A Modern Lover — Volume 3 Chapter 12

London: Tinsley Brothers, 1 June 1883, pages 188-206, 3,323 words

CHAPTER XII.

VEILS FALL FROM THEIR EYES.

The twenty-ninth of October, 1882, was the day on which the academicians would meet at Burlington House to decide if Lewis should be admitted as an A.R.A.; on account of the condition of the two parties, the president’s and Mr. Holt’s, his election was considered almost a certainty. The news that not only was Holt going to vote for Seymour, but was using all his influence to get him votes, fell like a thunderbolt on artistic London.

At first every kind of conjecture was put forward to account for his extraordinary change of front; but gradually the truth began to be suspected, and the wiseacres predicted that if Seymour were elected, Mrs. Holt and Lady Helen would be seen driving in the park together.

Holt knew that it was useless to try to convince his friends that he liked Seymour’s work better than Thompson’s; and he remembered with regret that it was no later than last year that he had spoken of Seymour’s academy pictures with disdain. He told his embarrassment to Lady Helen, who in turn explained it to Lord Worthing, who in turn communicated it to Sir Thomas, who very kindly solved the difficulty by taking Thompson’s name off the list. This materially facilitated matters; though Holt still felt himself in a very awkward position, but his friends, guessing the truth, made it easy for him; and, without questioning him as to why and how he had so suddenly changed his opinions, promised to vote for Lewis Seymour.

As for Lady Helen, she patiently waited the result of the election; there was a great deal to do, and everything devolved upon her. She had to write innumerable letters to her father, explaining the necessity of allowing her to sell three thousand out of the funds, so that they might pay their debts. Lord Granderville had written in a very alarmed strain to Lord Worthing. Then Lady Granderville wrote, denouncing the whole thing, and declaring that they had better go through the Bankruptcy Court. All this was very harassing, and she had to keep her uncle up to the mark, and insist on his taking her view of the matter. Finally her father put it into Lord Worthing’s hands, who, of course, did not like to bear so much responsibility. It dragged interminably; but at last it was done, and the money placed in the bank. But even then her troubles were not nearly over. She had to look into all the bills, make them up, and when this was done, she had to decide how she would distribute the money, for she found she was three hundred short. Then she had to look out for a new house, and see how much it was possible to get for two hundred a year, she was resolved to give no more.

She had scarcely been out of town during the summer; all through the months of August and September she had driven from house agent to house agent; and, not satisfied with consulting their books, had rummaged St. John’s Wood, South Kensington, Fulham and Chelsea, from end to end.

Lewis irritated her beyond bearing; he seemed as inert as a log of wood. Even when she had noted down a house that might suit, she could scarcely get him to come and see if the studio would please him, and his want of energy sickened her.

But the final shame was reached when, on entering the studio suddenly, after a hard day’s work, she found him kissing a wretched little model. She felt too sick at heart and disgusted with his weak treachery to lose her temper. She had long suspected that he was unfaithful to her, now she was sure of it; and, miserable as the truth was, she felt that it was better to face it, than to be half tortured and half deceived.

Still, he was her husband, and the father of her child, and she would have to make the best of it; and after the first few days she spoke to her husband just as if nothing had happened. Congratulating himself that it had passed off so easily, Lewis devoted his whole time to his election, and to admiring his pictures. Never did they appear to him so good; and so great was his vanity that he did not seem to see that, even if he were elected, it would be entirely owing to extraneous influences, and not to any merit of his own.

He alluded to what Lady Helen had done, but only as if her aid were one of those little stepping-stones which an admirer lays at the foot of a great man, that he may take his place on Parnassus; and he spoke of his election as a tardy recognition of his genius.

The election was within a week of the day when they would have to get into their new house, and Lady Helen was very busy looking through papers and books; cataloguing the furniture, and getting everything ready for removal. Lewis did not attempt to assist her, he let her see the tradesmen, and make all the arrangements, even down to the removal of his pictures. Not only was he of no use, but he very much hindered her in her business, for he was too excited to sit still, and he followed her from room to room, asking her what Sir Henry had said when she saw him last, what Mrs. Holt had told her, and such like inanities.

What annoyed Lady Helen the most was that he only appeared to wish to gratify his vanity. After having hung about the place looking at the various clocks, and wondering if the election were already decided, he walked down the street so that he might get the news from some model.

Thankful at having got rid of him, Lady Helen continued, with the housekeeper, to catalogue the different articles. They were in a top room where a lot of books had been put away. As the housemaid turned out the contents of a press, they came on one of Lewis’ old dressing cases, out of which fell a bundle of letters. She saw at a glance that they were from women; and then there rose up within her an irritable curiosity to know, to read, the story of how she had been deceived. Her sentiments were more those of anger than of jealousy; she wished to place herself on equal terms with her rivals; and, unable to control her desire to learn who they were, she walked into the next room, her hands clutching the little delicate missives.

