CHAPTER VI
I had a momentary suspicion that I had said something stupid. Her smileamongst many other things seemed to have meant that, too. And I answeredit with a certain resignation:
"Well, I don't know that you are so much mist. I remember once hangingon to you like a drowning man . . . But perhaps I had better not speak ofthis. It wasn't so very long ago, and you may . . . "
"I don't mind. Well . . ."
"Well, I have kept an impression of great solidity. I'll admit that. Awoman of granite."
"A doctor once told me that I was made to last for ever," she said.
"But essentially it's the same thing," I went on. "Granite, too, isinsensible."
I watched her profile against the pillow and there came on her face anexpression I knew well when with an indignation full of suppressedlaughter she used to throw at me the word "Imbecile." I expected it tocome, but it didn't come. I must say, though, that I was swimmy in myhead and now and then had a noise as of the sea in my ears, so I mightnot have heard it. The woman of granite, built to last for ever,continued to look at the glowing logs which made a sort of fiery ruin onthe white pile of ashes. "I will tell you how it is," I said. "When Ihave you before my eyes there is such a projection of my whole beingtowards you that I fail to see you distinctly. It was like that from thebeginning. I may say that I never saw you distinctly till after we hadparted and I thought you had gone from my sight for ever. It was thenthat you took body in my imagination and that my mind seized on adefinite form of you for all its adorations--for its profanations, too.Don't imagine me grovelling in spiritual abasement before a mere image.I got a grip on you that nothing can shake now."
"Don't speak like this," she said. "It's too much for me. And there isa whole long night before us."
"You don't think that I dealt with you sentimentally enough perhaps? Butthe sentiment was there; as clear a flame as ever burned on earth fromthe most remote ages before that eternal thing which is in you, which isyour heirloom. And is it my fault that what I had to give was realflame, and not a mystic's incense? It is neither your fault nor mine.And now whatever we say to each other at night or in daylight, thatsentiment must be taken for granted. It will be there on the day Idie--when you won't be there."
She continued to look fixedly at the red embers; and from her lips thathardly moved came the quietest possible whisper: "Nothing would be easierthan to die for you."
"Really," I cried. "And you expect me perhaps after this to kiss yourfeet in a transport of gratitude while I hug the pride of your words tomy breast. But as it happens there is nothing in me but contempt forthis sublime declaration. How dare you offer me this charlatanism ofpassion? What has it got to do between you and me who are the only twobeings in the world that may safely say that we have no need of shamsbetween ourselves? Is it possible that you are a charlatan at heart?Not from egoism, I admit, but from some sort of fear. Yet, should you besincere, then--listen well to me--I would never forgive you. I wouldvisit your grave every day to curse you for an evil thing."
"Evil thing," she echoed softly.
"Would you prefer to be a sham--that one could forget?"
"You will never forget me," she said in the same tone at the glowingembers. "Evil or good. But, my dear, I feel neither an evil nor a sham.I have got to be what I am, and that, _amigo_, is not so easy; because Imay be simple, but like all those on whom there is no peace I am not One.No, I am not One!"
"You are all the women in the world," I whispered bending over her. Shedidn't seem to be aware of anything and only spoke--always to the glow.
"If I were that I would say: God help them then. But that would be moreappropriate for Therese. For me, I can only give them my infinitecompassion. I have too much reverence in me to invoke the name of a Godof whom clever men have robbed me a long time ago. How could I help it?For the talk was clever and--and I had a mind. And I am also, as Theresesays, naturally sinful. Yes, my dear, I may be naturally wicked but I amnot evil and I could die for you."
"You!" I said. "You are afraid to die."
"Yes. But not for you."
The whole structure of glowing logs fell down, raising a small turmoil ofwhite ashes and sparks. The tiny crash seemed to wake her up thoroughly.She turned her head upon the cushion to look at me.
"It's a very extraordinary thing, we two coming together like this," shesaid with conviction. "You coming in without knowing I was here and thentelling me that you can't very well go out of the room. That soundsfunny. I wouldn't have been angry if you had said that you wouldn't. Itwould have hurt me. But nobody ever paid much attention to my feelings.Why do you smile like this?"
"At a thought. Without any charlatanism of passion I am able to tell youof something to match your devotion. I was not afraid for your sake tocome within a hair's breadth of what to all the world would have been asqualid crime. Note that you and I are persons of honour. And theremight have been a criminal trial at the end of it for me. Perhaps thescaffold."
"Do you say these horrors to make me tremble?"
"Oh, you needn't tremble. There shall be no crime. I need not risk thescaffold, since now you are safe. But I entered this room meditatingresolutely on the ways of murder, calculating possibilities and chanceswithout the slightest compunction. It's all over now. It was all overdirectly I saw you here, but it had been so near that I shudder yet."
