"You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,"
Anna said lightly. "You may talk--if you can talk cheerfully, not
unless."
"And you?" asked David Courtlaw.
"Well, if I find your conversation interesting I shall listen. If not,
I have plenty to think about," she answered, leaning back in her
chair, and watching the smoke from her own cigarette curl upwards.
"For instance?"
She smiled.
"How I am to earn enough _sous_ for my dinner to-morrow--or failing
that, what I can sell."
His face darkened.
"And yet," he said, "you bid me talk cheerfully, or not at all."
"Why not? Your spirits at least should be good. It is not you who runs
the risk of going dinnerless to-morrow."
He turned upon her almost fiercely.
"You know," he muttered, "you know quite well that your troubles are
far more likely to weigh upon me than my own. Do you think that I am
utterly selfish?"
She raised her eyebrows.
"Troubles, my friend," she exclaimed lightly. "But I have no
troubles."
He stared at her incredulously, and she laughed very softly.
"What a gloomy person you are!" she murmured. "You call yourself an
artist--but you have no temperament. The material cares of life hang
about your neck like a millstone. A doubt as to your dinner to-morrow
would make you miserable to-night. You know I call that positively
wicked. It is not at all what I expected either. On the whole, I think
that I have been disappointed with the life here. There is so little
_abandon_, so little real joyousness."
"And yet," he murmured, "one of the greatest of our writers has
declared that the true spirit of Bohemianism is denied to your sex."
"He was probably right," she declared. "Bohemianism is the least
understood word ever coined. I do not think that I have the Bohemian
spirit at all."
He looked at her thoughtfully. She wore a plain black dress, reaching
almost to her throat--her small oval face, with the large brown eyes,
was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious
in its Sphinx-like immobility. A woman hard to read, who seemed to
delight in keeping locked up behind that fascinating rigidity of
feature the intense sensibility which had been revealed to him, her
master, only in occasional and rare moments of enthusiasm. She
reminded him sometimes of the one holy and ineffable Madonna, at
others of Berode, the great courtezan of her day, who had sent kings
away from her doors, and had just announced her intention of ending
her life in a convent.
"I believe that you are right," he said softly. "It is the worst of
including in our vocabulary words which have no definite meaning,
perhaps I should say of which the meaning varies according to one's
personal point of view. You, for instance, you live, you are not
afraid to live. Yet you make our Bohemianism seem like a vulgar
thing."
She stirred gently in her chair.
"My friend," she said, "I have been your pupil for two years. You have
watched all the uncouth creations of my brain come sprawling out upon
the canvas, and besides, we have been companions. Yet the fact remains
that you do not understand me at all. No, not one little bit. It is
extraordinary."
"It is," he replied, "the one humiliation of my life. My opportunities
have been immense, and my failure utter. If I had been your companion
only, and not your master, I might very well have been content to
accept you for what you seem. But there have been times, Anna, when
your work has startled me. Ill-drawn, without method or sense of
proportion, you have put wonderful things on to canvas, have drawn
them out of yourself, notwithstanding your mechanical inefficiency.
God knows how you did it. You are utterly baffling."
She laughed at him easily and mirthfully.
"Dear friend," she said, "do not magnify me into a physiological
problem. I should only disappoint you terribly some day. I think I
know where I am puzzling you now----"
"Then for Heaven's sake be merciful," he exclaimed. "Lift up one
corner of the curtain for me."
"Very well. You shall tell me if I am wrong. You see me here, an
admitted failure in the object to which I have devoted two years of my
life. You know that I am practically destitute, without means or any
certain knowledge of where my next meal is coming from. I speak
frankly, because you also know that no possible extremity would induce
me to accept help from any living person. You notice that I have
recently spent ten francs on a box of the best Russian cigarettes, and
that there are roses upon my table. You observe that I am, as usual,
fairly cheerful, and moderately amiable. It surprises you. You do not
understand, and you would like to. Very well! I will try to help you."
