FOOTNOTE:[A]FromLawn Tennis.
[A]FromLawn Tennis.
[A]FromLawn Tennis.
It may be one will dance to-day,And dance no more to-morrow;It may be one will steal away,And nurse a lifelong sorrow;What then? The rest advance, evade,Unite, disport, and dally,Re-set, coquet, and gallopade,Not less—in "Cupid's Alley."Austin Dobson.
It may be one will dance to-day,And dance no more to-morrow;It may be one will steal away,And nurse a lifelong sorrow;What then? The rest advance, evade,Unite, disport, and dally,Re-set, coquet, and gallopade,Not less—in "Cupid's Alley."Austin Dobson.
It may be one will dance to-day,And dance no more to-morrow;It may be one will steal away,And nurse a lifelong sorrow;What then? The rest advance, evade,Unite, disport, and dally,Re-set, coquet, and gallopade,Not less—in "Cupid's Alley."Austin Dobson.
It may be one will dance to-day,
And dance no more to-morrow;
It may be one will steal away,
And nurse a lifelong sorrow;
What then? The rest advance, evade,
Unite, disport, and dally,
Re-set, coquet, and gallopade,
Not less—in "Cupid's Alley."
Austin Dobson.
"Mr. Darrell has sent us a card for his Private View," announced Gertrude, as they sat at tea one Saturday afternoon in the sitting-room.
"Oh, let me look, Gerty," cried Phyllis, taking possession of the bit of pasteboard. "'The Misses Lorimer and friends.' Why Conny might go with us."
Constance Devonshire had dropped in upon them unexpectedly that afternoon, after an absence of several weeks. She was looking wretchedly ill. Her usually blooming complexion had changed to a curious waxen colour; her round face had fallen away; there were dark hollows under the unnaturally brilliant eyes.
"I should rather like to go, if you think you may take me," she said; then added, with an air of not very spontaneous gaiety; "I suppose it will be what the society papers call a 'smart function.'"
Stoicism, it has been observed, is a savage virtue. There was something of savagery in Conny's fierce reserve; in the way in which she resolutely refused to acknowledge, what was evident to the most casual observer, that there was something seriously amiss with her health and spirits.
"Is it not fortunate," said Lucy, "that Uncle Sebastian should have sent us that cheque? Now we shall be able to get ourselves some decent clothes."
"I mean to have a grey cachemire walking-dress, and my evening dress shall be grey too," announced Phyllis, who was one of the rare people who can wear that colourto advantage. Fanny, who had rigid ideas about mourning, declared with an air of severity that her own new outfit should be black, then sighed, as though to call attention to the fact of her constancy to the memory of the dead, in the face of the general heedlessness.
"Gerty is thinking of rose-colour, is she not?" asked Phyllis, innocently, as she marked Gertrude's rapidly-suppressed movement of irritation.
"As regards a gown for this precious Private View—I am not going to it."
"The head of the firm ought to show up on such an occasion, as a mere matter of business," observed Lucy, smiling amiably at every one in general.
"Yes, really, Gerty," added Phyllis, "you are the person to inspire confidence as to the quality of our work. No one would suspectus"—indicating herself and her two other sisters—"of being clever. It would be considered unlikely that nature should heap upallher benefits on the same individuals."
"Am I such a fright?" asked Gertrude, a little wistfully.
"No, darling; but there could be nodoubt about your brains with that face."
"Wait a few years," said Conny; "she will be the best looking of you all."
"We will 'wait till she is eighty in the shade,'" quoted Phyllis; "but when one comes to think of it, what a well-endowed family we are. Not only is our genius good-looking; that is a comparatively common case; but our beauties are so exceedingly intelligent; aren't they, Lucy?"
Constance Devonshire was right. Sidney Darrell's Private View at the Berkley Galleries, held on the last day of April, was a very smart function indeed. There were duchesses, beauties, statesmen, and clever people of every description galore. In the midst of them all Darrell himself shone resplendent; gracious, urbane, polished; infusing just the right amount of cordiality into his many greetings, according to the deserts of the person greeted.
"I never saw any one who possessed to greater perfection the art of impressing his importance on other people," whispered Conny to Gertrude, as the two girls strolled off together into one of the smaller rooms. Lucy had been led off by Frank and one ofhis friends. That young woman was never long in any mixed assembly without attracting persons of the male sex to her side.
As for Phyllis, radiant in the new grey costume, its soft tints set off by a knot of Parma violets at the throat, she was making the round of the pictures under the escort of no less a person than Lord Watergate, who had come up to the Lorimers at the moment of their entrance; and Fanny, in a jetted mantle and bonnet, clanked about with Mr. Oakley, happy in the consciousness of being for once in the best society.
"What a dreary thing a London crowd is," grumbled Conny, who was not accustomed, in her own set, to being left squireless.
"Oh, but this is fun. So different from the parties one used to go to," said Gertrude, smiling, as Lord Watergate and her sister came up to them, to direct their attention to a particular canvas in the other room.
