TENTH

It was some ten days after the events of the thunderstorm, and Evelyn,

who had returned to London the day after, was in his studio working at

the portrait of Philip. The last ten days had passed for him like an

evil dream--a dream, too, unfortunately from which there was no prospect

whatever of waking. Indeed, as the dream went on it seemed to gain in

its ghastly vividness; every day that passed repeated the effect of it,

and stamped its reality deeper. But with good sense that did him credit,

instead of brooding desolately over his lot, or driving himself half-mad

with the thought of Madge, he turned with a sort of demented fury to his

work, and day after day painted till he could no longer see, not leaving

off till his brain was dull and almost incapable of further thought. But

though nervous, excitable and highly-strung, he was luckily also very

strong, and believed that he was capable, at any rate, of going on at

this frightful high pressure anyhow till the marriage had taken place.

When that was accomplished, he felt that the tension of the suspense

would be lightened; he might himself, it is true, drop like a stone in

the sea, but the struggle would then be over, he would not battle any

longer to try to keep afloat. In the inside pocket of his coat he kept

the note that he had received from Lady Ellington; it was soiled and

wilted with much handling and re-reading, and simple and straightforward

(from a literary point of view) as it was, he had tried fifty

interpretations on each of those very intelligible sentences. But not

one contained a grain of comfort for him.

But though the whole fibre of his spiritual being was in so great and

agonising a state of unrest, he found that his eye and his hand had lost

not one particle of their powers of vision and execution. Sometimes, it

is true, it was rather hard to get to work; it seemed scarcely worth

while putting in a light or a shadow, but when once he had begun there

was no abatement in the brilliance of his skill, and though he only felt

a vague, far-away satisfaction in what he was doing, he brought all his

keenness of observation, all his dexterity of handling to his work.

Again, when his sitters were there, there was the same merciful

necessity of normal behaviour, and probably there was only one person

who saw him during these days who suspected that there was anything

wrong. This was Philip. But of what was wrong he had not the faintest

inkling.

Philip himself, so said the world in general, had become wonderfully

softened since his engagement. He had gained enormously in geniality, a

quality of which the world had not considered him particularly lavish

before, and he did not in these new days take himself quite so seriously

as he had been used to. Why he had fallen in love with Madge originally

nobody quite knew, for there was no very obvious common ground between

them. But the ways of love are past finding out, and even as when two

tiny carbon poles of an electric battery are brought near to each other

a light altogether disproportionate to their size illuminates the night,

so it was with Philip. And certainly now the miracle was easier of

explanation; there apparently had been in him the germ of a quite

different Philip to that which he showed the world--a Philip admirably

kind and gentle, the very man who would so easily fall in love with

anyone possessed of half Madge's perfectly obvious attractions. All this

was said in general talk, but in whispers it had begun to be said that

Madge was not so desperately in love with him, and for this Gladys

Ellington was not, as a matter of fact, directly responsible, though no

doubt she would have been if she had thought she would not be found out.

It was rather Madge's own manner which suggested it. She too, like

Philip, had been much humanised, coincidentally anyhow, with their

engagement; but later, during these last ten days in fact, she really

seemed to have hired a snail-shell and curled herself up in it. Her

trousseau--this alone was immaterial--did not seem to give her the

smallest pleasure, and yet her indifference to that was not the

indifference which might have been the fruit of her private intense

happiness, which could conceivably have made even these confections seem

tasteless. In fact, it was not only the trousseau that she appeared to

find tasteless; she found everything tasteless, and really, to judge

from her mode of behaviour when she was with Philip, you would have

thought that she was an icicle just being introduced to an eligible

snowflake.

Philip on this particular day had sat for Evelyn for nearly a couple of

hours, grumbling at the length of his detention, but in a manner that

did not suggest active discontent. He intended, in fact, to give Madge

the picture on their wedding day, if it could be finished, and to

further that desirable object he was willing really to sit for as long

as Evelyn required. The latter, various and numerous as were the moods

to which he usually treated his sitters, seemed to-day to have gone

through them all; he was, in fact, more like himself than Philip had

lately seen him.

"Until one really looks at a man's face," he had been saying, "one never

knows how ugly he is. I always used to think you passably good-looking.

But you are awful, do you know? Men's faces generally are like chests of

drawers--square, don't you know, and covered with knobs that suggest

handles. And you are balder than when I began to paint you."

"I am sure I apologise. And do you really think you can finish it by the

twenty-eighth? I shall be immensely grateful if you can."

