"I forgive you . . . from a sense of duty--and in the hope . . ."He heard a laugh, and it not only interrupted his words but also destroyed the peace of his self-absorption with the vile pain of a reality intruding upon the beauty of a dream. He couldn't understand whence the sound came. He could see, foreshortened, the tear-stained, dolorous face of the woman stretched out, and with her head thrown over the back of the seat. He thought the piercing noise was a delusion. But another shrill peal followed by a deep sob and succeeded by another shriek of mirth positively seemed to tear him out from where he stood. He bounded to the door. It was closed. He turned the key and thought: that's no good. . . . "Stop this!" he cried, and perceived with alarm that he could hardly hear his own voice in the midst of her screaming. He darted back with the idea of stifling that unbearable noise with his hands, but stood still distracted, finding himself as unable to touch her as though she had been on fire. He shouted, "Enough of this!" like men shout in the tumult of a riot, with a red face and starting eyes; then, as if swept away before another burst of laughter, he disappeared in a flash out of three looking-glasses, vanished suddenly from before her. For a time the woman gasped and laughed at no one in the luminous stillness of the empty room.
He reappeared, striding at her, and with a tumbler of water in his hand. He stammered: "Hysterics--Stop--They will hear--Drink this."She laughed at the ceiling. "Stop this!" he cried. "Ah!"He flung the water in her face, putting into the action all the secret brutality of his spite, yet still felt that it would have been perfectly excusable--in any one--to send the tumbler after the water.
He restrained himself, but at the same time was so convinced nothing could stop the horror of those mad shrieks that, when the first sensation of relief came, it did not even occur to him to doubt the impression of having become suddenly deaf. When, next moment, he became sure that she was sitting up, and really very quiet, it was as though everything--men, things, sensations, had come to a rest. He was prepared to be grateful. He could not take his eyes off her, fearing, yet unwilling to admit, the possibility of her beginning again; for, the experience, however contemptuously he tried to think of it, had left the bewilderment of a mysterious terror. Her face was streaming with water and tears; there was a wisp of hair on her forehead, another stuck to her cheek; her hat was on one side, undecorously tilted; her soaked veil resembled a sordid rag festooning her forehead. There was an utter unreserve in her aspect, an abandonment of safeguards, that ugliness of truth which can only be kept out of daily life by unremitting care for appearances. He did not know why, looking at her, he thought suddenly of to-morrow, and why the thought called out a deep feeling of unutterable, discouraged weariness--a fear of facing the succession of days. To-morrow! It was as far as yesterday. Ages elapsed between sunrises--sometimes. He scanned her features like one looks at a forgotten country. They were not distorted--he recognized landmarks, so to speak; but it was only a resemblance that he could see, not the woman of yesterday--or was it, perhaps, more than the woman of yesterday? Who could tell? Was it something new? A new expression--or a new shade of expression? or something deep--an old truth unveiled, a fundamental and hidden truth--some unnecessary, accursed certitude? He became aware that he was trembling very much, that he had an empty tumbler in his hand--that time was passing. Still looking at her with lingering mistrust he reached towards the table to put the glass down and was startled to feel it apparently go through the wood. He had missed the edge. The surprise, the slight jingling noise of the accident annoyed him beyond expression. He turned to her irritated.
"What's the meaning of this?" he asked, grimly.
She passed her hand over her face and made an attempt to get up.
"You're not going to be absurd again," he said. "'Pon my soul, I did not know you could forget yourself to that extent." He didn't try to conceal his physical disgust, because he believed it to be a purely moral reprobation of every unreserve, of anything in the nature of a scene. "I assure you--it was revolting," he went on. He stared for a moment at her. "Positively degrading," he added with insistence.
She stood up quickly as if moved by a spring and tottered. He started forward instinctively. She caught hold of the back of the chair and steadied herself. This arrested him, and they faced each other wide-eyed, uncertain, and yet coming back slowly to the reality of things with relief and wonder, as though just awakened after tossing through a long night of fevered dreams.
"Pray, don't begin again," he said, hurriedly, seeing her open her lips. "I deserve some little consideration--and such unaccountable behaviour is painful to me. I expect better things. . . . I have the right. . . ."She pressed both her hands to her temples.
"Oh, nonsense!" he said, sharply. "You are perfectly capable of coming down to dinner. No one should even suspect; not even the servants. No one! No one! . . . I am sure you can."She dropped her arms; her face twitched. She looked straight into his eyes and seemed incapable of pronouncing a word. He frowned at her.
"I--wish--it," he said, tyrannically. "For your own sake also. . . ."He meant to carry that point without any pity. Why didn't she speak?
