Part 34 (1/2)

”And also--a genuine woman?”

”I hope so.”

Michael smiled--a smile of superior knowledge.

”One cannot serve two masters, _ma chere_. That's where the complication comes in, when an artist happens also to be a woman. The creative force, mental or physical, is a master-force. Only a superhuman vitality can accomplish both with any hope of success.

Succ.u.mb to your womanhood, and there's an end of your Art--_voila tout_.”

”But no, Michel. I won't believe that.” She spoke stoutly, though cold fear was upon her that a germ of truth lurked in his statement.

”Believe it or not, as you please. You are on the high-road to make the discovery for yourself, and you will find it a case of no compromise. One of the two must predominate. You will either become an amateur artist or an amateur wife and mother. Which do you suppose it will be?”

She shut her paint-box with an impatient snap.

”I really don't know. I am not in the mood for abstract speculation.”

”No. You are in the mood for concrete love-making; and in pursuit of it, you're ready to face a drenching, to leave me is the worst possible company, without a sisterly qualm, and without even troubling to put my razor in your pocket.”

”Don't talk melodramatic nonsense,” she rebuked him sharply. Then pity and tenderness prevailed. ”If it's really as bad as that, _mon cher_, why on earth didn't you take yesterday's chance, and ask Elsie to be your wife? I believe she would have said 'Yes.'”

”So do I. Therefore I preferred not to ask her. Still--it's none the less maddening that because you women have this incurable mania for marriage, one should be cut off from her sweet companions.h.i.+p, from the inspiration that is to be found in that delectable borderland between friends.h.i.+p and love; and insulted into the bargain by a chit of a mother-woman, with no more brains and imagination than a sparrow! But for me, at any rate, there can be no compromise. I do not choose to profane the sanctuary of my soul, to corrupt my Art, by becoming a mere breadwinner, a slave of the hearth-rug, and the tea-cup--in fact, the property of a woman. That's what it amounts to. And I doubt if any of us relish the position when it comes to the point. Even that devoted husband of yours, after waiting five years upon your imperial pleasure, seems in no hurry to tie himself up again; or you would hear less about his conscientious scruples, I a.s.sure you. They would be swept aside, like straws before a flood.”

At that Quita's eyes flashed.

”Michel, you _shall_ not speak so of him,” she cried imperiously.

”I've said already that I won't have the subject discussed. How should _you_ understand a man like Eldred,--you, who hardly know the meaning of the word 'conscience'?”

”_Dieu merci_; since its chief function seems to be to make oneself and every one else uncomfortable.--Hark at the rain! I wish you joy of your journey.”

He spoke the last words to an empty room. Quita was already changing her dress hurriedly, defiantly, shutting her ears to the discouraging sounds without. Michael's half-jesting insinuation had hit her harder than he guessed; had deepened her determination to extricate herself, without loss of time, from a position that justified a suggestion so galling to her pride.

But the mere getting down from the top of Bakrota, and climbing half-way up the neighbouring hill, through a desolating world of mist and rain, was, in itself, a prospect that would have daunted a less headstrong woman. Michael returned her hasty ”good-night” in a voice of resigned martyrdom, and out in the verandah, four drenched _jhampannis_ cowering round a hurricane-lantern, had pa.s.sed beyond martyrdom to the verge of open rebellion.

They were poor men, and the Miss Sahib's slaves, they protested in chorus; but it was a very bad rain. Even with the lantern, it would be impossible to keep the path; and if harm should come to the Protector of the Poor, the Sahib would smite them without mercy. Also the ”mate”

[1] was even now s.h.i.+vering with ague; in proof whereof he so vigorously shook the lantern that it almost fell out of his hand.

But Quita was adamant. She bade them set out at once, or the Sahib would smite them there and then. Awed by a threat that would never have been executed, they hastened to a.s.sure her that she was, collectively and individually, their ”father and mother,” that their worthless lives were at her service, and that they would start forthwith.

Three minutes later, they were swinging cautiously along the four-foot track that corkscrews down to the level of the Mall, the foremost man thrusting the lantern well ahead, with the sole result that a great white circle showed weirdly upon the curtain of mist, through which they journeyed by faith, and not by sight. With every step of the way Quita's conviction grew that she had pushed persistence to the verge of folly; and the thought of Michael, alone and dejected, tugged at her heart. The rain formed miniature ca.n.a.ls in the waterproof sheet that covered her; and more than once a jerk of the dandy emptied these into her lap; while the mist itself was so dense that she seemed to be breathing water instead of air. There was no denying that to-morrow would do as well as to-night. But her impatient spirit fretted against delay; and this senseless obtrusion of inanimate things,--angering her, as only the inanimate can,--drowned the still small voice of common-sense.

Nevertheless, human will and endeavour have small chance in a duel with that invisible Force, which men call Fate. In the language of the East, ”it was written” that she should not get down the hill that night; and before they reached the Mall, Quita was compelled to own herself beaten.

A jerk, a crash, followed by darkness, and a thud that brought her half-overturned dandy into violent contact with the ground, fairly settled the matter. The ”mate” had missed the path; and, but for an instantaneous counter-jerk on the part of the men behind, Quita would have been shot down the _khud_, instead of on to the stony roadway. As it was, she thrust out both hands to save herself, while the rain pattered through the light lace scarf on to her head and neck. The lantern gla.s.s was broken, and the ”mate,” lamenting volubly, declared that his arm appeared to be broken also. Quita herself was ignominiously damp and bedraggled; and vanity apart, going on was out of the question. Even getting back, minus the lantern, would be a difficult matter. With tears in her eyes, and fierce disappointment at her heart, she submitted to the inevitable.

Michael greeted her with lifted eyebrows, and an exasperating chuckle.

”Thought ten minutes of it would be enough for you,” he remarked coolly; and her wrath against things in general vented itself on him.

”Really, Michel, you are _detestable_! It was not enough. The 'mate'