"It seems all like a bad dream."
He felt that he ought to stay with her, and at the same time he felt
that she was right; that his intervention would be unavailing, for the
struggle resided in herself. But if she should learn from Sir Owen to
forget him; if he were to lose her altogether; if she should never
return? The thought of such a calamity was the rudest blow of all, and
the possibility of her going away for a time, shocking as it was, seemed
almost light beside it. He struggled against these thoughts, for he
hated and was ashamed of them. They came into his mind unasked, and he
hoped that they represented nothing of his real feeling. Suddenly his
face changed, he remembered his passion for her mother. He had suffered
what Evelyn was suffering now. She had divined it by some instinct;
true, they were very much like each other. Nothing would have kept him
from Gertrude. But all that was so long ago. Good God! It was not the
same thing, and at the very same moment he regretted that it was not a
music lesson he was going to, for an appointment with Monsignor
introduced a personal interest, and if he were not to stay by her, it
would seem that he was indifferent to what became of her.
"No, Evelyn, I shan't go; I will stay here, I will stay by you."
"But I don't know that I am going away with Sir Owen."
"You said just now that you were."
"Did I say so? Father, you must keep your appointment with Monsignor,
and you must say nothing to Owen if you should meet him; you promise me
that? It rests with me, father, it is all in the heart."
He stood looking at her, twisting his beard into a point, and while she
wondered whether he would go or stay, she admired the delicacy of his
hand.
"Think of the disgrace you will bring upon me, and just at the time,
too, when Monsignor is beginning to see that a really great choir in
London--
"Then, father, you do think that my going away will prejudice him
against you?"
"I don't say that. I mean that this time seems less--Of course you
cannot go. It is very shocking that we should be discussing the subject
together."
A sudden fortitude came upon her, and a sudden desire to sacrifice
herself to her father.
"Then, father, I shall stay. I will do nothing that will interfere with
your work."
"My dearest child, it is not for me--it is yourself--"
She threw herself into his arms, begging him to forgive her. She wanted
to stay with him. She loved him better than her voice, better than
anything in the world. He did not answer, and when she raised her eyes
she caught a slight look of doubt upon his face, and wondered what it
could mean. At the very moment she had determined to stay with him, and
forfeit her love and her art for his sake, a keen sense of his
responsibility towards her was borne in upon him, and the feeling within
him crushed like a stone that he could never do anything for her, nor
anything else except, perchance, achieve that reformation of Church
music upon which his heart was set. He understood in that instant that
she was sacrificing all her life to his, and he feared the sacrifice she
was making, and anticipated in some measure the remorse he would suffer.
But he dared not think that she had better go and achieve her destiny in
the only way that was open to her. He urged himself to believe that she
was acting rightly, it was impossible for him to hold any other opinion.
The thoughts that came upon him he strove to think were merely nervous
accidents, and he forced himself to accept the irresponsibility of the
sacrifice. He wished not to be selfish, but, however he acted, he always
seemed to be acting in his own interest. Since she had promised him not
to go away with Sir Owen, he was quite free to keep his appointment with
Monsignor, and he gathered up his music, and then he let it fall again,
fearing that she would interpret his action to mean that he was glad to
get away.
She besought him to go; she said she was tired and wanted to lie down,
and all the while he spoke she was tortured with an uncertainty as to
whether she was speaking the truth or not; and he had not been gone many
minutes when she remembered that she had not told him that Owen had
asked her to meet him that very afternoon in Berkeley Square, and that
the key of the square lay in her pocket. Like one with outstretched
hands, striving to feel her way in the dark, she sought to discover in
her soul whether she had deliberately suppressed or accidentally omitted
the fact of her appointment with Owen. It might be that the conversation
had taken a sudden turn, at the moment she was about to tell him, for
the thought had crossed her mind that she ought to tell him. Then she
seemed to lose count of everything, and was unable to distinguish truth
from falsehood.
To increase her difficulties, she remembered that she had betrayed
Owen's confidence. She could not quite admit to herself that she had a
right to tell her father that it was he. But he had guessed it.... It
seemed impossible to do right. Perhaps there was no right and no wrong,
as Owen said; and a wish rose from the bottom of her heart that it might
be so, and then she feared she had been guilty of blasphemy. Perhaps she
should warn Owen of her indiscretion, and she thought of herself going
to London for this purpose, and smiled as she detected the deception
which she was trying to practise on herself.
