But the next day she could not account to herself for the extraordinary
relief she had derived from her confession. For years she had battled
with life alone, with no light to guide her, blown hither and thither by
the gusts of her own emotions. But now she was at peace, she was
reconciled to the Church; she would never be alone again. The struggle
of her life still lay before her, and yet in a sense it was a thing of
the past. She felt like a ship that has passed from the roar of the surf
into the shelter of the embaying land, and in the distance stretched the
long peacefulness of the winding harbour.
The solution of her monetary obligations to Sir Owen still perplexed
her. She regretted not having laid the matter before Monsignor, and
looked forward to doing so. She could hear his clear, explicit voice
telling her what she must do, and guidance was such a sweet thing. He
would say that to try to calculate hotel bills and railway fares was out
of the question; but if she had said that the money Sir Owen had
advanced her to pay Madame Savelli was to be considered as a debt, she
must offer to return it. She knew that Owen would not accept it. It
would be horrid of him if he did, but it would be still more horrid of
her if she did not offer to return it.
She had not really begun to make money till the last few years, and as
there had been no need for her to make money, she had sacrificed money
to her pleasure and to Owen's. She had refused profitable engagements
because Owen wanted her to go yachting, or because he wanted to go to
Riversdale to hunt, or because she did not like the conductor. So it
happened that she had very little money--about five thousand pounds, and
her jewellery would fetch about half what was paid for it.
If she were to remain on the stage another year she could perhaps treble
the amount, and to leave the stage she would have to provide herself
with an adequate income. There was the tiara which the subscribers to
the opera in New York had presented her with--that would fetch a good
deal. It didn't become her, but it recalled a time of her life that was
very dear to her, and she would be sorry to part with it. But from the
point of view of ornament, she liked better the band of diamonds which
a young Russian prince had sent to her anonymously. A few nights after,
she had been introduced to him at a ball. His eyes went at once to the
diamonds, a look of rapture had come into his face, and she had at once
suspected he was the sender. They had danced many times, and retired for
long, eager talks into distant corners. And the following evening she
had found him waiting for her at the stage door. He had begged her to
meet him in a park outside the city. He was attractive, young, and she
was alone. Owen was away. She had thought that she liked him, and it was
exciting to meet him in this distant park, their carriages waiting for
them below the hill. She could still see the grey, lowering sky and the
trees hanging in green masses; she had thought all the time it was going
to rain. She remembered his pale, interesting face and his eager,
insinuating voice. But he had had to leave St. Petersburg the next day.
It was one of those things that might have, but had not, happened. How
strange! She might have liked him. How strange; she never would see him.
And she sat dreaming a long while.
Owen had given her a clasp, composed of two large emerald bosses set
with curious antique gems, when she played Brunnhilde. The necklace of
gem intaglios, in gold Etruscan filigree settings, he had given her for
her Elsa--more than her Elsa was worth. For Elizabeth he had given her
ropes of equal-sized pearls, and the lustre of the surfaces was
considered extraordinary. For Isolde he had given her strings of black
pearls which the jewellers of Europe had been collecting for more than a
year. Every pearl had the same depth of colour, and hanging from it was
a large black brilliant set in a mass of white brilliants. He had hung
it round her neck as she went on the stage, and she had had only time to
clasp his hands and say "dearest." These presents alone, she thought,
could not be worth less than ten thousand pounds.
