Wyndham's career as an engaged man began amid a radiance of enthusiasm. When his prospective mother-in-law arrived for the tea-party, she was enchanted at the news, declaring, after the first joyous surprise, that it was the wish that lay nearest to the hearts of herself and her husband. And, presently, when Mary appeared, and was introduced not only to "the original of the portrait she had so admired," but also to "a very sweet Alice" who was to be her sister, "I guessed it," she broke out, kissing Miss Robinson impulsively. "I am so delighted."
Heigh, presto! In a trice the three women were chatting away like a group of old neighbours! Wyndham became discreetly busy with tea-things.
Of course the Robinsons insisted on Mary's dining with them, and so there was a happy little reunion in the evening. Mr. Robinson thrilled visibly with the honour of having Mary at his board, and he congratulated Wyndham with pathetic cordiality, his voice husky with emotion, his eyes streaming with tears.
Such was the auspicious beginning. But the universe seemed to vibrate to white heat as a wider population entered into the jubilation. Mary was the first to spread the news, her letters reaching the Hertfordshire circle express. In the twinkling of an eye, as it appeared to Wyndham, a flood of letters poured through the slit in his door. He had done that which makes every man a hero for the moment, and dim figures with whom he had been out of touch for endless years started up again on the horizon, palpitatingly actual, athrob with goodwill. In the Bohemian world, too, confirmation of the former rumour was not slow to be noised abroad, and Sadler hastened to Hampstead and burst in upon him, the massive head enthusiastically aglow; declaring that he had never for a moment taken Wyndham's denial seriously, and roaring out his congratulations and envy with an exuberance of virile expletive.
At Aunt Eleanor's the Christmas festivities were struck in a gayer key in his honour. Odes of welcome and triumph were in the air. And he was glad enough to be among his own world again; living in the way that meant civilisation to him, and breathing homage and consideration—lionised by his equals! It was as though the fatted calf had been killed for him, after his prodigal riot of penury. He expanded in this atmosphere of adulation, amid all these manifestations in honour of the brilliant artist andthe Prince Charming who loved and was loved idyllically. His engagement seemed to him now most admirable—the world's sanction had invested it with warm and pleasant lights. Certainly nobody deprecated or criticised the projected alliance; though it was known to be with middle-class people who were not in Society, but merely quiet folk of wealth and respectability. Mary's enthusiasm had gone a long way in anticipating any possible caste objections, and the word of approval went round from one to another in the usual parrot-like way in which public opinion has formed itself since creation. There seemed in fact to be a very conspiracy of approbation. Wyndham had done wisely; and voices dropped impressively to dwell on the Robinson millions—with the obvious implication that that is what wealthy middle-class people are for—to have the most promising of their kind promoted into the upper classes.
But the Robinson fortune, though not inconsiderable, was not the romantic one of rumour. Mr. Robinson had already performed his duty of writing to Wyndham on the financial aspect of the alliance, and in so charming a way that Wyndham had at once paid him the tribute of "jolly decent." Since they had not had the opportunity of disposing of the subjectviva voce, had said the old man, he conceived it perhaps to be an obligation on his part to doso without delaying further; after which these matters would of course pass entirely into the realm of Wyndham's private affairs, where he was well content to leave them. Alice's fortune, such as it was, had been placed under her own control absolutely when she had attained the age of twenty-five, and probably now, with certain accumulations, amounted to some thirty thousand pounds. She was a wise and prudent child, well capable of controlling those money matters that were naturally distasteful to so gifted an artist, and in that way he would no doubt find her a most useful companion. However, he now left it to him and Alice to plan out their future together, and wished them all good luck. At the same time, if Wyndham had no objection, he would like to give them as a wedding-present any house they might fancy, and his wife desired to furnish it or give them a cheque for that purpose.
Wyndham was in reality deeply moved by so much considerate kindness and rare delicacy. He wrote Mr. Robinson a charming note of acknowledgment; though he touched just briefly on the main theme, diverging into a chatty account of his visit, and letting his pen run on and on till he had covered several sheets.
Each morning during his visit a letter from Alice awaited him on the breakfast-table. For a week or two the chant was timorous, uncertain; of a pitch to soothe his self-complacency,to stir no ruffle in his holiday mood. But towards the end of his time she found herself—she tuned up, and adventured. And then followed Wyndham's awakening; taking him with the force of cataclysm, and dashing him out of his drowsy mood of contentment. Evidently the poor child was not living in this world. If her feet touched earth, her head at any rate was in a heaven of its own. She poured herself out with a lyric fervour that was like the song of a lark for rapture. All the years of her life she had saved herself for this, not frittered her emotions away in flirtations or frivolous love-affairs—as the soberer Wyndham now reflected. Her ideals were as unsullied as in her childhood. Her spirit soared up with a tremulous eager joy—without doubts, without cynicism, with a simple sure faith in love's paradise. Reserved, shrinking away from men, her heart yet held rich store of treasure, and she poured all out at his feet. Timorousness had vanished; the soul that had woven its own music in solitude had been translated to a higher universe. There were no barriers now, nothing but this joyous, confident life into which her womanhood had passed at that moment when, swept onward by the flood, she had thrown her arms around him.
"Dearest," she wrote, "my whole past life seems like a half-slumber from which I have awakened into a world almost too dazzling withlight and joy. Yet who am I that this joy should have come to me? When I think of the years when I lived alone with my own thoughts, it seems wonderful that your love should have been granted to me. The world is full of pale ghosts that come and go, not knowing what life is, and it amuses me to wonder if any of them will ever turn into real people.
"Oh, my dear love, you are so far, far off. I want you here, here again with me, happy that you love me, happy that I love you, wanting no other life than this with your arms round me and your heart beating close to me. And yet I like to think that you are happy amid your own family, in the place where your childhood was spent. I love, dear, to dwell on the thought of your childhood, and fancy I see you now, a beautiful child in velvet, with a feather in your hat and a toy sword. And I see myself a child again, playing with this fairy little prince in the meadows. How beautiful if we were children like that! Impossible does it seem? Yet is anything impossible in this enchanted world?
"Think of me, dearest, with the deepest and truest love of your heart, as I am thinking of you every moment of this wonderful life."
And another time: "It is strange to feel how everything is transformed since you came into my life and made me understand what this great happiness is. I laugh gaily at nothing;yet tears come into my eyes quickly at unhappiness or suffering. It seems as if I were born to love you with a yearning and a passion that sometimes frighten me, yet which I would rather die than live without. When I first loved you, I did not know that this would come, that I should not be able to imagine it to be otherwise. The thought is frightful; indeed, if anything were to happen to change the present, I think my heart would give one great, great throb, and all would be over. I draw my breath hard at the thought; there is a deep pain at my breast; my teeth are set. But how morbid I am to-day! how ungrateful for this splendid gift of your love that has been bestowed upon me! But somehow I feel frightened; I don't believe that anybody will be allowed to keep such happiness on this earth. So come to me quickly, dearest; you seem so far, far away from me. I kiss your dear letters, I wear them near my heart, at night they are under my pillow. I love you, I love you."