Her hand hung over the side of her chair nearest to him. He looked at
it eagerly, but made no movement to take it. During all their long
comradeship he had never so much as ventured to hold her fingers. This
was David Courtlaw, whose ways, too, had never been very different
from the ways of other men as regards her sex.
"You see, it comes after all," she continued, "from certain original
convictions which have become my religion. Rather a magniloquent term,
perhaps, but what else am I to say? One of these is that the most
absolutely selfish thing in the world is to give way to depression, to
think of one's troubles at all except of how to overcome them. I spend
many delightful hours thinking of the pleasant and beautiful things of
life. I decline to waste a single second even in considering the ugly
ones. Do you know that this becomes a habit?"
"If you would only teach us all," he murmured, "how to acquire it."
"I suppose people would say that it is a matter of temperament," she
continued. "With me I believe that it is more. It has become a part of
the order of my life. Whatever may happen to-morrow I shall be none
the better for anticipating its miseries to-day."
"I wonder," he said, a trifle irrelevantly, "what the future has in
store for you."
She shrugged her shoulders.
"Is that not rather a profitless speculation, my friend?"
He seemed deaf to her interruption. His grey eyes burned under his
shaggy eyebrows. He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more
of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in
the uncertain light.
"You were born for great things," he said huskily. "For great
passions, for great accomplishments. Will you find your destiny, I
wonder, or will you go through life like so many others--a wanderer,
knocking ever at empty doors, homeless to the last? Oh, if one could
but find the way to your heart."
She laughed gaily.
"Dear friend," she said, "remember that you are speaking to one who
has failed in the only serious object which she has ever sought to
accomplish. My destiny, I am afraid, is going to lead me into the
ruts."
He shook his head.
"You were never born," he declared, "to follow the well worn roads. I
wonder," he added, after a moment's pause, "whether you ever realize
how young you are."
"Young? I am twenty-four."
"Yet you are very young. Anna, why will you persist in this
single-handed combat with life?"
"Don't!" she cried.
"But I must, I will," he answered fiercely. "Oh, I know you would stop
me if you could. This time you cannot. You are the woman I love, Anna.
Let me make your future for you. Don't be afraid that I shall stunt
it. I will give you a broad free life. You shall have room to develop,
you shall live as you will, where you will, only give me the right to
protect you, to free you from all these petty material cares."
She laid her hand softly upon his.
"Dear friend," she said, "do you not think that you are breaking an
unspoken compact? I am very sorry. In your heart you know quite well
that all that you have said is useless."
"Ay," he repeated, looking away from her. "Useless--worse than
useless."
"You are foolish," she declared, with a note of irritability in her
tone. "You would appear to be trying to destroy a comradeship which
has been very, very pleasant. For you know that I have made up my mind
to dig a little way into life single-handed. I, too, want to
understand--to walk with my head in the light. Love is a great thing,
and happiness a joy. Let me go my own way towards them. We may
meet--who can tell? But I will not be fettered, even though you would
make the chains of roses. Listen."
She stopped short. There was a sharp knocking at the outside door.
Courtlaw rose to his feet.
"It is too late for visitors," she remarked. "I wonder would you mind
seeing who it is."
Courtlaw crossed the room and threw open the door. He had come to
Anna's rooms from a dinner party, and he was in evening dress. Sir
John, who was standing outside, looked past him at the girl still
sitting in the shadow.
"I believe," he said stiffly, "that these are the apartments of Miss
Pellissier. I must apologize for disturbing you at such an unseemly
hour, but I should be very much obliged if Miss Pellissier would allow
me a few minutes' conversation. My name is Ferringhall--Sir John
Ferringhall."
_Chapter V_
"ALCIDE"
Courtlaw took up his hat and coat at once, but Anna motioned him to
remain.
"Please stay," she said briefly. "Will you come in, Sir John. I
believe that I have heard my sister speak of you. This is my friend,
Mr. David Courtlaw--Sir John Ferringhall."
Sir John acknowledged the introduction without cordiality. He entered
the room with his usual deliberation, and looked covertly about him.