"The twenty-eighth? Ah! yes, the happy day."

Thereat another mood came over him, and for the spate of surprising

remarks which he had been pouring forth there was exchanged a frowning,

brush-biting silence. This lasted another twenty minutes, and Philip, as

thanks for his offerings on the altar of conversation, got only grunts,

and once a laboriously polite request to stand still. But eventually he

hit on a subject that produced a response.

"And Madge's portrait?" he said. "Have you decided to yield to our

ignorance perhaps, but anyhow our desire, and consider it finished?"

Evelyn stopped dead in the middle of a stroke, and a new and frightfully

disconcerting mood suddenly appeared to possess him.

"How can you ask me if I yield," he said hotly, "when you have told me I

can't have any more sittings? I yield as a man yields who is pinioned

and hung. I only yield to force. As for the portrait, it is there, face

to the wall. I will not send it to you, but you may fetch it away

without opposition on my part. I never want to see it again. Oh! I make

one condition--it must never be exhibited."

"Ah! my dear fellow," said Philip, "I cannot take it if you feel like

that about it."

"Leave it then."

Philip was very deeply hurt somehow by this. Evelyn's absolute

insistence on his taking it as a present from him had much touched him,

though he had tried to combat it. But this ending of the affair was

intolerable. He could not leave matters like this. And now while he was

debating what to do, Evelyn spoke again, resuming his painting with

rapid, unerring strokes.

"I must say this, too," he said. "I had an inspiration for that portrait

quite unlike any I have ever had before. It is, even as it stands, my

masterpiece, but you--you and Miss Ellington anyhow--have prevented me

from completing what is my best, and would have been far better. Far

better? It would have been on a different plane altogether. I am sorry

if this hurts you, but it is only right you should know. I don't say it

is your fault; I don't say it is anybody's fault. But there the picture

stands; I give it you with all the completeness with which I originally

gave it you, and with all--all the best wishes."

He paused a moment.

"But I won't send it you," he said, "since I don't think it ought to be

sent. Yet take it with my love, my best love, Philip. And I should be

obliged if you would say no more at all about it. Turn your face a bit

more to the left, there's a good fellow; you have shifted slightly."

He painted on for some little time in silence, and Philip, complying

with his request that nothing more should be said about it, answered his

next question, some common topic, and himself introduced another. But

all the time his thoughts were busy enough on the tabooed subject. For a

second time, as at the opera a few nights ago, the vague suspicion

crossed his mind that Evelyn was in love with Madge, and had somehow

betrayed this to her; but now, as then, he formulated this thought only

to give it instant dismissal. That being so, he was morally bound to do

Evelyn justice, to accept without either comment or reservation the fact

that he really required another sitting from Madge, and to do his

utmost, whatever her unwillingness and whatever the cause of it, to

make her sit to him again. Both the Philip known to the few intimates

and the Philip so much respected by the world at large had a very strong

sense of fairness, and the fair thing quite certainly was this. It was

impossible to deny an artist another sitting if he felt like this about

it; it was doubly impossible to deny it to a friend. Even if the picture

had been an order, a commission, it would have been but shabby

treatment, now that he knew how Evelyn felt about it, not to do his very

utmost to get Madge to give him another sitting; but the picture was not

that, it was a present, given too, as he had said, "with his love." He

could not really doubt that when it was put to Madge like this, she

would see it as he himself did.

The task itself of talking to her on the subject, it was distasteful to

him, for she had been mysteriously indeed, but unmistakably in earnest,

about it a few nights ago at the opera. Whatever the cause (and he

consciously turned back from even conjecturing at the cause), she had,

so she thought, at any rate, an adequate reason for not wishing to

continue the sittings, even when the artist's point of view was

presented to her, and he foresaw that he might find himself in an

opposition to her that would be painful to both of them. Nor had the

change in her, which the world compared to the action of a snail

retiring into its shell, escaped him. She had been for the last ten days

or so reserved, silent, and apt to be startled. More than once he had

asked her if anything was wrong, and the vehemence of her assertion that

nothing was wrong had rather surprised him. But here, again, he had to

pull himself up, and studiously refrain from conjecturing that Evelyn

was in any way connected with any private worry of hers. Besides she had

said that nothing was wrong; he was bound to accept that. For this

reason he rejected the notion of consulting Lady Ellington about it;

that would imply a distrust of the girl herself.

