Chapter Two.
Studio Number Two.
That was a rash boast, with which Everitt concluded his meditations under the trees, but no misgivings disturbed him as he went back to the studio, set a few things in order, gave some directions to the porter, and departed. He dined out and went to the play, and passed the next day without a thought of Miss Kitty Lascelles, until towards evening he met Mr and Mrs Marchmont near Albert Gate. As they parted, Mrs Marchmont reminded him of his promise.
“If you are faithless,” she said, “I will never forgive you. I saw Kitty this morning, and she told me that a ruffian was exactly what she wanted.”
“Well, she’ll have him,” said Everitt, grimly. “Why hurl threats at me? I am not likely to forget. But you are, apparently, as much interested as she is. May I ask why?”
“Because,” she said, “she is my dearest friend, and I don’t like my friends to be disappointed. And she is so enthusiastic and eager about her art! I do wish I could bring you two together. Won’t you come and dine? George, persuade him.”
“When I come back from Pont-aven,” said Everitt, escaping with a laugh.
He was an early worker, and it was his custom to be in his studio, painting, a good hour before Jack Hibbert began his studies. He made an effective picture himself as he stood at his easel—a handsome man, rather above the usual height, dark and bright-eyed, with a clear olive skin, and well-cut features. The lofty studio, with its hangings of faded harmonious colours, its pleasant irregularities, and its pictures standing about, formed an excellent setting. A fire burnt on the hearth, and the parrot was engaged in making pertinent inquiries of his master, which Everitt answered absently, for he was at work upon a subject which interested him. At last he looked at his watch with an exclamation of annoyance.
“Where’s that fellow? He should have been here half an hour ago.” He pulled a bell impatiently, and it was answered by the porter. “Has Giuseppe come?”
“No, sir.”
“Hurry him up when he makes his appearance—that’s all. Or—stop! Is Greggs engaged this week?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Foster—where’s Foster?”
“Mr Sydney has him.”
“Well—send that fellow in the moment he comes.”
“Very good, sir.”
Everitt fell to his painting again, but without success. He was a man who had a very strong feeling about a promise, and he hated the idea of failing to fulfil it. It began, indeed, very soon to annoy him seriously. He flung down his brushes, and caught up his hat to go in search of the delinquent, when Hill, the porter, once more appeared at the door, with a significant grin on his face, at sight of which Everitt abruptly stopped and whistled.
“Oh!” he remarked the next moment.
“Yes, sir.”
“Bad?”
“Dead drunk, sir.”
“Pack off the brute,” said Everitt in a disgusted voice.
He came back and stood before his easel with his hands thrust into his pockets; then seized a brush and began filling in a bit of foreground. Presently he left his work again, and resumed his pacing.
“This won’t do; I shan’t get a decent bit of work done this morning, if I don’t settle the matter one way or other. Now, what on earth’s to be done? Write a note—present my compliments, model drunk, sorry to disappoint, and so on? Go myself, and apologise? No; that’s a little too strong. What a fool I was to get drawn into this business! If Hill weren’t wanted, I’d dress him up and send him—that wouldn’t be half a bad plan; or if I could hit upon some one as accommodating as the duke’s daughter,” he added musingly, standing before the canvas. The next minute an odd, almost eager look crept into his eyes. He began to smile, shook his head impatiently, smiled again, overmastered by the fancy, whatever it was—suddenly turned away. “Yes, I’ll do it!” he exclaimed aloud.
