by George Moore
The company, who were wandering up towards the house, came all running back, the clear dresses fluttering in the grey twilight. A cry passed here and there zig-zag through the group for salts and pocket handkerchiefs, and towards the pale skies a lament went up from the matrons, who in chorus deplored the evil effects of the new game.
The father and the brother carried the girl up to the house; two young men ran off to fetch Dr. Morgan. All seemed to have lost sight of their own little affairs in the excitement caused by Miss French’s fainting fit, except Mr. Vyner and Lady Helen.
Mr. Vyner, like a black ghost, watched from the far end of the terrace; his daughter, leaning against the balustrade, still talked with Sir John; but Lady Helen walked, excited and irritated, with her mother, Lady Marion, and Mrs. Thorpe. Lady Helen wanted to speak to Lewis. Seeing him coming from the house with Dr. Morgan, she slipped away from her mother on the pretext of asking after Miss French; but Lewis, seeing her in time, escaped by joining a group of ladies, leaving the doctor to explain to Lady Helen that Miss French was now quite recovered: she had over-exerted herself, and must be careful in the future. When this became generally known, the ladies took up their conversations at the point where they had left them off.
Lady Helen’s flirtation with Lewis, the little walk by the river-side, had not passed unnoticed, and now, on the great wide steps leading to the lower terrace, there was quite a little conclave of girls discussing the matter. Lady Granderville reproached her daughter for having been so foolish as to have walked about the woods with Mr. Seymour; but Lady Helen was too intent on planning how she could manage to see him again to listen to her mother.
At last she saw a chance; Lewis and Mrs. Thorpe were talking together, and, regardless of her mother’s voice that called her, she went towards them.
Lewis would have liked to have spoken to her, but seeing Mrs. Bentham on the steps, he saved himself by pretending that he had forgotten something. Lady Helen not divining the real reason, put it down to some unfortunate chance, and trembled with irritation. However, there was no help for it; the carriage came round, and she was obliged to content herself by squeezing his hand, and saying what she could with her eyes.
As they drove away, Lady Granderville thanked heaven that they were going back to London in eight or nine days; that, in three months they would be back in St. Petersburg, consequently nothing could result from this absurd adventure.
But Lady Helen had resolved that she would see Lewis before she went back to Russia; and she continued to think of him as they drove through the shadows of the park.
Carriage after carriage passed into the dusty twilight; and as the occupants drew together, covering their knees with rugs, some discussed Lady Helen’s flirtation, some condemned the way that Miss Vyner was throwing herself at Sir John, some talked of how Miss French had lost the match, and the hubbub of the voices awoke the sleeping birds on the branches.
Lord Senton was the last to go; almost speechless with rage he bade Mrs. Bentham good-bye, and got into his dog-cart with Mr. Day.
Lewis had joined Mrs. Bentham on the steps, and together they stood watching the pale, passionless stars, insorbed by the magnetic charm of space and love.
Lord Senton saw them, and as he hit his horse heavily with the whip, he said to Day, between a couple of oaths, that he would give a hundred to kick that d — long-haired painter into a cocked hat
CHAPTER XII.
LOVE AND ART.
NEXT MORNING LEWIS could not eat anything at breakfast. He was haggard with excitement, and pale with want of sleep. All night long he had sat at his window, listening to the tall silver firs sighing in the breeze, and watching the river shining deep down in its shadowy-laden valley.
He had sat at his window till the chill dawn had brought sleep to his eyes, kissing his hands to the landscape, already believing it to be his own. He was delirious; and when at last he fell asleep, it was only to dream strange dreams, in which marriage, divorce, and duels, were mixed up in the most preposterous confusion.
He didn’t know what would happen, but he knew something would, and was mad with expectation. He wanted to be with her alone; to tell her how he loved her, and to hear her say that their marriage was only a question of months, of weeks, of when she would obtain her divorce.
Generally, on rising from the breakfast-table, she accompanied him to the ball-room; but to-day she declared she had business with the housekeeper, and left him to go there alone. It seemed to him, after the plans he had made for sitting the whole morning by her side, bitterly cruel; and, sick with disappointment, he put his paint out on his palette, mounted the scaffolding, and set to work to lay in a cupid’s head. But it was impossible to work; a thousand thoughts crossed from a thousand different sides, and passed through his brain like ants through a nest that some accident had overthrown.
Every moment he stopped to listen; his face brightened at the sound of footsteps, and darkened when they died away. He could do nothing; the great clear walls irritated him. Excited, he lit a cigarette, and walked up and down the room. The minutes passed like hours, until at last, when he had ceased to expect her, the door opened, and Mrs. Bentham entered.
His face lighted up with pleasure, and he said, with a nervous smile:
“Well, have you done ordering dinners?”
“Oh, yes,” she replied, constrainedly; “but I am afraid I shall not be able to stay long this morning. I have a hundred things to do.”
Lewis asked her to sit down, but she would not, giving as an excuse that she really hadn’t time, that she really must be going.
