As soon as Lightmark and Rainham were left alone in the twilight of
the studio, the former flung himself into a chair with a sigh of
relief, and devoted himself to rolling and lighting a cigarette.
Rainham picked up his hat, consulted his watch, with a preoccupation
of mind which prevented him from noticing what the time was,
and, refusing the proffered tobacco-pouch and the suggested
whisky-and-soda, seemed about to go. Then he stopped, with his back
turned towards his host and a pretence of examining a sketch.
"I'm sorry I made such an ass of myself about that study--that girl,
you know," he said presently. "The fact is, I saw her the other day,
and the coincidence was rather startling."
Lightmark blew a light cloud of smoke from his lips before he spoke.
"Oh, it doesn't matter in the least, old man. You didn't implicate
me, as it happened, though I'm afraid you got yourself into rather
hot water. A poor devil of a painter must have models, and it's
recognised, but men of business----! It's quite another thing.
There's no possible connection between girls and dry docks." Then he
added lightly, "Where are you going to dine to-night? Let's go to
one of our Leicester Square haunts, or shall we get into a hansom
and drive to Richmond? I've sold old Quain a picture, and I feel
extravagantly inclined. What do you say? Under which _chef_? Speak, or
let's toss up."
Rainham appeared to consider for a moment; then he sat down again.
"About that girl," he said; "I suppose you _do_ remember something
about her? She must have been very pretty when you painted her,
though she's nothing wonderful now, poor thing! I don't want to pump
you, Dick, but she seems to have been pretty badly treated, and I
want to see if I can't help her."
"Help her!" with a shrug. "For goodness' sake tell me: is it Don
Quixote or Don Lothario that you are playing?"
"I should have thought you need hardly have asked," answered the
other a little sadly. "I found the wretched creature waiting, with
an equally wretched baby, both apparently not far from starvation,
outside the dock the other night; and--well, I thought she might be
waiting for you."
Lightmark threw the stump of his cigarette into a corner viciously,
with a dangerous glance at the other.
"Why the devil should she have been waiting for me? Did she say she
was waiting for me? How should a model know that I had been painting
there? But I don't want to quarrel with you, and, after all you've
done for me, I suppose you've a certain right to put yourself _in
loco parentis_, and all that sort of thing. Tell me all you have
found out about the girl--all she has told you, that is to say, and
then I'll see what I can do."
This masterly suggestion seemed to Rainham both plausible and
practical, and he proceeded to unfold the whole story of his first
meeting with Kitty. When he reached the part of his narrative which
brought out the girl's explanation that she was seeking to speak
with a Mr. Crichton, Lightmark looked at him again covertly, with
the same threatening light in his glance. Then, apparently
reassured, he resigned himself again to listen, with a cigarette
unlighted between his fingers.
"You say Oswyn heard the whole story?" he asked, when Rainham had
finished. "Did the girl seem to know him? Or did _he_ seem to have
heard of this Crichton before?"
"No," said Rainham reflectively; "the girl didn't know Oswyn,
though, on the other hand, he seemed certain that he had seen her
face somewhere--probably in that study of yours, by the way; and he
appeared to think that I ought to have heard of Crichton--Cyril
Crichton. He told me that the man wrote clever, scurrilous articles
on art and the drama for the _Outcry_. But I don't read English papers
much. You see, our difficulty is that Cyril Crichton is obviously a
nom de plume, and no one--not even the people at the _Outcry_
office--know, or will say, who the man is; Kitty has tried. I
suppose the editor knows all right, but he is discreet."
"Ah!" cried Lightmark. "Now I remember something about her. Have you
got your hat? Let's get into a hansom and go and dine--I'm
positively starving. I'll stand you a dinner at the Cavour--standing
you a dinner will be such a new sensation; and new sensations are
the only things worth living for. I will tell you about Kitty in the
cab. What a beneficent old beggar you are!"
