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Will Warburton, a novel by George Gissing |
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Chapter 10 |
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_ Back at Chelsea, Will sent a note to Norbert Franks, a line or two without express reference to what had happened, asking him to come and have a talk. Three days passed, and there was no reply. Will grew uneasy; for, though the artist's silence perhaps meant only sullenness, danger might lurk in such a man's thwarted passion. On the fourth evening, just as he had made up his mind to walk over to Queen's Road, the familiar knock sounded. Mrs. Hopper had left; Will went to the door, and greeted his visitor in the usual way. But Franks entered without speaking. The lamplight showed a pitiful change in him; he was yellow and fishy-eyed, unshaven, disorderly in dress indeed, so well did he look the part of the despairing lover that Warburton suspected a touch of theatric consciousness. "If you hadn't come to-night," said Will, "I should have looked you up." Franks lay limply in the armchair, staring blankly. "I ought to have come before," he replied in low, toneless voice. "That night when I met you, I made a fool of myself. For one thing, I was drunk, and I've been drunk ever since." "Ha! That accounts for your dirty collar," remarked Will, in his note of dry drollery. "Is it dirty?" said the other, passing a finger round his neck. "What does it matter? A little dirt more or less, in a world so full of it--" Warburton could not contain himself; he laughed, and laughed again. And his mirth was contagious; Franks chuckled, unwillingly, dolefully. "You are not extravagant in sympathy," said the artist, moving with fretful nervousness. "If I were, would it do you any good, old fellow? Look here, are we to talk of this affair or not? Just as you like. For my part, I'd rather talk about 'The Slummer.' I had a look at it the other day. Uncommonly good, the blackguard on the curbstone, you've got him." "You think so?" Franks sat a little straighter, but still with vacant eye. "Yes, not bad, I think. But who knows whether I shall finish the thing." "If you don't," replied his friend, in a matter-of-fact tone, "you'll do something better. But I should finish it, if I were you. If you had the courage to paint in the right sort of face--the girl, you know." "What sort of face, then?" "Sharp-nosed, thin-lipped, rather anaemic, with a universe of self-conceit in the eye." "They wouldn't hang it, and nobody would buy it. Besides, Warburton, you're wrong if you think the slummers are always that sort. Still, I'm not sure I shan't do it, out of spite. There's another reason, too--I hate beautiful women; I don't think I shall ever be able to paint another." He sprang up, and paced, as of old, about the room. Will purposely kept silence. "I've confessed," Franks began again, with effort, "that I made a fool of myself the other night. But I wish you'd tell me something about your time at Trient. Didn't you notice anything? Didn't anything make you suspect what she was going to do?" "I never for a moment foresaw it," replied Will, with unemphasised sincerity. "Yet she must have made up her mind whilst you were there. Her astounding hypocrisy! I had a letter a few days before, the same as usual--" "Quite the same?" "Absolutely!--Well, there was no difference that struck me. Then all at once she declares that for months she had felt her position false and painful. What a monstrous thing! Why did she go on pretending, playing a farce? I could have sworn that no girl lived who was more thoroughly honest in word and deed and thought. It's awful to think how one can be deceived. I understand now the novels about unfaithful wives, and all that kind of thing. I always said to myself--'Pooh, as if a fellow wouldn't know if his wife were deceiving him'! By Jove this has made me afraid of the thought of marriage. I shall never again trust a woman." Warburton sat in meditation, only half smiling. "Of course, she's ashamed to face me. For fear I should run after her, she wrote that they were just leaving Trient for another place, not mentioned. If I wrote, I was to address to Bath, and the letter would be forwarded. I wrote--of course a fool's letter; I only wish I'd never sent it. Sometimes I think I'll never try to see her again; sometimes I think I'll make her see me, and tell her the truth about herself. The only thing is--I'm half afraid--I've gone through torture enough; I don't want to begin again. Yet if I saw her--" He took another turn across the room, then checked himself before Warburton. "Tell me honestly what you think about it. I want advice. What's your opinion of her?" "I have no opinion at all. I don't pretend to know her well enough." "Well, but," persisted Franks, "your impression--your feeling. How does the thing strike you?" "Why, disagreeably enough; that's a matter of course." "You don't excuse her?" asked Norbert, his eyes fixed on the other. "I can imagine excuses--" "What? What excuse can there be for deliberate hypocrisy, treachery?" "If it _was_ deliberate," replied Warburton, "there's nothing to be said. In your position--since you ask advice--I should try to think that it wasn't, but that the girl had simply changed her mind, and went on and on, struggling with herself till she could stand it no longer. I've no taste for melodrama quiet comedy is much more in my line--comedy ending with mutual tolerance and forgiveness. To be sure, if you feel you can't live without her, if you're determined to fight for her--" "Fight with whom?" cried Franks. "With _her_; then read Browning, and blaze away. It may be the best; who can tell? Only--on this point I am clear--no self-deception! Don't go in for heroics just because they seem fine. Settle with yourself whether she is indispensable to you or not.-- Indispensable? why, no woman is that to any man; sooner or later, it's a matter of indifference. And if you feel, talking plainly with yourself, that the worst is over already, that it doesn't after all matter as much as you thought; why, get back to your painting. If you can paint only ugly women, so much the better, I've no doubt." Franks stood reflecting. Then he nodded. "All that is sensible enough. But, if I give her up, I shall marry some one else straight away." Then he abruptly said good-night, leaving Warburton not unhopeful about him, and much consoled by the disappearance of the shadow which had threatened their good understanding. _ |
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