THE PICTURE GALLERY
Mrs. Foster brought her guests back to Sandymere, and when Challoner
had shown them the best bits of the old carved oak with which the house
was decorated and some curious works of art he had picked up in India,
he took them to the picture gallery which ran round the big square
hall. A lantern dome admitted a cold light, but a few sunrays struck
through a window looking to the south-west and fell in long bright bars
on polished floor and sombre panelling. On entering the gallery,
Challoner took out a case of miniatures and placing it on a small table
brought a chair for Mrs. Keith.
"You know the pictures, but this collection generally interested you,
and I have added a few examples of a good French period since you were
last here," he said.
Mrs. Keith sat down. She was fond of miniatures, and though she would
have preferred to accompany her host she had kept him away from Mrs.
Chudleigh since their arrival and thought she must be content with
that. She seldom overdid anything and had no wish to make her object
too plain; Geoffrey Challoner was by no means a fool. As she expected,
Mrs. Chudleigh found an opportunity of joining him after a time and
diverted his attention from Mrs. Foster, who left him to talk to his
sister. Mrs. Keith watched the manoeuvre, which was cleverly carried
out, with ironical amusement, though she was troubled by a faint
uneasiness. She felt that her old friend was threatened, but she could
not see where the danger lay, and, sitting with the miniatures before
her, she tried to formulate her suspicions.
In the first place, she had unwisely given Mrs. Chudleigh to understand
that it was doubtful whether Richard Blake had merited his disgrace.
Then the former had met Lieutenant Walters, who had fought in the
frontier action, and had gained his confidence. It was possible that
she had led him on to talk about the affair with injudicious freedom,
and now she had met Greythorpe and seemed desirous of cultivating his
acquaintance. All this had an ominous look, because the woman was
ambitious and scheming, besides being in love with Sedgwick, who was
something of an adventurer. She would no doubt seize upon any
opportunity of securing his promotion.
Margaret's Keith's suspicions were justified, for Mrs. Chudleigh was
then cleverly clearing the ground for future action. She had some
knowledge of art and the row of family portraits, hung between suits of
armour and trophies of Eastern weapons, interested her, while Challoner
was gratified by the way she listened as he spoke of them. One or two
were by well-known artists, and the faces of the old Challoners, some
of whom wore wigs and rich court dress, and some obsolete uniforms,
fixed her attention. The resemblance between them all was
recognizable, and she thought the family strain must be unusually
strong. They had obviously been stern, masterful men, practical rather
than imaginative and not likely to be troubled by any emotional
weaknesses. Then she glanced at the picture of a young woman with a
face of singularly delicate beauty. Its expression was gentle and
pensive.
"My wife; she died in Simla twenty years ago," said Challoner gravely,
and passing on, stopped before a water-colour drawing of his son.
It had been painted when Bertram was young, and he had his mother's
dreamy look. Mrs. Chudleigh missed the hardness of expression that
marked the Challoners.
"A sketch rather than a finished study, but there's talent in it," she
remarked. "The subject's temperament has been cleverly seized; I have
met Captain Challoner."
"My wife's work," said the Colonel. "Although I value it, I have
thought she was mistaken in this drawing. My son is a man of action,
and this is the face of a sentimentalist."
"Ah!" said Mrs. Chudleigh; "his mother should know him best."
"Undoubtedly," agreed Challoner, who looked disturbed at the
suggestion. "Still, perhaps, in painting a portrait the artist may be
misled into unduly emphasizing some single, passing phase of the
sitter's character. A lad's moods are variable; his nature has not had
time to harden into its mould. I imagine this is what has happened,
because if the likeness is faithful, my son has changed since then."
"One does not change much in essentials," Mrs. Chudleigh answered
thoughtfully. "But what would you have different? It is a good and
very likeable face."
"There is a hint of weakness; something that suggests a too sensitive
disposition." The Colonel pointed to an officer in the old East India
Company's uniform whose expression was grim and arrogant. "A crude
piece of work, but he has the Challoner look."
"It may sound presumptuous, but I think you are scarcely doing the
family justice. One can see the salient characteristics of the male
line in this example, but they're too strongly marked. Good qualities,
such as resolution and courage, may degenerate through being developed
to exaggeration at the expense of others, and after all Captain
Challoner strikes me as a much finer type. I'm afraid you undervalue
the gift of imagination."
"These others," said Challoner, indicating the portraits generally,
"had imagination enough to do their duty, often in difficult
situations. I don't know that one needs much more."
"A stern doctrine; it seems to bar out a good deal of the beauty and
joy of life. But I see some landscapes yonder."
She led him up to several small impressionist sketches in water-colour
of Indian subjects, and stopped in admiration.
"These are very good. I know the country, and they make you realise
what it is like. There is genius here."
