The Great Amulet Part 63

The blush that still burned in her cheeks spread slowly over her neck to the soft lace at her breast; and the man felt that in his momentary vexation he had struck too hard. Then her eyes flashed fire into his.

"Major Desmond, if you begin saying things like that to me--I shall _hate_ you."

"No, Quita. It'll never be that between us. I apologise. But you know I care immensely for your husband, and it angers me to see you--apparently indifferent . . ."

"Indifferent? How _dare_ you . . . ?" she breathed low and pa.s.sionately, her breath coming in small gasps.

"I understand. But I'm not sorry I roused you.--Here comes Honor. I know she wants to get home early. Good-night to you. Am I forgiven?"

"No. But you will be--to-morrow morning. I believe one could forgive you almost anything."

"I'll not be base enough to take advantage of such a generous admission," he answered, smiling and grasping her hand.

Lenox, with a keen glance at his wife's face, followed the Desmonds into the verandah, and helped Honor into her seat.

"You'll keep your promise, won't you?" she pleaded. "And go straight to bed without even looking into your study. Never mind if the lamp burns there all night. You can charge me for the kerosene!"

"That's a bargain then," he answered, laughing. "It's like old times to have _you_ laying commands on me again!"

"Not only to-night, remember: a whole week of nights and more."

"Trust me. I have promised. Good-night, Mrs Desmond, and thank you."

As the dog-cart turned into the open road, Honor spoke: "Theo, if she lets him go to pieces again . . . I shall never, never forgive her."

There was a break in her low voice, and Desmond slipping a hand through her arm, pressed it close against him.

"You dear blessed woman, no fear of that. She cares,--with all her heart. But there are faults and difficulties on both sides; and I'm afraid they have still a lot of rough ground to get over before they settle into their stride."

And Quita, the perverse, Quita, the inconsistent, cried herself to sleep that night upon her husband's shoulder.

CHAPTER x.x.x

"Hearts are like horses; they come and go without whip or spur."

--_Native Proverb_.

"Only ten minutes more; a bare ten minutes. Then you shall 'ease off'

and stretch your legs a little. I'm sure by this time you must be wis.h.i.+ng all artists at the bottom of the sea!"

"N-no; I haven't got quite as far as that yet," Richardson answered with lazy good-humour, flicking the ash off his cigar.

"You will, though, before I've done with you! I know I have been exacting to-day, for the eyes are the crux of a portrait. Unless the individual soul looks out of them, it's a dead thing. D'you know, I once told Eldred that yours were like bits of sea water with sunbeams caught in them; and the effect isn't easy to produce on canvas. But I'm succeeding--I'm succeeding _a merveille_. That's why I must get the effect while my hand is in; and you've not once hampered me by looking bored or impatient. How is one to reward you for such angelic behaviour?"

"There are ways and ways. Am I allowed to choose?"

"Perhaps,--within limits! But we'll discuss that when I can give my mind to the subject. Now, your head a little more to the right, please. That's better. You get out of position when you talk."

"Sorry. I may lean back though, mayn't I?"

"Why, of course! I only wonder you don't get up and throw the chair at my head!"

He laughed and leaned back accordingly, blowing an endless chain of smoke-rings, and watching her face, her supple slenderness, the deft movements of her hand, with a contentment whose vital ingredients he either could not or would not recognise--yet.

For a full week he had spent many hours of each day in smoking and watching her thus; and the fact that he had never yet found the occupation monotonous was a danger-signal in itself. But your comfort-loving man is singularly obtuse in the matter of danger-signals: and loyalty apart, Richardson was too genuinely devoted to his friend to admit the possibility of that which was almost an accomplished fact. The man was not built for high tragedy; and, in truth, the sittings were an equal pleasure to him when Lenox joined them, as he often did; the two men smoking and talking horses or their beloved 'shop,' while Quita worked and listened, and interrupted without scruple whenever the spirit moved her.

