He fretted discontentedly, could sometimes have wept for mere
weakness and misery; and yet he was dimly conscious that he would not
have exchanged his sadness for all the noisy mirth of the world outside. And speaking of noise: noise, much noise, now caused him the acutest
discomfort. It was hardly more to be endured than that new-born fear that
kept him, on the increasingly rare occasions when he did go out, sidling
close to walls and feeling friendly railings with his hand. He moved from
room to room softly and in slippers, and sometimes stood for many seconds
closing a door so gently that not a sound broke the stillness that was in
itself a delight. Sunday now became an intolerable day to him, for, since
the coming of the fine weather, there had begun to assemble in the square
under his windows each Sunday morning certain members of the sect to
which the long-nosed Barrett adhered. These came with a great drum and
large brass-bellied instruments; men and women uplifted anguished voices,
struggling with their God; and Barrett himself, with upraised face and
closed eyes and working brows, prayed that the sound of his voice might
penetrate the ears of all unbelievers--as it certainly did Oleron's. One
day, in the middle of one of these rhapsodies, Oleron sprang to his blind
and pulled it down, and heard as he did so his own name made the subject
of a fresh torrent of outpouring. And sometimes, but not as expecting a reply, Oleron stood still and
called softly. Once or twice he called "Romilly!" and then waited; but
more often his whispering did not take the shape of a name. There was one spot in particular of his abode that he began to haunt with
increasing persistency. This was just within the opening of his bedroom
door. He had discovered one day that by opening every door in his place
(always excepting the outer one, which he only opened unwillingly) and by
placing himself on this particular spot, he could actually see to a
greater or less extent into each of his five rooms without changing his
position. He could see the whole of his sitting-room, all of his bedroom
except the part hidden by the open door, and glimpses of his kitchen,
bathroom, and of his rarely used study. He was often in this place,
breathless and with his finger on his lip. One day, as he stood there, he
suddenly found himself wondering whether this Madley, of whom the vicar
had spoken, had ever discovered the strategic importance of the bedroom
entry. Light, moreover, now caused him greater disquietude than did darkness. Direct sunlight, of which, as the sun passed daily round the house, each
of his rooms had now its share, was like a flame in his brain; and even
diffused light was a dull and numbing ache. He began, at successive hours
of the day, one after another, to lower his crimson blinds. He made short
and daring excursions in order to do this; but he was ever careful to
leave his retreat open, in case he should have sudden need of it. Presently this lowering of the blinds had become a daily methodical
exercise, and his rooms, when he had been his round, had the blood-red
half-light of a photographer's darkroom. One day, as he drew down the blind of his little study and backed in good
order out of the room again, he broke into a soft laugh. "_That_ bilks Mr. Barrett!" he said; and the baffling of Barrett
continued to afford him mirth for an hour. But on another day, soon after, he had a fright that left him trembling
also for an hour. He had seized the cord to darken the window over the
seat in which he had found the harp-bag, and was standing with his back
well protected in the embrasure, when he thought he saw the tail of a
black-and-white check skirt disappear round the corner of the house. He
could not be sure--had he run to the window of the other wall, which was
blinded, the skirt must have been already past--but he was _almost_ sure
that it was Elsie. He listened in an agony of suspense for her tread on
the stairs.... But no tread came, and after three or four minutes he drew a long breath
of relief. "By Jove, but that would have compromised me horribly!" he muttered....

And he continued to mutter from time to time, "Horribly
compromising ... _no_ woman would stand that ... not _any_ kind of
woman ... oh, compromising in the extreme!" Yet he was not happy. He could not have assigned the cause of the fits of
quiet weeping which took him sometimes; they came and went, like the
fitful illumination of the clouds that travelled over the square; and
perhaps, after all, if he was not happy, he was not unhappy. Before
he could be unhappy something must have been withdrawn, and nothing had
yet been withdrawn from him, for nothing had been granted. He was waiting
for that granting, in that flower-laden, frightfully enticing apartment
of his, with the pith-white walls tinged and subdued by the crimson
blinds to a blood-like gloom. He paid no heed to it that his stock of money was running perilously low,
nor that he had ceased to work. Ceased to work? He had not ceased to
work. They knew very little about it who supposed that Oleron had ceased
to work! He was in truth only now beginning to work. He was preparing
such a work ... such a work ... such a Mistress was a-making in the
gestation of his Art ... let him but get this period of probation and
poignant waiting over and men should see.... How _should_ men know her,
this Fair One of Oleron's, until Oleron himself knew her? Lovely radiant
creations are not thrown off like How-d'ye-do's. The men to whom it is
committed to father them must weep wretched tears, as Oleron did, must
swell with vain presumptuous hopes, as Oleron did, must pursue, as Oleron
pursued, the capricious, fair, mocking, slippery, eager Spirit that, ever
eluding, ever sees to it that the chase does not slacken. Let Oleron but
hunt this Huntress a little longer... he would have her sparkling
and panting in his arms yet.... Oh no: they were very far from the truth
who supposed that Oleron had ceased to work! And if all else was falling away from Oleron, gladly he was letting it
go. So do we all when our Fair Ones beckon. Quite at the beginning we
wink, and promise ourselves that we will put Her Ladyship through her
paces, neglect her for a day, turn her own jealous wiles against her,
flout and ignore her when she comes wheedling; perhaps there lurks within
us all the time a heartless sprite who is never fooled; but in the end
all falls away. She beckons, beckons, and all goes....

And so Oleron kept his strategic post within the frame of his bedroom
door, and watched, and waited, and smiled, with his finger on his
lips.... It was his duteous service, his worship, his troth-plighting,
all that he had ever known of Love. And when he found himself, as he now
and then did, hating the dead man Madley, and wishing that he had never
lived, he felt that that, too, was an acceptable service....