by Fergus Hume
CHAPTER II.
IN THE WOOD.
Miss Greeby swung along towards her destination with a masculine strideand in as great a hurry as though she had entered herself for a Marathonrace. It was a warm, misty day, and the pale August sunshine radiatedfaintly through the smoky atmosphere. Nothing was clear-cut and nothingwas distinct, so hazy was the outlook. The hedges were losing theirgreenery and had blossomed forth into myriad bunches of ruddy hips andhaws, and the usually hard road was soft underfoot because of thepenetrating quality of the moist air. There was no wind to clear awaythe misty greyness, but yellow leaves without its aid dropped from thedisconsolate trees. The lately-reaped fields, stretching on either sideof the lane down which the lady was walking, presented a stubbledexpanse of brown and dim gold, uneven and distressful to the eye. Thedying world was in ruins and Nature had reduced herself to thatnecessary chaos, out of which, when the coming snow completed its task,she would build a new heaven and a new earth.
An artist might have had some such poetic fancy, and would certainlyhave looked lovingly on the alluring colors and forms of decay. But MissGreeby was no artist, and prided herself upon being an aggressivelymatter-of-fact young woman. With her big boots slapping the ground andher big hands thrust into the pockets of her mannish jacket, she benther head in a meditative fashion and trudged briskly onward. Whatromance her hard nature was capable of, was uppermost now, but ithad to do strictly with her personal feelings and did not require thepicturesque autumn landscape to improve or help it in any way. One man'sname suggested romance to bluff, breezy Clara Greeby, and that name wasNoel Lambert. She murmured it over and over again to her heart, and herhard face flushed into something almost like beauty, as she rememberedthat she would soon behold its owner. "But he won't care," she saidaloud, and threw back her head defiantly: then after a pause, shebreathed softly, "But I shall make him care."
If she hoped to do so, the task was one which required a great amount ofskill and a greater amount of womanly courage, neither of whichqualities Miss Greeby possessed. She had no skill in managing a man, asher instincts were insufficiently feminine, and her courage was of apurely rough-and-tumble kind. She could have endured hunger and thirstand cold: she could have headed a forlorn hope: she could have held to asinking ship: but she had no store of that peculiar feminine couragewhich men don't understand and which women can't explain, however muchthey may exhibit it. Miss Greeby was an excellent comrade, but could notbe the beloved of any man, because of the very limitations ofsemi-masculinity upon which she prided herself. Noel Lambert wanted awomanly woman, and Lady Agnes was his ideal of what a wife should be.Miss Greeby had in every possible way offered herself for the post, butLambert had never cared for her sufficiently to endure the thought ofpassing through life with her beside him. He said she was "a good sort";and when a man says that of a woman, she may be to him a good friend, oreven a platonic chum, but she can never be a desirable wife in his eyes.What Miss Greeby lacked was sex, and lacking that, lacked everything. Itwas strange that with her rough common sense she could not grasp thiswant. But the thought that Lambert required what she could nevergive--namely, the feminine tenderness which strong masculine natureslove--never crossed her very clear and mathematical mind.
So she was bent upon a fool's errand, as she strode towards the Abbot'sWood, although she did not know it. Her aim was to capture Lambert asher husband; and her plan, to accomplish her wish by working on theheart-hunger he most probably felt, owing to the loss of Agnes Pine. Ifhe loved that lady in a chivalrous fashion--and Miss Greeby believedthat he did--she was absolutely lost to him as the wife of another man.Lambert would never degrade her into a divorce court appearance. Andperhaps, after all, as Miss Greeby thought hopefully, his love for SirHubert's wife might have turned to scorn that she had preferred money totrue love. But then, again, as Miss Greeby remembered, with a darkeningface, Agnes had married the millionaire so as to save the family estatesfrom being sold. Rank has its obligation, and Lambert might approve ofthe sacrifice, since he was the next heir to the Garvington title. "Weshall see what his attitude is," decided Miss Greeby, as she entered theAbbot's Wood, and delayed arranging her future plans until she fullyunderstood his feelings towards the woman he had lost. In the meantime,Lambert would want a comrade, and Miss Greeby was prepared to sink herromantic feelings, for the time being, in order to be one.
