the verandah。 Then； mechanically； she had undressed and got into bed；
where she was now mechanically counting the passing moments。
Presently she became aware of her own stillness and connected it with
the stillness of the dead woman； by the tent。 She lay； as it were；
watching her own corpse as a Catholic keeps vigil beside a body that
has not yet been put into the grave。 But in this chamber of death
there were no flowers； no lighted candles； no lips that moved in
prayer。 She had gone to bed without praying。 She remembered that now；
but with indifference。 Dead people do not pray。 The living pray for
them。 But even the watcher could not pray。 Another hour struck in the
belfry of the church。 She listened to the chime and left off counting
the moments； and this act of cessation made more perfect the peace of
the dead woman。
When the sun rose her sensation of death passed away； leaving behind
it； however； a lethargy of mind and body such as she had never known
before the previous night。 Suzanne； coming in to call her； exclaimed：
〃Mam'selle is ill？〃
〃No。 Why should I be ill？〃
〃Mam'selle looks so strange；〃 the maid said； regarding her with round
and curious eyes。 〃As if〃
She hesitated。
〃Give me my tea；〃 Domini said。
When she was drinking it she asked：
〃Do you know at what time the train leaves Beni…Morathe passenger
train？〃
〃Yes； Mam'selle。 There is only one in the day。 It goes soon after
twelve。 Monsieur Helmuth told me。〃
〃Oh！〃
〃What gown will？〃
〃Any gownthe white linen one I had on yesterday。〃
〃Yes； Mam'selle。〃
〃No； not that。 Any other gown。 Is it to be hot？〃
〃Very hot； Mam'selle。 There is not a cloud in the sky。〃
〃How strange！〃 Domini said； in a low voice that Suzanne did not hear。
When she was up and dressed she said：
〃I am going out to Count Anteoni's garden。 I think I'llyes； I'll
take a book with me。〃
She went into her little salon and looked at the volumes scattered
about there； some books of devotion； travel； books on sport；
Rossetti's and Newman's poems； some French novels； and the novels of
Jane Austen； of which； oddly； considering her nature； she was very
fond。 For the first time in her life they struck her as shrivelled；
petty chronicles of shrivelled； bloodless； artificial lives。 She
turned back into her bedroom； took up the little white volume of the
/Imitation/； which lay always near her bed； and went out into the
verandah。 She looked neither to right nor left； but at once descended
the staircase and took her way along the arcade。
When she reached the gate of the garden she hesitated before knocking
upon it。 The sight of the villa； the arches； the white walls and
clustering trees she knew so well hurt her so frightfully； so
unexpectedly； that she felt frightened and sick； and as if she must go
away quickly to some place which she had never seen； and which could
call up no reminiscences in her mind。
Perhaps she would have gone into the oasis； or along the path that
skirted the river bed； had not Smain softly opened the gate and come
out to meet her； holding a great velvety rose in his slim hand。
He gave it to her without a word； smiling languidly with eyes in which
the sun seemed caught and turned to glittering darkness； and as she
took it and moved it in her fingers； looking at the wine…coloured
petals on which lay tiny drops of water gleaming with thin and silvery
lights； she remembered her first visit to the garden； and the
mysterious enchantment that had floated out to her through the gate
from the golden vistas and the dusky shadows of the trees； the feeling
of romantic expectation that had stirred within her as she stepped on
to the sand and saw before her the winding ways disappearing into
dimness between the rills edged by the pink geraniums。
How long ago that seemed； like a remembrance of early childhood in the
heart of one who is old。
Now that the gate was open she resolved to go into the garden。 She
might as well be there as elsewhere。 She stepped in； holding the rose
in her hand。 One of the drops of water slipped from an outer petal and
fell upon the sand。 She thought of it as a tear。 The rose was weeping；
but her eyes were dry。 She touched the rose with her lips。
To…day the garden was like a stranger to her； but a stranger with whom
she had oncelong； long agobeen intimate； whom she had trusted； and
by whom she had been betrayed。 She looked at it and knew that she had
thought it beautiful and loved it。 From its recesses had come to her
troops of dreams。 The leaves of its trees had touched her as with
tender hands。 The waters of its rills had whispered to her of the
