It was difficult for the two who had thus parted at night to meet again
at the breakfast-table next morning without any sign of that encounter,
before the sharp eyes of Aunt Mary, and Norah's youthful, vivacious
powers of observation. Dr Maurice was the one who found the ordeal most
hard. He was sullen, and had a headache, and talked very little, not
feeling able for it. 'You are bilious, Henry; that is what it is,' the
aunt said. But though he was over fifty, and prided himself on his now
utterly prosaic character, the doctor felt wounded by such an
explanation. He did not venture to glance at Helen, even when he shook
hands with her; though he had a lurking curiosity within him to see how
she looked, whether triumphant or sympathetic. He knew that he ought to
have been gay and full of talk, to put the best face possible upon his
downfall; but he did not feel able to do it; not to feel sore, not to
feel small, and miserable, and disappointed, was beyond his powers.
Helen was not gay either, nor at all triumphant; she felt the
embarrassment of the position as much as he did; but in these cases it
is the woman who generally has her wits most about her; and Mrs
Drummond, who was conscious also of her child's jealous inspection,
talked rather more than usual. Norah had demanded to know what the
doctor had to say on the previous night; a certain dread was in her
mind. She had felt that something was coming, something that threatened
the peace of the world. 'What did he say to you, mamma?' she had asked
anxiously. 'Nothing of importance,' Helen had replied. But Norah knew
better; and all that bright May morning while the sunshine shone out of
doors, even though it was in London, and tempted the country girl
abroad, she kept by her mother's side and watched her with suspicious
eyes. Had Norah known the real state of affairs, her shame and
indignation would have known no bounds; but Helen made so great an
effort to dismiss all consciousness from her face and tone, that the
child was balked at last, and retired from the field. Aunt Mary, who had
experience to back her, saw more clearly. Whatever had been going to
happen had happened, she perceived, and had not been successful. Thus
they all breakfasted, watching each other, Helen being the only one who
knew everything and betrayed nothing. After breakfast they were going to
the Exhibition. It had been deferred to this day, which was to be their
last.
'I do not think I will go,' said Dr Maurice; and then he caught Norah's
look full of disappointment, which was sweet to him. '_You_ want me, do
you, child?' he asked. There was a certain ludicrous pathos in the
emphasis which was almost too much for Helen's gravity, though, indeed,
laughter was little in her thoughts.
'Of course I want you,' said Norah; 'and so does mamma. Fancy sending us
away to wander about London by ourselves! That was not what you invited
us for, surely, Dr Maurice? And then after the pictures, let us have
another splendid drive in the carriage, and despise all the people who
are walking! It will be the last time. You rich people, you have not
half the pleasure you might have in being rich. I suppose, now, when you
see out of the carriage window somebody you know walking, it does not
make you proud?'
'I don't think it does,' said the doctor with a smile.
'That is because you are hardened to it,' said Norah. 'You can have it
whenever you please; but as for me, I am as proud----'
'I wish you had it always, my dear,' said Dr Maurice; and this time his
tone was almost lachrymose. It was so hard-hearted of Helen to deny her
child these pleasures and advantages, all to be purchased at the rate of
a small personal sacrifice on her part--a sacrifice such as he himself
was quite ready to make.
'Oh, I should not mind that,' cried Norah; 'if I had it always I should
get hardened to it too. I should not mind; most likely then I should
prefer walking, and think carriages only fit for old ladies. Didn't you
say that one meets everybody at the Academy, mamma?'
'A great many people, Norah.'
'I wonder whom we shall meet,' said the girl; and a sudden blush floated
over her face. Helen looked at her with some anxiety. She did not know
what impression Cyril Rivers might have made on Norah's heart. Was it
him she was thinking of? Mrs Drummond herself wondered, too, a little.
She was half afraid of the old friends she might see there. But then she
reflected to herself dreamily, that life goes very quickly in London,
that six years was a long time, and that her old friends might have
forgotten her. How changed her own feelings were! She had never been
fond of painters, her husband's brothers-in-arms. Now the least notable
of them, the most painty, the most slovenly, would look somehow like a
shadow of Robert. Should she see any of those old faces? Whom should she
meet? Norah's light question moved many echoes of which the child knew
nothing; and it was to be answered in a way of which neither of them
dreamed.
The mere entrance into those well-known rooms had an indescribable
effect upon Helen. How it all rushed back upon her, the old life! The
pilgrimages up those steps, the progress through the crowd to that
special spot where one picture was hung; the anxiety to see how it
looked--if there was anything near that 'killed' it in colour, or threw
it into the shade in power; her own private hope, never expressed to any
one, that it might 'come better' in the new place. Dr Maurice stalked
along by her side, but he did not say anything to her; and for her part,
she could not speak--her heart and her eyes were full. She could only
see the other people's pictures glimmering as through a mist. It seemed
so strange to her, almost humiliating, that there was nothing of her
own to go to--nothing to make a centre to this gallery, which had
relapsed into pure art, without any personal interest in it. By-and-by,
when the first shock had worn off, she began to be able to see what was
on the walls, and to come back to her present circumstances. So many
names were new to her in those six years; so many that she once knew had
crept out of sight into corners and behind doorways. She had begun to
get absorbed in the sight, which was so much more to her than to most
people, when Mr Rivers came up to them. He had known they were to be in
town; he had seen them at the opera the previous night, and had found
out a good deal about their plans. But London was different from Dura;
and he had not ventured to offer his attentions before the eyes of all
the world, and all the cousins and connections and friends who might
have come to a knowledge of the fact that an unknown pretty face had
attracted his homage. But of a morning, at the Royal Academy, he felt
himself pretty safe; there every one is liable to meet some friend from
the county, and the most watchful eyes of society are not on the alert
at early hours. He came to them now with eager salutations.
