'MY DEAR ETHELBERTA, - I have tried to like staying at Sandbourne
because you wished it, but I can't endure the town at all, dear Berta;
everything is so wretched and dull! O, I only wish you knew how
dismal it is here, and how much I would give to come to London! I
cannot help thinking that I could do better in town. You see, I
should be close to you, and should have the benefit of your
experience. I would not mind what I did for a living could I be there
where you all are. It is so like banishment to be here. If I could
not get a pupil-teachership in some London school (and I believe I
could by advertising) I could stay with you, and be governess to
Georgina and Myrtle, for I am sure you cannot spare time enough to
teach them as they ought to be taught, and Emmeline is not old enough
to have any command over them. I could also assist at your
dressmaking, and you must require a great deal of that to be done if
you continue to appear in public. Mr. Long read in the papers the
account of your first evening, and afterwards I heard two ladies of
our committee talking about it; but of course not one of them knew my
personal interest in the discussion. Now will you, Ethelberta, think
if I may not come: Do, there's a dear sister! I will do anything you
set me about if I may only come. - Your ever affectionate,
PICOTEE.'
'Great powers above - what worries do beset me!' cried Ethelberta, jumping
up. 'What can possess the child so suddenly? - she used to like
Sandbourne well enough!' She sat down, and hastily scribbled the
following reply: -
'MY DEAR PICOTEE - There is only a little time to spare before the post
goes, but I will try to answer your letter at once. Whatever is the
reason of this extraordinary dislike to Sandbourne? It is a nice
healthy place, and you are likely to do much better than either of our
elder sisters, if you follow straight on in the path you have chosen.
Of course, if such good fortune should attend me that I get rich by my
contrivances of public story-telling and so on, I shall share
everything with you and the rest of us, in which case you shall not
work at all. But (although I have been unexpectedly successful so
far) this is problematical; and it would be rash to calculate upon all
of us being able to live, or even us seven girls only, upon the
fortune I am going to make that way. So, though I don't mean to be
harsh, I must impress upon you the necessity of going on as you are
going just at present. I know the place must be dull, but we must all
put up with dulness sometimes. You, being next to me in age, must aid
me as well as you can in doing something for the younger ones; and if
anybody at all comes and lives here otherwise than as a servant, it
must be our father - who will not, however, at present hear of such a
thing when I mention it to him. Do think of all this, Picotee, and
bear up! Perhaps we shall all be happy and united some day. Joey is
waiting to run to the post-office with this at once. All are well.
Sol and Dan have nearly finished the repairs and decorations of my
house - but I will tell you of that another time. - Your affectionate
sister, BERTA.'
18. NEAR SANDBOURNE - LONDON STREETS - ETHELBERTA'S
When this letter reached its destination the next morning, Picotee, in
her over-anxiety, could not bring herself to read it in anybody's
presence, and put it in her pocket till she was on her walk across the
moor. She still lived at the cottage out of the town, though at some
inconvenience to herself, in order to teach at a small village
night-school whilst still carrying on her larger occupation of
pupil-teacher in Sandbourne.
So she walked and read, and was soon in tears. Moreover, when she
thought of what Ethelberta would have replied had that keen sister known
the wildness of her true reason in wishing to go, she shuddered with
misery. To wish to get near a man only because he had been kind to her,
and had admired her pretty face, and had given her flowers, to nourish a
passion all the more because of its hopeless impracticability, were
things to dream of, not to tell. Picotee was quite an unreasoning
animal. Her sister arranged situations for her, told her how to conduct
herself in them, how to make up anew, in unobtrusive shapes, the valuable
wearing apparel she sent from time to time - so as to provoke neither
exasperation in the little gentry, nor superciliousness in the great.
Ethelberta did everything for her, in short; and Picotee obeyed orders
with the abstracted ease of mind which people show who have their
thinking done for them, and put out their troubles as they do their
washing. She was quite willing not to be clever herself, since it was
unnecessary while she had a much-admired sister, who was clever enough
for two people and to spare.
