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Test Bank for Strategic Human
Resources Planning 7th Edition Belcourt
4
It was some weeks later. The day had been long and fruitless. She had
idled through the hours, playing the piano, reading ‘Pecheurs d’Islande’
with voluptuous sorrow, doing nothing. A letter from her mother in Paris
had arrived in the afternoon. They were not coming home just yet. Father
had caught another of his colds and seemed so exhausted by it. He was in
bed and she was nursing him, and it had meant cancelling his party, that
party. Why should not Judith come out and join them, now that her
examinations were over? It would amuse her; and Father would be glad to
have her. They would expect her in a few days; she was old enough now to
make the journey by herself.
Her heart was heavy. She could not leave the house, the spring garden,
this delicious solitude, these torturing and exquisite hopes. How could she
drag herself to Paris when she dared not even venture beyond the garden for
fear of missing them if they came for her? If she went now, the great
opportunity would be gone irrevocably; they would slip from her again just
as life was beginning to tremble on the verge of revelation. She must devise
an excuse; but it was difficult. She swallowed a few mouthfuls of supper
and wandered back into the library.
The last of the sun lay in the great room like blond water, lightly
clouded, still, mysterious. The brown and gold and red ranks of the dear
books shone mellow through it, all round the room from the floor three
quarters way to the ceiling; the Persian rugs, the Greek bronzes on the
mantlepiece, the bronze lamps with their red shades, the tapestry curtains,
the heavy oak chairs and tables, all the dim richnesses, were lit and caressed
by it into a single harmony. The portrait of her father as a dark-eyed, dark-
browed young man of romantic beauty was above the level of the sun,
staring sombrely down at his possessions. She could sit in this room,
especially now with hair brushed smooth and coiled low across the nape,
defining the lines of head and neck and the clear curve of the jaw,—she
could sit alone here in her wine-red frock and feel part of the room in
darkness and richness and simplicity of line; decorating it so naturally that,
if he saw, his uncommunicating eyes would surely dwell and approve.
She and the young man of the portrait recognised each other as of the
same blood, springing with kindred thoughts and dreams from a common
root of being, and with the same physical likeness at the source of their
unlikeness which she had noticed in the cousins next-door. She was knit by
a heart-pulling bond to the portrait; through it, she knew she loved the
elderly man whose silent, occasional presence embarrassed her.
There was sadness in everything,—in the room, in the ringing bird-calls
from the garden, in the lit, golden lawn beyond the window, with its single