by George Moore
What charmed Lewis was its solitude and quaintness; a high wall shut it out from the street, and the passers could only see the top windows through some thin trees, whose overhanging branches cast their shadows on the pavement.
The doorway of Orchard Cottage was built in the form of a porch, and its little bit of front garden was concealed from the balconies on the right, and the top windows opposite, by a green-latticed verandah reaching to and resting on the boundary wall. Lewis was enchanted with the green softness of the interlacing leaves, and he thought of how he would fill it with rocking chairs and cushions, and of the delightful tea-parties he would give there.
The first floor of this quaint nook was taken up by the studio and its ante-room, the kitchen, and a small room which served as a pantry. The door on the left led to the studio, which consisted of what might be called two rooms, that is to say, there were two ceilings, one much lower than the other. The studio proper, square and lofty, reached to the roof, whose beams gave it a picturesque appearance. It was lighted by one enormous window on the north side, whilst the greater portion of the eastern wall was taken up by a gallery, some twenty feet above the eye, reached by a flight of stairs concealed in a panelled case; this was the only means of reaching the upper story, which consisted of three comfortable bed-rooms.
Next day he brought Mrs. Bentham and Mrs. Thorpe to see his treasure-trove. Mrs. Bentham found no fault, she thought it charming; but Mrs. Thorpe considered it a tumble-down old place, and was certain the walls were damp.
Lewis answered her objections, and explained his plan of making the house habitable: he would hang two large, rough serge curtains across the lower ceiling, and thus transform the second room, or alcove, into a dining-room. The staircase, which Mrs. Thorpe declared to be hideous, he proposed to cover with rose-coloured drapery tied with twisted cords; and as for the anteroom, he would arrange it with a few Japanese draperies, fans, and lamps. The place wanted a little doing up, he admitted afterwards to Mrs. Bentham, a couple of hundred pounds would, he was sure, settle all that During the days the workmen had it in their hands, Lewis and Mrs. Bentham ran about London from morning till night, buying furniture, and in the excitement of the perpetual discussions as to whether an oak or a black-stained cabinet would be the better, or whether a Turkish or Japanese lamp would be the more artistic, Mrs. Bentham forgot her husband and the jealousies which had so distressed her. Her only grief was that this delightful companionship would soon have to cease. It was now the beginning of April, and she felt, unless she wished to compromise herself conspicuously, she would have to leave Lewis and go and live at Claremont House, at least for a time.
And she did not come to this decision too soon, for people were already beginning to criticise her conduct; and the echoes of their words, faint and indistinct, had reached Mrs. Thorpe’s ears. Unobservant as the old lady was, she could not help noticing that people smiled when Mrs. Bentham’s name was mentioned, and that they invariably spoke immediately after of Mr. Seymour. Having lived all her youth in retirement, out of reach of such scandals, she did not catch the full meaning of society smiles and inuendoes; they only troubled and disturbed her. But one day a visitor called, and the servant, forgetting that Mrs. Bentham was out, showed her in, and Mrs. Thorpe had to receive her. The visitor was a Mrs. Collins, one of those women who haunt the drawing-rooms of their friends, who come at three, and remain, for no earthly reason, till half-past five; who are not clever, nor young, nor pretty, nor amusing, nor charitable; who have apparently no quality except that of an emigrant mollusc, who, having no rock of its own, sticks to everybody else’s.
Mrs. Collins had long passed the age at which women are admired, and had therefore thrown herself half into the arms of religion, half into those of scandal. Her conversation invariably turned on one or the other, and she glided backwards and forwards, with an eel-like dexterity. She would begin with religion, as a means of introducing scandal, and when, finding that she had gone a little too far, would cover her retreat under a fire of pious precepts, never stoppiug until she had clearly proved that it was only in the interest of God that she spoke of such things. Now, she had just come from Mrs. Herbert’s, and as Mrs. Thorpe did not know Mrs. Herbert, Mrs. Collins had to explain: a dear, good woman, who spent her life in works of charity, who, of course, as everybody knew, had once been — well, everybody knew all about that — but, who was now trying to make amends for her past life. At first, Mrs. Collins would not admit that there was a word of truth in the accusation, and defended her friend vigorously; why, Mrs. Thorpe did not clearly understand; for, as she had never before heard of Mrs. Herbert, it was not possible she had ever, even in thought, called the purity of the poor lady’s past into question.
