Chapter Four.Discovery.Kitty Lascelles watched her model out of the room with some intentness. When she turned away at last, she gave a little troubled sigh, and looked at Bell, standing before her picture. Bell answered the look by an extremely brief question. “Well?”“Bell,” said the other girl, in a very low voice, “does it strike you that there is anything odd about that—Italian?”“Odd?” repeated Bell.“I can’t make him out,” said Kitty, uneasily. “It must be fancy, of course, but still I don’t really think he is quite what he seems.”“In what way?”“You’ll laugh, Bell, but—do you think he looks like a common man? He doesn’t talk like one, at any rate. I think it is just as well he is not coming again. I—”“Well,” interrupted her friend, “what do you say to his hands?”“Then, that struck you too?” exclaimed Kitty eagerly. “Why what is it?”For Bell had flung herself into a chair in a sudden paroxysm of laughter, so long and so unchecked that for a time she could not speak.“So you suspect at last?” she cried. “Oh, Kitty, Kitty!”“What do you mean?” cried the girl. “Bell, I shall shake you if you are so dreadfully silly. What do you mean? What do you know? Oh, Bell, don’t be provoking!”“But I want you to guess. I shan’t tell you until you have had at least six guesses. Who do you suppose—only you never will suppose, that’s the worst of it!—still, who, of all unlikely persons, has been your model?”Kitty drew herself up.“I don’t know; and if you knew and did not tell me, I am not sure that I shall ever forgive you.”This terrible threat appeared in no way to disconcert her friend.“Guess.”Kitty shook her head, and walked to the window.“Come back, or I won’t tell you.”Kitty hesitated; then marched back.“Tell me directly.”“It was Mr Everitt himself.”“Bell!”The hot colour surged up all over the girl’s face and throat; after that one word, she stood speechless. Her model Mr Everitt, the painter—the great painter, as she called him! It was impossible, impossible! But Bell’s amusement was intense, “I don’t know that I should have told you yet, if you had not suspected something in that innocent little way of yours. Still, it was almost more than I could keep to myself; and oh, Kitty, imagine the situation when last night I met him at a dinner-party!”But Kitty did not laugh.“Bell,” she said gravely, “I can’t believe it. I am sure you must be making some extraordinary mistake.”“My dear, I am quite, quite certain. Why, even my father, who only saw him here yesterday, fidgeted all last night about some likeness. I didn’t say a word. It wouldn’t do with papa.”“It will not do with any of us,” said Kitty, with spirit.“You won’t tell your father?”“I shall tell mother, and she can act as she likes.”“Take care,” said Bell, more seriously. “You don’t want a regular fuss to grow out of a bit of absurdity. What has he done?”“He has come here in a false position and under false pretences. I think it dreadful. What could make him behave so?”“Shall I tell you what I believe? That it was laziness or good-nature. I dare say he forgot all about the model, and then was afraid you would be awfully disappointed. Mrs Marchmont said so much about it. It is all over now, and remember, he did his utmost to get out of coming to-day.”“Mother must judge.”“Well, I think you are extremely hard on the poor man. You would not have liked it at all if you had waited through yesterday morning and had no model. I am sure he was very uncomfortable himself.”“And that was the reason he stood so badly!” cried Kitty. “I hope hewasuncomfortable.”“Kitty,” said Bell earnestly, “if I were you I would say nothing about it. You don’t know what mischief you may set going. It is over and done with; he is not coming again, and if you appear to remain in ignorance, you will be in a far more dignified position than if our fathers bring a clatter about his ears. If he really took the character in order to do you a kindly turn, it will be very ungrateful of you to damage his reputation.”“Then, you allow,” said Kitty, with her head thrown back, “that it is damaging?”“I think he has done a thing which might tell against him immensely; but I don’t think a scrap the worse of him myself. There!” said Bell.Kitty was silent, but there was that in her face which did not satisfy the other girl.“I believe you are dreadfully unforgiving,” she said. As she spoke, she walked to the window and knelt on the low window-seat. Kitty followed her, looking pale.“Bell, I really am vexed. I think it is particularly unfortunate,” she said. “You know that it has cost father a great deal to let me have my way, and make a profession of my painting; there have been a dozen lions in the way at least. But such a lion as this never entered our heads. Don’t you see that if he hears of a gentleman dressing up and coming here as a model, there will be an end of everything? Supposing, even, that it is as you say, a mere good-natured freak, do you think that he is likely to understand it in that light?”There was a pause; then Bell said slowly—“And yet you would tell him?”The girl’s colour rose.“Yes,” she said very proudly; “whatever comes of it, he shall never say that I have deceived him. I shall tell mother, and she will do what is best.”“Whenever,” murmured her companion—“whenever you sweet-tempered people take the bit between your teeth, I have noticed that it is absolutely hopeless to attempt to turn you. Well. Kitty, since you are determined to set a torch to the gunpowder, I hope we shan’t all go up with the explosion. My father is good for a magnificent fizz. I hear him now in the passage.”Another moment saw him in the room, and with him came Mrs Lascelles, a large, kindly-faced woman, in whose brown eyes gleamed the same clear brightness which met you in her daughter’s. The old colonel was as stormily benevolent as usual.“So you gave me the slip after all, eh, Miss Bell? I’ve just been telling your godmother that she hasn’t brought you up well; little Kitty here would never dare to be so undutiful. Eh? I met your precious rascal of an Italian close by here; can’t think how you admit such a fellow within the gates. I stopped him, but he was as sulky as a bear. I have it, though, I have it!” he cried, slapping his thigh; “to be sure! That’s the man the painter-fellow last night was like. What was he called?—Egerton—Elliott—friend of Marchmont’s, you know, Bell. ’Pon my word, the most extraordinary likeness, eh, Bell, eh?”“There was a likeness, certainly,” said his daughter calmly.“A likeness! This man is his double. It’s been annoying me all the night. I never will be beaten by a likeness.”“But I hope the model is not such a disreputable being as you describe,” said Mrs Lascelles, a shade of anxiety in her voice. “If he is, it cannot be very pleasant for you, Kitty.”“He behaved well enough,” said the girl, in a low voice.“And he is not coming again; he has not the time to spare,” Bell said cheerfully. “Kitty has been very successful with him, and ought to be exceedingly obliged. Look, Mrs Lascelles!”“Obliged!” grumbled her father. “The fellow gets paid, eh? Well, upon my word, that’s not at all bad, Kitty. I tell you what I’ll give you your first order, and I’ll sit for you myself. Then you needn’t have those fellows sneaking about the place. They’ll be bringing dynamite one of these days. If I were Lascelles I wouldn’t stand it—I wouldn’t stand it.”“Father,” said Bell promptly, “I’m ashamed of you! You’re only saying this to tease Kitty, and she’s just as white as a ghost already. Come home with me at once; and, Kitty, don’t you think about anything that he has said.”Then she flung herself upon her friend, and kissed her with the warmth which marks a certain phase in young ladies’ friendships.When they were gone, Mrs Lascelles went to the window, where her daughter was standing.“There’s something the matter, Kitty,” she said, putting her hand on her shoulder.“Yes, mother, there is,” returned the girl gravely.Neither of them spoke for a little while, for Mrs Lascelles never extracted confidences. Kitty sighed.“To tell you the truth,” she said, “I can’t be sure whether I had better say it out or not.”“And I can’t help you,” said Mrs Lascelles, with a laugh.“You see, mother, so far as I am concerned, it would be the greatest relief; but Bell thinks that by repeating it will be made of more importance, and I don’t know that she isn’t right.”“Well,” said her mother, after a pause, “I trust you entirely, Kitty.”“I believe I must tell you,” said the girl, “and then you must decide whether it should go any farther.” For in her heart of hearts, Kitty knew that her father was not the safest person in the world for such a confidence, and knew that her mother was aware of it, too. “It is about the model.”Mrs Lascelles looked uneasy.“Mother, Bell thinks that Mr Everitt could not get the man he promised to send, and that—he came himself.”“Kitty!”“Yes. It’s dreadful,” Kitty said despairingly.“It’s absurd! It must be Bell’s imagination. Came himself?”“Do you think she can have imagined it?”—more hopefully. “She declares she is quite sure. And you heard what Colonel Aitcheson said?”“There may be a likeness—of course there must be a likeness—but it is far more probable that this likeness misled them, than that such an extraordinarily unlikely thing should be done by any one. Still, the very idea would distress your father more than I can say.”“That’s what I thought,”—despairingly again. “Mother, ought he to know?”Mrs Lascelles hesitated, “No. I think, while it is all so uncertain, and may be only Bell’s fancy, that Bell is right in saying it should be kept quiet. Of course, if he were coming here again, it would be necessary to ascertain one way or the other; but you say there is no fear of that?”Kitty shook her head. “He didn’t want to come to-day.”“Kitty,” said her mother suddenly, “did you suspect anything?”“Not yesterday,” said the girl, lifting her clear true eyes to her mother’s. “But to-day I did feel uncomfortable. I noticed his hands and his voice seemed different—not like that of a common man.”“What did he say?” Mrs Lascelles tried to speak indifferently.“Oh, he spoke—why, if it were Mr Everitt, he spoke about himself. I asked him, you know.”“Oh!” Mrs Lascelles might be forgiven for looking anxiously at her daughter’s sweet unconscious lace, and thinking that a man might peril a good deal for a second sight of it.But Kitty read a certain reproach in the look.“Mother,”—earnestly—“I hadn’t the smallest suspicion. Of course, I treated him like any other model.”“Of course,” said her mother, kissing her. “My dear, I am not blaming you in the least. It is only an unfortunate beginning to have this idea troubling one, even if, as I believe, Bell’s imagination has run away with her. I shan’t like to leave you here alone. At any rate, did I understand anything about another model coming in his place?”“Yes; another man in the same costume.”“We will stop that, at any rate. We will certainly have no more models of Mr Everitt’s providing, be they who they may. But I don’t want to enter into communication with him; if,ifthere is anything actual in this absurd idea, he might make it an excuse for forcing an acquaintance upon us. Still, we must stop the model somehow.”“Yes,” said Kitty sadly, standing before her easel and regarding the unfinished painting with the yearnings of an artist.“Yes, indeed,” said her mother, not quite entering into this; “and I’ll tell you what we will do. It was Mrs Marchmont who settled it for you?”“Yes.”“I will write and ask her to let Mr Everitt know that we do not require another model. That will avoid any direct communication.”“I suppose it is the best plan.”“My poor Kitty! Unless you can arrange always to have some one to paint with you, you had better keep to women. Now you must come, or those ravenous children will be unmanageable.”All the rest of that day little Kitty was in a subdued mood. The more she thought over slight incidents of each sitting, the more she became convinced that Bell was right in her surmise. She had caught a glimpse of a shirt-cuff which was spotlessly clean; she remembered that the short trimness of his hair had struck her as inappropriate from the first. Then his voice. On this second day, a certain gruffness, which he had kept up on the first, quite disappeared; she had been surprised to find him expressing himself like an English gentleman. Moreover, she now recalled a momentary drawing back when she offered the money.“I am glad I paid him; I am glad he had that to go through!” cried Kitty, with burning cheeks, and a longing to heap some humiliation on his head. “He must have hated it. I wonder what he did with the money?”If Kitty had known, her cheeks would certainly have burnt more fiercely still; for Everitt had, with painful efforts, himselfsewnup the money in a little case, and painted outside it the initials “K.L.” and a date.This little case he will carry with him always—till his death.
