On account of the numerous rehearsals demanded by Evelyn for the
production of "Tristan and Isolde," Mr. Hermann Goetze's opera season
was limited to four nights a week. But the hours she spent in the
theatre were only a small part of the time she devoted to her idea. Her
entire life was lived in or about the new incarnation, her whole life
seemed to converge and rush into an ultimate channel, and Lady Ascott
sought her in vain. She avoided social distractions, and the friends she
saw were those who could talk to her about her idea. But while listening
she forgot them, and absorbed in her dream strayed round the piano. She
meditated journeys to Cornwall and Brittany; and one day when Owen
called he heard that she had gone to Ireland, and was expected back
to-morrow evening. She read Isolde into the morning paper, receiving
hints from the cases that came up before the magistrates. She found
Isolde in every book, all that happened seemed extraordinarily
fortuitous, the light of her idea revealing significance in the most
ordinary things. Her life was ransacked like an old work-box, all kinds
of stages of mentality, opinions, beliefs, prejudices, trite and
conventional enough, came up and were thrown aside. But now and then the
memory of an emotion, of a feeling, would prove to be just what she
wanted to add a moment's life to her Isolde; the memory of a gesture, of
a look was sufficient, and she sank back in her chair, her eyes dilated
and moody, thinking how she could work this truth to herself into the
harmony of the picture she was elaborating.
Evelyn had seen Rosa Sucher play the part, and had admired her rendering
as far as we can admire that which is not only antagonistic, but even
discordant to our own natures. She admitted it to be very sweeping,
triumphant and loud, a fine braying of trumpets from the rise to the
fall of the curtain. Rosa Sucher had no doubt attained an extraordinary
oneness of idea, but at what price? Her Isolde was a hurricane, a sort
of avalanche; and the woman was lost in the storm. She had missed the
magic of the woman who, personal to our flesh and dream, breaks upon our
life like the Spring; and this was just what Evelyn wanted to out on the
stage. There was plenty of breadth, but it was breadth at the price of
accent. There was a great frame and a sort of design within the frame,
but in Evelyn's sense the picture was wanting. There was an
extraordinary and incomprehensible neglect of that personal accent
without which there is no life. And the difference between the Isolde
who has not drunk, and the Isolde who has drunk the love potion which
she, Evelyn, was so intent upon indicating, had never occurred to Rosa
Sucher, or if it had, it had been swept aside as a negligible detail.
After all, Isolde has to be a woman a man could be in love with, and
that is not the impact and the shriek of a gale from the south-west. No
doubt Rosa Sucher's idea of the part was Wagner's idea at one moment of
his life. Wagner was a man with hundreds of ideas; he tried them all,
retaining some and discarding others. Some half-dozen have fixed
themselves immutably in certain minds, and an undue importance is given
to them, an importance that Wagner would never have allowed. The absurd
idea, propounded in the heat of controversy, that all the arts were to
wax to one art in the music drama, that even sculpture was to be
represented by attitudes of the actors and actresses! Wagner had written
this thing in order to confound his enemies and bring the weak-kneed to
his side, or maybe, it was merely written to make himself clear to
himself. For it was impossible that a man of genius should be so
seriously wanting in appreciation of sculpture as to think with the
centre of his brain, that an actor standing, his hand on his hip, could
fill the place hitherto occupied in the mind by, let us say, the Hermes
of Praxiteles. Yet this idea still obtained at Bayreuth, and Rosa Sucher
walked about, her arms raised and posed above her head, in the
conventional, statuesque attitude designed for the decoration of beer
gardens.
"It really is very sad," Evelyn said, her eyes twinkling with the humour
of the idea, "that anyone should think that such figuration could
replace sculpture."
"But you will not deny that the actor and the actress can supply part of
the picturesqueness of a dramatic action."
"No, indeed; but not by attitudinising, but by gestures that tell the
emotion that is in the mind."
By some obscure route of which they were not aware, these artistic
discussions wound around the idea which dominated their minds, and they
were led back to it continually. The story of "Tristan and Isolde"
seemed to be their own story, and when their eyes met, each divined what
was passing in the other's mind. The music was afloat on the currents of
their blood. It gathered in the brain, paralysing it, and the nervous
exhaustion was unbearable about six, when the servant had taken away the
tea things; and as the afternoon drooped and the beauty of the summer
evening began in the park, speech seemed vain, and they could not bring
themselves to argue any longer.
