"Can you pray, Leo?"
He gazed at her in shocked amazement. "Pray, indeed! It's well for
those who can. But I have sneaked out of the Almighty's way, like my
dog Leo sneaks out of my way when he has torn a fowl to pieces."
"You ought to try," she said, with her most pious expression "It has
done wonders for me lately.... I confide all my yearning to the
merciful ear of the Saviour, and----"
"Yearning? Yearning for what?" he asked.
She smiled in confusion. "Really, you ought to pray," she repeated.
"Indeed!"
"Perhaps our Lord is only inflicting this trial on us as a test of our
faith, and we shall come through it glorified. It may be that it is
part of His system of salvation to----"
"Tell me," he broke in, aghast, "have you been calling on
Brenckenberg?"
"God forbid!" she cried. "I am horribly afraid of him."
"Or perhaps on Johanna?"
"No," she answered, colouring; "Johanna has been to see me."
"Ah, indeed."
"Don't be so hard. I bless the day that led me to her arms, for she has
shown me the way to the Cross."
"How often has she been here?"
"Three times."
"And you have made yourself over to her body and soul?"
She shook her head with a smile. "I have only done that for one person
in the world," she said. "There is much that I cannot speak of to her,
but her influence has been of infinite benefit to me."
He gazed before him meditatively.
She rose and came close to his chair. "Do you know, Leo," she said,
with a dreamy smile, "it would be so nice if we prayed together."
"What do you mean?"
She was embarrassed. "I mean, if we took our common trouble to the
Father...."
"Heavens! You think that would improve matters?"
She sighed. "It would be so beautiful," she whispered.
"How do you propose to do it?" he asked. "Shall we kneel down side by
side on the carpet?"
She half laughed, and flushed deeper. "You are a heathen," she pouted,
sitting down again, "and scoff at the most sacred things."
"Make your mind easy, dear child," he said seriously. "I have long ago
lost the humour for scoffing."
"Well, then, you can at least pray for me, as I pray for you."
"Do you really do that?" he asked, while a feeling of gratitude stirred
gently within him.
She nodded shamefacedly, and cast her eyes on her lap. "It is the
utmost I can do," she murmured.
Again there was silence. Their eyes met and rested in each other's
depths. A sweet, silent sympathy seemed to hover between them like a
mysterious vapour. At this moment Leo did not feel the chafing of his
chains. The thoughts of both went back to their past.
"We were too happy," breathed Felicitas, "that is why we must suffer so
much now."
He did not answer. After the manner of man, he retained less grateful
remembrances than she did of the bliss that had been theirs.
She became doubtful "Or perhaps you were not happy?" she asked.
He nodded, for, against his will, he was falling a victim to old
memories.
She gazed at him with fixed eyes, her hands pressed hard against her
forehead.
"Why did things turn out so?" she whispered. "Why could we not be
strong, and resist the temptation?"
"Why? There is no 'why' in the matter. We were young and hot-headed and
foolish, and we thought of nothing.... I, for my part, wonder now how I
could have seemed so sagacious to myself, and not cried out to the
whole world, 'See, what a dog I am. I have an affair with a woman ... a
married woman!'"
"But at first, in the beginning ... how did you feel?" she asked.
"What? In the beginning?"
"When you ... first ... guessed my love."
"When ... ah, you mean that night?"
"Do you still remember it?" she asked, leaning over to him. A pink
flame leapt up in her cheeks, her glance swam in dreamy reminiscence.
"How can such things be forgotten?" he replied, frowning and smiling at
the same time. "One must carry them to the grave."
"And as you rode home ... that night ... what did you think about?"
"You are always asking what I thought," he answered, while visions of
that hour mounted to his brain and made him hot "I rode on and on, as
if I were drunk. Every moment I expected to fall out of the saddle. And
when I came to my own meadows, I drew in the roan. You remember it
was the old roan then, with the white feet. I tethered him to a
meadow-hurdle, and flung myself on the grass. It must have been nearly
two o'clock, but it was a very close, sultry night; just a streak of
red dawn was already in the sky. There I lay, asking myself, 'Is it
possible? Can you really have experienced it? Are there such hours to
be lived on earth?' And the roan grazed all the time, and round about
was the new-mown hay. That got into one's senses, ay, it was enough to
drive one mad...."
A soft cry escaped her lips. She had thrown her head back over the side
of the chair, the blue veins stood out on her throat, her breast heaved
tumultuously, and, with both hands pressed to her heart, she lay
gasping for breath.
"What is the matter with you?" he asked, in much concern, for he feared
a repetition of that scene.
"Nothing--nothing. It is only my stupid heart, nothing else."
"Can't I get you anything?"
"Thank you. It will soon be better ... it is better now."
She sat up, and, as if to allay his fears, smiled mechanically into
vacancy. Then she began to talk to herself, as if in a dream.
"And I ... I see it all before me still.... When you were gone ... I
went to the window ... and listened ... to your footsteps in the
garden; the horse neighed from the hedge ... it saw you coming ... and
then there was a sound of hoofs, echoing softly ... and then all was
quiet."
"And you had no qualms of conscience?"
She shook her head with a blissful smile, setting the waves and curls
of her hair in motion so that they whipped her over cheek and throat.
Then, recollecting how serious this question was, she knitted her brows
and grasped her temples with both hands.
"In those days," she said dully, "I had no notion of what conscience
meant; in those days I let my sinful happiness carry me along joyously
to the edge of an abyss without reflecting. That night, in my ecstasy,
I tore my clothes from my body...."
Suddenly she paused, shocked at herself. Her fingers, which had been
fumbling at her throat, had caught in the cloud of lace. With a thin,
long-drawn, tearing sound some thread of the delicate fabric collapsed.
She smiled at him in dismay. Then she quickly turned the situation off
with a jest.
"That is a pity," she said. "It is real old Flemish."
Daintily she knotted the ends together again. "Is that all right?" she
asked.
He did not answer.
A fresh silence took paralysing possession of the pair. Their glance
wandered away, as if they no longer dared meet one another's eyes. She,
with flushed cheeks, gazed at the toe of her embroidered Turkish
slipper, which with its gold arabesques shone forth from the hem of her
blue cashmere gown. He gnawed his moustache, and stared up at the
ceiling. The oil in the two lamps hissed and hummed. With a subdued
murmur the wind caressed the windowpanes in passing. The clock ticked
melodiously; it was a sound like a rain-drop falling at regular
intervals on the strings of a harp.
Leo felt a speechless fury boiling within him. He wanted to move, but
could not stir. At last he made a violent effort to regain his
manliness.
"Why do we grope about in the past?" he asked, jumping to his feet. "It
can lead to no good."
"It helps us to forget the misery of the present. Isn't that some
good?" she replied.
He did not contradict her, and turned to go. But in parting he caught
hold of her in a sudden spasm of rage, shook her hither and thither,
and, burying his fingers in the elastic flesh of her upper arm, he bent
down and muttered in her ear--
"You are right ... We _will_ pray."