One morning early, towards the end of May, Alice sat down at her desk,
and wrote the following brief letter to Mr. Shanner.
"MY DEAR FRIEND,--I owe you an acknowledgment. When you ventured
to raise the question of the wisdom of my engagement to Mr. Wyndham, you
were right in one respect. He is in every way a man of honour, and I
have nothing against him. But, as the time goes by, it grows upon me
more and more that he and I have made a mistake, as you were first to
see, and that we are not suited to each other. His world and his ideas
of life are not mine, and I have decided that it is wiser for me not to
attempt to adapt myself to them. I recognise this before it is too late,
and I have determined, not lightly, but after full and serious
consideration, to draw back. I promised you that I should let you know
if ever I arrived at such a conclusion. I now carry out my promise."
She directed it to his office, carefully marking it "Personal and
Confidential." Shortly after noon she was startled by the rat-tat of a
telegraph boy. "Approve of your decision with all my heart. Please
remember that I am the first applicant for the privilege." Such was the
answer he had flashed back the moment her letter had reached him, and
the perusal of it gave her the satisfaction that accompanies the
realisation step by step of an elaborate purpose. "So be it," she
exclaimed. "To-day I shall ask for my release."
Wyndham was expecting her to join him at the studio. They were to dine
together, then go to a Paderewski recital. But now she decided she would
not go. What good to face him personally? Besides, it was easier to feel
that she had already seen him for the last time. She went back to her
desk, and began the laborious composition of a long letter. On and on
she wrote, breaking off only to join her mother at lunch, and returning
to her desk at the earliest moment. She had covered several sheets, when
brusquely she changed her mind. Perhaps this was not really fair to him,
and, besides, he might feel he ought to come to the house to see her
again. Surely they might at least shake hands and part as friends. So
she tore up the letter, and went to prepare herself for the journey to
Chelsea. "I have been brave all through," she murmured; "and I mustn't
spoil it at the end by turning coward. I am taking all the blame--let me
be strong enough to take it face to face with him."
And now she was impatient to have done with it all. Her mission was
ended. So, although he would not be looking for her yet, she would
descend on him, even at the risk of disturbing him. The commission from
the bank had already been completed, and at present he was making
cartoons and sketches for new pictures. But he would be all the more
grateful afterwards that she had not delayed her coup.
She got into a hansom, which, choosing its route through unobstructed
back streets, arrived at her goal wonderfully soon. She got down firmly,
paid the driver, and walked up the steps unfalteringly. She felt her
calm and self-control as a great blessing; she had so long schooled
herself for this moment, and it was splendid to feel how actual a fact
was her resignation, how completely ingrained in her this acceptance of
the inevitable.
She let herself in with her key for the last time, and put it on the
hall table lest she should forget to leave it afterwards. Then she went
upstairs, and tapped gently at the door of the studio, though it stood
half open. She found Wyndham in a mood that was even a shade more
affable than usual. Indeed, he seemed almost light-hearted to-day as he
came forward with a friendly alertness to greet her, and pressed his
lips affectionately to her forehead, and wheeled forward a chair for
her. She was in a close-fitting coat and skirt, of a heliotrope shade,
and there were roses in her hat. But, in spite of this burst of spring
gaiety, her face retained the marked pallor that had characterised it of
late. He indeed observed it for the first time.
"You must have a little of this light Chambery," he said. "It clears the
head and nerves. I remembered I used to have a glass at the Cafe des
Lilas in the old days whenever I felt done up, so I laid in a few
bottles."
"Do I seem so unusually flurried?" she asked.
She smiled, but he saw at once that the note was forced, and began to
suspect that something was amiss.
"It's rather close to-day--the heat has come upon us all of a rush. It's
sure to be crowded and stuffy at the concert to-night. Now do try my
remedy, child."
"If you don't mind, we'll not go to the concert."
"By all means," he agreed. "We'll dine early, take a stroll on the
Embankment, and if there's a boat going up or down, it doesn't matter
which, we'll get on, and see where it takes us. Not a bad idea, little
girl, eh?"
"I'm sorry," she said, "but I meant that we were not to pass the evening
together at all. I came now, instead of later on, to see you and talk to
you."