'I tried hard to get at you at the opera last night,' he said, putting
himself by Norah's side; 'but I was with my own people, and I could not
get away.'
'Were you at the opera last night?' said Norah, with not half the
surprise he anticipated; for she was not aware of the facilities of
locomotion in such places, nor that he might have gone to her had he so
desired; and besides, she had seen no one, being intent upon the stage.
Yet there was a furtive look about him now, a glance round now and then,
to see who was near them, which startled her. She could not make out
what it meant.
'Come, and I will show you the best pictures,' he said; and he took her
catalogue from her hand and pointed out to her which must be looked at
first.
They made a pretty group as they stood thus,--Norah looking up with her
sunshiny eyes, and he stooping over her, bending down till his silky
black beard almost touched her hair. She little, and he tall--she full
of vivacity, light, and sunshine; he somewhat quiet, languishing,
Byronic in his beauty. Norah was not such a perfect contrast to him as
Clara was--Rubens to the Byron; but her naturalness, the bright, glowing
intelligence and spirit about her--the daylight sweetness of her face,
with which soul had as much to do as feature, contrasted still more
distinctly with the semi-artificiality of the hero. For even granting
that he was a little artificial, he was a real hero all the same; his
handsomeness and air of good society were unmistakable, his conversation
was passable; he knew the thousand things which people in society know,
and which, whether they understand them or not, they are in the habit of
hearing talked about. All these remarks were made, not by Norah, nor by
Norah's mother, but by Dr Maurice, who stood by and did not pretend to
have any interest in the pictures. And this young fellow was the
Honourable Cyril, and would be Lord Rivers. Dr Maurice kept an eye upon
him, wondering, as Helen had done, Did he mean anything? what did he
mean?
'But there is one above all which I must show you--every one is talking
of it,' said Mr Rivers. 'Come this way, Miss Drummond. It is not easy to
reach it; there is always such a crowd round it. Dr Maurice, bring Mrs
Drummond; it is in the next room. Come this way.'
Norah followed him, thinking of nothing but the pictures; and her mother
and Dr Maurice went after them slowly, saying nothing to each other.
They had entered the great room, following the younger pair, when some
one stepped out of the crowd and came forward to Helen. He took off his
hat and called her by her name--at first doubtfully, then with
assurance.
'I thought I could not be mistaken,' he cried, 'and yet it is so long
since you have been seen here.'
'I am living in the country,' said Helen. Once more the room swam round
her. The new-comer's voice and aspect carried her back, with all the
freshness of the first impression, to the studio and its visitors again.
'And you had just been in my mind,' said the painter. 'There is a
picture here which reminds us all so strongly of poor dear Drummond.
Will you let me take you to it? It is exactly in his style, his best
style, with all that tenderness of feeling--It has set us all talking of
you and him. Indeed, none of his old friends have forgotten him; and
this is so strangely like his work----'
'Where is it?--one of his pupils, perhaps,' said Helen. She tried to be
very composed, and to show no emotion; but it was so long since she had
heard his name, so long since he had been spoken of before her! She felt
grateful, as if they had done her a personal service, to think that they
talked of Robert still.
'This way,' said the painter; and just then Norah met her, flying back
with her eyes shining, her ribbons flying, wonder and excitement in her
face.
Norah seized her mother by the hands, gasping in her haste and emotion.
'Oh, mamma, come; it is our picture,' she cried.
Wondering, Helen went forward. It was the upper end of the room, the
place of honour. Whether it was that so many people around her carried
her on like a body-guard making her a way through the crowd, or that the
crowd itself, moved by that subtle sympathy which sometimes communicates
itself to the mass more easily than to individuals, melted before her,
as if feeling she had the best right to be there, I cannot tell. But all
at once Helen found herself close to the crimson cord which the pressure
of the throng had almost broken down, standing before a picture. One
picture--was there any other in the place? It was the picture of a face
looking up, with two upward-reaching hands, from the bottom of an abyss,
full of whirling clouds and vapour. High above this was a bank of
heavenly blue, and a white cloud of faintly indistinct spectators,
pitiful angel forms, and one visionary figure as of a woman gazing down.
But it was the form below in which the interest lay. It was worn and
pale, with the redness of tears about the eyes, the lips pressed
closely together, the hands only appealing, held up in a passionate
silence. Helen stood still, with eyes that would not believe what they
saw. She became unconscious of everything about her, though the people
thronged upon her, supporting her, though she did not know. Then she
held out her hands wildly, with a cry which rang through the rooms and
penetrated every one in them--'Robert!'--and fell at the foot of the
picture, which was called 'Dives'--the first work of a nameless painter
whom nobody knew.
