She apologised.
'It is of no consequence,' he said, keeping his eyes on the ground. And those were the only words he spoke to her during the remainder of the day. Once, when he was looking at her surreptitiously, and she suddenly turned round, their eyes met, and for a moment he gazed straight at her, then walked away. She wished he would not look so sad. As she was going to bed, she held out her hand to him to say good-night, and she added,--
'I don't want to make you unhappy, Mr White. I'm very sorry.'
'It's not your fault,' he said. 'You can't help it, if you're a stock and a stone.'
He went away without taking the proffered hand. Valentia cried that night.
In the morning she found a note outside her door:--
'Pardon me if I was rude, but I was not master of myself. I am going to Volendam; I hate Monnickendam.'
VI
Ferdinand arrived at Volendam. It was a fishing village, only three miles across country from Monnickendam, but the route, by steam tram and canal, was so circuitous, that, with luggage, it took one two hours to get from place to place. He had walked over there with Valentia, and it had almost tempted them to desert Monnickendam. Ferdinand took a room at the hotel and walked out, trying to distract himself. The village consisted of a couple of score of houses, built round a semi-circular dyke against the sea, and in the semi-circle lay the fleet of fishing boats. Men and women were sitting at their doors mending nets. He looked at the fishermen, great, sturdy fellows, with rough, weather-beaten faces, huge earrings dangling from their ears. He took note of their quaint costume--black stockings and breeches, the latter more baggy than a Turk's, and the crushed strawberry of their high jackets, cut close to the body. He remembered how he had looked at them with Valentia, and the group of boys and men that she had sketched. He remembered how they walked along, peeping into the houses, where everything was spick and span, as only a Dutch cottage can be, with old Delft plates hanging on the walls, and pots and pans of polished brass. And he looked over the sea to the island of Marken, with its masts crowded together, like a forest without leaf or branch. Coming to the end of the little town he saw the church of Monnickendam, the red steeple half-hidden by the trees. He wondered where Valentia was--what she was doing.
But he turned back resolutely, and, going to his room, opened his books and began reading. He rubbed his eyes and frowned, in order to fix his attention, but the book said nothing but Valentia. At last he threw it aside and took his Plato and his dictionary, commencing to translate a difficult passage, word for word. But whenever he looked up a word he could only see Valentia, and he could not make head or tail of the Greek. He threw it aside also, and set out walking. He walked as hard as he could--away from Monnickendam.
The second day was not quite so difficult, and he read till his mind was dazed, and then he wrote letters home and told them he was enjoying himself tremendously, and he walked till he felt his legs dropping off.
Next morning it occurred to him that Valentia might have written. Trembling with excitement, he watched the postman coming down the street--but he had no letter for Ferdinand. There would be no more post that day.
But the next day Ferdinand felt sure there would be a letter for him; the postman passed by the hotel door without stopping. Ferdinand thought he should go mad. All day he walked up and down his room, thinking only of Valentia. Why did she not write?
The night fell and he could see from his window the moon shining over the clump of trees about Monnickendam church--he could stand it no longer. He put on his hat and walked across country; the three miles were endless; the church and the trees seemed to grow no nearer, and at last, when he thought himself close, he found he had a bay to walk round, and it appeared further away than ever.
He came to the mouth of the canal along which he and Valentia had so often walked. He looked about, but he could see no one. His heart beat as he approached the little bridge, but Valentia was not there. Of course she would not come out alone. He ran to the hotel and asked for her. They told him she was not in. He walked through the town; not a soul was to be seen. He came to the church; he walked round, and then--right at the edge of the trees--he saw a figure sitting on a bench.
* * * * *
She was dressed in the same flowered dress which she had worn when he likened her to a Dresden shepherdess; she was looking towards Volendam.
He went up to her silently. She sprang up with a little shriek.
'Ferdinand!'
'Oh, Valentia, I cannot help it. I could not remain away any longer. I could do nothing but think of you all day, all night. If you knew how I loved you! Oh, Valentia, have pity on me! I cannot be your friend. It's all nonsense about friendship; I hate it. I can only love you. I love you with all my heart and soul, Valentia.'
She was frightened.
'Oh! how can you stand there so coldly and watch my agony? Don't you see? How can you be so cold?'
'I am not cold, Ferdinand,' she said, trembling. 'Do you think I have been happy while you were away?'
'Valentia!'
'I thought of you, too, Ferdinand, all day, all night. And I longed for you to come back. I did not know till you went that--I loved you.'
'Oh, Valentia!'
He took her in his arms and pressed her passionately to him.
'No, for God's sake!'
She tore herself away. But again he took her in his arms, and this time he kissed her on the mouth. She tried to turn her face away.
'I shall kill myself, Ferdinand!'
'What do you mean?'
'In those long hours that I sat here looking towards you, I felt I loved you--I loved you as passionately as you said you loved me. But if you came back, and--anything happened--I swore that I would throw myself in the canal.'
He looked at her.
'I could not--live afterwards,' she said hoarsely. 'It would be too horrible. I should be--oh, I can't think of it!'
He took her in his arms again and kissed her.
'Have mercy on me!' she cried.
'You love me, Valentia.'
'Oh, it is nothing to you. Afterwards you will be just the same as before. Why cannot men love peacefully like women? I should be so happy to remain always as we are now, and never change. I tell you I shall kill myself.'
'I will do as you do, Valentia.'
'You?'
'If anything happens, Valentia,' he said gravely, 'we will go down to the canal together.'
She was horrified at the idea; but it fascinated her.
'I should like to die in your arms,' she said.
For the second time he bent down and took her hands and kissed them. Then she went alone into the silent church, and prayed.
VII
They went home. Ferdinand was so pleased to be at the hotel again, near her. His bed seemed so comfortable; he was so happy, and he slept, dreaming of Valentia.
The following night they went for their walk, arm in arm; and they came to the canal. From the bridge they looked at the water. It was very dark; they could not hear it flow. No stars were reflected in it, and the trees by its side made the depth seem endless. Valentia shuddered. Perhaps in a little while their bodies would be lying deep down in the water. And they would be in one another's arms, and they would never be separated. Oh, what a price it was to pay! She looked tearfully at Ferdinand, but he was looking down at the darkness beneath them, and he was intensely grave.
And they wandered there by day and looked at the black reflection of the trees. And in the heat it seemed so cool and restful....
They abandoned their work. What did pictures and books matter now? They sauntered about the meadows, along shady roads; they watched the black and white cows sleepily browsing, sometimes coming to the water's edge to drink, and looking at themselves, amazed. They saw the huge-limbed milkmaids come along with their little stools and their pails, deftly tying the cow's hind legs that it might not kick. And the steaming milk frothed into the pails and was poured into huge barrels, and as each cow was freed, she shook herself a little and recommenced to browse.