The atmosphere of Durdleham was uninspiring. Clytie could make no
progress with her picture, and at last she laid it aside in despair. She
had set her heart upon painting it, and the thoughts of it worried her,
prevented her from sleeping. Not only would it give her fame, satisfy
her ambition, stimulated by the success of “Jack,” but it would satisfy
certain cravings of her soul. And yet she was conscious that only when
these cravings found articulate utterance could the haunting shadows
be fixed. The lack, therefore, seemed to lie in herself: whether in her
spiritual nature or in her material experience of the world she could
not tell; perhaps it was a subtle combination of the two. She could not
bring her lens of introspection to a focus. What she saw through it was
blurred and inchoate.
She had looked forward to Kent's reply to her letter. His sympathetic
common sense might help her. When his answer did come, after some days'
interval, it was strangely cold and dispiriting, just two sides of
note-paper barely filled with sententious enigma.
“If the painting of it will bring you joy, paint. If not, you are
grasping at shadows.”
That was the gist of it. What did it mean? Clytie was inclined to be
indignant. Her own letter had been written out of the friendliness and
needs of her heart, and the reply seemed almost like a rebuff. She did
not know that the writing of it had caused Kent two hours' perplexed
wretchedness. Even the finest feminine perception cannot pierce through
a millstone. The little feeling of resentment towards Kent took the
keenness of edge from her anticipated pleasure of seeing him again; at
least so she told herself when she packed her boxes at the end of her
visit to Durdleham. But as the train brought her nearer to London her
spirits rose. She was free once more to live her own life, without fear
of comment or criticism. It was simple, laborious, and innocent enough,
and she desired little more at present; but there was the exhilarating
sense of freedom, of perfect liberty to be outrageous, reckless, if
such was her good pleasure, wherein lies much of the sweetness of
independence.
She found her sitting-room tidied, neatly arranged, looking as nearly as
possible as if it had never been vacated, and Winifred, a transforming
fairy in the midst of it, eagerly awaiting her. Clytie sighed a little
as she listened to Winnie's gossip. The latter looked at her with
reproachful inquiry.
“I was only thinking, dear, that this is more my home than the house at
Durdleham, and you are dearer to me than anyone there.”
Winifred stroked her friend's hand in girlish fashion and turned away
her head. She knew Clytie too well to make any reply. Then she spoke of
Jack, who was in a fair way towards recovery. She had been very glad
of Clytie's money, she confessed, with a deep blush, because things
at home--well, Clytie knew. And Mr. Treherne, with whom Kent had
communicated, had been very kind and helpful. He went round to Mrs.
Burmester's every afternoon to cheer up the invalid.
“And I suppose you go round pretty often?” said Clytie.
“Of course--every afternoon,” replied Winifred simply.
And Clytie, as she smoothed the shapely head lying in her lap, smiled to
herself a little mysterious smile.
Mr. Kent, too, Winifred continued, had been invaluable to her. He had
brought the boy picture-books, toys--had sat up with him one night
whilst the nurse rested, the mother being quite helpless, and sleeping
in an adjoining room which they had rented for the time between them.
Never had street arab been so petted, so preciously guarded. He was
growing quite human under the treatment. Kent and Treherne had managed
to get him a nomination to a decent school-home, which would assure him
an honest career in after life. Winifred was enthusiastic. She had never
known before what a good, beautiful world it was, how filled with good
and beautiful people!
In reply to a question of Clytie's she said that she had seen little of
Kent lately; that he looked overworked, worried, on the rare occasions
when she had exchanged a few words with him.
“He is doing too much. I must speak to him about it this evening,” said
Clytie.
She took it for granted that he would come, if not at the present hour,
while they were sitting over the teacups, at any rate after dinner, to
discuss in cheery, familiar fashion the events of the past month. But
the moments slipped by and his footstep was not heard on the stairs.
“Are you sure that he knew I was coming back to-day?” asked Clytie.
“Of course. He inquired twice of me,” replied Winifred.
Winnie went away, and Clytie dined, took up a book, and waited. But
Kent did not come. Clytie felt hurt. If he had been engaged, he might
at least have left her a word of welcome. It was unfriendly, unlike him.
