This evening "melancholy marked him for her own." It had been a day more vacant of incident than usual, and he was almost bad-tempered. The thought of the recent defeat by Alicia rankled, and he turned over in his mind schemes by which he could outwit her and procure a holiday in Brighton. "It's all very well," he grumbled to himself, "but I don't see why I should continually knuckle under. I've been too easy-going. It's time things were put on a different footing. I wonder if ..."
He was still wondering when Alicia returned, and the solution of his difficulties was not yet. Alicia, who was in an aggressive good-humor, commented on his dulness. Robert replied in a tone that she characterized as "snappy"; she also made the inevitable suggestion that he had eaten something that disagreed with him.
"Good lord!" said Robert, goaded at last beyond caution and fear. "Who wouldn't be snappy, doing nothing half the day, and the other half doing what he doesn't like? Nothing ever happens here—it's like being a fly buzzing in a tumbler. He can't get out, though he can see all sorts of interesting things through the glass."
"You ought to be thankful for your many mercies," said his wife coldly: she knew the treatment for the case. "Instead of grumbling like a child, you had better go to bed. That is, if you have finished supper."
At that moment Mr. Hedderwick had one of the strongest temptations of a blameless life. He yearned for the courage to say, "Oh, damn the supper!" but broke into a perspiration at the mere thought. Instead, he had the grace to be astonished at his mood and weakly answered, "I think I shall, my dear." As he opened the door his helpmeet suggested he should not forget at his private devotions to ask for a contented spirit. Rebellion returned, and he banged the door.
He soon forgot his troubles in sleep; in fact, he did not even hear his wife come to bed. He slept dreamlessly, despite the suggestion that he had committed an error in diet, until a quarter past one. Then he awoke quite suddenly, with a dim idea that something was happening. He sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes, and listened: no, there seemed to be nothing ... everything was still: only the regular breathing of his wife, fast asleep, was to be heard. "I must have been dreaming," he thought, preparing to lie down again. And then he heard a subdued, but distinct, noise down-stairs.
Robert experienced a chill that crept, via the spine and nape, to his brain. The short hairs on the back of his head felt as if they had begun to bristle. A ghostly cowardice flooded his being, penetrating to the uttermost recesses. "Good lord!" he thought, "it must be a burglar!" His first instinct was to lie down and draw the clothes over his head; his second, to jab his wife sharply in the ribs: company in the imminent peril was his prime necessity. Both these base impulses he controlled. Though elderly, he felt himself still a man; and despite the fact that he had no audience, no public opinion to make heroism easy, he realized that his part must be played alone at all costs.
As he came to this resolve his natural apprehension subsided: he felt calmer, more collected. Sitting up in bed, he listened with strained ears. For a moment there was silence; then came the quiet but distinct opening of a door below. His misgivings had a solid foundation; and with a dismal determination Robert cautiously got out of bed.
Why he did not wake his wife he hardly knew. Perhaps it was chivalry, perhaps a subconscious sense that she might spoil the fun. Yes, that was the odd phrase that formed in his mind once the temporary panic was subdued. With a wry smile—remembering his previous complaints of a vacant life and his thirst for adventures—Robert tiptoed cautiously to the dressing-table. Here he made a swift and partial toilet. He slipped on a pair of trousers, a coat and some boots—for in the midst of his apprehensions he had a foolish idea that the burglar might tread on his toes. Then without noise he opened the top right-hand corner drawer, where he kept his collars and handkerchiefs, and took out a small revolver. As he handled the stock he felt his new manhood glowing like champagne in every artery. Life! He had begun to live.
How did it happen that a harmless churchwarden and retired cashier possessed so lethal a weapon? Simply, it was due to a mixture of precaution and romanticism. He had always thought a burglar might come, and deep in his composition lay a vein of adventure. It was fine to have a pistol—a loaded pistol—even though never used. It gave a sense of power and desperation. He sometimes fondled it and dreamed of defending himself against a marauder or a mob. But such demonstrations took place only when his wife was out.