Sekhet. Irene Miller
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