The sequence of events was such that MacMaster did not make his
pilgrimage to Hugh Treffinger's studio until three years after that
painter's death. MacMaster was himself a painter, an American of the
Gallicized type, who spent his winters in New York, his summers in
Paris, and no inconsiderable amount of time on the broad waters between.
He had often contemplated stopping in London on one of his return trips
in the late autumn, but he had always deferred leaving Paris until the
prick of necessity drove him home by the quickest and shortest route.
Treffinger was a comparatively young man at the time of his death, and
there had seemed no occasion for haste until haste was of no avail.
Then, possibly, though there had been some correspondence between them,
MacMaster felt certain qualms about meeting in the flesh a man who in
the flesh was so diversely reported. His intercourse with Treffinger's
work had been so deep and satisfying, so apart from other appreciations,
that he rather dreaded a critical juncture of any sort. He had always
felt himself singularly inept in personal relations, and in this case he
had avoided the issue until it was no longer to be feared or hoped for.
There still remained, however, Treffinger's great unfinished picture,
the _Marriage of Phaedra_, which had never left his studio, and of which
MacMaster's friends had now and again brought report that it was the
painter's most characteristic production.
The young man arrived in London in the evening, and the next morning
went out to Kensington to find Treffinger's studio. It lay in one of the
perplexing bystreets off Holland Road, and the number he found on a
door set in a high garden wall, the top of which was covered with broken
green glass and over which a budding lilac bush nodded. Treffinger's
plate was still there, and a card requesting visitors to ring for the
attendant. In response to MacMaster's ring, the door was opened by a
cleanly built little man, clad in a shooting jacket and trousers that
had been made for an ampler figure. He had a fresh complexion, eyes of
that common uncertain shade of gray, and was closely shaven except for
the incipient muttonchops on his ruddy cheeks. He bore himself in
a manner strikingly capable, and there was a sort of trimness and
alertness about him, despite the too-generous shoulders of his coat. In
one hand he held a bulldog pipe, and in the other a copy of _Sporting
Life_. While MacMaster was explaining the purpose of his call he noticed
that the man surveyed him critically, though not impertinently. He was
admitted into a little tank of a lodge made of whitewashed stone, the
back door and windows opening upon a garden. A visitor's book and a pile
of catalogues lay on a deal table, together with a bottle of ink and
some rusty pens. The wall was ornamented with photographs and colored
prints of racing favorites.
“The studio is h'only open to the public on Saturdays and Sundays,”
explained the man--he referred to himself as “Jymes”--“but of course we
make exceptions in the case of pynters. Lydy Elling Treffinger 'erself
is on the Continent, but Sir 'Ugh's orders was that pynters was to 'ave
the run of the place.” He selected a key from his pocket and threw open
the door into the studio which, like the lodge, was built against the
wall of the garden.
MacMaster entered a long, narrow room, built of smoothed planks, painted
a light green; cold and damp even on that fine May morning. The room was
utterly bare of furniture--unless a stepladder, a model throne, and a
rack laden with large leather portfolios could be accounted such--and
was windowless, without other openings than the door and the skylight,
under which hung the unfinished picture itself. MacMaster had never
seen so many of Treffinger's paintings together. He knew the painter
had married a woman with money and had been able to keep such of
his pictures as he wished. These, with all of his replicas and
studies, he had left as a sort of common legacy to the younger men of
the school he had originated.
As soon as he was left alone MacMaster sat down on the edge of the model
throne before the unfinished picture. Here indeed was what he had come
for; it rather paralyzed his receptivity for the moment, but gradually
the thing found its way to him.
At one o'clock he was standing before the collection of studies done for
_Boccaccio's Garden_ when he heard a voice at his elbow.
“Pardon, sir, but I was just about to lock up and go to lunch. Are
you lookin' for the figure study of Boccaccio 'imself?” James queried
respectfully. “Lydy Elling Treffinger give it to Mr. Rossiter to take
down to Oxford for some lectures he's been agiving there.”
“Did he never paint out his studies, then?” asked MacMaster with
perplexity. “Here are two completed ones for this picture. Why did he
keep them?”
“I don't know as I could say as to that, sir,” replied James, smiling
indulgently, “but that was 'is way. That is to say, 'e pynted out very
frequent, but 'e always made two studies to stand; one in watercolors
and one in oils, before 'e went at the final picture--to say nothink
of all the pose studies 'e made in pencil before he begun on the
composition proper at all. He was that particular. You see, 'e wasn't so
keen for the final effect as for the proper pyntin' of 'is pictures. 'E
used to say they ought to be well made, the same as any other h'article
of trade. I can lay my 'and on the pose studies for you, sir.” He
rummaged in one of the portfolios and produced half a dozen drawings,
“These three,” he continued, “was discarded; these two was the pose he
finally accepted; this one without alteration, as it were.”
