Two Studios — Inside the Classic

Somebody began to speak to Everitt, and he lost the remainder. Presently Jack Hibbert drifted again into hearing--

"That? Oh yes, there's a very remarkable story connected with that picture. A great deal in the girl's face, as you say. Well, Everitt happened to have painted it from a model; he doesn't always, you know. No, you're quite right; we do our best things entirely out of our own heads; it secures originality. Just so. However, sometimes Everitt has to fall back on a model, and we heard afterwards that this one was in disguise; there's was a hint that she was a duke's daughter--"

"Oh, Mr Hibbert, how delightfully romantic! Do you mean to say you did not guess?"

"Well, there was a something, there certainly was a something--you can see it in the face, can't you?--something so--so--"

"_So_ distinguished. Exactly!"

"Hibbert?" growled at his elbow.

"Ah, here's Everitt himself; I'll make you over to him," said the unabashed young man, with a laugh. "I give you warning, though, that he hates romance. If you listen to him he'll deny that there's a word of truth in any of my stories."

Later on Everitt fell upon him.

"You unprincipled young dog, what do you mean by uttering such a farrago of nonsense? You'll be bringing all the scandal-mongers of London down on my head. A duke's daughter disguised as a model! I should like to know where your impudence will lead you!"

"Oh, it was the duke's daughter which made it all right. Mr Smith will want to buy that picture, you'll see. Hallo!"

Everitt's brow relaxed; he burst into a laugh, as the parrot, which Jack had been teasing, made a successful dive at his finger and seized it. Just at this moment the studio bell rang.

"Another! I'm off!" cried Jack, jumping up from his chair. Everitt himself looked anything but pleased; he flung his cigarette down with an exclamation of annoyance, and went to the door, while Jack made his escape by another exit behind an elaborate Japanese screen. It was past the time for visitors, and the foremost of the two new-comers made haste to apologise. She was a pretty woman, and a favourite cousin of Everitt's, so that there was some excuse for her intrusion.

"Yes, I know exactly what you said when you heard the bell," she said smiling. "Was Mr Hibbert with you as usual, and did he run away? I am sorry for that, because I like Mr Hibbert."

"Did you come here to tell me so? And now that you are here, won't you sit down?" questioned Everitt in his turn, putting forward a couple of chairs, and clearing away a few motley bits of drapery.

"No," said Mrs Marchmont; "I had two much better reasons. One was that I might bring Miss Aitcheson here. She has come up to London with an ingenuous mind which takes the most reverential attitude in the world towards art. I am trotting out all my lions for her benefit, and you are the biggest. Please show her something, and roar nicely."

"I had better," he said, "since there is nothing else I can do. Don't you know that this is the empty time at all the studios?"

"Oh, never mind. Your unconsidered trifles will be gratefully appreciated. Look, Bell; don't you like that face?"

"That's my duke's daughter," said Everitt with a laugh. And he told them the story of Jack's romance.

Miss Aitcheson did not say much. Everitt privately thought her rather uninteresting. She was tall and fair and slender, with light brown hair, a small head, and a very quiet manner, whether due to shyness or reserve or dulness he could not tell; nor, indeed, did he give himself the trouble to investigate very closely. He directed his attention to his cousin, Mrs Marchmont; and she was a sufficiently lively little person to have no objection to its monopoly. Meanwhile Miss Aitcheson wandered about, looking as she liked--at faded hangings, and ancient Indian rugs of fabulously fine needlework, and pictures in frames and out of them, and the parrot in his cage, and odd bits of a painter's property. In this fashion she enjoyed the studio a hundred times more than if she had been called upon at every moment to remark on its contents; and certainly the painter and Mrs Marchmont were doing very well without her. But presently their conversation touched on some subject which evidently interested her: for she drew nearer to hear it discussed, although still examining a Roman sketch which she held in her hands.

"Don't look so miserable, Charlie, but promise that you'll do it for her. In fact, I _have_ promised. Why, of course you know all the models in London."

"I don't. I hate London models."

"Well," said Mrs Marchmont with swift inconsequence, "I don't suppose you expect a young girl to prowl about those places where they live?"

