An Engagement of Convenience Part 23

However, she decided to make the journey at once, and to pa.s.s the remaining time in that neighbourhood. So she mounted the first omnibus that came along, and, once settled down for the long drive, she drew a deep breath of relief. Now that she was definitely on the way, some of the stress and pressure seemed to leave her, and the expedition seemed less terrible. She pictured herself stealing down t.i.te Street, standing nervously on the opposite pavement in the shadow, and looking up to see if the studio were illuminated. Even if all were dark, Wyndham might still be dressing in the room at the back; for, from the state of the hall, nothing could be deduced, as often he would not take the trouble to light the oil-lamp on which he at present depended. No, it would be certainly more prudent to wait long enough for certainty. Should she once break in upon him, she knew he would take good care she should not see the picture; for no doubt he had taken measures against such a surprise visit.

Immersed in these reflections, Alice was dimly aware of the miles of streets through which she was being carried. Indeed, she forgot to change omnibuses at Oxford Street, and was borne some distance out of her way before she discovered the omission. The whole town seemed to her like a dream; the street and the studio at her journey's end were all that existed for her. And even when she gazed at the world around her, it refused to take on any reality; the people that were abroad, going their way and standing out brilliantly in the night wherever a blaze of light fell upon them, seemed all strangely irrelevant. The only figures that mattered were her affianced husband and the beautiful, sad woman of stately presence, whose loveliness and n.o.bility had drawn him from her.

She knew now she hated Lady Lakeden--definitely, terribly. It was shameful, it was wicked--to hate like that! Lady Lakeden was blameless, and had not the least idea of all this suffering which her loveliness had caused to a fellow-woman, and to Wyndham, too. Yet how good it was to let this mad fury against Lady Lakeden develop in her heart!

She pictured the portrait as standing with its face to the wall, un.o.btrusive, even lost, amid the hosts of other canva.s.ses. With what terrible eagerness she would dart on it, turn it again, and let the light fall on it! At last she should gaze on the face, should satiate her consuming curiosity!

At Sloane Square she alighted, deciding to eke out the time by walking the rest of the distance. As she plunged into the heart of Chelsea, and was so sensibly near her journey's end, her pulse beat faster, her breath came irregularly, and again her whole mind was concentrated vividly on her goal. The streets through which she pa.s.sed were almost deserted. The old houses, the gardens, the stretches of brand-new buildings, the great Hospital itself, were all vague silhouettes; above, the stars were keen, but her eyes were fixed rigidly before her.

At the corner of t.i.te Street she stopped to draw breath, for her heart was now thumping painfully. At the same time she felt almost afraid to set foot in the street itself. The hesitation was unexpected; she had imagined herself going straight to the studio, all of the same impulse.

But here a sense of wrong-doing came upon her; the underhandedness of the whole proceeding stood out in that moment, curiously revealed, strangely impressive. A strong temptation a.s.sailed her to turn, to run off with all her force, to go back home. But she set her teeth, again.

No, she must not go back without seeing Lady Lakeden's portrait. She must not yield to these moments of cowardice. It was stupid. Other women dared much greater things; would hesitate at nothing, however false and ign.o.ble, to gain their own end!

She crossed to the opposite side, and flitted down the street like a shadow. She had so effectively lengthened out her journey that it was at last nearly ten o'clock. Wyndham's whole house was dark, and she had little doubt but that he was already out. Yet she wanted to be absolutely certain, so she moved on again, and sauntered off into a network of neighbouring streets. But she was too impatient to go far afield, and, after a few minutes, she retraced her steps till once more she found herself looking across the street at the silent house that lay all in deep shadow. How dark and deserted; how unnaturally still the whole quarter! Then tramp, tramp, tramp, came the heavy foot of a policeman, and she made him out dimly approaching her. She crossed the road, nervous indeed of any human scrutiny, and walked on briskly, only venturing to turn back when he had finally pa.s.sed out of the street.

Now, she told herself, was the moment.

