Mr Burton, however, was soon restored to pre-eminence in the affairs of
the Drummonds. The very next day he dined with them, and entered on the
whole question. The glory which the painter had achieved was his own
affair, and consequently its interest was soon exhausted to his friend,
who, for his part, had a subject of his own, of which the interest was
inexhaustible. Mr Burton was very explanatory, in his genial, mercantile
way. He made it clear even to Helen, who was not above the level of
ordinary womankind in her understanding of business. He had no
difficulty in convincing her that Robert Drummond, R.A., would be an
addition to the list of directors; but it was harder to make the reasons
apparent why 'Rivers's' should change its character. If it was so firmly
established, so profitable, and so popular, why should the partners
desire to share their good fortune with others? Mrs Drummond asked. Her
husband laughed with the confidence of a man who knew all about it, at
the simplicity of such a question, but Mr Burton, on the contrary, took
the greatest pains to explain all. He pointed out to her all the
advantages of 'new blood.' The bank was doing well, and making enormous
profits; but still it might do better with more energetic management. Mr
Burton described and deplored pathetically his own over-burdened
condition. Sometimes he was detained in the City while the guests at a
state dinner-party awaited him at home. His carriage had waited for him
for two hours together at the railway, while he was busy in town,
toiling over the arrears of work at Rivers's. 'We have a jewel of a
manager,' he said, 'or we never could get on at all. You know Golden,
Drummond? There never was such a fellow for work--and a head as clear as
steel; never forgets anything; never lets an opportunity slip him. But
for him, we never could have got on so long in this way. But every man's
strength has its limits. And we must have "new blood."'
Thus Helen gradually came to an understanding of the whole, or at least
thought she did. At all events, she understood about the 'new blood.'
Her own Robert was new blood of the most valuable kind. His name would
be important, for the business of 'Rivers's' was to a considerable
extent a private business. And his good sense and industry would be
important too.
'Talk about business talent,' Mr Burton said; 'business talent means
good sense and prudence. It means the capacity to see what ought to be
done, and the spirit to do it; and if you add to this discretion enough
not to go too far, you have everything a man of business needs. Of
course, all technical knowledge has to be acquired, but that is easily
done.'
'But is Robert so accomplished as all this?' Helen said, opening her
eyes. She would not, for all England, have disclosed to her cousin that
Robert, in her eyes, was anything less than perfect. She would not, for
her life, have had him know that her husband was not the first of
painters and of men; but yet an exclamation of wonder burst from her.
She was not herself so sure of his clear-sightedness and discretion. And
when Robert laughed with a mixture of vanity and amusement at the high
character imagined for him, Helen flushed also with something between
anger and shame.
'Your own profession is a different thing,' she said hastily. 'You have
been trained for that. But to be an R.A. does not make you a man of
business--and painting is your profession, Robert. More will be expected
from you now, instead of less.'
'But we are not going to interfere with his time, my dear Helen,' said
her cousin cheerfully. 'A meeting of directors once a week or so--a
consultation when we meet--his advice, which we can always come to ask.
Bless my soul, we are not going to sweep up a great painter for our
small concern. No, no; you may make yourself quite easy. In the mean
time Drummond is not to give us much more than the benefit of his name.'
'And all his money,' Helen said to herself as she withdrew to the
drawing-room, where her little Norah awaited her. His money had
increased considerably since this new era in their lives began. It was
something worth having now--something that would make the little girl an
heiress in a humble way. And he was going to risk it all. She went into
the conservatory in the twilight and walked up and down and
pondered--wondering if it was wise to do it; wondering if some new
danger was about to swallow them up. Her reasonings, however, were
wholly founded upon matters quite distinct from the real question. She
discussed it with herself, just as her husband would discuss it with
himself, in a way common to women, and painters, and other
unbusiness-like persons, on every ground but the real one. First, he had
followed Reginald Burton's advice in all his speculations, and had
gained. Would it be honourable for him to give up following his advice
now, especially in a matter which he had so much at heart? Secondly, by
every means in his power, Reginald Burton took occasion to throw in
_her_ face (Helen's) the glories and splendour of his wife, and of the
home he had given her, and all her high estate. Helen herself was
conscious of having refused these glories and advantages. She had chosen
to be Robert Drummond's wife, and thrown aside the other; but still the
mention of Mrs Burton and her luxuries had a certain stinging and
stimulating effect upon her. She scorned, and yet would have been
pleased to emulate that splendour. The account of it put her out of
patience with her own humility, notwithstanding that she took pride in
that humility, and felt it more consistent with the real dignity of her
position than any splendour. And then, thirdly, the thought would come
in that even the magic title of R.A. had not thrown any celestial light
into Robert's pictures. That very morning she had stood for half an
hour, while he was out, in front of the last, which still stood on his
easel, and tried to reason herself into love of it. It was a picture
which ought to have been great. It was Francesca and Paolo, in the
story, reading together at the crisis of their fate. The glow and ardour
of suppressed passion had somehow toned down in Drummond's hands to a
gentle light. There was a sunset warmth of colour about the pair, which
stood in place of that fiercer illumination; and all the maze of love
and madness, all the passion and misery and delight, all the terror of
fate involved, and shadow of the dark, awful world beyond, had sunk into
a tender picture of a pair of lovers, innocent and sweet. Helen had
stood before it with a mixture of discouragement and longing impossible
to put into words. Oh, if she could but breathe upon it, and breathe in
the lacking soul! Oh, if she could but reflect into Drummond's eyes the
passion of humiliation and impatience and love which was in her own! But
she could not. As Helen paced up and down the pretty ornamented space,
all sweet with flowers, which her husband's love had made for her, this
picture rose before her like a ghost. He who painted it was an R.A. It
was exquisitely painted--a very miracle of colour and manipulation.
