Even now he might be going. The
doctor recalled how he and Sir Richmond had talked of the rage of life
in a young baby, how we drove into life in a sort of fury, how that rage
impelled us to do this and that, how we fought and struggled until the
rage spent itself and was gone. That eddy of rage that was Sir Richmond
was now perhaps very near its end. Presently it would fade and cease,
and the stream that had made it and borne it would know it no more.
Dr. Martineau's thoughts relaxed and passed into the picture land of
dreams. He saw the figure of Sir Richmond, going as it were away from
him along a narrow path, a path that followed the crest of a ridge,
between great darknesses, enormous cloudy darknesses, above him and
below. He was going along this path without looking back, without a
thought for those he left behind, without a single word to cheer him
on his way, walking as Dr. Martineau had sometimes watched him walking,
without haste or avidity, walking as a man might along some great
picture gallery with which he was perhaps even over familiar. His hands
would be in his pockets, his indifferent eyes upon the clouds about him.
And as he strolled along that path, the darkness closed in upon him. His
figure became dim and dimmer.
Whither did that figure go? Did that enveloping darkness hide the
beginnings of some strange long journey or would it just dissolve that
figure into itself?
Was that indeed the end?
Dr.
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