In the first profound depression into which this unforeseen occurrence
had plunged him, Wyndham remained totally indifferent to his freedom.
His thought in a feeble way reached out, recalling her words, lingering
on her crowning confession. Suddenly he laughed out aloud. How much
greater the irony of his life than even he had imagined! For the second
time he and Lady Betty had come together, only voluntarily to part that
they might not disturb the happiness of this other life! How they had
tortured themselves; how Lady Betty had sought deliberate martyrdom,
staying near him only long enough to school him to perfect loyalty to
Alice! "Whilst I was fretting my heart away," his lips murmured, "lest I
should wound her with a chance word, she was vibrating again towards her
own kind, and was planning her retreat. Surely the gods are pulling the
strings and making us poor puppets dance for their amusement!"
And then he thought of the Hampstead street miles away, where he had
passed so many years of his life in suffering and degradation; and the
sense of its distance helped him. Were he still in the old studio, the
sense of the Robinsons' house within a stone's throw would have been
intolerable. He would hardly have dared to set foot out of doors for
fear of the painful accident of stumbling up against one of the family.
He desired no further explanations and apologies. He shuddered at the
very idea. Here at least he could take shelter silently within his own
pride.
And the thought of his pride made him rise up again, and pace to and fro
vigorously. It was beneath him to admit that that had been wounded. But
he came to a standstill, and the blood rushed to his temples at the
abrupt remembrance that all the prosperity and success that must still
remain his had come to him through the Robinsons. Were not the
humiliating evidences here before his eyes? This charming house and
studio, the successful pictures hung in the galleries, the money at his
bankers, the promise of unlimited treasure yet to flow into his coffers,
the acclamation of the world and his social lionising--how much of all
this would have been achieved without the timely co-operation of the
Robinsons? He staggered in moral agony under the burden of good they had
heaped on him so lavishly.
Nothing of course could be undone. Wisest to acquiesce silently, and
start forward afresh from the point at which he stood. But since it was
now only the end of May, and the best of the season was yet to follow,
he felt that to stay in London would be intolerable.
The world seemed to swarm with people, all intent on chattering about
his affairs, on discussing and misunderstanding this sensation in the
life of the lion of the season. A lovely titbit for the social gossips
to relish! He could not possibly meet people, shake their hands, answer
their stupid questions, listen to the hateful sympathy of the more
intimate. He must shut up the house and fly from London. But where could
he hide himself for the time?
He resumed his pacing to and fro, sometimes perambulating the studio to
vary his movement. So far he was under the influence of the first
excitement attendant on the rupture. Whatever his astonishment at having
been ousted in the affections of a woman by a man whom he had more or
less despised, whose rivalry he had brushed aside as easily as a cobweb;
the bare idea that a broken engagement should figure in his life was so
distasteful that it made the wound to his mere vanity a secondary
matter. He could not at once extricate his mind from the contemplation
of these immediate bearings of the event. His relation to Lady Betty,
indeed, was present to him, but he had not yet turned the flood of his
thought in that direction.
In the reaction of feeling, however, when the first sting and shock had
somewhat lightened, it was natural for his whole soul to turn to Lady
Betty longingly; not with the joyous impulse of one unexpectedly free to
claim his true comrade, but like a bruised child to find relief for his
hurt. But how to reach her again he did not know. So thorough had been
their sacrifice that he had even promised never to write to her.
Besides, letters would only follow her if sent through a certain banker,
whose name she had withheld from him. And though now he felt that
circumstances absolved him from the promise, he did not care that such a
letter as he must write, once he put pen to paper, should go to her
father's deserted house, and thence be tossed about the world in perhaps
a futile pursuit, with the possible fate of being read in a dead-letter
office, and finally returned to him. He would wait awhile. Perhaps, if
the gossip got abroad, it might by some circuitous route arrive even as
far as Lady Betty's ears, and then no doubt she would announce her
whereabouts to him. The pressing problem before him was to decide on his
own plans for the immediate present.
How stale and tired he was! How terribly he had toiled these past
months, sustained by he knew not what mysterious energy. It seemed
almost as if he had exerted a supernatural strength, and the work he had
accomplished might well have claimed double the period. And now,
something had suddenly gone snap. He was finished; a mere hollow shell
of a man.
His mind turned again towards other climes and other skies. It seemed so
long since he had crossed the Channel; so many years indeed that it was
hateful to count them. It reminded him too much of the big slice of his
life, the years of his prime, that had been so miserably sterile.
