CHAPTER XXXI
TOWARDS UNKNOWN WAYS
The afternoon post had just been delivered and the postman was alreadywhizzing his way down the drive on his scarlet-painted bicycle as LadyGertrude unlocked the private post-bag appertaining to Trenby Hall.This was one of the small jobs usually delegated to her niece, but foronce the latter was away on holiday, staying with friends at Penzance.
The bag yielded up some bills and a solitary letter, addressed inIsobel's looped and curly writing. It was not an easy hand to read,and Lady Gertrude produced her pince-nez to assist in deciphering it.For the most part it dealt with small incidents of her visit anddutiful enquiries concerning the progress of estate and domesticaffairs at the Hall during her absence. But just before the end--whereit might linger longest in the memory--came a paragraph which rivetedLady Gertrude's attention.
"And how about Nan's portrait?" Isobel had written. "I suppose by thistime it is finished and adorning the picture gallery? That is, ifRoger has really succeeded in persuading Mr. Rooke to part with it. Itcertainly ought to be an _exceptional_ portrait, judging by the lengthof time it has taken to accomplish! Dear Aunt Gertrude, I cannot helpthinking it was a mistake that Nan didn't give Mr. Rooke the sittingsat his studio in town or, better still, have waited until after hermarriage. People in the country are so apt to be censorious, aren'tthey? And there has been a good deal of comment on the matter, I_know_. I didn't wish to worry you about it, but I feel you and Rogerreally ought to know this."
"Letter from Isobel, mother? What's her news?"
Roger came striding into the room exactly as Lady Gertrude finished theperusal of her niece's epistle. She looked up with eyes that gleamedlike hard, bright pebbles behind her pince-nez.
"The kind of news to which I fear we shall have to grow accustomed,"she said acidly. "It appears that Nan is getting herself talked aboutin connection with that artist who is painting her portrait."
By the time she had finished speaking Roger's face was like athundercloud.
"What do you mean? What does Isobel say?" he demanded.
"You had better read the letter for yourself," replied his mother,pushing it towards him.
He snatched it up and read it hastily, then stood silently staring atit, his face white with anger, his eyes as hard as Lady Gertrude's own.
"It's a great pity you ever met Nan Davenant," pursued his mother,breaking the silence. "There's bad blood in the Davenants, and Nanwill probably create a scandal for us one day. I understand shestrongly resembles her notorious great-grandmother, Angele deVarincourt."
"My wife will lead a very different kind of life from Angele deVarincourt," remarked Roger. "I'll see to that."
"It's a pity you didn't look nearer home for a wife, Roger," sheobserved. "I always hoped you would learn to care for Isobel."
"Isobel!"--with blank amazement. "I do care for her--she's a jollygood sort--but not in that way. Besides, she doesn't care for me inthe slightest--except in a sisterly fashion."
"Are you sure of that? Remember, you've never asked her the question."And with this final thrust, Lady Gertrude left him to his thoughts.
No doubt, later on, the thought of Isobel in the new light presented byhis mother would recur to his mind, but for the moment he was entirelypreoccupied with the matter of Nan's portrait and his determination toput an end to the sittings.
It would be quite easy, he decided. The only thing that stood in theway of his immediately carrying out his plan, was the fact that he hadpromised to go away the following morning on a few days' fishingexpedition, together with Barry Seymour and the two Fentons. Therealisation that Maryon Rooke would probably spend the best part ofthose few days in Nan's company set the blood pounding furiouslythrough his veins. His decision was taken instantly. The fishingparty must go without him.
As a natural sequence to his engagement to Nan he had an openinvitation to Mallow, and this evening he availed himself of it bymotoring across to dinner there. The question of the fishing party waseasily disposed of on the plea of unexpected estate matters whichrequired his supervision. Barry brushed his apologies aside.
"My dear chap, it doesn't matter a scrap. We three'll go as arrangedand you must join us on our next jaunt. Kitty'll be here to look afterNan," he added, smiling good-naturedly. "She hates fishing--it boresher stiff."
After dinner Roger made an opportunity to broach the matter of theportrait to Nan.
"When's Rooke going to finish that portrait of you?" he asked her."He's taking an unconscionable time over it."
She coloured a little under the suspicion she read in his eyes.
"I--I think he'll finish it to-morrow," she stammered. "It's nearlydone, you know."
