That night, Marietje van Saetzema had a dream which was like a
nightmare. She was running down a sloping mountain, deep as an abyss;
she rushed and rushed and Addie came rushing after her and Mathilde
after Addie, rushing with delirious screams. After Mathilde, Johan
Erzeele came rushing and, last of all, Gerdy; and before any one of them
reached the other, Marietje, who was running in front, plunged into the
deep abyss; and they all plunged after her. The echoing fall, in the
black depths, made Marietje wake with a start to find the darkness of
her bedroom quivering all around her, the strange inner darkness of the
night; and she was cold and clammy and sat up wide-eyed, while the wind
blew fiercely outside. Her first impulse was to get up and run out of
the room for help, to Aunt Constance, to Addie. But, growing calmer,
though her head and heart were still throbbing, she let herself fall
back upon her pillows and controlled her fears. She would stay quietly
in her room.
A month ago, she would never have done as much; at the Hague, after this
sort of dream, she would utter cries, go running through the house,
scream aloud. Now she did not scream, but lay where she was and drove
the feverish thoughts in front of her. Yes, feverish she was; but she
speedily recovered a sense of calmness, as soon as she began to think of
Addie. Hadn't he said so himself:
"Marietje, when you feel overstrung ... think of me!"
And she thought of him; and things began to smile and to grow very calm
around her.... She gave a deep sigh.... She recalled the words which he
used when hypnotizing her:
"The body is growing heavy.... The hand is growing heavy.... You can't
lift your hand...."
And, though she did not fall asleep, she became very quiet and smiled
contentedly. True, she knew that he said the same thing to all the
patients whom he hypnotized:
"Think of me, whenever you feel your nerves give way."
But she, when she thought of him ... was she in love with him? Perhaps;
she didn't know: perhaps she did love him, deep down within herself, in
the chastest recesses of her soul; perhaps she had been in love with him
for years, ever since he used to talk to her so kindly--he a small boy,
she a rather bigger girl, but about the same age--when her brothers were
so rough to her and Mamma, Floortje and Caroline used to snub her, as
they always did. In the noisy, uproarious, vulgar house, she had grown
up quietly, like a little pale plant, humble, oppressed, as it were
hiding herself, until suddenly some impulse in her blood had made her
scream the house down with neurotic cries. They all asked whether she
had gone mad; and she had locked herself up since, hidden herself, in
her room.... And, after these attacks, she would remain behind as in a
dream, seeing nothing, hearing nothing around her, just staring. And,
when she saw that her condition at last made an impression, she at once
became proud of that impression, lifted herself out of the Cinderella
humility, became the interesting figure at home, now that she aroused
her father's fears, her mother's pity, her sister's annoyance. And she
had grown proud of her neuroticism; she let father, mother and sister
feel fear, pity and annoyance, with a sort of vindictive satisfaction.
Yet she had a vague feeling of deep unhappiness, because her soul was
sinking as into an abyss, her hands groping vaguely in the terrible
void.... She would spend days in tears. Then Aunt Constance had come, so
kind, so gentle, so sensible; and she had resisted, because perhaps she
was very fond of Addie and always had been, in obedience to some modest
dread, did not wish to live where he lived. But Aunt Constance had
insisted and she had yielded; and Addie, Addie was now curing her: oh,
he cured her when he merely pressed his hand softly on her forehead! And
she confessed to him the wicked, arrogant pride in her illness, which at
last created an agitation in the paternal house where Marietje had never
counted....
He had listened so earnestly, telling her that this was very wrong, that
it was the worst of all and that, with such wicked feelings she would
never get well. And, after that, he talked for days, oh, so earnestly!
