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She was getting our supper ready." "Are you sure she never left the house your rooms, you know?" Bunning started. Obviously, a new idea had occurred. "Ay!" said Meeking, with a smile. "Just so, Bunning. You're not sure?" "Well, sir," replied Bunning slowly, "now that I come to think of it, I'm not!
Standing there now with no sorrow, remorse, repentance, nevertheless he knew that all night, alone in his room, he would be fighting with devils. . . . Bunning, nervously, stammered "If you don't mind I think I'm going round for a minute." Olva nodded good-night.
I could see, as I rode along through the cantonment and the long lines of huts, how well chosen was the valley camp. The Schuylkill flowing from the Blue Hills turned here to eastward, the current was deep, the banks were high and precipitous. To the west, in a deep gorge, the Valley Creek protected the camp. Bunning down from Mount Joy, a broad spur turned northward to the Schuylkill.
Soon Bunning would come in and then the fight would begin again, but for the instant there was peace the first peace that he had known since that far-away evening in St. Martin's Chapel.
The Dublin match was to be on the first Tuesday of December, two days before every one went down, and between the two dates this 5th of November and that 2nd of December the position must be held. . . . The terror of the irresistible impulse now never left Olva. He had told Bunning in a moment of uncontrol what might he not do now at any time?
He was quiet, collected, perfectly calm. He went over to the window, opened it, and rejoiced in the breeze. The room seemed suddenly empty. Five minutes ago it had been crowded, breathless. There was now only Bunning. "It was so awfully hot with that enormous fire," he said. Bunning's condition was peculiar.
Presently came along another Corporation official, whom Bunning knew as well as he knew the Mayor, an official who, indeed, was known all over the town, and familiar to everybody, from the mere fact that he was always attired in a livery the like of which he and his predecessors had been wearing for at least two hundred years.
It had always been Bunning who had come to him. He would always see that picture -Bunning standing, clumsily, awkwardly in the doorway. Poor Bunning! When Olva came in he was sitting in a very old armchair, staring into the fire, his hair on end and his tie above his collar.
And yet here and there about the world people lived and had their being to whom this question of God was a vital question; people like Bunning and his crowd mad, the whole lot of them. Nevertheless there was something there that had great power. That had, until to-day, been Olva's attitude, an amused superior curiosity. Now it was a larger question.
"Yes. We had a talk." "What did he say?" "Oh, nothing." "Rot. He didn't stop and talk to you about the weather. Come on, Bunning, what have you been up to?" "I haven't been up to anything." The man's lips were closed. For another half an hour Bunning sat in a chair before the fire silent. Every now and again he flung a glance at Olva.
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