It was quite true that she had begun to feel the blankness of the
positivist creed, if it were possible to call it a creed. There seemed
nothing left of it, it seemed to have shrivelled up like a little
withered leaf; true or false, it meant nothing to her, it crushed up
like a dried leaf, and the dust escaped through her fingers. Then
without any particular reason she remembered a phrase she had heard in
the theatre.
"As I always says, if one man isn't enough for a woman, twenty aren't
too many."
The homeliness of this speech seemed to accentuate the moral truth, and
making application of it to herself, she felt that if she were to take
another lover she would not stop at twenty. Her face contracted in an
expression of disgust at this glimpse of her inner nature which had been
flashed upon her; and looking into herself she could discover nothing
but a talent for singing and acting. If she had not had her voice, God
only knows what she would have been, and she turned her eyes from a
vision of gradual decadence. If she were not to sink to the lowest, she
must hold to her love of Owen, and not yield to her love of Ulick. This
low nature which she could distinguish in herself she must conquer, or
it would conquer her. "If one man isn't enough for a woman, twenty are
not too many." The humble working woman who had uttered these words was
right.... If she were to give way she would have twenty and would end by
throwing herself over one of the bridges.
She felt that she must marry Owen, and under this conclusion she stopped
like one who has come face to face with a blank wall. But did she love
him well enough to marry him? She loved him, but was her present love as
intense as the love that had obsessed her whole nature in Paris six
years ago? She tried to think that it was, and found casual consolation
in the thought that if she were not so mad about him now as she was
then, her love was deeper; it had become a part of herself, and was
founded on such knowledge of his character that nothing could change or
alter it. She knew now that in spite of all his faults she could trust
him, and that was something; she knew that his love for her was
enduring, that it was not a mere passing passion, as it easily might
have been. He had given her fame, wealth, position--everything a woman
could desire. Some might blame him for having taken her away from her
home, but she did not blame him, for she knew that she could not have
remained with her father at that time. If she had not gone away with
Owen she might have killed herself; something had given way within her,
she had to do what she had done.
But did she love Owen, or was she getting tired of him? It was so easy
to ask and so difficult to answer these questions. However closely we
look into our souls, some part of the truth escapes us. One always
slurred something or exaggerated something.... She remembered that Owen
had been very tiresome lately; his egoism was ceaseless; it got upon her
nerves, and she felt that, no matter what happened to her, she could
not endure it. There were his songs! How tired she was of talking about
his songs, the long considerations whether this chord or the other
chord, this modulation or another, were the better. He could not compose
a dozen bars without having them engraved and sending copies to his
friends. He wished the whole world to be occupied about him and his
affairs. He was so childish about his music. Other people said, "Oh,
yes, very pretty," but she had to sing it. If she refused, it meant
unpleasantness, and though he did not often say so, a charge of
ingratitude, for, of course, without him she wouldn't have been able to
sing at all. The worst of it was that he did not see the ridiculous
side.
When singing some of his songs, she had caught a look in people's eyes,
a pitying look, and she could not help wondering if they thought that
she liked such commonplace, or worse still, if they thought that she was
obliged to sing it. But when she had remembered all he had done for her,
it seemed quite a disgrace that she should hate to sing his songs. It
was the one thing she could do to please him, and she reflected on her
selfishness. She seemed to have no moral qualities; the idea she had
expressed to Ulick regarding the necessity of chastity in women
returned, and she felt sure that in women at least every other virtue is
dependent on that virtue. But when Owen was ill she had travelled
hundreds of miles to nurse him; she had not hesitated a moment, and she
might have caught the fever. She wouldn't have done that if she did not
love him.... She was always thinking how she could help him, she would
do anything for him. But he was such a strange man. There were times
when there was no one kinder, gentler, more affectionate, but at other
times he turned round and snapped like a mad dog. The desire to be rude
took him at times like a disease; this was his most obvious fault. But
his worst fault, at least in her eyes, was his love of parade; his
determination to appear to the world in the aspect which he thought was
his by birth and position. Notwithstanding a seeming absence of
affection and candour, he was always acting a part. True that he played
the part very well; and his snobbery was never vulgar.
