“SONIA PASSED VERY NEAR HIM.”
“SONIA PASSED VERY NEAR HIM.”
usually characterizes the first moments at a formal table. Sonia felt that she would bite her tongue in two before she would speak again, and Martha had a helpless sense that things were somehow going wrong. It was Harold who broke the silence.
“Martha,” he said, “the princess will say, perhaps, what wine she prefers.”
Sonia felt as if she hated him. He knew all her little aversions and preferences as well as she knew them herself, and had ordered her dinners and wines times out of number. How could he pretend that he had never seen her before, with so much success as almost to impose upon herself? Was it really a dream? Which was the dream, the past or the present? How could he seem to be so indifferent, unless he really felt so? Perhaps he was. That might be the simple explanation of what seemed mysterious.
As these thoughts hurried through her mind while she made a pretense of eating her soup, it suddenly occurred to her that her present complete silence might look as odd as her former garrulousness. Harold, while eating his dinner with apparent relish, was doing all the talking now, but with how different a mannerfrom hers! How quiet he was, and what well-bred pauses interspersed his talk, and how agreeably he deferred to Martha and herself, and brought them into it! She had come to this dinner with the proudest confidence of being able to conform the conditions about her absolutely to her will, and yet, in spite of herself, she seemed to be sinking deeper and deeper every moment into the slough of regret and self-reproach which she had come here to get out of.
As the meal proceeded, her self-dissatisfaction increased, and presently, with a feeling almost of panic, she realized that her conduct must be so peculiar as to cause surprise to Martha, if not to her brother. What interpretation would be put upon the sudden dumbness that possessed her? A very obvious one occurred to her, which it filled her with anger to think of, and she felt she must talk, must recover herself, must do away with the impression of her present stupidity.
Martha, groping about for an agreeable topic, had mentioned the young bridal couple, and a telegram which she had just received from them, and that led her to some remarks about the wedding.
“Oh, it was a beautiful wedding—I was there!” said Sonia, in a breathless endeavor to come naturally into the talk.
As she spoke she met Harold’s eyes, and thought that she discovered just a shade of surprise in them. He only bowed, however, in assent to her rather demonstrative expression of praise. Sonia felt at once that her attendance at any wedding, particularly that one, was a thing that grated on him. His presence there was, of course, a necessity; but the odious taste of her going, out of pure curiosity, as it would appear to him, to see this marriage, must add one more item to the evidence which was rolling up against her. She was experiencing what was new to her—a sensation of total inadequacy to the social demands of her surroundings.
“Harold, do you think you can possibly stay for the opening of the Salon?” said Martha, presently, in another effort to make the conversation go. This was a topic which she thought Sonia should be interested in. Apparently she was right.
“I’m going to exhibit a picture,” said Sonia, quickly.
Sonia had thought only of recovering herself by talking naturally, and this speech, as well as the last one, she regretted bitterly the moment she had uttered it. Not only did it seem in bad taste to speak of her exhibiting, when Martha was so far removed from such an honor, but it might also make the impression that she thought that the fact might be an inducement for him to stay for the Salon. It was maddening to have him look at her again with polite interest, and express his congratulations upon a fact of which she now felt heartily ashamed. How he must despise her! What should she do?
“I wonder,” said Martha, at this point, in her clear, low voice, “if Harold has ever seen that striking picture that hangs in your room, Sonia. It is Watts’s ‘Hope,’ Harold. Do you know it?”
Harold answered that he did not, and Sonia’s sense of helpless misery increased as she perceived that Martha was going to describe it. She bit her tongue to keep from crying out as Martha proceeded to give the following description:
“It is a woman’s figure lying on the globe in an attitude of fatigue and dejection. The scantily draped form is beautiful, but not youthful-looking, and the face, partly concealed by a bandage over the eyes, is also beautiful, but lined with care and sorrow. In her hands she holds an old lyre with every string broken except one. This one string, frayed and worn and lax, she is striking with her thin, weak fingers, and she is bending her dulled ears to try to catch the note. When Sonia first showed it to me, and said that it was one of her favorite pictures, I did not understand it. We have all been taught at Etienne’s such a fine contempt for English art that I was disposed to treat it lightly. I soon saw, however, the wonderful, tragic meaning in the picture, and I quite long to see the original.”
This was too much. Sonia felt that if anything else occurred to hold her up to contempt in this man’s eyes, she should give up, and burst into tears. Her courage was fast oozing to the last ebb; and with a feeling of actual desperation she looked involuntarily into the face of her opposite neighbor, and met his eyes fixed on her with a strong gaze that in an instant supported and calmed her. She did not quite read its meaning, but she felt that there was kindness for her in it, and that there was no contempt. A look from him had given hercourage many a time in the past, and it was availing now. She felt suddenly self-possessed and strong; but the remainder of the meal was a confused blur in her memory, and she was devoutly thankful when her maid came to fetch her home.
Martha thought it a little strange that her brother did not go down to put their guest into her carriage; but she reflected that he was far more familiar with the rules of foreign society than she was, and she concluded that he must be acting in accordance with them.
Marthafelt herself genuinely surprised, puzzled, and disappointed at the result of the meeting which she had worked so hard to bring about. Nothing could be more incontestably evident than that her brother and her friend had not proved sympathetic—did not “hit it off.” What was the reason? How could both of them be so perfectly congenial to her and still uncongenial to each other? It was a painful mystery, to which she tried in vain to find the key.
Next morning Sonia did not come to the atelier at her usual time, and Martha painted on without her in pronounced despondency of spirit. When she had quite given the princess up, she looked around, and, to her delight, saw Sonia placing her easel, and preparing to go to work, a short distance off. She thought her friend looked a little pale and ill; but when she managed presently to catch her eye,she received an affectionate smile from her, which gave her a certain amount of reassurance.
When the interval for lunch came, and they went off together to thecrémerie, Martha waited for her friend to introduce the subject so near to her heart, and was surprised when she led the talk in an entirely different direction.
