Chapter Thirteen. Studio Secrets.

“If you please, sir, a lady wants to see you very particularly.”

“A lady, Jacob,” exclaimed Hugh Trethowen, who was in the lazy enjoyment of a cigar and a novel in his sitting-room, at the close of a dull, wet January day. “Who is she?”

“I don’t know, sir. She wouldn’t give her card.”

“Young?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Pretty?”

“Well, I suppose I’m not much of a judge at my time of life, Master Hugh,” protested the old servant.

“Get along with you,” laughed his master. “You can yet distinguish a pretty girl from a fossilised hag, I’ll be bound. Show her in, and let’s have a look at her.” Rising, he glanced at himself in the mirror, settled his tie, and smoothed his hair; for the appearance of a lady was an unusual phenomenon at his rooms.

When the door opened he walked towards it to welcome his visitor, but halted halfway in amazement.

“Why, Dolly, is it you?” he exclaimed, gripping her gloved hand.

“Yes, Mr Trethowen; I—I don’t think I ought to have come here—to your chambers,” she replied, glancing round the room rather timidly; “but I wanted to tell you something.”

“Surely there’s no harm in interviewing the lion in his den, is there?” he asked, laughing. “Come, let me help you off with your cloak.”

At first she hesitated, declaring that she could only remain a few minutes, but eventually he persuaded her to allow him to remove the fur-lined garment—an Operation in which he displayed a rather excessive amount of care.

Then he drew up a cosy armchair to the fire, and as she seated herself in it she commenced a desultory conversation, evidently loth to touch upon the matter of importance that had brought her thither.

Men at Hugh Trethowen’s age are impressionable. They love, hate, and forget all in one day. For a brief period one fair daughter of Eve is thought enchanting and divine, but in the majority of cases another, fairer still, whose charms are increasingly bewitching, steps in and usurps her place, and she, though tender and fair—she may go anywhere to hide her emotion from an unsympathetic world, and heal her broken heart.

If the truth were told, as she fixed her sweet, affectionate eyes upon him, he was reflecting whether he really loved her in preference to Valérie.

“Why do you desire so particularly to see me?” he asked, blowing a cloud of smoke from his lips, and regarding her with a happy and somewhat amused expression.

Blushing, and dropping her eyes to the floor, she began to pick at her skirt.

“I hope you’ll not be angry with me, and also that you’ll keep my visit a secret,” she said at last, with a little demure droop in the corners of her mouth, and just a suspicion of diablerie in her eye. “I want to tell you of some one with whom you are acquainted.”

“Who?”

“Mademoiselle Dedieu.”

He smiled, contemplating the end of his cigar.

“Ah, I have heard all about your infatuation,” she continued seriously; “but, I suppose I must not reproach you, inasmuch as I have no right to do so,” and she sighed.

“You have always been one of my dearest friends, Dolly,” he remarked warmly; “and I hope you will continue so, even though I have promised to marry Valérie Dedieu.”

“You—you have promised to be her husband?” she gasped in dismay.

“Yes. Why, surely you, too, are not going to defame her?” he exclaimed in astonishment. “Come, tell me what you know concerning her.”

“Personally, I know nothing,” she answered in an earnest tone, “but as your friend—as one who has your interests at heart, I would urge you to heed the warning you have already received. Has not Mr Egerton told you that she is not a fit woman to be your wife?”

“He certainly did say something once, in a vague sort of way.”

“Why then do you not take his advice?”

“You do not know us, Dolly,” he replied, looking straight into her eyes. “In matters of love we men usually follow our own course, whether it leads us to happiness or to woe.”

“That is exactly why I came here to-day,” she said anxiously. “I wanted to tell you what Mr Egerton says of her.”

“What does he say?”

“Promise not to repeat anything I tell you.”

“Upon my honour, I will not,” he declared.

“A few days ago we were speaking of her, and he told me of your admiration and love. He said that if you knew the truth you would hate her like poison—that she had brought a curse upon others, and she would bring unhappiness and ruin upon you.”

Hugh gazed thoughtfully into the fire.

“And you have come to tell me that, little one?” he remarked reflectively.

“Yes, I want to save you,” was the earnest, naïve reply.

“To save me,” he echoed, with a smile. “Why, any one would think I was in danger of going by the express route across Styx.”

“I mean,” she faltered, a trifle embarrassed,—“I mean that Mr Egerton knows more of her past than you. I feel sure he does, for she came to see him the other day, and they talked very excitedly. I was not in the room, of course, but—”

“Valérie at the studio! Why did she go?” he inquired, astonished.

“I don’t know, but I heard her say she would pay him another visit to-day and hear his answer, so I presume he has to decide upon some matter upon which she is pressing him.”

“To-day! She may be there now!” he cried, jumping to his feet with sudden impulse.

“Yes, most probably. She came the other day about four o’clock.”

“Then I will go and demand an explanation,” said he briefly, and, opening the door, he shouted to Jacob to call a cab.

Rather unceremoniously he hurried on his fair companion’s cloak, and, getting into his own overcoat, they both descended to the street.

In a few minutes they were driving in the direction of Fitzroy Square, leaving old Jacob standing on the kerb in astonishment at his master’s sudden flight in company with the strange lady.

The pretty model’s words had caused Hugh to become thoughtful and morose. His face wore a dark, resolute expression, and he scarcely uttered a word during the journey.