Thinking of him profoundly, looking into his nature with the clear sight
of six years of life with him, she decided that the essential fault was
an inability to forego the temptation of the moment. For him the
temptation of the moment was the greatest of all. He was the essential
child, and had carried all the child's passionate egoism into his middle
age. One gave way because everything seemed to mean so much more to him
that it could to oneself. He could not be deprived of his toy; his toy
came before everything. But why did he make himself offensive to many
people by speaking against Christianity? It was so illogical to love
art as he did and to hate religion.... He had listened much more
indulgently to Ulick than she had expected, and seemed to perceive the
picturesqueness of the gods, Angus and Lir. It was Christianity that
irritated and changed him to the cynic he was not, and forced him into
arguments which she hated: "that when you went to the root of things, no
one ever acted except from a selfish motive" and his aphorism, "I don't
believe in temptations that one doesn't yield to." Her thoughts went
back over years, to the very day he had said the words to her for the
first time.... It was true in a way, but it was not the whole truth. But
to him it was the whole truth, that was the unfortunate part of it, and
his life was a complete exemplification of this theory, and the result
was one of the unhappiest men on the face of the earth. He would tell
you he had the finest place in the world, and the finest pictures in the
world, yet these things did not save him from unhappiness. He could not
understand that happiness is attained through renunciation. He had never
renounced anything, and so his life was a mere triviality. The clearness
of her vision surprised her; she paused a moment and then continued. He
must always be amused, he could not bear to be alone. Distraction,
distraction, distraction was his one cry. She had to combat the spectre
of boredom and save the man from himself. Hitherto she had done this, it
had been her pleasure, but if she married him it would become her
mission, her duty, her life. Could she undertake it? Her heart sank. He
had worn her out, she could do no more. She grew frightened, life seemed
too much for her; and then she bit her lips, and vowed that whatever it
cost her she would marry him if he wished her to.... If she did not mean
to take the consequences, she ought not to have gone away with him. To
be Owen's wife was perchance her mission.
It had always been arranged that they were to be married when she left
the stage. But he wished her to remain on the stage till she had played
Kundry; but if she were going to leave the stage she did not care to
delay, nor did she care for the part of Kundry. The meaning of the part
escaped her.... So the time had come for her to offer herself to Owen.
Whatever his desires might be, his honour would force him to say Yes. So
there was no escape. Fate had decreed it so, she was to be his wife; but
one thing she need not endure, and that was unnecessary suspense. She
had decided to go to Lady Ascott's ball.... But she wouldn't see him
there. He was kept indoors by the gout. He had written asking her to
come and pass the evening with him.... She might call to see him on her
way to the ball; yes, that is what she would do, and she sat down at
once and wrote a note.
And she laughed and talked during dinner, and was surprised when Lady
Duckle remarked how pale and ill she was looking, for she thought she
was making a fine outward show of high spirits. She and Lady Duckle
were dining alone, and she tried to devise a plan for going to Berkeley
Square without taking Lady Duckle into her confidence. The horrible
scene with Owen flitted before her eyes while talking of other things.
And so the evening dragged itself out in the drawing-room.
"Olive, I want to make a call before going to Lady Ascott's; I will send
the carriage back for you."
"But we need not get there until a quarter to one. There will be plenty
of time."
"Very well," Evelyn answered, as unconcernedly as she could. "I'll be
here a little after twelve."
In the carriage she remembered that she was going to the same house to
tell him that she would be his wife as she had gone to tell him she
would be his mistress.
"Sir Owen has been very bad to-day, miss," the butler said in a
confidential undertone. "It has taken him again in his right toe;" and
he leaned forward to open the door of Owen's private sitting-room.
She passed in, the door closed softly behind her, and she saw her lover
lying in a large, chintz-covered arm-chair, full of cushions, deep like
a feather bed. He held his book high, so that all the light of the
electric lamp fell upon it, and the small, wrinkled face seemed to have
suddenly grown older behind the spectacles, and the appearance at that
moment was of a man just slipping over the years that divides middle
from old age.
