CHAPTER IV.
It was difficult for the two who had thus parted at night to meet againat the breakfast-table next morning without any sign of that encounter,before the sharp eyes of Aunt Mary, and Norah's youthful, vivaciouspowers of observation. Dr Maurice was the one who found the ordeal mosthard. He was sullen, and had a headache, and talked very little, notfeeling able for it. 'You are bilious, Henry; that is what it is,' theaunt said. But though he was over fifty, and prided himself on his nowutterly prosaic character, the doctor felt wounded by such anexplanation. He did not venture to glance at Helen, even when he shookhands with her; though he had a lurking curiosity within him to see howshe looked, whether triumphant or sympathetic. He knew that he ought tohave been gay and full of talk, to put the best face possible upon hisdownfall; but he did not feel able to do it; not to feel sore, not tofeel small, and miserable, and disappointed, was beyond his powers.Helen was not gay either, nor at all triumphant; she felt theembarrassment of the position as much as he did; but in these cases itis the woman who generally has her wits most about her; and MrsDrummond, who was conscious also of her child's jealous inspection,talked rather more than usual. Norah had demanded to know what thedoctor had to say on the previous night; a certain dread was in hermind. She had felt that something was coming, something that threatenedthe peace of the world. 'What did he say to you, mamma?' she had askedanxiously. 'Nothing of importance,' Helen had replied. But Norah knewbetter; and all that bright May morning while the sunshine shone out ofdoors, even though it was in London, and tempted the country girlabroad, she kept by her mother's side and watched her with suspiciouseyes. Had Norah known the real state of affairs, her shame andindignation would have known no bounds; but Helen made so great aneffort to dismiss all consciousness from her face and tone, that thechild was balked at last, and retired from the field. Aunt Mary, who hadexperience to back her, saw more clearly. Whatever had been going tohappen had happened, she perceived, and had not been successful. Thusthey all breakfasted, watching each other, Helen being the only one whoknew everything and betrayed nothing. After breakfast they were going tothe Exhibition. It had been deferred to this day, which was to be theirlast.
'I do not think I will go,' said Dr Maurice; and then he caught Norah'slook full of disappointment, which was sweet to him. '_You_ want me, doyou, child?' he asked. There was a certain ludicrous pathos in theemphasis which was almost too much for Helen's gravity, though, indeed,laughter was little in her thoughts.
'Of course I want you,' said Norah; 'and so does mamma. Fancy sending usaway to wander about London by ourselves! That was not what you invitedus for, surely, Dr Maurice? And then after the pictures, let us haveanother splendid drive in the carriage, and despise all the people whoare walking! It will be the last time. You rich people, you have nothalf the pleasure you might have in being rich. I suppose, now, when yousee out of the carriage window somebody you know walking, it does notmake you proud?'
'I don't think it does,' said the doctor with a smile.
'That is because you are hardened to it,' said Norah. 'You can have itwhenever you please; but as for me, I am as proud----'
'I wish you had it always, my dear,' said Dr Maurice; and this time histone was almost lachrymose. It was so hard-hearted of Helen to deny herchild these pleasures and advantages, all to be purchased at the rate ofa small personal sacrifice on her part--a sacrifice such as he himselfwas quite ready to make.
'Oh, I should not mind that,' cried Norah; 'if I had it always I shouldget hardened to it too. I should not mind; most likely then I shouldprefer walking, and think carriages only fit for old ladies. Didn't yousay that one meets everybody at the Academy, mamma?'
'A great many people, Norah.'
'I wonder whom we shall meet,' said the girl; and a sudden blush floatedover her face. Helen looked at her with some anxiety. She did not knowwhat impression Cyril Rivers might have made on Norah's heart. Was ithim she was thinking of? Mrs Drummond herself wondered, too, a little.She was half afraid of the old friends she might see there. But then shereflected to herself dreamily, that life goes very quickly in London,that six years was a long time, and that her old friends might haveforgotten her. How changed her own feelings were! She had never beenfond of painters, her husband's brothers-in-arms. Now the least notableof them, the most painty, the most slovenly, would look somehow like ashadow of Robert. Should she see any of those old faces? Whom should shemeet? Norah's light question moved many echoes of which the child knewnothing; and it was to be answered in a way of which neither of themdreamed.
The mere entrance into those well-known rooms had an indescribableeffect upon Helen. How it all rushed back upon her, the old life! Thepilgrimages up those steps, the progress through the crowd to thatspecial spot where one picture was hung; the anxiety to see how itlooked--if there was anything near that 'killed' it in colour, or threwit into the shade in power; her own private hope, never expressed to anyone, that it might 'come better' in the new place. Dr Maurice stalkedalong by her side, but he did not say anything to her; and for her part,she could not speak--her heart and her eyes were full. She could onlysee the other people's pictures glimmering as through a mist. It seemedso strange to her, almost humiliating, that there was nothing of herown to go to--nothing to make a centre to this gallery, which hadrelapsed into pure art, without any personal interest in it. By-and-by,when the first shock had worn off, she began to be able to see what wason the walls, and to come back to her present circumstances. So manynames were new to her in those six years; so many that she once knew hadcrept out of sight into corners and behind doorways. She had begun toget absorbed in the sight, which was so much more to her than to mostpeople, when Mr Rivers came up to them. He had known they were to be intown; he had seen them at the opera the previous night, and had foundout a good deal about their plans. But London was different from Dura;and he had not ventured to offer his attentions before the eyes of allthe world, and all the cousins and connections and friends who mighthave come to a knowledge of the fact that an unknown pretty face hadattracted his homage. But of a morning, at the Royal Academy, he felthimself pretty safe; there every one is liable to meet some friend fromthe county, and the most watchful eyes of society are not on the alertat early hours. He came to them now with eager salutations.
