It was this keynote of "safety" that sounded more in his mind, this
appreciation of the stability and comfort of the house at the corner
that grew upon him as his visits to the Robinsons continued; for it
naturally came to be the settled thing that he should dine with the
Robinsons on most of the evenings that he was not engaged elsewhere or
otherwise. The argument at first had been the same simple one that he
might as well join them as dine alone, and there seemed no reason for
refusing their excellent fare and their admiring society. On the other
hand, as his ever-insistent pride demanded that they should not suppose
he was cut off from his own world; and as, too, he felt subtly required
to live up to the social role which he fancied they as yet attributed to
him, he was thus stimulated to pick up again some of the old threads of
his existence. He called on remote aunts in Eaton Square; on retired
military uncles in South Kensington. And as the winter advanced he began
to find a pleasure in renewing old acquaintanceships, enjoying
everybody's surprise at his turning up again, smiling and prosperous.
It almost amounted to a self-vindication, and he chuckled in secret,
imagining to himself their confusion.
And since he _was_ emerging from his retirement, there seemed no longer
any reason why he should not mix again in the art world, and Sadler, who
had come up to his studio on one or two occasions, induced him to show
himself at some of the clubs. At the same time he began to cultivate
again some of the smaller coteries of which he had once been so popular
a light. Other men, too, began to look him up, and, best of all, an
editor one day sent him an unhoped-for commission--half-a-dozen drawings
for a magazine story by a widely-read author.
On the whole he was well satisfied to get back into the world. It
raised, or rather confirmed, him in his own esteem, and saved him--as he
put it--from attaching too cheap a price to himself. He was thus able to
meet the Robinsons from a real plane of vantage, and to purge his mind
of that slight consciousness of charlatanism which had haunted him at
the outset.
Were he not taking ultimate success for granted, without a renewal of
the more bitter side of the struggle, he would scarcely have resumed all
these old relationships. Yet the precariousness of the future, summon
his coolness and confidence as he might, was a thing to be actively,
even desperately, reckoned with. The editor's cheque was a god-send,
relieving him of immediate anxieties, but he dared not relax his
efforts. His mornings were entirely devoted to the big canvas now, and
he rose early to avail himself of every minute of light during these
short wintry days. He worked with a passion and a concentration that he
had never yet known. Every fibre of his body bent to the strain; every
drop of his blood seemed to drain its life into this frenzy to achieve.
Withal, a delightful sense of emancipation from the old tired vision; a
splendid consciousness of some rich new store that had gathered in him
during the long period he had lain fallow!
Yet he shuddered and grew sick at the possibility that the Academy might
still reject him! In that case, what had he to build upon beyond the
coming fee for Miss Robinson's portrait? As the weeks went by, something
of a panic began to overtake him; the future seemed to be bearing down
on him grim and remorseless.
It was then that the well-garnished atmosphere of the house at the
corner seemed more and more desirable and alluring. The flow and
abundance, the great glowing fires in this raw winter, the naive burning
of incense at his altar--all these things wooed him, wrapped him in a
certain balm. Ensconced with Mr. Robinson, and sipping his after-dinner
coffee, he felt the load of his anxieties falling away from him, The
heavy decanters of cut glass glowed richly at him--the softness of old
whiskey, the ruby and golden glint of wines, the clear light of cunning
distillations. The great pineapples, the clusters of grapes, the baskets
of peaches, all the fragrant store of Nature's bounty set out on a table
that yet, by no stretch of imagination, could be conceived as
"groaning"--all seemed to shine fatter and finer than at the houses of
his society friends. And here, too, his footing was of an unique,
admirable character. He had his place at the board practically as a
matter of right. They ranked him as a god; yet felt that the balance of
debt was heavily against them. Whereas, elsewhere, he was one of a
crowd, a merely casual figure among others not less important even where
he had been most intimate. He knew that his own world, despite its
breeding and traditions, would yet at bottom despise him and his art if
he could not earn an excellent livelihood by its practice. But the
Robinsons worshipped him for himself; and money was almost a vulgarity
sullying the high artistic universe in which he moved and breathed and
had his being.
X
Meanwhile the sittings were progressing in a manner to gratify the
artist beyond his hopes. Miss Robinson seemed to find some mysterious
inspiration in this decorative scheme, seemed to fuse into it, to lend
herself to design and draughtmanship. Her face, too, took on subtler
phases, was touched to a measure of nobility! Her dark eyes shone softly
under their long lashes; her expression was full of goodness and
charity. Wyndham prided himself that he had put on the canvas something
remote from the lines of ordinary portraiture--a simple soul, a gentle
Lady Bountiful, yet not less dignified in her way than the heroines of
the grand portraiture.
