Atthe hour appointed for tea they all headed their course towards the site chosen for meals, and there, already seated on the rugs, comfortably leaning against the wall, were Lucinda and her escort.
"Where have you been?" shouted Guiseppe. "You don't know what we've just been learning, ignorant ones that you are. The columns in the great hall are three thousand five hundred feet high, and——"
"No, no! three thousand five hundred years old," he was corrected.
"Oh, I retire crushed."
"You need a cup of tea to revive your failing mental powers. So do we all." And ere long the spirit-stove boiled away merrily and the general desire was gratified.
"You have indeed missed an interesting sight this afternoon," declared Signora Varesio.
"My unfortunate giddiness!" sighed Lucinda plaintively.
"What have you seen to compensate for it?"
"Oh, we have been over to a little temple—most interesting. But I was fated to receive shocks this afternoon. In it there is——"
"Don't tell," interposed Morris. "After tea we will take them all over and let them make the discovery for themselves. It will delight you, Evarne, I'm certain."
As he spoke he looked across at the girl with that tendersmile that always penetrated to her very heart. It could do much even now to heal that dull ache that would make itself felt despite her belief in his repeated assurances of the fixity of his affection towards her sweet self, and her consequent faith that the affair with Lucinda was a mere temporary flirtation. She tried hard to be reasonable, and so long as she could think that Morris's earnest and serious love was still hers, and that the attraction any other woman might have for him was merely temporary, she felt that—although a degree of anxiety and apprehension was inevitable—she ought to be able to look down from the superior heights of constancy and make allowances for that dancing butterfly—a man's fancy.
Still, this course of diplomacy—laid down by that most successful of royal mistresses, Madame de Pompadour—is difficult and painful indeed when the heart-happiness of the resident on the superior heights depends wholly upon the vagaries of the butterfly. Moreover, Evarne's poor little vanity was receiving a series of severe blows. For so long she had been accustomed to being first and foremost in Morris's regard—to seeing the society of all other women set aside, if at all possible, for her own. Now, despite her combination of trust and philosophy, this new state of affairs was a protracted anguish. She was resolutely brave under it—perhaps too much so to be quite pleasing or flattering to Morris. Even the deep-rooted hatred she bore Lucinda was almost entirely hidden.
When the slight meal was ended and the moment came for once more setting forth, Mrs. Belmont arose with a childishly pretty air of happy importance. "Now I must be dragoman," she declared, and proceeded to lead the way amid the ruined masses of stone and fallen columns. But she was soon fain to confess that she could not remember the track, and called upon Morris for aid.
Smiling, he took the lead. Poor Evarne! Life seemed to have become a series of heart-squeezings. Her keeneye noted the smile that was flashed upon Lucinda, and it appeared to her to be every whit as indulgent and kindly—almost as caressing—as that which had hitherto been reserved for herself alone.
It was necessary to cover quite a long distance over a plain besprinkled not only with fallen stones, but with a long spiky growth that rendered progress difficult.
"It is well worth this walk," declared Morris, joining her after a while, "for what we are going to see is the most perfectly-preserved temple in the whole of Karnak. It is very small, but one gets from it a better idea of what these buildings must have looked like in their palmy days than the larger ruins can show."
"Talking about 'perfectly preserved,' why didn't the old 'Gyps pickle their 'corpsies' instead of bothering to stuff them?" demanded Tony.
"Don't be nasty," retorted Evarne curtly; and a few minutes later the goal was reached.
"Now, go in one by one," suggested Morris, "and ladies, be prepared for a shock."
Despite this warning, Evarne could hardly suppress a little cry as she, in her turn, entered alone into the inner sanctuary of the tiny temple. Its walls were completely decorated with richly coloured representations of weird deities and worshipping mortals. There was no window, but the rays of the sinking sun filtered in through a small opening in the roof. The chamber was dim and gloomy, but the one square beam of light was arranged to fall with concentrated force upon a solitary upstanding statue in polished black basalt. It depicted a slender woman's form, surmounted by a cat's head. So perfect was it in every detail, so realistic, so full of quiet animation, that for a moment Evarne had believed herself to be in the presence of something living and dreadful.
Almost immediately, of course, she realised her mistake, and knew it for what it was—a representation of theancient Egyptian goddess Sekhet. Already that day the girl had stood in the middle of an open field—once the site of a great temple, of which the ruins lay all about—and gazed around the extensive circle of large, gleaming, black marble statues of Sekhet that now alone remained to hint at the departed grandeur of this vanished temple.
Evarne's brown eyes had grown graver, and all-unconsciously she had sighed deeply as she stood amidst those numerous Sekhets seated beneath the clear blue sky. They had struck strange awe to her heart, these symbolic counterfeits of the goddess who presided over the most powerful—the most eternal—forces in heaven and earth, Sekhet—goddess both of Love and of Cruelty! Ah, they were a subtle people, those ancient Egyptians, skilful in reading the heart of humanity, fearless of the truth, defiant in stripping the gloss from life!
The light laughter and exclamations of her companions had jarred upon Evarne's ear. She felt weighed down with an unreasoning reverence. These solemn figures in the great ruined hall of the temple had seemed instinct with a supernatural power. Battered by the passing of much time, discredited for centuries as representing a great divinity—objects but of curiosity and wonder to this age—they had yet appealed to her as invested with the calm complacency of conscious power. Serenely they sat, confidently awaiting at least the individual recognition and homage of mankind. Strangely did they convey the idea that theirs was the triumphant knowledge that, for so long as human hearts can pulsate, for so long, too, Sekhet—the personification of Love and Lust, and the suffering both bring—shall find her throne, her shrine, her arena.
This figure that Evarne now stood before was not seated. Somewhat over life-size it stood, stiffly erect, one foot advanced, the symbol of Life held in its grasp. It was raised above the sand of the floor on a low pedestal. Evarnestood motionless, gazing upwards. The battered figures in the open had been impressive, but this one—uninjured, and with the artificial advantage of its surroundings—was more than that! It was terrible, awe-inspiring, with its inhuman head, the menacing feline features bearing so clearly the impress of unpitying and vindictive cruelty, malignant spite, merciless joy in the inflicting and witnessing of the direst agonies that can rack tortured brain or flesh or spirit.
Evarne had been the last to enter, and as she rejoined her companions outside, the party commenced to retrace its steps. Unperceived, she left them and returned to the temple. She had something to say to Sekhet.