“That's in Paris, as I remember,” James continued reflectively. “It went
with the _Saint Cecilia_ into the Baron H---'s collection. Could you
tell me, sir, 'as 'e it still? I don't like to lose account of them, but
some 'as changed 'ands since Sir 'Ugh's death.”
“H---'s collection is still intact, I believe,” replied MacMaster. “You
were with Treffinger long?”
“From my boyhood, sir,” replied James with gravity. “I was a stable boy
when 'e took me.”
“You were his man, then?”
“That's it, sir. Nobody else ever done anything around the studio.
I always mixed 'is colors and 'e taught me to do a share of the
varnishin'; 'e said as 'ow there wasn't a 'ouse in England as could
do it proper. You ayn't looked at the _Marriage_ yet, sir?” he asked
abruptly, glancing doubtfully at MacMaster, and indicating with his
thumb the picture under the north light.
“Not very closely. I prefer to begin with something simpler; that's
rather appalling, at first glance,” replied MacMaster.
“Well may you say that, sir,” said James warmly. “That one regular
killed Sir 'Ugh; it regular broke 'im up, and nothink will ever convince
me as 'ow it didn't bring on 'is second stroke.”
When MacMaster walked back to High Street to take his bus his mind was
divided between two exultant convictions. He felt that he had not
only found Treffinger's greatest picture, but that, in James, he had
discovered a kind of cryptic index to the painter's personality--a clue
which, if tactfully followed, might lead to much.
Several days after his first visit to the studio, MacMaster wrote to
Lady Mary Percy, telling her that he would be in London for some time
and asking her if he might call. Lady Mary was an only sister of Lady
Ellen Treffinger, the painter's widow, and MacMaster had known her
during one winter he spent at Nice. He had known her, indeed, very well,
and Lady Mary, who was astonishingly frank and communicative upon
all subjects, had been no less so upon the matter of her sister's
unfortunate marriage.
In her reply to his note Lady Mary named an afternoon when she would be
alone. She was as good as her word, and when MacMaster arrived he
found the drawing room empty. Lady Mary entered shortly after he was
announced. She was a tall woman, thin and stiffly jointed, and her body
stood out under the folds of her gown with the rigor of cast iron.
This rather metallic suggestion was further carried out in her heavily
knuckled hands, her stiff gray hair, and her long, bold-featured face,
which was saved from freakishness only by her alert eyes.
“Really,” said Lady Mary, taking a seat beside him and giving him a sort
of military inspection through her nose glasses, “really, I had begun to
fear that I had lost you altogether. It's four years since I saw you
at Nice, isn't it? I was in Paris last winter, but I heard nothing from
you.”
“I was in New York then.”
“It occurred to me that you might be. And why are you in London?”
“Can you ask?” replied MacMaster gallantly.
Lady Mary smiled ironically. “But for what else, incidentally?”
“Well, incidentally, I came to see Treffinger's studio and his
unfinished picture. Since I've been here, I've decided to stay the
summer. I'm even thinking of attempting to do a biography of him.”
“So that is what brought you to London?”
“Not exactly. I had really no intention of anything so serious when I
came. It's his last picture, I fancy, that has rather thrust it upon me.
The notion has settled down on me like a thing destined.”
“You'll not be offended if I question the clemency of such a destiny,”
remarked Lady Mary dryly. “Isn't there rather a surplus of books on that
subject already?”
“Such as they are. Oh, I've read them all”--here MacMaster faced Lady
Mary triumphantly. “He has quite escaped your amiable critics,” he
added, smiling.
“I know well enough what you think, and I daresay we are not much on
art,” said Lady Mary with tolerant good humor. “We leave that to peoples
who have no physique. Treffinger made a stir for a time, but it
seems that we are not capable of a sustained appreciation of such
extraordinary methods. In the end we go back to the pictures we find
agreeable and unperplexing. He was regarded as an experiment, I fancy;
and now it seems that he was rather an unsuccessful one. If you've come
to us in a missionary spirit, we'll tolerate you politely, but we'll
laugh in our sleeve, I warn you.”
“That really doesn't daunt me, Lady Mary,” declared MacMaster blandly.
“As I told you, I'm a man with a mission.”
Lady Mary laughed her hoarse, baritone laugh. “Bravo! And you've come to
me for inspiration for your panegyric?”
