CHAPTER I
A good deal about a box of matches. Concerning a marriedcouple, whom anyone would have thought quarrelsome, tolisten to them. Of the difficulty with which the ladyhousekept, and how her husband was no help at all. Butthey went to the Old Water Colour. How Sairah onlyjust wiped gently over a tacky picture, and Mr. Aiken saidGod and Devil. Of the plural number. Of a very prettygirl, but dressy, and her soldier lover, and how Mrs. Aikenwas proper. Of her mystical utterance about the younglady. How Mr. Aiken sought for an explanation fromSairah, and created a situation. How his wife went to herAunt Priscilla, at Athabasca Villa, and cried herself tosleep.
"You'll have to light the gas, Sairah!" said anArtist in a fog, one morning in Chelsea. Foralthough summer was on the horizon, it was coldand damp; and, as we all know, till fires come to anend, London is not fogless--if, indeed, it ever is so.This was a very black fog, of the sort that is sure togo off presently, because it is only due toatmospheric conditions. Meanwhile, it was just as wellto light the gas, and not go on pretending you couldsee and putting your eyes out.
This Artist, after putting his eyes out, called out,from a dark corner in his Studio, to something in adark corner outside. And that something shuffledinto the room and scratched something else severaltimes at intervals on something gritty. It wasSairah, evidently, and Sairah appeared impatient.
"They're damp, Sairah," said the Artist feebly."Why do you get that sort? Why can't you getBryant and May?"
"These are Bryant and May, Mr. Aching. Youcan light 'em yourself if it sootes you better. I knowmy place. Only they're Safety, and fly in youreye. Puttin' of 'em down to dry improves. I'dscrew up a spell, only there's no gettin' inside of thestove. Nor yet any fire, in the manner of speaking."
The scratching continued. So did Sairah'simpatience. Then the supply of the somethingstopped, for Sairah said: "There ain't any more.That's the hend of the box. And exceptin' I go allthe way to the King's Road there ain't another inthe house--not Bryant and May."
"Oh dear, oh dear!" said the Artist, in the lowestspirits. But he brightened up. "Perhaps there'sa Vesta," said he.
Sairah threw the thing nearest to her againstthe thing nearest to it to indicate her readiness tosearch.
"Look in the pocket of my plaid overcoat,Sairah," he continued. "It was a new boxTuesday."
Sairah shuffled into another room, and was heardto turn over garments. The Artist seemed to knowwhich was which, by the sound. For he calledout: "None of those! On the hook." Sairahappeared to turn up the soil in a new claim, andpresently announced: "Nothing in neither pocket.Only coppers and a thrip'ny!"
"Oh dear--I'm certain there was! Are yousure you've looked? Just look again, Sairah." Heseemed distressed that there should be no Vestain his overcoat pocket.
"You can see for yourself--by lookin'," saysSairah. "And then there won't be any turnin'round and blamin' me!" Whereupon she appears,bearing a garment. The reason she shuffles is thatshe has to hold the heels of her shoes down on thefloor with her feet.
The owner of the overcoat dived deep into thepockets, but found nothing. He appeareddumbfoundered. "Well, now!" he continued."Whatever can have become of my Vestas?" Andthereon, as one in panic on emergency, he put downthe sponge and brush he was using and searchedrapidly through all his other pockets. He slappedhimself in such places as might still containforgotten pockets; and then stood in thought, as oneto whom a light of memory will come if he thinkshard enough, but with a certain glare and distortionof visage to say, in place of speech, how truly activeis his effort of thought. And then of a sudden heis illuminated, and says of course!--_he_ knows!But he doesn't know, for, after leaving the room toseek for his Vestas, and banging some doors, hecomes back, saying he thought they were thereand they aren't. Wherefore, Sairah must run outand get some more; and look sharp, because theymust have the gas! But Sairah, who has not beenexerting herself, awakes suddenly from somethingequivalent to sleep which she can indulge in upright,without support, and says, nodding towards a thingshe speaks of, "Ain't that them on the stove?" Andthe Artist says, "No, it isn't; it's an emptybox. Cut along and look sharp!" Sairah made noresponse; and time was lost in conversation, asfollows:
"That ain't an empty box!"
"It _is_ an empty box! Do cut along and look sharp!"
"It ain't my idear of an empty box. But, ofcourse, it ain't for _me_ to say nothin'!"
"I tell you I'm quite _sure_ it's empty. Perfectlycertain!"
"Well! It ain't for me to say anything. Butif you had a asted me, I should have said therewouldn't any harm have come of looking inside ofit, to see. Of course I can _go_, if you come tothat! Only there's tandstickers in the kitchen,and for the matter of that, the fire ain't letout; nor likely when it's not the sweep till Wednesday."
"Get 'em out of the kitchen, then! Get thetandstickers or get anything. Anywhere; onlylook alive!" He seemed roused to impatience.
"Of course I _can_ get them out of the kitchen.Or there's missus's bedroom candlestick stood onthe landin', with one in, and guttered." Sairahenumerated two or three other resourcesunexhausted, and left the room.
When she had vanished, the Artist went andstood with his back to the stove, for it was too darkto work. Being there, he picked up the empty boxand seemed to examine it. Having done so, heleft the room, and called over the stair-rail, to alower region.
"Sair-ah!"
"Did you call, Sir?"
"Yes--you needn't go! There's some here."
"'Arf a minute till I put these back."
