Theresonant strokes of great clocks boomed forth the third hour after midnight; the sounds faded away languidly upon the heavy air, and silence reigned once more over the sleeping city. Evarne wandering downstairs, leaned out of the landing-window counting the tones, listened until they had died into nothingness, then, with a shuddering sigh, continued her way to the sitting-room.
Hour after hour throughout this seemingly endless night had she wandered over her little house, pacing to and fro distractedly in every room in turn. Morris Kenyon had come again into her life, and to stop her marriage would, if necessary, ruthlessly betray her secret to Geoff. It was beyond any possibility of doubt. That brief interview with him had clearly shown his intention. What power had she to prevent it? He would tell all—and then—what then? Even in imagination the results were well-nigh insupportable. And this approaching blow would not—could not—fall on herself alone; and in this reflection there lay a sting potent as that of the torturing gadfly that drove Io of old wandering over land and water seeking peace in vain.
Why, why had she ever risked this calamity? She ought to have told Geoff the whole truth about herself directly she saw he was growing really to care for her. But now, as an additional offence, she had been guilty of such brazen lies; had deceived him both by words and bysilences so continually and deliberately. Her whole conduct towards him must now appear shameful, utterly dishonourable. It was almost impossible to hope that his affection would endure in the face of such dire discoveries, it was quite out of the question to expect him afterwards implicitly to believe even her strongest assertions. Strive as she might to explain her motives, to excuse trickery that she could not deny, however earnestly she should plead, mourn, regret, she could never do away with these damning, irrefutable facts. What would Geoff think and say and do? Surely his revulsion of feeling would be terrible and complete?
And if, despite all, he could not cease to care for her—why, so much the worse for him! He who so desired to reverence where he loved could feel but contempt, or at least mere forgiving, generous pity. In place of trust and glad confidence—doubt, surmise, unrest. Better far for her "dreamer" if all memory of her could fade entirely from his thoughts. To love with the heart and despise with the intellect—it could be done. But it was cruel suffering; it bordered on the unendurable! She herself knew only too well the mental torture that such complex emotions imply. Was she to be the means of forcing Geoff to acquire this bitter knowledge?
During the passing of the weary hours her thoughts had travelled widely. Not only had she shuddered at the revelations of that day, and sickened with horror for the future, but memories of the hateful past had pressed upon her with resolute persistency.
And in that retrospect it seemed that bygone days had failed to show her the uttermost possibilities of mental anguish. Not throughout the long-protracted pain of striving against Lucinda Belmont's successful rivalry; not in that moment of humiliation and agony of spirit when Morris had bade her leave him for Tony; not the year of grinding poverty and overwork that followed—none of allthis had brought the cruellest last drops of the cup of misery so near her shrinking lips as did the present hour. She knew now that she could taste of these final dregs by one means only—by seeing her own deeds used as the weapon wherewith to shatter the happiness of the man she loved far more dearly then life.
"Geoff, Geoff, forgive me!" she cried aloud, and buried her face in her hands.
How cruel it all seemed! Could it be mere chance that so often made a sport, a mockery, of just the highest hopes and prospects—of the sunshine of the present—of the sweetest amidst past memories? Hot rebellion awoke within her heart, so surely did it seem that some subtle malignity, some deliberate spitefulness, had been at work shaping her life from the very day of her birth, when she lost her mother, guiding and controlling events until they culminated in this coil of torment. Or perchance it had all been preordained by some Supreme Being as a test, a needful trial. Yet again, may be, she, and Geoffrey too, were but working out their own salvation, fated to endure in order to expiate evil wrought in some forgotten existence; that she ought to be resigned, and, rebelling no longer, to submit patiently to sorrow both for herself and for him.
Ah, mystery of suffering! Can blind mortal eyes pierce the veil? Can a heart torn with ardent earthly love find comfort in the shadowy dreams of philosophers or mystics?
Evarne flung herself upon the couch, pressing her face despairingly into the cushions. And in the blackness arose, clear and distinct, a mental vision of that little Temple of Sekhet far away in the land of Egypt. How minutely could she recall the terrifying aspect of the goddess who held dominion over Love, over its joy and its cruelty. Almost with the vividness of reality could she see those ominous features—that flat head with its receding brow, beneath which no wise benevolence, no tender charitycould ever find place. And in the mental picture, the narrow gleaming eyes seemed reading the agony of her spirit with malicious deliberation, the long lips were parted over sharp teeth with a devilish smile of amusement and gratification.
She started erect and gazed around the familiar room, seeking to clear her mind of such spectres. But the train of thought was not to be got rid of so easily.
Surely those long-dead priests of Egypt had been verily inspired when they represented this divinity under the guise of a cat-headed creature? Ah, "Crusher of Hearts" supreme, with your sheer delight in torturing all that falls helplessly within your power—with your eyes that have the gift of seeing clearly how and where to strike when the vision of all others is dulled! But they should have given you cat's paws, Sekhet—cruel, tearing talons concealed in sheaths softer than velvet!
There was surely the "Mark of the Beast" upon this fate that had befallen her. After so many years of dull monotony, to be allowed once again to behold prospects of the truest happiness—to enjoy so brief a spell of love and joy—just a taste of life's sweetest possibilities. Then this crushing blow, this darkening of the heavens, this blight upon the earth, this upheaval of the depths!
She moved restlessly around the room for a few minutes, then wandered upstairs again. She longed for the temporary forgetfulness of sleep, but how vain to seek it with a mind in so wild a turmoil. The very atmosphere seemed stifling. Half lifting aside the dressing-table that stood before the window, she flung wide the lower sash, and bringing a chair, rested her folded arms upon the sill and gazed into the night.
Out of doors all was quiet and peaceful indeed. The moon still rode high, flinging clear-cut fantastic shadows upon road and pavement. No sound was to be heard, no human being to be seen.
Yet the mere sight of the street brought a fresh pang to her already overburdened heart. While Philia was away posing at the Polytechnic Art class that evening there had come a knock at the door which Evarne had disregarded entirely. A second rap was treated with like contempt; the outside world with its demands was non-existent to her that night. But the current of her thoughts had been disturbed, and at the third attempt she became sufficiently interested in this perseverance to stand concealed by the window-curtains to watch who went away.
After a time a figure had appeared and walked slowly down the street. It was Geoff himself. He had driven home with her at five o'clock, and here, but a few hours later, was apparently already anxious for fresh news. To see the road, brought this little incident vividly to her memory. Was she to lose such care and devotion? And to think that Geoff—with all his kindness and unfailing tenderness towards the weakest living thing, his trust and his true love for herself—was to be nothing more than one of Sekhet's innumerable victims!
