His mother joined the
immaterial company, accents, rigid with pride in him. And penetrating,
binding, all was the dull beat of the trip hammer at Myrtle Forge. He
had mechanically finished dressing, and stood absently twisting the
drapery at a window. A fine tracery of lines had suddenly appeared about
his eyes; the cold rays of the winter sun, streaming over his erect
figure, accentuated the patches of grey plentiful in his hair.
He saw, on the street below, a parade of firemen, in scarlet tunics and
brass helmets, dragging a glittering engine. The men walked evenly
abreast, at cross ropes. A leader blew a brilliant fanfare on an
embossed, silver horn. Women passed, foreshortened into circular bells
of colour, draped with gay pelerines and rich India shawls. He saw all
and nothing. The horn of the firemen sounded without meaning on his
distracted hearing. The flood of his suffering rose darkly, oppressing
his heart, choking his breath. Perhaps if, as he had desired, he had
gone away, Susan would be spared. But Stephen was right; nothing could
keep her from the pronouncement of the words that would free him and
bind herself in intolerable ill. Her uprightness was terrible. It would
take her fearful but determined into the pits of any hell.
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