I
She was lost in an apathy of despair. He had come and he had gone, this
lover for whom she had been waiting for years. In all her solitude, her
restlessness, her great discontent, that had been her great hope; any
day she might meet him, any day it might happen, and her life would
really begin at last.
And now it was over; he was gone, and there was nothing further to
expect. She let herself into the flat--her home--her prison--her grave.
There was a great bolt of white stuff lying folded on the sewing machine
to be made up into respectable and sturdy underclothing for Miss Amy.
After she had taken off her hat and jacket and washed her hands, she sat
down before this work, which she usually attacked with such earnestness,
such professional interest. But her heart failed; she let the scissors
drop idly in her lap; to-day she could not work, to-day she didn’t care.
Her sombre eyes stared straight before her, at the transparency of
moonlit Venice.
“Oh!... If I’d been alone, we’d have taken a walk together ... I’d have
had a chance to be--attractive.... Now, of course, I’ll never see him
again. How can I? I don’t know where he lives.... He’ll never bother
with me any more. Why should he? Of course, he knows lots and lots of
beautiful society girls....”
She sat there, thinking of the charming women he must see every day, and
who must of course all love him. She was sure that he knew dozens of
girls prettier, more accomplished, a hundred times more fascinating than
herself. And yet felt sure that if she had a proper chance, she could
win him, felt that there was some peculiar quality in her which was in
no other living woman.
The afternoon dragged by in a weary and painful waking dream. She
hurried through the preparations for dinner, resentful of anything that
distracted her long reveries. Nothing else held the slightest interest
for her. If she _could_ get him back? If she would ever see him again?
If the beneficent Fate which had brought him to her would still direct
the thing, would help her once again?
They sat at the table, they talked, their usual constrained and formal
talk. Then Miss Amy went out and her brother returned to his room and
his great work--his romance of the time of Nero.
Rosaleen really admired it, without any particular interest in it. And
she felt a very feminine satisfaction that the man in the house had
found for himself an occupation which kept him quiet, and out of the
way. Every evening for years he had shut himself into his room directly
after dinner, to write. He had begun this romance when he had first come
to the city, but he did not progress rapidly, for he had often to
interrupt its course while he studied. His studying consisted in reading
“Quo Vadis” and “Ben Hur” and dozens and dozens of other novels of the
same sort, and making diagrams of their plots, according to a scheme he
had adopted from his well-read manual--“The Road to Authorship.” On
large sheets of paper he drew a wavering curve upward to the Climax,
then down, then perhaps up again two or three times, for all the little
anti-climaxes. Each character had its own wavering line, leading up and
down, crossing or running parallel to the “main theme.” In a big
exercise book he kept an index of the characters he had most admired in
all these novels, with little sketches of their histories, traits, etc.
He now felt altogether familiar with that epoch. He knew just the proper
set of characters for the scene, a Christian slave girl, a gigantic,
faithful and muscular porter, a humourous pariah, and so on, and all
the unfortunate crew of pious and humble folk predestined from the first
chapter for martyrdom. A romantic work, for Mr. Humbert was romantic, in
a masculine way, you must know, about facts, not about people.
He enjoyed this literary work with immeasurable relish. It completely
distracted his mind from his business, from his home, from Life. He
didn’t care much for Life. It was too rough, too complicated, too large.
He was glad also to forget about his sister, whom he dreaded, and
Rosaleen, who worried him by her helplessness. She was a good, kind
girl, but he hadn’t much of an opinion of her. Uninteresting.... Her
only hope lay in marrying a decent, respectable man who would look after
her, and her chance of finding and securing such a man seemed to Mr.
Humbert very remote.
He heard her stirring about in the kitchen, alone in there, washing the
dinner things. He shook his venerable head.
“Poor Rosaleen!” he said, with a sigh.