Whatever it was to which Everitt had made up his mind—and, as has been already hinted, he was at times the victim of freaks which laid his character open to the charge of inconsistency—he lost no time in carrying it out. His first act was to lock his doors, his second to go to a sort of cupboard where some half a dozen costumes were hanging, and to proceed to attire himself in one which belonged to the typical Italian at whom he had mocked; for it was one of his fancies to have a very complete set of these costumes, and his brother artists were not slow to avail themselves of his stores and his good-nature. Having fallen in with the fancy which suggested his present action, he was not the man to hesitate in the doing. He dressed himself rapidly, but with a care which descended to the smallest details, took down an old faded blue-green cloak, which had sunned itself often on the Trinita steps, and inspected himself closely in a looking-glass. On the whole, he thought it satisfactory. In an Italian dress his face appeared Italian; a weak point, of course, lay in his hair, which was short, but he pulled his broad hat over his forehead, and corked his eyebrows to a more generous breadth. He had no fear whatever of being recognised in the street, and as for Miss Lascelles, he assured himself that by exchanging him for Giuseppe, she had, unquestionably, no cause for complaint. His chief danger lay from meeting Jack Hibbert in the court, for Jack, with his investigating mind, was tolerably sure to overhaul an unknown model, and though in that case Everitt had resolved to take him into his confidence, it must be owned he shrank a little from the fun Jack was sure to get out of the affair.
However, he was not going to retreat; he was beginning to feel a keen interest in his own adventures. Opening the second door, which served for models and intimate friends, he took a glance round the court, and, finding it empty, hastily locked his door, and stepped out into the shadow of the trees. He was in luck, for no one was hanging about, and the next minute he was in the street. The plunge gave him, it must be owned, an odd sensation, the more so when he saw that he was only just in time, for Jack was on the other side of the street in the act of crossing, Everitt strode on quickly. He fancied himself the centre of all eyes, but after a time this feeling wore off. The people who glanced at him only saw a model on his way to a studio, a picturesque figure in the midst of unlovely things; the children stared as they would have stared at a man with a monkey, or any other show; there was nothing in him to attract unusual notice. But he felt so unusual himself, that it took him some time to make sure of this. Then, the awkwardness wearing off, his spirits rose. He found the situation amusing. He rather wished to meet some one whom he knew that he might test his disguises to the utmost. It was a beautiful morning, and there was a novelty in the impossibility of shocking probabilities by calling a hansom, which in itself was absolutely exhilarating.
When he reached the Hospital his pleasure increased. It was too early in the day for many of the old men to be out sunning themselves, but he became immediately aware of the peaceful and old-world atmosphere which hung about the place. A morning breeze was blowing up the river, and delicate white clouds sailed across the sky. In the midst of its trees lay the Hospital, warm red brick, with white pointings and grey stone pillars, on which the sunshine rested softly mellow; with its broad frontage of green turf, and its iron gates, and its little graveyard, where lie the old heroes waiting for the “last trumpet’s sounding.” Everitt had not been there for years; it seemed to him almost as if he had never been before—as if all those years he had lost something. When one or two old men, in long blue coats and brass buttons, and broad three-cornered hats, strolled out of the side gates and stared at him, he felt as if the picture were complete, except that he began to hate himself for being the incongruous feature.
He was directed to one of the brick houses which cluster near the Hospital itself, and closely resemble it in their details; his guide hobbling before him, and now and then throwing at him a suspicious glance. Everything was exquisitely trim and clean; the warm colours, the tender shadows on the old brick, the sunshine, the sober cheerfulness, the lilacs just breaking out in the gardens, the filmy green which daintily touched the trees, were full of delightful charm; and, though the river was not visible, a sort of feeling of its neighbourhood—a freshness in the air, an opening in the distance—added to this charm.
They were not long in reaching the Lascelles’ house, built, like the others, of substantial, warm red brick, square and solid, with well-grown trees about it, and gay flowering shrubs, in which blackbirds were singing, as if London were miles away. It must be owned that, as Everitt walked up the back staircase—which was, however, of oak—he began to feel unusually embarrassed.
The little room into which he was ushered was as different from his own lofty and convenient studio as could be imagined, yet it was all in keeping with the rest. A rough sandy English terrier, with prick ears and bright dark eyes, made an immediate dash at him, and was seized by his mistress. This gave Everitt time to glance round him, and to observe that the room was panelled with old oak, and painted above a dull green; that the light was excellent, and the furniture of a somewhat scanty description; that a good many vigorous studies were stuck about; and that the whole aspect of the place looked like business.
Then he surveyed Miss Lascelles, who was pacifying her dog.
She was not at all the sort of person he had expected to see, though it must be owned he had built his ideas without a vestige of foundation. She was small and very girlish-looking, with a bright, happy face and pretty, graceful movements. Her dress was of some soft brown material, with velvet of a darker shade about the neck which matched the brown hair lying smoothly on her little head.
