"I can't do it immediately. Mr. Krog is ill. We must wait."
He stood looking at her, much disappointed. "But can you not arrange a
meeting between us two again?"
"Yes, that I might do."
"Do it then--as soon as possible! dear, dear Alice--as soon as
possible!"
This time Alice was successful. Mary was quite ready to meet him again.
They met at Alice's house, to drive together to the exhibition in the
Champs Elysees.
To stand together before works of art is the real conversation without
words. The few words that are spoken awake hundreds. But these remain
unspoken. The one friend feels through the other, or at least they both
believe that they do so. They meet in one picture, to separate in
another. An hour thus spent teaches them more of each other than weeks
of ordinary intercourse. Alice led the two from picture to picture, but
was absorbed in her own thoughts--the more completely the farther they
went. She saw as an artist sees. The others, who began with the
pictures, gradually passed on to discovery of each other through these.
With them it was soon a play of undertones, rapid glances, short
ejaculations, pointing fingers. But those who feel their way to each
other by secret paths enjoy the process exceedingly, and generally allow
it to be perceived that they do so. They play a game like that of a pair
of sea-birds that dive and come up again far away from each other--to
find their way back to each other. The happiness of the moment was
increased by the number of eyes which were turned on them.
Downstairs amongst the statuary, Alice led them straight to the centre
room. She stopped in front of an empty pedestal and turned to the
official in charge. "Is the acrobat not ready yet?" "No, Mademoiselle,"
he answered; "unfortunately not."
"There must have been another accident?"
"I do not know, Mademoiselle."
Alice explained to Mary that the statue of an acrobat had been broken in
the process of setting it up.
"An acrobat?" called Frans Roey. He was standing a short way off; now he
hastened up to them. "An acrobat? Did I hear you speaking about an
acrobat?"
"Yes," said they, and laughed.
"Is that anything to laugh at?" said he. "I have a cousin who is an
acrobat."
The ladies laughed more heartily. Frans was greatly astonished.
"I assure you he is one of the best fellows I know. And marvellously
clever. The talent runs in our family. As a boy I was two whole summers
in the circus with him."
The others laughed.
"What the deuce can you be laughing at? I never had a better time in my
life than in the circus."
The two ladies, unable to control their merriment, hurried towards the
door. Roey was obliged to follow, but was offended.
"I have not the faintest idea what is amusing you," he said, when they
were all seated in the carriage. Nevertheless he laughed himself.
The little misunderstanding resulted in all three being in the best of
humours when they stopped in front of Mary's house. Alice and Frans Roey
drove on without her. Frans turned blissfully to Alice and asked if he
had not been a good boy to-day? if he had not kept himself well in hand?
if his "affair" were not progressing splendidly? He did not wait for her
answer; he laughed and chattered; and he was determined to go in with
her. But this Alice had no intention of allowing. Then he demanded, as
his reward for not persisting, that she should take them both for a
drive in the Bois de Boulogne, in the direction of La Bagatelle. It was
to be in the morning, about nine o'clock; then the scent of the trees
would be strongest, the song of the birds fullest; and then they would
still have the place to themselves. This she promised.
On the following Friday she called for Mary before nine in the morning,
and they drove on to pick up Frans Roey.
From a long way off Alice saw him marching up and down on the pavement.
His face and bearing filled her with a presentiment of mischief. Mary
could not see him until they stopped. But then a flame rushed into her
face, kindled by the fire in his. He boarded the carriage like a
captured vessel. Alice hastened to attract his attention in order to
avoid an immediate outburst.
"How lovely the morning is," she said; "just because the sun is not
shining in its full strength! Nothing can be more beautiful than this
subdued tone over a scene as full of colour as that towards which we are
driving."
But Frans did not hear; he understood nothing but Mary. The white veil
thrown back over her red hair, the fresh, half open mouth, deprived him
of his senses. Alice remarked that the woods had become more fragrant
since the Japanese trees had grown up. Each time these flung a wanton
puff in among the sober European wood scents, it was as if foreign birds
with foreign screams were flying among the trees. Frans Roey at once
affirmed that the native birds were thereby inspired with new song.
