e had
become alive to his own shame, his own ignominy, and he had turned at
bay upon the one who had caused him, as he judged, to fall.

When he reached the little pond, he paused and looked about him for a
second. It was a desolate spot at that time of year and that hour.
The little sheet of water gleamed dully like an obscured eye of life.
The trees waved their slender arms over it. Something about the
summer-house creaked as a damp wind blew on his face. He saw through
the trees a faint gleam of light from a house window farther down the
road. He heard a rustle in the undergrowth on his right, probably a
stray cat or a bird. He stood there holding the bottle of chloroform
and hating that man; then he raised his arm and flung the thing into
the pond. There was a splash which sounded unnaturally loud, as if it
could be heard a long distance.

Then Carroll turned and went home across the field; the evidence of
his guilt was hidden away out of sight, but the memory and
consciousness of it was in his very soul and had become a part of
him, and his hate of the man who had brought him to it stalked by his
side like a demon across the fields.

Chapter XXXIV

The next morning Carroll looked ill, so ill that Charlotte regarded
him with dismay as she sat opposite him at the breakfast-table. She
was full of delight over her meal. She had gotten up early and made
the fire and cooked the breakfast; in fact, Carroll had been awakened
from the uneasy sleep into which he had fallen towards morning by the
fragrance of the coffee. He opened his eyes, and it took him some
time to adjust himself to his environment, so much had happened since
the morning before. He awoke in the same room, in the same bed, but
spiritual stresses had made him unfamiliar with himself. It took him
some time to recall everything--the departure of his family, his
journey to Port Willis, Charlotte's return, the chloroform--but that
which required no time to return, which was like a vital flame in him
from the first second of his consciousness, was his hatred of the man
who had done him the wrong. As he lay there reflecting he became
aware that he had always hated in just such measure as this, from the
very first moment in which he had become aware of the wrong, only he
had not himself fairly sensed the mighty power of the hate. He had
not known that it so permeated his very soul, so filled it with
unnatural fire. At last he arose and dressed and went