And she listened to him in ecstasy, as though her soul were rocking on
his deep, soothing voice. And gradually, gradually, she had discovered
in him--oh, no affection for her, no ordinary affection or love, for she
was plain and thin and without charm, while Mathilde was so handsome: a
beautiful woman!--but a real harmony between some of his feelings and
views with what she, in her silent life as a lonely, down-trodden little
girl, had thought about all sorts of people, animals, things, about
everything which had aroused her compassion in her youthful earnestness
and hypersensitiveness: about the wind lashing the leaves; about a
driver ill-treating a horse; about Aunt Adeline, Granny, Emilie, little
Klaasje; about poor people whom she would sometimes go and visit with
Aunt Constance and Adèletje. And thus, slowly, out of all these small,
simple feelings something had thrilled in unison with his feelings, had
roused kindred feelings in him, until they had talked of all sorts of
strange presentiments and dreams, of existence before life and after
death, of an invisible world and life crossing their threads with the
visible world and life. And, when sometimes she had been a little
fanciful, Addie had always understood her, but at the same time, with
all his restfulness and strength, his seriousness and smiling
earnestness, had quieted her in her hypersensitiveness and
hyperimagination, in her dread and surmise, until she now discussed all
those questions with him so quietly, in words that quickly understood
one another, so that, even in these conversations, which might easily
have made her more neurotic, he satisfied her and lulled all the anxious
thrills of her sick girlish nerves and soul. There was a mystic force in
his voice, in his glance, in the pressure of his hand, so that, even
after these conversations, she remained lying in a deep and blissful
sleep and, after half an hour, woke from it as though rising refreshed
out of a wide, still bath on strangely rarefied air, like cool water,
which gave her an incomprehensible, blissful sense of spiritual
well-being.
And that peaceful life of sympathy was healing to her, whereas it vexed
Mathilde. She thought that it would always keep flowing on like this;
and she was greatly surprised when she suddenly heard of a ball at
Utrecht to which they were all invited.
"Which of you want to go?" asked Constance. "I shall stay at home, but
Uncle will chaperon you."
Mathilde loved the idea, even though Addie did not give it a thought. Of
the girls, however, only Gerdy cared about it; but Guy would go with
her.
"So none of you: Adèletje?... Mary?... Marietje?"
No, they did not feel inclined, even though Aunt Constance urged them,
said that they very seldom had any fun, that they ought really to go,
now that the chance offered. But the girls didn't want to; and Aunt
Constance said:
"Well, then, you and Uncle will just make four; so you can go in the
carriage."
But Mathilde preferred to dress at Utrecht, in an hotel, because her
dress would get creased in the carriage; and she decided to go in the
afternoon, with a box.
On the evening of the ball, Constance grumbled at Adèletje, Mary and
Marietje, because they took no pleasure in dancing, and said that, if
this went on, they would move to the Hague, because the girls were
growing so dull in the country. Constance' nerves were raw; and she said
angry, unreasonable things; her eyes filled with tears.
"But, Auntie," said Marietje, "we're all so happy here together! Why
talk about the Hague? What do we care about a dance?"
"That's just it. I think it unnatural."
"Listen to it blowing!" said Adèletje.
"And raining!" said Marietje--Mary.
"That's what Uncle and Gerdy and Guy are driving through," said
Adèletje.
"The poor horses!" said Marietje--Mary.
The others laughed.
"Yes, the horses will get wet, poor things!" said Marietje--Mary.
"Dirk'll look after them," said Constance. "The horses are taken out so
seldom."
"But when they are ... they are taken out in the rain!" said Mary,
reproachfully.
Paul was there, playing softly on the piano. Ernst was there; and it was
very strange to see the friends which he had silently made with Klaasje.
Together they looked in her picture-books: the unnaturally old queer man
and the unnaturally young child.
"I can read now," said the backward girl of thirteen, very proudly.
"Really?" said Uncle Ernst.
"Yes, Uncle Addie is teaching me to read. Look, in these books, with
pretty letters, blue, yellow, red. That's violet. And that, Uncle Addie
says, is purple. That's purple: a lovely colour, purple. Uncle Addie
teaches me to read."
And laboriously she spelt out the highly coloured words.
"So Uncle Addie teaches you to read with coloured letters?" asked Ernst.
"Yes, I don't like black letters. And look at my books: all with
beautiful pictures. That's a king and a queen. It's a fairy-tale, Uncle.
This is a fairy. The king and queen are purple ... purple; and the
fairy--look, Uncle, look at the fairy--is sky-blue. Uncle Addie says
it's a-zure."
She drew out the word in a long, caressing voice, as though the names of
the colours had a peculiar meaning for her, rousing in her strange
memories of very early colours, colours seen in gay, faraway countries,
down, down yonder....
"Mr. Brauws won't come," said Emilie.
"No, it's raining too hard," said Adeline. "He won't come this evening."
"He's become so much one of the family."
The evening passed quietly; the old grandmother and Klaasje were taken
and put to bed; but, because Aunt Constance was sitting up till the
carriage returned from Utrecht, they all wanted to sit up.