And this heart-cry broke down all the strong fibre of the man. Poor Alice! He must take care of such a child; he must cherish her life and make it perfect! Not in the least detail must he fail in his duty. Never for a moment must she think that this was—he flinched now before the words—an engagement of convenience!
An engagement of convenience! He slipped away to his room—away from the rest of theworld!—and sat staring into the dusk. He knew now that he was face to face with the actuality that lay before him in all its horror. An engagement of convenience! He would have given the world to recall it. His eyes saw clear again—the enthusiasm that swirled and whirled around him had thus far sustained him: vibrations of romance had arisen within him, had resounded with a certain music. But these letters of Alice, this crescendo series, each soaring beyond the other, had illumined the horrible poverty of his own emotion. The freshness of her note was a revelation and yet an agony to him. If only he could have piped with half the thrill!
He could see at last that in his specious reasonings he had somehow assumed a largely passive attitude on her part. Indeed, egotistically preoccupied with his own side of the case, he had scarcely bestowed a thought on hers. This reality—immense—overpowering—of the romance in her heart terrified him. He had given her empty words, and she had given him—love! And what else, indeed, but empty words had he to offer her now?—had he to offer her in the whole long vista of their future? At the best a studied kindness, an acceptance of duty. He had entered on a rôle of mockery, and he knew now he was utterly unfitted to play it. His whole nature rose and cried aloud in revolt.
At the beginning of the New Year Wyndham hastened back to town, and was soon at his post striving to adapt himself to the outlook of his life. He had tried to steel himself to confess the miserable truth to Alice, to lay it before her with a fidelity as unswerving as Nature, merciless both to him and to her. But her letters continued to shake him, and he had not the strength to face the inevitable wreckage. To break was to punish her: to continue was only to punish himself. His course was obvious: he must play the gameà outrance. Yet he sought temporarily to escape the actuality by immersing himself desperately in routine.
So, for the present, his days were mapped out simply enough. He was up early, for the winter hours of light were precious. Braced for a great effort, he found himself drawing on unexpected stores of vitality; he flung himself on his masterpiece like a Viking into the mêlée of battle, and had the reward of splendid conquest. This sense of power, this subjugation of his material, made his old foiled strivings and strivings incomprehensible, incredible!
Meanwhile the domesticity of the house at the corner invaded his studio, and surrounded him with comforts and attentions that but threw up the more vividly the issues he sought to preclude. But he kept stifling down his rebellion; struggling to accept the position unreservedly, though sick with the sense of hypocrisy. He laughingly surrendered to Alice a duplicate key of the studio in token of their good-fellowship, and she and her mother devoted themselves to the loving task of smoothing his path, letting no point that might ruffle his inspiration elude their vigilance. Their whole life and activities seemed to converge to the studio. Mrs. Robinson kept discreetly in the background, though her brain planned and her tongue discussed, and she often went joyfully a-purchasing. Shortly before one o'clock Alice would march across, attended by a servant carrying his lunch, of temptations compact, imprisoned in shining caskets; and by the time Wyndham was ready to sit down, his table would be nicely set out, and the temptations spread to his view.
Many precious minutes were thus saved for him, and his train of ideas was luxuriously unbroken. This tact and thoughtfulness was characteristic of all the devotion that was cherished on him. Wyndham deeply appreciated its quality, and despite the pressure—with sending-in day looming barely three months ahead—gratitude no less than conscience drovehim to acknowledgement, to contrive that the artist should not entirely swallow up Miss Robinson's future husband; though her expectations were considerately of the slightest. Thus his negative policy was answering effectively. With the passage of the days, he found himself sliding into a lethargy of acquiescence in the position. The mere physical fatigues of his labours dulled the unrest within him, and his brain fermented incessantly with the problems of masses and values which his great canvas still pressed upon him. He was glad he found it possible at last to be accepting all outer things so calmly. He told himself repeatedly: "Your revolt is over. You have decided there can be no break. So be as decent and affectionate as you can."
Thus his attentions seemed to her gallant and charming, to hold their touch of poetry. Flowers and bonbons, a book of verses or a novel were frequent tributes: after his work was done they went into town occasionally to a concert or a theatre, and if his conversation was of the theme with which his mind was most saturated, she did not regard that as otherwise than a compliment.
And so these winter days sped, and January was running its course. And out of this not unsuccessful routine there came to him the sense that his life was very full and singularly complete. Of perturbation or unforeseen excitementthere was never a thrill. The only moment that held a flutter for him was when Mr. Shanner descended on the Robinsons, grey, decorous, and austere; congratulated the pair with an ashen smile, in the honeyed accents that had charmed so many diplomatists; and bestowed solemn formal attentions on the engaged lady throughout the evening.
The whole plot of his drama had in verity been revealed, was Wyndham's frequent reflection; and with that final comedy-scene the curtain had seemed to fall, and he knew all that there was to know.
But his own wretched money affairs were soon to give him food for pondering. Alice's portrait had gone home in a splendid frame to find a temporary resting-place before being tossed to the Academy; and Mr. Robinson, though seeing him face to face almost daily, delicately sent his cheque by post. Wyndham grasped it with relief: but it proved merely the illumination that accentuated the darkness. For overdue rent and many other calls made it melt away with terrifying swiftness; and Wyndham had indebted himself to the family jeweller for presents to Miss Robinson. Impecuniosity approached him again with no vague menace; kicked him brutally out of his ostrich-like attitude. Nevertheless he shrank in terror from the definite thought of pressing forward the marriage; though, in the clear light of theselatter self-communings, money was the sole reason why he had sought it. Not only did he fear that life of simulation with a sickness immeasurable: but he foresaw endless money humiliations at the very outset.
He would fulfil his promise honourably, whatever the spiritual cost of it! But he could not face money humiliations in the eyes of his inferiors! A thousand times "no"! He must trust, despite all, to his own strength and performance!—he would do brilliantly with his pictures in the spring!—he would follow up the success and conquer London! He waved aside all his past disasters: he saw his good star in the ascendant, shining—he fixed his eyes on it fanatically. It was an irony of ironies that, after his great surrender, his pride should still flame up unconquered. Before the moral tragedy of love yoked to mockery, he might bow his head in resignation; but Miss Robinson's fortune loomed up as a ridiculous and contemptible complication in a situation already nigh impossible.
