A NEW LIFE
"I am young, happy, and free.
I can devote myself: I have a life
To give."—Browning.
IT was five o'clock in the afternoon, and the end of April. A cab with
luggage was threading its way along Knightsbridge. As it approached
Kensington Gardens, and the fresh green of the trees formed a
refreshing contrast to the rows of buildings just passed, an eager
young face looked out.
It was Jean on her way to her new home, and she was in an excited frame
of mind.
"Oh," she exclaimed, "I am glad London has no marshland! How I love
trees! And how few I have seen in my life."
Then she laughed at her thought.
"To come to London to see trees! What would Londoners say?"
The cab moved on through the busy thoroughfares and then suddenly
turned down a quiet side street. When it stopped, and Jean jumped out,
she found herself in front of a small old-fashioned terrace facing a
green square; balconies were outside the upper windows; it reminded
her of seaside lodgings, and she gazed at her surroundings with eager
interest.
The door was opened by a neat servantmaid, who took her through a
dark hall, up a narrow staircase, and ushered her into a quaint
drawing-room. But though the room was rich in foreign curiosities, old
lacquered screens, and rare china, Jean's eyes were fixed on the centre
of it all—an unpretentious, quiet little lady seated at her tea-table.
She rose, and came forward at once.
"I am very glad to see you. You will be glad of a cup of tea. Come and
sit down."
Jean's face brightened. The words were not much, but the handclasp was
firm and true, and the tone brightness itself.
Miss Lorraine carried with her everywhere the impression of sincerity
and truth; her blue eyes sought her friends' faces with compelling
persuasion and goodwill. They seemed to say, "I see through you and all
your outside artificiality, and I like you."
The consequence was she was a general favourite. Her plain-spoken words
were always accompanied with a humorous smile that made the truth
palatable. A well-known hostess in society said of her once, "Frances
Lorraine is a living wonder. She tells the truth to every one, and yet
gives no offence. She is the only person in town that can do it."
When Jean was sipping her tea, her eyes found time to look round her.
After the large stately rooms at her grandfather's this was a welcome
change. It was essentially a living-room, the well-worn books lying
about, the work-table, the business-like writing-desk, all testified
to that fact; but the fragrant flowers and well-cared-for ferns, the
choice pictures and numerous pretty knick-knacks, bespoke the owner's
refinement and good taste. A rough-haired Irish terrier sat up with
ears erect and eager eyes watching his mistress's every movement. Jean
put down her hand and patted him.
"I'm so glad you have a dog," she said.
"You are fond of them? Doughty and I have lived together for many
years. It is good to have a silent friend who receives confidences but
never passes them on."
Jean pondered over this. Then she looked up and encountered Miss
Lorraine's kind blue eyes.
Impulsively she put her cup down and exclaimed, "Oh, Miss Lorraine, I
hope you will like me and help me. I am taking a step in the dark, and
London is an unknown place to me. Colonel Douglas said you would advise
me. Do begin at once. I am longing, bursting, to be at work!"
"We won't waste time, I assure you. London is the place for those who
don't like waiting. Everything is rushed."
"You are laughing at me."
"No, I am not. In ten minutes, I can tell you all you want to know, and
then you will like to go upstairs to your room, will you not? Now I
conclude from what I have heard, that a School of Art is the best place
for you at present. You have never received any lessons, have you?"
"Never."
"Pick out your best sketches, and to-morrow morning we will go and get
the first interview over. If you are advanced enough to be put into the
life model class, you will be told so at once. If you have to start
from the bottom of the ladder, and be put with beginners, I suppose you
will be equally willing."
"Yes," said Jean promptly. "I don't mind what I have to do. I shall
love it all. Can I go to the Art School easily from here?"
"Quite easily. It is within a walk, if you are a good walker, and I
would advise you for the good of your health to take as much exercise
as possible. Doughty and I walk a great deal. Hansoms are expensive,
omnibuses stuffy, and I would rather pay a shoemaker's bill than a
doctor's any day!"
"Will attending a School of Art be expensive?" asked Jean. "How many
years do you think it will be before I can start a studio of my own?"
Miss Lorraine shook her head and laughed.
"An old music master of mine used to be very fond of this saying: 'The
top of the tree is not jumped at!' How long will your patience and
perseverance last? Have you a good stock of those necessary and useful
virtues?"