She kept her jewels in a small iron safe; it stood in her dressing-room
under her washhand stand, and Merat surprised her two hours later
sitting on her bed, with everything, down to the rings which she wore
daily, spread over the counterpane. The maid gave her mistress a sharp
look, remarking that she hoped Mademoiselle did not miss anything. In
her hand there was a brooch consisting of three large emeralds set with
diamonds; she often wore it at the front of her dress, it went
particularly well with a flowered silk which Owen always admired. She
calculated the price it would fetch, and at the same time was convinced
that Monsignor's permission to sing on the concert platform, and
possibly to go to Bayreuth to sing Kundry, would not affect her
decision. She wanted to leave the stage. Half-measures did not appeal to
her in the least. If she was to give up the stage, she must give it up
wholly. It must be a thing over and done with, or she must remain on
the stage and sing for the good of Art and her lovers. Since that was no
longer possible, she preferred never to sing a note again in public. The
worst wrench of all was her promise to Monsignor not to sing Grania, and
since she had made that sacrifice, she could not dally with lesser
things. Then, resuming her search among her jewellery, she selected the
few things she would like to keep. She examined a cameo brooch set in
filigree gold, ornamented with old rose diamonds, and she picked up a
strange ring which a man whom Owen knew had taken from the finger of a
mummy. It was a large emerald set in plain gold. A man who had been
present at the unswathing of this princess, dead at least three thousand
years, had managed to secure it, and Owen had paid him a large sum for
it. She put it on her finger, and decided to keep a dozen other rings,
the earrings she wore, and a few bracelets. The rest of her jewellery
she would sell, if Owen refused to have them back. Of course there would
be her teaching; she could not live in Dulwich doing nothing, and would
take up her mother's singing classes....
Her mother had lost her voice in the middle of her career, and her
daughter had abandoned the stage at the moment of her greatest triumph!
Looking at her jewels scattered all over the bed, Evelyn wondered what
was going to happen to her. Was she really going to leave the stage?
She--Evelyn Innes? When she thought of it, it seemed impossible. If
religion were only a craze. If she were to go back to Owen, or to other
lovers? How strange it was; it seemed strange to be herself, and yet it
was quite true. Remembering that on Sunday she would partake of the Body
and Blood which her Saviour had given for the salvation of sinners, her
soul suddenly hushed, and catching sight of the jewels which symbolised
the sacrifice she was making, it seemed to her that she could afford
much greater sacrifices for what she was going to receive....
She saw lights dying down in the distance, and the world which had once
seemed so desirable seemed to her strangely trivial and easily denied.
Already she could look back at the poor struggling ones, struggling for
what to-morrow will be abandoned, forgotten, passing illusions; and she
wondered how it was that she had not always thought as she thought
to-day. Her thoughts passed into reveries, and she awoke, remembering
that Monsignor had told her that he did not like her living alone in
Park Lane. But in Dulwich she would be with her father, whom she had
long neglected, and she would be near St. Joseph's and her confessor. At
the same moment she remembered that she could not write to her lovers
from Park Lane. She put her jewels back in the safe, and told Merat to
pack sufficient things for a month, and to follow her with them to
Dulwich. Merat asked for more precise instruction, but Evelyn said she
must use her good sense; she was going away at once, and Merat must
follow by a later train.
"Then Mademoiselle does not want the carriage?"
"No, I shall go by train."
* * * * *
She found her father in the workroom, and the sight of him in his cap
and apron mending an old musical instrument caused many home scenes to
flash across her mind, and she did not know whether it was from
curiosity or a desire to please him that she asked the name of the
strange little instrument he was repairing. It looked like an overgrown
concertina, and he explained that it was a tiny virginal, and pointed
out the date; it was made in 1631, in Roman notation.
"Father," she said, "I have come back to you; we shall never be
separated any more--if you'll have me back."
"Have you back, dear! What has happened now?"
He stood with a chisel in his hand, and she noticed that he dug the
point nervously into the soft deal plank. She sat down on a small wooden
stool, and kicking the shavings with her feet, she said--
"Father, a great deal has happened. I have sent Owen away ... I shall
never see him again; I'm sorry to have to speak about him to you; you
mustn't be angry; he was very good to me, and he asked me to marry him;
he did everything--I'm afraid I've broken his heart."
"You're very strange, Evelyn, and I don't know what answer to make to
you.... Why did you send him away, and why did you refuse to marry him?"
"I sent him away because I thought it wrong to live with him, and I
refused to marry him--well, I don't know, father, I don't know why I
refused to marry him. It seemed to me that if he had wished to marry me
he ought to have done so long ago."
"Is that the only reason you can give?"
"It is the only reason I know. You seem sorry for him, father, are you?
I hope you are. He has been very good to me. I've often wished to tell
you; it has often been in my heart to tell you that you should not hate
him. He was very good to me, no one could have been kinder; he was very
fond of me, you must not bear him any ill will."