She dragged down the blind sharply, to shut out the sight of the road, then made up her mind at least to lie down and strive to sleep. But early risers were already abroad before her eyelids even closed, and she seemed scarcely to have lost consciousness before Philia aroused her.
The old woman had not been as blind to the girl's troubled state as Evarne supposed. Far from sleeping complacently all night, she had lain awake long, listening to the gentle footsteps in the house, grieving over the sorrow that had so evidently descended upon the one who was dearest to her of all the world. Thus her voice was quite apologetic as she called out—
"I'm sorry to wake yer, my pet, but I've let yer sleep as long as ever is possible if you're goin' to be at that studio by nine. It's jist on eight o'clock already."
"I'll get up at once," Evarne answered, and she went so far towards carrying out her good intention as to immediately sit up in bed. But as the memory of the events of the previous day came upon her, she promptly sank down again with a renewal of despair.
But although lamentation and fear were permissible in the night hours, with the morning must come a renewal of courage and energy—so she told herself, at least; and with the determination of acting up to this resolution, sprang lightly out of bed, and, crossing the room, drew up the blind.
But either the energy of her uprising after such a night, or the sudden blaze of morning light, rendered her suddenly dizzy. She shut her eyes and leant for a moment on the dressing table. When she opened them again the first thing she saw was her own reflection in the mirror. She surveyed it with stern disapproval. What a sight she was, with pale cheeks and those blue circles under the eyes! She looked every whit as ugly as she felt—dazed and sleepy and silly. Suddenly she made up her mind to stay at home. There was no real need to call upon her resources until the evening brought the interview with Morris. She would avoid the unnecessary effort of concealing her distress and anxiety from Geoff.
She went out on to the landing, and, leaning over the banisters, called for Philia. The old woman opened the door of the kitchen, from whence issued the hissing sound of frying.
"Bring me up a cup of tea—nice and strong. I don't want anything to eat. I'm not going to the studio this morning."
Then returning to her room, she sat down and wrote to Geoff.
"Dearest of all,"Will you mind very much if I don't cometo-day? I have had such a restless night, it has made me look so ugly I don't want you to see me. There's vanity! Really, I do feel quite unwell—not actually ill, you know, but not up to posing. I feel sure I should only break more precious vases, so I had better not come, though it is hard not to see you for a whole day, my Geoff."Your lazy"Evarne."
"Dearest of all,
"Will you mind very much if I don't cometo-day? I have had such a restless night, it has made me look so ugly I don't want you to see me. There's vanity! Really, I do feel quite unwell—not actually ill, you know, but not up to posing. I feel sure I should only break more precious vases, so I had better not come, though it is hard not to see you for a whole day, my Geoff.
"Your lazy
"Evarne."
As she took the tea from Philia's hands she gave her the note.
"Send this by district messenger. Go at once, there's a dear."
"Won't yer tell me what's the matter, my pet? It's all troublin' me, it is, straight."
"There's nothing to worry about in a bad night, is there, now? When you come back don't wake me. I'm going to sleep again if I can."
But Evarne did not leave it to chance. When she had nearly finished her tea she produced a tiny blue bottle from the drawer of the washing-stand, carefully counted out five-and-twenty drops, shook her cup round several times, then swallowed tea and chlorodyne together to the last dreg. Lowering the blind she got back into bed and was soon fast asleep.
It was three o'clock before she descended to the sitting-room. On the table was a cluster of sweet-peas and roses, together with a note.
"Did Mr. Danvers send these?" she inquired, as she tore open the envelope.
"'E brought 'em 'imself. My gosh, dearie, 'e is properly careful of you. 'E knocked so soft I 'ardly 'eard 'im, and 'e looked that worried."
"So I've already started to grieve him," reflected Evarne grimly, as she proceeded to read his letter.
"My poor precious Darling,"I can't tell you how terrible it is to me to think of you as weak and suffering ... my bright-eyed, rosy-lipped Evarne. And I feel that really it is all my fault in one way and another.... I'm sure it is not surprising that yesterday should have upset you.... It's a delicate, sensitive soul, I know, for all the glorious vitality of the flesh. Only get well quickly, my best and dearest, and I'll guard you better in future. Get strong quickly, for my sake, who love you so, and you shall have permission to smash every vase in the studio to your heart's content ... you darling!"Geoff."
"My poor precious Darling,
"I can't tell you how terrible it is to me to think of you as weak and suffering ... my bright-eyed, rosy-lipped Evarne. And I feel that really it is all my fault in one way and another.... I'm sure it is not surprising that yesterday should have upset you.... It's a delicate, sensitive soul, I know, for all the glorious vitality of the flesh. Only get well quickly, my best and dearest, and I'll guard you better in future. Get strong quickly, for my sake, who love you so, and you shall have permission to smash every vase in the studio to your heart's content ... you darling!
"Geoff."
She put this little note in the bosom of her gown, as she went out to the kitchen in response to Philia's call to dinner.
After the little meal she got out her drawing materials, and made some pretence at working. But her pencil moved almost mechanically over the paper as her mind rehearsed all she could possibly find to say to Morris—the pleas, the arguments she could place before him to turn him from his present purpose. Slowly though time crept, she watched its steady progress with dismay, and as the afternoon waned there arose within her an ever-increasing fear, not so much of the interview that loomed ahead, as of its result. She tried to force herself to think only hopefully regarding its issue, but all the time in her innermost consciousness she seemed to know that failure was a foregone conclusion. How futile to strive to alter Morris's set determination—above all when, for once in his life, he would be able to flatter himself that he was standing firm in the cause of right and justice.
Bysix o'clock the sedentary occupation had become too trying. Evarne changed her dressing-gown for a coat and skirt, and went out.
All this erratic behaviour caused Philia not a little concern and alarm. As a general rule Evarne was so very placid and level-headed, that this disregard of all precedent, this wandering about in the dark and sleeping in the daylight, this neglect of work, meals at extraordinary hours, and all the rest of the disorganising of respectable routine, was not an occurrence to be treated lightly. Still, in Philia's experience of human nature, directly a girl must needs go and fall in love, troubles and upsets and excitements followed as an inevitable corollary, while calm quiet contentment took unto itself wings. Thus she did not consider the root-cause of the present state of affairs to be enshrouded in unsolvable mystery. Although she was rather hurt at not being made a confidante, she evinced no curiosity, being fairly satisfied that clouds of such a nature almost always pass away in due course.
But when half an hour later she answered a knock at the door and discovered Geoff, she greeted him with anything but an amiable countenance.
"How is she now?" he inquired.
"Guess she's better agin, for she's gorn out to git a breath o' fresh air. Will yer please to step in and wait. I dare say she would like to see yer when she comes back."
Needing no second invitation, Geoff followed Mrs. Harbert into the house.
