For some time Wyndham stood with his head still bowed as Lady Betty's
voice lingered in his ear. Her figure was still there before him, her
lovely girl's face radiant with the smile with which she had vanished,
her slender form in all its upright grace; a nymph of whom Botticelli
had caught a glimpse on a spring morn when the world was rediscovering
beauty.
He tried to recall the scene that had just been enacted, and dizzily
held it all in a flash. He and Lady Betty were in love with each other!
The fact that he had always cherished the thought of her held a deeper
significance than he had known! Throughout all his sufferings--throughout
all her sufferings--an ideal friendship for each other had subsisted in
their minds. He had supposed her as indifferent as she was unattainable;
that his love was one of those secret, mocking dramas that sometimes
play themselves out in the souls of men and women. Yet it was to him
that her deepest thought had turned! She had enshrined him in her
heart! And he lying the whilst in darkness and misery!
It was precious now--this new sweetness that had come to him. Sweetness!
His thought broke off at the word. Rather was it a bitter irony! Lady
Betty and he had been cheated by life. Could he be even sure his eyes
would behold her again? Was she not the soul of honour and rectitude!
For a deep instant they had been swept towards each other; but at once
her attitude towards his marriage had been clear and pronounced, and she
might even now be bitterly regretting their meeting.
He sat down at last, and took up his work again; but his mind was
utterly unfitted for concentration on any task. Better to get back again
to his own studio, he told himself. So he stowed away his materials in a
corner, and presently slipped downstairs; telling the butler, whom he
met in the hall, that he would be there again at ten the following day.
At Tite Street men were tacking down a thick green length of Turkey
carpet on his staircase, and Alice was superintending the operation.
Here was his comfortable future in active preparation! And already he
felt the atmosphere swallowing him up, claiming him body and soul.
He stayed a moment on the landing, affecting an interest in the
proceedings. When he turned into the studio Alice came after him.
"You hardly seem well, dear," she said, observing him anxiously.
"You surprise me," he returned. "I am not conscious of any aches or
pains," he added, with an implication of gaiety.
She did not seem convinced. "This malarial air must have affected you,"
she insisted.
"I don't say I find it pleasant." He seized the poker, as if glad to
make a diversion, and stirred the fire energetically. "I'm a little bit
disgusted, too; the day wasn't as clear as I hoped--there was a good
deal of mist about."
"Better luck to-morrow!" she said.
He struck hard at a knob of coal, making a dreadful clatter. "I hope so,
indeed," he answered, thinking it curious that Alice should now be
expecting him to go to Grosvenor Place as a matter of course. "At any
rate," he added, as it struck him Alice might reasonably be hoping for
some account of his morning's visit, "they were kind to me--just as of
old. Lady Lakeden sent me refreshments, and afterwards came herself to
see how things were progressing."
"I suppose Lady Lakeden is a sister of the earl," she conjectured.
"No, his daughter--a mere girl," he explained, with the flicker of a
laugh. "It was a great surprise. It is only a few years back that I was
asked to her wedding. After that, I got out of touch with them, and I
did not know she had lost her husband very soon after the marriage. He
met with an accident on the Alps."
Alice was blanched. "How terrible!" she whispered.
There was a silence. Wyndham held his hands to the flame he had been at
such pains to create. He hoped he had satisfied her interest
sufficiently; for, of course, the whole scene between himself and Lady
Betty must be kept from her inviolate. Was it not for Alice's own sake
and happiness?
"It makes me afraid!" said Alice, breaking the silence. "Perhaps nobody
is allowed to keep too great a happiness."
He winced. "She was always kind to me," he said, evading the train of
her reflection. "I spent many hours at my post in those ancient times,
and there were always unobtrusive attentions that made my work the
easier."
"I should like to know and love her," said Alice pensively.
Wyndham was silent. Her words startled and embarrassed him, since he had
been taking it for granted that she and Lady Betty would never come into
contact. Besides, in a way, Alice had given utterance to more of a
thought than a wish, so that a response hardly seemed necessary. They
lunched together, and Alice went off soon after, leaving him to receive
his sitters--the president and his wife, who were both to arrive that
afternoon.
"Of course, you won't expect me at Hampstead," he reminded her. "You
remember I put my name down for a club dinner to-night."
"Of course I remember," she said. "But I shall write you a letter
instead. Please look for it when you come home to-night."
But Wyndham did not dine at the club after all; at the last moment he
decided to spend the evening alone at his studio. It seemed a long time
since he had had a few quiet hours all to himself. Moreover, it was
strangely a boon to hear no other voices for once, and he lay back
pleasantly in his chair, though conscious of an uncommon degree of
weariness. And, in the calm and solitude of the studio, intensified by
the echoing of his occasional movements through the empty rooms beneath
him, the Robinsons seemed indeed a long way off up at Hampstead there,
and for the first time it seemed a positive bondage to him, this
constant duty of journeying across town to dine with them.
The nine o'clock post brought the promised letter from Alice, but from
amid the little heap in the box he picked out another eagerly. The
writing was Lady Betty's. He had never seen very much of it in the old
days, yet he recognised it at once.
