"Of deities or mortals, or of both;In Temple, or the dales of Arcady."
"Of deities or mortals, or of both;In Temple, or the dales of Arcady."
Morris gazing at her with eager, ardent appreciation, yet read a warning that he must venture no farther that night! Trusting and confiding though Evarne might be, she was too serious, too thoughtful, to accept such overtures with childish carelessness.
Her expression gradually clouded, for the unknown Mrs. Kenyon rose in indignant might before her mind's eye! Morris, guessing the nature of some of her thoughts, knew that in dealing with a young woman possessed of such painfully lofty principles, discretion was indeed the better part of valour. Moreover, he was far too genuinely attached to her to wish to cause her undue distress, and, however strong she might be physically, he knew well that where her feelings were concerned, Evarne was in deed a "fragile flower," to be guarded well and treated tenderly.
So he just smiled calmly and reassuringly, and into his eyes came that kindly, indulgent look that always stirred the girl's very heart.
"Come, pretty one," he said, "hold my hand quietly, and go on telling me the troubles about the drawing."
Such a sudden change of manner and topic was quite bewildering; Evarne could not accommodate herself to it all with equal rapidity. There was a considerable pause, while he stood waiting with his hand outstretched. The imprint of very varying emotions passed over the girl's gentle countenance. By the brilliant light of the moon every fleeting expression could be seen, and the look with which she at length laid her hand in his could not have been displeasing even to the chaste goddess whose clear rays rendered it visible.
Somewhat hastily Evarne proceeded to chatter about the studio, but her nerves were overwrought, and her voice sounded strange to her own ears.
"Let us go in," she urged ere long; "I'm cold."
"Cold now, perhaps," murmured Morris softly, "but, ifI mistake not, magnificently capable of burning with the most divine of all fires."
She made no answer. He could not be sure that she had heard, or if she had, that she understood. Neither was he at all sure that the time had even yet come when it was really desirable that she should hear and understand.
Withina week of taking up her residence at "Mon Bijou," Evarne started her career at Florelli's. She proved very painstaking, and earnest—so much so as to cause considerable surprise to the other students, who had judged, from the luxury of her attire and appointments, that she was a meredilettante.
She was far and away the most elementary pupil in the studio, and truth to tell did not find it particularly interesting to sit alone hour after hour in a corner, covering reams of Michallet, and using up boxes of charcoal in repeated struggles to depict gigantic plaster replicas of detached features from Michael Angelo's "David," or innumerable casts of torsos, of arms and legs, hands and feet, in all sizes and attitudes—painfully suggestive of amputations.
For stimulus and encouragement she would peep into the two rooms where the more advanced students were working from life, in one room from the costume model, in the other from the nude. The mental atmosphere of these rooms was so full of energy and enthusiasm that she would return with fresh ardour to her limbs and features.
Not that she was able to devote all her time to the services of the exigent Muses, nor, alas! could this pursuit arouse the keenest, most engrossing thoughts and energies of which her nature was capable. Interest in this, as in everything else in the wide universe, showed pallid and feeble before the overwhelming and concentrated interestof her love for Morris Kenyon. There was something almost tragic in such a domination. Barely seventeen, her heart and mind should have been still too youthful, too immature, to conceive and sustain such force of emotion.
Morris had many friends in Naples, and both visited and entertained considerably. Evarne, both by reason of her studies and her recent loss, could be prevailed upon to take very little part in any fêtes. Still, she started to learn Italian, and was soon able to express her will to Bianca in all simple matters, and to amuse Morris by her courageous, laughable efforts.
She fancied herself a perfect little diplomatist, and was blissfully unaware that her affection for him was very soon betrayed to his experienced eye by her every look—every word—every action. Under the circumstances, silence on the momentous topic so uppermost in both minds was naturally not maintained for long.
One night as she sat on a footstool at his feet, spoiling her eyesight by delicate fancy work, not speaking much, but at intervals contentedly humming a little song, a sudden impatience at further waste of time took possession of him.
"Evarne," he said abruptly, and as the girl in all unconsciousness stayed her needle and looked up inquiringly, he bent forward, and without any warning pressed his lips to hers. Then, shaken from his habitual calm, he placed his hands heavily upon her shoulders and gazed intently into her eyes, his expression telling yet more than his actions.
She remained motionless as if hypnotised, her face still uplifted. "Evarne, sweetest little Evarne!" he murmured after a pause, in accents tender and caressing. At the sound of his voice she dropped her head slowly lower and yet lower, until it finally rested upon his knee. Still she spoke nothing.
Slipping his arms around her, he forcibly drew her up until her head was pillowed upon his breast. Then hekissed her again and again, kissed her brow, her hair, her cheeks, her mouth.
"Darling, are you happy?" he breathed at length into her ear.
Upon this the girl released herself from his hold, and kneeling erect by his side, looked with wide-open, excited, somewhat horrified eyes straight into his. It was no highly-wrought sentiment either of love or indignation that fell from her lips. Simply, yet emphatically, she cried—
"Oh, we mustn't! we mustn't! We were both forgetting your wife!"
Morris was rather proud of his versatility, and cultivated the art of being all things to all women. The last lady on whom he had temporarily bestowed his affections had, like Evarne, been tactless and inconsiderate enough to invoke the memory of the happily absent one at a critical moment. To Evarne's predecessor he had lightly remarked, "Oh! hang my wife, Birdie. She doesn't count." Birdie had giggled, called him a "naughty man," and there had been an end to that topic.
To have addressed any such flippant answer to Evarne and her clamouring conscience would have meant the end of all things. Morris unhesitatingly took the one and only course that would serve his turn now. He adopted the plan of apparent perfect frankness, not only regarding the legal partner of his joys and woes, but concerning much else that he had hitherto kept hidden.