“Sandy, be quiet!” she said; then looking at Everitt, “You are sent by Mr Everitt?”
“Signorina, yes.” He felt that on this score, at any rate, there could be no question.
“I have been expecting you for some time,” she went on; “I should like you to be more punctual another morning. But now I will show you where you are to stand.”
To stand! Everitt’s heart sank; he had hoped he might sit.
“I want,” said Miss Lascelles, calmly—“I want you to stand with your hand above your eyes, shading them—so. You are to be one of a group of peasants who are coming into Rome with all their goods, escaping from an inundation—you must have seen them, I’m sure? You are leading the string, and looking before you eagerly, perhaps to see whether some one who is missing is in front. You understand?”
“Signorina, yes. But—”
“What?”
“The sun with an inundation?”
“It has broken out, and is shining on the pools of water in the road.”
Everitt felt much more capable of criticising and suggesting than of posing as she desired, but there was no help for it. She had even looked a little astonished at receiving his last remark. He exerted himself now to stand in such a position that he could see her at work at her easel, and he was sufficiently experienced to be able to judge from her manner of handling her brush that she worked with vigour and freedom. He was conscious at the same time that he was not himself a good model; he even suspected that he now and then read a little disappointment in her face. Keeping his arm raised was fatiguing; he knew that he swayed, then began to feel as if pins and needles were all about him, then as though he were turned to stone. The ordinary hour had seemed to double itself before Miss Lascelles inquired gently whether he wished to rest. Rest! Never had the word a sweeter sound.
He sat down by the window. Outside and below there was a little old-fashioned garden with a brick wall and gravel paths. Two or three children ran out into these paths, and began a joyful onslaught upon square little plots where mustard and cress were sprouting into different combinations of the letter L. Further on a swing was fastened between two fine elm trees which grew out of the turf. There was a great deal of sunshine, and as yet little shade: only a finely outlined delicate network of shadows cast by the branches on the grass. Everitt had never in his life been more glad to sit down, and he thought the look-out delightful.
Presently the door opened, and another young lady came in.
He looked round idly, but the next moment a very disagreeable sensation shot through him. He recognised her at once—the girl who had come to his studio with Mrs Marchmont. Supposing she also remembered him? What a fool he had been not to take such a possibility into account! Good Heavens! what was to prevent Mrs Marchmont herself from arriving?
He took refuge in the garden, and in a corner of his cloak, horribly conscious that in a few minutes he would have to stand up before her with the full light striking upon him. But if she did not know him at the first glance, she might become more hesitating and confused the longer she thought of it; and he trusted a good deal to his hat. Meanwhile the two girls were talking, too low for him to hear.
“Well, Kitty, are you satisfied?”
“I’m not sure. It’s a good dress—isn’t it? But, Bell, he’s not—I assure you, he’s not—a good model.”
“Not?” repeated Bell. “Mr Everitt seemed to think him splendid. He said he was the best possible, but,”—lowering her voice—“a dreadful ruffian.”
“He is a very mild-looking ruffian, then.”
“Oh, Kitty, there’s a horrid expression in his eye!”
“Put it in, then; I can’t see it. But he can’t stand—he fidgets. He wanted to rest long before the hour.”
“That,” said Bell, severely, “was laziness.”
“Perhaps. I don’t know,” said the other, doubtfully. “There are all your things; what shall you do?”
“Only his head. But I wish his hat wasn’t a necessity for you. It is, I suppose?”
“Yes, my dear, an absolute necessity. You needn’t mind so much, though, for his hair is quite short.”
“Short? How very odd! How—”
Kitty interposed with a pretty little motion of her hand.
“I really think he has rested long enough. Will you please stand again?” she said in her young, clear voice.
Everitt rose with decided unwillingness. He was reluctant to face Miss Aitcheson, and began to think that what he had undertaken so lightly might turn out a serious matter. A hundred possibilities flashed through his mind: and then, it annoyed him that Miss Aitcheson placed herself where he could not judge whether she made any discoveries or not.
