:V>. 504-2. A MUMMER'S WIFE. A REALISTIC NOVEL. By the Author of "A MODERN LOVER." PRESS NOTICES. THE ATHENAEUM. " A Mummer's Wife " is a striking book, clever, unpleasant, realistic. . . . The woman's character is a very powerful study, and the strolling player, if less original, is not less completely presented. In developing the commonplace lower middle-class woman, with whom religion is a strong prejudice and no more, and love a mere passion, into a heroine of comic opera, and ultimately into a drunkard a woman without intellect, education, principle, or any strong emotion he has drawn a bit of human nature to the life. . . . No one who wishes to examine the subject of realism in fiction with regard to English novels can afford to neglect "A Mummer's Wife." THE GRAPHIC. "A Mummer's Wife" holds at present a unique position among English novels. It is the first thoroughgoing attempt, at any rate of importance, to carry out the principles of realism in fiction to their final, and possibly their only logical, result. Regarding Mr. George Moore as intentionally representing a school to which we are opposed, root and branch, we must, nevertheless, bear witness, however un- willingly, to the remarkable fidelity and ability with which his work is done. " A Mummer's Wile " is anything but a piece of ordinary novel manufacture. It comprises the results of close and elaborate observa- tion, of artistic labour, and of a conscientious effort on the author's part to make the very best and utmost of his materials. THE PALL MALL GAZETTE. " A Mummer's Wife " is a patient, laborious study of the decline of a woman, who quits middle-class respectability to plunge into theatrical bohemianism. ... It is interesting and even absorbing. Mr. Moore observes closely and accurately, describes vividly and unflinchingly. His picture of the life of a travelling opera-bouffe company may be com- mended to the church and stage sentimentalists, who imagine the lower walks of the drama are, or can possibly be, schools of all the virtues. . . . The novel deserves recognition as a serious attempt at something better than the ordinary fictional frivolities of the day. THE SPECTATOR. " A Mummer's Wife," in virtue of its vividness of presentation and real literary skill, may be regarded as in some degree a representative example of the work of a literary school that has of late years attracted to itself a good deal of the notoriety which is a very useful substitute for fame. . . . Mr. Moore has not gone out of his way to invest with adventitious attractiveness the sin with which he deals. Roses and rap- tures are not without a place in his record, but there are plenty of thorns and torments ; and assuredly if art, literary or pictorial, fulfils its true mission in photographic presentation of the details of sensuality and sottishness, it is well that such presentation should have the photo- graphic veracity which allows no item of foulness or ugliness to escape. THE ACADEMY. As a realist Mr. Moore does not spare us. The surroundings of the wretched Kate Lennox are from first to last of the most sordid char- acter. The black moral fog that descends upon her at the beginning of the story never lifts, but becomes even darker and fouler. Mr. Moore shows unquestionable power in telling her story, and the sketch of her second husband big, frankly sensual, yet good-natured is probably as good as anything of the kind could be. SOCIETY. " A Mummer's Wife " contains passages of striking force and cynical humour, and at least one scene intensely pathetic and weirdly sad. It is a description of the death of an infant which wears out its little life in convulsions while its mother is in a drunken sleep by its side. It is not too much to say that if all the book were as powerful as this, Mr. Moore might fairly claim the title of the English Zola. THE WEEKLY ECHO. Mr. Moore's novel is written with something of Zola's ability. It is in every way remarkable among recent books of fiction, for plot, for close observation, for intensity of feeling, and power of vivid descrip- tion. A MODERN LOVER. GEORGE MOORE. UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME, BY THE SAME AUTHOR. Seventh Edition, Price y. 6d. A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. "Mr. George Moore's work stands on a very much higher plane than the facile fiction of the circulating libraries. Its purpose is good (for it is a novel with a purpose) and the essentials of its matter are good. The hideous comedy of the marriage-market has been a stock topic with novelists from Thackeray downwards ; but Mr. Moore goes deep into the yet more hideous tragedy which forms its afterpiece, the tragedy of enforced stagnant celibacy, with its double catastrophe of disease and vice. The characters are drawn with patient care, and with a power of individualisation which marks the born novelist. It is a serious, powerful, and in many respects edifying book." Pall Mall Gazette. New Edition, Price 3-y. 6d. A MODERN LOVER. " Mr. Moore has a real power of drawing character, and some of his descrip- tive scenes are capital." St. James's Gazette. "It would be difficult to praise too highly the strength, truth, delicacy, and pathos of the incident of Gwynnie Lloyd, and the admirable treatment of the great sacrifice she makes. The incident is depicted with skill and beauty." Spectator. Twentieth Edition, Price y. 6d. A ' MUMMER'S WIFE. " ' A Mummer's Wife ' is a patient laborious study of the decline of a woman, who quits middle-class respectability to plunge into theatrical bohemianism. ... It is interesting and even absorbing. Mr. Moore observes closely and accurately, describes vividly and unflinchingly. His picture of the life of a travelling opera-bouff e company may be commended to the church and stage sentimentalists, who imagine the lower walks of the drama are, or can possibly be, schools of all the virtues. . . . The novel deserves recognition as a serious attempt at something better than the ordinary fictional frivolities of the day." Pall Mall Gazette. A MODERN LOVER GEORGE MOORE, AUTHOR OF "A MUMMER'S WIFE," "A DRAMA IN MUSLIN, "VAIN FORTUNE," ETC. EIGHTH EDITION. LONDON: WALTER SCOTT, LTD., 24 WARWICK LANE, PATERNOSTER ROW. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. A PICTURE COLLECTOR, 9 II. PAINTING FROM IMAGINATION, . . . .21 III. PAINTING A VENUS, . . . . .27 IV. A PICTURE DEALER, . . . . .32 V. MR. VICOME, . . . . .44 VI. DESERTION, .... 48 VII. LEWIS SEYMOUR'S EARLY LIKE, . . . .53 VIII. IN THE COUNTRY, . . . . . .63 IX. THE DECORATIONS, . . . . .71 X. AN INTERLUDE, . . . . . .77 XI. A TENNIS PARTY, . . . . . 82 XIL LOVE AND ART, ...... 99 XIIL ENFIN 114 XIV. A HOLIDAY, .131 XV. JEALOUSY, , . . , .142 XVI. SCANDAL, ....... 146 XVH. WORK. . . - . . . . .153 XVIII. MOTHER AND MISTRESS, . . . .161 XIX. SUCCESS, . 173 XX. A LONDON BALLROOM IN '78, . . . .177 XXI. FAREWELLS, ...... 198 ' XXII. ENGAGED, . . . . . .205 XXIII. DIFFICULTIES OVERCOME, .... 215 8 CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAOB XXTV. THE BRIDAL DRESS, ..... 228 XXV. IN CHURCH, . . . . . .231 XXVI. THE HONEYMOON, . . 240 XXVII. THE HONEYMOON CONTINUED, . 248 XXVTIL PASSING A PAQK, . . . . .256 XXIX. MARRIED LIFE, . . . . . 202 XXX. A PRIVATE VIEW, . . . . .267 XXXI. LOOKING BACK, . . . . . .284 XXXIL BILLS, . . . . , . .290 XXXIII. MORE TREACHKRY, . . . .- .296 XXXIV. FRIEND OR WIFE, . . . . .303 XXXV. VEILS FALL FROM THEIR EYES, . : . 310 XXXVL CONCLUSION, . . -318 A MODEEN LOVEE. CHAPTER L A PICTURE COLLECTOR. " I'LL let you have it for fifteen shillings." " I dare say you will, but I don't intend to buy any more water-colours of you." ".I am very hard up ; give me ten shillings." " No, I really can't ; I have at least a hundred and odd drawings by you, and half of them aren't even numbered : it will take me a week to get through them." " I'm nearly starving." " So you have often said before." The last speaker was an old, wizeued little creature, with a grizzled white beard ; the other was a young man of exquisite beauty, his feminine grace seemed like a relic of ancient Greece, saved by some miracle through the wreck and ruin of ages. He leaned against an oak bureau, placed under a high, narrow window, and the pose defined his too developed hips, always, in-,. a man, the sign of a weak and lascivious nature. His com- panion looked nervously through a pile of drawings, holding them up for a moment to the light, then instantly throwing them back into the heap which lay before him. He was evidently not examining them with a view to ascertaining their relative value, nor was he searching for any particular one ; he was obviously pretending to be busy, so that he might get rid of his visitor. The day died gloomily, and the lateral lines of the houses faded into a dun-coloured sky ; but against the window the profiles of both men came out sharply, like the silhouettes of fifty years ago. 10 A MODERN LOVER. Pictures of all sizes and kinds covered and were piled against the walls ; screens had been put up to hang them on, but even then the space did not suffice. Pictures had gradually thrust almost everything else in the way of furniture out of the room; the sofas and chairs had been taken away to make place for them. The curtains had been pulled down to gain more light, only the heavy gold cornices remained, and the richness of these precluded the idea that the place was the shop of a vendor of cheap lodging-house art. Besides, the work, although as bad, was not of that kind. It was rather the lumber of studios, heads done after the model posing for a class, landscapes painted for some particular bit, regardless cf composition. And what confusion ! Next to an admirable landscape you would find a Virgin in red and blue draperies, of the crudest description; then came a horrible fruit piece, placed over an interesting attempt to reproduce the art of the fourteenth century ; and this was followed by a whole line of racing sketches, of the very vulgarest kind. Yet in the midst of this heterogeneous collection there was a series of pictures whose curious originality could not fail to attract the eye. Before them the Philistine might shake with laughter, but the connoisseur would pause puzzled, for he would see that they were the work of a new school that had broken with the tradi- tions of all time and country, and was striving to formulate a new art. Bar girls, railway trains, and tennis players flared in the gayest colours, and, in the hope of interesting the old man, Lewis examined and rapturously praised a flight of ballet girls which hung on the opposite wall. The ruse was so far suc- cessful that Mr. Bendish joined eagerly in the conversation, and explained that if the new school who called themselves "The moderns " ever succeeded in gaining the public taste, the Fitzroy Square collection would excite the envy of the dilettante of Europe. As he spoke, his little wizen face lightened up, and his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. Lewis looked at him and wondered. Here was a man who talked of a new artistic movement, and at the same time bought every conceivable kind of rubbish that was brought to him, pro- vided the seller came down to his price. London is a strange fashioner of tastes, and Bendish was a curious example of what she had done in this respect Being utterly ignorant, not know- ing a Millet from a Corot, a Raphael from a Rubens, he bought pictures as an old clothes man buys second-hand pocket-hand- A MODERN LOVEK. 11 kerchiefs. He spoke volubly, and predicted the millenium in art, when the traditions, of which he knew nothing, would be overthrown, and Mr. Bendish would possess the finest collection in tlio world. Lewis listened, patiently awaiting an occasion of getting back to the subject of his water-colour drawings. At last his chance came : in the course of conversation, the old man asked him why he had deserted the new school? This, Lewis explained, was not so ; and to prove his case he referred to his drawings. But immediately Mr. Bendish relapsed into silence, and showed that he took no further interest in the question. He evidently was determined not to buy anything more that day. His fancies were as varying as the wind ; and there were times when he would look at nothing, and would turn away from the most tempting bait like a sulky trout This was one of his worst humours ; and even Lewis, with his soft, winning ways, could not get him to give fifteen shillings for a pretty water-colour. From Lewis's hesitating manner, it was clear that he saw that there was not much hope of getting anything out of the old man. But his necessities were so pressing he had only a shilling in the world that they forced him to try again. " I am very hard up ; I don't know how I shall get through next week ; give me a few shillings for it, say five ! three ! " " I really can't," returned the old man, peevishly. " I have over a hundred of your water-colours, half of which are not framed, the rest not even numbered. I sha'n't buy any more at present ; call another day." A look of fear and helplessness passed over the young man's face ; he said nothing, but took up his drawings, and, leaving the old man still fumbling through his portfolios in the failing light, he walked down the bleak stone staircase into Fitzroy Square. A slight rain was falling. The wet dripped from the tall trees slowly ; occasionally a leaf fluttered down into the dirty gutter. The air was quite still ; a soft smell of mud hung over the windless streets ; and in the night, which grew darker, Lewis thought he saw an image of the fatality which pursued him. " I can bear it no longer," he muttered ; " anything is pre- ferable to this bitter struggle for life, for bread, yes, for mere bread ! for at the best I cannot hope to make more, with my wretched little drawings that no one cares about, not even old Bendish." 12 A MODERN LOVEK. For two days he had not left his miserable room, but had sat working at the drawings that Bendish now refused to buy at any price. He had lived on a few crusts and a little tea, afraid to spend his last shilling. And now, as he walked wearily, he took it out of his pocket and looked at it : it was all that re- mained between him and starvation. But black as were his prospects, he shuddered when he thought of the past, and he remembered that death was preferable to such a life, even if he could continue it. But his resources were exhausted, his clothes were pawned, and he did not know who would lend him a sixpence ; all his acquaintance were wearied of him. As he approached the Strand, the passers-by grew more frequent, but he only saw them as phantoms, their voices sounded in his ears like a murmur of distant waters, and out of his soul there rose from time to time a mute protestation against Providence and God. He walked on like one in a desert until he came to Drury Lane ; then the light, which the flaring windows of half-a-dozen public-houses threw over the wet pavement, awoke him from the torpor into which he had fallen, and he realised again, and more bitterly, that he was lost, without a hope to guide. Like a torn flag in a battle, portions of his past life floated through his mind. He remembered how he had come only two years ago to London, expecting pleasure and fame, and he had found, what ? Despair, stifled cries, and vanishing dreams. He remembered how the very first night he had wandered through the self-same Strand, and how exultingly he had thought of the great city that extended around him. The crowds that passed him, men and women, the shop windows, rich with a million treasures, carriages, monuments, the turmoil, feasts, beautiful dresses, acclamations, triumphs, all had turned in his bead a golden nightmare, that had tempted and tortured him for a while. But now all was over; he had neither courage nor desire for anything. It astonished him to see people pressing onwards, all having apparently some end in view. To him the world seemed to have come to an end. He was like, a corpse over whose grave the city that had robbed and ravished him was holding a revelling carnival. As he turned into the Strand, he was caught in a crowd that poured through the entrance of a fashionable theatre, and the clear voices of two young men sounded shrill in his ears. They were in evening dress, and the white cravats and A MODERN LOVER. 18 patent leather shoes brought back to him the dream of the life of pleasure and luxury he so ardently desired. " My dear fellow," said one, " there is no use your going to her ball, you will bore yourself horribly ; come into the theatre, and we'll go to supper afterwards." The ball-goer, however, was not easily persuaded, and his friend proceeded to tell him of the ladies he intended to invite, appending to each name an anecdote, over which both laughed boisterously. Lewis listened, and soon losing sight of his own personality, saw the scene as an independent observer, and dreamed of a picture to be called " Suicide." In the foreground, just out of the way of a fashionable crowd going into a theatre, two young men discussed whether they would seek amusement there or elsewhere, whilst a wretched wight stood reading a notice posted on the walls TWO POUNDS REWARD Yesterday, at nine o'clock, a young man drowned himself from the parapet of Waterloo Bridge. The above reward will be paid to anyone giving such information as will lead to the recovery of the body. The idea fascinated him, and he wondered if it would be possible to explain by the expression, that the poor devil read ing the notice recognised the fact that dead he was worth two pounds, but alive he was merely an outcast, in whom no one took the least interest. He continued to think of his picture until he actually began to consider the advisability of painting it. Then his face winced as if with a sudden pain. He re- membered that there were no more dreams for him to dream, no more glad or sorry hours for him to live. He must steal away into the eternal silence of the grave, and leave London to laugh above him. Then a cry for mercy, for life, wenf up from the bottom of his heart, like a shrill voice heard in' the vasti- tude of night. " Surely," he asked, " I am not going to die, like a rat, of starvation in the middle of this enormous city 1 " Then again his thoughts drifted, and looking at the women as they went wrapped up in silk, the rose colour of their feet visible through the open lace stockings as they stepped from their broughams, he grew dizzy with envious rage, that none of their elegant life, so artistically fashionable, was for him. Carriages came up every minute. All were filled with people who had money, who had come forth to spend it in the night, / 14 A MODERN LOVER. and in his madness he fancied he heard the shower of gold and kisses that fell over the city. Thjen, again, a cry for life and its enjoyments arose out of his feeble heart, and he moaned at his own helplessness. What was there for him to do ? he asked himself, again and again. He could not sell his drawings. What was there for him to do ? Everything, except the women that passed before him so deliciously beautiful, seemed to advise him to die ; but in the silken rustle of their skirts, and the faint odour they left, he heard a thousand secret voices, that seemed to whisper of a vision of per- fumed lace, in which one day he would be enwrapped at rest, on the bosom of the siren city which now so cruelly cast him aside. The crowd round the theatre-door had grown denser, and Lewis still stood looking vacantly .before him, lost in an utter sense of abandonment. He had fallen into that state of torpid meditation so common to criminals on their way to the scaffold. The crowd jostled him, but he paid no heed, until he was at last hustled into the street, and then, waking up suddenly, he found he had to cross it to avoid a series of passing cabs. The accident, trivial in itself, seemed to him like an omen, for he was now nearer the Thames than before. The vision of wealth and beauty he had seen had darkened for him even the darkness of death ; he now feared the water as a woman fears the tempter that whispers in her ear ; had he not been obliged to cross the bridge to get home he would not have ventured to walk down Wellington Street, so gloomy did it look, with its shadows and vast background of cold sky. Picking his way out of the crowd, he walked until he came to the middle of the bridge, then, leaning his arms on the parapet, he examined the countless crustations of the stone which sparkled in the rays of the electric light. But in a moment remembering himself, and thinking his conduct un- worthy of a man who contemplated committing suicide, he looked mournfully at the wide flood of ink that swirled through the piers of the bridge. All was fantastically unreal, all seemed symbolical of some- thing that was not. Along the embankment, turning in a half circle, the electric lights beamed like great silver moons, behind which, scattered in inextricable confusion, the thousand gas- lights burned softly like night-lights in some gigantic dormi- tory. On the Surrey side an immense curtain of shadow stretched across the sky, out of which a red light watched him with the haggard gaze of a bleeding eye. A MODERN LOVER. 16 But the mystery of the dark wandering waters suggested peace, and in the solemn silence he longed for the beatitude that death only can give, as in the glitter and turmoil of the Strand he had yearned for the pleasures of living. Then a dream of those who had ended their troubles from where he stood arose before his eyes ; ia a febrile and vacillating way he thought of emulating the courage of his predecessors, and he mused long on the melancholy poetry of suicide. A story he had heard of two lovers who had drowned themselves together, profoundly interested him. Before they threw themselves into the water, the woman had bound herself to the man with a scarf taken from her shoulders, so that they might not even be separated in death. He dwelt on the idea, thinking it a beauti- ful one, and he said to himself, " To-morrow or to-day, what matters since death is the sure end of all we see or feel ? " Then the fluid magnetism of the water took possession of him, and he felt his nature dissolving slowly ; his thoughts swayed and flowed with the tide, and he saw monuments, bridges, and lights in a mist that seemed to descend, and in turn to pass into the river. He could resist the temptation no longer, and clutching the parapet, sought to climb over, but as he did so, memories flitted across his mind, among which a girl's name and face came foremost; the face was one of an ordinary work girl, the name was Gwynnie Lloyd. He remem- bered that it was Friday, to-morrow she would have fifteen shillings, and thinking that she would not refuse to share it with him, he stood irresolute, leaning against the bridge. " After all," he thought, " Bendish told me to call another day ; " and feeling much relieved at the respite, although some- what disappointed at the common-place denouement of his mag- nificent project, he walked to his lodging in the Waterloo Road, where he had come to hide from a few creditors. Threading his way through the crowds of girls and boys who filled the roadway and collected round the stalls, he moodily wondered if this passer and that were more unfortunate than he, until he stopped at a house taller, but not less grimy, than the rest. The bottom part formed a shop, where the landlord sold common delf and tin ware. At the present time he was bargaining with an old woman who would not give the price he asked for a copper kettle. Lauding its merits, he held the article up to the light of a paraffin lamp, that cast a lurid glare over the large white and blue china basins, jugs, and tin sauce- pans, which were piled and hung on stands outside. 16 A MODERN LOVER. As Lewis passed through the shop to his room, the landlady's little daughter ran forward, tottering under the weight of an enormous yellow cat, which she held in her chubby arms. "When are 'ou doing to paint my picture wid pussy, Mr. Seymour ? " " To-morrow, perhaps, if you s are a good girl," said Lewis, stooping to kiss the child, much to the large, stout mother's de- light, who stood holding in her hand a string of kettles, which she had lifted down from a peg at the back of the shop. Lewis owed three weeks' rent, and he hoped to persuade Mrs. Cross to let him pay it with a sketch of the child ; anyhow, a kiss on Dinah's fair hair was not unpleasant, and might soften the mother's impatience. With a nod to Mrs. Cross, he went up the dirty staircase, and on the top floor struck a match. The sudden light showed two doors almost facing each other. As he unlocked one, the other opened, and a clear voice asked : " Is that you, Lewis ? " "Yes ; come in." Shading the match with his hand from the draughts, he eventually succeeded in lighting the tallow candle which stood on a table covered with paints and brushes. Gwynnie Lloyd was a charming specimen of the English work girl. She was only sixteen, and under the little black dress, her tiny figure, half a girl's, half a woman's, swelled like a rose-bud in its leaves. Her face was fresh, but pale from overwork ; her eyes, although almost destitute of brows or lashes, had a delicious look of confidence and candour that made them beautiful through sheer force of truth ; her hair was the colour of fine dust ; her hands were those of her class, stout and rather coarse. " So you have been waiting for me, Gwynnie 1 " he said, pas- sionately. His whole heart was in the words, for apparently her affection was the only thing he possessed in the world. " Yes, I expected you earlier," she answered, timorously, for she guessed from his manner that he had not sold his sketches. " I loitered by the river, and if it hadn't been for you, Gwynnie, I think I should have drowned myself ; I can stand this misery no longer." " Oh, Lewis, how can you say such a thing ! Do you not know that God forbids us to destroy ourselves t " In her life she had never heard anyone say so wicked a thing, and as she clung to him, she mentally prayed for him. A MODEEN LOYKO. 17 " Ah 1 " he exclaimed, despairingly, " how happy we might be if we had a little money ! You are a dear good girl, and I love you better than anything hi the world ; but all is useless for the want of a few pounds." " Have a little patience," said Gwynnie, trembling at the idea of losing her lover. " That's all very well," replied Lewis, sinking into a chair, and sobbing bitterly ; " but what shall I do 1 They won't let me remain even here another week if I don't pay my rent, t have only a shilling left." Gwynnie would have liked to have cried, but she felt it was her duty to support him. "Never mind," she said, trying to assume a cheerful voice; " I shall have fifteen shillings to-morrow ; that will keep us alive, and you are sure to sell something soon." Lewis could not answer her at once for sobbing, but he drew her closer with one arm. "And now," she said, restraining her tears with difficulty, " you will promise me never to say such a wicked thing again ; besides, you say you are fond of me, and you talk of drowning yourself ; what should I do without you ? " Then Lewis dried his eyes, and said he would do some more sketches ; Gwynnie promised to sit to him for a head on Sunday morning, and for a long half-hour they talked of their little affairs. He had seen a good deal of her since he came to live in the house. They had made acquaintance by rendering each other little services, and he had easily persuaded her to come into his room to see his pictures. Once or twice she had been out to walk with him on the wide London Road ; clinging to his arm, she had looked at the stars, and had thought of the infinite goodness of God. Then the conversation turned on her early life, and she told him how her father was a Methodist carpenter, ]/ but her mother, who was a Roman Catholic, had brought her up in that religion. -j Seeing that the subject interested her, Lewis told how his ./ mother had also brought him up a Roman Catholic, but that his father was an atheist. She didn't know what an atheist meant, and was so shocked when she heard, that she refused to believe that his father had been so wicked. Lewis listened, amused at her pious chatter, till at last, to change the subject which began to bore him, he asked her if she were happier now than when she lived in the country. She did not answer, but 1 A MODERN LOVEll. involuntarily pressed his arm. The teuderuess of that evening was not to be forgotten ; it perfumed her life like a grain of scented salts fallen by accident into an empty wardrobe. Lewis knew that she loved him, and he returned her affection because it cheered his loneliness to do so. As she was about to wish him good-night, a shuffling step was heard on the stairs, then a knock came at the door ; on their frightened faces was plainly written the word landlord. Without waiting for an answer, the stranger pushed the door open and entered. " I have something for you a commission," he said, dis- torting his long mouth into a laugh, and showing one solitary tooth. " I am very glad to hear it, Mr. Jacobs," said Lewis, trying to conceal his joy. " What is it 1 " Mr. Jacobs was an old Jew, who undertook commissions of all sorts, but his chief business lay in pictures. He knew every dealer and every artist in London, and he trotted about from one to the other, buying and selling for them, supplying informa- tion, finding addresses, arranging meetings of all kinds, in fact, carrying on underhand commerce of the most complicated de- scription. " I called in at Mr. Carver's to-day, you know, in Pall Mall," said the old man, in a husky voice, " and I found him in an aw- ful fix ; he has an order to supply some decorative panels ; he promised that one should be ready by Monday in fact, it will be of no use if it isn't and the gentleman he relied on to do them is ill, another is out of town, and the third I forget what happened to the third anyhow, I thought of you, and I have brought you the panel, and I'm going to pay you liberal, and if it suits, you will have more to do." " How much ? " asked Lewis, excitedly. " Well, this is what I want done," said Jacobs, taking the panel from out a piece of paper, " I want you to paint me a Venus rising from the sea, with a few Cupids, and it must be at Mr. Carver's on Monday by twelve." " How much is it to be, a fiver ? " "A fiver!" repeated Mr. Jacobs, as if horrified; "you are joking." Eventually it was arranged that three pounds was to be the price, and Mr. Jacobs was about to go, when Lewis said: " Could you let me have a trifle in advance I am very hard up?" A MODERN LOVER. 19 "I really couldn't; I have only a few coppers on me; besides, it is Mr. Carver who will pay you ; but I am sorry not to be able." " Couldn't you manage half a sovereign 1 " " No, no," cried the old man, testily; "I'd sooner give the panel to someone else." Seeing that he would not give him anything, Lewis fetched the light to show him downstairs. " On Monday morning at twelve ; no mistakes ; it will be no use later." " Don't be afraid, Mr. Jacobs ; it will be all right." "And mind you make it look 'fetching;' it is for a gentle- man who is very particular," said Mr. Jacobs, as he shuffled downstairs. When Lewis came back, Gwynnie took hold of his hands and wrung them. " Now, Lewis," she exclaimed, " did I not tell you it would all come right ? Three pounds and prospects of more work, isn't it fine 1 " " Three pounds isn't much, he ought to have given me five ; but never mind, let's have some supper on the strength of it" " 'Tis foolish to be extravagant just because you have had a bit of luck ; that is what gets you into such trouble." "Oh, nonsense! I have a shilling tonight, and you will have fifteen to-morrow, and I shall have three pounds on Mon- day ; it is all right, we can have a couple of sausages and a pint of porter." " Very well," replied the little girl, " I will run and fetch them." He gave her a shilling and she ran off. When she was gone he took up the panel, and, drawing in the air, began to calculate, but suddenly a grey cloud passed over his bright face. " Good heavens ! " he said, " I have no money to pay for a model ! What shall I do ? I had quite forgotten." Then he thought of some drawings of which he would be able to make use, for it was only a decorative panel, and the gloom faded from his face. In a few minutes Gwynnie returned with the eatables; she added a couple of baked potatoes to the sausages ; there was no cloth to lay, and they had only to push aside the paints and brushes. As they supped he tried to explain to her what the picture 20 A MODERN LOVER. would be, but she did not like the conversation, and he laughed at her scruples. They had often discussed the subject before, particularly on one occasion, when he took her to the National Gallery. Many of the pictures had shocked her, and he failed to convince her that it was not sinful to paint such things, until he told her that many had been painted in Rome, and had received the approbation of the most pious popes. But how delightful was that supper ! Lewis watched Gwynnie trying to eat the too hot potatoes, and she pressed him to drink the porter, with a sense of complete happiness : until the candle burnt low in the socket they chattered of their future prospects, and how happy they were going to be. Then he remembered that they both had to be up in the morn- ing early, that it was time to go to bed. Lewis conducted her to the door and waited till she fetched her candle, which she lit from his. They wished each other good-night affectionately, and shut their garret doors. CHAPTER II. PAINTING FROM IMAGINATION. AT eight o'clock next morning Gwynnie and Lewis bade each other good-bye. The former went off to the shop in Regent Street, where she was employed, the latter sat down to his easel. After hunting a long time through his academy studies, he found two which he thought would suit him. He would fit the legs of one on to the other, and patch his picture up in that way. He had nearly all he required, but the action of one arm and shoulder bothered him ; somehow he couldn't get them to fit. He wanted to represent Venus tossing a cloud of hair round her body, but, try as he would, the arm did not seem to come right. He looked again through the portfolio, but could find nothing to guide him ; however, he slaved away at his drawing till twelve, and at last, after much rubbing out, thought he had got the movement he was seeking for. The Loves were easily done ; he had a big engraving from one of Boucher's pictures, and he could take the Cupids from it, arranging them differently, of course. Then, confident in himself, he set to work to rub in the sea and sky. All went well until he began to mould the figure, and then the faultiness of the drawing became apparent. He shifted the arms, raising and lowering them, thinking every minute he was getting it right. But no, it would not come right. He continued to change and alter until the light began to fade ; the panel was thick in paint, and the drawing seemed to be worse instead of better. At last, in deep despair, he changed the entire pose of the arms ; walked backwards and forwards, and tried to think what the action of the figure would be, but nothing would do : at last, half mad with fear and disappointment, he took his palette knife and scraped the panel clean. 22 A MODERN LOVER. There was no use in trying auy more, lie could not do it without a model, and he had no money to pay for one, so there was an end of it. Leaning back in his chair, he hid his face in his hands, and his thoughts reverted to the question of suicide. He regretted that he hadn't drowned himself the previous night. If he had only had the courage to have taken the plunge it would be all over now. What was the use of trying to live ? He had been clearly blackballed out of life ; he had nothing, not a hope, not a love but one, and that was a poor little work-girl. But as he thought of her his face brightened ; she would have fifteen shillings: he would borrow five to hire a model For a moment he thought of asking her to sit, and he regretted that it would be impossible to persuade her that it was a mere question of art. However, this did not much matter; she would give him her earnings to pay for the model, and there was the difficulty solved. He would be able to find a girl to- night, anyone would do, and by working all to-morrow and getting up early on Monday, he would he able to finish it. His large, tender, blue eyes grew bright with hope, and he walked up and down, waiting for Gwynnie to return. He looked around the room and prayed fervidly that he might get some more panels to do. It is torture to remain here, he thought, and a look of loathing passed over his face. Truly it was a miserable place. In the far corner was a narrow iron bed covered with some discoloured blankets. Hanging on some pegs by the door were the rags of clothes that remained to him ; a pair of trousers, a waistcoat, and a flannel shirt. By the wall stood three chairs, one broken, and a few canvases. About six o'clock a blithe voice came singing up the staircase, and a moment after Gwynnie bounced into the room. Her face was rippling with smiles, but they disappeared as her eyes fell on the bare panel. " V/hy," she exclaimed, " what have you been doing to-day, Lewis ? Where's the picture ? " " I spoilt it ; it wouldn't do ; I wiped it out." " Oh, Lewis, how could you ! " said Gwynnie, her clear eyes filling with tears. " Dear Gwynnie, don't cry ; I am as much cut up about it as you ; but it is no good, I can't do it without a model." "What's that? What, a real woman 1" she said, with a frightened expression of face, " to sit like those drawings 1 " A MODERN LOVER. & " My dear," returned Lewis, " I was thinking of asking you to lend me a few shillings to pay a model ; you know there are lots of girls who make their living by sitting to artists." " But of course I will," she answered, putting her hand in her pocket ; a weight of indefinite apprehension was taken off her mind ; she fancied he was going to ask her to sit. But suddenly she withdrew her hand from her pocket, her purse was not there, and, pale with fright, she said, trembling, " I am afraid my pocket has been picked." A dull, death-like look passed over his face ; it was beautiful in gladness, but grief caricatured the features strangely. In an instant, divining his thoughts, Gwynnie flung her arms on his shoulders and exclaimed, sobbing, " Oh, Lewis ! did you not promise me never to think of anything so wicked again ] " " My dear child," he said, putting her arms aside, " I am thinking of nothing." " Oh, yes, you are, and you have made up your mind to kill yourself." " Well, what if I have 1 I can't wait till starvation finishes me." " Oh, Lewis, Lewis, how can you ! " cried the girl, almost frantic with fear. "What should I do without you?" " It is no use making this fuss," he explained, brutally ; " will you sit for this picture 1 Otherwise, even if I don't drown myself, I shall starve ! " "No, Lewis, don't ask me; I would do anything in the world for you but that." " Yes, anything but what will save me ; I did not think you were so heartless, Gwynnie." "Don't speak so ; I would do anything in the world for you; I will beg for you." " You know," he said, taking her hand, " I love you, Gwynnie, and that I would not ask you to do anything I thought wrong. I assure you it is only a question of art, nothing more ; surely it can't be wrong to save our lives. Re- member, neither you nor I have any money, and you heard what Jacobs said, that this would bring other orders, and then we shall have lots of money, and shall be able to get married, for you know I love you better than anybody in the world. Yon won't sacrifice everything, will you ; you won't see me starve 1 r 24 A MODERN LOVER. At the word married, a bright look passed through her tears over the girl's face, and she said : " How do you mean I must sit, Lewis, like those drawings 1" He appreciated the sacrifice she was making for him, and his voice trembled with love and gratitude. "There is no use in mincing matters, Gwynnie," he said, after a pause ; " there are, if you refuse, only a few days be- tween us and starvation. It is no good to talk about beg- ging; if you can beg, I can't, and won't. No painter ever painted a nude figure without a model ; there is really no harm ; will you or will you not save me from starvation ? But I won't starve; I have borne up against this poverty long enough, there is always the river," he added, trying to decide her. .Gwynnie sobbed hysterically ; she longed to lock herself into her own room, but knowing that that would determine nothing, she resisted the impulse. Lewis let her have her cry out. He had seen the same scene in the studios often before, and it had always ended by the girl giving way. He thought, con- sidering the terrible necessity, that it was rather unreasonable for her to make such a fuss about it. Besides, there was really no harm, for he knew a perfectly good girl who sat for a shilling an hour. Lewis watched her ; he was pale with anxiety ; for should she refuse, he did not see what there was for him to do. Gwynnie sobbed heavily ; she felt sure that if she said, no, Lewis would drown himself, and to say, yes, was beyond her strength. The two months she had spent in London had scarcely sullied her pure little mind. She had closed her ears to the low talk in the London shop, and was nearly as simple-minded as when she used to walk three miles every Sunday to hear mass. ./ Religion had been laid so carefully about her early life that it was the soil to which tended the roots of all her thoughts. If her father had not taught her his faith, there was one word he had engraven on her mind, which was Duty ; therefore, if Lewis could persuade her that it was her duty to save his life at the cost of her modesty, she would do so, as Lady Godiva saved Coventry. Still, of all the virtues, modesty is the dearest to the Methodists, and her struggle was the oitterest ; and, decided either way, would infallibly influence the rest of her life. If she refused, and so caused her lover's death, remorse would cloud her life ; if she consented, pure as might be her A MODERN LOVER. 25 Intentions, she would have lost her modesty, and then, what shield would she have to keep her from sin and ruin ? But still, on the other hand, the sacrifice of all she held dear to save not only the temporal but the spiritual life of the man she loved, might so poetise and etherealise her nature that it would be able to withstand all temptations which might other- wise have attended it, and enable her to live in the past as a saint lives in the future. This transfiguration would un- doubtedly be the result of subjecting so fervid a nature as hers to so fearful a test, but would it endure through her whole life, or for a time only ? Would the struggle for existence which she would be engaged in, slowly but surely grind away the beauti- ful structure of feminine devotion she had raised, and leave her neither good nor wicked in the end, but only sordidly common- place 1 These were the different issues which her decision in- volved, and which it is one of the objects of this story to trace. Gwynnie continued to sob until at last the poignancy of her grief became so acute that Lewis felt he would rather die a hundred deaths than ask her to sit. " For goodness sake don't cry like that, Gwynnie," he said, with tears in his eyes. " I am sorry I asked you ; let's say no more about it." At the sound of his voice the girl stopped crying, and, looking up at him, said : " I will sit for you, Lewis, since it is necessary ; but I am not a bad girl, nor do I wish to be, but it cannot be right to see you starve or drown yourself, when I can save you." Lewis did not speak, he felt that words were out of place. He knew that she suffered, although he didn't exactly know why. His was a soft, sensuous nature, that instinctively took the easiest road to walk in, without a thought whether it was the right or the wrong one. Gwynnie Lloyd, on the contrary, might hesitate a long while before deciding, but once convinced which was the right path, she would follow it, no matter how thorny it might prove. The silence became each moment more irritating, but Lewis left her to break it, feeling himself unequal to the effort. " When do you want me to sit ? " said Gwynnie, resolutely. " I arn afraid I shall have to ask you to sit nearly all day," he answered, timidly, afraid that she would draw back. " Do you think you will mind ? " She looked at him surprised; her only excuse was to do what was wanted of her, efficiently. 26 A MODfcRN " Certainly not ; I will sit for you as loug as you Require me." "Well, then, suppose we begin *at eight; but I am afraid you will not be able to sit without a fire. Have you any money ? I will buy a little wood and coal." The mention of these details produced the same effect on her as the first sight of a guillotine will, even on those most pre- pared to die. Luckily, she had two shillings, which had escaped the pick- pocket's fingers, and she gave them to him, saying : " I suppose you have had nothing to eat : " then her thoughts wandered, and she added, absently, " I don't know what we shall do if you don't sell this picture. I wonder how I lost my money ! " " I have been at work all day," said Lewis ; " I haven't had time to feel hungry ; will you come, and we'll have some supper together ? " " No, thank you, I had some dinner with one of the girls ; I am tired, and I think I shall go to bed." Then she got up and bade him good-night, and went towards the door in a hesitating way, as if she had left something un- said. " I do this, Lewis," she explained, holding the door open, " because we are nearly starving, because I believe I am saving your life ; but you'll not think worse of me ; you will respect me, will you not ? " Lewis raised his hands in mute protest while he sought for words, but before he could speak she had bid him good-night, and slipped out of the room. CHAPTER III. PAINTING A VENUS. HE was heaping some more coals on the fire when Gwynnie entered the studio-garret next morning. With one hand she clasped round her shoulders a coarse woollen shawl, with the other she held up her skirts which hung loosely about her. Her feet were bare. She had slept feverishly and fitfully. All night she had been awakened and startled by dreams. Each half hour's sleep had been followed by a long vigil, full of the ardours of plighted and enfeebled by the lassitudes of broken promises. She would have had no difficulty in acting rightly had she known where her duty lay. But there was no one to whom she could turn for a word of advice, and she often got out of bed and prayed in the clear moonlight on her knees for grace. Often she seemed to see her father's face, but it told her little ; sometimes it seemed to frown, sometimes to smile, but she found comfort nowhere, save in a voice that told her that we do right when we believe what we are doing is right. " How good of you to come," said Lewis ; " I was afraid that you would change your mind." " Why should we change our minds when we think we are doing right ? " she answered, unaffectedly, but with a desire to excuse her conduct. Both were very much embarrassed. He, even more than she, dreaded the first step, and cowardly tried to put it off by suggesting that she had better wait till the room was warmer ; she, on the other hand, having come for a certain purpose, did not understand why it should be delayed. " I think the room is quite warm ; I am ready when you are," she answered, with the faintest tremble in her voice. Lewis placed her in the centre of the room where the light would fall directly upon her, then he arranged his easel in front of her, and stood waiting : 28 A MODERN LOVER. Bravely she threw her shawl away, and showed her arms and bosom. Then there was a pause. She held her skirts irresolutely about her, until at last, with a supreme effort, she threw them aside. If she could have stood as she was the worst would have been over, but Lewis had to tell her how to stand, to place her arms, her legs, her head, and she was so nervous she could scarcely understand what he said. Then she felt a faint sickness come over her, mixed with an aching detestation of her own person, and an infinite desire to beat herself against the walls, to be crushed out of sight. Twenty times she thought she was going to faint, it was only her pluck that saved her. However, at last the pose was found, and Lewis commenced his drawing. The knowledge of the sacrifice she was making for him intensified his powers of concentration, and in an hour he had made a very excellent drawing; he had caught the whole spirit of the pose. Gwynnie stood posing admirably ; but those who are not professional models will stand still for a quarter of an hour or so, and then fall suddenly from their full height without a word of warning. Lewis, being aware of this, watched carefully, and at the first quivering of the muscles of her face, threw her shawl over her shoulders, and helped her to a chair. When the faintness had passed off she cried a little, but was consoled at hearing the drawing was getting on beautifully. The ten minutes' rest went by rather awkwardly, and when he asked her to resume the pose, she did so a little reluctantly. It caused her perhaps a bitterer pang than before ; the un- certainty was gone and the humiliation remained ; but knowing that it would not do now to draw back, she bravely returned to her place. Having assured himself by measuring that his drawing was in. proportion, he took up his palette and began to paint. Every- thing went right as if by magic, and if Gwynnie had been able to hold out till three o'clock, he could have finished it all from nature, but although she took long rests of twenty minutes, she began to feel so dreadfully tired, that after two o'clock she had to go to her room and lie down. Luckily this did not matter. Lewis had it all well laid in, and could complete it from memory. He had still to paint In the sky, sea, and the Cupids ; he worked till the light first reddened the windows, until he began to fear he might spoil his picture if he went on. A MODERN LOVER. 29 Then he carried his easel, with the picture on it, to the lightest part of the room, and surrendered himself to the pleasure of looking at it. It was, he thought, certainly one of the best he had done. The figure was graceful, pretty in colour ; the Cupids were well grouped. There was no doubt Mr. Carver would not only be enchanted with it, but would give him other orders. He would undertake to do some more panels at the same price, and then he would ask for an increase : this would be only fair ; there was no doubt that Carver, or whatever his name might be, would not be able to get them half so well done for twice the money. He looked at it from the right and then from the left, and thought what a pity it was he couldn't have another sitting. The drawing was all there it only wanted a little finishing ; he wondered if he would be able to persuade Gwynnie to get up early, and give him half-an-hour to-morrow morning ; but, re- membering how much she had suffered for him, he began to grow sentimental, and determined not to ask her. The morality of the question interested him profoundly. How different girls were ! To think that there are thousands who do the very same thing every day of their lives, for one- and-sixpence an hour, and some of them quite good girls ; whereas Gwynnie, he did not suppose anything in the world would have induced her to do what she did, but the conviction that she was saving himself from suicide. He wondered if he would really have gone and drowned himself if she had not sat for him. There was no doubt that he was in the worst fix he had ever been in in his life. Everything pawned, and not a shilling in the house lots of men had done away with themselves for less cause. It was very probable that he would not have been able to have borne up any longer ; but it was all right now. Then his thoughts went back to Gwynnie, and he had not much difficulty in working himself up to the point of believing that he loved her quite perfectly, and above all, unselfishly. There was no doubt she had done him a very great service, and, vowing that she should be compensated, he began to consider his project of marrying her. The idea fascinated him, and he turned it over in his mind until the room became quite dark, and his stomach told him sharply that he had only eaten a crust of bread all the day long. Gwynnie, too, had eaten nothing, so he resolved that they should go out together and have some supper. 30 A MODERN LOVER. He went into the passage and listened, but, not hearing her stir, he pushed the door open. She lay fast asleep on the bed. She slept so soundly that he feared to awaken her, and, not knowing how long he might have to wait for her, he determined, after sume hesitation, to go out alone, have something to eat, aud come back in half-an-hour to see how she was getting on. But Lewis' half-hour was a long one ; and before he came back, Gwynnie awoke partly from cold, partly from hunger ; she had not eaten anything for nearly twenty hours. She got up and drank a little water : it relieved her ; then she groped her way into the studio. It was in complete darkness ; she called, but, receiving no answer, began to fear that he had spoilt his work, and gone out in despair. Trembling, she sought for the matches : at length she found them, and, by the light of one, which flared aud went out, caught a glimpse of the picture on the easel. Reassured, she struck a second, and lighted a bit of caudle, curious to see what she had sat for. During the rests, she had had no heart for anything but to escape from her dreadful situation. Lewis had asked her to look at his painting, but she had turned away her head. It seemed to her that to cast but a glance at it would be unendur- able shame. Now, however, that he was gone, she approached it timidly, terrified, yet with a feeling of compulsion upon her. She must know the worst. When the light of the caudle fell on the panel, she started back in horror. The white woman who rose out of the sea, and, as she threw back a heavy fleece of golden hair, seemed to exult in her nakedness, was she. She recognised herself ; the arms, the legs, the hair, were hers, even the face was like hers. Her first impulse was to dash the vile thing to the ground, and seek some place where she might hide herself. She felt as if she would never dare to encounter human eyes again ; she recalled every moment of that terrible day, and she asked herself, half mad with fear, how she would ever be able to meet Lewis. She glanced round hurriedly, and remembered that he might return at any moment. She felt that she would sooner die than look him in the face. No, they must not meet now ; the word " never " was on her lips, but she loved him too well for that. She would see him in a few weeks, in a month ; but now she must fly from him. But why? He could not despise her for what she had done : it is impossible to despise those who save our lives. But he might ask her to sit again, and that she A MODERN LOVER. 81 would never do. Then she remembered that he had spoken to her of marriage. But her pride tempted her, and she said to herself, that she would never let him marry her out of grati- tude. She loved him truly ; and, if he returned her love, they would be happy together, but not otherwise. Clearly the best thing would be to leave him. Her resolution was hurriedly taken. At first she did not know where to go, but remembering that a girl who worked in the same shop had often asked her to share her room, she resolved to go to her. Preparation she had little to make ; her few bits of clothes could be rolled into a little bundle, and, acting on the impulse of the moment, she packed up her things. She came back once or twice to bid good-bye to the studio, where she had found all the happiness and bitterness her life had known. It cost her many a cruel pang to go, but she felt that if she stayed, other temptations would result from what she had done, and, fearful of her own strength to resist, she sought safety in flight. CHAPTER TV. A PICTURE DEALER. AT the public house close by Lewis had something to eat ; and then, being a little elated by his luck, and tired by his long day's work, he thought he would not return home just yet, but would take a turn in the Strand, and see what was going on. There he met some friends whom he had not seen for a long while, and they pressed him to come and have drinks with them in a bar-room where they could sit and talk. Drink succeeded drink, and it was not till half past twelve, still explaining their artistic sympathies, that the friends bade each other good-night on the pavement. About ten o'clock the next morning he jumped hastily off his bed and rushed to see his picture. When he had admired the drawing, the colour, the composi- tion, he remembered last night's spree. Then he wondered where Gwynnie was ; he hoped she would not be angry with him for having gone out without her. Casting a last look at his picture, he went to look for her. ' Not finding her in her room, he supposed that she had gone to work. From a lodger he learnt it was half-past ten, so he had just time to clean himself up a bit before going to Mr. Carver's. He bought a paper collar, brushed his clothes, tied his necktie so as to conceal its shabbiuess, and started for Pall Mall, with his picture under his arm. After having explained his business to the shop assistant, he was told that Mr. Carver would see him when disengaged. At present he was, as Lewis could see, showing some pictures to a tall, aristocratic looking woman, who, judging from the dealer's obsequious politeness, was a well-known customer. She was well, but a little carelessly dressed ; there was not that elegance and exactitude in her toilette which betokens the merely fashionable woman. A shrewd judge of character would tell you that she was a woman of the world, spoiled with artis- A MODERN LOVER. 