It was to one of his sitters that Lightmark owed his introduction to
the Sylvesters. Charles Sylvester had been told that Lightmark was a
man who would certainly achieve greatness, and he felt that here was
an opportunity to add all hitherto missing leaf to his laurels, by
constituting himself a patron of art, a position not often attained
by young barristers even when, as in Sylvester's case, they have
already designs upon a snug constituency.
Sylvester began by giving his _protégé_ a commission to paint his
mother's portrait, and before this work was finished a very
appreciable degree of intimacy had sprung up between the Sylvester
family and the young painter, who found no difficulty in gratifying
a woman-of-the-world's passion for small-talk and fashionable
intelligence--judiciously culled from the columns of the daily
newspapers with the art of a practised wielder of the scissors and
paste-brush.
With Miss Sylvester he had a less easy task. She was a girl who had
from a very early age been accustomed to have her impressions
moulded by her self-assertive elder brother; and he, at any rate at
first, had been careful to show that he regarded Lightmark as an
object of his patronage rather than as a friend who could meet him
on his own exalted level. He had been known, in his earlier years,
to speak somewhat contemptuously of "artists"; and, indeed, his want
of sympathy with Bohemians in general had given Eve occasion for
much wondering mental comment, when her brother first spoke of
introducing the portrait-painter to the family circle.
However, brotherly rule over a girl's opinions is apt to be
disestablished when she draws near the autumn of her teens; and
after her emancipation from the schoolroom and short frocks, Miss
Eve began to think it was time that she should be allowed to
entertain and express views of her own. And after her first ball, an
occasion on which her programme had speedily been besieged, and the
_débutante_ marked as dangerous by the observant mothers of
marriageable sons and daughters--after this important function,
even Charles had begun to regard his pretty sister with a certain
amount of deference. He certainly had reason to congratulate himself
on having so attractive a young person to pour out his coffee and
compose his "buttonholes" before he started for chambers in the
morning. Eve was at an age when the wild-rose tints of a complexion
fostered by judicious walks and schoolroom teas had not yet yielded
to the baneful influence of late dinners and the other orgies which
society conducts in an unduly-heated atmosphere. Her figure was
still almost childishly slim, but graceful, and straight enough to
defy criticism in the ball-room or the saddle. Her eyes were gray,
with a curious, starry expression in their depths, which always
suggested that the smile which was so often on her lips was quite
ready to exaggerate the dimples in her cheeks. Her hair was
refractory, from her own point of view; but Lightmark found the
tangled brown masses, which she wore gathered into a loose knot high
at the back of her shapely head, entirely charming, and suggestive,
in a way, of one of Lancret's wood nymphs.
She could never bring herself to believe that her nose was pretty,
although in the seclusion of her chamber she had frankly criticised
her reflected image; and perhaps it _was_ a trifle too small for most
critics. Still, her admirers declared that, especially in profile,
it was delightfully piquant, and vastly preferable to the
uninteresting aquilines which adorned the countenances of her mother
and brother. A provoking, childish, charming face, when all was
said; it was not wonderful that Lightmark would fain put it upon
canvas. And, indeed, so far as the young girl herself was concerned,
he had already a conditional promise. She had no objection whatever
to make, provided that Charles was first consulted; only she had no
dress that would meet the occasion. And when Lightmark protested
that the airy white garment, with here and there a suggestion of
cream-coloured lace and sulphur ribbons, which she was wearing, was
entirely right, she scouted the idea with scorn.
"This old frock, Mr. Lightmark," she exclaimed, with a pretty
display of disdain for his taste, "why, I've worn the old thing for
months! No; if Charles says I may have my portrait painted, I shall
go straight off to Madame Sophie, and then you may paint me and send
me to the Academy or Grosvenor in all my glory."
Lightmark had found it quite useless to protest, well as he knew
that the ordinary French milliner can be warranted to succeed in
producing a garment almost as unpaintable as a masculine black
frock-coat.
On the afternoon of the day after Rainham's return to the dock,
Lightmark was caressing his fair moustache upon the doorstep of the
Sylvesters' house, No. 137, Park Street, West, a mansion of
unpretending size, glorious in its summer coat of white paint,
relieved only by the turquoise-blue tiles which surrounded the
window-boxes, and the darker blue of the railings and front-door. He
was calling ostensibly for the purpose of inquiring how Charles
Sylvester liked the frame which he had selected for the
recently-finished portrait; really in order to induce her brother to
allow Eve to sit to him. Sounds as of discussion floated down the
wide staircase; and when the servant opened the drawing-room door
preparatory to announcing him, Lightmark heard--and it startled
him--a well-remembered voice upraised in playful protest.
"No, 'pon my word, Mrs. Sylvester, my young scamp of a nephew hasn't
done you justice, 'pon my soul he hasn't."
At first he felt almost inclined to turn tail; though he had long
been aware that the Sylvesters were cognisant of his relationship to
the somewhat notorious old Colonel, and that they knew him, as
everyone did, he had never contemplated the possibility of meeting
his uncle there.
And when he had shaken hands in a bewildered manner with Mrs.
Sylvester and Eve, he perceived that his uncle was greeting him with
an almost paternal cordiality.
"Why, Dick, my boy, 'pon my soul I haven't seen you for an age! You
mustn't neglect your gouty old uncle, you know, Dick; when are you
going to paint his portrait, in review order, eh? Not until you've
painted Miss Eve here, I'll be bound."