Kitty Lascelles watched her model out of the room with some intentness. When she turned away at last, she gave a little troubled sigh, and looked at Bell, standing before her picture. Bell answered the look by an extremely brief question. “Well?”
“Bell,” said the other girl, in a very low voice, “does it strike you that there is anything odd about that—Italian?”
“Odd?” repeated Bell.
“I can’t make him out,” said Kitty, uneasily. “It must be fancy, of course, but still I don’t really think he is quite what he seems.”
“In what way?”
“You’ll laugh, Bell, but—do you think he looks like a common man? He doesn’t talk like one, at any rate. I think it is just as well he is not coming again. I—”
“Well,” interrupted her friend, “what do you say to his hands?”
“Then, that struck you too?” exclaimed Kitty eagerly. “Why what is it?”
For Bell had flung herself into a chair in a sudden paroxysm of laughter, so long and so unchecked that for a time she could not speak.
“So you suspect at last?” she cried. “Oh, Kitty, Kitty!”
“What do you mean?” cried the girl. “Bell, I shall shake you if you are so dreadfully silly. What do you mean? What do you know? Oh, Bell, don’t be provoking!”
“But I want you to guess. I shan’t tell you until you have had at least six guesses. Who do you suppose—only you never will suppose, that’s the worst of it!—still, who, of all unlikely persons, has been your model?”
Kitty drew herself up.
“I don’t know; and if you knew and did not tell me, I am not sure that I shall ever forgive you.”
This terrible threat appeared in no way to disconcert her friend.
“Guess.”
Kitty shook her head, and walked to the window.
“Come back, or I won’t tell you.”
Kitty hesitated; then marched back.
“Tell me directly.”
“It was Mr Everitt himself.”
“Bell!”
The hot colour surged up all over the girl’s face and throat; after that one word, she stood speechless. Her model Mr Everitt, the painter—the great painter, as she called him! It was impossible, impossible! But Bell’s amusement was intense, “I don’t know that I should have told you yet, if you had not suspected something in that innocent little way of yours. Still, it was almost more than I could keep to myself; and oh, Kitty, imagine the situation when last night I met him at a dinner-party!”
But Kitty did not laugh.
“Bell,” she said gravely, “I can’t believe it. I am sure you must be making some extraordinary mistake.”
“My dear, I am quite, quite certain. Why, even my father, who only saw him here yesterday, fidgeted all last night about some likeness. I didn’t say a word. It wouldn’t do with papa.”
“It will not do with any of us,” said Kitty, with spirit.
“You won’t tell your father?”
“I shall tell mother, and she can act as she likes.”
“Take care,” said Bell, more seriously. “You don’t want a regular fuss to grow out of a bit of absurdity. What has he done?”
“He has come here in a false position and under false pretences. I think it dreadful. What could make him behave so?”
“Shall I tell you what I believe? That it was laziness or good-nature. I dare say he forgot all about the model, and then was afraid you would be awfully disappointed. Mrs Marchmont said so much about it. It is all over now, and remember, he did his utmost to get out of coming to-day.”
“Mother must judge.”
“Well, I think you are extremely hard on the poor man. You would not have liked it at all if you had waited through yesterday morning and had no model. I am sure he was very uncomfortable himself.”
“And that was the reason he stood so badly!” cried Kitty. “I hope hewasuncomfortable.”
“Kitty,” said Bell earnestly, “if I were you I would say nothing about it. You don’t know what mischief you may set going. It is over and done with; he is not coming again, and if you appear to remain in ignorance, you will be in a far more dignified position than if our fathers bring a clatter about his ears. If he really took the character in order to do you a kindly turn, it will be very ungrateful of you to damage his reputation.”
“Then, you allow,” said Kitty, with her head thrown back, “that it is damaging?”
“I think he has done a thing which might tell against him immensely; but I don’t think a scrap the worse of him myself. There!” said Bell.
Kitty was silent, but there was that in her face which did not satisfy the other girl.
“I believe you are dreadfully unforgiving,” she said. As she spoke, she walked to the window and knelt on the low window-seat. Kitty followed her, looking pale.
“Bell, I really am vexed. I think it is particularly unfortunate,” she said. “You know that it has cost father a great deal to let me have my way, and make a profession of my painting; there have been a dozen lions in the way at least. But such a lion as this never entered our heads. Don’t you see that if he hears of a gentleman dressing up and coming here as a model, there will be an end of everything? Supposing, even, that it is as you say, a mere good-natured freak, do you think that he is likely to understand it in that light?”
There was a pause; then Bell said slowly—
“And yet you would tell him?”
The girl’s colour rose.
“Yes,” she said very proudly; “whatever comes of it, he shall never say that I have deceived him. I shall tell mother, and she will do what is best.”
“Whenever,” murmured her companion—“whenever you sweet-tempered people take the bit between your teeth, I have noticed that it is absolutely hopeless to attempt to turn you. Well. Kitty, since you are determined to set a torch to the gunpowder, I hope we shan’t all go up with the explosion. My father is good for a magnificent fizz. I hear him now in the passage.”
Another moment saw him in the room, and with him came Mrs Lascelles, a large, kindly-faced woman, in whose brown eyes gleamed the same clear brightness which met you in her daughter’s. The old colonel was as stormily benevolent as usual.
“So you gave me the slip after all, eh, Miss Bell? I’ve just been telling your godmother that she hasn’t brought you up well; little Kitty here would never dare to be so undutiful. Eh? I met your precious rascal of an Italian close by here; can’t think how you admit such a fellow within the gates. I stopped him, but he was as sulky as a bear. I have it, though, I have it!” he cried, slapping his thigh; “to be sure! That’s the man the painter-fellow last night was like. What was he called?—Egerton—Elliott—friend of Marchmont’s, you know, Bell. ’Pon my word, the most extraordinary likeness, eh, Bell, eh?”
“There was a likeness, certainly,” said his daughter calmly.
“A likeness! This man is his double. It’s been annoying me all the night. I never will be beaten by a likeness.”
“But I hope the model is not such a disreputable being as you describe,” said Mrs Lascelles, a shade of anxiety in her voice. “If he is, it cannot be very pleasant for you, Kitty.”
“He behaved well enough,” said the girl, in a low voice.
“And he is not coming again; he has not the time to spare,” Bell said cheerfully. “Kitty has been very successful with him, and ought to be exceedingly obliged. Look, Mrs Lascelles!”
“Obliged!” grumbled her father. “The fellow gets paid, eh? Well, upon my word, that’s not at all bad, Kitty. I tell you what I’ll give you your first order, and I’ll sit for you myself. Then you needn’t have those fellows sneaking about the place. They’ll be bringing dynamite one of these days. If I were Lascelles I wouldn’t stand it—I wouldn’t stand it.”
“Father,” said Bell promptly, “I’m ashamed of you! You’re only saying this to tease Kitty, and she’s just as white as a ghost already. Come home with me at once; and, Kitty, don’t you think about anything that he has said.”
Then she flung herself upon her friend, and kissed her with the warmth which marks a certain phase in young ladies’ friendships.
When they were gone, Mrs Lascelles went to the window, where her daughter was standing.
“There’s something the matter, Kitty,” she said, putting her hand on her shoulder.
“Yes, mother, there is,” returned the girl gravely.
Neither of them spoke for a little while, for Mrs Lascelles never extracted confidences. Kitty sighed.
“To tell you the truth,” she said, “I can’t be sure whether I had better say it out or not.”
“And I can’t help you,” said Mrs Lascelles, with a laugh.
“You see, mother, so far as I am concerned, it would be the greatest relief; but Bell thinks that by repeating it will be made of more importance, and I don’t know that she isn’t right.”
“Well,” said her mother, after a pause, “I trust you entirely, Kitty.”
“I believe I must tell you,” said the girl, “and then you must decide whether it should go any farther.” For in her heart of hearts, Kitty knew that her father was not the safest person in the world for such a confidence, and knew that her mother was aware of it, too. “It is about the model.”
Mrs Lascelles looked uneasy.
“Mother, Bell thinks that Mr Everitt could not get the man he promised to send, and that—he came himself.”
“Kitty!”
“Yes. It’s dreadful,” Kitty said despairingly.
“It’s absurd! It must be Bell’s imagination. Came himself?”
“Do you think she can have imagined it?”—more hopefully. “She declares she is quite sure. And you heard what Colonel Aitcheson said?”
“There may be a likeness—of course there must be a likeness—but it is far more probable that this likeness misled them, than that such an extraordinarily unlikely thing should be done by any one. Still, the very idea would distress your father more than I can say.”
