Well， twice or thrice has she passed before his sight， eachtime with a heavier step， a paler cheek and more anxiousbrow， and in the third week of his non-appearance hedetects a portent of evil entering the house in the guise ofan apothecary. Next day the knocker is muffled. Towardnightfall comes the chariot of a physician and deposits itsbig-wigged and solemn burden at Wakefield’s door， whenceafter a quarter of an hour’s visit he emerges， perchance theherald of a funeral. Dear woman！ will she die？
By this time Wakefield is excited to something likeenergy of feeling， but still lingers away from his wife’sbedside， pleading with his conscience that she must notbe disturbed at such a juncture. If aught else restrainshim， he does not know it. In the course of a few weeksshe gradually recovers. The crisis is over； her heart is sad，perhaps， but quiet， and， let him return soon or late， itwill never be feverish for him again. Such ideas glimmerthrough the mist of Wakefield’s mind and render himindistinctly conscious that an almost impassable gulfdivides his hired apartment from his former home. “It isbut in the next street，” he sometimes says. Fool！ it is inanother world. Hitherto he has put off ’ his return fromone particular day to another； henceforward he leaves theprecise time undetermined—not to-morrow； probablynext week； pretty soon. Poor man！ The dead have nearly asmuch chance of revisiting their earthly homes as the selfbanishedWakefield.
Would that I had a folio to write， instead of an article ofa dozen pages！ Then might I exemplify how an influencebeyond our control lays its strong hand on every deedwhich we do and weaves its consequences into an irontissue of necessity.
Wakefield is spellbound. We must leave him for tenyears or so to haunt around his house without oncecrossing the threshold， and to be faithful to his wife withall the affection of which his heart is capable， while he isslowly fading out of hers. Long since， it must be remarked，he has lost the perception of singularity in his conduct.
Now for a scene. Amid the throng of a London streetwe distinguish a man， now waxing elderly， with fewcharacteristics to attract careless observers， yet bearingin his whole aspect the handwriting of no common fatefor such as have the skill to read it. He is meagre； his lowand narrow forehead is deeply wrinkled； his eyes， smalland lustreless， sometimes wander apprehensively abouthim， but oftener seem to look inward. He bends his headand moves with an indescribable obliquity of gait， as ifunwilling to display his full front to the world. Watchhim long enough to see what we have described， andyou will allow that circumstances—which often produceremarkable men from Nature’s ordinary handiwork—haveproduced one such here. Next， leaving him to sidle alongthe footwalk， cast your eyes in the opposite direction，where a portly female considerably in the wane of life，with a prayer-book in her hand， is proceeding to yonderchurch. She has the placid mien of settled widowhood.
Her regrets have either died away or have become soessential to her heart that they would be poorly exchangedfor joy. Just as the lean man and well-conditioned womanare passing a slight obstruction occurs and brings thesetwo figures directly in contact. Their hands touch； thepressure of the crowd forces her bosom against hisshoulder； they stand face to face， staring into each other’seyes. After a ten years’ separation thus Wakefield meetshis wife. The throng eddies away and carries them asunder.
The sober widow， resuming her former pace， proceeds tochurch， but pauses in the portal and throws a perplexedglance along the street. She passes in， however， openingher prayer-book as she goes.
