But his visitor had no sooner departed than Wyndham experienced a sharp revulsion of feeling. How stupid to have accepted this invitation! His isolation in this suburban wilderness had always afforded him a certain satisfaction—he had consistently maintained his magnificent want of interest in all this Philistine population. His studio was his castle, and if he chose to starve therein it was at least a mitigation of his misery to be able to do so without the sense of others' eyes prying at him. And now he had surrendered his privacy. The indiscretion was really inexplicable! And he had let his tongue run on so recklessly and confidentially! He might even have drawn back at the very last—alleged an engagement, and cut short the acquaintanceship there and then. Perhaps it was not yet too late!
In his annoyance he started pacing the length of the studio. But the great canvas, still glistening there on the easel, suddenly claimed his attention again, and brought him to a standstill. Impulsively he caught up the lamp, and once more directed its light on to the surface.The picture took deep hold of him, and he stood absorbed in it. And somehow Mr. Robinson's wondering voice began to sound its praises. "Marvellous!" the old man seemed to be saying. "It doesn't need an art education to see that's a work of genius." And as he recalled each stroke of admiration, he nodded his head in agreement.
Was not the old man's appreciation of good augury? Surely it foreshadowed a popular Academy success. Whatever one's personal art ideals, it did not detract from their worth if one could carry them out and please the crowd at the same time—incidentally, of course—without deliberate intention. Did not Molière first try his comedies on his housekeeper? Mr. Robinson's tastes were the tastes of the great public—nay, of even the better classes that went to the galleries. Like him, they dwelt entirely on the illustrative aspect of painting, and were altogether swayed by the humanity of a picture, by its dramatic or anecdotal interest. No wonder some of his fellow-craftsmen had been driven to the opposite extreme, and tried to rule out humanity altogether. But the human side of art need not be necessarily on a low plane, or descend to mere anecdote. In his hands art should be the vehicle of real intellect and emotion.
If only he were not forced to do those idiotic trifles! After holding out so long, to capitulateabsolutely for want of bread! No, he would not dine with Mr. Robinson—he would starve rather!
"Better to starve than stoop to inferiors!" he exclaimed, as he set down the lamp again. How little, indeed, he had eaten all that day! And with the thought a distressing weakness came over him. There was a humming at his temples: the studio disappeared in a mist, then reappeared oscillating. He was constrained to steady himself by clutching at the table.
In a minute or two the vertigo passed off, leaving him with a dull craving for food and drink. He might make some sort of a meal from such poor provender as his larder afforded—a portion of a loaf, the remainder of a tin of sardines, a hunk of cheese; but somehow the prospect was singularly uninviting. He might, indeed, add variety to the store by laying out his last shilling in the streets adjoining, but the shilling was too precious, and anyway he had not the energy to go shopping. There swam up before him the picture of a well-lighted, comfortable dining-room with a heavily laden table, and of a middle of salmon, piping hot, that was being served with a dainty white sauce. And then there were hosts of bottles on a mahogany sideboard: fat, gold-tipped bottles; tall, long-necked bottles; fantastic twisted bottles. Good well-cooked food was nourishing him, a delicate wine was moistening his feverish palate, touching his whole dull self to a lighter mood.
He had accepted the invitation. The Robinsons were expecting him, would be troubled and put out if he did not arrive. He carried the lamp up to the gallery, and began his preparations. And then the whim took him to change his clothes again. Not that he supposed the Robinsons affected to be fashionable of an evening, but the pride of the half-starved man rose in irrational self-assertion.
So he dressed carefully, tying his bow to perfection, and arranging the set of his waistcoat fastidiously. It was so long since he had put on evening clothes, and as he saw himself in the glass, well set up, and bearing himself exquisitely, the fact of his poverty seemed absurd and incredible. His face, too, seemed to have recovered some of its olden confidence as he scanned it critically. True the cheeks were a trifle thin and shrunken, but the lines of dejection and sadness had lightened at the new stirring within him.
Then for the first time in all these years he made his way up the road to the ugly house at the corner that had stamped itself upon him as the symbol of all Suburbia, as the stronghold of a type of life that Bohemia mocked at and Belgravia waved aside as impossible.
If he had not yet entirely overcome his distaste, it was at least mitigated by a splendid sense of condescension.
A handsome Phyllis, in cap and apron, opened the door, and Wyndham stepped into a broad corridor, carpeted in red, and hung with popular engravings that he had seen in the windows of all the carvers and gilders in London. Next, he was ushered under a crimson door-hanging into a resplendent drawing-room, lighted by a dazzling crystal chandelier, and sensuously warmed by a great red-hot fire. There was nobody to receive him yet, and he was left to amuse himself with the show-books on the tables—padded photograph albums full of old-fashioned naïve people posing against rococo backgrounds, collections of views of the Valley of the Thames and of the Lake District, and richly bound volumes of Tennyson and Sir Walter Scott.
