Chapter IV

Chapter IV1Cecile was astonished at her unusually long fit of abstraction, that it should continue for days before she returned to her usual condition of serenity, the delightful abode from which she had involuntarily wandered. But she compelled herself, with gentle compulsion, to recover the treasures of her loneliness; and she ended by recovering them. She argued with herself that it would be some years before she would have to part from Dolf and Christie: there was time enough to grow accustomed to the idea of separation. Besides, nothing had altered either about her or within her; and so she let the days glide slowly over her, like gently flowing water.In this way, gently flowing by, a fortnight had elapsed since the evening which she spent at Dolf’s. It was a Saturday afternoon; she had been working with the children—she still taught them herself—and she had walked out with them; and now she was sitting in her favourite room waiting for the Van Attemas, who came to tea every Saturday at half-past four. She rang for the servant, who lighted the blue flame of methylated spirit. Dolf and Christie were with her; they sat upon the floor on footstools, cutting the pages of a children’s magazine to which Cecile subscribed for them. They were sitting quietly, looking very good and well-bred, like children who grow up in soft surroundings, in the midst of too much refinement, too pale, with hair too long and too fair, Christie especially, whose little temples were veined as if with azure blood. Cecile stepped by them as she went toglance over the tea-table; and the look which she cast upon them wrapped the children in a warm embrace of devotion. She was in her calmly happy mood: it was so pleasant to think that she would soon see the Van Attemas come in. She liked these hours of the afternoon, when her silver tea-kettle hissed over the blue flame. An exquisite intimacy filled the room; she had in her long, shapely feminine fingers that special power of witchery, that gentle art of handling by which everything over which they merely glided acquired a look of herself, an indefinable something, of tint, of position, of light, which the things had not until the touch of those fingers came across them.There was a ring. She thought it rather early for the Van Attemas, but she rarely saw any one else in her seclusion from the outer world; therefore it must be they. In a second or two, however, Gretaentered, with a card: was mevrouw at home and could the gentleman see her?Cecile recognized the card from a distance: she had seen one like it lately. Nevertheless she took it up, glanced at it discontentedly, with drawn eyebrows.What an idea, she reflected. Why did he do it? What did it mean?But she thought it unnecessary to be impolite and refuse to see him. After all, he was a friend of Dolf’s. But such persistence....“Show meneer in,” she said, calmly.Greta went; and it seemed to Cecile as though something trembled in the intimacy which filled the room, as if the objects over which her fingers had just passed took on another aspect, a look of shuddering. But Dolf and Christie had not changed; they were still sitting looking at the pictures, with occasional remarks falling softly from their lips.2The door opened and Quaerts entered the room. As he bowed to Cecile, he had his air of shyness in still greater measure than before. To her this air was incomprehensible in him, who seemed so strong, so determined.“I hope you will not think me indiscreet, mevrouw, in taking the liberty to come and call on you.”“On the contrary, Mr. Quaerts,” she said, coldly. “Pray sit down.”He took a chair and placed his tall hat on the floor beside him:“I am not disturbing you, mevrouw?”“Not in the least; I am expecting Mrs. van Attema and her daughters. You were so kind as to leave a card on me; but, as I dare say you know, I see nobody.”“I knew that, mevrouw. Perhaps it isto that very reason that you owe the indiscretion of my visit.”She looked at him coldly, politely, smilingly. There was a feeling of irritation in her. She felt inclined to ask him bluntly what he wanted with her.“How so?” she asked, with her mannerly smile, which converted her face into a mask.“I was afraid that I might not see you for a very long time; and I should consider it a great privilege to be allowed to know you better.”His tone was in the highest degree respectful. She raised her eyebrows, as if she did not understand; but the accent of his voice was so very courteous that she could not even find a cold word with which to answer him.“Are these your two children?” he asked, with a glance towards Dolf and Christie.“Yes,” she replied. “Get up, boys, and shake hands with meneer.”The children approached timidly and put out their little hands. He smiled, looked at them penetratingly with his small, deep-set eyes and drew them to him:“Am I mistaken, or is the little one very like you?”“They both resemble their father,” she replied.It seemed to her she had set a protecting shield around herself, from which the children were excluded, within which she found it impossible to draw them. It troubled her that he was holding them so tight, that he looked at them as he did.But he released them; and they went back to their little stools, gentle, quiet, well-behaved.“Yet they both have something of you,” he insisted.“Possibly,” she said.“Mevrouw,” he resumed, as if he had something important to say to her, “I wish to ask you a direct question: tell me honestly, quite honestly, do you think me indiscreet?”“For calling to see me? No, I assure you, Mr. Quaerts. It is very kind of you. Only ... if I may be candid ...”She gave a little laugh.“Of course,” he said.“Then I will confess that I fear you will find little in my house to amuse you. I never see people....”“I have not called on you for the sake of the people I might meet at your house.”She bowed, smiling, as if he had paid her a compliment:“Of course I am very pleased to see you. You are a great friend of Dolf’s, are you not?”She tried each time to say something different from what she actually did say,to speak more coldly, more aggressively; but she had too much breeding and could not bring herself to do it.“Yes,” he replied, “Dolf and I have known each other ever so long. We have always been great friends, though we are quite unlike.”“I’m very fond of him; he’s always very kind to us.”She saw him look at the low table and smile. A few reviews were scattered on it, a book or two. On the top of these lay a little volume of Emerson’s essays, with a paper-cutter marking the page.“You told me you were not a great reader!” he said, mischievously. “I should think ...”And he pointed to the books.“Oh,” said she, carelessly, with a slight shrug of her shoulders, “a little....”She thought him very tiresome: why should he remark that she had hidden herselffrom him? Why, indeed,hadshe hidden herself from him?“Emerson!” he read, bending forward a little. “Forgive me,” he added quickly. “I have no right to spy upon your pursuits. But the print is so large; I read it from here.”“You are far-sighted?” she asked, laughing.“Yes.”His courtesy, a certain respectfulness, as if he would not venture to touch the tips of her fingers, placed her more at her ease. She still disliked him, but there was no harm in his knowing what she read.“Are you fond of reading?” asked Cecile.“I do not read much: it is too great a delight for that; nor do I read everything that appears. I am too hard to please.”“Do you know Emerson?”“No....”“I like his essays very much. They are written with such a wide outlook. They place one on such a deliciously exalted level....”She suited her phrase with an expansive gesture; and her eyes lighted up.Then she observed that he was following her attentively, with his respectfulness. And she recovered herself; she no longer wanted to talk to him about Emerson.“It is very fine indeed,” was all she said, to close the conversation, in the most commonplace voice that she was able to assume. “May I give you some tea?”“No, thank you, mevrouw; I never take tea at this time.”“Do you look upon it with so much scorn?” she asked, jestingly.He was about to answer, when there was a ring at the bell; and she cried:“Ah, here they are!”Amélie entered, with Suzette and Anna. They were a little surprised to see Quaerts. He said he had wanted to call on Mrs. van Even. The conversation became general. Suzette was very merry, full of a fancy-fair, at which she was going to assist, in a Spanish costume.“And you, Anna?”“Oh, no, Auntie!” said Anna, shrinking together with fright. “Imagine me at a fancy-fair! I should never sell anybody anything.”“Ah, it’s a gift!” said Amélie, with a far-away look.Quaerts rose: he was bowing with a single word to Cecile, when the door opened. Jules came in, with some books under his arm, on his way home from school.“How do you do, Auntie? Hallo, Taco, are you going just as I arrive?”“You drive me away,” said Quaerts, laughing.“Oh, Taco, do stay a little longer!” begged Jules, enraptured to see him and lamenting that he had chosen just this moment to leave.“Jules, Jules!” cried Amélie, thinking it was the proper thing to do.Jules pressed Quaerts, took his two hands, forced him, like a spoilt child. Quaerts only laughed. Jules in his excitement knocked a book or two off the table.“Jules, be quiet, do!” cried Amélie.Quaerts picked up the books, while Jules persisted in his bad behaviour. As Quaerts replaced the last book, he hesitated a moment; he held it in his hand, looked at the gold lettering: “Emerson.”Cecile watched him:“If he thinks I’m going to lend it him, he’s mistaken,” she thought.But Quaerts asked nothing: he had released himself from Jules and said good-bye. With a quip at Jules he left.3“Is this the first time he has been to see you?” asked Amélie.“Yes,” replied Cecile. “An uncalled-for civility, don’t you think?”“Taco Quaerts is always very correct in matters of etiquette,” said Anna, defending him.“Still, this visit was hardly a matter of etiquette,” said Cecile, laughing merrily. “But Taco Quaerts seems to be quite infallible in the eyes of all of you.”“He waltzes divinely!” cried Suzette. “The other day, at the Eekhofs’ dance....”Suzette chattered on; there was no restrainingSuzette that afternoon; she seemed already to hear the castanets rattling in her little brain.Jules had a peevish fit on him, but he remained quietly at a window, with the boys.“You don’t much care about Quaerts, do you, Auntie?” asked Anna.“I don’t find him attractive,” said Cecile. “You know, I am easily influenced by my first impressions. I can’t help it, but I don’t like those very healthy, robust people, who look so strong and manly, as if they walked straight through life, clearing away everything that stands in their way. It may be morbid of me, but I can’t help it; I always dislike any excessive display of health and physical force. Those strong people look upon others who are not so strong as themselves much as the Spartans used to look upon their deformed children.”Jules could control himself no longer:“If you think that Taco is no better than a Spartan, you know nothing at all about him,” he said, fiercely.Cecile looked at him, but, before Amélie could interpose, he continued:“Taco is the only person with whom I can talk about music and who understands every word I say. And I don’t believe I could talk with a Spartan.”“Jules, how rude you are!” cried Suzette.“I don’t care!” he exclaimed, furiously, rising suddenly and stamping his foot. “I don’t care! I won’t hear Taco abused; and Aunt Cecile knows it and only does it to tease me. And I think it very mean to tease a boy, very mean....”His mother and sisters tried to bring him to reason with their authority. But he caught up his books:“I don’t care! I won’t have it!”He was gone in a moment, furious, slamming the door, which groaned with the shock. Amélie was trembling in every nerve:Oh, that boy!” she hissed out, shivering. “That Jules, that Jules!...”“It’s nothing,” said Cecile, gently, excusing him. “He is just a little excitable....”She had turned rather paler and glanced at her boys, Dolf and Christie, who had looked up in dismay, their mouths wide open with astonishment.“Is Jules naughty, mamma?” asked Christie.She shook her head, smiling. She felt a strange, an unspeakably strange weariness. She did not know what it meant; but it seemed to her as if very distant vistas were opening before her eyes and fading into the horizon, pale, in a great light. Nor did she know what this meant;but she was not angry with Jules and it seemed to her as if he had lost his temper, not with her, but with somebody else. A sense of the enigmatical depth of life, the soul’s unconscious mystery, like to a fair, bright endlessness, a far-away silvery light, shot through her in silent rapture.Then she laughed:“Jules is so nice,” she said, “when he gets excited.”Anna and Suzette, upset at the incident, played with the boys, looking over their picture-books. Cecile spoke only to her sister. But Amélie’s nerves were still quivering.“How can you defend those ways of Jules’?” she asked, in a choking voice.“I think it nice of him to stand up for people he likes. Don’t you think so too?”Amélie grew calmer. Why should she be put out if Cecile was not?“I dare say,” she replied. “I don’t know. He has a good heart I believe, but he is so unmanageable. But, who knows, perhaps it’s my fault: if I understood things better, if I had more tact....”She grew confused; she sought for something more to say and found nothing, wandering like a stranger through her own thoughts. Then, suddenly, as if struck by a ray of certain knowledge, she said:“But Jules is not stupid. He has a good eye for all sorts of things and for persons too. Personally, I think you judge Taco Quaerts wrongly. He is a very interesting man and a great deal more than a mere sportsman. I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about him different from other people, I can’t say exactly what....”She was silent, seeking, groping.“I wish Jules got on better at school. As I say, he is not stupid, but he learnsnothing. He has been two years now in the third class. The boy has no application. He makes me despair of him.”She was silent again; and Cecile also did not speak.“Ah,” said Amélie, “I dare say it is not his fault! Very likely it is my fault. Perhaps he takes after me....”She looked straight before her: sudden, irrepressible tears filled her eyes and fell into her lap.“Amy, what’s the matter?” asked Cecile, kindly.But Amélie had risen, so that the girls, who were still playing with the children, might not see her tears. She could not restrain them, they streamed down and she hurried away into the adjoining drawing-room, a big room in which Cecile never sat.“What’s the matter, Amy?” Cecile repeated.She had followed Amélie out and nowthrew her arms about her, made her sit down, pressed Amélie’s head against her shoulder.“How do I know what it is?” Amélie sobbed. “I don’t know, I don’t know.... I am wretched because of that feeling in my head. It is more than I can bear sometimes. After all, I am not mad, am I? Really, I don’t feel mad, or as if I were going mad! But I feel sometimes as if everything had gone wrong in my head, as if I couldn’t think. Everything runs through my brain. It’s a terrible feeling!”“Why don’t you see a doctor?” asked Cecile.“No, no, he might tell me I was mad; and I’m not. He might try to send me to an asylum. No, I won’t see a doctor. I have every reason to be happy otherwise, have I not? I have a kind husband and dear children; I have never had any greatsorrow. And yet I sometimes feel profoundly miserable, desperately miserable! It is always as if I wanted to reach some place and could not succeed. It is always as if I were hemmed in....”She sobbed violently; a storm of tears rained down her face. Cecile’s eyes, too, were moist; she liked her sister, she felt sorry for her. Amélie was only ten years older than she; and already she had something of an old woman about her, something withered and shrunken, with her hair growing grey at the temples, under her veil.“Cecile, tell me, Cecile,” she said, suddenly, through her sobs, “do you believe in God?”“Why, of course I do, Amy!”“I used to go to church sometimes, but it was no use.... And I’ve stopped going.... Oh, I am so unhappy! It is very ungrateful of me. I have so much tobe grateful for.... Do you know, sometimes I feel as if I should like to go to God at once, all at once, just like that!”“Come, Amy, don’t excite yourself so.”“Ah, I wish I were like you, so calm! Do you feel happy?”Cecile smiled and nodded. Amélie sighed; she remained lying for a moment with her head against her sister’s shoulder. Cecile kissed her, but suddenly Amélie started:“Be careful,” she whispered, “the girls might come in. There ... there’s no need for them to see that I’ve been crying.”Rising, she arranged her hat before the looking-glass, carefully dried her veil with her handkerchief:“There, now they won’t know,” she said. “Let’s go in again. I am quite calm. You’re a dear thing....”They went back to the boudoir:“Come, girls, it’s time to go home,” said Amélie, in a voice which was still a little unsettled.“Have you been crying, Mamma?” Suzette at once asked.“Mamma was a bit upset about Jules,” said Cecile, quickly.Chapter VCecile was alone; the children had gone upstairs to tidy themselves for dinner. She tried to get back her distant vistas, fading into the pale horizon; she tried to recover the silvery endlessness which had shot through her as a vision of light. But instead her brain was all awhirl with a kaleidoscope of very recent petty memories: the children, Quaerts, Emerson, Jules, Suzette, Amélie. How strange, how strange life was!... The outer life; the coming and going of people about us; the sounds of words which they utter in strange accents; the endless interchange of phenomena; the concatenation of those phenomena, one with the other; strange, too, the presence of a soul somewhere inside us, like a godwithin us, never to be known in our own essence. Often, as indeed now, it seemed to Cecile that all things, even the most commonplace things, were strange, very strange, as if nothing in the world were absolutely commonplace, as if everything were strange: the strange form and outward expression of a deeper life that lies hidden behind everything, even the meanest objects; as if everything displayed itself under an appearance, a mask of pretence, while the reality, the very truth, lay underneath. How strange, how strange life was!... For it seemed to her as if she, under that very usual afternoon tea, had seen something very unusual; she did not know what, she could not express it nor even think it thoroughly; it seemed to her as if beneath the coming and going of those people something had glittered: a reality, an ultimate truth under the appearance of that casual afternoon tea.“What is it? Whatisit?” she wondered. “Am I deluding myself, or is it so? I feel that it is so....”It was all very vague and yet so very clear.... It seemed to her as though there were a vision, a haze of light behind all that had happened there, behind Amélie and Jules and Quaerts and the book which he had picked up from the floor and held in his hand for a moment.... Did that vision, that haze of light mean anything, or....But she shook her head:“I am dreaming, I am giving way to fancy,” she laughed, within herself. “It was all very simple; I only make it complex because it amuses me to do so.”But she had no sooner thought this than she felt something which denied the thought absolutely, an intuition which should have made her guess the essence of the truth, but did not quite succeed.Surely there was something, something behind it all, hiding away, lurking as the shadow lurked behind the thing; and the shadow appeared to her as a vision and haze of light....Her thoughts still wandered over all those people and finally halted at Taco Quaerts. She saw him sitting there again, bending slightly forward in her direction, his hands folded and hanging between his knees, as he looked up to her. A barrier of aversion had stood between them like an iron bar. She saw him sitting there again, though he was gone. That again was past: how quickly everything moved; how small was the speck of the present!She rose, sat down at her writing-table and wrote:“Beneath me flows the sea of the past; above me drifts the ether of the future; and I stand midway upon the one speck ofreality, so small that I must press my feet firmly together lest I lose my hold. And from the speck of the present my sorrow looks down upon the sea and my longing up to the sky.“It is scarcely life to stand upon this speck, so small that I hardly appreciate it, hardly feel it beneath my feet; and yet to me it is the one reality. I am not greatly occupied about it: my eyes only follow the rippling of those waves towards distant horizons, the gliding of those clouds towards distant spheres, vague manifestations of endless change, translucent ephemeras, visible incorporeities. The present is the only thing that is, or rather that seems to be. The speck is, or at least appears to be, but not the sea below nor the sky above, for the sea is but a memory and the air but an illusion. Yet memory and illusion are everything: they are the wide inheritance of the soul, whichalone can escape from the speck of the moment to float upon the sea towards the horizons which retreat, to drift upon the clouds towards the spheres which retreat and retreat....”Then she reflected. How was it that she had written all this and why? How had she come to write it? She went back upon her thoughts: the present, the speck of the present, which was so small.... Quaerts, Quaerts’ very attitude, rising up before her just now. Was he in any way concerned with her writing down those sentences? The past a sorrow; the future an illusion.... Why, why illusion?“And Jules, who likes him,” she thought. “And Amélie, who spoke of him ... but she knows nothing.... What is there in him, what lurks behind him: his visionary image? Why did hecome here? Why do I dislike him so? Do I dislike him? I cannot see into his eyes....”She would have liked to do this once; she would have liked to make sure that she disliked him or that she did not: one or the other. She was curious to see him once more, to know what she would think and feel about him then....She had risen from her writing-table and now lay at full length on the sofa, with her arms folded behind her head. She no longer knew what she dreamt, but she felt peacefully happy. She heard Dolf and Christie come down the stairs. They came in, it was dinner-time.“Jules was really naughty just now, wasn’t he, Mummy?” Christie asked again, with a grave face.She drew the frail little fellow gently to her, took him tightly in her arms andfondly kissed his moist, pale-raspberry lips:“No, really not, darling!” she said. “He wasn’t naughty, really....”Chapter VI1Cecile passed through the long hall, which was almost a gallery: footmen stood on either side of the hangings; a hum of voices came from behind. The train of her dress rustled against the leaves of a palm; and the sound gave a sudden jar to the strung cords of her sensitiveness. She was a little nervous; her eyelids quivered slightly and her mouth had a very earnest fold.She walked in; there was much light, but soft light, the light of candles only. Two officers stepped aside for her as she stood hesitating. Her eyes glanced round in search of Mrs. Hoze; she saw her standing among two or three of her guests, withher grey hair, her kindly and yet haughty face, rosy and smooth, almost without a wrinkle.Mrs. Hoze came towards her:“I can’t tell you how charming I think it of you not to have played me false!” she said, pressing Cecile’s hand with effusive and hospitable urbanity.She introduced people to Cecile here and there; Cecile heard names the sound of which at once escaped her.“General, allow me ... Mrs. van Even,” Mrs. Hoze whispered and left her, to speak to some one else.Cecile drew a deep breath, pressed her hand to the edge of her bodice, as though to arrange something that had slipped from its place, answered the general cursorily. She was very pale; and her eyelids quivered more and more. She ventured to throw a glance round the room.She stood next to the general, forcing herself to listen, so as not to give answers that would sound strikingly foolish. She was very tall, slender, and straight, with her shoulders, white as sunlit marble, blossoming out of a sombre vase of black: fine, black, trailing tulle, sprinkled all over with small jet spangles; glittering black on dull transparent black. A girdle with tassels of jet, hanging low, was wound about her waist. So she stood, blonde: blonde and black; a little sombre amid the warmth and light of other toilettes; and, for unique relief, two diamonds in her ears, like dewdrops.Her thin suêde-covered fingers trembled as she manipulated her fan, a black tulle transparency, on which the same jet spangles glittered with black lustre. Her breath came short behind the strokes of the diaphanous fan as she talked with the general, a spare, bald, distinguished-lookingman, not in uniform, but wearing his decorations.Mrs. Hoze’s guests walked about, greeting one another here and there, with a continuous hum of voices. Cecile saw Taco Quaerts come up to her; he bowed before her; she bowed coldly in return, not offering him her hand. He lingered by her for a moment, spoke a word or two and then passed on, greeting other acquaintances.Mrs. Hoze had taken the arm of an old gentleman; a procession formed slowly. The servants threw back the doors; a table glittered beyond, half-visible. The general offered Cecile his arm, as she stood looking behind her with a listless turn of her neck. She closed her eyelids for a second, to prevent their quivering. Her brows contracted with a sense of disappointment; but smilingly she laid the tips of her fingers on the general’s arm andwith her closed fan smoothed away a crease from the tulle of her train.2When Cecile was seated she found Quaerts sitting on her right. Then her disappointment vanished, the disappointment which she had felt at not being taken in to dinner by him; but her look remained cold, as usual. And yet she had what she wished; the expectation with which she had come to this dinner was fulfilled. Mrs. Hoze had seen Cecile at the Van Attemas’ and had gladly undertaken to restore the young widow to society. Cecile knew that Quaerts was a frequent visitor at Mrs. Hoze’s; she had heard from Amélie that he was invited to the dinner; and she had accepted. That Mrs. Hoze, remembering that Cecile had met Quaerts before, had placed him next to her was easy to understand.Cecile was very inquisitive about herself. How would she feel? At least interested: she could not disguise that from herself. She was certainly interested in him, remembering what Jules had said, what Amélie had said. She already felt that behind the mere sportsman there lurked another, whom she longed to know. Why should she? What concern was it of hers? She could not tell; but, in any case, as a matter of curiosity, as a puzzle, it awoke her interest. And, at the same time, she remained on her guard, for she did not think that his visit to her was strictly in order; and there were stories in which the name of that married woman was coupled with his.She succeeded in freeing herself from her conversation with the general, who seemed to feel called upon to entertain her, and it was she who spoke first to Quaerts:“Have you begun to give Jules his riding-lessons?” she asked, with a smile.He looked at her, evidently a little surprised at her voice and her smile, which were both new to him. He returned a bare answer:“Yes, mevrouw, we were at the riding-school yesterday....”She at once thought him clumsy, to let the conversation drop like that; but he enquired with that slight shyness which became a charm in him who was so manly:“So you are going out again, mevrouw?”She thought—she had indeed thought so before—that his questions were sometimes questions which people do not ask. This was one of the strange things about him.“Yes,” she replied, simply, not knowing what else to say.“Forgive me,” he said, seeing that hiswords had embarrassed her a little. “I asked, because ...”“Because?” she echoed, with wide-open eyes.He took courage and explained:“When Dolf spoke of you, he used always to say that you lived so quietly.... And I could never picture you to myself returning to society, mixing with many people; I had formed an idea of you; and it now seems that this idea was a mistaken one.”“An idea?” she asked. “What idea?”“Perhaps you will be angry when I tell you. Perhaps, even as it is, you are none too well pleased with me!” he replied, jestingly.“I have not the slightest reason to be either pleased or displeased with you,” she jested in return. “But tell me, what was your idea?”“Then you are interested in it?”“If you will answer candidly, yes. But you must be candid!” and she threatened him with her finger.“Well,” he began, “I thought of you as a very cultured woman, as a very interesting woman—I still think all that—and... as a woman who cared nothing for the world beyond her own sphere; and this ... this I can no longer think. And I feel almost inclined to say, at the risk of your looking on me as very strange, that I am sorry no longer to be able to think of you in that way. I would almost rather not have met you here....”He laughed, to soften what might sound strange in his words. She looked at him, her eyelashes flickering with amazement, her lips half-opened; and suddenly it struck her that she was looking into his eyes for the first time. She looked into his eyes and saw that they were a dark, very dark grey around the black depth ofthe pupil. There was something in his eyes, she could not say what, but something magnetic, as though she could never again take away her own from them.“How strange you can be sometimes!” she said mechanically: the words came intuitively.“Oh, please don’t be angry!” he almost implored her. “I was so glad when you spoke kindly to me. You were a little distant to me when I saw you last; and I should be so sorry if I put you out. Perhaps I am strange, but how could I possibly be commonplace with you? How could I possibly, even if you were to take offence?...Haveyou taken offence?”“I ought to, but I suppose I must forgive you, if only for your candour!” she said, laughing. “Otherwise your remarks were anything but gallant.”“And yet I did not mean it ungallantly.”“Oh, no doubt!” she jested.She remembered that she was at a big dinner-party. The guests ranged before and around her; the footmen waiting behind; the light of the candles gleaming on the silver and touching the glass with all the hues of the rainbow; on the table prone mirrors, like sheets of water surrounded by flowers, little lakes amidst moss-roses and lilies of the valley. She sat silent a moment, still smiling, looking at her hand, a pretty hand, like a white precious thing upon the tulle of her gown: one of the fingers bore several rings, scintillating sparks of blue and white.The general turned to her again; they exchanged a few words; the general was delighted that Mrs. van Even’s right-hand neighbour was keeping her entertained and enabling him to get on quietly with his dinner. Quaerts turned to the lady on his right.Both of them were glad when they were able to resume their conversation:“What were we talking about just now?” she asked.“I know!” he replied, mischievously.“The general interrupted us.”“You werenotangry with me!” he jested.“Oh, of course,” she replied, laughing softly, “it was about your idea of me, was it not? Why could you no longer picture me returning to society?”“I thought that you had become a person apart.”“But why?”“From what Dolf said, from what I myself thought, when I saw you.”“And why are you now sorry that I am not ‘a person apart,’ as you call it?” she asked, still laughing.“From vanity; because I made a mistake.And yet perhaps I have not made a mistake....”They looked at each other; and both of them, although each thought it in a different way, now thought the same thing, namely, that they must be careful with their words, because they were speaking of something very delicate and tender, something as frail as a soap-bubble, which could easily break if they spoke of it too loudly; the mere breath of their words might be sufficient. Yet she ventured to ask:“And why ... do you believe ... that perhaps ... you are not mistaken?”“I don’t quite know. Perhaps because I wish it so. Perhaps, too, because it is so true as to leave no room for doubt. Oh, yes, I am almost sure that I judged rightly! Do you know why? Because otherwise I should have hidden myself and been commonplace;and I find this impossible with you. I have given you more of myself in this short moment than I have given people whom I have known for years in the course of all those years. Therefore surely you must be a person apart.”“What do you mean by ‘a person apart’?”He smiled, he opened his eyes; she looked into them again, deeply.“You understand, surely!” he said.Fear for the delicate thing that might break came between them again. They understood each other as with a freemasonry of feeling. Her eyes were magnetically held upon his.“You are very strange!” she again said, automatically.“No,” he said, calmly, shaking his head, with his eyes in hers. “I am certain that I am not strange to you, even though you may think so for the moment.”She was silent.“I am so glad to be able to talk to you like this!” he whispered. “It makes me very happy. And see, no one knows anything of it. We are at a big dinner; the people next to us can even catch our words; and yet there is not one among them who understands us or grasps the subject of our conversation. Do you know the reason?”“No,” she murmured.“I will tell you; at least, I think it is like this. Perhaps you know better, for youmustknow things better than I, you are so much subtler. I personally believe that each person has a circle about him, an atmosphere, and that he meets other people who have circles or atmospheres about them, sympathetic or antipathetic to his own.”“This is pure mysticism!” she said.“No,” he replied, “it is quite simple.When the two circles are antipathetic, each repels the other; but, when they are sympathetic, they glide and overlap in smaller or larger curves of sympathy. In some cases the circles almost coincide, but they always remain separate.... Do you really think this so very mystical?”“One might call it the mysticism of sentiment. But ... I have thought something of the sort myself....”“Yes, yes, I can understand that,” he continued, calmly, as if he expected it. “I believe that those around us would not be able to understand us, because we two alone have sympathetic circles. But my atmosphere is of a much grosser texture than yours, which is very delicate.”She was silent again, remembering her former aversion to him: did she still feel it?“What do you think of my theory?” he asked.She looked up; her white fingers trembled in the tulle of her gown. She made a poor effort to smile:“I think you go too far!” she stammered.“You think I rush into hyperbole?”She would have liked to say yes, but could not:“No,” she said; “not that.”“Do I bore you?...”She looked at him, looked deep into his eyes. She shook her head, by way of saying no. She would have liked to say that he was too unconventional just now; but she could not find the words. A faintness oppressed her whole being. The table, the people, the whole dinner-party appeared to her as through a haze of light. When she recovered herself again, she perceived that a pretty woman opposite had been staring at her and was now looking away, out of politeness. She did notknow how or why this interested her, but she asked Quaerts:“Who is the lady over there, in pale blue, with the dark hair?”She saw that he started.“That is young Mrs. Hijdrecht!” he said, calmly, a little distantly.She too was perturbed; she turned pale; her fan flapped nervously to and fro in her fingers.He had named the woman whom rumour said to be his mistress.3It seemed to Cecile as though that delicate, frail thing, that soap-bubble, had burst. She wondered if he had spoken to that dark-haired woman also of circles of sympathy. So soon as she was able, Cecile observed Mrs. Hijdrecht. She had a warm, dull-gold complexion, dark, glowing eyes, a mouth as of fresh blood.Her dress was cut very low; her throat and the slope of her breast showed insolently handsome, brutally luscious. A row of diamonds encompassed her neck with a narrow line of white flame.Cecile felt ill at ease. She felt as if she were playing with fire. She looked away from the young woman and turned to Quaerts, in obedience to some magnetic force. She saw a cloud of melancholy stealing over the upper half of his face, over his forehead and his eyes, which betrayed a slight look of age. And she heard him say:“Now what do you care about that lady’s name? We were just in the middle of such a charming conversation....”She too felt sad now, sad because of the soap-bubble that had burst. She did not know why, but she felt pity for him, a sudden, deep, intense pity.“We can resume our conversation,” she said, softly.“Ah no, don’t let us take it up where we left it!” he rejoined, with feigned airiness. “I was becoming tedious.”He spoke of other things. She answered little; and their conversation languished. They each occupied themselves with their neighbours. The dinner came to an end. Mrs. Hoze rose, took the arm of the gentleman beside her. The general escorted Cecile to the drawing-room, in the slow procession of the others.4The ladies remained alone; the men went to the smoking-room with young Hoze. Cecile saw Mrs. Hoze come towards her. She asked her if she had not been bored at dinner; they sat down together, in a confidentialtête-à-tête.Cecile made the necessary effort to replyto Mrs. Hoze; but she would have liked to go somewhere and weep quietly, because everything passed so quickly, because the speck of the present was so small. Gone was the sweet charm of their conversation during dinner about sympathy, a fragile intimacy amid the worldly show about them. Gone was that moment, never, never to return: life sped over it with its constant flow, as with a torrent of all-obliterating water. Oh, the sorrow of it, to think how quickly, like an intangible perfume, everything speeds away, everything that is dear to us!...Mrs. Hoze left her; Suzette van Attema came to talk to Cecile. She was dressed in pink; and she glittered in all her aspect as if gold-dust had poured all over her, upon her movements, her eyes, her words. She spoke volubly to Cecile, telling interminable tales, to which Cecile did not always listen. Suddenly, through Suzette’sprattle, Cecile heard the voices of two women whispering behind her; she only caught a word here and there:“Emilie Hijdrecht, you know....”“Only gossip, I think; Mrs. Hoze does not seem to heed it....”“Ah, but I know it as a fact!”The voices were lost in the hum of the others. Cecile just caught a sound like Quaerts’ name. Then Suzette asked, suddenly:“Do you know young Mrs. Hijdrecht, Auntie?”“No.”“Over there, with the diamonds. You know, they talk about her and Quaerts. Mamma doesn’t believe it. At any rate, he’s a great flirt. You sat next to him, didn’t you?”Cecile suffered severely in her innermost sensitiveness. She shrank into herself entirely, doing all that she could toappear different from what she was. Suzette saw nothing of her discomfiture.The men returned. Cecile looked to see whether Quaerts would speak to Mrs. Hijdrecht. But he wholly ignored her presence and even, when he saw Suzette sitting with Cecile, came over to them to pay a compliment to Suzette, to whom he had not yet spoken.It was a relief to Cecile when she was able to go. She was yearning to be alone, to recover herself, to return from her abstraction. In her brougham she scarcely dared breathe, fearful of something, she could not say what. When she reached home she felt a stifling heaviness which seemed to paralyse her; and she dragged herself languidly up the stairs to her dressing-room.And yet, on the stairs, there fell over her, as from the roof of her house, a haze of protecting safety. Slowly she wentup, her hand, holding a long glove, pressing the velvet banister of the stairway. She felt as if she were about to swoon:“But, Heaven help me ... I am fond of him, I love him, I love him!” she whispered between her trembling lips, in sudden amazement.It was as in a rhythm of astonishment that she wearily mounted the stairs, higher and higher, in a silent surprise of sudden light.“But I am fond of him, I love him, I love him!”It sounded like a melody through her weariness.She reached her dressing-room, where Greta had lighted the gas; she dragged herself inside. The door of the nursery stood half open; she went in, threw back the curtain of Christie’s little bed, dropped on her knees and looked at the child. The boy partly awoke, still in the warmth of adeep sleep; he crept a little from between the sheets, laughed, threw his arms about Cecile’s bare neck:“Mummy dear!”She pressed him tightly in the embrace of her slender, white arms; she kissed his raspberry mouth, his drowsed eyes. And meantime the refrain sang on in her heart, right across the weariness which seemed to break her by the bedside of her child:“But I am fond of him, I love him, I love him, I love him...!”5The mystery! Suddenly, on the staircase, it had beamed open before her in her soul, like a great flower of light, a mystic rose with glistening petals, into whose golden heart she now looked for the first time. The analysis to which she was so much inclined was no longer possible: this was the riddle of love, the eternal riddle,which had beamed open within her, transfixing with its rays the very width of her soul, in the midst of which it had burst forth like a sun in a universe; it was too late to ask the reason why; it was too late to ponder and dream upon it; it could only be accepted as the inexplicable phenomenon of the soul; it was a creation of sentiment, of which the god who created it would be as impossible to find in the inner essence of his reality as the God who had created the world out of chaos. It was light breaking forth from darkness; it was heaven disclosed above the earth. And it existed: it was reality and not a fairy-tale! For it was wholly and entirely within her, a sudden, incontestable, everlasting truth, a felt fact, so real in its ethereal incorporeity that it seemed to her as if, until that moment, she had never known, never thought, never felt. It was the beginning, the opening out of herself, the dawnof her soul’s life, the joyful miracle, the miraculous inception of love, love focussed in the midst of her soul.She passed the following days in self-contemplation, wandering through her dreams as through a new country, rich with great light, where distant landscapes paled into a wan radiance, like fantastic meteors in the night, quivering in incandescence on the horizon. It seemed to her as though she, a pious and glad pilgrim, were making her way along paradisaical oases towards those distant scenes, there to find even more, the goal.... Only a little while ago, the prospect before her had been narrow and forlorn—her children gone from her, her loneliness wrapping her about like a night—and now, now she saw stretching in front of her a long road, a wide horizon, glittering with light, nothing but light....Thatwas, all thatwas! It was no fine poets’ fancy; it existed, it gleamed in herheart like a sacred jewel, like a mystic rose with stamina of light! A freshness as of dew fell over her, over her whole life: over the life of her senses; over the life of outward appearances; over the life of her soul; over the life of the indwelling truth. The world was new, fresh with young dew, the very Eden of Genesis; and her soul was a soul of newness, born anew in a metempsychosis of greater perfection, of closer approach to the goal, that distant goal, far away yonder, hidden like a god in the sanctuary of its ecstasy of light, as in the radiance of its own being.

