Читать книгу A Princess in Tatters - Elsie Jeanette Dunkerley - Страница 3

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The silence of hard work filled the studio. The painter stood at his easel putting finishing touches to a portrait. From time to time he glanced at the child sitting stiffly in an arm-chair, and frowned or nodded as he critically scanned his work.

She was very young, so he could not expect a long sitting, and had to make the most of his opportunity. A dainty little maiden, with fair hair, pink cheeks, and a little round face, she made a pretty picture, and he had produced an excellent likeness. Clad all in white, silk and lace and frills, with a big hat and tiny white shoes, Miss Iris Munro, though only thirteen months old, already accepted admiration from every one as her rightful due.

Her French maid, Lucienne, sat close by, ready to coax her back to good humour if she should grow restless. She sat by the window, looking down on the crowded main road, and watching its hurrying crowds, its cabs, carriages, and carts, and the endless procession of bicycles and buses. But Lucienne had brought Iris there several times while the picture was in progress, and had soon made friends with the painter, and when Lucienne was among friends she was never silent very long.

For a time she respected Mr. Raby’s request for peace while he was working, but it was tiresome to sit there silent when there was so much to be said. For a while she conversed in French with a black Pomeranian, who sat by her on the window-sill. But Sambo’s replies were difficult of translation, and referred chiefly to other dogs down in the street, or errand boys with baskets. Lucienne was interested in even more exciting matters, and at last her patience came to an end. She tripped across the room to look at the painting, by way of opening the conversation.

“Oh, but it is sharming—de-lightful! It is perfect! It could not be better—eh, Monsieur? Madame will surely be enraptured when she comes.”

“It’s not Madame’s way to be enraptured over anything,” Raby remarked. “But I must say I think it’s pretty good myself. I can’t do much more to it. Suppose we give her a rest. Have a sponge-cake, Iris. You really are very good for a kiddie.”

Iris accepted a cake graciously, and proceeded to scatter crumbs over her dainty frock, while Lucienne turned eagerly to Raby.

“And ze wedding to-morrow, Monsieur? Is all complete—ready? Has Miss Rosamond received any more most sharming presents? Ah, she is fortunate, truly! Ze ornaments!—ze jewels!—ze exquisite china!—Ah, it is well for a bride when she has such friends.”

“She’s had some very pretty things, certainly. People have been very good to her.”

“Madame she said to me, ‘You will take Miss Iris round to see Miss Raby, Lucienne, and she will show her ze presents her sister has received.’ Zey are most sharming—de-lightful!”

Raby laughed. “Much Iris cares about the presents! But Isabel has been taking quite a sisterly interest in Rosamond’s wedding. Ah! Some one at the door downstairs!” as the Pomeranian rushed across the room, barking excitedly. “Perhaps it’s Isabel herself. She said she’d be round to-day to see the picture. And I expect Rosamond and Captain Archie to look in during the afternoon.”

“Ze bride and bridegroom? Ah, zat is sharming—de-lightful! Zen we shall see zem once again.”

“Ah!” said Raby. “It’s neither. It’s Mollie. Good old girl! I knew she wouldn’t fail me. Well, my dear! Tired out?”

“Well, you see, I never managed a wedding before,” Mollie said smiling, as she drew off her gloves. “And of course Rosamond’s far too excited for anything.”

“I hope, for the Captain’s sake, she’ll sober down a little once they’re fairly off to-morrow.”

“Oh, she’ll be serious enough to-morrow. Now, what shall I do? I’m delighted to be your housekeeper for once, Bernard.”

Mollie Raby bent to kiss Iris and give her another cake, spoke to Lucienne, and patted Sambo. Then she took off her hat and smoothed her hair and set to work.

She lit a spirit-lamp and put the kettle on to boil. From the cupboard came cups and saucers, and in the basket she had brought were flowers and dainty tablecloths. Lucienne sprang up to help, and they cleared a small table and laid it for afternoon tea, while Raby watched and smoked and made remarks.

