Evarne clenched her teeth ferociously, and, with a low inarticulate cry, sharply struck Morris's hand from off hershoulder. He made an angry gesture, but returning to the arm-chair sat down quietly. Once more she felt that blind fury, that strange blackness and loss of consciousness, stealing over her mind to which she had succumbed six years ago. But now she resisted its domination with all her power. Had she not Geoff to remember? She pressed her lips with such desperate violence against the ring he had given her, that the sharp stones inflicted a tiny cut. It was merely trifling, yet the pain served to recall her to herself to some extent. But she neither could nor would make any effort to guard her speech as she turned upon her traducer. Her very voice sounded strange to her own ears, and she herself was totally unaware of what she was about to utter until the words had already rung out.
"It's none of it true—you know it's not true—you know it! You must never repeat to Geoffrey any of the abominable things you've said this evening. It would kill me—I mean it—I have been hardly able to endure it alone! I know well you have no pity. How earnestly have I appealed to that, again and again, always vainly? You never have mercy. But—listen! Are you not afraid of going too far at last, of driving me to desperation? I warn you now. You will tell such evil truth and such malicious lies at your peril. If you do thereby succeed in separating me and Geoff, I shall have nothing left to wish for but revenge."
"You're getting theatrical again. Now, Evarne, Evarne!"
"Don't trifle! I warn you, it will be wiser of you to stay your hand. If you do finally ruin my life—if you do thus remorselessly torture Geoff for our ill-deeds—you'll have done the worst for me that lies within the power of man. You will have destroyed all fear of any further suffering that Heaven or earth could inflict. I tell you I should be mad, and sooner or later you should be repaid. Yes, I warn you, Lord Winborough, it will be safer for you to avoid setting loose the devil that is in me. You guardmy secret—that's all I ask. I've hated you for years; now my loathing of you is nigh as strong as is my love for Geoff. I'm not the sort of woman to be defied with impunity. If you make me your active enemy I shall stop at nothing. You can believe that, can't you? I would shoot you like a dog, or stab you in the dark and glory in it, caring less than nothing for consequences."
Morris was certainly no coward, yet he quailed before the white, menacing face, in which two blazing eyes shone like beacon-fires, sending forth their warning of danger. He could well believe not only that Evarne at the moment fully meant all she said, but that she might indeed act upon her avowed intention in the future. Inwardly cursing the bad luck that had led him ever to become entangled with this resolute and determined little fury, he said, without the least outward sign of apprehension—
"So you are actually threatening me! You must be mad already!"
He crossed the room and took up his hat, but Evarne barred his further progress. Flinging herself upon her knees, she clung to the door-handle with a tenacious grip, and made a final frantic appeal.
"You mustn't go—Morris, you mustn't go. I shall keep you here. You're going to Geoffrey now—I know it. You shall not. You can't drag me away from this door, and I shall stay here until you promise not to go to him. Oh, you can strike me, or anything you like—I don't care, but I shan't move. Listen, Morris—do listen to me. I implore you—spare me. Oh, I'm afraid—I'm afraid of the future and what may come. I didn't realise before how absolutely unendurable it would be for Geoff to know. You mustn't tell him—I'd sooner die straight away—now—and so keep my secret. Morris, Morris, think of all I've endured, and spare me further—spare me this—spare Geoff—spare yourself! What can I say—what can I do? Oh, Heaven help me!"
A protracted silence ensued, in which Evarne made tremendous mental efforts to regain complete control over herself. She felt it to be necessary, and difficult though the task was in such a limited space of time, she practically succeeded. At all events she conquered outward and apparent calm, and rose from her knees, though still standing with her back pressed against the door. When she spoke next it was in strangely smooth and even tones, and with a look that was merely questioning.
"Tell me truly, Morris, do you dislike Geoff? Do you not feel resentful because he is so much younger than you are, and is to come after you in place of a son? No one can possibly realise more clearly than you do what it must mean to a man to learn about the woman he desired to marry such a story as you have to tell about me, yet you will not hold your peace. No law of right or justice can defend your thus forcing Geoff to share the misery consequent upon our past sin. You must surely have some reason for wishing him ill?"
"On the contrary, my chief object is to save him from the protracted miseries of an unhappy marriage, and incidentally to guard against his son—my future successor—being born of an unsuitable mother."
"I see.Noblesse oblige. Do you mean to say that if Geoff and I had been already married before you returned to England, you would not have remained silent?"
"It is scarcely worth discussing an imaginary case, is it?"
"But tell me."
"My dear girl, I don't know! Possibly. Indeed, I may even say probably. As a matter of fact, I'm really attached to the boy. If the evil had been beyond prevention I certainly might have seen fit to keep your secret. Even now, since my only aim is to prevent your marriage with him, if you prefer to go away without making anyexplanation, I give you my word that he shall never know details."
"Morris, Morris, must you tell him anyhow? Is it quite inevitable?"
"Yes, he must be told—that is to say, the engagement must be broken off. If you prefer to do the job yourself, by all means let it be so."
"You won't go to him to-night?"
"I will say nothing until this time to-morrow. Perhaps you will have made up your mind to take the right course yourself before then. I'm sorry, but that's the limit of what I can do for you."
"No, no, give me longer," she implored.
Her lips quivered, causing Morris to fear that this period of calmness might not be long sustained.
"Well, I'll give you two days," he agreed. "But it cannot possibly be allowed to continue longer than that. That's forty-eight hours too long."
"Is that a promise?"
"Yes, yes. Now stand aside from the door, there's a good girl."
As she obeyed silently, he stepped out into the passage. "Go to bed,ma chérie," he advised. "Have a good night. You'll feel better in the morning."
Impatiently she signed to him to be gone, then flung herself into her favourite chair, rested her elbows on one of its arms, and supported her chin on her hands. Thus she sat motionless, gazing fixedly into vacancy with hard, dry eyes, forgetful or regardless of Morris's presence in the open doorway.