"What an idea!" said Constance, with nervous irritability. "Why don't
you all go to bed?"
But they were gathered round her so pleasantly and they stayed up:
Addie, Emilie, Adeline, Marietje; but Addie sent Adèletje and Mary to
bed.
And they sat waiting downstairs in the night. It was three o'clock when
at last they heard the carriage; and Van der Welcke, Gerdy and Guy
entered.
"Mathilde is spending the night at the hotel," said Van der Welcke.
"And Uncle made a very sweet chaperon," said Guy, chaffingly.
But Gerdy did not say much, looked tired, very pale, constrained. They
went upstairs, to their rooms, and Gerdy kissed her mother. But, without
the others seeing it, she followed Adeline to her room and suddenly,
unable to contain herself, burst into a paroxysm of tears.
"Darling, darling, what is it?"
And the mother, long since broken, took the girl, now breaking, into her
arms and it was as though she suddenly wakened from her apathy and felt
herself very much a mother.... Oh, she knew that she could not do much
for her children, that she was not capable, never had been since
Gerrit's death, that without Van der Welcke, Constance and Addie she
could not have made anything of her children! Nevertheless, they
remained her children; and, if she did not know how to guide her sons in
their careers, she did know how to sympathize with her poor Gerdy's
sobs.
"Darling, darling, what is it?"
And, dropping into her chair, while Gerdy knelt before her in the folds
of her white-tulle frock, she held the pale little face against her and
compelled the child to speak, to speak....
"It's nothing," said Gerdy, through her sobs. "I didn't enjoy myself."
"You didn't? Why, what happened?"
"I hardly danced at all."
"Why not?"
"Mamma, it's better to tell you plainly. I'm so unhappy! It's about
Johan...."
"Erzeele? Has he proposed to you?"
Gerdy shook her head:
"No, but...."
"But what?"
"In the winter ... skating ... I thought he was fond of me.... It's my
own fault: it was silly of me, it was silly.... It wasn't anything....
He was just the same to me as to other girls; and I thought, I thought
... It's nothing, Mamma, it's my own fault, but I thought ... Mamma, I
oughtn't to take it so much to heart ... but it makes me very
unhappy.... He danced with me, once.... But he danced with Mathilde the
whole time.... He was always with her.... People were talking about
it.... It was just as if she was mad, as if she didn't think ... that
she oughtn't to behave like that ... with Johan.... It struck Uncle
Henri too: I could see it by his face. They were together the whole
evening and ... you understand.... He paid her attentions ...
shamelessly ... the way he does to married women.... With girls he's
different.... I hated him for a moment. But then he came and asked me,
for that one dance ... and then I thought ... I oughtn't to have thought
it. It's my own fault. I'm very unhappy, Mamma.... Uncle Henri was very
angry too ... with Mathilde ... because she wouldn't come back with us
to Driebergen.... He gave way and let her stay, to avoid
unpleasantness.... But it was ridiculous of her: the carriage is big
enough and she would not have been so badly creased.... Oh, she looked
lovely, she looked lovely!... She is quite lovely, dressed like that, at
a ball.... Addie ought to have come with us.... She was really
beautiful, but not--it's wrong of me to say it, I know--not like _us_."
"How do you mean, dear?"
"Not like Aunt Constance and Emilie and you.... She didn't ... she
didn't look well-bred.... She looked beautiful, but she looked
coarse.... If Addie had come, perhaps she would have restrained herself,
not worn her dress so low. She was the only one in such a very low
frock.... You see, there was something about her ... that repelled me
even more than usual: I can't say what and it's very wrong of me,
because after all she's Addie's wife and we must be fond of her; but
really, she didn't look a lady; and I could see it in people's faces:
they thought her very handsome ... but not ... not well-bred.... And ...
after that ... when she did nothing but dance with Johan ... then ...
oh, Mamma, then she looked at me ... and looked at me with a sneer ...
as if she were looking down on me!... I knew that I was not at my best,
that I looked pale and thin; my shoulders are not good; and Johan
behaved so oddly to me, in such a queer, mocking way: oh, Mamma, he was
almost cruel!... I do believe, oh, Mamma, I do believe, that I ... that
I'm in love with him! But I oughtn't to tell you and I oughtn't to be
like this ... I oughtn't to cry so; but I couldn't help it, I couldn't
help it!... I did my best, Mamma, not to show it before Uncle Henri and
before Guy, but, oh, Mamma, the whole dance ... the whole dance was a
torture!"