33 tic tastes. After examining the crows' feet, which were begin- ning to crawl about the intelligent eyes, he Vould tell you that she was some years over thirty, and he would add, if he were very sharp, that she was probably a woman who had missed her vocation in life, and was trying to create for herself new interests. There was about her a peculiar air of dissatis- faction. As she raised her arm to point out some merits or defects in the picture before her, the movement dragged the long, sleeve- less, grey cashmere mantle closer to her figure, and showed the shape of her broad shoulders and delicate waist : the fox fur border made the hand look smaller even than it really was. Her rather square face was handsome and intelligent, but not pretty. The mouth was large and sensual ; the nose was very small and well shaped, but the nostrils were prominent, like those of negress ; the forehead was broad and white, but the black hair was tied up hastily, and slipped from under the dark velvet bonnet. Lewis watched her attentively : she was the kind of woman who would attract a man like him. He wondered if she loved anyone, and he tried to imagine what this mythical person was like. She looked so aristocratic and dignified, that it seemed to him impossible that anyone could exist whose right was to kiss her lips and call her by her Christian name. The picture dealer was very busy trying to sell a magnificent mirror in old Saxony, which hung on the wall opposite to which Lewis was sitting. The lady examined it so attentively that Lewis thought she was going to buy it, but, as he looked from her to the mirror itself, he saw with surprise that she was examining him, and not the red and white flowers. Their eyes met for a moment, then she turned to ask Mr. Carver some questions anent a small picture which stood ou a tall Chinese vase in the far corner. What with an enormous stand laden with china, and the pictures in the window, the back of the shop was in perpetual twilight. Mr. Carver was therefore obliged to take the little picture which interested the lady over to where Lewis was sit- ting, so that she might admire it thoroughly. Mr. Carver asked Lewis politely to move a little on one side, and then, holding the picture under the lights, began to explain its beauties. " Yes, Mrs. Bentham, this is a very sweet landscape, by 3 W A MODERN LOVER. Corot ; I can guarantee it ; I had it of a man who bought it from the artist himself, you know his signature ? " She made some casual remarks, and then her eyes wandered from the picture to Lewis. Some women would have thought him mawkish, said that his hands were too long and white, his eyes of too soft a blue. The languid poses that his limbs naturally fell into rivalled the sweet dreamful attitudes of Greek statues modelled by Roman sculptors ; and all this harmony of body showed the epicene abandon of the man. The beauti- fully turned temples pointed to the sensual intelligence of the girl, not to the virile intelligence of the male ; there was nothing there that fixed the regard, all was transitory all was mobile. So Lewis's face had the rare charm of touching the imagination ; it was as suggestive as a picture by Leonardo da Vinci, and already Mrs. Bentham felt singularly curious to know who he was. He looked so poor, so wretched, and yet so gentlemanly, that, involuntarily, she saw him the hero of a series of romantic misfortunes, and was burning with curiosity to know him. The occasion was ready at hand. She had seen him unpack- ing his picture ; it was there before her. " Oh, what a charming panel ! " she said, after a moment's hesitation ; " and how prettily the Cupids are grouped round the Venus ! Is it an expensive picture, Mr. Carver 1 " " It is a commission I had from a gentleman ; he ordered it to fit the corner of a smoking-room," replied Mr. Carver. Mr. Carver was a large, stout man, and he wore huge bushy whiskers ; his face was a rich brown tint, and his fat fingers played perpetually with a heavy gold chain which hung across his portly stomach. Like most men of his calling, he was ob- servant, and having caught Mrs. Bentham more than once looking at the young painter, suspected that she was interested in Mr. Seymour. Afraid to introduce him because of his shabby appearance, he resolved, seeing that Mrs. Bentham still continued to look at Lewis, to adopt a middle course. "You see, Mr. Seymour," he said, in his pompous way, " that listeners do sometimes hear good of themselves." Lewis blushed violently, and Mrs. Bentham pretended to look a little confused. " I am sure I think the picture charming," she said, half to Lowis, half to the dealer. A MODERN LOVER. Lewis' heart was in his mouth, and he nervously tried to button his collar. "I should like to buy this very much," said Mrs. Bentham, as she advanced to examine the Cupids more minutely; "but don't you think there's too much sea and sky for the size of the panel?" Lewis blushed red, and answered her awkwardly and abruptly. He felt so ashamed of his clothes that he could scarcely say a word. Mrs. Bentham was disappointed. She had imagined him painting frescoes worthy of Michael Angelo in a 'garret ; had expected to hear him denounce the tyranny of wealth, and by a chance word or two give her an idea of the grandeur of his soul and the austerity of his life. Instead of this he murmured something vague and common-place between his teeth ; and after another attempt to get him into conversation, she turned away, thinking him a very uninteresting young man. But at this moment Lewis caught Mr. Carver's eyes upon him as a gleam of sunlight awakens a bird, he recovered himself, and commenced talking on decorative art. Tha spell being broken, Lewis chattered away pleasantly, and Mr. Carver, with the tact that always distinguished him, walked away under the pretext of give an order at the other end of the shop. " Ha, ha ! " thought the picture dealer, as he played plea- santly with his watch-chain, "so, Mrs. Bentham, you like my painters better than my pictures ; well, never mind, I daresay I shall be able to turn your tastes to my advantage, no matter how they lie." For a moment his face wore the expression of a man who has done a good action, but as he talked to his shopman it grew gradually more reflective. An idea had struck him. He re- membered that some time ago some six months ago, but that didn't matter Mrs. Bentham had asked him if he knew an artist who would, under her direction, decorate her drawing- room from a series of drawings she had colleted for the pur- pose. The commission had somehow fallen to the ground, but he now felt that the time had arrived to remind her that she had never put her delightful scheme for the decoration of her ball-room into execution. Charmed with his ingenuity, Mr. Carver came forward and joined in the conversation. After a few prefatory remarks on art, he introduced the sub- ject of the drawings, and suggested Mr. Seymour as just the person to whom such a work might be confidently entrusted. 86 A MODERN LOVER. Lewis had aroused Mrs. Bentham's sympathy, and the idea that she might help him was already stirring in her heart. But she was not prepared for so swift a transition from Tier dream of possibilities to an actual opportunity. The vague desire, in which she had found pleasure a moment earlier, frightened her when it took shape in Mr. Carver's suggestion, and she received it with silent astonishment. If she should give this commission to the young man, she must ask him as a visitor to Claremont House, and her look of surprise told the dealer that in proposing it he had gone too far. His thoughts had outstripped hers, but, nevertheless, they were travelling on the same road. He was ready enough to let the question rest, and to talk about the Corot. But the idea of the decorations seemed to sing in Mrs. Bentham's ears, and she feared that her silence might have wounded Lewis. She tried to return to the sub- ject ; she glanced at him, she hesitated, and eventually, not. knowing well what to do, she promised to call again in the course of the afternoon, and wishing them both good-morning, got into her carriage and vanished like a good fairy. Lewis stood looking after her in amazement, until Mr. Carver tapped him on the shoulder. "Well, my young friend," he said, affecting an American* accent, " I guess you are in good luck, you have only to play your cards well ; " then, pulling his long whiskers, he leaned and whispered, " she has seven thousand a year, and has been separated from her husband for the last ten years." Lewis did not answer, he did not quite understand what the dealer meant. After watching him for a few moments, his head thrown back in the fashion of a picture he had once possessed, of Napoleon surveying the field of Austerlitz, he said : " I am afraid you are too green, but if you weren't " He did not finish his phrase, but he seemed to see a con- quered world at his feet. At last, awaking from his reverie, the dealer said, surveying Lewis, attentively : " You owe me a big debt of gratitude." " And which I will repay you one of these days, if I get on as well as you seem to think I shall. But do you think she will give me the work to do that you and she were speaking about 1" " Oh, that I can't say," said Mr. Carver, murmuring like one waiting for an inspiration; "but I think it quite possible that . A MODERN LOVER. 37 she may interest herself in you, that is to say, if I speak of you as perhaps I may be tempted to do." Lewis ventured to hope that Mr. Carver would be so tempted. Mr. Carver did not answer, but continued to look into space, with the deep gaze of his favourite picture ; at last he went over to the till, and taking out three sovereigns, gave them to Lewis. " This is what I owe you ; call here to-morrow morning ; I shall see her this afternoon, and will speak to her on the sub- ject." Lewis thanked him humbly for his kind intentions, and asked him if he were satisfied with the panel. " Oh, perfectly, perfectly ; it is very satisfactory indeed." " Then, will you give me another to do 1 " " Certainly ; I shall have two ready for you to-morrow, that is to say, if nothing comes of the matter in hand," replied Mr. Carver, with the air of a man who wants to be left alone to his reflections. Stunned with the shake the sudden turn of Fortune's wheel had given him, Lewis walked towards the Strand, wondering how it was that Mr. Carver knew so well what Mrs. Bentham would do. As he turned into Pall Mall, he met Frazer, and the two went together. Frazer's face was wofully ascetic \ he lived for art, and for art only. He existed on a shilling a day, and made his wife live on less, whilst he dreamed of a new ideal. He belonged to the group of painters who styled them- selves " The moderns," and sold their pictures to Mr. Bendish. Having the least talent of the lot, he was the most fanatical. Rapidly Lewis told Frazer the story of his success, and for- getting that his friend took no more interest in women than in cab horses, gave him a minute account of Mrs. Bentham's per- sonal appearance. " Isn't it an extraordinary story, and what a delightful time I shall have in Sussex with her, if what Carver says is true, that " but noticing that Frazer was absorbed in contem- plating the lights and shadows in the streets, he stopped. The day was sloppy, but the sun shone between the showers ; the violet roof of Waterloo Place glittered intensely, and scattered around reflections of their vivid colour. A strip of sky, of a lighter blue than the slates, passed behind the dome of the National Gallery, the top of which came out black against a black cloud that held the approaching downpour. " You say that my sunset effects are too violet in tone ; look 88 A MODERN there ! " exclaimed the enthusiast ; " isn't everything violet ? walls, pools, and carriages, I can see nothing that isn't violet." Lewis admitted that there were some violet tones in the effect; but denied that it was composed exclusively of that colour, as Frazer wanted to make out. As they walked along, the question was argued passionately. Frazer's whole soul was in the discussion ; Lewis thought how he should spend the afternoon. It was only two o'clock ; he could not sit at home with three pounds in his pocket, so he in- vited his friend to come with him to a bar-room, and have something to eat. Frazer, who had eaten nothing all day, and only had had a dried herring at a fish-stand for dinner the night before, assented. He wished to continue the conversation, for he hoped to bring back Lewis to the fold. Lewis had once been a "Modern." Pushing through the doors, bright with varnish and polished brass, they stood in the twilight, warm with tobacco smoke, of the bar-room. The place was full of people, they lolled in groups and couples along the counter : behind it stood a line of girls, whose clear voices, as they gave an order, rang above the long murmur of the conversation. An odour of liquor drifted upwards, escaping slowly by the high windows. Edging their way through the crowd of betting-men, artists, journalists, and actors, they at last got to a table in one of the crescent-shaped nooks which ran along one side of t the room iinder the cathedral windows. Lewis ordered a copious lunch, and much whiskey and water, the sight of which attracted some academy students who were talking to the barmaids. At this time " The moderns " were terribly laughed at ; Thompson, the head of the school, was admitted to have some talent, but the rest were considered fools and madmen. So, with "whiskey to drink, and Frazer to chaff, the academy students got on capitally, and when they got the enthusiast to say that the only painting of any interest was what " The moderns" did, they fairly shook with laughter. Frazer never lost his temper ; and he continued to pour forth his aphorisms, unconscious of the mirth they occasioned. At last the hilarity was cut short by the arrival of Thompson ; he was with Harding, the novelist, whose books were vigorously denounced by the press, as being both immoral and cynical. Places were made A MODERN LOVER. fe for the two leaders of tho modern movement. Lewis knew them both, so he at once set to work to tell them about his luck. Thompson looked bored ; Harding listened sneeringly, his face was that of the intellectual sensualist. " So you are going to decorate the walls," said Thompson, drily, " with the extract of Boucher, and you are going to do it together ? Well, I hope the collaboration will succeed." " I suppose you would like me to paint ballet girls and housemaids over Greek walls. If the room is Greek, the decor- ations must be Greek, at least it seems to me so." " Naturally," replied Thompson, languidly (he had not much belief in Lewis's artistic future), " but don't you think there is a way of giving a modernized version of Greek subjects, that would be quite as archaeologically correct as the Greek seen through Boucher and Poussin ? Do what they did, take an old form and colour it with the spirit of the age you live in." The remark awakened a hundred thoughts in Lewis's mind, and he remained thinking. " But what is the use of arguing," said Harding. " Leave him alone, he will succeed much better by joining the women artists with their school of namby-pamby idealism, than by working with us. The age is dying of false morality and sentimentality, 1 and neither you nor I can do anything to help it, nor a host like us. These confounded women, with their poetry, their art, their aspirations, have devoured everything, like a plague of locusts ; they have conquered the nineteenth century as the Vandals did Europe in the sixth. Later on, I dare say they will arrive at something ; at present they are a new race, and have not yet had time to thoroughly digest what they have learned, much" less to create anything new." " Not created anything new ! " exclaimed an academy student : " what do you say to George Sand, George Eliot, and Rosa Bonheur V "That you have chosen the three that I would have chosen myself to exemplify what I say. If they have created anything new how is it that their art is exactly like our own 1 I defy anyone to say that George Eliot's novels are a woman's writing, / or that " The Horse Fair" was not painted by a man. I defy you to show me a trace of feminality in anything they ever did, that is the point I raise. I say that women as yet have not been able to transfuse into art a trace of their sex ; in other words, unable to assume a point of view of their own they have adopted ours. For instance, no one will deny that woman's 40 A MODERN LOVER. love must be different from a man's. Well, does George Sand, in one single instance, paint woman's love as seen differently from how we see it ourselves ? And what splendid chances they miss ! Female emotion in art is an unknown quantity, but to analyse it would require an original talent and that is what they have not, and I am afraid never will have. They arrange, explain, but they do not create ; they do not even de- velop a formula ; they merely vulgarise it, fit it for common use. No, not only are they not fathers, but in art are net even mothers." " Quite so," exclaimed Frazer ; " and if all modern art is based on love, it is owing to their influence. The fault I find with Shelley is that he can't write ten lines without talking of love ; it is quite sickening." Frazer could get no further, but with a grimace as if he were really feeling ill, he buried his long nose in a tumbler of whiskey and water. "But don't you think love beautiful?" asked Lewis, per- fectly horrified ; " how could anyone write poetry without it 1 It is the soul of poetry : even Swinburne, whom you so much admire, writes constantly about love." " Never ! " said Frazer, energetically ; " he respects himself too much. I defy you to show me anywhere a trace of senti- ;' ment in his poetry. Ah, yes, I forgot, he does in the case of the leper ; but then it was a leper who was sentimental, which renders it far less repulsive." This startling paradox obtained a laugh, and all wondered how far Frazer was serious in what he said. The conversation then turned on women, and everyone, including the academy students, who spoke to each other, explained to his neighbour what his individual opinions were upon the subject. Lewis be- lieved in passion, eternal devotion, and, above all, fidelity ; he could not understand the sin of unfaithfulness, in any shape or form; without truth there could not be love, and how any man could make love to his friend's wife, passed his comprehen- sion. Frazer declared that in that respect only he had never feared his friends. Thompson said that an artist's best love affair is to marry his cook, for in that way he not only makes sure of his servant's honesty, but secures himself against all invitations to dinner parties. Frazer endorsed that opinion cordially. Lewis combated it resolutely, and cited a number of successful painters and authors who had devoted their lives to love as well as to art. A MODERN LOVER. 41 This drew forth a long discussion, to which everybody con- tributed something, on the rival merits of Michael Angelo and Raphael, Wordsworth and Shelley: at last the conversation returned to its starting point, and the possibility of creating a new sestheticism was again passionately discussed. " I'm sick of the argument," said Thompson ; " people won't understand, or can't understand, and yet the whole question is as simple as A B C." " Well, what is your ABC?" asked an academy student. " This," replied Thompson, " ancient art was not, and modern art is, based upon logic. Our age is a logical one, and our art will not be able to hold aloof any longer from the general move- ment. Already the revolution is visible everywhere. It accom- plishes nothing in music that it does not do in literature ; nothing in literature that it does not in painting. The novelist is gaining the day for the study of the surroundings ; the painter for atmospheric effects ; and the musician will carry the day for melodious uninterrupted deductions, for free har- mony which is the atmosphere of music." This profession of faith touched the heart of a musician who had joined them, and he exclaimed : " Just so, and yet it is im- possible to explain to people that that is Wagner's whole principle. Take a symphony or a sonata, and ask a dozen writers to describe what it means, and you will get ten different theories. But if music, by itself, does not go further than to express generalities, once you join it to literature it becomes an instrument of the most extraordinary precision, for the sensi- bility of the listener is awakened to that particular emotion, to that particular shade of sentiment. The idea is completed by the suggestion, and in this way you obtain what is, perhaps, the most perfect of all the arts, an art that speaks at once to the ear, the soul, to the heart, and to the eyes. The dramatist gives the visible, the musician the invisible. The musician is the Pygmalion, the dramatist is Galatea." There being no other musician present, the conversation went back to the novel, and someone asked Harding why he always chose such unpleasant subjects. " We do not always choose what you call unpleasant subjects, but we try to go to the roots of things ; and the basis of life, being material and not spiritual, the .analyst inevitably finds himself, sooner or later, handling what this sentimental age calls coarse. But, like Thompson, I am sick of the discussion. If your stomach will not stand the crudities of the moral dis- 42 A MODERN LOVER. sectitig room read verse ; but don't try to distort an art into something it is not, and cannot be. The novel, if it be any- thing, is contemporary history, an exact and complete repro- duction of social surroundings of the age we live in. The poem, on the other hand, is an idealisation, and bears the same relation to the novel as the roast beef does to the rich, ripe fruit which you savour when your hunger is satisfied." " Believe before it is too late," exclaimed Mr. Frazer, warmly, to the academy students ; " the die has been cast ; what has to come will come. It will not be Mr. Hilton's Venus, nor Mr. Baring's pretty mothers, that will retard the coming of the modern art. A bombshell is about to break, and you open your umbrellas ; but have a care, oh, you who are academicians, the bombshell will destroy without mercy all things, both the small and heavy, that oppose it. I say this as much for Mr. Hilton as for Mr. Baring, as much for Mr. Channel, as mtich for Mr. John Wright and Mr. Arthur Hollwood, I say it for all who aspire to live in the future." This speech, which was given with all the vigour of a pro- phecy, threw a chill on the conversation. Some tittered at the enthusiast's vehemence ; Thompson and Harding testified in a few words their approval of the opinions expressed. Lewis, who had only half understood, and who had a strong prejudice against all sudden events, felt uneasy at the prospect of bomb- shells against whose fury umbrellas would prove of no avail. Gradually, however, every body began to speak quietly to his neigh- bour of the quality of the whiskey and the disagreeableness of the weather, until the conversation turned on Mr. Bendish. He was both criticised and defended, and it was declared that he was uncommonly useful when a sovereign or half a one was in- dispensable. But Lewis, who only remembered his last futile visit to Fitzroy Square, was of a different opinion ; he wished Frazer would leave off propounding theories, and allow him to ask Thompson what his opinion really was about Mrs. Bentham and the decorations. He waited impatiently for some time, but seeing that the chances of finding a sympathetic listener were becoming smaller and smaller, he began to think of going. It was just seven o'clock, Gwynnie would be due at half-past; he would just manage to get home in time to meet her. So, bidding his friends good-bye, he started off at a sharp pace. As he passed along the Waterloo Road he looked up at the grimy windows. Three days ago there was not one of the many inhabitants in that long line of dismal chambers with A liODJKKN LOVER. 43 whom he would not have exchanged places; now he almost pited them as he exultingly remembered that he alone knew her. Never had the shop, with the old iron and china piled about the walls, appeared so hateful ; and when he entered he forgot to speak to Dinah, who ran forward to meet him. Mrs. Cross told him that Miss Lloyd had not yet come in. This was strange and annoying, but thgre was nothing to do but to wait. The evening being fine, he opened his windows, and, resting his arms on the wall, sat down to enjoy his dreams. He wondered if it were really possible that he was going to stay with a fashionable lady in her country house, meet grand people, and be introduced to them as an equal. He thought of what he should say, what they would say to him, and his life became as sweet with dreams as a cup with wine until he remembers his poverty. He had but three shirts, a couple of pairs of old trousers, and the cracked shoes he wore. It was obviously impossible for him to go without a complete fit out and he had only two pounds ten. His dreams fell down like card houses, but they rose again in rose-coloured wreaths when he thought of Mr. Carver he, of course, would advance him the necessary money. Yes, on the whole, his life's sky appeared to be quite clear, and his thoughts hovered about surveying the horizon for a cloud, until they alighted on Gwynnie. He regretted he had not been able to paint his picture without having asked her to sit for it. People who make sacrifices for you always live with the idea that you are going to make sacrifices for them. She was, he assured himself, a dear, good girl who had done a great deal for him, and he hoped that she would not in any way try to mar his future prospects. Then his face darkened a little, and he felt annoyed with himself when he recalled the fact that he had promised to marry her. Fervidly he hoped she would not make a scene : he hated scenes ; nor cry when he told her he was going away. It would be perfectly ridiculous if she did ; for, surely, she did not expect him to live in a filthy room all his life? And so his thoughts wandered until the excitement of waiting became too intense, and he found himself at last obliged to go out to get rid of his troubles. CHAPTER V. MR. VICOMB. ON leaving Pall Mall, Mrs. Bentham drove to see her father. Mr. Vicome had been for many years completely bed-ridden : he lay helpless in a large bleak house in the neighbourhood of Cavendish Square. Mrs. Bentham was the only person he ever saw. She managed the Claremont House property for him, gave him what money he required, and did what she liked with the rest. He never interfered; she did. as she pleased, regarding the Sussex estates as her own, for being his only child, she would inherit them at his death. But although he could never leave Cavendish Square, he was interested in everything concerning Claremont House, even to the dismissal of a gardener. It was he who had given her the first idea of the ball-room, and he questioned her on every detail, as the work proceeded, as impatiently as if he were going to preside over the balls given there for the next fifty years. After having questioned the servant as to Mr. Vicome's health, Mrs. Bentham passed along the dreary stone passage to the dining-room, where he generally sat in the afternoon. On a small table next to his wheeled chair lay his wig, sunk into a packet of black clothes ; the white face and head lolled feebly ; a napkin covered his lap, and he was trying to eat something out of a cup. On seeing his daughter, he put on his wig, and called to the servant to take away what he was eating. Mrs. Bentham sat down by him, and they talked in short phrases of Claremont House. She told him all she co\ild think of, how the old people whom he had himself known were getting on ; how so-and-so's grand-daughter had gone away to service and hadn't written home ; how so-and-so's son intended to get married next spring. He listened delighted to all she had to say, and asked in- A MODERN LOVER. 45 numerable questions. Suddenly he recollected that the ball- room was not yet finished. "I wonder, my dear Lucy," he said, pettishly, "you don't find some artist to do those decorations ; you know I want to have that room finished." It seemed to Mrs. Bentham like a coincidence that he should speak to her on the subject, and forgetting that he rarely failed to do so, in a constrained way that surprised her, she explained that it was difficult to find an artist to whom the work might be entrusted. The room was quite beautiful since the walls had been painted in light blue and straw colour. " I told you," said the old man, joyfully, " that that was the right colour, and you would not believe me. I hope it is a light blue turning to mauve." Having been assured on that point, he continued : u I tell you I want the room finished. If you have carried out my idea, it will be the prettiest room in Sussex. I shall make an effort and try and get down there when the decorations are done ; but you must see about an artist to do the pictures ; why, there are dozens of clever young men starving about London who would do it splendidly. Can't that man Mr. Carver, whom you are always talking about, find you one 1 " " 'Tis curious," answered Mrs. Bentham, reflectively, " you should speak of it, for not half-au-hour ago Mr. Carver intro- duced me to a young man who he said would do the work splen- didly." " Then why don't you have him down to do it ? " asked the old man. " I may go off any day, and I want to see that room finished before I die ; it is really very selfish of you," Mrs. Bentham assured him that there was not the slightest chance of his dying for many a year, and that she would be very glad to have the young man down to do the decorations ; but, as she was staying there at present, she did not see how it was to be done, unless, indeed, she asked him as a visitor. On this point Mr. Vicome offered no opinion nor suggestion, but declared energetically that she should be there to superintend the work. The conversation then turned upon other matters, but from time to time the old gentleman continued querulously to allude to the subject, until Mrs. Bentham, as she got up to go, promised definitely to see to it. As she left the dark house she thought rapidly of Lewis ; his W A MODERN LOVER. face came back to her with singular persistency, and she could not help noticing that fate seemed to force her to do what in her heart of hearts she desired. There was no doubt she had, in her father's commands, an excellent reason for asking him to Claremont House, one which her prudish cousin Mrs. Thorpe would find it hard to gainsay, but then there were the county people to be taken into con- sideration ; and when she thought of Lewis' compromising face, she heard a thousand disagreeable remarks and petty sarcasms ringing in her ears. She changed her position nervously in the brougham, and apostrophized the injustice of the world's opinion, and the falseness of a woman's position in modern society. As she leaned back on the cushions she turned the subject over in her mind, finding, every instant, a new reason for taking her father's advice. She remembered how nicely Mr. Seymour talked, and the suspicion came upon her that he might be a gentleman born to the same position as herself. The stories she had heard of young men who die for the want of a friend, of a helping hand, unknown, on the bosom as it were of a million beings, in the middle of a crowd weary of the gold they do not know what to do with, thronged across her mind : and, irritated by the thought that he might be one of those miserable ones who starve- while the person who wishes to succour them is con- sidering the most proper way of extending his or her friendly hand, she told her coachman to drive to Pall Mall, resolved, if the references were satisfactory, to give him the decorations to do. Mr. Carver received her in his large and unctuous manner ; he overwhelmed Mrs. Bentham, dazzled her with an impromptu sketch of what Lewis' future would be, " if he only got a chance," soon. On this point she no longei had a doubt ; she was con- vinced that he would some day blossom into a Raphael. Nevertheless, for the moment, she found herself obliged to con- sider the more prosaic question of his past life, and after some beating about the bush, she asked Mr. Carver if he would tell her who this young painter was. Mr. Carver had, on this subject, little infymation to supply, but he threw himself at once into the Napoleonic pose, and talked just as if he had known Lewis in his cradle. He told Mrs. Bentham that Lewis was the son of a country doctor in Essex, who had died, leaving his widow in bad circumstances ; that, on his mother's death, Lewis had found himself obliged to come to London to seek his fortune. So much Mr. Carver had A MODERN LOVER. 47 found out, for he found out something concerning everyone he had ever been brought in contact with; and he embroidered ingeniously on this slight material until he brought tears into Mrs. Bentham's eyes. A few more words sufficed to settle the matter : it was decided that Lewis should be sent down next Thursday to Sussex, Mr. Carver charging himself with all the arrangements. CHAPTER VL DESERTION. LEWIS slept very badly on Monday night ; Gwynnie's pale face kept him awake. She had not returned, and he feared that she, overcome with shame, had committed the crime that she had saved him from. In the morning the landlady brought him up a letter ; he looked at it hastily. It was from Mr. Carver, asking him to call about eleven. Having assured himself that his own affairs were all right, he asked Mrs. Cross if he had heard anything of Miss Lloyd. No, she hadn't, and what's more, she thought it very strange : Miss Lloyd, as long as she had been in the house, had never done such a thing before. Lewis was frightened so much so that he determined to go off at once to her shop and make inquiries. But when he got downstairs he found it was twenty minutes to eleven. By taking a hansom he would only be able to get to Mr. Carver's in time, and it never would do to miss that appointment. Besides, Pall Mall was on ' the way, and he would go on to Regent Street afterwards, it was only a question of five minutes' difference ; Mr. Carver would not keep him longer, and he must know his fate. Mr. Carver received him very affably, told him that it was all arranged, that he was to go down to Claremont House the day after to-morrow, and stop there until he had finished the decorations, a three months' job, for which he would receive two hundred pounds. Lewis was dazed at his good fortune, and the dear dreams of the night before seemed all to have grown into beautiful realities. Mr. Carver, in the Napoleonic pose, watched his astonishment with a tender interest akin to that which an inventor takes in bis new patent. " But who is Mrs. Bentham ? You say that she is separ- A MODERN LOVER. 49 ated from her husband ] " asked Lewis, emboldened a little by his success. " One of the biggest swells in London, my dear boy. I can tell you 'twas a lucky day for you when you put your nose into my shop." Mr. Carver had no doubt that in the course of this adven- ture something would occur which would enable him to turn the weaknesses of human nature to his profit. He did not know what, but he was sure that something would happen. Something always did ; at least that was his experience of life. The only thing of which he was uncertain was Lewis's power of restraint, of conducting himself properly at Clare- mont House. Therefore, with the air of one who has never spoken to anything less than a baronet, Mr. Carver proceeded to give Lewis what he considered many useful hints as to how he should behave himself. He told him that he would meet all the best people, who would tear him to pieces as monkeys would a newsp iper; but to be forewarned is to be forearmed, and Mr. Carver advised him to be very reserved, and, above all, very polite to everybody from the lap-dog up- wards. It was part of Lewis's nature to believe that women were in love with him, and cautiously he tried to find out what opinion Mr. Carver held on the matter of Mrs. Bentham's affections. But Mr. Carver only eyed him sharply and advised him to be very careful, to look before he leaped, and, better still, not to leap at all, but to let things untie themselves gradually. Mr. Carver seemed to enjoy the conversation im- mensely, and, as a trainer gives the jockey the final instructions, he explained to Lewis the perils he must avoid, and the circum- stances he must take advantage of. As he told him of the grand people he would meet at Claremont House, Lewis looked in despair at his broken boots and stained trousers. At last, interrupting the list of grand names with which the dealer was apparently baptizing him, he asked boldly for a small advance of money. "Of course, of course; you are in a piteous plight, I see," replied Mr. Carver, looking him up and down. Lewis thought the inspection rude, but forgave it when he was handed five ten-pound notes. Then, in his turn, Lewis looked Mr. Carver up and down, from the large plaid trousers to the red cravat, an attention which put the dealer in a good temper for the rest of the day, 4 60 A MODERN LOVER. it not occurring to him that the painter might be looking to see what to avoid rather than what to copy. Then, after having signed a bill, and listened to a little advice on the subject of dress, Lewis was free to go and look after Gwynnie. He took another hansom and drove to her shop, where he was gratified to hear that she had been at work all the day before. He drew a deep breath of relief ; there was no longer any reason for supposing she had committed suicide. Still, it was extraordinary she had not returned home ; and he continued to question the forewoman until she would listen to him no longer : all she knew was that Miss Lloyd had been there yesterday, and had gone away with a lady friend. " But do you know her friend's address V insisted Lewis ; " I shall be so much obliged " " I assure you I haven't the least idea, but if you will leave a message or a letter, it shall be given to Miss Lloyd." Lewis asked her to say he had called, and, with a sense of of having done his duty, drove off to buy his clothes. Pettishly he assured himself that he could do no more, unless, indeed, he put the matter in the hands of the police, and to do that would be ridiculous. She was her own mistress, and had a right to hide herself if she pleased. He turned the subject over in his mind, but could think of no reason why she had not returned home, unless, indeed, it was because she was angry with him for not having waited for her. Anyhow, he was sure of one thing : that she had not committed suicide, and, comforting himself with the assurance, he drove to a tailor's. All that day and the next he spent buying shirts, coats, trousers, collars, neckties, and boota As he walked along the streets he looked to see how the upper ten thousand were dressed. He observed how their coats were buttoned, and the kind of scarfs they wore, and tried to find out what the differ- ences were that distinguished them from the middle classes. It was absolutely necessary for him to know these things, for ho felt he would be seriously compromising his position if he went down to Mrs. Bentham's dressed like a shop boy. He fancied that Mr. Carver had hinted that it was not merely his talents as an artist that had induced Mrs. Bentham to give him the commission to decorate the ball-room, and it afforded him much pleasure to think that she was interested in him. The time at his disposal necessitated orders to Mr. Halet instead of to Mr. Johnson ; but, his figure being perfectly- pro- portioned, he was easy to fit, and the clothes, with a few altera- A MODERN LOVER. 61 tions, almost satisfied him. He bought two suits of country clothes, short jackets and coloured trousers, to which he added a velvet coat for painting in. Dress clothes were indispensable, and these, at least, he would have liked to have had from a tirst- class tailor, but it was not possible he had to start the follow- ing day. Having to buy everything, from a portmanteau to a tooth-brush, he had not a minute to spare, and every now and then, when he had fancied he had ordered all he would require, he found himself obliged to start off again to buy some pocket- handkerchiefs, collars, or silk socks. Instinctively he was at- tracted by what was soft and delicate. Some silk shirts with cords tempted him so much that he was restless until he possessed them. A great deal of money was also spent in scent, powder, nail- polishers. Although he had had but little opportunity in his life of becoming acquainted with such luxuries, he divined their uses as if by instinct, and his white, feminine hands as they strayed over the shop counters seemed to love the touch of all things connected with the toilette-table. Yet, notwithstanding his occupations, he found time to in- quire again at the shop in Regent Street after Gwynnie. She had not returned, nor had her friend, and Lewis went away, wondering what was the reason of this disappearance. He felt that he ought to take more trouble to find her, but he assured himself that he hadn't the time, his hours were numbered. Of course it was very unfortunate, it seemed perfectly abominable to go away without seeing her ; but then, what was he to do ? Over and over again he asked himself the question. At last he resolved to write her a letter. In his excited state, it was a matter of no small difficulty to explain satisfactorily the story of his luck, to express fear for her safety, and abuse her affectionately for having gone away without leaving him word to say where she had gone to. Lewis found the letter horribly difficult to write ; he often felt in- clined to throw it aside, but he struggled on to the end, and he finished it just before he had to start to catch the three o'clock train. As he drove away, Mrs. Cross stod at the door and followed the hansom with her eyes. " I am sure, 'Arry, that young gentleman was someone great, or will become someone great." 'Arry did not answer; he went on arranging the jugs and basins and tin saucepans in his window, so as to attract his 52 A MODERN LOVER. customers, evidently thinking that his wife's prediction did not call for reply. Dinah, however, left off teasing the yellow cat, and hiding her golden ourla in her mother's coarse apron began to cry. CHAPTER VII. LEWIS SEYMOUR'S EARLY LIFE. BEHIND his mother's death, Lewis's early life extended like a wide grey cloud. In the hurry and trouble of London life he had forgotten the past, but as he leaned back in tbe comfort of a first-class carriage, he complacently amused himself by picking out some portions of the obliterated picture. In '43 his father, l^" whom he just remembered, had been appointed dispensary doctor, in the little town of Santry. He had been elected in the face of much opposition, for an inkling of his gravity and sternness had got wind, and the inhabitants of Santry disliked above all things an unsociable doctor. The women worked heaven and earth against him ; but his splendid testimonials for hospital service carried the day against his rival's reputation for dancing and croquet playing. On his arrival at Santry, Mr. Seymour took a house, built a laboratory, declined an invitation to a dance. This curious behaviour excited much comment ; and as the days went by, the good people of Santry came to the conclusion that Mr. Seymour in no way belied the character that had pre- ceded him. He was found to be an excellent doctor, but he did not care for society. He neither drank nor gambled, but he lived, as a wag said, buried in a lot of saucepans. In other words, Mr. Seymour was a chemist, and for his favourite pursuit he neglected everything except his patients. The townspeople used to say, when the thick smoke issuing from the chimney of his laboratory attracted their notice, that Seymour was burning away hundreds of pounds in his crucibles. But what he spent or saved was problematic. He took no one into his confidence ; he lived in himself, avoiding as much as possible the garrulous society of the place. He paid his visits, took his fees, and shirked dancing and dinner parties. This continued for years, until one day the smoke ceased to 64 A MODERN LOVER. issue from the tall chimney, and then the doctor manifested a desire to become more cordial. The society of Santry hailed this conversion with delight, and the matrons soon discovered that Mr. Seymour was on the look out fora wife. The young girls made faces when their mammas spoke of him ; he was far too serious for their tastes, but they were overruled by their elders. For two months everyone was on the tiptoe of expectation, and it was then perceived that the doctor's choice had fallen on Miss Oyler, the daughter of a rich corn merchant. May Oyler was a soft, fair girl, with a receding chin. She liked her father's clerk far better than the doctor ; and when it was found out that Mr. Seymour had spent several thousands in chemicals, and that it would take more than half her fortune to pay off these debts, she hoped ardently that this would suffice to break off the engagement. But Mr. Seymour's practice was large ; for, notwithstanding his unsociable disposition, his un- doubted abilities had enabled him to maintain the position of fashionable doctor. Mr. Oyler was, therefore, ready to consent to anything, provided Mr. Seymour promised to give up chemistry. This was agreed upon, and May Oyler became Mrs. Seymour. For a year Mr. Seymour tried to do his duty, tried to be affectionate to his wife, tried to bring his nature down to hers ; for a year he went with her into society, and let her receive the friends she liked. Had she possessed a little resolution, she might have easily weaned him from his vice ; but, un- fortunately, her nature was so tepid, so incapable of an effort, that to escape from the horrible ennui of her company he soon began to pay fugitive visits to his laboratory. Mrs. Seymour cried meekly in secret, she went to church to pray, and that was all she did or could do. Lewis was the only child born of this ill-sorted match. He was his mother's darling, but his beautiful blue eyes had in them a silly look, which horrified the father. The mother's dullness seemed to have fallen on the son, and Mr. Seymour shut himself up more than ever in his studies. What Mr. Seymour's studies were no one ever knew exactly. Dr. Brown, who was the only person who could boast of much intimacy with Mr. Seymour, said that he believed in the future of electricity, and was making experiments with that view. " A very able man indeed, but something of a dreamer," Doctor Brown often said. Had he finished his remarks there A MODERN LOVER. 56 he would have been saved regret, but, on being pressed for de- tails, he added that Mr. Seymour had declared electricity to be the modern god that would revolutionise the world. Every- body was shocked. A suspicion of atheism was all that was wanted, and imperceptibly Mr. Seymour's practice slipped away from him. Writs came down from London, but Mr. Seymour paid no attention, he continued to work harder than ever in his labora- tory, and the smoke ponred more lustily than ever out of the tall chimney. Some said that he was on the eve of a successful experiment ; and they were not wrong : on the day the bailiffs came to seize he was found dead : the jury returned a verdict of accidental death from an overdose of chloral, but it was generally supposed he had committed suicide. Mrs. Seymour's whole fortune on her husband's death con- sisted in an interest to the extent of two hundred pounds a year in her father's corn business, which, the old man being now dead, was now carried on by her brother. On this modest competence she determined, not only to live, but if possible to save money. She took a very small house at the end of the town, and devoted the rest of her wretched life to her son's welfare. Mother and son lived quite alone, seeing nobody but a few relations. Mr. Seymour's suspected atheistical opinions and manner of life had alienated them during his lifetime from the society of the place, and now she felt herself incapable of mak- ing new friends : those of her youth were dispersed. Poverty also lent its hand to complete Mrs. Seymour's isola- tion, but she did not complain, she accepted life as it came. Lewis grew up by her side a shy, timid lad. She taught him how to read and write, and what she remembered of French. But she did not succeed very well, and the silent tears would often stream down her cheeks on to the books. Her only con- solation, and it was a supreme one, was that her son seemed to be content to be with her. He shrunk from the rough play of boys, and the only ac- quaintances he made were women. He had quite a circle of admirers, whom he used to visit, with whom he used to spend long dreamy afternoons, full of infinite tenderness, feminine sympathies and affinities, which he knew so well how to savour and appreciate, but which husbands, and even lovers, pass their lives in ignoring, or misunderstanding. And to sit and look into women's eyes as they talked, or to lie down alone in a quiet 56 A MODERN LOVER. woodland place, was all he seemed to care for. His intelligence dawned slowly ; and it was not till be was over fifteen that his mind began to brighten, and he asked to be allowed to attend a school. There he dawdled away his time learning something vaguely in a desultory way, evincing no taste for anything except dreaming. Sometimes he would take a volume of verse to the woods, and strive to read it, but it soon fell from his hand, and he would lie for hours like a plant, conscious of nothing but the air he breathed. These endless langours continued until instinc- tively he began to draw on the margin of the paper the land- scape before him. This last fancy developed itself daily, and the whole of his seventeenth year was spent brush in hand. Little bits of green underwood, pleasant places where the sha- dows were soft and soothing, were what he loved best to depict, * and as he used to wander about, painting whatever caught his fancy, he soon became a conspicuous person in the place. He made the acquaintance of Mrs. , who belonged to one of the first of the county families, through a sketch he was making near her house. He looked so poetical, with his long curls hanging round his neck, that she made her husband go and speak to him ; the conversation ended in his being asked to lunch. After this success he was made quite a lion of; he was asked out everywhere, and everybody was of the opinion that one day or another he would become a great artist. Mrs. Seymour was not invited, nor did she want to follow Lewis into society : she was content to sit at home and wait for him to return, and tell her of his successes, and these last years were about the hap- /iest of her life. But as Lewis got on with his painting he began to think of going to London to study ; and he was advised to do so by everybody he knew. Mrs. Seymour was prepared to sell up her home, and sacrifice herself for her son's welfare ; but her health, which had for some time been in a declining state, so suddenly gave way, that the project had to be given over. Then followed a year full of wearying anxiety, of ominous hours, of whispered words. Mrs. Seymour died slowly ; one month she appeared to be recovering, the next she seemed to be sink- ing. In the end, she died, as she had lived, feebly. Lewis watched and waited, fretted, grew wearied, and was sorrowful. The house, always dark, grew more oppressive as the livid shadows of death crept through the rooms; the neigh- bours came and went, and pitied the young man. A MODERN LOVER. 57 But at length the last night arrived. Lewis was sitting in the little drawing-room, trying to read as he waited for the doctor. The lamp burned on the table, and the clock ticked on the chimney-piece, and the hours grew darker and more silent. Feverish with apprehension, he threw open the window, and stood looking into the moonlit street. Then he heard a rapping at the door, and the nurse entered : her grave face told him what had happened. If all had gone well, his mother's death woxild have put him hi possession of a very nice little fortune. The house and furni- ture would have fetched at least two hundred pounds, and after paying all the funeral expenses, there would still be a balance of one hundred and fifty pounds. With this to use as ready money, and two hundred a year of fixed income, he would have been able to study art in all the countries in Europe, if it so pleased him. But his life's current had to run through many sudden shoals and eddies before it swelled into a wide stream of prosperity. The first of the shipwrecking reefs he had to pass was his uncle's failure. This occurred almost immediately after Mrs. Seymour's death. Mr. Oyler had not only failed, but his failure was a fraudulent one,- and be had fled the country. The two hundred a year to which Lewis was entitled out of the business was utterly lost, and he found himself obliged to face the world with something like three hundred and fifty pounds, instead of a comfortable competence. This was a terrible reverse to receive at the very start ; but Lewis's temperament was an enthusiastic one, and knowing nothing, he feared nothing, and he thought London would fall at the first sound of his clarion. His pictures had been admired by Mr. So-and-so and so-and- so; he had been received by Mrs. , and the Essex Telegraph had said he was a promising young artist. So, like many a one before him, he thought that because he had succeeded in the country he would succeed in London. He had done lots of drawings at the training school at Santry, any one of which he was sure would get him admitted into the Academy in London, and on his three hundred and fifty pounds he could live until the golden ducats came tumbling in. In this manner he read the sign of the horoscope, and one morning he took a last look at his native place. His eyes were full of tears as he bade his friends good-bye ; they had all been very good to him. 58 . A MODERN LOVER. He was full of confidence. He had two suits of clothes and nearly a dozen shirts in his portmanteau; his three hundred and fifty pounds were safely deposited in a bank, and the master of the training school had given him a letter of introduction to a Mr. Thompson, a very clever fellow, the head of a new school who styled themselves " The moderns." The drawing master had not been able to tell him anything about "The moderns," and very little about Thompson; he had not seen him for years. He had only heard that he was at the head of this movement, which was supposed to be very much opposed to classics. All the way up to London Lewis tried to fill up the scanty outline ; he wondered what Thompson was like, and he tried vainly to imagine what the painting of " The moderns " was like. Of art he had seen nothing but the plaster casts in the training school, the pictures in the country houses he visited, and some photographs of a new school, which, in a kind of early Italian form, gave expression to much ephemeral lan- guor. These Lewis thought the beau ideal of all that life could desire, and he wondered if that was what Thompson did; it seemed to him impossible to desire more. On arriving in London he drove to the hotel he had been recommended ; and next morning, at an early hour, went off to see Thompson. He had never been in a studio in his life, and he was full of apprehensions and surmises. After a great deal of hunting through Chelsea he found the address. He was received kindly, but his first feeling on looking round was one of complete be- wilderment. He had expected to see graceful nymphs languishing on green banks, either nude or in classical draperies, and, instead, he was regaled with housemaids in print dresses, leaning out of windows, or bar girls serving drinks to beery looking clerks. In fact, the walls were covered, not with the softness of ancient, but with the crudities of modern life. He turned his eyes to the right and left dumbfounded. At the end of the room there was a picture of two acrobats in their pink fleshings; Lewis looked at it in amazement. The strong odour of life it exhaled was too much for him. So extraordinary did the pictures appear to him, that at first he felt as if he were the victim of some monstrous joke. Yet, on examining it, he recognised exquisite bits of drawing and colour, but the form of expression was so strange. A MODERN LOVER. 59 " I see you are astonished," said Thompson, laughing ; " you know we don't care for the modernised versions of the early Italians, so popular now-a-days, but we will talk about that later on ; you will get to understand what we mean by-and-bye; whether you'll agree with us or no is another question. Let me see your work." Lewis unrolled a quantity of drawings he had done from the antique in the training school, and he tried to read in Thompson's face what he thought of them. They were fairly well done, and showed dexterity of hand. When Thompson had gone carefully through them, he asked to see Lewis's original sketches ; with these he was less satis- fied, but he knew it would be vain to expect much individuality from one who had been taught in a country training school. " So you have come up to London to learn to be an artist," said Thompson, eyeing Lewis severely. Thompson was a stout, short man ; he wore a red beard, and spoke with a strong Scotch accent. " Yes, I wanted to enter the academy ; but you don't care for Greek art," replied Lewis, who began to feel very miserable ; he had expected that Thompson would go into raptures over his drawings, and he had only looked at them as he would at a child's copy book. " I didn't say I didn't like Greek art, but I make a difference between the pseudo Greek and Italian of the nineteenth century, to that of Pericles and Innocent III ; but you will hear all about that soon enough. At present you want to get into the Academy ; well, on the whole, I think it is the best thing for you to do, and I think one of these drawings will get you in." He then asked Lewis some questions as to his money arrange- ments, and appeared to think three hundred and fifty pounds was plenty to start in life with. He told him where he could get a room for seven shillings a week, and where he would be able to dine for tenpence, and explained how in that way he would be able to live for more than three years on the money he had, and by that time, if he had anything in him, he would be able to get along. Although Thompson loathed the Academy system of train- ing, he could not think of anything better that Lewis could do than to join the schools. He was a country boy, alone in London, and it would take him some time to learn even what people in the London art world were thinking about. A year in the schools would do him no harm. He would 60 A MODERN LOVER. meet there some of the " Moderns," whose counsels would counteract those of the Medieevalists, and Lewis would be able to choose between the two. Under the general title of " The moderns " were united all the artists, painters, musicians and writers, who believed that the arts are the issue of the manners and customs of the day, and change with those manners according to a general law. Of such elements the group was really composed, but the title was most commonly applied to the painters, of whom Thompson was the leader. Wearied of the art that only tried to echo the beauty of the Apollo and the Venus de Medici, and loathing that which dis- torted the early Italian formula to make it available as a means of expressing the sexless hysteria of our age, they longed for a new art racy of the nineteenth century. They declared that a new eestheticism was to be discovered ; that the materials were everywhere around them ; that only the form had to be found. This was what they sought ; the new formula which would enable them to render modern life in all its poignancy and ful- ness. They maintained that the world has seen four perfectly distinct artistic methods. The first on the list is the Egyptian; the second, the Greek ; the third, the Italian - f and the fourth, the Japanese ; and they declared that the absolute originality of the Japanese in art could only be accounted for by the fact, that they had been fortunate enough never to have seen a Greek statue. It was a favourite subject of joke amongst them to imagine what would have been the result if a ship-load of the Elgin marbles had been cast on the shores of Yeso, in the year of our Lord Thompson was the leader of this little band. He fortified them in their faith that nature is not limited to these four formulas, and he encouraged them to seek for a fifth in the seething mass of human life, one as comprehensive of our civili- / sation as the art of the ' Egyptians was of theirs. He forced v them to love art for its own sake, and prevented them from prostituting their talents to the pay of the cheap dealers, who demand the vile and the worthless. It was Thompson who served them as a sort of centre; he rallied them, theorised their confused aspirations, and gave to many, if not the clue to the problem, at least strength to believe that they were follow- ing the light of the truth. In a month from the time Lewis arrived in London, he entered A MODERN LOVER. 61 the Academy as a student, and every Saturday he brought his week's work to Thompson's studio. He lived in a room in Chelsea, which cost him seven shillings a week ; he spent sixpence on his breakfast, which his landlady supplied, and with a shilling he dined comfortably in one of the cheap eating houses where the joint is fourpence. Living in this way, the necessaries of life would cost him about forty-five pounds a year ; adding twenty-five pounds to that for clothes, paints, brushes, and occasional expenses ; the total would come to seventy pounds ; consequently, he would be able to work in perfect security and calm for the next five years, and by that time he hoped to sell his pictures. As Thompson expected, it took some time before Lewis fell in with the ideas of the new artistic movement. For a long time he could not understand why academical drawings, where every muscle is beautifully modelled, belong to no species of art ; for a long time he could not understand Frazer's sunset effects in deep violet, or why Cassell painted black hair blue : but be- fore the end of the year he was one of the most ardent disciples of the new faith. An ardent disciple in theory, but only faintly in practice ; for he was never able to shake himself free of the conventional prettiness of things. One evening a week they met in Thompson's room, and those were the hours they all looked forward to ; there they smoked and argued and encouraged each other. He had fallen in with a clique of strong-minded fellows ; they soon grew to like him, and it was owing to their influence that for over a year he struggled against his natural proclivities, and worked steadily. He made rapid progress, he learned to draw intelligently and correctly, and if it had not been for one of those million chances of which our lives are composed, he might have lived to have conquered his passions, and to have done good work for art's own sake. Thompson would not allow him to paint pictures, but made him stick to his drawing. On Sundays, however, he used to go into the country to sketch, and one day, happening to do a bit of river scenery which pleased Thompson, he thought he would have it framed, and present it to his friend. But the picture dealer and frame maker to whom he went was struck with the sketch, and offered him fifteen shillings for it. At first Lewis refused to part with it ; but thinking that he could do another better, he ended by taking the money. 