Never had they sung so gloriously as they were singing that morning.
Alice's fear of an explosion increased. She tried to avoid it by drawing
his attention to the contrasts of colour in wood and meadow and
distance. The drive out to La Bagatelle is peculiarly rich in these. But
Frans was sitting with his back to the horses; he had to turn away from
Mary and Alice every time to see what Alice wanted him to look at. This
made him impatient, the more so as Mary and he were each time
interrupted in their conversation.
"Shall we not rather get out and walk a little?" said he.
But Alice was more afraid of this than anything. What might he not take
into his head next?
"Do look about you!" she exclaimed. "Is it not as if the colours here
were singing in chorus?"
"Where?" said Frans crossly.
"Goodness! Don't you see all the varieties of green in the wood itself?
Just look! And then the green of the meadow against these?"
"I have no desire to see it! Not an atom!" He turned towards the ladies
again and laughed. "Would it not really be better to get down?" he
insisted again. "It's ever so much pleasanter to walk in the wood than
to look at it. The same with the meadows."
"It is forbidden to walk on the grass."
"Confound it! Then let us walk on the road, and look at it all. That is
surely better than being cooped up in a carriage."
Mary agreed with him.
"Do you suppose that it was to walk I drove you out here? It was to see
that historic house, La Bagatelle, and the wood surrounding it. There is
nothing like it anywhere. And then I meant to go as far into the country
as possible. We can't do all this if we are to walk."
This appeal kept them quiet for a time. The owner of the carriage must
be allowed to decide. But now Mary, too, was in wild spirits. Her eyes,
usually thoughtful, shone with happiness. To-day she laughed at all
Frans's jokes; she laughed at nothing at all. She was perpetually
coveting flowers which she saw; and each time they had to stop, to
gather both flowers and leaves. She filled the carriage with them, until
Alice at last protested. Then she flung them all out, and insisted on
being allowed to get out herself.
They stopped and alighted.
They had long ago passed La Bagatelle. The carriage was ordered to turn
and drive slowly back; they followed.
They had not taken many steps before Frans Roey began to turn
cart-wheels, that is to say, to throw himself forward side-ways upon his
hands, turn in the air, and fall again upon his feet--then to go off
again sideways upon his hands, ever onwards, ever faster. Presently he
turned and came back in the same way. "That is one of my circus tricks,"
he said, beaming. "Here is another!" He jumped up where he stood, turned
round in the air, and came down again on his feet on the exact spot from
which he had jumped--then did the same thing again. "Look. Exactly where
I jumped from!" he exclaimed triumphantly, and did it two, three, four,
five times more.
They admired. And it was a sight worthy of admiration; for the ease with
which the tall, strong man performed the feat made it beautiful.
Inspired by their praise, he began to spin round at such a rate that
they could not bear to look. Nor was it beautiful. They turned away and
screamed. This delighted him tremendously. Annoyed by the fact, Alice
called out:
"You are a perfect boy; any one would take you for seventeen!"
"How old are you?" asked Mary.
"Over thirty."
They shouted with laughter.
This they should not have done. This he must punish. Before Alice
divined his intention, he seized her round the waist, turned, and was
off with her in the most frantic gallop up the road, raising clouds of
dust. Stout Alice struggled with all her might and screamed. But this
was of no avail; it only delighted him. Her hat and her shawl fell off.
Mary ran and picked them up, helpless with laughter; for these ungainly
and perfectly useless attempts at resistance were irresistibly comic. At
last Frans turned, and they came back again at the same wild pace and
stopped where Mary stood--Alice's face distorted, perspiring, and red.
Her breathless rage, incapable of utterance, made Mary explode. Frans
sang: Hop sa-sa! hop-sa-sa! in front of the angry lady, until she could
speak and abuse him. Then he laughed.
"And you--?" said Mary, now turning to Frans. "Has it not tired you at
all?"
"Not much. I'm quite prepared to take the same trip with you."