And then from underground came the voice ofthe young woman saying something enigmaticalabout always wishing to give satisfaction, and therewas never any knowing. But she remained below,because her master said: "You needn't come upagain now. I'll light it myself." In an instant,however, he called out again that she must bringthe matches, after all, because the Vestas were allstuck to, through being on the stove.
When she reappeared, after a good deal of shufflingabout below, he asked her why on earth she couldn'tcome at once. She explained, with some indignation,that she had been doing a little dusting inthe parlour; and, of course, the tandstickers, sheput 'em back in the kitchen, not bein' wanted, asyou might say. But all obstacles to lighting thegas were now removed.
Illumination presented itself first as anincombustible hiss; but shortly became a flame, and wasbright enough to work by. The Artist did not seemvery contented with it, and said that the pressurewas weak, and it was off at the main, and therewas water in the pipes, and the gas was bad andvery dear. But he worked for half-an-hour or so,and then a young woman came in, of whom he tookno notice; so she must have been his wife. Ofwhom anyone might have thought that she wasstopping away from a funeral against her will, andresented the restraint. For she bit her lips andtapped with her feet as she sat in the arm-chairshe dropped into when she entered the room. Shemade no remark, but maintained an aggressivesilence. Presently the young man moaned.
"What _is_ the rumpus?" said he plaintively."What _is_ the everlasting rumpus?"
"It's very easy for you. Men can! But if youwere a woman, you would feel it like I do. ThankGod, Reginald, you are not a woman!"
"Good job I ain't! We might quarrel, if I was.You've got something to be thankful for, you see,Mrs. Hay." This way of addressing her, as Mrs. Hay,was due to the substitution of the initial forthe whole name, which was Aiken.
"Oh, you _are_ unfeeling," said she reproachfully."You know perfectly well what I meant!"
"Meant that you thanked God I wasn't a woman." Butthis made the lady evince despair. "Well!--what_did_ you mean, then? Spit it out."
"You are tired of me, Reginald, and I shall go formy walk alone. Of course, what I meant was plainenough, to any but a downright fool. I meant _you_were to thank God, Reginald--on your knees!--that_you_ were a man and not a woman. The ideaof my saying anything so silly! Wait till you area woman, and _then_ see! But if you're not coming,I shall go. I d
on't know why you want the gas.It all mounts up in the bills. And then _I_ shall befound fault with, I suppose."
"I want the gas because I can't see without it."
After a phase of despair, followed by resignation,the lady said, speaking in the effect of the latter:"I think, Reginald, if you had any regard for thebills, you would just look out of the window, once inan hour or so, and not consume all those cubic feetof gas at three-and-ninepence. The fog's gone!There's the sun. I knew it would be, and it wasperfectly ridiculous to put off going to the OldWater Colour."
"Suppose we go, then? Hay, Mrs. Hay? Getyour hat, and we'll go." He turned the gas out.
"Oh no! It's no use going now--it's too late.And it's all so depressing. And you know it is!And I shall have to get rid of this new girl, Sairah."
"I thought she looked honest." This wasspoken feebly.
She answered irritably: "You always think theylook honest when they're ugly. This one's no betterthan they all are. It's not the honesty, though.It's she won't do anything."
"Why didn't you have that rather pleasin'-lookinggyairl with a bird's wing on her hat?"
"That conscious minx! I really do sometimesquite wonder at you, Reginald! Besides, she wanteda parlourmaid's place, and wouldn't go where therewasn't a manservant kept. You men are suchfools! And you don't give any help."
Mr. Aiken, observing a disposition to weep in theselast words, seemed embarrassed for a moment; butafter reflection became conciliatory. "Sairah doesseem lazy. But she says she's not been accustomed."
"And then you give way! You might put thatmagnifying-glass down just for one moment, andpay attention! Of course, she says she's not beenaccustomed to anything and everything. They alldo! But what can one expect when their masterblacks his own boots?"
"What can _I_ do, when she says she hopes sheknows her place, and she ain't a general, where aboy comes in to do the rough work?"
"What can you _do_? Why, of course _not_ carryyour dirty boots down into the kitchen and blackthem yourself, and have her say, when you ask forthe blacking, do you know where it's kept? I've nopatience! But some men will put up withanything, except their wives; and then one's head'ssnapped off! '_Do you know where it's kept!_' Theidea! ... Well, are you coming, or are you not?Because, _if_ you're coming, I must put on my greytweed. If you're _not_ coming, say so!"
But Mr. Aiken did not say so. So, after a gooddeal of time needlessly spent in preparation, the twoasked each other several times if they were ready,shouting about the house to that effect. And then,when they reappeared in the Studio, havingsucceeded very indifferently in improving theirappearance, the lady asked the gentleman more than oncewhether she looked right, and he said in adebilitated way, Yes!--he thought so. Whereon shetook exception to his want of interest in herappearance, and he said she needn't catch him up so short.However, they did get away in the end, and Sairahcame in to do a little tidin' up--not often gettingthe opportunity in the Studio--in pursuance of aprogramme arranged between herself and hermistress, in an aside out of hearing of her master,in order that the latter should not interpose, as healways did, and he knew it, to prevent anything theleast like cleanness or order. How he could go onso was a wonder to his wife.
As for Sairah, the image of herself which shenourished in her own mind was apparently that ofone determined to struggle single-handed tore-establish system in the midst of a world given overto Chaos. Whatever state the place would getinto if it wasn't for her, she couldn't tell! Theother inhabitants of the planet would never do ahand's turn; anyone could see that! In fact, thegreater part of them devoted themselves to leavin'things about for her to clear up. The remainder,to gettin' in the way. When you were that werrited,you might very easy let something drop, and nogreat wonder! And things didn't show, not whenriveted, if only done careful enough. Or a littlediamond cement hotted up and the edges broughtto. There was a man they knew his address atPibses Dairy, over a hivory-turner's he lived, donetheir ornamential pail beautiful, and you never seea crack!