As they sauntered, in a body, to the entrance, Darrell came up with a young man of the masher type in his wake, whom he introduced to Phyllis as Lord Malplaquet.
"Lord Malplaquet is dying to hear yourtheories of life," he said playfully, bestowing a beaming and confidential smile upon her.
"Mr. Darrell, you shall not amuse yourself at my expense," she responded gaily, as she plunged into the crowd under the wing of her new escort, who was staring at her with the languid yet undisguised admiration of his class.
"Now this is the real thing," said Lord Watergate to Gertrude, as they stopped before the canvas they had come to seek.
"Yes," said Gertrude, in mechanical acquiescence.
She was thinking: "What a mean soul I must have. Every one seems to like and admire this Sidney Darrell: and I suspect everything about him—even his art. For the sake of a prejudice; of a little hurt vanity, perhaps, as well."
"That, 'yes,' hasn't the ring of the true coin, Miss Lorimer."
"This is scarcely the time and place for criticism, Lord Watergate," laughed Gertrude.
"For hostile criticism, you mean. You are a terrible person to please, are you not?"
As the room began to clear Darrell tookFrank aside, and glancing in the direction of the sisters, who had re-united their forces, said: "You know those girls, intimately, I believe."
"Yes." (Very promptly.)
"I wonder if that beautiful Phyllis would sit to me?"
"She would probably be immensely honoured."
"Well, you see, it's this: I want her for Cressida."
"Rather a disagreeable sort of subject isn't it?" said Frank, doubtfully; then added, with professional interest: "I didn't know you had such a picture on hand, Mr. Darrell."
"The idea occurred to me this very afternoon. It was the sight of the fair Phyllis, in fact, which suggested it."
"Were you thinking of the scene in the orchard, or in the Greek camp?"
"Neither; one could hardly ask a lady to sit for such a picture. No, it is Cressida, before her fall, I want; as she stands at the street corner with Pandarus, waiting for the Trojan heroes to pass, don't you know? Half ironical, half wistful; with the light of that littletendrefor Troilus just beginningto dawn in her eyes. She would be the very thing for it."
"Are you going to propose it to her?" said Frank, who looked as if he did not much relish the idea.
"I shall ask her to sit for me, at any rate. There's the dragon-sister to be got round first."
"Indeed you are mistaken about Miss Lorimer."
Darrell gave a short laugh. "I beg your pardon, my dear fellow!"
Frank frowned, and Darrell, going forward to the Lorimers, preferred his request.
Phyllis looked pleased; and Gertrude, suppressing the signs of her secret dislike to the scheme, said, quietly:
"Phyllis must refer you to her sister Fanny. It depends on whether she can spare the time to bring her to your studio."
She glanced up as she spoke, and met, almost with open defiance, the heavy grey eyes of the man opposite. From these she perceived the irony to have faded; she read nothing there but a cold dislike.
It was an old, old story the fierce yet silent opposition between these two people; an inevitable antipathy; a strife of typeand type, of class and class, rather than of individuals: the strife of the woman who demands respect, with the man who refuses to grant it.
* * * * *
Phyllis was in high feather at her successful afternoon, at the compliment paid her by the great Sidney in particular; and Fanny rather brightened at the prospect of what bore even so distant a resemblance to an occupation, as chaperoning her sister to a studio.
Only Conny was silent and depressed, and when they reached Baker-street, followed Gertrude to her room. Here she flung herself on the bed, regardless of her new transparent black hat, and its daffodil trimmings.
"Gerty, 'the world's a beast, and I hate it!'"
"You are not well, Conny. If you would only acknowledge the fact, and see a doctor."
"Gerty, come here."
Gertrude went over to the bed, secretly alarmed; something in her friend's tones frightened her.
Conny crushed her face against the pillows, then said in smothered tones:
"I can't bear it any longer. I must tell some one or it will kill me."
Gertrude grew pale; instinctively she felt what was coming; instinctively she desired to ward it off.
"Can't you guess? Oh, you may say it is humiliating, unworthy; I know that." She raised her face suddenly: "Oh, Gerty, how can I help it? He is so different from them all; from the sneaks who want one's money; from the bad imitations of fashionable young men, who snub, and patronise, and sneer at us all. Who could help it? Frank——"
"Conny, Conny, you musn't tell me this."
Gertrude caught her friend in her arms, so as to shield her face. She disapproved, generally speaking, of confidences of this kind, considering them bad for both giver and receiver; but this particular confidence she felt to be simply intolerable.
"Gerty, what have I done, what have I said?"
"Nothing, really nothing, Con, dear old girl. You have told me nothing."
A pause; then Conny said, between the sobs which at last had broken forth: "How can I bear my life? How can I bear it?"
Gertrude was very pale.
"We all have to bear things, Conny; often this kind of thing, we women."
"I don't think Ican."
"Yes, you will. You have no end of pluck. One day you are going to be very happy."
