The only thought before which he quailed was the thought that this could not last; that it must come to an end.He feared it instinctively as a sick man may fear death.For it seemed to him that it must be the death of him followed by a lightless, bottomless pit.But his resignation was not spared the torments of jealousy: the cruel, insensate, poignant, and imbecile jealousy, when it seems that a woman betrays us simply by this that she exists, that she breathes - and when the deep movements of her nerves or her soul become a matter of distracting suspicion, of killing doubt, of mortal anxiety.
In the peculiar condition of their sojourn Miss Moorsom went out very little.She accepted this seclusion at the Dunsters' mansion as in a hermitage, and lived there, watched over by a group of old people, with the lofty endurance of a condescending and strong-headed goddess.It was impossible to say if she suffered from anything in the world, and whether this was the insensibility of a great passion concentrated on itself, or a perfect restraint of manner, or the indifference of superiority so complete as to be sufficient to itself.But it was visible to Renouard that she took some pleasure in talking to him at times.Was it because he was the only person near her age? Was this, then, the secret of his admission to the circle?
He admired her voice as well poised as her movements, as her attitudes.He himself had always been a man of tranquil tones.
But the power of fascination had torn him out of his very nature so completely that to preserve his habitual calmness from going to pieces had become a terrible effort.
He used to go from her on board the schooner exhausted, broken, shaken up, as though he had been put to the most exquisite torture.
When he saw her approaching he always had a moment of hallucination.She was a misty and fair creature, fitted for invisible music, for the shadows of love, for the murmurs of waters.After a time (he could not be always staring at the ground) he would summon up all his resolution and look at her.
There was a sparkle in the clear obscurity of her eyes; and when she turned them on him they seemed to give a new meaning to life.
He would say to himself that another man would have found long before the happy release of madness, his wits burnt to cinders in that radiance.But no such luck for him.His wits had come unscathed through the furnaces of hot suns, of blazing deserts, of flaming angers against the weaknesses of men and the obstinate cruelties of hostile nature.
Being sane he had to be constantly on his guard against falling into adoring silences or breaking out into wild speeches.He had to keep watch on his eyes, his limbs, on the muscles of his face.
Their conversations were such as they could be between these two people: she a young lady fresh from the thick twilight of four million people and the artificiality of several London seasons; he the man of definite conquering tasks, the familiar of wide horizons, and in his very repose holding aloof from these agglomerations of units in which one loses one's importance even to oneself.They had no common conversational small change.They had to use the great pieces of general ideas, but they exchanged them trivially.It was no serious commerce.Perhaps she had not much of that coin.Nothing significant came from her.It could not be said that she had received from the contacts of the external world impressions of a personal kind, different from other women.What was ravishing in her was her quietness and, in her grave attitudes, the unfailing brilliance of her femininity.He did not know what there was under that ivory forehead so splendidly shaped, so gloriously crowned.He could not tell what were her thoughts, her feelings.Her replies were reflective, always preceded by a short silence, while he hung on her lips anxiously.He felt himself in the presence of a mysterious being in whom spoke an unknown voice, like the voice of oracles, bringing everlasting unrest to the heart.
He was thankful enough to sit in silence with secretly clenched teeth, devoured by jealousy - and nobody could have guessed that his quiet deferential bearing to all these grey-heads was the supreme effort of stoicism, that the man was engaged in keeping a sinister watch on his tortures lest his strength should fail him.
As before, when grappling with other forces of nature, he could find in himself all sorts of courage except the courage to run away.
It was perhaps from the lack of subjects they could have in common that Miss Moorsom made him so often speak of his own life.He did not shrink from talking about himself, for he was free from that exacerbated, timid vanity which seals so many vain-glorious lips.
He talked to her in his restrained voice, gazing at the tip of her shoe, and thinking that the time was bound to come soon when her very inattention would get weary of him.And indeed on stealing a glance he would see her dazzling and perfect, her eyes vague, staring in mournful immobility, with a drooping head that made him think of a tragic Venus arising before him, not from the foam of the sea, but from a distant, still more formless, mysterious, and potent immensity of mankind.
