SEKHET

THE ANCHOR PRESS, LTD., TIPTREE, ESSEX.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I. BORN TO BEAUTY [1]

II. A FRIEND IN NEED [6]

III. A RICH CASKET FOR A RARE JEWEL [12]

IV. THE WAY OF A MAN WITH A MAID [18]

V. THE WILES OF THE FOWLER [28]

VI. A SOUL'S BATTLE [37]

VII. ROSES AND RAPTURES [45]

VIII. LUCINDA BELMONT [50]

IX. HOW EGYPT WAS RUINED FOR EVARNE [53]

X. THE SHRINE OF SEKHET [60]

XI. A LOSING STRIFE [66]

XII. SEKHET, CRUSHER OF HEARTS [73]

XIII. OUT OF THE GILDED CAGE [88]

XIV. HELPING HANDS [96]

XV. THE PROBLEM OF EXISTENCE [104]

XVI. EVARNE'S FIRST ENGAGEMENT [117]

XVII. A STRANGE INTRODUCTION TO THE PROFESSION [124]

XVIII. NEW TRIALS AND TROUBLES [131]

XIX. NEW FRIENDS [138]

XX. REHEARSALS [146]

XXI. The CAREER OF "CALEDONIA'S BARD" [153]

XXII. POVERTY MAKES ONE ACQUAINTED WITH
STRANGE BEDFELLOWS [163]

XXIII. A FRESH TURNING [168]

XXIV. "STITCH, STITCH, STITCH!" [173]

XXV. HARD LUCK [180]

XXVI. EVARNE'S VOCATION [188]

XXVII. IN ARTIST-LAND [199]

XXVIII. GEOFFREY DANVERS [207]

XXIX. SEKHET SMILES [218]

XXX. A GREAT RESOLVE [226]

XXXI. JOURNEYS END IN LOVERS' MEETINGS [234]

XXXII. FRANK'S BRILLIANT IDEA [249]

XXXIII. THE SHADOW OF COMING EVENTS [256]

XXXIV. SEKHET WHETS HER TEETH [264]

XXXV. THE STROKE OF SEKHET [278]

XXXVI. A FRESH VOW [286]

XXXVII. EVARNE FIGHTS FOR MORE THAN LIFE [297]

XXXVIII. CONFIDENCES [318]

XXXIX. EVIL, THAT GOOD MAY COME [326]

XL. A FRESH COMPLICATION [338]

XLI. HOW "LA BELLE DAME" LED JACK ASTRAY [347]

XLII. THE COUP DE GRÂCE [357]

SEKHET

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

Sekhet: The Goddess of Ancient Egypt, who presided over Love and its Cruelty.

Her Tools and Her Victims.

Morris Kenyon.
Leopold Stornway (his college friend).
Evarne (Stornway's daughter).
Tony Belmont.
Lucinda "Belmont."
Geoffrey Danvers (a young artist).
Geoff's studio friends
Jack Hardy
Frank Pallister
Philadelphia Harbert (an artist's model).
Maudie Meridith and her Auntie.
Alexander Punter (manager of the "Scotia's Bard" Touring Co.)
Mrs. Punter (authoress of the play).
(Members of the "Scotia's Bard" Co.)
John Montgomery (a printer).
Joe Harold (a commercial traveller).
Archie (a horsey youth).
Harry Douglas (an ex-prize fighter).
Charles Stuart (a scene-painter).
Jessie Kennedy (a little pianist).
Madame Cheape (an "actress").
Mr. Heathmore (a real actor).
Landladies.
Mrs. Burling
Mrs. Sargeant
Miss Brodie
Mrs. Shiells
Jean Brodie (a seamstress).
Many minor characters.

Scenes.

The depth of the country, London, Italy, Paris, Egypt.

SEKHET

CHAPTER I
BORN TO BEAUTY

Evarne Stornway hurried across the fields towards Heatherington at a speed that deprived her gait of much of that graceful yet somewhat insolent sway that caused it to be alike the butt and the envy of the other youthful females of the neighbourhood. Not an hour since she had first heard beyond a doubt the gentle rustling of the wings of the Angel of Death within the sick-room of her father, and, goaded by cruel anxiety, she was—even against the invalid's will—seeking medical aid.

The rapid walk brought brightness to eyes and cheeks, thereby doing much to restore that subtle air of perfect health and happiness that usually added so much to the girl's beauty. But always was Evarne fair to behold; her dark eyes, so large and limpid, were expressive and intense; her lips, alluring in curves and colour, spoke to the "seeing eye" of both kindliness and individuality. Yet she could have dispensed with all the charm given by mental grace, and still riveted attention, for she possessed loveliness of that type, supreme above all others, that is independent of expression—the beauty of grace, symmetry of form, and faultless feature. And for this she had been taught to thank—not chance, not merely heredity, but the determination of her father.

Leopold Stornway had a passionate adoration for physical beauty, regarding it as almost the first of virtues. And more, he was proud of the vast importance he placed on bodily perfection, for was it not a reverence characteristic of classic Greece? There it was—in the records of the never-to-be-forgotten days of antiquity—that Leo found all his chief interests. Egypt, Mesopotamia, Rome, and, above all, Greece—each in turn had been the lands of his adoption. Pericles and Cæsar, Cyrus and Rameses, Shalmanesur and Hiram, were the gods of his idolatry. He knew and cared more concerning the triumphant fortunes of Semiramis; the proceedings of Antigone or of Theseus; the adventures of Agamemnon or Achilles, of Hector or the pious Æneas at the Siege of Troy, than he did of the doings of those who sat in the seats of the mighty in his own century.

The happiest time of his life had been his three years at Oxford. Almost immediately on leaving college he married—simply because she was beautiful as any Greek statue—a young woman considerably beneath him in station, and possessed of an unconquerably violent temper. He knew right well, even during the period of his deepest infatuation, that he had found no mate for his soul. He was sadly conscious that that part of his mind—of his spirit—that he cared for most deeply, never would—never could—unveil itself to the scrutiny of his chosen life-long companion.

To feed his intellectual affections, he relied on the continuance of his college friendship with the brilliant and vivacious Morris Kenyon. But herein he was doomed to disappointment. After a brief spell of vain struggling for literary recognition in London, Leo settled down, contentedly enough, to obscurity in the depth of the country. There he spent peaceful days occupied in highly intellectual yet miserably paid writings. Each year he became more of a recluse—more out of touch with the times. Morris Kenyon likewise altered. Plunged into the vortex of town life, seeing and doing everything, going everywhere, courted and flattered and popular, not only on account of his great wealth but for his more personal attractions—every year he drifted farther from being the Morris of yore. The change in both men was but gradual, and through varying stages of disillusion and disappointment, their ardent friendship was long in dying. But the time came when all ended—even correspondence ceased.

Leo's marriage was more successful. His wife made strenuous efforts to rise to his heights, while his admiration of her stately loveliness never waned. Their first child was a boy, who died in infancy, but ere long little Evarne came as consoler. Leo had wished for a daughter, and had always spoken of the expected baby by the Greek name he had already chosen for her—Evarne.

He had strong theories on pre-natal influence, and put them into practice. He read and discussed with his wife poetry and the noblest prose works. Everywhere she turned her eyes in her home she beheld representations of female beauty—magnificent or placid. On the wall of her bed-chamber was a barbaric, richly-hued painting of a Babylonian slave-market. It showed a group of women decking themselves before entering the Market Square, which could be seen through an opening of the tent. They were of many nationalities, but each in her own way represented physically perfect womanhood.

Near to this hung a contrasting picture—a delicate symphony in blue and gold and snowy white. It was the Catholic's Madonna, with placid lips and large uplifted eyes that told of thoughts beyond this world—chaste, calm and pure.

In the corner of the room by the window stood a large cast of a famous antique nude statue of Venus. So perfect was it—the glorious muscles of the body dimpling so gently, so graciously—that even Leo's unimaginative wife could find and feel something of what is soothing and peace-giving in such beauty. Sometimes of an early morning a narrow beam of light would creep into the darkened room between the drawn curtains and illuminate just this statue. Then the young wife, lying wakeful, would fix her eyes on the form of the Goddess of Beauty, drinking in its divine influence, remembering her husband's assurance that its contemplation would go far towards making the little daughter that was to come likewise strong and beautiful.

And Leo's words proved not untrue—a more lovely baby never saw the light. But Evarne's birth cost the mother her life, and after five years of happy marriage, Leo was once again lonely.

Since the child's upbringing was thus left to her father, with his fads and fancies, it was naturally of a unique nature. Mrs. Jarman—the worthy matron whom he engaged to act as nurse to his child, and cook-housekeeper to himself—was wont to declare, both to her gentleman in person and to the village in general, that she was sure Providence had seen fit to appoint a special angel to guard that blessed motherless mite; otherwise no mortal woman could possibly have succeeded in rearing it.

