Grey Town Part 28

"How do you contrive----," Sylvia began.

Custance turned towards her with a quick start, for, like other artists, he had nerves that were peculiarly sensitive and reacted acutely to impressions. Seeing that the questioner was a beautiful girl, he regarded her with a kindly smile.

"Forgive my rudeness," said Sylvia, "the question was almost involuntary."

"The question is not yet completed. How do I contrive----?" he asked.

"How do you contrive to s.n.a.t.c.h up the colours of nature and place them on your canvas?"

"I have all the colours there," he said, pointing to his palette, "and so has every painter; but some of us approach nearer to Nature. I have never yet succeeded in quite pleasing myself. I have the deep blue of the sea, but not the representation of infinite depth and infinite power."

"You approach very closely to it," she answered. "Now sit down and paint, and let me watch you. I am a painter myself; not an artist like you, but one who dabbles a little in an amateur fas.h.i.+on."

"May I see your sketch book?" he asked, and took it from her hand. "Very good!" he cried. "Shall I tell you what I think?"

"Please do!"

"You might be an artist, if you were content with that alone; but you are too versatile. Am I right? The result is great possibilities that will never be realised unless you concentrate your power on one thing."

"Let me watch you," she said, "and I will resolve to do nothing but paint."

She sat on a sand bank behind him, and he painted his picture, turning occasionally to speak to her.

At last she rose unwillingly.

"I must go, or my friends will fancy I am lost. May I come here again and take a few more lessons?"

"Certainly, if you will. I shall be delighted. But when this picture is completed I pack up my effects and go. It is a pity you do not live in Melbourne," he added regretfully.

"But I do," she answered.

"Then you must come to me and study the finis.h.i.+ng touches of your art.

You need only a few more details and you will be an artist."

"Oh, you are too kind!" she cried.

"Not at all. It is a privilege to encourage talent," he answered.

Nevertheless had she not been an attractive woman, he would not have offered his a.s.sistance so willingly.

"I suppose your parents will not object?" he asked. "You can a.s.sure them I am a most trustworthy young man."

"My parents allow me to do exactly what I wish," she answered. "You see, they can trust me," she added, smilingly.

"Naturally. Then it is a promise."

This was their first meeting. Subsequently it became her custom to ride out alone after breakfast. She chose the morning, when Kathleen was busy and could not accompany her, and she took her sketching book; but most of her time was spent in watching Custance, and absorbing his art.

When her teacher left Grey Town she suddenly realised that her parents and friends in Melbourne needed her society, and, after an affectionate parting from Kathleen and the Quirks, was carried out of Grey Town life by the train that is termed an express.

In Melbourne, an indulgent father and mother, who fondly believed that she was perfect, readily consented to her improving her talent under the teaching of the great artist, and she made rapid progress in her art.

But this was not the chief result of her lessons. Slowly she became infatuated with the personality of Custance, while he, having begun to play the game of love simply for the excitement it afforded him, finally found himself involved in a grand pa.s.sion. This he declared to her in language suggested by his artistic temperament, and she responded in a similar strain.

Then came a pause, when he asked himself: "Is it fair that any woman shall link her fate to mine?" He looked at the small syringe on the mantelpiece and the tiny little bottle beside it. He thought of the marks on his arm, of the pa.s.sing inspirations he thus found, and of the subsequent fits of remorse.

The following day, while they were working in the studio, Sylvia painting and he criticising her work, he asked:

"If I were a drunkard, would you still care for me?"

She did not so much as turn while she answered:

"Whatever you are, I have given myself to you."

"There are worse things than drink," he said, as if communing with himself. "There are drugs that enslave and debase a man; drugs that lead him into the gardens of pleasure and raise him to the heights of delight, so that he believes himself to be a superman, and," he almost groaned, "lower him to the uttermost depths. Supposing----."

She turned to face him smilingly. "I refuse to suppose," she answered.

"I have resigned myself to you, and I am ready to accept and condone everything. I love you, and that is sufficient for me."

What could a man such as he, who had never denied himself anything, do under these circ.u.mstances? He threw his scruples to the winds and made love in a feverish manner, regardless of the cost. Sylvia introduced him to her parents, and he was made welcome by the hospitable and kindly old people. At last he offered himself to Mr. Jackson as a husband for Sylvia. But here he met with a check, for the old man had a strange antipathy for artists; his capable, matter-of-fact business mind mistrusted the emotional, and he firmly believed that artists were governed by the emotions. He was willing that Custance should be a friend; he refused him as Sylvia's husband.

Custance was prepared to accept this as an adverse judgment, and to bow to Mr. Jackson's decision; for he was a man of honour. But, when he announced his intention to Sylvia, she refused to accept it.

"By what right," she asked, "does my father take my happiness in his hands? I can best judge the husband I need, and I refuse to give you up.

It is too late for him to interfere now."

"You must remember----," he began.

"I will remember nothing but that I love you, and that you have told me you love me. That is the only thing that counts. You do love me, Claude?" she answered.

"Love you! I wors.h.i.+p you," he answered, "but your father has done so much for you----."

"I grant that. There is no father like him. If he had stopped me in the beginning I would have accepted his commands. Now it is too late. I can't obey him now."

"I feel myself bound by honour----," he said.

"You are bound by honour to me. My father has no right to tell me who I shall marry. I refuse to be treated as a child; I am a woman, capable of choosing my own husband."

Thus did she urge him on against his better judgment, and one day they were missing. For better or worse Sylvia Jackson was married to Claude Custance, brilliant, erratic, a slave to morphia. For his sake she forgot her duty to her parents, the love and kindness they had lavished on her. The day that she left them a cloud came and rested over their home. For her, marriage proved a cruel and bitter disillusionment, for no woman can ever rival that deadly mistress, morphia.

The night before Sylvia's elopement, Desmond O'Connor had dined with the Jacksons. Mr. Jackson had hoped to displace Custance with the handsome young fellow whom he loved, and Sylvia had made use of Desmond to conceal her infatuation for the artist. They had sat together out on the verandah, and she had given him a rose.

"A rose for constancy," she said, as he held it in his hand and inhaled the perfume. "You deserve it."

"Shall my constancy be rewarded?" he asked eagerly.

"What a handsome boy you are!" she laughed. "I wonder will it be rewarded?"

"Why do you tease me?" he asked. "If you could read my heart----?"

"I can read it in your eyes. I know every word they say. Come inside and sing to me."