He
decided not to bother him at this moment and seated himself in a chair
before the desk. There was plenty of time. His father would be as
disagreeably surprised to meet him five minutes from now as he would
were he to stalk into his presence at this moment.
Once in the chair, Calumet realized that he was tired, and he leaned
back luxuriously, stretching his legs. The five minutes to which he
had limited himself grew to ten and he still sat motionless, looking
out of the window at the deepening dusk. The shadows in the wood near
the house grew darker, and to Calumet's ears came the long-drawn,
plaintive whine of a coyote, the croaking of frogs from the river, the
hoot of an owl nearby. Other noises of the night reached him, but he
did not hear them, for he had become lost in meditation.
What a home-coming!
Bitterness settled into the marrow of his bones. Here was ruin,
desolation, darkness, for the returning prodigal. These were the
things his father had given him. A murderous rage seized him, a lust
to rend and destroy, and he sat erect in his chair, his muscles tensed,
his blood rioting, his brain reeling. Had his father appeared before
him at this minute it would have gone hard with him. He fought down an
impulse to go in search of him and presently the mood passed, his
muscles relaxed, and he stretched out again in the chair.
Pages:
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31