Visionaries Part 17

"Young lady, you are too deep for me. But you'll bear watching," she grimly confessed. Berenice skipped about her teasingly.

"I know something, but I won't tell, unless you tell."

"What is it?"

"Will you tell?"

"Yes."

"When is he coming back, and where is he now?" she insisted.

"Your father, you half-crazy child, expects to return in a month--by the first of June. And if you wish to wire or write him, let me know."

"Now I won't tell you _my_ secret," and she was off like a gale of wind.

eloise shook her head and wondered.

In the atelier Hubert painted. Elaine sat on a dais, her hands folded in her lap; about her head twisted nun's-veiling gave her the old-fas.h.i.+oned quality of a Cosway miniature--the very effect he had sought. It was to be a "pretty" affair, this picture, with its subdued lighting, the face being the only target he aimed at; all the rest, the suave background, the gauzy draperies, he would brush in--suggest rather than state.

"I'll paint her soul, that sensitive soul of hers which tremulously peeps out of her eyes," he thought. Elaine was a patient subject. She took the pose naturally and scarcely breathed during the weary sittings.

He recalled the early gossip and sought to evoke her as a professional model. But he gave up in despair. She was hopelessly "ladylike," and to interpret her adequately, only the decorative patterns of earlier men--Mignard, Van Loo, Nattier, Largilliere--would translate her native delicacy.

For nearly four weeks he had laboured on the face, painting it in with meticulous touches only to rub it out with savage disgust. To transcribe those tranquil, liquid eyes, their expression more nave than her daughter's--this had proved too difficult a problem for the usually facile technique of Falcroft. Give him a brilliant virtuoso theme and he could handle it with some of the sweep and splendour of the early Carolus Duran or the brutal elegance of the later Boldini. But Madame Mineur was a pastoral. She did not express nervous gesture. She was seldom dynamic. To "do" her in dots like the _pointillistes_ or in touches after the manner of the earlier impressionists would be ridiculous. Her abiding charm was her repose. She brought to him the quiet values of an eighteenth-century eclogue--he saw her as a divinely artificial shepherdess watching an unreal flock, while the haze of decorative atmosphere would envelop her, with not a vestige of real life on the canvas. Yet he knew her as a natural, lovable woman, a mother who had suffered and would suffer because of her love for her only child.

It was a paradox, like many other paradoxes of art.

The daughter--ah! perhaps she might better suit his style. She was admirable in her madcap carelessness and exotic colouring. Decidedly he would paint her when this picture was finished--if it ever would be.

Berenice avoided entering the studio during these sittings. She no longer jested with her mother about the picture, and with Hubert she preserved such an air of dignity that he fancied he had offended her. He usually came to Villiers-le-Bel on an early train three or four times a week and remained at Chalfontaine until ten o'clock. Never but once had a severe storm forced him to stay overnight. Since the episode on the wall he had not attempted any further advances. He felt happy in the company of Elaine, and gazing into her large eyes rested his spirit. It was true--he no longer played with ease the role of a soul-hunter. His youth had been troubled by many adventures, many foolish ones, and now he felt a calm in the midway of his life and that desire for domestic ease which sooner or later overtakes all men. He fancied himself painting Elaine on just such tranquil summer afternoons under a soft light. And oh! the joys of long walks, discreet gossip, and dinners at a well-served table with a few chosen friends. Was he, after all, longing for the flesh-pots of the philistine--he, Hubert Falcroft, who had patrolled the boulevards like other sportsmen of midnight!

At last the picture began to glow with that inner light he had so patiently pursued. Elaine Mineur looked at him from the canvas with veiled sweetness, a smile almost enigmatic lurking about her lips.

Deepen a few lines and her expression would be one of contented sleekness. _That_ Hubert had missed by a stroke. It was in her eyes that her chief glory abided. They were pathetic without resignation, liquid without humidity, indescribable in colouring and form. Their full cup and the accents which experience had graven under them were something he had never dreamed of realizing. It was a Cosway; but a Cosway broadened and without a hint of genteel namby-pamby or overelaborate finesse.

