by George Moore
He did not care to introduce it suddenly, and, several times, some accidental phrase had turned the conversation, just as the words were on his lips.
They were talking about tennis, and now Mrs. Bentham announced that the Sussex County Club were going to play the last ties for the championship at Claremont House; she had agreed to lend them the terrace. This provoked a discussion, and Mrs. Thorpe denounced the game as one of the most meretricious of modern fashions, and wearied Lewis with appeals as to whether he thought it proper for young ladies to run about as they did when they played the game. When this was over, Mrs. Bentham asked him some questions on decoration in general; so he gave up all hopes of speaking about Faust, resolving to reserve the subject until he found himself alone with her: this, on consideration, he thought would be the better plan. At last breakfast drew to an end; and Mrs. Bentham asked him to come with her, and she would show him the ballroom; she explained she had been forced to build it, for the old rooms were so small that it was impossible for her to give a large party in them.
The new room was at the other end of the house, and accessible only through the dining-room, the gravity of whose oak wainscoting was calculated to form a charming contrast with the frivolity of the saloon, the clear walls of which were as bright as a ball-dress.
There all the cornices and mouldings were Greek; plaster of Paris supplying the place of white marble. The walls were divided into large panels, varying in size according to the exigencies of space, and painted a light straw-colour, the frames a pale mauve, the beading being picked out in brighter tints.
The room had not been furnished, but the windows were draped with mauve satin curtains to match the walls. There was one large couch littered with portfolios, containing drawings; a few cane chairs and two easels stood in the middle of the French parqueted floor.
Lewis was enthusiastic about both rooms, particularly the one he was to decorate; and it pleased him not a little to see that there was at least four if not five months’ work before him.
“You think, then, that the colours are not too badly chosen?”
“They could not be better; but are the walls prepared to receive paint?”
“Oh, yes, that’s all right,” she said, as they walked round the room. “And this is my idea: I want a small figure painted in the centre of each panel, with an appropriate arrangement of leaves and flowers encircling it: do you think that would be in good taste?”
Lewis replied enthusiastically that that was just what was required; but his desire to speak of the music of Faust made him a little absent-minded. Nothing prevented him from rushing into the subject but Mrs. Bentham’s manner: she seemed so changed.
All the undetermined affection, the nervous and vaporous reverie, was replaced by light gaiety of manner, which seemed to say, “I haven’t a desire in my heart; I am perfectly satisfied with everything.” During the night she had thought a good deal; she remembered how she had picked up Lewis in a most casual way — and that he was only just a gentleman.
She had brought him down to paint pictures, not to make love to him; and when she reflected how she had languished over the piano, she tossed on her pillow: she quarrelled tediously, and was disgusted with herself. Finally, she made up her mind never again to so forget herself, to treat him coldly, to reassert her dignity. Therefore, the more Lewis spoke of the evening before, the more coldly did Mrs. Bentham return to the subject of the decorations; and she did so somewhat as if she wished to remind him that they were wasting time. She looked so stately in her black dress, and so inaccessible, that Lewis despaired, and cursed himself as an idiot for ever having dreamed of making love to her.
They had walked round the room two or three times, discussed each panel, and looked out of the window: it was obvious that they were neglecting the work they had proposed to get through.
“Shall I show you the drawings I have collected for the decorations?” said Mrs. Bentham, at last.
“I shall be delighted if you will,” Lewis replied, feeling as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.
They went over to the couch and untied the portfolios. There was plenty of material to go upon. Mrs. Bentham had bought all the engravings of the decorative work of the seventeenth century. There were Venuses and Cupids to no end; flowers, tendrils, grapes — all kinds of fruit in profusion; and Mrs. Bentham proposed to select from this stock and compose something suitable to each panel. The whole morning they sat side by side looking at Bouchers and Watteaus. Sometimes they would turn a lot over, bestowing on them merely a glance; sometimes they would linger over and admire a bit of drawing or a lucky bit of composition; sometimes they would alight ou a picture that contained matter so suitable to their purpose, that Lewis with a pencil would make a hasty arrangement, and then Mrs. Bentham would go into raptures at his dexterity. But she did not allow him the slightest intimacy. Now and then, a somewhat too coarse revel of nymphs and satyrs would embarrass them; but Lewis had the tact to go quickly on to something else.
The morning passed away delightfully. Before lunch, Mrs. Bentham had fully explained her ideas, and they made a rough choice of the drawings he considered would be most serviceable to him.
A scheme of decoration was now fermenting in his head, 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.
The dignified familiarity with which Mrs. Bentham begirt herself, and the artistic interest of the drawings, had led Lewis away from his love-dreams, and now he thought of the high white walls as ardently as he had of the languor of her hands and the raptures of her lips.
Although nature meant him more for the lover than the artist, she had not denied him a certain amount of enthusiasm, and he forgot everything as he looked at the great blond panels, and his fingers itched to cover them with his fruit, flowers, and cupid fancies.
He worked all the afternoon, till the light went, composing nymphs in shady bowers, and cupids encircling garlands of blossoms. He did not leave off till the dressing-bell sounded.