Surely she could not have offended him in any way. She grew interested
in her book, sat up till a late hour finishing it. As she neared the
end she heard the well-known footstep coming up the stairs. She laid her
book down, expecting to see the door open, but though she thought she
detected a faint pause outside on the landing, the sound of the tread
did not cease, but continued up the next flight until it was lost. Then
she went to bed, somewhat angry.
She was in her studio betimes in the morning setting things straight.
Orders had come in for a couple of small street-urchin pictures. She had
to make arrangements for setting to work upon them at once. Her mind was
intent upon the matter when she heard Kent pass down the stairs on his
way to the Museum. Ordinarily he was accustomed, if he was not pressed
for time, to thrust his head in at the studio door as he passed, nod
good-morning, and perhaps receive some small commission to execute at
the colour man's in Oxford Street.
“Perhaps he has grown tired of our intimacy,” thought Clytie, “and is
taking this opportunity of breaking it off.” The thought was a whip to
her pride. It sent the blood rushing in fierce waves to her cheeks.
She was alone, an angry woman, not fit company for herself. She felt
humiliated, insulted, and encouraged herself in the feeling, baring her
shoulders to the lash. It scarcely occurred to her then to inquire
into the justice of the suggestion--the mere fact of the suggestion
presenting itself was sufficient to make her burn with indignation.
After lunch she took a cab and drove to Piccadilly to look at the
shops and the people. Town was filling again, the afternoon sun shone
brightly. Clytie's spirits rose. She went with light, defiant tread down
the Burlington Arcade, flashing a contemptuous glance upon admiring
loungers, bought herself gloves and odds and ends of millinery, crossed
over to Bond Street, looked in at Dowdeswell's to see a picture on view
in the gallery, and then, after an interview with Burrowes, the dealer,
in Oxford Street, she turned into Regent Street, prepared to enjoy the
contemplation of the miscellaneous crowd forever moving up and down its
broad pavement. Perhaps the wished-for face would meet her there, she
thought, smiling to herself; in which case she determined that she would
stop, pass it and repass it, fixing its features in her memory. She
amused herself thus for some time, scanning the faces of the passers-by,
inventing rapid histories to account, here for the after-light of
laughter in a young girl's eyes, and there for the lines of pain round
the corners of an older woman's lips. She paused before a shop-window
to observe a ragged little arab who was flattening a nose, already
much snubbed by previous applications, against the glass. To gratify a
whimsical artistic fancy she entered the shop on a trivial pretext so
as to obtain from the other side of the pane the aspect of the urchin's
face. Then, after making a mental note of it for future use, she went
on her way. It was exhilarating, this bright London, with its manifold
variegation, after the dull uniformity of Durdleham. This perpetual
stimulus was necessary to her art, which drooped helpless in the quiet
country town. And with the thrill of artistic quickening came the
buoyant, vigorous pulsation of youth. Her tread was elastic, her cheeks
and eyes animated. She had forgotten her irritation of the morning in
the sense of vitality and enjoyment. It was a good thing to be young,
with a purpose in life and the freedom and strength to carry it out.
Clytie tasted a rare happiness that afternoon, one of which the high
gods are very sparing.
Suddenly she felt a touch on her arm, and a voice exclaimed:
“My dear Clytie! What are you wandering about here for?”
She turned round. The speaker was Mrs. Farquharson, merry and smiling.
They shook hands and walked leisurely down the street together.
“When did you get away from that dreadful place, and why haven't you
been to see us?”
“This is my first day of freedom,” replied Clytie, “and I was just
thinking of coming round to Harley Street.”
“That's right! You will come round with me when I have finished my
shopping. I was wishing for you. I have a little--no, a big treat for
you.”
“Is it nice to eat? I looked in longingly at Charbonnel's as I passed
down Bond Street, and I am hungry.”
“It's Thornton--at last,” said Mrs. Farquharson with a little air of
triumph.
Clytie was interested, and forgot Charbonnel's.
“When did he come?”
“He has been in England some weeks, but only a few days in London. Do
you know, he is going to settle down. Won't that be delightful? I do
hope you will like him.”
“And he is going to give up fighting and exploring and all that?” asked
Clytie.
“So he says. But I don't believe it. He will get seized with the fever
after a time and then off he will go again. That has always been his
way. But at any rate we will have him with us for a season.”
“Is he staying with you?”
“Oh, dear, no! We wanted him to, but he is too wild a creature. Besides,
he knows the half of London, and is in demand everywhere. He is quite a
personage.”