He lingered a few moments, looking with mingled feelings at her now expressionless but perfect-featured face and graceful form. But she neither spoke nor glanced in his direction, and very soon the street door had closed behind him with a final bang.
Timepassed, and still Evarne sat motionless—thinking, thinking. In the first dreadful minutes of solitude she had been conscious of very little save cruel, crushing despair, the most abject hopelessness. Her one other clearly defined idea had been that she must not, dare not, allow the wild paroxysm of anguish that was rending her brain, to get the mastery over her will-power. Fiercely resolved not to lose self-control even for a moment, she forced herself to sit calm and motionless, to drive back tears, to stifle sobs, groans, cries. And in time this resolutely simulated composure became very nearly genuine. Gradually she found herself growing able to think rationally, not desperately. Thus there was some chance for a practical idea—an inspiration—to evolve itself from out the rapid progression of her thoughts.
She was possessed of a quiet obstinacy that would not—that could not—acknowledge final defeat so long as the most shadowy possibility of ultimate success remained. The feeblest glimmer of hope was sufficient to support her courage, her energies. Now, although the end appeared to be so near, although she was faced by obstacles that certainly looked insurmountable, she could not bring herself to submit with meekness and resignation to what so surely seemed to be written in her fate.
Thus, still rebellious, she sat thinking, thinking. But no plan of possible action occurred to her mind. Whatcould be done in two days to still a man's tongue, when prayers and entreaties and threats had all alike failed absolutely? The only method yet untried was that of bribery, and there she was a bankrupt. She had nothing to offer—absolutely no inducement to hold out.
Slowly but surely the conviction forced itself upon her calmer reflection that she could indeed do no more; that she was hopelessly in Morris's power. She felt herself enveloped by a fresh access of despair. What a dire misfortune—what a fearsome calamity—that he should have come upon the scene just at this crisis. He had declared almost with certainty that had he found her already his cousin's wife he would have held his peace. Why, oh why, had he not been kept out of her path for two short months longer—just until she was indeed safely married?
Suddenly she started to her feet, her eyes glistening, her expression eager and alert. At length a light shone in the dense gloom—in the tangled jungle a path had been found.
At this moment Philia was heard opening the street door. The old woman made straight for the sitting-room, declaring as she came—
"Edie Gordon didn't know what pattern——"
The words died on her lips as she beheld Evarne.
"My gosh, whatever made yer dress up pretty like that, to spend the evenin' alone?" Then she added in a tone of sudden suspicion: "Seems to me there's somethin' goin' on in this 'ere 'ouse what I don't know of! What 'ave I bin and done, to be kept in the dark about everythin' like this for?"
"You shan't be any longer, Philia. After your supper I'm going to tell you everything."
"I'll buck up, then. 'A full stummick maketh a wise 'ead and a kind 'eart'—Shakespeare."
Ere long she had finished her meal, and was ensconced in the arm-chair. Evarne drew up a footstool and satdown, resting against the old woman's knee. But she remained without speaking. Once or twice she half started upon her task, but the words died on her lips.
Philia at length broke the silence.
"Dearie, I'm almost old enough to be your grandmother, but for all that we're jist real pals, ain't we? Remember, pals can always trust each other, and nothin' ever makes any real difference between 'em."
Thus encouraged, Evarne took the plunge and told the story of her life. When she had finished, she asked pleadingly—
"You don't mind? You're not very disappointed in me, are you, Philia? I did care for him, really and truly I did."
Her eyes were downcast, the tone of her voice was full of anxiety. The old woman's response took the form of a query.
"What do yer expect me to say to yer?"
Evarne shook her head somewhat hopelessly.
"I don't know," she murmured.
"Can't yer look me straight in the face? I can't answer proper-like if yer won't."
Evarne's mind was far too entirely taken up with deeper thoughts, with future schemes, for her to be really overweighed with embarrassment before Philia. Without any effort she raised her head instantly. The necessity of an upturned face for an answer was then made clear. The old woman bent forward and kissed her straight on the lips—a noisy, unabashed kiss.
"I might think badly of some gals, Evarne, but you—why, no matter who was to tell me yer was a bad lot, I'd say 'Beggin' yer pardin', I knows 'er too well! She's real good!'"
Evarne threw her arms impulsively around her old friend's neck, and murmured her thanks.
"But listen," she continued, settling herself down againupon the footstool. "What I've told you is only the cause of my present trouble."
But almost in the same instant Philia had exclaimed—
"My gosh, what about Mr. Danvers?"
"That's it—that's it! I haven't told him, and I never mean to, never, never!"
"And yer'd be a regular fool if yer did," declared this worldly-minded counsellor.
"But—oh, it's too dreadful; it's too horrid!"
"Hush, hush! Don't git excited."
Evarne waited a minute, then went on quietly enough to relate the whole of her doubts and anxieties.
"At first I was in despair, as you may imagine," she concluded; "but now I've got a fresh idea in my mind, and I want your help."
Philia rubbed her hands together with evident satisfaction. She had flung herself whole-heartedly on her pal's side in this affair.
"If we do succeed," went on Evarne, "I shall owe all my happiness to you, and so will Geoffrey, though he won't know it. I shall be grateful to you for ever and ever, and I shall look after you all your life, Philia. Now, listen carefully. Morris said that if he had found me already his cousin's wife—if our marriage had been an accomplished fact—then—very likely—he would of his own accord have remained silent forever concerning what he knows. He entirely repudiated the idea that his determination to betray me is prompted by any spite or hatred. As it is, he has promised to hold his peace until Wednesday evening. Very well, before that time I mean to be Geoffrey's wife."
"Goodness gracious to me, what a notion!"
