A Modern Lover — Volume 3 Chapter 9

London: Tinsley Brothers, 1 June 1883, pages 143-155, 2,252 words

CHAPTER IX.

BILLS.

In the last week in September the Seymours went back to London; they had been married now nearly two years, and were just beginning to perceive that the money was going out far faster than it came in. Not only did Lewis not get so many portraits to do, as he had expected, but Mr. Carver, to whom he had been in the habit of selling seven or eight hundred pounds worth of pictures a year, had lately died, and his business had been broken up. This deprived the Seymours of a large portion of their income, for Mrs. Bentham was unable, for the moment, to find a dealer to whom she could entrust the task of buying Lewis’ pictures. Lady Helen’s questions had frightened her, and she now dreaded every breath of gossip. Besides, Lewis’ brag of what he made deceived her. He talked a great deal of the prices he received, and the social position of his sitters, and complained despairingly of how he was pressed for time. He had received a letter from Lady X., saying that she would be in town in a week, and would then be able to sit to him.

This cheered him up, and he soon forgot all about Mr. Carver.

Lady X. was a handsome woman, and it would be both amusing and profitable to paint her picture. Not long after this piece of good luck, came two more portraits, then one after Christmas, but this was only a fifty pound one.

All this looked very promising indeed, but when the bills came in at Christmas, they found that they had not only spent the thousand pounds which had been taken out of his wife’s fortune, but were at least two thousand to the bad.

A weekly dinner party, and a small dance or two, and the quarter’s rent, had got through six hundred pounds in four months and a half.

It was clear that they were going a little fast, and Lady Helen consoled herself with the assurance that expenses were always very heavy at first, but when they had once settled down, things would come right. She wrote to the upholsterer, that it would not be quite convenient to pay him just yet, but that she hoped to settle the matter during the course of the summer.

“There will be no difficulty about this," she said, to Lewis, as she stamped the letter; "you are sure to get five hundred for your picture of Sappho; and we will give the wretched man three hundred out of it. I thought the critics would like it. Has Harding seen it yet?”

"No, I have not seen him lately, have you? You know it would be as well to keep up the acquaintance.”

"No, not for some time; but I shall ask him to dinner one of these days," Lady Helen said, as she passed her arm through her husband’s, rose from the breakfast-table, and went down with him to the studio. It was a large room, at once sumptuous and austere; and only recalled his former ways of life by a few stray touches, a coquettishly arranged bunch of flowers, a glove, or a solitary fan.

A few pictures and a piece of tapestry decorated the walls; a large divan covered with dark green velvet, a few arm chairs to match, and a table covered with paints, appeared to be all the furniture in the room; but the view was everywhere intercepted by portraits of fashionable women.

"Heavens! how the sun does come in here at ten; but it is gone in half an hour," said Lewis, drawing the blind.

The picture of Sappho stood on the easel; it was nearly finished, only bits of detail here and there remained to be added. It was decidedly Lewis’ best work. It showed the poetess seated amid her attendants, who were engaged in completing her toilette. One of them had just handed her a lyre, and, resting it against the porphyry table, strewn with silver boxes and vases containing odours, she had begun to sing.

"I think I shall score a success this time," said Lewis, looking affectionately at his work.

I am sure you will; but you have made it so like me that everybody will recognise it."

"The arms are not quite right yet; take off the body of your dress, Helen, and let me have another go at them." Nothing Lady Helen liked so much as sitting to her husband. They used to spend the happiest days together, all alone in the big studio. And this picture was a favourite of hers; she had not only sat for Sappho, but for many of the attendants, at least for their hands and feet.

Lady Helen put herself into the necessary light and position, and Lewis began to paint. The conversation soon turned on their money difficulties. He bitterly deplored Carver’s death, and declared he would never find another customer like him.

Lady Helen grew interested, and eagerly demanded the details. He told her how Carver had been in the habit of buying of him nearly a thousand pounds’ worth of pictures yearly.

The story made Lady Helen thoughtful, and she wondered why this man had been such an extensive purchaser of Lewis’ pictures.

"I never had so bad a year in my life,” said Lewis. "It is a fact that I have made only seven hundred pounds this year, and I used to knock off twelve hundred, and did not work half so hard. Had it not been for the portraits, I don’t know what we should have done. I wish I could get some more to do.”

The conversation here ceased. Lady Helen continued to think, and from the expression on her face it was clear that she was annoyed.

Latterly she had begun to suspect that although Lewis might love her very much, better than he had ever loved before, she was, nevertheless, not by any means his first love. Little things were constantly occurring which kept her suspicion always on the alert. She could specify nothing; indeed, when she tried to examine any particular bit of evidence, it faded from her like mist; but yet, in the distance, the clouds of mistrust maintained their sinister appearance. The uncertainty irritated her, and she now suspected every second woman she spoke to, of having been a former admirer of her husband.

These suspicions had rendered her extremely jealous, so much so, that Lewis was often puzzled how to act. If he came home five minutes after she expected him, she would turn away her face from his kiss, saying, "No, thank you, I don’t care for the leavings of others." Lewis, of course, would protest, plead, and swear that it was not true, but it made no difference, Lady Helen remained in the sulks for hours.