“Then where does the treat come in?” asked Clytie, laughing.
“Why, he comes to Harley Street this afternoon for tea, you obtuse
girl,” cried Mrs. Farquharson. “And that is why we had better make haste
to get back, as it is growing late.”
Clytie had often heard Mrs. Farquharson speak of this cousin, Thornton
Hammerdyke, and was half doubtful whether to allow herself to be
infected with her enthusiasm or to prepare herself to find him
commonplace, as one generally does find the particular heroes of our
intimate friends. Caroline was never tired of talking of him. He was
a hero, a latter-day berserker. She was proud of him, treasured up
paragraphs in the newspapers in which his name was mentioned, wove a
woman's web of romance around his brilliant exploits. She had often
waxed eloquent over his fame, his personal charm, his physical strength
and beauty.
“But all this can't be contained in one poor mortal,” Clytie would say
sometimes, teasingly.
And Mrs. Farquharson would reply, without any of the banter that
generally characterised her personal gossip:
“Wait until you have seen him, my dear.”
To the imaginative there was much that was heroic and romantic in the
record of the active life of Thornton Hammerdyke. He had entered the
army shortly after leaving school, but, wearying after a couple of
years of the dulness of a garrison life, had resigned his commission.
An exploring party to Thibet was afoot. He joined it, quickly became its
leading spirit, and when the chief of the expedition was incapacitated
through illness he undertook the command. This brought him into public
notice. When the Soudan War broke out he joined Lord Wolseley as a
volunteer, and made himself conspicuous by his daring and his marvellous
feats of bodily strength. His name was known all through the army.
He courted danger, especially where it took the form of hand to hand
fighting. An eye-witness of the scene had told Caroline how once, when
attacked by three gigantic Soudanese, he had shorn one clean through the
body, lost his sword, leaped from his horse, wrenched the spear from
one of the others with a force that made the man's arm snap like a twig,
turn on the other--while the broken-armed savage leaped upon his back
and tried to throttle him--and how before there was time to follow his
movements both were lying dead at his feet. He had fought side by side
with Burnaby in the rash conflict when the author of the “Ride to Khiva”
fell pierced with Soudanese spears. He had been in evidence in every
skirmish. When the war was over he remained in Africa, on the Soudan
frontier, in command of some Egyptian cavalry, maintaining a guerrilla
warfare until the troops were recalled. And then he plunged into the
interior, exploring on his own account, with a nominal authority from
the Belgian government. And it was on this part of his career that his
reputation chiefly rested. Certainly ugly stories against him of undue
harshness, even ferocity, were afloat at one time. But he laughed at
these rumours on his return to England, and sarcastically observed in a
letter to the _Times_ that, given a community consisting of a judge, a
prisoner, and a hundred howling, savage maniacs, it was a matter of some
difficulty to form an impartial jury.
When Mrs. Farquharson and Clytie arrived at Harley Street the short
January day had nearly drawn to a close. In the drawing-room the gas
had not been lighted, and by the dull glow of the fire objects were only
dimly visible. Two men rose from either side of the hearth as the ladies
entered. The long ungainly figure Clytie recognised as Mr. Farquharson,
the other as Thornton Hammerdyke, from Caroline's description of his
great powerful frame. His face she could not distinguish; only a large,
finely shaped head, and white teeth gleaming under a heavy moustache as
he exchanged laughing greetings with his cousin.
Mrs. Farquharson performed the little ceremony of introduction. Then tea
was brought in.
“You will excuse this outer darkness, Clytie,” said Caroline. “George
thinks it soothing. You know his ways. You see what a poor woman has to
put up with!”
“I agree with him,” said Clytie. “It is cosy, and it seems to sanction
foolish gossip.”
“Did you ever hear me gossip?” asked Mr. Farquharson severely. “I like
it, Miss Davenant, because it induces a meditative frame of mind.”
“And slumber,” murmured his wife as she dispensed the tea.
The talk continued light and easy, on the topics of the day, the
studios, Thornton's plans for the enjoyment of civilised life. He spoke
brightly, in a deep, resonant voice, that of a man assured of himself
and of the interest afforded to others by reference to his own doings.
