A loud buzzing woke him at night. His head turned, the bed turned, so did the room. And he breathed with difficulty. He wanted to unbutton his shirt collar, but did not succeed. He sat up suddenly and with his accustomed movement put his hand several times to his neck as if to put his necktie right.
Then he fell back and moved no more.
That night John Hubert Ulwing died, correctly, without much ado, just as he had lived.
CHAPTER XV
The house was empty and silence nestled between its walls. It was a memorable event for the corridor to hear the sound of steps. The ticking of the marble clock resounded through all the rooms, no noise impeding its progress.
Thus did Anne find the house when she came back with her husband from the interrupted journey which was to remain in her memory like a broken dream.
Days without thoughts. Gentle words. Pure, girlish fears. Then she became accustomed to Thomas’s embraces. The news of her father’s death roused her and she could dream her dream no more. It was gone for ever. Another came.
Real life took its place and the first year passed away.
Slowly the peace of the old house became bright again. Now and then the rooms began to laugh timidly. They stopped suddenly, ashamed of themselves, as if remembering those who had left by the door never to come back again.
Another year went by.