Five minutes before, the expanse of his life had been submerged in its evening sunshine which shone backward to its remembered morning: sin seemed to be a question of doctrine and inward penitence, humiliation an exercise of the closet, the bearing of his deeds a matter of private vision adjusted solely by spiritual relations and conceptions of the divine purposes. And now, as if by some hideous magic, this loud red figure had risen before him in unmanageable solidity—an incorporate past which had not entered into his imagination of chastisements. But Mr. Bulstrode’s thought was busy, and he was not a man to act or speak rashly.
“I was going home,” he said, “but I can defer my ride a little. And you can, if you please, rest here.”
“Thank you,” said Raffles, making a grimace. “I don’t care now about seeing my stepson. I’d rather go home with you.”
“Your stepson, if Mr. Rigg Featherstone was he, is here no longer. I am master here now.”
Raffles opened wide eyes, and gave a long whistle of surprise, before he said, “Well then, I’ve no objection. I’ve had enough walking from the coach-road. I never was much of a walker, or rider either. What I like is a smart vehicle and a spirited cob. I was always a little heavy in the saddle. What a pleasant surprise it must be to you to see me, old fellow!” he continued, as they turned towards the house. “You don’t say so; but you never took your luck heartily—you were always thinking of improving the occasion—you’d such a gift for improving your luck.”
Mr. Raffles seemed greatly to enjoy his own wit, and swung his leg in a swaggering manner which was rather too much for his companion’s judicious patience.