It was late; he must go on; he had not meant to sit idling by the road-side.  He went through the fields, his heavy step crushing the snow, a dry heat in his blood, his eye intent, still, until he came within sight of the farm-house; then he went on, cool and grave, in his ordinary port.

The house was quite dark; only a light in one of the lower windows,—­the library, he thought.  The broad field he was crossing sloped down to the house, so that, as he came nearer, he saw the little room quite plainly in the red glow of the fire within, the curtains being undrawn.  He had a keen eye; did not fail to see the marks of poverty about the place, the gateless fences, even the bare room with its worn and patched carpet:  noted it all with a triumphant gleam of satisfaction.  There was a black shadow passing and repassing the windows:  he waited a moment looking at it, then came more slowly towards them, intenser heats smouldering in his face.  He would not surprise her; she should be as ready as he was for the meeting.  If she ever put her pure hand in his again, it should be freely done, and of her own good-will.

She saw him as he came up on the porch, and stopped, looking out, as if bewildered,—­then resumed her walk, mechanically.  What it cost her to see him again he could not tell:  her face did not alter.  It was lifeless and schooled, the eyes looking straight forward always, indifferently.  Was this his work?  If he had killed her outright, it would have been better than this.

The windows were low:  it had been his old habit to go in through them, and he now went up to one unconsciously.  As he opened it, he saw her turn away for an instant; then she waited for him, entirely tranquil, the clear fire shedding a still glow over the room, no cry or shiver of pain to show how his coming broke open the old wound.  She smiled even, when he leaned against the window looking, with a careless welcome.

Holmes stopped, confounded.  It did not suit him,—­this.  If you know a man’s nature, you comprehend why.  The bitterest reproach or a proud contempt would have been less galling than this gentle indifference.  His hold had slipped from off the woman, he believed.  A moment before he had remembered how he had held her in his arms, touched her cold lips, and then flung her off,—­he had remembered it, his every nerve shrinking with remorse and unutterable tenderness:  now—!  The utter quiet of her face told more than words could do.  She did not love him; he was nothing to her.  Then love was a lie.  A moment before he could have humbled himself in her eyes as low as he lay in his own, and accepted her pardon as a necessity of her enduring, faithful nature:  now the whole strength of the man sprang into rage and mad desire of conquest.

He came gravely across the room, holding out his hand with his old quiet control.  She might be cold and grave as he, but underneath he knew there was a thwarted hungry spirit,—­a strong fine spirit as dainty Ariel.  He would sting it to life, and tame it:  it was his.