It had been much the same with Harold after their guest had left the evening before. Beyond a rather preoccupied and spiritless assent to all she had to say about the beauty of the princess, he had seemed more or less indifferent on the subject, and had plunged with zest into the discussion of other things. Martha could not altogether wonder at this, for she had never seen her adored friend appear to so little advantage. Her brother, however, had seemed to her charming, though not, of course, at his very best, and she expected that Sonia would at least say that he was handsome and agreeable. When it appeared that she was going to say nothing at all, Martha boldly took the initiative, and asked:
“What do you think of Harold?”
“Think of him? Oh, I think he’s verygood-looking, though less like his sister than I could wish.”
“Oh, Sonia, don’t tease me! If I thought you meant that, I should give you up, both as an artist and a friend. But, really, did you like him or not?”
“I could hardly say ‘not’ to that heartfelt appeal,” said Sonia, smiling; “and, indeed, I don’t feel inclined to. I liked him, of course. But, my dear, I told you only the truth when I said I was sick to death of men. Etienne is the solitary exception. I like him for the reason that he did say a decent word to me this morning, and I really believe he thinks I am beginning to daub with promise.”
Martha saw that there was no hope, so with profound disappointment she gave up, and said no more.
As for Sonia herself, never had she been in a state of such abject self-abasement. She had donned her gorgeous raiment and gone off to that dinner in exultant self-confidence, and had never doubted her ability to conform circumstances to her will, and to make exactly the impression upon Harold which she desired him to have. What, then, was the secret of her complete and humiliating failure? She asked herself this question, and immediately tried to shut fast her ears to the answer which her heart gave. She had confidently believed, up to this hour of her life, that her woman’s pride was strong enough for any demands which she could possibly make upon it; but it had failed her. She had passed a sleepless night after that dinner, and it took tremendous effort to go to her work next morning. She did it only because she knew that if she did not the news of her absence would reach Harold, and she could not endure the thought of the motive to which he might attribute it. Perhaps the most poignant recollection which rankled in Sonia’s mind was the thought that, in her helplessness, she had made an appeal to him by that look which he had answered with such strength-giving kindness. It had enabled her to get through with the remaining time; but now, as she thought of it, she felt that he had taken it as an appeal of weakness which he had been strong and merciful enough to respond to.
This thought, whenever it recurred, made her cheeks tingle.
And what could she do to right herself? She dared not make any more self-confident plans,only to have them end in fresh humiliation. She now felt afraid of seeing Harold, and it seemed to her that the utmost that was in her power was to be regular and faithful to her work, in the hope that the report of such a sensible course would reach his ears.
Martha made a weak little effort to get her friend to come to her again, but to this she received such a faint response that she let the subject drop. All sorts of conjectures were busy in her mind to account for the present phenomena. She even wondered if she and her brother, with their American education and ideas, could have done anything which offered an affront to the state and dignity of their princess-guest. But this could hardly be. Sonia was as friendly and affectionate as ever, though she now seemed to wish to confine their intercourse to the limits of the atelier, and did not even ask her to come to her own apartments. So Martha was free to give up all her spare time to her brother, and they had numerous trips to the theater and opera; but somehow thesolitude à deuxwith her beloved Harold had not the zest in it which she had counted on beforehand. He was certainly changed, this brother of hers. He had grownmore serious, and was given to long silences. She even thought that it was an effort to him to be so much in her society, and that he would perhaps prefer to be alone. This was a hard blow to Martha, but she bore it without making a sign, and was glad of the excuse which her work gave her to be much away from him. He also had important business in Paris, and often worked for many hours at a time, which, as Martha told herself, accounted for his rather careworn expression. She even thought he was getting thin, and begged him not to stay on because of her, as she would far rather give up her lessons and join her mother than be a trouble and injury to him. This, however, he would not listen to, and he even declared it his intention to stay in Paris until after the opening of the Salon, now only a week or so off.
Day after day went by, and although Sonia and Martha were together at least one half of their conscious time, they seemed to have in some way gone backward instead of forward in their intimacy. They still lunched together daily, and had ample opportunity for talk; but there seemed now a dearth of topics such as they had never been aware of before, and asense of distance had arisen which made it hard for Martha to realize the familiarity and nearness which had marked their former intercourse.
One afternoon, when the work had been going more than usually well, and the model had been more than usually interesting, Sonia and Martha, their easels side by side, had lingered in the atelier after every one else had gone. It was very agreeable to be able to paint and talk together, and the princess, whose carriage had been announced some time before, gladly agreed to wait with Martha until hers should arrive.
While they were talking, a knock was heard at the door, and as all rules were relaxed at this hour, both women called out, “Entrez!”
The door was opened, and around the corner of the old sail-cloth screen the tall figure of Harold appeared. The day was raw and chilly, and he wore a fur-lined coat with its large fur collar drawn close around his throat, and carried his high hat and his stick in his hand.
At sight of him Martha uttered a little exclamation of pleasure, and gaily called to himto come on. Sonia, in spite of the jerk at her heart-strings and the rush of blood through all her veins, felt, taken unprepared as she was, a sudden sense of strength and self-possession. Her color deepened, and by a swift motion she drew herself erect; and as she stood there in her old green skirt and red silk blouse, she looked so workman-like and charming that, as Martha drew her brother forward toward their easels, her heart quite glowed with pride in both her dear companions. She always adored Harold in that coat, and Sonia in that dress, and her sensitive organism seemed to be receiving impressions of pleasure from the minds of each. Harold stood still, a little distance off, and bowed, with a look that expressed some hesitation or uncertainty. Looking past his sister and at her friend, he said:
“Do you permit me to look at your work?”
“Oh, if you care to,” said Sonia in a light and natural tone. “It’s a mere daub of a study. One goes through a great deal of discouragement in a place like this, and a great deal of one’s time is spent in acquiring a knowledge of one’s ignorance. After that is quite mastered, things get easier. I think Imay say that I have graduated in that branch of study, and am now ready to go on to the more advanced ones.”