Adeline mingled her sobs with Gerdy's:
"My darling, my poor, poor darling!"
"Mamma! Oh, Mamma!"
"What is it, my poor dear?"
"Listen, Mamma!"
"What?"
"Don't you hear? The sound ... upstairs!"
"Hush!... Hush!... The sound...."
"Is dragging itself...."
"Downstairs. It's like a footstep. It's always like that."
"Oh, Mamma, I'm frightened!"
"It's nothing, dear: the wind, a draught, a board creaking...."
"Oh, but I'm frightened!"
"It's nothing.... I opened the door once ... to look."
"You dared to?"
"Yes. It was nothing."
"There was nothing to see?..."
"No. It was only very draughty."
"And everything's closed!"
"It's nothing, it's nothing, dear."
"Now it's dragging itself away ... down below."
"It's the draught.... Oh, my poor, poor darling!"
"Oh, Mamma, I'm unhappy ... and I'm frightened, I'm frightened, I'm
frightened!..."
When Mathilde returned next morning, she seemed to perceive a certain
displeasure, a coldness in her husband, in her mother-in-law and in all
of them; but she decided that perhaps she was mistaken: she was tired,
she was unstrung; and, after she had been to see the children, she kept
to her own room, where she knew that no one would disturb her, now that
Addie had gone out to his patients. And it was not the surmised
displeasure, the unwonted fatigue after the ball that made her nervous,
as though she was infected by a nervous thrill from all who surrounded
her: it was particularly because of Johan Erzeele that she was now
walking restlessly round her room, sitting down at the window, getting
up again, going in to the children, coming back again, sitting down to
the piano, looking over her ball-programme and suddenly tearing it
up.... Now, suddenly, she reproached herself with all sorts of things
that had happened the night before: for dancing with Johan so often,
even though she had known him all her life as a young girl at the Hague,
where he was a subaltern in the grenadiers, while his people lived at
Utrecht; for flirting with him in so marked a way at supper; for
allowing him to speak like that, with his brazen, sensual fashion of
making love to her; for knowing and deliberately encouraging his
brazenness; lastly, for scarcely preventing him from escorting her on
foot--because it was so near--to the hotel, where she had reserved a
room.
She had lost her temper, refused, asked for a carriage, and ridden alone
to the hotel where she had spent the night; but his offer and the words
in which he had couched it had shocked her, had frightened her all
through that night, that short night, so that she had not had a moment's
sleep. And now she was angry with herself for not summoning up her usual
sound sense, so that he had seen how frightened and shocked she was and
had laughed at it, with the caressing laugh of his well-shaped mouth.
And, because she was angry with herself, all sorts of nervous excuses
went whirling through, all her grievances, great and small, came surging
up, as though to defend her against herself, against her own
self-reproach. Why couldn't Addie have gone too? Why must he leave her
to her own devices like that? Why was she only good for the one thing?
Why did he hold such long conversations, full of strange intensity, with
that ailing Marietje? Why did she sometimes, through his kisses, feel a
strange chill come out of him and freeze her, so that the spontaneous
word grew still and lifeless on her lips and she no longer knew what to
say: she only knew that she was losing him, again and again and again,
while all the others, down below, were winning him, winning him for
themselves! Oh, how the grievances whirled up, fighting against her
self-reproach, until at last she burst into tears, sheer nervous tears,
such as she had never shed before! And, as though the grievances were
winning, she suddenly laid the blame on Addie, on all of them, on her
husband's whole family, on Driebergen, on the house full of lunatics and
invalids, on the eerie, haunted house where she could not breathe, while
they all, down below, found living there so delightful. She blamed them
all, blamed the whole house for it, that she was losing her sound sense
and had allowed Johan to say all sorts of things to her which otherwise
she would never have allowed. And, in her tears, while still blaming
him--because she did not see that there was no blame, that no one was to
blame for anything, while she was casting about to whom to impute the
blame--she longed for her husband, felt that she was still very much in
love with him, that she would have liked to embrace him, to clasp him
close to her, to weep out her sorrows on his heart, to hear his deep,
young, earnest voice, to look into his deep, young earnest eyes, so that
she might grow calm again and happy, far away, with him and her
children! Now she longed for him to come back; now she looked out down
the road; and, when she saw him--the bell was ringing for lunch, because
Truitje downstairs had also seen him coming up the road--she ran down
and was just in time to kiss him in the morning-room and to whisper:
"Addie, Addie, you do love me?"
