A FRESH VOW
By six o'clock the sedentary occupation had become too trying. Evarne
changed her dressing-gown for a coat and skirt, and went out.
All this erratic behaviour caused Philia not a little concern and alarm.
As a general rule Evarne was so very placid and level-headed, that this
disregard of all precedent, this wandering about in the dark and
sleeping in the daylight, this neglect of work, meals at extraordinary
hours, and all the rest of the disorganising of respectable routine, was
not an occurrence to be treated lightly. Still, in Philia's experience
of human nature, directly a girl must needs go and fall in love,
troubles and upsets and excitements followed as an inevitable corollary,
while calm quiet contentment took unto itself wings. Thus she did not
consider the root-cause of the present state of affairs to be enshrouded
in unsolvable mystery. Although she was rather hurt at not being made a
confidante, she evinced no curiosity, being fairly satisfied that clouds
of such a nature almost always pass away in due course.
But when half an hour later she answered a knock at the door and
discovered Geoff, she greeted him with anything but an amiable
countenance.
"How is she now?" he inquired.
"Guess she's better agin, for she's gorn out to git a breath o' fresh
air. Will yer please to step in and wait. I dare say she would like to
see yer when she comes back."
Needing no second invitation, Geoff followed Mrs. Harbert into the
house.
The pretty little sitting-room was full of Evarne's personality. Here
were the flowers he had brought her; here too were her books, her
drawing-board, her writing-case; there was the embroidered footstool on
which she had sat during his previous visit. Everything sang to him of
Evarne. There were the really charming pictures on the walls, signed
with her initials, that she had amazed him by showing as her own
handiwork. There was her little work-box, and across it lay the long
strip of embroidery on which he had seen her diligently creating silken
blossoms. Moved by a sudden longing to hold in his hand something that
she had touched, Geoff picked up this and surveyed it with the minute
scrutiny of an apparent connoisseur in art needlework.
Philia was speaking to him somewhat reproachfully. She imagined that
now, having the culprit under her thumb, she could, with all due regard
for politeness, give him a "piece of her mind."
"I must tell yer first that I ain't bin told who it is worryin' my
pore gal, but I warrant if they'd bin 'ere to see 'er last night
they'd 'ave bin fair ashamed of themselves. She was roamin' the 'ouse
like a wanderin' spirit, and in the mornin' she was jist as white as
'er nightgown. It seems to me that to make anyone really un'appy
without rhyme or reason--and I won't believe Evarne is in the
wrong--as I was sayin', to make anyone real miserable is a big thing
to 'ave on one's mind in this 'ere world o' sin and woe, full o' the
slings and arrers of houtrageous fortune as it is--Shakespeare! In
plain talk, sir, a world where we're all certain to 'ave quite enough
trouble to digest without them as we cares for most forcin' a hextry
dose down our gullets. And no stray flowers, nor even rings nor
sich-like, makes up for unkindness--not to the noble mind--Shakespeare!
I've lived with Evarne for five years and more, and she's never 'ad one
hour's sorrow through my fault. Hexcuse me if I'm takin' liberties I
didn't ought, but you've bin 'ome from foreign parts less than a week,
and for some reason or other now she's made fair miserable--by someone
or other! I'm not sayin' by who, but it's very 'ard for me to see it and
not say nothin' at all."
Philia paused, somewhat apprehensive at having thus let her feelings
carry her away. But Geoff was not displeased by this ardent
championship.
"My dear Mrs. Harbert," he said seriously, "if it is my fault--and to a
certain extent I'm afraid it is--believe me that it was both
unintentional and indirect. Evarne shall never have a moment's trouble
that I can save her from, be very sure of that."
He walked to the window and looked out.
"I wonder where she is now?" he went on. "Do you think she will be
long?"
"Can't say where she is. She jist says, 'It's suffocatin' indoors,' she
says, and out she goes. Most likely she'll be back by seven. Anyway, I'm
due at the 'Poly' at 'alf-past."
"You've always posed, haven't you, Mrs. Harbert?"
Philia was decidedly a trifle aggrieved by this query, and answered in
wounded tones--
"Now, sir, if yer was a few years older, yer wouldn't need to ask that.
There was a time when every hartist in London knew all about
Philadelphia 'Arbert, and it wasn't sich a great time ago either."
"Evidently I don't know much?" queried Geoff with a good-natured smile.
The reply was certainly cutting.
