But uncovering his head to the rain was not the only foolish thing he had done this night. Had he not wandered sillily along some roads--he knew not where--until he had lost his way? Now he was far from lamplight--where he knew not; whither to turn he could not decide if he had a choice. At present he every now and then ran up against the hedge, and this was the only thing which told him he was walking on a road.
He wondered what o'clock it was. When did he leave that dreadful room where the inquest had been held? He could not tell, but it was the moment Blake's evidence was over. The moment Blake moved from the table at which the coroner sat, he had stolen away, and, he thought, run a good while, until he was out of breath. How long that was since he could not tell--could not guess.
Merciful Heavens! Suppose the night was yet young--suppose it was now no more than midnight, or eleven, or ten o'clock--what was to become of him? There would be no daylight until close to seven. Could it be that he would have to wander on thus for eight or ten hours more? The thought was absurd. He should drop down of exhaustion, of cold, long before that time.
Cold! Why, what could be the meaning of this? Already the feeling of cold was passing away, and he felt quite warm--very hot. This was an improvement on the sensation a little while ago.
No matter whether he felt hot or cold now, this day had done him one invaluable service. It had cured him of any romantic feeling he had had for that strangely beautiful woman. Now all that had happened in that room where the inquest had been held came back vividly to him. Murder had been done, and there could be no doubt in the mind of any reasonable man that Blake had done the awful deed, and that she---- No, no; he mustn't think that even now. It was plain, at all events, that Blake had once been loved by her, and there was nothing to show that she was now indifferent to Blake. Had she not supported his absurd theory respecting the death of the man who had been murdered?
The heat was becoming bad again--worse than ever. His head was burning. It felt as though a cap of tight-fitting metal pressed upon it. The cold of a little time back was hard to endure, but it seemed a positive pleasure compared with this awful sensation of bursting at the temples. He must have relief some way, any way, no matter at what cost in the future.
Off with the hat again. The rain did not cool so quickly or so effectually, but it afforded great alleviation. There was no positive sense of pleasure from it now--only a dulling, deadening of a feeling which was not exactly pain, but gave rise to a helpless, lethargic state of brain.
His limbs were heavier than they had yet seemed, and he had great difficulty in persuading himself that the water which rose no higher than an inch on the road was not tenacious mud half a foot deep.
Keep on thus for several hours! Impossible! One might as well expect to walk for the same time on red-hot ploughshares.
Oh, he felt sick and weary beyond endurance! No light to be seen--nothing whatever visible. And along this road no succour was likely to come, while the rain poured down as though a second destruction of earth by water was at hand.