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Ebook has 1238 lines and 51029 words, and 25 pages

"I prefer to stop in England. I--I--well, I suppose I may as well tell you. There's no reason for secrecy. I've seen the woman I want to marry."

Jack tried to look mystified and at a loss, as if thereby he could ward off the evil hour.

"Who is it?" he inquired.

"Why, you blind old bat, who should it be but--Miss Stornway?"

The blow had fallen.

"Geoffrey Danvers!" and Jack's voice was full of horror. "You must not be so idiotic!"

The young man laughed lightly as he answered--

"Object, argue and discuss as much as you like. I'll talk to you for hours about her. Why should I not marry that sweet girl? Tell me?"

"Only a model! What on earth has that got to do with it?"

"It's a very serious objection on earth, whatever it may be in heaven," retorted Jack, flattering himself he had been rather smart.

Jack interrupted. Even his limited imagination was capable of supplying the conclusion of this sentiment.

"Look here, Geoff! Do see reason."

"I prefer to see Evarne."

"Oh, she's a nice girl enough, and I don't doubt she's straight as a die. But don't--don't rush into this affair madly and hastily. You were going to Venice. Well, for goodness' sake go."

"I will, later on, and take Evarne with me. I say, I take it all very much for granted, don't I? But she does care for me--you think she does, eh?"

Jack discreetly suppressed the retort that rose to his lips.

"How can I tell? But, of course, I meant go alone to Italy, to test the reality of your feelings. Six months out of a lifetime--why, it's nothing, if it be really an affair for a lifetime. And if absence shows it to be but a passing fancy--well, you will have done no harm to her or to yourself."

"If I didn't see her for twenty years, I should never change, never forget her."

"And it's only six months that's in question. If she really is the woman above all others for you, then, I'd say, make her your wife even if she were a beggar in the streets. But be sure first, Geoff! You're twenty-six now--not a hot-brained boy. Do submit your fancy to this small test before you fly in the face of society. You know what a general row there will be, and how all your own set will disapprove. You are the heir to a title, though you never seem to remember it, so that your marriage is a matter of real importance."

"It's hardly likely since he's about a quarter of a century older. Anyway, there's the possibility, not to say the likelihood, that your wife will one day find herself a countess, and that your son will be the future Earl of Winborough. It really is no light matter, old fellow. Don't disappoint these boys; go to Venice with them, and see how you feel toward Miss Stornway when you come back."

"And have some other lucky beggar with more gumption carrying her off in the meanwhile?"

"If she married anyone else in six months it would most certainly prove that she had not got the same true depth of feeling for you that you have for her. You ought to be sure, both of yourself and of her, before you make her your wife."

Thus Jack continued, arguing and discussing, talking the profoundest of common sense, yet with enough of sympathy to add weight to his words. And again Geoffrey saw the dark side of the shield, noticed the shadows athwart the roseate path. Finally he resolved not to alter his plans for the summer. Six months would soon be gone, and the passing of this time of test would sweep the last lingering scruples from his mind.

"It is a serious matter, and ought to be treated seriously. I'm glad I've resolved to go," was his ultimate conclusion.

"I shall often write to you, Evarne," he declared, holding the girl's hands as they bade each other farewell. "You will answer my letters, won't you?"

She did not look up, not able to trust herself to meet his eyes.

"Yes," she replied very meekly, yet gloriously gladdened at heart. "I will write if you wish me to."

Impulsively Geoffrey bent down and kissed first one of the hands he held and then the other. Thus they parted.

SEKHET SMILES

Until the end of the week Evarne posed for Jack Hardy alone. She had now acquired an entirely fresh interest and new importance in that young man's eyes, and he exerted himself to amuse and cheer her during these early days of separation. Geoffrey was not much mentioned between them. Prudence on the one side, and an instinctive restraint on the other, prevented this. Nevertheless, Evarne was conscious of an added loss when she left this studio to sit for a woman artist, and her surroundings were no longer imbued with the magnetism of the absent one.

But letters from Geoff promptly proceeded to rain down upon her. Within twenty-four hours of his quitting London came a brief note, and apparently his first act on reaching Venice was to write to her for the second time.