Alone she stood, facing the goddess—the lifeless marble into which the hand of an artist, long since pulseless, had wrought this unhallowed expression with such marvellous realism that it was difficult to remember that no knowledge, no power, no fearsome intelligence, lay behind those gleaming eyes, that low animal brow. Evarne stood motionless, gazing intently up at the brutal face, trying to forget her own individuality and all that was modern. It had been a little prayer that was in her heart as she hastened back, but now she shook her head slowly as the conception of the innate and unalterable cruelty of Sekhet impressed itself with yet greater force upon her mind. This was a goddess who surely had ever been more inclined to fulfil curses than to answer prayers.
As she commenced her half-whispered appeal she recalled some of the titles under which this cat-headed image had been invoked—doubtless many a time and oft—in the dim and distant past. "Oh, Queen of the Goddesses! Oh, Crusher of Hearts! If you can hear me and still wield power, let just tribulation fall on all those who set forth to steal a love that is not free for them—a love to which they have no right—a love that is another's! May success but open the gates of sorrow; may that whichthey desired and schemed to gain crush the heart, even in its triumph, down to the very dust! Deal out stern justice, untempered by all mercy, to the false, the scornful, the treacherous, the hypocritical, to those who are unscrupulous and base in thy service, and who cast aside all honour when in pursuit of that which thou dost offer!"
Then she stood silent awhile, still gazing with fixed eyes at the impassive countenance before her, monstrous, yet so strangely human. She had not originally designed to send forth such a plea into the universe, but it had arisen spontaneously from the depth of her soul, and she would not have recalled one word.
Then she turned, and slowly, with strange reluctance proceeded to quit this dim sanctuary. Still her mind was not relieved. Impulsively she hastened back and stood close under the grim black statue.
"Sekhet," she whispered softly and rapidly, "help me—help me always. Whatever be the price of your aid I will pay it ungrudgingly. Watch over me; be ever near me. I cannot live without love. I do not shrink from its suffering. Sekhet, at all costs, I am thy worshipper. Do not forsake me. Do not forsake me ever."
At the throat of her gown were fastened a couple of crimson roses. They drooped now after the long day, yet were still rich in perfume. These she unclasped and laid on the yellow sand at the base of the statue. Then, with a final glance around the little chamber—once well accustomed to the sound of prayer, now but the relic of a dead religion—she hurried away.
Evarneradiated with delight and relief when this Nile cruise came to an end. She could not avoid the mortifying conviction that she had proved herself very childish and incompetent in having allowed a state of affairs so painful—let alone dangerous to herself and her future—to have come to pass, and to continue. Lucinda, ignorant as a kitten on Egyptology and all kindred subjects, had been wont to wax enthusiastic over what she appeared to consider Evarne's quite superhuman fund of knowledge and marvellous intelligence, as contrasted with her own much-lamented but unconquerable silliness. Yet the girl guessed shrewdly that had the situations been reversed, the frivolous, empty-headed Lucinda, so given to harping on the topic of her own incompetence, would have proved an infinitely more resourceful and successful tactician.
Delightful indeed was it to see the last of the Belmonts—both so objectionable in their respective ways—and when she found herself once again alone with Morris at "Mon Bijou," she was gay and light-hearted as any child in her renewed happiness. Florelli's studio saw her not. She devoted her whole time to Morris, as bright, appreciative and amusing a little comrade as man could wish.
But, alack and alas! this sojourn in the oasis of contentment was destined to be but brief. One morning, not long after their return, as they sat at breakfast on the verandah, Bianca entered with the post. No letters evercame for Evarne save bills, which she always passed straight over to Morris; but this time her name appeared on the face of a delicate pink envelope. On the back were the initials "L. B.," intertwined into a large and involved gold monogram.
The whole thing was highly perfumed, and its recipient sniffed with exaggerated disdain even before she had opened the envelope and mastered its contents. When she had done that she looked up in genuine indignation as she murmured, "The impertinence of the woman!"
Morris, who had been watching her, now reached over for the letter, and likewise perused the "impertinence." It apparently did not strike him in the same light, for, as he laid it down, a meditative grunt of approval accompanied the action.
"I think we will accept," he said.
"Oh no, no—impossible!" was Evarne's instantaneous and startled response.
The letter that had created such emphatic difference of opinion ran as follows:—
"Dearest Evarne(for so I always think of you),—Absence makes the heart grow fonder, so they say, and I find it true that it wasn't until the radiant time on 'The Radiant Isis' was over that I realised how very attached I'd become to you, dear. I do hope we shall mature our friendship begun under such delightful auspices, so I am writing to ask you if you will become my guest in Paris for some weeks. Do come, dear; I am so looking forward to seeing you again."I'm well aware when I ask this that Mr. Kenyon is the fair Evarne's devoted shadow, and I mustn't dare to enjoy the sweet charm of the rose without its accompanying thorn (of course that is quite between ourselves, dear); but Tony is writing to him, for he has promised (dear fellow!) to take Mr. Kenyon off on long masculine jaunts(and we won't inquire too deeply where they go, will we, dear?) while you and I are enjoying the Paris shops and other feminine frivolities in one another's society to our heart's content."I am looking forward to a most enjoyable time, darling Evarne."Your affectionate friend,"Lucinda Belmont."P.S.—We shall be both getting our new season's 'rigs-out,' shan't we? I know of such a heavenly place for hats."
"Dearest Evarne(for so I always think of you),—Absence makes the heart grow fonder, so they say, and I find it true that it wasn't until the radiant time on 'The Radiant Isis' was over that I realised how very attached I'd become to you, dear. I do hope we shall mature our friendship begun under such delightful auspices, so I am writing to ask you if you will become my guest in Paris for some weeks. Do come, dear; I am so looking forward to seeing you again.
"I'm well aware when I ask this that Mr. Kenyon is the fair Evarne's devoted shadow, and I mustn't dare to enjoy the sweet charm of the rose without its accompanying thorn (of course that is quite between ourselves, dear); but Tony is writing to him, for he has promised (dear fellow!) to take Mr. Kenyon off on long masculine jaunts(and we won't inquire too deeply where they go, will we, dear?) while you and I are enjoying the Paris shops and other feminine frivolities in one another's society to our heart's content.
"I am looking forward to a most enjoyable time, darling Evarne.
"Your affectionate friend,
"Lucinda Belmont.
"P.S.—We shall be both getting our new season's 'rigs-out,' shan't we? I know of such a heavenly place for hats."
"Oh, indeed, I don't want to go! I should hate it. I can't bear either Mr. or Mrs. Belmont," cried Evarne, after a silence long enough to show only too plainly that Morris was not going to readily yield to her desires in the matter.
