A Modern Lover — Volume 1 Chapter 5

London: Tinsley Brothers, 1 June 1883, pages 83-90, 1,295 words

CHAPTER V.

MR. VICOME.

On leaving Pall Mall, Mrs. Bentham drove to see her father. Mr. Vicome had been for many years completely bedridden, and 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, and 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 could think of, particularly 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, etc.

He listened delighted to all she had to say, and asked innumerable questions, until 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.”

Mrs. Bentham thought it quite a coincidence that he should speak to her on the subject, forgetting that he rarely failed to do so. Then, in a constrained way that surprised her, she explained that it was difficult to find an artist to whom the work might be entrusted with confidence, for the walls were quite beautiful since they 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 light blue turning to mauve.”

Having been assured on that point, he continued:

"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 I tell you, 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, if you could only find one. Can’t that man Mr. Carver, whom you are always talking about, find you one?"

“’Tis curious," answered Mrs. Bentham, reflectively, "you should speak of it, for not half-an-hour ago Mr. Carver introduced me to a young man who he said would do the work splendidly.”

"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 at present staying there she did not see how she was to, 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 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 country people to be taken into consideration; 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 jeaned 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 then the suspicion came upon her that after all 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. Then, at length, irritated by the thought of the possibility that he might be one of those miserable ones who starve while the person who wishes to succour them is considering 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, and overwhelmed Mrs. Bentham with the brilliant sketch he gave of what Lewis would do in the future, "if he only got a chance." On this point she no longer had a doubt; she was convinced that he would some day blossom into a Raphael, but for the moment she found herself obliged to consider 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 information 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 years ago, leaving his widow in bad circumstances, and that, on his mother’s death, Lewis found himself obliged to come to London to seek his fortune. So much Mr. Carver had found out, heaven only knows how, 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, and it was decided that Lewis should be sent down next Thursday to Sussex, Mr. Carver charging himself with all the arrangements.