"A pa.s.senger--missing?"
"A lady, sir. I think you knew her. Miss Mavis, sir."
"_Missing?_" I cried--staring at him, horror-stricken.
"She"s not on the ship. They can"t find her."
"Then where to G.o.d is she?"
I remember his queer face. "Well sir, I suppose you know that as well as I."
"Do you mean she has jumped overboard?"
"Some time in the night, sir--on the quiet. But it"s beyond every one, the way she escaped notice. They usually sees "em, sir. It must have been about half-past two. Lord, but she was clever, sir. She didn"t so much as make a splash. They say she _"ad_ come against her will, sir."
I had dropped upon my sofa--I felt faint. The man went on, liking to talk, as persons of his cla.s.s do when they have something horrible to tell. She usually rang for the stewardess early, but this morning of course there had been no ring. The stewardess had gone in all the same about eight o"clock and found the cabin empty. That was about an hour ago. Her things were there in confusion--the things she usually wore when she went above. The stewardess thought she had been rather strange last night, but she waited a little and then went back. Miss Mavis hadn"t turned up--and she didn"t turn up. The stewardess began to look for her--she hadn"t been seen on deck or in the saloon. Besides, she wasn"t dressed--not to show herself; all her clothes were in her room.
There was another lady, an old lady, Mrs. Nettlepoint--I would know her--that she was sometimes with, but the stewardess had been with _her_ and she knew Miss Mavis had not come near her that morning. She had spoken to _him_ and they had taken a quiet look--they had hunted everywhere. A ship"s a big place, but you do come to the end of it, and if a person ain"t there why they ain"t. In short an hour had pa.s.sed and the young lady was not accounted for: from which I might judge if she ever would be. The watch couldn"t account for her, but no doubt the fishes in the sea could--poor miserable lady! The stewardess and he, they had of course thought it their duty very soon to speak to the doctor, and the doctor had spoken immediately to the captain. The captain didn"t like it--they never did. But he would try to keep it quiet--they always did.
By the time I succeeded in pulling myself together and getting on, after a fashion, the rest of my clothes I had learned that Mrs. Nettlepoint had not yet been informed, unless the stewardess had broken it to her within the previous few minutes. Her son knew, the young gentleman on the other side of the ship (he had the other steward); my man had seen him come out of his cabin and rush above, just before he came in to me.
He _had_ gone above, my man was sure; he had not gone to the old lady"s cabin. I remember a queer vision when the steward told me this--the wild flash of a picture of Jasper Nettlepoint leaping with a mad compunction in his young agility over the side of the ship. I hasten to add that no such incident was destined to contribute its horror to poor Grace Mavis"s mysterious tragic act. What followed was miserable enough, but I can only glance at it. When I got to Mrs. Nettlepoint"s door she was there in her dressing-gown; the stewardess had just told her and she was rushing out to come to me. I made her go back--I said I would go for Jasper. I went for him but I missed him, partly no doubt because it was really, at first, the captain I was after. I found this personage and found him highly scandalised, but he gave me no hope that we were in error, and his displeasure, expressed with seamanlike plainness, was a definite settlement of the question. From the deck, where I merely turned round and looked, I saw the light of another summer day, the coast of Ireland green and near and the sea a more charming colour than it had been at all. When I came below again Jasper had pa.s.sed back; he had gone to his cabin and his mother had joined him there. He remained there till we reached Liverpool--I never saw him. His mother, after a little, at his request, left him alone. All the world went above to look at the land and chatter about our tragedy, but the poor lady spent the day, dismally enough, in her room. It seemed to me intolerably long; I was thinking so of vague Porterfield and of my prospect of having to face him on the morrow. Now of course I knew why she had asked me if I should recognise him; she had delegated to me mentally a certain pleasant office. I gave Mrs. Peck and Mrs. Gotch a wide berth--I couldn"t talk to them. I could, or at least I did a little, to Mrs.