It would be impossible to describe the tumult and commotion which rose
in the room to which everybody hastened from every corner of the
exhibition, thronging the doorways and every available corner, and
making it impossible for some minutes to remove her. 'A lady fainted! Is
that all?' the disappointed spectators cried. They had expected
something more exciting than so common, so trifling an occurrence.
'Fortunately,' the newspapers said who related the incident, 'a medical
man was present;' and when Helen came to herself, she found Dr Maurice
standing over her, with his finger on her pulse. 'It is the heat, and
the fatigue--and all that,' he said; and all through the rooms people
repeated to each other that it was the heat, and the dust, and the
crowd, and that there was nothing so fatiguing as looking at pictures.
'Both body and mind are kept on the strain, you know,' they said, and
immediately thought of luncheon. But Dr Maurice thought of something
very different. He did not understand all this commotion about a
picture; if his good heart would have let him, he would have tried to
think that Helen was 'making a fuss.' As it was he laid this misfortune
to the door of women generally, whom there was no understanding; and
then, in a parenthesis, allowed that he might himself be to blame. He
should not have agitated her, he thought; but added, 'Good Lord, what
are women good for, if they have to be kept in a glass-house, and never
spoken to? The best thing is to be rid of them, after all.'
I will not attempt to describe what Helen's thoughts were when she came
to herself. She would not, dared not betray to any one the impression,
which was more than an impression--the conviction that had suddenly come
to her. She put up her hand, and silenced Norah, who was beginning,
open-mouthed, 'Oh, mamma!' She called the old friend to her, who had
attended the group down into the vestibule, and begged him to find out
for her exactly who the painter was, and where he was to be heard of;
and there she sat, still abstracted, with a singing in her ears, which
she thought was only the rustle of the thoughts that hurried through her
brain, until she should be able to go home. It was while they were
waiting thus, standing round her, that another event occurred, of which
Helen was too much absorbed to take any but the slightest cognizance.
She was seated on a bench, still very pale, and unable to move. Dr
Maurice was mounting guard over her. Norah stood talking to Mr Rivers on
the other side; while meanwhile the stream of the public was flowing
past, and new arrivals entering every moment by the swinging doors.
Norah had grown very earnest in her talk. 'We have the very same subject
at home, the same picture,' she was saying; her eyelashes were dewy with
tears, her whole face full of emotion. Her colour went and came as she
spoke; she stood looking up to him with a thrill of feeling and meaning
about her, such as touch the heart more than beauty. And yet there was
no lack of beauty. A lady who had just come in, paused, having her
attention attracted to the group, and looked at them all, as she thought
she had a right to do. 'The poor lady who fainted,' she heard some one
say. But this girl who stood in front had no appearance of fainting. She
was all life, and tenderness, and fire. The woman who looked on admired
her fresh, sweet youthfulness, her face, which in its changing colour
was like a flower. She admired all these, and made out, with a quick
observant eye, that the girl was the daughter of the pale beautiful
woman by the wall, and not unworthy of her. And then suddenly, without a
pause, she called out, 'Cyril!' Young Rivers started as if a shot had
struck him. He rushed to her with tremulous haste. 'Mother! you don't
mean to say that you have come here alone?'
'But I do mean it, and I want you to take care of me,' she said, taking
his arm at once. 'I meant to come early. We have no time to lose.'
Norah stood surprised, looking at the woman who was Cyril's mother; in a
pretty pause of expectation, the blush coming and going on her face, her
hand ready to be timidly put out in greeting, her pretty mouth half
smiling already, her eyes watching with an interest of which she was not
ashamed. Why should she be ashamed of being interested in Cyril's
mother? She waited for the approach, the introduction--most likely the
elder woman's gracious greeting. 'For she must have heard of me too,'
Norah thought. She cast down her eyes, pleasantly abashed; for Lady
Rivers was certainly looking at her. When she looked up again, in wonder
that she was not spoken to, Cyril was on the stair with his mother,
going up. He was looking back anxiously, waving his hand to her from
behind Lady Rivers. He had a beseeching look in his eyes, his face
looked miserable across his mother's shoulders, but--he was gone. Norah
looked round her stupefied. Had anything happened?--was she dreaming?
And then the blood rushed to her face in a crimson flush of pride and
shame.
She bore this blow alone, without even her mother to share and soften
it; and the child staggered under it for the moment. She grew as pale as
Helen herself after that one flash. When the carriage came to the door,
two women, marble-white, stepped into it. Dr Maurice had not the heart
to go with them; he would walk home, he said. And Norah looked out of
the window, as she had so joyfully anticipated doing in her happiness
and levity, but not to despise the people who walked. The only thought
of which she was capable was--Is everybody like that? Do people behave
so naturally? Is it the way of the world?
This is what they met at the Academy, where they went so lightly, not
knowing. The name of the painter of the 'Dives' reached them that same
night; it was not in the catalogue. His name was John Sinclair,
Thirty-fifth Avenue, New York.