SUMMING UP.
_J'ai peur d'Avril, peur de l'emoi
Qu'eveille sa douceur touchante._
SULLY PRUDHOMME.
April had come round again; and, like M. Sully Prudhomme, Gertrude was
afraid of April.
As Fanny had remarked to Frank, the month had very painful associations
for them all; but Gertrude's terror was older than their troubles, and
was founded, not on the recollection of past sorrow, so much as on the
cruel hunger for a present joy. And now again, after all her struggles,
her passionate care for others, her resolute putting away of all
thoughts of personal happiness, now again the Spring was stirring in
her veins, and voices which she had believed silenced for ever arose
once more in her heart and clamoured for a hearing.
Often, before business hours, Gertrude might be seen walking round
Regent's Park at a swinging pace, exorcising her demons; she was
obliged, as she said, to ride her soul on the curb, and be very careful
that it did not take the bit between its teeth--this poor, weak
Gertrude, who seemed such a fountain-head of wisdom, such a tower of
strength to the people among whom she dwelt.
At this period, also, she had had recourse, in the pauses of
professional work, to her old consolation of literary effort, and had
even sent some of her productions to Paternoster Row, with the same
unsatisfactory results as of yore, she and Frank uniting their voices in
that bitter cry of the rejected contributor, which in these days is
heard through the breadth and length of the land.
One morning she came into the studio after her walk, to find Lucy
engaged in focussing Frank, who was seated, wearing an air of immense
solemnity, in the sitter's chair. Phyllis, meanwhile, hovered about,
bestowing hints and suggestions on them both, secretly enjoying the
quiet humour of the scene.
"It is Mr. Jermyn's birthday present," she announced, as Gertrude
entered. "He is going to send it to Cornwall, which will be a nice
advertisement for us."
Frank blushed slightly; and Lucy cried from beneath her black cloth,
"Don't get up, Mr. Jermyn; Gertrude will excuse you, I am sure."
Gertrude, laughing, retreated to the waiting-room; where, throwing
herself into a chair, and leaning both her elbows on a rickety scarlet
table, she stared vaguely at the little picture of youth and grace which
the parted curtains revealed to her.
How could they be so cheerful, so heedless? cried her heart, with a
sudden impatience. Was this life, this ceaseless messing about in a
pokey glass out-house, this eating and drinking and sleeping in the
shabby London rooms?
Was any human creature to be blamed who rebelled against it? Did not
flesh and blood cry out against such sordidness, with all the revel of
the spring-time going on in the world beyond?
It is base and ignoble perhaps to scorn the common round, the trivial
task, but is it not also ignoble and base to become so immersed in them
as to desire nothing beyond?
"What mean thoughts I am thinking," cried Gertrude to herself, shocked
at her own mood; then, gazing mechanically in front of her, saw Lucy
disappear into the dark-room, and Frank come forward with outstretched
hand.
"At last I can say 'good-morning,' Miss Lorimer."
Gertrude gave him her hand with a smile; Jermyn's was a presence that
somehow always cleared the moral atmosphere.
"You will never guess," said Frank, "what I have brought you."
As he spoke, he drew from his pocket a number of _The Woodcut_, damp
from the press, and opening it at a particular page, spread it on the
table before her.
Phyllis, becoming aware of these proceedings, came across to the
waiting-room and leaned over her sister's shoulder.
"Oh, Gerty, what fun."
On one side of the page was a large wood-engraving representing four
people on a lawn-tennis court. Three of them were girls, in whom could
be traced distinct resemblance to the three Lorimers; while the fourth,
a man, had about him an unmistakable suggestion of Jermyn himself. The
initials "F. J." were writ large in a corner of the picture, and on the
opposite page were the following verses:--
What wonder that I should be dreaming[A]
Out here in the garden to-day?
The light through the leaves is streaming;
_Paulina cries, "Play!"_
The birds to each other are calling;
The freshly-cut grasses smell sweet--
_To Teddy's dismay comes falling
The ball at my feet!_
"_Your stroke should be over, not under._"
"_But that's such a difficult way!_"
The place is a spring-tide wonder
Of lilac and may.
Of lilac and may and laburnam;
Of blossom--"_we're losing the set!
Those volleys of Jenny's, return them,
Stand close to the net!_"
ENVOI.
You are so fond of the may-time,
My friend far away,
Small wonder that I should be dreaming
Of you in the garden to-day.
The verses were signed "G. Lorimer"; and Gertrude's eyes rested on them
with the peculiar tenderness with which we all of us regard our efforts
the first time that we see ourselves in print.
"How nice they look, Gerty," cried Phyllis. "And Mr. Jermyn's picture.
But I think they have spoilt it a little in the engraving."
"It is rather a come down after _Charlotte Corday_, isn't it?" said
Gertrude, pleased yet rueful.
Frank, who had been told the history of that unfortunate tragedy,
answered rather wistfully--
"We have all to get off our high horse, Miss Lorimer, if we want to
live. I had ten guineas this morning for that thing; and there is the
_Death of OEdipus_ with its face to the wall in the studio--and likely
to remain there, unless we run short of firewood one of these days."
