"No, no, Harry. I"m not so silly. I"m not going to faint. Hush, here"s Julia."
For just then the door opened, and, looking very pale and wistful, the elder sister came into the room--smiling, though, as her eyes lit on the young couple; and as Artingale jumped up to greet her, there was something very loving and sisterly in the way in which she gazed in his face, and let him lead her to the couch upon which they had been sitting.
Here she inquired very anxiously after Mr Magnus, showing that she knew a good deal about the previous night"s affair; but Artingale noted her shudder and look of horror when her a.s.sailant was mentioned.
"That fellow must be stopped," said the young man, as he went thoughtfully away. "Poor girl! she seems thoroughly afraid of him. Oh, hang it all, it must--it shall be stopped, or he"ll drive the poor child mad."
PART ONE, CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.
IN THE DEN.
You had to pa.s.s through James Magnus"s studio to get to his sitting-room, and through the latter to get to his bed-room, and the task was not an easy one. Lord Artingale knew his way by heart, but a stranger would have been puzzled from the moment he entered the lobby or hall. For the place resembled a Wardour-street old curiosity shop more than the abode of a well-known artist. A woman with the b.u.mp of order thoroughly developed would, if she had been placed in charge, have immediately invested in a dozen dusters, a turk"s-head, and a feather brush, and gone to the attack, but only to sink down in utter despair.
Chaos seemed to have come back again at the abode of James Magnus, and modern nature and art to have joined hands to cover the aforesaid chaos with dust. For there was dust everywhere; thick, black, sooty dust of that peculiar kind that affects Fitzroy-square. It was never removed, save when a picture, chair, or "property" was taken from one part of the place to another, and the dust thus set floating, floated and settled upon something else. Certainly there was some kind of order in the sitting and bed-room, where the artists man attended, but it was mostly disorder.
"I hate having my things moved," said Magnus. "When I set to work, I like to be able to begin at once, and not have to hunt for everything I want."
"I think the place is just perfect," said Harry Artingale. "One can get plenty of tidiness everywhere else, Jemmy, and I like coming to the den to be a beast."
So to make matters more comfortable Artingale, at first out of fun, later on from habit, used to carefully place all his cigar ashes and ends wherever he could find a ledge--on the chimney-pieces, on the tops of upturned canvases, on the inner parts of their frames, and balance soda-water and beer or hock corks upon the properties.
You entered the lobby or hall to be confronted by dusty busts and casts, and you went thence into the studio to be confronted by more dusty busts and casts. There were life-sized plaster figures of plenty of well-known antiques mixed up with a heterogeneous collection of artistic odds and ends. There were canvases new and old, with charcoal drawings, sketches, and half-finished paintings, costumes of all kinds, savage weapons, arms and armour, easels from the simplest to the most modern with its screws, and racks and reflectors, and tubes for gas. Rich pieces of carpet partially covered the floor. On one side stood a large raised dais for sitters, and for non-sitters who wished to sit down there were quaint old carven chairs.
The value of the contents of that studio must have been great, for James Magnus earned a great deal of money, and never grudged spending it upon what he called necessaries for his art. Hence it was that handsome vases and specimens of bronze and bra.s.s work were plentiful, but they were stuck anywhere, and as often as not held empty or full paint tubes, or served as supports to great palettes covered with pigments of every hue.
The sitting-room was almost a repet.i.tion of the studio, but it was thickly carpeted, and contained more furniture, with easy-chairs, a dining-table of ma.s.sive oak, and had a free and easy, chaotic comfort about it that would make a bachelor feel quite at home.
The walls bore plenty of pictures, mostly from the brushes of brother artists, and these, with the great full folios, formed a most valuable collection.
It was here that Harry Artingale had taken most pains, as a very old friend and constant companion, to embellish the room with his cigar-ends. Here, too, he had at odd times shown his own love and reverence for art by improving some of the antique casts with whiskers and moustachios. There was a cast of Venus quite life-size, which, evidently for decorous reasons, he had dressed in a seventeenth-century brocade silk dress, from which she looked naively at a lay figure in Spanish costume and mantilla; while close by there was an Apollo Belvedere, half garbed in sixteenth-century armour, standing behind a large pair of jack boots that could not be put on.
There were, in fact, a hundred playful little relics of Lord Artingale"s diversions when in idle mood; one of the latest being the boring of a hole in a plaster Clytie"s lips, for the insertion of a cigar, and another the securing of a long clay pipe and a beer bock in the hands of a Diana, from which a bow and arrow had been removed.
