I
sprang to my feet while she turned about and came towards me
bravely, with a
wistful smile on her bold, adolescent face.
"It seems to me," she went on in a voice like a wave of love
itself, "that one should try to understand before one sets up for
being unforgiving. Forgiveness is a very fine word. It is a fine
invocation."
"There are other fine words in the language such as fascination,
fidelity, also frivolity; and as for invocations there are plenty
of them, too; for
instance: alas, heaven help me."
We stood very close together, her narrow eyes were as enigmatic as
ever, but that face, which, like some ideal
conception of art, was
incapable of anything like untruth and grimace, expressed by some
mysterious means such a depth of
infinitepatience that I felt
profoundly
ashamed of myself.
"This thing is beyond words altogether," I said. "Beyond
forgiveness, beyond forgetting, beyond anger or
jealousy. . . .
There is nothing between us two that could make us act together."
"Then we must fall back perhaps on something within us, that - you
admit it? - we have in common."
"Don't be childish," I said. "You give one with a
perpetual and
intense
freshness feelings and sensations that are as old as the
world itself, and you imagine that your
enchantment can be broken
off
anywhere, at any time! But it can't be broken. And
forgetfulness, like everything else, can only come from you. It's
an impossible situation to stand up against."
She listened with s
lightly parted lips as if to catch some further
resonances.
"There is a sort of
generousardour about you," she said, "which I
don't really understand. No, I don't know it. Believe me, it is
not of myself I am thinking. And you - you are going out to-night
to make another landing."
"Yes, it is a fact that before many hours I will be sailing away
from you to try my luck once more."
"Your wonderful luck," she breathed out.
"Oh, yes, I am
wonderfully lucky. Unless the luck really is yours
- in having found somebody like me, who cares at the same time so
much and so little for what you have at heart."
"What time will you be leaving the harbour?" she asked.
"Some time between
midnight and
daybreak. Our men may be a little
late in joining, but certainly we will be gone before the first
streak of light."
"What freedom!" she murmured enviously. "It's something I shall
never know. . . ."
"Freedom!" I protested. "I am a slave to my word. There will be a
siring of carts and mules on a certain part of the coast, and a
most ruffianly lot of men, men you understand, men with wives and
children and sweethearts, who from the very moment they start on a
trip risk a
bullet in the head at any moment, but who have a
perfect
conviction that I will never fail them. That's my freedom.
I wonder what they would think if they knew of your existence."
"I don't exist," she said.
"That's easy to say. But I will go as if you didn't exist - yet
only because you do exist. You exist in me. I don't know where I
end and you begin. You have got into my heart and into my veins
and into my brain."
"Take this fancy out and
trample it down in the dust," she said in
a tone of timid entreaty.
"Heroically," I suggested with the sarcasm of despair.
"Well, yes, heroically," she said; and there passed between us dim
smiles, I have no doubt of the most
touching imbecility on earth.
We were
standing by then in the middle of the room with its vivid
colours on a black
background, with its
multitude of
winged figures
with pale limbs, with hair like halos or flames, all strangely
tense in their strained,
decorative attitudes. Dona Rita made a
step towards me, and as I attempted to seize her hand she flung her
arms round my neck. I felt their strength
drawing me towards her