The Guest of Quesnay Part 20

I sought for something to say which might have a chance of impressing her--a desperate task on the face of it--and I mentioned that Miss Ward was her hostess.

One might as well have tried to impress Amedee. She "made a little mouth" and went on dabbling with her brushes. "Hostess? Pooh!" she said cheerfully. "My INFANTILE father sent me here to be in her charge while he ran home to America. Mr. Ward's to paint my portrait, when he comes.

Give and take--it's simple enough, you see!"

Here was frankness with a vengeance, and I fell back upon silence, whereupon a pause ensued, to my share of which I imparted the deepest shadow of disapproval within my power. Unfortunately, she did not look at me; my effort pa.s.sed with no other effect than to make some of my facial muscles ache.

"'Portrait of Miss E., by George Ward, H. C.,'" this painfully plain-speaking young lady continued presently. "On the line at next spring's Salon, then packed up for the dear ones at home. I'd as soon own an 'Art Bronze,' myself--or a nice, clean porcelain Arab."

"No doubt you've forgotten for the moment," I said, "that Mr. Ward is my friend."

"Not in painting, he isn't," she returned quickly,

"I consider his work altogether creditable; it's carefully done, conscientious, effective--"

"Isn't that true of the ladies in the hairdressers' windows?" she asked with a.s.sumed artlessness. "Can't you say a kind word for them, good gentleman, and heaven bless you?"

"Why sha'n't I be asked to Quesnay again?"

She laughed. "You haven't seemed FANATICALLY appreciative of your opportunities when you have been there; you might have carried her off from Cresson Ingle instead of vice versa. But after all, you AREN'T"--here she paused and looked at me appraisingly for a moment-"you AREN'T the most piratical dash-in-and-dash-out and leave-everything-upside-down-behind-you sort of man, are you?"

"No, I believe I'm not."

"However, that's only a SMALL half of the reason," Miss Elliott went on. "She's furious on account of this."

These were vague words, and I said so.

"Oh, THIS," she explained, "my being here; your letting me come.

Impropriety--all of that!" A sharp whistle issued from her lips. "Oh!

the EXCORIATING things she's said of my pursuing you!"

"But doesn't she know that it's only part of your siege of Madame Brossard's; that it's a subterfuge in the hope of catching a glimpse of Oliver Saffren?"

"No!" she cried, her eyes dancing; "I told her that, but she thinks it's only a subterfuge in the hope of catching more than a glimpse of you!"

I joined laughter with her then. She was the first to stop, and, looking at me somewhat doubtfully, she said:

"Whereas, the truth is that it's neither. You know very well that I want to paint."

"Certainly," I agreed at once. "Your devotion to 'your art' and your hope of spending half an hour at Madame Brossard's now and then are separable;--which reminds me: Wouldn't you like me to look at your sketch?"

"No, not yet." She jumped up and brought her camp-stool over to mine.

"I feel that I could better bear what you'll say of it after I've had some lunch. Not a SYLLABLE of food has crossed my lips since coffee at dawn!"

I spread before her what Amedee had prepared; not sandwiches for the pocket to-day, but a wicker hamper, one end of which we let rest upon her knees, the other upon mine, and at sight of the foie gras, the delicate, devilled partridge, the truffled salad, the fine yellow cheese, and the long bottle of good red Beaune, revealed when the cover was off, I could almost have forgiven the old rascal for his scandal-mongering. As for my vis-a-vis, she p.r.o.nounced it a "maddening sight."

"Fall to, my merry man," she added, "and eat your fill of this fair pasty, under the greenwood tree." Obeying her instructions with right good-will, and the lady likewise evincing no hatred of the viands, we made a cheerful meal of it, topping it with peaches and bunches of grapes.

"It is unfair to let you do all the catering," said Miss Elliott, after carefully selecting the largest and best peach.

"Jean Ferret's friend does that," I returned, watching her rather intently as she dexterously peeled the peach. She did it very daintily, I had to admit that--though I regretted to observe indications of the gourmet in one so young. But when it was peeled clean, she set it on a fresh green leaf, and, to my surprise, gave it to me.

"You see," she continued, not observing my remorseful confusion, "I couldn't destroy Elizabeth's peace of mind and then raid her larder to boot. That poor lady! I make her trouble enough, but it's nothing to what she's going to have when she finds out some things that she must find out."

"What is that?"

"About Mrs. Harman," was the serious reply. "Elizabeth hasn't a clue."

"'Clue'?" I echoed.