"It's absolutely my last resource. It's my one chance; my only hope. I shall persuade Geoff to take me abroad immediately, so that Morris cannot straightway tell him my secret in a sudden outburst of rage. If he writes, I shall see that Geoff doesn't get the letter. Oh, I know it'sleading me through vile deceitful tracks, but having started, I must go on. But I wish I'd never started, Philia. That's Heaven's truth. I wish I'd never started! Ah, well! Besides—once I am Geoffrey's wife, the keeping of this secret becomes a matter of life or death to me."
"But if the snake chose to tell after yer was safely married, 'e couldn't do no 'arm then, could 'e?"
"No harm? Oh, Philia! If Geoffrey once reproached me for entrapping him—if I heard him regret his marriage—if he ever expressed half a wish that he could be free again, then, why then, there would be but one course open to me. I should kill myself."
Philia started.
"Don't talk of sich a thing," she almost wailed; "don't plan it in cold blood like that. It's mad and wicked."
"Who says it's wicked?"
"Why, everybody knows it is."
"'There's nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.' Did you ever hear that before? 'Everybody knows,' forsooth! Oh, Philia, how can you be so blind! Surely it's perfectly obvious that it would be the one and only right course. As far as honour goes I should have no choice. Don't you believe it's necessarily wicked to kill one's self. Sometimes the weak—the cowardly—the really despicable thing to do is to cling to life. Oh, I'm beginning to hate myself—I'm being dragged through the mud and grimed almost beyond my own recognition. There, don't look at me like that. But you mustn't think I'm so infamous as to be planning to use Geoff's blind love—his noble, unquestioning trust in me—as the very means by which to fetter him in bonds that would remain unbreakable, even though they might suddenly become repulsive to him. It is because power lies in these hands of mine—soft and slender though they are—see them," and as she held them out and eyed them askance, they shook like aspen leaves. "It is because I can cut asunder all earthlyties between us, and set him free, that I dare expose him to the risk. It's no use, Philia. I can't love in a sane, temperate, moderate sort of manner—I can't do it, I tell you! I love Geoff so much more than myself—so infinitely much more—that life or death for me seems scarcely worth a thought."
No words came to the old woman; not even Shakespeare was able to suggest to her any comfort for this trembling girl, gliding so swiftly and surely into deceit and sin.
"I needn't have told you of what I intend to do in the event of Morris's betraying me after my marriage, though I shall tell him," Evarne went on; "but I—I—couldn't bear that you should misjudge me, dear. It would be dreadful to me to think that you believed I was merely planning all this from an unscrupulous desire to make my own position secure at all costs."
"As if I'd think anything of the sort!"
"Well, if you did, I for one couldn't blame you. I know it must look like it. Oh, Philia, I'm miserable at what I'm doing," Evarne cried, knitting her white brow. "If anyone had told me a week ago that I should sink to deliberate scheming to make Geoff marry me quickly, and that I was seriously proposing to watch his correspondence, I should—there, I am mad, perhaps! I could almost wish to believe it. There is no truth, no honour in me! Oh, Philia, Philia, how I hope my dead father cannot see what I am doing!"
She shuddered, and buried her face convulsively in her friend's lap. The old woman, full of pity, passed her hand over the thick locks.
"Make up yer mind once and for all, my pet. Think about it well. Don't go and do what yer will be sorry for."
The head was lifted immediately, defiantly.
"Oh, I know what I am going to do. I have done with thinking. I am going to marry Geoff."
"But 'ow are yer goin' to work the trick, so sudden like, without 'im wonderin' what's in yer mind?"
"That's where you've got to help me. I don't see quite how to do it alone. With your aid it will be wickedly easy for me to—to deceive him, because he trusts me so entirely. Ah well! Now listen to my plan...."
Tired of her low seat, she drew up a chair close to Philia.
Long they sat into the night, arranging, discussing, even rehearsing what was to be done on the morrow. At length they separated, but slumber was not for Evarne. No sooner had she laid her weary head upon the pillow than there came to her from the distance the steady throb, throb of machinery.
"What can that be?" she mused fretfully. "There's no factory about here, and if there were, why should it be working in the middle of the night?" She rose up on her elbow to listen; the sound ceased. Once more she sought repose; the steady, distant beating recommenced. "I couldn't sleep at the best of times through that persistent noise," she sighed.
Then she seemed to hear cautious footsteps within her room. For a moment every muscle of her body contracted with terror, and the thud of the distant engines increased in volume tenfold. Starting up, she struck a match. The room was empty. As she lay down once more she realised the meaning of all these strange, inexplicable sounds. Those steps, that dull, steady throbbing, all originated within her own tortured brain.
Repeatedly through that night of wakefulness she could have believed she heard movements, even whispers, within the room. She lay on the borderland of slumber, against her will composing endless appeals to Geoff, begging for mercy, for forgiveness, for continued love, going over and over the pleas she might have uttered to Morris but had neglected.
"If I could sleep—oh, if I could only sleep!" she cried wearily.
But the day broke without her having won oblivion for a single minute.
Themorning dawned radiantly clear, and hot to sultriness. Evarne dressed leisurely, and by nine o'clock, far from being at the studio, was still toying with her breakfast. Her magnificent health saved her from looking as exhausted as the sleepless night and the nerve-strain of the last few days would well have justified. Indeed, with a hectic flush upon her cheek, and eyes supernaturally brilliant, any untrained observer would have adjudged her a fit model for the goddess Hygeia herself.
"Do try and eat somethin'," persuaded Philia anxiously. "Goodness knows when you last 'ad a decent square meal."
"I don't feel that I can, and what's more, I can't stop looking at it any longer," declared the girl as she rose from the table. "Those poor young men will be thinking I'm not coming again."
And indeed at the studio everything did seem to be thoroughly disorganised.
"Well, we have done a fine lot of work these last few days," remarked Jack disconsolately.
