Elizabeth's Pretenders/Part 3/Chapter 2
CHAPTER II
Elizabeth Shaw was in the corner of a second-class compartment in the Marseilles train. Opposite her, huddled up, was the fragile form and white face of Hatty Baring. Her brother sat in the further corner, reading a book. The intermediate seats were filled, and emptied, and refilled again with farmers, peasants, commis-voyageurs, and small townsfolk; some with children, some with fowls in baskets, some with packages, mostly tied up in thin black oilcloth. On Elizabeth's knees was a book, but she was not reading. She was lost in thought, and had been so for the last hour. They flew past long rows of poplars, stretches of flat champagne country, high-roofed, many-windowed houses, surrounded by farm lands, and dignified by the name of châteaux, church-towers, villages, and streams; but though, with the eyes of the flesh, she saw these things, the eyes of the mind beheld a different panorama.
A letter from Mr. Twisden, before she left Paris, had reassured her as to her uncle's health for the time being. But it was easy to read between the lines. Mr. Twisden was troubled about his old friend. Of course he never touched upon the will, nor alluded to the passage in her letter which had assured him how indifferent she was to her own "interests." That subject, indeed, never troubled her; but her uncle's possible misery did. How would that vile woman treat him, now that Elizabeth was gone? Were his eyes being opened gradually to her real character? Was Mr. Twisden's evident solicitude about his old friend due to this? She could not ask him; there was no one of whom she could inquire as to her poor Uncle William's domestic happiness. She must remain silent, ignorant of all concerning him, beyond the bare fact that his bodily health was better. She had not thought so much of the kind and credulous old man of Farley, and of all the secret disgrace attaching to it for many weeks, as she now did in the long silent hours of the journey.
She never doubted but that the course she had taken—that of cutting herself entirely adrift from her moorings—was the wisest, indeed the only one, under the circumstances. But if those circumstances changed? As long as her uncle's wife remained at Farley, it never could be Elizabeth's duty to return there. But if Mrs. Shaw should die, or that her treachery were discovered, and she were driven from her husband's house, Elizabeth knew that it would be her duty to return there, and take up her life again with the old man, at whatsoever cost. And the cost would be great. Now she had learnt what a life, untrammelled by conventions, unweighted by "social duties," meant; above all, now that she knew what friendship was, and what colour and savour it lent to existence, a return to the sleek commonplaces of acquaintanceship, the dull routine of a country neighborhood, the fat even pastures of mediocrity would be well-nigh intolerable. But for her dear dead father's sake, the girl said the sacrifice should be made. Uncle William belonged to him, so to speak. He had done his best to replace her father, and if he were left desolate, it would be her duty to return to him: that was clear.
Other things, perhaps, were not so clear. In thinking of all she would lose by such a sacrifice, Elizabeth, notwithstanding her curiously direct and unflinching insight into cause and effect, failed to give due prominence to the figure which occupied so considerable a space in the foreground of her present life. She would have scorned the idea that the image of Alaric Baring had in the smallest degree influenced her decision to accompany his sister to Mentone. Nor was it so. She had conceived a strong affection for Hatty; and constituted as Elizabeth was, it was obvious that whithersoever her friend was sent, she, too, must go. What did friendship mean, if one deserted a friend in the hour of need? The poor fragile American would require a woman's care; and Elizabeth, not feeling herself called to England by duty, did not hesitate to throw over her studies in Paris, and accompany her. Nevertheless, the interest of the journey, the pleasure in the interchange of a few words, breaking, now and again, long spells of silence, these were due to the presence of one whose influence was daily gaining an ascendency, unperceived, over the girl.
