The balcony outside Katherine's room baked in the morning sun. A tiny
patch of sunshine stood on the threshold of the open window like a
hesitating guest. A cool breeze entered the room, fluttering the gay
ribbons of a tambourine hanging against the wall.
Hockmaster had gone. She did not know whether it was the relief of his
absence or the rush of air caused by the opening of the door that sent
a fierce momentary thrill through her frame. Her eyes were burning, her
throat parched, her body quivering in a passion of anger. She stood for
a few seconds, with parted lips, breathing great draughts of the
cool air, and mechanically unloosened the neck of her dress; it was
strangling her. Then she turned, looking from right to left, like a
caged creature panting for escape. Her glance fell upon the chair where
Hockmaster had just sat. The edge of the rug at the feet was curled, the
cushion flattened, the tidy disarranged--all hatefully suggestive
of his continued presence. With a passionate movement, she rushed
and restored the things to order, shaking the cushion with childish
fierceness, till not a wrinkle was left. While the action lasted, it
relieved her.
She crossed the room, sat for a moment. But every pulse in her throbbed.
Motionlessness was impossible. She sprang to her feet and paced the
room, moving her arms in passionate gestures.
Forgive him! Never--never in this world or the next. To have betrayed
her--to Raine of all men. The thought in its fiery agony was almost
unthinkable. The drawling, plaintive tone in which he had made his
confession maddened her. The echo of his words pierced her brain.
The sudden meeting the night before had shaken her. After the ordeal of
the dinner her nerves had given way, and she had lain awake all night
with throbbing temples. She had risen, faint and ill, to read his note
beseeching an interview. She had strung herself to go through with it.
As the hours passed she had grown more self-possessed; while waiting,
had put some extra tidying touches to her room, rearranged some flowers
she had bought the day before. She had even smiled to herself. After
all, what claim had this man upon her?
He had come, trim, point-device in his attire, looking scarcely a day
older than when she had forsaken all for him. He had pleaded, owned
himself a scoundrel, strengthening his cause by his very weakness.
“I was going to marry you, Kitty. Before God I was! On my return from
Mexico. I thought I was going to make millions--become one of the little
gods of the earth. No man living would have let go the chance. I guess I
was to have made you more powerful than the ordinary run of queens.
Who could have told those mines were a fraud? Van Hoetmann himself was
deceived. I came back at once. You were gone. I tried to trace you. I
lost you. And all these years I have been kind of haunted by it. Before
I left Chicago, a man was bragging he had never brought a cloud upon
a woman's life. I said to him: 'Sir, go down on your bended knees and
thank Almighty God for it.'”
She had listened, at first rather sceptically. But gradually his
earnestness had convinced her of his sincerity. She had loved him, as
she had understood love in those far-off days, when her young shadowed
nature had expanded like a plant to the light. A little tenderness
remained, called from forgotten depths to the surface. She had spoken
very gently to him, forgiven him, the sweeter woman prompting her.
And then he had urged marriage.
“It is what I have come to tell you, Kitty. Let me make amends for
the past by devoting my life to your happiness. I am not right bad all
through. I'll begin again to love you as I did when first I saw you in
that white dress, among the roses of the verandah.”
She had smiled, shaken her head, it could never be. She was quite happy.
He had done his part, she was satisfied with his intentions. But the
amends she claimed was that he should never seek to see her again. Only
on that condition, that he left Geneva at once, looking upon this as a
final parting, could she give him her full, unqualified forgiveness. He
had insisted, wearying her. She had risen, held out her hand to him.
“You must go. It is a generous impulse that urges you to make reparation
in this manner, not love--”
She paused for a breath, instinctively trying him with a touchstone, and
smiling as it failed to draw the response of passion.
“Let your conscience be easy. You wish to serve me--you have a trust--my
honour--you can cherish it.”
