OUT OF THE GILDED CAGE
Instantly subdued by amazement, she stared aghast at the surrounding
destruction. At the dread realisation that she was beholding the work of
her own hands, a shrinking horror--a terrible fear of herself--filled
her breast. Why, in very sooth, this looked like the doings of a
madwoman, and she had known nothing of what she was about. What could it
portend? Trembling violently, she leant against the wall, scarcely able
to stand, her hands pressing her cheeks, her eyes dilated and glancing
around as if in apprehension.
How blessed just at that moment would have been the care of her
mother--or, indeed, of any tender woman. But she was quite alone--or
worse than that, surrounded only by those who had reduced her to this
state, and by servants filled with curiosity.
After an interval of quietness the door was cautiously opened a trifle,
a head was popped in and rapidly withdrawn. Evarne had not time to
notice to whom it belonged, but she immediately regained sufficient
strength to walk across the room. She could not endure to be thus made
into a spectacle, neither could she longer gaze upon this dire material
destruction that typified, only too cruelly, the fate that had befallen
her love, her happiness and her future.
As she opened the door and appeared on the threshold, there was a
general sense of rustling, of rapid footsteps, of stifled exclamations
in the corridor and the surrounding rooms, as various figures hastened
to efface themselves. But the girl, heeding nothing, made directly for
her own apartment and securely locked herself therein.
Then, after a moment's reflection on what had passed that hour, she
again collapsed beneath alternate transports of anger and heart-tearing
grief. Now she would be sweeping wildly to and fro, with clenched fists
and hurried strides, her body swaying and shaking as she walked; next,
exhausted, flinging herself upon bed or floor, torn with sobs, drowned
by tears, only to spring to her feet again as stress of anguish goaded
her to action.
Her feelings towards Morris were variable as the wind. At times the
memory of his brutal insults, his treachery and faithlessness, were
uppermost in her thoughts; then she felt for him only the most intense
and passionate hatred, bitterly grudging every hour of happiness to
which she had contributed in the past; praying wildly that the future
might hold for him agony of spirit equal to that into which he had so
ruthlessly plunged her. Then, again, a flood of her old devotion would
rise above all else. "Morris, Morris, come back to me! Oh, my darling,
my darling, how can I live without you?" was her sobbing appeal; but
there was none to answer.
For the most part she sorrowed in silence. She was aware that whispered
conversations were in progress outside her door, and more than once the
handle was turned cautiously. Later in the afternoon, Bianca, who was
genuinely attached to her beautiful young mistress, ventured to tap
again and again, at the same time imploring, in a tremulous voice, to be
allowed to do something--anything. But Evarne turned a deaf ear to all.
Time passed, and the first violence of her emotion burned itself out.
Then she became conscious that she felt sick and ill, and that her head
ached to distraction. Letting down her thick black hair, she threw
herself once again upon her tumbled bed, and made a first serious and
protracted effort to remain absolutely quiet and calm. Long she lay
there, staring at vacancy, sighing piteously at intervals, until as the
evening twilight crept into the room, the lids drooped over the wild
eyes and the exhausted girl sank into slumber.
When she awoke, it was night. The room was shrouded in darkness, and
perfect silence reigned. As recollection returned she despairingly
pressed her hands to her head, but firmly forbade any further lapse from
self-control. The determination she had arrived at during the weary time
she had lain passive before falling asleep was now to be put into
action. When the traitors who were beneath that roof awoke in the
morning, they should find their victim gone. She shrank from again
meeting either of the Belmonts; Morris it was better she should not see.
One of the trains that left Paris in the grey of the morning should bear
her away--far beyond the reach of these, her enemies.
Her thoughts turned towards London. She was not exactly a feminine Dick
Whittington; at the same time the great metropolis certainly seemed to
offer the greatest hope for one who had her own way to make.
Flashing on the light, she looked at her watch. It was a quarter-past
three. She rose up, and drawing the curtains over the windows, set about
packing the few things it was imperative she should take. At first she
seemed to possess neither bag nor box of a suitable size, and, gazing
helplessly around the room, realised how weak and nervous, and, above
all, how curiously dull and stupid, she was feeling. With an impatient
effort she pulled herself together, and concentrated all her wits upon
this question of a box. Finally, she thought of her dressing-bag. By
removing most of the fittings she was able to crush into it all she had
sorted out to pack.