MacMaster smiled with some embarrassment. “Not altogether for that
purpose. But I want to consult you, Lady Mary, about the advisability
of troubling Lady Ellen Treffinger in the matter. It seems scarcely
legitimate to go on without asking her to give some sort of grace to my
proceedings, yet I feared the whole subject might be painful to her. I
shall rely wholly upon your discretion.”
“I think she would prefer to be consulted,” replied Lady Mary
judicially. “I can't understand how she endures to have the wretched
affair continually raked up, but she does. She seems to feel a sort of
moral responsibility. Ellen has always been singularly conscientious
about this matter, insofar as her light goes,--which rather puzzles me,
as hers is not exactly a magnanimous nature. She is certainly trying to
do what she believes to be the right thing. I shall write to her, and
you can see her when she returns from Italy.”
“I want very much to meet her. She is, I hope, quite recovered in every
way,” queried MacMaster, hesitatingly.
“No, I can't say that she is. She has remained in much the same
condition she sank to before his death. He trampled over pretty much
whatever there was in her, I fancy. Women don't recover from wounds of
that sort--at least, not women of Ellen's grain. They go on bleeding
inwardly.”
“You, at any rate, have not grown more reconciled,” MacMaster ventured.
“Oh I give him his dues. He was a colorist, I grant you; but that is
a vague and unsatisfactory quality to marry to; Lady Ellen Treffinger
found it so.”
“But, my dear Lady Mary,” expostulated MacMaster, “and just repress me
if I'm becoming too personal--but it must, in the first place, have been
a marriage of choice on her part as well as on his.”
Lady Mary poised her glasses on her large forefinger and assumed an
attitude suggestive of the clinical lecture room as she replied. “Ellen,
my dear boy, is an essentially romantic person. She is quiet about it,
but she runs deep. I never knew how deep until I came against her on the
issue of that marriage. She was always discontented as a girl; she found
things dull and prosaic, and the ardor of his courtship was agreeable
to her. He met her during her first season in town. She is handsome, and
there were plenty of other men, but I grant you your scowling brigand
was the most picturesque of the lot. In his courtship, as in everything
else, he was theatrical to the point of being ridiculous, but Ellen's
sense of humor is not her strongest quality. He had the charm of
celebrity, the air of a man who could storm his way through anything
to get what he wanted. That sort of vehemence is particularly effective
with women like Ellen, who can be warmed only by reflected heat, and she
couldn't at all stand out against it. He convinced her of his necessity;
and that done, all's done.”
“I can't help thinking that, even on such a basis, the marriage should
have turned out better,” MacMaster remarked reflectively.
“The marriage,” Lady Mary continued with a shrug, “was made on the basis
of a mutual misunderstanding. Ellen, in the nature of the case, believed
that she was doing something quite out of the ordinary in accepting him,
and expected concessions which, apparently, it never occurred to him to
make. After his marriage he relapsed into his old habits of incessant
work, broken by violent and often brutal relaxations. He insulted her
friends and foisted his own upon her--many of them well calculated to
arouse aversion in any well-bred girl. He had Ghillini constantly at the
house--a homeless vagabond, whose conversation was impossible. I don't
say, mind you, that he had not grievances on his side. He had probably
overrated the girl's possibilities, and he let her see that he was
disappointed in her. Only a large and generous nature could have borne
with him, and Ellen's is not that. She could not at all understand that
odious strain of plebeian pride which plumes itself upon not having
risen above its sources.”
As MacMaster drove back to his hotel he reflected that Lady Mary Percy
had probably had good cause for dissatisfaction with her brother-in-law.
Treffinger was, indeed, the last man who should have married into
the Percy family. The son of a small tobacconist, he had grown up a
sign-painter's apprentice; idle, lawless, and practically letterless
until he had drifted into the night classes of the Albert League, where
Ghillini sometimes lectured. From the moment he came under the eye and
influence of that erratic Italian, then a political exile, his life
had swerved sharply from its old channel. This man had been at once
incentive and guide, friend and master, to his pupil. He had taken the
raw clay out of the London streets and molded it anew. Seemingly he had
divined at once where the boy's possibilities lay, and had thrown aside
every canon of orthodox instruction in the training of him. Under
him Treffinger acquired his superficial, yet facile, knowledge of the
classics; had steeped himself in the monkish Latin and medieval romances
which later gave his work so naive and remote a quality. That was the
beginning of the wattle fences, the cobble pave, the brown roof beams,
the cunningly wrought fabrics that gave to his pictures such a richness
of decorative effect.