But Sairah's alacrity, when she found herselfalone in the Studio, fell short of her implied forecastof it. Instead of taking opportunity by theforelock, and doing the little bit of tidying up that shestood pledged to, she gave herself up to thecontemplation of the Fine Arts.
Now, there were two Fine Arts to which thismaster, Mr. Reginald Aiken, devoted himself. One,the production of original compositions; which didnot pay, owing to their date. Some of these daysthey would be worth a pot of money--you see ifthey wouldn't! The other Fine Art was that ofthe picture-restorer, and did pay. At any rate, itpaid enough to keep Mr. Aiken and his wife--and atthis particular moment Sairah--in provisions cookedand quarrelled over at the street-door by the latter;leaving Mrs. Aiken's hundred a year, which herAunt Priscilla allowed her, to pay the rent and soon, with a good margin for cabs and such-like.Anyhow, as the lady of the house helped _with_ thehouse, the Aikens managed, somehow. Or perhapsit should be said that, somehow, the Aikens managedanyhow. Mrs. Verity, their landlady, had heropinions about this.
This, however, is by the way; but, arising as itdoes from this Artist's twofold mission in life, itconnects itself with a regrettable occurrence whichcame about in consequence of Sairah's notconfining herself to tidying up, and getting things a bitstraight, but seizing the opportunity to do a littledusting also.
Those on whom the guardianship of a picturerecently varnished has fallen know the assiduousdevotion with which it must be watched to protectit from insect-life and flue. Even the largerlepidoptera may fail to detach themselves from a fat,slow-drying varnish, without assistance; and whodoes not know how terribly the delicate organizationof beetles' legs may suffer if complicated withtreacle or other glutinous material. But beetles'legs may be removed with care from varnish, andleave no trace of their presence, provided thevarnish is not too dry. Flue, on the other hand,at any stage of desiccation, spells ruin, and is thatnasty and messy there's no doing anything with it;and you may just worrit yourself mad, and stickyyourself all over, and only make matters worse thanyou began. So you may just as well let be, and notbe took off your work no longer; nursing, however,an intention of saying well now!--you declare, whoever could have done that, and not a livin' soul comeanigh the place, you having been close to the wholetime, and never hardly took your eyes off?
That sketches the line of defence Sairah wasconstrained to adopt, after what certainly was at leasta culpable error of judgment. She should not havewiped over any picture at all, not even with thecleanest of dusters. And though the one she usedwas the one she kep' for the Studio, nothingwarranted its application to the Italian half-length thathad been entrusted to Mr. Aiken by Sir StopleighUpwell, to clean and varnish carefully, and touchup the frame, without destroying the antique feelingof the latter.
Mr. Aiken was certainly to blame for not lockingthe door and taking away the key. So he had noexcuse for using what is called strong languagewhen he and his wife came back from the Old WaterColour. She had not been in _ten minutes_--a periodshe laid great stress on--when she heard himshouting inside the Studio. And then he came outin the passage and shouted down the stairs.
"Good God, Euphemia! where are you? Wherethe Devil are you? Do come up here! I'm _ruined_,I tell you! ... that brute of a girl!..." And hewent stamping about in his uncontrollable temper.
His wife was alarmed, but not to the extent offorgetting to enter her protest against the stronglanguage. "Reginald!" she said with dignity,"have I not often told you that if you say Godand Devil I shall go away and spend the rest of theday with my Aunt Priscilla, at Coombe? Beforethe girl and all!"
But her husband was seriously upset at something."Don't go on talking like an idiot," he saidirritably. Then his manner softened, as thoughhe was himself a little penitent for the stronglanguage, and he subsided into "Do come up andsee what that confounded girl has done." Thoseconversant with the niceties of strong language willsee there was concession in this.
Mrs. Aiken w
ent upstairs, and saw what theconfounded girl had done. But she did not seemimpressed. "It wants a rub," she said. Then herhusband said, "That's just like you, Euphemia.You're a fool." Whereupon the lady said in adignified manner, "Perhaps if I am a fool, I'dbetter go." And was, as it were, under compulsionto do so, seeing that no objection was raised.
But she must have gone slowly, inasmuch as shepresently called back from the landing, "What'sthat you said?" not without severity.
"I said 'Call the girl.'"
"You said nothing of the sort. What was it yousaid before that?"
Now, what her husband had said was, "The ideaof a _rub_! Idiotic barbarian!" He was unable toqualify this speech effectually, and his wife wentsome more stairs up. Not to disappear finally; acompromise was possible.
"Did you say 'idiotic barbarian,' or 'idioticbarbarians'? Because it makes all the difference."
"Barbarians. Plural. Don't be a fool, andcome down."
Thereupon the lady came back as far as the door,but seemed to waver in concession, for she madereservations.
"I am not coming down because of anything,"she said, "but only to remind you that that MissUpwell was to come some time to see the picture,and I think that's her."
"What's her? I don't hear anyone at the door."
"It's no use gaping out of the front-window.You know quite well what I mean. That's her inthe carriage, gone to the Macnivensons' by mistakefor us, as people always do and always will, Reginald,until Mrs. Verity gets the Borough Council to changethe numbers. 'Thirty-seven A' is a mere mockery."