On the contrary, he proceeded to argue. At her age she ought not to seek to bury herself in the solitude of studios or a villa remote from the centres of civilisation. She owed it to herself to be seen and admired. She must go more amongst people, and the companionship of a good-natured, clever woman of the world—such as was Mrs. Belmont—would be of vast benefit to her in every way.
The girl retorted that she had no objection to the centres of civilisation as such, nor to meeting as many of Morris's friends as he wished, but that she would not visit Mrs. Belmont, with whom she had not a taste or a thought in common; who was, in fact, a person entirely and absolutely hateful in her eyes.
Her voice quite quivered with apprehensive distress, but when Morris proceeded to speak on Lucinda's behalf, lauding her tact and worldly knowledge, Evarne rose in indignant wrath.
If those were the qualities that were characteristic of Mrs. Belmont, then, for her part, she hoped never to becometainted by their possession. "But," she declared, "without being either as tactful, or as wise, or as experienced as that middle-aged designing creature, I'm not quite the abject fool she seems to take me for. She need not think that her sickening show of affection towards me has ever deceived me one jot. I put up with it and her in Egypt because I couldn't help myself, but I'm not going to her house, and you can write and tell her so, for I shan't even answer her hateful, hypocritical letter; so there!"
Having delivered herself of this ultimatum, she flung her serviette on the table and swept away, heedlessly dragging over her chair with the train of her morning gown. Morris gazed in amazement at her empty place.
It was the first serious clash of wills that had ever risen between the girl and her lover. The dispute was ardent and protracted, but very soon it became evident that both her coaxing and her resolutions were equally vain when opposed to his wishes. While ostentatiously leaving her perfect freedom of choice for herself, he was going to Paris!
So, with the utmost reluctance and a considerable sense of humiliation, Evarne submitted as gracefully as might be. She could not bring herself to so far cherish her dignity as to remain haughtily alone at "Mon Bijou," knowing Morris to be once more within the range of the wiles and allurements of a clever and unscrupulousdemi-mondaine. Although she believed that, up to the present, she still retained her sway upon his affections, his own teachings led her not to place too confiding a reliance upon the Joseph-like qualities of the most devoted of lovers.
Never before had she bade adieu to her beautiful brilliant room with such a heavy heart. She stood in the doorway, gazing longingly around, imprinting every corner, every contrast of colour, freshly upon her memory. How happy she had been at "Mon Bijou"! How dear it all was to her!
Both common-sense and diplomacy prompted her to greet Lucinda with smiling, albeit somewhat stiff, cordiality, and she effectively concealed her scorn when her hostess, gushingly embracing her, put her face close up to hers and made a hasty little smacking sound into the air, first on one side, then on the other—Lucinda's only conception of how to kiss another woman.
Morris had given Evarne a cheque-book, and opened a generous account for her at his bank, and for the first few days the programme promised in the invitation was carried out to the letter. He and Tony did, in fact, derive whatever satisfaction and benefit was to be gained from one another's society, while their female belongings amused themselves together by shopping and such-like diversions. The girl could not but acknowledge that Lucinda's vivacity and bright flow of talk were far from unamusing, yet to recognise the efficiency of the weapons of one whom she felt to be her remorseless foe did not at all ease her mind or soften her reciprocal feelings of enmity.
Very soon the foreseen change came to pass.
"It's absolutely stupid to have nice men on hand if one is to see nothing of them. One might just as well be a miserable Egyptian woman right away," announced Lucinda, and none could contradict her words. "It's too mean of me to bore dear Evarne by keeping her all to my dull self," was her next statement. And so the divided expeditions of the party ceased, and then it was not long ere the old miserable state of affairs that had ruined the cruise of "The Radiant Isis" was again in full swing.
But even this was not enough. Next came the suggestion thattête-à-têteexpeditions were, after all, better. Lucinda was sure that, as Evarne was so clever, and an artist too, she, of course, must want to go round the galleries and see the statues and such-like things. Lucinda herself was so very silly she couldn't appreciate old masters one bit. Then she got such dreadful headaches in theclose atmosphere. It must be lovely to be strong just like a man, as dear Evarne was, but for her part she got utterly exhausted in half an hour. Really, she must reluctantly relinquish these delightful expeditions to dear Tony. Tony had quite gone off his head lately; he had actually taken to trying to improve his mind. She couldn't imagine why! As if dear Tony wasn't quite clever enough as it was for a silly, frivolous little woman like herself, who only cared for chiffons. Perhaps it was the beneficial result of Evarne's society on board "The Radiant Isis." She only wished she was half as clever as dear Evarne; cultivated women acquired such a good influence over men—so much more powerful and lasting than silly, frivolous creatures like herself could ever hope to gain.
Evarne hated her! Hated her for her gibes, her scarce-concealed mockery, and, above all, she loathed her for the sarcastic flattery and never-failing show of affection under which thin veil she sought to cover her intention of stealing the girl's rich lover, if she could encompass that act. It was a method that made retort difficult; and, moreover, Evarne was under the disadvantage of still retaining her over-sensitive self-respect. It was revolting to her to openly admit that she was engaged in a vulgar struggle with another woman—and a woman so far beneath herself—for the possession of a man.
Now she said simply and frankly that her interest in museums had always depended entirely upon Morris's society, and that without him such things did not appeal to her much. But, far from pleased by this statement, he frowned darkly, spoke of neglected opportunities, and discourtesy to her host. Finally he acknowledged that—relying upon her being otherwise pleasantly occupied—he had arranged to take Mrs. Belmont for some expeditions in a certain swift motor-car that only accommodated two. Thus, short of creating a scene, the girl found herself faced by the alternatives of remaining alone in the flat,obviously sulking, or endeavouring to cover her defeat by accepting Tony's eager escort and pretending to enjoy visiting the antiquities and art treasures in the Louvre.
She had already implored Morris to leave Paris, but he had turned a deaf ear to her appeal. Now, although she managed to smile at Tony and to declare, gaily enough, her willingness to further encourage him in improving his mind together with her own, she was torn by agony of spirit at this new proof of her beloved's rapidly maturing infatuation for her rival.
Nevertheless, it all had the advantage of preventing the final blow from falling as a bolt from the blue. Nor was the hour far off.
Onemorning, weary and depressed after a wakeful night, her determination had faltered at the very moment of setting out on an expedition with Tony as sole escort. With her foot actually on the step of the carriage she had suddenly informed him, somewhat curtly, that he really must amuse himself that day, returning and shutting herself in her room, deaf to all expostulations.
Tony, decidedly chagrined, had loitered for a while in the lonely flat—teased the dog—flirted with one of the maid-servants—and had finally taken his departure.