As he had told Lady Mary Percy, MacMaster had found the imperative
inspiration of his purpose in Treffinger's unfinished picture,
the _Marriage of Phaedra_. He had always believed that the key to
Treffinger's individuality lay in his singular education; in the _Roman
de la Rose_, in Boccaccio, and Amadis, those works which had literally
transcribed themselves upon the blank soul of the London street boy,
and through which he had been born into the world of spiritual things.
Treffinger had been a man who lived after his imagination; and his mind,
his ideals and, as MacMaster believed, even his personal ethics, had to
the last been colored by the trend of his early training. There was in
him alike the freshness and spontaneity, the frank brutality and the
religious mysticism, which lay well back of the fifteenth century. In
the _Marriage of Phaedra_ MacMaster found the ultimate expression of
this spirit, the final word as to Treffinger's point of view.
As in all Treffinger's classical subjects, the conception was wholly
medieval. This Phaedra, just turning from her husband and maidens to
greet her husband's son, giving him her first fearsome glance from
under her half-lifted veil, was no daughter of Minos. The daughter of
_heathenesse_ and the early church she was; doomed to torturing visions
and scourgings, and the wrangling of soul with flesh. The venerable
Theseus might have been victorious Charlemagne, and Phaedra's maidens
belonged rather in the train of Blanche of Castile than at the Cretan
court. In the earlier studies Hippolytus had been done with a more pagan
suggestion; but in each successive drawing the glorious figure had been
deflowered of something of its serene unconsciousness, until, in the
canvas under the skylight, he appeared a very Christian knight.
This male figure, and the face of Phaedra, painted with such magical
preservation of tone under the heavy shadow of the veil, were plainly
Treffinger's highest achievements of craftsmanship. By what labor he had
reached the seemingly inevitable composition of the picture--with its
twenty figures, its plenitude of light and air, its restful distances
seen through white porticoes--countless studies bore witness.
From James's attitude toward the picture MacMaster could well conjecture
what the painter's had been. This picture was always uppermost in
James's mind; its custodianship formed, in his eyes, his occupation.
He was manifestly apprehensive when visitors--not many came
nowadays--lingered near it. “It was the _Marriage_ as killed 'im,” he
would often say, “and for the matter 'o that, it did like to 'av been
the death of all of us.”
By the end of his second week in London MacMaster had begun the notes
for his study of Hugh Treffinger and his work. When his researches
led him occasionally to visit the studios of Treffinger's friends and
erstwhile disciples, he found their Treffinger manner fading as the
ring of Treffinger's personality died out in them. One by one they were
stealing back into the fold of national British art; the hand that
had wound them up was still. MacMaster despaired of them and confined
himself more and more exclusively to the studio, to such of Treffinger's
letters as were available--they were for the most part singularly
negative and colorless--and to his interrogation of Treffinger's man.
He could not himself have traced the successive steps by which he was
gradually admitted into James's confidence. Certainly most of his adroit
strategies to that end failed humiliatingly, and whatever it was that
built up an understanding between them must have been instinctive and
intuitive on both sides. When at last James became anecdotal, personal,
there was that in every word he let fall which put breath and blood into
MacMaster's book. James had so long been steeped in that penetrating
personality that he fairly exuded it. Many of his very phrases,
mannerisms, and opinions were impressions that he had taken on like wet
plaster in his daily contact with Treffinger. Inwardly he was lined
with cast-off epitheliums, as outwardly he was clad in the painter's
discarded coats. If the painter's letters were formal and perfunctory,
if his expressions to his friends had been extravagant, contradictory,
and often apparently insincere--still, MacMaster felt himself not
entirely without authentic sources. It was James who possessed
Treffinger's legend; it was with James that he had laid aside his pose.
Only in his studio, alone, and face to face with his work, as it seemed,
had the man invariably been himself. James had known him in the one
attitude in which he was entirely honest; their relation had fallen
well within the painter's only indubitable integrity. James's report
of Treffinger was distorted by no hallucination of artistic insight,
colored by no interpretation of his own. He merely held what he
had heard and seen; his mind was a sort of camera obscura. His very
limitations made him the more literal and minutely accurate.
One morning, when MacMaster was seated before the _Marriage of Phaedra_,
James entered on his usual round of dusting.
“I've 'eard from Lydy Elling by the post, sir,” he remarked, “an' she's
give h'orders to 'ave the 'ouse put in readiness. I doubt she'll be 'ere
by Thursday or Friday next.”