So little sufficed to create one of these scenes of jealousy that Lewis fairly lost his head. He positively dreaded to walk in the park with her, for if she caught a woman looking at him, which they all did, he found it impossible to persuade her that he not only had no appointment with, but had never seen, and had no knowledge whatever of the lady who had just passed. To go to a ball with her was positive torture, for it did not matter with whom he danced, Lady Helen declared all the same that he had been flirting and amusing himself the whole evening. Lewis hated scenes, but in his heart he bitterly resented these continual recriminations, and he often said to himself that it was beastly hard lines that he should be badgered about his unfaithfulness by the only woman to whom he had ever been true.

“You know, Helen, it is somewhat your fault, if I have not had as many orders as I might," he said, as he modelled Sappho’s arm with short strokes of the brush passing rapidly backwards and forwards.

"My fault!" exclaimed Lady Helen, turning round, regardless of the pose. "How do you mean?”

"Well, you know, dear," he answered, putting away his palette and brushes, and sitting down at his wife’s feet on the edge of the throne, "you are so jealous.”

"But, what has that got to do with orders?" returned Lady Helen.

"You don’t know how people get their orders; one has to make oneself agreeable to people, and persuade them gradually into it.”

Lady Helen looked at him in astonishment; she did not understand, but the ice being broken, he went on more boldly. "And you are so jealous that I am always afraid to say anything agreeable to any one; for if she were sixty you would never believe that I was not in love with her, and — ”

Not knowing how to go on, he kissed the white arms that encircled his neck like a garland of roses.

"Then you mean to say that you must flirt with women to get them to give you orders?" returned Lady Helen, as she withdrew her arms with a feeling of disgust.

"I don’t mean to flirt with them, I only mean to be agreeable with them; surely there’s a difference," he said, kissing her, in spite of herself.

"I would sooner starve, live in a garret, than have you flirt with anyone, Lewis."

"I don’t mean to flirt with anyone, you silly little puss; but one should be attentive and polite, ladies like it.”

Lady Helen looked at him tenderly; she could not resist his caressing ways, but although what he said seemed to be all right, inwardly she felt that it was cowardly and false.

“What would you think of me," she replied, "were I to flirt with anyone to get you an order?"

She looked at him passionately, speaking in a hesitating way; evidently she had something to say, and didn’t like to say it. Lewis did not know at first how to answer, but recovering his assurance he said, laughing:

"Flirtation, after all, is nothing; it only means making oneself agreeable.”

He could not have summed himself up more completely. The whole man was in the phrase. It was like a sketch by Daumier, for it gave the mental and physical character of the modern lover.

Lady Helen laughed; but, although at the time she did not pay much attention, she learnt afterwards to understand the phrase at its full value.

They did not speak again for some time, but her face twitched nervously; she evidently had something to say, and was afraid to say it.

At last she decided she would.

"You promise not to be angry if I tell you something?" she said.

"I promise," returned Lewis, looking up from his palette.

"Well, then, you never noticed it, but that fool, Lord Senton, is always trying to make love to me.”

"You don’t say so?" said Lewis, laughing, and trying to appear surprised. He knew it well enough. "That fellow," he continued, "is the biggest fool I ever met; do you know that he makes love to every woman, and no one will have him. Tell me what he said to you, it amuses me.”

"Amuses you!" said Lady Helen, looking at her husband rather sternly. She had expected that he would be furious.

“Well, why should it not; nobody pays any attention to Lord Senton; he’s a perfect fool; every woman amuses herself with him."

"It does not amuse me, I assure you," replied Lady Helen, smiling, in spite of herself, at the recollection of something too utterly absurd he had said to her; "you have no idea how idiotic he is."

"But what does he say?"

"Oh, nothing, only that I am looking well, and that he admires me, and little things like that."

The conversation here dropped; but Lewis could see from the expression on Lady Helen’s face that she thought the idea of flirting with Senton for a portrait irresistibly funny. He did not speak, but left her to consider the matter.

After a minute or two she said:

"I wouldn’t mind dancing with him once or twice of an evening, but I really don’t see how that will get him to give you an order."

"Won’t it, indeed!" replied Lewis; and then he explained how it was to be done. First of all, be civil to him, smile at him, speak to him when she met him in the park, and ask him to call on her.

"And then?" she asked, quite interested in the intrigue.

"Why, when he is a little in your confidence, you must tell him to make himself agreeable to me, and come and see me; I will see him once or twice, and show him my pictures; then he will be only too anxious to sit for a portrait, it will give him an excuse to hang about the house.”

Lady Helen laughed; and, seeing that she had accepted the idea, he added, brutally, "and I will charge him two hundred pounds for the portrait and one for the flirtation.”

A knock came at the door, and a servant announced that Lady X. had arrived. Lewis told him to show her into the drawing-room. Lady Helen put on the body of her dress hastily, and they went up to see their visitor. She was a two hundred guinea one.