by George Moore
“I assure you it is false; Mrs. Bentham was never more than a dear, good friend to me.”
“Give me your word of honour.”
“Upon my word of honour; I can’t understand Lady Granderville saying such a thing.”
“Well, papa seemed quite shocked, and so did aunt; but I don’t think that any man, or woman, or child, ever had such a temper as mamma. I wonder how papa can stand it; but it doesn’t matter what she said as long as it is not true. Goodbye; you don’t know how happy you have made me; I hated Mrs. Bentham once, but now I feel I love her for having been a kind friend to you; good-bye.”
They kissed each other again, and Lady Helen drove away. Lewis looked up and down the street once or twice, and then entered his studio.
CHAPTER XXIII.
DIFFICULTIES OVERCOME.
A HALF STERILE seed and a half formed talent will both grow and blossom, if especially favoured by circumstances. In Lewis’s case the combination had been so extremely subtle that the small grain of original good had been almost cultivated into a flower. He was irresolute, but he had had some one always by him to sustain him; he sighed for pleasure, but he had obtained it with such ease, and in such profusion, that he had been forced, from sheer feebleness, to seek shelter in his art; he was lacking in perseverance, but he had obtained his successes so rapidly that they had pushed him on in spite of himself. Up to the present the medicines used were exactly those required to keep alive this unhealthy talent; but as there are some diseases that will outwear even the most powerful remedies, so Mrs. Bentham’s influence had ceased to benefit him: his present life had lost its strengthening properties, and a something else was needed to unclose the hothouse reared bud that was now breaking to flower. Lady Helen came at the right time. Her beauty roused him from the state of apathy he was beginning to fall into, and her love of art at once amused and delighted him. She used to read him her poems between the intervals of love-making. She was the something that was wanted to complete the growth of his talent; for not only did her beauty and enthusiasm awake new dreams and aspirations in his soul, but by family influences she would be able materially to propel him along the road to fame.
During the last five years he had not only made much progress in his art, but he was beginning to be known as a constant exhibitor at the Academy, and was now recognised by the frequenters of fashionable drawing-rooms as a man of talent. He was asked everywhere; he was surrounded by friends; there was no one he did not know, and consequently he was a man that no one could afford to ignore. His pictures were well hung, and formed the subject of much conversation during the season. There was nothing to be said against them; if they did not show much individuality of feeling, they violated in no way any of the recognised canons of art. They were fairly well drawn, well modelled, well grouped, and pleasing in colour. “Then, why not hang them on the line?” said his friends to the other academicians, who had at first displayed some hostility to his pretty effusions in Greek draperies and fashionable dresses. In a word, he was on the eve of becoming a fashionable painter, that is to say, the artist who lives surrounded by grand people, and who rarely speaks to an artist.
Naturally, his friend Thompson had long ago ceased to visit him, seeing clearly that in art he would never do anything of the least interest to anybody. Lewis, on his side, had little inclination to leave the sweet pleasant way of success, to climb the thorny path leading to some far ideal, and he was now foremost in ridiculing what he was pleased to term foolish eccentricity. He deplored the teaching of “The moderns,” and he predicted a great decadence in art if the academicians did not resolutely close their doors against the new sect. Experience, he said, had taught him the folly of ideals. He, too, had wasted lots of time listening to their nonsense; weeks, months he had passed, tearing his hair, trying to make possible the impossible; he, too, had spent sleepless nights, but he thanked heaven he had had the force of character to shake off their influence.
With this kind of conversation he entertained Lord Granderville when he called upon him the morning after Lady Helen’s midnight visit, and he ventured to suggest that if he were not already an A.R.A. he had only “The moderns” to thank for it. Not only had they made him waste an enormous amount of time, but had so completely put him off the right track that it was wonderful that he had ever found his way back again. However, he had done so, and had now the satisfaction of seeing his pictures well hung and sold. Lewis spoke well, and he was able to show that he now made something between twelve and fifteen hundred a year. Lord Granderville listened, and congratulated him on the result of his labours, but declared, nevertheless, putting all other questions aside, that he did not see bow Mr. Seymour could settle even a hundred pounds on his daughter.
