A Comedy of Masks Part 21

The other hastened to rea.s.sure him.

"Oh, no, not at all. But I thought you might be able to tell me where the person is to be found, her address, or something about her. I understand that she was a model; you probably know her...."

The painter shrugged his shoulders.

"Who is she? What is her name?"

"Kitty--that's all I know."

"Kitty? Kitty Crichton, I suppose."

A light dawned on him; the name opened a door to many forgotten trivial incidents. He did not speak again for a minute, and when he broke the silence there was a harder tone in his voice, and he rose from his chair at the same time.

"I don't see how this can concern me, or you, either. You must pardon me if I say that I dislike meddling, and people who meddle."

Sylvester blushed hotly.

"You don't suppose I want to do him anything but good," he said diplomatically, trying to convince himself that he was not damaging the reputation for perfect candour which he hoped that he enjoyed.

"It's not a pleasant task, but there are circ.u.mstances in which one has to sacrifice one's scruples--one's feelings."

Oswyn glanced at him again, with some contempt in the lines of his worn face.

"Excuse me if I refrain from sounding your motives."

Then he paused, fingering his soft felt hat. Suddenly his face was illumined by a remarkably grim smile, and it became evident to the man who was watching him so anxiously that there had occurred some change in his mental perspective.

"I don't quite understand why you brought me into this," he added, the smile still hovering very lightly on his lips. "However, under the circ.u.mstances, I think I can't do much harm by putting you in the way of finding Mrs. Crichton. Let me recommend you to inquire for her at the office of the _Outcry_, the newspaper--she used to work for it, I believe--in Took's Court. They will know her address there. Took's Court--it's only a few minutes' walk from here.

Thanks, I can find my way out...."

"I suppose that was rather a stupid thing to do," he said regretfully, as he stopped in the doorway below to light a cigarette, "though not such a _betise_ as his, _mon dieu_!... But I couldn't resist the temptation. Now, I wonder if he's clever enough to find out the truth?"

CHAPTER XXI

The night was dark and still--so dark that above the tree-tops all was a soft, abysmal blank, so still that the j.a.panese lanterns scarcely swung on their strings among the apple-trees, and the leaves almost forgot to rustle. From the tent in the corner of the little garden (little, but large for a garden in London) the quaint, rapturous music of the Hungarian band floated in fitful extravagance, now wildly dominating, now graciously accompanying the murmur of many voices, the mingled pace of feet, and the lingering sweep of silken skirts upon the shadowed gra.s.s. The light streamed in broad, electric rays from the open windows of the low, wide house, and from the tall double doors of the studio, which had been added at the side, broken continually by the silhouettes of guests who entered the rooms or sought the cooler air outside, and dulling to the quiet glow of old stained gla.s.s the rich radiance of the fantastic coloured lanterns.

It was one of the series of summer evenings on which, according to the cards which had been so widely circulated, Mr. and Mrs.

Lightmark were "at home" to their friends and to their friends'

friends; and Rainham, who was a late arrival at the elaborate house in Grove Road, was able after a time to recognise many familiar faces, some of them almost forgotten, among those who had elected to be present. The rooms, in spite of the outlet afforded by the garden, were all surprisingly full; and after a hurried exchange of greetings, which Eve's duties as hostess had compelled her to curtail, he had pa.s.sed through a jungle of brilliant toilettes and unfamiliar figures into the newly-built, bright studio, where he had been told that he would find his friend. He had abundant leisure to corroborate the first impression of a splendour for which he was hardly prepared, which had seized him when he entered the hall and surrendered his coat to a courteous servant in livery, before Lightmark, radiant and flushed with success, singled him out in the corner to which he had retreated in loneliness.

"So glad to see you, old man! we were hoping you would turn up.

Better late than never. Isn't it a crush? I a.s.sure you our evenings are becoming quite an inst.i.tution. You will find scores of people you know here. Excuse my leaving you. Not much like the old studio days, eh? Afternoon tea with Copal's cups and saucers, and Mrs. Thingumy's tea-cakes. Your friend Lady Garnett is here somewhere--I'll be shot if I know where. Try the garden; you can get out this way. See you again later."