She must have been very startled because for a time she couldn't speak.Then in a faint voice:
"For me! For me!" she faltered out twice.
"For you--or for myself? Yet it couldn't have been selfish. What wouldit have been to me that you remained in the world? I never expected tosee you again. I even composed a most beautiful letter of farewell.Such a letter as no woman had ever received."
Instantly she shot out a hand towards me. The edges of the fur cloakfell apart. A wave of the faintest possible scent floated into mynostrils.
"Let me have it," she said imperiously.
"You can't have it. It's all in my head. No woman will read it. Isuspect it was something that could never have been written. But what afarewell! And now I suppose we shall say good-bye without even ahandshake. But you are safe! Only I must ask you not to come out ofthis room till I tell you you may."
I was extremely anxious that Senor Ortega should never even catch aglimpse of Dona Rita, never guess how near he had been to her. I wasextremely anxious the fellow should depart for Tolosa and get shot in aravine; or go to the Devil in his own way, as long as he lost the trackof Dona Rita completely. He then, probably, would get mad and get shutup, or else get cured, forget all about it, and devote himself to hisvocation, whatever it was--keep a shop and grow fat. All this flashedthrough my mind in an instant and while I was still dazzled by thosecomforting images, the voice of Dona Rita pulled me up with a jerk.
"You mean not out of the house?"
"No, I mean not out of this room," I said with some embarrassment.
"What do you mean? Is there something in the house then? This is mostextraordinary! Stay in this room? And you, too, it seems? Are you alsoafraid for yourself?"
"I can't even give you an idea how afraid I was. I am not so much now.But you know very well, Dona Rita, that I never carry any sort of weaponin my pocket."
"Why don't you, then?" she asked in a flash of scorn which bewitched meso completely for an instant that I couldn't even smile at it.
"Because if I am unconventionalized I am an old European," I murmuredgently. "No, _Excellentissima_, I shall go through life without as muchas a switch in my hand. It's no use you being angry. Adapting to thisgreat moment some words you've heard before: I am like that. Such is mycharacter!"
Dona Rita frankly stared at me--a most unusual expression for her tohave. Suddenly she sat up.
"Don George," she said with lovely animation, "I insist upon knowing whois in my house."
"You insist! . . . But Therese says it is _her_
house."
Had there been anything handy, such as a cigarette box, for instance, itwould have gone sailing through the air spouting cigarettes as it went.Rosy all over, cheeks, neck, shoulders, she seemed lighted up softly frominside like a beautiful transparency. But she didn't raise her voice.
"You and Therese have sworn my ruin. If you don't tell me what you meanI will go outside and shout up the stairs to make her come down. I knowthere is no one but the three of us in the house."
"Yes, three; but not counting my Jacobin. There is a Jacobin in thehouse."
"A Jac . . .! Oh, George, is this the time to jest?" she began inpersuasive tones when a faint but peculiar noise stilled her lips asthough they had been suddenly frozen. She became quiet all overinstantly. I, on the contrary, made an involuntary movement before I,too, became as still as death. We strained our ears; but that peculiarmetallic rattle had been so slight and the silence now was so perfectthat it was very difficult to believe one's senses. Dona Rita lookedinquisitively at me. I gave her a slight nod. We remained looking intoeach other's eyes while we listened and listened till the silence becameunbearable. Dona Rita whispered composedly: "Did you hear?"
"I am asking myself . . . I almost think I didn't."
"Don't shuffle with me. It was a scraping noise."
"Something fell."
"Something! What thing? What are the things that fall by themselves?Who is that man of whom you spoke? Is there a man?"
"No doubt about it whatever. I brought him here myself."
"What for?"
"Why shouldn't I have a Jacobin of my own? Haven't you one, too? Butmine is a different problem from that white-haired humbug of yours. Heis a genuine article. There must be plenty like him about. He hasscores to settle with half a dozen people, he says, and he clamours forrevolutions to give him a chance."
"But why did you bring him here?"
"I don't know--from sudden affection . . . "
All this passed in such low tones that we seemed to make out the wordsmore by watching each other's lips than through our sense of hearing.Man is a strange animal. I didn't care what I said. All I wanted was tokeep her in her pose, excited and still, sitting up with her hair loose,softly glowing, the dark brown fur making a wonderful contrast with thewhite lace on her breast. All I was thinking of was that she wasadorable and too lovely for words! I cared for nothing but thatsublimely aesthetic impression. It summed up all life, all joy, allpoetry! It had a divine strain. I am certain that I was not in my rightmind. I suppose I was not quite sane. I am convinced that at thatmoment of the four people in the house it was Dona Rita who upon thewhole was the most sane. She observed my face and I am sure she readthere something of my inward exaltation. She knew what to do. In thesoftest possible tone and hardly above her breath she commanded: "George,come to yourself."
