IV

In the evening they went out for a stroll. They wandered through the

silent street; in the darkness they lost the quaintness of the red brick

houses, contrasting with the bright yellow of the paving, but it was

even quieter than by day. The street was very broad, and it wound about

from east to west and from west to east, and at last it took them to the

tiny harbour. Two fishing smacks were basking on the water, moored to

the side, and the Zuyder Zee was covered with the innumerable

reflections of the stars. On one of the boats a man was sitting at the

prow, fishing, and now and then, through the darkness, one saw the red

glow of his pipe; by his side, huddled up on a sail, lay a sleeping boy.

The other boat seemed deserted. Ferdinand and Valentia stood for a long

time watching the fisher, and he was so still that they wondered whether

he too were sleeping. They looked across the sea, and in the distance

saw the dim lights of Marken, the island of fishers. They wandered on

again through the street, and now the lights in the windows were

extinguished one by one, and sleep came over the town; and the

quietness was even greater than before. They walked on, and their

footsteps made no sound. They felt themselves alone in the dead city,

and they did not speak.

At length they came to a canal gliding towards the sea; they followed it

inland, and here the darkness was equal to the silence. Great trees that

had been planted when William of Orange was king in England threw their

shade over the water, shutting out the stars. They wandered along on the

soft earth, they could not hear themselves walk--and they did not speak.

They came to a bridge over the canal and stood on it, looking at the

water and the trees above them, and the water and the trees below

them--and they did not speak.

Then out of the darkness came another darkness, and gradually loomed

forth the heaviness of a barge. Noiselessly it glided down the stream,

very slowly; at the end of it a boy stood at the tiller, steering; and

it passed beneath them and beyond, till it lost itself in the night, and

again they were alone.

They stood side by side, leaning against the parapet, looking down at

the water.... And from the water rose up Love, and Love fluttered down

from the trees, and Love was borne along upon the night air. Ferdinand

did not know what was happening to him; he felt Valentia by his side,

and he drew closer to her, till her dress touched his legs and the silk

of her sleeve rubbed against his arm. It was so dark that he could not

see her face; he wondered of what she was thinking. She made a little

movement and to him came a faint wave of the scent she wore. Presently

two forms passed by on the bank and they saw a lover with his arm round

a girl's waist, and then they too were hidden in the darkness. Ferdinand

trembled as he spoke.

'Only Love is waking!'

'And we!' she said.

'And--you!'

He wondered why she said nothing. Did she understand? He put his hand on

her arm.

'Valentia!'

He had never called her by her Christian name before. She turned her

face towards him.

'What do you mean?'

'Oh, Valentia, I love you! I can't help it.'

A sob burst from her.

'Didn't you understand,' he said, 'all those hours that I sat for you

while you painted, and these long nights in which we wandered by the

water?'

'I thought you were my friend.'

'I thought so too. When I sat before you and watched you paint, and

looked at your beautiful hair and your eyes, I thought I was your

friend. And I looked at the lines of your body beneath your dress. And

when it pleased me to carry your easel and walk with you, I thought it

was friendship. Only to-night I know I am in love. Oh, Valentia, I am so

glad!'

She could not keep back her tears. Her bosom heaved, and she wept.

'You are a woman,' he said. 'Did you not see?'

'I am so sorry,' she said, her voice all broken. 'I thought we were such

good friends. I was so happy. And now you have spoilt it all.'

'Valentia, I love you.'

'I thought our friendship was so good and pure. And I felt so strong in

it. It seemed to me so beautiful.'

'Did you think I was less a man than the fisherman you see walking

beneath the trees at night?'

'It is all over now,' she sighed.

'What do you mean?'

'I can't stay here with you alone.'

'You're not going away?'

'Before, there was no harm in our being together at the hotel; but

now--'

'Oh, Valentia, don't leave me. I can't--I can't live without you.'

She heard the unhappiness in his voice. She turned to him again and laid

her two hands on his shoulders.

'Why can't you forget it all, and let us be good friends again? Forget

that you are a man. A woman can remain with a man for ever, and always

be content to walk and read and talk with him, and never think of

anything else. Can you forget it, Ferdinand? You will make me so happy.'

He did not answer, and for a long time they stood on the bridge in

silence. At last he sighed--a heartbroken sigh.

'Perhaps you're right. It may be better to pretend that we are friends.

If you like, we will forget all this.'

Her heart was too full; she could not answer; but she held out her hands

to him. He took them in his own, and, bending down, kissed them.

Then they walked home, side by side, without speaking.