It was an awkward interval. They walked up and down the room, they looked out of the windows vacantly. Lewis hinted at the events yesternight, and strove to speak of his love; but his courage dribbled out at his finger tips, and he talked with her now just as he had done the day after his arrival at Claremont House. As they were then they were now, nervous and embarrassed. The same scene was repeated, only with this difference — now the combatants were more evenly matched. No longer was he in doubt as to what her feelings were towards him — she had shown him what her heart was. As before, she wished to reassert her dignity, but this time it was less easy. She could no longer express surprise, nor could she forbid him to speak to her of love; and it was the knowledge that her defences were gone that made her so afraid of seeing him alone.
Her excuse that she had housekeeping to do was but a wretched subterfuge to gain time; and she thought, as she tried to bring her attention to bear on the bills, of a way of retreat out of the position into which a moment of passion had put her.
But she found it impossible to make up her mind as to what tone she should assume should Lewis make love to her. She hoped that he would not attempt any such thing, and at the same time trusted that he would not appear either cold or indifferent. At present she wanted to be a dear friend to him; to help him, to speak kind words, to be something sweeter than a friend; for she wished him to love her, that is to say, to like her better than anyone else; to think of her when she was not there, and when she came back she desired that their eyes should meet and say a thousand things their lips might not.
Such was the state of Mrs. Bentham’s mind, and she did not care to look into the future, to think out logically what must be the end of such a friendship. She was à vau l’eau; she wished to let herself drift, to let things take their chance; and it was fear lest Lewis might think differently that made her dread meeting him. But, delay it as she might, sooner or later she would be bound to find herself alone with him; and having gradually come to that conclusion, she resolved to see him, and strike, if possible, the exact note of friendship she wished for. She had asserted her dignity before, and was determined to do so again, but in a different way.
Such were the plans Mrs. Bentham hoped to put into execution as she walked up and down the white room sketched all over with half-finished nymphs and cupids; but to explain her intentions adequately, it was necessary that Lewis should
first make love to her in a somewhat marked manner, and this he did not seem inclined to do; and the vague allusions he made as to the state of his heart could not be used as a pretext for introducing the little sermon she had carefully prepared.
They tried several times to talk about the decorations, but she listened badly, and he was too excited to be able to sustain a conversation. His head was filled with vague schemes, all of which he rejected one after the other. He dared not try to kiss her; and to tell her that he loved her, in the middle of some trivial phrase, seemed to him ridiculous. Both were embarrassed, for each expected the other to act differently. At last Mrs. Bentham alluded to Lady Helen, and that gave Lewis the chance he was waiting for, and he immediately reproached her with having suspected him of caring for any one but her.
They were standing by the window. Lewis was getting enthusiastic, and he leaned his arm against the shutter.
As she listened to his passionate declaration of love, she turned towards him. She had forgotten all her resolutions, and, perceiving his advantage, he let his arm pass round her waist.
The movement awoke her from her dream, and her face showed him that she resented the liberty. Then he grew frightened, and regretted his rashness; but it was too late, he had to go on; and he continued to tell her in short, vehement phrases how much he loved her — how useless his life would be without her.
At first she would not hear; but she gradually forgot herself and listened to him tenderly. He took her by the hands — she allowed him to do so, and they sat down on the sofa side by side.
Then, again remembering her good intentions, she spoke with dignity, and told him how she wished to help him. Lewis listened, forgetful of everything but the softness of her voice and the sweetness of her presence. His arm fell round her, and he drew her towards him. She could not resist; but as her head rested on his shoulder, a firm step was heard in the diningroom. They started, and looked at each in alarm, and Lewis had only just time to pretend to be turning over a portfolio of drawings when the butler entered. He handed a telegram, and said that Lord Senton was in the drawing-room, that he was going to London by the two o’clock train, and wanted to know if he could do anything for her.
She read the paper through hurriedly.
“Tell Phillips,” she said, “to pack up what I shall require for a week, and tell the coachman that I am going to London by the next train, and to have the carriage round in time. By the way, which is the next train?”
“The two o’clock train is the next; shall I say you are at home to Lord Senton?”
“Certainly; say that I shall be with him in a minute.”
“What on earth is the matter? Why on earth are you going with Lord Senton?” asked Lewis, as soon as the servant had left the room.
“This is a telegram, saying that my father is dangerously ill; I must go at once; I hope it is nothing very serious.”
Lewis remained silent; he knew nothing about her father and cared less; but he cursed him, whoever he was, for having chosen this time, of all others, to get ill. In his mind there was no longer a shadow of doubt but that Mrs. Bentham loved him — Lewis Seymour; and he now felt sure of being able to persuade her to get a divorce and marry him; that is to say, if Fate would only accord him a fair chance.
Mrs. Bentham still sat beside him, but the love scene had been broken through, its spirit had fled, and he saw that it would be useless to try to urge her now to take any decisive step, when her mind was harassed by fears for her father’s life. Yet, notwithstanding this contretemps, they talked for some minutes very affectionately together. She promised to write to him, and he called her once or twice by her Christian name, which he thought was a great point gained. She admitted that she liked him, and spoke with great tenderness of how she hoped to help him towards success, and what pleasure it would give her if, one of these days, he became a great artist.
