CHAPTER XXV
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING
Nan was rather silent as the Fentons' big car purred its way through the crowded streets towards Westminster. For the moment the possible consequences of her flight from Trenby Hall had been thrust aside into a corner of her mind and her thoughts had slipped back to that last meeting with Maryon, when she had shown him so unmistakably that she, at least, had ceased to care.
She had hated him at the moment, rejoicing to be free from the strange, perverse attraction he held for her. But, viewed through the softening mists of memory, a certain romance and charm seemed to cling about those days when she had hovered on the border-line of love for him, and her heart beat a little faster at the thought of meeting him again.
Ralph Fenton had only a vague knowledge of the affair, but he dimly recollected that there had been something—a passing flirtation, he fancied—between Maryon and Nan in bygone days, and he proceeded to chaff her gently on the subject as they drove to the studio.
"Poor old Rooke will get a shock, Nan, when we dump you on to him this afternoon," he said. "He won't be anticipating the arrival of an old flame."
She flushed a little, and Ralph continued teasingly:
"You'll really have to be rather nice to him! He's paid pretty dearly for his foolishness in bartering love for filthy lucre."
Penelope frowned at her husband, much as one endeavours to frown down the observations of an enfant terrible.
"Don't be such an idiot, Ralph," she said severely.
He grinned delightedly.
"Old fires die hard, Penny. Do you think it is quite right of us to introduce Nan on the scene again? She's forbidden fruit now, remember."
"And doubtless Maryon will remember it," retorted Penelope tartly.
"I think," pursued Fenton, "it's not unlike inserting a match into a powder barrel. Rooke"—reflectively—"always reminds me somewhat of a powder barrel. And Nan is by no means a safety match—warranted to produce a light from the legitimate box and none other!"
"I wish," observed Nan plaintively, "that you wouldn't discuss me just as if I weren't here."
They all laughed, and then, as the car slowed down to a standstill at
Maryon's door, the conversation came to an end.
Rooke had established himself in one of the big and comparatively inexpensive houses in Westminster, in that pleasant, quiet backwater which lies within the shadow of the beautiful old Abbey, away from the noisy stream of general traffic. The house had formerly been the property of another artist who had built on to it a large and well-equipped studio, so that Rooke had been singularly fortunate in his purchase.
Nan looked about her with interest as the door swung open, admitting them into a fair-sized hall. The thick Eastern carpet, the dim, blue-grey hangings on the walls, the quaint brazen lamps—hushing the modern note of electric light behind their thick glass panes—spoke eloquently of Maryon. A faint fragrance of cedar tinged the atmosphere.
The parlourmaid—unmistakably a twentieth-century product—conducted them into a beautiful Old English room, its walls panelled in dark oak, while heavy oaken beams traversed the ceiling. Logs burned merrily on the big open hearth, throwing up showers of golden sparks. Above the chimneypiece there was a wonderful old plaster coat-of-arms, dating back to the seventeenth century, and the watery gleams of sunshine, filtering in through the diamond panes of latticed windows, fell lingeringly on the waxen surface of an ancient dresser. On the dresser shelves were lodged some willow-pattern plates, their clear, tender blue bearing witness to an early period.
"How like Maryon it all is!" whispered Nan.
And just then Rooke himself came into the room. He had altered very little. It was the same supple, loose-limbed figure that approached. The pointed Van Dyck beard was as carefully trimmed, the hazel eyes, with their misleading softness of appeal, as arresting as of old. Perhaps he bore himself with a little more assurance. There might have been a shade less of the Bohemian and a shade more of the successful artist about him.
But Rooke would never suffer from the inordinate complacency which spoils so many successful men. Always it would be tempered by that odd, cynical humour of his. Beautiful ladies who gushed at him merely amused him, and received in return some charming compliment or other that rang as hollow as a kettle-drum. Politicians who came to him for their portraits were gently made to feel that their favourite oratorical attitude—which they inevitably assumed when asked to pose themselves quite naturally—was not really overwhelmingly effective, while royalties who perforce condescended to attend his studio—since he flatly declined to paint them in their palaces—found that he was inclined to overlook the matter of their royal blood and to portray them as though they were merely men and women.
There was an amusing little story going the rounds in connection with a certain peeress—one of the "new rich" fraternity—who had recently sat to Rooke for her portrait. Her husband's title had presumably been conferred in recognition of the arduous services—of an industrial and financial nature—which he had rendered during the war. The lady was inclined to be refulgent on the slightest provocation, and when Rooke had discussed with her his ideas for her portrait she had indignantly repudiated his suggestion that only a simple evening gown and furs should be worn.
"But it will look like the picture of a mere nobody," she had protested. "Of—of just anyone!"
"Of anyone—or someone," came Rooke's answer. "The portrait of a great lady should be able to indicate . . . which."
The newly-fledged peeress proceeded to explain that her own idea had been that she should be painted wearing her state robes and coronet—plus any additional jewels which could find place on her person.
Maryon bowed affably.
