hypothesis which as soon as he
granted, he as violently discarded. But the thought was imperious:
something of its kind always haunted him like a bad ghost. It could
usually be dismissed, but now it was persistent. A despatch from
Falconer had certainly come the night before. Another might have
followed on this morning, hard upon it? To have been sent over from
the Abbey on a holiday must have been a very grave message indeed; "a
matter," as the old term went, "of life and death." The phrase began
to repeat itself and the conviction to grow, and as he was obliged to
give it admittance and to face it, and to wonder what the shock would
be to her, and what the news would be to him, how it would change
things, and how they would both meet it--his promenade to and fro in
the room brought him up before the centre table and he looked down upon
it at length with a seeing eye. Why not? why not? he was wondering.
We are all essentially mortal, and lightning never had struck yet, _why
not in this place_? And since there had been neither shame nor blame,
why couldn't he face the possibility of a perfectly natural mortality?
Before him on the table lay Mrs. Falconer's green scarf, and as
Bulstrode lifted the soft thing he saw that underneath it lay a
despatch.

Then he knew instantly that Mary Falconer had left both scarf and
telegram there, and that this was her message to him. He seemed, as
the word he had not yet read met him in this form, to have been waiting
all his life for just this news. The road, so long in winding home,
had wound home at length, and now that he believed the crisis was
really reached, there was something infinitely stilling in its
solemnity.

Bulstrode could not at once draw the sheet from its envelope. He lit a
cigar and sat down before the fire.

He knew, as though he saw it all before his eyes, how the despatch had
found her this early Christmas Day, in her room--he knew how she had
read it first and borne it well--for she was a brave, strong woman--he
knew that his absence had been a relief to her. He knew how she had
worn her long, dark cloak and thick veil, and had gone out to travel
home alone. Oh, he knew her, and as he thought of the picture she had
made, and how she would begin her sad and dreadful journey, he for the
first time thought of himself--of themselves. He was too human not to
know that there would be a future and that they would build anew. In
the new house there wo