62 A MODERN LOVER. Up to that time his expenses had been so regulated that every penny that passed through his hands had had a purpose, but now there came fifteen shillings which he could not account for that is to say, which he could spend as the fancy prompted him. He jingled the money as he went along, and, remembering that his neck-tie was very soiled, he entered a shop and bought a new one. As he walked towards the coffee-house where he dined habitually, he passed a cheap cafi, and he could not resist the temptation of dining there ; he had a cup of coffee and a cigar after dinner. These little luxuries, coming after so much steady privation, were very soothing and flesh satisfying, and the fifteen shillings enabled him during the whole week to make little additions to his dinner ; but to continue them necessitated purloining hours from regular study to do drawings for the frame maker. At prices varying from five to fifteen shillings, Mr. con- sented to buy his sketches, and Lewis found that an extra ten shillings a week made his life much more comfortable. But this slight change in his way of living involved him in many temptations. Having a few shillings in his pocket made him care less for his lonely chamber and more for bar-rooms ; he was enabled to go out with students whom he had before avoided because he had no money to spend, and these causes, acting together, quickly produced a change in him ; it was not long before he began to shirk his daily work at the Academy. This hesitation between duty and pleasure continued for over three months, and then came the old story, the old stumbling block, over which, curiously enough, he had not till now tripped, at least to any appreciable extent. Even now it was only a half-hearted affair ; there was very little of the Sardauapalus about it ; it was not a passionate love for which he sacrificed everything; it was merely weak sensuality that led him to spend a little more money on gloves, to dine on three instead of two shillings, to idle a little more than before, and in six months all his money was gone. Then he lived on credit and his friends; occasionally he sold trifles, which staved off the evil days, but soon, he was pawning his clothes, and would have starved long ago, had it not been for old Bendish. CHAPTER VIII. IN THE COUNTRY. CLABEMONT HOUSE was in Sussex, and from the terrace in front of the house you could see the sea. At the station a footman, in the majesty of a grey livery, asked Lewis if he were Mr. Seymour. On being answered in the affirmative, he went to look after the luggage, and in a quarter of an hour after, from the cosy cushions of a brougham, Lewis saw the lodge-keeper open a large white gate, and the carriage entered the avenue. It ran straight through two hedge-like lines of thin beech trees, and on both sides rolled great seas of green pasture land. During the whole journey down, Lewis had played with his dreams like a child with a box full of new toys ; delighted, he had examined one after the other, and then laid them aside timidly ; but now, sitting in the brougham, where so often her skirts had rustled, the intoxicating odour of his future life rose to his head like the perfume of a flower crushed and smelt in the hollow of the hand. After passing a bridge, the avenue took a turn, and for some distance skirted along the river. The trees were here large, and a group of tall elms, growing on a swampy island, extended their huge masculine arms as if to embrace the feminine foliage of beeches that coquettishly leaned towards them. Under this natural archway, the carriage turned and rapidly approached the house. It was a long, narrow, grey building, pierced with innumerable windows. It stood like a Noah's ark at the end of a long terrace, and the blue slates melted into the deep green foliage of the silver firs, which were the pride of the domain. The original house had been destroyed a century ago by fire ; the present one had been fashioned out of the stables, which accounted for the elongated shape and its many gables. 64 A MODERN LOVER. On the left, the terrace was bounded by a high wall entirely concealed by laurels, which, growing from a distance of fifty feet, formed an immense sloping bank. On the right, facing the sea, there was a huge flight of steps leading to the second terrace, under which the river rippled round the laurel-covered islands down to the sea, which lay motionless and dim in the far distance. The beauty of the landscape was exceeding, and the day died amorously. A crimson sun sank slowly out of a rose sky into a grey sea, and out of the blue heights of the heavens there fell the sweet satiety that marks the end of an August day. Tremb- ling floods of violet shadow heaved and rolled up from the distant strand along the hill sides, and the two ladies who were leaning on the balustrade, watching the sun setting, came out black in the soft dissolution of light. The carriage drew up at the hall door : a small, unpretending entrance, unapproached by steps, and opening into a passage rather than a hall. The footman took down Lewis's portmanteau, and the butler unpacked it for him, putting his morning suits, shirts, collars, and pocket handkerchiefs, away in a large maho- gany wardrobe, and laying out his evening clothes with wonder- ful precision on the clear-curtained, iron bed. While he did so, Lewis sat at the window and watched. The ladies were walking across the solitary terrace towards the house. The evening had grown chilly, and they had drawn their shawls more tightly round their shoulders. Lewis recognised one as Mrs. Bentham he thought she looked up once at his window. Then the servant brought him some hot water, and told him that dinner would be ready in half-an-hour. Lewis could not realise his position, and as he dressed for dinner he was conscious of nothing but a clinging sensation of pleasure, of expectant happiness. Di-termined to enjoy himself, he washed himself elaborately : there was nothing this young man loved like looking after his body. Then he dried, powdered, and scented himself with care, and, full of misgiving, tried on the evening clothes. The trousers he thought too wide, the waistcoat seemed to him vulgar, but he could only hope that no one would suspect they were ready made. It was a long time since he had enjoyed the comfort of fresh clothes, and it was with an exquisite sense of real delight that he drew on his silk socks, tied bis white neck-tie, and brushed standing before the tall glass his rich brown hair. A MODERN LOVER. 6S At last he got dressed, and the footman showed him into the drawing-room. There he found Mrs. Bentham. She received him with a large white smile, and introduced him to Mrs. Thorpe, her cousin. Mrs. Thorpe bowed, and continued to knit in the chimney corner. Lewis was more than timid : he was positively frightened, and his new clothes made him feel very awkward. But Mrs. Bentham thought he looked divinely handsome, and she remembered how wretchedly poor he looked when she met him at Mr. Carver's shop. At last dinner was announced, and Mrs. Bentham asked him to take in Mrs. Thorpe. He did it very stupidly, scarcely knowing if he had to offer her his hand or his arm : the women exchanged looks ; one was of annoyance, the other of reproof. Dinner went by in a slow and irritating manner ; everybody was ill at ease. Lewis, who had never been anywhere except to a few luncheon parties in Essex, was so pre-occupied thinking how he should eat and act, that he could not say a word. He was conscious that Mrs. Thorpe was watching him, and he fancied that she would make use of any little slip to his disad- vantage ; consequently, he did not take the bread out of his napkin until he had seen Mrs. Bentham take hers, and during the whole meal he ate and drank after first observing one of the ladies. But he was wrong in supposing that Mrs. Thorpe was his enemy. The old lady was merely a little alarmed at what she could not consider other than excessively eccentric behaviour. Mi's. Bentham had told her how anxious Mr. Vicome was to have the decorations finished ; but this failed to strike Mrs. Thorpe as a very valid reason for picking up a young man, and bringing him down to stay with them. If it were really necessary to have all these paintings done and on that matter she did not venture an opinion she thought it should have been put into the hands of a respectable firm, who would see that they were executed properly. But with regard to Mr. Vicome's eagerness in the matter, it was preposterous. " What did the poor old gentleman want with decorations? " she asked, pityingly. " He could not even come and see them when they were done," and now, all she hoped was, that the county people would not misinterpret Mrs. Bentham's motives, and that this young man's good looks, which were startling, would not create any scandal. Such were Mrs. Thorpe's opinions, and she had expressed them in a no less explicit way, 5 66 A MODERN LOVER. when her cousin told her all she could tell her which was very little of the young man she was expecting from London. The old lady belonged to a long past time, and could neither feel nor understand anything of the fashions of to-day. For over thirty years she had lived in a little country house, mourn- ing the loss of a husband she had loved devotedly, and her grief had known no change until it was doubled by the loss of her only son. Her life had been made up of two great loves and two great griefs ; of all other passions and desires she knew as little as a child ; and the falseness of fashionable life was so repugnant to her nature that she only remained with Mrs. Bentham because she had undertaken to do so because she felt her presence was necessary. When the ladies rose from the table, Lewis scarcely knew how to act ; he had heard that gentlemen stopped behind, but did not know if the rule applied when there was but one. Mrs. Bentham divined his embarrassment, and asked him to follow them into the drawing-room, unless he wished to smoke. He did, but was delighted to say he didn't, for he dreaded the eye of the butler, knowing that that functionary would read him like a book. All three went into the drawing-room. Mrs. Thorpe sat silently down in her wicker-work chair behind a Japanese screen, which protected her from the draught ; and Lewis, with that feminine tact which was part of his nature, endeavoured to talk to her. At first she tried to resist his advances, and answered him in brief phrases. From a little distance, Mrs. Bentham watched the comedy. Mrs. Thorpe was dressed entirely in black cashmere, which fell loosely about her spare figure. She wore a white cap, under which appeared some thin white hair, suggestive of bald- ness. The arms were long and bony, and the brown hands were contracted and crooked from her incessant knitting in fact, they seemed like a knitting machine perpetually in motion ; it was the exception to see them still As she took from time to time a needle out of her cap, she would look from Lewis to her cousin, and then her eyes would return to her stocking. But at last her curiosity to know who Lewis was tempted her out of her silence, and as an opportunity presented itself, she asked him some questions about his early life. Lewis knew well it would be dangerous to tell lies, so he gave only a pleasant version of the truth. He told her about A MODERN LOVER. 67 the straits his father's improvidence had reduced them to, and how he had lived all alone with his mother till she died ; how his uncle had failed at the same time, and how he, Lewis, an orphan, had found himself obliged to face the world with three hundred and fifty pounds. The picture he gave of how he had lived all alone with his mother recalled to Mrs. Thorpe her sou's childhood and early manhood, and her eyes filled with tears of pity for Lewis's lone- liness. Mrs. Bentham listened to the sad story dreamily, only inter- rupting it to ask a question from time to time. Her attitude gradually grew more abandoned, and the intervals of her silence becamo longer as she let her thoughts drift through the melan- choly land of reverie. Her life had not been a successful one. She had married a man whose vices had so horrified and fright- ened her that in the third year she asked for a separation. She might have had a divorce, for her husband had on more than one occasion used violence towards her, but as she never ex- pected to wish to marry again, and as separation was more fav- ourably viewed by society at large, she had accepted the equivo- cal position of living apart from her husband. This necessitated a companion, and after some difficulty, she persuaded Mrs. Thorpe to leave her home in the north of England, and come and live with her. And, believing that she was asked to share, not relinquish, the quietude she cherished, Mrs. Thorpe had consented to come and live with her heart-broken cousin. But it is only age that can enjoy solitude ; youth can but coquette with it, and as the memories of her past life faded, Mrs. Bentham commenced to weary of the retirement. She was grateful to her cousin for the sacrifice she had made in coming to live with her, but she had not found in her the moral support she had hoped for, which she needed in her moments of lassitude ; and her days were barren for want of appreciative sympathy. These inward desires to return to society were hastened by outward events. Her father, two years after the court had granted her separation, had given her over the control of the Claremont House property, and on her uncle's death, which oc- curred about the same time, she had inherited five thousand a year, strictly tied up, and independent of her husband's con- trol. She was therefore a rich woman, whose life's duty seemed to be simply to abandon herself to the current of fashionable 68 A MODERN LOVER. life ; to interest herself as well as she could in small flirtations, still-born loves, meaningless smiles, and causeless dislikes. She had striven to do so, like many another, but year after year she grew more wearied of this eternal chase not even after pleasure but merely amusement. Instinctively she longed for a large sweet affection wherein she could plunge her whole soul, as the trout on the warm grass longs for the cool stream that ripples in sight. Lewis continued to tell of how he arrived in London ; ho drew a graphic picture of the work he had done, and hinted of the misery he had endured. Mrs. Thorpe had stopped knitting, her hands had fallen on her knees, and she looked at him, blankly, quite carried away by his eloquence. Lewis talked well, as do all whom nature destines to be ama- teurs, or, in other words, the proclaimers of an artistic truth. He could explain, formulate, and theorise, far better than he could execute ; what taleut he had was more of an appreciative than a creative one. The artist, like the mother, has to under- go the throes and labour of child-bearing, long months of soli- tude and suffering; whilst the amateur, like the father, tm- weighed by a struggling infant in the womb, is free to explain and criticise at ease. Lewis drew an interesting picture of modern London, seeth- ing in the heat of a new artistic movement, and awakening in the auroral light of a new period of renaissance ; and elated, he ventured to prophesy the success that awaited him who could formularise the cravings of this new generation. There was /toothing definite in what he said, but suggestiveness is a far more seductive quality than mere precision, and Mrs. Bentham, whose artistic studies just enabled her to understand him, thought she had never heard anyone speak so beautifully. We have all a spectre thought, a thought that peeps and mocks at us from behind the happiest moment. Mrs. Bentham's spectre thought was that she was wasting her life ; therefore, it is not extraordinary that she felt an immense desire rise up in her mind to protect, to help, to watch and to guide him towards that success of which he spoke so eloquently ; it would be part of herself, part of her work, and she would not have lived in vain. She did not reflect that she was a young and handsome woman, that even if she could content herself with this quasi- maternal feeling, he, who was only ten or eleven years her junior, would not accept what must seem to him either too much or too little. A MODERN LOVER. 69 Mrs. Thorpe, who had understood little of the art conversa tion, returned with interest to the story of his early life, and asked him to tell her more about his mother. The room they were sitting in was both long and narrow. There were three; windovjs, two of which looked out on the wide grey and laurel-surrounded sweep ; the third faced the sea. In the choice and arrangement of the furniture the influence of the artistic movement, known afterwards as the aesthetic, was just visible. The heavy red curtains still remained, but between the windows there were some exquisite renaissance cabinets ; on each side of the fire-place stood two Japanese vases of fantasti- cal design ; and from the middle of the ceiling, over a vulgar divan, hung a beautiful Louis XVI. chandelier. Mrs. Bentham was too much oppressed with her thoughts to listen very attentively to the details of the story which she already knew in outline, so she let them talk as they would. The room was very still, and the light of the reading lamp did not touch the gold frames of the innumerable pictures which lined the walls. It fell principally on her arm, which was raised to her head, reflecting it deep in the mirror-like surface of an ebony table ; the hand was in half-tint, the face was lost in shadow, but delicately modelled by wandering reflected lights. Outside, the moon gleamed with a graveyard whiteness on the level sward, and every now and then the curtains blew out, filled with a rose-imperfumed breeze. She thought of her childhood, of the time when she used to cry for loneliness as she played with her toys in the echoing stone passages. She considered the difference it must make in a girl's existence to have a mother to see, to love, to confide in. She recalled a hundred details of her early life; her governesses, her aunt's reprimands: how she used to appeal to her father in the melancholy room where he sat in his wheel-chair. Then her thoughts drifted, and she passed on to the time when she was taken to her first ball, and she remembered how different it had been to what she had expected. They had few friends ; their relations were all old people, at whose dinner-parties her blue frocks and bright smiles had often seemed strangely out of place. It was at one of these dismal soirdes that she had met Mr. Bentham. She now remembered bitterly how he had fas- cinated her ; how she had mistaken him for all that was noble and brilliant, how she had married him, dreaming a girl's gay dream of life-long purity and love. Then her thoughts turned from the hideous memory of her 70 A MODERN LOVER. married life, darkened with wrecked hopes and sullied illusions, towards the years since she had been separated from her hus- band : and they passed before her, a train of conventionalities seen through a haze of vapid sentiment and much squandered emotion. Not one had brought the fulfilment of a hope, the as- suagement of a single desire. But, as she stared into the rich shadows which struggled for mastery with the moonlight, she felt herself falling into a delicious torpor ; and dreams of what might have been floated softly through her life's gloom. An immense temptation seemed to float about the purple gloaming; a thousand little wishes passed through her mind ; but, as she tried to define them, disappeared into the darkness, until the sound of Lewis's voice addressing her broke the current of her thoughts. Seeing that he had completed the conquest of Mrs. Thorpe he turned to Mrs. Bentham; he tried to speak to her of indifferent things. But the conversation flagged until it be- came painful. Ill at ease, Mrs. Bentham went to the piano ; the music of Faust lay on the stand. Feverishly and rapidly she played the waltz, she passed from piece to piece till she came to the page's song. Then, irritated to a last degree by the suggestive vagueness of the music, she asked Lewis if he sang. He had a light tenor voice, and, breathing the perfume of her hair and neck, he sang song after song, until the Dresden clock, amid its porcelain flowers, struck half-past ten, and Mrs. Thorpe put away her knitting. Mrs. Bentham had to accompany her cousin ; but, when she bade Lewis good-night, their fingers lingered interlocked, she told him that breakfast would be at nine, and that afterwards she would show him the studio, and explain her intentions as regards the decorations. Then both women went up to their rooms to tell each other what they thought, or part of what they thought, of the young painter. CHAPTER IX. THE DECORATIONS. WITH a boiling brain during many dark and solemn hours, Lewis asked himself if Mrs. Bentham was in love with him. The abandonment of her manner during the evening had not escaped his notice ; and, not knowing enough of human nature to recognise that her lassitude was merely an outward mani- festation of that feeling of nervous discouragement so common to all who have missed their vocation in life, he dreamed wildly of persuading her to seek a divorce, so that she might bestow on him her heart and her wealth. Early the next morning the warmth, the tenderness of the ample white sheets which lay about, awoke him, and he opened his eyes with a glimmering feeling of passive enjoyment. The windows shone with sunlight, and the clear, luxurious room was so different from the dark, dusty garret he had left, that he closed his eyes, conscious only of an exquisite sense of living, and a faint dream, which came and went, of Mrs. Bentham. Once he thought of Gwynnie : the thought startled him. Already he had begun to see her as one who sails away sees a friend standing on the fast receding shore ; but, unable to associate her with his present life, he satisfied himself with a resolution to "look her up when he returned to town," then lazily closing his eyes, he sought for a pleasanter dream. But soon he was interrupted by the servant, who brought in his hot water, and told him his breakfast would be ready in half- an-hour. Never had he been attended upon by a man-servant before, and the dignity of the proceeding enchanted him. It seemed to him that he was the hero of a fairy tale ; his brain swam with pleasure, and distracted with a hundred plans for winning Mrs. Bentham's heart, he dressed quickly, and went down stairs. He found the ladies in the breakfast-room ; a room bright 72 A MODERN LOVER. with mahogany and Brussels carpet, and green from the glare of the terrace which encircled the three windows. Mrs. Thorpe was scattering out of her crooked hands some bread-crumbs to the pigeons that flew from the gables and eaves : the light of their wings fell upon Mrs. Bentham and flying shadow darkened for moments the glittering sward. All the heat and languor of the night before were gone ; and Mrs. Bentham smiled gaily. She was full of the decorations, and chatted volubly. As they talked, lifting their cups of tea to their mouths, Lewis grew thoughtful. He wanted to speak of last night ; he wanted to ask Mrs. Bentham some questions about Faust, but he failed in all his endeavours to lead up to the subject. He did not care to introduce it suddenly, and, several times, some accidental phrase had turned the conversation, just as the words were on his lips. They were talking about tennis, and now Mrs. Bentham an- nounced that the Sussex County Club were going to play the last ties for the championship at Claremont House ; she had agreed to lend them the terrace. This provoked a discussion, and Mrs. Thorpe denounced the game as one of the most mere- tricious of modern fashions, and wearied Lewis with appeals as to whether he thought it proper for young ladies to run about as they did when they played the game. When this was over, Mrs. Bentham asked him some questions on decoration in general ; so he gave up all hopes of speaking about Faust, re- solving to reserve the subject until he found himself alone with her: this, on consideration, he thought would be the better plan. At last breakfast drew to an end ; and Mrs. Bentham asked him to come with her, and she would show him the ball- room ; she explained she had been forced to build it, for the old rooms were so small that it was impossible for her to give a large party in them. The new room was at the other end of the house, and acces- sible only through the dining-room, the gravity of whose oak wainscoting was calculated to form a charming contrast with the frivolity of the saloon, the clear walls of which were as bright as a ball-dress. There all the cornices and mouldings were Greek ; plaster of Paris supplying the place of white marble. The walls were divided into large panels, varying in size according to the exi gencies of space, and painted a light straw-colour, the frames a pale mauve, the beading being picked out in brighter tints. A MODERN LOVER. 73 The room had not been furnished, but the windows were draped with mauve satin curtains to match the walls. There was one large couch littered with portfolios, containing drawings ; a few cane chairs and two easels stood in the middle of the French parqueted floor. Lewis was enthusiastic about both rooms, particularly the one he was to decorate ; and it pleased him not a little to see that there was at least four if not five months' work before him. " You think, then, that the colours are not too badly chosen ? " " They could not be better ; but are the walls prepared to receive paint ? " " Oh, yes, that's all right," she said, as they walked round the room. " And this is my idea : I want a small figure painted in the centre of each panel, with an appropriate ar- rangement of leaves and flowers encircling it : do you think that would be in good taste 1 " Lewis replied enthusiastically that that was just what was re- quired ; but his desire to speak of the music of Faust made him a little absent-minded. Nothing prevented him from rushing into the subject but Mrs. Bentham's manner: she seemed so changed. All the undetermined affection, the nervous and vaporous reverie, was replaced by light gaiety of manner, which seemed to say, U I haven't a desire in my heart; I am perfectly satisfied with everything." During the night she had thought a good deal ; she remembered how she had picked up Lewis in a most casual way and that he was only just a gentleman. She had brought him down to paint pictures, not to make love to him ; and when she reflected how she had languished over the piano, she tossed on her pillow: she quarrelled ted- iously, and was disgusted with herself. Finally, she made up her mind never again to so forget herself, to treat him coldly, to reassert her dignity. Theref ire, the more Lewis spoke of the evening before, the more coldly did Mrs. Bentham return to the subject of the decorations ; and she did so somewhat as if she wished to remind him that they were wasting time. She looked so stately in her black dress, and so inaccessible, that Lewis despaired, and cursed himself as an idiot for ever having dreamed of making love to her. They had walked round the room two or three times, dis- cussed each panel, and looked out of the window : it was obvious that they were neglecting the work they had proposed to get through. 74 A MODERN LOVER. " Shall I show you the drawings I have collected for the de Derations 1 " said Mrs. Bentham, at last. " I shall be delighted if you will," Lewis replied, feeling as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. They went over to the couch and untied the portfolios. There was plenty of material to go upon. Mrs. Bentham had bought all the engravings of the decorative work of the seven- teenth century. There were Venuses and Cupids to no end ; flowers, tendrils, grapes all kinds of fruit in profusion ; and Mrs. Bentham proposed to select from this stock and compose something suitable to each panel. The whole morning they sat side by side looking at Bouchers and Watteaus. Sometimes they would turn a lot over, bestowing on them merely a glance ; sometimes they would linger over and admire a bit of drawing or a lucky bit of composition ; sometimes they would alight on a picture that contained matter so suitable to their purpose, that Lewis with a pencil would make a hasty arrange- ment, and then Mrs. Bentham would go into raptures at his dexterity. But she did not allow him the slightest intimacy. Now and then, a somewhat too coarse revel of nymphs and satyrs would embarrass them ; but Lewis had the tact to go quickly on to something else. The morning passed away delightfully. Before lunch, Mrs. Bentham had fully explained her ideas, and they made a rough choice of the drawings he considered would be most serviceable to him. A scheme of decoration was now fermenting in his head, and he was almost glad when Mrs. Bentham told him that she and Mrs. Thorpe were going out to drive, and that he would have the whole afternoon to consider his projects. The dignified familiarity with which Mrs. Bentham begirt herself, and the artistic interest of the drawings, had led Lewis away from his love-dreams, and now he thought of the high white walls as ardently as he had of the languor of her hands and the raptures of her lips. Although nature meant him more for the lover than the artist, she had not denied him a certain amount of enthusiasm, and he forgot everything as he looked at the great blond panels, and his fingers itched to cover them with his fruit, flowers, and cupid fancies. He worked all the afternoon, till the light went, composing nymphs in shady bowers, and cupids encircling garlands of blossoms. He did not leave off till the dressing-bell sounded. A MODERN LOVER. 75 That evening, Mrs. Bentham, had company. She had invited to dinner Lord Sentou, a near neighbour, and his friend Mr. Day, a Scotch farmer, who, on sufferance, was received into county society. Lord Senton was a lank young mail with bad teeth, his thin fair hair was brushed closely down on both sides. Mr. Day was a scraggy young man : he had a wild, vicious look on his dark face. He held a farm from Lord Senton ; the two were in- separable friends. Lord Senton seemed somewhat perplexed as he looked at Lewis, as if he were trying to conjecture by what combination of circumstances the young artist had been prevented from get- ting his hair cut. When he was told that Lewis was a painter, he talked at the earliest opportunity with Day, who laughed viciously. After dinner, when the ladies left the room, Lewis knew the tug of war had come. He was conscious that Lord Senton was undressing him with a look, and already knew that his clothes had come from Halet's. He saw with dismay that his coat was a waiter's, and he looked enviously at Lord Sentou, who smiled in his white and black elegance, and showed his decayed teeth. With much condescension, Lord Senton spoke about art, evidently thinking that he was expected to do so, for it was not to be supposed that a painter could speak on any other subject. Frightened lest his lordship should sneer at him to Mrs. Bentham, Lewis humiliated himself. He agreed with him, tried to help him out of his stupid observations, threw con- ciliatory words to Mr. Day ; but when their cigars were finished, and Lord Senton rose to go upstairs, he let Lewis pass out first. " Well, he's a silly kind of a fool, old chappie," he said, when Lewis was out of hearing. " Did you notice how he was dressed ] " "He's not bad looking though," replied Day, with an ap- prehensive air. " You surely don't think that Mrs. Bentham allows him to make up to her. " I can't say, but I'll keep a look out upstairs." Lord Senton's sole passion was to play the part of a Lovelace, a role for which nature had in no wise fitted him : and he judged of a man's worth in proportion to the number of women he supposed him to be able to compromise. In his silly way he flirted with Mrs. Bentham, she accepted 76 A MODERN LOVER. his compliments, his presents of flowers and game, because it was as well to take as to refuse them. She was at the present time the absorbing topic of his life, and he used to discuss per- petually with Day what he should say to her, how he should push his suit. It was wearying, sometimes, to be called upon fifty times during dinner to determine whether Mrs. Bentham had squeezed Lord Senton's hand in a certain quadrilte acciden- tally or otherwise ; but Mr. Day was Lord Semou's tenant, and he found that patient attention to his lordship's amours facilitated rent-paying. When the two friends entered the drawing-room, Lewis was talking to Mrs. Bentham ; she could not help looking at him a little tenderly, for Lord Senton had been boring her all the afternoon ; she had been enervated by the memory of insuffi- cient years, and harassed by the menacing monotony of those to come. For some moments nothing was heard but the click, click of Mrs. Thorpe's knitting needles ; the three men looked at each other. Then Lord Senton talked about the county people, particularly of Lady Granderville and her daughter Lady Helen, who were coming to stop with Lady Marion Lindell, Lord Granderville remaining at St. Petersburg, where he was am- bassador. The interest in the conversation centred in Lady Helen, who was a great beauty, and till tea-time her personal appearance was passionately discussed. Not knowing anything of the people whose names were men- tioned, Lewis remained silent. He was very ill at ease ; Mrs. Bentham did not take any notice of him, and evening passed away slowly and wearily. An ominous something seemed to float in the air ; everyone felt as if something was going to happen, but nothing did happen, and when they bade each other good-night, their five different smiles indicated the measure of their ennuis. CHAPTER X. AN INTERLUDE. FOR the next four or five days Lewis saw very little of Mrs. Bentbam. She did not come into the ball-room in the morning, she had been out to dine twice. Once she had remained in her room the whole evening with a sick headache : in the afternoons Lord Senton took her out to ride. Still, for Lewis the mornings passed delightfully, whether Mrs. Benthatn was there or not. His work interested him be- yond measure ; it was exactly what he could do best. His talent was neither original nor a profound one, but it was grace- ful and fanciful ; and he thoroughly enjoyed scattering nymphs, cupids, and flowers, over the great clear-coloured walls. At the end of his third week he had finished his compositions for the principal panels, and made out a scheme of colour, which met with Mrs. Bentham's entire approval. A scaffolding had been put up, and she declared that she was ready to superintend. Latterly, she had been to fewer dinner parties, and had not been out to ride with Lord Senton for some days. When Mrs. Thorpe asked why, she laughed, and said that the most vigorous constitution could not stand more than a fortnight of him at a time ; and that, under no pretext whatever, would she see him again till the end of the year. Mrs. Thorpe raised her eyes from 'her knitting, and declared that she was delighted at the news. " For, my dear Lucy, I have been wondering what was the matter with you; never have I known you so irritable as you have been for the last fortnight. When I used to meet you on the stairs, going off to a dinner party, one would have thought it was to a funeral you were going, so discontented did you look." "Have I really been out of humour? I didn't notice it," said Mrs. Beatham, laughing. " Well, that young man is very dispiriting." 78 A MODERN LOVER. Although she scarcely knew it, the real cause of Mrs. Ben tham's gloom was that she had been for the last fifteen days vainly trying to persuade herself that she preferred going out riding with Lord Senton to sitting in the studio with Lewis. She argued that she had always liked riding, and with this for plea, she continued to accept Lord Senton 's invitations. But after some days he began to weary her so intolerably that one afternoon she passionately decided that no one could be ex- pected to allow themselves to be bored to death, and wrote to him on the spot asking him to excuse her. He was, she said to herself, dull oh, deadly dull ; and, what was worse, he made love to her more obviously every day. Last Wednesday she had had all the difficulty in the world to prevent him from proposing that they should run away together. If he had said such a thing she would have been obliged to quarrel with him, which, with a next door neighbour, would be more than dis- agreeable, so the best thing to do was clearly to drop him for a bit. Besides these excellent reasons, Mrs. Bentham remembered that she had always intended to go back to her drawing ; and here was an occasion to do so, which it would be folly to miss. She had an artist in the house who would teach her, and under his guidance she would soon pick up again what she had for- gotten. After this little change in Mrs. Bentharn's opinions, the domestic life of Claremout House became quite idyllic. The mornings were sweet beyond measure. Mrs. Bentham drew at her easel, and Lewis talked to her from his scaffolding. All the dignity of the grande dame was thrown aside, and a most delicious cameraderie was established in its place. She chatted, and laughed, and told stories ; it amused her to talk to him as he eat painting. Sometimes he would turn his back on the great white wall, and sit facing her, smoking a cigarette, whilst she told him some ridiculous story about Lord Senton, or asked him for advice about her drawing. The brown curls, the soft sensual face, and the loose velvet coat coming out on the straw-coloured background, recalled a picture by Andrea del Sarto. She thought him very handsome. Every day she grew more interested in him, and she often hoped that when the decorations were finished, she would still be able to find the means of helping him. All her dreams came back to her, of being the benefactress of one whom she would lead to success ; who would, in the hour of his triumph, come to her, and taking her hand, say, " I owe it all to you." A MODERN LOVER. 79 She did not know that she was, she did not suppose she waa ever likely, to fall in love with Lewis, and as an ostrich buries its head in the sand, she hid her heart in a vague maternal senti- ment, without caring to look into the future. At first, her kindnesses raised his hopes to the highest pitch, but, as before, he had to renounce his expectations, for on the slightest advance, she drew away with so much mechanical grace that he was uneasily unhappy for the rest of the day. Sometimes he tried to punish her by exaggerating his position as paid decorator ; but it mattered little, natural or affected, Mrs. Bentham remained his superior. Besides, her humours were so subtle and various that he utterly failed to understand her. She had put him so often back in his place, and for the merest nothings, and afterwards so evidently appeared to regret what she had done, that he fairly lost bis head. Then he strove to accord himself to her fancies, as a dog does to its string. They often spoke of what love is, and is not, and it was oftenest Mrs. Bentham that introduced the subject ; but when- ever the conversation seemed likely to take a serious turn, or become in the least degree personal, she dexterously changed the subject. They were like friends who dared not venture on the slightest liberty, but who showed by a thousand little things that they longed to be less reserved with each other. But if the mornings were pleasant, the evenings were delight- ful ; Lewis and Mrs. Bentham sometimes sang together, some- times discussed art, and as they argued, with the lamp light streaming over their faces, Mrs. Thorpe would let her knitting fall on her black dress, and look at them with kind, affectionate eyes. Five or six days passed, and Mrs. Bentham savoured slowly the pleasures of this life of unreserved intimacy, and it was with reluctance that one afternoon she took Mrs. Thorpe with her and went to pay a round of visits. Lewis, however, was not displeased ; he had that morning completed a drawing, and was going to attack another panel with paint. He watched the carriage drive away, and then returned with a full heart to his work. The panel over the chimney-piece, although not nearly the largest, was by position one of the most important : he had therefore arranged for it a somewhat complex composition. It represented a nymph seated high in a bower, made of a few tendrils and roses, with a ring of merry Cupids dancing round her to the music of a reed flute which she played. 80 A MODERN LOVEtt. Rather nervous, Lewis set to work to lay in the face, shoulders, and hair of the nymph, taking care to keep it very light in tone. He worked steadily, modelling the blown out cheeks carefully from his preparatory sketch, till the sun sank behind the western wolds. He then got down from the scaffolding, lit a cigarette, and began to think of Gwynnie Lloyd. He wondered why she had not answered his letters, hoped that nothing had happened to her, and then went out for a stroll on the terrace, quite satisfied with his day's work. That evening the ladies had a great deal to say, they had been quite a round of visits, and to their surprise, the whole county knew about the decorations, and were dying to see them, and hoped that Mrs. Bentbam would give a ball to show them off when they were completed. They had been to call on the Frenchs, where they had met all the tennis players in the county, and it had been settled that the last ties of the tourna- ment were to be at Claremont House, the day after to-tnorrow. " So you will make the acquaintance of the whole county, Mr. Seymour," said Mrs. Bentharn, laughing ; " everybody has heard about you, and is dying to see you. Lord Senton has, I think, been abusing you to Lady Marion ; at least she told me that he said he didn't like you ; so Lady Marion is dying to see you, for she says that there must be something nice about anything that Lord Senton dislikes." " But who is Lady Marion ? " asked Lewis, a little perplexed. " Oh, the dearest old lady in the world, but awfully learned, and interested in everything, particularly art. She is dying to ask you some questions about French decorative painting." Then Mrs. Bentham told Mrs. Thorpe to be sure to remind her to tell the gardeners to pass the mowing machine over the ground. There was an immense discussion with the house- keeper about the luncheon, and the things they would be obliged to send to Brighton for. Every minute Mrs. Bentham remembered something, or Mrs. Thorpe would remind her of something ; between times, every- body in the county was discussed. " But, my dear," said the old lady, suddenly stopping her knitting, "we have forgotten to tell him about Lady Helen. Do you know, Mr. Seymour, that you will see one of the most beautiful girls in the world. All St. Petersburg went mad about her last season. You are sure to fall in love with her." Lewis declared that he would be enchanted to see the beauty, but hoped he would not fall in love with her. A MODERN LOVER. 81 Then, after a pause, Mrs. Thorpe, who seemed to have Lady Helen and Lewis terribly mixed up in her head, said : " Do you know, Lucy, I am thinking what a pretty picture Mr. Seymour could make of Lady Helen. You ought to ask her to sit to him." " I shall be delighted to do so, but I don't know that Lady Helen will have time to sit ; she is going away, you know, very soon," replied Mrs. Bentham, slightly embarrassed. " But I really have no time to begin a portrait," said Lewis. " I am too much occupied with the decorations." In reply Mrs. Bentham smiled pleasantly, and asked him to come and sing at tha piano. CHAPTER XI. A TENNIS PABTT. A LITTLE after two o'clock, before either Mrs. Ben (.ham or Mrs. Thorpe had finished dressing, Lord Senton and Mr. Day drove up in a dog-cart. They were both in tennis suits. The foot- man showed them into the drawing-room, saying that Mrs. Bentham would be downstairs in a few minutes. " I can't understand it," said Lord Senton ; " she has put me off three times ; I am certain that she will never go out to ride with me again." The prophecy was uttered in a thin whine, expressive of misery. Day did not speak at once, but continued to caress his chin. " Now tell me exactly what you said to her the last time you saw her," he asked, with the air and voice of a doctor prescrib- ing. " Well, I can't remember the exact words," replied Lord Sen- ton, brightening up like a patient who expects to be told he is likely to recover ; " but we were riding along a road, trees grew on both sides, and the sun was setting, and I said something about well, about holding her hand." "But were you holding her hand 1 ?" exclaimed Mr. Day, looking up anxiously. " No, no, how could I? we were out riding ; but I leaned my hand on the pommel of her saddle." At this moment a carriage passed round the sweep to the hall door. It contained an old lady in mauve and two young girls in pink dresses, who shaded their faces with blue and cream-coloured sunshades. " Here are the French girls ; what bores they are ! " said Day, a,s he looked out of the window. Sussex society consisted of three distinct elements : the aris- tocracy, the landed gentry, and the people connected with, but who did not belong to, the county. This last class may be A MODERN LOVER. 88 termed the hangers-on ; they included the gentlemen farmers who held land from either the gentry or the aristocracy, the parson, the curates, the doctor, and the people who leased shoot- ing or hunting lodges in the county. At the head of the county the Marquis of Worthing was throned like a fixed star, and for radiance he had scattered his sisters in marriage to the right and left. He was a grave man, who was always spoken of with great respect. When he came to spend his annual threo mouths at Westland Manor, every one was invited either to dinner or on a visit of a few days ; and the position of the fag end of the landed gentry was determined by the length of their visit, and that of the hangers-on by the number of luncheons and dinners they had eaten at Westland Manor. The Marquis' eldest sister, Lady Marion, had married a Mr. Lindell, a county gentleman, who had died many years ago. She was an old, childless woman, but rejoiced in a great re- putation for learning. As Mr. Day said, she was a " regular treasure trove to a young man seeking for information ; " she represented the erudition of the county. Lady Alice, the second sister, had married a Sir Richard Sedgewick, who had a large property, but who lived very little in the county. The third sister, Lady Henrietta, had married a diplomatist, Lord Granderville, who was now ambassador at St. Petersburg. Lord Senton and Sir John Archer were the two great catches ; but the former's vain efforts to play at Don Juan, and the latter's passion for racing, preserved them both from hymeneal influences. The landed gentry were more numerous than the aristocracy. Mrs. Bentham had five thousand a year ; she represented modern fashion. Mr. Swannell, whose rent-roll was about the same, was the politician ; he had contested the county at the last election in the Conservative interest. Then came Mr. Vyner, whose income was about the same as Mr. Swannell's; his daughter was desperately in love with Sir John Archer. The Frenchs and Fanshaws were remarkable principally on account of their numbers, and the two Miss Davidsons were much spoken of in connection with matrimony ; they had a little fortune of eight hundred a year between them. Of the hangers-on, Dr. Morgan and Mr. Day alone occupied much of the attention of the county families. The former was very popular, the latter very much disliked ; yet both were seen everywhere ; no party was complete without them. Dr. Morgan's flirtation with Mrs. French's governess, and an M A MODERN LOVER. enumeration of the ladies who would and who would not marry Mr. Day, were he to ask them, were subjects that never failed to provoke an interesting discussion. When a few of the guests had assembled, the conversation flitted from tennis to the weather, from the weather to tennis. Then Mrs. Bentham asked Mrs. French, who simmered in her mauve dress, how her husband's health had been lately. " Thank you, pretty well ; indeed, he is very anxious for the shooting to commence, and I am afraid he will lay himself up with rheumatism as he did last year. He forgets he was sixty- five last birthday, and wants to do what he did at twenty." " We find it difficult to remember that we are no longer as young as we used to be," said Mrs. Benlham, smiling vacantly. " Lady Marion Lendell, Lady Granderville, and Lady Helen Trevor," shouted the footman. Mrs. Bentham got up to receive them. Cursing his luck and the footman, Lord Senton went over and spoke to the eldest Miss French. In the meanwhile, Lady Granderville sat on a sofa and whined ; the heat of the drive had made her feel faint. Her daughter, the great beauty, was beautiful in a clear, flower-embroidered dress ; and Lady Marion, anxious to find a listener, fidgeted a little. " And how is Mr. Seymour getting on with the decorations 1 I want you to show me what he has done," she said, at last, getting near Mrs. Beutham; "you didn't iell me how you met the young man." " I should be very glad, but I am under a promise not to show what he is doing to anybody," said Mrs. Bentham, prefer- ring to answer the first part of Lady Marion's phrase rather than the second. Lord Senton had gone to speak to Lady Helen; and the Miss Frenchs, finding themselves alone, had commenced to whisper together ; the elder said to the younger : "I wonder she lets him come out; I hear he is just too handsome." "How much she must regret being married," said the younger sister, reflectively : and then both went into a little smothered fit of laughter. Carriages now drove up in quick succession, and emptied their cargoes of pink muslin and jersey-dressed young ladies at the hall-door. The word tennis was heard all over the drawing- room, and Mrs. Bentham, observing a great desire on the part A MODERN LOVER. 85 of the younger people to commence the serious part of the day's pleasure, proposed that they should go out on the terrace. Everything had been prepared ; the gardeners had done nothing since six in the morning but pass the machine over the ground ; the turf was like velvet, and the white chalk lines glittered in the sun. The tennis players felt the ground with their feet; they could complain of nothing but a want of shade. There were trees on the north, south and east, but on the valley side the terrace was exposed, and the sinking sun over- spread it with light till the end of the day. It only, however, affected the players, for at the far end three splendid silver firs and some spreading beeches formed a tent, in whose shade the white cloth of the luncheon table glittered like a bank of snow. It was there the company collected and talked as they watched the game. The terrace was large enough for three courts, so it was hoped that they would be able to play off the last ties of the ladies' and gentlemen's doubles. The tossing for sides took some few minutes, and then the games began in real earnest. The girls looked charming in their tennis aprons ; they for- got the heat, and their light shadows flitted o'er the green sward. Mrs. Bentham walked with Lord Senton up and down the terrace. She had a vague notion that people had already com- menced to connect her name with Lewis, and was glad, there- fore, to pretend to flirt with Lord Senton. He was delighted, for since the beginning of the week, he had resolved on a plan which would bring matters to a conclusion. All this while the matches were progressing ; some of the ladies and gentlemen waiting their turn, wandered, racquets in hand, through the pleasure grounds. Under the shade of the silver firs next to the laurel-covered garden-wall, sat a group of chaperones dressed in dark colours, in the middle of which Mrs. French's mauve silk made a crude stain. Lady Marion sat talking to her sister about Lord Granderville. Miss Vyner, who had at last secured Sir John, walked across the terrace, and Mr. Vyner, under cover of listening to Mrs. French's description of her husband's gout, kept his eyes on his daughter and her companion. " My dear Marion," said Lady Granderville, who, as usual, was boring herself almost as much as she bored her sister, " I always thought Mrs. Bentham a charming woman, though a e A MODERN little fast ; but, really, this young man I bear that he is per- fectly beautiful." " I cannot understand you, Henrietta ; surely the woman must have her room decorated, and I hear that this man has a great deal of talent. It is not Mrs. Bentham's fault if he is good-looking, any more than it is that her friend Lord Senton is very ugly." Lady Grauderville, who was disposed to consider Lord Sen- ton as a very possible husband for her daughter, raised her eyes to see if Lady Helen, who was standing a few yards away talking to two sisters in white, had heard Lady Marion's ill- advised remark. The light filled Lady Helen's saffron-coloured hair with strange flames, and the red poppies in her straw hat echoed, in a higher key, the flowers embroidered on her dress. She was quite five feet seven, and very slender. She was the type of all that is elegant, but in her elegance there was a certain hardness ; her face seemed to have been squeezed between two doors. Lady Helen was very pale, and in the immaculate whiteness of her skin there was scarcely a trace of colour ; it was pure as the white of an egg, only around the clear eyes it darkened to the liquid, velvety tint, which announces a passion- ate nature. The head beautifully placed on a long, thin neck, fell into ever varying attitudes ; the waist, which you could span with your hands, swayed deliciously, and the slight hips recalled more those of the Bacchus than the Venus de Milo. Her figure, if the expression be permitted, was beautifully decorative, and could not but attract the eye of a painter. " Lord Senton says that he doesn't think him a bit good- looking, and that he is awfully silly," said one of the girls in white. " Lord Senton thinks everybody silly who doesn't drink brandies and sodas, and tell beastly stories/' replied Lady Helen, with indifference. " How do you know that Lord Senton tells beastly stories ? " " My brother told me that his conversation is simply abomin- able ; and if William thinks so " The sisters looked up at each other slyly, but Lady Helen intercepted the look, and replied : " Oh, you needn't look, I know that everybody knows that my mother wants to make a match between Lord Senton and me, but I wouldn't have him ; no, not if " At that moment, fortunately for Mrs. Bentham, her tete-b-tete A MODERN LOVER. 8? with Lord Senton had been propitiously interrupted by the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Swannell. As Mr. Swannell approached, everybody instinctively tried to think of what they had read that morning in the Times, for Mr. Swannell never spoke on any subject but politics. Lady Marion turned away to speak to Mrs. Bentliam ; a political conversation with Mr. Swannell would be as great a loss as a domestic one with Lady Granderville ; but Mr. Swannell, encouraged by a group of young men who crowded to listen, addressed himself to Lady Marion as he would to the speaker of the House of Commons. But suddenly, in the middle of a fine period, a fine rolling sentence, he noticed that he had lost the attention of every one. The ladies looked towards the house, and a feminine look went round. " I am sure it is he," whispered the elder girl in white ; " did you ever see anything so peculiar in your life 1 " As Lewis walked down the gravel walk, the sun turned the brown hair that fell on his neck to gold ; the weak but deli- cately featured face was beautiful : the too developed hips gave a feminine swing to his walk. There was a momentary lull in the tennis playing as he walked down the terrace with Mrs. Thorpe. Even Miss French stopped to look, and she said to her partner that she should like to see him play tennis. Mrs. Bentham waited to introduce Lewis to Lady Marion, for she knew that half the county took their opinions from the old lady. What with Lady Granderville's whining stories of her little worries, Mr. Swannell's political common-placeness, and the young men who assailed her from time to time with their stupid questions, Lady Marion was not in too critical a humour, and was disposed to hail anyone as a redeemer. " I hear that you are decorating Mrs. Bentham's ball-room," said the old lady, by way of leading up to more serious matter. " I have not yet finished my first panel ; but all my sketches are done," said Lewis, very timidly, not knowing whether he should address Lady Marion as Lady Marion or your ladyship. " Are your sketches original drawings ? " asked Lady Marion, meaning to get on the subject of modern French decorative art. " They are original . . . that is to say that I take a cupid from one engraving, and a nymph from another, and put them together." " 88 A MODERN LOVER. Lewis was so pre-occupied, trying to catch how the gentleman who was speaking to Lady Granderville addressed her, that he could scarcely explain to Lady Marion that Mrs. Bentham had a very large collection of engravings and photographs, which she wished him to arrange into suitable pictures for the panels. The footmen were handing round ices, tea, and claret cups ; and in groups and single figures, ladies and gentlemen stood eating pastry and ices, and talking of tennis. Lady Marion was quite satisfied with Lewis, and they were deeply engaged in discussing modern French art, at least Lady Marion was; Lewis knowing nothing about the subject, listened. There was but one opinion among the ladies, that he was very good looking, although a little effeminate. Mrs. Bentham looked the picture of happiness as she watched her protege's triumph over Lord Senton, who, with his usual want of tact, had been abusing him to everybody. Lewis had asked Lady Marion, with very good manner, if she would come to the refreshment table, whether he could get her some tea or an ice. Having overheard how these phrases were used, he made use of them in the same way. As they got up he saw Lady Helen for the first time ; she was talking to Lord Senton, and their eyes met. He was startled by her decorative gracefulness; she was a beautiful motive for a picture, as she stood against a clump of flowering rhododendrons. The blossoms on her dress mixed with those in the trees, and the whole was drowned in light mellow shadow ; her clear face and dress standing out against the green dark leaves. Seeing that Lady Helen was being bored, and thinking that Lewis might amuse her, Lady Marion introduced them. Lady Granderville, who saw the introduction, said to herself, " Dear me, what a fool Marion is ; she introduces that man to Helen simply because he can gabble about pictures ; and now Helen's chances of being agreeable to Lord Senton are done for : that fellow won't leave her the whole afternoon. Really, Marion is too thoughtless." At this moment a carriage drove up, and a murmur went round that it was Miss Fanshaw, last year's champion, who was to play with Miss French for the gold bracelet. She stopped the carriage and got out without going to the house, and stood to see her rival play. A MODERN LOVER. 