Margery followed Frank more slowly up to the house. She had won her
point; she had refused in the face of all her own inclinations and his
feelings to tell him to leave the picture unfinished or to destroy
it, and having succeeded in that for which she had been so intensely
anxious, the reaction followed. Left to herself, she wondered if she
had been right; whether she were wise to trust to reason rather than
instinct; whether she had not perhaps in some dim, uncomprehended way
put Frank in a position of terrible danger. But where or what, in the
name of all that is rational, could the danger be? Yet there rose up
before her, as if in answer to her question, the remembrance of Frank's
face while he was painting. Could she account for that rationally? She
was bound to confess she could not.
It was a great relief to know that it would soon be over. The important
part Frank had told her would be done to-day, in an hour or two. In the
whole range of human possibilities she could think of nothing which
could happen in an hour or two which would justify Frank's fears. He
was not well, she thought; but she regarded the finishing of this
portrait as a sort of slight surgical operation which would remove the
cause of his mental disease from which his bodily indisposition sprang.
For the present she had to get through an hour or two alone, and she
busied herself with small, unnecessary duties, and read more of the
small, unnecessary book, by a popular author, which we have referred to
before. A little before five the post came in, and among other letters
for her was a note from Jack Armitage.
"And how goes the portrait?" he concluded, "and am I to be summoned
to see a descent into Bedlam or an ascent into Heaven? Oddly enough,
there is an artist here of transcendental tendencies who holds exactly
the same views as Frank. He believes in the danger of losing one's
personality, but he also believes in the danger of raising ghosts
from one's past life if one paints a portrait of one's self. Luckily,
Frank feels only the danger of losing his personality, and does not
think about the ghost-raising. I am glad for his peace of mind--and,
perhaps, for you too--that this is so. To fight two sets of ghosts
simultaneously might well be too much for one woman, even for you!"
Margery laid down the letter, and the voice of reason within her
became gradually less insistent, and then died away. Frank had spoken
of another danger more terrible than the one he had told her about,
and she would not hear him. There had been a look on his face that
frightened and horrified her, and she would not think of it. Once on
the beach at New Quay he had wished to tell her something, and she
would not hear him.
But the thing was impossible. True; but she was afraid. She felt
suddenly unable to cope with his fears, now that she had begun to share
them. Then Armitage's last words came back to her--"Beach Hotel, New
Quay. I will come at once."
Margery felt ashamed of yielding, but she justified her yielding to
herself. The presence of another person in the house would be a good
thing. She knew the absolute necessity of keeping her nerves in perfect
order, and there is nothing so infectious as disorders of the nerves.
She got her hat and walked straight off to the village in order to send
the telegram. She felt as if she did not even wish her own servants to
know she was doing it, and preferred to send it herself than giving it
to one of them. The sun was already sinking to its setting, but there
would be plenty of time to walk down and get back before it was dark.
Frank had said that the portrait was terrible after sunset, and though
she tried to laugh at the thought, the laugh would not come. Decidedly,
Armitage's presence would be a good thing.
It took her a minute or two to send the telegram satisfactorily, but
eventually she wrote: "Nothing is wrong, but please come. Frank is
rather trying."
She left the office and walked back quickly up the village, only to
run into Mrs. Greenock, at the corner by the vicarage. Though she was
anxious to get back, it was impossible not to exchange a few words.
"And how does the portrait get on?" asked that estimable woman. "I had
such a deeply interesting conversation with Mr. Trevor about it when we
dined at your house. Is it wonderful? Is it a revelation? Does it show
us what he is, not only what he looks like?"
"Frank's very much excited about it," said Margery, "which is always a
good sign. I think he is satisfied."
"And when will it be finished?" asked Mrs. Greenock. "Your husband was
so good as to tell me I might see it when it was done. I am looking
forward to an intellectual as well as an artistic treat."
"It ought to be done to-morrow," said Margery. "He has been working
very hard."
"A giant," murmured Mrs. Greenock--"a gigantic personality. Are you
walking home? May I not accompany you a little way? I too have been
hard at work to-day, and I have come out to get a breath of fresh air,
and perhaps an idea or two."
Mrs. Greenock walked with Margery up to the lodge-gates, beguiling the
tedium of the way with instructive discourse, and kept her several
moments longer there, bidding her observe the exquisite glow in the
western sky where the sun had already gone down.
Margery saw with annoyance that Mrs. Greenock had been quite
right--the sun had already set, and the twilight was falling in darker
and darker layers over the earth when she reached the house. She went
quickly up the passage leading to the studio and opened the door.
