It was not as if Gell were in any danger—the danger of arrest for instance. That would be different. But Gell was in no danger—none whatever.
"Therefore bury the thing! Bury it and go on as usual," he told himself.
The evening was closing in. It was beautiful and limpid. With a high step Stowell was walking to and fro on the path. Visions were rising before him of Gell and Bessie Collister on the big liner, ploughing their way through the darkening ocean to that free continent "where the clouds sailed higher"—Archibald Alexander and his sister Elizabeth going out to the new world to begin a new life.
He had visions of Fenella too—how he would go up to Government House to-morrow morning. "Tell him to come back to me," she said to Janet, and now he would go. How happy he was going to be!
"Surely I've a right to some happiness after all I've gone through."
He gave himself up to the intoxication of living by anticipation through those most blissful moments to a man and woman who love each other—the first moments of reconciliation after a quarrel.
Night had fallen. It was very dark. The late birds were silent, and only the soft young leaves of May were rustling in the darkness overhead with that gentleness that is like the whispering of angels. All at once a red light jogged up from the gate, making shadows among the trees that bordered the drive.
"Good evenin', Dempster! A letter for you, Sir."
It was Killip the postman.
"Thank you, Mr. Killip," said Stowell, taking the letter. He could not see it in the darkness, but at the touch of the large envelope a heavy foreboding came over him.