89 She was a thin, wee girl, dressed in blue silk, and she looked as active as a flea. The last games were won easily by Miss French and partner, and Miss Fanshaw came forward, and, coquettishly swinging her racquet, congratulated her rival, and the two girls went to have tea together. The arrival of the two famous players invested the entire attention of the company in tennis, and the different points of their play were discussed passionately. It was contended that Miss Fanshaw, although a more brilliant, was not so sure a player as Miss French, and that she often lost a set by trying to kill every ball. But the Fanshaw supporters declared that Miss French would never be able to do anything with the champion's retunis ; they declared that she had improved very much lately, and that her service was now simply terrific. But they all agreed that Miss French had been very foolish to tire herself in the double, and that she had prejudiced her chance very considerably. She, however, insisted that when it was time to begin she would be quite fresh, and she ate an ice, and talked blithely with Miss Fanshaw. The match had been arranged for half-past, and it was now four. The sun had passed over the trees and hung at an angle of forty-five over the sea. The breasts of the silver cloiids that filled the great blue hollow of the sky were just faintly touched with crimson, and the violent heat was beginning to soften to the persuasive languor of evening. Everyone was at their ease, and a murmur of intimate voices rippled through the sleeping shadows of the firs. Mr. Vyner watched his daughter, who still held fast to Sir John. Mrs. Bentham was surrounded by her guests ; she tried to listen to what they were saying, but she was visibly a little pre-occupied ; every now and then she looked in the direction where Lewis was sitting with Lady Helen. They had now been talking for some time together, and had done with the gene- ralities and common-places with which we are all forced to open our conversations, and were now eagerly discussing their sympathies and antipathies. Lewis was lost in admiration. If Mrs. Bentham had appealed to him as a vision of comforting love, Lady Helen enchanted him like a beautiful poem of exquisite whiteness and rhythmical grace. One was like a perfectly served dinner in a perfectly appointed dining-room, full of silver, fruit, and bordeaux ; the other was like the ecstacy of the dance, when the scent of flowers and hair 90 A MODERN LOVER. mingle and sing an odorous accompaniment to the languorous melody of the waltz. Lewis spoke to Lady Helen of his artistic aspirations, and his idealization of materialism awoke many unknown sentiments in her heart. It was the first time in her life she had met with anyone whose ideas did not seem to her coarse and vulgar, and in talking to him she fancied she saw her own soul reflected in the mirror of his mind. Lady Helen was as wayward a young lady as it is possible to imagine. From her earliest childhood the love of the bizarre was, as it were, the subsoil of her thoughts. She used to choose her dolls rather on account of their strangeness than their prettiness, and they became endeared to her in proportion as the other children did not like them. She loved people whose peculiarities singled them out from the rest, and she ever felt im- pelled to say unexpected things, things that would startle if they did not annoy those around her. These fancies developed and took a firmer hold of her as she grew up. She hated all that was ordinary, and preferred an equivocal success to straight- forward admiration. Although only nineteen, her great beauty had won for her two proposals, which she declind, for no reasons, at least none that were intelligible to Lady Granderville. To her the idea of accepting the position she had been born to, and fulfilling the duties of vife and mother, was utterly dis- tasteful. Unlike Mrs. Benthau., -who was as fitted to bear as she was to love children, Lady Helen saw few joys in domes- ticity, and had little sympathy for the traffic in maternity. To be married and deprived of children might have rendered her unhappy ; yet she wished for freedom, to be or not to be a mother as she pleased. She sighed for love, perhaps, as ardently as Mrs. Bentham, but whilst the latter knew in- stinctively what she desired and what would complete her happiness, Lady Helen lost herself in vague conjectures, in strange oceans of sentiment, where the islands of delight floated and disappeared in a thousand indescribable ways; sometimes enwrapped in the hundred hued golden sunset of desire, sometimes bathed and veiled in the rosy mists- of poetical imaginings. Mrs. Bentham felt, Lady Helen judged, or rather felt and judged simultaneously. She observed men when other women Bee but one, and if her first flirtations touched her heart, the later ones taught her how to recognise the lie that lurked in the compliment. But it was more the dry narrowness of the A fclODERtf LotfeR. 91 imagination than the falseness of the men she was surrounded with that discouraged her from striving to love them. She loved love for love's own sake, and she knew that those who had proposed to her saw in it nothing but children, dinner parties, and a general settling down. Of the deep, womanly, trusting love, which was so distinctly a part of Mrs. Bentham's nature, Lady Helen could feel nothing, and finding herself misunderstood by those around her, she turned to art for sympathy, and daily the desire for the correction of form grew stronger in her soul. She read all the poets with avidity ; burned with the fire of yearning she soon began to seek for words, and in rhyme and metre sought to give expression to her aspirations. Her father read her sonnets with complacence, much to her mother's annoyance, who thought that such tastes should not be encouraged in young girls. On all such occasions she would leave the room, declar- ing that she would interfere no more in her daughter's educa- tion. It is therefore easy to understand how passionately and how suddenly Lady Helen was drawn towards Lewis. The very similitude there was between their natures com- pleted the charm ; for self-love being the basis of life, we love best a wavering image of ourselves. He was softer and feebler than she ; but, otherwise, their natures were moulded much after the same fashion. They talked, conscious of nothing but each other. The sun sank momentarily lower in the sky, until the long fir branches no longer cast a shade over the seat where Lady Helen and Lewis were sitting. The match between Miss French and Miss Fanshaw was just going to begin, and the company crowded on to the ter- race to see the play. To avoid the friends in whom she had no interest, and the rays of the sun which were stealing under her long fringed parasol, Lady Helen got up and walked through the pleasure grounds with Lewis. Lady Granderville watched her daughter, Mrs. Bentham her lover, and the two women's faces told with what uneasiness they saw what was happening. Lady Helen's position and beauty made her noticeable, and there was a movement among the girls ; they exchanged glances, and tried to express in looks what they intended to discuss 92 A MODERN LOVER. minutely afterwards ; Lord Senton looked foolishly annoyed, and tried to make love to Mrs. Bentham. Instinctively seeking solitude, Lewis and Lady Helen took the walk that led towards the river. The woods were intersected with gravel walks, and under the bright boughs floated a deep sea-like silence. On every slope the flowering rhododendrons filled the air with colour, and overhead the screening leaves were sprinkled with the azure of the sky. Lady Helen spoke to him of her poetry, and of her interest in art, until they slipped into the theme, the oldest and most common-place, yet ever the most interesting between the sexes, the theme that every man must be able to discuss with esprit if he wishes to be liked by women. A turn brought them to the river ; to a dreamy, calm place, where a large elm had fallen into the stream, and the beeches cast everywhere cool and diaphanous shadows. Without know- ing why, she stopped, and, sitting on the elm, drew listlessly with her parasol on the ground. She felt as persuasively in- terested in him. She longed to know who he was, what his past had been, how he had lived; she wished to penetrate into his most private life, into his most secret thoughts ; and the young girl now felt an irresistible desire to ask him if he had ever been in love. At last, mustering up courage, she said : "From the way you speak, .Mr. Seymour, one would think that you could not live without love." " Is that extraordinary ] We must live on the hope of being loved, or the memory of having been loved ; for, after all, it is the only interesting part of life; the rest counts for little." " And do you look forwards, or backwards ? " "If you knew what my life has been, you could not ask me. As yet I have only dreamed, hoping that some day I might be able to realise my dream." The words were uttered in a half melancholy way, which gave to them, above their meaning, that charm of regretful sadnesa so dear to youthful hearts. And yet they were no^ calculated ; Lewis said to Lady Helen what we would have said to a hun- dred other women ; he could not speak otherwise ; the delicate rose-coloured sentiment contained in the words was the essence of his whole soul. For a moment neither spoke, and their emotion was akin to the soft silence and light summer shade that floated around them. But had they looked up they would have seen that A MODERN LOVER. 93 they were watched. Mrs. Bentham, pale as death, stood in the pathway by a large laurel. Her hands plucked nervously at the shining leaves, and the expression of her eyes grew fixed in its intensity. The meaning of her gaze and her attitude could not be mistaken, her very heart was laid bare in its jealous agony. But the possibility that the two by the river side might raise their eyes, and see her where she stood, never once crossed her mind. Perhaps it was her bitterest pang that she had no fear that they would think of her. She was like an animal robbed of its young. She saw the lamb that she had found starving on the hill side, that she had taken home and fed, about to be stolen from her, and she writhed in angry despair beneath the cruel injustice. Why should Lady Helen, with all the world to choose from, rob her who had so little ? For it was robbery ; he was hers ; she loved him. Out of the vague sweet sentiment that had filled, her heart during the summer days which she had spent with him, was crushed the concentrated strength of a life's passion. She saw that in him lay her present and her future, that with- out him there could be "nothing for her. And it was doubly cruel that she was not a free woman, that she could not even enter the lists on equal terms with the girl who was drawing him away. The sound of approaching footsteps aroused her. She turned hastily and encountered Mrs. Thorpe, who, struck with her frightened face, asked her what was the matter. '.' Oh, nothing, you only startled me," she said, with difficulty, *' you came so suddenly round the turn." " Then I beg your pardon," Mrs. Thorpe answered, smiling ; " but Lady Marion is looking everywhere for Lady Helen ; have you seen her ] " " No, I have not ; " and Mrs. Bentham, anxious to conceal her trouble, took her friend's arm to return to the house. But they had not taken half-a-dozen steps before all such anxiety vanished in the feeling that to leave the pair together was un- endurable, impossible. " She might be walking by the river with someone," she ex- claimed, turning back ; " since we are here perhaps we had better make sure." The two women had not gone many yards down the pathway when the lovers, hearing their footsteps, looked up ; Lewis was em- barrassed, he felt he had been guilty of an indiscretion, and Lady Helen's white face flushed red she looked at Mrs. Bentham. i 94 A MODERN LOVER. Nature had not made them rivals. Under ordinary circum- stances they could not have been matched against each other. One was a delicate lily, the other was a sumptuous poppy. Lady Helen was annoyed when she heard that her mother was waiting for her ; she knew that it meant not only a lecture but a struggle as to whether she should choose, or let her mother choose for her, and she was determined she would have her way. Lewis interested her as no other man had, and her febrile and excitable nature allowed her to think of nothing but the immediate gratification of her fancies. She had been in- terrupted in an interesting part of her conversation ; she would have liked to have walked up the pathway with Lewis, but to her vexation he lagged a little behind with Mrs. Beutham, and Mrs. Thorpe began a series of questions and remarks that forced her to keep in advance. Lewis and Mrs. Bentham went slowly up the rhododendron covered slopes together. The evening air tasted of flowers and fruit, and the pearly laughs of several nightingales rippled over the tepid silence of the woods. But the delights of the evening affected not Mrs. Bentham ; her mind was occupied by one burn- ing thought : was she going to keep or lose her lover ] Stopping suddenly as they approached the terrace, she said : " I suppose you admire her very much ; have you been mak- ing love to her ? " " We were only talking about painting and poetry ; she writes poetry, and wanted to know my opinion," he answered timidly, " and she said she would like to have some lessons in painting." " Then give her the lessons she wants ; you'll have plenty of time, for I don't think I shall take any more of you." Lewis trembled with fear ; he saw how he had jeopardised his future, and his dirty garret loomed before his eyes. Speak- ing like a child, he said : " I don't love her at all ; you know I love you, and only you." The words fell on Mrs. Bentham's ears as softly as dew on a flower, and her eyes grow full of tenderness. Perceiving his ad- vantage, Lewis continued more confidently : " Besides how could you suspect me of caring for her. We admire a lily, but we love a rose." Instinctively she leaned towards him, and, carried ^,way by her passion, he took her hands into his. She remembered not in the intoxication of the moment how she was compromising herself, how near they were to the tennis ground ; for an instant they stood looking into the vaporous langours of each other's A MODERN LOVER. 98 eyes. She bent her face and would have kissed him, but a sound of footsteps startled them : Lewis had only just time to let go her hands when Mrs. Thorpe appeared. After having left Lady Helen with her mother, she had returned to ask if any one had been asked to stay to dinner ; the cook wanted to know. Mrs. Bentham said she had asked no one, then the three walked up to the terrace, Mrs. Bentham thoughtfully, Lewis mortified at the interruption, but visibly elated at his success. Everybody was collected round the tennis court watching the match. On a vast plain of gold sky, the group came out in black, like a huge picture painted in silhouette. Lewis and the two ladies stopped as they left the wood, to gaze on the flaming garden of colours that stretched along the horizon. In the valley below, reflecting all the stillness of the reeds, the river glided like a white dream between the two hills, through the glittering reaches down to the shimmering sea. Drowned little by little in a bath of gold, the sun sank, and rays went up on every side, piercing some fluffy white clouds high up in the blue immensity, deluging the landscape with light, awakening the half-sleeping insects, and revealing every outline of the distant trees which stood against the sky. But the sunset was lost sight of in the superior excitement of the tennis match. Every stroke was watched with almost breath- less interest. Miss Fanshaw had won the first set easily ; for the second there had been a fight, but Miss French had got it in the end ; in the third set Miss Fanshaw was five games to Miss French's four. The play on both sides had been magnifi- cent, but fatigue was beginning to tell on Miss French. Her hair had fallen down her back ; her face was streaming with perspiration ; Miss Fanshaw had run her about the court a great deal. Still, she was a plucky girl, and was determined to win the bracelet. Throwing the ball in the air, she raised herself high on her toes, and hit it with all the force of her body. It cleared the net by about six inches, and came down upon Miss Fanshaw like lightning ; she missed it, and, amid much ap- plause, the marker called the game, "forty all, deuce." Crossing to the right-hand court, Miss French made a still better serve, the ball went sliding out of the corner of the court ; it was impossible to get at it : vantage, Miss French. As she crossed over to the left, her brothers whispered words of encouragement ; but she looked very weak and tired ; it was impossible she could last much longer. The excitement as she prepared to serve the third time was intense. Even Lady 96 A MODERN LOVER. Marion grew interested, and attempted to explain the game to Lewis, who, to escape from Lady Helen, had taken refuge at her side. Mrs. Beutham tried to listen to Lord Senton's platitudes, but she heard and saw scarcely anything, so filled was her mind with the memory of Lewis's eyes, and the pressure of his hands. Miss French's next serve did not come off so successfully as the last two ; she banged it into the net, and had therefore to lob it over the second time. Miss Fanshaw very cleverly cut it down the lines, and it was only by a tremendous run that Miss French reached it ; she returned it but feebly, and Miss Fanshaw volleyed it, and gave her another run; still she managed to get it up ; this time Miss Fanshaw very nearly missed it : she hit it with the wood of her racquet, and it only just went over and dropped under the net, and Miss French killed it easily. They were now five all, and would have to play deuce and vantage games : this was against Miss French, who was terribly done up. The sun had now slipped below the horizon : two large bands of purple-backed and crimson-bellied clouds stole forward from both sides, and the yellow evening faded to a dim russet colour. The rays that still played about the fantastic outlines of the rocks and cliffs of the further hills grew fainter, and at last the last light went out on the highest point, leaving the shadows to work their will. Blue mists trailed up the valley from the sea, and the trees that crowned the summit of the hill facing the tei-race, became a mass of violet colour seen against a background of cold crimson clouds. There would be but another half hour of light, but to finish the match only five minutes were required. Miss Fanshaw had won the vantage game, and the score was " love, thirty." Miss French could no longer serve, she trembled as she walked across the court, and her face was perfectly haggard ; it was clear she must soon give way. Her mother was whining that poor Fanny looked tired, that she was afraid she would be laid up ; but Mr. French, a fat, country squire, said that that was of no consequence, and, calling on her to play up, he offered to bet an even fiver on the result. In the left hand corner she made two faults, and her father and brothers, who were all standing together, swore simultane- ously under their breath. It was now a hundred to one against her, but she still fought on with the tenacity of a bull-dog. A MODERN LOVER. # She scored the next point with a serve and the next with a splendid return, and the marker called the game " thirty, forty." Could she pull off the next point they would be at " deuce." She threw the ball high, and, raising herself with her last shred of strength, she hit it with a straight bat, but unfortunately, it was a fault ; then, trembling for fear, she lobbed the ball timidly ... it fell into the net. There was a great pause; the lookers on would have liked it to have ended in a tremendous rally and not in this somewhat ignoble fashion. But nevertheless, it was all over : the bracelet was lost and won. Loud applause went up through the still air, and, deadly pale, Miss French walked over to her father and mother. Her head seemed empty, and she realised nothing definitely. Had she not been so terribly exhausted, she would probably have burst out crying, for she had set her heart on the championship. Her father looked awfully cut up, and her brother began to abuse her for having made so many faults, but she neither saw nor heard ; her eyes grew full of mist, the ground seemed to slide away from under her feet. She struggled for an instant, and then fell in a dead swoon into her father's arms. The company, who were wandering up towards the house, came all running back, the clear dresses fluttering in the grey twilight. A. cry passed here and there zig-zag through the group for salts and pocket handkerchiefs, and towards the pale skies a lament went up from the matrons, who in chorus de- plored the evil effects of the new game. The father and the brother carried the girl up to the house ; two young men ran off to fetch Dr. Morgan. All seemed to have lost sight of their own little affairs in the excitement caused by Miss French's fainting fit, except Mr. Vyner and Lady Helen. Mr. Vyner, like a black ghost, watched from the far end of the terrace ; his daughter, leaning against the balustrade, still talked with Sir John ; but Lady Helen walked, excited and irritated, with her mother, Lady Marion, and Mrs. Thorpe. Lady Helen wanted to speak to Lewis. Seeing him coming from the house with Dr. Morgan, she slipped away from her mother on the pretext of asking after Miss French ; but Lewis, seeing her in time, escaped by joining a group of ladies, leaving the doctor to explain to Lady Helen that Miss French was now quite recovered : she had over-exerted herself, and must be careful in the future. When this became generally known, the 7 &8 A MODERN LOVER. ladies took up their conversations at the point where they had left them off. Lady Helen's flirtation with Lewis, the little walk by the river-side, had not passed unnoticed, and now, on the great wide steps leading to the lower terrace, there was quite a little conclave of girls discussing the matter. Lady Granderville reproached her daughter for having been so foolish as to have walked about the woods with Mr. Seymour ; but Lady Helen was too intent on planning how she could manage to see him again to listen to her mother. At last she saw a chance ; Lewis and Mrs. Thorpe were talking together, and, regardless of her mother's voice that-called her, she went towards them. Lewis would have liked to have spoken to her, but seeing Mrs. Beutham on the steps, he saved himself by pretending that he had forgotten something. Lady Helen not divining the real reason, put it down to some unfortunate chance, and trembled with irritation. However, there was no help for it ; the carriage came round, and she was obliged to content herself by squeezing his hand, and saying what she could with her eyes. As they drove away, Lady Granderville thanked heaven that they were going back to London in eight or nine days; that, in three months they would be back in St. Petersburg, consequently nothing could result from this absurd adventure. But Lady Helen had resolved that she would see Lewis before she went back to Russia ; and she continued to think of him as they drove through the shadows of the park. Carriage after carriage passed into the dusty twilight ; and as the occupants drew together, covering their knees with rugs, some discussed Lady Helen's flirtation, some condemned the way that Miss Vyner was throwing herself at Sir John, some talked of how Miss French had lost the match, and the hubbub of the voices awoke the sleeping birds on the branches. Lord Senton was the last to go ; almost speechless with rage he bade Mrs. Bentham good-bye, and got into his dog-cart with Mr. Day. Lewis had joined Mrs. Bentham on the steps, and together they stood watching the pale, passionless stars, insorbed by the magnetic charm of space and love. Lord Senton saw them, and as he hit his horse heavily with the whip, he said to Day, between a couple of oaths, that he would give a hundred to kick that d long-haired painter into a cocked hat CHAPTER XII. LOVE AND ART. NEXT mottling Lewis could not eat anything at breakfast. He was haggard with excitement, and pale with want of sleep. All night long he had sat at his window, listening to the tall silver firs sighing in the breeze, and watching the river shining deep down in its shadowy-laden valley. He had sat at his window till the chill dawn had brought sleep to his eyes, kissing his hands to the landscape, already believing it to be his own. He was delirious ; and when at last he fell asleep, it was only to dream strange dreams, in which marriage, divorce, and duels, were mixed up in the most pre- posterous confusion. He didn't know what would happen, but he knew something would, and was mad with expectation. He wanted to be with her alone ; to tell her how he loved her, and to hear her say that their marriage was only a question of months, of weeks, of when she would obtain her divorce. Generally, on rising from the breakfast-table, she accompanied him to the ball-room ; but to-day she declared she had business with the housekeeper, and left him to go there alone. It seemed to him, after the plans he had made for sitting the whole morning by her side, bitterly cruel; and, sick with disappointment, he put his paint out on his palette, mounted the scaffolding, and set to work to lay in a cupid's head. But it was impossible to work ; a thousand thoughts crossed from a thousand different sides, and passed through his brain like ants through a nest that some accident had overthrown. Every moment he stopped to listen ; his face brightened at the sound of footsteps, and darkened when they died away. He could do nothing ; the great clear walls irritated him. Ex- cited, he lit a cigarette, and walked up and down the room. The minutes passed like hours, until at last, when he had ceased to expect her, the door opened, and Mrs. Bentham entered. 100 A MODERN LOVEB. His face lighted up with pleasure, and he said, with a nervous smile : " Well, have you done ordering dinners ? " "Oh, yes," she replied, constrainedly; "but I am afraid I shall not be able to stay long this morning. I have a hundred things to do." Lewis asked her to sit down, but she would not, giving as an excuse that she really hadn't time, that she really must be goicg. It was an awkward interval. They walked up and down the room, they looked out of the windows vacantly. Lewis hinted at the events yesternight, and strove to speak of his love ; but his courage dribbled out at his finger tips, and he talked with her now just as he had done the day after his arrival at Clare- rnont House. As they were then they were now, nervous and embarrassed. The same scene was repeated, only with this difference now the combatants were more evenly matched. No longer was he in doubt as to what her feelings were towards him she had shown him what her heart was. As before, she wished to reassert her dignity, but this time it was less easy. She could no longer express surprise, nor could she forbid him to speak to her of love ; and it was the knowledge that her defences were gone that made her so afraid of seeing him alone. Her excuse that she had housekeeping to do was but a wretched subterfuge to gain time ; and she thought, as she tried to bring her attention to bear on the bills, of a way of re- treat out of the position into which a moment of passion had put her. But she found it impossible to make up her mind as to what tone she should assume should Lewis make love to her. She hoped that he would not attempt any such thing, and at the same time trusted that he would not appear either cold or in- different. At present she wanted to be a dear friend to him ; to help him, to speak kind words, to be something sweeter than a friend ; for she wished him to love her, that is to say, to like her better than anyone else ; to think of her when she was not there, and when she came back she desired that their eyes should meet and say a thousand things their lips might not. Such was the state of Mrs. Benthatn's mind, and she did not care to look into the future, to think out logically what must be the end of such a friendship. She was d van Veau ; she wished to let herself drift, to let things take their chance ; and A MODERN" LOVER. 101 it was fear lest Lewis might think differently that made her dread meeting him. But, delay it as she might, sooner or later she would be bound to find herself alone with him ; and having gradually come to that conclusion, she resolved to see him, and strike, if possible, the exact note of friendship she wished for. She had asserted her dignity before, and was determined to do so again, but in a different way. Such were the plans Mrs. Bentham hoped to put into execu- tion as she walked up and down the white room sketched all over with half-finished nymphs and cupids ; but to explain her intentions adequately, it was necessary that Lewis should first make love to her in a somewhat marked manner, and this he did not seem inclined to do; and the vague allusions he made as to the state of his heart could not be used as a pretext for introducing the little sermon she had carefully prepared. They tried several times to talk about the decorations, but she listened badly, and he was too excited to be able to sustain a conversation. His head was filled with vague schemes, all of which he rejected one after the other. He dared not try to kiss her ; and to tell her that he loved her, in the middle of some trivial phrase, seemed to him ridiculous. Both were em- barrassed, for each expected the other to act differently. At last Mrs. Bentham alluded to Lady Helen, and that gave Lewis the chance he was waiting for, and he immediately reproached her with having suspected him of caring for any one but her. They were standing by the window. Lewis was getting en- thusiastic, and he leaned his arm against the shutter. As she listened to his passionate declaration of love, she turned towards him. She had forgotten all her resolutions, and, perceiving his advantage, he let his arm pass round her waist. The movement awoke her from her dream, and her face showed him that she resented the liberty. Then he grew frightened, and regretted his rashness ; but it was too late, he had to go on ; and he continued to tell her in short, vehement phrases how much he loved her how useless his life would be without her. At first she would not hear ; but she gradually forgot herself and listened to^him tenderly. He took her by the hands she allowed him to do so, and they sat down on the sofa side by side. Then, again remembering her good intentions, she spoke with dignity, and told him how she wished to help him. Lewis 108 A BIODEEN LOVEE. listened, forgetful of everything but the softness of her voice and the sweetness of her presence. His arm fell round her, and he drew her towards him. She could not resist ; but as her head rested on his shoulder, a firm step was heard in the dining- room. They started, and looked at each in alarm, and Lewis had only just time to pretend to be turning over a portfolio of drawings when the butler entered. He handed a telegram, and said that Lord Senton was in the drawing-room, that he was going to London by the two o'clock train, and wanted to know if he could do anything for her. She read the paper through hurriedly. "Tell Phillips," she said, "to pack up what I shall require for a week, and tell the coachman that I am going to London by the next train, and to have the carriage round in time. By the way, which is the next train 1 " " The two o'clock train is the next ; shall I say you are at home to Lord Senton ? " " Certainly ; say that I shall be with him in a minute." " What on earth is the matter ? Why on earth are you going with Lord Senton ? " asked Lewis, as soon as the servant had left the room. " This is a telegram, saying that my father is dangerously ill ; I must go at once ; I hope it is nothing very serious." Lewis remained silent; he knew nothing about her father and cared less ; but he cursed him, whoever he was, for having chosen this time, of all others, to get ill. In his mind there was no longer a shadow of doubt but that Mrs. Bentham loved him Lewis Seymour ; and he now felt sure of being able to persuade her to get a divorce and marry him ; that is to say, if Fate would only accord him a fair chance. Mrs. Bentham still sat beside him, but the love scene had been broken through, its spirit had fled, and he saw that it would be useless to try to urge her now to take any decisive step, when her mind was harassed by fears for her father's life. Yet, notwithstanding this contretemps, they talked for some minutes very affectionately together. She promised to write to him, and he called her once or twice by her Christian name, which he thought was a great point gained. She admitted that she liked him, and spoke with great tenderness of how she hoped to help him towards success, and what pleasure it would give her if, one of these djiys, he became a great artist. They talked dreamily for some minutes, till suddenly she remembered that Lord Senton was waiting. This occasioned a. A MODERN LOVER. 108 little scene of jealousy, which forged another link in the chain which was being bound around their lives. Mrs. Bentham insisted that the young man bored her to death ; that it was a most unfortunate coincidence, that she had to travel up to London with him ; and she declared that if he were not her next door neighbour, she would refuse to see him once and for ever. Lewis accepted the assurance, but would not come into the drawing-room to see him, and bidding Mrs. Bentham good-bye for the present, he mounted his scaffolding and went on with the cupid's head. Both were pretty well satisfied with themselves. Mrs. Bentham certainly had to admit that she had gone a little further than she had intended ; but she comforted herself with the belief that she had, in the last part of the conversation, established the groundwork of the friendship she so ardently coveted ; and she hoped that in future, without loving her less, Lewis would accept what she gave him, and that their lives would be as pleasant as possible. Lewis, on his side, was forced to admit, as he sat cramped up on his low stool, right in front of the straw-coloured panel rimmed with mauve, that although everything had not turned out as he had expected, still he had no reason to complain. He cursed her father's illness as a beastly piece of bad luck ; but he assured himself that absence makes the heart grow fonder, and consoled himself with the prospect of continuing his courtship with increased vigour when she came back. After Mrs. Bentham's departure, the house fell into a state of absolute quiet. Mrs. Thorpe never received visitors, and those who called after the tennis party left their cards, and went away disappointed. For the first couple of days, Lewis thought of nothing but the letter he expected to receive from Mrs. Bentham, and he asked himself twenty times a day whether she would address him as, " My dear Lewis," " Dear Lewis," or, " My dear Mr. Seymour." Then he passionately regretted having missed kissing her ; for he argued that if he had done so she would have been obliged to call him, Lewis. At last the letter came, and a grey cloud passed over his face as he read: "My dear Mr. Seymour ; " however, it was very kind, charming, in every other respect, and obtained the consolatory news that Mr. Vicome, her father, was better, and that Lord Senton was boring her to death,. 104 A MODERN LOVER. Mrs. Thorpe had also received a letter, and she kept Lewis till nearly eleven o'clock telling him about the poor old gentleman, and how anxious he was to have the ball-room finished. Henceforth the days went by with the methodical monotony of an eight-day clock, and the periodical winding up took the form of a letter from Mrs. Bentham, saying that her father was better, or that he worse, and that for the present she could not leave London. Every morning after breakfast Lewis went to his decorations, and Mrs. Thorpe to talk with the gardener, the steward or the housekeeper, and had it not been for his painting,' Lewis would have died of ennui. But as calm, dry weather will produce the best crop in a marshy soil, so the solitude of Claremont House forced him to concentrate his whole attention on his work, and he got on capitally. The job of decorating all the panels proved a longer one than he had suspected. It is true that in the first month he had completed his sketches, but as he worked on he found that many of them did not please him ; sometimes it was the com- position that was not up to the mark ; sometimes they did not suit the scheme of colour he had adopted. They were, in all, six large panels, twelve feet by six, and a similar number of small ones ; and although the decorations were, not to destroy the lightness of the room, of the very slightest description, they still took a long time to execute on account of their size. Fearful of failing in the work which had been entrusted to him, he had very carefully made his compositions according to scale, so that they might be enlcu-ged by means of squares on the panels. It was impossible to do this alone, but a country carpenter helped him with the measurements, and the page boy held the strings. Lewis worked very hard, and towards evening his arm ached, for the manual labour of rubbing paint over so large a surface was considerable. At seven he and Mrs. Thorpe dined together, and he told her new anecdotes about his father's laboratory chimney, how he (Lewis) had lived with his poor mother for so many years, and of his terrible struggle for existence in the wilds of London. Never till half-past ten did the old lady grow tired, but then, even in the middle of a touching bit of description, she would put up her knitting and wish him good-night His gentle manner had quite won the old lady's heart, and she regarded him as one of the family, quite forgetting that A MODERN LOVER. 105 when the decorations were finished he would go away, and that they would then see him only at the rarest intervals. For nearly six weeks nothing except an occasional letter from Mrs. Bentham broke the calm regularity of his life, until, one day, the footman handed him Mr. Day's card. Lewis looked at it for a moment, and wondering what the farmer had come to say to him, told the servant to show him in. It was scarcely singular that Lewis could not imagine what Mr. Day had come for ; it had taken that gentleman two days' hard thinking to invent a legitimate excuse for his visit. Even now he had found nothing more ingenious than a request that Lewis would paint him a picture of a horse he was very fond of. Mr. Day suspected that Lewis would be surprised to see him, but it could not be helped. Lord Senton had insisted on an interview, and at that moment Mr. Day had two letters on the subject, which had both come by the same post, and had to be answered at once. Poor Mr. Day detested letter-writing, and latterly he had done nothing else but cover reams of paper, trying to solve the most abstruse psychological problems. He now absolutely dreaded the hour of the post, for it never failed to bring him letters from Lord Senton, asking the most complicated questions. What did Mrs. Bentham mean by telling him (Lord Senton) that she did not like London, and would like to get back to the country ? Did it mean that she liked the long-haired painter 1 Would it be advisable for him (Lord Senton) to ask her to go to the theatre with him, after having been refused half-a-dozen times? Would it be right for him to go on sending her bouquets 1 Up to now he had not missed a day ; and what did Mr. Day think of the advisability of slipping a nice diamond ring into one and sending it anonymously. Lord Senton's want of success rendered him irritable, and he now reproached Day bitterly for not being 'able to tell him if the long-haired painter was or was not Mrs. Bentham's lover. Day declared in many letters that, after having carefully ex- amined the evidence for and against, he was inclined to think that Mr. Seymour was not Mrs. Bentham's lover ; but that it was impossible for him, under the circumstances, to speak definitely. Yet this did not satisfy Lord Senton, and he had, in his last letters, so strongly insisted on a personal interview, that Day no longer ventured to resist his chief's commands, although he really did not know how he was going to question Mr. Seymour on the subject. 106 A MODERN LOVER. However, he was not a man to be embarrassed, and, armed with the picture of the favourite horse as an excuse, he tried to make friends with Lewis. Lewis told him, as he expected, that he could not undertake the commission, but thanked him very much for the offer. " You paint figures, not animals ? " said Day, as he examined a nymph and some cupids. " I do anything I get an order to do, when I have time," re- plied Lewis laughing. Then farmer and painter walked round the great clear walls, and Mr. Day made many facetious remarks about the scanti- ness of the draperies, and suggested that Mrs. Bentham's portrait should be painted on to one of the nymphs ; Lewis did not like this, and resented the familiarity, which made Day prick up his ears. " Heigh ho ! you are so particular as that ! " he said to him- self. Nevertheless, the men made friends, lit cigarettes, and began to talk quite affably. " Remarkably fine woman, Mrs. Bentham," said Day ; " I wonder she doesn't get married." This was put out as a feeler, for Day was obliged to write something to Lord Senton. Lewis looked at him, surprised, and said : "But you know she is only separated from her husband; she is not a free woman." " You are sharper than I fancied you were," thought Day, and then he said, aloud : " Yes, I know, but then she might easily get a divorce." " How 1 " asked Lewis innocently. Day looked at him admiringly. " Capitally parried, my friend," he said, to himself, and then a moment after continues, aloud : " Oh, very easily ; if she ran away with anyone, then her husband would be entitled to a divorce ; and I can tell you he's a lucky man who gets her; she has seven thousand a year, if she has a penny." On the point of Mrs. Bentham's fortune Lewis was quite satisfied ; but as regarded Mrs. Bentham's private character, he was anxious for information ; so, hoping her name would be mentioned, he questioned Day on the morality of the covinty families. Day entered into the discussion with zest, but he looked at Lewis, as much as to say : " I'll talk with you, and tell you what I know, because the subject interests me, but you d.on't take me in with your innocence ; a nice kind of young A MODERN LOVER. 107 gentleman Senton has sent me down to pump ; if I don't take care it will be you who will pump me." After this discovery, Day seemed to see Lewis in quite a dif- ferent light, and studiously tried to be civil to him. He fancied he recognised in him a man of marvellous tact, and he came to the conclusion that of all the suitors, Lewis was by far the most likely to persuade Mrs. Bentham into marrying him. He admitted to himself that it was not a likely thing to happen, but it seemed to him to be distinctly on the cards ; and as the possible owner of Claremont House, Lewis appeared to Mr. Day to be worth making up to, particularly as the doing so compromised him in no way with Lord Senton. Mr. Day made it a rule never to lose a chance ; and there were plenty of farms to let on the Claremont House property that he would much rather have than the one he leased from Lord Senton ; and as it is always worth taking a thousand to nothing, he asked Lewis to come over to his farm and lunch with him any day he liked, but just to drop a line. With this expression of good- will, Mr. Day took his leave, and rode home to write a long account of the interview to Lord Senton. Then some more uneventful days went by, and at last the welcome letter came, saying that Mr. Vicome was out of danger and that Mra Bentham expected to return home in a day or two. At the news Lewis's illusions awoke like a summer garden, when the first grey gleams chase the trembling shadows out of the thickets. He had now forgotten Lady Helen as he had for- gotten Gwynnie Lloyd, and the present passion of his soul was centred in Mrs. Bentham. She had always appeared to him as the type of worldly enjoyment, but now, in his solitude, having no other image to distract his attention, he had tried to sur- round her with the halo of all the poetry his nature was capable of perceiving. He grew tired of his work, and spent his days dreaming. Like one under the influence of a narcotic, he saw deep into the future ; saw himself in turn rich, poor, successful, unsuccessful, but always loving and being loved by Mrs. Ben- tham. His tepid nature warmed up to something like enthusi- asm, and under the influence of his love he began to discriminate and draw nice distinctions between certain questions of right and wrong ; he became noble-minded, and suffered from outbursts of generosity ; he recognised how badly he had behaved to poor Gwynnie, and he resolved to make reparation. Then, in the evenings, he went in for long conversations with Mrs. Thorpe, 108 A MODERN LOVER. and they discussed the necessity of doing one's duty, and living up to a high and grand standard of morality. These discussions interested him profoundly ; and when lie bade the old lady good-night, he would linger on the staircase annoyed that he had not made himself clearer on certain points. The days that separated him from Mrs. Bentham passed slowly ; but when he thought of how she had spoken of assist- ing him, and of the desire she had expressed to see him a great artist, he became tenderly sentimental, and mused long on the solicitude of woman's nature. Then, suddenly remembering something Day had said, he grew indignant, and he asked him- self if it would not be shameful for him to own any man as a friend who spoke of women as Day did ; of course it would, and he resolved to see as little of him as possible in the future. These bursts of enthusiasm were often followed by fits of de- spondency ; for when he remembered the women his mother had told him of women who had flirted to the last with men, and then left them, laughing at their misery he grew so angry that he frequently found himself borrowing from Mr. Day's vocabu- lary, and had to pick himself up. But Mrs. Bentham, he reassured himself, was not one of these monsters ; the worst that could happen was that she, in her angelic goodness, might not consent to get a divorce fiom her husband and marry him. This was a serious consideration, and a cloud seemed to have tarnished the burnished mirror in which he had been lately viewing the immaculate virtue of the sex, and he was forced to admit that you could lay down no hard and steadfast rule of conduct. It was impossible, he thought, that Mrs. Bentham would, for the sake of a few miserable pre- judices, willingly ruin everything they had to hope for of happi- ness in life. As for himself, he felt that death would be in- finitely preferable to life without her, and his thoughts wandered insensibly to the question of suicide. He remembered, with horror, how near he had been to drown- ing himself over Waterloo Bridge, but now, it would be different ; he was no l3nger a homeless vagabond, but a young man of talent, adored by women, and to die for love would exalt him to the position of a modern Romeo ; and he thought of all the paragraphs there would be in the newspapers, and how, probably, the novelists would use him as a type of youth, beauty, and love. " To-day or to-morrow, what matter, since we have to die ? " he said to himself ; " and who could wish a more poetiq death?" A MODERN LOVER. 109 With such a strange mixture of doubts, desires, hopes, and fears, Lewis amused himself, until Mrs. Bentham's return threw him from his dreamland into the more satisfactory country of reality. Doctors, nurses, anxiety for her father's recovery, and the thousand worries of a sick-room, had so occupied her mind dur- ing the past six weeks, that she came back to Lewis with almost the same thoughts as when she left him. Her intentions had not changed, and she hoped to* be able to establish a sweet and lasting friendship between Lewis and herself, and it was with satisfaction she remembered that their parting words had been those of dear friends. They were undisguisedly glad to see each other, but it was in doubt that she went to see him in the ball-room. " Why would he," she asked herself, " insist on making love to her ? why could he not be content with what she gave him 1 Yet, notwithstand- ing her apprehensions, he proved very tractable, and they had the longest and sweetest conversation possible, sitting side-by- eide on the sofa. She had to tell him all about her stay in London : how she missed her drawing-lessons, how she had to nurse her father, and how Lord Senton bored her. And there were the decorations to examine ; for, like every artist, he could not resist explaining his intentions and showing off his work, and this was especially delightful to do, as Mrs. Bentham was perfectly enchanted with all he did. Then they had to speak tenderly ; to say how glad they were to see each other. Lewis took her hands, she let him do so, but soon withdrew them, and he, not anticipating another six weeks' interruption to his courtship, did not try to press mat- ters. For nearly a week their flirtation flowed as softly as the sweetest summer stream, until one morning, and they never knew whose fault it was, one love word led to another, until Lewis told her how passionately he loved her, and that it was impossible for him to live without her. Passing his arm around her waist, he drew her down towards him, and endeavoured to kiss her. She resisted formally for a while, and then, with the phrase, sublime in its simplicity; " I can't help myself," she surrendered herself to him, and for a a moment allowed him to lay his soft, large lips upon hers. But it was only for a moment , disengaging herself from his arms she stood vacantly looking at him, apparently regretting what had passed. But he, thinking that there was no longer doubt 110 A MODERN LOVER. as to his success, rapidly explained that they should run away together, and when her husband got a divorce, why that they would get married. " Oh ! " she said, looking at him tenderly as she held his hand, " you do not know what you ask me ; it is impossible ; you don't know my husband ; to punish me he would not ask for a divorce." Lewis argued with her vehemently, in short brief phrases, but without being able to alter her opinion. She listened al- most as if she did not hear him, until, suddenly withdrawing her hands from his, she said, with the voice of a woman who haa recovered herself, who has got the better of her weakness : " No, no, what you propose is impossible ; let us never speak on this subject again, otherwise we cannot remain friends." Lewis turned ghastly pale, and his lips twitched nervously ; he looked at her fiercely, hating her for her cold words, and then, with a sense of having being vilely deceived, his rage overcame him. He looked round the room as if for a weapon ; there was nothing within his reach but the tin palette knife, and so great was his passion that he only just saw in time the ab- surdity of his intention. " Be friends ! " he exclaimed, forgetful of everything ; " you think that you can buy me with your money, but you are mis- taken. I will leave you and your decorations to-night ! " Mrs. Bentham looked at him bewildered ; but before she could reply he had rushed out of the room. The whole scene did not take five minutes ; the explanation and the denouement came after each other with a rattle that would have delighted the heart of a modern stage manager. Mrs. Bentham, like one who has received a blow on the head, looked round vacantly, her attention diffused. The wide, empty room, where she had spent so many charming hours, stared blankly at her ; she looked at the great clear walls everywhere covered with nymphs, cxipids, flowers, and tendrils ; some were completed, some were barely indicated with 'a few black lines. Here a group of cupids quarrelled over some masks and arrows } some had disguised themselves with the former; some had wounded themselves with the latter. Forgetful of her grief, Mrs. Bentham tried to decipher the allegory. Each panel con- tained a picture illustrating an episode in the comedy of love. But there was little done, it was only a blurred and blotted dream, sad with the grievous grief of incompletcd things. Silently large tears rolled down her cheeks as she read a]) A MODERN LOVER. Ill around her the story of her life, until at last, unable to restrain herself any longer, she sobbed passionately, hiding her face in her hands. She wept bitterly, but her tears brought neither counsel nor relief. She had won Lewis from Lady Helen, but how vain the victory now appeared ; for with passionate despair she saw that she would have either to become his mistress, ruin herself in the eyes of the whole world, or give him up. Give him up, oh, how the words burned in her soul ! No, she could not do that, it would be worse than giving up her life ; she had fought hard for him, and must keep him. But, oh ! why had he put her in so difficult a position ? why had he not been content to wait ? Then she remembered that he said he was going, and with eyes bright with excitement, she thought of what she should do to prevent his leaving her. No, it must not be ; she would implore him, she would beg of him to stay ; no, he mxist not go, anything but that ; to lose him would be more cruel than death. Harassed by doubt, and irresolute from fear, she sat listening to the cold December wind and rain that beat against the win- dow. She thought of him with infinite tenderness, mistaking his faults for good qualities, never for a moment suspecting that under no circumstances would he have the courage to turn his back on pleasure and comfortable ease. She did not know that he already bitterly regretted his folly, that in the solitude of his room his passion had rapidly cooled down, and that he was even now striving to mature some scheme wherewith to ob- tain her forgiveness. His first impulse was to run downstairs and beg for pardon, but he remembered that he could always do that, and that it would be foolish to play his best card first. He cursed himself for having risked his all in one throw ; she had offered him her friendship, he had refused it, like an idiot, and for no reason that he could see ; for, after all, there was no hurry ; he might have waited for months. Besides, even if she did refuse even- tually, it would not make matters any better by quarrelling with her. Shaking with fear, he walked about his room, trying to com- pose a definite plan of action ; but Gwynnie and the garret in Waterloo Road so terrified him that he could think of nothing ; his reason deserted him, and his instinct urged him to go down on his knees and beg forgiveness. At last the lunch bell rang, and he went downstairs. The conversation turned on Mr. Vicome, and Mrs. Thorpe, not 118 A MODERN LOVER. knowing that anything had happened, talked volubly of the old gentleman's recovery. Lewis watched Mra Bentham, and when he saw that she had been crying, he plucked up courage, and tried to allude to -the time when the decorations would be finished. But Mrs. Thorpe was interested in Mr. Vicome's health, and it seemed impossible to speak of anything else. The meal seemed to him interminable, but when they got up from the table, he noticed with delight that Mrs. Thorpe stopped behind to put the wine away. This was the chance he wanted, and he followed Mrs. Bentham, who walked slowly down the passage. Catching her up at the foot of the stairs, he called her softly by her name ; she stopped, and took the hand he held to her, and it was made up in a look and a few words. That afternoon the ladies went out to drive, and Lewis worked hard at his painting ; he was in a high state of delight, for Mrs. Bentham had accepted the flag of truce which he had held out to her with such a show of gratitude, that he had not failed to perceive how indispensable his friendship was to her ; and as he sat painting his cupids he carefully analysed the situation. He saw now that the mistake he had made was not in threaten- ing, but in the way he threatened her ; and having no longer anything to fear, he determined to see what the effect of the announcement that he intended to go to Paris to. study art as soon as he had finished the decorations, would produce. Lewis was not wanting in cunning, and he took care not to speak of his trip to the continent until Mrs. Bentham had for- gotten all about their little quarrel. He chose his time care- fully ; and one evening; in the drawing-room after dinner, when the conversation flagged, he spoke carelessly of going to France. Mrs. Bentham started, and tried to murmur something to the effect that she hoped they would not lose him so soon. As for Mrs. Thorpe, she dropped her knitting into the grate ; if a bombshell had exploded she could not have been more astonished. Perceiving how his ruse had succeeded, he proceeded, with much feigned composure, to explain that he only intended to stay away a year, guessing that it would sound in their ears like a century. Mrs. Bentham dared not say anything, but Mrs. Thorpe opposed his plan vigorously. She warned him of the moral dangers of the French capital ; she tried to prove to him that he would not be able to learn painting because he did not know French ; and with slight interruptions the discussion occupied the evening. A MODERN LOVER. 113 Mrs. Thorpe appeared to take it so to heart that Mrs. Ben- tharn, under pretext of cousoling her, ventured to hint that it was quite possible that they might take a trip over there, and then they would see how he was getting on. The old lady took very kindly to the idea ; she had never seen Paris, and admitted that, if Mrs. Bentham were going there, she would not mind accompanying her. For the next week, during the long morning hours in the ball-room, Lewis and Mrs. Bentham talked the matter over, and they agreed that if they could persuade Mrs. Thorpe into chaperoning them, they would spend six months in Paris to- gether. It would take him another month to finish the decorations ; that would bring them into February, and Mrs. Bentham pro- posed that Lewis should accompany them to London, where she would introduce him to people who would be of use to him. But, partly because he wished to spite her for what he, in his secret mind, termed her intense selfishness, and partly because he had a vague notion that all he had to do to become a great artist was to go to Paris ; he remained firm in his original pur- pose of going abroad as soon as the ball-room was finished. The subject was discussed over and over again, sometimes ct deux, sometimes before Mrs. Thorpe, to whom they both appealed as to a presiding judge. Eventually it was agreed that he should proceed to Paris at the end of February, get admitted as a student to the " Beaux- Arts," and that after the London season, Mrs. Bentham and Mrs. Thorpe should come and see him. Before, it was impos- sible, for as she explained when alone to him that it would compromise her too much not to be seen in London during the season, but that once it was over, she could do as she liked. Paris brought back a crowd of remembrances to Mrs. Ben- tham. It was there she had spent the first months of her married life. Mr. Bentham was of that horrible race, the Parisian English, which race seems to have the virtues of neither country and the vices of both. She rarely heard of him now ; when the court had granted her her judicial separation, he had left England for his favourite city. * Sometimes curious stories about him reached her ears, fantastic duels, in which actresses' names were mentioned, but that was all. She gradually had learned to forgive him. In her heart she believed him mad, but when talking of him she could not always repress a shudder. 