DESMOND GOES UNDER.
In the period of pique and disappointment, when she realised that Denis
Quirk was impervious to her attractions, Sylvia Jackson suddenly awoke
to a new interest in life. At the moment she was hesitating between an
interesting decline and a fearful vendetta. But this did not deter her
from attending the Grey Town Intellectual Society's lecture on Art and
Artists, which was delivered by George Custance, R.A., nor did it
prevent the lecturer from fascinating the impressionable girl.
Until that moment Grey Town was unaware that Custance existed. A few of
the townspeople had occasionally noticed a man in a grey suit, who was
living at the "Fisherman's Retreat," near the mouth of the Grey River.
They had seen him handling a rod from the banks of the river, and had
sometimes observed him with a sketch-book in his hand, transferring a
view of the coast to paper.
But he was so quiet and unobtrusive that few persons paid any great
attention to him. It was indeed entirely by chance that the Intellectual
Society secured his services. The secretary wrote to an artist friend in
Melbourne, suggesting a lecture; the answer was short and concise:
"Sorry I cannot find time to amuse you. Try Claude Custance; he knows
more about art than any other man in Australia."
"Try Custance! Who the dickens is Custance?" the secretary asked the
president.
"Blessed if I know. Ask Gurner; he is sure to know," the president
answered.
In the club Gurner was nicknamed the Grey Town Directory. He was
regarded as a local Burke, who could fire off the pedigrees and
performances of every family in the district.
The secretary discovered him in the club, taking a novice down at
billiards.
"Do you know a man of the name of Custance?" the secretary began.
Gurner prided himself on his knowledge. To be unable to point out the
identity of any person in the town was to ruin a reputation. He paused
abruptly from the stroke he was contemplating.
"Custance, did you say?"
"Yes; Custance, an artist."
"There is a grey man of that name at the 'Fisherman's Retreat.' He is a
bit of an artist, they tell me. I will ask Cowley," he said.
A few days later he found the secretary in his office.
"I have found out all about that artist man," he said.
"Custance? Does he know anything about art?"
"Do you know anything about law? He's a classic winner, the very deuce
of a top-notcher. He's been hung over and over again. You can't teach
him anything about art," replied Gurner.
"I wonder if he would lecture for us?"
"Leave him to me. A nice fellow; we fraternised over fishing, with a
whisky and soda to wash it down. He began to tell me tall stories, and I
added six inches to everyone he produced. I will secure him for you."
This he did the following day, for Custance was quite an obliging man,
and a personal friend of the artist who had refused the invitation.
The news spread, as it usually does in a country town, and interest in
the lecture became phenomenally keen. The intellectuals had for once
secured public support. They promptly raised their charge for admission
from sixpence to one shilling, with an additional sixpence for booking.
They advertised the attraction in capital letters and created a furore.
The consequence was that the learned and those who assumed the virtue
combined to fill the hall to overflowing.
Custance was an ideal lecturer. He took possession of the platform and
audience in an easy, unassuming manner, and delivered an address amusing
and learned, yet understandable. And well he might, for he was not a
mere painter, but one who had lectured on art to select audiences, and
had sold pictures at fabulous prices. At this very moment London was
asking, "Where is Custance?" and here he was in Grey Town.
The town would have made much of him had he permitted it. But he was
there for work and quiet. A shoal of invitations were fired at him and
refused; he preferred to lapse into obscurity. A few of the more
obtrusive attempted to force their society on him: to these he was
frankly rude. The more tactful fell in with his humour, and were content
to nod to him.
Sylvia Jackson was introduced, but beyond a passing glance of admiration
Custance relegated her to forgetfulness. She was, however, determined to
know him, and she engineered a second meeting with her usual diplomacy.
"A picnic to the beach would be ideal," she suggested. "Not to the
frequented part, but to that quiet little beach near the mouth of the
Grey. Just ourselves, Mrs. Quirk, you and Kathleen, and I."
She knew that Custance was sketching a seascape not far from that spot.
"Why not?" asked Mrs. Quirk. "What more should we want? You and Kathleen
are all I need--with Denis to come to tea, if he has the time."
"Sorry to disappoint you," said Denis Quirk, "but I must be at the
office all day. Cairns is away on holiday, and not a man with any
initiative but Tim O'Neill to support me."
Denis Quirk's absence was a great relief to Sylvia Jackson. She still
entertained a tender admiration for him, but, as he continued to resist
her fascinations, she preferred that he should not be present to
frustrate or ridicule her plans. Mrs. Quirk and Kathleen were easily
duped, but she feared the penetration of Denis Quirk. Nevertheless she
made pretence of a great disappointment.
