“You might have failed to see me, and ridden farther. I thought you would,” I remark, with a faint uninterested smile.
“As it happened, I did not fail.”
“So I see.”
“Did you want me to fail?”
“I did.”
“For what reason, pray?”
“I was in a very pleasant mood—a sort of pantheistic mingling with Nature, that requires solitude to be enjoyed.”
“All the same, I am going to stay,” he says with a determined air, and carefully ties his horse’s reins to a pine-branch.
A silence follows. Janusz brushes a few pine-cones out of his way, and then seats himself by my side. I sit up likewise, arrange the wreath of cornflowers on my head, and lean back against a trunk.
“Do you not see that we are at odds?” he asks at length.
“That may very well be,” I answer with some disdain. “And how did you find out where I was?”
“I followed you.”
“Did you, indeed?”
“My balcony commands an extensive view. Your rose-coloured dress was plainly to be seen, as you went along the meadows and fields. You followed the path that skirts the ditch, did you not? And so on to the wood, where you disappeared. I followed on horseback along the highroad: a far shorter way.”
“Yes, your way; straight on, but less picturesque than mine.”
“Am I to see some hidden meaning in this?”
“Oh, no, you need not—as you choose.”
Janusz is of those who love “intellectual” talk; I put forth all the social tact that I have, and do my best to keep down to his level. I strive to attract him, not with my good looks, but with my mental charms, which I have now enlisted in the service of my physical self. My coquetry varies in quality as does the psychical character of its object; and thus it never fails in artistry. Here I am guided by the Law of Contrast. For instance, when I first flirted with Roslawski, I brought into play the primitive elemental sides of my nature; though indeed I had later to change all my tactics. And it is my quality as a woman—with my womanly wisdom and wit and originality—that I am acting upon Janusz; should I lose half my good looks, I should still, as a woman, be not less lovable in his eyes. In the psychology of contemporary love, this is a significant fact.
Over his handsome clean-cut face, a glow passes now and again. His eyes are fixed upon my features. I meanwhile, swift in change as a chameleon, and bright with radiant looks and glances, am watching him with artistic and quite impersonal interest: with those quivering sensitive nostrils, he makes me think of some beautiful high-bred animal. His eyes, which usually beam and glisten, are at present dimmed and glazed over, as if their fire had been extinguished, burned out by the passion within him. Now and then his eyes fall before mine, and he attempts to call up a pleasant smile; but in the attempt his white teeth glitter dangerously.
A gnat has settled on his forehead, and I tell him so. He waves it away listlessly.
“Let it bite,” he says with a smile; “it matters little. I have blood enough and to spare.”
There is a touch of self-satisfaction in his voice as he says this. It was then a mistake of mine to have supposed him unaware of the nature of his strength. Knowledge of one’s strong points makes for happiness; he is enviable.
Now he takes up some pine-cones, with which he pelts his horse playfully. It begins to kick and stamp. Instead of teasing the poor brute to no purpose, he ought (I say) to take one of the trees for his mark; and with that I go up to the horse. It gives me a distrustful look out of its beautiful eyes, while I stroke and pat its neck.
“Miss Janina, do not go so near my beast; it may hurt you.”
“You were not afraid when it was but now standing close to my head,” I reply laughingly.
“But I was holding it in then,” he mutters between his set teeth.
Up he comes, stretching out his hand to pull me away by force; but I flash him a quick glance of surprise, and at once he is subdued.
“I beg you,” he says in a voice half-strangled with emotion, “I beg you to let me kiss your hand.”
He is quite close to me. One instant I am hot as fire; but I do not draw away from him, nor put my hands behind me. Standing motionless, with my half-averted head bent down close to the horse’s mane, I answer calmly:
“I will not.”
Janusz, with doglike obedience, shrinks back, and stands a few paces away.
“Let us go home now,” I say after a short silence; “but you must let me ride your horse.”
“With the utmost pleasure; but then, how will you manage for a saddle?”
“Oh, that’s all right. Even on your saddle, I can contrive to ride woman-fashion. Only you will have to arrange the stirrup.”
I leap into the saddle, my foot just touching his hand. Janusz himself settles it in the stirrup, which he shortens for me. As he does so, I once more see a glow sweep over his face.
“Pray allow me to lead the horse. It is restive, and may throw you.”
“No, thanks; I am not in the least afraid.”
On a sudden, with an unexpected movement, he catches hold of me, and presses his face hard against my knees.
At the same instant nearly, I give the horse a smart blow with my whip, and gallop away, not looking behind me; it is not easy to keep my balance on that saddle.
This I have done, not to escape from him, nor as being in any sort of fear. It was only that he should not perceive my flushed face—flushed neither with indignation nor with shame.
Janusz has gone to L. for some days. I am alone with Martha, with whom I enjoy myself very much.
