. So--so that--'

Pierston was not backward at this critical juncture, despite unpleasant
sensations. But it was the historic ingredient in this genealogical
passion--if its continuity through three generations may be so
described--which appealed to his perseverance at the expense of his
wisdom. The mother was holding the daughter's hand; she took Pierston's,
and laid Avice's in it.

No more was said in argument, and the thing was regarded as determined.
Afterwards a noise was heard upon the window-panes, as of fine sand
thrown; and, lifting the blind, Pierston saw that the distant lightship
winked with a bleared and indistinct eye. A drizzling rain had come
on with the dark, and it was striking the window in handfuls. He had
intended to walk the two miles back to the station, but it meant a
drenching to do it now. He waited and had supper; and, finding the
weather no better, accepted Mrs. Pierston's invitation to stay over the
night.

Thus it fell out that again he lodged in the house he had been
accustomed to live in as a boy, before his father had made his fortune,
and before his own name had been heard of outside the boundaries of the
isle.

He slept but little, and in the first movement of the dawn sat up in
bed. Why should he ever live in London or any other fashionable city
if this plan of marriage could be carried out? Surely, with this young
wife, the island would be the best place for him. It might be possible
to rent Sylvania Castle as he had formerly done--better still to buy it.
If life could offer him anything worth having it would be a home with
Avice there on his native cliffs to the end of his days.

As he sat thus thinking, and the daylight increased, he discerned, a
short distance before him, a movement of something ghostly. His position
was facing the window, and he found that by chance the looking-glass
had swung itself vertical, so that what he saw was his own shape. The
recognition startled him. The person he appeared was too grievously
far, chronologically, in advance of the person he felt himself to be.
Pierston did not care to regard the figure confronting him so mockingly.
Its voice seemed to say 'There's tragedy hanging on to this!' But the
question of age being pertinent he could not give the spectre up, and
ultimately got out of bed under the weird fascination of the reflection.
Whether he had overwalked himself lately, or what he had done, he knew
not; but never had he seemed so aged