AN UNEXPECTED MEETING
Nan was rather silent as the Fentons' big car purred its way through
the crowded streets towards Westminster. For the moment the possible
consequences of her flight from Trenby Hall had been thrust aside into
a corner of her mind and her thoughts had slipped back to that last
meeting with Maryon, when she had shown him so unmistakably that she,
at least, had ceased to care.
She had hated him at the moment, rejoicing to be free from the strange,
perverse attraction he held for her. But, viewed through the softening
mists of memory, a certain romance and charm seemed to cling about
those days when she had hovered on the border-line of love for him, and
her heart beat a little faster at the thought of meeting him again.
Ralph Fenton had only a vague knowledge of the affair, but he dimly
recollected that there had been something--a passing flirtation, he
fancied--between Maryon and Nan in bygone days, and he proceeded to
chaff her gently on the subject as they drove to the studio.
"Poor old Rooke will get a shock, Nan, when we dump you on to him this
afternoon," he said. "He won't be anticipating the arrival of an old
flame."
She flushed a little, and Ralph continued teasingly:
"You'll really have to be rather nice to him! He's paid pretty dearly
for his foolishness in bartering love for filthy lucre."
Penelope frowned at her husband, much as one endeavours to frown down
the observations of an _enfant terrible_.
"Don't be such an idiot, Ralph," she said severely.
He grinned delightedly.
"Old fires die hard, Penny. Do you think it is quite right of us to
introduce Nan on the scene again? She's forbidden fruit now, remember."
"And doubtless Maryon _will_ remember it," retorted Penelope tartly.
"I think," pursued Fenton, "it's not unlike inserting a match into a
powder barrel. Rooke"--reflectively--"always reminds me somewhat of a
powder barrel. And Nan is by no means a safety match--warranted to
produce a light from the legitimate box and none other!"
"I wish," observed Nan plaintively, "that you wouldn't discuss me just
as if I weren't here."
They all laughed, and then, as the car slowed down to a standstill at
Maryon's door, the conversation came to an end.
Rooke had established himself in one of the big and comparatively
inexpensive houses in Westminster, in that pleasant, quiet backwater
which lies within the shadow of the beautiful old Abbey, away from the
noisy stream of general traffic. The house had formerly been the
property of another artist who had built on to it a large and
well-equipped studio, so that Rooke had been singularly fortunate in
his purchase.
Nan looked about her with interest as the door swung open, admitting
them into a fair-sized hall. The thick Eastern carpet, the dim,
blue-grey hangings on the walls, the quaint brazen lamps--hushing the
modern note of electric light behind their thick glass panes--spoke
eloquently of Maryon. A faint fragrance of cedar tinged the atmosphere.
The parlourmaid--unmistakably a twentieth-century product--conducted
them into a beautiful Old English room, its walls panelled in dark oak,
while heavy oaken beams traversed the ceiling. Logs burned merrily on
the big open hearth, throwing up showers of golden sparks. Above the
chimneypiece there was a wonderful old plaster coat-of-arms, dating
back to the seventeenth century, and the watery gleams of sunshine,
filtering in through the diamond panes of latticed windows, fell
lingeringly on the waxen surface of an ancient dresser. On the dresser
shelves were lodged some willow-pattern plates, their clear, tender
blue bearing witness to an early period.
"How like Maryon it all is!" whispered Nan.
And just then Rooke himself came into the room. He had altered very
little. It was the same supple, loose-limbed figure that approached.
The pointed Van Dyck beard was as carefully trimmed, the hazel eyes,
with their misleading softness of appeal, as arresting as of old.
Perhaps he bore himself with a little more assurance. There might have
been a shade less of the Bohemian and a shade more of the successful
artist about him.
