Philippa’s “studio” was a somewhat uncomfortable apartment with a
north light. Its walls were covered with brown paper, upon which were
pinned hasty little sketches by the latest geniuses. One recognized
the _latest_ genius by the newness of the drawing-pins; the
genius before last had generally lost one or even two of these aids
to stability, and hung at a neglected angle. Above the mantelpiece
there was a framed photograph of Rossetti’s _Proserpine_, whom
Philippa was often thought to resemble. The floor of the room was
stained, and over it at intervals were laid pieces of striped material
of pseudo-Eastern manufacture, fringed and flimsy. The furniture was
scanty, but high-principled in tone. It was that sort of uncomfortable
furniture which has “exquisite simplicity of line,” and is affected by
people who are more used to sitting on boards than sofas. There was
an easel in a prominent position, and a cupboard with a glass front
in a corner of the room, revealing various cups and bowls of coarse
earthenware and foreign peasant manufacture. These were the cooking and
eating utensils considered proper to the Simple Life.
It was the expense of the Simple Life which Philippa was at the moment
considering, as she sat curled up on the hearth-rug before the fire, a
heap of bills and other annoying documents in her lap. It was half-past
three in the afternoon, but she wore a dressing-gown of rather doubtful
cleanliness, and her hair was bunched up as she had twisted and pinned
it when she got out of bed.
Philippa belonged to the eternal art student class; that class
which subsists on very little talent and no income; the class which
includes girls who would be better employed in domestic service,
as well as those whom a genuine “feeling” for art has rendered
unfit for any other occupation than that of painfully striving to
express themselves--generally in vain. Though a member of this great
sisterhood, by the possession of various rather exceptional gifts,
Philippa had managed to deviate from its normal routine of monotony.
She had beauty, and a mind wide enough to hold vague aspirations, as
well as a useful shrewdness. Long ago she had made two discoveries.
First, that seventy pounds a year is a totally inadequate income.
Secondly, that infrequent work is not the best means of supplementing
it. There are other ways, and Philippa had tried most of them.
There had been romantic friendships with women of property. Philippa
had always been drawn to these ladies by soul-affinity--it was here
that the vagueness of her mind stood her in good stead--but that fact
did not lessen their balance at the bank, nor the tangible advantage
which it bestowed on Philippa. With one lady, she had travelled in
Italy and Greece. Another had paid for her course of instruction
in enamelling, and considered herself blest in being allowed the
privilege. A third had, till lately, paid the rent of her studio.
Philippa accepted these benefits with a beautiful simplicity. No one
better than she could gracefully bear an obligation. She had the rare
art not only of making the benefactor feel privileged but of herself
believing it to be the case. With such a mixture of approbation and
transient tenderness for the giver, might an angel regard the devotee
who has shielded him from “beating in the void his luminous wings in
vain.”
But feminine friendships are proverbially evanescent, and though
the proverb may contain as much truth as other conventional maxims,
Philippa had certainly found them “disappointing.” She had frequently
to lament the jealousy of one, the pettiness of another, the terrible
coarseness of fibre of a third. And though women are numerous, their
incomes are usually small, and to be disappointed in one dear friend
with money is a calamity. She is not easily replaced.
Philippa was not only deeply disappointed in Miss Wetherby, the lady
who for two years previous had ensured the rent of her studio; she was
also considerably worried. Their quarrel had been upon a very delicate
matter--a matter of money; and Miss Wetherby had taken a low but
decided view upon a transaction which Philippa was accustomed to slur
over in thought. An episode followed upon which, again, she refused
to dwell, except at intervals when she received a little note which
she hastened to put into the fire. She had that very morning burned
one of these letters, but, however unwillingly, she was now obliged to
consider its contents.
Bohemia is a wide country, and some of its inhabitants are unsavory.
Eighteen months previous, at a moment when a cheque was imperatively
necessary, Philippa had allowed one of them to come to her assistance.
She had not subsequently treated him very well, and his letters began
to threaten her peace of mind. They hinted at danger. It was then that
she first met Robert. Hitherto, in spite of her beauty, her relations
with men, with one very dubious exception, had not from any material
point of view been satisfactory. She had met few--of the right sort.
There had been the men at the art schools, of course, mostly penniless,
who had raved about her. Philippa had not encouraged them, further
than Artemis might have encouraged the worshippers at her shrine.
