TOWARDS UNKNOWN WAYS
The afternoon post had just been delivered and the postman was already
whizzing his way down the drive on his scarlet-painted bicycle as Lady
Gertrude unlocked the private post-bag appertaining to Trenby Hall.
This was one of the small jobs usually delegated to her niece, but for
once the latter was away on holiday, staying with friends at Penzance.
The bag yielded up some bills and a solitary letter, addressed in
Isobel's looped and curly writing. It was not an easy hand to read,
and Lady Gertrude produced her pince-nez to assist in deciphering it.
For the most part it dealt with small incidents of her visit and
dutiful enquiries concerning the progress of estate and domestic
affairs at the Hall during her absence. But just before the end--where
it might linger longest in the memory--came a paragraph which riveted
Lady Gertrude's attention.
"And how about Nan's portrait?" Isobel had written. "I suppose by this
time it is finished and adorning the picture gallery? That is, if
Roger has really succeeded in persuading Mr. Rooke to part with it. It
certainly ought to be an _exceptional_ portrait, judging by the length
of time it has taken to accomplish! Dear Aunt Gertrude, I cannot help
thinking it was a mistake that Nan didn't give Mr. Rooke the sittings
at his studio in town or, better still, have waited until after her
marriage. People in the country are so apt to be censorious, aren't
they? And there has been a good deal of comment on the matter, I
_know_. I didn't wish to worry you about it, but I feel you and Roger
really ought to know this."
"Letter from Isobel, mother? What's her news?"
Roger came striding into the room exactly as Lady Gertrude finished the
perusal of her niece's epistle. She looked up with eyes that gleamed
like hard, bright pebbles behind her pince-nez.
"The kind of news to which I fear we shall have to grow accustomed,"
she said acidly. "It appears that Nan is getting herself talked about
in connection with that artist who is painting her portrait."
By the time she had finished speaking Roger's face was like a
thundercloud.
"What do you mean? What does Isobel say?" he demanded.
"You had better read the letter for yourself," replied his mother,
pushing it towards him.
He snatched it up and read it hastily, then stood silently staring at
it, his face white with anger, his eyes as hard as Lady Gertrude's own.
"It's a great pity you ever met Nan Davenant," pursued his mother,
breaking the silence. "There's bad blood in the Davenants, and Nan
will probably create a scandal for us one day. I understand she
strongly resembles her notorious great-grandmother, Angèle de
Varincourt."
"My wife will lead a very different kind of life from Angèle de
Varincourt," remarked Roger. "I'll see to that."
"It's a pity you didn't look nearer home for a wife, Roger," she
observed. "I always hoped you would learn to care for Isobel."
"Isobel!"--with blank amazement. "I do care for her--she's a jolly
good sort--but not in that way. Besides, she doesn't care for me in
the slightest--except in a sisterly fashion."
"Are you sure of that? Remember, you've never asked her the question."
And with this final thrust, Lady Gertrude left him to his thoughts.
No doubt, later on, the thought of Isobel in the new light presented by
his mother would recur to his mind, but for the moment he was entirely
preoccupied with the matter of Nan's portrait and his determination to
put an end to the sittings.
It would be quite easy, he decided. The only thing that stood in the
way of his immediately carrying out his plan, was the fact that he had
promised to go away the following morning on a few days' fishing
expedition, together with Barry Seymour and the two Fentons. The
realisation that Maryon Rooke would probably spend the best part of
those few days in Nan's company set the blood pounding furiously
through his veins. His decision was taken instantly. The fishing
party must go without him.
As a natural sequence to his engagement to Nan he had an open
invitation to Mallow, and this evening he availed himself of it by
motoring across to dinner there. The question of the fishing party was
easily disposed of on the plea of unexpected estate matters which
required his supervision. Barry brushed his apologies aside.
"My dear chap, it doesn't matter a scrap. We three'll go as arranged
and you must join us on our next jaunt. Kitty'll be here to look after
Nan," he added, smiling good-naturedly. "She hates fishing--it bores
her stiff."
After dinner Roger made an opportunity to broach the matter of the
portrait to Nan.
"When's Rooke going to finish that portrait of you?" he asked her.
"He's taking an unconscionable time over it."
She coloured a little under the suspicion she read in his eyes.
"I--I think he'll finish it to-morrow," she stammered. "It's nearly
done, you know."