Mary was horrified. She had just given Alice her hat, and was standing
holding the shawl and her own hat, which she had taken off. With a cry
she threw both from her and set off in the homeward direction, towards
the waiting carriage.
Not for an instant had Frans Roey thought of doing what he threatened. He
had spoken in jest. But when he saw her run, and with a speed for which
he would have given neither her nor any other woman credit, his
soldier's blood took it as a challenge. Alice saw this and said
hurriedly: "Don't do it." The words flung themselves in his way so
insistently that he stood doubtful. But Mary yonder on the road in the
white dress with the red hair above it, running with a step so swift and
light that the very rhythm of it allured him, nay, bereft him of his
senses ... he was off before he knew what he was about, just as Alice
called for the second time, in an agonised tone: "Don't do it!"
The strip of light above the dust of the road in front of him shone into
his eyes and his imagination like the sun. It blinded him. He ran
without consciousness of what he was doing. He ran as if: "Catch me!
Catch me!" were being shouted in front the whole time. He ran as if the
winning of life's highest prize depended on his reaching Mary.
She had a long start of him. Precisely this incited to the uttermost
exertion of all his powers. A race for happiness with one who desired to
be beaten! Blood at the boiling point surged in his ears; desire burned
in it. The longings of all these days and nights were tumultuously
urging him on to victory. Speak they would at last. No, speech would be
uncalled for; he would have her in his arms.
Now Mary turned her head--saw him, gave a cry, gathered up her dress.
She actually owned a still swifter pace, did she! Madness seized Frans.
He believed that the cry was a lure. He saw Mary make a forward sign
with her hand; he believed that she was showing where she would stop and
consider herself safe. He must reach her before she got there. He, too,
had a last spurt in reserve; it brought him with a rush close in upon
her. He seemed to perceive the fragrance exhaling from her; next moment
he must hear her breathing. He was so excited that he did not know he
had touched her until she looked round. She let her dress fall at once,
and after one or two more swift steps, stood still. His arm went round
her waist; he was on fire; he drew her tightly to him--to hear the
angriest: "Let me go!" Want of breath gave it its excessive sharpness.
Frans was appalled, but felt that he must support her until she
recovered breath, and therefore retained his hold. Again came with the
same compressed sharpness of breathlessness: "You are no gentleman!" He
let go.
The clatter of horses' hoofs was heard; the carriage was approaching
rapidly. The servants on the box must have witnessed the whole
occurrence; it was to them she had waved. During his wild chase he had
seen her alone.
Now she walked towards the carriage. She held her handkerchief to her
face; she was crying. The servant jumped down and opened the carriage
door.
Frans turned away, desperate, his mind paralysed. Alice came up. She was
carrying her own shawl and Mary's hat, and went straight towards the
carriage without taking notice of him. When he attempted to join her,
she waved him off.
* * * * *
The third day after the occurrence Frans called upon Alice. He was told
that she was not at home. The following day he received the same answer.
After this he was absent from Paris for some days; but immediately on
his return he called again. "She has just gone out," answered the
servant. But this time he simply pushed the man aside and went in.
Alice stood eagerly examining a collection of objects of art; table and
chairs were covered with them, they stood about everywhere. "Alice--!"
said Frans, gently and reproachfully. She started, and at that moment he
caught sight of her father behind her. He at once came forward as if he
had said nothing.
The art treasures were collected and laid aside, Frans assisting. Mr.
Clerc left the room.
"Alice!" now repeated Frans Roey in the same reproachful tone. "You
surely do not mean to close your door to me? And just when I am so
unhappy?"
She did not answer.
"We who have always been such good friends and had such good times
together?"
Alice looked away from him and gave no answer.
"Even if I have behaved foolishly, we two surely know each other too
well for that to separate us?"
"There are limits to everything," he heard her say.
He was silent for a moment. "Limits? limits? Come now, Alice. Between us
there is surely no--"
Before he could say more she broke out: "It is inexcusable to behave in
such a way before other people!" She was scarlet.
"Yes. You mean?" He did not understand.
She turned away. "To treat me in such a manner before Mary----what must
Mary think?"
