With regard to Everitt and Jack Hibbert, a change had taken place which
could not but be considered remarkable. Everitt, who had hitherto been
noted for the energy and industry of his work, now was frequently absent
from his studio, and when there painted in a half-hearted fashion, which
was not likely to do him much good. He was conscious of it, annoyed,
and was always expecting a return of his old enthusiasm; as it did not
arrive, he became depressed, and told Jack that he believed he had lost
the trick of it. The change in Jack himself fortunately lay in quite
another direction; Everitt could not tell what had come over the lad,
who was early and late in his studio, and worked with a purpose and
intensity which he had never known before. Me used at intervals to rush
into Everitt's studio to ask his advice and assistance. Smitten with
compunction one morning when the artist had spent a good deal of time
over a question of colour, he expressed himself to that effect.
"My dear fellow," said Everitt, "don't disturb yourself. I don't know
that I am of much good to you, but I'm very sure I'm of less to myself.
If it wasn't for you, I suspect I should drop it all for a month or
two."
"Oh, you've been overworking yourself; that will pass," said Jack,
sagely.
Everitt walked over to his own canvas and stood regarding it with his
hands thrust into his pockets. It was a forge, where two horsemen,
escaping from pursuit, had pulled up to get a thrown shoe replaced; one
had dismounted; the other, turned sideways on his horse, was anxiously
looking back along the road by which they had ridden; a girl pressed
forward to see the riders.
"There's my morning's work," said Everitt, pointing to her figure; "and
it's wood--no life, no go in it."
"Well, you know I don't think much of that model."
"The model's good enough," said the other man impatiently. "She never
stood better. The fault lies somewhere else. I wish it didn't."
Jack glanced at him with an honest expression of dismay.
"Oh, I say, Everitt," he exclaimed, "it's absurd to talk like that.
Everybody's got their slack times. To-morrow you'll paint better than
ever you did in your life. You've run down--that's all."
"I've half a mind to go away," Everitt said.
"Well," Jack replied, heroically, "perhaps that would set you up. Where
shall we go?"
"We?"
"You didn't suppose you were going to get rid of me?"
"If I go, I go by myself," Everitt answered, with decision. "You've got
into the swing of work at last; stick to it, my boy, and you'll do
something good. As to where I shall go, I'm not in the mood for any
place in particular. Toss up, if you choose, and settle for me."
Jack made a further endeavour to persuade him to let him be his
companion, but the elder man was quite resolute in his determination to
be alone. He did not care where he went, and no place offered any
particular attraction; he had only a restless desire to shake off an
influence which seemed to be in some strange way paralysing his work.
The fact that it was so paralysing it no doubt alarmed him; he had not
been prepared for such a result, and all his instincts revolted against
it. He argued that an infatuation springing from so slight a foundation
should be under reasonable control. He would not have parted from it
for worlds, but was it to be suffered to wreck his life? He tried
another day with his model; at the end of it he painted out her figure
and turned his canvas with its face to the wall. When Jack came in, he
found Hill at work under Everitt's directions.
"I'm off," the latter said, briefly.
"Where?"
"To the other side of the channel. Perhaps by that time my ideas will
have taken shape. At present they only consist of hazy notions of the
coast of Brittany--unoriginal, but that's what I suffer from being just
at present."
When Mrs Marchmont heard of this move, she was greatly disconcerted.
"I did _not_ expect," she remarked, severely, "that you would have left
the field in this fashion."
"I don't find myself in the field at all, that's the truth," Everitt
said, with a laugh.
"Well, you might have been there," she said. "Pray, do you expect me to
keep off other people?"
"I expect nothing," he replied. "Seeing what a mess I have made of the
thing myself, it would be unjust to suppose that others are to set it
right."
"Where are you going?" she demanded, suddenly. "At any rate, keep me
informed of your movements, so that if there should be anything to
write--"
"Would you be so kind!" he said, eagerly. "But, of course, there
can't."