This arrangement, by which she gained an untroubled existence in exchange
for freedom of will, had worked very pleasantly for Picotee until the
anomaly of falling in love on her own account created a jar in the
machinery. Then she began to know how wearing were miserable days, and
how much more wearing were miserable nights. She pictured Christopher in
London calling upon her dignified sister (for Ethelberta innocently
mentioned his name sometimes in writing) and imagined over and over again
the mutual signs of warm feeling between them. And now Picotee resolved
upon a noble course. Like Juliet, she had been troubled with a
consciousness that perhaps her love for Christopher was a trifle forward
and unmaidenly, even though she had determined never to let him or
anybody in the whole world know of it. To set herself to pray that she
might have strength to see him without a pang the lover of her sister,
who deserved him so much more than herself, would be a grand penance and
corrective.
After uttering petitions to this effect for several days, she still felt
very bad; indeed, in the psychological difficulty of striving for what in
her soul she did not desire, rather worse, if anything. At last, weary
of walking the old road and never meeting him, and blank in a general
powerlessness, she wrote the letter to Ethelberta, which was only the
last one of a series that had previously been written and torn up.
Now this hope had been whirled away like thistledown, and the case was
grievous enough to distract a greater stoic than Picotee. The end of it
was that she left the school on insufficient notice, gave up her cottage
home on the plea - true in the letter - that she was going to join a
relative in London, and went off thither by a morning train, leaving her
things packed ready to be sent on when she should write for them.
Picotee arrived in town late on a cold February afternoon, bearing a
small bag in her hand. She crossed Westminster Bridge on foot, just
after dusk, and saw a luminous haze hanging over each well-lighted street
as it withdrew into distance behind the nearer houses, showing its
direction as a train of morning mist shows the course of a distant stream
when the stream itself is hidden. The lights along the riverside towards
Charing Cross sent an inverted palisade of gleaming swords down into the
shaking water, and the pavement ticked to the touch of pedestrians' feet,
most of whom tripped along as if walking only to practise a favourite
quick step, and held handkerchiefs to their mouths to strain off the
river mist from their lungs. She inquired her way to Exonbury Crescent,
and between five and six o'clock reached her sister's door.
Two or three minutes were passed in accumulating resolution sufficient to
ring the bell, which when at last she did, was not performed in a way at
all calculated to make the young man Joey hasten to the door. After the
lapse of a certain time he did, however, find leisure to stroll and see
what the caller might want, out of curiosity to know who there could be
in London afraid to ring a bell twice.
Joey's delight exceeded even his surprise, the ruling maxim of his life
being the more the merrier, under all circumstances. The beaming young
man was about to run off and announce her upstairs and downstairs, left
and right, when Picotee called him hastily to her. In the hall her quick
young eye had caught sight of an umbrella with a peculiar horn handle - an
umbrella she had been accustomed to meet on Sandbourne Moor on many happy
afternoons. Christopher was evidently in the house.
'Joey,' she said, as if she were ready to faint, 'don't tell Berta I am
come. She has company, has she not?'
'O no - only Mr. Julian!' said the brother. 'He's quite one of the
family!'
'Never mind - can't I go down into the kitchen with you?' she inquired.
There had been bliss and misery mingled in those tidings, and she
scarcely knew for a moment which way they affected her. What she did
know was that she had run her dear fox to earth, and a sense of
satisfaction at that feat prevented her just now from counting the cost
of the performance.
'Does Mr. Julian come to see her very often?' said she.
'O yes - he's always a-coming - a regular bore to me.'
'A regular what?'
'Bore! - Ah, I forgot, you don't know our town words. However, come
along.'
They passed by the doors on tiptoe, and their mother upstairs being,
according to Joey's account, in the midst of a nap, Picotee was unwilling
to disturb her; so they went down at once to the kitchen, when forward
rushed Gwendoline the cook, flourishing her floury hands, and Cornelia
the housemaid, dancing over her brush; and these having welcomed and made
Picotee comfortable, who should ring the area-bell, and be admitted down
the steps, but Sol and Dan. The workman-brothers, their day's duties
being over, had called to see their relations, first, as usual, going
home to their lodgings in Marylebone and making themselves as spruce as
bridegrooms, according to the rules of their newly-acquired town
experience. For the London mechanic is only nine hours a mechanic,
though the country mechanic works, eats, drinks, and sleeps a mechanic
throughout the whole twenty-four.
'God bless my soul - Picotee!' said Dan, standing fixed. 'Well - I say,
this is splendid! ha-ha!'