Never until now had it occurred to him that he had behaved badly to her,
to Alice, too; all this time he had thought only of Mary. Now, ashamed
of himself, dreadfully ashamed of himself, he came forward.
"Will you pardon me, Alice? I was so happy that I did not think. I
didn't understand till this moment. Forgive a poor sinner! Won't you
look at me?"
She turned her head towards him; her eyes were unhappy and full of
tears; they met his, which were also unhappy, but beseeching. It was not
long before his and hers melted into each other. He stretched out his
arms, embraced her, tried to kiss her; but this he was not allowed to
do.
"Alice, dear, sweet Alice, you will help me again!"
"It is of no use. You spoil everything."
"After this, I will do every single thing you ask me."
"You promised the same before."
"But now I have learned a lesson. Now I shall keep my promise. On my
honour!"
"Your promises are not to be relied on. For you do not understand."
"I don't understand?"
"No, you don't understand in the least who she is!"
"I confess that I must have been mistaken, for even now I fail to
comprehend what made her so angry."
"That I can quite believe."
"Yes. When she threw everything away and ran, I felt certain that it was
to get me to run after her."
"Did you not hear me call twice: 'Don't do it!'?"
"Yes, but I did not understand that either."
Alice sat down with a hopeless feeling. She said no more; she thought it
useless to do so. He seated himself opposite to her.
"Explain it to me, Alice! Did you not see how she laughed when I danced
off with you?"
"Has it not dawned upon you yet that there is a difference between us
and her?"
"Mary Krog is most unassuming; she makes no pretensions whatever."
"Quite so. But now you are misunderstanding me again. Whereas we are
ordinary beings, whom other people may touch with impunity, she dwells
in a remoteness which no one as yet has diminished by one foot. It is
not from pride or vanity that she does so."
"No, no!"
"She _is_ like that. If she were not, she would have been captured and
married long ago. You surely don't imagine that proposals have been
wanting?"
"Everyone knows they have not."
"Ask Mrs. Dawes! She keeps a diary of them in her thousand letters. She
writes about nothing else now."
"But what, then, is the explanation of it, dear Alice?"
"It is quite simple. She is gentle, sweet-tempered, obliging--all this
and more. But she dwells in an enchanted land, into which none may
intrude. She preserves it inviolate with extraordinary vigilance and
tact."
"To touch her is forbidden, you mean?"
"Absolutely! Fancy your not understanding that yet!"
"I did understand; but I forgot."
Frans Roey sat silent as if he were listening to something far away.
Again he heard the sharp cries of fear which thrilled through the air as
he drew near, saw the terrified sign to the carriage, felt Mary's
trembling body, heard the ejaculation uttered with all her remaining
strength, saw her walk on, weeping. All at once he understood! What a
stupid, coarse criminal he was!
He sat there dumb, miserable.
But it was not in his nature to give up. His face soon brightened.
"After all, dear Alice, it was only a game."
"To her it was more. You are surely not still in doubt as to that?"
"She has been pursued before, you mean?"
"In many different ways."
"Consequently she imagined----?"
"Of course. You saw that she did."
He did not reply.
"But now tell me, my dear Frans--was it not more than a game to you,
too? Was it not all-decisive?"
He bowed his head, ashamed. Then he walked across the room and came
back.
"She is a queen. She will not be captured. I should have stopped----?"
"You should never have gone after her. And she would have been yours
now."
Frans seated himself again as if a heavy weight were pressing on his
shoulders.
"Did she say anything?" asked Alice with a searching look.
He would have preferred not to tell, but the question was repeated.
"She said that I was no gentleman."
Alice declared this to be too bad. Frans then asked if Mary had said
anything to her in the carriage.
"Not a word. But I spoke. I abused you--well."
"She has not referred to the matter since?"
Alice shook her head. "Your name is erased from her dictionary, my
friend."
* * * * *
Some days after this Frans received by tube-post a hurried note which
informed him that at eleven that morning the two ladies would again be
at the exhibition in the Champs Elysees. It was eleven when the note
came.
