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NO longer ago than last Summer, during a six weeks' stay at Newport, John Lennox became engaged to Miss Marian Everett of New York. Mr. Lennox was a widower, of large estate, and without children. He was thirty-five years old, of a sufficiently distinguished appearance, of excellent manners, of an unusual share of sound information, of irreproachable habits and of a temper which was understood to have suffered a trying and salutary probation during the short term of his wedded life. Miss Everett was, therefore, all things considered, believed to be making a very good match and to be having by no means the worst of the bargain.
And yet Miss Everett, too, was a very marriageable young lady—the pretty Miss Everett, as she was called, to distinguish her from certain plain cousins, with whom, owing to her having no mother and no sisters, she was constrained, for decency's sake, to spend a great deal of her time—rather to her own satisfaction, it may be conjectured, than to that of these excellent young women.
Marian Everett was penniless, indeed; but she was richly endowed with all the gifts which make a woman charming. She was, without dispute, the most charming girl in the circle in which she lived and moved. Even certain of her elders, women of a larger experience, of a heavier calibre, as it were, and, thanks to their being married ladies, of greater freedom of action, were practically not so charming as she. And yet, in her emulation of the social graces of these, her more fully licensed sisters; Miss Everett was quite guiltless of any aberration from the strict line of maidenly dignity. She professed an almost religious devotion to good taste, and she looked with horror upon the boisterous graces of many of her companions. Beside being the most entertaining girl in New York, she was, therefore, also the most irreproachable. Her beauty was, perhaps, contestable, but it was certainly uncontested. She was the least bit below the middle height, and her person was marked by a great fullness and roundness of outline; and yet, in, spite of this comely ponderosity, her movements were perfectly light and elastic. In complexion, she was a genuine blonde—a warm blonde; with a midsummer bloom upon her cheek, and the light of a midsummer sun wrought into her auburn hair. Her features were not cast upon a classical model, but their expression was in the highest degree pleasing. .Her forehead was low and broad, her nose small, and her mouth—well, by the envious her mouth was called enormous. It is certain that it had an immense capacity for smiles, and that when she opened it to sing (which she did with infinite sweetness) it emitted a copious flood of sound. Her face was, perhaps, a trifle too circular, and her shoulders a trifle too high; but, as I say, the general effect left nothing to be desired. I might point out a dozen discords in the character of her face and figure, and yet utterly fail to invalidate the impression they produced. There is something essentially uncivil, and, indeed, unphilosophical, in the attempt to verify or to disprove a woman's beauty in detail, and a man gets no more than he deserves when he finds that, in strictness, the aggregation of the different features fails to make up the total. Stand oft; gentlemen, and let her make the addition. Beside her beauty, Miss Everett shone by her good nature and her lively perceptions. She neither made harsh speeches nor resented them; and, on the other hand, she keenly enjoyed intellectual cleverness, and even cultivated it. Her great merit was that she made no claims or pretensions. Just as there was nothing artificial in her beauty, so there was nothing pedantic in her acuteness and nothing sentimental in her amiability. The one was all freshness and the others all bonhommie.
John Lennox saw her, then loved her and offered her his hand. In accepting it Miss Everett acquired, in the worlds eye, the one advantage which she lacked—a complete stability and regularity of position. Her friends took no small satisfaction in contrasting her brilliant and comfortable future with her somewhat precarious past. Lennox, nevertheless, was congratulated on the right hand and on the left; but none too often for his faith. That of Miss Everett was not put to so severe a test, although she was frequently reminded by acquaintances of a moralizing turn that she had reason to be very thankful for Mr. Lennox's choice. To these assurances Marian listened with a look of patient humility, which was extremely becoming. It was as if for his sake she could consent even to be bored.
Within a fortnight after their engagement had been made known, both parties returned to New York. Lennox lived in a house of his own, which he now busied himself with repairing and refurnishing; for the wedding had been fixed for the end of October. Miss Everett lived in lodgings with her father, a decayed old gentleman, who rubbed his idle hands from morning till night over the prospect of his daughters marriage.
John Lennox, habitually a man of numerous resources, fond of reading, fond of music, fond of society and not averse to polities, passed the first weeks of the Autumn in a restless, fidgety manner. When a man approaches middle age he finds it difficult to wear gracefully the distinction of being engaged. He finds it difficult to discharge with becoming alacrity the various petits soins incidental to the position. There was a certain pathetic gravity, to those who knew him well, in Lennox's attentions. One-third of his time he spent in foraging in Broadway, whence he returned half-a-dozen times a week, laden with trinkets and gimcracks, which he always finished by thinking it puerile and brutal to offer his mistress. Another third he passed in Mr. Everett's drawing-room, during which period Marian was denied to visitors. The rest of the time he spent, as he told a friend, God knows how. This was stronger language than his friend expected to hear, for Lennox was neither a man of precipitate utterance, nor, in his friends belief of a strongly passionate nature. But it was evident that he was very much in love; or at least very much off his balance.
“When I'm with her it's all very well, “ he pursued, “but when I'm away from her I feel as if I were thrust out of the ranks of the living.”
“Well, you must be patient,” said his friend; “you're destined to live hard, yet.”
Lennox was silent, and his face remained rather more sombre than the other liked to see it.
“I hope there's no particular difficulty,” the latter resumed; hoping to induce him to relieve himself of whatever weighed upon his consciousness.
“I'm afraid sometimes I—afraid sometimes she doesn't really love me.”
“Well, a little doubt does no harm. It's better than to be too sure of it, and to sink into fatuity. Only be sure you love her.”
“Yes,” said Lennox, solemnly, “that's the great point.”
One morning, unable to fix his attention on books and papers, he bethought himself of an expedient for passing an hour.
He had made, at Newport, the acquaintance of a young artist named Gilbert, for whose talent and conversation he had conceived a strong relish. The painter, on leaving Newport, was to go to the Adirondacks, and to be back in New York on the first of October, after which time he begged his friend to come and see him.
It occurred to Lennox on the morning I speak of that Gilbert must already have returned to town, and would be looking for hi visit. So he forthwith repaired to his studio.
Gilbert's card was on the door, but, on entering the room, Lennox found it occupied by a stranger—a young man in painter's garb, at work before a large panel. He learned from this gentleman that he was a temporary sharer of Mr. Gilberts studio, and that the latter had stepped out for a few moments. Lennox accordingly prepared to await his return. He entered into conversation with the young man, and, finding him very intelligent, as well as, apparently, a great friend of Gilbert, he looked at him with some interest. He was of something less than thirty, tall and robust, with a strong, joyous, sensitive face, and a thick auburn beard. Lennox was struck with his face, which seemed both to express a great deal of human sagacity and to indicate the essential temperament of a painter.
“A man with that face,” he said to himself, “does work at least worth looking at.”
He accordingly asked his companion if he might come and look at his picture. The latter readily assented, and Lennox placed himself before the canvas.
It bore a representation of a half-length female figure, in a costume and with an expression so ambiguous that Lennox remained uncertain whether it was a portrait or a work of fancy: a fair-haired young woman, clad in a rich mediæval dress, and looking like a countess of the Renaissance. Her figure was relieved against a sombre tapestry, her arms loosely folded, her head erect and her eyes on the spectator, toward whom she seemed to move—”Dans un flôt de velours trainant ses petits pieds.”
