THE NATIONAL GALLERY
Contrary to all reasonable expectation, Alec Feilding called at
Armorel's rooms the very next morning--and quite early in the morning,
when it was not yet eleven. Armorel, however, had already gone out. He
was received by Mrs. Elstree, who was, as usual, sitting, apparently
asleep, by the fire.
'You have come in the hope of seeing Armorel alone, I suppose?' she
said.
'Yes. You remember, Zoe,' he replied quickly--she observed that he was
pale, and that he fidgeted nervously, and that his eyes, restless and
scared, looked as if somebody was hunting him--'that we had a talk
about it. You said you wouldn't make a row. You know you did. You
consented.'
'Oh, yes! I remember. I am to play another part, and quite a new one.
You too are about to play a new part--one not generally desired--quite
the stage villain.' He made a gesture of impatience. 'Consider,
however,' she went on quickly, before he could speak. 'Do you think
this morning--the day after yesterday--quite propitious for your
purpose?'
'What do you mean?' he asked quickly. 'Why not the day after
yesterday?'
'Nothing. Still, if I might advise----'
'Zoe, you know nothing at all. And time presses. If there was reason,
a week ago, for me to be the reputed and accepted lover of this girl,
there is tenfold more reason now. You don't know, I say. For Heaven's
sake don't spoil things now by any interference.'
He was at least in earnest. Mrs. Elstree contemplated him with
curiosity. It seemed as if she had never seen him really in earnest
before. But now she understood. He knew by this time that Armorel had
discovered the source, the origins, of his greatness. She might
destroy him by a word. This knowledge would pierce the hide of the
most pachydermatous: his strength, you see, was like that of
Samson--it depended on a secret: it also now resembled that of Samson
in that it lay at the mercy of a woman.
'Alec,' said Mrs. Elstree, softly, 'you were greatly moved last night
by several things--by the play, by the picture, by the song. I watched
you. While the rest were listening to the play, I watched you. The
room was dark, and you thought no one could see you. But I could make
out your features. Armorel watched you, too, but for other motives. I
was wondering. She was triumphant. You know why?'
'What do you know?'
'Your face, which is generally so well under command, expressed
surprise, rage, disgust, and terror--all these passions, dear Alec. On
the stage we study how to express them. We represent an exaggeration
so that the gallery shall understand, and we call it Art. But I know
the symptoms.'
'What else do you know, I ask?'
'This morning you are nervous and agitated. You are afraid of
something. Alec, you know what I think of the cruelty and
hardheartedness of this project of yours--to sustain your credit on an
engagement which will certainly not last a month--I could not possibly
suffer the girl to be entangled longer than that--now give it over.'
'I cannot give it over: it is my only chance. Zoe, you don't know the
mischief she has done me, and will do me again. It is ruin--ruin!'
'Well then, Alec, don't go after her to-day. Indeed, I advise you not.
You are not in a condition to approach the subject, and she is not in
a condition to be approached. I do not ask your reasons, or the kind
of mischief you mean. I sit here and watch. In the course of time I
find out all things.'
'How much do you know, Zoe? What have you found out?'
'Knowledge, Alec, is power. Should I part in a moment, and for
nothing, with what I have acquired at the expense of a great deal of
contriving and putting together? Certainly not. You can go and find
Armorel, if you persist in choosing such a day for such a purpose. She
has gone, I believe, to the National Gallery.'
'I must find her to-day. I must bring things to a head. Good Heavens!
I don't know what new mischief they may be designing.'
'Go home and wait, Alec. No one will do anything to you to-day. You
are nervous and excited.'
'You don't understand, I say. Tell me, did the men talk last
night--about me--in your hearing?'
'Not in my hearing, certainly. Go home and rest, Alec.'
'I cannot rest. I must find the girl.'
'Well, if you want her--go and find her. Alec, remember, if you stood
the faintest chance of success with her, I think I should have to get
up and warn her. Even for your sake I do not think I could suffer this
wickedness to be done. But you have no chance--none--not on any day,
particularly on this day--and after last night. Go, however--go.'
When things have gone so far that assignations and appointments are
made and places of secret meeting agreed upon, there is hardly any
place in the whole of London more central, more convenient, or safer
than the National Gallery. Here the young lady of society may be
perfectly certain of remaining undiscovered. At the South Kensington
no one is quite safe, because in the modern enthusiasm for art all
kinds of people--even people in society--sometimes go there to see
embroideries and hangings, and handiwork of every sort. The India
Museum is perhaps safer even than the National Gallery--safer, for
such a purpose, than any other spot in the world. But there is a
loneliness in its galleries which strikes a chill to the most ardent
heart, and damps the spirit of the most resolute lover.
