Part 10

“I must go home,” she said, rising as she felt her strength return. “I have been ill. I did not know how weak I was.”

“I will take you to your carriage,” he said; and without seeming to recognize the possibility of resistance, he drew her arm in his, and led her from the room and down the steps.

It came to her, suddenly, that her carriage was not there.

“I sent the carriage away,” she said. “I thought I would stay awhile, and see the pictures.”

He signaled to a waiting cab, and as it drew up to the sidewalk, and he put her in, he said quietly, but with resolution:

“I cannot let you go alone in this cab, ill and faint as you are. I beg your pardon, princess; but I must go with you”; and he gave the number to the cabman, and got in beside her.

That word _Princess_ stung her pride, and gave her a sudden feeling of strength. She knew that he meant to convey by its use the idea that it was only as a matter of formal courtesy that he felt bound to care for and protect her now. She drew herself upright, with a slight bend of the head in acknowledgment of his civility.

For a few moments they drove along in silence, utterly alone together. Harold wondered if the thoughts of other days and hours were in her mind. At the same instant she was wondering the same thing about him. She had forgotten that he had just spoken of her with formality, and called her princess. Apparently he had forgotten it, too; for he now said in a low tone and with suddenness:

“Your picture is remarkable. You have told your story well.”

She felt that denial would be useless. Since he had found her standing there before it, she was certain that he knew the truth as well as she did.

“I never meant that it should be known that I painted it,” she said. “You must know that.”

“Why should it not be known?” he said. “If a woman has looked on what those eyes have seen, surely she is called upon to give her warning. If that is what marriage meant to you, God pity you! God be thanked that you are out of it!”

At his words there rushed across her mind the memory of a thousand acts and thoughts and words of tenderness, of love, of strong protection, of help in need and comfort in distress, which this man beside her had given her. How could she tell him, though, that the ground of the despair which she had painted had been the renunciation of these--the thought that she had had a vision of what the love of man and woman could be in a wedded life, and had been shut out from it? Where were now the reasons that had seemed so powerful and sufficient for the course which she had taken? Why was it that, try as she might, she could get no sense of support and satisfaction from recalling these? Was it because she felt them to be the foolish qualms of an ignorant girl, who was prepared to fight against any and all conditions of life which did not answer to her whim? O God, the hideous possibilities of error and of wrong that were about one! How confident of right one might be in doing an act of weakness and of shame!

She could not answer his last words. She felt herself suddenly so possessed of the sense of his nearness that she could neither collect nor control her thoughts. Her eyes were lowered, and she could not see his face; but the very sight of his strong brown hand lying ungloved upon his knee, the very bend of that knee and fold of the gray trousers, seemed as familiar to her as her own body.

Suddenly she seemed to feel that he was hers, and that she was his, whether they chose to recognize the fact or not; that God had joined them, and no man, not even themselves, had power to put them asunder.

Harold, meantime, was wondering at her silence. Why was it that, after her old defiant fashion, she had had no answer ready for his bitterly felt and spoken words? That picture had stung his soul, and he would have died sooner than have owned to himself even a wish to have her back.

In spite of this, he could not forget that they were alone together, and that she was ill and weak, and needed pity. He wondered suddenly if he had been cruel in what he had said to her, and had put too great a tax upon her strength.

As this thought crossed his mind the cab stopped, and he became aware of a din of sound, made by the tramping of men and horses, and the blare of brass instruments and the beating of drums. The cabman leaned down and called to him, saying that the way had been crossed by a procession. It would be some time passing. Was monsieur in a great hurry? Harold answered no; and as he turned from the window he glanced toward the woman at his side, and saw that she was leaning back weakly in her corner, deadly pale. Her eyes met his, however, with a wide, direct, unflinching look, and he saw that there was no danger of her fainting. Consciousness, acute and powerful, was written in those eyes.

Outside, the crowd pushed and jostled by, while the clatter of hoofs and feet came more distinctly to the ears as the sound of the band moved off in the distance. An instinct to protect that pallid face from being gazed upon made him draw down the thick silk blinds. He did this, explaining his motive to his companion in a few quick words. Then he turned and looked at her, and in the suddenly created gloom their eyes met.

He was striving with all his might to keep the fire out of his; but suddenly he became aware of the same effort on her part, as she closed her lids an instant, and then, as if mastered by a feeling stronger than her will, opened them wide, and looked at him again.

His heart leaped. His pulses throbbed. His cheeks flushed darkly. He moved a little nearer to her, so that their faces were close, and still her eyes met his with that wild, burning, concentrated gaze.

“For God’s sake, what is it?” he said. But she did not move a muscle or an eyelash. She only gave her eyes to his, as one would hold up the printed page of a book to be read and understood.

“What is it?” he said again, coming so near as to speak in the lowest whisper, while his hands grasped hard the top of his stick, and his breath came thick and fast.

