A Modern Lover — Volume 1 Chapter 12

London: Tinsley Brothers, 1 June 1883, pages 216-252, 6,564 words

CHAPTER XII.

LOVE AND ART.

Next morning 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 shadow-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 preposterous 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. Then, 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 has overthrown.

Every moment he stopped to listen, and his face brightened at the sound of footsteps, and darkened when they died away. He could do nothing; the great clear walls irritated him; and excitedly 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.

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, for 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 going.

It was an awkward interval for both of them; they walked up and down the room together, and looked out of the windows vacantly. Lewis hinted at the events of 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 Claremont 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, and must now abide the consequences. 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 retreat 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 indifferent. 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. Bentham’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 à vau I'eau; she wished to let herself drift, to let things take their chance; and 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 execution 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 embarrassed, 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 enthusiastic; 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 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 other 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?"

"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 spiris 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 days, he became a great artist.

They talked dreamily for some minutes, till suddenly she remembered that Lord Senton was waiting. This occasioned a 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 the 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," r, "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 contained the consolatory news that Mr. Vicome, her father, was better, and that Lord Senton was boring her to death.

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 was 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 composition that was not up to the mark; sometimes they did not suit the scheme of colour he had adopted.

There 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 enlarged 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, 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 good 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 letterwriting, 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 longhaired painter? 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? 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 longhaired painter was or was not Mrs. Bentham’s lover. Day declared in many letters that, after having carefully examined 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.

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 couldn’t 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," replied Lewis, laughing.

Then farmer and painter walked round the great clear walls, and Mr. Day made many facetious remarks about the scantiness 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 himself. 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?" 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 any one, 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 county 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 don’t take me in with your innocence, a nice kind of young 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 different 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 goodwill 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 Mrs. Bentham expected to return home in a day or two.

At the news Lewis’ 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 forgotten 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 surround 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. Bentham. His tepid nature warmed up to something like enthusiasm, 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, 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 he 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 assisting 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 himself 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 despondency; 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 vocabulary, 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 from 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 prejudices, willingly ruin everything they had to hope for of happiness in life. As for himself, he felt that death would be infinitely 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 drowning himself over Waterloo Bridge, but now, it would be different; he was no longer 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 poetic death?”

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 during 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. Yet, notwithstanding her apprehensions, he proved very tractable, and they had the longest and sweetest conversation possible, sitting side by side 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 matters.

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 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 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 almost as if she did not hear him, until, suddenly withdrawing her hands from his, she said, with the voice of a woman who has 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 been 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 absurdity of his intention.

“Be friends!" he exclaimed, forgetful of everything; “you think that you can buy me with your money, but you are mistaken. 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 dénouement 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, Cupids, 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 contained 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 incompleted things.

Silently large tears rolled down her cheeks as she read all 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 disgrace herself, ruin herself in the eyes of the whole world, or give him up.

Give him up, oh, how the words burnt 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 must 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 window. 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 obtain 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 eventually, it would not make matters any better by quarrelling with her.

Shaking with fear, he walked about his room, trying to compose 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 knowing that anything had happened, talked volubly of the old gentleman’s recovery. Lewis watched Mrs. 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 threatening, 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 forgotten all about their little quarrel. He chose his time carefully; 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.

Mrs. Thorpe appeared to take it so to heart that Mrs. Bentham, under pretext of consoling 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 together.

It would take him another month to finish the decorations; that would bring them into February, and Mrs. Bentham proposed 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 purpose of going abroad as soon as the ball-room was finished.

The subject was discussed over and over again, sometimes à 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 impossible, 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. Bentham. 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 learnt to forgive him. In her heart she believed him mad, but when talking of him she could not always repress a shudder.

END OF VOL. I.