Everitt shrugged his shoulders. "What is it to me?"

"Charlie," repeated his cousin, with a kind of shocked disappointment in her voice, "if you will not take such an absurd fraction of trouble when I ask you--"

"My dear Mary," he said, turning quickly, "if you ask me on your own account--"

"Of course I do. I ask it as a very personal favour. If you knew Kitty Lascelles, it would be unnecessary to put it on that ground," returned Mrs Marchmont, still keeping up a little air of dignity.

"I apologise a hundred times. What is it that Miss Lascelles wants?"

"A model--an Italian model."

"_Contadino_, broad hat, long cloak--the stock production, I suppose?"

"I suppose so," she said, looking at him doubtfully.

"All young ladies like that style of thing."

"Don't be overbearing. Miss Lascelles is an excellent artist. Her father is one of the staff at the Military Hospital, and has fitted up a studio for her, where she works with--a friend," she added, with an imperceptible glance at Miss Aitcheson. "It is the most delightful old-world place you can imagine. Shall I drive you there some day?"

"Thank you; you are very good," he said hastily, "but you must remember that I am not an idle man. Besides, it is quite unnecessary; I am doing this for you."

"And you can find just what she wants? I knew you would," said his cousin triumphantly. Everitt reflected.

"I can put my hand at once on the best man in London for that sort of thing," he said slowly. "When does she want him--on Monday, I suppose?"

"Yes. Why, however, do you suppose it?"

"Because ladies are impatient in art as in everything else, and while I should spend a fortnight in selecting a good model, you would expect him to grow out of the ground at your feet."

"If I had told you that I wanted him."

"I make my bow," Everitt returned. "Well, as it happens, the best man in London for her purpose is coming here on Monday morning."

"That," said Mrs Marchmont, "is what I should have expected."

"He's a first-rate model, and an awful ruffian."

"He can't do any harm."

"Then, in spite of my character of him, you think Miss Lascelles would wish him to be sent on to her?"

Mrs Marchmont smiled.

"I am sure she would--_coute que coute_."

"In that case, unless he is hopelessly drunk, I will forward him."

"That is really good of you," she said, getting up; "and to prove that we are not ungrateful, we will go away this minute, and allow you to begin another cigarette in peace. I shall tell Kitty that you have made a solemn vow to provide the man she wants on Monday morning."

"I'll do my best," said Everitt.

"Oh, no limitations, please. If you can't get him, you will have to find another. I have no doubt they run about quite tamely in this long corridor of yours. Don't come any farther. I'm immensely obliged to you, and so Miss Lascelles will be when she hears of the ruffian--won't she, Bell?"

In spite of her request, Everitt walked with them to the carriage, which waited in the street. When it had driven off, he turned back, lit his cigarette, and paced up and down under the quaint little avenue. It had never seemed more peaceful, or offered a tenderer contrast to the hot exhausted-looking street outside. May had just begun; the delicate green had burst out, and was clothing the dark boughs with delicious and dainty lightness. A late sun was shining down on the little court, and the feeling of spring was abroad. Everitt stopped and looked round impatiently upon the houses.

"I can't stand this much longer, if the weather keeps fine," he said. "It's waste--sheer waste. And those shoals of old women on Saturday afternoons are becoming intolerable. I must break it off somehow. The best I could do would be to shut up and be off to Pont-aven, or somewhere where one hasn't a hundred and fifty interruptions. It would be a good thing for Jack, who might find fewer excuses to be idle, and it would stop having to provide models for young women who set up studios when they ought to be drawing straight strokes. I know the sort of thing--exactly. And unless I look out, Mary Marchmont will be making elaborate arrangements that I should go and correct her drawings. May the fates avert that! I'll provide this one model, and there my engagements begin and end."

That was a rash boast, with which Everitt concluded his meditations under the trees, but no misgivings disturbed him as he went back to the studio, set a few things in order, gave some directions to the porter, and departed. He dined out and went to the play, and passed the next day without a thought of Miss Kitty Lascelles, until towards evening he met Mr and Mrs Marchmont near Albert Gate. As they parted, Mrs Marchmont reminded him of his promise.

