Autobiographical fiction; Domestic fiction; Male authors -- Fiction; Men -- Fiction; Psychological fiction
But as now burst from these sorceries, he hurried along the open road,
he strove for the time to dispel the mystic feeling, or at least
postpone it for a while, until he should have time to rally both body
and soul from the more immediate consequences of that day's long
fastings and wanderings, and that night's never-to-be-forgotten scene.
He now endeavored to beat away all thoughts from him, but of present
bodily needs.
Passing through the silent village, he heard the clock tell the mid hour
of night. Hurrying on, he entered the mansion by a private door, the key
of which hung in a secret outer place. Without undressing, he flung
himself upon the bed. But remembering himself again, he rose and
adjusted his alarm-clock, so that it would emphatically repeat the hour
of five. Then to bed again, and driving off all intrudings of
thoughtfulness, and resolutely bending himself to slumber, he by-and-by
fell into its at first reluctant, but at last welcoming and hospitable
arms. At five he rose; and in the east saw the first spears of the
advanced-guard of the day.
It had been his purpose to go forth at that early hour, and so avoid all
casual contact with any inmate of the mansion, and spend the entire day
in a second wandering in the woods, as the only fit prelude to the
society of so wild a being as his new-found sister Isabel. But the
familiar home-sights of his chamber strangely worked upon him. For an
instant, he almost could have prayed Isabel back into the wonder-world
from which she had so slidingly emerged. For an instant, the fond,
all-understood blue eyes of Lucy displaced the as tender, but mournful
and inscrutable dark glance of Isabel. He seemed placed between them, to
choose one or the other; then both seemed his; but into Lucy's eyes
there stole half of the mournfulness of Isabel's, without diminishing
hers.
Again the faintness, and the long life-weariness benumbed him. He left
the mansion, and put his bare forehead against the restoring wind. He
re-entered the mansion, and adjusted the clock to repeat emphatically
the call of seven; and then lay upon his bed. But now he could not
sleep. At seven he changed his dress; and at half-past eight went below
to meet his mother at the breakfast table, having a little before
overheard her step upon the stair.
II.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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