With many a sign of great mental struggle, now flashing forth eloquent glances, now veiling his eyes from her clear, searching gaze, he made confession of his deception concerning Mrs. Kenyon's promised presence at "Mon Bijou." He waxed alternately ardent and pathetic as he discoursed upon the love he bore Evarne and all that it meant to him, vowing that it was the intensity of his affection alone that had prompted him to his falsehood. He abusedhimself so unsparingly, that half-unconsciously she was moved to utter a pleading little cry of pity and expostulation.
Thereupon he went on to explain in touching terms that he was but a lonely, desolate man, rapidly becoming weary of life, embittered and miserable, until her charm, her sweet goodness, aroused him, awoke affection and brought fresh zest into his existence—and so on, and so on.
"My wife, well, she was a nicely-brought-up, rather silly girl, pretty enough once and good-natured too, but now soured and aged by permanent, incurable illness. There is no bond of any kind between us. We have not a thought in common. There are no children; she can never be either companion or wife to me. Frail though she is, she has a marvellous vitality, a wondrous clinging to life. Such unhappy existences—a curse to themselves and others,—are always prolonged. Think of it, dearest, think what it means to a man to be practically tied to a corpse, cut off from all the joy of living."
Then he soared to lofty heights of moralising, told her—or at least implied—that all his hopes of heaven rested upon her gentle influence and affection. "I may seem to others but a hard, somewhat cynical man of the world, yet I have got here"—and in true dramatic style he struck his breast over the supposed region of a presumably panting heart—"I have got here a longing for a true woman's disinterested, faithful affection, such as many a sentimental stringer together of rhymes has never experienced. Evarne, care for me a little; love me, darling. Let me love you. It means everything to me."
All this sentiment quite overcame his sweet-natured listener. Morris had made a studied though carefully veiled appeal, either by his looks or his words, direct to her most generous instincts. If much of it was mere acting—exaggerated and artificial—his passionate desire to gain her love was real enough. It was no reproach to frank,unsuspicious, inexperienced Evarne—already blinded by affection—that she could see only the evident sincerity that inspired all this bombast.
A flood of tender pity and sympathy swelled in her breast; all resentment at his deception, all hesitation and restraint, were swept away. If the assurance of her deep love, her utter trust, did in very truth mean happiness to him, it should be his. Rising to her feet impulsively, she pressed his head with almost fierce force against her bosom, murmuring, "I do love you, my dear one. Indeed, I do love you." Then she bent over, and almost reverently pressed a long kiss upon his brow.
So far, so good, and in mutual love confessed Evarne's ideal was attained! It was rather incomprehensible that she could for one minute have supposed that "finis" would be written in Morris's masculine conception of the old, old story, at a similar point to where it appeared in the poetical version that had been evolved from out her imagination. Yet when, in the course of a very short time, the inevitable discovery was made that he had never entertained the notion of loving her as an "inspiration to a noble life," nor as a "kindred soul," nor as his "good angel," but merely as a man always loves a woman, and that he sought a return of affection in kind, it came as a stunning revelation.
At first Morris had not been at all sure but that she would endeavour to shake the dust of "Mon Bijou" from her feet without delay. In fact, he always declared that, probably inspired by the vicinity of Capri, she had given him to understand that he was on a moral level with the defunct Tiberius. But for her own part her first recollections that were at all clear and distinct were very different.
In all moments of mental disturbance her first desire was for solitude, and in this crisis, bidding Morris not to follow her, she sped wildly out into the dark garden.There, leaning for support against the pillar of a statue, and gazing up at the serene masses of white clouds and the tinted halo encircling the moon, breathing in the perfume of the earth and its green growth, while a gentle breath of sea-breezes played with her heavy hair, she gradually regained calmness.
Her Greek studies had taught her much—so much that she had believed there was but little left for her to learn. Yet to us all is life an untold tale—strange, unique, unguessed. What wisdom of sage, what sensual raptures of pagan poet, had ever prompted her to anticipate the exaltation, the triumph, that awoke at the realisation that she too had her share in the resistless power of womanhood? She felt plunged into full harmony with nature—felt herself knit to the great heart of woman all the world over by the sentient cords of sex-sympathy.
Carried out of herself she flung back her head and gave utterance to emotion by lifting up her voice in song—just full rich notes that rolled forth unconsidered, all unhampered by words—a spontaneous outpouring of glorification and the joy of victory. Pressing both hands hard upon her bosom she felt the force with which it rose and fell beneath her deep breathing, and strangely delighted, the girl laughed triumphantly with the notes of her song.
A sudden step near by startled her into abrupt shamefaced silence: Morris stood by her side. He had been seeking her in the garden and had traced her by this wild song that broke the stillness of the night. Unrestricted displays of feeling were entirely new to Evarne, her previous uneventful routine having given scant cause for much excitement of any sort. Now she felt keen abashment at her extraordinary show of emotion, and was almost humiliated to realise that she was not alone.
"I told you not to follow me. I don't want you," she said quickly and decidedly.
For a moment Morris was startled; then he understood the change that was beginning to take place in her mind. No longer was she a simple child addressing her guardian and benefactor, but a woman growing conscious of her own power. Of course she would be whimsical, capricious, alternately authoritative and submissive, wilful and yielding, like the rest of the darlings.
"I meant to obey," he answered with ready meekness, "but can you blame the impotence of mortal man's resolution when the siren calls?"
Sudden anger flashed over Evarne at this vague suggestion that she had fled from him only to draw him to her side again by her voice.
"I'm not a siren, and I don't say one thing and mean another, though I know you find it difficult to believe that of any woman," she replied curtly, and with head erect walked back through the French window into the brightly-lit room. Once safely out of sight, she darted rapidly upstairs to the safety of her own room.
In a minute or two she heard her name called softly through the door, then the pleading whisper—
"Evarne, I can have no rest unless I know you are not angry with me."
She was silent for a moment, but the delay was brief. No resentment could endure before the music of that dear voice. She guessed right well that a locked door between them was all-sufficient for Morris to endure, so answered him generously, as her heart prompted—
"Rest, then; rest happily now and ever."