"I never said that I bore him ill will. He made you a great singer, and
you say he was very kind to you and wanted to marry you."
"Yes, and he was most anxious to see you, and he went with me to St.
Joseph's the Sunday you gave the great Mass of Pope Marcellus. He was
distressed that he could not see you to tell you about the choir."
"They sang better that Sunday than the Sunday you heard the 'Missa
Brevis.' I have got two new trebles. One has an exquisite voice. I wish
I could get a few good altos. It was the altos that were wrong when you
heard the 'Missa Brevis.' But you didn't hear they were out of tune.
That piano has falsified your ear, but it will come back to you."
"Dear father, how funny you are! If nothing were more wrong than my
ear ..."
They glanced at each other hastily, and to change the subject he
mentioned that he had had a letter that morning from Ulick. He had
finished scoring the second act of Grania, and thinking that he was on
safe ground, Mr. Innes told her that Ulick hoped to finish his score in
the autumn. The third act would not take him long; he had a very
complete sketch of the music, etc. "I shall enjoy going through his
opera with him."
"Father, I don't know how to tell you. Will you ever forgive me or him.
Ulick must not come back here--at least not while I am here. Perhaps I
had better go."
The chisel dropped from his hand, and he stood looking at his daughter.
His look was pitiful, and she could not bear to see him shake his head
slowly from side to side.
"Poor father is wondering why I am like this;" and to interrupt his
reflections she said--
"I don't know why I am like this; that's what you're thinking, father,
but henceforth I'll be like mother and my aunts. They were all good
women ... I have often wondered why I am like this." Their eyes met, and
seized with a sudden dread lest he should think (if such were really the
case) that he was the original cause--she seemed to read something like
that in his eyes--she said, "You must forgive me, whatever I am; you
know that we've always loved each other, and we always shall. Nothing
can come between us; you must be sorry for me, and kiss me, and love me
more than ever, for I've been very unhappy. I haven't told you all I
have given up so that I might be a good woman; it is not easy to make
the sacrifices I have made, but I am happier now that I have made them.
Ulick--Ulick must not come here while I'm here, but you'll want to see
him--I had better go. Father, dear, it is hard to say all these things.
I've done nothing but bring you trouble. Now I've robbed you of your
friend. For I've promised not to see Ulick again. If I stay here,
father, he must not come--I'm ashamed to ask you this, but what am I to
do? I bring trouble. Later on, perhaps, but for a long while he and I
must not meet."
Mr. Innes stood looking at his daughter, and a peculiar puzzled
expression had begun in his eyes, and had spread over his face. He
suddenly shrugged his shoulders; the movement was like Evelyn's shrug,
it expressed the same nervous hopelessness.
"I promised Monsignor that I would not see either."
"You went to confession--to him?"
Evelyn nodded.
"But how about Grania?"
"I'm not going to sing Grania. I've left the stage for good."
"Left the stage?"
"Yes, father, I've left the stage, and I could not go back even if
Monsignor were to permit me. But you must not argue with me; I argued
with myself until I nearly went mad. Night after night went by
sleepless; I was mad one night, and should have poisoned myself if I had
not found my scapular. But you mustn't question me. Some day when it is
all far away I'll tell you the whole story. I cannot speak of it at
present, it is all too near. Suffice it to say that I have repented, and
have come to ask you if you'll have me back to live with you?"
"You're my daughter, and you must do as you like. You were always
different from anyone else, I cannot cope with you. So you have left the
stage, left the stage! What will people think?"
"I could not be a good woman and remain on the stage, that's what it
comes to." In spite of the gravity of the scene, a smile trickled round
Evelyn's lips, for she could not help seeing her father like a hen that
has hatched out a duckling. He stood looking at her sadly. She had come
back--but what new pond would she plunge into? "I am a very
unsatisfactory person, I know that. I can't make people happy; but there
it is, it can't be otherwise. If I don't sing on the stage, I can sing
at your concerts. Come downstairs and let's have some music. We've
talked enough.