'Picotee - what brought you here?' said Sol, expanding the circumference
of his face in satisfaction. 'Well, come along - never mind so long as
you be here.'
Picotee explained circumstances as well as she could without stating
them, and, after a general conversation of a few minutes, Sol interrupted
with - 'Anybody upstairs with Mrs. Petherwin?'
'Mr. Julian was there just now,' said Joey; 'but he may be gone. Berta
always lets him slip out how he can, the form of ringing me up not being
necessary with him. Wait a minute - I'll see.'
Joseph vanished up the stairs; and, the question whether Christopher were
gone or not being an uninteresting one to the majority, the talking went
on upon other matters. When Joey crept down again a minute later,
Picotee was sitting aloof and silent, and he accordingly singled her out
to speak to.
'Such a lark, Picotee!' he whispered. 'Berta's a-courting of her young
man. Would you like to see how they carries on a bit?'
'Dearly I should!' said Picotee, the pupils of her eyes dilating.
Joey conducted her to the top of the basement stairs, and told her to
listen. Within a few yards of them was the morning-room door, now
standing ajar; and an intermittent flirtation in soft male and female
tones could be heard going on inside. Picotee's lips parted at thus
learning the condition of things, and she leant against the stair-newel.
'My? What's the matter?' said Joey.
'If this is London, I don't like it at all!' moaned Picotee.
'Well - I never see such a girl - fainting all over the stairs for nothing
in the world.'
'O - it will soon be gone - it is - it is only indigestion.'
'Indigestion? Much you simple country people can know about that! You
should see what devils of indigestions we get in high life - eating
'normous great dinners and suppers that require clever physicians to
carry 'em off, or else they'd carry us off with gout next day; and waking
in the morning with such a splitting headache, and dry throat, and inward
cusses about human nature, that you feel all the world like some great
lord. However, now let's go down again.'
'No, no, no!' said the unhappy maiden imploringly. 'Hark!'
They listened again. The voices of the musician and poetess had changed:
there was a decided frigidity in their tone - then came a louder
expression - then a silence.
'You needn't be afeard,' said Joey. 'They won't fight; bless you, they
busts out quarrelling like this times and times when they've been over-
friendly, but it soon gets straight with 'em again.'
There was now a quick walk across the room, and Joey and his sister drew
down their heads out of sight. Then the room door was slammed, quick
footsteps went along the hall, the front door closed just as loudly, and
Christopher's tread passed into nothing along the pavement.
'That's rather a wuss one than they mostly have; but Lord, 'tis nothing
at all.'
'I don't much like biding here listening!' said Picotee.
'O, 'tis how we do all over the West End,' said Joey. ''Tis yer
ignorance of town life that makes it seem a good deal to 'ee.'
'You can't make much boast about town life; for you haven't left off
talking just as they do down in Wessex.'
'Well, I own to that - what's fair is fair, and 'tis a true charge; but if
I talk the Wessex way 'tisn't for want of knowing better; 'tis because my
staunch nater makes me bide faithful to our old ancient institutions.
You'd soon own 'twasn't ignorance in me, if you knowed what large
quantities of noblemen I gets mixed up with every day. In fact 'tis
thoughted here and there that I shall do very well in the world.'
'Well, let us go down,' said Picotee. 'Everything seems so overpowering
here.'
'O, you'll get broke in soon enough. I felt just the same when I first
entered into society.'
'Do you think Berta will be angry with me? How does she treat you?'
'Well, I can't complain. You see she's my own flesh and blood, and what
can I say? But, in secret truth, the wages is terrible low, and barely
pays for the tobacco I consooms.'
'O Joey, you wicked boy! If mother only knew that you smoked!'
'I don't mind the wickedness so much as the smell. And Mrs. Petherwin
has got such a nose for a fellow's clothes. 'Tis one of the greatest
knots in service - the smoke question. 'Tis thoughted that we shall make
a great stir about it in the mansions of the nobility soon.'
'How much more you know of life than I do - you only fourteen and me
seventeen!'
'Yes, that's true. You see, age is nothing - 'tis opportunity. And even
I can't boast, for many a younger man knows more.'
'But don't smoke, Joey - there's a dear!'
