MARTHA felt herself genuinely surprised, puzzled, and disappointed at
the result of the meeting which she had worked so hard to bring about.
Nothing could be more incontestably evident than that her brother and
her friend had not proved sympathetic--did not “hit it off.” What was
the reason? How could both of them be so perfectly congenial to her and
still uncongenial to each other? It was a painful mystery, to which she
tried in vain to find the key.
Next morning Sonia did not come to the atelier at her usual time, and
Martha painted on without her in pronounced despondency of spirit. When
she had quite given the princess up, she looked around, and, to her
delight, saw Sonia placing her easel, and preparing to go to work, a
short distance off. She thought her friend looked a little pale and ill;
but when she managed presently to catch her eye, she received an
affectionate smile from her, which gave her a certain amount of
reassurance.
When the interval for lunch came, and they went off together to the
_crémerie_, Martha waited for her friend to introduce the subject so
near to her heart, and was surprised when she led the talk in an
entirely different direction.
It had been much the same with Harold after their guest had left the
evening before. Beyond a rather preoccupied and spiritless assent to all
she had to say about the beauty of the princess, he had seemed more or
less indifferent on the subject, and had plunged with zest into the
discussion of other things. Martha could not altogether wonder at this,
for she had never seen her adored friend appear to so little advantage.
Her brother, however, had seemed to her charming, though not, of course,
at his very best, and she expected that Sonia would at least say that he
was handsome and agreeable. When it appeared that she was going to say
nothing at all, Martha boldly took the initiative, and asked:
“What do you think of Harold?”
“Think of him? Oh, I think he’s very good-looking, though less like his
sister than I could wish.”
“Oh, Sonia, don’t tease me! If I thought you meant that, I should give
you up, both as an artist and a friend. But, really, did you like him or
not?”
“I could hardly say ‘not’ to that heartfelt appeal,” said Sonia,
smiling; “and, indeed, I don’t feel inclined to. I liked him, of course.
But, my dear, I told you only the truth when I said I was sick to death
of men. Etienne is the solitary exception. I like him for the reason
that he did say a decent word to me this morning, and I really believe
he thinks I am beginning to daub with promise.”
Martha saw that there was no hope, so with profound disappointment she
gave up, and said no more.
As for Sonia herself, never had she been in a state of such abject
self-abasement. She had donned her gorgeous raiment and gone off to that
dinner in exultant self-confidence, and had never doubted her ability to
conform circumstances to her will, and to make exactly the impression
upon Harold which she desired him to have. What, then, was the secret of
her complete and humiliating failure? She asked herself this question,
and immediately tried to shut fast her ears to the answer which her
heart gave. She had confidently believed, up to this hour of her life,
that her woman’s pride was strong enough for any demands which she could
possibly make upon it; but it had failed her. She had passed a sleepless
night after that dinner, and it took tremendous effort to go to her work
next morning. She did it only because she knew that if she did not the
news of her absence would reach Harold, and she could not endure the
thought of the motive to which he might attribute it. Perhaps the most
poignant recollection which rankled in Sonia’s mind was the thought
that, in her helplessness, she had made an appeal to him by that look
which he had answered with such strength-giving kindness. It had enabled
her to get through with the remaining time; but now, as she thought of
it, she felt that he had taken it as an appeal of weakness which he had
been strong and merciful enough to respond to.
This thought, whenever it recurred, made her cheeks tingle.
And what could she do to right herself? She dared not make any more
self-confident plans, only to have them end in fresh humiliation. She
now felt afraid of seeing Harold, and it seemed to her that the utmost
that was in her power was to be regular and faithful to her work, in the
hope that the report of such a sensible course would reach his ears.
Martha made a weak little effort to get her friend to come to her again,
but to this she received such a faint response that she let the subject
drop. All sorts of conjectures were busy in her mind to account for the
present phenomena. She even wondered if she and her brother, with their
American education and ideas, could have done anything which offered an
affront to the state and dignity of their princess-guest. But this could
hardly be. Sonia was as friendly and affectionate as ever, though she
now seemed to wish to confine their intercourse to the limits of the
atelier, and did not even ask her to come to her own apartments. So
Martha was free to give up all her spare time to her brother, and they
had numerous trips to the theater and opera; but somehow the _solitude à
deux_ with her beloved Harold had not the zest in it which she had
counted on beforehand. He was certainly changed, this brother of hers.
He had grown more serious, and was given to long silences. She even
thought that it was an effort to him to be so much in her society, and
that he would perhaps prefer to be alone. This was a hard blow to
Martha, but she bore it without making a sign, and was glad of the
excuse which her work gave her to be much away from him. He also had
important business in Paris, and often worked for many hours at a time,
which, as Martha told herself, accounted for his rather careworn
expression. She even thought he was getting thin, and begged him not to
stay on because of her, as she would far rather give up her lessons and
join her mother than be a trouble and injury to him. This, however, he
would not listen to, and he even declared it his intention to stay in
Paris until after the opening of the Salon, now only a week or so off.
