by George Moore
The footman brought in a jug of hot water, and he heard the man say that breakfast would be ready in half an hour in the dining-room, but if he wished to have breakfast in his room it would be brought up to him on a tray.
At these words Lewis began to see himself as the real hero of a fairy-tale, and, distracted with a hundred plans for winning the sleeping beauty of the woods, he dressed quickly, and found the ladies in the dining-room. Mrs. Bentham, recovered from the languor of the night before, fell to talking at once of the decorations, and his mood being that of a lover, he could not fix his thoughts on the principles of composition as they were known to the Greek artists that had decorated Pompeii, at least not in the dining-room and in front of Mrs. Thorpe. At last Mrs. Bentham proposed to show him the ballroom which she had been forced to build, for the old rooms were so small that it was impossible for her to give a large party in them.
“But are the walls prepared to receive paint?”
She answered that they were, and they walked round the room, Lewis falling in with Mrs. Bentham’s idea that what was required was a figure painted in the centre of each panel, with an appropriate arrangement of leaves and flowers encircling it.
But there was a choking sensation in his throat, and he experienced much difficulty in answering all her questions.
She seemed further from him than she had ever been before. “Was he losing her?” he asked himself. “Has she been thinking it over, saying to herself that she brought me down here to paint pictures for her, and for nothing else?”
They had been round the room two or three times, and every panel had been discussed, and were standing by the window engaged in admiring the view.
“Shall I show you the drawings I have collected for the decorations? “she said abruptly.
“I shall be very glad if you will, and together we shall be able to choose those that seem most suitable.” So they went to the couch and took out of the portfolios Venuses and Cupids to no end; masks, quivers, flowers, tendrils, all kinds of fruit in profusion; and out of this stock Mrs. Bentham proposed to select, and the whole morning they sat side by side.
Sometimes they turned a batch of engravings over, bestowing on each a glance; sometimes they would linger over and admire a bit of drawing or a lucky bit of composition; sometimes they would alight on a picture that contained matter so suitable to their purpose that Lewis would make a hasty arrangement on a sheet of Whatman’s paper with a pencil. Now and then a somewhat too coarse revel of nymphs and satyrs would come up, and Mrs. Bentham’s remark, that while looking through these engravings she felt on the brink of a precipice all the time, seemed not altogether without warrant. “But despite the danger we must continue our search,” she said; and before lunch she had made plain her ideas, and chosen the drawings that she considered would be most serviceable to him.
“Do you think you’ll be able to carry it through? What do you think?” she said, and they stood looking at each other.
“Carry it through!” he cried. “Of course I shall, with your help”; and he was almost glad when Mrs. Bentham told him that she and Mrs. Thorpe were going out to drive, and that he would have the whole afternoon to consider his projects.
Although Nature meant him more for the lover than the artist, she had not denied him a certain amount of enthusiasm, and his fingers itched to cover the great blond panels with Cupids, masks, flowers, fruit, and wreaths.
And inspired by the desire of art for its own sake, and urged by the desire to win a woman with his art, he worked on till the light died, and the footman came to tell him that dinner would be ready at eight, and it was now half-past seven.
“Mrs. Bentham told me to tell you, sir, that she has some company this evening.”
“Why did she ask people to dinner?” he wondered as he went upstairs. “It looks as if she was afraid to be alone with me. Or has she asked these people to dinner to put me to the test, to find out how I appear to the county? And, of course, if the county don’t look favourably upon me, I must be thrown over.”
CHAP. XI.
AN HOUR LATER he entered the drawing-room, and was introduced to Lord Senton and Mr. Day, and when Mrs. Bentham began to speak of the decorations Lewis felt himself under the inquisition of the eyes of these two gentlemen. He felt that Lord Senton looked upon him as a tradesman, one who should have been sent to dine in the housekeeper’s room, one whose place was with the upper servants. Mrs. Bentham, too, seemed to place Lord Senton above him, and Day, the secretary, seemed to him to enjoy his discomfiture. Never had he felt more miserable than he did that evening; and his misery increased in his room, and it seemed to him that he would not get any sleep that night, so keenly did he feel Mrs. Bentham’s cruelty. He was so unhappy at breakfast next morning that he could not summon up courage to ask Mrs. Bentham if she were coming into the ballroom, and his heart misgave him when, on rising from the table, she said: “I shall not see you this morning; I’ve much business to attend to.” That afternoon she went out riding with Lord Senton. Lewis was disappointed, but his work interested him, and it was exactly what he could do best. His fluent talent combined easily nymphs, Cupids, masks, and flowers, and at the end of his third week he had finished his compositions. A scaffolding was put up, and Mrs. Bentham declared herself ready to superintend.
She had not been out to ride with Lord Senton for some days, and when Mrs. Thorpe asked why, she laughed and said she was a little wearied of him, and did not wish to see him again for some time. “I’ve been wondering what was the matter with you, Lucy,” Mrs. Thorpe said. “Never have I known you so irritable as you have been for the last fortnight.”