Mr. Stornway would interfere in what Mrs. Jarman held to be no concern of any man—not even of a father. First of all he had been divided in opinion as to whether the infant should be wrapped in swaddling-clothes in true classical style, or should remain in equally classical nudity. The baby had arrived in the summer-time, so the latter idea prevailed, and to Mrs. Jarman's dismay the little one passed the first few months of its existence clad in very little more than its own silky skin. All the experienced dame's traditional ideas of long robes, binders, shortening-clothes, teething-rings, etc., were swept aside as modern. Thus they were unworthy of a Greek reincarnation, named after the fairest of the Nereides, and destined to show an altogether degenerate world what beauty had been in the glorious days of old. With the approaching chill of winter even Mr. Stornway agreed to the little form being warmly clad, but his aversion to modern fashions never could be uprooted.

Thus, though Evarne, as she now hastened to summon the doctor to her father's dying bed, was nigh seventeen, she had never owned a pair of corsets, or worn a dress more tight-fitting than could be managed by shaping the material into the waist by gauging or smocking. Indoors, she invariably cast aside her shoes and stockings. She could carry burdens on her head, could run, jump, and swim with the ease and lightness of a young Amazon. She slept soundly on a bed hard as wood, and had never been indulged to the extent of a pillow in her life. Of her own accord she would never have chosen such a harsh régime. But at sixteen she knew but this one mode of existence, and habit rendered it congenial enough.

CHAPTER II
A FRIEND IN NEED

Dr. Crossways was at home, and at once set out with the girl for "The Retreat." He was a surly old man, and, moreover, he had a particularly annoying habit—of which no amount of gentle correction could break him—of pronouncing Evarne's name without the final "e," thus compressing it into two syllables instead of three, as it is in the musical tongue of ancient Greece, whence the name was taken. As a rule, the doctor was morose and silent, but on this occasion he had at least one piece of gossip to enlarge upon.

On the previous day he had indulged himself in a holiday on the strength of an invitation from the noble lord who had rented the shooting on a big estate some twenty miles distant. Evidently it had been a proud and happy occasion for the little doctor, and it was with ill-concealed gratification that he rattled off the list of those who had likewise been at this illustrious shooting-party. In it was one name very familiar to Evarne—Morris Kenyon. She had never seen her father's early friend, but Leo often dwelt lovingly upon his college life, and Morris Kenyon had been, apparently, the central figure of those never-to-be-forgotten days.

Dr. Crossways took his departure from "The Retreat" in a state of high dudgeon. Accustomed as he was to being called in to cope with every trivial ailment of the local gentry, his professional pride was outraged by Mr. Stornway's presuming to approach so very near to Death's portals without his steps having been carefully guided down the path thereto by the controlling hand of a disciple of Æsculapius. It was absolutely insulting—it really bordered on Christian Science!

After parting from the irate doctor, Evarne returned to her father's room. He raised his weary eyelids as she entered, and looked at her with a troubled, almost remorseful, expression. He had realised vaguely for some time past that he was soon to seek the society of his dearly beloved heroes of antiquity; but not until this solemn medical visitation had he seriously considered the practical earthly results of his soul winging its flight to the fields of Asphodel.

When once he should be fairly off upon this interesting journey, his young daughter would be left quite alone in this world of sin and woe. What was to become of her? He was singularly devoid of relations. A few distant cousins and a poverty-stricken and decrepit uncle comprised his entire stock in that line of goods, while he knew nothing of his wife's common family beyond the fact that she had a number of half-brothers and sisters somewhere in Australia. He had but little money to leave his daughter, and the girl had no training in any means of earning a livelihood. He sighed despondently, as too late he recognised this neglected duty.

Evarne sat down by his side, and tenderly stroked his hand. Ere long out came her little bit of interesting news—Mr. Morris Kenyon was within twenty miles of Heatherington.

At the mention of this familiar name a sudden light flashed into poor Leo's worried eyes. Surely for "auld lang syne" this once dear friend would look after his young daughter until she was able to support herself? Morris was married to a charming wife—unfortunately now a confirmed invalid. Leo had met the young lady at the time of her wedding, and been favourably impressed. Surely she would feel for the desolate situation of the young orphan. Filled with this idea, he bade Evarne write, telling of her father's condition, and begging that Morris would spare time to come over to visit him.

The letter was duly posted that night; the answer arrived by return, the day after, Morris himself appeared upon the scene. Leo wished to see his friend alone, so on his arrival he was ushered by Mrs. Jarman direct to the sick-room.

With engaging readiness Morris undertook to watch over the welfare of the dying man's daughter when the time came, and lightly brushed aside the broken thanks. But Leo's gratitude was insistent and touching to witness. He dwelt much upon the otherwise lonely situation of the girl.

"It is such a weight off my mind," he murmured again and again. "I never before realised how I have neglected my duty to the child." And he sighed a deep breath of relief.

"Now, you must see her," he went on, as with a trembling hand he rang a bell that stood by his side. In almost immediate answer to the summons Evarne appeared in the doorway.

Leo had made no mention of his daughter's striking personal beauty. Dutiful, unselfish, intelligent—these, and other eminently desirable mental and moral attributes had he ascribed to her as recommendations in Morris's eyes; but upon the subject of that physical quality that counts for so much more than all the virtues under the sun, the unworldly Leo had been silent. Kenyon had somehow expected to see a stolid, robust, and, to him, altogether uninteresting country damsel, and he with difficulty hid his surprise on beholding the fair vision that answered the summons.

Evarne's manner was touched with timidity, but she was not at all shy. She now stood silent and motionless for a moment, surveying her father's friend with a grave and interested gaze. Then, without waiting for any introduction, she advanced towards him with outstretched hand and a little smile of welcome upon her lips. Kenyon rose, and as he clasped her hand and looked with the eye of a connoisseur more closely into those charming features, he was half-ashamed at the consciousness of a distinct sense of satisfaction in the prospect of playing guardian angel to such a singularly lovely creature.

He left "The Retreat" that evening feeling thoroughly recompensed for the loss of his half-day's shooting, and that just occasionally the fulfilling of the duties demanded by friendship might bring their own reward.

Leo Stornway lingered for more weeks than either he or the doctor had anticipated, but one morning, just at the beginning of the New Year, he was found lying calm, pallid, pulseless. His race was run. Silently and in loneliness the end had come to a silent lonely life.

His desire had been to dispose of his earthly frame in as classical a manner as possible. The notion he would have really revelled in would have been a funeral pyre on the common, with the villagers solemnly running races and engaging in wrestling bouts in honour of his Manes, in true Greek style. This being obviously out of the question, he had set his heart upon the nearest thing possible—ordinary cremation. This urgent desire was found solemnly written on the back of a used envelope.

Hereupon arose trouble for Evarne. The local undertaker, who respectfully yet promptly put in an appearance, was aghast at her intention of arranging for the burning of her father's body. He had no sympathy whatsoever with innovations in his staid and respectable business.

"It's the last thing you will ever be able to do for your dear, dead parent, Miss Evarne," said the dour-looking man. "Give him a solid coffin—it needn't even be oak, we have good lines in elm and ash—but do give him a decent coffin, and have him put under the earth like he ought to be!"

Mrs. Jarman was of opinion that such a departure from conventionality would be absolutely indecent. She also waxed eloquent in another direction.

"I allus thought you loved your poor dead Pa. I could 'ave sworn you wouldn't 'ave 'urt a 'air of his 'ead!" she repeated again and again, as if Evarne's resolve now disposed of that supposition once and for all.

Dr. Crossways was so sure that had he only been consulted in reasonable time neither cremation nor burial would now be under discussion at all, that he declined to offer the least suggestion of any sort. As to the vicar and the curate, they called together on a visit of combined sympathy and expostulation. Both seemed convinced that a case of cremation must prove a serious inconvenience to the Almighty on the Judgment Day—even if it did not place Him in an absolute dilemma.

Into this general confusion and misery, Morris Kenyon—summoned by Mrs. Jarman—descended with all the eclat of the God in the Machine. He arrived at the very moment when the two rival dressmakers of Heatherington, having appeared simultaneously armed with yard measures and black patterns, were quarrelling in stage whispers in the porch.

This weighty matter settled, he proceeded to take all the arrangements into his capable hands. Finally, he sat down to a quiet conversation with the grateful Evarne, the more beautiful for the pallor and distress, concerning her future.