"So I should think. I'll see him about it. I'm going to buy thething."
"To--to buy it?"--nervously.
"Yes." His keen eyes flashed over her. "Is there anythingextraordinary in a man's purchasing the portrait of his future wife?"
"No. Oh, no. Only I don't fancy Maryon painted it with any idea ofselling it."
"And I didn't allow you to sit for it with any idea of his keeping it,"retorted Roger grimly.
Nan remained silent, feeling that further discussion of the matterwhile he was in his present humour would serve no purpose. The curt,almost hectoring manner of his speech irritated her, while the jealousyfrom which it sprang made no appeal to her by way of an excuse, as itmight have done had she loved him. She was glad when the evening cameto an end, but she was still in a sore and angry frame of mind when shejoined Rooke in the music-room the following day.
He speedily divined that something had occurred to ruffle her, andwithout endeavouring to elicit the cause--possibly he felt he couldmake a pretty good guess at it!--he set himself to amuse and entertainher. He was so far successful in his efforts that before very long shehad almost forgotten her annoyance of the previous evening and was deepin a discussion regarding the work of a certain modern composer.
Engrossed in argument, neither Maryon nor Nan noticed, the hum of amotor approaching up the drive, and when the door of the room wasthrown open to admit Roger Trenby neither of them was able to repress aslight start. Instantly a dark look of anger overspread Roger's faceas he advanced into the room.
"Good morning, Rooke," he said, nodding briefly but not offering hishand. "So the portrait is finished at last, I see."
Nan glanced across at him anxiously. There was something in his mannerthat filled her with a quick sense of apprehension.
"Not quite," replied Rooke easily. "I'm afraid we've been idling thismorning. There are still a few more touches I should like to add."
Roger crossed the room, and, standing in front of the picture, surveyedit in silence.
"I think," he said at last, "that I'm satisfied with it as it is. . . .It will look very well in the gallery at Trenby."
Rooke's eyes narrowed suddenly.
"The portrait isn't for sale," he observed.
"Of course not--to anyone other than myself," replied Roger composedly.
"Not even to you, I'm afraid," answered Rooke. "I painted it for thegreat pleasure it gave me and not from any mercenary motive."
Nan, watching the two men as they fenced, saw a sudden flash in Roger'seyes and his under jaw thrust itself out in a manner with which she wasonly too familiar.
"Then may I ask what you intend to do with it?" he demanded. There wassomething in the dead level of his tone which suggested a white-hotanger forcibly held in leash.
"I thought--with Nan's permission--of exhibiting it first," said Rookeplacidly. "After that, there is a wall in my house at Westminsterwhere it would hang in an admirable light."
The cool insolence of his manner acted like a lighted torch togunpowder. Roger swung round upon him furiously, his hands clenched,his forehead suddenly gnarled with knotted veins.
"By God, Rooke!" he exclaimed. "You go too far! _You_ will exhibitNan's portrait . . . _you_ will hang it in your hou
se! . . . And youthink I'll stand by and tolerate such impertinence? Understand . . .Nan's portrait hangs at Trenby Hall--or nowhere!"
Rooke regarded him apparently unmoved.
"I've yet to learn the law which compels a man to part with his work,"he remarked indifferently.
Roger took an impetuous step towards him, his clenched hand raised asthough to strike.
"You hound--" he began hoarsely.
Nan rushed between them, catching the upraised hand.
"Roger! . . . Roger!" she cried, her voice shrill with the fear thatin another moment the two men would be at grips.
But he shook off her hand, flinging her aside with such force that shestaggered helplessly backwards.
"As for you," he thundered, his eyes blazing with concentrated anger,"it's you I've to thank that any man should hold my future wife socheap as to imagine he may paint her portrait and then keep it in hishouse as though it were his own! . . . But I'm damned if he shall!"
White and shaken, she leaned against the window frame, clutching at thewood-work for support and staring at him with affrighted eyes as heturned once more to Rooke.
In his big, brawny strength, doubled by the driving force of anger, heseemed to tower above the slim, supple figure of the artist, who stoodleaning negligently against the side of the piano, watching him withnarrowed eyes and a faintly supercilious smile on his lips.
"Take your choice, Rooke," he said shortly. "My cheque for fivehundred and get out of this, or--" He paused significantly.