'I tried hard to get at you at the opera last night,' he said, puttinghimself by Norah's side; 'but I was with my own people, and I could notget away.'
'Were you at the opera last night?' said Norah, with not half thesurprise he anticipated; for she was not aware of the facilities oflocomotion in such places, nor that he might have gone to her had he sodesired; and besides, she had seen no one, being intent upon the stage.Yet there was a furtive look about him now, a glance round now and then,to see who was near them, which startled her. She could not make outwhat it meant.
'Come, and I will show you the best pictures,' he said; and he took hercatalogue from her hand and pointed out to her which must be looked atfirst.
They made a pretty group as they stood thus,--Norah looking up with hersunshiny eyes, and he stooping over her, bending down till his silkyblack beard almost touched her hair. She little, and he tall--she fullof vivacity, light, and sunshine; he somewhat quiet, languishing,Byronic in his beauty. Norah was not such a perfect contrast to him asClara was--Rubens to the Byron; but her naturalness, the bright, glowingintelligence and spirit about her--the daylight sweetness of her face,with which soul had as much to do as feature, contrasted still moredistinctly with the semi-artificiality of the hero. For even grantingthat he was a little artificial, he was a real hero all the same; hishandsomeness and air of good society were unmistakable, his conversationwas passable; he knew the thousand things which people in society know,and which, whether they understand them or not, they are in the habit ofhearing talked about. All these remarks were made, not by Norah, nor byNorah's mother, but by Dr Maurice, who stood by and did not pretend tohave any interest in the pictures. And this young fellow wa
s theHonourable Cyril, and would be Lord Rivers. Dr Maurice kept an eye uponhim, wondering, as Helen had done, Did he mean anything? what did hemean?
'But there is one above all which I must show you--every one is talkingof it,' said Mr Rivers. 'Come this way, Miss Drummond. It is not easy toreach it; there is always such a crowd round it. Dr Maurice, bring MrsDrummond; it is in the next room. Come this way.'
Norah followed him, thinking of nothing but the pictures; and her motherand Dr Maurice went after them slowly, saying nothing to each other.They had entered the great room, following the younger pair, when someone stepped out of the crowd and came forward to Helen. He took off hishat and called her by her name--at first doubtfully, then withassurance.
'I thought I could not be mistaken,' he cried, 'and yet it is so longsince you have been seen here.'
'I am living in the country,' said Helen. Once more the room swam roundher. The new-comer's voice and aspect carried her back, with all thefreshness of the first impression, to the studio and its visitors again.
'And you had just been in my mind,' said the painter. 'There is apicture here which reminds us all so strongly of poor dear Drummond.Will you let me take you to it? It is exactly in his style, his beststyle, with all that tenderness of feeling--It has set us all talking ofyou and him. Indeed, none of his old friends have forgotten him; andthis is so strangely like his work----'
'Where is it?--one of his pupils, perhaps,' said Helen. She tried to bevery composed, and to show no emotion; but it was so long since she hadheard his name, so long since he had been spoken of before her! She feltgrateful, as if they had done her a personal service, to think that theytalked of Robert still.
'This way,' said the painter; and just then Norah met her, flying backwith her eyes shining, her ribbons flying, wonder and excitement in herface.
Norah seized her mother by the hands, gasping in her haste and emotion.'Oh, mamma, come; it is our picture,' she cried.
Wondering, Helen went forward. It was the upper end of the room, theplace of honour. Whether it was that so many people around her carriedher on like a body-guard making her a way through the crowd, or that thecrowd itself, moved by that subtle sympathy which sometimes communicatesitself to the mass more easily than to individuals, melted before her,as if feeling she had the best right to be there, I cannot tell. But allat once Helen found herself close to the crimson cord which the pressureof the throng had almost broken down, standing before a picture. Onepicture--was there any other in the place? It was the picture of a facelooking up, with two upward-reaching hands, from the bottom of an abyss,full of whirling clouds and vapour. High above this was a bank ofheavenly blue, and a white cloud of faintly indistinct spectators,pitiful angel forms, and one visionary figure as of a woman gazing down.But it was the form below in which the interest lay. It was worn andpale, with the redness of tears about the eyes, the lips pressedclosely together, the hands only appealing, held up in a passionatesilence. Helen stood still, with eyes that would not believe what theysaw. She became unconscious of everything about her, though the peoplethronged upon her, supporting her, though she did not know. Then sheheld out her hands wildly, with a cry which rang through the rooms andpenetrated every one in them--'Robert!'--and fell at the foot of thepicture, which was called 'Dives'--the first work of a nameless painterwhom nobody knew.
