"Mr. Dean left this morning, Sir Owen."
The butler was about to add, "He left about an hour ago, in plenty of
time to catch his train," but guessing Sir Owen's humour from his
silence, he said nothing, and left the footman to attend on him.
"So he has persuaded her to go away with him. ... I wonder--" And
Owen began to think if he should go to Ayrdale Mansions himself to
find out. But if she had not gone away with Ulick, and if he should
meet her in the street, how embarrassing it would be! Of what should
he speak to her? Of the intrigue she had been carrying on with Ulick
Dean? Should he pretend that he knew nothing of it? She would be
ashamed of this renewal of her affection for Ulick, though she had
not gone away with him; and if she had not gone, it would be only on
account of Monsignor. He sat irresolute, his thoughts dropping away
into remembrances of the day before--the two sitting together under
the lime-trees. That was the unendurable bitterness; it was easy to
forgive her Ulick, he was nothing compared to this deliberate
soiling of the past. If she could not have avoided the park, she
might have avoided certain corners sacred to the memory of their
love-story--the groves of limes facing the Serpentine being
especially sacred to his memory.
"But only man remembers; woman is the grosser animal." And in his
armchair Owen meditated on the coarseness of the female mind, always
careless of detail, even seeming to take pleasure in overlaying the
past with the present. "A mistake," he thought. "We should look upon
every episode as a picture, and each should hang in a place so
carefully appointed that none should do injury to another. But few
of us pay any regard to the hanging of our lives--women none at all.
The canvases are hooked anywhere, any place will suffice, no matter
whether they are hung straight or crooked; and a great many are left
on the floor, their faces turned to the wall; and some are hidden
away in cellars, where no memory ever reaches them. Poor canvases!"
And then, his thoughts reverting suddenly to his proposed visit to
Ayrdale Mansions, he asked himself what answer he could give if he
were asked to explain Ulick's presence at Berkeley Square--proofs of
his approval of Ulick's courtship; his motives would be
misunderstood. Never again would his love of her be believed in.
"I have been a fool--one always is a fool, and acts wrongly, when one
acts unselfishly. Self is our one guide--when we abandon self, we
abandon the rudder."
He would have just been content to keep Evelyn as his friend, and she
would have been willing to remain friends with him if he did not
talk against religion, or annoy her by making love to her. "There is
a time for everything," and he thought of his age. Passionate love
should melt into friendship, and her friendship he might have had if
he had thought only of himself; it would have been a worthy crown
for the love he had borne for her during so many years. Now there
was nothing left for him but a nasty sour rind of life to chew to the
end--it was under his teeth, and it was sour enough, and it never
would grow less sour. His sadness grew so deep that he forgot
himself in it, and was awakened by the sound of wheels.
"Somebody coming to call. I won't see anybody," and he rang the bell.
"I am not at home to anybody."
"But, Sir Owen, Mr. Dean--"
"Mr. Dean!" And Owen stood aghast, wondering what could have brought
Ulick back again.
"Are you at home to Mr. Dean, sir?"
"Yes, yes," and at the same moment he caught sight of Ulick coming
across the hall. "What has happened?" he said as soon as the door
was closed.
"She tried to poison herself last night."
"Tried to poison herself! But she is not dead?"
"No, she's not dead, and will recover."
"Tried to poison herself!"
"Yes, that is what I came back to tell you. We were to have met at
the station, but she didn't turn up; and, after waiting for a
quarter of an hour, I felt something must have happened, and drove
to Ayrdale Mansions."
"Tried to kill herself!"
"I'm afraid I have no time to tell you the story. Mérat will be able
to tell it to you better than I. I must get away by the next train.
There is no danger; she will recover."
"You say she will recover?" and Owen drew his hands across his eyes.
"I'm afraid I can hardly understand."
"But if you will just take a cab and go up to Ayrdale Mansions, you
will find Mérat, who will tell you everything."
"Yes, yes. You are sure she will recover?"
"Quite."
"But you--you are going away?"
"I have to, unless I give up my appointment. Of course, I should like
to stay behind; but there is no danger, absolutely none, only an
overdose of chloral."
