A GREAT RESOLVE
At the end of three months she sat again to Jack Hardy. He wrote an
imploring appeal that she would somehow contrive to spare time for him
just to put her arms and hands into a wondrous allegorical picture he
was painting. She did arrange it, for not only were all Geoff's friends
her special care, but she wanted to behold that dear studio again. She
was also rather curious to see young Frank Pallister, of whom Geoffrey
had spoken as sharing it with Jack during its rightful owner's absence.
She found him to be a rosy, fair-haired, somewhat smartly-clad youth,
looking even younger than his twenty careless years. His work was
distinctly promising, but at present quite elementary--very much that of
an Art-student. Still, he was but a boy, and, being fairly well-to-do,
would probably not have fretted over his still sadly low standard of
execution had he not been goaded onwards by a gadfly of another type
from that by which Jack was so constantly harried.
In one of the smartest squares in the West-end of London resided a
certain dainty damsel with a stern, unreasonable dragon of a father.
Maudie Meridith, in her seventeen-year-old wisdom, fully agreed with
Pallister that they were both of ample age to be at least engaged--even
if not actually married. Stern, prosaic dragon of a father begged to
differ. After many prayers, many pleadings, he had given vent to this
appalling ultimatum--
"When you can show me your name in the catalogue of any of the big
exhibitions, my boy, I'll consent to your engagement with this baby.
Otherwise, you will have to wait until she is actually twenty years of
age. Cruelty to children, isn't it? Be off with you both, and don't
bother me again."
The youthful suitor had confided this unheard-of tyranny to Geoff, for
whom he cherished an affectionate admiration. The response had been to
the effect that if Pallister was wise he would not shoot himself or even
sink into a decline, but would see about endeavouring to fulfil the
conditions that would shorten these three years of probation.
"If, as you say, you are unalterably convinced that Art schools keep you
back, you had better go and work every day in my studio," Geoff had
written. "It is a big one, as you know, and only Jack Hardy is there at
present. You would find him an enormous help to you--but don't bother
him, there's a good lad. If you want to try your hand at a picture right
away, there is ample room on the throne for two models; if you think a
few months hard preliminary work would be of most value, you can make
studies from Jack's model. Good luck to you in any case."
This kind offer had been accepted, and every morning Pallister
punctually appeared and painted away steadily for a few hours. He did
not know the meaning of real hard work, but under the influence of
Jack's friendly aid and advice he certainly improved week by week.
Evarne found a certain satisfaction in being again in Geoff's own home,
despite his absence, and although his name was scarcely mentioned. On
the wall was a painting of him done by Jack a year or so previously. It
was a marvellously good likeness, although the background and
accessories were unfinished. Portrait-painting was Jack's _forte_, would
he but have believed it.
"I'm going to smuggle away that picture of Mr. Danvers when you are not
looking," declared Evarne; whereupon Jack, when he paid her at the
conclusion of her sittings, smilingly handed her also the canvas in
question already tied up to be taken away.
She hung it in her room, with a little bracket on either side, whereon
stood vases which she kept filled with fresh flowers. Night and morning
she pressed a gentle kiss upon the painted lips.
"Come back soon, Geoff--come back soon," she once whispered impulsively.
And perhaps her wish was wafted away over land and sea to the City in
the Waters, for within four months of leaving England Geoff had endured
quite sufficient of this test of absence. Thus he wrote:
"DEAREST, DEAREST BEYOND ALL EXPRESSION,
"I am returning home the day after to-morrow! Sweetest lady that
heart ever adored, I am coming back to see you, to breathe the
same air with you, to tread the same pavements, to kiss your
hands, your lips, your feet.
"Will you welcome me? I left England loving you.... I thought,
to the uttermost of my capacity. Perhaps it was so then; but now
I love you ... oh, infinitely more ... because I think of you
always.... your exquisite letters have taught me to know you far
more perfectly; and all knowledge, all thinking, leads only to
fresh love.
"In a way, I shrink from meeting you again. I am fearful now. In
you is all the good and true, the pure and beauteous. How can I
or any man be worthy of you? Suppose, after a while, I read
disappointment in your face?
"But be kind to me, gentle and compassionate. I kneel at your
feet, and beg you to give yourself to me and to take me for your
own, heart and mind and body, for ever and ever. No other woman
could ever be my wife, Evarne, for no other woman could I love.
"May God bless you!
"GEOFF."
Evarne let this letter drop on the table, then bowed her head upon it in
silence.
"What--what am I to do?" she murmured after a long pause, filled with a
turmoil of mingled bliss and suffering. Had she been perfectly free to
follow the promptings of her own heart, not one moment for reflection
would have been needed. As it was, a secret indestructible, albeit so
well-guarded--seemed to rise up as a hideous, pitiless spectre, bidding
her set aside any idea of a future spent with Geoffrey.
"I see now--didn't I know it before?--I ought never, never, to have let
him grow to care so much for me," she thought, weighed down by genuine
though somewhat tardy remorse.
She saw that utter selfishness had ruled her so far, with the result
that now it was not only--not chiefly--her own happiness that was at
stake, but that of one for whom no sacrifice could be too great to be
sweet.
