XII.
It was a hot evening in June: the perfume of the lilac, now in fullestbloom, lay over squares and gardens like a suspended wave. The sun hadgone down in a cloudless sky; an hour afterwards, the pavements werestill warm to the touch, and the walls of the buildings radiated theheat they had absorbed. The high old houses in the inner town had allwindows set open, and the occupants leaned out on theirwindow-cushions, with continental nonchalance. The big garden-cafeswere filled to the last scat. In the woods, the midges buzzed roundpeople's heads in accompanying clouds; and streaks of treacherous whitemist trailed, like fixed smoke, over the low-lying meadow-land.
Maurice and Louise had rowed to Connewitz; but so late in the eveningthat most of the variously shaped boats, with coloured lanterns attheir bows, were returning when they started.
Louise herself had proposed it. When he went to her that afternoon, hefound her stretched on the sofa. A theatre-ticket lay on the table--forshe had taken him at his word, and shown him that she could do withouthim. But to-night she had no fancy for the theatre: it was too hot. Shelooked very slight and young in her white dress; but was moody and outof spirits.
On the way to Connewitz, they spoke no more than was necessary. Comingback, however, they had the river to themselves; and she no longerneeded to steer. He placed cushions for her at the bottom of the boat;and there she lay, with her hands clasped under her neck, watching thestarry strip of sky, which followed them, between the tops of the treesabove, like a complement of the river below.
The solitude was unbroken; they might have gone down in the murkywater, and no one would ever know how it had happened: a snag caughtunawares; a clumsy movement in the light boat; half a minute, and allwould be over.--Or, for the first and the last time in his life, hewould take her in his arms, hold her to him, feel her cheek on his; hewould kiss her, with kisses that were at once an initiation and afarewell; then, covering her eyes with his hands, he would gently, verygently, tilt the boat. A moment's hesitation; it sought to rightitself; rocked violently, and overturned: and beneath it, locked ineach other's arms, they found a common grave....
In fancy, he saw it all. Meanwhile, he rowed on, with long, leisurelystrokes; and the lapping of the water round the oars was the only soundto be heard.
At home, on the lid of his piano, lay the prospectuses of music-schoolsin other towns. They were still arriving, in answer to the impulsiveletters he had written off, the night after the theatre. But the lastto come had remained unopened.--He was well aware of it: his lingeringon had all the appearance of a weak reluctance to face the inevitable.For he could never make mortal understand what he had come through, inthe course of the past week. He could no more put into words theisolated spasms of ecstasy he had experienced--when nothing under thesun seemed impossible--than he could describe the slough of misery anduncertainty, which, on occasion, he had been forced to wade through.For the most part, he believed that the words of contempt Louise hadspoken, came straight from her heart; but he had also known the faintstir ring of a new hope, and particularly was this the case when he hadnot seen Louise for some time. Then, at night, as he lay staring beforehim, this feeling became a sudden refulgence, which lighted him throughall the dark hours, only to be remorselessly extinguished by daylight.Most frequently, however, it was so slender a hope as to be a meredistracting flutter at his heart. Whence it sprang, he could nottell--he knew Louise too well to believe, for a moment, that she wouldmake use of pique to hide her feelings. But there was a something inher manner, which was strained; in the fact that she, who had nevercared, should at length be moved by words of his; in a certain way shehad looked at him, once or twice in these days; or in a certain way shehad avoided looking at him. No, he did not know what it was. Butnevertheless it was there--a faint, inarticulate existence--and,compared with it, the tangible facts of life were the shadows of ashadow.
Surely she had fallen asleep. He said her name aloud, to try her."Louise!" She did not stir, and the word floated out into thenight--became an expression of the night itself.
They had passed the weir and its foaming, and now glided under thebridges that spanned the narrower windings of the river. The woodenbathing-house looked awesome enough to harbour mysteries. Another sharpturn, among sedge and rushes, and the outlying streets of the town wereon their right. The boat-sheds were in darkness, when they drew upalongside the narrow landing-place. Maurice got out with the chain inhis hand, and secured the boat. Louise did not follow immediately. Herhair had come down, and she was stiff from the cramped position inwhich she had been lying. When she did rise to her feet, she couldhardly stand. He put out his hand, and steadied her by the arm.
