“You are very unkind,” I said. “What is the good of my confessing
anything to you, if you so distrust me?”
“Confessing?” said he, “the good? Why, because I have no legs to run
away, and a man’s better judgment is always in his legs. My foolish
heart is nearer the ground than most. Tread on it, thou Circe; and
prove me less than half Ulysses. Confess to me--confess; and I will
stay, and smile--and believe.”
“No,” I said, recovering my confidence. “I swear not to, unless you
confess first. I asked you the other day how--how you came to lose
them; and you put my question by, sir, and were dreadfully rude into
the bargain. Very well, I am waiting to have you atone by answering
it.”
I dropped into a chair, and he followed me, and squatted himself on
the floor, a very abortion of passion, yet moving somehow in his
grotesqueness. I kicked off my slippers, and put my feet into his
hands--
“There,” I said, “they are tired, Gogo. Soothe them while you talk.”
He caressed the weariness from them, as gentle as a woman.
“I am at odds,” he said, in a low great voice, full of emotion, “I am
at odds with what remains of myself. How can I reconcile this with my
loyalty to the poor inspired ape I serve, and love through serving?”
“How did you come to serve him?” I whispered, half drugged by the
creature’s touch. “You are cleverer than he, better educated, and all
that.”
“I love,” he groaned, “I have always loved, to find romantic excuses
for the material uglinesses of life; to get a little salt out of its
offences. Who are those who say the visible form is but an expression
of the individual spirit--an internal autocracy shaping itself on the
surface? Poor atomists who cannot feel the pressure of all eternity
moulding them from without! Amidst sordid functions they go groping
for the essence, turning blank faces to the sweet air, the sun in the
trees, the far-drawn winds, the song of birds and scent of flowers,
all the spirit influences which really shape us. The soul ceases at
the portals of the senses. The dross it carries with it alone goes on
and in. _We_ are but so many obstructions in the vast harmony--foreign
bodies which it is for ever striving to penetrate and decompose. It
focuses its burning light upon us; it takes the swimming heavens for
its lens; and we die and are dissolved into it. Only in rare instances
does the process wring from us a fine frenzy, or melt us into song;
and then we see genius--genius, which fools call self-issuing, but
which is really spirit reflected, like heat cast back from a wall.”
“You odd creature,” I murmured. “You may go on, though I don’t
understand you a bit. Has Mr. de Crespigny been half melted into song?
I shouldn’t be surprised, by his appearance.”
“Nor do _I_ understand,” he said. “I can find romance in everything
external to man, but I can’t pursue it into his organic tissues. Can
_you_ be so penetrated by it, and yet not perish, or even show one
scar? I think you are immortal, woman; unless it is the genius of
human beauty which you reflect, and which will presently destroy and
annihilate you. Why, then, I would give my own soul to keep you
soulless, you wretched, adorable child.”
“Gogo!” I protested, too languid to be resentful.
“Ay!” he said, his voice hoarse with miserable passion. “Let me speak.
It is all the licence I ask. I know my place, if I have grown confused
about my service. What I don’t know is why I, a free spirit, who have
never before truckled to the flesh, should suddenly find myself bound
to it, soul and honour.”
He bent and kissed the foot he was caressing; then quickly sat up, and
set his strong teeth.
“You ask me how I came by my hurts,” he said. “Well, listen to the
story of this most laughable butt of Fortune. It is soon told.”
He passed his hand across his forehead.
“It has been my doom to serve Nature; to worship her through those
visible concentrations of her light upon individuals whom we call
geniuses. How I discovered too late that her preferences were
arbitrary, fanciful, often unworthy; that her signal gifts could be
used to stultify her own creed of natural faith, natural justice,
natural order, let these witness and call me fool.”
He jerked up his poor stumps so comically that I could not help
laughing.
“Ay,” he said, “a tragic prolegomena to the history of a Dutch
tumbler, isn’t it? Well, for the text. It was at Oxford that I met and
worshipped my first genius. He was a man of great family, an inspired
naturalist, an unerring shot and rare sportsman. In those early days
we had already planned an expedition together to the unexplored North
Western ‘Rockies,’ for the purpose of making such a collection of
their flora and fauna as should bring us wealth and reputation. Though
the world of Nature seemed even too cramped a stage for my boundless
lust of life, the prospect of those unspeakable teeming solitudes,
inviting all that was most strenuous in me to conquer, was a certain
solace in itself. My soul sought territory; it seeks it still; and,
though I be what I am, the stars, this poor earth once subdued, still
enter into my plan of campaign.
