CHAPTER II
"The cleverest of all devils is opportunity."—VIELAND.
"Evelyn, you must help me," said Miss Beadon angrily. "How can you say no, and be so horribly cruel? It's such a tiny favour to ask; it shan't cost you a penny, I promise, if you'll only come. I'll let the carriage pick you up." She was on the verge of tears.
Evelyn, to whom tears came with difficulty, thought that they caused other women acute mental agony like her own.
She held out her hand.
"Please don't cry, Dora. There's more in this than you know. I've got to think things out. Be quiet for a minute, dear."
On the face of it it was a small thing Miss Beadon was asking, merely that Evelyn should make a point of accompanying her to the last reunion that night in Hare's rooms before he left town. Evelyn had already accepted the invitation tentatively, meaning only to go if she heard that Farquharson would not be present. At large parties they were able to avoid each other easily. They had never been much together in public. But at so small and intimate a gathering as this—Hare was expecting only ten or twelve people—they must infallibly be thrown together and meet as though things were on the old footing, before their bitter-sweet secret had drawn them near.
But now Dora had come to demand Evelyn's help, and she was made to confront the very thought which she most dreaded. Dora wanted to marry Farquharson. Evelyn shut her eyes and tried to think what life would be under such changed conditions. If the idea was no longer new, it was none the less terrible. Spiritual forces may be called up to battle with many foes successfully, but there are times when spiritual forces fail, when foes from within, the very roots of our nature, take arms against us. It seemed to Evelyn at that moment that the civil war within her was sapping the very life in her body. She could have stood aside to watch Farquharson rise higher and higher, alone, unhampered, even although every step took him further from her, but how could she bear to see him live his life out with another woman, reaping the small domestic joys, gathering in time, perhaps, even the perfect fruit of the tree of life?
"Thou shalt ask and not obtain." The words came back to her. This was, perhaps, what God demanded of her, the penalty for having come near sin. Daily crucifixion—not a mere seven hours agony, but one which would endure to her life's end.
And yet the horrible selfishness of the point of view! What right had she to deny him such little gifts as he might secure from life, which is so rarely bountiful? His inward life, all its purposes and ambitions, would be hers, and in a career like his there must inevitably be dark moments when home comfort and joys, which he had never had, might brace him to meet his difficulties, and nerve him, by sheer force of reaction, for future battles.