CHAPTER VI.
The scene was Hatty's atelier, one afternoon at the end of the first week after Mr. George had arrived. The four sat there at tea. It had not been possible to avoid asking the young man to remain. He had come, at Elizabeth's invitation, to look at her study of an old peasant's head; and Hatty, for all her secret aversion for him, could not be so churlish as not to offer him a cup of tea. He took it as a matter of course. He was always delightfully at his ease; and Elizabeth clearly was already more so with him than with the imposing Alaric. He and his sister both felt this to be so.
Elizabeth. "How comes it, Mr. George, if you are a barrister———"
George. "Not a barrister—a solicitor" (with a smile).
Eliza. "Well, a solicitor, then—that you draw so well? You must have studied a great deal."
George. "I studied in the Slade School for some time. I hoped to become an artist, but my family persuaded me to give it up. I had an 'opening,' as it is called, offered me, and so I took to the law. A beastly profession, I dare say you think, Miss Shaw?"
Elisa. "No. Almost the only friend I have in the world is an old solicitor." (Here she was on the point of asking him if he had ever met Mr. Twisden, but prudence stopped her.)
Baring. "In America we honour the law, and we have no invidious distinctions. No one there thinks it 'a beastly profession.'"
George (laughing). "We are adopting many American views, and none by which I shall benefit more than this."
Hatty. "The 'lawyer,' as we see him in old plays and novels, was once almost a synonym for trickery and falsity. The world is more liberal now."
George. "Is it? I don't know. Perhaps it has only changed its illiberality from professions to persons. Is not this a suspicious age? Certainly not one that takes the unknown on trust."
Baring (dryly). "Why should it?"
George (smiling). "Because we are such riddles to each other, even after years of 'knowing'—such tangled webs of good and bad—that we may as well take it for granted the man we know nothing of is not much worse, if he is not much better, than the rest of us."
Hatty. "We women believe in our intuition."
Eliza. "Oh! I don't trust mine—that is to say, I don't want to trust it."
Hatty. "But you do, my dear; and it is the weakest thing about you—your intuitive faculty. It will lead to your being called 'capricious;' I know it will. You conceive quite an erroneous idea of some one—you did so lately, you know—and then, when you find you were mistaken, you drop him. No, your intuitive faculty is weak."
Baring (smiling grimly). "You may allow Miss Shaw to have one redeeming weakness."
Eliza. "That is an ungenerous sneer at your sister's weakness for me, Mr. Baring! I could point Mr. George's moral; for nothing was known of me when I came here, and Hatty did take me on trust."
Hatty. "That is because I have intuition."
Eliza. "Not at all. None of you know anything about me. I am the tangled web of good and bad Mr. George talks of so poetically; but Hatty would only find the good if it were not for you," she added, laughing.
Baring (with a forced smile). "I have no intuitions—only observation."
George. "Are you not sometimes mistaken—misled by your observations?"
Eliza. "Mr. Baring never would own it. No man ever does."
Baring. "I beg your pardon, Miss Shaw. I was mistaken—I own it—about you at first."
Eliza. "Really? For better or for worse? I am curious to know."
Hatty. "Come, that is not fair, Elizabeth. I advise you, Alaric, not to answer that."
Baring. "Oh, I have no objection to answer Miss Shaw frankly. Observation, like certain drugs, is cumulative. First impressions are not observation, though they may be strengthened by it. Mine have been corrected in some respects."
George (laughing). "Is that a very frank answer? I should rather call it a very cautious one."
Eliza. "I can read between the lines."
Hatty (quickly). "Alaric leaves very little space between the lines. If one tries to see too much, one is apt to get puzzled."
Baring (looking at no one, while he drinks his tea). "You are giving yourself unnecessary trouble about my writing. It is of no importance to any one."
Eliza (with a sudden irrepressible desire to be impertinent). "Oh yes, it is, Mr. Baring! Wben a person talks as little as you, one is additionally curious to decipher his hieroglyphics; that is, to know what certain signs stand for. I am getting to know your signs—the disapprobation stops, the contemptuous flourishes. I really think I read your writing fairly well."
Baring (coldly). "Do you?" (Then, after a moment's pause) "Well, as I said just now, it is no importance." (Turning sharply round) "Do you propose remaining any considerable time in Paris, Mr. George?"
George. "About six weeks altogether; that is my holiday. I want to see Fontainebleau. Have you been there. Miss Shaw?"