Within the peaceful sanctuary of her delicate green and white bedroom, the chief amid her more normal thoughts and feelings resumed their sway. Foremost came that imperative demand for self-approbation—that pride in self—that made her ever the slave of what she held to be honourable. The spirit of righteousness sprang up alert, quick to wage war against the mere suggestion that underany provocation—any excuse of overwhelming stress of love—she should permit herself to be stained by dishonour.
Strong and self-confident, the girl at last sank to sleep. But her slumber was light, and early next morning she was awake and thoughtful. She acknowledged being glad to have experienced the sensations of last night—glad to have been granted that period of exaltation, and to have revelled in it to the full. It had made all life seem more understandable and interesting—yet it had brought about no wondrous change of personality! Evarne still remained herself; still good and conscientious and new to the ways of love; a young philosopher, and therefore indulgent to the natural frailties of mankind. She esteemed Morris not one whit the less for having shown himself but human; yet—realising that he could not make her his wife—her conscience and her wishes united in the resolution that love 'twixt him and herself must ever remain a thing ethereal—a poem—a fair dream—a sweet sentiment blossoming only in the soul.
She went to Florelli's as usual, but her studies occupied a very secondary place in her thoughts. All she meant to say to Morris—all he might perhaps answer—all the beautiful sentiments she had to express and which she was sure must appeal so irresistibly to him—all the lofty ideals of her soul that she was going to impart to his—obtruded themselves between her mind and her drawing.
As she dressed for dinner that evening an unexpected shyness crept over her, and it was with quite an effort that she went downstairs. But all imagined difficulties and embarrassments faded like snow before the sunlight of his eyes. Her own danced for joy at being in his presence again, yet there was a touch of stiffness and formality in her demeanour that was new.
Morris listened more or less patiently to her dear little sermons, and with difficulty resisted stopping her pretty lips with kisses. But she was very much on her dignitythat night, so assuring her that she was nothing more than a sweet, refreshing baby, he merely delivered a sermon on his own account, with a very different text.
That night the influence of the day's high meditation rendered her proof against his sophistries, but as time passed their steady reiteration began to make headway. Morris unswervingly bent all his powers to gain control of the situation. The sport amused him. He had nothing to distract his attention, and the prize was so well worth the winning that time and trouble were as nothing. He attempted no sudden decisivecoup, feeling greater confidence in the weapons of gentle argument and persuasion, patience and a discreet mingling of ardour and forbearance.
Evarnegrew steadily more troubled—more unhappy—more shaken in her once firm convictions. Up to the present, save in a few unconsidered trifles, she had always obeyed the dictates of her conscience. Now this prop failed her; indeed, she seemed to have two opposing consciences, each struggling for supremacy.
While one inward voice would desperately recall the existence of Mrs. Kenyon, the other would reply by scornfully declaring that it was but selfishness, cowardice, calculating prudence and cold lack of trust, that clutched hold of the vision of the distant invalid whose finger bore the only wedding ring that Morris could give, and that these contemptible qualities used the wife but as a moral shield behind which to conceal their own mean, hideous forms. There was no breaking up of a previously happy home involved, no ruthless destroying of another woman's peace of mind; while beyond a doubt she was depriving the man she professed to love—and to whom she owed everything—of the only return she could make for all his kindness and devoted affection.
Obviously this spiritual civil war could not forever consist of drawn battles between the rival forces. Ere long even her own self-respect—the chief bulwark of the defending army—trembling beneath resistless attacks, was on the verge of capitulation. True, she might have fled from "Mon Bijou," but convinced of Morris's engrossing love, she could not do this without likening herselfto the snake of the fable, who, warmed back to life in its rescuer's bosom, then turned and stung him.
But unless she thus left Morris desolate, and cast herself helpless and penniless upon the world, she was forced to continue to accept everything—mere food and raiment, let alone luxury—at his hands, and above all to receive daily and hourly that care and devotion that can only be repaid in coin of the same nature. He so obviously delighted in giving; was she, for her part, empty of all sense of gratitude, of all generosity?
Almost she began to deem herself something to be despised, and self-reproaches bordering upon remorse caused the bread of charity to taste bitter in her mouth. At times every sentiment that is most ennobling seemed ranged amongst the forces that bade her let love pay its debt. This veering of the tide of battle was not very visible, even to the man's watchful and experienced eye. His patience was getting exhausted. He had been fully prepared to wait, but with the passing of time, the light in which Warren Hastings regarded the questionable acquirement of his much-discussed Indian fortune became applicable to Morris Kenyon's state of mind concerning his dealings with Evarne. He began to feel "surprised at his own moderation."
Therefore, on coming up quietly behind her one afternoon as she sat sketching in the garden, he overheard with some satisfaction the words she was softly singing as she worked. It was the beginning of Emerson's little poem—
"Give all to love;Obey thy heart;Friends, kindred, days,Estate, good-fame,Plans, credit, and the Muse,Nothing refuse."
"Give all to love;Obey thy heart;Friends, kindred, days,Estate, good-fame,Plans, credit, and the Muse,Nothing refuse."
When a fair maiden beguiles her solitude by dwelling tunefully upon such sentiments, it may reasonably be supposed that they are not altogether uncongenial to her mind.
He announced his presence by covering her eyes with his hands, and lightly dropping a kiss on the top of her head. When she had laughingly shaken herself free he lay down on the grass at her feet, and, plucking a flower, commenced to pull it to pieces.
"You need not have sung that song to the birds," he declared, after a protracted survey of her fair face. "They need no such promptings, sweetest. They do obey their hearts."
"I suppose it is only meant for selfish human beings, then," she answered somewhat plaintively. Then, moved to a sudden impatience at her burden of doubts, she threw her drawing-book on the ground, crying, "But how very futile to speak of birds. There is no comparison. What concern have they with 'good-fame,' or with any other splendid responsibilities? We human beings have got souls—or—or something of that sort, that we must consider, haven't we?"
"You think so!" and the man's tone was mocking.
"And so do you," came the quick retort. "You remember that picture we looked at the other day? You yourself said it had no soul in it."