'What can I do? Society hev its rules, and if a person wishes to keep
himself up, he must do as the world do. We be all Fashion's slave - as
much a slave as the meanest in the land!'
They got downstairs again; and when the dinner of the French lady and
gentleman had been sent up and cleared away, and also Ethelberta's
evening tea (which she formed into a genuine meal, making a dinner of
luncheon, when nobody was there, to give less trouble to her
servant-sisters), they all sat round the fire. Then the rustle of a
dress was heard on the staircase, and squirrel-haired Ethelberta appeared
in person. It was her custom thus to come down every spare evening, to
teach Joey and her sisters something or other - mostly French, which she
spoke fluently; but the cook and housemaid showed more ambition than
intelligence in acquiring that tongue, though Joey learnt it readily
enough.
There was consternation in the camp for a moment or two, on account of
poor Picotee, Ethelberta being not without firmness in matters of
discipline. Her eye instantly lighted upon her disobedient sister, now
looking twice as disobedient as she really was.
'O, you are here, Picotee? I am glad to see you,' said the mistress of
the house quietly.
This was altogether to Picotee's surprise, for she had expected a round
rating at least, in her freshness hardly being aware that this reserve of
feeling was an acquired habit of Ethelberta's, and that civility stood in
town for as much vexation as a tantrum represented in Wessex.
Picotee lamely explained her outward reasons for coming, and soon began
to find that Ethelberta's opinions on the matter would not be known by
the tones of her voice. But innocent Picotee was as wily as a
religionist in sly elusions of the letter whilst infringing the spirit of
a dictum; and by talking very softly and earnestly about the wondrous
good she could do by remaining in the house as governess to the children,
and playing the part of lady's-maid to her sister at show times, she so
far coaxed Ethelberta out of her intentions that she almost accepted the
plan as a good one. It was agreed that for the present, at any rate,
Picotee should remain. Then a visit was made to Mrs. Chickerel's room,
where the remainder of the evening was passed; and harmony reigned in the
household.
19. ETHELBERTA'S DRAWING-ROOM
Picotee's heart was fitfully glad. She was near the man who had enlarged
her capacity from girl's to woman's, a little note or two of young
feeling to a whole diapason; and though nearness was perhaps not in
itself a great reason for felicity when viewed beside the complete
realization of all that a woman can desire in such circumstances, it was
much in comparison with the outer darkness of the previous time.
It became evident to all the family that some misunderstanding had arisen
between Ethelberta and Mr. Julian. What Picotee hoped in the centre of
her heart as to the issue of the affair it would be too complex a thing
to say. If Christopher became cold towards her sister he would not come
to the house; if he continued to come it would really be as Ethelberta's
lover - altogether, a pretty game of perpetual check for Picotee.
He did not make his appearance for several days. Picotee, being a
presentable girl, and decidedly finer-natured than her sisters below
stairs, was allowed to sit occasionally with Ethelberta in the afternoon,
when the teaching of the little ones had been done for the day; and thus
she had an opportunity of observing Ethelberta's emotional condition with
reference to Christopher, which Picotee did with an interest that the
elder sister was very far from suspecting.
At first Ethelberta seemed blithe enough without him. One more day went,
and he did not come, and then her manner was that of apathy. Another day
passed, and from fanciful elevations of the eyebrow, and long breathings,
it became apparent that Ethelberta had decidedly passed the indifferent
stage, and was getting seriously out of sorts about him. Next morning
she looked all hope. He did not come that day either, and Ethelberta
began to look pale with fear.
'Why don't you go out?' said Picotee timidly.
'I can hardly tell: I have been expecting some one.'
'When she comes I must run up to mother at once, must I not?' said clever
Picotee.
'It is not a lady,' said Ethelberta blandly. She came then and stood by
Picotee, and looked musingly out of the window. 'I may as well tell you,
perhaps,' she continued. 'It is Mr. Julian. He is - I suppose - my lover,
in plain English.'
'Ah!' said Picotee.
'Whom I am not going to marry until he gets rich.'
'Ah - how strange! If I had him - such a lover, I mean - I would marry him
if he continued poor.'
'I don't doubt it, Picotee; just as you come to London without caring
about consequences, or would do any other crazy thing and not mind in the
least what came of it. But somebody in the family must take a practical
view of affairs, or we should all go to the dogs.'