The metaphor of the vulture was often back in his mind now! The heap of carrion!—he had stooped for the sake of it, and it was now even more loathsome than his former morbid perception of it. His poverty seemed suddenly unbearable. In the past he had endured it. Now, for the first time, he was ashamed of it.
So he spoke to the Robinsons of a six months'engagement or thereabouts—which, to their ideas, was reputable and in order; and then felt he had time before him to fling down the gauntlet to fortune again.
But in estimating his resources he had counted without his new allies. Alice whispered into her father's ears her conviction that he might easily influence commissions for herfiancé; and, after thinking about it, Mr. Robinson felt he would like to have a try.
A rich, powerful Insurance Corporation had voted a portrait of its retiring president for the adornment of its board-room. Mr. Robinson set to work astutely, and the commission came to Wyndham. Item, three hundred guineas. But, before this new portrait had progressed very far, Wyndham had fascinated his subject—a tall, white-bearded merchant prince who sat to him with mysterious insignia, and resplendent chains and emblems. "A marvellous young fellow," he confided to Mr. Robinson. "I must really congratulate you on him—it's a treat to be in his society. And gifted! That great picture of Hyde Park Corner is worthy of Raphael." And for the pleasure of his company, and out of admiration for his talent, this bluff, good-natured president had at once arranged for paintings of himself and his wife for his own dining-room.
He generously and spontaneously made the fee seven hundred guineas. "There are two ofus this time, and why should I get off cheaper than the Insurance Company?" he asked genially; in a spirit rare enough in the twentieth century, but nothing out of the way in the days of the grand patrons. "Besides, you're worth it," he roared out bluffly. "And the privilege of going down to posterity in your society can hardly be appraised at all."
Wyndham relished the compliment, though wincing inwardly at the thought that the wind that blew him good came always from the same quarter: yet in view of other important sitters he began to think of a more accessible studio.
"Why not a house with the studio?" suggested the Robinsons. "You could move in now, and furnish the rooms at your leisure, so as to have them ready for the marriage."
Wyndham fell in with the idea. He thought the locality had better be Chelsea, somewhere near the Embankment; a long distance from Hampstead, it was true, but an ideal situation for an artist. Somehow the sense of the distance, as he lingered on it, was not unacceptable. Alice flinched. "We could still look after you," she murmured bravely.
"Besides, I could easily cut to and fro in a hansom," put in Wyndham.
So off the old pair started at once on the quest, drawing some renewal of zestful youth from its absorbing interest. One day they reported a stroke of fortune; they had comeupon the ideal thing. The rent was not impossible, and the tenant could have the option of purchasing the freehold. The next evening they took Wyndham to see it—a charming artist's house in Tite Street, with a broad frontage and a luxurious and unconventional interior. On the entrance floor—an unusual hall and three fine rooms. Above—a great studio and another excellent room. Below were the domestic regions with many household refinements, and bedrooms for the servants. Wyndham and Alice were enchanted.
Mr. Robinson was anxious to purchase this property outright as his promised wedding-gift; but Wyndham, again shrinking inwardly, diplomatically deferred the project. So the lease was signed, and the removal at once effected. Wyndham's belongings were swiftly installed on the upper floor of the house, at the loss of only a single day to him; and, leaving him to his labours, the others, in the enjoyment of their unlimited leisure, saw that the hall and stairway were made presentable for callers.
But at this point Wyndham came to a dead stop with his labour-canvas, to which he had of late devoted his mornings entirely, keeping the afternoons for his sitters. He saw that it was imperative he should now make some fresh sketches on the spot. But to regain his exact vision he must have access to the old window in Grosvenor Place. Yet the very thought of thehouse and the memory of those former visits had a strange shattering effect on him. And some warning voice rose sternly, bade him not renew these old associations.
He reasoned the matter out, and hesitation seemed absurd. For the sake of his picture, it was essential he should occupy a certain point of view. Though he had let the acquaintanceship lapse entirely ever since Lady Betty's marriage, access to that point of view was no doubt a simple matter. A mere letter of request, and the old earl would readily give his permission. This time he would probably come and go without seeing anybody at all.
Wyndham sat down to write the letter, the interest of the composition ousting for the time his irrational misgivings. He recalled himself to the earl's recollection, explained that the picture for which he had made the former sketches had unavoidably been put aside; but now that he was at last able to take it up again he desired to make some fresh sketches, and begged the use of his old post of vantage for a few mornings. He concluded with the hope that the earl was in the best of health, and sent his respects and remembrances to his daughter, should the earl be seeing her just then.
It was the merest courtesy on his part to show he had not forgotten Lady Betty! After all, their lives were so entirely alien now!
He addressed and stamped the letter; then his strong instinct against the whole proceedingreasserted itself. He rose and paced about. The warning voice said, "Keep away from Grosvenor Place. No good will come of it." "But it's absurd," he said aloud. "The thing's an absolute necessity—I can't throw over the picture at this stage. My whole artistic future depends upon it. What harm can possibly arise from my going there? Lady Betty? Why, she's a matron by now! And probably not even in England. And if she were, what is she to me now? And at any rate I am certainly nothing to her. If I stumbled up against her the very first morning I went there, we should still be far as the poles asunder. She was certainly a wonderful girl, and I of course fell headlong in love with her. Put any impressionable fellow with poetic ideals in the way of a lovely, clever girl and I suppose he's bound to feel cut up when somebody else marries her. But it's all as dead as King John now. I'll go there and do my work and wind up with a letter of thanks."
He put on his hat and coat, and took up the letter. "Don't go there," repeated the voice. "No good will come of it."
"Rubbish!" he said. "I can't chuck up the picture. It's all right."
He went downstairs and out into Tite Street, a little confused by all this current of doubt and reasoning, and by no means absolutely sure of himself. But, annoyed at realising this, he began to go forward sturdily, and flung the letter into the first pillar-box he encountered.
As Wyndham read the reply to his letter, it seemed as if the kind, bluff voice of the old earl were itself speaking. "A few mornings! Come along and make your nice little sketches for the next half-century. We have often thought of you, and wondered what you were up to. I think we may say with truth that we've missed you. This is a dull house now, and I suppose I'm getting old and dull myself. At any rate I've many a twinge in the joints, and am inclined to shut myself up in my library, though I'm never much of a reader." Then there was a PS. "Somebody or other tells me that you are contemplating matrimony. Well, you're a brave young fellow, and I like you for it. I congratulate you, and wish you luck."
