Where was he? What was he doing here? Why had he come? He would go home.
He turned.
He turned to face the fire that leapt close at his heel. It was burning at
the back of a caravan, in a dark cul-de-sac away from the main
thoroughfare; to its blazing light the bare boards and ugly plankings of
the booth, splashed here and there with torn paper that rustled a little
in the evening breeze, were all that offered themselves. Near by a horse,
untethered, was quietly nosing at the trodden soil.
Behind the caravan the field ran down to a ditch and thick hedging.
Brandon stared at the fire as though absorbed by its light. What did he
see there? Visions perhaps? Did he see the Cathedral, the Precincts, the
quiet circle of demure old houses, his own door, his own bedroom? Did he
see his wife moving hurriedly about the room, opening drawers and shutting
them, pausing for a moment to listen, then coming out, closing the door,
listening again, then stepping downstairs, pausing for a moment in the
hall to lay something on the table, then stepping out into the green
wavering evening light? Or did the flames make pictures for him of the
deserted railway-station, the long platform, lit only by one lamp, two
figures meeting, exchanging almost no word, pacing for a little in silence
the dreary spaces, stepping back as the London express rolled in--such a
safe night to choose for escape--then burying themselves in it like
rabbits in their burrow?
Did his vision lead him back to the deserted house, silent save for its
ticking clocks, black in that ring of lights and bells and shouting
voices?
Or was he conscious only of the warmth and the life of the fire, of some
sudden companionship with the woman bending over it to stir the sticks and
lift some pot from the heart of the flame? He was feeling, perhaps, a
sudden peace here and a silence, and was aware of the stars breaking into
beauty one by one above his head.
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