Harold stood still, and looked at her picture. She was thinking how natural it would be to ask him if he thought she had improved. He was thinking how natural it would be to tell her that she had. Martha was thinking how beautiful and full of charm they both were, and almost wishing that the atelier could be filled with students to look at such models.
It occurred to her now that Harold remained silent unnecessarily long, and she was afraid that he did not appreciate her friend’s work; so she herself began to speak in voluble praise of it.
Sonia felt a strong impulse to check her, and to explain to her that he was always silent when he really liked a thing exceedingly, and that she therefore felt delighted that he said nothing.
Harold, however, forced himself to utter a few words of praise that sounded very stiff and conventional, and a sort of bewildered look, which Martha could not understand, came into his eyes. Sonia understood it by its reflection in her own heart. She felt as if she were in some strange, confusing dream, where the conditions around her were sad and constrained, and yet which she felt she must hold on to and keep conscious of, lest they should vanish and leave her utterly empty-hearted, estranged, and desolate. While Martha exhibited her own work, and proceeded to pick it to pieces in imitation of what Etienne would say to-morrow, the man and woman standing behind her, so near that they almost touched, were feeling, from this proximity, a force that went to the very deeps of both their natures. Hardness, resentment, wounded pride, regret—all these were parts of this force in each; but there was in it, too, something stronger than any of them, something that warned Sonia that she had better not trust herself, at the same moment that Harold turned abruptly away, and said that he had an engagement, and could not wait longer. He explained in a hurried, confused speech, out of which it was hard to get any intelligent meaning, that he had forgotten Martha’s need of the carriage, and had kept it waiting somewhere for him, which was his excuse for coming to the atelier to see if she had waited or was gone.
Martha saw by his manner that something was wrong, and made haste to put up her brushes, and follow him into the cloak-room, insisting that Sonia should come also, as she objected to leaving her there alone.
Sonia obediently did as she was told, but she felt as if she were stumbling along half blindly, and had not the will-power to object or protest.
She put on her hat, and was reaching for her heavy cloak, when a strong, brown hand, specked with two small dark moles just below the thumb, took it down from the peg, and folded it around her.
As she reached to draw to the collar, her hand touched his. If the sight of that hand had been familiar to her, what was its touch? She felt herself trembling, and her quick breaths almost suffocated her. She had just power to control herself until she was in her carriage, and alone. Then, falling back upon the cushions, her eyes closed, and she passed into a state of semi-consciousness.
She did not really faint, for she was all the time aware that the necessity for self-control was for the moment gone, and that she could rest, and cease to fight.
Long before the carriage stopped at her own door she had recovered, and realized it all. She knew that, miserable as the last two years had been, she had gradually been gaining strength, and recovering her power for the struggle of life. She might have gone on, and met the future bravely, if she had never seen this man again. Not now, however—not after she had heard his voice, and met his eyes, and touched his hand. This encounter had deprived her of her strength so absolutely that she longed only for the safety to be found in flight.
But how would that sudden flight appear to him? That was the question.
Soniafound herself, after that meeting, in a state of helpless irresolution. She could take no action. She could not even make plans. She could only drift. There was only one solace—work; and she was now generally the last person at the atelier, staying there until the light failed. She had got over all her timidity about being there after the others. The old concierge was apt to put her head in now and then, to nod to her, and give her a sense of protection; and sometimes she would come in and chat with her, while she was doing such sketchy sort of tidying up as an atelier admits of.
A few days had gone by without her having seen or heard of Harold. Martha seemed to divine that the princess wanted to talk only of her work and her atelier interests, and had tacitly adapted herself to her friend. They often worked together now, after regular hours,but Martha generally found it necessary to go before her friend was ready.
One afternoon Martha had left rather earlier than usual, in order to keep an appointment with her brother, and Sonia was at work all alone, save for the companionship of her little terrier Inkling—a tiny, jet-black creature that wore a collar of little silver bells, which, Sonia had amused Martha by saying, had caused some one to give him the name of “Tinkling Inkling.” She did not often bring her pet to the atelier, for fear he might be troublesome. This afternoon, however, she knew that Etienne would not be there; and when the little fellow, palpitating with eagerness, had looked at her beseechingly from the seat of the carriage where she had just shut him in, she had suddenly snapped her fingers and twisted her lips into a sound of encouragement, and he had leaped out of the carriage window, and followed her with an air of perfect understanding that this unusual privilege made a demand on him to be on his best behavior.
He had been propriety itself all the afternoon, and Sonia had seen and appreciated his heroic self-control in not barking at the model, whom he had looked at with inveterate disapproval, only expressed by one little whispered growl. The class of society to which the model belonged were Inkling’s natural enemies; and whether, in spite of nudeness, he recognized this man as a member of that class, or whether the nudeness itself outraged his sense of propriety, certain it was that, during all the hours in which his mistress was painting, Inkling lay at her feet, with his eyes fixed unwinkingly upon his enemy, ready to take advantage of the first excuse to fly at him.
No such occasion had arisen, however; and now the model was gone, and Inkling, off duty at last, was enjoying the reaction of a sound nap at his mistress’s feet.
The room was so profoundly still that Sonia was startled by a rap at the door, gently though it was given. Even Inkling did not wake at it. She looked up from her easel, expecting to see her footman come to announce the carriage, or some workman delivering supplies for the atelier, and saw, instead, Harold Keene standing only a few feet from her. She knew that the swing-door had closed behind him, and that they were alone together. Her heart shook, and for a moment she could not speak. He came forward a little, and said in French:
“I beg your pardon, princess. I came for my sister to fill an engagement. Is she not here?”
“She has just gone,” answered Sonia, also in French. “She expected to meet you at the apartment.”
“I have just been there. Not finding her, I came on here. I suppose I passed her on the way.”
Inkling had opened his eyes at the sound of voices, but, seeing that the model-throne was empty and his enemy gone, he had not troubled himself further. As Harold ceased speaking, a look of sudden interest came over the dog, and he got up, his little bells a-tinkle, and trotted across to where Harold stood.