He did not talk much. He generally sat, as now, in the further corner of the carriage, absorbed, or seemingly absorbed, in his book. But it was not in the nature of things that their intercourse should any longer be as restrained as it had been at Madame Martineau's. He still set a guard upon his tongue, but neither from mistrust nor dread of the girl's scorn. He judged her more justly now. The devotion to his sister, which had prompted Elizabeth to accompany Hatty on this journey, had touched her brother deeply. There must, after all, be something noble in the nature capable of making such sacrifices, with absolutely no return. For he recognized fully all she was giving up to come to Mentone. And with his truer appreciation of the girl's character, his fear of seeming to take advantage of his position, as Hatty's brother, to advance in an intimacy which might be distasteful to her, somewhat diminished. There were times when he forgot himself—when he became absorbed in the discussion of subjects started by Elizabeth, and when his eloquence had a persuasive charm which she had never before felt, or even suspected. He had, indeed, like so many cultivated Americans, a rare gift of language, united, in his case, with that yet rarer gift of a fervid imagination. Elizabeth had, from the first, been conscious of the man's power, and had struggled against it, with only a superficial success. Though she might contradict him point-blank, and declare to herself, as to others, that she would never bow down to his autocratic judgments, far down in her heart there was a conviction of the real force of a character, which it irritated her to think she could not fathom. Until lately he had never allowed her to see below the surface. But the thin coating of ice which covered the fluent depths of love and sympathy in his nature had melted in the warmth generated by Elizabeth's constant presence. Up to this time he had seen her mostly in the company of others—others whom he despised, and before whom he rarely opened his lips. At Fontainebleau there had been but one other, it is true; his dislike, and mistrust of that unit, however, were quite enough to prevent his ever "letting himself go," as Hatty expressed it. What that acute little personage had foreseen, had now come to pass. Her brother did himself more justice in the eyes of her friend, during this short journey, than he had ever done during their four months' residence together at Madame Martineau's.
Elizabeth's untiring thoughtfulness for his sister moved him to look upon this young woman, so wayward, so wilful, so eager for amusement and admiration, no matter from what tainted source, with very different eyes from those with which he had hitherto insisted on regarding her. It was no momentary impulse that had led her to leave Paris, for Hatty's sake; every hour of the day showed that her interest in the poor little invalid never flagged. She thought of everything that could tend to Hatty's comfort long before Alaric himself. It was she who hired the extra pillow, when she saw how weary Hatty was growing. It was she who jumped out, and fetched Hatty some water and sirop de groseille, while Alaric smoked his cigarette, and stretched his legs on the platform. All these little things were not lost upon him, and led him to reflect profoundly on the greater altruism of woman. And in the evening, when they were huddled round the wood fire at Avignon, listening to the fierce wind that came howling down from the Alps, and trying not to listen to Hatty's increased cough, his tongue was unloosed, and he told them wonderful stories that made Elizabeth's hair stand on end, and evoked a little dry protest of incredulity from his sister.
On the third day only—for they travelled very slowly, on Hatty's account—they reached Mentone. Their rooms were secured at one of the less fashionable hotels, standing high in the town, surrounded by a little orange garden, and commanding the bay, with its jutting promontory of discoloured houses, its campanile, its brown fishing-boats and purple sea, melting, as they first saw it, into a golden sky.
They found here all they looked for—more, perhaps, than they had a right to expect. For the small hotel was almost empty; and the inevitable clergyman and his wife (with a white "Dolly Varden" cap), the amiable spinster who purred over her knitting, and one melancholy man who defied classification, for he seemed to belong to nothing and to nowhere, were the only persons they ever saw at the table d'hôte. Elizabeth's fears were allayed. There was no rabble of noisy tourists, with the risk, attaching thereto, of recognition from some north-country acquaintance. A sleepy routine pervaded everything, and our trio slid into it contentedly. They hired two rooms hard by; one where Alaric could work, the other, nominally, for the two girls. But, for the present, at least, it was impossible Hatty should paint. She could not stand for very long; she could not walk at all. She lay for hours, in a long cane chair, in the sunshine, among the orange trees and violets, with a book, where the good parson and his wife—a black mushroom hat replacing her "Dolly Varden"—always found her, on their outward walk, and stopped to say a few words, empty of all but kindness, to the poor invalid, so thin, so drawn, so moth-eaten in appearance. The spinster, with her ball of red worsted, to which she seemed as inseparably riven as a galley-slave to his chain, also visited Hatty in the garden from time to time; so she was not too lonely during the hours her companions were away. She could not talk much; it made her cough; and she had her book and her thoughts for companions—above all, her thoughts.