“Have I really been out of humour? I didn’t notice it,” Mrs. Bentham answered, laughing. “Well, that young lord is very monotonous, and the long stretches of country looking so lovely set me thinking of my painting, and is not this an occasion to return to it? I have neglected it too long, and merely, you remember, dear, because I couldn’t manage trees. But Mr. Seymour tells me—”
The women parted at the door of the ballroom, and Lewis talked to her from his scaffolding. She chatted, and laughed, and told stories. It amused her to talk to him as he sat painting. Sometimes he would turn his back on the great white wall, and sit facing her, smoking a cigarette, while she told him some ridiculous story about Lord Senton, or asked him for advice about her drawing, and during these conversations he was conscious that he was advancing himself into intimate relations. She thought him very handsome, and every day his drawings revealed to her prospects of a genius that one day all the world would acknowledge.
And it was about this time they began to speak of what love is, and is not. It was Lucy that introduced the subject oftenest, and it was she, whenever the conversation seemed likely to take a serious turn, or become personal, that changed the subject dexterously. And so they were like friends who dared not venture on the slightest liberty, but who showed by a thousand little things that they longed to pass over all restrictions.
But if the mornings were pleasant, the evenings were delightful; and while Mrs. Thorpe knitted, the lovers (for they were already lovers in thought) sang together; and if they were not singing they sat discussing painting and literature. She had never been mentally intimate with a man before, and it often seemed to her that a new world was opening up into her view.
“To-morrow,” she said, “I shall not see you in the afternoon; I must pay some visits”; and there was an accent of regret in her voice that alarmed her chaperon. Lewis was, however, not displeased to devote an entire afternoon to his work — an afternoon free from interruptions. He had that morning completed the composition destined to fill the panel above the chimney-piece — a nymph seated high in a bower made of a few tendrils and roses, with a ring of Cupids dancing round her to the music of a reed flute which she played. As soon as breakfast was over he set to work to lay in the face, shoulders, and hair of the nymph, taking care to keep it very light in tone.
He worked steadily as long as th
ere was light, never stopping but to light a cigarette. “Eight hours I’ve been working,” he said to himself. “Eight hours upon that scaffolding”; and, feeling a little tired, he walked on to the terrace and abandoned himself to the happy consideration of his accomplishment till the carriages appeared round a bend in the drive.
The ladies had paid several visits, and to their surprise the whole county knew about the decorations, and hoped that Mrs. Bentham would give a ball.
“So you will make the acquaintance of the whole county, Mr. Seymour,” Lucy said, laughing. “Everybody has heard about you, and is looking forward to seeing you. Lord Senton has, I think, been abusing you to Lady Marion. She told me he said he didn’t like you, and that there must be something nice about anything that Lord Senton dislikes.”
“But who is Lady Marion?” Lewis asked, a little perplexed.
“The dearest old lady in the world; very learned, and very interested in art.”
“But, my dear,” said Mrs. Thorpe, suddenly stopping her knitting, “we have forgotten to tell him about Lady Helen. Do you know, Mr. Seymour, that you will see one of the most beautiful girls in the world? All St. Petersburg went mad about her last season. You are sure to fall in love with her.”
Lewis said he would be enchanted to see the most beautiful girl in the world, but hoped he would not fall in love with her. “That would be a calamity,” he added.
“Why would it be a calamity?” Lucy asked.
Before Lewis could find an answer to this question Mrs. Thorpe, who seemed to have Lady Helen and Lewis terribly mixed up in her head, said:
“I’m thinking, Lucy, what a pretty picture Mr. Seymour could paint of Lady Helen. You ought to ask her to sit to him.”
“I shall be delighted to do so, but I don’t know that Lady Helen will have time to sit; she is leaving the country very soon.”
“And I’ve no time to begin a portrait,” Lewis interjected. “I’m too much occupied with the decorations.”
“Portraits and decorations don’t mix, do they?” Lucy asked. “ Has any great decorator been also a great portrait painter?”
Lewis spoke of Tintoretto, but admitted that he did not seem to have taken portrait painting very seriously.
CHAP. XII.
A LITTLE AFTER two o’clock, before Lucy or Mrs. Thorpe had finished dressing to receive their visitors. Lord Senton and Mr. Day drove up in a dog-cart.
Lord Senton, a tall, languid young man, with weak eyes, a fair moustache, and a rose flush in his cheeks, walked like a tall greyhound of distinctive breed, and by his side his secretary, Mr. Day, trotted, a snappy little mongrel who had little by little succeeded in gathering up all Lord Senton’s business, making of it a sort of private possession. He ran his lordship’s racing-stables and he intrigued against his lordship’s women, advising him against this one and advocating the advantages of another; doing all sorts of odd jobs with a series of disagreeable little barks and yelps. Lord Senton’s friends regarded him as an abomination, and he chuckled as each friend dropped away, for to get Lord Senton in his power completely it was necessary to isolate him.
“I don’t know what is happening,” Senton said; “she has put me off three times. I’m certain she’ll never go out to ride with me again, but will pull down stables and build studios or something of that kind. What do you think of this young man who has come down here to paint decorations for her?”
