At the Gate of Samaria. William John Locke

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СКАЧАТЬ she raised her head after pinning the bandage she caught the expression of amusement on his face. He was quick to note the little shadow of resentment that passed over hers.

      “I was thinking what a mess I should have made of it by myself,” he said with a tact that surprised him. “Thank you very much.”

      “It was the least I could do,” replied Clytie. “I feel so guilty about it all—and your poor waterproof too.”

      “It's a very old one,” he replied good-humouredly, holding the garment out for inspection. “My friends will be delighted. They have threatened to cut me in the streets if they saw me in it again. So you see you have secured my friendship for me. And I shall get on much better with an umbrella to-night.”

      “But you're surely not going out to-night!” cried Clytie, moving to the window and shutting it, as if he were intending to escape through it. “It is pouring wet, and you would catch cold in your hand—it would get inflamed, or something dreadful. It is stupid of people not to take care of themselves. It's hurting fearfully, isn't it? Tell me.”

      She looked at him so frankly, her head thrown back a little, and spoke with such a faint touch of imperiousness in her voice, that Kent checked his impulse of retreat. “Of course it hurts. But I don't mind. If one minded all the little pains of this life, one would have no time for anything else. Besides, I am used to rough it a bit. It is my own choice, more or less, and I like it.”

      Clytie remembered the strange stories Mrs. Gurkins had told her about Kent's way of life. She had listened to them with idle interest, never imagining that Kent and herself would ever become acquainted. Now that he alluded to his habits she felt bound to confess her share in the gossip, which she did somewhat rebelliously, checking certain more timorous promptings of silence.

      “So you see I know all about you,” she said in conclusion. “When people are eccentric they become, as it were, public characters. Now if you were to talk to Mrs. Gurkins——”

      “Heavens forbid!” cried Kent with much warmth. “I was fleeing from her this afternoon when I nearly knocked you down.”

      “Why?” asked Clytie, laughing.

      “I don't know—instinct, I suppose. Perhaps I have been wrong. Otherwise I might have known something more of you. It's a bad compliment, I am aware, but I have been here a whole year and I have never seen or heard your name. Might I know whom I have had the pleasure of assisting? I did not in the least care before, but now it is different.”

      There was an honesty and directness in his voice that pleased Clytie. She felt glad he had asked her. There is a touch of susceptible vanity even in the most emancipated of women.

      “My name is Davenant, and I am by way of being an artist—that is to say, I gain my living by it.”

      Her eyes wandered unconsciously round the room hung with many of her half-finished sketches. Kent followed her glance, and then crossed to the wall and examined one or two of the pictures.

      “Are these yours?” he asked, turning round quickly.

      They were charcoal sketches of street scenes, direct and daring. Kent received Clytie's nod of assent, and glanced at the pictures and then at her again, as if trying to reconcile the two.

      “Is all your work of this kind?”

      “Mostly. Sometimes I draw it milder,” she added, with a smile, “when definite orders come in; but I feel more at home with this sort of thing.”

      Kent returned to the centre of the room, where he had been standing before.

      “I am not an artist myself,” he said, “but I have been brought up in an atmosphere of art and I love it. My father was Rupert Kent, painter-etcher; he did that little thing over your mantelpiece.”

      “Isn't it a perfect little piece of work?” said Clytie, looking round at it. “I am very fond of it.”

      “So was my father. Well, you see, I am not a Philistine in art matters, and when I say your work interests me I mean it. I should like to look at some more of it. Where is it to be found?”

      “You can come anytime to my studio if you like. It is my place of business, you know, and perhaps you may get me some orders. Art is terribly mercenary in these days.”

      “I want to see the things you do for yourself,” said Kent bluntly, ignoring the little hedge wherewith she had fenced her invitation. “It will be very kind of you to let me come.”

      Clytie held out her hand to him as he bade her goodnight and thanked him for his help.

      “And now that we know each other,” she said, “I hope—I hope you won't cut me on the stairs.”

      When he had gone Clytie looked ruefully at the damage that had been done. Her pretty inside curtains were destroyed; the heavy outer ones burned into great charred holes. The carpet and hearthrug were badly scorched, and the side of her writing-table warped and blistered. As she gazed at the wreck she went over the little scene in her mind. Why had she stood still, leaving the whole of the work to Kent? What must he have thought of her?

      If he had been any ordinary man of her acquaintance she would have been still angry with herself for her helplessness, and her anger would have reflected itself on him. But now she put the question to herself more through curiosity than irritation. There was a simplicity about the man that attracted her. His words had been blunt, almost rude sometimes, but his voice had been kind, his manner protective, straightforward. She had signally marked her approbation for him by asking him to visit her studio, a privilege she only accorded to a few tried and very sympathetic men friends. Kent interested her, and yet she had not the slightest desire to transfer her impression of him to canvas.

      The next morning she gave Winifred an account of the last evening's incidents, confessing her own impressions in her wilful, half-cynical way. Her friend listened meekly, wondering at her earnestness. The curtains had caught fire, a gentleman had come opportunely to her aid, had burned his hand, which she had tended in common courtesy. It was all so very natural. As for feeling humiliated at being helped by a man, what are women put in the world for except to yield and give way before men?

      But Winifred did not say this to Clytie.

CHAPTER V.

       Table of Contents

      John Kent, antiquarian, scientist, Bohemian, and assistant curator in the British Museum, dwelt in the attics, far above the limit of the stair carpet. By the time you had reached them you had lost all sound of the thoroughfare below, and even when you looked out of the windows all sense of locality was lost. Nothing could be seen but roofs and chimney-pots, except on very clear days, when, through an accidental vista of streets, the tops of the trees in Chelsea Hospital were dimly visible. But in Kent's rooms no one cared to look out of window. In the first place, it was difficult of access, and in the second, the extraordinary appearance of the apartment riveted one's attention entirely to things within.

      On the floor was neither carpet nor rug. The place of a fender was supplied by three large iron tripods, waifs from some dismantled chemical laboratory, which, when they were СКАЧАТЬ