AT THE STUDIO
Woodville let himself in with the key, and sat down, in deep
despondency, in front of his easel. On it was a second copy of a copy
that some one had found him doing at the National Gallery of the great
Leonardo. It was not good, and it made him sick to look at it. The
studio was a battered little barn in the depths of Chelsea, with the
usual dull scent of stale paint and staler tobacco, and very little
else; it was quite devoid of the ordinary artistic trappings. From the
window shrill cries were heard from the ragged children, who fought and
played in the gutter of a sordid street. Woodville had come here to
think.
He knew how shocked and distressed Sylvia had been when he had ventured
to say that he thought he saw something in the Athenian scheme. He
smiled with a slight reaction of gaiety at his surroundings, and
wondered, for the hundredth time, why that extraordinary old American
lady at the National Gallery had actually ordered from him the second
copy of his picture. How marvellously bad it was!
An unusual noise in the street--that of a hansom cab rattling up to the
door--startled him. He went to the window, with a strange feeling at his
heart. It was impossible that it could be Sylvia; she did not even know
the address. It was Sylvia, in pale grey, gracefully paying the cabman
while dirty children collected round her feet. He saw through the window
that she smiled at them, and gave them a bunch of violets and some
money, for which they fought. Horrified, he almost fell down the stairs
and opened the door. There was no one else in the house.
She followed him up to the studio, looking pale, but smiling bravely. He
closed the door and leant against it. He was panting.
"_What--on--earth_," he said, "do you mean by this madness?"
Sylvia, seeing he was angry, took the hatpin out of her hat, and looked
round for a place to sit down and quarrel comfortably.
There was no seat, except a thing that had once been red and once a
sofa, but was now a skeleton, and looked so cold and bare that she
instinctively took off her chinchilla fur cloak and covered it up. Then
she said--
"_Because--I--chose!_ I never can get a word with you at home, and I
have a perfect right to come and talk to my future husband on a subject
that concerns my whole happiness."
She had invented this speech coming along, being prepared for his anger.
"But what would people----"
"People! People! You live for people! Everything matters except me!"
He resolved on calmness.
"Sylvia, dear, since you _are_ here," he said quietly, "let us talk
reasonably."
He tried to sit next to her, but the sofa gave way, and he found himself
kneeling by her side.
They both laughed angrily. He got up and stood by the mantelpiece.
"So you think it is _decent_ to accept money to leave the country to
please my enemy?" said Sylvia.
"Will you tell me a really better plan by which we can marry in a year
on an assured income?" he asked patiently.
"Income! Haven't I when I marry----" But he looked too angry. She
changed the sentence and became imploring.
"Frank! If you love me _really_, you can't leave me. Think, every day,
every hour without you!"
"Very well! We'll tell your father to-night, and chance it. I won't
stand these subterfuges any more. After all, we have the right to do as
we like."
"No, Frank, you will _not_ tell him till I'm twenty-one. I haven't a
right before. You would only be called horrid things--have to go,
and--think how mean it is to poor Ridokanaki! Taking his kindness, only
to round on him next year! Have you no pride, Frank?"
"Sylvia, that's all very well. But he knows all that. It's his idea."
"Yes, it _would_ be! As if I didn't see through his mean, sly scheme.
Why, it's not kindness at all!" she exclaimed.
"Good God! Well, what is it? Does he think you'll forget me, do you
mean?" said Woodville.
"No, he doesn't. He _knows you'll_ forget _me_--in Athens. Oh, Frank,"
and she suddenly burst out crying, "there'll be Greeks there!"
At the sight of her tears Frank was deeply touched; but he smiled,
feeling more in the real world again--the world he knew.
"My dear girl, I don't pretend for one moment to deny that there will be
Greeks there. One can't expect the whole country to be expatriated
because I go to Athens to work in a bank. What do you want there?
Spaniards?"
"Oh! Vulgar taunts and jokes!" She dried her eyes proudly, and then
said--
"_Are you sure you'll be true to me?_"
Woodville met unflinchingly that terrible gaze of the inquisitional
innocent woman, before which men, guilty or guiltless equally, assume
the same self-conscious air of shame. His eyes fell. He had no idea why
he felt guilty. Certainly there had never been in his life anything to
which Sylvia need have taken exception. Then his spirit asserted itself
again.
"Oh, hang it all! I really can't stand this! All right, I won't go. Have
it your own way. Distrust me! I dare say you think I deserve it. Is it a
pleasure to leave you like this, surrounded by a lot of----Did any one
look at you as you came along in the cab?"
"_I_ don't know," she said.
He spoke tenderly, passionately now.
"I worship you, Sylvia. You've got that? You take it in?"
"Yes, dearest."
"Well, I'm yours. You can do what you like. I give in. I dare say your
woman's instinct is right. And, besides, I can't leave you. And now, my
darling, lovely, exquisite angel you will go--AT ONCE!"
"Oh, Frank, forgive me."
A violently loud knock startled them from each other's arms. There was
another cab at the door.
"Keep still. Keep over here, Sylvia," commanded Woodville.
From the window he saw, standing on the steps, Savile, in his Eton suit.
He smiled and waved his hand to the boy.
"It's Savile. I'll open the door. It'll be all right. I expect he
followed you."
In two seconds Sylvia was composed and calm, looking round at the
pictures in her chinchilla cloak.
Savile followed his host up, laughing vaguely, and said when he saw
Sylvia, in a rather marked way--
"Ah! You didn't believe me when I told you I'd come and fetch you! But,
you see, here I am."
"Sweet of you, dear," said Sylvia.
"And a fine place it is--well worth coming to see, isn't it?" said
Frank, laughing a great deal.
"Well, we'd better be off. I kept the cab because of dining at Aunt
William's to-night. You know, Sylvia, we're late."
"Oh, yes, dear. I'd almost given you up."
As they went to the door, Savile suddenly turned round, and having
decided a debate in his mind, said--
"I know all about it. I congratulate you, Woodville. But we'll keep it
dark a bit yet, eh?"
Savile thought his knowing of the engagement made it more conventional.
The brother and sister drove off.
Sylvia was silent. Savile did not say a single word until they nearly
reached home. Then he remarked casually--
"As I found out where you'd gone, I thought it would sort of look
better, eh, for me to fetch you? Didn't mean to be a bore or anything."
"Oh, Savile dear, _thank_ you! I'll never----"
"Yes; it's not going to happen again. Go and dress, old girl. Wear your
pink. Motor'll be round in half an hour; heaps of time. I'm going too,
you know--at Aunt William's."