"Hearts are like horses; they come and go without whip or spur."
--_Native Proverb_.
"Only ten minutes more; a bare ten minutes. Then you shall 'ease off'
and stretch your legs a little. I'm sure by this time you must be
wishing all artists at the bottom of the sea!"
"N-no; I haven't got quite as far as that yet," Richardson answered
with lazy good-humour, flicking the ash off his cigar.
"You will, though, before I've done with you! I know I have been
exacting to-day, for the eyes are the crux of a portrait. Unless the
individual soul looks out of them, it's a dead thing. D'you know, I
once told Eldred that yours were like bits of sea water with sunbeams
caught in them; and the effect isn't easy to produce on canvas. But
I'm succeeding--I'm succeeding _a merveille_. That's why I must get
the effect while my hand is in; and you've not once hampered me by
looking bored or impatient. How is one to reward you for such angelic
behaviour?"
"There are ways and ways. Am I allowed to choose?"
"Perhaps,--within limits! But we'll discuss that when I can give my
mind to the subject. Now, your head a little more to the right,
please. That's better. You get out of position when you talk."
"Sorry. I may lean back though, mayn't I?"
"Why, of course! I only wonder you don't get up and throw the chair at
my head!"
He laughed and leaned back accordingly, blowing an endless chain of
smoke-rings, and watching her face, her supple slenderness, the deft
movements of her hand, with a contentment whose vital ingredients he
either could not or would not recognise--yet.
For a full week he had spent many hours of each day in smoking and
watching her thus; and the fact that he had never yet found the
occupation monotonous was a danger-signal in itself. But your
comfort-loving man is singularly obtuse in the matter of
danger-signals: and loyalty apart, Richardson was too genuinely devoted
to his friend to admit the possibility of that which was almost an
accomplished fact. The man was not built for high tragedy; and, in
truth, the sittings were an equal pleasure to him when Lenox joined
them, as he often did; the two men smoking and talking horses or their
beloved 'shop,' while Quita worked and listened, and interrupted
without scruple whenever the spirit moved her.
Yet beneath the smooth-seeming surface of things Lenox was more than
ever aware of her curious detachment, of a disturbing sense that his
hold over her was still an imperfect thing. Nor was he altogether
mistaken. Quita had not yet learned to give herself royally. The fact
that she had put her heart and life into the hands of the man she loved
did not prevent her from going her own way; from feeling--as she had
always felt--responsible to herself alone for her words and actions.
And the past week had seemed to emphasise these idiosyncrasies;
because, at the first mysterious breath of inspiration, the submerged
artist in her had risen again with power, had, for the time being,
dominated her,--body and soul: and she may surely be forgiven if the
'world-lifting joy' of creation swept her off her feet; if she had eyes
and thoughts for little else save the picture coming to life under her
hand. Perhaps it needs an artist, one who has felt the Divine breath
stir a spark into a flame, rightly to understand and make allowance for
such spiritual intoxication. Michael,--shallow-hearted egoist though
he might be,--would have understood: because he was an artist. But
Lenox, being simply a man and a soldier, found it difficult to
distinguish between her absorption in the picture and in the subject of
the picture; difficult to realise her momentary freedom from the
personal equation.
What with incessant sittings, and equally incessant people to tea and
dinner, he had little intimate speech of her in the daytime; and in the
long hours of wakefulness as he lay beside her listening to her even
breathing, he faced the fact that his growing irritability was due to
jealousy;--not the jealousy that doubts or suspects,--of that he was
incapable; but the primitive man's demand for exclusive possession of
his own. Probably Desmond, in such a case, would have lost his temper
and cleared the air in half an hour. But temperament is destiny: and
Lenox was not so made. He merely shut the door upon the evil thing;
and tried--not very successfully--to ignore its existence. And with
three evil spirits in possession of him, it is not surprising if at
times he gave place to the devil.
Of all this Quita was airily unaware. Since he had given up coming to
bed at unearthly hours, she concluded that he slept. Mixed motives had
held him silent in regard to the threatening shadow of opium, even
during her moment of collapse and self-reproach after the expedition
dinner; and of his dawning jealousy he was at once too ashamed and too
proud to speak.
This morning his repressed irritability had been more marked than
usual; and Quita had decided that once free from her enthralling
picture, she must devote herself definitely to 'cheering him up.' But
for the present she discouraged troublesome thoughts; and now, while
Richardson sat smoking and watching her, she was conscious of nothing
on earth save the exhilaration of success.