The interest of these treasures was soon exhausted, and Wyndham, sinking into a remarkably soft arm-chair, impatiently beat with his foot at a cluster of roses on the brand-new "Aubusson" carpet. The room was almost triangular, a large bow window commanding the vista of the main road, andpairs of other windows, straight and tall, overlooking the streets that branched on either hand. And all these windows were elaborately draped in a would-be Renaissance style, with many loops and festoons, and with big gilt cornices above. And between each pair of them stood a gilded consol table surmounted by a mirror that reached to the ceiling. Oval mirrors with lighted candles in sconces glittered from several points of vantage, and crimson couches and the immense piano completed the tale of splendours.
At length the door opened softly, and Mr. Robinson entered. Wyndham rose, not displeased to observe that his host was likewise in evening clothes; as he had been already regretting the self-assertion to which he had yielded.
"Ah, you are in good time," said the old man, coming forward in his quiet, gentle way, and shaking hands again. "I am sorry to say that my wife and daughter are not down yet."
His tone was apologetic, and Wyndham smiled, readily understanding that the announcement of a guest to arrive had scared the ladies to a more elaborate toilette than usual.
"They were enchanted when I told them you were coming," Mr. Robinson continued. "As for commiseration over my fall—not a word!"
The two men had conversed for some fewminutes before the hostess and her daughter came sweeping into the room; and, as he had half expected, Wyndham found he knew them more or less vaguely by sight. Mrs. Robinson was a tall dame, fully sixty, with gray hair, and a most amiable expression; stately, even handsome, in her black silk dress with its tasteful lace at the throat and wrists. The daughter who followed rather shyly behind her gave Wyndham the impression that he was beholding the most simple, homely person he had ever met; and this despite the complexity of her costume, which seemed to be built up almost entirely of old lace that lay over itself in thick folds and rich creamy masses. Timidity of temperament and modesty to the verge of self-distrust were at once suggested by the almost awkward constraint of her bearing and the quiet, half-averted glance of her dark eyes. He could see that she hardly dared look at him. He gallantly supposed that she was a year or two younger than himself, and as he met her desperately friendly smile (intended for him but hardly bestowed in his direction) with his choicest bow, he received a further impression that was distinctly more favourable than the first of unrelieved plainness. For, once his eye had taken in her features, the artist in him was ready to do justice to her throat and arms, which were really good: and her dark hair, her greatest glory, lay in a superb coil, which, witha surprising touch of coquetry, was set off by a velvet band and some lilies of the valley. It was curious that the figure of Lady Betty should swim up before him just then, as if to emphasise his real ideal of woman's beauty, and to make him feel once for all how impossible it was ever to step down from that standard. But he could not help smiling covertly at the thought that the family were making such a serious business of so casual an invitation—these toilettes were really so very much more elaborate than anything he might conceivably have looked for; though at any rate it reassured his pride in the fullest degree—evidently, his frank admissions to Mr. Robinson notwithstanding, they were not taking him as a poor devil of an artist, but were looking up to him with a perfect appreciation of the respect that was his due.
Wyndham's presentation to the ladies over, there followed an instant of general embarrassment. Mrs. Robinson smiled again, and quickly tried to make conversation.
"How pleasant to become acquainted at last, after being neighbours so many years!" she murmured. "And so unexpectedly, too."
"When the unexpected does happen," said Wyndham, "it generally is delightful. I suppose that's because most of us in this hard life get into the habit of expecting only the opposite sort of thing."
Miss Robinson laughed shyly, whilst her mother seemed somewhat puzzled.
"They say that the unexpected always happens," ventured the younger woman tremulously. "I'm sure the proverb must be wrong, because nice things happen so seldom." Her voice was soft, vibrating with gracious amiability.
"I disagree with Mr. Wyndham," said her father. "I was not at all expecting to slip down. When the unexpected happened, I am bound to say I did not find it delightful."
They all laughed; and then Mrs. Robinson resumed the interrupted tenour of her discreet, agreeable way. She herself had often thought how pleasant it would be to know him; but in London one could live for ever so many years and yet know absolutely nothing of one's next-door neighbour. In the country, of course, things were different: there etiquette was more human, and people called of their own accord. Was Mr. Wyndham exhibiting anything just now? They had seen pictures of his in the Academy in past years, and were great admirers of his. Wyndham was by now too faint and exhausted to do more than hold his own in a smiling, conventional way: the splendours of the room, too, dazzled him to the verge of confusion. He was thankful when Phyllis appeared with the announcement that dinner was served; and Mr. Robinson, giving his arm to his daughter, led the way across the hall, under anothercrimson door-hanging, and into a long dining-room, wherein was set out a great table with flowers and fruit and silver. The covers were laid at one end, which gave the dinner an air of informality and family intimacy.
