the impression left upon the mind of sonia by that meeting with harold was an intensely disturbing one. even the stirrings of old feeling, and the memories of past pleasures and pains, which the sight of him had recalled, were less strong in her than a certain feeling of humiliation. she felt that she had been overcome by so great a weakness that she must have made a self-betrayal of which it nearly maddened her to think. knowing how completely she had been thrown off her guard by this totally unexpected meeting, she felt that every emotion of her heart, which she herself was so conscious of, had been laid bare to him, and she could not rest for the torment of that thought. her hours with martha were therefore disturbed and unsatisfactory to them both; and when, soon after the mid-day meal, martha asked her if she would like to drive, she accepted the relief of that idea with alac{109}rity, only stipulating that they should not go to the crowded bois.
martha ordered the carriage, and they drove about for an hour or two, stopping several times to go in and look at churches which they had often seen, but never entered. in some of these vespers were in progress, and they paid their sous for seats near the door, and sat down for a few moments; but the music played too dangerously upon sonia’s overwrought feelings, and she hurried her friend away.
in one or two of the smaller churches there were only silent kneeling figures here and there, and the two women walked about, looking at the mixture of dignified antiquity and tawdry decoration on every side, and reading the tablets all about the approach to the chancel, erected as thank-offerings to mary and joseph for favors granted. in spite of her inward perturbation, sonia could not help smiling at the economy of words on some of these. one or two had merely, “merci, joseph,” or “merci, marie et joseph,” while the more elaborate ones recorded the thanks of the giver of the tablet for a favor received—the restoration of a beloved child from illness, the conversion of an erring son, the rescue of a{110} husband from shipwreck, and even the miraculous intervention of mary and joseph to restore to health a little boy who had been gored by a bull. the very ignorance of it was touching to the two women, and the conviction that it was in each of these poor hearts a reaching upward kept them from feeling any scorn.
as they returned to their carriage, martha, who during the recent scene had been furtively watching her friend’s face, now saw upon it an expression which she was at a loss to account for. was it, she wondered, religious devotion, stirred by the associations of the church, which made the lovely face beside her look so passionately tense with feeling? for the first time it occurred to her to wonder what her friend’s religion was.
“are you a catholic, sonia?” she said.
the answer came impulsively:
“no, i am not a catholic. it is easier to say what i am not than what i am—except that, before and beyond all, i am a miserable woman.”
as these words escaped her the lack of self-control of which they gave proof was so alarming to her that she begged her friend to take her home at once, saying that she was really{111} not well, and must be alone to rest. martha felt chilled and hurt. it was all so disappointing, and she seemed so completely put at a distance. the day which she had looked forward to with such eager joy had turned out dreary and sad. there was nothing to do, however, but to drive her friend back to her apartment.
when they got there, sonia turned and kissed her warmly, but said nothing; and martha drove home, feeling lonely and perplexed.
she did not expect to see the princess at the atelier next morning; but to her amazement, when she got there quite early herself, the beautiful, lithe figure was already before the easel, hard at work. there was, moreover, an air of strength and self-reliance about her which offered the greatest contrast to her manner of the day before.
as martha came into the room, sonia, who was one of the quiet group around the model—a thin child who twitched and wriggled and could not keep still for two consecutive minutes—waved her a welcome with a little flourish of her brush, and gave her a bright, decided nod. it was too late for martha to{112} get a position near her, so talk was impossible until the midday recess; but that gesture, glance, and bow of the head were enough of themselves to put new spirit into the girl, and she found her place, and fell to work, going ahead with more vim than she had been able to command for a long time.
when rest-time came the two friends showed their canvases to each other, and both of them could see the improvement in their work. feeling much encouraged, they went off to the butcher’s shop, selected their chops, and while waiting for them to be cooked, sat at their little table in the crémerie, and talked.
at first they spoke only of their atelier work and etienne’s criticisms and suggestions; but when that was pretty much talked out for the moment, sonia, with a sudden change of manner, said abruptly:
“i want to atone to you for the gruesome mood that i was in when i went to see you yesterday. if you’ll invite me again, i will be different—and, oh, by the way, i’ve got over that foolish idea that i had about not meeting your brother. if it would give you any pleasure, i don’t in the least object. it would certainly be very silly to let him spoil{113} this beautiful chance of our being together, as it would if i refused to meet him.”
martha looked at her in surprise. she had so entirely made up her mind that the powers had decreed that these two beings should not meet that sonia’s words rather disconcerted her.
“oh, are you not pleased?” said the latter, disappointedly. “i thought it would delight you.”