But his face brightened as his thought played again amid the haunts of
his early manhood. Ah, those were happy times--the work in the schools,
the discussions in the cafe, the pleasant camaraderie, the freedom to
laugh, to feel master of one's own soul. The brilliance and green
avenues of Paris beckoned him; his blood beat pleasurably. And then of
course there was his portrait of Lady Betty in the Salon. What better
shrine for a pilgrimage!
He would linger a little in Paris, then proceed further South. He was
not of the great crowd that refuses to venture in those regions during
the summer. He knew well how to adapt himself to the conditions, and the
lands of the South would be soon in their full glory. His imagination
dwelt on the prospect, and sunshine broke in on his mood. Perhaps, too,
there was the hope, deep in his heart, that he might encounter Lady
Betty somewhere--by some charming train of events! Heigho for the
orange trees, for the old Italian palaces, the Venetian canals, the
coast-line of Salerno! He would make a leisurely progression, working a
little as he went--just a few distinguished sketches, odd impressions of
light and beauty caught on the wing! Late in the year when time had done
its work, when the wretched affair was forgotten, and himself recovered
from the sordid experience, he might return to London. But never here to
this studio again!
The prospect of departure stirred him! "Here I cannot breathe another
day!" he kept murmuring to himself.
Then why not start this very evening?
He glanced at his watch; it was not yet four. There would be time to
dash round to a local bank and provide himself with funds for the start.
But on investigation he found he had enough to take him to Paris, so he
could devote the whole time to his preparations and necessary
correspondence.
And no sooner was the decision arrived at than he adjusted his outlook
to it as an accomplished fact. Without any further delay, he got ready
his trunk and dressing-case, and started his packing in earnest.
The train left at nine that evening. He had five good hours to catch it.
So he worked deliberately and carefully, overlooking nothing in the
haste of departure. Lady Betty's wizard, his most cherished possession,
went down deep into the trunk, and he did not forget his cheque-book and
his private papers. Otherwise, everything was in such excellent order
that his task was comparatively simple. Whatever he lacked for his
journey he could count on purchasing in Paris, where also he could renew
his funds for travelling.
At last everything was ready, and he had ample time for his
correspondence. This was speedily disposed of, since his letters were
mostly to cry "off" from invitations already accepted. Only one was of a
more intimate character, and that was to his sister Mary. But even that
was brief and to the point. "Dearest Mary," he wrote,--"I regret I have
rather disagreeable news for you, but I trust you will not take too
serious a view of it. Alice asked me to release her to-day, and of
course I had no alternative but to accede to her wishes. I cannot bear
to stay in London just now, so I leave this evening for a long stay
abroad. Forgive this brief note, forgive me also for not coming to kiss
you goodbye, but, as you may guess, I am off on impulse, time is short,
and there were a few matters to arrange. Perhaps you may be able to join
me later when your vacation comes, and then we shall have a happy time
together. I am all right, so please don't worry about me. I shall write
to you soon, and keep you posted as to my adventures."
He took out the batch of letters to the post, picking up a cab on his
way back. In a few minutes his traps were on the roof, and he was being
driven to the station.
* * * * *
It was a serene summer night, and the crossing was ideal. As he
promenaded the deck, and looked into the spacious darkness, and let the
breeze play free about his face, the sense of strain and fatigue, all
the broken feeling that remained from the stress of his tussle with the
world, seemed to be swept away. His early manhood, when he had gone to
and fro as he listed, began to stir in him again, and the consciousness
of mature power and ripe experience which were now added to it awakened
an almost overweening sense of well-being and confidence.
The episode of his broken engagement already began to look absurd rather
than tragic in this new spirited mood of his. The whole thing seemed
beneath his dignity. Of course, in some ways, he would always look back
upon it as a bitterly unpleasant incident; but, in this life, you were
necessarily called upon to be a stoic in some degree. The point was to
choose the degree yourself. In face of unpleasant things stoicism was no
doubt the wisest; but where good things were concerned it was best to
preserve all the fresh feelings of the natural human being.
The Robinsons were already receding into the mists of distance. Despite
the reality and the closeness of his connection with them, they were
taking their place among the shadows that peopled the past. His own
vision was turned forward--ever forward!
"Strange," he thought, "how things and people cease to have any
consequence, once you have turned your back upon them!"
