"She understands--she understands," Gabriel dropped. And he added to
their visitor: "Imagine, when he might do something, his choosing a life
of shams! At bottom he's like you--a wonderful artistic nature."
"I'll have patience," said the girl, smiling at Nick.
"Then, my children, I leave you--the peace of the Lord be with you."
With which words Nash took his departure.
The others chose a position for the young woman's sitting after she had
placed herself in many different attitudes and different lights; but an
hour had elapsed before Nick got to work--began, on a large canvas, to
"knock her in," as he called it. He was hindered even by the fine
element of agitation, the emotion of finding himself, out of a clear
sky, confronted with such a subject and launched in such a task. What
could the situation be but incongruous just after he had formally
renounced all manner of "art"?--the renunciation taking effect not a bit
the less from the whim he had all consciously treated himself to _as_ a
whim (the last he should ever descend to!) the freak of a fortnight's
relapse into a fingering of old sketches for the purpose, as he might
have said, of burning them up, of clearing out his studio and
terminating his lease. There were both embarrassment and inspiration in
the strange chance of snatching back for an hour a relinquished joy: the
jump with which he found he could still rise to such an occasion took
away his breath a little, at the same time that the idea--the idea of
what one might make of such material--touched him with an irresistible
wand. On the spot, to his inner vision, Miriam became a rich result,
drawing a hundred formative forces out of their troubled sleep, defying
him where he privately felt strongest and imposing herself triumphantly
in her own strength. He had the good fortune, without striking matches,
to see her, as a subject, in a vivid light, and his quick attempt was as
exciting as a sudden gallop--he might have been astride, in a boundless
field, of a runaway horse.
She was in her way so fine that he could only think how to "do" her:
that hard calculation soon flattened out the consciousness, lively in
him at first, that she was a beautiful woman who had sought him out of
his retirement. At the end of their first sitting her having done so
appeared the most natural thing in the world: he had a perfect right to
entertain her there--explanations and complications were engulfed in the
productive mood. The business of "knocking her in" held up a lamp to her
beauty, showed him how much there was of it and that she was infinitely
interesting. He didn't want to fall in love with her--that _would_ be a
sell, he said to himself--and she promptly became much too interesting
for it. Nick might have reflected, for simplification's sake, as his
cousin Peter had done, but with more validity, that he was engaged with
Miss Rooth in an undertaking which didn't in the least refer to
themselves, that they were working together seriously and that decent
work quite gainsaid sensibility--the humbugging sorts alone had to help
themselves out with it. But after her first sitting--she came, poor
girl, but twice--the need of such exorcisms passed from his spirit: he
had so thoroughly, so practically taken her up. As to whether his
visitor had the same bright and still sense of co-operation to a
definite end, the sense of the distinctively technical nature of the
answer to every question to which the occasion might give birth, that
mystery would be lighted only were it open to us to regard this young
lady through some other medium than the mind of her friends. We have
chosen, as it happens, for some of the great advantages it carries with
it, the indirect vision; and it fails as yet to tell us--what Nick of
course wondered about before he ceased to care, as indeed he intimated
to her--why a budding celebrity should have dreamed of there being
something for her in so blighted a spot. She should have gone to one of
the regular people, the great people: they would have welcomed her with
open arms. When Nick asked her if some of the R.A.'s hadn't expressed a
wish for a crack at her she replied: "Oh dear no, only the tiresome
photographers; and fancy _them_ in the future. If mamma could only do
_that_ for me!" And she added with the charming fellowship for which she
was conspicuous at these hours: "You know I don't think any one yet has
been quite so much struck with me as you."
"Not even Peter Sherringham?" her host jested while he stepped back to
judge of the effect of a line.
"Oh Mr. Sherringham's different. You're an artist."
"For pity's sake don't say that!" he cried. "And as regards _your_ art I
thought Peter knew more than any one."
"Ah you're severe," said Miriam.
"Severe--?"
"Because that's what the poor dear thinks. But he does know a lot--he
has been a providence to me."
"Then why hasn't he come over to see you act?"