He learnt that her great ambition was to become an artist. She possessed decided talent, combined with an ardent appreciation of the beautiful, but she was absolutely without training, and had evidently no idea of the long years of steady labour—to say nothing of the "filthy lucre"—that must be offered at the shrine of Art by would-be disciples. Looking at Morris, her big eyes filled with a wistful anxiety, she inquired if the little money her father had left could, by the strictest economy, be made to last out until she was able to thus keep herself. If not—and she had evidently come to this conference with her ideas fully formed—could she not learn shorthand and typewriting? Even then she hoped that, by rising early and working at her painting after office hours and on Sundays, she might ultimately earn her living by Art.

Kenyon smiled inwardly at the life she thus proposed for herself. If he knew aught of the world, the sons of Adam would see to it soon enough that this particular daughter of Eve did not spend her days simply and solely divided between banging the keys of a typewriter and daubing sticky colours on a canvas. It was merely his luck that he happened to be first in the field.

To Evarne he appeared kindliness itself. Certainly she could and she should study Art; and this brought him round to a suggestion that he hoped would give her pleasure. He possessed a delightful villa in balmy Naples, where Mrs. Kenyon was now staying to escape the rigours of the English winter. Evarne must come out and stop awhile with his wife. On the journey through Italy, she should behold all its Art treasures. That alone, he assured her, would form a splendid foundation for her later artistic training.

Despite her sorrows, Evarne's face lit up with a sudden brilliant light of happiness at this altogether delightful prospect, both for the near and distant future. Her brightened expression thanked her guardian more ardently than did her softly-spoken words, and so it was settled.

CHAPTER III
A RICH CASKET FOR A RARE JEWEL

Despite the heavy heart with which Evarne bade farewell to her home, the weeks occupied by the protracted journey to Naples became a period in which the light-heartedness of youth gradually conquered sorrow. It was so crowded with interest, novelty, fresh sights and experiences, that every week seemed as a month, and her former monotonous existence faded rapidly into the background. She seemed a different being, living in a strange, new world. It was a world in which Leo had never had a place, so that its progress was in no ways affected by his absence. Evarne mourned her father sincerely; shed many tears for him in the silence of the night; and sometimes felt pangs of compunction that novelty and interest should have such powers of overcoming grief. But despite her reluctance to accept their aid, these great forces continued their healing work.

Amid its other charms and novelties, this new life was one totally devoid of the necessity of considering ways and means. The girl's natural tastes were far from simple, and the luxury in which Morris lived and travelled soon seemed not only congenial, but proper and customary.

At Paris, where they stayed some time, she first discovered the subtle delight that lies in the possession of dainty clothes. Her guardian gave her carte blanche at both costumiers and milliners, but, through diffidence, she took little advantage of this generosity. Realising this, he visited one of the leading ateliers, and gave orders direct to madame herself to lavishly stock Evarne's wardrobe.

Thus the girl found herself clad in garments totally different to any she had ever seen—let alone possessed. She reluctantly consented to try to endure corsets, but very soon gave up the attempt in despair. But madame, far from discouraged, exerted her ingenuity to array the girl's lithe yet well-developed young form to the best advantage without any such fictitious aid, and she succeeded even beyond her expectations.

Never before had Evarne realised the latent possibilities of her own figure. She took unconcealed delight in beholding her reflection in the mirror, and positively revelled in her silk linings, silk petticoats, silk stockings, and other hitherto undreamed-of silken luxuries.

Venice was visited, then Ravenna, Florence, Pisa and Rome. Day after day Morris was untiring in the thought and care he took for his new toy. Evarne, apparently, looked upon his utmost and constant attention as merely part of the accepted routine of the journey, and noted it with the quiet indifference of a spoilt beauty. Yet there was no suggestion of coquetry or affectation about the girl. Her mind, as well as her person, was developing on calm, stately and dignified lines.

She was, in her turn, almost as quietly affectionate and attentive to him as she would have been to her father, but the vainest of men could not have persuaded himself that she made the least effort—open or covert—to at all unduly ingratiate herself into his regard. "Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks, shall win my love," sings the wise poet, but Morris had been taught so early and so often how many women are over-eager to be "kind" to a wealthy man, that Evarne's simple ways were attractive by reason of their very novelty. It served as a sauce piquante, and before Naples was reached he felt more genuine love for this sweet child than he had deemed that well-worn article—his heart—would ever again have the good luck to experience.

It was not until they were actually in the train bound for Naples that he broke to her the information that the looked-for introduction to Mrs. Kenyon must be postponed for the present.

"A letter from my wife reached me just before we left Rome," he explained. "She is very nervous, and fears Vesuvius is working up for another eruption. She often thinks that—pure fancy, of course! Anyway she has gone on to Taormina, in Sicily. She will return to Naples when she can muster courage."

"How much she travels about," remarked the unsuspecting Evarne.

"Doesn't she!" agreed Morris with a grim little smile, thinking of the invalid to whom the daily journey from bedroom to boudoir was an arduous undertaking.

Then, noting a troubled expression on Evarne's face as she gazed out of the window at the fast-flying landscape, he asked, with a tiny hint of sadness in his voice—

"Am I such dull company for a bright little girl that you look thus solemn at the prospect of a few more tête-à-tête meals?"

He took her hand as he spoke. Evarne had long ago got to the point of finding it pleasant to feel her slender fingers enclosed in his strong magnetic clasp. She smiled a little and shook her head slightly in response to his question, but the fingers he held moved restlessly, as if they half-sought to free themselves.

Evarne's mental upbringing and education had been as unusual and unconventional—to say the least of it—as had been her physical training. She learnt the Greek and English alphabets almost simultaneously, and while other damsels of her years were skimming through novelettes, she had been poring over the eternal and inspiring works of the writers of antiquity. Which form of exclusive mental diet created, on the whole, the most impracticable, the most false, the most mischievous ideas when considered in reference to the stern realities of modern life, it is difficult to say. Infinitely more than the average girl of her age did Evarne know of the possible sins of humanity, of the grim tragedies of history; infinitely less of that perhaps more useful field of knowledge—the restrictions, petty malignity, wickedness, and cruelly quick suspicions of modern society.

Nevertheless, an instinct told her that there was a vast difference between travelling under the escort of her guardian to join his wife, and in staying with him at his villa without that lady.

"Do you not think Mrs. Kenyon expects us to go on to her at Sicily?" she suggested in a hesitating voice, divided between her fear of appearing to presume and dictate, and her instinctive shrinking from this new programme.

Morris read the trouble in the girl's mind, and promptly answered in the one and only manner that was calculated to set her thoroughly at ease again.

"When you are comfortably fixed up at Naples I will go on to Taormina and bring back the truant. As to you, my dear, forgive my plain speaking, but it is time you seriously started to study for your future profession. There are excellent Art masters at Naples, and you can draw in the museum there, but in Sicily there is nothing of all this."

As he had foreseen, this business-like view of the proceeding reconciled her to it as nothing else would have done, and it was with a light heart and a smiling face that she first set foot over the threshold of "Mon Bijou."

Morris himself conducted his little guest to the rooms that had been prepared for her occupation. The villa was situated on the heights overlooking the bay, and Evarne, stepping out on to the verandah, stood enthralled by the beauty around. She gazed over the broad expanse of purple sea sparsely dotted with small sails, white and brown—at the island of Capri, haunted by the memory of dark mysteries—at the far distant dome of the Italian heavens that crowned all. Then she let her delighted eyes wander over the picturesque roof-tops of the town to the soft yet never-failing canopy of smoke that mingled itself with billowy white clouds overshadowing the crater of Vesuvius the volcano.

Then she looked at the gardens of the villa itself. There she saw paths made of smooth-coloured pebbles arranged in mosaic designs, winding amid strange and luxurious trees and shrubs and blossoms; saw snowy statues gleaming amid the green growth; saw arbours, set near the scent of orange-blossom or mimosa; while a white marble fountain—an art treasure in itself—gaily tossed upwards a sparkling jet of water, which fell with a gentle splash into a deep, carved basin encircled by thick clumps of flowers.

Overwhelmed by beauty so universal, so lavish, so abundant, she stood rapt until Morris's patience was exhausted. When at length she could be persuaded to pay attention to her apartments she found them, in their way, to be equally enchanting—equally appealing.

The chief room was very large, and decorated with an almost florid luxuriance. Everywhere the eye turned were pictures, statuettes, carved ivories, bowls and vases and bronzes—each the embodiment of some artistic dream. Everything was profuse—there were many books, many mirrors, much gilding, carving, tapestry and embroidery, while masses of vivid flowers scented the air.