"She suffered a great deal from sleeplessness. Perhaps it was an
accident."
Ulick did not answer, and the elder man drove in one direction and
the younger in another.
"Mérat, this is terrible!"
"Won't you come into the drawing-room, Sir Owen?"
"She is in no danger?"
"No, Sir Owen."
"Can I see her?"
"Yes, of course, Sir Owen; but she is still asleep, and the doctor
says she will not be able to understand or recognise anybody for
some hours. You will see her if you call later."
"Yes, I'll call later; but first of all, tell me, Mérat, when was the
discovery made?"
"She left a letter for me to say she was not to be called, and
knowing she had gone out for many hours, and finding her clothes and
her boots wet through, I thought it better not to disturb her. Of
course, I never suspected anything until Mr. Dean came."
"Yes, she was to meet him at the station." And as he said these words
he remembered that Mérat must know of Evelyn's intimacy with Ulick.
She must have been watching it for the last month, and no doubt
already connected Evelyn's attempted suicide in some way with Mr.
Dean, but the fact that they had arranged to meet at the railway
station did not point to a betrayal.
"There was no quarrel between them, then, Sir Owen?"
"None; oh, none, Mérat."
"It is very strange."
"Yes, it is very strange, Mérat; we might talk of it for hours
without getting nearer to the truth. So Mr. Dean came here?"
"Yes. When I opened the door he said, 'Where is mademoiselle?' and I
said, 'Asleep; she left a note that she was not to be called.'
'Then, Mérat, something must have happened, for she was to meet me
at the railway station. We must see to this at once.' Her door was
locked, but Mr. Dean put his shoulder against it. In spite of the
noise, she did not awake--a very few more grains would have killed
her."
"Grains of what?"
"Chloral, Sir Owen. We thought she was dead. Mr. Dean went for the
doctor. He looked very grave when he saw her; I could see he thought
she was dead; but after examining her he said, 'She has a young
heart, and will get over it.'"
"So that is your story, Mérat?"
"Yes, Sir Owen, that is the story. There is no doubt about it she
tried to kill herself, the doctor says."
"So, Mérat, you think it was for Mr. Dean. Don't you know
mademoiselle has taken a religious turn?"
"I know it, Sir Owen."
And he attributed the present misfortune to Monsignor, who had
destroyed Evelyn's mind with ceremonies and sacraments.
"Good God! these people should be prosecuted." And he railed against
the prelate and against religion, stopping only now and again when
Mérat went to her mistress's door, thinking she heard her call. "You
say it was between eleven and twelve she came back?"
"It was after twelve, Sir Owen."
"Now where could she have been all that time, and in the rain,
thinking how she might kill herself?"
"It couldn't have been anything else, Sir Owen. Her boots were soaked
through as if she had been in the water, not caring where she went."
Owen wondered if it were possible she had ventured into the
Serpentine.
"The park closes at nine, doesn't it, Sir Owen?" They talked of the
possibility of hiding in the park and the keepers not discovering
Evelyn in their rounds; it was quite possible for her to have
escaped their notice if she hid in the bushes about the Long Water.
"You think, Sir Owen, that she intended to drown herself?"
"I don't know. You say her boots were wet through. Perhaps she went
out to buy the chloral--perhaps she hadn't enough."
"Well, Sir Owen, she must have been doubtful if she had enough
chloral to kill herself, for this is what I found." And the maid
took out of her pocket several pairs of garters tied together.
"You think she tied these together so that she might hang herself?"
"There is no place she could hang herself except over the banisters.
I thought that perhaps she feared the garters were not strong enough
and she might fall and break her legs."
"Poor woman! Poor woman!" So if the garters had proved stronger, she
would have strangled there minute by minute. Nothing but religious
mania--that is what drove her to it."
"I am inclined to think, Sir Owen, it must have been something of
that kind, for of course there were no money difficulties."
"The agony of mind she must have suffered! The agony of the suicide!
And her agony, the worst of all, for she is a religious woman." Owen
talked of how strange and mysterious are the motives which determine
the lives of human beings. "You see, all her life was in disorder--
leaving the stage and giving me up. Mérat, there is no use in
disguising it from you. You know all about it. Do you remember when
we met for the first time?"