Chapter IV1Cecile was astonished at her unusually long fit of abstraction, that it should continue for days before she returned to her usual condition of serenity, the delightful abode from which she had involuntarily wandered. But she compelled herself, with gentle compulsion, to recover the treasures of her loneliness; and she ended by recovering them. She argued with herself that it would be some years before she would have to part from Dolf and Christie: there was time enough to grow accustomed to the idea of separation. Besides, nothing had altered either about her or within her; and so she let the days glide slowly over her, like gently flowing water.In this way, gently flowing by, a fortnight had elapsed since the evening which she spent at Dolf’s. It was a Saturday afternoon; she had been working with the children—she still taught them herself—and she had walked out with them; and now she was sitting in her favourite room waiting for the Van Attemas, who came to tea every Saturday at half-past four. She rang for the servant, who lighted the blue flame of methylated spirit. Dolf and Christie were with her; they sat upon the floor on footstools, cutting the pages of a children’s magazine to which Cecile subscribed for them. They were sitting quietly, looking very good and well-bred, like children who grow up in soft surroundings, in the midst of too much refinement, too pale, with hair too long and too fair, Christie especially, whose little temples were veined as if with azure blood. Cecile stepped by them as she went toglance over the tea-table; and the look which she cast upon them wrapped the children in a warm embrace of devotion. She was in her calmly happy mood: it was so pleasant to think that she would soon see the Van Attemas come in. She liked these hours of the afternoon, when her silver tea-kettle hissed over the blue flame. An exquisite intimacy filled the room; she had in her long, shapely feminine fingers that special power of witchery, that gentle art of handling by which everything over which they merely glided acquired a look of herself, an indefinable something, of tint, of position, of light, which the things had not until the touch of those fingers came across them.There was a ring. She thought it rather early for the Van Attemas, but she rarely saw any one else in her seclusion from the outer world; therefore it must be they. In a second or two, however, Gretaentered, with a card: was mevrouw at home and could the gentleman see her?Cecile recognized the card from a distance: she had seen one like it lately. Nevertheless she took it up, glanced at it discontentedly, with drawn eyebrows.What an idea, she reflected. Why did he do it? What did it mean?But she thought it unnecessary to be impolite and refuse to see him. After all, he was a friend of Dolf’s. But such persistence....“Show meneer in,” she said, calmly.Greta went; and it seemed to Cecile as though something trembled in the intimacy which filled the room, as if the objects over which her fingers had just passed took on another aspect, a look of shuddering. But Dolf and Christie had not changed; they were still sitting looking at the pictures, with occasional remarks falling softly from their lips.2The door opened and Quaerts entered the room. As he bowed to Cecile, he had his air of shyness in still greater measure than before. To her this air was incomprehensible in him, who seemed so strong, so determined.“I hope you will not think me indiscreet, mevrouw, in taking the liberty to come and call on you.”“On the contrary, Mr. Quaerts,” she said, coldly. “Pray sit down.”He took a chair and placed his tall hat on the floor beside him:“I am not disturbing you, mevrouw?”“Not in the least; I am expecting Mrs. van Attema and her daughters. You were so kind as to leave a card on me; but, as I dare say you know, I see nobody.”“I knew that, mevrouw. Perhaps it isto that very reason that you owe the indiscretion of my visit.”She looked at him coldly, politely, smilingly. There was a feeling of irritation in her. She felt inclined to ask him bluntly what he wanted with her.“How so?” she asked, with her mannerly smile, which converted her face into a mask.“I was afraid that I might not see you for a very long time; and I should consider it a great privilege to be allowed to know you better.”His tone was in the highest degree respectful. She raised her eyebrows, as if she did not understand; but the accent of his voice was so very courteous that she could not even find a cold word with which to answer him.“Are these your two children?” he asked, with a glance towards Dolf and Christie.“Yes,” she replied. “Get up, boys, and shake hands with meneer.”The children approached timidly and put out their little hands. He smiled, looked at them penetratingly with his small, deep-set eyes and drew them to him:“Am I mistaken, or is the little one very like you?”“They both resemble their father,” she replied.It seemed to her she had set a protecting shield around herself, from which the children were excluded, within which she found it impossible to draw them. It troubled her that he was holding them so tight, that he looked at them as he did.But he released them; and they went back to their little stools, gentle, quiet, well-behaved.“Yet they both have something of you,” he insisted.“Possibly,” she said.“Mevrouw,” he resumed, as if he had something important to say to her, “I wish to ask you a direct question: tell me honestly, quite honestly, do you think me indiscreet?”“For calling to see me? No, I assure you, Mr. Quaerts. It is very kind of you. Only ... if I may be candid ...”She gave a little laugh.“Of course,” he said.“Then I will confess that I fear you will find little in my house to amuse you. I never see people....”“I have not called on you for the sake of the people I might meet at your house.”She bowed, smiling, as if he had paid her a compliment:“Of course I am very pleased to see you. You are a great friend of Dolf’s, are you not?”She tried each time to say something different from what she actually did say,to speak more coldly, more aggressively; but she had too much breeding and could not bring herself to do it.“Yes,” he replied, “Dolf and I have known each other ever so long. We have always been great friends, though we are quite unlike.”“I’m very fond of him; he’s always very kind to us.”She saw him look at the low table and smile. A few reviews were scattered on it, a book or two. On the top of these lay a little volume of Emerson’s essays, with a paper-cutter marking the page.“You told me you were not a great reader!” he said, mischievously. “I should think ...”And he pointed to the books.“Oh,” said she, carelessly, with a slight shrug of her shoulders, “a little....”She thought him very tiresome: why should he remark that she had hidden herselffrom him? Why, indeed,hadshe hidden herself from him?“Emerson!” he read, bending forward a little. “Forgive me,” he added quickly. “I have no right to spy upon your pursuits. But the print is so large; I read it from here.”“You are far-sighted?” she asked, laughing.“Yes.”His courtesy, a certain respectfulness, as if he would not venture to touch the tips of her fingers, placed her more at her ease. She still disliked him, but there was no harm in his knowing what she read.“Are you fond of reading?” asked Cecile.“I do not read much: it is too great a delight for that; nor do I read everything that appears. I am too hard to please.”“Do you know Emerson?”“No....”“I like his essays very much. They are written with such a wide outlook. They place one on such a deliciously exalted level....”She suited her phrase with an expansive gesture; and her eyes lighted up.Then she observed that he was following her attentively, with his respectfulness. And she recovered herself; she no longer wanted to talk to him about Emerson.“It is very fine indeed,” was all she said, to close the conversation, in the most commonplace voice that she was able to assume. “May I give you some tea?”“No, thank you, mevrouw; I never take tea at this time.”“Do you look upon it with so much scorn?” she asked, jestingly.He was about to answer, when there was a ring at the bell; and she cried:“Ah, here they are!”Amélie entered, with Suzette and Anna. They were a little surprised to see Quaerts. He said he had wanted to call on Mrs. van Even. The conversation became general. Suzette was very merry, full of a fancy-fair, at which she was going to assist, in a Spanish costume.“And you, Anna?”“Oh, no, Auntie!” said Anna, shrinking together with fright. “Imagine me at a fancy-fair! I should never sell anybody anything.”“Ah, it’s a gift!” said Amélie, with a far-away look.Quaerts rose: he was bowing with a single word to Cecile, when the door opened. Jules came in, with some books under his arm, on his way home from school.“How do you do, Auntie? Hallo, Taco, are you going just as I arrive?”“You drive me away,” said Quaerts, laughing.“Oh, Taco, do stay a little longer!” begged Jules, enraptured to see him and lamenting that he had chosen just this moment to leave.“Jules, Jules!” cried Amélie, thinking it was the proper thing to do.Jules pressed Quaerts, took his two hands, forced him, like a spoilt child. Quaerts only laughed. Jules in his excitement knocked a book or two off the table.“Jules, be quiet, do!” cried Amélie.Quaerts picked up the books, while Jules persisted in his bad behaviour. As Quaerts replaced the last book, he hesitated a moment; he held it in his hand, looked at the gold lettering: “Emerson.”Cecile watched him:“If he thinks I’m going to lend it him, he’s mistaken,” she thought.But Quaerts asked nothing: he had released himself from Jules and said good-bye. With a quip at Jules he left.3“Is this the first time he has been to see you?” asked Amélie.“Yes,” replied Cecile. “An uncalled-for civility, don’t you think?”“Taco Quaerts is always very correct in matters of etiquette,” said Anna, defending him.“Still, this visit was hardly a matter of etiquette,” said Cecile, laughing merrily. “But Taco Quaerts seems to be quite infallible in the eyes of all of you.”“He waltzes divinely!” cried Suzette. “The other day, at the Eekhofs’ dance....”Suzette chattered on; there was no restrainingSuzette that afternoon; she seemed already to hear the castanets rattling in her little brain.Jules had a peevish fit on him, but he remained quietly at a window, with the boys.“You don’t much care about Quaerts, do you, Auntie?” asked Anna.“I don’t find him attractive,” said Cecile. “You know, I am easily influenced by my first impressions. I can’t help it, but I don’t like those very healthy, robust people, who look so strong and manly, as if they walked straight through life, clearing away everything that stands in their way. It may be morbid of me, but I can’t help it; I always dislike any excessive display of health and physical force. Those strong people look upon others who are not so strong as themselves much as the Spartans used to look upon their deformed children.”Jules could control himself no longer:“If you think that Taco is no better than a Spartan, you know nothing at all about him,” he said, fiercely.Cecile looked at him, but, before Amélie could interpose, he continued:“Taco is the only person with whom I can talk about music and who understands every word I say. And I don’t believe I could talk with a Spartan.”“Jules, how rude you are!” cried Suzette.“I don’t care!” he exclaimed, furiously, rising suddenly and stamping his foot. “I don’t care! I won’t hear Taco abused; and Aunt Cecile knows it and only does it to tease me. And I think it very mean to tease a boy, very mean....”His mother and sisters tried to bring him to reason with their authority. But he caught up his books:“I don’t care! I won’t have it!”He was gone in a moment, furious, slamming the door, which groaned with the shock. Amélie was trembling in every nerve:Oh, that boy!” she hissed out, shivering. “That Jules, that Jules!...”“It’s nothing,” said Cecile, gently, excusing him. “He is just a little excitable....”She had turned rather paler and glanced at her boys, Dolf and Christie, who had looked up in dismay, their mouths wide open with astonishment.“Is Jules naughty, mamma?” asked Christie.She shook her head, smiling. She felt a strange, an unspeakably strange weariness. She did not know what it meant; but it seemed to her as if very distant vistas were opening before her eyes and fading into the horizon, pale, in a great light. Nor did she know what this meant;but she was not angry with Jules and it seemed to her as if he had lost his temper, not with her, but with somebody else. A sense of the enigmatical depth of life, the soul’s unconscious mystery, like to a fair, bright endlessness, a far-away silvery light, shot through her in silent rapture.Then she laughed:“Jules is so nice,” she said, “when he gets excited.”Anna and Suzette, upset at the incident, played with the boys, looking over their picture-books. Cecile spoke only to her sister. But Amélie’s nerves were still quivering.“How can you defend those ways of Jules’?” she asked, in a choking voice.“I think it nice of him to stand up for people he likes. Don’t you think so too?”Amélie grew calmer. Why should she be put out if Cecile was not?“I dare say,” she replied. “I don’t know. He has a good heart I believe, but he is so unmanageable. But, who knows, perhaps it’s my fault: if I understood things better, if I had more tact....”She grew confused; she sought for something more to say and found nothing, wandering like a stranger through her own thoughts. Then, suddenly, as if struck by a ray of certain knowledge, she said:“But Jules is not stupid. He has a good eye for all sorts of things and for persons too. Personally, I think you judge Taco Quaerts wrongly. He is a very interesting man and a great deal more than a mere sportsman. I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about him different from other people, I can’t say exactly what....”She was silent, seeking, groping.“I wish Jules got on better at school. As I say, he is not stupid, but he learnsnothing. He has been two years now in the third class. The boy has no application. He makes me despair of him.”She was silent again; and Cecile also did not speak.“Ah,” said Amélie, “I dare say it is not his fault! Very likely it is my fault. Perhaps he takes after me....”She looked straight before her: sudden, irrepressible tears filled her eyes and fell into her lap.“Amy, what’s the matter?” asked Cecile, kindly.But Amélie had risen, so that the girls, who were still playing with the children, might not see her tears. She could not restrain them, they streamed down and she hurried away into the adjoining drawing-room, a big room in which Cecile never sat.“What’s the matter, Amy?” Cecile repeated.She had followed Amélie out and nowthrew her arms about her, made her sit down, pressed Amélie’s head against her shoulder.“How do I know what it is?” Amélie sobbed. “I don’t know, I don’t know.... I am wretched because of that feeling in my head. It is more than I can bear sometimes. After all, I am not mad, am I? Really, I don’t feel mad, or as if I were going mad! But I feel sometimes as if everything had gone wrong in my head, as if I couldn’t think. Everything runs through my brain. It’s a terrible feeling!”“Why don’t you see a doctor?” asked Cecile.“No, no, he might tell me I was mad; and I’m not. He might try to send me to an asylum. No, I won’t see a doctor. I have every reason to be happy otherwise, have I not? I have a kind husband and dear children; I have never had any greatsorrow. And yet I sometimes feel profoundly miserable, desperately miserable! It is always as if I wanted to reach some place and could not succeed. It is always as if I were hemmed in....”She sobbed violently; a storm of tears rained down her face. Cecile’s eyes, too, were moist; she liked her sister, she felt sorry for her. Amélie was only ten years older than she; and already she had something of an old woman about her, something withered and shrunken, with her hair growing grey at the temples, under her veil.“Cecile, tell me, Cecile,” she said, suddenly, through her sobs, “do you believe in God?”“Why, of course I do, Amy!”“I used to go to church sometimes, but it was no use.... And I’ve stopped going.... Oh, I am so unhappy! It is very ungrateful of me. I have so much tobe grateful for.... Do you know, sometimes I feel as if I should like to go to God at once, all at once, just like that!”“Come, Amy, don’t excite yourself so.”“Ah, I wish I were like you, so calm! Do you feel happy?”Cecile smiled and nodded. Amélie sighed; she remained lying for a moment with her head against her sister’s shoulder. Cecile kissed her, but suddenly Amélie started:“Be careful,” she whispered, “the girls might come in. There ... there’s no need for them to see that I’ve been crying.”Rising, she arranged her hat before the looking-glass, carefully dried her veil with her handkerchief:“There, now they won’t know,” she said. “Let’s go in again. I am quite calm. You’re a dear thing....”They went back to the boudoir:“Come, girls, it’s time to go home,” said Amélie, in a voice which was still a little unsettled.“Have you been crying, Mamma?” Suzette at once asked.“Mamma was a bit upset about Jules,” said Cecile, quickly.

