She knew that she would always be subject to such moments so long as she was a human being, that there would always be in her blood something that was self-willed. Otherwise, would she not be already in Paradise? She sat and prayed for strength in the battle of life, that could never be anything else but a battle.
At last something within her told her to look up, to look out through the window-space into the garden. She had not heard a step, but she knew that Androvsky was approaching, and, as she looked up, she prepared herself for a sight that would be terrible. She remembered his face when he came to bid her good-bye in the garden, and she feared to see his face now. But she schooled herself to be strong, for herself and for him.
He was near her on the path coming towards her. As she saw him she uttered a little cry and stood up. An immense surprise came to her, followed in a moment by an immense joy--the greatest joy, she thought, that she had ever experienced. For she looked on a face in which she saw for the first time a pale dawning of peace. There was sadness in it, there was awe, but there was a light of calm, such as sometimes settles upon the faces of men who have died quietly without agony or fear. And she felt fully, as she saw it, the rapture of having refused cowardice and grasped the hand of bravery. Directly afterwards there came to her a sensation of wonder that at this moment of their lives she and Androvsky should be capable of a feeling of joy, of peace.
When the wonder passed it was as if she had seen God and knew for ever the meaning of His divine compensations.
Androvsky came to the doorway of the /fumoir/ without looking up, stood still there--just where Count Anteoni had stood during his first interview with Domini--and said:
"Domini, I have been to the priest. I have made my confession."
"Yes," she said. "Yes, Boris!"
He came into the /fumoir/ and sat down near her, but not close to her, on one of the divans. Now the sad look in his face had deepened and the peace seemed to be fading. She had thought of the dawn--that pale light which is growing into day. Now she thought of the twilight which is fading into night. And the terrible knowledge struck her, "I am the troubler of his peace. Without me only could he ever regain fully the peace which he has lost."
"Domini," he said, looking up at her, "you know the rest. You meant it to be as it will be when we left Amara."
"Was there any other way? Was there any other possible life for us-- for you--for me?"
"For you!" he said, and there was a sound almost of despair in his voice. "But what is to be your life? I have never protected you--you have protected me. I have never been strong for you--you have been strong for me. But to leave you--all alone, Domini, must I do that?
Must I think of you out in the world alone?"
For a moment she was tempted to break her silence, to tell him the truth, that she would perhaps not be alone, that another life, sprung from his and hers, was coming to be with her, was coming to share the great loneliness that lay before her. But she resisted the temptation and only said:
"Do not think of me, Boris."
"You tell me not to think of you!" he said with an almost fierce wonder. "Do you--do you wish me not to think of you?"
"What I wish--that is so little, but--no, Boris, I can't say--I don't think I could ever truly say that I wish you to think no more of me.
After all, one has a heart, and I think if it's worth anything it must be often a rebellious heart. I know mine is rebellious. But if you don't think too much of me--when you are there--"
She paused, and they looked at each other for a moment in silence.
Then she continued:
"Surely it will be easier for you, happier for you."
Androvsky clenched his right hand on the divan and turned round till he was facing her full. His eyes blazed.
"Domini," he said, "you are truthful. I'll be truthful to you. Till the end of my life I'll think of you--every day, every hour. If it were mortal sin to think of you I would commit it--yes, Domini, deliberately, I would commit it. But--God doesn't ask so much of us; no, God doesn't. I've made my confession. I know what I must do. I'll do it. You are right--you are always right--you are guided, I know that. But I will think of you. And I'll tell you something--don't shirk from it, because it's truth, the truth of my soul, and you love truth. Domini--"
Suddenly he got up from the divan and stood before her, looking down at her steadily.