Lewis replied that he wished all Lady Helen’s money should be settled on herself. Lord Granderville smiled at this suggestion, and remembering his wife’s injunctions to come to the point quickly, he told Lewis, with much gravity of manner, that for many family reasons, quite needless to enter into, the marriage was impossible, and that it was better not to think any more about it.
Lewis bowed, and Lord Granderville took his leave with much formality. He did not know what to do. He felt that Lady Helen, notwithstanding all his wife could say, would not allow her wishes to be set aside: and try as he would, he could not see that, even if this marriage did take place, that it would be anything more than a very bad match, a somewhat unfortunate affair.
That night at dinner, Lady Helen guessed, from her father’s face, that Lewis had answered according to her instructions, and that it was now left to her to fight the fight out to victory. Her plan was one of passive resistance, resolute disobedience, and by persisting in this course she knew that in the end her parents would have to give way. Her mother, as she expected, forbade her imperatively to bow to Lewis when she met him, to dance with him at balls, to stop to speak to him in the park. To these orders Lady Helen made no reply: she merely set them at defiance. Then Lady Granderville tried, by turns, threats, and persuasions, until she was, on the failure of both, obliged to beg her daughter, at least not to publicly afficher herself with Mr. Seymour. Lady Helen felt a thrill of pleasure, but she answered, quite calmly, that she was quite willing to behave herself properly if Lady Granderville would consent to reconsider her decision, and allow Lewis to come and see her.
This proposition was received with indignation, but as they were discussing it, Lord Worthing, who had just come home from abroad, called. As the head of the family, the whole matter was referred to him. He was a large man, and he listened, majestically, leaning back in an arm-chair.
It was afternoon, and the rays of the setting sun glinted through the Venetian blind. After listening very attentively, Lord Worthing declared that the whole matter required the gravest consideration. On the one hand, he was surprised at Helen’s disobedience to her mother’s commands; whilst, on the other, he felt bound to say that he could not share Harriet’s somewhat sweeping condemnation of Mr. Seymour; he had found him a very nice young man, well bred and gentlemanly. Of course it could not be considered an advantageous alliance, from any point of view but he was bound to admit that it was possible to cite cases of lovers who had sacrificed all for their love; though, personally, he was not prepared to say that they had acted wisely in so doing. In such a strain Lord Worthing continued, until his sister, who lay tossing with exasperation on the sofa, lost all patience, and asked him to say definitely what he meant.
Lord Worthing did not much like this, but, after a good deal of evasion, he admitted that as Lady Helen could not be made to promise not to go out walking with Mr. Seymour unless he was asked to the house, it might be as well to comply with her request. Lady Granderville was furious, but after some discussion it was decided to ask Lewis to dinner, and Lady Helen said to herself, “Check number one.”
That night she wrote a long letter, putting off a rendezvous they had made, and giving him a full account of the conference which she declared to have
terminated very satisfactorily.
Three days went by in a tedious way, and then Lewis came to dinner, and was introduced to Lady Granderville. He passed his examination very creditably; Lord Worthing and Lord Granderville spoke to him about art; he replied modestly, but with enthusiasm. He listened deferentially to their views, and when they went up to the drawing-room after the ladies, the brothers-in-law agreed that he was an uncommonly clever, well-bred young man, and that it was a pity he had not a stake in the county, was not a landed proprietor.
During dinner Lady Granderville had maintained a dignified reserve. Determined not to commit herself in any way, she had measured her words so as just to remain within the recognised bounds of politeness. As Sir John Archer would say, she was making a waiting race of it, and Lewis, seeing this, determined to force the running.
On entering the drawing-room he sat down by her, and tried various subjects of conversation. Lady Granderville answered only in generalities, but every now and then she raised her eyes to look at him; his softness of manner charmed her as it did everybody, and before the servants brought in the tea she had almost forgotten her animosity.