“That’s what I thought,”—despairingly again. “Mother, ought he to know?”
Mrs Lascelles hesitated, “No. I think, while it is all so uncertain, and may be only Bell’s fancy, that Bell is right in saying it should be kept quiet. Of course, if he were coming here again, it would be necessary to ascertain one way or the other; but you say there is no fear of that?”
Kitty shook her head. “He didn’t want to come to-day.”
“Kitty,” said her mother suddenly, “did you suspect anything?”
“Not yesterday,” said the girl, lifting her clear true eyes to her mother’s. “But to-day I did feel uncomfortable. I noticed his hands and his voice seemed different—not like that of a common man.”
“What did he say?” Mrs Lascelles tried to speak indifferently.
“Oh, he spoke—why, if it were Mr Everitt, he spoke about himself. I asked him, you know.”
“Oh!” Mrs Lascelles might be forgiven for looking anxiously at her daughter’s sweet unconscious lace, and thinking that a man might peril a good deal for a second sight of it.
But Kitty read a certain reproach in the look.
“Mother,”—earnestly—“I hadn’t the smallest suspicion. Of course, I treated him like any other model.”
“Of course,” said her mother, kissing her. “My dear, I am not blaming you in the least. It is only an unfortunate beginning to have this idea troubling one, even if, as I believe, Bell’s imagination has run away with her. I shan’t like to leave you here alone. At any rate, did I understand anything about another model coming in his place?”
“Yes; another man in the same costume.”
“We will stop that, at any rate. We will certainly have no more models of Mr Everitt’s providing, be they who they may. But I don’t want to enter into communication with him; if,ifthere is anything actual in this absurd idea, he might make it an excuse for forcing an acquaintance upon us. Still, we must stop the model somehow.”
“Yes,” said Kitty sadly, standing before her easel and regarding the unfinished painting with the yearnings of an artist.
“Yes, indeed,” said her mother, not quite entering into this; “and I’ll tell you what we will do. It was Mrs Marchmont who settled it for you?”
“Yes.”
“I will write and ask her to let Mr Everitt know that we do not require another model. That will avoid any direct communication.”
“I suppose it is the best plan.”
“My poor Kitty! Unless you can arrange always to have some one to paint with you, you had better keep to women. Now you must come, or those ravenous children will be unmanageable.”
All the rest of that day little Kitty was in a subdued mood. The more she thought over slight incidents of each sitting, the more she became convinced that Bell was right in her surmise. She had caught a glimpse of a shirt-cuff which was spotlessly clean; she remembered that the short trimness of his hair had struck her as inappropriate from the first. Then his voice. On this second day, a certain gruffness, which he had kept up on the first, quite disappeared; she had been surprised to find him expressing himself like an English gentleman. Moreover, she now recalled a momentary drawing back when she offered the money.
“I am glad I paid him; I am glad he had that to go through!” cried Kitty, with burning cheeks, and a longing to heap some humiliation on his head. “He must have hated it. I wonder what he did with the money?”
If Kitty had known, her cheeks would certainly have burnt more fiercely still; for Everitt had, with painful efforts, himselfsewnup the money in a little case, and painted outside it the initials “K.L.” and a date.
This little case he will carry with him always—till his death.
Chapter Five.Consequences.Everitt made his way home in happy unconsciousness of the discovery that followed his departure. To tell the truth, he troubled himself less than he might have done—for he was not without suspicions that Miss Aitcheson had penetrated his disguise further than he liked—because his thoughts were running persistently on one subject: how to see Miss Lascelles again, and quickly.The most direct way was to get hold of Mrs Marchmont, and induce her to take him; but he had the grace to determine that, in telling her his wishes, he would tell her all, and be guided by her advice. If she were in favour of a frank confession, he was quite ready to undertake it. It must be owned that he did not imagine that in personating the disreputable Italian he had committed a very unpardonable fault; he did not, at any rate, so imagine it now, when it appeared to hint he had been far more inexcusable in suggesting that such a model as Giuseppe should sit for Kitty Lascelles.He would go to Mrs Marchmont that afternoon.So full was he of these thoughts that he neglected precautions, and very nearly blundered into the arms of the irrepressible Jack, who was diverting himself by strolling up and down the passage, and imparting a more truculent expression to the countenance of a grimy marble lion which stood on guard. He came into Everitt’s studio by-and-by with his curiosity very much alive.“Hill swears no one has been here, but I can swear—harder—that twice to-day I’ve seen Giuseppe, or his double, and I believe he ran to earth in here.”“I’ve not seen the fellow,” said Everitt, coolly.“Well, you may take my word for it he’s been here. Do you mean to tell me I don’t know that old sun-burnt cloak of yours?”“I mean to tell you nothing, except that I’ve not seen Giuseppe.”“Where’s the cloak?”“Where it always is, I presume. Look for yourself.”Jack investigated the cupboard. There was the cloak certainly, also the red waistcoat, also the brown hat with the crossed ribbons, also the sandals, with—and this was strange—a stain or two of fresh mud. He brought them to Everitt triumphantly.“They’ve been worn this morning; how do you account for that?”The other man looked black.“For pity’s sake, Jack, leave the thing alone! You want to know if Giuseppe’s been here, and I tell you no. That’s enough. You’re so abominably inquisitive!”Jack stared at him meditatively for a few moments; then he flung himself into an armchair, stretched out his legs, and burst into a vociferous peal of laughter. It lasted long enough for Everitt to get red, try to look stern, and finally to break into an accompanying laugh himself.“What a fool you are!” he said presently, by way of compensation.“Oh, I say!” cried Jack, when he could speak; “if this doesn’t beat everything! I knew there was something up, but I never thought of anything so rich as this. My very reverend, grave, and sober Mentor!”“Shut up!”“I’d have given all I have in the world to have been there,” Jack continued, springing up in the ecstasy of his feelings. “A precious bad bargain she must have had!Youstand for a model! You couldn’t, my dear fellow, to save your life. I say, aren’t you stiff? Everitt?”“Well?”“I believe it was the duke’s daughter put it into your head?”“It’s true enough I get my folly from you,” said the elder man, not ill-humouredly.“Oh, no more speeches of that sort! I’ve the whip-hand of you for a good while,” said Jack, triumphantly. “You can’t say I ever dressed up as a model to get into a house.”“To get into a house!” Everitt frowned. “Certainly that was not my motive.”“What then?” demanded the imperturbable Jack.“Merely that that brute came drunk, and I had promised to send some one.”“Oh!”“What do you mean by your ‘oh’? it was, I tell you—hotly. I dare say. But it won’t look like it to them when they find it out.”“What do you mean?”“Only what I say. You’ll be run in, somehow, of course; you’re not the sort of fellow to do it under the rose. Well, when it comes out they won’t believe but that you had some object in view.”“Go on, Jack; you’re a marvel of precocious wisdom! I tell you, I’d never seen or heard of them before.”“Not Miss Aitcheson?”“Oh, Miss Aitcheson! I’m sure I never want to see Miss Aitcheson again.”“Was she there?”“Yes.”“And don’t you suppose she recognised you?”“Shouldn’t wonder.”“Well, you have put your foot in it.”“What’s the harm? I promised a model; he failed, and I went myself.”“Oh, no particular harm,” said Jack, coolly; “no harm at all, I dare say; only if I had happened to do such a thing—”“You!” repeated Everitt, looking at Jack. Put in this manner, the idea certainly appeared intolerable. “You! Oh, you’re different.”“I should say I was. I shall never pull up to your heights of audacity, that’s certain. What’s your next move? Are you going again?”“No,” curtly. “To-morrow I shall send Jackson.”Jack had a good many more jests to cut, which the other endured with what meekness he could muster. It was annoying that the young fellow should have made the discovery, for it would inevitably serve as a means for plaguing Everitt whenever the artist tried to get Master Jack into steady work. Moreover, the way in which he looked at it made Everitt a little uneasy; it had not before struck him that others might regard it in that attitude, which had, indeed, been far enough from his own point of view.In the afternoon he went to his cousin’s in Hans Place. She welcomed him with excessive cordiality and some surprise.“For a wonder I find you alone,” he said.“That sounds,” she said, “as if you were in the habit of trying to find me. Shall we go into dates, or would you rather throw yourself on my mercy?”“Much rather. Indeed, I am afraid this is going to be an afternoon of confessions.”She glanced at him and then at a letter which the servant had given her when Everitt came in.“Will you excuse me,” she said, “if I read my letter?”It contained no more than a few lines, but Mrs Marchmont took an unusual time in reading them. When she had finished, she refolded the note and laid it by her side.“Confessions!” she said. “They will have a great air of novelty from you. What have you been about, Charlie? Forgetting your engagements?”“No. Only carrying them out too faithfully. You remember that I undertook to supply a model for your friend, Miss Lascelles?”Mrs Marchmont took the letter she had laid down again into her hand.“Yes,” she answered. “And you carried out your undertaking. Has anything happened?”“Why?” he asked quickly.“Because you told me you had a confession to make, and because this note may have something to do with it. It is from Mrs Lascelles.”“What does she say?” Everitt demanded, with interest.“Well, she begs me to let you know that they do not want the model again. There is something odd in that, because Kitty was so very keen for him. What is the mystery? Has the man turned out too much of a ruffian, or too little?”“Judge for yourself,” he said. “I was the ruffian.”“You!” she exclaimed. “You!”“The man failed me, and I couldn’t think of any way of escaping your displeasure but by taking the character myself.”“You went to the Lascelles’ as a model!”“I did. I begin to believe now that it was a blunder.”“It was a blunder,” she said, gravely. “It certainly was a blunder.”He looked at her.“At least,” he said, eagerly, “you will understand that my motives were very simple.”“Yes, I can understand; I am afraid other people may not credit them with such simplicity. It was dreadfully imprudent, Charlie! It was more what I should have expected from your friend Mr Hibbert.” Then she began to laugh. “But it must have been very comic. And did they find you out?”“I don’t know. I don’t know that they did. But, Mary—”“Well?”“I want you to tell them, and to square things.”She shook her head.