“I was not rich. When the time came, I had to realise all my capital
to sail with my friend. We reached, after considerable hardships, the
Athabasca territory, and thence started on our exploration westwards.
I soon found that my comrade, though a genius in comparative analysis
and definition, lacked the physique necessary to the task we had set
ourselves. He was often ailing and querulous, and the gathering of the
specimens practically devolved upon me. Still, we had garnered and
classified a considerable harvest in one of the little settlements of
the Fur Company, before the accident befell which was to deprive me
for ever of the fruits of my devotion. We were one day duck-shooting
over a lake, when the ice broke and my friend was plunged in frozen
water to the knees. His frantic cries brought me hurriedly to his
assistance. By the greatest good fortune a little gravelly shallow had
received us; but, inasmuch as this shelved away acutely on every side,
our desperate scrambles to escape only let us into deeper water. There
was nothing for it but to stay where we were till rescue could reach
us from the shore, and so we set ourselves to endure. Not long, on my
companion’s part. He soon complained that he must die unless relieved.
He was frail and spare, and I only something less than a giant. I took
him first into my arms, then upon my shoulders, designing to hold him
so until succour came. It reached us in the shape of some Indians from
the shore, who pushed a canoe towards us over the ice. But by then I
was stark frozen, and my legs to the knees insensible. By chance there
was an ex-medical student in the settlement, who turned what rough
knowledge of surgery was his to the best account he was able. One of
my legs was mortified beyond recovery; and this he amputated. The
other, after incredible suffering, was saved to me. For weeks,
however, I was kept knocking at death’s door; and, when at length I
could creep from under the shadow, it was to the knowledge of an
anguish more cruel than the other. This man, this genius, whom I had
given so much to save, had deserted me while I lay stricken, and,
carrying with him all the rare accumulations of our enterprise, had
gone south to Vancouver. There was no message left, no consideration
for me in all his vile philosophy of self-interest. It was just a case
of treacherous abandonment.
“When I was sufficiently recovered, I pursued him by tedious
heart-breaking stages, long months in their accomplishment. I will not
weary you, you thing of thoughtless life, with their particulars. I
was sustained, and only sustained, through all by the thought of
wresting from this scientific egoist an acknowledgment of my share in
the practical success of our expedition. At last, poor, friendless,
crippled, I ran him to earth in London. I found him there, his name
writ famous in the annals of the Royal Society; himself the honoured
recipient of its gold medal; his collection--_our_ collection--already
on view in the hallowed precincts of Crane Street.
“I faced, and upbraided him with his treachery. He retorted coldly
that he had never considered me but as the servant of his enterprise,
useless to it when once, through my own folly, disabled. I found a
friend, and the affair made a little stir. To my accusations he
answered that he had employed, but had been forced to discard me,
through the irregularity of my habits. Outraged beyond words, I
challenged him; he accepted, and we met at Richmond. His first shot,
aimed with diabolical ingenuity, shattered the bones of my sound knee;
and, in the result, the limb had to be amputated above. When I was
discharged from the hospital, it was to find the exhibition closed,
the town empty, and myself thrust upon it, a helpless, destitute hulk.
“The friend I have mentioned, humorous and good-natured, came to my
assistance. He commanded some pale interest at Court. By means of it,
he procured me, as an expert naturalist, the post of Royal Ratcatcher,
in succession to a Mr. Gower, who had lately filled the office at a
yearly salary of one hundred pounds. The royal economy, however,
docked me, as only two-thirds of a man, of a third of the sum. I wore
a uniform of scarlet and yellow worsted, with emblematic figures of
rats destroying wheat-sheaves embroidered on it; and in this I stood,
the laughing-stock of the maids of honour, for three years.
