Part 69 (2/2)
She could not sincerely wish herself free from the strange infatuation, for the thought of life without it, troublesome and fatiguing though it was, seemed inexpressibly dull. It had taken the colour out of everything. It had altered the very face of nature, in her eyes. Her hope had been to escape loneliness, but with this preposterous secret, she was lonelier than she had ever been before. She could no longer make a confidante of herself. She was afraid of her own ridicule, her own blame, above all of finding herself confronted with some accusation against the Professor, some overpowering reason for thinking poorly of him. Whenever they met, she was in terror lest he should leave her no alternative. She often opened conversational channels by which he could escape his unknown peril, and she would hold her breath till it was over. She dreaded the cool-headed, ruthless critic, lurking within her own consciousness, who would hear of no ingenious explanations of words or conduct. But she would not admit to this dread--that would have been to admit everything. She had not the satisfaction of openly thinking the matter out, for the suspicion that so profoundly saddened her, must be kept scrupulously hidden. Hadria was filled with dismay when she dared to glance at the future. No wonder Valeria had warned her against playing with fire! Was it always like this when people fell in love?
What a ridiculous, uncomfortable, outrageous thing it was! How destructive to common sense and sanity and everything that kept life running on reasonable lines. A poor joke at best, and oh, how stale!
”Shall I tell you your ruling pa.s.sion, Mrs. Temperley?”
”If you can, Professor Theobald.”
Before them stretched a woodland glade. The broad fronds of the bracken made bright patches of light where the sun caught them, and tall plants, such as hemlock and wild parsley, stood out, almost white against the shade; the flies and midges moving round them in the warmth. At some distance behind, the sound of voices could be heard through the windings of the wood. There were s.n.a.t.c.hes of song and laughter.
”Your ruling pa.s.sion is power over others.”
”It has been sadly thwarted then,” she answered, with a nervous laugh.
”Thwarted? Surely not. What more can you want than to touch the emotions of every one who comes across your path? It is a splendid power, and ought to be more satisfying to the possessor than a gift of any other kind.”
Professor Theobald waited for her reply, but she made none.
He looked at her fixedly, eagerly. She could do nothing but walk on in silence.
”Even an actor does not impress himself so directly upon his fellows as a woman of--well, a woman like yourself. A painter, a writer, a musician, never comes in touch at all with his public. We hear his name, we admire or we decry his works, but the man or the woman who has toiled, and felt, and lived, is unknown to us. He is lost in his work.”
Hadria gave a murmur of a.s.sent.
”But you, Mrs. Temperley, have a very different story to tell. It is _you_, yourself, your personality, in all its many-sided charm that we all bow to; it is _you_, not your achievements that--that we love.”
Hadria cleared her throat; the words would not come. A rebellious little nerve was twitching at her eye-lid. After all, what in heaven's name was she to say? It was too foolish to pretend to misunderstand; for tone, look, manner all told the same story; yet even now there was nothing absolutely definite to reply to, and her cleverness of retort had deserted her.
”Ah! Mrs. Temperley--Hadria----” Professor Theobald had stopped short in the path, and then Hadria made some drowning effort to resist the force that she still feared. But it was in vain. She stood before him, paler even than usual, with her head held high, but eye-lids that drooped and lips that trembled. The movement of the leaves made faint quivering little shadows on her white gown, and stirred delicately over the lace at her throat. The emotion that possessed her, the mixture of joy and dismay and even terror, pa.s.sed across her face, in the moment's silence.
The two figures stood opposite to one another; Hadria drawing a little away, swayed slightly backward, the Professor eagerly bending forward.
He was on the point of speaking, when there came floating through the wood, the sound of a woman's voice singing. The voice was swiftly recognised by them both, and the song.
Hadria's eye-lids lifted for a second, and her breathing quickened.
”Oh, gather me the rose, the rose, While yet in flower we find it; For summer smiles, but summer goes, And winter waits behind it.
”For with the dream foregone, foregone, The deed foreborne for ever, The worm regret will canker on, And time will turn him never.”
Professor Theobald advanced a step. Hadria drew back.
”So well it were to love, my love, And cheat of any laughter The fate beneath us and above, The dark before and after.
”The myrtle and the rose, the rose, The suns.h.i.+ne and the swallow, The dream that comes, the dream that goes, The memories that follow!”
The sweet cadence died away. A bird's note took up the dropped thread of music. The Professor broke into pa.s.sionate speech.
”My cause is pleaded in your own language, Hadria, Hadria; listen to it, listen. You know what is in my heart; I can't apologize for feeling it, for I have no choice; no man has where you are concerned, as you must have discovered long ago. And I do not apologize for telling you the truth, you know it does you no wrong. This is no news to you; you must have guessed it from the first. Your coldness, your rebuffs, betrayed that you did. But, ah! I have struggled long enough. I can keep silence no longer. I have thought of late that your feeling for me had changed; a thousand things have made me hope--good heavens, if you knew what that means to a man who had lost it! Ah! speak--don't look like that, Hadria,--what is there in me that you always turn from? Speak, speak!”
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