"If you are faithless," she said, "I will never forgive you. I saw Kitty this morning, and she told me that a ruffian was exactly what she wanted."

"Well, she'll have him," said Everitt, grimly. "Why hurl threats at me? I am not likely to forget. But you are, apparently, as much interested as she is. May I ask why?"

"Because," she said, "she is my dearest friend, and I don't like my friends to be disappointed. And she is so enthusiastic and eager about her art! I do wish I could bring you two together. Won't you come and dine? George, persuade him."

"When I come back from Pont-aven," said Everitt, escaping with a laugh.

He was an early worker, and it was his custom to be in his studio, painting, a good hour before Jack Hibbert began his studies. He made an effective picture himself as he stood at his easel--a handsome man, rather above the usual height, dark and bright-eyed, with a clear olive skin, and well-cut features. The lofty studio, with its hangings of faded harmonious colours, its pleasant irregularities, and its pictures standing about, formed an excellent setting. A fire burnt on the hearth, and the parrot was engaged in making pertinent inquiries of his master, which Everitt answered absently, for he was at work upon a subject which interested him. At last he looked at his watch with an exclamation of annoyance.

"Where's that fellow? He should have been here half an hour ago." He pulled a bell impatiently, and it was answered by the porter. "Has Giuseppe come?"

"Hurry him up when he makes his appearance--that's all. Or--stop! Is Greggs engaged this week?"

"Foster--where's Foster?"

"Well--send that fellow in the moment he comes."

Everitt fell to his painting again, but without success. He was a man who had a very strong feeling about a promise, and he hated the idea of failing to fulfil it. It began, indeed, very soon to annoy him seriously. He flung down his brushes, and caught up his hat to go in search of the delinquent, when Hill, the porter, once more appeared at the door, with a significant grin on his face, at sight of which Everitt abruptly stopped and whistled.

"Oh!" he remarked the next moment.

"Pack off the brute," said Everitt in a disgusted voice.

He came back and stood before his easel with his hands thrust into his pockets; then seized a brush and began filling in a bit of foreground. Presently he left his work again, and resumed his pacing.

"This won't do; I shan't get a decent bit of work done this morning, if I don't settle the matter one way or other. Now, what on earth's to be done? Write a note--present my compliments, model drunk, sorry to disappoint, and so on? Go myself, and apologise? No; that's a little too strong. What a fool I was to get drawn into this business! If Hill weren't wanted, I'd dress him up and send him--that wouldn't be half a bad plan; or if I could hit upon some one as accommodating as the duke's daughter," he added musingly, standing before the canvas. The next minute an odd, almost eager look crept into his eyes. He began to smile, shook his head impatiently, smiled again, overmastered by the fancy, whatever it was--suddenly turned away. "Yes, I'll do it!" he exclaimed aloud.

Whatever it was to which Everitt had made up his mind--and, as has been already hinted, he was at times the victim of freaks which laid his character open to the charge of inconsistency--he lost no time in carrying it out. His first act was to lock his doors, his second to go to a sort of cupboard where some half a dozen costumes were hanging, and to proceed to attire himself in one which belonged to the typical Italian at whom he had mocked; for it was one of his fancies to have a very complete set of these costumes, and his brother artists were not slow to avail themselves of his stores and his good-nature. Having fallen in with the fancy which suggested his present action, he was not the man to hesitate in the doing. He dressed himself rapidly, but with a care which descended to the smallest details, took down an old faded blue-green cloak, which had sunned itself often on the Trinita steps, and inspected himself closely in a looking-glass. On the whole, he thought it satisfactory. In an Italian dress his face appeared Italian; a weak point, of course, lay in his hair, which was short, but he pulled his broad hat over his forehead, and corked his eyebrows to a more generous breadth. He had no fear whatever of being recognised in the street, and as for Miss Lascelles, he assured himself that by exchanging him for Giuseppe, she had, unquestionably, no cause for complaint. His chief danger lay from meeting Jack Hibbert in the court, for Jack, with his investigating mind, was tolerably sure to overhaul an unknown model, and though in that case Everitt had resolved to take him into his confidence, it must be owned he shrank a little from the fun Jack was sure to get out of the affair.