Evarne sat on in solitude, alternately striving to read a novel and freely permitting her tortured imagination to dwell on the vision of Morris and Lucinda being whirled happily together through the fresh country lanes.
A few hours later, hearing a footstep and the sound of the opening front door, and wishing now to make peace with Tony before the others returned and troubled her with "whys" and "wherefores," she went to the drawing-room, prepared to be very sweet and amiable. But the footsteps had not been those of her host. It was the motoring couple who had returned thus early.
Lucinda, vivacious as usual, had already removed her hat and veil, and was drawing off her long gloves. She worked industriously at the fingers of one hand until she had drawn a loose end of the white kid forward over each finger-tip then suddenly called upon Morris.
"I'm impatient. I can't tear these things off. You had better come to the rescue."
Gathering up the already loose ends between his thumb and finger, Morris took hold of her other hand also, and suddenly jerked both her arms forcibly over his shoulders. As she unavoidably fell forward on his breast he encircled her waist and kissed the laughing face so near to his own.
"There's none like you, you damned little witch," he declared.
Evarne had not desired to be an eavesdropper, and had no thought of concealing her presence now. She still held in her hand the book she had been reading, and, with a sharp indrawing of her breath, announced her presence by violently flinging the volume to the ground with a loud bang.
Seeing her, Lucinda uttered a scream and fled. Morris remained without moving, gazing at the girl with the utmost nonchalance.
"You've precipitated matters, Evarne," he said calmly.
Her first outburst of anger was directed against Lucinda.
"There's nothing in all this world that is more utterly despicable and hateful and detestable, more altogether vile, than to pretend a friendship for a woman in order to get chances to steal her lover!" she cried, with sufficient energy to suggest that she was directing her opinion through the closed door that Lucinda had banged after her in her hurried flight.
"All's fair in love and war," retorted Morris.
"That's a lie," was the startlingly frank answer.
"Is it? Then what about you and Tony?"
"Tony Belmont? Be careful, Morris! What about us? That creature, seeing something more to her taste in you, has flung her cast-off lover at my head. He has played into her hands readily enough, and you have stood by and seen it being done. How dare you then ask such a question?"
"Well, you may choose to look at it in that light, butthe fact remains unaltered and undeniable that Tony practically deserted Lucinda from the time he first saw you, and you didn't care one jot what suffering it caused that poor little woman."
"Poor defenceless little darling!"
The words were spoken with bitter sarcasm, while the fiery indignation already surging within the girl's breast increased tenfold beneath this amazing accusation—this unscrupulous falsifying of the truth. There was a moment's silence, then her words rang out with passionate force—
"Oh, the arch hypocrisy! Liars, both of you—abject liars—trying to make excuses for your own foul treachery! It's sickening! I shan't stay another night—no, not another hour—beneath her roof."
"It is Tony's roof, and you had better remain."
"I won't, I won't! How can you even suggest such a thing? I can't breathe the same air that she does. It's poisonous—contaminated!"
"Gently, gently; you'll be overheard."
"Rubbish! I don't care! I won't be gentle. What do you mean by defending her? What is she to you?"
And the verbal refusal to be gentle was confirmed by a violent blow on the table.
Morris, albeit decidedly surprised, answered with unruffled suavity. He was quite willing to make allowances for this natural anger and show of indignation; at the same time the wondrous patience the girl had exhibited hitherto had given him little cause to anticipate the tempestuous quality of her aroused wrath.
"Is your philosophy all culled from antique authors, sweet student? Have you never found time to peep into Darwin and assimilate the doctrine of the Survival of the Fittest?"
"What's that to do——?" she cried in bewilderment,not seeing at first any connection between her question and this answer. Yet even as she spoke came a sudden mental illumination of his meaning.
"Morris, you can't mean to say you really do prefer that vulgar, coarse-minded, spiteful, abandoned creature to—to——Oh Heaven!"
She brushed her hair roughly back from her forehead, and stared at him fixedly, her big eyes still full of incredulity. Then she uttered a brief laugh of mingled bitterness and disdain.
"But there! From a man's point of view, I suppose the Fittest always and only implies the Newest. Despicable wretches, the whole lot of you."
Morris, amused at this sweeping statement, smiled as he answered—
"But it's a little weakness that is no ways confined to mere man. It isn't only to us that constancy spells boredom. It's all very well for middle-aged women, who feel their power of pleasing on the wane, to cling like limpets. We expect it, and it's one reason why wise men avoid 'em. It always means beastly rows in the long run. But, thank goodness, at your time of life, my child, variety is charming, even to the fair sex."
The latter portion of these sentiments fell unheeded—practically unheard. All the girl's thoughts and senses were concentrated upon her own agony of spirit. Fully grasping now, for the very first time, that Morris's defection was serious and deliberate, all indignation and resentment were swamped by a wave of wild grief and horror before which all else broke down. When she could speak it was only in disjointed sentences, in a voice that quivered under stress of emotion and struggled with choking sobs.
"Oh, oh! Can I only bore you now by loving you? You can't mean that. Not really and truly. I can't have lost your love so utterly. What have I ever done?Oh, Morris, what have I done? I've never altered to you, and I never would. I would always be faithful to you—always. Is it a curse to have a faithful heart? I can't stop caring for you, because you tell me to; how—how can I? Are you really altogether tired of me? I knew men did get tired, easily, cruelly easily, but somehow——Perhaps if I'd been different? Oh, I did try! I did, always! I did! But there, I've been so utterly miserable lately, it's better really to know the truth straight out at once. Tell me the truth, Morris."
"But you know it, my dear."
"Tell me, tell me!"
"Now what is the good of upsetting yourself like this? Come, come!"
"You're going to give that—that woman—my place! Oh! you'll be sorry. She's only selfish and mercenary. She doesn't love you, and I do. You—you don't care for that, though. Oh, how can you?"
Morris was feeling awkwardly uncomfortable. He took a flower from a vase, and put it in his buttonhole before he spoke.
"I'm perfectly aware," he confessed at length, "that in the abstract Lucinda is neither so handsome, so brilliant, nor so really delightful as you are, but still—still——" He paused. "There, I'm not worth bothering about, so dry your eyes."
By a powerful effort of self-command she managed to regain some degree of composure, and to steady her voice. Quite quietly she repeated his words, "not worth bothering about," then, after an interval, "Ah, me!"
The tender yearning tone in which this little exclamation came was fraught with significance. After another moment's thought she approached quite close to him, and rested the tips of her fingers upon his chest.
"I'm afraid youareworth bothering about, my dear," she went on, making a rather pitiful little attempt to hideher sick anxiety by pretending to smile. Then, after a somewhat protracted pause, she spoke again.