"All right, d.i.c.k," he answered with equanimity, smiling with a little inward amus.e.m.e.nt; "you look after your people. I will find my way about."

As he made his way discreetly among the little groups of people who strolled processionally along the gravel walks and beneath the trees, or disposed themselves in basket chairs upon the lawn, feeling himself vaguely exhilarated by the not too abstruse music of the posturing fiddlers, his eyes caressed by the soft glow of the j.a.panese lanterns, strung like antique jewelled necklets against the almost tangible blackness of the night, he found himself listening with an half-malicious amus.e.m.e.nt to the commonplace of the conversational formulae affected by the young world of society, the well-worn, patched-up questions, the antic.i.p.ated answers. It was very little changed since the time when he had not yet emanc.i.p.ated himself from the dreary bondage of such functions. It was croquet then, lawn-tennis now; for the rest only the names were different.

Presently he encountered McAllister, a solitary wanderer like himself, and they found themselves seats before long in the darkest corner of the garden, where a few chairs had been placed, outside the radius of the lanterns, underneath a weeping willow.

"And they say painting doesn't pay," said the Scotchman, extending his long hands comprehensively, with a quiet chuckle. "And I'm not saying that it does, mind you, when a man has notions like that queer, cantankerous devil Oswyn. He wouldn't make anything pay in this world. But if a man's clever and canny, and has the sense to see on which side his bread's b.u.t.tered ... why, it's just easier than nothing. And to think that the laddie isn't even an a.s.sociate."

"Yes. I suppose he's getting on pretty well," suggested Rainham, with a lazy enjoyment of this frank worldliness.

"Getting on! Doesn't it look like it? Isn't he entertaining his friends like--like a Rothschild? You know, of course, that he has sold his Academy picture, and next year's as well--and four figures for each of them?"

"Yes; and he's commissioned to paint a life-size portrait of the Hereditary Grand-d.u.c.h.ess of Oberschnitzelsteinwurst--an undertaking, by the way, for which I don't envy him. Oh, d.i.c.k's all right! What have you got in the Academy this year, by the way? I'm ashamed to say I haven't been there yet."

"You haven't! But you have seen Lightmark's picture? No? Well, it's a fine thing, and just as clever as---- But, mind you, I'm not prepared to say that Oswyn wouldn't have made something better out of it."

"Yes," said Rainham slowly, with the chill of the old misgiving about his heart, as he remembered the stormy encounter at the dock, with the haunting shadow of doubt in his mind, laboriously dismissed as an offence against his loyalty. "It seems to me that Oswyn has more real genius in his little finger than d.i.c.k has in his whole body; I am sure of it. It was a pity that they should both have chosen the same subject, especially as their ideas, as to colour and treatment and so on, are so much the same. But, of course, d.i.c.k had a perfect right to finish and exhibit his picture, even if he knew that Oswyn was thinking of the same thing."

McAllister a.s.sented hastily.

"No doubt, no doubt; though Oswyn was just wild about it--you know his uncivilized ways--and I must admit I was a bit astonished myself, at first, when I saw the picture at Burlington House with Lightmark's signature to it. But then I didn't know anything of the rights of the case. He's a queer, cantankerous devil, and he's always being wronged, according to his own accounts, and not only by the critics. No one pays much attention to what he says nowadays.

It's just that absinthe and the cigarettes that are the ruin of him, day and night. Poor devil! why can't he stick to whisky and a pipe, like a decent Christian!"

"His queerness is all on the surface," said Rainham gravely. "You have to dig pretty deep to find out what he's really worth."

Just then Eve hurried towards them through the trees, looking about her with an air of hesitation, carrying the train of her pale-gray brocade dress over one bare, girlish arm.