The pretty little sitting-room was full of Evarne's personality. Here were the flowers he had brought her; here too were her books, her drawing-board, her writing-case; there was the embroidered footstool on which she had sat during his previous visit. Everything sang to him of Evarne. There were the really charming pictures on the walls, signed with her initials, that she had amazed him by showing as her own handiwork. There was her little work-box, and across it lay the long strip of embroidery on which he had seen her diligently creating silken blossoms. Moved by a sudden longing to hold in his hand something that she had touched, Geoff picked up this and surveyed it with the minute scrutiny of an apparent connoisseur in art needlework.
Philia was speaking to him somewhat reproachfully. She imagined that now, having the culprit under her thumb, she could, with all due regard for politeness, give him a "piece of her mind."
"I must tell yer first that I ain't bin told who it is worryin' my pore gal, but I warrant if they'd bin 'ere to see 'er last night they'd 'ave bin fair ashamed of themselves. She was roamin' the 'ouse like a wanderin' spirit, and in the mornin' she was jist as white as 'er nightgown. It seems to me that to make anyone really un'appy without rhyme or reason—and I won't believe Evarne is in the wrong—as I was sayin', to make anyone real miserable is a big thing to 'ave on one's mind in this 'ere world o' sin and woe, full o' the slings and arrers of houtrageous fortune as it is—Shakespeare! In plain talk, sir, a world where we're all certain to 'ave quite enough trouble to digest without them as we cares for most forcin' a hextry dose down our gullets. And no stray flowers, nor even rings nor sich-like, makes up for unkindness—not to the noble mind—Shakespeare! I've lived with Evarne for fiveyears and more, and she's never 'ad one hour's sorrow through my fault. Hexcuse me if I'm takin' liberties I didn't ought, but you've bin 'ome from foreign parts less than a week, and for some reason or other now she's made fair miserable—by someone or other! I'm not sayin' by who, but it's very 'ard for me to see it and not say nothin' at all."
Philia paused, somewhat apprehensive at having thus let her feelings carry her away. But Geoff was not displeased by this ardent championship.
"My dear Mrs. Harbert," he said seriously, "if it is my fault—and to a certain extent I'm afraid it is—believe me that it was both unintentional and indirect. Evarne shall never have a moment's trouble that I can save her from, be very sure of that."
He walked to the window and looked out.
"I wonder where she is now?" he went on. "Do you think she will be long?"
"Can't say where she is. She jist says, 'It's suffocatin' indoors,' she says, and out she goes. Most likely she'll be back by seven. Anyway, I'm due at the 'Poly' at 'alf-past."
"You've always posed, haven't you, Mrs. Harbert?"
Philia was decidedly a trifle aggrieved by this query, and answered in wounded tones—
"Now, sir, if yer was a few years older, yer wouldn't need to ask that. There was a time when every hartist in London knew all about Philadelphia 'Arbert, and it wasn't sich a great time ago either."
"Evidently I don't know much?" queried Geoff with a good-natured smile.
The reply was certainly cutting.
"You never 'eard tell of Philadelphia 'Arbert as a model, and you don't know 'ow to keep yer sweet'eart's eyes dry. Well, sir, askin' yer pardin', but you 'ave got somethin' to learn!"
The young man bit his lip and did not answer. This silence melted his outspoken critic immediately, and she set to work to be amiable.
"Hexcuse me if I'm rather sharp, but it is 'ard to 'ave bin famous once and to find yer 'ard-earned fame all gorn. Why, I can remember the time when any hartist gentlemen as wanted to bring Venus or any other of them 'eathen young women into a picture, didn't feel 'e'd done all he could to 'elp 'imself until 'e'd got me to pose for 'im. That's a fact, sir! I'd a lovely figger when I was a gal. None o' the young women now, only exceptin' Evarne, comes up to what models was in my young days, and I—well, my gosh! I've 'ad a long string o' great painters waitin' their turn till I was disengaged and could oblige."
"It must have been both pleasant and profitable to be in such demand."
Mrs. Harbert looked down with becoming modesty, and smoothed her apron as she replied—
"Well, sir, it was, but I never let myself get huppish about it. I was only as the Lord chose to make me. I used to say sometimes, 'Beauty is as beauty does,' and 'Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower; lost, faded'—I forget the rest—'within the hour'—Shakespeare. I've sat for Lord Leighton and Millais and Watts and 'eaps of others."
"Then you have posed for some quite well-known pictures, I suppose?"
"My gosh! a picture painted in those days, when Hart was properly understood, 'adn't much chance of bein' thought 'ighly of if the hartist 'adn't taken care to git me to collaborate with 'im."
"Now, that's a really original idea of yours, Mrs. Harbert—that a painter and his model collaborate. Did you tell it to the men you sat for, and what did they say?"
"Well, sir, truth is, I doubt if any of the hartists that I've 'elped to gain positions they'd never 'ave got to withoutme, would be willin' to acknowledge it. But there, that's only the way o' the world. Shakespeare 'e wrote a song about hingratitude, as I dare say you've 'eard sung."
"Isn't it very interesting to be able to look back on the famous pictures you've posed for?" inquired Geoff, with another fleeting glance out of the window.
"It is that! Why, I was that proud the first time I was in a picture that was the 'it of the season. I was 'Harry—Harry—hadney.'"
"Whom?"
"Ain't yer never 'eard of 'er, pore gal? She's bin deserted on a island by some skulkin' brute, so she knelt down with next to nothin' on, and 'eld out both 'er 'ands to the sea. It was like this."
Rendered enthusiastic by her reminiscences, Philia sank down on the carpet, leant forward, flung back her head and imploringly extended both her hands. The effect had probably been charming when the model was youthful and fair, but now it put a severe demand on Geoff's good manners not to smile at the old dame.
"It was real touchin'," she declared, as she rose to her feet with some difficulty, "but it nearly gave me 'ousemaid's knee! Then there was another picture that made a lot o' talk. It was called the 'Race of Hatalanta.' She was runnin' fit to catch the last train 'ome. I shan't forget that pose in a 'urry. My gosh, I can't even think of it without my left leg beginnin' to ache!"
At this moment the street door was heard to open. According to her usual custom Evarne had let herself in with her latchkey.
"There she is," said Philia, and stepping out into the passage she announced in somewhat triumphant tones, "There's a gentleman 'ere waitin' to see yer, dearie."
After an interval of somewhat unaccountable duration, Evarne appeared in the doorway. As she beheld Geoff herwhole expression changed, her lips parted into a smile, her eyes lit up.
"Oh, it is you! I am so very glad, so delighted!" she gasped.
"Well, I won't be hintrudin' no longer," declared Philia as she left the room.
But her absence or presence was unmarked at that moment. Evarne was in Geoff's arms, and each was gazing at the other as if years of separation had intervened between this moment and their last meeting.
