"You have a new scent," he said with peculiar emphasis.
"Yes," she answered simply, "do you like it?"
Andrea still held the mantle in his hands. He buried his face in the fur collar which had been next her throat and her hair--"What is it called?"
he inquired.
"It has no name."
She re-seated herself in the arm-chair within the circle of the firelight. Her dress was of black lace, on which sparkled a ma.s.s of tiny jet and steel beads.
The day was fading from the windows. Andrea lit candles of twisted orange-coloured wax in wrought-iron candlesticks, after which he drew a screen before the fire.
During this pause, both felt a certain perplexing uneasiness; Elena was no longer exactly conscious of the moment, nor was she quite mistress of herself. In spite of all her efforts she was unable to recall with precision her motives for coming here, to follow out her intentions--even to regain her force of will. In the presence of this man to whom, once upon a time, she had been bound by such pa.s.sionate ties, and in this spot where she lived the most ardent moments of her life, she felt her reserve melting, her mind wavering and growing feeble. She was at that dangerously delicious point of sentiment at which the soul receives its every impulse, its att.i.tudes, its form from its external surroundings as an aerial vapour from the mutations of the atmosphere. But she checked herself before wholly giving way to it.
"Is that right now?" asked Andrea in a low, almost humble voice.
She smiled without replying. His words had given her inexpressibly keen delight.
She began her delicate manipulations--lit the spirit-lamp under the kettle, opened the lacquer tea-caddy and put the necessary quant.i.ty of aromatic leaves into the tea-pot, and finally prepared two cups. Her movements were slow and a little hesitating, as happens when the mind is busied with other things than the occupation of the moment; her exquisite white hands hovered over the cups with the airiness of b.u.t.terflies, and from her whole lithe form there emanated an indefinable charm which enveloped her lover like a caress.
Seated quite close to her, gazing at her from under his half-closed lids, Andrea drank in the subtle fascination of her presence. Neither of them spoke. Elena, leaning back in the cushions, waited for the water to boil, with her eyes fixed on the blue flame while she absently slipped her rings up and down her fingers, lost in a dream apparently. But it was no dream; it was rather a vague reminiscence, faint, confused and evanescent. All the recollections of the love that was past rose up in her mind, but dimly and uncertain, leaving an indistinct impression, she hardly knew whether of pleasure or of pain. It was like the indefinable perfume of a faded bouquet, in which each separate flower has lost the vivacity proper to its colour and its fragrance, but from which emanates a common perfume wherein all the diverse component elements are indistinguishably blended. She seemed to carry in her heart the last breath of memories already faded, the last trace of joys departed for ever, the last tremor of a happiness that was dead--something akin to a mist from out of which images emerge fitfully without shape or name. She knew not, was it pleasure or pain, but by degrees this mysterious agitation, this nameless disquiet waxed greater and filled her soul with joy and bitterness.
She was silent--withdrawn within herself--for though her heart was full to overflowing, her emotion was pleasurably increased by that silence.
Speech would have broken the charm.
The kettle began its low song.
Andrea on a low seat, with his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand, sat watching the fair woman so intently that Elena, without turning, felt that persistent gaze upon her with a sense of physical discomfort. And while he gazed upon her he thought to himself that she seemed altogether a new woman to him--one who had never been his, whom he had never clasped to his heart.
And in truth, she was even more desirable than in the former days, the plastic enigma of her beauty more obscure and more enthralling. Her head with the low broad forehead straight nose and arched eyebrows--so pure and firm in outline, so cla.s.sically antique in the modelling--might have come from some Syracusan coin. The expression of the eyes and that of the mouth were in singular contrast, giving her that pa.s.sionate, ambiguous, almost preternatural look that only one or two master-hands, deeply imbued in all the profoundest corruption of art, have been able to infuse into such immortal types of woman as the Mona Lisa and Nelly O"Brien.
The steam began to escape through the hole in the lid of the kettle, and Elena turned her attention once more to the tea-table. She poured a little water on the leaves; put two lumps of sugar in one of the cups, then poured some more water into the tea-pot and extinguished the lamp; doing it all with a certain fond care, but never once looking in Andrea"s direction. By this time her inward agitation had resolved itself into such melting tenderness, that there was a lump in her throat and her eyes filled involuntarily; all her contradictory thoughts, all her trouble and agitation of heart, concentrated themselves in those tears.
A movement of her arm knocked the little silver card-case off the table.
Andrea picked it up and examined the device: two true lovers" knots each bearing an inscription in English--_From Dreamland_, and _A Stranger here_.
When he raised his head, Elena offered him the fragrant beverage with a mist of tears before her eyes.
He saw that mist, and, filled with love and grat.i.tude at such an unlooked-for sign of melting, he put down the cup, sank on his knees before her, and seizing her hand pressed his lips pa.s.sionately to it.
"Elena! Elena!" he murmured, his face close to hers as if he would drink the breath from her lips. His emotion was quite sincere, though some of the things he said were not. He loved her--had always loved her--had never, never, never been able to forget her. On meeting her again, he had felt his pa.s.sion rekindle with such vehemence that it had given him a kind of shock of terror--as if in one lightning flash he had witnessed the upheaval, the convulsion of his whole life.
"Hush--hush----" said Elena with a look of pain, and turning very pale.
