An Engagement of Convenience Part 8

Thus reflecting, he wheeled forward his masterpiece again, and worked on it tentatively, though he did not hope to make serious headway till he should be able to do some fresh sketches on the spot, and have a few at least of the models pose to him over again. But it was a pleasure to feel himself so eager-spirited and hopeful. The Academy dare not refuse it! The picture must establish his reputation!

He went on till the light failed, then, after reading an hour or two, he dressed for his engagement with the Robinsons.

He found the family had in no wise relaxed from the pitch of ceremony to which his first acquaintanceship had wrought them up. But he reflected that, however indifferent the point might be to him, it was just as well they should feel it the right thing to meet him on his own plane--as they understood it. Certainly it was not without its amusing side--the spectacle of a good honest family stimulated out of their customary simplicity merely because a starving artist was to regale himself at their table! And fare sumptuously again the artist did with a vengeance!

He ate, too, with the satisfied contemplation of a good day's work behind him. He had somehow earned this provender, and the meal had on that account an extra subtle relish. Besides, he felt so much more at leisure and at ease than on the former occasion. Then, his visit had been an uncertain and not over-willing experiment; now, he was acclimatised, his impression of everything was cooler. The greater self-possession of the family, too, made the evening distinctly less of an effort for him. Miss Robinson had largely got the better of her distressing shyness, and her personality was more in evidence. In her gentle way she was rising to fill her important position as daughter of the house.

Wyndham's impression of the Robinsons was thus definite and final; as much derived from their surroundings as from themselves. He noticed, for example, that the house itself and everything in it was of an extreme solidity. Indeed, the substantial walls and solid wood-work were so unusual in suburban construction, which was a.s.sociated in Wyndham's mind with jerry-building, that he could not help remarking thereon when he and Mr. Robinson were left to their coffee and cigars. The old man was greatly pleased at this piece of discernment and observation. He explained that he had had the house built for him twenty years before, and this solidity represented his dearest philosophy. He hated nothing so much as a superficial appearance which affected to be superior to the underlying reality. "Soundness and sincerity" had been his motto throughout his life, and on that principle his prosperity had been founded. Wyndham grew infected with this unmetaphysical philosophy. The ground he had trodden these last years seemed hideously unstable to look back upon: there was really a wonderful comfort in feeling himself here, supported on so sure a flooring, surrounded by these strong walls, and seated on this thickly-cut mahogany arm-chair that was framed to last three generations. The entire furniture of the house was of the like soundness--even the crimson couches of the drawing-room were of a ma.s.sive build, and the grand piano, like this great dining-room table, had the fattest of legs, and was resonant of strength and durability.

And in tune with all this solidity was the solid prosperity of Mr.

Robinson himself: his banking account seemed an embodiment of his life-principles, supporting all this substantiality on its imperturbable back, like the fabled Buddhistic tortoise nonchalantly supporting the world. Wyndham's own existence seemed feeble by contrast, ready to go down before the merest puff of wind. He stretched himself luxuriously, half incredulous, as if to a.s.sure himself it was all no vain imagining; permitted Mr. Robinson to recharge his gla.s.s with port; and lighted another of those fragrant unpurchasable cigars. It was so good to savour to the full this sensation of prodigious security! Here one might repose one's head: might hear the trump of doom ring out, and pity the rest of the universe.

After all, was there not more than a grain of truth in Sadler's gospel?

In boyhood you could be adventurous; life stretched before you so endlessly that you could afford to gamble with it. But, when the years were racing by, you longed for a little peace, a little happiness. This constant uncertainty of outlook, this perpetual wear of heart and brain, how it sapped life at the very foundation!

To be "safe!" To be solidly established! The import and significance of the conception sank deep into him. Sadler was an older man, had gone through all these phases. "Safety!" No wonder his friend would not hesitate to barter romance for all that the magic word doubtless meant to him.

IX

It was this keynote of "safety" that sounded more in his mind, this appreciation of the stability and comfort of the house at the corner that grew upon him as his visits to the Robinsons continued; for it naturally came to be the settled thing that he should dine with the Robinsons on most of the evenings that he was not engaged elsewhere or otherwise. The argument at first had been the same simple one that he might as well join them as dine alone, and there seemed no reason for refusing their excellent fare and their admiring society. On the other hand, as his ever-insistent pride demanded that they should not suppose he was cut off from his own world; and as, too, he felt subtly required to live up to the social role which he fancied they as yet attributed to him, he was thus stimulated to pick up again some of the old threads of his existence. He called on remote aunts in Eaton Square; on retired military uncles in South Kensington. And as the winter advanced he began to find a pleasure in renewing old acquaintanceships, enjoying everybody's surprise at his turning up again, smiling and prosperous.

It almost amounted to a self-vindication, and he chuckled in secret, imagining to himself their confusion.

And since he _was_ emerging from his retirement, there seemed no longer any reason why he should not mix again in the art world, and Sadler, who had come up to his studio on one or two occasions, induced him to show himself at some of the clubs. At the same time he began to cultivate again some of the smaller coteries of which he had once been so popular a light. Other men, too, began to look him up, and, best of all, an editor one day sent him an unhoped-for commission--half-a-dozen drawings for a magazine story by a widely-read author.