In the single second that elapsed before they spoke, Evelyn felt and
understood a great deal. Never had Owen seemed so like himself; the old
age which so visibly had laid its wrinkles and infirmities upon him was
clearly his old age, and the old age of his fathers before him. He was
in his own old room, planned and ordered by himself. Even his arm-chair
seemed characteristic of him. With whatever hardships he might put up in
the hunting field or the deer forest, he believed in the deepest
arm-chair that upholstery could stuff when he came home. In this room
were his personal pictures, those he had bought himself. They, of
course, included a beautiful woman by Gainsborough, and a pellucid
evening sky, with a group of pensive trees, by Corot. There were
beautiful painted tables and chairs, and marble and ormolu clocks, the
refined and gracious designs of the best periods; and the sight of Owen
sitting amid all these attempts to capture happiness, revealed to her
the moral idea of which this man was but a symbol; and the thought that
life without a moral purpose is but a passing spectre, and that our
immortality lies in our religious life, occurred to her again. His first
remark, too, about his gout, that it wasn't much, but just enough to
make life a curse--could she tell him what end was served by torturing
us in this way?--laid, as it were, an accent upon the thoughts of him
that were passing in her mind.
It was that crouching attitude in the arm-chair that had made him seem
so old. Now that he had taken off his spectacles, and was standing up,
he did not look older than his age. He wore a silk shirt and a black
velvet smoking suit, and had kept his figure--it still went in at the
waist. She admired him for a moment and then pitied him, for he limped
painfully and pulled over one of his own chairs for her. But she
declined it, choosing a less comfortable one, feeling that she must sit
straight up if she were to moralise. She had imagined that the subject
would introduce itself in the course of conversation, and that it would
develop imperceptibly. She had imagined that they would speak of the
first performance of "Tristan and Isolde," now distant but a couple of
days, or of Lady Ascott's ball, at which she had promised to appear. But
Owen had spoken of a song which he had re-written that afternoon, not
having anything else to do. He believed he had immensely improved it,
and wished that she would try it over. To sing one of his songs, to
decipher manuscript, was the last thing she felt she could do, and the
proposal irritated her. Her whole life was at stake; it had cost her a
great deal to come to the decision that she must either marry him or
send him away. Partly on purpose, and partly because she could not help
it, her face assumed a calm and fixed expression which he knew well.
"Evelyn, you're going to say something disagreeable. Don't, I've had
enough to worry me lately; there's my mother's health, and this,
miserable attack of gout."
"I hope you won't think what I've come to say disagreeable, but one
never knows." He waited anxiously, and after some pause she said, though
it seemed to her that she had come to the point much too abruptly,
"Owen, was it not arranged that we should marry when I left the stage?"
She had not been able to lend herself to the diplomatic subtleties which
she had been considering all the evening, and had stumbled in the first
step. But the mistake had been made, they were face to face with the
question--it was for her not to give way. She had noticed the look that
had passed between his eyes, and she was not surprised at the slight
evasion of his answer, "But you are going to sing Kundry next year?" for
she knew him to be naturally as averse to marriage as she was herself.
"I don't think I should succeed as Kundry. I don't know what the part
means."
"But she's a penitent. You like penitents; your Elisabeth--"
"Elizabeth is different. Elizabeth is an inward penitent, Kundry is an
external, and you know I can do nothing with externalities."
He did not understand, and it was impossible to explain without entering
into a complete exposition of Ulick's idea regarding "Parsifal." The
subject of "Parsifal" had always been disagreeable to him, but he had
not been able to find any argument against the art of it. So the
criticism "revolting hypocrisy," "externality," and the statement that
the prelude to "Lohengrin" was an inspiration, whereas the prelude to
"Parsifal" was but a marvellous piece of handicraft, delighted him. He
had always known these things, but had not been able to give them
expression. He wondered how Evelyn had attained to so clear an
understanding, and then, unconsciously detecting another mind in the
argument, he said--
"I wonder what Ulick Dean thinks of 'Parsifal?' Something original, I'm
sure."
She could not explain that she had not intended to deceive; she could
not tell him that she was so pressed and obsessed by the question of her
marriage that she hardly knew what she was saying, and had repeated
Ulick's ideas mechanically. She already seemed to stand convicted of
insincerity. He evidently suspected her, and all the while he spoke of
Ulick and "Parsifal," she suffered a sort of trembling sickness, and
that he should have perceived whence her enlightenment had come
embittered her against him. Suddenly he came to the end of what he had
to say; their eyes met, and he said,--
"Very well, Evelyn, we'll be married next week; is that soon enough?"
The abruptness of his choice fell upon her so suddenly, that she
answered stupidly that next week would do very well. She felt that she
ought to get up and kiss him, and she was painfully conscious that her
expression was the reverse of pleased.