Picotee recovered from the snubbing which she felt that she deserved, and
charged gallantly by saying, with delicate showings of indifference, 'Do
you love this Mr. What's-his-name of yours?'
'Mr. Julian? O, he's a very gentlemanly man. That is, except when he is
rude, and ill-uses me, and will not come and apologize!'
'If I had him - a lover, I would ask him to come if I wanted him to.'
Ethelberta did not give her mind to this remark; but, drawing a long
breath, said, with a pouting laugh, which presaged unreality, 'The idea
of his getting indifferent now! I have been intending to keep him on
until I got tired of his attentions, and then put an end to them by
marrying him; but here is he, before he has hardly declared himself,
forgetting my existence as much as if he had vowed to love and cherish me
for life. 'Tis an unnatural inversion of the manners of society.'
'When did you first get to care for him, dear Berta?'
'O - when I had seen him once or twice.'
'Goodness - how quick you were!'
'Yes - if I am in the mind for loving I am not to be hindered by shortness
of acquaintanceship.'
'Nor I neither!' sighed Picotee.
'Nor any other woman. We don't need to know a man well in order to love
him. That's only necessary when we want to leave off.'
'O Berta - you don't believe that!'
'If a woman did not invariably form an opinion of her choice before she
has half seen him, and love him before she has half formed an opinion,
there would be no tears and pining in the whole feminine world, and poets
would starve for want of a topic. I don't believe it, do you say? Ah,
well, we shall see.'
Picotee did not know what to say to this; and Ethelberta left the room to
see about her duties as public story-teller, in which capacity she had
undertaken to appear again this very evening.
20. THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF THE HALL - THE ROAD HOME
London was illuminated by the broad full moon. The pavements looked
white as if mantled with snow; ordinary houses were sublimated to the
rank of public buildings, public buildings to palaces, and the faces of
women walking the streets to those of calendared saints and
guardian-angels, by the pure bleaching light from the sky.
In the quiet little street where opened the private door of the Hall
chosen by Ethelberta for her story-telling, a brougham was waiting. The
time was about eleven o'clock; and presently a lady came out from the
building, the moonbeams forthwith flooding her face, which they showed to
be that of the Story-teller herself. She hastened across to the
carriage, when a second thought arrested her motion: telling the
man-servant and a woman inside the brougham to wait for her, she wrapped
up her features and glided round to the front of the house, where she
paused to observe the carriages and cabs driving up to receive the
fashionable crowd stepping down from the doors. Standing here in the
throng which her own talent and ingenuity had drawn together, she
appeared to enjoy herself by listening for a minute or two to the names
of several persons of more or less distinction as they were called out,
and then regarded attentively the faces of others of lesser degree: to
scrutinize the latter was, as the event proved, the real object of the
journey from round the corner. When nearly every one had left the doors,
she turned back disappointed. Ethelberta had been fancying that her
alienated lover Christopher was in the back rows to-night, but, as far as
could now be observed, the hopeful supposition was a false one.
When she got round to the back again, a man came forward. It was
Ladywell, whom she had spoken to already that evening. 'Allow me to
bring you your note-book, Mrs. Petherwin: I think you had forgotten it,'
he said. 'I assure you that nobody has handled it but myself.'
Ethelberta thanked him, and took the book. 'I use it to look into
between the parts, in case my memory should fail me,' she explained. 'I
remember that I did lay it down, now you remind me.'
Ladywell had apparently more to say, and moved by her side towards the
carriage; but she declined the arm he offered, and said not another word
till he went on, haltingly:
'Your triumph to-night was very great, and it was as much a triumph to me
as to you; I cannot express my feeling - I cannot say half that I would.
If I might only - '
'Thank you much,' said Ethelberta, with dignity. 'Thank you for bringing
my book, but I must go home now. I know that you will see that it is not
necessary for us to be talking here.'
'Yes - you are quite right,' said the repressed young painter, struck by
her seriousness. 'Blame me; I ought to have known better. But perhaps a
man - well, I will say it - a lover without indiscretion is no lover at
all. Circumspection and devotion are a contradiction in terms. I saw
that, and hoped that I might speak without real harm.'
