Harold’s condition of mind and feeling on that morning of the first of May was so complicated and perplexed that he felt for the first time in his life utterly unable to see his way. He was accustomed to having things, no matter how difficult, look definite to him. He had not hesitated in deciding on his sudden marriage with Sophia Rutledge, nor had he felt the least hesitation as to his course a month later, when she demanded a divorce from him. His path had been clear and open before him, and he had taken it unflinchingly. He felt the same ability to do, and the same courage to endure, now, if he could only see his way. He knew himself too well to suppose that, after having been married to this woman, he could ever love another, and he had quite decided to accept his life and to put the thought of happiness out of it. In making this decision he had had the strongest possible conviction of the truth of his wife’s declaration that she did not love him, and it was this which had made submission to her decision the only possible course for him. She was such a strong and resolute woman that he had imagined her, after the stern ordeal of the first few months of separation, going resolutely on, with her life adjusted to its new conditions; and although he was certain that her marriage, separation, and the coming divorce would make too deep marks in her womanly consciousness for her ever to think of marrying again, he quite believed that she was the calm and self-poised woman for which he knew nature had intended her.

It was therefore a great surprise to him, on meeting her again, to see such marked indications of indecision, nervousness, and lack of control. He felt that she often said and did what she had meant not to say and do, and he was aware that she was a prey to variableness, fluctuation, and caprice. What did it mean? This was the question which he set himself to consider with all the concentration of his mind. He did not know—what was the truth—that these new qualities in her existed only with regard to himself, and that to her aunt, her acquaintances, her servants, and all who came in contact with her, she was more than ever decided, self-collected, and even self-willed. If he could have known that, it would have let in light upon a subject and situation which seemed to him impenetrably dark. Every time that he had seen her she had left upon his mind a different impression. Sometimes he wondered if she could be ill, to account for such a change; and sometimes he told himself that it was an unpardonable demand upon her nervous endurance for him to come into her presence. Still, when he reflected, he had never thrust himself upon her, and on the only occasion when their meeting had not been accidental, it had been her deliberate doing. What must he conclude from this?

It would be conceit only which could make him think, after that, that she either feared or disliked to meet him. He certainly had no right to suppose that she sought or wished it. He must, therefore, conclude that she was quite indifferent to him, and wished him to accept that view of the case.

He tried hard to do this, but there was something in her manner and in his own consciousness which positively prevented his holding to this idea. It was not that she appeared to him to be unhappy, but she did seem disturbed, restless and fitful. After his interview with her in the atelier, he felt that she had so definitely conveyed to him her wishes in the case that now he had only to follow them and to keep out of her way, so far as it rested with him to do so.

On this course he fully resolved; but her beauty, her voice, her movements, haunted him by day and night. He knew that he was as absolutely under her spell as he had ever been. He knew that a point might come when his self-control would be powerfully threatened, and then there would be nothing for it but to flee. He was not afraid of the consequences to himself which might lie in this betrayal of his past. He was thinking of her, and of the increased trouble which it would bring into her life if she should come to realize how he still loved her. This was a quite unnecessary trial for her, and one which he was resolved she should not have.

He had not known of any plan of Martha’s for having her friend spend the night of his absence with her, so it took him completely by surprise when he returned at an earlier hour than he had expected, and, inquiring of the man servant if all was well, was told that the Princess Mannernorff had dined and spent the night with his sister. He ascertained what room she was occupying, and when the servant, who carried his bag, went into his own room ahead of him, he reproved the man rather severely for opening the window with such a noise. Then immediately he sent the servant away.

He had seen, from below, the beginning of the little procession going into the Madeleine; and as he stood half unconsciously watching it, possessed by the thought that the woman who had once been his adored and adoring wife was asleep in the next room to him, he heard the window of that room open, and he knew that she was awake, and standing very near. He heard her draw the curtains back by the cords and rings above. He even heard the little effort in her breathing caused by the strong pull. Each of them, he knew, was looking at the same sight—the beautiful, moving panorama, seen through the flecks of sun-washed, young green leaves; but while she was thinking of those trustful and unconscious children, his thoughts were wholly of her. His heart was filled with longings so intense and masterful as to crowd out everything else. Then, in a flash, his humor changed; for there came to him her stifled sobs, and her calls on God to pity them—those sweet, unknowing little ones, born to be suffering women. With his old swift comprehension of her, he knew why this sight had touched her so, and he realized what he had only dimly felt before, that she was a miserable woman, wearily walking a via dolorosa.

He did not ask to know what it might be. He longed only to help and comfort her. He could not speak, but at least he could let her know that he was near; and then it was that he had made the sound which Sonia had heard.

That sound was followed by silence. Was she perhaps indignant, he asked himself, that he should dare to make this demand upon her attention? She would have a right to be; for he could make no pretense that he had not deliberately intended to do this. Yet she was alone there, sad and troubled, and he was close at hand, with a heart that ached to comfort her. He could not have rested, feeling that she was unaware of his knowledge of her presence, and no matter what consequences to himself the act might carry, he deliberately said to her in that sound: “I am here, and I know that you are there.”

If she had made a sign in answer, he would have thanked God on his knees; but she had withdrawn from the window in silence, and he had felt only that she was gone.

An hour later, when the servant brought his coffee and the morning papers, he brought also the information that the princess had gone off alone some time before in a cab.

Harold felt, at hearing this, a perfect fury of anger and indignation. With the possibility of a riot in view, and the knowledge that ladies had been warned not to venture unprotected on the streets, it made his blood boil to think she—the delicate woman-spirit and woman-body that he knew so well—should have gone forth alone from under the very roof with him; and that even if he had known of it, he would have had no right to interfere. The legal right, of course, he had; but that fact only made it the more impossible for him to assert upon her any claim. Not all the laws that were ever made could have bound or loosed him so indomitably as did her wish and will. The fact that it was still within his power to assert a legal claim upon her constituted in itself the strongest possible demand upon a man of his nature to leave her as free as air from any bondage or emancipation which could exist by any right but that of love. If she had loved him, he would have asserted his power and right to control and influence her. As she did not love him, there was no creature living who was so free from him as she—this woman whom once he had held in as binding fetters as ever love had forged.