My wind is turned to bitter north

That was so soft a south before

—A. H. Clough, Poem (1841)

In fairness to Charles it must be said that he sent to find Sam before he left the White Lion. But the servant was not in the taproom or the stables. Charles guessed indeed where he was. He could not send there; and thus he left Lyme without seeing him again. He got into his four-wheeler in the yard, and promptly drew down the blinds. Two hearse-like miles passed before he opened them again, and let the slanting evening sunlight, for it was now five o’clock, brighten the dingy paintwork and upholstery of the carriage.

It did not immediately brighten Charles’s spirits. Yet grad-ually, as he continued to draw away from Lyme, he felt as if a burden had been lifted off his shoulders; a defeat suffered, and yet he had survived it. Grogan’s solemn warning—that the rest of his life must be lived in proof of the justice of what he had done—he accepted. But among the rich green fields and May hedgerows of the Devon countryside it was difficult not to see the future as fertile—a new life lay ahead of him, great challenges, but he would rise to them. His guilt seemed almost beneficial: its expiation gave his life its hither-to lacking purpose.

An image from ancient Egypt entered his mind—a sculp-ture in the British Museum, showing a pharaoh standing be-side his wife, who had her arm round his waist, with her other hand on his forearm. It had always seemed to Charles a perfect emblem of conjugal harmony, not least since the figures were carved from the same block of stone. He and Sarah were not yet carved into that harmony; but they were of the same stone.

He gave himself then to thoughts of the future, to practi-cal arrangements. Sarah must be suitably installed in London. They should go abroad as soon as his affairs could be settled, the Kensington house got rid of, his things stored ... perhaps Germany first, then south in winter to Florence or Rome (if the civil conditions allowed) or perhaps Spain. Granada! The Alhambra! Moonlight, the distant sound below of singing gypsies, such grateful, tender eyes ... and in some jasmine-scented room they would lie awake, in each other’s arms, infinitely alone, exiled, yet fused in that loneliness, insepara-ble in that exile.

Night had fallen. Charles craned out and saw the distant lights of Exeter. He called out to the driver to take him first to Endicott’s Family Hotel. Then he leaned back and reveled in the scene that was to come. Nothing carnal should disfig-ure it, of course; that at least he owed to Ernestina as much as to Sarah. But he once again saw an exquisite tableau of tender silence, her hands in his ...

They arrived. Telling the man to wait Charles entered the hotel and knocked on Mrs. Endicott’s door.

“Oh it’s you, sir.”

“Miss Woodruff expects me. I will find my own way.”

Already he was turning away towards the stairs.

“The young lady’s left, sir!”

“Left! You mean gone o............