DOI article:
Watson, H. B. Marriott: A resurrection
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.27811#0308
A Resurrection
3°4
He was conscious oi a certain penitence for the long omission
of this memorial respect. The appeal of those lines allured him ;
he smarted and stung to reflect upon that oblivion in which so long
she had been buried. Dorothea's eyes solicited him with their
soft radiance ; they seemed to intercede with him for an interval of
silent communion. That ghostly visitant in his mind tremulously
pleaded her cause. Was it so much, she seemed to urge, to snatch
a little space, a fragmentary hour, from out a life dedicated to
another, a meagre alms to that poor soul he once had loved ?
It seemed odd to him that the voice he once had heard ring so
clearly in those rooms had been so persistently mute. The echoes
of those familiar tones had died out with the years. What
brought them sounding from the silent corners at so irretrievable
a time as this evening ? He had foregone his lealty. He sighed
and directed his glance upon the wall of his study where hung a
slight water-colour sketch. It formed but a dash of colour, with
no discernible proportions of a woman, and still less the faithful
lineaments of the model. Yet Dorothea had stood and posed for
that dainty sketch, and she it was in a manner that still inhabited
the coarse cloth and looked forth upon him from blurred eyes.
Gregory slowly unlocked a drawer in his bureau, and withdrew a
photograph carefully enwrapped between covers. He held it before
him, scrutinising it with attention, and the light of the reading-
lamp streamed thickly upon the face.
There was just such a look in those poor eyes as had fulfilled
them many a time in life. She watched him with that grave
patience that had so sweetly mingled with her pretty playfulness.
The head to Gregory wore an aureole, with its flow of bright
hair. As he regarded the picture from under the arch of his hand,
the facts and tenants of that room lost their importunate reality.
At a stroke the winter was gone, and across the budding
English
3°4
He was conscious oi a certain penitence for the long omission
of this memorial respect. The appeal of those lines allured him ;
he smarted and stung to reflect upon that oblivion in which so long
she had been buried. Dorothea's eyes solicited him with their
soft radiance ; they seemed to intercede with him for an interval of
silent communion. That ghostly visitant in his mind tremulously
pleaded her cause. Was it so much, she seemed to urge, to snatch
a little space, a fragmentary hour, from out a life dedicated to
another, a meagre alms to that poor soul he once had loved ?
It seemed odd to him that the voice he once had heard ring so
clearly in those rooms had been so persistently mute. The echoes
of those familiar tones had died out with the years. What
brought them sounding from the silent corners at so irretrievable
a time as this evening ? He had foregone his lealty. He sighed
and directed his glance upon the wall of his study where hung a
slight water-colour sketch. It formed but a dash of colour, with
no discernible proportions of a woman, and still less the faithful
lineaments of the model. Yet Dorothea had stood and posed for
that dainty sketch, and she it was in a manner that still inhabited
the coarse cloth and looked forth upon him from blurred eyes.
Gregory slowly unlocked a drawer in his bureau, and withdrew a
photograph carefully enwrapped between covers. He held it before
him, scrutinising it with attention, and the light of the reading-
lamp streamed thickly upon the face.
There was just such a look in those poor eyes as had fulfilled
them many a time in life. She watched him with that grave
patience that had so sweetly mingled with her pretty playfulness.
The head to Gregory wore an aureole, with its flow of bright
hair. As he regarded the picture from under the arch of his hand,
the facts and tenants of that room lost their importunate reality.
At a stroke the winter was gone, and across the budding
English