by George Moore
These suspicions had rendered her extremely jealous, so much so, that Lewis was often puzzled how to act. If he came home five minutes after she expected him, she would turn away her face from his kiss, saying, “No, thank you, I don’t care for the leavings of others.” He, of course, would protest, plead, and swear that it was not true; but it made no difference; Lady Helen remained in the sulks for hours.
So little sufficed to create one of these scenes of jealousy, that Lewis fairly lost his head. He positively dreaded to walk in the park with her; for if she caught a woman looking at him, which they all did, he found it impossible to persuade her that he not only had no appointment with, but had never seen, and had no knowledge whatever of the lady who had just passed. To go to a ball with her was positive torture, for it did not matter with whom he danced, Lady Helen declared all the same that he had been flirting and amusing himself the whole evening. Lewis hated scenes, but in his heart he bitterly resented these continual recriminations, and he often said to himself that it was beastly hard lines that he should be badgered about his unfaithfulness by the only woman to whom he had ever been true.
“You know, Helen, it is somewhat your fault, if I have not had as many orders as I might,” he said, as he modelled Sappho’s arm with short strokes of the brush passing rapidly backwards and forwards.
“My fault!” exclaimed Lady Helen, turning round, regardless of the pose. “How do you mean?”
“Well, you know, dear,” he answered, putting away his palette and brushes, and sitting down at his wife’s feet on the edge of the throne, “you are so jealous.”
“But what has that got to do with orders?” returned Lady Helen.
“You don’t know how people get their orders; one has to make oneself agreeable to people, and persuade them gradually into it.”
She looked at him in astonishment; but the ice being broken, he went on more boldly. “And you are so jealous that I am always afraid to say anything agreeable to anyone; for if she were sixty you would never believe that I was not in love with her, and—”
Not knowing how to go on, he kissed the white arms that encircled his neck like a garland of roses.
“Then you mean to say that you must flirt with women to get them to give you orders?” returned Lady Helen, as she withdrew her arms with a feeling of disgust.
“I don’t mean to flirt with them, I only mean to be agreeable with them; surely there’s a difference,” he said, kissing her in spite of herself.
“I would sooner starve, live in a garret, than have you flirt with anyone, Lewis.”
“I don’t mean to flirt with anyone, you silly little puss; but one should be attentive and polite; ladies like it.”
Lady Helen looked at him tenderly; she could not resist his caressing ways, but inwardly she felt that he was cowardly and false.
“What would you think of me,” she replied, “were I to flirt with anyone to get you an order?”
She looked at him passionately, speaking in a hesitating way; she had something to say, and didn’t like to say it. Lewis did not know at first how to answer; but recovering his assurance, he said, laughing:
“Flirtation, after all, is nothing; it only means making oneself agreeable.”
He could not have summed himself up more completely. The whole man was in the phrase. It was like a sketch by Daumier, and it gave the mental and physical character of this most modern of lovers.
Lady Helen laughed; but she learned afterwards to understand the phrase at its full value. Nothing was said again for some time, but her face twitched nervously.
At last she decided she would.
“You promise not to be angry if I tell you something?” she said.
“I promise,” returned Lewis, looking up from his palette.
“Well, then, you never noticed it, but that fool, Lord Senton, is always trying to make love to me.”
“You don’t say so?” said Lewis, laughing, and trying to appear surprised. He knew it well enough. “That fellow,” he continued, “is the biggest ass I ever met. Do you know that he makes love to every woman, and no one will have him. Tell me what he said to you; it amuses me.”
“Amuses you!” said Lady Helen, looking at her husband rather sternly. She had expected that he would be furious.
“Well, why should it not? Nobody pays any attention to Senton; he’s a perfect fool; every woman amuses herself with him.”
“It does not amuse me, I assure you,” replied Lady Helen, smiling, in spite of herself, at the recollection of something too utterly absurd he had said to her; “you have no idea how idiotic he is.”
“But what does he say?”
“Oh, nothing, only that I am looking well, and that he admires me, and little things like that.”
The conversation here dropped; but Lewis could see from the expression on Lady Helen’s face that she thought the idea of flirting with Senton for a portrait irresistibly funny. He did not speak, but left her to consider the matter. After a minute or two she said:
“I wouldn’t mind dancing with him once or twice of an evening, but I really don’t see how that will get him to give you an order.”
“Won’t it, indeed!” replied Lewis; and he explained how the trick was to be done. “First of all, be civil to him, smile at him, speak to him in the park, and ask him to call on you.”
“And then?” she asked, quite interested in the intrigue.
“Why, when he is a little in your confidence, you must tell him to make himself agreeable to me, and come and see me; I will see him once or twice, and show him my pictures; then he will be only too anxious to sit for a portrait; it will give him an excuse to hang about the house.”
Lady Helen laughed; and, seeing that she had accepted the idea, he added, brutally, “And I will charge him two hundred pounds for the portrait and one for the flirtation.”
A knock came at the door, and a servant announced that Lady X. had arrived. Lewis told him to show her into the drawing-room. Lady Helen put on the body of her dress hastily, and they went up to see their visitor. She was a two hundred guinea one.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
MORE TREACHERY.