"But, by all means," he agreed. "Only, if it is of them you require a portrait, you must go to Grégoire Marni. He paints still-life."
Rooke came into the room and greeted his visitors with outstretched hands.
"My dear Penelope and Ralph," he began cordially. "This is good of busy people like yourselves—"
He caught sight of the third figure standing a little behind the
Fentons and stopped abruptly. His eyes seemed to flinch for a moment.
Then he made a quick step forward.
"Why, Nan!" he exclaimed. "This is a most charming surprise."
His voice and manner were perfectly composed; only his intense paleness and the compression of his fine-cut nostrils betrayed any agitation. Nan had seen that "white" look on his face before.
Then Penelope rushed in with some commonplace remark and the brief tension was over.
"Come and see my Mrs. T. Van Decken," said Rooke presently. "The light's pretty fair now, but it will be gone after tea."
They trooped out of the room and into the studio, where several other people, who had already examined the great portrait, were still strolling about looking at various paintings and sketches.
It was a big bare barn of a place with its cold north light, for Rooke, sybarite as he was in other respects, treated his work from a Spartan standpoint which permitted necessities only in his studio.
"Empty great barrack, isn't it?" he said to Nan. "But I can't bear to be crowded up with extraneous hangings and draperies like some fellows. It stifles me."
She nodded sympathetically.
"I know. I like an empty music-room."
"You still work? Ah, that's good. You shall tell me about it—afterwards—when this crowd has gone. Oh, Nan, there'll be such a lot to say!"
His glance held her a moment, and she flushed under it. Those queer eyes of his had lost none of their old magnetic power. He turned away with a short, amused laugh, and the next moment was listening courteously to an elderly duchess's gushing eulogy of his work.
Nan remained quietly where she was, gazing at the big picture of the famous American beauty. It was a fine piece of work; the lights and shadows had been handled magnificently, and it was small wonder that the man who could produce such work had leaped into the foremost rank of portrait-painters. She felt very glad of his success, remembering how bitter he had been in former days over his failure to obtain recognition. She turned and, finding him beside her again, spoke her thought quite simply.
"You've made good at last, Maryon. You've no grudge against the world now."
He looked down at her oddly.
"Haven't I? . . . Well, you should know," he replied.
She gave a little impatient twist of her shoulders. He hadn't altered at all, it seemed; he still possessed his old faculty for implying so much more than was contained in the actual words he spoke.
"Most people would be content with the success you've gained," she answered steadily.
"Most people—yes. But to gain the gold and miss . . . the rainbow!—A quoi bon?"
His voice vibrated. This sudden meeting with Nan was trying him hard.
There had been two genuine things in the man's life—his love for Nan and his love of his art. He had thrust the first deliberately aside so that he might not be handicapped in the second, and now that the race was won and success assured he was face to face with the realisation of the price that must be paid. Nan was out of his reach for ever. Standing here at his side with all her old elusive charm—out of his reach!
"What did you mean"—she was speaking to him again—"by telling Penny that you expected to see me soon—before she would?"
"Ah, that's my news. Of course, when I wrote, I thought you were still down in Cornwall, with the Trenbys. I'd no idea you were coming up to town just now."
"I'm up unexpectedly," murmured Nan. "Well? What then?"
He smiled, as though enjoying his secret.
"Isn't Burnham Court somewhere in your direction?"
"Yes. It's about midway between the Hall and Mallow Court. It belonged to a Sir Robert Burnham who's just died. Why do you ask?"
"Because Burnham was my godfather. The old chap disapproved of me strongly at one time—thought painting pictures a fool's job. But since luck came my way, his opinion apparently altered, and when he died he left me all his property—Burnham Court included."
"Burnham Court!" exclaimed Nan in astonishment.
"Yes. Droll, isn't it? So I thought of coming down some time this spring and seeing how it feels to be a land-owner. My wife is taking a trip to the States then—to visit some friends."
"How nice!" Nan's exclamation was quite spontaneous. It would be nice to have another of her own kind—one of her mental kith and kin—near at hand after she was married.
"I shan't be down there all the time, of course, but for week-ends and so on—in the intervals between transferring commonplace faces, and still more frequently commonplace souls, to canvas." He paused, then asked suddenly: "So you're glad, Nan?"
"Of course I am," she answered heartily. "It will be like old times."
"Unfortunately, old times never—come back," he said shortly.
And then a quaint, drumming noise like the sound of a distant tom-tom summoned them to tea.
Most of the visitors took their departure soon afterwards, but Nan and the Fentons lingered on, returning to the studio to enjoy the multitude of sketches and studies stored away there, many of them carelessly stacked up with their faces to the wall. Rooke made a delightful host, pulling out one canvas after another and pouring out a stream of amusing little tales concerning the oddities of various sitters.
Presently the door opened and the maid ushered in yet another visitor.
Nan, standing rather apart by one of the bay windows at the far end of the room, was examining a rough sketch, in black and white. She caught her breath suddenly at the sound of the newcomer's voice.