There was not a detail which could be improved, nor a line which was out
of drawing. He would never do anything better, never, never! Then why
should he go on trying, proving, over and over, how much he could, and
how much he could not do? Better, far better, to throw it aside for
ever, to grow rich, to make himself a name in another way.
Thus Helen reasoned in the vehemence of her thoughts. She was calm until
she came to this point. She thought she was very calm, reasonable to the
highest pitch, in everything; and yet the blood began to boil and course
through her veins as she pursued the subject. Sometimes she walked as
far as the door of the studio, and pausing to look in, saw that picture
glimmering on the easel, and all the unframed canvases about upon the
walls. Many of them were sketches of herself, made from memory, for she
never would sit--studies of her in her different dresses, in different
characters, according as her husband's fond fancy represented her to
himself. She could not see them for the darkness, but she saw them all
in her heart. Was that all he could do? Not glorify her by his
greatness, but render her the feeble homage of this perpetual,
ineffectual adoration. Why was not he like the other painters; like--Her
memory failed her for an example; of all the great painters she could
think of only Rubens' bacchanalian beauties and that Lucrezia would come
to her mind. It was about the time of Mr Browning's poem, that
revelation of Andrea del Sarto, which elucidates the man like a very ray
from heaven. She was not very fond of poetry, nor anything of a critic;
but the poem had seized upon her, partly because of her intense feeling
on the subject. Sometimes she felt as if she herself was Andrea--not
Robert, for Robert had none of that heart-rending sense of failure. Was
she Lucrezia rather, the wife that goaded him into misery? No, no! she
could not so condemn herself. When her thoughts reached this point she
forsook the studio and the conservatory, and rushed back to the
drawing-room, where little Norah, with her head pressed close against
the window to take advantage of the last glimmer of light, was reading a
book of fairy tales. Great painters had not wives. Those
others--Leonardo, and Angelo, and the young Urbinese--had none of them
wives. Was that the reason? But not to be as great as Michel Angelo, not
to win the highest honours of art, would Robert give up his wife and
his child. Therefore was it not best that he should give up being a
painter, and become a commercial man instead, and grow rich! Helen sat
down in the gathering darkness and looked at the three windows
glimmering with their mist of white curtains, and little Norah curled up
on the carpet, with her white face and her brown curls relieved against
the light. Some faint sounds came in soft as summer and evening made
them, through the long casement, which was open, and with it a scent of
mignonette, and of the fresh earth in the flower-beds, refreshed by
watering and dew. Sometimes the voices of her husband and cousin from
the adjoining room would reach her ear; but where she was all was
silent, nothing to disturb her thoughts. No, he would never do better.
He had won his crown. Helen was proud and glad that he had won it; but
in her heart did not consent. He had won and he had not won. His victory
was because he had caught the _banal_ fancy of the public, and
pleased his brethren by his beautiful work; but he had failed
because--because--Why had he failed? Because he was not Raphael or
Leonardo--nor even that poor Andrea--but only Robert Drummond, painting
his pictures not out of any inspiration within him, but for money and
fame. He had gained these as men who seek them frankly so often seem to
do. But it was better, far better, that he should make money now, by
legitimate means, without pursuing a profession in which he never could
be great.