"I don't want to limp to the altar; were it not for the gout I'd say
to-morrow.... But something has happened, something has forced you to
this?"
He did not dare to suggest scruples of conscience. But his thoughts were
already back in Florence.
"Only that you often have said you'd like to marry me. One never knows
if such things are true. It may have been mere gallantry on your part;
on the other hand, I am vain enough to believe that perhaps you meant
it." Then it seemed to her that she must be sincere. "As I am determined
that our present relations shall cease, there was no help for it but to
come and tell you."
Her eyes were cast down; the expression of her face was calm resolution,
whereas his face betrayed anxiety, and the twitching and pallor of the
eyes a secret indecision with which he was struggling.
"Then I suppose it is scruples of conscience.... You've been to Mass at
St. Joseph's."
"We won't enter into that question. We've talked it for the last six
years; you cannot change me."
The desire to please was inveterate in her, and she felt that she had
never been so displeasing, and she was aware that he was showing to
better advantage in this scene than she was. She wished that he had
hesitated; if he had only given her some excuse for--She did not finish
the sentence in her mind, but thought instead that she liked him better
when he wasn't so good; goodness did not seem to suit him.
She wore a beautiful attractive gown, a mauve silk embroidered with
silver irises, and he regretted his gout which kept him from the ball.
He caught sight of her as she passed down the glittering floor, saving
with a pretty movement of her shoulders the dress that was slipping from
them, he saw himself dancing with her.... They passed in front of a
mirror, and looking straight over her shoulder his eyes followed the
tremulous sparkle of the diamond wings which she wore in her hair. Then,
yielding to an impulse of which he was not ashamed, for it was as much
affection as it was sensual, he drew over a chair--he would have knelt
at her feet had it not been for his gout--and passing his arm about her
waist, he said--
"Dearest, I'm very fond of you, you know that. It is not my fault if I
prefer to be your lover rather than your husband." He kissed her on her
shoulders, laying his cheek on her bosom. "Don't you believe that I am
fond of you, Evelyn?"
"Yes, Owen, I think you are."
"Not a very enthusiastic reply. It used to be you who delighted to throw
your arms about my neck. But all that is over and done with."
"One is not always in such humours, Owen."
Watching each other's eyes they were conscious of their souls; every
moment it seemed as if their souls must float up and be discovered; and,
while fearing discovery, there came a yearning to stand out of all
shadow in the full light. But they could not tell their souls; words
fell back abortive; and they recognised the mortal lot of alienation;
and rebelling against it, he held her face, he sought her lips, but she
turned her face aside, leaving him her cheek.
"Why do you turn your lips away? It is a long time since I've kissed you
... you're cold and indifferent lately, Evelyn."
A memory of Ulick shot through her mind, and he would have divined her
thought if his perception had not been blinded by the passion which
swayed him.
"No, Owen, no. We're an engaged couple; we're no longer lovers."
"And you think that we should begin by respecting the marriage
ceremony?"
She seemed to lose sight of him, she perceived only the general idea,
that outline of her life which he represented, and which she could in a
way trace in the furniture of the room. It was in this room she had said
she would be his mistress. It was from this room she had started for
Paris. Her eyes lighted on the harpsichord. He had bought it in some
vague intention of presenting it to her father, some day when they were
reconciled; the viola da gamba he had bought for her sake; it was the
poor little excuse he had devised for coming to see her at Dulwich.
She saw the Gainsborough: how strange and remote it seemed! She looked
at the Corot, its sentimentality was an irritation. In the Chippendale
bookcases there were many books she had given him; and the white chimney
piece was covered with her photographs. There he was, a tall, thin man,
elegant and attractive notwithstanding the forty-five years, dressed in
a silk shirt and a black smoking suit. Their eyes met again, she could
see that he was thinking it over; but it was all settled now, neither
could draw back, and the moments were tense and silent; and as if
confronted by some imminent peril, she wondered.
"You arranged that I should leave the stage when I married, and you say
that we are to be married next week. You don't want me to throw up my
engagement at Covent Garden? I should like to play Isolde."
"Of course you must play Isolde; I must hear you sing Isolde."
She felt that she must get up and thank him, she felt that she must be
nice to him; and laying her hand on his shoulder, she said--
"I hope I don't seem ungrateful; you have always been very good to me,
Owen. I hope I shall make a good wife."
"I think I am less changed than you; I don't think you care for me as
you used to."