"A heavy dew must be falling. Your sleeve is wet."
She made a movement to draw her arm away; at the same moment, shetangled her foot in her skirt, tripped, and, if he had not caught her,would have fallen forward.
"Take care what you're doing! Do you want to drown yourself?"
"I don't know. I shouldn't mind, I think," she answered tonelessly.
His own balance had been endangered. Directly he had righted himself,he set her from him. But it could not be undone: he had had her in hisarms, had felt all her weight on him. The sensation seemed to take hisstrength away: after the long, black, silent evening, her body wasdoubly warm, doubly real. He walked her back, along the desertedstreets, at a pace she could not keep up with. She lagged behind. Shewas very pale, and her face wore an expression of almost physicalsuffering. She looked resolutely away from Maurice; but when her eyesdid chance to rest on him, she was swept by such a sense of nervousirritation that she hated the sight of him, as he walked before her.
Upstairs, in her room, when he had laid the cushions on the sofa; whenthe lamp was lighted and set on the table; when he still stood there,pale, and wretched, and undecided, Louise came to an abrupt decision.Advancing to the table, she leaned her hands on it, and bendingforward, raised her white face to his.
"You told me you were going away; why do you not go? Why have you notalready gone?" she asked, and her mouth was hard. "I am waiting ...expecting to hear."
His answer was so hasty that it was all but simultaneous.
"Louise!--can't you forgive me?--for what I said the other night?"
"I have nothing to forgive," she replied, coldly in spite of herself."You said you must go. I can't keep you here against your will."
"It has made you angry with me. I have made you unhappy."
"You are making us both unhappy," she said in a low voice. "Now, it isI who say, things can't go on like this."
"I know it." He drew a deep breath. "Louise! ... if only you could carea little!"
There was silence after these words, but not a silence of conclusion;both knew now that more must follow. He raised his head, and lookedinto her eyes.
"Can you not see how I love you--and how I suffer?"
It was a statement rather than a question, but he was not aware ofthis: he was only amazed that, after all, he should be able to speak soquietly, in such an even tone of voice.
There was another pause of suspense; his words seemed like balls ofdown that he had tossed into the still air: they sank, lingeringly,without haste; and she stood, and let them descend on her. His haggardeyes hung on her face; and, as he watched, he saw a change come overit: the enmity that had been in it, a few seconds back, died out; thelips softened and relaxed; and when the eyes were raised to his again,they were kind, full of pity.
"I'm sorry. Poor boy ... poor Maurice."
She seemed to hesitate; then, with one of her frankest gestures, heldout her hand. At its touch, soft and living, he forgot everything:plans and resolutions, hopes and despairs, happiness and unhappiness nolonger existed for him; he knew only that she was sorry for him, thatsome swift change in her had made her sympathise and understand. Helooked down, with dim eyes, at the sweet, pale face, now alight withcompassion then, with disarming abruptness, he took her head betweenhis hands, and kissed her, repeatedly, whereever his l
ips chanced tofall--on the warm mouth, the closed eyes, temples, and hair.
He was gone before she recovered from her surprise. She hadinstinctively stemmed her hands against his shoulders; but, when shewas alone, she stood just as he left her, her eyes still shut, lettingthe sensation subside, of rough, unexpected kisses. She had been takenunawares; her heart was beating. For a moment or two, she remained inthe same attitude; then she passed her hand over her face. "That wasfoolish of him ... very," she said. She looked down at herself and sawher hands. She stretched them out before her, with a sudden sense ofemptiness.
"If I could care! Yes--if I could only care!"
At two o'clock that morning, Maurice wrote:
FORGIVE ME--I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT I WAS DOING. FOR I LOVE YOU, LOUISE--NOWOMAN HAS EVER BEEN LOVED AS YOU ARE. I KNOW IT IS FOLLY ON MY PART. IHAVE NOTHING TO OFFER YOU. BUT BE MY WIFE, AND I WILL WORK MY FINGERSTO THE BONE FOR YOU.