"Never, Gerty. We rich girls always end up with sneaks—no decent person comes near us."
"There are other things which make happiness besides—pleasant things happening to one."
"What sort of things?"
Gertrude paused a minute, then said bravely: "Our own self-respect, and the integrity of the people we care for."
"That sounds very nice," replied Conny, without enthusiasm, "but I should like a little of the more obvious sorts of happiness as well."
Gertrude gave a laugh, which was also a sob.
"So should I, Conny, so should I."
Lady, do you know the tune?Ah, we all of us have hummed it!I've an old guitar has thrummed itUnder many a changing moon.Thackeray.
Lady, do you know the tune?Ah, we all of us have hummed it!I've an old guitar has thrummed itUnder many a changing moon.Thackeray.
Lady, do you know the tune?Ah, we all of us have hummed it!I've an old guitar has thrummed itUnder many a changing moon.Thackeray.
Lady, do you know the tune?
Ah, we all of us have hummed it!
I've an old guitar has thrummed it
Under many a changing moon.
Thackeray.
When Frank next saw Sidney Darrell, the latter told him that he had abandoned the idea of the "Cressida," and was painting Phyllis Lorimer in her own character.
"Grey gown; Parma violets; grey and purplish background. Shall let Sir Coutts have it, I think," he added; "it will show up better at his place than amid theprofanum vulgusof Burlington House."
"Mr. Darrell doesn't often paint portraits,does he?" Lucy said, when Jermyn was discussing the matter one evening in Baker Street.
"Not often; but those that he has done are among his finest work. That one of poor Lady Watergate for instance—it is Carolus Duran at his very best."
"By the bye, what an incongruous friendship it always seems to me—Lord Watergate and Mr. Darrell," said Lucy.
"Oh, I don't know that it's much of a friendship," answered Frank.
"Lord Watergate often drops in at The Sycamores," put in Phyllis, helping herself from a smartbonbonnièrefrom Charbonnel and Walker's; for Sidney found many indirect means of paying his pretty model; "I think he is such a nice old person."
"Old," cried Fanny; "he is not old at all. I looked him out in Mr. Darrell's Peerage. He is thirty-seven, and his name is Ralph."
"'I love my love with an R..' You said it just in that way, Fan," laughed Phyllis. "Yes, it is an odd friendship, if one comes to think of it—that big, kind, simple, Lord Watergate, and my elaborate friend, Sidney."
"Mr. Darrell is a perfect gentleman," interposed Fan, with dignity.
The occasional mornings at The Sycamores, afforded a pleasant break in the monotony of her existence. Darrell treated her with a careful, if ironical politeness, which she accepted in all good faith.
"Fan, as they call her, is a fool, but none the worse for that," had been his brief summing up of the poor lady, whom, indeed, he rather liked than otherwise.
It was the end of May, and the sittings had been going on in a spasmodic, irregular fashion, throughout the month. Both the girls enjoyed them. Darrell, like the rest of the world, treated Phyllis as a spoilt child; gave her sweets and flowers galore; and what was better, tickets for concerts, galleries, and theatres, of which her sisters also reaped the benefit.
Gertrude secretly disliked the whole proceeding, but, aware that she had no reasonable objection to offer, wisely held her peace; telling herself that if one person did not turn her little sister's head, another was sure to do so; and perhaps the sooner she was accustomed to the process the better.
"Why won't you come up and see myportrait?" Phyllis had pleaded; "I am going next Sunday, so you can have no excuse."
"I shall see it when it is finished," Gertrude had answered.
"Oh, but you can get a good idea of what it will look like, already. It is a great thing, life-size, and ends at about the knees. I am standing up and looking over my shoulder, so. I suppose Mr. Darrell has found out how nicely my head turns round on my neck."
Gertrude had laughed, and even attempted a pun in her reply, but she did not accompany her sister to The Sycamores. Indeed, more subtle reasons apart, she had little time to spare for unnecessary outings.
The business, as businesses will, had taken a turn for the better, and the two members of the partnership had their hands full. Rumours of the Photographic Studio had somehow got abroad, and various branches of the public were waking up to an interest in it.
People who had theories about woman's work; people whose friends had theories; people who were curious and fond of novelty; individuals from each of thesesections began to find their way to Upper Baker Street. Gertrude, as we know, had refused at an early stage of their career to be interviewed byThe Waterloo Place Gazette; but, later on, some unauthorised person wrote a little account of the Lorimers' studio in one of the society papers, of which, if the taste was questionable, the results were not to be questioned at all.
Moreover, it had got about in certain sets that all the sisters were extremely beautiful, and that Sidney Darrell was painting them in a group for next year's Academy, acanardcertainly not to deprecated from a business point of view.
Such things as these, do not, of course, make the solid basis of success, but in a very overcrowded world, they are apt to be the most frequent openings to it. In these days, the aspirant to fame is inclined to over-value them, forgetting that there is after all something to be said for making one's performance such as will stand the test of so much publicity.