It would be impossible to describe the tumult and commotion which rosein the room to which everybody hastened from every corner of theexhibition, thronging the doorways and every available corner, andmaking it impossible for some minutes to remove her. 'A lady fainted! Isthat all?' the disappointed spectators cried. They had expectedsomething more exciting than so common, so trifling an occurrence.'Fortunately,' the newspapers said who related the incident, 'a medicalman was present;' and when Helen came to herself, she found Dr Mauricestanding over her, with his finger on her pulse. 'It is the heat, andthe fatigue--and all that,' he said; and all through the rooms peoplerepeated to each other that it was the heat, and the dust, and thecrowd, and that there was nothing so fatiguing as looking at pictures.'Both body and mind are kept on the strain, you know,' they said, andimmediately thought of luncheon. But Dr Maurice thought of somethingvery different. He did not understand all this commotion about apicture; if his good heart would have let him, he would have tried tothink that Helen was 'making a fuss.' As it was he laid this misfortuneto the door of women generally, whom there was no understanding; andthen, in a parenthesis, allowed that he might himself be to blame. Heshould not have agitated her, he thought; but added, 'Good Lord, whatare women good for, if they have to be kept in a glass-house, and neverspoken to? The best thing is to be rid of them, after all.'
I will not attempt to describe what Helen's thoughts were when she cameto herself. She would not, dared not betray to any one the impression,which was more than an impression--the conviction that had suddenly cometo her. She put up her hand, and silenced Norah, who was beginning,open-mouthed, 'Oh, mamma!' She called the old friend to her, who hadattended the group down into the vestibule, and begged him to find outfor her exactly who the painter was, and where he was to be heard of;and there she sat, still abstracted, with a singing in her ears, whichshe thought was only the rustle of the thoughts that hurried through herbrain, until she should be able to go home. It was while they werewaiting thus, standing round her, that another event occurred, of whichHelen was too much absorbed to take any but the slightest cognizance.She was seated on a bench, still very pale, and unable to move. DrMaurice was mounting guard over her. Norah stood talking to Mr Rivers onthe other side; while meanwhile the stream of the public was flowingpast, and new arrivals entering every moment by the swinging doors.Norah had grown very earnest in her talk. 'We have the very same subjectat home, the same picture,' she was saying; her eyelashes were dewy withtears, her whole face full of emotion. Her colour went and came as shespoke; she stood looking up to him with a thrill of feeling and meaningabout her, such as touch the heart more than beauty. And yet there wasno lack of beauty. A lady who had just come in, paused, having herattention attracted to the group, and looked at them all, as she thoughtshe had a right to do. 'The poor lady who fainted,' she heard some onesay. But this girl who stood in front had no appearance of fainting. Shewas all life, and tenderness, and fire. The woman who looked on admiredher fresh, sweet youthfulness, her face, which in its changing colourwas like a flower. She admired all these, and made out, with a quickobservant eye, that the girl was the daughter of the pale beautifulwoman by the wall, and not unworthy of her. And then suddenly, without apause, she called out, 'Cyril!' Young Rivers started as if a shot hadstruck him. He rushed to her with tremulous haste. 'Mother! you don'tmean to say that you have come here alone?'
'But I do mean it, and I want you to take care of me,' she said, takinghis arm at once. 'I meant to come early. We have no time to lose.'
Norah stood surprised, looking at the woman who was Cyril's mother; in apretty pause of expectation, the blush coming and going on her face, herhand ready to be timidly put out in greeting, her pretty mouth halfsmiling already, her eyes watching with an interest of which she was notashamed. Why should she be ashamed of being interested in Cyril'smother? She waited for the approach, the introduction--most likely theelder woman's gracious greeting. 'For she must have heard of me too,'Norah thought. She cast down her eyes, pleasantly abashed; for LadyRivers was certainly looking at her. When she looked up again, in wonderthat she was not spoken to, Cyril was on the stair with his mother,going up. He was looking back anxiously, waving his hand to her frombehind Lady Rivers. He had a beseeching look in his eyes, his facelooked miserable across his mother's shoulders, but--he was gone. Norahlooked round her stupefied. Had anything happened?--was she dreaming?And then the blood rushed to her face in a crimson flush of pride andshame.
She bore this blow alone, without even her mother to share and softenit; and the child staggered under it for the moment. She grew as pale asHelen herself after that one flash. When the carri
age came to the door,two women, marble-white, stepped into it. Dr Maurice had not the heartto go with them; he would walk home, he said. And Norah looked out ofthe window, as she had so joyfully anticipated doing in her happinessand levity, but not to despise the people who walked. The only thoughtof which she was capable was--Is everybody like that? Do people behaveso naturally? Is it the way of the world?
This is what they met at the Academy, where they went so lightly, notknowing. The name of the painter of the 'Dives' reached them that samenight; it was not in the catalogue. His name was John Sinclair,Thirty-fifth Avenue, New York.