As Lennox inspected her face it seemed to reveal a hidden likeness to a face he well knew—the face of Marian Everett. He was of course anxious to know whether the likeness was accidental or designed.
“I take this to be a portrait,” he said to the artist, “a portrait in character.”
“No,” said the latter, “it's a mere composition : a little from here and a little from there. The picture has been hanging about me for the last two or three years, as a sort of receptacle of waste ideas. It has been the victim of innumerable theories and experiments. But it seems to have survived them all. I suppose it possesses a certain amount of vitality.”
“Do you call it anything?”
“I called it originally after something I'd read—Browning's poem, 'My Last Duchess'. Do you know it?”
“Perfectly.”
“I am ignorant of whether its an attempt to embody the poets impression of a portrait actually existing. But why should I care? This is simply an attempt to embody my own private impression of the poem, which has always had a strong hold on my fancy. I don't know whether it agrees with your own impression and that of most readers. But I don't insist upon the name. The possessor of the picture is free to baptise it afresh.”
The longer Lennox looked at the picture the more he liked it, and the deeper seemed to be the correspondence between the lady's expression and that with which he had invested the heroine of Browning's lines. The less accidental, too, seemed that element which Marian's face and the face on the canvas possessed in common. He thought of the great poet's noble lyric and of its exquisite significance, and of the physiognomy of the woman he loved having been chosen as the fittest exponent of that significance.
He turned away his head; his eyes filled with tears. “If I were possessor of the picture,” he said, finally, answering the artists last words, “I should feel tempted to call it by the name of a person of whom it very much reminds me.”
“Ah?” said Baxter; and then, after a pause—"a person in New York?”
It had happened, a week before, that, at her lover's request, Miss Everett had gone in his company to a photographer's and had been photographed in a dozen different attitudes. The proofs of these photographs had been sent home for Marian to choose from. She had made a choice of half a dozen—or rather Lennox had made it and the latter had put them in his pocket, with the intention of stopping at the establishment and giving his orders. He now took out his pocket-book and showed the painter one of the cards.
“I find a great resemblance,” said he, “between your Duchess and that young lady.”
The artist looked at the photograph. “If I am not mistaken,” he said, after a pause, “the young lady is Miss Everett.”
Lennox nodded assent.
His companion remained silent a few moments, examining the photograph with considerable interest; but, as Lennox observed, without comparing it with his picture.
“My Duchess very probably bears a certain resemblance to Miss Everett, but a not exactly intentional one,” he said, at last. “The picture was begun before I ever saw Miss Everett. Miss Everett, as you see—or as you know—has a very charming face, and, during the few weeks in which I saw her, I continued to work upon it. You know how a painter works—how artists of all kinds work: they claim their property wherever they find it. What I found to my purpose in Miss Everett's appearance I didn't hesitate to adopt; especially as I had been feeling about in the dark for a type of countenance which her face effectually realized. The Duchess was an Italian, I take it; and I had made up my mind that she was to be a blonde. Now, there is a decidedly southern depth and warmth of tone in Miss Everett's complexion, as well as that breadth and thickness of feature which is common in Italian women. You see the resemblance is much more a matter of type than of expression. Nevertheless, I'm sorry if the copy betrays the original.”
“I doubt,” said Lennox, “whether it would betray it to any other perception than mine. I have the honour,” he added, after a pause, “to be engaged to Miss Everett. You will, therefore, excuse me if I ask whether you mean to sell your picture?”
“It's already sold—to a lady,” rejoined the artist, with a smile; “a maiden lady, who is a great admirer of Browning.”
At this moment Gilbert returned. The two friends exchanged greetings, and their companion withdrew to a neighbouring studio. After they had talked a while of what had happened to each since they parted, Lennox spoke of the painter of the Duchess and of his remarkable talent, expressing surprise that he shouldn't have heard of him before, and that Gilbert should never have spoken of him.
“His name is Baxter—Stephen Baxter,” said Gilbert, “and until his return from Europe, a fortnight ago, I knew little more about him than you. He's a case of improvement. I met him in Paris in '62; at that time he was doing absolutely nothing. He has learned what you see in the interval. On arriving in New York he found it impossible to get a studio big enough to hold him. As, with my little sketches, I need only occupy one corner of mine, I offered him the use of the other three, until he should be able to bestow himself to his satisfaction. When he began to unpack his canvases I found I have been entertaining an angel unawares.”
Gilbert then proceeded to uncover, for Lennox's inspection, several of Baxter's portraits, both of men and women. Each of these works confirmed Lennox's impression of the painters power. He returned to the picture on the easel. Marian Everett reappeared at his silent call, and looked out of the eyes with a most penetrating tenderness and melancholy.
“He may say what he pleases,” thought Lennox, “the resemblance is, in some degree, also a matter of expression. Gilbert,” he added, wishing to measure the force of the likeness, “whom does it remind you of?”
“I know, “ said Gilbert, “of whom it reminds you.”
“And do you see it yourself?”
“They are both handsome, and both have auburn hair. That's all I can see.”
Lennox was somewhat relieved. It was not without a feeling of discomfort—a feeling by no means inconsistent with his first moment of pride and satisfaction—that he thought of Marian's peculiar and individual charms having been subjected to the keen appreciation of another than himself, he was glad to be able to conclude that the painter had merely been struck with what was most superficial in her appearance, and that his own imagination supplied the rest. It occurred to him, as he walked home, that it would be a not unbecoming tribute to the young girl's loveliness on his own part, to cause her portrait to be painted by this clever young man. Their engagement had as yet been an affair of pure sentiment, and he had taken an almost fastidious care not to give himself the vulgar appearance of a mere purveyor of luxuries and pleasures. Practically, he had been as yet for his future wife a poor man—or rather a man, pure and simple, and not a millionaire. He had ridden with her, he had sent her flowers, and he had gone with her to the opera. But he had neither sent her sugar-plums, nor made bets with her, nor made her presents of jewellery. Miss Everett's female friends had remarked that he hadn't as yet given her the least little betrothal ring, either of pearls or of diamonds. Marian, however, was quite content. She was, by nature, a great artist in the mise en scène of emotions, and she felt instinctively that this classical moderation was but the converse presentment of an immense matrimonial abundance. In his attempt to make it impossible that his relations with Miss Everett should be tinged in any degree with the accidental condition of the fortunes of either party, Lennox had thoroughly understood his own instinct. He knew that he should some day feel a strong and irresistible impulse to offer his mistress some visible and artistic token of his affection, and that his gift would convey a greater satisfaction from being sole of its kind. It seemed to him now that his chance had come. What gift could be more delicate than the gift of an opportunity to contribute by her patience and good-will to her husbands possession of a perfect likeness of her face?
On that same evening Lennox dined with his future father-in-law, as it was his habit to do once a week.
“Marian,” he said, in the course of the dinner, “I saw, this morning, an old friend of yours.”
“Ah,” said Marian, “who was that?”
“Mr. Baxter, the painter.”
Marian changed colour—ever so little; no more, indeed, than was natural to an honest surprise.
Her surprise, however, could not have been great, inasmuch as she now said that she had seen his return to America mentioned in a newspaper, and as she knew that Lennox frequented the society of artists. “He was well, I hope,” she added, “and prosperous.”
“Where did you know this gentleman, my dear?” asked Mr. Everett.