A glass of sherry at the start revived Wyndham considerably, and soon he fell to conversing at his ease. Presently he found he was somehow taking the lead, and their evident respect and admiration for his lightest word made him clearly perceive that he was an important and brilliant figure for them. Such grains of resentment as he still cherished at having entered on the acquaintanceship were dying away. Meanwhile the seductive prevision of material joys that had risen before him at the studio at that moment of physical weakness was being literally realised, almost comically so. There on the immense mahogany sideboard stood bottles and decanters galore, and now up came the middle of salmon with a piquant sauce accompanying it! God! how delicious it tasted, after all these months of bread and cheese! Wine gave him inspiration, and food the strength to live up to the rôle they were allotting to him. He was good-looking and knew it; his voice, his bearing, his choice of words, were alike distinguished; his experiences were of worlds that were to them far-seeming and romantic. He was the sort of hero they had read about in novels—ahandsome guardsman nonchalantly looking in at a Park Lane dance at midnight, or a brilliant attaché to an embassy in touch with wonderful horizons.
Meanwhile the supply of dainty food continued; a leg of lamb, spinach, fat, luscious asparagus, a melon from a Southern clime, a chicken, and the juiciest of French lettuces. The hock was of the most delicate, the champagne subtle and sparkling. Even so he felt himself sparkling in the eyes of the others. He was the lion to whom all this homage was his rightful due, holding them fascinated with his wide knowledge of men and cities, of social life in European capitals. He drew upon his wanderings in by-ways known only of artists; fascinated them with sketches of the art life of Rome and Paris. Reminiscences bubbled up of his student days, and with them were mingled deft touches of Eton and Oxford, and charming cameos of county life; this last developing insensibly into discussions of Anglo-Saxon character, its comparison with the Latin, relative estimations of intelligence, industry, ambition. Mr. Robinson here had many shrewd observations to offer, for they had now wandered into the domain of affairs. Wyndham was genuinely interested in his host's experiences, in his accounts of unusual men of business from strange, even barbarous parts of the world, with whom he had had personalrelations. They even touched upon financial operations; and Wyndham felt perfectly at ease amid complications in which millions were bandied about like tennis-balls, and the credit of banks and States was pawned as simply and swiftly as he might pawn his own watch. At last, over the dessert, there was a perceptible slackening. Wyndham, who so far had taken care not to let his eye rest on the many heavy-framed "oil paintings" that hung on the walls, for fear some discussion of them might thence arise, was now incautious enough to fix his gaze markedly on some sheep pasturing just opposite him. But Mr. Robinson seemed to welcome the opportunity thus afforded.
"Oh, of course I know you won't find any ofthosethings worth glancing at," he threw out with a laugh; and the others chimed in, highly amused at the thought of the impression "the things" must be making on their guest.
"Oh, some aren't at all half bad," conceded Wyndham politely, his eye now promenading freely. "The girl with the mandoline is laid in with rather a charming touch, and the fruit-and-flower piece is really decorative."
"We always considered those two the best," declared Mr. Robinson. "I bought them at an auction in the City, many years ago now—more, in fact, than I care to remember."
Wyndham still affected to be examining the collection.
"Now, of course," resumed Mr. Robinson, "that Highland scene is the merest pot-boiler—a stream in the middle, a mountain on one side, and a cow on the other. I've seen hundreds of them for sale. But it's not likely I shall ever be taken in again that way, especially after examining the work I saw at your studio, Mr. Wyndham."
Wyndham inclined his head smilingly, and Mr. Robinson duly proceeded to describe to the others the great masterpiece which that afternoon he had had the privilege of inspecting. His memory of the details proved to be extraordinarily minute, and his face glowed all over again with the wonder and enthusiasm he had displayed at the studio. "The figures, the faces," he wound up, "were simply marvellous. I can't give you the faintest idea of how magnificent it all is. I could spend hours looking at it."
Wyndham could do no less than suggest that the ladies should come and see the picture for themselves, though just then a whiff of unpleasant thoughts urged on him again the imprudence of such further social developments.
"We shall be only too delighted; it will be a great pleasure," exclaimed Mrs. Robinson, and Miss Robinson's eyes shone with unmistakable excitement.
"We must really take down that Highland scene, my dear," proceeded Mrs. Robinson,addressing her husband. "It is altogether too bad. We ought to have something better in its place."
It passed through Wyndham's mind that one of his projected panels would do excellently, but of course it was far too below the dignity of the brilliant lion to appear to snatch at the opportunity of turning a few honest guineas through the grace of his humble entertainers.
"Let us have the Highland scene down by all means," said Mr. Robinson. "And I've an idea! If we can induce Mr. Wyndham to paint our Alice's portrait, why, then we should have something first-rate to hang in its place."
Miss Robinson turned fiery red; the quick glance she flashed at her father was the more conspicuous. "How splendid!" she exclaimed breathlessly. Her bosom heaved. Wyndham was almost painfully aware of the thumping of her heart.
But he himself was caught quite unprepared. True that the unexpected had happened again, but that very quality of the event was in this instance disconcerting. No doubt they observed his slight hesitation.
"Of course it would be a great privilege for us," interposed Mrs. Robinson; "but it seems to me we are counting without Mr. Wyndham's authority."
Wyndham inclined his head graciously with a smile; swiftly master of the situation again,and improving the occasion with a compliment.