Still he told her what there was to tell, and gave her a list of places
where he would apply for letters. With these in her mind, Mrs
Marchmont went off the next day to the Lascelles', at a time when she
knew that Kitty was out. She saw Mrs Lascelles.
"How is Kitty?" she inquired. "It strikes me that she is looking pale
and thin."
"She is not very well," the mother admitted. "The weather has been hot
lately. I'm not sure that so much painting is good for her, and, to
tell you the truth, I think Kitty has worried over this foolish affair.
I wish she would forget it."
"So do I," said Mrs Marchmont, candidly.
"What shall we do to her?"
"She has plenty of sense," said Mrs Lascelles, "and if no more is said
about it, and she finds there is no danger of meeting Mr Everitt, I
hope she will cease to think about it all."
"Poor man!"--with a sigh.
"Oh, come, Mary," Mrs Lascelles said, with a laugh, "I am not going to
have him pitied. He has caused us a great deal of annoyance, and if
Kitty gets ill, I shan't forgive him in a hurry."
"Why don't you take her away for a change? The inestimable Miss Potter
would look after the children, and Captain Lascelles could dine with us
whenever he pleased."
Mrs Lascelles looked doubtful.
"Where could we go?"
"Oh, to the Channel Islands, or Brittany, or Normandy. Have you ever
done Brittany? Kitty could draw, and would be very happy."
"It has been a sort of dream between us," Mrs Lascelles admitted; "and
to tell you the truth, my husband has to go down to Yorkshire next week.
Still--for me to go away!"
She protested a little in fact, but when Mrs Marchmont left her she was
well on the way to yielding. Her visitor departed in high spirits, and
her next point was to see Bell.
"Bell," she said, confidentially, "I've something to tell you. Mr
Everitt is going abroad."
"I know," remarked Bell, calmly. "I heard that yesterday."
Now, this somewhat astonished Mary Marchmont. She began to think that
Bell's means of information were remarkably efficient, and to wonder
what they were. Meanwhile she begged her to say nothing about it to the
Lascelles'.
"Mrs Lascelles talks of taking Kitty to Brittany, and if by any happy
chance they were to meet, everything might come right. But, you know,
if a hint reached them--"
"I know," repeated Bell. "Well, but you will not set him on their
track?"
"He would not go if I did. I shall not tell him that they are even
leaving England. Everything must be quite accidental and
unpremeditated. Indeed, Bell, I have done nothing beyond suggesting
that Kitty wanted change of air, and that Brittany was a nice near
place."
"Oh!" said the girl, with a laugh. However, in spite of her mockery she
was very ready to promise, and when Jack arrived later in the day, he
was admitted into the new conspiracy, which he was to aid by keeping
Everitt to the starting-point.
It was not difficult. Everitt had too little inclination for any place
but London to be disposed to resist even the gentlest pushes in a given
direction. Once, indeed, he gave Jack a shock by declaring positively
that he was going to Russia, where it was very certain there would be no
Kitty for him to meet. The bare idea necessitated Jack's seeking advice
from Miss Aitcheson, but by the time he came back, armed with invincible
suggestions, Everitt had forgotten his fancy, and announced that he
should go to Havre that night.
Jack went to the station with him, and had the satisfaction of seeing
him take his ticket, and of extracting all the certainty he could from
that fact. It was not absolute, because Everitt announced that, once on
the other side, chance or the fancy of the moment were likely enough to
direct his steps, but, setting this aside, his plan, so far as he had
one, was to go leisurely through some of the old Normandy towns, and to
work along the coast to the neighbouring province. As for work, he
meant, to see on what terms with it he found himself. If the spring
came back, well and good. If not, he would not force himself, but turn
to anything which presented itself. He was fully aware of the
unreasonableness of his present mood; it seemed nothing short of
ludicrous that the experiences of a day or two--and such experiences--
should be sufficient to change his life. But the very unreasonableness
prevented argument from producing its effect. He had seen Kitty, and he
loved her--that was the long and short of it, which nothing could alter.