The characteristic feature, however, was the mad riot and mingling of every glaring hue, blended together into a bewildering yet exquisite harmony. There was mauve and deepest violet, gold, blue, and a touch of emerald green. The walls were rich crimson, with creamy white introduced into the deep frieze, whereon dancing maidens were moulded in relief. The whole scheme of colour was daring, brilliant, defiant; it suggested life, youth, vitality, pleasure without remorse.

The little bedroom opened out from this. It was daintily small, all white and pale green, the one striking splash of colour being given by a bowl of pink roses. Simple, demure, unassuming, it formed a strange contrast to the tropical violence of its neighbour.

As soon as Evarne was quite alone she placed herself in the centre of the brilliant red room, and pivoting round slowly, surveyed every wall—every corner—anew. It was scarcely three months since she had left the austerity of "The Retreat"—three months in which she had learnt, seen, done and heard more than in all the previous years of her life. In the dazzling luxury of this room the culminating point of the extraordinary difference between the past and the present seemed to be attained. Its mad superabundance of wealth and colour, appealing so forcefully to the emotions, bewildered the child. Everything about it appeared indefinably wrong—almost unnatural—and for a moment the instinctive fear of the unknown gripped her heart.

Suddenly she became apprehensive, afraid of life, of the hidden future and what it held. She felt very young, very ignorant, very helpless—a stranger not only in a far land, but in a strange world. If only Mrs. Kenyon had been here to welcome her! Apparently no one about the place could speak a word of English save Morris himself—and, of course, his valet. Even with the bright little maid who was to attend on her, she had found she could only converse by signs. She walked timidly over the thick, yielding carpet and leant against the open window, breathing deeply of the fresh, pure air. But a little while and her natural courage rallied, the shadow of depression was tossed aside; she turned back into the room, glanced round it once again with sparkling eyes lit up by admiration, and all unconsciously broke into a snatch of joyous song.

CHAPTER IV
THE WAY OF A MAN WITH A MAID

No trace of the uneasiness of the afternoon remained, as Evarne—clad in a Parisian triumph, a loosely-falling dinner-gown of fragile black chiffon and lace—took her seat that evening opposite Morris in the cosy little anteroom in which he had ordered meals to be served in preference to the ordinary dining-room. She was bright and smiling and appreciative, as throughout that first evening beneath his own roof he exerted himself particularly to please and entertain her.

Not that this called for much additional effort. Evarne invariably found her guardian's society to be more inspiring and exhilarating than his own champagne. Even in his ordinary converse with this unusual young girl, the whole of his knowledge of men and matters, his wide experience, his original ideas, all his natural wit and brightness ever flowed forth readily and unrestricted. True, this implied not only the teachings of some doctrines more or less heretical, but a certain element of looseness of speech and the recounting of anecdotes and incidents not usually deemed appropriate to the ears of sweet seventeen.

So, albeit the previous delicacy of her every thought unavoidably gave place to something less ethereal, her character developed and matured by leaps and bounds.

"Reading maketh a full man, conversation a ready man."

The girl's nature—rendered, perhaps, somewhat over-serious by solitude and much deep reading—only needed the mental stimulant of a brilliant and clever man's society, to grow rapidly bright and alert. She learnt to find interest in many a subject hitherto sealed. From dress to politics—from hard facts to vague fancies—from logical deducing to limitless speculating, her mind was daily led over fresh fields and pastures new, and rejoiced in this wandering.

Morris and Evarne sat up later that night than they had ever yet done together. Within these walls Morris alone held sway, and both felt the subtle influence of this state of affairs, so opposed to the constant, comparative surveillance of life in hotels. At length the musical notes of the clock chimed the hour past midnight, and Evarne sprang from her low chair, startled by the flight of time.

Morris went upstairs with her. Standing on the threshold of her room she touched the knob of the electric burners, then held out both hands with her usual frankness to bid him good-night.

He held them for a few seconds with that firm and affectionate clasp in which she so delighted. But then, suddenly transferring both her hands into one of his, he put the first two fingers of his free hand to his own lips and immediately pressed them gently upon Evarne's rosy mouth.

It was at most a mere suggestion of a kiss, yet with a startled glance she jerked her hands away, stepped back quickly, instinctively slamming the door, and Morris, standing outside with a little grimace of amusement on his countenance, heard the key turn in the lock.

It was apparently a decided rebuke, yet he went downstairs well pleased by the very violence of her reception of this experimental advance. Easily enough had he conquered any temptation to kiss the girl as long as there remained the fear that she might accept his kisses dutifully, as mere fatherly salutes. But the light that had darted into her eloquent eyes at the simple pressure of his fingers upon those fresh, unsullied lips of hers, satisfied him that such an idea—had it ever existed—had been got rid of forever.

Evarne flung herself amid the purple cushions of a big chair and shut her eyes. Ere long one idea evolved itself from the tangle of confused thought, and placed itself—clearly and shamelessly—before the bar of her reason, to be relentlessly judged. Did she indeed owe all that Mr. Kenyon was doing for her—was giving her—simply to the fact that she was Leo Stornway's daughter, or were her own youth—her beauty—her sex—the real forces that prompted his generous actions?

Scarcely one second for calm deliberation was granted her. The very process of actually formulating such a question, brought into conscious existence a knowledge that was both crushing and exalting—terrifying and delightful. Doubtless it had been forming itself in her heart and brain for many a long day, but its appearance as a fully-fledged fact—something that had to be acknowledged and reckoned with—came with the dazzling sharpness of lightning athwart a summer sky.

Whatever might be the nature of her guardian's feelings, this one fact she knew all too well. Come what might she loved him—loved him devotedly—passionately—with all the ardour of youth and a nature formed for loving. She realised that if in his eyes she was not the fairest amid women, she might as well be possessed of no beauty; if he did not seek and enjoy her society before that of any other creature alive, she was worthless in her own sight; if all this divine emotion that had come to her could touch no answering chord within his breast, life would be as a weed, worthless, without colour, perfume or sweetness.

To realise so much during a single tick of the clock was overwhelming! Instinctively concealing her face in the cushions Evarne found her breathing oppressed, while as to her heart—it stood quite still for one brief moment, apparently daunted by the magnitude of the additional task suddenly imposed upon it. Then loyally rising to the occasion, it continued to beat, but with altogether unusual violence and rapidity, as wishing defiantly to show that it could bear up with a good grace even under this double duty.

Ere long Evarne sat erect again, while then and there her soul soared aloft into vaporous and shining realms of happiness. Yet no white angel would have veiled its face before this sweet maiden's thoughts and ideals in her first love. Not for some time did she so much as remember that Morris was married, and even then she was in no mood to actively regret Mrs. Kenyon's existence.

That lady's rights were so unquestioned; Evarne would have shrunk with horror at the mere notion that she should ever come to resent the wife as either a rival or a hindrance.

The fact that she believed Morris was a kind, affectionate and faithful husband, was quite consistent with his returning her love—at all events, love as she conceived it and desired it in return. Notwithstanding her classical reading, the girl failed to realise that her passion—youthful, virginal and absolutely spiritual, yet ardent and enthralling—was an emotion absolutely unknown to any male mind.

Long she sat, enchanted by the fair landscapes of this unexplored country across whose borders her feet had newly strayed. When at length she nestled down into her soft, scented bed, still the same soft visions gladdened her mind.

Next morning, after finishing her coffee and roll, she lay back lazily and reflected with the clearer, more rational, thoughts of the early hours of the day, upon the one topic that now appeared of paramount importance.

After a while Bianca, her little maid, entered, and with painstaking effort repeated in English a short message that she had evidently just learnt. "Master wishes come pay his respects to signorina."

Evarne renounced day-dreams and meditations and arose immediately. Blissfully independent of hair-curlers or any other such artificial accessories, her toilette could be completed with marvellous rapidity. Now, in considerably less than half an hour, she issued from her room fresh and blooming as a spring flower, and all unconsciously greeted Morris with the richest smile she had ever flashed upon him.

He looked bright and debonnairé that morning, and it was difficult to realise that he was in fact the contemporary of the girl's father. He seemed so glad to behold her again after the few hours' separation, asked with such evident interest and concern if she had slept well, held her hand for so long and finished by pressing it so warmly between his own, that Evarne blushed slightly for very happiness, as with unerring instinct her heart answered its own question, "He does care—he does—he does!"

In her previous notions concerning both men and women who had attained to the mature and dignified age of five-and-forty, she had unconsciously taken it for granted that Cupid always observed a due respect for such elderly hearts. True, she was well-informed respecting poor Hera's troubles. Zeus had surely been old—quite old and grey-bearded—yet apparently he could not ever look down from high Olympus, even on business, without his eye falling on some fair damsel who promptly became entitled to a place amid the crowd of rival fair ones who packed that miraculously capacious heart. Nevertheless, despite this seemingly instructive knowledge, it was only as she grew to know Morris that her ideas became revolutionised on the subject of middle-aged men who were not divinities, but merely modern and mortal. Now, her guardian's years, viewed with the eyes of affection, appeared simply as an additional fascination.

