itself. I liked it though, and lay for a time enjoying the--what shall I
say?--usualness of it. The sunshine of yesterday--of to-morrow. It
occurred to me that the morning must be far advanced, and I got up
briskly, as a man rises to his work. But as soon as I got on my legs I
felt as if I had already over-worked myself. In reality there was
nothing to do. All my muscles twitched with fatigue. I had experienced
the same sensations once after an hour's desperate swimming to save
myself from being carried out to sea by the tide.

No. There was nothing to do. I descended the staircase, and an utter
sense of aimlessness drove me out through the big doors, which swung
behind me without noise. I turned toward the river, and on the broad
embankment the sunshine enveloped me, friendly, familiar, and warm like
the care of an old friend. A black dumb barge drifted, clumsy and empty,
and the solitary man in it wrestled with the heavy sweep, straining his
arms, throwing his face up to the sky at every effort. He knew what he
was doing, though it was the river that did his work for him.

His exertions impressed me with the idea that I too had something to
do. Certainly I had. One always has. Somehow I could not remember. It
was intolerable, and even alarming, this blank, this emptiness of the
many hours before night came again, till suddenly, it dawned upon me I
had to make some extracts in the British Museum for our "_Cromwell_."
Our Cromwell. There was no Cromwell; he had lived, had worked for the
future--and now he had ceased to exist. His future--our past, had come
to an end. The barge with the man still straining at the oar had gone
out of sight under the arch of the bridge, as through a gate into
another world. A bizarre sense of solitude stole upon me, and I turned
my back upon the river as empty as my day. Hansoms, broughams, streamed
with a continuous muffled roll of wheels and a beat of hoofs. A big dray