Mrs Marchmont, meanwhile, had been triumphantly successful with the
Lascelles. Kitty, it is true, had not taken to the idea so keenly as
her mother anticipated, but this, if it proved anything, proved that she
was not quite herself, and when she saw that her mother was disappointed
at her want of enthusiasm, she promptly set to work to present an
outward show at least equal to what was required. She only begged that
a definite time might be fixed for their return.
So they, too, went off, with Paris for their first resting-place, and it
was quite astonishing how many consultations became necessary between
Bell and Jack, before it could be at all decided whether there was a
chance of the three drifting together in some odd corner. Considering
how often, with all the pains in the world taken to bring it about, some
meeting towards which hearts are straining fails, it had to be owned
that this chance was slight. Bell and Jack, however, were young enough
to think very well of a slight chance. Bell argued that in small
country places, where only one tolerable inn existed, there was a far
greater likelihood of meeting than in a great city where there were
fifty, and Jack was certain, from no grounds at all, that something
would throw Everitt into Kitty's path. But they were doomed to receive
a blow. Bell one day found a distracted letter from Mrs Marchmont.
"It has all come to _nothing_! I have just heard from Charlie that he
is already sick of Normandy cider and cart horses, that he has met with
a horrid man--_he_ likes him--who has persuaded him to try Auvergne, and
that they will go off there at once. Auvergne! Did you ever know
anything so stupid? My one consolation is that it is the very plainest
country I ever beheld, and I hope he will be bored to death by it. Of
course, there is not the smallest chance of the Lascelles going to
Auvergne; I should not have the face even to suggest it to them. So
there's an end of it all, and I think men are the most tiresome
creatures in the world--except women."
It was too true.
Led away by this tempter in the person of another artist, Everitt had
broken off from the path of duty so carefully marked out for him by his
cousin, and made his way towards Paris. He reached it on the day the
Lascelles left.
With Kitty the experiment had apparently been very successful. It was
the first time that she had crossed the Channel, and the lightness of
the air, the freshness of the colouring, and the general picturesqueness
of things, delighted her from the moment of landing. She and her mother
were excellent companions, and, indeed, to Mrs Lascelles the sense of
holiday-making was even stronger than with her daughter. She was like a
girl again, enjoying everything with a keen sense of reprieve from the
duties of ordering dinner and thinking of dishes which should please, at
any rate, the majority. She liked Paris better than Kitty liked it, and
would have been well enough content to have stayed there, and made
excursions to the old towns; but Brittany had an attraction for the
girl, so they kept to their first plan, and left Paris for Dinan _on_
the day, as has been said, that Everitt arrived there.
At Dinan, Kitty was seized with a severe attack of industry. She
painted the clock-tower, and the market, and the old steep smelly
streets, the walls, and the Rance, and every picturesque thing that came
before her. Her mother laughed at her, but in her heart fancied the
girl was trying to shut out intrusive thoughts, and felt the more glad
that she had taken her away from London. It was early in the season for
the rush of travellers, but Dinan carries on small social distractions
throughout the year, and they knew one family, half English and half
French, who lived in a charming old black and white chateau, with
avenues and a stone dovecot, and a walled garden with a gateway to which
you ascended by steps, and where it was not difficult to believe that
you were in another world.
Kitty would have been well content to have stayed here for the rest of
their time, but Mrs Lascelles was not going to be defrauded of her
holiday. She had planned a very comprehensive ten-days' round, having
been carefully drawn on to this by Mrs Marchmont. They were to go to
Vannes and Auray, see Carnac, take Quimper and Morlaix, and any other
tempting places that lay _en route_, and return to Dinan and Saint Malo,
going home by the Channel Islands. She wrote to Mary Marchmont that
after all the trouble she had taken in finding out the most interesting
places and the best inns, she could not venture to diverge a mile from
the lines laid down. Mrs Marchmont showed the letter to Bell, almost
crying.
"Isn't it too provoking!" she exclaimed. "If only that stupid Charlie
had been half so conscientious!"
