|Clare was greatly excited. She regarded it as a great triumph that she
had prevailed upon Mr. Westwood to write the book which was to give an
account of his captivity in Central Africa, his explorations--some of
them involuntary--for the people among whom he dwelt as a prisoner and
an object of worship, carried him about with them on their raids--and
his discoveries. She was, however, in great dread lest her part in the
compact should be indifferently performed.
She daily expressed her doubts to Agnes, bewailing the fact that she had
been too easily persuaded by the maestro to abandon her study of the
art of painting for the art of vocalism. If she had only devoted to the
former the time she had spent upon the latter, she would have been a
good artist, she declared. Of what value had her singing been to her,
she inquired in doleful tones. It had been of no use to her, but if she
had continued her study of drawing, she should not now be on the fair
way to humiliation.
Agnes did her best to reassure her, when she had seen her portfolio of
water colour sketches--some of them charming open-air studies and others
of the picturesque peasantry of the Biscayan provinces. She felt sure,
she said, that if her drawings done by the direction of Mr. Westwood,
were of the same quality as those in the portfolio, the publishers would
be quite satisfied with them. Clare kissed her friend a dozen times in
acknowledgment of her kind encouragement, but afterwards she shook her
head despondently.
“It is one thing to draw for my own amusement--to make these simple
records of the places which I have visited and the people I hove seen,
but quite another thing to illustrate a serious book--a book that is
worth twenty-five thousand pounds. Just think of it! My drawings in a
book that is worth such a sum--a book that will be in everybody's hands
in the course of a month or two!” she cried, as she paced the room
excitedly. “Oh yes; I know what every one will say: It would be far
better if so valuable a book had not had its pages disfigured by such
amateurish efforts! Oh yes; I have seen the criticisms in the English
papers. I know what they will say. Oh, what a fool I was to agree to do
the drawings!”
“I don't think that you need be at all afraid to face such a task,” said
Agnes. “But if you are, why not write to Mr. Westwood, telling him that
you repent?”
“Oh, I would be far more afraid to face him after that than to face the
drawings,” cried the girl.
“What would Mr. Westwood think of any one who would break a compact?”
Agnes looked at her in silence for a few moments. She was tempted to
tell Clare the full story of the compact which she had once made with
that man, and the way in which he had broken it, ignoring the fact that
it had ever been entered into by either of them. She felt tempted to
ask her if the susceptibilities of such a man on the subject of
compacts--especially those made with women--were to be greatly
respected; but she controlled herself, and when Clare sat down with
tearful eyes, she did her best to comfort her.
Then Claude went to London and had an interview of a very satisfactory
character with Messrs. Shekels & Shackles. All that they stipulated was
that he should not give himself away--the phrase was Mr.
Shekels'--at the Royal Geographical Society. The papers read
by distinguished--travellers--and some who were not quite so
distinguished--at the big meetings of the Society, were only designed
to stimulate the imagination of the public and prepare the way for the
forthcoming book. A paper that discounted any portion of the forthcoming
book--Mr. Shekels took it for granted that the book was always
forthcoming--was worse than futile for advertising purposes He
urged upon Mr. Westwood the advisability of putting nothing into his
Geographical Society lecture that the newspapers could not lay hold
of for the purposes of leading articles. The newspapers did not want
pathological erudition. They wanted something that all their readers
could understand--something about cannibalism, for example; cannibalism
as a topic never failed to attract general readers. He hoped that Mr.
Westwood would see his way to talk about the cannibals of Central Africa
in his paper. That would tickle the palates of the general public,
causing them to look forward to the book, which need not necessarily
contain a single allusion to cannibalism. In one word, Mr. Shekels
explained that the lecture should be a kind of _hors d'ouvre_ to the
literary banquet which was to follow.
All this he explained to Mr. Westwood, very tenderly, of course, for
Mr. Westwood was (unfortunately, Messrs. Shekels & Shackles thought) not
like the majority of distinguished explorers, anxious that the sale of
his book should be enormous, being (unfortunately, again,) independent
of book-writing for his living. If they were to say anything to hurt
his feelings, he might take his book, when he had it written, to another
publishing house, who then would have the privilege, so earnestly sought
after by Messrs. Shekles & Shackles, of losing a considerable sum by its
publication.