That evening, Mrs. Bentham, had company. She had invited to dinner Lord Senton, a near neighbour, and his friend Mr. Day, a Scotch farmer, who, on sufferance, was received into county society.
Lord Senton was a lank young man with bad teeth, his thin fair hair was brushed closely down on both sides. Mr. Day was a scraggy young man: he had a wild, vicious look on his dark face. He held a farm from Lord Senton; the two were inseparable friends.
Lord Senton seemed somewhat perplexed as he looked at Lewis, as if he were trying to conjecture by what combination of circumstances the young artist had been prevented from getting his hair cut. When he was told that Lewis was a painter, he talked at the earliest opportunity with Day, who laughed viciously.
After dinner, when the ladies left the room, Lewis knew the tug of war had come. He was conscious that Lord Senton was undressing him with a look, and already knew that his clothes had come from Haletas. He saw with dismay that his coat was a waiter’s, and he looked enviously at Lord Senton, who smiled in his white and black elegance, and showed his decayed teeth.
With much condescension, Lord Senton spoke about art, evidently thinking that he was expected to do so, for it was not to be supposed that a painter could speak on any other subject.
Frightened lest his lordship should sneer at him to Mrs. Bentham, Lewis humiliated himself. He agreed with him, tried to help him out of his stupid observations, threw conciliatory words to Mr. Day; but when their cigars were finished, and Lord Senton rose to go upstairs, he let Lewis pass out first.
“Well, he’s a silly kind of a fool, old chappie,” he said, when Lewis was out of hearing. “Did you notice how he was dressed?”
“He’s not bad looking though,” replied Day, with an apprehensive air.
“You surely don’t think that Mrs. Bentham allows him to make up to her.
“I can’t say, but I’ll keep a look out upstairs.�
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Lord Senton’s sole passion was to play the part of a Lovelace, a role for which nature had in no wise fitted him: and he judged of a man’s worth in proportion to the number of women he supposed him to be able to compromise.
In his silly way he flirted with Mrs. Bentham, she accepted his compliments, his presents of flowers and game, because it was as well to take as to refuse them. She was at the present time the absorbing topic of his life, and he used to discuss perpetually with Day what he should say to her, how he should push his suit. It was wearying, sometimes, to be called upon fifty times during dinner to determine whether Mrs. Bentham had squeezed Lord Senton’s hand in a certain quadrille accidentally or otherwise; but Mr. Day was Lord Senton’s tenant, and he found that patient attention to his lordship’s amours facilitated rent-paying.
When the two friends entered the drawing-room, Lewis was talking to Mrs. Bentham; she could not help looking at him a little tenderly, for Lord Senton had been boring her all the afternoon; she had been enervated by the memory of insufficient years, and harassed by the menacing monotony of those to come.
For some moments nothing was heard but the click, click of Mrs. Thorpe’s knitting needles; the three men looked at each other. Then Lord Senton talked about the county people, particularly of Lady Granderville and her daughter Lady Helen, who were coming to stop with Lady Marion Lindell, Lord Granderville remaining at St. Petersburg, where he was ambassador.
The interest in the conversation centred in Lady Helen, who was a great beauty, and till tea-time her personal appearance was passionately discussed.
Not knowing anything of the people whose names were mentioned, Lewis remained silent. He was very ill at ease; Mrs. Bentham did not take any notice of him, and evening passed away slowly and wearily. An ominous something seemed to float in the air; everyone felt as if something was going to happen, but nothing did happen, and when they bade each other good-night, their five different smiles indicated the measure of their ennuis.
CHAPTER X.
AN INTERLUDE.
FOR THE NEXT four or five days Lewis saw very little of Mrs. Bentham. She did not come into the ball-room in the morning, she had been out to dine twice. Once she had remained in her room the whole evening with a sick headache: in the afternoons Lord Senton took her out to ride.
Still, for Lewis the mornings passed delightfully, whether Mrs. Bentham was there or not. His work interested him beyond measure; it was exactly what he could do best His talent was neither original nor a profound one, but it was graceful and fanciful; and he thoroughly enjoyed scattering nymphs, cupids, and flowers, over the great clear-coloured walls. At the end of his third week he had finished his compositions for the principal panels, and made out a scheme of colour, which met with Mrs. Bentham’s entire approval. A scaffolding had been put up, and she declared that she was ready to superintend.
Latterly, she had been to fewer dinner parties, and had not been out to ride with Lord Senton for some days. When Mrs. Thorpe asked why, she laughed, and said that the most vigorous constitution could not stand more than a fortnight of him at a time; and that, under no pretext whatever, would she see him again till the end of the year. Mrs. Thorpe raised her eyes from her knitting, and declared that she was delighted at the news.
“For, my dear Lucy, I have been wondering what was the matter with you; never have I known you so irritable as you have been for the last fortnight. When I used to meet you on the stairs, going off to a dinner party, one would have thought it was to a funeral you were going, so discontented did you look.”
“Have I really been out of humour? I didn’t notice it,” said Mrs. Bentham, laughing. “Well, that young man is very dispiriting.”