But Pallister was in high spirits. He had seen Maudie Meridith on the previous evening, and, moved by his earnest reproaches, she had undertaken to do her level best to come this very morning to give him a first sitting for her portrait. Thus he answered Jack's complaining growl with light-heartedinsouciance.
"Oh, well, we can't all keep our noses eternally to thegrindstone like you do, old chap. I think we're getting along splendidly."
But Jack was not to be thus pacified.
"I don't want to waste this morning. Do you think Miss Stornway will be coming, Geoff?"
"Surely," rejoined that young man, turning from the open window from whence he had been watching the passers-by in the street below. "She would have sent a message, as she did yesterday, if she still felt too unwell."
And in a very few minutes his faith was justified; Evarne appeared at the farther end of the street. He watched her as she drew near, noting how she showed graceful and dignified amid the crowd. Although the studio was on the third floor, the summer air was so clear that, as she drew nearer, he could see her features quite distinctly. Some attraction drew her gaze upwards, and she waved her hand in greeting, whereupon he ran downstairs and met her at the garden gate.
Her dress fitted exquisitely over her lovely figure; it was of pink cambric, made according to her individual fancy in costume. Its rich hue emphasised her dark eyes and flawless complexion as none other could have done, while her simple straw hat was wreathed with blush roses. Geoff had never yet beheld her clad from head to foot in shades of pink, and thus arrayed, apart from all question of personal affection, she must have been a sheer delight to any artist's eye.
"I'm afraid I'm dreadfully late," she said apologetically to Jack and Pallister on gaining the studio. "Please forgive me, and you shall just see how quickly I can get into those Greek robes when I like."
"You must sit down first and have a rest after your walk," insisted Geoff, while Pallister declared gaily—
"Don't trouble about me. You're going to have a rival this morning."
"A rival! This is very serious."
"Such a pretty one too."
"Really? Who is she?"
"Ha, ha! You'll see when she comes."
He jumped down from the studio flight of steps on which he had been perched, skipped gaily across the floor, and leant perilously far out of the low window.
"How excited that baby is," said Geoff, smiling indulgently. "He expects Miss Meridith to give him a sitting to-day. Now, come here, sit down by me and rest. Could you eat some of those cherries?"
Evarne consented to try, and took her seat on the divan beside Geoff, the plate on her lap. Pallister glanced at the little group.
"I say, Jack," declared the wise youth, "guess we're not exactly indispensable to the consumption of those cherries. Come down to the garden and let's have a smoke till Maudie arrives."
"I was thinking of sketching Geoff and Miss Stornway as they sat together there," said Jack simply. But since Pallister received this proposition with a hearty burst of laughter, he meekly wended his way downstairs, still complaining under his breath at the valuable hours he was losing.
"You're sure you feel quite well again?" demanded Geoff for about the fifth time, reading Evarne's face with an anxious, not over-satisfied glance. "You don't look quite the same as usual somehow, sweetest."
"You're fanciful," and the bright eyes were flashed upon him reassuringly. "I'm quite well and strong, and ready to face the world."
"That's good hearing. You'd laugh at me if you knew how I've been worrying about you. I vow I lay awake half the night thinking of you."
"Don't be so proud about it, for I did exactly the same thing for you. At least, to be exact, I sat up talking to old Philia about Geoff and all his faults and virtues. Shereally is a good old soul, and has taken quite a fancy to you."
"And since it seems that her presence in your little home is essential to my being allowed there, I have, perforce, taken quite a liking to her. Good thing it's a mutual affection, eh?"
"Isn't it indeed? Well, to-night sees the end of her sittings, so you will be able to come quite often if you care to. To start with, I herewith formally invite you to supper to-morrow night. Miss Evarne Stornway requests the pleasure of Mr. Geoffrey Danvers' company at supper to-morrow night, at seven-thirty. R.S.V.P."
"Mr. Danvers has much pleasure in accepting Miss Stornway's kind invitation for Tuesday evening," returned Geoff with mock solemnity.
"Right!" laughed Evarne, clapping her hands together gleefully. "You shall come out into the kitchen and help me make pancakes. I'm really quite adorable then. You will just love me when you see me making pancakes."
She tossed back her head and dangled a cherry into her open mouth. Geoff's reply was interrupted by the sound of stumbling footsteps mounting the stairs.
"Talking of angels," cried Evarne, as a panting figure leaned against the doorway. "Why, Philia, what do you want?"
"H'excuse my intrudin'," commenced the old woman. "Two young gentlemen sittin' in the garden told me to come right up, and I should find the studio at the top of the stairs, and the door standin' open. I couldn't lose me way if I tried, they said; and sure enough I'm 'ere."
"Then come in and sit down, Mrs. Harbert," said Geoff. "I hope nothing's the matter?"
"I'm quite well, thankin' you, sir, and the same to you. I wanted to consult Evarne on a matter of great himportance. I've got to decide in a 'urry, or I wouldn't 'ave hintruded."
"Well, here is Evarne. I'll leave you for a while."
"Don't go, Geoff," said the girl, laying her hand on his arm. "I don't suppose it's any great and wondrous secret, is it, Philia?"
"Not a bit of it. Jist after you'd gorn comes a letter for me from that very nice gentleman, Mr. Topham—the same as I sat for six months ago as the Countess o' Suffolk, saying as 'ow she wouldn't 'ave 'er 'ead cut off."
"I remember."
"Well, now—well. What do you think? You'd never guess! 'E wants me to go to Scotland for two 'ole months to pose for 'im out of doors all among the gorse and 'eather and 'eath! It's a bit o' kindness on Mr. Topham's part, for I s'pose there's elderly ladies in Scotland 'e could paint, but 'e allus was good to me. I'm to telegraph me answer and go on Thursday mornin'. I'd like to go ever so much—wouldn't I jist, my gosh!—but I'm worryin' about 'ow you'd git on without me, Evarne."
