SEKHET, CRUSHER OF HEARTS
One morning, weary and depressed after a wakeful night, her
determination had faltered at the very moment of setting out on an
expedition with Tony as sole escort. With her foot actually on the step
of the carriage she had suddenly informed him, somewhat curtly, that he
really must amuse himself that day, returning and shutting herself in
her room, deaf to all expostulations.
Tony, decidedly chagrined, had loitered for a while in the lonely
flat--teased the dog--flirted with one of the maid-servants--and had
finally taken his departure.
Evarne sat on in solitude, alternately striving to read a novel and
freely permitting her tortured imagination to dwell on the vision of
Morris and Lucinda being whirled happily together through the fresh
country lanes.
A few hours later, hearing a footstep and the sound of the opening front
door, and wishing now to make peace with Tony before the others returned
and troubled her with "whys" and "wherefores," she went to the
drawing-room, prepared to be very sweet and amiable. But the footsteps
had not been those of her host. It was the motoring couple who had
returned thus early.
Lucinda, vivacious as usual, had already removed her hat and veil, and
was drawing off her long gloves. She worked industriously at the fingers
of one hand until she had drawn a loose end of the white kid forward
over each finger-tip then suddenly called upon Morris.
"I'm impatient. I can't tear these things off. You had better come to
the rescue."
Gathering up the already loose ends between his thumb and finger, Morris
took hold of her other hand also, and suddenly jerked both her arms
forcibly over his shoulders. As she unavoidably fell forward on his
breast he encircled her waist and kissed the laughing face so near to
his own.
"There's none like you, you damned little witch," he declared.
Evarne had not desired to be an eavesdropper, and had no thought of
concealing her presence now. She still held in her hand the book she had
been reading, and, with a sharp indrawing of her breath, announced her
presence by violently flinging the volume to the ground with a loud
bang.
Seeing her, Lucinda uttered a scream and fled. Morris remained without
moving, gazing at the girl with the utmost nonchalance.
"You've precipitated matters, Evarne," he said calmly.
Her first outburst of anger was directed against Lucinda.
"There's nothing in all this world that is more utterly despicable and
hateful and detestable, more altogether vile, than to pretend a
friendship for a woman in order to get chances to steal her lover!" she
cried, with sufficient energy to suggest that she was directing her
opinion through the closed door that Lucinda had banged after her in her
hurried flight.
"All's fair in love and war," retorted Morris.
"That's a lie," was the startlingly frank answer.
"Is it? Then what about you and Tony?"
"Tony Belmont? Be careful, Morris! What about us? That creature, seeing
something more to her taste in you, has flung her cast-off lover at my
head. He has played into her hands readily enough, and you have stood by
and seen it being done. How dare you then ask such a question?"
"Well, you may choose to look at it in that light, but the fact remains
unaltered and undeniable that Tony practically deserted Lucinda from the
time he first saw you, and you didn't care one jot what suffering it
caused that poor little woman."
"Poor defenceless little darling!"
The words were spoken with bitter sarcasm, while the fiery indignation
already surging within the girl's breast increased tenfold beneath this
amazing accusation--this unscrupulous falsifying of the truth. There was
a moment's silence, then her words rang out with passionate force--
"Oh, the arch hypocrisy! Liars, both of you--abject liars--trying to
make excuses for your own foul treachery! It's sickening! I shan't stay
another night--no, not another hour--beneath her roof."
"It is Tony's roof, and you had better remain."
"I won't, I won't! How can you even suggest such a thing? I can't
breathe the same air that she does. It's poisonous--contaminated!"
"Gently, gently; you'll be overheard."
"Rubbish! I don't care! I won't be gentle. What do you mean by defending
her? What is she to you?"
And the verbal refusal to be gentle was confirmed by a violent blow on
the table.
Morris, albeit decidedly surprised, answered with unruffled suavity. He
was quite willing to make allowances for this natural anger and show of
indignation; at the same time the wondrous patience the girl had
exhibited hitherto had given him little cause to anticipate the
tempestuous quality of her aroused wrath.
"Is your philosophy all culled from antique authors, sweet student? Have
you never found time to peep into Darwin and assimilate the doctrine of
the Survival of the Fittest?"
"What's that to do----?" she cried in bewilderment, not seeing at first
any connection between her question and this answer. Yet even as she
spoke came a sudden mental illumination of his meaning.
"Morris, you can't mean to say you really do prefer that vulgar,
coarse-minded, spiteful, abandoned creature to--to----Oh Heaven!"