He went out into the summer night, and posted the letter. Returning tohis room, he threw himself on the sofa, and fell into a heavy sleep,from which he did not wake till the morning was well advanced.
Work was out of the question that day, when he waited as if for asentence of death. He paced his narrow room, incessantly, afraid to goout, for fear of missing her reply. The hours dragged themselves by, asit is their special province to do in crises of life; and with each onethat passed, he grew more convinced what her answer to his letter wouldbe.
It was late in the afternoon when the little boy she employed as amessenger, put a note into his hands.
COME TO ME THIS EVENING.
It was all but evening now; he went, just as he was, on the heels ofthe child.
The windows of her room were open. She sprang up to meet him, thenpaused. He looked desperately yet stealthily at her. The commiserationof the previous night was still in her face; but she was now quite sureof herself: she drew him to the sofa and made him sit down beside her.Then, however, for a few seconds, in which he waited with hammeringpulses, she did not speak. The dull fear at his heart became acertainty; and, unable to bear the suspense any longer, he took one ofher hands and laid it on his forehead.
Then she said: "Maurice--poor, foolish Maurice!--it is not possible.You see that yourself, I'm sure."
"Yes. I know quite well: it is presumption."
"Oh, I don't mean that. But there are so many reasons. And you, too,Maurice ... Look at me, and tell me if what you wrote was not just anattempt to make up for what happened last night." And as he did notreply, she added: "You mustn't make yourself reproaches. I, too, was toblame."
"It was nothing of the sort. I've been trying for weeks now to tellyou. I love you--have loved you since the first time I saw you."
He let go of her hand, and she sat forward, with her arms along herknees. Her eyes were troubled; but she did not lose her calm manner ofspeaking. "I'm sorry, Maurice, very sorry--you believe me' don't you,when I say so? But believe me, too, it's not so serious as you think.You are young. You will get over it, and forget--if not soon, at leastin time. You must forget me, and some day you will meet the nice, goodwoman, who is to be your wife. And when that happens, you will lookback on your fancy for me as something foolish, and unreal. You won'tbe able to understand it then, and you will be grateful to me, for nothaving taken you at your word."
Maurice laughed. All the same, he tried to take his dismissal well: herose, wrung her hand, and left her.
In the seclusion of his own room, he went through the blackest hour ofhis life.
He began to make final preparations for his departure. His choice hadfallen on Stuttgart: it was far distant from Leipzig; he would be wellout of temptation's way--the temptation suddenly to return. He wrote aletter home, apprising his relatives of his intention: by the time theyreceived the letter, it would be too late for them to interfere.Otherwise, he took no one into his confidence. He would greatly haveliked to wait until the present term was over; another month, and thesummer vacation would have begun, and he would have been able to leavewithout making himself conspicuous. But every day it grew moreimpossible to be there and not to see her--for four days now he hadkept away, fighting down his unreasoning desire to know what she wasdoing. He intended only to see her once more, to bid her good-bye.
The afternoon before his interview with Schwarz--he had arranged thiswith himself for the morning, at the master's private house--he sat athis writing-table, destroying papers and old letters. There was a heapof ashes in the cold stove by the time he took out, tied up in aseparate packet, the few odd scraps of writing he had received fromLouise. He balanced the bundle in his hand, hesitating what to do withit. Finally, he untied the string, to glance through the letters onceagain.
At the sight of the bold, black, familiar writing, in which eachword--two or three to a line--seemed to have a life of its own; at thewell-conned pages, each of which he knew by heart; at thecharacteristic, almost masculine signature, and the faint perfume thatstill clung to the paper: at the sight of these things all--that he hadbeen thinking and planning since seeing her last, was effaced from hismind. As often before, where she was concerned, a wild impulse, surgingup in him, took entire possession of him; and hours of patient andlaborious reasoning were by one swift stroke blotted out.
