For her love for Joyselle was, of
course, a purely selfish one. For several minutes she sat crouching on
the stairs, utterly undecided as to what her next step was to be. Then a
sound from within the room behind her caused her to turn sharply. A
sound of--not music, but of pitiless, furious scraping and grinding on a
violin.
Could it be Joyselle? It was horrible, like the cries of some animal in
agony. And it went on and on and on.
"It must be Victor," she whispered; "it is his room. But--oh, how
frightful! Has he gone mad? Oh, my God, my God!"
Rising, she stood for a horrible minute bending towards the door, and
then with a quick movement opened it and went in.
The curtains were drawn, but a large window in the roof let in a square
of cross daylight that looked like an island in a surrounding sea of
dusky darkness; and in the light stood Joyselle, his back to her, his
head bent over his violin in a way almost grotesque, as he groaned and
tore at the hapless strings with venomous energy.
Brigit stood, unable to move. It is always an uncanny thing to watch for
any length of time a person who believes himself to be absolutely alone,
and when, as in this case, the person is undergoing, and giving full
vent to a very strong emotion, the strangeness is increased tenfold.
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