CHAPTER XXV
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING
Nan was rather silent as the Fentons' big car purred its way throughthe crowded streets towards Westminster. For the moment the possibleconsequences of her flight from Trenby Hall had been thrust aside intoa corner of her mind and her thoughts had slipped back to that lastmeeting with Maryon, when she had shown him so unmistakably that she,at least, had ceased to care.
She had hated him at the moment, rejoicing to be free from the strange,perverse attraction he held for her. But, viewed through the softeningmists of memory, a certain romance and charm seemed to cling aboutthose days when she had hovered on the border-line of love for him, andher heart beat a little faster at the thought of meeting him again.
Ralph Fenton had only a vague knowledge of the affair, but he dimlyrecollected that there had been something--a passing flirtation, hefancied--between Maryon and Nan in bygone days, and he proceeded tochaff her gently on the subject as they drove to the studio.
"Poor old Rooke will get a shock, Nan, when we dump you on to him thisafternoon," he said. "He won't be anticipating the arrival of an oldflame."
She flushed a little, and Ralph continued teasingly:
"You'll really have to be rather nice to him! He's paid pretty dearlyfor his foolishness in bartering love for filthy lucre."
Penelope frowned at her husband, much as one endeavours to frown downthe observations of an _enfant terrible_.
"Don't be such an idiot, Ralph," she said severely.
He grinned delightedly.
"Old fires die hard, Penny. Do you think it is quite right of us tointroduce Nan on the scene again? She's forbidden fruit now, remember."
"And doubtless Maryon _will_ remember it," retorted Penelope tartly.
"I think," pursued Fenton, "it's not unlike inserting a match into apowder barrel. Rooke"--reflectively--"always reminds me somewhat of apowder barrel. And Nan is by no means a safety match--warranted toproduce a light from the legitimate box and none other!"
"I wish," observed Nan plaintively, "that you wouldn't discuss me justas if I weren't here."
They all laughed, and then, as the car slowed down to a standstill atMaryon's door, the conversation came to an end.
Rooke had established himself in one of the big and comparativelyinexpensive houses in Westminster, in that pleasant, quiet backwaterwhich lies within the shadow of the beautiful old Abbey, away from thenoisy stream of general traffic. The house had formerly been theproperty of another artist who had built on to it a large andwell-equipped studio, so that Rooke had been singularly fortunate inhis purchase.
Nan looked about her with interest as the door swung open, admittingthem into a fair-sized hall. The thick Eastern carpet, the dim,blue-grey hangings on the walls, the quaint brazen lamps--hushing themodern note of electric light behind their thick glass panes--spokeeloquently of Maryon. A faint fragrance of cedar tinged the atmosphere.
The parlourmaid--unmistakably a twentieth-century product--conductedthem into a beautiful Old English room, its walls panelled in dark oak,while heavy oaken beams traversed the ceiling. Logs burned merrily onthe big open hearth, throwing up showers of golden sparks. Above thechimneypiece there was a wonderful old plaster coat-of-arms, datingback to the seventeenth century, and the watery gleams of sunshine,filtering in through the diamond panes of latticed windows, felllingeringly on the waxen surface of an ancient dresser. On the dressershelves were lodged some willow-pattern plates, their clear, tenderblue bearing witness to an early period.
"How like Maryon it all is!" whispered Nan.
And just then Rooke himself came into the room. He had altered verylittle. It was the same supple, loose-limbed figure that approached.The pointed Van Dyck beard was as carefully trimmed, the hazel eyes,with their misleading softness of appeal, as arresting as of old.Perhaps he bore himself with a little more assurance. There might havebeen a shade less of the Bohemian and a shade more of the successfulartist about him.
But Rooke would never suffer from the inordinate complacency whichspoils so many successful men. Always it would be tempered by thatodd, cynical humour of his. Beautiful ladies who gushed at him merelyamused him, and received in return some charming compliment or otherthat rang as hollow as a kettle-drum. Politicians who came to him fortheir portraits were gently made to feel that their favouriteoratorical attitude--which they inevitably assumed when asked to posethemselves quite naturally--was not really overwhelmingly effective,while royalties who perforce condescended to attend his studio--sincehe flatly declined to paint them in their palaces--found that he wasinclined to overlook the matter of their royal blood and to portraythem as though they were merely men and women.
There was an amusing little story going the rounds in connection with acertain peeress--one of the "new rich" fraternity--who had recently satto Rooke for her portrait. Her husband's title had presumably beenconferred in recognition of the arduous services--of an industrial andfinancial nature--which he had rendered during the war. The lady wasinclined to be refulgent on the slightest provocation, and when Rookehad discussed with her his ideas for her portrait she had indignantlyrepudiated his suggestion that only a simple evening gown and fursshould be worn.
"But it will look like the picture of a mere nobody," she hadprotested. "Of--of just anyone!"
"Of anyone--or someone," came Rooke's answer. "The portrait of a greatlady should be able to indicate . . . which."
The newly-fledged peeress proceeded to explain that her own idea hadbeen that she should be painted wearing her state robes andcoronet--plus any additional jewels which could find place on herperson.
Maryon bowed affably.
