TWO MEN DISCUSS A WOMAN
Dan Webster stayed on at the bungalow till the evening shadows
gathered, and during the whole time Miss Le Breton had formed the
subject of conversation, which finally developed into argument.
Philip, who was conscious of having got a little heated, and who was
anxious to make amends, volunteered to walk as far as Ore with Dan.
But as they walked the old topic still occupied them.
“You have had a lot to say in your capacity of novelist, Philip,”
said Dan. “You hold that you see through a character because of
your story-telling gift. As a matter of fact, you don’t get outside
yourself enough to be able to form a just estimate of character. Now
I, as a painter of portraits, am a bit of a character reader. A really
great portrait-painter puts a man’s naked soul upon the canvas. Such
portraits are a revelation of the kind one expects on the Judgment Day.”
“Oh, I know all about that,” answered Philip testily. (Most people
wasted their time, and his, by telling him things he knew all about.)
“But let me finish,” persisted Dan. “You, with a novelist’s insight,
say that you believe Miss Le Breton incapable of _joy_. Now I, with
my painter’s insight, should say that Miss Le Breton has known both
great joy and great sorrow. There is in her face the sweetness that
renunciation alone gives. Ah! when I get my chance, I will put on
canvas what I see in that woman’s face!”
“Exactly,” said Philip bitingly; “_what you see_, but not necessarily
_what is there_. The accident of beauty makes Miss Le Breton’s face
what it is. Think, man! that girl until quite recently was not quite
sane. The form the disease took in her was that of an _undeveloped_
brain (so I have always understood). This means that the girl has had
no history; therefore, what you say you see in her face cannot be
there.”
Dan smiled. “But I see it,” he answered.
“Well, Dan, I am an egotistical aggravating fellow, and I daresay you
have more insight than I have. I am really a good deal puzzled about
Aimée Le Breton. She talked like a woman who had both education and
intellect to-day. I wonder if her mother’s melancholy preyed upon her,
and reflected itself in a curious way, so as to mislead people in her
earlier days? You know--or perhaps you don’t know--that in the prairie
doctors’ opinions are but rarely asked or obtained. It may be that in
new and better surroundings the girl has awakened to her real self. But
here we are at Ore, so good-bye, and don’t go away with hard thoughts
of me for my disagreeable didacticism. I am a disagreeable beast, but I
love you well!”
Dan wrung his friend’s hand as he said whimsically: “I think, old man,
I’ll set about getting the beam out of my own eye!”
It was Phyllis Lane who greeted Dan when he reached Hawk’s Nest.
“Mrs. Barrimore and Mr. Burns have gone for a walk on the sea-front,”
she explained. “I stayed to finish ‘Uther and Igraine’--_and_ to see
you.”
“How nice of you!” exclaimed Dan, much flattered, for Phyllis had shown
no coquetry at all in these golden days when sight had come back.
“I want to know so much what you think of Miss Le Breton,” went on
Phyllis.
The words acted as a cold douche after Dan’s elation. Phyllis was not
anxious to see him (for himself) at all. She wanted to satisfy her
curiosity about Miss Le Breton. A swift thought crossed Dan’s mind.
Could it be possible that Phyllis’s visits to the bungalow, of which
he had heard, were not platonic after all? Could it be that she was in
love with the egotist at Gissing, and was fearful lest that young man
should come to be enamored of Aimée Le Breton?
Dan was not inclined to agree with Mrs. Barrimore regarding the extreme
frankness of Colonel Lane’s attractive little daughter. But he liked
her genuinely, and it had gratified him that she had said she had
waited to see him, till she gave her reason.
“Won’t you take cold in that thin blouse, Miss Lane?” was Dan’s next
remark.
Phyllis had met Dan at the gate of the carriage drive, and they had
paced slowly towards the house as they talked.
“I never take cold,” asserted Phyllis, “but I will go in and get my
coat and hat, and we can go a little way to meet Mrs. Barrimore and Mr.
Burns if you like--not, of course, if you are tired after walking from
Gissing.”
Dan put his big shoulders back and asked if he looked like a creature
that tired.
In the twilight that had gathered Dan looked a giant to little Phyllis.
“I like big, strong men,” Phyllis remarked critically.
“Do you?” came in Uncle Robert’s stentorian voice from the road. “You
ought to like _me_, then!”
“So I do,” cried Phyllis, running lightly to the gate.
“Very nice and very proper of you, my dear,” rejoined Uncle Robert. “So
you are home first, Dan? Eh, what? We thought Philip would keep you
late. Annie and I have been listening to the Socialists holding forth
on the beach. There is something in what they say too.”
“Where do they hold forth?” inquired Dan.
“By the two _Albertines_. You ought to go and hear them. Carlyle called
theirs ‘the dismal science,’ didn’t he? Ah! that was about the Nigger
question. He said, too: ‘A Burns is infinitely better educated than a
Byron.’ Ha! ha!”
“Mr. Burns,” broke out Dan, “you ought to be fined a bottle of
champagne every time you make a quotation.”