Mr. Aiken came out of the Studio, and went upto the side-window on the landing, commanding aview of the street in which thirty-seven A stood, hisown tenancy being in the upper half of a cornerhouse. "That's her," said he. "And a youngswell. Sweetheart, p'raps! Smart set, they look.But, I say, Mrs. Hay..."
"Do come away from the window. They'll seeyou, and it looks so bad. _What_ do you say?"
"What the Devil am I to do? I can't let her seethe picture in that state."
"Nonsense! Just wipe the mess off. You aresuch a fidget, Reginald."
But the Artist could not have his work treatedthus lightly. The girl must say he had been calledaway on important business. It was absolutelyimpossible to let that picture be seen in its presentstate. And it would take over an hour to make itfit to be seen.... Well, of course, it was difficult,Mr. Aiken admitted, to think what to say, all in ahurry! He thought very hard, and twice said,"I've an idea. Look here!" And his wife said,"Well?" But nothing came of it. Then he said,"Anyhow, she mustn't come into the Studio.That's flat!..." But when, in answer to inquiryas to how the difficulty of the position should bemet, he riposted brusquely, "Who's to see her?Why, _you_!"--Mrs. Aiken said, in the mostuncompromising way, No--that she wouldn't; the idea!If there were to be any fibs told, her husband musttell them himself, and not put them off on her. Itwas unmanly cowardice. Let him tell his own fibs.
But the colloquy, which threatened to becomeheated, was interrupted by a knock at the door.Warmth of feeling had to give way before necessityfor action. Broadly speaking, this took the formof affectation, on the part of Mr. and Mrs. Aiken, ofa remoteness from the Studio not favoured by theresources of their premises, and, on the part of Sairah,of a dramatic effort to which she proved altogetherunequal. She was instructed to say that she didn'tknow if her master was at home, but would see, ifthe lady and gentleman would walk into the Studio.She was then to convey an impression of passingthrough perspectives of corridors, and opening doorsrespectfully, and meeting with many failures, butsucceeding in the end in running her quarry downin some boudoir or private chapel. She failed, andwas audible to the visitors in the Studio, within afew feet of its door, which didn't 'asp, unless pulledto sharp. She had not pulled it to sharp. Andher words were not well chosen:--"I said to 'em toset down till you come, and you wouldn't be aminute." No more they were; but there are moreways than one of not being a minute, and they chosethe one most illustrative--to Mrs. Aiken's mind--ofthe frequency of unexpected visits from the _elite_."Don't go rushing in, as if no one ever came!" saidshe to her husband.
The young lady and gentleman did not sit down,but walked about the room, the former examiningits contents. The gentleman, who was palpably anofficer in a cavalry regiment, neglected the FineArts, in favour of the lady, whom he may be saidto have gloated over at a respectful distance. Buthe expressed himself to the effect that this was anawful lark, straining metaphor severely. The younglady, whose beauty had made Sairah's head reel,said, "Yes--it's fun," more temperately. Butboth looked blooming and optimistic, and ready torecognise awful larks and fun in almost anycombination of circumstances.
The first instinct of visitors to a Studio is to findsome way of avoiding looking at the pictures. Agood method towards success in this object is tolean back and peep over all the canvases with theirfaces to the wall, and examine all the sketch-books,in search of what really interests you so much morethan finished work; to wit, the first ideas of theArtist, fresh from his brain--incomplete, of course,but full of an indefinable something. They are_himself_, you see! But they spoil your new gloves,and perhaps you are going on to Hurlingham.These young people were; and that, no doubt, waswhy the young lady went no further in herresearches than to discover the rich grimy quality ofthe dirt they compelled her to wallow in. Itrepulsed her, and she had to fall back on the easelsand their burdens.
They glanced at "Diana and Actaeon," unfinished,the Artist's _capo d'opera_ at this date, and appearedembarrassed for a moment, but conscious thatsomething is still due to High Art.
"Why don't you say the drawing's fine, or thetone, or something? You're not doing your duty,Jack." Thus spoke the young lady, who presently,to the relief of both, found an enthusiasm. "She'sperfectly lovely! But is _she_ Mr. Malkin's work?She isn't--_she's our picture_! She's Early Italian."She clapped her hands and laughed with delight.Oh dear!--how pretty she looked, transfixed, as itwere, with her lips apart opposite to the pictureSairah had been attending to!
The young man took his eyes off her to glance atthe picture, then put them back again. "I don'tdislike 'em Early Italian," he said. But he wasn'tpaying proper attention; and, besides, Sairah's littleessay towards picture-restoration had caught hispassing glance. "What's all that woolly mess?" said he.
"Picture-cleaning, of course," said the lady."Mr. Malthus knows what he's about--at least, Isuppose so.... Oh, here he is!" Now, this younglady ought to have made herself mistress of theArtist's real name before visiting his Studio. Nothaving done so, his sudden appearance--he hadtaken the bit in his teeth and rushed in as thoughat most very few people ever came--was a littleembarrassing to her, especially as he saidcorrectively, "Aiken." Thereon the young lady said shemeant Aiken, which may have been true, or not.However, she got the conversation on a soundfooting by a little bit of truthfulness. "I was justsaying to Captain Calverley that the 'woolly mess,'as he is pleased to call it, is what you are doing tothe picture. Isn't it, now?"
Mr. Aiken satisfied his conscience cleverly. Hesmiled in a superior way--as a master smiles at onethat is not of his school--and said merely, "Somethingof the kind."