But Andrea went on, still on his knees, fanning the flames of his pa.s.sion by the images he himself evoked. When she had left him so abruptly, he had felt that the greater and better part of him went with her. Afterwards----never, never could he tell her all the misery of those days, the agony of regret, the ceaseless, implacable, devouring torture of mind and body. His wretchedness grew and increased daily till it burst all bounds and overwhelmed him utterly. Despair lay in wait for him at every turn. The mere flight of time became an intolerable burden.
His regrets were less for the happy days gone by than for those that were pa.s.sing all profitless for love. Those, at least, had left him a memory, these nothing but profoundest regret--nay, almost remorse. His life was preying upon itself, consumed in secret by the inextinguishable flame of one desire, by the unconquerable distaste to any other form of pleasure. Of all the fiery ardour of his youth nothing now remained to him but a handful of ashes. Sometimes, like a dream that vanishes at dawn, all the past, all the present would fade and fall away from his inner consciousness--like a tale that is told, a useless garment. Then he would remember the past no more, as a man newly risen from a long illness, a convalescent still overcome with stupor. At last he could forget--his tortured soul was sinking gently down to death.----But suddenly, out of the depths of this lethal tranquillity his pain had sprung up afresh, and the fallen idol was re-established higher than ever. She and she alone held every fibre of his heart captive beneath her spells, crushing out his intelligence, keeping the doors of his soul against any other pa.s.sion, any sorrow, any dream to the end of all time----
He was lying of course, but his words were so fervid, his voice so thrilling, the clasp of his hands so fondly caressing that Elena was profoundly touched.
"Hush," she said, "I must not, dare not listen to you--I am yours no longer, I never can be yours again--never. Do not say these things----"
"No--listen----"
"I will not--good-bye--I must go now. Good-bye, Andrea,--it is late--let me go."
She drew her hands out of the young man"s clasp, and, successfully throwing off the dangerous languor that was creeping over her, she prepared to rise.
"Then why did you come?" he asked almost roughly, and preventing her from doing so.
Slight as was the force he used, she frowned. She paused before answering.
"I came," she said in measured accents and looking her lover full in the eyes--"I came because you asked me. For the sake of the love that was once between us, for the manner in which that love was broken and for the long and unexplained silence of my absence I had not the heart to refuse your invitation. Besides, I wanted to say what I have said: that I am no longer yours--that I never can be again--never. That is what I wanted to tell you, honestly and frankly, to save you and myself all painful disillusionment, all danger or bitterness in the future.--Do you understand?"
Andrea bowed his head almost to her knee in silence. She stroked his hair with a familiar gesture of old.
"And then," she went on in a voice that thrilled him to the heart"s core--"and then--I wanted to tell you--that I love you--love you as much as ever: that you are still the heart of my heart and that I will be the fondest of sisters to you, the best of friends--do you understand?"
Andrea made no reply. She took his head between her hands and raised it, forcing him to look her in the face.
"Do you understand?" she repeated in a still lower, sweeter tone. Her eyes under the shadow of the long lashes were suffused with a pure and tender light, her lips were slightly open and trembling.
"No; you never loved me, and you do not love me now!" Andrea burst out at last, pulling Elena"s hands from his temples and drawing away from her, for he was sensible of the fire that was kindling in his veins under the mere gaze of those eyes, and his regret at having lost possession of this fairest of women grew more bitter and poignant than before. "No, you never loved me. You had the heart to strike your love dead at a blow--treacherously almost--just when it had reached its supremest height. You ran away, you deserted me, left me alone in my bewilderment, my misery, while I was still blinded by your promises. You never loved me--neither then nor now. And now, after such a long absence, so full of mystery, so silent and inexorable, after I have wasted the bloom of my life in cherishing a wound that was dear to me because your hand had dealt it--after so much joy and so much pain, you return to this room, in which every object is replete for us with living memories, and you say to me calmly--"I am yours no longer--good-bye."--Oh no--you do not love me."
"Oh, you are ungrateful!" she cried, deeply wounded by the young man"s incensed tone. "What do you know of all that has occurred, or of what I have had to go through?--What do you know?"
"I know nothing, and what is more, I do not want to," Andrea retorted stubbornly, enveloping her in a darkling look in which burned the fever of his desire. "All I know is that you were mine once--wholly and without reserve, and I know that body and soul I shall never forget it----"
"Be silent!"
"What do I care for your sisterly affection? In spite of yourself you offer it with your eyes full of quite another kind of love, and you cannot touch me without your hands trembling. I have seen that look in your eyes too often, you have too often felt me tremble with pa.s.sion beneath your hands--I love you!"
Carried away by his own words he grasped her wrists tightly and drew so close to her that she felt his hot breath on her cheek. "I love you, I tell you--more than ever before," he went on, slipping an arm about her waist to draw her to his kiss--"Have you forgotten--have you forgotten?"
She pushed him forcibly from her and rose to her feet, trembling in every limb.
"I will not--do you hear?"
But he would not hear. He came towards her with arms outstretched, very pale and determined.
"Could you bear," she cried turning at bay at last, indignant at his violence, "could you bear to share me with another?"
She flung the cruel question at him point-blank, without reflection, and now stood looking at her lover with wide open frightened eyes, like one who in self-defence has dealt a blow without measuring his strength, and fears to have struck too deep.
Andrea"s frenzy dropped on the instant, and his face expressed such overwhelming pain that Elena was stricken to the heart.
After a moment"s silence--"Good-bye!" he said, but that one word contained all the bitterness of the words he refrained from saying.
"Good-bye," she answered gently, "forgive me."