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 heart’s 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 Marian’s 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 suspicious 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, he 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 companion’s 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. Everyone 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 man’s 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 friend’s 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 companion’s 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 companion’s 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 a
ll 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 picture’s 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 he 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 it’s 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 girl’s countenance, weighing her words, analyzing her thoughts, guessing at her motives.
Marian’s 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 discolored, 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 the 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 commonsense 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 w
ith 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 these 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 lingering 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 colors 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.