In the National Gallery there are plenty of people: but they are all
country visitors, or Americans, or copyists: never any people of the
young lady's own set: and there is never any crowd. One can sit and
talk undisturbed and quiet: the copyists chatter or go on with their
work regardless of anything: the attendants slumber: the visitors pass
round room after room, looking for pictures which have a story to
tell--and a story which they can read. That, you see, is the only kind
of picture--unless it be a picture of a pretty face--which the
ordinary visitor commonly understands. Not many young people know of
this place, and those who do keep the knowledge to themselves. The
upper rooms of the British Museum are also commended by some for the
same reason, but the approaches are difficult.
This use of the National Gallery once understood, the thing which
happened here the day after the reading of the play will not seem
incredible, though it certainly was not intended by the architect when
he designed the building. Otherwise there might have been convenient
arbours.
Armorel went often to the Gallery: the English girl reserves, as a
rule, her study of pictures, and art generally, till she gets to
Florence. Armorel, who had also studied art in Florence, found much to
learn in our own neglected Gallery. Sometimes she went alone:
sometimes she went with Effie, and then, being quite a learned person
in the matter of pictures and their makers, she would discourse from
room to room, till the day was all too short. The country visitors
streamed past her in languid procession: the lovers met by appointment
at her very elbow: the copyists flirted, talked scandal, wasted time,
and sighed for commissions: but Armorel had not learned to watch
people: she came to see the pictures: she had not begun to detach an
individual from the crowd as a representative: in other words, she was
not a novelist.
This morning she was alone. She carried a notebook and pencil, and was
standing before a picture making notes. It was a wet morning: the
rooms were nearly empty, and the galleries were very quiet.
She heard a manly step striding across the floor. She half turned as
it approached her. Mr. Alec Feilding took off his hat.
'Mrs. Elstree told me you were here,' he said. 'I ventured to follow.'
'Yes?'
'You--you--come often, I believe?' He looked pale, and, for the first
time in Armorel's recollection of him, he was nervous. 'There is, I
believe, a good deal to be learned here.'
'There is, especially by those who want to paint--of course, I
mean--who want to do their own paintings by themselves. Mr. Feilding,
frankly, what do you want? Why do you come here in search of me?' Her
face hardened: her eyes were cold and resolved. But the man was full
of himself; he noted not these symptoms.
'I came because I have something to say.'
'Of importance?'
'Of great importance.'
'Not, I hope, connected with Art. Do not talk to me about Art, if you
please, Mr. Feilding--not about any kind of Art.'
He bowed gravely. 'One cannot always listen to conversation involving
canons and first principles,' he said, with much condescension. 'Let
me, however, congratulate you on the promise of your protégés, Archie
and Effie Wilmot.'
'They are clever.'
'They are distinctly clever,' he repeated, recovering his usual
self-possession. 'Effie, as perhaps she has told you, has been my
pupil for a long time.'
'She has told me, in fact, something about her relations to you.'
'Yes.' The man was preoccupied and rather dense by nature. Therefore
he caught only imperfectly these side meanings in Armorel's replies.
'Yes--quite so--I have been able to be useful to her, and to her
brother also--very useful, indeed, happily.'
'And to--to others--as well--very useful, indeed,' Armorel echoed.
He understood that there was some kind of menace in these words. But
the very air, this morning, was full of menace. He passed them by.
'It is a curious coincidence that you should also have taken up this
interesting pair. It ought to bring us closer.'
'Quite the contrary, Mr. Feilding. It puts us far more widely apart.'
'I do not understand that. We have a common interest. For instance,
only the other day I accepted a poem of Effie's----'
'Only the other day, Mr. Feilding?'
'Yes, the day before yesterday. I had it set up, and I added a few
words introducing the writer. That was the day before yesterday. Judge
of my astonishment when, only yesterday, you sang that very song, and
handed it round printed with the accompaniment. I have made no
alteration. The verses will appear to-night, with my laudatory
introduction. Some men might complain that they had not been taken
into confidence. But I do not. Effie is a little genius in her way.
She is not practical: she does not understand that having disposed of
her verses to one editor she is not free to give them to another. But
I do not complain, if your action in her cause brings her into
notice.'
Here was a turning of tables! Now, some men overdo a thing. They smile
too much: they rub their hands nervously: they show a nervous anxiety
to be believed. Not so this man. He spoke naturally--he had now
recovered his usual equanimity: he looked blankly unconscious that any
doubt could possibly be thrown upon his word. Since he said it, the
thing must be so. Men of honour have always claimed and exacted this
concession. Therefore, the following syllogism:--
Mr. Alec Feilding is a man of honour:
Everybody must acknowledge so much.
A man of honour cannot lie:
Else--what becomes of his honour?
Therefore:
Any statement made by Mr. Alec Feilding is literally true.
Armorel showed no doubt in her face. Why should she? There was no
doubt in her mind. The man was a Liar.
'The Wilmots will get on,' she said coldly, 'without any help from
anybody. Now, Mr. Feilding, you came to say something important to me.
Shall we go on to that important communication?' She took a seat on
the divan in the middle of the room. He stood over her, 'There is no
one here this morning,' she said. 'You can speak as freely as in your
own study.'
'Among your many fine qualities, Miss Rosevean,' he began floridly,
but with heightened colour, 'a certain artistic reserve is reckoned by
your friends, perhaps, the highest. It makes you queenly.'
'Mr. Feilding, I cannot possibly discuss my own qualities with any but
my friends.'
'Your friends! Surely, I also----'
'My friends, Mr. Feilding,' Armorel repeated, bristling like the
fretful porcupine. But the man, preoccupied and thick of skin, and
full of vainglory and conceit, actually did not perceive these quills
erect. Armorel's pointed remarks did not prick his hide: her coldness
he took for her customary reserve. Therefore he hurried to his doom.
'Give me,' he said, 'the right to speak to you as your dearest friend.
You cannot possibly mistake the attentions that I have paid to you for
the last few weeks. They must have indicated to you--they were,
indeed, deliberately designed to indicate--a preference--deepening
into a passion----'
'I think you had better stop at once, Mr. Feilding.'
There are many men who honestly believe that they are irresistible. It
seems incredible, but it is really true. It is the consciousness of
masculine superiority carried to an extreme. They think that they have
only to repeat the conventional words in the conventional manner for
the woman to be subjugated. They come: they conquer. Now, this man,
who plainly saw that he was to a certain extent--he did not know how
far--detected, actually imagined that the woman who had detected him
in a gigantic fraud one day would accept his proffered hand and heart
the very next day! There are no bounds, you see, to personal vanity.
Besides, for this man, if it was necessary that he should appear as
the accepted suitor of a rich girl, it was doubly necessary that the
girl should be the one woman in the world who could do mischief. He
was anxious to discover how much she knew. But of his wooing he had no
anxiety at all. He should speak: she would yield: she could do nothing
else.
'Permit me,' he replied blandly, 'to go on. I am, as you know, a
leader in the world of Art. I am known as a painter, a poet, and a
writer of fiction. I have other ambitions still.'
'Doubtless you will succeed in these as you have succeeded in those
three Arts.'
'Thank you.' He really did not see the meaning of her words. 'I take
your words as of happy augury. Armorel----'
'No, Sir! Not my Christian name, if you please.'
'Give me the right to call you by your Christian name.'
'You are asking me to marry you. Is that what you mean?'
'It is nothing less.'
'Really! When I tell you, Mr. Feilding, that I know you--that I know
you--it will be plain to you that the thing is absolutely impossible.'
'To know me,' he replied, showing no outward emotion, 'should make it
more than possible. What could I wish better than to be known to you?'
She looked him full in the face. He neither dropped his eyes nor
changed colour.
'What could be better for me?' he repeated. 'What could I hope for
better than to be known?'
'Oh! This man is truly wonderful!' she cried. 'Must I tell you what I
know?'
'It would be better, perhaps. You look as if you knew something to
my--actually--if I may say so--actually to my discredit!'
Armorel gasped. His impudence was colossal.
'To your discredit! Oh! Actually to your discredit! Sir, I know the
whole of your disgraceful history--the history of the past three or
four years. I know by what frauds you have passed yourself off as a
painter and as a poet. I know by what pretences you thought to lay the
foundation for a reputation as a dramatist. I know that your talk is
borrowed--that you do not know art when you see it: that you could
never write a single line of verse--and that of all the humbugs and
quacks that ever imposed themselves upon the credulity of people you
are the worst and biggest.'
He stared with a wonder which was, at least, admirably acted.
'Good Heavens!' he said. 'These words--these accusations--from you?
From Armorel Rosevean--cousin of my cousin--whom I had believed to be
a friend? Can this be possible? Who has put this wonderful array of
charges into your head?'
'That matters nothing. They are true, and you know it.'
'They are so true,' he replied sternly, 'that if anyone were to
dare to repeat these things before a third person, I should
instantly--instantly--instruct my solicitors to bring an action for
libel. Remember: youth and sex would not avail to protect that
libeller. If anyone--anyone--dares, I say----'
'Oh! say no more. Go, and do not speak to me again! What will be done
with this knowledge, I cannot say. Perhaps it will be used for the
exposure which will drive you from the houses of honest people. Go, I
say!'
[Illustration: _'Oh! say no more. Go, and do not speak to me again!'_]
She stamped her foot and raised her voice, insomuch that two drowsy
attendants woke up and looked round, thinking they had dreamed
something unusual.
The injured man of Art and Letters obeyed. He strode away. He, who had
come pale and hesitating, now, on learning the truth which he had
suspected and on receiving this unmistakable rejection, walked away
with head erect and lofty mien. He showed, at least by outward
bearing, the courage which is awakened by a declaration of war.