"Oh! I shall be most delighted." He gave his proposed subject the professional glance that the occasion authorised. "Miss Robinson will afford me the opportunity of a most distinguished piece of portraiture."
Miss Robinson gazed at her plate, nervously peeling a banana. She had not spoken much during the dinner, but she had hung on Wyndham's words with a naïve, unconscious admiration, which, from a prettier and more brilliant woman, he would scarcely have passed with so little a sense of appreciation.
"Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Wyndham," she said simply. "I am afraid the distinction will be due more to your work than to your sitter."
"No, indeed, Miss Robinson," he protested, with a suave gravity that made his polished assurance the more impressive and charming. "I did not intend any compliment—I spoke only as the artist." He was rather surprised that a woman should display so little vanity. And, in a subtle way, it did not enhance his estimation of her.
Miss Robinson's banana occupied her more earnestly than ever; but her mother came to the rescue by raising the important question of costume. Wyndham, after further professional consideration of his client, preferred topaint Miss Robinson as he saw her now. And with a ready sense of detail he saw, too, that certain rings she wore, though he had not observed them closely at first, would make excellent spots in a scheme of decoration. These rings were unusually chosen, and were more artistic than extravagant. The one on her right hand was a small, subtle cat's-eye surrounded by fine pearls. On her left hand were an aquamarine, and a scarab that shone like the patina of an ancient bronze. Almost without a pause he dashed at once at a scheme, which he elucidated there and then, much to their overwhelming. He would pose her on an Empire chair. In a blue and white Oriental vase on a high stand at the side should be arranged three tall arum lilies amid some vivid carnation blossoms. Why, the Nankin bowl on the mantelpiece was the very thing! The background of the picture should be vague and of an olive-grey tone, laid in with free brushwork, against which the masses of creamy lace would show deliciously decorative. The great surmounting coil of hair would give character to the whole scheme, and the lilies of the valley in the velvet band afford a final contrast of lightness and graciousness against the intense note of the coiffure.
The parents were radiant with pleasure, though poor Miss Robinson looked more and more scared each instant. In her trepidationshe could only echo stammeringly the elder people's wonder at his great skill and cleverness. The scheme unfolded itself before them richly beautiful—not one of your dull black portraits, but a canvas glowing with exquisite light and colour.
"There, Alice, you ought to be proud of yourself," said her father, rallying her good-naturedly as a parting shot, when the women rose to retire; and Wyndham attended their exit under the crimson hanging with his most engaging air.
Left alone, the men drew their chairs to the fire, and Mr. Robinson brought forward boxes of fragrant-smelling cigars, large and rotund. The atmosphere of comfort enveloped Wyndham soothingly: the sense of unlimited abundance seemed a miracle after his long privation. Fortunately he had not been tempted to have his glass filled too often: he had appreciated all these good and luscious things with commendable moderation, and had been stimulated to brilliancy without losing cool command of himself. He lighted his cigar at the little silver smoker's lamp that just then came in with the coffee, and, as he puffed, a splendid warm feeling of well-being took possession of him. He helped himself to cream and sugar with the masterful calm and something of the gesture of a stage hero.
Presently Mr. Robinson raised the subject ofWyndham's fee for the portrait, approaching the point apologetically.
"Of course, we could hardly discuss this side of the matter before my wife and daughter," said the old man. "But I must insist on your accepting a fair remuneration for the work—shall we say two hundred guineas?"
"To be frank," said Wyndham, "if you had left it to me, I should hardly have mentioned so large a sum."
"Naturally a gentleman of your disposition would think more of the artistic pleasure of the work than of the money it brought. Still, in this life money has to be considered. In all things, sublime or humble, the labourer is worthy of his hire. I do not for a moment suggest that the sum I have named in any way expresses our appreciation of the work, even in anticipation, and certainly not in any way our sense of the privilege and honour you are bestowing upon us."
"I shall endeavour to merit your kind words," said Wyndham, not to be outdone in polished courtesy, though he conceded that, by force of simple sincerity and good feeling, Mr. Robinson seemed a past master in the delicate art. "At any rate," he pursued, "the work is developing in my mind. The more I dwell upon it, the better and better I like the scheme, and I shall work at it enthusiastically from start to finish."
It being thus assumed that two hundredguineas were to be the artist's reward, Mr. Robinson seemed by no means loth to wander from a point which he had approached with great hesitation and an immense sense of its difficult delicacy. As yet Wyndham did not measure the radical change in his personal situation; nor did he display any undue elation. But his cool demeanour was no mere pose. Indeed, he was surprised himself at the ease with which he was accepting the transaction, as if it were commonplace in his experience. But he merely supposed that he was meeting good fortune with the natural dignity of the artist—to whom commissions are due as a matter of right, however long they may be deferred.
They did not linger in the dining-room, but joined the ladies after their first cigar; though not before Mr. Robinson had sedulously inquired as to his liking for the particular brand, which, he assured Wyndham, was not readily obtainable in London, and had made, him promise to take a box away with him.