As they drove rapidly eastward along the High Street of Old
Kensington, where the pale orange of the lamplight was just
beginning to tell in the dusk, Lightmark explained how, some two
years ago or more, he had been talking to a stranger in a railway
carriage, and lamenting the difficulty of finding really pretty
girls who would act as models; how the stranger had told him that he
knew of such a one--a dressmaker's apprentice, or something of that
sort, who found the work and hours too hard; and how, finally, Kitty
had called at his studio--the old one in Bloomsbury--and had sat to
him, perhaps half a dozen times, before vanishing from his
knowledge. This account had been freely interspersed with
exclamations on the beauty of the evening light in the Park, and the
subtle charm of the hour after sunset, more exquisite in the clear
atmosphere of Paris, but still sufficiently lovely even in London,
and acknowledged by both of them to be one of the few compensations
accorded to the dwellers in the much-abused Metropolis.
"I'm sorry," said Rainham penitently; "I had a stupid sort of idea
that you were mixed up in the business somehow. I thought so even
before I saw the sketch, because I couldn't understand whom else she
could have been looking for at the dock. It's very mysterious."
"I shouldn't bother about the girl if I were you," replied the other
light-heartedly. "Even if I had been mixed up with her, as you
gracefully express it, _you_ wouldn't have anything to do with it. I
believe you think I've been playing the devil with her now, you old
moralist! Hear me swear, by yon pale---- Dash it! there isn't a
moon--well, by the cresset on the top of the Empire, that the young
person in question has been my model for a brief space, and nothing
more. Only my model in the strictest sense of the word. No, I'll pay
the cab for once in a way."
When they had dined, sitting at their favourite table, which, from
its position at the end, commanded a view of the bright exotic room,
with its cosmopolitan contents, their wants cared for by the
head-waiter, who adored Lightmark for his knowledge of his
mother-tongue, recognising and being recognised by the forgotten of
their acquaintance, who were also dining there, Lightmark proposed
an adjournment to the little theatre in Dean Street hard by, where
"Niniche" was being played for the last time by a clever company
from across the Channel.
"We must go to the theatre," he said, "unless you prefer a hall; I
confess I'm sick of them. I haven't satisfied my ideas of
extravagance nearly yet. We will go and sit in the stalls at the
Royalty and see Jane May and the others; it will remind us of old
days."
"But, my dear fellow," expostulated the other, "it's so late, and
we're in morning dress. Let's go to-morrow night instead."
"Ah no! to-morrow I sha'n't be in the right mood. Never put off till
to-morrow, you know. Our not being in evening dress won't matter a
bit, they'll only think we're critics; and 'Niniche' doesn't begin
till nine."
On their speedy arrival at the modest portals of the little theatre,
Lightmark instructed his companion, with an air of mystery, to wait,
and presently emerged, smiling, from a triumphant encounter with the
gentleman presiding at the box-office.
"They had no stalls left," he whispered; "but they're going to put
us in two chairs at the side."
The house, with the exception of the more popular places, was
crowded; and the boisterous absurdity of the farce was at its
height. Rainham at first felt quite disconcerted by the proximity of
the ludicrous figure in bathing dress who was leaning over the
footlights, and declaiming his woes with a directness of appeal to
the audience which alone would have marked the nationality of the
robust actor, who was creating so much mirth out of the extremely
hackneyed situation. He had got into the wrong bathing-machine
(Lightmark seemed to find it intensely amusing) and the trousers of
the rightful occupant only came down to his knees. Rainham at first
was disconcerted, and then he began to feel bored. He fell into a
semi-comatose state of contemplation, from which he was only aroused
by the cadence on his ear of one of the most charming voices he had
ever heard. So he characterized it, to Lightmark's amusement, when
they were discussing their cigarettes and the _jeune première_ in the
interval between the acts.
"Oh for an epithet to describe her!" said Lightmark, catching his
friend's enthusiasm. "She isn't exactly pretty--yes, she _is_ pretty,
but she isn't beautiful! She's got any amount of what dramatic
critics call _chic_. Don't shudder--I hate the word quite as much as
you do, but it was inevitable. The only thing I feel sure about is
that she's _espiègle_, and altogether delightful. And how funny that
man is, or would be, if the authors had only given him a better
chance! The fun of the piece is like those trousers--it only comes
down to his knees."
"What I admire most is her voice," said the other inconsequently.