“I knew him in Europe two years ago—first in the Summer in Switzerland, and afterward in Paris. He is a sort of cousin of Mrs. Denbigh.” Mrs. Denbigh was a lady in whose company Marian had recently spent a year in Europe—a widow, rich, childless an invalid, and an old friend of her mother. “Is he always painting?”
“Apparently, and extremely well. He has two or three as good portraits there as one may reasonably expect to see. And he has, moreover, a certain picture which reminded me of you.”
“His 'Last Duchess'?” asked Marian, with some curiosity. “I should like to see it. If you think its like me, John, you ought to buy it up.”
“I wanted to buy it, but it's sold. You know it then?”
“Yes, through Mr. Baxter himself. I saw it in its rudimentary state, when it looked like nothing that I should care to look like. I shocked Mrs. Denbigh very much by telling him I was glad it was his last. The picture, indeed, led to our acquaintance.”
“And not vice versa,” said Mr. Everett, facetiously.
“How vice versa?” asked Marian, innocently. “I met Mr. Baxter for the first time at a party in Rome.”
“I thought you said you met him in Switzerland,” said Lennox.
“No, in Rome. It was only two days before we left. He was introduced to me without knowing I was with Mrs. Denbigh, and indeed without knowing that she had been in the city. He was very shy of Americans. The first thing he said to me was that I looked very much like a picture he had been painting. “
“That you realized his ideal, etc.”
“Exactly, but not at all in that sentimental tone. I took him to Mrs. Denbigh; they found they were sixth cousins by marriage; he came to see us the next day, and insisted upon our going to his studio. It was a miserable place. I believe he was very poor. At least Mrs. Denbigh offered him some money, and he frankly accepted it. She attempted to spare his sensibilities by telling him that, if he liked, he could paint her a picture in return. He said he would if he had time. Later, he came up into Switzerland, and the following Winter we met him in Paris.”
If Lennox had had any mistrust of Miss Everett's relations with the painter, the manner in which she told her little story would have effectually blighted it. He forthwith proposed that, in consideration not only of the young mans great talent, but of his actual knowledge of her face, he should be invited to paint her portrait.
Marian assented without reluctance and without alacrity, and Lennox laid his proposition before the artist. The latter requested a day or two to consider, and then replied (by note) that he would be happy to undertake the task.
Miss Everett expected that, in view of the projected renewal of their old acquaintance, Stephen Baxter would call upon her, under the auspices of her lover. He called in effect, alone, but Marian was not at home, and he failed to repeat the visit. The day for the first sitting was therefore appointed through Lennox. The artist had not as yet obtained a studio of his own, and the latter cordially offered him the momentary use of a spacious and well-lighted apartment in his house, which had been intended as a billiard room, but was not yet fitted up. Lennox expressed no wishes with regard to the portrait, being content to leave the choice of position and costume to the parties immediately interested. He found the painter perfectly well acquainted with Marians “points", and he had an implicit confidence in her own good taste.
Miss Everett arrived on the morning appointed, under her father's escort, Mr. Everett, who prided himself largely upon doing things in proper form, having caused himself to be introduced beforehand to the painter. Between the latter and Marian there was a brief exchange of civilities, after which they addressed themselves to business. Miss Everett professed the most cheerful deference to Baxter's wishes and fancies, at the same time that she made no secret of possessing a number of strong convictions as to what should be attempted and what should be avoided.
It was no surprise to the young man to find her convictions sound and her wishes thoroughly sympathetic. He found himself called upon to make no compromise with stubborn and unnatural prejudices, nor to sacrifice his best intentions to a short-sighted vanity.
Whether Miss Everett was vain or not need not here be declared. She had at least the wit to perceive that the interests of an enlightened sagacity would best be served by a painting which should be good from the painter's point of view, inasmuch as these are the painting's chief end. I may add, moreover, to her very great credit, that she thoroughly understood how great an artistic merit should properly attach to a picture executed at the behest of a passion, in order that it should be anything more than a mockery—a parody—of the duration of that passion; and that she knew instinctively that there is nothing so chilling to an artists heat as the interference of illogical self-interest, either on his own behalf or that of another.
Baxter worked firmly and rapidly, and at the end of a couple of hours he felt that he had begun his picture. Mr. Everett, as he sat by, threatened to be a bore; labouring apparently under the impression that it was his duty to beguile the session with cheap aesthetic small talk. But Marian good-humouredly took the painter's share of the dialogue, and he was not diverted from his work.
The next sitting was fixed for the morrow. Marian wore the dress which she had agreed upon with the painter, and in which, as in her position, the “picturesque” element had been religiously suppressed. She read in Baxter's eyes that she looked supremely beautiful, and she saw that his fingers tingled to attack his subject. But. she caused Lennox to he sent for, under the pretence of obtaining his adhesion to her dress. It was black, and he might object to black. He came, and she read in his kindly eyes an augmented edition of the assurance conveyed in Baxter's. He was enthusiastic for the black dress, which, in truth, seemed only to confirm and enrich, like a grave maternal protest, the young girls look of undiminished youth.
“I expect you,” he said to Baxter, “to make a masterpiece.”
“Never fear,” said the painter, tapping his forehead. “It's made.”
On this second occasion, Mr. Everett, exhausted by the intellectual strain of the preceding day, and encouraged by his luxurious chair, sank into a tranquil sleep. His companions remained for some time, listening to his regular breathing; Marian with her eyes patiently fixed on the opposite wall, and the young man with his glance mechanically travelling between his figure and the canvas. At last he fell back several paces to survey his work. Marian moved her eyes, and they met his own.
“Well, Miss Everett,” said the painter, in accents which might have been tremulous if he had not exerted a strong effort to make them firm.
“Well, Mr. Baxter,” said the young girl.
And the two exchanged a long, firm glance, which at last ended in a smile—a smile which belonged decidedly to the family of the famous laugh of the two angels behind the altar in the temple.
“Well, Miss Everett,” said Baxter, going back to his work; “such is life.”
“So it appears,” rejoined Marian. And then, after a pause of some moments: “Why didn't you come and see me?” she added.
“I came and you weren't at home.
“Why didn't you come again?”
“What was the use, Miss Everett?”
“It would simply have been more decent. We might have become reconciled.”
“We seem to have done that as it is.”
“I mean 'in form'.”
“That would have been absurd. Don't you see how true an instinct I had? What could have been easier than our meeting? I assure you that I should have found any talk about the past, and mutual assurances or apologies extremely disagreeable.”
Miss Everett raised her eyes from the floor and fixed them on her companion with a deep, half-reproachful glance, “Is the past, then,” she asked, “so utterly disagreeable?”
Baxter stared, half amazed. “Good heavens!” he cried, “of course it is.”
Miss Everett dropped her eyes and remained silent.
I may as well take advantage of the moment, rapidly to make plain to the reader the events to which the above conversation refers.
Miss Everett had found it expedient, all things considered, not to tell her intended husband the whole story of her acquaintance with Stephen Baxter; and when I have repaired her omissions, the reader will probably justify her discretion.