“Well, Lord Senton, I cannot tell you really what I think of him until I see more of him. As soon as a chance occurs I will try to get five minutes with him.”
“And do you think you will be able to find out anything about him?”
“I think I shall,” he answered; and he would have said more, but at that moment a carriage passed round the sweep containing an old lady in mauve and two girls in pink dresses who shaded their faces with blue and pink sunshades.
“Here are the Ormrod girls,” said Mr. Day.
“How boring,” Senton answered. “I wish we could get away. Do you take them on, Day.”
“Don’t you think you’d like to talk to the girls for a few minutes before Mrs. Bentham comes down,” Day asked, “while I take on the old lady?”
Before this point could be decided, Mrs. Ormrod and her daughters were announced. They were people of some slight consideration in the county, having owned property for some three or four generations, and being related distantly to the Marquis of Hetherington, an important nobleman, yielding but little in position and influence to the Duke of Richmond, who spent three months every year at Westland Manor, and invited baronets, and the best county families to honour him with a three days’ visit; the small landowners, militia officers, vicars and curates were invited to dinner, and their position in the county was determined by the tone the noble Marquis adopted in addressing them.
The Marquis’s eldest sister, Lady Marion, had married a Mr. Lindell, a county gentleman who had died many years ago; Lady Alice, the second sister, had married Sir Richard Sedgewick; he owned a large property in Sussex, but lived principally in London. The third sister, Lady Henrietta, had married a diplomatist, Lord Granderville, and her daughter, Lady Helen, was spoken of as the belle of the season. Her photographs were published in all the papers, and the gossips related that her mother intended her for Lord Senton. She was only back a few months from St. Petersburg and already it was mooted that she was a great trouble to her mother, and would probably marry according to her own inclinations.
These were among the first to arrive, and very soon afterwards carriages drove up in quick succession, and emptied their cargoes of pink muslin and jerseys at the hall door. The word tennis was heard all over the drawing-room, and Mrs. Bentham, observing a great desire on the part of the younger people for tennis, proposed they should go out on the terrace.
The courts were in beautiful order — a turf of fine grass like velvet, that the tennis players felt admiringly with their feet. A fault must be found, and somebody said, “A ‘smash’ will be impossible in these courts in two hours’ time.”
“Quite true,” somebody replied: “those at this end will not be able to lift their eyes.” There was plenty of shade, however, for the onlookers, for at the far end three splendid cedars and some spreading beeches formed a tent, in whose shade the white cloth of the tea-table glittered like a bank of snow; and it was there the company collected and talked as they watched the game. The elders were more interested to hear Lady Marion talk; and she had begun to express her views regarding Russian intrigues in Persia to her sister, Lady Granderville, whose thoughts were on her daughter, rather than on politics.
“I’d rather that Granderville were sent to one of the Colonies as Viceroy. I’ve been thinking out,” she said, “a project for trained nurses which, I believe, is needed seriously; but I suppose we shall go to St. Petersburg.
Helen likes Dutch society, but she is difficult to understand.... By the way, have you heard about this young man who is staying here decorating Lucy’s ballroom? One of the Ormrod girls, Ethel, caught sight of him, and her description of him is that he would make a very good-looking girl.”
“Ethel Ormrod always puts a disagreeable colour on everything she says. The young man is good-looking — that she cannot deny; so she finds fault with him because he looks as if he wasn’t able to carry a very heavy trunk.”
Lady Helen, who overheard her aunt’s remark, said: “I quite agree with Aunt Marion; one doesn’t want a man to look like a stevedore.”
“My dear Helen!” Lady Granderville uttered; and then relapsed into a sort of plaintive silence.
“Now, what have I said wrong, mother?” Lady Helen said.
“Nothing, dear,” Lady Marion replied. “But I can’t help wondering where you got that lemon-coloured hair from; no one else in the family has it.” And the women fell to talking about Lady Helen’s hat, and it was agreed that it matched the embroidery flowers on her dress.
She was among the whitest of women, with hardly a trace of colour in
her face, only a faint rose flush showing; but round the eyes a darker tint announced a nature that would probably cause Lady Granderville trouble later on. The head, placed on a thin neck, fell into varying attitudes, and the waist, which one could span with one’s hand, and the slight hips, recalled a Bacchus rather than a Venus.
“Why do you stand, Helen? Why don’t you sit down?”
“Whether I stand or sit, mother, I’m always doing something wrong,” Lady Helen answered, and she was about to turn away and to leave the group, but was stayed from doing so by the approach of Mrs. Bentham.
“I hear, Henrietta, that you are going to Russia?”
“I’m afraid we are, Lucy.”
“Why afraid, Lady Granderville?” Mr. Swannell chimed in.
A political conversation with Mr. Swannell, who accompanied Mrs. Bentham, was a thing to be avoided, and Lady Granderville answered abruptly; but undeterred by her remark, he turned to a group of young men who crowded to listen, and addressed himself to them, saying that Russia was the everlasting menace. But in the midst of a fine period he noticed that everybody was looking away from him, and at the same moment he heard one of the girls say: “I’m sure it is he. Did you ever see anybody so peculiar in your life?”