Chapter IV1Cecile was astonished at her unusually long fit of abstraction, that it should continue for days before she returned to her usual condition of serenity, the delightful abode from which she had involuntarily wandered. But she compelled herself, with gentle compulsion, to recover the treasures of her loneliness; and she ended by recovering them. She argued with herself that it would be some years before she would have to part from Dolf and Christie: there was time enough to grow accustomed to the idea of separation. Besides, nothing had altered either about her or within her; and so she let the days glide slowly over her, like gently flowing water.In this way, gently flowing by, a fortnight had elapsed since the evening which she spent at Dolf’s. It was a Saturday afternoon; she had been working with the children—she still taught them herself—and she had walked out with them; and now she was sitting in her favourite room waiting for the Van Attemas, who came to tea every Saturday at half-past four. She rang for the servant, who lighted the blue flame of methylated spirit. Dolf and Christie were with her; they sat upon the floor on footstools, cutting the pages of a children’s magazine to which Cecile subscribed for them. They were sitting quietly, looking very good and well-bred, like children who grow up in soft surroundings, in the midst of too much refinement, too pale, with hair too long and too fair, Christie especially, whose little temples were veined as if with azure blood. Cecile stepped by them as she went toglance over the tea-table; and the look which she cast upon them wrapped the children in a warm embrace of devotion. She was in her calmly happy mood: it was so pleasant to think that she would soon see the Van Attemas come in. She liked these hours of the afternoon, when her silver tea-kettle hissed over the blue flame. An exquisite intimacy filled the room; she had in her long, shapely feminine fingers that special power of witchery, that gentle art of handling by which everything over which they merely glided acquired a look of herself, an indefinable something, of tint, of position, of light, which the things had not until the touch of those fingers came across them.There was a ring. She thought it rather early for the Van Attemas, but she rarely saw any one else in her seclusion from the outer world; therefore it must be they. In a second or two, however, Gretaentered, with a card: was mevrouw at home and could the gentleman see her?Cecile recognized the card from a distance: she had seen one like it lately. Nevertheless she took it up, glanced at it discontentedly, with drawn eyebrows.What an idea, she reflected. Why did he do it? What did it mean?But she thought it unnecessary to be impolite and refuse to see him. After all, he was a friend of Dolf’s. But such persistence....“Show meneer in,” she said, calmly.Greta went; and it seemed to Cecile as though something trembled in the intimacy which filled the room, as if the objects over which her fingers had just passed took on another aspect, a look of shuddering. But Dolf and Christie had not changed; they were still sitting looking at the pictures, with occasional remarks falling softly from their lips.2The door opened and Quaerts entered the room. As he bowed to Cecile, he had his air of shyness in still greater measure than before. To her this air was incomprehensible in him, who seemed so strong, so determined.“I hope you will not think me indiscreet, mevrouw, in taking the liberty to come and call on you.”“On the contrary, Mr. Quaerts,” she said, coldly. “Pray sit down.”He took a chair and placed his tall hat on the floor beside him:“I am not disturbing you, mevrouw?”“Not in the least; I am expecting Mrs. van Attema and her daughters. You were so kind as to leave a card on me; but, as I dare say you know, I see nobody.”“I knew that, mevrouw. Perhaps it isto that very reason that you owe the indiscretion of my visit.”She looked at him coldly, politely, smilingly. There was a feeling of irritation in her. She felt inclined to ask him bluntly what he wanted with her.“How so?” she asked, with her mannerly smile, which converted her face into a mask.“I was afraid that I might not see you for a very long time; and I should consider it a great privilege to be allowed to know you better.”His tone was in the highest degree respectful. She raised her eyebrows, as if she did not understand; but the accent of his voice was so very courteous that she could not even find a cold word with which to answer him.“Are these your two children?” he asked, with a glance towards Dolf and Christie.“Yes,” she replied. “Get up, boys, and shake hands with meneer.”The children approached timidly and put out their little hands. He smiled, looked at them penetratingly with his small, deep-set eyes and drew them to him:“Am I mistaken, or is the little one very like you?”“They both resemble their father,” she replied.It seemed to her she had set a protecting shield around herself, from which the children were excluded, within which she found it impossible to draw them. It troubled her that he was holding them so tight, that he looked at them as he did.But he released them; and they went back to their little stools, gentle, quiet, well-behaved.“Yet they both have something of you,” he insisted.“Possibly,” she said.“Mevrouw,” he resumed, as if he had something important to say to her, “I wish to ask you a direct question: tell me honestly, quite honestly, do you think me indiscreet?”“For calling to see me? No, I assure you, Mr. Quaerts. It is very kind of you. Only ... if I may be candid ...”She gave a little laugh.“Of course,” he said.“Then I will confess that I fear you will find little in my house to amuse you. I never see people....”“I have not called on you for the sake of the people I might meet at your house.”She bowed, smiling, as if he had paid her a compliment:“Of course I am very pleased to see you. You are a great friend of Dolf’s, are you not?”She tried each time to say something different from what she actually did say,to speak more coldly, more aggressively; but she had too much breeding and could not bring herself to do it.“Yes,” he replied, “Dolf and I have known each other ever so long. We have always been great friends, though we are quite unlike.”“I’m very fond of him; he’s always very kind to us.”She saw him look at the low table and smile. A few reviews were scattered on it, a book or two. On the top of these lay a little volume of Emerson’s essays, with a paper-cutter marking the page.“You told me you were not a great reader!” he said, mischievously. “I should think ...”And he pointed to the books.“Oh,” said she, carelessly, with a slight shrug of her shoulders, “a little....”She thought him very tiresome: why should he remark that she had hidden herselffrom him? Why, indeed,hadshe hidden herself from him?“Emerson!” he read, bending forward a little. “Forgive me,” he added quickly. “I have no right to spy upon your pursuits. But the print is so large; I read it from here.”“You are far-sighted?” she asked, laughing.“Yes.”His courtesy, a certain respectfulness, as if he would not venture to touch the tips of her fingers, placed her more at her ease. She still disliked him, but there was no harm in his knowing what she read.“Are you fond of reading?” asked Cecile.“I do not read much: it is too great a delight for that; nor do I read everything that appears. I am too hard to please.”“Do you know Emerson?”“No....”“I like his essays very much. They are written with such a wide outlook. They place one on such a deliciously exalted level....”She suited her phrase with an expansive gesture; and her eyes lighted up.Then she observed that he was following her attentively, with his respectfulness. And she recovered herself; she no longer wanted to talk to him about Emerson.“It is very fine indeed,” was all she said, to close the conversation, in the most commonplace voice that she was able to assume. “May I give you some tea?”“No, thank you, mevrouw; I never take tea at this time.”“Do you look upon it with so much scorn?” she asked, jestingly.He was about to answer, when there was a ring at the bell; and she cried:“Ah, here they are!”Amélie entered, with Suzette and Anna. They were a little surprised to see Quaerts. He said he had wanted to call on Mrs. van Even. The conversation became general. Suzette was very merry, full of a fancy-fair, at which she was going to assist, in a Spanish costume.“And you, Anna?”“Oh, no, Auntie!” said Anna, shrinking together with fright. “Imagine me at a fancy-fair! I should never sell anybody anything.”“Ah, it’s a gift!” said Amélie, with a far-away look.Quaerts rose: he was bowing with a single word to Cecile, when the door opened. Jules came in, with some books under his arm, on his way home from school.“How do you do, Auntie? Hallo, Taco, are you going just as I arrive?”“You drive me away,” said Quaerts, laughing.“Oh, Taco, do stay a little longer!” begged Jules, enraptured to see him and lamenting that he had chosen just this moment to leave.“Jules, Jules!” cried Amélie, thinking it was the proper thing to do.Jules pressed Quaerts, took his two hands, forced him, like a spoilt child. Quaerts only laughed. Jules in his excitement knocked a book or two off the table.“Jules, be quiet, do!” cried Amélie.Quaerts picked up the books, while Jules persisted in his bad behaviour. As Quaerts replaced the last book, he hesitated a moment; he held it in his hand, looked at the gold lettering: “Emerson.”Cecile watched him:“If he thinks I’m going to lend it him, he’s mistaken,” she thought.But Quaerts asked nothing: he had released himself from Jules and said good-bye. With a quip at Jules he left.3“Is this the first time he has been to see you?” asked Amélie.“Yes,” replied Cecile. “An uncalled-for civility, don’t you think?”“Taco Quaerts is always very correct in matters of etiquette,” said Anna, defending him.“Still, this visit was hardly a matter of etiquette,” said Cecile, laughing merrily. “But Taco Quaerts seems to be quite infallible in the eyes of all of you.”“He waltzes divinely!” cried Suzette. “The other day, at the Eekhofs’ dance....”Suzette chattered on; there was no restrainingSuzette that afternoon; she seemed already to hear the castanets rattling in her little brain.Jules had a peevish fit on him, but he remained quietly at a window, with the boys.“You don’t much care about Quaerts, do you, Auntie?” asked Anna.“I don’t find him attractive,” said Cecile. “You know, I am easily influenced by my first impressions. I can’t help it, but I don’t like those very healthy, robust people, who look so strong and manly, as if they walked straight through life, clearing away everything that stands in their way. It may be morbid of me, but I can’t help it; I always dislike any excessive display of health and physical force. Those strong people look upon others who are not so strong as themselves much as the Spartans used to look upon their deformed children.”Jules could control himself no longer:“If you think that Taco is no better than a Spartan, you know nothing at all about him,” he said, fiercely.Cecile looked at him, but, before Amélie could interpose, he continued:“Taco is the only person with whom I can talk about music and who understands every word I say. And I don’t believe I could talk with a Spartan.”“Jules, how rude you are!” cried Suzette.“I don’t care!” he exclaimed, furiously, rising suddenly and stamping his foot. “I don’t care! I won’t hear Taco abused; and Aunt Cecile knows it and only does it to tease me. And I think it very mean to tease a boy, very mean....”His mother and sisters tried to bring him to reason with their authority. But he caught up his books:“I don’t care! I won’t have it!”He was gone in a moment, furious, slamming the door, which groaned with the shock. Amélie was trembling in every nerve:Oh, that boy!” she hissed out, shivering. “That Jules, that Jules!...”“It’s nothing,” said Cecile, gently, excusing him. “He is just a little excitable....”She had turned rather paler and glanced at her boys, Dolf and Christie, who had looked up in dismay, their mouths wide open with astonishment.“Is Jules naughty, mamma?” asked Christie.She shook her head, smiling. She felt a strange, an unspeakably strange weariness. She did not know what it meant; but it seemed to her as if very distant vistas were opening before her eyes and fading into the horizon, pale, in a great light. Nor did she know what this meant;but she was not angry with Jules and it seemed to her as if he had lost his temper, not with her, but with somebody else. A sense of the enigmatical depth of life, the soul’s unconscious mystery, like to a fair, bright endlessness, a far-away silvery light, shot through her in silent rapture.Then she laughed:“Jules is so nice,” she said, “when he gets excited.”Anna and Suzette, upset at the incident, played with the boys, looking over their picture-books. Cecile spoke only to her sister. But Amélie’s nerves were still quivering.“How can you defend those ways of Jules’?” she asked, in a choking voice.“I think it nice of him to stand up for people he likes. Don’t you think so too?”Amélie grew calmer. Why should she be put out if Cecile was not?“I dare say,” she replied. “I don’t know. He has a good heart I believe, but he is so unmanageable. But, who knows, perhaps it’s my fault: if I understood things better, if I had more tact....”She grew confused; she sought for something more to say and found nothing, wandering like a stranger through her own thoughts. Then, suddenly, as if struck by a ray of certain knowledge, she said:“But Jules is not stupid. He has a good eye for all sorts of things and for persons too. Personally, I think you judge Taco Quaerts wrongly. He is a very interesting man and a great deal more than a mere sportsman. I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about him different from other people, I can’t say exactly what....”She was silent, seeking, groping.“I wish Jules got on better at school. As I say, he is not stupid, but he learnsnothing. He has been two years now in the third class. The boy has no application. He makes me despair of him.”She was silent again; and Cecile also did not speak.“Ah,” said Amélie, “I dare say it is not his fault! Very likely it is my fault. Perhaps he takes after me....”She looked straight before her: sudden, irrepressible tears filled her eyes and fell into her lap.“Amy, what’s the matter?” asked Cecile, kindly.But Amélie had risen, so that the girls, who were still playing with the children, might not see her tears. She could not restrain them, they streamed down and she hurried away into the adjoining drawing-room, a big room in which Cecile never sat.“What’s the matter, Amy?” Cecile repeated.She had followed Amélie out and nowthrew her arms about her, made her sit down, pressed Amélie’s head against her shoulder.“How do I know what it is?” Amélie sobbed. “I don’t know, I don’t know.... I am wretched because of that feeling in my head. It is more than I can bear sometimes. After all, I am not mad, am I? Really, I don’t feel mad, or as if I were going mad! But I feel sometimes as if everything had gone wrong in my head, as if I couldn’t think. Everything runs through my brain. It’s a terrible feeling!”“Why don’t you see a doctor?” asked Cecile.“No, no, he might tell me I was mad; and I’m not. He might try to send me to an asylum. No, I won’t see a doctor. I have every reason to be happy otherwise, have I not? I have a kind husband and dear children; I have never had any greatsorrow. And yet I sometimes feel profoundly miserable, desperately miserable! It is always as if I wanted to reach some place and could not succeed. It is always as if I were hemmed in....”She sobbed violently; a storm of tears rained down her face. Cecile’s eyes, too, were moist; she liked her sister, she felt sorry for her. Amélie was only ten years older than she; and already she had something of an old woman about her, something withered and shrunken, with her hair growing grey at the temples, under her veil.“Cecile, tell me, Cecile,” she said, suddenly, through her sobs, “do you believe in God?”“Why, of course I do, Amy!”“I used to go to church sometimes, but it was no use.... And I’ve stopped going.... Oh, I am so unhappy! It is very ungrateful of me. I have so much tobe grateful for.... Do you know, sometimes I feel as if I should like to go to God at once, all at once, just like that!”“Come, Amy, don’t excite yourself so.”“Ah, I wish I were like you, so calm! Do you feel happy?”Cecile smiled and nodded. Amélie sighed; she remained lying for a moment with her head against her sister’s shoulder. Cecile kissed her, but suddenly Amélie started:“Be careful,” she whispered, “the girls might come in. There ... there’s no need for them to see that I’ve been crying.”Rising, she arranged her hat before the looking-glass, carefully dried her veil with her handkerchief:“There, now they won’t know,” she said. “Let’s go in again. I am quite calm. You’re a dear thing....”They went back to the boudoir:“Come, girls, it’s time to go home,” said Amélie, in a voice which was still a little unsettled.“Have you been crying, Mamma?” Suzette at once asked.“Mamma was a bit upset about Jules,” said Cecile, quickly.

1Cecile was astonished at her unusually long fit of abstraction, that it should continue for days before she returned to her usual condition of serenity, the delightful abode from which she had involuntarily wandered. But she compelled herself, with gentle compulsion, to recover the treasures of her loneliness; and she ended by recovering them. She argued with herself that it would be some years before she would have to part from Dolf and Christie: there was time enough to grow accustomed to the idea of separation. Besides, nothing had altered either about her or within her; and so she let the days glide slowly over her, like gently flowing water.In this way, gently flowing by, a fortnight had elapsed since the evening which she spent at Dolf’s. It was a Saturday afternoon; she had been working with the children—she still taught them herself—and she had walked out with them; and now she was sitting in her favourite room waiting for the Van Attemas, who came to tea every Saturday at half-past four. She rang for the servant, who lighted the blue flame of methylated spirit. Dolf and Christie were with her; they sat upon the floor on footstools, cutting the pages of a children’s magazine to which Cecile subscribed for them. They were sitting quietly, looking very good and well-bred, like children who grow up in soft surroundings, in the midst of too much refinement, too pale, with hair too long and too fair, Christie especially, whose little temples were veined as if with azure blood. Cecile stepped by them as she went toglance over the tea-table; and the look which she cast upon them wrapped the children in a warm embrace of devotion. She was in her calmly happy mood: it was so pleasant to think that she would soon see the Van Attemas come in. She liked these hours of the afternoon, when her silver tea-kettle hissed over the blue flame. An exquisite intimacy filled the room; she had in her long, shapely feminine fingers that special power of witchery, that gentle art of handling by which everything over which they merely glided acquired a look of herself, an indefinable something, of tint, of position, of light, which the things had not until the touch of those fingers came across them.There was a ring. She thought it rather early for the Van Attemas, but she rarely saw any one else in her seclusion from the outer world; therefore it must be they. In a second or two, however, Gretaentered, with a card: was mevrouw at home and could the gentleman see her?Cecile recognized the card from a distance: she had seen one like it lately. Nevertheless she took it up, glanced at it discontentedly, with drawn eyebrows.What an idea, she reflected. Why did he do it? What did it mean?But she thought it unnecessary to be impolite and refuse to see him. After all, he was a friend of Dolf’s. But such persistence....“Show meneer in,” she said, calmly.Greta went; and it seemed to Cecile as though something trembled in the intimacy which filled the room, as if the objects over which her fingers had just passed took on another aspect, a look of shuddering. But Dolf and Christie had not changed; they were still sitting looking at the pictures, with occasional remarks falling softly from their lips.

1

Cecile was astonished at her unusually long fit of abstraction, that it should continue for days before she returned to her usual condition of serenity, the delightful abode from which she had involuntarily wandered. But she compelled herself, with gentle compulsion, to recover the treasures of her loneliness; and she ended by recovering them. She argued with herself that it would be some years before she would have to part from Dolf and Christie: there was time enough to grow accustomed to the idea of separation. Besides, nothing had altered either about her or within her; and so she let the days glide slowly over her, like gently flowing water.In this way, gently flowing by, a fortnight had elapsed since the evening which she spent at Dolf’s. It was a Saturday afternoon; she had been working with the children—she still taught them herself—and she had walked out with them; and now she was sitting in her favourite room waiting for the Van Attemas, who came to tea every Saturday at half-past four. She rang for the servant, who lighted the blue flame of methylated spirit. Dolf and Christie were with her; they sat upon the floor on footstools, cutting the pages of a children’s magazine to which Cecile subscribed for them. They were sitting quietly, looking very good and well-bred, like children who grow up in soft surroundings, in the midst of too much refinement, too pale, with hair too long and too fair, Christie especially, whose little temples were veined as if with azure blood. Cecile stepped by them as she went toglance over the tea-table; and the look which she cast upon them wrapped the children in a warm embrace of devotion. She was in her calmly happy mood: it was so pleasant to think that she would soon see the Van Attemas come in. She liked these hours of the afternoon, when her silver tea-kettle hissed over the blue flame. An exquisite intimacy filled the room; she had in her long, shapely feminine fingers that special power of witchery, that gentle art of handling by which everything over which they merely glided acquired a look of herself, an indefinable something, of tint, of position, of light, which the things had not until the touch of those fingers came across them.There was a ring. She thought it rather early for the Van Attemas, but she rarely saw any one else in her seclusion from the outer world; therefore it must be they. In a second or two, however, Gretaentered, with a card: was mevrouw at home and could the gentleman see her?Cecile recognized the card from a distance: she had seen one like it lately. Nevertheless she took it up, glanced at it discontentedly, with drawn eyebrows.What an idea, she reflected. Why did he do it? What did it mean?But she thought it unnecessary to be impolite and refuse to see him. After all, he was a friend of Dolf’s. But such persistence....“Show meneer in,” she said, calmly.Greta went; and it seemed to Cecile as though something trembled in the intimacy which filled the room, as if the objects over which her fingers had just passed took on another aspect, a look of shuddering. But Dolf and Christie had not changed; they were still sitting looking at the pictures, with occasional remarks falling softly from their lips.

Cecile was astonished at her unusually long fit of abstraction, that it should continue for days before she returned to her usual condition of serenity, the delightful abode from which she had involuntarily wandered. But she compelled herself, with gentle compulsion, to recover the treasures of her loneliness; and she ended by recovering them. She argued with herself that it would be some years before she would have to part from Dolf and Christie: there was time enough to grow accustomed to the idea of separation. Besides, nothing had altered either about her or within her; and so she let the days glide slowly over her, like gently flowing water.

In this way, gently flowing by, a fortnight had elapsed since the evening which she spent at Dolf’s. It was a Saturday afternoon; she had been working with the children—she still taught them herself—and she had walked out with them; and now she was sitting in her favourite room waiting for the Van Attemas, who came to tea every Saturday at half-past four. She rang for the servant, who lighted the blue flame of methylated spirit. Dolf and Christie were with her; they sat upon the floor on footstools, cutting the pages of a children’s magazine to which Cecile subscribed for them. They were sitting quietly, looking very good and well-bred, like children who grow up in soft surroundings, in the midst of too much refinement, too pale, with hair too long and too fair, Christie especially, whose little temples were veined as if with azure blood. Cecile stepped by them as she went toglance over the tea-table; and the look which she cast upon them wrapped the children in a warm embrace of devotion. She was in her calmly happy mood: it was so pleasant to think that she would soon see the Van Attemas come in. She liked these hours of the afternoon, when her silver tea-kettle hissed over the blue flame. An exquisite intimacy filled the room; she had in her long, shapely feminine fingers that special power of witchery, that gentle art of handling by which everything over which they merely glided acquired a look of herself, an indefinable something, of tint, of position, of light, which the things had not until the touch of those fingers came across them.

There was a ring. She thought it rather early for the Van Attemas, but she rarely saw any one else in her seclusion from the outer world; therefore it must be they. In a second or two, however, Gretaentered, with a card: was mevrouw at home and could the gentleman see her?

Cecile recognized the card from a distance: she had seen one like it lately. Nevertheless she took it up, glanced at it discontentedly, with drawn eyebrows.

What an idea, she reflected. Why did he do it? What did it mean?

But she thought it unnecessary to be impolite and refuse to see him. After all, he was a friend of Dolf’s. But such persistence....

“Show meneer in,” she said, calmly.

Greta went; and it seemed to Cecile as though something trembled in the intimacy which filled the room, as if the objects over which her fingers had just passed took on another aspect, a look of shuddering. But Dolf and Christie had not changed; they were still sitting looking at the pictures, with occasional remarks falling softly from their lips.

2The door opened and Quaerts entered the room. As he bowed to Cecile, he had his air of shyness in still greater measure than before. To her this air was incomprehensible in him, who seemed so strong, so determined.“I hope you will not think me indiscreet, mevrouw, in taking the liberty to come and call on you.”“On the contrary, Mr. Quaerts,” she said, coldly. “Pray sit down.”He took a chair and placed his tall hat on the floor beside him:“I am not disturbing you, mevrouw?”“Not in the least; I am expecting Mrs. van Attema and her daughters. You were so kind as to leave a card on me; but, as I dare say you know, I see nobody.”“I knew that, mevrouw. Perhaps it isto that very reason that you owe the indiscretion of my visit.”She looked at him coldly, politely, smilingly. There was a feeling of irritation in her. She felt inclined to ask him bluntly what he wanted with her.“How so?” she asked, with her mannerly smile, which converted her face into a mask.“I was afraid that I might not see you for a very long time; and I should consider it a great privilege to be allowed to know you better.”His tone was in the highest degree respectful. She raised her eyebrows, as if she did not understand; but the accent of his voice was so very courteous that she could not even find a cold word with which to answer him.“Are these your two children?” he asked, with a glance towards Dolf and Christie.“Yes,” she replied. “Get up, boys, and shake hands with meneer.”The children approached timidly and put out their little hands. He smiled, looked at them penetratingly with his small, deep-set eyes and drew them to him:“Am I mistaken, or is the little one very like you?”“They both resemble their father,” she replied.It seemed to her she had set a protecting shield around herself, from which the children were excluded, within which she found it impossible to draw them. It troubled her that he was holding them so tight, that he looked at them as he did.But he released them; and they went back to their little stools, gentle, quiet, well-behaved.“Yet they both have something of you,” he insisted.“Possibly,” she said.“Mevrouw,” he resumed, as if he had something important to say to her, “I wish to ask you a direct question: tell me honestly, quite honestly, do you think me indiscreet?”“For calling to see me? No, I assure you, Mr. Quaerts. It is very kind of you. Only ... if I may be candid ...”She gave a little laugh.“Of course,” he said.“Then I will confess that I fear you will find little in my house to amuse you. I never see people....”“I have not called on you for the sake of the people I might meet at your house.”She bowed, smiling, as if he had paid her a compliment:“Of course I am very pleased to see you. You are a great friend of Dolf’s, are you not?”She tried each time to say something different from what she actually did say,to speak more coldly, more aggressively; but she had too much breeding and could not bring herself to do it.“Yes,” he replied, “Dolf and I have known each other ever so long. We have always been great friends, though we are quite unlike.”“I’m very fond of him; he’s always very kind to us.”She saw him look at the low table and smile. A few reviews were scattered on it, a book or two. On the top of these lay a little volume of Emerson’s essays, with a paper-cutter marking the page.“You told me you were not a great reader!” he said, mischievously. “I should think ...”And he pointed to the books.“Oh,” said she, carelessly, with a slight shrug of her shoulders, “a little....”She thought him very tiresome: why should he remark that she had hidden herselffrom him? Why, indeed,hadshe hidden herself from him?“Emerson!” he read, bending forward a little. “Forgive me,” he added quickly. “I have no right to spy upon your pursuits. But the print is so large; I read it from here.”“You are far-sighted?” she asked, laughing.“Yes.”His courtesy, a certain respectfulness, as if he would not venture to touch the tips of her fingers, placed her more at her ease. She still disliked him, but there was no harm in his knowing what she read.“Are you fond of reading?” asked Cecile.“I do not read much: it is too great a delight for that; nor do I read everything that appears. I am too hard to please.”“Do you know Emerson?”“No....”“I like his essays very much. They are written with such a wide outlook. They place one on such a deliciously exalted level....”She suited her phrase with an expansive gesture; and her eyes lighted up.Then she observed that he was following her attentively, with his respectfulness. And she recovered herself; she no longer wanted to talk to him about Emerson.“It is very fine indeed,” was all she said, to close the conversation, in the most commonplace voice that she was able to assume. “May I give you some tea?”“No, thank you, mevrouw; I never take tea at this time.”“Do you look upon it with so much scorn?” she asked, jestingly.He was about to answer, when there was a ring at the bell; and she cried:“Ah, here they are!”Amélie entered, with Suzette and Anna. They were a little surprised to see Quaerts. He said he had wanted to call on Mrs. van Even. The conversation became general. Suzette was very merry, full of a fancy-fair, at which she was going to assist, in a Spanish costume.“And you, Anna?”“Oh, no, Auntie!” said Anna, shrinking together with fright. “Imagine me at a fancy-fair! I should never sell anybody anything.”“Ah, it’s a gift!” said Amélie, with a far-away look.Quaerts rose: he was bowing with a single word to Cecile, when the door opened. Jules came in, with some books under his arm, on his way home from school.“How do you do, Auntie? Hallo, Taco, are you going just as I arrive?”“You drive me away,” said Quaerts, laughing.“Oh, Taco, do stay a little longer!” begged Jules, enraptured to see him and lamenting that he had chosen just this moment to leave.“Jules, Jules!” cried Amélie, thinking it was the proper thing to do.Jules pressed Quaerts, took his two hands, forced him, like a spoilt child. Quaerts only laughed. Jules in his excitement knocked a book or two off the table.“Jules, be quiet, do!” cried Amélie.Quaerts picked up the books, while Jules persisted in his bad behaviour. As Quaerts replaced the last book, he hesitated a moment; he held it in his hand, looked at the gold lettering: “Emerson.”Cecile watched him:“If he thinks I’m going to lend it him, he’s mistaken,” she thought.But Quaerts asked nothing: he had released himself from Jules and said good-bye. With a quip at Jules he left.