She had no illusions about herself. She was visibly weaker than she had been a month ago. At this rate, her term of life would be short. But, on every account, she desired to conceal the rapid advance of her malady as much as possible from Alaric and Elizabeth. She never complained; she received them always on their return with a smile; she evinced the greatest interest in their work; she talked of the studies she should make in the approaching spring. Alaric was, in some measure, blinded. Not so Elizabeth. The woman to whom she had grown so attached, if she saw the spring burst, would still be an invalid. Her day for work—the work she loved so well, and so futilely, poor soul!—was done. She might live on for years: Elizabeth had heard of frail creatures, with both lungs affected, clinging tenaciously to life. But she could not conceal from herself that, in Hatty's case, the disease made rapid progress. Still, the mutual deception common in such cases was kept up; the women trying to deceive each other, both of them anxious to deceive the man.
Elizabeth had, at first, meant to devote herself entirely to her friend; painting was to go to the wall. But she soon saw that this was a mistake. Hatty was worried, and inquired querulously twenty times a day why Elizabeth did not get a studio? Alaric had found one; why couldn't she? What was the use of fidgeting around her? She was far better alone. And so indeed she was for many hours, being a self-contained little person, without nerves, or fancies, to need either constant stimulant or sympathy. She derived great comfort from the certainty that the two whom she desired so earnestly to see drawn more and more closely together, at least understood each other better, day by day. As regarded Alaric, she could go further than this. The admiration he had avowed for Miss Shaw, some weeks back, being now purged of the mistrust with which it had been qualified, had surely ripened into something warmer and stronger. She knew her brother so well, she watched him so closely, she could not be deceived. Reticent as he was, there was an expression now and again in his eyes which told her that passion, so slowly kindled in him, was now burning in the place of colder and critical feeling. He might fight against it, he might refuse to allow, voluntarily, of its expression by word or deed; it escaped him by outlets which the vigilant Hatty never failed to note. Alaric was growing to love this girl with all the force of his strong nature.
Of Elizabeth, up to this time, she could only predicate that Alaric's character would make itself to be appreciated more and more as his true self appeared—that inner self which was not only impervious to assaults from the world at large, but had presented an exterior absolutely repellent at moments. Between this better understanding of the man and anything like love there was, in Elizabeth's case, as Hatty well knew, a long road to be traversed. Of her English friend's past she knew as little now as she did four months ago. Elizabeth was not given to "confidences," and the circumstances of her case were such as to render her additionally reluctant to speak of the life from which she had severed herself by a stroke of that sharp sword we call determination.
All the same, it was impossible that so keen and interested an observer of those she loved as Miss Baring should fail to note the bitterness with which her friend spoke of men in general, of family ties, of reliance on any human being but one's self. It was far better to remain single, to trust to no one. Hatty had chosen the wiser part. But here the little American always stopped her peremptorily.
"Don't say that; it is quite a mistake. I have not chosen my part; Nature gave it me. At your age I could have loved. I did not think then that to be an old maid was the better part. But no man ever made love to me, and common sense came to my aid. I looked in the glass; I understood it, and I reconciled myself to my lot. Happily, Alaric wanted me. I was not useless, nor lonely, when our mother died. I had never known what it was to live for myself; and when I came to him I had an object, an interest, still in life. Ah, dear, whether you live by yourself or not, don't live for yourself. Don't think that painting and ambition will fill up all your life; it won't. There is nothing worth living for but to share our joys and troubles with another."