“Handy to have girls about at times. When it comes to tea, sisters are a necessity. You look nice playing with a tea-pot, Mollie. I’d have felt like a fish out of water alone. But I suppose Isabel will expect tea.”

“Of course. How is the picture getting on?” and Mollie crossed the room to look. “Oh, Bernard! It’s just splendid! Isabel will be pleased.”

“Hope so.”

“She’ll want you to paint Baby too.”

“I’d like to paint Madame herself and Baby! The young lady is rather young to sit for her portrait alone.”

“Six weeks yesterday, isn’t that it, Lucienne?”

“Yes, six weeks yesterday, Miss Raby. Ah, she is a beautiful baby!—a darling!—a pet!”

“What’s her name to be?” said Raby carelessly, while Mollie stood gazing at the portrait.

“I do not know. I sink zey have not yet decided. Madame, I believe, says one name, and Monsieur Munro, he says anozzer, and so you see——!”

“I’ll back Isabel to get her way in the matter,” Raby laughed.

Mollie gave him a congratulatory clap on the back.

“You’re a genius, old boy. I always knew it, and Iris’s picture has removed my last lingering doubt. I never doubted the fact, mind you, but only whether the world would recognise it.”

“And you think it will? I hope your judgment is correct, my child.”

“It always is. No one could help being delighted with that portrait. Send it to the Academy, and you’ll have heaps of orders.”

An outburst of barking from Sambo announced another arrival, and Lucienne, glancing out of the window, said, “It is Madame. I see ze motor-car.”

Isabel Munro had been Isabel Raby before her marriage with the American millionaire two years ago. Munro was, of course, a Scotsman, but he had come from the United States, and beyond the one great fact of his wealth, and the knowledge that he had made his money out West, no one knew very much about him. He had risen from the ranks, as any one could see. His wife had done her best to rub off his corners and polish the manners which were at times undeniably not those of her own position in life.

Her sisters, Mollie and Rosamond—step-sisters in reality—agreed that she secretly looked down on him for the occasional awkwardnesses which betrayed him, and they blamed her in her turn because she had married him for his money. But it had been a fair bargain. She, though not rich, was well-born. His marriage with her helped to strengthen the position to which his wealth was the first step. Both were well satisfied with the arrangement, Isabel the more so, since her father’s death soon after her marriage left Mollie and Rosamond dependent on their brother, and Bernard, though with great hopes for the future, was finding his chosen path a slow road to fortune.

Mollie looked up eagerly as Mrs. Munro entered.

“Isabel, just come and see Iris’s picture! It’s the best thing Bernard has done yet. I think he’s best at portraits, you know, but Rosamond always sticks up for his landscapes.”

Isabel Munro gazed critically at the picture. Bernard waited anxiously, and Mollie paused, with the tea-pot in one hand and a spoonful of tea in the other, and watched her face intently.

“Yes, on the whole, it’s not at all bad—for you, Bernard,” was the condescending verdict at last. “One or two little points might be improved, perhaps, but on the whole it’s very satisfactory.”

Mollie drew a long breath of relief.

“Good! More than that no one could expect,” she murmured, and proceeded to make the tea.

“Think Mr. Munro will like it?” Raby inquired anxiously.

“Oh, he’ll like it, of course! Duncan likes anything that makes a pretty picture,” Isabel said carelessly. “And you could hardly have painted Iris without making a pretty picture of her.”

She looked round for a seat, and Raby lifted a pile of sketches out of a big chair.

“There, Madame! That’s the kind of chair you like—something big and stately. Now Mollie looks best on a footstool, or on the fender or hearth-rug.”

“What a shame!” Mollie cried, laughing. “And what about Rosamond?”

“One expects to see Rosamond on the edge of the table, or the arm of the sofa. Sambo wants to speak to you, Isabel.”

Isabel pushed the Pomeranian away with the tip of her dainty shoe.

“Don’t come to me! I don’t like you. Keep away now! I hate dogs that are always jumping up.”