In the abstract, the memory of the three years she had spent with Morris
Kenyon formed no burden upon her conscience. Versed in the secrets of
her own heart--strong in the certain knowledge of the generous, even if
misguided, motives that had prevailed with her--she had been absolved at
the bar of her most earnest and sincere judgment from all stain of
deliberate doing of evil. How was it possible that she should find cause
to reproach or condemn herself, remembering that supreme hour of test,
when she had held so loyally fast to her innate convictions of what was
right and what was not; when she had refused to barter a mockery of love
for the reality of continued wealth and protection? She thought, too, of
her life since then, chaste amid greater temptations than a man would
ever realise. Deep in her heart was the feeling that she had been tried
and not found wanting. Surely, then, she was every whit as fitted as any
ordinarily spotless woman to marry a good man?
Still, so long as the likelihood of such a desire on her part had seemed
far remote, she had been firmly convinced that she would never allow
herself to become a wife with her secret unconfessed. But now she was
faced by a problem--a torturing doubt--that was quite unforeseen. Would
it not be morally a greater wickedness, an additional wrong, should she
remorselessly shatter such perfect trust; smear and deface the happiness
of this man who loved her so ardently, revered and honoured her with
such glad confidence?
Was it indeed Honour's command that she should dig up this loathsome,
long-buried corpse, to thrust it under those very nostrils wherein it
would most stink? Was such a cruel and unscrupulous bowing down to the
conventional idea of right and wrong unquestionably Love's duty? She had
never been much guided by mere convention. Was she to begin now when so
much was at stake? Surely not.
She started suddenly from her chair in bewilderment and distress, and
commenced to pace the room. What ought she to do? Earnestly she tried to
put all care for herself and for her own desires out of her mind--to
think only of Geoff. Setting great importance upon the emotional side of
life, she scarcely heeded any difference of position that might exist
between herself and him. Unconscious of his future prospects, believing
his marriage to be a matter concerning himself alone, her one doubt and
difficulty lay in how best to cope with her hidden past.
Reason and common sense bade her guard her secret in silence, now
and forever. But her feelings told her plainly enough that never
could she hope to know perfect peace until she had confessed this
thing--confessed, implored and obtained forgiveness. But would that not
be an end of all peace of mind for Geoffrey--ah, poor Geoff! She had
learnt his nature so well. His was a love that gloried in placing the
beloved upon a lofty height, there to be crowned with stars and
worshipped. Could she thrust him out of his paradise?
If she shattered his natural and spontaneous love, would a fresh type,
all unknown to him now--that which is founded on pity and kindly
indulgence--rise from out the ruins? Suppose not? What if that other
kind of love--tender and divine though it may be--was impossible for
him? She did not fear that he would repulse her cruelly and
scornfully--that he could never do, surely. But suppose his love was
killed, while hers remained alive? Ah! Merciful heavens!
With eyes filled by a sudden horror she stopped short before the
painting of Geoff that hung upon the wall. Long she gazed, and her wild
glance grew gentle with unutterable affection--with an almost maternal
yearning. Would life be endurable were it not henceforth consecrated to
this man? Ten thousand times no! Both heart and intellect anguished to
be allowed full scope to expend their uttermost capacities in the
service of love.
And was she not verily endowed with gifts both mental and physical that
would enable her to make existence infinitely more delightful, more
full, interesting and complete for him, than could possibly be his lot
with Art for his sole mistress? Surely herein lay her foreordained
life's work? Who could be so cruel, so pitiless, as to wish her to be
made an outcast from this her heritage? She stretched forth her hands
imploringly to the dear pictured face. Would he wish it? Oh, surely not!
She felt now that her very cause for existence was explained--she had
discovered the end whereunto she had been created--the duty for which
she had been placed on earth, and for the more perfect fulfilment of
which every previous experience of her life, glad or sorry, had been but
essential preliminary training.
Geoff was sweet-natured indeed, and ever kindly, yet all artistic
temperaments need understanding. It would require true insight and
discretion, perchance a deal of patience and forbearance, to render any
lifelong union naught but an added inspiration, an unfailing stimulus,
an additional happiness to this now ardent lover. Could there be any
other woman more fitted to this task than she was herself--more capable
of taking Geoff's whole existence into her tender keeping, and thereby
blessing and enriching it day by day?
Surely if he never learnt this--her one and only secret--it would be
impotent as if it had no existence? And never would it be revealed to
him by outside agency; at least, so far as human foresight could
discern. Who among those who had known the truth in those bygone years
was in the least likely to again cross her path? Not a single
individual. Surely it would be well for Geoffrey to be so far
deceived--to be tricked, and, if necessary, lied to on this one point?
Would not his ultimate greatest happiness be thereby ensured? Since he
wished her for his wife, should he not have his will? Looking to her
unhesitatingly for all the good and true, the pure and beauteous in
womanhood--was he to be disillusioned?
Long and earnestly she reflected, endeavouring to weigh impartially and
fairly every argument favouring confession. If Geoffrey could know,
would he deem this secrecy to be her crowning blemish--the greatest,
most personal and unforgivable wrong of all? Not if he could read her
heart, and judge by her motives. Her own welfare was indeed not first in
her mind. The shielding of his happiness was verily her chief thought.
Alas, that deception should be necessary for its preservation--yet
surely this was so? Alas! alas!
At length the final doubt ceased to clamour. The decision had been
protracted and difficult. It left her lovely face somewhat drawn and
pale; but in her soft, eloquent eyes gleamed a light almost superhuman
in its intensity of love and desperate resolution.
"What would I not do, dare, defy for your sake, my best and dearest?"
she murmured aloud. "Never, while I have strength and power to ward it
off, will I bring grief and suffering and agony of mind into your life.
Never!"