TO MAKE LOVE to Lady Helen stretched beyond Lord Senton’s wildest dreams into a dim region inhabited by his divinities the Lovelaces, the Buckinghams, the Duc de Moray.
On receiving his first encouragement, he rushed down to Sussex to consult his friend Day.
Lady Helen had ridden with him in the Row; told him when she would be there again; danced with him three times at one ball; asked him to call. He felt sure that this time, at least, he had inspired une grande passion. He followed his adviser about from room to room, questioning him as to what he thought of this fact and of that. Day had a suspicion of the truth, but he knew better than to hint it to Lord Senton. Long were the discussions, and profoundly philosophical the remarks on the passions and desires of women.
Day sometimes felt bored to death, but he thought pleasantly of his banking account, as he settled himself down to Lord Senton’s long-winded anecdotes.
“What is the use of telling him the truth?” thought the farmer; “it will only make him unhappy, spoil Lady Helen’s prospects, and mine too, for the matter of that. Much better advise him to be cautious, and do everyone a good turn;” and with this kindly intention, Day listened, and advised Lord Senton to the best of his ability.
Nothing could have succeeded better, and everybody seemed to be perfectly happy. Lady Helen drew Lord Senton on beautifully; she chatted, and smiled, and joked, until he grew delirious with excitement; and then, choosing an appropriate pause in the conversation, she counselled him to make friends with her husband.
The two men had never quarrelled, and whatever ill-feeling had existed between them was of Lord Senton’s seeking. Their reconciliation was, therefore, a matter of no difficulty. It was done in a trice; he came to see Lewis in his studio. Lewis flattered him, talked about women, chaffed him about his successes, and Lord Senton went away
quite astonished to find that Mr. Seymour was such an agreeable fellow. This visit had profoundly interested him. For a few days he thought of nothing else, until, suddenly remembering that he had forgotten to ask if it were better to pretend to neglect a woman or to pay her unremitting attentions, he determined to call again and discuss the matter thoroughly. This time, however, Lewis, although still studiously agreeable, did not fail to let Senton see that he was engaged, and really had not the time to devote to him. But Lady Helen pressed him to return, and before a week he was back again. Lewis received him pleasantly, entertained him with long discourses on the tastes and habits of women — interlarding them carefully with so many allusions and references to his work, until at last Lori Senton perceived that the only way to become Lewis’s friend, and to have the run of the house, was to give him an order for a picture. Then, like a bird that flits about before entering a trap, he talked about having his portrait done; then tried to retreat; then advanced again, and finally asked Lewis how he would do him. Lewis at once began a sketch just to show him, and when that was done, Senton, not seeing the way out of it, gave the order for a full length, and asked the price.
When they were alone, Lewis described the interview in detail to his wife, and they both laughed over it: he with a vain, empty laugh, which showed how indifferent he was to all sense of honour; she with a light laugh, indicative of discontent and irritation. In truth, she was ashamed of the whole affair, but, although possessing the stronger will of the two, she was more affected by the influence of his company than she was aware of. His soft nature, although it yielded at the slightest pressure, was as difficult to escape from as a sensuous thought; it depraved with warm water-like treachery, corroded like rust, and soon the fine steel of Lady Helen’s character lost its temper and became tarnished.
In due time, the Sappho was sent to the Academy. It encountered a great deal of opposition, and had it not been for the President, Holt would have succeeded in having it turned out. He denounced it vehemently — partly because in his heart he loathed Lewis’s painting, and partly, it was whispered, because he considered Lewis a representative of that section of society which had persistently refused to receive Mrs. Holt When Lewis heard this, he took a hansom and drove home, determined to ask his wife to be civil to Mrs. Holt if the occasion presented itself. He knew Lady Helen would not like it much, but he hoped that when she understood how important it was to him to have Holt on his side in the hanging committee, she would not refuse. He approached the subject carefully, but at the very first suggestion Lady Helen flared up and said:
“Oh, impossible! I cannot know such a woman as Mrs. Holt.”
“Mrs. Holt is as good as anyone else,” Lewis exclaimed, getting angry. “I just ask you to consider the consequences: supposing he had succeeded in getting the Sappho kicked out, I should like to know what I should have done; whereas, with a civil word or two, you can bring him over to my side. I tell you it is most important.”
“But, surely, you would not like me to know a woman who has sat for a model for half the artists in London.”
Lewis seldom got into a passion, but every now and then he tried to prove that he was not as weak-minded as you might suppose, by answering rudely, and pretending to lose his temper.
“That is not true; she never sat for any artist but Holt,” he said, walking up and down the room violently; “and now she is his wife, as much as church and law can make her. If you only married me to push me down, instead of up, I am damned if I don’t wish you had left me alone.”
Lewis knew that this would wound Lady Helen’s feelings as acutely as anything he could say, and he said it with that intention.
“You have quite sufficiently degraded me by making me flirt with Lord Senton to get you a portrait to do, without wishing to introduce me to such a woman as Mrs. Holt.”