V

Next morning Valentia received M. Rollo's answer to her letter. He

apologised for his delay in answering.

'_You are a philosopher_,' he said--she could see the little

snigger with which he had written the words--'_You are a

philosopher, and I was afraid lest my reply should disturb the

course of your reflections on friendship. I confess that I did not

entirely understand your letter, but I gathered that the sentiments

were correct, and it gave me great pleasure to know that your

experiment has had such excellent results. I gather that you have

not yet discovered that there is more than a verbal connection

between Friendship and Love._'

The reference is to the French equivalents of those states of mind.

'_But to speak seriously, dear child. You are young and beautiful

now, but not so very many years shall pass before your lovely skin

becomes coarse and muddy, and your teeth yellow, and the wrinkles

appear about your mouth and eyes. You have not so very many years

before you in which to collect sensations, and the recollection of

one's loves is, perhaps, the greatest pleasure left to one's old

age. To be virtuous, my dear, is admirable, but there are so many

interpretations of virtue. For myself, I can say that I have never

regretted the temptations to which I succumbed, but often the

temptations I have resisted. Therefore, love, love, love! And

remember that if love at sixty in a man is sometimes pathetic, in a

woman at forty it is always ridiculous. Therefore, take your youth

in both hands and say to yourself, "Life is short, but let me live

before I die!"_'

She did not show the letter to Ferdinand.

* * * * *

Next day it rained. Valentia retired to a room at the top of the house

and began to paint, but the incessant patter on the roof got on her

nerves; the painting bored her, and she threw aside the brushes in

disgust. She came downstairs and found Ferdinand in the dining-room,

standing at the window looking at the rain. It came down in one

continual steady pour, and the water ran off the raised brickwork of the

middle of the street to the gutters by the side, running along in a

swift and murky rivulet. The red brick of the opposite house looked cold

and cheerless in the wet.... He did not turn or speak to her as she came

in. She remarked that it did not look like leaving off. He made no

answer. She drew a chair to the second window and tried to read, but she

could not understand what she was reading. And she looked out at the

pouring rain and the red brick house opposite. She wondered why he had

not answered.

The innkeeper brought them their luncheon. Ferdinand took no notice of

the preparations.

'Will you come to luncheon, Mr White?' she said to him. 'It is quite

ready.'

'I beg your pardon,' he said gravely, as he took his seat.

He looked at her quickly, and then immediately dropping his eyes, began

eating. She wished he would not look so sad; she was very sorry for him.

She made an observation and he appeared to rouse himself. He replied

and they began talking, very calmly and coldly, as if they had not known

one another five minutes. They talked of Art with the biggest of A's,

and they compared Dutch painting with Italian; they spoke of Rembrandt

and his life.

'Rembrandt had passion,' said Ferdinand, bitterly, 'and therefore he was

unhappy. It is only the sexless, passionless creature, the block of ice,

that can be happy in this world.'

She blushed and did not answer.

The afternoon Valentia spent in her room, pretending to write letters,

and she wondered whether Ferdinand was wishing her downstairs.

At dinner they sought refuge in abstractions. They talked of dykes and

windmills and cigars, the history of Holland and its constitution, the

constitution of the United States and the edifying spectacle of the

politics of that blessed country. They talked of political economy and

pessimism and cattle rearing, the state of agriculture in England, the

foreign policy of the day, Anarchism, the President of the French

Republic. They would have talked of bi-metallism if they could. People

hearing them would have thought them very learned and extraordinarily

staid.

At last they separated, and as she undressed Valentia told herself that

Ferdinand had kept his promise. Everything was just as it had been

before, and the only change was that he used her Christian name. And she

rather liked him to call her Valentia.

But next day Ferdinand did not seem able to command himself. When

Valentia addressed him, he answered in monosyllables, with eyes averted;

but when she had her back turned, she felt that he was looking at her.

After breakfast she went away painting haystacks, and was late for

luncheon.

She apologised.

'It is of no consequence,' he said, keeping his eyes on the ground. And

those were the only words he spoke to her during the remainder of the

day. Once, when he was looking at her surreptitiously, and she suddenly

turned round, their eyes met, and for a moment he gazed straight at her,

then walked away. She wished he would not look so sad. As she was going

to bed, she held out her hand to him to say good-night, and she

added,--

'I don't want to make you unhappy, Mr White. I'm very sorry.'

'It's not your fault,' he said. 'You can't help it, if you're a stock

and a stone.'

He went away without taking the proffered hand. Valentia cried that

night.