The Lorimers knew little of the world, and of the workings of the complicated machinery necessary for getting on in it; and while chance favoured them in thematter of gratuitous advertisement, devoted their energies to keeping up their work to as high a standard as possible.
Life, indeed, was opening up for them in more ways than one. The calling which they pursued brought them into contact with all sorts and conditions of men, among them, people in many ways more congenial to them than the mass of their former acquaintance; intercourse with the latter having come about in most cases through "juxtaposition" rather than "affinity."
They began to get glimpses of a world more varied and interesting than their own, of that world of cultivated, middle-class London, which approached more nearly, perhaps, than any other to Gertrude's ideal society of picked individuals.
And it was Gertrude, more than any of them, who appreciated the new state of things. She was beginning, for the first time, to find her own level; to taste the sweets of genuine work and genuine social intercourse. Fastidious and sensitive as she was, she had yet a great fund of enjoyment of life within her; of that impersonal, objective enjoyment which is so often denied to her sex. Relieved of the pressinganxieties which had attended the beginning of their enterprise, the natural elasticity of her spirits asserted itself. A common atmosphere of hope and cheerfulness pervaded the little household at Upper Baker Street.
The evening of which I write was one of the last of May, and Frank had come in to bid them farewell, before setting out the next morning for a short holiday in Cornwall; "the old folks," as he called his parents, growing impatient of their only son's prolonged absence.
"The country will be looking its very best," cried Frank, who loved his beautiful home; "the sea a mass of sapphire with the great downs rolling towards it. I mean to have a big swim the very first thing. No one knows what the sea is like, till they have been to Cornwall. And St. Colomb—I wish you could see St. Colomb! Why, the whole place is smaller than Baker Street. The little bleak, grey street, with the sou'wester blowing through it at all times and seasons—there are scarcely two houses on the same level. And then—
"'The little grey church on the windy hill,'
"'The little grey church on the windy hill,'
"'The little grey church on the windy hill,'
"'The little grey church on the windy hill,'
and beyond, the great green vicarage garden, and the vicarage, and the dear old folks looking out at the gate."
He rose reluctantly to go. "One day I hope you will see it for yourselves—all of you."
With which impersonal statement, delivered in a voice which rather belied its impersonal nature, Frank dropped Lucy's hand, which he had been holding with unnecessary firmness, and departed abruptly from the room.
Gertrude looked rather anxiously towards her sister, who sat quietly sewing, with a little smile on her lips. How far, she wondered, had matters gone between Lucy and Frank? Was the happiness of either or both irrevocably engaged in the pretty game which they were playing? Heaven forbid that her sisterly solicitude should lead her to question the "intentions" of every man who came near them; a hideous feminine practice abhorrent to her very soul. Yet, their own position, Gertrude felt, was a peculiar one, and she could not but be aware of the dangers inseparable from the freedom which they enjoyed; dangers which are the price to be paid for all close intimacy between young men and women.
After all, what do women know about a man, even when they live opposite him? And do not men, the very best of them, allow themselves immense license in the matter of loving and riding away?
As for Frank, he never made the slightest pretence that the Lorimers enjoyed a monopoly of his regard. He talked freely of the charms of Nellie and Carry and Emily; there was a certain Ethel, of South Kensington, whose praises he was never weary of sounding. Moreover, there could be no doubt that at one time or other he had displayed a good deal of interest in Constance Devonshire; dancing with her half the night, as Fred had expressed it; a mutual fitness in waltz-steps scarcely being enough to account for his attentions. And even supposing a more serious element to have entered into his regard for Lucy, was he not as poor as themselves, and was it not the last contingency for a prudent sister to desire?
"What a calculating crone I am growing," thought Gertrude; then observing the tranquil and busy object of her fears, laughed at herself, half ashamed.
The next day Mr. Russel came to see them, and entered on a careful examinationof their accounts: compared the business of the last three months with that of the first; praised the improved quality of their work, and strongly advised them, if it were possible, to hold on for another year. This they were able to do. Although, of course, the money invested in the business had returned anything but a high rate of interest, their economy had been so strict that there would be enough of their original funds to enable them to carry on the struggle for the next twelve months, by which time, if matters progressed at their present rate, they might consider themselves permanently established in business.
Before he went Mr. Russel said something to Lucy which disturbed her considerably, though it made her smile. He had been for many years a widower, living with his mother, but the old lady had died in the course of the year, and now he suggested, modestly enough, that Lucy should return as mistress to the home where she had once been a welcome guest.
The girl found it difficult to put her refusal into words; this kind friend had hitherto given everything and asked nothing; but there was a delicate soul underthe brusque exterior, and directly he divined how matters stood, he did his best to save her compunction.
"It really doesn't matter, you know. Please don't give it another thought." He had observed in an off-hand manner, which had amused while it touched her.
Lucy was magnanimous enough to keep this little episode to herself, though Gertrude had her suspicions as to what had occurred.