"I am so very glad you have come," declared Evarne again. "You cannot tell how badly I have wanted you. I felt as if I should die if I couldn't see you! Do you know where I have been? No, how should you? I have been to your studio! I don't mean upstairs, but I walked past and looked up at the window. I hoped you might just happen to look out. I did want you so much; I wanted comforting so badly."
"Evarne, every time I see you, you make me love you even more devotedly than I did before. But how truly wicked to want to see me, and not send a message at once. I have been thinking about you every minute of the day. Dearest, tell me, are you worrying so sadly about anything Winborough said?"
"It is the whole thing—the whole business. Oh, why could you not have been poor? Why could not you have been just an ordinary person, so that we could have lived for one another, without anyone having either the wish or the right to interfere? I am so afraid of your cousin—and worse still, I know that everyone will be on his side. I feel the force of the entire world against me, and it's crushing."
"But we can safely defy the whole world to weaken our love for one another, can't we, my best and dearest?"
She wrenched herself suddenly from his arms.
"Oh, I don't know!—I don't know! How can we be sure of anything?"
So saying, she flung herself down amid the cushions of the big velvet arm-chair. Geoff stood motionless for a moment, then seating himself on one of its wide arms, he leaned over, resting his hand upon the opposite side.
"Then know this henceforward, Evarne. You may with perfect confidence defy not only the world, headed by Winborough, but you may safely defy even yourself to destroy the love I have for you. You might wound me, and disappoint me, even forget me, yet while I live I shall love you, and after death also, if Heaven pleases. What more can I say than that?"
"Well, it's a very pretty sentiment, anyhow," was the lightly-spoken, almost mocking reply.
"Then truth is not always ugly," he answered quietly enough, but Evarne could see that he was not unmoved by her jeering tones. Impulsively she flung her arms around his neck, and drew his face down to hers.
"Geoffrey, I'm years and years—I'm centuries older than you in spirit. I have suffered so much in previous existences that my soul still retains its scars. Truth has always appeared to me so sad of countenance, that when I see it with a smiling face I dread deception. Yes, indeed. In my mind Truth is invariably so grim, so menacing, so destructive, that when anything appears in beautiful guise and calls itself Truth, I instinctively mistrust it."
"Then I suppose I can do nothing but wait, and let time prove my words."
A sudden impulse—a longing—seized Evarne to confess everything—there on the spot, without any preparation or delay. To take him at his word, to shatter his ideal, and see if the love he thought so invincible could really endure. What a triumphant answer to Morris—to meet him with Geoff by her side—Geoff knowing all, and unchanged by knowledge!
She sought for words with which to commence, but in the moment's hesitation she chanced to look full into hisclear grey eyes. It was no use. A cold chill seized her, and a feeling almost of physical sickness. She was ashamed. It was impossible to find language for this task that her tongue could be brought to utter. She felt her cheeks flush red, and partly covered her face with her hand.
So much for this half-hearted attempt at confession. And as the impulse passed, a great thankfulness arose that she had not yielded to its wiles. That Geoff loved her now was as certain as that he lived, and at that very moment she could feel his warm breath upon her brow. But he spoke with untried confidence. Had he not once declared, practically in so many words, that he would rather see her dead than have aught destroy his love for her? He had, indeed, made an attempt to contradict himself a moment later; but she held those words to be the genuine offspring of truth—representative of his most usual frame of mind. No, her task was not to anticipate, but to strive to ward off the evil hour of disillusionment.
"My true lover," she murmured, "I know you are faithful and loyal and constant, and I believe you would be long-suffering. I trust you, depend upon you now, and rely upon you for the future without a single doubt or a moment's hesitation."
"And, dearest, am I to feel the same about you? Will you be always faithful and constant to me?"
"Oh, Geoff, always, always."
"Then all is well. I half feared that if Winborough got a chance to talk to you alone, and perhaps bullied and argued and persuaded and appealed to your affection for me, and all that sort of thing, you might perchance be led to imagine that you were really ensuring my ultimate happiness by going away and leaving no trace whereby I could discover you again. One hears of such things, you know."
"If I thought it would be really best for you, be sure I would——"
"Evarne, my dear—my dearest—remember——"
"Yes, Geoff, I do remember, whatever it might be you were going to remind me of, for I forget nothing. I do believe I can make you happy. You hear that? I firmly believe I can make your life happier than it could be without me. That belief is the foundation of all my actions. Will you always remember that? Please take it into your very heart of hearts, and let it fix itself there indelibly."
For some time they sat silent. With Geoff so very near to her, Evarne became conscious of a gentle calm, a certain sense of peace, a despondency that was mournful, but less desperate. It was with an effort that she finally roused herself sufficiently to take his watch out from his pocket and look at the time.
"Seven—seven o'clock and past!" she sighed, replacing it. "Ah me! You mustn't think, dear, that I'm dreadfully rude and inhospitable, but I'm afraid I must ask you not to stay any longer."
"Oh—h!"
"It's no use saying 'oh' in that dolorous manner," she declared, smiling. "You see—it's this way—old Philia has to leave here for the 'Poly' about seven. She will be going in a few minutes."
"But we don't mind, do we? We don't want the old lady."
Evarne cast down her eyes. The only excuse that had crossed her mind for getting Geoff out of the house struck her as being decidedly petty and unworthy.
"It is stupid, I know well; but people do talk so."
"Why, silly little Evarne, you are surely not bothering about Mrs. Grundy and the neighbours, are you?"
With a somewhat feeble and shamefaced smile she rose up from out the depths of the chair, and replied only by fetching his hat and offering it to him with a little curtsey.
"It's only till to-morrow. I shall come to the studio just as usual."
The young man took the proffered hat with undisguised reluctance.
"Of course, I cannot stay if my hostess turns me out thus firmly," he grumbled, "but I'm sure it is not necessary. I believe you're tired of me."
She shook her head confidently.
"I'm very sure you don't think that really."
His momentary ill-humour died away.
"Of course I don't, dear heart. I dare say you are in the right. Everything you do is perfect, only—I warn you—you will have to marry me sooner than ever for this. Can't you settle on a definite date by to-morrow? Do try."
She disregarded his question.
"I'm glad you're not vexed. You did frown at me, you did, and it made you look—oh, terribly ugly—just like a mediæval gargoyle."
"You and Mrs. Harbert have certainly entered into a conspiracy with a view to reducing me to a proper condition of self-depreciation," declared Geoff, smiling at the lofty expression of disdain with which his "Sweet Lady" was still surveying him. He shifted his hat from one hand to the other.
"Come out with me, Evarne. Let us go and have something to eat, and then on to a theatre or somewhere, eh?"