“They won’t be at all easy to square, as you call it. You had better leave them alone, and trust to the fates not to bring you across any of the Lascelles family again.”An odd expression crossed Everitt’s face.“That won’t do,” he said, getting up and standing with his back to the fireplace. “I want to see them again; at least, I want to see your friend.”“Kitty? Oh!” exclaimed Mrs Marchmont, in blank amazement. “This is too exciting! Do you really mean it?”“I mean that I should like to see her again,” repeated Everitt. “You may take that for what it’s worth.”“Oh, I am delighted!” she cried; “delighted! Charlie, I would do anything in the world if I thought. But there, we needn’t say anything. You just want to be introduced?”“Yes; and they’d better know. I won’t have that hanging over my head.”“I’ll manage everything. They have a garden-party on Monday; I shall propose to bring you, and I will go and see them meanwhile. One couldn’t write all that about the model.”Everitt left her, not ill-satisfied. He had said rather more than he had intended, but it had been necessary to enlist his cousin, and he knew she would act in the friendliest fashion.He waited impatiently.On Thursday, Jack Hibbert, who tormented him unmercifully, informed him that he had an invitation for the Lascelles’.“Hope they’ll never find out I’ve any connection with you,” he remarked, audaciously.“Hope not, for my sake,” growled Everitt.Finding that nothing came from Mrs Marchmont, on Friday morning he started for the Park, and strolled along the Row till he caught sight of his cousin riding a bay mare, and surrounded by friends. The first time of passing, she did not see him; but as she came down again she caught sight of Everitt, and rode up to the railings.“Well?” he said, eagerly.She shook her head.“I’m dreadfully disappointed. I’ve done my very best, but they won’t hear of it. I’ve been there, and I’ve seen Mrs Lascelles and Kitty, and said everything I could think of.”“Has it annoyed them so much?” said Everitt, flushing.“I don’t know about annoyed. They are not angry, and I think they understand how it was done; but—perhaps it’s natural, Charlie—they don’t fancy an acquaintance begun in that fashion. Itwouldbe awkward, you must allow, just at first. Kitty wouldn’t know whether she was talking to her model or to you yourself. I think by-and-by we might get over it quietly; but just at present I really don’t see what to do.”Everitt stared gloomily at a group beyond him.“You understand how it is, don’t you?” said his cousin, anxiously.“Oh, it’s clear enough, you needn’t fear. I made a fool of myself, and yet I can’t regret it.” He looked at Mrs Marchmont, and suddenly burst out laughing. “Do you think any one was ever in such a ridiculous position?”“I am partly responsible,” she said. “What will you do?”“Get right again somehow,” he replied, briefly. “Do you mean you will give it up?”“I mean that if I can I shall marry Miss Kitty Lascelles.”“Oh, Charlie,” said Mrs Marchmont, drawing a deep breath, “I like you ever so much! Tell me how I can help.”“Here are the others,” said Everitt, standing upright. “I’ll let you know, Mary, when I’ve thought it out.”The day was grey and showery; the changing silvery lights bringing out the colours of the great banks of rhododendrons massed together in the Park. Everitt walked for some time up and down under the trees, trying to see his way out of his absurd difficulties. They were absurd, but they were not pleasant. To have your acquaintance declined is to receive something very like a slap in the face; the next step forward does not present itself very naturally. However, he was not the man to flinch at an obstacle.He made his next move on Sunday. The chapel of the old Hospital is open to strangers, and Everitt went off in good time to secure his vantage post. It was a wet, gusty day, full of growth and softness, a southerly wind blowing across the river, the trees washed into lovely tender greens, the red of the building beautiful against the grey clouds. The birds were singing as usual; the old men encourage them, and they take full advantage of the safe shelter they find. Just a few people were turning in at the gates, and lingering on their way to the clock-tower to look up at the solid walls, when Everitt made his way into the circular hall facing the fine quadrangle. The old soldier who acted as verger was not disinclined for a little chat. That was the governor’s stall, the second in command there, and the other officers round, as he saw. Captain Lascelles? Yes, just before him. If he were a friend of the family, he might like to go into their pew, or next to them? No? Well, where would the gentleman like? Everitt indicated a spot opposite, where he would be fully in sight, and the old man promptly conducted and shut him in.It was early, and Everitt looked round him with a good deal of interest. The chapel, with its plaster ceiling and its high panelling of oak, was ugly enough, but there was enough in its details to be suggestive. The old soldiers came dropping in, with fine furrowed faces, and an air of pride over their medals and their clasps, which stand out in brave relief against their blue coats. Here is one quite blind, carefullyledin by a comrade; there is another with an old, gentle face and snow-white hair, with four medals and quite a procession of clasps on his hollow chest. They file in soon in larger numbers, filling up by hundreds the body of the church. And overhead hang the old tattered remnants of flags taken in glorious battle, older many of them than the oldest men, held together by network, colours faded, substance gone—not a shred left on the Blenheim poles. There are the Waterloo eagles, there the republican cap of liberty still flaunts itself; but nowhere in the whole proud array is anything more pathetic than on one of the Indian flags, where, looking closely, you may see on the dull surface the print of a hand, the dead man’s hand whose faithful clasp is marked upon his trust for ever.By the time Everitt had been there for a quarter of an hour, he was watching the door very carefully. Already a lady and two or three children had gone into the Lascelles’ pew, but it was only a minute or two before the service began that Kitty and her mother presented themselves. She noticed him before long. Perhaps some consciousness of the intentness of his gaze touched her and drew her eyes to his; at any rate, he saw an immediate and troubled look of recognition cross her sweet face. Nor did she glance at him again. He had no encouragement of this sort; but as his former means of studying her had been of an unusual kind, so now it appeared to him as if she gained a fresh charm from the simplicity and gravity of her surroundings—the old men sitting upright, attentive, the old flags slowly waving backwards and forwards over their heads, the solemn words of the familiar service.When it was finished, Everitt remained in his seat until the Lascelles had left the church. He looked eagerly round when he got out, but the whole family had disappeared; the pensioners chatted in groups, the sun shone out between the clouds on the grass of the quadrangle, and on a few white sea-birds which had come up the river.Everitt went home dissatisfied.
Everitt made his way home in happy unconsciousness of the discovery that followed his departure. To tell the truth, he troubled himself less than he might have done—for he was not without suspicions that Miss Aitcheson had penetrated his disguise further than he liked—because his thoughts were running persistently on one subject: how to see Miss Lascelles again, and quickly.
The most direct way was to get hold of Mrs Marchmont, and induce her to take him; but he had the grace to determine that, in telling her his wishes, he would tell her all, and be guided by her advice. If she were in favour of a frank confession, he was quite ready to undertake it. It must be owned that he did not imagine that in personating the disreputable Italian he had committed a very unpardonable fault; he did not, at any rate, so imagine it now, when it appeared to hint he had been far more inexcusable in suggesting that such a model as Giuseppe should sit for Kitty Lascelles.
He would go to Mrs Marchmont that afternoon.
So full was he of these thoughts that he neglected precautions, and very nearly blundered into the arms of the irrepressible Jack, who was diverting himself by strolling up and down the passage, and imparting a more truculent expression to the countenance of a grimy marble lion which stood on guard. He came into Everitt’s studio by-and-by with his curiosity very much alive.
“Hill swears no one has been here, but I can swear—harder—that twice to-day I’ve seen Giuseppe, or his double, and I believe he ran to earth in here.”
“I’ve not seen the fellow,” said Everitt, coolly.
“Well, you may take my word for it he’s been here. Do you mean to tell me I don’t know that old sun-burnt cloak of yours?”
“I mean to tell you nothing, except that I’ve not seen Giuseppe.”
“Where’s the cloak?”
“Where it always is, I presume. Look for yourself.”
Jack investigated the cupboard. There was the cloak certainly, also the red waistcoat, also the brown hat with the crossed ribbons, also the sandals, with—and this was strange—a stain or two of fresh mud. He brought them to Everitt triumphantly.
“They’ve been worn this morning; how do you account for that?”
The other man looked black.
“For pity’s sake, Jack, leave the thing alone! You want to know if Giuseppe’s been here, and I tell you no. That’s enough. You’re so abominably inquisitive!”
Jack stared at him meditatively for a few moments; then he flung himself into an armchair, stretched out his legs, and burst into a vociferous peal of laughter. It lasted long enough for Everitt to get red, try to look stern, and finally to break into an accompanying laugh himself.
“What a fool you are!” he said presently, by way of compensation.
“Oh, I say!” cried Jack, when he could speak; “if this doesn’t beat everything! I knew there was something up, but I never thought of anything so rich as this. My very reverend, grave, and sober Mentor!”
“Shut up!”
“I’d have given all I have in the world to have been there,” Jack continued, springing up in the ecstasy of his feelings. “A precious bad bargain she must have had!Youstand for a model! You couldn’t, my dear fellow, to save your life. I say, aren’t you stiff? Everitt?”
“Well?”
“I believe it was the duke’s daughter put it into your head?”
“It’s true enough I get my folly from you,” said the elder man, not ill-humouredly.
“Oh, no more speeches of that sort! I’ve the whip-hand of you for a good while,” said Jack, triumphantly. “You can’t say I ever dressed up as a model to get into a house.”
“To get into a house!” Everitt frowned. “Certainly that was not my motive.”
“What then?” demanded the imperturbable Jack.
“Merely that that brute came drunk, and I had promised to send some one.”
“Oh!”
“What do you mean by your ‘oh’? it was, I tell you—hotly. I dare say. But it won’t look like it to them when they find it out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Only what I say. You’ll be run in, somehow, of course; you’re not the sort of fellow to do it under the rose. Well, when it comes out they won’t believe but that you had some object in view.”
“Go on, Jack; you’re a marvel of precocious wisdom! I tell you, I’d never seen or heard of them before.”
“Not Miss Aitcheson?”
“Oh, Miss Aitcheson! I’m sure I never want to see Miss Aitcheson again.”
“Was she there?”
“Yes.”