When strawberry pottles are common and cheapEre elms be black or limes be sere,When midnight dances are murdering sleep,Then comes in the sweet o' the year!Andrew Lang.
When strawberry pottles are common and cheapEre elms be black or limes be sere,When midnight dances are murdering sleep,Then comes in the sweet o' the year!Andrew Lang.
When strawberry pottles are common and cheapEre elms be black or limes be sere,When midnight dances are murdering sleep,Then comes in the sweet o' the year!Andrew Lang.
When strawberry pottles are common and cheap
Ere elms be black or limes be sere,
When midnight dances are murdering sleep,
Then comes in the sweet o' the year!
Andrew Lang.
The second week in June saw Frank back in his old quarters above the auctioneer's. He had arrived late in the evening, and put off going to see the Lorimers till the first thing the next day. It was some time before business hours when he rang at Number 20B, and was ushered by Matilda into the studio, where he found Phyllis engaged in a rather perfunctory wielding of a feather-duster.
She was looking distractingly pretty, ashe perceived when she turned to greet him. Her close-fitting black dress, with the spray of tuberose at the throat, and the great holland apron with its braided bib suited her to perfection; the sober tints setting off to advantage the delicate tones of her complexion, which in these days was more wonderfully pink and white than ever.
"And how are your sisters? I needn't ask how you are?" cried Frank, who in the earlier stages of their acquaintance had been rather surprised at himself for not falling desperately in love with Phyllis Lorimer.
"Everybody is flourishing," she answered, leaning against the little mantelshelf in the waiting-room, and looking down upon Frank's sunburnt, uplifted face.
A look of mischief flashed into her eyes as she added, "There is a great piece of news."
Frank grasped the back of the frail red chair on which he sat astride in a manner rather dangerous to its well-being, and said abruptly, "Well, what is it?"
"One of us is going to be married."
"Oh!" said Frank, with a sort of gasp, which was not lost on his interlocutor.
"I am not going to tell you which it is. You must guess," went on Phyllis, lookingdown upon him demurely from under her drooped lids, while a fine smile played about her lips.
"Oh, I'll begin at the beginning," said poor Frank, with rather strained cheerfulness. "Is it Miss Gertrude?"
Phyllis played a moment with the feather-duster, then answered slowly, "You must guess again."
"Is it Miss Lucy?" (with a jerk.)
A pause. "No," said Phyllis, at last.
Frank sprang to his feet with a beaming countenance and caught both her hands with unfeigned cordiality. "Then it is you, Miss Phyllis, that I have to congratulate."
Her eyes twinkled with suppressed mirth as she answered ruefully, "No, indeed, Mr. Jermyn!"
Frank dropped her hands, wrinkling his brows in perplexity, then a light dawned on him suddenly, and was reflected in his expressive countenance.
"It must be Fan!" He forgot the prefix in his astonishment.
Phyllis nodded. "But you musn't look so surprised," she said, taking a chair beside him. "Why shouldn't poor old Fan be married as well as other people?"
"Of course; how stupid of me not to think of it before," said Frank, vaguely.
"It is quite a romance," went on Phyllis; "she and Mr. Marsh wanted to be married ages and ages ago. But he was too poor, and went to Australia. Now he is well off, and has come back to marry Fan, like a person in a book. A touching tale of young love, is it not?"
"Yes; I think it a very touching and pretty story," said Frank, severely ignoring the note of irony in her voice.
He had all a man's dislike to hearing a woman talk cynically of sentiment; that should be exclusively a masculine privilege.
"Perhaps," said Phyllis, "it takes the bloom off it a little, that Edward Marsh married on the way out. But his wife died last year, so it is all right."
Frank burst out laughing, Phyllis joining him. A minute later Gertrude and Lucy came in and confirmed the wonderful news; and the four young people stood gossiping, till the sound of the studio bell reminded them that the day's work had begun.
Jermyn came in, by invitation, to supper that night, and was introduced to the new arrival, a big, burly man of middle age,whose forest of black beard afforded only very occasional glimpses of his face.
As for Fanny, it was touching to see how this faded flower had revived in the sunshine. The little superannuated airs and graces had come boldly into play; and Edward Marsh, who was a simple soul, accepted them as the proper expression of feminine sweetness.
So she curled her little finger and put her head on one side with all the vigour that assurance of success will give to any performance; gave vent to her most illogical statements in her most mincing tones, uncontradicted and undisturbed; in short, took advantage to the full of her sojourn (to quote George Eliot) in "the woman's paradise where all her nonsense is adorable."
"I don't know what those girls will do without me," Fanny said to her lover, who took the remark in such good faith as to make her believe in it herself; "we must see that we do not settle too far away from them."
And she delicately set a stitch in the bead-work slipper which she was engaged in "grounding" for the simple-hearted Edward.
Fanny patronised her sisters a good deal in these days; and it must be owned—such is the nature of woman—that her importance had gone up considerably in their estimation.