He noticed the two chairs close together. Anna was still holding her
cigarette between her fingers. Her likeness to her sister gave him at
first almost a shock; a moment afterwards he was conscious of a
wonderful sense of relief. For if the likeness between the sisters was
remarkable, the likeness between this girl and the poster which he had
come from studying was more remarkable still.
"I must repeat," Sir John said, "that I much regret disturbing you at
such an unseemly hour. My only excuse is that I missed my way here,
and I am leaving Paris early to-morrow morning."
"If your business with me is of any importance," Anna said calmly, "it
does not matter in the least about the hour. Have you brought me a
message from my sister? I understood, I believe, that she was seeing
you last night."
"Your sister," he answered, "did me the honour of dining with me last
night."
"Yes."
After all, it was not so easy. The girl's eyes never left his face.
She was civil, but she was obviously impatient to know his errand.
Afraid, no doubt, he thought grimly, that her other visitor would
leave.
"I believe," he said slowly, "that I shall do best to throw myself
upon your consideration and tell you the truth. I have recently made
your sister's acquaintance, and in the course of conversation I
understood from her that her Christian name was Anna. Some friends who
saw us dining together persist in alluding to her as Miss Annabel
Pellissier. I am guilty practically of the impertinence of coming to
ask you whether I misunderstood your sister."
"Is my sister's Christian name, then, of so much importance to you?"
she asked with a faint smile.
"The things involved in it are," he answered gravely.
She accepted his rejoinder with a brief nod. Courtlaw opened his lips,
but remained silent in the face of her imperative gesture. "Let me
hasten," she said, "to reassure you. My sister was scarcely likely to
make a mistake. She told you--the truth."
Courtlaw's walking stick, which he had been handling, fell with a
crash to the ground. He stooped to recover it, and his face was
hidden. Sir John felt and looked several years younger.
"I am much obliged to you," he said. "Really, I do not know why I
should have doubted it."
"Nor I," she remarked tersely.
He looked at her with a certain curiosity. She was a very elegant
young woman, slightly taller perhaps than her sister, and with an air
of reserved strength underneath her quiet face and manner which
Annabel may have lacked. It was hard to associate her with the stories
which he and all Paris had heard of "Alcide."
"You, then," he said, "are 'Alcide.' That wonderful poster--is of
you."
She lifted her eyebrows.
"I am sorry," she said, "if you find the likeness unsatisfactory. My
friends consider it wonderfully faithful. Have you any more questions
to ask me?"
Sir John, on his way down, had determined to hint to this young woman
that, providing certain contingencies which he had in his mind should
come to pass, he would be prepared to make her a handsome offer to
change her name. He found, however, that now the time had come he
utterly lacked the courage to attempt any such speech.
"None, I thank you," he answered. "I will not intrude upon you
further."
"Wait," she said.
He turned back at once.
"I have answered all your questions," she said. "Perhaps you will not
object to answering one for me. You have thought it worth while to
take some considerable pains to resolve for yourself my sister's
identity. May I ask the nature of your interest in her?"
He hesitated.
"It is not an easy matter," he said, "for me to offer you an
altogether adequate explanation. I have only seen your sister for a
very brief time, and I am a little past the age when a man does
headstrong things. At the same time, I must say that I am most anxious
to improve my acquaintance with her. I am a single man, and----"
"Thank you," she interrupted. "I will not ask you to explain further.
Good night."
He left at once, immensely relieved, yet scarcely satisfied with
himself as regarded his share of the interview with this young woman.
They heard his footsteps descending the stone staircase, growing
fainter and fainter. Then Courtlaw looked across at her with a white
puzzled face.
"Why did you lie to that man?" he asked fiercely. "How dared you do
yourself this injustice?"
"I did it for her sake," she answered. "It may be her salvation. I
believe that he will marry her."
"You would let him--knowing--all that you know?"
"Why not? She is my flesh and blood. She is more dear to me than
anything else. Perhaps if I had watched over her more closely, things
would have been different."
