Margaret Dauncey shared a flat near the Boulevard du Montparnasse with
Susie Boyd; and it was to meet her that Arthur had arranged to come to
tea that afternoon. The young women waited for him in the studio. The
kettle was boiling on the stove; cups and _petits fours_ stood in
readiness on a model stand. Susie looked forward to the meeting with
interest. She had heard a good deal of the young man, and knew that the
connexion between him and Margaret was not lacking in romance. For
years Susie had led the monotonous life of a mistress in a school for
young ladies, and had resigned herself to its dreariness for the rest
of her life, when a legacy from a distant relation gave her sufficient
income to live modestly upon her means. When Margaret, who had been her
pupil, came, soon after this, to announce her intention of spending a
couple of years in Paris to study art, Susie willingly agreed to
accompany her. Since then she had worked industriously at Colarossi’s
Academy, by no means under the delusion that she had talent, but merely
to amuse herself. She refused to surrender the pleasing notion that her
environment was slightly wicked. After the toil of many years it
relieved her to be earnest in nothing; and she found infinite
satisfaction in watching the lives of those around her.
She had a great affection for Margaret, and though her own stock of
enthusiasms was run low, she could enjoy thoroughly Margaret’s young
enchantment in all that was exquisite. She was a plain woman; but there
was no envy in her, and she took the keenest pleasure in Margaret’s
comeliness. It was almost with maternal pride that she watched each
year add a new grace to that exceeding beauty. But her common sense was
sound, and she took care by good-natured banter to temper the praises
which extravagant admirers at the drawing-class lavished upon the
handsome girl both for her looks and for her talent. She was proud to
think that she would hand over to Arthur Burdon a woman whose character
she had helped to form, and whose loveliness she had cultivated with a
delicate care.
Susie knew, partly from fragments of letters which Margaret read to
her, partly from her conversation, how passionately he adored his
bride; and it pleased her to see that Margaret loved him in return with
a grateful devotion. The story of this visit to Paris touched her
imagination. Margaret was the daughter of a country barrister, with
whom Arthur had been in the habit of staying; and when he died, many
years after his wife, Arthur found himself the girl’s guardian and
executor. He sent her to school; saw that she had everything she could
possibly want; and when, at seventeen, she told him of her wish to go
to Paris and learn drawing, he at once consented. But though he never
sought to assume authority over her, he suggested that she should not
live alone, and it was on this account that she went to Susie. The
preparations for the journey were scarcely made when Margaret
discovered by chance that her father had died penniless and she had
lived ever since at Arthur’s entire expense. When she went to see him
with tears in her eyes, and told him what she knew, Arthur was so
embarrassed that it was quite absurd.
“But why did you do it?” she asked him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t think it fair to put you under any obligation to me, and I
wanted you to feel quite free.”
She cried. She couldn’t help it.
“Don’t be so silly,” he laughed. “You owe me nothing at all. I’ve done
very little for you, and what I have done has given me a great deal of
pleasure.”
“I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”
“Oh, don’t say that,” he cried. “It makes it so much harder for me to
say what I want to.”
She looked at him quickly and reddened. Her deep blue eyes were veiled
with tears.
“Don’t you know that I’d do anything in the world for you?” she cried.
“I don’t want you to be grateful to me, because I was hoping—I might
ask you to marry me some day.”
Margaret laughed charmingly as she held out her hands.
“You must know that I’ve been wanting you to do that ever since I was
ten.”
She was quite willing to give up her idea of Paris and be married
without delay, but Arthur pressed her not to change her plans. At first
Margaret vowed it was impossible to go, for she knew now that she had
no money, and she could not let her lover pay.
“But what does it matter?” he said. “It’ll give me such pleasure to go
on with the small allowance I’ve been making you. After all, I’m pretty
well-to-do. My father left me a moderate income, and I’m making a good
deal already by operating.”
“Yes, but it’s different now. I didn’t know before. I thought I was
spending my own money.”
“If I died tomorrow, every penny I have would be yours. We shall be
married in two years, and we’ve known one another much too long to
change our minds. I think that our lives are quite irrevocably united.”
Margaret wished very much to spend this time in Paris, and Arthur had
made up his mind that in fairness to her they could not marry till she
was nineteen. She consulted Susie Boyd, whose common sense prevented
her from paying much heed to romantic notions of false delicacy.
“My dear, you’d take his money without scruple if you’d signed your
names in a church vestry, and as there’s not the least doubt that
you’ll marry, I don’t see why you shouldn’t now. Besides, you’ve got
nothing whatever to live on, and you’re equally unfitted to be a
governess or a typewriter. So it’s Hobson’s choice, and you’d better
put your exquisite sentiments in your pocket.”
Miss Boyd, by one accident after another, had never seen Arthur, but
she had heard so much that she looked upon him already as an old
friend. She admired him for his talent and strength of character as
much as for his loving tenderness to Margaret. She had seen portraits
of him, but Margaret said he did not photograph well. She had asked if
he was good-looking.