They were practically useless, except as rather shabby burners of
incense. Poverty and dependence upon feminine caprice is not the best
_milieu_ for making the acquaintance of rich men, added to which
there was the undoubted fact that the average man of the world had
a tendency to regard Philippa as Mayne had regarded her. He did not
care for “that kind of thing.” Accustomed to “smartness” in women,
Philippa’s robes made him feel as vaguely uncomfortable as her intense
style of conversation abashed and disconcerted him. Certainly it
required a man who at least dabbled in art, who at least had some
sympathy with the Quartier Latin, to appreciate Philippa.
For some time before she and Robert had become friends she had known
him by sight. He had been pointed out to her once at the Museum as
Fergus Macdonald, the novelist who was becoming well known, and bade
fair presently to coin money. Before very long it was obvious that
he admired her, and with no definite idea as to the result, yet with
a sure instinct that it was the wise course to adopt, Philippa had
extended her period of reading. The outcome had been satisfactory,
though it was a blow to learn that he was married, and a blow that
was not softened by the discovery that she knew his wife. In the
early days of their acquaintance, Philippa read much literature which
dealt with the possibility of friendship between man and woman. At a
later date, when Robert was getting a little out of hand, and her own
thoughts began to stray towards putting their sacred friendship upon
a different plane, she discovered many treatises upon the doctrine
of free love. She began to study the subject, and found it quite
engrossing. It seemed to her a very beautiful and noble attitude
towards a great aspect of human life. Robert and she often discussed
it together earnestly. In the meantime, the Simple Life, which, at the
recommendation of Tolstoi, Miles, and others, she had adopted since the
defection of Miss Wetherby, had not proved so economical as she had
hoped. Besides, she was getting tired of it.
Robert frequently took her out to lunch, and the frailty of the natural
man prevailing over the submission of the lover, he had, at an early
date, abandoned the vegetarian restaurant for Prince’s or the Carlton.
Resigning her principles, as a tender concession to Robert’s weakness,
Philippa had become reconciled to six-course meals, and began to hate
plasmon and suspect the efficacy of vegetables as an incentive to
exalted thought.
She began to yearn, like the rich man, to fare sumptuously every day.
Yet what was the use of such a desire as that when not only was she
hard pressed to live at all, but also more deeply in debt than she
cared to own even to herself? In old days, living in the sunshine of
the smiles and the blank cheques of her dearest friends, Philippa had
run up bills with alarming celerity. The “simple” dress was not cheap.
Neither were the ornaments for which she had an unfortunate weakness;
clasps and pendants of enamel and uncut gems of chaste and simple
workmanship--but quite expensive. The bills began to come in with
alarming frequency, and a growing tendency to unpleasant remark. She
grew depressed. Robert, who raged over the injustice of a callous world
which imposed poverty on beauty, constantly implored to be allowed to
lighten the load. Philippa, smiling through her tears, as constantly
refused.
It was she who had at last suggested the secretaryship. Robert had at
first demurred, and seeing this she had pressed the point, had made it
a test of his love for her. In no other way would she take from him so
much as a farthing. He yielded, and under cover of her value to him as
secretary Robert paid her an absurdly generous salary.
But even with Robert to the rescue matters were bad enough. Philippa
fingered disgustedly the last bill she had received, and finally threw
it into the fire. She sat gazing at the flame it made, the furrow
between her eyes deepening as she thought. And in the background there
was something worse. Characteristically she did not face it. She
thought of it hazily, indeed, but it was inexorably there. She had put
a weapon into the hands of a man who, if he used it at all, would not
use it like a gentleman.
A neighboring church clock struck, and she started up. Quarter to
four!--and she was not dressed.
She hastened into her bedroom, which opened out of the studio, and
began to make a hasty toilet. The room was untidy and not very clean,
and if to the garments revealed when the dressing-gown was thrown aside
the same remark applied, it must in justice be remembered that even
perfect cleanliness is dependent upon the amount of living wage. By
the time the downstairs bell rang at a few minutes past four, Philippa
looked like the Blessed Damosel, and Mr. Nevern, as he followed her up
the studio stairs, felt what it was to be on the right side of the gold
bar of heaven.
“Can’t I help?” he begged, as she began to make preparations for tea.