And then the element of grotesque folly, that underlay this man's
nature, had prompted him to satisfy the childlike craving for plenary
shrift and absolution. He told her that he had confessed in an unguarded
moment to Chetwynd, taken him further into his confidence. At first she
had scarcely understood him--the suggestion had stunned, paralyzed her
for a few seconds, during which his words seemed to strike her senses
dimly, like rain in the night. The complete realization came with a
rush--the shame, the degradation--the abyss that he had opened at her
feet. Sudden overpowering hate of him had flooded her senses and burst
all barriers of reserve and self-control.
He had committed the Unpardonable Sin, in a woman's eyes--the crime
against her honour. To have won her, kissed her, cast her aside--that is
in the heart of a woman to forgive. But not the other. He had betrayed
her. Not only that, but he had stabbed to the very soul of her love. The
sight of the weak man, who had added this crowning outrage to the
havoc he had wrought in her life, goaded her into madness. The very
tenderness, with which she had but lately regarded him, made the
revulsion all the stronger.
“Oh God! I could kill you! I could kill you!” she had cried.
He had turned white to the lips, scared at the transformation of the
calm, subdued woman into the fierce, quivering creature with glittering
eyes and passion-strung words. The eternal, wild, savage woman,
repressed for years in the depths of her soul, had leapt out upon him
to rend him in her mad anger. She had pointed to the door, stamping her
foot, driven him out of her sight. At the door he had paused, and looked
at her with a strange mingling of manhood and submission in his eyes.
“I deserve my punishment--but I am not all bad. And so help me God,
Kitty, my offer will hold good at any moment of my life!”
He had gone. She was alone, pacing the room, still shaken with the storm
of elemental fury.
At last exhaustion weakened her. She drew aside the curtain before her
bed, and threw herself down shivering with the shame that was eating
into her bones.
“Oh, my God!” she moaned, “Oh, my God! That he should have learned--from
him--”
She drew the sides of the pillow tight about her face. It was agony
of degradation. Her body shuddered at the thought of his contempt, the
shattering of his faith in her, the man's revolt at the brutality of the
revelation. She had been dragged through the mire before his eyes. In
her degradation she saw herself the object of his loathing.
The sharp striking of the little Swiss clock on her writing-table roused
her. She raised a drawn face and looked in its direction. It was only
eleven. She had thought hours had passed while she had lain there
shivering. A little sense of dismay crept over her. If those few minutes
had passed like hours, what would be the length of the hours themselves
that had to be lived through that day?
If only she had sent him that letter, she thought bitterly. She
might have fallen in his eyes, but not to those depths. He would have
understood. The tremulous hope that his love would remain unclouded had
sustained her. If only she could have spoken. A cynical irony seemed to
govern the world.
She went to the window and looked into the street. A sudden impulse
to go out of doors into the open air came over her and as quickly died
away. She could not bear to walk along the street or in the public
gardens--before hundreds of human eyes. Her soul felt naked and ashamed.
If it had been country, where she could have gone and hidden herself in
a quiet far-off corner, and laid her face upon the grass, and let the
tree-branches whisper to her alone, it would have been different. She
shrank from the contact of men and women--and yet her heart sank with a
despairing sense of loneliness.
The consciousness of it came with a shock, as to one, who, on a North
Country fell, suddenly finds himself isolated from outer things by an
impenetrable mist. She hurried away from the window, sat down, through
sheer physical weariness, on the chair by her writing-table, and buried
her face in her hands.
A servant brought up a note. A fearful pang shot through her that
it might be from Raine. The first glance showed her Hockmaster's
handwriting. The envelope bore the printed heading of one of the
_cafés_.
“If you have any pity, forgive me,”--it ran. “That I told you of my fault
is proof of my earnest desire to begin a new life as regards you. I
would give years of my life to win a kind word from you. All that
was best and straightest in me spoke to you, Kitty. I am intensely
miserable.”
She crumpled up the note and threw it aside. His misery indeed!
She looked at the clock. Half-past eleven. The thought came to her that
all her life was to drag along at this pace, endless minutes to each
hour.
The heat of her resentment against Hockmaster cooled down, but the
poignancy of her shame remained. The impulsive hope that had risen at
the first sight of the letter left a train of new reflections. How could
she ever meet Raine again?
She rose once more, and resumed her weary, restless movements about the
room.