This young lady, Madeline Upwell, had never beenin a real picture-restorer's Studio before, and couldnot presume to be questioning anything, or takingexceptions. So she accepted Sairah's handiworkas technical skill of a high order. And Mr. Aiken,his conscience at ease at having avoided fibs, whichso often lead to embarrassments, felt quite in highspirits, and could give himself airs about hisknowledge of Early Italian Art.
"A fine picture!" said he. "But not a Bronzino."
Miss Upwell looked dejected, and said, "Ohdear!--isn't it? Ought it to be?" CaptainCalverley said, "P'raps it's by somebody else." Buthe was evidently only making conversation.And Miss Upwell said to him, "Jack, you don'tknow anything about it. Be quiet!" WhereuponCaptain Calverley was quiet. He was very goodand docile, and no wonder; for the fact is, his innersoul purr
ed like a cat whenever this young ladyaddressed him by name.
Mr. Aiken went on to declare his own belief aboutthe authorship in question. His opinion was ofless than no value, but he gave it for what it wasworth. The picture was palpably the work ofMozzo Vecchio, or his son Cippo--probably thelatter, who was really the finer artist of the two, inspite of Jupp. As to the identity of the portrait,he did not agree with any of the theories about it.He then, receiving well-bred encouragement toproceed from his hearers, threw himself into acomplete exposition of his views--although hefrequently dwelt upon their insignificance and hisown--with such enthusiasm that it was with a wrenchto his treatment of the subject that he became awarethat his wife had come into the room and wasexpecting to be taken notice of, venomously. At thesame time it dawned on him that his visitors hadassumed the appearance of awaiting formalintroduction. The method of indicating this is notexactly like endeavouring to detect a smell of gas,nor giving up a conundrum and waiting for theanswer, nor standing quite still to try on, nor anyparticular passage in fielding at cricket; but theremay be a little of each in it. Only, you mustn'tspeak on any account--mind that! You may say"er"--if that indicates the smallest speakablesection of a syllable--as a friendly lead to theintroducer. And it is well to indicate, if you can, howsweet your disposition will be towards the otherparty when the introducer has taken action, likethe Treasury. But the magic words must be spoken.
Miss Upwell was beginning to feel a spirit ofChauvinism rising in her heart, that might in timehave become "Is _this_ Mrs. Aiken?" with a certaingush of provisional joy, when the gentlemanperceived his neglect, and said, "Ah--oh!--my wife,of course! Beg pardon!" On which Mrs. Aikensaid, "You must forgive my husband," with anair of spacious condescension, and the incidentended curiously by a kind of alliance between thetwo ladies against the social blunders of male mankind.
But the Artist's wife declined to fall in withcurrent opinion about the picture. "I suppose it'svery beautiful, and all that," said she. "Onlydon't ask _me_ to admire it! I never _have_ likedthat sort of thing, and I never _shall_ like it." Shewent on to say the same thing more frequentlythan public interest in her decisions appeared towarrant.
The young lady said, in a rather plaintive,disappointed tone, "But _is_ it that sort of thing?" Shehad evidently fallen in love with the picture,and while not prepared to deny that sorts of thingsexisted which half-length portraits oughtn't to be,was very reluctant to have a new-found idolpitchforked into their category.
The Artist said, "What the dooce you mean,Euphemia, I'm blest if _I_ know!" He looked likean Artist who wished his wife hadn't come into hisroom when visitors were there.
The Captain said, "What sort of thing? I don'tsee that she's any sort at all. Thundering prettysort, anyhow!"
Thereupon the Artist's wife said, "I supposeI'm not to speak," and showed symptoms of adangerous and threatening self-subordination. Thelady visitor, perceiving danger ahead, with greattact exclaimed: "Oh, but I do know so _exactly_what Mrs. Aiken means." She didn't know, theleast in the world. But what did that matter?She went on to dwell on the beauty of the portrait,saying that she should persuade Pupsey to have itover the library chimneypiece and take away thatdreary old Kneller woman. It was the best lightin the whole place.
But her sweetly meant effort to soothe away theparoxysm of propriety which seemed to have seizedupon the lady of the house was destined to fail, forthe husband of the latter must needs put his word in,saying, "I don't see any ground for it. Nevershall." This occasioned an intensification of hiswife's attitude, shown by a particular form of silence,and an underspeech to Miss Upwell, as to one whowould understand, "No ground?--with those armsand shoulders! And look at her open throat--oh,the whole thing!" which elicited a sympatheticsound, meant to mean anything. But the younglady was only being civil. Because she had reallyno sympathy whatever with this Mrs. What's-her-name,and spoke with severity of her afterwards,under that designation. At the moment, however,she made no protest beyond an expression ofrapturous admiration for the portrait, saying it wasthe most fascinating head she had ever seen in apicture. And as for the arms and open throat, theywere simply ducky. The Artist's wife could findnothing to contradict flatly in this, and had tocontent herself with, "Oh yes, the _beauty's_ undeniable.But that was how they did it."
The young officer appeared to want to say something,but to be diffident. A nod of encouragementfrom Miss Upwell produced, "Why, I was going tosay--wasn't it awfully jolly of 'em to do it thatway?" The speaker coloured slightly, but whenthe young lady said, "Bravo, Jack! I'm on yourside," he looked happy and reinstated.
But when could the picture be finished and besent to Surley Stakes? The young lady would neverbe happy till it was safe there, now she had seen it.Would Mr. Aiken get it done in a week? ... No?--thenin a fortnight? The Artist smiled in a superiorway, from within the panoply of his mystery, andintimated that at least a month would be required;and, indeed, to do justice to so important a job,he would much rather have said six weeks. Hehoped, however, that Miss Upwell would be contentwith his assurance that he would do his best.