"That's altogether different. The sort of soul I meant is the gift of the Muses. Come, my Greek girl, have you forgotten what you yourself told me about your precious Socrates and his views on the necessity of 'divine madness' in creative work? Now I, in my turn, assure you that the brightest amid the Nine never bestows souls on those who refuse submission to Venus. Those who will not bend the knee at that shrine remain forever sane—but uninspired! You see, I know more of the classics than you give me credit for."
"Don't you believe that I love you, that you tell me this? Oh, Morris, Morris dear, do understand!"
"Little darling, it is you who do not understand. Your love for me is but that of a sweet child; you know nothingyet of that irresistible force that dominates the life of the world. The soul, as you like to call it, that you already possess, is sleeping. It has slept long enough, Evarne; you must not be afraid of its awakening."
The girl shook her head.
"How little you know me, it seems. I could never care for you more than I do already. I'm sure—oh, you can't tell—but I'm sure I bear already the very fullest extent of love that my nature is capable of ever producing."
"Your believing that only proves the finite capacities of the powers of imagination! You see, you cannot even realise that there may be—and I assure you there are—possibilities of emotion lying dormant within your mind more powerful than you can even conceive of at present. Only those who can, and who will, shake themselves free from all hampering limitations ever become truly great in any direction. It is quite useless to hope that the 'divine madness' of the Muses may be given to you, unless you are already possessed of courage to seize on true freedom, for that is the only soil in which anything worth having can ever take root, thrive and grow."
"I don't quite understand," she murmured nervously, reluctant to believe.
"In refusing to accept the full companionship of the man who loves you, Evarne, and whom you love in return, you are simply enslaving your emotions, enchaining them, and hopelessly preventing their perfect development. The technique of your chosen Art you will doubtless gain by time and perseverance, but you are scornfully neglecting to bring to fruition a far more subtle source of power—the rich ripeness of soul that alone can appeal to humanity's soul—the flame that can set blazing the fire that lies at the heart of the race of man."
Evarne again parted her lips as if to speak, but without hesitation Morris went on with his homily.
"Whether you set forth to create pictures or books or music, you cannot possibly give more to the children of your brain than is to be found within your own innermost self. Only by having known the most intense, the loftiest, the deepest, in the whole range of emotional experience will you be enabled to put knowledge into your work, and without that, what worth has any work of Art? Believe me, ignorance cannot possibly ring true—truth alone can live and enthral.
"Now, believe me or not, as you like, Evarne, but I assure you that because of all this, love is the one and only teacher that can really evolve a great artist. Forgive me for thus assailing you on all sides, my sweet iceberg, but your happiness and success are very dear to me. I simply cannot bear to see you thus blindly and ignorantly opposing the unfolding of the bright flower of your genius. As I started by saying, your soul is still sleeping, and it will slumber on until you can become reconciled to letting love awaken it."
A protracted silence followed these last words. Evarne continued to gaze at Morris with the rapt expression she always wore when he was pouring fresh thoughts into her mind. This suggestion of a triple alliance between illicit love, the possession of a soul, and success in Art, possessed all the charms and the startling qualities of novelty.
"You are trying to make me think selfishly," she murmured at last, "but you must never believe that my own progress is of more consequence to me than——" She looked at him in silence again, and her eyes and her thoughts grew full of tenderness. Clasping her hands together, she went on, "And oh! if it were, I'm sure, oh! so sure, that the love I feel for you already is—is——"
"It is not of the sort that counts."
"But Socrates says that pure love——"
Morris interrupted her. He felt that this troublesome antique philosopher must be resolutely suppressed once and for all.
"I cannot claim as intimate an acquaintance with the opinions of that gentleman as you possess, little sage; nevertheless, I'll be bound that he supports my opinion. I can't definitely remember, mark you; I am only sure on general principles that no one who taught your pretty, sentimental rubbish—forgive me, sweetheart—could have contrived to get himself accepted for so long. You look—or rather we will seek together—and I'll warrant that I find and show you confirmation of my words."
That night Evarne retired considerably earlier than usual, but unable to sleep, and soon utterly weary of the darkness and her own tangled thoughts, she resolved to follow Morris's advice of the afternoon. She would delve once more into that master-mind that they had both invoked as upholding their contrary ideals.
Flashing on the light, she went into the red room, and returned with her arms filled with the six big volumes of Plato. Tumbling them all on the table by her side she slipped into bed again, and reclining comfortably amid her soft, faintly-perfumed pillows, drew a volume at random from the pile, then hesitated a moment before opening it.
She had perfect confidence that in these works of Plato no sentiments would be found of the nature that Morris sought.
"My dear one is unwise, after holding up fame and success as a bribe, to send me to read this—which is my Bible—and which teaches that happiness lies only in the pursuit of wisdom, of virtue, of all that is good," was her thought, as she lazily laid open the pages. Little did she deem that her bewildering doubts and difficulties were at length to be definitely solved.
It is hard to avoid the terrible belief that there exists a malign omnipotent Spirit at enmity with the race of man; an evil Power untiringly concentrated on watching for and contriving opportunities to work dire mischief—to createmiseries of all kinds—to impose agony of mind and body upon all that has life. Not without some show of reason have there ever been secret sects of devil-worshippers, who recognise the existence of, and seek to propitiate, this force so hostile to humanity, this merciless Something that works with superhuman ingenuity to aid and bring to fruition that which is of itself—evil—to conquer, to destroy, to render impotent all that which is of a contrary nature; or more terrible still, to bend such to its own purposes, employing all that is best and noblest and sweetest in life and human nature as tools wherewith to work destruction.
Within a few minutes of opening the Oracle, Evarne was sitting erect, all her sleepy indifference and listlessness gone. Throughout all the time of her mental stress she had not appealed to these familiar works. What more could a further study of Socrates do than intensify her desire to remain his faithful disciple? She had deemed it quite useless to look for special guidance as to which of the two opposing courses open to her really led to the acquisition of true wisdom, virtue, and spiritual beauty. That she should now open directly at one of those strangely rare definite statements concerning right and wrong, was a coincidence so extraordinary that it is difficult to believe that a controlling intelligence had not arranged this apparent chance.
