Part 19 (1/2)
Marsh hesitated; then, throwing his head back, remarked in an unapproachable manner:
”Mrs. Denyer, you will not forget that I am an artist.”
”I don't forget that you profess to be one, Mr. Marsh.”
This was retort with a vengeance. Clifford reddened slightly, and looked angry. Mrs. Denyer had reached the point to which her remarks were from the first directed, and it was not her intention to spare the young man's susceptibilities. She had long ago gauged him, and not inaccurately on the whole; it seemed to her that he was of the men who can be ”managed.”
”I fail to understand you,” said Marsh, with dignity.
”My dear Clifford, let me speak to you as one who has your well-being much at heart. I have no wish to hurt your feelings, but I have been upset by this silly affair, and it makes me speak a little sharply.
Now, I see well enough what you have been about; it is an old device of young gentlemen who wish to revenge themselves just a little for what they think a slight. Of course you have never given a thought to Miss Doran, who, as you say, would never dream of carrying on a flirtation, for she knows how things are between you and Madeline, and she is a young lady of very proper behaviour. In no case, as you of course understand, could she be so indelicate as anything of this kind would imply. No; but you are vexed with Madeline about some silly little difference, and you play with her feelings. There has been enough of it; I must interfere. And now let us talk a little about your position.
Madeline has, of course, told me everything. Listen to me, my dear Clifford; you must at once accept Mr. Hibbert's kindly meant proposal--you must indeed.”
Marsh had reflected anxiously during this speech. He let a moment of silence pa.s.s; then said gravely:
”I cannot consent to do anything of the kind, Mrs. Denyer.”
”Oh yes, you can and will, Clifford. Silly boy, don't you see that in this way you secure yourself the future just suited to your talents? As an artist you will never make your way; that is certain. As a man with a substantial business at your back, you can indulge your artistic tastes quite sufficiently, and will make yourself the centre of an admiring circle. We cannot all be stars of the first magnitude. Be content to s.h.i.+ne in a provincial sphere, at all events for a time.
Madeline as your wife will help you substantially. You will have good society, and better the richer you become. You are made to be a rich man and to enjoy life. Now let us settle this affair with your step-father.”
Still Clifford reflected, and again with the result that he appeared to have no thought of being persuaded to such concessions. The debate went on for a long time, ultimately with no little vigour on both sides. Its only immediate result was that Marsh left the house for a few days, retiring to meditate at Pompeii.
In the mean time there was no apparent diminution in Madeline's friendliness towards Cecily Doran. It was not to be supposed that Madeline thought tenderly of the other's beauty, or with warm admiration of her endowments; but she would not let Clifford Marsh imagine that it mattered to her in the least if he at once transferred his devotion to Miss Doran. Her tone in conversing with Cecily became a little more patronizing,--though she spoke no more of impressionism,--in proportion as she discovered the younger girl's openness of mind and her lack of self-a.s.sertiveness.
”You play the piano, I think?” she said one day.
”For my own amus.e.m.e.nt only.”
”And you draw?”
”With the same reserve.”
”Ah,” said Madeline, ”I have long since given up these things. Don't you think it is a pity to make a pastime of an art? I soon saw that I was never likely really to _do_ anything in music or drawing, and out of respect for them I ceased to--to potter. Please don't think I apply that word to you.”
”Oh, but it is very applicable,” replied Cecily, with a laugh. ”I think you are quite right; I often enough have the same feeling. But I am full of inconsistencies--as you are finding out, I know.”
Mrs. Lessingham displayed good nature in her intercourse with the Denyers. She smiled in private, and of course breathed to Cecily a word of warning; but the family entertained her, and Madeline she came really to like. With Mrs. Denyer she compared notes on the Italy of other days.
”A sad, sad change!” Mrs. Denyer was wont to sigh. ”All the poetry gone! Think of Rome before 1870, and what it is now becoming. One never looked for intellect in Italy--living intellect, of course, I mean--but natural poetry one did expect and find. It is heart-breaking, this progress! If it were not for my dear girls, I shouldn't be here; they adore Italy--of course, never having known it as it was. And I am sure you must feel, as I do, Mrs. Lessingham, the miserable results of cheapened travel. Oh, the people one sees at railway-stations, even meets in hotels, I am sorry to say, sometimes! In a few years, I do believe, Genoa and Venice will strongly remind one of Margate.”
No echo of the cry of ”Wolf!” ever sounded in Mrs. Denyer's conversation when she spoke of her husband. That Odysseus of commerce was always referred to as being concerned in enterprises of mysterious importance and magnitude; she would hint that he had political missions, naturally not to be spoken of in plain terms. Mrs. Lessingham often wondered with a smile what the truth really was; she saw no reason for making conjectures of a disagreeable kind, but it was pretty clear to her that selfishness, idleness, and vanity were at the root of Mrs. Denyer's character, and in a measure explained the position of the family.
During the last few days, Barbara had exhibited a revival of interest in the ”place in Lincolns.h.i.+re.” Her experiments proved that it needed but a moderate ingenuity to make Mr. Musselwhite's favourite topic practically inexhaustible. The ”place” itself having been sufficiently described, it was natural to inquire what other ”places” were its neighbours, what were the characteristics of the nearest town, how long it took to drive from the ”place” to the town, from the ”place” to such another ”place,” and so on. Mr. Musselwhite was undisguisedly grateful for every remark or question that kept him talking at his ease. It was always his dread lest a subject should be broached on which he could say nothing whatever--there were so many such!--and as often as Barbara broke a silence without realizing his fear, he glanced at her with the gentlest and most amiable smile. Never more than glanced; yet this did not seem to be the result of shyness; rather it indicated a lack of mental activity, of speculation, of interest in her as a human being.
One morning he lingered at the luncheon-table when nearly all the others had withdrawn, playing with crumbs, and doubtless shrinking from the _ennui_ that lay before him until dinner-time. Near him, Mrs.
Denyer, Barbara, and Zillah were standing in conversation about some photographs that had this morning come by post.
”This one isn't at all like you, my dear,” said Mrs. Denyer, with emphasis, to her eldest girl. ”The other is pa.s.sable, but I wouldn't have any of these.”