A THREE-VOLUME NOVEL
It was, I believe, mainly as a compliment to me that Miss Audrey Listonwas asked to Poltons. Miss Liston and I were very good friends, and mycousin Dora Polton thought, as she informed me, that it would be nicefor me to have someone I could talk to about "books and so on." I didnot complain. Miss Liston was a pleasant young woman of six-and-twenty;I liked her very much except on paper, and I was aware that she made ita point of duty to read something at least of what I wrote. She was inthe habit of describing herself as an "authoress in a small way." If itwere pointed out that six three-volume novels in three years (the termof her literary activity at the time of which I write) could hardly becalled "a small way." she would smile modestly and say that it was notreally much; and if she were told that the English language embraced nosuch word as "authoress," she would smile again and say that it oughtto, a position towards the bugbear of correctness with which, Iconfess, I sympathize in some degree. She was very diligent; she workedfrom ten to one every day while she was at Poltons; how much she wroteis between her and her conscience.
There was another impeachment which Miss Liston was hardly at thetrouble to deny. "Take my characters from life!" she would exclaim."Surely every artist (Miss Liston often referred to herself as anartist) must!" And she would proceed to maintain--what is perhaps truesometimes--that people rather liked being put into books, just as theyliked being photographed, for all that they grumble and pretend to beafflicted when either process is levied against them. In discussingthis matter with Miss Liston I felt myself on delicate ground, for itwas notorious that I figured in her first book in the guise of amisogynistic genius; the fact that she lengthened (and thickened) myhair, converted it from an indeterminate brown to a dusty black, gaveme a drooping mustache, and invested my very ordinary work-a-day eyeswith a strange magnetic attraction, availed nothing; I was at oncerecognized, and, I may remark in passing, an uncommonly disagreeablefellow she made me. Thus I had passed through the fire. I felttolerably sure that I presented no other aspect of interest, real orsupposed, and I was quite content that Miss Liston should serve all therest of her acquaintance as she had served me. I reckoned they wouldlast her, at the present rate of production, about five years.
Fate was kind to Miss Liston, and provided her with most suitablepatterns for her next piece of work at Poltons itself. There were ayoung man and a young woman staying in the house--Sir GilbertChillington and Miss Pamela Myles. The moment Miss Liston was appraisedof a possible romance; she began the study of the protagonists. She waslooking out, she told me, for some new types (if it were anyconsolation--and there is a sort of dignity about it--to be called atype, Miss Liston's victims were always welcome to so much), and shehad found them in Chillington and Pamela. The former appeared to mydull eye to offer no salient novelty; he was tall, broad, handsome, andhe possessed a manner of enviable placidity. Pamela, I allowed, wasexactly the heroine Miss Liston loved--haughty, capricious, difficile,but sound and true at heart (I was mentally skimming Volume I.). MissListon agreed with me in my conception of Pamela, but declared that Idid not do justice to the artistic possibilities latent in Chillington;he had a curious attraction which it would tax her skill (so shegravely informed me) to the utmost to reproduce. She proposed that Ialso should make a study of him, and attributed my hurried refusal to ashrinking from the difficulties of the task.
"Of course," she observed, looking at our young friends who weretalking nonsense at the other side of the lawn, "they must have amisunderstanding."
"Why, 'of course'," said I, lighting my pipe. "What should you say toanother man?"
"Or another woman?" said Miss Liston.
"It comes to the same thing," said I. (About a volume and a half Imeant.)
"But it's more interesting'. Do you think she'd better be a marriedwoman?" And Miss Liston looked at me inquiringly.
"The age prefers them married," I remarked.
This conversation happened on the second day of Miss Liston's visit,and she lost no time in beginning to study her subjects. Pamela, shesaid, she found pretty plain sailing, but Chillington continued topuzzle her. Again, she could not make up her mind whether to have ahappy or a tragic ending. In the interests of a tender-hearted public,I pleaded for marriage-bells.