She had, as she said, met this young man for the first time at Rome, and there in the course of two interviews had made a deep impression upon his heart. He had felt that he would give a great deal to meet Miss Everett again. Their reunion in Switzerland was therefore not entirely fortuitous; and it had been the more easy for Baxter to make it possible, for the reason that he was able to claim a kind of roundabout relationship with Mrs. Denbigh, Marians companion. With this lady's permission he had attached himself to their party. He had made their route of travel his own, he had stopped when they stopped and been prodigal of attentions and civilities. Before a week was over, Mrs. Denbigh, who was the soul of confiding good nature, exulted in the discovery of an invaluable kinsman. Thanks not only to her naturally unexacting disposition, but to the apathetic and inactive habits induced by constant physical suffering, she proved a very insignificant third in her companions spending of the hours. How delightfully these hours were spent, it requires no great effort to imagine. A suit conducted in the midst of the most romantic scenery in Europe is already half won. Marian's social graces were largely enhanced by the satisfaction which her innate intelligence of natural beauty enabled her to take in the magnificent scenery of the Alps. She had never appeared to such advantage; she had never known such perfect freedom and frankness and gayety. For the first time in her life she had made a captive without suspecting it. She had surrendered her heart to the mountains and the lakes, the eternal snows and the pastoral valleys, and Baxter, standing by, had intercepted it. He felt his long-projected Swiss tour vastly magnified and beautified by Miss Everett's part in it—by the constant feminine sympathy which gushed within earshot, with the coolness and clearness of a mountain spring. Oh! if only it too had not been fed by the eternal snows! And then her beauty—her indefatigable beauty—was a continual enchantment. Miss Everett looked so thoroughly in her place in a drawing-room that it was almost logical to suppose that she looked well nowhere else. But in fact, as Baxter learned, she looked quite well enough in the character of what ladies call a “fright”—that is, sunburnt, travel-stained, overheated, exhilarated and hungry—to elude all invidious comparisons.
At the end of three weeks, one morning as they stood together on the edge of a falling torrent, high above the green concavities of the hills, Baxter felt himself irresistibly urged to make a declaration. The thunderous noise of the cataract covered all vocal utterance; so, taking out his sketch-book, he wrote three short words on a blank leaf. He handed her the book. She read his message with a beautiful change of colour and a single rapid glance at his face. She then tore out the leaf:
“Don't tear it up!” cried the young man.
She understood him by the movement of his lips and shook her head with a smile. But she stooped, picked up a little stone, and wrapping it in the bit of paper, prepared to toss it into the torrent.
Baxter, uncertain, put out his hand to take it from her. She passed it into the other hand and gave him the one he had attempted to take.
She threw away the paper, but she let him keep her hand.
Baxter had still a week at his disposal, and Marian made it a very happy one. Mrs. Denbigh was tired; they had come to a halt, and there was no interruption to their being together. They talked a great deal of the long future, which, on getting beyond the sound of the cataract, they had expeditiously agreed to pursue in common.
It was their misfortune both to be poor. They determined, in view of this circumstance, to say nothing of their engagement until Baxter, by dint of hard work, should have at least quadrupled his income. This was cruel, but it was imperative, and Marian made no complaint. Her residence in Europe had enlarged her conception of the material needs of a pretty woman, and it was quite natural that she should not, close upon the heels of this experience, desire to rush into marriage with a poor artist. At the end of some days Baxter started for Germany and Holland, portions of which he wished to visit for purposes of study. Mrs. Denbigh and her young friend repaired to Paris for the Winter. Here, in the middle of February, they were rejoined by Baxter, who had achieved his German tour. He had received, while absent, five little letters from Marian, full of affection. The number was small, but the young man detected in the very temperance of his mistress a certain delicious flavour of implicit constancy. She received him with all the frankness and sweetness that he had a right to expect, and listened with great interest to his account of the improvement in his prospects. He had sold three of his Italian pictures and had made an invaluable collection of sketches. He was on the high road to wealth and fame, and there was no reason their engagement should not be announced. But to this latter proposition Marian demurred—demurred so strongly, and yet on grounds so arbitrary, that a somewhat painful scene ensued. Stephen left her, irritated and perplexed. The next day, when he called, she was unwell and unable to see him; and the next and the next. On the evening of the day that he had made his third fruitless call at Mrs. Denbigh's, he overheard Marian's name mentioned at a large party. The interlocutors were two elderly women. On giving his attention to their talks which they were taking no pains to keep private, he found that his mistress was under accusal of having trifled with the affections of an unhappy young man, the only son of one of the ladies. There was apparently no lack of evidence or of facts which might be construed as evidence. Baxter went home, la mort dans l'àme, and on the following day called again on Mrs. Denbigh. Marian was still in her room, but the former lady received him. Stephen was in great trouble, but his mind was lucid ,and he addressed himself to the task of interrogating his hostess. Mrs. Denbigh, with her habitual indolence, had remained unsuspicious of the terms on which the young people stood.
“I'm sorry to say,” Baxter began, “that I heard Miss Everett accused last evening of very sad conduct.”
“Ah, for heavens sake, Stephen,” returned his kinswoman, “don't go back to that. I've done nothing all Winter but defend and palliate her conduct. It's hard work. Don't make me do it for you. You know her as well as I do. She was indiscreet, but I know she is penitent, and for that matter she's well out of it. He was by no means a desirable young man.”
“The lady whom I heard talking about the matter,” said Stephen, “spoke of him in the highest terms. To be sure, as it turned out, she was his mother.”
“His mother? You're mistaken. His mother died ten years ago.”
Baxter folded his arms with a feeling that he needed to sit firm. “ Allons,” said he, “of whom do you speak?”
“Of young Mr. King.”
“Good heavens,” cried Stephen. “So there are two of them?”
“Pray, of whom do you speak?”
“Of a certain Mr. Young. The mother is a handsome old woman with white curls.”
“You don't mean to say there has been anything between Marian and Frederic Young?”
“Voila! I only repeat what I hear. It seems to me, my dear Mrs. Denbigh, that you ought to know.”
Mrs. Denbigh shook her head with a melancholy movement. “I'm sure I don't,” she said. “I give it up. I don't pretend to judge. The manners of young people to each other are very different from what they were in my day. One doesn't know whether they mean nothing or everything.”
“You know, at least, whether Mr. Young has been in your drawing-room?”
“Oh, yes, frequently. I'm very sorry that Marian is talked about. It's very unpleasant for me. But what can a sick woman do?”
“Well,” said Stephen, “so much for Mr. Young. And now for Mr. King.”
“Mr. King is gone home. It's a pity he ever came away.”
“In what sense?”
“Oh, he's a silly fellow. He doesn't understand young girls.”
“Upon my word,” said Stephen, with expression, as the music sheets say, “he might be very wise and not do that.”
“Not but that Marian was injudicious. She meant only to be amiable, but she went too far. She became adorable. The first thing she knew he was holding her to an account.”
“Is he good-looking?”
“Well enough.”
“And rich?”
“Very rich, I believe.”
“And the other?”
“What other—Marian?”
“No, no; your friend Young.”
“Yes, he's quite handsome.”
“And rich, too?”
“Yes, I believe he's also rich.”
Baxter was silent a moment. “And there's no doubt,” he resumed, “that they were both far gone?”
“I can only answer for Mr. King.”
“Well, I'll answer for Mr. Young. His mother wouldn't have talked as she did unless she'd seen her son suffer. After all, then, it's perhaps not so much to Marian's discredit. Here are two handsome young millionaires, madly smitten. She refuses them both. She doesn't care for good looks and money.”
“I don't say that,” said Mrs. Denbigh, sagaciously. “She doesn't care for those things alone. She wants talent, and all the rest of it. Now, if you were only rich, Stephen—” added the good lady, innocently.