"I don't think I have a stock of anything," Jean replied, "except
wishes, and I've crowds and crowds of them!"
"They are the handle to the saw. Now, shall we come upstairs? I don't
think you will find this School of Art at all beyond your means."
Jean followed her hostess up to a cosy-looking room above the
drawing-room. A good-sized table and easy chair were drawn up to one of
the windows which overlooked the square.
"You will want to get away from me sometimes," said Miss Lorraine with
a smile, "so I hope you will have space to read or write. I advise you
to keep your painting entirely for your school."
Then resting her hand lightly on the girl's shoulder, she added with
much feeling—
"My dear child, I mean to take the best care of you that I can without
worrying you. Use me as you like. As a safety valve, if you are in need
of one; as an 'Inquire Within' or directory or a modest encyclopedia.
I am quite sure that we shall be happy together. Later on, you shall
tell me as little or as much as you like about yourself. I am very
interested in you."
Jean's eyes filled with sudden tears.
"I have never had any one take an interest in me," she said; "at least
not since I left school. And do you know, it is only since I have
grown-up, that I have begun to miss my mother."
Miss Lorraine stooped and kissed her and Jean laid her head on her
pillow that night without a fear for the future, or a shadow of regret
for the step she had taken.
The next few months were rosy ones to her. She plunged into her
beloved art with an energy and dogged perseverance that astonished
Miss Lorraine. She could talk of, and think of, nothing else. Art
and artists were all the world to her. She read and studied when not
employed with her brush, any books that she could get hold of, provided
they bore the stamp and impress of Art. Other subjects did not interest
her.
Miss Lorraine watched her with some amusement and a little concern.
"Don't live your life so fast," she would say to her. "You will get to
the end of it too soon. Enlarge your borders."
And when Jean would wax indignant at the idea of her borders being
confined and narrow, Miss Lorraine would shake her head wisely, but say
no more.
Jean made many friends, and when not actually painting, visited a good
many picture galleries and studios. When the hot months of summer came,
she went into the country with a young couple to whom she was devoted,
a Mr. and Mrs. Blake. They were both of them rising artists, and had
taken a fancy to the impulsive, earnest-hearted girl. Miss Lorraine at
first demurred, but when she had made inquiries amongst her numerous
friends, and discovered that the Blakes were steady and quietly
disposed, she gave her consent, and Jean came back to her in the autumn
with roses in her cheeks and a light in her eyes which bore testimony
to the good it had done her.
One afternoon, Colonel Douglas dropped in to tea. Jean was gazing
dreamily out of the window, and did not notice his arrival.
She announced thoughtfully—
"I used to think that beautiful faces and figures have been the highest
ideals in Art; but my eyes been opened this summer. I think nature
itself without them is better."
"Hear! Hear!"
Jean turned hastily.
"Oh, Colonel Douglas, is it you? Do you agree?"
"Yes, I think I do. I see you have enjoyed your country jaunt."
"Oh, so much!"
Jean turned round from the window with an eager, glowing face—
"I have been down to Devonshire, Colonel Douglas. I have never seen
such delicious haunts before. Every square inch of Devonshire ground
seems rich in beauty. I suppose it is my home having been amongst the
flat, monotonous marshes that makes the hills and dales in Devonshire
such a delight. It has made me wonder why artists spend the greater
part of the year in town."
"I think you will find that landscape painters are oftener out of town
than in it. How is your painting getting on? Is it a success? Is life
satisfying you?"
"Oh yes! Everything is perfect, except my own productions, but I am
getting on, am I not?" She appealed to Miss Lorraine.
"Yes, your friends the Blakes told me you were considered to have real
talent."
"And," said Jean, standing up and clasping her hands behind her, and
addressing herself to the Colonel, "the next step is Paris!"
Colonel Douglas's amused look died away. His face fell. Then he glanced
at Miss Lorraine, who was in the act of pouring him out a second cup of
tea. She looked at him gravely in response.
"I have heard a good deal about Paris lately," she said.
The Colonel shook his head at Jean.
"Oh, you young people! Nothing satisfies you! You have not been in
London a year yet, and now you want to leave it!"
"Not directly. I am going to work hard all this winter, but the Blakes
are going to Paris next spring, and they want me to go with them.
