An Engagement of Convenience Part 19

"Oh! please, Mr. Shanner--I'm very sorry," she breathed, all gasps and palpitations. "But really, truly, you're mistaken."

"I have used my eyes and head. I am not mistaken. Everything's all wrong, and you know it, Alice. I have been reading it in your face of late--I tell you you show it. Give up the swell before things go to the devil."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Shanner," she said, with all the kindness in her tone that she could muster, "but if you will get these extraordinary ideas into your head, I certainly am not going to fight them."

He smiled wanly, droopingly. "Another snubbing, I suppose. But you needn't take it in such ill part. I don't profess to belong to the aristocracy: I do profess to be a friend, one of the sort that's to be trusted. And I think you'll come to recognise that in the long run.

Whatever happens, John Shanner's your friend, and when the time comes, you'll find him ready to hand. But I earnestly advise you not to delay.

Throw up all this business before there's mischief."

Alice smiled bravely. "I repeat that Mr. Wyndham and myself are on the happiest of terms, though I am sure you mean your advice for the kindest."

She took up her stand behind this simple a.s.sertion, so that he could not beat down her refusal to be drawn into a deeper discussion. By degrees he pulled together his decorum, recovered his frigidity, and ultimately retired with the dignified utterance, "Well, I hope you are not going to be disillusionised, my child, but I have my doubts. At any rate, as I say, I stand by you in any case. Only promise me one thing, that if ever you find my warning was not mistaken, you will do me the justice to admit it."

She thanked him gravely, and a.s.sured him that she fully appreciated his kindness, and willingly made the promise. She was glad indeed of the chance of winding up the interview thus amicably. Yet, when he had gone, she felt panic-stricken at this revelation of how openly she had been wearing her heart--as if veritably on her sleeve. How fortunate her parents had observed nothing yet! But they, of course, were taking the perfection of everything so entirely for granted, and were so happy themselves over the beautiful romance which had transformed their household and their lives, that it was difficult for any suspicion to enter their heads. Certainly they had never read any expression in her face save that of rapture and contentment.

She must try to control herself. If only, like other women, she were more practised in a.s.suming a surface self that won acceptance, that none could penetrate!

But Mr. Shanner was so absolutely in the right. Was it really worth while going on as at present? Could anything be more unhappy than all this uncertainty and perplexity? Something must be done. Things must come soon to a crisis.

And then, one morning, some two or three days before the end of the month she received a letter from Wyndham, who had dined with them the evening before, announcing that he would be absent from the studio the whole day practically, as he had made club engagements for the entire afternoon and evening. As, too, he would be lunching out, it would not be worth her while to come to the studio at all on that day. He was sorry he had forgotten to mention all this when saying goodbye, but he was scribbling the note immediately on entry, and in a hurry to catch the post.

This letter gave Alice food for reflection. She did not attach any significance to the alleged club engagements; she had never grudged him the occasional evenings he spent in that way, since it kept him in touch with the art-world. But in this present instance there was certainly a suggestion of anxiety on his part that she should keep away from the studio over the day. "Ah--I understand!" she flashed, clenching her fingers; "Lady Lakeden's portrait is to be brought there to-day, and he does not wish me to see it! She is beautiful--beautiful!--he fears her beauty will sting me to jealousy."

He had never wished her to see the portrait! Had he not always turned the conversation whenever she had mentioned it? And only last night, as if in antic.i.p.ation of so natural a desire on her part, he had had to confess that it was finished, but had added that it was going straight to Paris, as he preferred to feel it was safe there in the hands of his agent. He had thus led her to conclude that the picture would not be pa.s.sing through the studio at all; but, with his letter now before her, she felt certain that his aim was to get the portrait framed, to touch it up, and then send it off without showing it to her.

But she had the right to see it, if she so desired, she told herself bitterly. If the Salon accepted it, nothing could prevent her going to Paris with her mother; though so enterprising an adventure was quite outside the habits of their life--a consideration on which he was counting, perhaps. But the Salon might not accept it, and in any case two or three months might elapse before such a possible visit, and in that time who could say how things might turn?

Entrance to the studio was a privilege that had been freely bestowed upon her. He had not forbidden her to come; he had merely tried to stop her by suggestion and diplomacy. But she would not be denied.

She would meet strategy with strategy: she would take care to arrive late in the evening, so as to be alone there. In the afternoon, or earlier in the evening, there was the danger of just catching him between his engagements, since he would no doubt come home to change.

She would see the portrait at her leisure; she would at last study the features of the woman--the beautiful, brilliant woman--who had unwittingly robbed her.

"And I have no beauty," she sobbed; "I am plain and insignificant. I have no cleverness, no experience; not one little weapon to fight with, to win him back to me!"

