TOWN FRIENDS
"Friendship is the great chain of human society."—J. Howell.
THE marriage took place very quietly one bright frosty morning. Only
Mrs. Talbot, Jean, and Colonel Douglas's best man were present. It was
their wish to have it performed privately.
Jean's eyes were full of tears, when the parting came. The Colonel
looked ill and worn, but his face was illumined with peace and content,
and his wife was perfectly oblivious of everything and everybody but
him.
As they drove away, Mrs. Talbot turned to Jean.
"That is a marriage that must have Heaven's blessing on it!" she said.
"Philip is lucky to have won her at last, when he needs her most. He
ought to have been married to her, years ago. I never could understand
it. It seems an irony of fate, doesn't it? That they should be allowed
such a short time of wedded bliss. But Frances is a sensible woman to
have done it. She will be an invaluable nurse to him, and I really
could not have left my family to go with him."
Jean felt very forlorn, when they had gone. Mrs. Douglas had let her
house to a friend, and Jean was in lodgings with an old servant of
hers, who had a house in a quiet little street at the back of the
church in Kensington High Street. She was away most of the day, but
in the evening, when she came back to her empty rooms, she realised
how lonely a girl could be living in London. It was a good thing that
she had her interest in Sunnie's picture just now. That occupied her
thoughts and attention.
One afternoon, she was walking back to her lodgings, when she met
Charlie Oxton.
He greeted her delightedly.
"I've been round to your house and had such an experience. Six young
ladies drinking tea with their mamma. You could have knocked me down
with a feather! They were all most gushing, and when I asked for your
address, tried to look shocked. So, then I explained, I was your cousin
and had a perfect right to go to your rooms and have tea or lunch, or
dinner as I happened to want it. And I added, 'I'm from the Colonies,
and I'm accustomed to straightforward, simple dealing.' And then seeing
from their looks they didn't approve, I hooked it."
"But," said Jean, who could not help smiling at this characteristic
speech, "I don't intend to offer you hospitality in my rooms. It is
one of the things Miss Lorraine begged me not to do. Dear me! I shall
never call her Mrs. Douglas. You see she didn't much like my living by
myself; but girls do it as a matter of course now, and I am in no ways
peculiar. Only I have to be very circumspect in my conduct."
"Bother take circumspection! Let us go and have tea somewhere. I hate
English conventionality!"
Jean took him to a favourite tea-shop of hers.
"You have heard that my picture has been taken?" she said.
"No, really? Hearty congratulations. Rawlings must come up. He
remembers the crimson rambler, and said only the other day, 'Miss
Jean's fortin' be long in comin'. Well, her tooked her way agen the
master an' me, and her be bound to suffer!'"
"Do you think they will sky it? Or stuff it, in some dark corner? I'm
so anxious, that I long to go and beard the whole lot of them in their
den. Who hangs the pictures, Charlie?"
"I'm hanged, if I know! What a rum affair this is of the Colonel's! It
has all been done so rapidly that I can hardly believe it. What brought
him to the scratch? Why on earth, do two old parties of that age want
to spoon? I thought she was too sensible a woman for that sort of
thing!"
Jean's eyes flashed.
"She is too sensible for you to discuss at all. I daresay, you can't
understand it. They are both of them above and beyond you altogether,
and I'll ask you not to mention their names before me, unless you do it
respectfully!"
Jean's flashes of temper always amused Charlie Oxton. His eyes twinkled.
"You're awfully handsome when you're roused. I haven't the bump of
veneration. Was born without it, they tell me. But I don't want to talk
about them. It was quite 'promiskus'! How are your country friends?
Awfully good sort they are!"
"I heard from Chris this morning," said Jean, relapsing into calm again.
"And that dreary old brown room you were painting. Is it finished?
Has that been offered to the Academy? No? That's a pity. They'll lose
something. Are you doing any portraits now? Because I think I could get
you some commissions."
"I'm open to any offer," said Jean.
"But you won't paint me."
"No, you're too uninteresting. I like to paint good-looking people."
"Now that's what I call downright wickedness of you art people. You're
all for outside show. Dress Vice up in beauty, and you'll paint her!
