She finished it breathlessly, and, as if by a sudden, irresistible impulse, pressed the paper again and again to her lips, with passionate earnestness.
‘Oh!’ she murmured to herself, ‘would that you were here! Will anything step between us? anything come to keep you and me apart now? I cannot think that the end of this story will be all that it should be. And now I shall tremble always, till I see you–and–perhaps even then. Who knows?’
Later in the forenoon, she felt again irresistibly impelled to try once more if her old craft had not come back to her. She took a canvas, and her palette and brushes, and tried to sketch in some representation of the scene which had haunted her ever since she had seen the pencilled words at the foot of the page. Again she opened the book, and again read the words: ‘I am not insensible to the cry of anguish–il grido di dolore–which arises from my faithful people in all parts of my kingdom.’ As she drew, her heart beat ever faster and faster. It was a man’s figure that she outlined; the figure of a king, it was intended for–of one who, by nature and by circumstance, was a ruler. Her crayon moved more slowly as she tried to infuse into this figure some of the royalty of bearing and look with which, in her own mind, she invested the form of this ‘deliverer.’ When, after a couple of hours’ diligent drawing, the outline stood out clearly before her, she looked at it, and saw that it was good; it was kingly, dignified; majestic and benevolent too. She had not failed. She was not to be robbed for ever of her old power. Her art had been restored to her.
That, she felt, was enough for one day. She had not been aware with what intense eagerness she had longed that she might prevail–that life and skill might be restored to her hand, until, when she at last saw that ‘it was so,’ she broke down, and burst into a passion of tears–but tears which, if stormy at first, soothed and healed in the falling.
It was evening of the same day. Sara sat down in the quaint old salon, in the flickering firelight. There was an open English grate in which pine-logs were burnt, for the appearance of comfort; and there was likewise a porcelain stove to produce the reality of it. She had sent away the servant who came with lights, saying she would ring when she wanted them; and now, with her cheek propped on her hand, she sat and gazed into the fire–into the red map of the land of dreams. It was indeed a vague, aimless dream in which she was lost; and yet there was an undercurrent of passion about it, a solid basis to the vision. That letter from Rio, which she had had that morning, which lay open in her hands now, which she had just been reading, and which had wafted her on its thin pages away from this place altogether. She pictured to herself tropical climes and South American forests. Could he be perhaps wandering with his friend in the solemn, desolate splendour and luxuriance of such a forest, even now? At least, wherever he was, he was hundreds of leagues away from her. She had visions of stately vessels borne onwards by soft south-western gales–gentle gales. So, equally, she could see, in the map that was constantly changing its boundaries by a process of crumbling, visions of fair and busy cities–foreign cities, full of pleasure and gaiety, most beautiful to behold, but all a very long way off–hundreds, yea, thousands of miles away.
The great distance, the feeling that if anyone asked her, ‘Where is he now?’ she could only answer, ‘I know not!’ weighed her down with an unspeakable despondency. Then, like a flash of fire across this chill mood of resignation, darted a longing, intense and uncontrollable, to have him there, at that very moment. Oh, if he would but come! If he would but come! Could he not understand the meaning her last letters had tried to convey? Could he not read, ‘I love you,’ between the lines? This intense, concentrated longing for the bodily presence of some deeply-loved personality is a painful thing when one longs and goes on longing in spite of the secure knowledge that no amount of longing will bring that person to one. Thus it was with her. She covered her face with her hands presently, and her heart throbbed. Did he in this moment experience half of the same feeling? If she could have thought it, she would have felt almost satisfied. But how could he? She raised her head, and looked round the room–her favourite, because it was into it that he had led her and Countess Carla, on that far back, happy red-letter day whose full worth and meaning she had only within the last weeks began really to realise.
‘Could not a miracle happen?’ she thought; ‘could not he have followed quickly on the footsteps of his letter, and–but heaven forgive my presumption! Why should such notice be taken of me?’
Even as she thought it, a cloud seemed to come before her eyes; her very breath to stop. Yet she was rising from her chair, advancing to meet the ghost–to prove the miracle, which seemed to waver and flicker before her eyes; if she touched it, if she stretched out her hand, or found her voice, would it not melt away? Surely it would. He was in South America. She unsteadily moved out a hand, as one who gropes in the dark. But that was no ghost’s touch–no phantom fingers which captured it, drew it, her other hand, all of her, into a close embrace; nor was it any unearthly voice which said:
‘The aberration conquered at last, Sara. Your last letter came immediately after I had posted mine to you. I took it to mean that I might come.’
‘You understood, Rudolf, at last?’