"Is that you, Mr. McAllister?" she asked, recognising first in the darkness the gaunt figure and tawny beard of the Scotchman. "Oh, and Mr. Rainham too! This is really very wrong of you, monopolizing each other in this way. And don't you know," she added laughingly, "that this corner is especially dedicated to flirtations? You must really come and do your duty. Mr. McAllister, won't you take Miss Menzies in to have some supper? You know her, I think--a compatriot, isn't she? You will find her close to the tent. And you," she pursued, turning to Rainham, "you must take some one in, you know. Will you come this way, please, and I will introduce you to somebody. I am so sorry I was not at home when you called the other day," she said conventionally, as they edged their way by degrees towards the house.

"Yes; I seem to have an unfortunate capacity for missing you nowadays. At Bordighera, for instance. I have certainly had no luck at all lately. I haven't even had an opportunity of telling you how charming I find your house."

"Ah!" said Eve vaguely, her eyes wandering over the people who were grouped upon the gravel walk and under the veranda outside the windows of the supper-room, "we really seem to see nothing of you now. Oh, let me introduce you to Mrs. Gibson--Mrs. Everett P.

Gibson. She's American; you'll find her very amusing."

Rainham followed her obediently, thinking, with a quickly repressed pa.s.sion of regret, of the child who would have confided to him her latest impressions of sorrow, of joy; finding something, which hardly emanated from himself, which made it seem difficult for him to gather up the threads of the old, charming intimacy with this new Eve--this woman, with her pretty, dignified bearing, and self-possessed, almost cold att.i.tude. The introduction was duly effected, and for the next half-hour Rainham devoted himself heroically to the mental and physical entertainment (he was not obliged to do much talking) of the American lady, who hailed from the Far West, and lectured him volubly, with an exorbitant accent and a monotony of delivery, which began to tell on his nerves to an alarming degree, on her impressions of Europe, and especially England; the immense superiority of gas as a cooking and heating agent; the phenomenal attainments of her children; and the antiquities of Minneapolis.

After supper he found himself listening to the band in the garden with a sentimental young lady, who made him fully conversant with her adoration of moonlit nights, waltzing, the latest tenor, and the scenery of Switzerland.

It was already growing late, and people had begun to leave, when it struck him that, through no active fault of his own, other than a certain complaisant indolence, he had as yet exchanged only the briefest of greetings with Lady Garnett, while of Miss Masters only a glimpse had been vouchsafed to him, at the further end of the crowded supper-room. He wandered into the studio, where a little, intimate party had a.s.sembled around an easel, and he was fortunate enough in a few minutes to find himself invited to take possession of a vacant seat precisely by Mary's side.

"Oh, you wicked person!" said Mary reproachfully. "Why do you never come to see us? and where have you been hiding yourself all the evening?"

Rainham laughed gently.

"I feel rather guilty, I own; but you know there is an execrable proverb which says, 'Duty first, and pleasure afterwards.' I have been living up to it, that's all. If you only knew how I have been longing to talk to somebody who wouldn't ask me whether the music didn't fill me with a pa.s.sionate desire to dance! And how good it is to be with a person who doesn't ask you whether you play much lawn-tennis, or whether you prefer London to the country on the whole. Ah, Mary! I consider myself a model of self-denial; but I am rewarded now."

"That's rather pretty for you," answered the girl approvingly; "and you are forgiven, though you have still to make your peace with Aunt Marcelle. Tell me what you have been doing, and what you have been reading...."

The conversation drifted on, now and again becoming general, and including the rest of the circle, but always recurring and narrowing into the deeper stream of their old intimacy.

"You are the only really satisfactory people I know," he said presently--"the only people who know how to enjoy life, so far as it is to be enjoyed."

"You mustn't give me any credit for it; it's all Aunt Marcelle's doing. But I don't think I know what you mean exactly. Perhaps we oughtn't to feel flattered?"

"I mean, you are the only people who understand that happiness doesn't depend on what one does or doesn't do--that it all depends on the point of view."