“No, I don’t think he is,” answered Margaret, “but he’s very
paintable.”
“That is an answer which has the advantage of sounding well and meaning
nothing,” smiled Susie.
She believed privately that Margaret’s passion for the arts was a not
unamiable pose which would disappear when she was happily married. To
have half a dozen children was in her mind much more important than to
paint pictures. Margaret’s gift was by no means despicable, but Susie
was not convinced that callous masters would have been so enthusiastic
if Margaret had been as plain and old as herself.
Miss Boyd was thirty. Her busy life had not caused the years to pass
easily, and she looked older. But she was one of those plain women
whose plainness does not matter. A gallant Frenchman had to her face
called her a _belle laide_, and, far from denying the justness of his
observation, she had been almost flattered. Her mouth was large, and
she had little round bright eyes. Her skin was colourless and much
disfigured by freckles. Her nose was long and thin. But her face was so
kindly, her vivacity so attractive, that no one after ten minutes
thought of her ugliness. You noticed then that her hair, though
sprinkled with white, was pretty, and that her figure was exceedingly
neat. She had good hands, very white and admirably formed, which she
waved continually in the fervour of her gesticulation. Now that her
means were adequate she took great pains with her dress, and her
clothes, though they cost much more than she could afford, were always
beautiful. Her taste was so great, her tact so sure, that she was able
to make the most of herself. She was determined that if people called
her ugly they should be forced in the same breath to confess that she
was perfectly gowned. Susie’s talent for dress was remarkable, and it
was due to her influence that Margaret was arrayed always in the latest
mode. The girl’s taste inclined to be artistic, and her sense of colour
was apt to run away with her discretion. Except for the display of
Susie’s firmness, she would scarcely have resisted her desire to wear
nondescript garments of violent hue. But the older woman expressed
herself with decision.
“My dear, you won’t draw any the worse for wearing a well-made corset,
and to surround your body with bands of grey flannel will certainly not
increase your talent.”
“But the fashion is so hideous,” smiled Margaret.
“Fiddlesticks! The fashion is always beautiful. Last year it was
beautiful to wear a hat like a pork-pie tipped over your nose; and next
year, for all I know, it will be beautiful to wear a bonnet like a
sitz-bath at the back of your head. Art has nothing to do with a smart
frock, and whether a high-heeled pointed shoe commends itself or not to
the painters in the quarter, it’s the only thing in which a woman’s
foot looks really nice.”
Susie Boyd vowed that she would not live with Margaret at all unless
she let her see to the buying of her things.
“And when you’re married, for heaven’s sake ask me to stay with you
four times a year, so that I can see after your clothes. You’ll never
keep your husband’s affection if you trust to your own judgment.”
Miss Boyd’s reward had come the night before, when Margaret, coming
home from dinner with Arthur, had repeated an observation of his.
“How beautifully you’re dressed!” he had said. “I was rather afraid
you’d be wearing art-serges.”
“Of course you didn’t tell him that I insisted on buying every stitch
you’d got on,” cried Susie.
“Yes, I did,” answered Margaret simply. “I told him I had no taste at
all, but that you were responsible for everything.”
“That was the least you could do,” answered Miss Boyd.
But her heart went out to Margaret, for the trivial incident showed
once more how frank the girl was. She knew quite well that few of her
friends, though many took advantage of her matchless taste, would have
made such an admission to the lover who congratulated them on the
success of their costume.
There was a knock at the door, and Arthur came in.
“This is the fairy prince,” said Margaret, bringing him to her friend.
“I’m glad to see you in order to thank you for all you’ve done for
Margaret,” he smiled, taking the proffered hand.
Susie remarked that he looked upon her with friendliness, but with a
certain vacancy, as though too much engrossed in his beloved really to
notice anyone else; and she wondered how to make conversation with a
man who was so manifestly absorbed. While Margaret busied herself with
the preparations for tea, his eyes followed her movements with a
doglike, touching devotion. They travelled from her smiling mouth to
her deft hands. It seemed that he had never seen anything so ravishing
as the way in which she bent over the kettle. Margaret felt that he was
looking at her, and turned round. Their eyes met, and they stood for an
appreciable time gazing at one another silently.
“Don’t be a pair of perfect idiots,” cried Susie gaily. “I’m dying for
my tea.”
The lovers laughed and reddened. It struck Arthur that he should say
something polite.
“I hope you’ll show me your sketches afterwards, Miss Boyd. Margaret
says they’re awfully good.”
“You really needn’t think it in the least necessary to show any
interest in me,” she replied bluntly.
“She draws the most delightful caricatures,” said Margaret. “I’ll bring
you a horror of yourself, which she’ll do the moment you leave us.”
“Don’t be so spiteful, Margaret.”
