Lars Larssen to bring the latter to his knees. If there were opposition, the threat of a public prosecution would brush it aside.
He must resume the personality of Clifford Matheson; return to Olive; settle a generous income on Elaine. He must wind up his financial affairs and devote himself to the scientific research he had planned.
A straight, clean course.
He looked forward eagerly to the moment when he would walk into Larssen's private office and smash a fist through his hoped-for control of Hudson Bay. Until that moment, he would keep outwardly to the identity of John Rivière. But already he was feeling himself back in the personality of Clifford Matheson—the hard, firm lines had set again around his mouth, the look of masterfulness was in his eye.
The Channel was in its sullen mood.
Overhead, skies were grey with ragged, shapeless cloud; below, the waters were the colour of slag and slapping angrily against the plates of the starboard bow under the drive of a wind from the north-east. The ashen cliffs of Dover came to meet the packet reluctant and inhospitable. By the harbour-entrance, a petulant squall of rain beat upon them as though to shoo them away. The landing-stage was slippery and slimy with rain, soot, and petrol drippings from the motor-cars shipped to and fro. Customs-house officers eyed them with tired suspicion; porters took their money and hastened away with the curtest of acknowledgments; an engine panted sullenly as it waited for never-ending mail-bags to be hauled up from the bowels of the packets and dumped into the mail-van.
England had no welcome for Rivière at her front door.
Through the Weald of Kent, where spring comes early, this April afternoon showed the land still naked and cold. On the coppices, dispirited catkins drooped their tassels from the wet branches of the undergrowth, but the young leaves lurked within their brown coverings as though they shivered at the thought of venturing out into the bleak air. On the oaks, dead leaves from the past autumn clung obstinately to their mother-branches. The hop-lands were a dreary drab; hop-poles huddled against one another for warmth; streams ran swollen and muddy and rebellious.