"You see, he is sech a gent for his larks," said Burgess, a n.o.bly bearded, herculean, ungrammatical being, who looked big and bold enough to attack a Nemsean lion, or stride to an encounter in a Roman amphitheatre, but who had about as much spirit as a mouse.
Burgess was Magnus"s factotum, valet and houseman; and an excellent cook. He was not clever at cleaning, but the artist rather liked that, especially as he could admirably make a bed, and in addition was one of the n.o.blest-looking and most patient models in London.
But now Burgess was developing a fresh facet in his many-sided character, namely that of nurse; and he had shown a sleeplessness and watchful care that were beyond praise.
"How is he, my lord?" he said, as he opened the door to Artingale, some months after the occurrences in the last two chapters.
"Well, my lord--"
"Now look here, Burgess; haven"t I told you a dozen times over to say "sir" to me when I"m here?"
"Yes, sir, but these are serious times, and I only meant it out of respect."
"I know--of course, Burgess; but isn"t he better?"
"He says he is, sir; and the doctor--he"s only just this minute gone, sir."
"Yes, I know. I saw his brougham."
"The doctor says he"s better, sir, as he has for months; but he do keep so low, and," continued the man in a despairing tone, "it ain"t no matter what I cook or make up, or try to tempt him with, he don"t seem to pick a bit."
"Poor fellow!" muttered Artingale, handing his overcoat and hat to the man.
"I did think this morning that he was coming round, sir, for he has had his colours and a canvas on the bed, and I had to prop him up. I don"t know, sir, I--I--"
The great Hercules of a fellow"s voice changed, and he turned aside to hide the weak tears that gathered in his eyes, and began to trickle slowly down his cheeks, though they had not far to go before they were able to hide themselves in his beard.
"Oh, come, come, Burgess," cried Artingale, who felt touched at this display of affection on the part of servant towards master, "it isn"t so bad as that."
The man hastily threw the light overcoat upon a chair, and turned sharply round to catch the visitors arm, and gaze earnestly in his eyes.
"Do you--do you really think, sir, that poor master will get well?"
"Yes, yes, of course I do, Burgess. I feel sure of it, my dear fellow.
There, shake hands, Burgess. "Pon my soul I like you, I do indeed."
"And him a real true lord!" thought Burgess, as he gingerly held out a great hand, which the other shook.
"Get well? of course he will, if it"s only to help me break that scoundrel"s neck,--a blackguard!"
"I only wish I had my will of him, sir," cried Burgess, grinding his teeth; "I"d serve him out."
"Would you?" said Artingale, smiling. "What would you do?"
"I"d make him stand for the old man in the Laoc.o.o.n sixteen hours a day for stoodents. He wouldn"t want anything worse. But please go in gently, sir, and don"t wake master if he"s asleep."
"All right," was the reply; and the young man made his way carefully amongst the artistic lumber, and through the studio into the dining-room, at one corner of which was the artist"s chamber.
Artingale sighed as he went silently across the thick carpet, for that room was full of memories of numberless merry evenings, and as he paused for a moment beside his friend"s empty chair, a dull sense of pain oppressed him, and he found himself wondering whether he was not taking too sanguine a view of his old companion"s state.
"Poor old chap!" he said. "How nice it would be if that could come off.
Cynthy says it shall, and I don"t see why it shouldn"t. Let"s see; I"m to give him Cynthy"s love and this rosebud. She said he would be sure to find out that it was one that Julie had worn. I wonder whether old Mag does care for her; he"s such a close old oyster, and never did make up to women. Well, for the matter of that, no more did I till I met Cynthia--not much."
He went gently on to the door in the corner, and listened, but all was very still, and he paused for a few minutes in a state of hesitation, for which he could not account, and with one hand raised to open the door.
"He must be asleep," he said to himself.
"Poor old boy, only to think of it. One moment bright and happy and full of life, and the next moment a helpless ma.s.s, with hardly the strength to move. Well, poor fellow, Cynthy is right. If he does care for Julie he has just gone the way to find a tender spot in her heart."
He took hold of the handle and turned it, to find that Burgess had been so busy with a feather and the salad oil flask, that the door yielded without a sound, and he glided into the darkened room.
It was handsomely furnished, but its occupant"s profession could be seen at every turn, for the rich litter of the studio that had overflowed into the dining-room, had come in here, and covered walls and filled corners with artistic trifles.