With every muscle tense, her heart beating now with terrible strokes, so that she felt she might fall swooning at any moment, she approached the house, and mounted the few steps that led to the doorway. Her key was in her little purse-bag, and she extricated it tremblingly. At last she had the door open, gave a last, quick, furtive, glance around, and then stepped into the hall. For a moment she stood listening, her ears intensely on the alert for the least sound in the house. But the sense of absolute emptiness was too profound: the measured ticking of the tall hall-clock seemed to be sounding a curiously vigorous note. She let the door slam behind her, and moved forward a step or two, her feet sinking into the deep Turkey carpet that she herself had chosen; then she sank on a hard oak chair, and sat there gratefully, trying to master her breath, and waiting for her heart to thump itself through sheer weariness into a gentler measure. She unfastened her wraps and threw her coat open, for from head to foot she was burning. She did not note the time that pa.s.sed, but when she rose again with a start she heard from some neighbouring church clock the single stroke of a quarter. She hesitated no longer, but determined to go up at once to the studio.

But first she lighted the hall lamp. Now that she was here she intended to take possession openly, as was her right. If he should come back suddenly, he at least should not imagine that she was there in secret.

But the cunning of the reasoning gave her a twinge of shame; she knew that she was throwing dust in her own eyes in thus spouting of her right. Admit at once that this liberal illumination was a piece of craft, was intended to maintain the surface of innocence that was the cover for woman's guile from time immemorial. Well, so be it! She had been a child all her life. If perhaps she had been less truly innocent, even she might have kept the man who had slipped from her. She was graduating in womanhood now; how splendid it was to be unscrupulous, to do absolutely what you wished, yet skilfully maintain the blind belief and confidence of those you tricked! What great power, what joy could be gathered for yourself that way! Yes, that was the only thing for woman in this world; otherwise she was left to rot!

And, as if to emphasise the conviction, she deliberately lighted a second spare lamp that stood in the hall, so that the s.p.a.ces were illumined resplendently. Then she mounted the flight of stairs, letting her hand trail along the graceful sweep of bal.u.s.trade, and pushed open the door of the studio.

Peering into the darkness, her eyes at first could distinguish nothing save the objects in the s.p.a.ces near her, as some of the light flowed up from below. But presently she was able to distinguish the familiar furniture, and cautiously felt her way across to the mantelpiece. Soon two powerful lamps were in full flame, and she sat down again to rest for a minute, whilst her eyes wandered round seeking for the portrait that was the object of her pilgrimage. She did not remove her coat and wraps, although, s.p.a.cious as the room was, the atmosphere felt oppressive and the slow fire, banked up with ashes, seemed to give out an immense heat. Yet she felt singularly at leisure, in full possession of her purpose.

Obviously Lady Lakeden's portrait was not on any of the easels; nor could she distinguish any fresh unit amid these many canva.s.ses, all individually familiar to her--like a card-sharper, she could identify any one of them immediately from its apparently featureless back. Her first feeling was one of astonished disappointment, and she rose now, ready to inst.i.tute a closer search. The possibility of being baulked of her purpose stirred a sudden rage in her. She no longer knew herself. "I am mad--mad," was the thought that echoed through her brain. "But if I am," she reasoned grimly, "my sufferings all these weeks have made me so. I would sooner die than endure this all over again." Then she set about examining all the canva.s.ses, turning them one after the other to the light, in the vain hope that her too accurate knowledge of them might prove in some instance mistaken. But in vain! Was it possible that the portrait was already on its way to Paris?

But wait, was there anything behind the screen so carelessly sprawling in the corner there under the great window? In a moment she had dashed across, and had half-dragged, half-flung it out of its place. Ah! she could almost have screamed with fury at Wyndham's cautious foresight--this unmistakable provision against an accidental visit from her. It was then true; definitely, absolutely true! The man whom she loved to madness, who had professed to love her for herself alone, belonged heart and soul to another woman!