Day after day went by, and although Sonia and Martha were together at
least one half of their conscious time, they seemed to have in some way
gone backward instead of forward in their intimacy. They still lunched
together daily, and had ample opportunity for talk; but there seemed now
a dearth of topics such as they had never been aware of before, and a
sense of distance had arisen which made it hard for Martha to realize
the familiarity and nearness which had marked their former intercourse.
One afternoon, when the work had been going more than usually well, and
the model had been more than usually interesting, Sonia and Martha,
their easels side by side, had lingered in the atelier after every one
else had gone. It was very agreeable to be able to paint and talk
together, and the princess, whose carriage had been announced some time
before, gladly agreed to wait with Martha until hers should arrive.
While they were talking, a knock was heard at the door, and as all rules
were relaxed at this hour, both women called out, “_Entrez!_”
The door was opened, and around the corner of the old sail-cloth screen
the tall figure of Harold appeared. The day was raw and chilly, and he
wore a fur-lined coat with its large fur collar drawn close around his
throat, and carried his high hat and his stick in his hand.
At sight of him Martha uttered a little exclamation of pleasure, and
gaily called to him to come on. Sonia, in spite of the jerk at her
heart-strings and the rush of blood through all her veins, felt, taken
unprepared as she was, a sudden sense of strength and self-possession.
Her color deepened, and by a swift motion she drew herself erect; and as
she stood there in her old green skirt and red silk blouse, she looked
so workman-like and charming that, as Martha drew her brother forward
toward their easels, her heart quite glowed with pride in both her dear
companions. She always adored Harold in that coat, and Sonia in that
dress, and her sensitive organism seemed to be receiving impressions of
pleasure from the minds of each. Harold stood still, a little distance
off, and bowed, with a look that expressed some hesitation or
uncertainty. Looking past his sister and at her friend, he said:
“Do you permit me to look at your work?”
“Oh, if you care to,” said Sonia in a light and natural tone. “It’s a
mere daub of a study. One goes through a great deal of discouragement in
a place like this, and a great deal of one’s time is spent in acquiring
a knowledge of one’s ignorance. After that is quite mastered, things get
easier. I think I may say that I have graduated in that branch of
study, and am now ready to go on to the more advanced ones.”
Harold stood still, and looked at her picture. She was thinking how
natural it would be to ask him if he thought she had improved. He was
thinking how natural it would be to tell her that she had. Martha was
thinking how beautiful and full of charm they both were, and almost
wishing that the atelier could be filled with students to look at such
models.
It occurred to her now that Harold remained silent unnecessarily long,
and she was afraid that he did not appreciate her friend’s work; so she
herself began to speak in voluble praise of it.
Sonia felt a strong impulse to check her, and to explain to her that he
was always silent when he really liked a thing exceedingly, and that she
therefore felt delighted that he said nothing.
Harold, however, forced himself to utter a few words of praise that
sounded very stiff and conventional, and a sort of bewildered look,
which Martha could not understand, came into his eyes. Sonia understood
it by its reflection in her own heart. She felt as if she were in some
strange, confusing dream, where the conditions around her were sad and
constrained, and yet which she felt she must hold on to and keep
conscious of, lest they should vanish and leave her utterly
empty-hearted, estranged, and desolate. While Martha exhibited her own
work, and proceeded to pick it to pieces in imitation of what Etienne
would say to-morrow, the man and woman standing behind her, so near that
they almost touched, were feeling, from this proximity, a force that
went to the very deeps of both their natures. Hardness, resentment,
wounded pride, regret--all these were parts of this force in each; but
there was in it, too, something stronger than any of them, something
that warned Sonia that she had better not trust herself, at the same
moment that Harold turned abruptly away, and said that he had an
engagement, and could not wait longer. He explained in a hurried,
confused speech, out of which it was hard to get any intelligent
meaning, that he had forgotten Martha’s need of the carriage, and had
kept it waiting somewhere for him, which was his excuse for coming to
the atelier to see if she had waited or was gone.
Martha saw by his manner that something was wrong, and made haste to put
up her brushes, and follow him into the cloak-room, insisting that Sonia
should come also, as she objected to leaving her there alone.
Sonia obediently did as she was told, but she felt as if she were
stumbling along half blindly, and had not the will-power to object or
protest.
She put on her hat, and was reaching for her heavy cloak, when a strong,
brown hand, specked with two small dark moles just below the thumb, took
it down from the peg, and folded it around her.
As she reached to draw to the collar, her hand touched his. If the sight
of that hand had been familiar to her, what was its touch? She felt
herself trembling, and her quick breaths almost suffocated her. She had
just power to control herself until she was in her carriage, and alone.
Then, falling back upon the cushions, her eyes closed, and she passed
into a state of semi-consciousness.
She did not really faint, for she was all the time aware that the
necessity for self-control was for the moment gone, and that she could
rest, and cease to fight.
Long before the carriage stopped at her own door she had recovered, and
realized it all. She knew that, miserable as the last two years had
been, she had gradually been gaining strength, and recovering her power
for the struggle of life. She might have gone on, and met the future
bravely, if she had never seen this man again. Not now, however--not
after she had heard his voice, and met his eyes, and touched his hand.
This encounter had deprived her of her strength so absolutely that she
longed only for the safety to be found in flight.
But how would that sudden flight appear to him? That was the question.