Shadow,’ painted by Bianca Stone, who is not generally known to be the wife of the writer, Mr. Hilary Dallison, will soon be exhibited at the Bencox Gallery. This very ‘fin-de-siecle’ creation, with its unpleasant subject, representing a woman (presumably of the streets) standing beneath a gas-lamp, is a somewhat anaemic piece of painting. If Mr. Dallison, who finds the type an interesting one, embodies her in one of his very charming poems, we trust the result will be less bloodless.”
The little piece of green-white paper containing this information was handed to Hilary by his wife at breakfast. The blood mounted slowly in his cheeks. Bianca’s eyes fastened themselves on that flush. Whether or no – as philosophers say – little things are all big with the past, of whose chain they are the latest links, they frequently produce what apparently are great results.
The marital relations of Hilary and his wife, which till then had been those of, at all events, formal conjugality, changed from that moment. After ten o’clock at night their lives became as separate as though they lived in different houses. And this change came about without expostulations, reproach, or explanation, just by the turning of a key; and even this was the merest symbol, employed once only, to save the ungracefulness of words. Such a hint was quite enough for a man like Hilary, whose delicacy, sense of the ridiculous, and peculiar faculty of starting back and retiring into himself, put the need of anything further out of the question. Both must have felt, too, that there was nothing that could be explained. An anonymous double entendre was not precisely evidence on which to found a rupture of the marital tie. The trouble was so much deeper than that – the throbbing of a woman’s wounded self-esteem, of the feeling that she was no longer loved, which had long cried out for revenge.
One morning in the middle of the week after this incident the innocent author of it presented herself in Hilary’s study, and, standing in her peculiar patient attitude, made her little statements. As usual, they were very little ones; as usual, she seemed helpless, and suggested a child with a sore finger. She had no other work; she owed the week’s rent; she did not know what would happen to her; Mrs. Dallison did not want her any more; she could not tell what she had done! The picture was finished, she knew, but Mrs. Dallison had said she was going to paint her again in another picture…
Hilary did not reply.
“…That old gentleman, Mr. – Mr. Stone, had been to see her. He wanted her to come and copy out his book for two hours a day, from four to six, at a shilling an hour. Ought she to come, please? He said his book would take him years.”
Before answering her Hilary stood for a full minute staring at the fire. The little model stole a look at him. He suddenly turned and faced her. His glance was evidently disconcerting to the girl. It was, indeed, a critical and dubious look, such as he might have bent on a folio of doubtful origin.
“Don’t you think,” he said at last, “that it would be much better for you to go back into the country?”
The little model shook her head vehemently.
“Oh no!”
“Well, but why not? This is a most unsatisfactory sort of life.”
The girl stole another look at him, then said sullenly:
“I can’t go back there.”
“What is it? Aren’t your people nice to you?”
She grew red.
“No; and I don’t want to go”; then, evidently seeing from Hilary’s face that his delicacy forbade his questioning her further, she brightened up, and murmured: “The old gentleman said it would make me independent.”
“Well,” replied Hilary, with a shrug, “you’d better take his offer.”
She kept turning her face back as she went down the path, as though to show her gratitude. And presently, looking up from his manuscript, he saw her face still at the railings, peering through a lilac bush. Suddenly she skipped, like a child let out of school. Hilary got up, perturbed. The sight of that skipping was like the rays of a lantern turned on the dark street of another human being’s life. It revealed, as in a flash, the loneliness of this child, without money and without friends, in the midst of this great town.
The months of January, February, March passed, and the little model came daily to copy the “Book of Universal Brotherhood.”
Mr. Stone’s room, for which he insisted on paying rent, was never entered by a servant. It was on the ground-floor, and anyone passing the door between the hours of four and six could hear him dictating slowly, pausing now and then to spell a word. In these two hours it appeared to be his custom to read out, for fair copying, the labours of the other seven.
At five o’clock there was invariably a sound of plates and cups, and out of it the little model’s voice would rise, matter-of-fact, soft, monotoned, making little statements; and in turn Mr. Stone’s, also making statements which clearly lacked cohesion with those of his young friend. On one occasion, the door being open, Hilary heard distinctly the following conversation:
The LITTLE MODEL: “Mr. Creed says he was a butler. He’s got an ugly nose.” (A pause.)
Mr. STONE: “In those days men were absorbed in thinking of their individualities. Their occupations seemed to them important – ”
The LITTLE MODEL: “Mr. Creed says his savings were all swallowed up by illness.”
Mr. STONE: “ – it was not so.”
The LITTLE MODEL: “Mr. Creed says he was always brought up to go to church.”
Mr. STONE (suddenly): “There has been no church worth going to since A. D. 700.”
The LITTLE MODEL: “But he doesn’t go.”
And with a flying glance through the just open door Hilary saw her holding bread-and-butter with inky fingers, her lips a little parted, expecting the next bite, and her eyes fixed curiously on Mr. Stone, whose transparent hand held a teacup, and whose eyes were immovably fixed on distance.
It was one day in April that Mr. Stone, heralded by the scent of Harris tweed and baked potatoes which habitually encircled him, appeared at five o’clock in Hilary’s study doorway.
“She has not come,” he said.
Hilary laid down his pen. It was the first real Spring day.
“Will you come for a walk with me, sir, instead?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Mr. Stone.
They walked out into Kensington Gardens, Hilary with his head rather bent towards the ground, and Mr. Stone, with eyes fixed on his far thoughts, slightly poking forward his silver beard.
In their favourite firmaments the stars of crocuses and daffodils were shining. Almost every tree had its pigeon cooing, every bush its blackbird in full song. And on the paths were babies in perambulators. These were their happy hunting-grounds, and here they came each day to watch from a safe distance the little dirty girls sitting on the grass nursing little dirty boys, to listen to the ceaseless chatter of these common urchins, and learn to deal with the great problem of the lowest classes. And babies sat in their perambulators, thinking and sucking india-rubber tubes. Dogs went before them, and nursemaids followed after.
The spirit of colour was flying in the distant trees, swathing them with brownish-purple haze; the sky was saffroned by dying sunlight. It was such a day as brings a longing to the heart, like that which the moon brings to the hearts of children.
Mr. Stone and Hilary sat down in the Broad Walk.
“Elm-trees!” said Mr. Stone. “It is not known when they assumed their present shape. They have one universal soul. It is the same with man.” He ceased, and Hilary looked round uneasily. They were alone on the bench.
Mr. Stone’s voice rose again. “Their form and balance is their single soul; they have preserved it from century to century. This is all they live for. In those days” – his voice sank; he had plainly forgotten that he was not alone – “when men had no universal conceptions, they would have done well to look at the trees. Instead of fostering a number of little souls on the pabulum of varying theories