After a while he proceeded to consult her regarding their plans for the day. Would she like to go sight-seeing that morning, or rest after the fatigues of yesterday's journey?

Evarne was still amused at this novel notion, evidently entertained by Morris, that she was a fragile blossom requiring to be carefully tended and cherished. The idea flashed across her: "How different life will be in a year or two when I am all alone in cheap little rooms in London, earning a precarious living by Art."

This led her to recall what her guardian had told her last night concerning the two most celebrated Art masters in Naples.

"They are very different one from another, both in their style of work and their method of teaching," he had said. "I will take you to visit both studios, and you can see if one appeals to you more than the other."

Now she reminded him of this promise.

"I want to oversee the unpacking of my boxes," she said, "and then, if you please, I should like to visit the studios you spoke of. I want to start working in all seriousness almost at once."

"Oh, no hurry; postpone that!" was the lazy advice. But she shook her head with righteous emphasis.

"I don't mean to delay and delay like the foolish virgins in the Bible. You remember that story?"

"I can't say I remember those particular damsels," rejoined Morris, with a twinkle in his eye; "but candidly I maintain that all virgins are foolish."

"That's a very debatable point!" retorted Evarne, smiling, yet slightly biting her under-lip. "Seriously, I want to start work at once. Now, let me go and put on my hat, and we will place business before pleasure, like good people."

This time Morris wisely checked the response that rose to his lips.

The rival studios both got visited that day, and the one wherein Evarne was to experience the pangs and delights of the aspiring Art student was duly settled upon. It was really somewhat absurd that a mere beginner, totally untrained in the very rudiments of drawing, should be introduced into such an advanced coterie as that of Florelli's.

As Evarne gazed with admiring yet somewhat saddened eyes at the work of the other students, she felt this herself. To her they all seemed finished artists already! She could certainly get herself up in a loose overall plentifully besmeared with paint and charcoal, she could allow a curl of hair to escape from its confining bonds, and thus—as far as appearance went—be on an artistic equality with those of her new companions who were of the feminine persuasion. But would she ever be able to work as beautifully as did these young men and women? She doubted it, and yet, appalling realisation! these superior young people were not winning fame and fortune. Alack and alas, they were still studying—still knew their work imperfect—were still striving to attain!

The momentary wave of despair was followed by a somewhat frantic impatience to make an immediate start along this far-stretching road that lay before her. She wanted to return at once to "Mon Bijou," to set up a pot or vase and endeavour to make a drawing of it in which the two sides should at least decently resemble one another. It was all very nice and amusing to sketch pretty little faces with huge eyes, tiny mouths and masses of very curly hair; to cover sheets of notepaper with angels whose big, feathery wings and vapoury bodies conveniently vanished into nothing. But one day in Paris she had tried to make a correct drawing of a dull, unimaginative vase, and her effort had been brought to an abrupt and highly unsatisfactory conclusion by the much-employed indiarubber working a hole in the paper.

That evening, as she and Morris walked in the garden star-gazing, she honestly confided to him her fear that the attaining of artistic excellence would be a longer task than she had at all realised. He did not appear to sink under the shock, but, on the contrary, inquired calmly enough "what that mattered." Hesitatingly, Evarne broached the subject of expense. It was a matter that pressed rather heavily upon her mind.

His answer was unexpected. Half opening his lips as if to speak, he closed them again firmly, looked frowningly into her tremulous, upturned countenance, then suddenly slipping his arm round her waist, drew her closely to him. Her instantaneous impulse was to free herself—not because she wanted to, far from it—but because she knew well enough that such were dull duty's dictates. Still, she hesitated a moment, and thereby lost the strength of mind necessary to maintain strict propriety upon its lofty pedestal. On the contrary, she rested quite impassive, and Morris felt her soft uncorseted waist heave slightly with the deep, quivering breath she drew. Somewhat fiercely clasping her yet closer, in a second his other arm was also around her, and he was straining the flexible young form to his breast with all the abandon of a man who, having reluctantly practised self-control for long, lets himself go at last.

But his very ardour and heedless violence frightened Evarne immediately. Using the whole of her considerable strength she endeavoured to break away from his clasp. "Don't, don't!" she cried in unmistakable earnestness, and besides genuine alarm there was a touch of decided anger in her voice.

As soon as she had freed herself she stood irresolute—motionless and fascinated—yet obviously prepared at any second to dart away. Indeed, unconsciously, prompted by her athletic instincts, she rested, poised with her heels already slightly raised off the earth.

She looked more Greek than ever at that moment; fitted indeed to form part of some legend—

"Of deities or mortals, or of both;
In Temple, or the dales of Arcady."

Morris gazing at her with eager, ardent appreciation, yet read a warning that he must venture no farther that night! Trusting and confiding though Evarne might be, she was too serious, too thoughtful, to accept such overtures with childish carelessness.

Her expression gradually clouded, for the unknown Mrs. Kenyon rose in indignant might before her mind's eye! Morris, guessing the nature of some of her thoughts, knew that in dealing with a young woman possessed of such painfully lofty principles, discretion was indeed the better part of valour. Moreover, he was far too genuinely attached to her to wish to cause her undue distress, and, however strong she might be physically, he knew well that where her feelings were concerned, Evarne was in deed a "fragile flower," to be guarded well and treated tenderly.

So he just smiled calmly and reassuringly, and into his eyes came that kindly, indulgent look that always stirred the girl's very heart.

"Come, pretty one," he said, "hold my hand quietly, and go on telling me the troubles about the drawing."

Such a sudden change of manner and topic was quite bewildering; Evarne could not accommodate herself to it all with equal rapidity. There was a considerable pause, while he stood waiting with his hand outstretched. The imprint of very varying emotions passed over the girl's gentle countenance. By the brilliant light of the moon every fleeting expression could be seen, and the look with which she at length laid her hand in his could not have been displeasing even to the chaste goddess whose clear rays rendered it visible.

Somewhat hastily Evarne proceeded to chatter about the studio, but her nerves were overwrought, and her voice sounded strange to her own ears.

"Let us go in," she urged ere long; "I'm cold."

"Cold now, perhaps," murmured Morris softly, "but, if I mistake not, magnificently capable of burning with the most divine of all fires."

She made no answer. He could not be sure that she had heard, or if she had, that she understood. Neither was he at all sure that the time had even yet come when it was really desirable that she should hear and understand.

CHAPTER V
THE WILES OF THE FOWLER

Within a week of taking up her residence at "Mon Bijou," Evarne started her career at Florelli's. She proved very painstaking, and earnest—so much so as to cause considerable surprise to the other students, who had judged, from the luxury of her attire and appointments, that she was a mere dilettante.

She was far and away the most elementary pupil in the studio, and truth to tell did not find it particularly interesting to sit alone hour after hour in a corner, covering reams of Michallet, and using up boxes of charcoal in repeated struggles to depict gigantic plaster replicas of detached features from Michael Angelo's "David," or innumerable casts of torsos, of arms and legs, hands and feet, in all sizes and attitudes—painfully suggestive of amputations.

For stimulus and encouragement she would peep into the two rooms where the more advanced students were working from life, in one room from the costume model, in the other from the nude. The mental atmosphere of these rooms was so full of energy and enthusiasm that she would return with fresh ardour to her limbs and features.

Not that she was able to devote all her time to the services of the exigent Muses, nor, alas! could this pursuit arouse the keenest, most engrossing thoughts and energies of which her nature was capable. Interest in this, as in everything else in the wide universe, showed pallid and feeble before the overwhelming and concentrated interest of her love for Morris Kenyon. There was something almost tragic in such a domination. Barely seventeen, her heart and mind should have been still too youthful, too immature, to conceive and sustain such force of emotion.

Morris had many friends in Naples, and both visited and entertained considerably. Evarne, both by reason of her studies and her recent loss, could be prevailed upon to take very little part in any fêtes. Still, she started to learn Italian, and was soon able to express her will to Bianca in all simple matters, and to amuse Morris by her courageous, laughable efforts.

She fancied herself a perfect little diplomatist, and was blissfully unaware that her affection for him was very soon betrayed to his experienced eye by her every look—every word—every action. Under the circumstances, silence on the momentous topic so uppermost in both minds was naturally not maintained for long.

One night as she sat on a footstool at his feet, spoiling her eyesight by delicate fancy work, not speaking much, but at intervals contentedly humming a little song, a sudden impatience at further waste of time took possession of him.