“And don’t you suppose she recognised you?”
“Shouldn’t wonder.”
“Well, you have put your foot in it.”
“What’s the harm? I promised a model; he failed, and I went myself.”
“Oh, no particular harm,” said Jack, coolly; “no harm at all, I dare say; only if I had happened to do such a thing—”
“You!” repeated Everitt, looking at Jack. Put in this manner, the idea certainly appeared intolerable. “You! Oh, you’re different.”
“I should say I was. I shall never pull up to your heights of audacity, that’s certain. What’s your next move? Are you going again?”
“No,” curtly. “To-morrow I shall send Jackson.”
Jack had a good many more jests to cut, which the other endured with what meekness he could muster. It was annoying that the young fellow should have made the discovery, for it would inevitably serve as a means for plaguing Everitt whenever the artist tried to get Master Jack into steady work. Moreover, the way in which he looked at it made Everitt a little uneasy; it had not before struck him that others might regard it in that attitude, which had, indeed, been far enough from his own point of view.
In the afternoon he went to his cousin’s in Hans Place. She welcomed him with excessive cordiality and some surprise.
“For a wonder I find you alone,” he said.
“That sounds,” she said, “as if you were in the habit of trying to find me. Shall we go into dates, or would you rather throw yourself on my mercy?”
“Much rather. Indeed, I am afraid this is going to be an afternoon of confessions.”
She glanced at him and then at a letter which the servant had given her when Everitt came in.
“Will you excuse me,” she said, “if I read my letter?”
It contained no more than a few lines, but Mrs Marchmont took an unusual time in reading them. When she had finished, she refolded the note and laid it by her side.
“Confessions!” she said. “They will have a great air of novelty from you. What have you been about, Charlie? Forgetting your engagements?”
“No. Only carrying them out too faithfully. You remember that I undertook to supply a model for your friend, Miss Lascelles?”
Mrs Marchmont took the letter she had laid down again into her hand.
“Yes,” she answered. “And you carried out your undertaking. Has anything happened?”
“Why?” he asked quickly.
“Because you told me you had a confession to make, and because this note may have something to do with it. It is from Mrs Lascelles.”
“What does she say?” Everitt demanded, with interest.
“Well, she begs me to let you know that they do not want the model again. There is something odd in that, because Kitty was so very keen for him. What is the mystery? Has the man turned out too much of a ruffian, or too little?”
“Judge for yourself,” he said. “I was the ruffian.”
“You!” she exclaimed. “You!”
“The man failed me, and I couldn’t think of any way of escaping your displeasure but by taking the character myself.”
“You went to the Lascelles’ as a model!”
“I did. I begin to believe now that it was a blunder.”
“It was a blunder,” she said, gravely. “It certainly was a blunder.”
He looked at her.
“At least,” he said, eagerly, “you will understand that my motives were very simple.”
“Yes, I can understand; I am afraid other people may not credit them with such simplicity. It was dreadfully imprudent, Charlie! It was more what I should have expected from your friend Mr Hibbert.” Then she began to laugh. “But it must have been very comic. And did they find you out?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know that they did. But, Mary—”
“Well?”
“I want you to tell them, and to square things.”
She shook her head.
“They won’t be at all easy to square, as you call it. You had better leave them alone, and trust to the fates not to bring you across any of the Lascelles family again.”
An odd expression crossed Everitt’s face.
“That won’t do,” he said, getting up and standing with his back to the fireplace. “I want to see them again; at least, I want to see your friend.”
“Kitty? Oh!” exclaimed Mrs Marchmont, in blank amazement. “This is too exciting! Do you really mean it?”
“I mean that I should like to see her again,” repeated Everitt. “You may take that for what it’s worth.”
“Oh, I am delighted!” she cried; “delighted! Charlie, I would do anything in the world if I thought. But there, we needn’t say anything. You just want to be introduced?”
“Yes; and they’d better know. I won’t have that hanging over my head.”
“I’ll manage everything. They have a garden-party on Monday; I shall propose to bring you, and I will go and see them meanwhile. One couldn’t write all that about the model.”
Everitt left her, not ill-satisfied. He had said rather more than he had intended, but it had been necessary to enlist his cousin, and he knew she would act in the friendliest fashion.
He waited impatiently.
On Thursday, Jack Hibbert, who tormented him unmercifully, informed him that he had an invitation for the Lascelles’.
“Hope they’ll never find out I’ve any connection with you,” he remarked, audaciously.
“Hope not, for my sake,” growled Everitt.
Finding that nothing came from Mrs Marchmont, on Friday morning he started for the Park, and strolled along the Row till he caught sight of his cousin riding a bay mare, and surrounded by friends. The first time of passing, she did not see him; but as she came down again she caught sight of Everitt, and rode up to the railings.
“Well?” he said, eagerly.
She shook her head.
“I’m dreadfully disappointed. I’ve done my very best, but they won’t hear of it. I’ve been there, and I’ve seen Mrs Lascelles and Kitty, and said everything I could think of.”
“Has it annoyed them so much?” said Everitt, flushing.
“I don’t know about annoyed. They are not angry, and I think they understand how it was done; but—perhaps it’s natural, Charlie—they don’t fancy an acquaintance begun in that fashion. Itwouldbe awkward, you must allow, just at first. Kitty wouldn’t know whether she was talking to her model or to you yourself. I think by-and-by we might get over it quietly; but just at present I really don’t see what to do.”
Everitt stared gloomily at a group beyond him.
“You understand how it is, don’t you?” said his cousin, anxiously.
“Oh, it’s clear enough, you needn’t fear. I made a fool of myself, and yet I can’t regret it.” He looked at Mrs Marchmont, and suddenly burst out laughing. “Do you think any one was ever in such a ridiculous position?”
“I am partly responsible,” she said. “What will you do?”
“Get right again somehow,” he replied, briefly. “Do you mean you will give it up?”
“I mean that if I can I shall marry Miss Kitty Lascelles.”
“Oh, Charlie,” said Mrs Marchmont, drawing a deep breath, “I like you ever so much! Tell me how I can help.”
“Here are the others,” said Everitt, standing upright. “I’ll let you know, Mary, when I’ve thought it out.”
The day was grey and showery; the changing silvery lights bringing out the colours of the great banks of rhododendrons massed together in the Park. Everitt walked for some time up and down under the trees, trying to see his way out of his absurd difficulties. They were absurd, but they were not pleasant. To have your acquaintance declined is to receive something very like a slap in the face; the next step forward does not present itself very naturally. However, he was not the man to flinch at an obstacle.
He made his next move on Sunday. The chapel of the old Hospital is open to strangers, and Everitt went off in good time to secure his vantage post. It was a wet, gusty day, full of growth and softness, a southerly wind blowing across the river, the trees washed into lovely tender greens, the red of the building beautiful against the grey clouds. The birds were singing as usual; the old men encourage them, and they take full advantage of the safe shelter they find. Just a few people were turning in at the gates, and lingering on their way to the clock-tower to look up at the solid walls, when Everitt made his way into the circular hall facing the fine quadrangle. The old soldier who acted as verger was not disinclined for a little chat. That was the governor’s stall, the second in command there, and the other officers round, as he saw. Captain Lascelles? Yes, just before him. If he were a friend of the family, he might like to go into their pew, or next to them? No? Well, where would the gentleman like? Everitt indicated a spot opposite, where he would be fully in sight, and the old man promptly conducted and shut him in.
It was early, and Everitt looked round him with a good deal of interest. The chapel, with its plaster ceiling and its high panelling of oak, was ugly enough, but there was enough in its details to be suggestive. The old soldiers came dropping in, with fine furrowed faces, and an air of pride over their medals and their clasps, which stand out in brave relief against their blue coats. Here is one quite blind, carefullyledin by a comrade; there is another with an old, gentle face and snow-white hair, with four medals and quite a procession of clasps on his hollow chest. They file in soon in larger numbers, filling up by hundreds the body of the church. And overhead hang the old tattered remnants of flags taken in glorious battle, older many of them than the oldest men, held together by network, colours faded, substance gone—not a shred left on the Blenheim poles. There are the Waterloo eagles, there the republican cap of liberty still flaunts itself; but nowhere in the whole proud array is anything more pathetic than on one of the Indian flags, where, looking closely, you may see on the dull surface the print of a hand, the dead man’s hand whose faithful clasp is marked upon his trust for ever.
By the time Everitt had been there for a quarter of an hour, he was watching the door very carefully. Already a lady and two or three children had gone into the Lascelles’ pew, but it was only a minute or two before the service began that Kitty and her mother presented themselves. She noticed him before long. Perhaps some consciousness of the intentness of his gaze touched her and drew her eyes to his; at any rate, he saw an immediate and troubled look of recognition cross her sweet face. Nor did she glance at him again. He had no encouragement of this sort; but as his former means of studying her had been of an unusual kind, so now it appeared to him as if she gained a fresh charm from the simplicity and gravity of her surroundings—the old men sitting upright, attentive, the old flags slowly waving backwards and forwards over their heads, the solemn words of the familiar service.
When it was finished, Everitt remained in his seat until the Lascelles had left the church. He looked eagerly round when he got out, but the whole family had disappeared; the pensioners chatted in groups, the sun shone out between the clouds on the grass of the quadrangle, and on a few white sea-birds which had come up the river.
Everitt went home dissatisfied.