He was going to see her as soon as this sitting was over, and since he

had thoroughly made up his mind that he must do his best to persuade her

to do as he desired about the portrait, he determined not to put it off,

but to speak to her to-day. But he judged it better not to tell Evelyn

what he was going to do, because on the one hand his mission might fail

of success, and on the other because he had been asked to allude no

further to the question. So for the remainder of the sitting they

talked, neither quite naturally, since both were thinking of the one

subject that could not be talked about, on strictly public topics. But

every minute was an age of discomfort, and Philip, at any rate, was

heartily glad when it was over, and he was out again in the hot, sunny

streets.

Madge scarcely knew how the days had passed since that afternoon in the

New Forest, for it seemed to her that all the values of life were

altered, as if a totally new scheme of things must be made, for that

which existed at present was not possible. Day after day, too, brought

the twenty-eighth nearer--that date before which something which would

upset and reverse her whole world must assuredly occur. For she was

pledged then to do that which she knew she could not do, the

impossibility of which was every hour more vividly impressed on her. She

had herself promised her mother to do nothing whatever, unless Evelyn

made some further advance; what she did not know was how very skilfully

he had been debarred from that. But already the promise she had herself

given had begun to lose for her its moral validity, it was only in a

second-hand sort of way that she considered it binding, for one thing

only she felt was really binding on her, and that the impossibility of

fulfilling her pledge to Philip. That was outside her power; by what

step she would make that known, she did not yet consider. A way must be

found; what the way was seemed to her, if she considered it at all, very

immaterial.

For side by side with that impossibility, and not less securely throned,

was another certainty, namely, that Evelyn must repeat what he had said

before; no man could leave it like that. And in those days she knew what

it was to start and change colour when the door-bell rang, to frame any

excuse, or no excuse, to go downstairs and see what the post had

brought, to watch at balls and parties the arrival of fresh-comers, and

glance across the crowded rooms in a sort of yearning certainty that now

at last she would see one face among the crowd, which would come slowly

closer and closer through the throng, until it was by her. Then--even

the trivial, commonplace little details were imagined by her--he would

ask her for a dance, or take her out to some unfrequented room. Philip

at the time would probably be with her; he would certainly smile and nod

at Evelyn, and resign her to him for "just ten minutes." But the days

went on, and none of these visions were realised; he appeared no more at

houses where she had often seen him. Often, too, people asked her about

the progress of her portrait, and to these she replied that it was

finished. Finished! These moments were lit with a certainty and a sure

hope, but there were others, black ones. What if he had spoken without

thought, excitedly, carried away by some moment's passion, bitterly

regretted since? Supposing he did not really love her, supposing it had

been just the flame and the blaze of a moment.

There was no preparation possible for the crash that was inevitable. No

gradual estrangement from Philip, ending in a quarrel, was to be thought

of; she could not scheme and soften things; the granite of the

_bouleversement_ could not be kneaded into dough. More than once he had

asked her if anything was the matter, and on the last occasion, as we

have seen, she had denied it with vehemence--the vehemence of one who is

sick with a deadly, devouring sickness, whose instinct, feverish and

irresistible, is to hold on to the last, affirming her health. But her

own vehemence had startled not only him, but herself, and she had vowed

to show more self-control, and exhibit that self-control in its most

difficult demonstration--merely that of appearing quite normal, and not

exercising or, indeed, needing any self-control at all. More especially

was this difficult when she was alone with him--the half-hinted caress,

the look of love in those honest eyes, had to be somehow telegraphed

back; some resemblance that would pass muster as a response had to be

sent by her. It was all so mean, and the only comfort, and that cold,

was that it could not now last long. For the one supreme impossibility

remained--she could not be at his side on the twenty-eighth. Some thing,

Fate or her own action dictated by it, would interfere with that, but

about it she felt a sort of cold irresponsibility. Meantime, since

responsibility was not as yet definitely fallen on her, the need for

normal behaviour was paramount.

To-day Philip was coming to tea; he was going to return to dinner, and

they, with her mother, were going to the theatre. After that there was a

dance; from the hours between five and the small hours of the next day

she would scarcely be alone a moment. And it was in loneliness that she

could best bear the hopeless tangle--that tangle which, so it seemed to

her now, could never be unravelled, but must be cut with a knife. A

small knot more or less no longer made any difference, and it was with

apathy almost, certainly without strong feeling of any kind, that she

heard from Lady Ellington that she would perhaps be late for tea, and in

consequence that Philip and herself would be alone together. An hour or

two more of make-believe did not seem to her now to matter much; the

hours that there could be of that were definitely limited, and, since

limited, it was possible to deal with them. For it is only the endless

succession of impossible hours, this knowledge that they will continue

as long as life itself, that brings despair. But above all, till the

crash came, she must be normal. She must give no sign of the storm that

was raging within her, and though the depths and lowest abysses of her

nature were upheaved by wild billows yet somehow the surface must be

kept calm. It was one of the forces outside her own control which had

taken possession of her, and with a sort of shudder she thought of the

duck-and-drake discussions she had held with Evelyn about incontrollable

forces, making these things of vital import the subject for a jest and

an epigram. But she knew now, as she had not known then, what such a

force meant.