These were not like a wife's reasonings; but they were Helen's, though
she was loyal to her husband as ever woman was. She would have liked so
much better to worship his works and himself, as most women do; and that
would have done him good more than anything else in earth or heaven. But
she could not. It was her hard fate that made her eye so keen and so
true. It felt like infidelity to him, to come to such a conclusion in
his own house, with his kind voice sounding in her ear. But so it was,
and she could not make it different, do what she would. He was so
pleased when he found she did not oppose his desires, so grateful to
her, so strongly convinced that she was yielding her own pleasure to
his, that his thanks were both lavish and tender. When their visitor had
left them, and they were alone, he poured out his gratitude like a
lover. 'I know you are giving in to me,' he said, 'my love, my
self-forgetting Helen! It is like you. You always have given up your
pleasure to mine. Am I a brute to accept it, and take my own way?'
'I am not making any sacrifice, Robert. Don't thank me, please. It is
because I think you have judged right, and this is best.'
'And you think I am so blind and stupid not to see why you say that,' he
said in his enthusiasm. 'Helen, I often wonder what providence was
thinking of to give you only such a poor fellow as I am. I wish I was
something better for your sake, something more like you; but I have not
a wish or a hope in the world, my darling, except for you. If I want to
be rich, Helen, it is only for you. You know that, at least.'
'And for Norah,' she said, smiling.
'For Norah, but most for Norah's mother, who trusted me when I was
nobody, and gave me herself when I had little chance of being either
rich or great,' said Drummond. He said it, poor fellow, with a swelling
of his heart. His new dignity had for the moment delivered him even from
the chill of his wife's unexpressed indifference to his work. With a
certain trustful simplicity, which it would have been impossible to call
vanity, he accepted the verdict of his profession--even though he had
doubts himself as to his own eminence, they must know. He had won the
greatness he wanted most, he had acquired a distinction which could not
but vanquish his own doubts and hers. And as he was now, he would not
change positions with any man in England. He was great, and please God,
for Helen's sake, he would be rich too. He put his arm round his wife
and drew her into the open conservatory. The moon was up, and shone down
upon them, lighting up with a wan and spiritual light the colourless
silent flowers. It was curious to see them, with all their leaves
silvered, and all their identity gone, yet pouring forth their sweet
scents silently, no one noting them. 'How sweet it is here,' said the
painter, drawing a long breath in his happiness. It was a moment that
lived in his mind, and remained with him, as moments do which are
specially happy, detaching themselves from the common tenor of life with
all the more distinctness that they are so few.
'Yes, it is the place I love best,' said Helen, whose heart was touched
too, 'because you made it for me, Robert. The rest is ordinary and
comfortable, but this is different. It is your sonnet to me, like that
we were reading of--like Raphael's sonnet and Dante's angel.' This she
said with a little soft enthusiasm, which perhaps went beyond the
magnitude of the fact. But then she was compunctious about her sins
towards him; and his fondness, and the moonlight, and the breath of the
flowers, moved her, and the celestial fumes of Mr Browning's book of
poetry had gone to Helen's head, as the other influences went to her
heart.
'My darling! it will be hard upon me if I don't give you better yet,' he
said. And then with a change in his voice--cheerful, yet slightly
deprecating, 'Come and have a look at "Francesca,"' he said.
It was taking an unfair advantage of her; but she could not refuse him
at such a moment. He went back to the drawing-room for the lamp, and
returned carrying it, drawing flecks of colour round him from all the
flowers as he passed flashing the light on them. Helen felt her own
portrait look at her reproachfully as she went in with reluctant steps
following him, wondering what she could say. It made her heart sick to
look at his pet picture, in its beauty and feebleness; but he approached
it lovingly, with a heart full of satisfaction and content. He held up
the lamp in his hand, though it was heavy, that the softened light might
fall just where it ought, and indicated to her the very spot where she
ought to stand to have the full advantage of all its beauties. 'I don't
think there is much to find fault with in the composition,' he said,
looking at it fondly. 'Give me your honest opinion, Helen. Do you think
it would be improved by a little heightening of those lights?'
Helen gazed at it with confused eyes and an aching heart. It was his
diploma picture, the one by which most probably he would be known best
to posterity, and she said to herself that he, a painter, ought to know
better than she did. But that reflection did not affect her feelings.
Her impulse was to snatch the lamp from his hand, and say, 'Dear Robert,
dearest husband, come and make money, come and be a banker, or sweep a
crossing, and let Francesca alone for ever!' But she could not say that.
What she did say faltering was--'You must know so much better than I do,
Robert; but I think the light is very sweet. It is best not to be too
bright.'
'Do you think so?' he said anxiously. 'I am not quite sure. I think it
would be more effective with a higher tone just here; and this line of
drapery is a little stiff--just a little stiff. Could you hold the lamp
for a moment, Helen? There! that is better. Now Paolo's foot is free,
and the attitude is more distinct. Follow the line of the chalk and tell
me what you think. That comes better now?'
'Yes, it is better,' said Helen; and then she paused and
summoned all her courage. 'Don't you think,' she faltered, 'that
Francesca--is--almost too innocent and sweet?'
