Part 6 (1/2)
”Cecil Crichton?” echoed the other. ”No ... and yet it sounds familiar. Perhaps I am thinking of the Admirable, though he wasn't Cecil, as far as I remember. The old story, I suppose. Cecil Crichton--ah, Cyril Crichton?” he repeated. Then, dismissing the subject somewhat brutally, ”Ah, well, it's no business of mine! Will you give me a light? Thanks!”
CHAPTER VII
At three o'clock Lightmark dismissed his model--an Italian, with a wonderfully fine torso and admirable capabilities for picturesque pose, whom he had easily persuaded to abandon his ice-cream barrow to sit for him two or three times a week, acting the part of studio servant in the intervals.
”That will do, Cesare,” he said, ”_aspetto persone_; besides, you're s.h.i.+vering: I shall have you catching cold next, and I can't paint while you're sneezing. Yes, you're quite right, _e un freddo terribile_, considering that it's July. Off with you now, and come again at the same time on Friday. _Si conservi_--that's to say, don't get drunk in the interval; it makes you look such a brute that I can't paint you.”
While the model transformed himself from a scantily-attired Roman gladiator into an Italian of the ordinary Saffron Hill description, Lightmark hastily washed his brushes, turned down his s.h.i.+rt sleeves, and donned the becoming velvet painting-jacket, which Mrs. Dollond had so much admired.
”I hope they won't notice Cesare's pipe,” he said anxiously. ”Even though he doesn't smoke here, it always seems to hang about. Perhaps I had better open the window and burn a pastille. And now, are we prepared to receive Philistia? Yes, I don't think the place looks bad, and--but perhaps Mrs. Sylvester mightn't like the gladiator. He certainly is deucedly anatomical at present. I'll go and leave him in Copal's studio, and then I can borrow his tea-things at the same time.”
The studio was a lofty room on the ground-floor with an elaborately-devised skylight, and a large window facing north, through which a distant glimpse of Holland Park could be obtained.
Lightmark had covered the floor with pale Indian matting, with a bit of strong colour, here and there, in the shape of a modern Turkish rug. For furniture, he had picked up some old chairs and a large straight-backed settee with grotesquely-carved legs, which, with the aid of a judicious arrangement of drapery, looked eminently attractive, and conveyed an impression of comfort which closer acquaintance did not altogether belie. Then there was the platform, covered with dark cloth, on which his models posed; the rickety table with many drawers, in which he kept brushes and colours; a lay figure, disguised as a Venetian flower-girl, which had collapsed tipsily into a corner; two or three easels; and a tall, stamped leather screen, which was useful for backgrounds. A few sketches, mostly unframed, stood in a row on the narrow shelf which ran along the pale-green distempered walls; and more were stacked in the corners--some in portfolios, and some with their dusty backs exposed to view. The palette which he had been using lay, like a great fantastic leaf, upon the table, amid a chaos of broken crayons, dingy stumps, photographs of sitters, pellets of bread, disreputable colour-tubes, and small bottles of linseed-oil, varnish, and turpentine. A sketch for Mrs. Sylvester's portrait, in crayons, was propped against the foot of an easel (Lightmark hoped that her son might buy it for his chambers); the canvas which he had prepared against the much-delayed sitting due from Miss Sylvester exposed its blank surface on another. A tall j.a.panese jar full of purple and yellow irises, a tribute to his expected guests, stood on the dusty black stove.
He had barely had time to arrange the borrowed tea-things, and to set a kettle on a little spirit-lamp behind the screen, when Mrs.
Dollond and her husband were announced. He threw his black sombrero somewhat theatrically into a corner, and advanced with effusion to meet them. Mrs. Dollond had taken a decided interest in the young painter ever since the delightfully uncandid reflection of her by no means youthful beauty, which he had exhibited at the Grosvenor, had provoked so much comment among her friends.
She was a plump, little, fair-haired woman, with blue eyes, a very pink and white complexion, small hands, and a pa.s.sion for dress with which people who had known her before her marriage, as a slim maiden devoted to sage-green draperies and square-toed shoes, declined to credit her, until they were told that she had, to put it plainly, grown fat--a development which compelled her to give up aestheticism and employ a _modiste_.
