flirt. You sat next to him, did you not?”
Cecile suffered severely in the secrecy of her sensitiveness. She shrank entirely within herself, doing all she could to appear different from what she was. Suzette saw nothing of her discomfiture.
The men returned. Cecile looked to see whether Quaerts would speak to Mrs Hijdrecht. But he wholly ignored her presence, and even, when he saw Suzette sitting with Cecile, came over to them to pay a compliment to Suzette, to whom he had not yet spoken.
It was a relief for Cecile when she was able to go. She longed for solitude, to recover herself, to return from her abstraction. In her brougham she scarcely dared breathe, fearful of something, she could not say what. When she reached home she felt a stifling heaviness which seemed to paralyse her, and with difficulty she passed up the stairway to her dressing-room.
And yet, as she stepped, there fell over her, as from the roof of her house, a haze of protecting safety. Slowly she went up, her hand, holding a long glove, pressing the velvet banister of the stairway. She felt as if she were about to swoon.
“But, my God … I am fond of him, I love him, I love him!” she whispered between her trembling lips, with sudden amazement.
It was as in a rhythm of astonishment that she wearily mounted the stairway, higher and higher, in a still surprise of sudden light.
“But I am fond of him, I love him, I love him!”
It sounded like a melody through her weariness.
She reached her dressing-room, where Greta had lighted the gas; she dragged herself inside. The door of the nursery stood half open; she entered it and threw up the curtain of Christie’s little bed. She fell on her knees, and looked at the child. The boy partly awoke, still in the warmth of a deep sleep; he crept a little from between the sheets, laughed and threw his arms about Cecile’s bare neck.
“Mamma dear!”
She pressed him tightly in the embrace of her slender white arms; she kissed his raspberry mouth, his drowsy eyes. Meantime the refrain sang on in her heart, right across the weariness, which broke, as it were, by the cot of her child: “I am fond of him, I love him, I love him, I love him …!”
IV
The mystery! Suddenly, on the staircase, it had beamed open before her in her soul, like a great flower of light, a mystic rose with glistening leaves, into whose golden heart she now looked for the first time. The analysis of which she was so fond was no longer possible: this was the Enigma of Love, the eternal Enigma, that had beamed open within her, transfixing with its rays the width and breadth of her soul, in the midst of which it had burst forth like a sun in the universe; it was no longer of use to ask, why, why. It was no longer of use to ponder and dream on it; it could only be accepted as the inexplicable phenomenon of the soul; it was a creation of sentiment, of which the god who created it would be as impossible to find in the essence of his reality as the God who had created the world out of chaos. It was the light breaking forth from the darkness; it was heaven disclosed above the earth. It existed, it was reality and no chimera; for it was wholly and entirely within her; a sudden, incontestable, everlasting truth, a felt fact, so real in its ethereal incorporeity that it seemed to her as if before that moment she had never known, never thought, never felt.
It was the beginning: the opening out of herself, the dawn of her soul’s life, the joyful miracle, the miraculous inception of love.
She passed the days which followed in self contemplation, wandering through her dreams as through a new country, rich with great light, where distant landscapes paled into light, fantastic, like meteors in the night, quivering in incandescence upon the horizon. It seemed to her as though she, a light, pious pilgrim, progressed along paradisial oases towards those distant scenes, there to find still more: the Goal … Only a little while ago her prospect had
Cecile suffered severely in the secrecy of her sensitiveness. She shrank entirely within herself, doing all she could to appear different from what she was. Suzette saw nothing of her discomfiture.
The men returned. Cecile looked to see whether Quaerts would speak to Mrs Hijdrecht. But he wholly ignored her presence, and even, when he saw Suzette sitting with Cecile, came over to them to pay a compliment to Suzette, to whom he had not yet spoken.
It was a relief for Cecile when she was able to go. She longed for solitude, to recover herself, to return from her abstraction. In her brougham she scarcely dared breathe, fearful of something, she could not say what. When she reached home she felt a stifling heaviness which seemed to paralyse her, and with difficulty she passed up the stairway to her dressing-room.
And yet, as she stepped, there fell over her, as from the roof of her house, a haze of protecting safety. Slowly she went up, her hand, holding a long glove, pressing the velvet banister of the stairway. She felt as if she were about to swoon.
“But, my God … I am fond of him, I love him, I love him!” she whispered between her trembling lips, with sudden amazement.
It was as in a rhythm of astonishment that she wearily mounted the stairway, higher and higher, in a still surprise of sudden light.
“But I am fond of him, I love him, I love him!”
It sounded like a melody through her weariness.
She reached her dressing-room, where Greta had lighted the gas; she dragged herself inside. The door of the nursery stood half open; she entered it and threw up the curtain of Christie’s little bed. She fell on her knees, and looked at the child. The boy partly awoke, still in the warmth of a deep sleep; he crept a little from between the sheets, laughed and threw his arms about Cecile’s bare neck.
“Mamma dear!”
She pressed him tightly in the embrace of her slender white arms; she kissed his raspberry mouth, his drowsy eyes. Meantime the refrain sang on in her heart, right across the weariness, which broke, as it were, by the cot of her child: “I am fond of him, I love him, I love him, I love him …!”
IV
The mystery! Suddenly, on the staircase, it had beamed open before her in her soul, like a great flower of light, a mystic rose with glistening leaves, into whose golden heart she now looked for the first time. The analysis of which she was so fond was no longer possible: this was the Enigma of Love, the eternal Enigma, that had beamed open within her, transfixing with its rays the width and breadth of her soul, in the midst of which it had burst forth like a sun in the universe; it was no longer of use to ask, why, why. It was no longer of use to ponder and dream on it; it could only be accepted as the inexplicable phenomenon of the soul; it was a creation of sentiment, of which the god who created it would be as impossible to find in the essence of his reality as the God who had created the world out of chaos. It was the light breaking forth from the darkness; it was heaven disclosed above the earth. It existed, it was reality and no chimera; for it was wholly and entirely within her; a sudden, incontestable, everlasting truth, a felt fact, so real in its ethereal incorporeity that it seemed to her as if before that moment she had never known, never thought, never felt.
It was the beginning: the opening out of herself, the dawn of her soul’s life, the joyful miracle, the miraculous inception of love.
She passed the days which followed in self contemplation, wandering through her dreams as through a new country, rich with great light, where distant landscapes paled into light, fantastic, like meteors in the night, quivering in incandescence upon the horizon. It seemed to her as though she, a light, pious pilgrim, progressed along paradisial oases towards those distant scenes, there to find still more: the Goal … Only a little while ago her prospect had
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