But Rooke would never suffer from the inordinate complacency which
spoils so many successful men. Always it would be tempered by that
odd, cynical humour of his. Beautiful ladies who gushed at him merely
amused him, and received in return some charming compliment or other
that rang as hollow as a kettle-drum. Politicians who came to him for
their portraits were gently made to feel that their favourite
oratorical attitude--which they inevitably assumed when asked to pose
themselves quite naturally--was not really overwhelmingly effective,
while royalties who perforce condescended to attend his studio--since
he flatly declined to paint them in their palaces--found that he was
inclined to overlook the matter of their royal blood and to portray
them as though they were merely men and women.
There was an amusing little story going the rounds in connection with a
certain peeress--one of the "new rich" fraternity--who had recently sat
to Rooke for her portrait. Her husband's title had presumably been
conferred in recognition of the arduous services--of an industrial and
financial nature--which he had rendered during the war. The lady was
inclined to be refulgent on the slightest provocation, and when Rooke
had discussed with her his ideas for her portrait she had indignantly
repudiated his suggestion that only a simple evening gown and furs
should be worn.
"But it will look like the picture of a mere nobody," she had
protested. "Of--of just anyone!"
"Of anyone--or someone," came Rooke's answer. "The portrait of a great
lady should be able to indicate . . . which."
The newly-fledged peeress proceeded to explain that her own idea had
been that she should be painted wearing her state robes and
coronet--plus any additional jewels which could find place on her
person.
Maryon bowed affably.
"But, by all means," he agreed. "Only, if it is of them you require a
portrait, you must go to Grégoire Marni. He paints still-life."
Rooke came into the room and greeted his visitors with outstretched
hands.
"My dear Penelope and Ralph," he began cordially. "This is good of
busy people like yourselves--"
He caught sight of the third figure standing a little behind the
Fentons and stopped abruptly. His eyes seemed to flinch for a moment.
Then he made a quick step forward.
"Why, Nan!" he exclaimed. "This is a most charming surprise."
His voice and manner were perfectly composed; only his intense paleness
and the compression of his fine-cut nostrils betrayed any agitation.
Nan had seen that "white" look on his face before.
Then Penelope rushed in with some commonplace remark and the brief
tension was over.
"Come and see my Mrs. T. Van Decken," said Rooke presently. "The
light's pretty fair now, but it will be gone after tea."
They trooped out of the room and into the studio, where several other
people, who had already examined the great portrait, were still
strolling about looking at various paintings and sketches.
It was a big bare barn of a place with its cold north light, for Rooke,
sybarite as he was in other respects, treated his work from a Spartan
standpoint which permitted necessities only in his studio.
"Empty great barrack, isn't it?" he said to Nan. "But I can't bear to
be crowded up with extraneous hangings and draperies like some fellows.
It stifles me."
She nodded sympathetically.
"I know. I like an empty music-room."
"You still work? Ah, that's good. You shall tell me about
it--afterwards--when this crowd has gone. Oh, Nan, there'll be such a
lot to say!"
His glance held her a moment, and she flushed under it. Those queer
eyes of his had lost none of their old magnetic power. He turned away
with a short, amused laugh, and the next moment was listening
courteously to an elderly duchess's gushing eulogy of his work.
Nan remained quietly where she was, gazing at the big picture of the
famous American beauty. It was a fine piece of work; the lights and
shadows had been handled magnificently, and it was small wonder that
the man who could produce such work had leaped into the foremost rank
of portrait-painters. She felt very glad of his success, remembering
how bitter he had been in former days over his failure to obtain
recognition. She turned and, finding him beside her again, spoke her
thought quite simply.
"You've made good at last, Maryon. You've no grudge against the world
now."
He looked down at her oddly.
"Haven't I? . . . Well, you should know," he replied.
She gave a little impatient twist of her shoulders. He hadn't altered
at all, it seemed; he still possessed his old faculty for implying so
much more than was contained in the actual words he spoke.
"Most people would be content with the success you've gained," she
answered steadily.
"Most people--yes. But to gain the gold and miss . . . the
rainbow!--_A quoi bon_?"
