At His Gates: A Novel. Vol. 1 (of 3), Page 3

  CHAPTER III.

  Mr Burton, however, was soon restored to pre-eminence in the affairs ofthe Drummonds. The very next day he dined with them, and entered on thewhole question. The glory which the painter had achieved was his ownaffair, and consequently its interest was soon exhausted to his friend,who, for his part, had a subject of his own, of which the interest wasinexhaustible. Mr Burton was very explanatory, in his genial, mercantileway. He made it clear even to Helen, who was not above the level ofordinary womankind in her understanding of business. He had nodifficulty in convincing her that Robert Drummond, R.A., would be anaddition to the list of directors; but it was harder to make the reasonsapparent why 'Rivers's' should change its character. If it was so firmlyestablished, so profitable, and so popular, why should the partnersdesire to share their good fortune with others? Mrs Drummond asked. Herhusband laughed with the confidence of a man who knew all about it, atthe simplicity of such a question, but Mr Burton, on the contrary, tookthe greatest pains to explain all. He pointed out to her all theadvantages of 'new blood.' The bank was doing well, and making enormousprofits; but still it might do better with more energetic management. MrBurton described and deplored pathetically his own over-burdenedcondition. Sometimes he was detained in the City while the guests at astate dinner-party awaited him at home. His carriage had waited for himfor two hours together at the railway, while he was busy in town,toiling over the arrears of work at Rivers's. 'We have a jewel of amanager,' he said, 'or we never could get on at all. You know Golden,Drummond? There never was such a fellow for work--and a head as clear assteel; never forgets anything; never lets an opportunity slip him. Butfor him, we never could have got on so long in this way. But every man'sstrength has its limits. And we must have "new blood."'

  Thus Helen gradually came to an understanding of the whole, or at leastthought she did. At all events, she understood about the 'new blood.'Her own Robert was new blood of the most valuable kind. His name wouldbe important, for the business of 'Rivers's' was to a considerableextent a private business. And his good sense and industry would beimportant too.

  'Talk about business talent,' Mr Burton said; 'business talent meansgood sense and prudence. It means the capacity to see what ought to bedone, and the spirit to do it; and if you add to this discretion enoughnot to go too far, you have everything a man of business needs. Ofcourse, all technical knowledge has to be acquired, but that is easilydone.'

  'But is Robert so accomplished as all this?' Helen said, opening hereyes. She would not, for all England, have disclosed to her cousin thatRobert, in her eyes, was anything less than perfect. She would not, forher life, have had him know that her husband was not the first ofpainters and of men; but yet an exclamation of wonder burst from her.She was not herself so sure of his clear-sightedness and discretion. Andwhen Robert laughed with a mixture of vanity and amusement at the highcharacter imagined for him, Helen flushed also with something betweenanger and shame.

  'Your own profession is a different thing,' she said hastily. 'You havebeen trained for that. But to be an R.A. does not make you a man ofbusiness--and painting is your profession, Robert. More will be expectedfrom you now, instead of less.'

  'But we are not going to interfere with his time, my dear Helen,' saidher cousin cheerfully. 'A meeting of directors once a week or so--aconsultation when we meet--his advice, which we can always come to ask.Bless my soul, we are not going to sweep up a great painter for oursmall concern. No, no; you may make yourself quite easy. In the meantime Drummond is not to give us much more than the benefit of his name.'