On the whole he was well satisfied to get back into the world. It raised, or rather confirmed, him in his own esteem, and saved him--as he put it--from attaching too cheap a price to himself. He was thus able to meet the Robinsons from a real plane of vantage, and to purge his mind of that slight consciousness of charlatanism which had haunted him at the outset.

Were he not taking ultimate success for granted, without a renewal of the more bitter side of the struggle, he would scarcely have resumed all these old relationships. Yet the precariousness of the future, summon his coolness and confidence as he might, was a thing to be actively, even desperately, reckoned with. The editor's cheque was a G.o.d-send, relieving him of immediate anxieties, but he dared not relax his efforts. His mornings were entirely devoted to the big canvas now, and he rose early to avail himself of every minute of light during these short wintry days. He worked with a pa.s.sion and a concentration that he had never yet known. Every fibre of his body bent to the strain; every drop of his blood seemed to drain its life into this frenzy to achieve.

Withal, a delightful sense of emanc.i.p.ation from the old tired vision; a splendid consciousness of some rich new store that had gathered in him during the long period he had lain fallow!

Yet he shuddered and grew sick at the possibility that the Academy might still reject him! In that case, what had he to build upon beyond the coming fee for Miss Robinson's portrait? As the weeks went by, something of a panic began to overtake him; the future seemed to be bearing down on him grim and remorseless.

It was then that the well-garnished atmosphere of the house at the corner seemed more and more desirable and alluring. The flow and abundance, the great glowing fires in this raw winter, the nave burning of incense at his altar--all these things wooed him, wrapped him in a certain balm. Ensconced with Mr. Robinson, and sipping his after-dinner coffee, he felt the load of his anxieties falling away from him, The heavy decanters of cut gla.s.s glowed richly at him--the softness of old whiskey, the ruby and golden glint of wines, the clear light of cunning distillations. The great pineapples, the cl.u.s.ters of grapes, the baskets of peaches, all the fragrant store of Nature's bounty set out on a table that yet, by no stretch of imagination, could be conceived as "groaning"--all seemed to shine fatter and finer than at the houses of his society friends. And here, too, his footing was of an unique, admirable character. He had his place at the board practically as a matter of right. They ranked him as a G.o.d; yet felt that the balance of debt was heavily against them. Whereas, elsewhere, he was one of a crowd, a merely casual figure among others not less important even where he had been most intimate. He knew that his own world, despite its breeding and traditions, would yet at bottom despise him and his art if he could not earn an excellent livelihood by its practice. But the Robinsons worshipped him for himself; and money was almost a vulgarity sullying the high artistic universe in which he moved and breathed and had his being.

X

Meanwhile the sittings were progressing in a manner to gratify the artist beyond his hopes. Miss Robinson seemed to find some mysterious inspiration in this decorative scheme, seemed to fuse into it, to lend herself to design and draughtmanship. Her face, too, took on subtler phases, was touched to a measure of n.o.bility! Her dark eyes shone softly under their long lashes; her expression was full of goodness and charity. Wyndham prided himself that he had put on the canvas something remote from the lines of ordinary portraiture--a simple soul, a gentle Lady Bountiful, yet not less dignified in her way than the heroines of the grand portraiture.

Mrs. Robinson did not insist on uninterrupted chaperonage of her daughter; the ladies evinced little fanaticism on this head. Often they brought knitting or needle-work with them, which occupied the mother in a peaceful, old-fashioned way that Wyndham even found himself admiring.

Sometimes Mrs. Robinson would appear only towards the end of the sitting, and sometimes she considerately announced that Alice would have to come alone for the next occasion as she herself was otherwise busy. They both showed a tact and a good taste in the matter which he fully recognised, and for which in a way he was grateful.

In the natural resulting intimacy between artist and sitter, Miss Robinson expanded, opened out her mind; at first timidly and tentatively, ultimately with freedom and confidence. She confessed that her experience of life had been nothing at all, since she had always lived in quiet shelter. Her unsophisticated simplicity was certainly engaging; he could see that she was a sheet entirely unwritten upon, that her soul was as nave and trusting as her outward being. She was refreshingly a child of nature--no bewildering complexity here--no shadow of affectation. She spoke without reserve of the poverty of her childhood, and admitted that she had disagreeable qualms of conscience about their present riches. Was it right to enjoy so much when one thought of the state of the world generally? They debated the subject endlessly; considering it elaborately from every conceivable standpoint: and his personal authority went far to allay her disquietude. His theories, backed up by high philosophy and poetry, fascinated her with their harmony and originality; he had such a charming way of arranging the order of things into a beautiful artist's scheme, whilst yet his sympathies were deep, true, and universal!

Sometimes he was conscious of his sophistry, and felt ashamed of it afterwards. Was he playing a comedy of sentiment? he asked himself.