Chapter Six.Allies.If a tormenting, Jack Hibbert was a faithful, friend. He saw that Everitt was out of sorts, and he went to the Lascelles with the intention of doing him a good turn—somehow. His first business was to get hold of Mrs Marchmont, and ask for an introduction to Miss Lascelles. She looked at him, and shook her head.“No,” she said. “I see what that means. You have come as an emissary, and I can’t trust your prudence.”It was in vain for Jack to protest that he was not an emissary, and that his prudence was beyond comprehension; she was certain that his masculine movements would be too lumbering and aggressive for the situation, which needed the most delicate advances.“You would rush impetuously into the breach, and treat it all as a fine joke; and that would just finish everything quite hopelessly. No; be good and don’t meddle.”“I know I could put things straight,” said Jack, ruefully.“I thought that was in your head,” she answered. “Now. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You shall be introduced to Miss Aitcheson, and that will be almost as good as if I took you to Miss Lascelles, only not so dangerous.”“You are very kind,” he said, brightening up.“And you must promise to be cautious.”He promised; he was ready to promise everything. But when he was left face to face with Miss Aitcheson, she was quickly aware what subject was burning on the tip of his tongue. He dragged in art, artists, and Everitt, in less than no time.“The best of fellows!” he said, heartily.“I suppose a little eccentric?” Bell remarked, looking on the ground.“He isn’t so cut and dried as other people, if that’s what you mean,” Jack replied, with warmth. “If there’s a kind thing to be done, or a helping hand to be held out, he’s the man to do it. I wish there were a few more as eccentric as he.” Jack felt as if he had made rather a good point here. The worst of it was, as he rapidly reflected, that it all had to be run out so quickly. With a lot of people walking about, they were liable at any moment to be interrupted; even now he looked with disgust at a young lady in a creamy white dress, who smiled at Miss Aitcheson as she passed. He was more disgusted when Bell stopped her.“We are talking about art and artists,” she said, slipping her arm into the other girl’s.“And we don’t want you,” Jack said to himself, unmollified by the answering smile. “However, here goes! So long as Miss Aitcheson hears and repeats in the right quarter, it doesn’t matter who listens.” Aloud, he said, “People who only know Everitt as an artist can’t judge of his kindness of heart. You see, in our line there are a lot of poor wretches who find it awfully hard to pick up a living. Some are never good for anything, but there are a few who just want to be set on their legs, and then they stick there. I’m not sure I wasn’t one of them myself,” added Jack, with an ingenuous laugh.“Did Mr Everitt set you on your legs?” inquired Bell, innocently.“Yes, he did, and I’m not ashamed to own it,” said the young fellow, manfully. “If I do anything it will be thanks to him.” He was so much taken up with his cause that he did not notice that when Everitt’s name was first mentioned the girl who was standing close to Miss Aitcheson made a movement to leave them, and was held fast by Bell. Finding herself a prisoner, she did not again attempt to escape, but stood silently by, her face almost concealed by the drooping lace of her parasol.“There was a man,” Jack went on, warming yet more to his subject, “who got a picture hung at one of last year’s exhibitions—it wasn’t at all a bad picture—and sold it. It was his first bit of luck, and almost sent him off his head; he married, for one thing, on the strength of it. Well, it wasn’t sold, after all.”“Not sold?” repeated Bell, in wonder.“The purchaser never turned up. That sort of thing does happen now and then, but it came awfully rough on this poor fellow. You see, it had kept off other buyers, and then, I expect, he had traded a bit on the money; and the end of it was, he worked himself into a sort of brain fever, and was about as bad as could be, and the poor little wife was at her wits’ end, without friends or money or anything. Anybody would have helped them who’d known, but nobody took the trouble to find out except Everitt. He got a doctor and a nurse, and I know he went there every day, and he bought the picture—though, of course, that isn’t much good tohim.”“Oh, yes,” said Bell, softly. “I think it will be of good to him.” And she looked at Jack very kindly. The young fellow was too much taken up with his object to notice it.“He’s always doing that sort of thing,” he went on. And now, if he had been a diplomatist, had even possessed the caution which Mrs Marchmont had urged upon him, he would have paused here, or strengthened his good impression by another tale of the same description. But unluckily Jack felt that more was incumbent upon him. He was for a bold assault which should carry the position by storm; and when might another opportunity present itself? “People don’t know Everitt,” he repeated; “he does out-of-the-way things. Miss Aitcheson,”—suddenly—“I’m afraid he’s offended your friends here awfully.”Unfortunate Jack! The parasol came a little lower down.“Has he?” coldly from Bell.But once started, he blundered into deeper mire, in spite of warning signs.“It did sound an odd thing to do; but, don’t you see, he’d promised to send somebody, and Mrs Marchmont wasn’t to be put off. There wasn’t a bit of real harm, you know, and Everitt did it out of sheer good-nature.”“Well, it’s over and done with,” said Bell, with an air of finality; “and I think it would be best to say no more about it.”“But they’ve taken it in a way which makes him feel very uncomfortable,” urged Jack.Bell lifted her head and looked him full in the face.“You’re a very good friend, Mr Hibbert, but Mr Everitt is sufficiently a man of the world to have thought of consequences beforehand. Now, will you kindly go and tell Mrs Marchmont from me that she will find ices in the drawing-room.”There was no help for it, Jack had to go. And then Bell turned to the girl by her side.“You didn’t mind, did you, Kitty?” she demanded, with a little anxiety. “You know, I think you’re disposed to be hard upon poor Mr Everitt, and I wanted you to hear what his friends have to say for him. That’s a very nice boy.” Then, as Kitty did not speak, she looked in her face: “Don’t you think so?”“I dare say,” said the other girl, impatiently. “Oh yes, I dare say he’s a very good friend; but oh, Bell, don’t you see?”“What?”“How dreadful it all is! The idea of this man knowing, and another man knowing, and all London knowing what he did! I am ashamed when I see people only looking at me. And just suppose if some one goes and alludes to it to father!”“Now, Kitty! All London! Why, this Mr Hibbert works in the same studio!”“He shouldn’t have told him, all the same.”“I do think you’re dreadfully hard. Didn’t it touch you to hear of what he’d done for that poor artist?”“Not when I thought of what he’d done to me. What have I to do with his kindness? He may be the kindest man in the world.”“If I had been you,” said Bell, “I believe I should have taken it as a compliment; and I’m quite sure I should have sent him a card for to-day, and thought no more about it.”“And if you had been I and I had been you,” returned Kitty, with spirit, “I am quite sure that I should have dropped the subject, and have done my best to help you to forget that such a disagreeable thing had happened.”“Oh, well,” said the other girl, looking at her oddly, “I never knew until now that I was the more unselfish of the two.”Afterwards, she told Mrs Marchmont what had happened. It will be seen that by this time Bell had become a partisan of Everitt’s, and it will be guessed that Mrs Marchmont had admitted her into her confidence. It was, indeed, the wisest thing that she could do, for Bell was a girl who resented being shut out, and would certainly take an active part on one side or the other. Perhaps she had a mischievous delight in beholding Kitty—whom she considered to be a little straight-laced—the victim of such an adventure; but the romance of it all, and some knowledge of Everitt’s real character, touched a deeper spring of love for her friend, and she was genuinely anxious to set this unfortunately crooked beginning straight.Jack’s attempt, she owned, had not done much good.Was it likely it would?—from Mrs Marchmont.Well, Bell thought that he spoke out manfully. He said a great deal about Mr Everitt which certainly made her like him better, and she thought it must have produced the same effect upon Kitty, if she had not been unreasonable.Mrs Marchmont, on her part, maintained chat men always bungled that sort of thing. Their touch was so heavy, they blundered in, and knocked over right and left. “But it is really dreadfully stupid of Kitty,” she said, “and I shall have to take her in hand myself.”Jack, who had something of the same feeling about his own attempts, wandered about disconsolately, until he fell in with Miss Aitcheson again; and, as he stayed by her side for the remainder of the afternoon, it is to be supposed that she was able to administer consolation. But she found it impossible to induce him to understand Kitty’s view. He was dreadfully frivolous and inclined to laugh; he got Bell to describe poor Everitt’s shortcomings as a model, and the evident anguish which he endured, and then the two laughed together in a manner which, considering the aims which they professed, was, to say the least, heartless. Mrs Marchmont gave Bell a hint of this when she drove her away, and Bell resented the imputation.“It was a jest from beginning to end—in one sense,” she said; “and Kitty’s mistake has been in treating it so seriously. If you encourage her in it, she will take on herself the airs of a tragic heroine.”“Kitty never gave herself airs of any kind,” cried her friend indignantly. “No; I understand her feelings perfectly.”“Shall you give up Mr Everitt?” inquired Bell.“Give him up—no! But I shall take care that she is smoothed down. I have got a little plan in my head.”What it was she would not reveal, though the girl did her best to find out. But that evening Mrs Marchmont informed her husband that she wished places to be taken at a favourite theatre.“Five?” he repeated, lifting his eyebrows.“Well, can’t you go yourself?”“Impossible. I must be at the House.”“Then, four. Charlie Everitt will take care of me; and I shall ask old General Sinclair besides, and a girl.”She wrote to Everitt, “Keep yourself at liberty for Thursday evening;” and Kitty, who came to see her that afternoon, heard only of the play and of General Sinclair. Not that Mrs Marchmont intended to take her by surprise in such a manner as to allow of no retreat. They would all dine together beforehand, and Kitty should come half an hour before the others. Then would her friend gently and diplomatically unfold to her who was to be of the party, and use all her persuasions to induce her to meet him, and get over the first awkwardness. Should Kitty be hopelessly obstinate, there would still be time for her to retire, and there would be no difficulty in finding some one close at hand to replace her at short notice. To tell the truth, she did not dare to entrap Kitty in any closer mesh. She trusted to her own persuasions, to the girl’s dislike to making a fuss, to the chapter of accidents, the hundred and one things which play unexpected parts. She was a little nervous, but her spirits rose when she thought how smoothly everything might run. “If only,” she reflected—“if only it all turns out well, and I can get them together—not just at first, perhaps, but after one or two acts! There is nothing more effective than a play for putting people on a pleasant footing.” It was only of Kitty’s possible perverseness that she thought. Then on the morning of Thursday she wrote to Everitt; and, in the fulness of her expectations, perhaps let drop more of a hint of these intentions than she imagined. To her amazement he answered her letter in person.