She re-read the sentence upon which her eye had fallen, vaguely wondering how she could ever have forgotten its doctrine. It was a portion of the "Phædrus," and referred to that eternal topic, love, or rather to a certain imitation of the glorious reality. This semblance was characterised as "being mingled with mortal prudence, and dispensing mortal and niggardly gifts," and its dire result was "to generate in the soul an illiberality which is praised by the multitude as virtue, but which will cause it to be tossed about the earth and beneath the earth for nine thousand years, devoid of intelligence."
Naturally, it was not a belief in the threatened aftermath of harbouring this "illiberality" that appalled her. It was the sudden revelation that the inspired Socrates—far from upholding and approving her present discreet line of conduct—would have condemned her for "illiberality praised by the multitude as virtue," as unhesitatingly as she was now willing to confess that she herself held it in contempt! After the first moment's shock she found comfort in the reflection that the opinion at which she had arrived independently, albeit slowly and reluctantly, found confirmation in the words of this great teacher.
Something outside herself now seemed to take possession of her body, and to control her deeds. Immediate action became imperative. Instinctively, almost mechanically, she sprang out of bed, flung her white silk dressing-gown around her, and sped barefooted along the corridor and up the little flight of stairs that led to Morris's rooms.
There was still a light showing under the door; quite steadfastly and without hesitation she turned the handle, and when it refused to yield she rattled it violently. Hearing a quick step inside she felt the blood surge to her head, but no suggestion of faltering or regret came to trouble her finally settled conviction. This seemingly wild impulse—being in reality the climax of long reflection—was far from being a transient ebullition of feeling. It was rooted in her will; and Evarne's will, once fairly turned in any direction, was impervious to conflicting influences.
In the unnaturally exalted state to which her highly-strung nervous system had now lifted her, it would have seemed a mere nothing to have walked into an arena of wild beasts for the sake of the man she loved—easy to have flung herself upon swords to give him happiness—yea, she would unhesitatingly have followed him to hell itself had he beckoned. Are those amid mankind who never knew the "madness" of Eros to be pitied or envied?
Ina time of fair summer, amid varied scenes of beauty, the next phase of Evarne's life glided past—vivid, brilliantly happy—as devoid of apprehension or sense of finality as is the dream of a lotus-eater. As the spring advanced, and Naples became over-sultry for those reared in northern climes, Morris took her to cooler regions. Together they wandered through Switzerland and the Austrian Tyrol, and only with the approach of the winter season were they again in residence at "Mon Bijou."
With the ensuing spring, Morris's restless spirit once more asserted itself, and the summer saw them in London. There he held a social position which led him into circles where no man can introduce a woman who occupies the position Evarne now held. But he saw that plenty of diversions and gaieties of one kind and another came her way. She was still interested in her Art, and, happy in love given and returned, she wasted no sighs over those society gatherings from which she was forever strictly tabooed.
Morris studied appearances to the extent of paying an occasional brief visit to Mrs. Kenyon at their country home; in the autumn, too, he sometimes left Evarne to her own devices in the flat wherein she was mistress, while he joined shooting parties at various country houses. But at the first breath of winter he was quite ready to be coaxed back to the girl's little Paradise on earth, "Mon Bijou."
On their settling down once more at Naples, she was againseen at Florelli's, bent on making up for lost time. Her artistic studies had been of necessity but intermittent. In Morris she beheld her paramount duty; he had been as ardent and jealous as any young lover, lamenting and grudging every minute that Art took her from his service. He laughed at the persistence with which she continued to snatch stray hours for drawing. Her future was his care now, he insisted. He hated to think of those soft, brown eyes squandering their beams upon inanimate objects. Why did she want to waste any of the precious hours of her glorious youth shut up in a crowded, overheated studio, that stank of paint and turpentine and microbes and humanity?
But Evarne had not entirely abandoned the study of Philosophy for that of Love. She told him, with fascinating seriousness, that in order to maintain the mental balance that was described as "Happiness," it was necessary to both cultivate and provide an outlet for the intellectual faculties, as well as for those impulses that were revelling with such joyous abandon amid "the roses and raptures of vice."
Thus she was sadly disappointed when, within a fortnight of settling down once more seriously to work, Morris announced that he was going to Paris for a week or two, and of course expected her to accompany him.
She had just arrived at one of those stages, so delightful to pass through in any study, when a distinct advance in power is felt. The close of each day's efforts left her with the exhilarating feeling of having surpassed herself—of having successfully overstepped her previous highest limit. To abandon her work at this crisis was the last thing she desired.
"Morris, dearest," she pouted in sudden protest, "why do we wander about so very much? It is so delightful here."
"But I must go to Paris now. I have business."
"I thought you never had to do anything you didn't want to? Anyway, dearie, couldn't you live without me for a fortnight? I know how it will be! If you have got me with you we shall end up by roaming all through the winter, but if I am here at 'Mon Bijou,' waiting for you—why, then, you will return quickly."
Morris protested, but in the end Evarne for once took her own way. It was quite unusual for her not immediately and unhesitatingly to set aside her own wishes should they chance to conflict with those of her lover; on the other hand, Morris always duly consulted her respecting the plans and arrangements of their mutual life, and had never realised how entirely it was his will alone that controlled their movements. Now his vanity was wounded—not so much that she should question his arrangements, as that the form the opposition took should actually imply her willingness to bear a separation. It was something fresh and strange in his wide experience, and—to his way of thinking—far from flattering! What he always expected was the necessity of soothing jealous fears and apprehensions arising from periods of absence of his own making.
Thus he went off with a feeling of displeasure against Evarne that was new. He did not comprehend that it was the very knowledge of the strength of her own affection that enabled her to see him leave the arc of her personal magnetism and influence without feeling any anxiety. In London she had been forced to spend days alone while he was in the company of others—women, high-born, beautiful, no doubt—yet she had never feared for his loyalty. Sweet, blind trust!