"We counted on you," she remarked in an agonised voice.
"Never count on a paper man. We are the most unreliable people in the
world," he answered. "Make the old mother happy, and don't keep her out
too late."
With these words he went down the avenue whistling the air of a melody
that Kathleen had sung the night before.
Sylvia had studied her plans with the greatest care, and she put them
into action when they were safely arrived at the strip of beach that
lies beyond the river bar.
"You and Granny prefer to be alone," she told Kathleen. "I intend to
take my sketch book and see what I can do with the view round the
point."
Therewith she sauntered away, giving them no time to protest. The spot
she had chosen for her sketch is one of the most magnificent on the
coast.
It is a small patch of sand, terminated towards the east by black
precipitous rocks, against which the sea is perpetually pounding in
great breakers. On this day the sea was a wonderful dark blue, and very
peaceful, save where it thundered at the base of the cliffs. On the
horizon a bank of grey clouds rested on the water like a remote island
crowned with mounts and peaks. The smoke of a distant steamer rose in an
almost straight line upwards; nearer the shore a small fishing boat was
moving gently backwards and forwards, its sails barely filled by the
gentle breeze. There was a sense of rest in the scene, as if the ocean
were slumbering after the strife of a few days previously.
Here Sylvia found the artist, working quietly at a picture that he had
almost completed. He had caught the vivid colouring of the ocean, the
grey bank of clouds and the distant smoke, and had transferred them to
his canvas.
Sylvia approached and stood behind him, but he did not recognise her
presence, for he was absorbed in his work.
"How do you contrive----," Sylvia began.
Custance turned towards her with a quick start, for, like other artists,
he had nerves that were peculiarly sensitive and reacted acutely to
impressions. Seeing that the questioner was a beautiful girl, he
regarded her with a kindly smile.
"Forgive my rudeness," said Sylvia, "the question was almost
involuntary."
"The question is not yet completed. How do I contrive----?" he asked.
"How do you contrive to snatch up the colours of nature and place them
on your canvas?"
"I have all the colours there," he said, pointing to his palette, "and
so has every painter; but some of us approach nearer to Nature. I have
never yet succeeded in quite pleasing myself. I have the deep blue of
the sea, but not the representation of infinite depth and infinite
power."
"You approach very closely to it," she answered. "Now sit down and
paint, and let me watch you. I am a painter myself; not an artist like
you, but one who dabbles a little in an amateur fashion."
"May I see your sketch book?" he asked, and took it from her hand. "Very
good!" he cried. "Shall I tell you what I think?"
"Please do!"
"You might be an artist, if you were content with that alone; but you
are too versatile. Am I right? The result is great possibilities that
will never be realised unless you concentrate your power on one thing."
"Let me watch you," she said, "and I will resolve to do nothing but
paint."
She sat on a sand bank behind him, and he painted his picture, turning
occasionally to speak to her.
At last she rose unwillingly.
"I must go, or my friends will fancy I am lost. May I come here again
and take a few more lessons?"
"Certainly, if you will. I shall be delighted. But when this picture is
completed I pack up my effects and go. It is a pity you do not live in
Melbourne," he added regretfully.
"But I do," she answered.
"Then you must come to me and study the finishing touches of your art.
You need only a few more details and you will be an artist."
"Oh, you are too kind!" she cried.
"Not at all. It is a privilege to encourage talent," he answered.
Nevertheless had she not been an attractive woman, he would not have
offered his assistance so willingly.
"I suppose your parents will not object?" he asked. "You can assure
them I am a most trustworthy young man."
"My parents allow me to do exactly what I wish," she answered. "You see,
they can trust me," she added, smilingly.
"Naturally. Then it is a promise."
This was their first meeting. Subsequently it became her custom to ride
out alone after breakfast. She chose the morning, when Kathleen was busy
and could not accompany her, and she took her sketching book; but most
of her time was spent in watching Custance, and absorbing his art.
When her teacher left Grey Town she suddenly realised that her parents
and friends in Melbourne needed her society, and, after an affectionate
parting from Kathleen and the Quirks, was carried out of Grey Town life
by the train that is termed an express.
In Melbourne, an indulgent father and mother, who fondly believed that
she was perfect, readily consented to her improving her talent under the
teaching of the great artist, and she made rapid progress in her art.
But this was not the chief result of her lessons. Slowly she became
infatuated with the personality of Custance, while he, having begun to
play the game of love simply for the excitement it afforded him, finally
found himself involved in a grand passion. This he declared to her in
language suggested by his artistic temperament, and she responded in a
similar strain.