"Yes, Sir Owen; indeed I do." And the two stood looking at each
other, thinking of the changes that time had made in themselves. Sir
Owen's figure was thinner, if anything, than before; his face seemed
shrunken, but there were only a few grey hairs, and the maid thought
him still a very distinguished-looking man--old, of course; but
still, nobody would think of him as an old man. Mérat's shoulders
seemed to be higher than they were when he last saw her; she had
developed a bust, and her black dress showed off her hips. Her hair
seemed a little thinner, so she was still typically French; France
looked out of her eyes. "Isn't it strange? The day we first met we
little thought that we would come to know each other so well; and
you have known her always, travelled all over Europe with her. How I
have loved that woman, Mérat! And here you are together, come from
Park Lane to this poor little flat in Bayswater. It is wonderful,
Mérat, after all these years, to be sitting here, talking together
about her whom we both love, you have been very good to her, and have
looked after her well; I shall never forget it to you."
"I have done my best, Sir Owen; and you know mademoiselle is one of
those whom one cannot help liking."
"But living in this flat with her, Mérat, you must feel lonely. Do
you never wish for your own country?"
"But I am with mademoiselle, Sir Owen; and if I were to leave her, no
one else could look after her--at least, not as I can. You see, we
know each other so well, and everything belonging to her interests
me. Perhaps you would like to see her, Sir Owen?"
"I'd like to see her, but what good would it do me or her? I'll see
her in the evening, when I can speak to her. To see her lying there
unconscious, Mérat--no, it would only put thoughts of death into my
mind; and she will have to die, though she didn't die last night,
just as we all shall have to die--you and I, in a few years we shall
be dead."
"Your thoughts are very gloomy, Sir Owen."
"You don't expect me to have gay thoughts to-day, do you, Mérat? So
here is where you live, you and she; and that is her writing-table?"
"Yes; she sits there in the evening, quite contented, writing
letters."
"To whom?" Owen asked. "To no one but priests and nuns?"
"Yes, she is very interested in her poor people, and she has to write
a great many letters on their behalf."
"I know--to get them work." And they walked round the room. "Well,
Mérat, this isn't what we are accustomed to--this isn't like Park
Lane."
"Mademoiselle only cares for plain things now; if she had the money
she would spend it all upon her poor people. It was a long time
before I could persuade her to buy the sofa you have been sitting on
just now; she has not had it above two months."
"And all these clothes, Mérat--what are they?"
"Oh, I have forgotten to take them away." And Mérat told him that
these were clothes that Evelyn was making for her poor people--for
little boys who were going upon a school-treat, mostly poor Irish;
and Owen picked up a cap from the floor, and a little crooked smile
came into his face when he heard it was intended for Paddy Sullivan.
"All the same, it is better she should think about poor people than
about religion."
"Far better, Sir Owen, far better. Sometimes I'm afraid she will
bring back things upon her. She comes back tired and sleeps; but
when she spends her time in churches thinking of her sins, or what
she imagines to be sins, Sir Owen, I hear her walking about her room
at night, and in the morning she tells me she hasn't slept at all."
"What you tell me is very serious, Mérat. All the same, all the same--
jackets and coats for Paddy Sullivan's children. Well, it is very
touching. There never was anybody quite so good, do you think there
was, Mérat?"
"That is the reason why we all love her; and you do, too, Sir Owen,
though you pretend to hate goodness and to despise--"
"No, Mérat, no. Tell mademoiselle, if she wakes, that I am coming
back to see her this evening late--the later the better, I suppose,
for she is not likely to fall asleep again once she awakes."
Mérat mentioned between nine and ten o'clock, and, to distract his
thoughts, Owen went to the theatre that evening, and was glad to
leave it at ten, before the play was over.
"Is she awake?"