Her eyes still clung to his, but her lips were wordless.

“I do not understand,” he said. “For God’s sake, speak! I do not want to lose control of myself, but I cannot forget that you have been my wife.”

These words, which moved him so that he shook visibly, made apparently no impression upon her. Her breathing was so scant and so light as scarcely to lift the lace upon her breast; and, near as he was to her, he could not hear it. Was she, perhaps, unconscious? He might have thought so, but for the deep, intense consciousness in the gaze that she fixed upon him, and the flutter of her long-lashed lids as she shut and opened them occasionally from the strain of that prolonged look.

Outside, the drum throbbed distantly, like the beating of a great excited heart. The thin call of a trumpet sounded keenly like a sigh of pain. Nearer the tramp of men and horses could be heard. But all these things only made them feel more absolutely alone together--this man and this woman who had once been one in marriage! With his breast heaving quickly with deep, uneven breaths, he suddenly uttered her name in a thick whisper.

Still she remained as she had been before, motionless and wordless, while he read her eyes. He dropped his stick, and seized her hands in both his own, which were cold and shaking.

“Speak!” he said commandingly. “In God’s name, what do you mean, unless it is that you love me still?”

Her hands were quiet and nerveless in his grasp, and in another instant he would have lost control and consciousness of what he was doing. But at this very moment the cabman called to his horse and cracked his whip, the carriage gave a lurch forward, and they rattled rapidly away.

Recollecting himself, Harold dropped the hands which he had seized so recklessly, and touched the springs of the curtains, which instantly flew up, letting in the full light of day.

The fresh air which came in seemed to calm his heated blood, and he was master of himself again.

When he turned to look at his companion, she was leaning back in exactly the same position, only her heavy, richly fringed white lids were dropped over her eyes.

In this way she remained quite still until the carriage stopped before the door of her apartment. Harold, who thought that she had now really fainted, was about to summon help from the concierge, when she opened her eyes with a look of entire self-possession in them, got out of the cab without the aid of his offered hand, and, bowing her thanks, without speaking walked past him into the house, with a look of cool dismissal which made it impossible for him to follow.

Puzzled, confused, bewildered almost to the point of frenzy, he got back into the cab, and ordered the driver to drive in the Bois until he should tell him to turn.

Sonia, during that same time, was shut within her room, thinking as intensely as he. She had been able, by dint of enormous will-power, to control herself in all other points while indulging herself in one. She had said to herself during those crucial minutes in the cab, while she consciously threw open the windows of her soul to this man in that clear and unrestricted gaze, that she would neither speak nor stir, though the effort should kill her. She found that she could best carry out this resolve by relaxing her body utterly, while her will got every moment tenser in its strain. She had said to herself over and over to what seemed a thousand times: “Don’t move--don’t speak. Don’t move--don’t speak”; and the very consciousness that she was equal to this effort made her the more free in the abandonment with which she had let him read her heart in her eyes.

Now, as she threw her wraps aside, and paced up and down her room, a feeling of delicious exultation possessed her, and the physical weakness which she had lately felt was gone and forgotten. It had been a draught of intoxicating joy simply to look at him with free and unbridled eyes. Was he not her husband, who could not be, by any act of man, really parted from her? What had she shown him but a woman’s feeling for her wedded lover? Was she crazy, she wondered, that she could have done it then, and could feel now no regret--only a wild delight--in having done it? O God, O God, how long it was that she had shut herself off from feeling, and how good it was to feel once more! She was alive in every nerve and pulse, as she had not been for so long; and the throbbing of life was sweet, sweet, sweet! Never mind about the future; she would meet it boldly, and make up some excuse--that she had been ill or unconscious in the cab--pretend that she had forgotten the whole thing--do anything that was needed, as to that!--but the throbbing bliss of that one half-hour, she exulted that she had been bold enough to make her own.

XIX

THE _cours_ was closed at Etienne’s, but Sonia, who could not bear to face the hours of idleness which each day must contain during the few weeks which her aunt was still to spend in Paris, got permission to come and work in the atelier during the afternoons. She was privileged to get her own models as she required them, and Martha was to come also when she had time and inclination.

The day after her encounter with Harold at the Salon, Sonia, strong in purpose and confident in will, went to the atelier with only Inkling to protect her and keep her company, and set resolutely to work to do some severe drawing.

She had abundance of both time and space now, and she settled herself with great care and deliberation, with the anatomical figures and numerous copies of Ingres’ drawings full in view. She had not worked very long, however, before her enthusiasm began to ebb, and she put down her charcoal and went across to the model-throne, where she sat down with her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, and fell to thinking deeply. Inkling came and jumped up in her lap, but she pushed him away with a roughness unusual to her, and he had to content himself with curling up on her skirt. As she sat there, conscious of being quite alone, she was as absolutely still as any of the customary holders of this position; but the varied expressions which crossed and changed her face would have made any class of students in the world despair of such a model. Sometimes she would look quite happy for an instant, as if a thought of joy had forced its way uppermost. Then again deep pain would come into her face, and shadows of doubt, perplexity, and hopelessness.

