HAROLD’S condition of mind and feeling on that morning of the first of
May was so complicated and perplexed that he felt for the first time in
his life utterly unable to see his way. He was accustomed to having
things, no matter how difficult, look definite to him. He had not
hesitated in deciding on his sudden marriage with Sophia Rutledge, nor
had he felt the least hesitation as to his course a month later, when
she demanded a divorce from him. His path had been clear and open before
him, and he had taken it unflinchingly. He felt the same ability to do,
and the same courage to endure, now, if he could only see his way. He
knew himself too well to suppose that, after having been married to this
woman, he could ever love another, and he had quite decided to accept
his life and to put the thought of happiness out of it. In making this
decision he had had the strongest possible conviction of the truth of
his wife’s declaration that she did not love him, and it was this which
had made submission to her decision the only possible course for him.
She was such a strong and resolute woman that he had imagined her, after
the stern ordeal of the first few months of separation, going resolutely
on, with her life adjusted to its new conditions; and although he was
certain that her marriage, separation, and the coming divorce would make
too deep marks in her womanly consciousness for her ever to think of
marrying again, he quite believed that she was the calm and self-poised
woman for which he knew nature had intended her.
It was therefore a great surprise to him, on meeting her again, to see
such marked indications of indecision, nervousness, and lack of control.
He felt that she often said and did what she had meant not to say and
do, and he was aware that she was a prey to variableness, fluctuation,
and caprice. What did it mean? This was the question which he set
himself to consider with all the concentration of his mind. He did not
know--what was the truth--that these new qualities in her existed only
with regard to himself, and that to her aunt, her acquaintances, her
servants, and all who came in contact with her, she was more than ever
decided, self-collected, and even self-willed. If he could have known
that, it would have let in light upon a subject and situation which
seemed to him impenetrably dark. Every time that he had seen her she had
left upon his mind a different impression. Sometimes he wondered if she
could be ill, to account for such a change; and sometimes he told
himself that it was an unpardonable demand upon her nervous endurance
for him to come into her presence. Still, when he reflected, he had
never thrust himself upon her, and on the only occasion when their
meeting had not been accidental, it had been her deliberate doing. What
must he conclude from this?
It would be conceit only which could make him think, after that, that
she either feared or disliked to meet him. He certainly had no right to
suppose that she sought or wished it. He must, therefore, conclude that
she was quite indifferent to him, and wished him to accept that view of
the case.
He tried hard to do this, but there was something in her manner and in
his own consciousness which positively prevented his holding to this
idea. It was not that she appeared to him to be unhappy, but she did
seem disturbed, restless and fitful. After his interview with her in the
atelier, he felt that she had so definitely conveyed to him her wishes
in the case that now he had only to follow them and to keep out of her
way, so far as it rested with him to do so.
On this course he fully resolved; but her beauty, her voice, her
movements, haunted him by day and night. He knew that he was as
absolutely under her spell as he had ever been. He knew that a point
might come when his self-control would be powerfully threatened, and
then there would be nothing for it but to flee. He was not afraid of the
consequences to himself which might lie in this betrayal of his past. He
was thinking of her, and of the increased trouble which it would bring
into her life if she should come to realize how he still loved her. This
was a quite unnecessary trial for her, and one which he was resolved she
should not have.
He had not known of any plan of Martha’s for having her friend spend the
night of his absence with her, so it took him completely by surprise
when he returned at an earlier hour than he had expected, and, inquiring
of the man servant if all was well, was told that the Princess
Mannernorff had dined and spent the night with his sister. He
ascertained what room she was occupying, and when the servant, who
carried his bag, went into his own room ahead of him, he reproved the
man rather severely for opening the window with such a noise. Then
immediately he sent the servant away.
He had seen, from below, the beginning of the little procession going
into the Madeleine; and as he stood half unconsciously watching it,
possessed by the thought that the woman who had once been his adored and
adoring wife was asleep in the next room to him, he heard the window of
that room open, and he knew that she was awake, and standing very near.
He heard her draw the curtains back by the cords and rings above. He
even heard the little effort in her breathing caused by the strong pull.
Each of them, he knew, was looking at the same sight--the beautiful,
moving panorama, seen through the flecks of sun-washed, young green
leaves; but while she was thinking of those trustful and unconscious
children, his thoughts were wholly of her. His heart was filled with
longings so intense and masterful as to crowd out everything else. Then,
in a flash, his humor changed; for there came to him her stifled sobs,
and her calls on God to pity them--those sweet, unknowing little ones,
born to be suffering women. With his old swift comprehension of her, he
knew why this sight had touched her so, and he realized what he had only
dimly felt before, that she was a miserable woman, wearily walking a
_via dolorosa_.
He did not ask to know what it might be. He longed only to help and
comfort her. He could not speak, but at least he could let her know that
he was near; and then it was that he had made the sound which Sonia had
heard.
That sound was followed by silence. Was she perhaps indignant, he asked
himself, that he should dare to make this demand upon her attention? She
would have a right to be; for he could make no pretense that he had not
deliberately intended to do this. Yet she was alone there, sad and
troubled, and he was close at hand, with a heart that ached to comfort
her. He could not have rested, feeling that she was unaware of his
knowledge of her presence, and no matter what consequences to himself
the act might carry, he deliberately said to her in that sound: “I am
here, and I know that you are there.”
If she had made a sign in answer, he would have thanked God on his
knees; but she had withdrawn from the window in silence, and he had felt
only that she was gone.
An hour later, when the servant brought his coffee and the morning
papers, he brought also the information that the princess had gone off
alone some time before in a cab.
Harold felt, at hearing this, a perfect fury of anger and indignation.
With the possibility of a riot in view, and the knowledge that ladies
had been warned not to venture unprotected on the streets, it made his
blood boil to think she--the delicate woman-spirit and woman-body that
he knew so well--should have gone forth alone from under the very roof
with him; and that even if he had known of it, he would have had no
right to interfere. The legal right, of course, he had; but that fact
only made it the more impossible for him to assert upon her any claim.
Not all the laws that were ever made could have bound or loosed him so
indomitably as did her wish and will. The fact that it was still within
his power to assert a legal claim upon her constituted in itself the
strongest possible demand upon a man of his nature to leave her as free
as air from any bondage or emancipation which could exist by any right
but that of love. If she had loved him, he would have asserted his power
and right to control and influence her. As she did not love him, there
was no creature living who was so free from him as she--this woman whom
once he had held in as binding fetters as ever love had forged.