Miss Boyd could not help thinking all the same that Arthur Burdon would
caricature very well. Margaret was right when she said that he was not
handsome, but his clean-shaven face was full of interest to so
passionate an observer of her kind. The lovers were silent, and Susie
had the conversation to herself. She chattered without pause and had
the satisfaction presently of capturing their attention. Arthur seemed
to become aware of her presence, and laughed heartily at her burlesque
account of their fellow-students at Colarossi’s. Meanwhile Susie
examined him. He was very tall and very thin. His frame had a
Yorkshireman’s solidity, and his bones were massive. He missed being
ungainly only through the serenity of his self-reliance. He had high
cheek-bones and a long, lean face. His nose and mouth were large, and
his skin was sallow. But there were two characteristics which
fascinated her, an imposing strength of purpose and a singular capacity
for suffering. This was a man who knew his mind and was determined to
achieve his desire; it refreshed her vastly after the extreme weakness
of the young painters with whom of late she had mostly consorted. But
those quick dark eyes were able to express an anguish that was hardly
tolerable, and the mobile mouth had a nervous intensity which suggested
that he might easily suffer the very agonies of woe.
Tea was ready, and Arthur stood up to receive his cup.
“Sit down,” said Margaret. “I’ll bring you everything you want, and I
know exactly how much sugar to put in. It pleases me to wait on you.”
With the grace that marked all her movements she walked cross the
studio, the filled cup in one hand and the plate of cakes in the other.
To Susie it seemed that he was overwhelmed with gratitude by Margaret’s
condescension. His eyes were soft with indescribable tenderness as he
took the sweetmeats she gave him. Margaret smiled with happy pride. For
all her good-nature, Susie could not prevent the pang that wrung her
heart; for she too was capable of love. There was in her a wealth of
passionate affection that none had sought to find. None had ever
whispered in her ears the charming nonsense that she read in books. She
recognised that she had no beauty to help her, but once she had at
least the charm of vivacious youth. That was gone now, and the freedom
to go into the world had come too late; yet her instinct told her that
she was made to be a decent man’s wife and the mother of children. She
stopped in the middle of her bright chatter, fearing to trust her
voice, but Margaret and Arthur were too much occupied to notice that
she had ceased to speak. They sat side by side and enjoyed the
happiness of one another’s company.
“What a fool I am!” thought Susie.
She had learnt long ago that common sense, intelligence, good-nature,
and strength of character were unimportant in comparison with a pretty
face. She shrugged her shoulders.
“I don’t know if you young things realise that it’s growing late. If
you want us to dine at the Chien Noir, you must leave us now, so that
we can make ourselves tidy.”
“Very well,” said Arthur, getting up. “I’ll go back to my hotel and
have a wash. We’ll meet at half-past seven.”
When Margaret had closed the door on him, she turned to her friend.
“Well, what do you think?” she asked, smiling.
“You can’t expect me to form a definite opinion of a man whom I’ve seen
for so short a time.”
“Nonsense!” said Margaret.
Susie hesitated for a moment.
“I think he has an extraordinarily good face,” she said at last
gravely. “I’ve never seen a man whose honesty of purpose was so
transparent.”
Susie Boyd was so lazy that she could never be induced to occupy
herself with household matters and, while Margaret put the tea things
away, she began to draw the caricature which every new face suggested
to her. She made a little sketch of Arthur, abnormally lanky, with a
colossal nose, with the wings and the bow and arrow of the God of Love,
but it was not half done before she thought it silly. She tore it up
with impatience. When Margaret came back, she turned round and looked
at her steadily.
“Well?” said the girl, smiling under the scrutiny.
She stood in the middle of the lofty studio. Half-finished canvases
leaned with their faces against the wall; pieces of stuff were hung
here and there, and photographs of well-known pictures. She had fallen
unconsciously into a wonderful pose, and her beauty gave her,
notwithstanding her youth, a rare dignity. Susie smiled mockingly.
“You look like a Greek goddess in a Paris frock,” she said.
“What have you to say to me?” asked Margaret, divining from the
searching look that something was in her friend’s mind.
Susie stood up and went to her.
“You know, before I’d seen him I hoped with all my heart that he’d make
you happy. Notwithstanding all you’d told me of him, I was afraid. I
knew he was much older than you. He was the first man you’d ever known.
I could scarcely bear to entrust you to him in case you were
miserable.”
“I don’t think you need have any fear.”
“But now I hope with all my heart that you’ll make him happy. It’s not
you I’m frightened for now, but him.”
Margaret did not answer; she could not understand what Susie meant.
“I’ve never seen anyone with such a capacity for wretchedness as that
man has. I don’t think you can conceive how desperately he might
suffer. Be very careful, Margaret, and be very good to him, for you
have the power to make him more unhappy than any human being should
be.”
“Oh, but I want him to be happy,” cried Margaret vehemently. “You know
that I owe everything to him. I’d do all I could to make him happy,
even if I had to sacrifice myself. But I can’t sacrifice myself,
because I love him so much that all I do is pure delight.”
Her eyes filled with tears and her voice broke. Susie, with a little
laugh that was half hysterical, kissed her.
“My dear, for heaven’s sake don’t cry! You know I can’t bear people who
weep, and if he sees your eyes red, he’ll never forgive me.”