Calling one day and finding her alone in the drawing-room, Mr. Shanner,
after some moments of unruffled demeanour and honeyed conversation,
abruptly launched into a piteous outbreak.
"I tell you, Alice, you've made a fine mistake with that swell of
yours," he exclaimed, his eyes flashing with resentment.
Alice stared at him in deep distress. Ever since the engagement Mr.
Shanner had been all decorousness and deference. As he broke now through
his ashen shell of propriety, his sedate person seemed to relapse, to
stand limp, a trifle greyer, a trifle less well trimmed.
"Oh," she gasped at last, "you are under some misapprehension."
"Come, come, Alice," he said; "don't you suppose I've two eyes--and
wide-open ones, too?"
"I don't really understand what you're alluding to, Mr. Shanner," she
returned as coldly as she could find it in her.
"I am alluding to your engagement, of course," he insisted. His tone
showed he was determined to force the subject on her. "What do you
suppose the fellow is going to marry you for? Men of his class do not
come out of their way to look for a wife amongst people of our class.
You mustn't mind my not mincing words, but it's clear to me he doesn't
care a fig about you, and that your money is the attraction. There,
that's plain!"
Alice felt herself turn scarlet. Mr. Shanner suddenly stood revealed to
her--of roughness and coarseness unendurable.
"I don't understand you," she exclaimed, feeling she was floundering,
and with an acute sense of her lack of social skill to meet the
contingency and cut short the interview.
"Oh, yes you do, Alice. Only you are too proud to say so."
"You are mistaken. My intended husband and I are on the best of terms. I
am very much surprised to hear this from you."
"You mean that for a snubbing, no doubt. Well, I suppose I brought it on
myself." He smiled uneasily and bit his lip. "Only I did think that,
being so old a friend of the family, I had the right to give you a word
of advice when the happiness of your life is at stake."
"Oh! please, Mr. Shanner--I'm very sorry," she breathed, all gasps and
palpitations. "But really, truly, you're mistaken."
"I have used my eyes and head. I am not mistaken. Everything's all
wrong, and you know it, Alice. I have been reading it in your face of
late--I tell you you show it. Give up the swell before things go to the
devil."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Shanner," she said, with all the kindness in her tone
that she could muster, "but if you will get these extraordinary ideas
into your head, I certainly am not going to fight them."
He smiled wanly, droopingly. "Another snubbing, I suppose. But you
needn't take it in such ill part. I don't profess to belong to the
aristocracy: I do profess to be a friend, one of the sort that's to be
trusted. And I think you'll come to recognise that in the long run.
Whatever happens, John Shanner's your friend, and when the time comes,
you'll find him ready to hand. But I earnestly advise you not to delay.
Throw up all this business before there's mischief."
Alice smiled bravely. "I repeat that Mr. Wyndham and myself are on the
happiest of terms, though I am sure you mean your advice for the
kindest."
She took up her stand behind this simple assertion, so that he could not
beat down her refusal to be drawn into a deeper discussion. By degrees
he pulled together his decorum, recovered his frigidity, and ultimately
retired with the dignified utterance, "Well, I hope you are not going to
be disillusionised, my child, but I have my doubts. At any rate, as I
say, I stand by you in any case. Only promise me one thing, that if ever
you find my warning was not mistaken, you will do me the justice to
admit it."
She thanked him gravely, and assured him that she fully appreciated his
kindness, and willingly made the promise. She was glad indeed of the
chance of winding up the interview thus amicably. Yet, when he had gone,
she felt panic-stricken at this revelation of how openly she had been
wearing her heart--as if veritably on her sleeve. How fortunate her
parents had observed nothing yet! But they, of course, were taking the
perfection of everything so entirely for granted, and were so happy
themselves over the beautiful romance which had transformed their
household and their lives, that it was difficult for any suspicion to
enter their heads. Certainly they had never read any expression in her
face save that of rapture and contentment.
She must try to control herself. If only, like other women, she were
more practised in assuming a surface self that won acceptance, that none
could penetrate!
But Mr. Shanner was so absolutely in the right. Was it really worth
while going on as at present? Could anything be more unhappy than all
this uncertainty and perplexity? Something must be done. Things must
come soon to a crisis.
And then, one morning, some two or three days before the end of the
month she received a letter from Wyndham, who had dined with them the
evening before, announcing that he would be absent from the studio the
whole day practically, as he had made club engagements for the entire
afternoon and evening. As, too, he would be lunching out, it would not
be worth her while to come to the studio at all on that day. He was
sorry he had forgotten to mention all this when saying goodbye, but he
was scribbling the note immediately on entry, and in a hurry to catch
the post.
This letter gave Alice food for reflection. She did not attach any
significance to the alleged club engagements; she had never grudged him
the occasional evenings he spent in that way, since it kept him in touch
with the art-world. But in this present instance there was certainly a
suggestion of anxiety on his part that she should keep away from the
studio over the day. "Ah--I understand!" she flashed, clenching her
fingers; "Lady Lakeden's portrait is to be brought there to-day, and he
does not wish me to see it! She is beautiful--beautiful!--he fears her
beauty will sting me to jealousy."
He had never wished her to see the portrait! Had he not always turned
the conversation whenever she had mentioned it? And only last night, as
if in anticipation of so natural a desire on her part, he had had to
confess that it was finished, but had added that it was going straight
to Paris, as he preferred to feel it was safe there in the hands of his
agent. He had thus led her to conclude that the picture would not be
passing through the studio at all; but, with his letter now before her,
she felt certain that his aim was to get the portrait framed, to touch
it up, and then send it off without showing it to her.
But she had the right to see it, if she so desired, she told herself
bitterly. If the Salon accepted it, nothing could prevent her going to
Paris with her mother; though so enterprising an adventure was quite
outside the habits of their life--a consideration on which he was
counting, perhaps. But the Salon might not accept it, and in any case
two or three months might elapse before such a possible visit, and in
that time who could say how things might turn?
Entrance to the studio was a privilege that had been freely bestowed
upon her. He had not forbidden her to come; he had merely tried to stop
her by suggestion and diplomacy. But she would not be denied.
She would meet strategy with strategy: she would take care to arrive
late in the evening, so as to be alone there. In the afternoon, or
earlier in the evening, there was the danger of just catching him
between his engagements, since he would no doubt come home to change.
She would see the portrait at her leisure; she would at last study the
features of the woman--the beautiful, brilliant woman--who had
unwittingly robbed her.
"And I have no beauty," she sobbed; "I am plain and insignificant. I
have no cleverness, no experience; not one little weapon to fight with,
to win him back to me!"