Although the subject was trivial, the others listened amusedly, carried
away by the influence of a strong personality. Clytie glanced at
him from time to time, trying to measure him, to sum him up in the
instinctive feminine way. But he was sitting far back from the fire, in
the gloom, and she could only gather a general impression of physical
size and vitality. She was conscious too, that, as she was sitting with
her face in the direct glow, she was visible to him, and that he was
looking at her quietly as he smoked his cigarette and talked. She picked
up a newspaper from a little table by her side, and held it before
her face as a screen. His glance, which she felt rather than met,
embarrassed her, she scarcely knew why. Gradually the talk drifted into
a slight discussion between the two men. Mrs. Farquharson took advantage
of it to draw her chair near to Clytie.
“And all this time I have scarcely asked you a question about yourself.
Come, account to me for the six weeks you have been away.”
Clytie dutifully went over the main incidents of her stay in Durdleham,
making light, in her pleasure at being in London again, of the little
wearinesses and depressions of the past. A faint cloud came over her
gaiety when Mrs. Farquharson asked her suddenly:
“And Kent? What has become of him?”
“He is still alive,” said Clytie.
“Do you know, he has not been near us all the time you have been away.
He has treated us very badly. You must scold him for me. What has he to
say for himself?”
“I don't know; I haven't seen him yet, and I have scarcely heard
from him. I shall have to scold him on my own account,” she added,
brightening.
“That's odd of him,” said Caroline. “You are such inseparables that I
thought he would have been waiting for you with a bouquet in each hand
when you entered the house.”
Clytie laughed at the idea of Kent waiting for her with Covent Garden
tributes.
“I would just as soon think of him reading me a sonnet. But I did expect
him to come down to tell me I had been wasting my time, and to draw out
a scheme for the better occupation of it.”
“Take care that he has not gone and fallen in love with somebody whilst
he has been left to his own devices,” said Caroline teasingly.
“Oh, how can you say such wicked things?” cried Clytie. “Of course he
hasn't!”
“One never knows, my dear. Men are the most unreasonable beings in the
world. With a woman, now, if you know just the least little bit about
her,--it isn't everybody, of course, that does,--you can always tell
what she is likely to do. But with a man--never. Do you think I know
whether that husband of mine is going to be pleased with his dinner
to-night? No, not one scrap. And Kent's a man--just like the rest of
them.”
“Are you talking about Kent?” interposed Mr. Farquharson. “I saw him the
other night at the meeting of the Numismatic Society.”
“There, now! How like a man! And you knew I wanted to know what had
become of him. What had he to say for himself?”
“That most of the rude coins marked with the name of Alfred were in
reality imitations made by the vikings during their periodical visits to
this country. His remarks were very interesting, my dear.”
“Thornton,” said Mrs. Farquharson in her blandest tones, “would you be
so very kind as to light the gas?” Her husband chuckled to himself, and
Hammerdyke rose to comply with her request. During the operation all the
three mechanically watched his movements.
“There!” he said, turning to face them, “I think that is better; we
shall be able to see one another.”
As the full blaze fell upon him Clytie could not repress a little
feminine thrill of surprise. Seen in the vague darkness she had imagined
him quite different. He seemed to spring out of it a perfect type of
physical manhood. He bore with him an atmosphere of splendid animalism.
The artist in Clytie, trained to detect beauties of limb and set and
fall of muscle, scanned him for a second with involuntary admiration.
Although he was dressed with a fashionable tailor's perfection of fit,
which generally gives suave uniformity to strong and puny, his clothes
could not conceal the evidences of a magnificent strength--deep chest,
arms that seemed to fit tightly the coat-sleeves, broad, massive
shoulders, thick, powerful neck. He held his head high, commandingly,
which gave him the appearance of tallness, although he was not much
above medium height. Shortcut brown hair, clinging close to his head in
crisp waves, a broad forehead with two thick vertical veins, added to
this impression of strength. In spite of his thirty-four years the blood
showed beneath his bronzed skin, on which there were few lines. His
features, although on a large scale, were saved from coarseness by
regularity. His under jaw was slightly heavy, but in keeping with the
massiveness of his limbs. His eyes were dark and lustrous, with a light
burning in their depths; his teeth white and even.
“When Hammerdyke is fighting he is all eyes and teeth,” was a saying
that had come to Mrs. Farquharson's ears; she had repeated it long
since to Clytie, who remembered it now as she beheld this hero of
Caroline's for the first time. He was not fighting now, but laughing,
talking with a certain daring charm of manner, almost boyish sometimes.