The night passed like a dream. In the train from Calais to Paris he
dozed lightly, and woke only at dawn. The sky was cloudless and
wonderfully blue, but the sun shone as yet coldly over the landscape,
and the fat fields sparkled with dew. Save for the quiet herds of
cattle, the world was deserted. Immediately all his faculties were
pleasurably alert again. He noticed with delight the hamlets and
sleeping villages, the still wayside stations where moustachioed old
women, who surely dated from the Revolution, stood on guard with flags
at the cross-ways. At last they were running through the environs of the
capital, and Wyndham tasted the sensation of entering the great city of
light and intellect as keenly as in his jubilant boyhood.
The drive through Paris in the early morning was exhilarating and
enchanting. At that hour the streets at first were surprisingly
thronged, the roadway sometimes blocked with a heavy traffic of carts
all converging to the Halles. But soon they were passing through quieter
neighbourhoods, through stately avenues lined by vast hotels with
far-stretching lines of shuttered windows. Wyndham surrendered himself
to the charm of steeping himself again in this atmosphere, drawing freer
breaths, subtly attuned to it, aided by golden memories.
The brisk buxom matron, who was already at her post in the hotel bureau,
recognised her old client, and welcomed him with a cry of joy. Her face
beamed with pleasure as he shook hands with her, and he had a joyous
sense of home-coming!
"But one has not seen you for eternities," she exclaimed. "We had
thought that you had quite abandoned us!"
"The loss has been more mine than yours, madame," he returned. "I should
have announced my arrival beforehand, if I had not left London so
suddenly."
Presently he took possession of his room, and, as it was not yet seven,
he sank into an arm-chair and dozed for a time. At nine he awoke,
washed, changed into more civilised clothes, then strolled out
cheerfully on to the Boulevards, and had his morning coffee at a little
table in the open, with a budget of French papers to look through, and
the spectacle of the passing world in the sunshine for his
entertainment.
He sat on for a long while in leisurely enjoyment, then proceeded to
stroll by way of the Place de la Concorde (which looked vaster and
finer than it had ever appeared to him) round to the great Palace of Art
off the Champs Elysees. It had sprung up during these years of his
absence, and he wandered round it delightedly, examining all the
facades, familiarising himself with all the points of view.
At last he entered through the nearest turnstile and went straight to
see how Lady Betty's portrait was hung.
* * * * *
But Wyndham did not linger in Paris as he had intended. He had found
Lady Betty beautifully placed on the line, and had returned to her
daily, not to gaze at the painting, but at the features of the woman he
loved. And then there surged in him a fever of impatience. He had not
the least hope of finding her here in Paris--he took it for granted she
had long since seen the Salon, and he had the strangely settled
belief--he did not know why--that she was not then in France at all. And
somehow he was unable to conceive of himself now save as actively in
search of her. All the first impulsion towards holiday and repose that
had swept him headlong across the Channel had mysteriously died away, to
give place to this haunting, this imperious, idea of a mission. He must
push on with it at once!
He chose his route largely haphazard, yet zigzagging through her
favourite cities. His heart thrilled with hope as he was borne again
through the outskirts, and Paris lay behind him. In this dash through
Europe, the happy chance might perhaps befall him! He knew the quest in
that way was wholly irrational, but it had its charm. He might pass
within a stone's throw of her a score of times, and yet remain
unconscious of the proximity. A billion to one at least against him!
Yet he pursued his journey feverishly; passing through Belgium swiftly,
thence to Dresden by stages, then hurrying down to Munich, next on to
Vienna, and passing further southwards; vibrating off the beaten path at
every turn; staying here a day, there a night, rarely anywhere longer;
guided by no principle, but darting about at random, often doubling back
on his track, and yielding to every fantastic impulse that rose in him.
At Belgrade, where he found himself some four weeks after leaving Paris
(though the days, packed with changing scenes and impressions, had
seemed to run into months), he had an inspiration, and abruptly took the
train straight back again. Might not Lady Betty gravitate once more to
the portrait, before the Salon closed its doors for the season? Even
though it was to be her own possession in the end, she might well desire
to pay it that tribute. Had it not given them their brief companionship
in avowed affection? He would haunt the Salon daily; he would wait and
watch for her. He journeyed all day, all night, and all the next day,
impelled by the same fever of impatience, which now oppressed him
tenfold. He stepped out of the train in the evening amid the bustle and
lights of the terminus. He was in Paris again! He breathed with relief
as at a goal accomplished.