2

The door opened and Quaerts entered the room. As he bowed to Cecile, he had his air of shyness in still greater measure than before. To her this air was incomprehensible in him, who seemed so strong, so determined.“I hope you will not think me indiscreet, mevrouw, in taking the liberty to come and call on you.”“On the contrary, Mr. Quaerts,” she said, coldly. “Pray sit down.”He took a chair and placed his tall hat on the floor beside him:“I am not disturbing you, mevrouw?”“Not in the least; I am expecting Mrs. van Attema and her daughters. You were so kind as to leave a card on me; but, as I dare say you know, I see nobody.”“I knew that, mevrouw. Perhaps it isto that very reason that you owe the indiscretion of my visit.”She looked at him coldly, politely, smilingly. There was a feeling of irritation in her. She felt inclined to ask him bluntly what he wanted with her.“How so?” she asked, with her mannerly smile, which converted her face into a mask.“I was afraid that I might not see you for a very long time; and I should consider it a great privilege to be allowed to know you better.”His tone was in the highest degree respectful. She raised her eyebrows, as if she did not understand; but the accent of his voice was so very courteous that she could not even find a cold word with which to answer him.“Are these your two children?” he asked, with a glance towards Dolf and Christie.“Yes,” she replied. “Get up, boys, and shake hands with meneer.”The children approached timidly and put out their little hands. He smiled, looked at them penetratingly with his small, deep-set eyes and drew them to him:“Am I mistaken, or is the little one very like you?”“They both resemble their father,” she replied.It seemed to her she had set a protecting shield around herself, from which the children were excluded, within which she found it impossible to draw them. It troubled her that he was holding them so tight, that he looked at them as he did.But he released them; and they went back to their little stools, gentle, quiet, well-behaved.“Yet they both have something of you,” he insisted.“Possibly,” she said.“Mevrouw,” he resumed, as if he had something important to say to her, “I wish to ask you a direct question: tell me honestly, quite honestly, do you think me indiscreet?”“For calling to see me? No, I assure you, Mr. Quaerts. It is very kind of you. Only ... if I may be candid ...”She gave a little laugh.“Of course,” he said.“Then I will confess that I fear you will find little in my house to amuse you. I never see people....”“I have not called on you for the sake of the people I might meet at your house.”She bowed, smiling, as if he had paid her a compliment:“Of course I am very pleased to see you. You are a great friend of Dolf’s, are you not?”She tried each time to say something different from what she actually did say,to speak more coldly, more aggressively; but she had too much breeding and could not bring herself to do it.“Yes,” he replied, “Dolf and I have known each other ever so long. We have always been great friends, though we are quite unlike.”“I’m very fond of him; he’s always very kind to us.”She saw him look at the low table and smile. A few reviews were scattered on it, a book or two. On the top of these lay a little volume of Emerson’s essays, with a paper-cutter marking the page.“You told me you were not a great reader!” he said, mischievously. “I should think ...”And he pointed to the books.“Oh,” said she, carelessly, with a slight shrug of her shoulders, “a little....”She thought him very tiresome: why should he remark that she had hidden herselffrom him? Why, indeed,hadshe hidden herself from him?“Emerson!” he read, bending forward a little. “Forgive me,” he added quickly. “I have no right to spy upon your pursuits. But the print is so large; I read it from here.”“You are far-sighted?” she asked, laughing.“Yes.”His courtesy, a certain respectfulness, as if he would not venture to touch the tips of her fingers, placed her more at her ease. She still disliked him, but there was no harm in his knowing what she read.“Are you fond of reading?” asked Cecile.“I do not read much: it is too great a delight for that; nor do I read everything that appears. I am too hard to please.”“Do you know Emerson?”“No....”“I like his essays very much. They are written with such a wide outlook. They place one on such a deliciously exalted level....”She suited her phrase with an expansive gesture; and her eyes lighted up.Then she observed that he was following her attentively, with his respectfulness. And she recovered herself; she no longer wanted to talk to him about Emerson.“It is very fine indeed,” was all she said, to close the conversation, in the most commonplace voice that she was able to assume. “May I give you some tea?”“No, thank you, mevrouw; I never take tea at this time.”“Do you look upon it with so much scorn?” she asked, jestingly.He was about to answer, when there was a ring at the bell; and she cried:“Ah, here they are!”Amélie entered, with Suzette and Anna. They were a little surprised to see Quaerts. He said he had wanted to call on Mrs. van Even. The conversation became general. Suzette was very merry, full of a fancy-fair, at which she was going to assist, in a Spanish costume.“And you, Anna?”“Oh, no, Auntie!” said Anna, shrinking together with fright. “Imagine me at a fancy-fair! I should never sell anybody anything.”“Ah, it’s a gift!” said Amélie, with a far-away look.Quaerts rose: he was bowing with a single word to Cecile, when the door opened. Jules came in, with some books under his arm, on his way home from school.“How do you do, Auntie? Hallo, Taco, are you going just as I arrive?”“You drive me away,” said Quaerts, laughing.“Oh, Taco, do stay a little longer!” begged Jules, enraptured to see him and lamenting that he had chosen just this moment to leave.“Jules, Jules!” cried Amélie, thinking it was the proper thing to do.Jules pressed Quaerts, took his two hands, forced him, like a spoilt child. Quaerts only laughed. Jules in his excitement knocked a book or two off the table.“Jules, be quiet, do!” cried Amélie.Quaerts picked up the books, while Jules persisted in his bad behaviour. As Quaerts replaced the last book, he hesitated a moment; he held it in his hand, looked at the gold lettering: “Emerson.”Cecile watched him:“If he thinks I’m going to lend it him, he’s mistaken,” she thought.But Quaerts asked nothing: he had released himself from Jules and said good-bye. With a quip at Jules he left.

The door opened and Quaerts entered the room. As he bowed to Cecile, he had his air of shyness in still greater measure than before. To her this air was incomprehensible in him, who seemed so strong, so determined.

“I hope you will not think me indiscreet, mevrouw, in taking the liberty to come and call on you.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Quaerts,” she said, coldly. “Pray sit down.”

He took a chair and placed his tall hat on the floor beside him:

“I am not disturbing you, mevrouw?”

“Not in the least; I am expecting Mrs. van Attema and her daughters. You were so kind as to leave a card on me; but, as I dare say you know, I see nobody.”

“I knew that, mevrouw. Perhaps it isto that very reason that you owe the indiscretion of my visit.”

She looked at him coldly, politely, smilingly. There was a feeling of irritation in her. She felt inclined to ask him bluntly what he wanted with her.

“How so?” she asked, with her mannerly smile, which converted her face into a mask.

“I was afraid that I might not see you for a very long time; and I should consider it a great privilege to be allowed to know you better.”

His tone was in the highest degree respectful. She raised her eyebrows, as if she did not understand; but the accent of his voice was so very courteous that she could not even find a cold word with which to answer him.

“Are these your two children?” he asked, with a glance towards Dolf and Christie.

“Yes,” she replied. “Get up, boys, and shake hands with meneer.”

The children approached timidly and put out their little hands. He smiled, looked at them penetratingly with his small, deep-set eyes and drew them to him:

“Am I mistaken, or is the little one very like you?”

“They both resemble their father,” she replied.

It seemed to her she had set a protecting shield around herself, from which the children were excluded, within which she found it impossible to draw them. It troubled her that he was holding them so tight, that he looked at them as he did.

But he released them; and they went back to their little stools, gentle, quiet, well-behaved.

“Yet they both have something of you,” he insisted.

“Possibly,” she said.

“Mevrouw,” he resumed, as if he had something important to say to her, “I wish to ask you a direct question: tell me honestly, quite honestly, do you think me indiscreet?”

“For calling to see me? No, I assure you, Mr. Quaerts. It is very kind of you. Only ... if I may be candid ...”

She gave a little laugh.

“Of course,” he said.

“Then I will confess that I fear you will find little in my house to amuse you. I never see people....”

“I have not called on you for the sake of the people I might meet at your house.”

She bowed, smiling, as if he had paid her a compliment:

“Of course I am very pleased to see you. You are a great friend of Dolf’s, are you not?”

She tried each time to say something different from what she actually did say,to speak more coldly, more aggressively; but she had too much breeding and could not bring herself to do it.

“Yes,” he replied, “Dolf and I have known each other ever so long. We have always been great friends, though we are quite unlike.”

“I’m very fond of him; he’s always very kind to us.”

She saw him look at the low table and smile. A few reviews were scattered on it, a book or two. On the top of these lay a little volume of Emerson’s essays, with a paper-cutter marking the page.

“You told me you were not a great reader!” he said, mischievously. “I should think ...”

And he pointed to the books.

“Oh,” said she, carelessly, with a slight shrug of her shoulders, “a little....”

She thought him very tiresome: why should he remark that she had hidden herselffrom him? Why, indeed,hadshe hidden herself from him?

“Emerson!” he read, bending forward a little. “Forgive me,” he added quickly. “I have no right to spy upon your pursuits. But the print is so large; I read it from here.”

“You are far-sighted?” she asked, laughing.

“Yes.”

His courtesy, a certain respectfulness, as if he would not venture to touch the tips of her fingers, placed her more at her ease. She still disliked him, but there was no harm in his knowing what she read.

“Are you fond of reading?” asked Cecile.

“I do not read much: it is too great a delight for that; nor do I read everything that appears. I am too hard to please.”

“Do you know Emerson?”

“No....”

“I like his essays very much. They are written with such a wide outlook. They place one on such a deliciously exalted level....”

She suited her phrase with an expansive gesture; and her eyes lighted up.

Then she observed that he was following her attentively, with his respectfulness. And she recovered herself; she no longer wanted to talk to him about Emerson.

“It is very fine indeed,” was all she said, to close the conversation, in the most commonplace voice that she was able to assume. “May I give you some tea?”

“No, thank you, mevrouw; I never take tea at this time.”

“Do you look upon it with so much scorn?” she asked, jestingly.

He was about to answer, when there was a ring at the bell; and she cried:

“Ah, here they are!”

Amélie entered, with Suzette and Anna. They were a little surprised to see Quaerts. He said he had wanted to call on Mrs. van Even. The conversation became general. Suzette was very merry, full of a fancy-fair, at which she was going to assist, in a Spanish costume.

“And you, Anna?”

“Oh, no, Auntie!” said Anna, shrinking together with fright. “Imagine me at a fancy-fair! I should never sell anybody anything.”

“Ah, it’s a gift!” said Amélie, with a far-away look.

Quaerts rose: he was bowing with a single word to Cecile, when the door opened. Jules came in, with some books under his arm, on his way home from school.

“How do you do, Auntie? Hallo, Taco, are you going just as I arrive?”

“You drive me away,” said Quaerts, laughing.

“Oh, Taco, do stay a little longer!” begged Jules, enraptured to see him and lamenting that he had chosen just this moment to leave.

“Jules, Jules!” cried Amélie, thinking it was the proper thing to do.

Jules pressed Quaerts, took his two hands, forced him, like a spoilt child. Quaerts only laughed. Jules in his excitement knocked a book or two off the table.

“Jules, be quiet, do!” cried Amélie.

Quaerts picked up the books, while Jules persisted in his bad behaviour. As Quaerts replaced the last book, he hesitated a moment; he held it in his hand, looked at the gold lettering: “Emerson.”

Cecile watched him:

“If he thinks I’m going to lend it him, he’s mistaken,” she thought.

But Quaerts asked nothing: he had released himself from Jules and said good-bye. With a quip at Jules he left.

3“Is this the first time he has been to see you?” asked Amélie.“Yes,” replied Cecile. “An uncalled-for civility, don’t you think?”“Taco Quaerts is always very correct in matters of etiquette,” said Anna, defending him.“Still, this visit was hardly a matter of etiquette,” said Cecile, laughing merrily. “But Taco Quaerts seems to be quite infallible in the eyes of all of you.”“He waltzes divinely!” cried Suzette. “The other day, at the Eekhofs’ dance....”Suzette chattered on; there was no restrainingSuzette that afternoon; she seemed already to hear the castanets rattling in her little brain.Jules had a peevish fit on him, but he remained quietly at a window, with the boys.“You don’t much care about Quaerts, do you, Auntie?” asked Anna.“I don’t find him attractive,” said Cecile. “You know, I am easily influenced by my first impressions. I can’t help it, but I don’t like those very healthy, robust people, who look so strong and manly, as if they walked straight through life, clearing away everything that stands in their way. It may be morbid of me, but I can’t help it; I always dislike any excessive display of health and physical force. Those strong people look upon others who are not so strong as themselves much as the Spartans used to look upon their deformed children.”Jules could control himself no longer:“If you think that Taco is no better than a Spartan, you know nothing at all about him,” he said, fiercely.Cecile looked at him, but, before Amélie could interpose, he continued:“Taco is the only person with whom I can talk about music and who understands every word I say. And I don’t believe I could talk with a Spartan.”“Jules, how rude you are!” cried Suzette.“I don’t care!” he exclaimed, furiously, rising suddenly and stamping his foot. “I don’t care! I won’t hear Taco abused; and Aunt Cecile knows it and only does it to tease me. And I think it very mean to tease a boy, very mean....”His mother and sisters tried to bring him to reason with their authority. But he caught up his books:“I don’t care! I won’t have it!”He was gone in a moment, furious, slamming the door, which groaned with the shock. Amélie was trembling in every nerve:Oh, that boy!” she hissed out, shivering. “That Jules, that Jules!...”“It’s nothing,” said Cecile, gently, excusing him. “He is just a little excitable....”She had turned rather paler and glanced at her boys, Dolf and Christie, who had looked up in dismay, their mouths wide open with astonishment.“Is Jules naughty, mamma?” asked Christie.She shook her head, smiling. She felt a strange, an unspeakably strange weariness. She did not know what it meant; but it seemed to her as if very distant vistas were opening before her eyes and fading into the horizon, pale, in a great light. Nor did she know what this meant;but she was not angry with Jules and it seemed to her as if he had lost his temper, not with her, but with somebody else. A sense of the enigmatical depth of life, the soul’s unconscious mystery, like to a fair, bright endlessness, a far-away silvery light, shot through her in silent rapture.Then she laughed:“Jules is so nice,” she said, “when he gets excited.”Anna and Suzette, upset at the incident, played with the boys, looking over their picture-books. Cecile spoke only to her sister. But Amélie’s nerves were still quivering.“How can you defend those ways of Jules’?” she asked, in a choking voice.“I think it nice of him to stand up for people he likes. Don’t you think so too?”Amélie grew calmer. Why should she be put out if Cecile was not?“I dare say,” she replied. “I don’t know. He has a good heart I believe, but he is so unmanageable. But, who knows, perhaps it’s my fault: if I understood things better, if I had more tact....”She grew confused; she sought for something more to say and found nothing, wandering like a stranger through her own thoughts. Then, suddenly, as if struck by a ray of certain knowledge, she said:“But Jules is not stupid. He has a good eye for all sorts of things and for persons too. Personally, I think you judge Taco Quaerts wrongly. He is a very interesting man and a great deal more than a mere sportsman. I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about him different from other people, I can’t say exactly what....”She was silent, seeking, groping.“I wish Jules got on better at school. As I say, he is not stupid, but he learnsnothing. He has been two years now in the third class. The boy has no application. He makes me despair of him.”She was silent again; and Cecile also did not speak.“Ah,” said Amélie, “I dare say it is not his fault! Very likely it is my fault. Perhaps he takes after me....”She looked straight before her: sudden, irrepressible tears filled her eyes and fell into her lap.“Amy, what’s the matter?” asked Cecile, kindly.But Amélie had risen, so that the girls, who were still playing with the children, might not see her tears. She could not restrain them, they streamed down and she hurried away into the adjoining drawing-room, a big room in which Cecile never sat.“What’s the matter, Amy?” Cecile repeated.She had followed Amélie out and nowthrew her arms about her, made her sit down, pressed Amélie’s head against her shoulder.“How do I know what it is?” Amélie sobbed. “I don’t know, I don’t know.... I am wretched because of that feeling in my head. It is more than I can bear sometimes. After all, I am not mad, am I? Really, I don’t feel mad, or as if I were going mad! But I feel sometimes as if everything had gone wrong in my head, as if I couldn’t think. Everything runs through my brain. It’s a terrible feeling!”“Why don’t you see a doctor?” asked Cecile.“No, no, he might tell me I was mad; and I’m not. He might try to send me to an asylum. No, I won’t see a doctor. I have every reason to be happy otherwise, have I not? I have a kind husband and dear children; I have never had any greatsorrow. And yet I sometimes feel profoundly miserable, desperately miserable! It is always as if I wanted to reach some place and could not succeed. It is always as if I were hemmed in....”She sobbed violently; a storm of tears rained down her face. Cecile’s eyes, too, were moist; she liked her sister, she felt sorry for her. Amélie was only ten years older than she; and already she had something of an old woman about her, something withered and shrunken, with her hair growing grey at the temples, under her veil.“Cecile, tell me, Cecile,” she said, suddenly, through her sobs, “do you believe in God?”“Why, of course I do, Amy!”“I used to go to church sometimes, but it was no use.... And I’ve stopped going.... Oh, I am so unhappy! It is very ungrateful of me. I have so much tobe grateful for.... Do you know, sometimes I feel as if I should like to go to God at once, all at once, just like that!”“Come, Amy, don’t excite yourself so.”“Ah, I wish I were like you, so calm! Do you feel happy?”Cecile smiled and nodded. Amélie sighed; she remained lying for a moment with her head against her sister’s shoulder. Cecile kissed her, but suddenly Amélie started:“Be careful,” she whispered, “the girls might come in. There ... there’s no need for them to see that I’ve been crying.”Rising, she arranged her hat before the looking-glass, carefully dried her veil with her handkerchief:“There, now they won’t know,” she said. “Let’s go in again. I am quite calm. You’re a dear thing....”They went back to the boudoir:“Come, girls, it’s time to go home,” said Amélie, in a voice which was still a little unsettled.“Have you been crying, Mamma?” Suzette at once asked.“Mamma was a bit upset about Jules,” said Cecile, quickly.

3

“Is this the first time he has been to see you?” asked Amélie.“Yes,” replied Cecile. “An uncalled-for civility, don’t you think?”“Taco Quaerts is always very correct in matters of etiquette,” said Anna, defending him.“Still, this visit was hardly a matter of etiquette,” said Cecile, laughing merrily. “But Taco Quaerts seems to be quite infallible in the eyes of all of you.”“He waltzes divinely!” cried Suzette. “The other day, at the Eekhofs’ dance....”Suzette chattered on; there was no restrainingSuzette that afternoon; she seemed already to hear the castanets rattling in her little brain.Jules had a peevish fit on him, but he remained quietly at a window, with the boys.“You don’t much care about Quaerts, do you, Auntie?” asked Anna.“I don’t find him attractive,” said Cecile. “You know, I am easily influenced by my first impressions. I can’t help it, but I don’t like those very healthy, robust people, who look so strong and manly, as if they walked straight through life, clearing away everything that stands in their way. It may be morbid of me, but I can’t help it; I always dislike any excessive display of health and physical force. Those strong people look upon others who are not so strong as themselves much as the Spartans used to look upon their deformed children.”Jules could control himself no longer:“If you think that Taco is no better than a Spartan, you know nothing at all about him,” he said, fiercely.Cecile looked at him, but, before Amélie could interpose, he continued:“Taco is the only person with whom I can talk about music and who understands every word I say. And I don’t believe I could talk with a Spartan.”“Jules, how rude you are!” cried Suzette.“I don’t care!” he exclaimed, furiously, rising suddenly and stamping his foot. “I don’t care! I won’t hear Taco abused; and Aunt Cecile knows it and only does it to tease me. And I think it very mean to tease a boy, very mean....”His mother and sisters tried to bring him to reason with their authority. But he caught up his books:“I don’t care! I won’t have it!”He was gone in a moment, furious, slamming the door, which groaned with the shock. Amélie was trembling in every nerve:Oh, that boy!” she hissed out, shivering. “That Jules, that Jules!...”“It’s nothing,” said Cecile, gently, excusing him. “He is just a little excitable....”She had turned rather paler and glanced at her boys, Dolf and Christie, who had looked up in dismay, their mouths wide open with astonishment.“Is Jules naughty, mamma?” asked Christie.She shook her head, smiling. She felt a strange, an unspeakably strange weariness. She did not know what it meant; but it seemed to her as if very distant vistas were opening before her eyes and fading into the horizon, pale, in a great light. Nor did she know what this meant;but she was not angry with Jules and it seemed to her as if he had lost his temper, not with her, but with somebody else. A sense of the enigmatical depth of life, the soul’s unconscious mystery, like to a fair, bright endlessness, a far-away silvery light, shot through her in silent rapture.Then she laughed:“Jules is so nice,” she said, “when he gets excited.”Anna and Suzette, upset at the incident, played with the boys, looking over their picture-books. Cecile spoke only to her sister. But Amélie’s nerves were still quivering.“How can you defend those ways of Jules’?” she asked, in a choking voice.“I think it nice of him to stand up for people he likes. Don’t you think so too?”Amélie grew calmer. Why should she be put out if Cecile was not?“I dare say,” she replied. “I don’t know. He has a good heart I believe, but he is so unmanageable. But, who knows, perhaps it’s my fault: if I understood things better, if I had more tact....”She grew confused; she sought for something more to say and found nothing, wandering like a stranger through her own thoughts. Then, suddenly, as if struck by a ray of certain knowledge, she said:“But Jules is not stupid. He has a good eye for all sorts of things and for persons too. Personally, I think you judge Taco Quaerts wrongly. He is a very interesting man and a great deal more than a mere sportsman. I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about him different from other people, I can’t say exactly what....”She was silent, seeking, groping.“I wish Jules got on better at school. As I say, he is not stupid, but he learnsnothing. He has been two years now in the third class. The boy has no application. He makes me despair of him.”She was silent again; and Cecile also did not speak.“Ah,” said Amélie, “I dare say it is not his fault! Very likely it is my fault. Perhaps he takes after me....”She looked straight before her: sudden, irrepressible tears filled her eyes and fell into her lap.“Amy, what’s the matter?” asked Cecile, kindly.But Amélie had risen, so that the girls, who were still playing with the children, might not see her tears. She could not restrain them, they streamed down and she hurried away into the adjoining drawing-room, a big room in which Cecile never sat.“What’s the matter, Amy?” Cecile repeated.She had followed Amélie out and nowthrew her arms about her, made her sit down, pressed Amélie’s head against her shoulder.“How do I know what it is?” Amélie sobbed. “I don’t know, I don’t know.... I am wretched because of that feeling in my head. It is more than I can bear sometimes. After all, I am not mad, am I? Really, I don’t feel mad, or as if I were going mad! But I feel sometimes as if everything had gone wrong in my head, as if I couldn’t think. Everything runs through my brain. It’s a terrible feeling!”“Why don’t you see a doctor?” asked Cecile.“No, no, he might tell me I was mad; and I’m not. He might try to send me to an asylum. No, I won’t see a doctor. I have every reason to be happy otherwise, have I not? I have a kind husband and dear children; I have never had any greatsorrow. And yet I sometimes feel profoundly miserable, desperately miserable! It is always as if I wanted to reach some place and could not succeed. It is always as if I were hemmed in....”She sobbed violently; a storm of tears rained down her face. Cecile’s eyes, too, were moist; she liked her sister, she felt sorry for her. Amélie was only ten years older than she; and already she had something of an old woman about her, something withered and shrunken, with her hair growing grey at the temples, under her veil.“Cecile, tell me, Cecile,” she said, suddenly, through her sobs, “do you believe in God?”“Why, of course I do, Amy!”“I used to go to church sometimes, but it was no use.... And I’ve stopped going.... Oh, I am so unhappy! It is very ungrateful of me. I have so much tobe grateful for.... Do you know, sometimes I feel as if I should like to go to God at once, all at once, just like that!”“Come, Amy, don’t excite yourself so.”“Ah, I wish I were like you, so calm! Do you feel happy?”Cecile smiled and nodded. Amélie sighed; she remained lying for a moment with her head against her sister’s shoulder. Cecile kissed her, but suddenly Amélie started:“Be careful,” she whispered, “the girls might come in. There ... there’s no need for them to see that I’ve been crying.”Rising, she arranged her hat before the looking-glass, carefully dried her veil with her handkerchief:“There, now they won’t know,” she said. “Let’s go in again. I am quite calm. You’re a dear thing....”They went back to the boudoir:“Come, girls, it’s time to go home,” said Amélie, in a voice which was still a little unsettled.“Have you been crying, Mamma?” Suzette at once asked.“Mamma was a bit upset about Jules,” said Cecile, quickly.

“Is this the first time he has been to see you?” asked Amélie.

“Yes,” replied Cecile. “An uncalled-for civility, don’t you think?”

“Taco Quaerts is always very correct in matters of etiquette,” said Anna, defending him.

“Still, this visit was hardly a matter of etiquette,” said Cecile, laughing merrily. “But Taco Quaerts seems to be quite infallible in the eyes of all of you.”

“He waltzes divinely!” cried Suzette. “The other day, at the Eekhofs’ dance....”

Suzette chattered on; there was no restrainingSuzette that afternoon; she seemed already to hear the castanets rattling in her little brain.

Jules had a peevish fit on him, but he remained quietly at a window, with the boys.

“You don’t much care about Quaerts, do you, Auntie?” asked Anna.

“I don’t find him attractive,” said Cecile. “You know, I am easily influenced by my first impressions. I can’t help it, but I don’t like those very healthy, robust people, who look so strong and manly, as if they walked straight through life, clearing away everything that stands in their way. It may be morbid of me, but I can’t help it; I always dislike any excessive display of health and physical force. Those strong people look upon others who are not so strong as themselves much as the Spartans used to look upon their deformed children.”

Jules could control himself no longer:

“If you think that Taco is no better than a Spartan, you know nothing at all about him,” he said, fiercely.

Cecile looked at him, but, before Amélie could interpose, he continued:

“Taco is the only person with whom I can talk about music and who understands every word I say. And I don’t believe I could talk with a Spartan.”

“Jules, how rude you are!” cried Suzette.

“I don’t care!” he exclaimed, furiously, rising suddenly and stamping his foot. “I don’t care! I won’t hear Taco abused; and Aunt Cecile knows it and only does it to tease me. And I think it very mean to tease a boy, very mean....”

His mother and sisters tried to bring him to reason with their authority. But he caught up his books:

“I don’t care! I won’t have it!”

He was gone in a moment, furious, slamming the door, which groaned with the shock. Amélie was trembling in every nerve:

Oh, that boy!” she hissed out, shivering. “That Jules, that Jules!...”

“It’s nothing,” said Cecile, gently, excusing him. “He is just a little excitable....”

She had turned rather paler and glanced at her boys, Dolf and Christie, who had looked up in dismay, their mouths wide open with astonishment.

“Is Jules naughty, mamma?” asked Christie.

She shook her head, smiling. She felt a strange, an unspeakably strange weariness. She did not know what it meant; but it seemed to her as if very distant vistas were opening before her eyes and fading into the horizon, pale, in a great light. Nor did she know what this meant;but she was not angry with Jules and it seemed to her as if he had lost his temper, not with her, but with somebody else. A sense of the enigmatical depth of life, the soul’s unconscious mystery, like to a fair, bright endlessness, a far-away silvery light, shot through her in silent rapture.

