As Everitt walked home he was a prey to many conflicting feelings. It
must be owned that he had entered upon this freak of his in a very
inconsequent manner; he had not so much as reflected what results might
not grow out of the necessity for repeating it. Moreover, he had lost
the first sense of amusement in his masquerade, and hated the business.
Why on earth had he not accepted Mrs Marchmont's proposal, gone with
her to see Miss Lascelles, and avoided this extremely false position in
which he had planted himself?
Why, indeed!
As it was, it was with a feeling of rage that he thought of the next
day, when he would be expected to stand up again before her--like a
fool, as he said bitterly. Besides, it was a great deal more
uncomfortable than he had expected--he was still cramped and stiff from
the position. He made a swift resolution to have nothing more to do
with it. It was easy enough to write a letter, as coming from him--
Everitt--to say that the model could not be spared, but that he would do
his best to send her another in a day or two. That was certainly what
he would do.
The relief of the decision did not, however, last long.
It was all very well to throw up the engagement, but was it fair upon
Miss Lascelles? Everitt knew by experience that one model was by no
means the same as another, and, as artist, he found his solution
questionable. Also, he now felt an insurmountable objection to
introducing the real Giuseppe to that little studio--it had an air of
desecration repugnant to his good taste, if to nothing more. And
thirdly, in spite of fooling, in spite of cramps, it must be owned he
had a lurking desire to find himself there again; the homeliness of the
place, its old-fashioned solidity, its mellow brick, its sunshine, its
trees, its birds, its associations--one and all had, as he was obliged
to acknowledge, taken a certain hold on his imagination. The girls were
merely an accident--a pleasant and harmonious accident, it is true--but
their surroundings had an extraordinary fascination; he could not
reconcile himself to have no second peep at them. Mrs Marchmont might
no doubt take him there if he announced himself as penitent for
rejection of her good offices; stupidly enough, however, he had
effectually shut himself out, since the risk of discovery in going to
call upon the lady who has been painting you in an assumed character was
rather more than even his audacity could face.
It appeared, under all these circumstances, as if the best thing he
could do was to figure as a ruffian once more.
"It will be a lesson to me," he said, with a half laugh, "even if fate
lets me off this time without playing me a scurvy trick."
Fate spared him. He got into his studio unseen of Hill or Jack. Jack
came thundering at his door not three minutes after he had changed his
clothes.
"A pretty fellow you are!" he began indignantly, when Everitt let him
in. "Out larking all this morning, while we poor wretches toil and
slave! And down upon me for taking an hour now and then! Where have
you been?"
"Find out," said Everitt, grimly.
"A polite way of suggesting that I should mind my own business. Well,
it's my turn now. I'm off. But as I am more civil than you, I will
inform you that I am going to study effects on the Thames. Silvery
reaches, sweeping clouds--all that style of thing. Excellent practice,
isn't it?"
"Oh, excellent," Everitt said in the same tone; "especially studied as
you will study them. What a fool you are, Jack, to fling away your
chances!"
"Turn and turn about," said Jack. "It's a heavenly day, and you've had
your go at it. I'm off."
He marched away, stopped at the door, scrawled a spirited charcoal
caricature of Everitt on a spare board, ducked to avoid a mahl-stick
which was promptly flung at his head, and whistled himself out of
hearing.
"Pont-aven," reflected Everitt. But somehow the notion of the little
fishing-village, with its colony of artists, its wealth of models, its
picturesque points, its wind-tossed seas, had lost a charm which the day
before had seemed, irresistible. It might be good for Jack, it might
not. He had that talent for idleness which can extract it under almost
any pressure of circumstances. It was exceedingly likely that he would
succeed in amusing himself very well at Pont-aven--probably learn to
handle a boat like a native, and all the while avoid steady work with
all his present ingenuity. In that case, there was not much use in
going. Of his yesterday's wish to be off on his own account, of his
sickening over his Saturdays, of his general impatience with London--
Everitt remembered nothing. It seemed to him, on the contrary, that few
places were so good to live in, and he hoped that Mary Marchmont might
come again on Saturday. Then he looked round upon his walls with
dissatisfaction. There were beautiful and costly things hanging about
in finely harmonised colours, rich curtains, ancient rugs, and Arabic
lamps; there were choice pictures, and two or three admirable bronzes
from a neighbouring studio; but it seemed to him that, in spite of the
value of these things and their artistic beauty, the place had no touch
of the charm which belonged to the little room in which he had found
himself that morning--a room which was so simple, so unassuming, and so
cheerful!
In short, it was evident that he had received an impression.
This was all very well, but it was equally evident that he could not
have produced one, except in the character of a ruffian; and that,
moreover, he had himself cut away the ground from under his feet. It is
true he did not get so far as to admit that this gave him more than a
general reason for annoyance, but he did feel that a good-natured
impulse had placed him in a hateful position from which he could not
even now retire.
Then his model arrived, and he flung himself into his painting, and kept
the other subject out of his head, except that he had never been so
merciful in the matter of rests.
He dined out, and the first person he saw on entering the room was Mrs
Marchmont. She came towards him very cordially.
"You were as good as your word, and sent the dreadful man."
"Did Miss Lascelles say that he was dreadful?" asked Everitt, flattering
himself that he spoke indifferently.
"Bell told me he had a very fierce expression. I have not seen Kitty.
But it was nice of you to take the trouble."
"Oh," said he, a little spitefully, "I had promised a ruffian."
"You had," she said. "Do you find people always carry out their
promises? I don't."
"I sometimes wish they wouldn't," he retorted. "But this Miss
Lascelles--what has attracted you so much towards her?"
"No one could help it," she said. "I should like you to meet her, and
then you would understand what I mean."
"Evidently she would be dangerous," he said, shaking his head. "I
daren't risk it. Has she a father, or any one belonging to her?"
"Of course she has a father," she replied, "Women don't hold military
appointments yet. A very nice, particular father--Oh, here is Bell!"
She hurried across the room. Everitt remaining behind with very
unenviable feelings. It seemed a particularly bad piece of luck that
Miss Aitcheson and her father should appear at this party; for already
he was not free from the suspicion that she had recognised him. There
was nothing for it but to brazen it out. He strolled across the room
towards her; but at this moment dinner was announced, and his course was
diverted. At dinner they were on the same side, out of sight of each
other; then he began to reflect that with a large party in a double
drawing-room a little management might prevent any actual contact.
When the ladies had gone. Colonel Aitcheson came over to speak to
Marchmont, who was near Everitt. Everitt would have drawn off, but that
Marchmont made some remark to him, and Colonel Aitcheson faced round,
shoulders and all.
"You must excuse me, sir, but your face is extraordinarily familiar to
me."
Everitt bowed.