"I couldn't get here earlier, as I promised, Rooke, and I'm afraid the daylight's gone. However, I've no doubt Mrs. Van Decken will look equally charming by artificial light. In fact, I should have said it was her natural element."
Nan, screened from the remainder of the room by the window embrasure, let the sketch she was holding flutter to the ground.
The quiet, drawling voice was Peter's! And he didn't know she was here! It would be horrible—horrible to meet him suddenly like this . . . here . . . in the presence of other people.
She pressed herself closely against the wall of the recess, her breath coming gaspingly between parched lips. The mere tones of his voice, with their lazy, distinctive drawl, set her heart beating in great suffocating leaps. She had never dreamed of the possibility of meeting him—here, of all places, and the knowledge that only a few yards separated them from one another, that if she stepped out from the alcove which screened her she would be face to face with him, drained her of all strength.
She stood there motionless, her back to the wall, her palms pressed rigidly against its surface.
Was he coming towards here? . . . Now? It seemed hours since his voice had first struck upon her ears.
At last, after what appeared an infinity of time, she heard the hum of talk and laughter drift out of the room . . . the sound of footsteps retreating . . . the closing of a door.
Her stiff muscles relaxed and, leaning forward, she peered into the studio. It was empty. They had all gone, and with a sigh of relief she stepped out from her hiding-place.
She wandered aimlessly about for a minute or two, then came to anchor in front of Mrs. T. Van Decken's portrait. With a curious sense of detachment, she fell to criticising it afresh. It had been painted with amazing skill and insight. All the beauty was there, the exquisite tinting of flesh, the beautiful curve of cheek and throat and shoulder. But, behind the lovely physical presentment, Nan felt she could detect the woman's soul—predatory, feline, and unscrupulous. It was rather original of Maryon to have done that, she thought—painted both body and spirit—and it was just like that cynical cleverness of his to have discerned so exactly the soulless type of woman which the beautiful body concealed and to have insolently reproduced it, daring discovery.
She looked up and found him standing beside her. She had not heard the quiet opening and closing of the door.
"An old friend of yours has just come in to see my Van Decken," he said quietly. His eyes were slightly quizzical.
Nan turned her face a little aside.
"I know. Where—where is he?"
"I took him along to have some tea. I've left him with the Fentons; they can prepare him for the . . . shock."
She flushed angrily.
"Maryon! You're outrageous!" she protested.
"I imagined. I was showing great consideration, seeing I've no cause to bear Mallory any overwhelming goodwill."
"I thought you had only met him once or twice?"
Rooke looked down at her with an odd expression.
"True—in the old days, only once. At your flat. But we've knocked up against each other several times since then. And Mrs. Van Decken asked him to come and see her portrait."
"You and he can have very little in common," observed Nan carelessly.
"Nothing"—promptly—"except the links of art. I've always been true in my art—if in nothing else. Besides, all's grist that comes to Mallory's mill. He regards me as a type. Ah!"—as the door opened once more—"here they come."
Her throat contracted with nervousness and she felt that it would be a physical impossibility for her to speak. She turned mechanically as Penelope re-entered the room, followed by her husband and Peter Mallory. Uppermost in Nan's mind was the thought, to which she clung as to a sheet-anchor, that of the three witnesses to this meeting between Peter and herself, the Fentons were ignorant of the fact that she cared for him, and Maryon, whatever he might suspect, had no certain knowledge.
The dreaded ordeal was quickly over. A simple handshake, and in a few moments they were all five chatting together, Mrs. Van Decken's portrait prominent in the conversation.
Mallory had altered in some indefinable way. In the fugitive glances she stole at him Nan could see that he was thinner, his face a trifle worn-looking, and the old whimsical light had died out of his eyes, replaced by a rather bitter sadness.
"You'd better come and dine with us to-night, Mallory," said Fenton, pausing as they were about to leave. "Penelope and I are due at the Albert Hall later on, but we shall be home fairly early and you can entertain Nan in our absence. It's purely a ballad concert, so she doesn't care to go with us—it's not high-brow enough!"—with a twinkle in Nan's direction.
She glanced at Peter swiftly. Would he refuse?
There was the slightest pause. Then—
"Thank you very much," he said quietly. "I shall be delighted."
"We dine at an unearthly hour to-night, of course," volunteered
Penelope. "Half-past six."
"As I contrived to miss my lunch to-day, I shan't grumble," replied
Peter, smiling. "Till to-night, then."
And the Fentons' motor slid away into the lamplit dusk.
"Wasn't that rather rash of you, Ralph?" asked Penelope later on, when they were both dressing for the evening. "I think—last summer—Peter was getting too fond of Nan for his own peace of mind."
Ralph came to the door of his dressing-room in his shirt-sleeves, shaving-brush in hand.
"Good Lord, no!" he said. "Mallory's married and Nan's engaged—what more do you want? They were just good pals. And anyway, even if you're right, the affair must he dead embers by this time."
"It may be. Still, there's nothing gained by blowing on them," replied
Penelope sagely.