  'And all his money,' Helen said to herself as she withdrew to thedrawing-room, where her little Norah awaited her. His money hadincreased considerably since this new era in their lives began. It wassomething worth having now--something that would make the little girl anheiress in a humble way. And he was going to risk it all. She went intothe conservatory in the twilight and walked up and down andpondered--wondering if it was wise to do it; wondering if some newdanger was about to swallow them up. Her reasonings, however, werewholly founded upon matters quite distinct from the real question. Shediscussed it with herself, just as her husband would discuss it withhimself, in a way common to women, and painters, and otherunbusiness-like persons, on every ground but the real one. First, he hadfollowed Reginald Burton's advice in all his speculations, and hadgained. Would it be honourable for him to give up following his advicenow, especially in a matter which he had so much at heart? Secondly, byevery means in his power, Reginald Burton took occasion to throw in_her_ face (Helen's) the glories and splendour of his wife, and of thehome he had given her, and all her high estate. Helen herself wasconscious of having refused these glories and advantages. She had chosento be Robert Drummond's wife, and thrown aside the other; but still themention of Mrs Burton and her luxuries had a certain stinging andstimulating effect upon her. She scorned, and yet would have beenpleased to emulate that splendour. The account of it put her out ofpatience with her own humility, notwithstanding that she took pride inthat humility, and felt it more consistent with the real dignity of herposition than any splendour. And then, thirdly, the thought would comein that even the magic title of R.A. had not thrown any celestial lightinto Robert's pictures. That very morning she had stood for half anhour, while he was out, in front of the last, which still stood on hiseasel, and tried to reason herself into love of it. It was a picturewhich ought to have been great. It was Francesca and Paolo, in thestory, reading together at the crisis of their fate. The glow and ardourof suppressed passion had somehow toned down in Drummond's hands to agentle light. There was a sunset warmth of colour about the pair, whichstood in place of that fiercer illumination; and all the maze of loveand madness, all the passion and misery and delight, all the terror offate involved, and shadow of the dark, awful world beyond, had sunk intoa tender picture of a pair of lovers, innocent and sweet. Helen hadstood before it with a mixture of discouragement and longing impossibleto put into words. Oh, if she could but breathe upon it, and breathe inthe lacking soul! Oh, if she could but reflect into Drummond's eyes thepassion of humiliation and impatience and love which was in her own! Butshe could not. As Helen paced up and down the pretty ornamented space,all sweet with flowers, which her husband's love had made for her, thispicture rose before her like a ghost. He who painted it was an R.A. Itwas exquisitely painted--a very miracle of colour and manipulation.There was not a detail which could be improved, nor a line which was outof drawing. He would never do anything better, never, never! Then whyshould he go on trying, proving, over and over, how much he could, andhow much he could not do? Better, far better, to throw it aside forever, to grow rich, to make himself a name in another way.

  Thus Helen reasoned in the vehemence of her thoughts. She was calm untilshe came to this point. She thought she was very calm, reasonable to thehighest pitch, in everything; and yet the blood began to boil and coursethrough her veins as she pursued the subject. Sometimes she walked asfar as the door of the studio, and pausing to look in, saw that pictureglimmering on the easel, and all the unframed canvases about upon thewalls. Many of them were sketches of herself, made from memory, for shenever would sit--studies of her in her different dresses, in differentcharacters, according as her husband's fond fancy represented her tohimself. She could not see them for the darkness, but she saw them allin her heart. Was that all he could do? Not glorify her by hisgreatness, but render her the feeble homage of this perpetual,ineffectual adoration. Why was not he like the other painters; like--Hermemory failed her for an example; of all the great painters she couldthink of only Rubens' bacchanalian beauties and that Lucrezia would cometo her mind. It was about the time of Mr Browning's poem, thatrevelation of Andrea del Sarto, which elucidates the man like a very rayfrom heaven. She was not very fond of poetry, nor anything of a critic;but the poem had seized upon her, partly because of her intense feelingon the subject. Sometimes she felt as if she herself was Andrea--notRobert, for Robert had none of that heart-rending sense of failure. Wass
he Lucrezia rather, the wife that goaded him into misery? No, no! shecould not so condemn herself. When her thoughts reached this point sheforsook the studio and the conservatory, and rushed back to thedrawing-room, where little Norah, with her head pressed close againstthe window to take advantage of the last glimmer of light, was reading abook of fairy tales. Great painters had not wives. Thoseothers--Leonardo, and Angelo, and the young Urbinese--had none of themwives. Was that the reason? But not to be as great as Michel Angelo, notto win the highest honours of art, would Robert give up his wife andhis child. Therefore was it not best that he should give up being apainter, and become a commercial man instead, and grow rich! Helen satdown in the gathering darkness and looked at the three windowsglimmering with their mist of white curtains, and little Norah curled upon the carpet, with her white face and her brown curls relieved againstthe light. Some faint sounds came in soft as summer and evening madethem, through the long casement, which was open, and with it a scent ofmignonette, and of the fresh earth in the flower-beds, refreshed bywatering and dew. Sometimes the voices of her husband and cousin fromthe adjoining room would reach her ear; but where she was all wassilent, nothing to disturb her thoughts. No, he would never do better.He had won his crown. Helen was proud and glad that he had won it; butin her heart did not consent. He had won and he had not won. His victorywas because he had caught the _banal_ fancy of the public, andpleased his brethren by his beautiful work; but he had failedbecause--because--Why had he failed? Because he was not Raphael orLeonardo--nor even that poor Andrea--but only Robert Drummond, paintinghis pictures not out of any inspiration within him, but for money andfame. He had gained these as men who seek them frankly so often seem todo. But it was better, far better, that he should make money now, bylegitimate means, without pursuing a profession in which he never couldbe great.