“She spends most of her time abroad?” queried MacMaster; on the subject
of Lady Treffinger James consistently maintained a very delicate
reserve.
“Well, you could 'ardly say she does that, sir. She finds the 'ouse a
bit dull, I daresay, so durin' the season she stops mostly with Lydy
Mary Percy, at Grosvenor Square. Lydy Mary's a h'only sister.” After a
few moments he continued, speaking in jerks governed by the rigor of his
dusting: “H'only this morning I come upon this scarfpin,” exhibiting a
very striking instance of that article, “an' I recalled as 'ow Sir 'Ugh
give it me when 'e was acourting of Lydy Elling. Blowed if I ever see a
man go in for a 'oman like 'im! 'E was that gone, sir. 'E never went in
on anythink so 'ard before nor since, till 'e went in on the _Marriage_
there--though 'e mostly went in on things pretty keen; 'ad the measles
when 'e was thirty, strong as cholera, an' come close to dyin' of 'em.
'E wasn't strong for Lydy Elling's set; they was a bit too stiff for
'im. A free an' easy gentleman, 'e was; 'e liked 'is dinner with a few
friends an' them jolly, but 'e wasn't much on what you might call big
affairs. But once 'e went in for Lydy Elling 'e broke 'imself to new
paces; He give away 'is rings an' pins, an' the tylor's man an' the
'aberdasher's man was at 'is rooms continual. 'E got 'imself put up
for a club in Piccadilly; 'e starved 'imself thin, an' worrited 'imself
white, an' ironed 'imself out, an' drawed 'imself tight as a bow string.
It was a good job 'e come a winner, or I don't know w'at'd 'a been to
pay.”
The next week, in consequence of an invitation from Lady Ellen
Treffinger, MacMaster went one afternoon to take tea with her. He was
shown into the garden that lay between the residence and the studio,
where the tea table was set under a gnarled pear tree. Lady Ellen rose
as he approached--he was astonished to note how tall she was--and greeted
him graciously, saying that she already knew him through her sister.
MacMaster felt a certain satisfaction in her; in her reassuring poise
and repose, in the charming modulations of her voice and the indolent
reserve of her full, almond eyes. He was even delighted to find her
face so inscrutable, though it chilled his own warmth and made the open
frankness he had wished to permit himself impossible. It was a long
face, narrow at the chin, very delicately featured, yet steeled by an
impassive mask of self-control. It was behind just such finely cut,
close-sealed faces, MacMaster reflected, that nature sometimes hid
astonishing secrets. But in spite of this suggestion of hardness he
felt that the unerring taste that Treffinger had always shown in larger
matters had not deserted him when he came to the choosing of a wife, and
he admitted that he could not himself have selected a woman who looked
more as Treffinger's wife should look.
While he was explaining the purpose of his frequent visits to the studio
she heard him with courteous interest. “I have read, I think, everything
that has been published on Sir Hugh Treffinger's work, and it seems to
me that there is much left to be said,” he concluded.
“I believe they are rather inadequate,” she remarked vaguely. She
hesitated a moment, absently fingering the ribbons of her gown, then
continued, without raising her eyes; “I hope you will not think me too
exacting if I ask to see the proofs of such chapters of your work as
have to do with Sir Hugh's personal life. I have always asked that
privilege.”
MacMaster hastily assured her as to this, adding, “I mean to touch on
only such facts in his personal life as have to do directly with his
work--such as his monkish education under Ghillini.”
“I see your meaning, I think,” said Lady Ellen, looking at him with
wide, uncomprehending eyes.
When MacMaster stopped at the studio on leaving the house he stood for
some time before Treffinger's one portrait of himself, that brigand of
a picture, with its full throat and square head; the short upper lip
blackened by the close-clipped mustache, the wiry hair tossed down over
the forehead, the strong white teeth set hard on a short pipestem. He
could well understand what manifold tortures the mere grain of the man's
strong red and brown flesh might have inflicted upon a woman like Lady
Ellen. He could conjecture, too, Treffinger's impotent revolt against
that very repose which had so dazzled him when it first defied his
daring; and how once possessed of it, his first instinct had been to
crush it, since he could not melt it.
Toward the close of the season Lady Ellen Treffinger left town.
MacMaster's work was progressing rapidly, and he and James wore away
the days in their peculiar relation, which by this time had much of
friendliness. Excepting for the regular visits of a Jewish picture
dealer, there were few intrusions upon their solitude. Occasionally
a party of Americans rang at the little door in the garden wall,
but usually they departed speedily for the Moorish hall and tinkling
fountain of the great show studio of London, not far away.
