by Grant Allen
Linnell was thirty, and at thirty these symptoms come stronger than in early youth. It is then that a man begins to know himself a man: it is then that he begins to recognise and appraise his own effect upon the hearts of women.
He liked Psyche — liked her immensely; but the really important question was this, Did Psyche like him? He knew enough about women, of course, by this time, to know that six or seven thousand a year will buy you outright the venal love of half the girls in a London ballroom. He knew that, and he didn’t care to invest his money in the unprofitable purchase. The question was, Did Psyche really like him for himself, or could Psyche be made so to like him? He glanced down uneasily, as he sat in his own arm-chair in the inn room, at his lame leg, or the leg that he still insisted on considering as lame, and asked himself gravely many times over, Would Psyche take him, limp and all included, without the dead make-weight of that hypothetical and unacknowledged fortune? If Psyche would, then well and good: it was an honour for any man to marry Haviland Dumaresq’s daughter. But if Psyche wouldn’t —— Ha, what a start! As he thought the words to himself, Linnell for the first time realized in his soul how deeply his life had already intertwined itself with Psyche’s.
The dream was born but the day before yesterday; and yet even to-day to give it up would cost him a lasting pang of sorrow.
He had understood well what Haviland Dumaresq meant when he said that if he had to advise any young man or woman beginning life he would tell them to go the way of the world, and work for money, position, and power. The great philosopher was a father, after all: he was thinking of Psyche. And for that, Linnell could not really find it in his heart to blame him. The old man had led his own heroic life, in his own heroic self-denying way, for a grand purpose: he had spent himself in the service of thought and humanity. But when he looked at Psyche’s beautiful young life — at that pink-and-white rosebud, just opening so sweetly and daintily to the air of heaven — he might well be forgiven for the natural wish to surround her with all possible comfort and luxury. A man may be a Stoic for himself if he likes, no doubt, but no good man can ever be a Stoic for those he loves best — for his wife or his daughter.
There the painter thoroughly sympathized with him. If he married Psyche, it would be because he wished to make her happy: to give her all that money can give: to make life more beautiful and worthy and dear to her. For that, he would gladly fling away everything.
So Linnell could easily forgive the father if he wished Psyche, as the world says, ‘to marry well’ — to marry money — for, in plain prose, that was what it came to. He could forgive even Haviland Dumaresq himself for that vulgar thought. He could forgive Dumaresq — but not Psyche. If Psyche took him, she must take him for pure, pure love alone. She must never ask if he was rich or poor. She must never inquire into the details of his banking-book. She must fling herself upon him just because she loved him. He wanted in his way to do after the fashion of the Lord of Burleigh. He must be but a landscape-painter, and a village maiden she. On those terms alone would he consent to be loved. And on those terms, too, he said to himself, with a little thrill of delight, Haviland Dumaresq’s daughter would be content to love him. If Psyche were made of other mould than that — if Psyche were swayed by vulgar ideals and base self-interest — if Psyche were incapable of devotion like her father’s, or of love like his own — then Linnell for his part would have nothing to say to her. It was just because he felt sure something of Haviland Dumaresq’s grand self-forgetfulness must run innate in his daughter’s veins that the painter believed he could give up his life for her.
So he whispered to himself, as he lay awake that night and thought of Psyche. But at that very moment, at the Wren’s Nest, a gray old man, erect and haughty still, but with that dreamy look in his eyes that Linnell had noticed so keenly on their second meeting, stole on tiptoe into the room where his daughter slept, and regarding her long in a strange ecstasy of delight, candle in hand, murmured to himself in low hazy tones: ‘She shall be rich. She shall be happy. She shall have all she wants. She shall live the life I never lived. I see it. I feel it. I know it’s coming. — A rich man shall love her. I feel it’s coming. — Space swells around me. The walls grow bigger. The world grows wider. The music rings. How glorious it all looks in Psyche’s palace! I shall make her happy. I shall guard her and watch over her. She shall never fling her life away, as I flung mine, for vain conceits, for empty shadows. I see the vision. I hear the music. It rings in my ears. It tells me she shall be happy.’