Shortly after his return from Paris, Morris showed that he had no intention of spending the whole of the winter and spring at Naples, as he had done during the two previous years.
"I've got a bright idea," he announced one evening. "Let us spend the winter in Egypt, voyaging up the Nile with a party of our gayest, jolliest pals. What say you, Evarne? I know of a dahabeah, built for private use, that has lost its income, I suppose, for now it's willing to let itself out on hire. I wrote concerning it, and here's the answer, together with any number of photographs, both of its personal appearance and its internal regions."
He passed over a pile of papers, which the girl studied with keen interest. Morris, Naples and the studio was a triple combination that it had seemed impossible to improve upon; nevertheless, Morris, Egypt and a gay, bright party formed a decidedly alluring prospect if an alternate programme for the winter months was not to be avoided.
"Now, whom would you like to invite? We must resign ourselves beforehand to the idea that it will probably be the grand finale of our acquaintance with all whom we honour by our choice. The best of friends invariably quarrel on long voyages."
"You and I will set them such an example that concord and harmony will reign supreme, won't we?Absit omen."
"I really think we may defy Fate on that point, little sweetheart. Now, to business! We can have eight besides our charming selves. Let's ask the Varesios—see what they gain by being able to speak English. Then there are those rowdy Philmers from London—that's four. Then Giuseppe—he'll keep us lively too; he's like a jolly English boy, isn't he? Not too overwhelmingly polite. Then there's Tom Talling—we must have some more women, mustn't we?"
"I think equal numbers are best."
"Oh, wise young judge! Well, look here, we can transport Talling to heaven as well as Egypt if we like to give him permission to invite that little French girl he's so mad over—Justine Feronnier, she's called. She's a quiet, demure little minx, with curious, flaxen hair. She looks down theside of her nose all the time, as if she had just come out of a convent school. I'm sure you can't dislike her, and I should be glad to do Tom a good turn. Do you mind?"
"Not a bit. Who else?"
"Um-m-m, who? Good gracious, I was forgetting Tony Belmont."
"The man you were with so much in Paris last month?"
"That's it. He must come, and we will tell him to bring Lucinda."
"Is Lucinda another little minx, like Tom's friend?"
"Well, she chooses to describe herself as Mrs. Belmont, and it wouldn't be kind to show undue curiosity concerning the date and place of the wedding ceremony. We've settled upon one too many, haven't we? But Guiseppe is well accustomed to being tucked in as a sort of makeweight, so I declare this parliament prorogued."
"Tell me, what is the dahabeah called?"
"'The Waterfowl' at present, but that's only fit for a houseboat on the Thames. I shall rechristen her 'Evarne the Beautiful,'" and Morris smiled indulgently.
But the girl shook her head, declaring with a touch of coquettish self-confidence that she could not consent to such a name being chosen. One Evarne the Beautiful was quite enough to occupy all his thoughts.
"Then, Lady Vanity, you must exercise your own ingenuity," he answered, and after a moment's solemn hesitation over the rival merits of "The River Queen" and "The Radiant Isis," Evarne decided on the latter name as more appropriate to a craft destined to breast the waters of Old Nile.
Each desired guest accepted the invitation with flattering alacrity, and ere long "The Radiant Isis" was fairly off upon her voyage up the great river of the land of the Pharaohs.
Allthe guests were quite well known to their young hostess with the exception of Mdlle. Feronnier and Tony and Lucinda Belmont. As Morris had said, there was little, so far as the average observer could discern, either to like or to dislike in the quiet, flaxen-haired, little French girl. Lucinda Belmont, on the contrary, possessed a distinct and striking personality. Erect in carriage, and bearing herself with an air of unassailable self-confidence—with a full bust, and a waist so disproportionately tiny that Evarne surveyed it with mingled scorn and wonder—she was unmistakably what is popularly meant by "a fine woman." Her big eyes, fringed by long, black lashes, were the tiniest bit protruding, whereby they were enabled to roll up and down and round about in wondrous glances, languishing or flashing, according to the requirements of the occasion. Her features were ordinary, yet her vivacity, her animation, together with her carefully chosen costumes, her elaborate coiffure, and the brilliance given by a most discreet and effective use of paint and powder, transformed her into a woman who excited appreciative attention from most men.
Despite her now considerable store of worldly wisdom, Evarne had not got rid of a somewhat unwise confidence in humanity. Tennyson tells how Vivian was able to see evil of one sort or another in the most noble of characters through the simple method of "imputing her own vileness" to the thoughts, the deeds, the motives of others. In the same manner did Evarne instinctively credit everyonewith her own loyalty and honour. Assuredly Justine Feronnier and Lucinda were both unusually striking representatives of the female sex as far as appearance went. But the French girl was understood to belong to Tom Talling, and Lucinda—politely described as Mrs. Belmont—had the legitimate owner of that surname in attendance upon her, so Evarne experienced no unpleasant anxiety in beholding the attractive flaxen demureness of the one, or the flashing brunette brilliance of the other.
The long days devoted to the uneventful journey of "The Radiant Isis" through the flat reaches of the lower Nile were relieved from monotony by the spirit of mirth that possessed all aboard. Morris had indeed chosen his companions with discrimination, if frivolity and constant laughter were what he sought.
Of course each individual was provided with that hallmark of the traveller in the East, a hand-camera, and the results of the snap-shots of these amateur photographers caused many a shriek of laughter. Morris, Guiseppe and Signor Varesio had all brought their foils. But neither Italian had much chance against Morris, who was quite a champion in this art, to which he owed much of that slim, youthful-looking figure that was his pride. Then there were games, dances, visits from Arab entertainers, fantasias by the crew—all serving to make time pass delightfully.
Yet, slowly but surely, unhappiness crept in. The whole trouble had root in the resolute transference of Tony Belmont's ardent attentions from Lucinda to the altogether unappreciative Evarne. She found him always by her side, even when it must have been obvious to the meanest intelligence that she and Morris were more than contented alone. At first she bore his society with outward patience, but soon there came an irritated dislike to this destroyer of so many pleasanttête-à-têtesbetween herself and the man who still ruled her entire heart.
