Afterwards, as one carried by
Fate through the sky, she was the man set down in a desert place,
fasting, praying, educating himself to be more worthy of love. Then came
the return, the question, "/Qui est la/?" the reply;--reply of the
solitary place, the denied desire, the longing to mount, the educated
heart--"/C'est toi/!" the swiftly-opening door, the rush of feet that
were welcome, of outstretched arms for which waited a great possession.
Something within her lived the song very fully and completely. For once
she did not think at all of what effect she was making. She was not
unconscious of the audience. She was acutely conscious of the presence of
people, and of individuals whom she knew; of Fritz, of Lady Cardington,
Sir Donald, even of poor, horrible Rupert Carey. But with the unusual
consciousness was linked a strange indifference, a sense of complete
detachment. And this enabled her to live simultaneously two lives--Lady
Holme's and another's. Who was the other? She did not ask, but she felt
as if in that moment a prisoner within her was released. And yet, directly
the song was over and the eager applause broke out, a bitterness came
into her heart. Her sense, banished for the moment, of her own
personality and circumstances returned upon her, and that "/C'est toi/!"
of the educated heart seemed suddenly an irony as she looked at Fritz's
face. Had any lover gone into the desert for her, fasted and prayed for
her, learned for her sake the right answer to the ceaseless question that
echoes in every woman's heart?
The pianist modulated, struck the chord of a new key, paused, then broke
into a languid, honey-sweet prelude.
Pages:
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275