Then she laughed:

“Jules is so nice,” she said, “when he gets excited.”

Anna and Suzette, upset at the incident, played with the boys, looking over their picture-books. Cecile spoke only to her sister. But Amélie’s nerves were still quivering.

“How can you defend those ways of Jules’?” she asked, in a choking voice.

“I think it nice of him to stand up for people he likes. Don’t you think so too?”

Amélie grew calmer. Why should she be put out if Cecile was not?

“I dare say,” she replied. “I don’t know. He has a good heart I believe, but he is so unmanageable. But, who knows, perhaps it’s my fault: if I understood things better, if I had more tact....”

She grew confused; she sought for something more to say and found nothing, wandering like a stranger through her own thoughts. Then, suddenly, as if struck by a ray of certain knowledge, she said:

“But Jules is not stupid. He has a good eye for all sorts of things and for persons too. Personally, I think you judge Taco Quaerts wrongly. He is a very interesting man and a great deal more than a mere sportsman. I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about him different from other people, I can’t say exactly what....”

She was silent, seeking, groping.

“I wish Jules got on better at school. As I say, he is not stupid, but he learnsnothing. He has been two years now in the third class. The boy has no application. He makes me despair of him.”

She was silent again; and Cecile also did not speak.

“Ah,” said Amélie, “I dare say it is not his fault! Very likely it is my fault. Perhaps he takes after me....”

She looked straight before her: sudden, irrepressible tears filled her eyes and fell into her lap.

“Amy, what’s the matter?” asked Cecile, kindly.

But Amélie had risen, so that the girls, who were still playing with the children, might not see her tears. She could not restrain them, they streamed down and she hurried away into the adjoining drawing-room, a big room in which Cecile never sat.

“What’s the matter, Amy?” Cecile repeated.

She had followed Amélie out and nowthrew her arms about her, made her sit down, pressed Amélie’s head against her shoulder.

“How do I know what it is?” Amélie sobbed. “I don’t know, I don’t know.... I am wretched because of that feeling in my head. It is more than I can bear sometimes. After all, I am not mad, am I? Really, I don’t feel mad, or as if I were going mad! But I feel sometimes as if everything had gone wrong in my head, as if I couldn’t think. Everything runs through my brain. It’s a terrible feeling!”

“Why don’t you see a doctor?” asked Cecile.

“No, no, he might tell me I was mad; and I’m not. He might try to send me to an asylum. No, I won’t see a doctor. I have every reason to be happy otherwise, have I not? I have a kind husband and dear children; I have never had any greatsorrow. And yet I sometimes feel profoundly miserable, desperately miserable! It is always as if I wanted to reach some place and could not succeed. It is always as if I were hemmed in....”

She sobbed violently; a storm of tears rained down her face. Cecile’s eyes, too, were moist; she liked her sister, she felt sorry for her. Amélie was only ten years older than she; and already she had something of an old woman about her, something withered and shrunken, with her hair growing grey at the temples, under her veil.

“Cecile, tell me, Cecile,” she said, suddenly, through her sobs, “do you believe in God?”

“Why, of course I do, Amy!”

“I used to go to church sometimes, but it was no use.... And I’ve stopped going.... Oh, I am so unhappy! It is very ungrateful of me. I have so much tobe grateful for.... Do you know, sometimes I feel as if I should like to go to God at once, all at once, just like that!”

“Come, Amy, don’t excite yourself so.”

“Ah, I wish I were like you, so calm! Do you feel happy?”

Cecile smiled and nodded. Amélie sighed; she remained lying for a moment with her head against her sister’s shoulder. Cecile kissed her, but suddenly Amélie started:

“Be careful,” she whispered, “the girls might come in. There ... there’s no need for them to see that I’ve been crying.”

Rising, she arranged her hat before the looking-glass, carefully dried her veil with her handkerchief:

“There, now they won’t know,” she said. “Let’s go in again. I am quite calm. You’re a dear thing....”

They went back to the boudoir:

“Come, girls, it’s time to go home,” said Amélie, in a voice which was still a little unsettled.

“Have you been crying, Mamma?” Suzette at once asked.

“Mamma was a bit upset about Jules,” said Cecile, quickly.

Chapter VCecile was alone; the children had gone upstairs to tidy themselves for dinner. She tried to get back her distant vistas, fading into the pale horizon; she tried to recover the silvery endlessness which had shot through her as a vision of light. But instead her brain was all awhirl with a kaleidoscope of very recent petty memories: the children, Quaerts, Emerson, Jules, Suzette, Amélie. How strange, how strange life was!... The outer life; the coming and going of people about us; the sounds of words which they utter in strange accents; the endless interchange of phenomena; the concatenation of those phenomena, one with the other; strange, too, the presence of a soul somewhere inside us, like a godwithin us, never to be known in our own essence. Often, as indeed now, it seemed to Cecile that all things, even the most commonplace things, were strange, very strange, as if nothing in the world were absolutely commonplace, as if everything were strange: the strange form and outward expression of a deeper life that lies hidden behind everything, even the meanest objects; as if everything displayed itself under an appearance, a mask of pretence, while the reality, the very truth, lay underneath. How strange, how strange life was!... For it seemed to her as if she, under that very usual afternoon tea, had seen something very unusual; she did not know what, she could not express it nor even think it thoroughly; it seemed to her as if beneath the coming and going of those people something had glittered: a reality, an ultimate truth under the appearance of that casual afternoon tea.“What is it? Whatisit?” she wondered. “Am I deluding myself, or is it so? I feel that it is so....”It was all very vague and yet so very clear.... It seemed to her as though there were a vision, a haze of light behind all that had happened there, behind Amélie and Jules and Quaerts and the book which he had picked up from the floor and held in his hand for a moment.... Did that vision, that haze of light mean anything, or....But she shook her head:“I am dreaming, I am giving way to fancy,” she laughed, within herself. “It was all very simple; I only make it complex because it amuses me to do so.”But she had no sooner thought this than she felt something which denied the thought absolutely, an intuition which should have made her guess the essence of the truth, but did not quite succeed.Surely there was something, something behind it all, hiding away, lurking as the shadow lurked behind the thing; and the shadow appeared to her as a vision and haze of light....Her thoughts still wandered over all those people and finally halted at Taco Quaerts. She saw him sitting there again, bending slightly forward in her direction, his hands folded and hanging between his knees, as he looked up to her. A barrier of aversion had stood between them like an iron bar. She saw him sitting there again, though he was gone. That again was past: how quickly everything moved; how small was the speck of the present!She rose, sat down at her writing-table and wrote:“Beneath me flows the sea of the past; above me drifts the ether of the future; and I stand midway upon the one speck ofreality, so small that I must press my feet firmly together lest I lose my hold. And from the speck of the present my sorrow looks down upon the sea and my longing up to the sky.“It is scarcely life to stand upon this speck, so small that I hardly appreciate it, hardly feel it beneath my feet; and yet to me it is the one reality. I am not greatly occupied about it: my eyes only follow the rippling of those waves towards distant horizons, the gliding of those clouds towards distant spheres, vague manifestations of endless change, translucent ephemeras, visible incorporeities. The present is the only thing that is, or rather that seems to be. The speck is, or at least appears to be, but not the sea below nor the sky above, for the sea is but a memory and the air but an illusion. Yet memory and illusion are everything: they are the wide inheritance of the soul, whichalone can escape from the speck of the moment to float upon the sea towards the horizons which retreat, to drift upon the clouds towards the spheres which retreat and retreat....”Then she reflected. How was it that she had written all this and why? How had she come to write it? She went back upon her thoughts: the present, the speck of the present, which was so small.... Quaerts, Quaerts’ very attitude, rising up before her just now. Was he in any way concerned with her writing down those sentences? The past a sorrow; the future an illusion.... Why, why illusion?“And Jules, who likes him,” she thought. “And Amélie, who spoke of him ... but she knows nothing.... What is there in him, what lurks behind him: his visionary image? Why did hecome here? Why do I dislike him so? Do I dislike him? I cannot see into his eyes....”She would have liked to do this once; she would have liked to make sure that she disliked him or that she did not: one or the other. She was curious to see him once more, to know what she would think and feel about him then....She had risen from her writing-table and now lay at full length on the sofa, with her arms folded behind her head. She no longer knew what she dreamt, but she felt peacefully happy. She heard Dolf and Christie come down the stairs. They came in, it was dinner-time.“Jules was really naughty just now, wasn’t he, Mummy?” Christie asked again, with a grave face.She drew the frail little fellow gently to her, took him tightly in her arms andfondly kissed his moist, pale-raspberry lips:“No, really not, darling!” she said. “He wasn’t naughty, really....”

Chapter V

Cecile was alone; the children had gone upstairs to tidy themselves for dinner. She tried to get back her distant vistas, fading into the pale horizon; she tried to recover the silvery endlessness which had shot through her as a vision of light. But instead her brain was all awhirl with a kaleidoscope of very recent petty memories: the children, Quaerts, Emerson, Jules, Suzette, Amélie. How strange, how strange life was!... The outer life; the coming and going of people about us; the sounds of words which they utter in strange accents; the endless interchange of phenomena; the concatenation of those phenomena, one with the other; strange, too, the presence of a soul somewhere inside us, like a godwithin us, never to be known in our own essence. Often, as indeed now, it seemed to Cecile that all things, even the most commonplace things, were strange, very strange, as if nothing in the world were absolutely commonplace, as if everything were strange: the strange form and outward expression of a deeper life that lies hidden behind everything, even the meanest objects; as if everything displayed itself under an appearance, a mask of pretence, while the reality, the very truth, lay underneath. How strange, how strange life was!... For it seemed to her as if she, under that very usual afternoon tea, had seen something very unusual; she did not know what, she could not express it nor even think it thoroughly; it seemed to her as if beneath the coming and going of those people something had glittered: a reality, an ultimate truth under the appearance of that casual afternoon tea.“What is it? Whatisit?” she wondered. “Am I deluding myself, or is it so? I feel that it is so....”It was all very vague and yet so very clear.... It seemed to her as though there were a vision, a haze of light behind all that had happened there, behind Amélie and Jules and Quaerts and the book which he had picked up from the floor and held in his hand for a moment.... Did that vision, that haze of light mean anything, or....But she shook her head:“I am dreaming, I am giving way to fancy,” she laughed, within herself. “It was all very simple; I only make it complex because it amuses me to do so.”But she had no sooner thought this than she felt something which denied the thought absolutely, an intuition which should have made her guess the essence of the truth, but did not quite succeed.Surely there was something, something behind it all, hiding away, lurking as the shadow lurked behind the thing; and the shadow appeared to her as a vision and haze of light....Her thoughts still wandered over all those people and finally halted at Taco Quaerts. She saw him sitting there again, bending slightly forward in her direction, his hands folded and hanging between his knees, as he looked up to her. A barrier of aversion had stood between them like an iron bar. She saw him sitting there again, though he was gone. That again was past: how quickly everything moved; how small was the speck of the present!She rose, sat down at her writing-table and wrote:“Beneath me flows the sea of the past; above me drifts the ether of the future; and I stand midway upon the one speck ofreality, so small that I must press my feet firmly together lest I lose my hold. And from the speck of the present my sorrow looks down upon the sea and my longing up to the sky.“It is scarcely life to stand upon this speck, so small that I hardly appreciate it, hardly feel it beneath my feet; and yet to me it is the one reality. I am not greatly occupied about it: my eyes only follow the rippling of those waves towards distant horizons, the gliding of those clouds towards distant spheres, vague manifestations of endless change, translucent ephemeras, visible incorporeities. The present is the only thing that is, or rather that seems to be. The speck is, or at least appears to be, but not the sea below nor the sky above, for the sea is but a memory and the air but an illusion. Yet memory and illusion are everything: they are the wide inheritance of the soul, whichalone can escape from the speck of the moment to float upon the sea towards the horizons which retreat, to drift upon the clouds towards the spheres which retreat and retreat....”Then she reflected. How was it that she had written all this and why? How had she come to write it? She went back upon her thoughts: the present, the speck of the present, which was so small.... Quaerts, Quaerts’ very attitude, rising up before her just now. Was he in any way concerned with her writing down those sentences? The past a sorrow; the future an illusion.... Why, why illusion?“And Jules, who likes him,” she thought. “And Amélie, who spoke of him ... but she knows nothing.... What is there in him, what lurks behind him: his visionary image? Why did hecome here? Why do I dislike him so? Do I dislike him? I cannot see into his eyes....”She would have liked to do this once; she would have liked to make sure that she disliked him or that she did not: one or the other. She was curious to see him once more, to know what she would think and feel about him then....She had risen from her writing-table and now lay at full length on the sofa, with her arms folded behind her head. She no longer knew what she dreamt, but she felt peacefully happy. She heard Dolf and Christie come down the stairs. They came in, it was dinner-time.“Jules was really naughty just now, wasn’t he, Mummy?” Christie asked again, with a grave face.She drew the frail little fellow gently to her, took him tightly in her arms andfondly kissed his moist, pale-raspberry lips:“No, really not, darling!” she said. “He wasn’t naughty, really....”

Cecile was alone; the children had gone upstairs to tidy themselves for dinner. She tried to get back her distant vistas, fading into the pale horizon; she tried to recover the silvery endlessness which had shot through her as a vision of light. But instead her brain was all awhirl with a kaleidoscope of very recent petty memories: the children, Quaerts, Emerson, Jules, Suzette, Amélie. How strange, how strange life was!... The outer life; the coming and going of people about us; the sounds of words which they utter in strange accents; the endless interchange of phenomena; the concatenation of those phenomena, one with the other; strange, too, the presence of a soul somewhere inside us, like a godwithin us, never to be known in our own essence. Often, as indeed now, it seemed to Cecile that all things, even the most commonplace things, were strange, very strange, as if nothing in the world were absolutely commonplace, as if everything were strange: the strange form and outward expression of a deeper life that lies hidden behind everything, even the meanest objects; as if everything displayed itself under an appearance, a mask of pretence, while the reality, the very truth, lay underneath. How strange, how strange life was!... For it seemed to her as if she, under that very usual afternoon tea, had seen something very unusual; she did not know what, she could not express it nor even think it thoroughly; it seemed to her as if beneath the coming and going of those people something had glittered: a reality, an ultimate truth under the appearance of that casual afternoon tea.

“What is it? Whatisit?” she wondered. “Am I deluding myself, or is it so? I feel that it is so....”

It was all very vague and yet so very clear.... It seemed to her as though there were a vision, a haze of light behind all that had happened there, behind Amélie and Jules and Quaerts and the book which he had picked up from the floor and held in his hand for a moment.... Did that vision, that haze of light mean anything, or....

But she shook her head:

“I am dreaming, I am giving way to fancy,” she laughed, within herself. “It was all very simple; I only make it complex because it amuses me to do so.”

But she had no sooner thought this than she felt something which denied the thought absolutely, an intuition which should have made her guess the essence of the truth, but did not quite succeed.Surely there was something, something behind it all, hiding away, lurking as the shadow lurked behind the thing; and the shadow appeared to her as a vision and haze of light....

Her thoughts still wandered over all those people and finally halted at Taco Quaerts. She saw him sitting there again, bending slightly forward in her direction, his hands folded and hanging between his knees, as he looked up to her. A barrier of aversion had stood between them like an iron bar. She saw him sitting there again, though he was gone. That again was past: how quickly everything moved; how small was the speck of the present!

She rose, sat down at her writing-table and wrote:

“Beneath me flows the sea of the past; above me drifts the ether of the future; and I stand midway upon the one speck ofreality, so small that I must press my feet firmly together lest I lose my hold. And from the speck of the present my sorrow looks down upon the sea and my longing up to the sky.“It is scarcely life to stand upon this speck, so small that I hardly appreciate it, hardly feel it beneath my feet; and yet to me it is the one reality. I am not greatly occupied about it: my eyes only follow the rippling of those waves towards distant horizons, the gliding of those clouds towards distant spheres, vague manifestations of endless change, translucent ephemeras, visible incorporeities. The present is the only thing that is, or rather that seems to be. The speck is, or at least appears to be, but not the sea below nor the sky above, for the sea is but a memory and the air but an illusion. Yet memory and illusion are everything: they are the wide inheritance of the soul, whichalone can escape from the speck of the moment to float upon the sea towards the horizons which retreat, to drift upon the clouds towards the spheres which retreat and retreat....”

“Beneath me flows the sea of the past; above me drifts the ether of the future; and I stand midway upon the one speck ofreality, so small that I must press my feet firmly together lest I lose my hold. And from the speck of the present my sorrow looks down upon the sea and my longing up to the sky.

“It is scarcely life to stand upon this speck, so small that I hardly appreciate it, hardly feel it beneath my feet; and yet to me it is the one reality. I am not greatly occupied about it: my eyes only follow the rippling of those waves towards distant horizons, the gliding of those clouds towards distant spheres, vague manifestations of endless change, translucent ephemeras, visible incorporeities. The present is the only thing that is, or rather that seems to be. The speck is, or at least appears to be, but not the sea below nor the sky above, for the sea is but a memory and the air but an illusion. Yet memory and illusion are everything: they are the wide inheritance of the soul, whichalone can escape from the speck of the moment to float upon the sea towards the horizons which retreat, to drift upon the clouds towards the spheres which retreat and retreat....”

Then she reflected. How was it that she had written all this and why? How had she come to write it? She went back upon her thoughts: the present, the speck of the present, which was so small.... Quaerts, Quaerts’ very attitude, rising up before her just now. Was he in any way concerned with her writing down those sentences? The past a sorrow; the future an illusion.... Why, why illusion?

“And Jules, who likes him,” she thought. “And Amélie, who spoke of him ... but she knows nothing.... What is there in him, what lurks behind him: his visionary image? Why did hecome here? Why do I dislike him so? Do I dislike him? I cannot see into his eyes....”

She would have liked to do this once; she would have liked to make sure that she disliked him or that she did not: one or the other. She was curious to see him once more, to know what she would think and feel about him then....

She had risen from her writing-table and now lay at full length on the sofa, with her arms folded behind her head. She no longer knew what she dreamt, but she felt peacefully happy. She heard Dolf and Christie come down the stairs. They came in, it was dinner-time.

“Jules was really naughty just now, wasn’t he, Mummy?” Christie asked again, with a grave face.

She drew the frail little fellow gently to her, took him tightly in her arms andfondly kissed his moist, pale-raspberry lips:

“No, really not, darling!” she said. “He wasn’t naughty, really....”