The world, according to Mrs. Collins, was horribly unkind; and after an infinite number of digressions, she declared that no one escapes, that it was positively only the other day she heard Lady So-and-so sneering at Mrs. Bentham’s friendship for Mr. Seymour.
“I just say this to show you how wicked the world is,” she added, in a weak and conciliatory voice; “for of course we all know that Mrs. Bentham is actuated by the best of motives; Mr. Seymour and she have the same tastes.”
Mrs. Thorpe had never heard the accusation put so plainly before, and she now determined to get to the bottom of the mystery. Leaning back in her chair, she stopped her knitting and said:
“It is very good of your friend to interest herself in Mrs, Bentham’s affair; sand what did she say?”
Mrs. Collins always retreated before direct questions; but, after having refreshed herself with some pious reflections, she plucked up courage, and gave an account of what society said, the sum of which, relieved of anecdotes and comments, was, that it was very foolish of Mrs. Bentham to be seen so much with a young man so handsome, and so much younger than herself.
Mrs. Thorpe listened patiently; her crooked hands trembling a little on her black dress.
“But what do they say?” asked Mrs. Thorpe, determined to arrive at the truth.
Mrs. Collins started at the abruptness of the question, just as if her modesty had been suddenly shocked by the sight of an improper picture.
“Oh, my dear,” she said, when she recovered herself, “they make no accusation; people only do that in the police courts.” Mrs. Collins could not think Mrs. Thorpe anything but vilely hypocritical, and for some time continued to preserve the demeanour of a person whose feelings have been shocked. Mrs. Thorpe was a poor hand at playing the traitor, but, unwilling to let an occasion of arriving at the exact truth escape her, she rang for some tea and pressed Mrs. Collins to stay. The conversation was then resumed on more amicable terms; and, after much difficulty, Mrs. Thorpe learned definitely that there were many people who believed Lewis Seymour to be Mrs. Bentham’s lover. This was a terrible accusation, and long after Mrs. Collins had left, Mrs. Thorpe sat thinking. She did not doubt her friend’s innocence for a moment, but although she hated the world for its injustice, she could not help recognising that Mrs. Bentham’s conduct laid her open to suspicion. She remembered how Lewis had looked at Mrs. Bentham on such an occasion; how they often ceased talking when she appeared; a thousand little things, which at the time she had only vaguely noticed, flashed through her mind. Believe her friend guilty she could not; but after much hesitation she determined to tell Mrs. Bentham plainly what the world said, and ask her directly if it were true. She considered she was in honour bound to do this; for the very idea of remaining in the house to screen her friend’s sin filled her with shame. She was harassed with doubt the whole evening; and, as the minutes slipped by, she grew so nervous that she was obliged to lay aside her knitting; she was dropping every second stitch. At last eleven o’clock came, and the two women bade Lewis good-night, and walked upstairs to their bed-rooms.
Mrs. Thorpe’s heart beat fast when Mrs. Bentham opened her door, and it was with difficulty she said:
“Let me come in, Lucy; I want to speak to you for a few minutes.
”
“Certainly, my dear, come in,” said Mrs. Bentham. “Is it anything of importance?”
Then, in short, awkward phrases, Mrs. Thorpe related the substance of Mrs. Collins’ conversation, and looked her friend gravely in the face.
Mrs. Bentham tried to laugh it off; she explained to Mrs. Thorpe how no one in society could escape the scandalmongers, and that no serious attention should be paid to their insinuations.
Mrs. Thorpe listened quietly, and it cost her an effort to continue the discussion; but, conscious of the equivocal position she was in, she felt that a straightforward answer to her question was an absolute necessity.
Both women leaned against the mantelpiece, and Mrs. Bentham absently picked the grease of the candle which stood between them, shining equally in their faces.
