J\'ai peur d\'Avril, peur de l\'émoi
Qu\'éveille sa douceur touchante.
Sully Prudhomme.
April had come round again; and, like M. Sully Prudhomme, Gertrude was afraid of April.
As Fanny had remarked to Frank, the month had very painful associations for them all; but Gertrude\'s terror was older than their troubles, and was founded, not on the recollection of past sorrow, so much as on the cruel hunger for a present joy. And now again, after all her struggles, her passionate care for others, her resolute putting away of all thoughts of personal[Pg 143] happiness, now again the Spring was stirring in her veins, and voices which she had believed silenced for ever arose once more in her heart and clamoured for a hearing.
Often, before business hours, Gertrude might be seen walking round Regent\'s Park at a swinging pace, exorcising her demons; she was obliged, as she said, to ride her soul on the curb, and be very careful that it did not take the bit between its teeth—this poor, weak Gertrude, who seemed such a fountain-head of wisdom, such a tower of strength to the people among whom she dwelt.
At this period, also, she had had recourse, in the pauses of professional work, to her old consolation of literary effort, and had even sent some of her productions to Paternoster Row, with the same unsatisfactory results as of yore, she and Frank uniting their voices in that bitter cry of the rejected contributor, which in these days is heard through the breadth and length of the land.
One morning she came into the studio after her walk, to find Lucy engaged in focussing Frank, who was seated, wearing[Pg 144] an air of immense solemnity, in the sitter\'s chair. Phyllis, meanwhile, hovered about, bestowing hints and suggestions on them both, secretly enjoying the quiet humour of the scene.
"It is Mr. Jermyn\'s birthday present," she announced, as Gertrude entered. "He is going to send it to Cornwall, which will be a nice advertisement for us."
Frank blushed slightly; and Lucy cried from beneath her black cloth, "Don\'t get up, Mr. Jermyn; Gertrude will excuse you, I am sure."
Gertrude, laughing, retreated to the waiting-room; where, throwing herself into a chair, and leaning both her elbows on a rickety scarlet table, she stared vaguely at the little picture of youth and grace which the parted curtains revealed to her.
How could they be so cheerful, so heedless? cried her heart, with a sudden impatience. Was this life, this ceaseless messing about in a pokey glass out-house, this eating and drinking and sleeping in the shabby London rooms?
Was any human creature to be blamed who rebelled against it? Did not flesh and blood cry out against such sordidness, with[Pg 145] all the revel of the spring-time going on in the world beyond?
It is base and ignoble perhaps to scorn the common round, the trivial task, but is it not also ignoble and base to become so immersed in them as to desire nothing beyond?
"What mean thoughts I am thinking," cried Gertrude to herself, shocked at her own mood; then, gazing mechanically in front of her, saw Lucy disappear into the dark-room, and Frank come forward with outstretched hand.
"At last I can say \'good-morning,\' Miss Lorimer."
Gertrude gave him her hand with a smile; Jermyn\'s was a presence that somehow always cleared the moral atmosphere.
"You will never guess," said Frank, "what I have brought you."
As he spoke, he drew from his pocket a number of The Woodcut, damp from the press, and opening it at a particular page, spread it on the table before her.
Phyllis, becoming aware of these proceedings, came across to the waiting-room and leaned over her sister\'s shoulder.
"Oh, Gerty, what fun."
[Pg 146]
On one side of the page was a large wood-engraving representing four people on a lawn-tennis court. Three of them were girls, in whom could be traced distinct resemblance to the three Lorimers; while the fourth, a man, had about him an unmistakable suggestion of Jermyn himself. The initials "F. J." were writ large in a corner of the picture, and on the opposite page were the following verses:—
What wonder that I should be dreaming[A]
Out here in the garden to-day?
The light through the leaves is streaming;
Paulina cries, "Play!"
The birds to each other are calling;
The freshly-cut grasses smell sweet—
To Teddy\'s dismay comes falling
The ball at my feet!
"Your stroke should be over, not under."
"But that\'s such a difficult way!"
The place is a spring-tide wonder
Of lilac and may.
Of lilac and may and laburnam;
Of blossom—"we\'re losing the set!
Those volleys of Jenny\'s, return them,
Stand close to the net!"
[Pg 147]
Envoi.
You are so fond of the may-time,
My friend far away,
Small wonder that I should be dreaming
Of you in the garden to-day.
The verses were signed "G. Lorimer"; and Gertrude\'s eyes rested on them with the peculiar tenderness with which we all of us regard our efforts the first time that we see ourselves in print.
"How nice they look, Gerty," cried Phyllis. "And Mr. Jermyn\'s picture. But I think they have spoilt it a little in the engraving."
"It is rather a come down after Charlotte Corday, isn\'t it?" said Gertrude, pleased yet rueful.
Frank, who had been told the history of that unfortunate tragedy, answered rather wistfully—
"We have all to get off our high horse, Miss Lorimer, if we want to live. I had ten guineas this morning for that thing; and there is the Death of ?dipus with its face to the wall in the studio—and likely to remain there, unless we run short of firewood one of these days."
"Do you remember," said Gertrude,[Pg 148] "how Warrington threw cold water on Pendennis by telling him to stick to poems like the Church Porch and abandon his beloved Ariadne in Naxos?"
"Yes," answered Frank, "and I never could share Warrington\'s—and presumably Thackeray\'s—admiration for those verses."
"Nor I," said Gertrude, as Lucy emerged triumphantly from the dark-room and announced the startling success of her negatives.
She was shown the wonderful poem, and the no less wonderful picture, and then Phyllis said—
"Don\'t gloat so over it, Gerty." For Gertrude was still sitting at the table absorbed in contemplation of the printed sheet spread out before her.
Gertrude laughed and pushed the paper away; and Lucy quoted gravely—
"\'We all, the foolish and the wise,
Regard our verse with fascination,
Through asinine-paternal eyes,
And hues of fancy\'s own creation!\'"
A vociferous little clock on the mantelpiece struck ten.
"I must be off," said Frank; "there[Pg 149] will be my model waiting for me. I am afraid I have wasted a great deal of your time this morning."
"No, indeed," said Lucy, as Gertrude rose and folded the seductive Woodcut, with a get-thee-behind-me-Satan air; "though I am glad to say we are quite busy."
"There are Lord Watergate\'s slides," added Phyllis; "and Mr. Darrell\'s sketches to finish off; not to speak of possible chance-comers."
"How do you get on with Darrell?" said Frank, who seemed to have forgotten his model, and made no movement to go.
"He has only been here once," answered Lucy, promptly; "but I like what I have seen of him."
"So do I," cried Phyllis.
"And I," added Frank.
In the face of this unanimity Gertrude wisely held her peace.
"Well then, good-bye," said Frank, reluctantly holding out his hand to each in turn—to Lucy, last. "I am dining out to-night and to-morrow, so shall not see you for an age, I suppose."
"Gay person," said Lucy, whose hand[Pg 150] lingered in his; held there firmly, and without resistance on her part.
"It\'s a bore," cried Frank, making wistful eyebrows, and looking at her very hard.
Gertrude started, struck for the first time by something in the tone and attitude of them both. With a shock that bewildered her, she realised the secret of their mutual content; and, stirred up by this unconscious revelation, a conflicting throng of thoughts, images, and emotions arose within her.
Gertrude worked like a nigger that day, which, fortunately for her state of mind, turned out an unusually busy one. Lucy was industrious too, but went about her work humming little tunes, with a serenity that contrasted with her sister\'s rather feverish laboriousness. Even Phyllis condescended to lend a hand to the finishing off of the prints of Sidney............