Chapter VI1Cecile passed through the long hall, which was almost a gallery: footmen stood on either side of the hangings; a hum of voices came from behind. The train of her dress rustled against the leaves of a palm; and the sound gave a sudden jar to the strung cords of her sensitiveness. She was a little nervous; her eyelids quivered slightly and her mouth had a very earnest fold.She walked in; there was much light, but soft light, the light of candles only. Two officers stepped aside for her as she stood hesitating. Her eyes glanced round in search of Mrs. Hoze; she saw her standing among two or three of her guests, withher grey hair, her kindly and yet haughty face, rosy and smooth, almost without a wrinkle.Mrs. Hoze came towards her:“I can’t tell you how charming I think it of you not to have played me false!” she said, pressing Cecile’s hand with effusive and hospitable urbanity.She introduced people to Cecile here and there; Cecile heard names the sound of which at once escaped her.“General, allow me ... Mrs. van Even,” Mrs. Hoze whispered and left her, to speak to some one else.Cecile drew a deep breath, pressed her hand to the edge of her bodice, as though to arrange something that had slipped from its place, answered the general cursorily. She was very pale; and her eyelids quivered more and more. She ventured to throw a glance round the room.She stood next to the general, forcing herself to listen, so as not to give answers that would sound strikingly foolish. She was very tall, slender, and straight, with her shoulders, white as sunlit marble, blossoming out of a sombre vase of black: fine, black, trailing tulle, sprinkled all over with small jet spangles; glittering black on dull transparent black. A girdle with tassels of jet, hanging low, was wound about her waist. So she stood, blonde: blonde and black; a little sombre amid the warmth and light of other toilettes; and, for unique relief, two diamonds in her ears, like dewdrops.Her thin suêde-covered fingers trembled as she manipulated her fan, a black tulle transparency, on which the same jet spangles glittered with black lustre. Her breath came short behind the strokes of the diaphanous fan as she talked with the general, a spare, bald, distinguished-lookingman, not in uniform, but wearing his decorations.Mrs. Hoze’s guests walked about, greeting one another here and there, with a continuous hum of voices. Cecile saw Taco Quaerts come up to her; he bowed before her; she bowed coldly in return, not offering him her hand. He lingered by her for a moment, spoke a word or two and then passed on, greeting other acquaintances.Mrs. Hoze had taken the arm of an old gentleman; a procession formed slowly. The servants threw back the doors; a table glittered beyond, half-visible. The general offered Cecile his arm, as she stood looking behind her with a listless turn of her neck. She closed her eyelids for a second, to prevent their quivering. Her brows contracted with a sense of disappointment; but smilingly she laid the tips of her fingers on the general’s arm andwith her closed fan smoothed away a crease from the tulle of her train.2When Cecile was seated she found Quaerts sitting on her right. Then her disappointment vanished, the disappointment which she had felt at not being taken in to dinner by him; but her look remained cold, as usual. And yet she had what she wished; the expectation with which she had come to this dinner was fulfilled. Mrs. Hoze had seen Cecile at the Van Attemas’ and had gladly undertaken to restore the young widow to society. Cecile knew that Quaerts was a frequent visitor at Mrs. Hoze’s; she had heard from Amélie that he was invited to the dinner; and she had accepted. That Mrs. Hoze, remembering that Cecile had met Quaerts before, had placed him next to her was easy to understand.Cecile was very inquisitive about herself. How would she feel? At least interested: she could not disguise that from herself. She was certainly interested in him, remembering what Jules had said, what Amélie had said. She already felt that behind the mere sportsman there lurked another, whom she longed to know. Why should she? What concern was it of hers? She could not tell; but, in any case, as a matter of curiosity, as a puzzle, it awoke her interest. And, at the same time, she remained on her guard, for she did not think that his visit to her was strictly in order; and there were stories in which the name of that married woman was coupled with his.She succeeded in freeing herself from her conversation with the general, who seemed to feel called upon to entertain her, and it was she who spoke first to Quaerts:“Have you begun to give Jules his riding-lessons?” she asked, with a smile.He looked at her, evidently a little surprised at her voice and her smile, which were both new to him. He returned a bare answer:“Yes, mevrouw, we were at the riding-school yesterday....”She at once thought him clumsy, to let the conversation drop like that; but he enquired with that slight shyness which became a charm in him who was so manly:“So you are going out again, mevrouw?”She thought—she had indeed thought so before—that his questions were sometimes questions which people do not ask. This was one of the strange things about him.“Yes,” she replied, simply, not knowing what else to say.“Forgive me,” he said, seeing that hiswords had embarrassed her a little. “I asked, because ...”“Because?” she echoed, with wide-open eyes.He took courage and explained:“When Dolf spoke of you, he used always to say that you lived so quietly.... And I could never picture you to myself returning to society, mixing with many people; I had formed an idea of you; and it now seems that this idea was a mistaken one.”“An idea?” she asked. “What idea?”“Perhaps you will be angry when I tell you. Perhaps, even as it is, you are none too well pleased with me!” he replied, jestingly.“I have not the slightest reason to be either pleased or displeased with you,” she jested in return. “But tell me, what was your idea?”“Then you are interested in it?”“If you will answer candidly, yes. But you must be candid!” and she threatened him with her finger.“Well,” he began, “I thought of you as a very cultured woman, as a very interesting woman—I still think all that—and... as a woman who cared nothing for the world beyond her own sphere; and this ... this I can no longer think. And I feel almost inclined to say, at the risk of your looking on me as very strange, that I am sorry no longer to be able to think of you in that way. I would almost rather not have met you here....”He laughed, to soften what might sound strange in his words. She looked at him, her eyelashes flickering with amazement, her lips half-opened; and suddenly it struck her that she was looking into his eyes for the first time. She looked into his eyes and saw that they were a dark, very dark grey around the black depth ofthe pupil. There was something in his eyes, she could not say what, but something magnetic, as though she could never again take away her own from them.“How strange you can be sometimes!” she said mechanically: the words came intuitively.“Oh, please don’t be angry!” he almost implored her. “I was so glad when you spoke kindly to me. You were a little distant to me when I saw you last; and I should be so sorry if I put you out. Perhaps I am strange, but how could I possibly be commonplace with you? How could I possibly, even if you were to take offence?...Haveyou taken offence?”“I ought to, but I suppose I must forgive you, if only for your candour!” she said, laughing. “Otherwise your remarks were anything but gallant.”“And yet I did not mean it ungallantly.”“Oh, no doubt!” she jested.She remembered that she was at a big dinner-party. The guests ranged before and around her; the footmen waiting behind; the light of the candles gleaming on the silver and touching the glass with all the hues of the rainbow; on the table prone mirrors, like sheets of water surrounded by flowers, little lakes amidst moss-roses and lilies of the valley. She sat silent a moment, still smiling, looking at her hand, a pretty hand, like a white precious thing upon the tulle of her gown: one of the fingers bore several rings, scintillating sparks of blue and white.The general turned to her again; they exchanged a few words; the general was delighted that Mrs. van Even’s right-hand neighbour was keeping her entertained and enabling him to get on quietly with his dinner. Quaerts turned to the lady on his right.Both of them were glad when they were able to resume their conversation:“What were we talking about just now?” she asked.“I know!” he replied, mischievously.“The general interrupted us.”“You werenotangry with me!” he jested.“Oh, of course,” she replied, laughing softly, “it was about your idea of me, was it not? Why could you no longer picture me returning to society?”“I thought that you had become a person apart.”“But why?”“From what Dolf said, from what I myself thought, when I saw you.”“And why are you now sorry that I am not ‘a person apart,’ as you call it?” she asked, still laughing.“From vanity; because I made a mistake.And yet perhaps I have not made a mistake....”They looked at each other; and both of them, although each thought it in a different way, now thought the same thing, namely, that they must be careful with their words, because they were speaking of something very delicate and tender, something as frail as a soap-bubble, which could easily break if they spoke of it too loudly; the mere breath of their words might be sufficient. Yet she ventured to ask:“And why ... do you believe ... that perhaps ... you are not mistaken?”“I don’t quite know. Perhaps because I wish it so. Perhaps, too, because it is so true as to leave no room for doubt. Oh, yes, I am almost sure that I judged rightly! Do you know why? Because otherwise I should have hidden myself and been commonplace;and I find this impossible with you. I have given you more of myself in this short moment than I have given people whom I have known for years in the course of all those years. Therefore surely you must be a person apart.”“What do you mean by ‘a person apart’?”He smiled, he opened his eyes; she looked into them again, deeply.“You understand, surely!” he said.Fear for the delicate thing that might break came between them again. They understood each other as with a freemasonry of feeling. Her eyes were magnetically held upon his.“You are very strange!” she again said, automatically.“No,” he said, calmly, shaking his head, with his eyes in hers. “I am certain that I am not strange to you, even though you may think so for the moment.”She was silent.“I am so glad to be able to talk to you like this!” he whispered. “It makes me very happy. And see, no one knows anything of it. We are at a big dinner; the people next to us can even catch our words; and yet there is not one among them who understands us or grasps the subject of our conversation. Do you know the reason?”“No,” she murmured.“I will tell you; at least, I think it is like this. Perhaps you know better, for youmustknow things better than I, you are so much subtler. I personally believe that each person has a circle about him, an atmosphere, and that he meets other people who have circles or atmospheres about them, sympathetic or antipathetic to his own.”“This is pure mysticism!” she said.“No,” he replied, “it is quite simple.When the two circles are antipathetic, each repels the other; but, when they are sympathetic, they glide and overlap in smaller or larger curves of sympathy. In some cases the circles almost coincide, but they always remain separate.... Do you really think this so very mystical?”“One might call it the mysticism of sentiment. But ... I have thought something of the sort myself....”“Yes, yes, I can understand that,” he continued, calmly, as if he expected it. “I believe that those around us would not be able to understand us, because we two alone have sympathetic circles. But my atmosphere is of a much grosser texture than yours, which is very delicate.”She was silent again, remembering her former aversion to him: did she still feel it?“What do you think of my theory?” he asked.She looked up; her white fingers trembled in the tulle of her gown. She made a poor effort to smile:“I think you go too far!” she stammered.“You think I rush into hyperbole?”She would have liked to say yes, but could not:“No,” she said; “not that.”“Do I bore you?...”She looked at him, looked deep into his eyes. She shook her head, by way of saying no. She would have liked to say that he was too unconventional just now; but she could not find the words. A faintness oppressed her whole being. The table, the people, the whole dinner-party appeared to her as through a haze of light. When she recovered herself again, she perceived that a pretty woman opposite had been staring at her and was now looking away, out of politeness. She did notknow how or why this interested her, but she asked Quaerts:“Who is the lady over there, in pale blue, with the dark hair?”She saw that he started.“That is young Mrs. Hijdrecht!” he said, calmly, a little distantly.She too was perturbed; she turned pale; her fan flapped nervously to and fro in her fingers.He had named the woman whom rumour said to be his mistress.3It seemed to Cecile as though that delicate, frail thing, that soap-bubble, had burst. She wondered if he had spoken to that dark-haired woman also of circles of sympathy. So soon as she was able, Cecile observed Mrs. Hijdrecht. She had a warm, dull-gold complexion, dark, glowing eyes, a mouth as of fresh blood.Her dress was cut very low; her throat and the slope of her breast showed insolently handsome, brutally luscious. A row of diamonds encompassed her neck with a narrow line of white flame.Cecile felt ill at ease. She felt as if she were playing with fire. She looked away from the young woman and turned to Quaerts, in obedience to some magnetic force. She saw a cloud of melancholy stealing over the upper half of his face, over his forehead and his eyes, which betrayed a slight look of age. And she heard him say:“Now what do you care about that lady’s name? We were just in the middle of such a charming conversation....”She too felt sad now, sad because of the soap-bubble that had burst. She did not know why, but she felt pity for him, a sudden, deep, intense pity.“We can resume our conversation,” she said, softly.“Ah no, don’t let us take it up where we left it!” he rejoined, with feigned airiness. “I was becoming tedious.”He spoke of other things. She answered little; and their conversation languished. They each occupied themselves with their neighbours. The dinner came to an end. Mrs. Hoze rose, took the arm of the gentleman beside her. The general escorted Cecile to the drawing-room, in the slow procession of the others.4The ladies remained alone; the men went to the smoking-room with young Hoze. Cecile saw Mrs. Hoze come towards her. She asked her if she had not been bored at dinner; they sat down together, in a confidentialtête-à-tête.Cecile made the necessary effort to replyto Mrs. Hoze; but she would have liked to go somewhere and weep quietly, because everything passed so quickly, because the speck of the present was so small. Gone was the sweet charm of their conversation during dinner about sympathy, a fragile intimacy amid the worldly show about them. Gone was that moment, never, never to return: life sped over it with its constant flow, as with a torrent of all-obliterating water. Oh, the sorrow of it, to think how quickly, like an intangible perfume, everything speeds away, everything that is dear to us!...Mrs. Hoze left her; Suzette van Attema came to talk to Cecile. She was dressed in pink; and she glittered in all her aspect as if gold-dust had poured all over her, upon her movements, her eyes, her words. She spoke volubly to Cecile, telling interminable tales, to which Cecile did not always listen. Suddenly, through Suzette’sprattle, Cecile heard the voices of two women whispering behind her; she only caught a word here and there:“Emilie Hijdrecht, you know....”“Only gossip, I think; Mrs. Hoze does not seem to heed it....”“Ah, but I know it as a fact!”The voices were lost in the hum of the others. Cecile just caught a sound like Quaerts’ name. Then Suzette asked, suddenly:“Do you know young Mrs. Hijdrecht, Auntie?”“No.”“Over there, with the diamonds. You know, they talk about her and Quaerts. Mamma doesn’t believe it. At any rate, he’s a great flirt. You sat next to him, didn’t you?”Cecile suffered severely in her innermost sensitiveness. She shrank into herself entirely, doing all that she could toappear different from what she was. Suzette saw nothing of her discomfiture.The men returned. Cecile looked to see whether Quaerts would speak to Mrs. Hijdrecht. But he wholly ignored her presence and even, when he saw Suzette sitting with Cecile, came over to them to pay a compliment to Suzette, to whom he had not yet spoken.It was a relief to Cecile when she was able to go. She was yearning to be alone, to recover herself, to return from her abstraction. In her brougham she scarcely dared breathe, fearful of something, she could not say what. When she reached home she felt a stifling heaviness which seemed to paralyse her; and she dragged herself languidly up the stairs to her dressing-room.And yet, on the stairs, there fell over her, as from the roof of her house, a haze of protecting safety. Slowly she wentup, her hand, holding a long glove, pressing the velvet banister of the stairway. She felt as if she were about to swoon:“But, Heaven help me ... I am fond of him, I love him, I love him!” she whispered between her trembling lips, in sudden amazement.It was as in a rhythm of astonishment that she wearily mounted the stairs, higher and higher, in a silent surprise of sudden light.“But I am fond of him, I love him, I love him!”It sounded like a melody through her weariness.She reached her dressing-room, where Greta had lighted the gas; she dragged herself inside. The door of the nursery stood half open; she went in, threw back the curtain of Christie’s little bed, dropped on her knees and looked at the child. The boy partly awoke, still in the warmth of adeep sleep; he crept a little from between the sheets, laughed, threw his arms about Cecile’s bare neck:“Mummy dear!”She pressed him tightly in the embrace of her slender, white arms; she kissed his raspberry mouth, his drowsed eyes. And meantime the refrain sang on in her heart, right across the weariness which seemed to break her by the bedside of her child:“But I am fond of him, I love him, I love him, I love him...!”5The mystery! Suddenly, on the staircase, it had beamed open before her in her soul, like a great flower of light, a mystic rose with glistening petals, into whose golden heart she now looked for the first time. The analysis to which she was so much inclined was no longer possible: this was the riddle of love, the eternal riddle,which had beamed open within her, transfixing with its rays the very width of her soul, in the midst of which it had burst forth like a sun in a universe; it was too late to ask the reason why; it was too late to ponder and dream upon it; it could only be accepted as the inexplicable phenomenon of the soul; it was a creation of sentiment, of which the god who created it would be as impossible to find in the inner essence of his reality as the God who had created the world out of chaos. It was light breaking forth from darkness; it was heaven disclosed above the earth. And it existed: it was reality and not a fairy-tale! For it was wholly and entirely within her, a sudden, incontestable, everlasting truth, a felt fact, so real in its ethereal incorporeity that it seemed to her as if, until that moment, she had never known, never thought, never felt. It was the beginning, the opening out of herself, the dawnof her soul’s life, the joyful miracle, the miraculous inception of love, love focussed in the midst of her soul.She passed the following days in self-contemplation, wandering through her dreams as through a new country, rich with great light, where distant landscapes paled into a wan radiance, like fantastic meteors in the night, quivering in incandescence on the horizon. It seemed to her as though she, a pious and glad pilgrim, were making her way along paradisaical oases towards those distant scenes, there to find even more, the goal.... Only a little while ago, the prospect before her had been narrow and forlorn—her children gone from her, her loneliness wrapping her about like a night—and now, now she saw stretching in front of her a long road, a wide horizon, glittering with light, nothing but light....Thatwas, all thatwas! It was no fine poets’ fancy; it existed, it gleamed in herheart like a sacred jewel, like a mystic rose with stamina of light! A freshness as of dew fell over her, over her whole life: over the life of her senses; over the life of outward appearances; over the life of her soul; over the life of the indwelling truth. The world was new, fresh with young dew, the very Eden of Genesis; and her soul was a soul of newness, born anew in a metempsychosis of greater perfection, of closer approach to the goal, that distant goal, far away yonder, hidden like a god in the sanctuary of its ecstasy of light, as in the radiance of its own being.

Chapter VI1Cecile passed through the long hall, which was almost a gallery: footmen stood on either side of the hangings; a hum of voices came from behind. The train of her dress rustled against the leaves of a palm; and the sound gave a sudden jar to the strung cords of her sensitiveness. She was a little nervous; her eyelids quivered slightly and her mouth had a very earnest fold.She walked in; there was much light, but soft light, the light of candles only. Two officers stepped aside for her as she stood hesitating. Her eyes glanced round in search of Mrs. Hoze; she saw her standing among two or three of her guests, withher grey hair, her kindly and yet haughty face, rosy and smooth, almost without a wrinkle.Mrs. Hoze came towards her:“I can’t tell you how charming I think it of you not to have played me false!” she said, pressing Cecile’s hand with effusive and hospitable urbanity.She introduced people to Cecile here and there; Cecile heard names the sound of which at once escaped her.“General, allow me ... Mrs. van Even,” Mrs. Hoze whispered and left her, to speak to some one else.Cecile drew a deep breath, pressed her hand to the edge of her bodice, as though to arrange something that had slipped from its place, answered the general cursorily. She was very pale; and her eyelids quivered more and more. She ventured to throw a glance round the room.She stood next to the general, forcing herself to listen, so as not to give answers that would sound strikingly foolish. She was very tall, slender, and straight, with her shoulders, white as sunlit marble, blossoming out of a sombre vase of black: fine, black, trailing tulle, sprinkled all over with small jet spangles; glittering black on dull transparent black. A girdle with tassels of jet, hanging low, was wound about her waist. So she stood, blonde: blonde and black; a little sombre amid the warmth and light of other toilettes; and, for unique relief, two diamonds in her ears, like dewdrops.Her thin suêde-covered fingers trembled as she manipulated her fan, a black tulle transparency, on which the same jet spangles glittered with black lustre. Her breath came short behind the strokes of the diaphanous fan as she talked with the general, a spare, bald, distinguished-lookingman, not in uniform, but wearing his decorations.Mrs. Hoze’s guests walked about, greeting one another here and there, with a continuous hum of voices. Cecile saw Taco Quaerts come up to her; he bowed before her; she bowed coldly in return, not offering him her hand. He lingered by her for a moment, spoke a word or two and then passed on, greeting other acquaintances.Mrs. Hoze had taken the arm of an old gentleman; a procession formed slowly. The servants threw back the doors; a table glittered beyond, half-visible. The general offered Cecile his arm, as she stood looking behind her with a listless turn of her neck. She closed her eyelids for a second, to prevent their quivering. Her brows contracted with a sense of disappointment; but smilingly she laid the tips of her fingers on the general’s arm andwith her closed fan smoothed away a crease from the tulle of her train.2When Cecile was seated she found Quaerts sitting on her right. Then her disappointment vanished, the disappointment which she had felt at not being taken in to dinner by him; but her look remained cold, as usual. And yet she had what she wished; the expectation with which she had come to this dinner was fulfilled. Mrs. Hoze had seen Cecile at the Van Attemas’ and had gladly undertaken to restore the young widow to society. Cecile knew that Quaerts was a frequent visitor at Mrs. Hoze’s; she had heard from Amélie that he was invited to the dinner; and she had accepted. That Mrs. Hoze, remembering that Cecile had met Quaerts before, had placed him next to her was easy to understand.Cecile was very inquisitive about herself. How would she feel? At least interested: she could not disguise that from herself. She was certainly interested in him, remembering what Jules had said, what Amélie had said. She already felt that behind the mere sportsman there lurked another, whom she longed to know. Why should she? What concern was it of hers? She could not tell; but, in any case, as a matter of curiosity, as a puzzle, it awoke her interest. And, at the same time, she remained on her guard, for she did not think that his visit to her was strictly in order; and there were stories in which the name of that married woman was coupled with his.She succeeded in freeing herself from her conversation with the general, who seemed to feel called upon to entertain her, and it was she who spoke first to Quaerts:“Have you begun to give Jules his riding-lessons?” she asked, with a smile.He looked at her, evidently a little surprised at her voice and her smile, which were both new to him. He returned a bare answer:“Yes, mevrouw, we were at the riding-school yesterday....”She at once thought him clumsy, to let the conversation drop like that; but he enquired with that slight shyness which became a charm in him who was so manly:“So you are going out again, mevrouw?”She thought—she had indeed thought so before—that his questions were sometimes questions which people do not ask. This was one of the strange things about him.“Yes,” she replied, simply, not knowing what else to say.“Forgive me,” he said, seeing that hiswords had embarrassed her a little. “I asked, because ...”“Because?” she echoed, with wide-open eyes.He took courage and explained:“When Dolf spoke of you, he used always to say that you lived so quietly.... And I could never picture you to myself returning to society, mixing with many people; I had formed an idea of you; and it now seems that this idea was a mistaken one.”“An idea?” she asked. “What idea?”“Perhaps you will be angry when I tell you. Perhaps, even as it is, you are none too well pleased with me!” he replied, jestingly.“I have not the slightest reason to be either pleased or displeased with you,” she jested in return. “But tell me, what was your idea?”“Then you are interested in it?”“If you will answer candidly, yes. But you must be candid!” and she threatened him with her finger.“Well,” he began, “I thought of you as a very cultured woman, as a very interesting woman—I still think all that—and... as a woman who cared nothing for the world beyond her own sphere; and this ... this I can no longer think. And I feel almost inclined to say, at the risk of your looking on me as very strange, that I am sorry no longer to be able to think of you in that way. I would almost rather not have met you here....”He laughed, to soften what might sound strange in his words. She looked at him, her eyelashes flickering with amazement, her lips half-opened; and suddenly it struck her that she was looking into his eyes for the first time. She looked into his eyes and saw that they were a dark, very dark grey around the black depth ofthe pupil. There was something in his eyes, she could not say what, but something magnetic, as though she could never again take away her own from them.“How strange you can be sometimes!” she said mechanically: the words came intuitively.“Oh, please don’t be angry!” he almost implored her. “I was so glad when you spoke kindly to me. You were a little distant to me when I saw you last; and I should be so sorry if I put you out. Perhaps I am strange, but how could I possibly be commonplace with you? How could I possibly, even if you were to take offence?...Haveyou taken offence?”“I ought to, but I suppose I must forgive you, if only for your candour!” she said, laughing. “Otherwise your remarks were anything but gallant.”“And yet I did not mean it ungallantly.”“Oh, no doubt!” she jested.She remembered that she was at a big dinner-party. The guests ranged before and around her; the footmen waiting behind; the light of the candles gleaming on the silver and touching the glass with all the hues of the rainbow; on the table prone mirrors, like sheets of water surrounded by flowers, little lakes amidst moss-roses and lilies of the valley. She sat silent a moment, still smiling, looking at her hand, a pretty hand, like a white precious thing upon the tulle of her gown: one of the fingers bore several rings, scintillating sparks of blue and white.The general turned to her again; they exchanged a few words; the general was delighted that Mrs. van Even’s right-hand neighbour was keeping her entertained and enabling him to get on quietly with his dinner. Quaerts turned to the lady on his right.Both of them were glad when they were able to resume their conversation:“What were we talking about just now?” she asked.“I know!” he replied, mischievously.“The general interrupted us.”“You werenotangry with me!” he jested.“Oh, of course,” she replied, laughing softly, “it was about your idea of me, was it not? Why could you no longer picture me returning to society?”“I thought that you had become a person apart.”“But why?”“From what Dolf said, from what I myself thought, when I saw you.”“And why are you now sorry that I am not ‘a person apart,’ as you call it?” she asked, still laughing.“From vanity; because I made a mistake.And yet perhaps I have not made a mistake....”They looked at each other; and both of them, although each thought it in a different way, now thought the same thing, namely, that they must be careful with their words, because they were speaking of something very delicate and tender, something as frail as a soap-bubble, which could easily break if they spoke of it too loudly; the mere breath of their words might be sufficient. Yet she ventured to ask:“And why ... do you believe ... that perhaps ... you are not mistaken?”“I don’t quite know. Perhaps because I wish it so. Perhaps, too, because it is so true as to leave no room for doubt. Oh, yes, I am almost sure that I judged rightly! Do you know why? Because otherwise I should have hidden myself and been commonplace;and I find this impossible with you. I have given you more of myself in this short moment than I have given people whom I have known for years in the course of all those years. Therefore surely you must be a person apart.”“What do you mean by ‘a person apart’?”He smiled, he opened his eyes; she looked into them again, deeply.“You understand, surely!” he said.Fear for the delicate thing that might break came between them again. They understood each other as with a freemasonry of feeling. Her eyes were magnetically held upon his.“You are very strange!” she again said, automatically.“No,” he said, calmly, shaking his head, with his eyes in hers. “I am certain that I am not strange to you, even though you may think so for the moment.”She was silent.“I am so glad to be able to talk to you like this!” he whispered. “It makes me very happy. And see, no one knows anything of it. We are at a big dinner; the people next to us can even catch our words; and yet there is not one among them who understands us or grasps the subject of our conversation. Do you know the reason?”“No,” she murmured.“I will tell you; at least, I think it is like this. Perhaps you know better, for youmustknow things better than I, you are so much subtler. I personally believe that each person has a circle about him, an atmosphere, and that he meets other people who have circles or atmospheres about them, sympathetic or antipathetic to his own.”“This is pure mysticism!” she said.“No,” he replied, “it is quite simple.When the two circles are antipathetic, each repels the other; but, when they are sympathetic, they glide and overlap in smaller or larger curves of sympathy. In some cases the circles almost coincide, but they always remain separate.... Do you really think this so very mystical?”“One might call it the mysticism of sentiment. But ... I have thought something of the sort myself....”“Yes, yes, I can understand that,” he continued, calmly, as if he expected it. “I believe that those around us would not be able to understand us, because we two alone have sympathetic circles. But my atmosphere is of a much grosser texture than yours, which is very delicate.”She was silent again, remembering her former aversion to him: did she still feel it?“What do you think of my theory?” he asked.She looked up; her white fingers trembled in the tulle of her gown. She made a poor effort to smile:“I think you go too far!” she stammered.“You think I rush into hyperbole?”She would have liked to say yes, but could not:“No,” she said; “not that.”“Do I bore you?...”She looked at him, looked deep into his eyes. She shook her head, by way of saying no. She would have liked to say that he was too unconventional just now; but she could not find the words. A faintness oppressed her whole being. The table, the people, the whole dinner-party appeared to her as through a haze of light. When she recovered herself again, she perceived that a pretty woman opposite had been staring at her and was now looking away, out of politeness. She did notknow how or why this interested her, but she asked Quaerts:“Who is the lady over there, in pale blue, with the dark hair?”She saw that he started.“That is young Mrs. Hijdrecht!” he said, calmly, a little distantly.She too was perturbed; she turned pale; her fan flapped nervously to and fro in her fingers.He had named the woman whom rumour said to be his mistress.3It seemed to Cecile as though that delicate, frail thing, that soap-bubble, had burst. She wondered if he had spoken to that dark-haired woman also of circles of sympathy. So soon as she was able, Cecile observed Mrs. Hijdrecht. She had a warm, dull-gold complexion, dark, glowing eyes, a mouth as of fresh blood.Her dress was cut very low; her throat and the slope of her breast showed insolently handsome, brutally luscious. A row of diamonds encompassed her neck with a narrow line of white flame.Cecile felt ill at ease. She felt as if she were playing with fire. She looked away from the young woman and turned to Quaerts, in obedience to some magnetic force. She saw a cloud of melancholy stealing over the upper half of his face, over his forehead and his eyes, which betrayed a slight look of age. And she heard him say:“Now what do you care about that lady’s name? We were just in the middle of such a charming conversation....”She too felt sad now, sad because of the soap-bubble that had burst. She did not know why, but she felt pity for him, a sudden, deep, intense pity.“We can resume our conversation,” she said, softly.“Ah no, don’t let us take it up where we left it!” he rejoined, with feigned airiness. “I was becoming tedious.”He spoke of other things. She answered little; and their conversation languished. They each occupied themselves with their neighbours. The dinner came to an end. Mrs. Hoze rose, took the arm of the gentleman beside her. The general escorted Cecile to the drawing-room, in the slow procession of the others.4The ladies remained alone; the men went to the smoking-room with young Hoze. Cecile saw Mrs. Hoze come towards her. She asked her if she had not been bored at dinner; they sat down together, in a confidentialtête-à-tête.Cecile made the necessary effort to replyto Mrs. Hoze; but she would have liked to go somewhere and weep quietly, because everything passed so quickly, because the speck of the present was so small. Gone was the sweet charm of their conversation during dinner about sympathy, a fragile intimacy amid the worldly show about them. Gone was that moment, never, never to return: life sped over it with its constant flow, as with a torrent of all-obliterating water. Oh, the sorrow of it, to think how quickly, like an intangible perfume, everything speeds away, everything that is dear to us!...Mrs. Hoze left her; Suzette van Attema came to talk to Cecile. She was dressed in pink; and she glittered in all her aspect as if gold-dust had poured all over her, upon her movements, her eyes, her words. She spoke volubly to Cecile, telling interminable tales, to which Cecile did not always listen. Suddenly, through Suzette’sprattle, Cecile heard the voices of two women whispering behind her; she only caught a word here and there:“Emilie Hijdrecht, you know....”“Only gossip, I think; Mrs. Hoze does not seem to heed it....”“Ah, but I know it as a fact!”The voices were lost in the hum of the others. Cecile just caught a sound like Quaerts’ name. Then Suzette asked, suddenly:“Do you know young Mrs. Hijdrecht, Auntie?”“No.”“Over there, with the diamonds. You know, they talk about her and Quaerts. Mamma doesn’t believe it. At any rate, he’s a great flirt. You sat next to him, didn’t you?”Cecile suffered severely in her innermost sensitiveness. She shrank into herself entirely, doing all that she could toappear different from what she was. Suzette saw nothing of her discomfiture.The men returned. Cecile looked to see whether Quaerts would speak to Mrs. Hijdrecht. But he wholly ignored her presence and even, when he saw Suzette sitting with Cecile, came over to them to pay a compliment to Suzette, to whom he had not yet spoken.It was a relief to Cecile when she was able to go. She was yearning to be alone, to recover herself, to return from her abstraction. In her brougham she scarcely dared breathe, fearful of something, she could not say what. When she reached home she felt a stifling heaviness which seemed to paralyse her; and she dragged herself languidly up the stairs to her dressing-room.And yet, on the stairs, there fell over her, as from the roof of her house, a haze of protecting safety. Slowly she wentup, her hand, holding a long glove, pressing the velvet banister of the stairway. She felt as if she were about to swoon:“But, Heaven help me ... I am fond of him, I love him, I love him!” she whispered between her trembling lips, in sudden amazement.It was as in a rhythm of astonishment that she wearily mounted the stairs, higher and higher, in a silent surprise of sudden light.“But I am fond of him, I love him, I love him!”It sounded like a melody through her weariness.She reached her dressing-room, where Greta had lighted the gas; she dragged herself inside. The door of the nursery stood half open; she went in, threw back the curtain of Christie’s little bed, dropped on her knees and looked at the child. The boy partly awoke, still in the warmth of adeep sleep; he crept a little from between the sheets, laughed, threw his arms about Cecile’s bare neck:“Mummy dear!”She pressed him tightly in the embrace of her slender, white arms; she kissed his raspberry mouth, his drowsed eyes. And meantime the refrain sang on in her heart, right across the weariness which seemed to break her by the bedside of her child:“But I am fond of him, I love him, I love him, I love him...!”5The mystery! Suddenly, on the staircase, it had beamed open before her in her soul, like a great flower of light, a mystic rose with glistening petals, into whose golden heart she now looked for the first time. The analysis to which she was so much inclined was no longer possible: this was the riddle of love, the eternal riddle,which had beamed open within her, transfixing with its rays the very width of her soul, in the midst of which it had burst forth like a sun in a universe; it was too late to ask the reason why; it was too late to ponder and dream upon it; it could only be accepted as the inexplicable phenomenon of the soul; it was a creation of sentiment, of which the god who created it would be as impossible to find in the inner essence of his reality as the God who had created the world out of chaos. It was light breaking forth from darkness; it was heaven disclosed above the earth. And it existed: it was reality and not a fairy-tale! For it was wholly and entirely within her, a sudden, incontestable, everlasting truth, a felt fact, so real in its ethereal incorporeity that it seemed to her as if, until that moment, she had never known, never thought, never felt. It was the beginning, the opening out of herself, the dawnof her soul’s life, the joyful miracle, the miraculous inception of love, love focussed in the midst of her soul.She passed the following days in self-contemplation, wandering through her dreams as through a new country, rich with great light, where distant landscapes paled into a wan radiance, like fantastic meteors in the night, quivering in incandescence on the horizon. It seemed to her as though she, a pious and glad pilgrim, were making her way along paradisaical oases towards those distant scenes, there to find even more, the goal.... Only a little while ago, the prospect before her had been narrow and forlorn—her children gone from her, her loneliness wrapping her about like a night—and now, now she saw stretching in front of her a long road, a wide horizon, glittering with light, nothing but light....Thatwas, all thatwas! It was no fine poets’ fancy; it existed, it gleamed in herheart like a sacred jewel, like a mystic rose with stamina of light! A freshness as of dew fell over her, over her whole life: over the life of her senses; over the life of outward appearances; over the life of her soul; over the life of the indwelling truth. The world was new, fresh with young dew, the very Eden of Genesis; and her soul was a soul of newness, born anew in a metempsychosis of greater perfection, of closer approach to the goal, that distant goal, far away yonder, hidden like a god in the sanctuary of its ecstasy of light, as in the radiance of its own being.

