He said, “I’ll teach you a lesson, my lady, once for all.”

Then he went downstairs.  The kitchen was empty; Mrs. Tams had gone.  But between the kitchen and the parlour he changed his course, and ran upstairs again to the drawer, which he pulled wide open.  At the back of it there ought to have been an envelope containing twenty pounds in notes, balance of an advance payment from old Batchgrew.  The envelope was there with its contents.  Rachel had left the envelope.  “Good of her!” he ejaculated with sarcasm.  He put the money in his pocket-book, and descended to finish his tea, which he drank up excitedly.

A dubious scheme was hypnotizing him.  He was a man well acquainted with the hypnotism of dubious schemes.  He knew all the symptoms.  He fought against the magic influence, and then, as always, yielded himself deliberately and voluptuously to it.  He would go away.  He would not wait; he would go at once, in a moment.  She deserved as much, if not more.  He knew not where he should go; a thousand reasons against going assailed him; but he would go.  He must go.  He could no longer stand, even for a single hour, her harshness, her air of moral superiority, her adamantine obstinacy.  He missed terribly her candid worship of him, to which he had grown accustomed and which had become nearly a necessity of his existence.  He could not live with an eternal critic; the prospect was totally inconceivable.  He wanted love, and he wanted admiring love, and without it marriage was meaningless to him, a mere imprisonment.

So he would go.  He could not and would not pack; to pack would distress him and bore him; he would go as he was.  He could buy what he needed.  The shops—­his kind of shops—­were closed, and would remain closed until Tuesday.  Nevertheless, he would go.  He could buy the indispensable at Faulkner’s establishment on the platform at Knype railway-station, conveniently opposite the Five Towns Hotel.  He had determined to go to the Five Towns Hotel that night.  He had no immediate resources beyond the twenty pounds, but he would telegraph to Batchgrew, who ad not yet transferred to him the inheritance, to pay money into his bank early on Tuesday; if he were compelled to draw a cheque he would cross it, and then it could not possibly be presented before Wednesday morning.

At all costs he would go.  His face was still plastered; but he would go, and he would go far, no matter where!  The chief thing was to go.  The world was calling him.  The magic of the dubious scheme held him fast.  And in all other respects he was free—­free as impulse.  He would go.  He was not yet quite recovered, not quite strong....  Yes, he was all right; he was very strong!  And he would go.

He put on his hat and his spring overcoat.  Then he thought of the propriety of leaving a letter behind him—­not for Rachel’s sake, but to insist on his own dignity and to spoil hers.  He wrote the letter, read it through with satisfaction, and quitted the house, shutting the door cheerfully, but with a trembling hand.  Lest he might meet Rachel on her way home he went up the lane instead of down, and, finding himself near the station, took a train to Knype—­travelling first class.  The glorious estate of a bachelor was his once more.