The prodigal nephew needed all his by no means deficient stock of
nerve to enable him to present an unmoved countenance to this
unexpected attack of geniality. This, he thought, as he returned the
other's greeting with as great a semblance of ease as he could
muster--this was the uncle who had declined to recognise him when
they met a few months ago, in the broadest daylight, in Pall Mall!
Presently, while he was trying to recover his equanimity by devoting
himself to the cult of Eve, he heard the colonel whisper in a
confidential undertone to their hostess:
"Devilish clever fellow, my nephew, y'know, though perhaps I
oughtn't to say so. Those newspaper beggars think very highly of
him--the critics, y'know, and all that; why, 'pon my soul, I was
reading something about him only this morning at the club in the
what's-his-name--the __Outcry__. Said he ought to be in the Academy."
"Yes," said Mrs. Sylvester sympathetically, "you are quite right to
be proud of him, Colonel Lightmark. Charles thinks he is very
clever, and he is _so_ pleased with my portrait. We want him to paint
Eve, you know, only---- Oh, do let me give you another cup of tea,
Mr. Lightmark! Two lumps of sugar, I think?"
"Thank you, Mrs. Sylvester. Do you know, I have discovered that we
have a mutual friend--that is to say, I found out not long ago,
quite by accident, that my very good friend, Philip Rainham, has the
pleasure of your acquaintance."
"Oh, really!" said Eve delightedly; "do you know Philip--Mr.
Rainham? And have you seen him lately? We haven't heard anything of
him for weeks and weeks--not since Christmas, have we, mamma?"
"Ah!" answered Lightmark, smiling, and letting his eyes wander over
the white expanse of the Colonel's waistcoat. "I don't wonder at
that. You see, he has been nursing himself on the Riviera all the
winter, lucky dog! He only came back last night. I saw him at his
dock, you know, down the river--such a jolly old place. I have been
sketching there, on and off, nearly all the spring. He lets me make
myself quite at home."
"Take care, Dick, my boy," said the Colonel sententiously, fixing
his black-rimmed eyeglass under the bushy white brow that shaded his
right eye; "don't you let him entice you into that business. Don't
pay nowadays! All the shipping goes up North, y'know. The poor old
Thames is only used for regattas now, and penny steamers."
"How very nice for the Thames!" cried Eve. "Why, there's nothing I
like more than regattas! I do so hope we shall go to Henley this
year; but houseboats are so expensive, and it's no fun unless you
have a houseboat. We had a punt last year, a sort of thing like a
long butler's tray, and Charles got into fearful difficulties. You
know, it looks so easy to push a punt along with a pole, but the
pole has a wicked way of sticking in the mud at critical
moments--when they are clearing the course, for instance. Oh, it was
dreadful! Everybody was looking at us, and I felt like one of those
horrid people who always get in the way at the Oxford and Cambridge
boat-race!"
"Or the Derby dog, by Jove!" suggested the Colonel.
"I can sympathize with you fully, Miss Sylvester," said his nephew.
"I shouldn't like to say how many times in the course of my first
summer term at Oxford I found myself sprawling ignominiously in the
Cherwell, instead of posing in a picturesque attitude in the stern
of my punt. And one looked such a fool going up to college in wet
things. But there aren't many regattas going on in the regions below
London Bridge nowadays. It's not much like Henley or Marlow, though
it's pretty enough in its way at times. You ought to get Rainham to
invite you to the dock; you would create an impression on the
natives, and of course he would be delighted. He's got a most
amiable housekeeper, though I don't think she has heard of thin
bread-and-butter; and I have discovered that his foreman is a judge
of art--a regular Ruskin."
"And how is poor Philip, Mr. Lightmark?" asked Mrs. Sylvester
tentatively. "You must bring him here very soon, and make him give
an account of himself."
"Oh," said Lightmark vaguely, "he's looking pretty fit, though he
doesn't like to be told so. I really believe he would be unhappy if
he were in robust health. He finds his damaged lung such a good
pretext for neglecting the dock; and if it got quite well, half the
occupation of his life would be gone."
Mrs. Sylvester and Eve both protested laughingly against this
somewhat heartless view of the case; and after declining an offer of
the back seats of the carriage, which was already waiting at the
door to take Mrs. Sylvester and her daughter for their anteprandial
drive in the Park, and expressing their regret that they had not
seen Charles, uncle and nephew took their leave together.
"Dick, my boy," said the colonel, when they were safely in the
street, "you must come and dine with me. Not tonight; I am going to
take Lady Dulminster to the French play. Let me have your address,
or come and look me up at the club. I'm dev'lish glad you're getting
on so well, my boy, though you were a fool not to stay up at Oxford
and take your degree. After all, though, perhaps you aren't quite
the cut for the Church or a fellowship, and--and the Sylvesters are
dev'lish good people to know, Dick. Ta, ta! Don't forget to come and
see me."
So saying, Dick's versatile uncle waved his cheroot by way of adieu,
and clambered laboriously into a hansom.
"By Jove!" said the younger man blankly, "what a ridiculous old
humbug it is! And how he used to frighten me in the old days with
his confounded cavalry bluster! I rather think I _will_ look him up:
and I'll dine with him three times a week if he likes. Meanwhile,
it's time for me to go and meet old Rainham, and take him round to
Brodonowski's. What a ripping sunset!"
And he strolled light-heartedly through Grosvenor Square, the smoke
of his cigarette fading away behind him.