"I—I—there, why should I be ashamed to say it again, even now? I love you still—oh, so much! I'm sure I shall always love you. I can't help it. We can't arrange our feelings so that they shall always be convenient and suitable. It was never really right that we should care for one another at all, because—because of your wife, and I would never—no never—have taken her place if you had even so much as hinted that you might one day come to look upon it as something merely temporary; something that could be lightly set aside as soon as you met another woman whom you—liked a bit.
"No, don't speak, Morris! I haven't done yet. You know full well that though I loved you, oh! so dearly, I never wanted to lead any other than what I thought was a perfectly honourable life. You know you didn't win me easily, in spite of everything being in your favour. You told me that because you had made a mistake in your marriage you were lonely and unhappy, and that, though you couldn't make me really your wife, our union should be as lasting and sacred as any legal bond. It was to be your true marriage. You're not treating me fairly now, dear, you're not really. You ought to feel really more tied to me by honour and loyalty than you would do even if I were indeed your wife, and had not lost my good name for your sake. I've never been troublesome and jealous, you can't say that, and when you found you were getting—well, seriously attached to another woman, it's not a bit unreasonable of me to think you ought to have avoided seeing her again. You owed it to me to be true always—you did, indeed. You knew I was not like Mrs. Belmont, who treats these ties so lightly. Come away now, darling—come away from Paris. She can't really have won your heart yet—only your fancy, only your passing fancy, Morris. You would soon forget her. Come away withme, and we will be so happy together again, and honest and upright and without any cause to be ashamed, either of us. Do come, darling—do, do."
Her arms were tightly clasped around his neck, and her wistful, eager face—the piteous brown eyes moist and beseeching—were close to his. But beauty that has palled no longer possesses power. Sentimental appeals to honour and loyalty were very troublesome; while the reference to an imaginary link that was to be held binding upon him for evermore was merely vexing.
"You're a good, sweet little soul," he said, rather testily, unclasping her arms—"no one knows that better than I do—and I should have supposed, therefore, that you would be the last to suggest that we should continue our life together without mutual love. On the contrary, a woman of your moral excellence ought not to be willing to consent to such a proceeding. And, what's more, you mustn't blame me, you know. Remember your own wise words, 'We can't arrange our feelings, our affections, according to what would be, perhaps, the most conducive to a quiet life.' We may all be but the sport of the gods, but let's go on strike against taking part in any tragedies for the entertainment of the higher powers. Let's insist on being merely comedians. We will say good-bye smilingly, and thus snap our fingers at Fate."
Evarne twisted her hands together helplessly. She had much to say, so much, but further speech was beyond her power.
Her throat swelled, she bit the inside of her lower lip pitilessly to stay its quivering, but was scarcely conscious of the tears that poured down her cheeks unheeded. After a minute's futile struggle to retain some show of self-command, she moved away a step or two, sank into an armchair, buried her face in the cushions, and sobbed without restraint.
A tumultuous medley of wild impassioned ideas surgedwithin her brain, incomplete thoughts, disconnected and rapidly cast aside. But, amid them all, were none urging calm submission, dignified resignation. On the contrary, all alike were directed on evolving some method of warding off this unendurable blow—or, at least, since it had fallen, of nullifying its effects.
The thing seemed so incredible, unreal, impossible, the end of all life. She resolutely declined to admit that there was nothing whatsoever to be done; she could not consent to allow all hope to leave her. And yet—yet—immovable and grim, the bedrock underlying these wild surgings of despised and deserted love, was the conviction that her richest store of eloquence, the whole of her most intense and protracted efforts, would prove powerless to alter the inevitable. Distracted, tortured, she gasped between her sobs—
"I shall kill myself."
Morris was just in the act of stealing softly from the room. Looking rather foolish, he turned sharply, and crossed over to her side.
"Tut, tut! You don't know what you're saying now, you're talking wildly," he declared soothingly. "You really mustn't take things so to heart. You'll make yourself quite ill. Go and lie down quietly, and I'll send Bianca in to you with a cup of tea."
"You think I don't know what I'm saying, but I know that I'm not saying half I feel," she declared truthfully enough. Then, after a moment's further reflection, her momentary composure again gave way. "Oh, how could you make me love you, only to treat me like this? It was cruel, brutal! How can I bear it?"
Morris patted her shoulder encouragingly, but remained silent. He had been through a few tempestuous scenes ere this, and knowing that a man did not shine on such occasions, was resigned to looking and feeling foolish while it lasted, devoting his efforts chiefly to getting themauvaisquart d'heureover as quietly as possible. For this, his one theory lay in the proverb, "Least said, soonest mended."
Evarne put out her hand and pushed him away.
"Don't do that—don't! You know you hate me now."
Again Morris smiled; women always went to such extremes.
"Bless you, not a bit of it! Why, I hope we are going to part the best of friends," was his lightly spoken disavowal of this accusation.
"To part!" murmured Evarne, after him, monotonously—"to part!"
Then suddenly an inward voice seemed to commence repeating over and over again, "There is nothing so dead as a dead love. There is nothing so dead as a dead love. Nothing so dead, nothing, nothing!" It was maddening. The unhesitating certainty—the calm conviction animating the phrase—brought final despair. In it she heard a call, inspired by the wisdom of ages, the outcome of the most bitter experience of long generations of mankind; a call to abandon efforts that were predestined to be sterile. It was as if she were abruptly faced by the inscription that Dante read over the gateways of hell. Sitting erect, she lifted her voice in lamentation.
"Oh, Morris, darling, you can't change so utterly. You're the same man. I'm still the same woman. How many times did you swear you would love me always and ever—always and ever—and now I'm only just twenty!" she wailed, catching at his arm and pressing her cheek to his coat-sleeve, while her sobs grew louder and more convulsive.
Morris, already wearied, felt a tiny twinge of compunction, and was thereupon easily moved to anger by her impassioned weeping.
"For goodness' sake, Evarne, do let us have an end to this ridiculous scene," he said roughly, shaking himself free from her despairing hold. "Do recognise the factthat not all the pleading in the world will have any effect on me. If you don't pull yourself together you'll have hysterics in a moment, and I've no patience with hysterical women."
The action, the cruel words themselves, and the tone in which they were uttered, combined to goad the girl to sudden wrath. She sprang to her feet, and without a moment's hesitation frantically struck him on the chest with her clenched fist.
"Don't think I shall ask anything of you now—no, not so much as your patience," she cried. "I don't intend to plead with any man for his love, least of all with you—don't think it! I never want to see you again, never! Go to Mrs. Belmont—go and make her your mistress."
