At His Gates: A Novel. Vol. 1 (of 3)

  CHAPTER II.

  Drummond's first speculations were very successful, as is so often thecase with the innocent and ignorant dabbler in commercial gambling. MrBurton instructed him what to do with his little capital, and he did it.He knew nothing about business, and was docile to the point of servilityto his disinterested friend, who smiled at his two thousand pounds, andregarded it with amused condescension. Two thousand pounds! It meantcomfort, ease of mind, moral strength, to Drummond. It made him feelthat in the contingency of a bad year, or a long illness, or any of theperils to which men and artists are liable, he would still be safe, andthat his wife and child would not suffer; but to the rich City man itwas a bagatelle scarcely worth thinking of. When he really consented toemploy his mind about it, he made such use of it as astonished anddelighted the innocent painter. All that his simple imagination had everdreamed seemed likely to be carried out. This was indeed money-making hefelt--Trade spelt with a very big capital, and meaning something muchmore splendid than anything he had hitherto dreamt of. But then he couldnot have done it by himself or without instruction. Burton could nothave been more at a loss in Drummond's studio than he would have felt inhis friend's counting-house. Mr Burton was 'a merchant;' a vague termwhich nevertheless satisfied the painter's mind. He was understood to beone of the partners in Rivers's bank, but his own business was quiteindependent of that. Money was the material he dealt in--hisstock-in-trade. He understood the Funds as a doctor understands apatient whose pulse he feels every day. He could divine when they weregoing to rise and when they were going to fall. And there were otherways in which his knowledge told still more wonderfully. He knew when anew invention, a new manufacture, was going to be popular, by someextraordinary magic which Drummond could not understand. He would catcha speculation of this sort at its tide, and take his profit from it, andbound off again uninjured before the current began to fall. In allthese matters he was knowing beyond most men; and he lent to hiscousin's husband all the benefit of his experience. For several yearsDrummond went on adding to his store in a manner so simple anddelightful, that his old way of making money, the mode by which monthsof labour went to the acquisition of a few hundred pounds, looked almostlaughable to him. He continued it because he was fond of his art, andloved her for herself alone; but he did it with a sort of banter,smiling at the folly of it, as an enlightened old lady might look at herspinning-wheel. The use of it? Well, as for that, the new ways ofspinning were better and cheaper; but still not for the use, but for thepleasure of it!--So Drummond clung to his profession, and worked almostas hard at it as ever. And in the additional ease of his circumstances,not needing to hurry anything for an exhibition, or sacrifice any partof his design for the fancy of a buyer, he certainly painted better thanusual, and was made an Associate, to the general satisfaction of hisbrethren. These were the happy days in which the studio was built. Itwas connected with the house, as I have said, by a conservatory, a warm,glass-covered, fragrant, balmy place, bright with flowers. 'There mustalways be violets, and there must always be colour!' he had said to thenurseryman who supplied and kept his fairy palace in order, after thefashion of London. And if ever there was a flowery way contrived intothe thorny haunts of art it was this. It would perhaps be rash to saythat this was the happy time of Drummond's married life, for they hadalways been happy, with only that one drawback of Helen'sdissatisfaction with her husband's work. They had loved each otheralways, and their union had been most true and full. But the effect ofwealth was mollifying, as it so often is. Prosperity has been railed atmuch, as dangerous and deadening to the higher being; but prosperityincreases amiability and smooths down asperities as nothing else can. Itdid not remove that one undisclosed and untellable grievance whichprevented Mrs Drummond's life from attaining perfection, but it tookaway ever so many little points of irritation which aggravated that. Shegot, for one thing, the dining-room she wanted--a prosaic matter, yetone which Helen considered important--and she got, what she had notbargained for, that pretty conservatory, and a bunch of violets everyday--a lover-like gift which pleased her. Things, in short, went verywell with them at this period of their existence. Her discontents weremore lulled to sleep than they had ever been before. She still saw theabsence of any divine meaning in her husband's pictures; but she saw itwith gentler eyes. The pictures did not seem so entirely his solestanding-ground. If he could not grow absolutely illustrious by that orany personal means of acquiring fame, he might still hold his own in theworld by other means. Helen sighed over her Titian-dream, but to a greatextent she gave it up. Greatness was not to be; but comfort and evenluxury were probable. Her old conditions of life seemed to be comingback to her. It was not what she had dreamed of; but yet it was betterto have mediocrity with ease and modest riches, and pleasantsurroundings, than mediocrity without those alleviations. To do herjustice, had her husband been a great unsuccessful genius, in whom shehad thoroughly believed, she would have borne privation proudly and witha certain triumph. But that not being so, she returned to her oldstarting-ground with a sigh that was not altogether painful, saying toherself that she must learn to be content with what she had, and notlong for what she could not have.