“Never, never!” she cried. “His eyes would kill me--he would be kind--Oh
God! I couldn't bear it. I would rather have him curse me! I would
rather have him strike me! Oh, Raine, Raine, my darling, my love! I
would have told you all--and you would have judged me from my own lips.
You would not have put me from you. But this degradation--”
She was carrying death in her heart. She could not conceive the survival
of his love. Men--unlike women--could not love, when once love had
been turned to scorn. If they met, he would be considerate, kind, even
pitiful. The thought of his contemptuous pity scorched her. The picture
of him rose before her, frank, generous, honourable. She stopped short,
as an agitating possibility occurred to her.
Might not quixotism lead him to renew his offer?
The idea haunted her, and gathering strength from her knowledge and her
idealized conception of his nature, grew into a conviction. For a moment
she gave herself up to the temptation of taking him at his word. She
loved him with every yearning fibre in her body. Without him life was an
appalling waste. It would be enough for her merely to be with him, seek
now and then a caress from his hand.
But then came the passionate recoil. She shuddered, put up her hands
before her face.
“Never!” she cried again. “I would rather die! My ignominy in his eyes
is eternal. It would drag him down. He is too good to have a millstone
like that tied around his neck.”
Yet the longing swept through her again, and her mind swayed to and
fro. The hours crept on. She refused an offer of food made her by the
servant. She felt as if it would choke her. She would ring if she wanted
any later.
What was she to do? Her aching head throbbed as if it would burst.
Hockmaster's note met her glance. She read it again. And this time
she smoothed it out and replaced it slowly on the table. Her anger was
dulled by despair. Nothing remained of her vehement indignation. It was
the back-swing of the pendulum.
What was she to do? Raine she could never meet face to face. Yet the
whole woman in her yearned to meet him. She must cut herself adrift,
vanish wholly from his life. Destiny seemed to point out the course she
must follow. She sat down, her chin in her hands, brooding over it until
the sense of fatefulness numbed her mind. Fate had brought her back this
other from the dark back ward of time. He had changed her life once. Was
it not meant that he should fulfil the work he had begun? She must marry
him. Raine would be saved. It would be a life of sadness, self-sacrifice.
But then women were born for it.
Like many another woman, she was driven by an hour's despair to commit
herself to a life-long unhappiness. She had counted the cost, and,
unlike a man, blindly resolved to pay it. It is part of a woman's nature
to trust herself to the irreparable. Katherine went to her table
and wrote two letters--one to each man. The pen flew quickly, her
intelligence illuminated by a false light. She sealed them, rang the
bell, despatched them by the servant. It was done. She had burned her
ships, committed herself irrevocably. A period of dull calm followed,
during which she pretended to eat some food that she ordered, and read
unintelligently an article in a review. But at last the words swam
before her eyes. The review fell to the ground. The agony of her life
came upon her, and she broke down utterly.
Felicia in the next room was humming an air. She had returned from her
walk with Raine and was taking off her things. If she had been called
upon suddenly to name the air, it would have slipped like a waking dream
from her memory. The mingled altruistic and personal feelings of the
past two hours had lifted her into an exalted mood, which was not
altogether joyous. She was passing through one of those rare moments,
when a young impressionable girl lives spiritually, without definite
consciousness of personal needs, in a certain music of the soul. A
sexual manifestation transcendentalized, if one pushes inquiry to the
root of things. The magic of her sex had drawn the pain from a strong
man's eyes and had touched his inner self.
Suddenly a sound struck upon her ear and the song died upon her lips.
She listened, puzzled. It came again, a moan and a choking sob. Already
somewhat overwrought, she held her breath, instinctively seeking some
clue of association. She grasped it with a rush of emotion. Once she
had heard that cry before, from a woman's depths, on the evening of poor
little Miss Bunter's tragedy.
It was Katherine, on the other side of the wooden partition, crying her
heart out. Fibres within the girl were strangely stirred, filling her
with a great, yearning pity. At some moments of their lives women
can touch the stars. Moved by an uncontrollable impulse she went out,
knocked at Katherine's door and entered.