As for Mr. Marsh, he regarded his future relatives with a mixture of alarm and perplexity that secretly delighted them. Never for a moment did his allegiance to Fanny falter before their superior charms; never for a moment did the fear of such a contingency disturb poor Fanny's peace of mind.
Only the girls themselves, in the depths of their hearts, wondered a little at finding themselves regarded with about the same amount of personal interest as was accorded to Matilda, by no means a specimen of the sparklingsoubrette.
Gertrude, who had rather feared the effect of the contrast of Fanny's faded charms with the youthful prettiness of the two younger girls, was relieved, and at the same time a little indignant, to perceive that, as far as Edward Marsh was concerned, Phyllis's hair might be red and Lucy's eyes a brilliant green.
For once, indeed, Fan's tactlessness hadsucceeded where the finest tact might have failed. In dropping at once into position as the Fanny of ten years ago; as the incarnation of all that is sweetest and most essentially feminine in woman; in making of herself an accepted and indisputable fact, she had unconsciously done the very best to secure her own happiness.
"There really is something about Fanny that pleases men. I have always said so," Phyllis remarked, as she watched the lovers sailing blissfully down Baker Street, on one of their many house-hunting expeditions.
"You know," added Lucy, "she always dislikes walking about alone, because people speak to her. No one ever speaks to us, do they, Gerty?"
"Nor to me—at least, not often," said Phyllis, ruefully.
"Phyllis, will you never learn where to draw the line?" cried Gertrude; "but it is quite true about Fan. She must be that mysterious creature, a man's woman."
"Mr. Darrell likes her," broke forth Phyllis, after a pause; "he laughs at her in that quiet way of his, but I am quite sure that he likes her. I hope," she added,"that she won't get married before my portrait is finished. But it wouldn't matter, I could go without a chaperon."
"No, you couldn't," said Gertrude, shortly.
"Why are you seized with such notions of propriety all of a sudden?"
"I have no wish to put us to a disadvantage by ignoring the ordinary practices of life."
"Then put up the shutters and get rid of the lease. But, Gerty, we needn't discuss this unpleasant matter yet awhile. By the by, Mr. Darrell is going to ask me to sit for him in a picture, after the portrait. He has made sketches for it already—something out of one of Shakespeare's plays."
"Oh, I am tired of Mr. Darrell's name. Go and see that your dress is in order for the Devonshires' dance to-night."
"Apropos," said Lucy, as Phyllis flitted off on the congenial errand, "why is it that we never see anything of Conny in these days?"
"She is going out immensely this season," answered Gertrude, dropping her eye-lids; "but, at any rate, we get a double allowance of Fred to compensate."
"Silly boy," cried Lucy, flushing slightly, "he has actually made me promise to sit out two dances with him. Such waste, when one is dying for a waltz."
"Oh, there will be plenty of waltzing. I wish you could have my share," sighed Gertrude, who had been won over by Conny's entreaties to promise attendance at the dance that night.
"It is time you left off these patriarchal airs, Gerty. You are as fond of dancing as any of us; and I mean you to spin round all night like a teetotum."
"What a charming picture you conjure up, Lucy."
"You people with imaginations are always finding fault. Fortunately for me, I have no imagination, and very little humour," said Lucy, with an air of genuine thankfulness that delighted her sister.
Thus, with work and play, and very much gossip, the summer days went by. The three girls found life full and pleasant, and Fanny had her little hour.
Who is Silvia? What is she,That all our swains commend her?Two Gentlemen of Verona.
Who is Silvia? What is she,That all our swains commend her?Two Gentlemen of Verona.
Who is Silvia? What is she,That all our swains commend her?Two Gentlemen of Verona.
Who is Silvia? What is she,
That all our swains commend her?
Two Gentlemen of Verona.
There was no mistaking the situation. At one of the red-legged tables sat Fred, his arms spread out before him, his face hidden in his arms; while Lucy, with a troubled face, stood near, struggling between her genuine compunction and an irrepressible desire to laugh.
It was Sunday morning; the rest of the household were at church, and the two young people had had the studio to themselves without fear of disturbance; a circumstance of which the unfortunate Fredhad hastened to avail himself, thereby rushing on his fate.
They had now reached that stage of the proceedings when the rejected suitor, finding entreaty of no avail, has recourse to manifestations of despair and reproach.
"You shouldn't have encouraged a fellow all these years," came hoarsely from between the arms and face of the prostrate swain.
"'All these years!' how can you be so silly, Fred?" cried Lucy, with some asperity. "Why, I shall be accused next of encouraging little Jack Oakley, because I bowled his hoop round Regent's Park for him last week."
Lucy did not mean to be unkind; but the really unexpected avowal from her old playmate had made her nervous; a refusal to treat it seriously seemed to her the best course to pursue. But her last words, as might have been supposed, were too much for poor Fred. Up he sprang, "a wounded thing with a rancorous cry"—
"There is another fellow!"
Back started Lucy, as if she had been shot. The hot blood surged up into her face, the tears rose to her eyes.