This dismal drawing-room, with its frippery hanging over the window to

hide it from the gaze of the square, its grand piano, its window at the

opposite end, which commanded a small sooty yard! A hundred

drawing-rooms east and west of it were exactly like it, yet on this had

Fate--that cruel, velvet-pawed cat--pounced, selecting it at random, to

make it the scene of one of her mean little dramas, at which one cannot

laugh for fear of tears, at which one cannot cry because other people

laugh. And here Madge sat alone, Lady Ellington not having yet returned,

the silver urn occasionally lifting its lid with the infinitesimal

pressure of the steam beneath, with all the mocking accessories of

comfortable life round her, waiting for the inevitable explosion. It

might be to-day, it might be to-morrow, it might be any day up to the

twenty-eighth. But by that time it must have come; yet the same carpet

would be trodden on, the same pictures would cast incurious eyes on to a

human tragedy, the same _everything_ would preserve its mute, inanimate

composure. That composure she, too, had now to rival; she must be as

suitable as the sofa.

Her greeting of him, anyhow, was good enough.

"At last!" she said. "Philip, it is weeks since I set eyes on you. Where

have you been, and what have you done with yourself all this time? Now,

don't say it has only been business. I don't believe you do any, and I

shall send a detective to get on your track. Ah! you wouldn't like that,

I can see it; you gave what novelists call an involuntary shudder."

Then she broke down a little.

"Tea," she asked. "You like it weak, don't you?"

Philip settled himself in the chair she had indicated. He, too, like

Madge, was inclined to temporise, though his reasons for so doing were

different, for his inevitable errand was unpleasant, and the present so

extremely the reverse. Her temporisation on the other hand, was that of

postponing the inevitable for the sake of the impossible.

"Well, it is good anyhow to see you again," he said. "Yes, business

chiefly has stood in my way. But I won't be dishonest; I spent nearly

two hours this afternoon over the portrait."

"What portrait?" asked Madge, with a swiftness that she could not help.

But she would gladly have recalled it. For the present, however, it

appeared that Philip did not notice her vehemence.

"Mine," he said quietly. "I am sitting to Evelyn, you know. He hopes to

have it finished by the twenty-eighth. You shall see it then, but not

till then."

"Yes, keep it for then," she said, again bracing herself to keep up some

sort of attitude which should be natural in a girl to a man she was

shortly going to marry. "It must come as a surprise to me, Philip. But

only tell me: it is good, isn't it? I shan't be disappointed?"

Now, this portrait of himself seemed to Philip more magical work than

even that of Madge. He knew himself pretty well, but this afternoon,

when he was allowed to see it, he felt that Evelyn somehow must have

been inside him to have done that. Brilliant as Madge's portrait was

(the artist himself indeed considering it quite his high-water mark), it

was yet but a mood of Madge that he had caught so correctly and

delineated so unerringly--that mood of reassuring laughter at the

worries and the sorrows of life. But in his own portrait he felt that he

himself was there.

"No, I promise you that you will not be disappointed," he said, "though

I daresay it will make you jump. It isn't on the canvas at all, it seems

to me; it is stepping right out of it. And there is there," he added,

"not only this poor business man, but the man who loves you. He has put

that in. My goodness, how could he have _known_ what that was like?"

Madge gave a sudden little start, but recovered herself immediately. She

could not meet this seriously; it had to be laughed off.

"Well, I don't know what it is like," she said, "because with all my

faults, I've really never loved myself. I never think of myself except

as rather a little brute. It's better to do that oneself, isn't it, not

to leave it to others. Not that it prevents them doing it also."

Philip had possessed himself of Madge's left hand, the hand that he

never ceased to wonder at. It was always cool, never hot, never cold,

and the skin of it was like a peach. The fingers were long and tapered

to almond-shaped nails, and for all its slimness and delicacy it was yet

a strong hand. And mechanically she returned the touch of his, which

half unconsciously lingered at the base of the fourth finger as if

showing the place where so soon the plain circlet of gold would be.