No sooner had he looked at him than he uttered a gruff bark of surprise, and no sooner had he snuffed once at the legs of his trousers than he grew frantic with excitement. He barked and yelped, and jumped up on him with such evidences of wild delight that no man with a kind heart in his bosom could have refused some recognition of such a welcome.
Harold stooped and patted him, speaking to him in English.
Somehow, to have him treat a dog like that, and to address her in cold formality, in a foreign language, by a pompous title which did not belong to her, seemed to Sonia wilfully cruel.
Inkling, still frantic with delight, left Harold, and rushed over to her, yelping and barking, and shaking his tail violently, looking up in her face with eloquent insistency. Then he ran back to Harold, and again back to her, with fluttering agitation.
Sonia’s spirit did not falter, however, and her voice was firm and steady as she said in English:
“Why do you speak to Inkling in English, and to me in French?”
“Because Inkling and I are old friends, who have a common language, while the Princess Mannernorff is a stranger and a foreigner.”
“It seems very childish to keep up that farce.”
“I thought it was your wish.”
“And you despise me, probably, for the deception I have practised in passing myself off for the Princess Mannernorff! I did not do it deliberately,” she said, with an almost childlike air of contrition and confession. “It hashurt me all along to be deceiving Martha; but some one told her I was a Russian princess, and as my mother had been one before her marriage, and my aunt, with whom I live, is the Princess Mannernorff, I let the false impression remain, and even took advantage of it. It was wrong, I know; but I did want to hold on to Martha’s friendship a little longer. However,” she said, her face and voice hardening, “it is simply a question of time; and a few weeks sooner or later, what does it matter?”
“Why is it a question of time?” said Harold. “Why should you not keep that friendship always, if you care for it? Martha shall know nothing from me.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Sonia said:
“I thought it possible that you might disapprove of our friendship.”
“Why should I? It is a thing absolutely between Martha and yourself.”
“She would cast me off immediately if she knew the truth, and any moment an accident may reveal it to her.”
“Such an accident is most unlikely. It could, as things are now, come about only through me, and I shall be on my guard.”
How confident and strong he was! It roused all the pride in her. The sense of weakness which had overcome her at their last meeting, and which for a moment had threatened her in this one, was utterly gone.
“Besides,” went on Harold, quickly, “I believe you are wholly wrong in thinking that she would give you up if, by chance, she should discover what you have so carefully guarded from her. I see no reason why she should.”
He had spoken in English, since she had criticized his using French, and Inkling seemed at least partly satisfied, as he stood midway between the two, with his front legs wide apart, as if to keep his body firm, while his tail wriggled wildly, and his head turned from one to the other with a quickness which was enough to make him dizzy. He was alertly aware of them, but they had both forgotten him, in the keen absorption in each other which underlay their outward composure.
“Have you, then, told her nothing?” said Sonia, in answer to his last words.
“Only the simple fact.”
“What fact?” she said, looking him in the face with a certain hardness and defiance.
“That the woman whom I had loved no longer loved me; that she had repudiated my name and every connection with me, and had asked for a divorce, which I was taking all possible steps to give her as soon as it could be done.”
“And do you think that Martha, feeling as she does, would continue the acquaintance of a woman who had cast off her brother with no stronger reason than that?”
“It was sufficient for me. There could not be a stronger reason for divorce than absence of love on either side.”
“The world does not agree with you,” she said.
“Yet I fancy Martha would. If it came to remarriage on either side, her verdict would perhaps be condemnation; but I think she would consider separation a higher thing than a loveless marriage.”
Somehow, there was a spirit in these words that touched her heart. Her voice, for the first time, was a little unsteady as she said:
“You do believe that, at least! You do feel that I could never think of another marriage!”
“I have always felt it. Indeed, I may sayI have known it. I know that you see the inevitableness of all this as clearly as I do. I have often wished, for your sake, that I had never seen you, to put this blight upon your life.”
“And have not I also blighted yours? Do you suppose that I never think of that?”
“It need not trouble you, if you do. In my case there was a compensation, and a sufficient one. In your case there is none.”
She knew what he meant; that his love for her, and that happy month of marriage, had been enough to pay him for having afterward lost her; and she knew that he held the fact that she had never really loved him to have barred her from any compensation at all. Why did she so resent his assuming this? Had she not told him, in language of such emphatic decision that it rang even now in her ears, that she had found out that she had made a great mistake, and that she had never loved him? He had simply taken her at her word.
She wilfully ignored the true meaning of his last words, as she went on:
“It is a mistake to think that my life has no compensations. My work, whether it everamounts to anything or not, is a great compensation. The friendship of Martha is another. You are very good to wish not to take that from me; but the present sham conditions cannot be kept up after we separate. Fortune has favored us almost miraculously as it is. She heard that there was a Russian princess studying here, and some one mistakenly pointed me out for her. I had already seen her name on her canvases, and knowing that your mother and sisters were in Paris, of course I knew exactly who she was. Independent of this, her face and manner had strongly attracted me, so I saw no reason why we might not be friends, provided I could keep from her who I was. As soon as I saw that she believed me to be the princess, the fact that my aunt was a Russian and had Russian servants opened the way to my carrying on the idea; and so far there has been no trouble. My little Russian name for Sophia helped me, too. If she had known me as Sophia or Sophie, she would probably have recoiled from me, even if she had had no suspicion as to my identity.”
“I beg you not to have that thought,” said Harold. “If the time ever comes when thetruth must be declared to Martha, let me be the one to tell her; and I promise you there shall be no recoil—no lessening of her friendship for you.”
“Thank you,” said Sonia, coldly. “You were always a generous man.”
Her tone smote discordantly upon Harold. It seemed a sort of compulsory tribute to him, which he had no fancy for from her.
“I am thinking of Martha, too,” he said. “She is very lonely in her life, and rarely goes out to any one, in spite of her ardent nature. This friendship with you is very valuable to her, and I am anxious that nothing shall disturb it.”