“At the end of that time, having had the misfortune to overlook a rat
which had made its nest in a pair of the Duke of Cumberland’s state
breeches, I was dismissed without a character. Again I applied to my
friend, and was recommended by him, for my scientific attainments, to
a French nobleman, who was troubled by the croaking of frogs in his
ponds, and employed me to whip the water all night with a long wand of
willow that his rest might be undisturbed. But the constant immersion
rotting my stumps, and he refusing to supply me with others, I was
obliged to resign my post, and returned to England.
“In the meantime, my friend had died of a humour, and I was stranded
entirely without resources. For some time I earned a precarious
livelihood, in my naturalist character, by worming dogs; and again,
one still more precarious, by cleansing ladies’ _toupées_ of the
vermin which long usage engendered in them. It was here, while serving
my master, a wig-maker, that chance brought me acquainted with my
present manner of service.
“During all this time, I will say, I had never ceased to regard soul
as external to form, or to scout that introspection which is the real
unhappiness. What did it concern me, if I was destroying rats, or
picking fleas out of a poodle? In any case, I was helping Nature to
its freer manifestations on matter, and, in my constant communion with
it, prepared to welcome such rare accidents of genius as might come my
way. My master’s business brought him into frequent relations with the
theatre; and it was thus that I first encountered de Crespigny, who
was at the time acting scene-painter to the new house at Sadler’s
Wells. I had no sooner had the chance to see his work than I
recognised genius, glaring and manifest. He did wonders in a few
touches, that he might idle for an hour. My opportunity was come, and
I entreated him to employ me, in however menial a capacity. He was
touched by my enthusiasm; flattered, perhaps, by my admiration;
persuaded by my strength. He engaged me, first as his assistant; soon
as his nurse and mentor. For years I have helped to direct his career,
have goaded his inspirations, cossetted his weaknesses. Ah, child! He
is _my_ child, made glorious by my faith in him. Do not seduce me from
my allegiance to my child, and for the first time make me out of love
with Nature!”
He ended with a groan, and flung himself prostrate on the floor,
beating, I think, his forehead against it.
“Poor Gogo!” I said. “You have confessed; and so will I now. He is my
child too. I adore him, and am so ravished by his art that I could not
rest with thinking what he had made of the portrait. Do you know,
Gogo? I will tell you the truth. I was hunting for the key of the
press when you came in and caught me.”
He lay, without answering.
“Won’t you lend it me, Gogo?” I coaxed softly.
“Thank God,” he muttered, raising his head, “I am tied from the
temptress. It is not in my power, thou Circe. He always carries it
with him.”
XI.
I ADD THE LAST TOUCH TO A PORTRAIT
That same night, while undressing, with my room door open for the
heat, I suddenly thought I distinguished an unwonted footstep on the
landing below me, from which Patty’s little chamber led. I listened,
quite still, for some moments; then, the stealthy sounds seeming to
recede into the hall and thence die away, descended cat-footed to the
landing, and, after hearkening an instant, opened her door swiftly and
noiselessly upon my friend. Instantly I knew that the amazed suspicion
which had sprung upon my heart was justified. The child stood before
me, terror in her startled eyes, her dark hair falling upon her
shoulders, a brush in one hand, a paper in the other.
“Diana!” she gasped, in a whisper. “What do you want?”
“Has he been with you?” I asked instantly, leaving her no time to
prevaricate.
“_With_ me!” she exclaimed, so scandalised and incredulous that the
worst of my qualm was laid on the spot.
Without another word I held out my hand. Without a word she put the
paper into it. I took it, and read--
“Mignonette, Mignonette,
Of all flowers the pet,”--
(“O, shameful!” I whispered, and set my lips.)
“O, beautiful, beautiful, sweet Mignonette!
Dear, kind little blossom,
Soft, soft in the bosom,
Who gives to thee, takes from thee, sweet Mignonette?
Was it thou at her ear that shed sweets passing by me?
Is it thou in her shape, or herself that doth fly me?
Is it thou, is it she, Mignonette, Mignonette,
That I follow, must follow,
As the Summer the Spring,
Who hides warm in the wing
Of its darling the swallow?
As love chases the swallow
To the eaves and the leaves
High up under the roof,
Mignonette, so I follow.
Ah! to whose little chamber,
Sweetheart?