Although she scarcely knew it, the real cause of Mrs. Benthanes gloom was that she had been for the last fifteen days vainly trying to persuade herself that she preferred going out riding with Lord Senton to sitting in the studio with Lewis. She argued that she had always liked riding, and with this for plea, she continued to accept Lord Sentons invitations. But after some days he began to weary her so intolerably that one afternoon she passionately decided that no one could be expected to allow themselves to be bored to death, and wrote to him on the spot asking him to excuse her. He was, she said to herself, dull — oh, deadly dull; and, what was worse, he made love to her more obviously every day. Last Wednesday she had had all the difficulty in the world to prevent him from proposing that they should run away together. If he had said such a thing she would have been obliged to quarrel with him, which, with a next door neighbour, would be more than disagreeable, so the best thing to do was clearly to drop him for a bit.
Besides these excellent reasons, Mrs. Bentham remembered that she had always intended to go back to her drawing; and here was an occasion to do so, which it would be folly to miss. She had an artist in the house who would teach her, and under his guidance she would soon pick up again what she had forgotten.
After this little change in Mrs. Bentham’s opinions, the domestic life of Claremont House became quite idyllic. The mornings were sweet beyond measure. Mrs. Bentham drew at her easel, and Lewis talked to her from his scaffolding. All the dignity of the grande dame was thrown aside, and a most delicious cameraderie was established in its place. 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, whilst she told him some ridiculous story about Lord Senton, or asked him for advice about her drawing. The brown curls, the soft sensual face, and the loose velvet coat coming out on the straw-coloured background, recalled a picture by Andrea del Sarto. She thought him very handsome.
Every day she grew more interested in him, and she often hoped that when the decorations were finished, she would still be able to find the means of helping him. All her dreams came back to her, of being the benefactress of one whom she would lead to success; who would, in the hour of his triumph, come to her, and taking her hand, say, “I owe it all to you.”
She did not know that she was, she did not suppose she was ever likely, to fall in love with Lewis, and as an ostrich buries its head in the sand, she hid her heart in a vague maternal sentiment, without caring to look into the future.
At first, her kindnesses raised his hopes to the highest pitch, but, as before, he had to renounce his expectations, for on the slightest advance, she drew away with so much mechanical grace that he was uneasily unhappy for the rest of the day. Sometimes he tried to punish her by exaggerating his position as paid decorator; but it mattered little, natural or affected, Mrs. Bentham remained his superior.
Besides, her humours were so subtle and various that he utterly failed to understand her. She had put him so often back in his place, and for the merest nothings, and afterwards so evidently appeared to regret what she had done, that he fairly lost his head. Then he strove to accord himself to her fancies, as a dog does to its string.
They often spoke of what love is, and is not, and it was oftenest Mrs. Bentham that introduced the subject; but whenever the conversation seemed likely to take a serious turn, or become in the least degree personal, she dexterously changed the subject. They were like friends who dared not venture on the slightest liberty, but who showed by a thousand little things that they longed to be less reserved with each other.
But if the mornings were pleasant, the evenings were delightful; Lewis and Mrs. Bentham sometimes sang together, sometimes discussed art, and as they argued, with the lamp light streaming over their faces, Mrs. Thorpe would let her knitting fall on her black dress, and look at them with kind, affectionate eyes.
Five or six days passed, and Mrs. Bentham savoured slowly the pleasures of this life of unreserved intimacy, and it was with reluctance that one afternoon she took Mrs. Thorpe with her and went to pay a round of visits. Lewis, however, was not displeased; he had that morning completed a drawing, and was going to attack another panel with paint.
He watched the carriage
drive away, and then returned with a full heart to his work.
The panel over the chimney-piece, although not nearly the largest, was by position one of the most important: he had therefore arranged for it a somewhat complex composition. It represented a nymph seated high in a bower, made of a few tendrils and roses, with a ring of merry Cupids dancing round her to the music of a reed flute which she played.
Rather nervous, Lewis 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, modelling the blown out cheeks carefully from his preparatory sketch, till the sun sank behind the western wolds. He then got down from the scaffolding, lit a cigarette, and began to think of Gwynnie Lloyd. He wondered why she had not answered his letters, hoped that nothing had happened to her, and then went out for a stroll on the terrace, quite satisfied with his day’s work.
That evening the ladies had a great deal to say, they had been quite a round of visits, and to their surprise, the whole county knew about the decorations, and were dying to see them, and hoped that Mrs. Bentham would give a ball to show them off when they were completed. They had been to call on the Frenchs, where they had met all the tennis players in the county, and it had been settled that the last ties of the tournament were to be at Claremont House, the day after to-morrow.
“So you will make the acquaintance of the whole county, Mr. Seymour,” said Mrs. Bentham, laughing; “everybody has heard about you, and is dying to see you. Lord Senton has, I think, been abusing you to Lady Marion; at least she told me that he said he didn’t like you; so Lady Marion is dying to see you, for she says that there must be something nice about anything that Lord Senton dislikes.”