Morris allowed himself to be thoroughly angered by the blow.
"Thanks for the permission," he said curtly; "but it happens to be quite unnecessary, as we have not waited for it."
He now anticipated being deluged beneath a torrent of words, but though her lips parted, Evarne stood quite speechless, only blinking her eyes a little, as if bewildered and dazed. Then she slowly retreated backwards across the room step by step, until she was brought to a standstill by reaching the china cabinet. Leaning against it, she turned her head from side to side for a minute or two, then, producing a flimsy, ineffectual little handkerchief, proceeded, with strange, unlooked-for composure, to wipe her eyes and tear-stained cheeks.
"So now you see you may just as well be sensible and resigned, eh?" suggested Morris, with forced carelessness.
Evarne made no sign of having heard, but continued her touching little occupation. The protracted silence became embarrassing. Morris was haunted by the fear that this apparently delightful calm must be but ominous and deceptive.
"I'll make different arrangements by to-morrow," he continued at length, in a business-like tone. "I can understand you don't care to be in the same place. I ought not to have allowed it. I apologise."
Still silence. He was just about to speak again, when Evarne announced in tones of quiet conviction, seemingly to herself, "I must get away from this house at once—at once!" and walked towards the door as if about to suit the action to the words without any delay.
But Morris hurried over to prevent the fulfilment of this impulse.
"Believe me," he assured her, retaining his grasp of the door-handle, "there is some one who would rather that all the rest of us should slip over the fourth dimension than have you undertake therôleof vanishing lady. Darwin applies all round, remember, and to Tony's way of thinking you are the fittest in all the world."
A dangerous gleam darted into the girl's eyes, and she stamped her foot passionately.
"How dare you offer me such an insult? Haven't you done enough yet to make yourself hateful to me? Have you no shame whatsoever? Be silent, I tell you—be silent!"
He made a gesture of despair.
"Of all the unreasonable people! Now, why should listening to a simple statement of facts cause you to get into such a temper?"
"Why?—why, indeed! You can't see; oh dear no, it's quite beyond your comprehension, isn't it? Learn this, then: though you have made me a more degraded creature than I ever before realised, you haven't killed all my soul, neither shall you."
"Souls at this moment! Good gracious, my dear girl, I only wish I had made you a bit more practical. But there, I fear you're utterly incorrigible. Poor old Tony mayn't be quite your ideal knight, but do try to realisethat while sugar-icing forms a charming coating for a cake, the cake is just as sustaining without it. Are you positively so blinded by silly sentimentality as to be really incapable of seeing any cause for congratulation in the lucky chance that has led him to take a fancy to you? A good-hearted fellow with plenty of money. What more can you want?"
Anger had found small place in the girl's breast while she was being made to realise the dread truth that her lover was finally weary of her and of her affection; nor had even lasting indignation awoken until he taunted her with the display of bitter grief that this very knowledge had evoked. When he thus persisted in what she could but deem the last of insults—this determination to regard her only as a light toy, to be tossed from one man to another—then the capacity for wild wrath that she derived from her violent low-born mother, and a long line of fiery-tempered maternal ancestors, showed itself in all its power.
Up to the present her own personal gentleness of spirit, aided by the trend of her education, and the affection by which she had always been encircled, had sufficed to keep even the girl herself in ignorance of the capacity that lay dormant in her blood for feeling and displaying wild fury. Now, in circumstances provocative of wrath such as had never yet occurred in the whole range of her limited experience, she became entirely her mother's daughter.
"If ever again I touch a farthing of such money may I fall down dead!" she cried wildly. "That's my only answer. Oh! It's the devil gives money to men of your stamp, so that you may with more certainty work out your own damnation."
"Do not be melodramatic," implored Morris, giving each word its full value to render it more impressive, while he shook his head, and screwed up his face in superior disdain. "Of course——"
"I don't want—I refuse, absolutely refuse to hearanything more you've got to say; so you may as well hold your tongue," interrupted Evarne fiercely. "Get out of the way; stand aside from the door; let me get out of this room."
But Morris did not move.
"Not so, you're far too excited. There's no knowing what you might do."
He made a great mistake in preventing her from finding the solitude she instinctively sought. His words and presence were unendurably exasperating at this juncture.
She sat down on a couch, and tapped the floor impatiently with the toe of her velvet slipper.
Morris tried again.
"If you could only persuade yourself to look at the matter clearly—" But he broke off abruptly. Evarne had merely raised her head and looked at him, but that was all-sufficient. "It's evidently no use talking sense to anyone so beside herself as you are now," he concluded lamely.
"No use, so let me pass."
She sprang to her feet, and came close to him. Her face was flushed, while her eyes seemed to fairly blaze with passion; every breath she drew was distinctly audible. It really spoke something for Morris's strength of mind that he stood his ground.
"Not until you're calmer," he insisted.
Her lips set themselves into a firm line, and for a moment she appeared to be contemplating the employment of physical force to gain her will, but apparently she thought better of it, for, quite suddenly sweeping over to the opposite side of the room, she turned her back on Morris and leant both elbows on the mantelpiece.
"You know that Tony——" he recommenced, somewhat unwisely; then changed his sentence: "If you would but believe that I am only considering your best advantage——"
"Believe you?—never again Liar! Abject liar!"
Morris was thoroughly aroused.
"Now, look here, what do you suppose it matters to me what you do now?" he demanded fiercely. "I could more than discharge all my obligations to you by a final cheque, and I don't want any further show of ingratitude if I give you also the benefit of my advice. I tell you, a young woman of your personal charms needs not only money but a protector. However, please yourself."
Evarne turned sharply, and again broke in upon him before the words were well out of his mouth.
"Do you want to drive me mad?" she shouted. "I hate you, I loathe you, I despise you! Oh, if some one would only protect me now from you, you coward!"
The veins stood up on the man's temples.
"It's difficult to see why you persist in going on like a fool, and trying to deceive me. I'm perfectly convinced that, whatever the price demanded you will no more be found living without luxuries in the future than you have in the past, so why indulge in these absurd airs and graces of outraged virtue?"
For a moment everything whirled before Evarne's eyes; then, incapable of remaining without action, she commenced to pace up and down the room. A little table on which stood photograph frames, a vase of lilac, and various similar knick-knacks, stood in her path. Without a moment's hesitation she flung it aside, scattering the dainty ornaments in all directions.
"It's foolish to be angry with you," said Morris, suddenly calming himself. "You are clearly not responsible for what you do or say. You must go to your room and lie down. Do you hear? I insist. It would serve you right if I did leave you to your own devices entirely, but you are so young and silly that for your father's sake I'm going to see your future settled somehow, whether you say 'thank you' or not. Now come."