"Or? . . . The other alternative?" murmured Rooke. Roger laughedroughly, fingering something he held concealed in his hand.
"You'll know that later," he said grimly. "I advise you to close withthe five hundred."
Rooke shook his head.
"Sorry it's impossible. I prefer to keep the picture."
"Oh, Maryon, give in to him! Do give in to him!"
The words came sobbingly from Nan's white lips, and Rooke turned to herinstantly.
"Have I your permission to keep the picture, Nan?" he asked, fixing herwith his queer, magnetic eyes.
An oath broke from Roger.
"You'll have the original, you see, Trenby," explained Rooke urbanely,glancing towards him.
Then he turned again to Nan.
"Have I, Nan?"
She opened her lips to reply, but no words came. She stood theresilently, her eyes wide and terror-stricken, her cheeks stained withthe tears that dripped down them unheeded.
Roger's glance swept her as though there were something distasteful tohim in the sight of her and she flinched under it, moaning a little.
"Well," he said to Rooke. "Is the picture mine--or yours?"
"Mine," answered Rooke.
Roger made a single stride towards the easel. Then his hand shot out,and the next moment there was a grinding sound of ripping and tearingas, with the big blade of his clasp-knife, he slashed and rent andhacked at the picture until it was a wreck of split and riven canvas.
With a cry like that of a wounded animal Rooke leaped forward to gaveit, but Roger hurled him aside as though he were a child, and once morethe knife bit its way remorselessly through paint and canvas.
There was something indescribably horrible in this deliberate,merciless destruction of the exquisite work of art. Nan, watching thekeen blade sweep again and again across the painted figure of theportrait, felt as though the blows were being rained upon her actualbody. Distraught with the violence and horror of the scene she triedto scream, but her voice failed her, and with a hoarse, half-strangledcry she covered her eyes, rocking to and fro. But the raucous sound ofrending canvas still grated hideously against her ears.
Suddenly Roger ceased to cut and slash at the portrait. Seizing it inboth hands, he dragged it from the easel and flung it on the floor atRooke's feet.
"There's your picture!" he said. "Take it--and hang it in your'admirable light'!" And he strode out of the room.
A long silence fell between the two who were left. Then Rooke, who wasstaring at the ruin of his work with his mouth twisted, into an odd,cynical smile, murmured beneath his breath:
"_Sic transit_ . . ."
Once more the silence wrapped them round. Wan-faced and with staringeyes, Nan drew near the heap of mangled canvas.
At last:
"I can't bear it! I can't bear it!" she whispered, and a shudderingsob shook her slight frame from head to foot. "Oh, Maryon--"
She stretched her hands towards him gropingly, like a child that isfrightened in the dark.
. . . Half an hour later found them still together, standing withlinked hands. In Rooke's eyes there was a quiet light of triumph,while Nan's attitude betrayed a kind of hesitancy, as of one drivenalong strange and unknown ways.
"Then you'll come, Nan, you'll come?" he said eagerly.
"I'll come," she answered dully. "I can't bear my life any longer."
"I'll make you happy. . . . I swear it!"
"Will you, Maryon?" She shook her head and the eyes she raised to hiswere full of a dumb, hopeless misery. "I don't think anything couldever make me--happy. But I'd have gone on . . . I'd have borneit . . . if Uncle David were still here. What we are going to do wouldhave hurt him so"--and her voice trembled. "But he's gone, and nownothing seems to matter very much."
A sudden overwhelming tenderness for this pain-racked, desolate spiritsurged up in Maryon's heart.
"You poor little child!" he murmured. "You poor child!"
And gathering her into his arms he held her closely, leaning his cheekagainst her hair, with no passion, but with a swift, understandingsympathy that sprang from the best that was in the man.
She clung to him forlornly, so tired and hopeless she no longer feltany impulse to resist him. She had tried--tried to withstand him andto go on treading the uphill path that lay before her. But now she hadcome to the end of her strength. She would go away with Maryon . . .go out of it all . . . and somewhere, perhaps, together they wouldbuild up a new and happier life.
Dimly at the back of her mind floated the memory of Peter's words:
"But there's honour, dear, and duty . . ."
She crushed down the remembrance resolutely. If she were going awayinto a new world with Maryon, the door of memory must be closed fast.