A mist palpitated in the air before her, and the gold foliage and convolutions of the ornate Venetian frame shone through it distorted and terrible. But the canvas itself was a vague blur to her. She staggered over to the nearer lamp and bore it over to the corner, kneeling so as to bring the light full on the picture and her own face opposite Lady Lakeden's. And as now she saw this rare princess, bathed in a mystic light, this figure, full of a sweet dignity and a stately grace; as her eyes rested on the girlish face whose character yet shone out in a splendid illumination, though the rounded, youthful features were free from any stamp that might have touched the bloom of their spring-tide beauty, a cruel knife worked in Alice's heart, a knife that seared as well as stabbed. For a long minute she gazed at the portrait, letting it burn itself on her vision in its every shade and detail--the fresh sheen on the hair, the proud yet sweet tilt of the face, the wonderfully fresh and deep violet-grey eyes, the veritable rose-bud mouth that was yet so firm and true! This, then, was her rival! How could she, the plainest of the plain, hope to struggle against the irresistible might of this loveliness! A sense of absolute defeat, of complete hopelessness invaded her whole being; it was the same submissive acquiescence with which she had contemplated herself in the gla.s.s on that momentous evening when Wyndham had appeared in her father's house for the first time. But then the hope had never been roused; now the joy was literally s.n.a.t.c.hed from her lips. But, though her intelligence saw the hopelessness, her heart was full of desperation. And while yet her eyes were riveted on the picture, fascinated, yet loathing it with a pa.s.sion that seemed to flame and to dominate her as though her real self were too puny to stir against it, a wild whirling thought came to her that made her body rock and shiver, and she set the lamp on the floor to save it from crashing down out of her hand. What if this woman were as guilty as the man?

"I understand now," her lips broke out involuntarily. "They loved each other from the beginning, but she married another for convention's sake.

Now they have resumed their old love, but I am in the way. He will not jilt me, because his honour is at stake, but as a man of honour he would not think it dishonourable to deceive me." She laughed aloud in bitterness. That was it! They would both deceive her, though he would never break his word. Had she not seen the point exemplified in a hundred books and plays?

Ah, this honour of the fashionable cla.s.ses! And she had believed Lady Lakeden to be true; had, in pity and sympathy, set her on the highest pedestal of womanhood. How her belief in her rival's perfect goodness had blinded her! What a fool she had been, going through life with such simplicity! With a heart so open and trusting! No wonder nothing had come to illumine her existence!--that what had seemed to hold the promise was a cheat and a delusion!

And, as her mind ran back over the past weeks, a thousand things seemed to confirm her new inspiration at every turn. Ah, G.o.d! how she had been tricked! Was there another woman in the world who would have been so trustingly stupid? The blood seemed to surge all to her temples: everything before her faded. An impulse to give vent to her fury seized her. She longed to tear and rend the canvas, to crush and break it with her fingers, to bite it through and through with her teeth. And she would have carried the imperious impulse into effect, had not a new thought, like a zigzag of lightning, come flashing through her brain.

Lady Lakeden had no doubt written him letters; there must be a whole packet of them somewhere here in the studio! She would read them; they would not lie!

Intent on this new end, she darted across to the bureau (of which the lid was permanently down and laden with papers and portfolios), and scrutinised the pigeon-holes. These were always open to her without restriction, but she had never thought of examining the contents, though she had often put away papers and receipts for him. She made a quick, feverish inspection of them now, not hoping to find the letters she sought in a place thus conspicuous, but yet fearful of overlooking them.

The pigeon-holes yielded in fact nothing to interest her, and then with trembling fingers she turned out the little drawers, one at a time, replacing the contents of each carefully before proceeding to the next.

She was reckless now, having no control over itself. She did not fear his sudden arrival on the scene; she would face him--she would taunt him with the truth!

Suddenly her physical powers seemed to break down, and she clutched at the bureau for support. And as soon as she had steadied herself, she was glad to drag over a chair, and continue her search with feeble, tired movements. And with this abrupt collapse, her crude, violent emotions seemed to have blazed themselves out. She felt now a poor forlorn, helpless creature; her eyes were wet with tears, and she was choking down her sobs. And it seemed to her that she was gulping down an infinite bitterness. "I have it," she said suddenly, a momentary illumination flitting across her features. He had once shown her in this old provincial French bureau a receptacle which he had spoken of as his secret drawer, a s.p.a.ce neatly stowed away amid the other surrounding s.p.a.ces so that its ingenious existence might remain reasonably unsuspected. She immediately stopped her operations, replacing things with a movement that was increasingly languid and feeble; and eventually opened the princ.i.p.al compartment in the centre which was on a level with the writing-lid. Removing all its contents, she inserted her nail in a little innocent slit, made the floor of the compartment slide along, then thrust her hand into the s.p.a.ce revealed.