"Do you remember," said Gertrude, "how Warrington threw cold water on
Pendennis by telling him to stick to poems like the _Church Porch_ and
abandon his beloved _Ariadne in Naxos_?"
"Yes," answered Frank, "and I never could share Warrington's--and
presumably Thackeray's--admiration for those verses."
"Nor I," said Gertrude, as Lucy emerged triumphantly from the dark-room
and announced the startling success of her negatives.
She was shown the wonderful poem, and the no less wonderful picture, and
then Phyllis said--
"Don't gloat so over it, Gerty." For Gertrude was still sitting at the
table absorbed in contemplation of the printed sheet spread out before
her.
Gertrude laughed and pushed the paper away; and Lucy quoted gravely--
"'We all, the foolish and the wise,
Regard our verse with fascination,
Through asinine-paternal eyes,
And hues of fancy's own creation!'"
A vociferous little clock on the mantelpiece struck ten.
"I must be off," said Frank; "there will be my model waiting for me. I
am afraid I have wasted a great deal of your time this morning."
"No, indeed," said Lucy, as Gertrude rose and folded the seductive
_Woodcut_, with a get-thee-behind-me-Satan air; "though I am glad to say
we are quite busy."
"There are Lord Watergate's slides," added Phyllis; "and Mr. Darrell's
sketches to finish off; not to speak of possible chance-comers."
"How do you get on with Darrell?" said Frank, who seemed to have
forgotten his model, and made no movement to go.
"He has only been here once," answered Lucy, promptly; "but I like what
I have seen of him."
"So do I," cried Phyllis.
"And I," added Frank.
In the face of this unanimity Gertrude wisely held her peace.
"Well then, good-bye," said Frank, reluctantly holding out his hand to
each in turn--to Lucy, last. "I am dining out to-night and to-morrow, so
shall not see you for an age, I suppose."
"Gay person," said Lucy, whose hand lingered in his; held there firmly,
and without resistance on her part.
"It's a bore," cried Frank, making wistful eyebrows, and looking at her
very hard.
Gertrude started, struck for the first time by something in the tone and
attitude of them both. With a shock that bewildered her, she realised
the secret of their mutual content; and, stirred up by this unconscious
revelation, a conflicting throng of thoughts, images, and emotions arose
within her.
Gertrude worked like a nigger that day, which, fortunately for her state
of mind, turned out an unusually busy one. Lucy was industrious too, but
went about her work humming little tunes, with a serenity that
contrasted with her sister's rather feverish laboriousness. Even Phyllis
condescended to lend a hand to the finishing off of the prints of Sidney
Darrell's sketches.
All three were rather tired by the time they joined Fanny round the
supper-table, who, herself, presented a pathetic picture of ladylike
boredom.
The meal proceeded for some time in silence, broken occasionally by a
professional remark from one or other of them; then Lucy said--
"You're not eating, Fanny."
"I'm not hungry," answered Fan, with an injured air.
She looked more like a superannuated baby than ever, with her pale
eyebrows arched to her hair, and the corners of her small thin mouth
drooped peevishly.
"This pudding isn't half bad, really, Fan," said Phyllis,
good-naturedly, as she helped herself to a second portion. "I should
advise you to try it."
Fanny's under-lip quivered in a touchingly infantile manner, and, in
another moment, splash! fell a great tear on the table-cloth.
"It's all very well to talk about pudding," she cried, struggling
helplessly with the gurgling sobs. "To leave one alone all the blessed
day, and not a word to throw at one when you do come upstairs, unless,
if you please, it's 'pudding!' Pudding!" went on Fan, with contemptuous
emphasis, and abandoning herself completely to her rising emotions. "You
seem to take me for an idiot, all of you, who think yourselves so
clever. What do you care how dull it is for me up here all day, alone
from morning till night, while you are amusing yourselves below, or
gadding about at gentlemen's studios."
"That sounds just like Aunt Caroline," said Phyllis, in a stage-whisper;
but Lucy, rising, went round to her weeping sister, and, gathering the
big, silly head, and wide moist face to her bosom, proceeded to
administer comfort after the usual inarticulate, feminine fashion.
"Fanny is right," cried Gertrude, smitten with sudden remorse. "It is
horribly dull for her, and we are very thoughtless."
"I am sorry I said anything about it," sobbed Fanny; "but flesh and
blood couldn't stand it any longer."
"You were quite right to tell us, Fan. We have been horrid," cried Lucy,
as she gently led her from the room. "Come upstairs with me, and lie
down. You have not been looking well all the week."
In about ten minutes Lucy re-appeared alone, to find the table cleared,
and her sisters sewing by the lamplight.
"Fan has gone to bed," she announced; "she was a little hysterical, and
I persuaded her to undress."
"It _is_ dull for her, I know," said Gertrude, really distressed; "but
what is to be done?"
"And she has been so good all these months," answered Lucy. "She has had
none of the fun, and all the anxiety and pinching, and this is the first
complaint we have heard from her."
"Yes, she has come out surprisingly well through it all."