This Jew, an Austrian by birth, who had a large business in Melbourne,
Australia, was a man of considerable discrimination, and at once
selected the _Marriage of Phaedra_ as the object of his especial
interest. When, upon his first visit, Lichtenstein had declared the
picture one of the things done for time, MacMaster had rather warmed
toward him and had talked to him very freely. Later, however, the man's
repulsive personality and innate vulgarity so wore upon him that, the
more genuine the Jew's appreciation, the more he resented it and the
more base he somehow felt it to be. It annoyed him to see Lichtenstein
walking up and down before the picture, shaking his head and blinking
his watery eyes over his nose glasses, ejaculating: “Dot is a chem, a
chem! It is wordt to gome den dousant miles for such a bainting, eh? To
make Eurobe abbreciate such a work of ardt it is necessary to take it
away while she is napping. She has never abbreciated until she has lost,
but,” knowingly, “she will buy back.”
James had, from the first, felt such a distrust of the man that he would
never leave him alone in the studio for a moment. When Lichtenstein
insisted upon having Lady Ellen Treffinger's address James rose to the
point of insolence. “It ayn't no use to give it, noway. Lydy Treffinger
never has nothink to do with dealers.” MacMaster quietly repented his
rash confidences, fearing that he might indirectly cause Lady Ellen
annoyance from this merciless speculator, and he recalled with chagrin
that Lichtenstein had extorted from him, little by little, pretty much
the entire plan of his book, and especially the place in it which the
_Marriage of Phaedra_ was to occupy.
By this time the first chapters of MacMaster's book were in the hands
of his publisher, and his visits to the studio were necessarily less
frequent. The greater part of his time was now employed with the
engravers who were to reproduce such of Treffinger's pictures as he
intended to use as illustrations.
He returned to his hotel late one evening after a long and vexing day at
the engravers to find James in his room, seated on his steamer trunk by
the window, with the outline of a great square draped in sheets resting
against his knee.
“Why, James, what's up?” he cried in astonishment, glancing inquiringly
at the sheeted object.
“Ayn't you seen the pypers, sir?” jerked out the man.
“No, now I think of it, I haven't even looked at a paper. I've been at
the engravers' plant all day. I haven't seen anything.”
James drew a copy of the _Times_ from his pocket and handed it to him,
pointing with a tragic finger to a paragraph in the social column. It
was merely the announcement of Lady Ellen Treffinger's engagement to
Captain Alexander Gresham.
“Well, what of it, my man? That surely is her privilege.”
James took the paper, turned to another page, and silently pointed to
a paragraph in the art notes which stated that Lady Treffinger had
presented to the X--gallery the entire collection of paintings and
sketches now in her late husband's studio, with the exception of his
unfinished picture, the _Marriage Of Phaedra_, which she had sold for
a large sum to an Australian dealer who had come to London purposely to
secure some of Treffinger's paintings.
MacMaster pursed up his lips and sat down, his overcoat still on.
“Well, James, this is something of a--something of a jolt, eh? It never
occurred to me she'd really do it.”
“Lord, you don't know 'er, sir,” said James bitterly, still staring at
the floor in an attitude of abandoned dejection.
MacMaster started up in a flash of enlightenment, “What on earth have
you got there, James? It's not-surely it's not--”
“Yes, it is, sir,” broke in the man excitedly. “It's the _Marriage_
itself. It ayn't agoing to H'Australia, no'ow!”
“But man, what are you going to do with it? It's Lichtenstein's property
now, as it seems.”
“It ayn't, sir, that it ayn't. No, by Gawd, it ayn't!” shouted James,
breaking into a choking fury. He controlled himself with an effort
and added supplicatingly: “Oh, sir, you ayn't agoing to see it go to
H'Australia, w'ere they send convic's?” He unpinned and flung aside the
sheets as though to let _Phaedra_ plead for herself.
MacMaster sat down again and looked sadly at the doomed masterpiece.
The notion of James having carried it across London that night rather
appealed to his fancy. There was certainly a flavor about such a
highhanded proceeding. “However did you get it here?” he queried.
“I got a four-wheeler and come over direct, sir. Good job I 'appened to
'ave the chaynge about me.”
“You came up High Street, up Piccadilly, through the Haymarket and
Trafalgar Square, and into the Strand?” queried MacMaster with a relish.
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir,” assented James with surprise.
MacMaster laughed delightedly. “It was a beautiful idea, James, but I'm
afraid we can't carry it any further.”