"Why, of course, darling!" he answered, gravely and, she thought, almost
sadly.
And now, sitting silent at table, feeling all sorts of reproaches around
her, she asked herself, was it not his fault, was it not his fault? What
she really imagined to be his fault she did not clearly see, for it was
all whirling through her mind; she kept on thinking of Johan Erzeele,
kept on feeling her self-reproach; and the grievances surged up, like
lances, more numerous than before, to defend her against that
self-reproach.
Gerdy had not come down to lunch: she was tired, Adeline said. The tone
of the conversation was forced; and Mathilde reflected that it was
always so when she was there, when they would look at one another
askance, in a silent understanding against her, against her....
Lunch finished, the children, Jetje and Constant, went out, after Addie
had first played with them. Yes, he was fond of the children, but was
he fond of her, of his wife?...
"Addie, Addie, you do love me, don't you?"
She had found another opportunity of asking him; and he answered:
"Why, of course, dear."
"Stay with me to-day."
"Very well. What would you like to do? Shall we go for a walk? It's
fine."
"Yes, Addie, I'd like to."
And they went out together and roamed along deserted paths; she took his
arm:
"I am so glad to be with you.... You ought to have come yesterday...."
"I don't care for dancing ... but, if you had asked me...."
"You would have refused."
"Perhaps not."
"Yes, you would.... I sha'n't go again, without you. I want to dance
with you, with you."
"I like skating better."
"There, you see, you're refusing already!"
"No, I won't refuse: I shall come with you, next time."
"I'm happy when I'm with you.... Addie, couldn't we go and live alone,
with our children?"
"Whenever you like, darling."
"Yes, but you're attached to the house."
"Yes, I'm attached to it."
"It would be a sacrifice for you."
He made a vague gesture:
"Only you'd have to be economical at the Hague."
"You would soon have a fine practice there."
"But I'm not aiming at ... a fine practice."
"Ah, that's just it!"
He yielded to a slight sense of impatience:
"It's a pity, Tilly, that you find it so difficult to adapt yourself
here.... Very well, we'll go to the Hague."
"But, if you're obstinate ... and refuse to earn an income," she said,
impetuously.
"We shall have enough."
"How much?"
He made a brief calculation:
"Say, five thousand guilders, no more."
"But I can't live on that ... with two children."
"It ought to be enough, Tilly."
"But it's nonsense, trying to live at the Hague on five thousand
guilders a year ... with two children."
"Then what do you want?" he asked, bluntly.
"I want you to get a practice.... You have only to wish it: you would
become the fashion at once."
He was silent.
"Why don't you answer?"
"Because we don't understand each other, Tilly," he said, sadly. "I
can't give up the practice which I have in order to become a fashionable
doctor."
"Why not, if it pays?"
"Because it conflicts with all ... with everything inside me."
"I don't understand."
"I know you don't."
"Then explain it to me."
"It can't be explained, Tilly. It can only be felt."
"So I have no feeling?"
"Not for that ... no fellow-feeling ... with me...."
"Why did you marry me?" she asked, curtly.
"Because I love you."
"Because you love me!" she echoed, curtly. "Because I'm good enough ...
for that!"
Her eyes flashed.
"Tilly!" he implored.
It was as though a sudden terror blinded him, as though a spectre of
guilt suddenly loomed up out of all the black self-insufficiency of the
last few years, his years of married life.
"Because I'm good enough ... to bear you children. Because you want to
have children by me, healthy children, children different from your
family, your mother's family."
"Tilly!"
"Addie!" she entreated. "Love me! Love me!"
"I do love you, Tilly!" he cried, in despair. "Love me altogether!"
"I do love you altogether!" he lied, in anguish for her sake.
"No, you love me ... half!"
"That's not so!"
"Yes, it is, you know it is!... I want to be loved by you altogether and
not only...."
"Hush, Tilly," he entreated, in dismay. "Tilly, don't let us spoil our
happiness!"
"Our happiness!" she laughed, scornfully.
"Aren't we happy then?"
And he tried to force her to say yes, but she was suffering too much and
exclaimed:
"No, I am not happy! When I embrace you...." she clutched her fingers.