Frank was standing on the other side of the room, with his face turned
towards her, a piece of crumpled paper in his hands. The shadow cast
from the window fell on the right side of his face, but in the dim
light she could see that there was that expression of guilt and horror
on it which she had seen there twice before.
"Why, Frank," she said, "you can't paint by this light!"
Something stirring at her elbow made her turn round quickly. Frank was
sitting in a deep chair in the shadow, staring blankly before him.
She had mistaken the portrait for her husband.
* * * * *
For a moment neither of them spoke or moved. Then Frank got out of the
chair where he was sitting and crossed the room to where the horrible
fac-simile of himself stood against the wall, and putting himself
unconsciously, Margery felt, into the same attitude, turned to her.
"I have worked quickly to-night," he said. "I have almost finished."
Margery looked suddenly back at the portrait, and noticed with a cold,
growing horror that she had been the victim of some illusion. The light
from the window cast no shadow at all on to it, and the shadow on the
face was painted on the left side, not the right.
Frank paused, and Margery knew that her telegram would be useless.
The matter was between herself and Frank. If help could reach him it
must come from her. In a moment she understood all. The vague fear, the
disconnected hints, the thing he had wished to tell her once at New
Quay, and once again that morning, the guilty face, her own shrinking,
formed links of a connected chain. She had shrunk from what was evil,
as Frank had shrunk from it and loathed it when she was there; but
the fascination of which, interpreted by his artistic passion, he had
been unable to resist. His own skill had raised the thing that he had
thought was dead into new life, and now it asserted its old supremacy.
In a few moments he spoke again.
"Do you see how like we are?" he said, speaking slowly, as if he had
some difficulty in finding words. "No wonder you mistook it for me. You
cannot see it properly in this light; in the daylight the likeness is
even more extraordinary. Is it not clever of me to have painted such a
picture? There is no picture like it in the world. It must go to the
Academy next year, Margery, as a posthumous work. It is a creation. I
have made a man!"
Frank paused, but Margery said nothing.
"There were some things about me you did not know before--things which
were part of me, and had been vital to me," he went on. "Once or twice
I wished to tell you of them, but you would not hear. Now you see them.
I think you cannot help seeing them. You can see them in the portrait's
face and in mine--clearest in mine; but to-morrow they will be quite as
clear in the other. They say that hearing firing brings corpses to the
surface. I dare say it is true--at any rate, I have brought corpses to
the surface. They are not pretty; corpses seldom are."
Margery came a step nearer to him, though her flesh cried out against
it.
"Frank! Frank!" she said.
"Wait a moment," said he. "I wish to tell you more. A critic has
no right, as I said, to criticise unless he knows more about the
picture than the artist, but the artist may criticise his own picture.
This is my picture--all mine. And it is me. It is all true. Do you
remember last Sunday, Margy, when Greenock read about the judgment
books being opened, and every man being judged by what was written in
them? By-the-way, Mrs. Greenock writes sonnets. He said she was an
accomplished sonneteer. Well, do you know what those books are? They
are nothing else than the faces, the real faces, of the men who are
being judged. What chance do you think I shall have, for that is my
book you see painted there--an illuminated manuscript. Why did you
wish me to do it so much? Can you read it all? Can you see the Café
Chantant in it? Can you see Paris, and the cruelty and the sweetness
and bitterness of it? Can you see Claire in it, petite Claire, and the
end, the whole of it, the pleasure, the weariness, the--the morgue?
Yes, that was where I saw her last."
"No, Frank, no," said Margery; "don't tell me."
"It is not pleasant," said he. "It is not amusing to go to hell, as
I have gone. This is not a nice book to read; I wish now I had never
written it--'The Life and Adventures of Frank Trevor,' by himself."
The horror of great darkness had come on Margery. She felt the
physical result, which is stronger than all things in the world except
love. She loved Frank and Frank loved her. There was still a chance.
Frank had picked up from the table the little yellow programme which he
had painted and held it in his hands, turning it over and over.
"It won't break," he said, "it won't bend. My God! what am I to
do? But--but I have written my judgment book; yet there are some
chapters which I have not written. I cannot remember them. They were
some chapters you and I wrote together about-- But you will have
forgotten--you gave me up. Margy, cannot you remember what they were?
There was one chapter we wrote down in that little creek where we went
to-day."
Frank stopped, and looked about the room as if he were searching for
something. In that pause love triumphed. Margery went to him quickly.
The physical revolt was dead, for she loved him. She laid her hand on
his shoulder.