She let fall both hands at last, with a sigh of supreme satisfaction.
"There! I can do no more to it--for the present. You are released.
You may come and look."
He obeyed; and stood beside her lost in uncomprehending admiration of
her skill.
It was Quita who spoke first. "We have achieved a rather remarkable
bit of work between us, you and I."
"We?" he echoed in amaze. "I don't quite see where I come in."
"No: you wouldn't: and I'm afraid I can't enlighten you. But the fact
remains. Would you mind if I sent it to the Academy, just as a
Portrait of a Soldier?"
"The Academy? Good Lord! I should be proud."
"Thank you. I believe they'll hang it; and hang it well. That will be
_my_ reward. But what about yours?"
She looked up at him now, letting her eyes rest confidently in his: and
the glad light in them held him, dazzled him, so that he forgot to
answer her; forgot much that he ought to have remembered, in the
flashlight of a revelation so simple yet so astounding that it took him
several seconds to understand what had befallen him.
"Well?" she asked, smiling. "Is it so tremendous?" And the spell was
broken. But reality remained.
He felt something in him throb strangely; the pain of it melting into a
glow more startling than the first shock; and with an awkward laugh he
turned abruptly away from her;--too abruptly, as a twinge in his left
leg gave warning, so that the laugh ended in an involuntary sound of
pain.
"Mr Richardson, do be careful," she reproved him gently. "What has
come to you? And why do you go off like that without answering my
question?"
For he had crossed to the mantelpiece; and a photo of her portrait of
Lenox seemed to be absorbing his attention. Nor did he take his eyes
from it in speaking.
"Because--well, because it struck me that perhaps you wouldn't be so
keen about rewarding me,--if you knew . . . ."
"What? _Is_ there anything to know?"
"Yes: worse luck. I ought to have spoken sooner. But I shirked it,
especially after what you said out driving. You remember--that
letter--long ago?"
"Am I likely to forget? What about it?"
This time he faced her deliberately, though the blood mounted to his
forehead.
"I am the chap who wrote it. I'm the man you have been hating all
these years; the man you _hate still_."
She came a step closer and stood gazing at him blankly, reorganising
her sensations.
"You wrote it? _You_?"
"Yes; I."
"But did you really know anything about me, or about Sir Roger Bennet?"
"Nothing on earth. I was simply repeating idle gossip."
"Oh, how could you! And look what came of it. The years of bitterness
and estrangement----!" He winced under her passionate reproach.
"It was done in ignorance, remember; though, as you reminded me not
long since, that doesn't soften facts. Slang me; hate me for it, if
you must. It can't be helped."
"But I don't hate you, _mon ami_; I couldn't if I tried for a month."
This was disconcerting. He had thought to snap the cord of their
friendship, and so make it easier to see less of her in future.
"Not even now you know?" he persisted desperately. And she shook her
head.
"Yet you told me distinctly that you could never forgive that unlucky
chap."
"But then I never guessed it was _you_," she retorted with true woman's
logic. "How _could_ one hate you, after what happened last month.
Eldred told me."
"That,"--he shrugged his shoulders,--"that was a mere nothing."
"Excuse me, as men go now it was a good deal. But still--I am puzzled.
If you shirked telling me all this while, what made you tell me to-day?"
This also was disconcerting. But he did his best.
"I don't know. Perhaps it was talking of rewards. Besides--I'm one of
those clumsy fools who never feel quite comfortable until he has
blurted out the truth."
He tried to laugh, but her direct look broke the sound in his throat.
"I rather admire that kind of fool," she said, with quiet emphasis.
"And you have lost nothing by your folly,--nothing."
"Does that mean you have quite forgiven me?" For the life of him he
could not stifle the exultation in his tone.
"Quite--quite. Will that do for your reward? Shake hands on
it,--please: and I promise never to speak or think of it again."
Before their hands fell apart Lenox entered, and a slight shadow
crossed his face.
"A note for you, Dick," he said quietly. "The man wants an answer."
Richardson's relief was evident.
"Thanks. I won't keep him waiting." And he departed without opening
the envelope.
"Don't be too long; and don't change your coat," Quita called after
him. "There's some detail work that I might get in before tea." Then
conscious of gathering storm, she turned hurriedly to her husband.
"What were you and Dick shaking hands about at this time of day!" he
asked as the door closed upon his subaltern.
