He raised himself in bed to draw the curtains to exclude this shadow, but they would not meet, and still between them he could see the hand stretched forth signing to him. Unable to account for it, he left his bed, went to the hearth, and found that the shadow was caused by the handle of a saucepan left on the hob at his desire to furnish him with warm water in the morning.
Having arranged the pan that its shadow should no longer offend him, he returned between the sheets, fell into an aimless, unhappy tangle of hopes and fears, lapsed into sleep, and if, before dawn, he heard the knocking of the maid at the door, took it as a portion of his troubled dream, was not roused, and slept on, not to awake till full two hours after the coach had gone.
There was now no help for it. He must spend another day at Seaton. If he posted to Axmouth, it would not avail him, he would be too late on reaching that place to catch the London mail-coach.
He dressed leisurely, resigned to the situation, and as usual was careful and painstaking about his clothing. He sent for the village barber to shave his lip and chin, to curl his whiskers, and adjust his hair so as to disguise incipient baldness.
Then he descended, very spick-and-span, dangling his gold-rimmed glass on his finger, to the coffee-room, and rang for breakfast.
In the same leisurely fashion he proceeded to eat his egg and chop, and to dip his toast. Occasionally he set his glass to his eye, and raked the walls, to take cognisance of the hunting pictures that decorated them. Having finished his meal, he straightened his back, shook his legs, contemplated himself, and above all the roll of his whiskers, in the mirror; took out a note-book, twisted forward the lead in his gold pencil-case, applied it to his tongue, opened his notes, recollected that he had as yet no account to enter, no remark to jot down, and returned the book to his pocket, and drew back the lead of the pencil.
Then he rang for his beaver and overcoat, was fitted into the latter, ordered lunch, was handed his umbrella, and sallied forth.
He was shy of going to the ferry, and letting Dench see that he had failed to catch the coach, so he engaged a boatman to row him to Lyme Regis.
'I will walk back along the shore,' said he.
'You will find it unpleasant walking, sir,' said the boatman; 'there are no sands, nothing but shingle.'