“Oh, I like it! I take it as a compliment,” said Mollie. “How is Baby to-day, Isabel?”

“She gets more like Iris every day. I hoped she would take after me. They would make such a pretty pair if one was fair and one dark. But she has Iris’s eyes, and pink and white complexion, and her hair is almost white at present. I’m so glad neither of them is carroty! They take after their father, of course, but well, not too far.”

“And what is her name to be?”

Isabel frowned and hesitated. She glanced at Lucienne, but Lucienne, Iris, and Sambo had retired to the window-seat, and were counting the different coloured omnibuses, and apparently paying no attention to their elders.

“We haven’t decided on her name yet,” she said, with more than a touch of vexation in her voice. “In fact, we can’t agree about it. It’s very absurd. I want to call her Helen. It was my mother’s name, and has always been a favourite of mine. But Duncan won’t hear of it. He gives no reason, but simply says he doesn’t like the name and won’t have it. It’s too silly.”

“If he’s made up his mind, you’ll have to call her something else. Helen must have some unpleasant association for him that we know nothing about.”

“Then I shall call her Daffodil.”

“Isabel!”

“I shall. He won’t like it, of course, but he says I may call her anything I like but Helen. He hates fanciful names. Iris was my choice, of course, and he didn’t approve of it at all. If I can’t get my own way—just half a cup, please!—‘Iris and Daffodil’ will be rather pretty. Don’t you think so?”

“I don’t care for such very odd names. But they are pretty, in a way, of course.”

“You might call her Polyanthus, or Gladiolus,” Raby suggested.

Isabel turned from him impatiently. “Has Rosamond had any more presents, Mollie?”

“Here she is to tell you herself,” Raby said, as Sambo rushed to the door with shrill staccato barks. “That dog’s as good as an electric bell. I always know when there’s someone at the door, though it’s down three flights of stairs.”

Isabel put her fingers to her ears. “I cannot stand that piercing bark! It goes through and through my head.”

“Ah, ze bride and bridegroom! Zat is sharming—de-lightful!” cried Lucienne softly, as the door opened.

Rosamond Raby was very like her elder sister, with dark eyes and dark brown hair, tall and slightly made, dressed like Mollie, too, in a dark skirt and pretty silk blouse. But, for the time, Rosamond was the more striking-looking of the two—her face glowing with happiness, her eyes bright with excitement and anticipation. Mollie’s preparations for the morrow had tired her, and she was quieter and not so bright as usual. Captain Archie was a fit match for Rosamond—taller than she and a few years older, dark, with a sunburnt face which told of recent service abroad.

When the greetings were over, and Raby had received hearty congratulations on his picture, Rosamond turned to him eagerly.

“Bernard, what about my picture? My wedding-present, you know. What is it to be? And when are you going to paint it for me?”

“As soon as this is off my hands. Name your subject, my dear. Landscape, I suppose? I shall have to get away for some sketching. Shall it be Wales again? That thing you liked so much of mountains and mist and water—would you care for one like that?”

“There’s something I want very much. You’ll give it me, won’t you, Bernard?”

“Anything in reason you shall have, my child, under the circumstances.”

“That’s very nice of you.” She perched on the edge of the big table with Sambo in her arms, and spoke eagerly. “It’s just this. I want a picture of Loch Ruel, in the Highlands.”

“I never heard of it. Scotland’s a long way off, Rose.”

“Not so very much farther than Wales. I must have my picture, Bernard! It’s the loveliest place in the British Isles.”

“But, my dear girl,” he said laughing, “where is Loch Ruel? And how am I to get there? And what put it into your head?”

“Lady Avery. I met her at Isabel’s last night, and she told me about it. She has taken a house on Loch Ruel for the summer, and is going there almost at once with little Lord Clarence. She asked us to pay her a visit before we settle down. I told her you were going to paint me a picture, and that I wanted it to be of hills and water, like those Welsh landscapes that were so fine, and she said, ‘Coax him up to Scotland and make him paint Loch Ruel. He couldn’t have anything finer.’ I said I was sure you would do it for me without any coaxing.”