Mary had called to ask Alice to go with her to look at a Dutch coast
landscape which her father wished to buy. They considered the price
rather high; possibly Alice would be able to make better terms. Mary's
carriage was waiting at the door. Alice left her, wrote hastily to Frans
Roey, and then went to dress, which to-day, contrary to custom, took her
a long time. They drove to the exhibition, found the picture, and went
to the office, where they had to wait. After making their offer and
giving the address, they returned to the ground-floor of the exhibition
in search of the acrobat. He stood there now in all his manly strength.
Alice reached him first, and exclaimed "Why! it is----," then stopped
short and walked away from Mary. She examined the statue from every
side, over and over again, without saying a word. Precisely that which
distinguished Frans Roey--that his strength did not announce itself in
distended muscle, but in the elasticity of a beautifully formed, lithe
body--was to be observed here. Frans Roey's toss of the head, his broad
forehead aslant in the air, his hand, his short, strong foot--everything
was here! The statue affected the beholder like a war-song. For the
first time Alice found the word for the effect which Frans produced. She
was carried away by the statue as by the rhythm of a march. Exactly what
she had often felt when she saw Frans walk! Was this likeness a curious
accident, or had he really ... she turned quite hot and had to walk away
from the statue and look at something else.
Mary had all the time kept behind Alice, who had quite forgotten her.
The question now involuntarily occurred to Alice: Does Mary understand
what she sees?
She waited a little before she began to observe. Mary, who was now
standing in front of the statue, with her back towards Alice, remained
so long motionless that the latter's curiosity increased. She went
round and stationed herself among the statues opposite, put on her
eye-glass, and looked across. Mary's eyes were half closed; her bosom
was heaving. She walked slowly round the statue, then retired to a
distance, came back, and stood still again midway between front and
side.
Then she looked round for Alice and caught sight of the eye-glasses
turned in her direction; Alice was actually holding them on, to see
clearer. There could be no mistake--her face was one mischievous smile.
There are things which one woman objects to another understanding.
Mary's blood surged; angry and hurt, she took Alice's look as an insult.
She turned her back quickly on the acrobat and walked towards the door.
But she stopped once or twice, pretending to look at other pieces of
sculpture, really to obtain mastery over the uproar in her breast. At
last she reached the door. She did not look round to see if Alice were
following; she passed through the entrance hall and left the building.
But just as she did so, Frans Roey hurried up--as quickly as if he had
been sent for and were arriving too late. He tore off his hat without
getting even a nod in answer. He saw nothing but a pair of vacant eyes.
"Oh, please don't be angry any longer!" he said with his broadest
east-country accent, good-humouredly and boyishly. Mary's face cleared;
she could not help herself; she smiled, and was actually going to take
his outstretched hand--when she saw his eyes travel with the speed of
lightning to a point behind her and come back with the least little
particle of triumph in them. She turned her head and met Alice's eyes.
In them there was any amount both of mischief and rejoicing. There had
been a plot then! Mary was transformed. As if from the highest church
steeple she looked down upon them both--and left them. Her carriage was
waiting a short way off; she motioned, and it came in a wide sweep to
where she stood. There was no footman; she opened the door before Frans
Roey could come to her assistance, and got in as if no one were there.
When seated she looked--past Frans--to see if Alice were coming. Fat
Alice was waddling slowly along. It was plain, even from a distance,
that a wild struggle with suppressed laughter was going on within her.
And when she arrived and saw Mary sitting in state looking to the one
side, and Frans Roey, the giant, standing on the other like a frightened
recruit, she could resist no longer; she gave way to a fit of laughter
which shook her heavy body from head to foot. She laughed until the
tears rolled down her cheeks, laughed so that it was with difficulty and
not without assistance she found the carriage-step and hauled herself
up. She sank on the seat beside Mary, convulsed with laughter; the
carriage shook, as she sat with her handkerchief to her face,
suppressing screams. She caught a glimpse of Mary's scarlet anger and
Frans Roey's pale dismay--and laughed the louder. The very coachman was
obliged to laugh too, though what the devil it was about he did not
know. And thus they drove off.