If a medical man could have looked at the great philosopher’s eyes just then, he would have needed but little experience to tell you that the silver-coated pellet Haviland Dumaresq had swallowed to calm his nerves the evening before was pure opium. It was thus that nature revenged herself at last for long years of excessive toil and terrible privation.
Next day Psyche was to begin her sittings in the Arab costume. Linnell was up early, and opened his letters from London at the breakfast-table. Among them was one from his agent in town, giving a list of all libraries and institutions in the English-speaking world to which copies of Haviland Dumaresq’s great work could be sent by an ardent admirer. The number a little surprised himself: his agent had hunted up two hundred and seventy distinct recipients. The complete series of the ‘Encyclopædic Philosophy’ was published at three guineas a set: the total would amount, therefore, to £850 10s. He totted up the number on the back of an envelope, and drew a long breath. That was a big sum — much bigger than he expected; but it would make Dumaresq rich for many a long day to come. Eight hundred and fifty was nothing to him. He took his cheque-book from his portmanteau, and filled in a cheque for that amount offhand. Then he wrote a short note of instruction to his agent; packed up his easel for the morning’s work; dropped letter and cheque in the post-box as he passed, and presented himself betimes at the Wren’s Nest, with an approving conscience, to fulfil his engagement.
He was glad to think he had done so much to make Psyche and her father both happy. And he was glad, too, in a certain indefinite, half-conscious way, that he’d planned it first for Haviland Dumaresq’s own sake, before he even knew of Psyche’s existence. Love of philosophy, not love of a girl, had given him the earliest impulse to do that kind and generous action.
It was a happy morning, indeed, for both the young people. Linnell had to pose and drape Psyche, with Geraldine Maitland’s friendly assistance — for Geraldine had come round to bring the Arab dress, and remained to perform propriety for the occasion. ‘Papa wouldn’t come down this morning,’ Psyche said, blushing: ‘he had one of his very bad headaches to-day. She noticed last night that papa’s eyes had that strange far-away, dreamy look about them which, she always observed, was followed soon by a racking headache. He was dreadfully depressed when he got well, too: he’d have a terrible fit of depression to-morrow, she was afraid.’ Linnell was politely sorry to hear that; yet too secretly glad at the proximate success of his own device to feel that the depression could be very permanent. It was such an impersonal way of doing a man a benefit — increasing the sale of his book so largely. It would all go in with the yearly account, no doubt; and unless Dumaresq inquired very closely into the sales, he would never even find out the real reason of this apparent leap into sudden popularity. He would only know in a vague and general way that a great many more of his books had been sold this year than in any previous year since their first publication.
‘There, that’ll do exactly,’ he said at last, posing Psyche’s head, with a soft silky haik thrown lightly across it, a little on one side towards her left shoulder. ‘Don’t you think so, Miss Maitland? It’ll do so. That’s absolute perfection. Now you can laugh and talk as much as you like, you know, Miss Dumaresq. Don’t suppose it’s the same as having your photograph taken. What a painter wants above all is the natural expression. The more you’re yourself the more beautiful and graceful the picture will be, of course.’
‘What a pretty compliment!’ Geraldin
e Maitland murmured archly. ‘You never speak that way to me, Mr. Linnell.’
The painter looked down and laughed awkwardly. ‘But I’ve never painted you, you know, Miss Maitland,’ he answered, rather restrained. ‘When I do, I’ll prepare a whole quiverful of compliments ready for use beforehand.’
‘I understand. Precisely so. But with Psyche, you see, they well out naturally.’
Psyche blushed and smiled at once. ‘Don’t talk such nonsense, Geraldine,’ she said with a bashful air. ‘Is this right now, Mr. Linnell, please? Geraldine sets me out of pose by talking.’
