“Madam!” exclaimed Mr. Williams, in a deprecatory tone, for even the fairest could not be allowed to dictate to him. Was he not an artist, working on nature’s grandest handiwork, adapting it to the necessities of art? I defy you to be five minutes in the company of Mr. Williams without discovering that be was an artist, because he always took care you should learn the fact by word of mouth. So Lilian seated herself in a chair before the dressing-table, which was covered with the materials of Mr. Williams’ art, and surrendered herself unconditionally into his hands. And very hot, puffy, steamy hands were the hands of Mr. Williams.
“I flatter myself, miss, I know your part as well as you do.”
“Better, perhaps,” replied Lilian, smiling. “Oh, where’s my book? I’m never comfortable without it. Run, Jane, and see if I left it on my dressing-table.”
“I don’t mean, miss, word for word, but I mean the exigencies of the part,” explained Mr. Williams. “If I can’t conceive them somehow, I can’t paint nohow. I lay in the groundwork of the passions with my colours, and then the features have only got to develops ’em at the right moment. Features, miss!” exclaimed Mr. Williams, warming with his subject, “why I’ve painted peoples’ faces right out, so that their own fathers didn’t know ’em.”
“You will be more merciful to me, won’t you, Mr. Williams?”
“Heaven forbid it in your case, madam,” exclaimed Mr. Williams, gallantly. “I’m merely raising the natural tone of colour up to the strength of the lights, with the slightest touch to give force to the leading motives. I don’t wish to boast,” continued Mr. Williams, anxious, as much as possible, to improve the occasion, for it was very seldom he enjoyed the opportunity for so much “dialogue.” “I don’t wish to boast, but if I state that I’ve got all the passions cut and dried at my finger’s end, I state a fact. Why, you can get love and hate, and joy and sorrow, out of a twist of the brush—all human natur in a bit of camel’s hair! I’ve studied the dodge from the old masters in the National Gallery, I have. Sometimes I asks myself what acting is, and I asks other people, too. There’s my friend, Samuels, he’s in a large way in the costume line—I asks him sometimes.
“‘Vel, Mishter Villiams,’ says he, ‘I vill tell you vot acting ish. It ish the very best gold lace, and the very best shilk velvet, and plenty of ’em, it ish—try to play Mishter Shakespere vithout ’em, that’s all!’
“‘No, no, Mr. Samuels,’ says I, ‘you know what acting is well enough, and so do the actors, only they won’t tell—two-thirds of it’s paint!’ Didn’t they have me down at Her Majesty’s every night ‘Traviata’ was on. They couldn’t have done the last scene if I hadn’t been there. Why, I’ll undertake to paint any man, woman, or child, into a galloping consumption—nature itself, in five minutes—that I will. You’ve only got to hit the cough; I’ll manage the face. They didn’t call me on, though, when the curtain was down, not they. I ought to have had half the bouquets—that I ought; but I never have had my rights, and I never shall have my rights, the world’s a sight too selfish for that.”
The further enunciation of Mr. Williams’ theory of dramatic art, as developed from his own particular point of view, was interrupted by Miss Temple’s maid bringing her mistress the play-book, and a note—Westby’s note.
Lilian knew the handwriting, she opened the envelope with eager hands, and glanced hastily over the note.
Oh! why had fate thrown Westby persistently in her path ever since George Newton had left England? Westby was perpetually coming to their house to give information on Newton’s affairs—to assure her that things were going on favourably, that Newton would soon be able to return.
Oh, horrible trial! constantly in the company of the man she must forget, noting with reluctant eyes all the loveable points of his character, admiring, to think that it should be a crime to admire, what was noble and good! It was her duty to forget this present fascination, and think of her lover absent in France. And then to hear Westby’s praises of Newton, Westby insisting on his right to speak, having known Newton from a boy; it drove her half mad to listen. Once or twice it had been on her lips to make a desperate confession in defiance of all consequences; but fear was mingled with her other feelings towards Westby. There was a cold sternness in his manner which awed her. She fancied that he doubted her constancy towards Newton, and that he was doing all in his power to keep Newton before her mind. She felt that if she broke her engagement, Westby would never forgive her, nay that he would utterly despise her. She had indeed arrived at a sound conclusion, but strive all she could, her feelings were constantly rebelling against it—her reason was convinced, but her heart remained unreconciled, perpetually compelling her to a reargument of the subject.
Thoughts too hard for constant thinking! She eagerly sought relief in every amusement which the London season afforded. She had found the most absorbing excitement in the preparations for the play, rehearsals, dresses, &c. She had positively dreaded to think that after the night of performance the power of this anodyne would be at an end.
And now Westby’s note thrust her once more into her agony of doubt.
Whilst Lilian was looking at the note, Mr. Williams had retired to contemplate the effect of his work from a distance.
“Let me see, there’s what the French call ‘finesse’ in your part, Miss—we must give force to the smiles,” and he turned to the table for a pencil.
Lilian tore up the note and flung the pieces from her.
“Why how your countenance do change, Miss! I declare I scarcely know my own work. Pray smile, or I shan’t know what I’m about. Thank you, the slightest touch is sufficient,” and Mr. Williams again retired to take a survey of his work. “There, now!” he exclaimed proudly,