“Are you come to dinner?” she demanded. “You are even earlier than I expected; but I need not say I am very glad to see you.”“Thank you,” said Everitt, gravely; “in fact, however, I am come to say that I am not coming.”His cousin stared blankly at him.“Not coming!” she repeated, faintly. “But, Charlie, that is absurd! You don’t know.”“I fancy,” he said, “that I do know. Unless I’m much mistaken, I could read between the lines of your letter. Is Miss Lascelles to be one of the party?”“Yes,” she said, “she is.”“And does she expect to see me?”“Not yet. But,”—eagerly—“I was not going to spring a mine upon her.”He listened very carefully while she explained her intentions, and when she had finished was silent for a few moments. There was that in his face which caused her misgivings.“Charlie,” she said impressively, “you will not be so odious as to upset my little arrangements!”“It seems to me,” he said, “that I am doomed to be odious in everything connected with this affair. It’s not a pleasantrôle.”“Well,” she said in a vexed tone, “I was prepared to have a little difficulty with Kitty, but you, I certainly expected to take the good I had provided for you, and to have been thankful. You must really understand that there is nothing else that I can do.”“I give you my word I’m thankful,” said Everitt, with a laugh.“Then, why are you so provoking? Have you given up the idea?”“Have I come to my senses? No.”“In that case,” she said, “I can’t understand.”“Oh yes, you can,” he replied. “Just reflect for a moment in what an uncomfortable position Miss Lascelles would be placed, if I accepted your kindness. She comes here unsuspecting, and she finds she must either stay and face what is unfortunately disagreeable to her, or do, as I am doing, go away and offend a kind friend. I don’t feel that I have the right to force the dilemma upon her.”“It would not offend me if she preferred to go.”“It would disappoint and vex you. When we make benevolent plans, we hate the people who thwart us. You have been splendidly benevolent.”“Well, I think you are taking to scruples at a particularly inconvenient moment. And pray, if each of you flies off at a tangent directly the other is known to be near, how on earth are you ever to meet?”“Ah,” said he, smiling, “but I am not going off at a tangent. Give me the chance, and see if I don’t use it.”“What was this but a chance?”“There shall be nothing more that she can complain of. Everything must be absolutely open and above-board. Come, Mary, you know in your heart of hearts that I am right.”“That,” she said, with a laugh, “is more than you can expect a woman to own. The utmost you will extract is that I may possibly allow that you are politic. And there is one thing that I shall do.”“What?”“Ah, that is my affair. Leave me alone.”“I am not sure that you are to be trusted,” he said, looking at her, and shaking his head. But he made no further effort to learn her intentions, and in a few minutes took his leave.What Mrs Marchmont meant to do, and did, was to confess to Kitty what had taken place. The girl became a little pale as she listened.“I thought I could trust you, Mary,” she said at last.“If you would both trust to me, I should put an end to this foolish slate of things,” retorted her friend.“There is nothing to end,” Kitty answered quietly, though there was a tremor in her voice.“One would suppose that Mr Everitt and I had once been acquainted, and that something had made us fall out! The truth, however, is simply that we have never known each other, and that circumstances have made it pleasanter that we should remain unknown.”“That is all very well for you, but you might consider poor Mr Everitt. He thinks you are hopelessly displeased with him, and naturally that places him in a most uncomfortable position.”“Then, just because he is disagreeable to me, I am to consent!” cried the girl impatiently.Mrs Marchmont rapidly shifted her ground.“You can’t deny,” she asserted, “that he behaved with the utmost delicacy in refusing to come here to-day.”“I don’t know what I should have thought of him or of you, if hehadbeen here,” replied Kitty.She carried things, indeed, with so high a hand, that Mrs Marchmont was quite disconcerted. Her attempt had failed at least as completely as Jack’s, and she began to experience a sensation of defeat to which she was altogether unaccustomed. It seemed really probable that these two provoking young persons, in whom, in spite of vexation, she daily took a deeper interest, would so obstinately persist in nullifying her good offices as entirely to prevent her from achieving their happiness. Nothing, it must be owned, could be more tiresome than such conduct. And yet she could not feel as angry with them as they deserved. She was even conscious of a little compunction as she noticed the graver lines on Kitty’s sweet face.And Kitty herself?She had answered Mrs Marchmont with a becoming spirit, and so far she looked back upon their talk with satisfaction. But, to tell the truth, she could not quite forgive herself for thinking so much about the matter as she had to acknowledge she was thinking, and though she had professed a lofty indifference to Everitt’s conduct, her mind dwelt upon it with a good deal of approval. Perhaps, in spite of her words, she was beginning to think less of that unfortunate business with the model, and to remember Everitt’s face in the chapel on Sunday, and the manner in which he had refused to avail himself of his cousin’s proposal, jack’s story made a kindly background for his hero.After all, and notwithstanding Mrs Marchmont’s despair, it is possible that her arrangement had not been so complete a failure as it appeared to herself.
If a tormenting, Jack Hibbert was a faithful, friend. He saw that Everitt was out of sorts, and he went to the Lascelles with the intention of doing him a good turn—somehow. His first business was to get hold of Mrs Marchmont, and ask for an introduction to Miss Lascelles. She looked at him, and shook her head.
“No,” she said. “I see what that means. You have come as an emissary, and I can’t trust your prudence.”
It was in vain for Jack to protest that he was not an emissary, and that his prudence was beyond comprehension; she was certain that his masculine movements would be too lumbering and aggressive for the situation, which needed the most delicate advances.
“You would rush impetuously into the breach, and treat it all as a fine joke; and that would just finish everything quite hopelessly. No; be good and don’t meddle.”
“I know I could put things straight,” said Jack, ruefully.
“I thought that was in your head,” she answered. “Now. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You shall be introduced to Miss Aitcheson, and that will be almost as good as if I took you to Miss Lascelles, only not so dangerous.”
“You are very kind,” he said, brightening up.
“And you must promise to be cautious.”
He promised; he was ready to promise everything. But when he was left face to face with Miss Aitcheson, she was quickly aware what subject was burning on the tip of his tongue. He dragged in art, artists, and Everitt, in less than no time.
“The best of fellows!” he said, heartily.
“I suppose a little eccentric?” Bell remarked, looking on the ground.
“He isn’t so cut and dried as other people, if that’s what you mean,” Jack replied, with warmth. “If there’s a kind thing to be done, or a helping hand to be held out, he’s the man to do it. I wish there were a few more as eccentric as he.” Jack felt as if he had made rather a good point here. The worst of it was, as he rapidly reflected, that it all had to be run out so quickly. With a lot of people walking about, they were liable at any moment to be interrupted; even now he looked with disgust at a young lady in a creamy white dress, who smiled at Miss Aitcheson as she passed. He was more disgusted when Bell stopped her.
“We are talking about art and artists,” she said, slipping her arm into the other girl’s.
“And we don’t want you,” Jack said to himself, unmollified by the answering smile. “However, here goes! So long as Miss Aitcheson hears and repeats in the right quarter, it doesn’t matter who listens.” Aloud, he said, “People who only know Everitt as an artist can’t judge of his kindness of heart. You see, in our line there are a lot of poor wretches who find it awfully hard to pick up a living. Some are never good for anything, but there are a few who just want to be set on their legs, and then they stick there. I’m not sure I wasn’t one of them myself,” added Jack, with an ingenuous laugh.
“Did Mr Everitt set you on your legs?” inquired Bell, innocently.
“Yes, he did, and I’m not ashamed to own it,” said the young fellow, manfully. “If I do anything it will be thanks to him.” He was so much taken up with his cause that he did not notice that when Everitt’s name was first mentioned the girl who was standing close to Miss Aitcheson made a movement to leave them, and was held fast by Bell. Finding herself a prisoner, she did not again attempt to escape, but stood silently by, her face almost concealed by the drooping lace of her parasol.
“There was a man,” Jack went on, warming yet more to his subject, “who got a picture hung at one of last year’s exhibitions—it wasn’t at all a bad picture—and sold it. It was his first bit of luck, and almost sent him off his head; he married, for one thing, on the strength of it. Well, it wasn’t sold, after all.”
“Not sold?” repeated Bell, in wonder.
“The purchaser never turned up. That sort of thing does happen now and then, but it came awfully rough on this poor fellow. You see, it had kept off other buyers, and then, I expect, he had traded a bit on the money; and the end of it was, he worked himself into a sort of brain fever, and was about as bad as could be, and the poor little wife was at her wits’ end, without friends or money or anything. Anybody would have helped them who’d known, but nobody took the trouble to find out except Everitt. He got a doctor and a nurse, and I know he went there every day, and he bought the picture—though, of course, that isn’t much good tohim.”
“Oh, yes,” said Bell, softly. “I think it will be of good to him.” And she looked at Jack very kindly. The young fellow was too much taken up with his object to notice it.
“He’s always doing that sort of thing,” he went on. And now, if he had been a diplomatist, had even possessed the caution which Mrs Marchmont had urged upon him, he would have paused here, or strengthened his good impression by another tale of the same description. But unluckily Jack felt that more was incumbent upon him. He was for a bold assault which should carry the position by storm; and when might another opportunity present itself? “People don’t know Everitt,” he repeated; “he does out-of-the-way things. Miss Aitcheson,”—suddenly—“I’m afraid he’s offended your friends here awfully.”
Unfortunate Jack! The parasol came a little lower down.
“Has he?” coldly from Bell.
But once started, he blundered into deeper mire, in spite of warning signs.
“It did sound an odd thing to do; but, don’t you see, he’d promised to send somebody, and Mrs Marchmont wasn’t to be put off. There wasn’t a bit of real harm, you know, and Everitt did it out of sheer good-nature.”
“Well, it’s over and done with,” said Bell, with an air of finality; “and I think it would be best to say no more about it.”
“But they’ve taken it in a way which makes him feel very uncomfortable,” urged Jack.
Bell lifted her head and looked him full in the face.
“You’re a very good friend, Mr Hibbert, but Mr Everitt is sufficiently a man of the world to have thought of consequences beforehand. Now, will you kindly go and tell Mrs Marchmont from me that she will find ices in the drawing-room.”
There was no help for it, Jack had to go. And then Bell turned to the girl by her side.