"Ah! it is always a pity if anybody thinks one a brute," he said. "It

often must happen, but I think one should try to make such occasions

rare, so long as one does not have to sacrifice principle to them. I

mean, if anyone thinks one a brute, and one can convince him of the

contrary, it is usually worth while."

For a moment it flashed through Madge's brain what was coming.

Considering what her mind was full of, it was not surprising. And it

came.

"I want to ask a favour of you, dear," he said. "I call it a favour

because it is a real favour--it implies your doing something that I know

you don't want to do. It also will make somebody cease to think you a

brute, and instead of sacrificing a principle in its performance--you

will satisfy one, and that a very good one, the principle of fairness."

Madge had left the sofa where they were sitting together during this,

and simply in order to be doing something instead of inertly listening,

poured herself out another cup of tea. So her back was turned to Philip

when she replied:

"You state it as if I couldn't help saying 'Yes,'" she said, her voice

trembling a little. "What is it, Philip?"

"Merely this, that you give Evelyn another sitting," he said. "I had no

idea how strongly and keenly he felt about it till this afternoon. Shall

I tell you about it?"

"Yes, do."

"Well won't you come and sit here again?"

She did not dare, for she felt too uncertain of herself, and as she

poured the milk into her tea, her hand was no longer master of itself,

and the saucer was flooded.

"Ah! what a mess," she cried. "Go on, Philip."

"He feels that you are treating him shabbily," he said. "Mind, he never

said that; he never would. But it was clear to me. He believes that his

portrait of you is the best piece of work he is ever likely to do, and

though I may disagree with him, that says nothing against his right to

his opinion, which is probably correct. Well, he wants one more

sitting----"

"Did he say that this afternoon?"

"No, but he did before, and this afternoon he told me I might fetch it

away if I liked, and he would offer no opposition, but that he would not

send it. I can't take it like that; neither you nor I can take it if

that is his feeling about it. It isn't as if I paid for it; it is a

present--a most generous, splendid present. So will you be very kind,

Madge, and though he bores you, just go back once? Indeed, it is only

fair that you should. After all, it is only for an hour or so, and

really, I don't believe he bores you much."

Though in the next moment Madge thought of so much, the pause was not

long, for her thoughts flashed lightning-wise through her mind. First

came the dramatic wonder that it should be Philip--Philip of all people

in the huge world, who should be asking her to do this. If it had been

anybody else the thing would not have been so astounding, but it was he.

Then came the thought of her mother, and the promise she had given her.

Even before this that promise, set in the scales with larger issues, had

weighed light: now it just kicked the beam. But then, after that, and

stronger than all else, came the sense of solution, of a riddle

answered. How often had she puzzled over the manner in which it would

turn out that the twenty-eighth should be to her a day without

significance. Here was the answer, different from all her imaginings,

and told her by Philip himself. And of imaginings and puzzlings she had

had enough, and she did not put her brain to the task of imagining what

that sitting would be like, how he would speak, what he would say.

Simply, she was going to meet him again. And her voice when she answered

was perfectly calm, without vibration. She felt indeed now so certain of

herself that she came and sat by Philip again.

"Yes, if he feels it like that," she said, "and if you feel it like

that, I will do as you wish. As you say, an hour or two doesn't matter

much. I will write to him; it had better be as soon as possible--to-morrow

if he has time. I have rather an empty day to-morrow."

She got up again.

"I will write now, I think," she said, "because I must eat a little,

just a little, humble pie, and as I have no relish for that, I will get

it done with as soon as possible. Now, what shall I say? Let me think."

Her pen travelled with remarkable ease over the paper; the humble pie,

it appeared, was being consumed without much difficulty. Once only she

stopped for a word, then the scream of the quill underlined her own

name.

"Will this do?" she asked, and read:

Dear Mr. Dundas.--I feel that I have no right whatever, since you wish

me to give you another sitting, to refuse it. This has been pointed out

to me quite clearly by Philip, who is with me now, and I see that it is

not fair either on you or the portrait. I wonder if to-morrow would suit

you? I could come any time between three and six. If three will do, pray

do not trouble to answer, and I will assume the affirmative.

Philip's habit of considering business letters led him to pause.

"Yes, that is _amende honorable_," he said at length. "It will do

excellently. But if you are bored, Madge, why not take your mother with

you, or I would meet you there?"