“I was thinkin' as 'ow it would be a rare chance to get you to take the
_Marriage_ over to Paris for a year or two, sir, until the thing blows
over?” suggested James blandly.
“I'm afraid that's out of the question, James. I haven't the right stuff
in me for a pirate, or even a vulgar smuggler, I'm afraid.” MacMaster
found it surprisingly difficult to say this, and he busied himself with
the lamp as he said it. He heard James's hand fall heavily on the trunk
top, and he discovered that he very much disliked sinking in the man's
estimation.
“Well, sir,” remarked James in a more formal tone, after a protracted
silence; “then there's nothink for it but as 'ow I'll 'ave to make way
with it myself.”
“And how about your character, James? The evidence would be heavy
against you, and even if Lady Treffinger didn't prosecute you'd be done
for.”
“Blow my character!--your pardon, sir,” cried James, starting to his
feet. “W'at do I want of a character? I'll chuck the 'ole thing, and
damned lively, too. The shop's to be sold out, an' my place is gone
any'ow. I'm agoing to enlist, or try the gold fields. I've lived too
long with h'artists; I'd never give satisfaction in livery now. You know
'ow it is yourself, sir; there ayn't no life like it, no'ow.”
For a moment MacMaster was almost equal to abetting James in his theft.
He reflected that pictures had been whitewashed, or hidden in the crypts
of churches, or under the floors of palaces from meaner motives, and to
save them from a fate less ignominious. But presently, with a sigh, he
shook his head.
“No, James, it won't do at all. It has been tried over and over again,
ever since the world has been agoing and pictures amaking. It was tried
in Florence and in Venice, but the pictures were always carried away in
the end. You see, the difficulty is that although Treffinger told you
what was not to be done with the picture, he did not say definitely what
was to be done with it. Do you think Lady Treffinger really understands
that he did not want it to be sold?”
“Well, sir, it was like this, sir,” said James, resuming his seat on the
trunk and again resting the picture against his knee. “My memory is as
clear as glass about it. After Sir 'Ugh got up from 'is first stroke, 'e
took a fresh start at the _Marriage_. Before that 'e 'ad been working
at it only at night for a while back; the _Legend_ was the big picture
then, an' was under the north light w'ere 'e worked of a morning. But
one day 'e bid me take the _Legend_ down an' put the _Marriage_ in its
place, an' 'e says, dashin' on 'is jacket, 'Jymes, this is a start for
the finish, this time.'
“From that on 'e worked at the night picture in the mornin'--a thing
contrary to 'is custom. The _Marriage_ went wrong, and wrong--an' Sir
'Ugh agettin' seedier an' seedier every day. 'E tried models an' models,
an' smudged an' pynted out on account of 'er face goin' wrong in the
shadow. Sometimes 'e layed it on the colors, an' swore at me an' things
in general. He got that discouraged about 'imself that on 'is low days
'e used to say to me: 'Jymes, remember one thing; if anythink 'appens to
me, the _Marriage_ is not to go out of 'ere unfinished. It's worth the
lot of 'em, my boy, an' it's not agoing to go shabby for lack of pains.'
'E said things to that effect repeated.
“He was workin' at the picture the last day, before 'e went to 'is club.
'E kept the carriage waitin' near an hour while 'e put on a stroke an'
then drawed back for to look at it, an' then put on another, careful
like. After 'e 'ad 'is gloves on, 'e come back an' took away the brushes
I was startin' to clean, an' put in another touch or two. 'It's acomin',
Jymes,' 'e says, 'by gad if it ayn't.' An' with that 'e goes out. It was
cruel sudden, w'at come after.
“That night I was lookin' to 'is clothes at the 'ouse when they brought
'im 'ome. He was conscious, but w'en I ran downstairs for to 'elp lift
'im up, I knowed 'e was a finished man. After we got 'im into bed 'e
kept lookin' restless at me and then at Lydy Elling and ajerkin' of 'is
'and. Finally 'e quite raised it an' shot 'is thumb out toward the wall.
'He wants water; ring, Jymes,' says Lydy Elling, placid. But I knowed 'e
was pointin' to the shop.
“'Lydy Treffinger,' says I, bold, 'he's pointin' to the studio. He means
about the _Marriage_; 'e told me today as 'ow 'e never wanted it sold
unfinished. Is that it, Sir 'Ugh?'
“He smiled an' nodded slight an' closed 'is eyes. 'Thank you, Jymes,'
says Lydy Elling, placid. Then 'e opened 'is eyes an' looked long and
'ard at Lydy Elling.
