THIS WORKING-DAY WORLD.
_O the pity of it._
OTHELLO.
If a sudden reverse of fortune need not make us cynical, there is
perhaps no other experience which brings us face to face so quickly and
so closely with the realities of life.
The Lorimers, indeed, had no great cause for complaint; and perhaps, in
condemning the Timons of this world, forgot that, as interesting young
women, embarked moreover on an interesting enterprise, they were not
themselves in a position to gauge the full depths of mundane perfidy.
Of course, after a time, they dropped off from the old set, from the
people with whom their intercourse had been a mere matter of social
commerce; but, as Phyllis justly observed, when you have no time to pay
calls, no clothes to your back, no money for cabs, and very little for
omnibuses, you can hardly expect your career to be an unbroken course of
festivities.
On the other hand, many of their friends drew closer to them in the hour
of need, and a great many good-natured acquaintances amused themselves
by patronising the studio in Upper Baker Street, and recommending other
people to go and do likewise.
Certainly these latter exacted a good deal for their money; were restive
when posed, expected the utmost excellence of work and punctuality of
delivery, and, like most of the Lorimers' customers, seemed to think the
sex of the photographers a ground for greater cheapness in the
photographs.
One evening, towards the middle of October, the girls had assembled for
the evening meal--it could not, strictly speaking, be called dinner--in
the little sitting-room above the shop.
They were all tired, for the moment discouraged, and had much ado to
maintain that cheerfulness which they held it a point of honour never to
abandon.
"How the evenings do draw in!" observed Fan, who sat near the window,
engaged in fancy-work.
Fanny's housekeeping, by the way, had been tried, and found wanting; and
the poor lady had, with great delicacy, been relegated to the vague duty
of creating an atmosphere of home for her more strong-minded sisters.
Fortunately, she believed in the necessity of a thoroughly womanly
presence among them, womanliness being apparently represented to her
mind by any number of riband bows on the curtains, antimacassars on the
chairs, and strips of embroidered plush on every available article of
furniture; and accepted the situation without misgiving.
"Yes," answered Lucy, rather dismally; "we shall soon have the winter in
full swing, fogs and all."
She had been up to the studio of an artist at St. John's Wood that
morning, making photographs of various studies of drapery for a big
picture, and the results, when examined in the dark-room later on, had
not been satisfactory; hence her unusual depression of spirits.
"For goodness' sake, Lucy, don't speak in that tone!" cried Phyllis,
who was standing idly by the window. "What does it matter about Mr.
Lawrence's draperies? Nobody ever buys his pokey pictures. You've not
been the same person ever since you developed those plates this
afternoon."
"Don't you see, Phyllis, Mr. Russel introduced us to him; and besides,
though he is obscure himself, he might recommend us to other artists if
the work was well done."
"Oh, bother! Come over here, Lucy. Do you see that lighted window
opposite? It is Conny's Mr. Jermyn's."
"What an interesting fact!"
"Conny said he danced well. I wish he would come and dance with us
sometimes. It is ages and ages since I had a really good waltz."
"Phyllis! do you forget that you are in mourning?" cried Fanny, shocked,
as she moved towards the table, where Lucy had lit the lamp.
Gertrude came through the folding-doors bearing a covered dish. Her
aspect also was undeniably dejected. Business had been slacker, if
possible, than usual, during the past week; regarded from no point of
view could their prospects be considered brilliant; and, to crown all,
Aunt Caroline had paid them a visit in the course of the day, in which
she had propounded some very direct questions as to the state of their
finances; questions which it had been both difficult to answer and
difficult to evade.
Phyllis ceased her chatter, which she saw at once to be out of harmony
with the prevailing mood, and took her place in silence at the table.
At the same moment the studio-bell echoed with considerable violence
throughout the house.
"What can any one want this time of night?" cried Fan, in some
agitation.
"They must have pulled the wrong bell," said Lucy; "but one of us had
better go down and see."
Gertrude lighted a candle, and went downstairs, and the rest proceeded
rather silently with their meal.
In about five minutes Gertrude re-appeared with a grave face.
"Well?"
They all questioned her, with lips and eyes.
"Some one has been here about work," she said, slowly; "but it's rather
a dismal sort of job. It is to photograph a dead person."
"Gerty, what _do_ you mean?"
"Oh, I believe it is quite usual. A lady--Lady Watergate--died to-day,
and her husband wishes the body to be photographed to-morrow morning."
"It is very strange," said Fanny, "that he should select ladies, young
girls, for such a piece of work!"
"Oh, it was a mere chance. It was the housekeeper who came, and we
happened to be the first photographer's shop she passed. She seemed to
think I might not like it, but we cannot afford to refuse work."
"But, Gertrude," cried Fan, "do you know what Lady Watergate died of?
Perhaps scarlet fever, or smallpox, or something of the sort."
"She died of consumption," said Gertrude shortly, and put her arm round
Phyllis, who was listening with a curious look in her great, dilated
eyes.
"I wonder," put in Lucy, "if this poor lady can be the wife of _the_
Lord Watergate?"
"I rather fancy so; I know he lives in Regent's Park, and the address
for to-morrow is Sussex Place."