She sat so for a long time. Inkling had had a deep and peaceful sleep on the soft folds of her gown, from which he was startled by a knock at the door. His mistress sprang up suddenly, rolling him over, and he began to bark furiously, while Sonia, with an attitude of studious absorption, took her place at the easel, and seized her bit of charcoal. She thought it was probably only some boy on an errand, but she was also acutely conscious of whom it might possibly be. So she was not entirely unprepared for the sight of Harold appearing quickly around the edge of the old sail-cloth screen.

He bowed with a brevity and formality which seemed to imply that she need fear no agitating disturbance from him; but instead of standing in his place and stating the reason of his presence, he came forward.

Inkling, wild with excitement, began a repetition of his frantic performances of the former occasion; but his mistress, determined to have nothing of that sort, promptly suppressed him, and he slunk away and lay down with great meekness.

Harold, seeming to take no cognizance of the dog, came nearer, and waited until the absorbed figure before the easel should notice him. Presently she did this by saying formally:

“Martha is not here. She has not been here to-day.”

“She is at home. I have just left her,” he answered.

“Oh, I beg your pardon! I thought you had come to see her.”

“No; I have come to see you.”

“To see me?” lifting her eyebrows in light surprise.

“If you are at leisure.”

“I am busy, as you see; but I can talk to you as I draw, if you don’t mind.”

“If you will allow me, I will wait until your drawing is done.”

“That would take up too much of your time,” she said, laying down her charcoal, and elaborately brushing off her fingers with her handkerchief.

“Not at all. I have nothing to do.”

“I would rather speak to you first--whatever it is you have to say--and go on with my work afterward. I dislike to draw with people looking on.”

“In that case I will ask you to give me your attention at once. Will you, perhaps take this seat?”

He indicated an old wooden arm-chair; but she declined it with a quick motion, and went over and took her old place on the model-throne, lifting Inkling to her lap. Harold seated himself on a bench directly facing her.

“I am sorry if I am annoying you,” he said; “but I cannot take the consequences of not speaking to you now.”

“Consequences?” she said. “What consequences?”

“Consequences to you and to me. I will ask you to be kind enough to look at me while I explain them.”

Her eyes were fastened upon Inkling, and she kept them so, while she began to twist his soft ears. There was a moment of intense stillness throughout the room. Then the man, in a voice of deep concentration, spoke her name.

“Sophie,” he said.

“Pray don’t call me by that name,” she answered quickly. “I have never liked it, and I wish now to forget it.”

“Sonia, then, if you prefer it. I want simply to make plain the fact that I am speaking to _you_, the woman who bears that name, and not to the princess, as you are supposed to be.”

“Go on,” she said.

He was silent. She kept her eyes fixed on the dog until she was afraid that her stubbornness would look childish, or, worse even than that, timid. Then she looked up.

The next instant she wished that she had not, for the compelling look that met her own did for a moment make her feel afraid. She summoned all her force, however, and looked at him defiantly, her head raised, her eyes steady.

“I want you to explain to me what you meant yesterday,” he said.

“What I meant yesterday? What do you mean?”

“What you meant yesterday, driving home in the cab.”

“What I meant yesterday by driving home in the cab? I suppose my meaning was the obvious one--that I was tired and ill, and that my own carriage was not there.”

The timidity which she had felt before grew now into positive terror, as she felt the masterful force of this man’s power over her. So strong was her sense of it that she felt absolutely reckless of what she said or did, so long as she was able to resist him.

“You will not move me, or change my intention--my _determination_ to get an answer to my question. Your evasion of it is childish as well as useless.”

“I will be childish if I choose. Who is to prevent me?” she said defiantly.

“I will. I have no intention of submitting to any such childishness now. You are a woman, and you are the only woman who exists for me. In that character I mean to have your answer to my question.”

His words made her heart throb quick, with a feeling outside of the terror of self-betrayal by which she was possessed. She gave no outward sign, however, as she looked down, and began once more to pull at Inkling’s ears.

Before she realized what he was doing, Harold had bent forward, and lifting the dog from her lap, he set him on the floor, with a shove that sent him half-way across the room. As the little creature ran off frightened, Harold turned to the woman facing him, and forcibly took both her hands in his.

She jerked them from him with a powerful wrench, as she sprang to her feet, retreating a few paces until she was stopped by some benches and easels huddled together on that side of the room.

“Don’t touch me!” she cried, in a voice of real terror.

