The Great Amulet Part 33

"Portraits so seldom _are_ like people. Haven't you noticed it?

That's why I generally prefer photographs. But your picture is different. There are only two things about it that don't _quite_ please me." She paused, eyeing the canvas with her head on one side; and Maurice, who was irresistibly reminded of a bird contemplating a worm, wondered idly what was coming in the way of criticism. "I wish you had allowed her to wear something _smarter_ than that limp white silk; and I think she looks much too unpractical, day-dreaming on a verandah railing at that hour of the morning! But then, Elsie _is_ rather unpractical; or would be," she added quickly, "if I didn't insist on her helping me with the house. That's where moat Anglo-Indian mothers make such a mistake. But _I_ always say it is a mother's duty to have _some_ consideration for her girl's future husband!"

And she smiled confidentially upon the aspirant at her side. But Maurice, absorbed in critical apprais.e.m.e.nt of his own skill in rendering the luminous quality of Elsie's eyes, missed the smile; missed also most of the interesting disquisition on her education.

"Yes, yes,--no doubt," he agreed with vague politeness, and Mrs Mayhew opened her round eyes.

But the direction of his gaze was excuse enough for any breach of manners; and she returned to the charge undismayed, approaching her subject this time from a less prosaic point of view.

"Really, Mr Maurice, I never knew till now that I _had_ such a pretty daughter! The whole effect is so charming, that I begin to think you must have flattered her!" she remarked archly; and Maurice fell headlong into the trap.

"Flattered her? _Mon Dieu_, no! Nature has taken care to make that impossible. For, although she falls short of true beauty, she has such delicacy of outline, of colouring, an atmosphere so ethereal, that one wants a brush of gossamer dipped in moonlight, not coa.r.s.e canvas, camel's hair, and oils, if one is even to do her justice. Some day I must try water-colours, or pastels. _Sans doute ca ira mieux_." He was off on his Pegasus now, far above Mrs Mayhew's bewildered head.

"She would make a divine Undine--moonlight, and overhanging trees. The face and figure dimly seen through a veil of water weeds.--But where is she, then?" he broke off, falling suddenly to earth like a rocket.

"May one see her this afternoon? I want to hear from herself that she is satisfied."

Mrs Mayhew smiled and nodded, a world of comprehension in her eyes.

"Yes, yes, I can quite believe _that_. I will tell her you are here.

She looked rather a wisp after the dance last night, so I sent her up to rest, for the sake of her complexion! But, of _course_, she must come down now. You will find her more entertaining than '_la pet.i.te mere_,' She has taken to calling me that lately!"

The complacent little lady took a step forward, then--a bubble with maternal satisfaction--spoke the word too much that is responsible for half the minor miseries of life.

"Do you know, Mr Maurice, it is quite charming of you to have shown me your feelings so openly, and I think the least that I can do is to a.s.sure you of my sympathy and approval. I don't feel _quite_ so certain about her father. He is wrapped up in the child, and man-like, wants to keep her for himself. But no doubt between us we shall persuade him to listen to reason! Now, I will go to Elsie."

But Michael made haste to interpose;--a changed Michael, puzzled to the verge of anger, yet punctiliously polite withal.

"One moment, Mrs Mayhew, please. It might be as well if you and I understood one another first. It seems that I have been clumsy in expressing myself, that I have given you a false impression. If so, I ask your pardon. Believe me, I fully sympathise with Colonel Mayhew's reluctance to part with such a daughter; and I am not arrogant enough to dream of asking him to make such a sacrifice,--on my behalf."

It was very neatly done. Michael's detached self, looking on at the little scene, applauded it as quite a masterpiece in its way. But Mrs Mayhew stood petrified. Her brain worked slowly, and it took her an appreciable time to realise that she had been something more than a fool. Then, drawing herself up to her full height--barely five feet in her heels,--she answered him with an attempt at hauteur that quite missed fire.

"Since you are so _considerate_ of Colonel Mayhew's feelings, I only wonder it has not occurred to you that your conduct during the past two months has been little short of dishonourable?"

"Dishonourable?" His eyes flashed. "_Mais comment_?"

"You have given every one in Dalhousie the impression that you were--in love with Miss Mayhew."

His relief was obvious.

