Chapter Three.
A Second Venture.
As Everitt walked home he was a prey to many conflicting feelings. It must be owned that he had entered upon this freak of his in a very inconsequent manner; he had not so much as reflected what results might not grow out of the necessity for repeating it. Moreover, he had lost the first sense of amusement in his masquerade, and hated the business. Why on earth had he not accepted Mrs Marchmont’s proposal, gone with her to see Miss Lascelles, and avoided this extremely false position in which he had planted himself?
Why, indeed!
As it was, it was with a feeling of rage that he thought of the next day, when he would be expected to stand up again before her—like a fool, as he said bitterly. Besides, it was a great deal more uncomfortable than he had expected—he was still cramped and stiff from the position. He made a swift resolution to have nothing more to do with it. It was easy enough to write a letter, as coming from him—Everitt—to say that the model could not be spared, but that he would do his best to send her another in a day or two. That was certainly what he would do.
The relief of the decision did not, however, last long.
It was all very well to throw up the engagement, but was it fair upon Miss Lascelles? Everitt knew by experience that one model was by no means the same as another, and, as artist, he found his solution questionable. Also, he now felt an insurmountable objection to introducing the real Giuseppe to that little studio—it had an air of desecration repugnant to his good taste, if to nothing more. And thirdly, in spite of fooling, in spite of cramps, it must be owned he had a lurking desire to find himself there again; the homeliness of the place, its old-fashioned solidity, its mellow brick, its sunshine, its trees, its birds, its associations—one and all had, as he was obliged to acknowledge, taken a certain hold on his imagination. The girls were merely an accident—a pleasant and harmonious accident, it is true—but their surroundings had an extraordinary fascination; he could not reconcile himself to have no second peep at them. Mrs Marchmont might no doubt take him there if he announced himself as penitent for rejection of her good offices; stupidly enough, however, he had effectually shut himself out, since the risk of discovery in going to call upon the lady who has been painting you in an assumed character was rather more than even his audacity could face.
It appeared, under all these circumstances, as if the best thing he could do was to figure as a ruffian once more.
“It will be a lesson to me,” he said, with a half laugh, “even if fate lets me off this time without playing me a scurvy trick.”
Fate spared him. He got into his studio unseen of Hill or Jack. Jack came thundering at his door not three minutes after he had changed his clothes.
“A pretty fellow you are!” he began indignantly, when Everitt let him in. “Out larking all this morning, while we poor wretches toil and slave! And down upon me for taking an hour now and then! Where have you been?”
“Find out,” said Everitt, grimly.
“A polite way of suggesting that I should mind my own business. Well, it’s my turn now. I’m off. But as I am more civil than you, I will inform you that I am going to study effects on the Thames. Silvery reaches, sweeping clouds—all that style of thing. Excellent practice, isn’t it?”
“Oh, excellent,” Everitt said in the same tone; “especially studied as you will study them. What a fool you are, Jack, to fling away your chances!”
“Turn and turn about,” said Jack. “It’s a heavenly day, and you’ve had your go at it. I’m off.”
He marched away, stopped at the door, scrawled a spirited charcoal caricature of Everitt on a spare board, ducked to avoid a mahl-stick which was promptly flung at his head, and whistled himself out of hearing.
“Pont-aven,” reflected Everitt. But somehow the notion of the little fishing-village, with its colony of artists, its wealth of models, its picturesque points, its wind-tossed seas, had lost a charm which the day before had seemed, irresistible. It might be good for Jack, it might not. He had that talent for idleness which can extract it under almost any pressure of circumstances. It was exceedingly likely that he would succeed in amusing himself very well at Pont-aven—probably learn to handle a boat like a native, and all the while avoid steady work with all his present ingenuity. In that case, there was not much use in going. Of his yesterday’s wish to be off on his own account, of his sickening over his Saturdays, of his general impatience with London—Everitt remembered nothing. It seemed to him, on the contrary, that few places were so good to live in, and he hoped that Mary Marchmont might come again on Saturday. Then he looked round upon his walls with dissatisfaction. There were beautiful and costly things hanging about in finely harmonised colours, rich curtains, ancient rugs, and Arabic lamps; there were choice pictures, and two or three admirable bronzes from a neighbouring studio; but it seemed to him that, in spite of the value of these things and their artistic beauty, the place had no touch of the charm which belonged to the little room in which he had found himself that morning—a room which was so simple, so unassuming, and so cheerful!
In short, it was evident that he had received an impression.
This was all very well, but it was equally evident that he could not have produced one, except in the character of a ruffian; and that, moreover, he had himself cut away the ground from under his feet. It is true he did not get so far as to admit that this gave him more than a general reason for annoyance, but he did feel that a good-natured impulse had placed him in a hateful position from which he could not even now retire.