“Then I fear there would be a slump in the wine trade--no, I mean,
someone would make a corner in champagne,” said Uncle Robert. “But let
us join the fair ladies. See! they have gone in, and the inner man
calleth for provender.”
Supper took the place of dinner on Sundays at Hawk’s Nest, and it was
during this meal that Phyllis heard what Dan thought of Miss Le Breton.
Dan, once upon the subject, talked so volubly, that Uncle Robert could
not get in a single quotation. Aimée Le Breton’s expression, to say
nothing of her perfection of line, molding and color, was something
to dream of. “‘Her eyes are homes of silent prayer,’” Dan quoted,
whereupon Uncle Robert exclaimed: “You are usurping my throne,” and
everyone laughed except Phyllis.
To Phyllis this praise of Aimée Le Breton was a pang, the reason for
which she was then far from guessing.
“Philip talked to her a lot,” said Dan. “I envied him.”
“What! did Philip go?” asked Mrs. Barrimore. “Poor Philip! what a stoic
he is! Why should he subject himself to the occasion of such sorrowful
memories?”
“Philip seemed to like talking to her,” Dan assured Mrs. Barrimore. “He
quite came out, and discussed his books.”
“He always does,” affirmed Uncle Robert, upon which he received a very
reproachful look from his sister.
“Isn’t it natural that the boy should like to talk about his books?”
she asked. “You like to talk about yours.”
“Mine will be out soon,” said Uncle Robert, bursting with pride. “You
shall have a copy, Dan. I shall buy up a whole lot to encourage the
publishers. I am anxious to see what the _Athenæum_ and the _Saturday_
will have to say about it. I showed one or two of the poems to Philip,
and he did not seem appreciative. These fellows who write fiction only
don’t seem to care about poetry. Now I am different. I like to write
poetry, but I like to read everything--even the modern novel--though I
confess to getting more pleasure out of the Elizabethan writers than
out of the most modern men. Fill up your glass, Dan!
‘_Wine whets the wit, improves its native force,
And gives a pleasant flavor to discourse._’
Pomfret wrote that. He knew a good deal of truth for a parson--I beg
your pardon, Annie! you don’t like that kind of remark, I know.”
Mrs. Barrimore rose. “Phyllis and I will leave you to ‘whet your
wits,’” she said with a smile.
“Poor Dan!” exclaimed Uncle Robert. “I’ll wager he is sick of my gift
of the gab and would rather go with you and Phyllis.”
“No, no!” Dan contradicted. “Go on talking. I like it, and, more than
that, I am busy getting your portrait.”
“Eh, what?” ejaculated Uncle Robert, not understanding.
“It is not when you sit to me that I take your portrait,” observed Dan
enigmatically. “I learn up your face when you are your natural self,
talking as now. I do not put on canvas the expression you give me when
you sit to me.”
“Ah, I see!” broke in Uncle Robert. “‘Nature is Art’s handmaid,’ and
Dryden says: ‘For Art may err, but Nature cannot miss.’ You paint
portraits, Dan, not pictures that might be anybody almost. You will
make a big name one day, young man. But take care of those precious
eyes of yours.”
“I mean to,” said Dan. “Do you know, Mr. Burns, I was feeling
absolutely suicidal when you sent for me to come here to recruit. The
folks at home, as you know, had always resented my taking to the brush.
It was natural, perhaps, for I am the man of the family, my father
being gone. But an old aunt who has lived with us ever since I can
remember, and who is a regular wet blanket--not to say more--told me
that it was a judgment on me that my eyes went wrong. My sister Isabel,
too, who is a teacher at the James Allen School at Dulwich, and who
is really fond of me, had such a fit of the blues over me that I got
doubly depressed. My mother, as you know, is a _malade imaginaire_, so
really I began, as I said, to feel quite suicidal. Then I came here
and you all cheered me up. I began to hope immediately I set foot in
Hawk’s Nest.”
“You cheered us up, old man,” said Uncle Robert warmly. “And while I
think of it, your sister might like to spend her holiday at Hastings,
and it would be a charity to Annie, who has only an old fogey like me
in the house since Philip went away. No, Dan! don’t begin any thanking
rot! It would be a favor to us, not to your sister. We have never seen
her, but if you are a fair sample, the more we see of your family the
better.”
“You should invite Aunt Lizzie,” said Dan, laughing. “You wouldn’t
want any more of our family after that! Aunt Lizzie is one of the most
dismal and most aggravating creatures on earth, I should think. I never
remember seeing her smile. She is plain--she is not responsible for
that. She is plain of speech--for that she is responsible. She never
forgave my mother for marrying a Catholic, even though my mother did
not change her religion. She was outraged, too, that I as a boy should
be brought up in my father’s faith, though Isabel was brought up in our
mother’s. When poor old Father Doughty calls at the house, Aunt Lizzie
retires to her bed-chamber. Yet she is really one of the most unselfish
people in the world.”
“I don’t think we will invite your Aunt Lizzie,” said Mr. Burns with
decision.