Hubert was fairly satisfied. Madame Mineur had little to say. During the sittings she seldom spoke, and if their eyes met, the richness of her glance was a compensation for her lack of loquacity. Hubert did not complain. He was in no hurry. To be under the same roof with this adorable woman was all that he asked.

The day after he had finished his picture, he returned to Chalfontaine for the midday breakfast. Berenice was absent--in her room with a headache, her mother explained. The weather was sultry. He questioned Elaine during the meal. Had Berenice's temper improved? They pa.s.sed out to the balcony where their coffee was served, and when he lighted his cigarette, Madame Mineur begged to be excused. She had promised Cousin eloise to pay some calls. He strolled over the lawn, watching the hummocks of white clouds which piled up in architectural ma.s.ses across the southern sky. Then he remembered the portrait and mounted to the atelier. As he put his hand on the k.n.o.b of the door he thought he heard some one weeping. Suddenly the door was pulled from his grasp and Berenice appeared. Her hair hung on her shoulders. She was in a white dressing-gown. Her face was red and her eyes swollen. She did not attempt to move. Affectionately Hubert caught her in his arms and asked about her headache.

"It is better," she answered in scarcely audible accents.

"Why, you poor child! I hope you are not going to be ill! Have you been racing in the sun without your hat?"

"No. I haven't been out of doors since yesterday."

"What's the matter, little Berenice? Has some one been cross with her?"

She pushed him from her violently.

"Hubert Falcroft, when you treat me as a woman and not as a child--"

"But I am treating you as a woman," he said. Her dark face became tragic. She had emerged from girlhood in a few hours. And as he held her closer some perverse spirit entered into his soul. Her vibrating youth and beauty forced him to gaze into her blazing eyes until he saw the pupils contract.

"Let me go!" she panted. "Let me free! I am not a doll. Go to your portrait and wors.h.i.+p it. Let me free!"

"And what if I do not?" Something of her rebellious feeling filled his veins. He felt younger, stronger, fiercer. He put his arms about her neck and, after a silent battle, kissed her. Then she pushed by him and disappeared. He could see nothing, after the shock of the adventure, for some moments, and the semi-obscurity of the atelier was grateful to his eyes. A picture stood on the easel, but it was not, he fancied, the portrait. He went to the centre of the room where hung the cords that controlled the curtains covering the gla.s.s roof. Then in the flood of light he barely recognized the head of Elaine. It was on the easel, and with a sharp pain at his heart he saw across the face a big crimson splash.

III

MOON-RAYS

The dewy brightness of tangled blush roses had faded in the vague twilight; through the aisles of the little wood leading to the pool the light timidly flickered as Hubert and Elaine walked with the hesitating steps of perplexed persons. They had not spoken since they left the house--there in a few hurried words he told her of the accident and noted with sorrow the look of anguish in her eyes. Without knowing why, they went in the direction of the wall.

There was no moon when they reached the highroad. It would rise later, Elaine said in her low, slightly monotonous voice. Hubert was so stunned by the memory of his ruined picture that he forgot his earlier encounter with Berenice--that is, in describing it he had failed to minutely record his behaviour. But in the cool evening air his conscience became alive and he guiltily wondered whether he dare tell his misconduct--no, imprudence? Why not? She regarded him as a possible husband for Berenice--but how embarra.s.sing! He made up his mind to say nothing; when the morrow came he would write Elaine the truth and bid her good-by. He could not in honour continue to visit this home where resided the woman he loved--with a jealous daughter. Why jealous? What a puzzle, and what an absurd one! He helped Elaine to a seat on the wall and sat near her.

For several minutes neither spoke. They were again facing the pool, which looked in the dusk like a cracked mirror.

"It is not clear yet to me," murmured Elaine. "That the unfortunate child has always been more or less morbid and sick-brained, I have been aware. The world, marriage, and active existence will mend all that, I hope. I fear she is a little spoilt and selfish. And she doesn't love me very much. She has inherited all her father's pa.s.sion for Poe's tales.