"Evarne," he said abruptly, and as the girl in all unconsciousness stayed her needle and looked up inquiringly, he bent forward, and without any warning pressed his lips to hers. Then, shaken from his habitual calm, he placed his hands heavily upon her shoulders and gazed intently into her eyes, his expression telling yet more than his actions.

She remained motionless as if hypnotised, her face still uplifted. "Evarne, sweetest little Evarne!" he murmured after a pause, in accents tender and caressing. At the sound of his voice she dropped her head slowly lower and yet lower, until it finally rested upon his knee. Still she spoke nothing.

Slipping his arms around her, he forcibly drew her up until her head was pillowed upon his breast. Then he kissed her again and again, kissed her brow, her hair, her cheeks, her mouth.

"Darling, are you happy?" he breathed at length into her ear.

Upon this the girl released herself from his hold, and kneeling erect by his side, looked with wide-open, excited, somewhat horrified eyes straight into his. It was no highly-wrought sentiment either of love or indignation that fell from her lips. Simply, yet emphatically, she cried—

"Oh, we mustn't! we mustn't! We were both forgetting your wife!"

Morris was rather proud of his versatility, and cultivated the art of being all things to all women. The last lady on whom he had temporarily bestowed his affections had, like Evarne, been tactless and inconsiderate enough to invoke the memory of the happily absent one at a critical moment. To Evarne's predecessor he had lightly remarked, "Oh! hang my wife, Birdie. She doesn't count." Birdie had giggled, called him a "naughty man," and there had been an end to that topic.

To have addressed any such flippant answer to Evarne and her clamouring conscience would have meant the end of all things. Morris unhesitatingly took the one and only course that would serve his turn now. He adopted the plan of apparent perfect frankness, not only regarding the legal partner of his joys and woes, but concerning much else that he had hitherto kept hidden.

With many a sign of great mental struggle, now flashing forth eloquent glances, now veiling his eyes from her clear, searching gaze, he made confession of his deception concerning Mrs. Kenyon's promised presence at "Mon Bijou." He waxed alternately ardent and pathetic as he discoursed upon the love he bore Evarne and all that it meant to him, vowing that it was the intensity of his affection alone that had prompted him to his falsehood. He abused himself so unsparingly, that half-unconsciously she was moved to utter a pleading little cry of pity and expostulation.

Thereupon he went on to explain in touching terms that he was but a lonely, desolate man, rapidly becoming weary of life, embittered and miserable, until her charm, her sweet goodness, aroused him, awoke affection and brought fresh zest into his existence—and so on, and so on.

"My wife, well, she was a nicely-brought-up, rather silly girl, pretty enough once and good-natured too, but now soured and aged by permanent, incurable illness. There is no bond of any kind between us. We have not a thought in common. There are no children; she can never be either companion or wife to me. Frail though she is, she has a marvellous vitality, a wondrous clinging to life. Such unhappy existences—a curse to themselves and others,—are always prolonged. Think of it, dearest, think what it means to a man to be practically tied to a corpse, cut off from all the joy of living."

Then he soared to lofty heights of moralising, told her—or at least implied—that all his hopes of heaven rested upon her gentle influence and affection. "I may seem to others but a hard, somewhat cynical man of the world, yet I have got here"—and in true dramatic style he struck his breast over the supposed region of a presumably panting heart—"I have got here a longing for a true woman's disinterested, faithful affection, such as many a sentimental stringer together of rhymes has never experienced. Evarne, care for me a little; love me, darling. Let me love you. It means everything to me."

All this sentiment quite overcame his sweet-natured listener. Morris had made a studied though carefully veiled appeal, either by his looks or his words, direct to her most generous instincts. If much of it was mere acting—exaggerated and artificial—his passionate desire to gain her love was real enough. It was no reproach to frank, unsuspicious, inexperienced Evarne—already blinded by affection—that she could see only the evident sincerity that inspired all this bombast.

A flood of tender pity and sympathy swelled in her breast; all resentment at his deception, all hesitation and restraint, were swept away. If the assurance of her deep love, her utter trust, did in very truth mean happiness to him, it should be his. Rising to her feet impulsively, she pressed his head with almost fierce force against her bosom, murmuring, "I do love you, my dear one. Indeed, I do love you." Then she bent over, and almost reverently pressed a long kiss upon his brow.

So far, so good, and in mutual love confessed Evarne's ideal was attained! It was rather incomprehensible that she could for one minute have supposed that "finis" would be written in Morris's masculine conception of the old, old story, at a similar point to where it appeared in the poetical version that had been evolved from out her imagination. Yet when, in the course of a very short time, the inevitable discovery was made that he had never entertained the notion of loving her as an "inspiration to a noble life," nor as a "kindred soul," nor as his "good angel," but merely as a man always loves a woman, and that he sought a return of affection in kind, it came as a stunning revelation.

At first Morris had not been at all sure but that she would endeavour to shake the dust of "Mon Bijou" from her feet without delay. In fact, he always declared that, probably inspired by the vicinity of Capri, she had given him to understand that he was on a moral level with the defunct Tiberius. But for her own part her first recollections that were at all clear and distinct were very different.

In all moments of mental disturbance her first desire was for solitude, and in this crisis, bidding Morris not to follow her, she sped wildly out into the dark garden. There, leaning for support against the pillar of a statue, and gazing up at the serene masses of white clouds and the tinted halo encircling the moon, breathing in the perfume of the earth and its green growth, while a gentle breath of sea-breezes played with her heavy hair, she gradually regained calmness.

Her Greek studies had taught her much—so much that she had believed there was but little left for her to learn. Yet to us all is life an untold tale—strange, unique, unguessed. What wisdom of sage, what sensual raptures of pagan poet, had ever prompted her to anticipate the exaltation, the triumph, that awoke at the realisation that she too had her share in the resistless power of womanhood? She felt plunged into full harmony with nature—felt herself knit to the great heart of woman all the world over by the sentient cords of sex-sympathy.

Carried out of herself she flung back her head and gave utterance to emotion by lifting up her voice in song—just full rich notes that rolled forth unconsidered, all unhampered by words—a spontaneous outpouring of glorification and the joy of victory. Pressing both hands hard upon her bosom she felt the force with which it rose and fell beneath her deep breathing, and strangely delighted, the girl laughed triumphantly with the notes of her song.

A sudden step near by startled her into abrupt shamefaced silence: Morris stood by her side. He had been seeking her in the garden and had traced her by this wild song that broke the stillness of the night. Unrestricted displays of feeling were entirely new to Evarne, her previous uneventful routine having given scant cause for much excitement of any sort. Now she felt keen abashment at her extraordinary show of emotion, and was almost humiliated to realise that she was not alone.

"I told you not to follow me. I don't want you," she said quickly and decidedly.

For a moment Morris was startled; then he understood the change that was beginning to take place in her mind. No longer was she a simple child addressing her guardian and benefactor, but a woman growing conscious of her own power. Of course she would be whimsical, capricious, alternately authoritative and submissive, wilful and yielding, like the rest of the darlings.

"I meant to obey," he answered with ready meekness, "but can you blame the impotence of mortal man's resolution when the siren calls?"

Sudden anger flashed over Evarne at this vague suggestion that she had fled from him only to draw him to her side again by her voice.

"I'm not a siren, and I don't say one thing and mean another, though I know you find it difficult to believe that of any woman," she replied curtly, and with head erect walked back through the French window into the brightly-lit room. Once safely out of sight, she darted rapidly upstairs to the safety of her own room.

In a minute or two she heard her name called softly through the door, then the pleading whisper—

"Evarne, I can have no rest unless I know you are not angry with me."

She was silent for a moment, but the delay was brief. No resentment could endure before the music of that dear voice. She guessed right well that a locked door between them was all-sufficient for Morris to endure, so answered him generously, as her heart prompted—

"Rest, then; rest happily now and ever."

Within the peaceful sanctuary of her delicate green and white bedroom, the chief amid her more normal thoughts and feelings resumed their sway. Foremost came that imperative demand for self-approbation—that pride in self—that made her ever the slave of what she held to be honourable. The spirit of righteousness sprang up alert, quick to wage war against the mere suggestion that under any provocation—any excuse of overwhelming stress of love—she should permit herself to be stained by dishonour.

Strong and self-confident, the girl at last sank to sleep. But her slumber was light, and early next morning she was awake and thoughtful. She acknowledged being glad to have experienced the sensations of last night—glad to have been granted that period of exaltation, and to have revelled in it to the full. It had made all life seem more understandable and interesting—yet it had brought about no wondrous change of personality! Evarne still remained herself; still good and conscientious and new to the ways of love; a young philosopher, and therefore indulgent to the natural frailties of mankind. She esteemed Morris not one whit the less for having shown himself but human; yet—realising that he could not make her his wife—her conscience and her wishes united in the resolution that love 'twixt him and herself must ever remain a thing ethereal—a poem—a fair dream—a sweet sentiment blossoming only in the soul.