“But I assure you, my dear Lucy,” said Mrs. Thorpe, after a pause, “that the scandal is not a vague one; they accuse you most definitely.”
“Of what?” asked Mrs. Bentham, bending her head a little.
“Of being Lewis’s mistress,” replied Mrs. Thorpe, determinedly.
Mrs. Bentham started, and blushed violently, even her hands grew red. Had anyone else used the words, they would not have shocked her so much, but spoken by that little, thin, black-dressed woman, they seemed to take a bitter signification than they would otherwise have had.
Mrs. Thorpe noticed how her friend blushed, but she did not know whether from guilt or modesty.
“Then you want me not to see Lewis any more, because these women are wicked enough to calumniate me?”
“Not at all,” replied Mrs. Thorpe, to whom the idea of parting with Lewis was as painful as it was to Mrs. Bentham; “I only want you to say it is not true.”
“Then you doubt me?”
“No, indeed, I do not, Lucy; how could I suspect you of having been so deceitful towards me?”
“Then,” said Mrs. Bentham, taking her old friend’s hand, “I give you my word of honour that it is not true.”
“I was certain of it,” exclaimed Mrs. Thorpe, with something like a flash on her wan face. And Mrs. Bentham kissed the old forehead, just on the silver hair, and the two women bade each other good-night.
It cost Mrs. Bentham an effort to tell that lie; the words nearly suffocated her as she spoke them, and when the door closed, and she was left alone, her face contracted with an expression of pain. Hers was one of those simple, generous natures who wear their conscience upon all occasions; hers was a veritable Nessus’s shirt that burned her to the bone. “Can I do nothing? Will this go on for ever?” she asked herself. “Oh! how hateful! how hateful!” The life she saw before her looked like a black waste country, without trees, without flowers, made barren with the ashes of regret; without a star of hope in its murky sky, only a few lurid streaks of passion here and there. And this land she saw she would have to travel in silence, without a friend to whom she could speak of her tribulation, without a friend to murmur one word of solace in her ear. Cain-like, she saw herself for ever hurrying forward holding her secret to her heart.
At that moment a whistle was heard in the street It was the signal between her and Lewis. Grasping a chair, she stood rigid. She was determined to resist the temptation. After a pause, the whistle came again; a thousand projects flashed through her brain; she thought of calling him, of dropping him a note from the window, to explain why she could not receive him, for with a woman’s instinct she imagined what his suffering would be. He would walk about the streets all night in despair, asking himself if she were going to desert him.
Circumstances can mould some characters, but it cannot break any. Mrs. Bentham had yielded to Lewis, but she was the same woman after as before. Even when her lover was by her she did not forget her own hypocrisy, when he left her she was tortured by fears, by scruples. But now the temptation to see Lewis martyrised her, and, as she listened to his footsteps dying away in the distance, her heart sank within her like a weight of lead. Every day, every hour, forced a lie direct or indirect upon her. Give up her lover she could not, and, without that sacrifice, there seemed no help. She turned in her own shame like a captive in his dungeon. At last a thought struck her and she raised her face, radiant, from her hands. She would tell the truth to Mrs. Thorpe. She might leave her, scorn her, but never mind, she would have done the right thing. Then her heart beat lighter and her face softened with happiness, and all seemed well. She would tell her friend everything. Nothing should prevent her from doing that. So determined was she that she even considered if she would go and see Mrs. Thorpe at once. This, however, she did not do. She hesitated to awake the old woman who was doubtless now fast asleep, and next morning Lewis called before breakfast.
He was very excited and angry and he demanded authoritatively to be told why his signal was not answered last night. He affected jealousy, which, of course, delighted Mrs. Bentham, and with many supplications and beseechings the story was dragged forth piecemeal She said she could not help herself: live to deceive her old friend she could not, would not, and the argument grew interminable. Lewis loudly protested against the dipping of his name into any such scandal. She had no more right to use his name than he had to use hers. Supposing, indeed, he was to come crying to her that he was conscience-stricken, and that he felt absolutely obliged to go and tell the whole story to one of his friends, what, he’d like to know, would she say?