Then came a pause, when he asked himself: "Is it fair that any woman
shall link her fate to mine?" He looked at the small syringe on the
mantelpiece and the tiny little bottle beside it. He thought of the
marks on his arm, of the passing inspirations he thus found, and of the
subsequent fits of remorse.
The following day, while they were working in the studio, Sylvia
painting and he criticising her work, he asked:
"If I were a drunkard, would you still care for me?"
She did not so much as turn while she answered:
"Whatever you are, I have given myself to you."
"There are worse things than drink," he said, as if communing with
himself. "There are drugs that enslave and debase a man; drugs that lead
him into the gardens of pleasure and raise him to the heights of
delight, so that he believes himself to be a superman, and," he almost
groaned, "lower him to the uttermost depths. Supposing----."
She turned to face him smilingly. "I refuse to suppose," she answered.
"I have resigned myself to you, and I am ready to accept and condone
everything. I love you, and that is sufficient for me."
What could a man such as he, who had never denied himself anything, do
under these circumstances? He threw his scruples to the winds and made
love in a feverish manner, regardless of the cost. Sylvia introduced him
to her parents, and he was made welcome by the hospitable and kindly old
people. At last he offered himself to Mr. Jackson as a husband for
Sylvia. But here he met with a check, for the old man had a strange
antipathy for artists; his capable, matter-of-fact business mind
mistrusted the emotional, and he firmly believed that artists were
governed by the emotions. He was willing that Custance should be a
friend; he refused him as Sylvia's husband.
Custance was prepared to accept this as an adverse judgment, and to bow
to Mr. Jackson's decision; for he was a man of honour. But, when he
announced his intention to Sylvia, she refused to accept it.
"By what right," she asked, "does my father take my happiness in his
hands? I can best judge the husband I need, and I refuse to give you up.
It is too late for him to interfere now."
"You must remember----," he began.
"I will remember nothing but that I love you, and that you have told me
you love me. That is the only thing that counts. You do love me,
Claude?" she answered.
"Love you! I worship you," he answered, "but your father has done so
much for you----."
"I grant that. There is no father like him. If he had stopped me in the
beginning I would have accepted his commands. Now it is too late. I
can't obey him now."
"I feel myself bound by honour----," he said.
"You are bound by honour to me. My father has no right to tell me who I
shall marry. I refuse to be treated as a child; I am a woman, capable of
choosing my own husband."
Thus did she urge him on against his better judgment, and one day they
were missing. For better or worse Sylvia Jackson was married to Claude
Custance, brilliant, erratic, a slave to morphia. For his sake she
forgot her duty to her parents, the love and kindness they had lavished
on her. The day that she left them a cloud came and rested over their
home. For her, marriage proved a cruel and bitter disillusionment, for
no woman can ever rival that deadly mistress, morphia.
The night before Sylvia's elopement, Desmond O'Connor had dined with the
Jacksons. Mr. Jackson had hoped to displace Custance with the handsome
young fellow whom he loved, and Sylvia had made use of Desmond to
conceal her infatuation for the artist. They had sat together out on the
verandah, and she had given him a rose.
"A rose for constancy," she said, as he held it in his hand and inhaled
the perfume. "You deserve it."
"Shall my constancy be rewarded?" he asked eagerly.
"What a handsome boy you are!" she laughed. "I wonder will it be
rewarded?"
"Why do you tease me?" he asked. "If you could read my heart----?"
"I can read it in your eyes. I know every word they say. Come inside and
sing to me."
In his fine tenor voice he sang, at her request, Tosti's "Good-bye."
That was his farewell to Sylvia Jackson.
The following morning Mr. Jackson failed to appear at business. This was
an almost unprecedented event, and caused quite a flutter of excitement
in the office; but it was not until the afternoon that Desmond learned
the reason. He was summoned into the Chief's office to find Mr.
Jackson, grey-faced and worn, a broken man.
"I have ill news, my boy," he said very kindly to Desmond. "Sylvia has
run away with Custance."
Desmond made no reply. Suddenly the world had altered for him; he had
passed out of the light into an impenetrable blackness. He sat with his
head bent down, changed in a moment from a light-hearted boy to a
despairing man.
"I want you to come home and fill the place that she had. Mrs. Jackson
and I love you, and we need a child." Mr. Jackson continued.
"I can't do it," cried Desmond. "I should be thinking of her all the
time. I have lost all faith."
And so the world believed; for Desmond O'Connor, while he eschewed the
coarser vices and worked relentlessly, renounced for a period the
religion that his father's life should have made dear to him, and went
on his way a professed disbeliever.