“Just look, aunt, how mamma is flirting with him,” said Lady Helen, laughing; “she is beginning to regret that she is not twenty years younger.”
“Hush, hush, my dear,” said Lady Marion, trying not to laugh, for she saw that this was really the case.
Lewis conducted himself perfectly, and with a tact that even Lady Granderville was forced to recognise; and when he went away that evening he had won the sympathy of the whole family. The two men had agreed that there was nothing particularly disgraceful in the marriage, but Lord Granderville, urged on by his wife, did all he could to induce Lady Helen to give up the idea. He spoke to her about the settlements, showed her what she would lose, argued from every possible point of view, but to no purpose. Lady Helen replied that she would do anything else in the world to please him, but she could not, and would not, give up Lewis; and, regardless of advice, she continued to meet him, and once even went to lunch with him at a restaurant. When this last escapade reached Lady Grandervilie’s ears, she flew into the most violent of her passions, and, like a prophetess of old time, denounced the tennis party, and the day that Lady Marion had introduced them.
Lady Helen was out, and escaped the first paroxysms, but Lady Marion and Lord Granderville were kept close prisoners all the afternoon to witness the dénouement that Lady Granderville said must take place that evening. She was resolved to show them how she could bring an affair to a conclusion. Fifty times did she look at the clock, and fifty more out of the window, holding forth all the while on the mistake of the English system of managing young girls. They should be brought up, she maintained, under their mothers eyes; should come back after every dance; should never speak to anyone alone, and should be eventually married according to their parent’s judgment. The liberty they were allowed only encouraged them to ask for more, and led, as in the present case, to open defiance of all authority.
In her youth the traditions were still respected; but now everything was in a state of general revolution, and she deplored the introduction of American freedom into English manners and customs. Lady Granderville hated America, and, once on this track, she soon rambled off into a long dissertation, which called into question the first principles of Republican government, the abolition of slavery, the declaration of independence, Irish disaffection, and the wisdom of Lord Granderville in entering the diplomatic service. Sometimes her sister’s theories on the first principles of things provoked an answer from Lady Marion, but at a look from her brother-in-law she would sink back into silence.
When Lady Helen arrived, Lady Granderville looked at her husband and sister as much as to say, “Now you shall see how determined I can be.”
Lady Helen was very hot, and her white skin was overspread to the roots of her pale hair with a crimson flush. She wore a large hat which she took off on entering the room, and she threw herself on a sofa.
“It is dreadfully hot,” she said, fanning herself with her hat; but seeing grave faces on every side, she stopped, and looked perplexed.
“I hear you have been out to lunch with Mr. Seymour,” said Lady Granderville.
“I have no intention of concealing the fact; but may I ask how you heard it, mamma?”
“From people who saw you,” replied her mother. “Now, look here, Helen, there is no use arguing this matter all over again; it has been thoroughly well considered by the whole family, and we have decided irrevocably against this marriage. I have forbidden you repeatedly to walk about with Mr. Seymour, but as you cannot or will not obey me, I must take you out of temptation.”
“Take me out of temptation?” asked Lady Helen, opening her eyes.
“Yes,” replied Lady Granderville, casting a look of triumph on her husband and sister; “we shall leave London to-morrow.”
“You may leave London if you like, mamma, but I am afraid I shall not be able to accompany you,” said Lady Helen trembling a little, for she felt that they had now arrived at the critical point of the struggle.
“Where will you go then?” said Lady Granderville, whose astonishment for the moment overcame her passion.
“Well, if my aunt refuses me hospitality, I shall go to an hotel and marry Lewis Seymour next week, without any settlement.”
Lord Granderville and Lady Marion looked shocked, but, not knowing what to say, remained silent. As for Lady Granderville, she looked from one to the other, quite at a loss how to proceed. She had expected to take her daughter by surprise, force her from her position of lofty disobedience, and so secure a triumph over the whole family.