hidden things that lie in the breast of joy。 The golden rays that
played through its scented alleys had played； too； through the shadows
of her heart； making a warmth and light there that seemed to come from
heaven。 She knew this as one knows of the apparent humanity that
greeted one's own humanity in the friend who is a friend no longer；
and she sickened at it as at the thought of remembered intimacy with
one proved treacherous。 There seemed to her nothing ridiculous in this
personification of the garden； as there had formerly seemed to her
nothing ridiculous in her thought of the desert as a being； but the
fact that she did thus instinctively personify the nature that
surrounded her gave to the garden in her eyes an aspect that was
hostile and even threatening； as if she faced a love now changed to
hate； a cold and inimical watchfulness that knew too much about her；
to which she had once told all her happy secrets and murmured all her
hopes。 She did not hate the garden； but she felt as if she feared it。
The movements of its leaves conveyed to her uneasiness。 The hidden
places； which once had been to her retreats peopled with tranquil
blessings； were now become ambushes in which lay lurking enemies。
Yet she did not leave it； for to…day something seemed to tell her that
it was meant that she should suffer； and she bowed in spirit to the
decree。
She went on slowly till she reached the /fumoir/。 She entered it and
sat down。
She had not seen any of the gardeners or heard the note of a flute。
The day was very still。 She looked at the narrow doorway and
remembered exactly the attitude in which Count Anteoni had stood
during their first interview； holding a trailing branch of the
bougainvillea in his hand。 She saw him as a shadow that the desert had
taken。 Glancing down at the carpet sand she imagined the figure of the
sand…diviner crouching there and recalled his prophecy； and directly
she did this she knew that she had believed in it。 She had believed
that one day she would ride； out into the desert in a storm； and that
with her； enclosed in the curtains of a palanquin； there would be a
companion。 The Diviner had not told her who would be this companion。
Darkness was about him rendering him invisible to the eyes of the
seer。 But her heart had told her。 She had seen the other figure in the
palanquin。 It was a man。 It was Androvsky。
She had believed that she would go out into the desert with Androvsky；
with this traveller of whose history； of whose soul； she knew nothing。
Some inherent fatalism within her had told her so。 And now？
The darkness of the shade beneath the trees in this inmost recess of
the garden fell upon her like the darkness of that storm in which the
desert was blotted out； and it was fearful to her because she felt
that she must travel in the storm alone。 Till now she had been very
much alone in life and had realised that such solitude was dreary；
that in it development was difficult； and that it checked the steps of
the pilgrim who should go upward to the heights of life。 But never
till now had she felt the fierce tragedy of solitude； the utter terror
of it。 As she sat in the /fumoir/； looking down on the smoothly…raked
sand； she said to herself that till this moment she had never had any
idea of the meaning of solitude。 It was the desert within a human
soul； but the desert without the sun。 And she knew this because at
last she loved。 The dark and silent flood of passion that lay within
her had been released from its boundaries； the old landmarks were
swept away for ever； the face of the world was changed。
She loved Androvsky。 Everything in her loved him； all that she had
been； all that she was； all that she could ever be loved him； that
which was physical in her； that which was spiritual； the brain； the
heart； the soul； body and flame burning within itall that made her
the wonder that is woman； loved him。 She was love for Androvsky。 It
seemed to her that she was nothing else； had never been anything else。
The past years were nothing； the pain by which she was stricken when
her mother fled； by which she was tormented when her father died
blaspheming； were nothing。 There was no room in her for anything but
love of Androvsky。 At this moment even her love of God seemed to have
been expelled from her。 Afterwards she remembered that。 She did not
think of it now。 For her there was a universe with but one figure in
itAndrovsky。 She was unconscious of herself except as love for him。
She was unconscious of any Creative Power to whom she owed the fact