Then his model arrived, and he flung himself into his painting, and kept the other subject out of his head, except that he had never been so merciful in the matter of rests.
He dined out, and the first person he saw on entering the room was Mrs Marchmont. She came towards him very cordially.
“You were as good as your word, and sent the dreadful man.”
“Did Miss Lascelles say that he was dreadful?” asked Everitt, flattering himself that he spoke indifferently.
“Bell told me he had a very fierce expression. I have not seen Kitty. But it was nice of you to take the trouble.”
“Oh,” said he, a little spitefully, “I had promised a ruffian.”
“You had,” she said. “Do you find people always carry out their promises? I don’t.”
“I sometimes wish they wouldn’t,” he retorted. “But this Miss Lascelles—what has attracted you so much towards her?”
“No one could help it,” she said. “I should like you to meet her, and then you would understand what I mean.”
“Evidently she would be dangerous,” he said, shaking his head. “I daren’t risk it. Has she a father, or any one belonging to her?”
“Of course she has a father,” she replied, “Women don’t hold military appointments yet. A very nice, particular father—Oh, here is Bell!”
She hurried across the room. Everitt remaining behind with very unenviable feelings. It seemed a particularly bad piece of luck that Miss Aitcheson and her father should appear at this party; for already he was not free from the suspicion that she had recognised him. There was nothing for it but to brazen it out. He strolled across the room towards her; but at this moment dinner was announced, and his course was diverted. At dinner they were on the same side, out of sight of each other; then he began to reflect that with a large party in a double drawing-room a little management might prevent any actual contact.
When the ladies had gone. Colonel Aitcheson came over to speak to Marchmont, who was near Everitt. Everitt would have drawn off, but that Marchmont made some remark to him, and Colonel Aitcheson faced round, shoulders and all.
“You must excuse me, sir, but your face is extraordinarily familiar to me.”
Everitt bowed.
Marchmont hastened to introduce him. “Perhaps you know the name?”
“Not at all, not at all. I’ve no head for names—forget my own some days; but a face is another sort of thing—never forget a face.” He threw his head back and looked frowningly at Everitt. “I could have sworn I’d seen you somewhere lately, eh? Well, it’s odd, it’s odd. I must ask Bell.”
“I dare say you’re right,” Everitt said coolly. “I’m about a good deal.”
Upstairs he took some pains to barricade himself in a subdued corner, as remote as possible from Miss Aitcheson, and made such unusual efforts for the entertainment of the young ladies who were round him, and whom he earnestly desired might stay, that he gained quite a new character for agreeability. Unfortunately, his hostess routed him from his retreat—some lady was anxious to make his acquaintance. When this was over he found his cousin at his elbow, and close to her was Bell.
“You haven’t been very nice to me tonight,” said Mrs Marchmont; “and it is too late now, for we are going. But you may talk a little to Bell about pictures. You can be very intelligent, can’t you, Bell? Good night.”
Everitt felt desperate.
“You paint, I suppose?” he inquired, “A little,” she said demurely. “Figures.” He looked keenly at her, but she was engaged in examining a gold bangle on her arm.
“That,” he said, “is ambitious.”
“And often disheartening,” she returned carelessly. “My experience of London models has not been very satisfactory.”
“No?” he said in the same tone. “Well, I suspect the experience of a good many artists goes along with yours. Where is your studio?”
“I have none. You see I am not ambitious, after all. When I paint it is with my friend, Miss Lascelles, whom, I think, you know?”
Was it a chance thrust, or a well-directed blow?
“I have seen Miss Lascelles,” said Everitt coolly.
She glanced at him as he spoke, then, as it seemed to him, rather forcibly changed the subject. She left him, however, in a state of perplexity; he found it impossible to decide whether she were utterly unsuspecting or very well informed. Under these circumstances it might have been supposed that Everitt would have again gone through the pros and cons which had already assailed him, and have found a few more prudential reasons for abandoning to-morrow’s scheme. This was not the case. He had rather an obstinate trick of sticking to the thing to which he had once committed himself: it had its merits and its dangers, but it might be called a characteristic.