"Don't you dare to touch me!" screamed the girl."You've no right now to interfere with my life, and you shan't do it. How dare you speak of my father, when you've so brutally betrayed his trust? You've lied, and tricked, and ruined me. I suppose you can't help being so ignoble and contemptible that loyalty and faith are only objects of derision to you; but that you should be willing—anxious—to pass me on to a despicable rake—not so vile as yourself, but still vile—that I shall never forget and never forgive, and, if I can help it, God likewise shall never forgive."
"What a ridiculous position to take up! Do you really expect to be ever anything more than one upon a string of beads? You knew you hadn't been otherwise with me, and you never will be now with any other man—so you may as well make up your mind to it, and think yourself lucky if——"
The girl, distracted and infuriated, waited for no more. Snatching up a silver statuette she hurled it with all her force at her betrayer's head. Then for a time she knew nothing; all was a blank—devoid of memory—of thought—of consciousness of action. Quite suddenly she seemed to regain her senses—to awake to find herself alone—the carpet covered with fragments of broken glass, streams of water, disordered flowers, books, scattered ornaments, while she herself was throwing madly, fiercely, everything on which she could lay hands, smash against the closed door by which Morris had been standing.
Instantlysubdued by amazement, she stared aghast at the surrounding destruction. At the dread realisation that she was beholding the work of her own hands, a shrinking horror—a terrible fear of herself—filled her breast. Why, in very sooth, this looked like the doings of a madwoman, and she had known nothing of what she was about. What could it portend? Trembling violently, she leant against the wall, scarcely able to stand, her hands pressing her cheeks, her eyes dilated and glancing around as if in apprehension.
How blessed just at that moment would have been the care of her mother—or, indeed, of any tender woman. But she was quite alone—or worse than that, surrounded only by those who had reduced her to this state, and by servants filled with curiosity.
After an interval of quietness the door was cautiously opened a trifle, a head was popped in and rapidly withdrawn. Evarne had not time to notice to whom it belonged, but she immediately regained sufficient strength to walk across the room. She could not endure to be thus made into a spectacle, neither could she longer gaze upon this dire material destruction that typified, only too cruelly, the fate that had befallen her love, her happiness and her future.
As she opened the door and appeared on the threshold, there was a general sense of rustling, of rapid footsteps, of stifled exclamations in the corridor and the surroundingrooms, as various figures hastened to efface themselves. But the girl, heeding nothing, made directly for her own apartment and securely locked herself therein.
Then, after a moment's reflection on what had passed that hour, she again collapsed beneath alternate transports of anger and heart-tearing grief. Now she would be sweeping wildly to and fro, with clenched fists and hurried strides, her body swaying and shaking as she walked; next, exhausted, flinging herself upon bed or floor, torn with sobs, drowned by tears, only to spring to her feet again as stress of anguish goaded her to action.
Her feelings towards Morris were variable as the wind. At times the memory of his brutal insults, his treachery and faithlessness, were uppermost in her thoughts; then she felt for him only the most intense and passionate hatred, bitterly grudging every hour of happiness to which she had contributed in the past; praying wildly that the future might hold for him agony of spirit equal to that into which he had so ruthlessly plunged her. Then, again, a flood of her old devotion would rise above all else. "Morris, Morris, come back to me! Oh, my darling, my darling, how can I live without you?" was her sobbing appeal; but there was none to answer.
For the most part she sorrowed in silence. She was aware that whispered conversations were in progress outside her door, and more than once the handle was turned cautiously. Later in the afternoon, Bianca, who was genuinely attached to her beautiful young mistress, ventured to tap again and again, at the same time imploring, in a tremulous voice, to be allowed to do something—anything. But Evarne turned a deaf ear to all.
Time passed, and the first violence of her emotion burned itself out. Then she became conscious that she felt sick and ill, and that her head ached to distraction. Letting down her thick black hair, she threw herself once again upon her tumbled bed, and made a first serious andprotracted effort to remain absolutely quiet and calm. Long she lay there, staring at vacancy, sighing piteously at intervals, until as the evening twilight crept into the room, the lids drooped over the wild eyes and the exhausted girl sank into slumber.
When she awoke, it was night. The room was shrouded in darkness, and perfect silence reigned. As recollection returned she despairingly pressed her hands to her head, but firmly forbade any further lapse from self-control. The determination she had arrived at during the weary time she had lain passive before falling asleep was now to be put into action. When the traitors who were beneath that roof awoke in the morning, they should find their victim gone. She shrank from again meeting either of the Belmonts; Morris it was better she should not see. One of the trains that left Paris in the grey of the morning should bear her away—far beyond the reach of these, her enemies.
Her thoughts turned towards London. She was not exactly a feminine Dick Whittington; at the same time the great metropolis certainly seemed to offer the greatest hope for one who had her own way to make.
Flashing on the light, she looked at her watch. It was a quarter-past three. She rose up, and drawing the curtains over the windows, set about packing the few things it was imperative she should take. At first she seemed to possess neither bag nor box of a suitable size, and, gazing helplessly around the room, realised how weak and nervous, and, above all, how curiously dull and stupid, she was feeling. With an impatient effort she pulled herself together, and concentrated all her wits upon this question of a box. Finally, she thought of her dressing-bag. By removing most of the fittings she was able to crush into it all she had sorted out to pack.
Then, slipping off the embroidered muslin morning-gown she still wore, she sought for her plainest and most serviceableoutdoor costume. Evarne's taste in dress in no ways inclined to simplicity. She gloried in frills and furbelows, dainty details, falling lace and fashionably cut skirts. Even her tailor-built gowns were not really severe. The fact that a brown face-cloth was made with a short skirt prompted her choice. It was elaborately stitched and strapped, but demure in tone, its only contrasting colour being a touch of delicate rose-pink—chosen by Morris himself to match the exquisite tint of her cheeks.
She took no ornaments, but drew from a corner in her jewel-box a small enamel watch, the last gift of her father. With a stifled sigh she wound it up, and, shaking it a little to make it recommence its long-abandoned duties, pinned it on her dress, while she laid the yet tinier bejewelled toy that had superseded it back into the case.
She would scornfully leave behind every ornament that had belonged to brighter days; Morris would find them all and perhaps be a bit sorry! But money she must have, and she looked anxiously into her purse. It contained but a couple of napoleons and some silver. There were four more gold pieces in her desk; her velvet bag with the turquoises contained only two. The embroidered bag, bought to match her latest green costume, contributed three, while a few stray francs lay on the dressing-table. She gathered them all into her lap and counted them. Only a little over twelve napoleons altogether. It was alarmingly little, but it would have to suffice. This done, she again studied the hour. It was not yet four. She had no idea when the earliest train set out, but felt convinced that it could not start so matutinally.
