DOI article:
Watson, H. B. Marriott: The house of shame
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.21805#0080
The House of Shame
76
can do nothing.” He shook his head again, impatiently. She
yawned, closed the door, and, with a little sigh of weariness,
retraced her steps to the hearth. Farrell rose and followed her.
“ Come,” he said, bending over her, “ you are very tired. Go
and rest in the next room. There is nothing to be done. I will
call you. Let me watch. I wish it.” She looked at him in
doubt. “ Yes, yes,” he pleaded. “ Don’t you see ? I must be
here, and you want sleep.”
She glanced round the room, as if to assure herseif that there
was nothing to require her.
“Very well,” she assented ; “but call me soon.” And she
vanished through the doorway like a wraith.
Farrell took his seat and regarded his wife. The breathing came
gently ; masses of dark hair swarmed over the head that
crouched low upon the pillow ; one arm, Crossing the face with
shadow, lay reaching toward the brow. The room glowed with a
luminous gloom rather than with light. The figure rested upon its
side, and the soft rise of the hip stood out from the hollows of the
coverlet. In the grate the ashes stirred and clinked ; the Street
mumbled without; but within that chamberthe stillness hungheavily.
Farrell seemed to hear it deepen, and the quiet air spoke louder to
him, as though charged with some secret and mysterious mission.
He followed the hush with a mind half-vacant and wholly irrele-
vant. But presently the faintest rustle came with a roar upon his
senses, and he sprang to his feet, stricken with sudden terror.
The body moved slightly under its wrappings ; the arm dropped
slowly down the pillow into the darker hollows of the counter-
pane ; the hair feil away ; and the face, relapsing, softly edged
into the twilight.
Farrell stood staring, mute and distracted, upon this piteous
piece of poor humanity. Its contrast with the woman he had
known
76
can do nothing.” He shook his head again, impatiently. She
yawned, closed the door, and, with a little sigh of weariness,
retraced her steps to the hearth. Farrell rose and followed her.
“ Come,” he said, bending over her, “ you are very tired. Go
and rest in the next room. There is nothing to be done. I will
call you. Let me watch. I wish it.” She looked at him in
doubt. “ Yes, yes,” he pleaded. “ Don’t you see ? I must be
here, and you want sleep.”
She glanced round the room, as if to assure herseif that there
was nothing to require her.
“Very well,” she assented ; “but call me soon.” And she
vanished through the doorway like a wraith.
Farrell took his seat and regarded his wife. The breathing came
gently ; masses of dark hair swarmed over the head that
crouched low upon the pillow ; one arm, Crossing the face with
shadow, lay reaching toward the brow. The room glowed with a
luminous gloom rather than with light. The figure rested upon its
side, and the soft rise of the hip stood out from the hollows of the
coverlet. In the grate the ashes stirred and clinked ; the Street
mumbled without; but within that chamberthe stillness hungheavily.
Farrell seemed to hear it deepen, and the quiet air spoke louder to
him, as though charged with some secret and mysterious mission.
He followed the hush with a mind half-vacant and wholly irrele-
vant. But presently the faintest rustle came with a roar upon his
senses, and he sprang to his feet, stricken with sudden terror.
The body moved slightly under its wrappings ; the arm dropped
slowly down the pillow into the darker hollows of the counter-
pane ; the hair feil away ; and the face, relapsing, softly edged
into the twilight.
Farrell stood staring, mute and distracted, upon this piteous
piece of poor humanity. Its contrast with the woman he had
known