When he came upon the idea of her being a helpless simple child, he groaned and stamped and struck his thigh with his clenched fist; then got up, and swore an oath he would go and find her himself. He was in the hotel at the time, and it was then ten o'clock. Having asked Macklin to act for him in his absence, he left the hotel and crossed the river on foot.
Going over Westminster Bridge he paused, and looked down at the dark swift waters beneath. Could it be that black heedless tyrant below there had strangled his love? Could it be the swirling tide below was now waving to and fro that beautiful brown hair?--that brown hair on which he had loved to lay his hand, that he might feel sanctified. Had loved--had loved! Gracious heavens, had it come to that? Was his love already a thing of the past? Had the love, which was yesterday a living passion with worshipper and idol, in one brief moment left finally for want of an object? Was his life widowed of the one passion which had ennobled it? And here was he, strong, rich, titled, possessed of almost unlimited power to prosecute such an inquiry, as helpless against this mystery as he was against the accursed water rushing beneath his feet!
He left the bridge, and moved on. It was now quite dark--that is, as dark as night is in mid-summer. It was fresh, and not too warm for walking with comfort. The streets were crowded with people, and nearly all the shops were still open.
Cheyne strode on at a rapid pace, his great form cleaving its way through the crowd as a descending stone divides water. He went on without looking to either side until he passed Newington Butts. Here he slackened; here he ceased to be indifferent to the people, and looked sharply every moment from side to side, examining every face with anxious care. If he had been in his ordinary mental condition, he would have known quite well that nothing was more unlikely than that Marion would be walking out at such an hour. But he was not in his ordinary mental condition; and when, after awhile, that thought occurred to him, he put it away impatiently, and said to himself:
"Better fail myself to find her here than listen to the history of others' failures over there." And he turned round and looked indignantly back upon the way he had come. Then he resumed his walk and his eager questioning glance at the unfamiliar passers-by.
On and on he kept until he got to the top of Kennington Road; then he turned, and, having crossed the road, walked back again to Newington Butts. Then, facing round again, he went hither and thither, down by-streets, he knew not, he cared not where.
Gradually the streets became deserted and more deserted. Lights shone a short time in upper windows, and were then put out. The cabs, which had set down people coming home from the theatres, had long since rattled away; The great silent dome of night, fretted with millions of stars, seemed to have absorbed from earth all the unruly noises of day, and only now and then the sound of a solitary footfall broke upon the ear, like a penitential ghost from the dead day. The stormy heart of day was eased of its trouble by that "sweet oblivious antidote"--night. There lingered in remote distances marvellous tones of music. The harsh inconsistencies of day had lain down to sleep, like weary wayward children. The peace of the desert had descended on the great city. Upon all the land had fallen night, that great Sabbath of Nature, when men cease from doing evil to their neighbours and blaspheming God, when the earth rises up out of the great ocean of sunlight, which is for the uses of the earth only, towards the great light of illimitable heaven, which is for the peace of the soul.
All round people were asleep. So great was the silence that the ticking of the clocks could be distinguished through the front doors. It was almost possible to fancy the breathing of the people above could be heard.
As the night wore on, and the chill dawn paled and pushed back the flaming stars, Cheyne's mood changed from one of indignant determination to melancholy. He seemed no longer possessed of vitality enough to be angry. The long walk and the depressing influence of the hour overcame him, and he felt inclined to weep.
Slowly the day broadened. A solitary crow broke the overwhelming silence of the morning with a single cry, that reverberated through the streets and went rolling away among the distant echoes. That one sound seemed more like the last note of an expiring world than the reveille for the world's work.