He rose, locked the letters up again, rested his arm on the lid of thepiano, his head on his arm. The more he toyed with his inclination togo to her, the more absorbent it became, and straightway it was anungovernable longing: it came over him with a dizzy force, which madehim close his eyes; and he was as helpless before it as the drunkardbefore his craving to drink. Standing thus, he saw with a flash ofinsight that, though he went away as far as steam could carry him, hewould never, as long as he lived, be safe from overthrows of this kind.It was something elemental, which he could no more control than theflow of his blood. And he did not even stay to excuse himself tohimself: he went headlong to her, with burning words on his lips.
"My poor boy," she said, when he ceased to speak. "Yes, I know what itis--that sudden rage that comes over one, to rush back, at all costs,no matter what happens afterwards.--I'm so sorry for you, Maurice. Itis making me unhappy."
"You are not to be unhappy. It shall not happen again, I promiseyou.--Besides, I shall soon be gone now." But at his own words, thethought of his coming desolation pierced him anew. "Give me just onestraw to cling to! Tell me you won't forget me all at once; that youwill miss me and think of me--if ever so little."
"You asked me that the other night. Was what I said then, not answerenough?--And besides, in these last four days, since I have been alone,I've learnt just how much I shall miss you, Maurice. It's mypunishment, I suppose, for growing so dependent on anyone."
"You must go away, too. You can't stay here by yourself. We must bothgo, in opposite directions, and begin afresh."
She did not reply at once. "I shouldn't know where to go," she said,after a time. "Will nothing else do, Maurice? Is there no otherway?--Oh, why can't we go on being friends, as we were!"
He shook his head. "I've struggled against it so long--you don't know.I've never really been your friend--only I couldn't hurt you before, bytelling you. And it has worn me out; I'm good for nothing.Louise!--think, just once more--ask yourself, once more, if it's quiteimpossible, before you send me into the outer darkness."
She was silent.
"I don't ask you to love me," he went on, in a low voice. "I've comedown from that, in these wretched days. I would be content with less,much less. I only ask you to let yourself be loved--as I could loveyou. If only you could say you liked me a little, all the rest wouldcome, I'm confident of it. In time, I should make you love me. For Iwould take, oh, such care of you! I want to make you happy, only tomake you happy. I've no other wish than to show you what happiness is."
"It sounds so good ... you are good, Maurice. But the future--tell me,have thought of the future?"
"I should think I have.--Do you suppose it means nothing to me to be sodespicably poor as I am? To have absolute
ly nothing to offer you?"
She took his hand. "That's not what I mean. And you know it. Come, letus talk sensibly this afternoon, and look things straight in theface.--You want to marry me, you say, and let the rest come? That isvery, very good of you, and I shall never forget it.--But what does itmean, Maurice? You have been here a little over a year now, haven'tyou?--and still have about a year to stay. When that's over, you willgo back to England. You will settle in some small place, and spend yourlife, or the best part of your life, there--oh, Maurice, you are mykind friend, but I tell you frankly, I couldn't face life in an Englishprovincial town. I'm not brave enough for that."
He gleaned a ray of hope from her words. "We could live here--anywhereyou liked. I would make it possible. I swear I would."
She shook her head, and went on, with the same reasonable sweetness."And then, there's another thing. If I married you, sooner or later youwould have to take me home to your people. Have you really thought ofthat, and how you would feel about it, when it came to the point?--No,no, it's impossible for me to marry you."
"But that--that American!--you would have married him?"
"That was different," she said, and her voice grew thinner. "It's theknowing that tells, Maurice. You would have that still to learn. Youdon't realise it yet, but afterwards, it would come home toyou.--Listen! You have always been kind to me, I owe you such a debt ofgratitude, that I'm going to be frank, brutally frank with you. I'vetold you often that I shall never really care for anyone again. Youknow that, don't you? Well, I want to tell you, too--I want you tounderstand quite, quite clearly that ... that I belonged to himaltogether--entirely--that I ... Oh, you know what I mean!"
Maurice covered his face with his hands. "The past is the past. Itshould never be mentioned between us. It doesn't matter--nothingmatters now."