“Thank you for correcting me,” returned the other, quickly; “though I did not really suppose that it was for my sake that you were willing to take so much trouble.”
She knew that this speech was silly, petulant, and unworthy of her, but she wished him to understand that she asked and expected nothing of him. He could not be so cool and steady during this interview unless he had ceased to care for her. She quite realized that he had, and she wished him to know that she accepted it as a matter of course.
Inkling, meantime, had grown very uneasy. He felt that things were not going well, and he now began to show symptoms of distress, instead of the wild delight of the moment before. He ran whimpering from one to the other; and when they took no notice of him, he sprang upon the lap of his mistress, and, uttering the most expressive plaints and beseechings, tried to lick her face. Sonia, in a fit of irritation very characteristic of her, gave him a hard little slap, which sent him out of her lap, whining, and running to Harold for pity. He was not really hurt; and she felt cross with the clever little brute for posing as a victim so successfully.
“Don’t touch him!” she cried imperatively to Harold. “He’s only pretending to get your pity. You sha’n’t pat him or speak to him. If you do, I’ll be very angry.”
The effect which these words had upon Harold would have surprised her, could she have known it. They were so like her, so absolutely herself, that they brought back the past with a rush; and it seemed such a hollow pretense to suppose that they were separated, and compelled to be as strangers to each other, that he came nearer to losing his head than he had done yet.
Ignoring Inkling’s fawnings and plaints, he said suddenly:
“I am forgetting that Martha is waiting for me”; and then, changing his tone, and speaking in French, he added:
“May I take you to your carriage, princess?”
She answered him in French, as prompt and easy as himself. She thanked him for his offer, but declined it, saying that her servant would let her know when her carriage arrived. She added that she was not ready to leave the atelier yet, as she had lost time, which she must now make up.
He bowed in silence, turned, and walked away. Inkling made a weak effort to follow him, but was scared into a sudden and humiliated return by the imperious command of his mistress. The little creature looked so ridiculously distressed, as he sat on his haunches near her, with his ears dropped and his tail nerveless and still beneath him, that Sonia’s irritation deepened as she put up her brushes and paints; and when she had washed her hands and was emptying the basin, she yielded to a sudden impulse and dashed half the meager supply of water over him.
“There, you little idiot!” she said crossly. “That’s for your ridiculous nonsense in trying to make out that I care one pin for him, or anything about him. I’ll very soon convincehimthat I don’t; and if everyoudare to act in such a way again, I’ll sell you to the concierge on the spot!”
Inkling gave every indication of a complete understanding of this threat, which had the effect of bringing him at once to a state of cowed dejection.
Soniasaid nothing to Martha of that meeting and conversation at the atelier; and as Martha made no reference to it, she understood that Harold also had been silent on the subject.
A few days went by, which were fraught with agitation to the pupils at Etienne’s, as they were the last days of April, and two or three of the atelier students were to exhibit in the Salon. Sonia’s picture had been entered under a fictitious name, rather against her master’s wishes; but he had found it impossible to move her on this point. She had made both Etienne and Martha promise her most solemnly to tell no one which was her picture; and so she looked forward to the great exhibition with a pleasure which had no disturbing element in it.
This pleasure had, however, grown paler recently, as her hold on all outward things,slight as she had thought it before, had grown weaker. She had felt a real emotion when told that her picture had been admitted by the jury, and an intense anxiety as to how it would be hung. In contrast to this was the languid interest which she experienced when she found that it was on the line.
Martha and she had gone to theVernissageon the thirtieth of April, and had stood before the picture together; but it was Martha who had flushed and fluttered with delight at the remarks upon it which they had overheard. Sonia herself seemed to have lost interest in it.
On the morning of theVernissageHarold had gone to London, to be absent until the next day, when he was to take Martha to the formal opening of the Salon.
There was, therefore, no reason why Sonia should not accept her friend’s invitation to dine and spend the evening. When she saw what pleasure her acceptance gave the girl, her heart suddenly smote her with the reflection that she did very little to reward such ardent love, and she impetuously offered to spend the night also, saying that she had not done such a thing since her school-days.
Martha was overjoyed; and when Sonia duly arrived, prepared to spend the night, the two women made a great effort to get the amount of enjoyment which they felt ought to be for each in theirtête-à-têtedinner and evening together. Their talk, however, seemed rather desultory and unproductive, and both of them felt that their endeavors to return to their former attitude of free and natural mutual confidence were strangely unavailing.
After a rather dull discussion of Paris apartment-houses, and their advantages and disadvantages, Martha proposed to show her guest over this one; and Sonia went with her into all the rooms, with a civil effort to seem interested, until she came to one on the threshold of which Martha said:
“This is the girls’ room, which Harold has now. It is just next to mama’s, which is the one you have. The governess has a room on the other side of the salon, in order to protect me. They tell such frightful stories about the crimes and murders in these Paris apartments that I used to be quite timid, though I’ve got over it now.”
Sonia, while she appeared to be listening to her companion, was in reality so inwardlyshaken by certain influences received in this room that she felt as if her mind were staggering. On the dressing-table just in front of her were several toilet articles in old German silver which it seemed to her that she had seen and touched but yesterday. A clothes-brush with fantastic decorations of women’s figures, entwined with fish and garlands of roses, had a large dent in it, of which she knew the whole history. She could even have told why one of the three bottles in the leather-case was without a stopper, and what had become of the smallest pair of scissors, the place of which in the dressing-case was empty. On a table near by was a leather portfolio with the letters “H. R. K.” on one corner in a silver monogram.
While Martha moved about the room and talked, Sonia’s eyes searched eagerly among the familiar objects for certain others which she would have given the world to see. Her search was in vain, however. There was not one thing of his own in sight which had not been a possession of his bachelor days. This was quite evident, and of course was entirely as it should be.
When they returned to the salon, Martha,observing that her friend looked tired, proposed that they should go to bed early—an idea received with evident favor. They were quite safe in the protection of the man-servant, who had been brought with the family from America. Harold had given him orders to sleep for the night in the antechamber, and Martha had one of the maids in the room back of hers. When she asked her guest if she felt at all timid, and saw the smile of amused denial that answered her, she went with her to her room, lingered a few moments to see that all was comfortable about her, then kissed and embraced her friend, and said good night.
