Part 7 (1/2)
”_Michel_!” she cried imperatively from her post in the doorway,--Michael objected strongly to the harsher p.r.o.nunciation of his name; and the two seldom spoke English when alone. ”Is it necessary to fire a salute before you will deign to be aware that one has come back?”
At that he turned quickly about, and treated her to a burlesque bow of apology.
”_Mais non, cherie_ . . . a thousand pardons! But it is no fault of mine that you have the footfall of a bird!”
She laughed in spite of herself.
”Keep those sort of speeches for Miss Mayhew. She may possibly believe them. It would be all the same if I had the footfall of an elephant!
Nothing short of siege-guns would distract your mind from that picture.
It has bewitched you.”
”_Eh bien_! When it is complete it will be a masterpiece,” he a.s.sured her loftily.
”No doubt! But, in the meanwhile, it may interest you to know that except for a genuine miracle, I should not be here at all.”
”_Mon Dieu_! But what happened? Tell me.”
Flinging aside palette and brushes, he caught her hands in his, and it cost her an effort to preserve her lightness of tone.
”Nothing blood-curdling, since you see me without bruise or scratch.
Only Yorick and I got tangled up with a herd of buffaloes on the Kajiar Road. In his fright, the little fool slipped half over the khud, and if a knight-errant had not fallen from heaven, in the nick of time, we should both be lying somewhere in the valley by now, 'spoiling a patch of Indian corn'!”
Maurice frowned. ”Don't be gruesome, Quita.”
”Sorry. I didn't mean to be. I was only quoting that uncannily clever Kipling boy at Lah.o.r.e. Yorick and I were slithering over, just like the loathly Tertium Quid on the Mushobra Road; and there is plenty of Indian corn in the valley! I thought of it, all in a flash, and it wasn't enlivening, I a.s.sure you.”
”That is enough,” Maurice protested hastily. Tragedy oppressed him to the verge of annoyance. ”But tell me--who was the knight-errant, that I may at least shake hands with him.”
The blood tingled in Quita's cheeks, and she went quickly forward into the room.
”I doubt if you will want to do that when you know his name,” she said.
”It was--Captain Lenox.”
”_Nom de Dieu_! That fellow!” Michael flung out his hands with a dramatic gesture of despair. ”What is he doing here, _par exemple_, instead of poking about among his glaciers? _Now_ I suppose he will not rest till he has taken you from me again.”
The frank selfishness of the man's first thought was so characteristic that Quita smiled. But her smile had an edge to it.
”Set your mind at rest on that point,” she said. ”He is no more anxious to claim--his property, than I am to be claimed.”
”Curse him! Did he dare to tell you so?”
Quita lifted her head; a spark of anger flashed in her eyes.
”You seem to forget that he is a gentleman, and--my husband.” Then, recovering herself, she added more gently, ”There are ways and ways of telling things, _mon cher_, and since I have relieved your anxiety, we need not mention him again. The subject is distasteful to me. Now, I want to see how you have got on with the masterpiece!”
She went to the easel; and Maurice, following, stood at her elbow antic.i.p.ating the sweet savour of praise. For the picture was a notable bit of work, daringly simple in colouring and design, yet arresting, convincing, alive.
It represented a young girl, with the promise of womanhood on her gravely sweet lips, and in the depths of her eyes, half-sitting upon the crossed rails of the verandah. An ivory-white dress of Indian silk fell in s.h.i.+mmering folds to her feet. A dawn of clear amber made a tender background to the dull gold of her hair. Trailing sprays of the rose that ran riot over the house drooped towards her; and a pine branch, striking in abruptly, made an effective splash of shadow in an atmosphere palpitating with the promise of fuller light. The only intense bit of colour in the picture was the violet blue of Elsie Mayhew's eyes--eyes that looked into you and through you to some dream-world unsullied by the disconcerting realities of life, which seemed only awaiting the given moment to rush in and dispel the dream.