Then Elizabeth would reply that she had no intention of living a selfish life; she would always take an active interest in others. Had not Hatty reproached her with throwing herself too readily into the mêlée at Madame Martineau's? She hoped to do some good in her generation, by-and-by; to help her fellow-creatures to the best of her abilities, in some way; only she did not believe in being dependent on any one human being for happiness, any more than for daily bread, if one was able to earn the loaf for one's self.
Elizabeth found an old peasant woman to sit to her. Alaric went down to the shore, and made studies of the fishermen and their boats. Thus the first three weeks passed. Then came a spell of bad weather, ending in a light fall of snow, all of which visibly increased Hatty's cough. She could not leave her room, and Elizabeth and Alaric went together to the table d'hôte. He said, at luncheon, looking out of the window at the driving sleet—
"Another day lost. As I can't paint, I shall go to Monte Carlo, and look at the place. Will you come?"
"No; I am afraid of meeting some one I know."
He smiled. "I hope that I may—a possible sitter. What am I to do here if this weather continues?"
"Paint some of the peasants; they will be sure to sell. There is a class of traveller that always rises to the bait of a peasant, especially a pretty peasant."
"How low you rate me," he replied, amused. "A painter of pretty peasants for the travellers' market! Well, I will go and cast my nets into the turbid waters of Monte Carlo."
And he went. He wandered aimlessly through the damp, steaming crowd—the painted ladies, the unspeakable men—gathered round the tables in the hot gambling-rooms. He looked at these poor human pawns with more curiosity than at the moves they elected to make upon the green cloth; the nervous fingers following the eager, hungry eyes, to rake in a few francs, or, when these were swept away into the great central vortex, sending more to follow them, after sundry prickings of a card. By-and-by he was tapped on the shoulder by a fellow-countryman.
"Why, what are you doing here, Baring? Come here for a plunge, eh?"
"No; I never play. I am over from Mentone, just to have a look round, as it is a wet day. Humanity always interests me to watch. Any notorieties you can point out?"
"There is 'Casse-noisette' opposite, in the pink hat, sitting down and playing like the devil. But you have seen her before? And she is not much to look at, after all. She must have lost ten thousand francs this afternoon, if she has lost a penny. It has all gone into the pockets of that fellow with a black beard—he must be a Jew, I take it—who has been having a tremendous coup. If he goes on like this, he'll break the bank."
"I can't see him, for all those confounded big hats and plumes. Who is he?"
"Don't know. He only came yesterday, I am told. Played last night, and carried away twenty thousand francs, and has been winning all this afternoon again. He is as cool as a cucumber. It's great sport to watch all the women making up to him. There is a break in the crowd. You can see him now."
Those who believe in "influences" might have declared that Baring's was "malignant" to the gambler. He happened to look up, and caught the American's eye. From that moment his vein of good luck seemed to be exhausted. He lost three or four times consecutively.
"I know him," said Alaric. "His name is Melchior, and he is a so-called patron of art—has a collection of modern pictures and a magnificent hotel in Paris, I believe; but I have never been inside it."
The object of their attention wore an engraved emerald—a gem of great value—in his violet-satin tie. His button-hole was a large pink carnation. Though he was dressed in a brown cut-away coat, he still had the air of being more rigidly restrained beneath it than the pliant "Cheviot," innocent of any wrinkle, warranted. On the little finger of one hand was a large diamond; on the other a massive snake, with a ruby head. He paid little attention to any one, but glanced up at Baring, as if to make sure of his identity. A few minutes later he rose, after sweeping up the pile of gold and several notes that yet remained of his gains.
"My luck has turned. It is useless going on any more now," he said to the man near him. Then he sauntered round the table, pursued by two fair ladies, to whom he occasionally threw a word, till he came to where the Americans were standing.
"So, Mr. Baring, we meet here," he said, in remarkably good English. "Are you painting in these parts? I little expected to find you at Monte Carlo."
To some men it is easier to tell a purposeless lie than to speak the truth.