"Oh, you ought not to miss such a splendid offer. Let me see the letter, may I?"
After glancing through its contents the girl handed it back.
"She really ought to go, Geoff, oughtn't she? Mr. Topham offers very generous terms, including the fare both ways. She needs a change. Don't you, Philia? It will be splendid for you to get out of London this hot weather. I only wish a holiday could be managed for poor little Evarne. Yes, I decide for you—you must accept."
"That's all very fine for me," demurred the old woman; "but what about you, left all alone in the 'ouse?"
"Ah, indeed!" demanded Geoff. "What will you do?"
"That's jist what I was wonderin' as I came along 'ere," declared Philia. "Comin' 'ome tired as she does, 'ardly able to stand sometimes—pore child—and not a soul there to say a word to 'er, or git 'er so much as a cup o' tea!I'm afraid I ought to tell Mr. Topham as 'ow I can't come."
Evarne did not answer for a few seconds.
"It does sound a touching picture, certainly. You make me quite sorry for myself," she confessed. Then with a sudden forced renewal of brightness: "But there, it can't be helped. Any number of models live alone always. Of course Philia must go to Scotland, and I mustn't be selfish and lazy."
"It ain't a question of bein' jist selfish and lazy," rejoined the old woman rather testily. "I ain't sure it would be right of me to go gallawantin' jist now. 'Twould be different if yer was quite well and strong. But I ask yer to answer honest. Ain't this 'ot weather upsettin' yer? Ain't yer bein' overworked or somethin'? She 'arf fainted again last night, sir. She ain't so strong by 'alf as she likes to make out. I didn't ought to go, I knows it, though I do want to."
"Evarne, you told me you felt better," cried Geoff in mingled reproach and alarm.
"So I am this morning," she rejoined, smiling at him. "Now, you run off home, Philia, and think about packing."
But the old woman shook her head, lingered and looked at Geoff with eyes full of doubt and anxiety.
"Do you think I ought to leave 'er lonely, sir?"
He was decidedly uneasy at the idea.
"I don't like the notion—really I don't. Look here, can't you get a servant?"
Evarne smiled again, this time somewhat ruefully.
"He does think we're rich, doesn't he, Philia? Dear Geoff, to speak frankly, I can't afford it."
He put his hand on her arm.
"Darling, surely you will let me see to that for you?"
She shook her head with unhesitating decision.
"I couldn't possibly let you ever give me money."
At length Philia saw an opening, and no alert lawyer could have darted at it more promptly.
"Until 'e is yer 'usband, yer mean. Then he'll 'ave a right to, won't 'e?"
"Of course, everything will be different then," she assented, with a swift, shy glance at her lover.
"But, you dear little silly," he rejoined tenderly, "it's only a question of two or three weeks at the very outside. What real difference can it possibly make?"
"It does—I feel it does. Please don't press the point. Now, Geoff, remember I'm always right. You owned that yesterday evening."
"Yes, and what did I tell you? Have you forgotten? That you would have to marry me all the sooner on account of this terrible correctness. Now, then, how much sooner does this fresh example bring it?"
Here Mrs. Harbert chipped in again, desperately seizing the bull by the horns.
"It's a real pity yer 'aven't bin engaged a week or two longer, both of yer. Then I'd say, git married at once—to-morrow—to-day, and let Evarne 'ave a 'usband to look after 'er 'enceforward."
Geoff's eyes brightened.
"I say——" he was commencing, but Evarne interrupted in tones of obvious annoyance.
"You ought not to say things like that, Philia. It's very inconsiderate."
But the culprit was in no ways disconcerted.
"Lor, she's a regular babby," she declared laughing. "The very idea o' really gettin' spliced makes 'er that bashful."
And sure enough the colour on Evarne's cheeks had perceptibly deepened.
"Jist look if she ain't gorn as red as a radish," continued Mrs. Harbert. "And all along o' the idea of a weddin'!"
"It's not that," declared Evarne with energy; "it was your silly suggestion of getting married at once—withoutany delay—that vexed me. You oughtn't to say things of that sort. You're excited about this Scotch tour, you stupid old Philia. As if people ever rushed off and got married at twenty-four hours' notice! And for no better reason than that I run the risk of feeling lonely and unhappy in an empty house. Bless the darling, she shan't have any of the hardships of life—no, she shan't! You've got no right to mortify me so; it's horrid of you, I'm really vexed with you."
She moved away, and sat down with her back to Philia, tapping the floor angrily with the tip of her pretty pink shoe. The old woman shrugged her shoulders and appealed to Geoff in decidedly nettled tones.
"Mr. Danvers, sir, am I a fool or is she? One of us is, that's certain, and though I asks yer which it is, I knows without bein' told. Maybe I 'ave taken liberties. I was only jokin'. Still, it's unkind o' Evarne to talk to me like that, ain't it? I'd better make up me mind not to go away, and 'ave done with all talk. 'Lonely and un'appy!' Why, it might be the death of 'er—that's what it might be. Yes, my beauty, you've chucked yerself downstairs in a faint once in yer life. You'll be doin' it again."
Evarne glanced over her shoulder.
"Rubbish! I was ill then."
"So yer are now; what's the good o' denyin' it? You'll take a header over the banisters one fine evenin' and cut yer 'ead open on the floor, and it will bleed and bleed and bleed, and no one will know. You'll lie there all night, and in the mornin' you'll be dead—a corpse—d'you hear?—cold and stiff—and all the howlin' in the world won't make yer alive agin."
Evarne laughed at this lurid visionary tableau, and recovered her temper.
"Why, what a very vivid imagination——" she was commencing.