"You say that--every one says that--beforehand," she answered; and notonly her words, but also her way of saying them, seemed to set her downmiles away from him, on a lonely pinnacle of experience. "Afterwards,you would think differently."
"Louise, if you really cared, it would be different. You wouldn't saysuch things, then--you would be only too glad not to say them."
In her heart she knew that he was right, and did not contradict him.The busy little clock on the writing-table ticked away a few seconds.With a jerk, Maurice rose to his feet. Louise remained sitting, and helooked down on her black head. His gaze was so insistent that she feltit, and raised her eyes. His forlorn face moved her.
"Why is it--what is the matter with me?--that I must upset your lifelike this? I can't bear to see you so unhappy.--And yet I haven't doneanything, have I? I have always been honest with you; I've never mademyself out to be better than I am. There must be something wrong withme, I think, that no one can ever be satisfied to be just myfriend.--Yet with you I thought it was different. I thought thingscould go on as they were. Maurice, isn't it possible? Say it is! Showme just one little spark of good in myself!"
"I'm not different from other men, Louise. I deluded myself longenough, God knows!"
She made a despondent gesture, and turned away. "Well, then, if eitherof us should go, I'm the one. You have your work. I do nothing; I haveno ties, no friends--I never even seem to have been able to makeacquaintances. And if I went, you could stay quietly on. In time, youwould forget me.--If I only knew where to go! I am so alone, and it isall so hard. I shall never know what it is to be happy myself, or tomake anyone else happy--never!" and she burst into tears.
It was his turn now to play the comforter. Drawing a. chair up beforeher, he took her hand, and said all he could think of to console her.He could bear anything, he told her, but to see her unhappy. All wouldyet turn out to be for the best. And, on one point, she was to set hermind at rest: her going away would not benefit him in the least. Hewould never consent to stay on alone, where they had been so muchtogether.
"I've nothing to look forward to, nothing," she sobbed. "There'snothing I care to live for."
As soon as she was quieter, he left her.
For an hour or more Louise lay huddled up on the sofa, with her facepressed to her arm.
When she sat up again, she pushed back her heavy hair, and, claspingher hands loosely round her knees, stared before her with vacant eyes.But not for long; tired though she was, and though her head ached fromcrying, there was still a deep residue of excitement in her. The levelbeams of the sun were pouring blindly into the room; the air was denseand oppressive. She rose to her feet and moved about. She did not knowwhat to do with herself: she would have liked to go out and walk; butthe dusty, jarring light of the summer streets frightened her. Shethought of music, of the theatre, as a remedy for the long evening thatyawned before her: then dismissed the idea from her mind. She was insuch a condition of restlessness, this night, that the fact of beingforced to sit still between two other human beings, would make her wantto scream.
The sun was getting low; the foliage of the trees in the oppositegardens was black, with copper edges, against the refulgence of thesky. She leaned her hands on the sill, and gazed fixedly at the stretchof red and gold, which, like the afterglow of a fire, flamed behind thetrees. Her eyes were filled with it. She did not think or feel: shebecame one, by looking, with the sight before her. As she stood there,nothing of her existed but her two widely opened eyes; she was amiracle wrought by the sunset; she WAS the sunset--in one of thosevacancies of mind, which all intense gazers know.
How long she had remained thus she could not have told, when a strangething happened to her. From some sub-conscious layer of her brain,which started into activity because the rest of it was so passive, asmall, still thought glided in, and took possession of her mind. Atfirst, it was so faint that she hardly grasped it; but, onceestablished there, it became so vivid that, with one sweep, it blottedout trees and sunset; so real that it seemed always to have beenpresent to her. Without conscious effort on her part, the solution toher difficulties had been found; a decision had been arrived at, butnot by her; it was the work of some force outside herself.
She turned from the window, and pressed her hands to her blinded eyes.Good God! it was so simple. To think that this had not occurred to herbefore!--that, throughout the troubled afternoon, the idea had neveronce suggested itself! There was no need of loneliness and sufferingfor either of them. He might stay; they both might stay; she could makehim happy, and ward off the change she so dreaded.--Who was she tostick at it?