Sitting in a chair next the window, she read through half a dozen letters without stopping. The first began with, "Darling Lewis, just a line to tell you that it is impossible for me to see you to-morrow," etc. It was from a young girl whom she knew — whom she met every Sunday in church — the last person whom she would have suspected of such infamy! The second was written in a strange and vulgar style, and ended, "your own ducky little sweetheart, Alice." The third letter accused Lewis bitterly of loving his wife better than anyone in the world. The fourth was from one of Lady Helen’s most intimate friends, a married woman, who was supposed to adore her husband. The following phrase is sufficiently characteristic: "I think that perhaps you were wrong in stating that ‘a letter means nothing,’ as it proves at least that one was thinking of you while writing; but, as your letter was not very long, you need not feel any qualm of conscience for making me too vain.”

Smiling bitterly, Lady Helen opened a fifth letter. It was one of her own, and as she read its wild declarations of love, her last illusions withered and fell, like the autumn leaves that rustled against the window panes. It seemed to her that she could never be happy again, that she had measured the heights and depths of all human baseness, that there was nothing more for her to learn. What did it matter to her who were her husband's mistresses — he was for any woman who chose to make love to him.

She compared her letters with those of her rivals, and was astonished to find how similar they were; her anger melted and for a moment she pitied those who loved him, as she pitied herself. She wondered what there was in this man that so irresistibly attracted every woman to him, until, with a savage burst of cynicism, she asked herself aloud whether love were not only sensuality in disguise. Then, without attempting to find an answer to this delicate question, she got up and threw the letters from her into the fire place. But, as she did so, another packet became undone, and she recognised Mrs. Bentham’s handwriting. Smiling bitterly, she thought, "At last, I shall be able to solve this wonderful platonic mystery.”

There were there letters of all sorts; some long and tenderly solicitous for Lewis’ welfare, full of kind encouragements. Others, merely warnings that she would not be at home on’certain days, others giving rendezvous, and written in a more compromising manner. Her first impressions were those of sullen anger, for she felt that Mrs. Bentham, from the tone of some of the letters, must have been her husband’s mistress, and the deception that had been practised on her all these years, rose up before her eyes in all its hateful cruelty. Angrily she asked herself if their liaison still continued, but a moment’s reflection showed her that her supposition was absurd. Then, looking at the letter again, she was forced to recognise that the tone, though affectionate, was not incompatible with that of a dear friend; and that, though suspicious, the letter was not conclusive.

"After all," she thought, "what does it matter? Why should I trouble myself about what occurred before my marriage, when he betrays me even now, and with a model!”

Little by little her anger changed to curiosity, and she felt a violent desire to know if this woman, whose hair was now grey, had really been her husband’s mistress, and, if so, whether she had loved him years ago, as she herself had, only a few months since.

Then Lady Helen thought with pity how Mrs. Bentham must have suffered when she found that she had to give him up, she imagined a whole little romance, some of which bore a striking likeness to the truth; and she wondered what there was in this man that had not only fascinated her, but so many others.

Having pursued her thoughts to the end, she again referred to the letter, and the sense of curiosity predominating over all others, she felt she would give anything to know the absolute facts.

At that moment one of the servants announced that Mrs. Bentham was waiting in the drawing-room.

"Nothing could have happened more fortunately," thought Lady Helen, as she ran down-stairs; "I shall show her the letter, and I shall be easily able to tell by her face if it is true or not.”

When we voluntarily give up any one of our delights, it becomes a joy that nothing can dispossess us of. It was thus with Mrs. Bentham. Her love remained a mirror of unchanging purity, in which her whole life lived. Others might forget Lewis, might turn from him, but she could only love him.

She had come up from Sussex, so as to be one of the first to congratulate him if he were elected.

"Have you heard yet?" were the first words she said.

“No, we are expecting to hear every minute; but will you look over this letter?”

Wondering at Lady Helen’s coldness, Mrs. Bentham took the letter, and at the first glance recognised it.

It was a letter she had written to Lewis, encouraging him to persevere, now nearly six years ago; it was full of tenderness and exhortation. Her eyes filled with tears as she read it, for almost every word recalled some wellbeloved memory. Her hands, which were just beginning to wither to those of an old woman, trembled. After forty the years count double, and if grief and disappointment be added, the sum may be doubled again. Mrs. Bentham was only forty-five, but she certainly looked fifty-five, her hair was quite grey, her lips were almost colourless, and the wrinkles were creeping from her eyes down along her cheeks.

"So I married your cast-off lover!" Lady Helen said, affecting a bitterness which she strove to feel but could not.

"I admit," said Mrs. Bentham, "that this letter seems to justify your accusation, but I assure you now, as I have always assured you, you are mistaken.”

Lady Helen, in the confidence of her youth and beauty, looked at Mrs. Bentham pityingly.

“Was it possible," she asked herself, "that this woman with the white hair had been, no later than a few years ago, her husband’s mistress?" And yet she loved him enough to come from Sussex to congratulate him, who had deserted her for another; if so, how she must have suffered when she (Lady Helen) won him from her! Anyhow, what did it matter; what was the use of raking up the dust of the past, and she began to feel sorry for what she had said.