“so it does,” said martha, quickly; “but, to be perfectly frank, i had so entirely accepted the idea that there might be some unknown danger in a meeting between you two that i had given it up; and now that the likelihood of it comes again, some sense of danger comes with it. you both seem such tremendous forces—in my eyes, at least,—that it is not like any ordinary acquaintanceship. it is very foolish, though; for even two locomotives may rush toward each other without danger, if each is solid on its own track, leading to its different destination. and surely no harm is done when they come very close, and exchange signals of friendliness, and then part, and go their opposite ways.”
“perfectly sage and true! most wisely{114} spoken!” said sonia. “so you are reconciled now, are you? what weathercocks we women are! i am sure i may say it of you as well as of myself, contrasting your former eagerness with your present reluctance for this meeting. well, i suppose it’s a part of our nature, and i don’t know that men are so very different.”
“harold is different,” said martha.
“oh, no doubt he is quite, quite the immaculate,” said her friend, lightly; and then, with a sudden change, she added in tones of extreme earnestness:
“martha, you have never told him one word about me—have you? nothing, i mean, of what i have told you or let you see concerning myself. all that was and must remain sacred between you and me.”
“not a word, not a syllable!” cried martha. “how could you even ask? he knows of you only as my atelier friend, and that you are a russian princess, and he knows of my visits to you, and my love and admiration for you; but not one word of what your confidence has taken me into about yourself personally. i told him how little i knew or cared to know about you—that you were a young and beau{115}tiful widow, whose past history was wholly unknown to me. what you have let me see of the writing which that history has made upon your heart was a sacred confidence which no power could ever draw out of me.”
“i knew it, dear. i never doubted it. don’t defend yourself, as if i had distrusted you. it is because i do trust you that i consent to meet your brother. i would certainly not willingly make the acquaintance of any man who could possibly be supposed to know as much of my heart and its weaknesses as i have revealed to you.”
“and when will you come to me again?” said martha, allowing herself to feel unchecked the joy which the prospect before her stirred within her heart.
“i will dine with you to-morrow, if you like,” said sonia, with an air of decision.
it was an intense surprise to harold when martha told him that the princess was to dine with her next evening. he at once proposed to go out and leave them tête-à-tête, but his wonder increased when he was told that the princess had avowed her willingness to meet him. after hearing that, there was but one thing for him to do. this he saw plainly;{116} but at the same time he realized that a more difficult ordeal could not possibly be put before him. what could be her object in a course so extraordinary, and what could be the feeling in her heart to make such a course possible?
he had believed her to be deeply moved, as no sensitive woman could fail to be, by their unexpected meeting of the day before; but that she should deliberately wish to repeat the meeting looked like the most heartless caprice. she had always been capricious, daring, and impetuous, and had loved to do unusual and exciting things; but that he could excuse as a part of her character and individuality. heartless he had never had occasion to think her. even her sudden recoil from him and repudiation of their marriage he believed to be the result of some commanding quality of her fine nature, which he could not help reverencing, even though he did not comprehend it.
the courtship of harold keene and sophia rutledge had been very short, and their wedding sudden. he had met the young english girl in london near the close of the season; had seen her first in her court-dress, at her presentation; and had afterward spent ten days with her at a country house. their mu{117}tual attraction had been a current which had swept everything before it; and when it had to be decided whether or not she should go on a voyage to japan with her aunt, as had been planned,—a prospect which would separate them for months to come,—they took things into their own hands, and were married at short notice. the parents of miss rutledge were both dead. her father, an englishman, had married a russian; and it was her mother’s sister with whom she was supposed to live, though she had spent most of her grownup years, and all of her childhood, in england. her aunt was now a widow and a feverishly enthusiastic traveler, and the girl had looked forward with some pleasure to the long travels ahead of them. her sudden marriage to the young american, introduced to her by some common friends, changed her life absolutely; but harold was determined that she should realize at least one of her ardent dreams of travel, and take a journey up the nile. soon after their marriage they had set out on this journey, and the history of its rapturous beginning and miserable ending was known only to themselves.
in this way it had happened that harold’s wife had never been seen by his family, and he{118} had even declined to send them a photograph of her. he said he disliked photographs, and none could ever give a fair representation of his beautiful wife. he wrote martha that she must do her best to restrain her impatience, as they were to come at once to america at the end of their honeymoon on the nile, and to make their home there, while he settled down to work.
instead of this, however, came the brief announcement of their separation, which almost broke martha’s heart. she had put aside any natural feeling of deprivation and pain, to throw herself, heart and soul, into the delight of harold’s romantic marriage, and as the young couple dreamed their way up the old nile, she dreamed it with them. it is probable that few people in the world get the intense joy out of their personal experiences of love that this ardent and impassioned girl derived from the mere imagination of her brother’s happiness. the blow that followed it was therefore very keen and deep. the courage and complete reserve which her brother had shown in the matter had given her strength to bear it; but, in spite of that, a permanent shadow had been cast upon her life.