A strange indifference
possessed him this morning--indifference to everything. He was suffering
reaction from the previous day's excitement. He had got the five
thousand dollars, and now all interest in it seemed to have departed.
Suddenly he said to himself, as he ran a brush around his coat-collar:
"'Pon my soul, I forgot; this is my wedding day!--the great day in a
man's life, the immense event, after which comes steady happiness or the
devil to pay."
He stepped to the window and looked out. It was only six o'clock as yet.
He could see the harvesters going to their labours in the fields of wheat
and oats, the carters already bringing in little loads of hay. He could
hear their marche-'t'-en! to the horses. Over by a little house on the
river bank stood an old woman sharpening a sickle. He could see the
flash of the steel as the stone and metal gently clashed.
Presently a song came up to him, through the garden below, from the
house. The notes seemed to keep time to the hand of the sickle-
sharpener. He had heard it before, but only in snatches. Now it seemed
to pierce his senses and to flood his nerves with feeling.
The air was sensuous, insinuating, ardent.
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