"But, by all means," he agreed. "Only, if it is of them you require aportrait, you must go to Gregoire Marni. He paints still-life."
Rooke came into the room and greeted his visitors with outstretchedhands.
"My dear Penelope and Ralph," he began cordially. "This is good ofbusy people like yourselves--"
He caught sight of the third figure standing a little behind theFentons and stopped abruptly. His eyes seemed to flinch for a moment.Then he made a quick step forward.
"Why, Nan!" he exclaimed. "This is a most charming surprise."
His voice and manner were perfectly composed; only his intense palenessand the compression of his fine-cut nostrils betrayed any agitation.Nan had seen that "white" look on his face before.
Then Penelope rushed in with some commonplace remark and the brieftension was over.
"Come and see my Mrs. T. Van Decken," said Rooke presently. "Thelight's pretty fair now, but it will be gone after tea."
They trooped out of the room and into the studio, where several otherpeople, who had already examined the great portrait, were stillstrolling about looking at various paintings and sketches.
It was a big bare barn of a place with its cold north light, for Rooke,sybarite as he was in other respects, treated his work from a Spartanstandpoint which permitted necessities only in his studio.
"Empty great barrack, isn't it?" he said to Nan. "But I can't bear tobe crowded up with extraneous hangings and draperies like some fellows.It stifles me."
She nodded sympathetically.
"I know. I like an empty music-room."
"You still work? Ah, that's good. You shall tell me aboutit--afterwards--when this crowd has gone. Oh, Nan, there'll be such alot to say!"
His glance held her a moment, and she flushed under it. Those queereyes of his had lost none of their old magnetic power. He turned awaywith a short, amused laugh, and the next moment was listeningcourteously to an elderly duchess's gushing eulogy of his work.
Nan remained quietly where she was, gazing at the big picture of thefamous American beauty. It was a fine piece of work; the lights andshadows had been handled magnificently, and it was small wonder thatthe man who could produce such work had leaped into the foremost rankof portrait-painters. She felt very glad of his success, rememberinghow
bitter he had been in former days over his failure to obtainrecognition. She turned and, finding him beside her again, spoke herthought quite simply.
"You've made good at last, Maryon. You've no grudge against the worldnow."
He looked down at her oddly.
"Haven't I? . . . Well, you should know," he replied.
She gave a little impatient twist of her shoulders. He hadn't alteredat all, it seemed; he still possessed his old faculty for implying somuch more than was contained in the actual words he spoke.
"Most people would be content with the success you've gained," sheanswered steadily.
"Most people--yes. But to gain the gold and miss . . . therainbow!--_A quoi bon_?"
His voice vibrated. This sudden meeting with Nan was trying him hard.
There had been two genuine things in the man's life--his love for Nanand his love of his art. He had thrust the first deliberately aside sothat he might not be handicapped in the second, and now that the racewas won and success assured he was face to face with the realisation ofthe price that must be paid. Nan was out of his reach for ever.Standing here at his side with all her old elusive charm--out of hisreach!
"What did you mean"--she was speaking to him again--"by telling Pennythat you expected to see me soon--before she would?"
"Ah, that's my news. Of course, when I wrote, I thought you were stilldown in Cornwall, with the Trenbys. I'd no idea you were coming up totown just now."
"I'm up unexpectedly," murmured Nan. "Well? What then?"
He smiled, as though enjoying his secret.
"Isn't Burnham Court somewhere in your direction?"
"Yes. It's about midway between the Hall and Mallow Court. Itbelonged to a Sir Robert Burnham who's just died. Why do you ask?"
"Because Burnham was my godfather. The old chap disapproved of mestrongly at one time--thought painting pictures a fool's job. Butsince luck came my way, his opinion apparently altered, and when hedied he left me all his property--Burnham Court included."
"Burnham Court!" exclaimed Nan in astonishment.
"Yes. Droll, isn't it? So I thought of coming down some time thisspring and seeing how it feels to be a land-owner. My wife is taking atrip to the States then--to visit some friends."
"How nice!" Nan's exclamation was quite spontaneous. It would be niceto have another of her own kind--one of her mental kith and kin--nearat hand after she was married.
"I shan't be down there all the time, of course, but for week-ends andso on--in the intervals between transferring commonplace faces, andstill more frequently commonplace souls, to canvas." He paused, thenasked suddenly: "So you're glad, Nan?"
"Of course I am," she answered heartily. "It will be like old times."
"Unfortunately, old times never--come back," he said shortly.
And then a quaint, drumming noise like the sound of a distant tom-tomsummoned them to tea.
Most of the visitors took their departure soon afterwards, but Nan andthe Fentons lingered on, returning to the studio to enjoy the multitudeof sketches and studies stored away there, many of them carelesslystacked up with their faces to the wall. Rooke made a delightful host,pulling out one canvas after another and pouring out a stream ofamusing little tales concerning the oddities of various sitters.
Presently the door opened and the maid ushered in yet another visitor.
Nan, standing rather apart by one of the bay windows at the far end ofthe room, was examining a rough sketch, in black and white. She caughther breath suddenly at the sound of the newcomer's voice.
