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<h2> CHAPTER XV </h2> The rain of two nights and two days had freshened the woods, deepening the green of the tree-trunks and washing the dust from the leaves, and now, under the splendid sun of the third morning, we sat painting in a sylvan aisle that was like a hall of Aladdin’s palace, the filigreed arches of foliage above us glittering with pendulous rain-drops. But Arabian Nights’ palaces are not to my fancy for painting; the air, rinsed of its colour, was too sparklingly clean; the interstices of sky and the roughly framed distances I prized, were brought too close. It was one of those days when Nature throws herself straight in your face and you are at a loss to know whether she has kissed you or slapped you, though you are conscious of the tingle;—a day, in brief, more for laughing than for painting, and the truth is that I suited its mood only too well, and laughed more than I painted, though I sat with my easel before me and a picture ready upon my palette to be painted. No one could have understood better than I that this was setting a bad example to the acolyte who sat, likewise facing an easel, ten paces to my left; a very sportsmanlike figure of a painter indeed, in her short skirt and long coat of woodland brown, the fine brown of dead oak-leaves; a “devastating” selection of colour that!—being much the same shade as her hair—with brown for her hat too, and the veil encircling the small crown thereof, and brown again for the stout, high, laced boots which protected her from the wet tangle underfoot. Who could have expected so dashing a young person as this to do any real work at painting? Yet she did, narrowing her eyes to the finest point of concentration, and applying herself to the task in hand with a persistence which I found, on that particular morning, far beyond my own powers. As she leaned back critically, at the imminent risk of capsizing her camp-stool, and herself with it, in her absorption, some ill-suppressed token of amusement most have caught her ear, for she turned upon me with suspicion, and was instantly moved to moralize upon the reluctance I had shown to accept her as a companion for my excursions; taking as her theme, in contrast, her own present display of ambition; all in all a warm, if over-coloured, sketch of the idle master and the industrious apprentice. It made me laugh again, upon which she changed the subject. “An indefinable something tells me,” she announced coldly, “that henceforth you needn’t be so DRASTICALLY fearful of being dragged to the chateau for dinner, nor dejeuner either!” “Did anything ever tell you that I had cause to fear it?” “Yes,” she said, but too simply. “Jean Ferret.” “Anglicise that ruffian’s name,” I muttered, mirth immediately withering upon me, “and you’ll know him better. To save time: will you mention anything you can think of that he HASN’T told you?” Miss Elliott cocked her head upon one side to examine the work of art she was producing, while a slight smile, playing about her lips, seemed to indicate that she was appeased. “You and Miss Ward are old and dear friends, aren’t you?” she asked absently. “We are!” I answered between my teeth. “For years I have sent her costly jewels—” She interrupted me by breaking outright into a peal of laughter, which rang with such childish delight that I retorted by offering several malevolent observations upon the babbling of French servants and the order of mind attributable to those who listened to them. Her defence was to affect inattention and paint busily until some time after I had concluded. “I think she’s going to take Cressie Ingle,” she said dreamily, with the air of one whose thoughts have been far, far away. “It looks preponderously like it. She’s been teetertottering these AGES and AGES between you—” “Between whom?” “You and Mr. Ingle,” she replied, not altering her tone in the slightest. “But she’s all for her brother, of course, and though you’re his friend, Ingle is a personage in the world they court, and among the MULTITUDINOUS things his father left him is an art magazine, or one that’s long on art or something of that sort—I don’t know just what—so altogether it will be a good thing for DEAREST Mr. Ward. She likes Cressie, of course, though I think she likes you better—” I managed to find my voice and interrupt the thistle-brained creature. “What put these fantasias into your head?” “Not Jean Ferret,” she responded promptly. “It’s cruel of me to break it to you so coarsely—I know—but if you are ever going to make up your mind to her building as glaring a success of you as she has of her brother, I think you must do it now. She’s on the point of accepting Mr. Ingle, and what becomes of YOU will depend on your conduct in the most immediate future. She won’t ask you to Quesnay again, so you’d better go up there on your own accord.—And on your bended knees, too!” she added as an afterthought. I sought for something to say which might have a chance of impressing her—a desperate task on the face of it—and I mentioned that Miss Ward was her hostess. One might as well have tried to impress Amedee. She “made a little mouth” and went on dabbling with her brushes. “Hostess? Pooh!” she said cheerfully. “My INFANTILE father sent me here to be in her charge while he ran home to America. Mr. Ward’s to paint my portrait, when he comes. Give and take—it’s simple enough, you see!” Here was frankness with a vengeance, and I fell back upon silence, whereupon a pause ensued, to my share of which I imparted the deepest shadow of disapproval within my power. Unfortunately, she did not look at me; my effort passed with no other effect than to make some of my facial muscles ache. “‘Portrait of Miss E., by George Ward, H. C.,’” this painfully plain-speaking young lady continued presently. “On the line at next