"You never 'eard tell of Philadelphia 'Arbert as a model, and you don't
know 'ow to keep yer sweet'eart's eyes dry. Well, sir, askin' yer
pardin', but you 'ave got somethin' to learn!"
The young man bit his lip and did not answer. This silence melted his
outspoken critic immediately, and she set to work to be amiable.
"Hexcuse me if I'm rather sharp, but it is 'ard to 'ave bin famous once
and to find yer 'ard-earned fame all gorn. Why, I can remember the time
when any hartist gentlemen as wanted to bring Venus or any other of them
'eathen young women into a picture, didn't feel 'e'd done all he could
to 'elp 'imself until 'e'd got me to pose for 'im. That's a fact, sir!
I'd a lovely figger when I was a gal. None o' the young women now, only
exceptin' Evarne, comes up to what models was in my young days, and
I--well, my gosh! I've 'ad a long string o' great painters waitin' their
turn till I was disengaged and could oblige."
"It must have been both pleasant and profitable to be in such demand."
Mrs. Harbert looked down with becoming modesty, and smoothed her apron
as she replied--
"Well, sir, it was, but I never let myself get huppish about it. I was
only as the Lord chose to make me. I used to say sometimes, 'Beauty is
as beauty does,' and 'Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good, a gloss, a
glass, a flower; lost, faded'--I forget the rest--'within the
hour'--Shakespeare. I've sat for Lord Leighton and Millais and Watts and
'eaps of others."
"Then you have posed for some quite well-known pictures, I suppose?"
"My gosh! a picture painted in those days, when Hart was properly
understood, 'adn't much chance of bein' thought 'ighly of if the hartist
'adn't taken care to git me to collaborate with 'im."
"Now, that's a really original idea of yours, Mrs. Harbert--that a
painter and his model collaborate. Did you tell it to the men you sat
for, and what did they say?"
"Well, sir, truth is, I doubt if any of the hartists that I've 'elped to
gain positions they'd never 'ave got to without me, would be willin' to
acknowledge it. But there, that's only the way o' the world. Shakespeare
'e wrote a song about hingratitude, as I dare say you've 'eard sung."
"Isn't it very interesting to be able to look back on the famous
pictures you've posed for?" inquired Geoff, with another fleeting glance
out of the window.
"It is that! Why, I was that proud the first time I was in a picture
that was the 'it of the season. I was 'Harry--Harry--hadney.'"
"Whom?"
"Ain't yer never 'eard of 'er, pore gal? She's bin deserted on a island
by some skulkin' brute, so she knelt down with next to nothin' on, and
'eld out both 'er 'ands to the sea. It was like this."
Rendered enthusiastic by her reminiscences, Philia sank down on the
carpet, leant forward, flung back her head and imploringly extended both
her hands. The effect had probably been charming when the model was
youthful and fair, but now it put a severe demand on Geoff's good
manners not to smile at the old dame.
"It was real touchin'," she declared, as she rose to her feet with some
difficulty, "but it nearly gave me 'ousemaid's knee! Then there was
another picture that made a lot o' talk. It was called the 'Race of
Hatalanta.' She was runnin' fit to catch the last train 'ome. I shan't
forget that pose in a 'urry. My gosh, I can't even think of it without
my left leg beginnin' to ache!"
At this moment the street door was heard to open. According to her usual
custom Evarne had let herself in with her latchkey.
"There she is," said Philia, and stepping out into the passage she
announced in somewhat triumphant tones, "There's a gentleman 'ere
waitin' to see yer, dearie."
After an interval of somewhat unaccountable duration, Evarne appeared in
the doorway. As she beheld Geoff her whole expression changed, her lips
parted into a smile, her eyes lit up.
"Oh, it is you! I am so very glad, so delighted!" she gasped.
"Well, I won't be hintrudin' no longer," declared Philia as she left the
room.
But her absence or presence was unmarked at that moment. Evarne was in
Geoff's arms, and each was gazing at the other as if years of separation
had intervened between this moment and their last meeting.
"I am so very glad you have come," declared Evarne again. "You cannot
tell how badly I have wanted you. I felt as if I should die if I
couldn't see you! Do you know where I have been? No, how should you? I
have been to your studio! I don't mean upstairs, but I walked past and
looked up at the window. I hoped you might just happen to look out. I
did want you so much; I wanted comforting so badly."
