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.