Eliza. "No. Madame Martineau proposed our going one day, before this fine September weather breaks; but I am afraid she wants to take the whole boutique. I should so much have liked to get some studies of rock and underwood there."
Baring. "Nothing to be done in a day."
George. "Why should we not make up a little party, and go there for three or four?"
There was a moment's silence. It was audacious of the young man, the new-comer, to propose it, perhaps; but audacity is sometimes rewarded. Elizabeth said she should like nothing better, and looked interrogatively at Hatty. She, in turn, looked interrogatively at her brother.
Baring. "Do you feel strong enough?"
Hatty. "Certainly. Why not? There is no fatigue in sitting in the forest and sketching."
Baring. "I am afraid I have too much to do; but you and Miss Shaw can go together without me."
Hatty. "I should not think of doing so."
George. "I thought American young ladies were above such foolish prejudices."
Hatty (tartly). "It has nothing to say to prejudice, Mr. George. Miss Shaw and I could go together, or I could go alone, if it came to that. Simply, I do not choose to go without my brother."
Eliza. "It is a pity to make Mr. Baring accompany us—against his inclination."
Hatty. "Oh! it is all nonsense. He gets into a groove. It would do him good to be in the country for two or three days. Besides, he wants a background to his picture. He ought really to make some studies for it."
There was silence for the space of nearly a minute. It was felt that the autocrat was making his august decision. Then he said quietly, as he put down his cup—
"If we are to go—if you really wish it—it had best be to-morrow. The weather may change."
The result of those four days in the Forest of Fontainebleau justified Daintree's confident expectations. That astute youth had seen at once that the chief difficulty in his path would probably be this American, with his proud sensitive nature. At present he felt pretty sure that Elizabeth's heart was not in danger, but there was no security that it might not become so. To exhibit Alaric Baring in the least attractive light, while making his own way as rapidly as possible in Elizabeth's favour, was now the most important thing. His own amiability, his good spirits and imperturbable temper, were perfect—might be said to be almost exasperating. Brought into constant friction with it, he foresaw that Alaric's temper would not stand the test. And he was right; he hardly realized how right at first.
His apparent light-heartedness, his intellectual versatility, even his physical agility, as he bounded over the rocks and leapt the streams in their wanderings through the forest, irritated Baring. Limited to a trial of strength, whether of brains or of muscle, the American did not misdoubt his own powers; but neither with tongue nor with limb was he nimble. The fire within was kindled, indeed, but he spake not. He had never shown to greater disadvantage than he did during those four days
He was annoyed for feeling—what he indubitably did feel—jealous of this Englishman. What business was it of his if Miss Shaw chose to flirt with Mr. George?—for thus he designated the lively interchange of talk between the two. What could it signify to him, Alaric Baring, blessed with an income of a thousand dollars over and above what he might earn with his brush, if the girl chose to encourage the attentions of a man whom he now regarded with mistrust? If he loved her ever so, Alaric could never marry her himself; and he tried hard to persuade himself that he had no desire to do so. He did not quite succeed in this. His introspection was too acute, and, it may be added, too ruthless, for him to shut his eyes to the humiliating knowledge that he was more and more attracted by a woman of whom he had formed no very high opinion. She was vain, contradictory, and much too fond of admiration. Theoretically, this was the last woman he would have expected to find himself drawn towards. Practically, it was with difficulty he could drag his thoughts into any other channel at this time. And Hatty never helped him. On the contrary, though she abstained from overt praise of her friend, the deep interest she felt in her was often shown in little unexpected ways. His sentiments on this subject were curiously mixed. He was annoyed, and yet he was glad, that his sister, so unimaginative and undemonstrative, should have conceived this admiration for the girl. To the hard, critical side of his mind, it seemed unaccountable; to the sensitive, unreasoning side, it was consolatory. He was not alone. The strange fascination which Miss Shaw exercised over him was felt by his sister, who was dearer to him than any one else in the world.
But even to her he strove not to betray himself. He was humiliated in his own eyes; he would not be humiliated in hers, if he could help it, by acknowledging his weakness. He must wrestle with it; he must conquer it. No strong man should yield himself captive to such a passion as this. The girl had small belief in men; she treated them all alike as sport. With him, indeed, she had not tried; but that, perhaps, was because he had not given her the opportunity. Still, it was clear that his society was distasteful to her. In his presence she never seemed at ease—unless her occasional impertinences went to prove that it was intentional slight, and not shyness, which made her avoid conversation with him.