Besides, there was the deserted, disconsolate, sulky Lucinda to worry about, and since neither Evarne's snubs nor hints, or even actual commands, could drive Tony back to his neglected privileges, it became obviously Morris's duty as host to do his best to prevent the forsaken one from feeling too overwhelmingly lonely. So it came gradually to pass, to Evarne's dismay, that Morris spent most of his time by Mrs. Belmont.
The girl felt herself so helpless; in the privacy of their cabin Morris always answered her loving complaints so gently and affectionately, deploring the fact but insisting on its necessity and its temporary nature, that she sought at first to be trustful and comforted. But the time came when she could no longer refuse to see that her lover was, in sooth, fully satisfied with the present state of affairs, and desired no other.
Then the days grew full of anguish to the girl. Justine alone noticed aught amiss, and showed a desire to advise as how best to cope with the situation. But Evarne could not bring herself to actually acknowledge that here she was suddenly plunged into a vulgar struggle with another woman—and one so coarse, ignorant and inferior to herself—for the possession of a man.
Instead, all that her youthful wisdom prompted was to strive to arouse jealous doubts and fears in Morris's breast. So, for a weary, dreary day or two she was bewilderingly responsive to Tony's dull talk and banal and often over-bold compliments. But all she gained, as her laugh rang out gay and bright enough to rivet attention, was an indulgent smile from Morris, and the irritating remark from Lucinda—
"How splendidly you two do get on together! And I'll warrant all your little jokes are secret, so that Mr. Kenyon and I must be resigned to be left out in the cold."
Atlength the dahabeah drew up by the wharf of Luxor. From the beginning of the cruise the arrival at this world-famed spot had been eagerly anticipated, and on the very first morning the travellers gaily mounted donkeys and set forth on the short journey to the ruined Temples of Karnak. The spirited animals that they rode—so very different from the poor little European drudges that go by the same name—covered the ground with celerity, the dusky donkey-boys running hard behind, keeping up with difficulty, yet shouting and flourishing their sticks, to urge on any of the fiery mounts that showed signs of a failing lack of ambition to be foremost in the race.
On arriving at Karnak, loud was the expression of amazement at the extent of country over which was spread the ruins of this vast collection of temples, with their halls, their courts, their huge entrances, their obelisks, columns and statues.
"I believe really it would be quite possible that one should lose one's self hopelessly amid all these ruins," declared little Justine, her pale face still flushed from the fun of the amusing gallop.
The only dismal countenance in the party was that of Hassan, their dragoman. This gorgeous and most self-satisfied personage was always rather inclined to sulk when expeditions were in progress. He then looked upon his lot as that of a much injured individual. Morrisknew Egypt well, and his interesting talks on the topic had made the old history and religion intensely attractive to Evarne before and during the voyage. He now very rightly considered himself a far more interesting cicerone than the verbosely ignorant Arab. He therefore restricted Hassan to the mere business details, while he himself undertook the task of conducting his guests, of enlightening their ignorance and training their taste.
As time passed and the day grew in heat, luncheon became the next item on the programme, and at this point Hassan, coming into a portion of his kingdom again, brightened perceptibly. He carefully spread out the dainty meal in the shadow cast by a great wall, whereon sculptured pictorial records of the war-triumphs of a Pharaoh dead for thousands of years still preserved his royal memory green to posterity. Then, seating the company, the dragoman waited upon them with satisfied importance.
After all had recruited their strength for the afternoon's further exploration, Morris suggested that they should mount the sandy slope and stone steps that led to the summit of the pylon—the great gate that formed the entrance to the whole of the ruins. The view thus obtained was wonderful, he assured them; the sun was not too hot to defy the shelter provided by veils and parasols, while any cool breezes that might chance to be wandering around would be more easily found at a height. Thus encouraged, everyone started with such energy up the long, severe slope, that within a very few minutes a halt had to be called, while all stood and panted breathlessly.
"More haste, less speed," declared Morris. "Now, Mrs. Belmont, you and I will play tortoise to their hare, and we will just see who gets to the top first." And, proffering his arm as a support to Lucinda, he encouraged her to persevere.
Tony, who had been sitting cross-legged on the sand,sprang to his feet, and with a sweeping bow offered Evarne a similar attention. She accepted it with a smile, and in due course the summit was attained.
Certainly it was worth the trouble. In the background, against the vividly blue sweep of lofty skies, appeared the sharp and clearly-defined outline of the arid, rose-tinted hills, concealed amid whose rocky recesses lay the tombs of the Pharaohs of bygone days. In the mid-distance the wide Nile—here dignified and placid, untroubled by dams, reservoirs or cataracts—flowed calmly and gently, cool even to behold.
Between the water and the temple the eye roved over pastures, carefully cultivated, often of a most vivid emerald, broken by clusters of lofty, feathery palm-trees. In the fields and on the pale dusty roads were Arabs, their many-hued garments adding to the rich brightness of the scene, yet without rendering it at allvoyante. Over all was the glamour of a dancing haze of golden sunlight.
Near to the pylon, the Old and the New appeared in close conjunction. To the left lay a temple, ruinous yet still massive, and another pylon, far older than the Christian religion, but still almost uninjured by its vast weight of years. Nearer still stretched a wide avenue bordered on either hand by rows of huge ram-headed sphinxes.
To the right of these great works of times long past, lay a tiny poverty-stricken Arab village. It stood in the midst of a thin grove of palms, and was then encircled by an irregular wall of mud bricks. The small houses, also of dried mud, had, for the most part, been erected by their provident builders around the trunks of palm-trees, which helped support the huts, and gave some degree of shelter from the fiery rays of the broiling summer sun. The flat roofs were covered with piles of sugar-cane, amid which played naked brown babies and small ragged children. The terrifying half-savage dogs that defended the village and all its belongings during the hours of night, nowbasked peacefully in the mid-day warmth, or strolled around the top of the encircling wall.