Still, he got through this hour better than the last.
There can be no doubt that silence is a power of which we underrate the force. Hours of ordinary small talk would not have affected Everitt so strongly as these quiet moments in the old oak-panelled room, with the sunlight, the birds, and the children outside; and inside, this girl—for he could not see her companion—working steadily, and, he was sure, well, with quiet, simple intentness. Sometimes she stepped back a foot or two, and stood looking from her picture at him, throwing back her head, and showing clearly the soft whiteness of her throat and the pretty shape of her head. Instead of looking before him at his unseen comrades, he more than once found himself watching her with steady interest, and thinking in what fashion he would paint her if he got the chance. Standing as she was standing now, he determined, for it was difficult to conceive anything prettier.
Suddenly Sandy, who had given himself over to sleep to avoid looking at Everitt, jumped up, pricked his ears, trotted to the door, and stood with his head on one side. Then a step was heard coming heavily along the passage.
“That’s my father,” said Bell. “He has come here to talk over something or other, and he said he’d look in. Don’t mind him, Kitty; go on.”
“I don’t know if I can,” Kitty answered a little nervously.
The answer surprised Everitt for a moment; the next he understood. The new-comer was an upright, square, red-faced man, and when he came in he seemed to bring with him a dozen elements of disturbance. His boots creaked, his voice was loud.
“Here you are, here you are, eh?” he began. “Well, Kitty, how are you getting on with this fad of yours? I’ve just been telling your father I don’t thank him—I don’t indeed. If it weren’t for you, Bell would be at home, working at her needle, or doing something with a little sense in it. Painting! What’s the good of it when you’ve done it, eh? that’s what I want to know. Who have you got here? Italian? No more Italian than I am, I’ll be bound. Here, you Smith, Jones, whatever you’re called, I should very much like to know whether you’ve ever seen any country but England, eh?”
Bell interposed.
“Father, you mustn’t interfere with Kitty’s models.”
“Models, nonsense! If you want models, why don’t you draw one another, eh? Save your money, and not have these fellows hanging about. I wouldn’t allow it if I were Lascelles, not I! Well, I’ll take myself off, Kitty; I don’t want to disturb you, but take my advice, don’t you believe he’s an Italian, and don’t let yourself be taken in. If you’re ready in half an hour, Bell, I’ll take you home.—Hallo! what have I knocked over now? If you will have these bothering things on three legs standing about— Never mind? But I do mind; I mind uncommonly. Don’t talk to me, Bell; if you had decent furniture, a man needn’t knock his shins against it.”
He went away grumbling. The girls looked at each other and laughed.
“It is a little like an earthquake,” remarked Bell, calmly.
“He is delightful everywhere but in a studio,” said Kitty. “He knows nothing about pictures, but he makes me feel I know less. Bell, is it all a waste of time?”
“I don’t know,” said Bell. “Make as good a waste of it as you can, at all events, and go on with your picture.” To Everitt—“Keep up your hand, please; it drops more and more. Are you used to standing for artists?”
Everitt felt that he reddened.
“I have not been standing lately, signorina,” he stammered.
“So I thought,” returned Bell, inexorably. Silence followed for a time; then Kitty put her easel on one side.
“That will do for to-day,” she said. “I don’t think you can go on longer. Perhaps to-morrow you will be better able to stand, and pray be more punctual.”
“To-morrow, signorina?” faltered Everitt. This was too much.
“Yes, to-morrow. Are you engaged?”
“I am engaged every day this week.”
“Every day? Oh, how tiresome! how very tiresome! What can we do?”
“Is it to Mr Everitt?” inquired Bell, applying a little turpentine to a spot of paint on her dress.
“Signorina, yes.”
“Do you know, I think he will let you off?” she said, raising her head and regarding him calmly. “I am almost sure of it.”
“Do you think so?” cried Kitty, joyfully. “Then,”—to Everitt—“will you ask him? Ask him to let you come, at any rate, to-morrow; and we will leave it in this way, that if he cannot spare you he will let us know.”
“But I think you will be here,” repeated Bell, in the same assured tone.