He let his hands drop to his sides, but he followed, and stood very close to her, as he said:

“You had better answer me, and let me have my way. I am not to be turned now. This interview between us must be final, and I promise you that after it you shall be safe from any persecution from me. Now, however, the present moment is my own. I have you in my power--and that power I intend to use!”

“An honorable and manly thing to say!” she panted, her eyes blazing and her lips curled. “Do you mean me to understand that you would use force to make me comply with your wish?”

“I mean just that,” he answered, bending over her with eyes that gave her the feeling of a physical touch. “I will prevent your leaving this room until you have honestly and fairly spoken to me, and have either confirmed or denied what your eyes plainly said to me yesterday.”

“You are cowardly and cruel!” she cried. “You are taking a mean advantage of me! I was ill yesterday. I was half unconscious--”

“You may have been ill,” he interrupted. “I know indeed that you were, and that physical weakness may have led to self-betrayal; but you were not unconscious. Far from it. You were never more acutely conscious in your life than during those long moments when you looked at me with love.”

“I deny it!” she cried angrily.

“Useless!” he answered. “It is not to be denied.”

She tried to draw farther away, but the barricade of easels stopped her. Then he himself stepped backward, and put some feet of space between them.

“I cannot bear to see you shrink from me,” he said. “You will have to forgive a persistence that may seem to you brutal; but fate has put this opportunity into my hands, and I’d be a fool not to use it.”

“And what do you expect to get from it?” she asked.

“An answer in plain words to this question, Do you, or do you not, love me?”

“I do not!” she cried hotly; but her breast was heaving so, her heart was throbbing so, that she could scarcely catch her breath; and she felt that not for all the world dared she look him in the face.

“Your eyes yesterday contradicted your words of to-day,” he said. “I will not be content until I have had both. So help me God, you are not going to trifle with me now! I will make you look at me, and confirm with your eyes the words you have just spoken, or I’ll have you for my wife again!”

He caught her in his arms, and drew her close against him. She opened her mouth as if to scream, but he laid his palm upon it, not forgetting, for all his strength, to touch her gently.

“Oh, my darling, my precious one,” he said, “don’t call out for protection from me, as if I were your enemy! Surely you know that I would die by torture before I would hurt you--body or soul. But something--a wicked pride, perhaps--is making you struggle against the truth; and, for your sake as well as for my own, I must make a fight for it. Look! I offer you the chance. If you can look me in the face, and say with eyes and lips together, ‘Harold, I do not love you,’ then you are as free as air. If you can do that, I will go, and never cross your path again.”

He had taken his hand from her mouth, for fear her panting breaths would cease. He could feel the violent beating of her heart against his side. An overwhelming tenderness and pity for her filled him, and his arm, relaxing its stern pressure, drew her close, with an embrace whose only constraint was that of love. Her ear was very close to him, and he spoke to her in the lowest whispers.

“Dear one,” he said, “what is it you are fighting against, if it be not the coming back of love and joy?”

He could not see her eyes. He did not wish to see them yet. This waiting was bliss, because there was hope in it.

She had ceased to struggle, and was quiet in his arms. They stood so, many seconds, their hearts throbbing against each other, their cheeks pressed. In the unspeakable sweetness of his nearness, Harold felt against his face the moisture of a tear.

“What is it?” he whispered. “You are crying! For God’s sake, tell me why!”

A gentle little head-shake answered him; but she made no motion to draw herself away, and he, enraptured, held her close.

“There is nothing--_nothing_ that you cannot tell to me,” he said, still in that whisper that thrilled the silence of the room. “Perhaps you do not understand. Listen, and I will make it all plain. I loved you then. I love you now. I have loved you through all the pain and silence in between. Oh, dearest, never dream but that you are still my own--wholly and unchangeably as I am yours--if only you love me!”

She kept so still that he was puzzled. He made a motion to draw back his head and look at her, but she put up her hand and pressed his cheek still closer against hers. He passionately wished that she would speak; but there was no sound except that fluttered breathing, no motion but that little tremor which he felt against his side. She was weakening, weakening, weakening--he was sure of this; but he was in such an absolute terror of misunderstanding her mood that he dared not move or speak.

As they stood there so, he felt a sudden tightening of the pressure of her arms. They strained him close against her. His heart leaped; but he was not sure. There was something that alarmed him even in that clasp of love.

“Are you happy?” he whispered in the lowest murmur. But with a sudden wrench she tore herself away from him, and when he tried to follow, waved him back with a gesture which he could not disregard.

“Happy!” she said in a voice that mocked the thought, as she wrung her hands together, and then, for a moment, hid her face in the curve of one tensely bended arm. “What have I to do with happiness?” she cried out, flinging wide her arms, and looking upward, as if appealing to some invisible presence rather than to him or to herself. “I had it given to me once in boundless measure, and I played with it, and tossed it from me. It was lightly and easily done, and now it cannot be undone.”

Harold stood where her imperious gesture had stopped him, and looked at her in consternation.