"You! Why, you have been an angel to her," he exclaimed impatiently.
"You know very well that she is selfish and pleasure-loving to the
backbone. You have made enough sacrifices for her surely without this.
Besides, you cannot tell where it will end. You have taken upon your
shoulders the burden of her misdeeds. You may have to carry them
further and longer than you think. Oh, it is unbearable."
The man's face was dark with passion. It was as though he were
personally aggrieved. His tone was rough, almost threatening. The girl
only smiled at him serenely, but she laid her hand for a moment
quietly upon his.
"Dear friend," she said, "this is a matter which you must leave to me
to do as I think best. Annabel is my only sister, you know, almost my
only relative. If I do not look after her, she has no one. And she is
very young, younger than her years."
It was significant of her influence over him that he answered her
calmly, although a storm of angry thoughts were struggling for
expression within him.
"Look after her! Why not? But you have done it all your life. You have
been her guardian angel. But even you cannot alter her character.
Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one.
The pursuit of pleasure, self-gratification, is an original instinct
with her. Blood and bone, body and spirit, she is selfish through and
through. Even you have not been able to hold her back. I speak no harm
of her. She is your sister, and God knows I wish her none. But----"
A look checked him.
"I know," she said quietly, "that Paris, where she has been so much
admired, is not a good place for her. That is why I am glad that she
has gone to London."
He rose from his chair, and walked restlessly up and down the room.
The passion of pent-up speech compelled action of some sort. There was
a black fear in his heart. He stopped before her suddenly.
"You, too," he said abruptly. "You mean to follow her. You will go to
London?"
"It is necessary," she answered. "You yourself have decided
that--apart from the question of Annabel."
He was suddenly calm.
"It is part of the irony of life," he said. "One is always playing the
surgeon, one kills always the thing one loves best. I meant to lie to
you. Would to God I had."
She shook her head.
"The surgeon's knife is surely a kindly weapon," she declared. "It was
best for me to know. Later on I could scarcely have forgiven you."
"And now--I am to lose you."
"For a little time," she answered. "I meant to say good-bye to you
to-night. Or, after all, is it worth while? The Channel is a little
broader than the Boulevards--but one crosses it sometimes."
He looked at her with white, set face.
"Yes," he said, "I shall come. That is very certain. But, after all,
it will be different. I think that I have become a drug drinker. I
need you every day. In the mornings I find labour easy because I am
going to see you. In the afternoon my brain and fingers leap to their
work because you have been with me. Anna, you shall not go. I cannot
let you go."
She threw away the end of her cigarette. Without turning or looking
in his direction she leaned forwards, her head supported upon her
fingers, her elbows upon her knees. She gazed steadily out of the
window at that arc of glittering lights. He made a quick movement
towards her, but she did not flinch. His arm fell to his side. The
effort of self-repression cost him a sob.
"David," she said, "you are not a coward, are you?"
"I do not know," he muttered. "The bravest of us have joints in our
armour."
"You are not a coward," she repeated, "or you would not be my friend.
A woman may choose any one for her lover, but for her friend she makes
no mistake. You are not a coward David, and you must not talk like
one. Put out your hand and bid me God-speed. It is the only way."
"I cannot do it!" he cried hoarsely. "I cannot part with you. You have
grown into my life. Anna----"
Again she stopped him, but this time it was not so easy. The man's
passion became almost unbearable at the thought of losing her. And
yet, as she rose slowly to her feet and stood looking at him with
outstretched hands, a strange mixture of expressions shining in her
wonderful eyes, he realized in some measure the strength of her
determination, felt the utter impotence of anything which he could say
to her. He forgot for the moment his own self-pity, the egotism of his
own passionate love. He took her hands firmly in his and raised them
to his lips.
"You shall go," he declared. "I will make of the days and weeks one
long morning, but remember the afternoon must come. Always remember
that."
Her hands fell to her side. She remained for a few moments standing as
though listening to his retreating footsteps. Then she turned, and
entering the inner room, commenced to dress hastily for the street.
_Chapter VI_