Then, slipping off the embroidered muslin morning-gown she still wore,
she sought for her plainest and most serviceable outdoor costume.
Evarne's taste in dress in no ways inclined to simplicity. She gloried
in frills and furbelows, dainty details, falling lace and fashionably
cut skirts. Even her tailor-built gowns were not really severe. The fact
that a brown face-cloth was made with a short skirt prompted her choice.
It was elaborately stitched and strapped, but demure in tone, its only
contrasting colour being a touch of delicate rose-pink--chosen by Morris
himself to match the exquisite tint of her cheeks.
She took no ornaments, but drew from a corner in her jewel-box a small
enamel watch, the last gift of her father. With a stifled sigh she wound
it up, and, shaking it a little to make it recommence its long-abandoned
duties, pinned it on her dress, while she laid the yet tinier bejewelled
toy that had superseded it back into the case.
She would scornfully leave behind every ornament that had belonged to
brighter days; Morris would find them all and perhaps be a bit sorry!
But money she must have, and she looked anxiously into her purse. It
contained but a couple of napoleons and some silver. There were four
more gold pieces in her desk; her velvet bag with the turquoises
contained only two. The embroidered bag, bought to match her latest
green costume, contributed three, while a few stray francs lay on the
dressing-table. She gathered them all into her lap and counted them.
Only a little over twelve napoleons altogether. It was alarmingly
little, but it would have to suffice. This done, she again studied the
hour. It was not yet four. She had no idea when the earliest train set
out, but felt convinced that it could not start so matutinally.
It was nearly sixteen hours since she had last tasted food, but she was
not at all conscious of hunger. She was in a strangely numbed state of
mind. Beyond an impatience to be once fairly off, she seemed unable to
care for aught else. Nothing mattered! Nothing ever could matter now!
Still, the sight of a plate of fruit reminded her of her long fast, and
she half-peeled a banana, but even as she raised it to her lips, a
sudden repugnance at the idea of eating anything further beneath this
roof, caused her to put it down untasted.
Ready even to her hat and gloves, she sank into an armchair to wait an
hour or so before venturing forth. Not until she sat there, gazing with
half-unseeing eyes around the delicate room, did she begin to grasp the
full significance of the complete change that had so suddenly taken
place in her circumstances.
Not only was her path in life to lie apart from Morris Kenyon's for
evermore, but she was abruptly and unexpectedly plunged into the direst
poverty. She had no hope, even remotely, of a reconciliation with her
onetime lover, but she felt curiously calm and indifferent now. Then,
although she knew well enough that poverty, with all its shifts,
deprivations and unpleasantnesses would be hateful to her--she could not
feel really concerned at the prospect. Nothing mattered--nothing ever
could matter again! Everything was finished!
She was without the least idea of what she could possibly do to earn an
honest livelihood. As far as went that capacity, she was every whit as
ill-placed as when her father died. True, she had been studying art,
more or less seriously, for the last three years, but no one knew better
than herself how futile would be any attempt to earn money by this
means.
What then? The effort to think was painful. What had come over her?
Somehow she seemed incapable of even remembering trades or professions,
to see if she could not manage to fulfil the necessary qualifications.
What did other young women do? Oh! of course, they were governesses, or
children's nurses, or companions to invalids or old ladies, or--or--that
sort of thing! But posts such as these surely required some capacity,
and above all, a good reputation. She was, then, in truth, worse off
than when she had first left Heatherington with Morris, so confident, so
full of hopes for the future.
What were girls allowed to do without their miserable past existences
being scrutinised? How about telephone girls and those who served in
shops of one sort and another, those who were attendants in restaurants?
Those who--who--well! She couldn't think of anything else just then; but
there was clearly quite a choice of honest ways of grubbing up a
livelihood--if one must live at all! Without exception, all appeared
absolutely hateful. Viewed in anticipation, it seemed as if she might as
well be dead at once, as devote all the days of one week to earning just
enough to keep herself alive the next week, so that she might work
through that, in order to be able to live the next seven days, and so
on, and so on, with cheap clothes, poor food, scarce and low-class
diversions, until old age overtook her--and then--what?