"What has that to do with it?" she cried, stung suddenly to cruelty; "what has that to do with it, when, if you were the only man in the world, I would not marry you?"
Fred, hurt and shocked by this unexpected attack from gentle Lucy, gathered himself up with something more like dignity than he had displayed in the course of the interview.
"Oh, very well," he said, taking up his hat; "perhaps one of these days you will be sorry for what you have done. I'm not much, I know, but you won't find many people to care for you as I would have cared." His voice broke suddenly, and he made his way rather blindly to the door.
Lucy was trembling all over, and as pale as, a moment ago, she had been red. She wanted to say something, as she watched him fumbling unsteadily with the door-handle; but her lips refused to frame the words.
Without lifting his head he passed into the little passage. Lucy heard his retreating footsteps, then her eye fell on a roll of newspapers at her feet. She picked them up hastily.
"Fred," she cried, "you have forgotten these."
But he vouchsafed no answer, and in another moment she heard the outer door shut.
She stood a moment with the ridiculous bundle in her hand—Tit-Bitsand a pink, crushed copy ofThe Sporting Times—then something between a laugh and a sob rose in her throat, the papers fell to the ground, and sinking on her knees by the table, she buried her face in her hands and burst into bitter weeping.
Gertrude, coming in from church some ten minutes later, found her sister thus prostrate.
The sight unnerved her from its very unusualness; bending over Lucy she whispered, "Am I to go away?"
"No, stop here."
Gertrude locked the door, then came and knelt by her sister.
"Oh, poor Fred, and I was so horrid to him," wept the penitent.
"Ah, I was afraid it would come."
Gertrude stroked the prone, smooth head; she feared that the thought of some one else besides Fred lay at the bottom of all thisdisturbance. She was very anxious for Lucy in these days; very anxious and very helpless. There was only one person, she knew too well, who could restore to Lucy her old sweet serenity, and he, alas, made no sign.
What was she to think? One thing was clear enough; the old pleasant relationship between themselves and Frank was at an end; if renewed at all, it must be renewed on a different basis. A disturbing element, an element of self-consciousness had crept into it; the delicate charm, the first bloom of simplicity, had departed for ever.
It was now the middle of July, and for the last week or two they had seen scarcely anything of Jermyn, beyond the glimpses of him as he lounged up the street, with his sombrero crushed over his eyes, all the impetuosity gone from his gait.
That he distinctly avoided them, there could be little doubt. Though he was to be seen looking across at the house wistfully enough, he made no attempt to see them, and his greetings when they chanced to meet were of the most formal nature.
The change in his conduct had been so marked and sudden, that it was impossiblethat it should escape observation. Fanny, with an air of superior knowledge, gave it out as her belief that Mr. Jermyn was in love; Phyllis held to the opinion that he had been fired with the idea of a big picture, and was undergoing the throes of artistic conception; Gertrude said lightly, that she supposed he was out of sorts and disinclined for society; while Lucy held her peace, and indulged in many inward sophistries to convince herself that her own unusual restlessness and languor had nothing to do with their neighbour's disaffection.
It was these carefully woven self-deceptions that had been so rudely scattered by Fred's words; and Lucy, kneeling by the scarlet table, had for the first time looked her fate in the face, and diagnosed her own complaint.
"Lucy," said Gertrude, after a pause, "bathe your eyes and come for a walk in the Park; there is time before lunch."
Lucy rose, drying her wet face with her handkerchief.
"Let me look at you," cried Gertrude. "What is the charm? Where does it lie? Why are these sort of things always happening to you?"
"Oh," answered Lucy, with an attempt at a smile, "I am a convenient, middling sort of person, that is all. Not uncomfortably clever like you, or uncomfortably pretty like Phyllis."
The two girls set off up the hot dusty street, with its Sunday odour of bad tobacco. Regent's Park wore its most unattractive garb; a dead monotony of July verdure assailed the eye; a verdure, moreover, impregnated and coated with the dust and soot of the city. The girls felt listless and dispirited, and conscious that their walk was turning out a failure.
As they passed through Clarence Gate, on their way back, Frank darted past them with something of his normal activity, lifting his hat with something like the old smile.
"He might have stopped," said Lucy, pale to the lips, and suddenly abandoning all pretence of concealment of her feelings.
"No doubt he is in a hurry;" answered Gertrude, lamely. "I daresay he is going to lunch in Sussex Place. Lord Watergate's Sunday luncheon parties are quite celebrated."
The day dragged on. The weather was sultry and every one felt depressed. Fannywas spending the day with relations of her future husband's; but the three girls had no engagements and lounged away the afternoon rather dismally at home.
All were relieved when Fanny and Mr. Marsh came in at supper-time, and they seated themselves at the table with alacrity. They had not proceeded far with the meal, when footsteps, unexpected but familiar, were heard ascending the staircase; then some one knocked, and before there was time to reply, the door was thrown open to admit Frank Jermyn.
