Maisie put her chin in her hands and decided that there could be no doubt whatever of the villainy of ****. To justify herself, she began, unwomanly, to weigh the evidence. There was a boy, and he had said he loved her. And he kissed her,--kissed her on the cheek,--by a yellow sea-poppy that nodded its head exactly like the maddening dry rose in the garden. Then there was an interval, and men had told her that they loved her--just when she was busiest with her work. Then the boy came back, and at their very second meeting had told her that he loved her. Then he had---- But there was no end to the things he had done. He had given her his time and his powers. He had spoken to her of Art, housekeeping, technique, teacups, the abuse of pickles as a stimulant,--that was rude,--sable hair-brushes,--he had given her the best in her stock,--she used them daily; he had given her advice that she profited by, and now and again--a look. Such a look! The look of a beaten hound waiting for the word to crawl to his mistress's feet. In return she had given him nothing whatever, except--here she brushed her mouth against the open-work sleeve f her nightgown--the privilege of kissing her once. And on the mouth, too. Disgraceful! Was that not enough, and more than enough? and if it was not, had he not cancelled the debt by not writing and--probably kissing other girls?
'Maisie, you'll catch a chill. Do go and lie down,' said the wearied voice of her companion. 'I can't sleep a wink with you at the window.'
Maisie shrugged her shoulders and did not answer. She was reflecting on the meannesses of ****, and on other meannesses with which he had nothing to do. The moonlight would not let her sleep. It lay on the skylight of the studio across the road in cold silver; she stared at it intently and her thoughts began to slide one into the other. The shadow of the big bell-handle in the wall grew short, lengthened again, and faded out as the moon went down behind the pasture and a hare came limping home across the road. Then the dawn-wind washed through the upland grasses, and brought coolness with it, and the cattle lowed by the drought-shrunk river. Maisie's head fell forward on the window-sill, and the tangle of black hair covered her arms.
'Maisie, wake up. You'll catch a chill.'
'Yes, dear; yes, dear.' She staggered to her bed like a wearied child, and as she buried her face in the pillows she muttered, 'I think--I think. . . .
But he ought to have written.'
Day brought the routine of the studio, the smell of paint and turpentine, and the monotone wisdom of Kami, who was a leaden artist, but a golden teacher if the pupil were only in sympathy with him. Maisie was not in sympathy that day, and she waited impatiently for the end of the work.
She knew when it was coming; for Kami would gather his black alpaca coat into a bunch behind him, and, with faded flue eyes that saw neither pupils nor canvas, look back into the past to recall the history of one Binat. 'You have all done not so badly,' he would say. 'But you shall remember that it is not enough to have the method, and the art, and the power, nor even that which is touch, but you shall have also the conviction that nails the work to the wall. Of the so many I taught,'--here the students would begin to unfix drawing-pins or get their tubes together,--'the very so many that I have taught, the best was Binat. All that comes of the study and the work and the knowledge was to him even when he came. After he left me he should have done all that could be done with the colour, the form, and the knowledge. Only, he had not the conviction. So to-day I hear no more of Binat,--the best of my pupils,--and that is long ago. So to-day, too, you will be glad to hear no more of me. Continuez, mesdemoiselles, and, above all, with conviction.'
He went into the garden to smoke and mourn over the lost Binat as the pupils dispersed to their several cottages or loitered in the studio to make plans for the cool of the afternoon.
Maisie looked at her very unhappy Melancolia, restrained a desire to grimace before it, and was hurrying across the road to write a letter to ****, when she was aware of a large man on a white troop-horse. How Torpenhow had managed in the course of twenty hours to find his way to the hearts of the cavalry officers in quarters at Vitry-sur-Marne, to discuss with them the certainty of a glorious revenge for France, to reduce the colonel to tears of pure affability, and to borrow the best horse in the squadron for the journey to Kami's studio, is a mystery that only special correspondents can unravel.
'I beg your pardon,' said he. 'It seems an absurd question to ask, but the fact is that I don't know her by any other name: Is there any young lady here that is called Maisie?'
'I am Maisie,' was the answer from the depths of a great sun-hat.
'I ought to introduce myself,' he said, as the horse capered in the blinding white dust. 'My name is Torpenhow. **** Heldar is my best friend, and--and--the fact is that he has gone blind.'
'Blind!' said Maisie, stupidly. 'He can't be blind.'
'He has been stone-blind for nearly two months.'
Maisie lifted up her face, and it was pearly white. 'No! No! Not blind! Iwon't have him blind!'
'Would you care to see for yourself?' said Torpenhow.
'Now,--at once?'
'Oh, no! The Paris train doesn't go through this place till to-night. There will be ample time.'
'Did Mr. Heldar send you to me?'
'Certainly not. **** wouldn't do that sort of thing. He's sitting in his studio, turning over some letters that he can't read because he's blind.'
There was a sound of choking from the sun-hat. Maisie bowed her head and went into the cottage, where the red-haired girl was on a sofa, complaining of a headache.
'****'s blind!' said Maisie, taking her breath quickly as she steadied herself against a chair-back. 'My ****'s blind!'
'What?' The girl was on the sofa no longer.
'A man has come from England to tell me. He hasn't written to me for six weeks.'
'Are you going to him?'
'I must think.'