The forest--which belonged to Garvington, so long as he paid theinterest on the mortgage--was not a very large one. In the old days ithad been of greater size and well stocked with wild animals; so wellstocked, indeed, that the abbots of a near monastery had used it formany hundred years as a hunting ground. But the monastery had vanishedoff the face of the earth, as not even its ruins were left, and the gamehad disappeared as the forest grew smaller and the district aroundbecame more populous. A Lambert of the Georgian period--the family nameof Lord Garvington was Lambert--had acquired what was left of themonastic wood by winning it at a game of cards from the nobleman who hadthen owned it. Now it was simply a large patch of green in the middle ofa somewhat naked county, for Hengishire is not remarkable for woodlands.There were rabbits and birds, badgers, stoats, and such-like wild thingsin it still, but the deer which the abbots had hunted were conspicuousby their absence. Garvington looked after it about as much as he didafter the rest of his estates, which was not saying much. The fat, roundlittle lord's heart was always in the kitchen, and he preferred eatingto fulfilling his duties as a landlord. Consequently, the Abbot's Woodwas more or less public property, save when Garvington turned crusty andevery now and then cleared out all interlopers. But tramps came to sleepin the wood, and gypsies camped in its glades, while summer time broughtmany artists to rave about its sylvan beauties, and paint pictures ofancient trees and silent pools, and rugged lawns besprinkled withrainbow wild flowers. People who went to the Academy and to the variousart exhibitions in Bond Street knew the Abbot's Wood fairly well, as itwas rarely that at least one picture dealing with it did not appear.
Miss Greeby had explored the wood before and knew exactly where to findthe cottage mentioned by Lady Garvington. On the verge of the trees shesaw the blue smoke of the gypsies' camp fires, and heard the vaguemurmur of Romany voices, but, avoiding the vagrants, she took her waythrough the forest by a winding path. This ultimately led her to aspacious glade, in the centre of which stood a dozen or more roughmonoliths of mossy gray and weather-worn stones, disposed in a circle.Probably these were all that remained of some Druidical temple, andarchaeologists came from far and near to view the weird relics. And inthe middle of the circle stood the cottage: a thatched dwelling, whichmight have had to do with a fairy tale, with its whitewashed wallscovered with ivy, and its latticed windows, on the ledges of which stoodpots of homely flowers. There was no fence round this rustic dwelling,as the monoliths stood as guardians, and the space between the cottagewalls and the gigantic stones was planted thickly with fragrant Englishflowers. Snapdragon, sweet-william, marigolds, and scented clovecarnations, were all to be found there: also there was thyme, mint,sage, and other pot-herbs. And the whole perfumed space was girdled bytrees old and young, which stood back from the emerald beauty ofuntrimmed lawns. A more ideal spot for a dreamer, or an artist, or ahermit, or for the straying prince of a fairy tale, it would have beenquite impossible to find. Miss Greeby's vigorous and coarse personalityseemed to break in a noisy manner--although she did not utter a singleword--the enchanted silence of the solitary place.
However, the intruder was too matter-of-fact to trouble about thesequestered liveliness of this unique dwelling. She strode across thelawns, and passing beyond the monoliths, marched like an invader up thenarrow path between the radiant flower-beds. From the tiny green doorshe raised the burnished knocker and brought it down with an emphaticbang. Shortly the door opened with a pettish tug, as though the personbehind was rather annoyed by the noise, and a very tall, well-built,slim young man made his appearance on the threshold. He held a paletteon the thumb of one hand, and c
lutched a sheaf of brushes, while anotherbrush was in his mouth, and luckily impeded a rather rough welcome. Thelook in a pair of keen blue eyes certainly seemed to resent theintrusion, but at the sight of Miss Greeby this irritability changed toa glance of suspicion. Lambert, from old associations, liked his visitorvery well on the whole, but that feminine intuition, which all creativenatures possess, warned him that it was wise to keep her at arm'slength. She had never plainly told her love; but she had assuredlyhinted at it more or less by eye and manner and undue hauntings of hisfootsteps when in London. He could not truthfully tell himself that hewas glad of her unexpected visit. For quite half a minute they stoodstaring at one another, and Miss Greeby's hard cheeks flamed to a poppyred at the sight of the man she loved.
