And every now and then
some sound outside would make him start up and listen . . . and listen.
Was that not a footstep? . . . the step of one who might come feeling
his way. . . dim-eyed with regret? There were such things in life as
momentary lapses, as ungovernable impulses--as fiery contrition . . .
the anguish of remorse. And yet, once more, he sat up and listened till
his ears rang.
Then, not the ghostly footsteps of a delusive hope, but a hard, human
crunching that made the boards of the verandah shake. Tossing off the
opossum-rug, which had grown unbearably heavy, he sprang to his feet;
was wide awake and at the window, staring sleep-charged into the dawn,
before a human hand had found the night-bell and a distracted voice
cried:
"Does a doctor live here? A doctor, I say . . .?"
Chapter VII
The hot airless night had become the hot airless day: in the garden the
leaves on trees and shrubs drooped as under an invisible weight. All the
stale smells of the day before persisted--that of the medicaments on
the shelves, of the unwetted dust on the roads, the sickly odour of malt
from a neighbouring brewery. The blowflies buzzed about the ceiling; on
the table under the lamp a dozen or more moths lay singed and dead. Now
it was nearing six o'clock; clad in his thinnest driving-coat, Mahony
sat and watched the man who had come to fetch him beat his horse to a
lather.
"Mercy! . . . have a little mercy on the poor brute," he said more than
once.
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