She brushed her hair roughly back from her forehead, and stared at him
fixedly, her big eyes still full of incredulity. Then she uttered a
brief laugh of mingled bitterness and disdain.
"But there! From a man's point of view, I suppose the Fittest always and
only implies the Newest. Despicable wretches, the whole lot of you."
Morris, amused at this sweeping statement, smiled as he answered--
"But it's a little weakness that is no ways confined to mere man. It
isn't only to us that constancy spells boredom. It's all very well for
middle-aged women, who feel their power of pleasing on the wane, to
cling like limpets. We expect it, and it's one reason why wise men avoid
'em. It always means beastly rows in the long run. But, thank goodness,
at your time of life, my child, variety is charming, even to the fair
sex."
The latter portion of these sentiments fell unheeded--practically
unheard. All the girl's thoughts and senses were concentrated upon her
own agony of spirit. Fully grasping now, for the very first time, that
Morris's defection was serious and deliberate, all indignation and
resentment were swamped by a wave of wild grief and horror before which
all else broke down. When she could speak it was only in disjointed
sentences, in a voice that quivered under stress of emotion and
struggled with choking sobs.
"Oh, oh! Can I only bore you now by loving you? You can't mean that. Not
really and truly. I can't have lost your love so utterly. What have I
ever done? Oh, Morris, what have I done? I've never altered to you, and
I never would. I would always be faithful to you--always. Is it a curse
to have a faithful heart? I can't stop caring for you, because you tell
me to; how--how can I? Are you really altogether tired of me? I knew men
did get tired, easily, cruelly easily, but somehow----Perhaps if I'd
been different? Oh, I did try! I did, always! I did! But there, I've
been so utterly miserable lately, it's better really to know the truth
straight out at once. Tell me the truth, Morris."
"But you know it, my dear."
"Tell me, tell me!"
"Now what is the good of upsetting yourself like this? Come, come!"
"You're going to give that--that woman--my place! Oh! you'll be sorry.
She's only selfish and mercenary. She doesn't love you, and I do.
You--you don't care for that, though. Oh, how can you?"
Morris was feeling awkwardly uncomfortable. He took a flower from a
vase, and put it in his buttonhole before he spoke.
"I'm perfectly aware," he confessed at length, "that in the abstract
Lucinda is neither so handsome, so brilliant, nor so really delightful
as you are, but still--still----" He paused. "There, I'm not worth
bothering about, so dry your eyes."
By a powerful effort of self-command she managed to regain some degree
of composure, and to steady her voice. Quite quietly she repeated his
words, "not worth bothering about," then, after an interval, "Ah, me!"
The tender yearning tone in which this little exclamation came was
fraught with significance. After another moment's thought she approached
quite close to him, and rested the tips of her fingers upon his chest.
"I'm afraid you _are_ worth bothering about, my dear," she went on,
making a rather pitiful little attempt to hide her sick anxiety by
pretending to smile. Then, after a somewhat protracted pause, she spoke
again.
"I--I--there, why should I be ashamed to say it again, even now? I love
you still--oh, so much! I'm sure I shall always love you. I can't help
it. We can't arrange our feelings so that they shall always be
convenient and suitable. It was never really right that we should care
for one another at all, because--because of your wife, and I would
never--no never--have taken her place if you had even so much as hinted
that you might one day come to look upon it as something merely
temporary; something that could be lightly set aside as soon as you met
another woman whom you--liked a bit.
"No, don't speak, Morris! I haven't done yet. You know full well that
though I loved you, oh! so dearly, I never wanted to lead any other than
what I thought was a perfectly honourable life. You know you didn't win
me easily, in spite of everything being in your favour. You told me that
because you had made a mistake in your marriage you were lonely and
unhappy, and that, though you couldn't make me really your wife, our
union should be as lasting and sacred as any legal bond. It was to be
your true marriage. You're not treating me fairly now, dear, you're not
really. You ought to feel really more tied to me by honour and loyalty
than you would do even if I were indeed your wife, and had not lost my
good name for your sake. I've never been troublesome and jealous, you
can't say that, and when you found you were getting--well, seriously
attached to another woman, it's not a bit unreasonable of me to think
you ought to have avoided seeing her again. You owed it to me to be true
always--you did, indeed. You knew I was not like Mrs. Belmont, who
treats these ties so lightly. Come away now, darling--come away from
Paris. She can't really have won your heart yet--only your fancy, only
your passing fancy, Morris. You would soon forget her. Come away with
me, and we will be so happy together again, and honest and upright and
without any cause to be ashamed, either of us. Do come, darling--do,
do."