Another unsuccessful expedition, another defeat of the highest hopes! It
was a long time before Alice could say anything. Then she began by
pitying Frans Roey.
"You are too severe with him, Mary. Goodness! how miserable he looked!"
And the laughter began again.
But Mary, who had been sitting waiting for an opportunity, now broke
out:
"What have I to do with your protege?"
And as if this were not enough, she bent forward to face Alice's
laughing eyes:
"You are confusing me with yourself. It is you who are in love with
him. Do you imagine that I have not seen that for ever so long? You know
best yourselves in what relation you stand to each other. That is no
affair of mine. But the 'De'[B] which you both keep up--is it for the
purpose of concealment?"
[B] _You_ as distinguished from the familiar _thou_.
Alice's laughter ceased. She turned pale, so pale that Mary was alarmed.
Mary tried to withdraw her eyes, but could not; Alice's held them fast
through painful changes until they lost all expression. Then Alice's
head sank back, whilst a long, heavy sigh resembling the groan of a
wounded animal escaped her.
Mary sat motionless, aghast at her own speech.
But it was irrevocable.
Alice suddenly raised her head again and told the coachman to stop. "I
have a call to make at this house." The carriage stopped; she opened the
door, stepped out, and shut it after her.
With a long look at Mary, she said:
"Good-bye!"
"Good-bye!" was answered in a low tone.
Both felt that it was for ever.
Mary drove on. As soon as she reached home, she went straight to the
private drawing-room; she had something to say to her father. Before
she opened the door, she heard piano-playing, and understood that Joergen
Thiis was there. But this did not stop her. With her hat and spring
cloak still on, she unexpectedly appeared in the room. Joergen Thiis
jumped up from the piano and came towards her, his eyes filling with
admiration; her face was all aglow from the tumult within. But something
proud and repellent in its sparkle caused him to give up his intention
of closer approach.
Then his eyes assumed the gloating, greedy expression which Mary so
detested. With a slight bow she passed him and went up to her father,
who was sitting as usual in the big chair with a book upon his knee.
"Father, what do you say to our going home now?"
Every face brightened. Mrs. Dawes exclaimed: "Joergen Thiis has just been
asking when we intend to go; he wants to travel with us."
Mary did not turn towards Joergen but continued: "I think the steamer
sails from Havre to-morrow?"
"It does," answered her father; "but we can't possibly be ready by that
time?"
"Yes, we can!" said Mrs. Dawes. "We have this whole afternoon."
"I shall be delighted to help," said Joergen Thiis.
Now Mary bestowed a friendly look on him, before mentioning the price
which Alice had advised her to offer for the Dutch coast landscape her
father wished to buy. She then went off to begin her own packing.
The four met again before the hotel dinner at half-past seven. Mary came
into the room looking tired. Joergen Thiis went up to her and said:
"I hear that you have made Frans Roey's acquaintance, Miss Krog?"
Her father and Mrs. Dawes were listening attentively. This showed that
Joergen must have been talking with them on the subject before she
entered. Every new male acquaintance she made was a source of anxiety to
them. Mary coloured; she felt herself doing so, and the red deepened.
The two were watching.
"I have met him at Miss Clerc's," replied Mary. "She and her mother
spent several summers in Norway, and were intimate with his family
there; they belong to the same town. Is there anything more you wish to
know?"
Joergen Thiis stood dismayed. The others stared. He said hastily: "I have
just been telling your father and Mrs. Dawes that we younger officers
consider Frans Roey the best man we have. So I spoke with no unfriendly
intention."
"Nor did I suspect you of any. But as I myself have not mentioned the
acquaintance here, I do not think that the subject ought to be
introduced by strangers."
In utter consternation Joergen stammered that, that, that he had had no
other intention in doing so than to, to, to....
"I know that," Mary replied, cutting short the conversation.