'You calculated how to be uncalculating, and are natural by art!' she
said, with the slightest accent of sarcasm. 'But pray do not attend me
further - it is not at all necessary or desirable. My maid is in the
carriage.' She bowed, turned, and entered the vehicle, seating herself
beside Picotee.
'It was harsh!' said Ladywell to himself, as he looked after the
retreating carriage. 'I was a fool; but it was harsh. Yet what man on
earth likes a woman to show too great a readiness at first? She is
right: she would be nothing without repulse!' And he moved away in an
opposite direction.
'What man was that?' said Picotee, as they drove along.
'O - a mere Mr. Ladywell: a painter of good family, to whom I have been
sitting for what he calls an Idealization. He is a dreadful simpleton.'
'Why did you choose him?'
'I did not: he chose me. But his silliness of behaviour is a hopeful
sign for the picture. I have seldom known a man cunning with his brush
who was not simple with his tongue; or, indeed, any skill in particular
that was not allied to general stupidity.'
'Your own skill is not like that, is it, Berta?'
'In men - in men. I don't mean in women. How childish you are!'
The slight depression at finding that Christopher was not present, which
had followed Ethelberta's public triumph that evening, was covered over,
if not removed, by Ladywell's declaration, and she reached home serene in
spirit. That she had not the slightest notion of accepting the impulsive
painter made little difference; a lover's arguments being apt to affect a
lady's mood as much by measure as by weight. A useless declaration like
a rare china teacup with a hole in it, has its ornamental value in
enlarging a collection.
No sooner had they entered the house than Mr. Julian's card was
discovered; and Joey informed them that he had come particularly to speak
with Ethelberta, quite forgetting that it was her evening for
tale-telling.
This was real delight, for between her excitements Ethelberta had been
seriously sick-hearted at the horrible possibility of his never calling
again. But alas! for Christopher. There being nothing like a dead
silence for getting one's off-hand sweetheart into a corner, there is
nothing like prematurely ending it for getting into that corner one's
self.
'Now won't I punish him for daring to stay away so long!' she exclaimed
as soon as she got upstairs. 'It is as bad to show constancy in your
manners as fickleness in your heart at such a time as this.'
'But I thought honesty was the best policy?' said Picotee.
'So it is, for the man's purpose. But don't you go believing in sayings,
Picotee: they are all made by men, for their own advantages. Women who
use public proverbs as a guide through events are those who have not
ingenuity enough to make private ones as each event occurs.'
She sat down, and rapidly wrote a line to Mr. Julian: -
'EXONBURY CRESCENT.
'I return from Mayfair Hall to find you have called. You will, I
know, be good enough to forgive my saying what seems an unfriendly
thing, when I assure you that the circumstances of my peculiar
situation make it desirable, if not necessary. It is that I beg you
not to give me the pleasure of a visit from you for some little time,
for unhappily the frequency of your kind calls has been noticed; and I
am now in fear that we may be talked about - invidiously - to the injury
of us both. The town, or a section of it, has turned its bull's-eye
upon me with a brightness which I did not in the least anticipate; and
you will, I am sure, perceive how indispensable it is that I should be
circumspect. - Yours sincerely,
E. PETHERWIN.'
21. A STREET - NEIGH'S ROOMS - CHRISTOPHER'S ROOMS
As soon as Ethelberta had driven off from the Hall, Ladywell turned back
again; and, passing the front entrance, overtook his acquaintance Mr.
Neigh, who had been one of the last to emerge. The two were going in the
same direction, and they walked a short distance together.
'Has anything serious happened?' said Neigh, noticing an abstraction in
his companion. 'You don't seem in your usual mood to-night.'
'O, it is only that affair between us,' said Ladywell.
'Affair? Between you and whom?'
'Her and myself, of course. It will be in every fellow's mouth now, I
suppose!'
'But - not anything between yourself and Mrs. Petherwin?'
'A mere nothing. But surely you started, Neigh, when you suspected it
just this moment?'
'No - you merely fancied that.'
'Did she not speak well to-night! You were in the room, I believe?'
'Yes, I just turned in for half-an-hour: it seems that everybody does, so
I thought I must. But I had no idea that you were feeble that way.'
'It is very kind of you, Neigh - upon my word it is - very kind; and of
course I appreciate the delicacy which - which - '
'What's kind?'