"Yes, I do, Owen, but I am not always the same. I can't help myself."
He watched her face; she had forgotten him, she was again thinking of
herself. She had tried to be sincere, but again had been mastered by her
mood. No, she did not dislike him, but she wished for an interval, a
temporary separation. It seemed to her that she didn't want to see him
for some weeks, some months, perhaps. If he would consent to such an
alienation, she felt that she would come back fonder of him than ever.
All this did not seem very sane, but she could not think otherwise, and
the desire of departure was violent in her as a nostalgia.
"We have been very fond of each other. I wonder if we shall be as happy
in married life? Do you think we shall?"
"I hope so, Owen, but somehow I don't see myself as Lady Asher."
"You know everyone--Lady Ascott, Lady. Somersdean, they are all your
friends, it will be just the same."
"Yes, it'll be just the same."
He did not catch the significance of the repetition. He was thinking of
the credit she would do him as Lady Asher. He heard his friends
discussing his marriage at the clubs. She was going to Lady Ascott's
ball, and would announce her engagement there. To-morrow everyone would
be talking about it. He would like his engagement known, but not while
she was on the stage. But when he mentioned this, she said she did not
see why their engagement should be kept a secret. It did not matter
much; he was quite ready to give way, but he could not understand why
the remark should have angered her. And her obstinacy frightened him not
a little. If he were to find a different woman in his wife from the
woman he had loved in the opera singer!
"Evelyn, you have lived with me in spite of your scruples for the last
six years; why should we not go on for one more year? When you have sung
Kundry, we can be married."
"Owen, do you think you want to marry me? Is not your offer mere
chivalry? _Noblesse oblige_?"
That he was still master of the situation caused a delicious pride to
mount to his head. For a moment he could not answer, then he asked if
she were sure that she had not come to care for someone else, and
feeling this to be ineffective, he added--
"I've always noticed that when women change their affections, they
become a prey to scruples of conscience."
"If I cared for anyone else, should I come to you to-night and offer to
marry you?"
"You're a strange woman; it would not surprise me if the reason why you
wish to be married is because you're afraid of a second lover. That
would be very like you."
His words startled her in the very bottom of her soul; she had not
thought of such a thing, but now he mentioned it, she was not sure that
he had not guessed rightly.
How well he understood one side of her nature; how he failed to
understand the other! It was this want in him that made marriage between
them impossible. She smiled mysteriously, for she was thinking how far
and how near he had always been.
"Tell me, Evelyn, tell me truly, is it on account of religious scruples,
or is it because you are afraid of falling in love with Ulick Dean, that
you came here to-night and asked me to marry you?"
"Owen, we can live in contradiction to our theories, but not in
contradiction to our feelings, and you know that my life has always
seemed to me fundamentally wrong."
For a moment he seemed to understand, but his egotism intervened, and a
moment after he understood nothing, except that for some stupid morality
she was about to break her artistic career sharp off.
He strove to think what was passing behind that forehead. He tried to
read her soul in the rounded temples, the bright, nervous eyes. His and
her understanding of life and the mystery of life were as wide apart as
the earth and the moon, and he could but stare wondering. No inkling of
the truth reached him. As he strove to understand her mind he grew
irritated, and turned against that shadow religion which had always
separated them. Without knowing why--almost in spite of himself--he
began to argue with her. He reminded her of her inconsistencies. She had
always said that a lover was much more exciting than a husband. If it
had not been for her religion, he did not believe they would have
thought of marriage, they would have gone on to the end as they had
begun. The sound of his voice entered her ears, but the meaning of the
words did not reach her brain, and when she had said that she had come
to him not on account of Ulick, but on account of her conscience, she
sat perplexed, trying to discover if she had told the truth.
"You're not listening, Evelyn."
"Yes, I am, Owen. You said that I had always said that a lover was much
more exciting than a husband."
"If so, why then--"
They stared blankly at each other. Everything had been said. They were
engaged to be married. What was the use of further argument? She
mentioned that it was getting late, and that Lady Duckle was waiting for
her.
"She will tell her first," he thought, "and she'll tell Lady Ascott.
They'll all be talking of it at supper. 'So Owen has gone off at last,'
they'll say. I'll hear of it at the club to-morrow."
"I wonder what Lady Ascott will think?" he said, as he put her into the
carriage.
"I don't know.... I shall not go to the ball. Tell him to take me home."
