When Julian Goetze arose the next morning he felt strong within himself
to withstand and conquer those fierce impulses of his savage heritage
that had answered to the blandishments of Evelin March. And yet he was
greatly troubled. He felt that in a large measure he had been to blame.
He blushed hotly as he recalled some of the things he had said to this
woman whom Harry had called a siren.
"Men are all scoundrels," he said, savagely; "I wonder if there are
really any who are not so at heart."
He rapidly formulated his plan of action, and even the sentences with
which he was to meet and conquer this modern Circe.
"I will keep Eva's face before me," he thought, "and I will treat her
coldly. She is high-spirited and keen; she will notice the change at
once and resent it. She is too proud to demand an explanation."
He felt himself equal to the ordeal. He was anxious now for her to come
that it might be safely passed. As the hours went by he grew impatient;
he placed her portrait on the easel and fancied the original was before
him. He went through an imaginary dialogue with it in which he was
wholly victorious. He no longer felt any emotion for this woman.
"I will begin a new life," he said, as he strode rapidly up and down the
room; "a new life." But there was a feverishness in his voice that did
not bode well for his resolution.
"I wish she would come," he muttered, fretfully.
His cheeks were hot and flushed, and his hands were like ice, and
trembling. And the result was--that he failed--failed miserably and
completely. When, an hour later, Evelin March entered the studio and,
throwing off her wrap, stood before him, imperious, soulless and
beautiful--a delicate odor, as of pansies, from her white flesh,
stealing into his brain--his pledges of faith and his fair resolves
melted away like walls of mist, and the face of Eva Delorme shrank back
into the silent recesses of his heart, and only a small voice within him
whispered, "Coward--traitor--"
She glanced at him sharply.
"Something troubles you, _mon ami_. You are not overjoyed at my coming.
I have been fancying to myself how impatiently you were waiting."
His hands were no longer trembling. He was calm enough, now, but it was
the calmness of defeat--of having yielded to the inevitable.
"I have indeed been waiting impatiently," he said, smiling. "You see
that I have been even consoling myself with your picture," and he
pointed to the easel.
"From an artistic point of view, only, I fancy."
"That is unkind. I have been holding a conversation with it that I fear
I should hesitate to repeat--with the original."
"How interesting! A rehearsal, perhaps."
"Perhaps; and I was testing the powers of my work as compared to those
of the original."
"And with the result"--
"That my work is a failure."
"How humiliating! May I ask in what way?"
"I could withstand the charms of the picture, but with the original"--
"Well, and with the original?"
"I failed."
The face before him was radiant; but down in his heart the small voice,
growing very faint, still whispered, "Coward--traitor--fool."
That evening Harry Lawton found him sitting gloomily before the window
looking out upon the shadows that were gathering in the little garden
beneath. As the door opened he glanced up and nodded without speaking.
"Circe came?"
Again the artist nodded.
"And conquered?"
Another nod.
"Did you suppose for a moment that she wouldn't?"
No answer.
Lawton assumed a dignified attitude, and began with mock earnestness:
"Oh, wise man--thou who knowest so well the heart and the face of
Nature--how little thou knowest of thine own soul!"
A shade of anguish swept over the artist's face, but he made no reply.
"Most gentle and gifted man! Last night I listened long and patiently to
the scintillating wisdom of your wonderful brain. Let me now speak,
while you, in turn, give ear.
"When, last night, you showed me the portraits and told me their
history, I foresaw this moment. You are plunged into despair at the
contemplation of your own weakness. You have been abusing your soul
with hard names. Now, I would whisper to you with great gentleness that
what you observed to me last night, about the sunlight and shadow of
every life, is true; and that the brightness of the sun cannot
illuminate, but only intensifies the blackness of the shade. Pursuing
the same line of reasoning, I add that flowers bloom in the sunlight,
while mushrooms thrive in the darkness. That because man is fond of
mushrooms is no reason why he should be deprived of flowers. That
because your purer and spiritual self reaches out for the stainless
lily, is no reason why your material and grosser nature should be left
starving. Because you are for a time intoxicated with Evelin March is no
reason why, in your calmer and nobler existence, you should not love
truly and sinlessly, Eva Delorme.
"I am aware that my logic is not wholly in accord with generally
accepted theory. It accords much more nearly, perhaps, with universal
practice--of course I refer only to men in the single walks of life. It
is well known that all men after marriage are irreproachable. And when
you have plucked your stainless lily, you, like the rest, will subsist
only upon its fragrance. But really, for the present, I cannot see that
your affair with Miss March in any way conflicts with your sentiments
for Miss Delorme; and especially as you have known the latter but a few
hours in all--hardly sufficient, I should think, to inspire a lifelong
devotion. Truly, Julian, I would advise you not to take matters quite so
seriously, and let the tide drift as it will for the present."
Throughout this long harangue Julian Goetze had listened in silence.
"Oh, Harry," he groaned, as the other paused, "you don't know what a
traitor I am!"
"Well, possibly my sensibilities are not over fine, but I think you will
be more comfortable for taking my advice."
Without replying, the artist rose and going into the adjoining room
returned a moment later with a decanter and glasses.
"I am tired," he said, apologetically, as he caught the look of
disapproval in his friend's eye; "it will do me good."
"None for me, Julian, before supper, and--I don't think, if--if I were
you, I would take any, either."
"I am exhausted, Harry; I am not going to supper and I need it," he
said, fretfully.
The other sighed and did not reply. Goetze filled one of the glasses and
drank it off, then he resumed his seat by the window. A little later his
friend took leave of him; reaching the street door he hesitated as if
about to turn back, then he lifted the latch, and passed slowly out into
the lighted street, closing the door gently behind him.
The next morning the studio of Julian Goetze was locked. It remained
locked all day, and within, stretched upon the floor, unconscious, lay
the gifted man, and by his side was an empty flask.