They went down to dinner. At table Joergen as a matter of course returned
to the subject. It could not be allowed to drop thus. All Frans Roey's
brother officers, he said, regretted that he had exchanged into the
engineers. He was a particularly able strategist. Their military
exercises, both theoretical and practical, had provided him with
opportunities to distinguish himself. Joergen gave instances, but the
others did not understand them. So he went on to tell anecdotes of Frans
Roey as a comrade, as an officer. These were supposed to show how popular
and how ready-witted he was. Mary declared that they chiefly showed how
boyish he was. Thereupon Joergen said that he had only heard the stories
from others; Frans Roey was older than he.
"What do _you_ think of him?" he suddenly asked in a very innocent
manner.
Mary did not answer immediately. Her father and Mrs. Dawes looked up.
"He talks a great deal too much."
Joergen laughed. "Yes; but how can he help that--he who has so much
strength?"
"Must it be exercised upon us?"
They all laughed, and the strain which had been making them
uncomfortable relaxed. Krog and Mrs. Dawes felt safe, as far as Frans
Roey was concerned. So did Joergen Thiis.
At half-past eight they went upstairs again. Mary at once retired to her
room, pleading fatigue. She lay and listened to Joergen playing. Then she
lay and wept.
* * * * *
Next evening, on the sea, wide and motionless, the faint twilight
ushered in the summer night. Two pillars of smoke rose in the distance.
Except for these, the dull grey above and beneath was unbroken. Mary
leaned against the rail. No one was in sight, and the thud of the engine
was the only sound.
She had been listening to music downstairs, and had left the others
there. An unspeakable feeling of loneliness had driven her up to this
barren outlook--clouds as far as the eye could reach.
Nothing but clouds; not even the reflection of the sun which had gone
down.
And was there anything more than this left of the brightness of the
world from which she came? Was there not the very same emptiness in and
around herself? The life of travel was now at an end; neither her father
nor Mrs. Dawes could or would continue to lead it; this she understood.
At Krogskogen there was not one neighbour she cared for. In the town,
half an hour's journey off, there was not a human being to whom she was
bound by any tie of intimacy. She had never given herself time to make
such ties. She was at home nowhere. The life which springs from the soil
of a place and unites us to everything that grows there was not hers.
Wherever she made her appearance, the conversation seemed to stop, in
order that another subject, suited to her, might be introduced. The
globe-trotters who wandered about with her talked of incidents of
travel, of the art-galleries and the music of the towns which they were
visiting--occasionally, too, of problems which pursued them, let them
go where they would. But of these not one affected her personally. The
conventional utterances on such subjects she knew by heart. Indeed, the
whole was either a kind of practice in language, or else aimless chat to
pass the time.
The homage paid her, which at times verged on worship, had begun when
she was still a child and took it as fun. In course of time it had
become as familiar to her as the figures of a quadrille. One incident
which alarmed the whole family, a couple of incidents which were
painful, had been long forgotten; the admiration she received meant
nothing to her--she remained unsatisfied and lonely.
A convulsive start--and Frans Roey's giant form suddenly appeared before
her--so plain, so exact in the smallest detail, that she felt as if she
could not stir because of him.
He was not like the rest. Was it this that had frightened her?
The very thought of him made her tremble. Without her willing it, Alice
stood beside him, fat and sensual, with desire in her eyes.... What was
the relation between these two?... A moment of darkness, one of pain,
one of fury. Then Mary wept.
She heard a loud, dull roar, and turned in its direction. An
ocean-steamer was bearing down on them--an apparition so unexpected and
so gigantic that it took away her breath. It rose out of the sea without
warning, and rushed towards them at tremendous speed, becoming larger
and larger, a fire-mountain of great and small lights. With a roar it
came and it went. One moment, and it was seen in the far distance.
What an impression it made on her, this life rushing past on its way
from continent to continent, with its suggestion of constant, fruitful
exchange of thoughts and labour! whilst she herself lay drifting in a
little tub, which was rocked so violently by the waves from the
world-colossus that she had to cling to the first support that offered.
She was alone again in the great void. Deserted. For was it not
desertion that everything she had seen and heard in three continents--of
the life of the nations, their toil and their pleasure, their art, their
music--should have to be left behind? She had seen and heard; and now
she was alone, in a dreary, stagnant waste.