As the next morning turned out fairly clear, Wyndham took his materials with him into a hansom, and rang the bell at Grosvenor Place at about ten o'clock. Not only had he decided that his misgivings were entirely morbid, but as a matter of course he had been quite openwith the Robinsons about the arrangement. He had indeed explained to Alice some considerable time ago that he should in all likelihood find it necessary to make these fresh sketches on the very scene of the picture. It did not seem anything out of the way to her; she regarded it as a pure matter of work. It was sufficient that she understood his disappearance from the studio in the midst of these busy times. And as he had made it a point that she should possess a key of the new house just as she had had one of the old studio, she and her mother could come and go as they pleased in his absence, and proceed with their engrossing business of embellishing his hall and stairway.
But as he set foot in the house at Grosvenor Place after this long interval of years, Wyndham could not maintain his reasoned conviction of the simplicity and insignificance of the occasion.
He had the very real thrill of embarking on some extraordinary adventure; even of stepping outside his own existence—that theatre where he had been the spectator of his own fate, whose curtain—fire-proof—had already fallen on a played-out drama. But here was a strange theatre, with a curtain to rise, fascinating with promise of other drama to be revealed; yet the stillness and the dim light cast some spell of awe upon him.
A hand seemed to clutch at him and pull him back out of the house at the last moment. He was penetrating here against the warning of his deeper self; his heart beat fast not merely with the consciousness of imprudence, but of downright disloyalty to the settled destiny before which he had bowed his head so profoundly. The warning voice, too, was stern; but the sense of daring, of courting and facing some unknown delicious danger, lured him forward.
His lordship had already gone across to his club, the butler informed him; but he had half-expected Wyndham and had left orders in case he should present himself. As he followed the man up to the room he had used of old, he felt, despite the lofty well of the staircase, that the air hung heavy in the great house, muffled and silent with gigantic hangings, and thick carpets underfoot. Wyndham stood at the well-known window a leisurely moment, then arranged a chair or two, and unpacked his materials. The butler helped him to open the casement at the side of the bay and to rearrange the curtain, then asked if there was anything more he could do for him.
"Oh, would you get my hat again?" returned Wyndham, as a current of wintry air flowed in. He laughed; having forgotten he could not work uncovered.
When finally the man had complied with his request, and left him again, Wyndham looked out on the scene before him, his eye lingering for a moment on the royal gardens, then trying to catch the exact view he had painted. But as yet his mind was in too great a turmoil to concentrate itself sternly on the business in hand. "I shall be acclimatised in a minute or two," he reassured himself. "The atmosphere of this house is so oppressive—it upset me the first moment." He stood gratefully inhaling the fresher draught that streamed against his face; and when he had calmed down he took a turn or two about the room, observing it with interest. He had scarcely received any impression of it yet, but now he perceived that it was greatly changed in some respects. A new fireplace, and a mantel of a dainty cabinet-like design, replaced the former streaked framework of marble that had enshrined a great rococo grate. The double leaf door that led to some adjoining room had had its hanging stripped away, and the beauty of panelling showed naked and unashamed. The former carpet had gone; there were now soft Eastern rugs on the floor lying closely side by side, and covering it entirely. But though the Chippendale bookcases and the rest of the furniture had been left untouched, there was somehow a more intimate personal note about the room; accentuated perhaps by the trifles and photographsclustered about the mantelshelf. And then Wyndham came to an abrupt stop as if some sheet of flame had flashed by and seared him. There in the centre of the mantel, next to a tiny clock shaped like a Gothic arch, stood the silver easel bearing the framed photograph of his old Academy picture—his wedding present to Lady Betty!
Why was it here in this house? he asked himself, trembling. Had she left it behind because she esteemed it so lightly? Or was there perhaps some special significance in the fact; something his thought groped for wildly and blindly as if in panic?
He staggered back to the window, astonished to find how overcome he had been. The air revived him, and then a new and sterner spirit came upon him. Was he going to waste his whole morning by yielding himself to these idle and futile emotions? Resolutely he prepared his palette, and bent his mind by force to his task. He was pleased presently to find how exactly his eye recovered his scene; he felt he could almost lay the one he had painted over this one, and that it would fit like a transfer. Slowly and carefully he let the view sink into him, estimating the tones, the masses, the spaces; peopling it in his mind with all the figures and accessories that went to build up his great symbolic representation. Then he set one of the smaller canvasses on his knee, andstarted his note-making. Soon he was absorbed in the work, glad that he had forced himself to begin, and that the little wheels of his mind were turning so smoothly.
At eleven the butler appeared with wine and sandwiches, moved a little table over near Wyndham, and set down the tray within reach of his hand. Wyndham was glad of this refreshment; he had been in too uncertain a mood to do more than gulp down his coffee at breakfast, and the raw air had roused a craving for some sort of sustenance—a desire for stimulation rather than a keen hunger. He swallowed a glass of the wine, then began to nibble a sandwich slowly; but his mind was still in his work. He half-knew that the great folding door at the bottom of the room had opened, that somebody had entered. But it was as in a dream, and he did not look up. He considered his results, then poured more wine, and was in the act of raising it to his lips. God! what was this gracious, willowy figure, with the wonderful sheen on the fresh hair, and the girlish rounded cheeks! She was smiling at him, her eyes strangely alight under their long, soft lashes, her lips half parted; she was advancing towards him with outstretched hand. He put back the glass on the table and rose hastily, holding his sketch suspended from one hand; but his wits left him and he stared as at a ghost.
"Lady Betty!" he stammered.
"I am not an apparition," she reassured him; "but only a simple flesh-and-blood creature. Won't you put down your picture?" She smiled again at his embarrassment.
He laughed, and stood the sketch on a chair.
"Your presence certainly startled me," he confessed. "I had an idea you were thousands of miles away." They took hands—a good, comrade-like clasp. "Fortunately the idea was erroneous."
"Fortunately," she echoed, laughingly capping his gallantry.
"Oh, but how stupid I am! Forgive me!" He almost swept the hat from his head. "You see how I was scared; how ill prepared to cope with apparitions."
She laughed again. "You are to keep your hat on," she commanded. "My presence is easily accounted for; out of sheer restlessness of spirit I thought I should like to try London again—I had shunned it like the plague for ever so long. As all the nice little hotels were full, I descended on my father here, and practically appropriated this room."
"I fear I'm an intruder," he stammered.
"You had my permission; it was obtained in due form. Only I insisted my name was to be held back. I wanted to play the apparition, and my father entered into the whim of the thing. It seems like old times again."
Wyndham tried to transport himself back along the years. "I wonder whether there's anything better in life than to repeat the best moments of the past," he said pensively; "that is, if we can catch them with all the original magic in them." He saw her head drop a little; her expression was full of musing, half-sad and tender. Then he remembered that things had indeed changed since those old days, that Lady Betty had a husband! It was strange, but the apparition, besides the rest of the mischief, had momentarily driven the fact from the store of his knowledge. He had had absolutely the delusion that this was the brilliant Lady Betty, still unwed, to whom no suitor might aspire save with yachts and palaces.