Nettlepoint, but with too many reserves for comfort on either side, for I foresaw that it would not in the least do now to mention Jasper to her. I was obliged to a.s.sume by my silence that he had had nothing to do with what had happened; and of course I never really ascertained what he _had_ had to do. The secret of what pa.s.sed between him and the strange girl who would have sacrificed her marriage to him on so short an acquaintance remains shut up in his breast. His mother, I know, went to his door from time to time, but he refused her admission. That evening, to be human at a venture, I requested the steward to go in and ask him if he should care to see me, and the attendant returned with an answer which he candidly transmitted. "Not in the least!" Jasper apparently was almost as scandalised as the captain.
At Liverpool, at the dock, when we had touched, twenty people came on board and I had already made out Mr. Porterfield at a distance. He was looking up at the side of the great vessel with disappointment written (to my eyes) in his face--disappointment at not seeing the woman he loved lean over it and wave her handkerchief to him. Every one was looking at him, every one but she (his ident.i.ty flew about in a moment) and I wondered if he did not observe it. He used to be lean, he had grown almost fat. The interval between us diminished--he was on the plank and then on the deck with the jostling officers of the customs--all too soon for my equanimity. I met him instantly however, laid my hand on him and drew him away, though I perceived that he had no impression of having seen me before. It was not till afterwards that I thought this a little stupid of him. I drew him far away (I was conscious of Mrs. Peck and Mrs. Gotch looking at us as we pa.s.sed) into the empty, stale smoking-room; he remained speechless, and that struck me as like him. I had to speak first, he could not even relieve me by saying "Is anything the matter?" I told him first that she was ill. It was an odious moment.
THE LIAR
I
The train was half an hour late and the drive from the station longer than he had supposed, so that when he reached the house its inmates had dispersed to dress for dinner and he was conducted straight to his room.
The curtains were drawn in this asylum, the candles were lighted, the fire was bright, and when the servant had quickly put out his clothes the comfortable little place became suggestive--seemed to promise a pleasant house, a various party, talks, acquaintances, affinities, to say nothing of very good cheer. He was too occupied with his profession to pay many country visits, but he had heard people who had more time for them speak of establishments where "they do you very well." He foresaw that the proprietors of Stayes would do him very well. In his bedroom at a country house he always looked first at the books on the shelf and the prints on the walls; he considered that these things gave a sort of measure of the culture and even of the character of his hosts.
Though he had but little time to devote to them on this occasion a cursory inspection a.s.sured him that if the literature, as usual, was mainly American and humorous the art consisted neither of the water-colour studies of the children nor of "goody" engravings. The walls were adorned with old-fashioned lithographs, princ.i.p.ally portraits of country gentlemen with high collars and riding gloves: this suggested--and it was encouraging--that the tradition of portraiture was held in esteem. There was the customary novel of Mr. Le Fanu, for the bedside; the ideal reading in a country house for the hours after midnight. Oliver Lyon could scarcely forbear beginning it while he b.u.t.toned his shirt.
Perhaps that is why he not only found every one a.s.sembled in the hall when he went down, but perceived from the way the move to dinner was instantly made that they had been waiting for him. There was no delay, to introduce him to a lady, for he went out in a group of unmatched men, without this appendage. The men, straggling behind, sidled and edged as usual at the door of the dining-room, and the _denouement_ of this little comedy was that he came to his place last of all. This made him think that he was in a sufficiently distinguished company, for if he had been humiliated (which he was not), he could not have consoled himself with the reflection that such a fate was natural to an obscure, struggling young artist. He could no longer think of himself as very young, alas, and if his position was not so brilliant as it ought to be he could no longer justify it by calling it a struggle. He was something of a celebrity and he was apparently in a society of celebrities. This idea added to the curiosity with which he looked up and down the long table as he settled himself in his place.
It was a numerous party--five and twenty people; rather an odd occasion to have proposed to him, as he thought. He would not be surrounded by the quiet that ministers to good work; however, it had never interfered with his work to see the spectacle of human life before him in the intervals. And though he did not know it, it was never quiet at Stayes.