"I've still got the tiniest little headache; I would rather not," she declared. "Good-bye, dearest." Then, correcting herself somewhat wildly: "No, no. I didn't mean good-bye—only good-night! Don't speak ill-omened words, Geoff. Only say good-night."
At length he was gone. Evarne pressed her hand to her forehead. This unexpected visit had both weakened and strengthened her.
After a few minutes she went upstairs to change her dress. Hearing the approaching steps, Philia, who was in her own room tying on her bonnet, called out, and as the girl entered she inquired—
"Are yer any 'appier now, my pet? Is it all right?"
"You really are fond of me, aren't you, Philia?" queried Evarne meditatively, without replying to the question she had been asked. Then, without waiting for any response to her own demand, she went on: "Would you mind doing a little errand for me? The classes at the 'Poly' end at ten, don't they? Will you go afterwards to Edith Gordon's and ask her for the blouse pattern she promised to lend me? It isn't very far out of your way, and you can stop and have a chat if she is in, can't you?"
"Right yer are," assented Philia cordially, and five minutes later the door had closed behind her.
At length the coast was quite clear for Morris's visit.
Evarne carefully studied her three tea-gowns. It was an important point. The green one was a great favourite with everybody, but it was undeniably getting old. The crimson cashmere with the black lace suited her splendidly, but both colour and material looked rather heavy for such hot weather. The pale yellow was the most suitable, and she would wear a harmonising cluster of sweet-peas.
Although every nerve in her body seemed to be now on edge, she did not neglect the least detail of her toilette, and at its completion could not but realise that she was indeed fair to behold. She had quite got back her colour, and that peculiar sparkling brilliance that was her characteristic beauty. Her luxurious dark hair, faintly scented and piled high upon her head, was held in place by ornamental combs. Long enamel earrings, gleaming blue and green, served to emphasise the soft carnation bloom of the cheeks they hung against, while a brooch of the same iridescent tones held together the lace at the point of the V-shaped opening of her gown. Then she put her diamond engagement ring upon her finger, and, after a final critical gaze into the mirror, descended the stairs. There she drew the blinds and lit the lamp. It was five minutes past eight. She sat down and waited.
Thesilence was intense and oppressive; time dragged painfully; every minute was fraught with an entire round of mingled emotions. Fear and trembling apprehension alternated with eager impatience; stem determination, coupled with either forced or spontaneous hope, would be followed by a crushing sense of foregone failure and lack of self-confidence. After a while this ceaseless ebullition of feeling brought on actual physical fatigue, and Evarne leant back in her chair with a growing sense of exhaustion.
Suddenly a sharp, loud knock broke the silence. Although she had been expecting this—listening and waiting for it—the sound came finally as a blow dealt her highly-strung nerves. She gave a painful start, a gasp, and felt the hot blood surge to her head. She sprang to her feet at once, but then stood motionless. Now that Morris Kenyon was actually upon her doorstep, every moment that kept him from crossing the threshold seemed a priceless respite.
She believed that she remained as if spellbound for many minutes, but really only a brief time passed before she aroused herself and went to the front door. With apparent indifference she flung it half open, and at once returned to sink into her favourite big arm-chair, leaving Morris to enter, close the front door, and conduct himself along the hall.
The light streaming from out the one room into the darknessserved as a guide, and in a minute she heard his advancing footsteps come to a standstill. She neither spoke nor looked up, but remained impassive, her eyes fixed on the beloved ring that sparkled upon her third finger.
Morris seemed well content to stand for a while in the doorway, surveying her with a keen scrutiny. Then he studied the surroundings, rapidly but with considerable interest; glanced over his shoulder into the dense blackness that enveloped the remainder of the house; listened a moment to the heavy stillness that held sway; then entered the room and closed the door, pausing calmly to admire the crimson velvet portière, on which was some of Evarne's exquisite embroidery. After laying down his stick and hat on a little table and leisurely removing his gloves, he drew up a chair close to his hostess, sat down, and waited silently until she should choose to speak.
He was in evening dress, and though in the abstract there was nothing to be surprised at in this sartorial detail, Evarne found it inexplicably disconcerting. Without raising her eyelids she contrived to study him through her long lashes. He was indeed dignified and imposing; he had lost none of his good looks; but the lines of his mouth seemed even sterner, more inflexible than of yore. Past memories rushed upon her mind. The leading events and many apparently trifling details that had gone towards making up nigh three years of her life passed now in rapid progression before her mind's eye.
Verily she had loved this man at one time—she shrank with self-loathing from recalling how devotedly. He it was had been the cause of all those wild storms of emotion that from time to time had convulsed her whole nature in the throes either of ecstasy or of anguish. Quite apart from the fact that he came at this crisis as the arbiter of her future fate, it would have been impossible for her to once more see him—to feel his near presence—and remain entirely unmoved.
Maybe some similar reflections passed through Morris's mind. At all events, when ultimately he broke the silence, his words referred, not directly to the business on hand, but to the days that were gone.
"The presiding spirits at our exciting and interesting farewell, five—six now, isn't it?—six years ago, were not exactly those of Peace and Harmony, were they? Where did the venturesome little birdie flutter when it left its gilded cage, and what did it do?"
Considering the gravity of the circumstances to which he was alluding, this light mode of address aroused all Evarne's indignation. But she carefully concealed every trace of resentment. So far her behaviour towards him that evening had been decidedly cavalier; but it was undoubtedly necessary, if she was to win her way with him, that he should be deferred to—conciliated, rendered as well disposed towards her as was possible. Thus she gently answered his question by a brief though absolutely frank recital of her short stage experience, her miseries at needlework and subsequent illness, and her ultimate success as an artist's model. She kept very much to generalities in this account of how the years had passed with her, and avoided the least mention of Geoffrey.
Morris listened with evident interest, and after a period of silence had shown that she did not intend to proceed to further details, he said carelessly—
"You've escaped monotony in life, at all events. But, indeed, some new experiences have come the way of nearly everybody you once knew. Tony Belmont married, and is now a respectable, sober citizen with two children. Lucinda is still in Paris, assailing hearts and banking accounts with undiminished success—not mine, though! Little—whatever was her name? Oh, Feronnier! A man who once knew her told me he had seen her recently haunting the back streets with a face pitted by small-pox! I, to my own vast surprise, find myself,nolens volens,an earl! My lady-wife, the countess, grows more tenacious of life year by year. I should say also she has become more disagreeable and unpleasant daily, if she hasn't already arrived at an age when ugliness and unpleasantness in the fair sex are such that there's no distinguishing of degrees. Then Geoffrey Danvers finds himself my heir, with all the resultant privileges and drawbacks—amongst the latter being the dire necessity of marrying not merely to please his own fancy, but with a certain regard to the demands of his position."
At length this preamble had been manœuvred round to the main point.