She went to Florelli's as usual, but her studies occupied a very secondary place in her thoughts. All she meant to say to Morris—all he might perhaps answer—all the beautiful sentiments she had to express and which she was sure must appeal so irresistibly to him—all the lofty ideals of her soul that she was going to impart to his—obtruded themselves between her mind and her drawing.

As she dressed for dinner that evening an unexpected shyness crept over her, and it was with quite an effort that she went downstairs. But all imagined difficulties and embarrassments faded like snow before the sunlight of his eyes. Her own danced for joy at being in his presence again, yet there was a touch of stiffness and formality in her demeanour that was new.

Morris listened more or less patiently to her dear little sermons, and with difficulty resisted stopping her pretty lips with kisses. But she was very much on her dignity that night, so assuring her that she was nothing more than a sweet, refreshing baby, he merely delivered a sermon on his own account, with a very different text.

That night the influence of the day's high meditation rendered her proof against his sophistries, but as time passed their steady reiteration began to make headway. Morris unswervingly bent all his powers to gain control of the situation. The sport amused him. He had nothing to distract his attention, and the prize was so well worth the winning that time and trouble were as nothing. He attempted no sudden decisive coup, feeling greater confidence in the weapons of gentle argument and persuasion, patience and a discreet mingling of ardour and forbearance.

CHAPTER VI
A SOUL'S BATTLE

Evarne grew steadily more troubled—more unhappy—more shaken in her once firm convictions. Up to the present, save in a few unconsidered trifles, she had always obeyed the dictates of her conscience. Now this prop failed her; indeed, she seemed to have two opposing consciences, each struggling for supremacy.

While one inward voice would desperately recall the existence of Mrs. Kenyon, the other would reply by scornfully declaring that it was but selfishness, cowardice, calculating prudence and cold lack of trust, that clutched hold of the vision of the distant invalid whose finger bore the only wedding ring that Morris could give, and that these contemptible qualities used the wife but as a moral shield behind which to conceal their own mean, hideous forms. There was no breaking up of a previously happy home involved, no ruthless destroying of another woman's peace of mind; while beyond a doubt she was depriving the man she professed to love—and to whom she owed everything—of the only return she could make for all his kindness and devoted affection.

Obviously this spiritual civil war could not forever consist of drawn battles between the rival forces. Ere long even her own self-respect—the chief bulwark of the defending army—trembling beneath resistless attacks, was on the verge of capitulation. True, she might have fled from "Mon Bijou," but convinced of Morris's engrossing love, she could not do this without likening herself to the snake of the fable, who, warmed back to life in its rescuer's bosom, then turned and stung him.

But unless she thus left Morris desolate, and cast herself helpless and penniless upon the world, she was forced to continue to accept everything—mere food and raiment, let alone luxury—at his hands, and above all to receive daily and hourly that care and devotion that can only be repaid in coin of the same nature. He so obviously delighted in giving; was she, for her part, empty of all sense of gratitude, of all generosity?

Almost she began to deem herself something to be despised, and self-reproaches bordering upon remorse caused the bread of charity to taste bitter in her mouth. At times every sentiment that is most ennobling seemed ranged amongst the forces that bade her let love pay its debt. This veering of the tide of battle was not very visible, even to the man's watchful and experienced eye. His patience was getting exhausted. He had been fully prepared to wait, but with the passing of time, the light in which Warren Hastings regarded the questionable acquirement of his much-discussed Indian fortune became applicable to Morris Kenyon's state of mind concerning his dealings with Evarne. He began to feel "surprised at his own moderation."

Therefore, on coming up quietly behind her one afternoon as she sat sketching in the garden, he overheard with some satisfaction the words she was softly singing as she worked. It was the beginning of Emerson's little poem—

"Give all to love;
Obey thy heart;
Friends, kindred, days,
Estate, good-fame,
Plans, credit, and the Muse,
Nothing refuse."

When a fair maiden beguiles her solitude by dwelling tunefully upon such sentiments, it may reasonably be supposed that they are not altogether uncongenial to her mind.

He announced his presence by covering her eyes with his hands, and lightly dropping a kiss on the top of her head. When she had laughingly shaken herself free he lay down on the grass at her feet, and, plucking a flower, commenced to pull it to pieces.

"You need not have sung that song to the birds," he declared, after a protracted survey of her fair face. "They need no such promptings, sweetest. They do obey their hearts."

"I suppose it is only meant for selfish human beings, then," she answered somewhat plaintively. Then, moved to a sudden impatience at her burden of doubts, she threw her drawing-book on the ground, crying, "But how very futile to speak of birds. There is no comparison. What concern have they with 'good-fame,' or with any other splendid responsibilities? We human beings have got souls—or—or something of that sort, that we must consider, haven't we?"

"You think so!" and the man's tone was mocking.

"And so do you," came the quick retort. "You remember that picture we looked at the other day? You yourself said it had no soul in it."

"That's altogether different. The sort of soul I meant is the gift of the Muses. Come, my Greek girl, have you forgotten what you yourself told me about your precious Socrates and his views on the necessity of 'divine madness' in creative work? Now I, in my turn, assure you that the brightest amid the Nine never bestows souls on those who refuse submission to Venus. Those who will not bend the knee at that shrine remain forever sane—but uninspired! You see, I know more of the classics than you give me credit for."

"Don't you believe that I love you, that you tell me this? Oh, Morris, Morris dear, do understand!"

"Little darling, it is you who do not understand. Your love for me is but that of a sweet child; you know nothing yet of that irresistible force that dominates the life of the world. The soul, as you like to call it, that you already possess, is sleeping. It has slept long enough, Evarne; you must not be afraid of its awakening."

The girl shook her head.

"How little you know me, it seems. I could never care for you more than I do already. I'm sure—oh, you can't tell—but I'm sure I bear already the very fullest extent of love that my nature is capable of ever producing."

"Your believing that only proves the finite capacities of the powers of imagination! You see, you cannot even realise that there may be—and I assure you there are—possibilities of emotion lying dormant within your mind more powerful than you can even conceive of at present. Only those who can, and who will, shake themselves free from all hampering limitations ever become truly great in any direction. It is quite useless to hope that the 'divine madness' of the Muses may be given to you, unless you are already possessed of courage to seize on true freedom, for that is the only soil in which anything worth having can ever take root, thrive and grow."

"I don't quite understand," she murmured nervously, reluctant to believe.

"In refusing to accept the full companionship of the man who loves you, Evarne, and whom you love in return, you are simply enslaving your emotions, enchaining them, and hopelessly preventing their perfect development. The technique of your chosen Art you will doubtless gain by time and perseverance, but you are scornfully neglecting to bring to fruition a far more subtle source of power—the rich ripeness of soul that alone can appeal to humanity's soul—the flame that can set blazing the fire that lies at the heart of the race of man."

Evarne again parted her lips as if to speak, but without hesitation Morris went on with his homily.

"Whether you set forth to create pictures or books or music, you cannot possibly give more to the children of your brain than is to be found within your own innermost self. Only by having known the most intense, the loftiest, the deepest, in the whole range of emotional experience will you be enabled to put knowledge into your work, and without that, what worth has any work of Art? Believe me, ignorance cannot possibly ring true—truth alone can live and enthral.

"Now, believe me or not, as you like, Evarne, but I assure you that because of all this, love is the one and only teacher that can really evolve a great artist. Forgive me for thus assailing you on all sides, my sweet iceberg, but your happiness and success are very dear to me. I simply cannot bear to see you thus blindly and ignorantly opposing the unfolding of the bright flower of your genius. As I started by saying, your soul is still sleeping, and it will slumber on until you can become reconciled to letting love awaken it."

A protracted silence followed these last words. Evarne continued to gaze at Morris with the rapt expression she always wore when he was pouring fresh thoughts into her mind. This suggestion of a triple alliance between illicit love, the possession of a soul, and success in Art, possessed all the charms and the startling qualities of novelty.

"You are trying to make me think selfishly," she murmured at last, "but you must never believe that my own progress is of more consequence to me than——" She looked at him in silence again, and her eyes and her thoughts grew full of tenderness. Clasping her hands together, she went on, "And oh! if it were, I'm sure, oh! so sure, that the love I feel for you already is—is——"

"It is not of the sort that counts."

"But Socrates says that pure love——"

Morris interrupted her. He felt that this troublesome antique philosopher must be resolutely suppressed once and for all.