"What shall we play--a Bach sonata? Ah, I remember this," she said,
catching sight of the harpsichord part of a suite by J.P. Rameau, for
the harpsichord and viola da gamba. "Where is the viola da gamba part?"
"In the bottom of that bookcase, I think; don't you remember it?"
"Well, it is some time since I've played it," she said, smiling, "but
I'll try."
It seemed to her that she remembered it all wonderfully well, and she
was surprised how every phrase came up correctly under her bow. But she
stopped suddenly.
"I don't remember what comes next."
Mr. Innes played the phrase, she played it after him, but she broke down
a little further on, and it took some time to find the music. "No, not
in that shelf," cried Mr. Innes, "the next one; not that volume, the
next."
"Ah, yes, I remember the volume, about the middle?" When she found the
place she said, "Oh, yes, of course," and he answered--
"Ah, it seems simple enough now," and they went on together to the end.
"I've not lost much of my playing, have I?"
"A little stiffness, perhaps, and you've lost your sense of the old
forms. Now let's play this rondeau of Marais."
When they had finished, it was dinner-time, and after dinner they had
more music. Before going upstairs, Evelyn asked Agnes if there was any
ink in her room. She had to ask her father for some writing paper, she
would have avoided doing so if she could have helped it. She feared he
would guess that she was writing to her lovers. She smiled--so odd did
her scruples seem to her--she was writing to send them away. Her
father's house was surely the right place. If it were to make
appointments, that would be different. It was long past midnight when
she read over her letter to Owen.
"Dear Owen,--A great deal has happened since we last met, and I am
convinced that it would be unwise for me to see you in three months as I
promised. My confessor is of the same opinion; he thinks three months
too soon, and I must obey him. I have taken the step which I hope you
will take some day, for you too are a Catholic. In going to confession
and resolving not to see you again, I had a long struggle with my
feelings; but God gave me grace to overcome them. You know me well
enough by this time, and can have no doubt that I could not live with
you again as your mistress, and as I do not feel that I could marry you,
no course is open to me but to beg of you not to write to me, or to try
to see me. Owen, I feel that all this is horrid, that I am horrid looked
at from your side. I cannot seem anything else. I hate it all, but it
has to be done. Perhaps one of these days you will see things as I do.
"I owe you--I do not know how much, but I owe you a great deal of money.
I remember saying that Savelli's lessons were to be considered as a
debt, also the expenses of the house in the Rue Balzac. You never would
tell me what the rent of that house was, but as well as I can calculate,
I owe you a thousand pounds for that year in Paris." (Evelyn paused. "It
must be," she thought, "much more, but it would be difficult for me to
pay more.")
"You have," she continued, "paid for a hundred other things besides
Savelli's lessons and the house in the Rue Balzac, but it would be
impossible to make out a correct account, I feel, too, that you gave me
the greatest part of my jewellery thinking that one day I would be your
wife; you would not have given me so much if you had not thought so.
Therefore I feel it is only just to offer you the whole of it back. I
will only ask you to allow me to keep a few trifles--the earrings you
bought for me the day we arrived in Paris, the mummy's ring, etc., not
more than half-a-dozen things in all. I should like to keep these in
memory of a time which I ought to forget, but which I am afraid I shall
never have the courage even to try to forget. Dear Owen, I cannot tell
you why I cannot marry you, I only know that I cannot. I am obeying an
instinct far stronger than I, and I cannot struggle against it any
longer.
"One day perhaps we may meet--but it may not be for years, until we are
both quite different.
"Sincerely yours,
"EVELYN INNES."
The moment she had written the address, she threw the pen aside, and she
sat striving against an uncontrollable sense of misery. At last her
pent-up tears ran over her eyelids. She flung herself on her bed, and
lay weeping, shaken by short, choking sobs. All her courage of the
morning had forsaken her; she could not face her new life, she could not
send away Owen. Her inmost life rose in revolt. Why was this new
sacrifice demanded of her? Why was her life to be made so hard, so
impossible for her to endure? She felt she could not live in the life
which she foresaw awaited her. Then she felt that she was being tried
beyond the endurance of any woman. But the storm did not last, her sobs
died away. She sat up, mopping her eyes with a soaking pocket
handkerchief, and utterly exhausted by the violence of her emotions, she
began to undress. She felt the impossibility of saying her prayers, her
one longing was for sleep, oblivion; she wished herself dead, and was
too worn out to put the thought from her, though she knew it was wrong.