Evarne leaned slightly forward in her anxiety, as she demanded, without any circumlocution—
"Morris, do you wish to prevent your cousin making me his wife?"
Unconsciously she held her breath while awaiting his reply.
"Surely such a question needs no answer?" he said, a certain sternness stealing into his voice. "My chief wonder is that you ever dared to think of marrying my cousin."
Explanation seemed but a waste of time, yet she found herself saying in a somewhat tremulous voice—
"But I didn't know. They all speak of you by your title, and I did not dream of connecting that name with you. I never saw anything about the matter in the papers. Five years ago I was doing needlework; I read nothing and knew of nothing that happened outside my own four walls."
"Um! I understand," rejoined Morris reflectively. Then with a sudden change of tone he continued—
"Now, see here. You must realise that, as things have turned out, this marriage is not to be thought of. While no one who has ever known you,ma chérie, can possibly connect Evarne and common sense together in their minds, you are experienced enough by now, I dare say, to bewilling to admit that life has the drawback of being a serious affair, and not a pretty romance. Therefore you will surely see that the wisest thing you can do is to make the best of a bad job, to accept the inevitable, and—shall we say—travel a while? Now, travelling costs money, and it is only fair that I, who am responsible for the necessity, should pay the piper. There's a cheque in my pocket-book, Evarne. If you will tell me what you think would be sufficient to—to settle up things comfortably—I will fill it in right away. Now, that's merely a business offer, to avoid trouble and annoyance for us both," he added hastily, noticing her changed expression. "I don't need any thanks, but at the same time I don't intend to put up with any of the abuse to which you treated me the last time I proposed concerning myself about your future. Now, what sum will satisfy you? In any case you must realise that your marriage with Geoffrey is absolutely impossible."
Evarne lay back in the big chair and surveyed the speaker leisurely and critically. She was at a loss to decide on the best manner of refusing even to consider this suggestion. One variety of response after another flitted through her mind. She dared venture on none of them. She dreaded the effect her defiance would have upon him, declare it gently and meekly as she might. Finally words came, prompted by her protracted scrutiny of his cold, resolute face. A quivering sigh escaped her, and speaking half to herself she murmured—
"How much I have suffered at your hands!"
For a moment his sympathy was aroused. He drew his chair a trifle closer, and laid his hand upon her knee.
"Evarne, why in Heaven's name do such things happen? On my honour, I'm heartily grieved and worried over this imbroglio."
With hope flashing into her eyes she suddenly sat erect and caught at his arm.
"Then leave everything alone—dear, dear."
Her mellifluous voice was low and coaxing. Before he could reply she went on—
"Let all the cruel, hateful past be forgotten. I can—I will—be a good wife to Geoff. You should never, never have the least reason to regret having permitted our marriage—oh, I'm certain! We are so strangely suited to one another—our natures are thoroughly harmonious. Oh, Morris, Morris, you don't know how much he cares for me, and I—I love him with my whole heart, with all my strength, with all that makes my life. We should be so happy together—do let it be."
Morris raised his hands, as if to request the opportunity of replying. But Evarne did not, perhaps could not, cease one instant in her impassioned appeal.
"You know better than almost anyone that I am not light-natured, or really indifferent to right and wrong. You did care for me once—I know it—and there was a time when I would have turned to you with perfect confidence in any trouble. By the memory of those days, I implore you not to drag me again into the lowest depths of misery. And Geoff too—pity him, and spare him. Let him live his own life, and love in peace, and marry as his heart dictates. You can't always go by hard and fast laws. I am sure, I am convinced, that the greatest good—that nothing but good—could ever come from your keeping silence upon the wrongs, the faults, the deceptions and miseries that have gone by. Only fresh harm, more widespread evil, immediate and life-long, irreparable and unnecessary—oh think, so unnecessary—can arise from your determination to oppose a marriage that would be—be.... Oh, Morris, we do love each other so much!"
She flung her whole soul into this plea. As so often happens, the actual words were by far the weakest part of the appeal. It was her voice, low-pitched in its earnest entreaty, and at times quivering and uncertain, that betrayedmost clearly the depth of her agitation—the vital force of tortured feelings. And as these tremulous tones died away, her entire personality continued to give the impression that her very life hung upon Morris's response. She leaned towards him; her fair face, so expressive, so appealing, was very close to his. Those eager brown eyes, now so full of passionate persuasion, seemed to burn to his innermost consciousness. Not for one moment could Morris doubt the reality of her deep affection for the man she desired to marry.
He admired total abandonment of any sort. Something of her old charm fell upon him, and for a passing moment he came near to envying his young cousin the possession of this all-dominating love that he himself had once so lightly flung aside and disregarded. Thus, besides the need of resisting the encroachment of sentiment upon his resolve, he felt a touch of jealousy—a decided though unacknowledged displeasure at finding the heart that was once his footstool now so entirely emancipated from his service. It was this sense of personal grievance that caused him to answer her with a dash of that brutality that came so easily to his lips.
"The saints protect me from the responsibility of disarranging any ideal union, but the one you suggest is in every way about as unsuitable as could possibly be imagined. Doubtless you are absolutely devoted to Geoffrey—thousands of girls could easily adore the heir to an earldom. But forget your charming romantic feelings and try to look at the matter from an impersonal point of view. You are an artist's model. It may be the most refined and elevating profession imaginable, but—well—we commonplace people who belong neither to the race of poets nor artists find it rather difficult to reconcile—well—you comprehend? I won't press that point."
"That is nothing at all to Geoff!" breathed Evarne.
"Then, if I understood rightly, you came very near toincluding utter starvation in that intensely interesting recital of your experiences," he went on. "Of course, that's very sad—quite touching, in fact. But now, do you suppose that a few years ahead we want troops of American tourists trotting out to the slums to visit the garret wherein the Countess of Winborough nearly starved? I can assure you that, although I shan't be here, I object very strongly to the possibility. Oh, Geoffrey thinks he wouldn't mind, I dare say. I only wonder he hasn't already painted a picture of you in rags and tatters gazing into a cupboard like old Mother Hubbard and labelled it 'Suffering Virtue.' That's his belief about you, isn't it?"
Evarne felt her whole body tingling with hot indignation. She rose impetuously from the arm-chair, and walked rapidly to the farther end of the room. Such was the overwhelming hatred of this man that awoke again with renewed power within her breast, that his near presence was not to be endured.
"And isn't it true?" she demanded, speaking quickly and with impassioned emphasis. "Is not the very phrase that you are mean and base enough to fling at me in derision nothing more nor less than Heaven's truth? Is it not entirely because I did indeed prefer my own self-respect to ill-gotten money that there is a showplace in London such as you describe? That squalid room, and the cruel ordeals I underwent within its walls, are the very witnesses that testify to my claim to be held a good woman and a fit wife for any man. Not a day passed without my enduring more than you can ever realise. I was entirely without hope for the future, yet never once—never once, I tell you—did I regret the choice I had made.