XXII

Wyndham had finished Lady Betty's portrait on the previous morning, and had taken it back with him to his studio. To-day the frame, a copy of a fine old Venetian model, came early in the morning, and Wyndham had soon fixed the canvas within it. He was enchanted with the effect. If the Salon had only a corner to spare for it, he was certain they would not turn it away. And--entrancing idea!--why should not Lady Betty deign to come here on this last day, and s.n.a.t.c.h a glimpse of herself in this charming setting which he had selected with such loving interest. There was a long day before them, and he might well seize the mood and the auspicious moment.

He lingered before his picture, then brusquely tore himself away from it, and sat down and wrote instructions to the frame-maker, who was to come and fetch it away on the morrow, and despatch it to Paris immediately.

For this was his great day; that was to leave with him for ever the memory of gracious companionship and irrevocable farewell! The day on which he would live for Lady Betty and forget all else! Then she would pa.s.s out of his life. He strove to face the stern decree. But only a blank met his vision. He turned his eyes away; his thoughts should be of the day only.

He had hardly considered what their programme should be. But now, on his way, he began to ponder it lazily, dwelling fancifully on possibilities rather than arriving at anything rigid or definite. They would roam about at random, like two sweethearts of the people; their evening they would spend at a theatre, no doubt something out of the way, and they would find their meals as the bizarre occasion might offer itself. They would invest this everyday London with the romantic light of their own spirit; they would wander as through a strange capital, and observe humanity with a new eye. And then, of course, he must keep before him the possibility of the visit to his own studio, in which Lady Betty had never as yet set foot.

At midday he rang the bell at Grosvenor Place, and was shown up into the great drawing-room. In a minute or two Lady Betty came tripping in. A glance showed she was ready to go out at once; her simple coat and skirt formed a costume un.o.btrusive enough for any expedition, and her hat and veil matched the occasion to a nicety.

She was radiant with an unaffected gaiety; he could hardly conceive the weight of sadness that must lie at the bottom of her heart.

"We shall have a happy day," she said, smiling at the thought of it; "something to remember always."

He was quick to grasp her spirit. They were to have this happiness as if the day were one of many days, some past, more to come. They were to give themselves up to the joy of each other's companionship in simple acceptance of the pa.s.sing hour; not dilating on the occasion as a parting; not letting it be overshadowed by the sense of what they had so tragically missed in life. Parting there would be; and then sadness would descend swiftly enough. Till that bitter moment--sparkle and enjoyment! He had come prepared to talk much of themselves; but he saw she was wiser than he, and at once fell in with her mood. There would be all the rest of his life to lament in.

"Have you thought of any plan?" he asked.

"None," she replied. "To tell the truth, I rather shrank from anything definite. 'The wind bloweth as it listeth.' Let us go on without end or purpose. That seems to me the ideal way."

"But we are bound to make a beginning. After that the game may play itself."

"Let us get away from the London we know; let us go to a romantic, wonderful London that we have never seen." She was almost echoing his thought. "We shall glide discreetly among the crowds as if we belonged to them."

"Then away!" he laughed. "To horse--or rather, to omnibus! Or is it to be hansom?"

"Everything in turn, and nothing long."

It was a cold day, yet though the sky was lightly clouded, the air was free from mist. As they stepped into the street a few patches of blue were visible, and a wintry sunshine filtered down with a pleasant sense of promise. The neighbouring houses were for the most part shuttered and silent, but the outlook on the great triangular s.p.a.ce before them was cheerfully busy.

"How unlike the scene of your painting!" she exclaimed. "There is no suggestion of drama here, but just the average feeling of the London thoroughfare--busy people going their way, and a procession of omnibuses mixed up with carts and hansoms."

"Yet my own scene swims before my eyes--I have lived with it so long."

"You have still to live with it," she reminded him.

"If I do not die of it," he answered pleasantly. "Seriously, I came near to doing so."

"This omnibus is marked 'Aldgate,'" she flew off. "Now that makes me think of Aldgate Pump. I wonder if it goes near the Pump?"

Wyndham jumped on the foot-board, and put the question to the conductor.

"We pa.s.s within a yard of it," was the reply.

"Good," said Wyndham. The omnibus drew up, and Lady Betty mounted the stairway, and they seated themselves on the roof.

"Look!" he exclaimed. "The clouds are suddenly breaking; it will be all blue and sunshine soon."

"A grey ghostly blue, a cold, charming sunshine."

"Yet the promise is splendid after all this winter."

"The promise is splendid," she echoed; "and we are so happy to-day."

"We are so happy," he repeated.

He let himself lapse into a dreamy mood; he was enchanted to have her so near him, to feel the afternoon and evening stretching endlessly before them--a veritable lifetime of golden moments. Lady Betty's manner offered a marked contrast. Hers was a frank exhilaration, an excited gaiety, of which he had the full impression; though she kept it in a low key, like love's whisper intended for his ear alone. Soon, as he had predicted, the sky grew bluer, the sunshine warmer; the traffic and the bustle of the streets were cheerfully pleasant to the eye and the ear in the fresh day.