"Naturally, my dear lady. For I _am_ in love with her. How could a man, and an artist, be anything else? But marriage--no----" He shook his head decisively. "That is another pair of sleeves. Women are adorable. But they are terrible monopolists; and, frankly, I have no talent for the domesticities. As a lover, I am well enough. But as a husband--believe me, in six months I should drive a woman distracted!

Ask Quita. She knows. If I have given Miss Mayhew cause to regret her kindness to me, I am inconsolable; though, in any case, I can never regret the privilege of having known, and--loved her."

Throughout this ingenious jumble of egoism and gallantry, his listener had been freezing visibly. On the last word she compressed her mouth to a mere line, and stabbed the unrepentant sinner with her eyes; since it was unhappily impossible to stab him with a hat-pin, which she would infinitely have preferred.

"I have never in my _life_ heard any man express such improper ideas upon a serious subject," she remarked with icy emphasis. "And I am _quite_ thankful that your peculiar views prevent you from wishing to marry my daughter."

"_Bien_! Then we are of one mind after all," Maurice answered cheerfully. "And since we understand each other, may I at least be permitted to see Miss Mayhew before I go?"

"See her? Certainly _not_. Really, Mr Maurice, your effrontery astounds me! Understand, please, that from to-day there is an _end_ of your free-and-easy French intimacies! Colonel Mayhew and I have to consider her good name and her future happiness; and we cannot allow you, or any man, to endanger either."

Michael shrugged his shoulders. His disappointment was keener than he cared to show; but this hopeless little woman, with her bourgeois point of view, was obviously blind and deaf to common-sense or reason.

"I would not for the world endanger Miss Mayhew's happiness, or her good name," he said, not without dignity. "And as one may not see her, there is no more to be said."

He held out his hand. But Mrs Mayhew's manners were not proof against so severe a shock to her maternal vanity. She bowed as if the gesture had escaped her notice.

"Good-bye, Mr Maurice," she said rigidly.

He returned her bow in silence, slipped the rejected hand into his pocket, and went out.

In pa.s.sing through the hall he was aware of a slim white figure coming down the broad staircase; and without an instant's hesitation he stood still. In spite of "the little she-dragon in there," he would see her yet. For the knowledge that he had lost her increased her value tenfold.

"You are really pleased with it--tell me?" he said eagerly as their hands met, for he saw the question in her eyes.

"Pleased? You know I am. It is _much_ too good of you to give me such a splendid present; and father is simply delighted. But why are you going away? I thought you would stay to tea."

He still held her hand, in defiance of a gentle attempt to withdraw it, and now he pressed it closer.

"Unhappily I must go," he said, without looking at her. "Your mother will tell you why, better than I can do. Good-bye---_pet.i.te amis_.

Think well of me, if you can."

He bent over her hand, kissed it lingeringly, and was gone before she could find words to express her bewilderment.

CHAPTER XVI.

"What we love we'll serve, aye, and suffer for too."

--W. Penn.

After sunset the mist came down again, thick as cotton-wool. Heaven and earth were obliterated, and a quietly determined downpour set in for the night.

Quita was still at her easel, trying bravely to disregard the collapse of her happy omen; Michael lounging in a cane chair, with Sh.e.l.ley and a cigarette. He had returned from Jundraghat in a mood of skin-deep nonchalance, beneath which irritation smouldered, and Quita's news had set the sparks flying. Behold him, therefore, doubly a martyr; ready, as always, to make capital out of his crown of thorns. A renewed pattering on the verandah slates roused him from the raptures of the Epipsychidion.

"Well, at least you can't think of going _now_," he said, flinging the book aside with a gesture of impatience. "That's one blessing, if the rest's a blank."

Quita, who was washing out her brushes, looked round quickly.

"I'm sorry to leave you alone in a bad mood, Michael; but I mean to go, whatever the weather chooses to say about it."

"_Parbleu_! But what has come to you, Quita? You are infatuated with that granite-natured Scotchman!"

"And if I am . . . I have every right to be."

Her gaze had returned to the vigorous outline on the easel, and her voice softened to an unconscious tenderness, peculiarly exasperating to a man in Michael's mixed frame of mind.

"_Naturellement_!" he answered with a shrug. "Being a woman, you have divine right to monopolise a man,--if the man is fool enough to submit to it. Nature is determined that you women shall not escape your real trade. That is why she takes care to make every one of you a bourgeois at heart. And all these years I have cherished the delusion that you, at least, were a genuine artist!"

"So I am. Every whit as much as yourself."