Left alone, Sonia stood an instant silent in her place; then, with movements of swift decision, she locked the door by which Martha had gone out, and, crossing the room to another door, softly turned the handle. She had her bedroom candle in her hand, and as the door yielded and opened, she passed into the room beyond it, and stood still once more, as if possessed by that presence from out the past.
The lights in this room had been put out, and all the doors and windows closed. She knew that she was safe in her solitude, andneed no longer struggle with the feelings which crowded her heart.
She went to the dressing-table, and took up the old clothes-brush, and put her lips to the dent which she herself had made there once, by using the brush as a hammer. Then silently dashing away the heavy tears that rolled from her eyes, she looked closely at the grotesque figures of women and fish, and recalled such amusing things which had been said about them that she began to laugh, even while more tears were gathering, and straining her throat with pain. The nervous little laugh died away as she pressed the brush again to her lips. Then she lifted, one by one, all the familiar objects that lay before her, and looked at them, while her tears fell like rain.
Presently she took up the portfolio from the table near by, and turned over the thick sheets of blotting-paper within. She could see plainly the inverted and almost illegible, but characteristic, impression of a woman’s writing. In some places this was lost in very different characters, but in others it was distinctly recognizable. She walked to the dressing-table with it, and held it before the mirror, and read distinctly in one place the words, “Yours always, Sophie,” and in another, “Yours faithfully, Sophia Keene.” Her heart trembled. She had no idea to whom she had so signed herself, but she wondered passionately if Harold had ever tried this experiment, and seen those signatures from the faithless woman who had been his wife.
Suddenly she put the book back on the table, and fell on her knees before it, laying her face upon its pages, and sobbing upon them until they were saturated with her tears; for, underneath her own handwriting, she had seen, reflected in the glass, writing which seemed almost as familiar, in which she had deciphered the words, “Your loving husband.”
She had destroyed every word of that handwriting which she had ever possessed, and thousands of times her heart had hungered to see it in these very words. It was upon this spot that her lips were laid now, while they whispered out, in inarticulate sobs and gasps, words of heartbroken pain.
She had told him that she did not love him, and had demanded a divorce from him. She must never contradict those words, or try to undo that act. She knew that she was weak,but she knew that she had courage enough to stand to this resolution. He should never know how, slowly at first, and afterward with increasing force and swiftness, the knowledge of her mistake had come to her. For a while she had fought it off with furious denial. She had argued and talked with herself, and recalled past feelings of resentment, anger, and desperate antagonism, to prove to herself that she had been right in vowing that she did not love him; but in the end nothing had availed. Long before their paths had met again she had known that she was wrong; that she had made a hideous mistake of her life; and that, with all the force, fire, energy, and passion of her heart, she loved the man whom she had repudiated. But, even with this knowledge, she might have borne it, she might have lived and died without making a sign, if only she had not seen him again!
Now, however, that she had seen him, heard him, felt the atmosphere of his presence about her, felt his thoughts of her surrounding her, and felt through all her pulses his touch upon her hand, what was she to do? How was she to stumble on, and pretend to fight, when a mere look from his eyes made her sword-arm nerveless?
Oh, shemustgive way this once, she felt, and shed a few of those millions of pent-up tears! Now that she was here in the very room that he had slept in yesterday, and would come back to to-morrow, she must let the spirit of love and grief within her have its way. Perhaps some remnant of it might linger after she was gone, and speak to his heart from hers.
As her mind formed this idea, she sprang to her feet. Was she losing control of herself? Was her mind weakening or deserting her? How had she so forgotten herself as to have this thought, which was in its nature a wish? She knew that in her proper senses she would choose to die a death of torture rather than that he should have one suspicion of her feeling for him. No, no! She passionately recanted that moment’s impulsive wish as she took her candle, and, more tranquil now, went over and stood by his bed.
It was not swathed in a great cretonne cover, as French beds are apt to be, but was made in the American fashion, with smooth white coverlet and fair linen sheets. Still holding the candle in her hand, she sank on her knees beside this bed, and closed her eyes, and movedher lips in prayer. Her long hair was hanging in a thick mass down her back. The white gown that she wore was almost as plain as a religious habit, and she looked, with her taper burning in front of her, like a nun before a shrine.
She felt a certain power of renunciation come into her, and a strength to do what right and duty demanded. She rose from her knees, and bent over the bed, and for a moment laid her cheek against the cool white pillow. Oh, might God be very good to him, she prayed! Might He make up to him for all the pain and grief and woe that she had caused him; and some time in heaven might he come to know how wholly and completely she had loved him!
She felt a sense of inward calm and strength as she turned from the bed, crossed the room, and entered her own apartment, closing and locking the door behind her.
This peace was on her still as she presently went to bed, and fell almost immediately into a dreamless sleep.
Soniawas awakened early by sounds in the room next her own, and as she opened her eyes with perfect recollection of all that had passed the night before, she wondered if it could possibly be that Harold had returned. It might be only the maid opening and airing the room; but whatever it was, she could not sleep again, and she began to devise a plan for getting away early, so that she might avoid the possibility of meeting Harold. She got out of bed, parted the curtains, and opened the casement of the low French window. The early sunshine had washed everything with its faint golden glow, and the little new-born leaves that covered the trees in theplacewith a foliage of feathery green, paler than ever in its transparence against the sun, made a delicate filmy screen, through which she looked down on an exquisite moving picture.
The doors of the beautiful, great Madeleinewere open wide, and through them was pouring a long white rivulet that seemed to have its source in the little covered doorway in the side of the basement of the great building, and flowed thence in an even stream around the corner, and up the great steps of the building, passing between its central pillars, and so into the interior of the church. This stream was composed of what seemed an unending number of little girls dressed for their first communion. They were all in spotless white, with thin, transparent veils reaching to the hems of their gowns, white wreaths upon their heads, white stockings, shoes, and gloves, and each of them carried a tall white taper, to be presently lighted in the church. Stationed like sentinels along the line were gray-clad, white-bonneted sisters of charity, who directed the children’s movements as they walked with an awed stateliness out of the little door, up to the corner and around it, and then through the gate and up the steps, and were lost to sight beyond the wide church-door.