It seemed a profanation that she should stoop to put the kettle on the
fire. Yet how wonderfully it became her to bend her long, graceful
body, and how she seemed to dignify and make mysterious the simplest
actions! By the time he received a cup from her hands, Mr. Nevern was
in a state bordering on spiritual exaltation.
“I have had a holiday to-day,” she told him, leaning back in the one
comfortable chair the room contained. “Mr. Kingslake is out of town on
business till to-morrow.”
Her companion’s face darkened with envy of the man with whom she spent
half of every day.
“How long have you--had this work?” he inquired, trying to speak
naturally.
“I’ve only just begun. It’s interesting, of course. But I can’t say I’m
not glad of a long day to myself sometimes. It’s good in this hurried
age to have time to possess one’s soul, isn’t it?”
“It was very good of you to let me come this afternoon,--to let me
disturb you,” murmured Nevern.
“On the contrary, I wanted to make my holiday complete,” she returned,
with a smile which set the young man’s heart beating. “How is the book
going?” she pursued, placing her left hand tenderly on a slim volume of
verse which lay on the table beside her.
Nevern, following the motion of her hand, glowed with joy.
“Not well,” was all he could find to say, however, and that gloomily.
“Are you surprised?” asked Philippa, with tender raillery. “Does
delicate, beautiful work like this appeal to the multitude?”
Nevern smiled deprecatingly, but his heart bounded.
“You mustn’t say such charming things,” he stammered. “You make me----”
He checked himself and hurriedly drank his tea.
“I don’t know which is my favorite,” she went on, thoughtfully, turning
the leaves of the book. “This, perhaps, with its beautiful refrain.”
She read the lines softly, while Nevern trembled with happiness. “Or
this. But they are all exquisite.” She continued to turn the leaves
with her long, delicate fingers, with a touch like a caress, while
she talked. The sound of her voice was music in the young man’s ears,
the flattery of her words an intoxication. He was sometimes conscious
that he spoke at random, while his eyes were on her face, and then he
flushed and pulled himself together, but she did not seem to notice his
temporary lapses; her eyes met his, limpid, full of sympathy, deeper
than the depths of waters stilled at even. He found himself repeating
the lines to himself while she was giving him a second cup of tea. His
hand touched hers as she passed it, and his own shook so that some of
the tea was spilled. A drop or two splashed onto Philippa’s velveteen
gown. With an exclamation of impatience for his clumsiness, Nevern fell
on his knees and, snatching out his handkerchief, wiped away the stain.
“Your beautiful dress!” he murmured. Suddenly he stooped lower and
kissed it. She did not move, and, emboldened, he touched her hand with
his lips, tremblingly at first, and then passionately.
When he raised his head she was looking at him with an adorable
expression of compassion and tenderness.
“Philippa!” he stammered; “I love you. Will you--will you marry me? Oh,
you don’t know how I----”
For a moment she continued to look at him with an expression he found
hard to read, then she rose abruptly, and moving to the mantelpiece,
stood leaning against it with averted face.
Nevern also rose. For a moment he hesitated, then drawing himself up he
followed her.
“Philippa,” he said again very simply, “I know I’m not worthy of you.
But no one will ever love you better than I love you. Will you marry
me?” His boyishness dropped from him as he spoke. Of his customary
rather foolish affectation of voice and manner, there was not a trace.
A real emotion had given him dignity.
Philippa turned. She glanced hurriedly at his face, and paused a
moment before she said pleadingly, “Dear Nigel, don’t disturb our
friendship--yet. It has been such happiness. I don’t want things
altered--at any rate yet awhile.”
Nevern hesitated, disappointment struggling with hope. “But later?” he
begged at last. “May I some time later----”
She smiled. “We shall see. Let us leave things as they are
indefinitely--well, for the present at all events. And now, dear
friend, I think you must go.” She put out her hand, smiling her rare,
elusive smile.
Nevern seized it and covered it with kisses before she gently withdrew
it.
“I may come again? Soon?” he whispered, hoarsely.
“Yes; but not till I write.” She watched him, still smiling, as he went
to the door, and turned for a last look at her.
When the hall door slammed, she drew herself up with a long, weary
sigh. How badly everything was arranged! Why could she not have met
Nigel Nevern a year ago instead of----
She went slowly into her bedroom, and returned with a photograph at
which she gazed long and earnestly, and finally put down with a sigh.
Robert was very attractive. And she was in love with him, of course.
She was almost angry to remember that Nigel Nevern had two thousand a
year.