The summit of the pylon itself, though fairly wide, was rough and steep. Its height was great, and the extensive view accentuated the feeling of loftiness. But Evarne's few years of "softness" and luxury had not sufficed to entirely undo the effects of her early training. The sensation of height had small effect upon her well-trained nerves, and when she wished to gaze particularly into one special little courtyard within the village, she walked boldly to the farther end and edge of the pylon.
As the party had neared the top their ears had been greeted by the sound of numerous voices uplifted in unison; on gaining this point of vantage the source of these cries could be seen.
Evidently death had visited the village that day, for the courtyard of one of the largest of the small houses was filled with women wailing and lamenting, while little knots of females were approaching with all speed from the entire countryside. Clad in their shapeless and voluminous black robes, with trailing ends leaving clouds of dust in their wake, their heads veiled, their faces hidden in the yashmak, they formed a strange, weird spectacle as they advanced, all uttering concerted cries of mourning that grew louder as they neared the village in which the dead man lay. The European witnesses of this phase of native life were convinced that only the departure to another world of one of the male half of humanity would have sufficed to create such a stir in the surrounding district.
A band of mourners reached their goal. Their arrival was the signal for the already assembled women of the village to wax yet more demonstrative in their display of anguish. The long shuddering moans, the shrill piercing cries, grew louder and more insistent, while dozens of lean brown arms were raised in despairing appeal to heaven,then descended with force upon head or face, and others of the mourners tore frantically at the garments over their breasts.
"It's just as it is drawn on the ancient monuments, the very same; they haven't changed a bit in all these thousands of years," cried Evarne. She was far more thrilled by this illustration of the realism of Egyptian art and of this justification for that romantic term—The Unchanging East—than moved to sorrow by the conventional mourning of the many wailers.
Evidently the news had spread widely. From all directions black figures bore down upon the village, sometimes in groups of six or eight, sometimes in bodies of thirty or more. Each one on her arrival passed into the low hut wherein the corpse lay, then came out after a minute or so to add her quota to the increasing lamentation for the dead. This business of mourning was clearly still the prerogative of the female sex. No men took any share in it—indeed, the only two existing in the whole place, as far as could be seen, were squatting calmly in a neighbouring yard, unconcernedly holding and milking a buffalo.
Evarne looked round for Morris. He stood just at the top of the slope, Lucinda still clinging to his arm.
"Come along to where I am, Morris," the girl called out to him. "You can see everything much better from here."
He made a movement as if to follow her suggestion, but Lucinda said something in a low voice, whereupon he replied—
"Mrs. Belmont feels too giddy either to walk or to be left alone; but don't you bother about us, my dear. We can really witness all the fun of the fair quite nicely."
"That chap may have died of fever or smallpox, or goodness knows what," remarked Tony's voice by her ear. "With all these women trotting in to have a last stare at the old boy—why, it's enough to infect the neighbourhood, isn't it?"
To Evarne the Jealous the health of the whole countryside was as nothing at that moment compared to the fact that when she had directly called upon her lover to join her, Lucinda should have had the assurance to promptly whisper a suggestion that he should remain where he was, and that the wish of her rival should have sufficed to keep Morris from her side.
She turned to Tony.
"Take my smelling-salts over to Mrs. Belmont," she said, opening her hand-bag and producing the little crystal bottle with its jewelled stopper. "Stay by her and look after her if she feels bad, won't you, so that Mr. Kenyon may come here where it is easier to see?"
But a different remedy for overcoming the lady's attack of nausea had already been prescribed. Supported by Morris's arm she had commenced to descend from the height.
Evarne instinctively uttered a little exclamation.
"Let 'em go," suggested Tony. "We don't want to go down yet, do we, Miss Stornway?"
Evarne glanced around at the remainder of her companions. Tom and Justine were seated close together on a stone by her side, apparently as rooted to the spot as ever Theseus and Pitheous could have been; the others were grouped near at hand, all staring downwards with the keenest interest.
Evarne was obliged to agree. Nature had been very neglectful in not imbuing her with the art of scheming and contriving events to suit her own purposes. True, she had now a daily object-lesson in the manœuvres of the adept Lucinda, and without being conscious thereof, her education in this direction was in progress. However, she was still in the very early stages, and could devise no method on the spur of the moment for preventing this hateful division of the party.
She shook her head and pursed up her mouth discontentedly.
"It's very evident that no one else wishes to descend yet awhile," she acknowledged. "Just ask Mr. Kenyon, then, where we shall find him when we do return to earth."
Tony left her side, and as rapidly came back.
"It's arranged that we are to have tea at four o'clock on the same spot where we lunched. Kenyon says let's meet there at that hour, and all wander about anywhere we choose for the rest of the afternoon. If there's anything particular we want to see again, Hassan knows the way about. That's all right, isn't it?"
She nodded, but dared not trust herself to speak.
"Aren't we tired of this diversion?" cried Guiseppe, joining them a couple of minutes later, his bright spirit having no inclination to dwell long on aught connected with death.
"The others are not, but that is no reason why you should remain," she answered rather eagerly. "Anyone who does not want another hour at least up here is to go with Mr. Kenyon. Hurry up!"
She experienced a certain malicious delight in the idea that she had thus counteracted Lucinda's trick, but her self-congratulation was but short-lived. Guiseppe promptly returned to her side.
"Kenyon says Mrs. Belmont's head is too bad to stand my noisy chatter," he explained. "Noisy chatter, d'you hear, Tony, old boy? My noisy chatter, forsooth! That to me, the most timid, retiring violet of the whole lot of you," and he set to work to prove his words by causing the very echoes to ring with his clear musical laughter.
Evarne clenched her hands, and a ferment of emotions tore her breast. Of course she had known all along that Morris was perfectly capable of procuringsolitude à deuxin the face of any difficulties if such were his wish. Now this proved it! It was his will, not his ingenuity, that had failed, when subduing Tony's attentions to herself had been the problem.