Alaric explained that he was at Mentone with a sick sister.
"Mentone is a dull hole. You two alone there? I pity you."
"My sister has a friend with her, and I am painting all day long."
"Have you anything to show me if I come over? I admired greatly that 'Venetian Senator' I saw at Jacob's just before I left Paris. He told me it was sold, or I would have bought it."
"I have nothing at present but some rough studies. I hope to find a good head worth making a picture of in the course of time."
"Do you ever take portraits? Would you care to take me? As an order, of course—as an order."
The Israelite was, in his own way, such a very paintable object, that Baring had no difficulty with his conscience in declaring that nothing he should like better.
"What do you charge for a head and shoulders?"
Alaric named his price, and Melchior said at once—
"All right. I can find time to sit to you here better than in Paris. I can come over to you in the mornings as often as you like for the next fortnight. And we can breakfast together afterwards."
"Our table d'hôte breakfast would not be good enough for you, I think," said Alaric, rather dryly.
"Oh, I am not so particular!" returned the other, laughing. "I shall not mind what I eat, if you succeed in making a fine portrait—something in the 'Venetian Senator' line, eh? Carolus-Durand, Bonnat—they have all had a try at me. How shall I be dressed? I have a grenat velvet smoking-suit I can bring—if———"
"Thank you. That is unnecessary. I prefer a black or dark-brown coat, such as you are wearing."
"All right Shall I come to-morrow, then?"
"Certainly." He pulled out a card. "You will find me at this address as early as you can make it convenient to be over."
Alaric returned to Mentone, well satisfied with his chance—as he deemed it—which had procured for him exactly the sort of order he most desired. He could not be said to have cast a net into those turbid waters—this big fish had leapt, unsolicited, into his arms. He saw, in his mind's eye, how Moretto or Morone would have offered a presentation of the splendidly coloured Jew's head, purged of its vulgarity, but retaining all its keenness and vigilance of outlook. It would be his own fault, Alaric felt, if he did not produce a very striking portrait—one which should raise him in public estimation.
He had sore need of this just now, for the future looked dark enough. Hatty might live for years, he said to himself; but it might be necessary for her to move from one health-resort to another; and how were funds for all this to be provided unless the public showed greater avidity to secure his work, and thus enable him to ask higher terms? As to that other possibility, the thought of which had of late been forcing its way from the heart upwards to the brain, and insisting on being entertained—the possibility that Elizabeth Shaw might grow to love him—the possibility that he might one day be in a position to ask her to be his—he put it away from him, as often and as resolutely as he could. For was not the accomplishment of such a daydream wholly dependent on this sordid question of ways and means? It might be, as Hatty believed, that her friend had some little fortune of her own; but he, Alaric, had nothing—absolutely nothing but what he could make. And never would he ask a woman to be his wife, unless he knew that his income was adequate to support them both.
On his return, the two young women were greatly excited with the news he brought. Hatty had heard of the rich Monsieur Melchior, and his fine gallery of pictures. That he should sit to her brother would be the making of Alaric—he would spring lightly and quickly up the ladder of fame, she was sure. Elizabeth's face beamed with pleasure.
"I hope he is not too ugly," she said. "A rich Jew sounds like a pendulous nose and protruding under-lip."
"On the contrary, he is decidedly handsome. Not very good style, perhaps—inclined to gorgeous jewellery and brilliant apparel—and I am not sure that the expression of the face is a good one; but there is plenty of it—that is the main thing. Many of the finest portraits in existence are of men one wouldn't make intimate friends of."
"But I hope you will find it possible to make an intimate friend of him," said Hatty. "His coming up to you like that, when you did not even bow to him, shows that he is drawn towards you; and if he gets to like you more and more, as he must, if you will make yourself pleasant to him, he may be of great service to you, dear."
"You are getting horribly worldly," said her brother, laughing. "You would never have said that when you were in New England. It is all the demoralizing influence of Paris."