Lewis thought this argument very clever, and he laughed in his sleeve at the way it discountenanced Mrs. Bentham. The discussion was then continued on other lines, tender ones, and eventually he succeeded in forcing a promise from her that she would put off her confession to a future day. Immediately after Mrs. Thorpe came downstairs, and talking of other things, they all three sat down to a pleasant breakfast
CHAPTER XVII.
WORK.
A HUNDRED DREAMS of success had accumulated in Lewis’s mind during his long idleness, and his fingers had grown to itch for brushes and paint. He could think of nothing else, he could talk of nothing else.
While the workmen were making the necessary alterations, he strove to kill the time by buying frames, canvases, and looking for models, he was determined not to lose a moment before setting to work.
As he hunted them up in their poor lodgings, many thoughts came to him of his past life, and often as he mounted a rickety staircase, he paused at the landing, fearing to meet Gwynnie Lloyd.
He had glided into his present life feebly and inertly. At first it had shocked him to allow Mrs. Bentham to pay for his studio, but it was easy to imagine that one day he would be in a position to return her the money.
Of his genius he had no doubt. This year a picture of his had been hung in the Academy; it was a small portrait of Mrs. Bentham. One or two papers had spoken of it, and this was sufficient to confirm him in his belief that he had nothing to do but paint pictures to become an academician. He had found a tall, thin girl, with magnificent red hair, and was certain of being able to do something wonderful with her. Her image, for days, never left him; he had determined to paint her against a crimson curtain: the copper-coloured hair on a poppy red would give a vivid idea of Salome. The idea enchanted him, and he fancied (forgetting that he was only doing in red what Reginault did in yellow) that his genius was above all things surpassingly original.
The studio was perfect; the model was perfect; the canvas, six feet by four, drew the charcoal towards it like a magnet; and as for the drapery, it positively screamed crimson.
Mrs. Bentham was at Claremont House, so there was nothing to distract his attention. He ordered the model for eight o’clock precisely, and he worked till five with only an hour for lunch. He made a sketch of the head, and one of the whole figure; he had even thought of doing a life size cartoon. What he had learned at the “Beaux-Arts” enabled him to make sure of his drawing; all had been measured and plumbed, now he had only to paint the wonderful colour; and for days he strove to model the crimson tinted flesh up to the curtain. It was very difficult; but
, on the whole, he was satisfied with his work, and longed to show it to someone, to discuss his intentions, to receive encouragement and advice.
He had now been out of London for a year and a half, and had lost sight of his artist friends. This was a great loss to him; for if there was one thing he needed more than another, it was sympathy. Being essentially an amateur, he required the plaudits and encouragements of eye-witnessing friends; he could not work instinctively in solitude, like the silkworm, which is the true type of the artist Thomson he had met once accidently, but the bitter epigrammatic Scotchman showed little disposition to renew the friendship of past years. Seeing, however, that Lewis took it to heart, Thompson promised to try to find time to look him up, and a few days after, he came, with his friend Harding to see the Salome.
Thompson looked rather disgusted at the effeminate appearance the studio presented, but admitted that the picture was better than he had expected.
Harding declared himself delighted, and, lighting a cigarette, and lying down on a large divan under the window, attempted to read the moral character of the occupant, in the external appearance of his studio.
Between ourselves and our surroundings an analogy can always be traced; but in Lewis’s case this likeness was singularly marked. For between the febrile forms of beauty he strove to explain in his pictures, and his own feminine face and figure, the general arrangement and character of the furniture, down to the patchouli scented handkerchief, that cast a sharp odour through the room, there was a logical sequence that could not fail to strike so keen an observer as Harding.
“So you think that I have begun well?” said Lewis, looking at Thompson questioningly.
“It isn’t bad,” said the chief of “Tho moderns;”
“but it is rather conventional.”
“Conventional!” returned Lewis, aghast; “where did you ever see a nude figure done in full light before a red curtain?”