In the drawing-room Miss Robinson played to them, at first tremulously, but gaining confidence with the experience. She displayed a degree of trained taste and a certain individual choice, favouring the tenderer and gentler works of Mendelssohn and Mozart. She sang also one or two of Heine's love songs in the German with a touch of passion and regret,whilst Wyndham accompanied her; and he himself wound up the evening in more jovial mood with a rousing student's song from his old Munich days.
Their parting with him had almost a touch of affection; and the final understanding was that he was to plan out the arrangements for the sittings, and to communicate with them in the morning.
He was forgetting his box of cigars at the end, but Mr. Robinson carefully caught it up from the hall table, and brought it after him just as the servant was opening the door.
The next morning early Wyndham jumped out of bed with a bewildered sense of some change in his life, and it was an instant or two before his faculties cleared and he remembered his adventure of the previous evening. His next thought was one of pleasure that he had at last carried out his resolution of rising early. The autumn had developed with unusual severity, but the morning was intensely clear, and the studio full of a strong light. He pushed aside the hanging, and looked down from the gallery on the familiar scene below. Ordinarily, on rising, the sight had filled him with disgust and apathy, but now a freshness and vigour pervaded him, a new imperious desire, not merely in his mind but in all his limbs and muscles, to enter again on the contest with men. As his thought ran back through the past intolerable year or two, his inaction and sloth seemed almost incredible. He saw himself rising at midday, suffering moral tortures before the work he was powerless to begin, letting the barren hours drift away intothe deep, then regretting them passionately. Was it not all a nightmare from which he had been curiously released?
He dressed, and, whilst his little kettle was boiling, took careful stock of his professional materials. Colours, brushes, varnishes—all needed renewing; there seemed nothing but impracticable odds and ends, mere bits of wreckage from his disastrous life's venture. Then, too, the filth and disorder all around him struck him brusquely, stung him to annoyance. On every surface where dust might accumulate it lay in serene possession. Wherever spiders could spin, there the webs hung thick, amazing and complicated citadels, prodigious masses and networks.
He felt he could not endure it a day longer. There must be a thorough physical cleansing at once. And he must return to the luxury of a daily bed-maker. This preoccupation with household things took off the keenest edge of one's first energy and enthusiasm; he must reserve himself jealously for his high calling.
As he sipped his coffee he mused over the little financial difficulties that immediately beset him. Now that at last he had a valid ground for appealing to Mary, he felt reluctant; anxious to bring her only the sense of his success without alloy. He might explain the situation to Mr. Robinson, and ask for money in advance; but that seemed as impolitic as itwas repugnant in this new rapture of fine upstanding dignity. Payment of the quarter's rent that was already due could be easily deferred—for the bare humiliation of making the request. But he needed something for equipment, and must face the sacrifice of some of the older pictures to which he had clung so long, accepting any sum in exchange, if only shillings.
He still felt no disposition to invest the accident that had turned the tide for him with any touch of superstition or romance. He regarded the whole matter in the same dry light as at his first acceptance of it the evening before. He had sat waiting for clients, and at last they had turned up. But he did not at all dislike the Robinsons: they were very much better than the great run of their class—they had evidently ideals, and aspired to a higher degree of refinement than they as yet possessed, or, perhaps, were capable of possessing. They were neither smug nor self-satisfied, and, in giving him this work, they had avoided indulging in any semblance of bourgeois patronage, whereas other people of their class, even if well meaning, might easily have been gross and intolerable.
He had studied his sitter pretty closely. The profile, as is not unfrequently the case with "plain" women, had a curious individual interest. He felt it offered scope for "construction," and he could import subtly into thedrawing a certain distinguished sentiment that was not really in the original, though somehow it might easily have been there, and, in moments of enthusiasm on the part of the observer, might even be conceived to be there. Yes, the profile was undoubtedly the thing: that way, too, the great coil of hair could be handled the more effectively. Indeed, it seemed to him that, taking into consideration her dark eye with its soft lashes, and the long shapely arms, and the exquisite ivory tones of the old lace dress, the scheme should really turn out, as he had so promptly put it to Miss Robinson herself, "a most distinguished piece of portraiture." He was shrewd enough to understand the essential shyness of her disposition, and he felt he might well invest her expression with some suggestion of this, though it should come out as a sort of gentle spiritual modesty.
And now his imagination returned to the contemplation of his own fortunes, and went soaring skywards. His luck having once changed, who could say what might not turn up next? Another sitter might appear, one of your great heroines, stately and brilliant—a sort of Lady Betty, in fact: he might as well admit hehadLady Betty in mind! Such a portrait, appropriately conceived, would form a remarkable pendant to this one. Then, too, he might make another dash at his masterpiece! Such a display of versatility in thenext year's exhibitions must place his name on everybody's lips, must surely pave the way to his reputation not only as a great decorative portrait painter, but also as a modern of the moderns, touched to inspiration by all the stress and striving of his age!