Sonia could see the very expressions of their faces as they would look up for direction to the sisters as they passed, lifting their meek and timid glances with an air of solemnitywhich in some instances struggled with a sense of pride in their unwonted paraphernalia. Somehow, the sight of so much ignorance, trust, and innocence, and the thought that each one of them possessed a woman’s heart, with all its capacity for suffering, for hoping, for loving, for regretting, absolutely overcame her. How ignorant they were of what lay before them! How fearlessly their little feet were entering upon the long journey of life, so blind to the pains and bitterness of its way! It seemed heartrendingly cruel to her, to think how they must suffer from the mere fact that each one of them was a woman-child. O God, that women had to suffer so!—that even love, the one delight, should bring in its wake such pain! She could see none of the joy ahead of these sweet children; she thought only of what her own heart suffered now—the regret, the longing, the unfathomable sadness, the blight, the disappointment, the despair! The passionate pain of her heart broke forth in violent sobbing as she stood between the parted curtains, fascinated by the lovely sight, but scarcely able to see it for her tears.
“O God, have pity on them—have pity on them!” she sobbed aloud; and then, while herwhole frame shook with her violent weeping, she suddenly became aware of the stealing on of a new influence. What was it? Nothing so definite as sight or sound, but something subtly powerful in its significance to her. It was the pungent odor of a certain kind of cigar which had once made part of the familiar atmosphere of her life. It dominated her now, as if by a spell. She was instantly calmed, and, as if by magic, swept back into the thrilling past. Then, suddenly, penetrating this familiar atmosphere, there came a familiar sound—no articulate utterance, but just a sound in the throat, which seemed somehow meant to challenge attention. She would have known that voice in the most distant and unlikely spot of earth; and now it became quite plain to her that Harold had returned, and was watching the scene opposite from his open window, scarcely a yard away.
He must have heard her words and sobs! He must have understood them, he was so well practised in reading her heart. It had been an open book to him once, though now it must be forever locked and sealed.
Her hands had fallen from the curtains, andshe had moved backward. There had seemed to come into her strength and support from the mere sound of that voice. There was nothing new in this. Often, often had she felt it before. And once it had been in her power to summon this support at will, in any hour of grief or trial. That power was gone now, never to come again; but for this once this supreme and availing help had been afforded her. She felt within her the power to be strong, to collect herself, and to form and execute plans of getting away from this place of temptation and danger.
She fell on her knees. Her soul uttered a prayer of mingled thanksgiving and entreaty. As she raised her eyes she could see through the slightly parted folds of the curtains the pointed arch that topped the Madeleine. Carved in enduring stone, that generations to come might see and gather comfort from it, was the gracious figure of Jesus, spreading out his arms of welcome to the poor Magdalen, who knelt in supplication at his feet. At his side was a glorious, great angel, who, with drawn sword, stood over the woman, and thrust back with his other hand the evil creatures who in vain besieged her.On the right hand of Christ another angel, with wings at rest, held a great horn of triumph, and behind him were women crowned and garlanded, with little children clinging to them. Farther still was a woman on a bed of illness, over whom another angel of mercy had spread its wings as she came to Christ to have her body healed.
The center of it all was the beneficent figure of the human Saviour; and Sonia, looking down from this immutable image carved in stone to the flowing, changing, passing stream of young human creatures beneath, felt calmed and comforted. So they could keep their childish faith, there was a refuge for them, and she saw them now without any prompting to tears.
She got up from her knees, bathed her face, smoothed her hair before the mirror, and then, after darkening the room a little, rang for the maid, and asked for her coffee.
By the time it came she was almost dressed, and she instructed the servants very carefully not to disturb her young mistress, but to call a cab for her at once,—as she found it necessary to go home early,—and to tell Martha, when the latter awoke, that she was very well,but was obliged to be at home at a certain hour.
Her plan worked perfectly, and on her way to the cab she saw no one except the American maid, who went down with her. In passing through the antechamber she noticed a man’s covert-coat, stick, and hat, together with some crushed newspapers, thrown on a sofa. But she had not needed this to convince her of the fact that Harold had returned, and had been in his room, watching, as she had watched, the stream of little girls beginning their celebration of the month of Mary by taking their first communion.
The first of May being also what is known as “Labor Day,” it was a strange contrast to the unworldliness and other-worldliness of these littlereligieusesto see the alert military forces now beginning to fill the streets, in anticipation of possible insurrection and danger, of which there was strong menace that year.
Gendarmes in groups of six and eight, and sometimes even more, dotted the streets in all directions, and the mounted guard was out in full force. Sonia, looking from her cab window, heard repeated orders given to small groups of citizens to disperse. Even two menwere not permitted to stand and talk together, and she was conscious of a certain amusement at seeing two groups of gendarmes combine forces to separate these little knots of two and three. Occasionally there was some resistance, and she saw several arrests made, which frightened her. She felt lonely and unprotected, driving through the streets of Paris with an unknown cabman at that early hour, when there was even a possibility of such a horror as an insurrection of the French lower orders.
It came over her with piercing power how Harold would once have felt about her being in such a position, and how strange, how inexplicable, how unnatural, it was that it could be nothing to him now—that, even if he knew it, he would feel bound to accept it passively; for nothing, she was certain, could induce him to exercise the semblance of a right over her.
She got out of the cab at her own door, safe in body, but more excited and confused in mind than she had ever been in her life—and perhaps, in this moment, more wretched also.