A name so well known in the scientific and literary world was of course
familiar to the Lorimers. They had, however, little personal
acquaintance with distinguished people, and had never come across the
learned and courteous peer in his social capacity, his frequent presence
in certain middle-class circles notwithstanding.
Mrs. Maryon, coming up later on for a chat, under pretext of discussing
the unsatisfactory Matilda, was informed of the new commission.
"Ah," she said, shaking her head, "it was a sad story that of the
Watergates." So passionately fond of her as he had been, and then for
her to treat him like that! But he took her back at the last and forgave
her everything, like the great-hearted gentleman that he was. "And do
you mean," she added, fixing her melancholy, humorous eyes on them,
"that you young ladies are actually going by yourselves to the house to
make a picture of the body?"
"I am going--no one else," answered Gertrude calmly, passing over
Phyllis's avowed intention of accompanying her.
"She always has some dreadful tale about everybody you mention," cried
Lucy, indignantly, when Mrs. Maryon had gone. "She will never rest
content until there is something dreadful to tell of us."
"Yes, I'm sure she regards us as so many future additions to her Chamber
of Horrors," said Phyllis, reflectively, with a smile.
"And oh," added Fan, "if she would only not compare us so constantly
with that poor man who had the studio last year! It makes one positively
creep."
"Nonsense," said Gertrude; "she is quite as fond of pleasant events as
sad ones. Weddings, for instance, she describes with as much unction as
funerals."
"We will certainly do our best to add to her stock of tales in that
respect," cried Phyllis, with an odd burst of high spirits. "Who votes
for getting married? I do. So do you, don't you, Fan? It must be such
fun to have one's favourite man dropping in on one every evening."
* * * * *
At an early hour the next morning, Gertrude Lorimer started on her
errand. She went alone; Lucy of course must remain in the studio;
Phyllis was in bed with a headache, and Fan was ministering to her
numerous wants. As she passed out, laden with her apparatus, Mdlle.
Stephanie, the big, sallow Frenchwoman who occupied the first floor,
entered the house and grinned a vivacious "_Bon jour!_"
"A fine, bright morning for your work, miss!" cried the chemist from his
doorstep; while his wife stood at his side, smiling curiously.
Gertrude went on her way with a considerable sinking of the heart. She
had no difficulty in finding Sussex Place; indeed, she had often
remarked it; the white curve of houses with the columns, the cupolas,
and the railed-in space of garden which fronted the Park.
Lord Watergate's house was situated about midway in the terrace.
Gertrude, on arriving, was shown into a large dining-room, darkened by
blinds, and decorated in each gloomy corner by greenish figures of a
pseudo-classical nature, which served the purpose of supports to the
gas-globes.
At least a quarter of an hour elapsed before the appearance of the
housekeeper, who ushered her up the darkened stairs to a large room on
the second storey.
Here the blinds had been raised, and for a moment Gertrude was too
dazzled to be aware with any clearness of her surroundings.
As her eyes grew accustomed to the light, she perceived herself to be
standing in a daintily-furnished sleeping apartment, whose open windows
afforded glimpses of an unbroken prospect of wood, and lawn, and water.
Drawn forward to the middle of the room, well within the light from the
windows, was a small, open bedstead of wrought brass. A woman lay, to
all appearance, sleeping there, the bright October sunlight falling full
on the upturned face, on the spread and shining masses of matchless
golden hair. A woman no longer in her first youth; haggard with
sickness, pale with the last strange pallor, but beautiful withal,
exquisitely, astonishingly beautiful.
Another figure, that of a man, was seated by the window, in a pose as
fixed, as motionless, as that of the dead woman herself.
Gertrude, as she silently made preparations for her strange task,
instinctively refrained from glancing in the direction of this second
figure; and had only the vaguest impression of a dark, bowed head, and a
bearded, averted face.
She delivered a few necessary directions to the housekeeper, in the
lowest audible voice, then, her faculties stimulated to curious
accuracy, set to work with camera and slides.
As she stood, her apparatus gathered up, on the point of departure, the
man by the window rose suddenly, and for the first time seemed aware of
her presence.
For one brief, but vivid moment, her eyes encountered the glance of two
miserable grey eyes, looking out with a sort of dazed wonder from a pale
and sunken face. The broad forehead, projecting over the eyes; the fine,
but rough-hewn features; the brown hair and beard; the tall, stooping,
sinewy figure: these together formed a picture which imprinted itself as
by a flash on Gertrude's overwrought consciousness, and was destined not
to fade for many days to come.
* * * * *
"They are some of the best work you have ever done, Gerty," cried
Phyllis, peering over her sister's shoulder. The habits of this young
person, as we know, resembled those of the lilies of the field; but she
chose to pervade the studio when nothing better offered itself, and in
moments of boredom even to occupy herself with some of the more pleasant
work.
Gertrude looked thoughtfully at the prints in her hand. They represented
a woman lying dead or asleep, with her hair spread out on the pillow.
"Yes," she said, slowly, "they have succeeded better than I expected. Of
course the light was not all that could be wished."
"Poor thing," said Phyllis; "what perfect features she has. Mrs. Maryon
told us she was wicked, didn't she? But I don't know that it matters
about being good when you are as beautiful as all that."
[Illustration: Decoration]
[Illustration: Decoration]