The truly virtuous and intelligent of the earth count for naught. Why
do you paint portraits? To perpetuate the individuals after they've
gone the way of most men. Why should the homely good folk not be
remembered, as well as fashion's beauties?"
"I quite agree with you," said Jean, "and as a matter of fact they
often are—if they can afford it. It is only rich people, who order
life-sized portraits in oils. But real good people will leave their
lives and influence imprinted on the hearts of those who love them,
and they will need no portraits to remember them by. The beauties who
have nothing but their faces to recommend them, will need to have their
pictures taken, if their friends wish to remember them at all."
"Poor Beauties!" said Charlie. "So now I know why you won't paint me.
My life and influence has so imprinted itself on your heart, that you
will need no portrait to bring me before you. Well—there's something
soothing in that! But about this commission. It is an old chap who
has been making his pile in Australia. He has had some funny ups and
downs, but now he has settled down as a family man and bought an estate
in Berkshire, and he wants to decorate his walls with the orthodox
oil portraits. His wife vows she won't sit for the biggest painter
living, but he is determined to have his own visage on his walls, and I
undertook to sound you on the subject."
"I might not give him satisfaction," said Jean, slowly.
"Bless your heart! Anything would satisfy him. I believe I could sketch
him off myself. A bald head, two keen far-seeing eyes, smug placid
self-satisfied smile, thick plebeian nose, and very big prominent ears.
White shirt front and red tie. Place him against a marble pillar, with
an Italian stuccoed villa in the background, let his fat hand with two
huge rings rest on a greyhound's head, and there you have him!"
"It doesn't sound enticing!"
"But, my dear girl, you don't paint because you like it, do you?"
"Of course, I do."
"I thought you were making it your profession."
"So I am."
Charlie looked at her and shook his head. "You'll never make your
fortune," he said.
Jean laughed gaily.
"Not my pile, like your good friend, but I shall get along. I have no
expensive tastes, and a simple life suits me best."
"There I'm with you! The more money you have, the more you multiply
your responsibilities, worries, and accounts! I can tot up rows of
figures, as long as they don't run into more than three or four
figures; then I'm stumped! We have a good many tastes in common, Jean."
"Very few I should say," asserted Jean.
He chatted on, driving dull care away, persisted in loading her with
flowers, when he left her at her door, and scolded her well, for not
being willing to go to a theatre with him. He stayed in town several
days, and each day, found him lying in wait for Jean as she came out of
her art school. She was quite relieved when he left town. He made her
promise to write to him, if she wanted commissions for portraits.
"I run up against a lot of people, am always looking up old chums and
going to stay at their places. I'm not like you were—bound and tied
to the old man. I told him I must have perfect liberty of action and
speech, and he knuckled under, in no time. But I'm often in the way
of getting you work, remember; and will be on the look out for a real
out-and-out beauty for you! Drop me a line if you think better of my
old sheep-farmer. He isn't a bad sort of fellow."
A few days after his departure Jean got the following letter from him—
"MY DEAR JEAN,—You should have seen Rawlings' face when I told him
the news! He looked as if I were offering him a mixture of apple
dumpling and squashed toads! A kind of proud disgust and of awed
contempt showed itself in his smile. 'Ay, sir, if you be speakin'
Gospel truth, I be pleased that the maid has not come to ruin.
Her were allays so cocksure that her would do it, that I did feel
'twas the Almighty's business to teach her a lesson; but maybe
the lesson will come. 'Tis from the top o' the tree, the fall be
lowest! Go up to see it, sir? Well, maybe I shouldn't mind that,
as long as it be a respectable, nice sort of a pictur! There are
picturs, and there are picturs, sir, and 'tis to be hoped that
Miss Jean have done her name and fam'ly credit. I be very pleased
to hear that her have been doin' her best, but I've never rightly
understood this Academy. 'Tis a school for young gents, I reckon;
but tis not seemly for Miss Jean to be hangin' her pictur up on
their walls!'"
"I can tell you, he'll be a proper treat in town, and we'll surprise
you, when we meet you there. Take care of your little self, and for
goodness' sake, guard the door of your lodging-house. What would happen
to your reputation, if any male species—friend or relative—should leave
their card on the doorstep! I gave the old man your news at dinner. I
waited till it was nearly over, and then shot forth my explosive bomb."