Her arms were tightly clasped around his neck, and her wistful, eager
face--the piteous brown eyes moist and beseeching--were close to his.
But beauty that has palled no longer possesses power. Sentimental
appeals to honour and loyalty were very troublesome; while the reference
to an imaginary link that was to be held binding upon him for evermore
was merely vexing.
"You're a good, sweet little soul," he said, rather testily, unclasping
her arms--"no one knows that better than I do--and I should have
supposed, therefore, that you would be the last to suggest that we
should continue our life together without mutual love. On the contrary,
a woman of your moral excellence ought not to be willing to consent to
such a proceeding. And, what's more, you mustn't blame me, you know.
Remember your own wise words, 'We can't arrange our feelings, our
affections, according to what would be, perhaps, the most conducive to a
quiet life.' We may all be but the sport of the gods, but let's go on
strike against taking part in any tragedies for the entertainment of the
higher powers. Let's insist on being merely comedians. We will say
good-bye smilingly, and thus snap our fingers at Fate."
Evarne twisted her hands together helplessly. She had much to say, so
much, but further speech was beyond her power.
Her throat swelled, she bit the inside of her lower lip pitilessly to
stay its quivering, but was scarcely conscious of the tears that poured
down her cheeks unheeded. After a minute's futile struggle to retain
some show of self-command, she moved away a step or two, sank into an
armchair, buried her face in the cushions, and sobbed without restraint.
A tumultuous medley of wild impassioned ideas surged within her brain,
incomplete thoughts, disconnected and rapidly cast aside. But, amid them
all, were none urging calm submission, dignified resignation. On the
contrary, all alike were directed on evolving some method of warding off
this unendurable blow--or, at least, since it had fallen, of nullifying
its effects.
The thing seemed so incredible, unreal, impossible, the end of all life.
She resolutely declined to admit that there was nothing whatsoever to be
done; she could not consent to allow all hope to leave her. And
yet--yet--immovable and grim, the bedrock underlying these wild surgings
of despised and deserted love, was the conviction that her richest store
of eloquence, the whole of her most intense and protracted efforts,
would prove powerless to alter the inevitable. Distracted, tortured, she
gasped between her sobs--
"I shall kill myself."
Morris was just in the act of stealing softly from the room. Looking
rather foolish, he turned sharply, and crossed over to her side.
"Tut, tut! You don't know what you're saying now, you're talking
wildly," he declared soothingly. "You really mustn't take things so to
heart. You'll make yourself quite ill. Go and lie down quietly, and I'll
send Bianca in to you with a cup of tea."
"You think I don't know what I'm saying, but I know that I'm not saying
half I feel," she declared truthfully enough. Then, after a moment's
further reflection, her momentary composure again gave way. "Oh, how
could you make me love you, only to treat me like this? It was cruel,
brutal! How can I bear it?"
Morris patted her shoulder encouragingly, but remained silent. He had
been through a few tempestuous scenes ere this, and knowing that a man
did not shine on such occasions, was resigned to looking and feeling
foolish while it lasted, devoting his efforts chiefly to getting the
_mauvais_ _quart d'heure_ over as quietly as possible. For this, his one
theory lay in the proverb, "Least said, soonest mended."
Evarne put out her hand and pushed him away.
"Don't do that--don't! You know you hate me now."
Again Morris smiled; women always went to such extremes.
"Bless you, not a bit of it! Why, I hope we are going to part the best
of friends," was his lightly spoken disavowal of this accusation.
"To part!" murmured Evarne, after him, monotonously--"to part!"
Then suddenly an inward voice seemed to commence repeating over and over
again, "There is nothing so dead as a dead love. There is nothing so
dead as a dead love. Nothing so dead, nothing, nothing!" It was
maddening. The unhesitating certainty--the calm conviction animating the
phrase--brought final despair. In it she heard a call, inspired by the
wisdom of ages, the outcome of the most bitter experience of long
generations of mankind; a call to abandon efforts that were predestined
to be sterile. It was as if she were abruptly faced by the inscription
that Dante read over the gateways of hell. Sitting erect, she lifted her
voice in lamentation.
"Oh, Morris, darling, you can't change so utterly. You're the same man.
I'm still the same woman. How many times did you swear you would love me
always and ever--always and ever--and now I'm only just twenty!" she
wailed, catching at his arm and pressing her cheek to his coat-sleeve,
while her sobs grew louder and more convulsive.
