After an interval of quietness the door was cautiously opened a trifle, a head was popped in and rapidly withdrawn. Evarne had not time to notice to whom it belonged, but she immediately regained sufficient strength to walk across the room. She could not endure to be thus made into a spectacle, neither could she longer gaze upon this dire material destruction that typified, only too cruelly, the fate that had befallen her love, her happiness and her future.
As she opened the door and appeared on the threshold, there was a general sense of rustling, of rapid footsteps, of stifled exclamations in the corridor and the surrounding rooms, as various figures hastened to efface themselves. But the girl, heeding nothing, made directly for her own apartment and securely locked herself therein.
Then, after a moment's reflection on what had passed that hour, she again collapsed beneath alternate transports of anger and heart-tearing grief. Now she would be sweeping wildly to and fro, with clenched fists and hurried strides, her body swaying and shaking as she walked; next, exhausted, flinging herself upon bed or floor, torn with sobs, drowned by tears, only to spring to her feet again as stress of anguish goaded her to action.
Her feelings towards Morris were variable as the wind. At times the memory of his brutal insults, his treachery and faithlessness, were uppermost in her thoughts; then she felt for him only the most intense and passionate hatred, bitterly grudging every hour of happiness to which she had contributed in the past; praying wildly that the future might hold for him agony of spirit equal to that into which he had so ruthlessly plunged her. Then, again, a flood of her old devotion would rise above all else. "Morris, Morris, come back to me! Oh, my darling, my darling, how can I live without you?" was her sobbing appeal; but there was none to answer.
For the most part she sorrowed in silence. She was aware that whispered conversations were in progress outside her door, and more than once the handle was turned cautiously. Later in the afternoon, Bianca, who was genuinely attached to her beautiful young mistress, ventured to tap again and again, at the same time imploring, in a tremulous voice, to be allowed to do something—anything. But Evarne turned a deaf ear to all.
Time passed, and the first violence of her emotion burned itself out. Then she became conscious that she felt sick and ill, and that her head ached to distraction. Letting down her thick black hair, she threw herself once again upon her tumbled bed, and made a first serious and protracted effort to remain absolutely quiet and calm. Long she lay there, staring at vacancy, sighing piteously at intervals, until as the evening twilight crept into the room, the lids drooped over the wild eyes and the exhausted girl sank into slumber.
When she awoke, it was night. The room was shrouded in darkness, and perfect silence reigned. As recollection returned she despairingly pressed her hands to her head, but firmly forbade any further lapse from self-control. The determination she had arrived at during the weary time she had lain passive before falling asleep was now to be put into action. When the traitors who were beneath that roof awoke in the morning, they should find their victim gone. She shrank from again meeting either of the Belmonts; Morris it was better she should not see. One of the trains that left Paris in the grey of the morning should bear her away—far beyond the reach of these, her enemies.
Her thoughts turned towards London. She was not exactly a feminine Dick Whittington; at the same time the great metropolis certainly seemed to offer the greatest hope for one who had her own way to make.
Flashing on the light, she looked at her watch. It was a quarter-past three. She rose up, and drawing the curtains over the windows, set about packing the few things it was imperative she should take. At first she seemed to possess neither bag nor box of a suitable size, and, gazing helplessly around the room, realised how weak and nervous, and, above all, how curiously dull and stupid, she was feeling. With an impatient effort she pulled herself together, and concentrated all her wits upon this question of a box. Finally, she thought of her dressing-bag. By removing most of the fittings she was able to crush into it all she had sorted out to pack.
Then, slipping off the embroidered muslin morning-gown she still wore, she sought for her plainest and most serviceable outdoor costume. Evarne's taste in dress in no ways inclined to simplicity. She gloried in frills and furbelows, dainty details, falling lace and fashionably cut skirts. Even her tailor-built gowns were not really severe. The fact that a brown face-cloth was made with a short skirt prompted her choice. It was elaborately stitched and strapped, but demure in tone, its only contrasting colour being a touch of delicate rose-pink—chosen by Morris himself to match the exquisite tint of her cheeks.