Baxter took up his hat. “When you wish to marry Miss Everett,” he said, “you must take good care not to say too much about Mr. King and Mr. Young.”
Two days after this interview, he had a conversation with the young girl in person. The reader may like him the less for his easily-shaken confidence, but it is a fact that he had been unable to make light of these lightly-made revelations. For him his love had been a passion; for her, he was compelled to believe, it had been a vulgar pastime. He was a man of a violent temper; he went straight to the point.
“Marian,” he said, “you've been deceiving me.”
Marian knew very well what he meant; she knew very well that she had grown weary of her engagement and that, however little of a fault her conduct had been to Messrs. Young and King, it had been an act of grave disloyalty to Baxter. She felt that the blow was struck and that their engagement was clean broken. She knew that Stephen would be satisfied with no half-excuses or half-denials; and she had none others to give. A hundred such would not make a perfect confession. Making no attempt, therefore, to save her prospects, for which she had ceased to care, she merely attempted to save her dignity. Her dignity for the moment was well enough secured by her natural half-cynical coolness of temper. But this same vulgar placidity left in Stephens memory an impression of heartlessness and shallowness, which in that particular quarter, at least, was destined to be forever fatal to her claims to real weight and worth. She denied the young man's right to call her to account and to interfere with her conduct; and she almost anticipated his proposal that they should consider their engagement at an end. She even declined the use of the simple logic of tears. Under these circumstances, of course, the interview was not of long duration.
“I regard you,” said Baxter, as he stood on the threshold, “as the most superficial, most heartless of women.”
He immediately left Paris and went down into Spain, where he remained till the opening of the Summer. In the month of May Mrs. Denbigh and her protégé went to England, where the former, through her husband, possessed a number of connections, and where Marian's thoroughly un-English beauty was vastly admired. In September they sailed for America. About a year and a half; therefore, had elapsed between Baxter's separation from Miss Everett and their meeting in New York.
During this interval the young man's wounds had had time to heal. His sorrow, although violent, had been short-lived, and when he finally recovered his habitual equanimity, he was very glad to have purchased exemption at the price of a simple heart-ache. Reviewing his impressions of Miss Everett in a calmer mood, he made up his mind that she was very far from being the woman of his desire, and that she had not really been the woman of his choice. “Thank God,” he said to himself; “it's over. She's irreclaimably light. She's hollow, trivial, vulgar.” There had been in his addresses something hasty and feverish, something factitious and unreal in his fancied passion. Half of it had been the work of the scenery, of the weather, of mere juxtaposition, and, above all, the young girls picturesque beauty; to say nothing of the almost suggestive tolerance and indolence of poor Mrs. Denbigh. And finding himself very much interested in Velasquez, at Madrid, he dismissed Miss Everett from his thoughts. I do not mean to offer his judgment of Miss Everett as final; but it was at least conscientious. The ample justice, moreover, which, under the illusion of sentiment, he had rendered to her charms and graces, gave him a right, when free from that illusion, to register his estimate of the arid spaces of her nature. Miss Everett might easily have accused him of injustice and brutality; but this fact would still stand to plead in his favour, that he cared with all his strength for truth. Marian, on the contrary, was quite indifferent to it. Stephen's angry sentence on her conduct had awakened no echo in her contracted soul.
The reader has now an adequate conception of the feelings with which these two old friends found themselves face to face. It is needful to add, however, that the lapse of time had very much diminished the force of those feelings. A woman, it seems to me, ought to desire no easier company, none less embarrassed or embarrassing, than a disenchanted lover; premising, of course, that the process of disenchantment is thoroughly complete, and that some time has elapsed since its completion.
Marian herself was perfectly at her ease. She had not retained her equanimity—her philosophy, one might almost call it—during that painful last interview, to go and lose it now. She had no ill feeling toward her old lover. His last words had been—like all words in Marian's estimation—a mere façon de parter. Miss Everett was in so perfect a good humour during these last days of her maidenhood that there was nothing in the past that she could not have forgiven.
She blushed a little at the emphasis of her companions remark; but she was not discountenanced. She summoned up her good humour. “The truth is, Mr. Baxter,” she said, “I feel at the present moment on perfect good terms with the world; I see everything en rose; the past as well as the future.”
“I, too, am on very good terms with the world,” said Baxter, “and my heart is quite reconciled to what you call the past. But, nevertheless, its very disagreeable to me to think about it.”
“Ah then,” said Miss Everett, with great sweetness, “I'm afraid you're not reconciled.”
Baxter laughed—so loud that Miss Everett looked about at her father. But Mr. Everett still slept the sleep of gentility. “I've no doubt,” said the painter, “that I'm far from being so good a Christian as you. But I assure you I'm very glad to see you again.”
“You've but to say the word and were friends,” said Marian.
“We were very foolish to have attempted to be anything else.”
“Foolish, yes. But it was a pretty folly.”
“Ah no, Miss Everett. I'm an artist, and I claim a right of property in the word pretty. You mustn't stick it in there. Nothing could be pretty which had such an ugly termination. It was all false.”
“Well—as you will. What have you been doing since we parted?”
“Travelling and working. I've made great progress in my trade. Shortly before I came home I became engaged.”
“Engaged?—à la bonne heure. Is she good ?is she pretty?”
“She's not nearly so pretty as you.”
“In other words, she's infinitely more good. I'm sure I hope she is. But why did you leave her behind you?”
“She's with a sister, a sad invalid, who is drinking mineral waters on the Rhine. They wished to remain there to the cold weather. They're to be home in a couple of weeks, and we are straightway to be married.”
“I congratulate you, with all my heart,” said Marian.
“Allow me to do as much, sir,” said Mr Everett, waking up; which he did by instinct whenever the conversation took a ceremonious turn.
Miss Everett gave her companion but three more sittings, a large part of his work being executed with the assistance of photographs. At these interviews also, Mr. Everett was present, and still delicately sensitive to the soporific influences of his position. But both parties had the good taste to abstain from further reference to their old relations, and to confine their talk to less personal themes.
ONE afternoon, when the picture was nearly finished, John Lennox went into the empty painting-room to ascertain the degree of it's progress. Both Baxter and Marian had expressed a wish that lie should not see it in its early stages, and this, accordingly, was his first view. Half an hour after he had entered the room, Baxter came in, unannounced, and found him sitting before the canvas, deep in thought. Baxter had been furnished with a house-key, so that he might have immediate and easy access to his work whenever the humour came upon him.
“I was passing,” he said, “and I couldn't resist the impulse to come in and correct an error which I made this morning, now that a sense of its enormity is fresh in my mind.” He sat down to work, and the other stood watching him.
“Well,” said the painter, finally, “how does it satisfy you.?”
“Not altogether.”
“Pray develop your objections. It's in your power materially to assist me.”
“I hardly know how to formulate my objections. Let me, at all events, in the first place, say that I admire your work immensely. I'm sure its the best picture you've painted.”
“I honestly believe it is. Some parts of it,” said Baxter, “frankly, are excellent.”
“It's obvious. But either those very parts or others are singularly disagreeable. That word isn't criticism, I know; but I pay you for the right to be arbitrary. They are too hard, too strong, of too frank a reality. In a word, your picture frightens me, and if I were Marian I should feel as if you'd done me a certain violence.”
