teneverhope,then,togatherthehoneyoffriendshipoutofthatthorn-guardedplant.Hello,Crimsworth!whereareyourthoughtstending?YouleavetherecollectionofHunsdenasabeewouldarock,asabirdadesertandyouraspirationsspreadeagerwingstowardsalandofvisionswhere,nowinadvancingdaylight—inX——daylight—youdaretodreamofcongeniality,repose,union.Thosethreeyouwillnevermeetinthisworldtheyareangels.Thesoulsofjustmenmadeperfectmayencountertheminheaven,butyoursoulwillneverbemadeperfect.Eighto’clockstrikes!yourhandsarethawed,gettowork!”
“Work?whyshouldIwork?”saidIsullenly:“IcannotpleasethoughItoillikeaslave.”“Work,work!”reiteratedtheinwardvoice.“Imaywork,itwilldonogood,”IgrowledbutneverthelessIdrewoutapacketoflettersandcommencedmytask—taskthanklessandbitterasthatoftheIsraelitecrawlingoverthesun-bakedfieldsofEgyptinsearchofstrawandstubblewherewithtoaccomplishhistaleofbricks.
Aboutteno’clockIheardMr.Crimsworth’sgigturnintotheyard,andinaminuteortwoheenteredthecounting-house.ItwashiscustomtoglancehiseyeatSteightonandmyself,tohanguphismackintosh,standaminutewithhisbacktothefire,andthenwalkout.Todayhedidnotdeviatefromhisusualhabitstheonlydifferencewasthatwhenhelookedatme,hisbrow,insteadofbeingmerelyhard,wassurlyhiseye,insteadofbeingcold,wasfierce.Hestudiedmeaminuteortwolongerthanusual,butwentoutinsilence.
Twelveo’clockarrivedthebellrangforasuspensionoflabourtheworkpeoplewentofftotheirdinnersSteighton,too,departed,desiringmetolockthecounting-housedoor,andtakethekeywithme.Iwastyingupabundleofpapers,andputtingthemintheirplace,preparatorytoclosingmydesk,whenCrimsworthreappearedatthedoor,andenteringcloseditbehindhim.
“You’llstayhereaminute,”saidhe,inadeep,brutalvoice,whilehisnostrilsdistendedandhiseyeshotasparkofsinisterfire.
Alo