Should she ask Frank whether he had any silent grief—if he had anything to trouble him? This she did once or twice, and the answer was always the same:
"Nothing, dearest!"
What then, oh, what was this horror? Alas! she could get no further; she stood as it were blindfold in an enchanted circle, which she could not overstep, and her hand felt all round, but could grasp nothing. If she resolutely banished such thoughts they came back again persistently. They overwhelmed her afresh, they repossessed themselves of her brain, suggesting endless doubts; and ending always, always, in the same question which was the invariable outcome of these miserable cogitations:
"What can it be? Is there anything at all?"
And never an answer.
She had once again questioned Bertie; but he had only smiled, with that terrifying smile of woe, and had implored her not to rack her brain over anything which he might have inconsiderately let drop as the natural outcome of his melancholy temper. Otherwise, he should henceforth always be afraid of speaking to her with any frankness; he must weigh his words, and their confidential intimacy as brother and sister would be at an end. And her own feeling in the matter was full of dubious half-lights, in which no outline was distinct, no color decided—a confusion of shadowy gray tints which dimmed the clear brightness of her love with increasing gloom, fatiguing her spirit by their indefiniteness, their non-existence in actual life, and their intangible semblance of reality, like a dream.
Once, however, the dream took substance; once she touched—she saw—she heard—something. But was that it?
They were coming out of the Lyceum. The crowd streamed forth, slowly shuffling, pushing impatiently now and then, shoulder to shoulder. And in the crush, close to her, Eva saw the flaming red plush opera-cloak of a tall, stout woman, and under a babyish "cherry-ripe" hat a face, rose, white and black, with a doll-like smile, which suddenly leaned across her to address Frank. The brim of the hat rested on a mass of yellow curls, a scent of musk and rice-powder greeted her nostrils, and, like a blow in her own face, she heard the words:
''Hallo! good-evening, Frank; how are you, old boy?"
She started and shrank back, looking hastily first at the rouged face and then at Frank; she saw his flashing look of rage, nor did the tall woman's confusion escape her notice—a damsel of the skating-rink—though the stranger drew back at seeing a lady on Frank's arm; she had evidently at first seen him over Eva's head in the crowd, and she now vanished, disconcerted by her own blunder in addressing a man who had a lady with him.
But she shot a glance of amazed inquiry at Van Maeren who was close behind. Bertie might have warned her; for it was Bertie who had whispered three words under the "cherry-ripe" hat, with a nod toward the front, saying: ''There goes Frank."
She was vexed with herself; but she really had not seen the young lady.
When they reached home. Sir Archibald, who had observed nothing, was bidding them goodnight at the door, but Frank exclaimed: "I beg your pardon—but I must speak to Eva—I beg of you—"
It was already late, but Sir Archibald was no stickler for etiquette.
They were alone, looking at each other with anxious eyes, but neither spoke. Frank began hurriedly, stumbling over his words as if he were eager to forestall any evil suspicion she might entertain.
"Eva, believe me, Eva; you must believe me; it was nothing. You must not think anything of —of what happened just now."
In a few brief words he told of a former acquaintance—a young man's acquaintance—of the skating-rink. This was all at an end, it was a thing of the past; she must know that every man had a past. She knew that—surely?
"A past," she echoed coldly. "Oh! every man has a past? But we—we have no past."
"Eva, Eva!" he cried, for through the irony of her tone there pierced such acute pain that he stood dismayed and helpless, not knowing how to comfort her.
"Tell me only this much," she went on, going close up to him and looking into his face with that strange stare. She laid her hands on his shoulders and tried to read his inmost soul through his eyes. And she slowly said, expecting to hear her own doom in the first word he should utter:
"It is at an end?"
He fell on his knees before her where she had dropped on a chair, rigidly upright, as if she were frozen; he warmed her resisting hands in his grasp —and he swore that it was. His oath rang true; truth was stamped on his face; and she believed him. He besought forgiveness, told her that she must never think of it again, that all men—
"Oh, yes," she nodded her comprehension. "I know, I understand. Papa has brought me up on rather liberal lines."
He recollected that phrase; she had used it once before. And they both at once remembered Moldehoi and the black clouds. Eva shuddered.
"Are you cold, dearest?"
But she shook her head, still with a strange light in her eyes. He would have clasped her in his arms, but she drew back, and he felt himself rebuffed, almost rejected. He could not understand her. Why no kiss, why no generous reconciliation, if she understood so well, if she had been so liberally trained? But she was perhaps a little upset; he would not be too urgent. It would no doubt blow over.
When he was gone, Eva, in her own room, shivered and her teeth chattered as if she had an ague. And she began to cry