“I'm sorry for what's disagreeable; but I meant it all to be real. I go in for reality; you must have seen that.”
“I approve you; I can't too much admire the broad and firm methods you've taken for reaching this same reality. But you can be real without being brutal—without attempting, as one may say, to be actual.”
“I deny that I'm brutal. I'm afraid, Mr. Lennox, I haven't taken quite the right road to please you. I've taken the picture too much aux sérieux. I've striven too much for completeness. But if it doesn't please you it will please others.”
“I've no doubt of it. But that isn't the question. The picture is good enough to be a thousand times better.”
“That the picture leaves room for infinite improvement, I, of course, don't deny; and, in several particulars, I see my way to make it better. But, substantially, the portrait is there. I'll tell you what you miss. My work isn't 'classical'; in fine, I'm not a man of genius.”
“No; I rather suspect you are. But, as you say, your work isn't classical. I adhere to my term brutal. Shall I tell you? It's too much of a study. You've given poor Miss Everett the look of a professional model.”
“If that's the case I've done very wrong. There never was an easier, a less conscious sitter. It's delightful to look at her.”
“Confound it, you've given all her ease, too. Well, I don't know what's the matter. I give up.”
“I think,” said Baxter, “you had better hold your verdict in abeyance until the picture is finished. The classical element is there, I'm sure; but I've not brought it out. Wait a few days, and it will rise to the surface.”
Lennox left the artist alone; and the latter took up his brushes and painted hard till nightfall. He laid them down only when it was too dark to see. As he was going out, Lennox met him in the hall.
“Exegi monumentum,” said Baxter; “it's finished. Go and look at your ease. I'll come to-morrow and hear your impressions.”
The master of the house, when the other had gone, lit half a dozen lights and returned to the study of the picture. It had grown prodigiously under the painters recent handling, and whether it was that, as Baxter had said, the classical element had disengaged itself or that Lennox was in a more sympathetic mood, it now impressed him as an original and powerful work, a genuine portrait, the deliberate image of a human face and figure. It was Marian, in very truth, and Marian most patiently measured and observed. Her beauty was there, her sweetness, and her young loveliness and her aerial grace, imprisoned forever, made inviolable and perpetual. Nothing could be more simple than the conception and composition of the picture. The figure sat peacefully, looking slightly to the right, with the head erect and the hands—the virginal hands, without rings or bracelets—lying idle on its knees. The blonde hair was gathered into a little knot of braids on the top of the head (in the fashion of the moment), and left free the almost childish contour of the ears and cheeks. The eyes were full of colour, contentment and light; the lips were faintly parted. Of colour in the picture, there was, in strictness, very little; but the dark draperies told of reflected sunshine, and the flesh-spaces of human blushes and pallor's, of throbbing life and health. The work was strong and simple, the figure was thoroughly void of affectation and stiffness, and yet supremely elegant.
“That's what it is to be an artist,” thought Lennox. “All this has been done in the past two hours.”
It was his Marian, assuredly, with all that had charmed him with all that still charmed him when he saw her: her appealing confidence, her exquisite lightness, her feminine enchantments. And yet, as he looked, an expression of pain came into his eyes, and lingered there, and grew into a mortal heaviness.
Lennox had been as truly a lover as a man may be; but he loved with the discretion of fifteen years experience of human affairs. He had a penetrating glance, and he liked to use it. Many a time when Marian, with eloquent lips and eyes, had poured out the treasures of her nature into his bosom, and he had taken them in his hands and covered them with kisses and passionate vows; he had dropped them all with a sudden shudder and cried out in silence, “But ah where is the heart?” One day he had said to her (irrelevantly enough, doubtless), “Marian, where is your heart?”
“Where—what do you mean?” Miss Everett had said.
“I think of you from morning till night. I put you together and take you apart, as people do in that game where they make words out of a parcel of given letters. But there's always one letter wanting. I can't put my hand on your heart.”
“My heart, John,” said Marian, ingeniously, “is the whole word. My hearts everywhere.”
This may have been true enough. Miss Everett had distributed her heart impartially throughout her whole organism, so that, as a natural consequence, its native seat was somewhat scantily occupied. As Lennox sat and looked at Baxter's consummate handiwork, the same question rose again to his lips; and if Marians portrait suggested it, Marian's portrait failed to answer it, It took Marian to do that. It seemed to Lennox that some strangely potent agency had won from his mistress the confession of her inmost soul, and had written it there upon the canvas in firm yet passionate lines. Marian's person was lightness—her charm was lightness; could it be that her soul was levity too? Was she a creature without faith. and without conscience? What else was the meaning of that horrible blankness and deadness that quenched the light in her eyes. and stole away the smile from her lips? These things were the less to be eluded because in so many respects the painter had been, profoundly just. He had been as loyal and sympathetic as he had. been intelligent. Not a point in the young girl's appearance had been slighted; not a feature but had been forcibly and delicately rendered. Had Baxter been a man of marvellous insight—an unparalleled observer; or had he been a mere patient and unflinching painter, building infinitely better than he knew? Would not a mere painter have been content to paint Miss Everett in the strong, rich, objective manner of which the work was so good an example, and to do nothing more? For it was evident that Baxter had done more. He had painted with something more than knowledge with imagination, with feeling. He had almost composed; and his composition had embraced the truth. Lennox was unable to satisfy his doubts. He would have been glad to believe that there was no imagination in the picture but what his own mind supplied; and that the unsubstantial sweetness on the eyes and lips of the image was but the smile of youth and innocence. He was in a muddle—he was absurdly suspicions and capricious; he put out the lights and left the portrait in kindly darkness. Then, half as a reparation to his mistress, and half as a satisfaction to himself, lie went up to spend an hour with Marian. She, at least, as he found, had no scruples. She thought the portrait altogether a success, and she was very willing to be handed down in that form to posterity. Nevertheless, when Lennox came in, he went back into the painting-room to take another glance. This time he lit but a single light. Faugh! it was worse than with a dozen. He hastily turned out the gas.
Baxter came the next day, as he had promised. Meanwhile poor Lennox had had twelve hours of uninterrupted reflection, and the expression of distress in his eyes had acquired an intensity which, the painter saw, proved it to be of far other import than a mere tribute to his power.
“Can the man be jealous?” thought Baxter. Stephen had been so innocent of any other design than that of painting a good portrait, that his conscience failed to reveal to him the source of his companions trouble. Nevertheless he began to pity him. He had felt tempted, indeed, to pity him from the first. He had liked him and esteemed him; he had taken him for a man of sense and of feeling, and he had thought it a matter of regret that such a man—a creature of strong spiritual needs—should link his destiny with that of Marian Everett. But he had very soon made up his mind that Lennox knew very well what he was about, and that he needed no enlightenment. He was marrying with his eyes open, and had weighed the risks against the profits. Every one had his particular taste, and at thirty-five years of age John Lennox had no need to be told that Miss Everett was not quite all that she might be. Baxter had thus taken for granted that his friend had designedly selected as his second wife a mere pretty woman—a woman with a genius for receiving company, and who would make a picturesque use of his money, he knew nothing of the serious character of the poor mans passion, nor of the extent to which his happiness was bound up in what the painter would have called his delusion. His only concern had been to do his work well; and he had done it the better because of his old interest in Marian's bewitching face. It is very certain that he had actually infused into his picture that force of characterization and that depth of reality which had arrested his friends attention; but he had done so wholly without effort and without malice. The artistic half of Baxter's nature exerted a lusty dominion over the human half—fed upon its disappointments and grew fat upon its joys and tribulations. This, indeed, is simply saying that the young man was a true artist. Deep, then, in the unfathomed recesses of his strong and sensitive nature, his genius had held communion with his heart and had transferred to canvas the burden of its disenchantment and its resignation. Since his little affair with Marian, Baxter had made the acquaintance of a young girl whom he felt that he could love and trust forever; and, sobered and strengthened by this new emotion, he had been able to resume with more distinctness the shortcomings of his earlier love. He had, therefore, painted with feeling. Miss Everett could not have expected him to do otherwise. He had done his honest best, and conviction had come in unbidden and made it better.