When he was working well he found himself in that happy state--the happiest of all for an artist--in which things in general contribute to the particular idea and fall in with it, help it on and justify it, so that he feels for the hour as if nothing in the world can happen to him, even if it come in the guise of disaster or suffering, that will not be an enhancement of his subject. Moreover there was an exhilaration (he had felt it before) in the rapid change of scene--the jump, in the dusk of the afternoon, from foggy London and his familiar studio to a centre of festivity in the middle of Hertfordshire and a drama half acted, a drama of pretty women and noted men and wonderful orchids in silver jars. He observed as a not unimportant fact that one of the pretty women was beside him: a gentleman sat on his other hand. But he went into his neighbours little as yet: he was busy looking out for Sir David, whom he had never seen and about whom he naturally was curious.
Evidently, however, Sir David was not at dinner, a circ.u.mstance sufficiently explained by the other circ.u.mstance which const.i.tuted our friend"s princ.i.p.al knowledge of him--his being ninety years of age.
Oliver Lyon had looked forward with great pleasure to the chance of painting a nonagenarian, and though the old man"s absence from table was something of a disappointment (it was an opportunity the less to observe him before going to work), it seemed a sign that he was rather a sacred and perhaps therefore an impressive relic. Lyon looked at his son with the greater interest--wondered whether the glazed bloom of his cheek had been transmitted from Sir David. That would be jolly to paint, in the old man--the withered ruddiness of a winter apple, especially if the eye were still alive and the white hair carried out the frosty look.
Arthur Ashmore"s hair had a midsummer glow, but Lyon was glad his commission had been to delineate the father rather than the son, in spite of his never having seen the one and of the other being seated there before him now in the happy expansion of liberal hospitality.
Arthur Ashmore was a fresh-coloured, thick-necked English gentleman, but he was just not a subject; he might have been a farmer and he might have been a banker: you could scarcely paint him in characters. His wife did not make up the amount; she was a large, bright, negative woman, who had the same air as her husband of being somehow tremendously new; a sort of appearance of fresh varnish (Lyon could scarcely tell whether it came from her complexion or from her clothes), so that one felt she ought to sit in a gilt frame, suggesting reference to a catalogue or a price-list. It was as if she were already rather a bad though expensive portrait, knocked off by an eminent hand, and Lyon had no wish to copy that work. The pretty woman on his right was engaged with her neighbour and the gentleman on his other side looked shrinking and scared, so that he had time to lose himself in his favourite diversion of watching face after face. This amus.e.m.e.nt gave him the greatest pleasure he knew, and he often thought it a mercy that the human mask did interest him and that it was not less vivid than it was (sometimes it ran its success in this line very close), since he was to make his living by reproducing it. Even if Arthur Ashmore would not be inspiring to paint (a certain anxiety rose in him lest if he should make a hit with her father-in-law Mrs. Arthur should take it into her head that he had now proved himself worthy to _aborder_ her husband); even if he had looked a little less like a page (fine as to print and margin) without punctuation, he would still be a refreshing, iridescent surface. But the gentleman four persons off--what was he? Would he be a subject, or was his face only the legible door-plate of his ident.i.ty, burnished with punctual washing and shaving--the least thing that was decent that you would know him by?
This face arrested Oliver Lyon: it struck him at first as very handsome.
The gentleman might still be called young, and his features were regular: he had a plentiful, fair moustache that curled up at the ends, a brilliant, gallant, almost adventurous air, and a big shining breastpin in the middle of his shirt. He appeared a fine satisfied soul, and Lyon perceived that wherever he rested his friendly eye there fell an influence as pleasant as the September sun--as if he could make grapes and pears or even human affection ripen by looking at them. What was odd in him was a certain mixture of the correct and the extravagant: as if he were an adventurer imitating a gentleman with rare perfection or a gentleman who had taken a fancy to go about with hidden arms. He might have been a dethroned prince or the war-correspondent of a newspaper: he represented both enterprise and tradition, good manners and bad taste. Lyon at length fell into conversation with the lady beside him--they dispensed, as he had had to dispense at dinner-parties before, with an introduction--by asking who this personage might be.
