He went home. How strange it is to return to a
familiar chamber after a great event has happened! On his desk lay a
volume of Cicero's letters. The fire had not been touched and was
almost out: the door leading to the garden was open: the self of two
hours before seemed to confront him. When the tumult in him began to
subside he was struck by the groundlessness of his double assumption
that Mrs. Fairfax was Mrs. Leighton and that she was free. He had made
no inquiry. He had noticed the wedding-ring, and he had come to some
conclusion about it which was supported by no evidence. Doubtless she
could not be his: her husband was still alive. At last the hour for
which unconsciously he had been waiting had struck, and his true self,
he not having known hitherto what it was, had been declared. But it was
all for nothing. It was as if some autumn-blooming plant had put forth
on a sunny October morning the flower of the year, and had been
instantaneously blasted and cut down to the root. The plant might
revive next spring, but there could be no revival for him.
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