CHAPTER XXXV
THE STROKE OF SEKHET
The resonant strokes of great clocks boomed forth the third hour after midnight; the sounds faded away languidly upon the heavy air, and silence reigned once more over the sleeping city. Evarne wandering downstairs, leaned out of the landing-window counting the tones, listened until they had died into nothingness, then, with a shuddering sigh, continued her way to the sitting-room.
Hour after hour throughout this seemingly endless night had she wandered over her little house, pacing to and fro distractedly in every room in turn. Morris Kenyon had come again into her life, and to stop her marriage would, if necessary, ruthlessly betray her secret to Geoff. It was beyond any possibility of doubt. That brief interview with him had clearly shown his intention. What power had she to prevent it? He would tell all—and then—what then? Even in imagination the results were well-nigh insupportable. And this approaching blow would not—could not—fall on herself alone; and in this reflection there lay a sting potent as that of the torturing gadfly that drove Io of old wandering over land and water seeking peace in vain.
Why, why had she ever risked this calamity? She ought to have told Geoff the whole truth about herself directly she saw he was growing really to care for her. But now, as an additional offence, she had been guilty of such brazen lies; had deceived him both by words and by silences so continually and deliberately. Her whole conduct towards him must now appear shameful, utterly dishonourable. It was almost impossible to hope that his affection would endure in the face of such dire discoveries, it was quite out of the question to expect him afterwards implicitly to believe even her strongest assertions. Strive as she might to explain her motives, to excuse trickery that she could not deny, however earnestly she should plead, mourn, regret, she could never do away with these damning, irrefutable facts. What would Geoff think and say and do? Surely his revulsion of feeling would be terrible and complete?
And if, despite all, he could not cease to care for her—why, so much the worse for him! He who so desired to reverence where he loved could feel but contempt, or at least mere forgiving, generous pity. In place of trust and glad confidence—doubt, surmise, unrest. Better far for her "dreamer" if all memory of her could fade entirely from his thoughts. To love with the heart and despise with the intellect—it could be done. But it was cruel suffering; it bordered on the unendurable! She herself knew only too well the mental torture that such complex emotions imply. Was she to be the means of forcing Geoff to acquire this bitter knowledge?
During the passing of the weary hours her thoughts had travelled widely. Not only had she shuddered at the revelations of that day, and sickened with horror for the future, but memories of the hateful past had pressed upon her with resolute persistency.
And in that retrospect it seemed that bygone days had failed to show her the uttermost possibilities of mental anguish. Not throughout the long-protracted pain of striving against Lucinda Belmont's successful rivalry; not in that moment of humiliation and agony of spirit when Morris had bade her leave him for Tony; not the year of grinding poverty and overwork that followed—none of all this had brought the cruellest last drops of the cup of misery so near her shrinking lips as did the present hour. She knew now that she could taste of these final dregs by one means only—by seeing her own deeds used as the weapon wherewith to shatter the happiness of the man she loved far more dearly then life.
"Geoff, Geoff, forgive me!" she cried aloud, and buried her face in her hands.