than his wont, was
conscious of no genial heat that produced perspiration, and the natural
reaction and cooling of the skin. Some internal excitement and fever of
the brain cut off all external things; the loneliness, the want of
correspondence that fever brings between external and internal
conditions, was on him. At one moment, in spite of the heat, he
shivered, at another he felt that an apoplexy must strike him.
For some half hour he walked to and fro along the sea-wall, between the
blackness of the sky and the lead-coloured water, and then his thoughts
turned to the downs above this stricken place, where, even in the
sultriest days some breath of wind was always moving. Just opposite him,
on the other side of the road, was the street that led steeply upward to
the station. He went up it.
*
It was about half-past seven o'clock that evening that the storm burst. A
few huge drops of rain fell on the hot pavements, then the rain ceased
again, and the big splashes dried, as if the stones had been blotting
paper that sucked the moisture in. Then without other warning a streamer
of fire split the steeple of St. Agnes's Church, just opposite Mr.
Taynton's house, and the crash of thunder answered it more quickly than
his servant had run to open the door to Morris's furious ringing of the
bell. At that the sluices of heaven were opened, and heaven's artillery
thundered its salvoes to the flare of the reckless storm. In the next
half-hour a dozen houses in Brighton were struck, while the choked
gutters overflowing on to the streets made ravines and waterways down the
roadways. Then the thunder and lightning ceased, but the rain still
poured down relentlessly and windlessly, a flood of perpendicular water.
Mr. Taynton had gone out without umbrella, and when he let himself in by
his latch-key at his own house-door about half-past eight, it was no
wonder that he wrung out his coat and trousers so that he should not soak
his Persian rugs. But from him, as from the charged skies, some tension
had passed; this tempest which had so cooled the air and restored the
equilibrium of its forces had smoothed the frowning creases of his brow,
and when the servant hurried up at the sound of the banged front-door, he
found his master soaked indeed, but serene.
"Yes, I got caught by the storm, Williams," he said, "and I am drenched.
The lightning was terrific, was it not? I will just change, and have a
little supper; some cold meat, anything that there is. Yes, you might
take my coat at once."
He divested himself of this.
"And I expect Mr. Morris this evening," he said. "He will probably have
dined, but if not I am sure Mrs. Otter will toss up a hot dish for him.
Oh, yes, and Mr. Mills will be here at half-past nine, or even sooner, as
I cannot think he will have walked from Falmer as he intended. But
whenever he comes, I will see him. He has not been here already?"
"No, sir," said Williams, "Will you have a hot bath, sir?"
"No, I will just change. How battered the poor garden will look tomorrow
after this deluge."
*
Mr. Taynton changed his wet clothes and half an hour afterwards he sat
down to his simple and excellent supper. Mrs. Otter had provided an
admirable vegetable soup for him, and some cold lamb with asparagus and
endive salad. A macedoine of strawberries followed and a scoop of cheese.
Simple as his fare was, it just suited Mr. Taynton's tastes, and he was
indulging himself with the rather rare luxury of a third glass of port
when Williams entered again.
"Mr. Assheton," he said, and held the door open.
Morris came in; he was dressed in evening clothes with a dinner jacket,
and gave no salutation to his host.
"He's not come yet?" he asked.
But his host sprang up.
"Dear boy," he said, "what a relief it is to see you. Ever since you left
this afternoon I have had you on my mind. You will have a glass of port?"
Morris laughed, a curious jangling laugh.
"Oh yes, to drink his health," he said.
He sat down with a jerk, and leaned
conscious of no genial heat that produced perspiration, and the natural
reaction and cooling of the skin. Some internal excitement and fever of
the brain cut off all external things; the loneliness, the want of
correspondence that fever brings between external and internal
conditions, was on him. At one moment, in spite of the heat, he
shivered, at another he felt that an apoplexy must strike him.
For some half hour he walked to and fro along the sea-wall, between the
blackness of the sky and the lead-coloured water, and then his thoughts
turned to the downs above this stricken place, where, even in the
sultriest days some breath of wind was always moving. Just opposite him,
on the other side of the road, was the street that led steeply upward to
the station. He went up it.
*
It was about half-past seven o'clock that evening that the storm burst. A
few huge drops of rain fell on the hot pavements, then the rain ceased
again, and the big splashes dried, as if the stones had been blotting
paper that sucked the moisture in. Then without other warning a streamer
of fire split the steeple of St. Agnes's Church, just opposite Mr.
Taynton's house, and the crash of thunder answered it more quickly than
his servant had run to open the door to Morris's furious ringing of the
bell. At that the sluices of heaven were opened, and heaven's artillery
thundered its salvoes to the flare of the reckless storm. In the next
half-hour a dozen houses in Brighton were struck, while the choked
gutters overflowing on to the streets made ravines and waterways down the
roadways. Then the thunder and lightning ceased, but the rain still
poured down relentlessly and windlessly, a flood of perpendicular water.
Mr. Taynton had gone out without umbrella, and when he let himself in by
his latch-key at his own house-door about half-past eight, it was no
wonder that he wrung out his coat and trousers so that he should not soak
his Persian rugs. But from him, as from the charged skies, some tension
had passed; this tempest which had so cooled the air and restored the
equilibrium of its forces had smoothed the frowning creases of his brow,
and when the servant hurried up at the sound of the banged front-door, he
found his master soaked indeed, but serene.
"Yes, I got caught by the storm, Williams," he said, "and I am drenched.
The lightning was terrific, was it not? I will just change, and have a
little supper; some cold meat, anything that there is. Yes, you might
take my coat at once."
He divested himself of this.
"And I expect Mr. Morris this evening," he said. "He will probably have
dined, but if not I am sure Mrs. Otter will toss up a hot dish for him.
Oh, yes, and Mr. Mills will be here at half-past nine, or even sooner, as
I cannot think he will have walked from Falmer as he intended. But
whenever he comes, I will see him. He has not been here already?"
"No, sir," said Williams, "Will you have a hot bath, sir?"
"No, I will just change. How battered the poor garden will look tomorrow
after this deluge."
*
Mr. Taynton changed his wet clothes and half an hour afterwards he sat
down to his simple and excellent supper. Mrs. Otter had provided an
admirable vegetable soup for him, and some cold lamb with asparagus and
endive salad. A macedoine of strawberries followed and a scoop of cheese.
Simple as his fare was, it just suited Mr. Taynton's tastes, and he was
indulging himself with the rather rare luxury of a third glass of port
when Williams entered again.
"Mr. Assheton," he said, and held the door open.
Morris came in; he was dressed in evening clothes with a dinner jacket,
and gave no salutation to his host.
"He's not come yet?" he asked.
But his host sprang up.
"Dear boy," he said, "what a relief it is to see you. Ever since you left
this afternoon I have had you on my mind. You will have a glass of port?"
Morris laughed, a curious jangling laugh.
"Oh yes, to drink his health," he said.
He sat down with a jerk, and leaned
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