XIV.

A formal avenue of trim trees led out of the town of Melun. But these

were soon exchanged for rough forest growths; and out of cabbage and

corn lands the irruptive forest broke into islands; and the plain was

girdled with a dark green belt of distant forest.

She lay back in the fly tasting in the pure air, the keen joy of

returning health, and she thrilled a little at the delight of an

expensive white muslin and a black sash which accentuated the

smallness of her waist. She liked her little brown shoes and brown

stockings and the white sunshade through whose strained silk the red

sun showed.

At the cross roads she noticed a still more formal avenue, trees

planted in single line and curving like a regiment of soldiers

marching across country. The whitewashed stead and the lonely peasant

scratching like an insect in the long tilth were painful impressions.

She missed the familiar hedgerows which make England like a garden;

and she noticed that there were trees everywhere except about the

dwellings; and that there were neither hollybush or sunflowers in the

white village they rolled through--a gaunt white village which was not

Barbizon. The driver mentioned the name, but Mildred did not heed him.

She looked from the blank white walls to her prettily posed feet and

heard him say that Barbizon was still a mile away.

It lay at the end of the plain, and when the carriage entered the long

street, it rocked over huge stones so that Mildred was nearly thrown

out. She called to the driver to go slower; he smiled, and pointing

with his whip said that the hotel that Mademoiselle wanted was at the

end of the village, on the verge of the forest.

A few moments after the carriage drew up before an iron gateway, and

Mildred saw a small house at the bottom of a small garden. There was a

pavilion on the left and a numerous company were dining beneath the

branches of a cedar. Elsie and Cissy got up, and dropping their

napkins ran to meet their friend. She was led in triumph to the table,

and all through dinner she had a rough impression of English girls in

cheap linen dresses and of men in rough suits and flowing neck-ties.

She was given some soup, and when the plate of veal had been handed

round, and Elsie and Cissy had exhausted their first store of

questions, she was introduced to Morton Mitchell. His singularly small

head was higher by some inches than any other, bright eyes, and white

teeth showing through a red moustache, and a note of defiance in his

open-hearted voice made him attractive. Mildred was also introduced to

Rose Turner, the girl who sat next him, a weak girl with pretty eyes.

Rose already looked at Mildred as if she anticipated rivalry, and was

clearly jealous of every word that Morton did not address to her.

Mildred looked at him again. He was better dressed than the others,

and an air of success in his face made him seem younger than he was.

He leaned across the table, and Mildred liked his brusque, but withal

well-bred manner. She wondered what his pictures were like. At

Daveau's only the names of the principal exhibitors at the Salon were

known, and he had told her that he had not sent there for the last

three years. He didn't care to send to the vulgar place more than he

could help.

Mildred noticed that all listened to Morton; and she was sorry to

leave the table, so interesting was his conversation. But Elsie and

Cissy wanted to talk to her, and they marched about the grass plot,

their arms about each other's waists; and, while questioning Mildred

about herself and telling her about themselves, they frequently looked

whither their lovers sat smoking. Sometimes Mildred felt them press

her along the walk which passed by the dining table. But for half an

hour their attractions were arrayed vainly against those of cigarettes

and _petits verres_. Rose was the only woman who remained at table.

She hung over her lover, desirous that he should listen to her.

Mildred thought, 'What a fool.... We shall see presently.'

The moment the young men got up Cissy and Elsie forgot Mildred. An

angry expression came upon her face and she went into the house. The

walls had been painted all over--landscapes, still life, nude figures,

rustic, and elegiac subjects. Every artist had painted something in

memory of his visit, and Mildred sought vaguely for what Mr. Mitchell

had painted. Then, remembering that he had chosen to walk about with

the Turner girl, she abandoned her search and, leaning on the window-

sill, watched the light fading in the garden. She could hear the frogs

in a distant pond, and thought of the night in the forest amid

millions of trees and stars.

Suddenly she heard some one behind her say:

'Do you like being alone?'

It was Morton.

'I'm so used to being alone.'

'Use is a second nature, I will not interrupt your solitude.'

'But sometimes one gets tired of solitude.'

'Would you like to share your solitude? You can have half of mine.'

'I'm sure it is very kind of you, but---' It was on Mildred's tongue

to ask him what he had done with Rose Turner. She said instead, 'and

where does your solitude hang out?'

'Chiefly in the forest. Shall we go there?'

'Is it far? I don't know where the others have gone.'

'They're in the forest, we walk there every evening; we shall meet

them.'

'How far is the forest?'

'At our door. We're in the forest. Come and see. There is the forest,'

he said, pointing to a long avenue. 'How bright the moonlight is, one

can read by this light.'

'And how wonderfully the shadows of the tall trunks fall across the

white road. How unreal, how phantasmal, is that grey avenue shimmering

in the moonlight.'