"I couldn't get here earlier, as I promised, Rooke, and I'm afraid thedaylight's gone. However, I've no doubt Mrs. Van Decken will lookequally charming by artificial light. In fact, I should have said itwas her natural element."
Nan, screened from the remainder of the room by the window embrasure,let the sketch she was holding flutter to the ground.
The quiet, drawling voice was Peter's! And he didn't know she washere! It would be horrible--horrible to meet him suddenly likethis . . . here . . . in the presence of other people.
She pressed herself closely against the wall of the recess, her breathcoming gaspingly between parched lips. The mere tones of his voice,with their lazy, distinctive drawl, set her heart beating in greatsuffocating leaps. She had never dreamed of the possibility of meetinghim--here, of all places, and the knowledge that only a few yardsseparated them from one another, that if she stepped out from thealcove which screened her she would be face to face with him, drainedher of all strength.
She stood there motionless, her back to the wall, her palms pressedrigidly against its surface.
Was he coming towards here? . . . Now? It seemed hours since hisvoice had first struck upon her ears.
At last, after what appeared an infinity of time, she heard the hum oftalk and laughter drift out of the room . . . the sound of footstepsretreating . . . the closing of a door.
Her stiff muscles relaxed and, leaning forward, she peered into thestudio. It was empty. They had all gone, and with a sigh of reliefshe stepped out from her hiding-place.
She wandered aimlessly about for a minute or two, then came to anchorin front of Mrs. T. Van Decken's portrait. With a curious sense ofdetachment, she fell to criticising it afresh. It had been paintedwith amazing skill and insight. All the beauty was there, theexquisite tinting of flesh, the beautiful curve of cheek and throat andshoulder. But, behind the lovely physical presentment, Nan felt shecould detect the woman's soul--predatory, feline, and unscrupulous. Itwas rather original of Maryon to have done that, she thought--paintedboth body and spirit--and it was just like that cynical cleverness ofhis to have discerned so exactly the soulless type of woman which thebeautiful body concealed and to have insolently reproduced it, daringdiscovery.
She looked up and found him standing beside her. She had not heard thequiet opening and closing of the door.
"An old friend of yours has just come in to see my Van Decken," he saidquietly. His eyes were slightly quizzical.
Nan turned her face a little aside.
"I know. Where--where is he?"
"I took him along to have some tea. I've left him with the Fentons;they can prepare him for the . . . shock."
She flushed angrily.
"Maryon! You're outrageous!" she protested.
"I imagined. I was showing great consideration, seeing I've no causeto bear Mallory any overwhelming goodwill."
"I thought you had only met him once or twice?"
Rooke looked down at her with an odd expression.
"True--in the old days, only once. At your flat. But we've knocked upagainst each other several times since then. And Mrs. Van Decken askedhim to come and see her portrait."
"You and he can have very little in common," observed Nan carelessly.
"Nothing"--promptly--"except the links of art. I've always been truein my art--if in nothing else. Besides, all's grist that comes toMallory's mill. He regards me as a type. Ah!"--as the door openedonce more--"here they come."
Her throat contracted with nervousness and she felt that it would be aphysical impossibility for her to speak. She turned mechanically asPenelope re-entered the room, followed by her husband and PeterMallory. Uppermost in Nan's mind was the thought, to which she clungas to a sheet-anchor, that of the three witnesses to this meetingbetween Peter and herself, the Fentons were ignorant of the fact thatshe cared for him, and Maryon, whatever he might suspect, had nocertain knowledge.
The dreaded ordeal was quickly over. A simple handshake, and in a fewmoments they were all five chatting together, Mrs. Van Decken'sportrait prominent in the conversation.
Mallory had altered in some indefinable way. In the fugitive glancesshe stole at him Nan could see that he was thinner, his face a trifleworn-looking, and the old whimsical light had died out of his eyes,replaced by a rather bitter sadness.
"You'd better come and dine with us to-night, Mallory," said Fenton,pausing as they we
re about to leave. "Penelope and I are due at theAlbert Hall later on, but we shall be home fairly early and you canentertain Nan in our absence. It's purely a ballad concert, so shedoesn't care to go with us--it's not high-brow enough!"--with a twinklein Nan's direction.
She glanced at Peter swiftly. Would he refuse?
There was the slightest pause. Then--
"Thank you very much," he said quietly. "I shall be delighted."
"We dine at an unearthly hour to-night, of course," volunteeredPenelope. "Half-past six."
"As I contrived to miss my lunch to-day, I shan't grumble," repliedPeter, smiling. "Till to-night, then."
And the Fentons' motor slid away into the lamplit dusk.
"Wasn't that rather rash of you, Ralph?" asked Penelope later on, whenthey were both dressing for the evening. "I think--last summer--Peterwas getting too fond of Nan for his own peace of mind."
Ralph came to the door of his dressing-room in his shirt-sleeves,shaving-brush in hand.
"Good Lord, no!" he said. "Mallory's married and Nan's engaged--whatmore do you want? They were just good pals. And anyway, even ifyou're right, the affair must he dead embers by this time."
"It may be. Still, there's nothing gained by blowing on them," repliedPenelope sagely.
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