"Well, Hermit." she observed, when he made no remark. "As the mountainwould not come to Mahomet, the prophet has come to the mountain."
"The mountain is welcome," said Lambert diplomatically, and stoodaside, so that she might enter. Then adopting the bluff and breezy,rough-and-ready-man-to-man attitude, which Miss Greeby liked to see inher friends, he added: "Come in, old girl! It's a pal come to see a pal,isn't it?"
"Rather," assented Miss Greeby, although, woman-like, she was notentirely pleased with this unromantic welcome. "We played as bratstogether, didn't we?
"Yes," she added meditatively, when following Lambert into his studio,"I think we are as chummy as a man and woman well can be."
"True enough. You were always a good sort, Clara. How well you arelooking--more of a man than ever."
"Oh, stop that!" said Miss Greeby roughly.
"Why?" Lambert raised his eyebrows. "As a girl you always liked to bethought manly, and said again and again that you wished you were a boy."
"I find that I am a woman, after all," sighed the visitor, dropping intoa chair and looking round; "with a woman's feelings, too."
"And very nice those feelings are, since they have influenced you to payme a visit in the wilds," remarked the artist imperturbably.
"What are you doing in the wilds?"
"Painting," was the laconic retort.
"So I see. Still-life pictures?"
"Not exactly." He pointed toward the easel. "Behold and approve."
Miss Greeby did behold, but she certainly did not approve, because shewas a woman and in love. It was only a pictured head she saw, but thehead was that of a very beautiful girl, whose face smiled from thecanvas in a subtle, defiant way, as if aware of its wild loveliness. Theraven hair streamed straightly down to the shoulders--for the bust ofthe model was slightly indicated--and there, bunched out into curls. Ared and yellow handkerchief was knotted round the brows, and danglingsequins added to its barbaric appearance. Nose and lips and eyes, andcontours, were all perfect, and it really seemed as though the face wereidealized, so absolutely did it respond to all canons of beauty. It wasa gypsy countenance, and there lurked in its loveliness that wild,untamed look which suggested unrestricted roamings and the spaciousfreedom of the road.
The sudden, jealous fear which surged into Miss Greeby's heart climbedto her throat and choked her speech. But she had wisdom enough to checkunwise words, and glanced round the studio to recover her composure. Theroom was small and barely furnished; a couch, two deep arm-chairs, and asmall table filled its limited area. The walls and roof were painted apale green, and a carpet of the same delicate hue covered the floor. Ofcourse, there were the usual painting materials, brushes and easel andpalettes and tubes of color, together with a slightly raised platformnear the one window where the model could sit or stand. The windowitself had no curtains and was filled with plain glass, affording plentyof light.
"The other windows of the cottage are latticed," said Lambert, seeinghis visitor's eyes wander in that direction. "I had that glass put inwhen I came here a month ago. No light can filter through lattices--insufficient quantity that is--to see the true tones of the colors."
"Oh, bother the window!" muttered Miss Greeby restlessly, for she hadnot yet gained command of her emotions.
Lambert laughed and looked at his picture with his head on one side, anda very handsome head it was, as Miss Greeby thought. "It bothered meuntil I had it put right, I assure you. But you don't seem pleased withmy crib."
"It's not good enough for you."
"Since when have I been a sybarite, Clara?"
"I mean you ought to think of your position."
"It's too unpleasant to think about," rejoined Lambert, throwing himselfon the couch and producing his pipe. "May I smoke?"
"Yes, and if you have any decent cigarettes I'll join you. Thanks!" Shedeftly caught the silver case he threw her. "But your position?"