But Geoff interrupted. He had been rapidly turningover in his mind this startling idea of an immediate wedding, and found it rose-coloured. Not only did he long for the day that should give him the woman he loved, but he foresaw that, by his marriage being once put beyond the pale of argument, he would probably avoid a great deal of useless discussion and consequent ill-feeling between himself and his cousin. Except Winborough, he had no relations sufficiently near to feel themselves aggrieved at not having been confided in about the matter—and indeed when were aunts or cousins ever seriously considered in such a case? The one objection to this unconventional suddenness was that it might be more pleasant for Evarne not to have had her wedding in any way apparently hurried or peculiar. But now other circumstances seemed to counter-balance this really very small and indefinite objection.
Thus his meditations were not long protracted, and he interrupted Evarne's sentence upon sudden impulse.
"Mrs. Harbert is quite right. It would not be at all safe for you to be living absolutely alone while you're liable to these horrible fainting attacks. Dearest—dearest—marry me to-morrow and give me the right to really look after you and care for you. Please don't shake your head. Obviously it is in every way best and advisable. Why do you hesitate? We don't want a smart wedding or anything alarming of that sort, do we? You do care for me, really and truly, don't you, and you believe that you will be safe and happy with me? Mrs. Harbert, you've had a really brilliant idea——"
"Lor, sir, I only spoke in fun. I never thought of your takin' it serious-like."
"But you see now, don't you—don't you, Evarne—that to procure a special licence and get married to-morrow morning, without any unnecessary preparation, will save a world of annoyance and anxiety? My dear one, do think how I should worry about you. Besides—besides—thetruth is, I want to feel that you are mine beyond the possibility of your changing your mind."
"You think I might, then?"
"Well, I don't mean that exactly. There, I don't want to have to think about it at all; I want to make our marriage a fact. I want to be secure of you. Our circumstances are somewhat peculiar. We have neither of us got any relations we need to think of; we've only got each other in the whole world, Evarne. Why should we run any risks? Dear one, dear love, be persuaded. Say 'yes,' and you shall never, never regret it."
He spoke in tones soft and coaxing enough to melt a heart of stone, yet he received no answer, either by word or look. Somewhat puzzled, Philia broke the protracted silence.
"Yer can't love 'im as much as yer told me, or you'd be 'appy at the idea of callin' 'im 'usband."
But Evarne heeded her not. She was overwhelmed with shame at the ease with which her own plot had succeeded. Where she was concerned, Geoff was absolutely devoid of the faintest suspicions of any description. The bare possibility of trickery, of prearrangement or of falsehood having any part in Philia's unexpected visit to the studio, obviously never entered his mind. It was enough to him to be made to see that his 'Sweet Lady's' material well-being would be benefited by her becoming his wife at once, and immediately his whole desire was to persuade her to this course of action. Knowing that practically every word she had spoken that morning had been uttered with the full intention of deceiving—as part of a deliberate scheme—the perfect confidence he had in her integrity and honour, his loyal, generous, and complete trust, were to her a bitter reproach. It stabbed her conscience, and she stood silent and abashed before him.
But far was it from her thoughts to waver in her purpose at this eleventh hour. Raising her head, she looked for aminute full into Geoff's earnest grey eyes, and within her heart she again registered a vow to put his happiness, his welfare, first and foremost now and in the future. These minutes of apparent hesitation were sacred, and her expression was intense and solemn as she replied in a slightly quivering voice—
"My own beloved, I am yours, absolutely and without restriction. You are to decide my life, my actions; to guide my very thoughts as is most pleasing to you. Everything shall be done exactly as you desire."
Entirely oblivious of Mrs. Harbert's presence he thanked her by kisses.
"I'll telegraph to Mr. Topham, then," interposed the overlooked Philia after a minute. "I'll tell 'im I'm comin' right enough. Now, 'owever will I find out what train to git or what station to go from, or anything else?"
Evarne came back to earth.
"Ask Geoff to look it up in the time-table for you," she suggested.
"Certainly. Where is it you want to go to?"
"Saint—Saint—it's Saint somewhere," and Philia again peered into her letter. "St. Andrews."
As the young man left the studio to find the time-table, she came close to Evarne, a broad smile of triumph on her genial countenance.
"Well, now, ain't I bin and gorn and done well? Ain't I a fine hactress? Didn't the stage lose a shinin' light when I took up Hart as a profession? Ain't I got a fine invention too? Didn't I ought to 'ave written books? Ain't I been wonderful sharp? Pity I ain't a beastly lawyer."
Evarne seized both the old woman's hands in a somewhat frantic grip.
"Oh, my dear, I shall never forget what you've done for me. I'm saved. Thank God—thank God!"
"Keep quiet, duckie. It's not quite done yet. You've got to prevent 'im from tellin' the snake till after it's over."
"I know, but Heaven is on my side."
In a few moments Geoff returned with a slip of paper in his hand.
"See here, I've written down times and station, so you'll have no difficulty. We must go away for a honeymoon, mustn't we, Evarne?"
"Of course. I shouldn't feel that I'd been legally married without that," she declared promptly and gladly.
"You'll help her pack, then, and look after her generally, won't you, Mrs. Harbert? Do you know of anything she wants? If so, tell me."
"There's nothin' as I knows of as won't wait until Thursday, when yer can git it for 'er yerself," declared Philia.
"Please don't talk about me as if I wasn't present," remonstrated Evarne. "You run away now, Philia. By the way, Geoff, you must come to supper with me to-night. It will be the last real opportunity I shall have of playing genuine hostess to you. Think of that!"
He naturally agreed, whereupon Evarne and Philia indulged in a brief whispered debate concerning themenufor the evening meal. At length the old dame took her departure, thoroughly well satisfied with her own hitherto unsuspected cleverness.
Immediatelythey were alone Geoff seized Evarne by both hands, and holding her at arm's length, surveyed her from head to foot, as if for the first time.
"Evarne, Evarne! to think that by to-morrow evening you will be my wife! Can you realise it? I hardly can."