"When I have embraced you," she went on, "it's over, it's over, it's
over at once; I feel that you are far away from me again; that you don't
love me."
"I do love you, I do love you!"
"Then talk to me."
"I do."
"No, talk to me as you talk to Mary."
"But, Tilly, I talk to her ... to calm her."
"That's a lie!"
"Tilly!"
"It's a lie!... You talk to her ... you talk to her because you're in
love with her!"
"Tilly, stop that!"
"Not as you are with me ... but differently."
Suddenly he grasped her wrist. She knew his sudden bursts of anger. They
were very rare; but she knew them. And, because he was dazzled by the
sudden light that shone from her, because from all the gloom of his
self-insufficiency a consciousness of guilt came looming up to frighten
him:
"And now, silence!" he cried, shaking her arm. "Silence! I command it!"
He no longer knew things. Life whirled dizzily before him, deep as a
black abyss.
He stood in front of her on the lonely road; and it was as though his
grey eyes flashed lightning, shooting blue spark after blue spark of
rage and pain. His whole face quivered, his body quivered, his voice
quivered with rage and pain. She felt a furious resistance rise within
her ... together with black despair. She felt an impulse to rush into
his arms, to sob out her sorrow on his heart. But she did not want his
caresses: she wanted the thing that escaped her. It was escaping her
now; and, when she said it, when she said it straight out, he commanded
her to be silent, not to say it. Wasn't it his fault, wasn't it his
fault? Wasn't _she_ right?
She released her hand:
"You don't love me," she said, curtly.
"No. When you speak to me like that, I don't. I'm not in love with
Marietje. I'm sorry for her."
His voice was very calm and full of feeling; and she, also grown calmer,
answered:
"You feel for her."
"I do."
"Well, then...."
"But you have no right to bring that up against me. I don't grant you
that right ... because, Tilly...."
"Right, right? What rights have I? I have no rights!.. I live in your
house on sufferance."
"Tilly, be careful!"
"Why should I?"
"You're destroying our happiness."
"It doesn't exist."
"Yes, it does ... if...."
He passed his hand over his head. There was a cold wind blowing; and the
beads of perspiration stood on his forehead.
"If you would be reasonable."
"And share you?"
"Share me?... With whom?" he roared.
"Not with her, perhaps," she resumed, frightened, "but with ...
with...."
"With whom?"
"With them all."
"All whom?"
"Your family ... all of them ... whom you love more than me."
"I don't love them more."
"No, but you feel with them ... and not with me."
"Then feel with me!" he implored, as though to save both her and
himself. "Feel, Tilly, that I can't be a fashionable doctor, but that I
have a large practice, a number of patients to whom I am of use."
"They don't pay you."
His mouth involuntarily gave a twist of contempt.
"They don't pay you," she repeated. "You are wearing yourself out ...
for nothing."
"Try and feel, Tilly, that I am not wearing myself out for nothing ...
just because I am not making money."
"Then teach me to feel it."
He looked at her in despair.
"Teach me!" she entreated. "For your sake, because I love you, I will
try to learn, try to feel ... I love you, I love you, Addie!"
"Dear," he said, gently, "I'll do my best ... to teach you to feel it.
Come with me."
"Where?"
"There ... to those little cottages."
"Who lives in them?"
"Poor people ... sick people ... whom I attend."
"Addie ... no, no ... no!..."
"Why not?"
"I'm not prepared for it.... You know I can't stand that...."
"You're a healthy woman; your nerves are strong: come with me."
She went with him, not daring to refuse.
"Tilly," he said, gently, as they walked on and approached the cottages,
"I will try to have understanding for both of us.... If you are to be
happy in yourself ... with me ... happy the two of us ... then...."
"Well?"
"Then you must learn to understand me ... to understand me very deep
down, as I am. Then you must try to understand ... all of us; to love us
all: my father, my mother.... Tilly, Tilly, can you?..."
She did not answer, trembling, frightened, looking deeper into things,
after all that he had said. Her fine eyes gazed at him despairingly,
like those of a wounded animal in its pain. She could have embraced him
now, just ordinarily, clasping him warmly and firmly to herself. But he
led her on as he might lead a child. He knocked, opened the little door
and led her in. A sultry heat of mean poverty struck her in the face
like a blow; and it was nothing but misery, wherever he took her. It
seemed to her as if she herself carried that misery with her, in her
soul, which had never yet thrilled as it did now.