"So I should think. I'll see him about it. I'm going to buy the
thing."
"To--to buy it?"--nervously.
"Yes." His keen eyes flashed over her. "Is there anything
extraordinary in a man's purchasing the portrait of his future wife?"
"No. Oh, no. Only I don't fancy Maryon painted it with any idea of
selling it."
"And I didn't allow you to sit for it with any idea of his keeping it,"
retorted Roger grimly.
Nan remained silent, feeling that further discussion of the matter
while he was in his present humour would serve no purpose. The curt,
almost hectoring manner of his speech irritated her, while the jealousy
from which it sprang made no appeal to her by way of an excuse, as it
might have done had she loved him. She was glad when the evening came
to an end, but she was still in a sore and angry frame of mind when she
joined Rooke in the music-room the following day.
He speedily divined that something had occurred to ruffle her, and
without endeavouring to elicit the cause--possibly he felt he could
make a pretty good guess at it!--he set himself to amuse and entertain
her. He was so far successful in his efforts that before very long she
had almost forgotten her annoyance of the previous evening and was deep
in a discussion regarding the work of a certain modern composer.
Engrossed in argument, neither Maryon nor Nan noticed, the hum of a
motor approaching up the drive, and when the door of the room was
thrown open to admit Roger Trenby neither of them was able to repress a
slight start. Instantly a dark look of anger overspread Roger's face
as he advanced into the room.
"Good morning, Rooke," he said, nodding briefly but not offering his
hand. "So the portrait is finished at last, I see."
Nan glanced across at him anxiously. There was something in his manner
that filled her with a quick sense of apprehension.
"Not quite," replied Rooke easily. "I'm afraid we've been idling this
morning. There are still a few more touches I should like to add."
Roger crossed the room, and, standing in front of the picture, surveyed
it in silence.
"I think," he said at last, "that I'm satisfied with it as it is. . . .
It will look very well in the gallery at Trenby."
Rooke's eyes narrowed suddenly.
"The portrait isn't for sale," he observed.
"Of course not--to anyone other than myself," replied Roger composedly.
"Not even to you, I'm afraid," answered Rooke. "I painted it for the
great pleasure it gave me and not from any mercenary motive."
Nan, watching the two men as they fenced, saw a sudden flash in Roger's
eyes and his under jaw thrust itself out in a manner with which she was
only too familiar.
"Then may I ask what you intend to do with it?" he demanded. There was
something in the dead level of his tone which suggested a white-hot
anger forcibly held in leash.
"I thought--with Nan's permission--of exhibiting it first," said Rooke
placidly. "After that, there is a wall in my house at Westminster
where it would hang in an admirable light."
The cool insolence of his manner acted like a lighted torch to
gunpowder. Roger swung round upon him furiously, his hands clenched,
his forehead suddenly gnarled with knotted veins.
"By God, Rooke!" he exclaimed. "You go too far! _You_ will exhibit
Nan's portrait . . . _you_ will hang it in your house! . . . And you
think I'll stand by and tolerate such impertinence? Understand . . .
Nan's portrait hangs at Trenby Hall--or nowhere!"
Rooke regarded him apparently unmoved.
"I've yet to learn the law which compels a man to part with his work,"
he remarked indifferently.
Roger took an impetuous step towards him, his clenched hand raised as
though to strike.
"You hound--" he began hoarsely.
Nan rushed between them, catching the upraised hand.
"Roger! . . . Roger!" she cried, her voice shrill with the fear that
in another moment the two men would be at grips.
But he shook off her hand, flinging her aside with such force that she
staggered helplessly backwards.
"As for you," he thundered, his eyes blazing with concentrated anger,
"it's you I've to thank that any man should hold my future wife so
cheap as to imagine he may paint her portrait and then keep it in his
house as though it were his own! . . . But I'm damned if he shall!"
White and shaken, she leaned against the window frame, clutching at the
wood-work for support and staring at him with affrighted eyes as he
turned once more to Rooke.
In his big, brawny strength, doubled by the driving force of anger, he
seemed to tower above the slim, supple figure of the artist, who stood
leaning negligently against the side of the piano, watching him with
narrowed eyes and a faintly supercilious smile on his lips.
"Take your choice, Rooke," he said shortly. "My cheque for five
hundred and get out of this, or--" He paused significantly.