Clearly a packet of letters was there. She drew it forth--over a dozen of them, carefully preserved in their fashionable-looking envelopes and tied together with a broad piece of tape. A faint perfume of violets was in her nostrils as she handled them. And this packet, too, seemed strangely imbued with the personality of their writer, reminiscent of a world of dream and books. How remote from her they seemed! How remote from her, indeed, all the amazing history of these past months! That, too, belonged rather to a world of dream and books. What! these great tragic complications and emotions had sprung up in her simple, uneventful existence! had related themselves to a brick bow-windowed house in the suburbs!

She gazed at the packet again, conscious that her fingers were faltering. How mean, low, hateful to read letters that had not been meant for others' eyes! And what purpose would be served by her reading them? She needed no further proof of the intrigue that had been carried on in the shelter of her own credulity and simplicity. Besides, she could divine what pa.s.sionate vows of love were written herein, and to pry into them would be to renew her tortures beyond human endurance. She feared and turned away from them as from a furnace heated seven times hot. The packet dropped amid the ma.s.ses of papers that enc.u.mbered the desk. Her tears came anew, and she gave them full vent; a storm of hysteric sobbing shook her convulsively.

When eventually the attack had spent itself, she sat there listlessly, without the force to stir hand or foot. But her brain was working feverishly, definitely recognising that her life was spoilt. She had made her great cry of revolt in this mad dash and underhanded search; better perhaps to have made it in the silent depths of her heart! Ah, G.o.d, it was bitter, it was cruel! But what had she expected? Had she not known from the beginning that she ought never to accept one so far above her?--that she was not the ideal his heart would crave for, but that, at the best, a deep secret dissatisfaction would rankle in him all his life? Had she not steadily seen this, while yet a shred of sanity remained to her? But it had all happened in spite of herself; she had been stricken with blindness, and her clear-seeing mind had been possessed with inexplicable folly. She--Alice Robinson!--and the thought made her laugh out aloud--had wholly believed that this man sincerely loved her! She laughed again and again, seized suddenly by the pitifully comic spectacle she presented to herself--Alice Robinson, shy, awkward, devoid of all the graces, lacking _savoir-faire_, neglected not only by men, but even by her own s.e.x: Alice Robinson, the granddaughter of a carpenter, seriously beloved by an aristocrat with all the graces and culture, an artist, moreover, for whom beauty was always the primal appeal! She--Alice Robinson--had been under this wondrous delusion! Was there anything more ridiculous since men and women were? Her laughter could not be repressed, but it rang out through the studio weirdly, with a strange note of hardness and bitterness, and somehow it echoed and re-echoed through all the house, coming back to her mockingly from the empty rooms beneath her.

Even when her laughter had died away she sat there brooding. And for the first time there was mingled in her emotions a touch of pity for Wyndham. She was conscious now of a softening, in spite of all. Poor Wyndham! Had he not loved Lady Lakeden years before he had set eyes on the Robinsons? If only he had not possessed that terrible code of honour! He might then have come to her frankly and begged her compa.s.sion! She would have released him. But he could not break his word. His honour only allowed him to carry on an intrigue!

But time was pa.s.sing, and she told herself she must not stay. She knew she was defeated and must accept it: she must leave him to his intrigue, whilst she herself stepped back into the old suburban existence!