They are going to a studio there, and I can join them. I do hope you
approve. I feel," here she laughed merrily, "that you are a kind of
guardian to me."
"I do not approve of Paris," said the Colonel shortly.
"Oh, please do! I must go there. It is an education, and I can afford
it. I have talked over ways and means with the Blakes. All artists
drift off to Paris. I shall not take up my abode there. If Miss
Lorraine is not tired of me, I shall return to her. But perhaps I shall
have painted a picture by that time that will bring me money and fame."
She looked somewhat wistfully at the Colonel.
Though she saw him seldom she valued his good opinion, and she felt
that her Paris scheme had been a distinct shock to him.
"I saw your grandfather yesterday," Colonel Douglas said.
"Did you?" Jean responded in an indifferent tone. She was disappointed
that the Colonel purposely changed the subject.
"He was full of animation over a young cousin of his, the son of a man
who died in Australia. He has invited him to take up his quarters with
him, and told me he intended making him his heir."
"I am so glad," Jean said cheerfully. "I shall like to think that there
will be some young life in that stagnant place. He is a man, so he will
be able to come and go. And now I must say goodbye, Colonel Douglas,
for I promised to go to see a friend of mine—an art student who is ill."
She left the room, and there was silence for a few minutes. Colonel
Douglas put his empty cup down on the tea tray, then took up his
favourite position on the hearthrug with his back to the fire. His keen
eyes roved over the dainty old-fashioned room, and then at last rested
on Miss Lorraine's face with an amused tenderness in their gaze. "Your
duckling is about to take to the water," he said.
Miss Lorraine looked up at him with a smile. "Yes," she said. "I want
your advice. What am I to do? I have not full control over her. She is
so wilfully determined about this, that I have thought it wiser not
to object. She is a dear warm-hearted child, but at present her whole
heart and soul is in her art. And, of course, she is influenced by
those with whom she is so much."
"Will they make a real artist of her?"
"Ah! That is the question. I have had a long talk with one of the
masters who is interested in her. He says she has talent, perhaps
genius; yet he does not think she will do anything great. But who would
have the heart to say that to her? She is so buoyant and hopeful about
the future, so perfectly happy with her taste of Bohemian life!"
"She must buy her experience," Colonel Douglas said. "You will have to
let her go to Paris."
Then he gave a little sigh. "I want your advice, Frances. It always
rests me to come here and have a chat with you. I told you about the
widow of my old friend Thompson?"
"Yes," said Miss Lorraine brightly. "How is she getting on? You have
helped her a good deal. Are her boys doing well?"
"Yes. Alf is getting on in old Grand's office; and the younger, Bob,
is articled to a lawyer. It is their mother whom I am anxious about.
She is not strong, and has not the means to buy the nourishing food she
needs. I have been in the habit of taking her down little trifles now
and then, and sometimes sending a small hamper to her, but—"
He hesitated and a dull flush mounted to his cheek. "Certain
uncharitable people have been annoying her by foolish remarks, and she
has begged me to visit her less frequently and send her nothing more. I
wondered if I could still befriend her through you."
Miss Lorraine looked at him with a funny little smile.
"Poor Benefactor!" she said. "I know how difficult your path must be
sometimes! Of course, I shall be only too glad to be your almoner.
I know Mrs. Thompson a little, and my visits will be beyond any
suspicions or surmises."
"Thank you," the Colonel said heartily, and then for the next
half-hour, he sat talking over his various protégés and plans for
befriending the needy and destitute.
Miss Lorraine listened and advised, and when he went at last, sat back
in her chair with a long-drawn sigh and smile.
"Doughty," she said, caressing her dog, "Platonic friendship is
possible, when it is deep and real."
Then she sat dreamily gazing into the fire, and her thoughts went back
to another autumn day about ten years before, when she and Colonel
Douglas had been standing together in the firelight alone. He had
pleaded very earnestly, and all the sunshine in her life seemed to slip
away, when she told him it could not be. She gave him no reasons; a
delicate mother who had taken an unreasonable dislike to the Colonel
had come between them. Her duty as a devoted daughter came first, and
Colonel Douglas, with the extreme diffidence of his nature, took his
dismissal as final. He went abroad to get over it, and returned a quiet
grave man, who after a few interviews with her, slipped into the role
of an old family friend. She had kept her friend, but lost her lover.