There was nothing for her to do in the house, and when she had walked an
hour in the ornamental park, she strayed into the picture gallery, and
stood a long time looking at the Dutch lady who was playing the
virginal, and whose life passed peacefully apparently without any
emotion, in a silent house amid rich furniture. But she was soon drawn
to the Watteau, where a rich evening hushes about a beautiful carven
colonnade, under which the court is seated; where gallants wear deep
crimson and azure cloaks, and the ladies striped gowns of dainty
refinement; where all the rows are full of amorous intrigue, and vows
are being pleaded, and mandolines are playing; where a fountain sings in
the garden and dancers perform their pavane or minuet, the lady holding
out her striped skirt, and the gentleman bowing to her with a deference
that seems a little mocking. An hour of pensive attitudes and whispered
confidences, and over every fan a face wonders if there is truth in
love.
"It is strange," Evelyn thought, "how one woman lives in obscurity, and
another in admiration and success. That woman playing the virginal is
not ugly; if she were dressed like these seated under the colonnade, she
would be quite as pretty; but she is not as clever, Owen would say, or
she wouldn't be playing the virginal in a village. It is strange how I
remember everything he says."
She thought of herself as the lady in the centre, the one that looked
like the queen, and to whom a tall young man in a lovely cloak was being
introduced, and then imagined herself one of the less important ladies
who, for the sake of her beautiful voice, would be surrounded and
admired by all men; she would create bitter jealousies and annoy a
number of women, which, however, she would endeavour to overcome by
giving back to them the several lovers whom she did not want for
herself.
The life in this picture would be hers if she took the three o'clock
train and went to Berkeley Square. The life in the other picture would
be hers if she remained in Dulwich.
Only one more hour remained between her and the moment when she would be
getting into the train, and on going out of the gallery her senses all
seemed awake at the same moment; she saw and felt and heard with equal
distinctness, and she seemed to be walking automatically, to be moving
forward as if on wheels. She met a friend on her way home, but it was
like talking to one across a river or gulf; she wondered what she had
said, and hardly heard, on account of the tumult within her, what was
being said to her. When she got home, she noticed that she did not take
off her hat; and she ate her lunch without tasting it. Her thoughts were
loud as the clock which ticked out the last minutes she was to remain at
home, and trying not to hear them, she turned to the Monna Lisa,
wondering what Owen meant when he had said that the hesitating smile in
the picture was like her smile. Her thoughts ran on ticking in her brain
like the clock in the corner of a room, and though she would have given
anything to stop thinking, she could not.
Every moment the agony of anxiety and nervousness increased, and it was
almost a relief when the clock pointed to the time when she would have
to go to the station. She looked round the room, a great despair mounted
into her eyes, and she walked quickly out of the house. As she went down
the street she tried to think that she was going to Owen to tell him she
had told her father that she was resolved to give him up. It seemed no
longer difficult to do this, for, on looking into her mind, she could
discover neither desire nor love, nor any wish to see him. She was only
conscious of a nervous agitation which she could not control, and
through this waking nightmare she walked steadily, thinking with
extraordinary clearness.
In the railway carriage the passengers noticed her pallor, and they
wondered what her trouble was, and at Victoria the omnibus conductor
just saved her from being run over. The omnibus jogged on, stopping now
and then for people to get in and out, and Evelyn wondered at the
extraordinary mechanism of life, and she took note of everyone's
peculiarities, wondering what were their business and desires, and
wondering also at the conductor's voice crying out the different parts
of the town the omnibus would pass through.
"This is Berkeley Street, miss, if you are getting out here."
She waited a few minutes at the corner, and then wandered down the
street, asking herself if it was yet too late to turn back.
The sun glanced through the foliage, and glittered on the cockades of
the coachmen and on the shining hides of the horses. It was the height
of the season, and the young beauties of the year, and the fashionable
beauties of the last decade, lay back, sunning themselves under the
shade of their parasols. The carriages came round the square close to
the curb, under the waving branches, and, waiting for an opportunity to
cross, Evelyn's eyes followed an unusually beautiful carriage, drawn by
a pair of chestnut horses. She did not see the lady's face, but she wore
a yellow dress, and the irises in her bonnet nodded over the hood of the
carriage. This lady, graceful and idle, seemed to mean something, but
what? Evelyn thought of the picture of the colonnade in the gallery.
The men to whom the stately servants opened the doors wore long frock
coats pinched at the waist, and they swung their canes and carried their
thick, yellow gloves in their hands. They were all like Owen. They all
lived as he lived, for pleasure; they were all here for the season, for
balls and dinner parties, for love-making and the opera.