“'Of course I'll try to do as you'd wish about the picture, 'Ugh, if
that's w'at's troublin' you,' she says quiet. With that 'e closed 'is
eyes and 'e never opened 'em. He died unconscious at four that mornin'.
“You see, sir, Lydy Elling was always cruel 'ard on the _Marriage_. From
the first it went wrong, an' Sir 'Ugh was out of temper pretty constant.
She came into the studio one day and looked at the picture an 'asked
'im why 'e didn't throw it up an' quit aworriting 'imself. He answered
sharp, an' with that she said as 'ow she didn't see w'at there was to
make such a row about, no'ow. She spoke 'er mind about that picture,
free; an' Sir 'Ugh swore 'ot an' let a 'andful of brushes fly at 'is
study, an' Lydy Elling picked up 'er skirts careful an' chill, an'
drifted out of the studio with 'er eyes calm and 'er chin 'igh. If there
was one thing Lydy Elling 'ad no comprehension of, it was the usefulness
of swearin'. So the _Marriage_ was a sore thing between 'em. She is
uncommon calm, but uncommon bitter, is Lydy Elling. She's never come
anear the studio since that day she went out 'oldin' up of 'er skirts.
W'en 'er friends goes over she excuses 'erself along o' the strain.
Strain--Gawd!” James ground his wrath short in his teeth.
“I'll tell you what I'll do, James, and it's our only hope. I'll see
Lady Ellen tomorrow. The _Times_ says she returned today. You take the
picture back to its place, and I'll do what I can for it. If anything is
done to save it, it must be done through Lady Ellen Treffinger herself,
that much is clear. I can't think that she fully understands the
situation. If she did, you know, she really couldn't have any motive--”
He stopped suddenly. Somehow, in the dusky lamplight, her small,
close-sealed face came ominously back to him. He rubbed his forehead
and knitted his brows thoughtfully. After a moment he shook his head
and went on: “I am positive that nothing can be gained by highhanded
methods, James. Captain Gresham is one of the most popular men in
London, and his friends would tear up Treffinger's bones if he were
annoyed by any scandal of our making--and this scheme you propose would
inevitably result in scandal. Lady Ellen has, of course, every legal
right to sell the picture. Treffinger made considerable inroads upon
her estate, and, as she is about to marry a man without income, she
doubtless feels that she has a right to replenish her patrimony.”
He found James amenable, though doggedly skeptical. He went down into
the street, called a carriage, and saw James and his burden into it.
Standing in the doorway, he watched the carriage roll away through
the drizzling mist, weave in and out among the wet, black vehicles and
darting cab lights, until it was swallowed up in the glare and confusion
of the Strand. “It is rather a fine touch of irony,” he reflected,
“that he, who is so out of it, should be the one to really care. Poor
Treffinger,” he murmured as, with a rather spiritless smile, he turned
back into his hotel. “Poor Treffinger; _sic transit gloria_.”
The next afternoon MacMaster kept his promise. When he arrived at Lady
Mary Percy's house he saw preparations for a function of some sort, but
he went resolutely up the steps, telling the footman that his business
was urgent. Lady Ellen came down alone, excusing her sister. She was
dressed for receiving, and MacMaster had never seen one so beautiful.
The color in her cheeks sent a softening glow over her small, delicately
cut features.
MacMaster apologized for his intrusion and came unflinchingly to the
object of his call. He had come, he said, not only to offer her his
warmest congratulations, but to express his regret that a great work of
art was to leave England.
Lady Treffinger looked at him in wide-eyed astonishment. Surely, she
said, she had been careful to select the best of the pictures for the
X--- gallery, in accordance with Sir Hugh Treffinger's wishes.
“And did he--pardon me, Lady Treffinger, but in mercy set my mind at
rest--did he or did he not express any definite wish concerning this one
picture, which to me seems worth all the others, unfinished as it is?”
Lady Treffinger paled perceptibly, but it was not the pallor of
confusion. When she spoke there was a sharp tremor in her smooth voice,
the edge of a resentment that tore her like pain. “I think his man has
some such impression, but I believe it to be utterly unfounded. I cannot
find that he ever expressed any wish concerning the disposition of the
picture to any of his friends. Unfortunately, Sir Hugh was not always
discreet in his remarks to his servants.”
“Captain Gresham, Lady Ellingham, and Miss Ellingham,” announced a
servant, appearing at the door.
There was a murmur in the hall, and MacMaster greeted the smiling
Captain and his aunt as he bowed himself out.
To all intents and purposes the _Marriage of Phaedra_ was already
entombed in a vague continent in the Pacific, somewhere on the other
side of the world.