"I have been calling you Lady Betty!" he exclaimed. "The delusion of old times was very strong."
"Please to keep on with the Lady Betty—I come back to it so easily. It quite pleased me when it slipped from your lips. You have stepped out of the long ago; I step back to meet you. You must still think of me as Lady Betty."
"And Lord Lakeden?" he murmured, though he felt the inquiry was rather a belated courtesy.
She stared at him, her cheeks white, her eyes growing unnaturally large.
"Your husband—I hope he is well," he explained, bewildered by this new expression that seemed to hold mingled amazement and horror.
"My husband!" She laughed—a weird peal that filled him with a fear as of blinding flashes to come. "Did you not know? I thought the whole world knew. I have no husband!"
He looked at her. "I don't understand," he stammered.
"I really believe you don't," she said, her face still blanched. "My married life was a short one. Lord Lakeden met with an accident on the Alps—the summer before last. He went out without a guide. The details were in all the papers. It was one of the sensations of the silly season." Again a nervous laugh, but more than ever it was full of unnatural echoes.
Instinctively Wyndham took off his hat again, and stood with his head bowed. "I am sorry. My condolences are late, but they are sincere."
"I somehow expected you would write to me at the time. Hosts and hosts wrote to me—till my head went dizzy; but never a word from you." She was speaking with greater command of herself now, but he felt in her words a world of reproach.
"I was living as a hermit at the time. I saw nobody for—shall I say it seemed to me a lifetime—save the poor old woman who came to turn out my studio once in every three months perhaps."
"Ah, you were unhappy!" Her face softened, telling of a swift, spontaneous sympathy.
"I was nigh starving. I never saw a newspaperunless by chance; my pennies were too precious."
"My poor friend!" Her eyes gleamed as if tears were about to come.
"I played the game up to a certain point with all my strength, but everything went against me from every quarter. I know there are men that would have risen triumphant above all these evils and difficulties. But I was not one of those men. I was beaten—smashed—utterly and hopelessly. I had not the smallest reserve of power to carry on the fight. I lived cut off from the world like a man in a tomb. I am ashamed to think that I kept myself alive——"
"No, no," she interrupted, shivering. "I can't bear it."
"I am ashamed that I did not die," he persisted. "It is the truth. It is the first time I say it either to myself or to another. In order to live I stepped below myself."
She covered her face with her hands. "I know you are misjudging. You are harsh with yourself. I hold to my faith in you."
"I lived on the earnings of my sister, who stinted herself in food and went shabbily clad that she might foster my work. Yet, for terrible months and months, I deceived her. I did no work. My will was dead. As a man I seemed to collapse physically and morally."
"You were not responsible. There is a limit to human endurance. You needed a delicious restin some blue sunny place, in one of those earthly paradises where the orange-trees are golden in the sun. Your sister's love consecrated her sacrifice. She saved you for a great future. Her reward is yet to come."
"You see everything in so sweet a light; I can only hope that the issue will be as you say. It is on my future work that I have staked the redemption of my manhood in my own eyes. My work! That is where my real heart lies. Outside of that my life will be a mere appearance."
"But you have somebody else in your life now," she broke in, pale as death. "We heard a rumour that you were about to marry. Is it not true?"
He gasped at the bitter reminder. He hung his head. "It is true," he breathed.
"Then you have given your affections: you are happy?"
He wavered for a deep instant, the whilst her eyes rested on him gravely. "I have given my affections—I am happy." To himself he added: "I must be loyal to Alice, if indeed I have not gone too far already. But Lady Betty has made me see the truth. I understand now what I felt only obscurely—I bartered my life to the Robinsons, kind as they are, that I might repair the hurt and wrong to Mary."
"I congratulate you from my heart." She held out her hand again with a wan smile. Hetook it limply; feeling he held it on false pretences, that the sudden check he had put on his impulsive outpouring had raised a barrier between them.
"But forgive me for my stupid egotism. Here am I, a great strapping fellow, pitying myself because of a very ordinary sort of dismal failure; more than commonplace by the side of the great sorrow that came to you."
"Great sorrow!" Again that wild peal of laughter. "It was a great joy, the greatest joy I have ever known. When they brought me the news, I went out into the garden of our chalet, and, sure that no eyes were upon me, I danced on the green in the sunlight—with the blood pulsing so deliciously through my veins. I was free—I was free! The world seemed so beautiful! the sky and the mountains so exquisite! Life was such a gift! I was free—free!"
She stood up straight, all her muscles tense, her limbs quivering. The pallor had gone; her face glowed with an exultation that was almost of triumph. He stood spellbound at her revelation, unable to find a word.
"Ah, you don't understand what it is to be free again! Degradation! I tasted it to its depths. Yours was no degradation! You know nothing of it. I was tied to a brute—no, the brutes are decent and lovable. He was lower—he was lower."
Her voice broke in a sob, though no tearscame. Wyndham was still silent; he would not seek to penetrate her last reserve. "Don't think me too horrible," she pleaded. "You are the only living being to whom I have bared my soul. You were the one to whom my mind flew as my friend—I have waited for this moment. You must not set me down as a monster."
"A monster!" he exclaimed. He was thrown off his irksome guard, and the instant was fatal! "Oh, no, no! I shall always hold you for what you are, for what you have always been to me—a rare princess!"
"I have always been to you—" she echoed, then broke off, her bosom heaving, her eyes flashing out with the full comprehension of his almost unwitting avowal. Then she went pale to the lips again. "You never spoke," she breathed, "and I did not guess."
He realised, half in a daze, that his secret had escaped him; yet—with swift change of mood—he was recklessly glad that she understood at last: even as, standing before her, he, too, understood at last—reading her distress, treasuring her implied reproach for its clear significance, though it put him on his defence.
"I was not even on the footing of a guest in this house. The very bread that kept me alive was not my own. It is the law of the world."
"You were wrong. There is no law."
"There is the law of pride," he argued. "We men do not stoop to happiness, we stoop onlyto degradation.... And then I feared to break the spell," he went on, seeking a lighter strain. "The wonderful princess would disappear, and I should be left rubbing my eyes."
"But it was you who disappeared. The princess thought you shunned her, and she was left—to weep—"
He hung his head like a broken reed. He had no longer anything to hide; he had already sufficiently disclosed to her that his marriage was to be a loveless one. She would understand and respect his first desire to keep his true relation to Alice sacred from her gaze. But Lady Betty's revelation of tragic experience had swept him off his feet. He had responded to her great emotion; had confessed his allegiance to her through all and despite all. His life seemed linked to hers with a mystic, enduring passion. And yet were they not hopelessly sundered?