As I clamber,
I trow not, I know not
What dream flew before to the room high aloof.
But my heart pants delight
In the thought, half a fright,
Half delirious sweetness,
That the spirit of the flower,
That the spirit of the hour
Shall reveal love’s completeness.”
She was as pale as death and trembling all over as I looked up. For
the moment my heart withered to her. The shock, the outrage was
unendurable.
“Who wrote this?” I demanded, in a hoarse whisper.
She did not answer.
“Speak,” I said. “How did it come to you?”
“I heard it slipped under the door,” she muttered.
“By him? O, you little traitor and wanton!”
She fell on her knees, sobbing and clinging to me in a soft anguish of
desperation.
“O, my dear, don’t look at me so! I’m not untrue to you. I never
imagined it was me--no, not for one moment--till to-night.”
“And you are shocked, no doubt, to find your precious virtue at fault.
O, you little serpent that I have trusted and warmed in my bosom!”
“Diana!” she wept, in a very frenzy of despair. “O, what can I say or
do? I thought it was you. It shall be you, Diana!”
“Yes, it shall be me,” I answered, “but no thanks to you. Don’t think
that this is anything but a passing mood of his, played upon you for
my delectation because I have been cold to him of late.”
“I think it is, I know it is,” she said, brightening.
“And you hope it is, I daresay,” I said scornfully.
“Yes, indeed,” she answered. “There is no love in the world but yours
that I care for, Diana!”
“Love!” I exclaimed. “Don’t flatter this poor half-breeched makeshift
with the sentiment.”
But I looked down on her more kindly, with a vexed laugh. My
good-humour was returning to me. It seemed too comical, the way we
three pious spinsters were scrambling for the favour of a
sheep’s-eyes. A pair of small-clothes flung into our nunnery had been
worse than an apple of discord. Skirts were so _de rigueur_ with us,
that I think even Gogo’s wooden legs seemed a little _outrés_.
“I do believe you were innocent, in everything but your cuddlesome
looks,” I said, relenting.
“O yes, Diana!” she answered eagerly. “And I can’t help them.”
“Would you if you could?” I questioned doubtfully. “I don’t know.
There is a good deal of method in artlessness. It can always plead
itself in excuse for enjoying the pleasures which we sinners must take
at the expense of our consciences.”
She knelt at my feet, silently fondling and kissing my hands.
“Are you sure you don’t regret giving him up?” I asked.
“Quite--sure,” she answered, so faintly as to set me off laughing.
“There, Patty _mia_,” I said; “you are not to be sacrificed to a
self-indulgent vapours. You will see some day how kind I am being to
you; and you shall have a large family yet.” And with that I kissed
and left her, taking the paper with me.
I will admit that the shock to my vanity was for the moment acute,
until reflection came to convince me that this rickety light-o’-love,
wearying of his one day’s abstinence, and finding me inaccessible, had
only palmed off on my friend the reversion of sentiments inspired by
me. On further reflection, too, I was not the more angry upon
realising that I had acquired a useful weapon for goading him to a
definite decision upon an action long deferred--our flight together,
that is to say, and, when once emancipated from the stunting
influences of Wellcot, the union which, it was understood, was to be
conditional on his satisfying me that his ambitions and mine were
mutually accommodating partners. But now, if for no other reason, I
felt that I owed it to my affection for my poor little friend to
precipitate this step, lest she should be led, through her natural
incapacity for denying anyone, to making herself miserable for life;
and so, armed with my _pièce de conviction_, I ended by sleeping very
soundly and comfortably.
I did not even hesitate the next morning, but, about noon, singing
very cheerfully to myself, descended to Mr. de Crespigny’s studio. The
door was locked. “Open, please,” I said.
“Go away,” he answered crossly. “I’m at work on the portrait.”
“Yes?” I said; “but I want to come in.”
Perhaps there was something in my tone. Anyhow, after a short
interval, during which I heard him wheeling his easel about, he
unlocked the door himself. I marched straight in, and, quite radiant,
nodded to Gogo, who, busy in a corner, gazed at me with a sort of
gloomy alarm.
“Mayn’t I look?” I said, smiling.
“No!” said de Crespigny sharply.