It was
a semi-local paper from town, one that his mother took, but which they
seldom either of them read, and the date was three days back. He turned
it over idly, pausing as he did so to pull up the line which was being
jerked violently, but only by a mud eel. Why did he return again to the
scrap of paper when he had freed his hook? His eyes caught strange words,
and his hands began to tremble as he read. It was the condensed report of
the Latham divorce that was now going the rounds of the journals.
He paused a moment, then folded the paper, put it in his pocket, poled
the boat with vigorous strokes to the landing-place, and strode through
the woods and across the cornfields homeward, his heart beating
tumultuously until he seemed almost to be struggling with suffocation.
He stopped at the barn and harnessed a horse to the old buggy, passing by
the new one that he had recently ordered from town, and then went into
the house, where, taking off his slouchy fishing clothes, he put on the
same ceremonious afternoon wear that he would have worn at Northbridge if
going to call, put Sylvia's handkerchief in his inner pocket, and went in
search of his mother.
He found her in the kitchen, tying the covers upon countless jars of
currant jam. She looked surprised to see him back at such an hour,
but said nothing, as Esther Nichols was close by, employed in wiping
off the jars.
"I'm going over to Oaklands for a drive," he said, handing her the scrap
of newspaper with a gesture that meant silence.
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