  These were not like a wife's reasonings; but they were Helen's, thoughshe was loyal to her husband as ever woman was. She would have liked somuch better to worship his works and himself, as most women do; and thatwould have done him good more than anything else in earth or heaven. Butshe could not. It was her hard fate that made her eye so keen and sotrue. It felt like infidelity to him, to come to such a conclusion inhis own house, with his kind voice sounding in her ear. But so it was,and she could not make it different, do what she would. He was sopleased when he found she did not oppose his desires, so grateful toher, so strongly convinced that she was yielding her own pleasure tohis, that his thanks were both lavish and tender. When their visitor hadleft them, and they were alone, he poured out his gratitude like alover. 'I know you are giving in to me,' he said, 'my love, myself-forgetting Helen! It is like you. You always have given up yourpleasure to mine. Am I a brute to accept it, and take my own way?'

  'I am not making any sacrifice, Robert. Don't thank me, please. It isbecause I think you have judged right, and this is best.'

  'And you think I am so blind and stupid not to see why you say that,' hesaid in his enthusiasm. 'Helen, I often wonder what providence wasthinking of to give you only such a poor fellow as I am. I wish I wassomething better for your sake, something more like you; but I have nota wish or a hope in the world, my darling, except for you. If I want tobe rich, Helen, it is only for you. You know that, at least.'

  'And for Norah,' she said, smiling.

  'For Norah, but most for Norah's mother, who trusted me when I wasnobody, and gave me herself when I had little chance of being eitherrich or great,' said Drummond. He said it, poor fellow, with a swellingof his heart. His new dignity had for the moment delivered him even fromthe chill of his wife's unexpressed indifference to his work. With acertain trustful simplicity, which it would have been impossible to callvanity, he accepted the verdict of his profession--even though he haddoubts himself as to his own eminence, they must know. He had won thegreatness he wanted most, he had acquired a distinction which could notbut vanquish his own doubts and hers. And as he was now, he would notchange positions with any man in England. He was great, and please God,for Helen's sake, he would be rich too. He put his arm round his wifeand drew her into the open conservatory. The moon was up, and shone downupon them, lighting up with a wan and spiritual light the colourlesssilent flowers. It was curious to see them, with all their leavessilvered, and all their identity gone, yet pouring forth their sweetscents silently, no one noting them. 'How sweet it is here,' said thepainter, drawing a long breath in his happiness. It was a moment thatlived in his mind, and remained with him, as moments do which arespecially happy, detaching themselves from the common tenor of life withall the more distinctness that they are so few.

  'Yes, it is the place I love best,' said Helen, whose heart was touchedtoo, 'because you made it for me, Robert. The rest is ordinary andcomfortable, but this is different. It is your sonnet to me, like thatwe were reading of--like Raphael's sonnet and Dante's angel.' This shesaid with a little soft enthusiasm, which perhaps went beyond themagnitude of the fact. But then she was compunctious about her sinstowards him; and his fondness, and the moonlight, and the breath of theflowers, moved her, and the celestial fumes of Mr Browning's book ofpoetry had gone to Helen's head, as the other influences went to herheart.

  'My darling! it will be hard upon me if I don't give you better yet,' hesaid. And then with a change in his voice--cheerful, yet slightlydeprecating, 'Come and have a look at "Francesca,"' he said.

  It was taking an unfair advantage of her; but she could not refuse himat such a moment. He went back to the drawing-room for the lamp, andreturned carrying it, drawing flecks of colour round him from all theflowers as he passed flashing the light on them. Helen felt her ownportrait look at her reproachfully as she went in with reluctant stepsfollowing him, wondering what she could say. It made her heart sick tolook at his pet picture, in its beauty and feebleness; but he approachedit lovingly, with a heart full of satisfaction and content. He held upthe lamp in his hand, though it was heavy, that the softened light mightfall just where it ought, and indicated to her the very spot where sheought to stand to have the full advantage of all its beauties. 'I don'tthink there is much to find fault with in the composition,' he said,looking at it fondly. 'Give me your honest opinion, Helen. Do you thinkit would be improved by a little heightening of those lights?'

  Helen gazed at it with confused eyes and an aching heart. It was hisdiploma picture, the one by which most probably he would be known bestto posterity, and she said to herself that he, a painter, ought to knowbetter than she did. But that reflection did not affect her feelings.Her impulse was to snatch the lamp from his hand, and say, 'Dear Robert,dearest husband, come and make money, come and be a banker, or sweep acrossing, and let Francesca alone for ever!' But she could not say that.What she did say faltering was--'You must know so much better than I do,Robert; but I think the light is very sweet. It is best not to be toobright.'

  'Do you think so?' he said anxiously. 'I am not quite sure. I think itwould be more effective with a higher tone just here; and this line ofdrapery is a little stiff--just a little stiff. Could you hold the lampfor a moment, Helen? There! that is better. Now Paolo's foot is free,and the attitude is more distinct. Follow the line of the chalk and tellme what you think. That comes better now?'

  'Yes, it is better,' said Helen; and then she paused andsummoned all her courage. 'Don't you think,' she faltered, 'thatFrancesca--is--almost too innocent and sweet?'