Linnell looked up from his easel admiringly. ‘Go on making her blush like that as long as you please, Miss Maitland,’ he said with a smile, as he outlined her delicate face on his canvas. ‘That’s just how I want it. Nothing could be more perfect. My Fatma or Mouni’s supposed to be caught in the very act of falling in love for the first time. I mean to call it “The Dawn of Love,” in fact, and you must try to throw yourself as fully as possible into the spirit of the character, you see, Miss Dumaresq.’
If Linnell had wished to make her blush, indeed, nothing he could have said would have succeeded better. The poor girl flushed so crimson at once from chin to forehead that Linnell took pity upon her, and strove at once to turn the current of the conversation. He shifted the subject to Dumaresq and his work, the adherents his system was gaining on the Continent, and his own profound belief in its ultimate triumph. ‘All great things grow slowly,’ he said, as he worked away at the dainty curve of those quivering nostrils. ‘The Newtonian gravitation was disbelieved for half a century, and Lamarck went blind and poor to his grave without finding one adherent for his evolutionary theories.’
‘Papa has many,’ Psyche said simply, ‘and those, too, among the greatest and most famous of the time. Even among the people we see here at Petherton, I can always measure their intellect at first sight by observing in what sort of respect they hold my father.’
‘Then my intelligence must be of a very high order,’ Linnell went on, laughing, ‘for I believe nobody on earth ranks Haviland Dumaresq higher than I do. To me he seems far and away the greatest thinker I’ve ever met or seen or read about.’
‘To me, too,’ Psyche answered quietly.
The reply startled him by its simple directness. It was so strange that a girl of Psyche’s age should have any opinion at all of her own upon such a subject; stranger still that she should venture to express it to another so plainly and openly. There was something of Haviland Dumaresq’s own straightforward impersonal truthfulness in this frank avowal of supreme belief on Psyche’s part in her father’s greatness. Linnell liked her all the better for her frank confidence. ‘I’m glad to hear you say so,’ he said, ‘for one knows that great men are often so much misjudged by their own family. No man, we know, is a hero to his valet. Let him be the profoundest philosopher that ever breathed on earth, and he’s oftenest looked upon as Only Papa by his own daughters. But I’m glad to know, too, that the faith is spreading. How many copies, now, have you any idea, are usually sold of the “Encyclopædic Philosophy?”’
‘Oh, not more than ten or twelve a year,’ Psyche answered carelessly, rearranging the drapery upon her shining shoulder.
Linnell started.
‘Only ten or twelve a year!’ he cried, astonished. ‘You don’t mean to tell me that’s really the case? You must be mistaken! I can’t believe it. Only ten or twelve copies a year of the greatest work set forth by any thinker of the present century!’
‘Yes,’ Psyche answered, in that quiet, resigned, matter-of-fact way she had inherited from her father. ‘You see, in England, people read it at the libraries: the great sale’s all abroad, papa says, and the book’s been translated into all European and Asiatic languages, so people for the most part buy the translations, which practically bring in next to nothing. Then the Americans, of course, who read it so much, read it all in pirated editions. They once sent papa a hundred pounds as compensation; but papa sent the cheque back again at once. He said he wouldn’t accept it as a present and a favour from people who ought to pay tenfold as a simple act of natural justice.’
‘But I suppose whatever are sold now are all clear profit?’ Linnell asked tentatively, with many misgivings, lest he should ask too much, and let out beforehand the secret of this enormous bound into supposed popularity.
‘Well, yes,’ Psyche answered with some little hesitation. ‘I believe they are. I’ve heard papa say Macmurdo and White have long since covered all expenses, and that every copy sold now is money in pocket.’
Linnell breathed freely once more. Then the £850 10s., for which he had sent off his cheque that morning to his agent would be all clear gain to the poor needy Dumaresq. His brush worked on upon the canvas with unusual vigour. He had never had such a sitter in his life before; he had never felt he was doing himself such justice, nor experienced such a supreme internal consciousness of having been useful to others in his generation.