Irritated with others, contemptuous of himself, it was inevitable that he should grow more and more taciturn every day. In proportion as George was vivacious and good-tempered, Alaric was curt in manner and unconciliatory in his replies. Hatty suffered acutely. To that devoted sister those four days were days of pain. Far from her brother making his way, he had lost ground, when brought into hourly contrast with this odious, smiling Englishman. Alaric could not deceive her—he was in love with the girl; but he was showing so very much the worst side of his character, that it was impossible that Elizabeth should recognize its great worth and nobility. It was most provoking. She wished Mr. George had never come to the pension. She wished they had never come to Fontainebleau. The last afternoon there put the finishing touch to her misery; she caught cold sitting on the damp grass, and returned to Paris feeling really ill.
Elizabeth's entry in her journal that evening shows her mind at this time better than I could do it in my own words.
"I have written nothing here for four days—too tired each night to enter my impressions. The weather has been beautiful. I made three sketches in the forest, which Mr. George declared to be excellent, and which I really believe myself are good. Mr. Baring said nothing; but Mr. George sees nature more as I do. Besides, Mr. Baring was not in good form. He certainly is not an amiable man; he was once or twice almost rude to Mr. George. Neither was Hatty in very good temper. Dear Hatty! Her health is sufficient excuse for her; and I don't mind her snapping my head off now and then, for I am really fond of her. Indeed, I am sure I never liked any woman so much before. But now and then she is captious, and she has been so during these four days. Perhaps this is enough to account for my not having enjoyed myself as much as I expected. Mr. George was very pleasant; I don't know how I should have got on without him. He has a temper that would turn sour milk sweet again, and like the man in Chevalier's song, he has 'no airs nor affect-ai-tions'! He seems straightforward, and clean inside and out. Why is it that he doesn't interest me more? Because, like his face, he is too pink and spotless? I should be sorry to think I had any proclivity to grime. No, it is not that. He is by no means insipid and soapy. He is, on the contrary, clever and lively, self-controlled, self-sufficing—too self-sufficing: that is it. I cannot imagine his ever falling in love; though I am not sure he would not like me to believe him capable of it. All men, or nearly all, are alike. They flirt with every girl they meet; heart has nothing to say to it. The grim American is an exception; no one can accuse him of wanting to flirt. If he did, I doubt if I should respect and admire him as much as I do. Such is the contradiction of woman's nature—of my nature, at all events. Mr. B. is the only man who ever intimidates me, until I get provoked. Then I say something tart and impertinent, which I regret the next moment. His look of silent reproof, as he strokes the reddish beard with those long thin fingers, smites me like a physical blow. Why should I mind what he thinks? He has a very poor opinion of me, I know; he never conceals it. For his sister's sake he tolerates me; but he looks on me as a frivolous and wilful young woman, not worth talking to. Perhaps, if I submitted to his opinions in everything, he might condescend to do so. But I have no idea of doing that. It is doubtful, indeed, if we should ever get on well, our ideas on most subjects, beginning with art, being so diametrically opposed. He was right about Anatole Doucet: I grant that. I treated the reptile as though he had no fang; the man divined that he had one. But, because he chooses to dislike this nice, harmless Englishman, am I not to amuse myself in his society? Am I to lose all right of private judgment in deference to the views of a man of whom I may say I know very little, though we have been in daily intercourse for more than two months? I have written that I 'admire' him, nevertheless. Why? Because, with all his faults (foremost among them that he does not appreciate me!), I am conscious that there is something grand about him, different from any other man I have yet known. He is careless about the opinion of others; takes no pains to conciliate any one; but his devotion to Hatty, which prevents his travelling, shows his unselfishness; and I feel sure he is incapable of a sordid or ignoble action. One thing I am now sure of. His meeting me that night, when I had fallen into the trap laid for me by Monsieur Doucet, was not accidental. He divined, or obtained knowledge of, the plot in which I half suspect Madame de Belcour of being an accomplice, and his natnral chivalry impelled him to defeat it. But he came to my rescue without any flourish of trumpets. He helped me as he would have helped any other woman in like circumstances; and I was, moreover, his sister's friend. Not even to her did he confess the real truth. He wished it to be considered 'an accident.' But I saw she did not believe it. Neither do I. He is an odd man. If he had the smallest personal regard for me, his conduct on this occasion would be divested of its singularity, at all events. For a man to take all this trouble for a woman who is rather obnoxious to him than otherwise, is fine. I am justified in saying I 'admire' him."
After writing this she closed her book, and sat for the best part of an hour motionless, her head resting between her hands. The church clocks had struck midnight before she was in bed.