With a lump in her throat she gathered up the letter and the draft and left the room, afraid to trust herself to speak. That her Father's kindness should meet with such disdain! True, Egidio could not know the self-denial the gift represented,—but at least he need not have sneered!
Small as it was the gift helped her for some time, and she used the utmost ingenuity in making it last as long as possible. But when it was gone? The inspiration came to her, and she wondered that she had not thought of it sooner, to write some descriptive articles for a Norwegian review to which she had contributed as a girl. They were accepted, and she supplemented them by a few stories for children, which were taken by a children's magazine. So she helped tide over the period of depression.
If she had looked to her husband for encouragement or gratitude, she was disappointed; he was angry at her success, jealous even and he mentally compared the small sums her work brought in with the expectations he had entertained and which seemed as far from realization as ever.
She gained though in other ways, first through the restoration of her self-respect—she was still worth something in the world, even if unappreciated by those nearest her; then the interest of her occupation gave her new life, and as she worked her strength came back to her, the colour returned to her cheeks and the spring to her step.
Egidio, coming home to dinner one evening, paused in the doorway to look at her, surprised at the change, patent at last, even to his eyes, and a feeling long in abeyance reawoke in him as he watched the rosy, graceful woman, sewing in the warm radiance of the lamp. She raised her head, and as her eyes met his, realized with a thrill of horror that her chains were in that moment, rivetted afresh. She had almost given up thinking of the probability of a return of the early days of their marriage; she had hoped, nay, almost believed them over for ever. She had even encouraged Egidio's long evenings out, thinking that the pleasures he found away from home would keep him from her and spare her the return of the slavery she most dreaded. But as she saw the admiration in his look, her heart sank.
He moved over to her, something cat-like in his tread and as she turned her head away, kissed her on the ear, murmuring,
"I am tired of my little room, mogliettina cara, I am coming back to you again. I shall tell Carolina to move the crib into her own room."
He moved off towards the kitchen, and she heard his voice raised in peremptory command as, sick at heart, she folded up her sewing with shaking hands.