'Too innocent!' said poor Robert, opening his honest eyes. 'But, dear,
you forget! She was innocent. Why, surely, you are not the one to go in
for anything sensational, Helen! This is not Francesca in the Inferno,
but Francesca in the garden, before any harm had come near her. I don't
like your impassioned women.' He had grown a little excited, feeling,
perhaps, more in the suggestion than its mere words; but now he came to
a stop, and his voice regained its easy tone. 'The whole thing wants a
great deal of working up,' he said; 'all this foreground is very
imperfect--it is too like an English garden. I acknowledge my weakness;
my ideal always smacks of home.'
Helen said no more. How could she. He was ready laughingly to allow that
England came gliding into his pencil and his thoughts when he meant to
paint Italy: a venial, kindly error. But candid and kind as he was, he
could not bear criticism on the more vital points. She held the lamp for
him patiently, though it strained her arm, and tried to make what small
suggestions she could about the foreground; and in her heart, as she
stood trembling with pain and excitement, would have liked to thrust the
flame through that canvas in very love for the painter. Perhaps some
painter's wife who reads this page, some author's wife, some woman
jealous and hungry for excellence in the productions of those she loves,
will understand better than I can describe it how Helen felt.
When he had finished those fond scratches of chalk upon the picture, and
had taken the lamp from her hand to relieve her, Drummond was shocked to
find his wife so tremulous and pale. He made her sit down in his great
chair, and called himself a brute for tiring her. 'Now let us have a
comfortable talk over the other matter,' he said. The lamp, which he had
placed on a table littered with portfolios and pigments, threw a dim
light through the large studio. There were two ghostly easels standing
up tall and dim in the background, and the lay figure ghostliest of all,
draped with a gleaming silvery stuff, pale green with lines of silver,
shone eerily in the distance. Drummond sat down by his wife, and took
her hand in his.
'You are quite chilly,' he said tenderly; 'are you ill, Helen? If it
worries you like this, a hundred directorships would not tempt me. Tell
me frankly, my darling--do you dislike it so much as this?'
'I don't dislike it at all,' she said eagerly. 'I am chilly because the
night is cold. Listen how the wind is rising! That sound always makes me
miserable. It is like a child crying or some one wailing out of doors.
It affects my nerves--I don't know why.'
'It is nothing but the sound of rain,' he said, 'silly little woman! I
wonder why it is that one likes a woman to be silly now and then? It
restores the balance between us, I suppose; for generally, alas! Helen,
you are wiser than I am, which is a dreadful confession for a man to
make.'
'No, no, it is not true,' she said with indescribable remorse. But he
only laughed and put his arm round her, seeing that she trembled still.
'It is quite true; but I like you to be silly now and then--like this.
It gives one a glimmer of superiority. There! lean upon me and feel
comfortable. You are only a woman after all. You want your husband's arm
to keep you safe.'
'What is that?' said Helen with a start. It was a simple sound enough;
one of the many unframed, unfinished drawings which covered the walls
had fallen down. Robert rose and picked it up, and brought it forward to
the light.
'It is nothing,' he said; and then with a laugh, looking at it, added,
'_Absit omen!_ It is my own portrait. And very lucky, too, that it was
nothing more important. It is not hurt. Let us talk about the bank.'
'Oh, Robert, your portrait!' she said with sudden unreasonable terror,
clutching at it, and gazing anxiously into the serene painted face.
'My portrait does not mind in the least,' he said, laughing; 'and it
might have been yours, Helen. I must have all those fastenings seen to
to-morrow. Now, let us talk about the bank.'
'Oh, Robert,' she said, 'let us have nothing to do with it. It _is_ an
omen, a warning. We are very well as we are. Give up all these business
things which you don't understand. How can you understand them? Give it
up, and let us be as we are.'
'Because a nail has come out of the wall?' he said. 'Do you suppose the
nail knew, Helen, or the bit of painted canvas? Nonsense, dear. I defy
all omens for my part.'
And just then the wind rose and gave a wailing cry, like a spirit in
pain. Helen burst into tears which she could not keep back. No; it was
quite true, the picture could not know, the wind could not know what was
to come. And yet----
Drummond had never seen his wife suffer from nerves or fancies, and it
half-amused, half-affected him, and went to his heart. He was even
pleased, the simple-minded soul, and flattered by the sense of
protection and strength which he felt in himself. He liked nothing
better than to caress and soothe her. He took her back to the
drawing-room and placed her on a sofa, and read the new book of poetry
to her which she had taken such a fancy to. Dear foolishness of
womankind! He liked to feel her thus dependent upon his succour and
sympathy; and smiled to think of any omen that could lie in the howling
of the wind, or the rising of a summer storm.