"'Men must work and women must weep,'" she quoted. "Ah, well! we never can win our ideals; life is always a compromise. Perhaps it's a blessing to see our clear obligations."
"Yes—if one has the strength to turn one's eyes aside from the dreams; but saddening otherwise."
"Saddening otherwise," she echoed pensively. "But I thank you that I am still the wonderful princess, even after my terrible confession."
He took a step forward, and seized her hand impulsively.
"Never believe otherwise, no matter what you may hear of me. Whether this be the last time I see you or not, whether I fail and be broken again, my last breath shall proclaim my allegiance to—the wonderful princess! Listen, the woman I am marrying is more than goodness itself. I cannot pretend to match her; my manhood falls below her womanhood. But into the inner chamber of my life she can never enter. Out of loyalty to her I gave you to understand that I had given my affections. That is true, but not in the sense I led you to believe. There is no reason why I should not be open now; it would be a poor compliment to you after all this mutual confidence if I could not bare to you the absolute truth. And the absolute truth is—I have sold myself for safety, for the sake of my art, and for the sake of my sister. It would be unendurable were there not the mitigation of the esteem I have for the woman I am marrying, and for the many qualities of kindness and goodness in that whole household. But she is not my true mate. Unlimited as is her virtue in a hundred ways, she herself is yet limited. My work must find inspiration entirely apart from her. May I think of you, princess, as my inspiration?"
"She is a good woman. You must be loyal to her."
"It would be no disloyalty; I should be cherishing the ideal."
She was smiling and radiant again. "I can scarcely stop you—I see it would certainly be rash to try. Well, goodbye now; I have a thousand little neglected things crying to me. And your moments, too, are precious. You will be here again one of these mornings?"
"To-morrow," he said. "For the present, we may be friends?"
"Till the tide sweeps us apart."
"The cruel tide!" he murmured. "But you will always be the wonderful princess," he insisted again.
"I shall try to be worthy of the title."
She gave him a charming curtsey, flitted away down the room, threw him yet a smile, and disappeared behind the panelled door through which she had come.
For some time Wyndham stood with his head still bowed as Lady Betty's voice lingered in his ear. Her figure was still there before him, her lovely girl's face radiant with the smile with which she had vanished, her slender form in all its upright grace; a nymph of whom Botticelli had caught a glimpse on a spring morn when the world was rediscovering beauty.
He tried to recall the scene that had just been enacted, and dizzily held it all in a flash. He and Lady Betty were in love with each other! The fact that he had always cherished the thought of her held a deeper significance than he had known! Throughout all his sufferings—throughout all her sufferings—an ideal friendship for each other had subsisted in their minds. He had supposed her as indifferent as she was unattainable; that his love was one of those secret, mocking dramas that sometimes play themselves out in the souls of men and women. Yet it was to him that her deepest thought had turned! She had enshrined himin her heart! And he lying the whilst in darkness and misery!
It was precious now—this new sweetness that had come to him. Sweetness! His thought broke off at the word. Rather was it a bitter irony! Lady Betty and he had been cheated by life. Could he be even sure his eyes would behold her again? Was she not the soul of honour and rectitude! For a deep instant they had been swept towards each other; but at once her attitude towards his marriage had been clear and pronounced, and she might even now be bitterly regretting their meeting.
He sat down at last, and took up his work again; but his mind was utterly unfitted for concentration on any task. Better to get back again to his own studio, he told himself. So he stowed away his materials in a corner, and presently slipped downstairs; telling the butler, whom he met in the hall, that he would be there again at ten the following day.
At Tite Street men were tacking down a thick green length of Turkey carpet on his staircase, and Alice was superintending the operation. Here was his comfortable future in active preparation! And already he felt the atmosphere swallowing him up, claiming him body and soul.
He stayed a moment on the landing, affecting an interest in the proceedings. When he turned into the studio Alice came after him.
"You hardly seem well, dear," she said, observing him anxiously.
"You surprise me," he returned. "I am not conscious of any aches or pains," he added, with an implication of gaiety.
She did not seem convinced. "This malarial air must have affected you," she insisted.
"I don't say I find it pleasant." He seized the poker, as if glad to make a diversion, and stirred the fire energetically. "I'm a little bit disgusted, too; the day wasn't as clear as I hoped—there was a good deal of mist about."
"Better luck to-morrow!" she said.
He struck hard at a knob of coal, making a dreadful clatter. "I hope so, indeed," he answered, thinking it curious that Alice should now be expecting him to go to Grosvenor Place as a matter of course. "At any rate," he added, as it struck him Alice might reasonably be hoping for some account of his morning's visit, "they were kind to me—just as of old. Lady Lakeden sent me refreshments, and afterwards came herself to see how things were progressing."
"I suppose Lady Lakeden is a sister of the earl," she conjectured.
"No, his daughter—a mere girl," he explained, with the flicker of a laugh. "It was a great surprise. It is only a few years back that I was asked to her wedding. After that, I got out of touch with them, and I did not know she hadlost her husband very soon after the marriage. He met with an accident on the Alps."
Alice was blanched. "How terrible!" she whispered.
There was a silence. Wyndham held his hands to the flame he had been at such pains to create. He hoped he had satisfied her interest sufficiently; for, of course, the whole scene between himself and Lady Betty must be kept from her inviolate. Was it not for Alice's own sake and happiness?
"It makes me afraid!" said Alice, breaking the silence. "Perhaps nobody is allowed to keep too great a happiness."
He winced. "She was always kind to me," he said, evading the train of her reflection. "I spent many hours at my post in those ancient times, and there were always unobtrusive attentions that made my work the easier."
"I should like to know and love her," said Alice pensively.
Wyndham was silent. Her words startled and embarrassed him, since he had been taking it for granted that she and Lady Betty would never come into contact. Besides, in a way, Alice had given utterance to more of a thought than a wish, so that a response hardly seemed necessary. They lunched together, and Alice went off soon after, leaving him to receive his sitters—the president and his wife, who were both to arrive that afternoon.
"Of course, you won't expect me at Hampstead," he reminded her. "You remember I put my name down for a club dinner to-night."
"Of course I remember," she said. "But I shall write you a letter instead. Please look for it when you come home to-night."
But Wyndham did not dine at the club after all; at the last moment he decided to spend the evening alone at his studio. It seemed a long time since he had had a few quiet hours all to himself. Moreover, it was strangely a boon to hear no other voices for once, and he lay back pleasantly in his chair, though conscious of an uncommon degree of weariness. And, in the calm and solitude of the studio, intensified by the echoing of his occasional movements through the empty rooms beneath him, the Robinsons seemed indeed a long way off up at Hampstead there, and for the first time it seemed a positive bondage to him, this constant duty of journeying across town to dine with them.