"Yes, I think so," said Miss Liston, but she sighed, and I think shehad an idea or two for a heart-broken separation, followed by mutual,life-long, hopeless devotion.
The complexity of young Sir Gilbert did not, in Miss Liston's opinion,appear less on further acquaintance; and indeed, I must admit that shewas not altogether wrong in considering him worthy of attention. As Icame to know him better, I discerned in him a smotheredself-appreciation, which came to light in response to the least tributeof interest or admiration, but was yet far remote from theaggressiveness of a commonplace vanity. In a moment of indiscretion Ihad chaffed him--he was very good-natured--on the risks he ran at MissListon's hands; he was not disgusted, but neither did he plume himselfor spread his feathers. He received the suggestions without surprise,and without any attempt at disclaiming fitness for the purpose; but hereceived it as a matter which entailed a responsibility on him. Idetected the conviction that, if the portrait was to be painted, it wasdue to the world that it should be well painted; the subject must givethe artist full opportunities.
"What does she know about me?" he asked, in meditative tones.
"She's very quick; she'll soon pick up as much as she wants," I assuredhim.
"She'll probably go all wrong," he said, sombrely; and of course Icould not tell him that it was of no consequence if she did. He wouldnot have believed me, and would have done precisely what he proceededto do, and that was to afford Miss Liston every chance of appraisinghis character and plumbing the depths of his soul.
I may say at once that I did not regret this course of action; for theeffect of it was to allow me a chance of talking to Pamela Myles, andPamela was exactly the sort of a girl to beguile the long pleasantmorning hours of a holiday in the country. No one had told Pamela thatshe was going to be put in a book, and I don't think it would have madeany difference had she been told. Pamela's attitude towards books wasone of healthy scorn, confidently based on admitted ignorance. So wenever spoke of them, and my cousin Dora condoled with me more than onceon the way in which Miss Liston, false to the implied terms of herinvitation, deserted me in favor of Sir Gilbert, and left me to themercies of a frivolous girl. Pamela appeared to be as little aggrievedas I was. I imagined that she supposed that Chillington would ask herto marry him some day before very long, and I was sure she would accepthim; but it was quite plain that, if Miss Liston persisted in makingPamela her heroine, she would have to supply from her own resources alarge supplement of passion. Pamela was far too deficient in thecommodity to be made anything of, without such reinforcement, even byan art more adept at making much out of nothing than Miss Liston'sstraightforward method could claim to be.
A week passed, and then, one Friday morning, a new light burst on me.Miss Liston came into the garden at eleven o'clock and sat down by meon the lawn. Chillington and Pamela had gone riding with the squire,Dora was visiting the poor. We were alone. The appearance of MissListon at this hour (usually sacred to the use of the pen), no lessthan her puzzled look, told me that an obstruction had occurred in thenovel. Presently she let me know what it was.
"I'm thinking of altering the scheme of my story, Mr. Wynne," said she."Have you ever noticed how sometimes a man thinks he's in love when heisn't really?"
"Such a case sometimes occurs," I acknowledged.
"Yes, and he doesn't find out his mistake----"
"Till they're married?"
"Sometimes, yes," she said, rather as though she were making anunwilling admission. "But sometimes he sees it before--when he meetssomebody else."
"Very true," said I, with a grave nod.
"The false can't stand against the real." pursued Miss Liston; and thenshe fell into meditative silence. I stole a glance at her face; she wa
ssmiling. Was it in the pleasure of literary creation--an artisticecstasy? I should have liked to answer yes, but I doubted it very much.Without pretending to Miss Liston's powers, I have the little subtletythat is needful to show me that more than one kind of smile may be seenon the human face, and that there is one very different from others;and finally, that that one is not evoked, as a rule, merely by theevolution of the troublesome encumbrance in pretty writing, vulgarlycalled a "plot."
"If," pursued Miss Liston, "some one comes who can appreciate him anddraw out what is best in him----"
"That's all very well," said I, "but what of the first girl?"