Miss Upwell would not be at all content. Still,she would accept the inevitable. How could shedo otherwise, with Captain Calverley's sisterswaiting for them at Hurlingham?
"Quite up to date!" was the verdict of theArtist's wife, as soon as her guest was out ofhearing.
"Who?" said the Artist. Then, as one whosteps down from conversation to communication,he added in business tones: "I say, Euphemia, Ishall have to run this all down with turps beforethe copal hardens, and I really must give my mindto it. You had better hook it."
"I'm going directly. But it's easy to say 'who?'"
"Oh, I say, _do_ hook it! I can't attend to youand this at the same time."
"I'm going. But it _is_ easy to say 'who?' Andyou know it's easy."
The Artist, who was coquetting with one of thosenice little corkscrews that bloom on Artists' bottles,became impatient. "Wha-a-_awt_ is it you're goingon about?" he exclaimed, exasperated. "Can't youleave the girl alone, and hook it?"
"I can leave the room," said his wife temperately,"and am doing so. But you see you knewperfectly well who, all along!" Even so the Japanesewrestler, who has got a certainty, is temperanceitself towards his victim, who writhes in vain.
Why on earth could not the gentleman leave thelady to go her own way, and attend to his work?He couldn't; and must needs fan the fires of anincipient wrangle that would have burned down,left to itself. "Don't be a fool, Euphemia," saidhe. "Can't you answer my question? What doyou mean by 'quite up to date'?"
Now, Mrs. Aiken had a much better memory thanher husband. "Because," she replied, dexterouslyseizing on his weak point, "you never asked any suchquestion, Reginald. If you had asked me to tellyou what I meant by 'quite up to date,' I shouldhave told you what I meant by 'quite up to date.' ButI shall not tell you now, Reginald, because itis worse than ridiculous for you to pretend you donot know the meaning of 'quite up to date,' whenit is not only transparently on the surface, butobvious. Ask anyone. Ask my Aunt Priscilla.Ask Mrs. Verity." The lady had much better havestopped here. But she wished to class herlandlady amongst the lower intelligences, so she mustneeds add, somewhat in the rear of her enumeration,in a quick _sotto voce_, "Ask the girl Sairah, for thatmatter!"
"What's that?" said her husband curtly.
"You heard what I said."
"Oh yes, I heard what you _said_. Well--supposeI ask the girl Sairah!"
"Reginald! If you are determined to makeyourself and your wife ridiculous, I shall go. I dothink that, even if you have no common sense, youmight have a little good-feeling. The girl Sairah!The idea!" She collected herself a little more--somewandering scraps were out of bounds--andwent almost away, just listening back on thestaircase landing.
Now, although an impish intention may haveflickered in the mind of Mr. Reginald Aiken, hecertainty had no definite idea of catechising the girlSairah about the phrase un
der discussion when herang the bell for her and summoned her to theStudio. But his wife having taken him _au serieux_instead of laughing at his absurdity, the impishintention flared up, and had not time to die downbefore Sairah answered the bell. Would it havedone so if he had not been conscious that his wifewas still standing at pause on the staircase to keepan eye on the outcome?
So, when Sairah lurched into his sanctum, askingwhether he rang--not without suggestion thatoffence would be given by an affirmative answer--hisreal intention in summoning the damsel waveredat the instigation of the spirit of mischief that hadmomentary possession of him; and instead ofblowing her up roundly for damaging his picture, heactually must needs ask her the very question hiswife had said "The idea!" about. He spoke loud,that his speech should reach that lady's listening ears.
"Yes Sairah: I rang for _you_. What is themeaning of...?" He paused a moment, to overhear,if possible, some result of his words in thepassage.
"It's nothin' along o' me. _I_ ain't done nothin'." Abrief sketch of a blameless life, implied in thesewords, seemed to Sairah the safest policy. Shethought she was going to be indicted for the ruinof the picture.
"Shut up, Sairah!" said the Artist, and listened.Of course, he was doing this, you see, to plague hiswife. But he heard nothing, being neverthelessmysteriously aware that Mrs. Aiken was still on thelanding above, taking mental notes of what sheoverheard. So he pursued his inquiry, regardingSairah as a mere lay-figure of use in practical joking."I expect you know the meaning of 'up to date,'Sairah," said he, and listened. But no sign camefrom without. If the ears this pleasantry wasintended to reach were still there, their owner wasstoring up retribution for its author in silence.
It was but natural that this young woman Sairah,having no information on any topic whatever--forthis condition soon asserts itself in young women ofher class after their Board-School erudition has hadtime to die a natural death--should be apt toascribe sinister meanings to things she did notunderstand. And in this case none the less for the airand aspect of the speaker, which, while it really wasopen to the misinterpretation that it was intendedto convey insinuating waggery to the personaddressed, had only reference to the enjoymentMr. Aiken had, or was proposing to himself, from a mildjoke perpetrated at his wife's expense. However,the young woman was not going to fly out--anaction akin to the showing of a proper spirit--withoutan absolute certainty of the point to be flownout about. Therefore Sairah said briefly, "Askyour parding!" Briefly, but with a slight asperity.
