Part 3 (2/2)
Rainham watched the dexterous movements of his long nervous hands--the colour of old ivory--and found them noticeable.
”You are not an artist, I think,” he suggested after a moment, fixing his curiously intent eyes on Rainham.
”No,” admitted the other, smiling, ”I am afraid I am not. I am only here on sufferance. I am a mender of s.h.i.+ps.”
”He is a connoisseur,” put in Lightmark gaily. ”It's an accident that he happens to be connected with s.h.i.+pping--a fortunate one, though, for he owns a most picturesque old shanty in the far East.
But actually he does not know a rudder post from a jib-boom.”
”I suppose you have been painting it?” said Oswyn shortly.
Lightmark nodded.
”I have been painting the river from his wharf. The picture is just finished, and on the whole I am pleased with it. You should come in and give it a look, Oswyn, some time. You haven't seen my new studio.”
”I never go west of Regent Street,” said Oswyn brusquely.
Lightmark laughed a little nervously.
”Oswyn doesn't believe in me, you know, Philip,” he explained lightly. ”It is a humiliating thing to have to say, but I may as well say it, to save him the trouble. He is so infernally frank about it, you know. He thinks that I am a humbug, that I don't take my art seriously, and because, when I have painted my picture, I begin to think about the pieces of silver, he is not quite sure that I may not be a descendant of Judas. And then, worst of all, I have committed the unpardonable sin: I have been hung at Burlington House. Isn't that about it, Oswyn?”
The elder man laughed his low, mirthless laugh.
”We understand each other, d.i.c.k; but you don't quite do yourself justice--or me. I have an immense respect for your talent. I feel sure you will achieve greatness--in Burlington House.”
”Well, it's a respectable inst.i.tution,” said the young man soberly.
Oswyn finished his drink at a long, thirsty gulp, watching the young man askance with his impressive eyes. Rainham noticed for the first time that he had a curious trick of smiling with his lips only--or was it of sneering?--while the upper part of his face and his heavy brows frowned.
”By the way, Lightmark,” he observed presently, ”I have to congratulate you on your renown. There is quite a long panegyric on your picture in the _Outcry_ this week. Do you know who wrote it?”
”d.a.m.n it, man!” broke out Lightmark, with a vehemence which, to Rainham, seemed uncalled for, ”how should I know? I haven't seen the rag for an age.”
There was an angry light in his eyes, but it faded immediately.
Oswyn continued apologetically:
”I beg your pardon. It must be very annoying to you to be puffed indiscreetly. But I fancied, you know----”
Lightmark, flus.h.i.+ng a little, interrupted him, laying his hand with a quick gesture, that might have contained an appeal in it, on the painter's frayed coat-sleeve.
”Your gla.s.s is empty, and we are about ready for our coffee. What will you take?”
Oswyn repeated his order, smiling still a little remotely, as he let the water trickle down from a scientific height to his gla.s.s, whipping the crystal green of its contents into a nebulous yellow.
Rainham, who had listened to the little pa.s.sage of arms in silence, felt troubled, uneasy. The air seemed thunderous, and was heavy with unspoken words. There appeared to be an under-current of understanding between the two painters which was the reverse of sympathetic, and made conversation difficult and volcanic. It caused him to remind himself, a trifle sadly, how little, after all, one knew of even one's nearest friend--and Lightmark, perhaps, occupied to him that relation--how much of the country of his mind remains perpetually undiscovered; and it made him wonder, as he had sometimes wondered before, whether the very open and sunny nature of the young painter, which was so large a part of his charm, had not its concealed shadows--how far, briefly, Lightmark's very frankness might not be a refinement of secretiveness?
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