"But, Evelyn, you must love me, me--only me; you will never see him
again?"
She did not answer, and when he spoke, his voice trembled.
"But it is impossible you can ever marry him now."
"I am not going to marry Owen."
"You told him so the other night?"
"Yes, I told him, or very nearly, that I could not marry him."
"You cannot marry him, you love me.... But why don't you answer. What
are you thinking of?"
"Only of you, dear.... Let me kiss you again," and in the embrace he
forgot for the moment the inquietude her answer had caused him.
"That is my call," she said. "How am I to sing the Liebestod after all
this? How does it begin?"
Ulick sang the opening phrase, and she continued the music for some
bars.
"I hope I shall get through it all right. Then," she said, "we shall go
home together in the brougham."
At that moment a knock was heard, and Merat entered. "Mademoiselle, you
have no time to lose."
The call boy's voice was heard on the stairs, and Evelyn hastened away.
Ulick followed, and the first thing he heard when he got on the stage
was Tristan's death motive. He listened, not so much to the music itself
as to its occult significance regarding Evelyn and himself. And as
Isolde's grief changed from wild lament for sensual delight to a
resigned and noble prayer, the figure of ecstasy broke with a sound as
of wings shaking, and Ulick seemed to witness a soul's transfiguration.
He watched it rising in several ascensions, like a lark's flight. For an
instant it seemed to float in some divine consummation, then, like the
bird, to suddenly quench in the radiance of the sky. The harps wept
farewell over the bodies of the lovers, then all was done, and he stood
at the wings listening to the applause. She came to him at once, as soon
as the curtain was down.
"How did I sing it?"
"As well as ever."
"But you seem sad; what is it?"
"It seemed to mean something--something, I cannot tell what, something
to do with us."
"No," she said, looking at him. "I was only thinking of the music. Wait
for me, dear, I shall not keep you long."
He walked up and down the stage, and in his hand was a wreath that some
admirer had kept for the last. For excitement he could hardly bid the
singers good-night as they passed him. Now it was Tristan, now Brangäne,
now one of the chorus. The question raged within him. Was it fated that
she should marry him? So far as he understood the omens she would not;
but the readings were obscure, and his will threw itself out in
opposition to the influence of Sir Owen. But he was not certain that
that was the direction whence the danger was coming. He could only
exert, however, his will in that direction. At last he saw her coming
down the steep stairs, wrapped in a white opera cloak. They walked in
silence--she all rapture, but his happiness already clouded. The
brougham was so full of flowers that they, could hardly find place for
themselves. She drew him closer, and said--
"What is the matter, dear? Am I not nice to you?"
"Yes, Evelyn, you're an enchantment. Only--"
"Only what, dear?"
"I fear our future. I fear I shall lose you. All has come true so far,
the end must happen."
She drew his arm about her waist, and laid his face on her bare
shoulder.
"Let there be no foreboding. Live in the present."
"The future is too near us. Say you'll marry me, or else I shall lose
you altogether. It is the one influence on our side."
She was born, he said, under two great influences, but each could be
modified; one might be widened, the other lessened, and both
modifications might finally resolve into her destiny. So far as he could
read her future, it centred in him or another. That other, he was sure,
was not Sir Owen, nor was it himself, he thought; for when she and he
had met in the theatre, she had experienced no dread, but he had dreaded
her, recognising her as his destiny. He had even recognised her as
Evelyn Innes before she had been pointed out to him.
"But you had seen my photograph?"
"But it was not by your photograph that I knew you."
"And you knew that I should care for you?"
"I knew that something had to happen. But you did not feel that I was
your destiny. You said you experienced no dread, but when you met Sir
Owen did you experience none?"
"I suppose I did. I was afraid of him. At first I think I hated him."
"Ah, Evelyn, we shall not marry--it is not our fate. You see that you
cannot say you will marry me. Another fate is beckoning you."
"Who is it who beckons me? Have I already met him?"
He fell to dreaming again, and Evelyn asked him vainly to describe this
other man.
"Why are you singing that melancholy Mark motive?"
"I did not know I was singing it." He returned to his dream again, but
starting from it, he seized her hands.
"Evelyn," he said, "we must marry; a reason obliges us. Have you not
thought of it?" And then, as if he had not noticed that she had not
answered his question, he said, "On your father's account, if he should
ever know. Think what my position is. I have betrayed my friend. That is
why the Marie motive has been singing in my head. Evelyn, you must say
you will marry me. We must marry at once, for your father's sake. I have
betrayed him, my best friend.... I have acted worse than that other
man."
"Ulick, dear, open the window; the scent of these flowers is
overpowering.... That is better. Throw some of those bouquets into the
street. We might give them to those poor men, they might be able to sell
them.... Tell the coachman to stop."
The chime of destiny sounded clearer than ever in their ears; it seemed
as if they could almost catch the tune, and with a convulsive movement
Evelyn drew her lover towards her.
"Every hour threatens us," he said. "Can you not hear? Do not go to Park
Lane--Park Lane threatens; your friend Lady Duckle threatens. I see
nothing but threats and menaces; all are leagued against us."
"Dearest, we cannot spend the night driving about London."
He sighed on his mistress's shoulder. She threw his black hair from his
forehead.
"There is no hope. We shall be separated, scattered to different winds."
"Why do you think that? How do you know these things, Ulick?"
"Evelyn, in losing you I lose the principle of my life, but you will
lose nothing in losing me. So it is written. But you are not listening;
I am wearying you; you're clinging to the present, knowing that you will
soon lose it."
She threw herself upon him, and kissed him as if she would annihilate
destiny on his lips, and until they reached Park Lane there was no
future, only a delirious present for both of them.
"I won't ask you in; I am tired. Good-bye, dearest, good-bye. I'll
write."
"Remember that my time is short," and there was a strange accent in his
voice which she did not hear till long after. She had locked herself
into the sensual present, and, lulled in happy sensations of gratified
sense, she allowed Merat to undress her. She thought of the soft luxury
of her bed, and lay down, her brain full of floating impressions of
flowers, music and of love.