She looked at him persuasively, and he laughed.

“It’s a long way——”

“You can make heaps of sketches, and work them up when you get home. They’ll be sure to sell if it’s such wonderful scenery, and you’ll have a splendid holiday, and I’ll get my picture as well. You might take Mollie with you. She’d enjoy it ever so much, and she’s needing a holiday.”

“I couldn’t go till the end of the term, you know,” said Mollie quickly. “And I’m going up to Yorkshire to the Estyns in August.” For in spite of Bernard’s remonstrances, and Isabel’s rather grudging offers of help, Mollie had sturdily insisted on earning her own living, so as to lessen her brother’s burdens.

“And how am I to get there, Rose?” Bernard asked.

“You take the boat to Darmidale, and then——”

“But where on earth is Darmidale?”

“You take the train—oh, how he made me jump!” as Sambo broke into furious barking again.

“Another visitor! This is most unusual! Mollie’s tea-pot will be running dry. Why, it’s the brother-in-law himself! We are honoured indeed.”

Isabel raised her eyebrows in surprise at sight of her husband, and little Iris gave a cry of delight as she recognised her father. Duncan Munro—big, red-bearded, and with hair turning gray—did not greatly care for artists and their surroundings, and had never visited the studio before. But he had heard that the portrait was nearly finished, and had come to see it.

Raby led him to the easel and waited anxiously. But there was no doubt as to Munro’s pleasure.

“It is excellent—excellent! A perfect likeness! You have caught her expression exactly. It is charming. Don’t you think so, Isabel?”

“Yes, it’s really not bad at all.”

“Not bad! It’s splendid!” Rosamond cried indignantly.

“Sharming—de-lightful!” murmured Lucienne, from the window-seat.

“Bernard is going to paint me a picture for our house, Duncan. It’s to be a landscape—a view of Loch Ruel, in Scotland. I don’t suppose——”

“Loch Ruel?” Munro exclaimed, and glanced quickly at Raby. “Have you been there, then?”

“Not yet. Rosamond is trying to send me, but I’m not sure—it’s a long way, Rose——”

“Oh, Bernard! You promised——”

“It is a long way,” Munro assented quietly, “and it’s really not worth the journey. There’s nothing to see when you get there. If you go you’ll grudge the time and expense, Raby. There are far finer places nearer home. Try Wales. Or if it must be Scotland, try Loch Katrine, or there are some lovely spots in Perthshire. Loch Ruel—tuts! There’s nothing there worth a twenty-four hours’ journey. It’s very dreary and out-of-the-way, and always raining.”

“H’m! Doesn’t sound attractive, certainly.”

“Then you know Loch Ruel, and Darmidale and Glenaroon?” Rosamond demanded, turning sharply on Munro.

He hesitated, then said slowly,

“I have been there, but no one would go twice. There’s nothing to go for.”

“But Lady Avery said——”

“Are you coming home now, Duncan?” asked Isabel, interrupting carelessly. “Lucienne, it is high time Iris was at home.”

“Oui, Madame. Come, petite! Ah, it is sharming—de-lightful! she murmured again, casting a last glance at the portrait as she left the room.

“If you’ll take my advice you’ll not waste your time on Loch Ruel, Raby,” said Munro, as they parted. “It’s a sleepy primitive place, with no scenery to speak of.”

“But you’ll go all the same, won’t you, Bernard?” Rosamond cried, as the motor-car rolled away. “I don’t know what Duncan means. Both he and Lady Avery can’t be right, and her word is as good as his. Besides, she’s been there and she knows. One of them must be fibbing, though I can’t see why.”

Raby looked thoughtful. “One place is as good as another,” he said at last, “and I’ve never seen Scotland.—It’s possible to be too clever at times.—Yes, I’ll go to Loch Ruel, Rosamond.”