On the subject of the illustrating of the book Mr. Shackles--he was the
artistic, not the business partner--had a good deal to say. He did
not smile when Mr. Westwood mentioned that there was a lady of his
acquaintance who would execute the drawings under his own supervision.
No, Mr. Westwood was well out of the front door before he had a laugh
with his partner, who did not laugh but only winked at the notion of
Mr. Westwood's lady friend. But while Mr. Westwood was in his room Mr.
Shackles explained quite courteously that he should like to see some
of the lady's work, so that he should be in a position to judge as to
whether or not it lent itself well to the processes of reproduction.
That was how Mr. Shackles gave expression, when face to face with
Mr. Westwood, of the doubts which he afterwards formulated in a few
well-chosen phrases to his partner as to the artistic--the saleably
artistic--possibilities of the unnamed lady's work.
Then Mr. Westwood had an interview with the executive of the Royal
Geographical Society on the subject of his lecture; and the next day
every newspaper in the kingdom contained a paragraph announcing this
fact, and most of them had half-column leading articles commenting upon
the decision come to by the explorer, and pointing out that, owing to
the extraordinary circumstances connected with his involuntary stay
in the interior of the Dark Continent, the paper which he had so
courteously placed at the disposal of the Society could scarcely fail
to be the most interesting, as well as the most important, given to the
world through the same body for many years.
It was with great trepidation that Clare submitted her sketches to Mr.
Westwood. He had, of course, to pay another visit to The Knoll in order
to make a choice of the works to be sent to Mr. Shackles as specimens;
and even when Claude had expressed himself confident that Mr. Shackles
would be surprised at the high quality of the technique in those he
selected, the girl was not reassured. It was not till Claude had shown
her the publishers' letter regarding the drawings--another visit had to
be paid to The Knoll in order to show her this letter--that she began
to regain confidence in herself. Her face was rosy with pleasure before
Claude had finished reading the letter.
The fact was that Messrs. Shekels & Shackles had come to the decision
that they would be acting wisely in humouring Mr. Westwood in this
matter of illustrations; and seeing that the specimens of Miss
Tristram's work were susceptible of being improved by a judicious artist
accustomed to manipulate such work as was to be reproduced by certain
processes, the letter on the subject had been as nearly enthusiastic
as Messrs. Shekels & Shackles ever allowed themselves to become in the
presence of their typewriter. They had meant to gratify Mr. Westwood,
and the reply which they got from him convinced them that their object
was achieved.
For the next week Clare spent her days in the greenhouse, making
sketches of all the tropical plants in Agnes's collection. From studying
the general character ol the illustrations in several volumes of African
travel--Agnes had on her shelves every volume of exploration in the
Continent--the girl became aware of the fact that the public will not
believe that any drawing is offered to them in good faith unless it
contains at least one tropical plant with which they are familiar.
She made up her mind that the vegetation in her pictures should be
plentiful, however far short it might fall in artistic qualities. This
was the week during which Claude was occupied in the preparation of his
paper for the Geographical Society; but in spite of his being so busy,
he found time to pay more than one visit to The Kroll. His were business
visits, he was careful to explain. Yes, it was necessary for him to see
that the backgrounds sketched by Clare at least suggested the tropics.
Agnes stood by while he made his suggestions at these times, and when,
now and again, she was applied to for an opinion on some point on which
the others could not make up their mind, she gave her opinion--that was
all the part she took in the transaction. She was beginning to be weary
of the vegetation of the tropics and its adaptability to pictorial
treatment, though for some years of her life she had passed no day
without reading a page or two that had some bearing upon Central Africa.
She was startled as she reflected upon the change that had taken place
in her views during a fortnight. She never wished to see another book
on Central Africa. She could not even do more than pretend to take
an interest in the book which Claude was about to write and Clare to
illustrate.