Mrs. Robinson did not insist on uninterrupted chaperonage of her
daughter; the ladies evinced little fanaticism on this head. Often they
brought knitting or needle-work with them, which occupied the mother in
a peaceful, old-fashioned way that Wyndham even found himself admiring.
Sometimes Mrs. Robinson would appear only towards the end of the
sitting, and sometimes she considerately announced that Alice would
have to come alone for the next occasion as she herself was otherwise
busy. They both showed a tact and a good taste in the matter which he
fully recognised, and for which in a way he was grateful.
In the natural resulting intimacy between artist and sitter, Miss
Robinson expanded, opened out her mind; at first timidly and
tentatively, ultimately with freedom and confidence. She confessed that
her experience of life had been nothing at all, since she had always
lived in quiet shelter. Her unsophisticated simplicity was certainly
engaging; he could see that she was a sheet entirely unwritten upon,
that her soul was as naive and trusting as her outward being. She was
refreshingly a child of nature--no bewildering complexity here--no
shadow of affectation. She spoke without reserve of the poverty of her
childhood, and admitted that she had disagreeable qualms of conscience
about their present riches. Was it right to enjoy so much when one
thought of the state of the world generally? They debated the subject
endlessly; considering it elaborately from every conceivable standpoint:
and his personal authority went far to allay her disquietude. His
theories, backed up by high philosophy and poetry, fascinated her with
their harmony and originality; he had such a charming way of arranging
the order of things into a beautiful artist's scheme, whilst yet his
sympathies were deep, true, and universal!
Sometimes he was conscious of his sophistry, and felt ashamed of it
afterwards. Was he playing a comedy of sentiment? he asked himself.
Well, why not? Men and women made a careful toilette for an evening
party: why not a spiritual toilette for their sentimental relations?
The last words of his own thought, startled him. Then it _was_ a
sentimental relation. "By Jove, I must be careful!" he murmured to
himself. "She's an awfully good soul, and it isn't fair to either of
us." But the next moment he shrugged his shoulders. Why trouble his mind
at all? Every relation between a man and a woman who came into such
close personal touch was in a way sentimental--for the time being! That
was only the game of life, and everybody had to play at it: the main
thing was to bow to the rules. Such temporary relations might well be
made as pleasant as possible; but, when they were at an end, it was
incumbent on both parties to realise that.
Yet he could not help being increasingly conscious of his power over
her; it was so pathetically visible. Their conversations were often
amusingly like those of kindly tutor and obedient, inquiring child; she
hanging on his words in entire self-surrender, as he discoursed so
graciously and brought his points so lightly and simply within the
range of her comprehension. Sometimes, in following up an explanation,
he would be carried away by the flow of his own ideas and his personal
interest in the matter, and then he would almost seem to be addressing
an equal in knowledge and experience. But whenever that happened;
whenever, for example, he had let himself go too far into the subtle
mysteries of technique, he would find himself regretting the unchecked
surrender to impulse, and remain strangely vexed about it long
afterwards. It was really soaring right outside her limitations! She was
not a Lady Betty!
Lady Betty was so often in his mind now: she seemed to have established
herself more definitely there than ever before, as if to keep him up to
the proper pitch in his judgments of women. He bowed his head low to
Lady Betty, recognised her as his full intellectual equal--in some
aspects his superior. She was brains and beauty. She was stateliness
itself. She was sunshine and sweetness. What was Miss Robinson by the
side of her? And as he asked himself the question, an impression of Miss
Robinson, as he had recently come upon her suddenly in the streets,
blotted out the more dignified version on his own canvas. How plain and
homely she had seemed in her unobtrusive walking-costume; how
insignificant her whole meek bearing! Yes, that was the true Miss
Robinson; caught photographically in the act of being herself, and
fixed by his vision for always--extinguishing the gorgeously-dressed
person of these incessant festal evenings no less than his own artistic
edition of her.
In no respect could she claim to come up to his measure. He appreciated
all her virtues, recognised her exceptional womanhood: by the side of
Lady Betty she was insipid, _bourgeoise_, monotonously amiable.
Yet he could never arrive at so harsh a verdict without relenting at a
rebound. "It is curious," was his thought, "that in proportion as I get
more friendly with her and really like her, I yet get harder and harder
on her, poor child! She's a jolly good sort! What a decent world it
would be if only there were ever so many more women like her!"
And, by way of atonement, his manner at their next meeting would warm
and soften sensibly; and it came upon him always with a degree of
surprise that, however he might feel about Miss Robinson theoretically,
her actual society was always pleasant and comrade-like.