'Yes, isn't the forest ghostlike. And isn't that picturesque,' he

said, pointing to a booth that had been set up by the wayside. On a

tiny stage a foot or so from the ground, by the light of a lantern and

a few candle ends, a man and a woman were acting some rude

improvisation.

Morton and Mildred stayed; but neither was in the mood to listen. They

contributed a trifle each to these poor mummers of the lane's end, and

it seemed that their charity had advanced them in their intimacy.

Without hesitation they left the road, taking a sandy path which led

through some rocks. Mildred's feet sank in the loose sand, and very

soon it seemed to her that they had left Barbizon far behind. For the

great grey rocks and the dismantled tree trunk which they had suddenly

come upon frightened her; and she could hardly bear with the ghostly

appearance the forest took in the stream of glittering light which

flowed down from the moon.

She wished to turn back. But Morton said that they would meet the

others beyond the hill, and she followed him through great rocks,

filled with strange shadows. The pines stood round the hill-top making

it seem like a shrine; a round yellow moon looked through; there was

the awe of death in the lurid silence, and so clear was the sky that

the points of the needles could be seen upon it.

'We must go back,' she said.

'If you like.'

But, at that moment, voices were heard coming over the brow of the

hill.

'You see I did not deceive you. There are your friends, I knew we

should meet them. That is Miss Laurence's voice, one can always

recognise it.'

'Then let us go to them.'

'If you like. But we can talk better here. Let me find you a place to

sit down.' Before Mildred could answer, Elsie cried across the glade:

'So there you are.'

'What do you think of the forest?' shouted Cissy.

'Wonderful,' replied Mildred.

'Well, we won't disturb you... we shall be back presently.'

And, like ghosts, they passed into the shadow and mystery of the

trees.

'So you work in the men's studio?'

'Does that shock you?'

'No, nothing shocks me.'

'In the studio a woman puts off her sex. There's no sex in art.'

'I quite agree with you. There's no sex in art, and a woman would be

very foolish to let anything stand between her and her art.'

'I'm glad you think that. I've made great sacrifices for painting.'

'What sacrifices?'

'I'll tell you one of these days when I know you better.'

'Will you?'

The conversation paused a moment, and Mildred said:

'How wonderful it is here. Those pines, that sky, one hears the

silence; it enters into one's very bones. It is a pity one cannot

paint silence.'

'Millet painted silence. "The Angelus" is full of silence, the air

trembles with silence and sunset.'

'But the silence of the moonlight is more awful, it really is very

awful, I'm afraid.'

'Afraid of what? there's nothing to be afraid of. You asked me just

now if I believed in Daveau's, I didn't like to say; I had only just

been introduced to you; but it seems to me that I know you better

now... Daveau's is a curse. It is the sterilisation of art. You must

give up Daveau's, and come and work here.'

'I'm afraid it would make no difference. Elsie and Cissy have spent

years here, and what they do does not amount to much. They wander from

method to method, abandoning each in turn. I am utterly discouraged,

and made up my mind to give up painting.'

'What are you going to do?'

'I don't know. One of these days I shall find out my true vocation.'

'You're young, you are beautiful---'

'No, I'm not beautiful, but there are times when I look nice.'

'Yes, indeed there are. Those hands, how white they are in the

moonlight.' He took her hands. 'Why do you trouble and rack your soul

about painting? A woman's hands are too beautiful for a palette and

brushes.'

The words were on her tongue to ask him if he did not admire Rose's

hands equally, but remembering the place, the hour, and the fact of

her having made his acquaintance only a few hours before, she thought

it more becoming to withdraw her hands, and to say:

'The others do not seem to be coming back. We had better return.'

They moved out of the shadows of the pines, and stood looking down the

sandy pathway.

'How filmy and grey those top branches, did you ever see anything so

delicate?'

'I never saw anything like this before. This is primeval.... I used to

walk a good deal with a friend of mine in St. James' Park.'

'The park where the ducks are, and a little bridge. Your friend was

not an artist.'

'Yes, he was, and a very clever artist too.'

'Then he admired the park because you were with him.'

'Perhaps that had something to do with it. But the park is very

beautiful.'

'I don't think I care much about cultivated nature.'

'Don't you like a garden?'

'Yes; a disordered garden, a garden that has been let run wild.'

They walked down the sandy pathway, and came unexpectedly upon Elsie

and her lover sitting behind a rock. They asked where the others were.

Elsie did not know. But at that moment voices were heard, and Cissy

cried from the bottom of the glade:

'So there you are; we've been looking for you.'

'Looking for us indeed,' said Mildred.

Now, Mildred, don't be prudish, this is Liberty Hall. You must lend

us Mr. Mitchell, we want to dance.'

'What, here in the sand!'

'No, in the Salon.... Come along, Rose will play for us.'