"That grinding poverty was no shame to me," she went on, "but a glory; and no one knows that better than you—you, Morris Kenyon! And I would go back to it—live and die in it—rather than lose my own consciousness of virtue. You despicable coward! How dare you come hereand taunt me with humiliations for which you alone are responsible? Everything that is degrading and wretched in my life has been brought into it by you. You indeed did your best to turn me into a woman whom a man well might fear to entrust with his name and with his honour, but that garret cries out to you and to all the world the story of your failure. It is infamous—vile—to bring forward such an acceptance of poverty as a reason for opposing your cousin's choice of me as his wife. It is infamous, and you know it."
She paused, breathing hard, still struggling with a sense of outrage. Her words had not been devoid of a certain sting, and once or twice Morris had inwardly winced beneath the onslaught. But circumstances placed every advantage—every weapon of lasting keenness—into his hands. Thus it was with unruffled complacency that he declared—
"My dear Evarne, could you not contrive to conquer this tendency to wax melodramatic? You know I dislike it, and that it is always ineffective."
He waited a minute, half expecting her to answer. But obedient to his expressed will Evarne succeeded in stifling all retorts, and remained silent. Looking at her narrowly, he could see signs of the effort she made over herself, and smiled a little before he continued—
"You force me to speak more plainly than I had hoped would be necessary. Surely you must know that I do not really need to adduce any exterior or subsequent details of your career in support of my very natural objection to this marriage. The one fact of your having been my mistress is alone all-sufficient. Understand that, please! You calmly ask me to allow Geoffrey to walk blindly into the trap you have set for him, and hurl insults at my head when I refuse! I should like to know what you expected? Did you really believe I should become a party to this deceit?"
But again he received no answer. Evarne simply looked at him with eyes that had grown somewhat dilated.
"I know he is absolutely without any suspicion," Morris went on, "for only yesterday the poor fool spoke of you in a strain that almost caused me to laugh in his face."
It needed such words, uttered in tones of such supreme contempt, to bring home to Evarne the way in which others must view the position in which she had placed Geoffrey. The knowledge assailed her cruelly. A physical pain, keen as a knife, shot through her forehead from one temple to the other. Crossing to the sofa, she sat down, twisted her hands tightly together, shut her eyes, and waited while the sharp pang gradually passed away.
Without turning right round, Morris was no longer able to see her. Accordingly, he got up and sank into the arm-chair she had vacated. But a minute later Evarne was on her knees by his side. The new horror that his last words had aroused, goaded her into making yet another effort at persuasion. Leaning against the soft, wide arm of the chair, she cried somewhat wildly—
"No, I haven't told him, because somehow the occasion never seemed to come until he loved me so much that I couldn't endure to speak the cruel truth. And you mustn't tell him now, Morris—oh, you mustn't! If only you will keep silent, neither he nor anybody else will ever know."
"So you flatter yourself, but these things always leak out."
"This wouldn't—how could it? We were abroad practically all the time—no one here knows. Besides, nobody at all can be really certain. There was always the veil of a plausible explanation of our being together. You didn't pick me up from nowhere. My father left me in your charge—everyone at Heatherington knew that. I worked steadily at Art all the time. There is scarcely the remotest possibility of anyone ever trying to makemischief; but if they did, then you and I together could absolutely defy them. We could, couldn't we? Morris, I beg of you—I implore your mercy—keep my secret. It can be done, and I am sure——"
But Morris interposed.
"It is not a bit of use continuing, my dear. Such a proceeding on my part would be most dishonourable towards my cousin."
"It would be the truest kindness to him. And have I no claims upon your honour? Will it allow you to betray me without scruple? Do you owe me no consideration whatsoever?"
"You view everything in a totally false light, Evarne. You don't seem to understand the difference——"
"Of course I know Geoff is infinitely more important than I am; but it is for his sake—that's what you won't see and believe. But——"
"Now,ma chérie, it's no use arguing. There is really nothing more to be said on the matter, so don't let the morning milkman find us still wasting breath. It is absolutely impossible that I can stand by and watch my cousin run blindly into a marriage with—well—with you! I think you really owe me some thanks for not enlightening him immediately. The fact is, I've always been ridiculously yielding and considerate where you are concerned, and the thought flashed across me yesterday that you might prefer to choose your own method of breaking with him. Now, what about—about that cheque, little girl? There's no reason why you shouldn't make an excellent marriage yet. The world is wide. They say American men make good husbands, and I will give you my blessing in anticipation."
Evarne remained silently musing for several minutes. Morris augured well from this, and did not interrupt her train of thought. At length she asked, in tones not devoid of a slight tinge of bitterness—
"And am I expected to thank you for all your kindly consideration?"
He merely shrugged his shoulders.
Somewhat to his surprise she answered quietly—
"Very well. I do thank you for keeping my secret so long, and for your offer of money, which I can well believe you mean simply as a kindness."
"Ah! And you decide...? What are you going to do now?"
"I am going to marry Geoffrey Danvers."
"Evarne!"
Morris was decidedly taken aback by this calm yet resolute response. Evarne rose from her knees, and sitting down continued—
"Yes, I am going to become his wife, and you shall never persuade me into telling him what I know well must cause him such profound sorrow. Not that it would make any lasting perceptible difference if you did betray me. You have no idea—foryoucan have no comprehension—of how deeply he and I love. I don't really think it lies within your power to realise the depth—such—such sincerity of affection. I am perfectly convinced that he would remain true to me, despite a far worse tale than you could tell."
"You don't really credit that romance. This attempt to marry him with a lie upon your lips proves you to be afraid of the effects of the truth."
"You're partly right, I admit; but I do not fear that Geoff would cease to care for me. Love is not killed so easily—don't think it."
"I know differently."
"You know absolutely nothing at all about love! Nothing!"
"Well, I certainly cannot prophesy upon the delicate topic of my cousin's affections with anything approaching your delightful assurance. Probably he would suggestthat he should occupy the same position towards you that I did once, but I'm quite convinced——"
"Heaven save me from ever hearing such a proposition from Geoff's lips. But I know he never would."
"As I was about to say, I am perfectly convinced that he would never marry you—would never wish to! Good gracious! what do you take him for?"
Evarne gave a little cry.
"And then—and then—what then? Think of the struggle—the bitter anguish. Morris, Morris, do realise the cruel blow it would be to him. Oh, it must be warded off! I cannot even think of it with anything like calmness."
And indeed, even as she spoke, the growing pallor upon her cheeks supported her assertion. She rose from her chair.
"I will not have this evil deed of so-called friendship done to him. Do you hear? You are not to tell him. If you do, I shall deny it utterly. Do you hear?"
