A TETE-A-TETE.
Up to the drawing-room went Mr. Longcluse, and there he found Miss Arden
finishing a drawing. He fancied a very slight flush on her cheek as he
entered. Was there really a heightening of that beautiful tint as she
smiled? How lovely her long lashes, and her even little teeth, and the
lustrous darkness of her eyes, in that subdued light!
"I so wanted advice, Mr. Longcluse, and you have come in so fortunately!
I am not satisfied with my sky and mountains, and the foreground where
the light touches that withered branch is a horrible failure. In nature,
it looked quite beautiful. I remember it so well. It looked on fire,
almost. This is Saxteen Castle, near Golden Friars, and that is a bit of
the lake and those are the fells. I sketched it in pencil, and trusted
to memory for colouring. It was just at the most picturesque moment,
when the sun was going down between the two mountains that overhang the
little town on the west."
"Sunset is very well expressed. You indicated all those long shadows,
Miss Arden, in pencil, and I envy your perspective, and I think your
colouring so extremely good! The distances are admirably marked. Try a
little cadmium, burnt sienna, and lake for the intense touches of light
in the foreground, on that barkless branch. Your own eye will best
regulate the proportions. I am one of those vandals who prefer colour a
little too bold and overdone to any timidity in that respect. Exuberance
in a beginner is always, in my mind, an augury of excellence. It is so
easy to moderate afterwards."
"Yes, I daresay; I'm very glad you advise that, because I always thought
so myself; but I was half afraid to act on it. I think that is about the
tint--a little more yellow, perhaps. Yes; how does it look now?--what do
you think?"
"Now judge yourself, Miss Arden. Do not those three sharp little touches
of reflected fire light up the whole drawing? I say it is admirable. It
is really quite a beautiful little drawing."
"I'm growing so vain! you will quite spoil me, Mr. Longcluse."
"Truth will never spoil any one. Praise is very delightful. I have not
had much of it in my day, but I think it makes one better as well as
happier; and to speak simple truth of you, Miss Arden, is inevitably to
praise you."
"Those are compliments, Mr. Longcluse, and they bewilder me--anything
one does not know how to answer; so I would rather you pointed me out
four or five faults in my drawing, and I should be very well content if
you said no more. I believe you know the scenery of Golden Friars."
"I do. Beautiful, and so romantic, and full of legends! the whole place
with its belongings is a poem."
"So I think. And the hotel--the inn I prefer calling it--the 'George and
Dragon,' is so picturesque and delightfully old, and so comfortable! Our
head-quarters were there for two or three weeks. And did you see Childe
Waylin's Leap?"
"Yes, an awful scene; what a terrible precipice! I saw it to great
advantage from a boat, while a thunderstorm was glaring and pealing over
its summit. You know the legend, of course?"
"No, I did not hear it."
"Oh, it is a very striking one, and won't take many words to tell. Shall
I tell it?"
"Pray do," said Alice, with her bright look of expectation.
He smiled sadly. Perhaps the story returned with an allegoric melancholy
to his mind. With a sigh and a smile he continued--
"Childe Waylin fell in love with a phantom lady, and walked day and
night along the fells--people thought in solitude, really lured on by
the beautiful apparition, which, as his love increased, grew less
frequent, more distant and fainter, until at last, in the despair of his
wild pursuit, he threw himself over that terrible precipice, and so
perished. I have faith in instinct--faith in passion, which is but a
form of instinct. I am sure he did wisely."
"I sha'n't dispute it; it is not a case likely to happen often. These
phantom ladies seem to have given up practice of late years, or else
people have become proof against their wiles, and neither follow, nor
adore, nor lament them."
"I don't think these phantom ladies are at all out of date," said Mr.
Longcluse.
"Well, men have grown wiser, at all events."
"No wiser, no happier; in such a case there is no room for what the
world calls wisdom. Passion is absolute, and as for happiness, that or
despair hangs on the turn of a die."
"I have made that shadow a little more purple--do you think it an
improvement?"