Harold’scondition of mind and feeling on that morning of the first of May was so complicated and perplexed that he felt for the first time in his life utterly unable to see his way. He was accustomed to having things, no matter how difficult, look definite to him. He had not hesitated in deciding on his sudden marriage with Sophia Rutledge, nor had he felt the least hesitation as to his course a month later, when she demanded a divorce from him. His path had been clear and open before him, and he had taken it unflinchingly. He felt the same ability to do, and the same courage to endure, now, if he could only see his way. He knew himself too well to suppose that, after having been married to this woman, he could ever love another, and he had quite decided to accept his life and to put the thought of happiness out of it. In making this decision he had had the strongestpossible conviction of the truth of his wife’s declaration that she did not love him, and it was this which had made submission to her decision the only possible course for him. She was such a strong and resolute woman that he had imagined her, after the stern ordeal of the first few months of separation, going resolutely on, with her life adjusted to its new conditions; and although he was certain that her marriage, separation, and the coming divorce would make too deep marks in her womanly consciousness for her ever to think of marrying again, he quite believed that she was the calm and self-poised woman for which he knew nature had intended her.
It was therefore a great surprise to him, on meeting her again, to see such marked indications of indecision, nervousness, and lack of control. He felt that she often said and did what she had meant not to say and do, and he was aware that she was a prey to variableness, fluctuation, and caprice. What did it mean? This was the question which he set himself to consider with all the concentration of his mind. He did not know—what was the truth—that these new qualities in her existed only with regard to himself, and that toher aunt, her acquaintances, her servants, and all who came in contact with her, she was more than ever decided, self-collected, and even self-willed. If he could have known that, it would have let in light upon a subject and situation which seemed to him impenetrably dark. Every time that he had seen her she had left upon his mind a different impression. Sometimes he wondered if she could be ill, to account for such a change; and sometimes he told himself that it was an unpardonable demand upon her nervous endurance for him to come into her presence. Still, when he reflected, he had never thrust himself upon her, and on the only occasion when their meeting had not been accidental, it had been her deliberate doing. What must he conclude from this?
It would be conceit only which could make him think, after that, that she either feared or disliked to meet him. He certainly had no right to suppose that she sought or wished it. He must, therefore, conclude that she was quite indifferent to him, and wished him to accept that view of the case.
He tried hard to do this, but there was something in her manner and in his own consciousness which positively prevented his holding to this idea. It was not that she appeared to him to be unhappy, but she did seem disturbed, restless and fitful. After his interview with her in the atelier, he felt that she had so definitely conveyed to him her wishes in the case that now he had only to follow them and to keep out of her way, so far as it rested with him to do so.
On this course he fully resolved; but her beauty, her voice, her movements, haunted him by day and night. He knew that he was as absolutely under her spell as he had ever been. He knew that a point might come when his self-control would be powerfully threatened, and then there would be nothing for it but to flee. He was not afraid of the consequences to himself which might lie in this betrayal of his past. He was thinking of her, and of the increased trouble which it would bring into her life if she should come to realize how he still loved her. This was a quite unnecessary trial for her, and one which he was resolved she should not have.
He had not known of any plan of Martha’s for having her friend spend the night of his absence with her, so it took him completelyby surprise when he returned at an earlier hour than he had expected, and, inquiring of the man servant if all was well, was told that the Princess Mannernorff had dined and spent the night with his sister. He ascertained what room she was occupying, and when the servant, who carried his bag, went into his own room ahead of him, he reproved the man rather severely for opening the window with such a noise. Then immediately he sent the servant away.
He had seen, from below, the beginning of the little procession going into the Madeleine; and as he stood half unconsciously watching it, possessed by the thought that the woman who had once been his adored and adoring wife was asleep in the next room to him, he heard the window of that room open, and he knew that she was awake, and standing very near. He heard her draw the curtains back by the cords and rings above. He even heard the little effort in her breathing caused by the strong pull. Each of them, he knew, was looking at the same sight—the beautiful, moving panorama, seen through the flecks of sun-washed, young green leaves; but while she was thinking of those trustful and unconscious children, histhoughts were wholly of her. His heart was filled with longings so intense and masterful as to crowd out everything else. Then, in a flash, his humor changed; for there came to him her stifled sobs, and her calls on God to pity them—those sweet, unknowing little ones, born to be suffering women. With his old swift comprehension of her, he knew why this sight had touched her so, and he realized what he had only dimly felt before, that she was a miserable woman, wearily walking avia dolorosa.
He did not ask to know what it might be. He longed only to help and comfort her. He could not speak, but at least he could let her know that he was near; and then it was that he had made the sound which Sonia had heard.
That sound was followed by silence. Was she perhaps indignant, he asked himself, that he should dare to make this demand upon her attention? She would have a right to be; for he could make no pretense that he had not deliberately intended to do this. Yet she was alone there, sad and troubled, and he was close at hand, with a heart that ached to comfort her. He could not have rested, feeling that she was unaware of his knowledge of her presence, and no matter what consequences tohimself the act might carry, he deliberately said to her in that sound: “I am here, and I know that you are there.”
If she had made a sign in answer, he would have thanked God on his knees; but she had withdrawn from the window in silence, and he had felt only that she was gone.
An hour later, when the servant brought his coffee and the morning papers, he brought also the information that the princess had gone off alone some time before in a cab.
Harold felt, at hearing this, a perfect fury of anger and indignation. With the possibility of a riot in view, and the knowledge that ladies had been warned not to venture unprotected on the streets, it made his blood boil to think she—the delicate woman-spirit and woman-body that he knew so well—should have gone forth alone from under the very roof with him; and that even if he had known of it, he would have had no right to interfere. The legal right, of course, he had; but that fact only made it the more impossible for him to assert upon her any claim. Not all the laws that were ever made could have bound or loosed him so indomitably as did her wish and will. The fact that it was still within his power to assert alegal claim upon her constituted in itself the strongest possible demand upon a man of his nature to leave her as free as air from any bondage or emancipation which could exist by any right but that of love. If she had loved him, he would have asserted his power and right to control and influence her. As she did not love him, there was no creature living who was so free from him as she—this woman whom once he had held in as binding fetters as ever love had forged.