8 CHAPTER XIIL BNFIN. WHEN the decorations were finished, Mrs. Bentham gave a ball. The whole county was asked, aristocracy, gentry, and hangers- on ; a great many guests came from London, and for a week the house was full of people. A dazzling white lustre hung from the middle of the ceiling ; and, in the clear flames of its twenty-five wax candles, the vast straw-coloured walls took the appearance of a gigantic ball- dress a dress embroidered with joyous cu|ids, and sleeping, singing, and revelling nymphs. Up and down the glittering parqueted floor, full of reflected skirts, and patent leather shoes, groups and couples walked and discussed the designs. Sometimes they would form into masses before a particular panel, and then the pale tints of the women's shoulders were curious to compare with the rose skins of the nymphs. Lewis was enchanted ; the workmen had only that day fin- ished hanging the chandelier, and it was therefore the first time he had seen his room lighted up. What particularly pleased him was the way in which the long tendrils and delicate leaves encircled the pictures, and how their dead green harmonised with the mauve frames. His triumph was complete. A rippling sound ot complimentary words came from wherever he went. When these reached Lord Senton's ears, he started; and, with a pained expression of face, strove to get out of hearing. Everybody looked at Lewis, and was anxious to be introduced to him. Lady Marion talked with him, and gave him much advice about Paris, where he was going next week. The artistic element was, however, wanting. Its sole repre- sentative was Mr. Ripple, a young man who wrote paragraphs in the society papers. He had made great friends with Lewis, and was now explaining to a group of ladies the signification of some of the allegories, and at the same time threatening them A MODERN LOVER. IV. that he would mention their names in the world, an announce- ment which caused them to flutter with excitement. No ball ever passed off more satisfactorily ; everybody ate, drank, danced as much as they liked, and some had afterwards the ineffable pleasure of reading an account of their dresses, with their names appended, in omnibus language of a society print. But it was Lewis who came* out beautifully. He was de- scribed both physically and morally, and his decorations were declared to have been conceived in the best spirit of the seven- teenth century. It was the first time he had ever seen his name in type : he shook Kipple's hand, and vowed friendship. But the young man, who had this time contributed nearly half a column, declared that he lived by literature, and was only too glad to make known to the world any new talent it was his good fortune to meet with. A fortnight afterwards Lewis started for Paris with twenty- five pounds in his pocket, and three hundred and fifty to his credit at the bank; for not only had Mrs. Bentham insisted on paying a hundred more than was agreed on for the decora- tions, but she had, as an excuse for giving him money, sat to him for a full-length portrait, which, alas ! he had not been able to complete. First, the drawing did not come right, then he had not been able to get it like ; eventually he found himself obliged to put it aside, and say he would go on with it next year. The failure mortified his vanity ; but it proved to him conclusively that he had much to learn, and he went to Paris burning with enthusi- asm for work. But when he was gone, Mrs. Bentham became so restless that her life was a burden to her. The long, solitary evenings were intolerable, and even Mrs. Thorpe had to admit that the house was very lonely in his absence. The only relief in Mrs. Bentham's life was when she got a letter from him ; he was a good correspondent, and every week he wrote, telling her how he was getting on how he would owe it all to her if he ever became a great artist. She loved these letters, and the mornings they came she was always late for breakfast : she remained dreaming over them in bed. With him her life seemed to have ended ; nothing amused, nothing interested her, and she spent her days bitterly watch- ing the spring rain dripping on the saturated terraces, until, weary as a Mariana, she determined to seek relief in the excite- 118 A MODERN LOVER. ment of the London season. She went to many balls, but they, too, bored her, and the men who tried to make love to her only annoyed her. She thought this time of waiting would never come to an end. At last, however, the 12th of July came, and, dusty and travel-stained, Mrs. Bentham and Mrs. Thorpe stepped out of the sea-sick smelling railway carriage on to the dark grey and desolate Gare du Nord. Next morning, in the gaudy hotel sitting-room of the Hotel Meurice, Mrs. Thorpe sat knitting next the fire-place ; Mrs. Ben- tham, on the red sofa, tried to read the Figaro. The breakfast was laid for three. Both women waited impatiently. At last a footstep was heard, and Lewis rushed into the room, his bright face beaming with smiles. Mrs. Bentham said little, but from time to time she raised her eyes and looked at him earnestly. Mrs. Thorpe wanted to hear the details of his daily life. They were delighted to see each other, but the afternoon passed by full of uneasy silences, until the servant announced that the carriage was at the door, and Mrs. Bentham asked him if he would like to come with her for a drive. Lewis was de- lighted. He was dying, to talk with her alone ; and as they drove round the fashionable lake, leaning back on the comfort- able cushions of the victoria, he spoke to her of their long separation, and passionately pressed her to say that she had re- gretted him. She equivocated and they quarrelled, but were reconciled on her finally admitting that the London season had bored her dreadfully, and that she was perfectly happy now. It was sweet to her to find that Lewis knew nothing of Paris ; but he explained that he had done nothing but work ; and when he told her he had only spent a hundred pounds, she pressed his hands in recognition. They appeared to have grown more intimate. With lazy little laughs, and whispered words, they talked of the past, and looked dreamily into the future. Every now and then Mrs. Bentham fell into reveries. She gazed distrustfully on the cafes, theatres, and gardens : a vision of a new life seemed to float seductively out of the soft evening air, and the beautiful city wore the pale sunset skies like a garment befitting her light pleasures and ephemeral loves. About half-past six they got home. Both were in high spirits, and Mrs. Bentham insisted that they should dine at a restaurant Mrs. Thorpe consented. A MODERN LOVER. 117 But it took a long time to decide which cafe to go to. Lewis could of course offer no suggestion ; he knew of nothing but a quantity of "estaminets." At last they settled on the "Doyen;" but it was with difficulty they persuaded Mrs. Thorpe to dine out in the open air. She declared she had never heard of such a thing; and it was only on seeing how disappointed they would be if she refused, that she consented to take a seat, as she put it, out in the middle of a field. But once there it was all right ; and, before she had finished her soup, she was forced to admit that she was very comfortable, although a little be- wildered. Everything seemed to her so strange. But Lewis, who loved the fantastic, was enchanted with the little white tables scattered over the green sward, encircled with bright foliage, that came out like lace-work upon the pale sky. The hurry of the quick waiters, the fresh faces, the end- less novelty, amused him beyond measure. The "sole a la Normande," and the " caille aux feuilles de vigne," tasted a thousand times better than they had ever done in England, and the "Pommard" had in it some of the sunlight which glowed in their faces. Lewis and Mrs. Bentham laughed at Mrs. Thorpe's astonishment, for when the long garlands of lamps, which filled the foliage, began to light up, she said that it appeared to her like fairy land. As they sipped their coffee they heard the rollicking strains of a quadrille played in a neighbouring " cafe"-chantant." Lewis proposed to take them there ; but Mrs. Thorpe was a little tired, and they drove back to the hotel. When he left the ladies for the night, he stood on the Pont-Neuf. The city seemed to him like some voluptu- ous siren, dreaming to the strains of amorous music, and, following the simile out, he longed to place his hand on hers and lay his head a while to rest on the beautiful bosom she held to him. Since he had been in Paris he had worked very hard. He had lived an abstemious life, and had not missed a morning at the "Beaux- Arts." In these four months of steady application he had made much progress. His fingers were clever, and learned easily what can be taught. But he now felt that he had earned his right to a holiday, and without a regret he shut up his paint box, and resolved to amuse himself. Never, he thought, would so opportune an occasion present itself. He was in Paris, the city of pleasure, with a beautiful and fashionable woman for his friend. The word friend caused a feeling of regret and disappointment to rise through the 118 A MODERN LOVER. current of bia thoughts ; but he consoled himself with the re flection that nobody but he knew the truth, and that the world would be more likely to take the most uncharitable view of Mrs. Bentham's conduct. The possibility of her motives beiug thus wrongly interpreted profoundly interested him, for the suspicion constantly haunted him, that many people fancied that he was the screen used to shelter an unknown and more favoured lover. Such false shame was essentially a part of his nature ; he forgot all his benefactress had done for him, and railed against her, as deceitful, cruel, and weak minded, until at last his rambling thoughts would knock against some pleasant memory, and he would regret his baseness. Then the veil of ingratitude in which he had enveloped himself would fall from him, his eyes would fill with tears, his mind with tender souvenirs, and he would helplessly abandon himself to the poetry of his dreams. These naturally were of the time when Mrs. Bentham would love him with a love that would be more than love, and having no work now to distract his attention, his desire took the pos- session of his life that water does of a sponge. It rendered him weak and inert; and, when not with her, his sole enjoyment was to wander, listless about the streets, finding solitude in the most crowded places. For hours he would lean over the parapet of the Pont-Neuf watching the long line of boats slowly being hauled up with the chain, or under the green foliage, full of cooing pigeons, of the Tuileries Gardens, watch the children playing with the gravel, and the white-cuffed nurserymaids passing to and fro. But although the past extensively occupied his thoughts, and he recalled with a sense of exquisite delight each tender word he had spoken, every kiss he had snatched, the possibility of her giving him a love more perfect, more complete, opened on his way a vision of a Paradise as infinite and delightful as ever soothed the sleep of a voluptuous lotus-eater. And the ruses he would have to employ, the pleadings he would have to make, absorbed him in an indefinite calculation where pleasure versus weariness, love versus virtue, prejudice versus truth, were successively pitted and loquaciously argued from their respective stand points. They had been now just a week in Paris, but the seven days had appeared to him as seven centuries. It was not what he had expected. He had not yet found an occasion to tell Mrs. Bentham that he loved her. The word chance exasperated him, A MODERN LOVER. IIS and he inwardly cursed Mrs. Thorpe she always appeared to be with them, aud asked himself feverishly, what was the use of Mrs. Bentham coming to see him in Paris if they were never to be alone. The intimacies of the first day, the drive round the lake, an involuntary pressure of hands, and a certain unconscious freedom and tenderness in the conversation, had frightened Mrs. Bentham, and while Lewis had been dream- ing of his love, she had been making good resolutions and ar- ranging a line of conduct to be pursued during the rest of their stay in Paris. The first idea that occurred to her was to keep well behind Mrs. Thorpe, and give Lewis no opportunity of speaking with her alone. She did not reflect that this was now impossible, that three people could not spend their days together without some chance occurring which would divide them. Mrs. Bentham thought merely of saving herself, and grasped at Mrs. Thorpe's presence as the exhausted swimmer will at an overhanging willow twig. She had not been able to resist coming to Paris, but she was determined to frustrate all further temptations. It was a game of cat and mouse, and at last the turn of the latter came. Mrs. Thorpe was confined to her room with a cold, which she declared she had caught the evening they had dined out on the grass. Mrs. Bentham had been attending to her all the afternoon, and had just come down to the drawing-room to fetch a book. She stood with it in her hand by the window. The beauty of the evening attracted her. In clear black out- lines, as sharp as a dry point etching, the trees of the Orangerie and those of the Champs-Elyse'es were drawn upon a lemon- coloured sky, the highest points only indicated, the lower parts filled in with masses of violet shadow : the foreground of the picture was made of the grey spaces of the Place de la Concorde. Mrs. Bentham yielded herself up to the persuasiveness of the scene, and its loveliness brought to her vague thoughts of love. Before many minutes she was thinking of Lewis : she then suddenly remembered that if she wished to act up to her re- solutions, she would have to write to him at once, saying that Mrs. Thorpe was ill, and that they would not be able to dint together tliat day. As she was hesitating how to act, Lew s entered. Their eyes met, and not catching sight of Mrs. Thorpe, he looked round the room to assure himself of his good fortune. With a slight hesitation in his voice he asked after the old lady. Mrs. Bentham, in answer to his question, replied that Mrs. Thorpe 120 A MODERN LOVER. was laid up with a cold ; then the conversation awkwardly fell to the ground. After a long pause, Mrs. Bentham added : " So you see we shall have to put up this evening with each other's company." The phrase fell from her involuntarily, al- though before the words had passed her lips she had an instant- aneous and instinctive presentiment that she herself was lead- ing up to the point which for the last three or four days she had been so carefully trying to avoid. But it was not her fault. For suddenly so suddenly that she was unprepared to resist it an immense feeling of fatigue of all things, mixed with an infinite yearning for sympathy came upon her. Lewis was not slow to avail himself of what he termed "his chance," and, putting his arm round her waist, he begged of her to kiss him. The way the request was put and a certain awkwardness in the movement recalled her to herself, and, turning, she half coldly, half laughingly answered him. "I wonder you dare ask me such a thing; I am not in the habit of kissing people." Lewis felt a chill rise up through him, but he said as firmly as he could : " Why do you speak like that ? You kissed me before in Claremont House, I don't see why you shouldn't do so again." This answer somewhat embarrassed Mrs. Bentham, but she got out of her difficulty by telling him that a man should never reproach a woman with what she has done ; and this led up to an interminable argument in which all sorts of questions were discussed, particularly the morality of women. On this subject Lewis held the most liberal views, and in the hope of converting Mrs. Bentham to his opinions cited many fashionable liaisons, and darkly hinted that if she did not care for him he could do nothing better than drown himself at once in the Seine. Mrs. Bentham listened frightened to this part of the conversa- tion, but she grew more interested when he spoke of the pleasant life they would have together in Paris, " If she would only love him just a little." His manner both charmed and softened her : she allowed him to hold her hand, and standing on the balcony in the warm twilight, they watched the sky fade, and saw the carriages pass out of the green avenue and roll swiftly across La Place de la Concorde towards the Rue Royal. Then, towards seven, the servant came to lay the cloth for dinner ; but the sitting-room, with its tasteless hotel furniture, ennuied them, and Lewis proposed they should dine downstairs in the salle-d- manger. There the brilliantly-lighted room and the small whitr- A MODERN LOVER. 121 table, which only separated their faces by a few feet, amused them beyond measure. It was their first tete-d-tete dinner. Lewis forgot for the moment to tease her " as to when she would really love him," and they chattered of light things : of Paris ; of the people about them ; of the salon ; referring, en passant, to how happy they were, and how nice it was to be together. Never had Lewis appeared to her so graceful, so delightful ; she forgot her doubts and fears again, and abandoned herself joyously to the pleasure of the moment. It was not until they rose from table that a shade of uncertainty crossed her thoughts. How were they, she asked herself, to pass the evening? Not surely alone up in that sitting-room ? Yet she could not send him away. That was impossible. His presence at once fascin- ated and oppressed her like the dream that the dreamer would willingly, but cannot for some unexplained reason, throw aside. She had told him twenty times that she thought she would have to go and sit with Mrs. Thorpe, but he had pleaded so piteously to be allowed to stay with her, that she remained uncertain. At last, ashamed of her resolution, she decided she would go out to drive. The night was fine, and the evening air would be in- finitely preferable to a hot, stuffy hotel sitting-room. Lewis had counted upon a tete-a-tete upstairs, but he was too wise to show his disappointment ; and, drawing up close to her in the captivating ease of the victoria, he endeavoured to attune his conversation to the spirit of the hour. And what a delightful hour it was ! The tepid air was as soft and luxurious as silk on their faces, and the swing of the swiftly rolling carriage treacherously rocked to quietude all uneasy thoughts. Never had Lewis felt so happy ; from time to time so intense a con- sciousness of pleasure rose up within him, that with a sense of sweet suffocation he caught for breath. He did not look back- wards or forwards ; his nature allowed him the feminine luxury of burying deep his face in the present beyond reach of the past and out of sight of the future. This precious quality, possessed by most women and by all men who exercise over others that magnetic influence called love, was in the large lips and voluptuous eyes plainly written upon Lewis's face : he was the perfect lover who could forget all but the adored mistress. To be this lover is no more in every man's power than it is to become an immortal poet ; it is as difficult to command an earthly as a heavenly inspiration. This latter, however, Lewis could wholly control, and he now realized nothing but Mrs. Beutham ; she was a part of him as en- 122 A MODERN LOVER. tirely as the waves of sound floating around au instrument are the emanations of the musician's soul, and rise and fall controlled by it. Now and again a fitful thought of failure crossed his mind, but he thrust it from him with an almost savage ardour. It appeared to him impossible that fate could be so cruel as to deny him the attainment of his life's desire. They had told the coachman to take Les Grands Boulevards, and the victoria -was now passing through the wide and mournful Place Venddme into the brilliantly-lighted Rue de la Paix. Upon a vast plain of moonlight blue sky was stretched the fa9ade of the opera house ; with its rich perspectives ex- tending down the shadow-filled Rue Auber and Meyerbeer. On each side and atop of the highest roofs two gold figures spread their gold wings, whilst below in the blanching glow of clustering electric lights, the passers went like an endless pro- cession of marionettes marching to the imagined strain of an invisible orchestra, Lewis, who had till now scarcely spoken, ventured a few re- marks on the beauty of the building, and they arranged to go there as soon as Mrs. Thorpe had got rid of her cold. But as they passed into the Boulevard des Italiens, they saw by the bill that Faust was being given that night. This coincidence in- terested them beyond measure; it brought to their minds a thousand pleasant remembrances, and gave them opportunities of playing and fencing with an infinite number of little re- proaches and tendernesses. Then, again, they would relapse into silence, so that they might muse over the fatality that had guided them together. Mrs. Bentham had on her side forgotten all resolutions ; Lewis no longer thought of himself, and both were united in the sensual moodiness of the moment. At this hour the Boulevard was full of carriages. Crowded omnibuses, drawn by immense grey horses, often stopped the way. Now and again a victoria containing a gaudily-dressed woman, her tiny feet resting on an embroidered cushion, would speed past ; the lady casting amiable glances to the right and left, until perhaps two young men would tell their coachman to touch up the high-stepping bay, and follow in the wake of the reclining beauty. Then would come a fiacre with a party of English tourists ; three sitting down, whilst the fourth screamed at the coachman, who did not understand him. The footways, too, were encumbered with idlers come to enjoy the evening air. They crowded round the kiosques to buy the evening papers ; stopped each other on the edge of the roadway. A MODERN LOVEH. 123 and entered tho brilliantly-lighted cafes arm-in-arm. There, in the great squares of light that the glaring plate-glass windows threw over the pavement, sat groups and single figures drink- ing, talking, or watching the crowd as it surged past. Women, too, were not wanting, and a gleam of white petticoat or the elegancy of a lace stocking relieved the monotonous regularity of trousers and men's boots. Out of this seething mass of life the tall houses, built in huge blocks of grey stone, arose and faded rnto darkness, whilst the Boulevard, with its immense grey trottoirs, and its two interminable lines of gas-lamps running out and into a host of other lights, extended until lost in what appeared to be a piece of starry sky. The beauty of the city acted on Mrs. Bentham and Lewis as a narcotic ; and, in spirit, they had already stepped into the pleasures which Paris, in her capacity of fashionable courtesan, holds open to all comers. The measure of expectant waltzes beat in their feet, the fumes 01 uncorked champagne arose to their heads, and the light wings of unkissed kisses had already touched their lips. Lewis held Mrs. Bentham's hand, and their thoughts and bodies swayed by the motion of the carriage, they watched deliciously the flashing and gleaming of the thousand lights that moved around them, seeing nothing distinctly but the round back of the coachman as he sat, his shoulders set, steering faultlessly through an almost inextricable mass of whirling wheels. They did not awake from their reveries until they had passed into the darkn'ess of the Boulevard St. Denis. The huge arch- way of the Porte St. Martin had attracted their attention ; they had even attempted to criticise the style of the architecture. But now the honest plain look of the quarter proclaimed that they had passed from the regions of pleasure into those of work. The darkness and sobriety of the streets dimmed their spirits as breath dims a glass, and they told the coachman to turn and go back The drive home was not pleasant ; an irritating feel- ing of unrest seemed to have come over them. Lewis told Mrs. Bentham that he loved her, that her love was to him something that stretched beyond life, and that death would be powerless to extinguish. Occasionally she would lift her eyes and look at him caressingly, but her manner was vague and uncertain. Lewis noticed this, and in fear he redoubled his protestations of affection. At last, not knowing well what to do, he said : " But is it not strange that the first opera we should hear of in Paris is the very one we sang together ? I always 124 A MODERN LOVEK. loved the music of Faust, but I love it a thousand times better now, for it was in singing the page's song that I first told you 1 cared for you." " I wish we could go and hear it to-night," Mrs. Bentham replied, dreamily. The idea enchanted Lewis, and after a few moments' con- sultation they told the coachman to drive to the opera house, and they affectionately discussed the possibilities of getting places. When the carriage stopped before the steps they were surrounded by a crowd of marchands de billets, who, gesticulating wildly, told Lewis that they could sell him something. With- out having very clearly understood what, he pushed past them and made his way into the vestibule. There he found the bureau de location shut, but after some conversation carried on in broken French with the officials he learned that every seat was let, but that he could obtain from the marchands tickets which would give him the right of visiting the house. He would have liked Mrs. Bentham to have heard the music, but as that, as he put it to her, was not to be, they would have to content themselves with admiring M. Baudry's decorations and M. Garnier's architecture. This Mrs. Bentham declared was all she wanted, and they passed up the staircase. It was in light-coloured marble, and, according to Lewis, branched to the right and left as white as a woman's arms. The beauty of the place astonished them, but Lewis, not wish- ing to appear ignorant, argued that the whole building was wanting in style, and he compared it to a huge cake. This made Mrs. Bentham laugh, although she did not quite under- stand what he meant. In the foyer, however, the pictures in- terested them vastly ; even Lewis, who was always disposed to find fault, found himself forced to admit that, as a decorator, Baudrie was the greatest artist of modern times ; the immense amount of gold on the cornices and mouldings likewise as- tonished them, and they wandered until they lost themselves In the great passages which encircle the different tiers. Then they descended again to the foyer, and for a time it amused them to watch the fashionable crowd that talked, smiled and bowed as they walked up and down the glittering floors during the entr'acte. But Mrs. Bentham and Lewis were ill at ease. The publi- city and agitation of the place wearied them, and they both longed to be sitting again in the carriage under the quietude of the skies. Lewis suffered from an intense anxiety. He felt A MODERN LOVER. 126 that his future prospects were to be decided that night. On one side he saw a life full of brilliant fetes, women and gratified vanity ; on the other, an existence clouded with misery, made wretched with heart-breaking struggles, and in the end a gradual blotting out, a trampling down by a crowd against whose force he felt he would not have the force to wrestle. Mrs. Bentham was on the contrary calm, and collected ; only a slight twitching of the lips betrayed the emotion which she hid under an indifferent manner. For some time they had been speaking of trifles, but the conversation had become more and more artificial, and at last they walked in silence. The entr'acte bell had rung, and the public had made their way back to the theatre. The evening toilettes were the first to go, the morning coats still lingered. These people had come to gaze at the pictures, the gilding, the parquet floor ; the opera was to them a matter of secondary importance. Never- theless, they gradually by twos and threes wandered back to their places in the upper circle, and Mrs. Bentham and Lewis found themselves almost alone in the glittering gallery. Not a note reached them of the music that was being played deep down in the vast building. A tourist or two passed by, the white capped oumeuses sat in the transparent obscurity of the circular passages or with a tinkling of keys let some late comer into a box. At last, after a long silence, Mrs. Bentham said, "I think we have seen everything. I think we had better go, it is getting late." To this proposition, Lewis was delighted to agree. He was sick of the place. They were not alone under these high roofs ; any change could not but be for the better \ but each change marked the passing of the hours, and he feared the time was now drawing nigh when he would have to bid Mrs. Bentham good-night. This seemed to him as dark and as miserable as a sentence of death, and he thought frantically of what he should do to keep her with him. He asked himself why he had not made love to her more pointedly he cursed himself for the want of decision he had shown, and he felt that it might turn out to be the fatal mistake of his life. Resolving, however, this time to retrieve his error, he begged of her, when she told the coachman to drive to the hotel, to take one turn in the Champs Elys^es before going in. Mrs. Bentham demurred to any further delay; it was eleven o'clock, but Lewis pleaded urging as a reason that, on her way back she could leave him at his hotel. 126 A MODERN LOVER. The excuse was a paltry one, but when hand is laid on hand and the breath .of amorous words stirs the light hair on the neck, " No " is a difficult word to say. Then Lewis triumph- antly gave the order : " Aux Champs-Elyse'es " to the coach- man. Then as the victoria whirled along the boulevards, the lovers re-found their old dreams. Overhead all was dim, the windows and roofs of the great houses were simplified by the shadows of a lowering sky to one tint ; along the street there was a float- ing mass of light. The shops were closed, but the broad glare of the cafe's and the round grey spaces thrown by the gas-lamps on the dark asphalte remained. Women's skirts flashed from shadow to light; the black body of the crowd hustled, and sometimes there was seen in the twilight of a passing brougham a man's hands raising an unshrinking face to his lips. Ah ! what was there in this beautiful city that drew beyond resistance Lewis and Mrs. Bentham together? Pleasure and light love sparkled in every ray of light, seemed blown forward by a million invisible fans, and it gushed and went up towards the stars in the foaming champagne. The victoria had now passed the Madeleine. Not a glance did they bestow on the long lines of cold Greek pillars. The stately and rigid perspectives were not in harmony with their thoughts. It was a false note that jarred ever so imperceptibly. But opposite was Durand's restaurant, and Lewis watched the windows of the cabinets parti-culiers and a vision of Mrs. Ben- tham seated at slipper by his side, rose to his lips. Would she accept ? he asked himself frantically, and he felt in his pocket for money although he knew he had come out without any. This was terribly vexatious, and after a moment's hesitation he determined that it would look too bad to let her pay for the supper. But as they ascended the Champs-Elyse'es he re- doubled his pleadings. His arm had slipped round her waist, and he had drawn her quite towards him. She struggled faintly, hating him for offering her a temptation which she could not combat. He strove to kiss her. Then half de- termined to resist, half fearing the coachman would turnaround, she struggled more resolutely, but by placing his hand on the other side of her face he held her still, and put his mouth to hers. She trembled violently; consciousness slipped from her, and she clasped his lips with hers. The kiss was silent and passionate, but soon recovering herself, she, with a strong effort of will, dragged herself from him and said almost angrily : A MODERN LOVER. 127 " I wish you wouldn't Lewis you have no right and " Then, words failing her, she settled her bonnet which had become disarranged in the struggle. Frightened at his own temerity, he remained quiet ; his heart was full of a throbbing delight, but when he saw that she was not going to turn him out of the carriage, he attempted to renew his caresses. " For goodness sake don't," said Mrs. Bentham, in a very low voice, "he will hear you you are disgracing me." Yielding to her entreaties Lewis withdrew his arm, and gazing at the round back of the coachman, they both wondered if he had heard anything. And as they mounted the long green avenue, Lewis told Mrs. Bentham again and again, how life without her would be intolerable, how he had fallen in love with her from the first hour the first minute he had seen her. Delighted as she was at being assured of the reality of her dearest dream, she had nevertheless to beg of him to speak low. The coachman was to them a perpetual source of fear. It was a midnight full of stars and dreams ; the air wa warm and tender, and in the mild and luscious light of a moon swim- ming up through an illimitable expanse of blue, the gardens on the right and left seemed to realise even more than their name implied. But they were not in the least Greek. They were too fantastic, too weird, too encumbered with trivial strangenesses of form and colour to be anything but modern. Along the glancing leaves of the chestnuts were long garlands of lamps, looking like chaplets of luminous pearls ; these marked the lines of the trottoirs: others deeply buried in the woods formed mystic circles : they were the boundaries of the different cafh- concerts. Above these strings and clusters of lights the foliage took a greenness as unreal as it was charming, and from time to time the gasmen with their wands bade fairyland depart, whilst a band of hunters playing their cors de chasse awoke unearthly echoes in the sonorous gardens. The big round circus had long ago been closed, and it stood lonely and stupid-looking nearly opposite the Palais de 1'Industrie : there a pretentious angel held out both hands as if to welcome all comers. After this came the desolate rond point ; a dell of dark asphalte in the midst of sylvan fancies : miserable bits of dim water and gloomy avenues breaking off to the right and left But as they passed they could see a circular archway made of glowing lamps, from which issued suddenly a tumultuous crowd of gaily dressed women. They got into the cabs noisily, sometimes with men, sometimes they drove 128 A MODERN LOVER. away alone, and the plumes of their hats could be seen for a long time glimmering over the hoods of the fiacres. Mrs. Bentham asked Lewis what was the name of the place. He declared he didn't know, for fear she should think he had ever been there. It was the Mabille. Mrs. Bentham now lay back in the carriage ; dreamily she held Lewis's hand. She had fallen into that delicious state of semi-oblivion which drapes reality in gossamer robes, blots out the hard lines and gives to the present the languid tenderness of a well-loved recollection. Lewis was near her, his presence penetrated her with a sense of mutuality ; his arm supported her, and then, mysteriously, with the softness of a warm bath, the phenomenon of the transfusion of blood was imperceptibly accomplished : their eyes gazed deeply, in each ray their souls went forth, and so was consummated the double marriage of the spirit and flesh. For a long while not a word had been spoken ; they were both mad with love, the moon, and the fervour of the night. The swaying of the carriage had rocked their bodies as their thoughts to one sweet glowing sensation a sensation that can best be described by likening it to the moment when sea and sky are united under the wings of the twilight. But that such dreams may endure, no change must take place ; the slightest shock awakes the sleeper ; and when the coachman pulled his horse into a walk, Mrs. Bentham's con- science returned to her, and she saw in a moment how hope- lessly she was losing herself. She begged her lover to give the order to drive home. She spoke of what Mrs. Thorpe would say if she were to hear that they had remained out till twelve o'clock. Lewis, who thought of nothing now but the time she would bid him good-night, insisted on driving round the Arc de Triomphe. Mrs. Bentham for peace's sake yielded, and when this devour had been accomplished, they descended the avenue towards Paris. The chaplets of lights that glowed through the leaves of the chestnut trees were now all extinguished; but Paris blazed at the bottom of the great wide road. Far away lay the Place de la Concorde, the terraces of the Orangerie the dark running Seine with its bridges and beautiful buildings, lay extended like a lover-awaiting courtesan, and Mrs. Bentham watched the city becoming distinct as they descended the long incline. Chameleon-like it changed with every hour, now it appeared in her eyes like an infamous alcove full of shames and ignominies into which she was being dragged; she would fain have A MODERN LOVElt. 129 shut out the sight with her hands, she longed to fly from it ; but she was whirled in a current which she could not combat, and wearily she wished to sink to sleep, and then to awake to find that all was over, that all had been decided for her. But Lewis did not give her time to think much, for the feeling that if he did not succeed now he never would, forced him to be explicit. All hints were now laid aside ; putting away the childish pretext of marriage, which he knew was impossible, he boldly urged her to be his mistress. Pleading in passionate tones he swore that no one would ever know, or even suspect their secret, that he would never cease to love her. Remember- ing what he had read in books, he did not neglect to assure her of the slight esteem in which virtue was held in modern society, and he insisted that it would be absurd, nay mad, of her to waste her life in remaining faithful to such a person as he had always heard Mr. Bentham described. This led to an infinite digression ; and all sorts of subjects were discussed, the injustice of the marriage laws, the certainty that, could you look into the lives of the noblest ladies, you could find lovers ; and, when this was done with, the eternal question, the brevity of man's love and the durability of woman's, was anxiously argued. Lewis talked methodically, hoping to persuade Mrs. Bentham that her life would not be worth living if she did not accept him as her lover. At last, losing all patience, he exclaimed : " But surely you aren't going to sacrifice me for a little wretched pride ! Is my love worth so little 1 I would give up the world for you." He whispered passionately, "You are driving me mad ; I would sooner go and drown myself in the Seine than than lose your love," he added, seeing that another hundred yards would bring them to the door of his hotel. But Mrs. Bentham did not look frightened ; the mention of suicide did not startle her as it had Gwynnie Lloyd, and Lewis saw that the threat which he had uttered half involuntarily, half with a vague remembrance of its success on a former occasion, had in the present instance failed. Mrs. Bentham only smiled sorrowfully, laid her hand tenderly on his, and as the carriage stopped said quickly: " Now you must bid me good-night, I have been very good, I have driven you to your hotel." " Oh ! no no no no I cannot go in yet, I have some- thing to say to you, let me go with you to the H6tel Meurice and I will walk home afterwards." 9 130 A MODERN LOVER. Mrs. Bentham looked despairingly at the round shoulders which remained as impassive as an obelisk. The two buttons in the middle of the maroon coloured coat glistened in the light of a gas-lamp, and a fat hand held the whip as steadfastly as Osiris might the wand with which he rules the world. Lewis continued to plead, again Mrs. Bentham began to lose her head. " What was she," she asked herself, " to do 1 " Lewis decided the question for her by telling the coachman authoritatively to drive home. The horse sprang forward, and the protestations of affection began again. At the H6tel Meurice, Mrs. Bentham got out of the carriage wearily, she asked Lewis if he wanted it to take him back, and on his declaring that he preferred to walk home, she sent the coachman away. Time and place were now bringing the argument to a close, although the arguers had gone back to the beginning and were again discussing the morality of the question. On the pavement's edge the lovers remained, stared at by the different people who passed into the hotel ; she refusing, and he pleading to be allowed to come upstairs for a few minutes. Lewis was worn out with fear and expectation ; Mrs. Beutham was tired and heartsick. For the last four hours they had been talking, and were now apparently no nearer an agreement than before. At length, at the end of a long silence she said, and with more determination than she had hitherto shown : " You must let me go in ; what will the people think of me for remaining outside all this time ? " Twenty times he had prevented her from ringing the bell, but now before he was aware of it, she passed her arm behind him and rang. Clearly the die had been cast; the concierge would pull the string in a moment : they stood looking blankly at each other with disappointment written on both their faces. Then the sharp click came, the door opened, and putting out her hand, she said : " Now you must say good-night." " Oh, I cannot," he replied, with the courage of despair, " do let me come upstairs, I promise " " No, no, it is impossible ; do go away I beg of you." Lewis still kept his hand on the door. " If you don't go the concierge will come out to see what the matter is," she said with desperation. The moment was a critical one. There was no time for further words. Mrs. Bentham pushed past him ; but determined not to be beaten he followed her. It was the bravest act of his life. CHAPTER XIV. A HOLIDAY. HJSNCEFORTH Lewis and Mrs. Bentham spent whole days to- gether. They breakfasted generally at the hotel with Mrs. Thorpe ; but afterwards they were free to go where they pleased. They made the most delicious excursions. They dined at St. Cloud, St. Germains, and even up in the great tree at Robinson. Encouraged by their successes, they extended their travels as far as Enghien, and in a month there was scarcely a suburb they had not explored. The only drawback to this life of pleasure was that they could not persuade Mrs. Thorpe to accompany them to the theatres, and Mrs. Bentham did not like to go alone. But the evenings passed so stupidly in the hotel drawing-rooms, and the streets looked so bright and gay, that she found herself at last obliged to break through her scruples. This concession opened up a new world of pleasures ; and every evening they found a new place of amusement. Opposite the " Gymnase " there was a cafe, where everybody went to take chocolate after the theatre, and for a week they never missed going there. Then there was the " Cascade," hidden far away in the woods of Longchamps, and they loved to drive there in the soft still- ness of the summer night, and sit under the porch for an hour or so, watching the carriages arrive. Very often they saw the same faces. There were two ladies who amused them particularly : one was fair and thin, the other stout and dark ; and they spoke to a young man who drove up, sitting between a black pony and a little groom ; pony, groom, and master all looking equally vicious. Then there was a parvenu, who spoke in a loud voice, and whose manner seemed to say, " That carriage is mine, I paid for it, and could have a dozen like it if I wanted." He was always with an old lady, plastered all over, and dressed in a very shrill 132 A MODERN LOVEK. dress ; he seemed so proud of promenading " the old pastel," as Lewis used to call her, that Mrs. Bentham used to die with laughter when he handed her out of the carriage. And so they idled the weeks away, until the cold skies of October brought the Parisians back to Paris, and then Mrs. Bentham and Lewis went out shopping every morning. She intended going into society that winter, and was determined that no one should reproach her with dressing like an Englishwoman. Breakfast was no sooner finished than off they went, in the blue silk-lined brougham, all cushions and looking-glasses, scouring Paris from the Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle to the Arc de Triomphe. Mrs. Bentham had a hundred things to buy, to see ; and, as she wanted to receive her friends, if not to give parties, it was necessary to find a furnished apartment. At last they decided on one in the Rue de Galilee. Then Worth occupied a great deal of their time, and Lewis, whose artistic talent lay in designing, electrified that gentleman by the way he made suggestions. One day he scored a veritable triumph : Mrs. Bentham had asked to have a court dress, expressly made for her, and they had a special appointment. Liveried footmen announced them, aud they were shown through the wide, square show-rooms, into the great man's private consulting room. It was wainscotted in light oak. Worth rose from a dark green velvet divan, where he had been reclining, to receive them. At both ends of the room were two large mirrors, one that could be moved about at discretion, the other fixed into the wall ; on the right was a high desk where a clerk stood waiting to take down the inspiration, as it came from the master's lips. After a few preliminary questions, the great man said, sinking back on the green velvet divan : " Will you kindly walk this way, so that I may catch the character of your shoulders." Mrs. Bentham passed across the room and stopped. Worth did not speak, but motioned her with his hand to walk back again, and after some moments of deep meditation, he mur- mured : " Florentine, bronze tinted, falling over a bouillonne pleating of pale moonlight blue ; " then, after a pause, he added : "The front breadths also blue, closely gathered up more than half-way down." The inspiration seemed then to have left him, a.nd he moved A MODERN LOVER. 133 uneasily on the divan of dark green velvet. The assistant waited at his desk, pen in hand, and the silence was full of much uneasy solemnity. After some moments the master murmured about flounces, and his brow contracted like that of a poet. Mrs. Bentham and Lewis approved of the flounces, but Worth shook his head, and, with the candour of genius, ad- mitted that there was something to be found, which for the moment he could not think of. He pulled his hair, and grew excited, but it was of no use, and he was on the point of asking Mrs. Bentham to call another day, when Lewis hinted that the top might be partially concealed by some handsome bronze and gold bead trimming. Casting a look of undisguised admiration at Lewis, he added, with an expression of triumph : " Forming a garland of fringed leaves." Then three-quarters of an hour were spent in discussing the shape of the body, also in brown satin ; but eventually the great man, after listening to their suggestions, decided that it was to be cut in the shape of a heart. Since Mrs. Bentham had come to Paris, an obvious change had taken place in her character. When Mrs. Thorpe, ten years before, agreed to live with her, she found her suffering from the most intense despondency, declaring that she had neither husband nor child to care for, and that if she were a Roman Catholic she would retire to a convent Gradually she got over this melancholy, and her natural tastes for society came back to her ; but the many friendships she had formed had added to, rather than detracted from, the reputation she had gained of being a very cold woman. Now, all this was changed ; she laughed, talked, and smiled, with the excitement of a girl of twenty, not only in manner, but in face, she seemed suddenly to have grown ten years younger. There was not a fashionable novelty she did not pro- ciire, and her bill at Worth's alone was twelve thousand francs. All her tastes seemed to have changed ; she was no longer an Englishwoman, either in dress or manner ; she took a prodigious interest in all that belonged to Paris ; she read all the news- papers, and soon knew the names of all the actors and actresses. She loved to know the jokes of the boulevards ; she learned the tunes of all the operettas. She could not remain still a minute ; she became, as it were, possessed by a craving for pleasure ; theatres, cafes, balls, turned in her head in a gorgeous and con- fused dream. Her friends were limited to three or four English 134 A MODERN LOVER. families, but she soon found that in the monde ctranger d, Paris it is not only easy to make acquaintances, but impossible not to do so. Soon her salon was crowded, and she found herself adrift in that cosmopolitan element which is gradually taking Paris to itself; and in this exotic society she and Lewis enjoyed /\ themselves immensely. The arrival of a young man so singul- I arly beautiful as he, was to this circle of pleasure-seeking 1 Russian countesses, and brilliant Americans, a matter of no small interest, and invitations to dinners, balls, parties and theatres flowed in. At first Mrs. Bentham used to dread meeting her husband. On entering a theatre, the first thing she did was to look along the lines of fauteuils to see if he were there ; and, when she went to balls, she was always in a state of terror that in his cool, cynical way, he would come up and ask for a waltz, or if he might take her down to supper. But as week after week passed, her fears wore away, and at the Marquis de Maure's ball she danced the whole evening without once looking into the corners of the rooms to see if he were watching her. The marquise was one of her new friends; she was a great admirer of Lewis, of whom she had bought a picture. Mrs. Bentham was a little jealous of her, but that did not prevent her from enjoying herself immensely. She was beautifully dressed in clear muslin and black velvet. Never had she looked so handsome in her life ; and as she passed through the groups of dress coats, all eyes followed her superb white ^shoulders. She danced the cotillon with Lewis, and at six in the morning they were both covered with favours; every woman had wanted to dance with him, every man with her. For both of them it had been an evening of triumph ; and in the \/ brougham, for Mrs. Bentham had offered to drive him home, they admitted that they had never enjoyed themselves better iu their lives. Mrs. Bentham was glad that she had been admired, for many reasons; and, not being a jealous woman, it flattered her to see that the man she had chosen to help was as successful in the ball-room as in the studio. At the door of his hotel she bade Lewis good-bye. The dawn was just beginning to break, and, delightfully tired, she leaned back in the little brougham, never dreaming that the same hack cab that had followed them to the Quai Voltaire was now following her back. A MODERN LOVER. 135 The Champs-Elyse'es were deserted ; the raw green masses of the chestnut trees grew rawer under the cold sky, and the carriages seemed like two crawling insects, lost in a wide plain of interminable grey. As the brougham turned into the Rue Galilee, a tall thin man jumped out of the fiacre that could no longer keep up, paid the 'driver, and, catching up his long overcoat, ran at full speed up the trottoir. It being no uncommon thing for two inhabitants of the same house to meet at the door, Mrs. Bentham paid no attention to the gentleman in evening dress, who walked rapidly towards her, and who followed her into the house as soon as the con- cierge pulled the latch. They passed up the wide staircase, and it was not until she had begun to ascend the second flight of stairs that she thought of looking to see who was following her. It was Mr. Bentham ! She gave a little scream, and leant against the marble painted wall, both hands trying to grasp the polished surface. " Pray don't make a noise," he said in a cold, distinct voice. He then added, with a little clear laugh : " They might mistake me for your lover." " I do not know what you mean," returned Mrs. Bentham, who, in her fright, did not catch his meaning ; " but you must go ; you have no right to follow me into my house." " Perhaps not ; but if you have me turned out, you shall be a free woman in a year, then you can marry him." The diffused light of the dawn came through the window over their heads, and with fatigue and fear, Mrs. Bentham's face grew ghastly on the wide marble-painted wall. The rose was faded in her hair : a few petals fell on the carpet. " I want to speak to you about a little business ; and I warn you, that if you refuse me a hearing, I shall apply at once for a divorce." " And on what pretext 1 " asked Mrs. Bentham, indignantly. " You surely don't suppose I am ignorant of Mr. Seymour's existence ? Of course you are innocent," he said, interrupting Mrs. Bentham, who was going to protest ; " that is not the question ; I want to see you on business ; will you give me half-an-hour of your time 1 " " I fancied all business between us had been concluded long ago ; if not, you should have applied to your solicitor." 136 A MODERN LOVER. " There are things which cannot be confided to a solicitor. Will you lead the way 1 " "Why not say what you have to say to me here ] " " First, because I am tired and would like to sit down ; secondly, because cela blesserait mon amourpropre ; thirdly, because someone might come downstairs, and then you would be compromised, for I should be taken for your lover, or for another lover, and that would be too stupid. You see how careful I am of your honour." Without answering, she went wearily upstairs. She opened the large mahogany door and passed through the ante-room into the drawing-room. It was one of those large, modern French salons, with white painted walls, polished parquet, covered in the centre with a Smyrna carpet, and furnished with large armchairs and sofas, all in a rich brown yellow tint. Two large mirrors reflected the opulent ceremoniousness of this apart- ment, about which seemed to hang an indescribable souvenir of formal phrases. Mrs. Bentham, broken with fatigue, threw herself down on one of the sofas. Mr. Bentham drew off his glove, and looked mockingly at his wife. After a pause, he said, very slowly and quietly : " He's not bad looking, 'pon my word ; a little effeminate, but that is the fashion, il parait ; but I hear he costs you a great deal of money." Insulting as were these words, the cold, sarcastic tones in which they were uttered rendered them doubly so ; and Mrs. Bentham started as if he had struck her with a whip across the bare arms. Mild and motherly as her nature was, she grew red with the keenest passion, and at that moment would have given her life to trample him to death under her feet. But, catching sight of his sarcastic smile, she stopped short, and said as calmly as she could : " If you have only come to insult me you must go, for I will not bear it." "I congratulate you on the importation. I hear he is a great success in Paris ; and that, owing to your generosity, he is enabled to make many pretty little presents to the Marquise de Maure." " That is not true," exclaimed Mrs. Bentham, turning red for an instant, and then going back to her blank paleness. " You know She dia not finish the sentence, for her husband's cackling A MODERN LOVER. 137 little laugh told her how she had betrayed herself. Then, losing her self-possession, she cried : " How dare you insult me ! Oh, you beast ! how dare you insinuate what you do ! Look here," she said, advancing towards him appealingly, " I swear to you I am as innocent now as when " Her husband's cackling little laugh again took the words out of her mouth, and she stopped and looked at him in amazement, as if doubtful of his human nature ; then, bursting into tears, she fell across the sofa, hiding her face in her arms. He was a tall, well-built man, with a handsome, wicked, im- placable face. He was bald over both temples, and a square- cut brown beard hid the lower part of his face. The eyes were set close together, and were overshadowed by the prominent but narrow forehead and strongly marked eyebrows. His fur overcoat was open, his shirt-front glared in the grey light, and he put on his gloves as if he were vaguely thinking of going. ' My dear Lucy, I wish you would not cry in that way," he said, after a pause \ " you must know that tears have no effect on me. Besides, you are delaying me I have to talk to you about business." The cold intonations of his voice fell into her soul like drops of iced water, and froze her passion into calm hatred. " If you have insulted me as much as you intend to, perhaps you will tell me what you want with me?" she said, brushing her tears from off her face. " I was about to tell you when you stopped me, and I assure you that I only asked you whether you found Mr. Seymoiir's friendship expensive, because I wished to lead delicately up to the subject I have come to speak to you on. It is curious," he added, as if carried away by his thoughts, " that not only are husbands more compromising but more costly than lovers in this advanced age ; for, according to your own confession, you have spent a good deal of money on this young man, and since the last well, we won't say how many years I haven't cost you a farthing." " Ah ! so you have come to beg, have you ? " said Mrs. Bentham, with the air of one who plays a trump card. "My dear child, when will you leave off thinking me so childish ] " he answered, getting up and looking at her with his hands in his pockets. " I knew it would not succeed, or I should have tried it long ago." " Then why try it now ? " 138 A MODERN LOVER. " Because now it will succeed." " I beg your pardon, but I would sooner die than give you a penny." " Well, if you don't mind, I'm sure I don't ; but I warn you I shall have to apply for a divorce. But, by-the-way, I have not told you about it. It is the greatest joke in the world. There is a rich widow who loves me. Je n'en puis te donner aucune idee. Kile me trouve gentU, sentimental, nous parlous tovjours de choses etherees, elle veut cueillir la petite fleur bleue, et c'est moi qu'elle a choisi pour I'aider d la chercher. Ma parole d'honneur c'est & crever de rire, tout bonnement d crever de rire; mais voyons, ne me regarde pas comme cela, je me rappelle que toi aussi tu m'as trouve ires-sentimental, autrefois. Tu ne te souviens pas guand tu me faisais la cour sur le balcon, au clair de lune." Mrs. Bentham shuddered a little, and looked with a kind of mingled horror and curiosity at her husband. He seemed to live in a world beyond the atmosphere of human sentiment. " But you will not be able to obtain a divorce," she said, coldly, catching a little of his manner; "you cannot prove anything against me." " That I don't know ; I haven't gone into the question ; but I can establish the fact that you picked a young man out of the gutter ; that you took him down to paint pictures for you ; that you kept him there six months; and that you are now running about Paris with him, dining and even supping alone with him in cafe's. I don't know whether you would like to hav e all this gone into, sifted and argued backwards and forwards ; but if not, we had better come to some arrangement ; for if .ve don't, I assure you I shall have to marry the widow, and to do that I must have a divorce." " What arrangement do you propose 1 " " Now, my dear Lucy, I knew we should ^\ ery soon agree ; we should have always agreed if it hadn't been " " For goodness sake, spare me your homilies ! " exclaimed Mrs. Bentham. " I am sure I don't wish to prevent you living the life that pleases you. Really, I don't see that there is any harm, so long as appearances are kept up." " I don't care to hear your theories on the goodness and bad ness of things. Let me know in the fewest possible words what T can do for you." Now that he had shown his cards, Mrs. Beutham recovered A MODERN LOVER. 