"Oh, he"s Colonel Capadose, don"t you know?" Lyon didn"t know and he asked for further information. His neighbour had a sociable manner and evidently was accustomed to quick transitions; she turned from her other interlocutor with a methodical air, as a good cook lifts the cover of the next saucepan. "He has been a great deal in India--isn"t he rather celebrated?" she inquired. Lyon confessed he had never heard of him, and she went on, "Well, perhaps he isn"t; but he says he is, and if you think it, that"s just the same, isn"t it?"
"If _you_ think it?"
"I mean if he thinks it--that"s just as good, I suppose."
"Do you mean that he says that which is not?"
"Oh dear, no--because I never know. He is exceedingly clever and amusing--quite the cleverest person in the house, unless indeed you are more so. But that I can"t tell yet, can I? I only know about the people I know; I think that"s celebrity enough!"
"Enough for them?"
"Oh, I see you"re clever. Enough for me! But I have heard of you," the lady went on. "I know your pictures; I admire them. But I don"t think you look like them."
"They are mostly portraits," Lyon said; "and what I usually try for is not my own resemblance."
"I see what you mean. But they have much more colour. And now you are going to do some one here?"
"I have been invited to do Sir David. I"m rather disappointed at not seeing him this evening."
"Oh, he goes to bed at some unnatural hour--eight o"clock or something of that sort. You know he"s rather an old mummy."
"An old mummy?" Oliver Lyon repeated.
"I mean he wears half a dozen waistcoats, and that sort of thing. He"s always cold."
"I have never seen him and never seen any portrait or photograph of him," Lyon said. "I"m surprised at his never having had anything done--at their waiting all these years."
"Ah, that"s because he was afraid, you know; it was a kind of superst.i.tion. He was sure that if anything were done he would die directly afterwards. He has only consented to-day."
"He"s ready to die then?"
"Oh, now he"s so old he doesn"t care."
"Well, I hope I shan"t kill him," said Lyon. "It was rather unnatural in his son to send for me."
"Oh, they have nothing to gain--everything is theirs already!" his companion rejoined, as if she took this speech quite literally. Her talkativeness was systematic--she fraternised as seriously as she might have played whist. "They do as they like--they fill the house with people--they have _carte blanche_."
"I see--but there"s still the t.i.tle."
"Yes, but what is it?"
Our artist broke into laughter at this, whereat his companion stared.
Before he had recovered himself she was scouring the plain with her other neighbour. The gentleman on his left at last risked an observation, and they had some fragmentary talk. This personage played his part with difficulty: he uttered a remark as a lady fires a pistol, looking the other way. To catch the ball Lyon had to bend his ear, and this movement led to his observing a handsome creature who was seated on the same side, beyond his interlocutor. Her profile was presented to him and at first he was only struck with its beauty; then it produced an impression still more agreeable--a sense of undimmed remembrance and intimate a.s.sociation. He had not recognised her on the instant only because he had so little expected to see her there; he had not seen her anywhere for so long, and no news of her ever came to him. She was often in his thoughts, but she had pa.s.sed out of his life. He thought of her twice a week; that may be called often in relation to a person one has not seen for twelve years. The moment after he recognised her he felt how true it was that it was only she who could look like that: of the most charming head in the world (and this lady had it) there could never be a replica. She was leaning forward a little; she remained in profile, apparently listening to some one on the other side of her. She was listening, but she was also looking, and after a moment Lyon followed the direction of her eyes. They rested upon the gentleman who had been described to him as Colonel Capadose--rested, as it appeared to him, with a kind of habitual, visible complacency. This was not strange, for the Colonel was unmistakably formed to attract the sympathetic gaze of woman; but Lyon was slightly disappointed that she could let _him_ look at her so long without giving him a glance. There was nothing between them to-day and he had no rights, but she must have known he was coming (it was of course not such a tremendous event, but she could not have been staying in the house without hearing of it), and it was not natural that that should absolutely fail to affect her.