But to-day there was no one at the little table opposite, and Vjera's
reflections would not be guided in their familiar course. Her heart
yearned for the lonely man who, on that day, sat in the solitude of his
poor chamber confidently expecting the messengers of good tidings who
never came. She wondered what expression was on his face, as he watched
the door and listened for the fall of feet upon the stairs. She knew, for
she knew his nature, that he had carefully dressed himself in what he had
that was best, in order to receive decently the long-expected visit; she
fancied that he would move thoughtfully about the narrow room, trying to
give it a feebly festive look in accordance with his own inward happiness.
He would forget to eat, as he sat there, hearing the hours chime one after
another, seeing the sun rise higher and higher until noon and watching the
lengthening shadows of the chimneys on the roofs as day declined. More
than all, she wondered what that dreadful moment could be like when, each
week, he gave up hope at last, and saw that it had all been a dream. She
had seen him more than once, towards the evening of the regularly
recurring day, still confidently expecting the coming of his friends,
explaining that they must come by the last train, and hastening away in
order to be ready to receive them. Somewhere between the Wednesday evening
and the Thursday morning there must be an hour, of which she hardly dared
to think, in which all was made clear to him, or in which a veil descended
over all, shutting out in merciful obscurity the brilliant vision and the
bitter disappointment.
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