VI
“It was in the third year of our married life,” said Agnes. “We lived here during the first summer, and there were few other visitors, so it was sometimes difficult to get provisions. But because our young friend Bernard Horn—he wasn’t a doctor then—often went into the town, he used to get things for us as well as for himself. You were indoors a good deal, for you were very busy then, finishing your thesis for your doctor’s degree. In the evenings, when it didn’t rain, we used to go for walks, and our young friend Bernard often accompanied us. One evening at the end of May you didn’t want to go as usual. You were so much interested in an article in a magazine which had come that day from Brussels that we couldn’t tear you away from it, and we went off by ourselves, laughing and chattering together.”
“Yes, yes,” said Edward Roggenfeldt quietly. “The author had so mixed his true judgments with paradoxes that even now I haven’t forgotten the article. I sat over it a long time, looked up some points in several other books, and then in consequence wrote three superfluous pages of my thesis. Superfluous, that is, in comparison with my original idea, but as I think not entirely superfluous in essence.”
He was silent for a few moments and then went on:
“However, half an hour after your departure I came after you. I remember it was a lovely evening. I wanted to think over some matter, and I walked along the shore where the sea made scarcely a splash on the sand. But afterwards I returned and sat down to my books again.”
“Bernard and I walked to the West Cape,” continued Agnes. “The sunset that night was wonderful. I don’t think ever before or since have I seen such a magnificent sky, such a sea, and such clouds. Everything in front of us was flaming, all the shore was suffused with crimson as if blushing with happiness, the air was so clear, so calm, so full of rosy colour that one wanted to weep and to laugh at the same time. It was as if a pure golden light had dissolved in tears and blood, and the soul was full of rapture and sorrow. Oh, I cannot say how I felt then. I think I didn’t know then what was happening to me. Some unknown force overpowered me, and I felt unable to withstand it. It was as if a curtain had been lifted from my life, as if the triumphant light of this heavenly glow had suddenly illumined in a clear light before me something which I had never noticed before—and I suddenly understood that Bernard Horn was in love with me.”
Edward Roggenfeldt stroked his wife’s hand tenderly as he said in a caressing tone:
“He fell in love with you the first time he saw you.”
Agnes was beginning to conquer her agitation, and her voice rang out clearly and young as she continued:
“I looked at him. I knew that I was doing wrong, but I knew that in that moment I was happy. Never for one moment, dear Edward, did I love you less. But someone powerful and insidious seemed to whisper to me that the soul of man is broad and high, that the soul of man is greater than the world, and that love knows neither bounds nor measure.
“I don’t remember what we talked about, but I remember where we went. It was already beginning to get dark, for we had gone into the forest, and the midnight glow came faintly through the trees. I listened to the voice of love. I kissed Bernard Horn. I lay submissively in his arms and responded to his caresses with passionate embraces, and I laughed and wept. I laughed as I haven’t known how to laugh for a long time; I wept as I weep now.”
The tears trickled gently down her cheeks. Edward Roggenfeldt put his arms about her and soothed her, saying:
“Don’t weep. Don’t weep, my dear Agnes. You have been a faithful wife to me.”
And she, weeping bitterly, restraining her tears no longer, continued:
“I was false to you, my dear one, on that passionate, that beautiful night. I lost my senses, and what I did then seemed neither dreadful nor shameful. I leant on Bernard’s arm as we walked home from the forest, and I listened to him and talked to him and was not ashamed nor fearful. When we parted near our house I gave him the crimson ribbon I wore for a memory. And he has kept it all these years.”