His voice vibrated. This sudden meeting with Nan was trying him hard.
There had been two genuine things in the man's life--his love for Nan
and his love of his art. He had thrust the first deliberately aside so
that he might not be handicapped in the second, and now that the race
was won and success assured he was face to face with the realisation of
the price that must be paid. Nan was out of his reach for ever.
Standing here at his side with all her old elusive charm--out of his
reach!
"What did you mean"--she was speaking to him again--"by telling Penny
that you expected to see me soon--before she would?"
"Ah, that's my news. Of course, when I wrote, I thought you were still
down in Cornwall, with the Trenbys. I'd no idea you were coming up to
town just now."
"I'm up unexpectedly," murmured Nan. "Well? What then?"
He smiled, as though enjoying his secret.
"Isn't Burnham Court somewhere in your direction?"
"Yes. It's about midway between the Hall and Mallow Court. It
belonged to a Sir Robert Burnham who's just died. Why do you ask?"
"Because Burnham was my godfather. The old chap disapproved of me
strongly at one time--thought painting pictures a fool's job. But
since luck came my way, his opinion apparently altered, and when he
died he left me all his property--Burnham Court included."
"Burnham Court!" exclaimed Nan in astonishment.
"Yes. Droll, isn't it? So I thought of coming down some time this
spring and seeing how it feels to be a land-owner. My wife is taking a
trip to the States then--to visit some friends."
"How nice!" Nan's exclamation was quite spontaneous. It would be nice
to have another of her own kind--one of her mental kith and kin--near
at hand after she was married.
"I shan't be down there all the time, of course, but for week-ends and
so on--in the intervals between transferring commonplace faces, and
still more frequently commonplace souls, to canvas." He paused, then
asked suddenly: "So you're glad, Nan?"
"Of course I am," she answered heartily. "It will be like old times."
"Unfortunately, old times never--come back," he said shortly.
And then a quaint, drumming noise like the sound of a distant tom-tom
summoned them to tea.
Most of the visitors took their departure soon afterwards, but Nan and
the Fentons lingered on, returning to the studio to enjoy the multitude
of sketches and studies stored away there, many of them carelessly
stacked up with their faces to the wall. Rooke made a delightful host,
pulling out one canvas after another and pouring out a stream of
amusing little tales concerning the oddities of various sitters.
Presently the door opened and the maid ushered in yet another visitor.
Nan, standing rather apart by one of the bay windows at the far end of
the room, was examining a rough sketch, in black and white. She caught
her breath suddenly at the sound of the newcomer's voice.
"I couldn't get here earlier, as I promised, Rooke, and I'm afraid the
daylight's gone. However, I've no doubt Mrs. Van Decken will look
equally charming by artificial light. In fact, I should have said it
was her natural element."
Nan, screened from the remainder of the room by the window embrasure,
let the sketch she was holding flutter to the ground.
The quiet, drawling voice was Peter's! And he didn't know she was
here! It would be horrible--horrible to meet him suddenly like
this . . . here . . . in the presence of other people.
She pressed herself closely against the wall of the recess, her breath
coming gaspingly between parched lips. The mere tones of his voice,
with their lazy, distinctive drawl, set her heart beating in great
suffocating leaps. She had never dreamed of the possibility of meeting
him--here, of all places, and the knowledge that only a few yards
separated them from one another, that if she stepped out from the
alcove which screened her she would be face to face with him, drained
her of all strength.
She stood there motionless, her back to the wall, her palms pressed
rigidly against its surface.
Was he coming towards here? . . . Now? It seemed hours since his
voice had first struck upon her ears.
At last, after what appeared an infinity of time, she heard the hum of
talk and laughter drift out of the room . . . the sound of footsteps
retreating . . . the closing of a door.
Her stiff muscles relaxed and, leaning forward, she peered into the
studio. It was empty. They had all gone, and with a sigh of relief
she stepped out from her hiding-place.