"Oh, no, he would think it so odd," she said lightly. "You see, I am

accustomed to go alone. And he has told me that he hates other people in

the studio while he is painting."

She directed the note and rang the bell.

"There is one thing more, Philip," she said, "and that is that I don't

want my mother to know I am going. You see, I told her, too, that I was

not going to sit again, and if one goes back on one's word, well, the

fewer people who know about it the better. Everyone hates a changeable

person who doesn't know her own mind."

Philip willingly gave his assurance on this point, for though it seemed

to him rather a superfluous refinement, he was, on the whole, so pleased

to have met with no opposition that he was delighted to leave the matter

settled without more discussion. Then, since it was already time for him

to go home and dress for the early dinner before the theatre, he got up.

"Ah! Madge," he said, lingering a moment. "You don't know, and you can't

guess, how divinely happy you make me. In the big things I knew it was

so, but in little things it is so also. You are complete all through."

This struck her like a blow. She could scarcely look at him, it was even

harder to return his caress.

"Oh, don't think too well of me," she said, "and--and go now, or you

will be late."

Then, after he had gone, Madge felt tired as she had never felt tired

before. The fact that the tension was over showed her what the tension

had been; she had struggled, and while she struggled the need for effort

had postponed the effect of weariness which the effort produced. She

could go on living her ordinary life, and had not this occurred she

could still have gone on, but it was only now, when the need for going

on was over, that she knew how utterly weary she was. Yet with the

weariness there was given her a draught of wine; it would no longer be

"to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow," but to-morrow only. She knew as

surely as she knew how tired she was, that to-morrow would see her with

him, and the rest she was content to leave; no imagination or picturing

of hers was necessary. It would be as it would be.

After Philip had left her, there was still half an hour before she need

go to dress, but the thought that her solitude might be disturbed here

by anyone who called, or by her mother, who would be returning any

minute, caused her to go upstairs to her own room, where, till the

advent of her maid at dressing-time, she would be alone.

Thus it was scarcely a minute after her lover had gone that she went

upstairs. As she mounted the steps to the storey above, she heard the

front-door bell ring, congratulated herself on having just escaped, and

went more softly, and closed the door of her bedroom very gently behind

her.

The ring at the bell which she had heard was her mother returning. The

footman who had taken Madge's note, who had also just let Philip out,

let her in, having laid down the note in question on the hall table,

meaning to put a stamp on it, and drop it into the letter-box. Madge's

handwriting was unmistakable; it was brilliantly legible, too, and the

address leaped from the envelope.

Now, Lady Ellington, as both her friends and her possible enemies would

have at once admitted, was a very thorough woman. She did not, in fact,

when she desired or designed anything, neglect any opportunity of

furthering that desire or design, or on the other hand, neglect to

remove any obstacle which might possibly stand in the way of its

realisation. She had excellent eyes, too--eyes not only of good sight,

but very quick to observe. Yet even a short-sighted person might easily

have involuntarily read the address, so extremely legible was it. And

Lady Ellington, with her excellent sight, read it almost before she knew

she had read it. The footman in question had meantime just gone out to

deliver her order to the chauffeur for the motor this evening, and

before he had got back again into the hall, Lady Ellington was half-way

upstairs with the note in her hand.

William--the footman--had a week before received a month's warning on

the general grounds of carelessness and inattention. Whether justified

or not before they were justified now, for on re-entering he thought no

more at all about the note he had to post, but stared at himself in a

looking-glass, and hoped the next butler might be more agreeable to a

sensitive young fellow, than the one he at present served under. He was

a student of the drama, and smiled to himself in the glass, detecting in

that image a likeness to Mr. George Alexander. So he smiled again. And

as befits so vacant-minded a young man, he vanishes from this tale after

a short and inglorious career. His career he himself regarded in a

different fashion.

Lady Ellington went into the drawing-room on her way upstairs. Philip,

she knew, since she had passed him fifty yards from the house had gone,

and Madge, so it appeared, had gone too. But the tea was still there.

For herself, she had already had tea, but she took the trouble to rinse

out a cup, pour a little boiling water into it, and proceeded to lay the

note face upwards over it. Thorough in every way, she took the

precaution of sitting close to the table, ready at any moment to snatch

the note away and be discovered sipping hot water--a practice to which

she was known to be addicted, and to which she attributed much of her

superlative health and freedom from all digestive trouble. How well

founded that belief was may be judged from the fact that she digested

without qualms of any kind what she was doing now. The good purpose that

lurked behind assimilated apparently any meanness. In fact, the good

purpose was of the nature of the strongest acid; the meanness ceased to

exist--it was absorbed, utterly eaten away.

