"Father," said Alice Robinson the next morning at the breakfast-table,
"I want you to find some more portraits for us. This whole month has to
be given up to the big thing for the Academy, and then we shall come to
a stop for the present, at any rate so far as immediately remunerative
work is concerned, and you must not forget we have a heavy rent to pay
now."
"I shall certainly keep my weather eye open," declared Mr. Robinson,
"and my ears too. Portraits in oils are rather the thing just now in the
City, and I daresay we shall be able to find something for you."
"That is nice of you, father. I think I am just beginning to like you."
Mr. Robinson smiled, and looked across at her affectionately. "You know
it is my greatest pleasure to work for you both," he said.
Alice bore his gaze heroically, sustained by the curious satisfaction
she felt at having thus set the never-failing machinery in motion. But
his trusting belief that all was well touched the tenderest chords of
her nature. She longed to throw herself into his arms, to tell him the
terrible truth. But why cause him suffering when she still hoped to
avert it from everybody, and let the whole burden rest on her shoulders
alone? She must do nothing abrupt, nothing to cause any trouble or
scandal; above all, she must pay the most watchful regard to the peace
of those around her.
For she had seen the quietest and simplest solution of the tangle;
nobody but herself need suffer a single pang! Since she had endured so
much, she might now as well offer herself for the sake of everybody
else's happiness.
Such had been her dominating thought, as she had lain thinking through
the night. And the moment had come when she held the solution clear in
her mind. How glad she was that she had decided to live! Her parents had
been spared a cruel grief, and her affianced husband would be left to
his happiness without any alloy of remorse or tragic memories.
There was only one worthy and rational path before her. She must break
with Wyndham and leave him free. Mr. Shanner wanted her; she would give
herself to Mr. Shanner. His ashen figure, gray-clad, rose before her,
wistful, pleading, pathetic. She remembered his touch of sentiment, his
hint of deeper feeling--how he would have treasured her promise; how he
would have looked forward to "the new light to shine in his household."
He was good and honourable; full of kind actions. She knew that Mr.
Shanner had not found felicity in his first marriage. After all, if she
could bring somebody a little happiness she might as well do so; and she
could make this ostensibly the ground for her action. She and Wyndham
were unsuited to each other--could anything be truer? She had made a
mistake, since she now found she cared for Mr. Shanner, who reciprocated
the sentiment, and for whom, as regards upbringing and ideas, she would
make so much more suitable a wife. That was less true, and, after her
surrender of the evening before to her ignobler side, she now loathed
the idea of playing a further part. But the fiction that she cared for
Mr. Shanner, and her actual marriage with him, constituted in essence
the sacrifice that the position demanded of her. To Mr. Shanner she
could atone by incessant devotion--she would illumine the light in his
household he had spoken of so yearningly; her parents would be spared
all but the first painful surprise; to Wyndham the break would come as a
splendid release. It would restore to him his honour and self-respect,
since in his eyes, and in the world's eyes, she would be taking all the
blame for his freedom.
Wyndham had told her that Lady Lakeden was leaving England indefinitely,
and that he did not know when he was likely to see her again. But Alice
now did not believe that. That was part of the wall he had been building
behind which to pursue his romance; she had tested things far enough to
feel sure of it. And even if Lady Lakeden was really going to travel for
a time, there would be correspondence between them, and their relations
would be renewed on her return. Since he loved this woman he should be
free to love her openly.
And all the world would be left at peace!
In the days before she had come into his consciousness, had she not
longed and prayed in vain for the joy of helping him to rise again; had
she not dreamed of stretching out a helping hand across the abyss that
separated them, telling herself that that alone would mean supreme
happiness for her? It now came strongly upon her that that mission had
been granted her, and the knowledge that she had achieved it should help
her to be strong! Had not her love for him held a perfect unselfishness?
Was not her goal his happiness before everything? Ah, there was far too
much self in the earthly love of woman for man. This note of self, at
first so carefully suppressed, had yet asserted itself insidiously. Yes,
that had been the cause of all her suffering--poignant, shattering,
almost beyond human endurance. It had been wrong of her; she ought to
have kept closer watch over herself. She had not meant to be a source of
pain and embarrassment to him. To burden his life with a marriage
against his heart and true self were hate, not love. Let him mate with
this brilliant, beautiful woman of his own world, who could tranquilly
breathe the air of the great heights--of Society, of Art--in which his
destiny had placed him. What more could she wish him than that he should
find in life all that he desired?--all the joy, all the achievement, all
the love! Was not this the supreme self-sacrifice of love?
And she must be content with the privilege of the high mission that had
been hers, nay, she must be proud of it--to have entered into his life
at his moment of blackest despair, and set him on the road to heaven!
Let her go back into the darkness now with the ecstasy of sacrifice for
a great love, keeping herself for such service to others as she might
find to her hand.