Part 76 (1/2)
”Oh I don't, to her face.”
”Ah only to mine!” laughed Biddy.
”One says that as one says 'Rachel' of her great predecessor.”
”Except that she isn't so great, quite yet, is she?”
”Far from it; she's the freshest of novices--she has scarcely been four months on the stage. But no novice has ever been such an adept. She'll go very fast,” Peter pursued, ”and I daresay that before long she'll be magnificent.”
”What a pity you'll not see that!” Biddy sighed after a pause.
”Not see it?”
”If you're thousands of miles away.”
”It is a pity,” Peter said; ”and since you mention it I don't mind frankly telling you--throwing myself on your mercy, as it were--that that's why I make such a point of a rare occasion like to-night. I've a weakness for the drama that, as you perhaps know, I've never concealed, and this impression will probably have to last me in some barren spot for many, many years.”
”I understand--I understand. I hope therefore it will be charming.” And the girl walked faster.
”Just as some other charming impressions will have to last,” Peter added, conscious of keeping up with her by some effort. She seemed almost to be running away from him, an impression that led him to suggest, after they had proceeded a little further without more words, that if she were in a hurry they had perhaps better take a cab. Her face was strange and touching to him as she turned it to make answer:
”Oh I'm not in the least in a hurry and I really think I had better walk.”
”We'll walk then by all means!” Peter said with slightly exaggerated gaiety; in pursuance of which they went on a hundred yards. Biddy kept the same pace; yet it was scarcely a surprise to him that she should suddenly stop with the exclamation:
”After all, though I'm not in a hurry I'm tired! I had better have a cab; please call that one,” she added, looking about her.
They were in a straight, blank, ugly street, where the small, cheap, grey-faced houses had no expression save that of a rueful, unconsoled acknowledgment of the universal want of ident.i.ty. They would have const.i.tuted a ”terrace” if they could, but they had dolefully given it up. Even a hansom that loitered across the end of the vista turned a sceptical back upon it, so that Sherringham had to lift his voice in a loud appeal. He stood with Biddy watching the cab approach them. ”This is one of the charming things you'll remember,” she said, turning her eyes to the general dreariness from the particular figure of the vehicle, which was antiquated and clumsy. Before he could reply she had lightly stepped into the cab; but as he answered, ”Most a.s.suredly it is,” and prepared to follow her she quickly closed the ap.r.o.n.
”I must go alone; you've lots of things to do--it's all right”; and through the aperture in the roof she gave the driver her address. She had spoken with decision, and Peter fully felt now that she wished to get away from him. Her eyes betrayed it, as well as her voice, in a look, a strange, wandering ray that as he stood there with his hand on the cab he had time to take from her. ”Good-bye, Peter,” she smiled; and as the thing began to rumble away he uttered the same tepid, ridiculous farewell.
XLIV
At the entrance of Miriam and her mother Nick, in the studio, had stopped whistling, but he was still gay enough to receive them with every appearance of warmth. He thought it a poor place, ungarnished, untapestried, a bare, almost grim workshop, with all its revelations and honours still to come. But his visitors smiled on it a good deal in the same way in which they had smiled on Bridget Dormer when they met her at the door: Mrs. Rooth because vague, prudent approbation was the habit of her foolish face--it was ever the least danger; and Miriam because, as seemed, she was genuinely glad to find herself within the walls of which she spoke now as her asylum. She broke out in this strain to her host almost as soon as she had crossed the threshold, commending his circ.u.mstances, his conditions of work, as infinitely happier than her own. He was quiet, independent, absolute, free to do what he liked as he liked it, shut up in his little temple with his altar and his divinity; not hustled about in a mob of people, having to posture and grin to pit and gallery, to square himself at every step with insufferable conventions and with the ignorance and vanity of others. He was blissfully alone.
”Mercy, how you do abuse your fine profession! I'm sure I never urged you to adopt it!” Mrs. Rooth cried, in real bewilderment, to her daughter.
”She was abusing mine still more the other day,” joked Nick--”telling me I ought to be ashamed of it and of myself.”
”Oh I never know from one moment to the other--I live with my heart in my mouth,” sighed the old woman.
”Aren't you quiet about the great thing--about my personal behaviour?”
Miriam smiled. ”My improprieties are all of the mind.”
”I don't know what you _call_ your personal behaviour,” her mother objected.
”You would very soon if it were not what it is.”
”And I don't know why you should wish to have it thought you've a wicked mind,” Mrs. Rooth agreeably grumbled.
”Yes, but I don't see very well how I can make you understand that. At any rate,” Miriam pursued with her grand eyes on Nick, ”I retract what I said the other day about Mr. Dormer. I've no wish to quarrel with him on the way he has determined to dispose of his life, because after all it does suit me very well. It rests me, this little devoted corner; oh it rests me! It's out of the row and the dust, it's deliciously still and they can't get at me. Ah when art's like this, _a la bonne heure_!” And she looked round on such a presentment of ”art” in a splendid way that produced amus.e.m.e.nt on the young man's part at its contrast with the humble fact. Miriam shone upon him as if she liked to be the cause of his mirth and went on appealing to him: ”You'll always let me come here for an hour, won't you, to take breath--to let the whirlwind pa.s.s? You needn't trouble yourself about me; I don't mean to impose on you in the least the necessity of painting me, though if that's a manner of helping you to get on you may be sure it will always be open to you. Do what you like with me in that respect; only let me sit here on a high stool, keeping well out of your way, and see what you happen to be doing. I'll tell you my own adventures when you want to hear them.”