'I mean your well-intentioned plan for making me believe that nothing is
known of this. But stories will of course get wind; and if our
attachment has made more noise in the world than I intended it should,
and causes any public interest, why - ha-ha! - it must. There is some
little romance in it perhaps, and people will talk of matters of that
sort between individuals of any repute - little as that is with one of the
pair.'
'Of course they will - of course. You are a rising man, remember, whom
some day the world will delight to honour.'
'Thank you for that, Neigh. Thank you sincerely.'
'Not at all. It is merely justice to say it, and one must he generous to
deserve thanks.'
'Ha-ha! - that's very nicely put, and undeserved I am sure. And yet I
need a word of that sort sometimes!'
'Genius is proverbially modest.'
'Pray don't, Neigh - I don't deserve it, indeed. Of course it is well
meant in you to recognize any slight powers, but I don't deserve it.
Certainly, my self-assurance was never too great. 'Tis the misfortune of
all children of art that they should be so dependent upon any scraps of
praise they can pick up to help them along.'
'And when that child gets so deep in love that you can only see the
whites of his eyes - '
'Ah - now, Neigh - don't, I say!'
'But why did - '
'Why did I love her?'
'Yes, why did you love her?'
'Ah, if I could only turn self-vivisector, and watch the operation of my
heart, I should know!'
'My dear fellow, you must be very bad indeed to talk like that. A poet
himself couldn't be cleaner gone.'
'Now, don't chaff, Neigh; do anything, but don't chaff. You know that I
am the easiest man in the world for taking it at most times. But I can't
stand it now; I don't feel up to it. A glimpse of paradise, and then
perdition. What would you do, Neigh?'
'She has refused you, then?'
'Well - not positively refused me; but it is so near it that a dull man
couldn't tell the difference. I hardly can myself.'
'How do you really stand with her?' said Neigh, with an anxiety
ill-concealed.
'Off and on - neither one thing nor the other. I was determined to make
an effort the last time she sat to me, and so I met her quite coolly, and
spoke only of technicalities with a forced smile - you know that way of
mine for drawing people out, eh, Neigh?'
'Quite, quite.'
'A forced smile, as much as to say, "I am obliged to entertain you, but
as a mere model for art purposes." But the deuce a bit did she care. And
then I frequently looked to see what time it was, as the end of the
sitting drew near - rather a rude thing to do, as a rule.'
'Of course. But that was your finesse. Ha-ha! - capital! Yet why not
struggle against such slavery? It is regularly pulling you down. What's
a woman's beauty, after all?'
'Well you may say so! A thing easier to feel than define,' murmured
Ladywell. 'But it's no use, Neigh - I can't help it as long as she
repulses me so exquisitely! If she would only care for me a little, I
might get to trouble less about her.'
'And love her no more than one ordinarily does a girl by the time one
gets irrevocably engaged to her. But I suppose she keeps you back so
thoroughly that you carry on the old adoration with as much vigour as if
it were a new fancy every time?'
'Partly yes, and partly no! It's very true, and it's not true!'
''Tis to be hoped she won't hate you outright, for then you would
absolutely die of idolizing her.'
'Don't, Neigh! - Still there's some truth in it - such is the perversity of
our hearts. Fancy marrying such a woman!'
'We should feel as eternally united to her after years and years of
marriage as to a dear new angel met at last night's dance.'
'Exactly - just what I should have said. But did I hear you say "We,"
Neigh? You didn't say "WE should feel?"'
'Say "we"? - yes - of course - putting myself in your place just in the way
of speaking, you know.'
'Of course, of course; but one is such a fool at these times that one
seems to detect rivalry in every trumpery sound! Were you never a little
touched?'
'Not I. My heart is in the happy position of a country which has no
history or debt.'
'I suppose I should rejoice to hear it,' said Ladywell. 'But the
consciousness of a fellow-sufferer being in just such another hole is
such a relief always, and softens the sense of one's folly so very much.'
'There's less Christianity in that sentiment than in your confessing to
it, old fellow. I know the truth of it nevertheless, and that's why
married men advise others to marry. Were all the world tied up, the
pleasantly tied ones would be equivalent to those at present free. But
what if your fellow-sufferer is not only in another such a hole, but in
the same one?'