It was nearly sixteen hours since she had last tasted food, but she was not at all conscious of hunger. She was in a strangely numbed state of mind. Beyond an impatience to be once fairly off, she seemed unable to care for aught else. Nothing mattered! Nothing ever could matter now! Still, the sight of a plate of fruit remindedher of her long fast, and she half-peeled a banana, but even as she raised it to her lips, a sudden repugnance at the idea of eating anything further beneath this roof, caused her to put it down untasted.
Ready even to her hat and gloves, she sank into an armchair to wait an hour or so before venturing forth. Not until she sat there, gazing with half-unseeing eyes around the delicate room, did she begin to grasp the full significance of the complete change that had so suddenly taken place in her circumstances.
Not only was her path in life to lie apart from Morris Kenyon's for evermore, but she was abruptly and unexpectedly plunged into the direst poverty. She had no hope, even remotely, of a reconciliation with her onetime lover, but she felt curiously calm and indifferent now. Then, although she knew well enough that poverty, with all its shifts, deprivations and unpleasantnesses would be hateful to her—she could not feel really concerned at the prospect. Nothing mattered—nothing ever could matter again! Everything was finished!
She was without the least idea of what she could possibly do to earn an honest livelihood. As far as went that capacity, she was every whit as ill-placed as when her father died. True, she had been studying art, more or less seriously, for the last three years, but no one knew better than herself how futile would be any attempt to earn money by this means.
What then? The effort to think was painful. What had come over her? Somehow she seemed incapable of even remembering trades or professions, to see if she could not manage to fulfil the necessary qualifications.
What did other young women do? Oh! of course, they were governesses, or children's nurses, or companions to invalids or old ladies, or—or—that sort of thing! But posts such as these surely required some capacity, and above all, a good reputation. She was, then, in truth,worse off than when she had first left Heatherington with Morris, so confident, so full of hopes for the future.
What were girls allowed to do without their miserable past existences being scrutinised? How about telephone girls and those who served in shops of one sort and another, those who were attendants in restaurants? Those who—who—well! She couldn't think of anything else just then; but there was clearly quite a choice of honest ways of grubbing up a livelihood—if one must live at all! Without exception, all appeared absolutely hateful. Viewed in anticipation, it seemed as if she might as well be dead at once, as devote all the days of one week to earning just enough to keep herself alive the next week, so that she might work through that, in order to be able to live the next seven days, and so on, and so on, with cheap clothes, poor food, scarce and low-class diversions, until old age overtook her—and then—what?
She passed through a moment of positive fear and repulsion, and instinctively her thoughts turned to Tony. After all, was she not rushing into a battle in which she must fall conquered. She could please men—that she knew well—but could she do anything else in life? She was so accustomed to wealth and ease and comfort now. What could she do without it? Would the time ever come when she would despairingly view this hour, when she wilfully abandoned what certainly appeared the flowery track through life, with its luxury, elegance, leisure for higher pursuits, its surroundings of grace and beauty that she appreciated so fully, and that only money—ill-gotten or otherwise—can procure?
But the pride and purity of the spirit forbade any real faltering in her resolve. Thousands of other girls lived—contentedly enough she hoped and supposed—upon the market value of their poor little capacities. Upon what grounds was she to be held different? Young and strong,why should not she work as well as others? She felt she ought to be ashamed of herself.
She shut her eyes so that she should no longer see the tempting wealth and elegance she was abandoning. Coloured spirals seemed to whirl in the darkness, and the ensuing giddiness reminded her of her smelling-salts. She slipped the bottle into her hand-bag, then resolved not to sit down again, but to go. She had never before taken a railway journey alone, and must allow ample time for contingencies. It was getting on for five o'clock. The time was ripe.
She crept from her room, and very softly, with many a pause to listen, proceeded to unfasten all hindering chains and locks. But no sound was heard within the sleeping flat, and undisturbed she gained the outer air.
Morris lay wrapped in slumber, all unconscious that the child he had received at her dying father's hands, innocent and wholly dependent on his honour, was now stealing forth homeless into the chill morning, broken-hearted, with a sullied story, and but a few pounds between herself and utter destitution. Nor, had he known, would it have caused him any serious pangs of remorse. The pride of spirit, the refinement of sentiment, that forbade her to take away any of the valuable gifts he had lavished upon her, was totally beyond his comprehension. He could see that it was a pretty enough conceit in theory, perchance, but such a piece of high-faluting foolishness put into practice was, to his mind, quite sufficient to deprive her of the sympathy of all rational beings. In some peculiar manner the fact that any immediate pecuniary difficulties would be entirely of her own making, was in his mind all-sufficient to absolve him from entire blame in the whole affair.
It was a quarter to six when Evarne arrived at the Gare St. Lazare, and learned that the first train for Dieppe started in five minutes. Hurrying to the booking-office, she ordered a first single, then contradicted herself, askingfor a second-class ticket. It was so difficult to have to remember to economise.
The slow train, stopping at every station, took six hours to cover the ground, but Evarne felt no impatience. The steamer did not leave until half-past one, and until then one place was as satisfactory as any other. Indeed, it was even restful to sit quietly in a corner, and not have to force her numbed brain to think and plan.
About nine o'clock the train stopped at a station, where she bought a cup of coffee and a roll. As she sipped and nibbled she reflected that at a corresponding hour on the previous morning she had eaten just such another littlepremier déjeuner. How remote then appeared the prospect of her very next similar meal being taken thus—parted from Morris for ever, dazed and broken-hearted, bound in solitude and fear for another land. "After all, life ought to be somewhat interesting, for it is certainly unexpected," she thought, with a grim, mirthless little smile.
The Channel being on its best behaviour, she escaped the additional trials of illness, but none the less, on arriving at Newhaven, she felt incapable of further effort, and resolved to put up there for the night. The day being Sunday made a good excuse for this feebleness. It really would be most undesirable to arrive in London on the Sabbath evening. She turned with relief into the nearest hotel, and went straight to bed.
She slept; she lay awake; she trembled beneath evil dreams; she shed tears again. The long weary night passed somehow, but left her haggard-eyed and unrefreshed. A maid brought breakfast to her bedside, but Evarne turned with repugnance from the stolid bacon and overdone poached eggs, and it was after a mere pretence of a meal that she arose, paid her bill, and took her seat in the Victoria train.