My dear friend, she is jealous--that's the only solution of this shocking act. She disliked the idea of my portrait from the start. You remember on this spot hardly a month ago she challenged you to paint her as the drowned Ophelia!--and all her teasing about Monsieur Mineur and his jealousy, and--"

"Our flirtation," added Hubert, sadly.

"Oh, pray do not say such a thing! She is so hot-headed, so fond of you.

Yes, I saw it from the beginning, and your talk about the insurmountable wall of middle-age did not deceive me. I only hope that will not be a tragic wall for her, for you--or for me...."

Her words trailed into a mere whisper. He put his hand over hers and again they were silent. About them the green of the forest had been transformed by the growing night into great clumps of velvety darkness and the vault overhead was empty of stars. June airs fanned their discontent into mild despair, and simultaneously they dreamed of another life, of a harmonious existence far from Paris, into which the phantom of Theophile Mineur would never intrude. Yet they made no demonstration of their affection--they would have been happy to sit and dream on this moon-haunted wall, near this nocturnal pool, forever. Hubert pictured Berenice in her room, behind bolted doors, lying across the bed weeping, or else staring in sullen repentance at the white ceiling. Why had she indulged in such vandalism? The portrait was utterly destroyed by the flaring smear laid on with a brush in the hand of an enraged young animal. What sort of a woman might not develop from this tempestuous girl! He knew that he had mortally offended her by his rudeness. But it was after, not before, the cruel treatment of his beloved work. Yet, how like a man had been his rapid succ.u.mbing to transitory temptation! For it was transitory--of that he was sure. The woman he loved, with a reverent love, was next to him, and if his pulse did not beat as furiously at this moment as earlier in the day, why--all the better. He was through forever with his boyish recklessness.

"Another peculiar thing," broke in Elaine, as if she had been thinking aloud, "is that Berenice has been pestering eloise for her father's address."

"Her father's address?" echoed her companion.

"Yes; but whether she wrote to him eloise could not say."

"Why should she write to him? She dislikes him--dislikes him almost as much--" he was about to p.r.o.nounce his own name. She caught him up.

"Yes, that is the singular part of this singular affair. She felt slighted because you painted my portrait before hers. I confess I have had my misgivings. You should have been more considerate of her feelings, Hubert, my friend." She paused and sighed. For him the sigh was a spark that blew up the magazine of his firmest resolves. He had been touching her hands fraternally. His arm embraced her so that she could not escape, as this middle-aged man told his pa.s.sion with the ardour of an enamoured youth.

"You dare not tell me you do not care for me! Elaine--let us reason. I loved you since the first moment I met you. It is folly to talk of Mineur and my friends.h.i.+p for him. I dislike, I despise him. It is folly to talk of Berenice and her childish pranks. What if she did cruelly spoil my work, _our_ work! She will get over it. Girls always do get over these things. Let us accept conditions as they are. Say you love me--a little bit--and I'll be content to remain at your side, a friend, _always_ that. I'll paint you again--much more beautifully than before."

He was hoa.r.s.e from the intensity of his feelings. The moon had risen and tipped with its silver brush the tops of the trees.

"And--my husband? And Berenice?"

"Let things remain as they are." He pressed her to him. A crackling in the underbrush and a faint plash in the lake startled them asunder. They listened with ears that seemed like beating hearts. There was no movement; only a night bird plaintively piped in the distance and a clock struck the quarter.

Elaine, now thoroughly frightened, tried to get down from the wall.

Hubert restrained her, and as they stood thus, a moaning like the wind in autumnal leaves reached them. The moon-rays began to touch the water, and suddenly a nimbus of light formed about a floating face in the pool.

The luminous path broadened, and to their horror they saw Berenice, her hair outspread, her arms crossed on her young bosom, lying in the little lake. Elaine screamed:--

"My G.o.d! My G.o.d! It is Berenice!--Berenice, I am punished for my wickedness to you!" Hubert, stunned by the vision, did not stir, as the almost fainting mother gripped his neck.

And then the eyes of the whimsical girl opened. A malicious smile distorted her pretty face. Slowly she arose, a dripping ghost in white, and pointing her long, thin fingers in the direction of the Ecouen road she mockingly cried:--

"There is some one to see your portrait at last, dear Master Painter."