"To Louise's strange affair." Miss Elliott's expression had grown as serious as her tone. "It is strange; the strangest thing I ever knew."

"But there's your own case," I urged. "Why should you think it strange of her to take an interest in Saffren?"

"I adore him, of course," she said. "He is the most glorious-looking person I've ever seen, but on my WORD--" She paused, and as her gaze met mine I saw real earnestness in her eyes. "I'm afraid--I was half joking the other day--but now I'm really afraid Louise is beginning to be in love with him."

"Oh, mightn't it be only interest, so far?" I said.

"No, it's much more. And I've grown so fond of her!" the girl went on, her voice unexpectedly verging upon tremulousness. "She's quite wonderful in her way--such an understanding sort of woman, and generous and kind; there are so many things turning up in a party like ours at Quesnay that show what people are really made of, and she's a rare, fine spirit. It seems a pity, with such a miserable first experience as she had, that this should happen. Oh I know," she continued rapidly, cutting off a half-formed protest of mine. "He isn't mad--and I'm sorry I tried to be amusing about it the night you dined at the chateau. I know perfectly well he's not insane; but I'm absolutely sure, from one thing and another, that--well--he isn't ALL THERE! He's as beautiful as a seraph and probably as good as one, but something is MISSING about him--and it begins to look like a second tragedy for her."

"You mean, she really--" I began.

"Yes, I do," she returned, with a catch in her throat. "She conies to my room when the others are asleep. Not that she tells me a great deal, but it's in the air, somehow; she told me with such a strained sort of gaiety of their meeting and his first joining her; and there was something underneath as if she thought _I_ might be really serious in my ravings about him, and--yes, as if she meant to warn me off. And the other night, when I saw her after their lunching together at Dives, I asked her teasingly if she'd had a happy day, and she laughed the prettiest laugh I ever heard and put her arms around me--then suddenly broke out crying and ran out of the room."

"But that may have been no more than over-strained nerves," I feebly suggested.

"Of course it was!" she cried, regarding me with justifiable astonishment. "It's the CAUSE of their being overstrained that interests me! It's all so strange and distressing," she continued more gently, "that I wish I weren't there to see it. And there's poor George Ward coming--ah! and when Elizabeth learns of it!"

"Mrs. Harman had her way once, in spite of everything," I said thoughtfully.

"Yes, she was a headstrong girl of nineteen, then. But let's not think it could go as far as that! There!" She threw a peach-stone over her shoulder and sprang up gaily. "Let's not talk of it; I THINK of it enough! It's time for you to give me a RACKING criticism on my morning's work."

Taking off her coat as she spoke, she unb.u.t.toned the cuffs of her manly blouse and rolled up her sleeves as far as they would go, preparations which I observed with some perplexity.

"If you intend any violence," said I, "in case my views of your work shouldn't meet your own, I think I'll be leaving."

"Wait," she responded, and kneeling upon one knee beside a bush near by, thrust her arms elbow-deep under the outer mantle of leaves, shaking the stems vigorously, and sending down a shower of sparkling drops. Never lived sane man, or madman, since time began, who, seeing her then, could or would have denied that she made the very prettiest picture ever seen by any person or persons whatsoever--but her purpose was difficult to fathom. Pursuing it, I remarked that it was improbable that birds would be nesting so low.

"It's for a finger bowl," she said briskly. And rising, this most practical of her s.e.x dried her hands upon a fresh serviette from the hamper. "Last night's rain is worth two birds in the bush."

With that, she readjusted her sleeves, lightly donned her coat, and preceded me to her easel. "Now," she commanded, "slaughter! It's what I let you come with me for."

I looked at her sketch with much more attention than I had given the small board she had used as a bait in the courtyard of Les Trois Pigeons. Today she showed a larger ambition, and a larger canvas as well--or, perhaps I should say a larger burlap, for she had chosen to paint upon something strongly resembling a square of coffee-sacking.

But there was no doubt she had "found colour" in a swash-buckling, bullying style of forcing it to be there, whether it was or not, and to "vibrate," whether it did or not. There was not much to be said, for the violent kind of thing she had done always hushes me; and even when it is well done I am never sure whether its right place is the "Salon des Independants" or the Luxembourg. It SEEMS dreadful, and yet sometimes I fear in secret that it may be a real transition, or even an awakening, and that the men I began with, and I, are standing still.

The older men called US lunatics once, and the critics said we were "daring," but that was long ago.

"Well?" she said.

I had to speak, so I paraphrased a mot of Degas (I think it was Degas) and said: