ISADORE HAMEL.
It was suggested to Lucy before she had been long in Kingsbury
Crescent that she should take some exercise. For the first week she
had hardly been out of the house; but this was attributed to her
sorrow. Then she had accompanied her aunt for a few days during the
half-hour's marketing which took place every morning, but in this
there had been no sympathy. Lucy would not interest herself in
the shoulder of mutton which must be of just such a weight as to
last conveniently for two days,--twelve pounds,--of which, it was
explained to her, more than one-half was intended for the two
servants, because there was always a more lavish consumption in the
kitchen than in the parlour. Lucy would not appreciate the fact that
eggs at a penny a piece, whatever they might be, must be used for
puddings, as eggs with even a reputation of freshness cost twopence.
Aunt Dosett, beyond this, never left the house on week-days except
for a few calls which were made perhaps once a month, on which
occasion the Sunday gloves and the Sunday silk dress were used. On
Sunday they all went to church. But this was not enough for exercise,
and as Lucy was becoming pale she was recommended to take to walking
in Kensington Gardens.
It is generally understood that there are raging lions about the
metropolis, who would certainly eat up young ladies whole if young
ladies were to walk about the streets or even about the parks by
themselves. There is, however, beginning to be some vacillation as
to the received belief on this subject as regards London. In large
continental towns, such as Paris and Vienna, young ladies would be
devoured certainly. Such, at least, is the creed. In New York and
Washington there are supposed to be no lions, so that young ladies
go about free as air. In London there is a rising doubt, under which
before long, probably, the lions will succumb altogether. Mrs. Dosett
did believe somewhat in lions, but she believed also in exercise. And
she was aware that the lions eat up chiefly rich people. Young ladies
who must go about without mothers, brothers, uncles, carriages, or
attendants of any sort, are not often eaten or even roared at. It
is the dainty darlings for whom the roarings have to be feared. Mrs.
Dosett, aware that daintiness was no longer within the reach of her
and hers, did assent to these walkings in Kensington Gardens. At some
hour in the afternoon Lucy would walk from the house by herself, and
within a quarter of an hour would find herself on the broad gravel
path which leads down to the Round Pond. From thence she would go by
the back of the Albert Memorial, and then across by the Serpentine
and return to the same gate, never leaving Kensington Gardens. Aunt
Dosett had expressed some old-fashioned idea that lions were more
likely to roar in Hyde Park than within the comparatively retired
purlieus of Kensington.
Now the reader must be taken back for a few moments to the bijou, as
the bijou was before either the artist or his wife had died. In those
days there had been a frequent concourse of people in the artist's
house. Society there had not consisted chiefly of eating and
drinking. Men and women would come in and out as though really for
a purpose of talking. There would be three or four constantly with
Dormer in his studio, helping him but little perhaps in the real
furtherance of his work, though discussing art subjects in a manner
calculated to keep alive art-feeling among them. A novelist or two of
a morning might perhaps aid me in my general pursuit, but would, I
think, interfere with the actual tally of pages. Egbert Dormer did
not turn out from his hand so much work as some men that I know, but
he was overflowing with art up to his ears;--and with tobacco, so
that, upon the whole, the bijou was a pleasant rendezvous.
There had come there of late, quite of late, a young sculptor, named
Isadore Hamel. Hamel was an Englishman, who, however, had been
carried very early to Rome and had been bred there. Of his mother
question never was made, but his father had been well known as an
English sculptor resident at Rome. The elder Hamel had been a man of
mark, who had a fine suite of rooms in the city and a villa on one
of the lakes, but who never came to England. English connections
were, he said, to him abominable, by which he perhaps meant that the
restrictions of decent life were not to his taste. But his busts
came, and his groups in marble, and now and again some great work for
some public decoration: so that money was plentiful with him, and
he was a man of note. It must be acknowledged of him that he spared
nothing in bringing up his son, giving him such education as might
best suit his future career as an artist, and that money was always
forthcoming for the lad's wants and fantasies.
Then young Hamel also became a sculptor of much promise; but early in
life differed from his father on certain subjects of importance. The
father was wedded to Rome and to Italy. Isadore gradually expressed
an opinion that the nearer a man was to his market the better for
him, that all that art could do for a man in Rome was as nothing
to the position which a great artist might make for himself in
London,--that, in fact, an Englishman had better be an Englishman. At
twenty-six he succeeded in his attempt, and became known as a young
sculptor with a workshop at Brompton. He became known to many both
by his work and his acquirements; but it may not be surprising that
after a year he was still unable to live, as he had been taught to
live, without drawing upon his father. Then his father threw his
failure in his teeth, not refusing him money indeed, but making the
receipt of it unpleasant to him.
At no house had Isadore Hamel been made so welcome as at Dormer's.
There was a sympathy between them both on that great question of
art, whether to an artist his art should be a matter to him of more
importance than all the world besides. So said Dormer,--who simply
died because his wife died, who could not have touched his brush if
one of his girls had been suffering, who, with all his genius, was
but a faineant workman. His art more than all the world to him!
No, not to him. Perhaps here and again to some enthusiast, and him
hardly removed from madness! Where is the painter who shall paint a
picture after his soul's longing though he shall get not a penny for
it,--though he shall starve as he put his last touch to it, when he
knows that by drawing some duchess of the day he shall in a fortnight
earn a ducal price? Shall a wife and child be less dear to him than
to a lawyer,--or to a shoemaker; or the very craving of his hunger
less obdurate? A man's self, and what he has within him and his
belongings, with his outlook for this and other worlds,--let that
be the first, and the work, noble or otherwise, be the second.
To be honest is greater than to have painted the San Sisto, or
to have chiselled the Apollo; to have assisted in making others
honest,--infinitely greater. All of which were discussed at great
length at the bijou, and the bijouites always sided with the
master of the house. To an artist, said Dormer, let his art be
everything,--above wife and children, above money, above health,
above even character. Then he would put out his hand with his
jewelled finger, and stretch forth his velvet-clad arm, and soon
after lead his friend away to the little dinner at which no luxury
had been spared. But young Hamel agreed with the sermons, and not the
less because Lucy Dormer had sat by and listened to them with rapt
attention.
Not a word of love had been spoken to her by the sculptor when her
mother died, but there had been glances and little feelings of which
each was half conscious. It is so hard for a young man to speak of
love, if there be real love,--so impossible that a girl should do so!
Not a word had been spoken, but each had thought that the other must
have known. To Lucy a word had been spoken by her mother,--"Do not
think too much of him till you know," the mother had said,--not
quite prudently. "Oh, no! I will think of him not at all," Lucy had
replied. And she had thought of him day and night. "I wonder why Mr.
Hamel is so different with you?" Ayala had said to her sister. "I am
sure he is not different with me," Lucy had replied. Then Ayala had
shaken her full locks and smiled.
Things came quickly after that. Mrs. Dormer had sickened and died.
There was no time then for thinking of that handsome brow, of
that short jet black hair, of those eyes so full of fire and
thoughtfulness, of that perfect mouth, and the deep but yet soft
voice. Still even in her sorrow this new god of her idolatry was not
altogether forgotten. It was told to her that he had been summoned
off to Rome by his father, and she wondered whether he was to find
his home at Rome for ever. Then her father was ill, and in his
illness Hamel came to say one word of farewell before he started.
"You find me crushed to the ground," the painter said. Something the
young man whispered as to the consolation which time would bring.
"Not to me," said Dormer. "It is as though one had lost his eyes. One
cannot see without his eyes." It was true of him. His light had been
put out.
Then, on the landing at the top of the stairs, there had been one
word between Lucy and the sculptor. "I ought not to have intruded on
you perhaps," he said; "but after so much kindness I could hardly go
without a word."
"I am sure he will be glad that you have come."
"And you?"
"I am glad too,--so that I may say good-bye." Then she put out her
hand, and he held it for a moment as he looked into her eyes. There
was not a word more, but it seemed to Lucy as though there had been
so many words.
Things went on quickly. Egbert Dormer died, and Lucy was taken away
to Kingsbury Crescent. When once Ayala had spoken about Mr. Hamel,
Lucy had silenced her. Any allusion to the idea of love wounded her,
as though it was too impossible for dreams, too holy for words. How
should there be words about a lover when father and mother were both
dead? He had gone to his old and natural home. He had gone, and of
course he would not return. To Ayala, when she came up to London
early in November, to Ayala, who was going to Rome, where Isadore
Hamel now was, Isadore Hamel's name was not mentioned. But through
the long mornings of her life, through the long evenings, through the
long nights, she still thought of him,--she could not keep herself
from thinking. To a girl whose life is full of delights her lover
need not be so very much,--need not, at least, be everything.
Though he be a lover to be loved at all points, her friends will be
something, her dancing, her horse, her theatre-going, her brothers
and sisters, even her father and mother. But Lucy had nothing. The
vision of Isadore Hamel had passed across her life, and had left with
her the only possession that she had. It need hardly be said that
she never alluded to that possession at Kingsbury Crescent. It was
not a possession from which any enjoyment could come except that of
thinking of it. He had passed away from her, and there was no point
of life at which he could come across her again. There was no longer
that half-joint studio. If it had been her lot to be as was Ayala,
she then would have been taken to Rome. Then again he would have
looked into her eyes and taken her hand in his. Then perhaps--.
But now, even though he were to come back to London, he would know
nothing of her haunts. Even in that case nothing would bring them
together. As the idea was crossing her mind,--as it did cross it
so frequently,--she saw him turning from the path on which she was
walking, making his way towards the steps of the Memorial.
Though she saw no more than his back she was sure that it was Isadore
Hamel. For a moment there was an impulse on her to run after him and
to call his name. It was then early in January, and she was taking
her daily walk through Kensington Gardens. She had walked there daily
now for the last two months and had never spoken a word or been
addressed,--had never seen a face that she had recognised. It had
seemed to her that she had not an acquaintance in the world except
Uncle Reg and Aunt Dosett. And now, almost within reach of her hand,
was the one being in all the world whom she most longed to see. She
did stand, and the word was formed within her lips; but she could not
speak it. Then came the thought that she would run after him, but the
thought was expelled quickly. Though she might lose him again and for
ever she could not do that. She stood almost gasping till he was out
of sight, and then she passed on upon her usual round.
She never omitted her walks after that, and always paused a moment
as the path turned away to the Memorial. It was not that she thought
that she might meet him there,--there rather than elsewhere,--but
there is present to us often an idea that when some object has passed
from us that we have desired then it may be seen again. Day after
day, and week after week, she did not see him. During this time there
came letters from Ayala, saying that their return to England was
postponed till the first week in February,--that she would certainly
see Lucy in February,--that she was not going to be hurried through
London in half-an-hour because her aunt wished it; and that she would
do as she pleased as to visiting her sister. Then there was a word
or two about Tom,--"Oh, Tom--that idiot Tom!" And another word or
two about Augusta. "Augusta is worse than ever. We have not spoken
to each other for the last day or two." This came but a day or two
before the intended return of the Tringles.
No actual day had been fixed. But on the day before that on which
Lucy thought it probable that the Tringles might return to town she
was again walking in the Gardens. Having put two and two together,
as people do, she felt sure that the travellers could not be away
more than a day or two longer. Her mind was much intent upon Ayala,
feeling that the imprudent girl was subjecting herself to great
danger, knowing that it was wrong that she and Augusta should be
together in the house without speaking,--thinking of her sister's
perils,--when, of a sudden, Hamel was close before her! There was no
question of calling to him now,--no question of an attempt to see him
face to face. She had been wandering along the path with eyes fixed
upon the ground, when her name was sharply called, and they two were
close to each other. Hamel had a friend with him, and it seemed to
Lucy at once, that she could only bow to him, only mutter something,
and then pass on. How can a girl stand and speak to a gentleman in
public, especially when that gentleman has a friend with him? She
tried to look pleasant, bowed, smiled, muttered something, and was
passing on. But he was not minded to lose her thus immediately. "Miss
Dormer," he said, "I have seen your sister at Rome. May I not say a
word about her?"
Why should he not say a word about Ayala? In a minute he had left
his friend, and was walking back along the path with Lucy. There was
not much that he had to say about Ayala. He had seen Ayala and the
Tringles, and did manage to let it escape him that Lady Tringle
had not been very gracious to himself when once, in public, he had
claimed acquaintance with Ayala. But at that he simply smiled. Then
he had asked of Lucy where she lived. "With my uncle, Mr. Dosett,"
said Lucy, "at Kingsbury Crescent." Then, when he asked whether he
might call, Lucy, with many blushes, had said that her aunt did not
receive many visitors,--that her uncle's house was different from
what her father's had been.
"Shall I not see you at all, then?" he asked.
She did not like to ask him after his own purposes of life, whether
he was now a resident in London, or whether he intended to return to
Rome. She was covered with bashfulness, and dreaded to seem even to
be interested in his affairs. "Oh, yes," she said; "perhaps we may
meet some day."
"Here?" he asked.
"Oh, no; not here! It was only an accident." As she said this she
determined that she must walk no more in Kensington Gardens. It would
be dreadful, indeed, were he to imagine that she would consent to
make an appointment with him. It immediately occurred to her that the
lions were about, and that she must shut herself up.
"I have thought of you every day since I have been back," he said,
"and I did not know where to hear of you. Now that we have met am I
to lose you again!" Lose her! What did he mean by losing her? She,
too, had found a friend,--she who had been so friendless! Would it
not be dreadful to her, also, to lose him? "Is there no place where I
may ask of you?"
"When Ayala is back, and they are in town, perhaps I shall sometimes
be at Lady Tringle's," said Lucy, resolved that she would not tell
him of her immediate abode. This was, at any rate, a certain address
from where he might commence further inquiries, should he wish to
make inquiry; and as such he accepted it. "I think I had better go
now," said Lucy, trembling at the apparent impropriety of her present
conversation.
He knew that it was intended that he should leave her, and he went.
"I hope I have not offended you in coming so far."
"Oh, no." Then again she gave him her hand, and again there was the
same look as he took his leave.
When she got home, which was before the dusk, having resolved that
she must, at any rate, tell her aunt that she had met a friend, she
found that her uncle had returned from his office. This was a most
unusual occurrence. Her uncle, she knew, left Somerset House exactly
at half-past four, and always took an hour and a quarter for his
walk. She had never seen him in Kingsbury Crescent till a quarter
before six. "I have got letters from Rome," he said, in a solemn
voice.
"From Ayala?"
"One from Ayala, for you. It is here. And I have had one from my
sister, also; and one, in the course of the day, from your uncle
in Lombard Street. You had better read them!" There was something
terribly tragic in Uncle Dosett's voice as he spoke.
And so must the reader read the letters; but they must be delayed for
a few chapters.