DOI Artikel:
Watson, H. B. Marriott: The dead wall
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.27805#0226
222
The Dead Wall
nimble and elusive for his tired brain ; they danced out of reach,
and he followed blindly till a deeper darkness fell. They grew
faint and shadowy, like wraiths in a mist, and he pursued the
glancing shadows. Finally, his brain grew blank ; it was as if
consciousness had lapsed ; and he found himself regarding a fly that
crawled upon the pane. Outside lay the oppression of that
appalling scene that horrified him—he knew not why.
Rosewarne was growing used to these nervous exhibitions. This
unequal struggle had been repeated through many weeks, but he
had always so far come out of it with personal security. The
dread that some day he would fail continually haunted him, and
increased the strain of the conflict. He wondered what lay at the
back of this horrible condition, and shuddered as he wondered.
And he knew now that he must not let himself adrift, but must
dispose the devils by every means. He broke into a whistle, and
moved about the room carelessly. It was a lively stave from the
streets that his lips framed, but it conveyed to him no sense of sound.
He perambulated the chamber with a false air of cheerfulness. He
eyed the bed with his head askew, winking as if to share a jest with
it. He patted the pillows, arranging and disarranging them in
turn. He laughed softly, merrily, emptily. He seized the dumb-
bells from the mantelpiece and whirled them about his head ; he
chafed his hands, he rubbed his flesh. Little by little the blood
moved with more content through his body, and the pulse of his
heart sank slowly.
Outside, the dawn brightened and the wind came faster. Rose-
warne looked forth and nodded ; then he turned and left the room,
his face flashing as he passed the mirror, like the distempered face
of a corpse. Across the landing he paused before a door, and,
bending to the keyhole, listened ; little low sounds of life came to
his ears, and suddenly his haggard face crowded with emotions.
He
The Dead Wall
nimble and elusive for his tired brain ; they danced out of reach,
and he followed blindly till a deeper darkness fell. They grew
faint and shadowy, like wraiths in a mist, and he pursued the
glancing shadows. Finally, his brain grew blank ; it was as if
consciousness had lapsed ; and he found himself regarding a fly that
crawled upon the pane. Outside lay the oppression of that
appalling scene that horrified him—he knew not why.
Rosewarne was growing used to these nervous exhibitions. This
unequal struggle had been repeated through many weeks, but he
had always so far come out of it with personal security. The
dread that some day he would fail continually haunted him, and
increased the strain of the conflict. He wondered what lay at the
back of this horrible condition, and shuddered as he wondered.
And he knew now that he must not let himself adrift, but must
dispose the devils by every means. He broke into a whistle, and
moved about the room carelessly. It was a lively stave from the
streets that his lips framed, but it conveyed to him no sense of sound.
He perambulated the chamber with a false air of cheerfulness. He
eyed the bed with his head askew, winking as if to share a jest with
it. He patted the pillows, arranging and disarranging them in
turn. He laughed softly, merrily, emptily. He seized the dumb-
bells from the mantelpiece and whirled them about his head ; he
chafed his hands, he rubbed his flesh. Little by little the blood
moved with more content through his body, and the pulse of his
heart sank slowly.
Outside, the dawn brightened and the wind came faster. Rose-
warne looked forth and nodded ; then he turned and left the room,
his face flashing as he passed the mirror, like the distempered face
of a corpse. Across the landing he paused before a door, and,
bending to the keyhole, listened ; little low sounds of life came to
his ears, and suddenly his haggard face crowded with emotions.
He