1Cecile passed through the long hall, which was almost a gallery: footmen stood on either side of the hangings; a hum of voices came from behind. The train of her dress rustled against the leaves of a palm; and the sound gave a sudden jar to the strung cords of her sensitiveness. She was a little nervous; her eyelids quivered slightly and her mouth had a very earnest fold.She walked in; there was much light, but soft light, the light of candles only. Two officers stepped aside for her as she stood hesitating. Her eyes glanced round in search of Mrs. Hoze; she saw her standing among two or three of her guests, withher grey hair, her kindly and yet haughty face, rosy and smooth, almost without a wrinkle.Mrs. Hoze came towards her:“I can’t tell you how charming I think it of you not to have played me false!” she said, pressing Cecile’s hand with effusive and hospitable urbanity.She introduced people to Cecile here and there; Cecile heard names the sound of which at once escaped her.“General, allow me ... Mrs. van Even,” Mrs. Hoze whispered and left her, to speak to some one else.Cecile drew a deep breath, pressed her hand to the edge of her bodice, as though to arrange something that had slipped from its place, answered the general cursorily. She was very pale; and her eyelids quivered more and more. She ventured to throw a glance round the room.She stood next to the general, forcing herself to listen, so as not to give answers that would sound strikingly foolish. She was very tall, slender, and straight, with her shoulders, white as sunlit marble, blossoming out of a sombre vase of black: fine, black, trailing tulle, sprinkled all over with small jet spangles; glittering black on dull transparent black. A girdle with tassels of jet, hanging low, was wound about her waist. So she stood, blonde: blonde and black; a little sombre amid the warmth and light of other toilettes; and, for unique relief, two diamonds in her ears, like dewdrops.Her thin suêde-covered fingers trembled as she manipulated her fan, a black tulle transparency, on which the same jet spangles glittered with black lustre. Her breath came short behind the strokes of the diaphanous fan as she talked with the general, a spare, bald, distinguished-lookingman, not in uniform, but wearing his decorations.Mrs. Hoze’s guests walked about, greeting one another here and there, with a continuous hum of voices. Cecile saw Taco Quaerts come up to her; he bowed before her; she bowed coldly in return, not offering him her hand. He lingered by her for a moment, spoke a word or two and then passed on, greeting other acquaintances.Mrs. Hoze had taken the arm of an old gentleman; a procession formed slowly. The servants threw back the doors; a table glittered beyond, half-visible. The general offered Cecile his arm, as she stood looking behind her with a listless turn of her neck. She closed her eyelids for a second, to prevent their quivering. Her brows contracted with a sense of disappointment; but smilingly she laid the tips of her fingers on the general’s arm andwith her closed fan smoothed away a crease from the tulle of her train.

1

Cecile passed through the long hall, which was almost a gallery: footmen stood on either side of the hangings; a hum of voices came from behind. The train of her dress rustled against the leaves of a palm; and the sound gave a sudden jar to the strung cords of her sensitiveness. She was a little nervous; her eyelids quivered slightly and her mouth had a very earnest fold.She walked in; there was much light, but soft light, the light of candles only. Two officers stepped aside for her as she stood hesitating. Her eyes glanced round in search of Mrs. Hoze; she saw her standing among two or three of her guests, withher grey hair, her kindly and yet haughty face, rosy and smooth, almost without a wrinkle.Mrs. Hoze came towards her:“I can’t tell you how charming I think it of you not to have played me false!” she said, pressing Cecile’s hand with effusive and hospitable urbanity.She introduced people to Cecile here and there; Cecile heard names the sound of which at once escaped her.“General, allow me ... Mrs. van Even,” Mrs. Hoze whispered and left her, to speak to some one else.Cecile drew a deep breath, pressed her hand to the edge of her bodice, as though to arrange something that had slipped from its place, answered the general cursorily. She was very pale; and her eyelids quivered more and more. She ventured to throw a glance round the room.She stood next to the general, forcing herself to listen, so as not to give answers that would sound strikingly foolish. She was very tall, slender, and straight, with her shoulders, white as sunlit marble, blossoming out of a sombre vase of black: fine, black, trailing tulle, sprinkled all over with small jet spangles; glittering black on dull transparent black. A girdle with tassels of jet, hanging low, was wound about her waist. So she stood, blonde: blonde and black; a little sombre amid the warmth and light of other toilettes; and, for unique relief, two diamonds in her ears, like dewdrops.Her thin suêde-covered fingers trembled as she manipulated her fan, a black tulle transparency, on which the same jet spangles glittered with black lustre. Her breath came short behind the strokes of the diaphanous fan as she talked with the general, a spare, bald, distinguished-lookingman, not in uniform, but wearing his decorations.Mrs. Hoze’s guests walked about, greeting one another here and there, with a continuous hum of voices. Cecile saw Taco Quaerts come up to her; he bowed before her; she bowed coldly in return, not offering him her hand. He lingered by her for a moment, spoke a word or two and then passed on, greeting other acquaintances.Mrs. Hoze had taken the arm of an old gentleman; a procession formed slowly. The servants threw back the doors; a table glittered beyond, half-visible. The general offered Cecile his arm, as she stood looking behind her with a listless turn of her neck. She closed her eyelids for a second, to prevent their quivering. Her brows contracted with a sense of disappointment; but smilingly she laid the tips of her fingers on the general’s arm andwith her closed fan smoothed away a crease from the tulle of her train.

Cecile passed through the long hall, which was almost a gallery: footmen stood on either side of the hangings; a hum of voices came from behind. The train of her dress rustled against the leaves of a palm; and the sound gave a sudden jar to the strung cords of her sensitiveness. She was a little nervous; her eyelids quivered slightly and her mouth had a very earnest fold.

She walked in; there was much light, but soft light, the light of candles only. Two officers stepped aside for her as she stood hesitating. Her eyes glanced round in search of Mrs. Hoze; she saw her standing among two or three of her guests, withher grey hair, her kindly and yet haughty face, rosy and smooth, almost without a wrinkle.

Mrs. Hoze came towards her:

“I can’t tell you how charming I think it of you not to have played me false!” she said, pressing Cecile’s hand with effusive and hospitable urbanity.

She introduced people to Cecile here and there; Cecile heard names the sound of which at once escaped her.

“General, allow me ... Mrs. van Even,” Mrs. Hoze whispered and left her, to speak to some one else.

Cecile drew a deep breath, pressed her hand to the edge of her bodice, as though to arrange something that had slipped from its place, answered the general cursorily. She was very pale; and her eyelids quivered more and more. She ventured to throw a glance round the room.

She stood next to the general, forcing herself to listen, so as not to give answers that would sound strikingly foolish. She was very tall, slender, and straight, with her shoulders, white as sunlit marble, blossoming out of a sombre vase of black: fine, black, trailing tulle, sprinkled all over with small jet spangles; glittering black on dull transparent black. A girdle with tassels of jet, hanging low, was wound about her waist. So she stood, blonde: blonde and black; a little sombre amid the warmth and light of other toilettes; and, for unique relief, two diamonds in her ears, like dewdrops.

Her thin suêde-covered fingers trembled as she manipulated her fan, a black tulle transparency, on which the same jet spangles glittered with black lustre. Her breath came short behind the strokes of the diaphanous fan as she talked with the general, a spare, bald, distinguished-lookingman, not in uniform, but wearing his decorations.

Mrs. Hoze’s guests walked about, greeting one another here and there, with a continuous hum of voices. Cecile saw Taco Quaerts come up to her; he bowed before her; she bowed coldly in return, not offering him her hand. He lingered by her for a moment, spoke a word or two and then passed on, greeting other acquaintances.

Mrs. Hoze had taken the arm of an old gentleman; a procession formed slowly. The servants threw back the doors; a table glittered beyond, half-visible. The general offered Cecile his arm, as she stood looking behind her with a listless turn of her neck. She closed her eyelids for a second, to prevent their quivering. Her brows contracted with a sense of disappointment; but smilingly she laid the tips of her fingers on the general’s arm andwith her closed fan smoothed away a crease from the tulle of her train.

2When Cecile was seated she found Quaerts sitting on her right. Then her disappointment vanished, the disappointment which she had felt at not being taken in to dinner by him; but her look remained cold, as usual. And yet she had what she wished; the expectation with which she had come to this dinner was fulfilled. Mrs. Hoze had seen Cecile at the Van Attemas’ and had gladly undertaken to restore the young widow to society. Cecile knew that Quaerts was a frequent visitor at Mrs. Hoze’s; she had heard from Amélie that he was invited to the dinner; and she had accepted. That Mrs. Hoze, remembering that Cecile had met Quaerts before, had placed him next to her was easy to understand.Cecile was very inquisitive about herself. How would she feel? At least interested: she could not disguise that from herself. She was certainly interested in him, remembering what Jules had said, what Amélie had said. She already felt that behind the mere sportsman there lurked another, whom she longed to know. Why should she? What concern was it of hers? She could not tell; but, in any case, as a matter of curiosity, as a puzzle, it awoke her interest. And, at the same time, she remained on her guard, for she did not think that his visit to her was strictly in order; and there were stories in which the name of that married woman was coupled with his.She succeeded in freeing herself from her conversation with the general, who seemed to feel called upon to entertain her, and it was she who spoke first to Quaerts:“Have you begun to give Jules his riding-lessons?” she asked, with a smile.He looked at her, evidently a little surprised at her voice and her smile, which were both new to him. He returned a bare answer:“Yes, mevrouw, we were at the riding-school yesterday....”She at once thought him clumsy, to let the conversation drop like that; but he enquired with that slight shyness which became a charm in him who was so manly:“So you are going out again, mevrouw?”She thought—she had indeed thought so before—that his questions were sometimes questions which people do not ask. This was one of the strange things about him.“Yes,” she replied, simply, not knowing what else to say.“Forgive me,” he said, seeing that hiswords had embarrassed her a little. “I asked, because ...”“Because?” she echoed, with wide-open eyes.He took courage and explained:“When Dolf spoke of you, he used always to say that you lived so quietly.... And I could never picture you to myself returning to society, mixing with many people; I had formed an idea of you; and it now seems that this idea was a mistaken one.”“An idea?” she asked. “What idea?”“Perhaps you will be angry when I tell you. Perhaps, even as it is, you are none too well pleased with me!” he replied, jestingly.“I have not the slightest reason to be either pleased or displeased with you,” she jested in return. “But tell me, what was your idea?”“Then you are interested in it?”“If you will answer candidly, yes. But you must be candid!” and she threatened him with her finger.“Well,” he began, “I thought of you as a very cultured woman, as a very interesting woman—I still think all that—and... as a woman who cared nothing for the world beyond her own sphere; and this ... this I can no longer think. And I feel almost inclined to say, at the risk of your looking on me as very strange, that I am sorry no longer to be able to think of you in that way. I would almost rather not have met you here....”He laughed, to soften what might sound strange in his words. She looked at him, her eyelashes flickering with amazement, her lips half-opened; and suddenly it struck her that she was looking into his eyes for the first time. She looked into his eyes and saw that they were a dark, very dark grey around the black depth ofthe pupil. There was something in his eyes, she could not say what, but something magnetic, as though she could never again take away her own from them.“How strange you can be sometimes!” she said mechanically: the words came intuitively.“Oh, please don’t be angry!” he almost implored her. “I was so glad when you spoke kindly to me. You were a little distant to me when I saw you last; and I should be so sorry if I put you out. Perhaps I am strange, but how could I possibly be commonplace with you? How could I possibly, even if you were to take offence?...Haveyou taken offence?”“I ought to, but I suppose I must forgive you, if only for your candour!” she said, laughing. “Otherwise your remarks were anything but gallant.”“And yet I did not mean it ungallantly.”“Oh, no doubt!” she jested.She remembered that she was at a big dinner-party. The guests ranged before and around her; the footmen waiting behind; the light of the candles gleaming on the silver and touching the glass with all the hues of the rainbow; on the table prone mirrors, like sheets of water surrounded by flowers, little lakes amidst moss-roses and lilies of the valley. She sat silent a moment, still smiling, looking at her hand, a pretty hand, like a white precious thing upon the tulle of her gown: one of the fingers bore several rings, scintillating sparks of blue and white.The general turned to her again; they exchanged a few words; the general was delighted that Mrs. van Even’s right-hand neighbour was keeping her entertained and enabling him to get on quietly with his dinner. Quaerts turned to the lady on his right.Both of them were glad when they were able to resume their conversation:“What were we talking about just now?” she asked.“I know!” he replied, mischievously.“The general interrupted us.”“You werenotangry with me!” he jested.“Oh, of course,” she replied, laughing softly, “it was about your idea of me, was it not? Why could you no longer picture me returning to society?”“I thought that you had become a person apart.”“But why?”“From what Dolf said, from what I myself thought, when I saw you.”“And why are you now sorry that I am not ‘a person apart,’ as you call it?” she asked, still laughing.“From vanity; because I made a mistake.And yet perhaps I have not made a mistake....”They looked at each other; and both of them, although each thought it in a different way, now thought the same thing, namely, that they must be careful with their words, because they were speaking of something very delicate and tender, something as frail as a soap-bubble, which could easily break if they spoke of it too loudly; the mere breath of their words might be sufficient. Yet she ventured to ask:“And why ... do you believe ... that perhaps ... you are not mistaken?”“I don’t quite know. Perhaps because I wish it so. Perhaps, too, because it is so true as to leave no room for doubt. Oh, yes, I am almost sure that I judged rightly! Do you know why? Because otherwise I should have hidden myself and been commonplace;and I find this impossible with you. I have given you more of myself in this short moment than I have given people whom I have known for years in the course of all those years. Therefore surely you must be a person apart.”“What do you mean by ‘a person apart’?”He smiled, he opened his eyes; she looked into them again, deeply.“You understand, surely!” he said.Fear for the delicate thing that might break came between them again. They understood each other as with a freemasonry of feeling. Her eyes were magnetically held upon his.“You are very strange!” she again said, automatically.“No,” he said, calmly, shaking his head, with his eyes in hers. “I am certain that I am not strange to you, even though you may think so for the moment.”She was silent.“I am so glad to be able to talk to you like this!” he whispered. “It makes me very happy. And see, no one knows anything of it. We are at a big dinner; the people next to us can even catch our words; and yet there is not one among them who understands us or grasps the subject of our conversation. Do you know the reason?”“No,” she murmured.“I will tell you; at least, I think it is like this. Perhaps you know better, for youmustknow things better than I, you are so much subtler. I personally believe that each person has a circle about him, an atmosphere, and that he meets other people who have circles or atmospheres about them, sympathetic or antipathetic to his own.”“This is pure mysticism!” she said.“No,” he replied, “it is quite simple.When the two circles are antipathetic, each repels the other; but, when they are sympathetic, they glide and overlap in smaller or larger curves of sympathy. In some cases the circles almost coincide, but they always remain separate.... Do you really think this so very mystical?”“One might call it the mysticism of sentiment. But ... I have thought something of the sort myself....”“Yes, yes, I can understand that,” he continued, calmly, as if he expected it. “I believe that those around us would not be able to understand us, because we two alone have sympathetic circles. But my atmosphere is of a much grosser texture than yours, which is very delicate.”She was silent again, remembering her former aversion to him: did she still feel it?“What do you think of my theory?” he asked.She looked up; her white fingers trembled in the tulle of her gown. She made a poor effort to smile:“I think you go too far!” she stammered.“You think I rush into hyperbole?”She would have liked to say yes, but could not:“No,” she said; “not that.”“Do I bore you?...”She looked at him, looked deep into his eyes. She shook her head, by way of saying no. She would have liked to say that he was too unconventional just now; but she could not find the words. A faintness oppressed her whole being. The table, the people, the whole dinner-party appeared to her as through a haze of light. When she recovered herself again, she perceived that a pretty woman opposite had been staring at her and was now looking away, out of politeness. She did notknow how or why this interested her, but she asked Quaerts:“Who is the lady over there, in pale blue, with the dark hair?”She saw that he started.“That is young Mrs. Hijdrecht!” he said, calmly, a little distantly.She too was perturbed; she turned pale; her fan flapped nervously to and fro in her fingers.He had named the woman whom rumour said to be his mistress.

2

When Cecile was seated she found Quaerts sitting on her right. Then her disappointment vanished, the disappointment which she had felt at not being taken in to dinner by him; but her look remained cold, as usual. And yet she had what she wished; the expectation with which she had come to this dinner was fulfilled. Mrs. Hoze had seen Cecile at the Van Attemas’ and had gladly undertaken to restore the young widow to society. Cecile knew that Quaerts was a frequent visitor at Mrs. Hoze’s; she had heard from Amélie that he was invited to the dinner; and she had accepted. That Mrs. Hoze, remembering that Cecile had met Quaerts before, had placed him next to her was easy to understand.Cecile was very inquisitive about herself. How would she feel? At least interested: she could not disguise that from herself. She was certainly interested in him, remembering what Jules had said, what Amélie had said. She already felt that behind the mere sportsman there lurked another, whom she longed to know. Why should she? What concern was it of hers? She could not tell; but, in any case, as a matter of curiosity, as a puzzle, it awoke her interest. And, at the same time, she remained on her guard, for she did not think that his visit to her was strictly in order; and there were stories in which the name of that married woman was coupled with his.She succeeded in freeing herself from her conversation with the general, who seemed to feel called upon to entertain her, and it was she who spoke first to Quaerts:“Have you begun to give Jules his riding-lessons?” she asked, with a smile.He looked at her, evidently a little surprised at her voice and her smile, which were both new to him. He returned a bare answer:“Yes, mevrouw, we were at the riding-school yesterday....”She at once thought him clumsy, to let the conversation drop like that; but he enquired with that slight shyness which became a charm in him who was so manly:“So you are going out again, mevrouw?”She thought—she had indeed thought so before—that his questions were sometimes questions which people do not ask. This was one of the strange things about him.“Yes,” she replied, simply, not knowing what else to say.“Forgive me,” he said, seeing that hiswords had embarrassed her a little. “I asked, because ...”“Because?” she echoed, with wide-open eyes.He took courage and explained:“When Dolf spoke of you, he used always to say that you lived so quietly.... And I could never picture you to myself returning to society, mixing with many people; I had formed an idea of you; and it now seems that this idea was a mistaken one.”“An idea?” she asked. “What idea?”“Perhaps you will be angry when I tell you. Perhaps, even as it is, you are none too well pleased with me!” he replied, jestingly.“I have not the slightest reason to be either pleased or displeased with you,” she jested in return. “But tell me, what was your idea?”“Then you are interested in it?”“If you will answer candidly, yes. But you must be candid!” and she threatened him with her finger.“Well,” he began, “I thought of you as a very cultured woman, as a very interesting woman—I still think all that—and... as a woman who cared nothing for the world beyond her own sphere; and this ... this I can no longer think. And I feel almost inclined to say, at the risk of your looking on me as very strange, that I am sorry no longer to be able to think of you in that way. I would almost rather not have met you here....”He laughed, to soften what might sound strange in his words. She looked at him, her eyelashes flickering with amazement, her lips half-opened; and suddenly it struck her that she was looking into his eyes for the first time. She looked into his eyes and saw that they were a dark, very dark grey around the black depth ofthe pupil. There was something in his eyes, she could not say what, but something magnetic, as though she could never again take away her own from them.“How strange you can be sometimes!” she said mechanically: the words came intuitively.“Oh, please don’t be angry!” he almost implored her. “I was so glad when you spoke kindly to me. You were a little distant to me when I saw you last; and I should be so sorry if I put you out. Perhaps I am strange, but how could I possibly be commonplace with you? How could I possibly, even if you were to take offence?...Haveyou taken offence?”“I ought to, but I suppose I must forgive you, if only for your candour!” she said, laughing. “Otherwise your remarks were anything but gallant.”“And yet I did not mean it ungallantly.”“Oh, no doubt!” she jested.She remembered that she was at a big dinner-party. The guests ranged before and around her; the footmen waiting behind; the light of the candles gleaming on the silver and touching the glass with all the hues of the rainbow; on the table prone mirrors, like sheets of water surrounded by flowers, little lakes amidst moss-roses and lilies of the valley. She sat silent a moment, still smiling, looking at her hand, a pretty hand, like a white precious thing upon the tulle of her gown: one of the fingers bore several rings, scintillating sparks of blue and white.The general turned to her again; they exchanged a few words; the general was delighted that Mrs. van Even’s right-hand neighbour was keeping her entertained and enabling him to get on quietly with his dinner. Quaerts turned to the lady on his right.Both of them were glad when they were able to resume their conversation:“What were we talking about just now?” she asked.“I know!” he replied, mischievously.“The general interrupted us.”“You werenotangry with me!” he jested.“Oh, of course,” she replied, laughing softly, “it was about your idea of me, was it not? Why could you no longer picture me returning to society?”“I thought that you had become a person apart.”“But why?”“From what Dolf said, from what I myself thought, when I saw you.”“And why are you now sorry that I am not ‘a person apart,’ as you call it?” she asked, still laughing.“From vanity; because I made a mistake.And yet perhaps I have not made a mistake....”They looked at each other; and both of them, although each thought it in a different way, now thought the same thing, namely, that they must be careful with their words, because they were speaking of something very delicate and tender, something as frail as a soap-bubble, which could easily break if they spoke of it too loudly; the mere breath of their words might be sufficient. Yet she ventured to ask:“And why ... do you believe ... that perhaps ... you are not mistaken?”“I don’t quite know. Perhaps because I wish it so. Perhaps, too, because it is so true as to leave no room for doubt. Oh, yes, I am almost sure that I judged rightly! Do you know why? Because otherwise I should have hidden myself and been commonplace;and I find this impossible with you. I have given you more of myself in this short moment than I have given people whom I have known for years in the course of all those years. Therefore surely you must be a person apart.”“What do you mean by ‘a person apart’?”He smiled, he opened his eyes; she looked into them again, deeply.“You understand, surely!” he said.Fear for the delicate thing that might break came between them again. They understood each other as with a freemasonry of feeling. Her eyes were magnetically held upon his.“You are very strange!” she again said, automatically.“No,” he said, calmly, shaking his head, with his eyes in hers. “I am certain that I am not strange to you, even though you may think so for the moment.”She was silent.“I am so glad to be able to talk to you like this!” he whispered. “It makes me very happy. And see, no one knows anything of it. We are at a big dinner; the people next to us can even catch our words; and yet there is not one among them who understands us or grasps the subject of our conversation. Do you know the reason?”“No,” she murmured.“I will tell you; at least, I think it is like this. Perhaps you know better, for youmustknow things better than I, you are so much subtler. I personally believe that each person has a circle about him, an atmosphere, and that he meets other people who have circles or atmospheres about them, sympathetic or antipathetic to his own.”“This is pure mysticism!” she said.“No,” he replied, “it is quite simple.When the two circles are antipathetic, each repels the other; but, when they are sympathetic, they glide and overlap in smaller or larger curves of sympathy. In some cases the circles almost coincide, but they always remain separate.... Do you really think this so very mystical?”“One might call it the mysticism of sentiment. But ... I have thought something of the sort myself....”“Yes, yes, I can understand that,” he continued, calmly, as if he expected it. “I believe that those around us would not be able to understand us, because we two alone have sympathetic circles. But my atmosphere is of a much grosser texture than yours, which is very delicate.”She was silent again, remembering her former aversion to him: did she still feel it?“What do you think of my theory?” he asked.She looked up; her white fingers trembled in the tulle of her gown. She made a poor effort to smile:“I think you go too far!” she stammered.“You think I rush into hyperbole?”She would have liked to say yes, but could not:“No,” she said; “not that.”“Do I bore you?...”She looked at him, looked deep into his eyes. She shook her head, by way of saying no. She would have liked to say that he was too unconventional just now; but she could not find the words. A faintness oppressed her whole being. The table, the people, the whole dinner-party appeared to her as through a haze of light. When she recovered herself again, she perceived that a pretty woman opposite had been staring at her and was now looking away, out of politeness. She did notknow how or why this interested her, but she asked Quaerts:“Who is the lady over there, in pale blue, with the dark hair?”She saw that he started.“That is young Mrs. Hijdrecht!” he said, calmly, a little distantly.She too was perturbed; she turned pale; her fan flapped nervously to and fro in her fingers.He had named the woman whom rumour said to be his mistress.

When Cecile was seated she found Quaerts sitting on her right. Then her disappointment vanished, the disappointment which she had felt at not being taken in to dinner by him; but her look remained cold, as usual. And yet she had what she wished; the expectation with which she had come to this dinner was fulfilled. Mrs. Hoze had seen Cecile at the Van Attemas’ and had gladly undertaken to restore the young widow to society. Cecile knew that Quaerts was a frequent visitor at Mrs. Hoze’s; she had heard from Amélie that he was invited to the dinner; and she had accepted. That Mrs. Hoze, remembering that Cecile had met Quaerts before, had placed him next to her was easy to understand.

Cecile was very inquisitive about herself. How would she feel? At least interested: she could not disguise that from herself. She was certainly interested in him, remembering what Jules had said, what Amélie had said. She already felt that behind the mere sportsman there lurked another, whom she longed to know. Why should she? What concern was it of hers? She could not tell; but, in any case, as a matter of curiosity, as a puzzle, it awoke her interest. And, at the same time, she remained on her guard, for she did not think that his visit to her was strictly in order; and there were stories in which the name of that married woman was coupled with his.

She succeeded in freeing herself from her conversation with the general, who seemed to feel called upon to entertain her, and it was she who spoke first to Quaerts:

“Have you begun to give Jules his riding-lessons?” she asked, with a smile.

He looked at her, evidently a little surprised at her voice and her smile, which were both new to him. He returned a bare answer:

“Yes, mevrouw, we were at the riding-school yesterday....”

She at once thought him clumsy, to let the conversation drop like that; but he enquired with that slight shyness which became a charm in him who was so manly:

“So you are going out again, mevrouw?”

She thought—she had indeed thought so before—that his questions were sometimes questions which people do not ask. This was one of the strange things about him.

“Yes,” she replied, simply, not knowing what else to say.

“Forgive me,” he said, seeing that hiswords had embarrassed her a little. “I asked, because ...”

“Because?” she echoed, with wide-open eyes.

He took courage and explained:

“When Dolf spoke of you, he used always to say that you lived so quietly.... And I could never picture you to myself returning to society, mixing with many people; I had formed an idea of you; and it now seems that this idea was a mistaken one.”

“An idea?” she asked. “What idea?”