The time passed quickly. When the little clock in the corner struck six
Clytie rose in some confusion. She had promised to spend the evening
with Winifred and the children. She took her leave hurriedly.
A little later she was sitting in the Marchpanes' drawing-room, with the
children clinging around her, a block of paper and a pencil, as usual,
in her hand. And led away by a sudden fancy she drew pictures for them
of the wild deeds that she had heard tell of Thornton Hammerdyke. This
was quite a novelty to the children, who were accustomed to street
arabs and grotesque caricatures. They were delighted, hung on her lap,
demanded more pictures of soldiers and camels and a great man in a
helmet killing savages. To satisfy them she had to draw extensively
upon her imagination, sometimes upon theirs. Winifred's suggestions were
scouted as being too mild. The final picture was a great triumph. It
represented the same man in the helmet dancing upon a struggling heap of
savages, transfixing one with a spear held in his left hand, whilst
with a sword in his right he clove another in twain. Nothing is so
fascinating to children as the grotesquely horrible; Clytie herself was
carried away by their enthusiasm.
Meanwhile the subject of this picture history had remained at Harley
Street for a short time after Clytie's departure.
“So that is the Clytie you used to write to me about in Africa?” he
said. “No wonder you like having such a splendid thing about the place,
as a kind of intermittent fixture.”
“I am so glad you like her,” said Caroline.
“I didn't say I liked her. I don't give myself away so soon as that.
But, by Jove! I liked looking at her. Where is she generally to be
found?”
“Either here or, if you make yourself very civil to her, she may let you
go round to her studio--on her day, you know.”
“Oh, she runs a day, does she? These young women are getting very
emancipated.”
“They are,” said George Farquharson, lighting his pipe. “So much the
better.”
“I don't know so much about that,” replied Hammerdyke. “If they are too
emancipated, they get an idea that their own way is everything in the
world, and grow devilish hard in the mouth when the time comes for them
to be pulled up.”
“What a contradictory creature!” cried Caroline. “Only yesterday you
were railing at the well brought up drawing-room young ladies you were
having to take in to dinner.”
“I should think so: the things that draw, recite, and play the fiddle,
and rush about to lectures. I am getting a bit too old for that kind of
young animal. I'd sooner spend a week with the wife of a camel driver
than with any one of them. She would be just as intelligent, somewhat
funnier, and the advantage would be that you could lick her into shape
without alarming absurd prejudices. No; the drawing-room young lady is
distinctly 'off,' just as much as the over-emancipated.”
“Well, what kind of a young woman are you looking out for?”
“I never look out for anything, my dear Caroline. I take what comes--if
it pleases me.”
“Then I hope Clytie will please you, Thornton. She is quite different
from any other girl I know. And it's just her little airs of
emancipation that give her charm, I wish there were more like her.”
“So do I, by Jove! There would be some pleasure in looking around a
theatre or a ball-room.”
“Yet I should think that was rather a relief after Central Africa.”
Thornton broke into a gay laugh.
“Unsophisticated woman has her good points, you know!”
“Um!” said Farquharson, pulling at his pipe.
They chatted for a little while longer. Then Hammerdyke pulled out his
watch.
“I must go and dress for dinner.”
“Oh, by the way, Thornton,” said Caroline, “did you not tell me you had
an appointment at six? I hope we haven't kept you from it.”
“Oh, yes,” he replied cheerfully as he gathered up his hat and stick.
“It's only Field. I dare say he's waiting for me now. I shan't turn up
at the club, though. He can rip. When he is tired of kicking his heels
and drinking small whiskeys he can curse the waiter and go. I must be
off now. Let me know when Clytie is on view again and I'll throw over
anybody.”
Mrs. Farquharson smiled indulgently. In her eyes there was no one like
Thornton.
“Thornton is a bit of an egotist,” said George mildly to his wife, later
in the evening, when they were alone together. He was not addicted to
the hyperbolic, like Caroline.
“Oh, but, George, he is such a dear good fellow--and such a splendid
man!”
“'Quem sese ore ferens! quam forti pectore et armis!'” murmured her
husband.
Now George Farquharson knew that if there was one thing his wife
disliked it was that he should quote Latin at her. It generally
occasioned a distraction. If it failed, he translated. The effects of
that were certain. This time Mrs. Farquharson was content to allow his
remark to remain “veiled in the obscurity of a learned language.”