It was
only by this unceasing exercise, by wearing down his vitality until
fatigue brought lethargy, that he could prevent himself from
falling into a very frenzy of despair. He hardly dared ask himself
what was the object of this wild journey? What did he expect?
Would Mary be still alive? She must be a very old woman. If he
could but see her and mingle his tears with hers he would be
content. Let her only know that it had been no fault of his, and
that they had both been victims to the same cruel fate. The
cottage was her own, and she had said that she would wait for
him there until she heard from him. Poor lass, she had never
reckoned on such a wait as this.
At last the Irish lights were sighted and passed, Land's End lay
like a blue fog upon the water, and the great steamer ploughed its
way along the bold Cornish coast until it dropped its anchor in
Plymouth Bay. John hurried to the railway station, and within a
few hours he found himself back once more in his native town, which
he had quitted a poor corkcutter, half a century before.
But was it the same town? Were it not for the name engraved all
over the station and on the hotels, John might have found a
difficulty in believing it. The broad, well-paved streets, with
the tram lines laid down the centre, were very different from the
narrow winding lanes which he could remember. The spot upon which
the station had been built was now the very centre of the town, but
in the old days it would have been far out in the fields.
Pages:
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213