"Five hundred a year and no occupation, since I have been brought up toneither trade nor profession," said Lambert leisurely. "Well?"
"You are the heir to a title and to a large property."
"Which is heavily mortgaged. As to the title"--Lambert shrugged hisshoulders--"Garvington's wife may have children."
"I don't think so. They have been married ten years and more. You arecertain to come in for everything."
"Everything consists of nothing," said the artist coolly.
"Well," drawled Miss Greeby, puffing luxuriously at her cigarette, whichwas Turkish and soothing, "nothing may turn into something when thesemortgages are cleared off."
"Who is going to clear them off?"
"Sir Hubert Pine."
Lambert's brows contracted, as she knew they would when this name wasmentioned, and he carefully attended to filling his pipe so as to avoidmeeting her hard, inquisitive eyes. "Pine is a man of business, and ifhe pays off the mortgages he will take over the property as security. Idon't see that Garvington will be any the better off in that case."
"Lambert," said Miss Greeby very decidedly, and determined to knowprecisely what he felt like, "Garvington only allowed his sister tomarry Sir Hubert because he was rich. I don't know for certain, ofcourse, but I should think it probable that he made an arrangement withPine to have things put straight because of the marriage."
"Possible and probable," said the artist shortly, and wincing; "but oldfriend as you are, Clara, I don't see the necessity of talking aboutbusiness which does not concern me. Speak to Garvington."
"Agnes concerns you."
"How objectionably direct you are," exclaimed Lambert in a vexed tone."And how utterly wrong. Agnes does not concern me in the least. I lovedher, but as she chose to marry Pine, why there's no more to be said."
"If there was nothing more to be said," observed Miss Greeby shrewdly,"you would not be burying yourself here."
"Why not? I am fond of nature and art, and my income is not enough topermit my living decently in London. I had to leave the army because Iwas so poor. Garvington has given me this cottage rent free, so I'mjolly enough with my painting and with Mrs. Tribb as housekeeper andcook. She's a perfect dream of a cook," ended Lambert thoughtfully.
Miss Greeby shook her red head. "You can't deceive me."
"Who wants to, anyhow?" demanded the man, unconsciously American.
"You do. You wish to make out that you prefer to camp here instead ofadmitting that you would like to be at The Manor because Agnes--"
Lambert jumped up crossly. "Oh, leave Agnes out of the question. She isPine's wife, so that settles things. It's no use crying for the moon,and--"
"Then you still wish for the moon," interpolated the woman quickly.
"Not even you have the right to ask me such a question," replied Lambertin a quiet and decisive tone. "Let us change the subject."
Miss Greeby pointed to the beautiful face smiling on the easel. "Iadvise you to," she said significantly.
"You seem to have come here to give me good advice."
"Which you won't take," she retorted.
"Because it isn't needed."
"A man's a man and a woman's a woman."
"That's as true as taxes, as Mr. Barkis observed, if you are acquaintedwith the writings of the late Charles Dickens. We
ll?"
Again Miss Greeby pointed to the picture. "She's very pretty."
"I shouldn't have painted her otherwise."
"Oh, then the original of that portrait does exist?"
"Could you call it a portrait if an original didn't exist?" demandedthe young man tartly. "Since you want to know so much, you may as wellcome to the gypsy encampment on the verge of the wood and satisfyyourself." He threw on a Panama hat, with a cross look. "Since when haveyou come to the conclusion that I need a dry nurse?"
"Oh, don't talk bosh!" said Miss Greeby vigorously, and springing to herfeet. "You take me at the foot of the letter and too seriously. I onlycame here to see how my old pal was getting on."
"I'm all right and as jolly as a sandboy. Now are you satisfied?"
"Quite. Only don't fall in love with the original of your portrait."
"It's rather late in the day to warn me," said Lambert dryly, "for Ihave known the girl for six months. I met her in a gypsy caravan when ona walking tour, and offered to paint her. She is down here with herpeople, and you can see her whenever you have a mind to."