She passed through a moment of positive fear and repulsion, and
instinctively her thoughts turned to Tony. After all, was she not
rushing into a battle in which she must fall conquered. She could please
men--that she knew well--but could she do anything else in life? She was
so accustomed to wealth and ease and comfort now. What could she do
without it? Would the time ever come when she would despairingly view
this hour, when she wilfully abandoned what certainly appeared the
flowery track through life, with its luxury, elegance, leisure for
higher pursuits, its surroundings of grace and beauty that she
appreciated so fully, and that only money--ill-gotten or otherwise--can
procure?
But the pride and purity of the spirit forbade any real faltering in her
resolve. Thousands of other girls lived--contentedly enough she hoped
and supposed--upon the market value of their poor little capacities.
Upon what grounds was she to be held different? Young and strong, why
should not she work as well as others? She felt she ought to be ashamed
of herself.
She shut her eyes so that she should no longer see the tempting wealth
and elegance she was abandoning. Coloured spirals seemed to whirl in the
darkness, and the ensuing giddiness reminded her of her smelling-salts.
She slipped the bottle into her hand-bag, then resolved not to sit down
again, but to go. She had never before taken a railway journey alone,
and must allow ample time for contingencies. It was getting on for five
o'clock. The time was ripe.
She crept from her room, and very softly, with many a pause to listen,
proceeded to unfasten all hindering chains and locks. But no sound was
heard within the sleeping flat, and undisturbed she gained the outer
air.
Morris lay wrapped in slumber, all unconscious that the child he had
received at her dying father's hands, innocent and wholly dependent on
his honour, was now stealing forth homeless into the chill morning,
broken-hearted, with a sullied story, and but a few pounds between
herself and utter destitution. Nor, had he known, would it have caused
him any serious pangs of remorse. The pride of spirit, the refinement of
sentiment, that forbade her to take away any of the valuable gifts he
had lavished upon her, was totally beyond his comprehension. He could
see that it was a pretty enough conceit in theory, perchance, but such a
piece of high-faluting foolishness put into practice was, to his mind,
quite sufficient to deprive her of the sympathy of all rational beings.
In some peculiar manner the fact that any immediate pecuniary
difficulties would be entirely of her own making, was in his mind
all-sufficient to absolve him from entire blame in the whole affair.
It was a quarter to six when Evarne arrived at the Gare St. Lazare, and
learned that the first train for Dieppe started in five minutes.
Hurrying to the booking-office, she ordered a first single, then
contradicted herself, asking for a second-class ticket. It was so
difficult to have to remember to economise.
The slow train, stopping at every station, took six hours to cover the
ground, but Evarne felt no impatience. The steamer did not leave until
half-past one, and until then one place was as satisfactory as any
other. Indeed, it was even restful to sit quietly in a corner, and not
have to force her numbed brain to think and plan.
About nine o'clock the train stopped at a station, where she bought a
cup of coffee and a roll. As she sipped and nibbled she reflected that
at a corresponding hour on the previous morning she had eaten just such
another little _premier déjeuner_. How remote then appeared the prospect
of her very next similar meal being taken thus--parted from Morris for
ever, dazed and broken-hearted, bound in solitude and fear for another
land. "After all, life ought to be somewhat interesting, for it is
certainly unexpected," she thought, with a grim, mirthless little smile.
The Channel being on its best behaviour, she escaped the additional
trials of illness, but none the less, on arriving at Newhaven, she felt
incapable of further effort, and resolved to put up there for the night.
The day being Sunday made a good excuse for this feebleness. It really
would be most undesirable to arrive in London on the Sabbath evening.
She turned with relief into the nearest hotel, and went straight to bed.
She slept; she lay awake; she trembled beneath evil dreams; she shed
tears again. The long weary night passed somehow, but left her
haggard-eyed and unrefreshed. A maid brought breakfast to her bedside,
but Evarne turned with repugnance from the stolid bacon and overdone
poached eggs, and it was after a mere pretence of a meal that she arose,
paid her bill, and took her seat in the Victoria train.