139 her presence of mind, and for the moment she had the advan- tage of him. He was obviously trying to reconcile two contra- dictions to occupy a dignified position, and to demand hush money. " Well, since you put it so plainly," he said, resorting to swaggering as a last resource, " I should like to have a thousand pounds." " I regret to say that, for the moment, I have not so much money at the bank. Besides, I should like to know what you will do in return if I give you the sum you demand." "You mean what will I not do," he replied, jeeringly. " There is nothing to prevent your coming to-morrow and trying to extract another. No, your plan is not a good one," said Mrs. Bentham, feeling that now she had got on equal terms with him. " No ; I will not give you a thousand pounds and have a sword hanging over my head ; but I will give you five thousand if you will give me new reason to apply for, and will not oppose my petition for, a divorce, and then you will be freo to marry whom you like." " Ok, tres-bien, tres-bien, alors tu veux te debarrasser de cette grosse bite pour prendre un petit man qui t'aimerait toute la journee. Oh, que c'est vilain, que c'est vilain." Mrs. Bentham's heart sank within her ; she had hoped that he would not see through her intention. But her whole hope was in the project, and affecting indifference as well as she could, she tried to persuade him to accept her proposal. Husband and wife stood looking at each other ; they had not met for more than ten years. She was standing with one hand laid on the yellow armchair, her large pale shoulders floating as it were out of her white, cloud-like dress. Her husband looked at her steadfastly; but although his face never changed its cold, metallic expression, with a woman's instinct she guessed what was passing in his mind, and to turn the current of his thoughts, she said : " Well, is it to be a bargain 1 We have no time to lose ; for I do not want people to see you coming out of my house, as I cannot say you are my husband." "You have improved," he murmured, staring at her with his glassy, fixed look. " I retract what I said just now about your personal appearance ; for, 'pon my word, I am not sure that you are not a handsomer woman now if it were not for some wrinkles round the eyes and a little puffiness about the cheeks." "Come to the point/' she answered, stamping her foot, re- 140 A MODERN LOVER. solved that he should not again succeed in making her lose her temper. "*Will you accept my offer ? " " Well, no, I think not," he said, twirling his moustache, and trying to answer as if he were asked whether he would take port or sherry. " You see it is against my principles ; I am like the virtuous woman of the nineteenth century, I never compromise myself. No, I think I would sooner stick to my first proposition a thousand pounds." " Well, then, I shall not give you a penny piece," she said, furious at seeing her last chance of happiness in life slipping out of her reach. " Then it will be I who will apply for the divorce. But you had better give in, Lucy," he said, moving towards the door. " Give in," she ground her teeth at the words ; but when she thought of how every fact would be distorted, of the infamous accusations he would make against her, she felt that she would have to accede to his terms. Then, with a resolute effort to keep her temper, she said : "And what security have I, if I give you this thousand pounds, that to-morrow you will not come and ask for another?" "This : I'll give you my word of honour that I will in no way interfere with you, say till this day twelvemonths; we shall both then be free to enter into another engagement." Mrs. Bentham looked at her husband at a loss to understand. He read her thoughts with a sensation of pleasure. He was thoroughly satisfied with himself ; he felt he occupied an almost unique position, that he was experiencing a rare and curious sensation, one above all the conventionalities of society, something monstrously fantastic, which, not one person in a million would ever understand. He felt he had found an oc- casion of being more than ordinarily wicked, aud he was deter- mined not to lose it ; the money was almost a secondary con- sideration. He looked at his wife : her ball-room beauty attracted him, and for a moment he thought it would be an end worthy of the commencement to finish up with a love scene. But on second thoughts he remembered, with regret, that he would never be able to get his wife to view it in the same light as he did, and that a quarrel would spoil the dignity of an in- terview which, thanks to him, had till now been strictly main- tained. " Well, my dear Lucy, then we are agreed," he said, taking up his opera hat. A MODEItN LOVER. 141 " Be it so," she replied, awaking for a moment from a reverie iuto which she had fallen. " But you said just uow that we would have to enter into another arrangement next yea r ; how shall we meet ? You cannot come to my house." " Quite so, my dear, you did well to remind me. We are now in the beginning of March, the fifth, is it not ? Yes, it is the fifth. Well, this day next year you will see an advertise- ment in the Times, which will tell you to travel by a certain train on a certain day; do so, and I will meet you further down the line, et nous arrangerons nos affaires en chemin defer. But I hear a noise in the street; I must be off; will you show me the way ? " Mrs. Bentham conducted him to the door ; he bowed cere- moniously, saying that the legend of the Wandering Jew and the woman would henceforth have " une signification tout-afait moderne." When the door closed, Mrs. Bentham stood staring like one in a dream. Then she traversed the drawing-room, gained her bed- room and undressed in broad day-light. She drew the curtains close, but the light came in in spite of them, and sleepless she tossed, or lay, looking blankly into the coming day. CHAPTER XV. JEALOUSY. THAT morning Mrs. Bentham did not appear at breakfast ; and when, late in the afternoon, she got up, it was only to lie, pale and haggard, on the sofa in her boudoir. Mrs. Thorpe pestered her with questions, and wearied her with offers of remedies. She longed to be left alone, and re- fused to see anyone. Lewis, however, insisted ; and for an hour they talked to- gether. He was very kind, very sympathetic ; but, not being able to tell him what had occurred, his company irritated her, and she sent him away, on the plea that it fatigued her to talk. Fortunately she had no engagement for that evening ; but, two days after, she was obliged to go to a large ball, where she had promised Lewis the cotillon. The same people were there as at the Marquise de Maure's ; everybody enjoyed themselves but she. As the weeks went by, this feeling of dejection grew stronger instead of weaker, and she found she could not get rid of the gloom that had settled over her life. The flaring windows of the cafe's, as she passed along the boulevards, now repelled in- stead of attracting her. She grew too tired to dress in the evening. Even the Bois ceased to interest her, and after one turn she would tell her coachman to drive home. At the operettas she only smiled painfully. She had always been a little bourgeois in her tastes, and now, once awakened from her dream, all her natural instincts asserted themselves with redoubled force ; the elegance and fashion around her wearied as much as it had before fascinated her. The eternal perfume of pleasure which seemed to hang round the city sickened and irritated her, and she could but long piteously for the peace and tranquillity of Claremont House. A MODERN LOVEll. 143 The interview with her husband had produced a change iu her feelings ; had robbed her of her taste for pleasure. But this was not her only grief. A woman is never really unhappy so long as she is sure of her lover ; and Mrs. Bentham now perceived the friendship and intimacy which had existed between her and Lewis to be fast fading away. He no longer seemed to care to spend an evening alone with her, in the twilight of the spring fire-side ; he now only spoke of the Marquise's portrait, which he had a commis- sion to paint ; of balls, parties, theatres, of everything except herself all seemed changed. She often cried bitterly, harassed by a thousand regrets and desires. In turn she impeached and defended her conduct, and, certain of nothing, suffered from a sense of discouragement, even to the point of wishing to throw herself at her husband's feet and demand forgiveness. In all sincerity, and with an earnest desire to know the truth, she would ask herself if it were her fault ? If she were really to blame 7 Had not her de- sire always been to do her duty ? Had she not married her husband because she loved him 1 Had she not gone to the altar, hoping to be a good wife to him, to make his home happy, and be a good mother to his children? And she would have done all this, she was convinced, if he had not mocked at her love and innocence, destroyed her illusions, falsified her ideas of truth and virtue, and driven her, stripped of everything, to face the world alone. Then her thoughts turned seriously to consider the question of divorce ; and she wondered if she were to offer ten thousand, instead of five, would her husband come to terms with her ? But she knew very well that such hopes were vain ; it was not money he wanted ; it was an implacable desire to do evil that made him act as he did. Passionately she thought, by means of a divorce, of taking the world into her confidence, and ex- plaining what her motives really were. But a moment's re- flection showed her the impossibility of this ; and thinking, in terror, of the brutal examination her life would be subjected to, of how those sentiments which she held the dearest would be branded not only as shameful but as ridiculous, she renounced the idea with horror. Still, so great was her discouragement, that if Lewis had not shown himself so utterly foolish, so trivial, she would have pro- bably made even this sacrifice for him. But, unable to restrain himself any longer, he had abandoned himself to the temptations 144 A MODERN LOVER. of Parisian life, and was enjoying himself prodigiously. He got up late, breakfasted in a restaurant on the boulevards, painted in the afternoon, or paid visits, and generally had a ball or dinner party, which enabled him to pass the evening. The sparkle and effervescence of Parisian life suited him exactly. And to serve as a peg whereon to hang all manner of tinsel and fire- work sentiments now seemed to be his only ambition. And he realized it. He afforded the excitement of a rendezvous, of a letter to be written, of the difficulty of getting rid of someone else, of the thousand little surprises and disappointments which are as dear to the Parisians as bon-bons to children. As he could always dine and breakfast with Mrs. Bentham and Mrs. Thorpe, he had no expenses but his room at the H6tel Voltaire. But his money seemed to burn a hole in his pocket ; he bought clothes he didn't want, particularly dressing gowns ; knick-knacks in ivory, brushes, scent-bottles, and all kinds of slippers ; his room was so littered with such things that the coats seemed out of place. He squandered also a great deal of money in his menus plaisirs, and when he got into full swing of Parisian life, it pleased him immensely to drive about in a voiture de remise, imitating, the petits crevh of Gre"vin. He rarely knew a lady a few days without sending her a bouquet, or a loge at some theatre, and in this way he got through, on an average, comfortably, forty francs a day. Pin a word, Paris had completely demoralized him, and he no longer knew nor cared to think where folly was leading him. Mrs. Bentham suffered agony ; but mere selfishness was not the whole cause of her grief. She determined that Lewis was to be a great artist, that she should be his protector ; and that this would be her excuse, her glory, her consolation. It was therefore with anger as well as jealousy she watched the evil influence of the Marquise undermining what had been done. She begged of him to remember that he had to work his way in life, that it was wicked of him to throw everything aside. All the arguments which people use on such occasions were without avail. He reasoned with her, told her that the Marquise had given him a commission, and that it would be absurd for him not to accept the work that was offered him, etc. The discussion was carried on day after day, until at last Mrs. Bentham saw that the only way to save him was to tell him plainly that she was leaving Paris, and leave him to decide whether he would stay, or go with them. Lewis received the announcement with consternation, and A MODEKN LOYEP k . , 345 tried vainly to persuade Mrs. Bentham to change her mind ; and the giving up of all the little dinner parties that had been arranged, seemed to him too utterly cruel. But as it had been decided that Mrs. Bentham should lend him the money to get a studio in London, his instinct of self- preservation forbade his throwing her over for the Marquise de Maure. Never had he displayed, never had he felt so much sentiment ; his heart felt like bursting, when, one still night, he stood on the deck and bid good-bye to La Belle France. He couldn't think of another phrase, and it seemed to him in- expressibly beautiful. He murmured it over and over again until Mrs.- Bentham came up and spoke to him. Then he helped her to wrap a woollen shawl round her shoulders. She told him of the magnificent artistic future he had before him ; and they sat on deck till they arrived at Dover, watch- ing the dark, wide circle of rolling waters. 10 CHAPTER XVI. SCANDAL. THE bustle and excitement of looking for a studio was quite to Lewis's taste, aud there was scarcely a corner of London he did not visit. But nothing pleased him. Some were too far away ; some were too bam-like ; some were not sufficiently private ; he did not want the whole neighbourhood to know who came to see him. It seemed almost impossible to find what he wanted, and he was beginning to doubt its existence, when one day he lighted on something with which he could scarcely find a fault. It was at the end of Fulham, a cottage with a garden that an accident, in the nick of time, had preserved from the advancing ocean of brick and mortar. Like a little island it stood waiting to be swept away by the next wave of a hesitating flood. Nothing could exceed the bourgeois appearance of the surrounding neigh- bourhood. There were the usual plate glass windows, the commodious areas, the balconies supported with grey stone pillars. Orchard Cottage was its only bit of romance. What charmed Lewis was its solitude and quaintness; a high wall shut it out from the street, and the passers could only see the top windows through some thin trees, whose overhang- ing branches cast their shadows on the pavement. The doorway of Orchard Cottage was built in the form of a porch, and its little bit of front garden was concealed from the balconies on the right, and the top windows opposite, by a green-latticed verandah reaching to and resting on the boundary wall. Lewis was enchanted with the green softness of the in- terlacing leaves, and he thought of how he would fill it with rocking chairs and cushions, and of the delightful tea-parties he would give there. The first floor of this quaint nook was taken up by the studio and its ante-room, the kitchen, and a small room which served as a pantry. The door on the left led to the studio, which con- sisted of what might be called two rooms, that is to say, there A MODERN LOVER. 147 were two ceilings, one much lower than the other. The studio proper, square and lofty, reached to the roof, whose beams gave it a picturesque appearance. It was lighted by one enormous window on the north side, whilst the greater portion of the eastern wall was taken up by a gallery, some twenty feet above the eye, reached by a flight of stairs concealed in a panelled case ; this was the only means of reaching the upper story, which consisted of three comfortable bed-rooms. Next day he brought Mrs. Bentham and Mrs. Thorpe to see his treasure-trove. Mrs. Bentham found no fault, she thought it charming ; but Mrs. Thorpe considered it a tumble-down old place, and was certain the walls were damp. Lewis answered her objections, and explained his plan of making the house habitable : he would hang two large, rough serge curtains across the lower ceiling, and thus transform the second room, or alcove, into a dining-room. The staircase, which Mrs. Thorpe declared to be hideous, he proposed to cover with rose- coloured drapery tied with twisted cords ; and as for the ante- room, he would arrange it with a few Japanese draperies, fans, and lamps. The place wanted a little doing up, he admitted afterwards to Mrs. Bentham, a couple of hundred pounds would, he was sure, settle all that. During the days the workmen had it in their hands, Lewis and Mrs. Bentham ran about London from morning till night, buying furniture, and in the excitement of the perpetual discus- sions as to whether an oak or a black-stained cabinet would be the better, or whether a Turkish or Japanese lamp would be the more artistic, Mrs. Bentham forgot her husband and the jealous- ies which had so distressed her. Her only grief was that this delightful companionship would soon have to cease. It was now the beginning of April, and she felt, unless -she wished to com- promise herself conspicuously, she would have to leave Lewis and go and live at Clai-emont House, "at least for a time. And she did not come to this decision too soon, for people were already beginning to criticise her conduct ; and the echoes of their words, faint and indistinct, had reached Mrs. Thorpe's ears. Unobservant as the old lady was, she could not help noticing that people smiled when Mrs. Bentham's name was mentioned, and that they invariably spoke immediately after of Mr. Seymour. Having lived all her youth in retirement, out of reach of such scandals, she did not catch the full meaning of society smiles and inuendoes ; they only troubled and disturbed her. But one day a visitor called, and the servant, forgetting 148 A MODERN LOVEK. that Mrs. Bentham was out, showed her in, and Mrs. Thorpe had to receive her. The visitor was a Mrs. Collins, one of those women who haunt the drawing-rooms of their friends, who come at three, and remain, for no earthly reason, till half-past five ; who are not clever, nor young, nor pretty, nor amusing, nor charitable ; who have apparently no quality except that of an emigrant mollusc, who, having no rock of its own, sticks to everybody else's. Mrs. Collins had long passed the age at which women are admired, and had therefore thrown herself half into the arms of religion, half into those of scandal. Her conversation invariably turned on one or the other, and she glided backwards and for- wards with an eel-like dexterity. She would begin with reli- gion, as a means of introducing scandal, and when, finding that she had gone a little too far, would cover her retreat under a fire of pious precepts, never stopping until she had clearly proved that it was only in -the interest of God that she spoke of such things. Now, she had just come from Mrs. Herbert's, and as Mrs. Thorpe did not know Mrs. Herbert, Mrs. Collins bad to explain : a dear, good woman, who spent her life in works of charity, who, of course, as everybody knew, had once been well, everybody knew all about that but, who was now try- ing to make amends for her past life. At first, Mrs. Collins would not admit that there was a word of truth in the accusa- tion, and defended her friend vigorously ; why, Mrs. Thorpe did not clearly understand ; for, as she had never before heard of Mrs. Herbert, it was not possible she had ever, even in thought, called the purity of the poor lady's past into question. The world, according to Mrs. Collins, was horribly unkind ; and after an infinite number of digressions, she declared that no one escapes, that it was positively only the other day she heard Lady So-and-so sneering at Mrs. Bentham's friendship for Mr. Seymour. " I just say this to show you how wicked the world is," she added, in a weak and conciliatory voice ; " for of course we all know that Mrs. Bentham is actuated by the best of motives ; Mr. Seymour and she have the same tastes." Mrs. Thorpe had never heard the accusation put so plainly before, and she now determined to get to the bottom of the mystery. Leaning back in her chair, she stopped her knitting and said : " It is very good of your friend to interest herself in Mrs. Bentham's affair ; and what did she say 1 " A MODERN LOVER. 149 Mrs. Collins always retreated before direct questions ; but, after having refreshed herself with some pious reflections, she plucked up courage, and gave an account of what society said, the sum of which, relieved of anecdotes and comments, was, that it was very foolish of Mrs. Bentham to be seen so much with a young man so handsome, and so nmch younger than herself. Mrs. Thorpe listened patiently ; her crooked hands trembling a little on her black dress. " But what do they say ? " asked Mrs. Thorpe, determined to arrive at the truth. Mrs. Collins started at the abruptness of the question, just as if her modesty had been suddenly shocked by the sight of an improper picture. " Oh, my dear," she said, when she recovered herself, " they make no accusation ; people only do that in the police courts." Mrs. Collins could not think Mrs. Thorpe anything but vilely hypocritical, and for some time continued to preserve the de- meanour of a person whose feelings have been shocked. Mrs. Thorpe was a poor hand at playing the traitor, but, unwilling to let an occasion of arriving at the exact truth escape her, she rang for some tea and pressed Mrs. Collins to stay. The con- versation was then resumed on more amicable terms; and, after much difficulty, Mrs. Thorpe learned definitely that there were many people who believed Lewis Seymour to be Mrs. Bentham's lover. This was a terrible accusation, and long after Mrs. Collins had left, Mrs. Thorpe sat thinking. She did not doubt her friend's innocence for a moment, but although she hated the world for its injustice, she could not help recognising that Mrs. Bentham's conduct laid her open to suspicion. She re- membered how Lewis had looked at Mrs. Bentham on such an occasion ; how they often ceased talking when she appeared ; a thousand little things, which at the time she had only vaguely notice'd, flashed through her mind. Believe her friend guilty she could not ; but after much hesitation she determined to tell Mrs. Bentham plainly what the world said, and ask her directly if it were true. She considered she was in honour bound to do this ; for the very idea of remaining in the house to screen her friend's sin filled her with shame. She was har- assed with doubt the whole evening; and, as the minutes slipped by, she grew so nervous that she was obliged to lay aside her knitting ; she was dropping every second stitch. At last eleven o'clock came, and the two women bade Lewis good-night, and walked upstairs to their bed-rooms. 150 A MODERN LOVER. Mrs. Thorpe's heart beat fast when Mrs. JBeutham opened her door, and it was with difficulty she said : " Let me come in, Lucy ; I want to speak to you for a fesv minutes." " Certainly, my dear, come in," said Mrs. Bentham. " Is it anything of importance 1 " Then, in short, awkward phrases, Mrs. Thorpe related the substance of Mrs. Collins' conversation, and looked her friend gravely in the face. Mrs. Bentham tried to laugh it off; she explained to Mrs. Thorpe how no one in society could escape the scandalmongers, and that no serious attention should be paid to their insinua- tions. Mrs. Thorpe listened quietly, and it cost her an effort to continue the discussion ; but, conscious of the equivocal position she was in, she felt that a straightforward answer to her question was an absolute necessity. Both women leaned against the mantelpiece, and Mrs. Ben- tham absently picked the grease of the candle which stood be- tween them, shining equally in their faces. " But I assure you, my dear Lucy," said Mrs. Thorpe, after a pause, "that the scandal is not a vague one ; they accuse you most definitely." " 01 what ? " asked Mrs. Bentham, bending her head a little. " Of being Lewis's mistress," replied Mrs. Thorpe, deter- minedly. Mrs. Bentham started, and blushed violently, even her hands grew red. Had anyone else used the words, they would not have shocked her so much, but spoken by that little, thin, black-dressed woman, they seemed to take a bitter signification than they would otherwise have had. Mrs. Thorpe noticed how her friend blushed, but she did not know whether from guilt or modesty. " Then you want me not to see Lewis any more, because these women are wicked enough to calumniate me 1" " Not at all," replied Mrs. Thorpe, to whom the idea of parting with Lewis was as painful as it was to Mrs. Bentham ; " I only want you to say it is not true." " Then you doubt me 1 " " No, indeed, I do not, Lucy ; how could I suspect you of having been so deceitful towards me ? " " Then," said Mrs. Bentham, taking her old friend's hand, " I give you my word of honour that it is not true." A MODERN LOVER. 151 " I was certain of it, 73 exclaimed Mrs. Thorpe, with something like a flush on her wan face. And Mrs. Bentham kissed the old forehead, just on the silver hair, and the two women bade each other good-night. It cost Mrs. Bentham an effort to tell that lie ; the words nearly suffocated her as she spoke them, and when the door closed, and she was left alone, her face contracted with an expression of pain. Hers was one of those simple, generous natures who wear their conscience upon all occasions ; hers was a veritable Nessus's shirt that burned her to the bone. " Can I do nothing 1 Will this go on for ever 1 " she asked herself. " Oh ! how hateful ! how hateful ! " The life she saw before her looked like a black waste country, without trees, without flowers, made barren with the ashes of regret ; without a star of hope in its murky sky, only a few lurid streaks of passion here and there. And this land she saw she would have to travel in silence, without a friend to whom she could speak of her tribula- tion, without a friend to murmur one word of solace in her ear. Cain-like, she saw herself for ever hurrying forward holding her secret to her heart. At that moment a whistle was heard in the street. It was the signal between her and Lewis. Grasping a chair, she stood rigid. She was determined to resist the temptation. After a pause, the whistle came again ; a thousand projects flashed through her brain ; she thought of calling him, of dropping him a note from the window, to explain why she could not receive him, for with a woman's instinct she imagined what his suffering would be. He would walk about the streets all night in despair; asking himself if she were going to desert him. Circumstances can mould some characters, but it cannot break any. Mrs. Bentham had yielded to Lewis, but she was the same woman after as before. Even when her lover was by her she did not forget her own hypocrisy, when he left her she was tortured by fears, by scruples. But now the temptation to see Lewis martyrised her, and, as she listened to his foot- steps dying away in the distance, her heart sank within her like a weight of lead. Every day, every hour, forced a lie direct or indirect upon her. Give up her lover she could not, and, with- out that sacrifice, there seemed no help. She turned in her own shame like a captive in his dungeon. At last a thought struck her and she raised her face, radiant, from her hands. She would tell the truth to Mrs. Thorpe. She might leave her, scorn her, but never mind, she would have done the right thing. Then 152 A MODERN LOVEB. her heart beat lighter and her face softened with happiness, and all seemed well She would tell her friend everything. Nothing should prevent her from doing that. So determined was she that she even considered if she would go and see Mrs. Thorpe at once. This, however, she did not do. She hesitated to awake the old woman who was doubtless now fast asleep, and next morning Lewis called before breakfast. He was very excited and angry and he demanded authorita- tively to be told why his signal was not answered last night. He affected jealousy, which, of course, delighted Mrs.-Bentham, and with many supplications and beseechings the story "was dragged forth piecemeal She said she could not help herself : live to deceive her old friend she could not, would not, and the argument grew interminable. Lewis loudly protested against the dipping of his name into any such scandal. She had no more right to use his name than he had to use hers. Supposing, indeed, he was to come crying to her that he was conscience- stricken, and that he felt absolutely obliged to go and tell the whole story to one of his friends, what, he'd like to know, would she sayl Lewis thought this argument very clever, and he laughed in his sleeve at the way it discountenanced Mrs. Bentham. The discussion was then continued on other lines, tender ones, and eventually he succeeded in forcing a promise from her that she would put off her confession to a future day. Immediately after Mrs. Thorpe came downstairs, and talking of other things, they all three sat down to a pleasant breakfast. CHAPTER XVII. WORK. A HUNDRED dreams of success had accumulated in Lewis's mind during his long idleness, and his fingers had grown to itch for brushes and paint. He could thiuk of nothing else, he could talk of nothing else. While the workmen were making the necessary alterations, he strove to kill the time by buying frames, canvases, and looking for models, he was determined not to lose a moment before setting to work. As he hunted them up in their poor lodgings, many thoughts came to him of his past life, and often as he mounted a rickety staircase, he paused at the landing, fearing to meet Gwynnie Lloyd. He had glided into his present life feebly and inertly. At first it had shocked him to allow Mrs. Bentham to pay for his studio, but it was easy to imagine that one day he would be in a position to return her the money. Of his genius he had no doubt. This year a picture of his had been hung in the Academy ; it was a small portrait of Mrs. Bentham. One or two papers had spoken of it, and this was sufficient to confirm him in his belief that he had nothing to do but paint pictures to become an academician. He had found a tall, thin girl, with magnificent red hair, and was certain of being able to do something wonderful with her. Her image, for days, never left him; he had determined to paint her against a crimson curtain : the copper-coloured hair on a poppy red would give a vivid idea of Salome. The idea enchanted him, and he fancied (forgetting that he was only doing in red what Reginault did in yellow) that his genius was above all things surpassingly original. The studio was perfect ; the model was perfect ; the canvas, six feet by four, drew the charcoal towards it like a magnet ; and as for the drapery, it positively screamed crimson. /cov 164 A MODERN LOVER. Mrs. Bentham was at Claremont House, so there was nothing to distract his attention. He ordered the model for eight o'clock precisely, and he worked till five with only an hour for lunch. He made a sketch of the head, and one of the whole figure ; he had even thought of doing a life size cartoon. What he had learned at the " Beaux-Arts " enabled him to make sure of his drawing ; all had been measured and plumbed, now he had only to paint the wonderful colour ; and for days he strove to model the crimson tinted flesh up to the curtain. It was very difficult ; but, on the whole, he was satisfied with his work, and longed to show it to someone, to discuss his intentions, to re- ceive encouragement and advice. He had now been out of London for a year and a half, and had lost sight of his artist friends. This was a great loss to him ; for if there was one thing he needed more than another, it was sympathy. Beiug essentially an amateur, he required the plaudits and encouragements of eye-witnessing friends ; he could not work instinctively in solitude, like the silkworm, which is the true type of the artist Thomson he had met once accidently, but the bitter epigram- matic Scotchman showed little disposition to renew the friend- ship of past years. Seeing, however, that Lewis took it to heart, Thompson promised to try to find time to look him up, and a few days after, he came, with his friend Harding to see the Salome. Thompson looked rather disgusted at the effeminate appear- ance the studio presented, but admitted that the picture was better than he had expected. Harding declared himself delighted, and, lighting a cigarette, and lying down on a large divan under the window, attempted to read the moral character of the occupant, in the external appearance of his studio. Between ourselves and our surroundings an analogy can always be traced ; but in Lewis's case this likeness was singu- larly marked. For between the febrile forms of beauty he strove to explain in his pictures, and his own feminine face and figure, the general arrangement and character of the furniture, down to the patchouli scented handkerchief, that cast a sharp odour through the room, there was a logical sequence that could not fail to strike so keen an observer as Harding. " So you think that I have begun well ? " said Lewis, looking at Thompson questioningly. A MODERN LOVER. 156 " It isn't bad," said the chief of " The modems ; " " but it is rather conventional." " Conventional ! " returned Lewis, aghast ; " where did you ever see a nude figure done in full light before a red curtain ?" " My dear fellow, you surely don't think that originality is gained by such simple means as painting a figure against a very red curtain. I tell you, you have improved, but between learning certain rules of drawing and developing originality, I assure you there is a difference." " But tell me what it is you dislike in the picture," pleaded Lewis, who had expected that his red curtain, in daring, would have taken the wind out of Thompson's sails. " To begin with," answered Thompson, " does it not occur to you that a woman about to dance doesn't stand in that academi- cal pose ] " Lewis was very much disheartened ; and, in despair, he asked Harding what he thought. The novelist professed to like the picture, but he soon began to talk of Mrs. Bentham, whom he appeared to think of much more importance than the Salome. He seemed anxious to know all about the sojourn in France. The conversation then turned on women, and Harding en- couraged Lewis to recount his experiences. Thompson was bored; but knowing that Harding was studying Lewis, as a chemist might a combination of gases, he waited patiently till the conversation changed, and Lewis asked again, what he should do with the Salome. "Would you advise me to alter the pose of the legs?" he asked, piteously. " No, I don't know that I would do that," replied Thompson, who had at last succeeded in getting to the door. "Try to model it a little more freely ; try to draw by the character, not by the masses." Lewis looked at his Salome, and wondered how he could model it more freely, then if it would be possible to change the legs so as to show that she was going to dance : the whole afternoon he remained a prey to the most dreadful inquietude. Thompson's counsels were of no use to him, they merely made him discontented with his work, and did not help him to do better ; and before he had seen the Scotchman half-a-dozen times, he hated his picture. Thinking the painting too smooth, he set to work to re-do it ; but in a couple of days he had lost all the modelling. The 156 A MODERN LOVER. pretty legs which had so pleased him now put him into such a rage that it was with difficulty he restrained himself from kick- ing the canvas through. In vain he tried different kinds of execution ; he painted from nature broadly, and tried to finish a piece at a time. Then he made drawings, sent his model away, and tried to copy them. He was like a starving man led and tempted by a piece of meat that an invisible band would not let him grasp. Often he threw down his palette, and holding his head between his hands, tried to solve the problem. He could draw a face ; he could catch the movement of a figure ; he could model it well enough, and yet and yet there was something wanted. He tried to think of new subjects, new effects, but it was of no use ; his work ever remained the same, vacant, empty, common-place he could not create. Every generation sees the same phenomenon repeated, sees the impotent struggling for the right of creation, which nature has denied them. In art, an original talent takes the place of the queen bee in a hive. But this simile, although a true one, is an incomplete one ; for the great artist, although the king, is but the sublime child of those whom he governs ; he is, in a word, the resume of the imperfect aspirations which preceded, which surround him ; he is born in the barren womb of failure and suckled on the tears of impotence. Thompson was this ideal, this resume of the spirit of his time, and his influence was extending over all ; a life-giving medicine to the strong, a death-dealing poison to the weak. Lewis was an example of the latter effect, Holt, who had lately joined the ranks of " The moderns," of the former ; for without having tho great original talent of his master, he was strong enough to be able to reproduce what came to him al second hand, in a form sufficiently altered to be free of the plague spot of plagiarism. But although "The moderns" were now beginning to be talked of, none as yet, not even Thompson, had succeeded in gaining the ear of the general public. He and Holt had a few patrons who believed in them, the others lived poorly and wretchedly, sell- ing their pictures occasionally, principally to old Bendish, with- out whom they would all have probably long ago starved. Frazer, who was encumbered with five children and a wife, lived in a garret, unable to prostitute his talent to the public taste. Howell had unfortunately blown his brains out in despair. A MODERN LOVER. 157 Again Lewis fell under the influence of these enthusiasts ; again he fell a victim to that most terrible of maladies, the love of art for art ; again he suffered the pain of the imperious want to translate his thoughts, his visions, his dreams ; again he felt come over him the terrible shuddering of art, the emotion of the subject found, of the scene which became clear. He suffered all the pains of this terrible child-bearing without the supreme happiness of deliverance. His pains were infinite but fruitless, for the impalpable something which tempted, tortured him, faded into nothing when he attempted to reduce the unapparent reality into apparent pictures. One day, as he saw a dream vanishing under his hands, he threw down his brushes, and in despair went to see Thompson, to seek for advice and encouragement. Thompson was at work on the portrait of a lady : she wore a large hat, and was placed against a light brown Venetian blind : Lewis looked at it with despair in his heart. There was nothing forced, nothing eccentric about it ; it did not show any desire on the part of the painter to exaggerate ; it had evidently come to him quite naturally, and it was obviously a new art, an art that was the outcome of the life and thought of to-day. It was drawn with the wonderful simplicity of a virgin by Raphael ; the face was modelled with a mere nothing. Lewis looked at it again and again : he could not understand how it was done. " What did you mean the other day," he said, " when you told me to draw by the character and not by the masses ? " " Did they not tell you at the ' Beaux- Arts' to draw the large masses of shadow, to decompose your picture, as it were, into so many pieces, and to construct it in that way ? " " Yes, they did ; but what's the harm of that ? " " Only this, that it makes them draw all alike. No matter how different the artistic temperament, after a couple of years in the schools, every student produces the same work. The manual dexterity may vary a little, but their impression is al- ways the same. The clavicle is in the right place ; the figure is seven heads high, ergo, the people think it good drawing. Oh ! I know their theories. What is it they say about the legs ? ' Cettejambe ne porte pas,' isn't that it ? " That night Lewis could not sleep, thinking of Thompson's portrait, and wondering how he could do something like it. He was out of bed at eight, he worked till five ; then rubbed out all he had done, and walked about the streets wearied. Day 158 A MODERN LOVER. after day the same struggle was continued. He turned upon his thoughts, but he felt as if he were bound and could not get free. Thompson had struck him through with an artistic aspira- tion, and he writhed on it like an insect on a pin. For two months this continued, till in despair, remembering that, after all, what Thompson did found but little favour with the picture dealers, he set to work to produce work in his own style. But whether it was he had lost his hand, or whether it was that he knew more now than before, he could not say, but it appeared to him that he painted worse now than ever. Still he managed to finish a head and a small picture, then he invited the dealers to come and see them ; some came but none would buy. This was the culminating point of all, for it added to the misery of desire, the fear of not being able to succeed even in the humbler walks of art. In despair he again sought the con- solation of " The moderns. "He frequented more than ever Thomp- son's studio. There he met Frazer, who still continued to paint landscapes whose austere character and unconventional handling o/ pigment rendered them almost unsaleable. They were now more strange than ever, for the enthusiast, finding that some few amateurs were beginning to recognize serious merits in his works, found it necessary to hurry on a bit, so as to keep out of the crush of popular appreciation. As he said, triumphantly, " Now they buy my early work, and I remember when it was just as much abused as what I do to-day. It is the old story ; -you paint violet this year, and they cry it down, and in three years after you find everybody paint- ing still more violet." Lewis met Stanley, and was very much struck by his picture of a racecourse. It showed the crowd outside the saddling paddock, with some racers walking down the course, the prin- cipal horse's head being cut in two by a long white post. It was, as Frazer said, a vigorous protest against the conventional forms of composition. Lewis listened to their denunciations of the academical rules into which art bad fallen, vaguely conscious of the truth, but quite unable to grasp the general application of the theory. He looked at the work done, and saw that, notwithstanding all its wildness, it was more interesting than the endless repetitions of the same formula which crowd yearly the walls of the academy. He grew to love art more and more ; the hollow, empty look of his own work, when compared with the high aesthetic fervour A MODERN LOVER. 159 of what he had seen at Thompson's, drove him to distraction, and he racked his brain* trying to think of what he should do. He neglected his drawing, as did Crossley, and sought for the sentiment of the effect ; and then again he tried to draw as Thompson did, by the character, and to get rid of the mechan- ical method he had learned at the " Beaux- Arts." But it was no use, be battled with his intelligence as much as he could ; he squeezed it, he wrenched it, but without pro- ducing one drop of the wonderful elixir originality. This struggle lasted nearly four months ; daily his desire sought to take his mind by storm ; but the walls of the mind are unscalable, and again and again he fell back ex- hausted. Still he felt he was not bom to fail. He was right. He had, by a moral something equal in physics to a hair's breadth, escaped Frazer's lot in life. Had he, without an im- mense increase of artistic power, been able to see an idea more distinctly, poverty and misery would have been his inheritance, instead of pleasure and luxury. Nay, more, had he been less cowardly, less selfish, he would have striven to bear the burden above his strength, instead of taking up the lighter one that was destined for him. Not his good, but his bad, qualities saved him, and led him out of the labyrinth in which he had lost himself. Sustained by the example of his friends, his weak nature had borne up bravely, but it had been strained to the uttermost, and it gave way utterly when one morning the servant brought him a letter from a dealer, saying that he could not buy a certain picture Mr. Seymour had sent him. He read the dealer's letter again, and asked himself, despairingly, what he was to do 1 Where was all he had learned in France ? Did .it count for nothing? Was it possible he could not do as well as the wretched stuff he saw in the shop-windows ? Exhausted and wearied, he felt he could persevere no longer, and yearned pileously for a word of comfort, for the pressure of a hand; then he thought of Mrs. Bentham. During the last four months he had seen very little of her ; she had not come up to London very often, and he had been down only twice to Claremont House, and so tor- mented was he with his art-fever, that he only stayed a few days. Indeed, he had latterly done nothing but work ; it had so entirely absorbed his thoughts that he had not written to her for three weeks. He had had scarcely time to think of her, and 160 A MODERN LOVER. he now started when the servant suddenly opened the door aud announced her. She was agitated ; she seemed surprised at finding him alone. Lewis's silence for they wrote to each other constantly had at first caused her much wearying uneasiness ; but as the letter- less days passed by, she began to doubt, and was soon feverish with fear. In Paris tho Marquise de Maure's flirtatious had caused her some pain j but it was not till now that she knew all the terror of losing. She felt slowly, but strongly, and for the last fort- night she had seen nothing but his hands laid on other hands than hers, heard nothing but his voice speaking to phantom women, who passed in endless procession before her. For a time her pride had kept her from coming to see him, and asking for an explanation, but at last her anguish grew so poignant that she could resist no longer, and came up to London. Her coming was a great relief, and plaintively he told her how he had tried and failed ; how art had bitterly repulsed him, and at last, in a burst of hysterical passion, he threw himself into her arms and wept. In all lives, even the humblest, there is always an hour which, like a picture or poem, stands out from the rest, because it is the hour which resumes the most completely the conflicting desires and emotions of which our lives are made. And this hour was Mrs. Bentham's. This hour when the twilight was darkening, and the figures on the easels began to look like vvhite spots, when her lover surrendered his dreams, and came to her as a child for comfort and consolation. \Vhen the first paroxysm of his grief was over, Lewis told her the story of the mental struggle he had gone thiough, and he explained how he had not only failed in attaining his ideal, but had not even succeeded in pleasing the picture dealers. He showed her the letter he had just received, and declared that the first post to-morrow morning would bring him another from Mr. Carver, refusing to take the pictures he had sent him in payment of the fifty pounds he owed him. Mrs. Bentham knew nothing about this, for Lewis had always concealed from her the details of his poverty. But now, forgetful of every- thing, he told her how she had saved him from suicide, how Mr. Carver had lent him fifty pounds to buy clothes to go down to Clai-emont House. The bill had been renewed three times ; it was now a hundred and twenty, and Mr. Carver was threatening him with his solicitor. CHAPTER XVIII. MOTHER AND MISTRESS. ON leaving Lewis that evening, Mrs. Bentham went to call on Mr. Carver. He had left his shop, but it being no time for de- laying, she drove to his private house and asked to see him. The servant showed her up to the drawing-room, a pompous room full of pictures and china, all of which, curiously enough, looked as much for sale as if they were still in the Pall Mall window. When Mrs. Bentham called, Mr. Carver was dining in the bosom of his family ; but he came upstairs with alacrity, smil- ing, and picking his teeth with his tongue. He was delighted to see Mrs. Bentham, he inundated her with a fluent flow of affable conversation, in which he referred to the weather, the triumph of the Tories in '74, French art, and the pleasure it gave him to hear that she was satisfied with the way Mr. Sey- mour had carried out her scheme of decoration. During the course of this conversation, Mrs. Bentham, with many periphrases and comments, explained that she wished to enter into some arrangement concerning the two pictures with which Mr. Seymour proposed to repay the money he, Mr. Car- ver, had been good enough to advance him. The subject was a delicate one ; but Mr. Carver, seeing an opportunity of displaying his tact, helped Mrs. Bentham out of her difficulties in so skilful a manner that it seemed more a pleasure than a pain to take him into your confidence. He saw things from a wide and noble point of view, understood all the delicacies of sentiment, and was delightfully unsuspicious of the existence of baser motives. Then he referred to Lewis's talent ; he explained the terrible struggle of all debutants ; he lamented the indifference of the modern world to art, nay, the positive hatred that existed to all that appertained to art ; he deplored the fact that the public would subscribe thousands of pounds for founding asylums for mad dogs, but would not give 11 162 A MODERN LOVER. a guinea to rescue the modern Raphaels that were dying of want. According to Mr. Carver, there were hundreds of Michael Angelos and Shakespeares starving, unknown, in Lon- don garrets, waiting for the kind hand of some protector to be extended towards them. Mr. Carver rose to the situation ; and when he hinted that in giving Mr. Seymour the decorations to do, she had saved an eternal talent from an ignoble death, tears rose to her eyes, and her heart expanded with a great and ineffable tenderness. There was a ring of truth in his words when he asked to what nobler work could a woman devote herself than thus suc- couring talent t He spoke so warmly and eloquently, that at last he found himself forced to apologise for the emotion he had shown. Then, throwing himself into the Napoleonic pose, he surveyed his battle-field. Mrs. Bentham looked at him in admiration ; he had stirred her to the depths of her being, and she louged, like an antique heroine, to act nobly, to succour the arts, and to save genius from extinction. She felt that these were noble things for her to do, and the only question was how to do them. A pause had intervened, and the dealer's thoughts had gone back to his entrte, which was now cold ; but at the sound of Mrs. Bentham's voice he resumed the pose and looked pro- foundly into space. Mr. Seymour's talent was thoroughly dis- cussed. Again Mr. Carver predicted brilliant success for Lewis ; he would meet with opposition at first, but such was the fate of genius. But the inability of the public to judge between the true and the false took so long to explain that Mr. Carver gave up his dinner and made up his mind to have a hot supper at his club on the strength of these extra business hours. However, at last, by a series of hints, he contrived to lead Mrs. Bentham up to the idea that it would be an excellent thing for her to purchase yearly eight or nine hundred pounds worth of Mr. Seymour's pictures. This would, as Mr. Carver argued, encctarage him to persevere with classic art, and not prostitute himself to the public taste. Once arrived at this, a word solved the problem, and Mrs. Bentham entrusted the mission to Mr. Carver, who guaranteed that Mr. Seymour should remain ever ignorant of his unknown benefactress. In listening to the details of Mr. Carver's projects, Mrs. Ben- tham saw the work of her life floating out of the mists of dream- land and taking a palpable form. Joyously she congratulated A MODERN LOVER. 1C3 herself that after all her life would not be a useless one, that she had a mission to perform: and she resolved to perform it completely. Then her cheeks flushed with a feeling of false maternity ; she thought of the duties she would have to fulfil, of the sacrifices she would have to make. And in her great joy she took Mr. Carver entirely into her confidence ; she did not hesitate to ask him if she could do any- thing else to advance Lewis's interests besides buying his pictures. Mr. Carver reflected. Remembering he had noticed the in- fluence of "The moderns" in Lewis's latter work, he poured forth his wrath upon them, and, as a personal favour, he begged Mrs. Bentham to do all she could to get Lewis out of their influence. He declared, with sorrow in his voice, that if he had not latterly bought pictures from Mr. Seymour, it was not because he did not believe in his talent, but because he had noticed the ruin- ing influence of these people in his work. He, Mr. Carver, loved the beautiful, the pure ; Mr. Seymour's feelings for the old Greek filled him with emotion, and it was with despair that he noticed how the young man was allowing himself to be in- fluenced by that man Thompson, a man of talent, certainly, but quite without good taste. Next day Mrs. Bentham asked Lewis on a visit to Claremont House. She feared it would provoke much gossip in the county, but she had made up her mind to let nothing prevent her working for his advancement. His success should be her ex- cuse ; her very life, if required, must be sacrificed ; everything else was nothing in comparison ; and she felt that she would not have lived in vain if she succeeded in presenting a genius to the world. Lewis offered no opposition ; he was delighted to get out of London. It had no more attractions for him ; he was weary of his studio ; he was sick of painting, and sighed for idleness. Even Mr. Carver's letter consenting to take his two pictures in payment of the debt, did not inspire him to persevere; and he thought of the green terrace and the leafy alleys by the river as a weary desert wanderer longs for the palms of a smiling oasis. Mrs. Bentham told him of her scruples : she suggested he should say he had come to re-touoh the decorations. Lewis, however, was of opinion that the best way to avoid suspicion would be to say that he had come to make landscape studies for his academy pictures. 164 A MODERN LOVER. A week after, when he got into the dog-cart sent to meet him at Shoreham, he ordered the servant about with a good deal of swagger. As he shouted to the gamekeeper and whipped the horse, he remembered that it was just a year since he, a poor artist that chance had saved from starvation, had come to Claremont House for the first time. He remembered how he had looked out at the park, wondering where he was going, feeling like one entering into an unknown country ; now, he knew every turn ; he felt as confident as if he were the owner of the estate. In his over-weening vanity he lost sight of the truth, forgot his miserable failures in painting, asked the coachman questions, and felt proud he knew the names of the horses in the stables. Mrs. Thorpe was delighted to see him. She said he was looking very thin and worn : she reproved him for working so hard, and declared that the country air would soon put some colour into his cheeks. Mrs. Bentham had told her about " The moderns," how Mr. Carver had said that Lewis would be ruined if he were not taken out of the influence of this new school. Mrs. Thorpe listened without understanding, but she entirely agreed with Mrs. Bentham that the best and nicest possible thing to do would be to have Lewis down to stay with them. " What does it matter what people think, when we know in our hearts we are innocent 1 " said the old lady, in answer to her friend's apprehensions that the county people might think it rather odd. At this time the beauty of the country was endless, and, with a sense of infinite lassitude, Lewis sank into the arms of idle- ness. His struggle with his intelligence had worn him out. There was absolutely nothing to do but to rest, to live with- out knowing that you were living ; and the days passe d like long sweet dreams. After a delicate breakfast, in a room warm with sunlight, he smoked, strolling about the grounds talking to the gardeners, asking them the most useless questions, or he followed Mrs. Bentham, teasing her with interruptions while she spoke to the housekeeper : and when ordered away, he took a book and walked in the shade of the trees by the river. There was one place he preferred above all others. A great elm lay in the water, over a bed of water-lilies, and here and there drops of sunlight fell on the brown-coloured ground. He used to sit in the branches of the tree and imagine, sometimes groups of muslin dresses, girls pic-uicing with a lot of rowing men with bare A MODEfcN LOVER. 165 arms and throats ; then, forgetting " The moderns," he thought of women bathing, some sitting in the tree talking to others in the water ; then, remembering the Medisevalists, he saw a mythi- cal arrangement, purporting to be the seduction of life by death. As he thus regaled himself with fancies that came and went with the smoke of his havannah, he listened for steps ; and when he looked up, he often saw Mrs. Bentham coming down the path- way. Sometimes she would read to him, but more often they talked ; they had a thousand confidences to make, a thousand projects to discuss, and daily the secret of their love became dearer to them. They chatted of anything and nothing; things that did not interest them; of their friends, of a thousand trifles. One day she spoke of her age, and, with an apologetic air, admitted she was thirty ; and at different times she related to him details of her early life, until suddenly she told him how she had met her husband in Paris. The tears started to his eyes; and Mrs. Bentham asked him if it were her fault that she had not been able to live with such a man. Then they re- lapsed into silence ; and it often seemed to them that their happiness must last for ever, so inherent was it in themselves. The silence and calm of the wood gained upon them ; their thoughts passed as quietly and as lucidly as the river; and when they raised their heads they could see the blue of the sky between the tops of the trees. He had almost forgotten, but Mrs. Bentham remembered well, that where they were passing these imperishable hours was where she had seen him talking to Lady Helen, where she had recognised for the first time that she loved him. Then, what was bitter became sweet, and she grew to love the place better for the recollection. In the afternoons they often went out to drive, and in the evenings Lewis sat talking to the two ladies, so quiet and con- tented that it seemed almost impossible to believe him to be the same man whose ambition, no later than a few months ago, had seemed to be only to outdo the Parisians in frivolity. The successes he had achieved in that siren city had for a time turned his head, and made him commit follies which had very nearly lost him Mrs. Bentham in other words, everything he possessed in the world. His blood now ran cold when he thought of his mad acts, of the risks he had run during those last few months of Parisian life. He remembered how in those early days he was so proud of his intimacy with her that it was with the greatest difficulty he prevented himself from getting up in the 166 A MODERN LOVER. middle of a ball-room before everybody and kissing her. It was only that acute sense of his own interests, which rarely left him, that had saved him from doing something of the kind. But when the Marquise de Maur took him up, he went, as it were, crazed ; and had Mrs. Bentham's love not been almost as much a mother's as it was a mistress's, she would most assuredly have left him to his fate. But now all was different. He had somehow grown conscious of the golden rule, that a man who would succeed with women must of necessity be discreet. Also his recent failures in painting had, for a while at least, killed in him all ambitions, and he now only desired peace, and the con- tinual gratification of his appetites. And Claremont House en- abled him to gratify them to the top of his bent. He had become Mrs. Bentham's lover and Mrs. Thorpe's spoiled child. He could ask for nothing that was not immediately accorded to him. From morning to night, from night to morning, he was petted and adored by these two women. Easily, and without remorse, he had accepted the position Providence had pushed him into. Besides, it appeared to him the most natural thing in the world, and he thought of the matter in this way : Mrs. Bentham loved him and he loved Mrs. Bentham ; to love her he had to live her life, or give her up, and as it could not occur to him to do anything so romantic, he consented to remain the family friend. Nothing could have been more perfect than this friendship. So sure was he of his calmness, of his prudence, that he kept no watch over either his actions or his words. In the drawing-room, Mrs. Bentham was to him a woman whom he could not kiss, but to whom he owed much, whose friendship was the thing he most valued in the world, but no more. She, en the contrary, was constantly obliged to play a a part to conceal the truth from Mrs. Thorpe. Her whole soul was bound up in Lewis. Whenever he moved her eyes followed him, her voice grew softer when she spoke to him, her manner more abandoned when he was near her. He was hers now wholly and perfectly. She possessed him beyond fear or hope. There was no one to dispute her right, she could hold his hands and kiss him, and draw him towards her in loving embraces that seemed to know no end. Lewis was her present and her future for she had thoughts that were buried deep down in her heart dreams that no one knew of, that no one ever looked at save herself ; and, miserlike, she used to think of these dreams. They were her projects for Lewis's welfare, for A MODERN LOVER. 