5
They were long silent, sitting there. She remembered having said many things, she no longer knew what. About her she saw that it was dark, with only that pearl-grey twilight of stars above their heads, between the black boughs. She felt that she was lying with her head on his shoulder; she heard his breath. A sort of chill crept down her shoulders, notwithstanding the warmth of his embrace; she drew the lace closer about her throat and felt that the bench on which they sat was moist with dew.
“I thank you, I love you so, you make me so happy,” she repeated.
He was silent; he pressed her to him very gently, with sheer tenderness. Her last words still sounded in her ears after she had spoken them. Then she was bound to acknowledge to herself that they had not been spontaneous, like all that she had told him before, as he knelt before her with his head at her breast. She had spoken them to break the silence: formerly that silence had never troubled her; why should it now?
“Come!” he said gently; and even yet she did not hear the sadness of his voice, in this single word.
They rose and walked on. It came to him that it was late, that they must return by the same path; beyond that, his thoughts were sorrowful with many things which he could not have expressed; a poor twilight had come about him, after the blinding light of their heaven of but now. And he had to be cautious: it was very dark here; and he could only just see the path, lying very pale and undecided at their feet; they brushed against the trunks of the trees as they passed.
“I can see nothing,” said Cecile, laughing. “Can you see the way?”
“Rely upon me: I can see quite well in the dark,” he replied. “I have eyes like a lynx....”
Step by step they went on and she felt a sweet joy in being guided by him; she clung close to his arm, saying laughingly that she was afraid and that she would be terrified if he were suddenly to leave hold of her.
“And suppose I were suddenly to run away and leave you alone?” said Quaerts, jestingly.
She laughed; she besought him with a laugh not to do so. Then she was silent, angry with herself for laughing; a burden of sadness bore her down because of her jesting and laughter. She felt as if she were unworthy of that into which, in radiant light, she had just been received.
And he too was filled with sadness: the sadness of having to lead her through the dark, by invisible paths, past rows of invisible tree-trunks which might graze and wound her; of having to lead her through a dark wood, through a black sea, through an ink-dark sphere, when they were returning from a heaven where all had been light and all happiness, without sadness or darkness.
And so they were silent in that sadness, until they reached the highroad, the old Scheveningen Road.
They approached the villa. A tram went by; two or three people passed on foot; it was a fine evening. He brought her home and waited until the door opened to his ring. The door remained unopened; meantime he pressed her hand tightly and hurt her a little, involuntarily. Greta must have fallen asleep, she thought:
“Ring again, would you?”
He rang again, louder this time; after a moment, the door opened. She gave him her hand once more, with a smile.
“Good-night, mevrouw,” he said, taking her fingers respectfully and raising his hat.
Now, now she could hear the sound of his voice, with its note of sadness....