Her husband, who followed her into the room, carrying her impedimenta, wore the bored expression of the R.A. who is expected to admire the work of an outsider. He was the abject slave of his good-natured wife--she _was_ good-natured, in spite of her love of scandal--and his only fault from her point of view, and his greatest one in the eyes of people in general, lay in an unfortunate habit of thinking aloud, a dangerous characteristic, which persons who are apt to find themselves in the position of critic should at any cost eradicate. Luckily, his benevolence was such that these outspoken comments were never really virulent, and not often offensive.
Mrs. Dollond seated herself smilingly on the least rickety chair, disposed of her veil with one neatly-gloved hand, and prepared a tortoisesh.e.l.l eyegla.s.s for action with the other.
”What a charming portrait!” she said, pointing with her plump index-finger to the sketch of Mrs. Sylvester. ”Do I know the lady, I wonder? Oh! I do believe it's that Mrs. Sylvester.”
”Yes,” said Lightmark. ”If you remember, you introduced me to her at the Academy soiree last year. I expect her here this afternoon, with her daughter. I am going to paint Miss Sylvester's portrait.”
”Ah,” said Mrs. Dollond mischievously, ”and that accounts for the pastille. You never made such preparations when _I_ sat to you. I suppose you thought that a painter's wife could not possibly object to tobacco.”
”And she certainly doesn't, judging by her consumption of cigarettes!” interposed her husband.
”Hugh, I'm ashamed of you. You know I'm a martyr to asthma--and cigarettes aren't tobacco. But how old is Miss Sylvester? Is she pretty?”
”Don't ask me to describe her, Mrs. Dollond. Wait till you see her--she's coming, you know. What do you think of that river-scape, most reverend signor? It's one of the little things I've been doing down at Rainham's Dock--down at Blackpool.”
The Academician tried to appear interested as he a.s.sumed the conventional bird-like pose of the picture-gazer, and surveyed the sketch.
”Very pretty--very pretty! I should hardly have thought it was the Thames, though. It isn't muddy enough. In fact, the whole scheme of colour is much too clean for London. Quite absurd! Not a bit like it! Eh, my dear, what was I saying? Oh yes, I like the effect of the sunlight on that brown sail immensely. It's really very clever, very clever.”
Mrs. Dollond, who never knew what her husband would say next, welcomed the influx of a small throng of visitors with a sigh of relief.
The Sylvesters and Philip Rainham, arriving at the same time, found the little studio almost crowded. Besides the Dollonds there were two or three of the Turk Street fraternity; a young sculptor, newly arrived from Rome, with his wife; Dionysus F. Quain, an American interested in petroleum, who had patronized Lightmark also at Rome; and Copal, whose studio was in the same building, and who was manifestly anxious about his Chelsea teacups.
Mrs. Sylvester greeted her _protege_ with a flattering degree of warmth which was entirely absent from the stare and conventional smile with which she honoured Mrs. Dollond, and the somewhat impertinent air of patronage which she wore when one or two of the young artists were introduced to her. If they did not mind, Mrs.
Dollond was inclined to be resentful, for the moment, at least; and, as a preliminary attack, she maliciously encouraged Eve, who, ensconced in a corner, blissfully unconscious of the maternal anxiety which the other matron had detected, was eagerly turning over the contents of a portfolio which she had unearthed from its lurking-place behind her chair.
Rainham was looking over her shoulder, admiring the charming poise of the girl's head, and the contours of her wrists and hands, as she submitted the drawings to his inspection. Charles Sylvester stationed himself close by, and devoted himself to b.u.t.tonholing the American senator, to the obvious discomfort of his victim, whose knowledge of Pennsylvanian oil-wells was infinitely greater than his acquaintance with the rudiments of summary jurisdiction, as practised in his native State, and who, after hazarding a remark to the effect that Judge Lynch had long since retired from the Bench, had, as he would have put it, ”pretty considerably petered out.”
”I hope my daughter isn't indiscreet?” Mrs. Sylvester had hazarded, after catching Lightmark's eye on its return journey from a glance in the direction of the little group in the corner; and the young man had rea.s.sured her hastily, before misgivings had time to a.s.sail him, and when they did, he hoped for the best. For a painter's portfolio is, after all, hardly less confidential than a diary, and may be on occasion almost as compromising, in spite of the fact that the records it contains are written in cipher.