When Edwin crept into the bedroom he was so perturbed by continually
growing excitement that he saw nothing clearly except the central group
of objects: that is to say, a narrow bed, whose burden was screened from
him by its foot, a table, an empty chair, the gas-globe luminous against
a dark-green blind, and Hilda in black, alert and erect beneath the
down-flowing light. The rest of the chamber seemed to stretch obscurely
away into no confines. Not for several seconds did he even notice the
fire. This confusing excitement was not caused by anything external
such as the real or supposed peril of the child; it had its source
within.
As soon as Hilda identified him her expression changed from the intent
frowning stare of inquiry to a smile. Edwin had never before seen her
smile in that way. The smile was weak, resigned, almost piteous; and it
was extraordinarily sweet. He closed the door quietly, and moved in
silence towards the bed. She nodded an affectionate welcome. He
returned her greeting eagerly, and all his constraint was loosed away,
and he felt at ease, and happy. Her face was very pale indeed against
the glittering blackness of her eyes, and her sombre disordered hair and
untidy dress; but it did not show fatigue nor extreme anxiety; it was a
face of calm meekness. The sleeves of her dress were reversed, showing
the forearms, which gave her an appearance of deshabille, homely,
intimate, confiding. "So it was common property at one time," Edwin
thought, recalling a phrase of Charlie's in the breakfast-room.
Strange: he wanted her in all her disarray, with all her woes,
anxieties, solicitudes; he wanted her, piteous, meek, beaten by destiny,
weakly smiling; he wanted her because she stood so, after the immense,
masterful effort of the day, watching in acquiescence by that bed!
"Has he gone?" she asked, in a voice ordinarily loud, but, for her,
unusually tender.
"Yes," said Edwin. "He's gone. He told me I'd better come in here. So
I came."