Three weeks soon pass in busy London, but to Armstrong Dale the
twenty-one days which ensued after the scene at Portland Place were like
months of misery.
Stern in his resolve to avoid all further entanglement, and to keep
faith to her whom in his heart of hearts he loved, he shut himself up in
his studio, and made a desperate attack upon his great mythological
picture, a broad high canvas, at which Keren-Happuch stared
open-mouthed, when she went into the studio every morning "to do Mr.
Dale up"--a feat which consisted in brushing the fluff about from one
corner to another, and resulted in a good deal of sniffing, and the
lodging of more dust upon casts, ledges, furniture, and above all, upon
Keren-Happuch's by no means classical features, where it adhered,
consequent upon a certain labour-and-exercise-produced moisture which
exuded from the maiden's skin.
"I can't help looking smudgy," she used to say; and directly after,
"Comin', mum," for her name was shouted in an acid voice by Mrs.
Dunster, the elderly lady who let the studio and rooms in Fitzroy Square
to any artist who would take them for a time.
But the poor little slavey was Keren-Happuch to that lady alone. To
Armstrong she was always Miranda, on account of her friend, the
dirty-white cat of the kitchen; to his artist friends such names as
seemed good to them, and suited to their bizarre thoughts.
To Armstrong one morning came Keren-Happuch, as he was painting out his
previous day's work upon his great picture, and she stood staring with
her mouth open.
"Oh, Mr. Dale, sir, what a shame! What would Miss Montmorency say?"
"What about, Miranda?"
"You a-smudging out her beautiful figure as you took such pains to
paint. Why, she was a-talking to me 'bout it, sir, when she was a-goin'
yesterday, and said she was goin' to be Queen June-ho at the 'cademy."
"But she will not be, Miranda," said Armstrong sadly; "it was execrable.
Ah, my little lass, what a pity it is that you could not stand for the
figure."
"Me, sir! Oh, my!" cried the girl, giggling. "Why, I'm a perfect
sight. And, oh!--I couldn't, you know. I mustn't stop, sir. I on'y
come to tell you I was opening the front top winder, and see your funny
friend, Mr. Pacey, go into Smithson's. He always do before he comes
here."
"Keren-Happuch!" came faintly from below.
"Comin', mum," cried the girl, and she dashed out of the studio.
"Poor, patient little drudge!" said Armstrong, half aloud. "Well
washed, neatly clothed, spoken to kindly, and not worked to death, what
a good faithful little lassie she would be for a house. I wish Cornel
could see her, and see her with my eyes."
He turned sharply, for there was a step--a heavy step--on the stair, and
the artist's sad face brightened.
"Good little prophetess too. Here's old Joe at last. Where's the
incense-box?"
He took a tobacco-jar from a cupboard and placed it upon the nearest
table, just as the door opened and a big, heavy, rough, grey-haired man
entered, nodded, and, placing his soft felt hat upon his heavy stick,
dropped into an easy-chair.
"Welcome, little stranger!" cried Armstrong merrily. "Why tarried the
wheels of your chariot so long?"
There was no answer, but the visitor fixed his deeply set piercing eyes
upon his brother artist.
"Was there a smoke somewhere last night, old lad, and the whisky of an
evil brew?"
"No!" said the visitor shortly.
"Why, Joe, old lad, what's the matter? Coin run out?"
"No!"
"But there is something, old fellow," said Armstrong. "Can I help you?"
And, passing his brush into the hand which held his palette, he grasped
the other by the shoulder.
"Don't touch me," cried the visitor angrily, and he struck Armstrong's
hand aside.