And still they sat by the fire, weary with sorrow,
recrimination, long regret, and pain. They could grieve no more; and before
dawn sleep pressed upon their eyelids, and at the end of a long silence he
dozed--a pale, transparent sleep, through which the realities of life
appeared almost as plainly as before. Suddenly he awoke, and he shivered in
the chill room. The fire was sinking; dawn divided the window-curtains. He
looked at his wife. She seemed to him very beautiful as she slept, her face
turned a little on one side, and again he asked himself if he loved her.
Then, going to the window, he drew the curtains softly, so as not to awaken
her; and as he stood watching a thin discoloured day breaking over the
roofs, it again seemed to him that Emily's suicide was the better part.
'Those who do not perform their task in life are never happy.' The words
drilled themselves into his brain with relentless insistency. He felt a
terrible emptiness within him which he could not fill. He looked at his
wife and quailed a little at the thought that had suddenly come upon him.
She was something like himself--that was why he had married her. We are
attracted by what is like ourselves. Emily's passion might have stirred
him.
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