"They are the people," Evelyn thought, "who will pay thousands to hear
me sing. They are the people who will invite me to their houses. If my
voice is cultivated, if I ever go abroad."
She ran across the street and walked under the branches until she came
to a gate. But why not go straight to the house? She did not know....
She was at the gate, and the square looked green and cool. The gate
swung to and closed with a snap; but she had the key and could leave
when she liked, and worn out with various fears she walked aimlessly
about the grass plots. There was no one in the square, so if he were
watching for her he could not fail to see her. Once more a puerile hope
crossed her mind fitfully, that perhaps it would be as well if he failed
to see her. But no, since she had gone so far she was determined to go
on to the end, and before this determination, her spirits revived, and
she waited for him to come to her. But for shyness she did not dare to
look round, and the minutes she walked under the shady trees were very
delightful, for she was penetrated with an intimate conviction that she
would not be disappointed. And one of the moments of her life that fixed
itself most vividly on her mind was when she saw Owen coming towards her
through the trees. He was so tall and thin, and walked so gracefully;
there was something in his walk that delighted her; it seemed to her
that it was like the long, soft stride of a cat.
"I am glad you have come," he said.
But she could not answer. A moment afterwards he said, and she noticed
that his voice trembled, "You are coming in to tea?"
Again she did not answer, and thinking it safer to take things for
granted, he walked towards the gate. He was at the point of saying,
"That is my house," but he checked himself, thinking that silence was
safer than speech. He could not get the gate open, and while he wrenched
at the lock, he dreaded that delay might give her time to change her
mind. But Evelyn was now quite determined. Her brain seemed to
effervesce and her blood to bubble with joy, a triumphant happiness
filled her, for no doubt remained that she was going to Paris to-night.
"Let us have tea as soon as possible, and tell Stanley to bring the
brougham round at once."
"Why did you order the brougham?"
"Are you not--? I thought--"
The brilliancy of her eyes answered him, and he took her hands.
"Then you are coming with me to Paris?"
"Yes, if you like, Owen, anywhere.... But let me kiss you."
And she stood in a beautiful, amorous attitude, her arm thrown about his
neck, her eyes aflame.
"The brougham will be round in half an hour. There is a train at six to
Dover. It gets there at nine. So we shall have time to dine at the Lord
Warden, and get on board the boat before the mail arrives."
"But I have no clothes."
"The night is fine; we shall have a lovely crossing; you will only want
a shawl and a rug.... But what are you thinking of? You don't regret?"
His eyes were tenderer than hers. She perceived in their grey lights a
tenderness, as affection which seemed in contradiction to his nature as
she had hitherto understood it. Even the thought flashed dimly in the
background of her mind that his love was truer than hers; his cynicism,
which had often frightened her, seemed to have vanished; indeed, there
was something different in him from the man she had hitherto known--a
difference which was rendered evident by the accent with which he said--
"Dearest Evelyn, this is the happiest moment of my life. I have spent
two terrible days wondering if you would come."
"Did you, dear? Did you think of me? Are you fond of me?"
He pressed her hand, and with one look answered her question, and she
saw the streets flash past her--for they were in the brougham driving to
Charing Cross. There was still the danger of meeting Mr. Innes at the
station; but the danger was slight. She knew of no business that would
take him to Charing Cross, and they were thankful the train did not
start from Victoria.
Owen called to his coachman to hasten. They had wasted, he said, too
much time over the tea-table, and might miss the train. But they did not
miss it, and through the heat of the long, summer afternoon the slow
train jogged peacefully through the beautiful undulations of the
southern counties. The sky was quiet gold and torquoise blue, and far
away were ruby tinted clouds. A peaceful light floated over the
hillsides and dozed in the hollows, and the happiness of the world
seemed eternal. Deep, cool shadows filled the copses, and the green corn
was a foot high in the fields, and every gate and hedgerow wore a
picturesque aspect. Evelyn and Owen sat opposite each other, talking in
whispers, for they were not alone; they had not been in time to secure a
private carriage. The delight that filled their hearts was tender as the
light in the valleys and the hill sides. But Evelyn's feelings were the
more boisterous, for she was entering into life, whereas Owen thought he
was at last within reach of the ideal he had sought from the beginning
of his life.
This feeling, which was very present in his mind, appeared somehow
through his eyes and in his manner, and even through the tumult of her
emotions she was vaguely aware that he was even nicer than she had
thought. She had never loved him so much as now; and again the thought
passed that she had not known him before, and far down in her happiness
she wondered which was the true man.