"It shattered him, you bet! But he didn't move a muscle. In went his
eyeglass, and his glare was stony."
"Have I not requested you never to mention that young person's name
to me? Her actions are of no consequence or interest in my eyes, and
neither ought they to be in yours."
"'Hum!' I said, but I didn't plague him further."
"Goodbye, my little cousin."
"Your very plain but devoted"
"CHARLES."
"Absurd boy!" was Jean's comment. But she folded up the letter, and put
it in her desk.
A short time after this, Mrs. Talbot came to see her.
"I promised Frances to look you up now and then, and I always consider
you one of my brother's protégés—the only respectable one he has—excuse
plain speaking, my dear! How are you getting on? Is your landlady
attentive and obliging? You must come and dine with me one night. I
shall be giving one or two quiet little dinners soon. By the by, do
you know that Mrs. Gordon is coming up to town? She has taken a house
in Chester Square for two months. She is bringing up that little child
to a specialist. Dr. Fergusson has been planning it for a long time. I
shake my head over it. He says she is strong enough for an operation
now, which was talked about a long time ago."
"Really!" exclaimed Jean. "Is there any hope at all about her case? I
fancied there was none."
"My dear, you know what doctors are! I believe myself, it will be a
useless expense and trouble."
"But Dr. Fergusson must know. He would never let Sunnie suffer
unnecessarily. And wonderful things are done nowadays. You have
surprised me! I never thought Sunnie could be moved. How will she bear
the long journey? When are they coming?"
Mrs. Talbot smiled at her excitement. "They will travel in an invalid
carriage, of course, with every comfort. I believe they are to arrive
to-morrow—I am not sure. Helen Gordon is an old friend of mine. Would
you like to meet her again? I will send you an invitation to dinner the
night I am expecting her, if you like."
"Thank you very much, but I don't know if Mrs. Gordon would care about
seeing me again. She was very kind to me, but I'm a professional, Mrs.
Talbot, and she only had me in her house for business. It is Sunnie
that I would really like to see."
"Don't have any foolish pride. Mrs. Gordon will be glad to meet any of
my guests. And as to Sunnie, go to see her, whenever you like."
When Mrs. Talbot left, Jean's feelings got the better of her. She
danced upstairs to her dingy bedroom, put on her hat, and fled out into
the park, with a song of thanksgiving in her heart.
Just when she was feeling most lonely, this news had been brought her.
She could hardly believe that in a few days' time, she might meet the
ones who were so constantly in her thoughts, and then she wondered how
Sunnie would bear the journey, and whether she had any idea of what was
going to be done with her.
For the next two days Jean haunted Chester Square. She hardly knew why
she did it, but deep down in her heart, she had a secret hope that she
might see Dr. Fergusson's tall, upright figure go in or come out of one
of the houses. She felt shy about calling, for she did not feel sure of
Mrs. Gordon's attitude towards her, but when the third and fourth day
passed, and she heard and saw nothing of them, she resolved to venture.
She knocked at the door in fear and trembling, and was more relieved
than otherwise, when she was told that Mrs. Gordon was out. Then she
asked for Sunnie's nurse, and was shown into the drawing-room. In a few
minutes, the old nurse appeared, and her face was reassuring.
"Eh, dear Miss Desmond! 'Tis homely to see you, mem, in this great
city. The bairn is just wonderfu', but she was awfu' upset by the
journey, and we've had to keep her fearsome quiet. My heart misgies me
ower this concarn, but 'tis the doctor's will and her mither's, and I'm
ne'er the one to speak my mind agen it."
"Could I see her, do you think, nurse?"
"Weel, I'll no say ye mayn't, but the doctor's orders were that she
mustna be excited, an' ye know what a bit o' quicksilver it is. There's
to be a consultation to-morrow, an' I'm doubtin' if—"
"Never mind," said Jean, swallowing her disappointment bravely. "I will
wait. I will leave you my address, Nurse, and then—"
She paused, for she heard a hasty knock at the hall door, and then a
quick step that she knew very well.
In another moment the drawing-room door opened, and Dr. Fergusson
walked in.