Yet beneath the smooth-seeming surface of things Lenox was more than ever aware of her curious detachment, of a disturbing sense that his hold over her was still an imperfect thing. Nor was he altogether mistaken. Quita had not yet learned to give herself royally. The fact that she had put her heart and life into the hands of the man she loved did not prevent her from going her own way; from feeling--as she had always felt--responsible to herself alone for her words and actions.

And the past week had seemed to emphasise these idiosyncrasies; because, at the first mysterious breath of inspiration, the submerged artist in her had risen again with power, had, for the time being, dominated her,--body and soul: and she may surely be forgiven if the 'world-lifting joy' of creation swept her off her feet; if she had eyes and thoughts for little else save the picture coming to life under her hand. Perhaps it needs an artist, one who has felt the Divine breath stir a spark into a flame, rightly to understand and make allowance for such spiritual intoxication. Michael,--shallow-hearted egoist though he might be,--would have understood: because he was an artist. But Lenox, being simply a man and a soldier, found it difficult to distinguish between her absorption in the picture and in the subject of the picture; difficult to realise her momentary freedom from the personal equation.

What with incessant sittings, and equally incessant people to tea and dinner, he had little intimate speech of her in the daytime; and in the long hours of wakefulness as he lay beside her listening to her even breathing, he faced the fact that his growing irritability was due to jealousy;--not the jealousy that doubts or suspects,--of that he was incapable; but the primitive man's demand for exclusive possession of his own. Probably Desmond, in such a case, would have lost his temper and cleared the air in half an hour. But temperament is destiny: and Lenox was not so made. He merely shut the door upon the evil thing; and tried--not very successfully--to ignore its existence. And with three evil spirits in possession of him, it is not surprising if at times he gave place to the devil.

Of all this Quita was airily unaware. Since he had given up coming to bed at unearthly hours, she concluded that he slept. Mixed motives had held him silent in regard to the threatening shadow of opium, even during her moment of collapse and self-reproach after the expedition dinner; and of his dawning jealousy he was at once too ashamed and too proud to speak.

This morning his repressed irritability had been more marked than usual; and Quita had decided that once free from her enthralling picture, she must devote herself definitely to 'cheering him up.' But for the present she discouraged troublesome thoughts; and now, while Richardson sat smoking and watching her, she was conscious of nothing on earth save the exhilaration of success.

She let fall both hands at last, with a sigh of supreme satisfaction.

"There! I can do no more to it--for the present. You are released.

You may come and look."

He obeyed; and stood beside her lost in uncomprehending admiration of her skill.

It was Quita who spoke first. "We have achieved a rather remarkable bit of work between us, you and I."

"We?" he echoed in amaze. "I don't quite see where I come in."

"No: you wouldn't: and I'm afraid I can't enlighten you. But the fact remains. Would you mind if I sent it to the Academy, just as a Portrait of a Soldier?"

"The Academy? Good Lord! I should be proud."

"Thank you. I believe they'll hang it; and hang it well. That will be _my_ reward. But what about yours?"

She looked up at him now, letting her eyes rest confidently in his: and the glad light in them held him, dazzled him, so that he forgot to answer her; forgot much that he ought to have remembered, in the flashlight of a revelation so simple yet so astounding that it took him several seconds to understand what had befallen him.

"Well?" she asked, smiling. "Is it so tremendous?" And the spell was broken. But reality remained.

He felt something in him throb strangely; the pain of it melting into a glow more startling than the first shock; and with an awkward laugh he turned abruptly away from her;--too abruptly, as a twinge in his left leg gave warning, so that the laugh ended in an involuntary sound of pain.

"Mr Richardson, do be careful," she reproved him gently. "What has come to you? And why do you go off like that without answering my question?"

For he had crossed to the mantelpiece; and a photo of her portrait of Lenox seemed to be absorbing his attention. Nor did he take his eyes from it in speaking.

"Because--well, because it struck me that perhaps you wouldn't be so keen about rewarding me,--if you knew . . . ."