Well, why not? Men and women made a careful toilette for an evening party: why not a spiritual toilette for their sentimental relations?

The last words of his own thought, startled him. Then it _was_ a sentimental relation. "By Jove, I must be careful!" he murmured to himself. "She's an awfully good soul, and it isn't fair to either of us." But the next moment he shrugged his shoulders. Why trouble his mind at all? Every relation between a man and a woman who came into such close personal touch was in a way sentimental--for the time being! That was only the game of life, and everybody had to play at it: the main thing was to bow to the rules. Such temporary relations might well be made as pleasant as possible; but, when they were at an end, it was inc.u.mbent on both parties to realise that.

Yet he could not help being increasingly conscious of his power over her; it was so pathetically visible. Their conversations were often amusingly like those of kindly tutor and obedient, inquiring child; she hanging on his words in entire self-surrender, as he discoursed so graciously and brought his points so lightly and simply within the range of her comprehension. Sometimes, in following up an explanation, he would be carried away by the flow of his own ideas and his personal interest in the matter, and then he would almost seem to be addressing an equal in knowledge and experience. But whenever that happened; whenever, for example, he had let himself go too far into the subtle mysteries of technique, he would find himself regretting the unchecked surrender to impulse, and remain strangely vexed about it long afterwards. It was really soaring right outside her limitations! She was not a Lady Betty!

Lady Betty was so often in his mind now: she seemed to have established herself more definitely there than ever before, as if to keep him up to the proper pitch in his judgments of women. He bowed his head low to Lady Betty, recognised her as his full intellectual equal--in some aspects his superior. She was brains and beauty. She was stateliness itself. She was sunshine and sweetness. What was Miss Robinson by the side of her? And as he asked himself the question, an impression of Miss Robinson, as he had recently come upon her suddenly in the streets, blotted out the more dignified version on his own canvas. How plain and homely she had seemed in her un.o.btrusive walking-costume; how insignificant her whole meek bearing! Yes, that was the true Miss Robinson; caught photographically in the act of being herself, and fixed by his vision for always--extinguishing the gorgeously-dressed person of these incessant festal evenings no less than his own artistic edition of her.

In no respect could she claim to come up to his measure. He appreciated all her virtues, recognised her exceptional womanhood: by the side of Lady Betty she was insipid, _bourgeoise_, monotonously amiable.

Yet he could never arrive at so harsh a verdict without relenting at a rebound. "It is curious," was his thought, "that in proportion as I get more friendly with her and really like her, I yet get harder and harder on her, poor child! She's a jolly good sort! What a decent world it would be if only there were ever so many more women like her!"

And, by way of atonement, his manner at their next meeting would warm and soften sensibly; and it came upon him always with a degree of surprise that, however he might feel about Miss Robinson theoretically, her actual society was always pleasant and comrade-like.

XI

By mid-December the portrait needed only the finishing touches, and, at his invitation, several of his artist-friends came to see it.

Commendation of the work was general, combined with a certain admiration of the unknown sitter. Wyndham could not help feeling that there was much speculation as to her ident.i.ty, and he gave himself all the more credit as an artist for the qualities with which he had endowed her, and which alone bestowed upon her this interesting individuality.

Wyndham, who made it a point never to have his work interrupted, had so arranged these visits that none of his friends had stumbled upon the Robinsons. To the not infrequent query of "Who is she?" he usually responded, with a half-humorous gleam in his eye, "She might be Brown or Jones: as a matter of fact she is Robinson--the daughter of a respectable citizen of that ilk." Yet what more, in sober truth, could he tell them about her? He might have put it differently, but it was the information he supposed they wanted. Yet one day he was to learn that this conciseness had been construed as reserve. Sadler lounged in one Sunday afternoon, when, as it happened, Wyndham was awaiting his sister, whose long-deferred visit had at last been arranged for that day. And, in the course of conversation, the visitor soon let slip out a word that struck Wyndham like a blow. Sadler had begun by referring to Miss Robinson as "your friend;" but, presently, as he still reviewed the painting, out came "your _fiancee_."

"My _fiancee_! What the devil----?"

Sadler apologised; a shrewd meaning smile clung about his ma.s.sive jaws.

"Of course everybody understands that it's a secret, but when you've heard of a thing, it's difficult to keep it from slipping out, don't y'

know."

"This is all too absurd!" Wyndham was suddenly impelled to laugh.

"What's absurd about it? It seems likely enough to me; else I shouldn't have believed it."

"An artist cannot accept a commission without being engaged to his sitter?" urged Wyndham indignantly.

"Things have a way of getting about, you know," maintained Sadler.

"They have indeed," said Wyndham.

"Well, what are you so annoyed at?" shouted Sadler. "You make me tired.

There's nothing discreditable in being engaged by rumour to a wealthy and beautiful woman."

Wyndham laughed again. Beautiful! he thought. If only Sadler had met the everyday Miss Robinson shopping with her mother in the Finchley Road!

"Seriously, do you consider her beautiful?" he asked in a more genial tone, suddenly curious to hear Sadler's real impression.