She was in no hurry, for there was still plenty of time before she need

dress, and she waited till the flap of the envelope began to curl back

of its own accord as the gum that fastened it was made fluid again by

the steam. This happened very soon, because it was not yet really dry.

Then, taking precaution against the sheet inside being touched by it,

she drew it out and read. The clear, neat handwriting--she had taken

great pains with Madge's early tuition in this art--was as intelligible

as print, and she only needed to read it through twice before she placed

it back again in its envelope, pressed the flap back, and left it to

cool and dry. Yet during this very short process her own ideas were also

cool and dry, and the reasoning sound and effective. So she put a stamp

on the envelope, and went downstairs herself, and dropped it into the

letter-box.

That was necessary, since in her note Madge had stated that she would be

at the studio at three unless she heard to the contrary. Therefore there

was no object to be gained in merely sequestrating the note, since Madge

proposed to go there unless stopped. For Lady Ellington knew well that

no plan, however well-founded, could be quite certain of success;

uncertainty, the possibly adverse action of Fate might work against it,

and thus to let this note go--of which she had mastered the

contents--was to provoke an accident the less, since, on her present

scheme, she had not stopped it. For the fewer dubious things one does on

the whole, the less is the risk. It is the unfortunate accident of guilt

which in nine cases out of ten hangs a man. So though she had been

guilty--in a way--when she wrote to Evelyn, implying Madge's

acquiescence in her letter, she had the more excellent reason now,

especially since she had completely mastered the contents of this note,

in not taking the more questionable step of stopping it. For she knew

for certain, and at the moment did not require to know more, the

immediate movements of the enemy; if Madge heard nothing, she would go

to the studio to-morrow at three. But no one under any circumstances

could prevent her mother making her appearance there too.

Again, it is true, some sort of reply might come. But the fact of a

reply coming was equivalent to Evelyn's saying that he could not be

there at three to-morrow, which rightly she put down as being a

negligible contingency. And in this case again, if Lady Ellington could

not keep watch over Madge's movements during the next ten days she felt

she would be really ashamed of herself. And as she had never been that

yet, she saw no reason why she should begin now. She was probably

right--the chances were immensely at this moment in favour of her not

beginning to be ashamed of herself. For the beginnings of shame are

searchings of the heart; Lady Ellington never searched her heart, she

only did her best.

The evening passed in perfect harmony; and though she had a good deal to

think about, she could yet spare time to be characteristically critical

about the play. That was easy, since it was a very bad one, and the

deeper consolations of her brain were devoted all the time to certain

contingencies. This note had been posted by half-past seven; it would be

received that night. Supposing there was a reply to it, it was almost

certain that the answer would come at the second morning post, the one

that rapped towards the end of breakfast time. If so, and if that reply

was received by Madge, she had merely, in the most natural manner

possible, to suggest complete occupations for the day, challenging and

inquiring into any other engagement. But she did not seriously expect

this--no reply was the almost certain rejoinder. In this case, Lady

Ellington would be quite unoccupied after lunch.

The ramifications went further. Madge had consented to give Mr. Dundas

another sitting after she had declared she would not take the next step.

It was better, therefore, to meet guile with guile, and not suggest a

suspicion or possibility of it till the last moment. She would go out to

lunch to-morrow herself, with regrets to Madge, leaving her free to

spend the afternoon as she chose, without asking questions. She herself,

however, would leave lunch early, and manage to be at Mr. Dundas's by

three o'clock, five minutes before perhaps; it was always well to be on

the safe side.

Lady Ellington's applause at the end of the second act was rather

absent-minded. Her thoroughness made her examine her own position a

little more closely, and there was one point about it which she did not

much like, namely, the fact that she had written to Mr. Dundas from

Brockenhurst, implying Madge's concurrence in what she said. It would be

rather awkward if any hint of that ever reached Madge; it really would

be difficult to explain. Explanation, in fact, was impossible, since

there was none. But it followed from this, as a corollary, that he must

not see Madge alone; the chances then were enormous of the whole thing

coming out. Yet how again would she be able to explain her own presence

at Evelyn's house in the King's Road at three o'clock that afternoon? It

was childish to say she happened to be passing. Then a solution occurred

to her--one which was extraordinarily simple, and extremely

probable--Philip had told her that Madge was sitting again. So probable,

indeed, was this, that she could, almost without effort, persuade

herself that he had done so.

