But to-night, curiously enough, the step was not shuffling and the little iron-grey head was more erect. The blow that had fallen when Mr. Schultz had given him the buff envelope which contained his salary and his _congé_ had been deadening, and the feeling had numbed him for the whole day. Then had come the inevitable reaction, the need for movement, for effort, and the heart of Edward Povey was responding nobly to the call, the heart that had lain dormant since the early days of his marriage.
For Charlotte Povey, estimable woman, cherished fondly the idea that for fifteen years she had been moulding the life, the destinies, and the character of her husband, and he, for the sake of peace, had given himself unresistingly to the potter's thumb. Charlotte's method, however, left much to be desired. With the laudable object of rousing the soul of Edward to further action and endeavour, she let not a day pass without comparing, much to his disparagement, his actions and even his appearance with other men of their acquaintance.
But instead of this having the desired effect, Edward had gradually come to believe it all; it had been so consistently impressed upon him that he was a poor sort of a chap anyway, and the inevitable result was--the envelope presented to him that morning by Mr. Schultz.
And now, on this calm autumn evening the chains of fifteen years fell from him and the spirit of Edward Povey underwent a change. He began to think that it was a good, full world--a world in which there were more things and higher possibilities than the evil-smelling counting-house of Kyser, Schultz & Company. He told himself that he had wasted nearly a quarter of a century.
The city was settling to quietude under a pall of smoky opal. The warehouses and buildings stood out gaunt and grey. The river flowing under the railway arches up-stream was splashed with the glory of the setting sun, little elusive reflections showing blood-red on the muddy water. Edward had crossed London Bridge for many years, but he did not remember ever having seen a sunset there.
Clapham! The world was bigger than Clapham.--Forty years of age! Why, it was the prime of a man's life, rather before the prime, in fact. Edward stopped, there was no hurry to-night, and leant over the parapet of the bridge. Below him, on the wharf, they were unloading a tramp steamer of boxes of fruit. The men swarming like ants up the long gangways were carrying on their backs light crates. One of these boxes had come apart and lay on the grimy deck shedding a little pool of golden oranges. The clatter of winches, the jangling of cranes, all served to make up a picture of life and movement that appealed strongly to the man who was leaning over the stone balustrade. He could read the name on the stern of the boat, "_Isabella--Barcelona_."