Once as she heard him describe to the girl a scene which he thought she
should be prepared to deal with in a picture, her mind went back to the
nights when she had awaked shrieking from a dream in which she had seen
him lying dead in the midst of the savages who had massacred him and his
companions. She had had such dreams frequently during the months when
the newspapers were writing their comments upon the disappearance of
Westwood and his expedition. How feeble and colourless would be the most
spirited of Clare's illustrations compared to those dreams! She smiled
as she recalled some of them. She wondered how it was possible for
her ever to have taken so much interest in African exploration It was
certainly not a subject that many girls would pass several years of
their life trying to master.
Often when she glanced across the room and saw Claude there she asked
herself if it was possible that she still loved him.
She could not answer the question. Her love for him had become so much
a part of her life she could not imagine living without it. She wondered
if women could continue loving men who had treated them as he had
treated her. When she thought over his treatment of her she wondered
how it was that she did not hate him. She had heard of love turning to
hatred--hatred as immortal as love--and yet it did not appear to her
that she had such a feeling in regard to him. She seemed to have
settled down into her life under its altered conditions as easily and as
uncomplainingly as it she had always looked forward to life under such
conditions.
It was on the eve of Claude Westwood's departure for London to appear
before the Geographical Society, that Clare sat down to the piano. She
had latterly neglected her singing in favour of her drawing, and now
only opened the piano at the request of Agnes.
“What shall I sing?” she cried. “I feel just now as if I could make
a great success at La Scala--I feel that my nerves are strung to the
highest pitch possible, though why I should be so is a mystery to me. It
is not I who have to appear in that big hall to-morrow evening, and yet
I feel as if I were about to make my _début_.”
She ran her fingers up and down the keys, improvising a succession of
chords that sounded like a march of triumph.
“I want to sing something like that--something with trumpets in it,” she
said, with a laugh. “I feel in a mood for trumpets and drums. You
heard what Mr. Westwood said about the musical instruments of the
Gakennas--that awful drum made of rhinoceros hide pared down and
stretched between two branches? What an awful instrument of torture!”
“Shocking, indeed--nearly as bad as a pianoforte under incompetent
hands--probably worse than a brass orchestra made in Germany,” said
Agnes. “Don't let your song be dominated by any influence less cultured
than Chopin.”
Clare went on improvising, but gradually the notes of triumph became
less pronounced, and the modulation was in a minor key. In a short time
the random fancies assumed a definite form; but it was probably the
chance playing of a few notes that suggested to her the exquisite
“Nightingale” theme, so splendidly worked out by her master--the
greatest of all Italians.
“You and I, you and I,
Sisters are we, O nightingale.
On the wings of song we fly--
On the wings of song we sail;
When our feathered pinions fail,
Floats a feather of song on high
Light as thistledown in a gale.
You and I the heaven will scale;
For only song can reach the sky.
Only the song of the nightingale;
And we are sisters, you and I.”
She fled away on the wings of the exquisite song, startling Agnes with
the passion which she imparted to every note--a passion that waxed
greater with every phrase until at the close of the stanza it became
overwhelming. The music of the moon is embodied in every note, though
the master was too artistic to make any attempt to reproduce the
nightingale's song. He knew that no such attempt could ever approach
success; but he knew that it was within the scope of his art to
produce upon the mind the same effect as is produced by the song of the
nightingale, and this effect he achieved.
Agnes listened with surprise at first, for the girl had never sung with
such _abandon_ before; but at the plaintive second stanza--the music
illustrated another effect of the bird's singing--she half-closed her
eyes, and gave herself up to the delight of listening. At the third
stanza--Love Triumphant, the composer had called it--she became more
amazed than before. The theme takes the form of a duet, as the scena
was originally arranged by the composer, and now it actually appeared to
Agnes as if the tenor part was being sung as well as the soprano, in the
room--no, not in the room, but in the distance--outside the house.
She raised her head and listened eagerly. There could be no doubt about
it--some one was singing at the window the tenor part of the duet.