"I'm not going to try," she asserted. "It doesn't do to make too certain of anything in this world. Perhaps we shan't be able to get a special licence."
"Oh, it's quite simple. A friend of mine was married by that means. We have to make solemn affidavits that there is no legal impediment. Then it is essential that the ceremony shall take place in the parish where one of us has lived for a certain length of time. You won't mind being married in church?"
"Oh no."
"Besides getting the licence, then, all we have to do is to arrange with a clergyman, and there need not be an hour's delay. It's not even necessary to heed the canonical hours. I'd better go down to Doctors Commons almost immediately and see about it."
Just then a girl's bright laugh fell upon their ears, footsteps were heard mounting the stairs, and in a minute Maudie Meridith, Jack and Pallister entered the studio. The little lady, though somewhat breathless, was in high spirits. She evidently looked upon this visit quite in the light of an adventure.
"Only fancy my getting here safe and sound, Mr. Danvers!" she exclaimed in her gay voice. "It's just like a novelette, isn't it?"
Pallister speedily introduced the two young women to one another. Although it was tacitly recognised that Geoff's engagement was not to be made public knowledge just yet, Pallister had not been able to resist the temptation of relating to Maudie the events that had arisen from Winborough's visit to the studio on Monday afternoon. She therefore gazed with the keenest interest upon the beautiful model who was one day to become a countess, and greeted her with the utmost cordiality and sweetness.
"Did you find it awfully difficult to escape by yourself?" inquired Pallister, stumbling over the stand of his easel as he rushed about making final preparations.
"It was fairly simple. I was so frightened at breakfast, for auntie suddenly announced she was going out somewhere or other—anyhow, she suggested that I should go with her. I was dreadfully upset, for I couldn't think of any reasonable excuse for refusing."
"But an idea came at last?"
"Fortunately there was no need. Auntie, who was opening her letters, came to one from Madame Constantia, her dressmaker, saying she should call this morning. So I was able to slip away easily—lucky, wasn't it?"
"Rather! Now let's pose you for this wondrous picture."
After many different attempts, he turned to his friends with a satisfied air: "I think that's perfect. What do you say, you others?"
Public opinion decided that the model's left arm had better be placed negligently over the arm of the chair.
"Ah, that's a great improvement," confessed the artist.
"It can't possibly be altered for the better, I'm sure."
"How am I to pose my eyes?" inquired the docile model.
"That doesn't matter at present. Now, keep quite still."
Holding a stick of charcoal at arm's-length, Pallister unconsciously put on a stern and impressive frown as he commenced to put leading lines upon his big new canvas.
Geoff and Evarne once again sat down side by side on the divan, and in low tones proceeded to discuss the prosaic business arrangements for the eventful morrow. Evarne did not disguise her anxiety to leave England immediately on the completion of the wedding ceremony, and thus Geoff had now to make arrangements for the journey, find out times of trains and boats, take tickets and telegraph to hotels, as well as procure the licence and arrange with a clergyman.
The discussion of the many details that had to be considered occupied some time, and at length the silence of the room, broken only by the indistinct murmurs of this inaudible conversation, became boring in the extreme to Miss Maudie.
"I wish I could see you working as I sit, Frankie; but of course that isn't possible," she said somewhat plaintively.
"I'm afraid not," agreed Pallister. "But you must have plenty of rests, and then you can see how I'm getting on, though you know it's never very pleasant to show work in its early stages to any but a fellow-artist."
"But won't you do better than ever, knowing that I'm going to look at it? Am I not an inspiration?"
"Of course you are, but you'll see yourself looking like a nightmare, with black eyes and yellow cheeks and so on. But don't worry about that. It's only at first. I feel that in the end I'm going to make this a veritable masterpiece."
After a very few more minutes' silence she spoke again.
"What fun this is! I'm not really tired yet, and I've been sitting a long time already, haven't I?"
"Oh Maudie, hardly that."
"What, haven't I? Dear me, I thought I had."
"Don't wriggle your head, there's an angel."
"Was I wriggling?" inquired the victim. "I'm so sorry; my neck felt stiff."
"You must have a rest, then."
"Oh no, thank you. It doesn't matter. I can bear it."
But the tones of resignation were too touching. Pallister laid down his brushes.
"Come along. Don't let yourself get thoroughly tired, or you'll not want to come again. Besides, models sometimes faint if they have to go on posing after they are tired out. You ask Miss Stornway if you don't believe me."
Evarne corroborated Pallister's assertion, though in her heart she did not think there was much danger of Maudie collapsing yet awhile. Nevertheless the girl gladly descended from the throne, and almost instantly her glance fell upon the diamond ring sparkling upon Evarne's hand.
There seems something particularly attractive to "Sweet Seventeen" about engagement rings.
"Oh, Miss Stornway," she cried, "do let me look at your ring. What a perfect beauty!"
Evarne was pleased by this admiration.
"You ought to see it in the sunshine," she declared. "It is too lovely for words then."
She rose from the divan, and crossed over towards the window. Standing in the full flood of golden August sunlight, she held out her hand for Maudie's continued inspection. For a time she too revelled in the rainbow-hued scintillations of the diamonds, but after a few moments her glance strayed casually down the street. Immediately she broke in upon the girl's rapturous comments with a strangled little cry of mingled dismay and surprise.
"What is it?" demanded Geoff, rising quickly to his feet.
Maudie gazed wonderingly out of the window. Suddenlyshe too uttered an exclamation, then drew sharply back behind the curtains as she announced in excited tones—
"Why, there's Lord Winborough coming down the road. He's making straight for here. I know he's coming up. Oh, my word, now what shall I do?"
Jack was on the alert in a moment.
"Lord Winborough coming here?"
"Yes, yes. Whatever am I to do?"
"Why should you do anything? Does it matter?" queried Jack, considerably puzzled.