Dolly Vivian regarded him as her friend. She had accomplished her object and felt satisfied.

In Tottenham Court Road he stopped the cab, and she alighted, so that they should not both arrive at Fitzroy Square together.

A few minutes afterwards he got out and rang the bell.

Walking unceremoniously past Mrs O’Shea, the aged housekeeper, he entered the studio unannounced.

Jack and Valérie were seated upon a low divan before the fire. He was holding her slim hand in his, and was uttering some low, passionate words. As the door opened their tête-à-tête was abruptly terminated, for the artist jumped to his feet, while she turned to face the intruder.

“I—I really must apologise for coming in without knocking,” Hugh exclaimed roughly. “I didn’t know you were engaged, old fellow,” he added sarcastically.

“You! Hugh!” she cried, with a blush suffusing her cheeks.

“What, Valérie!” said Trethowen, laughing dryly. “I really didn’t recognise you in the shadow. I’m sorry if I interrupted what must have been a pleasant conversation.”

“Not at all, old boy,” Egerton answered airily. “Mademoiselle Valérie merely called to have a chat.”

Hugh’s brow darkened.

“I think, as my affianced wife, Valérie owes me a full explanation of this mysterious visit,” he said angrily.

“There’s little to explain,” she replied. “I merely called to consult Mr Egerton, who is an old friend, with regard to a portrait I desire painted.”

He endeavoured to preserve a calm disinterested demeanour, but the attempt was a sorry one. Prompted by feelings of jealousy, he gave vent to his wrath.

“Your position when I entered was peculiarly affectionate,” he said hotly.

He glanced at her, and caught the agitated expression of her face as she stood erect before him. Her eyes had a perplexed look, with just a suspicion of tears in their brown depths.

“No affection exists between us, I assure you,” she declared boldly. “If you doubt me, ask Mr Egerton. He and I are merely friends.”

Turning to the artist, Hugh asked—

“What have you to say, Jack?”

“I decline to be cross-examined,” was the abrupt reply.

“Speak, and satisfy him!” urged Valérie imploringly. “Tell him if there is any love between us.” She frowned, and, unseen by Trethowen, darted a sharp, imperative glance at him.

He fully comprehended her meaning. Raising his head, he confronted his friend, saying—

“You need have no fear. Valérie and I have known one another for years, but only as acquaintances.”

He uttered the words mechanically, in strained, harsh tones.

“I don’t believe it,” cried the other, his face crimson with anger. “You are both playing me false, and I have detected you.”

“You are mistaken,” Valérie said defiantly.

“No; I assert it as the truth. The whole affair is so unsatisfactory that I will not believe it. Friends do not meet clandestinely in this manner. You are lovers!”

“It’s a lie,” cried Valérie emphatically.

“I repeat what I’ve said.”

“Then, if you accuse me of duplicity, Mr Trethowen, I will bid you adieu,” she exclaimed severely, at the same time offering her hand.

He took it, and was mollified instantly.

Bending over it, he murmured—

“Farewell, mademoiselle, until—until you can prove that I was mistaken. We shall not meet till then.” For a moment she gazed steadily at the artist, but he did not stir. He stood with his arms folded, his face impassive.

Slowly she turned, and with a stiff bow swept haughtily out of the studio.

“Now,” commenced Hugh, when the door had closed, “what explanation have you to give of this strange conduct, pray?”

“None.”

“That does not satisfy me.”

“My dear old fellow,” exclaimed Jack, stretching out his hand, “you—you understand; I cannot—I’m unable to give any.”

“Why?”

“Because it is impossible.”

“Do you love her?” asked Hugh fiercely.

“Love her!” the other echoed, with a short laugh. “I swear to you, upon my oath, I hate her! Have I not already long ago expressed my opinion?”

“Is that still unchanged?”

“Quite—intensified rather than moderated.”

“Well, perhaps I have been a trifle too hasty, Jack. It seems that you know much of her past. Tell me, what was the object of your interview?”

He was silent. Presently he said—

“Hugh, you are an old friend, and I wish I were at liberty to tell you, but I regret I am not. Request no explanation, and rest assured that Valérie and myself are not lovers, and, further, that we never were.”

“Are you aware that Valérie and my late brother were acquainted?” Trethowen asked suddenly.

“How did you discover that?” exclaimed the artist in astonishment.

“Then you appear to know that she was a friend of his,” remarked Hugh dryly.

“No; I—it’s the first I’ve heard of it. Who told you?”

“I want to know whether it’s a fact or not,” persisted his friend.

“I don’t know,” he replied sullenly.

“You mean, you positively refuse to tell me?”

“No; it is inability.”

The two men continued their conversation for a short time longer, then Hugh left and returned to his chambers, not, however, before the warm friendship which had previously existed between them had been resumed.

That evening Jacob handed his master a telegram from Valérie. She had evidently made a sudden resolve, and had lost no time in carrying it into effect, for the message read—

“As you appear to doubt my explanation I have decided to leave England for the present. If you desire to write, a letter to 46, Avenue de la Toison d’Or, Brussels, will always find me.”

With a prolonged whistle he sank into his chair, staring aimlessly at the indistinct words on the pink paper which he held between his fingers.

He was half inclined to believe he had misjudged her.