The nine o'clock post brought the promised letter from Alice, but from amid the little heap in the box he picked out another eagerly. The writing was Lady Betty's. He had never seen very much of it in the old days, yet he recognised it at once.
He remembered just then a shrewd dictum of Schopenhauer—that, if we wished to learn our real attitude towards any person, we shouldwatch and estimate our exact emotion at catching sight of the well-known handwriting on a letter we are just receiving. He certainly could not help observing the contrasting emotions with which he welcomed these two letters. Alice's, at his first glimpse of it, had given him a deepened sense of the irrevocable. Yet there went with this a kind, affectionate thought in which was a world of appreciation. But he knew pretty nearly what the letter would contain; it could well be read at leisure.
He tore open Lady Betty's at once, and read it feverishly as he stood there in the hall. "MY DEAR FRIEND," it ran—"My father was so disappointed when he got home at hearing that you had been, and had already flown. He suggests that you should stay to-morrow and join us at luncheon, and he asks me to bend your mind well in advance to the contemplation of such an ordeal—as he seriously considers it. The present cook doesn't meet with his approval, but be reassured! It was only a new sauce sent up one day with pride; but that unfortunate sauce has since flavoured everything. My father has naturally imagination; at his age he has prejudices. Could even a Vatel face the combination?
"And now that I have performed my filial duty, I will add a few lines for my own pleasure. I humbly proffer a request. An idea has come to me that seems most charming—before wepart again! Since you are working here, won't you make a small sketch of me?—a tiny, typical thing, hit off all in a dash—and give it to me as a souvenir of your work? Nothing that would steal much of your time. I understand that every moment is precious just now, with the exhibitions so near, and I wish you not to do it if you are very pressed. In return I shall have a souvenir to give you—a strange, strange thought of mine. Please feel very curious about what it is to be, for you are certainly not going to be told till the time comes.Au revoir.Your friend, BETTY."
Wyndham mounted the stairs again slowly, and in the studio he re-read these precious lines, lingering on each individual word, and setting a marvellous price on it. He was happy yet terrified at this flash from fairyland into his strenuous existence.
But her words, "before we part again," rang in his mind, lurid, persistent. Yes, Lady Betty would vanish out of his life soon enough; even though her letter confirmed the respite which she had indeed seemed to grant that morning, but which nevertheless—anticipating regret—he had scarcely ventured to dream of! There could clearly be no question as to her attitude towards his marriage; he told himself that even the crime (flashing splendidly through his brain) of cutting himself free from the Robinsons with one heroic stroke in order to throw hiswhole life into this wonderful romance would be futile. Would Lady Betty ever consent to happiness purchased at such a price?—woo her as he might!
But this sweet, dainty dream of her brief companionship—was he called upon to turn away from it? Surely, no; else she had been the last to dazzle him with it. Her lead could be trusted to be beyond reproach. And, however she regarded it in her heart, would there not be for him a little of strangely deep happiness; something to remember always, to leave a smile on his face at the moment of death?
The charm of the thought won him almost irresistibly. Lady Betty was his inspiration for ever; nay, that ideal elusive face would have been his inspiration even if he had never encountered her again. The harm—if harm there was in their meeting again—had been done irreparably in the past!
All would be over soon enough! What could emphasise it more than this very letter of hers he held in his hand? Was it not Lady Betty's underlying thought in this desire for an exchange of souvenirs?
All would be over soon enough! Life would bear them apart, but the touch of sweetness would remain as an illumination. He could never be cheated out of that.
What was this souvenir she intended for him—this "strange, strange thought" of hers?She had in truth piqued his curiosity, and he foresaw her delight at his admitting it. What, indeed, could it be? And, occupied now with this fascinating speculation, he languidly took up his other letters, his fingers turning them over with an extreme indifference. Presently, with a sudden decision, he broke Alice's envelope, and began to read her note. Three of the sides out of four were exactly as he had anticipated, but towards the end he lighted on a passage that unnerved him abruptly. "I have been thinking of your friends in Grosvenor Place. My heart goes out to Lady Lakeden. How hers must lie broken and bleeding! To lose a husband after only a few months of wedded life! I shut my eyes and try to think that such a thing cannot happen! And she and her father have always been so kind to you. My love for you is so great that I love everybody that spares one little thought specially for you."
Wyndham threw the letter down. That was enough; he must sacrifice all to the duties he had undertaken. He and Lady Betty must not see each other again. Could he not hear her dear voice saying, "Life is always a compromise. Perhaps it's a blessing to see our clear obligations." Well, he at any rate saw his clear obligations. He would reply to Lady Betty; he would enter into the situation in all sincerity. He would paint her some little thing for the souvenir, and send it to her, and perhaps shemight care to send him hers in return. His meeting her to-day and this loving exchange of gifts would remain in his thought as the most poetic episode of his life; but an episode that must speedily be closed.
She would understand and approve. Was she not the very spirit of chivalry, of honour and goodness? Since fate had given its decree, let them both bow to it!
But the next morning he dressed with care, choosing with fastidiousness among his flowing silk ties, and went off to Grosvenor Place, stopping only on the way to get a new canvas for Lady Betty's portrait. It was as if some great arm had encircled him irresistibly, and hurried him out of his studio, and jerked him into a hansom.
The first thing that caught his eye as he entered the usual room was a travelling easel opened out at its full length, brass-jointed, proudly agleam; and he marked his appreciation of the significance of its presence in equally significant fashion—by standing the newly-acquired canvas upon it. Then he installed himself at his window, and after a little preliminary fumbling he found himself well under weigh. At last he had struck the clear, even light he wanted, and he worked rapidly with his note-taking till the time the butler appeared with refreshments.
He sipped his wine, with one eye on the folding-door and the other maintaining someinterest in the sketches before him. But the more vigilant eye of the two soon found its reward. Lady Betty appeared on the very stroke of noon, and came to him all fresh and smiling, in sunny contrast to his sense of the dull wintry universe.
"You seem a trifle thoughtful," she observed.
"I was speculating about the mysterious gift you promise."
She laughed merrily. "I observe, then, it is a bargain." She nodded towards the easel.
"I have had a charming idea as well," he said. "Could you give me two hours a day till the end of the month?"
"By all means."
"I should like to send you to the Salon."
"That is indeed a charming idea. But you must not risk your big work," she reminded him. "That, too, has to be ready in a few weeks."
"I shall have the whole of March for it exclusively. I am finishing my portraits this month."
"Your sketches are satisfactory?"
