Part 17 (2/2)
”Behind that screen; I keep them in strict seclusion there. Now if you will sit down by the window I will bring the easels out.”
She did as he told her. The pictures were covered when he brought them out. He placed them where the light would fall best on them, and then removed the cloths.
”They have not arrived at the glories of frames yet,” he said, ”but you must make allowances for that. I can a.s.sure you they will look much larger and more important when they are in their settings.”
The girl sat for a minute without speaking. They were reproductions on a larger scale and with all the improvements that his added skill and experience could introduce of the two he had exhibited to M. Goude, when he entered the studio.
”I had intended to do battle-pieces,” he said, ”and have made innumerable sketches, but somehow or other the inspiration did not come in that direction, so I fell back on these which are taken from smaller ones I painted before I left London. Do you like them? You see I hang upon your verdict. You at present represent the public to me.”
There were tears standing in the girl's eyes.
”They are beautiful,” she said, softly, ”very beautiful. I am not a judge of painting, though I have been a good deal in the galleries of Dresden, and I was at Munich too; and I know enough to see they are painted by a real artist. I like the bright one best, the other almost frightens me, it is so sad and hopeless, I think--” and she hesitated, ”that girl in the veranda is something like me, though I am sure I never look a bit like that, and I am nothing--nothing like so pretty.”
”You never look like that, Miss Brander, because you have never felt as that girl is supposed to be feeling; some day when the time comes that you feel as she does you will look so. That is a woman, a woman who loves. At present that side of your nature has not woke up. The intellectual side of you, if I may so speak, has been forced, and your soul is still asleep. Some day you will admit that the portrait, for I own it to be a portrait, is a life-like one. Now--” he broke off abruptly, ”we had better be going or you will be late at your post.”
She said no more until they were in the street.
”I have been very wrong,” she said suddenly, after walking for some time in silence. ”You must have worked hard indeed. I own I never thought that you would. I used to consider your sketches very pretty, but I never thought that you would come to be a great artist.”
”I have not come to that yet,” he said, ”but I do hope that I may come to be a fair one some day--that is if the Germans don't forcibly interfere--but I have worked very hard, and I may tell you that Goude, who is one of the best judges in Paris, thinks well of me. I will ask you to take care of this,” he said, and he took out a blank envelope.
”This is my will. A man is a fool who goes into a battle without making provision for what may happen. When I return you can hand it to me again. If I should not come back please inclose it to your father. He will see that its provisions are carried out. I may say that I have left you the two pictures. You have a right to them, for if it had not been for you I don't suppose they would ever have been painted. I only wish that they had been quite finished.”
Mary took the paper without a word, nor did she speak again until they arrived at the ambulance, then she turned and laid her hand in his.
”Good-bye, Mary, I hope I shall ask you for that envelope back again in a couple of days.”
”G.o.d grant that it may be so,” she said, ”I shall suffer so till you do.”
”Yes, we have always been good friends, haven't we? Now, child, you always used to give me a kiss before I left you then. Mayn't I have one now?”
She held up her face, he kissed her twice, and then turned and strode away.
”I wonder whether she will ever grow to be a woman,” he said to himself, bitterly, ”and discover that there is a heart as well as brains in her composition. There was no more of doubt or hesitation in the way in which she held up her face to be kissed, than when she did so as a child. Indeed, as a child, I do think she would have cried if I told her at parting that I was going away for good. Well, it is of no use blaming her. She can't help it if she is deficient in the one quality that is of all the most important. Of course she has got it and will know it some day, but at present it is latent and it is evident that I am not the man who has the key of it. She was pleased at my pictures. It was one of her ideas that I ought to do something, and she is pleased to find that I have buckled to work in earnest, just as she would be pleased if Parliament would pa.s.s a law giving to women some of the rights which she has taken it into her head they are deprived of. However, perhaps it is better as it is. If anything happens to me to-morrow, she will be sorry for a week or two just as she would if she lost any other friend, while if Arnold Dampierre goes down Minette will for a time be like a mad woman. At any rate my five thousand will help her to carry out her crusade. I should imagine that she won't get much aid in that direction from her father.
”Halloa, I know that man's face,” he broke off as he noticed a well-dressed man turn in at the door of a quiet-looking residence he was just approaching, ”I know his face well; he is an Englishman, too, but I can't think where I have seen him.” He could not have told himself why he should have given the question a second thought, but the face kept haunting him in spite of the graver matters in his mind, and as he reached the door of his lodgings he stopped suddenly.
”I have it,” he exclaimed, ”it is c.u.mming, the manager of the bank, the fellow that ruined it and then absconded. I saw they were looking for him in Spain and South America and a dozen other places, and here he is.
By Jove, he is a clever fellow. I suppose he came here as soon as the war broke out, knowing very well that the police would have plenty of other things to think of besides inquiring as to the antecedents of Englishmen who took up their residence here. Of course he has been absolutely safe since the fall of the Empire. The fellow has grown a beard and mustache; that is why I did not recognize him at first. Of course he has taken another name. Well, I don't know that it is any business of mine. He got off with some money, but I don't suppose it was any great sum. At any rate it would not be enough to make any material difference to the creditors of the bank. However, I will think it over later on. There is no hurry about the matter. He is here till the siege is over, and I should certainly like to have a talk with him. I have never been able to get it quite out of my mind that there has been something mysterious about the whole affair as far as my father was concerned, though where the mystery comes in is more than I can imagine.
I expect it is simply because I have never liked Brander, and have always had a strong idea that our popular townsman was at bottom a knave as well as a humbug.”
Mary Brander went about her work very quietly all day, and more than one of the wounded patients remarked the change in her manner.
”Mademoiselle is suffering to-day,” one of them said to her, as he missed the ring of hopefulness and cheeriness with which she generally spoke to him.
”I am not feeling well, I have a bad headache; and moreover I have friends in the sortie that is to be made to-night.”
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