The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne Read Online Free PDF

of picture postcards, laying each thing away carefully in tissue paper, all of it could take a long time if you did it methodically. A long time.
    But when the big trunks were opened and their trays were laid on the bed, Miss Hearne knelt in silence on the floor, abstracted, her hands idle, her mind filled with what had
     
    happened that morning. He had been so glad to talk to her. And he had looked so big and stern and manly, hammering his fist on the table while he laid down the law to her. A big handsome man with that strange American voice.
    He came into the room, late at night, tired after a day at work in his hotel. He took off his jacket and hung it up. He put his dressing-gown on and sat down in his armchair and she went to him prettily, sat on his knee while he told her how things had gone that day. And he kissed her. Or, enraged about some silly thing she had done, he struck out with his great fist and sent her reeling, the brute. But, contrite afterwards, he sank to his knees and begged forgiveness.
    Judy Hearne, she said, you’ve got to stop right this minute. Imagine romancing about every man that comes along.
    Her busy hands flew, unpacking the linen sheets, putting them away in the dresser drawer. But she paused in the centre of the room. He noticed me. He was attracted. The first in ages. Well, that’s only because i’ve been keeping myself to myself too much. Go out and meet new people and you’ll see, she told her mirror face. And the face in the mirror told it back to her, agreeing.
    Why did he come home to Ireland? A visit maybe, to see his family. But he doesn’t seem on very good terms with his sister. He’ll go back to New York, of course, back to his hotel. Mr and Mrs James Madden, of New York, sailed from Southampton yesterday in the Queen Mar,. Mr Madden is a prominent New York hotelicr and his bride is the former Judith Hearne, only daughter of the late Mr and Mrs Charles B. Hearne, of Ballymena. The honeymoon? Niagara Falls, isn’t that the place Americans go? Or perhaps Paris, before we sail.
    But the mirror face grew stearn and cross. You hardly know him, it said. And he’s common, really he is, with that ring and that bright flashy tie. O, no he’s not, she said. Don’t be provincial. Americans dress differently, that’s all.
    A church bell tolled far away and she prayed. The library book would be due Wednesday, wasn’t it? Do you know, I’m awfully uninformed about America, when I come to
     
    think of it. Outside, the grey morning light held, the rain still threatened. I could go down to the Carnegie library and read up on it. Especially New York. And then tomorrow at breakfast, I’d have questions to ask.
    Maybe, she said, hurrying towards the wardrobe to pick out her red raincoat, maybe he’ll be in the hall and I’ll meet him and we might walk downtown together. I must hurry because if he’s going out, it should be soon.
    But the hall was a dark, damp place with no sign of anyone in it. Mary had cleared the dining-room, restoring the chairs to their original anchorage around the table. The curtained door to Mrs Henry Rice’s kitchen was shut and the house was silent, a house in mid-morning when all the world is out at
    world,
    She went out, dejected, and walked along Camden Street with her head full of black thoughts. Why had she bothered to she made him climb the ladder twice to get her three books, one a picture book of New York and two books on America in general. She carried them to one of the slanting reading tables and sat down, slipping her neutral coloured glasses from her bag. Then amid the old men and students in the muted noises induced by ‘Silence’ signs, she read about America, Land of the Free, the New Colossus. All very heavy going, economic tables and business articles. She turned to the picture book and there was a picture of Times Square, and (gracious!) the hotels were immense, we times as big as the Grand Central, the Royal Avenue, or even the