When the morning came, matters did not go so smoothly as on the preceding day. Jack Hibbert was seized with the fit of remorseful industry which afflicted him on the rarest possible occasions. He came at an unheard-of hour to the studio, and Everitt had all the difficulty in the world to get rid of him. He must ask no end of inconvenient questions—what had become of the Italian, and how bad Everitt filled his place with Miss Lascelles? Then, seized with unusual meekness, he begged advice, and wanted his last picture looked over; next, he was scandalised at hearing that Everitt was going out again for the morning; finally, he besought that he might work in his friend’s studio upon a bit of tapestry which took his fancy. All these attacks had to be parried, the indignant Jack had with immense difficulty to be got out of the way; then Everitt dressed himself as rapidly as he could. He took pains about his lace; a few adroit touches he trusted modified the risk of detection, and might baffle Miss Aitcheson. As cautiously as before he reconnoitred the court, but with Jack about there was more difficulty in escaping, and he had not reached the entrance when he heard a cheerful hail, which was evidently intended for his ears. There was no help for it, Everitt took to his heels and fled, bolting across the road and down a side-street, to the great astonishment of the beholders.
All this had taken time—he was late again, and Miss Lascelles greeted him with a little reproach, which it must be owned did not affect him; for he was merely conscious of an extreme pleasure in finding himself again alone with her. He had been curious enough to know whether his first day’s impressions were altogether correct, whether they depended upon their unexpectedness, or on some merely subtle atmospheric charm. This second day they were stronger. The room seemed to be more delightful, its simple grace more apparent; it improved with familiarity, as the best things improve. And for Miss Lascelles herself, there was a delicate sweet freshness about her, which he did not attempt to analyse or put into words, only he was dimly conscious that it gave him a dreamy pleasure, and that he liked to watch the deft movements of her hand as she painted. He lost himself sufficiently in their contemplation to forget fatigue, and to stand more steadily than on the previous day; but there was something he had to say, and he seized the opportunity of the first rest.
“Signorina!”
She was softly singing to herself, and looked up with a start.
“I am too much engaged to come again. Mr Everitt says, will the signorina kindly finish what is necessary, and he will send another model in the same costume.”
She did not immediately answer; when she did it was to ask—
“Is not the costume yours?”
“Signorina, yes.”
“I did not know you lent your clothes to one another.”
Everitt muttered something about not wanting that particular costume this week, and she went on to inquire in what character he was sitting for Mr Everitt, to which he had to reply that he did not know. She followed this up by asking a good many questions about himself, to which he responded in a deprecatory manner, though he was conscious of dangerously dropping the stupid vacancy behind which he had at first entrenched himself. Everitt, indeed, who had gone through a succession of London seasons without a heartache, had fallen a helpless victim in a few hours. There was an extraordinary fascination for him in this girl and her surroundings; he watched her furtively, called himself a fool for being there, and would not have been anywhere else for the world.
Once she flung up the window and leaned out, resting on her finger-tips, to call to the children, who this time had Sandy with them in the garden. She was greeted by a shout.
“Come out, Kitty! Leave that stupid old painting. It’s lovely out-of-doors.”
She laughed and shook her head.
“Kitty, I want something out of your garden.”
“What?”
“That pink flower.”
“Oh, you robber! Well, you may have it, but move it very carefully, and give it plenty of water. Where’s mother?”
“Gone to the infirmary to see old Dickson. Kitty!” in a pleading voice.
“No; I can’t spare any more. My poor garden will be bare.”
“Only a clump of forget-me-nots. Yours are such beauties!”
She drew back laughing, and shut the window. For the first time Everitt regretted the absence of Miss Aitcheson. Had she been here Kitty, might have gone on talking, and he thought her voice the prettiest that he had ever heard; but, after all, though he was unconscious of it, it was her silent presence, and the opportunity for imagination which it afforded him, which momentarily strengthened the spell. As for not seeing her again, that idea had vanished for ever. See her he would, at whatever risk; and even the waiting a few days—to which prudence, driven from all her strongholds, fell back upon at the last—seemed a miserable concession, to which it was more than doubtful if he would yield. Why, in those few days some other man might come to the front!
It will be seen that Everitt was very far gone indeed.
He was trying to forget the stiffness of his arm, and he had quite succeeded in forgetting Miss Aitcheson when she came in.
“Oh, Bell!” reproachfully from Kitty.
“Yes, my dear, it’s too tiresome! But father has taken this fancy for coming with me, and he has kept me waiting for ages. I made Hugh walk with me, after all, and it is too late for any painting, and I am very much disappointed.”
“Yes,” said Kitty regretfully, “it is too late. The time is up.” To Everitt—“You can go now, and please tell Mr Everitt that I am sorry you cannot come again. Oh, and I will pay you.”
Pay! Horrible humiliation, of which he had never thought, and yet which he dared not refuse! He murmured something about waiting, but Kitty had already her little purse in her hand, and was counting out the shillings. It seemed to him as if he hardly knew where he was, as he went out of the room with reluctant feet, and down the oak staircase into the ground between the house and the Hospital, where the old men stood about or sat in the warmly sheltered corners.