"Frank," she said, "do you remember that you asked me whether I wished
you to go on with that picture? I said I did, but I am here to tell
you that I have changed my mind. I think you had better not go on with
it. Tear it up, burn it. It is not good; it is devilish. And when you
have done that we will go and find those chapters you spoke of, which
we wrote together, you and I alone. Did you think they were lost? Could
you not remember them? I remember them all. I have them quite safe.
There are none of them lost."
For a moment a look of intense relief came over Frank's face. Even in
the darkness Margery could see that it had changed utterly. She glanced
with sick horror at the portrait which only five minutes before she had
thought was actually her husband. But almost immediately he shook his
head.
"No, I must finish it now," he said. "I do not believe in death-bed
repentance. There is very little more to do, for I have worked quickly
to-day. Just one thing wants doing--a shadow is to be deepened in the
mouth. Do you see what I mean? No, it is too dark for you to see it,
though I can see it quite clearly. I wish I could explain to you what
I mean, but you will never understand. Don't you see it is I who stand
there on that easel? This thing which you think is me is nearly dead.
It is like Pygmalion, isn't it, only the other way round? He made his
statue come to life, but I have put my life into that picture. If ever
the story of Pygmalion is true, I could have done that; it is easier
than what I have done."
"Yes, dear," said Margery, "I knew the picture would be a wonderful
thing. But it is too dark to look at it now and too dark for you to
paint. Let us come away, and we will find those chapters you spoke of.
I have got them all, I tell you. They seem to me very good and very
important--quite as important now, and much better, than the chapters
you have written there."
She put her hand through Frank's arm, and all her soul went into that
touch.
"Come," she said; "they are not here."
For one moment she felt Frank's arm tremble under the loving press of
her fingers, but he said nothing and did not move.
"You asked me to kiss you this afternoon," she said; "and now, Frank, I
ask you to kiss me. Kiss me on the lips, for we are husband and wife."
And standing by that painted horror he kissed her.
"And now come out for a few moments," said Margery, "for I cannot tell
you here."
Frank obeyed, and together in silence they walked out on to the terrace.
"Let us sit down here," said she, "and I will tell you what you have
forgotten."
"Those other chapters?" asked Frank. "I want them, for the picture is
not complete."
"Yes, those other chapters. They are very short. Just this, Frank, that
I loved you, and love you now. I see what your fear was: it was fear
for me, not for yourself. You thought that if you painted this picture
you would have to put something into it which I did not know--something
you were afraid of my hearing. I know it, and I am not afraid. But the
chapters we wrote together are still true; they are the truest part of
all. Your picture is not complete. It wants the most essential part of
all."
Once more she felt a tremor go through his arm, but still he said
nothing.
"You told me I did not understand what you meant," she said, "but I
understand now. And you too did not understand me if you thought that
anything in the world could make any difference to my love for you. We
have all of us in our natures something not nice to look at, but what
we stand or fall by is our beautiful chapters. You cannot destroy them,
Frank, though you thought you could, because they belong to me as well
as you, and I will not have them destroyed. You thought you had lost
them, but you have not. They are here. You may read them now with me."
Margery paused, and on the silence came the sudden, quick-drawn breath
that opens the gates of tears. In a moment she felt Frank's arms round
her, and his hands clasped about her neck.
"Margy! Margy!" he whispered, "have you got them now, even now? My God!
how little I knew! You shrank from me, and I thought you had given me
up; that there was nothing left to me but that--that horror. But what
can I do? My judgment book is written. Is not that true too?"
"Do you remember what you said?" asked Margery. "Did you not tell me
that you loathed what you were painting? Why did you loathe it?"
"Why did I loathe it? Why, because it was--something horrible,
wretched!"
"Let us go to the studio," said Margery.
"No, no!" cried he; "anywhere but there."
"Come, Frank," she said, "you must come with me."
In the passage hung a trophy made of knives and swords which Frank had
once bought in the Soudan. Margery took down one of these, a thick
steel dagger, short and two-edged. On the table below stood a lamp, and
this she took in her other hand.
"Open the door," she said to Frank.
Then she gave the dagger into his hand, and with the lamp, she stood
opposite the picture.
"Now!" she said.
He stood for a moment feeling the edge of the dagger, looking at
Margery. Then with a sudden movement he grasped the side of the easel
with one hand, and with the other plunged the dagger through the face.
"You devil, you devil!" he said.
He cut and stabbed the picture in fifty places. The torn shreds he
ripped off and threw on the ground, trampling on them or picking them
up to tear them again, and in a few moments all that there was left was
a few shreds hanging from the frame.
Jack Armitage arrived next day. He never knew why Margery had sent for
him, but she thanked him so genuinely for coming that he was not sorry
he came.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's The Judgment Books, by Edward Frederic Benson