"Oh, she's--she can be made shallow, you know; and I can put in a manfor her. People needn't be much interested in her."
"Yes, you could manage it that way," said I, thinking how Pamela--Itook the liberty of using her name for the shallow girl--would likesuch treatment.
"She will really be valuable mainly as a foil," observed Miss Liston;and she added generously, "I shall make her nice, you know, butshallow--not worthy of him."
"And what are you going to make the other girl like?" I asked.
Miss Liston started slightly; also she colored very slightly, and sheanswered, looking away from me across the lawn, "I haven't quite madeup my mind yet, Mr. Wynne."
With the suspicion which this conversation aroused fresh in my mind, itwas curious to hear Pamela laugh, as she said to me on the afternoon ofthe same day, "Aren't Sir Gilbert and Audrey Liston funny? I tell youwhat, Mr. Wynne, I believe they're writing a novel together."
"Perhaps Chillington's giving her the materials for one," I suggested.
"I shouldn't think," observed Pamela, in her dispassionate way, "thatanything very interesting had ever happened to him."
"I. thought you liked him," I remarked, humbly.
"So I do. What's that got to do with it?" asked Pamela.
It was beyond question that Chillington enjoyed Miss Liston's society;the interest she showed in him was incense to his nostrils. I used tooverhear fragments of his ideas about himself, which he was revealingin answer to her tactful inquiries. But neither was it doubtful that hehad by no means lost his relish for Pamela's lighter talk; in fact, heseemed to turn to her with some relief--perhaps it is refreshing toescape from self-analysis, even when the process is conducted in thepleasantest possible manner--and the hours which Miss Liston gave towork were devoted by Chillington to maintaining his cordial relationswith the lady whose comfortable and not over-tragical disposal wastaxing Miss Liston's skill. For she had definitely decided all herplot; she told me so a few days later. It was all planned out; nay, thescene in which the truth as to his own feelings bursts on Sir Gilbert(I forget at the moment what name the novel gave him) was, Iunderstood, actually written; the shallow girl was to experiencenothing worse than a wound to her vanity, and was to turn with as muchalacrity as decency allowed to the substitute whom Miss Liston had nowprovided. All this was poured into my sympathetic ear, and I saysympathetic with all sincerity; for, although I may occasionally treatMiss Liston's literary efforts with less than proper respect, sheherself was my friend, and the conviction under which she was nowliving would, I knew, unless it were justified, bring her into much ofthat unhappiness in which one generally found her heroine plunged aboutthe end of Volume II. The heroine generally got out all right, and theknowledge that she would enabled the reader to preserve cheerfulness.But would poor little Miss Liston get out? I was none too sure of it.
Suddenly a change came in the state of affairs. Pamela produced it. Itmust have struck her that the increasing intimacy of Miss Liston andChillington might become something other than "funny." To put itbriefly and metaphorically, she whistled her dog back to her heels. Iam not skilled in understanding or describing the artifices of ladies;but even I saw the transformation in Pamela. She put forth her strengthand put on her prettiest gowns; she refused to take her place in thesee-saw of society, which Chillington had recently established for hispleasure. If he spent an hour with Miss Liston, Pamela would havenothing of him for a day; she met his attentions with scorn unless theywere undivided. Chillington seemed at first puzzled; I believe that henever regarded his talks with Miss Liston in other than a businesspoint of view, but directly he understood that Pamela claimed him, andthat she was prepared, in case he did not obey her call, to establish agrievance against him, he lost no time in manifesting his obedience. Awhole day passed in which, to my certain knowledge, he was not alone amoment with Miss Liston, and did not, save at the family meals,exchange a word with her. As he walked off with Pamela, Miss Liston'seyes followed him in wistful longing; she stole away upstairs and didnot come down till five o'clock. Then finding me strolling about with acigarette, she joined me.
"Well, how goes the book?" I asked.