This roseate flight was abruptly disturbed by the advent of the postman. The rat-tat, one of the double sort, imperiously summoned him to the door. Had the "something else" already turned up? He rather prided himself on the coolness with which he rose to meet it. The postman handed him a packet and a letter. But at a glance he saw that the packet was a rejected drawing and the letter Mary's, and he went straight down into the depths again. He, however, affected a cheerful good morning to the postman; then, no sooner alone, tore open the letter, with the bitter taste of yesterday's scene with his sister full in his throat. To his astonishment, he pulled out two five-pound Bank of England notes, and only a few words accompanied them. "Dearest," she wrote,—"Since you left me to-day I have suffered beyond endurance. That you will ever forgive me for my harshness I cannot hope. I am the only soul you have to turn to, and yet I struck at you as with a whip. Your face as you turned away will haunt me for the rest of my life. I have been sobbing and sobbing, feeling my heart must break.I ask you to be good to me now, and take this little money. Darling, don't punish me by sending it back. Better times are coming presently, and, if God is good, this little help now may bring you the best of fortune.—Your loving sister,Mary."
Wyndham was unnerved; realising to the full the torture her gentle, sympathetic nature was inflicting on her. What it must have cost her to gather up her strength for that critical interview he could only remotely surmise. Yet it had failed her after all!
However touched he was by her sweetness, however much he was moved to respond to this prostration and surrender, he yet saw only too clearly that at bottom itwasa failure of strength. The idea of using the money was singularly distasteful; even though he told himself he would have his hand cut off rather than doubt her perfect goodness and sincerity in sending it.
This necessity of a difficult decision disturbed the nice cool balance with which he had started out to face the day. There was nothing for it but to put aside the letter for the present in the hope that counsel would come to him later. And in the meanwhile he went on with his programme. He tidied his papers, went to hunt out his old charwoman, and, ultimately leaving her in possession of the studio, he ran into town to get his new materials, and lookup the various accessories for the scheme of the picture.
His first visit was to a shop in Oxford Street, where he had dealt ever since his student days, and where he could order what he needed without immediate payment. A burly man in a Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers was making purchases at one of the counters, and his back seemed not unfamiliar. Wyndham brought out his list and was going through the various items with one of the assistants when a heavy hand was placed on his shoulder, and, turning, he beheld the big powerful head and pointed beard of one of the old gang of his Latin Quarter days.
"Sadler!" he exclaimed.
The big head was convulsed with laughter, and Wyndham's hand wrung in a mighty grip.
"How jolly! I was coming to look you up! I've just ferreted out your address; you're still fixed out there at Hampstead?"
"Oh, do come—I shall be delighted," said Wyndham genially. "Have you been in London long?"
"Three weeks. After knocking about for five years—what do you think of that, my boy? First went all over Spain—made scores of studies. Gee! First-rate! Cheapest place in Europe—exchange thirty-five to the sovereign—and lots of good eating. Went to see a bit of Velasquez down at Madrid. Gee-rusalem! And the Titans, stuck up in a funny littleroom! You never see anything so fine in your life."
"Oh, I've been there," smiled Wyndham.
The vigour and enthusiasm of his old friend, the nasalities of the deep voice, had almost a complete freshness for him, after the long interval since their last meeting. He was pleased at the encounter—it brought him whiffs of old days of happy comradeship. He felt the stirring of the war-horse.
"Then I put in a nice couple of years at Munich; saw some Boecklin. Gee! He's great!"
"I once saw some wretched things of his, though," said Wyndham. "I remember—at a modern exhibition at Venice."
"I grant there are one or two rotten ones," conceded Sadler; "but they're interesting, if you take them in the right way—experiments that failed, though they were fine as he had them in him. Well—then I did a bit of a tour all over the shop—came along through Holland—made cart-loads of sketches; and then I came right along here. Been getting lots of fun in London; been round with the boys, and had a rattling good time. Taking the opportunity, too, of getting some nice suits of clothes." And here Sadler turned abruptly from art, and plunged into sartorial details. His interest in such matters was astonishing, almost touching. He revelled in fancy waistcoats and rioted in tweeds and broadcloths. London wasthe only place in the world where you could get the rakish cut. He, Sadler, had never suspected what a lovely figure he had, till this latest cutter had revealed him to himself!
He paused at last for breath.
"Anything particular on with you?" he was presently impelled to ask, observing that Wyndham was exercising a marked fastidiousness in the choice of his canvas.
"A portrait," said Wyndham. "Not a bad little commission."
"Good!" ejaculated Sadler, his face shining enthusiastically. "A lady?"
"Yes," answered Wyndham, "and I've rather a charming scheme."
"Good!" roared Sadler again. "I heard you hadn't been doing much of late. They were running your work down—some of the boys, and I said they were talking rot. We nearly came to blows about it. I think I fairly shut them up."
Wyndham had at first winced a little. Then he felt like shrugging his shoulders. After all, the past had to be lived down. Besides, Sadler's championship was genuine and influential.
"That was very kind of you. You always did stick up for me."
