# Elizabeth's Pretenders/Part 3/Chapter 8

CHAPTER VIII.
Seven years have passed since that nigbt, when Elizabeth's story was virtually ended. All that followed came in natural sequence; and were this simply a narrative, cunningly worked up to a climax, I should not feel tempted to add another word. But in telling the story of Elizabeth Shaw's girlhood, the gradual formation of a strong character will, perhaps, to some, be of greater interest than the actual events which seem to have moulded it. How her husband's individuality acted on her—how, indeed, they mentally acted on each other—some may care to know. I have tried to show how the blunt, warm-hearted girl of eighteen mistook gratified vanity and susceptibility to a man's physical attraction for love; how, in the bitterness of revolt and indignation, she assumed a defiant, almost reckless attitude towards the world at large; and how, finally, the slow grrowth of a genuine passion subjugated a nature which might otherwise have become hard. The man who wrought this change was masterful, might even be thought arrogant, by many; but his very defects were such as suited a woman of Elizabeth's fibre; while the nobility of his character, unsoiled by any stain of worldly-mindedness, ​commanded that respect without which the girl, after her first cruel experience, would never have given her whole heart. She did give it, unreservedly: and therein lay the strength of this union; though I think I hear a reader, at the close of the last chapter, exclaim, "Could two such dominant natures ever be happy together?"
The ordinary man of the world will be incredulous, but it is none the less true, it was a shock to Alaric Baring to learn that the woman he loved—the woman he had pledged himself to marry—possessed a large fortune. Had he been an unsuccessful painter, the sense of dependence on his rich wife would, without doubt, have materially clouded his happiness. But his talent was at once recognized, and though the public shied a little at first at such bold impressionism, connoisseurs, whose dictum was final, declared that no man living could seize character and reproduce it on canvas as did this vigorous American. Then it became the fashion for young men and old to flock to his studio in Melbury Road, together with such wise women as did not wish to be flattered.
But this was only during certain months of the year. At Whiteburn, where Elizabeth and he passed the greater part of the winter, Elizabeth built a large painting-room for her husband; and there it was he produced the more ambitious, imaginative work which has been so extravagantly praised and so severely criticized.
It was characteristic of Elizabeth that, with all her passionate devotion to her husband, which increased rather than diminished with years, she never succeeded in always seeing, nor did she pretend always to see, with ​his eyes. She gloried in his success; her cheek was aflame at praise, rising occasionally to enthusiasm, from the lips of men whose judgment was held paramount in the realm of Art. But there were times when she herself remained silent—times when those who knew her as well as I did saw clearly that she did not wholly like the picture on the easel before us. She was too honest to pretend, and affection did not render her blind. She was glad that others did not see it as she saw it; she was glad when they spoke comfortable words; and she herself held her peace. But I am inclined to think that, in strict privacy, she occasionally pointed out, and solicited the modification of, some needless insistence on ugliness; and, what is more remarkable, that now and again he yielded to the solicitation. I saw limbs, laboriously unfinished, grow firm and tangible; fingers that looked ready, like Daphne's, to sprout into twigs, become prehensive; the one ill-disposed feature in a sitter's face lose something of its aggressiveness. And I guessed how these changes had been brought to pass.
Alaric had not wasted the firstfruits of his manhood on other women; none had ever gained any real ascendency over him, and, in her own field, Elizabeth's was complete. That it affected his art, except on rare occasions, I am not prepared to say; but that it softened his manners, and widened his sympathies in the world at large, I feel sure. At Whiteburn, though the management of the estate was entirely in Elizabeth's own hands, he played the part of host with an urbanity which would have astonished those who had only seen him at Madame Martineau's; and which won over most of the neighbours, ​naturally exasperated as they were at the waste of their great heiress on an American painter.
He rides well; and this was a great and unexpected merit in the eyes of the men. Occasionally he and his wife go out with the hounds; but more often they mount their horses together, either very early or very late in the day, when the light is waning in the studio. Her life is a very full one. The care of her children—three have been born to her in those seven years; the direction of affairs on her property; the active interest she takes in the welfare of the town, and especially of the "hands" employed in her late father's factory, occupy much of her time at Whiteburn. She has little left for painting; but you may occasionally find her standing at an easel in a corner of the big atelier, and the master comes, as he did more than seven years ago, and criticizes her work.
It is a hospitable house; and yet they are very often alone together, which Baring retains enough of his old nature greatly to prefer to a party, however congenial its elements. Among the yearly guests, however, a man never fails, whom Alaric has grown to regard with real friendship, Lord Robert Elton. His portrait of the Conservative Member was one of Baring's most successful works; the ugliness, indeed, unmitigated, but the likeness speaking. Elizabeth, with a woman's match-making proclivity, is always trying to find a suitable wife for the man who has remained one of her warmest friends. But as yet she has not succeeded in persuading him to offer his hand to any of the attractive young women, well endowed, whom she has brought to his notice.
Mr. Twisden is still alive, but the business of the firm ​is almost entirely transacted by his nephew. Some few, like Alaric Baring, feel a prejudice against the young man; but with the world at large he has made his way well, owing to his industry, perseverance, and good temper. Partly, perhaps, for his uncle's sake, partly, perhaps, for his own, Mrs. Baring always stands up warmly for George, if her husband alludes slightingly to the junior partner of the firm, Twisden and Daintree. Alaric cannot forget the fact of the young lawyer's pursuing Elizabeth, under a feigned name. It is useless for her to pretend, still more useless to try to make him believe, that Mr. Twisden's nephew was ignorant of her hiding-place—that it was accident brought him to Madame Martineau's. The American is too shrewd for that. He knows nothing of the intercepted letter, he is ignorant how the junior partner obtained knowledge of the secret confided to his senior; but he smiles incredulously. And then Elizabeth is angry. But this is of rare occurrence now, for her husband generally takes refuge in silence when George's name is mentioned.
Once, and once only, has Elizabeth come face to face with Mrs. William Shaw. It was in Marshall and Snelgrove's shop. The little widow, pretty and smart as ever, made a movement as thongh she would have held out a hand—both hands—of reconciliation. Elizabeth flushed, but she looked at her aunt deliberately, and passed on without a sign of recognition. "It is the first, and I hope it may be the last, time that I cut a woman," she said afterwards to her husband. It is needless to say that Wybrowe did not marry a widow, with only a tolerable jointure; but, to Mrs. Baring's great satisfaction, the woman who ​wrought such misery in her family no longer bears the name of Shaw. She married Captain Drayson two years ago.
Colonel Wybrowe has managed to escape going through the Bankruptcy Court,—is still one of the best-dressed men about town, still belongs to several clubs, is still invited to big "shoots" and deer-forests, and is still on the outlook for the woman with a large fortune, who will devote it during her life, and consecrate it when she dies, to his exclusive service.
So the years roll by. And unjust Time does not bring its revenges, or its compensations, to all. We see the ungodly, it may be, still flourishing as a green bay-tree; and all evil-doers are not brought to the pillory of the world's judgment. But for some who have suffered, like the two with whose lives I am chiefly concerned, the balance is re-adjusted; the days that are bearing them fast to middle-age are charged with a happiness which death only can touch, since it is built on "the love that casteth out fear."
THE END.