'No, Neigh - never! Don't trifle with a friend who - '
'That is, refused like yourself, as well as in love.'
'Ah, thanks, thanks! It suddenly occurred to me that we might be dead
against one another as rivals, and a friendship of many long - days be
snapped like a - like a reed.'
'No - no - only a jest,' said Neigh, with a strangely accelerated speech.
'Love-making is an ornamental pursuit that matter-of-fact fellows like me
are quite unfit for. A man must have courted at least half-a-dozen women
before he's a match for one; and since triumph lies so far ahead, I shall
keep out of the contest altogether.'
'Your life would be pleasanter if you were engaged. It is a nice thing,
after all.'
'It is. The worst of it would be that, when the time came for breaking
it off, a fellow might get into an action for breach - women are so fond
of that sort of thing now; and I hate love-affairs that don't end
peaceably!'
'But end it by peaceably marrying, my dear fellow!'
'It would seem so singular. Besides, I have a horror of antiquity: and
you see, as long as a man keeps single, he belongs in a measure to the
rising generation, however old he may be; but as soon as he marries and
has children, he belongs to the last generation, however young he may be.
Old Jones's son is a deal younger than young Brown's father, though they
are both the same age.'
'At any rate, honest courtship cures a man of many evils he had no power
to stem before.'
'By substituting an incurable matrimony!'
'Ah - two persons must have a mind for that before it can happen!' said
Ladywell, sorrowfully shaking his head.
'I think you'll find that if one has a mind for it, it will be quite
sufficient. But here we are at my rooms. Come in for half-an-hour?'
'Not to-night, thanks!'
They parted, and Neigh went in. When he got upstairs he murmured in his
deepest chest note, 'O, lords, that I should come to this! But I shall
never be such a fool as to marry her! What a flat that poor young devil
was not to discover that we were tarred with the same brush. O, the
deuce, the deuce!' he continued, walking about the room as if
passionately stamping, but not quite doing it because another man had
rooms below.
Neigh drew from his pocket-book an envelope embossed with the name of a
fashionable photographer, and out of this pulled a portrait of the lady
who had, in fact, enslaved his secret self equally with his frank young
friend the painter. After contemplating it awhile with a face of cynical
adoration, he murmured, shaking his head, 'Ah, my lady; if you only knew
this, I should be snapped up like a snail! Not a minute's peace for me
till I had married you. I wonder if I shall! - I wonder.'
Neigh was a man of five-and-thirty - Ladywell's senior by ten years; and,
being of a phlegmatic temperament, he had glided thus far through the
period of eligibility with impunity. He knew as well as any man how far
he could go with a woman and yet keep clear of having to meet her in
church without her bonnet; but it is doubtful if his mind that night were
less disturbed with the question how to guide himself out of the natural
course which his passion for Ethelberta might tempt him into, than was
Ladywell's by his ardent wish to secure her.
* * * * *
About the time at which Neigh and Ladywell parted company, Christopher
Julian was entering his little place in Bloomsbury. The quaint figure of
Faith, in her bonnet and cloak, was kneeling on the hearth-rug
endeavouring to stir a dull fire into a bright one.
'What - Faith! you have never been out alone?' he said.
Faith's soft, quick-shutting eyes looked unutterable things, and she
replied, 'I have been to hear Mrs. Petherwin's story-telling again.'
'And walked all the way home through the streets at this time of night, I
suppose!'
'Well, nobody molested me, either going or coming back.'
'Faith, I gave you strict orders not to go into the streets after two
o'clock in the day, and now here you are taking no notice of what I say
at all!'
'The truth is, Kit, I wanted to see with my spectacles what this woman
was really like, and I went without them last time. I slipped in behind,
and nobody saw me.'
'I don't think much of her after what I have seen tonight,' said
Christopher, moodily recurring to a previous thought.
'Why? What is the matter?'
'I thought I would call on her this afternoon, but when I got there I
found she had left early for the performance. So in the evening, when I
thought it would be all over, I went to the private door of the Hall to
speak to her as she came out, and ask her flatly a question or two which
I was fool enough to think I must ask her before I went to bed. Just as
I was drawing near she came out, and, instead of getting into the
brougham that was waiting for her, she went round the corner. When she