spring’s Salon, then packed up for the dear ones at home. I’d as soon own an ‘Art Bronze,’ myself—or a nice, clean porcelain Arab.” “No doubt you’ve forgotten for the moment,” I said, “that Mr. Ward is my friend.” “Not in painting, he isn’t,” she returned quickly, “I consider his work altogether creditable; it’s carefully done, conscientious, effective—” “Isn’t that true of the ladies in the hairdressers’ windows?” she asked with assumed artlessness. “Can’t you say a kind word for them, good gentleman, and heaven bless you?” “Why sha’n’t I be asked to Quesnay again?” She laughed. “You haven’t seemed FANATICALLY appreciative of your opportunities when you have been there; you might have carried her off from Cresson Ingle instead of vice versa. But after all, you AREN’T”—here she paused and looked at me appraisingly for a moment-“you AREN’T the most piratical dash-in-and-dash-out and leave-everything-upside-down-behind-you sort of man, are you?” “No, I believe I’m not.” “However, that’s only a SMALL half of the reason,” Miss Elliott went on. “She’s furious on account of this.” These were vague words, and I said so. “Oh, THIS,” she explained, “my being here; your letting me come. Impropriety—all of that!” A sharp whistle issued from her lips. “Oh! the EXCORIATING things she’s said of my pursuing you!” “But doesn’t she know that it’s only part of your siege of Madame Brossard’s; that it’s a subterfuge in the hope of catching a glimpse of Oliver Saffren?” “No!” she cried, her eyes dancing; “I told her that, but she thinks it’s only a subterfuge in the hope of catching more than a glimpse of you!” I joined laughter with her then. She was the first to stop, and, looking at me somewhat doubtfully, she said: “Whereas, the truth is that it’s neither. You know very well that I want to paint.” “Certainly,” I agreed at once. “Your devotion to ‘your art’ and your hope of spending half an hour at Madame Brossard’s now and then are separable;—which reminds me: Wouldn’t you like me to look at your sketch?” “No, not yet.” She jumped up and brought her camp-stool over to mine. “I feel that I could better bear what you’ll say of it after I’ve had some lunch. Not a SYLLABLE of food has crossed my lips since coffee at dawn!” I spread before her what Amedee had prepared; not sandwiches for the pocket to-day, but a wicker hamper, one end of which we let rest upon her knees, the other upon mine, and at sight of the foie gras, the delicate, devilled partridge, the truffled salad, the fine yellow cheese, and the long bottle of good red Beaune, revealed when the cover was off, I could almost have forgiven the old rascal for his scandal-mongering. As for my vis-a-vis, she pronounced it a “maddening sight.” “Fall to, my merry man,” she added, “and eat your fill of this fair pasty, under the greenwood tree.” Obeying her instructions with right good-will, and the lady likewise evincing no hatred of the viands, we made a cheerful meal of it, topping it with peaches and bunches of grapes. “It is unfair to let you do all the catering,” said Miss Elliott, after carefully selecting the largest and best peach. “Jean Ferret’s friend does that,” I returned, watching her rather intently as she dexterously peeled the peach. She did it very daintily, I had to admit that—though I regretted to observe indications of the gourmet in one so young. But when it was peeled clean, she set it on a fresh green leaf, and, to my surprise, gave it to me. “You see,” she continued, not observing my remorseful confusion, “I couldn’t destroy Elizabeth’s peace of mind and then raid her larder to boot. That poor lady! I make her trouble enough, but it’s nothing to what she’s going to have when she finds out some things that she must find out.” “What is that?” “About Mrs. Harman,” was the serious reply. “Elizabeth hasn’t a clue.” “‘Clue’?” I echoed. “To Louise’s strange affair.” Miss Elliott’s expression had grown as serious as her tone. “It is strange; the strangest thing I ever knew.” “But there’s your own case,” I urged. “Why should you think it strange of her to take an interest in Saffren?” “I adore him, of course,” she said. “He is the most glorious-looking person I’ve ever seen, but on my WORD—” She paused, and as her gaze met mine I saw real earnestness in her eyes. “I’m afraid—I was half joking the other day—but now I’m really afraid Louise is beginning to be in love with him.” “Oh, mightn’t it be only interest, so far?” I said. “No, it’s much more. And I’ve grown so fond of her!” the girl went on, her voice unexpectedly verging upon tremulousness. “She’s quite wonderful in her way—such an understanding sort of woman, and generous and kind; there are so many things turning up in a party like ours at Quesnay that show what people are really made of, and she’s a rare, fine spirit. It seems a pity, with such a miserable first experience as she had, that this should happen. Oh I know,” she continued rapidly, cutting off a half-formed protest of mine. “He isn’t mad—and I’m sorry I tried to be amusing about it the night you dined at the chateau. I know perfectly well he’s not insane; but I’m absolutely sure, from one thing and another, that—well—he isn’t ALL THERE! He’s as beautiful as a seraph and probably as good as one, but something is MISSING about him—and it begins to look like a second tragedy for her.” “You mean, she really—” I began. “Yes, I do,” she returned, with a catch in her throat. “She conies to my room when the others are asleep. Not that she tells me a great deal, but it’s in the air, somehow; she told me with such a strained sort of gaiety of their meeting and his first joining her; and there was something underneath as if she thought I might be really serious in my ravings about him, and—yes, as if she meant to warn me off. And the other night, when I saw her after their lunching together at Dives, I asked