But she remained dazed, doubtful as it were of this peaceful ending;her hand still covered her eyes. Then, with one of the swift movementsby which it was her custom to turn thought into action, she went to thewriting-table, and scrawled a few, big words.
MAURICE, I HAVE FOUND A WAY. COME BACK TO-MORROW EVENING.
She hesitated only over the last two words, and, before writing them,sat with her chin in her hand, and deliberately considered. Then sheaddressed the envelope, and stamped it: it would be soon enough if hegot it through the post, the following morning.
But, with her, to resolve was to act; she was ill at ease underenforced procrastination; and had often to fight against a burningimpatience, when circumstances delayed the immediate carrying out ofher will. In this case, however, she had voluntarily postponedMaurice's return for twenty-four hours, when he might have been withher in less than one: for, in her mind, there lurked the seductivethought of a long, summer day, with an emotion at its close to whichshe could look forward.
In the meantime, she was puzzled how to fill up the evening. After all,she decided to go to the theatre, where she arrived in time to hear thelast two acts of AIDA. From a seat in the PARQUET, close to theorchestra, she let the showy music play round her. Afterwards, shewalked home through the lilac-haunted night, went to bed, and at oncefell asleep.
Next morning, she wakened early--that was the sole token ofdisturbance, she could detect in herself. It was very still; there wasa faint twittering of birds, but the noises of the street had not yetbegun. She lay in the subdued yellow ligh
t of her room, with one armacross her eyes.
Fresh from sleep, she understood certain things as never before. Shesaw all that had happened of late--her slow recovery, her striving andseeking, her growing friendship with Maurice--in a different light. Onthis morning, too, she was able to answer one of the questions that hadpuzzled her the night before. She saw that the relations in which theyhad stood to each other, during the bygone months, would have beenimpossible, had she really cared for him. She liked him, yes, hadalways liked him; and, in addition, his patience and kindness had madeher deeply grateful to him. But that was all. Neither his hands, norhis voice, nor his eyes, nor anything he did, had had the power totouch her--SO to touch her, that her own hands and eyes would have methis half-way; that the old familiar craving, which was partly fear andpartly attraction, would have made her callous to his welfare. Hadthere been a breath of this, things would have come to a climax longago. Hot and eager as she was, she could not have lived on coolly athis side--and, at this moment, she found it difficult to make up hermind whether she admired Maurice or the reverse, for having been ableto carry his part through.
And yet, though no particle of personal feeling drew her to him, she,too, had suffered, in her own way, during these weeks of morbidtension, when he had been incapable either of advancing or retreating.How great the strain had been, she recognised only in the instant whenhe had spanned the breach, in clear, unmistakable words. If he had notdone it, she would have been forced to; for she could never findherself to rights, for long, in half circumstances: if she were not togrow bewildered, she had to see her road simple and straight beforeher. His words to her after they had been on the river together--more,perhaps, his bold yet timid kisses--had given her back strength andassurance. She was no longer the miserable instrument on which he triedhis changes of mood; she was again the giver and the bestower, sinceshe held a heart and a heart's happiness in the hollow of her hand.
What people would think and say was a matter of indifference to her:besides, they practically believed the worst of her already. No; shehad nothing to lose and, it might be, much to gain. And after all, itmeant so little! The first time, perhaps; or if one cared too much. Butin this case, where she had herself well in hand, and where there wasno chance of the blind desire to kill self arising, which had been herprevious undoing; where the chief end aimed at was the retention of afriend--here, it meant nothing at all.
The thought that she might possibly have scruples on his part tocombat, crossed her mind. She stretched her arm straight above herhead, then laid it across her eyes again. She would like him none theless for these scruples, did they exist: now, she believed that, atheart, she had really appreciated his reserve, his holding back, whereothers would have been so ready to pounce in. For the first time, sheconsidered him in the light of a lover, and she saw him differently. Asif the mere contemplation of such a change brought her nearer to him,she was stirred by a new sensation, which had him as its object. Andunder the influence of this feeling, she told herself that perhaps justin this gentler, kindlier love, which only sought her welfare, truehappiness lay. She strained to read the future. There would be stormsneither of joy nor of pain; but watchful sympathy, and the fine, manlytenderness that shields and protects. Oh, what if after all herpassionate craving for happiness, it was here at her feet, having cometo her as good things often do, unexpected and unsought!