Lennox had begun to feel very curious about the history of his companions acquaintance with his destined bride; but he was far from feeling jealous. Somehow he felt that he could never again be jealous. But in ascertaining the terms of their former intercourse, it was of importance that he should not allow the young man to suspect that he discovered in the portrait any radical defect.
“Your old acquaintance with Miss Everett,” he said, frankly, “has evidently been of great use to you.”
“I suppose it has,” said Baxter. “Indeed, as soon as I began to paint, I found her face coming back to me like a half-remembered tune. She was wonderfully pretty at that time. She was two years younger.”
“Yes, and I was two years younger. Decidedly, you are right. I have made use of my old impressions.”
Baxter was willing to confess to so much ; but he was resolved not to betray anything that Marian had herself kept secret. He was not surprised that she had not told her lover of her former engagement; he expected as much. But he would have held it inexcusable to attempt to repair her omission.
Lennox's faculties were acutely sharpened by pain and suspicion, and he could not help detecting in his companions eyes an intention of reticence. He resolved to baffle it.
“I am curious to know,” he said, “whether you were ever in love with Miss Everett?”
“I have no hesitation in saying Yes,” rejoined Baxter; fancying that a general confession would. help him more than a particular denial. “I'm one of a thousand, I fancy. Or one, perhaps, of only a hundred. For you see I've got over it. I'm engaged to be married.”
Lennox's countenance brightened. “That's it,” said he. “Now I know what I didn't like in your picture—the point of view. I'm not jealous,” he added. “I should like the picture better if I were. You evidently care nothing for the poor girl. You have got over your love rather too well. You loved her, she was indifferent to you, and now you take your revenge.” Distracted with grief; Lennox was taking refuge in irrational anger.
Baxter was puzzled. “You'll admit,” said he, with a smile, “that it's a very handsome revenge.” And all his professional self-esteem rose to his assistance. “I've painted for Miss Everett the best portrait that has yet been painted in America. She herself is quite satisfied.”
“Ah!” said Lennox, with magnificent dissimulation; “Marian is generous.”
“Come then,” said Baxter; “what do you complain of? You accuse me of scandalous conduct, and I'm bound to hold you to an account.” Baxter's own temper was rising, and with it his sense of his pictures merits. “How have I perverted Miss Everett's expression? How have I misrepresented her? What does the portrait lack? Is it ill-drawn? Is it vulgar? Is it ambiguous ? Is it immodest?” Baxter's patience gave out as lie recited these various charges. “Fiddlesticks!” he cried ; “you know as well as I do that the picture is excellent.”
“I don't pretend to deny it. Only I wonder that Marian was willing to come to you.”
It is very much to Baxter's credit that he still adhered to his resolution not to betray the young girl, and that rather than do so he was willing to let Lennox suppose that he had been a rejected adorer.
“Ah, as you say,” he exclaimed, “Miss Everett is so generous!”
Lennox was foolish enough to take this as an admission. “When I say, Mr. Baxter,” he said, “that you have taken your revenge, I don't mean that you've done so wantonly or consciously. My dear fellow, how could you help it? The disappointment was proportionate to the loss and the reaction to the disappointment.”
“Yes, that's all very well; but, meanwhile, I wait in vain to learn wherein I've done wrong.”
Lennox looked from Baxter to the picture, and from the picture back to Baxter.
“I defy you to tell me,” said Baxter. I've simply kept Miss Everett as charming as she is in life.”
“Oh, damn her charms!” cried Lennox.
“If you were not the gentleman, Mr. Lennox,” continued the young man, “which, in spite of your high temper, I believe you to be, I should believe you—”
“Well, you should believe me?”
“I should believe you simply bent on cheapening the portrait.”
Lennox made a gesture of vehement impatience. The other burst out laughing and the discussion closed. Baxter instinctively took up his brushes and approached his canvas with a vague desire to detect latent errors, while Lennox prepared to take his departure.
“Stay!” said the painter, as he was leaving the room; “if the picture really offends you, I'll rub it out. Say the word, and he took up a heavy brush, covered with black paint.”
But Lennox shook his head with decision and went out. The next moment, however, he reappeared. “You may rub it out,” he said. “The picture is, of course, already mine.”
But now Baxter shook his head. “Ah! now its too late,” he answered. “Your chance is gone.”
Lennox repaired directly to Mr. Everett's apartments. Marian was in the drawing-room with some morning callers, and her lover sat by until she had got rid of them. When they were alone together, Marian began to laugh at her visitors and to parody certain of their affectations, which she did with infinite grace and spirit. But Lennox cut her short and returned to the portrait. He had thought better of his objections of the preceding evening; he liked it.
“But I wonder, Marian,” he said, “that you were willing to go to Mr. Baxter.”
“Why so?” asked Marian, on her guard. She saw that her lover knew something, and she intended not to commit herself until she knew how much he knew.
“An old lover is always dangerous.”
“An old lover?” and Marian blushed a good honest blush. But she rapidly recovered herself. “Pray where did you get that charming news?”
“Oh, it slipped out,” said Lennox.
Marian hesitated a moment. Then with a smile: “Well, I was brave,” she said. “I went.”
“How came it,” pursued Lennox, “that you didn't tell me?”
“Tell you what, my dear John?”
“Why, about Baxter's little passion. Come, don't be modest.”
Modest! Marian breathed freely. “What do you mean, my dear, by telling your wife not to be modest? Pray don't ask me about Mr. Baxter's passions. What do I know about them?”
“Did you know nothing of this one?”
“Ah, my dear, I know a great deal too much for my comfort. But he's got bravely over it. He's engaged.”
“Engaged, but not quite disengaged. He's an honest fellow, but he remembers his penchant. It was as much as he could do to keep his picture from turning to the sentimental. He saw you as he fancied you—as he wished you; and he has given you a little look of what he imagines moral loveliness, which comes within an ace of spoiling the picture. Baxter's imagination isn't very strong, and this same look expresses, in point of fact, nothing but inanity. Fortunately he's a man of extraordinary talent, and a real painter, and he has made a good portrait in spite of himself.”
To such arguments as these was John Lennox reduced, to stifle the evidence of his senses. But when once a lover begins to doubt, he cannot cease at will. In spite of his earnest efforts to believe in Marian as before, to accept her without scruple and without second thought, he was quite unable to repress an impulse of constant mistrust and aversion. The charm was broken, and there is no mending a charm. Lennox stood half-aloof, watching the poor girls countenance, weighing her words, analysing her thoughts, guessing at her motives.