167 Lewis's glory ; and, ob, how she caressed these projects ! When she was alone in the drawing-room the book would fall from her hand, and she would let her mind wander far away, allow- ing visions of renown and praise to rise before her. Like a fairy she would watch him, none would see her; butshe would see everything, and enjoy the unutterable satisfaction of her work. Such were Mrs. Bentharn's thoughts during the summer of '73. It was the only year of happiness she had ever known. Until then her life had been full of bitter resignation ; despair at being ever unable to know the world as she felt that it existed. For sae had never despised the world ; she had, on the contrary, longed for it with her whole heart; until now she had seen it only as a beautiful thing that some fate had ruthlessly caricatured. But now every dream had become a reality, and for the moment that reality outshone the pale reflections she had long been watching. Now there was no happiness that was not hers. Indeed, often she had to clasp her face with her hands, for her brain swam with a joy so intense that she could not but believe that she was going mad. And if the days passed softly as fairy tales in the telling, the evenings brought delights acuter and more intense. These were the times when she waited for Lewis, when she heard his step in the passages. A hurried entrance, a kiss, and then they did not separate till the window grew grey in the dawn. These were hours of sensuality, if you will ; but by Mrs. Bentham, at least, they were purified by many noble aspirations, by many imperishable confidences. But for these hours she endured excruciating anxieties and fears. Often she said to Lewis : " If Mrs. Thorpe should find us out, what should I do 1 I would sooner die than look her in the face after having so shamefully deceived her." At these protestations Lewis used to laugh gaily. The idea of deceiving the old lady afforded him a sort of acrid satis- faction, and during the long evenings, as he watched her knit- ting patiently in the wicker chair, he used to experience a ferocious desire to go and whisper in her old ears : " I am going to kiss Lucy to-night when you are fast asleep in bed ; " and he would try to imagine what would be the effect of the announcement upon her. It amused him to think how she would start, how she would scream. But this was crying " wolf" when no wolf was nigh. When the danger came he did not show himself so very brave. It happened in this way. One night as he was brushing out Mrs. 1C8 A MODERN LOVER. Bentham's hair, a step was heard in the passage. Unfortunately they had left the door ajar. " It is Mrs. Thorpe," Mrs. Bentham whispered, turning pale. " What shall I do ? " said Lewis, looking frantically round the room. " I'll hide in the cabinet de toilette" There was no time for consideration, in an instant he had disappeared ; and almost at the same time Mrs. Thorpe entered. " Oh, you are not in bed yet, Lucy ? " said the old woman walking through the room. " No ; I have been reading, and and I was now brushing my hair." " Why, it is past twelve, my dear." Mrs. Bentham asked herself what could have brought Mrs. Thorpe to wander about the house at that hour. " Surely," she thought, " she can't have taken the trouble to get out of her bed to tell me what o'clock it is 1 " During the passing of these remarks, Mrs. Thorpe had strayed between Mrs. Bentham and the door of the cabinet de toilette. " Do you know, my dear, that that stupid housemaid did not leave a drop of water in my room, and I, of course, got so thirsty the first time in my life it ever happened to me that I couldn't go to sleep. I have come to get a drink." With that speech she opened the door of the cabinet de toilette. " Oh, don't ! " cried Mrs. Bentham. "Why not?" " I'll get you something from the dining-room." " Oh, it isn't worth while, I'd sooner have a drink of water." There were then about five-and-twenty seconds of intolerable pain. Mrs. Bentham felt as if a wheel were turning in her brain. She heard the water being poured out. There was another pause, and rigid with fear she turned to look away. But to her astonishment, Mrs. Thorpe continued speaking in her usual tone of voice. Has she then seen nothing? Mrs. Bentham asked herself; and with an effort of will she turned and said over her shoulder, " I hope you have got what you want." " Oh, yes ; but the water isn't very good. Still when you are thirsty " A few forced remarks were interchanged, and then Mrs. Thorpe bade her friend good-night, and went away apologising. When the door was closed Lewis entered, look- ing very frightened, and trailed a blue dressing-gown after him. A MODERN LOVER. 169 " She didn't see you then ? " said Mrs. Bentham, almost fainting. " No, I got into a corner and held this up before me." " Good heavens ! what an escape ! Oh, what should I have done what should I have said 1 And she is so good, so unsus- pectiug ; it is shameful to deceive her as I do." Lewis, who had now recovered his presence of mind, laughed at Lucy for her scruples, and gave a jocular account of his im- pressions behind the dressing-gown. So the days passed until the first of September, and then the house filled with visitors for the shooting. All the principal county people were there. Sir John Archer, Lord Seuton, Mr. Swannell (now member for the county), Lady Marion, Miss Vyner, still on the look-out for Sir John, Mr. .Vyner, the Misses Davidson, Mr. Hippie, Mr. Day. Then the routine of English country life began. At half past nine everybody met at breakfast, and the meal once over, the ladies and gentlemen separated for the day ; the latter to go to the stubble-fields, the former to the drawing-room, where they sat and talked of servants, dres&es, criticised the gentlemen, listening from time to time to the dull report of .the guns which rang through the sultry weather. In the afternoons, the ladies walked in groups about the terraces, or, if any visitors called, strove to make up some tennis matches. Among all these petticoats Lewis spent his time very pleasantly. Fearing to make himself ridiculous, he had declined to go out shooting, much to Lord Senton's vexation, and preferred to make himself agreeable to the ladies. He was the centre of attraction. He flirted with them, wormed himself into their confidences, and had trivial little secrets and rendezvous with them all. The eldest Miss Davidson, who was more determined than ever to get married, begged of him to give her drawing lessons, and they used to go oft' on sketching excursions. There was also much jealousy about Mr. Day, who invariably made the biggest bag ; and, when not present, that gentleman was bitterly criticised on all sides, and his faults afforded an endless subject of conversation both in drawing and dining- room. But Mr. Day had little care for what was said about him. His mind was filled with graver considerations. He had suffered considerable losses. The Crow's Oak, a fifteen acre field, on which he had spent a hundred pounds in manure, had not yielded the crop of turnips he had expected ; two or three young horses had gone wrong ; and he owed Lord Senton some- 170 A MODERN LOVER. thing like five hundred pounds ; consequently, his life was no longer his own. The young lord was now more than ever madly in love with Mrs. Bentham, and it was all Day could do to prevent him from being rude to Lewis. One afternoon, oppressed with jealousy, he left the shooting party and returned to see what was really happening. On entering the drawing-room, he -"< found Lewis seated amid a circle of ladies, who were pensively listening to him discoursing on love. It so happened that Lord Senton had lately bought a picture of Boccaccio reading to a crowd of dreamy-looking women, and the resemblance between his rival and the hero of his thoughts caused him such pain that he had to leave the room. In the evening, when the gentlemen came up from the dining- room, there was a general movement among the ladies, an almost imperceptible settling of skirts, and a dropping of previous con- versations. By general consent, a place next Miss Vyner was always left empty, and Sir John Archer never failed to take it. He sat, the whole evening, talking to her, trying to slide in a compliment or a sentimental speech between two good slices of information anent the favourites for the Leger. Mr. Ripple and Lewis talked art with Lady Marion. The former had now, for length of hair, completely cut Lewis out, and, as he had two " pars " in the World, describing the shooting at Claremont House, he spoke of himself as the Sussex corre- spondent of the paper. He affected much pity for the county people, who, he considered, were terribly behindhand. Lady Marion and Lewis were the only two he deemed it worth his while to exchange ideas with. The Misses Davidson talked to the two young men who had come down from London, and thought it a shame Lady Marion, an old woman, should occxipy the attention of Lewis and Ripple evening after evening. Mrs. Thorpe knitted in her corner, hidden between the Japanese screen and the fireplace, and listened to Mr. Swannell, who talked politics with Mr. Vyner. At another end of the room, Mrs. Bentham encouraged Lord Senton, even to the extent of walking to the window with him and discussing the moonlight. So the evenings were spent at Claremont, until the partridges were slain. Then the party dispersed, all but Lady Marion and Ripple. Mrs. Bentham had asked them to stay, thinking that their society would be advantageous to Lewis. He had grown tired of idleness, and was busy painting a new picture in a new style. A MODERN LOVER. 171 Ripple declared that it was beautifully poetic. It represented an autumn wood ; a sunset glittered at the back, and in the fading light, with entwined arms, two young girls walked, one raising her hand to catch a drifting leaf, whilst the other watched three old women raking up those already fallen to the ground. Ripple went into fits of praise, and spent his leisure time re- constructing the descriptive paragraph he intended next year to send to the World ; and at the end of October, Lewis took his picture up to London, intending to finish it during the winter for the Academy. The journey up to town was de- lightful. Mrs. Thorpe wondered if she would be able to supply the poor children of some parish with twenty pairs of stockings, while Mrs. Bentham told Lady Marion of the house she in- tended to take in Princess Gate ; Lewis discoursed of his picture. He had already fixed upon Miss Jones, who had sat for the Salome, as the most suitable model he could have for one of the girls in his picture of autumn ; and he talked perpetually with Ripple of what he would give for a lot of black wavy hair and a pair of wistful eyes. This the paragraphist promised to find him, whilst he explained the plot of a novel he contemplated writing. The two young men had become great friends ; and during the following winter they never lost an opportunity of singing each other's praises. Ripple introduced Lewis to Mr. Hilton, the chief of the Medievalists, and daily Lewis's star rose higher in the wide skies of success. He had now been definitely accepted by society. Every Wednesday he had a reception, and his studio was thronged with ladies and young men of poetic tastes. His pleasant manners had won him many friends ; he was beginning to become the fashion. His picture of autumn was not only hung, but well hung, in the Academy ; and when he drove back in the brougham with Mrs. Bentham, after the private view, he took her hand in his and kissed it reverentially. He did not know that she had given a commission to Mr. Carver to buy his pictures ; yet he couldn't but recognise her goodness. He was full of affection, and he said, trembling with emotion and with perfect sincerity : " You are too good, too good lor me ; what shall 1 do ? What can I do to compensate you for all you have done for me 1 " 1?2 A MODERN LOVER. Tears of joy welled into Mrs. Benthain's eyes, and her look was as tender as a kiss. " You owe me nothing," she replied. "Succeed; that is all I ask ; if you do, it will be a sublime recompense." He pressed her hand, and they relapsed into silence. CHAPTER XIX. SUCCESS. DURING the next four years Lewis basked in the sunshine of the pleasantest kind of prosperity. He was admitted by every- body, at least everybody he knew, to have talent. His pictures were about good enough to get hung at the Academy. He sold them sometimes to his friends ; if he didn't, Mr. Carver bought them. But, although he by no means played the part of a hermit, he showed no disposition to throw himself recklessly into pleasure and dissipation as he had done in Paris. Now and then he lost his head, but on the whole his conduct was praiseworthy. The encouragement he received, and the certain success of his work, forced him to produce. His friendship for Mrs. Bentham continued the same as usual. Society, having said its worst, had almost ceased to chatter ; and now, when the subject was raised, she had more defenders than accusers. As people had before refused to see a possibility that she was not a guilty woman, they now declared that there was very little reason for supposing that she was not innocent. This revolution in Mrs. Bentham's favour had been accomplished imperceptibly. The leaders of fashion had not busied them- selves about what they considered private affairs; and the smaller fry, who had been the most loquacious, had come to the conclusion that she gave charming parties, and that, as she had in no way compromised herself, they were bound to defend her. Mrs. Bentham was thankful for these mercies, and continued to devote herself to Lewis's welfare. It is true that she had found he was not all she had imagined him to be, but on the whole she was satisfied. His progress, if not rapid, was con- tinuous ; and, as he was only thirty, there was no reason to despair of his becoming as great an artist as she expected as Mr. Carver prophesied. All her thoughts were concentrated on this ; she had selected 174 A MODERN LOVER. it as the aim and object of her life ; and she worked for it patiently, perseveriugly, and consistently. Not only did she buy his pictures, but she so contrived that her influence followed him wherever he went. She preferred the country to town, but she gave parties at Princess Gate to enable him to meet people whom it would be useful for him to know. By a hundred devices she guided him in the choice of his friends ; she deprecated their mundane life, she cautiously avoided saying anything that would turn his attention from his work ; in a word, she lived exclusively for him. His life had become her life. This unity of existence was neither the result of a romantic nor sensual passion, but of a desire to love and be loved ; to live to accomplish something. Her marriage had betrayed her belief in all things, outraged all her illusions ; and ten weary years of a purposeless existence had forced her upon the only path that lay through the void desert of her life. She had taken it, knowing well the responsibilities, and conscious of the terrible retribution that awaited her in the future. She had passed over many barriers, but there is one we can never remove, and daily she saw more clearly how implacably time was pushing her aside. She was still a handsome woman, but after thirty-five the years count double, and she was now forty. As she sat before her dressing table she noticed that her shoulders were beginning to lose their symmetry. She took up the comb and arranged her hair, and saw with regret how the dye had rendered it lustreless. Her complexion had faded, and the brick tints which were increasing on her forehead made her look her age. Her hands, like her face, had lost a little of their whiteness, but were still beautiful. " If I could only re- main as I am!" she said to herself. " I should not mind about becoming younger." There was a deep sorrow in the simple wish, a grief known to every woman of forty. Then Mrs. Bentham sighed heavily, for she felt that the twi- light of the night that would close upon her life when she was no more than a friend to Lewis was beginning to fall. She had been now five years his mistress. They had made an excursion to Sweden, and had visited Holland ; art and nature had served in turn as mirrors wherein they had sought to reveal to each other every emotion as it wavered in their souls' depths. Apparently, they had been very happy. The old comedy of mistress and lover had been played, complete in every detail. At a certain hour, he would put down his brushes, send his model away, arrange the room, burn a pastille. Then a knock A MODERN LOVER. 175 would come, a tall woman entered, and how sweet were the first kisses through the veil ! Then there was his work to be admired, and a thousand little things to be talked of. It was extraordinary how each trifle interested them. But are we not interested in things in proportion to the amount of ourselves we put into them ] When dinner came up the curtains were drawn, and warm and snug amid the Japanese draperies they dined, chattering of the ball they were going to that night. Mrs. Bentham had brought a card for him. It was an annoyance that they had then to bid each other good-bye : but it would not do to drive up to a Belgravian mansion together. Lewis arrived before her, and when her shoulders, and crossed hands holding a bouquet appeared at the door, she sought with a circular glance for her lover; then with looks of well-bred satisfaction shook hands with her hostess and friends. Half an hour after she was speaking to him. All the pleasures of the world they had tasted, but a bitter- ness remained on her palate. Habit bad softened her re- morse, had shown her how by an effort of will to put away the painful thought that her whole life was a lie. Habit had worn a hole in her conscience through which the gall might drip away, but it had done no more. Lewis's immoral nature had not been able to corrupt her. And this was one of his greatest grievances. He could not overcome the reserve she maintained even in the most passionate moments. She wad a cold woman, and had given herself more from sentiment than desire. Without being very much in love with her, he was very fond of her, and he could marvellously well ape the affection he could not feeL " There is always the chance," he argued, "that I might not find another mistress so convenient, and nobody knows I am her ' boy.'" And this was the reason of the discretion he had always observed concerning their liaison. He was in reality a little ashamed of her, and for worlds would not have it thought that he was the lover of so old a woman. He always dreamed of being known as the possessor of something very beautiful, very fashionable, someone at the head of society, that every- body admired ; and it annoyed him that this desire remained still unrealized. Latterly this feeling had been getting stronger in his mind, and his attentions had relaxed considerably towards Mrs. Bentham. He did not, however, neglect her, as he did in Paris ; there was nothing wild nor foolish now about his con- J7fi A MODERN LOVER. duct ; it was the studied indifference of the man of the world. He sometimes forgot to kiss her when she came to see him, and he passed whole days without seeing her. Mrs. Bentham was not blind to his coldness ; she felt it very keenly, but strove not to see it, not even to think of it. She knew well that her life rested with him ; when he left her she would be nothing, she would have nothing to look forward to ; a few miserable years, and then old age. For hours she often sat thinking of the terrible punishment that awaited her; bitterly she regretted her former monotonous life that carried no pain with it. Still it appeared to her impossible that Lewis should cease to love her, but with a sudden thought the time would seem at hand. She knew she would one day have to say good-bye to him ; and daily the habit of thinking how it would come about grew upon her. They might quarrel, or she might die. This fancy pleased her inexpressibly. And now as she sat before her glass dreaming sorrowfully, idly, she saw herself holding to him a dying hand, and with dying eyes wishing him well to the last. At that moment her maid brought her a letter, and said that Mrs. Thorpe was waiting breakfast. It was from Lady Marion. As she read the note, she seemed to despair. She read it over twice, spelling out each word slowly in her mind. " So she has come back," thought Mrs. Bentham, and she in- stantly remembered the flirtation by the river-side. She remembered how passionately this excitable girl had set her heart on Lewis, and how determined she seemed to win him. Like a black shadow the word marriage flitted through her reveries ; and for a long time, until Mrs. Thorpe herself came to fetch her down to breakfast, she stood staring into her glass, conscious that it told her the truth as well as any magician's mirror. CHAPTER XX. A LONDON BALL ROOM IN '78,_._ WHEN the Conservatives came into power in '74, Lord Grander- ville had been transferred from St. Petersburg to Washington. Business being urgent he had stopped but a few weeks in England, and had not returned home since. The excitement and pomp of her father's court and the sense of personal im- portance for a long time satisfied. Lady Helen, and it was not until the autumn of '77 that she began to sigh for the pleasures of home, for the intimacy of old associations. Once set in motion her desires rolled fast, and the news that each mail brought of English f6tes and festivities contributed to increase her weariness of America. The glittering descrip- tions fired her with the desire to know this new London, re- splendent with professional beauties and dreaming aesthetes the name by which the Medisevalists were now known. She longed to mix in the conflict, every moment she remained out of this flaming centre of modern desire and thought seemed to her so much of her life lost. It was the time when the govern- ment of Lord Beaconsfield like a king star was waxing daily brighter in the heaven of glory, just before the fanfares of the Treaty of Berlin echoed triumphantly through all hearts, y' hushing even the discontented and distrusting Liberals. Never had London seen more wonderful ftes ; never even in the old monarchical ages had so many crowned heads passed along the banks of the Thames; for years never had the aristocracy so thoroughly dominated the people : never had the daughters of the cotton-spinners been so anxious to exchange their wealth for the honour of an escutcheon. A general sense of intoxication seemed to have risen like a mist, and to have penetrated even into the sternest hearts. Women almost ceased to take the trouble to conceal their intrigues : husbands were quickly found who did not mind their 12 178 A MODERN LOVER. wives being written about and photographed for public sale. The trade in beauty waxed high ; the wives of unknown county gentlemen were suddenly, in the space of a season, the notorie- ties of the palace and park. The presents they received were openly discussed in every drawing-room, and the sonnets of a third rate poet proclaimed their beauty to the world. Every age is remembered by a word. To organise represents the fugitive empire founded by Napoleon ; and Lord Beacons- field's government will be remembered by the professional beauty of whom it is the eternal apotheosis. Never for years had women been so powerful ; never had their influence been so manifest ; it was no longer an occult force, they openly made and ruined reputations. An echo of the moral tone of the court of Louis XV. had passed over the upper air of English life. Married women had gradually begun to oust young girls out of rights they had always held. And this was productive of a terrible demoralisation ; for the young girls were forced either to give up the liberties they owned, and charge their families with the task of finding them suitable husbands, or to compete with married women in looseness of morals. Naturally, their first impulse was to adopt the latter means ; and it is impossible to say where and how the struggle would have ended if, with the triumph of the Liberals in '80, things had not gone back to their normal condition. Probably, the general profligacy that would have ensued would have forced the French system upon English society, and the young girl would have become the nonentity in England that she is in Paris. Lady Helen knew she was a beautiful woman, and the accounts that reached her weekly of the triumphs of her sex filled her with enthusiasm, and all her artistic sympathies awakened at the stories she heard of the aesthetes. Day passed after day, but Lady Granderville refused positively to accom- pany her daughter. At last Lady Helen's health began to suffer from intense home sickness, and it was arranged that she should pass a year with Lady Marion, who offered to chaperone her. The voyage was tedious, but the sea breezes and the certainty that her arrival in London was only a question of days, put fair roses in her cheeks, and when she rushed upstairs to her aunt's house in Queen Street, she was an ideal of health and beauty. Aunt and niece were the greatest friends, and the girl kissed A MODERN LOVER. 179 and questioned Lady Marion tumultuously. As she stepped forward she saw Mrs. Bentham's invitation on the table, and instantly her thoughts went back to the tennis party. Five years is a long time. She now remembered Lewis but dimly, yet the flirtation by the river remained still the most sentimental of her remembrances. Time had at once effaced and etherealised the memory, till she could not separate it from an abstract ideal at whose shrine she laid the poetry of her heart She did not analyse her feelings, but she knew she would like to see him again, and she listened, deeply interested, when Lady Marion told her how he had got on ; how he was now a fashionable painter. For the next week Lady Helen's time was completely taken up in discussing the making of her dress, wondering how handsome was the great professional beauty, Mrs. Campbell Ward, whom her uncle, Lord Worthing, so much admired ; thinking of Lewis, boring her aunt to explain the artistic formula of the aesthetes, and trying to compose a sonnet in accordance with it At last the evening came, and her heart beat as they traversed the immense vestibule, almost chapel-like in its silence, of Princess Gate, and ascended the staircase. It was in grey stone, lined with double balustrades branching to the right and left of a large mirror, and leading to a gallery encircling the first landing. As Lady Helen walked up the long carpet of the stairs, voluptuously soft beneath her feet, she saw herself rising out of the glass. She looked at her arms and shoulders, and wondered whether any of the beauties she had heard so much of were whiter than she. She was really divine. Upon a white tulle skirt garnished behind with a flow of flounces, she wore a body of green satin bordered with English lace; a single flounce completed the front of her dress, which was trimmed with bunches and gar- lands of ivy. The body was cut low, and showed her immacu- lately white shoulders, now entirely developed and full of ex- quisite plenitudes and undulating lines. The roundness of her neck, and the richness of her golden hair, which on the neck faded to a saffron tint, and the supple swing of her figure made a complete picture of loveliness. The servant stood on the left hand as they mounted, and shouted their names. Mrs. Bentham leaned against the balustrade opposite the 180 A MODERN LOVER. door of the drawing-room. She was dressed in pink, and held a large bouquet of white flowers in her hand. The two women looked at each other. Lady Helen thought that Mrs. Bentham had gone off terribly since she had seen her. Mrs. Bentham saw that Lady Helen was a dream of beauty, and she shivered from a feeling of indefinite apprehension. Lady Helen and her aunt passed into the first room : it was lined with pictures and women. On the right stood a group of men. Lord Senton's narrow head, just covered with thin, fair hair, and Mr. Swannell's large, bald crown, attracted the eye. A waltz was being played. Guests continued to come up the stairs, and the room was filling rapidly with clear toilettes and black coats. " By Jove, that's Lady Helen ; she's come back from Wash- ington," said Lord Senton, disentangling himself from the group round the doorway. " I'll ask her for this dance." Lady Helen took his arm, and they pushed their way into the dancing-room. Lady Marion seeing an empty place near Lady Archer, sat down by her. Mr. Vyner's dream had been realised, but he still continued, from force of habit, to watch his daughter. "Did you ever see such skin?" said Day, speaking of Lady Helen ; " she's like milk." " Very Greek, is it not t " replied Ripple, making for Lady Marion, with whom he had resolved to sit until Lady Helen came back. The Sussex families generally tried to come up to town for Mrs. Bentham's ball ; and, sitting in symmetrical rows, were the same people who had been at the tennis party five years ago at Claremont House. There were the Misses Davidson, in blue, chaperoned by Lady Archer ; and Mrs. French, who was bringing out another daughter. The tennis player was still to the fore, but Miss Fanshaw, her former rival, had changed her name to Cooper, and they made quite a .little party, led by Mis. Swannell, the wife of the member for the county. Mrs. Bentham had moved away from the door, and, sur- rounded by smiling faces and a murmur of amiable words, was talking to her intimate friends. Most of the people had arrived, but as she was expecting two important guests, Lord Worthing and Mrs. Campbell Ward, the professional beauty, she had not ventured to mix with the dancers. Mrs. Ward never appeared at a ball till about one, and she A MODERN LOVER. 181 always left before three, remaining only for its summer-time. Her husband was poor and vulgar, but he had the tact to keep out of the way until he was wanted to repress a scandal. "Mrs. Campbell Ward," shouted the servant, and Mrs. Bentham turned to welcome a tall, large woman, with brown hair, dyed sufficiently to give it a golden tinge. She took an offered arm and her husband glided away. At this moment the shrill notes of the cornet pierced through the softer sound of the fiddles, then half-a-dozen clear notes from the clarionet, a clashing of cymbals, and then the strings, wood, brass, and drums, finished the last phrase of a waltz. No sooner had the music ceased than a crowd of black coats and white shoulders entered, and the quick movement of the fans wafted forwards an odour of shoulders and sachet- scented pocket handkerchiefs. The delicate profiles of young girls contrasted with the heavy faces of the parents, and the words " ices " and " heat " were heard recurring con- stantly. As the dancers perceived Mrs. Campbell Ward, there was a slight hush ; the men looked admiringly at her face and arms, the women examined her dress. Then, leaving a wake of black coats behind her, came Lady Helen, obviously the most beautiful woman in the room. Mrs. Ward gave her a look expressive both of fear and admiration, and she went off to dance with Lord Senton, whose vanity and silliness interested her. The room was again pretty cleixr. Lewis stood talking to a group of artists. He was asking their opinion of his full length portrait of Mrs. Bentham, which hung at the other end of the room. Mr. Hilton praised it unreservedly, but Mr. Holt, who was supposed to have some sympathies with " The moderns," was finding fault. The Misses Davidson were sitting underneath the picture, and he used their shoulders to explain his "meaning. " Just look, Seymour, at the subtlety of modelling there is in that girl's bosom. You can't see the face, and yet it is like her ; the neck is half tint, and all the light is concentrated on the shoulders ; by Jove, how wonderful it is ! Now, on your bosom there is " Lewis was much interested in the conversation, but, recog- nising Lady Helen, he rushed off to ask her for a dance, leaving Holt to explain his theories to a young gentleman of artistic 182 A MODERN LOVER. tastes, who was listening in the hope of carrying away some of the expressions. The Misses Davidson, seeing that the men at the other end of the room were looking in their direction, began to feel flattered. " I wonder what they are saying about us," asked the younger. "Oh, they are not talking about us," exclaimed Miss French, pettishly ; " they are only speaking of their horrible painting. I wish men would not come to balls who don't dance." Miss Davidson was disappointed, but she felt that it was only too possibly the truth : and with a sigh she said : " I think it very unfair to ask people to balls and not intro- duce them; there are lots of nice men here I should like to know." " As for me, I never bored myself so much in my life," whimpered a young lady in white, who had not yet danced. " It is quite sickening to listen to those men talking politics." This last remark referred to a group of grave men collected in the doorway opposite to where the artists were standing. Lord Worthing, while waiting for Mrs. Campbell Ward, had consented to discuss the affairs of the nation. His remarks were received with great attention. Mr. Swannell, from time to time, made large and unctuous signs of assent, but did not speak until the peer s:\id the difference that would eternally separate Liberal and Conservative governments was the fact that " we always have and always will leadi men to respect their honour before their money" Mr. Swannel shut his eyes, as if to appreciate more entirely the delicacy of the aphorism : he declared it ought to be sent to the newspapers. At this moment Mr. Campbell Ward came from the card- room. He wore a vexed and embarrassed air, and he asked Lord Worthing if he could speak to him for a few seconds. " Certainly," replied Lord Worthing ; and husband and ad- mirer walked away together. In the meanwhile Lewis had been enjoying himself im- mensely. He had been waltzing with Lady Helen, and had at- tracted much attention. They were delighted to see one an- other, and they both remembered all about the tennis party. Lady Helen told him how she had bored herself in America ; how glad she was to get home : she questioned him about the aesthetes and his painting. They were now sitting by Lady Marion. She was talking A MODEKN LOVER. 183 with a Mr. Listen, a very handsome but grave man, who wrote on the domestic life of the Egyptians. He never danced, but his wife, who was supposed to be a little mad, did, and wildly. So the poor man was enabled to save the midnight oil, and, in the corner of a ball-room, he ruminated over the problems of the past, while Mrs. Liston careered wildly with all the young men in London over the parquet. She was now looking languidly at Lewis, but Mrs. Collins said it was an unrequited affection. He not being engaged (a dancer had just come to claim Lady Helen), .looked round the room to see whom he would ask. Mrs. Bentham, leaving a group of men, called him. " Are you engaged for this dance ? " " No, I am not," he replied, timidly. "Then dance it with me," she said, taking his arm, and they went into the ball-room. " She keeps her puppy well chained up," said Day to Ripple as he passed. Ripple affected not to understand him, and passed on towards the group of artists, who still stood about the doorway. The appearance of Mrs. Bentham on Lewis's arm brought the conversation back to the point from whence it had strayed, and the young gentleman with artistic tastes asked Mr. Hilton if he thought Mr. Seymour had much talent. " Talent ! Good Heavens ! " broke in Mr. Holt ; "just look at that portrait up there! Nasty, greasy, sickly, slimy thing!" "I can't see that it is a bad picture," answered Mr. Ripple, who defended his friend on all occasions ; " because the dress is carefully painted, and the. rules of art are not openly defied." This aroused Mr. Hilton from the torpor into which he had fallen, and he hastened to say a word in defence of his prin- ciples. " I, for my part, quite agree with Mr. Ripple ; I deprecate this outcry against the traditions. You will never succeed in proving to me that it shows great talent to disturb the whole balance of a composition by leaving one leg of a retreating figure in the picture ; it is original, if you like, but it is an originality that the merest tyro can obtain. Now, I don't mean to say that that portrait is a chef d'ceuvre, but it is fairly well drawn and modelled, and those are qualities far harder to attain than those you mention." Mr. Holt was dying to reply, but he thought it would be better not to contradict the academician, and Ripple, enchanted 184 A MODERN LOVER. at the acceptance his views had received, was preparing a fur- ther development of his theories, when the young gentleman, his friend with the budding artistic taste, said : " Besides, I hear that Mr. Seymour makes at the rate of two thousand a year." Nobody answered for a moment, and the young gentleman opened his blue eyes in surprise at the embarrassment he had created. Mr. Eipple looked grave as if an accident had hap- pened, but Mr. Holt, unable to resist the temptation, exclaimed, brutally, that there was no reason why he should not make ten, that it was merely a question of women. Mr. Hilton said nothing, but being a family man would have preferred that Mr. Holt had put his accusation more delicately. The conversation then turned upon women, and the question of morality was ardently discussed. Mr. Hilton believed implicitly in the virtue of all women, at least of those in good society. Mr. Ripple, who was anxious not to have it supposed that he lived a totally loveless life, smiled at this general statement, but defended Mrs. Bentham's honour. As for Mr. Holt, he shrugged his shoulders, and wondering that such credulity could exist, went to look after a partner. The waltz was just finishing, and a crowd of perspiring dancers passed from the ball to the card-room. Mrs. Bentham was on Lewis's arm. Without knowing why, she suspected that the people about were talking of her ; but she did not care, and looked to the left and right defiantly. She longed for some- thing to happen, and vainly tried to assure herself that there was no reason for supposing that Lewis and Lady Helen were going to fall in love with each other. Her excitement was not lost upon Mr. Day, and he went over to where Lord Senton was talking with a thick-set man, who generally spoke of thrashing someone. " There will be a row to-night," said Day ; " he's engaged for the next waltz to Lady Hellen." " I can't see," murmured Lord Senton between his decayed teeth, " what women like in him ; I wonder why Lady Marion allows Lady Helen to dance with him, the effeminate brute, how I should like to kick him ! " The thick-set man grew interested at once, and offered much advice as to how it was to be done. They were joined by their old pal, Sir John, who, having escaped from the eyes of his father-in-law, ventiired to ask them to come down to supper. A MODERN LOVEU. 185 Watching Mrs. Bentham till she passed into the card-room, they assented, and then the four men went downstairs to- gether. The card and lounging-room was a spacious place hung with dark red curtains, full of low sofas and arm-chairs, and soft shadow. Here and there clear dresses and white shirt fronts glimmered in the purple gloom, and as the whist players raised their heads to play, the lamplight fell on their faces. " Let us sit down here," said Mrs. Bentham ; " are you en- gaged for this next waltz ? " " Well, I am," replied Lewis, hesitating, and colouring Slightly. "To whoml" Feeling afraid that she would object to his dancing with Lady Hele'n, for with the instinct of a woman he guessed that Mrs. Bentham was jealous, and wishing to avoid a discussion, he boldly answered that he was engaged to Miss Davidson. " Oh, very well then, we'll dance together later on." " You don't mind 1 " " Not in the least ; what right have I to mind ; you are your own master." " Well, don't be cross ; if you don't like, I won't dance with her," he replied, knowing very well that she didn't care how much he danced with Miss Davidson. At this moment the music began, and Mrs. Bentham went to talk to Mrs. Campbell Ward and Lord Worthing, who were thinking of going. Lewis hurried away assuring himself that Lucy might not give it another thought, and that it was ten chances to one she would be detained and would not be able to get near the ball- room. He found Lady Helen waiting for him ; the two went off to dance together in almost infantile glee. Lewis was com- pletely under the charm of her beauty. Till now, he had never desired anything but faintly ; and this was the first time he had ever been able to particularise a passion. Lady Helen, he had remembered as something extraordinarily white, with saffron coloured hair, and as his recollection of her grew fainter, she had passed into his mind as a type of beauty, the queen of all the blonde phantoms that peopled his dreams. He thought some- times of the flirtation by the river, in the tepid silence of the woods, and it had remained a bit of purity and grace that the ever recurring tendernesses and treasons which made up the tenor of his life had not been able to destroy. 18C A MODERN LOVER. As they glided over the floor, they passed Miss Davidson, who whispered to her partner, as she danced. They bumped up against Lady Archer, who was going at a prodigious rate ; exchanged words with the Misses Sedgwick, Lady Helen's cousins ; passed by a number of unknown faces, and then came back to the window to rest. Mrs. Bentham did not believe Lewis when he said he was going to dance with Miss Davidson. She felt sure he was en- gaged to Lady Helen, and she resolved to watch. But, for- tumitely for the lovers, Mrs. Campbell Ward could not be per- suaded to stay a moment longer, and as the supper rooms were not yet open, Mrs. Bentham had to go down with them, and when at last, wearied out, she got back to the ball-room, the waltz was over. . Nervous and irritated, but determined to find Lewis, she walked to and fro. Constantly she was stopped by young men who thought it their duty to bore her for a dance, and by women who murmured their teasing common-places. Never had fashionable life appeared to her so insupportable ; the soft, fussy ways of those who spoke to her, and the necessity of answering them politely, provoked her beyond endurance. Getting rid of one with a yes, the other with a no, and a third with a mechanical smile, she pressed through a group of black coats that blocked the doorway. Mrs. Collins was talking to Mrs. Thorpe, and Mrs. Bentham tried to escape, but Lady Marion called her, and asked her if she had seen Lady Helen. The old lady was enjoying herself immensely, and in the excitement of her many conversations had forgotten all about her niece. She had had a long political argument, a literary discussion, and was now contesting the origin of the Irish castles with a man who for many years had given it out that he was writing a book on the subject Trembling under Mrs. Collin's searching gaze, Mrs. Bentham said she had not seen Lady Helen, and escaped into the card- room. But Lewis was not there, and a whist party that had just risen detained her a long while with the most useless and inane remarks. Then she got caught in a crowd of dancers who were going towards the supper rooms, and, thinking he might be downstairs, she determined to follow. But to do this she had to get a partner, and going back to where Lady Marion was sitting, she looked around the group to see who would be easiest to get rid of if the occasion required. Finally she decided on a A MODERN LOVER. 187 very young man who was waiting for an opening to say that he was of opinion that Swinburne was a greater poet than Tenny- son. " Have you been down to supper, Lady Marion ? " she said, trying to smile. Lady Marion replied that she had not, whereupon the poeti- cally inclined young man at once put himself forward ; but the antiquarian, remembering an argument that he thought would tell against Lady Marion's theory of the Irish castles, offered his arm, and Mrs. Bentham was left to the Swinburnite. The staircase was full of clear dresses and black coats, which passed up and down, looking at themselves in the huge mirror. Mrs. Bentham, fearing she was betraying her emotion, tried vainly to answer her partner's questions. As they crossed the tessellated pavement of the large hall, with its high pillars sup- porting the gallery overhead, the sounds of the music died away in the clatter of the knives and forka The supper room was on the right ; an immense square, wainscotted as high as the doors in oak, with pilasters dividing the walls ; dark green velvet curtains, hanging from massive gold cornices, concentrated all the light upon the table covered with flowers, silver, and cold meats. Mrs. Bentham could not see at once if Lewis was there ; lines of black coats and white shoulders intercepted the view. At this end of the table Mr. Ripple continued to explain to Mrs. Liston that a married woman was not obliged to love her husband after he added ingeniously the third year. His argument did not appear to interest Mrs. Liston, who, probably, had long ago made up her mind on the subject ; anyhow, she constantly interrupted him with questions about Lewis, and demands for an infiuite variety of eatables. Animal instincts were everywhere visible. Old ladies, with lumpy shoulders, attended by young men, were makiug up for many hours of misery by gratifying the last passion that remained to them : groups of middle-aged men wearily talked politics, thinking of what they should eat when the ladies were gone. The noise was a long continuous murmur, punctuated by the popping of champagne corks. Men of all kinds called to servants, who were beginning to lose their heads, for " pate de foie gras," " salmi de pleuvier dore," ham, cutlets, cream, and jelly. The Misses Davidson, the Misses French, and others had managed to get introduced to some men, with whom they spoke 188 A MODERN LOVER. of the floor, the music, the weather, and the last plays, novels, and race meetings. Mrs. Bentham, under the pretext of looking for a place, passed from where Mr. Ripple sat with Mrs. Liston to the far corner, where a cluster of black coats were supping together. " I'll tell you what," mumbled Sir John, his lips full of salad ; " there's a girl here, a Miss Harrison, I don't know who she is, but upon my soul " Sir John had to stop to swallow the salad. " I know who you mean," said the man next him ; " never saw such shoulders in my life splendid." The two men looked at each other contemplative ; and Lord Senton begged to have the young lady pointed out to him. " Look, look," whispered Day, who was a little drunk, " 'pon my soul it is as good as a play to watch the old girL" " What's as good as a play ? " replied Senton, who sat moodily sipping his champagne. " Why, look at dear Lucy, who has come to look after her chicken. Here's to her jolly good health," he added, lifting his glass. The toast was drunk rapturously. " Just look," said Day, staring vaguely ; " she wont stay ; he isn't here, is he? Haven't seen him." " Bet you a fiver she won't stay if he isn't here," whispered one. "Done," said Lord Senton, and, holding full glasses of cham- pagne, they watched to see what Mrs. Bentham would do. Having satisfied herself that Lewis was not there, she was burning to get away, but her partner was so pressing that, fearing he would think it strange, she sat down, and he got her some jelly and a glass of champagne. "I have won," exclaimed Lord Senton, gladly, and he pocketed the five sovereigns. " But surely you don't believe it is true 1 " asked Sir John, who was just beginning to remember that his wife was the intimate friend of the lady upon whose virtue they were betting. " My dear fellow ! " replied Day, shrugging his shoulders. " I am sure, I don't know what you mean," exclaimed Lord Senton, who began to think that, true or false, it was a great piece of impertinence of a man who was only a Scotch farmer to dare to pass judgment on a county family. However, Day eventually apologised, and the conversation then fell into a long discussion on the morality of women. Mrs. Bentham drank a little champagne, and asked the young A MODERN LOVER. 189 gentleman, who insisted upon explaining to her why he thought Swinburne a greater poet than Tennyson, to take her upstairs. On passing into the hall, they met Mr. Holt and Mr. Hilton, whose insatiable desire to talk of painting had brought them together again. Mr. Holt was enthusiastic on the subject of the ball. Never had he seen anything so artistically fashion- able, and, forgetful of Mr. Hilton, he declared that the staircase would make a wonderful picture. On both sides were huge majolica vases, filled with rare plants ; two bronze Venuses upheld magnificent candelabras, set with five burners, whose bright light was softened by coloured globes, and the crowd, superb and smiling, descended into, and rose out of, the mirror, the women white and delicate, the men with quick looks, and the movements of lovers talking of love. Mrs. Bentham hated them, their smiles, their polite manners, their laughter ; and in the bitterness of her despair, the whole scene appeared to her as something scarcely more serious than a toy, a marvellous toy, most ingeniously contrived, but only a toy after all. Most of the dancers had now come up from supper ; the ball was at its height. The band played a favourite quadrille, and all were dancing with the fumes of champagne in their heads. The different couples rocked a little as they advanced up and down. The different costumes came and went in a confusion of bright stuffs ; the rhythm, after having mixed and carried away the colours, suddenly brought back on certain notes the same rose satin skirt, the same blue velvet bodice, next the same black coats. Then, like a shower of fireworks, they all disappeared up the room, and so on hour after hour. Leaving the dancers, Mrs. Bentham passed along the picture gallery, and searched the windows of the card-room, and then the boudoir at the back, but they were not there. She was now at the end of her patience, and her nervousness and agita- tion had turned into a sullen anger. Fortunately, the couples seated round the card-room were too occupied to notice her. Her lips and hands moved nervously, and she thought of telling Lady Marion that her niece had disappeared. She had lost her head ; was beside herself with mingled sus- pense and passion. After a pause she went hesitatingly out of the card-room, towards the gallery, encircling the head of the stairs. The upper parts were reached by two small staircases, one on each side of the stair gallery, and united overhead by 190 A MODERN LOVER. a long passage ; they were partially hidden by large hanging draperies. Surely, she thought, they cannot be sitting up there alone, she would not be mad enough to do such a thing. Then, almost frantic with jealousy, she determined to see, and, bending under the curtain, went up the stairs. But they were not there ; she stopped for a moment puzzled, then passed along the passage by her room, from whence came a faint odour of verveine, and prepared to descend to the ball-room by the other end. Hearing the sound of voices, she stopped, and, descending a few steps, she looked over the bannisters, and saw Lewis sitting with Lady Helen. After the waltz, with one accord, they had sought a quiet place where they could talk ; they were both dying to be alone. Lord Senton had chased them from the balcony, they had tried the boudoir, the windows in the card-room, but couples as senti- mentally inclined as themselves were already in possession of every available space. At last they had sat down in a far corner, but malicious Mr. Day, under the pretence of flirting with a little girl in pink, had taken the places behind them, and they had been obliged to talk of the weather, and the floor. This was very annoying, and after a few minutes Lady Helen had proposed to go back to the dancing-room. But as they passed the staircase the temptation was irresistible ; it looked so cool and cosy, with its deliriously soft carpet, that Lady Helen could not resist suggesting that they should sit there. She knew it was an imprudence, but she felt she could not waste her life thinking of proprieties. So they went up half-a- dozen steps and sat down. And what a relief it was to be out of the glare and the heat, to be able to talk of what interested them without fear of being overheard. Each great passion is the fruit of many fruitless years, and to-day were we to meet, we should not love the persons for whom, later in life, it is destined that we shall sacrifice all things ; for what indeed is an ideal if it be not the synthesis of our past lives. Lady Helen and Lewis were enchanted with each other, but, knowing nothing of the occult causes, were both a little surprised that it was so. Then came the wearisome, yet charming fencing with words, the indirect questions and evasive replies, by which, under cover of a generality or an allegory, each tells the other of the A MODERN LOVER. 191 passion burning in his or her heart, till at last, like moths fluttering round a light they fall into the flames of each other's arms. The staircase was full of a most delicious coolness, and they savoured slowly the idle tenderness which the scent of the flowers and mingling music bring to the souls of lovers. Already they murmured their speeches, more softly overcome by the sweet and insinuating emotion which drew them gently to- gether. Lady Helen wished to go, but she knew that Lewis was near her, and helplessly she leaned towards him ; then, feeling his breath burning her she tried to withdraw, but her strength failed her, and she looked at him almost piteously. Their faces approached, and their souls were visible in their eyes ; that moment seemed an eternity ; then, with a movement like that of a swaying lily, she fell towards him, and their lips met in one long and passionate kiss, and removed the bar that had till now existed between them, and Lewis told her how much he had thought of her during the last five years ; she, in return, reproached bun with not having written to her ; he defended himself with a hundred excuses. He did not know that she would have liked it ; he scarcely knew her, he had not dared. At last the conversation turned on Mrs. Bentham. Till now Lady Helen had made love to Lewis vaguely, but the kiss and the mention of Mrs. Bentham's name suggested two ideas ; one was a distinct wish to marry him, the second an indefinite suspicion that Mrs. Bentham stood between her and the man she desired. " But you you love Mrs. Bentham, do you not 1 " The words defined her ideas, and she felt that she already hated that woman, who, she was sure, loved, or had once loved, Lewis. At this moment Mrs. Bentham leaned over the bannisters, and, hearing the question, she listened, as the criminal listens for the executioner's step on the fatal morning. In brief phrases Lewis admitted that Mrs. Bentham had been very kind to him ; that she was a great friend of his ; that, indeed, there was nothing he would not do for her. But Lady Helen continued to harass him with indirect taunts and in- definite questions, and she remained firm in her belief, that at one time or another he had made love to Mrs. Bentham. Already, by a hundred equivocations and insinuations, he had striven to make her understand that Mrs. Bentham did not 192 A MODERN LOVER. come up to his ideal of beauty ; he had even gone so far as to say that she was a little passte, but he had hesitated from ex- pressing himself more definitely. Lady Helen, on her side, was dying to ask him if he had ever kissed Mrs. Bentham, but, not daring, she continued to exasperate him with suggestions. Her persistent questioning irritated him. He felt he could not leave her under the impression that he loved Mrs. Bentham. Moment- arily, the feeling got the better of him, till at last he ex- claimed, his heart sinking like a stone through the deep well of his cowardice : " Good heavens ! I wonder how you could think of such a thing ; why, she is old enough to be my mother : you might as well accuse me of being in love with Mrs. Thorpe." Each dismal word had been to Mrs. Bentham like burning poison dropped into her brain. The intensity of her pain was so great that, while they were speaking, she was quiet as she was pale, but the silence fell too suddenly, and she uttered a little cry. The lovers started to their feet and listened. Hearing no- thing more, Lewis tried to persuade Lady Helen to sit down ; but the charm was broken ; she remembered she had been away from the ball too long ; a waltz was playing, and she insisted on going off to dance. Mrs. Bentham staggered ; her head felt as if it were empty, everything looked as if it were sliding under her feet ; but, by holding on to the wall, she managed to get to her room. She could go no further, and, utterly unable to resist the poignancy of her grief, threw herself on her bed, and sobbed amid the white sheets. The room was in almost total darkness. The veilleuse, hanging in its silver censer, amid the light brown embroidered curtains of the narrow bed, revealed a white marble chimney- piece, where a Dresden clock ticked amid the unfading flowers ; the tall wax candles glistened in the branching candelabra. An odour of damp scent and linen drifted through the door of the cabinet de toilette, which was open, and floated upwards towards the red flame of the nightlight. After the first paroxysm of pain Mrs. Bentham lifted her face, and looking vacantly into space, listened to the waltz. Its long undulating rhythm glided up along the walls from the ball- room and died away on the carpet, amid the shadows of the curtains. She listened to it for a few moments, and piteously longed for A MODERN LOVER. 