"Or? . . . The other alternative?" murmured Rooke. Roger laughed
roughly, fingering something he held concealed in his hand.
"You'll know that later," he said grimly. "I advise you to close with
the five hundred."
Rooke shook his head.
"Sorry it's impossible. I prefer to keep the picture."
"Oh, Maryon, give in to him! Do give in to him!"
The words came sobbingly from Nan's white lips, and Rooke turned to her
instantly.
"Have I your permission to keep the picture, Nan?" he asked, fixing her
with his queer, magnetic eyes.
An oath broke from Roger.
"You'll have the original, you see, Trenby," explained Rooke urbanely,
glancing towards him.
Then he turned again to Nan.
"Have I, Nan?"
She opened her lips to reply, but no words came. She stood there
silently, her eyes wide and terror-stricken, her cheeks stained with
the tears that dripped down them unheeded.
Roger's glance swept her as though there were something distasteful to
him in the sight of her and she flinched under it, moaning a little.
"Well," he said to Rooke. "Is the picture mine--or yours?"
"Mine," answered Rooke.
Roger made a single stride towards the easel. Then his hand shot out,
and the next moment there was a grinding sound of ripping and tearing
as, with the big blade of his clasp-knife, he slashed and rent and
hacked at the picture until it was a wreck of split and riven canvas.
With a cry like that of a wounded animal Rooke leaped forward to gave
it, but Roger hurled him aside as though he were a child, and once more
the knife bit its way remorselessly through paint and canvas.
There was something indescribably horrible in this deliberate,
merciless destruction of the exquisite work of art. Nan, watching the
keen blade sweep again and again across the painted figure of the
portrait, felt as though the blows were being rained upon her actual
body. Distraught with the violence and horror of the scene she tried
to scream, but her voice failed her, and with a hoarse, half-strangled
cry she covered her eyes, rocking to and fro. But the raucous sound of
rending canvas still grated hideously against her ears.
Suddenly Roger ceased to cut and slash at the portrait. Seizing it in
both hands, he dragged it from the easel and flung it on the floor at
Rooke's feet.
"There's your picture!" he said. "Take it--and hang it in your
'admirable light'!" And he strode out of the room.
A long silence fell between the two who were left. Then Rooke, who was
staring at the ruin of his work with his mouth twisted, into an odd,
cynical smile, murmured beneath his breath:
"_Sic transit_ . . ."
Once more the silence wrapped them round. Wan-faced and with staring
eyes, Nan drew near the heap of mangled canvas.
At last:
"I can't bear it! I can't bear it!" she whispered, and a shuddering
sob shook her slight frame from head to foot. "Oh, Maryon--"
She stretched her hands towards him gropingly, like a child that is
frightened in the dark.
. . . Half an hour later found them still together, standing with
linked hands. In Rooke's eyes there was a quiet light of triumph,
while Nan's attitude betrayed a kind of hesitancy, as of one driven
along strange and unknown ways.
"Then you'll come, Nan, you'll come?" he said eagerly.
"I'll come," she answered dully. "I can't bear my life any longer."
"I'll make you happy. . . . I swear it!"
"Will you, Maryon?" She shook her head and the eyes she raised to his
were full of a dumb, hopeless misery. "I don't think anything could
ever make me--happy. But I'd have gone on . . . I'd have borne
it . . . if Uncle David were still here. What we are going to do would
have hurt him so"--and her voice trembled. "But he's gone, and now
nothing seems to matter very much."
A sudden overwhelming tenderness for this pain-racked, desolate spirit
surged up in Maryon's heart.
"You poor little child!" he murmured. "You poor child!"
And gathering her into his arms he held her closely, leaning his cheek
against her hair, with no passion, but with a swift, understanding
sympathy that sprang from the best that was in the man.
She clung to him forlornly, so tired and hopeless she no longer felt
any impulse to resist him. She had tried--tried to withstand him and
to go on treading the uphill path that lay before her. But now she had
come to the end of her strength. She would go away with Maryon . . .
go out of it all . . . and somewhere, perhaps, together they would
build up a new and happier life.
Dimly at the back of her mind floated the memory of Peter's words:
"But there's honour, dear, and duty . . ."
She crushed down the remembrance resolutely. If she were going away
into a new world with Maryon, the door of memory must be closed fast.