"I haven't done much to it just lately," she answered, in a low voice."I--it's--I don't quite know what to do with it."
"I thought you'd settled?"
"So I had, but--oh, don't let's talk about it, Mr. Wynne!"
But a moment later she went on talking about it.
"I don't know why I should make it end happily," she said. "I'm surelife isn't always happy, is it?"
"Certainly not," I answered. "You mean your man might stick to theshallow girl after all?"
"Yes," I just heard her whisper.
"And be miserable afterwards?" I pursued.
"I don't know," said Miss Liston. "Perhaps he wouldn't."
"Then you must make him shallow himself."
"I can't do that," she said quickly. "Oh, how difficult it is!"
She may have meant merely the art of writing--when I cordially agreedwith her--but I think she meant also the way of the world, which doesnot make me withdraw my assent. I left her walking up and down in frontof the drawing-room windows, a rather forlorn little figure, throwninto distinctness by the cold rays of the setting sun.
All was not over yet. That evening Chillington broke away. Led byvanity, or interest, or friendliness, I know not which--tired maybe ofpaying court (the attitude in which Pamela kept him), and thinking itwould be pleasant to play the other part for a while--after dinner hewent straight to Miss Liston, talked to her while we had coffee on theterrace, and then walked about with her. Pamela sat by me; she was verysilent; she did not appear to be angry, but her handsome mouth wore aresolute expression. Chillington and Miss Liston wandered on into theshrubbery, and did not come into sight again for nearly half an hour.
"I think it's cold," said Pamela, in her cool, quiet tones. "And it'salso, Mr. Wynne, rather slow. I shall go to bed."
I thought it a little impertinent of Pamela to attribute the 'slowness'(which had undoubtedly existed) to me, so I took my revenge by saying,with, an assumption of innocence purposely and obviously unreal, "Oh,but won't you wait and bid Miss Liston and Chillington good-night?"
Pamela looked at me for a moment. I made bold to smile.
Pamela's face broke slowly into an answering smile.
"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Wynne," said she.
"No?" said I.
"No," said Pamela, and she turned away. But before she went she lookedover her shoulder, and, still smiling, said, "Wish Miss Listongood-night for me, Mr. Wynne. Anything I have to say to Sir Gilbertwill wait very well till to-morrow."
She had hardly gone in when the wanderers came out of the shrubbery andrejoined me. Chillington wore his usual passive look, but Miss Liston'sface was happy and radiant. Chillington passed on into thedrawing-room. Miss Liston lingered a moment by me.
"Why, you look," said I, "as if you'd invented the finest scene everwritten."
She did not answer me directly, but stood looking up at the stars.Then she said in a dreamy tone, "I think I shall stick to my old ideain the book."
As she spoke Chillington came out. Even in the dim light I saw a frownon his face.
"I say, Wynne," said he, "where's Miss Myles?"
"She's gone to bed," I answered. "She told me to wish you good-nigh
tfor her, Miss Liston. No message for you, Chillington."
Miss Liston's eyes were on him. He took no notice of her; he stoodfrowning for an instant, then, with some muttered ejaculation, hestrode back into the house. We hoard his heavy tread across thedrawing-room; we heard the door slammed behind him, and I found myselflooking on Miss Liston's altered face.
"What does he want her for, I wonder?" she said, in an agitation thatmade my presence, my thoughts, my suspicions, nothing to her. "He saidnothing to me about wanting to speak to her to-night." And she walkedslowly into the house, her eyes on the ground, and all the light gonefrom her face and the joy dead in it. Whereupon I, left alone, began torail at the gods that a dear, silly little soul like Miss Liston shouldbother her poor, silly little head about a hulking fool; in whichreflections I did, of course, immense injustice not only to an eminentauthor, but also to a perfectly honorable, though somewhat dense anddecidedly conceited, gentleman.