Lady Ellington was happily unconscious at this moment what an extremely

tangled web she was weaving, and how impossible it was for her to

disentangle it, for not having had the privilege of overhearing Madge's

conversation with Philip, she had, by no fault of hers, no idea that he

was pledged to secrecy. True, he had not actually mentioned, a thing

which he might be expected to have done, the fact that Madge was going

to sit again, but no doubt a little well-turned conversation might make

him do so. Madge, at the end of the third act, was talking to a

neighbour in the stalls, and she herself turned to Philip.

"A stupid act, rather," she said. "Those two laid their plans so badly."

Then, with a sudden sense of the inward humour of her words:

"It isn't enough to open people's letters," she said, "you must hear

their conversations too. I should really have made an excellent villain,

if I had studied villainy. I should have hidden behind the curtains, and

under the tables, and listened at key holes, for the private

conversations of other people, and carefully looked in such places, and

hung a handkerchief over the key-hole before indulging in any of my

own."

Philip laughed.

"Yes, I think you would be thorough in all you did," he said, "and

certainly, whatever your line was, I should 'pick you up' first, as

schoolboys say, to be on my side."

"Ah! I am certainly on your side," said she. "Now, what have you done

with yourself all day? I like to hear always exactly what people have

done. A few weeks of what people have done gives you the complete key to

their character."

"Is that why you ask?" said he.

"No, because I know your character. I ask merely from interest in you."

"Well, I rode before breakfast," said he, "and got down to the city

about half-past ten. I worked till half-past two, dull work rather--but,

by-the-bye, hold on to your East Rand Mining, I think they are going

better--then I ate three sandwiches and a piece of cake; then I sat to

Evelyn for two hours, then I went round to see Madge, dressed, dined,

and didn't think much of the play."

"And your portrait?" asked Lady Ellington. "Is it good?"

"Ah! all he does is good," said Philip. "A man like that cannot do a bad

thing. But it is more than good. It's Mary Jane's top-note."

"I thought Madge was his top-note," said Lady Ellington.

"Well, I think he has gone a semitone higher," said he. "Of course I am

the worst person to judge, but it seems to me that he is even more sure

in this than he was in her portrait. Haven't you seen it?"

Lady Ellington was quite quick enough to catch at this.

"No, but I should so much like to," she said. "Do you think he would let

me see it?"

"I'm sure he would."

Philip paused a moment.

"Send him a note, or I will," he said. "I shouldn't go to-morrow, if I

were you, because I know he is busy."

"Ah! what a pity," said Lady Ellington, lowering her voice a little. "I

have nothing to do to-morrow afternoon."

"I know he is busy," repeated Philip. "He told me so."

"And Madge's portrait," she said, "when shall we see that? It is quite

finished, is it not?"

Suddenly the preposterous idea occurred to Philip that he was being

pumped. No doubt it was only Madge's rather ridiculous request that her

mother should not know that she was going to sit again that suggested

it, but still it was there. On this point also he had given his promise

to her, and he went warily in this time of trouble.

"I fancy he is going to work a little more at it," he said, anxious to

tell the truth as far as possible. "Indeed, he told me so to-day. But he

said that if I sent for it in a couple of days it would be ready for me

to take."

It was quite clear, therefore--indeed, the letter that had so

providentially come into her hands told her that--that Philip knew that

Madge was going to sit again to-morrow. The letter anyhow had told her

that she was going to sit again; Philip's suggestion that she herself

should not go to see his portrait to-morrow was quite sufficiently

confirmatory of the rest. He had not told her, it is true, that Madge

was going to do this, but it would answer her purpose well enough. There

was only one thing more to ask.

"I think Madge said she would not sit for him again," she observed.

"Yes, I know she did," said he, "because I was the bearer of that

message from her. I thought it was a mistake, I remember, at the time."

It was on the tip of Lady Ellington's tongue to say, "And have told her

so since," but she remembered how terribly this would fall below her

usually felicitous level of scheming. So, as the curtain went up at this

moment, she turned her attention to the stage. Had it not gone up, she

would have diverted the talk into other channels; the raising of the

curtain was not a deliverance to her.

"Let us see what these second-rate schemers make of it all," she said.

The act was played to a tragic end, and Philip helped her on with her

cloak.

"No, they committed an initial fault," she said; "they didn't lay their

original schemes well enough."

But though the play was a disappointment, she pondered over it all the

way home.

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