"Evarne, every time I see you, you make me love you even more devotedly
than I did before. But how truly wicked to want to see me, and not send
a message at once. I have been thinking about you every minute of the
day. Dearest, tell me, are you worrying so sadly about anything
Winborough said?"
"It is the whole thing--the whole business. Oh, why could you not have
been poor? Why could not you have been just an ordinary person, so that
we could have lived for one another, without anyone having either the
wish or the right to interfere? I am so afraid of your cousin--and worse
still, I know that everyone will be on his side. I feel the force of the
entire world against me, and it's crushing."
"But we can safely defy the whole world to weaken our love for one
another, can't we, my best and dearest?"
She wrenched herself suddenly from his arms.
"Oh, I don't know!--I don't know! How can we be sure of anything?"
So saying, she flung herself down amid the cushions of the big velvet
arm-chair. Geoff stood motionless for a moment, then seating himself on
one of its wide arms, he leaned over, resting his hand upon the opposite
side.
"Then know this henceforward, Evarne. You may with perfect confidence
defy not only the world, headed by Winborough, but you may safely defy
even yourself to destroy the love I have for you. You might wound me,
and disappoint me, even forget me, yet while I live I shall love you,
and after death also, if Heaven pleases. What more can I say than that?"
"Well, it's a very pretty sentiment, anyhow," was the lightly-spoken,
almost mocking reply.
"Then truth is not always ugly," he answered quietly enough, but Evarne
could see that he was not unmoved by her jeering tones. Impulsively she
flung her arms around his neck, and drew his face down to hers.
"Geoffrey, I'm years and years--I'm centuries older than you in spirit.
I have suffered so much in previous existences that my soul still
retains its scars. Truth has always appeared to me so sad of
countenance, that when I see it with a smiling face I dread deception.
Yes, indeed. In my mind Truth is invariably so grim, so menacing, so
destructive, that when anything appears in beautiful guise and calls
itself Truth, I instinctively mistrust it."
"Then I suppose I can do nothing but wait, and let time prove my words."
A sudden impulse--a longing--seized Evarne to confess everything--there
on the spot, without any preparation or delay. To take him at his word,
to shatter his ideal, and see if the love he thought so invincible could
really endure. What a triumphant answer to Morris--to meet him with
Geoff by her side--Geoff knowing all, and unchanged by knowledge!
She sought for words with which to commence, but in the moment's
hesitation she chanced to look full into his clear grey eyes. It was no
use. A cold chill seized her, and a feeling almost of physical sickness.
She was ashamed. It was impossible to find language for this task that
her tongue could be brought to utter. She felt her cheeks flush red, and
partly covered her face with her hand.
So much for this half-hearted attempt at confession. And as the impulse
passed, a great thankfulness arose that she had not yielded to its
wiles. That Geoff loved her now was as certain as that he lived, and at
that very moment she could feel his warm breath upon her brow. But he
spoke with untried confidence. Had he not once declared, practically in
so many words, that he would rather see her dead than have aught destroy
his love for her? He had, indeed, made an attempt to contradict himself
a moment later; but she held those words to be the genuine offspring of
truth--representative of his most usual frame of mind. No, her task was
not to anticipate, but to strive to ward off the evil hour of
disillusionment.
"My true lover," she murmured, "I know you are faithful and loyal and
constant, and I believe you would be long-suffering. I trust you, depend
upon you now, and rely upon you for the future without a single doubt or
a moment's hesitation."
"And, dearest, am I to feel the same about you? Will you be always
faithful and constant to me?"
"Oh, Geoff, always, always."
"Then all is well. I half feared that if Winborough got a chance to talk
to you alone, and perhaps bullied and argued and persuaded and appealed
to your affection for me, and all that sort of thing, you might
perchance be led to imagine that you were really ensuring my ultimate
happiness by going away and leaving no trace whereby I could discover
you again. One hears of such things, you know."
"If I thought it would be really best for you, be sure I would----"
"Evarne, my dear--my dearest--remember----"
"Yes, Geoff, I do remember, whatever it might be you were going to
remind me of, for I forget nothing. I do believe I can make you happy.
You hear that? I firmly believe I can make your life happier than it
could be without me. That belief is the foundation of all my actions.
Will you always remember that? Please take it into your very heart of
hearts, and let it fix itself there indelibly."