He remembered just then a shrewd dictum of Schopenhauer--that, if we
wished to learn our real attitude towards any person, we should watch
and estimate our exact emotion at catching sight of the well-known
handwriting on a letter we are just receiving. He certainly could not
help observing the contrasting emotions with which he welcomed these two
letters. Alice's, at his first glimpse of it, had given him a deepened
sense of the irrevocable. Yet there went with this a kind, affectionate
thought in which was a world of appreciation. But he knew pretty nearly
what the letter would contain; it could well be read at leisure.
He tore open Lady Betty's at once, and read it feverishly as he stood
there in the hall. "MY DEAR FRIEND," it ran--"My father was so
disappointed when he got home at hearing that you had been, and had
already flown. He suggests that you should stay to-morrow and join us at
luncheon, and he asks me to bend your mind well in advance to the
contemplation of such an ordeal--as he seriously considers it. The
present cook doesn't meet with his approval, but be reassured! It was
only a new sauce sent up one day with pride; but that unfortunate sauce
has since flavoured everything. My father has naturally imagination; at
his age he has prejudices. Could even a Vatel face the combination?
"And now that I have performed my filial duty, I will add a few lines
for my own pleasure. I humbly proffer a request. An idea has come to me
that seems most charming--before we part again! Since you are working
here, won't you make a small sketch of me?--a tiny, typical thing, hit
off all in a dash--and give it to me as a souvenir of your work? Nothing
that would steal much of your time. I understand that every moment is
precious just now, with the exhibitions so near, and I wish you not to
do it if you are very pressed. In return I shall have a souvenir to give
you--a strange, strange thought of mine. Please feel very curious about
what it is to be, for you are certainly not going to be told till the
time comes. _Au revoir._ Your friend, BETTY."
Wyndham mounted the stairs again slowly, and in the studio he re-read
these precious lines, lingering on each individual word, and setting a
marvellous price on it. He was happy yet terrified at this flash from
fairyland into his strenuous existence.
But her words, "before we part again," rang in his mind, lurid,
persistent. Yes, Lady Betty would vanish out of his life soon enough;
even though her letter confirmed the respite which she had indeed seemed
to grant that morning, but which nevertheless--anticipating regret--he
had scarcely ventured to dream of! There could clearly be no question as
to her attitude towards his marriage; he told himself that even the
crime (flashing splendidly through his brain) of cutting himself free
from the Robinsons with one heroic stroke in order to throw his whole
life into this wonderful romance would be futile. Would Lady Betty ever
consent to happiness purchased at such a price?--woo her as he might!
But this sweet, dainty dream of her brief companionship--was he called
upon to turn away from it? Surely, no; else she had been the last to
dazzle him with it. Her lead could be trusted to be beyond reproach.
And, however she regarded it in her heart, would there not be for him a
little of strangely deep happiness; something to remember always, to
leave a smile on his face at the moment of death?
The charm of the thought won him almost irresistibly. Lady Betty was his
inspiration for ever; nay, that ideal elusive face would have been his
inspiration even if he had never encountered her again. The harm--if
harm there was in their meeting again--had been done irreparably in the
past!
All would be over soon enough! What could emphasise it more than this
very letter of hers he held in his hand? Was it not Lady Betty's
underlying thought in this desire for an exchange of souvenirs?
All would be over soon enough! Life would bear them apart, but the touch
of sweetness would remain as an illumination. He could never be cheated
out of that.
What was this souvenir she intended for him--this "strange, strange
thought" of hers? She had in truth piqued his curiosity, and he foresaw
her delight at his admitting it. What, indeed, could it be? And,
occupied now with this fascinating speculation, he languidly took up his
other letters, his fingers turning them over with an extreme
indifference. Presently, with a sudden decision, he broke Alice's
envelope, and began to read her note. Three of the sides out of four
were exactly as he had anticipated, but towards the end he lighted on a
passage that unnerved him abruptly. "I have been thinking of your
friends in Grosvenor Place. My heart goes out to Lady Lakeden. How hers
must lie broken and bleeding! To lose a husband after only a few months
of wedded life! I shut my eyes and try to think that such a thing cannot
happen! And she and her father have always been so kind to you. My love
for you is so great that I love everybody that spares one little thought
specially for you."
Wyndham threw the letter down. That was enough; he must sacrifice all to
the duties he had undertaken. He and Lady Betty must not see each other
again. Could he not hear her dear voice saying, "Life is always a
compromise. Perhaps it's a blessing to see our clear obligations." Well,
he at any rate saw his clear obligations. He would reply to Lady Betty;
he would enter into the situation in all sincerity. He would paint her
some little thing for the souvenir, and send it to her, and perhaps she
might care to send him hers in return. His meeting her to-day and this
loving exchange of gifts would remain in his thought as the most poetic
episode of his life; but an episode that must speedily be closed.
She would understand and approve. Was she not the very spirit of
chivalry, of honour and goodness? Since fate had given its decree, let
them both bow to it!