Katherine rose, looked at her half-bewildered; then the magnetism of the
sympathy in Felicia's eyes and impulsively outstretched arms attracted
her involuntarily. She made a step forward, and, with a little cry,
half-sob, half-welcome, gave herself up to Felicia's clasp.
“I heard you. I had to come,” said Felicia. Katherine did not reply. For
a long time they sat together without speaking, the elder woman's misery
turned to sadness by the sweet and sudden tenderness. She cried softly
in the girl's arms.
“It was good of you to come,” she said at last. “I had broken down--
utterly broken down.”
“I felt it,” answered Felicia gently. She smoothed Katherine's ruffled
fair hair with a light touch and kissed her forehead.
“It will come right in time, dear.”
But Katherine shook her head.
“Some things are final, irrevocable. The sun goes out of one's heart for
ever and ever.”
“Could I do nothing for you? Practically I mean. You see, I know--a
word--it might be in my power--”
She hesitated, touching upon delicate ground. Katherine lifted a
tear-stained face, and looked at her curiously.
“You love him--and yet you would help me?”
“Because he loves you, dear,” said Felicia. “And because it has come
upon me that I have been doing you a great wrong--in thinking badly of
you.”
“What has made you think better of me?”
“Intuition, I suppose--and when I seemed to realize what his love for
you meant. He could only love what was worthy of him.”
“That is why he can love me no more,” said Katherine in a low voice.
She paused for a moment, her breath coming quickly. Then she continued
hurriedly, twining her fingers in a nervous clasp: “Things have happened
that make it impossible for him to care for me--I shall never see
him again. I am going away this afternoon--see,”--she pointed to a
dressing-bag packed, but still open, lying on the table. “And I shall
pass out of his life altogether.”
“But I don't understand!” cried Felicia, in grieved dismay. “What could
make him cease to love you?”
“I have not been what the world calls a good woman, Felicia. God knows
I have paid the penalty already--but the bitterest penalty of all is yet
to be paid--the surrender of the longed-for Paradise, that only a woman
who has lived as I have done can long for. Oh, my child, my dear, tender
little girl, the way of the world is made hard for women sometimes.”
“Why should the women always suffer?” asked Felicia.
“Why? God knows. It is life.”
“If I were a man,” said Felicia, with a glow in her eyes, “I would think
it dastardly to let a woman suffer, if I loved her.”
“There are some things that kill love,” replied Katherine bitterly.
“Has Raine told you so?”
“Ah, no. He is too generous.”
“Then how do you know?”
“My dear, when you leave a cut flower in the sun you know it will be
withered up. There is no need for you to watch it to make sure.”
“But--if he still loves you? He did last night--he did this morning.”
Katherine gently laid her hand on the girl's lips.
“Hush! I told you. What I have done can't be undone.”
“But you love him, Katherine,” Felicia burst out impetuously.
“Don't you see I am signing my death-warrant?” cried Katherine.
Her voice vibrated and she looked at Felicia with shining eyes--“I shall
love him till I die, as the best and wisest man of men that has ever
walked the earth.”
She rose, crossed the room, came back and laid her hands upon Felicia's
shoulders, and looked into her young, wondering eyes.
“Dear,” she said, “I shall always remember what you have done for
me to-day. When you came in, I thought my heart was broken--but your
tenderness stole over me like a charm--and now you see I can talk
quite sensibly, and smile, just like my own self again. You must bid
me good-bye, dear. I must go soon. But what I want to tell you is this.
Think kindly of me--ah, don't you cry, child--there has been enough of
tears to-day--think of me, dear, as a sister-woman, who stepped aside
once out of the beaten track and for whom fate has been too much. And,
Felicia dear, when I am gone--it will take very, very little to make
Raine love you--”
“Ah, no!” cried Felicia passionately.
But Katherine smiled her sad, self-controlled smile.
“All, yes! He cannot help loving you--and so God give you happiness.”
“I can't bear you to go like this. I can't bear it!” cried Felicia.
“We all have to work out our destiny,” said Katherine. “Now good-bye,
dear--God bless you.”
A few moments later, Katherine was alone again, finishing her
preparations for departure.