“Perhaps you will be angry when I tell you. Perhaps, even as it is, you are none too well pleased with me!” he replied, jestingly.

“I have not the slightest reason to be either pleased or displeased with you,” she jested in return. “But tell me, what was your idea?”

“Then you are interested in it?”

“If you will answer candidly, yes. But you must be candid!” and she threatened him with her finger.

“Well,” he began, “I thought of you as a very cultured woman, as a very interesting woman—I still think all that—and... as a woman who cared nothing for the world beyond her own sphere; and this ... this I can no longer think. And I feel almost inclined to say, at the risk of your looking on me as very strange, that I am sorry no longer to be able to think of you in that way. I would almost rather not have met you here....”

He laughed, to soften what might sound strange in his words. She looked at him, her eyelashes flickering with amazement, her lips half-opened; and suddenly it struck her that she was looking into his eyes for the first time. She looked into his eyes and saw that they were a dark, very dark grey around the black depth ofthe pupil. There was something in his eyes, she could not say what, but something magnetic, as though she could never again take away her own from them.

“How strange you can be sometimes!” she said mechanically: the words came intuitively.

“Oh, please don’t be angry!” he almost implored her. “I was so glad when you spoke kindly to me. You were a little distant to me when I saw you last; and I should be so sorry if I put you out. Perhaps I am strange, but how could I possibly be commonplace with you? How could I possibly, even if you were to take offence?...Haveyou taken offence?”

“I ought to, but I suppose I must forgive you, if only for your candour!” she said, laughing. “Otherwise your remarks were anything but gallant.”

“And yet I did not mean it ungallantly.”

“Oh, no doubt!” she jested.

She remembered that she was at a big dinner-party. The guests ranged before and around her; the footmen waiting behind; the light of the candles gleaming on the silver and touching the glass with all the hues of the rainbow; on the table prone mirrors, like sheets of water surrounded by flowers, little lakes amidst moss-roses and lilies of the valley. She sat silent a moment, still smiling, looking at her hand, a pretty hand, like a white precious thing upon the tulle of her gown: one of the fingers bore several rings, scintillating sparks of blue and white.

The general turned to her again; they exchanged a few words; the general was delighted that Mrs. van Even’s right-hand neighbour was keeping her entertained and enabling him to get on quietly with his dinner. Quaerts turned to the lady on his right.

Both of them were glad when they were able to resume their conversation:

“What were we talking about just now?” she asked.

“I know!” he replied, mischievously.

“The general interrupted us.”

“You werenotangry with me!” he jested.

“Oh, of course,” she replied, laughing softly, “it was about your idea of me, was it not? Why could you no longer picture me returning to society?”

“I thought that you had become a person apart.”

“But why?”

“From what Dolf said, from what I myself thought, when I saw you.”

“And why are you now sorry that I am not ‘a person apart,’ as you call it?” she asked, still laughing.

“From vanity; because I made a mistake.And yet perhaps I have not made a mistake....”

They looked at each other; and both of them, although each thought it in a different way, now thought the same thing, namely, that they must be careful with their words, because they were speaking of something very delicate and tender, something as frail as a soap-bubble, which could easily break if they spoke of it too loudly; the mere breath of their words might be sufficient. Yet she ventured to ask:

“And why ... do you believe ... that perhaps ... you are not mistaken?”

“I don’t quite know. Perhaps because I wish it so. Perhaps, too, because it is so true as to leave no room for doubt. Oh, yes, I am almost sure that I judged rightly! Do you know why? Because otherwise I should have hidden myself and been commonplace;and I find this impossible with you. I have given you more of myself in this short moment than I have given people whom I have known for years in the course of all those years. Therefore surely you must be a person apart.”

“What do you mean by ‘a person apart’?”

He smiled, he opened his eyes; she looked into them again, deeply.

“You understand, surely!” he said.

Fear for the delicate thing that might break came between them again. They understood each other as with a freemasonry of feeling. Her eyes were magnetically held upon his.

“You are very strange!” she again said, automatically.

“No,” he said, calmly, shaking his head, with his eyes in hers. “I am certain that I am not strange to you, even though you may think so for the moment.”

She was silent.

“I am so glad to be able to talk to you like this!” he whispered. “It makes me very happy. And see, no one knows anything of it. We are at a big dinner; the people next to us can even catch our words; and yet there is not one among them who understands us or grasps the subject of our conversation. Do you know the reason?”

“No,” she murmured.

“I will tell you; at least, I think it is like this. Perhaps you know better, for youmustknow things better than I, you are so much subtler. I personally believe that each person has a circle about him, an atmosphere, and that he meets other people who have circles or atmospheres about them, sympathetic or antipathetic to his own.”

“This is pure mysticism!” she said.

“No,” he replied, “it is quite simple.When the two circles are antipathetic, each repels the other; but, when they are sympathetic, they glide and overlap in smaller or larger curves of sympathy. In some cases the circles almost coincide, but they always remain separate.... Do you really think this so very mystical?”

“One might call it the mysticism of sentiment. But ... I have thought something of the sort myself....”

“Yes, yes, I can understand that,” he continued, calmly, as if he expected it. “I believe that those around us would not be able to understand us, because we two alone have sympathetic circles. But my atmosphere is of a much grosser texture than yours, which is very delicate.”

She was silent again, remembering her former aversion to him: did she still feel it?

“What do you think of my theory?” he asked.

She looked up; her white fingers trembled in the tulle of her gown. She made a poor effort to smile:

“I think you go too far!” she stammered.

“You think I rush into hyperbole?”

She would have liked to say yes, but could not:

“No,” she said; “not that.”

“Do I bore you?...”

She looked at him, looked deep into his eyes. She shook her head, by way of saying no. She would have liked to say that he was too unconventional just now; but she could not find the words. A faintness oppressed her whole being. The table, the people, the whole dinner-party appeared to her as through a haze of light. When she recovered herself again, she perceived that a pretty woman opposite had been staring at her and was now looking away, out of politeness. She did notknow how or why this interested her, but she asked Quaerts:

“Who is the lady over there, in pale blue, with the dark hair?”

She saw that he started.

“That is young Mrs. Hijdrecht!” he said, calmly, a little distantly.

She too was perturbed; she turned pale; her fan flapped nervously to and fro in her fingers.

He had named the woman whom rumour said to be his mistress.

3It seemed to Cecile as though that delicate, frail thing, that soap-bubble, had burst. She wondered if he had spoken to that dark-haired woman also of circles of sympathy. So soon as she was able, Cecile observed Mrs. Hijdrecht. She had a warm, dull-gold complexion, dark, glowing eyes, a mouth as of fresh blood.Her dress was cut very low; her throat and the slope of her breast showed insolently handsome, brutally luscious. A row of diamonds encompassed her neck with a narrow line of white flame.Cecile felt ill at ease. She felt as if she were playing with fire. She looked away from the young woman and turned to Quaerts, in obedience to some magnetic force. She saw a cloud of melancholy stealing over the upper half of his face, over his forehead and his eyes, which betrayed a slight look of age. And she heard him say:“Now what do you care about that lady’s name? We were just in the middle of such a charming conversation....”She too felt sad now, sad because of the soap-bubble that had burst. She did not know why, but she felt pity for him, a sudden, deep, intense pity.“We can resume our conversation,” she said, softly.“Ah no, don’t let us take it up where we left it!” he rejoined, with feigned airiness. “I was becoming tedious.”He spoke of other things. She answered little; and their conversation languished. They each occupied themselves with their neighbours. The dinner came to an end. Mrs. Hoze rose, took the arm of the gentleman beside her. The general escorted Cecile to the drawing-room, in the slow procession of the others.

3

It seemed to Cecile as though that delicate, frail thing, that soap-bubble, had burst. She wondered if he had spoken to that dark-haired woman also of circles of sympathy. So soon as she was able, Cecile observed Mrs. Hijdrecht. She had a warm, dull-gold complexion, dark, glowing eyes, a mouth as of fresh blood.Her dress was cut very low; her throat and the slope of her breast showed insolently handsome, brutally luscious. A row of diamonds encompassed her neck with a narrow line of white flame.Cecile felt ill at ease. She felt as if she were playing with fire. She looked away from the young woman and turned to Quaerts, in obedience to some magnetic force. She saw a cloud of melancholy stealing over the upper half of his face, over his forehead and his eyes, which betrayed a slight look of age. And she heard him say:“Now what do you care about that lady’s name? We were just in the middle of such a charming conversation....”She too felt sad now, sad because of the soap-bubble that had burst. She did not know why, but she felt pity for him, a sudden, deep, intense pity.“We can resume our conversation,” she said, softly.“Ah no, don’t let us take it up where we left it!” he rejoined, with feigned airiness. “I was becoming tedious.”He spoke of other things. She answered little; and their conversation languished. They each occupied themselves with their neighbours. The dinner came to an end. Mrs. Hoze rose, took the arm of the gentleman beside her. The general escorted Cecile to the drawing-room, in the slow procession of the others.

It seemed to Cecile as though that delicate, frail thing, that soap-bubble, had burst. She wondered if he had spoken to that dark-haired woman also of circles of sympathy. So soon as she was able, Cecile observed Mrs. Hijdrecht. She had a warm, dull-gold complexion, dark, glowing eyes, a mouth as of fresh blood.Her dress was cut very low; her throat and the slope of her breast showed insolently handsome, brutally luscious. A row of diamonds encompassed her neck with a narrow line of white flame.

Cecile felt ill at ease. She felt as if she were playing with fire. She looked away from the young woman and turned to Quaerts, in obedience to some magnetic force. She saw a cloud of melancholy stealing over the upper half of his face, over his forehead and his eyes, which betrayed a slight look of age. And she heard him say:

“Now what do you care about that lady’s name? We were just in the middle of such a charming conversation....”

She too felt sad now, sad because of the soap-bubble that had burst. She did not know why, but she felt pity for him, a sudden, deep, intense pity.

“We can resume our conversation,” she said, softly.

“Ah no, don’t let us take it up where we left it!” he rejoined, with feigned airiness. “I was becoming tedious.”

He spoke of other things. She answered little; and their conversation languished. They each occupied themselves with their neighbours. The dinner came to an end. Mrs. Hoze rose, took the arm of the gentleman beside her. The general escorted Cecile to the drawing-room, in the slow procession of the others.

4The ladies remained alone; the men went to the smoking-room with young Hoze. Cecile saw Mrs. Hoze come towards her. She asked her if she had not been bored at dinner; they sat down together, in a confidentialtête-à-tête.Cecile made the necessary effort to replyto Mrs. Hoze; but she would have liked to go somewhere and weep quietly, because everything passed so quickly, because the speck of the present was so small. Gone was the sweet charm of their conversation during dinner about sympathy, a fragile intimacy amid the worldly show about them. Gone was that moment, never, never to return: life sped over it with its constant flow, as with a torrent of all-obliterating water. Oh, the sorrow of it, to think how quickly, like an intangible perfume, everything speeds away, everything that is dear to us!...Mrs. Hoze left her; Suzette van Attema came to talk to Cecile. She was dressed in pink; and she glittered in all her aspect as if gold-dust had poured all over her, upon her movements, her eyes, her words. She spoke volubly to Cecile, telling interminable tales, to which Cecile did not always listen. Suddenly, through Suzette’sprattle, Cecile heard the voices of two women whispering behind her; she only caught a word here and there:“Emilie Hijdrecht, you know....”“Only gossip, I think; Mrs. Hoze does not seem to heed it....”“Ah, but I know it as a fact!”The voices were lost in the hum of the others. Cecile just caught a sound like Quaerts’ name. Then Suzette asked, suddenly:“Do you know young Mrs. Hijdrecht, Auntie?”“No.”“Over there, with the diamonds. You know, they talk about her and Quaerts. Mamma doesn’t believe it. At any rate, he’s a great flirt. You sat next to him, didn’t you?”Cecile suffered severely in her innermost sensitiveness. She shrank into herself entirely, doing all that she could toappear different from what she was. Suzette saw nothing of her discomfiture.The men returned. Cecile looked to see whether Quaerts would speak to Mrs. Hijdrecht. But he wholly ignored her presence and even, when he saw Suzette sitting with Cecile, came over to them to pay a compliment to Suzette, to whom he had not yet spoken.It was a relief to Cecile when she was able to go. She was yearning to be alone, to recover herself, to return from her abstraction. In her brougham she scarcely dared breathe, fearful of something, she could not say what. When she reached home she felt a stifling heaviness which seemed to paralyse her; and she dragged herself languidly up the stairs to her dressing-room.And yet, on the stairs, there fell over her, as from the roof of her house, a haze of protecting safety. Slowly she wentup, her hand, holding a long glove, pressing the velvet banister of the stairway. She felt as if she were about to swoon:“But, Heaven help me ... I am fond of him, I love him, I love him!” she whispered between her trembling lips, in sudden amazement.It was as in a rhythm of astonishment that she wearily mounted the stairs, higher and higher, in a silent surprise of sudden light.“But I am fond of him, I love him, I love him!”It sounded like a melody through her weariness.She reached her dressing-room, where Greta had lighted the gas; she dragged herself inside. The door of the nursery stood half open; she went in, threw back the curtain of Christie’s little bed, dropped on her knees and looked at the child. The boy partly awoke, still in the warmth of adeep sleep; he crept a little from between the sheets, laughed, threw his arms about Cecile’s bare neck:“Mummy dear!”She pressed him tightly in the embrace of her slender, white arms; she kissed his raspberry mouth, his drowsed eyes. And meantime the refrain sang on in her heart, right across the weariness which seemed to break her by the bedside of her child:“But I am fond of him, I love him, I love him, I love him...!”

4

The ladies remained alone; the men went to the smoking-room with young Hoze. Cecile saw Mrs. Hoze come towards her. She asked her if she had not been bored at dinner; they sat down together, in a confidentialtête-à-tête.Cecile made the necessary effort to replyto Mrs. Hoze; but she would have liked to go somewhere and weep quietly, because everything passed so quickly, because the speck of the present was so small. Gone was the sweet charm of their conversation during dinner about sympathy, a fragile intimacy amid the worldly show about them. Gone was that moment, never, never to return: life sped over it with its constant flow, as with a torrent of all-obliterating water. Oh, the sorrow of it, to think how quickly, like an intangible perfume, everything speeds away, everything that is dear to us!...Mrs. Hoze left her; Suzette van Attema came to talk to Cecile. She was dressed in pink; and she glittered in all her aspect as if gold-dust had poured all over her, upon her movements, her eyes, her words. She spoke volubly to Cecile, telling interminable tales, to which Cecile did not always listen. Suddenly, through Suzette’sprattle, Cecile heard the voices of two women whispering behind her; she only caught a word here and there:“Emilie Hijdrecht, you know....”“Only gossip, I think; Mrs. Hoze does not seem to heed it....”“Ah, but I know it as a fact!”The voices were lost in the hum of the others. Cecile just caught a sound like Quaerts’ name. Then Suzette asked, suddenly:“Do you know young Mrs. Hijdrecht, Auntie?”“No.”“Over there, with the diamonds. You know, they talk about her and Quaerts. Mamma doesn’t believe it. At any rate, he’s a great flirt. You sat next to him, didn’t you?”Cecile suffered severely in her innermost sensitiveness. She shrank into herself entirely, doing all that she could toappear different from what she was. Suzette saw nothing of her discomfiture.The men returned. Cecile looked to see whether Quaerts would speak to Mrs. Hijdrecht. But he wholly ignored her presence and even, when he saw Suzette sitting with Cecile, came over to them to pay a compliment to Suzette, to whom he had not yet spoken.It was a relief to Cecile when she was able to go. She was yearning to be alone, to recover herself, to return from her abstraction. In her brougham she scarcely dared breathe, fearful of something, she could not say what. When she reached home she felt a stifling heaviness which seemed to paralyse her; and she dragged herself languidly up the stairs to her dressing-room.And yet, on the stairs, there fell over her, as from the roof of her house, a haze of protecting safety. Slowly she wentup, her hand, holding a long glove, pressing the velvet banister of the stairway. She felt as if she were about to swoon:“But, Heaven help me ... I am fond of him, I love him, I love him!” she whispered between her trembling lips, in sudden amazement.It was as in a rhythm of astonishment that she wearily mounted the stairs, higher and higher, in a silent surprise of sudden light.“But I am fond of him, I love him, I love him!”It sounded like a melody through her weariness.She reached her dressing-room, where Greta had lighted the gas; she dragged herself inside. The door of the nursery stood half open; she went in, threw back the curtain of Christie’s little bed, dropped on her knees and looked at the child. The boy partly awoke, still in the warmth of adeep sleep; he crept a little from between the sheets, laughed, threw his arms about Cecile’s bare neck:“Mummy dear!”She pressed him tightly in the embrace of her slender, white arms; she kissed his raspberry mouth, his drowsed eyes. And meantime the refrain sang on in her heart, right across the weariness which seemed to break her by the bedside of her child:“But I am fond of him, I love him, I love him, I love him...!”

The ladies remained alone; the men went to the smoking-room with young Hoze. Cecile saw Mrs. Hoze come towards her. She asked her if she had not been bored at dinner; they sat down together, in a confidentialtête-à-tête.

Cecile made the necessary effort to replyto Mrs. Hoze; but she would have liked to go somewhere and weep quietly, because everything passed so quickly, because the speck of the present was so small. Gone was the sweet charm of their conversation during dinner about sympathy, a fragile intimacy amid the worldly show about them. Gone was that moment, never, never to return: life sped over it with its constant flow, as with a torrent of all-obliterating water. Oh, the sorrow of it, to think how quickly, like an intangible perfume, everything speeds away, everything that is dear to us!...

Mrs. Hoze left her; Suzette van Attema came to talk to Cecile. She was dressed in pink; and she glittered in all her aspect as if gold-dust had poured all over her, upon her movements, her eyes, her words. She spoke volubly to Cecile, telling interminable tales, to which Cecile did not always listen. Suddenly, through Suzette’sprattle, Cecile heard the voices of two women whispering behind her; she only caught a word here and there:

“Emilie Hijdrecht, you know....”

“Only gossip, I think; Mrs. Hoze does not seem to heed it....”

“Ah, but I know it as a fact!”

The voices were lost in the hum of the others. Cecile just caught a sound like Quaerts’ name. Then Suzette asked, suddenly:

“Do you know young Mrs. Hijdrecht, Auntie?”

“No.”

“Over there, with the diamonds. You know, they talk about her and Quaerts. Mamma doesn’t believe it. At any rate, he’s a great flirt. You sat next to him, didn’t you?”

Cecile suffered severely in her innermost sensitiveness. She shrank into herself entirely, doing all that she could toappear different from what she was. Suzette saw nothing of her discomfiture.

The men returned. Cecile looked to see whether Quaerts would speak to Mrs. Hijdrecht. But he wholly ignored her presence and even, when he saw Suzette sitting with Cecile, came over to them to pay a compliment to Suzette, to whom he had not yet spoken.

It was a relief to Cecile when she was able to go. She was yearning to be alone, to recover herself, to return from her abstraction. In her brougham she scarcely dared breathe, fearful of something, she could not say what. When she reached home she felt a stifling heaviness which seemed to paralyse her; and she dragged herself languidly up the stairs to her dressing-room.

And yet, on the stairs, there fell over her, as from the roof of her house, a haze of protecting safety. Slowly she wentup, her hand, holding a long glove, pressing the velvet banister of the stairway. She felt as if she were about to swoon:

“But, Heaven help me ... I am fond of him, I love him, I love him!” she whispered between her trembling lips, in sudden amazement.

It was as in a rhythm of astonishment that she wearily mounted the stairs, higher and higher, in a silent surprise of sudden light.

“But I am fond of him, I love him, I love him!”

It sounded like a melody through her weariness.

She reached her dressing-room, where Greta had lighted the gas; she dragged herself inside. The door of the nursery stood half open; she went in, threw back the curtain of Christie’s little bed, dropped on her knees and looked at the child. The boy partly awoke, still in the warmth of adeep sleep; he crept a little from between the sheets, laughed, threw his arms about Cecile’s bare neck:

“Mummy dear!”

She pressed him tightly in the embrace of her slender, white arms; she kissed his raspberry mouth, his drowsed eyes. And meantime the refrain sang on in her heart, right across the weariness which seemed to break her by the bedside of her child:

“But I am fond of him, I love him, I love him, I love him...!”

5The mystery! Suddenly, on the staircase, it had beamed open before her in her soul, like a great flower of light, a mystic rose with glistening petals, into whose golden heart she now looked for the first time. The analysis to which she was so much inclined was no longer possible: this was the riddle of love, the eternal riddle,which had beamed open within her, transfixing with its rays the very width of her soul, in the midst of which it had burst forth like a sun in a universe; it was too late to ask the reason why; it was too late to ponder and dream upon it; it could only be accepted as the inexplicable phenomenon of the soul; it was a creation of sentiment, of which the god who created it would be as impossible to find in the inner essence of his reality as the God who had created the world out of chaos. It was light breaking forth from darkness; it was heaven disclosed above the earth. And it existed: it was reality and not a fairy-tale! For it was wholly and entirely within her, a sudden, incontestable, everlasting truth, a felt fact, so real in its ethereal incorporeity that it seemed to her as if, until that moment, she had never known, never thought, never felt. It was the beginning, the opening out of herself, the dawnof her soul’s life, the joyful miracle, the miraculous inception of love, love focussed in the midst of her soul.She passed the following days in self-contemplation, wandering through her dreams as through a new country, rich with great light, where distant landscapes paled into a wan radiance, like fantastic meteors in the night, quivering in incandescence on the horizon. It seemed to her as though she, a pious and glad pilgrim, were making her way along paradisaical oases towards those distant scenes, there to find even more, the goal.... Only a little while ago, the prospect before her had been narrow and forlorn—her children gone from her, her loneliness wrapping her about like a night—and now, now she saw stretching in front of her a long road, a wide horizon, glittering with light, nothing but light....Thatwas, all thatwas! It was no fine poets’ fancy; it existed, it gleamed in herheart like a sacred jewel, like a mystic rose with stamina of light! A freshness as of dew fell over her, over her whole life: over the life of her senses; over the life of outward appearances; over the life of her soul; over the life of the indwelling truth. The world was new, fresh with young dew, the very Eden of Genesis; and her soul was a soul of newness, born anew in a metempsychosis of greater perfection, of closer approach to the goal, that distant goal, far away yonder, hidden like a god in the sanctuary of its ecstasy of light, as in the radiance of its own being.

5

The mystery! Suddenly, on the staircase, it had beamed open before her in her soul, like a great flower of light, a mystic rose with glistening petals, into whose golden heart she now looked for the first time. The analysis to which she was so much inclined was no longer possible: this was the riddle of love, the eternal riddle,which had beamed open within her, transfixing with its rays the very width of her soul, in the midst of which it had burst forth like a sun in a universe; it was too late to ask the reason why; it was too late to ponder and dream upon it; it could only be accepted as the inexplicable phenomenon of the soul; it was a creation of sentiment, of which the god who created it would be as impossible to find in the inner essence of his reality as the God who had created the world out of chaos. It was light breaking forth from darkness; it was heaven disclosed above the earth. And it existed: it was reality and not a fairy-tale! For it was wholly and entirely within her, a sudden, incontestable, everlasting truth, a felt fact, so real in its ethereal incorporeity that it seemed to her as if, until that moment, she had never known, never thought, never felt. It was the beginning, the opening out of herself, the dawnof her soul’s life, the joyful miracle, the miraculous inception of love, love focussed in the midst of her soul.She passed the following days in self-contemplation, wandering through her dreams as through a new country, rich with great light, where distant landscapes paled into a wan radiance, like fantastic meteors in the night, quivering in incandescence on the horizon. It seemed to her as though she, a pious and glad pilgrim, were making her way along paradisaical oases towards those distant scenes, there to find even more, the goal.... Only a little while ago, the prospect before her had been narrow and forlorn—her children gone from her, her loneliness wrapping her about like a night—and now, now she saw stretching in front of her a long road, a wide horizon, glittering with light, nothing but light....Thatwas, all thatwas! It was no fine poets’ fancy; it existed, it gleamed in herheart like a sacred jewel, like a mystic rose with stamina of light! A freshness as of dew fell over her, over her whole life: over the life of her senses; over the life of outward appearances; over the life of her soul; over the life of the indwelling truth. The world was new, fresh with young dew, the very Eden of Genesis; and her soul was a soul of newness, born anew in a metempsychosis of greater perfection, of closer approach to the goal, that distant goal, far away yonder, hidden like a god in the sanctuary of its ecstasy of light, as in the radiance of its own being.

The mystery! Suddenly, on the staircase, it had beamed open before her in her soul, like a great flower of light, a mystic rose with glistening petals, into whose golden heart she now looked for the first time. The analysis to which she was so much inclined was no longer possible: this was the riddle of love, the eternal riddle,which had beamed open within her, transfixing with its rays the very width of her soul, in the midst of which it had burst forth like a sun in a universe; it was too late to ask the reason why; it was too late to ponder and dream upon it; it could only be accepted as the inexplicable phenomenon of the soul; it was a creation of sentiment, of which the god who created it would be as impossible to find in the inner essence of his reality as the God who had created the world out of chaos. It was light breaking forth from darkness; it was heaven disclosed above the earth. And it existed: it was reality and not a fairy-tale! For it was wholly and entirely within her, a sudden, incontestable, everlasting truth, a felt fact, so real in its ethereal incorporeity that it seemed to her as if, until that moment, she had never known, never thought, never felt. It was the beginning, the opening out of herself, the dawnof her soul’s life, the joyful miracle, the miraculous inception of love, love focussed in the midst of her soul.

She passed the following days in self-contemplation, wandering through her dreams as through a new country, rich with great light, where distant landscapes paled into a wan radiance, like fantastic meteors in the night, quivering in incandescence on the horizon. It seemed to her as though she, a pious and glad pilgrim, were making her way along paradisaical oases towards those distant scenes, there to find even more, the goal.... Only a little while ago, the prospect before her had been narrow and forlorn—her children gone from her, her loneliness wrapping her about like a night—and now, now she saw stretching in front of her a long road, a wide horizon, glittering with light, nothing but light....

Thatwas, all thatwas! It was no fine poets’ fancy; it existed, it gleamed in herheart like a sacred jewel, like a mystic rose with stamina of light! A freshness as of dew fell over her, over her whole life: over the life of her senses; over the life of outward appearances; over the life of her soul; over the life of the indwelling truth. The world was new, fresh with young dew, the very Eden of Genesis; and her soul was a soul of newness, born anew in a metempsychosis of greater perfection, of closer approach to the goal, that distant goal, far away yonder, hidden like a god in the sanctuary of its ecstasy of light, as in the radiance of its own being.

Back to IndexNext