Morris, already wearied, felt a tiny twinge of compunction, and was
thereupon easily moved to anger by her impassioned weeping.
"For goodness' sake, Evarne, do let us have an end to this ridiculous
scene," he said roughly, shaking himself free from her despairing hold.
"Do recognise the fact that not all the pleading in the world will have
any effect on me. If you don't pull yourself together you'll have
hysterics in a moment, and I've no patience with hysterical women."
The action, the cruel words themselves, and the tone in which they were
uttered, combined to goad the girl to sudden wrath. She sprang to her
feet, and without a moment's hesitation frantically struck him on the
chest with her clenched fist.
"Don't think I shall ask anything of you now--no, not so much as your
patience," she cried. "I don't intend to plead with any man for his
love, least of all with you--don't think it! I never want to see you
again, never! Go to Mrs. Belmont--go and make her your mistress."
Morris allowed himself to be thoroughly angered by the blow.
"Thanks for the permission," he said curtly; "but it happens to be quite
unnecessary, as we have not waited for it."
He now anticipated being deluged beneath a torrent of words, but though
her lips parted, Evarne stood quite speechless, only blinking her eyes a
little, as if bewildered and dazed. Then she slowly retreated backwards
across the room step by step, until she was brought to a standstill by
reaching the china cabinet. Leaning against it, she turned her head from
side to side for a minute or two, then, producing a flimsy, ineffectual
little handkerchief, proceeded, with strange, unlooked-for composure, to
wipe her eyes and tear-stained cheeks.
"So now you see you may just as well be sensible and resigned, eh?"
suggested Morris, with forced carelessness.
Evarne made no sign of having heard, but continued her touching little
occupation. The protracted silence became embarrassing. Morris was
haunted by the fear that this apparently delightful calm must be but
ominous and deceptive.
"I'll make different arrangements by to-morrow," he continued at length,
in a business-like tone. "I can understand you don't care to be in the
same place. I ought not to have allowed it. I apologise."
Still silence. He was just about to speak again, when Evarne announced
in tones of quiet conviction, seemingly to herself, "I must get away
from this house at once--at once!" and walked towards the door as if
about to suit the action to the words without any delay.
But Morris hurried over to prevent the fulfilment of this impulse.
"Believe me," he assured her, retaining his grasp of the door-handle,
"there is some one who would rather that all the rest of us should slip
over the fourth dimension than have you undertake the _rôle_ of
vanishing lady. Darwin applies all round, remember, and to Tony's way of
thinking you are the fittest in all the world."
A dangerous gleam darted into the girl's eyes, and she stamped her foot
passionately.
"How dare you offer me such an insult? Haven't you done enough yet to
make yourself hateful to me? Have you no shame whatsoever? Be silent, I
tell you--be silent!"
He made a gesture of despair.
"Of all the unreasonable people! Now, why should listening to a simple
statement of facts cause you to get into such a temper?"
"Why?--why, indeed! You can't see; oh dear no, it's quite beyond your
comprehension, isn't it? Learn this, then: though you have made me a
more degraded creature than I ever before realised, you haven't killed
all my soul, neither shall you."
"Souls at this moment! Good gracious, my dear girl, I only wish I had
made you a bit more practical. But there, I fear you're utterly
incorrigible. Poor old Tony mayn't be quite your ideal knight, but do
try to realise that while sugar-icing forms a charming coating for a
cake, the cake is just as sustaining without it. Are you positively so
blinded by silly sentimentality as to be really incapable of seeing any
cause for congratulation in the lucky chance that has led him to take a
fancy to you? A good-hearted fellow with plenty of money. What more can
you want?"
Anger had found small place in the girl's breast while she was being
made to realise the dread truth that her lover was finally weary of her
and of her affection; nor had even lasting indignation awoken until he
taunted her with the display of bitter grief that this very knowledge
had evoked. When he thus persisted in what she could but deem the last
of insults--this determination to regard her only as a light toy, to be
tossed from one man to another--then the capacity for wild wrath that
she derived from her violent low-born mother, and a long line of
fiery-tempered maternal ancestors, showed itself in all its power.
Up to the present her own personal gentleness of spirit, aided by the
trend of her education, and the affection by which she had always been
encircled, had sufficed to keep even the girl herself in ignorance of
the capacity that lay dormant in her blood for feeling and displaying
wild fury. Now, in circumstances provocative of wrath such as had never
yet occurred in the whole range of her limited experience, she became
entirely her mother's daughter.
"If ever again I touch a farthing of such money may I fall down dead!"
she cried wildly. "That's my only answer. Oh! It's the devil gives money
to men of your stamp, so that you may with more certainty work out your
own damnation."