"I shall let four full days go by before I answer," she decided. But ere that time had passed, a third very lengthy epistle had arrived, which concluded with the gentlest of reproaches for her unkind negligence in not replying sooner. Thus, when she did sit down after supper one evening to write her first letter to Geoffrey, many pages covered with his handwriting were spread out before her gaze.

The correspondence thus commenced rapidly developed into the most engrossing, enthralling, and delightful feature in the existence of these two. They exchanged ideas, sympathies, experiences, hopes and fears; and their uttermost frankness on any and every subject but served to show with increased emphasis how harmonious were their innermost natures, how naturally their minds trod the same paths.

Both wrote well and easily, although for some time Evarne, with true feminine discretion, retained a firm grip upon the too frank display of the strength of her affection for Geoffrey. But the days in which she forbade her written words to adequately express what she felt were very speedily left behind. As to the young man himself, all his cautious scruples had exhausted themselves in leading him out of England. From the first he was troubled by few restrictions, and within a month he was avowedly writing love letters.

He had never made any abrupt and startling declaration of his feelings, let alone of his intentions. It was just a case of swift yet easy drifting. He appeared to deem it a matter of course that Evarne knew and recognised the fact that he loved her, and that all else was to be taken for granted. She was both amused and attracted by this simple and unobtrusive change in their correspondence from comparative formality to tender truth. She expressed no surprise, but took it all quietly and without comment. Indeed, it seemed really but a natural and ordinary thing that she and Geoffrey should acknowledge their love. It was a continuance of a pretence of mere friendship between them that would have seemed extraordinary. To abandon any disguise was not only easy and comforting--it was instinctive.

Thus all those fresh vague thoughts, those dominating and ardent emotions that love brings into being, and which suppression causes to torture the brain wherein they are conceived, were granted free scope and outlet in the heart-to-heart letters that they wrote so gladly one to another. And their love grew and strengthened steadily from this use and outgiving.

It had been some time before Evarne had got to the point of responding with equal frankness to Geoff's ardent epistles, but she did arrive at last.

"Have no fear. I love you--love you utterly! I never seem to get tired now, however long the day; for the hours fade into nothingness in dreams of you. You know how ready all we lazy models are to jump down from the throne directly 'time' is called? Now I often surprise people by not moving when the magic word is spoken. I have not heard it, for I have been--where?--out in Venice--or in Paradise--I know not; but wherever the place may be, I have been with you! How, then, can I be expected to hear, unless people shout to startle me back to earth? In the 'rests' I read as usual, or, to be exact, not as usual; for often on reaching the end of a page I become aware that I know nothing at all of what it is about--the thought of you, my dear tormentor, has come 'twixt me and the words, and for very shame's sake I have had to start again and try to banish you for just a few minutes."

"Whatever you find to say to Mr. Danvers is more than I can make out," declared Philia, as Evarne, having completed writing her letter, proceeded to put its pages into order. "You scribbles sheets and sheets, and every day almost--why, you writes books, and 'e's as bad. If I was the postman I wouldn't 'ave it! Now, jist look at the size of that billy-do."

The young woman made a little grimace.

"It is rather long, isn't it? But the difficulty does not lie in finding what to say. It is in obliging one's self to stop."

"Are you goin' to marry 'im, Evarne?"

"I--I suppose that is an allowable question? I don't.... No! I believe--how can I tell? I never think of anything ahead."

"Give me somethin' I can swoller better'n that. 'Ow startled you look. What's to prevent?"

"Marrying! That's--oh, he will marry someone of his own rank."

"Go on with yer. Ain't you a laidy--a perfect laidy, says I?"

"I'm an artist's model. Nothing more nor less," was the somewhat haughtily spoken rejoinder.

"Then I 'opes to goodness you'll be careful what yer writes. It's a jolly dangerous game, I tell yer, puttin' silly talk into writin' and then chuckin' it into the pillar-box. Lord only knows what may come to it before it's safely burned or tored up."

Evarne smiled.

"You unromantic old dear! What harm do you think can come of it?"

"'E could spoil your chance, if 'e was so minded, with any other gentleman as might want to marry yer."

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