In the morning the first thing she saw was the letter to Owen. There it
was! And every word and letter sank into her brain. "Sir Owen Asher,
Bart., Riversdale, Northamptonshire." She would have to post it, and
never again would she see him. She questioned the right of the priest in
obtaining from her a promise not to see him, so long as she did not sin.
But Owen was an approximate cause of mortal sin....
Ashamed of her instability, and feeling herself unworthy and no longer
pure as absolution had made her, she went that afternoon to St.
Joseph's, and in confession laid the matter before Monsignor Mostyn.
Regarding the money question, he approved of what she had written to Sir
Owen, and he was far more indulgent regarding her breakdown than she had
dared to hope. He had expected some such mental crisis. It was
extraordinary the strength it gave her even to see his stern, grave
face; she was thrilled by his certainty on all points, and it no longer
seemed difficult to send the letter she had written, or to write a
similar letter to Ulick, which he advised her to send by the same post.
She began it the moment she got home, and she wrote in perfect
confidence and courage, the words coming easily to her, so easily that
there were times when she seemed to hear Monsignor speaking over her
shoulder.
"Dear Ulick,--A very great event has happened in my life since I saw
you. The greatest event that can happen in any life--Grace has been
vouchsafed to me. Now I understand how sinful my life has been, as much
from a human as a religious point of view. I deserted my dear father, I
left him alone to live as best he could. I was not even faithful to my
lover. From a worldly point of view I owed him everything, yet for the
sake of my passion for you I encouraged myself for a while to dwell on
his faults, to see nothing in him but the small and the mean. I strove
to degrade him in my eyes so that I might find some excuse for loving
you. You were nice, Ulick, you were kind, you were good to me, and I was
enthusiastic about your genius. One of my greatest troubles now is that
I shall not be able to sing your opera. For a long while this very thing
prevented my repentance. I said to myself, 'It is impossible, I cannot,
I have promised, I must do what I said I would do. He will think me
hateful if I do not create the part.' But these hesitations between what
is certainly right and what is certainly wrong existed in me because I
did not then perceive how very little the things of this world are,
compared with eternal things, and that nothing matters compared with the
necessity of saving our souls. All this is now quite clear to me, and it
would therefore be madness for me to remain on the stage, recognising as
I do that it is a source of grave temptation to me. You will try to
understand, dear Ulick, you will try to look at things from my point of
view. You will see that it is impossible for me to act otherwise.
"I am living now with my father, and must not see you when you return to
London. I have promised my confessor not to see you. One of these days,
in years to come, when you and I are different beings, we may meet, but
we must not see each other at present. I must beg of you not to write or
to try to see me. My resolve is unalterable, and any attempt on your
part to induce me to return to my old life will be useless. It as
already far away and inconceivable to me. I know that by asking you not
to come to Dulwich I am robbing my father of his friend. I have never
brought happiness to anyone, not to father, not to Sir Owen, not to you,
not to myself. If other proof were wanting, would not this fact be
enough to convince me that my life has been all wrong? What it will be
in the future I don't know, I have confidence in the goodness of God and
in the wisdom of my spiritual adviser.--Sincerely yours,
"EVELYN INNES."
"_P.S._--In course of conversation with my father, I mentioned
inadvertently that you were my lover; I begged him not to be angry with
you, but I know that I should not have mentioned your name. I must ask
you to forgive me this too."
The next day and the day following were lived within herself, sometimes
viewing God far away, as if at one end of a great plain, and herself
kneeling penitent at the other. She was filled with thoughts of his
infinite goodness and mercy, and of the miraculous intercession of the
Virgin at the moment when she was about to commit a crime that would
have lost her her soul for ever. She went to Mass daily, and took
peculiar delight in reciting the hymn which Monsignor had given her for
a penance. She regretted it was not more. It seemed to her such a
trivial penance, and she reflected on the blackness of her sins, and the
penances which the saints had imposed upon themselves. But her chief
desire was to keep herself pure in thought, and she read pious books
when she was alone, and encouraged her mind to dwell on the profound
mystery in which she was going to participate, and to believe in the
marvellous change it would produce in her.