She wandered aimlessly about for a minute or two, then came to anchor
in front of Mrs. T. Van Decken's portrait. With a curious sense of
detachment, she fell to criticising it afresh. It had been painted
with amazing skill and insight. All the beauty was there, the
exquisite tinting of flesh, the beautiful curve of cheek and throat and
shoulder. But, behind the lovely physical presentment, Nan felt she
could detect the woman's soul--predatory, feline, and unscrupulous. It
was rather original of Maryon to have done that, she thought--painted
both body and spirit--and it was just like that cynical cleverness of
his to have discerned so exactly the soulless type of woman which the
beautiful body concealed and to have insolently reproduced it, daring
discovery.
She looked up and found him standing beside her. She had not heard the
quiet opening and closing of the door.
"An old friend of yours has just come in to see my Van Decken," he said
quietly. His eyes were slightly quizzical.
Nan turned her face a little aside.
"I know. Where--where is he?"
"I took him along to have some tea. I've left him with the Fentons;
they can prepare him for the . . . shock."
She flushed angrily.
"Maryon! You're outrageous!" she protested.
"I imagined. I was showing great consideration, seeing I've no cause
to bear Mallory any overwhelming goodwill."
"I thought you had only met him once or twice?"
Rooke looked down at her with an odd expression.
"True--in the old days, only once. At your flat. But we've knocked up
against each other several times since then. And Mrs. Van Decken asked
him to come and see her portrait."
"You and he can have very little in common," observed Nan carelessly.
"Nothing"--promptly--"except the links of art. I've always been true
in my art--if in nothing else. Besides, all's grist that comes to
Mallory's mill. He regards me as a type. Ah!"--as the door opened
once more--"here they come."
Her throat contracted with nervousness and she felt that it would be a
physical impossibility for her to speak. She turned mechanically as
Penelope re-entered the room, followed by her husband and Peter
Mallory. Uppermost in Nan's mind was the thought, to which she clung
as to a sheet-anchor, that of the three witnesses to this meeting
between Peter and herself, the Fentons were ignorant of the fact that
she cared for him, and Maryon, whatever he might suspect, had no
certain knowledge.
The dreaded ordeal was quickly over. A simple handshake, and in a few
moments they were all five chatting together, Mrs. Van Decken's
portrait prominent in the conversation.
Mallory had altered in some indefinable way. In the fugitive glances
she stole at him Nan could see that he was thinner, his face a trifle
worn-looking, and the old whimsical light had died out of his eyes,
replaced by a rather bitter sadness.
"You'd better come and dine with us to-night, Mallory," said Fenton,
pausing as they were about to leave. "Penelope and I are due at the
Albert Hall later on, but we shall be home fairly early and you can
entertain Nan in our absence. It's purely a ballad concert, so she
doesn't care to go with us--it's not high-brow enough!"--with a twinkle
in Nan's direction.
She glanced at Peter swiftly. Would he refuse?
There was the slightest pause. Then--
"Thank you very much," he said quietly. "I shall be delighted."
"We dine at an unearthly hour to-night, of course," volunteered
Penelope. "Half-past six."
"As I contrived to miss my lunch to-day, I shan't grumble," replied
Peter, smiling. "Till to-night, then."
And the Fentons' motor slid away into the lamplit dusk.
"Wasn't that rather rash of you, Ralph?" asked Penelope later on, when
they were both dressing for the evening. "I think--last summer--Peter
was getting too fond of Nan for his own peace of mind."
Ralph came to the door of his dressing-room in his shirt-sleeves,
shaving-brush in hand.
"Good Lord, no!" he said. "Mallory's married and Nan's engaged--what
more do you want? They were just good pals. And anyway, even if
you're right, the affair must he dead embers by this time."
"It may be. Still, there's nothing gained by blowing on them," replied
Penelope sagely.