The Island by Richard Whiteing — Read

A deep melancholy, an extreme lassitude follow our great bereavement. 'Tis as though Death had passed over us, and his lingering shadow still blighted the sunlight of the Isle. We turned to work again, but, at first, only like automaton figures. There is the action of labour, but little effect. We eat and drink in much the same mechanical way. A bird's-eye view of us would suggest something in waxwork on a grand scale. Our talk is depressing as a demonstration on the phonograph, the topics indifferent, the tones a mere resurrection of the voice. No one speaks of the ship that is dead and gone.

Victoria, whose personal share in the common sorrow can be but small, seems to grieve as much as any of us. I am not allowed to be with her now -- rather I see she does not want me, and I keep away. When she starts for the Peak, I start for the Watcher's Cave, and we pine on opposite heights. Her simple household duties done, she will disappear for the whole day. I pass a good deal of time in the Ancient's library, reading yellow British classics, out of the old scuttled ship. They are interleaved with book-marks, each a delicate feminine finger beckoning to a place of refreshment and rest. It is a question of time and season, and perhaps Victoria herself will tell me when to speak.