"Don't you mind 'em a bit, my boy. You just go ahead, and you'll come out at the top of the tree."
"I'll do my best," said Wyndham, smiling.
"That'll be good enough, I guess," said Sadler. "Perhaps this portrait will open up other things for you."
"How so?" inquired Wyndham.
"It all depends on the crowd you strike—I heard you came a bit of a cropper, and I daresay you're not too well off now to despise a job or two—you can always put decent work into them. Now there's Jim Harley—he struck a rich middle-class lot ten years ago, rotten out-and-out Philistines, twenty guineas apiece—and they've been keeping him going ever since. Does fifty of 'em a year."
"The prospect hardly tempts me. After all, the main thing is to get back to big work."
Sadler smiled. "I guess I should be the first to drag you back again—after a while. But Jimmy married young. A boy and girl affair. His wife's family weren't satisfied with his financial position, and there was a mighty row at the time. Of course the girl had only her pretty eyes."
"Ah, you don't approve of idealistic love affairs."
"Not of that kind. I'm forty, and I've seen something in my time."
Wyndham had finished his purchases, and was telling the assistant to send the parcel to his studio. As they left the shop presently, Sadler pressed Wyndham very hard to lunch with him at a particular restaurant he mentioned, andWyndham could not do otherwise than accept the invitation, though he confessed the place was unknown to him. Whereat Sadler expressed great astonishment. It was one of the very few places in London where the food was fit to eat! Why, the cooking was even better than at Lavenue's in the Quarter, and that was saying a great deal. He, Sadler, could not endure any other place during his sojournings in London. Wyndham let the dear fellow gallop on to his heart's content. Sadler was a fine painter, and in the old days Wyndham as the junior had sat at his feet, and in the matter of technique had been greatly indebted to him. But he had observed with covert amusement at a very early stage in the acquaintanceship that Sadler, like so many others in the hard-working, hand-to-mouth world of the arts, had an amiable weakness for "being in the know" anent the good things of life, and affected a lavishness in public that was off-set by a sharp economy in the less visible phases of his existence.
At the restaurant Sadler scrutinised the carte with the confident eye of a man about town, grumbled a little, held a fussy colloquy with the waiter, and finally ordered oysters and chablis to begin upon, the while a chateaubriand was being prepared for them.
Over the meal Sadler talked a great deal of old times. He seemed to have kept himselfwell in touch with scores of men they had known in common, despite scatterings and vicissitudes. His mind kept leaping across the world, beating them all out of their lairs for Wyndham's enlightenment. Did he remember Pycherley—the biggest duffer of them all? Well, he had married an heiress on the strength of his genius, and was painting awful stuff out in California; and Snyders, who had shared his studio, had built himself a Moorish house high up on a mountain-side overlooking the Gulf of Salerno; a third had settled down to "black-and-white" in a queer little creeper-clad house in St. John's Wood; a fourth was decorating a municipal building at Toronto. Marlowe was still in the avenue du Maine, where the fascinating American actress he had wed had since borne him a sheaf of daughters: and the beautiful Mrs. Smith they had known at Fontainebleau, the summer they had spent there together, had long ago divorced her husband, and married the Italian sculptor, in whose studio she had made such sensational progress. She now exhibited regularly, and had already received a gold medal of the second class.
And so the conversation continued—for the most part about men who were now pretty well getting on into middle life, whose destinies had found definite declaration and were visible to all Wyndham expressed his pleasure that his ownfuture, on the contrary, still lay wrapped in mystery; that, though the curtain was full up, the interest of the drama was by no means played out.
"You can afford to talk like that, Wyndham," shouted Sadler. "What are you? You're only a boy! But I'm forty, and I tell you I'd give up the interest of the drama for a safe income, and think it a damned good bargain. I get along, I sell my stuff, but I tell you I sweat and groan."
"I admit I should like my old income back again," said Wyndham; "not for itself, but for the sake of the splendid freedom to work."
"That's just my point," shouted Sadler. "What the hell do I care about money for itself? And I tell you what, my boy, the right thing for an artist is to marry a woman with money." He struck the table hard with his big fist, making the whole restaurant rattle.
Wyndham almost jumped. "Good gracious! So that's what you were driving at! The idea to me is perfectly loathsome."
"That's just what I used to think," exclaimed Sadler. "But you can't go on for ever with your head in the clouds."
"The thing's so awfully brutal and sordid," insisted Wyndham, shuddering visibly. "It makes my blood run cold."
"You make me tired," snapped Sadler pettishly. "Where's the sordidness? I don't say a man ought to run after a fortune—but enoughto steady things. Taking it all round, we artists have less chance of making money for ourselves than other men of the same worth; and since most of us do marry some time or other, we ought to look to marriage to help our work, and not to drag it down."
Wyndham was unconvinced. "If you take away the poetry out of life, the rest of it is too hideous to bother about. If a man marries to make himself comfortable, he's no better than a contented pig wallowing in muck. Rather than surrender the ideal, I'd give up marriage altogether, stand by my guns, and die fighting."