The next morning Sir Gilbert Chillington ate dirt--there is no otherway of expressing it--in great quantities and with infinite humility.My admirable friend Miss Pamela was severe. I saw him walk six yardsbehind her for the length of the terrace; not a look nor a turn of herhead gave him leave to join her. Miss Liston had gone upstairs, and Iwatched the scene from the window of the smoking-room. At last, at theend of the long walk, just where the laurel-bushes mark the beginningof the shrubberies--on the threshold of the scene of his crime--Pamelaturned round suddenly and faced the repentant sinner. The mostinteresting things in life are those which, perhaps by the inevitablenature of the case, one does not hear; and I did not hear the scenewhich followed. For a while they stood talking--rather, he talked andshe listened. Then she turned again and walked slowly into theshrubbery. Chillington followed. It was the end of a chapter, and Ilaid down the book.
How and from whom Miss Liston heard the news, which Chillington himselftold me without a glimmer of shame or a touch of embarrassment some twohours later, I do not know; but hear it she did before luncheon; forshe came down, ready armed with the neatest little speeches for boththe happy lovers. I did not expect Pamela to show an ounce more feelingthan the strictest canons of propriety demanded, and she fulfilled myexpectations to the letter; but I had hoped, I confess, thatChillington would have displayed some little consciousness. He did not;and it is my belief that, throughout the events which I have recorded,he retained, and that he still retains, the conviction that MissListon's interest in him was purely literary and artistic, and that shedevoted herself to his society simply because he offered an interestingproblem and an inspiring theme. An ingenious charity may find in thatattitude evidence of modesty; to my thinking it argues a more subtleand magnificent conceit than if he had fathomed the truth, as manyhumbler men in his place would have done.
On the day after the engagement was accomplished Miss Liston left us toreturn to London. She came out in her hat and jacket and sat down byme; the carriage was to be round in ten minutes. She put on her glovesslowly and buttoned them carefully. This done, she said, "By the way,Mr. Wynne, I've adopted your suggestion. The man doesn't find out."
"Then you've made him a fool?" I asked bluntly.
"No," she answered. "I--I think it might happen though he wasn't afool."
She sat with her hands in her lap for a moment or two, then she went onin a lower voice, "I'm going to make him find out afterwards."
I felt her glance on me, but I looked straight in front of me.
"What! after he's married the shallow girl?"
"Yes," said Miss Liston.
"Rather too late, isn't it? At least if you mean there is to be a happyending."
Miss Liston enlaced her fingers.
"I haven't decided about the ending yet," said she.
"If you're intent is to be tragical--which is the fashion--you'll do asyou stand," said I.
"Yes," she answered slowly, "if I'm tragical I shall do as I stand."
There was another pause, and rather a long one; the wheels of thecarriage were audible on the gravel of the front drive. Miss Listonstood up. I rose and held out my hand.
"Of course," said Miss Liston, still intent on her novel, "I could--"She stopped again, and looked apprehensively at me. My face, I believe,expressed nothing more than polite attention and friendly interest.
"Of course," she began again, "the shallow girl--his wife--might--mightdie, Mr. Wynne."
"In novels," said I, with a smile, "while there's death there's hope."
"Yes, in novels," she answered, giving me her hand.
The poor little woman was very unhappy. Unwisely, I dare say, Ipressed, her hand. It was enough; the tears leapt to her eyes; she gavemy great fist a hurried squeeze. I have seldom been more touched by anythanks, however warm or eloquent, and hurried away.
I have read the novel. It came out a little while ago. The man findsout after the marriage; the shallow girl dies un regretted (she turnsout as badly as possible); the real love comes, and all ends joyfully.It is simple story, prettily told in its little way, and the scene ofthe reunion is written with genuine feeling--nay, with a touch of realpassion. But then Sir Gilbert Chillington never meets Miss Liston now.And Lady Chillington not only behaves with her customary propriety, butis in the enjoyment of most excellent health and spirits.
True art demands an adaptation, not a copy, of life. I saw that remarksomewhere the other day. It seems correct, if Miss Liston be anyauthority.