Lady Helen could not restrain her tears, and she went out of the room, sobbing bitterly. But she had no sooner gone than Lewis began to regret what he had said — not, however, because he was sorry he had hurt his wife’s feelings, but because he remembered the disagreeableness it would cause him personally. The dinner bell was going to ring, and of all unpleasant things a sulky face was the worst. As he considered the question, it occurred to him that, after all, perhaps Lady Helen was right. It might do them harm with other people if they were to try to drag Mrs. Holt into society. Still, he didn’t see why it should; she was not half as bad as Helen wanted to make her out; lots of nice people knew her, and why shouldn’t they! Then, thinking of what an escape the Sappho had of being turned out, he resolved to let his wife stay in the sulks as long as she liked.
This was their first real quarrel Eventually Lewis apologised for having been rude, and Lady Helen promised to inquire into Mrs. Holt’s case.
This decision was arrived at afterwards, as they were looking through some very unsatisfactory accounts, which proved to him, at least, that it would be impossible for them to give another ball. Nevertheless, they went a great deal into society, and gave many dinner parties. Lady Helen liked it, and Lewis said that otherwise he could not hope to get orders. He knew, in reality, very little of picture trading. Mrs. Bentham’s commission to Carver to buy from him yearly several hundred pounds’ worth of pictures had blinded him to the wants of the actual market, and to his own position as a painter. His instinct was to make acquaintances, flatter and cajole, until they gave him an order. His persuasive manners enabled him to do this with some success, and he did not hesitate to push his wife forward, and make her do the same. It was be who gave her the tips. If he heard that they were to meet a sporting man at dinner, she was to talk to him of hunting and racing, and ask him if he had ever been painted in scarlet; if there was a lady at the table who was fond of riding, she had to suggest a portrait in a riding-habit. In fact, Lady Helen had to keep her eyes open, and do the business of a tout. Mr. Ripple also lent his aid. He hung about the editorial offices of the society papers, and pestered the editors into accepting “pars.” describing what Lewis had done, and intended to do. Having no occupation and five hundred a year, he got up at twelve, tossed off a “par.” or two, and spent his afternoon talking of literature wherever he went, and of his artistic acquaintances, and his intimacy with the Seymours, of which he was very proud. He had a “have a drink, old man” acquaintance with the tag-rag and bob-tail of Fleet Street, and these gentlemen were very glad, in consideration of a five bob loan, to help him crack up Mr. Seymour, in whose genius he firmly believed. He took much trouble, but in the end was recompensed, for, after a series of interviews and beating about the bush, he at last persuaded the editor of the World to let him do Mr. Seymour at home.
This was the literary event of Ripple’s life; hitherto his contributions had not exceeded a six-line “par.” and an article, in his eyes, took the proportions of the “Decline and Fall” The morning it was to appear he was in a fever of excitement. He had sent the servant out at least a dozen times to see if the paper was out, and, at last, when she brought it, with what trembling fingers he tore the pages! But, alas! the number contained no “Mr. Seymour at Home.”
For days he had been describing this article to every young lady of his acquaintance, and, pale with fear, he thought of what excuse he would make. To dress was the work of ten minutes, and a hansom took him to the offices in five, but those five seemed an eternity.
“Why is not my article in?” he asked the editor, in an agitated voice.
“My dear fellow, I really couldn’t print it as it was; you really should be more careful. You confused the tenses so dreadfully.”
“Shall I rewrite it for you?” asked Ripple, hoping against hope.
“Oh, there is no necessity for that; I have asked Jones to set it straight; it will be all right for next week.”
Mr. Ripple’s face lost its painful intensity of expression. The article was going in, that was all he cared about, and he assured himself that no one he knew would ever be likely to hear that it had been touched up.
The result of this and sundry other puffs, written by or at the instigation of Harding, who was a great friend of the family, was that Lewis’s picture of Sappho got so well talked about that he finished by selling it for three hundred pounds; two off the original sum, but still a fair price, and the money came in very handy, for it paid the Midsummer quarter’s rent, which was just due. Nevertheless for him, the season did not turn out very successful; and one morning, after breakfast, instead of going to his studio, he went upstairs with Helen to her boudoir to look into the books.
Drawing down the blind to keep out the sunlight, Lady Helen sat down by her work-table, and telling Lewis to bring his chair up, she proceeded to look through the accounts. A little examination showed them that they were enormously high. The butcher’s bill was thirty pounds; the poulterer’s, forty-two; the grocery, twenty; the greengrocery, seventeen pounds seven shillings and elevenpence; and the butter merchant, sixteen pounds and sixpence; the fishmonger, thirty-three pounds seven shilling and fivepence; and the wine merchant’s, fifty-five pounds. After reading the figures out, they looked at each other nervously. This was a terrible result to arrive at, after two years’ housekeeping. It was clear that, at the lowest computation, they were living at the rate of three thousand a year.
However, as Lady Helen said, there was no use crying over spilt milk, the only thing for them to do was to retrench. Fortunately they were going now to stop with Lady Marion for two months, and that would be an immense economy.
“But after all,” said Lewis, “if it had not been for those confounded dinner parties we shouldn’t have done so badly. I was adding it up the other day. I have made nearly twelve hundred pounds since Christmas. If it goes on, this will be the best year I have had.”