"Matter!" retorted the girl somewhat tartly. "Of course it does. He knows my father quite well, and he would be sure to tell him he had met me here. Oh, I shall get into dad's black books, and so will auntie. What can I do?"
"Ask him not to say anything about it," suggested Jack promptly.
Maudie waxed impatient.
"One can't do that sort of thing. It would only make it seem worse. Can't I hide somewhere? Frankie, I do think you might have told me he was coming."
"But he wasn't expected till this afternoon. You can't blame me," declared Pallister in expostulation.
In the midst of this fluster Evarne stood for a minute as if stunned. Here was an entirely unforeseencontretempsto be dealt with. Quite heedless of Maudie's infinitesimal troubles, she bent all her thoughts on safeguarding her own situation. What would be the result of this visit? Morris would most assuredly hold himself released from his promise of forty-eight hours' silence if he learnt from Geoff that the forbidden marriage was to be actually celebrated within that time. Did Geoff intend taking his cousin into his confidence? She must know that. Concealing every sign of undue anxiety she whispered—
"Are we going to tell him about to-morrow?"
She breathed a sigh of relief at the answer.
"Not unless it becomes inevitable."
"Isn't there another way out, Mr. Danvers?" cried the distracted Maudie.
Geoff came to the rescue.
"Why not take Miss Meridith out by the back entrance, Pallister? You know—out into Langthorne Place."
"He mustn't come with me," declared the girl emphatically. "I mustn't have any of you with me. Somebody would be certain to see us. People one knows always are about when one doesn't want them to be."
"But you can go this way by yourself if you like," said Geoff; and getting the necessary key, he hastened down the little passage between the plaster-room and the model's dressing-room, and unlocked and unbolted the door at the end. Then returning he explained—
"Go down those stairs, and you'll find yourself in a corridor. Turn to the left and go straight ahead; take the second turning on the left again, and on the right you'll see another flight of stairs. That is the Langthorne Place entrance to this block of flats. When you get into the street, turn to the right, and then the first to the right again brings you——"
Maudie interposed plaintively.
"I forget already what you said first. I'm sure to get lost."
At this moment the electric bell rang out.
"Shall I come with you, and put you safely into a taxi?" suggested Evarne suddenly.
This offer was accepted with alacrity.
"Oh, that is kind of you, Miss Stornway. You must think I'm a silly little baby, but——"
Evarne did not listen. She picked up her hat.
"I wish he had not come," she said softly to Geoff as she inserted hatpins. "Don't let him talk about me, will you, or you may quarrel, and I should be so worried about that?"
Here the bell rang out again—a long insistent strain. Evarne stepped hurriedly with Maudie into the little corridor, closing the studio door after her. Geoff waited a minute or two to allow them time to get clear away, then admitted his cousin.
The course Evarne had thus adopted was indeed prompted by cowardice, but it was also upheld by policy. At the sound of Winborough's first ring, a terrible shudder of repulsion had thrilled through her every nerve. The necessity of again beholding that man who stood without seemed absolutely overwhelming. She clenched her hands violently at the remembrance of his brutal and gratuitous insults of the previous evening. Had she the strength, the fortitude to meet him once more and remain impassive? She mistrusted herself. Ah, if she only dared flee before him as Maudie was doing.
And from this desire had sprung the thought that she would probably really safeguard her own cause by being absent at this moment—that her presence in the studio, far from being necessary, would be a decided additional menace to her safety. At the present moment Morris was under a pledge of silence concerning her; Geoff, too, had a secret he was not anxious to divulge. Unless provoked by some exterior event, it was more than probable that her name would be deliberately avoided by both men. Moreover, the presence of Jack and Pallister would further suffice to prevent the cousins willingly introducing a subject that was likely to lead to contention.
But were she actually in the room with them, who could tell what might not result from so painful and awkward a situation? A hundred unforeseen complications might easily ensue, leading to defiance, loss of self-control, disregard of promises, betrayal! No, this precious chance so innocently offered her by Maudie of getting out of the place for a time was not to be neglected.
Yet no sooner had she taken the decisive step than shehalf regretted her choice. After all, there had been but scant time for consideration. Was she indeed acting wisely? Sudden suspicion clamoured loudly. Was Morris's promise to be relied on? Why had he come that morning? She hesitated, and stood still. A cold fear seized her, causing her heart to throb still more painfully. Then, regardless of what her companion might think, she very softly turned the handle of the studio door, pushed it an inch or two ajar, and stood listening.
Winborough was apparently in an amiable frame of mind. He greeted the three young men with the utmost friendliness, and after a few desultory remarks concerning the weather, proceeded to explain the reason of his unexpected arrival.
"It is not convenient for me to spare any time this afternoon, Mr. Hardy. I should prefer that you perform your operations upon me immediately, if possible."
Jack remained speechless, quite disconcerted by this unexpected demand.
"The life-mask?" queried Pallister.
"Yes. What do you say, Geoffrey?"
"Certainly. Just as you choose. Jack has got all the materials ready and waiting for this afternoon, haven't you?"
"Oh yes, indeed I have. I can do it just as well at once," assented that young man, finding his tongue.
Evarne waited to hear no more. It was with the most cordial thanksgivings that she listened to the very simple explanation of this visit that a moment ago had seemed so sinister. She sped before the sound of Jack's approaching footsteps, locking the outer door very gently with the key that Geoff had left in the lock.
The wondering and decidedly shocked Maudie was waiting patiently outside. Concealing the sick anxiety that she must feel so long as those two men were together, Evarne said cheerily—
"Just fancy, Lord Winborough is going to have his life-mask taken immediately. Mr. Pallister will be interested. He is so clever at modelling, isn't he? I should think he would be very successful some day."
Maudie swallowed the bait, and forbearing to ask awkward questions, commenced to chatter brightly about Frankie's marvellous talents.
Thus they wended their way downstairs, and gained the street.