  Thus they were happier, more hopeful, more at their ease. They wentmore into society, and received more frequent visits from their friends.The new studio made many social pleasures possible that had not beenpossible. Of itself it implied a certain rise in the world. It gavegrace and completeness to their little house. Nobody could say anylonger that it was half a house and half a workshop, as Helen, under herbreath, in her impatience, had sometimes declared it to be. The workshopphase was over, the era of self-denial gone--and yet Robert was notdriven from the art he loved, nor prevented from putting on his old coatand stealing away in the evenings to visit the mistress who was dearerto him than anything else except his wife.

  This was the state of affairs when the painter one day entered Helen'sdrawing-room in a state of considerable excitement. He was full of a newscheme, greater than anything he had as yet been engaged in. Rivers'sbank, which was half as old as London, which held as high repute as theBank of England, which was the favourite depository of everybody'smoney, from ministers of state down to dressmakers, was going to undergoa revolution. The Riverses themselves had all died out, except, indeed,the head of the house, who was now Lord Rivers, and had no more than anominal connection with the establishment which had been the means ofbringing him to his present high estate. The other partners hadgradually got immersed in other business. Mr Burton, for instance,confessed frankly that he had not time to attend to the affairs of thebank, and the others were in a similar condition:--they had come in assecondaries, and they found themselves principals, and it was too muchfor them. They had accordingly decided to make Rivers's a joint-stockbank. This was the great news that Drummond brought home to his wife. 'Iwill put everything we have into it,' he said in his enthusiasm, 'unlessyou object, Helen. We can never have such another chance. Mostspeculations have a doubtful element in them. But this is not at alldoubtful. There is an enormous business ready made to our hands, and allthe traditions of success and the best names in the City to head ourlist--for of course the old partners hold shares, and will be madedirectors of the new company----And--you will laugh, Helen, but for youand the child I feel able to brave anything--I am to be a director too.'

  'You!' cried Helen, with a surprise which had some mixture of dismay.'But you don't know anything about business. You can't even----'

  'Reckon up my own accounts,' said the painter placidly--'quite true; butyou see it is a great deal easier to calculate on a large scale than ona small scale. I assure you I understand the banking system--at least, Ishall when I have given my mind to it. I shouldn't mind even,' he saidlaughing, 'making an effort to learn the multiplication table. Norahmight teach me. Besides, to speak seriously, it doesn't matter in theleast: there are clerks and a manager to do all that, and otherdirectors that know all about it, and I shall learn in time.'

  'But, then, why
be a director at all?' said Helen. She said this morefrom a woman's natural hesitation at the thought of change, than fromany dislike of the idea; for she belonged to the race from whichdirectors come by nature. Poor Drummond could not give any very goodreason why he desired this distinction; but he looked very wise, and setbefore her with gravity all the privileges involved.

  'It brings something in,' he said, 'either in the way of salary, orspecial profits, or something. Ask your cousin. I don't pretend to knowvery much about it. But I assure you he is very great upon theadvantages involved. He says it will be the making of me. It givesposition and influence and all that--'

  'To a painter!' said Helen: and in her heart she groaned. Her dream cameback like a mist, and wove itself about her head. What distinction wouldit have given to Raphael or to Titian, or even to Gainsborough or SirJoshua Reynolds, to be made directors of a bank? She groaned in herheart, and then she came back to herself, and caught her husband's eyeslooking at her with that grieved and wondering look, half aware of thedisappointment he had caused her, humbled, sorry, suspicious, yet almostindignant, the look with which he had sometimes regarded her from amonghis pictures in the day when art reigned alone over his life. Helen cameabruptly to herself when she met that glance, and said hurriedly, 'Itcannot change your position much, Robert, in our world.'

  'No,' he said, with a glance of sudden brightness in his eyes which shedid not understand; 'but, my darling, our world may expand. I shouldlike you to be something more than a poor painter's wife, Helen--you whomight be a princess! I should not have ventured to marry you if I hadnot hoped to make you a kind of princess; but you don't believe I can;do you?' Here he paused, and, she thought, regarded her with a wistfullook, asking her to contradict him. But how could she contradict him? Itwas true. The wife of a pleasant mediocre painter, Associate, or in timeAcademician--that was all. Not a thorough lady of art such as--suchas----Such as whom? Poor Andrea's Lucrezia, who ruined him? That was theonly painter's wife that occurred to Helen.