"Do not be melodramatic," implored Morris, giving each word its full
value to render it more impressive, while he shook his head, and screwed
up his face in superior disdain. "Of course----"
"I don't want--I refuse, absolutely refuse to hear anything more you've
got to say; so you may as well hold your tongue," interrupted Evarne
fiercely. "Get out of the way; stand aside from the door; let me get out
of this room."
But Morris did not move.
"Not so, you're far too excited. There's no knowing what you might do."
He made a great mistake in preventing her from finding the solitude she
instinctively sought. His words and presence were unendurably
exasperating at this juncture.
She sat down on a couch, and tapped the floor impatiently with the toe
of her velvet slipper.
Morris tried again.
"If you could only persuade yourself to look at the matter clearly--"
But he broke off abruptly. Evarne had merely raised her head and looked
at him, but that was all-sufficient. "It's evidently no use talking
sense to anyone so beside herself as you are now," he concluded lamely.
"No use, so let me pass."
She sprang to her feet, and came close to him. Her face was flushed,
while her eyes seemed to fairly blaze with passion; every breath she
drew was distinctly audible. It really spoke something for Morris's
strength of mind that he stood his ground.
"Not until you're calmer," he insisted.
Her lips set themselves into a firm line, and for a moment she appeared
to be contemplating the employment of physical force to gain her will,
but apparently she thought better of it, for, quite suddenly sweeping
over to the opposite side of the room, she turned her back on Morris and
leant both elbows on the mantelpiece.
"You know that Tony----" he recommenced, somewhat unwisely; then changed
his sentence: "If you would but believe that I am only considering your
best advantage----"
"Believe you?--never again Liar! Abject liar!"
Morris was thoroughly aroused.
"Now, look here, what do you suppose it matters to me what you do now?"
he demanded fiercely. "I could more than discharge all my obligations to
you by a final cheque, and I don't want any further show of ingratitude
if I give you also the benefit of my advice. I tell you, a young woman
of your personal charms needs not only money but a protector. However,
please yourself."
Evarne turned sharply, and again broke in upon him before the words were
well out of his mouth.
"Do you want to drive me mad?" she shouted. "I hate you, I loathe you, I
despise you! Oh, if some one would only protect me now from you, you
coward!"
The veins stood up on the man's temples.
"It's difficult to see why you persist in going on like a fool, and
trying to deceive me. I'm perfectly convinced that, whatever the price
demanded you will no more be found living without luxuries in the future
than you have in the past, so why indulge in these absurd airs and
graces of outraged virtue?"
For a moment everything whirled before Evarne's eyes; then, incapable of
remaining without action, she commenced to pace up and down the room. A
little table on which stood photograph frames, a vase of lilac, and
various similar knick-knacks, stood in her path. Without a moment's
hesitation she flung it aside, scattering the dainty ornaments in all
directions.
"It's foolish to be angry with you," said Morris, suddenly calming
himself. "You are clearly not responsible for what you do or say. You
must go to your room and lie down. Do you hear? I insist. It would serve
you right if I did leave you to your own devices entirely, but you are
so young and silly that for your father's sake I'm going to see your
future settled somehow, whether you say 'thank you' or not. Now come."
"Don't you dare to touch me!" screamed the girl. "You've no right now to
interfere with my life, and you shan't do it. How dare you speak of my
father, when you've so brutally betrayed his trust? You've lied, and
tricked, and ruined me. I suppose you can't help being so ignoble and
contemptible that loyalty and faith are only objects of derision to you;
but that you should be willing--anxious--to pass me on to a despicable
rake--not so vile as yourself, but still vile--that I shall never forget
and never forgive, and, if I can help it, God likewise shall never
forgive."
"What a ridiculous position to take up! Do you really expect to be ever
anything more than one upon a string of beads? You knew you hadn't been
otherwise with me, and you never will be now with any other man--so you
may as well make up your mind to it, and think yourself lucky if----"
The girl, distracted and infuriated, waited for no more. Snatching up a
silver statuette she hurled it with all her force at her betrayer's
head. Then for a time she knew nothing; all was a blank--devoid of
memory--of thought--of consciousness of action. Quite suddenly she
seemed to regain her senses--to awake to find herself alone--the carpet
covered with fragments of broken glass, streams of water, disordered
flowers, books, scattered ornaments, while she herself was throwing
madly, fiercely, everything on which she could lay hands, smash against
the closed door by which Morris had been standing.