Her gentleness had the effect of evening light. I was soothed. Herconfidence in her own power touched me profoundly. I suppose my love wastoo great for madness to get hold of me. I can't say that I passed to acomplete calm, but I became slightly ashamed of myself. I whispered:
"No, it was not from affection, it was for the love of you that I broughthim here. That imbecile H. was going to send him to Tolosa."
"That Jacobin!" Dona Rita was immensely surprised, as she might well havebeen. Then resigned to the incomprehensible: "Yes," she breathed out,"what did you do with him?"
"I put him to bed in the studio."
How lovely she was with the effort of close attention depicted in theturn of her head and in her whole face honestly trying to approve. "Andthen?" she inquired.
"Then I came in here to face calmly the necessity of doing away with ahuman life. I didn't shirk it for a moment. That's what a shorttwelvemonth has brought me to. Don't think I am reproaching you, O blindforce! You are justified because you _are_. Whatever had to happen youwould not even have heard of it."
Horror darkened her marvellous radiance. Then her face became utterlyblank with the tremendous effort to understand. Absolute silence reignedin the house. It seemed to me that everything had been said now thatmattered in the world; and that the world itself had reached its ultimatestage, had reached its appointed end of an eternal, phantom-like silence.Suddenly Dona Rita raised a warning finger. I had heard nothing andshook my head; but she nodded hers and murmured excitedly,
"Yes, yes, in the fencing-room, as before."
In the same way I answered her: "Impossible! The door is locked andTherese has the key." She asked then in the most cautious manner,
"Have you seen Therese to-night?"
"Yes," I confessed without misgiving. "I left her making up the fellow'sbed when I came in here."
"The bed of the Jacobin?" she said in a peculiar tone as if she werehumouring a lunatic.
"I think I had better tell you he is a Spaniard--that he seems to knowyou from early days. . . ." I glanced at her face, it was extremelytense, apprehensive. For myself I had no longer any doubt as to the manand I hoped she would reach the correct conclusion herself. But Ibelieve she was too distracted and worried to think consecutively. Sheonly seemed to feel some terror in the air. In very pity I bent down andwhispered carefully near her ear, "His name is Ortega."
I expected some effect from that name but I never expected what happened.With the sudden, free, spontaneous agility of a young animal she leapedoff the sofa, leaving her slippers behind, and in one bound reachedalmost the middle of the room. The vigour, the instinctive precision ofthat spring, were something amazing. I just escaped being knocked over.She landed lightly on her bare feet with a perfect balance, without theslightest suspicion of swaying in her instant immobility. It lasted lessthan a second, then she spun round distractedly and darted at the firstdoor she could see. My own agility was just enough to enable me to gripthe back of the fur coat and then catch her round the body before shecould wriggle herself out of the sleeves. She was muttering all thetime, "No, no, no." She abandoned herself to me just for an instantduring which I got her back to the middle of the room. There sheattempted to free herself and I let her go at once. With her face veryclose to mine, but apparently not knowing what she was looking at sherepeated again twice, "No--No," with an intonation which might well havebrought dampness to my eyes but which only made me regret that I didn'tkill the honest Ortega at sight. Suddenly Dona Rita swung round andseizing her loose hair with both hands started twisting it up before oneof the sumptuous mirrors. The wide fur sleeves slipped down her whitearms. In a brusque movement like a downward stab she transfixed thewhole mass of tawny glints and sparks with the arrow of gold which sheperceived lying there, before her, on the marble console. Then shesprang away from the glass muttering feverishly, "Out--out--out of thishouse," and trying with an awful, senseless stare to dodge past me whohad put myself in her way with open arms. At last I managed to seize herby the shoulders and in the extremity of my distress I shook her roughly.If she hadn't quieted down then I believe my heart would have broken. Ispluttered right into her face: "I won't let you. Here you stay." Sheseemed to recognize me at last, and suddenly still, perfectly firm on herwhite feet, she let her arms fall and, from an abyss of desolation,whispered, "O! George! No! No! Not Ortega."
There was a passion of mature grief in this tone of appeal. And yet sheremained as touching and helpless as a distressed child. It had all thesimplicity and depth of a child's emotion. It tugged at one'sheart-strings in the same direct way. But what could one do? How couldone soothe her? It was impossible to pat her on the head, take her onthe knee, give her a chocolate or show her a picture-book. I foundmyself absolutely without resource. Completely at a loss.
"Yes, Ortega. Well, what of it?" I whispered with immense assurance.
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