The yellow walls of the old house were warm in the sun. In the garden the beds put forth blossom-laden rosebushes, climbing garlands of roses.
The rooms now laughed freely with the rippling laughter of a child. And the house smiled to itself, like some good old patriarch who has regained youth.
At that time Anne sang some wonderful little songs. She had never learned them, they came of themselves and their soothing rhythm was like the rocking of a cradle. Then she lifted her son with that mysterious movement, which is more exalted than the gesture of love, a movement secretly known by her arms long ago. And she thought that it was this that linked all humanity. An endless, blessed chain, a chain wrought of women’s arms over the earth, beginning with the first woman and to end with the last child.
“Mamma,” babbled little George. Anne repeated in whispers the word which was bestowed on her, which she herself had never uttered to her mother; she looked at the fading portrait of Mrs. Christina. She began to listen. The street door opened. Steps came along the corridor....
“Thomas, I was longing for you!” She would have liked to say more, something warmer. She wanted to tell him her love, but the words were bashful and changed as they crossed her lips. She leaned towards her husband, ready to be kissed.
Illey did not notice it; he was thinking of something else. He began to read a letter.
“From home....”
“From home?... Is not this your home?” Anne’s head, held till now sideways in a listening attitude, rose slowly.
Thomas saw nothing, heard nothing when Ille was in question. Everybody, the old steward, the bailiff, the agent, the priest, anybody who was in difficulties, came to him, as if he were still the landlord. He did their errands and his eyes shone when he spoke of them.
Anne looked at him motionless. A feeling came over her of which she could never rid herself whenever Thomas spoke of Ille. It seemed to her that her husband abandoned her and went far away to some other place.