However, he was not going to retreat; he was beginning to feel a keen interest in his own adventures. Opening the second door, which served for models and intimate friends, he took a glance round the court, and, finding it empty, hastily locked his door, and stepped out into the shadow of the trees. He was in luck, for no one was hanging about, and the next minute he was in the street. The plunge gave him, it must be owned, an odd sensation, the more so when he saw that he was only just in time, for Jack was on the other side of the street in the act of crossing, Everitt strode on quickly. He fancied himself the centre of all eyes, but after a time this feeling wore off. The people who glanced at him only saw a model on his way to a studio, a picturesque figure in the midst of unlovely things; the children stared as they would have stared at a man with a monkey, or any other show; there was nothing in him to attract unusual notice. But he felt so unusual himself, that it took him some time to make sure of this. Then, the awkwardness wearing off, his spirits rose. He found the situation amusing. He rather wished to meet some one whom he knew that he might test his disguises to the utmost. It was a beautiful morning, and there was a novelty in the impossibility of shocking probabilities by calling a hansom, which in itself was absolutely exhilarating.

When he reached the Hospital his pleasure increased. It was too early in the day for many of the old men to be out sunning themselves, but he became immediately aware of the peaceful and old-world atmosphere which hung about the place. A morning breeze was blowing up the river, and delicate white clouds sailed across the sky. In the midst of its trees lay the Hospital, warm red brick, with white pointings and grey stone pillars, on which the sunshine rested softly mellow; with its broad frontage of green turf, and its iron gates, and its little graveyard, where lie the old heroes waiting for the "last trumpet's sounding." Everitt had not been there for years; it seemed to him almost as if he had never been before--as if all those years he had lost something. When one or two old men, in long blue coats and brass buttons, and broad three-cornered hats, strolled out of the side gates and stared at him, he felt as if the picture were complete, except that he began to hate himself for being the incongruous feature.

He was directed to one of the brick houses which cluster near the Hospital itself, and closely resemble it in their details; his guide hobbling before him, and now and then throwing at him a suspicious glance. Everything was exquisitely trim and clean; the warm colours, the tender shadows on the old brick, the sunshine, the sober cheerfulness, the lilacs just breaking out in the gardens, the filmy green which daintily touched the trees, were full of delightful charm; and, though the river was not visible, a sort of feeling of its neighbourhood--a freshness in the air, an opening in the distance--added to this charm.

They were not long in reaching the Lascelles' house, built, like the others, of substantial, warm red brick, square and solid, with well-grown trees about it, and gay flowering shrubs, in which blackbirds were singing, as if London were miles away. It must be owned that, as Everitt walked up the back staircase--which was, however, of oak--he began to feel unusually embarrassed.

The little room into which he was ushered was as different from his own lofty and convenient studio as could be imagined, yet it was all in keeping with the rest. A rough sandy English terrier, with prick ears and bright dark eyes, made an immediate dash at him, and was seized by his mistress. This gave Everitt time to glance round him, and to observe that the room was panelled with old oak, and painted above a dull green; that the light was excellent, and the furniture of a somewhat scanty description; that a good many vigorous studies were stuck about; and that the whole aspect of the place looked like business.

Then he surveyed Miss Lascelles, who was pacifying her dog.

She was not at all the sort of person he had expected to see, though it must be owned he had built his ideas without a vestige of foundation. She was small and very girlish-looking, with a bright, happy face and pretty, graceful movements. Her dress was of some soft brown material, with velvet of a darker shade about the neck which matched the brown hair lying smoothly on her little head.

"Sandy, be quiet!" she said; then looking at Everitt, "You are sent by Mr Everitt?"

"Signorina, yes." He felt that on this score, at any rate, there could be no question.

"I have been expecting you for some time," she went on; "I should like you to be more punctual another morning. But now I will show you where you are to stand."

To stand! Everitt's heart sank; he had hoped he might sit.