The Artist, though he was in some doubt whetherhis jest was worth proceeding with, was too farcommitted to retreat. With his wife listening on thestairs, was he not bound to pursue his inquiry?Obviously he must do so, or run the risk of beingtwitted with his indecision by that lady later on.So he said, with effrontery, "Your mistress saysyou can tell me the meaning of the expression 'upto date,' Sairah."
Sairah turned purple. "Well, I never!" said she."Mrs. Aching to say that of a respectable girl!"
Mr. Aiken became uncomfortable, as Sairah turnedpurple. He began to perceive that his jest was avery stupid one. As Sairah turned purpler, hebecame more uncomfortable still. A panic-strickenreview of possible ways out of the difficulty startedin his mind, but soon stopped for want of materials.Explanation--cajolery--severe transition to anothertopic--he thought of all three. The first was simplyimpossible to reasoning faculties like Sairah's. Thesecond was out of Mr. Aiken's line. If the girl hadbeen a _model_ now! ... And who can say thatthen it might not have been ticklish work--yes!--evenwith the strong personal vanity of thatinscrutable class to appeal to? There was nothingfor it but the third, and Mr. Aiken's confidence init was very weak. Something had to be done,though, with Sairah's colour _crescendo_, and probablyMrs. Hay outside the door; that was the image hismind supplied. He felt like an ill-furnishedstorming-party, a forlorn hope in want of a ladder, as hesaid, "There--never mind that now! You've beenmeddling with this picture. You know you have.Look here!" Had he been a good tactician, hewould have affected sudden detection of the injuryto the picture. But he lost the opportunity.
Sairah held the strong position of an InjuredWoman. If she was to have the sack, she muchpreferred to have it "on her own"--to wrest it, asit were, from a grasp unwilling to surrenderit--rather than to have it forced upon her unwillingacceptance, with a month's notice and a characterfor Vandalism. So she repeated, as one still rigidwith amazement, "Mrs. Aching to say that of arespectable girl!" and remained paralysed, in dumb show.
Mr. Aiken perceived with chagrin that he mighthave saved the situation by, "What's this horriblemess on the picture? _You've_ been touching this!"and a drowning storm of indignation to follow. Itwas too late now. He had to accept his task asDestiny set it, and he cut a very poor figure overit--was quite outclassed by Sairah. He couldactually manage nothing better than, "Do let thatalone, girl! I tell you it was foolery.... I tellyou it was a joke. Look here at this picture--themischief you've done it. You _know_ you did it!"
To which Sairah thus:--"Ho, it's easy gettin'out of it that way, Mr. Aching. Not but what Ihave always known you for the gentleman--I willsay that. But _such_ a thing to say! If I'd a beenMissis, I should have shrank!"
The Artist felt that there was nothing for it butto grapple with the situation. He shouted at theindignant young woman, "Don't be such aconfounded idiot, girl! I mean, don't be such aninsufferable goose. I tell you, you're under acomplete misconception. Nobody's ever said anythingagainst you. Nobody's said a word against yourconfounded character, and be hanged to it! Dohave a little common sense! A young womanof your age ought to be ashamed to be such a fool."
But Sairah's entrenchments were strengthened,if anything. "It's easy calling fool," said she."And as for saying against, who's using expressions,and passing off remarks now?" Controversialopponents incapable of understanding anythingwhatever are harder to refute than the shrewdestintellects. Mr. Aiken felt that Sairah was oak andtriple brass against logical conviction. Explanationonly made matters worse.
A vague desperate idea of summoning his wifeand accusing Sairah of intoxication, as a sort ofuniversal solvent, crossed his mind; and he actuallywent so far as to look out into the passage for her,but only to find that she had vanished for themoment. Coning back, he assumed a suddendecisive tone, saying, "There--that'll do, Sairah!Now go." But Sairah wasn't going to give in,evidently, and he added, "I mean, that's enough!"
Whether it was or wasn't, Sairah showed no signsof concession. _She_ was going, no fear! She wasgoing--ho yes!--she was going. She said she wasgoing so often that Mr. Aiken said at last, "Well,go!" But when the young woman began togo--vengefully, as it were, even as a quadrupedsuddenly stung by an ill-deserved whip--heinconsequently exclaimed, "Stop!" For a fell purposehad been visible in her manner. What, he asked,was she going to do?
What was she going to do? Oh yes!--it waseasy asking questions. But the answer would reachMr. Aiken in due course. Nevertheless, if he wantedto know, she would be generous, and tell him. Shewasn't an underhand girl, like the majority of hersex at her age. Mean concealments were foreign toher nature. She was going straight to Mrs. Achingto give a month's warning, and you might summingin the police to search her box. All should beaboveboard, as had been the case in her family forgenerations past, and she never had experienced suchtreatment all the places she'd been in, nor yetexpected to it.
It was then that this Artist made a serious errorof judgment. He would have done much morewisely to allow this stupid maid-of-all-work to goaway and attend to some of it in the kitchen, whilehe looked after his own. Instead of doing so, he,being seriously alarmed at the possible domesticconsequences of his very imperfectly thought outjoke--for he knew his wife accounted the finding ofa new handmaid life's greatest calamity--must needsmake an ill-advised attempt to calm the troubledwaters on the same line that he would have adopted,at any rate in his Bohemian days, with Miss deLancey or Miss Montmorency--these names arechosen at random--whose profession
al beauty asmodels did not prevent their suffering, now andagain, from tantrums. And cajolery, of the classotherwise known as blarney, might have smoothedover the incident, and the whole thing have beenforgotten, if bad luck had not, just at this moment,brought back to the Studio the mistress of thehouse, who had only been attracted by a noise inthe street to look out at a front-window. She,coming unheard within hearing, not only was awareof interchanges of unusual amiability betweenReginald and that horrible girl Sairah, but was justin time to hear the latter say, "You keep your'ands off of me now, Mr. Aching!" without anyapparent intention of being taken at her word.And, further, that the odious minx brazened it out,leaving the room as if nothing had happened, beforethe gentleman's offended wife could find words toexpress her indignation. At least, so this lady toldher Aunt Priscilla that evening, in an interviewfrom which we have just borrowed some tellingphrases.