"I take your word; but, if you weren’t, a hundred others were, so it comes to much the same thing.”

Then, the memory of how Lewis had deceived her and lied to her over and over again, getting the better of her, she exclaimed, savagely,

"All I know is that it is disgusting, and I loathe him when he comes near me, for I know now that every word of love he utters he has said a million times before, and every kiss and caress he has learned, if not in yours, in somebody else’s arms. It is perfectly beastly!"

"You have no right to look into a man’s past," said Mrs. Bentham; "the most you can expect is for him to be faithful in the present and the future.”

"And do you think that he is faithful to me?" exclaimed Lady Helen, passionately; "not a month ago, when I was moving heaven and earth to get him votes, when I went to Holt and promised to get his wife into society if he voted for Lewis, why, I found him one day kissing a little model, a dirty little model, who sits to him for a shilling an hour!”

Mrs. Bentham did not answer, and Lady Helen, unable to contain her emotion any longer, burst into tears and sobbed convulsively on the sofa.

But it was over in a minute or two, and drying her eyes, she said:

"I beg your pardon, Lucy, for what I said to you just now, but it is very hard to bear; I declare I would sooner have a cripple, a hunchback, anything you like, and have him to myself, than this wretched creature, whom every woman I know has loved, or will, if she gets the chance.”

Then, after a pause, Lady Helen passed her arm through Mrs. Bentham’s, and the two women walked up the drawing-room into Lady Helen’s boudoir.

When they opened the door, Gwynnie Lloyd turned round. There was a photographic album on the table, and a carte de visite, which she had evidently just abstracted from the book, fell from her hand on the floor. Lady Helen picked it up, it was Lewis’ portrait, and she said, in a look, to Mrs. Bentham, “You see, what I told you, even my maid is in love with him.”

“What does this mean, Westhall?" asked Lady Helen, savagely.

Poor little Gwynnie looked quite bewildered, and she began to cry. At last she said:

"I’m sure I didn’t mean any harm, your ladyship, but I knew Mr. Lewis years ago, when we were very poor.”

"When we were very poor," said Lady Helen, sneeringly; "and you followed him into my house. I don’t want to hear any more.”

The shock bruised her till she was conscious of nothing but one immense feeling of sickness, horror, and disgrace; and an infinite desire not to know who the man was whom she owned as a husband, but to hide herself out of his sight for ever.

"Oh, don’t think that, your ladyship," cried Gwynnie; “he does not know I am here; it was an accident that I came here, and, being called Westhall instead of Lloyd, prevented him from recognising me.”

A cool and grateful sense of relief passed through Lady Helen, and she looked at her maid without speaking.

"What is your story?" asked Mrs. Bentham, gently.

Lady Helen and Mrs. Bentham listened to Gwynnie Lloyd’s story. She told it so simply and so unaffectedly that it carried with it an air of truth that no one could fail to recognise. But just as she was telling how she never knew who her master was going to be, till she saw his photograph in Lady Helen’s hand on her wedding-day, Lewis burst into the room.

"I have been looking for you everywhere," he exclaimed; "it is all right, I am elected! ”

His weak, soft face was flushed with the excitement of his triumph, and for a moment he did not notice that anything particular was happening. Time had changed him but little; his figure was as slim, his eyes as sweet, as they were ten years earlier. He was the same beautiful, soft creature, bad only because he had not strength to be good.

But at last, perceiving that Gwynnie was crying, and that Mrs. Bentham and his wife did not congratulate him, he asked what the matter was, looking from one woman to the other in a vague and apprehensive way.

"Nothing is the matter," said Lady Helen; "I am sure we are all delighted at your success, for we three here have all contributed something towards it, no one more than Miss Lloyd.”

Gwynnie looked at her mistress, then at Mrs. Bentham, then at Lewis, and the three women saw, but not one so clearly as the wife, that it was they who had worked for this man’s happiness, that it was they who had made him.

Lewis looked wonderingly, first at one, then at the other, quite at a loss to understand.

At last, Gwynnie seeing that Lady Helen wished her to speak, said:

"Don’t you remember me, Sir? I am Gwynnie Lloyd." The name seemed to recall something to him, but after a moment he shook his head.

"I am sorry to say I can’t remember," he said, in an embarrassed way. He did remember her, but, as was his fashion, he still hoped against hope that she was not the person, who had sat to him in the garret in the Waterloo Road.

"Don’t you remember, Sir, when you lived in Waterloo Road, and when I sat to you? "

Then, seeing it would be utterly useless to pretend any longer not to know her, he seized her hands, and squeezing them tightly, exclaimed, with a great deal of fervour, that he was enchanted to see her. But he did not waste much time over her, and at the earliest occasion began to speak of his election, and of everybody’s jealousy.

Lloyd took this opportunity of slipping from the room. The conversation immediately went back to her, and Lewis, seeing that his election had dwindled to a matter of very secondary importance, went off in a huff to the club, where he would be sure of being able to talk of himself.