"Yes, certainly. How well it throws out that bit of the ruin that
catches the sunlight! You have made a very poetical sketch; you have
given not merely the outlines, but the character of that singular
place--the _genus loci_ is there."
Just as Mr. Longcluse had finished this complimentary criticism, the
door opened, and rather unexpectedly Richard Arden entered the room.
Very decidedly _de trop_ at that moment, his friend thought Mr. Arden.
Longcluse meant again to have turned the current of their talk into the
channel he liked best, and here was interruption. But was not Richard
Arden his sworn brother, and was he not sure to make an excuse of some
sort, and take his leave, and thus restore him to his _tête-à-tête_.
But was there--or was it fancy--a change scarcely perceptible, but
unpleasant, in the manner of this sworn brother? Was it not very
provoking, and a little odd, that he did not go away, but stayed on and
on, till at length a servant came in with a message from Sir Reginald to
Mr. Longcluse, to say that he would be very happy to see him whenever he
chose to come to his room? Mr. Longcluse was profoundly vexed. Richard
Arden, however, had resumed his old manner pretty nearly. Was the
interruption he had persisted in designed, or only accidental? Could he
suppose Richard Arden so stupid? He took his leave smiling, but with an
uncomfortable misgiving at his heart.
Richard Arden now proceeded in his own way, with some colouring and
enormous suppression at discretion, to give his sister such an account
as he thought would best answer of the interview he had just had with
his father. Honestly related, what occurred between them was as
follows:--
Richard Arden had come on summons from his father. Without a special
call, he never appeared at Mortlake while his father was there, and
never in his absence but with an understanding that Sir Reginald was to
hear nothing of it. He sat for a considerable time in the apartment that
opened from his father's dressing-room. He heard the baronet's peevish
voice ordering Crozier about. Something was dropped and broken, and the
same voice was heard in angrier alto. Richard Arden looked out of the
window and waited uncomfortably. He hated his father's pleadings with
him, and he did not know for what purpose he had appointed this
interview.
The door opened, and Sir Reginald entered, limping a little, for his
gout had returned slightly. He was leaning on a stick. His thin, dark
face and prominent eyes looked angry, and he turned about and poked his
dressing-room door shut with the point of his stick, before taking any
notice of his son.
"Sit down, if you please, in that chair," he said, pointing to the
particular seat he meant him to occupy with two vicious little pokes, as
if he were running a small-sword through it. "I wrote to ask you to
come, Sir, merely to say a word respecting your sister, for whom, if not
for other members of your family, you still retain, I suppose, some
consideration and natural affection."
Here was a pause which Richard Arden did not very well know what to do
with. However, as his father's fierce eyes were interrogating him, he
murmured--
"Certainly, Sir."
"Yes, and under that impression I showed you Lord Wynderbroke's letter.
He is to dine here to-morrow at a quarter to eight--please to
recollect--precisely. Do you hear?"
"I do, Sir, everything."
"You must meet him. Let us not appear more divided than we are. You know
Wynderbroke--he's peculiar. Why the devil shouldn't we appear united? I
don't say _be_ united, for you won't. But there is something owed to
decency. I suppose you admit that? And before people, confound you, Sir,
can't we appear affectionate? He's a quiet man, Wynderbroke, and makes a
great deal of these domestic sentiments. So you'll please to show some
respect and affection while he's present, and I mean to show some
affection for you; and after that, Sir, you may go to the devil for me!
I hope you understand?"
"Perfectly, Sir."
"As to Wynderbroke, the thing is settled--it is _there_." He pointed to
his desk. "What I told you before, I tell you now--you must see that
your sister doesn't make a fool of herself. I have nothing more to say
to you at present--unless you have something to say to me?"
This latter part of the sentence had something sharp and interrogative
in it. There was just a chance, it seemed to imply, that his son might
have something to say upon the one point that lay near the old man's
heart.
"Nothing, Sir," said Richard, rising.
"No, no; so I supposed. You may go, Sir--nothing."
Of this interview, one word of the real purport of which he could not
tell to his sister, he gave her an account very slight indeed, but
rather pleasant.