"My son did them," said Challoner with dry amusement. "I can see their
cleverness, but I'll admit that I think them rather a waste of time."
"A shocking view. Would you sooner have had him study his drill book
or attend a kit inspection?"
"On the whole, I believe so. It would be more in line with his
profession."
Mrs. Chudleigh gave him a direct, reproachful glance. "I know your son
and that he is a good soldier, but I feel you were wrong when you sent
him into the army. With training, he might have made a great artist."
Challoner regarded her with frank astonishment. "But, my dear lady,
would you prefer the latter; a coverer of canvases, a mere portrayer of
action instead of a doer? Is it better to paint human passions and
emotions than to control and direct your own and those of others?"
"Painting is his work," Mrs. Chudleigh persisted. "He has the
temperament; you can see it triumphing over circumstances. In spite of
his duties, the amusements he must be expected to take part in, and, no
doubt, the banter of the mess, he finds time to make these sketches.
Then they exhibit more than mere skill with the brush; they show clear
understanding and the power of feeling."
"The latter is a dangerous gift. A man of action is better without it."
"Your son has it, and it cannot be got rid of; but in a sense, you're
right. Sensibility must be a handicap to a soldier now and then,
making him realize dangers and cruelties he had better have been blind
to." Mrs. Chudleigh paused and added with a thoughtful air: "Captain
Challoner's courage and coolness are known, but I think they must cost
him more than is required of his comrades. I mean that his having
something to overcome before he can practise them, and yet always doing
so, shows a fine moral fibre."
Challoner looked grave. He had suspected what he thought were symptoms
of weakness in his son, though Bertram had never given way to it. His
companion's talk disturbed him because it seemed to prove the
correctness of his suppositions, but he was shortly relieved of her.
Margaret Keith, who had watched closely, decided that Mrs. Chudleigh
had been alone with her host long enough, but for a time she could see
no suitable means of separating them. By and by, however, Millicent
came towards her and she beckoned the girl.
"Isn't Arrowdale near your aunts' place in the North?" she said.
"There's a picture of the hills round it that I think you would like.
Ask Colonel Challoner to show it you."
Millicent joined the others, and when she spoke about the picture Mrs.
Chudleigh went away. She thought she had said enough, for her object
had been to plant a seed of doubt about his son's character in
Challoner's; mind. If he considered sensitiveness, artistic talent,
and imagination failings in a Challoner, she had given him food for
thought, which was as far as she wished to go just then, and on the
whole she thought she had reason to be satisfied. When she had moved
away, Challoner showed Millicent a picture of grey hills and a sullen
tarn, half revealed between folds of rolling vapour, and the girl was
stirred to keen appreciation.
"It's beautiful and full of life," she said. "One can see the mist
drive by and the ripples break upon the stones. Perhaps it's because I
know the tarn I like the picture so much, but it makes one realize the
rugged grandeur and melancholy charm of the place. I suppose that is
genius; who is the painter?"
"My son," said the Colonel, and added with a curious smile: "You are
the second person who has lately tried to persuade me that he should
have been an artist."
Millicent saw he was troubled, though she could not imagine the reason.
"I hardly know Captain Challoner, whom I only met once, but it is
obvious that he has talent. You would sooner have him a soldier?"
"Very much sooner."'
"But he is one and I understand has distinguished himself. After all,
it is perhaps a mistake to think of genius as limited to one ability,
music or painting for example. Real genius, the power of
understanding, is more comprehensive; the man who has it ought to be
successful at whatever he undertakes."
"I'm dubious," said Challoner. "It strikes me as a rather daring
theory."
"It isn't mine," Millicent answered, blushing. "It's a favourite theme
of a philosopher I'm fond of, and he insists upon it when he speaks
about great men. Perhaps I'm talking too freely, but I feel that
Captain Challoner's being able to paint well shouldn't prevent his
making a good officer."
"Great men are scarce. I'm content that my son has so far done his
duty quietly and well; all I could wish for is that if any exceptional
call should be made on him he should rise to the occasion. That is the
supreme test, and men one expects much from sometimes fail to meet it."
Millicent guessed that he was thinking of a man who had been dear to
him and had apparently broken down beneath sudden stress.
"It must be hard to judge them unless one knows all the circumstances,"
she remarked.
"Not when a man has entered his country's service. He must carry out
his orders; what he is sent to do must be done. No excuse can justify
disobedience and failure. But we are getting too serious and I am
boring you. There is another picture I think you would like to see."