Marians conduct under this trying ordeal was truly heroic. She felt that some subtle change had taken place in her future husband's feelings, a change which, although she was powerless to discover its cause, yet obviously imperilled her prospects. Something had snapped between them; she had lost half of her power. She was horribly distressed, and the more so because that superior depth of character which she had all along gladly conceded to Lennox, might now, as she conjectured, cover some bold and portentous design. Could he meditate a direct rupture? Could it be his intention to dash from her lips the sweet, the spiced and odorous cup of being the wife of a good-natured millionaire? Marian turned a tremulous glance upon her past, and wondered if he had discovered any dark spot. Indeed, for that matter, might she not defy him to do so? She had done nothing really amiss. There was no visible blot in her history. It was faintly discoloured, indeed, by a certain vague moral dinginess ; but it compared well enough with that of other girls. She had cared for nothing but pleasure ; but to what else were girls brought up? On the whole, might she not feel at ease? She assured herself that she might ; but she nevertheless felt that if John wished to break off his engagement, he would do it on high abstract grounds, and not because she had committed a naughtiness the more or the less. It would be simply because he had ceased to love her. It would avail her but little to assure him that she would kindly overlook this circumstance and remit the obligations of time heart. But, in spite of her hideous apprehensions, she continued to smile and smile.
The days passed by, and John consented to be still engaged. Their marriage was only a week off—six days, five days, four. Miss Everett's smile became less mechanical. John had apparently been passing through a crisis—a moral and intellectual crisis, inevitable in a man of his constitution, and with which she had nothing to do. On the eve of marriage he had questioned his heart; he had found that it was no longer young and capable of the vagaries of passion, and he had made up his mind to call things by their proper names, and to admit to himself that he was marrying—not for love, but for friendship, and a little, perhaps, for prudence. It was only out of regard for what he supposed Marian's own more exalted theory of the matter, that he abstained from revealing to her this common-sense view of it. Such was Marian's hypothesis.
Lennox had fixed his wedding-day for the last Thursday in October. On the preceding Friday, as he was passing up Broadway, he stopped at Goupil's to see if his order for the framing of the portrait had been fulfilled. The picture had been transferred to the shop, and, when duly framed, had been, at Baxter's request and with Lennox's consent, placed for a few days in the exhibition room. Lennox went up to look at it.
The portrait stood on an easel at the end of the hall, with three spectators before it—a gentleman and two ladies. The room was otherwise empty. As Lennox went toward the picture, the gentleman turned out to be Baxter. He proceeded to introduce his friend to his two companions, the younger of whom Lennox recognized as the artist's betrothed. The other, her sister, was a plain, pale woman, with the look of ill health, who had been provided with a seat and made no attempt to talk. Baxter explained that thee ladies had arrived from Europe but the day before, and that his first care had been to show them his masterpiece.
“Sarah,” said he, “has been praising the model very much to the prejudice of the copy.”
Sarah was a tall, black-haired girl of twenty, with irregular features, a pair of luminous dark eyes, and a smile radiant of white teeth—evidently an excellent person. She turned to Lennox with a look of frank sympathy, and said in a deep, rich voice:
“She must be very beautiful.”
“Yes she's very beautiful,” said Lennox, with his eyes lingered on her own pleasant face. “You must know her—she must know you.”
“I'm sure I should like very much to see her,” said Sarah.
“This is very nearly as good,” said Lennox. “Mr. Baxter is a great genius.”
“I know Mr. Baxter is a genius. But what is a picture, at the best? I've seen nothing but pictures for the last two years, and I haven't seen a single pretty girl.”
The young girl stood looking at the portrait in very evident admiration, and, while Baxter talked to the elder lady, Lennox bestowed a long, covert glance upon his fiancée. She had brought her head into almost immediate juxtaposition with that of Marian's image, and, for a moment, the freshness and the strong animation which bloomed upon her features seemed to obliterate the lines and colours on the canvas. But the next moment, as Lennox looked, the roseate circle of Marian's face blazed into remorseless distinctness, and her careless blue eyes looked with cynical familiarity into his own.
He bade an abrupt good morning to his companions, and went toward the door. But beside it he stopped. Suspended on the wall was Baxter's picture, “My Last Duchess”. He stood amazed. Was this the face and figure that, a month ago, had reminded him of his mistress? Where was the likeness now? It was as utterly absent as if it had never existed. The picture, moreover, was a very inferior work to the new portrait. He looked back at Baxter, half tempted to demand an explanation; or at least to express his perplexity. But Baxter and his sweetheart had stooped down to examine a minute sketch near the floor, with their heads in delicious contiguity.
How the week elapsed, it were hard to say. There were moments when Lennox felt as if death were preferable to the heartless union which now stared him in the face, and as if the only possible course was to transfer his property to Marian and to put an end to his existence. There were others, again, when he was fairly reconciled to his fate. He had but to gather his old dreams and fancies into a faggot and break them across his knee, and the thing were done. Could he not collect in their stead a comely cluster of moderate and rational expectations, and bind them about with a wedding favour? his love was dead, his youth was dead; that was all. There was no need of making a tragedy of it. His loves vitality had been but small, and since it was to be short-lived it was better that it should expire before marriage than after. As for marriage, that should stand, for that was not of necessity a matter of love, he lacked the brutal consistency necessary for taking away Marian's future. If he had mistaken her and overrated her, the fault was his own, and it was a hard thing that she should pay the penalty. Whatever were her failings, they were profoundly involuntary, and it was plain that with regard to himself her intentions were good. She would be no companion, but she would be at least a faithful wife.
With the help of this grim logic, Lennox reached the eve of his wedding day. His manner toward Miss Everett during the preceding week had been inveterately tender and kind, he felt that in losing his love she had lost a heavy treasure, and he offered her instead the most unfailing devotion. Marian had questioned him about his lassitude and his preoccupied air, and he had replied that he was not very well. On the Wednesday afternoon, he mounted his horse and took a long ride. He came home toward sunset, and was met in the hall by his old housekeeper.
“Miss Everett's portrait, sir,” she said, “has just been sent home, in the most beautiful frame. You gave no directions, arid I took he liberty of having it carried into the library. I thought,” and the old woman smiled deferentially, “you'd like best to have it in your own room.”
Lennox went into the library. The picture was standing on the floor, back to back with a high arm-chair, and catching, through the window, the last horizontal rays of the sun. He stood before it a moment, gazing at it with a haggard face.
“Come!” said he, at last, “Marian may be what God has made her; but this detestable creature I can neither love nor respect!”
He looked about him with an angry despair, and his eye fell on a long, keen poinard, given him by a friend who had bought it in the East, and which lay as an ornament on his mantel-shelf. He seized it and thrust it, with barbarous glee, straight into the lovely face of the image. He dragged it downward, and made a long fissure in the living canvas. Then, with half a dozen strokes, he wantonly hacked it across. The act afforded him an immense relief.
I need hardly add that on the following day Lennox was married. He had locked the library door on coming out the evening before, and he had the key in his waistcoat pocket as he stood at the altar. As he left town, therefore, immediately after the ceremony, it was not until his return, a fortnight later, that the fate of the picture became known. It is not necessary to relate how he explained his exploit to Marian and how he disclosed it to Baxter. He at least put on a brave face. There is a rumour current of his having paid the painter an enormous sum of money. The amount is probably exaggerated, but there can be no doubt that the sum was very large. How he has fared—how he is destined to fare—in matrimony, it is rather too early to determine. He has been married scarcely three months.