She replaced the letters in the secret receptacle, and restored everything in the bureau as it had been before. Then she dragged back the screen before the picture, turning away her eyes resolutely so as not to catch sight again of that gracious figure gleaming out in exquisite radiance. The lamps were put back as she had found them, then carefully extinguished. But the difficulty she had with them revealed to her the tense nervous condition under which she was still labouring, though she had appeared to herself quiet and resigned now. She stood in the dark a moment, conscious of the suffocating closeness of the atmosphere. How good it would be to be out in the air again! She would walk on the Embankment for a few minutes, and then ingloriously go home as fast as possible--in a hansom! having yielded to ign.o.ble impulses and played the role of a common spy. But in one way she at least had no regret She was enlightened, knew as much of the position as Wyndham.

She descended the stairs, put out the lamps in the hall, and stepped into the streets again. The cold air beat in her face deliciously; the stars were brilliant in the pure sky. She looked up to them now yearningly--their calm and beauty shamed the storm and fever in her own mind. The street, too, seemed so exquisitely still in the splendid darkness. She let her wraps hang loosely about her, and did not fasten her coat. She breathed the air greedily, and it seemed to allay the stress at her heart. Then somehow she turned her steps towards the river, wondering where Wyndham and Lady Lakeden were pa.s.sing their evening! She could take that for granted now, she felt. How carefully he had built up the wall around his romance!

At the bottom of the street the river night-scene, scintillating with points of light, burst on her vision, and seemed to draw her into its own strange mood of mystery. It was as though a new universe of stars had come into being, wafting some fascinating message which baffled her reading. And as she stood in the great avenue, under the far-spreading arch of foliage, a deeper calm seemed to fall upon her. She went to the parapet, and looked over. The long stretch of water, all gleams and shadows, lay gently between the two gray bridges that hung suspended from their steel network in soft silhouette.

Alice strolled some distance down the bank, then turned and retraced her steps. She told herself it was foolish to linger here, that she ought to make at once for the busier streets, and take the first vehicle that offered itself. But it was so deliciously silent, so majestic, that it comforted her to stay here. Besides, somehow, she could not tear herself away from the neighbourhood of the studio. She looked at her watch; to her surprise it was nearly half-past eleven; she had been at the studio a full hour and more! Surely he must be coming home soon. Perhaps, indeed, he had returned already!

She found herself instinctively turning up t.i.te Street again, keeping as before to the opposite side of the road. But all was as dark and still in the house as when she had left it. Then the idea came to her that she would wait and see. It was a mere whim perhaps; but she could not go home till she had watched him enter. Still, she could not wait here in one fixed spot; she had almost the sense of being observed by she knew not whom. Besides, she must be cautious; she did not intend that he should suspect she was actually so near to him at that hour of the night. It gave her an anguished thrill to think he would pa.s.s close by her, and yet never give her a thought.

She was, however, loth to move away, for she could not know from which end of the street he would come. If she waited too long near one end, he might slip by from the other. And this, whether he came on foot or in a hansom. Feverishly she paraded the street, stopping here a minute, there a minute; keeping well within the shadow, and avoiding the encounter of every chance pa.s.ser-by. Now and again she heard the ring of a hansom, the smart trot of a horse, and she held her breath with excitement. And there was even a minute when hansoms came dashing into the street one after the other; most of them to pa.s.s right through it, and only one or two to draw up in the street itself.

Midnight sounded, but still no sign of Wyndham. She looked up at the sky, but was surprised to find the stars were blotted out. A spot of rain fell on her upturned face. Her sense of misery rea.s.serted itself, and with it came a sullen resolution to stay out till dawn, if needs be.

Again she went to the Hospital end of the road and took up a discreet point of vantage. But again the tramp of a policeman scared her away, and accepting this as a sort of unpropitious omen she definitely decided to keep to the other end. She was like a gambler uncertain how to stake, but at last abruptly deciding for any irrelevant reason.

The minutes pa.s.sed, infinitely long to her now impatient mood. The spots of rain kept falling. The neighbouring clock boomed out the quarters. At last another hansom--coming from the abandoned direction!