"One or two mornings more, and I shall have as much as I need. My difficulty with the picture all these years has been that I have had to build it up largely out of my own mind. My actual scene has of course never really existed in nature—though once or twice I managed to catch something of the kind hereon the spot. But that was quite tumultuous and indiscriminate, whereas I wanted to catch the essence of the thing."
"You frighten the poor little amateur out of her wits."
They both laughed. "I had to snatch bits as best I could. Whilst striving to suggest the tumult and movement, I yet picked my material so as to give contrast and symbolism. Then I had to get my workmen and all the other kinds of folk to pose separately in the studio. Fortunately my old studio opened at the back into a little glass-house, and so I was able to pose the model as in the open. Naturally with the work on so huge a scale, I was wrestling with almost every drawback that could be conceived. It was no doubt a great mistake to have planned it at all, but I have learnt lessons I shall never forget."
"But you have conquered at last."
"Honestly, no. But it will succeed. My first idea was that the whole scene should be bathed in sunlight. But this, by throwing a vibration and glow over everything, would have submerged the social contrast of Fashion and Labour—would have made the whole thing primarily a piece of pure technique, and weakened its human significance. I did not want the sunshine to be the motive of the picture; I wanted the human side to stand out first, and speak with its full force. I thereforechose a dull light, so that the smartness of Fashion glows in relief against the drab tones of Labour. I am afraid though I am exaggerating the contrast more than I really like. That, however, will help it with the great public."
"I don't think I approve of such sentiments. I want you to strive for the highest."
"That is the future. But here it was a question of extricating myself from wreckage. As art it is far from perfect. But its success will help me to higher things."
"On that ground only we must pass it this time. But I have been wondering how you will use these last sketches you have been making." She examined them attentively awhile. "To me they are not very intelligible, though I have a vague idea of their purpose."
"They are mere notes," he explained. "If you will come here by the window and get the point of view, I think I can make them perfectly intelligible."
She came and stood by his side, and one by one he took up the little canvasses, explaining his tones and masses and relative values. As he spoke his words seemed to evoke a strange life from the blurs and brush marks. A splash of colour changed before her eyes into an omnibus; a darker blob into a brougham; vistas and spaces, buildings and foliage stood revealed out of chaos. She listened with a pretty interest, her lips daintily parted, her breathcoming lightly, yet her features composed into a characteristic stateliness—of which catching a sudden glimpse as she brushed close to him, he mentally registered the judgment "surpassingly fine!" He was glad he had caught that aspect; it summed her up in a way so perfectly. There was his Salon picture!
"And while you have been listening I have been studying you," he confessed, as he placed the sketches aside.
"I should have thought you knew me by heart."
"You are not so definite and limited. Beauty is always flashing surprises on the eye that can see."
"I think I like that," she said gaily. "I must bear it in mind.... It's only a toy easel," she flew off as he drew it forward. "In spite of its excellent preservation, it is a relic of my childhood: in the family I was supposed to have talent, so an aunt gave it to me for a birthday present, pegs and all, to take into the country and sketch all sorts of pretty bits. There was a little stool that went with it."
"It will serve admirably—without the stool," he added, with a smile. "I should like you to stand with the folding-door as a background. I think we're lucky to have such an interesting stretch of panelling in the room. We must get all the light on it we can."
She tripped down the room gaily, and stood ashe indicated. Then he manipulated the blinds and the curtain till a clear, soft light, melting gradually into the surrounding greyer tones, fell on the wood-work, and Lady Betty stood illuminated with a suggestion of airy phantasm.
"The face a shade more to the left," he commanded. "There! Now I have caught you again."
He worked with an appearance of rapidity. "A very dream of elusiveness!" he exclaimed presently. "I must seize it whilst I'm in form."
"Ah, I was just thinking it over," she said gravely. "I am not sure that I am really so pleased at being 'elusive.' If my features are not to be seized, how are they to be remembered? Definite women have the best of it—they are less easily forgotten, I should say."
"That would be true if one had any desire to remember them," he returned. "But no," he corrected himself; "it is not true in any case. Where there is only one definite set of features to forget, it is forgotten wholly and absolutely, once that point is reached. But the woman with the elusive features has so many sides that it would take a long time to forget them all. And then a man is always so entrancingly occupied calling up her picture. You let all the fleeting phases float around you. What more engrossing than to chooseamong these rival gleams of loveliness, yet find them all enchanting and precious?"
"You convince me of the absolute unforgetableness of the elusive woman," she laughed. Then, abruptly, she grew grave again.
When he stopped work for that morning, they both inspected the canvas critically. "I think I have made the right beginning—you see the spirit of the idea is all there."
"With the help of the lesson you gave me before," she ventured.
"If I continue equally well, we shall find oceans of time before the end of the month. Wouldn't it be splendid if the Salon received it!"
She was full of joyous delight at the prospect, but, glancing at the clock, gave an exclamation of horror. "We are forgetting lunch!"
A minute or two later Wyndham was shaking hands with the old earl, who was gazing into his face with apparently affectionate interest.
"This is very pleasant," said the earl. "Why, bless my soul, I haven't caught a glimpse of you for—let me see—three or four years is it? What has been amiss? Genius starving in a garret?—eh?"
"Pretty good guess," said Wyndham.
"You look fat enough, and sleek enough," laughed the earl. "On the face of things, I should have taken it that you've done very much better than I have. Now, if you had had to put up with my scoundrel of a cook— —"
"There was only one sauce on one occasion, father."
"So you insist, so you insist. Well, you seem pretty straight on your feet again, my boy; so all's well that ends well."
They sat down to table.
"Making lots of nice little pictures?—eh?" recommenced the earl genially.
"Oh, the one I am making sketches for here is rather tremendous—the size of a wall!"
"The size of a wall!" echoed the earl. "My gracious!"
"And now Mr. Wyndham has started a tiny one of me," put in Lady Betty. "I'm going to stand to him an hour or two every morning, and we'll send it to the Salon next month."
"Bless my soul! That'll be a very pretty little thing."
"It's only one side of me. Mr. Wyndham thinks I've so many sides, and he selected just one of them."
"Mr. Wyndham's a genius, but, with all deference to him, I don't see that you've any more sides to you than I have or Mr. Wyndham has. We have each two sides and no more." He raised his tumbler of egg-and-milk and whiskey, and drank deeply. The others laughed.
"Oh, Mr. Wyndham thinks I'm so many persons rolled into one," explained Lady Betty, "and that you can take your choice."
"Many persons rolled into one! You are!"said the earl emphatically, setting down his glass. "Only I nevercantake my choice. If Mr. Wyndham has succeeded in doing so, I offer him my congratulations. Oh, by the way, talking of congratulations, it is true, I suppose, that you are going to be married!"