She had meant to tell him as a matter of course. But something in his
tone roused her fatal spirit of perversity--and up went her chin into
the air.
"We were striking a bargain. Have you any objection?"
"No. Not the smallest. Would it be any use if I had?"
She paused, weighing the question.
"I don't think it would. Petty tyranny of that kind is the last thing
I could put up with; the last thing one would expect from you."
"Quite so. At the same time--marriage means compromise. You
understand?"
"When a man says that he usually implies that the woman will do most of
the compromising, in order that he may have his own way."
"Within limits, a man has a certain right to his own way in his own
house."
"And generally gets it!" she answered lightly.
Lenox shrugged his shoulders, and going over to the easel, contemplated
in silence the living likeness of his friend: while Quita, watching
him, was increasingly aware of slumbering electricity that might at any
moment break into a lightning-flash of speech.
"It's good. Don't you think so?" she asked on a tentative note of
conciliation.
"Of course it is. Damned good," he answered gruffly.
"Eldred! Even if you _are_ in a bad mood, you might control your
language."
"I beg your pardon. It's exceedingly good. But you've had it long
enough on hand. Shall you finish it to-day?"
"I don't think so. Why?"
"Because, though Dick isn't quite up to duty yet, he's fit to be back
at mess again and in his own bungalow."
"Has he said anything about it?"
"No."
"And do you propose to tell him outright that he has been here long
enough?"
"What I propose to say to him is my own affair. You needn't distress
yourself on his account. Dick and I understand one another perfectly."
"No doubt you do. But after all, I am his hostess, and though you may
not object to being flagrantly inhospitable, _I_ do--very strongly.
Besides, why should you be in such a hurry to turn him out? Are you
annoyed again because we happen to be good friends and enjoy one
another's society? I thought you were above that sort of thing."
The suggestion of scorn in her tone pricked him past endurance. He
turned upon her sharply; and his eyes took on their blue of steel.
"I am not above the natural passions of the natural man. You may as
well know it first as last. And I do not choose that Dick and half the
men of the station shall practically live in my house because I happen
to possess a very attractive wife."
"In fact, you imply that the attractive wife is bound over not to go
beyond correct platitudes with any of them but you. Is that it?" she
demanded, the red of rebellion staining her cheeks.
The man was sore rather than angry; and the least touch of tenderness
or hesitancy would have melted him to generous contrition. But her
manner hardened him, and he set his teeth.
"I imply nothing of the sort; and you know it. It would never occur to
me to set limits, general or particular, on your conduct with other
men; and as for your intimacy with Dick, if I didn't believe in you
both absolutely I wouldn't live with you another week. But I want to
make it clear to you that, having accepted the fact of marriage, you
cannot in reason be as independent and daringly unconventional in your
dealings with men as you were when you had no one to consider but
yourself. I know India better than you do. We live in glass houses
out here: and I know the sort of remarks that are made about a young
married woman who is never seen without half a dozen men at her
heels . . ."
"But, my dear man," she broke out impatiently, "who cares one grain of
dust what their remarks may be? Men are my natural-born companions.
Always have been. Always will be. And it's no use asking me to cramp
and distort my whole nature because bourgeois people take a low view of
the matter."
"No use, is it? That's pretty strong, Quita. Not that I _am_ asking
anything of the kind: only that you should show some small
consideration for my point of view; that you should make some effort to
adapt yourself to a new relation."
"I _do_ make an effort, Eldred," she answered unappeased. "But
individuality and temperament are stubborn things, even in a woman; and
I can't sacrifice mine because I happen to be your wife. Marriage
doesn't change one into an invertebrate creature of wax and pack-thread
to be moulded or pushed into any shape a man pleases; especially if one
happens to be an artist as well as a woman. We have our own devils
inside us; our own minds and bodies as well as you. It wouldn't be the
least use my promising to walk discreetly and weigh my words and
actions; because I shouldn't keep the promise for five minutes.
Besides . . ." Returning steps sounded without, and Lenox held up his
hand.
"That's enough," he said decisively. "Here's Dick. You're simply
telling me, in roundabout language, that you intend to take the bit
between your teeth. Well, I intend to keep a firm hold on the reins
for your sake as much as my own."
She flushed hotly.
"_Mon Dieu_, what a detestable similie!"
"Quite so. But it expresses the position. If you will make it a case
of mastery, what else can a man do?"
And as Richardson entered from the dining-room, Lenox went out; by way
of the verandah into his study.