Soon afterwards Mrs. Foster said that she must go, and when she and her
friends had left, Challoner sat alone for a time while the pictures
faded as dusk crept into the gallery. A man of practical abilities
with a stern perception of his duty, he was inclined to distrust all
that made its strongest appeal to the senses. Art and music he thought
were vocations for women; in his opinion it was hardly fitting that a
man should exploit his emotions by expressing them for public
exhibition. Indeed, he regarded sentimentality of any kind as a
failing, and it had been suggested that his son possessed the dangerous
gift. One of his guests had gone further and hinted that Bertram
should never have been a soldier. Challoner could not agree with this
conclusion, but he thought there was, perhaps, a grain of truth in it.
Then he banished his disturbing thoughts and went out in search of
Greythorpe.
During the next week Mrs. Chudleigh met Challoner twice and skilfully
led the conversation to his son. Then she heard from Sedgwick, who
said that if he could obtain the vacant appointment it would give him
an opportunity of making his mark. The time was ripe for a bold stroke
which would lead to the acquisition of valuable territory, but he could
not carry out his plans unless he had full command. They were, he
felt, bound to succeed, but he frankly owned that he meant to force the
hand of the Colonial authorities and could not act while he held a
subordinate position. Accordingly he begged Mrs. Chudleigh to exert
all her influence to secure his promotion, adding that his name had
been mentioned in connexion with the post, but that there were other
candidates with stronger claims on those who had the power to make the
appointment.
Mrs. Chudleigh had already been at work in different quarters, but she
thought Colonel Challoner the most likely man to help her, though he
might be difficult to persuade and she could not hurry him. She had
moreover had several confidential talks with Lieutenant Walters and had
extracted a good deal of information. This enabled her to form a
plausible theory of what had happened during the night attack, and she
was inclined to think that even an experienced soldier could not find
much fault with the conclusions she had arrived at, but she did not
wish to make use of it unless compelled.
When it was getting dark one evening Foster, who was crossing a meadow
with two young men carrying guns dropped behind to speak to a keeper as
Mrs. Chudleigh and Millicent came forward to meet the party. Soon
afterwards he joined his wife, who had waited for him, and they walked
to the house behind the others.
"How did you get on at the Seymours' this afternoon?" he asked. "Did
Ada air her views for the benefit of your friends?"
Mrs. Foster laughed, for Ada Seymour was a lady with strong opinions
which she was fond of proclaiming.
"Yes," she said; "in fact, she went farther than usual and rather
forgot her manners. After a while Mrs. Chudleigh took exception to
something she said and Miss Graham was drawn into the argument.
Somewhat to my surprise, she supported Ada and spoke really well, but
Ada was getting angry and I was so busy trying to smooth things down
that I hardly know what it was all about."
"The degeneracy of the age and the insidious influence of luxury no
doubt. Ada can't keep off these topics and she makes some surprising
statements when she warms up, but I'm not surprised that Mrs. Chudleigh
and Miss Graham took opposite sides."
"Why?"
"They're very different types; about as different as a moonlight night
and a spring morning."
Mrs. Foster looked at him sharply and he chuckled.
"Not often so poetical, am I? But I prefer the bright morning;
moonlight's a tricky, elusive thing, apt to dazzle and mislead one.
However, does Mrs. Chudleigh intend to remain long? She looks like a
fixture."
"She doesn't inconvenience you."
"Not at all. She's amusing and that and moderate good looks are all
you expect from a woman, so long as you don't mean to marry her. I'm
interested in your friend; very much so, although I can't see her game."
"What do you mean by her game?"
"If you don't know, it isn't often you're so dull. She's up to
something and Meg Keith sees it; she keeps a close watch on the woman
and when she's forced to take her eyes off her sets Miss Graham on
guard."
"Do you mean that Miss Graham informs her of what Mrs. Chudleigh says
or does?"
"Nothing farther from my thoughts. Meg Keith has lots of pluck, but
she'd be shy of suggesting such a course to that girl. What she does
is not to trust the woman alone when she can help it; when you see Mrs.
Chudleigh you'll generally find Meg or her companion in the
neighbourhood. The plot's interesting and the Colonel's in it. I've
an idea that Meg's somehow defending him. He's an old friend and she's
as staunch as they're made."
"If there is more in the situation than appears on the surface, you had
better leave it alone. You won't improve matters by interfering."
"Seen that all along," Foster agreed. "I'll stick to my shooting, but
provided that I keep my hands off, there's no harm in looking on. But
you mark me; there'll be developments."
He broke off with a chuckle and Mrs. Foster walked on in thoughtful
silence. Her husband occasionally showed shrewd observation, and she
believed that he was right in the present instance. Something was
undoubtedly going on, but she could not determine what it was. As she
entered the hall she saw Millicent talking to one of her sporting
guests who had shown a preference for her society and Mrs. Chudleigh
watching. The latter liked admiration but her expression indicated
critical scrutiny rather than jealousy. Mrs. Foster imagined that she
was trying to analyse the girl's charm. Then as she came forward with
her husband the others joined them and shortly afterwards tea was
brought in.