Lady Granderville’s large face for a moment was pale with passion, but as the different sentiments of rage began to break through her thoughts it grew purple, and then she burst out into a wild storm of invective.
Lady Helen sat quite still, and continued to fan herself. At last Lord Granderville thought it advisable to interfere, and then she profited by the occasion to slip out of the room, just lingering at the door to say that mere abuse was child’s play, and that she had a right to chose for herself.
Notwithstanding this defeat, Lady Granderville continued the struggle for some days longer. Her husband and sister preserved a strict neutrality. They knew that Lady Helen would not give in, and, wishing to shield themselves from future reproach, they agreed to let Harriet fight out her battle to the end. But the process of fighting the battle out was an extremely disagreeable one for all concerned, particularly the spectators. Lady Granderville refused to speak to Lady Helen, and the latter retorted by refusing to speak to her mother. Lord Granderville and Lady Marion found these hostilities extremely inconvenient, particularly at meal times and when visitors called; the artifices to which they were obliged to resort to conceal the family quarrel were quite heartrending. Mother and daughter cut each other dead on the staircase, and would sit in the drawing-room for hours, so that the one that remained should not think the other was giving way.
This continued for over a week; Lady Marion bore up bravely, but at last she declared that she could stand it no longer, and that if they did not make it up she would leave the house. The threat frightened both parties equally, and mother and daughter were at last persuaded into wishing each other good morning. This was followed by a week of as lively days as the last had been of solemn; scarcely an hour passed without an altercation of some kind or other. Lady Marion would take Helen into one corner, and Lord Granderville his wife into another, and all four would argue passionately under the shade of the window curtains. Then the conversation would become general; and when a scrimmage was imminent they would exchange partners, and discuss it all over again; and so on, and so on, day after day. However, at last Lady Granderville began to see she was occupying an untenable position, and one morning, at the end of a good three-quarters of an hour of expostulation and recrimination, she declared, with the dignity of the Roman Governor, that she would wa
sh her hands of the whole matter; that they were all against her; that they might do as they liked. Lady Marion and her brother-in-law protested that this was not the case; Lady Granderville shrugged her large shoulders; and Lady Helen fixed her marriage for the end of the month.
From that magic morning everything was changed; every thing, person, and thought grew bright and gay, and cumbrous Time could not keep pace with the flying feet of Love.
Lady Helen lost herself in a whirl of business: first of all came the important question of the trousseau; there was scarcely breathing time, and often she missed lunch. The carriage was out all day, and before the large plate glass windows of Regent Street the sun glistened on the sleek bay sides of the champing carriage horses, on the cockade, on the coachman’s hat, and the white legs of the footman who resignedly sat on a neighbouring bench.
There were dresses to be bought for the mornings; for the evenings, bonnets, hats, tea gowns, and peignoirs. The number of new fashions were confusing, and although she had deliberated an hour before she had decided on the blue cashmere, the bays had reached the circus when she had come to the conclusion that it would be very much better with a pink scarf, and the coachman had to drive back.
Twenty different varieties of this accident occurred daily.
Lewis often accompanied her on these excursions. He was never tired of looking at her in new dresses and hats; and he criticised their harmonies or discords. She fluttered as happy as a butterfly in the sun, and her life was full of delightful little surprises. On one occasion she had missed buying a green felt hat with an immense feather; she could not say how it had happened, somebody had spoken to her, called her away, and she had let it slip. Next morning she went to the shop, but although there before twelve, she was told that they had sold it, but that they would be able to get another in a few days. This little incident was very vexatious, and it spoilt the day. As she drove about, she passionately regretted the green felt. She was going to a flower show with Lewis, and when she told him of her disappointment, she thought it unfeeling for him to laugh; but when at last he confessed that he had seen the hat accidentally, and bought it, thinking it would suit her, she threw her arms about his neck and kissed him. No other man, she was sure, would have thought of doing such a thing, would have known what kind of hat would suit a woman.