She lay back in the blue shadows of the brougham, striving to come to
terms with herself, to arrive at some plain conclusion. It seemed to her
that she had been animated by an honest and noble purpose. She had gone
to Owen in the intention of marrying him if he wished to marry her,
because it had seemed to her that it was her duty to marry him. But
everything had turned out the very opposite of what she had intended,
and looking back upon the hour she had spent with him, it seemed to her
that she had certainly deceived him. She certainly had deceived herself.
She could not believe that she was going to marry Owen. She felt that it
was not to be, and before the presentiment her her soul paused. She
asked herself why she felt that it was not to be. There was no reason;
but she felt quite clear on the point, and could not combat the clear
conviction. She began thinking the obvious drama--Owen discovering her
with Ulick, declining ever to see her again, her suicide or his, etc.
But she could not believe that Owen would decline ever to see her again
even if--but she was not going to go wrong with Ulick, there was no use
supposing such things, And again her thoughts paused, and like things
frightened by the dark, withdrew silently, not daring to look further.
She met Ulick every night at the theatre, and she had him to sit with
her in her dressing-room during the entr'actes.... She remembered the
pleasure she had taken in these conversations, and the strange, whirling
impulse which drew them all the while closer, until they dreaded the
touching of their knees. She had taken him back in the carriage and he
had kissed her; she had allowed him to kiss her the other night, and she
knew that if she were alone with him again that she would not be able to
resist the temptation. Her thoughts turned a little, and she considered
what her life would be if she were to yield to Ulick. Her life would
become a series of subterfuges, and in a flash of thought she saw how,
after spending the afternoon with Ulick, she would come home to find
Owen waiting for her: he would take her in his arms, she would have to
free herself, and, feeling his breath upon her cheek, save herself
somehow from his kiss. He would suspect and question her. He would say,
"Give me your word of honour that Ulick Dean is not your lover;" and she
heard herself pledge her word in a lie, and the lie would have to be
repeated again and again.
Until she had met Ulick, she had not seen a man for years whose thoughts
ranged above the gross pleasure of the moment, the pleasure of eating,
of drinking, of love-making ... and she was growing like those people.
The other night at dinner at the Savoy she had looked round the table at
the men's faces, some seven or eight, varying in age from twenty-four to
forty-eight, and she had said to herself, "Not one of these men has done
anything worth doing, not one has even tried." Looking at the men of
twenty-four, she had said to herself, "He will do all the man of
forty-eight has done,--the same dinners, the same women, the same
racecourses, the same shooting, the same tireless search after
amusement, the same life unlit by any ideal." She was no better, Owen
was no better. There was no hope for either of them? He had surrounded
her with his friends, and she thought of the invitations ahead of her.
Her profession of an opera singer chained her to this life.... She felt
that a miracle would have to happen to extricate her from the social
mire into which she was sinking, sinking.
To give up Ulick would only make matters worse. He was the plank she
clung to in the shipwreck of all her convictions. She could not tell how
or why, but the conviction was overpowering that she could not give him
up. Happen what might happen, she must see him. If Owen were to go for a
sea voyage.... In three or four months she would have acquired that
something which he could give her and which was necessary to complete
her soul. She seemed to be quite certain on this point, and she lay back
in the brougham lost in vague wonderment. Her thoughts sank still
deeper, and thoughts came to her that had never come before, that she
had never dared to think before. Even if she were not done with Ulick
when Owen returned, it seemed to her that she could make them and
herself very happy; they both seemed necessary to her happiness, to her
fulfilment; and in her dream, for she was not responsible for her
thoughts, the enjoyment of this double love seemed to her natural and
beautiful....
But she awoke from her dream frightened, and feeling like one who has
lost the clue which was to lead her out of the labyrinth.
Instead of sending the footman to tell Lady Duckle that the carriage was
waiting, Evelyn got out and went up to the drawing-room.
"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, Olive, but I can't go with you.
Tell Lady Ascott I am very sorry. Good-night, I'm going to my room."
"Oh, my dear Evelyn, not going ... and now that you're dressed."
Evelyn allowed herself to be persuaded. If she went to bed now she would
not sleep. She went to the ball with Lady Duckle, and as she went round
in the lancers, giving her hand first to one and then to the other, she
heard a voice crying within her, "Why are you doing these things? They
don't interest you at all."