As for her profligate husband, it came out in thesame interview that he looked "sheepish to adegree, and well he might." He had tried to cookup a sort of explanation--"oh yes! a _sort_,"--whichwas no doubt an attempt on the misguided man'spart to tell the truth. But we have seen that hewas the last person to succeed in such an enterprise;and, indeed, self-exculpation is tough work, evenfor the guiltless. Fancy the fingers of reproachfulvirtue directed at you from all points of thecompass. And suppose, to make matters worse, youhad committed something--not a crime, you wouldnever do that; but something or other of acommittable nature--what on earth could you do butlook sheepish to some degree or other? Unless,indeed, you were a minx, and could brazen it out,like that gurl.
Such a ridiculous and vulgar incident would notbe worth so much description, but that, like otherthings of the same sort, it led to seriousconsequences. A storm occurred in what had hithertobeen a haven of domestic peace, and the Artist'swife carried out her threat, this time, of a visit toher Aunt Priscilla. That good lady, being a spinsterof very limited experience, but anxious to make itseem a wide one, dwelt upon her knowledge ofmankind and its evil ways, and the hopelessness ofundivided possession thereof by womankind. She hadtold her niece "what it was going to be," when shefirst learned that Mr. Aiken was an Artist. Sherepeated what she had said before, that Artists'wives had no idea what was going on under theireyes. If they had, Artists would very soon beunprovided with the raw material of proper infidelity.They would have no wives, and would go on like inParis. This tale is absolutely irresponsible for MissPriscilla's informants; it only reports her words.
Now, Mrs. Euphemia Aiken, in spite of a severeruction with her husband, had really not consciouslyimputed to him any transgression of a serious naturewhen--as that gentleman worded it--she "flouncedaway" to her Aunt Priscilla with an angry reportof how Reginald had insulted her. She had muchtoo high an opinion of him to form, on her ownaccount, a mental version of his conduct, such asthe one her excellent Aunt jumped at, in pursuanceof the establishment of a vile moral character forArtists and nephews-in-law generally, with aconcrete foundation in the case of an Artist-nephew--aCentaur-like combination with a doubt which halfwas which. But nothing is easier than to convinceany human creature that any other is twice, thrice,four times as human as itself, in respect of what isgraceless or disgraceful--spot-stroke barred, ofcourse; meaning felony. So that after a longinterview with Aunt Priscilla, this foolish woman criedherself to sleep, having accepted the good lady'soffered hospitality, and was next morning sovigorously urged to do scriptural things in the way offorgiveness and submission to her husband--soMiltonic, in fact, did the prevailing atmospherebecome--that she naturally sat down and wrote a healthilyfurious letter to him. The tale may surmise thatshe offered him Sairah as a consolation for what itknows she proposed--her own withdrawal to avoluntary grass-widowhood. For she flatly refusedto return to her deserted hearth. And, indeed, thepoor lady may have felt that her home had beensoiled and desecrated. But it was not only herAunt's impudent claim to superior knowledge--shewas still Miss Priscilla Bax, and of irreproachablecharacter--that had influenced her, but therecollection of Sairah. It would not have been half asbad if it had been a distinguished young lady witha swoop, like in a shiny journal she subscribed forquarterly. But Sairah! That gurl! Visions ofSairah's _coiffure_; of the way Sairah appeared to becoming through, locally, owing to previousness onthe part of hooks which would not wait for theirown affinities, but annexed the very first eye thatappealed to them; of intolerable stockings sheoverlooked large holes in, however careful she seeto 'em when they come from the Wash; of herchronic pocket-handkerchief--all these kept floatingbefore her eyes and exasperating her sense of insultand degradation past endurance. Perhaps theworst and most irritating thought was the extent towhich she had stooped to supplement this maid'sall-work by efforts of her own, without which theirsmall household could scarcely have lived withinits limited means. No!--let Reginald grill his ownchops now, or find another Sairah!
It was illustrative of the unreality of this ructionthat the lady took it as a matter of course thatSairah would accept the sack in the spirit in whichit was given; for official banishment of the culpritwas her last act on leaving the house. No ideaentered her head that her husband had the slightestpersonal wish to retain Sairah.
As for him, he judged it best to pay the girl hermonth's wages and send her packing. He removedher deposit of flue from the picture-varnish, and indue time completed the job and sent it off to itsdestination. He fell back provisionally on his oldbachelor ways, making his own bed and slippingslowly down into Chaos at home, but getting wellfed either by his friends or at an Italian restaurantnear by--others being beyond his means or fraughtwith garbage--and writing frequent appeals to hiswife not to be an Ass, but to come back and be jolly.She opened his letters and read them, and morethan once all but started to return to him--wouldhave done so, in fact, if her excellent Aunt had notpointed out, each time, that it was the Woman'sduty to forgive. Which she might have gone thelength of accepting, but for its exasperating sequel,"and submit herself to her husband."
But neither he nor either of the other actors inthis drama had the slightest idea that it had beenwitnessed by any eyes but their own.