  'Dear Robert,' she said earnestly, 'never mind me: so long as I have youand Norah, I care very little about princesses. We are very well andvery happy as we are. I think you should be careful, and consider wellbefore you make any change.'

  But by this time the brightness that had been hanging about him cameback again like a gleam of sunshine. He kissed her with a joyous laugh.'You are only a woman,' he said, 'after all. You don't understand whatit is to be a British director. Fancy marching into the bank with alordly stride, and remembering the days when one was thankful to have abalance of five pounds to one's credit! You don't see the fun of it,Helen; and the best of the whole is that an R.A. on the board ofdirectors will be an advantage, Burton says. Why, heaven knows. Isuppose he thinks it will conciliate the profession. We painters, yousee, are known to have so much money floating about! But anyhow, hethinks an R.A.----'

  'But, Robert! you are not an R.A.'

  'Not yet. I forgot to tell you,' he added, lowering his voice, andputting on a sudden look of gravity, which was half real, halfinnocently hypocritical. 'Old Welby died last night.'

  Then there was a little pause. They were not glad that old Welby wasdead. A serious shade came over both their faces for the moment--thehomage, partly natural, partly conventional, that human nature pays todeath. And then they clasped each other's hands in mutualcongratulation. The vacant place would come to Drummond in the course ofnature. He was known to be the first on the list of Associates. Thus hehad obtained the highest honours of his profession, and it was this andnot the bank directorship which had filled him with triumph. His wife'scoldness, however, checked his delight. His profession and the publicadjudged the honour to him; but Helen had not adjudged it. If the prizehad been hers to bestow, she would not have given it to him. This madehis heart contract even in the moment of his triumph. But yet he wastriumphant. To him it was the highest honour in the world.

  'Poor old Welby!' he said. 'He was a great painter; and now that he isdead, he will be better understood. He was fifty before he entered theAcademy,' the painter continued, with half-conscious self-glorification.'He was a long time making his way.'

  'And you are more than ten years younger,' said Helen. Surely that mighthave changed her opinion if anything could. 'Robert, are you to be putupon this bank because you are an R.A.?'

  'And for my business talents generally,' he said, with a laugh. Hisspirits were too high to be subdued. He would not hear reason, nor,indeed, anything except the confused delightful chatter about his newelevation, in which the fumes of happiness get vent. He plunged into animmediate revelation of what he would do in his new capacity. 'It willbe odd if one can't make the Hanging Committee a little morereasonable,' he said. 'I shall set my face against that hideous habit offilling up "the line" with dozens of bad pictures because the men haveR.A. at their names. Do you remember, Helen, that year when I was hungup at the ceiling? It nearly broke my heart. It was the year before wewere married.'

  'They were your enemies then,' said Helen, with some visionary remnantof the old indignation which she had felt about that base outrage beforeshe was Robert Drummond's wife. She had not begun to criticise himthen--to weigh his pictures and find them wanting; and she could stillremember her disgust and hatred of the Hanging Committee of that year.Now no Hanging Committee could do any harm. It had changed its opinionand applauded the painter, but she--had changed her opinion too. Thenthis artist-pair did as many such people do. By way of celebrating theoccasion they went away to the country, and spent the rest of the daylike a pair of lovers. Little Norah, who was too small to be carried offon such short notice, was left at home with her governess, but thefather and mother went away to enjoy the bright summer day, and eachother, and the event which had crowned them with glory. Even Helen'sheart was moved with a certain thrill of satisfaction when it occurredto her that some one was pointing her husband out as 'Drummond thepainter--the new R.A.' He had won his blue ribbon, and won it honestly,and nobody in England, nobody in the world, was above him in his ownprofession. He was as good as a Duke, or even superior, for a Duke (poorwretch!) cannot help himself, whereas a painter achieves his owndistinction. Helen let this new softness steal into her soul. She evenfelt that when she looked at the pictures next time they would have alight in them which she had not yet been able to perceive. And the bank,though it was so much more important, sank altogether into thebackground, while the two rowed down the river in the summer evening,with a golden cloud of pleasure and glory around them. They had gone toRichmond, where so many happy people go to realise their gladness. Andwere the pair of lovers new betrothed, who crossed their path now andthen without seeing them, more blessed than the elder pair? 'I wonder ifthey will be as happy ten years hence?' Helen said, smiling at them withthat mingling of sweet regret and superiority with which we gaze at thereflection of a happiness we have had in our day. 'Yes,' said thepainter, 'if she is as sweet to him as my wife has been to me.' Whatmore could a woman want to make her glad? If Helen had not been veryhappy in his love, it would have made her heart sick to think of all herfailures towards him; but she was very happy; and happiness is indulgentnot only to its friends, but even to itself.