They talked dreamily for some minutes, till suddenly she remembered that Lord Senton was waiting. This occasioned a little scene of jealousy, which forged another link in the chain which was being bound around their lives. Mrs. Bentham insisted that the young man bored her to death; that it was a most unfortunate coincidence, that she had to travel up to London with him; and she declared that if he were not her next door neighbour, she would refuse to see him once and for ever.
Lewis accepted the assurance, but would not come into the drawing-room to see him, and bidding Mrs. Bentham good-bye for the present, he mounted his scaffolding and went on with the cupid’s head.
Both were pretty well satisfied with themselves. Mrs. Bentham certainly had to admit that she had gone a little further than she had intended; but she comforted herself with the belief that she had, in the last part of the conversation, established the groundwork of the friendship she so ardently coveted; and she hoped that in future, without loving her less, Lewis would accept what she gave him, and that their lives would be as pleasant as possible.
Lewis, on his side, was forced to admit, as he sat cramped up on his low stool, right in front of the straw-coloured panel rimmed with mauve, that although everything had not turned out as he had expected, still he had no reason to complain.
He cursed her father’s illness as a beastly piece of bad luck; but he assured himself that absence makes the heart grow fonder, and consoled himself with the prospect of continuing his courtship with increased vigour when she came back.
After Mrs. Bentham’s departure, the house fell into a state of absolute quiet. Mrs. Thorpe never received visitors, and those who called after the tennis party left their cards, and went away disappointed.
For the first couple of days, Lewis thought of nothing but the letter he expected to receive from Mrs. Bentham, and he asked himself twenty times a day whether she would address him as, “My dear Lewis,”
“Dear Lewis,” or, “My dear Mr. Seymour.” Then he passionately regretted having missed kissing her; for he argued that if he had done so she would have been obliged to call him, Lewis. At last the letter came, and a grey cloud passed over his face as he read: “My dear Mr. Seymour;” however, it was very kind, charming, in every other respect, and obtained the consolatory news that Mr. Vicome, her father, was better, and that Lord Senton was boring her to death.
Mrs. Thorpe had also received a letter, and she kept Lewis till nearly eleven o’clock telling him about the poor old gentleman, and how anxious he was to have the ball-room finished.
Henceforth the days went by with the methodical monotony of an eight-day clock, and the periodical winding up took the form of a letter from Mrs. Bentham, saying that her father was better, or that he worse, and that for the present she could not leave London. Every morning after breakfast Lewis went to his decorations, and Mrs. Thorpe to talk with the gardener, the steward or the housekeeper, and had it not been for his painting, Lewis would have died of ennui. But as calm, dry weather will produce the best crop in a marshy soil, so the solitude of Claremont House forced him to concentrate his whole attention on his work, and he got on capitally.
The job of decorating all the panels proved a longer one than he had suspected. It is true that in the first month he had completed his sketches, but as he worked on he found that many of them did not please him; sometimes it was the composition that was not up to the mark; sometimes they did not suit the scheme of colour he had adopted.
They were, in all, six large panels, twelve feet by six, and a similar number of small ones; and although the decorations were, not to destroy the lightness of the room, of the very slightest description, they still took a long time to execute on account of their size.
Fearful of failing in the work which had been entrusted to him, he had very carefully made his compositions according to scale, so that they might be enlarged by means of squares on the panels. It was impossible to do this alone, but a country carpenter helped him with the measurements, and the page boy held the strings. Lewis worked very hard, and towards evening his arm ached, for the manual labour of rubbing paint over
so large a surface was considerable. At seven he and Mrs. Thorpe dined together, and be told her new anecdotes about his father’s laboratory chimney, how he (Lewis) had lived with his poor mother for so many years, and of his terrible struggle for existence in the wilds of London. Never till half-past ten did the old lady grow tired, but then, even in the middle of a touching bit of description, she would put up her knitting and wish him good-night.
His gentle manner had quite won the old lady’s heart, and she regarded him as one of the family, quite forgetting that when the decorations were finished he would go away, and that they would then see him only at the rarest intervals.
For nearly six weeks nothing except an occasional letter from Mrs. Bentham broke the calm regularity of his life, until, one day, the footman handed him Mr. Day’s card.
Lewis looked at it for a moment, and wondering what the farmer had come to say to him, told the servant to show him in. It was scarcely singular that Lewis could not imagine what Mr. Day had come for; it had taken that gentleman two days’ hard thinking to invent a legitimate excuse for his visit. Even now he had found nothing more ingenious than a request that Lewis would paint him a picture of a horse he was very fond of.
Mr. Day suspected that Lewis would be surprised to see him, but it could not be helped. Lord Senton had insisted on an interview, and at that moment Mr. Day had two letters on the subject, which had both come by the same post, and had to be answered at once. Poor Mr. Day detested letter-writing, and latterly he had done nothing else but cover reams of paper, trying to solve the most abstruse psychological problems.
He now absolutely dreaded the hour of the post, for it never failed to bring him letters from Lord Senton, asking the most complicated questions.