193 It to stop and leave her in peace. Then a sense of the reality came back to her, and she threw herself on the pillows trembling with grief. Her face was contracted j her eyes were red, a feverish brown red, and, listening to the sensual waltz, with one hand she tore the lace of the pfllow. Her face being turned away from the door, she did not see Mrs. Thorpe, who entered as one would into a sick-room, and sat down on the bed. After a few moments, moaning piteously, Mrs. Bentham turned round. So great was her pain that she was not startled by the quiet little black figure that had so unexpectedly come and sat down by her bed. " My poor child," said Mrs. Thorpe, taking her cousin's long white fingers in her brown and crooked hands, " I guessed the reason of your disappearance from the ball-room ; I have come to comfort you." The words fell on Mrs. Bentham's burning thoughts as softly as rain on a desert. She answered them by throwing herself on the old lady's bosom, and for a short space the two women wept together. " Oh, Sarah," she said, " you don't know what I Buffer ; if I could only die ; I have nothing to live for now." " My dear," replied the old woman, with tears in her voice, " I suffered as you ; I also wished to die ; I thought I could not survive the death of all I held dear ; and yet I have done so these many years." "But it was death that took your husband from you; we cannot struggle with Death ; there is no jealousy there." " True, we cannot struggle with Death," returned Mrs. Thorpe, " any more than we can with Time ; sooner or later, both surely overtake us." The two women clasped each other's hands, and there seemed to be an indefinite allegory in the torn pink ball-dress, and the sombre, loose-hanging serge robe. At first Mrs. Bentham did not answer ; but when at last the meaning of Mrs. Thorpe's words filtered its way through her grief-saddened mind, her lips grew pale, and her eyes turned with a violent contraction. " You mean that I am an old woman," she said, savagely ; but seeing Mrs. Thorpe looking so pityingly at her, her anger melted and again she Tnirst into tears. The soft murmur of the waltz came up the staircase again, 13 194 A MODERN LOVER. and its coiling voluptuousness seemed to mock her in a curious way. " Oh, if it would stop ! " she exclaimed, hiding her face in the pillow, her feet hanging over the edge of the bed. " It is driving me mad ! It is driving me mad." "My dear Lucy," said Mrs. Thorpe, "to obtain the privileges of one age we have to throw aside those of the last ; and our lives are spent in making these transitions. Sometimes we pass gently from one to the other, sometimes violently ; but in either case we have to go on ; for, alas ! there are no halting places on the highroad of Time. The girl in her teens has to part with her toys ; the girl of five-and-twenty, with her inno- cence ; a woman of forty, with her love. Perhaps the last may be the bitterest parting, but it is none the less necessary to make. Lucy, I have come to befriend you, to give you counsel. To-day, you can bid farewell to the past ; to-morrow, Time will push you rudely aside. We both have loved him ; you have contributed materially to his welfare. He owes everything to you ; continue the good work you have begun ; let him marry the girl he loves ; be it for you to join their hands." " Then I must resign everything ? So be it. I am now alone in the world ; a world of days without sun, of things that have no joy for me." There was both anguish and fear in her face, and she cast on Mrs. Thorpe a look of utter abandonment, one of those looks with which in terrible circumstances we strive to imprint our soul upon another's. Mrs. Thorpe trembled for her friend ; she understood that the sacrifice of a lifetime was concentrated in those moments. The few words Mrs. Bentham had spoken were the agony of in- finite passion, an infinite farewell kissed to all earthly things. Even poor little Mrs. Thorpe, who had so long outlived the life of hope and entered into that of prayer, was overcome by the majesty of human passion, and could scarcely find courage to implore her friend to surrender her love to another. But it was to be, and, after a pause, she went on to explain to Mrs. Bentham what she must do, not only for her own, but for Lewis's sake. Mra Bentham sat still on the edge of the bed ; her friend's voice sounded vague in her ears, like a murmur of distant waters. Her thoughts were not like waking thoughts, they were indefinite and diffused, penetrated with the sleepy unease of a nightmare, and the heavy grief of such obtuse sensations. A MODERN LOVER. 195 As she sat looking vacantly into space, unimportant details of her past life crowded on her memory, until at last, startled by some sudden recollection, she uttered a little cry like that of a hare when run into by the hounds. " No, no," she exclaimed, falling on her knees ; " I cannot give him up. No, not yet. Oh, save me ! Tell him what I have done for him, and he will he must leave her ! " She stopped, and moaning piteously she held with her white hands on to Mrs. Thorpe's black dress. The cold dawn glided along the edges of the curtains, reveal- ing the disorder of the room. A black satin dress, which Mrs. Bentham had rejected in favour of a pink, lay thrown across the pearl-grey sofa at the foot of the bed ; the white toilette table was strewed with brushes, combs, and tresses of hair ; two or three ivory files and nail polishers had fallen on the carpet, and a bottle of white rose perfume, left uncorked, sent its acrid odour upwards through the heavy air. Mrs. Thorpe strove vainly to lift Mrs. Bentham, who was almost fainting, from the ground ; she would have liked, but she dared not call for assistance. " Air ! air ! I am suffocating ! " In a minute Mrs. Thorpe pulled the curtains aside and raised the window, letting in the pale light and chill breezes of the morning, and, white as the dead, Mrs. Bentham staggered to the window. The sparrows were chirping in the two trees which grew in the deep garden; slate coloured clouds rolled upwards, un- covering a piece of yellow sky whose sides were turning to pink. The two women shivered in the cold air, and the storm of Mrs. Bentham's passion subsided. Her face was swollen with grief, her hair dishevelled, and her dress torn and tumbled. She appeared ten years older than two hours ago when she danced with Lewis. The conversation between the women was very painful ; it was impossible to speak of any but present things ; and both heard with impatience the long sing-song of the waltz, and the tramp of passing feet. At last Mrs. Bentham crossed the room; and pouring out some water, began to bathe her eyes. " You had better go to bed, Lucy," suggested Mrs. Thorpe ; " I will tell them as they go that they must excuse you ; that you had a bad attack of neuralgia, and had to go to your room." 196 A MODERN LOVER. " No, no, not for worlds ; I shall be all right in ten minutes. I will go through this trial to the end." " But your hair is in a frightful state ; your dress is utterly spoiled ; your face is swollen ; you had really better not." " I have another dress just the same as this, and Marie will arrange my hair in a few minutes," replied Mrs. Bentham, ring ing the bell. Even the French maid, whoso first rule in life was to be sur- prised at nothing, could not help slowing her astonishment at this second toilette, but she accepted the neuralgic excuse, and with a thousand little words of pity, arranged her mistress's hair as well as she could in the time. In a quarter of an hour she was dressed, and a little rouge and powder made her look almost as if nothing had happened. Quite calm, but trembling, she went down to the ball-room. The yellow glare hurt her eyes, and feeling somewhat dazed, she went over to Lady Marion, who rose to meet her. " I have been looking for you this ever so long, to say good- bye," said Lady Marion. " I am afraid that Helen has been asking you to keep out of my way, she has been enjoying her- self immensely." Mrs. Bentham with difficulty repressed a look of pain, but she saved herself by entering into a long explanation of how she had had a bad attack of neuralgia, and had been obliged to go to her room. At that moment Lady Helen came up, on Lewis's ^arm, look- ing radiant with pleasure. " Oh, do wait, aunt, for this one waltz," she asked, pleadingly. Lady Marion was too much a woman of the world to accede to this request, and notwithstanding a weak protest from Mrs. Bentham, she insisted upon going. Mrs. Bentham felt a little sick when she had to take Lady Helen's hand and smile, as the latter thanked her, and told her how she had enjoyed the ball, but she did so, and flinched but very little. Lord Senton asked her for a waltz, she refused him, for fear Lewis should fancy she did so from jealousy, but a few moments after she accepted an almost total stranger ; it cost her a fear- ful effort, but she did it. Then she sat for a long wear)' hour, watching patiently the whirling of white ankles and shuffling of glazed shoes. There were the Misses Davidson still smiling in their partner's faces. Forgetful of Lewis, Mrs. Listen was dancing outrageously A MODERN LOVER. 197 with Mr. Ripple, while her husband, his head on his hand, pondered on the domestic life of the ancient Egyptians. Lord Senton was dancing with a tall woman who aspired to rank as a professional beauty. Then came Miss French with a lord, Mr. Day with Miss Fanshaw, and Lady Archer with her husband, much to the delight of Mr. Vyner, who watched them from the doorway. An interminable confusion of bright faces, and clear dresses stained over with black coats, swayed to the music, and Mrs. Beutham watched them with bitter curiosity. She saw them vaguely, like figures dancing in a dream, a blonde and rosy show of puppets acting in merciless pantomime the futility and vanity of human things. She hated them no more ; she watched them dreamily, her ears deaf, and her eyes blinded with grief, and bade them good- bye from time to time like a queen in a play. Couples one after the other came up with a murmur of minc- ing words, took their farewells, and the scene seemed to grow more than ever like a stage where a troupe of marionettes, beautiful, rosy, chubby-cheeked, delightful in their silk and velvet dresses and large scarfs tied into puffed-out bows, mockingly made their exits. Then, when they were all gone, she walked with her old friend through the wide reception rooms where the servants were tuniing out the gas. The musicians had departed ; the flowers were withered ; a petal here and there, and a bit of torn lace, were all that remained. The ball-room looked wretched in the white morning light ; it was as blank as her own life, of which it was a perfect allegory. Both had been filled with love, rapture, and delight, and both were now hollow, weary and deserted. CHAPTER XXL FAREWELLS. DURING the next two days Mrs. Bentham won and lost many a mental battle. For two days and nights the struggle con- tinued. It was fought here and there, in the sunny valleys of the past, and along the "mist-laden slopes of the hills of the future. The ardours of determination and the lassitudes of hesitations followed each other consecutively, and each brought its tribute of tumult and pain. But at last she came out of the struggle triumphant, and on the third day wrote to Lewis asking him to wait at home, that she would call to see him about two. The letter frightened him. He asked himself what it meant. He had received a hundred from her of the same kind, but in this there was an acid suspicion of curtness which he could not define. He turned the letter over and over with many feelings of apprehension. Twice he had seen Lady Helen since the ball, and they were now formally engaged. Lewis would have willingly let matters stand over, have let their engagement remain a secret, but Lady Helen would not hear of it, and insisted that Lady Marion should be consulted at once ; but that he need not be alarmed, for that nothing would induce her (Lady Helen) to give him up. On that score he had no fear ; but there were many other considerations to be taken into account, and Mrs. Bentbam's letter perplexed him strangely. Was it possible she had heard of his engagement ? If so, what was he to say to her ? Would it be better to deny it or admit it boldly, he asked himself over and over again. Lady Helen had told him that she would be in the park about one, with Lady Marion, and it was arranged between the lovers that her advice should be asked. She was, as Lady Helen said, the best person to break the news to Lord and Lady A MODERN LOVER. 199 Grauderville. It was most important that this matter should be decided. Which assignation was he to keep? He was clearly on the horns of a dilemma. As usual, after much hesi- tation, he chose the middle course. He told his servant to explain to Mrs. Bentham, if she called before he came back, that he had been obliged to go out on important business ; to ask her to wait ; and to assure her that he would not be more than a few minutes. The servant was perfectly trained to such commissions, and when Mrs.- Bentham called she was shown into the studio, with many protestations of regret, and assurances that Mr. Seymour would be back directly ; that she would not have to wait above three minutes. Mrs. Bentham was not sorry that Lewis was away, for the interval would give her time to compose her thoughts, to dream a little. It was a bright day at the end of April, and the sun- light glinted on the rose curtains that hid the staircase. Over- head, even the dead flowers in the urns seemed to bend towards the light, and the stove simmered and breathed a dreamy warmth through the room. She looked at a picture of herself ; she thought of the pleasant talks that had beguiled away the sittings : strange it was to think that she would never sit to him again. There was a picture of some gleaners he had painted at Claremont House : she remembered how they had quarrelled over one of the figures, and how, at last, he had taken her advice and changed it : he would never take her advice any more. She was dressed quite unaffectedly, in a brown skirt, with a black lace mantle ; and the autumn of her beauty still presented many bright flowers of forgotten springs and ardent richnesses of summer. And without deploring her folly at having sacrificed herself to the honour of a false god, she humbly abandoned herself to the contemplation of the past It rose before her eyes like haze on the sunset's line : she let herself drift from reminiscence to reminiscence ; and, in the irresolute tenderness of her grief, her memories grew bright, faded, and passed like shadows away. On a gueridon next her hand lay her work-basket. Mechani- cally she took up her embroidery, but dropped it with a feeling of repulsion ; the slippers begun must remain unfinished. The book she was reading lay there too, but with half its leaves uncut. 200 A MODERN LOVER. On the carved cabinet, which reared its slender height against the opposite wall, lay a handkerchief he had taken from her on account of the scent ; she took it up but threw it aside, the perfume had evaporated ; she looked into the mirror, but it preserved none of the smiles of old days : under the shadow of the curtains she saw the arum lily she had sent him slowly dying in its vase, In the meanwhile Lewis was having a very pleasant time in the park. When Lady Helen looked at him, her eyes beamed with love, and it was like drinking exquisite wine to see the faint shadows fall over her white skin, and watch the light filling with pale flames the saffron-coloured hair. For a moment he felt he could sacrifice much, if not every- thing, for her. The air was delicious to breathe ; the sunlight came streaming through the green leaves, and the cavalcades cantered till lost in a cloud of sunlit dust over the brow of the hill. They watched with an exalted sense of delight, and they dreamed of plunging, locked in each other's arms, and bathing together in the seductive ocean of fashion and elegance. They dreamt of parties, balls, triumphs, admiration shared together; and then of the quiet half-hour when, in a narrow brougham, pressed close together in the darkness rendered un- certain by the passing light of the gas-lamps, a tired face would abandon itself to the soliciting shoulder. Everything had conspired to make them happy ; Lady Marion met some friends, and they profited by the circumstance to walk on in front, and they talked just as if they had been alone. Nothing could have been more charming or delightful ; their only trouble was how to announce their engagement to Lady Marion. Lewis declined the responsibility. Whereupon Lady Helen declared she did not care what anyone said, that she was her own mistress ; that parents always had to give way if the lovers were only sufficiently determined. Lewis listened, amazed at her impetuosity, but without attempting to oppose it ; and as they walked home Lady Helen told her aunt, bluntly, that she was engaged to Mr. Seymour, and that she would like her to write to her father and mother. Lady Marion said she was never more surprised at anything in her life ; which was in all probability the truth. She said Lord Granderville would ncc hear of it ; and advised them to break it off. Lady Helen indignantly asked her why, and this A MODEKN LOVER. 'Mi provoked a discussion of love and talent versus prejudice, in which Lewis took no part, but waited patiently for an occasion to take his leave. Lady Helen was a little angry with him for his want of pluck in defending himself; but he afterwards explained that he had been placed in a very delicate position. The truth of it was, that much as he admired Lady Helen, he could not help thinking she was a little rash, not to say unreasonable ; for supposing Lord Granderville refused to make her an allowance, frankly, he did not see how they were going to manage. Besides, he could not forget that, once he was married, women would cease to occupy themselves about him ; and such successes had become so dear to him, that he feared their loss would make a great blank in his life. On the other hand, he remembered that he would probably never get such a chance again. Never had he seen anyone who so entirely came up to his ideal, and he had no doubt that if Lord Granderville would only give her a proper allowance, he should be very happy, and love her to the end of her days. So Lewis thought, and in a very hesitating frame of mind he went to meet Mrs. Bentham. Apologising for having kept her waiting, in an affectionate but somewhat self-sufficient way, he sat down next her, and explained that he had been obliged to go to the park to meet Mr. Ripple, who Mrs. Bentham laid her hand on his arm, and said, very gently : " To see Lady Helen." Lewis could never command his face, it always betrayed him, but he could nevertheless tell a lie, and he answered, quickly : " No, no, 'pon my word ; what makes you think so ? I really went to meet Hippie, who" Mrs. Bentham again interrupted him : it pained her to hear him lie, and she said : " No, don't say so ; I know the truth." Seeing from her manner that it was useless to attempt to deceive her, he tried to swagger. " Well, supposing I did, what of it 1 I suppose I am free to speak to her if I like ] " " Of course you are, Lewis, and it was on that subject I came to talk with you. I noticed at the ball that you seemed to like each other very much, and and " here her voice slightly trembled " I have been since thinking about it, and have come to the conclusion that you should marry her. You will 202 A MODERN LOVER. not be able to make a better match, and I am sore I shall be glad to help you in any way I can.' Lewis had little taste for the unknown ; and the idea of leav- ing a life of pleasantness and comfort gave him a little uneasi- ness. It was all very well to think that Lady Helen was his ideal, but if he hadn't the money to marry her he didn't see what he was to do. Of course she was far handsomer than Lucy, that was beyond question, but then beauty was not every- thing. Lucy knew his ways, and he knew hers; they could guess each other's thoughts ; they had so many interests in common. She understood pictures, and Helen, although she was not wanting in taste, made stupid mistakes ; he had caught her in one yesterday ; and after all, if Lord Granderville didn't consent he would have lost both ; and that was about the long and short of it. A hundred such thoughts, mixed up with many pleasant memories, flickered through his mind ; under their impulse he began to grow sentimental, and to think that this brusque separation was a great mistake. " No, no, Lucy," he said, taking her hands ; " why cannot we remain friends 1 You know I love you better than anyone in the world. I owe you everything ; it was you who took me out of poverty where I might have died ; it was you who spurred me on to work ; you gave me all my dreams, my thoughts, all sentiment of life and death ; I have become a part of you." He held her hands and looked beseechingly into her face. Mrs. Bentham felt her throat- grow dry, and a weakness come over her. She had great difficulty in not giving way, for although she knew how cowardly and vacillating he was, she could not bring herself to admit that her whole life had been no more than one wretched mistake. She trembled a moment, both morally .and physically, but gathering up her strength, she said : " We have been very happy together ; but we have all duties to perform, and this is one of yours." " To say good-bye ? " " Yes, even so ; but I hope that we shall always remain the best and sincerest friends ; we shall not see so much of each other, that will be all." The impressions of the moment were always the strongest with Lewis ; and, sincere as he was when making love to Lady Helen, he was equally so now. A MODERN LOVER. 203 " I gave what love I had to give," he said, his clear girl-like eyes filling with tears ; " I have no more." "My dear Lewis," replied Mrs. Bentham, almost choking with emotion, " I am to-day your mother ; my only desire in life is to assist you towards success .and happiness in life, and for this end we must say good-bye. I bring you back your letters, will you give me mine ? " Looking utterly wretched, and too weak to cope with the intensity of the scene, Lewis pleaded to be allowed to keep the letters as a link to bind him to the past The demand assuaged Mrs. Bentham's bitterness a little, although, in her heart of hearts, she knew that he could appreciate no memory, and that the letters would lie in a dusty drawer, uncared for, though he might never find the moral courage to burn them. " Old letters read distastefully," she answered, sadly ; " I read some yesterday. You had better give them to me." After a little more argument, he gave her all he could find ; there were two large packets. She looked at them, and tenderly turned them over ; they extended back over many years ; some were quite faded, others were crisp and new. She was sublimely sad, and the modern dress seemed to add to rather than take away from the poetry of the subject. Her feet rested on the fender of the stove that, simmering slowly, burnt itself out in the April sunlight, and her hands, in their long gloves, pensively turned over the letters, the mute witnesses of the past She had intended to burn them, to watch the flames devour- ing each leaf, to read a word here and there whilst they turned from red to black, and faded to senseless ashes ; but even this last sad pleasure was denied her. She hesitated a long while, for in the situation there was something at once ludicrous and sinister ; it was one of those miserable incidents which degrade without relieving the tragedy of our lives. Mrs. Bentham still waited a moment, but at last, conquering her fancies, she got up, and pushed the whole heap of letters, as they lay about her lap, into the smoking stove. " Oh, Lucy, how can you ! " cried Lewis, interposing. " What matter here or elsewhere t " she said, bitterly, picking a letter or two from the ground, and throwing them violently after the others. Then she bade him good-bye, but when their eyes met she could contain herself no more, and burst into a passionate flood of tears. 204 A MODERN LOVER. He held her hand, but she disengaged herself, and, begging of him not to follow, hurried away. He stood for a moment looking after her, unable to realise the situation. He opened the door of the black stove, but an immense cloud of smoke forced him to shut it. Then, like one awakened from a narcotic- produced sleep, he threw himself on the sofa, and lay staring into the past and future which stretched around him, sullen and lead-coloured, like the long reaches of a stagnating mere. CHAPTER XXII. ENGAGED. POOR Lady Marion found herself in a serious dilemma. Her wilful niece would not even listen to her proposals for an armistice, the terms of which were these : That she, Lady Helen, was not to see or hold communication with Lewis until Lord and Lady Granderville had been communicated with. Pleadingly, Lady Marion begged hard for this cessation of love-making. She explained the difficulties of her position. She had undertaken the responsibility of chaperone, and what would Lady Granderville say 1 She would never forgive either of them. Lady Granderville had always had a reputation for being practical ; Lady Marion for being sentimental ; and the latter felt sure she would have to bear till the end of her days the blame of the- adventure. However, there was nothing to do but to write to her sister, and give her a precise account of what had happened. The lettter was a painful one to write. There were many facts that had to be accurately stated, and Lady Marion found that her knowledge on all points was of the meagrest descrip- tion. All she knew of Lewis Seymour was that he was a very handsome, gentlemanly young man, whose pictures were always hung in the Academy, and that he was supposed to be making money. Mrs. Bentham, who was frequently called in to give testi- mony, declared that she believed it to be a well-established fact, that Lewis made between fifteen hundred and two thou- sand a year; but when questioned about his family, her responses grew more vague. She thought she was acquainted with his past life, down to the smallest detail. During the last five years they had talked it over scores of times, but when it 206 A MODERN LOVER. came to putting her knowledge into distinct statement, it sur- prised her to find how little she really knew. Lady Marion thought the whole matter very strange : but at length, half convinced by Lady Helen's protestations that every- thing was perfectly clear, she composed a letter, carefully limiting herself to the general facts. But this did not in the least satisfy Lady Helen, who insisted on embellishing it, with many turns of fancy. Lady Marion protested, and each amendment provoked interminable discussions. But a letter had to be sent, and at once ; for Lady Helen would undertake to do no more than to give her mother and father a reasonable time to send a satisfactory reply. As for refusing to see Lewis, she declared she could not think of any such cruel arrangement ; and as for being influenced by her mother, that was impossible. " Were I to listen to anyone, it would be you," she exclaimed, kissing the old lady on both cheeks. " Mamma and I don't get on well together, and there is nobody I love like my aunt ; but in a serious question like marriage is we must judge for our- selves. If my family object, so much the worse for them. I shall be obliged to run away with him. I am not going to ruin my happiness for anyone." Lady Marion argued, but to no purpose ; for Lady Helen overwhelmed Lady Marion with citations from the conduct of this person and that person, proving conclusively, at least to her own satisfaction, that it was quite right for engaged people to walk out alone, visit picture galleries, and, on a pinch, drive about in hansom cabs. Lady Marion was at her wits' end; and her disobedient niece caused her for over a month intoler- able anxiety. For day by day, Lady Helen seemed to grow more and more reckless; and even the telegram they received from Lord Granderville did not appear in the least to affect her. Sometimes Lewis called to fetch her, sometimes she went to fetch him at his studio. In fact, to save her from going out with him to dine at the restaurants, Lady Marion was obliged to ask him constantly to dinner. She had appealed to his generosity, but when she complained that he had not acted up to his word, he only answered that he could not prevent Lady Helen calling at his " place." It was therefore with a deep sense of relief that she received a telegram from Lord Grander- ville saying, that they had arrived in Liverpool, and that they would be in town that evening. Lady Marion threw the de- spatch .across the breakfast table to Helen, who read it as A MODERN LOVES. 207 coolly as the first ; and went on eating. Her indifference so disgusted her aunt, that she could not help saying : " My dear Helen, I never in all my life came across anyone so utterly selfish, so entirely indifferent to other people's feel- ings. I am sorry to say, your mother was right when she told me that one of these days I should find you out." The bitterness of the words startled Lady Helen, and for a moment she saw how selfishly she had acted, and how indiffer- ent she had been to the pain she had caused her aunt. Tears welled into her blue eyes, and she threw her arms around Lady Marion's neck, and begged to be forgiven. She declared that she really loved her aunt better than anyone, and she was sorry to have grieved her. Besides, she remembered that Lady Marion must be kept on her side j for, although she was deter- mined to marry Lewis, she was fully alive to the fact that it would be much better to do so regularly than irregularly. " My dear aunt, you mustn't be cross with me," she said, winningly ; " I can't help it : you don't know how I love Lewis, and how impossible it is for me to give him up. It is that which makes me appear selfish. Mamma couldn't, but you will understand what I mean, for you have loved and have been loved yourself; you know how you once loved a painter; and, tell me, do you think, after all, you did well to give him up ? " This was a very clever move on Lady Helen's part, and the sympathy evoked won Lady Marion over to her side more than a bushel of arguments. For many years no one had spoken to Lady Marion of her old love, and this sudden allusion startled her more than Lady Helen had expected. " I suppose your mother told you that," she said in a low voice, but in a way that showed she was not displeased. Lady Helen saw that this was her opportunity, and drawing her aunt's arm through her own, the two women went up to the drawing-room, one to talk of the future, the other of the past. After luncheon, Lady Helen said she had an appointment with Lewis ; her aunt asked her to remain in to meet her father and mother. She declared that it was not possible, but promised to be home at half past five j they could not arrive before then. Lady Marion had to accept this crumb of comfort, and all the afternoon she sat waiting in the large drawing-room. No one called, and the time went very slowly. Lady 208 A MODERN LOVER. Marion tried to read, but her thoughts wandered ; she was very fearful of meeting her sister and brother-in-law ; and as it drew near six o'clock, she listened, expecting them ever minute. At last the servant announced, " Lord and Lady Grander- ville." " My dear Marion," said Lady Granderville, immediately she had kissed her sister, " this is dreadful news ; I am perfectly ill with anxiety." Lady Granderville, who was as stout as her sister was thin, was certainly not looking her best. Her fat face was sallow, and her eyes haggard and dim, from the effects of her sea- sickness. " I don't know how you could let such a thing happen ; I really don't. Who is this Mr. Seymour ] " "My dear Harriet, pray be calm, you will make yourself ill," said Lord Granderville, as he helped his wife off with her cloak " Let me show you up to your room, Harriet," said Lady Marion ; " we will talk of this during dinner ; will you have a glass of sherry 1" " I really can't do anything till you tell me where my daughter is," replied Lady Granderville, sitting down on the sofa. " She is out with Mr. Seymour." " Out with Mr. Seymour ! You must be mad, Marion ; how could you permit such a thing ! " " My dear Harriet," said Lady Marion sitting down by her sister, " Helen is the most wilful and disobedient girl I ever knew in all my life. I confess I was mistaken in her ; had, I known what she was I would never have undertaken the charge of her. Since she contracted this engagement with Mr. Seymour, she has, in defiance of all I could say, been out with him every day. She says she is three-and-twenty, and intends to do as she likes. I did everything I could, I begged and implored, but it is no ase arguing with her ; she even hinted that if I tried to restrain her, she would leave the house and live at an hotel." " Leave the house and live at an hotel I " exclaimed Lady Harriet, aghast ; " I never took the same view of Helen as you did, but I must say she never spoke like that to me." " I knew you would blame me and say it was my fault, Harriet ; but if you can persuade Helen not to marry Mr. Sey- mour, or even to give up a single appointment with him, I will confess that I am entirely to blame." A MODERN LOVER. 209 " Then," said Lord Granderville, who had been attentively following the conversation, " you really think, Marion, that Helen is determined on this marriage 1 " " So that I may save you errors in judgment, I will tell you that I am convinced that nothing in the world could prevent that girl from having her way, and the more violently you op- pose her the more violently will she carry her point. Now, you have my opinion, you can act as you please." " But who in the world is this Mr. Seymour ? " asked Lady Granderville. At this moment, hearing the bell ring, Lady Marion opened the drawing-room door and listened. Lord and Lady Grauder- ville looked at each other, piteously seeking counsel. Lady Marion returned quickly, and said: " This 'is Helen ; take my advice and do not try to bully her." " I quite agree with Marion," said Lord Granderville ; " do not let us broach the subject ; we will speak of it gradually during dinner." Lord Granderville, besides being very fond of his beautiful daughter, knew from past experience that her mother's upbraid- ings would intensify rather than weaken any resolution Lady Helen might have made. Besides, he did not profess to have that innate horror of art that his wife had, and he could not see that there was anything so very awful after all in the ab- stract idea of marrying an artist. Lord Granderville was a kind, easy-going man, and whatever ruggeduess there may have formerly been in him had long ago been smoothed down by the pettishness and ill-humour of his wife*. No longer had he the strength to quarrel with anybody ; and he would submit to anything to preserve the tranquillity of his home. He was determined to use every effort to break off the match, but flying into a rage, he thought, would only pre- cipitate it. He and his wife had agreed on a common plan of action : it was to refuse to give Helen a sixpence if she per- sisted in disobeying them on this point he determined to remain firm. After the general inquiries had been made, the conversation fell to the ground ; Lady Marion had made up her mind not to have anything further to do with the matter ; Helen was deter- mined to be quiet, but resolute ; Lord Granderville was embar- rassed; Lady Granderville, who could not conceal her pettishness, began a little lamentation about being dragged all the way 14 210 A MODERN LOVEK. across the Atlantic, which, to the relief of everyone, was cut short by the dressing-bell. All were glad to go to their rooms, and put off the dreaded discussion. During dinner it was introduced ; but, partly on account of Lord Granderville's reserve, and partly because on account of the servants, the conversation had to be carried on in French, nothing occurred of particular note. It was not until they were all sitting in the drawing-room round the reading lamp that the real war began. The opening was left to Lord Granderville, who, drawing his daughter to- wards him, began to question her seriously about Mr. Seymour. But she had not got well into the explanation when the high notes of her mother's voice interrupted : " I never heard of such a thing in my life ; a young girl run- ning about London with a painter, whom she hardly knows ! Oh, Helen, how could you 1 And you, Marion, I shall never forgive you. How could you allow it ? " Lady Marion attempted to explain ; Lady Helen replied tartly enough to her mother; Lord Granderville tried to pacify them all. When at last silence was obtained, he pursued his cross-examination. Lady Helen did not mind answering him, for she knew 'that all she had to do was to remain firm, and the game was in her hands. Question succeeded question, until the final point could no longer be avoided, and Lady Helen cried, in reply to her father's demand, that she loved Lewis very dearly, and that nothing could induce her to give him up, but that, otherwise, she hoped she would always prove a dutiful child. Lady Granderville could no longer restrain herself. She declared that with so dis- obedient a child parents were never cursed; with uplifted hands she asserted that she did not envy Mr. Seymour. She went back to the past, and showed how Helen had manifested her real disposition at the age of three, when she positively refused to wear a blue riband with a pink frock. Lord Granderville tried to interpose, but she would not be interrupted. She sat up on the sofa ; her face got red and her stupid eyes glittered with passion. She showed how basely ungrateful Helen had always been, how selfish, how indifferent to the feelings of others. Then, having pretty well demolished her daughter's character, she turned round on her sister, declaring that she had acted in a shameful, if not criminal manner. Passing on to her husband, she accused him of having encouraged his daughter in wilful ways from her earliest childhood, illus- A MODERN LOVER. 211 trating her argument, as she went along, with numerous anecdotes. Then she paused, like a ratter considering which of the dead was most deserving of a concluding shake. Her husband tried to break in, but she cut him short, and turned back upon her daughter, who sat whispering to her aunt, knowing well that she would annoy her mother more by pretending not to hear her than by any retort. She was right ; Lady Granderville blazed forth again, and re- peated all she had said before, only concluding this time with the prophecy that Helen would prove as great a curse to her husband as she had to her parents. Lord Granderville tried mildly to interpose, but the word husband had suggested a new train of ideas to Lady Granderville. She had forgotten Lewis, and hastened to retrieve the oversight. She criticised him as effeminate, as a man that no girl could like, a man that looked like an ugly girl, a Bolt dreamy creature. Up till now Lady Helen had kept her patience wonderfully, but she could not hear Lewis maligned and sit silent, so a violent dispute arose between mother and daughter. Lady Helen attacked her mother vigorously ; told her how her perpetual discontent and violent temper made life a hell for those who had to live with her ; that if her daughter were self- willed she had only herself to thank for it ; and that she, Lady Helen, could stand it no longer, and was glad enough to get a home of her own, even if it were by marrying a painter. These recriminations drove Lady Granderville quite beyond herself, and fqr a moment she did not know how to reply ; but collecting herself with a supreme effort, she said : " And a nice kind of creature he is, this Mr. Seymour ; he has been trying after Mrs. Bentham for the last five years, and now that he can't* get her, he wants to marry you." Lady Helen's white face flushed red to the routs of her saffron- coloured hair ; she trembled with passion at her mother's brutality ; but before she could reply, Lord Granderville inter- posed. " My dear Harriet," he said, pleadingly, " really, really you are a little premature in your judgment ; remember, you never saw this young man but once in your life, and you have no right to make such accusations against Mrs. Bentham." Lady Granderville did not answer ; her strength was spent, she could say no more ; and she lay back on the sofa, her ex- pansive bosom heaving like an ocean after a storm. 212 A MODERN LOVER. As for Lady Helen, her tears overcame her, and for some seconds only the girl's sobs broke the rich and shaded silence of the vast drawing-room. Lord Granderville spoke in whispers to his wife, who eventually rose to laave ; but as she passed her daughter, she stopped before her, and said : " As far as I am concerned, Helen, you shall never have my consent; of course, you are a free agent, and you can go and spend your fortune upon whom you like ; but I will never allow your father to add one penny to it." With that she swept out of the room. Lord Granderville and Lady Marion were so shocked that they attempted to apologise for her ; but Lady Helen only shook her head, and begged of her father to tell her about the voyage, how he had left America, anything he liked save the matter in hand, she said ; she could not bear to discuss the subject any more that evening ; but they were all so excited that their thoughts wandered insensibly to the point they were trying to avoid ; so, after a few attempts at conversation, Lady Marion proposed that they should retire for the night. Kissing his daughter, Lord Granderville told her he would go and call on Lewis to-morrow morning ; then they bade each other good-night, and gradually the lights went out in the different windows. Lady Helen sat on her bed thinking. Her father was going to see Lewis the next morning ; she would give worlds to see him for five minutes, just to explain to him what had happened, and tell him how she wished him to act. Without having pre- cisely come to the conclusion that her lover was weak-minded, and could not be trusted to hold his own in an argument, she was sure that it would be advisable to forewarn him of what the family opinions were on the subject, so that he might meet her father on equal terms. This idea gradually shaped itself in her mind till she became convinced that, by some means or other, she must see Lewis that night. In the morning there would be no time, for doubt- less her father would start early, and she never would be able to get out of the house unperceived. Looking at her watch, she saw it was only eleven o'clock, and she suddenly remembered she had not yet returned the latch-key her aunt had given her ; nothing, therefore, would be easier than to slip out, a hansom would take her to Chelsea and back in an hour. In a minute she had put on a hat and cloak, and was stealing downstairs. The hall door opened without a creak, and, hailing a passing cab, she was soon driving rapidly towards Fulham. A MODERN LOVER. 213 When she arrived at Lewis's, she saw he was in by the light in the studio. She knocked, but received no answer. This ap- peared to her strange ; she knocked again, and after some time the door was opened, and by Lewis himself. He was more than astonished, and her presence visibly embarrassed him. But she was too agitated to perceive anything, and she rapidly explained that she must see him, and was preparing to pass into the studio, when he said, hesitatingly : " I have a model." "Ah ! then send her away, because what I have to say to you is most private." " Well, then, wait there a minute," he said, leaving her in the ante-room hung with Japanese draperies. He came back in a minute, and asked her to come in ; Lady Helen did not doubt what he said about the model. Briefly she told him what had occurred ; how her mother had absolutely refused to give her consent, and how bitterly she had told her that she must not count on sixpence more than her child's por- tion, which was only five thousand pounds ; and how he might expect a visit from her father in the morning. " But what am I to do 1 " asked Lewis, helplessly ; " I can't say that I won't marry you unless they give me more money." The answer caused Lady Helen a delicious little thrill of pleasure, for she did not suspect that it was not a perfectly dis- interested observation. " No," she exclaimed, drawing him towards her and kissing him ; " but you can talk a little about the money if he mentions it, and tell him that it will be very hard for you to keep me in the position I have been accustomed to unless he assists you. He will have to give way, you know, for everybody has heard of our engagement ; and my aunt tells me that there is no doubt but that I have compromised myself in driving and walking about with you. You see what a good manager I am," she murmured, as she kissed him again ; " I thought of all that before." This was not true ; but it pleased Lady Helen to take the credit of it when it seemed likely that her imprudence was likely to prove a tnimp card. Lewis looked at her admiringly. " Now I must be off," said Lady Helen, moving towards the door; "and mind you be firm with papa to-morrow, and tell him straight that nothing will induce you to give me up." As they paused in the street to bid each other good-bye, Lady Helen said, laying her j^and on Lewis's arm : 214 A MODERN LOVER. " But I forgot ; mamma said worse than all I have told you ; she said that you had been flirting with Mrs. Bentham for years, and that it was only because she wouldn't marry you that you proposed to me; tell me, is it true?" Lady Helen spoke as if her heart would break ; a pale moon had risen and was whitening the roadway ; the street was deserted, and their voices took a strange sonority in the silence. " I assure you it is false ; Mrs. Bentham was. never more than a dear, good friend to me." " Give me your word of honour." " Upon my word of honour ; I can't understand Lady Gran- derville saying such a thing." " Well, papa seemed quite shocked, and so did aunt ; but I don't think that any man, or woman, or child, ever had such a temper as mamma. I wonder how papa can stand it ; but it doesn't matter what she said as long as it is not true. Good- bye ; you don't know how happy you have made me ; I hated Mrs. Bentham once, but now I feel I love her for having been a kind friend to you ; good-bye." They kissed each other a^ain, and Lady Helen drove away. Lewis looked up and down the street once or twice, and then entered his studio. CHAPTER XXIII. DIFFICULTIES OVERCOME. A HALF sterile seed and a half formed talent will both grow and blossom, if especially favoured by circumstances. In Lewis's case the combination had been so extremely subtle that the small grain of original good had been almost cultivated into a flower. He was irresolute, but he had had some one always by him to sustain him ; he sighed for pleasure, but he had ob- tained it with such ease, and in such profusion, that he had been forced, from sheer feebleness, to seek shelter in his art ; he was lacking in perseverance, but he had obtained his suc- cesses so rapidly that they had pushed him on in spite of him- self. Up to the present the medicines used were exactly those required to keep alive this unhealthy talent ; but as there are some diseases that will outwear even the most powerful remedies, so Mrs. Bentham's influence had ceased to benefit him : his present life had lost its strengthening properties, and a something else was needed to unclose the hothouse reared bud that was now breaking to flower. Lady Helen came at the right time. Her beauty roused him from the state of apathy he was beginning to fall into, and her love of art at once amused and delighted him. She used to read him her poems between the intervals of love-making. She was the something that was wanted to complete the growth of his talent ; for not only did her beauty and enthusiasm awake new dreams and aspirations in his soul, but by family influences she would be able materially to propel him along the road to fame. During the last five years he had not only made much pro- gress in his art, but he was beginning to be known as a constant exhibitor at the Academy, and was now recognised by the fre- quenters of fashionable drawing-rooms as a man of talent. He was asked everywhere ; he was surrounded by friends ; there was no one be did not know, and consequently he was a man that no one could afford to ignore. His pictures were well 216 A MODERN LOVER. hung, and formed the subject of much conversation during the season. There was nothing to be said against them ; if they did not show much individuality of feeling, they violated in no way any of the recognised canons of art. They were fairly well drawn, well modelled, well grouped, and pleasing in colour. " Then, why not hang them on the line ? " said his friends to the other academicians, who had at first displayed some hostility to his pretty effusions in Greek draperies and fashionable dresses. In a word, he was on the eve of becoming a fashion- able painter, that is to say, the artist who lives surrounded by grand people, and who rarely speaks to an artist. Naturally, his friend Thompson had long ago ceased to visit him, seeing clearly that in art he would never do anything of the least interest to anybody. Lewis, on his side, had little inclination to leave the sweet pleasant way of success, to climb the thorny path leading to some far ideal, and he was now fore- most in ridiculing what he was pleased to term foolish eccen- tricity. He deplored the teaching of " The moderns," and he predicted a great decadence in art if the academicians did not resolutely close their doors against the new sect. Experience, he said, had taught him the folly of ideals. He, too, had wasted lots of time listening to their nonsense ; weeks, months he had passed, tearing his hair, trying to make possible the impossible ; he, too, had spent sleepless nights, but he thanked heaven he had had the force of character to shake off their in- fluence. With this kind of conversation he entertained Lord Grander- ville when he called upon him the morning after Lady Helen's midnight visit, and he ventured to suggest that if he were not already an A.R.A. he had only " The moderns " to thank for it. Not only had they made him waste an enormous amount of time, but had so completely put him off the right track that it was wonderful that he had ever found his way back again. However, he had done so, and had now the satisfaction of seeing his pictures well bung and sold. Lewis spoke well, and he was able to show that he now made something between twelve and fifteen hundred a year. Lord Granderville listened, and con- gratulated him on the result of his labours, but declared, never- theless, putting all other questions aside, that he did not see bow Mr. Seymour could settle even a hundred pounds on his daughter. Lewis replied that he wished all Lady Helen's money should be settled on herself. Lord Granderville smiled at this sugges- A MODERN LOVER. 217 tion, and remembering his wife's injunctions to come to the point quickly, he told Lewis, with much gravity -of manner, that for many family reasons, quite needless to enter into, the marriage was impossible, and that it was better not to think any more about it. Lewis bowed, and Lord Granderville took his leave with much formality. He did not know what to do. He felt that Lady Helen, notwithstanding all his wife could say, would not allow her wishes to be set aside : and try as he would, he could not see that, even if this marriage did take place, that it would be anything more than a very bad match, a somewhat unfortunate affair. That night at dinner, Lady Helen guessed, from her father's face, that Lewis had answered according to her instructions, and that it was now left to her to fight the fight out to victory. Her plan was one of passive resistance, resolute disobedience, and by persisting in this course she knew that in the end her parents would have to give way. Her mother, as she expected, forbade her imperatively to bow to Lewis when she met him, to dance with him at balls, to stop to speak to him in the park. To these orders Lady Helen made no reply : she merely set them at defiance. Then Lady Granderville tried, by turns, threats, and persuasions, until she was, on the failure of both, obliged to beg her daughter, at least not to publicly afficher herself with Mr. Seymour. Lady Helen felt a thrill of pleasure, but she answered, quite calmly, that she was quite willing to behave herself properly if Lady Granderville would consent to reconsider her decision, and allow Lewis to come and see her. This proposition was received with indignation, but as they were discussing it, Lord Worthing, who had just come home from abroad, called. As the head of the family, the whole matter was referred to him. He was a large man, and he listened, majestically, leaning back in an arm-chair. It was afternoon, and the rays of the setting sun glinted through the Venetian blind. After listening very attentively, Lord Worthing declared that the whole matter -required the gravest consideration. On the one hand, he was surprised at Helen's disobedience to her mother's commands ; whilst, on the other, he felt bound to say that he could not share Harriet's somewhat sweeping condemnation of Mr. Seymour; he had found him a very nice young man, well bred and gentlemanly. Of course it could not be considered an advantageous alliance, from any point of view ; but he was bound to admit that it was 218 A MODERN LOVER. possible to cite cases of lovers who had sacrificed all for their love ; though, personally, he was not prepared to say that they had acted wisely in so doing. In such a strain Lord Worthing continued, until his sister, who lay tossing with exasperation on the sofa, lost all patience, and asked him to say definitely what he meant. Lord Worthing did not much like this, but, after a good deal of evasion, he admitted that as Lady Helen could not be made to promise not to go out walking with Mr. Seymour unless he was asked to the house, it might be as well to comply with her request. Lady Granderville was furious, but after some dis- cussion it was decided to ask Lewis to dinner, and Lady Helen said to herself, "Check number one." That night she wrote a long letter, putting off a rendezvous they had made, and giving him a full account of the conference which she declared to have terminated very satisfactorily. Three days went by in a tedious way, and then Lewis came to dinner, and was introduced to Lady Granderville. He passed his examination very creditably ; Lord Worthing and Lord Grauderville spoke to him about art ; he replied modestly, but with enthusiasm. He listened deferentially to their views, and when they went up to the drawing-room after the ladies, the /brothers-in-law agreed that he was an uncommonly clever, well- bred young man, and that it was a pity he had not a stake in the county, was not a landed proprietor. During dinner Lady Granderville had maintained a dignified reserve. Determined not to commit herself in any way, she had measured her words so as just to remain within the recognised bounds of politeness. As Sir John Archer would say, she was making a waiting race of it, and Lewis, seeing this, determined to force the running. On entering the drawing-room he sat down by her, and tried various subjects of conversation. Lady Grauderville answered only in generalities, but every now and then she raised her eyes to look at him ; his softness of manner charmed her as it did everybody, and before the servants brought in the tea she had almost forgotten her animosity. " Just look, aunt, how mamma is flirting with him," said Lady Helen, laughing ; " she is beginning to regret that she is not twenty years younger." " Hush, hush, my dear," said Lady Marion, trying not to laugh, for she saw that this was really the case. Lewis conducted himself perfectly, and with a tact that even Lady Granderville was forced to recognise ; and when he went away that evening he had won the sympathy of the whole family. The two men had agreed that there was nothing particularly dis- graceful in the marriage, but Lord Granderville. urged on by his wife, did all he could to induce Lady Helen to give up the idea. He spoke to her about the settlements, showed her what she would lose, argued from every possible point of view, but to no purpose. Lady Helen replied that she would do anything else in the world to please him, but she could not, and would not, give up Lewis ; and, regardless of advice, she continued to meet him, and once even went to lunch with him at a restaurant. When this last escapade reached Lady Granderville's ears, she flew into the most violent of her passions, and, like a prophetess of old time, denounced the tennis party, and the day that Lady Marion had introduced them. Lady Helen was out, and escaped the first paroxysms, but Lady Marion and Lord Granderville were kept close prisoners all the afternoon to witness the denouement that Lady Grander- ville said must take place that evening. She was resolved to show them how she could bring an affair to a conclusion. Fifty times did she look at the clock, and fifty more out of the win- dow, holding forth all the while on the mistake of the English system of managing young girls. They should be brought up, she maintained, under their mother's eyes ; should come back after every dance ; should never speak to anyone alone, and should be eventually married according to their parent's judgment. The liberty they were allowed only encouraged them to ask for more, and led, as in the present case, to open defiance of all authority. In her youth the traditions were still respected ; but now everything was in a state of general revolution, and she deplored the introduction of American freedom into English manners and customs. Lady Granderville hated America, and, once on this track, she soon rambled off into a long dissertation, which called into question the first principles of Republican government, the abolition of slavery, the declaration of independence, Irish dis- affection, and the wisdom of Lord Granderville in entering the diplomatic service. Sometimes her sister's theories on the first principles of things provoked an answer from Lady Marion, but at a look from her brother-in-law she would sink back into silence. When Lady Helen arrived, Lady Granderville looked at her husband and sister as much as to say, " Now you shall see how determined 1 can be." 220 A MODERN LOVER. Lady Helen was very hot, and her white skin was overspread to the roots of her pale hair with a crimson flush. She wore a large hat which she took off on entering the room, and she threw herself on a sofa. " It is dreadfully hot," she said, fanning herself with her hat ; but seeing grave faces on every side, she stopped, and looked perplexed. " I hear you have been out to lunch with Mr. Seymour," said Lady Granderville. " I have no intention of concealing the fact ; but may I ask how you heard it, mamma ? " " From people who saw you," replied her mother. " Now, look here, Helen, there is no use arguing this matter all over again ; it has been thoroughly well considered by the whole family, and we have decided irrevocably against this marriage. I have forbidden you repeatedly to walk about with Mr. Seymour, but as you cannot or will not obey me, I must take you out of temptation." " Take me out of temptation 1 " asked Lady Helen, opening her eyes. " Yes," replied Lady Granderville, casting a look of triumph on her husband and sister ; "we shall leave London to-morrow." " You may leave London if you like, mamma, but I am afraid I shall not be able to" accompany you," said Lady Helen tremb- ling a little, for she felt that they had now arrived at the critical point of the struggle. " Where will you go then ? " said Lady Granderville, whose astonishment for the moment overcame her passion. " Well, if my aunt refuses me hospitality, I shall go to an hotel and marry Lewis Seymour next week, without any settlement." Lord Granderville and Lady Marion looked shocked, but, not knowing what to say, remained silent. As for Lady Granderville, she looked from one to the other, quite at a loss how to proceed. She had expected to take her daughter by surprise, force her from her position of lofty disobedience, and so secure a triumph over the whole family. Lady Grauderville's large face for a moment was pale wi(h passion, but as the different sentiments of rage began to break through her thoughts it grew purple, and then she burst out into a wild storm of invective. Lady Helen sat quite still, and continued to fan herself. At last Lord Granderville thought it advisable to interfere, and A MODERN LOVER. 221 then she profited by the occasion to slip out of the room, just lingering at the door to say that mere abiise was child's play, and that she had a right to chose for herself. Notwithstanding this defeat, Lady Granderville continued the struggle for some days longer. Her husband and sister preserved a strict neutrality. They knew that Lady Helen would not give in, and, wishing to shield themselves from future reproach, they agreed to let Harriet fight out her battle to the end. But the process of fighting the battle out was an extremely disagreeable one for all concerned, particularly the spectators. Lady Granderville refused to speak to Lady Helen, and the latter retorted by refusing to speak to her mother. Lord Granderville and Lady Marion found these hostilities extremely inconvenient, particularly at meal times and when visitors called ; the artifices to which they were obliged to resort to conceal the family quarrel were quite heartrending. Mother and daughter cut each other dead on the staircase, and would sit in the drawing-room for hours, so that the one that remained should not think the other was giving way. This continued for over a week ; Lady Marion bore up bravely, but at last she declared that she could stand it no longer, and that if they did not make it up she would leave the house. The threat frightened both parties equally, and mother and daughter were at last persuaded into wishing each other good morning. This was followed by a week of as lively days as the last had been of solemn ; scarcely an hour pass