For some time they sat silent. With Geoff so very near to her, Evarne
became conscious of a gentle calm, a certain sense of peace, a
despondency that was mournful, but less desperate. It was with an effort
that she finally roused herself sufficiently to take his watch out from
his pocket and look at the time.
"Seven--seven o'clock and past!" she sighed, replacing it. "Ah me! You
mustn't think, dear, that I'm dreadfully rude and inhospitable, but I'm
afraid I must ask you not to stay any longer."
"Oh--h!"
"It's no use saying 'oh' in that dolorous manner," she declared,
smiling. "You see--it's this way--old Philia has to leave here for the
'Poly' about seven. She will be going in a few minutes."
"But we don't mind, do we? We don't want the old lady."
Evarne cast down her eyes. The only excuse that had crossed her mind for
getting Geoff out of the house struck her as being decidedly petty and
unworthy.
"It is stupid, I know well; but people do talk so."
"Why, silly little Evarne, you are surely not bothering about Mrs.
Grundy and the neighbours, are you?"
With a somewhat feeble and shamefaced smile she rose up from out the
depths of the chair, and replied only by fetching his hat and offering
it to him with a little curtsey.
"It's only till to-morrow. I shall come to the studio just as usual."
The young man took the proffered hat with undisguised reluctance.
"Of course, I cannot stay if my hostess turns me out thus firmly," he
grumbled, "but I'm sure it is not necessary. I believe you're tired of
me."
She shook her head confidently.
"I'm very sure you don't think that really."
His momentary ill-humour died away.
"Of course I don't, dear heart. I dare say you are in the right.
Everything you do is perfect, only--I warn you--you will have to marry
me sooner than ever for this. Can't you settle on a definite date by
to-morrow? Do try."
She disregarded his question.
"I'm glad you're not vexed. You did frown at me, you did, and it made
you look--oh, terribly ugly--just like a mediæval gargoyle."
"You and Mrs. Harbert have certainly entered into a conspiracy with a
view to reducing me to a proper condition of self-depreciation,"
declared Geoff, smiling at the lofty expression of disdain with which
his "Sweet Lady" was still surveying him. He shifted his hat from one
hand to the other.
"Come out with me, Evarne. Let us go and have something to eat, and then
on to a theatre or somewhere, eh?"
"I've still got the tiniest little headache; I would rather not," she
declared. "Good-bye, dearest." Then, correcting herself somewhat wildly:
"No, no. I didn't mean good-bye--only good-night! Don't speak ill-omened
words, Geoff. Only say good-night."
At length he was gone. Evarne pressed her hand to her forehead. This
unexpected visit had both weakened and strengthened her.
After a few minutes she went upstairs to change her dress. Hearing the
approaching steps, Philia, who was in her own room tying on her bonnet,
called out, and as the girl entered she inquired--
"Are yer any 'appier now, my pet? Is it all right?"
"You really are fond of me, aren't you, Philia?" queried Evarne
meditatively, without replying to the question she had been asked. Then,
without waiting for any response to her own demand, she went on: "Would
you mind doing a little errand for me? The classes at the 'Poly' end at
ten, don't they? Will you go afterwards to Edith Gordon's and ask her
for the blouse pattern she promised to lend me? It isn't very far out of
your way, and you can stop and have a chat if she is in, can't you?"
"Right yer are," assented Philia cordially, and five minutes later the
door had closed behind her.
At length the coast was quite clear for Morris's visit.
Evarne carefully studied her three tea-gowns. It was an important point.
The green one was a great favourite with everybody, but it was
undeniably getting old. The crimson cashmere with the black lace suited
her splendidly, but both colour and material looked rather heavy for
such hot weather. The pale yellow was the most suitable, and she would
wear a harmonising cluster of sweet-peas.
Although every nerve in her body seemed to be now on edge, she did not
neglect the least detail of her toilette, and at its completion could
not but realise that she was indeed fair to behold. She had quite got
back her colour, and that peculiar sparkling brilliance that was her
characteristic beauty. Her luxurious dark hair, faintly scented and
piled high upon her head, was held in place by ornamental combs. Long
enamel earrings, gleaming blue and green, served to emphasise the soft
carnation bloom of the cheeks they hung against, while a brooch of the
same iridescent tones held together the lace at the point of the
V-shaped opening of her gown. Then she put her diamond engagement ring
upon her finger, and, after a final critical gaze into the mirror,
descended the stairs. There she drew the blinds and lit the lamp. It was
five minutes past eight. She sat down and waited.