DOI Artikel:
Syrett, Netta: Far above rubies
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.25498#0272
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Far Above Rubies
aNo, it really doesn’t matter,” he repeated half aloud, and
began to search in a leather case which he took from his breast-
pocket for another letter which he knew by heart. It was a
broken-hearted little note from Mollie. He glanced through it,
crumpled the paper fiercely in his hand, and then smoothed it
again to read the last sentence.
“We sail for India to-morrow. Father’s leave is over and he
insists on taking me out with him ; we shall not come home for
years. I dare not think of it—I hope I shall die before-”
Strong looked again at the date. She had sailed the previous
day.
He drew a chair up slowly before the empty table and
deliberately tore both letters, Mollie’s and his sister’s into shreds.
He took great pains to fold the paper exactly, and apparently gave
his whole mind to the task. When they were reduced to a heap
of infinitesimal fragments, he rose, opened the window, and
scattered them to the wind. The white scraps whirled and eddied
over the bare rose bushes before the window, and drifted like
flakes of snow on to the earth at their roots. When the last
flake was at rest, he closed the window softly, as though some one
lay dead in the room, turned the key in the lock, stooped over the
portmanteau a moment, and took from it something which he put
on the table.
There were a few trifles still unpacked on the mantel-piece, and
he turned to it and began to collect them mechanically and place
them neatly in the packing-case. He surprised himself in the act,
and laughed aloud. What would packing-cases and pictures
matter in a few moments ? He turned over the last photograph
and glanced at it. It was of his sister. As he looked, his left
hand slid over the table, feeling for what he had laid there. He
grasped it presently, and stood a full minute looking from it to the
portrait
Far Above Rubies
aNo, it really doesn’t matter,” he repeated half aloud, and
began to search in a leather case which he took from his breast-
pocket for another letter which he knew by heart. It was a
broken-hearted little note from Mollie. He glanced through it,
crumpled the paper fiercely in his hand, and then smoothed it
again to read the last sentence.
“We sail for India to-morrow. Father’s leave is over and he
insists on taking me out with him ; we shall not come home for
years. I dare not think of it—I hope I shall die before-”
Strong looked again at the date. She had sailed the previous
day.
He drew a chair up slowly before the empty table and
deliberately tore both letters, Mollie’s and his sister’s into shreds.
He took great pains to fold the paper exactly, and apparently gave
his whole mind to the task. When they were reduced to a heap
of infinitesimal fragments, he rose, opened the window, and
scattered them to the wind. The white scraps whirled and eddied
over the bare rose bushes before the window, and drifted like
flakes of snow on to the earth at their roots. When the last
flake was at rest, he closed the window softly, as though some one
lay dead in the room, turned the key in the lock, stooped over the
portmanteau a moment, and took from it something which he put
on the table.
There were a few trifles still unpacked on the mantel-piece, and
he turned to it and began to collect them mechanically and place
them neatly in the packing-case. He surprised himself in the act,
and laughed aloud. What would packing-cases and pictures
matter in a few moments ? He turned over the last photograph
and glanced at it. It was of his sister. As he looked, his left
hand slid over the table, feeling for what he had laid there. He
grasped it presently, and stood a full minute looking from it to the
portrait