"How is it that French actresses have such beautiful voices? Freedom
from fogs can't be the only cause. And it's got all that delicious
plaintiveness----"
"Yes," interposed Lightmark, "it's the voice of a true Parisian
_femme de siècle, fin de siècle_. There's the bell, let's go and hear
some more of it."
After the second act Lightmark, in whom the influence of the evening
was beginning to manifest itself in the shape of a geniality which
was absent in a great degree from his more serious hours, and which
had undoubtedly won him more friends than the other slightly
pugnacious phase of his temperament, decided that Niniche was really
very like Miss Sylvester, only less beautiful, and asserted that he
was confident that she was younger than the newspapers made out.
Later, before the two friends parted on the steps of the modest
club, which included both in its list of town members, Lightmark
assumed an air of mystery, sighed once or twice, and looked at his
friend with an expression in which forgiveness, reproach, and the
lateness of the hour were strangely commingled.
"Old boy," he said, bending his eyebrows with an effort towards
gravity, "I'm really rather cut up about that business--you thinking
I was playing the gay deceiver, and all that sort of thing, you
know. It was unworthy of you, Philip--it was, really. Dash it! I've
been in love for ever so long. All the summer, seriously; I'm going
to get married--settle down, range myself. Cut all you rips of
bachelors.... But perhaps she won't see it. Oh, Lord!... Damn it
all. Why don't you congratulate me, eh?"
Rainham was growing more and more serious, and it was with a real
heartache and a curious apprehension of a moral blow that he
answered, as gaily as he could:
"You're going a little too fast, Dick. If you haven't asked the
girl, it's rather too early for congratulations, however
irresistible your attractions may be. Who--who is it, Dick?"
"Oh, come, you know well enough. Eve--I wonder if she'll let me call
her Eve? Eve! Isn't it a pretty name?"
"I wish you hadn't told me this, Dick," said the other, with more of
the familiar weariness in his voice. "Are you sure you mean it? I
don't believe you've thought it out. Why, what do you suppose Mrs.
Sylvester will say, and Charles Sylvester?"
"You think they won't have anything to do with a poor devil of an
artist, I suppose? Right you are, sir; but when the poor devil has a
rich and gouty uncle, who is disposed to be friendly.... See? I
think that alters the complexion of the case. You know, the
Sylvesters are awfully well connected, and so on, but they haven't
got much money. Mrs. Sylvester has a life annuity, and Charles--whom
I always want to call 'Chawles,' because he's so pompous--has got
his professional income. And Eve has got a little, enough to dress
her, I should think. 'Payable quarterly on her attaining the age of
twenty-one years, or marrying under that age, whichever shall first
happen.' I've looked it all up at Somerset House. Last will and
testament of Sylvester Charles Sylvester, Esq. I know they're rather
ambitious, and wouldn't look at me if it wasn't for the Colonel. But
the Colonel is a solid fact, and I've no doubt they think he's
richer than he is. And I am making money, though you mightn't think
it."
"I don't believe Mrs. Sylvester has thought about it at all," said
Rainham doubtfully. "Eve is so young, and young artists are never
looked on as marrying men. Take my advice and think about it."
"_You_ call her Eve, do you? Ah, well, I won't be jealous of you, old
boy. You shall come to the wedding and be best man; or no, the
Colonel will be best man, I suppose? I can imagine him returning
thanks for the bridesmaids in the most dazzling white waistcoat that
was ever starched. Good-night; see you again soon."
"I don't know how it is," thought Rainham, as he walked up Old
Compton Street, on his way to the attic near the British Museum
which he rented when he was in England, for use on occasions of this
kind. "It's very stupid of me, but I can't bear the idea of Eve
marrying. A species of jealousy, I suppose; not ordinary jealousy,
of course. And yet why not? I have never thought of her as anything
but a child ... why shouldn't Lightmark marry her? Eve's young, and
good-looking, and sure to get on; and I'm a selfish old wreck. Yes,
he shall marry her, and I will buy his pictures." Still, he shook
his head even as he formulated this generous solution of the
question, and could not induce himself to regard the position with
equanimity, though he sat up till broad daylight wrestling with it.
"I wonder if I am in love," he said, with a bitter laugh, as he
shook the ashes out of his last pipe.