She could lie still no longer; she sprang up, with an alacrity that hadbeen wanting in her movements of late. And throughout the long day,this impression, which was half a hope and half a belief was present toher mind, making everything she did seem strangely festive. She almostfeared the moment when she would see him again, lest anything he saidshould dissipate her hope.
When he came, her eyes followed him searchingly. With an instinct thatwas now morbidly sharpened, Maurice was aware of the change in her,even before he saw her eyes. His own were one devouring question.
She made him sit down beside her.
"What is it, Louise? Tell me--quickly. Remember, I've been all day insuspense," he said, as seconds passed and she did not speak.
"You got my note then?"
"What is it?--what did you mean?"
"Just a little patience, Maurice. You take one's breath away. You wantto know everything at once. I sent for you because--oh, because ... Iwant you to let us go on being friends."
"Is that all?" he cried, and his face fell. "When I have told you againand again that's just what I can't do?"
She smiled. "I wish I had known you as a boy, Maurice--oh, but as quitea young boy!" she said in such a changed voice that he glanced up insurprise. Whether it was the look she bent on him, or her voice, or herwords, he did not know; but something emboldened him to do what he hadoften done in fancy: he slid to his knees before her, and laid his headon her lap. She began to smooth back his hair, and each time her handcame forward, she let it rest for a moment.--She wondered how he wouldlook when he knew.
"You can't care for me, I know. But I would give my life to make youhappy."
"Why do you love me?" She experienced a new pleasure in postponing hisknowing, postponing it indefinitely.
"How can I say? All I know is how I love you--and how I have suffered."
"My poor Maurice," she said, in the same caressing way. "Yes, I shallalways call you poor.--For the love I could give you would be worthlesscompared with yours."
"To me it would be everything.--If you only knew how I have longed foryou, and how I have struggled!"
He took enough of her dress to bury his face in. She sat back, andlooked over him into the growing dusk of the room: and, in thealabaster of her face, nothing seemed to live except her black eyes,with the half-rings of shadow.
Suddenly, with the unexpectedness that marked her movements when shewas very intent, she leant forward again, and, with her elbow on herknee, her chin on her hand, said in a low voice: "Is it for ever?"
"For ever and ever."
"Say it's for ever." She still looked past him, but her lips hadparted, and her face wore the expression of a child's listening tofairy-tales. At her own words, a vista seemed to open up before her,and, at the other end, in blue haze, shone the great good that hadhitherto eluded her.
"I shall always love you," said the young man. "Nothing can make anydifference."
"For ever," she repeated. "They are pretty words."
Then her expression changed; she took his head between her hands.
"Maurice ... I'm older than you, and I know better than you, what allthis means. Believe me, I'm not worth your love. I'm only the shadow ofmy old self. And you are still so young and so ... so untried. There'sstill time to turn back, and be wise."
He raised his head.
"What do you mean? Why are you saying these things? I shall always loveyou. Life itself is nothing to me, without you. I want you ... onlyyou."
He put his arms round her, and tried to draw her to him. But she heldback. At the expression of her face, he had a moment of acuteuncertainty, and would have loosened his hold. But now it was she whoknotted her hands round his neck, and gave him a long, penetratinglook. He was bewildered; he did not understand what it meant; but itwas something so strange that, again, he had the impulse to let her go.She bent her head, and laid her face against his; cheek rested oncheek. He took her face between his hands, and stared into her eyes, asif to tear from them what was passing in her brain. Over both, in thesame breath, swept the warm, irresistible wave of self-surrender. Hecaught her to him, roughly and awkwardly, in a desperate embrace, whichthe kindly dusk veiled and redeemed.
Maurice Guest Page 27