He looked curiously unlike himself as he advanced and shook hands amid an uncomfortable silence that everybody desired to break. His face was pale, and no longer moody, but tense and eager, with shining eyes and dilated nostrils.
"You will stay to supper, Mr. Jermyn?" said Gertrude, at last, in her most neutral tones.
"Yes, please." Frank drew a chair to the table like a person in a dream.
"You are quite a stranger," cried arch, unconscious Fan, indicating with head and spoon the dish from which she proposed to serve him.
Frank nodded acceptance of the proffered fare, but ignored her remark.
Silence fell again upon the party, broken by murmurs from the enamoured Edward, and the ostentatious clatter of knives and forks on the part of people who were not eating. Every one, except the plighted lovers, felt that there was electricity in the air.
At last Frank dropped his fork, abandoning, once for all, the pretence of supper.
"Miss Lucy," he cried across the table to her, "I have a piece of news."
She looked up, pale, with steady eyes, questioning him.
"I am going abroad to-morrow."
"Oh, where are you going?" cried Fanny, vaguely mystified.
"I am going to Africa."
He did not move his eyes from Lucy as he spoke; her head had drooped over her plate. "They are sending me out as special fromThe Woodcut, in the place of poor Leadpoint, who has died of fever. I heard the first of it last night, and this morning it was finally settled. It makes," cried Frank, "an immense difference in my prospects."
Edward Marsh, who objected to Frank as a spoilt puppy, always expecting other people to be interested in his affairs, asked the young man bluntly the value of his appointment. But he met with no reply; for Frank, his face alight, had sprung to his feet, pushing back his chair.
"Lucy, Lucy," he cried in a low voice, "won't you come and speak to me?"
Lucy rose like one mesmerised; took, with a presence of mind at which she afterwards laughed, the key of the studio from its nail, and followed Frank from the room, amidst the stupefaction of the rest of the party.
It was a sufficiently simple explanation which took place, some minutes later, in the very room where, a few hours before, poor Fred had received his dismissal.
"But why," said Lucy, presently, "have you been so unkind for the last fortnight?"
"Ah, Lucy," answered Frank; "you women so often misjudge us, and think that it is you alone who suffer, when the pain is on both sides. When it dawned upon me how things stood with you and me—dear girl, you told me more than you knew yourself—I reflected what a poor devil I was, with not theghost of a prospect. (I have been down on my luck lately, Lucy.) And I saw, at the same time, how it was with Devonshire; I thought, he is a good fellow, let him have his chance, it may be best in the end——"
"Oh, Frank, Frank, what did you think of me? If these are men's arguments I am glad that I am a woman," cried Lucy, clinging to the strong young hand.
"Well, so am I, for that matter," answered Frank; and then, of course, though I do not uphold her conduct in this respect, Lucy told him briefly of Fred Devonshire's offer and her own refusal.
It was late before these two happy people returned to the sitting-room, to receive congratulations on the event, which, by this time, it was unnecessary to impart.
Fanny wondered aloud why she had not thought of such a thing before; and felt, perhaps, that her ownrechauffélove affair was quite thrown into the shade. Phyllis smiled and made airy jests, submitting her soft cheek gracefully to a brotherly kiss.
Edward Marsh looked on mystified and rather shocked, and Gertrude remained in the background, with a heart too full for speech, till the lovers made their way to her, demanding her congratulations.
"Don't think me too unworthy," said Frank, in all humility.
"I am glad," she said.
Glancing up and seeing the two young faces, aglow with the light of their happiness, she looked back with a wistful amusement on her own doubts and fears of the past weeks.
As she did so, the beautiful, familiar words flashed across her consciousness—
"Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God."
* * * * *
Late that night, when the guests had departed and the rest of the household was asleep, Gertrude heard Lucy moving about in the room below, and, throwing on her dressing-gown, went down stairs. She found her sister risen from the table, where she had been writing a letter by the lamp-light.
"Aren't you coming to bed, Lucy? Remember, you have to be up very early."
The shadow of the coming separation, which at first had only seemed to give a more exquisite quality to her happiness, lay on Lucy. She was pale, and her steadfasteyes looked out with the old calm, but with a new intensity, from her face.
"Read this," she said, "it seemed only fair."
Stooping over the table, Gertrude read—
"Dear Fred,—I am engaged to Frank Jermyn, who goes abroad to-morrow. I am sorry if I seemed unkind, but I was grieved and shocked by what you said to me. Very soon, when you have quite forgiven me, you will come and see us all, will you not? Acknowledge that you made a mistake, and never cease to regard me as your friend.—L. L."
"Dear Fred,—I am engaged to Frank Jermyn, who goes abroad to-morrow. I am sorry if I seemed unkind, but I was grieved and shocked by what you said to me. Very soon, when you have quite forgiven me, you will come and see us all, will you not? Acknowledge that you made a mistake, and never cease to regard me as your friend.—L. L."
Gertrude thought: "Then I shall not have to tell Conny, after all."