It was on Friday morning that Agnes handed her Ulick's letter. She did
not read it at once, it lay on the table while she was dressing, and she
was uncertain whether it would not be better to put off reading it until
she came back from St. Joseph's.
"Alas, from our first meeting, and before it, we were aware of the fate
which has overtaken us. We heard it in our hearts, that numb
restlessness, that vague disquietude, that prophetic echo which never
dies out of ears attuned to the music of destiny ... Love you less, you
who are the source of all joy to me? Evelyn, my heart aches and my brain
is light with grief, but the terrible certitude persists that we are
being drawn asunder. I see you like a ship that has cleared the harbour
bar, and is already amid the tumult of the ocean.... We are ships, and
the destiny of ships is the ocean, the ocean draws us both: we have
rested as long as may be, we have delayed our departure, but the tide
has lifted us from our moorings. With an agonised heart I watched the
sails of your ship go up, and now I see that mine, too, are going aloft,
hoisted by invisible hands. I look back upon the bright days and quiet
nights we have rested in this tranquil harbour. Like ships that have
rested a while in a casual harbour, blown hither by storms, we part,
drawn apart by the eternal magnetism of the sea. I would go to you,
Evelyn, if I could, and pray you not to leave me. But you would not
hear: destiny hears no prayers. In the depths of our consciousness,
below the misery of the moment, there lies a certain sense that our ways
are different ways, and that we must fare forth alone, whither we know
not, over the ocean's rim; and in this sense of destiny we must find
comfort. Will resignation, which is the highest comfort, come to us in
time? My eyes fall upon my music paper, and at the same time your eyes
turn to the crucifix. Ours is the same adventure, though a different
breeze fills the sails, though the prows are set to a different horizon.
God is our quest--you seek him in dogma, I in art.
"But, Evelyn, my heart is aching so. How awful the word never, and the
years are filled with its echoes. And the wide ocean which lies outside
the harbour is so lonely, and I have no heart for any other joy. 'May we
not meet again?' my heart cries from time to time; 'may not some
propitious storm blow us to the same anchorage again, into the same
port?' Ah, the suns and the seas we shall have sailed through would
render us unrecognisable, we should not know each other. Last night I
wandered by the quays, and, watching the constellations, I asked if we
were divided for ever, if, when the earth has become part and parcel of
the stars, our love will not reappear in some starry affinity, in some
stellar friendship.--Yours,
"ULICK DEAN."
The symbol of the ships seemed to Evelyn to express the union and the
division and the destiny that had overtaken them. She sat and pondered,
and in her vision ships hailed each other as they crossed in mid-ocean.
Ships drew together as they entered a harbour. Ships separated as they
fared forth, their prows set towards different horizons. She sat
absorbed in the mystery of destiny. Like two ships, they had rested side
by side in a casual harbour. They had loved each other as well as their
different destinies had allowed them. None can do more. She loved him
better--in a way--but he was less to her than Owen. She felt that, and
he had felt that.... As he said, if they were to meet again they would
not recognise each other, so different were the suns that would shine
upon them and the oceans they would travel through. She understood what
he meant, and a prevision of her future life seemed to nicker up in her
brain, like the sea seen through a mist; and through vistas in the haze
she saw the lonely ocean, and her bark was already putting off from the
shore. All she had known she was leaving behind. The destiny of ships is
the ocean.
Owen's letter she received in the evening about six o'clock. She changed
colour at the sight of it, and her hand trembled, and she tore the
envelope across as she opened it.
"You ask me to make no attempt to save you. You ask me to stand on the
bank while you struggle and are dragged down by the current. Evelyn, I
have never disobeyed your slightest wish before, but I declare my right
to use all means to save you from a terrible fate. I return to London to
do so. God only knows if I shall succeed.... In any case I hope you will
never allude again to any money questions. What I gave, I gave, and
unless you want to kill me outright, never speak again of returning my
presents.--As ever,