"There's no time like the present," said Miss Greeby, accepting theoffer with alacrity. "Come along, old boy." Then, when they stepped outof the cottage garden on to the lawns, she asked pointedly, "What is hername?"
"Chaldea."
"Nonsense. That is the name of the country."
"I never denied that, my dear girl. But Chaldea was born in the countrywhence she takes her name. Down Mesopotamia way, I believe. Thesegypsies wander far and wide, you know. She's very pretty, and has thetemper of the foul fiend himself. Only Kara can keep her in order."
"Who is Kara?"
"A Servian gypsy who plays the fiddle like an angel. He's acrooked-backed, black-faced, hairy ape of a dwarf, but highly popular onaccount of his music. Also, he's crazy about Chaldea, and loves her todistraction."
"Does she love him?" Miss Greeby asked in her direct fashion.
"No," replied Lambert, coloring under his tan, and closed his lipsfirmly. He was a very presentable figure of a man, as he walked besidethe unusually tall woman. His face was undeniably handsome in a fairSaxon fashion, and his eyes were as blue as those of Miss Greebyherself, while his complexion was much more delicate. In fact, sheconsidered that it was much too good a complexion for one of the malesex, but admitted inwardly that its possessor was anything buteffeminate, when he had such a heavy jaw, such a firm chin, and such setlips. Lambert, indeed, at first sight did indeed look so amiable, as toappear for the moment quite weak; but danger always stiffened him into adangerous adversary, and his face when aroused was most unpleasantlyfierce. He walked with a military swing, his shoulders well set back andhis head crested like that of a striking serpent. A rough and warlikelife would have brought out his best points of endurance, capability toplan and strike quickly, and iron decision; but the want of opportunityand the enervating influences of civilized existence, made him a man ofpossibilities. When time, and place, and chance offered he could act thehero with the best; but lacking these things he remained innocuous likegunpowder which has no spark to fire it.
Thinking of these things, Miss Greeby abandoned the subject of Chaldea,and of her possible love for Lambert, and exclaimed impulsively, "Whydon't you chuck civilization and strike the out-trail?"
"Why should I?" he asked, unmoved, and rather surprised by the change ofthe subject. "I'm quite comfortable here."
"Too comfortable," she retorted with emphasis. "This loafing life ofjust-enough-to-live-on doesn't give you a chance to play the man. Go outand fight and colonize and prove your qualities."
Lambert's color rose again, and his eyes sparkled. "I would if thechance--"
"Ah, bah, Hercules and Omphale!" interrupted his companion.
"What do you mean?"
"Never mind," retorted Miss Greeby, who guessed that he knew what shemeant very well. His quick flush showed her how he resented thisclassical allusion to Agnes Pine. "You'd carry her off if you were aman."
"Chaldea?" asked Lambert, wilfully misunderstanding her meaning.
"If you like. Only don't try to carry her off at night. Garvington sayshe will shoot any burglar who comes along after dark."
"I never knew Garvington had anything to do with Chaldea."
"Neither did I. Oh, I think you know very well what I mean."
"Perhaps I do," said the young man with an angry shrug, for really herinterference with his affairs seemed to be quite unjustifiable. "But Iam not going to bring a woman I respect into the Divorce Court."
"Respect? Love, you mean to say."
Lambert stopped, and faced her squarely. "I don't wish to quarrel withyou, Clara, as we are very old friends. But I warn you that I do possessa temper, and if you wish to see it, you are going the best way to getwhat you evidently want. Now, hold your tongue and talk of somethingelse. Here is Chaldea."
"Watching for you," muttered Miss Greeby, as the slight figure of thegypsy girl was seen advancing swiftly. "Ha!" and she snortedsuspiciously.
"Rye!" cried Chaldea, dancing toward the artist. "Sarishan rye."
Miss Greeby didn't understand Romany, but the look in the girl's eyeswas enough to reveal the truth. If Lambert did not love his beautifulmodel, it was perfectly plain that the beautiful model loved Lambert.
"O baro duvel atch' pa leste!" said Chaldea, and clapped her slim hands.