“You didn’t mind, did you, Kitty?” she demanded, with a little anxiety. “You know, I think you’re disposed to be hard upon poor Mr Everitt, and I wanted you to hear what his friends have to say for him. That’s a very nice boy.” Then, as Kitty did not speak, she looked in her face: “Don’t you think so?”
“I dare say,” said the other girl, impatiently. “Oh yes, I dare say he’s a very good friend; but oh, Bell, don’t you see?”
“What?”
“How dreadful it all is! The idea of this man knowing, and another man knowing, and all London knowing what he did! I am ashamed when I see people only looking at me. And just suppose if some one goes and alludes to it to father!”
“Now, Kitty! All London! Why, this Mr Hibbert works in the same studio!”
“He shouldn’t have told him, all the same.”
“I do think you’re dreadfully hard. Didn’t it touch you to hear of what he’d done for that poor artist?”
“Not when I thought of what he’d done to me. What have I to do with his kindness? He may be the kindest man in the world.”
“If I had been you,” said Bell, “I believe I should have taken it as a compliment; and I’m quite sure I should have sent him a card for to-day, and thought no more about it.”
“And if you had been I and I had been you,” returned Kitty, with spirit, “I am quite sure that I should have dropped the subject, and have done my best to help you to forget that such a disagreeable thing had happened.”
“Oh, well,” said the other girl, looking at her oddly, “I never knew until now that I was the more unselfish of the two.”
Afterwards, she told Mrs Marchmont what had happened. It will be seen that by this time Bell had become a partisan of Everitt’s, and it will be guessed that Mrs Marchmont had admitted her into her confidence. It was, indeed, the wisest thing that she could do, for Bell was a girl who resented being shut out, and would certainly take an active part on one side or the other. Perhaps she had a mischievous delight in beholding Kitty—whom she considered to be a little straight-laced—the victim of such an adventure; but the romance of it all, and some knowledge of Everitt’s real character, touched a deeper spring of love for her friend, and she was genuinely anxious to set this unfortunately crooked beginning straight.
Jack’s attempt, she owned, had not done much good.
Was it likely it would?—from Mrs Marchmont.
Well, Bell thought that he spoke out manfully. He said a great deal about Mr Everitt which certainly made her like him better, and she thought it must have produced the same effect upon Kitty, if she had not been unreasonable.
Mrs Marchmont, on her part, maintained chat men always bungled that sort of thing. Their touch was so heavy, they blundered in, and knocked over right and left. “But it is really dreadfully stupid of Kitty,” she said, “and I shall have to take her in hand myself.”
Jack, who had something of the same feeling about his own attempts, wandered about disconsolately, until he fell in with Miss Aitcheson again; and, as he stayed by her side for the remainder of the afternoon, it is to be supposed that she was able to administer consolation. But she found it impossible to induce him to understand Kitty’s view. He was dreadfully frivolous and inclined to laugh; he got Bell to describe poor Everitt’s shortcomings as a model, and the evident anguish which he endured, and then the two laughed together in a manner which, considering the aims which they professed, was, to say the least, heartless. Mrs Marchmont gave Bell a hint of this when she drove her away, and Bell resented the imputation.
“It was a jest from beginning to end—in one sense,” she said; “and Kitty’s mistake has been in treating it so seriously. If you encourage her in it, she will take on herself the airs of a tragic heroine.”
“Kitty never gave herself airs of any kind,” cried her friend indignantly. “No; I understand her feelings perfectly.”
“Shall you give up Mr Everitt?” inquired Bell.
“Give him up—no! But I shall take care that she is smoothed down. I have got a little plan in my head.”
What it was she would not reveal, though the girl did her best to find out. But that evening Mrs Marchmont informed her husband that she wished places to be taken at a favourite theatre.
“Five?” he repeated, lifting his eyebrows.
“Well, can’t you go yourself?”
“Impossible. I must be at the House.”
“Then, four. Charlie Everitt will take care of me; and I shall ask old General Sinclair besides, and a girl.”
She wrote to Everitt, “Keep yourself at liberty for Thursday evening;” and Kitty, who came to see her that afternoon, heard only of the play and of General Sinclair. Not that Mrs Marchmont intended to take her by surprise in such a manner as to allow of no retreat. They would all dine together beforehand, and Kitty should come half an hour before the others. Then would her friend gently and diplomatically unfold to her who was to be of the party, and use all her persuasions to induce her to meet him, and get over the first awkwardness. Should Kitty be hopelessly obstinate, there would still be time for her to retire, and there would be no difficulty in finding some one close at hand to replace her at short notice. To tell the truth, she did not dare to entrap Kitty in any closer mesh. She trusted to her own persuasions, to the girl’s dislike to making a fuss, to the chapter of accidents, the hundred and one things which play unexpected parts. She was a little nervous, but her spirits rose when she thought how smoothly everything might run. “If only,” she reflected—“if only it all turns out well, and I can get them together—not just at first, perhaps, but after one or two acts! There is nothing more effective than a play for putting people on a pleasant footing.” It was only of Kitty’s possible perverseness that she thought. Then on the morning of Thursday she wrote to Everitt; and, in the fulness of her expectations, perhaps let drop more of a hint of these intentions than she imagined. To her amazement he answered her letter in person.
“Are you come to dinner?” she demanded. “You are even earlier than I expected; but I need not say I am very glad to see you.”
“Thank you,” said Everitt, gravely; “in fact, however, I am come to say that I am not coming.”
His cousin stared blankly at him.
“Not coming!” she repeated, faintly. “But, Charlie, that is absurd! You don’t know.”
“I fancy,” he said, “that I do know. Unless I’m much mistaken, I could read between the lines of your letter. Is Miss Lascelles to be one of the party?”
“Yes,” she said, “she is.”
“And does she expect to see me?”
“Not yet. But,”—eagerly—“I was not going to spring a mine upon her.”
He listened very carefully while she explained her intentions, and when she had finished was silent for a few moments. There was that in his face which caused her misgivings.
“Charlie,” she said impressively, “you will not be so odious as to upset my little arrangements!”
“It seems to me,” he said, “that I am doomed to be odious in everything connected with this affair. It’s not a pleasantrôle.”
“Well,” she said in a vexed tone, “I was prepared to have a little difficulty with Kitty, but you, I certainly expected to take the good I had provided for you, and to have been thankful. You must really understand that there is nothing else that I can do.”
“I give you my word I’m thankful,” said Everitt, with a laugh.
“Then, why are you so provoking? Have you given up the idea?”
“Have I come to my senses? No.”
“In that case,” she said, “I can’t understand.”
“Oh yes, you can,” he replied. “Just reflect for a moment in what an uncomfortable position Miss Lascelles would be placed, if I accepted your kindness. She comes here unsuspecting, and she finds she must either stay and face what is unfortunately disagreeable to her, or do, as I am doing, go away and offend a kind friend. I don’t feel that I have the right to force the dilemma upon her.”
“It would not offend me if she preferred to go.”
“It would disappoint and vex you. When we make benevolent plans, we hate the people who thwart us. You have been splendidly benevolent.”
“Well, I think you are taking to scruples at a particularly inconvenient moment. And pray, if each of you flies off at a tangent directly the other is known to be near, how on earth are you ever to meet?”
“Ah,” said he, smiling, “but I am not going off at a tangent. Give me the chance, and see if I don’t use it.”
“What was this but a chance?”
“There shall be nothing more that she can complain of. Everything must be absolutely open and above-board. Come, Mary, you know in your heart of hearts that I am right.”
“That,” she said, with a laugh, “is more than you can expect a woman to own. The utmost you will extract is that I may possibly allow that you are politic. And there is one thing that I shall do.”
“What?”
“Ah, that is my affair. Leave me alone.”
“I am not sure that you are to be trusted,” he said, looking at her, and shaking his head. But he made no further effort to learn her intentions, and in a few minutes took his leave.
What Mrs Marchmont meant to do, and did, was to confess to Kitty what had taken place. The girl became a little pale as she listened.
“I thought I could trust you, Mary,” she said at last.
“If you would both trust to me, I should put an end to this foolish slate of things,” retorted her friend.
“There is nothing to end,” Kitty answered quietly, though there was a tremor in her voice.
“One would suppose that Mr Everitt and I had once been acquainted, and that something had made us fall out! The truth, however, is simply that we have never known each other, and that circumstances have made it pleasanter that we should remain unknown.”
“That is all very well for you, but you might consider poor Mr Everitt. He thinks you are hopelessly displeased with him, and naturally that places him in a most uncomfortable position.”
“Then, just because he is disagreeable to me, I am to consent!” cried the girl impatiently.
Mrs Marchmont rapidly shifted her ground.
“You can’t deny,” she asserted, “that he behaved with the utmost delicacy in refusing to come here to-day.”
“I don’t know what I should have thought of him or of you, if hehadbeen here,” replied Kitty.
She carried things, indeed, with so high a hand, that Mrs Marchmont was quite disconcerted. Her attempt had failed at least as completely as Jack’s, and she began to experience a sensation of defeat to which she was altogether unaccustomed. It seemed really probable that these two provoking young persons, in whom, in spite of vexation, she daily took a deeper interest, would so obstinately persist in nullifying her good offices as entirely to prevent her from achieving their happiness. Nothing, it must be owned, could be more tiresome than such conduct. And yet she could not feel as angry with them as they deserved. She was even conscious of a little compunction as she noticed the graver lines on Kitty’s sweet face.
And Kitty herself?
She had answered Mrs Marchmont with a becoming spirit, and so far she looked back upon their talk with satisfaction. But, to tell the truth, she could not quite forgive herself for thinking so much about the matter as she had to acknowledge she was thinking, and though she had professed a lofty indifference to Everitt’s conduct, her mind dwelt upon it with a good deal of approval. Perhaps, in spite of her words, she was beginning to think less of that unfortunate business with the model, and to remember Everitt’s face in the chapel on Sunday, and the manner in which he had refused to avail himself of his cousin’s proposal, jack’s story made a kindly background for his hero.
After all, and notwithstanding Mrs Marchmont’s despair, it is possible that her arrangement had not been so complete a failure as it appeared to herself.