Quite unconscious, meanwhile, that they were provoking their friends at
home by the implicit obedience with which they had kept within the lines
ruled for them by these kindly despots, Kitty and her mother went on
their cheerful way by slow and dawdling trains, leaving behind them
pretty Dinan, with its river and its rich and fertile country, exploring
Vannes, sitting down to sketch in the centre of uneven streets, where
some little bit--some rich colouring on the stone, some dark cavern of a
doorway, framing a white-capped group, some delicate wreath of greenery
flinging itself out joyously to meet the sun--attracted Kitty. The
people came round to watch and to suggest themselves as pictures; they
were all on the most friendly yet independent terms with the girl, who
smiled and nodded at them and sketched bravely on, undismayed by her
increasing crowd of admirers. Auray did not offer so much of the
picturesque; but Mrs Lascelles would not let Kitty escape her duties,
so she carried her off to Carnac.
But it was Kitty herself who proposed the next excursion. She was
already tired of menhirs and dolmens; but she had a longing for a little
boating on this wild and windy coast. They would drive to Locmariaker,
and go across to the little Gavr Innis, where there are some carvings in
a cave which give people an excuse for visiting the island. The morning
was very rainy, and gusts of wind rushed up from the south-west. Her
mother would have begged off, but Kitty was resolute, "They will not
take us if there is any danger," said Mrs Lascelles, at last
surrendering.
Kitty mocked at the idea of danger; and, indeed, when they readied
Locmariaker and walked down to the little landing-place, the boatmen
showed no unwillingness to convey them across. For though the rain
still fell, there were rifts in the grey fast-driven clouds which looked
as if brighter weather might be near, and the freshness of it all--the
grey-green of the water, the saltness of the wind, the swoop of the
white gulls--made Kitty the more eager to be out on the dancing waves.
She pulled the hood of her waterproof over her hat, her cheeks glowed
under the strong wet wind; and her mother, already seated in the boat,
looked at her as she stood lightly-poised on the slippery stones, with a
smile of satisfaction. Certainly the experiment had been quite
successful; and, as they were well out of the reach of hearing anything
which might keep up the remembrance of an unifying incident, she might
hope to take the girl home with the shadow all gone.
Meanwhile, all seemed ready, and yet they did not start. The old
boatman--Stevan--his brown face deeply seamed with lines, made some
excuse about his sail, which was not in order, and the boy was sent up
to one of the small cottages which straggle down towards the water.
"Kitty, do make him understand that we wish to start," said Mrs
Lascelles. "If I am to be drowned, I don't want to be all day about
it."
But now the boy reappeared followed by a dark figure in a shabby
soutane.
"It is _M. le cure_," said old Stevan, addressing himself politely to
Kitty. "He has to cross to the island to see a sick person. These
ladies will not object."
The _cure_ came deliberately down with firm, quick steps; he lifted his
hat, stepped into the boat, and sat down. Kitty stepped after him; the
boy took the oar to push off, but the old sailor still looked towards
the land and lingered.
"I believe this is a ferry boat," cried Mrs Lascelles, impatiently.
"Look, Kitty, there is some one else!"
Some one else was in a big ulster; a woman--probably Stevan's wife--a
woman in a white _coiffe_ and blue dress was hastening before him, and
pointing eagerly to the boat. It was evident that she had an eye for
business, and would not lose a passenger who might add a franc or two to
her husband's gains. Mrs Lascelles was vexed.
"We shall wait here all day at this rate," she said.
Kitty was gathering up her dress, for the boat was wet. The boatman
turned to her.
"We start this moment, immediately," he assured her, apologetically.
"There is not a better boat at Locmariaker. We shall soon be across."
The _cure_ looked round at the green waves and slightly shrugged his
shoulders. Kitty herself turned to see the coming passenger. The woman
had stopped; she stood with her arms folded under her apron, watching
him. He had not run, but had come quickly down, and was close to the
boat before Kitty had time to do more than turn a startled face to her
mother; he lifted his hat and sprang in, the boy hurriedly shoved off
from the weed-covered stones, and the next moment they were out in the
tossing bay, with Charles Everitt for their companion.