"I cannot claim as intimate an acquaintance with the opinions of that gentleman as you possess, little sage; nevertheless, I'll be bound that he supports my opinion. I can't definitely remember, mark you; I am only sure on general principles that no one who taught your pretty, sentimental rubbish—forgive me, sweetheart—could have contrived to get himself accepted for so long. You look—or rather we will seek together—and I'll warrant that I find and show you confirmation of my words."

That night Evarne retired considerably earlier than usual, but unable to sleep, and soon utterly weary of the darkness and her own tangled thoughts, she resolved to follow Morris's advice of the afternoon. She would delve once more into that master-mind that they had both invoked as upholding their contrary ideals.

Flashing on the light, she went into the red room, and returned with her arms filled with the six big volumes of Plato. Tumbling them all on the table by her side she slipped into bed again, and reclining comfortably amid her soft, faintly-perfumed pillows, drew a volume at random from the pile, then hesitated a moment before opening it.

She had perfect confidence that in these works of Plato no sentiments would be found of the nature that Morris sought.

"My dear one is unwise, after holding up fame and success as a bribe, to send me to read this—which is my Bible—and which teaches that happiness lies only in the pursuit of wisdom, of virtue, of all that is good," was her thought, as she lazily laid open the pages. Little did she deem that her bewildering doubts and difficulties were at length to be definitely solved.

It is hard to avoid the terrible belief that there exists a malign omnipotent Spirit at enmity with the race of man; an evil Power untiringly concentrated on watching for and contriving opportunities to work dire mischief—to create miseries of all kinds—to impose agony of mind and body upon all that has life. Not without some show of reason have there ever been secret sects of devil-worshippers, who recognise the existence of, and seek to propitiate, this force so hostile to humanity, this merciless Something that works with superhuman ingenuity to aid and bring to fruition that which is of itself—evil—to conquer, to destroy, to render impotent all that which is of a contrary nature; or more terrible still, to bend such to its own purposes, employing all that is best and noblest and sweetest in life and human nature as tools wherewith to work destruction.

Within a few minutes of opening the Oracle, Evarne was sitting erect, all her sleepy indifference and listlessness gone. Throughout all the time of her mental stress she had not appealed to these familiar works. What more could a further study of Socrates do than intensify her desire to remain his faithful disciple? She had deemed it quite useless to look for special guidance as to which of the two opposing courses open to her really led to the acquisition of true wisdom, virtue, and spiritual beauty. That she should now open directly at one of those strangely rare definite statements concerning right and wrong, was a coincidence so extraordinary that it is difficult to believe that a controlling intelligence had not arranged this apparent chance.

She re-read the sentence upon which her eye had fallen, vaguely wondering how she could ever have forgotten its doctrine. It was a portion of the "Phædrus," and referred to that eternal topic, love, or rather to a certain imitation of the glorious reality. This semblance was characterised as "being mingled with mortal prudence, and dispensing mortal and niggardly gifts," and its dire result was "to generate in the soul an illiberality which is praised by the multitude as virtue, but which will cause it to be tossed about the earth and beneath the earth for nine thousand years, devoid of intelligence."

Naturally, it was not a belief in the threatened aftermath of harbouring this "illiberality" that appalled her. It was the sudden revelation that the inspired Socrates—far from upholding and approving her present discreet line of conduct—would have condemned her for "illiberality praised by the multitude as virtue," as unhesitatingly as she was now willing to confess that she herself held it in contempt! After the first moment's shock she found comfort in the reflection that the opinion at which she had arrived independently, albeit slowly and reluctantly, found confirmation in the words of this great teacher.

Something outside herself now seemed to take possession of her body, and to control her deeds. Immediate action became imperative. Instinctively, almost mechanically, she sprang out of bed, flung her white silk dressing-gown around her, and sped barefooted along the corridor and up the little flight of stairs that led to Morris's rooms.

There was still a light showing under the door; quite steadfastly and without hesitation she turned the handle, and when it refused to yield she rattled it violently. Hearing a quick step inside she felt the blood surge to her head, but no suggestion of faltering or regret came to trouble her finally settled conviction. This seemingly wild impulse—being in reality the climax of long reflection—was far from being a transient ebullition of feeling. It was rooted in her will; and Evarne's will, once fairly turned in any direction, was impervious to conflicting influences.

In the unnaturally exalted state to which her highly-strung nervous system had now lifted her, it would have seemed a mere nothing to have walked into an arena of wild beasts for the sake of the man she loved—easy to have flung herself upon swords to give him happiness—yea, she would unhesitatingly have followed him to hell itself had he beckoned. Are those amid mankind who never knew the "madness" of Eros to be pitied or envied?

CHAPTER VII
ROSES AND RAPTURES

In a time of fair summer, amid varied scenes of beauty, the next phase of Evarne's life glided past—vivid, brilliantly happy—as devoid of apprehension or sense of finality as is the dream of a lotus-eater. As the spring advanced, and Naples became over-sultry for those reared in northern climes, Morris took her to cooler regions. Together they wandered through Switzerland and the Austrian Tyrol, and only with the approach of the winter season were they again in residence at "Mon Bijou."

With the ensuing spring, Morris's restless spirit once more asserted itself, and the summer saw them in London. There he held a social position which led him into circles where no man can introduce a woman who occupies the position Evarne now held. But he saw that plenty of diversions and gaieties of one kind and another came her way. She was still interested in her Art, and, happy in love given and returned, she wasted no sighs over those society gatherings from which she was forever strictly tabooed.

Morris studied appearances to the extent of paying an occasional brief visit to Mrs. Kenyon at their country home; in the autumn, too, he sometimes left Evarne to her own devices in the flat wherein she was mistress, while he joined shooting parties at various country houses. But at the first breath of winter he was quite ready to be coaxed back to the girl's little Paradise on earth, "Mon Bijou."

On their settling down once more at Naples, she was again seen at Florelli's, bent on making up for lost time. Her artistic studies had been of necessity but intermittent. In Morris she beheld her paramount duty; he had been as ardent and jealous as any young lover, lamenting and grudging every minute that Art took her from his service. He laughed at the persistence with which she continued to snatch stray hours for drawing. Her future was his care now, he insisted. He hated to think of those soft, brown eyes squandering their beams upon inanimate objects. Why did she want to waste any of the precious hours of her glorious youth shut up in a crowded, overheated studio, that stank of paint and turpentine and microbes and humanity?

But Evarne had not entirely abandoned the study of Philosophy for that of Love. She told him, with fascinating seriousness, that in order to maintain the mental balance that was described as "Happiness," it was necessary to both cultivate and provide an outlet for the intellectual faculties, as well as for those impulses that were revelling with such joyous abandon amid "the roses and raptures of vice."

Thus she was sadly disappointed when, within a fortnight of settling down once more seriously to work, Morris announced that he was going to Paris for a week or two, and of course expected her to accompany him.

She had just arrived at one of those stages, so delightful to pass through in any study, when a distinct advance in power is felt. The close of each day's efforts left her with the exhilarating feeling of having surpassed herself—of having successfully overstepped her previous highest limit. To abandon her work at this crisis was the last thing she desired.

"Morris, dearest," she pouted in sudden protest, "why do we wander about so very much? It is so delightful here."

"But I must go to Paris now. I have business."

"I thought you never had to do anything you didn't want to? Anyway, dearie, couldn't you live without me for a fortnight? I know how it will be! If you have got me with you we shall end up by roaming all through the winter, but if I am here at 'Mon Bijou,' waiting for you—why, then, you will return quickly."

Morris protested, but in the end Evarne for once took her own way. It was quite unusual for her not immediately and unhesitatingly to set aside her own wishes should they chance to conflict with those of her lover; on the other hand, Morris always duly consulted her respecting the plans and arrangements of their mutual life, and had never realised how entirely it was his will alone that controlled their movements. Now his vanity was wounded—not so much that she should question his arrangements, as that the form the opposition took should actually imply her willingness to bear a separation. It was something fresh and strange in his wide experience, and—to his way of thinking—far from flattering! What he always expected was the necessity of soothing jealous fears and apprehensions arising from periods of absence of his own making.

Thus he went off with a feeling of displeasure against Evarne that was new. He did not comprehend that it was the very knowledge of the strength of her own affection that enabled her to see him leave the arc of her personal magnetism and influence without feeling any anxiety. In London she had been forced to spend days alone while he was in the company of others—women, high-born, beautiful, no doubt—yet she had never feared for his loyalty. Sweet, blind trust!

Shortly after his return from Paris, Morris showed that he had no intention of spending the whole of the winter and spring at Naples, as he had done during the two previous years.