  'Too innocent!' said poor Robert, opening his honest eyes. 'But, dear,you forget! She was innocent. Why, surely, you are not the one to go infor anything sensational, Helen! This is not Francesca in the Inferno,but Francesca in the garden, before any harm had come near her. I don'tlike your impassioned women.' He had grown a little excited, feeling,perhaps, more in the suggestion than its mere words; but now he came toa stop, and his voice regained its easy tone. 'The whole thing wants agreat deal of working up,' he said; 'all this foreground is veryimperfect--it is too like an English garden. I acknowledge my weakness;my ideal always smacks of home.'

  Helen said n
o more. How could she. He was ready laughingly to allow thatEngland came gliding into his pencil and his thoughts when he meant topaint Italy: a venial, kindly error. But candid and kind as he was, hecould not bear criticism on the more vital points. She held the lamp forhim patiently, though it strained her arm, and tried to make what smallsuggestions she could about the foreground; and in her heart, as shestood trembling with pain and excitement, would have liked to thrust theflame through that canvas in very love for the painter. Perhaps somepainter's wife who reads this page, some author's wife, some womanjealous and hungry for excellence in the productions of those she loves,will understand better than I can describe it how Helen felt.

  When he had finished those fond scratches of chalk upon the picture, andhad taken the lamp from her hand to relieve her, Drummond was shocked tofind his wife so tremulous and pale. He made her sit down in his greatchair, and called himself a brute for tiring her. 'Now let us have acomfortable talk over the other matter,' he said. The lamp, which he hadplaced on a table littered with portfolios and pigments, threw a dimlight through the large studio. There were two ghostly easels standingup tall and dim in the background, and the lay figure ghostliest of all,draped with a gleaming silvery stuff, pale green with lines of silver,shone eerily in the distance. Drummond sat down by his wife, and tookher hand in his.

  'You are quite chilly,' he said tenderly; 'are you ill, Helen? If itworries you like this, a hundred directorships would not tempt me. Tellme frankly, my darling--do you dislike it so much as this?'

  'I don't dislike it at all,' she said eagerly. 'I am chilly because thenight is cold. Listen how the wind is rising! That sound always makes memiserable. It is like a child crying or some one wailing out of doors.It affects my nerves--I don't know why.'

  'It is nothing but the sound of rain,' he said, 'silly little woman! Iwonder why it is that one likes a woman to be silly now and then? Itrestores the balance between us, I suppose; for generally, alas! Helen,you are wiser than I am, which is a dreadful confession for a man tomake.'

  'No, no, it is not true,' she said with indescribable remorse. But heonly laughed and put his arm round her, seeing that she trembled still.

  'It is quite true; but I like you to be silly now and then--like this.It gives one a glimmer of superiority. There! lean upon me and feelcomfortable. You are only a woman after all. You want your husband's armto keep you safe.'

  'What is that?' said Helen with a start. It was a simple sound enough;one of the many unframed, unfinished drawings which covered the wallshad fallen down. Robert rose and picked it up, and brought it forward tothe light.

  'It is nothing,' he said; and then with a laugh, looking at it, added,'_Absit omen!_ It is my own portrait. And very lucky, too, that it wasnothing more important. It is not hurt. Let us talk about the bank.'

  'Oh, Robert, your portrait!' she said with sudden unreasonable terror,clutching at it, and gazing anxiously into the serene painted face.

  'My portrait does not mind in the least,' he said, laughing; 'and itmight have been yours, Helen. I must have all those fastenings seen toto-morrow. Now, let us talk about the bank.'

  'Oh, Robert,' she said, 'let us have nothing to do with it. It _is_ anomen, a warning. We are very well as we are. Give up all these businessthings which you don't understand. How can you understand them? Give itup, and let us be as we are.'

  'Because a nail has come out of the wall?' he said. 'Do you suppose thenail knew, Helen, or the bit of painted canvas? Nonsense, dear. I defyall omens for my part.'

  And just then the wind rose and gave a wailing cry, like a spirit inpain. Helen burst into tears which she could not keep back. No; it wasquite true, the picture could not know, the wind could not know what wasto come. And yet----

  Drummond had never seen his wife suffer from nerves or fancies, and ithalf-amused, half-affected him, and went to his heart. He was evenpleased, the simple-minded soul, and flattered by the sense ofprotection and strength which he felt in himself. He liked nothingbetter than to caress and soothe her. He took her back to thedrawing-room and placed her on a sofa, and read the new book of poetryto her which she had taken such a fancy to. Dear foolishness ofwomankind! He liked to feel her thus dependent upon his succour andsympathy; and smiled to think of any omen that could lie in the howlingof the wind, or the rising of a summer storm.