Back she went again into the road, but it had stopped short farther down. The studio was still in darkness. Strangely disappointed and fatigued almost to the point of falling, she dragged her worn feet once more down to the Embankment, keeping her wits alert with a sustained effort, that grew harder and harder. This time she did not cross to the parapet, but walked under the great red brick houses, noticing idly their gates and doorways as they loomed on her. And her eyes were half closed in spite of her struggle. The trot of a horse, and the rattle and tinkle of a hansom sounded just then, coming smartly along the avenue.

But she went on more and more as if in a dream, taking one step only because she had taken the last. Nearer and nearer came the hansom, louder and louder beat the horse's hoofs on the asphalte, but she pursued her meaningless way, without paying any heed to it. Her senses had almost left her. She opened her eyes suddenly, and, looking towards the river, saw that a greyish mist hung over it, that the pavements were wet and glistening. Ah, yes, the water lay below, dark and soft, full of an eternal peace. The message that had baffled her!--she understood it now! She had nothing to live for! In a flash all would be finished.

Impulsively she stepped into the roadway to cross to the parapet.

"Hallo, hallo!" The horse's head was almost on her, and she drew back with a natural unreasoned movement. The driver shook his whip and shouted angrily, then went onwards. But a moment's vision had burnt itself on her consciousness as deep as that first sight of the portrait of Lady Lakeden. Wyndham was seated in the vehicle side by side with Lady Lakeden, his face turned towards her, whilst her hand clutched his convulsively. And in that same swift moment Alice had felt Lady Lakeden's face encounter hers with mutual intensity. The sudden backward movement had almost paralysed her muscles; an agonising pain racked her at her knees and ankles. She dragged herself to the nearest wall and leaned against it. The picture of those two side by side was always with her: of Lady Lakeden's eyes flashing full on her own.

She knew not how many minutes had pa.s.sed when she was called to herself by the inexorable clock that had sounded its notes throughout this strange evening, and that now seemed to fling its boom through all the s.p.a.ces of the night. Was the universe resounding with a peal of mockery?--disproportionately t.i.tanic for so humble a soul as hers, so paltry a destiny? Ah, she remembered now her frustrated purpose; the instant when death had beckoned her imperiously and she had responded with every fibre of her soul and body. Why, then, had she not let the wheels crush her?

But she shuddered. Ah, no, no! Thank Heaven she had been inspired to save herself. How his life would have been saddened and embittered by so ironic an accident! She had meant only to help him; never to be a cause of grief to him! Since apparently it had been thus fated, better perhaps to live on. "I have others as well to think of--father and mother!" she murmured. "How wicked it was of me to forget them! Besides, as I never expected anything in life, why should I be disappointed now at getting nothing?" The argument seemed convincing, so painfully she began to hobble along the Embankment, moving again towards the familiar street, why she knew not. But her lips kept muttering, to herself. "She has gone with him alone to his studio. She is a wicked woman."

And opposite the house, that had held her brilliant hopes of love and wonderful happiness for so brief a period, she stood still again, and looked up to the great window of the studio that was now illumined with a warm light, though everywhere else the house was dark. She saw a shadow flit across the blind, and then another shadow. They were there together.

How they would stare if she boldly used her key and intruded upon them!

How they would tremble if they knew she was there, straining for a glimpse of their shadows!

But she had no impulse now to disturb them. The game had been played, and she had been thrown out.

With a sigh she moved away, turning her painful steps up the street, more instinctively than consciously. She walked and walked mechanically, retracing the route she had taken on her way there. The rain descended in thin, sharp lines, but she took no heed. But suddenly an arm was thrust through hers, and she looked round with a terrible start. A burly flush-faced man with a ruffled silk hat was holding an umbrella over her, was speaking to her. Her eye noticed irrelevantly they were just by a closed dark public-house whose nickel reflectors caught the light from an adjoining street-lamp.

"Hadn't you better take me home with you, my dear?"

For a second she stared at him, then, with a hoa.r.s.e cry, she shook herself free, and with a supreme effort rushed off like a frightened fawn. As she turned into another street she overtook a hansom going at a snail's pace.

"Where to?" asked the man through the roof, after she had got in.

"Straight home as fast as you can," was her strange answer.

The man looked down upon her. "Where's that?" he asked good-humouredly.