They did not matter, because he could control
them to the extent of preventing the slightest outward manifestation.
All at once while transacting business he would feel the inward
collapse, deadly cold, a sensation that his intestines had been
changed from close-knitted substance to water; and he would think
"This person"--a farmer, a servant, old Mr. Bates, anybody--"suspects
my secret. He guessed it a long while ago. Or he has just discovered
the proofs of guilt." Nevertheless he went on talking in exactly the
same tone of voice, without a contraction of a single facial muscle,
with nothing at all shown unless perhaps a bead of perspiration on his
forehead.
"Good morning, sir. Many thanks, sir.... Yes, Mr. Envill, the stuff
shall be at your stables by one P.M. sharp. I'm making it my pride to
obey all orders punctually, whether big or small."
Thus he got on comfortably enough during the daylight waking hours.
But the fear that had gone out of the days had made its home in the
night. Sleep was now its stronghold.
His dreams were terrible. They were like immense highly-colored
fabrics reeling off the vast gray thought-loom--that dreadful thought
machine that worked as well when the workshop was darkened as when
all the lamps were burning.
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