her teasingly if she’d had a happy day, and she laughed the prettiest laugh I ever heard and put her arms around me—then suddenly broke out crying and ran out of the room.” “But that may have been no more than over-strained nerves,” I feebly suggested. “Of course it was!” she cried, regarding me with justifiable astonishment. “It’s the CAUSE of their being overstrained that interests me! It’s all so strange and distressing,” she continued more gently, “that I wish I weren’t there to see it. And there’s poor George Ward coming—ah! and when Elizabeth learns of it!” “Mrs. Harman had her way once, in spite of everything,” I said thoughtfully. “Yes, she was a headstrong girl of nineteen, then. But let’s not think it could go as far as that! There!” She threw a peach-stone over her shoulder and sprang up gaily. “Let’s not talk of it; I THINK of it enough! It’s time for you to give me a RACKING criticism on my morning’s work.” Taking off her coat as she spoke, she unbuttoned the cuffs of her manly blouse and rolled up her sleeves as far as they would go, preparations which I observed with some perplexity. “If you intend any violence,” said I, “in case my views of your work shouldn’t meet your own, I think I’ll be leaving.” “Wait,” she responded, and kneeling upon one knee beside a bush near by, thrust her arms elbow-deep under the outer mantle of leaves, shaking the stems vigorously, and sending down a shower of sparkling drops. Never lived sane man, or madman, since time began, who, seeing her then, could or would have denied that she made the very prettiest picture ever seen by any person or persons whatsoever—but her purpose was difficult to fathom. Pursuing it, I remarked that it was improbable that birds would be nesting so low. “It’s for a finger bowl,” she said briskly. And rising, this most practical of her sex dried her hands upon a fresh serviette from the hamper. “Last night’s rain is worth two birds in the bush.” With that, she readjusted her sleeves, lightly donned her coat, and preceded me to her easel. “Now,” she commanded, “slaughter! It’s what I let you come with me for.” I looked at her sketch with much more attention than I had given the small board she had used as a bait in the courtyard of Les Trois Pigeons. Today she showed a larger ambition, and a larger canvas as well—or, perhaps I should say a larger burlap, for she had chosen to paint upon something strongly resembling a square of coffee-sacking. But there was no doubt she had “found colour” in a swash-buckling, bullying style of forcing it to be there, whether it was or not, and to “vibrate,” whether it did or not. There was not much to be said, for the violent kind of thing she had done always hushes me; and even when it is well done I am never sure whether its right place is the “Salon des Independants” or the Luxembourg. It SEEMS dreadful, and yet sometimes I fear in secret that it may be a real transition, or even an awakening, and that the men I began with, and I, are standing still. The older men called US lunatics once, and the critics said we were “daring,” but that was long ago. “Well?” she said. I had to speak, so I paraphrased a mot of Degas (I think it was Degas) and said: “If Rousseau could come to life and see this sketch of yours, I imagine he would be very much interested, but if he saw mine he might say, 'That is my fault!’” “OH!” she cried, her colour rising quickly; she looked troubled for a second, then her eyes twinkled. “You’re not going to let my work make a difference between us, are you?” “I’ll even try to look at it from your own point of view,” I answered, stepping back several yards to see it better, though I should have had to retire about a quarter of the length of a city block to see it quite from her own point of view. She moved with me, both of us walking backward. I began: “For a day like this, with all the colour in the trees themselves and so very little in the air—” There came an interruption, a voice of unpleasant and wiry nasality, speaking from behind us. “WELL, WELL!” it said. “So here we are again!” I faced about and beheld, just emerged from a by-path, a fox-faced young man whose light, well-poised figure was jauntily clad in gray serge, with scarlet waistcoat and tie, white shoes upon his feet, and a white hat, gaily beribboned, upon his head. A recollection of the dusky road and a group of people about Pere Baudry’s lamplit door flickered across my mind. “The historical tourist!” I exclaimed. “The highly pedestrian tripper from Trouville!” “You got me right, m’dear friend,” he replied with condescension; “I rec’leck meetin’ you perfect.” “And I was interested to learn,” said I, carefully observing the effect of my words upon him, “that you had been to Les Trois Pigeons after all. Perhaps I might put it, you had been through Les Trois Pigeons, for the maitre d’hotel informed me you had investigated every corner—that wasn’t locked.” “Sure,” he returned, with rather less embarrassment than a brazen Vishnu would have exhibited under the same circumstances. “He showed me what pitchers they was in your studio. I’ll luk ‘em over again fer ye one of these days. Some of ‘em was right gud.” “You will be visiting near enough for me to avail myself of the opportunity?” “Right in the Pigeon House, m’friend. I’ve just come down t’putt in a few days there,” he responded coolly. “They’s a young feller in this neighbourhood I take a kind o’ fam’ly interest in.” “Who is that?” I asked quickly. For answer he produced the effect of a laugh by widening and lifting one side of his mouth, leaving the other, meantime, rigid. “Don’ lemme int’rup’ the conv’sation with yer lady-friend,” he said winningly. “What they call ‘talkin’ High Arts,’ wasn’t it? I’d like to hear some.” <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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