"I'm afraid the loudest shouting must prove as impotent as the most persuasive of tones to drown the voice of my conscience in this matter," declared Morris, looking unmistakably self-righteous. Disregarding the scornful little laugh with which this sentiment was received, he went on—
"Really, Evarne, your morals are decidedly eccentric. But you require plain speaking, don't you? Well, then, they are absolutely infamous. Everything you say only serves to confirm my original determination."
Both his voice and his look carried conviction. Waves of wild grief, of hopeless, crushing despair, swept over Evarne's spirit, followed by the most intense hatred and bitter indignation. Her caution demolished by a sense of utter failure, she placed no restriction upon the expression of her deep-rooted resentment against this man who had ever been her evil genius. She stood close to him, one hand spasmodically gripping the back of the chair from whichshe had arisen, while her eyes, always brilliant, now fairly blazed with anger and enmity.
"I shouldn't deny it—no, indeed. But from my lips he should learn the whole truth—the entire shameful story. He should know how my father on his very deathbed gave me—still a child—into the keeping of his false friend. Surely it will be easy to realise that, when in my hour of loss and loneliness you came professedly to help and comfort me, I unhesitatingly entrusted myself and the guidance of my life into your hands. Was I blameworthy so far? But oh, what a cruel fate for any girl!"
"You had a very good time, my dear," interposed Morris testily.
"A good time!" she echoed wildly. "Oh! You know, and Geoffrey shall know how, from the very first, you systematically tricked and deceived me, lying to me about your wife, and taking me alone with you to Naples. Will it seem strange to him to learn that in time you were able to make me care for you as blindly as I trusted you? I shall tell him how you worked upon all that was best in my nature—how you appealed to my sympathy—how you played upon my gratitude, my affection, to gain your own vile ends. I shall tell him all your infamy. You cast me among absolutely depraved women—meaning me to become as they were; for finally you bade me sell myself for money! Yes, you would have deliberately started me on that path which is held to be the most degrading—the most cruel—of all the tracks that lead hellwards. That's what you did for me, an innocent child; and that's what you would have done, could you have had your entire will with me! My God, how I hate you! and the man who loves me shall hate you too. But for me he shall feel only a new, a different, a more desperate love. Now, then—send for him this very hour—do you think there is any trace of doubt or fear in my heart? I defy you absolutely—you most vile creature! Tell him—tellhim all you can, and let him judge between us. What cause have I to fear you, or anything that such as you can say? The life you lead, the evil you do, is repulsive in the eyes of every decent-thinking man. You to talk of honour—hypocrite, hypocrite! Having ruined first my good name, then my every happiness, when both in turn were in your power, you come now, and under the pretence of immovable devotion to honour, calmly propose to sweep away everything that makes my life worth living. You offer me money, and think I'm going to creep away overwhelmed and silenced. I have promised Geoffrey to be ever true and loyal to him; I shall keep my word! Send for him immediately if you desire, and let him decide between us."
Morris likewise stood up before he answered. His brows were contracted in a steady frown, yet the first thing he did was to break into a little scornful laugh. Then he spoke, and his voice was tense with anger.
"Make out as touching a legend as your imagination can devise, yet your own lips will condemn you. Would you not be forced to admit that you belonged to me willingly enough until I grew tired of you? Be very sure that after once acknowledging that single fact, the whole of your embroideries and explanations—all your heroics—would but fall on deaf ears. I know Geoffrey a great deal better than you can do; you've only seen one side of his nature, and that, I can understand, may easily have given you an exaggerated idea of your sway over him. Haven't you found out yet that, honourable and straightforward himself, he is impatient of deceit and trickery and double-dealing?"
She interposed with a little cry of anguish: "Oh! Morris!"
Unheedingly he went on.
"Truthful, Geoffrey is out of sympathy with liars; good-natured and quiet though he be, it is only safe to impose onhim up to a certain point. You fondly hope you could melt the anger and repulsion your confession would inevitably create by means of easy tears and specious pleadings. I very much doubt it. Do you think he is totally devoid of pride and self-respect and firmness? What leads you to suppose that he would be satisfied with soiled goods? Do you really believe that the knowledge that he is not first with you will merely give him a sort of sentimental heartache—more or less violent—that will pass away once he gets used to the notion? Do you think that he would ever forget that every kiss of his wipes off one of mine? Do you dare hope you would not lose all value in his estimation once he learnt that his own cousin, for one, knows exactly the nature of the words you speak—the look that comes into your eyes—all your pretty little ways when you are most deeply lost in love? Why should you think he is devoid of the desire for exclusive possession? For my part, knowing him and his high-flown ideals, I fancy he could no longer endure the sight of you once he realised what you have been—that there is no mystery about you upon which he cannot gain enlightenment for the asking—that however passionately he may hold you in his arms, others have——"
"Stop, Morris! stop!"
The words, simple in themselves, rang out wildly in mingled entreaty and command. They were fraught with the arresting power of a great anguish, and left behind them a trail of dead silence, in which nerves were thrilled and hearts beat faster.
Evarne stood motionless for a minute, both hands stretched out in mute appeal; then, groping her way somewhat unsteadily to the sofa, she flung herself down, hiding her distorted face in the cushions. But Morris had not finished yet. He too crossed the room, and stood by the side of the prostrate figure.
"You shall never marry my cousin—understand thatonce for all. Never! Do you think I shall submit to see him sacrificed to the plots of a designing woman? I advise you not to venture on another bout with me. I can assure you I've retained no pleasant recollections of your temper and your impertinence. Now, I'll give you some money, and in twenty-four hours you must go. Surely you can see the game is up? Do you agree?"
He received no verbal answer, but the head buried in the cushions was slightly shaken.
Morris found this obstinacy exasperating beyond endurance.
"What a fool you are, Evarne!" he cried roughly. "What do you want to stop for? You can't surely think you will pull off that marriage? Do you fancy you could make yourself out to be merely a sort of martyr—an interesting victim? Absurd! Don't think Geoffrey would be so dull as not to realise that in all probability I have already had successors."
Evarne sprang to her feet and faced him, her eyes flashing, both her hands pressed against her breast.
"I thought you had said your very worst—you merciless monster! You, who know so well why I left Paris, almost penniless, to starve. You do not believe your own foul words—liar, slanderer!"
He put his hand firmly on her shoulder.
"Don't talk rubbish to me. Everyone knows 'it's easy to take a slice from a cut loaf.' If Geoffrey had not been so ridiculously strait-laced, he too could have got all he wanted without any of this stupid talk about marriage. At last you've forced me to tell you exactly what I think of you, and I hope you're satisfied! You know now what I should have to tell that poor boy, so had you not better come to terms with me?"