"She has been awake some time. I think you will be able to have a
little talk with her." And Owen stole into the room with so little
noise that Evelyn did not hear him, and all the room was seen and
understood before she turned: the crucifix above the bedstead, the
pious prints, engravings which they had bought in Italy--Botticelli
and Filippo Lippi. She lay in a narrow iron bed, and all the form
that he knew so well covered in a plain nightgown such as he had
never seen before, but in keeping, he thought, with the rest of the
room, and in conformity--such was his impression, there was no time
for thinking--with her present opinions. The smallness of the chest
of drawers surprised him. Where did she keep her clothes? It might
be doubted if she possessed more than two or three gowns. Where were
they hanging? The few chairs and the dressing-table, on which he
caught sight of some ivory brushes he had given her, seemed the only
furniture in the room.
"Evelyn!"
"Oh, it is you, Owen. So you have come to see me. You are always
kind."
"My dear Evelyn, there never can be any question of kindness between
you and me. You will always be Evelyn, and I am only thinking now of
how glad I am to have found you again."
"Found me again!" And her thoughts seemed to float away, her mind not
being strong enough yet to think connectedly. "How did you hear
about me?" Before he could answer she said, "I suppose Ulick--" And
then, with an effort to remember, she added, "Yes, Mérat told me he
had come here," and the effort seemed to fatigue her.
"Perhaps it would be better if you didn't talk."
"Oh, no," she said, taking his hand, detaining it for a moment and
then losing it; "tell me."
And he told her, speaking very gently so that his voice might not
tire her, that Ulick had called at Berkeley Square.
"He told me you weren't going away with him."
A slight shudder passed through Evelyn's face, and she asked, "Where
is Ulick?"
"He has gone away. If he had stayed he would have lost his post as
secretary to the opera company."
Evelyn did not appear to hear the explanation, and it was some time
before she said:
"He has gone away. I don't think we shall see much of him again,
either you or I, Owen."
Owen did not resist asking if she regretted this, and she answered
that she did not regret it at all. "And now you understand, Owen,
what kind of woman I am; how hopeless everything is." In spite of
herself, a little trace of her old wit returning to her, she added,
"You see what an unfortunate man you are in your choice of a
mistress."
Owen could not answer; and a moment after he remembered that it is
only those who feel as deeply as Evelyn who can speak as lightly,
otherwise they would not be able to resist the strain; and the
strain was a very terrible one, he could see that, for she turned
over in bed, and a little later he perceived that she had been
crying. Turning suddenly, she exclaimed:
"Owen, Owen, I am very frightened!"
"Frightened of what, dear one?"
"I don't know, Owen, I can't tell you; but I am very frightened, for
he seems not to be very far away and may come again."
"And who is 'he'?"
"It is impossible to tell you--a darkness, a shadow that seems always
by me, and who was very near me last night. A little more chloral
and I should not be here talking to you!"
"It is terrible, Evelyn, terrible! And how should I have lived?"
"You lived before me and you will live after me. Suicide is a mortal
sin, so Monsignor would tell me. We are forbidden to kill ourselves
even to escape sin, and that seems strange; for how shall I ever
believe that God would not have forgiven me, that he would not have
preferred me to kill myself than to have--?" And her voice died
away, Owen wondered whether for lack of strength or unwillingness to
express herself in words.
"My dear Evelyn! my dear Evelyn!"
"You don't understand, Owen; I am so different from what I was once.
I know it, I feel it, the difference, and it can't be helped."
"But it can be helped, Evelyn. You've been living by yourself,
spending whole days and nights alone, and you've been suffering from
want of sleep--something had to happen; but now that it has happened
you will get quite well, and if you had only done what I asked you
before--if we had been married--I"
"Don't let us talk about it, Owen; you don't understand how different
I am, how impossible--I--don't want to be unkind, you have been very
good to me always; and, understanding you as I seem to understand
you now, I am sorry you should have made such a bad choice, and that
I was not more satisfactory."
"But you are perfectly satisfactory, Evelyn. If I am satisfied, who
should have the right to grumble? The pain of losing you is better
than the pleasure of winning anybody else.... So you think, Evelyn,
you will never return to the stage?"
She did not answer, and, with dilated eyes, she looked through the
room till Owen turned, wondering if he should see anything; and he
was about to ask her if she saw the shadow again which she had
spoken of a while ago, but refrained from speaking, seeing that the
time was not one for questions.
"Evelyn," he said, "I will come to see you to-morrow. You are tired
to-night."