When the head of the great publishing house of Macmurdo and White received a cheque for £850 10s., and an order for two hundred and seventy complete sets of ‘Dumaresq’s Encyclopædic’ (as the trade in its recognised shorthand calls it), he raised his eyebrows, sucked in his cheeks, and tapped with his forefinger on the desk of the counting-house.
‘It’s coming, White,’ he said, enchanted. ‘I told you it was coming. I knew it was bound to come sooner or later. “Dumaresq’s Encyclopædics” certain to sell in the long-run. There’s an order here outright for two hundred and seventy of ’em. Two hundred and seventy’s a very big lot. See how many we have ready in cloth, will you, and order the rest to be bound at once from the quires to order. I’m devilish glad we bought the copyright of that book outright from the man — and for a mere song, too. It’s paid expenses, I see, these three years back: so that’s eight hundred and fifty pounds clear profit for the house on a small transaction.’
For when Psyche Dumaresq mentioned the casual fact that every copy sold of her father’s great work was ‘money in pocket,’ she omitted to add the trifling detail that the pocket in question was Messrs. Macmurdo and White’s, worshipful publishers’, and not the author’s, Haviland Dumaresq’s. To anyone who lived in the world of books, indeed, that point would have been the first and most natural to make inquiries about: but the painter, in his eagerness to do a good deed, had never even so much as thought of the possibility that the copyright might not be the author’s. All that Linnell had actually accomplished, in fact, by his generous intention was simply to put eight hundred guineas or so into the bursting till of a flourishing firm of London publishers.
‘And look here, White,’ Mr. Macmurdo called out as his partner left the room to fulfil the order: ‘that poor devil Dumaresq never made much out of the book for his pains. Let’s send the man a twenty-pound note as a present!’
Most English publishers would have made it a hundred; and no other trade on earth would have made it anything. But Macmurdo and White are proverbially close-fisted; and the twenty-pound note from that amiable firm was all Haviland Dumaresq ever got out of Charles Linnell’s well-meant attempt to benefit the great philosopher. When it arrived at the Wren’s Nest, Dumaresq turned to Psyche with a smile and said: ‘I may keep that honestly. They must have made it well out of me or they wouldn’t send it. Though of course I’ve no right in the world to a penny. But it’s dropped in at the very nick of time. It’ll cover the cost of that young man’s picture.’
CHAPTER VII.
AT THE UNITED SERVICE.
When General Maitland returned a week later from the Métropole Hotel to High Ash, Petherton, it was with conscious rectitude and the sense of a duty performed that he remarked to his wife:
‘Well, Maria, I went to the club, and I’ve found out all about that painter fellow.’
As a matter of fact, indeed, it was with no small persistence that that gallant soldier had prosecuted his inquiries in London town into the Linnell pedigree.
&n
bsp; In the smoking-room of the Senior United Service Club, a few days after his arrival in town, he had chanced to light upon Sir Austen Linnell, the supposed cousin of their Algerian acquaintance. Sir Austen, a cold and reserved man, was very full at the moment of his preparations for going to Egypt, to join Gordon at Khartoum by special invitation. Those were the days of the forlorn hope, while communications up the Nile were yet clear, before the Mahdi’s troops had begun to invest the doomed city; and Sir Austen had obtained leave, he said, to accept a call from Gordon himself to form one of his staff in the capital of the threatened, but still unconquered, Soudan. This was the very moment for inquiring, clearly. General Maitland fastened himself upon Sir Austen with avidity, and listened patiently to all his details of the outfit he ought to take for the Upper Nile journey, and of the relative advantages of the rival routes viâ Assouan or Suakim to the heart of Africa. At last Sir Austen paused a little in his narrative; and the General, thinking an appropriate moment had now arrived, managed to remark casually:
‘By the way, Linnell, we’ve a namesake of yours stopping down at Petherton just at present. I wonder whether he and you are any relations.’
