IV.
When Julian Goetze arose the next morning he felt strong within himselfto withstand and conquer those fierce impulses of his savage heritagethat had answered to the blandishments of Evelin March. And yet he wasgreatly troubled. He felt that in a large measure he had been to blame.He blushed hotly as he recalled some of the things he had said to thiswoman whom Harry had called a siren.
"Men are all scoundrels," he said, savagely; "I wonder if there arereally any who are not so at heart."
He rapidly formulated his plan of action, and even the sentences withwhich he was to meet and conquer this modern Circe.
"I will keep Eva's face before me," he thought, "and I will treat hercoldly. She is high-spirited and keen; she will notice the change atonce and resent it. She is too proud to demand an explanation."
He felt himself equal to the ordeal. He was anxious now for her to comethat it might be safely passed. As the hours went by he grew impatient;he placed her portrait on the easel and fancied the original was beforehim. He went through an imaginary dialogue with it in which he waswholly victorious. He no longer felt any emotion for this woman.
"I will begin a new life," he said, as he strode rapidly up and down theroom; "a new life." But there was a feverishness in his voice that didnot bode well for his resolution.
"I wish she would come," he muttered, fretfully.
His cheeks were hot and flushed, and his hands were like ice, andtrembling. And the result was--that he failed--failed miserably andcompletely. When, an hour later, Evelin March entered the studio and,throwing off her wrap, stood before him, imperious, soulless andbeautiful--a delicate odor, as of pansies, from her white flesh,stealing into his brain--his pledges of faith and his fair resolvesmelted away like walls of mist, and the face of Eva Delorme shrank backinto the silent recesses of his heart, and only a small voice within himwhispered, "Coward--traitor--"
She glanced at him sharply.
"Something troubles you, _mon ami_. You are not overjoyed at my coming.I have been fancying to myself how impatiently you were waiting."
His hands were no longer trembling. He was calm enough, now, but it wasthe calmness of defeat--of having yielded to the inevitable.
"I have indeed been waiting impatiently," he said, smiling. "You seethat I have been even consoling myself with your picture," and hepointed to the easel.
"From an artistic point of view, only, I fancy."
"That is unkind. I have been holding a conversation with it that I fearI should hesitate to repeat--with the original."
"How interesting! A rehearsal, perhaps."
"Perhaps; and I was testing the powers of my work as compared to thoseof the original."
"And with the result"--
"That my work is a failure."
"How humiliating! May I ask in what way?"
"I could withstand the charms of the picture, but with the original"--
"Well, and with the original?"
"I failed."
The face before him was radiant; but down in his heart the small voice,growing very faint, still whispered, "Coward--traitor--fool."
That evening Harry Lawton found him sitting gloomily before the windowlooking out upon the shadows that were gathering in the little gardenbeneath. As the door opened he glanced up and nodded without speaking.
"Circe came?"
Again the artist nodded.
"And conquered?"
Another nod.
"Did you suppose for a moment that she wouldn't?"
No answer.
Lawton assumed a dignified attitude, and began with mock earnestness:
"Oh, wise man--thou who knowest so well the heart and the face ofNature--how little thou knowest of thine own soul!"
A shade of anguish swept over the artist's face, but he made no reply.
"Most gentle and gifted man! Last night I listened long and patiently tothe scintillating wisdom of your wonderful brain. Let me now speak,while you, in turn, give ear.
"When, last night, you showed me the portraits and told me theirhistory, I foresaw this moment. You are plunged into despair at thecontemplation of your own weakness. You have been abusing your soulwith hard names. Now, I would whisper to you with great gentleness thatwhat you observed to me last night, about the sunlight and shadow ofevery life, is true; and that the brightness of the sun cannotilluminate, but only intensifies the blackness of the shade. Pursuingthe same line of reasoning, I add that flowers bloom in the sunlight,while mushrooms thrive in the darkness. That because man is fond ofmushrooms is no reason why he should be deprived of flowers. Thatbecause your purer and spiritual self reaches out for the stainlesslily, is no reason why your material and grosser nature should be leftstarving. Because you are for a time intoxicated with Evelin March is noreason why, in your calmer and nobler existence, you should not lovetruly and sinlessly, Eva Delorme.
"I am aware that my logic is not wholly in accord with generallyaccepted theory. It accords much more nearly, perhaps, with universalpractice--of course I refer only to men in the single walks of life. Itis well known that all men after marriage are irreproachable. And whenyou have plucked your stainless lily, you, like the rest, will subsistonly upon its fragrance. But really, for the present, I cannot see thatyour affair with Miss March in any way conflicts with your sentimentsfor Miss Delorme; and especially as you have known the latter but a fewhours in all--hardly sufficient, I should think, to inspire a lifelongdevotion. Truly, Julian, I would advise you not to take matters quite soseriously, and let the tide drift as it will for the present."
Throughout this long harangue Julian Goetze had listened in silence.
"Oh, Harry," he groaned, as the other paused, "you don't know what atraitor I am!"
"Well, possibly my sensibilities are not over fine, but I think you willbe more comfortable for taking my advice."
Without replying, the artist rose and going into the adjoining roomreturned a moment later with a decanter and glasses.
"I am tired," he said, apologetically, as he caught the look ofdisapproval in his friend's eye; "it will do me good."
"None for me, Julian, before supper, and--I don't think, if--if I wereyou, I would take any, either."
"I am exhausted, Harry; I am not going to supper and I need it," hesaid, fretfully.
The other sighed and did not reply. Goetze filled one of the glasses anddrank it off, then he resumed his seat by the window. A little later hisfriend took leave of him; reaching the street door he hesitated as ifabout to turn back, then he lifted the latch, and passed slowly out intothe lighted street, closing the door gently behind him.
The next morning the studio of Julian Goetze was locked. It remainedlocked all day, and within, stretched upon the floor, unconscious, laythe gifted man, and by his side was an empty flask.