Gertrude sighed as she spoke, secretly reproaching herself that there
was not more love in her heart for poor Fanny.
Mrs. Maryon appeared at this point to offer the young ladies her own
copy of the _Waterloo Place Gazette_, a little bit of neighbourly
courtesy in which she often indulged, and which to-night was especially
appreciated, as creating a diversion from an unpleasant topic.
"'A woman shot at Turnham Green,'" cried Phyllis, glancing down a column
of miscellaneous items, while the lamplight fell on her bent brown head.
"'More fighting in Africa.' Ah, here's something interesting at
last.--'We understand that the exhibition of Mr. Sidney Darrell,
A.R.A.'s pictures, to be held in the Berkeley Galleries, New Bond
Street, will be opened to the public on the first of next month. The
event is looked forward to with great interest in artistic circles, as
the collection is said to include many works never before exhibited in
London.' _I_ shall go like a shot; sha'n't you, Gerty?"
"Yes, and slip little dynamite machines behind the pictures. Let me look
at that paper, Phyllis."
Phyllis pushed it towards her, and, as she took it up, her eye fell on
the date of the month printed at the top of the page.
"Do you know," she said, "that it is a year to-day that we finally
decided on starting our business?"
"Is it?" said Lucy. "Do you mean from that day when Aunt Caroline came
and pitched into us all?"
"Yes; and when Mr. Russel's letter appeared on the scene, just as we
were thinking of rushing in a body to the nearest chemist's for
laudanum."
"And when we made a lot of good resolutions; do you remember?" cried
Phyllis.
"What were they?" said Gertrude. "One was, that we would be happy."
"Well, I think we have kept that one at least," observed Lucy, with
decision.
Gertrude looked across at her sister rather wistfully, as she answered,
"Yes, on the whole. What was the other resolution? That we would not be
cynical, was it not?"
"There hasn't been the slightest ground for cynicism; quite the other
way," said Lucy. "It is not much credit to us to have kept that
resolution."
"Oh, I don't know," observed Phyllis, lightly; "some people have been
rather horrid; have forgotten all about us, or not been nice. Don't you
remember, Gerty, how Gerald St. Aubyn dodged round the corner at Baker
Street the other day because he didn't care to be seen bowing to two
shabby young women with heavy parcels? And, Lucy, have you forgotten
what you told us about Jack Sinclair, when you met him, travelling from
the north? How he never took any notice of you, because you happened to
be riding third class, and had your old gown on? Jack, who used to make
such a fuss about picking up one's pocket-handkerchief and opening the
door for one."
"It seems to me," said Gertrude, "that to think about those sort of
things makes one almost as mean as the people who do them."
"And directly a person shows himself capable of doing them, why, it
ceases to matter about him in the least," added Lucy, with youthful
magnificence.
Gertrude was silent a moment, then said, with something of an effort:
"Let us direct our attention to the charming new people we have got to
know. One gets to know them in such a much more pleasant way, somehow."
Lucy bent her head over her work, hiding her flushed face as she
answered, "That is the best of being poor; one's chances of artificial
acquaintanceships are so much lessened. One gains in quality what one
loses in quantity."
"How moral we are growing," cried Phyllis. "We shall be quoting
Scripture next, and saying it is harder for the camel to get through the
needle's eye, &c., &c."
Gertrude laughed.
"There is another point to consider," she said. "I suppose you both know
that we are not making our fortunes?"
"Yes," answered Lucy; "but, at the same time, the business has almost
doubled itself in the course of the last three months."
"That sounds more prosperous than it really is, Lucy. If it hadn't done
so, we should have had to think seriously of giving it up. And, as it
is, we cannot be sure, till the end of the year, that we shall be able
to hold on."
"You mean the end of the business year; next June?"
"Yes; Mr. Russel is coming, and there is to be a great overhauling of
accounts."
Gertrude lay awake that night long after her sisters were asleep. Her
brief rebellious mood of the morning had passed away, and, looking back
on the year behind her, she experienced a measure of the content which
we all feel after something attempted, something done. That she had been
brought face to face with the sterner side of life, had lost some
illusions, suffered some pain, she did not regret. It seemed to her that
she had not paid too great a price for the increased reality of her
present existence.
She fell asleep, then woke at dawn with a low cry. She had been dreaming
of Lucy and Frank; had seen their faces, as she had seen them the day
before, bright with the glow of the light which never was on sea and
land. Oh, she had always known, nay, hoped, that this, or rather
something akin to this, would come; yet sharp was the pang that ran
through her at the recollection.
It had always seemed to her highly improbable that her sisters,
portionless as they were, should remain unmarried. One day, she had
always told herself, they would go away, and she and Fanny would be left
alone. She did not wish it otherwise. She had a feminine belief in love
as the crown and flower of life; yet, as the shadow of the coming
separation fell upon her, her spirit grew desolate and afraid; and,
lying there in the chill grey morning, she wept very bitterly.
FOOTNOTE:
[A] From _Lawn Tennis_.
[Illustration: Decoration]
[Illustration: Decoration]