"We artists are a damned sentimental lot," shouted Sadler. He lifted a juicy morsel to his mouth. "This chateau's jolly good, isn't it?"
"Excellent," admitted Wyndham.
"Now you see I wasn't exaggerating when I said it's as good here as at Lavenue's." Sadler swallowed his mouthful. "We all begin with your idyllic ideas—Rossetti, Meredith, and all the rest of it. But I tell you it's hell! You dig the work out of yourself with sweat, with blood!" The veins began to swell in Sadler's mighty forehead. "And when you're not one of the lucky ones, what does the world do to help you to work for it?" He had wrought himself up to a tense excitement, and put the question with a hoarse shout. "Nothing! It prints your name in the papers, it talks about you at dinner parties! Painting is starvation—paintingis death! By the time you've worried along till you're forty, you begin to see a bit straight, my boy. Look around you—what do you see on all sides? You see the best of us and the luckiest of us fixing up some pretty little nook here in town or in the country, and then trying to clear a few hundreds or so by tempting somebody to buy it for double what it cost. We begin with ideals, and afterwards we are glad to come down to the level of the common speculator. Let us have no delusions about it—there's nobody keener for necessary money than we artists when we begin to feel the years slipping by. I tell you it's hell!" He gulped down a glass of wine and wiped his lips.
"I see your point of view," said Wyndham; "but I detest it. Better to fight to the end, and stand alone."
"You make me tired," snapped Sadler again. "There are plenty of women of the right sort who'd prefer an artist with a name to some damned bore of a booby who hasn't an idea in his head. They're not fools, those women, I tell you. They know there's no money in the profession; they know you can't get everything in life. Life's a compromise. You've got to give and take. And when women have money, you'll find they understand these things better than when they haven't. A romantic boy runs after a rosy-cheeked, bread-and-butter misswith nothing. The chit gives herself airs, expects what they call 'an establishment'—the rotten Philistines!—and then starts out to please herself in every way, places her whims and caprices first, and the happiness of the household nowhere. The brute exacts every sacrifice, and if she has to make the tiniest concession, it rankles in her all her life."
Wyndham dissented. The same things might happen even if the chit were a millionaire.
Sadler dissented in his turn. He insisted that in woman money and good sense somehow went together. It was a fact. "Look how much happier French marriages are; look how the husband and wife are comrades and stick together. I tell you the French system is the best in the world. Every girl brings her husband a dowry of some kind, and they both work together for the common good. When the time comes it is easier to pass on the money to their own daughter in their turn."
Wyndham contended that these things were all a matter of temperament. "Even at the best you'd have to keep your mind very elastic as to the type of person, whereas, for my own part," he declared, with the Lady Betty type in his mind, "I not only hold on to my poetic standpoint, but there are certain personal ideals I couldn't possibly surrender."
"If you stick out too much for ideals, you'll never get anywhere at all," said Sadler.
"There are things one must stick out for," insisted Wyndham. "For instance, I could never marry a woman who wasn't intelligent, and certainly never one who wasn't beautiful."
"Intelligent—yes. But what is beauty?" asked Sadler, shrugging his shoulders. "And if you get a woman too obviously beautiful, you'll have every man a mile round making love to her, like flies round a honey-pot. It's a sort of primitive law of the universe, and it'll hold good for all time, I suppose."
"Oh, I should chance all that," said Wyndham.
"But what is beauty?" insisted Sadler.
"I know when I see it," laughed Wyndham.
"Give me character," said Sadler. "Unselfishness and loyalty are the chief points, and a sort of sweet reasonableness, of course. If a woman's features aren't quite classical, it's wonderful what a good dressmaker can do to set them off. Waiter! Cigarettes!"
When ultimately the waiter brought the bill, Sadler produced a silver sovereign purse, saw with unconcealed horror that it contained only half a sovereign, then felt in his pockets for loose silver. "It's rather awkward," he said, pulling the longest of faces. "I'm afraid I haven't enough left on me after paying for my colours and materials this morning. I shall have to ask you to lend me a little."
A flash of surprise, an imperceptible raising of the eyebrows; then swiftly Wyndham acceptedthe situation, and threw down one of Mary's banknotes. "Sorry I've nothing smaller," he said, smiling.
"All right, old fellow," said Sadler. "You pay this time, I'll pay next time."
By the time the waiter brought Wyndham his change, the conversation had passed on to the last exhibition of the New English Art Club.
Wyndham arrived home, after completing all his business calls, late in the afternoon, and found that the charwoman had finished her work, and was replacing the furniture. A not unpleasant tinge of turpentine permeated the atmosphere. The oak presses, newly polished with beeswax, shone and glowed even in the shadow of the afternoon. For the first time for months the hearth was clear of ashes and cinders, and the stone scoured and whitened.
When the woman had gone he devoted a few minutes to wandering about his domain, enjoying this new sensation of spotlessness, appreciating the professional hand, the skill of which had never before seemed so legitimate a theme for admiration. Then he sat down and wrote to Mary as follows:—