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On returning to the Heyst bungalow, rapid as ifon wings, Ricardo found Lena waiting for him. She was dressed in black; and at once his uplifting exultation was replaced by an awed and quivering patience before her white face, before the immobility of her reposeful pose, the more amazing to him who had encountered the strength of her limbs and the indomitable spirit in her body. She had come out after Heyst's departure, and had sat down under the portrait to wait for the return of the man of violence and death. While lifting the curtain, she felt the anguish of her disobedience to her lover, which was soothed by a feeling she had known before
a gentle flood of penetrating sweetness. She was not automatically obeying a momentary suggestion ; she was under influences more deliberate, more vague, and of greater potency. She had been prompted, not by her will, but by a force that was qutside of her and more worthy. She reckoned upon
nothing definite; she had calculated nothing. She saw only her purpose of capturing death—savage, sudden, irresponsible death, prowling round the man who possessed her; death embodied in the knife ready to strike into his heart. No doubt it had been a sin to throw herself into his arms. With that inspiration that descends at times from above for the good or evil of our common mediocrity, she had a sense of having been for him only a violent and sincere choice of curiosity and pity—a thing that passes. She did not know him. If he were to go away from her and disappear, she would utter no reproach, she would not resent it; for she would hold in herself the impress of something most rare and precious—his embraces made her own by her courage in saving his life.
All she thought of—the essence of her tremors, her flushes of heat, and her shudders of cold—was the question how to get hold of that knife, the mark and sign of stalking death. A tremor of impatience to clutch the frightful thing, glimpsed once and unforgettable, agitated her hands.
The instinctive flinging forward of these hands stopped Ricardo dead short between the door and her chair, with the ready obedience of a conquered man who can bide his time. Her success disconcerted her. She listened to the man's impassioned transports of
terrible eulogy and even more awful declarations of love. She was even able to meet his eyes, oblique, apt to glide away, throwing feral gleams of desire.
“No!" he was saying, after a fiery outpouring of words in which the most ferocious phrases of love were mingled with wooing accents of entreaty. "I will have no more of it! Don't you mistrust me. I am sober in my talk. Feel how quietly my heart beats. Ten times to-day when you, you, you, swam in my eye, I thought it would burst one of my ribs or leap out of my throat. It has knocked itself dead tired, waiting for this evening, for this very minute. And now it can do no more. Feel how quiet it is!"
He made a step forward, but she raised her clear voice commandingly:
He stopped with a smile of imbecile worship on his lips, and with the delighted obedience of a man who could at any moment seize her in his hands and dash her to the ground.
"Ah! If I had taken you by the throat that morning and had my way with you, I should never have known what you are.
And now I do.
You are a wonder! And so am I, in my way. We should have been lost many times but for me. I plan—I plot for my gentleman. Gentleman-pah! I am sick of him, And you are sick of yours, eh? You, you!"
He shook all over; he cooed at her a string of endearing names and then asked abruptly:
"Why don't you speak to me?"
"It's my part to listen,” she said, giving him an inscrutable smile, with a flush on her cheek and her lips cold as ice.
“But you will answer me ?”
"Yes,” she said, her eyes dilated as if with sudden interest.
"Where's that plunder ? Do you know ?"
"But there is plunder stowed somewhere that's worth having ?”
"Yes, I think so. But who knows ?" she added after a pause.
“And who cares ? he retorted recklessly. "I've had enough of this crawling on my belly. It's you who are my treasure. It's I who found you out where a gentleman had buried you to rot for his accursed pleasure!"
He looked behind him and all around for a seat, then turned to her his troubled eyes and dim smile.
"I am dog-tired," he said, and sat down on the floor. “I went tired this morning, since I came in here and started talking to you—as tired as if I had been pouring my life-blood here on these planks for you to dabble your white feet in.”
Unmoved, she nodded at him thoughtfully. Womanlike, all her faculties remained concentrated on her heart's desire—on the knife—while the man went on babbling insanely at her feet, ingratiating and savage,
crazy with elation. But he, too, was holding on to his purpose.
“For you! For you I will throw away money, lives -all the lives but mine! What you want is a man, a master that will let you put the heel of your
shoe on his neck; not that skulker, who will get tired of you in a year--and you of him. And then what ? You are not the one to sit still; neither am I. I live for myself, and you shall live for yourself, too—not for a Swedish baron. They make a convenience of people like you and me. A gentleman is better than an employer, but an equal partnership against all the 'yrpocrits is the thing for you and me.
We'll go on wandering the world over, you and I, both free and both true. You are no cage bird. We'll rove together, for we are of them that have no homes. We are born rovers!”
She listened to him with the utmost attention, as if any unexpected word might give her some sort of opening to get that dagger, that awful knife—to disarm murder itself, pleading for her love at her feet. Again she nodded at him thoughtfully, rousing a gleam in his yellow eyes, yearning devotedly upon